The Kingdom and the Power (65 page)

So William Manchester, with humility and dedication, accepted the assignment in 1964. During the next twenty-one months, sometimes working fifteen hours a day, he interviewed hundreds of people who had known President Kennedy, had worked for his administration in Washington, or had been involved in some way with the fatal day in Dallas. Manchester had also taped two interviews with Mrs. Kennedy, during which she had revealed intimate and poignant details about her last hours with her husband, and her first hours as his widow. Manchester had also received close cooperation from other family members and friends, had received access to personal letters and other memorabilia. The book was to be edited by Harper & Row’s executive vice-president, Evan Thomas, who had edited John Kennedy’s
Profiles in Courage
. Harper & Row had published Robert Kennedy’s
The Enemy Within
, also edited by Evan Thomas, as well as other books by such Kennedy associates as Theodore Sorensen. Thus the publishing house, the editor, and the writer had seemed ideally suited for the production of a historical work that would be pleasing to
the Kennedy family, and the first indication that this was not exactly the case was learned by Claude Sitton during the early winter of 1966. He had heard rumors from some of his sources in government, and had also read an item in a tabloid-sized monthly trade paper called
Books
, that Mrs. John F. Kennedy had requested the cancellation of the Manchester book.

The “candid” details that Mrs. Kennedy found objectionable dominated the news and gossip channels for the next two months. The details were leaked to the press each day from both Kennedy partisans and the forces rallied behind Manchester—each side sought the sympathy of public opinion in its attempt to ban the book as an invasion of privacy, or to publish it as a testimony to truth. The book, it was said, contained scenes of the Kennedys’ last night together in Texas; Mrs. Kennedy’s thoughts following her husband’s death; how she had wrestled with a nurse at Parkland Hospital, how she had placed her wedding ring on the late President’s finger. The book also was said to describe tensions on the flight from Dallas to Washington, the bitterness between the Kennedy and Johnson factions on board; how Johnson occupied Kennedy’s quarters, how Johnson’s aides, while shocked and saddened by the assassination, could barely conceal their pleasure over Johnson’s takeover; and how the loyal Kennedy aides, namely Kenneth P. O’Donnell, had literally blocked Johnson’s exit from the plane at the Washington airport, preventing the new President from descending with Jacqueline Kennedy and the other close Kennedy mourners.

These details, and many more, were leaked to the press by individuals who had read, or who claimed to have read, Xerox
copies of the Manchester manuscript—individuals employed in the publishing house, or within the magazine that had purchased the book’s serialization, or the literary agency, the book club, the law firms, the friends of friends—these people collectively became the press’s “spokesmen,” and for weeks their revelations and opinions dominated the news. Prior to the Manchester controversy, there had been front-page articles in
The Times
and other metropolitan dailies about a dispute in Washington between Senator Robert Kennedy and J. Edgar Hoover that
Time
magazine had described as the “Battle of the Bugs”: Hoover had charged that Kennedy, while he was the United States Attorney General, had known that the F.B.I. was using bugging devices to invade the privacy of private domains and conversations; Kennedy denied the charge. It seemed that a larger story might emerge, festered by the old hostilities of these two men. But then the Manchester—Jacqueline Kennedy affair suddenly mushroomed—and the Hoover-Kennedy story faded.

The New York Times’
first major story about Jacqueline Kennedy’s objections had been reported by one of Rosenthal’s men, responding to reports already published in other newspapers; it had occurred during a weekend, while Claude Sitton was off, but Sitton immediately asserted that this story was a national-desk assignment, and it was. To Rosenthal’s displeasure, Sitton took it over on the second day. Sitton now had an episode that could produce front-page stories for weeks—and it did.

Normally, the national-news editor did not have direct control over a single reporter in the newsroom; all the newsroom reporters were under Rosenthal. Sitton’s closest reportorial subject, geographically, was in the Philadelphia bureau. So if Claude Sitton wished to assign a newsroom reporter to an out-of-town assignment that was perhaps more quickly or easily reached from New York than from a regional bureau, or if Sitton wished to use a newsroom reporter on a New York story that was deemed to be of national political significance, as was the Kennedy-Manchester issue, then Sitton had to approach Rosenthal and ask for the loan of a reporter. Sitton would naturally desire the services of one of Rosenthal’s best men, such as Homer Bigart, but whether or not he got Bigart might depend on how Rosenthal felt toward Sitton
on that particular day. If Rosenthal was feeling kindly, and if Homer Bigart himself liked the assignment and wanted to work on it, Sitton might get Bigart. But if Rosenthal was piqued, he might claim that all the top reporters were occupied on other stories and assign Sitton the reporter he was most anxious to get out of sight.

When the Kennedy-Manchester story broke, however, Sitton was very lucky. He happened to have working in the newsroom, on temporary duty, his Philadelphia bureauman, an individual named John Corry. Corry had been part of a team of
Times
men assigned to travel around the country, including Dallas, to check the findings of the Warren Commission’s
Report
. When Sitton took charge of the Manchester coverage, Corry was sitting quietly in the newsroom reviewing his Warren Commission notes—but there proved to be nothing very newsworthy in this venture, and so Corry was reassigned to the Manchester affair, a story that would influence Corry’s future career on
The Times
.

John Corry was a clean-cut, outwardly bland but pleasant man of average height and build, hazel eyes and light brown hair, neat but not fastidious. At thirty-four he was happily married, the father of two girls. Although he did not inspire confidence, he did not discourage it, and as seen by Sitton he was entirely reliable, solid, possessing keen powers of observation balanced by good judgment—Corry was not the sort who, wishing to call attention to himself, would overdramatize a story or distort it with clever or conspicuous phrases. But simmering within Corry, unknown to Sitton, was a deep dissatisfaction with the image that people like Sitton had of him. What Corry really wanted out of life, precisely, he was reluctant to admit, conceding that his ambition was possibly inconsistent with his character and probably beyond his reach. Corry wanted fame. Not
great
fame, just a touch, enough to lend a bit of flicker to his name, a few nods of recognition around New York—enough to justify the secret little outbursts of absurdity and wildness that he knew were within him, awaiting the slightest excuse to erupt. Usually, he suppressed the urge.

As a boy in Brooklyn, Corry had planned to become a minister. His father had been a bank clerk, rigid and predictable, an Irish Protestant antipathetic to most Irish Catholics, a man whose suit-and-tie to work each day were his mark of elevation in this lower-middle-class
neighborhood. John Corry hated the place, the repressed existence within tight rows of apartment houses with fire escapes in front; he was happy to be off to Hope College in Michigan, run by the Dutch Reformed Church, and he lived in a boarding house with other students. One night after a house party, drunk and wearing only his Jockey shorts, Corry crawled down the steps into the bedroom of the landlady, through her room as she became hysterical, into the hall, out the front door, and into the cool night air. He spent the next three years at Hope College on probation.

In the Army, where he conveyed an impression of high discipline, he was trained for the Military Police. But one day, harassed by a young lieutenant, Corry became wildly insubordinate and was court-martialed. Later he received an honorable discharge. He returned to New York in 1956 and found a job as a copyboy in the
Times’
Sports department, and soon he was promoted to agate-clerk, his concern being the tiny type of baseball batting averages and team standings. Within a few years he was made a copyreader, editing stories about the great outdoors—but he could barely stand it. He was transferred in 1961 to another long desk in the newsroom, the national desk, which was more interesting for him, although he really wanted to become a reporter, to get outside the office and see the city. On his own initiative he began writing stories for the daily
Times
and the Sunday
Times’ Magazine
that displayed an uncommon perception, and in 1966, ten years after joining
The Times
, he became a reporter. In October of that year, he was assigned to Philadelphia.

When Claude Sitton approached Corry with the Manchester assignment, he did not want it. There had been so many books about the Kennedys since the assassination, so much merchandising of the myth, that Corry did not want to be part of any more of it. Corry had greatly admired John Kennedy and had voted for him, but he also felt sympathy for William Manchester. During Corry’s visit to Dallas earlier in the year on the Warren Commission assignment, he had been cursed and threatened one evening by a mob, and he could imagine how difficult Manchester’s research in that city must have been, and he could understand Manchester’s anxiety now that his book, his years of sweat and total commitment, was being threatened with sudden suppression.
A writer rarely pleased the people he was writing about if he tried to write with honesty—Corry knew this already from personal experience. On two recent occasions he had sent
Magazine
articles in advance to the persons being profiled, and in both cases they had tried to change what he had written. One of the men, Algernon Black, had carried his case to an executive on
The Times
. He did not get very far, but it was nonetheless unpleasant for Corry. The other man, the novelist Ralph Ellison, thinking Corry’s article hinted at Uncle Tom-ism, suggested that this might be grounds for a law suit. Ellison did not sue; in fact, he later wrote Corry a complimentary note about the piece. But Corry vowed that he would never make that mistake again. And yet had he been faced with Manchester’s decision, with the stakes so high and opportunities so great, he honestly did not know how he might have reacted. Perhaps he also would have consented to write the authorized account of the most dramatic event of his lifetime. Every word he wrote for
The Times
, after all, was authorized.

But Corry’s instinct was to shy away from this assignment and let some other
Times
reporter take it. It was a fine opportunity to move with the Kennedy crowd, to bask in the limelight, to get some feel of fame, Corry admitted, but his ultrasensitive side urged him not to take it. Claude Sitton, however, seemed to exude such Gelb-like enthusiasm for the story, such confidence in Corry, that Corry found himself reacting.
There was a great deal of interest in this story
, Sitton said, hinting that someone high up, perhaps Daniel, was personally involved in the coverage—and if Daniel
were
fascinated by this story, Corry knew that the space would be almost unlimited. It was the kind of story that almost every editor, and particularly Daniel, would be intrigued by, for it combined the elements of history and tragedy with high fashion. Corry deliberated momentarily, and then he told Sitton, yes, he would be glad to take on the assignment.

In the beginning it was exhilarating; he sensed the vast machinery of
The Times
moving and reaching across the world grasping for the truth. From the
Times’
bureau in Madrid, a cable was sent to Corry stating that Mrs. Kennedy had called
Look
magazine’s Gardner Cowles during the summer imploring him to revise the serialization plans. From Washington, Reston had called Corry with a tip
about a Kennedy pep rally in New York, adding that Senator Robert Kennedy was not really concerned about the book—it was largely Mrs. Kennedy’s doing, inspired by her horror of the death of Camelot, the killing of the myth. Corry later recognized these phrases in Reston’s column; Reston had apparently been trying out his column in advance on Corry, and Corry hoped that he had responded properly. Corry had also received tips and memos from other
Times
men around the nation, and he was constantly impressed at how smoothly the enormous organization seemed to be closing in on a single story—dozens of men all contributing to one reporter’s work.

Hoping to get an exclusive interview with Manchester before the other newspapers got to him, Claude Sitton arranged for Corry to board a cutter one day at 4:30 a.m. and ride it out to meet the
Queen Mary
, which was bringing the writer back to New York from England, where he had sought escape from the clamor; but now he was forced home by the rumors of Mrs. Kennedy’s legal threats. Corry had been up until 3 a.m., unable to sleep, and his usual nervous stomach was worse than ever. Corry arrived at the ship and found Manchester; but he refused to be interviewed, saying that he could not talk until after the difficulties were settled. Corry, feeling too sick to argue, returned to the
Times
office happy that he had only a small story to write about Manchester’s arrival. But then, without knowing exactly why, he telephoned Evan Thomas, Manchester’s editor at Harper & Row, and boldly said that he had heard from an “unimpeachable source” that Mrs. Kennedy was threatening to sue them over the Manchester book. There really was no “unimpeachable source”—Corry was only guessing. But with sudden astonishment, Thomas asked how Corry knew, the legal papers had
just
been served!