'Have you seen the Times yet?' It was Peter Martin, being his usual personable self.
I replied, 'I'm feeling much better, thanks. And how are you?'
'Look, this story is spinning out of control. You ready to come back to work?'
I cradled the phone in my neck as I tucked a fraying blue oxford-cloth shirt into my favorite old jeans. Someone banged on the front door, and I hurried downstairs with the portable phone still at my ear. When I opened the door, Baker, in all his glory, came charging inside.
He looked wonderful, I must say. He circled me twice, his tail wagging and slapping me on my knees. He suddenly lunged for his stuffed hedgehog, which was lying on the rug, and paced about the room with the toy lodged deep in his mouth. The hedgehog was squealing, the dog was snorting, I was down on one knee, smacking him lovingly on his side.
'Hold on, Peter,' I said into the phone, putting it down.
'What is going on there?' I heard him say.
'Kristen, this was really great of you,' I said to the dog sitter, an adorable graduate student who lives down the street. 'Let me grab you some money.' Kristen had fallen in love with Baker in the local park nearly two years earlier, and told Katherine and I that if we ever needed a sitter, she would actually appreciate the chance. Ever since, she had proved to be one of the most reliable people in a life that seemed less reliable by the day.
'That's all right, Jack. I'll get it some other time. Here, I got you some bagels. I know you don't have any food here. By the way, you looked great on TV.'
She seemed to be looking at me differently as she backed out of the door, and it made me uncomfortable. Television has a power that newspapers simply don't, an ability to convey celebrity on, quite literally, an ordinary jack like me. But before I could say anything, she was gone, Baker was sprawled on the floor with his fat face pressed up against his empty food bowl, and I was back on the phone with Peter.
'What's the Times have?' I asked.
Knowing he had my attention, he sounded more thoughtful now, a little less panicked. 'It's kind of strange,' he said. 'They have a front-page story, quoting anonymous sources, saying that the FBI can't pin the gunman in the assassination attempt, identified as Tony Clawson from California, with a specific militia group. They ran a headshot of Clawson from some ID badge he wore at his job at Home Depot.
Scary-looking guy. These same sources said that no militia group in the country has yet to claim any knowledge of the assassination attempt, which probably isn't surprising. Why would anyone want to say they knew, and be charged with aiding and abetting or whatever? But here's what I think is the most interesting part: about halfway through the story, the FBI spokesman says they believe that the gunman was a militia member. The Times doesn't make too big a deal about that, but to me, that seems like the feds are backing away from how definitive they were right after the incident. This opens up a whole lot of questions.'
I was with him about 90 percent, but given the interruptions, the early hour-it was, I think, about eight-thirty Saturday morning-and everything else, if he quizzed me on what the questions were that the Times story opened up, I fear I'd have failed miserably. Still, I had an innate trust in Martin's abilities. He might be nervous as a cat.
He may never have been around for a presidential assassination before.
He may even be in well over his head. But he possessed wonderful powers of observation and a vast capacity to understand the business of journalism, and combined, that placed him in the right far more than it didn't.
'So what are you saying?' I asked, hoping to keep the ball in his court.
'We need to be on this. We need to be on this right away.' His tone changed here, becoming softer. 'I know you're not going to like this, but Havlicek is on his way out to California from Boston. The editor wants him on this story, and I didn't want to fight it. I didn't know how you were feeling physically and guessed you wouldn't want to make that flight. And minimally, he'll be good to do the initial sweep on Clawson, then go through documents, do some scut work. I don't think the extra hands can hurt on a story this big.'
I was fine about it. Steve Havlicek was in his late fifties, a former Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter with a sweet personality that masked a near manic drive to land stories that he knew no one else could get. He was the chief investigative reporter in Washington before I was, and Martin, looking out for my interests, was nervous that I would feel threatened by him poaching on my turf. In fact, Havlicek was an old friend, a quasi mentor, and I welcomed the help.
'We'll work well together,' I said, and just about heard a sigh of relief on the other end of the line.
'You have a line in with the FBI on this one?' Martin asked. 'The president? Can you flip any of these guys, put them on your side?'
My call-waiting tone sounded, and I took a pass on it. I figured I'd get enough calls today.
'The FBI agent seems pretty standoffish. That woman Stevens. She's going to be tough work, but I'll stay on her. I'm meeting with her at some point today. I'll spread some other calls out from home this morning and give you a ring if I get anything back. Have Havlicek give me a call when he gets on the ground in California.'
It suddenly struck me: the anonymous caller. Maybe I had just lost his call by not picking up the other line.
'One more thing, Peter,' I said, and then caught myself, quickly deciding not to tip my hand yet, not even to Martin. I had no real reason to keep it secret, but my instincts told me to maintain my own counsel on this right now, until I knew more.
'What?' he said, urgently.
My mind raced to fill in the blank. 'Never mind' was not going to be good enough with Peter Martin. So I quickly came up with this: 'You remember the militia stories I did last year? I made some good friends out west on that one, including one guy in Idaho, a militia leader, who is especially well plugged in nationally. I might be able to squeeze him.'
It worked, strangely enough.
'Jesus Christ, that's right. Maybe you ought to just get out there and see whether this guy has anything. I'm going to check the flight schedules, and I'll call you later.'
I hung up the phone, wondering what I had just done to myself. My caller ID read 'Private name, private number.' I checked to see if the caller had left a message on my voice mail. I was in luck.
Indeed, it was the shamefully aloof voice of Samantha Stevens, special agent with the FBI, requesting an audience at three o'clock that afternoon. 'If that works for you, no need to call back,' she said.
'We'll just plan on meeting you at your house. See you then.'
Immediately, I tapped out the number for the Record's library up in Boston, and luckily my favorite researcher answered the phone, someone who would get me exactly what I needed.
'Dorothy,' I said, in a singsongy voice that I always thought she liked, but who really knew? Actually, I probably sounded like an ass.
'Jack Flynn here. Howaya?'
'Jesus, Jack, you're all over CNN. The networks are flashing your picture every other minute. One of the affiliates had a reporter in here last night interviewing people about you. I told them I thought you were a gifted writer, and was thrilled that you finally decided to confront your impotency problem.'
Ah, that Dorothy, such a card. 'You're a laugh a minute. Listen, here's what I need: can you pull me some good background stuff on one Samantha Stevens, an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the pride of this great land?' I continued, 'And while you're in the system, could you see if there's anything on another agent, a man by the name of Kent Drinker, an assistant director?'
'Coming your way. I'll ship it through the computer?'
'Yeah. I'll look for it in a while. You're the best, Dorothy,' I said, hanging up the phone.
Impotency. How would she know? I mean, how would I even know? You have to try to have sex to know you're impotent.
In the journalism business, we look at shards of people's lives and pretend we see the whole. We spend a day with someone, maybe just an hour, flitting in at some inopportune moment, maybe a drunk driving death or an arrest on child sexual assault. We talk to neighbors, get some quotes about the time the suspect returned a borrowed rake with a sack of warm nuts from a gourmet food store, then write as if we understand the very fiber of his soul. We look at silhouettes and pretend we see real flesh. I'm as guilty as anyone else, but I'm smart
