NINE
Clamor from the kitchen below awakens me. Up early, for it is Monday, Maryanne is undoubtedly preparing for work. Here in the bedroom, amid the gray dawning, darkness lingers like a vagrant. A morning chill has penetrated the house, stinging my exposed face. Sensing it, I scrunch down deeper into the warm bed. Like the night, I have neither the impetus nor the desire to arise. I’ll wait to be forcibly run off. Groggy from hours of restlessness, I close my eyes again to hide from the inescapable day ahead. In the recesses of my shadowed subconscious, however, an idea has taken shape. It is the genesis of understanding regarding the truth about freedom, previously concealed, but now suddenly illuminated. Colin’s predicament has helped me see freedom in the light of a brand new revelation.
If, as I have come to realize, with the passage of each new law, some facet of freedom is chiseled away, it follows that the writing of more and more laws will engender a society of less and less freedom. Furthermore, people will not learn freedom but rather the law, and they will eventually choose to act either in accordance with laws or against them. There is little freedom of choice in such a society, only right and wrong as defined by law. And furthermore, people are not taught to cultivate a capacity for reasoning that will help them make good choices and informed decisions. Instead, they become dependent upon laws to define acceptable behavior and the proper course of action. If they then break those laws, they can be plagued with guilt, and if caught, they will likely be punished. Ultimately then, these law-breakers can, and often do, adopt a consciousness of criminality and a spirit of indifference, which lead them to descend even further in a spiral of habitual wrongdoing.
By contrast, if freedom truly were the hallmark of our society, Americans would be immersed in freedom. They’d learn how to defend and preserve it, how not to violate or lose it. We would be taught how to make good choices. And our corresponding behavior might eliminate the need for laws, as laws are the mortal enemies of freedom. Sadly, though, that is not the case. Despite the common understanding that the Constitution was written to preserve our liberties, we are clearly not free — not, at least, in the truest sense of the word. Ironically, at this, the dawning of the 21st century, in what we believe to be the most advanced society on earth, freedom is in dangerously short supply. And, as more and more laws are passed, more precious freedom is being lost.
There are other consequences as well. Eventually and inevitably, all of us become lawbreakers of some type with the guilt-consciousness to match. Take the simplest example of driving over the speed limit, a universal infraction, practiced regularly by nearly everyone. The laws against such behavior prompt us to fear the police whom we perceive as out to get us, when in truth, they are bound under oath to defend our freedoms and protect us from harm.
So, is it any wonder that Colin Rierdon is trying to sell us freedom, and that we eagerly want to buy it? I for one am not surprised. Yet, how can this man, steeped in the tradition of law as a lawyer, dole out freedom to others? He may be governor of this great state, but I now know that he is also a slave, a slave to the law, the code of conduct that — though nearly impossible to uphold — keeps everyone jumping higher and higher so as not to come up short.
Invariably, every person, free or not, will make some mistakes. Colin has made at least one — actually two, if you count his treatment of Kathy after the fateful abortion. Who can claim a better record, I wonder? Though I have personally never had to make such a life and death decision as Colin did, I have nonetheless made some bad choices and broken some laws over the past forty-seven years. Fortunately, however, I have learned a few things from my slip-ups, the most important lesson being that the resulting guilt and pain were palpable enough to encourage me to change my behavior. Furthermore, I have no desire to continue down the wrong path since both the willful and the accidental defiance of laws also causes some degree of personal (if not public) humiliation. Seemingly, the law has accomplished its purpose in reforming me.
Likewise, I doubt Colin would make his colossal mistake twice.
So I am left with this nagging question: Will the exposure of Colin’s wrongdoing help the cause of freedom? I strongly doubt it. It may serve up a measure of justice, however long in coming, as payment for his breaking of the pre-Roe v. Wade abortion law. Certainly, at a minimum, he’ll experience some anguish, and maybe even some remorse, while Kathy Nichols obtains some dimension of vindication. But surely, in the aftermath, voices will emerge to rally a call for tougher laws and greater enforcement of those we already have, all to the detriment of freedom.
And for me, the warrior of justice in this case, what if increased notoriety should accrue to my reputation in the wake of this incredible news? Is it fair that I should gain because someone else loses? Or might I also become a loser?
Looking into future possibilities such as these is like trying to predict the outcome of an airborne assault against an enemy. Bombs will go off, and damage will be sustained, although just how much damage, and to whom, is hard to forecast. And how much better-off will the intrepid aggressor be after a counter-attack is launched and all the dust settles? One thing is certain: I wish that Kathy Nichols had chosen someone else to carry this payload of bad news.
But, back in my temporal reality, as the light shines brighter and brighter, the darkness has all but fled the scene. Neither can I remain here in bed endeavoring to avert my own fate. Onward and upward, to face the day I must go.
Maryanne made coffee, and, as I shuffled downstairs in my robe, she passed me on her way up for a shower. Twenty minutes later, she kissed me and bid me a good day, saying, “I’ll be thinking of you. Good luck. Gotta go; I’m late.” And I was left alone.
I skimmed the paper — nothing earth-shattering in the news. My article on the Equinox of Politics, minimally edited by the copy desk, was buried in section A, a page ahead of the Opinions and Editorials, two pages behind the Monday news — a position roughly defined as “deep space.” With nearly a cup of morning coffee in me, I began to think about organizing my day.
First, call John Harrington for his approval to move forward on a “news exclusive.” Expenses will be incurred on the investigation, and he will have to sign for the bills. Keep the story confidential, however — don’t let John in on the skinny. Then, call Rierdon’s office for an appointment, saying it’s a matter of urgency. Otherwise, I might be put off indefinitely due to the governor’s busy schedule. Next, go downtown to the Ledger and peruse the wire service bulletins as I would on any other day. With everything else going on, I still have a commitment for three regular articles per week. I will have to get started right away on the first one, due Tuesday at five. Finally, script my meeting with the governor. This encounter is too important to leave to chance. Besides, Colin is much more practiced than I am at thinking extemporaneously. He would surely have me at a disadvantage if I arrived to confront him without a plan, a script and some sample responses.
After cereal and toast and another cup of coffee, I showered and shaved. It was eight o’clock, Monday, the penultimate day of summer and the very first day of my season of infamy.
The Lansing Ledger is located in an older, mid-rise building in the downtown section. There is nothing noteworthy about the building or the area, and hardly a decent restaurant within two blocks. At least the parking is free for employees and other contributors like myself. I have been given a cube of modest proportion on the same floor as the newsroom. Since it is always too noisy for me to concentrate and write in the vicinity of my workspace, I generally do not work much in the building. I do, however, check the wires and conduct research through Lexis/Nexis, read my mail, chat up the staff, run ideas by John and try to make myself visible as much as possible. John and the paper have been good to me, and I feel as though I have the best arrangement possible. I’m in no hurry to change things.
The money is fair considering what I am contracted to do, though certainly not significant enough to call a living. So I look for every opportunity to do special features (which John can authorize) and to place some of my articles with other newspapers around the state. Clearly though, I would keep at this profession for less; I enjoy it that much. Maryanne and I are quite comfortable, and we have neither a mortgage to pay nor kids to put through college, so the fact that neither of us earns high wages is of little consequence.
On the other hand, if hostilities should ensue over the Kathy Nichols’ story, all the money in the world would not be enough to make up for the disruption to my personal life and the potential damage to my reputation as a fair and forthright journalist.
But it is too late to turn back now. John gave his authorization for the expenses. Benny has already started on the background check of Ms. Nichols. Yesterday I gave her my word that I would pursue the story, and as of an hour ago, the governor was booked to see me at three o’clock. In a word, I am committed. And perhaps I should be committed for doing this, or I will be before it’s all over.
The big political news of the day is that the senate is scheduled to take up the Right to Life Amendment in its own special session on Wednesday morning. Pro-life Republican leaders there have public commitments to keep. They have also become emboldened as a result of the postponed vote in the house last Friday. Most likely, the RLA bill will sail through the upper chamber without difficulty. The house, meanwhile, has rescheduled its vote on the measure also for Wednesday, but in the afternoon. The democratic leadership’s crafty idea of embarrassing house Republicans is probably the last thing on the speaker’s mind now. Indeed, he himself will face certain embarrassment if he suddenly reverses field and tries to bury the RLA bill after saying publicly last week that democrats had the votes to defeat it. And so the votes will get counted in both chambers. Then, who knows? The RLA could pass, even in the house, where as recently as a week ago, no one in the know was giving it half a chance. Colin could then have his opportunity to go on the record by either signing or vetoing it (neither choice is a good one for him now), just as the Republican Convention begins a day later.
Any way you look at it, the abortion issue promises to loom large in the news this week, and that means that the citizens of Michigan will have no shortage of discourse on the topic to sift through. Opinions will be thrown about like daggers, political futures hung out to dry like clothes on the line. The whole state will be watching as the debate culminates in a lose/lose battle of ethical and moral sensitivities. All this because of a relatively minor, albeit polarizing, issue — abortion. In the final analysis, the Right to Life Amendment doesn’t stand a chance of passage in the necessary three-fourths of the states anyway — Michigan, possibly; the South and conservative West, definitely; but thirty-eight states? Not at all likely. The odds favoring a Constitutional Convention on the RLA are slim and none.
Nevertheless, here in Michigan, the issue is currently alive and well, and our elected officials are soon to be found bludgeoning each other with it for purely political reasons. And, if you also factor in the Kathy Nichols’ story, chances are by Saturday that the Democrats will be dancing in the streets as Colin and his conservative band of freedom fighters unravel like a cheap ball of twine at their own party’s political convention. Instead of a neatly scripted PR event, the Republican confab “up north” will likely degenerate into a hotbed of controversy, a mean-spirited debate between the Christian Right and the pure politicos. For his part, Colin will be desperately trying to get the focus off abortion and onto more consequential and noteworthy issues, indeed his entire agenda — education reform, judicial system restructuring, second amendment rights, economic growth, the whole enchilada of conservative politics. Most importantly, he will need to somehow keep the party members who face election battles next year from going under in the backwash that spews from his own personal crisis. No doubt, they will feel like they’ve been thrown overboard and abandoned in the dead of night. And the very last thing they’ll need next spring is a rescue effort from a drowning man, governor or not.
Whatever Colin attempts to accomplish from here on out could prove difficult, if not impossible, as the abortion issue, his youthful mistake and a whole raft of newly found character flaws — dishonesty, hypocrisy and insensitivity among them — are hung around his neck like concrete blocks.
And what about me? To some I’ll be a hero, to others, a bum. Though I know it isn’t healthy to always view the scene from a selfish perspective, I cannot help but think that nobody will care what happens to me in all this. Instinctively I know that when you start a stampede, you should have enough sense to get out of the way. But I can’t quite see an escape route in the shadowy distance. Every scenario I imagine puts me square in the path of the raging herd.
As evidenced here this morning, the bulls are already kicking in their stalls. Earlier, John Harrington pumped me for information on the story. I begged off, telling him that, although it looked extremely promising, the facts were too sketchy to share — yet. And, though Benny asked for a complete, original document, to further insure confidentiality and forestall a premature maverick romp into the grandstands, I only gave him a non-revealing, photocopied excerpt of Colin’s letter (including signature of course) to get analyzed for authenticity.
Now, for my scripting of the meeting: I have three hours to get it down — pat. First, I’ll run out for a burger. I can’t think on an empty stomach.
The governor’s ceremonial office is located in the capitol building, itself, and has been beautifully restored from the frescoes above to the floorboards beneath. This historical showplace contains many of its original (circa 1870’s) furnishings, all on display in the anteroom. With its lofty, hand-painted ceiling and luxurious draperies, the suite is the spectacular crown jewel of the public tours conducted six days a week. Consequently, the governor, if he knows what’s good for him, cannot be found working there.
Generally, he can be found, by those to whom an appointment is granted, across the square in the former Olds Plaza, now renamed for the late Governor George Romney. It is there where I now wait for my turn in the barrel as the three o’clock hour hastens.
Scribbles on a yellow legal pad amount to my script — more a set of notes and guidelines for reference purposes than a canned dialogue. I have bulleted a number of points that I feel I need to make and also listed a handful of forbidden items under the heading, DON’T GO HERE! Furthermore, I’ve penned some planned responses to points I expect Colin may try to argue against me. I am wearing my best suit, a pure worsted wool job like the management wannabes favor. It is navy blue, with a white, button-down shirt and a red silk tie beneath. If only the suit could do the talking for me. Still, while dressed as though I belong here, I feel utterly out of place, out-gunned and hopeless. Plus, as I’ve been sitting here, cooling my heels in the lobby for nearly ten minutes, my blood pressure seems to have doubled, and my body temperature has gone up by several degrees. The impulse to make for the door has struck more than once, but I have stifled it. I am as ready for what is about to occur as I’ll ever be — I think.
The phone on the nearby desk buzzes repeatedly. The receptionist dispatches most of the calls without so much more than a “moment please.” An assortment of magazines and trade journals decorate the coffee table before me. I have selected a two-week-old copy of Newsweek to leaf through, more as a security blanket than for any informational purpose. My mind is not inclined toward reading about world affairs at the moment, or any other type of affairs for that matter. I was offered a cup of coffee when I arrived, but I politely declined it. Essentially, I am sitting here all dressed up with only one place to go. The problem is, I really don’t want to go there. And, once I do, I fear that my mind will just go blank like the television set did, regularly, back when I was still in short pants — at least until they switched over to the EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES bulletin screen. That message seemed to temporarily pacify the audience then; it doesn’t work anymore.
Once, when I was in college, doing a presentation for a required speech class, if memory serves, I blanked out. It was one of the worst moments of my life. I had practiced delivering my five-minute address for an entire week, stopping and starting my mock recitation again and again at random points to make sure that, no matter what happened (a lapse in concentration, perhaps, or an inadvertent skip-ahead), I’d be able to get back on track. No question, I knew that speech cold! I probably could have recited it backwards. On the scheduled day of delivery, however, somewhere in the middle of the speech, my brain clicked totally off (apparently due to some unknown technical difficulty). In a split second I was awash in the realization that there was nothing posted on my internal TelePrompTer, just a blank screen, and I had no backup system. My blood began to boil. My body flushed, head to toe. I was tumbling violently in a speech-maker’s free fall, stammering, biting my lip, eyes rolling abnormally, perspiring like an antelope in heat. This temporary disconnect with reality went on seemingly for several minutes. I later realized that it was a mere ten or twelve second funk. But, just as suddenly, I miraculously recovered — out from the primeval world of grunts and moans, back across the dark millennia, all the way to modern, American literacy. I shook for months at the remembrance of this, my most disconcerting moment, especially when I realized that it could happen again — anytime.
“Mr. Halick, the governor will see you now.” Rising from her desk, the bespectacled woman in a red print dress points the way into Colin Rierdon’s working office. I thank her and proceed past the heavy oak door.
The governor is shuffling papers on his desk at the far end of the room. An immense table that can comfortably accommodate six stands off to my right. On the left is an arrangement of leather-upholstered furniture for less formal gatherings. An assortment of art adorns the white walls — a portrait of former governor Romney, a photograph of Colin shaking the hand of a smiling President Ronald Reagan, a nightscape of the Motor City from the Ambassador Bridge, the lush view of the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, a shot of Oldsmobile Park with a Lugnut rounding the bases after sending one to the Family Picnic Area in right-center field — something for everybody who might come a-calling. Three large windows let in the gray light from the waning afternoon.
Colin looks up and acknowledges me with a smile, “Well, hello, Chip. I didn’t expect to see you so soon after the dinner party. Welcome.” He rises and comes out from around his grandiose walnut desk to shake my hand. Pointing to one of the large chairs, he says, “Make yourself comfortable. Coffee or a pop perhaps?”
“No thanks,” I say, sitting. He lowers himself across from me in the conversation grouping.
“I’ve taken the liberty to invite Jim Stafford to join us. Jim’s my right hand as I’m sure you know. He’ll be in momentarily.”
This I hadn’t planned for. And I’m quite certain that Colin will not want Jim to hear what I have to say. “Perhaps we could talk alone, governor, if you don’t mind.”
“Would you prefer that?”
“I think it would be best.”
“No problem, I’ll have Karen call Jim real quick to save him the trouble of running down.” He gets up and goes to the desk to phone his receptionist.
It must be nice to have someone available to handle every detail of your life. This, I’ve come to understand, is one of the huge perks of power. Never mind that the salaries of public officials are grossly out of sync with those of corporate executives. The higher up this ladder you climb, the more support you get from down below. From the lofty vantage point of governor, with one push of the intercom button, you get hot and cold running servants, all falling over each other to do your bidding.
“Okay, that’s handled. What do you think of those Lugnuts? I just heard they had another record-setting year at the box office. Somebody had a good idea there. It just goes to show you that good, clean, family fun never goes out of style.” He joins me again in the leather collection.
He then continues with his own brand of folksy small talk. “Saw your column in the paper this morning. Very amusing. That was satire, right?”
“Oh, absolutely.” I am content to allow him to think that I really wasn’t expressing my true feelings about politics and politicians in my article on the equinox. As if the points I made were all delivered like roundhouse curves — way off the plate — meant to stir up a little laughter in the stands and the dugout alike, to humor the participants during the final inning in the stuffed-shirt, stone-faced game of political baseball. Nothing substantive there, just a bit of journalistic sarcasm.
“That’s what I thought. Obviously, to be successful in politics, you’ve got to take a stand. And it should be one based on your personal convictions. You can’t get anywhere by straddling the fence.” He says all this while nodding like a rear window dog, so as to convince me to agree with him. And I do, to a point.
He continues, “I will admit though that some politicians take it too far; they risk alienating the electorate, which tends not to support extremism. But give me a person of convictions anytime. I like to know where people stand.”
Unable to relax, especially in light of Colin’s preamble about personal convictions, I am sitting as stiff as a cadaver in my armchair. Now is the time to jump in with my news, but even as I realize this, I find that neither my brain nor my mouth wish to cooperate.
“So what urgent business brings you down here today, my friend?” He lifts a gentle lob right at me.
“It is a rather sensitive topic, I’m afraid.” I am suddenly fidgeting noticeably. “In fact, I’d like to keep things off the record here today, unless you feel otherwise inclined. I guess what I’m saying is that I have not come here today to put you on the spot, governor, although it may seem that way momentarily.” I am paraphrasing what I scripted earlier to try to put him at ease. There will be plenty of time for public statements, but the last thing I need right now is for him to clam-up.
After an awkward moment, he responds, “You do know how to raise someone’s curiosity, Chip. Of course, we can talk off the record. I prefer that as well — mano a mano so to speak.” He is leaning forward in an attending posture, no doubt one that he has practiced to perfection. Gray streaks have begun to dominate his hairline at the temples. They fade gently into his full head of brown hair, giving him a look of genuine maturity. He is, however, visibly fit and permanently tan. He has angular features, a long, not-too-narrow nose, wide-set, gray eyes and a contagious smile. His distinctive appearance is further enhanced by his six-foot-two stature. Always perfectly groomed and expertly tailored, Colin more than meets the image of a statesman, at least superficially.
As inconspicuously as possible, considering the face-to-face nature of our meeting, I take a deep breath and let it out to relieve my acute nervousness. “Through a mutual acquaintance, governor, I have recently had occasion to meet an old friend of yours.”
He jumps in enthusiastically, “Really, who might that be?” No doubt, now he will think I baited him.
“Kathy Nichols.”
He maintains his smile and the expression of hopeful anticipation with which he delivered the previous question, while in the deep recesses of his mind gears must have sprung loose as from an over-wound Swiss watch. I wonder how long it will take for his face to mirror the consternation that has most assuredly gripped his soul.
Looking as if he has not heard her name nor seen her melancholy face for an entire generation, he responds, “Oh, yes! Certainly. Why…Kathy and I dated back at Fair Hills High School for a while. But of course, you probably know that already. How’s she doing?”
The you-know-more-that-I-do tack, not quite under full sail. “Not well, I am sorry to say.”
“Oh, has something happened to her?” He throws a downcast expression right at me, acute bewilderment on his face.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” I could sucker punch him right now, metaphorically speaking; he’s left his guard down. And I should too; he deserves it. But I previously decided not to play it that way. “She’s seriously depressed, Colin. And I suppose you could say…angry.”
“That’s terrible. I’m very sorry to hear that.” He shifts back to the concerned look of a highly paid psychiatrist. “Anger can be such a destructive emotion. I know. I’ve seen it in action. But still, what does Kathy Nichols’ situation have to do with me. Surely you didn’t come down here to tell me that, Chip.”
“There is more, of course.” Actually, a lot more. I swallow what feels like a mouthful of cotton balls. “It seems that Kathy has leveled a serious charge directly against you, governor. One with grave implications and potentially harmful consequences.” Irrationally, I briefly entertain the thought that my carefully chosen words will serve to pry open the mystery box, and, in a moment, a lifetime of hidden truth will come tumbling out.
“What kind of charge?” He feigns shock again. By all appearances he is either an incredible actor, or I am playing him like a yo-yo.
At this precise moment, a moment of truth if ever there was one, Colin’s phone rings.
“Perhaps you’d better answer that,” I say, and then watch as he rises and steps toward his desk. A reprieve has been granted me, and I shall use it to gather my wits and to review my notes.
“Yes,” he says. (I cannot avoid overhearing.)
“Put him through…
“Yeah, Jack.” (Most probably Jack Mott, Director of the Department of Management and Budget, the gatekeeper for spending within the Executive Branch.)
“No. I told you we can’t afford to do that right now. Especially not now. Next year’s budget has to be tightened down; perhaps we’ll look at it again in October.” (The state’s fiscal year is about to end on the 30th of September. Colin has gone on record saying that he would cut state spending by 3% year-over-year, beginning October 1st. This commitment was the first step toward fulfillment of a campaign promise whereby he vowed to trim the budget through better fiscal responsibility and the cutting of waste and abuse.)
“That would send the wrong message.
“What do they mean by ‘stop the project’?” (Sounds like some contractor might have the state over a barrel. This is one of the negative consequences of privatization, a practice that has grown increasingly popular in Michigan government.)
“No, of course we don’t want that to happen.
“I am tied up just now.
“Jack, what constitutes an emergency to you?
“All right, then. Come right down.
“Good-bye.” He hangs up, pauses silently while looking out one of the windows, and then returns to join me. A puzzled look has overcome his countenance. He does not sit down.
“Chip, I’m very sorry about this.” His large frame looms imposingly over top of me. “There is a problem with one of our major software projects. A bit of brinkmanship I’m afraid. Nothing we can’t fix with a little negotiating. But apparently, it cannot wait. Otherwise we could lose the advantage. Something to do with skilled consultants and learning curves — very esoteric stuff.” He smiles at me in a condescending style. “Anyway, could we perhaps continue our discussion tomorrow? I know it’s important like you said — grave implications and all. But this other thing is demanding my immediate attention. You understand, don’t you? Let me take a quick peek at my planner, and we’ll schedule a time to reconvene.”
Like quicksilver, in one long-legged fluid move, he returns to the desk and flips a page on his calendar. I sit mute, too flabbergasted to respond to his series of leading questions and presumptuous statements.
“Right after lunch looks clear.” He has obviously clicked back into the power zone, a state of mind reserved for CEOs, presidents, governors and kings. “Let’s set it up for one-thirty. How’s that sound?”
“That will be fine,” I say, suffering from shock.
“Good. Right here, then. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He returns to me with his hand extended.
“Thank you, Chip, for coming by. I’ll be expecting to get a full report tomorrow on this Kathy Nichols story.” He shakes my hand as he ushers me out.
“Thank you,” I say, mindlessly.
He stops just before opening the door and addresses me with unnerving directness, “No surprises in the paper tomorrow, right?”
“One can never predict the news,” I reply as decisively as possible, considering my present, semi-shattered condition.
I choose the steps to descend to street level. An elevator confrontation would be more than I could bear at this moment. Talk about brinkmanship. Or maybe it should be called blinkmanship — and I blinked. Colin is a CLASS A manipulator, for certain. I tried to take him on as a gentleman and finished up over-matched and out-witted. Perhaps I should have gone straight to print and avoided this entire scene. Still, I am puzzled as to whether the remains of this day can be attributed to ineptitude on my part or world class political skill on his. Certainly, if he were a hockey player, he would be the franchise. He’d have all the skills: skating, shooting, checking, passing, eluding — not to mention a killer slap shot. And, if today’s meeting were the first period, the scoreboard would testify on his behalf: Colin — 1, Chip — 0.
The square is serene on this chilly afternoon. Across the street, the capitol building stands like a sentinel on the green. Telltale signs of autumn hang in the trees surrounding the rotunda: Maples are yellowing, crab trees turning a brassy mauve. In a few minutes government workers will begin their mass exodus from downtown; pedestrians and cars will animate the scene like a Norman Rockwell print, come-to-life. But for now I see a tableaux — still, except for a lone man dressed in a heavy wool sweater carrying a battered old briefcase, smoking a pipe, strolling up Capitol Avenue toward me, and for a woman exiting the Statehouse at the east door. Her long, dark hair lies slack against a tightly cinched, beige trench coat. Peace hangs over the scene like a gentle mist, a stark contrast to the agitation I feel inside.
I quietly walk to the parking deck where I left the Bravada. Within minutes I’ll be on the highway heading home to Maryanne and our woods where perhaps I can de-stress, find my equilibrium and allow a measure of peace to ascend up through the thorny bramble of my thoughts, a tangle that is choking me in a humorless, painful headlock. I’ll pretend that none of this has happened. Perhaps I’ll write a column tonight. I’ll be the happy-go-lucky Chip again, lover of truth, friend to all, contented, middle-aged husband of his beautiful wife. Colin Rierdon will not mess with my head; I won’t allow it.