FOURTEEN
Outside in the midday sun, near the capitol’s eastern steps, I find some of my colleagues huddled together in apparent hope that Governor Rierdon will appear and give them a statement. Half a dozen reporters are conversing, accompanied by TV camera technicians, piled with gear. The earlier demonstrations have all disbanded, the participants having returned to their separate pursuits.
“Chip, what’s up?” It’s Lynn Talmadge, the Ledger’s full-time political beat guy. “Have you seen the governor anywhere around?”
“Sorry, Lynn, I haven’t. You don’t really think he’d be hanging around for a photo op after what he had to say in there, do you?”
Lynn appears a bit put off by my public questioning of his journalistic instincts. “Why not? He made a pivotal statement and swung the vote his way. I should think he could get some real mileage out of that.”
There are nods and verbal affirmations from the band of compatriots.
“Well, who knows?” I reply. “But I have an appointment, so I can’t wait around to see. If he does come down, though, get me an autographed picture, will you?” I wave a mock salute and walk off between the clusters of crab apple and maple trees.
Lynn calls after me. “You can read about it tomorrow in the paper.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” I say over my shoulder.
The leaves on the crab trees are glistening like brass in the noontime light. Though the sun reaches us now from the celestial equator, angling in as it were from the south, it still shines brilliantly. It drenches the statehouse landscape, chasing away the darkness and shadows, all except for small puddles of murk that have receded underneath the trees. I stop at the corner of Michigan and Capitol and wait for the walk signal. Turning around to appreciate the day’s magnificence, I squint out a gleam of sunlight in order to view the windows on the rotunda. They are strangely opaque. When the signal changes, I step off the curb with about a dozen other pedestrians.
The Radisson Hotel is a short hike from here, only a block east, down Michigan Avenue. I wait again for the light, and then cross over to the north side of the street so as to remain in the warmth of the sun.
I am oddly buoyant, feeling nothing like I did earlier. The governor’s speech and the surprising outcome of the vote in the senate must have lifted and energized me. But, while I head toward my appointment with Colin Rierdon, I remember John Harrington’s words: “Don’t get taken in by his sweet talk.”
That was an interesting way to put it, I thought — sweet talk. And maybe that is all Colin’s speech amounted to. The whole cavalcade of emotion back in the senate could have been choreographed primarily for my benefit. After all, Colin had invited me to come and listen to his remarks. Then, as he began speaking, he admitted there would not be any meaningful ramifications to what he had to say. The vote in the senate was a throwaway; it counted for nothing. The introduction of the RLA bill in this legislative session was largely symbolic. Regardless of how the senators voted, the companion bill was headed for certain defeat in the House of Representatives later this afternoon. So, why did the senate leadership rush to put the bill up for a vote today? It can only have been due to commitments to pro-life advocacy groups made by the senate leaders. Now, with the votes counted, the favor has been done, and certain senators can hold their heads high because they kept their words, regardless of the outcome.
But Colin’s role in the session today, it seems to me, could have been based on entirely different motives. Though I may be cynical to think it, those motives could, in fact, be strictly related to his own political future, not to his desire to do the right thing, as he put it in his speech. Though he certainly did put his political reputation on the line and also risked his personal popularity among pro-life conservatives. But, considering that he could suffer an extreme setback if Kathy’s story were to be publicized, today’s speech might have been nothing more than a thoughtfully calculated risk, designed to keep her story out of the papers — and me off his back. How much could a small, philosophical chink in his armor hurt him in the grander scheme of things anyway? He is not up for re-election this year. In fact, it will be two-and-a-half years before he has to begin his next campaign. By then, any damage he might have inflicted on himself with his impassioned plea for moderation and choice could be patched up. Plus, where else can his conservative supporters go? Regardless of the position Colin took on the RLA today, the odds were long for him to remain the republican leader, the capo di capi, the number one mover and shaker in Michigan politics. Though some conservatives might bristle at what he had to say this morning, those with more than a one-issue consciousness will likely stick with him in spite of his sudden pro-choice advocacy. His losses as a result of the speech seem quite containable, at least in my estimation.
So Colin has played his hand. And his key to a winning strategy appears very simple and straightforward: Put me off the Kathy Nichols story; get me to think that he his pro-choice belief system insulates him from any potential claims of philosophical flip-flopping over the years, thereby making Kathy Nichols’ long-ago abortion somewhat of a non-issue (if that’s possible given the shock value of all that I know about the affair, and can unapologetically put into print). Furthermore, if he could just make it seem as if he has believed all along in the need for legal abortions and in a woman’s right to choose, perhaps the past might not haunt him at all, no matter what I elect to do with the story.
But I believe that Kathy’s story in print could still damage him, regardless of what he might have started believing a generation ago. He must know that if I go public with the story, it will make him look personally insensitive, unfaithful and dishonest — the antithesis of the person he has publicly portrayed himself to be. And that would just be the beginning of the sticky stuff that will be flung back at him from the media. So I suspect he might do anything to keep Kathy’s story from coming out, even put on a spectacle before the senate. And that might be what was really going on at the capitol this morning — a big show from a big time political performer.
I enter the Radisson from the side door on Michigan Avenue, leaving the gaiety of this sunny fall day out on the street. Shortly, I will face Colin again, one on one, trapped for perhaps an hour, and roped onto him like a rodeo rider to his horse. This could be the roughest ride of all. But I am convinced that I can outlast him, that I will still be riding high when the horn is sounded.
After a stop in the rest room, I proceed to the desk of the concierge for a check of my identification and credentials. A porter is summoned to escort me to the second floor. Once there, I am shown into a small room, windowless but elegant, decorated in a country-French motif with cream-colored walls, impressionist reproduction art and a planked floor. Governor Rierdon awaits me at the only occupied table, his security attendant on duty in the hall.
He rises to greet me, “Chip, good to see you — on time as usual.”
“Thank you, governor. I never knew this room was here.”
“It’s a well kept secret, a good place to enjoy a quiet meal. I trust you’ll keep it that way.”
“No problem, governor.” In my mind I picture the journalists I saw back at the capitol queuing up in the hotel hallway, Colin trapped in here like a treed leopard. Such a scene would not be good for his digestion. There does appear to be another way out, however. The double doors on the side of the room most probably lead downstairs and out the back exit.
“I’m glad you found the time to meet me here today, Chip. Why don’t you have a look at the menu before Cheri comes back for our orders, then we’ll be able to talk, more or less uninterrupted.” He hands me the leather-bound bill of fare.
“Sure, good idea,” I say.
For today’s lunch, there are four categories of entree: Meats, Fresh Catch, Pasta and Vegetarian. My eye goes immediately to the Lake Superior Whitefish Almondine. That will do nicely. I close the menu as our waitress enters the room.
“Hello, Mr. Halick.” May I get you something to drink?” She is rather short with bobbed, blond hair and blue eyes, dressed in black slacks and a white cotton blouse. I am impressed that she knows my name.
Colin speaks first, “I think we’re ready to order our meals, Cheri. Go ahead, Chip.”
I smile up at her. “I’ll have the whitefish...and a coffee, black. Vinaigrette dressing on my salad.”
Colin orders the roast medallions of pork with coleslaw and a Coke.
“Thank you, I’ll be right back with your drinks.” Showing off extraordinarily good posture, she nods, turns and clicks her way out, through the side doorway.
Colin wastes no time getting to his agenda. “This is rather difficult to say, Chip, and I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I regret having badgered you over the past few days.”
“Apology accepted,” I say, but I feel certain that we would not be having this conversation if I had not produced a copy of the incriminating letter he wrote to Kathy, nearly thirty years ago.
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He gives me a satisfied and knowing look. “Actually, there are some other points I would like to get out on the table as well: First, I’ve always hoped that this whole story could remain in the past, but now that it’s out in the open, so to speak, I feel somewhat relieved. There is no longer anything to hide and nothing to cover up. Second, if you are still considering telling the story, and I suppose that is your decision to make, you should hear both sides. Don’t you agree?”
“I do,” I say, somewhat startled that he would be so forthcoming, while wondering how much of what I am about to hear is going to be straight arrow.
Cheri bounds into the room holding a tray that contains our drink orders and some warm rolls. She smiles ear-to-ear as she serves us, no doubt proud to be entrusted with the governor and his guest. Then she is off again.
“What you wrote in today’s paper really sums up the way I feel, Chip. ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose’ — that’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes. But those weren’t my words, I was quoting a line from the song...”
“Right. But my point is that I really do feel that way — for the first time in my life. You see, when I considered all the things that might happen to me if you printed the story, I realized that everything I have always valued in my life was on the line. I could lose it all. In fact, I imagined that I’d be reading all about my reckless, selfish life as a foolish teenager in the paper this morning. And, for all practical purposes, my entire reputation and career would be up in smoke today. Let me tell you something: That is a sobering thought.”
“I imagine it is,” I say, keeping up my end of the conversation.
He takes a couple swigs of his Coke. “So, when I realized that all was potentially lost, I started thinking like a man who no longer has anything to lose, and you know something? You were right. There is freedom in that. I have been on this career treadmill for so long I can’t remember when I last made a decision that wasn’t influenced by how it would make me look, or how the voters might view it, or what the party might think. I’m telling you, Chip, I have not been free to be my own man. I’ve been too busy being everybody else’s man. Until today, anyway.”
“I guess there is a fine line between public service and public slavery.” It is the first time I’ve viewed the role of an elected official precisely this way, but I make the point as though I were well acquainted with the distinction.
“Absolutely. And there is no telling when you’ve moved from one into the other. Ambition is a dangerous thing, Chip. It blinds you from the reality of why-you-do-what-you-do. You’re afraid to do anything but what you believe you have to do to succeed — even if it’s not exactly the right thing. Then you figure out a way to justify your course of action. You make it seem right, even if it isn’t. Clearly, it wasn’t right for me to recommend that Kathy get an abortion. But it was a complex problem, and there were several things we were dealing with at the time, even though we, as teenagers, were ill-equipped to make the right choices. I’d like you to know about some of these things if you’re going to tell the story.”
“Do you mind if I take some notes?” I ask.
“No, please go right ahead.”
“You realize that you will be speaking on the record now.”
“I do.”
As I pull out my pad, he takes another drink of his Coke and changes his position on the chair. He waits for me to make eye contact with him, then begins the story.
“You see, Chip, I was popular in high school. I never had a problem getting dates. But most of the girls I dated were all beauty and not much else. They looked great on my arm, but I couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation with them. Then Kathy came along. She was different. Not that she wasn’t pretty — quite the opposite, really. But she had more than looks; she was an avid reader and a great conversationalist. Before I knew what hit me, I had fallen deeply in love with her. And after a while, I began to think that she was the one — you know — that I’d ask her to marry me, and we’d maybe wait a few years, till we got through college and all, but eventually tie the knot.”
I am writing somewhat frantically, trying to get all this down. Meanwhile, Cheri arrives with our salads. She serves us and quickly departs again.
Colin continues, “You see, I had always been brought up to view sex as off-limits until marriage, but, considering the way we felt about each other, it just seemed okay to — you know — well, it just seemed natural, that’s all.”
“I know what you mean.” I said. This must be incredibly difficult for him, I thought, to tell a near-total stranger his most personal and private thoughts. He appears to have made a sudden turnaround in what he is willing to disclose.
“Anyway we did it, the act, as they say.”
I don’t dare respond with anything more than my eyes, which I hope do not betray my thoughts.
“Now, there are some things you should know about Kathy as well.” He takes a roll from the basket and offers one to me. While buttering, he goes on, “Her father committed suicide when she was eight years old. As a teenager I had no way of knowing what kind of an impact that traumatic event had on her life. And she did mask it pretty well.”
He starts in on his salad, and I take a forkful of mine. Considering the gravity of our conversation, his coolness and composure astound me.
“Then, when she got pregnant, everything changed,” he says, still chewing. “We were young and scared. We didn’t feel like we could confide in anyone. My parents would have been devastated. This went against everything they ever taught me. All I could think about was how unprepared we were to have a child. We had another whole year of high school. Naturally, I didn’t want Kathy to think I wasn’t brave enough to go through with it, but the truth is, I wasn’t. I would have been humiliated beyond belief. And she was totally distraught over it, near a breakdown. So I went looking for a way to undo the mistake. However wrong that was at the time, it was the only solution that made sense to me.”
We both concentrate on our salads. I glance up from my notes and look around the room at some of the art reproductions. There is Van Gogh’s scene of the Mount of Martyrs, Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party, and two other distinctly “Impressionist” works that are only vaguely familiar to me. The salad is delicious, with multicolored ingredients — some arugula, endive and bits of radicchio. The dressing is tangy and flavorful with enough body to cling to the greens. I am still somewhat uncomfortable with Colin but glad to be myself at this point and not him. He has the bigger load to carry.
Suddenly, he looks at me and says, “I always thought that she’d rebound, you know, put it all behind her.”
In the eerie silence following that declaration of hope-gone-unfulfilled, the door swings open and Cheri comes through it with our lunches. She sets down her tray on the serving rack and removes the plate covers. Wonderful fragrances fill the room.
Colin and I get down to the business of eating, and for a few moments it is quiet, except for the clinking of utensils against plates. Finally, I ask a question that has been on my mind for days, “How did you manage to keep the abortion a secret all these years?”
“It was just such an embarrassment to both of us that we didn’t ever want anyone to know. Of course, secrets like this are like boils, they keep growing until they either break open on their own or somebody lances them. Then maybe you get some relief. Otherwise, you have to just live with the pain and discomfort.”
I find this a rather unpleasant analogy, especially at lunch. But it seems accurate nonetheless. I am beginning to think that the governor is a man past feeling, perhaps totally desensitized by having dealt with a lifetime of guilt.
Colin goes on, “I could never have foreseen what happened after the abortion. Things went from bad to worse. Kathy slipped into a total state of depression, thinking that she was no better off than her father, that she had no respect for life. I think she got perilously close to being suicidal herself. Plus, there were the medical complications. It was all way too much for me to handle; I was only a kid. And, even though I felt guilty about abandoning her, I just couldn’t deal with it any longer. In hindsight, we should have both gotten some counseling, and perhaps we’d have made it through okay. But we were so afraid to tell anyone, given the illegality of abortion at the time. So I did what I felt I had to do, and maybe it was immature and insensitive of me, but what does a seventeen-year-old know? In any case, I broke up with her, telling her it was the best thing. We needed to get beyond our troubles, and it didn’t seem like we could do that if we remained together. I have sought God for forgiveness, and I know I’ve received it. But now, almost three decades later, I’m sorry to say that Kathy is still as fragile as she was back then. I wish it weren’t so, Chip. But some things even the governor can’t fix.”
I have no response for this, so I remain silent. I have been trying to get his remarks down on paper, but it is nearly impossible to know what I have written, if any of it, could be used in print. This last statement however is a quotable sound bite if I’ve ever heard one.
My fish has begun to get cold. I choke down a couple more bites and then abandon it. Whatever appetite I had when I arrived has been satiated. I watch Colin as he cuts his pork and eats it delicately, systematically. Behind his GQ facade and carefully cut and combed hair he looks drained, as though he could use some rest — maybe a vacation. But this week is far from over for him. Tomorrow the Republican Convention begins, wherein he figures to be one of the star players. And who knows how much of a backlash he’ll get over his remarks today on the senate floor. It’s now an open question, it seems to me, whether he’ll be the heavy ammunition in the republican camp after all.
Thinking over what he has said up to this point, I realize how unprepared I was for this interview and how I am now struggling to think up a single, pertinent question. After a gulp of coffee I address him again, “I’m sure you know that I met with Kathy last weekend. And I must tell you that she seemed dead set on having the story published at the time — even after I tried to discourage her. She said that if I didn’t want to do it, she’d find someone else. So why do you suppose she had such a change of heart?”
He stops concentrating on his food and looks at me with large eyes. “She has always been a good judge of character, Chip. You should be honored that she chose you. But let me tell you this, Kathy is also quite intelligent. You may not realize it, but she probably had no desire to see this story in the news. She had to know, however, that by putting someone like you on the case, she would get my attention. And that she did. So now she has accomplished what she wanted — the defeat of the RLA bill. And I had to step up to a public stance in defense of women’s reproductive rights. And now you’re the one with the moral dilemma.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, innocently.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Chip. I am not trying to paint you into a corner here. But knowing how emotionally unstable Kathy is, do you really think that it would be wise to subject her to the kind of media attention she would get if this story made the newspaper? Before long, she’d be on every TV news program and talk show in the state, perhaps even the big nationally syndicated shows like Oprah. You met her. Do you honestly think that she could handle that kind of notoriety?”
Not exactly ready to concede this point to him, I respond somewhat lamely, “I have wondered about that.”
Colin continues hammering home his point. “No, unless I have misjudged you, Chip, you’ll respect Kathy’s privacy because, of all the things she has lost in her life — her father, her child, her chance at a family, her peace of mind — privacy is the one remaining possession that enables her to keep her sanity and equilibrium. And I know you understand that every citizen is entitled to a certain degree of privacy.”
I am now left entirely speechless. Luckily, the lovely Cheri enters again carrying a coffee urn. She walks over to our table and stands there beaming. “Would you gentlemen care for some dessert?”
“None for me,” I say. “Although a bit more coffee would be nice.”
“Thank you, Cheri,” Colin adds warmly, “but I couldn’t eat another thing. My compliments to Chef Dominic, everything was exquisite. Perhaps just a cup of coffee.”
She pours coffee for us and then departs.
Colin sips from his cup and then smiles at me. He is the one who obviously came prepared. “You know, Chip, my whole life has consisted of doing things that I felt other people wanted of me — demanded, really: law school, politics, the race for governor. What I did today was mainly for me. Kathy is right. No other women should ever have to suffer in the way she did. And you were also right. If we are ever able to stop abortions, it won’t be through another law or constitutional amendment. This is a matter of the heart, and the government should not be trying to rule our hearts. We’ve got to learn how to rule our own hearts. So, if you honestly want to write about something, why not continue to make the points that you’ve been making all along. Write about freedom and the responsibilities of individuals and society. Keep going down the road you’re on. You’re a free man, and you can help others understand and achieve freedom as well. You are doing us all a great service. Anyway, I don’t picture you as a tabloid-type guy. And besides, whatever human interest might be generated in the story about Kathy and me, it will be overshadowed by what you will then be forced to do and say in your own defense. If you fire the first shot, be aware that there will be guns pointed right back at you. Not my guns, mind you, because I am fully prepared to come clean on the whole story, but the guns of those who, for their own reasons, feel bound to fight in such a moral and political war. Right now you are free. You’re not a slave to anyone. If I were you, I’d want to keep it that way.”
There is not much else to say. He has summed it all up, and not much differently than I would have, had I been thinking clearly. I take a final drink of coffee and thank him for his time and for the lunch. Then I tell him that he’s given me a lot to think about, that I am not quite sure what I am going to do yet, but he has certainly made some astute observations, allowing me to see the situation in an entirely different light. While I mentally prepare to take my leave, he looks me straight in the eye and says, “Chip, I honestly respect your work, and I trust you. I know you’ll do the right thing. And, whatever the case, I hope we can remain on good speaking terms.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I tell him. “I think we can.”
Back on the sidewalk again, and walking back to the Ledger, I suddenly remember the dream that awakened me last Saturday morning — where I had been the governor’s trusted aid who was throwing buckets of water against his house in the midst of a flood, while shouting, “Fire, fire!” And it finally dawns on me what the dream meant. Everyone in town was in step with the governor but me. They were all working hard to save his house. I was the fool, even though I should have known better. My actions were mindless and stupid, but I couldn’t seem to prevent them, as if I had no real control over what I chose to do. And ultimately, I was dismissed, banished from the city and from the governor’s employ.
Now it seems clear to me. I would be a complete fool to write the story about the governor and Kathy Nichols and their tragic teenage mistakes. It is a story out of sync with the reality of what the governor has become — what he now is: an incredibly bright and popular public figure, one who has earned the trust of a vast majority of the citizens of this state. Finally, I sense that there is no rationale for doing the irrational and for committing career suicide by taking him on, attempting to trash his career and reputation. Besides, I do not have to follow the stereotype of my profession, as many in my shoes might. I am free to do the right thing, as Colin so clearly put it.
And perhaps more importantly, now that I have put aside my own blinding ambition, I can see that, as a result of all he’s been through, Colin Rierdon is a better man.
As I walk south along Washington Avenue, I feel the warmth and exhilaration of the sunny day. I breathe the fresh air. I sense the beauty yet to behold, the kaleidoscope of nature’s charm that will unfold before me over the next several weeks.
I am happy to be alive...and free.