Yours in Truth
Page 46
Susan departed Random House before the book was complete, and in that moment of great uncertainty Ben Steinberg stepped in to steady the ship. Ben had been working with Susan and had been reading my drafts all along. He has a keen eye and a great ear, and his comments about one particularly unfruitful diversion in the draft manuscript reminded me of what I was doing, and of what I shouldn’t be doing. He also kept me sane for much of this process, and for that alone I can’t thank him enough. From small details to the big picture of how a book should read, look, and feel, he shepherded me along and made important contributions at every stage. His future is bright.
I don’t know that I could have finished the book, or felt as good about the finished product as I do, if Andy Ward hadn’t come aboard during the final months. He is the best editor I have ever worked with, the kind of editor a writer hopes to have. I trust him and his judgment completely. (Among other things, he saved me from myself more times than I can count.) He always made time for me, always listened to me, and always took the problems I encountered along the way as seriously as I did. Having him thinking with me, and standing with me, has been one of the best parts of working on this book.
Others at Random House outside of the editorial chain of command are also worthy of praise and thanks. Deborah Foley, the head of the permissions department, endured an onslaught of emails and phone calls as we sorted our way through the tangle of permissions required for a book of this length and complexity. Our discussion about the copyright properties of a lipstick smudge was particularly memorable. Thanks to Janet Wygal, who oversaw the copyediting of this book. And, of course, none of this would have been possible at all without the support of Susan Kamil, the publisher of Random House, and Gina Centrello, the president, who believed in me and in this book from the start. I also thank Benjamin Dreyer, who oversaw a complex production process, and Barbara Fillon and Sally Marvin, who helped with publicity once the book was finished.
Great chunks of this book were organized, written, and rewritten in Rapidan, Virginia, at the weekend home of my in-laws, Jan and Elizabeth Lodal. Their generous willingness to let me take over portions of their house for weeks at a time allowed me to make leaps I could never have made otherwise. Alan and Nancy Nixon, neighbors and friends, also paid welcome visits when I was out there by myself. They brought me everything from fresh vegetables to a chance to make conversation with another human being, all of which I needed.
With the arrival of my daughter, my home office disappeared, as did my willingness to be away for long stretches. Into the breach stepped my dad and his law firm, Beveridge & Diamond. For the last year, as I was making the final push, they have allowed me free rein with an unused office in one of their suites. That kindness was transformative. I want to thank Katherine Harris, the firm’s chief operating officer, for tolerating and supporting my presence. I also want to thank Gloria Joshua and Sarah Sullivan, the two women who have allowed me to get to the office in the first place by taking such good care of my daughter during the week.
My siblings—my brother-in-law, Eric Lodal, my brother, Ken, and my sister, Liza—provided counsel at crucial moments. Eric, a writer himself, was a constant source of inspiration and advice. Ken gave an early draft of the manuscript a hard and thoughtful read, at a time when I needed more feedback than I knew. He helped me feel good about some of the tougher decisions, and his effort to do it all in the midst of his own busy life was a great kindness to me. And Liza has saved me throughout the last year, from stepping in to look after my daughter when deadlines loomed and babysitters bailed to simply being on the other end of the phone when I needed her.
This book is dedicated to my grandparents, which tells you everything that you need to know about what they mean to me except for their names: Walter and Connie Burke (Pops and Cee Cee), and Sol and Helen Himmelman (Baba and Grandma).
I also want to thank my parents, Harold and Bonnie, though as a new parent myself I realize there is no way to thank them enough. In addition to providing me with office space, my dad has been my one-man legal team and sympathetic devil’s advocate, while my mom helped me to maintain a healthy skepticism, provided song-filled babysitting support, and kept me nourished, perhaps slightly more than I needed to be. They are wonderful grandparents and wonderful company, and as I’ve gotten older I realize how lucky I am to have them in my life.
Finally, I thank my wife, Kirsten, without whom there is no living person named Jeff Himmelman, no book to read, no music to listen to. Since the moment we got together she has been the driving force behind everything that is good in my life, always seeing the best in me, never letting me settle, defending me to myself whenever I despaired that I’d lost my way. Her patience with my idiocies is the most renewable resource I have ever encountered. The work that she does at LIFT, but also (perhaps as important) the way in which she does that work, is a source of constant humility and inspiration for me. The home that we have made together is the only place on this earth that I ever want to be.
And, of course, Kirsten brought to me, to us, the truest joy in our lives: our daughter, Billie. This book came into being as she did, and my thoughts of her—what she will think of her daddy, who she will know him to be—were always with me as I stared down the blank page. This book is for her as much as for anybody. Little Billie: I love dancing with you the most. If you are going to take one lesson from Ben, or from me, I hope it will be that you should always do your best to speak the truth.
Jeff Himmelman
Washington, D.C., February 2012
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IMAGE CREDITS
AP/World Wide (Ill.6)
Tony Bradlee (Ill.31)
Herblock (Ill.29)
Jeff Himmelman (Ill.19)
David R. Legge/The Washington Post (Ill.27)
Kirsten Lodal (Ill.4)
Harry Naltchayan/The Washington Post (Ill.30)
Neshan Naltchayan (Ill.56)
Cecil Stoughton (Ill.32)
Tulsa Tribune (Ill.46)
Courtesy of United Features Syndicate (Ill.34)
The Washington Post (Ill.1, Ill.2, Ill.3, Ill.3a, Ill.5, Ill.7, Ill.8, Ill.9, Ill.10, Ill.11, Ill.12, Ill.13, Ill.14, Ill.16, Ill.17, Ill.20, Ill.21, Ill.22–Ill.26, Ill.28, Ill.35, Ill.36, Ill.37, Ill.38–Ill.39, Ill.40, Ill.41, Ill.42, Ill.43, Ill.44, Ill.45, Ill.47, Ill.48, Ill.49, Ill.50–Ill.53, Ill.54, Ill.55, Ill.57, Ill.60)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFF HIMMELMAN has worked on two national bestsellers, Bob Woodward’s Maestro and Tim Russert’s Big Russ & Me, and was the co-author of A Different Life with Quinn Bradlee. His writing has appeared in The Washington Post and he has written for The New York Times Magazine. His work with Woodward and a team of other reporters helped the Post secure the national reporting Pulitzer Prize for its post-9/11 coverage. He is also a professional musician who writes, records, and performs under the name Down Dexter. He lives in Washington, D.C., with his wife, Kirsten Lodal, and their daughter, Billie.
LETTERS
January 3, 1978
Dear Mr. Holton:
Even though you are still young, very young, let me give you some advice.
When you write the editor of a newspaper for a job, other things being equal, you stand a better shot if you spell his name right.
Sincerely,
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Benjamin C. Bradlee
c/o Simon and Schuster, Publishers
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N. Y. 10020
Dear Mr. Bradlee,
Your new book, “A Good Life” is fascinating, informative and most interesting, with one important exception.
The crude, coarse, frequent degrading language—example: “shit sandwich, holy shit, shit hit the fan, fuck” used over and over to emphasize your opinion of a person, a situation—did nothing to enhance the expected maturity of a man of your age and experience.
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Bob—
This is obviously not to be seen by too many eyes.
Talk to you soon.
Best—
Robbi
To Bradlee—
This is why ALL Pres. Men has to be edited for TV. Number of violations
Robards—17
Hoffman—17
Redford—6
BW.
40—“bullshit” (Redford talking to Holbrook)
40—“goddamn” (Hoffman about New York Times story)
45—“. . . why the hell . . . goddamn . . .” (Hoffman to Beatty)
53—“Jesus” (Hoffman on phone to Redford)
54—“Jesus” (Balsam to staff )
55—“. . . their asses off . . .” (Paper staff meeting)
56—“. . . frigging audit office” (Robards at staff meeting)
56—“Goddamn . . . who the hell . . .” (Robards at staff meeting)
56—“Then it’s our ass . . .” (Robards)
58—“Jesus” (Robards to man in office)
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People ask me when was the critical moment for this paper in its pursuit of Watergate. I tell them it came in my house in Georgetown when we decided to follow you with the Pentagon Papers, to chase you knowing we could never catch you. They don’t understand, but you will.
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The Washington Post
1515 L STREET, N.W. 223-6000
WASHINGTON, D.C. 20005
BENJAMIN C. BRADLEE
EXECUTIVE EDITOR
June 30, 1971
TO THE STAFF
There is just no way of saying how proud I am of this wonderful newspaper and everyone on it.
The guts and energy and responsibility of everyone involved in this fight, and the sense that you all were involved, has impressed me more than anything in my life.
You are beautiful.
bcb
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Date 6/25/71
The Washington Post
TO Ben Bradlee
FROM Hal Willard
RE:
I would like to say to you that I am proud to be associated with a man who has guts.
H
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HOWARD JOHNSON’S
MOTOR LODGE SOUTH
Telephone 404/688-8665
South Freeway (Interstate 75 and 85)
at Georgia Avenue Exit
ATLANTA, GEORGIA 30315
Dear Mr. Bradlee,
Hooray!
The truth will keep us free.
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BB: There came a time when I pressed him for his name. But I had a long conversation with Bob in the middle of it as to the source and I said at that time that I didn’t have to know the name of the person but if I didn’t know the name I had to know everything about him—age, sex, place of work, high, low, what kind of access, who he knew, I suppose after that conversation if I had—
bf: When did you find out?
BB: I don’t know exactly, some years later.
bf: Do you get sick of it, the Deep Throat part of it, people always asking you who it is?
BB: I mean they always sort of who’s Deep Throat, that’s sort of a standard. No, I can say this to you, there’s a residual fear in my soul that that isn’t quite straight. [INTERESTING USE]
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Katharine, you have been the most important force in my life. You have been a joyous partner who makes my heart leap every time I see you. There is nothing that can change that, not even my own clumsiness and momentary selfishness.
The party was such a generous gesture. Your words were so graceful and welcome, the way everything about you comes across to me.
Love,
Ben
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April 15, 1981
“Jimmy’s World” was in essence a fabrication. I never encountered or interviewed an 8-year- old heroin addict. The September 28, 1981, article in The Washington Post was a serious misrepresentation which I deeply regret. I apologize to my newspaper, my profession, the Pulitzer board and all seekers of the truth. Today, in facing up to the truth, I have submitted my resignation.
Janet Cooke
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MEMO TO: John Prescott
Mrs. Graham
Simons, Geyelin, Baker
Mr. Beebe, Mr. Finberg, Mr. Califano
FROM: Bradlee
RE: Affirmative Action Program proposed by Eight Post Blacks on February 28.
I believe we should hammer out some affirmative program—hopefully without capital letters. I believe we should do this with all feasible speed.
But I reject out of hand the establishment of any quota system for The Washington Post.
We can and should treat blacks with more sensitivity. We can and should have more—and more qualified—blacks on the paper, and in positions of more responsibility. We can and should do more training of all new employees, black and white. We can and should do more intelligent recruiting of black reporters and editors. The implementation of these possibilities and desires will be an affirmative program.
But the quality of this newspaper is the only thing in this world that is important here, and a quota system—for whites, blacks, males, females, Jews, WASPs, old, young, Orientals, Chicanos, Ivy League, Big Ten, North, South—is simply unthinkable.
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April 26, 1979
Dear Dick:
I note your long and accusatory letter of April 15.
It seems to me that you have equated your own failure here and elsewhere with “the pervasive racism in the American media.” I don’t.
I wish you peace and good luck.
Sincerely,
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TO MEMBERS OF THE PULITZER PRIZE FOUNDATION
IT IS WITH GREAT SADNESS AND REGRET THAT I INFORM YOU THAT JANET COOKE, THE WASHINGTON POST REPORTER AWARDED THE PULITZER PRIZE FOR FEATURE WRITING MONDAY, HAS DETERMINED THAT SHE CANNOT ACCEPT THE AWARD.
SHE TOLD POST EDITORS EARLY THIS MORNING THAT HER STORY—ABOUT AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD HEROIN ADDICT—WAS IN FACT A COMPOSITE, THAT THE QUOTES ATTRIBUTED TO A CHILD WERE IN FACT FABRICATED, AND THAT CERTAIN EVENTS DESCRIBED AS EYEWITNESSED DID NOT IN FACT HAPPEN.
JANET COOKE WAS A PARTICULARY PROMISING AND TALENTED YOUNG REPORTER. SHE REGRETS THESE EVENTS AS MUCH AS THE WASHINGTON POST REGRETS THEM. SHE HAS OFFERED HER RESIGNATION, AND IT HAS BEEN ACCEPTED.
SINCERELY,
BENJAMIN C. BRADLEE
EXECUTIVE EDITOR
THE WASHINGTON POST
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I have also apologized personally to Mayor Barry and Police Chief Jefferson, who insisted all along that the Jimmy story was false. And I have also accepted Janet’s resignation with a heavy heart.
Okay, that’s the down side. We’ve all got to start back up the hill—together. The credibility of a newspaper is its most precious asset, and it depends almost entirely on the integrity of its reporters. When that integrity is questioned and found wanting, the wounds are grievous and there is nothing to do but come clean with our readers, apologize to those we have unintentionally wronged, and begin immediately on the uphill task of regaining our credibility. This we are doing, starting right now. This we will do, with your help.
BCB
April 15, 1981
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* * *
Ben Bradlee:
The hoax does not matter—but why did you not see what could be done for the child? If you had you would have discovered the hoax. Your heart condemned you.
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ad 8 BCB
His secretary Donna Crouch buzzes in to tell him that she knows he doesn’t want to be interrupted but that Art Buchwald is on the phone.
“Arty,” he shreiks, “gettin any lately.” He pauses. “Shit, I can’t, I already have a lunch. But Monday’s not a good day for pussy at the Sans anyway.” (The Sans, pronounced Sanz is short for Sans Souci, Washington’s most recherche restaurant and is only called “The Sans” by those who can get a table on a moments notice and who speak perfect
French) “Why dontcha call up Eddie, (Edward Bennet Williams, Washington’s most notorious lawyer) he wouldn’t know it if he fell over it anyway.” He guffaws with laughter and slaps his thigh at his good joke on Eddie. “And Arty, tell Eddie when he’s putting his box together for the Skins (Williams owns the Washington Redskins) to weed out some of those assholes or I’m staying home.” He signs off.
Before the interview can resume, Simons rushes. Don Rumsfeld has just called up to say that Jerry Ford has threatened to committ suicide if the Post prints the story that the Shah paid for his swimming pool.
“Print it,” says Bradlee, without a seconds hesitation. It is then that one can see where he gets his reputation for toughness, for decisiveness, for coolness under pressure. He turns back to the interviewer with no sign of the strain his decision must have cost him.
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The Washington Post
1515 L STREET, N.W. 223-6000
WASHINGTON, D.C. 20005
4 September, 1971
Mr. Bradlee,
When people of power—bureaucrates, politicans, company excutives—do something wrong people, myself included, are fast to attact them. When they do something wright people, again I’m included, tend to ignore that act and most often it goes unmentioned.
You gave me your time and attention, which is uncommon for people of your position. That was sensitive and good and I could not allow it to go unmentioned. Even though I disagree with the final out come, I do not feel cheated, ignored or unfairly judged. That feeling is as important as the job.
Thank you for all the consideration you gave me.
Wilbur Colom