One of the many things I loved about working with Nick was the joy he took in the process of reporting. He loved the mechanics of a scoop, the scheming to get access, the romancing of sources, the chance encounters that led to a new lead. It was always amazing to me the weird Irish luck that seemed to follow him around on a story. He would be sitting on a plane and the murderer’s ex lover would introduce herself or trying to track a lead and find just the person he wanted in the waiting room of his dermatologist. He knew he had some sticky magic that drew stories to him. Even in his last days at a clinic in Germany, who should be in the next room waiting to be debriefed but the ailing Farrah Fawcett. (“Isn’t that just so typical of me,” he told me wonderingly when I saw him afterwards.)
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