An Intro to Robert Kennedy Jr. Pt 1: The 'Hit Piece'

I intend to unfold this series as an introduction to Robert Kennedy Jr. with utter transparency—driven by what I crave but see lacking in modern journalism. I hope you will fully appreciate the unique layers to each of these tales if we take a few steps back to see how the wheels of fate can shift everything in on our path if we’re open and receptive to it. “Divine purpose” will be a driving theme here, and throughout the remainder of my campaign coverage, where I can assure you things will only get weirder (in the most delightful sense).

I'm at the counter scrolling through my regular morning news sites, collecting bits for my daily recap on Instagram stories, when I see a new Vanity Fair headline dedicated to RFK Jr. The title teases a glimpse into his “elite bubble” amidst a “wet hot American summer” deemed a "Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.” 

Four times repeated to drive the point across.

The headline reveals everything I need to know about where the author’s angle is anchored: another slanderous hit piece designed to diminish Robert Kennedy Jr. as a viable candidate based on his "dangerously conspiratorial" views—predominantly, his vaccine skepticism, which the media, for whatever reason, cannot seem to let go of or move beyond.

Despite an array of more enticing subplots attached to a Kennedy running for office, his views on Covid and Big Pharma remain a steady point of focus for robotic interests recycled by mainstream media, drafted by gutless puppets who’s main goal is to consistently reduce complicated figures so they can be digested and judged by the laziest parts of society.

Even on Wikipedia, Kennedy’s vaccine stance is listed before any mention of his iconic lineage. His father's name lands briefly in the second paragraph, after his “promotion” of “misinformation” is laid out as a warning.

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"Robert Francis Kennedy Jr. (born January 17, 1954), also known by his initials as RFK Jr. and the nickname Bobby, is an American environmental lawyer and writer who promotes anti-vaccine misinformation and public health conspiracy theories. He is an independent candidate in the 2024 presidential election. He is chairman of Children's Health Defense, an anti-vaccine advocacy group." — Wikipedia

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I take a seat in the kitchen to read this latest article disguised as a lifestyle "feature" centered in Cape Cod. The setting instantly lures me in, but right away the sentiments are disappointingly familiar — intended to discourage any further potential for significant popularity, which, with more balanced coverage, he's entirely capable of. It's up to these articles to secure the tide against him.

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"On an overcast afternoon in mid-August, I find myself on a ferry to Nantucket with Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—son of Bobby, nephew of John, Democratic candidate for President of the United States. Trapped between Kennedy on my left and a window facing the Atlantic Ocean to my right, it is no exaggeration to say this is the low point of my summer—a supposedly fun thing I wish I'd never done.

A couple weeks before, Kennedy had responded to an interview request by calling and expressing exasperation at various hatchet jobs in mainstream media and skepticism that a correspondent for Vanity Fair, a card-carrying member of the legacy media, might be fair to him. ‘Your editor won't let you write anything positive,’ he promised." 

— Joe Hagen, VF

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The photos selected amplify the scathing tone of the article. In one harshly edited black-and-white image, Kennedy is captured mid-sentence looking like a shell-shocked fish freshly plucked from the line, gasping for his last breath of air. In a second, his visage is dragged out into four overlapping faces that evokes some kind of advertisement for bipolar disorder. The visuals seek to cement the accusations displayed in prose: He is a mad man chasing delusions of grandeur, despite his shared DNA with two of the most beloved, progressive, and brilliant politicians in American history.

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I can't believe this is how they treat the son of Bobby Kennedy, I think to myself, reading along in horror. I'm mainly stunned by how ruthlessly he is gaslit for refusing to fold on convictions he has every right to espouse. But the article also callously overlooks significant chunks of his life story, including his astute legal background that requires massive research and evidence, which often trumps popular agenda, making him a target for continued slander by mainstream’s framing.

The unfortunate photos are the first thing I notice. The second is the author's name. Joe Hagan has been on my radar since he reached out to me weeks prior to pitch an idea for a story he had in mind. His vision involved the two of us pairing up to retrace Jack Nicholson's cinematic footsteps and eventually (ideally) ending up with some kind of access to him in this last phase of his life, where reclusive tendencies have shrouded him from public view. 

As a lifelong Nicholson fan, the pitch, of course, was alluring. The story, or at least the way he explained it, sounded like a thrilling literary adventure. 

According to Hagan, one of the other editors at Vanity Fair pointed him to my Substack after I shared something about my lifelong affinity for Nicholson, whom I believed was in grave health at the time, according to a trusted source.

After our introduction, I started reading some of Joe's past pieces. Overall, I liked his style. His article "Can Anyone Fix California?" was especially gripping as a sprawling odyssey detailing the decline of the Golden State. And the magazine he works for—which formerly embraced an edgy take on pop culture but in recent years succumbed to streamlined sanitized narratives—still holds a certain nostalgia for me. In my teenage years, Vanity Fair, more than anything else, fed my obsession for how pop culture stories were creatively capped. 

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"Kennedy had had a rough ride since the summer started (he was virtually set ablaze by New York Magazine), and so I proposed that instead of raking over his many controversial ideas—like his belief that the media has been infiltrated by the CIA, as he told the right-wing provocateur James O'Keefe in an interview this year; or his claim that pesticides in drinking water are causing 'sexual dysphoria' in boys, as evidenced by a frog study—we meet up at the Kennedy compound and talk about his family history. Lean into his Kennedyness, have a little fun. I was scheduled to be on Cape Cod for vacation anyway and figured I'd go take the cut of his jib.

'So you're saying this won't be a hit piece?' he wrote back." — VF

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Back then, writers were applauded for providing unpredictable narratives. Now, they get fired for it. 

The article on Kennedy gets my blood boiling. I resent that Joe landed in a situation I'd kill for. Kennedy, in this particular element, is my ideal scenario. 

While there are many things I loathe about the article upon first reading, I particularly despise how Hagan pins him as "paranoid" several times over for expressing his theories on the assassination of his uncle and his father. The ego in these degrading efforts is grotesque. How someone like Joe can justify mocking a man over evidence he's collected in his obsessive research to piece together how and why his relatives were brutally murdered in front of us. These slayings, and the layers of trauma attached, are not Hagan's to debunk, deny, or dispute. The ease at which he does infuriates me. 

Another scene sticks with me: RFK announces to his cousin, Maria Shriver, that Vanity Fair is there to write the first ever "nice" article about him. For a moment, in this fleeting pause, he is hopeful about the prospect—that someone might actually take the time to dissect his complexities as a sharp and compelling candidate instead of reducing him to a handful of misconstrued "controversies," most people I know are sick and tired of reading about.

The groundbreaking conclusion from Hagen's visit to Cape Cod is that he, as a self-professed Democrat, is offended by Kennedy's liberal rebellion. Enough to deem him a “humorless bully” degrading his family name by living in a “paranoid fantasy” because of his distrust of mainstream journalism.

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"I walk down the street toward the boat landing and soon see the unmistakable figure of Robert Francis Kennedy Jr., 69, barefoot in a T-shirt and faded neon-print swim trunks. I greet him and his entourage, which includes Maria Shriver and her brothers, Timothy and Mark. Everybody is jovial and relaxed, just back from a trip to Baxter's, the famous fried-seafood shack near the Hyannis ferry terminal. "He's going to do the first nice article about me," Kennedy says by way of introduction. "The first one."

"Oh, thank God!" says Maria, laughing. 

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I imagine the letdown that followed this publication. Kennedy realizing he invited in another writer with stacked grievances against him, hoping to shift the narrative, only to get burned, again, pains me heavily. 

Personally, I resent how he's cast as “crazy” considering many of the things he’s speaking about are more articulate versions of what I and so many others believe but have been silenced, censored, or punished for sharing.

I send the article to a handful of people I know will share my frustration, if only to validate my fury. Then I head down a newly constructed wooden staircase out back and show it to my husband, who listens intently to my hurried, angry summary. 

He criticizes Hagan for not being open to hearing or learning about Kennedy with an open mind and says that he hates that people assume they know more about his family's assassination theories than he does. 

"He went in with an agenda," Mike responds, digging deeper into a pitted lot of dirt where the tropical fish pond he's building will soon be. "He didn't want to learn anything about him. Just like all of these liberal idiots," he says, digging more aggressively and deliberately as we speak. 

To clear my mind, I hop in my car to drive around PCH for an hour, thinking about perspective—how two people witnessing the same situation, given the same access to an individual, can walk away with such sharply conflicting viewpoints. One negative, one positive. One damaging, one illuminating. 

While jealousy is certainly a triggering factor, admittedly, my annoyance with mainstream journalists in general is easily revived. I crave the older voices who tracked culture but were instinctively suspicious of the establishment. Today’s brand of journalism is incentivizing corporate hacks to chase mass approval over truth. Grit and tenacity in the craft have faded drastically thanks to this collective desire to keep everyone happy, never to say or write the "wrong" thing, and to question less and less so that each new string of writers stops seeking to be shocked, surprised or sidetracked by anything they learn about someone if they don't fully align morally or politically with them.

I always invite a ragged twist to shift my coverage if it offers sharper clarity. I appreciate when my opinions on people are proven "right," but I also welcome them to be altered or changed entirely. I love when stunning revelations shatter my stance on just about anything. Curiosity in news should always outweigh compliance. Tell that to Vogue and Rolling Stone, with their main goals now to deliver moral lectures instead of hard-edged dives into culture so that no one is actively awaiting what they uncover anymore. They choked the interest right out of their own audience by becoming painfully predictable.

What's funny is that each of the details Hagan slammed in his piece are things I would have accentuated favorably, down to the faded board shorts and the barefooted attempt to board a ferry in a hurry. Under my eye and prose, these scenes would have been embraced with humanizing candor. 

It would be hard for me to begrudge a candidate who appears on a historical dock in peak summer, clad in swim trunks, cursing an engine issue because he's late to catch the local ferry that takes him out of the sun-dazed seaside haven where he's spent every summer of his life, to the sinister pits of DC, where he's determined to shift the tides of a ship in much greater need of better steering.

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A Couple of Weeks Later 

Against my friends' urgings, I decided not to cancel my interview with Joe. I remind myself that it's not my style to let grudges against journalists I disagree with on certain issues determine what I think about them personally when my whole goal is to overcome that type of divisive clutch in media. Plus, I've done a fair job of not making any enemies in the industry so far, even though I know I'm considered an amateur to many of the reporters I associate with—those who went to fancy journalism schools and are employed by established outlets, but are silently resentful of independent voices on Substack not only dominating interest and readership but often tripling their salaries without having to navigate the stresses of rigid deadlines and overbearing editors breathing down their necks ready to shred and redefine their words and perspectives.

The difference is freedom. 

The only time I pitched a story to a more prominent outlet, the editors involved wanted to strike or rearrange every idea I brought to the table, until it was no longer a story I wanted to tell. I realized then what an advantage independent writers have, translating experiences without interference.  

Imagine how different articles would read if all writers were catering to their own voices rather than narratives funded by the self-invested billionaires who own the outlets that employ them. 

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"I walk down the street toward the boat landing and soon see the unmistakable figure of Robert Francis Kennedy Jr., 69, barefoot in a T-shirt and faded neon-print swim trunks. I greet him and his entourage, which includes Maria Shriver and her brothers, Timothy and Mark. Everybody is jovial and relaxed, just back from a trip to Baxter's, the famous fried seafood shack near the Hyannis ferry terminal. 'He's going to do the first nice article about me,' Kennedy says by way of introduction. 'The first one.'

'Oh, thank God!' says Maria, laughing. 

"For Kennedy, the 'legacy media' is corrupted by pharmaceutical companies and an implicit allegiance to the Democratic Party. The federal judge who ruled against him is an appointee of President Joe Biden and is therefore in bed with the whole gang too—as am I. I assure Kennedy I wasn't given any marching orders from the DNC or Big Pharma, nor was I on the CIA payroll. 'You wouldn't be sitting there if you were willing to depart from official orthodoxy,' he tells me, 'so there's a self-censorship that goes on.'" — VF

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A phone call from a known journalist the night before I'm set to meet with Joe urges me one last time not to fall into this "trap."

"Darling, trust me. You shouldn't do it. Vanity Fair is not out to help you," she laughs. "They are fading. They only do hit pieces on people like you!"

Her concerns are valid and appreciated, but I tell her that a hit piece doesn't scare me. 

"I don't care what Vanity Fair thinks about me, and I don't think any of my readers do either," I explain. "There is no danger if I have no fear in it."

When her efforts fail to persuade me, she signs off with prayers for my naiveté. I'll have to learn the hard way, she decides before hanging up. 

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"We gun it to the terminal and are fast-walking to the gangway, the last to board the ferry, when we're stopped by a guard in mirrored glasses. 'Sir, you gotta put shoes on, please,' he says, motioning to Kennedy's bare feet. 

An aide quickly digs his formal dress shoes out of a suitcase, and Kennedy yanks them on, looking faintly ridiculous as he strides onto the ferry in neon trunks and black dress shoes. He heads to the upper deck, known as the Captain's View, and we sit side by side in bucket seats." — VF

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I meet Joe at Union Station early morning. We drive around LA in a rented convertible for an hour, stopping to see a few of the spots where Chinatown was filmed. His finger hits a record button on a small device in the console. Settings from the film have been drastically altered by decades of decay. It's mildly depressing. But it’s the case with most crumbling corners of LA. 

Initially, our conversation centers on Nicholson but eventually meanders into politics. I ask and listen with little feedback to his recount of that disastrous Cape Cod afternoon with Kennedy. His disdain for the guy is clearly unwavering. 

At this point, I've just published my recap of Kennedy's Independent announcement in Philadelphia, revealing that my interview with him was abruptly and mysteriously canceled. Joe hasn't read it. He is not aware of my thoughts on him just yet. 

I ask him if the house was nice. He points out that it's "newer," not as old as the other properties on the compound, and describes what I start to envision as a seemingly stark or neglected vacation home. He assumes Kennedy doesn't spend much time in it. This surprises me. In my head, a sparse rental is not what I imagined of their home in Hyannis Port. From the photos, it always looked like a cherished respite for his family. Joe wonders if it's used more as a flashy landing spot to impress journalists like him. 

With Kennedy as a topic in this shift, politics are now on the table. Joe asks if I "love" Donald Trump.

I tell him no, but I don't hate him like I used to.

He insinuates that I lean right in my coverage and refers to me as a "contrarian" more than once, a term I reject each time. By my definition, a contrarian is motivated by shock for shock's sake, adopting unpopular viewpoints to cause chaos and garner clickbait. 

This, I interrupt, is different from what I do. When I take a stance, it comes by way of emotion, research, facts, and fair questioning. I tell him that I approach every trial I cover on a case-by-case basis without subscribing to gender bias, which is partly what paints me as controversial when in fact, I'm not. 

I take it a step further and tell him the only "controversial" thing I'm guilty of is putting into writing exactly how I speak in private conversations. "I'm the same in print as I am at a dinner table," I say, knowing that it’s frowned upon these days with more and more people accustomed to self-censored dialogue. 

When he circles back to Nicholson, he asks me if stars like him could exist in today's social climate. 

Absolutely not, I reply. By today's standards, a guy like Jack would have been easily canceled early in his career. 

Joe asks about the decline of "manly men." I agree that Jack is the definition of that, but is also deeply sensitive and romantic, "complicated," I say, because of his varied traits. This conversation leads to my views on the emasculating trend in Hollywood. I admit I'm not a fan of it and neither are any women I know. Putting leading men in dresses at awards shows is only entertaining to liberal media who reactively reject anything traditional. Real people, I tell him, aren't amused or impressed by it. 

Again, even in this topic, he finds a way to shift us back to Kennedy. 

“RFK is a manly man,” he points out—more as a statement than a question. 

I agree. 

In my head, I'm now envisioning the part in the article where Kennedy is furious after he's realized that the interview has taken a wrong turn, that he's set himself up for another hit piece, and is gripping the tray between the two of them on the upper deck of the ferry, seething with "bulging muscles." I feel my defenses, (minus flexing muscles) mirroring this reaction. Though it’s oddly intriguing to see these tactics in action. 

When Joe mentions Kennedy's love for conspiracies, I casually bring up his success as a renowned environmentalist attorney. I point out that he must have loaded evidence backing his claims to have won so many of these monumental lawsuits against mega corporations. With this point, Joe falls quiet. 

But by now, I'm wondering if Kennedy, not Nicholson, is the intended focus. Is it not enough to slander him in the magazine? Does the magazine seek to slander writers who cover him fairly, too?

As the hour wears on, I find myself answering the remainder of his questions with guarded responses and, eventually, outright lies. Typically, I'm candid in discussion. In this case, instinctively, I can’t help but recoil. 

He asks if I'm vaccinated. 

"No."

Is my husband? 

"No."

After a short pause, he points out that RFK isn't vaccinated either. I sit with it. I'm not sure what Kennedy's vax status has to do with mine and what mine has to do with Jack Nicholson. 

He asks if I have RFK's phone number. 

"No."

Would I call him if I did?

"No."

Would I report something bad about him if I learned it?

"Of course."

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"Did I like Robert F. Kennedy Jr.? No, I did not. He is a humorless bully living in a paranoid fantasy in which reporters like me are cast as corrupt dupes whose only redemption is to follow Robert F. Kennedy Jr. into this miasma of overheated conspiracies. It's a script that's beneath Netflix, let alone the Kennedy legacy. 

At a loss for words, I note that Kennedy seems very passionate.

'I wouldn't describe myself that way,' he says. 

How would he describe himself?

'Well, I don't think I'm governed by passion,' he says. 'I think I'm governed by evidence.'

A passion for the evidence, perhaps? 

'Okay,' he says. 'I'll settle for that.'

If only." — VF

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At this point, the dynamic in this convertible is sliding into tenser territory. I know I'm being recorded but I'm also feeling interrogated. I sense that he's less curious about me than my political stances. In this weird bind, I’m starting to understand why journalists get a bad rap. Sitting in the passenger's seat, I imagine how many ways he could spin this. 

We drive to Echo Park, get out, and walk circles around the water. I ask him where Vanity Fair headquarters are located and what the office setup is like. He tells me they've recently relocated to smaller confines, but he works from home. 

He asks me if I stay in contact with my sources. I tell him almost always yes. 

He asks if I consider myself "media." 

No, I say, I identify as an independent writer. Then, I attempt with slight effort to explain what I do. Gossip is often my most valuable tool, essentially how I uncover what is true or not. He doesn't grasp the concept fully, but to his credit, I give up wanting to make him understand. 

He brings up my "defense" of Russell Brand, but gets it wrong. I tell him I don't know enough about the situation to form an opinion—yet. I reiterate that I'm against cutting off anyone's income based on allegations alone. 

Joe's vague attempts to frame me as a disruptor keep failing, but I imagine it as a potential angle regardless. The MAGA inflections are hard to overlook. 

On our way into a decked-out vintage biker cafe, once frequented by the old-school Hollywood bad boys, since he’s become a steady taking point, I read breaking news about Kennedy aloud from an email sent from his campaign team’s update. Another intruder has attempted to enter his LA home. 

When I mention this to Joe, he's instantly invested. He asks where I'm getting this news from. At first I ignore the question. When he asks again minutes later I lie and tell him a friend sent me the text because this mental chess game is now powering our discourse. Both of us guarding our words too cautiously. 

At lunch, we order a burger and a sandwich and trade stories about our kids. His girls love Taylor Swift and The Daily Mail. This, we can both laugh about. 

When our lunch comes to a close, I'm slightly relieved — ready to let go of the phony posture I’ve adopted in unexpected self defense. Mostly, I'm perplexed by the afternoon's conversations and where and if Nicholson fit in. I call an Uber who picks me up curbside. In the car on the long ride home, the irony of this pairing is not lost on me. The scene of it all is accidentally metaphorical. Card carrying legacy media at the wheel, independent suspicions riding shotgun. One car, two perspectives. Taking in surrounding sights like two souls from separate planets hoping to convey what’s real and what’s not. 

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Up Ahead // RFK Part 2: The Uphill Hike