The jury was out on Roy Cohn when I first met him. It
will be out on him for as long as he is remembered, but
on that spring afternoon in 1964, metaphor had
nothing to do with it. A jury of twelve was trying him
for perjury and obstruction of justice, and after three
days of deliberation the word was out that they were
going to put him away. Roy Cohn was about to be
history. I thought it was a perfect time to go over to
the Federal Courthouse and rag him a little.
I was a rookie reporter on the New York Post, then
the most liberal paper in town. During the flush days
of Joe McCarthy, the Post went after him fists flying.
This attracted me to the tabloid in my college days
when too many Establishment newspapers cowered
before Tailgunner Joe and his banty little mouthpiece
Cohn. But I had no assignment to work over Roy as he
awaited his verdict. Not from editors, that is. Mine
came from a higher authority: the Rosenbergs and all
the victims of McCarthyism.
He was standing on the steps of the courthouse,
talking to a few guys, none of them with notebooks
out. The reporters had obviously exhausted every
angle by now and had left him alone with his cronies.
I introduced myself, flashing my press card. He didn t
give the card a tumble, he shook my hand and said,
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