For years, I had resisted the idea of doing a talk show of any kind. There had been many overtures, including a DreamWorks proposal for The Katie Couric Hour, an alternative to the fluff and “oversaturated, old-skewing” court shows that were proliferating at the time. In the middle of the pitch, they had a bunch of people show up outside the windowed conference room holding big signs that said WE LOVE YOU, KATIE! Jeffrey Katzenberg assured me it would be a hit.
It wasn’t for me. I liked news. I was happy where I was.
But now it was time to reassess. For starters, Oprah had announced she was ending her 25-year run, leaving a huge daytime void to fill. And after five years of feeling muzzled at CBS, I was ready to live my best life and focus on big, relevant stories in a format that I would get to create.
“Is there a way to have a little personality and still tackle important, meaty topics?” I asked Abra.
“Yes!” she said emphatically, thrusting both arms in the air. “Absolutely!”
My good sense drifted up and away like the steam rising from my avgolemono soup. “Okay, maybe this could be interesting,” I told her, leaving the door ajar.
It was nice to feel wanted.
In early February, Les’s name popped up on my phone.
“Hey there,” he said smoothly. “Listen, I wanted to tell you, I just promoted Jeff Fager to chairman of CBS News.”
Of course I’d heard the rumors. Still, my stomach dropped. Here was Les, the guy who had wooed me with wine and promises, promoting my nemesis. “Les, you must know this is not good news for me,” I responded.
He waved me off like a gnat circling his ear. “Oh, he’ll be great!”
Right.
My contract was up in June. The idea of becoming a free agent terrified me. Playing the waiting game wasn’t in my nature, and I wanted to perpetuate the narrative that I was still a hot commodity. If I didn’t have someplace to jump to, I worried that I’d be seen as a failure, bumped off the glass cliff.
Les was on board with me doing a show—I’m sure he regarded it as a face-saving way to segue me out of the anchor chair. But I wasn’t comfortable fully exiting the news business. I’d been in it for 32 years, and I wanted to figure out a way to continue doing big interviews and breaking stories. So I came up with an idea: If CBS was my syndicated home, why couldn’t I still do pieces for 60 Minutes? Yes, I realized it was a novel idea, temporarily forgetting CBS didn’t like novel ideas.
Jeff Fager suggested breakfast at the Market Place Café and Deli at the corner of 57th and 11th. A diner, basically, that happened to be empty—not the sort of spot you’d choose if you’re looking to convince someone you think they’re all that.
He seemed even more uncomfortable around me than usual, if that’s possible. Early in the conversation, Fager said he was making some changes at the CBS Evening News—something like “We’re going in a different direction,” that euphemistic favorite when someone’s about to get canned. Not a surprise.
While he didn’t name names, it quickly became clear he already had someone in mind to succeed me: square-jawed, stentorian-voiced Scott Pelley, rumored to have been Fager’s first choice to replace Dan Rather all along. You’d have to look high and low to find an anchor less like me than Scott Pelley. I’d heard he entertained guests at his home on Connecticut’s Gold Coast in an ascot and smoking jacket. One day, he showed up with two couples who’d paid big bucks at a cystic fibrosis benefit for a tour of the CBS newsroom. I greeted them graciously, always stunned that anyone would pay cash money to see us making the sausage, after which Pelley, in the poshest voice you could ever imagine, said, “Katie, by the way, I met your sister-in-law Clare at the Tokeneke Club in Darien last weekend. She is delightful.”
Clare’s the best, but who talks like that?
Back at the diner, I stared at Fager’s receding hairline and puffy eyelids, then tried to express my wishes calmly and sincerely. Do not grovel, do not grovel, do not grovel…“Some of the most gratifying work I’ve done at CBS are the pieces I’ve done for you,” I began.
Nothing.
“I really love 60 Minutes,” I said.
“I know you do,” he replied.
More dead air.
What a dick.
I thought back to another telltale moment: I’d been assigned to profile Andre Agassi. My favorite part of our conversation was when Andre talked about his hair…or lack thereof. At the height of his fame, his sex-symbol status was entwined with his flowing mullet. When his hair started thinning, he covered the bald spot with a toupee. As you might imagine, even the most secure hairpiece could be problematic if the wearer is diving for shots and reaching for overhead slams. Andre was hilarious, describing his fear of the toupee flying off while he was competing in the French Open, landing on the court, and lying there like roadkill. He was laughing, I was laughing—a genuinely funny, spontaneous moment.