TWELVE
Oily rivulets of water are beginning to appear on the pavement as I turn south onto Capitol Avenue from the parking garage. More immediately problematic than the wet pavement, however, is my diminished view of the road ahead. The Bravada’s windshield wipers struggle to sweep away the rain as it mingles with a layer of road film on the glass. The resulting streaks make it all but impossible to see. I slide my hand off the wheel and turn the washer switch, holding it on for a moment. In a few seconds the glass clears; the solvent did its job.
As I enter the 496 freeway, I punch up my home phone number on the cellular. Maryanne will not be home this early, but I want her to find my message when she arrives. “Hi Mars, its me...just wanted to call and let you know that I will be home a little late this afternoon. I’m going to swing by campus to see if Dan has time for a chat. I hate to admit it, but you were right. The meeting with the governor went almost exactly like you predicted. He denied everything. Then he threatened me with a libel suit. But you’d have been proud of me. I didn’t fold up my tent...at least not yet. Anyway, I’ll see you later. Love ya.”
Next, I ring up John Harrington at the paper. I get his voice mail message and fast-forward to the beep. “John, its Chip. I called to give you an update on the news exclusive we talked about. Things have gone from bad to worse. I’m less certain now that I have a legitimate story. In any event, I won’t be submitting any copy tonight. In a day or two I’ll know for sure whether it’s anything worth publication. Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t want to put you or the paper in a position where you could become the target of a lawsuit. I’ll come in tomorrow, so we can talk about it. See you then.”
That should buy me a little time to sort things out.
The early afternoon traffic poses no difficulties, but, if the rain keeps up, 496 will be treacherous by rush hour. The Bravada hugs the rain-slicked curves heading into East Lansing. I exit at Trowbridge, the back way into Michigan State University.
I am thinking that I might have made my move too soon on the governor. Kathy’s letter was literally all I had to make my case. If Colin is as smart as he appears, he’ll find a way to counter me, and I’ll have nothing left to battle him with but my wits. Of course I could just as easily claim victory right here and now in the style of the illustrious former Secretary of State and one time presidential candidate, Alexander Haig — game over; I’m in charge. Just run the story and then let Colin deal with a scandal-hungry world, press corps included. I’ll be the least of his worries then.
After passing Jenison Field House I round the Sparty statue and cross the river to main campus, the original site of the Michigan Agricultural College. Despite the steady, cold rain, the heart of the MSU campus is buzzing with activity. Student pedestrians are everywhere, some with umbrellas, others holding books over their heads in futile attempts to stay dry. I narrowly avoid running into a young man on a bicycle who sails off the sidewalk and across the West Circle Drive in front of me, apparently bound for the library, a roostertail of water flying off his rear wheel. There are no available parking spaces in the vicinity of Dan Greening’s building. I pull temporarily into the “reserved” lot and dial Dan’s number on the cellular. The dashboard clock says 2:28.
Ring, ring...Ring, ring.
“Hello.”
“Is this Professor Greening?” (I am using my best student voice — fake, of course.)
“This is.”
“Oh, I’m glad I caught you in. I know you said that you kept office hours on Tuesday afternoon, but you know, so many professors are, you know, like never there when you need them.”
“Who’s calling, please? Are you in one of my sections?”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t remember me. Nobody does. Anyway, like, could you advise me on the meaning of life?”
“Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No, I’m definitely serious. If you could help me with this one little thing, my life will finally, like, have some purpose.”
“Is that you, Chip?” Lucky guess on his part.
“Maybe I should work on my impressions a bit.”
He laughs. “I have to admit, you had me going there for a minute. What’s up; is this a slow news day or something?”
“Not exactly. I just need you to help me find a parking space on this campus of yours.”
“It might be easier to secure world peace, I’m afraid. What are you doing on campus at two-thirty in the afternoon, anyway?”
“I came by to see if you had time for a chat.”
“Well, there’s nothing pressing on my calendar. I was just updating an assignment for one of my classes, but I can finish that later.”
“Great. But since I can’t leave the car in your reserved lot, why don’t we ride over to Beggar’s, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee or something?”
“The ‘or something’ sounds like a plan. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Bring your umbrella.”
“Chip, I’m not afraid of a little rain. Rain makes things beautiful.”
“Right. I’d forgotten that.”
Beggar’s Banquet is one of the few remaining landmark restaurants in downtown East Lansing. As its name implies, the restaurant was established a generation ago when the Rolling Stones topped the rock charts. Oddly enough, though, this is not a rock and roll joint or a theme restaurant like so many modern chains. It is simply a good eatery, not really trendy anymore, but with pleasant ambience and a degree of privacy — and including a healthy selection of imported and micro-brewed beers.
Still dripping from our walk from the parking lot, we are seated in a quasi-private booth, and Dan immediately reminds me that I promised on the ride over to tell him how the meeting went with Colin. Patience is not one of Dan’s hallmark virtues.
I oblige him. “Colin denied the whole affair. Then, when I pressed him, he threatened me.”
Dan rubs his chin. “Even after he had a day to think about it? That seems rather odd to me.”
“Well, I should tell you that I had a phone call earlier from Kathy Nichols. She asked me to drop the story. She claimed it was a mistake telling me in the first place; suddenly she no longer wants it to get into the papers.”
“Holy cow. He must have gotten to her.”
“I’d say so, yes, indeed.”
Our waiter arrives and asks what we’d like to drink. Dan orders a draught Samuel Adams. I, a Bass Ale. There is only one other couple in the barnwood-paneled room with us. It is an unlikely time to be having lunch and too soon for dinner. The proprietor must be glad to have us.
I pick the conversation back up. “Kathy denied that he threatened her.”
“Maybe he offered her a bribe of some sort.”
“I thought of that too. But, whatever the case, he acted as if she would support him all the way.”
Dan glances away and then looks back at me. “Maybe he was bluffing. Trying to scare you off the story.”
“I think that’s exactly what he was doing. But I ran up the stakes with a bluff of my own.”
He smiles. “No kidding. What did you say?”
“I handed him a copy of his letter to Kathy from all those years ago, and made it clear that I was ready to go public with the story.”
“I’ll bet he needed a change of underwear after that.”
“I didn’t stick around to find out.”
The server arrives with our beers and asks if we want to order something from the menu. Dan, I know, needs little encouragement to snack, but I give him some anyway. He asks for a plate of onion rings and some chips and salsa — something to hold him over till dinner.
“So, what do you do now?”
“That’s my question. You can’t ask my question.”
“All right, then. Let’s consider it rhetorical if that makes you feel any better.” He shifts his girth on the bench seat. “The way I see it, you have only two choices.”
“Which two are those?”
“Publish or perish.” He says this with a straight face, but I know him too well.
“Okay, funny man, let’s get serious.”
He laughs. “Seriously, then. You can either play the good guy or the bad guy. If you go public now with the story, you risk becoming the bad guy. I must tell you that I think a lot of people are going to be crushed when you knock their hero off his horse. They’ll naturally be angry with him, too, but they’ll hate you even more. Of course, his political opponents will erect a statue in your honor on the capitol lawn, but you may not live to see it completed. You’ll go through hell.”
“Do you really think so?” I have it figured differently. “Clearly, all the attention will be on Colin and perhaps Kathy as well. She won’t be able to remain anonymous, of course. The media will be all over her in a matter of a minute or two. Then the story will go interplanetary on its own power. At that point I could just fade out of the picture.”
“Okay, we have an honest difference of opinion there,” he concedes. “But let’s look at the other scenario. You have an opportunity to be the good guy in all this.”
“You mean by just forgetting the whole thing, walking away from it. It’s not like I haven’t considered that alternative many times. But it seems like such a cop-out. Besides, my sense of journalistic integrity tells me that the truth, once uncovered, must be told.”
“Please don’t think I’m preaching to you when I say this, Chip, but Solomon once said, ‘A trustworthy man keeps a secret.’”
“But what good would that do?”
“Well, I think you’ll agree that nothing bad will come from keeping it quiet, for you or the governor.”
“But the citizens of this state have been betrayed by their governor and they should know about it.”
“Have they?”
“I believe they have, yes. He’s made himself out to be some sort of moral titan. And it was partially on that basis that they elected him, seeing him as something other than what you and I now know he is.”
The waiter comes with our food. Dan is momentarily distracted as he dips a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa and then savors it.
After swallowing, he refocuses his attention on me. “Tell me one thing, Chip. In politics, as well as every other walk of life, who actually is the person others think they are?”
“You are.” I believe I’ve trapped him with his own logic.
“Are you sure of that?”
I don’t answer right away, although my inclination is to say yes. But my mind goes back to last week at the river when I was baffled by this very topic. As I recall, I mentally admitted to knowing precious little about even myself. How could I expect to know someone else any better, even my best friend?
“I still don’t see how I get to be the good guy by looking past Colin’s sins. By my way of thinking, nothing good is going to come out of that. He’ll just feel like he got away with murder, like I backed down because he’s got such political power.”
“Maybe.” Dan is plowing through the onion rings now. “And maybe not. He might view you as a man of genuine integrity, rather than an overly ambitious mudslinger. You’ll have the moral advantage over him, Chip. He’ll look up to you.”
“You make it sound like a manipulation technique.”
“It’s more than a technique. It’s a law of the universe. Think about it. He’ll owe you his life, politically speaking at least. Afterward, he’ll be bound to your higher ethical standard. You win; he wins. We all win.”
“Sounds too easy,” I quip. If Dan is right (I’ve never known him to be wrong), I will be amazed. Where does he come up with this stuff? There are probably not ten other people in the world who think like he does. “I must admit, though, you’ve given me some food for thought.”
“Glad to oblige,” he says, holding up a giant onion ring just before making it disappear. No slight of hand there, just a hearty appetite.
If nothing else, Dan made me feel better, as though it wasn’t the end of my trip down journalism’s high road. Still, I wasn’t so sure that things would work out as smoothly and easily as he made it seem. From what I’ve come to learn of Colin over the past two days, he has majored in manipulation. Was I to expect that, with a little sprinkle of the magic dust of absolution, he could suddenly be changed from wild fox to lap dog? I had more than a few doubts.
Over dinner I delivered a summation of the afternoon’s events to Maryanne. She listened politely while I spoke, not interrupting me in her usual, interrogatory manner. Finally she angled in with a remark.
“’Well, Ollie, this is another fine mess you’ve got us into this time.’”
“Isn’t it though?” I played along.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I am torn. Both ways make sense. Both seem right. What would you do?”
“I would not be in this predicament.”
“Hypothetically speaking, you mean.”
“No, in real terms. I would have gone right out on Monday with the story — pulled an Alexander Haig, like you suggested.”
I gave her a doubtful look. “You’re only saying that because you’re a woman and therefore prejudiced against Colin for his heartless crime against a young girl. But I know you. If Colin were genderless and this was a sexless crime, you’d give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Now who’s talking hypothetically? That’s not even in the realm of possibility. And besides, there is no benefit of doubt left to give this guy. He committed a crime, ruined a woman for life, covered it up, and now, when confronted with the facts, he denies everything. He’s a cad, pure and simple, and the public needs to know it.”
“Well, at least I know where you stand.”
“Oh, I’m just frustrated by the whole thing. It makes me mad to think that he’s gotten away with it all these years, and now, when the truth finally comes out, nothing’s going to be done about it.”
She gets up to remove the plates and silverware to the sink.
“I don’t remember saying I was going to drop it,” I protest to her departing presence.
She looks back at me, over the island counter, and says, knowingly, “Oh, you’ll drop it all right...and for a couple of good reasons.”
“What are they?” Everyone seems to have this thing sorted out but me.
“I’m not going to say. If you want advice, you’re going to have to pay in advance.”
“So I married a sleazy palm reader.”
“Heavens no. I read minds, not palms.” She walks over, stands behind me and puts her hands on either side of my head. “Not much going on in there, at least nothing palpable.”
“I’ve got something palpable.”
“We’ll see about that later. For now why don’t you take me for a walk?”
“It’s raining. You want to go for a walk in the rain?” Personally, I could do without such an experience. There are things I should be attending to. A walk in the rain is not among them.
She takes my hand as if to drag me along, regardless of my reluctance. “Come on. A little rain never hurt anyone.”
We don our rain parkas and waterproof shoes and bounce out into the approaching nightfall under a single, large umbrella. This is a golf style umbrella, the type that has caused such a stir among big city pedestrians in recent years. To be properly courteous these days, one should not presume upon the space of others by using oversized umbrellas along the crowded sidewalks of cities like New York and Chicago. Of course, here in rural mid-Michigan, the likelihood of confronting another soul while out walking in the September evening rain is approximately zero. Actually, I would welcome such a meeting. It might indicate that we are not completely crazy for being out on a night like this, or that there are other hopeless romantics like Maryanne in the world, and, by some curious coincidence, they live in our neighborhood.
We hold hands while walking along the River Road. “I was thinking about the young people I saw on campus this afternoon,” I say to her. “I wonder how many of them would be able to run for some political office in the future. You know, without worrying that something they did in their youth might come back to haunt them.”
“How many would want to run for office is a better question,” she replies. “Let’s face it, politics is not a career most really smart people aspire to. But to answer your question, if you can’t stand the heat, you shouldn’t climb into the oven.”
“I see you’re still steamed over the prospect of Colin getting off Scot free.”
“No. I’m more upset that the world of politics is piled high with crooks and cheats and other individuals of questionable character, and nobody seems to care. It’s like Dan was saying the other night: If you decide to go public with Kathy’s story, Colin’s popularity ratings will probably go up, not down. Look at the president. People didn’t care much about his lack of ethics or moral character when they reelected him in ‘96. They only looked at their pocketbooks. All Colin has to do is keep the economy going, and he can get away with almost anything. You’ll be the one who ends up with the high negatives, not him.”
I hug her with one arm. “Nice of you to care, but it sounds like you still have an axe to grind.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not really, no. But what I do care about is whether you’re ready to tell me why I am going to let him off the hook?”
“Kiss me first.” She embraces me while I struggle to keep the umbrella upright to ward off the voluminous rain. Her lips are warm, a pleasant contrast to the autumn damp that has already enveloped me.
“I love you, you know that?” I tell her.
“I do.”
We attracted the attention of one of the neighborhood dogs with our public display. Annoyingly, the barking continued until we walked well past the carefully guarded property. A couple of times we had to step off the pavement onto the mushy verge as cars approached, driven too-fast by reckless motorists, bleary-eyed from the rain and a long day’s work, way beyond the point of normal evening hunger. The light from the September sky dimmed from gray-white to black. In the rain-washed, colorless woods, still clogged with mature foliage, leaves jostled in the breeze. Wind chimes tinkled from abandoned porches where outdoor, summer furniture lay cold and forgotten. Hardwood burning on a hearthstone nearby stirred thoughts of snuggle-down holiday nights, soon to be upon us. I held tightly to Maryanne and watched the brightening lights glow invitingly from neighborhood houses as the night fell all around us.
When we were closer to home, Maryanne let me in on her theory. In her opinion (built upon twenty-three years of experience observing my behavior, up-close and personal) I would not go forward with the story for two reasons: One, Kathy has asked me not to, and I would not feel right subjecting her to any further pain — unavoidable as that may be — as she got dragged down the media’s gauntlet right behind Colin. She possessed far less capacity than he did for dealing with the psychological effects of instant infamy. Two, though Maryanne hated to admit it, Dan was probably right. The high road was the better route to my destination. A trip through the swamp of attack journalism would be a lot like trying to swim up the Amazon during the rainy season.
I was not convinced. Though both her reasons seemed valid — in fact, I agreed with them wholeheartedly — I nonetheless sensed an obligation to report the story. It was just too big, too important to sweep under the rug. The citizens of Michigan must be made aware that their governor is a man of questionable character and a narcissistic hypocrite to boot. If John Harrington knew what I knew, he’d print the story in tomorrow’s edition, page one, above the fold.
Upon entering the house, Maryanne was the first to notice the small, red numeral 1, indicating that a phone message was recorded in our absence. Still suited-up from the walk, I pushed the playback button.
“Chip, it’s John. What the hell’s going on? Why is Rierdon’s lawyer calling me with vicious threats, saying that, if the paper prints your story, they’ll slap a suit on us for libel and defamation? You want to let me in on your secret? I think it’s about damn time you did! Sounds like you’re in a bit over your head, my boy. Call me at home. You have the number.”
“Man, this thing is really giving me a headache. Still and all, as far as I’m concerned, John can twist in the wind until tomorrow. There’s no way I’m going to call him back tonight.”
Maryanne took my damp hand. “Come on upstairs. You can talk to me instead. Maybe we can do something about that mood of yours.”
I felt the anger drain from my head. It fell from me like the last drops of rain off my parka. “I’m glad I married you.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so.”