Chapter Fifteen

At Least I Got a New Face

A First Amendment controversy stemming from CNN use of the Noriega tapes put Special Assignment on the front pages of many of the nation’s leading newspapers. Otherwise,   we reported in a vacuum. I compare the CNN experience to my first radio job at a tiny 250-watt station in Sonora, California where people complained they couldn’t find  us on the dial. I now heard complaints that viewers couldn’t find our stories on CNN.

The unpredictable placement in newscasts of our exposés ensured the anonymity of Special Assignment correspondents. Hence, the impact of our stories was negligible. But we tried.

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In 1992, Pam Hill volunteered to oversee the production of  “a landmark series of six prime-time specials,” titled Democracy in America. Three of the documentaries focused on public policy issues, two were in-depth investigations of President George H.W. Bush and Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton, and one program profiled their running mates. Seven CNN reporters and a team of Special Assignment producers and researchers were assigned to the project.

At the last minute, a third candidate entered the Presidential campaign. And by the luck of the draw, I was assigned to do the digging on Ross Perot. He was, by far, the strangest of the lot.

When I finally got around to interviewing the bantam rooster, it was akin to paying penance for all my past sins. He was evasive, hostile and accusatory in answering the most mundane questions.

“You said you wanted a profile of my life. I just thought I would come in and we would talk about a cross-section of my life. We’re into minute details, which I will be glad to get for you or have people make available for you if you really want them.” Perot was fighting mad in avoiding answers.

“If you really want to know, rather than just throw dust in the air like gorillas do when they fight, go over to EDS…..” The simian metaphor was followed by a lesser creature. “You’re off on an absolute rabbit chase is where you are, but you love being there. So, I’ve got to bring you back to reality.” Then he visited the insect kingdom. “All you want to do is find, if it’s at all possible, to find one mosquito somewhere. Well, there are no mosquitoes.”

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As a critic of television’s “blonde” revolution, I must make an embarrassing confession. I tried to be young and pretty by investing $10,000 to remove genetically sagging jowls, trim puffy pockets beneath the baby blues and squeeze the skin tight around my jaw line. I bought designer suits, Pam-approved neckties, and ate Lean Cuisine and broccoli. My fifteen-dollar barber was replaced by a hair stylist. I stocked the bathroom cabinet with a variety of sprays, facial crèmes and other alleged youth-inducing beauty aids. My futile search for a fountain of youth was rather pathetic.

Admitting sins of vanity is awkward because of vigorous past denials. “A facelift? Hell no,” I answered curious queries about the slicing and dicing. “I’ve lost weight, exercised, got a little sun.”

The new face did help me outlast a lot of friends, who were drummed out of the business for being too old and/or too ugly. But a disconcerting result of my long survival was realizing that I was repeating myself.