I flew to Virginia to interview members of the Virginia Citizens Defense League （VCDL）， all of whom were packing heat. One woman described her gun as “pretty.” Another told me she carried a firearm for personal defense, adding, “I really enjoy target shooting and I really enjoy working with people to show them that this piece of metal is not as scary as the movies make it look.” Another said, “I have a machine gun that’s really fun to shoot.” They all opposed background checks, which someone described as a registry that would allow the authorities to knock on their doors and confiscate their weapons.
“If there are no background checks for gun purchasers,” I said, “how do you prevent felons or terrorists from purchasing a gun?”
During the editing, Stephanie showed me a segment in which that question was followed by eight seconds of silence, and two of the subjects looking down pensively.
“Did it actually happen that way?” I asked.
Stephanie admitted she might have added a beat for dramatic effect, but I trusted it hadn’t altered the essence of the exchange. She’d spent the early part of her career in news, and I assumed she wouldn’t play fast and loose with the facts.
Little did we know, VCDL had recorded the whole thing.
“Audio Shows Katie Couric Documentary Deceptively Edited Interview with Pro-Gun Activists” read a headline in the conservative Washington Free Beacon.
I’d later learn that the pensive reaction shots were taken from an entirely different part of the interview. Which was ridiculous; the documentary was compelling enough without the sleight of hand. I was furious. Unfortunately, when Matthew Hiltzik put out a statement claiming I stood by the filmmakers, I was in post-op Lalaland and in no condition to approve it.
I told Stephanie to temporarily pull the film off the streaming service, Epix, and redact the pause. But Epix insisted on showing it the way it was. Of course, I’d be the one getting trashed.
We spent Memorial Day weekend at John’s brother’s place on Fire Island, where I was glued to my phone the whole time, crafting and recrafting a statement on Twitter—a labored explanation with just a dash of mea culpa for not expressing my concerns “more vigorously” during the editing phase.
Instagram took note:
Good job on editing your shitty documentary. You just proved that the media is a bunch of fucks with an agenda
Liar presstitute whore
Your terrible at journalism
#Ladydouchebag
You still have those amazing legs
Fuck off with this anti gun bullshit…you are not taking our guns PERIOD
Then came a tweet:
Katie Couric, the third rate reporter, who has been largely forgotten, should be ashamed of herself for the fraudulent editing of her doc.
This from Donald Trump. The NRA had endorsed him for president and donated more than $30 million to his campaign; this was his way of nakedly sucking up. So much for our decades of friendliness. I’d even attended his and Melania’s wedding at Mar-a-Lago （I had jury-rigged my clutch with a small video camera to nab some footage for the TODAY show—I called it “Purse-Cam”—but it was confiscated by security）。
Two weeks later, John and I were having dinner with friends at the Polo Bar, Ralph Lauren’s clubby restaurant a block and a half from Trump Tower. Right before we ordered, a team of poker-faced guys wearing earpieces started moving through the dining room, casing the joint. Then Trump lumbered in, jaw jutting over his extra-long red tie, trailed by a subdued Melania and Barron. A waiter whispered to us that he was there to celebrate his 70th birthday.
They were seated at a banquette maybe 12 feet from us. I was directly in Trump’s sight line, but he refused to look at me. To be fair, I refused to look at him too. John thought I was being as much of a baby as he was, that all was fair in love and politics, and why not be the bigger person? But I was fuming.
Andy Lack and Jack Welch were on the other side of the restaurant, and at a certain point they made their way over to genuflect before Trump （Andy, who was back as president of the news division, needed to be on decent terms with him for access reasons, and Jack was an unapologetic Trumper）。 Soon after, Trump walked past our table—and turned his head sharply to the right to avoid any possibility of eye contact.
I had fantasized about strolling over and pouring a glass of water on his head to see what would happen when it interacted with his hair; I imagined the elaborate comb-over disintegrating like wet cotton candy. But I decided that was probably not a great idea for so many reasons （getting tackled by Secret Service agents, the New York Post headlines, possible prison time…）。