He was cool and real and smart. He didn’t have the menace of Mike Wallace nor the avuncular safety of Morley Safer so he pried open hard truths in his very own way. He always seemed accessible and authentic, never bothering to hide his disgust or surprise when, say, Michael Jackson crowed about sharing beds with young boys. The only time I ever saw him lose his cool was when interviewing Lena Horne. He was so excited that he was wobbling. If she had leaned over and kissed him he would have spontaneously combusted.

As a black journalist I consider him a dad and mourn his loss.