said. “But we don’t have much information. Can you ad-lib the story when we’re back on the air?”
While this was going on, I called Dorrance Smith. Remember him? I had met him at Ethel’s and wanted to
be
him? Well, now I had his job and he worked for the White House as part of President Bush’s team and was with us in Japan.
“Dorrance,” I said, “we’re getting reports in Atlanta that the president is dead.”
“He isn’t,” Dorrance said with assurance. He had just seen the president. “He’s alive and he has a nasty flu.”
Don Miller was getting ready to report the unwelcome and disturbing piece of news as he somberly looked at the camera and
said, “This tragic news just in from Tokyo.”
But I had gotten a call through in time. At that point, his producer interrupted him and literally shouted into his earpiece,
“No. Stop. Don’t read it.”
Thank God Don knew how to think on his feet. He managed to stop himself in midsentence and say, “Well, we’ll get back to that
story.” And he went on to something else. We all exhaled. If that report had gone on the air, it would have beencatastrophic. So, in effect, we nearly killed off the president that night, but we rescued him and ourselves in the nick of
time. Good going, Don!
Perhaps this false rumor had spread like wildfire because it came on the heels of President Bush’s diagnoses of atrial fibrillation
and Graves’ disease during the preceding twelve months. But this was typical of how the news worked. I can’t tell you how
many times something like a simple dinner with little to no import in the larger scheme of things suddenly became an international
story. And we had managed to avoid spreading rumors and causing America and the rest of the world to panic. Who took the credit
for that? None of us and all of us.
In 1989, I produced coverage for a US-Soviet summit in Malta, an archipelago in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Summits
were always an exercise in controlled chaos and this one was no exception as we quickly realized the limitations of Malta’s
technology. We were all pushed to our limits, it was freezing cold outside, and John Towriss and I were in the work space
well past midnight, arranging everything for the talks that would begin at 6 a.m. the next morning. “Wendy,” John said, looking
at me through bloodshot eyes, “I’m going up to my room and try to knock out a few hours of sleep.”
Anxious to grab whatever sleep was possible, I went to my room, too. But sleep didn’t last very long for me or for John.
“I lay down on the bed in my clothes,” says John, “and I dropped off immediately without even turning off the lights, only
to hear the phone ringing. It seemed like I just fell asleep five minutes before when I reached out to grab the telephone.
I sat up with a start and said, ‘What’s going on?’ ”
CNN anchor, Bernard Shaw was calling John. A quick glance at the clock confirmed to John that it was not his imagination.
He truly had just lain down.
“I tried to wake myself up fully,” says John, “while Bernie droned in a slow, narrative kind of reporter-speak, ‘Hi, John.
This is Bernie.’ ”
“What’s up?” John asked him, still groggy.
Bernie went on, “Well… I’m looking outside the window.”
It couldn’t have sounded more bizarre as Bernie continued speaking, using his words slowly and clearly, as if he were doing
an on-the-air report. “A storm of terrific ferocity is blowing here. Our satellite dish is moving. Yes, now it’s flipped over.
It’s broken. The satellite dish is broken. And our set seems to be taking a lot of water. Yes, water is now washing over our
set.”
While Bernie was talking, John ran over to the window and looked out. A monsoon of massive proportions was crashing down from
the heavens, and he gazed with horror at our beautiful set on a ledge out over the water as the downpour lashed up over the
TV
While this was going on, I called Dorrance Smith. Remember him? I had met him at Ethel’s and wanted to
be
him? Well, now I had his job and he worked for the White House as part of President Bush’s team and was with us in Japan.
“Dorrance,” I said, “we’re getting reports in Atlanta that the president is dead.”
“He isn’t,” Dorrance said with assurance. He had just seen the president. “He’s alive and he has a nasty flu.”
Don Miller was getting ready to report the unwelcome and disturbing piece of news as he somberly looked at the camera and
said, “This tragic news just in from Tokyo.”
But I had gotten a call through in time. At that point, his producer interrupted him and literally shouted into his earpiece,
“No. Stop. Don’t read it.”
Thank God Don knew how to think on his feet. He managed to stop himself in midsentence and say, “Well, we’ll get back to that
story.” And he went on to something else. We all exhaled. If that report had gone on the air, it would have beencatastrophic. So, in effect, we nearly killed off the president that night, but we rescued him and ourselves in the nick of
time. Good going, Don!
Perhaps this false rumor had spread like wildfire because it came on the heels of President Bush’s diagnoses of atrial fibrillation
and Graves’ disease during the preceding twelve months. But this was typical of how the news worked. I can’t tell you how
many times something like a simple dinner with little to no import in the larger scheme of things suddenly became an international
story. And we had managed to avoid spreading rumors and causing America and the rest of the world to panic. Who took the credit
for that? None of us and all of us.
In 1989, I produced coverage for a US-Soviet summit in Malta, an archipelago in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Summits
were always an exercise in controlled chaos and this one was no exception as we quickly realized the limitations of Malta’s
technology. We were all pushed to our limits, it was freezing cold outside, and John Towriss and I were in the work space
well past midnight, arranging everything for the talks that would begin at 6 a.m. the next morning. “Wendy,” John said, looking
at me through bloodshot eyes, “I’m going up to my room and try to knock out a few hours of sleep.”
Anxious to grab whatever sleep was possible, I went to my room, too. But sleep didn’t last very long for me or for John.
“I lay down on the bed in my clothes,” says John, “and I dropped off immediately without even turning off the lights, only
to hear the phone ringing. It seemed like I just fell asleep five minutes before when I reached out to grab the telephone.
I sat up with a start and said, ‘What’s going on?’ ”
CNN anchor, Bernard Shaw was calling John. A quick glance at the clock confirmed to John that it was not his imagination.
He truly had just lain down.
“I tried to wake myself up fully,” says John, “while Bernie droned in a slow, narrative kind of reporter-speak, ‘Hi, John.
This is Bernie.’ ”
“What’s up?” John asked him, still groggy.
Bernie went on, “Well… I’m looking outside the window.”
It couldn’t have sounded more bizarre as Bernie continued speaking, using his words slowly and clearly, as if he were doing
an on-the-air report. “A storm of terrific ferocity is blowing here. Our satellite dish is moving. Yes, now it’s flipped over.
It’s broken. The satellite dish is broken. And our set seems to be taking a lot of water. Yes, water is now washing over our
set.”
While Bernie was talking, John ran over to the window and looked out. A monsoon of massive proportions was crashing down from
the heavens, and he gazed with horror at our beautiful set on a ledge out over the water as the downpour lashed up over the
TV
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