A PARTY for smitty

     The stocky man with a mustache was “the face” of the company in Washington. An intensely competitive, prize winner and sort of a celebrity who showed up frequently on national television.  

      So he was at the top of my "people-to-meet" list in the nation's capital early in 1968 after I began working for the same company in the main office downtown. And I took it for granted that I'd see him often. I was wrong.

      He came there, okay, but only once a week, late Friday afternoon, walking over from his post at the White House a couple of blocks away -- and he stayed just long enough to pick up his pay check. 

      For three Fridays in a row, I watched from my desk in a corner. He was in and out like a thief. Barely said a word to anyone. No chance for me -– unless I got aggressive.

      The next Friday, I all but cut him off mid-stride with a timid “Hello, Mr. Smith” before introducing myself. And he didn’t mind. He reached out to shake my hand as he said, "sit down, tell me some more." 

      Really? I laid it all out. My first full-time job. Started a month earlier as an editor. Knew how lucky I was to be there, even at $165 a week, because I had little experience and, at 26, was the youngest person on the staff. 

      When I finished, he said nothing. Did I talk too much? Too fast? Whatever his reason, the silence felt  awkward. 

      So I blurted out some flattering cliches about winning a Pulitzer Prize, the pinnacle in journalism, for his stellar coverage of John F. Kennedy's assassination. Then I asked if he believed Lee Harvey Oswald really didn’t conspire with anyone before shooting the president in Dallas. 

      "Sure," he replied, adding that he had no doubts about that after a special investigating panel led by Earl Warren, the chief justice of the Supreme Court, came to those key conclusions. “Sure. why not?”

      That’s when I made my big mistake, noting that "the Warren Commission report” remained controversial four years after it was issued, with many critics of its methods and omissions. 

      Standing up abruptly, he called me “a big jerk” and walked away.   

      So went my first encounter with the legendary Albert Merriman Smith,  known as "Smitty" by almost everyone including the six Presidents he covered during almost 30 years as a White House correspondent. A year earlier, in 1967, he was awarded the Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor in America. 

      How foolish! I totally blew it, right? 

      But three days later…. 

      “My husband told me about you the other night," Gayley Smith said when she called me at work.  "He said you’re new and described you as a nice young fellow, so I thought you’d like to come​ to a surprise party for him at our house next Saturday on his 55th birthday​.”

      Wait a minute! Why would he want “a big jerk” there? Doesn’t she know about that?  This made no sense. But Gayley went on. “Just a small group of friends. Nothing fancy – hotdogs and stuff, you know. Can you make it?” 

      I hesitated, unsure how to answer.

      "Well, think about it," she said,  "I'll send you directions if you decide to join us. No need to call back."

      Before I could thank her, I heard a click and a dial tone.

      I never understood how that happened. But within a few minutes, I decided to drop my plans for a weekend in New York. Even if Smitty didn’t like it, I'd be at that party. He knew prominent people. Some surely would be there. 

      Time to shop – a classic turtleneck sweater for myself, an expensive bottle of wine for Smitty. And I got a haircut.

      Finding the Smith house was fairly easy even though it was set back from the road in a heavily wooded area of Alexandria, a Virginia suburb of Washington. What I didn’t expect was the ”valet parking” sign in front. Oh, well.

      I won't try to describe the home itself, but I agree with  another visitor, who said that “it looked like it had been wheeled in from Malibu," the affluent town on California's Pacific coast. Smitty clearly earned a whole lot more than the rest of us.

      When I went inside, somebody took my gift-wrapped bottle of wine “for safekeeping until later,” and I saw right away that it was not the party  I imagined after hearing Gailey Smith say  "nothing fancy," just "hot dogs and stuff."

      Instead, picture a lavishly catered affair. Fully stocked and tended bar. Loaded buffet tables Servers carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres. Maybe in a hotel or a country club, but a private home? 

      And Gayley’s "small group of friends" turned into more of a wall-to-wall crowd wearing expensive, stylish clothes. Let's just say I didn't feel all that comfortable in my new turtleneck. 

      As I looked around, I assumed Gayley must have been the attractive blonde woman greeting many guests. The only person I recognized for sure was a coworker from the office, and I went over to talk to him.

      But that’s exactly when Smitty took the stage. Using a handheld microphone, he graciously thanked people for coming and singled out some by name. Then, with witty remarks, he began to open the few presents he got, and to identify who brought them.

      Mine was the last one. When he saw the name tag, he paused –- probably the first time he knew I was there. But then he said it was from me, unwrapped the bottle and held it up high enough for everyone to see.

      There was an audible, collective gasp.

      "How could you do it?" whispered my coworker, still at my side.  "Bring wine to a recovering alcoholic?"

      How could I have known? But that didn’t matter. All I wanted was to find a place to hide, or a way to lose myself in the crowd while Smitty made a few more comments.

      Moments later, he was coming my way.

      "Hi, kid, glad you could make it."

      "I'm so sorry about the gift, I never heard that...."

      "Forget it. Hardly the first time. But come with me."

      With his hand on my shoulder, he led me to a balding man, who looked familiar. 

      “Kid,” he said in his distinct gravelly voice, “This is George Christian, the president’s press secretary.”

      Then, much louder, “George, this is the young man I told you about, the one who doesn't believe the Warren Report. Please straighten him out."

      With that, Smitty walked away -- well aware that all the people around us must have heard what he said.

      So Smitty made me feel like a fool yet again, this time standing next to Lyndon Johnson's chief spokesman. But Christian tried to make light of it all. 

      "Don't let it bother you," he said. “That's just Smitty being Smitty. I’ll walk you out if you're leaving now."

      Was I ever! 

      I don’t recall having any other meaningful exchanges with Smitty after that, in person or on the phone. But as time passed, I wondered and heard more about him.

      Was he really an alcoholic? Maybe that was debatable, but I got the strong impression that Smitty did drink too much too often. On occasion, he was said to have trouble walking a straight line and to be slurring his speech.

      And what about his personal life? Smitty was 20 years older than Gayley and married her not long  after he and his first wife divorced in 1966, ending 29 years together.

      That same year, 1966, brought Smitty a great tragedy. One of his three children,  Albert Merriman Smith Jr, was killed in the Vietnam war. He was 27 and flying as co-pilot on a helicopter that crashed during combat near Saigon in March. 

      Such a sudden loss, painful for any father, must have been particularly tough for Smitty -- trying to continue reporting objectively from the White House despite his own grief and growing opposition to U.S. war policies.

      The president and Mrs. Johnson attended the funeral.

      In addition, Smitty evidently had some health issues. Ten months after that big birthday party at his house, he got sick and took some time off. A little more than a year later, early in 1970, he went into a hospital for a few days.

      I never heard anybody explain what was wrong with him on either occasion. Maybe that was unclear.

      But there was no doubt about what happened April 13, after Smitty called the office in the morning, said he had a cold and would stay home instead of going to work.

      Hours later, Gayley Smith found her husband dead in a bathroom. There was a bullet wound in his head., and his .357 Magnum revolver was nearby.

      The news shocked all of Smitty’s colleagues, of course, and by chance it broke during one of the most worrisome episodes in space history –- when all three astronauts  on Apollo 13 were in danger because of an explosion and the mission didn't end safely until four days later.  

      I don’t know if there’s ever been a credible explanation for Smitty’s suicide. He obviously couldn't cope with some demons even though, at 57, he remained one of the most widely respected newsmen in the country.

      I regret not having an opportunity to get to know him better. There were so many stories told about him after he died, and they continued a long time, especially about his  performance when Kennedy was slain.

      At his funeral, President Richard Nixon sent a message saying Smitty deserved “a place on the honor roll of great reporters.“ And with special, government permission, he was buried at Arlington National Cemetery -- next to the son who died in Vietnam, and on a hillside less than 100 yards away from the Kennedy grave. 

Richard Lerner was a reporter, writer and editor for news organizations in Washington, DC and California.