Charles Finch

I met Tim Russert once. I was working for Howard Dean's presidential campaign in Des Moines, Iowa, in a building the size of a Home Depot along one of the city's main streets. There were press everywhere, both in our headquarters and especially at the hotel bars and diners where the exhausted staffers from every campaign collected near the day's end. But only in the last few days did the big hitters (Brokaw, Jennings) show up in town. On election day itself I heard Russert was in the building, and I darted down from the upstairs office (where we were mostly speculating about whether there would be jobs for everyone in the White House - those were the days) to tell him I was a fan.

"Obviously I can't speak to any press," I said, "but just wanted to say hi."

"Thanks for coming over," he said as we shook hands. He had a reddish, good-natured face, and didn't seem as groomed or self-pleased as some of the other TV men and women, who never seemed quite as serious as the print journalists. "Good luck tonight."

"Thanks," I said, and started back upstairs.

"Back up to the secret lair," he said, and gave me a big grin. His whole crew laughed.

Doesn't sound like much, but it left me with the impression of those qualities of generosity and boyishness that have dominated the eulogies for him. I disagreed with Russert on his reporting (or lack of it) before the war in Iraq, and I sometimes felt exasperated at what he emphasized in this year's debates, but I loved watching him on Sunday. My friends and I were talking about who would replace him on Meet the Press, and it seems appropriate that nobody sounded right for the job.

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Working on a new book, I've taken a hiatus from writing on this blog. But I have two books coming out this summer, the paperback of A Beautiful Blue Death and the hardcover of the next Charles Lenox mystery, The September Society, and as I get ready for my second go around in publishing I'll update this space far more regularly. Look here for all the news.