However, she ended up liking it. The Iranians were nice to her, the American community there was close-knit and sociable, and Ruthie's serene nature enabled her to deal calmly with the daily frustrations of living in a primitive country, like the lack of supermarkets and the difficulty of getting a washing machine repaired in less than about six weeks.
Leaving had been strange. The airport had been crammed, just an unbelievable number of people in there. She had recognized many of the Americans, but most of the people were fleeing Iranians. She had thought: I don't want to leave like this--why are you pushing us out? What are you doing? She had traveled with Bill Gaylord's wife, Emily. They went via Copenhagen, where they spent a freezing cold night in a hotel where the windows would not close: the children had to sleep in their clothes. When she got back to the States, Ross Perot had called her and talked about the passport problem, but Ruthie had not really understood what was happening.
During that depressing Christmas Day--so unnatural to have Christmas with the children and no Daddy--Paul had called from Tehran. 'I've got a present for you,' he had said.
'Your airline ticket?' she said hopefully.
'No. I bought you a rug.'
'That's nice.'
He had spent the day with Pat and Mary Sculley, he told her. Someone else's wife had cooked his Christmas dinner, and he had watched someone else's children open their presents.
Two days later she heard that Paul and Bill had an appointment, the following day, to see the man who was making them stay in Iran. After the meeting they would be let go.
The meeting was today, December 28. By midday Ruthie was wondering why nobody from Dallas had called her yet. Tehran was eight and a half hours ahead of Chicago: surely the meeting was over? By now Paul should be packing his suitcase to come home.
She called Dallas and spoke to Jim Nyfeler, an EDS man who had left Tehran last June. 'How did the meeting work out?' she asked him.
'It didn't go too well, Ruthie...'
'What do you mean, it didn't go too well?'
'They were arrested.'
'They were arrested? You're kidding!'
'Ruthie, Bill Gayden wants to talk to you.'
Ruthie held the line. Paul
Gayden, the president of EDS World and Paul's boss, came on the line. 'Hello, Ruthie.'
'Bill, what is all this?'
'We don't understand it,' Gayden said. 'The Embassy over there set up this meeting, and it was supposed to be routine, they weren't accused of any crime... Then, around six-thirty their time, Paul called Lloyd Briggs and told him they were going to jail.'
'Paul's in
'Ruthie, try not to worry too much. We got a bunch of lawyers working on it, we're getting the State Department on the case, and Ross is already on his way back from Colorado. We're sure we can straighten this out in a couple of days. It's just a matter of days, really.'
'All right,' said Ruthie. She was dazed. It didn't make sense. How could her husband be in jail? She said goodbye to Gayden and hung up.
What was going on out there?
The last time Emily Gaylord had seen her husband Bill, she had thrown a plate at him.
Sitting in her sister Dorothy's home in Washington, talking to Dorothy and her husband Tim about how they might help to get Bill out of jail, she could not forget that flying plate.
It had happened in their house in Tehran. One evening in early December Bill came home and said that Emily and the children were to return to the States the very next day. Bill and Emily had four children: Vicki, fifteen; Jackie, twelve; Jenny, nine; and Chris, six. Emily agreed that they should be sent back, but she wanted to stay. She might not be able to do anything to help Bill, but at least he would have someone to talk to.
It was out of the question, said Bill. She was leaving tomorrow. Ruthie Chiapparone would be on the same plane. All the other EDS wives and children would be evacuated a day or two later.
Emily did not want to hear about the other wives. She was going to stay with her husband.
They argued. Emily got madder and madder until finally she could no longer express her frustration in words, so she picked up a plate and hurled it at him.
He would never forget it, she was sure: it was the only time in eighteen years of marriage that she had exploded like that. She was highly strung, spirited, excitable--but not violent.
Mild, gentle Bill, it was the last thing he deserved ...
When she first met him she was twelve, he was fourteen, and she hated him. He was in love with her best friend, Cookie, a strikingly attractive girl, and all he ever talked about was whom Cookie was dating and whether Cookie might like to go out and was Cookie allowed to do this or that... Emily's sisters and brother really liked Bill. She could not get away from him, for their families belonged to the same country club and her brother played golf with Bill. It was her brother who finally talked Bill into asking Emily for a date, long after he had forgotten Cookie; and, after years of mutual indifference, they fell madly in love.
By then Bill was in college, studying aeronautical engineering 240 miles away in Blacksburg, Virginia, and coming home for vacations and occasional weekends. They could not bear to be so far apart, so, although Emily was only eighteen, they decided to get married.
It was a good match. They came from similar backgrounds, affluent Washington Catholic families, and Bill's personality--sensitive, calm, logical--complemented Emily's nervous vivacity. They went through a lot together over the next eighteen years. They lost a child with brain damage, and Emily had major surgery three times. Their troubles brought them closer together.
And here was a new crisis: Bill was in jail.
Emily had not yet told her mother. Mother's brother, Emily's uncle Gus, had died that day, and Mother was already terribly upset. Emily could not talk to her about Bill yet. But she could talk to Dorothy and Tim.
Her brother-in-law Tim Reardon was a U.S. Attorney in the Justice Department and had very good connections. Tim's father had been an administrative assistant to President John F. Kennedy, and Tim had worked for Ted Kennedy. Tim also knew personally the Speaker of the House of Representatives, Thomas P. 'Tip' O'Neill, and Maryland Senator Charles Mathias. He was familiar with the passport problem, for Emily had told him about it as soon as she got back to Washington from Tehran, and he had discussed it with Ross Perot.
'I could write a letter to President Carter, and ask Ted Kennedy to deliver it personally,' Tim was saying.
Emily nodded. It was hard for her to concentrate. She wondered what Bill was doing right now.
Paul and Bill stood just inside Cell Number 9, cold, numb, and desperate to know what would happen next.
Paul felt very vulnerable: a white American in a business suit, unable to speak more than a few words of Farsi, faced by a crowd of what looked like thugs and murderers. He suddenly remembered reading that men were frequently raped in jail, and he wondered grimly how he would cope with something like that.
Paul looked at Bill. His face was white with tension.
One of the inmates spoke to them in Farsi. Paul said: 'Does anyone here speak English?'
From another cell across the corridor a voice called: 'I speak English.'
There was a shouted conversation in rapid Farsi; then the interpreter called: 'What is your crime?'
'We haven't done anything,' Paul said.
'What are you accused of?'
'Nothing. We're just ordinary American businessmen with wives and children, and we don't know why we're in jail.'
This was translated. There was more rapid Farsi; then the interpreter said: 'This one who is talking to me, he is the boss of your cell, because he is there the longest.'
'We understand,' Paul said.
