The morning of our interview, an article had come out in the New York Times analyzing Elizabeth’s decision: “Some people—as demonstrated by responses to blogs and other forums—believe the Edwardses are stealing time from each other and their children, while others see a couple that has weathered the tribulations and assaults life brings to most families.” For better or worse （worse）， that sentence lodged in my head and became the template for my interview.
I intended to get to the heart of this deeply personal matter. But what was supposed to be a serious inquiry about their decision to stay the course came across as a heartless inquisition:
Me: Some say, “Isn’t it wonderful they care for something greater than themselves?” And others say, “It’s a case of insatiable ambition.” You say?…Some people watching this would say, “[I] would put my family first, always, and my job second.” And you’re doing the exact opposite. You’re putting your work first, and your family second…Some have suggested that you’re capitalizing on this.
You’d think I would have had particular empathy, given the losses I’d suffered from the same disease. But there I was, hammering away at their choices. I seem cold, callous. I can understand why people were irate. Here’s a small sample of the comments from the New York Times blog:
Some say Katie Couric should have quit her job to take care of her young daughters while her husband was fighting colon cancer. Some say Katie Couric is a no-talent hack who is an embarrassment to real journalists everywhere.
Why o why have a lightweight like Katie Couric doing this type of interview. Wasn’t the circus in town?
Edward R. Murrow must be spinning in the grave.
Once I picked myself up off the floor, I tried to analyze what was going on with me during this interview. I have a few theories: Perhaps I was reacting to the questioning of my seriousness, given that I had been a “morning-show host”—trying to compensate by being hard-nosed in a situation that warranted sensitivity. Maybe it was a subconscious reaction to criticism that I should have been tougher on Condi Rice. Or maybe when I read that paragraph in the typically beyond-reproach New York Times that started with “Some people,” I thought it gave me permission to use the same squishy, non-journalistic device. Perhaps I was channeling my own guilt over Jay.
Elizabeth wrote me a lovely note assuring me she understood why I had to ask the questions I did. But the whole thing still stings. If I could have just one do-over, this would be it.
62
She’s Toast
THE HEAT WAS on. Never in my working life had I been more in need of a diversion when the cameras weren’t rolling.
After Tom’s charming “Dear Katie” email, I had a steamy fling with jazz trumpeter Chris Botti. He was as sweet as he was cool, a good friend of Sting who worshipped Miles Davis. But two months in, when a paparazzo shot of us looking cozy at a Knicks game hit the tabloids, Tom came calling. He dumped me again after a couple of months. （A few years later, he popped up and presented me with a small velvet box over lunch. Inside, a giant chunk of cubic zirconia. Tom giggled, vowing there was a real diamond where that came from. Sad.）
In my final months at TODAY, I’d been seeing a guy named Jimmy Reyes—divorced with two kids, worked in his family’s hugely successful liquor-distribution business. Jimmy had actually been engaged not long before we were set up—to Laura Ingraham. Yes, that Laura Ingraham. I couldn’t imagine how one man could be attracted to two so radically different women. Granted, Jimmy was a Republican, but Ingraham, then a rightwing radio pundit, was next-level. （Once, after a breakup, she shoved a garden hose into an ex-boyfriend’s mail slot in an attempt to flood his house. Adding insult to injury, he was apparently in the process of refinishing his hardwood floors.）
Jimmy was busy, I was busy, but when he came to New York or I went to Washington, it was nice to have a companion. The relationship was no-drama, which is exactly what I needed.
AS I PREDICTED, our big ratings the first day had been driven by curiosity. Now, as they sank to pre–Bob Schieffer levels, anxiety at CBS rose. The press was relentless, and a sense of She’s toast started seeping into the newsroom. Sean had stopped coming by the fishbowl to inquire about last night’s newscast with a hopeful “How’d we do?” The fantasy that I would come in and miraculously put CBS in first place had faded.
I started to dread going in. Each morning, I’d put on an invisible suit of armor over some inoffensive outfit and push through the glass doors on West 57th Street, braced for whatever heat-seeking missile was headed my way.