EIGHT
Funny how your perspective on life changes with your frame of mind. The afternoon beckons with its golden, September glow, but I am too self-absorbed to notice, much less to stop and enjoy it. The road stretches on ahead in what seems like a measureless protraction of our ill-fated, fatiguing journey. Even Maryanne sits motionless, staring out her window toward the fields, ripe and ready for harvest. Nothing I am thinking can be expressed. Thoughts whir inside my head; questions rise and fall; strategies for the days ahead momentarily appear only to prove callow and insubstantial upon further consideration. Finally, I call Dan on the cellular and find him working around the house. He’s been washing windows, touching up outdoor paint, mowing and raking in the yard — all things a beautiful, fall day is made for. When I say I need to talk with him regarding the governor, he agrees to come over at six. We will provide burgers and beer, of course. Touching him, if only by phone, helps loosen the grip of my somber mood and frees me from the prison of my thoughts.
“We have so much to be thankful for,” Maryanne says, breaking her silence. Just think: It could have been you or me in that situation back in high school. It could have been our lives that got ruined or are now about to be ruined.”
“Thankfully, that is not the case.” I cannot imagine what I might have done under similar circumstances to those of young Colin, but I realize that there were no painless solutions to his predicament. “What disturbs me most about the story is not that Kathy had an abortion, but that she and Colin have experienced totally opposite and contrasting results. He is the governor with a wife and two beautiful, grown kids, while she is a neurotic spinster with regrets and a cat.”
Maryanne springs at what she presumes I mean, “Chip, don’t be a chauvinist. The woman always gets the shaft in situations like this.”
“Hang on. You’re jumping to conclusions. I mean it’s curious, that’s all. Nobody feels more empathy for her than I do. Sitting there while she poured out a lifetime of sorrows gave me a real appreciation for her condition. But think about it, couldn’t she have gotten beyond it all somehow? You know, found somebody else, got married, maybe adopted a child or two — shown Colin, and anybody else who cared, that she wasn’t going to let him ruin her entire life.”
“That’s just exactly what a guy would think. You and the whole cluster of male-dom don’t get it. Women get emotionally attached when they have intercourse. It’s not something they can always get beyond, like you suggest. And when they do, it’s through some extraordinary manner of coping. Some women can’t pull it off. Take Kathy Nichols for example: When you pile on pregnancy, the abortion, having to bottle it all up inside, Colin manipulating her feelings and then ultimately dumping her like yesterday’s newspaper, what would you expect was going to happen? She drowned in the flood of her own emotions. Just like any other woman under similar circumstances.”
“Okay, truce. I don’t want us to fight about this. It’s enough that we have to figure out what to do next. Let’s not dive into the lake and drown with her.”
Out of my peripheral vision I catch sight of my wife’s face. She is studying me with a wry look. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s a terrible thing, that’s all. The more I think about it, the madder I get. Who’d have ever thought that Colin Rierdon, of all people, could be such an S.O.B.? He seems so pure and virtuous. But his whole life is a sham.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. We haven’t heard his side yet.”
“Like he’s going to have a side…” She resumes watch over the cornfields and barns before completing her thought. “I bet he denies the whole thing.”
Shortly after six o’clock, Dan pulls up the driveway looking ridiculous in his Japanese, economy car. (Personally, I don’t see why big, burly guys choose little boxes for cars, but it happens more frequently than one might expect.) He emerges from the Toyota with a happy expression, presumably well rested from the weekend, his domestic chores notwithstanding. He proceeds up the bricked walk to the deck where I stand, absently tending the grill.
“Hey, Chip! Any excuse for a barbecue, I see.”
I reach to shake his hand, but he grasps me in a bone-crushing hug.
“It’s really more serious than an occasion to cook outdoors.” I shuffle around the grill to avoid the vacuum effect caused by the two of us standing in too-close proximity to each other — Dan being worth two of me, of course — whereby we get smoked while the meat gets grilled. “I’ve got a tiger by the tail, and I’m afraid to let go.”
“Don’t let go. Just snap the life out of him like you would an old water snake.”
Dan’s spirits are obviously soaring on this perfect evening as the earth is paying the last of its rich, summer dividends to every man and woman fortunate enough to be alive. I envy him.
“It’s not that simple. This tiger is too big to snap.”
He grabs the long-handled spatula and starts pushing burgers around while examining them for done-ness. “You’ve got to watch this spot right here. It’s a little too hot.”
“I know. Guess I’m just preoccupied with my troubles. And I suppose I should apologize for asking you over, so I can unload them on you.”
“What are friends for? Besides, don’t worry about me. I can handle it.”
He has commandeered the grill now, and I step back to watch him expertly poke and flip and nudge until, in a couple minutes, he is satisfied that each slab is cooked to perfection. He removes them onto the awaiting plate and shuts off the gas. He puts one arm around me, and we head for the house.
Maryanne has already set out condiments, pretzels, chips and glasses for beer. She had previously thrown together a salad and is carrying the bowl to the table as we arrive with the main course.
“Hi, Dan, good of you to come.”
“Hello, my lovely.” He hugs her with somewhat less torque than he applied to me a few minutes earlier.
“Let me get you a beer. Is Sam Adams all right?” She is already familiar with Dan’s drink preferences.
“I can live with Sam Adams.” He sits, as I do, and then throws a quizzical glance across the table, elbows down, both beefy fists wedged underneath his chin. “So, what’s so important that you nearly burned the dinner?”
“Well, Dan, it’s hard to know where to begin.” I watch Maryanne return with a cold bottle for each of us. I open mine and reach for Dan’s glass to carefully pour the amber liquid. This is a courtesy I learned from the Japanese some years ago when doing joint engineering work with GM’s partner, Isuzu. “I guess I’ll start with the punch line. Today I learned from a former high school sweetheart of the governor’s that, way back while they were both attending Fair Hills High, they had a relationship that ended in her getting an illegal abortion.”
Dan’s dark eyes widen and nearly pop as he realizes the full impact of this news. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, I only wish. I’ve yet to confirm the story, of course, but chances are good that it’s authentic.”
“Holy cow. That is a big tiger. Now you wish you’d never gone into the jungle, right?” He pours my preferred brand, Bass Ale, into the empty glass and hands it to me while he raises his own for a toast. Maryanne quickly offers hers as well. “Well, here’s to better days ahead.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say.
“We’ll get through this. What doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger.” This, Maryanne’s nugget of wisdom, is delivered with only half-hearted enthusiasm. She starts around the plate of burgers and the rolls to accompany them. “Come on, let’s eat. These are getting cold.”
Assembling his meal, Dan heads back to the trail. “What if this story is true? What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve thought about a million different options, and none of them appeal to me. Right now, I’m leaning toward an initial confrontation with the governor, you know, to give him a chance to tell his side of the story.”
“Suppose he denies it?”
“He’ll definitely deny it,” Maryanne says, through a mouthful of supper.
“Well, I’ve got a copy of a letter that he supposedly wrote to the girl — Kathy Nichols is her name — which, if it’s genuine, makes him look guilty as hell.”
“Verrry interesting,” Dan replies, chewing. He swallows while chugging down a couple ounces of beer. “That puts the planets into an entirely different orbit.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got an ace-in-hole so to speak. So why not judge Rierdon’s response based upon what you already know is the truth? Providing that the letter isn’t a fake.”
Maryanne lights up at this. “In other words, you’re saying that, if Chip goes to talk with the governor, he shouldn’t let on that he knows anything about the letter.”
“If it were me, I don’t think I would.”
“Actually, that should work because, according to Kathy, she told Colin years ago, when he inquired about the letter, that she had destroyed it.”
“Who is this girl again?” Dan asks. “I’ll remember to stay out of her way.”
“Let’s try to imagine how Colin might react if I lay this on him,” I suggest.
Maryanne pauses from dressing her salad. “He’ll deny it and probably threaten to smear your reputation if you go to press with the story.”
“That is a distinct possibility,” Dan adds. “This could be a devastating blow to his career, not to mention his effectiveness with the right wing constituency. As a political operative, he would probably try anything within the law to stop publication of the story, including threatening you, Chip.”
“I really don’t have to check with him, though. I could just verify the story and take it directly to the public. But I keep thinking about how I might feel if I were the one getting excoriated. Just imagine waking up one morning and finding out with the rest of the world as you read the paper that your career is over.”
“Don’t you think you might be overstating the consequences a little?” Dan asks. “Look at the President; he’s weathered worse storms than this and come out okay.”
“I don’t know. Let’s face it: Whatever happens, it won’t bode well for Rierdon — or for our state. Plus, I think, as governor, he deserves a chance to present his position before the story is made public.”
“That’s not what Bob Woodward would do.” Maryanne throws this in, no doubt because she has already sided with Kathy over what she perceives to be Colin’s victimization of her.
I resist saying anything that might further antagonize, though I can think of a number of responses such as, I’m not Bob Woodward; or, that doesn’t make it right.
Dan swigs down the last of his beer and begins pouring another glass. “Well, my small understanding of the field of investigative reporting tells me that you’re probably right, Maryanne. Most anyone else in Chip’s position would be ready to go to press with this tomorrow. I don’t think much care would be given for the governor or his side of the story until it was a part of the public record. Besides, it avoids a personal confrontation with the accused. Just stick your finger in the air and blast off a scathing front page account like a nuclear missile.”
I am beginning to feel outnumbered. “That doesn’t mean I should blow with the prevailing winds. For me the question is: What’s the right thing to do?”
“Let’s suppose that Colin simply refuses to comment on the story…” Dan is still examining the possibilities.
This, it seems to me, has a ring of reality to it. “That’s what I would expect of him, especially if I don’t reveal my evidence. He’ll probably want to think over his options or consult someone he trusts before responding.”
“I think you ought to give Barbara a chance to comment on the story too,” Maryanne says. “If I were her, I would want to know before the public finds out. And I’ll bet that, first of all, she’s never heard anything about this, and secondly, Colin won’t go to her as his confidant.”
Dan releases a deep-throated chuckle, then, with his tongue stuck firmly in his cheek, he says, “But other than that, you don’t have any strong feelings on the subject, Mrs. Halick.”
Maryanne laughs. “I guess I should lighten up a little, huh?”
“Not until you’ve expressed yourself completely,” I say, trying to lighten up myself, though not really succeeding.
“Well, somebody needs to be heard from on the subject, and I think we all agree it won’t be Governor Rierdon,” Maryanne says with a convincing flourish.
Here we are, the three of us, conspiring together to bomb the statehouse. It is, of course, Colin’s own fault that he is about to be set aflame. Yet I have the strange sensation that somehow I am the bad guy, the co-conspirator, the one who is ambitiously seeking sweet, political revenge against the duly-elected governor — a popular and successful public servant with a previously unblemished reputation — for something he did to hurt me and my family, though this is clearly not the case. In fact, it is largely because of Colin Rierdon that I am where I am today as a reporter. Sure, I have done the digging and the writing, but he has been a worthwhile and appealing subject for my readership.
Dan dips in his other oar, “We shouldn’t leave out the other possibility.”
“What’s that?” asks Maryanne.
“Well, one thing the governor has in his favor is the general ambivalence the public seems to exhibit lately toward politicians and their personal indiscretions. Besides, he doesn’t face re-election for three years. And, abortion hasn’t been a crime for a quarter-century. When it comes right down to brass, it’s still ‘the economy, stupid.’ And you’ve got to admit, our economy has never been better. If he responds forthrightly he may be able to hurdle right over this story and, in a few months’ time, emerge even stronger, especially among liberals.”
“The economy notwithstanding, I don’t see it that way at all,” I say. “First of all, there’s the swirl of controversy over the Right to Life Amendment. This story will compromise his position in support of that legislation and alienate his core constituency. Then you have the larger character question. A lot of people voted for him because of his upstanding reputation. Kathy’s story shoots that down with one fatal round. At best, he’ll come out of this crippled and ineffective.”
Maryanne sums up his epitaph by adding, “And don’t forget about women. Once this news gets out they’ll be jumping off his bandwagon like sailors from the Titanic.” She stands and collects our empty bottles. “Care for another, Dan?
“Sure, one more will be appreciated.”
“None for me, hon.” If ever I needed to keep my wits about me it is now.
* * *
The evening evaporated. Outside the nearby patio door, darkness settled upon the musky woods. From his permanent dwelling place above the kitchen mantle, a smug-faced Thomas Jefferson silently gazed on in quixotic interest as the three of us hashed about the consequences of every conceivable approach for the unveiling of Governor Rierdon’s tragic past. Dan kept up his end of the bargain, pitching in new possibilities, presenting logical arguments, rebutting my attempts to predict the outcomes of a given strategy. Maryanne mellowed from her earlier position of what could only be defined as let him have what’s coming to him, and began to see the inscrutable reality of my predicament. From my position it seemed that we just kept circling the same mountain. I realized with increasing trepidation that, at some point, most likely in the next couple of days, I would have to begin the long climb — alone. Sure, Maryanne and Dan could cheer me on and provide moral support. John Harrington, my editor, would doubtless commit whatever resources I needed for verification of the story. But in the end it would be me against the mountain, my wits against those of a clever, political head of state, a man whom I have admired from a distance. The irony is, I have no compelling need or desire to conquer Colin Rierdon.
“So here’s how I play it,” I announced finally, with a meager modicum of certainty. “I check with John for the go-ahead, get Benny Cade going on the background check and the verification of Kathy’s story, set up a meeting with the governor, and then slip into a phone booth to change.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to wear the cape for the first meeting.” Through it all, Dan retained his good humor.
“Maybe just the Kevlar body suit then.”
“Tastefully concealed, of course.”
* * *
Sleep was fitful. As I lay awake in the night, my mind replayed the day’s events. There I was, I realized, soaring like a kite on a warm summer breeze, high above the shimmering poplars and the kaleidoscope tapestry of a mellowing landscape, when all at once I was cut off and left to drift — detached and helpless — to tumble back toward earth for my ultimate undoing. Was this mental picture a consequence of my imagination run wild or a premonition of what would prove true in the days ahead? Why couldn’t I be ebullient over my discovery of gold, my unearthing of long-buried treasure that could surely bring me fame and fortune?
Up till now I have been enamored of my career — not for the fame or fortune it could provide, not even because of the generally recognized ambitions that draw people into journalistic endeavors. I am not really a news hound. Politics, my little niche in the business, has never been an all-consuming passion to me. I don’t even get a kick out of seeing my name in print. What I do, I do for the love of it, the pleasure of digging, dissecting, reasoning, understanding and writing. And possibly even enlightening or amusing the jaded public. But I have never bargained for a deal that would place me in the vortex of the ruination of someone’s reputation. And I don’t personally care to be blown up larger-than-life as a shrill voice of the damning press either — one who goes looking for trouble and finds it, one who paves the road ahead with bricks of accusation, rancor, defamation and spite. Consequently, these potential outcomes leave me feeling passionless about going forward with Kathy’s big news. I am not afraid to write her story, but I am not motivated at the prospect either.
Trying to put myself in the governor’s shoes, I think about the potential negative repercussions for him and his career. In fact, everything comes up negative. Nothing positive at all in this regard, at least nothing I can envision. Possibly, as Dan pointed out, Rierdon can recover in time for the next election, but I seriously doubt whether the party will support him in the future. He’ll be damaged goods, an exposed scoundrel of the worst sort. The weight of a career of deception will be too much to carry though an immensely public life.
Essentially, Colin is a contradiction to everything he has morally professed over a long and visible career — in plain words, a hypocrite. I can see him being deserted by the Right, by women, by the Catholics especially. In order to protect their own political futures, Republican representatives and senators will shun him like a leper. He could end up a lame duck a full three years before the next election. And, as far as his political agenda is concerned, the soon-to-unfold story will cook his plans into duck soup.
The New Freedom is doomed. So what. Why should I care? It was never more than shameless, political sloganeering anyway. I find it almost comically ironic that freedom, the concept Colin enshrined in the emblem of his administration, is the one thing he personally has never possessed, though he has certainly taken it for granted all these years. How could he have been so naive as to think that he could escape the consequences of his transgression? How could he trust Kathy — whom he had long ago abandoned along the road of life like an accomplice in a botched crime — not to get her measure of retribution when the time was opportune? No, he is surely not free. Rather, for nearly thirty years he has essentially been out on remanded bond under his own recognizance, awaiting trial for his deliberate violation of the law. His victims: an innocent girl and a wrongfully aborted child. Of course, today this could not be said; it is no longer a crime to have an abortion. But under the law in 1971, it was clearly an illegal act. The presence of that former law had abolished freedom, in this case the freedom of reproductive choice. And, if we lay aside the elements of moral right or wrong, we have only the rule of law to honor and obey. Other beliefs and opinions mean nothing until debated, agreed upon and legislated. So, because of the law, Colin was not free to make the choice he did and still remain within the bounds of legally accepted behavior. Pure and simple, he committed a crime — a crime for which he has never been brought to account. Perhaps that is why he so desperately wants to be associated with the idea of freedom and why he must now be called to judgment — by his professed standards, not mine. And what about all that rhetoric at the Line of Fire Rally yesterday concerning tougher justice for criminals? Tragically, or some might say, ironically, he is about to be snared by the words of his own mouth.
Colin Rierdon is a field, ripe for harvest. And Kathy Nichols has chosen a sharp-edged instrument with which to cut him down — the TRUTH. Now, unfortunately for me, I am holding that instrument. Tomorrow I will set out to lay this field bare, and following right behind me will be an eager army of citizens who will gladly thresh him like wheat until all the chaff is ripped away and disposed. What fruit will ultimately be gleaned from his life, I cannot presently imagine. But, for my own peace of mind, I want to find out. For there must be something of value that will emerge from the painful process that is about to occur. Yet I do not foresee a single kernel of goodness in the offing, and I am therefore regretfully miserable concerning what I am about to do.