12
Nice Writing, Ms. Couric
THE HEADQUARTERS OF WRC-TV had all the personality of a municipal building behind the Iron Curtain, with its squat, concrete facade and matrix of windows. And yet I knew I was right where I needed to be, figuratively and physically: WRC was just one flight up from the mighty Washington bureau of NBC News.
If we were middle school, the first floor was where the cool seniors hung out. Sometimes you’d see Andrea Mitchell or Tom Brokaw walking around as you headed to the stairs. Lining the wall by the entrance were huge posters of TV-news stars, perfectly coiffed with airbrushed skin, staring out of the frames. I’d wonder why Tim Russert seemed to be scowling at me and consider Garrick Utley’s resemblance to a butler in a black-and-white movie. I’d silently greet Bryant and Jane and Willard and Gene Shalit as I passed. And sometimes I’d fantasize, Maybe I’ll have my picture up there someday too.
WRC was full of characters. Lovable assignment editor Milton Shockley looked like an extra from Duck Dynasty who apparently wasn’t eating much duck—his skinny frame, long auburn beard, plaid shirts, and saggy jeans seemed out of place in a newsroom in the middle of the nation’s navy-blazered capital. Gruff Kenny Gamble was always glued to the police scanners, while excitable Ed Fishel, who resembled a Berenstain Bear with hearing aids in both ears, got everyone whipped up when news was breaking. My fellow reporter, Beltway fixture Pat Collins, had the twinkly-eyed, ruddy face of someone who’d wandered in from County Clare. Had we met a century earlier, he would be happily dipping my braids in the inkwell.
The newsroom teemed with strong, smart women: assistant news director Kris Ostrowski, who could have doubled as a high school basketball coach and yelled “Couric!” whenever she saw me; warm, impeccably dressed morning anchor Barbara Harrison （the first time I ever saw Bulgari jewelry in the wild）; saucy, sassy assignment editor Dana Rudman, whom I bonded with instantly; no-no-nonsense Nannette Wilson, the producer of the 6:00 p.m. broadcast; Susan Kidd, a ballsy anchor with an Angela Davis vibe. Looking back, I realize that racial and gender diversity ruled at WRC before it was even a thing.
The minute I walked into the newsroom, an assignment editor would bark orders: You’re going with Mike Swann to shoot a school-board meeting/protest/fire—name that news event. Adrenaline pumping, I’d jump in the live truck or crew car and head out, gathering as much information as I could before getting to the scene. Then I’d leap out of the vehicle, assess the situation, grab some sound bites, send some material back to the station, get wired up to do a live shot, throw to a “Sony sandwich” （sound bites or B-roll of the scene that I’d narrate live or play as a stand-alone element）。 And that was just for “the five and six” （the 5:00 and 6:00 p.m. broadcasts）; the 11:00 still loomed.
As usual, I was a wreck when I had to go live. With seconds to spare, I’d slap on some lipstick, pat my face with powder, and run a comb through my hair. On days I forgot eyeliner, I’d use a black felt-tip pen. And then, showtime!—as the anchors back at the station uttered those five sphincter-tightening words—“Katherine Couric is there live.” I was still incapable of describing things off-the-cuff—I had to write down everything in my reporter’s notebook, then memorize and regurgitate. When I was done, I’d walk around the live truck, mouthing every word I had just said.
“What are you doing?” the cameraman would ask.
I’d tell him I was decompressing.
Reporting stories for the 11 was a whole different animal: There was glamour and edge to covering news at night, especially if you were a woman—racing around the city Brenda Starr–like in our pumps and pantyhose, thrusting mics in the faces of cops at the scene of the crime （crime being the bread-and-butter of the night shift）。 Out in the field I’d see Nancy Mathis from the CBS affiliate, Channel 9, and Penny Daniels from ABC’s Channel 7. We were fiercely competitive, trying to beat each other with better shots and sound bites, bigger interviews—anything to stand out. Oh, how my heart would sink if I arrived on the scene and one of them was there first. We were faux-friendly, more often sniffing around one another like dogs.
One of my first big stories was a horrific tragedy: A stalled dump truck filled with hot asphalt suddenly started to roll, crushing the Toyota idling behind it, killing two of the teenage girls inside. I was sent to track down the victims’ families, find out more about them, and retrieve some photos we could use in our story.