Sounding taken aback, he said, 'We have no reason at this moment to think it's anyone different.' Back in the Watergate investigation, that's what Washington Post editor Benjamin Bradlee called a nondenial denial. Interesting.
'Second, on background, are you guys investigating any connection between any Democratic campaign operatives and this assassination attempt?' I threw that out there bald, trying to get an answer equally as blunt.
'Look, we pursue lots of leads and head down many different avenues in an investigation as comprehensive as this,' he said. 'I'm not going to comment or even acknowledge every specific one.'
I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, so I said, 'Specifically I'm wondering about Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson.'
'Not going there.'
I said, 'I'll be in touch.'
He replied, 'If I were you, I would do that. This case is breaking fast.'
We hung up, and sitting at my desk with nothing to look at but the back of Julie Gershman's neck, I was left to wonder, breaking as in breaking news, or breaking as in breaking apart?
There is something intrinsically wonderful about the bar at Lespinasse, a French restaurant in the heart of downtown Washington. The polished mahogany walls soar perhaps thirty feet toward a frescoed ceiling.
Portraits of dead presidents gaze at waiters quietly shuffling across the thick floral carpet. Soft leather chairs and upholstered couches exude the aura of a corporate boardroom or a private men's club, which, according to some women activists, are one and the same.
If nothing else, it is a haven from the constant slights and indignities of official Washington, where a twenty-something receptionist for a freshman congressman will answer a call for the press secretary from the New York Times and ask impatiently, 'And what is this regarding?'
Not here, not now, not when the nice members of the Lespinasse management are fetching upward of $6 for a cold beer, though they don't even carry Miller. For me, that was a small price to pay for such comfort and civility. For Peter Martin, guardian of the bureau budget, the costs here always seemed a bit excessive, though as with so many other finance-related matters, I largely ignored his protestations with no discernible penalty. Once, when I turned in an expense form for a $179 lunch for two here, he looked the bill over quizzically and asked,
'What, you break a window or something?'
The bar seemed particularly soothing this evening. At the very least, I was fairly confident no one would take a shot at me. So I ordered a Heineken and slumped deeply into a soft settee with my eyes closed and my feet up and thought of the frustrating afternoon I had just left behind. I had made calls to anyone I could reach in the realms of federal law enforcement and national politics, asking whether Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson were being investigated in connection with the assassination attempt. From everyone I asked, I got only incredulity. In fact, I suspected I was starting to sound pretty stupid, and wondered if I was being intentionally led astray by Powers in the house of mirrors that was this story.
When I opened my eyes, I found the alluring figure of Agent Samantha Stevens looming above me.
'My God,' she said in the way of a greeting. 'You don't look so great.'
'That's a risky thing to say,' I said. 'I feel like a million bucks.
As a matter of fact, I've never felt better. I feel like I could go out and complete a triathlon right about now, which would make it my third this month.'
She seemed unsure how to take this reaction, so I flashed her a sizable smile. 'Long day,' I added.
She looked typically beautiful, her face freshly washed and largely void of makeup, her jet black hair glowing in the soft light of the wall sconces, her short navy blue skirt revealing perfectly toned legs that seemed, as my friend Harry Putnam is fond of saying, to start on earth and ascend toward the heavens. She settled into a leather chair diagonally across from me. I was increasingly smitten by her, though I recognized the need to rein it in.
'I appreciate you meeting me on short notice,' she said, speaking deliberately. 'I know how busy you are.'
I said, 'You've piqued my curiosity. I've been racking my brain, wondering, did I miss something from the shooting scene, is there something I overlooked, is there something I heard or saw wrong?'
I looked at her expectantly, and she said, 'Actually, it's not that at all.' She paused, staring down at the drink that the waiter had just brought her, a glass of merlot, perhaps a whimsical one.
'I don't really know any journalists, professionally,' she said. 'I don't know if I'm supposed to do this, or if this is wrong, or what.'
You have a crush, I said to myself. You've developed a crush on me, and you don't know how to tell me. Just let it out. You'll feel better. Just let it all go.
She said: 'I wanted to ask you about that story you had in yesterday's paper that you ended up killing for the later editions.'
Oh, well. She looked at me. I stayed quiet. She continued,
'Obviously, I've read your story inside and out, and there are a couple of things I don't quite understand, as in, A, how you got that information, and B, why it is that you decided it wasn't any good. I thought you might be able to share.'
This was an easy one for me, and something of an unexpected gift at a time when I needed it most. 'I love to share,' I said. 'It's one of the first things my mother and father taught me to do. But when I share, I usually expect, and get, something in return.'
She took a sip of her wine, then absently smoothed out her skirt, looked me in the eye, and said, 'Okay. Why don't we start with that story. I'm interested in what else you know about Wyoming.'
'Big, beautiful state,' I said. 'And I love the Tetons. There's a nice hotel, the Jenny Lake Lodge, overlooking the mountains, with a terrific fixed price dinner every night.'
She didn't even pretend to find humor. 'The militia,' she said.
It was a curious question, but I was doing my best to hide any look of surprise. 'No way,' I said. 'Let's start with you, and what you might have for me.'
'Why?' she asked. 'I'm the one who called you.'
'I don't trust you.' There, I said it.
'You don't trust me?' she asked, taken aback.
'I don't trust anyone, not my sisters, not my editors, no one.'
Quickly, I tried to break the mild tension that had formed. 'Check that. I do trust my dog, but even that took me a couple of years.'
She raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. 'What do you want to know from me?'
'We could start with the question of why you people couldn't prevent a presidential assassination attempt that you knew about in advance.'
She remained silent, looking at me, waiting.
'Then we could take up the all-important question of the real identity of this would-be assassin, because you and I both know it's not this guy you call Tony Clawson.'
Now her forehead was scrunched up in a look of confusion-whether feigned or not, I couldn't tell.
'The shooter's name is Tony Clawson. Case closed,' she said snappily.
I shot back, 'Read tomorrow's Record, then decide if you want to close that case so fast. Because you'll either learn something about your own investigation, or everyone else will learn something that you're trying to hide.'
That, I quickly realized, was a pretty stern accusation, and I scanned for a chance to backtrack. Too late. Stevens's cheeks suddenly flared red, and her angular features for the briefest of moments appeared severe.
'I'm not hiding anything,' she said, her voice almost seething. 'I'm not covering anything up. I'm not even closing cases. I'm investigating an assassination attempt on the president of the United States-trying to find out about a crime that could have changed the direction of the free world.'
Dramatic, yes, but probably right. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I am not implying that you are. What I'm saying is, I have some serious questions. You don't seem inclined to provide answers. That's your prerogative. But still, you expect me to help your cause.'
