PROLOGUE
Maryanne was right. She always is. I shouldn’t be surprised by it any longer. First of all, she said I wouldn’t write this story, and I didn’t. Then she said I should, and — though it took me two years — I eventually did.
Now, unfortunately, it’s too late. In fact, the window of opportunity slammed shut on this story even before the governor suddenly and unexpectedly became the late governor from a bad heart hardly anyone knew he had. So, when you consider the universal sense of loss that washed over the Great Lake State following his death, the media-magnified public mourning and his near-deification by means of several long-winded, emotionally charged eulogies (even if you weren’t there to hear the accolades, you can, no doubt, imagine nearly every word), the timing of this book is worse than practically anything imaginable. Even worse than something Kelsey Grammer’s character in Frasier might offer in defense of one of his inane escapades. Just way off. Period.
Consequently, I am fully expecting to be dragged through the mud for writing this account, just as I feared might happen in the first place, and therefore why I kept mum about the whole sordid set of circumstances when I could have broken the news with the sudden impact of a massive alien invasion. And there you have my point, the symbolic side of it at least: I feel obliged to refer to this story with the telltale flair of fiction, reaching, as it were, into the realm of mythology for a simple metaphor. But, as you will discover eventually, Maryanne also suggested that I consider fictionalizing the story — you know, change the names of the characters to protect the innocent parties. I replied at the time that there are no innocent parties.
And now? Well, my mind has not changed on the subject of guilt or innocence, fact or fiction, though I am certainly able to see things more clearly from the distant perspective that time has afforded me, however contrary to logic that may seem. And my eyes have been opened a bit wider as well, enabling me to see some of the complex inner workings of the human condition, like the dark and twisted threads of irony that run through each of us who walk this earth, exercising “free will.” And, adding to the effect of such incongruity, almost as a gift to the publishers of the scandal rags, these contradictory threads become all the more visible when lives are laid open to public scrutiny.
Nevertheless, after having my epiphany in this regard, I found myself wondering why I ever considered concealing the truth about Colin Rierdon in the first place. Perhaps I wanted to pretend that the story did not matter enough, that the revelations I discovered were not of sufficient consequence to be thrust center stage where they could be examined in the spotlight of public opinion. Or maybe I was sublimely blessed with the foresight to safeguard the memory of our dearly departed governor, even though he was not yet departed at the time. (I would truly like to be able to lay claim to such rationale, but now that Governor Rierdon has passed from the scene, I am plainly ignoring all the time-honored advice against speaking ill of the dead. And clearly, it would not help me plead my case if I added hypocrisy to my list of shortcomings.)
Still, few should be shocked by my decision to tell this story, because, were I not to publish the irrefutable evidence of wrongdoing, I would be shirking my chief duty as a journalist, that being to report all the facts fit for public consumption.
Moreover, contrary to what you may be thinking, I have not chosen to reveal this story now as a result of creeping vindictiveness. There is absolutely no vendetta that I am hereby acting out. The fact is, though I’d like to suggest otherwise, my motivation to write this book did not spring from any change of heart or personal transformation. Rather, I have simply (though slowly) come to the conclusion that all good journalists eventually reach — that the truth must be told, even though it is often the ugly and unvarnished truth.
So I hope you can begin to understand what is in my heart as I release this “news” and why the mere possession of it produced a moral dilemma within my soul. And why I am now (if you’ll forgive the clichés) throwing caution to the wind and putting my reputation on the line with the release of this book. But be forewarned. If you read this story, then you will most likely be left with a moral dilemma of your own. Just like me, you will eventually have to choose among several opposing options. And by so choosing, you may ultimately decide to dislike me for what I have reported here. Or perhaps you will cling to the notion that I have spun this story out of whole cloth. Then again, you might finally accede to my premise: that I have simply and dutifully done my job — better late than not at all.
In any case, you should know going in that I am fairly well practiced at reporting on political events and public figures in Michigan, and pretty good at getting at the heart of a matter, too — or so I’ve been told by some of my readers. Oh, and one other thing. If you don’t already know me, or know of me, I’ll kindly ask you to accept the notion (on faith if you must) that I really am the sweet guy you are about to meet in the pages that follow. You see this book is really my story and not the aforementioned myth. And above all, please don’t succumb to that knee-jerk reaction — the very one you may already be on the verge of having — by assuming that I am nothing more than a soured and war-weary old newspaper journalist, defending himself and his viewpoints in the pages of a book, even though I may be exemplifying that precise stereotype with this rather long preamble. Even so, I ask you to keep this one tenet in mind as you read: Circumstances tend to change, but people pretty much don’t.