A Reporter's Legacy: Five Decades of Fairness   

Gore and chaos dominated John F. Kennedy's return to Washington, D.C., on November 22, 1963. Television lights that these days have the ability to turn night into day were dimmer back then, casting heavy shadows that magnified the nightmare. A cargo gantry at Andrews Air Force Base was elevated into a makeshift bier for the coffin of the dead president. Jacqueline Kennedy made her appearance, her pink suit spattered with blood. The blood was caked and brown six hours after holding her husband's shattered head in her lap in Dallas.

No one was more rattled that night than the just-sworn-in president, Lyndon B. Johnson. He left Air Force One by the front ramp minutes after the departure of the Kennedy motorcade. Edgy Marine pilots were gunning helicopter rotors in anticipation of whisking him to the White House. The whir overwhelmed the sobs of Sen. Hubert H. Humphrey standing with the Senate leadership near the press pen on the tarmac. Johnson ignored the helicopters. Above the din, John William Theis, chief of the Senate staff for United Press International, spoke to Johnson.

"God bless you, Mr. President," Theis said.

Johnson knew Bill Theis (pronounced Tice) well. So did Franklin D. Roosevelt and Harry S. Truman and Richard M. Nixon and Kennedy. For those men seeking to influence the world at large and American politics in particular, talking to Theis meant your message was delivered everywhere within minutes. Johnson, a former Senate Democratic leader, knew Theis well enough to impersonate him. Johnson delighted in burlesque imitations of reporters, modifying his Texas accent to recreate what he thought was a stupid question or to mock their television delivery. Perhaps the ridicule reflected contempt. Certainly many in the press corps treated Johnson with contempt and disdain.

But Bill Theis was different. More than a year later, Johnson recalled Theis' blessing. It caused the new president to silently ask "for God's help that I should not prove unworthy." Theis had cut through the chaos and turmoil to touch Johnson's soul. It was an example of the understanding, empathy and compassion that marked almost 50 years of Theis' journalism.

Theis was no bible-thumping soul-saver, but he did give so much money to his church that it produced frequent IRS audits of his charitable deductions. Not that one would ever find him bowed in prayer. Instead of practicing religion, Theis lived it. He embodied Judeo-Christian ethics when it came to fairness, presenting the other side and being a little kind when there was every reason not to be.

As opposed to these days, when reporters wear their cynicism on their sleeves and openly endorse one side of a controversy or, even worse, their favorite political candidates, Theis took great care to walk the tightrope of objectivity throughout his career. He always gave readers a fair shot at unraveling the complexities that often mask reality in Washington.

Not that Theis was a patsy for the crooks, hypocrites, drunks and skirt-chasers that populate the Senate. Theis knew all their dodges and never missed reporting on the motivation behind them. But he also reported on men of character and integrity, men who scrambled on the quicksand of political life, striving to do the right thing against great odds. Theis knew the true measure of their failures and achievements. He understood.

When I began covering the Senate in 1964, I once saw Theis doing a hallway interview with a real has- been, a man who blamed the press for his defeat in a recent gubernatorial race. "Why waste your time with Richard Nixon?" I asked.

"Never show favoritism," Theis once told me. It was the only specific direction I can recall. Usually, his lessons were taught by example. The harsher the story, the more Theis worked to get the target's version. He never kicked politicians when they were down, and he would help up the wounded of either party with equal vigor.

Frailty was part of the human condition, and Theis himself was not perfect. One of his worst moments found him reporting on a World War II draft expansion order by FDR. On the phone from the White House, he dictated to a typist what was expected to be a two- or three-word distillation of an earthshaking event. The teletype operator rang 15 bells and cleared the wire to alert editors around the globe. But Theis began dictating an entire sentence, breaching wire-service protocol in a manner that for another man might have been unforgivable: "President Roosevelt today announced that, etc., etc., etc.," Theis began. He should have simply announced: "Draft Expanded," but on the sentence ran. "It was the darkest day in the history of the International News Service," is how the rocket from New York headquarters described Theis' blunder at the time, according to Bill Umstead, who then worked for INS.

Both men moved to UP when a 1958 merger transformed INS into the I in UPI. But journalism is a daily business and Theis' career was, on most days, a sunny one, marked by fast and solid journalism about events that are now part of our history. He moved at wire-service speed, his pink skull, silver hair and blue eyes all but a blur, whizzing around Washington at a pace that left younger reporters panting.

At his funeral almost one year ago, none of the eulogists seemed to be able to capture his legacy. Perhaps it was five decades of fairness in a city fueled by deceit and unfairness – something that is all but incomprehensible in the modern world Theis left behind.