Significantly, Dalton had not called it wrong, and no one in the room thought it was.
The Baltimore Sun reporter, a twenty-year veteran of the press room who was demonstrably annoyed first with being beaten, and second with the mealymouthed responses from Dalton, asked, 'Well, did the FBI director tell the president that they have the right identity or the wrong identity on the body of the alleged shooter? And is the FBI director prepared to offer his resignation?'
'You're not going to get much more from me on this one,' Dalton said.
'The president is a victim in this shooting. The particulars on this case will have to come from the FBI, and as I said, I think they'll have something for you people in a short while.'
This was interesting. Dalton effectively passed on the question of whether the FBI director would resign because of a Record story. This was also becoming futile, though it would be another twenty minutes before anyone in the room would be willing to let go.
Basically, from my read, Dalton was shying away from saying that the president had full faith in the FBI. He had very purposefully not used those words, probably out of fear that the FBI had screwed up and knowledge that they were about to make an announcement to that effect.
Dalton was also going to great lengths to distance the president from the investigation, repeatedly calling him a victim. This in itself was odd. White House aides prefer to depict the president as someone all-powerful, in control, not some hapless casualty of unfortunate circumstance. They were obviously being cautious about this, not setting anything in stone, leaving themselves an escape route. The question was, why?
As Dalton went around and around with reporters, my pager sounded.
It's one of those high-tech beepers with the text messages that shows me the most recent wire reports every few hours. This message was far better than the norm, which usually consists of this: 'Call Peter Martin immediately.' I read my beeper twice to make sure I saw it right. 'Jack, you're an asshole. Come see me ASAP C.h.'
I couldn't well get up in the middle of this briefing, mostly because the only way into the West Wing was directly past the podium, where all my colleagues, as well as Royal Dalton, would look at me with a mix of fear and loathing.
'Royal, is it the view of the president that the shooting attempt has hampered his ability to win reelection, or has it aided his cause because the country had the chance to see him perform in a difficult personal situation?' That was Jonathan Flowers with CBS News, with a subtle way of trying to reengage Dalton in the give-and-take, make him feel and act less like Larry Speakes, Reagan's press secretary, whose relationship with the news media was so awful that he would routinely stare down a particularly difficult questioner and bellow, 'You're out of business.' Then he'd ignore the reporter for the next week.
'I've said all I'm saying on assassination-related topics,' Dalton seethed from the podium. He paused, then added icily, 'Next subject.'
Fuck him.
'Royal,' I said, and I could feel all eyes riveted on me. I wasn't just some casual questioner here. My name was on that story, and there's the operating assumption from every other reporter and White House aide that the writer always knows more than he's written. 'As president, as commander in chief, as someone generally charged with protecting our country and government, shouldn't President Hutchins be taking a keen interest in the progress of this investigation and the abilities of the investigators, given the potentially serious consequences on the well- being of the administration?'
I liked it. Dalton froze at the podium, furiously flipping through the briefing book of his mind for an answer. Finally, he punted. 'Look, he is monitoring this regularly and closely. He is as concerned as anyone else with today's report. But he is also leaving the particulars of the investigation to those who are expert investigators.'
This far in, and finally a usable quote. Hutchins is concerned. As Dalton sought other topics, on this day, there were a round of questions on the Medicare reform proposal, on the latest tax cut measure being touted by Nichols, et cetera. Eventually, the briefing tailed off into a blur of quiet mayhem, with reporters talking to each other and cameramen packing up their equipment and Dalton hesitating at the front of the room before he slinked through the door. I quickly pushed my way through the masses to a wall phone, dialed the White House switchboard, and quietly asked for Sylvia Weinrich, Hutchins's assistant.
'Miss Weinrich speaking,' she said, answering the phone in her finishing-school tone, one regularly heard by world leaders, cabinet secretaries, and major contributors, though typically not by some harried reporter from South Boston.
'Hello, Miss Weinrich. Jack Flynn here.' I spoke to her, I realized, as if I were talking to one of my former grammar school teachers, forming my words and thoughts carefully, all with a mix of respect and affection and the long-shot hope that she might like me and think I was smart. 'The president, I believe, was kind enough to page me with an invitation to stop by. I was wondering if he had a convenient time.'
It occurred to me just before she spoke that the page had been some hoax and that Hutchins had no intention of seeing me, all of which would have meant that I was in the process of making a general ass of myself. Luckily, she cleared that up in no time.
'Mr. Flynn, such a pleasure to hear from you again. My, you've been busy. I know the president wanted to see you as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, he has some office time right now and was wondering how soon you might be able to come in.'
More than perhaps anyone else on earth, when the president beckons, people-congressmen, activists, titans of industry-drop everything and come, whether they want to or not. That's one of the perks of leadership. Me, I explained that I was in the building-a fact, I had a hunch, that they already knew. Marvelous, we both agreed, and in a matter of minutes, I was inconspicuously walking from the briefing room, through the West Wing, and into the Oval Office for the second time in my life, this time, though, unclear of my purpose and unprepared, I suspected, for what was to come.
He was sitting at that big oak desk, in shirtsleeves, wearing one of those pairs of half glasses that Havlicek had on a couple of nights before, looking dignified. He was reading a sheath of papers in a black binder. The wan November sun streaked through the southern windows behind him and through the French doors that led out to the Rose Garden, where bunches of brightly colored chrysanthemums stood sentry against the early creep of winter. The room was bathed in light and warmth and quiet-just the gentle hum of moving air and the soft tick of the tall case clock. When Hutchins flipped a page, the sound was a relative explosion.
I sat on one of the two couches at the far end of the room, quietly waiting. Sylvia Weinrich had shut the door on her way out. My eyes scanned around from the jar of mints on the coffee table to the busts of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy near his desk to the biographies of Truman and Lincoln that were carefully arranged on the ancient pale yellow shelves. It was mesmerizing, this room, where history wasn't just made but prodded and pulled, nipped and formed. As the moments drifted into minutes, I started wondering if he knew I was here.
'Fuck, fuck, fuck.' That was Hutchins, finally. He stood up from his desk, snapped his glasses off his face with one hand, and slowly walked toward me, looking haggard.
'You have any idea how much money this country sends to Israel every year in federal dollars?' he asked, not really seeming to want an answer. 'Three billion. Three fucking billion fucking dollars. You have any idea how much private U.s. money is raised for Israel annually? Try another billion.' By now, Hutchins was standing across from me, taking his seat on the opposite couch, talking softer with every word.
'How good are we to them? Cole just about promised fellatio to every senior Israeli official if they'd just be willing to meet with the Palestinians. Me? The second call I made after I was sworn in was to Jerusalem. No changes in policy, I said. They'd continue to be our best ally in the region. And how do they say thanks to all this money, to all this friendship, to the promise of all this history if they can reach a simple accord with people they know they'll be living beside from now to fucking eternity? They build tunnels and housing on sacred Palestinian land. They know the reaction they're going to get. They know they're fucking things up. Then they just shrug and ask me, 'Are you with us or not?' And what can I say? 'Yes, I am, though, gee, I was hoping you might behave differently.' Well, you know what? Maybe I'm not with them anymore.'
This scene was astounding for a few reasons, most notably that this was five days before a monumental presidential election. Hutchins should be standing before cameras, basking in the glow of favorable public opinion
