“I like Rick,” I said. “If you think it’s a good idea, I’m all for it.” At that point, I was willing to try anything.
The former EP of several successful newscasts, creator of Primetime Live, and onetime president of CNN, Rick was an experienced, respected producer known for many things, including his ability to get the best out of strong-willed anchors and his steady （occasionally heavy） hand. We’d never worked together before, but we were friendly.
“Welcome to the lice capades!” I said at the door, my hair thick with goop.
Rick filled the door frame. At six foot six, in his trademark sweater-vest, gold chain, cordovan tassel loafers, and cologne you could smell in the next zip code, he was an imposing figure. He had seen it all and none of it fazed him.
Rick took a seat on the couch （covered in plastic） and cut to the chase.
“The show’s a mess,” he said. “It’s just not smart. You’re trying too many goofy things. Katie, you’re an extraordinary journalist, and you need to be doing an aggressive, really substantive newscast. These are very serious times, and they need a very serious newscast.”
“I hear you, Rick,” I said, somewhat defensively. “But I was brought there to reimagine the evening news and make it less stilted. If you think we need to recalibrate, and clearly you wouldn’t be the only one, I’m more than willing to give it a try.”
I liked that Rick had a vision, and I was happy to make it my vision too. I was also relieved I’d be working with a seasoned pro. Rome was struggling. And Sean, son of Wide World of Sports host Jim McKay, was a sports guy who made it clear he didn’t really like news, while his number two, news veteran Paul Friedman, was a huge obstructionist and an overall nasty guy （his nickname was Darth Vader）。 Rick knew what he was doing, and he was a fan at a time when I really needed one.
Les was on board as well, telling Rick, “Katie deserves better than third place—we need to change that.”
Yeah!
“Or that’s gonna be on my goddamn tombstone.”
Oh.
ON A GLUM day in March, Rome gathered everyone in the newsroom. Fair-haired, with the look of a grown-up altar boy, he was the polar opposite of Rick.
Rome praised the staff and said how much he’d enjoyed working with them all. “But now,” he said, “it’s time for someone else to take the reins.”
Gazes were lowered, shoulders sagged. Rome had fallen.
Then I said a few words. “I just want to thank Rome for being such an important part of our launch. He is one of the most decent people I’ve ever met, and I’m really going to miss him.” Waterworks.
The staff seemed to view my tears skeptically. I could sense I was seen as the bad guy here, that if only I had been willing to do a more traditional newscast from the beginning, Rome would still be with us.
Everyone looked so beaten down. Our grand experiment had failed.
EVEN THOUGH RICK was moving us in a more traditional direction （he insisted I wear a jacket every night）， he brought new energy and focus almost immediately, marshaling the troops, bellowing, “Do it!” whenever he heard an idea he liked. And we took some interesting risks; for instance, devoting the entire 22 minutes one night to the never-ending war in Afghanistan. It sent a signal about our commitment to hard news, even though it tanked in the ratings.
But if we thought Rick’s arrival would instantly stanch the flow of bad press, we were wrong. A New York Magazine story titled “Alas, Poor Couric” detonated in July.
Let’s start with the cover. A photographer named Platon （mono-monikered, like Madonna or Cher） came to CBS and spent several hours taking pictures of me in a space off the newsroom. He was lively and personable and convinced me to try some “serious” shots. I was fine with that; I didn’t want a big smile to accompany a story about the challenges I faced at CBS. Platon had me sit on a variety of apple boxes, the go-to prop of photogs looking for a natural, no-frills vibe. The cover shot was someone I barely recognized: thin-lipped and dead-eyed, staring into the camera, filling the entire page. The explosive cover line: “I have days when I’m like, Oh my God, what did I do?”
And yes, I did say that—but they lopped off the second half of my quote: “I have days when I’m like, Oh my God, what did I do? But for some weird reason, they don’t happen that often.”
I felt like Carrie Bradshaw when she landed on the cover of New York Magazine holding a cigarette, looking seriously hungover, above the headline “Single & Fabulous?” I couldn’t help but wonder, are magazine editors out to get us? One little editing decision—in Carrie’s case, the addition of a snide question mark; in mine, a truncated quote—can change everything. We called Adam Moss, the magazine’s top dog, and complained. He sheepishly conceded it was iffy. But the damage had been done.