When I interviewed John McCain in 2000 about whether he had taken

Host: The newsroom was a cathedral of flickering screens, glowing headlines, and restless voices. Rows of monitors lined the walls like mechanical windows into the world’s chaos — each one whispering a different truth. The air was sharp with the smell of coffee, paper, and that peculiar metallic scent of sleepless electricity.

Jack sat at the edge of a long desk, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes hollow but alert — the look of a man who’d lived too long in deadlines and doubt. Jeeny stood across from him, a tablet in her hand, her brows furrowed in quiet intensity. The clock above them ticked toward midnight, its rhythm a metronome of fatigue and focus.

Host: The newsroom had emptied, save for the two of them — the veteran cynic and the soft-spoken idealist, surrounded by the ghosts of headlines past.

Jeeny: (reading from her screen) “John Dickerson once said, ‘When I interviewed John McCain in 2000 about whether he had taken medication for his anger, I remember thinking, “Let’s see how this is going to work.”’”

Host: Her voice hung in the air like a fragment of a forgotten broadcast — sharp, curious, and laced with the unspoken tension of confrontation.

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Ah, the McCain interview. Journalism’s favorite blood sport — poke the lion, see if he roars.”

Jeeny: “Or see if he reveals something human.”

Jack: “Humanity doesn’t get ratings.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cruelty, not in the long run.”

Host: The lights from the monitors flickered across Jack’s face, painting him in alternating shades of blue and white, as though he were caught between two worlds — truth and performance.

Jack: “Dickerson’s line says it all. ‘Let’s see how this is going to work.’ That’s not curiosity, Jeeny. That’s a test. We don’t report anymore — we provoke.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We probe. There’s a difference. McCain had a reputation for temper — Dickerson wanted to know what that temper revealed. It’s not cruelty; it’s candor.”

Jack: (laughing bitterly) “Candor? We disguise voyeurism as integrity and call it journalism. ‘Let’s see how this is going to work’ — that’s not about truth, that’s about tension.”

Jeeny: “But tension is where truth hides! Real interviews aren’t about comfort — they’re about friction. Without that, we get soundbites, not substance.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes gleamed, her conviction lighting her features like a flame in the sterile fluorescent room. Jack, ever the realist, leaned forward, his voice low, edged with weariness.

Jack: “You know what happens when you keep pushing people like that? They stop talking. They armor up. They learn the dance — how to dodge, how to deceive. You think McCain didn’t see through the trap? He’d been in actual cages. He wasn’t going to flinch at a journalist’s scalpel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! And that’s what made it powerful. Dickerson knew McCain wasn’t fragile — he was layered. That question wasn’t about medication; it was about control, about self-awareness. It was about the kind of anger that shapes conviction.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Or the kind that destroys it.”

Host: The air conditioning kicked on, humming softly, a cold wind threading through their debate. Papers on the desk rustled like whispers of dissent.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how we treat anger differently in men than in women? When a man like McCain rages, it’s called ‘passion.’ When a woman does, it’s called ‘instability.’ Maybe Dickerson’s question wasn’t provocation — maybe it was equality.”

Jack: “Or maybe it was exploitation, Jeeny. Don’t sanctify it. We feed on weakness because it sells the illusion of transparency. We’re not truth-seekers anymore — we’re emotional archaeologists digging for fractures.”

Jeeny: “But fractures are where light gets in, Jack.”

Jack: “And where trust leaks out.”

Host: The two sat in silence for a moment, the hum of machines replacing their voices. Outside, rain began to fall against the windows, soft and rhythmic — like applause or forgiveness.

Jeeny: “You’ve become cynical.”

Jack: “I’ve become observant.”

Jeeny: “No, you’ve built walls. You used to believe questions could save people.”

Jack: “Questions can’t save anyone. They just reveal what was already dying.”

Host: Jeeny placed her tablet on the desk and leaned forward, her voice quiet but full of fire.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. A question can be a mirror. Sometimes the only way someone realizes who they are — or what they’ve become — is when someone else asks them to look.”

Jack: (meeting her gaze) “And what if they shatter when they see it?”

Jeeny: “Then at least they saw the truth before it broke them.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, streaking down the glass like liquid memory. The newsroom lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the pale glow of the monitors on their faces — two flickering portraits of doubt and belief.

Jack: “You ever interview someone and feel like you’re trespassing? Like their pain’s not yours to touch?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s when you tread gently — not retreat. Silence can be crueler than the wrong question.”

Jack: “McCain didn’t need gentleness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe the audience did. They needed to see that anger can be human, not monstrous. That control doesn’t mean suppression — it means choice.”

Host: Jack turned toward the window, his reflection framed by the city lights below — a mosaic of movement and isolation.

Jack: “You think anger and control can coexist?”

Jeeny: “I think they must. Otherwise, conviction becomes chaos. McCain wasn’t afraid of anger; he was afraid of letting it define him.”

Jack: “And Dickerson?”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t afraid to ask what we were all thinking. That’s what separates reporters from spectators.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, though there was no mockery in it now — just understanding.

Jack: “You know, when I started in this business, I thought interviews were about answers. Now I think they’re about humanity — how much of it we’re willing to risk to find the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every good question costs something — to the one who asks, and the one who answers.”

Jack: “Then maybe the real courage isn’t in asking or answering. Maybe it’s in not hiding.”

Host: The rain slowed. The storm began to fade, leaving the city gleaming beneath a layer of reflection — like truth rinsed clean.

Jeeny stood, gathering her notes, the soft glow of the monitors turning her silhouette golden.

Jeeny: “Dickerson’s quote — it wasn’t arrogance. It was curiosity with consequence. He knew he was poking a wound, but he also knew wounds don’t heal in the dark.”

Jack: “You think that’s what we’re doing here? Helping the world heal?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “One uncomfortable question at a time.”

Host: Jack rose too, slipping his notebook into his coat pocket. As they walked toward the door, the monitors dimmed to black, their own reflections fading with them.

Outside, the air smelled of wet pavement and renewal. The city stretched out before them — restless, imperfect, alive.

Host: And as the newsroom door closed behind them, their debate lingered like static —
the eternal tension between the question and the answer,
between empathy and exposure,
between the story we tell and the truth we uncover.

Because, as John Dickerson knew, journalism isn’t about certainty.
It’s about standing in the uneasy space between humanity and honesty —
and whispering, “Let’s see how this is going to work.”