My office was up a stairway on the second floor. Just outside was a balcony from which one could peer down on the newsroom—not a great look for someone staffers might have thought was on her high horse.
When Dan Rather had the office, it was dark and mannish—heavy furniture, a Royal typewriter on the desk （for show）， a camo shirt from his days covering Vietnam. He kept a Bible on a pedestal; I heard he read a verse before every broadcast.
I enlisted a high-end designer friend to feminize the space. And soon, all traces of Dan were gone—during the renovation, they even hauled out his desk, chopped it up, and threw it in a dumpster. （We were all thinking, Shouldn’t that go to the Smithsonian or something?）
The new look was something out of The Devil Wears Prada: glass desk with a stainless-steel base and a chic glass globe sitting on top; white leather chairs. The back area where Dan would huddle with his producers was transformed into a hair and makeup room, with a closet for several changes of clothes, like we had at TODAY. On the walls, black-and-white photos of trailblazing women—Amelia Earhart, Wilma Rudolph, Sally Ride. The office was chic and smart and would have looked right at home at NBC. But at West 57th, it stuck out like a Givenchy gown at a hoedown. A really dumb move on my part—one of many unforced errors.
Extreme Makeover: Office Edition bolstered the narrative that had been established before I’d even walked through the door. That $15 million salary had （of course） been leaked to the press, landing in a Newsweek cover story back in April.
The fact is, my salary was a story: the biggest paycheck in network news at the time. Now rumors were flying that some CBS staffers—and even stars—would have to take pay cuts as a result （notably Lesley Stahl, who I heard was furious and promptly resigned as president of my fan club）。 I never found out who the leaker was—possibly Alan Berger’s agency, CAA, hoping to lure more clients, or maybe just some guy in Accounting. Whether or not the cost-cutting measures actually had to do with me, that’s how people saw it.
WE WOULD NEED a new theme song. Bob Peterson, who was now the show’s creative director, hired James Horner, the Academy Award–winning composer of soaring soundtracks for movies like Field of Dreams, Titanic, and Apollo 13. I suggested something Aaron Copland–esque, evoking amber waves of grain rather than the Manhattan skyline. The result was both lilting and majestic, full of French horns, snare drums, and strings.
We also needed to reimagine the set. Bob had ordered a giant, curved flat-screen that would hang behind my left shoulder and be used for B-roll during opens as well as interviews with correspondents; it was radically new technology that didn’t come cheap. And he commissioned a long, gleaming desk that perched on a platform; it had a monitor on the front that displayed graphic elements, like stock prices, and LED lights that changed colors. Embedded in the surface of the desk was flattering up-lighting （thank you, Bob）。
We brainstormed how to change up the beginning of the show, including who might be the right person to announce me. Bob had an inspired suggestion: “How about Walter Cronkite?”
I loved the idea. Despite being from a very different era, he was the ultimate newsman, a towering figure who would bring a sense of continuity and the implication of endorsement, which we knew we’d need as we tried to win the viewers’ trust.
He’d become a big supporter of mine both publicly and personally, inviting me to dinner shortly after I joined CBS. We’d met at the Pool Room at the Four Seasons; he brought along his lady friend, Joanna Simon, sister of Carly. I couldn’t wait to pick Walter’s brain about covering some of the biggest events in history. I really wanted to know how he was able to be such a symbol of fairness and objectivity. He told me, “I know I’m being fair when everybody’s mad at me.”
We talked about everything from my father’s career at United Press to American Idol. We were having a wonderful time—that would have been more wonderful if Walter knew what I was saying; at 89, he struggled with his hearing, and the bubbling fountain abutting our table didn’t help. I was practically screaming at him; Joanna cupped her hands around her mouth and repeated everything I said into Walter’s ear. For so many reasons, it was a night I’ll never forget.
He’d been retired for a while, and we thought he might get a kick out of recording the announcement. Bob and I called him from the back seat of my car.
“Hi, Walter, it’s Katie Couric!” I said loudly. “I have a big favor to ask: Would you be willing to voice the new open? It would mean so much to me.”