Scoop: The Evolution of a Southern Reporter

Editor’s Note

167 Editor’s Note —barbara matuso The story of my husband’s life ends abruptly for the sad reason that he died before he had a chance to finish writing it. Jack passed away on October 21, 2009, at the age of eighty, after a losing bout with pancreatic cancer. He always intended that the memoir he was writing would encompass his years in Washington, where he served as the high-profile bureau chief of the Los Angeles Times for twenty-one years. That, alas, was not to be. But he did leave behind a vivid account of his youth and his trail-blazing career as a reporter in the South. The manuscript was not a finished work—many chapters were polished to a high gloss, others not. There were holes in the story here and there. Was it publishable if the gaps could be filled and the rough spots smoothed? I wondered. I didn’t know. Fortunately, I was able to turn for advice to the experts in the field of southern journalism—Eugene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff, coauthors of the Pulitzer Prize–winning The Race Beat: The Press, the Civil Rights Struggle, and the Awakening of a Nation. Their verdict was unambiguous: the manuscript could and should be published, even in its truncated form. Happily, the editors at the University Press of Mississippi, along with veteran southern journalist Curtis Wilkie, concurred, although everyone agreed that the book needed work. Initially I was not interested in taking on the job, even though in many respects I was the obvious person. I had a long career in journalism, first as a radio and television reporter and producer, then as longtime staff writer for Washingtonian magazine. As a close couple, both personally and professionally, Jack and I read and critiqued each other’s work throughout our thirty-five-year marriage. We even met on the job. In early 1972, Jack was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, covering the trial of the so-called Harrisburg Seven, the Catholic activists charged with attempting to kidnap Henry Kissinger. I, an inexperienced reporter in New York for CBS News, was sent to Harrisburg towards the end of 168 editor's note the trial to handle radio feeds once the verdict was in. Jury stakeouts of this kind can last for days, with dozens of reporters milling about killing time—reading, kibitzing, doing crossword puzzles, etc. That’s when I first encountered the great Jack Nelson, already famous in journalistic circles for his investigative prowess and his coverage of civil rights. After several days of deliberation, the jury finally came back. Apart from some minor charges of letter smuggling, members were hopelessly deadlocked on all the serious counts. The jurors, who weren’t talking to reporters, proceeded to disperse into the Pennsylvania countryside. It was our job to track them down for comment. Not knowing where to begin, I was on the verge of panic. But Jack, always generous with fellow reporters, gave me the names and addresses of several jurors. I was so grateful for his help that our casual friendship quickly morphed into romance. Two years and many trips between New York and Washington later, we were married. We were the closest of collaborators throughout our marriage. I never turned in a magazine article without showing it to him first, and he always asked me to edit the lengthier pieces he was working on. I also served as a legman on his 1991 book, Terror in the Night: The Klan’s Campaign Against the Jews, taking a leave of absence from my magazine job to conduct interviews and do research. But for some unknown reason, I resisted getting involved in his memoir. After he died, I was no more enthusiastic, even thinking of hiring someone to finish the book. But I was pretty sure that wouldn’t work. The principal deterrent, as far as I was concerned, was his papers. I knew they were absolutely crucial if I were to finish the task. But they were in a grave state of disorganization, which is to say, they were barely organized at all. The thought of sorting and cataloging fifteen file boxes stuffed with fifty years’ worth of notes, tapes, letters, memorabilia, etc., filled me with dread. Yet I knew I owed it to his memory to do what I could to get his story out, and in order to accomplish this, I would have to attack his papers. As I began going through and...