The Incumbent

by Brian McGrory

  "You have to understand, I've had a lot going on these past couple of days," I said.

  "I understand that," he fired back, with a tone that meant understanding and accepting were entirely different. "I also have an election to win, then a country to run. And I need people like you with me, at least for the latter. And not just people like you, but specifically you. I know the timing could be better on all of this, but you owe it to this office, to your country, to put this at the forefront and make a decision."

  I must say, a pretty good speech. "I just want to be sure. Tell me again what you have in mind," I said.

  "No different than I said before. You come aboard here as the White House press secretary. My plan is to ship Dalton off to one of the agencies, maybe Interior. Seems like the type of guy he is. Sooner the better. He's Cole's boy, not mine, and I have to start putting mine in place."

  I was coming to realize that this might be one of my last chances to get a handle on what might become of my life. Hutchins was not a guy who I could just pick up the phone and call with another question or two. "Why me?" I asked.

  "You come highly recommended by a number of my operatives up in New England. I used to read you quite a bit when I was campaigning in New Hampshire and grew to be a fan. You also have a no-nonsense demeanor and a way with people that I really want to project to the public. I also don't have a clue what your politics are, which I like. A lot.

  In short, I think we'd work well together."

  He was boosting my ego. I was, in turn, growing confident. "You have my apologies for not thinking this through already and my word that I'll do it as soon as I can. But sir, you have to know, there is an awful lot happening right now, for all of us, and my first obligation is to the newspaper."

  "Don't I know it," Hutchins said, and he wiped the side of his head with his palm, looking momentarily as tired as I'd ever seen him look.

  "Do what you can. Here's the bottom line, though. I'm going to need a decision on Friday. That gives you five days. If not you, I have to move on and look for someone else."

  He began to stand up and said, "You'll have to accept my apologies, but I've had something come up today, and am going to have to offer a rain check on lunch."

  Time was running out for me. "Sir," I said, in as calm and confident a voice as I could. "Any idea who this dead would-be assassin is?"

  Miraculously, Hutchins sat back down in his chair and looked at me for a long moment. "FBI still tells me they think he's a militia member, despite what all you guys are saying about the government's inability to link him with a group. Hell, the Secret Service has a security alert going. Their vast preference is for me not to even leave the White House. They want to make me a frigging prisoner of this place, only I have a campaign to run and win. I can't afford to play anything safe right now."

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call news, and I felt myself making an excited fist with one hand as I jotted down what he said on a yellow legal pad with the other.

  "We on the record?" Hutchins asked.

  I nodded. "As far as I'm concerned, sir. Is that a problem?" I asked that last question politely, but with an almost challenging tone.

  The president chuckled in a hollow kind of way. "You're some piece of work," he said. "I like that, though. I like that a lot."

  I wasn't quite done here, even if he was. And now that it was gin-clear this was all on the record and that our conversation had become an interview, I pressed on with more bravado.

  "And you're satisfied with the FBI in this investigation so far?" I asked, then quickly added, "And what is it that leads them to believe that this was a militiaman?"

  "Two different questions," Hutchins said. He was putting his game face on, and it was a good one. "To the first one, hell, they're the single greatest law enforcement and investigative agency on the face of this earth. If they tell me they believe it was a militiaman who tried to kill me, then I believe it was a militiaman who tried to kill me. On the evidence they're basing that on, you know I can't get into that."

  Good quotes, every sentence, every last word. Hutchins stood up.

  "Hold on a second," he said, walking over to his desk. He pulled a sheet of paper out of a drawer and walked back over toward me, placing it in my hands. "You didn't get this from me," he said. "And no, you can't take it with you."

  I quickly scanned the document from the top down. It was on Treasury Department letterhead, Secret Service Division. It was dated October 18, a little more than a week before the shooting. It began, "Dear Mr.

  President, It has come to our attention, through the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that there has been a secondhand threat on your life.

  We would be glad to brief you in greater detail at your convenience.

  Until then, this memo is an advisory of several additional security measures being taken for your protection…."

  I soaked in every word, then scribbled it furiously into my notebook as Hutchins sat back in his chair, waiting patiently. When I looked up at him, he told me, "You didn't get this from me either, but I never bothered to get a briefing. I figure these guys know what they're doing when it comes to protecting me. They said they would prefer I didn't play golf that day, but advised me that if I did, they were confident they could guarantee my safety." He paused and softly chuckled.

  Before I could ask any other questions, Hutchins raised his voice a bit. "You'll identify me as a White House official. Maybe I even rank as one of those senior White House officials you bastards are always quoting without names. Now I want you to think about our other issue.

  You owe it to me, and you owe it to yourself. And take my advice.

  Come over here and work in the White House. It will be the best experience you've ever had."

  I stood up, and we shook hands. On the way out, the carpet was so thick it was like walking on air, or maybe it was the euphoria that comes with a nice news hit when you need it most. Within a minute, I was moving along at a rapid clip, along Pennsylvania Avenue, back to the Record.

  This time, Martin was sitting at my desk when I glided into the newsroom, absently flipping through wire reports on the computer screen, biding time, waiting to learn what I had. At first, I didn't say anything. I put my notebook and recorder down beside him, slowly peeled off my suit jacket, and walked away to hang it up.

  "Jesus Christ, c'mon, what do you have?" he called out after me. I hung my coat up before walking back and answering.

  "Nothing. A big zero."

  "What the flying fuck are you fucking talking about? You sit with the president of the United States in the Oval Office three days after he's been shot and nine days before the election, and you tell me you walked out of there with nothing?"

  He was incredulous. His face, no, his entire body, had flushed to an extraordinary shade of crimson. His hands were actually trembling, and his voice quivered a bit as he talked. Needless to say, this isn't what he expected me to tell him, which explains why I did.

  "Get a grip," I said. "And get out of my chair. I have a lot of work to do here."

  He looked confused. I continued talking. "Would you call a high-level security alert a good story? The president saying that he was warned not to play golf that day? What if that same president said the FBI is still telling him that this assassination attempt was the result of the militia movement?"

  The color-normal, human color-slowly returned to Martin, at least to his visible parts, though he still looked at me with suspicion.

  "So you're saying this is what you have?" he asked, afraid to get excited in case I was pulling another prank on him. I suspect Martin had been tormented in similar fashion throughout most of his life, by larger fourth-graders, by high school jocks, by college fraternity boys. And I suspect he had gotten quite used to it, almost immune.

  "This is what I have," I said. "The interview was brief. Every quote is precious. I was shown a document that will help our cause immensely. We're breaking some new ground with the s
ecurity alert and the prior warning and putting him out on the record on the militia angle. I think this is going to work out well for us."

  Martin looked stunned, but this time in a good way. "You're going to go hard as hell with it, right?" he asked.

  "Oh, yeah. Straight ahead."

  He moved away from the chair. "I'll go call Boston," he said, skipping off.

  I settled in at my desk, spread my legal pad out beside me, and got comfortable, sore ribs and all. Over the course of the next ninety minutes, I took my readers on a brisk walk through a flowering garden, as an old editor of mine used to say. The prose flowed nicely, and after I shipped the story to Martin and he shipped it to Boston, I sat with my feet on my desk in a bureau ringing with the sonorous sounds of deadline, still reveling in the thrill of another successful story, a glow that is similar to those moments in bed after having particularly good sex with someone you're just getting to know. Or something like that. I wondered if this story would trigger another call from my anonymous voice, and if it did, what he might say. I was wondering what would happen an hour from then when I visited the Newseum. I was staring off at nothing in particular when Julie Gershman stopped by.

  "Welcome back," she said in a flirty little way, and I knew immediately what she meant.

  "Was it that obvious that I was gone?" I asked.

  "Only to people who follow you closely," she said, ratcheting the conversation to another level.

  "Well, it's good to be back," I said.

  "Let me buy you a beer sometime soon," she said.

  "Sooner the better," I replied.

  "Good," she said, and turned and walked out, a knapsack on her shoulder, her short skirt flouncing with every sexy step.

  "Idaho?" That was Martin, who had appeared magically at my desk, his euphoria ebbing toward the needs of the next news cycle.

  "Today's Hutchins story does give Idaho more weight, doesn't it?" I asked.

  "More than ever. I'll assume you're in the air tomorrow. Give a call when you get out there. We're back in the game."

  As he walked away, my phone rang. It was Gus, just checking in, congratulating me on my coverage, just wanting to chat.

  "You're a great man," I told him as we hung up. "I've got to run to an appointment now. Tomorrow I'm flying out to Spokane, actually to the Idaho Panhandle. I'll give you a ring when I get back."

  I quickly punched out a number in Sand Falls. Eventually, Daniel Nathaniel came on the line.

  "Tomorrow I'm in your neighborhood," I said, sounding firm, macho.

  "You going to make this trip worth my while?"

  "Getting to spend some time with me is always worth anyone's while," he said. That answer was about as close as I'd get to absolute confirmation that he had something good.

  eight

  There is an exhibit at the Newseum-a museum dedicated to the journalism industry, of all things-that allows tourists from, say, Iowa, to stand before a camera with the White House as a backdrop and broadcast their own news story on a nearby television screen, as if they were a real live Washington network correspondent bringing the day's events to the rest of the nation, windbreakers and sneakers aside.

  I took limited comfort in this knowledge, figuring that my meeting with this anonymous source might actually give these network wannabes something to report on. At about 5:20 P.m." I paid my admission to the museum, which sits in Rosslyn, Virginia, just across the Potomac River from Georgetown, and began walking around the various exhibits.

  I didn't know, obviously, what this source looked like. I had to assume he knew me, and would seek me out if I just made myself visible.

  Ends up, the Newseum closes at six, a fact I thought to be odd for a couple of reasons-first, shutting down a museum about the media right in the middle of deadline, second, because this early closing hour cut the time awfully close for my source. I had to assume that whatever it was that he had to say to me, he would say it quickly. As an echoey voice over the public address system called out that visitors should be prepared to leave within thirty minutes, I hung around an area where they posted front pages of newspapers from across the country.

  I heard footsteps coming from across the hard tile floor, then a man called to me, "Excuse me, sir, but everyone has to start getting ready to head out now. We're closing down for the evening."

  I turned to see a gentleman in a security uniform, complete with a hat.

  He looked startled when he saw my face, and added, "Oh, Mr. Flynn, excuse me. I had no idea it was you." He hesitated, then said,

  "Please, make yourself at home. We'll be doing some cleaning upstairs for a while, probably about an hour. Feel free to enjoy the museum in the meantime."

  "Thank you," I said. So celebrity has its advantages.

  I poked around for about thirty minutes, until it was quite obvious I was the only one in the place. I tried concentrating on exhibits on the history of newspapers and the evolution of network news, but to no avail. I could think of little more than what my anonymous source might have to say, and what it would all mean to this story. I was also growing impatient with his lack of punctuality, and come around six-twenty, resigned myself to the assumption that he wasn't going to show. It was either a hoax, or he got scared off, or he misplanned the encounter and couldn't get inside because of closing time. This was obviously not a pro, but then again, what is a professional source? I wondered if I should wait outside.

  Suddenly, to my left, a wall filled with television screens, twenty feet high and maybe twice that in length, popped to life, each set filled with the image of Peter Jennings broadcasting ABC'S World News Tonight-hundreds of screens, every one a haunting image of the other.

  I'll admit, I like Peter Jennings, but enough is enough.

  "Tonight, growing questions and few answers on Thursday's assassination attempt against President Clayton Hutchins," Jennings said, raising his eyebrows in that way he does when he disapproves of the direction of a story. "Tonight, an ABC special report."

  His voice, his expressions, engulfed me. I looked around to see if anyone was watching me watch Peter, but the rest of the museum was empty, frighteningly empty given all the noise. I had the feeling of being alone in an amusement park, late at night, and having all the rides inexplicably spring to life.

  "At the J. Edgar Hoover Building in downtown Washington, headquarters of the FBI, the official line remains that investigators continue to probe whether the shooting is tied to the nation's militia movement,"

  Jennings said. "But within the FBI, sources tell ABC News there is currently a paucity of evidence pointing in that direction, though those same sources warn that new information is being gathered and multiple theories, including the possibility of a militia-related shooting, are still in play.

  "Meanwhile, out in the field, those who know the dead would-be assassin, Tony Clawson, express surprise. We go now to Jackie Judd in Fresno, California, for a report on the life, and the death, of Tony Clawson."

  The distant image of a Home Depot store flashed on all those screens, as the reporter's voice filled the Newseum and echoed toward the cavernous ceiling. Around a nearby bend, I heard what sounded like shoes on tile, then nothing but the reporter's voice, then more shoes on tile, then nothing again. I stared in that direction, looking for a person, a shadow, anything that would indicate another form of life in this room.

  "Mr. Flynn?"

  It was a loud, urgent voice emanating from the balcony above me, a shout almost, by necessity because of the television sets. My eyes bolted upward, but I could see nothing but darkness.

  Peter Jennings droned on, oblivious to my situation, even though he appeared to be my only witness. "Out on the campaign trail, Senator Stanny Nichols, the Democratic presidential nominee, delivers a red meat speech to a labor union rally in the pivotal swing state of Wisconsin, as polls show President Hutchins creeping ahead in the aftermath of the assassination attempt-"

  "Who is it?" I yelled back. Okay, stupid question, but
sometimes you just ask the first thing that pops into your mind. And they're always asking that question in the movies.

  "Stay right there, Mr. Flynn." For a second, it was as if Jennings was talking to me, but no. The voice, still at the clip of a holler, was younger than I had expected, given that the phone calls sounded like they came from a reasonably old man.

  I stayed silent, waiting, but nothing happened.

  Jennings: "Later in the program, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, a fresh start for some old steel workers. As part of our Eye on America, we bring you the latest from an innovative job retraining program that is being billed as a model for our fading industrial nation-"

  Still nothing. "Where are you?" I yelled, but got no response. I strained my eyes looking upward, then off into the distant expanse of the museum, but all I could see was the glow of so many television sets. Jennings's voice was so loud, so omnipotent, that it seemed to take its own visual form.

  I'd like to think I'm nobody's fool, so it was beginning to dawn on me that if this was just some relatively innocent meeting between a reporter and a confidential source, I wouldn't be entangled in this situational melodrama. Problem is, that thought struck me just as I heard a loud crack- a sound that was becoming all too familiar these past few days.

  I'm not sure whether I ducked or just flinched. Nor was I sure where the noise came from, which direction the bullet-assuming it was a bullet-was headed. Because of that, I didn't know which way to run, and feared that if I peeled off in any given direction, I might find myself face-to-face with my stalking gunman. Times like these, I wish I had just become a copy editor.

  I looked behind me to see Peter Jennings's face blown out on one of the television screens, just about level with my own, and that image sent something tantamount to a convulsion through my body. It also prompted me to get flat to the floor and begin crawling toward the door, figuring that all things being equal, it was probably the best direction to head.