| The jury was out on Roy Cohn when I first met him. Itwill be out on him for as long as he is remembered, buton that spring afternoon in 1964, metaphor hadnothing to do with it. A jury of twelve was trying himfor perjury and obstruction of justice, and after threedays of deliberation the word was out that they weregoing to put him away. Roy Cohn was about to behistory. I thought it was a perfect time to go over tothe Federal Courthouse and rag him a little. I was a rookie reporter on the New York Post, thenthe most liberal paper in town. During the flush daysof Joe McCarthy, the Post went after him fists flying.This attracted me to the tabloid in my college dayswhen too many Establishment newspapers coweredbefore Tailgunner Joe and his banty little mouthpieceCohn. But I had no assignment to work over Roy as heawaited his verdict. Not from editors, that is. Minecame from a higher authority: the Rosenbergs and allthe victims of McCarthyism. He was standing on the steps of the courthouse,talking to a few guys, none of them with notebooksout. The reporters had obviously exhausted everyangle by now and had left him alone with his cronies.I introduced myself, flashing my press card. He didn tgive the card a tumble, he shook my hand and said, |
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