Bishop had ordered up dinner from Il Corso, his favorite Midtown Italian restaurant, and he had gathered with his new Boston girlfriend, Sara Wyeth, and his head of corporate security, Don Cottle.
“Bill is his own worst enemy,” said Bishop. “But women love him.”
“Not me,” said Sara. “Goober charm. Fool’s gold. I like a real man, Charlie.”
Don Cottle glanced at her, rolled his eyes, then shifted his gaze back to the flickering glow of seven televisions on the wall, three tuned to the major networks, four tuned to the cable news stations: CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and ANN.
Once it was over, most American televisions clicked back to the sitcoms, the ball games, the VCRs. But the political junkies, the punishment gluttons, and the gleeful Clinton haters stayed with cable for the talking-head analysts.
Rapid Fire was Charles Bishop’s brainchild.
The host was a New York Times columnist named Harry Hawkins, who needed only to stroke his trademark goatee to send right-wing spear carriers into convulsions about liberal bias in the media. That was why Bishop had picked him.
Hawkins introduced his guests: Constitutional scholar Stuart Conrad of Dartmouth and right-wing radio phenom Kelly Cutter.
“This is what I wanted to see.” Bishop picked up the remote, powered up the volume, and rocked back in his chair. “This professor is a scholar, all class.”
“Class against Kelly?” said Sara Wyeth. “Class loses.”
And they went at it, with Professor Conrad on the New York set and Kelly in a remote studio with a photo of a Vermont village as a backdrop. The professor played the gentleman scholar confronting the queen of conservative sarcasm, a role that Kelly had perfected during a six-year rise to nationwide syndication. But both of them followed the instructions of the show’s producer: “On cable, it’s about conflict. So argue.” Since the producer was Bishop’s daughter, the guests complied. If you wanted to be invited back, keep the producer and her father happy.
Harry Hawkins began it: “Professor, can you give a historical perspective?”
“The Framers anticipated disputes like this, and they gave us a process by which to settle them. The Framers were very wise.”
“Wise enough to know that we don’t need this hound in the White House.” Kelly Cutter jumped in.
“I’m not sure I’d characterize the President of the United States in those terms.”
“What other terms are there? He’s a hound. But of course, the liberal elite will try to get him off the hook by distracting us with talk about the glory of the system.”
“I’m hardly elite,” said Professor Conrad. “I drive an old Volvo and live in a small house in a cold corner of New England.”
“You’re a professor at an Ivy League we’re-smarter-than-you-are college.”
“Which must mean I’m right,” he responded, “when I say that the system will work, whether Clinton is impeached or not.”
“Even when Democrats are a bunch of sheep?” said Kelly.
Hawkins stroked his goatee. “I believe I asked for a little historical perspective, which can always bring some sanity to a debate like this.”
“Sanity?” Kelly laughed. “Sanity is seeing a duck and hearing it quack and calling it a duck. So let’s be sane about what we’ve seen: a president who can’t tell the truth.”
Don Cottle turned to his boss. “You have to admit it. She’s good.”
“Too good,” said Sara.
Bishop brought a finger to his lips: Listen.
Stuart Conrad smiled. Professorial? Condescending? “Here’s some historical perspective: Under the first draft of the Constitution, Bill Clinton might not have been impeached. ‘Treason, Bribery, and other high crimes’ was the phrase. They didn’t add ‘misdemeanors’ until the second draft.”
“Lying to a grand jury is no misdemeanor,” said Kelly.
“Excuse me,” said the professor, “but I believe I have the floor.”
“You can have the floor, not the high ground.” Kelly was a pro. “A president leaving semen stains on blue dresses and encouraging young women to soil good cigars is an affront to the office, to the Constitution, and to cigar smokers everywhere.”
Don Cottle laughed out loud.
Charlie Bishop gave him a look. “She’s killing him. Who put her on the air?”
“Your own daughter,” said Sara.
“I need to talk to her in the morning. But I want to meet that professor tonight.”
On the screen, the professor was saying, “Whatever happens to this presidency, that living document guarantees that presidency and nation will both survive.”
“PROFESSOR“—BISHOP OFFERED his hand—”you debate as well as you write.”
“I meant every word,” said Stuart Conrad. “I just hope that Kelly Cutter doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid she does. It shows you how divided this country has become.”
Charles Bishop had chosen to meet the professor alone. The office was dark. The wall of televisions—all with the sound turned down—cast a glow on one side, the wall of glass caught the glow radiating up from Sixth Avenue on the other.
Bishop poured two tumblers of Bushmills Malt 16. “Ice?”
“The nectar of the Gods needs no ice.”
“Well spoken.” Bishop handed a tumbler to Professor Conrad.
They sat in the corner. Bishop called it his “peaceful power grouping”—relaxed, yes, but the boss took the stressless swivel chair. Guests got the sofas.
“You know what I dream?” said Bishop. “That I can do something to bring this country back together. Do it through television. Sew up the rent in the fabric. But it’s difficult to sew if someone’s behind you pulling out all the stitches.”
The professor swirled the whiskey in his glass. “You mean the Republicans?”
“They want to destroy Clinton. But he’ll survive. I worry about the parents who have to explain to their little ones what oral sex is over dinner, because these goddamn Republicans are like dogs worrying a bone…. Contentious times.”
“The Framers lived in contentious times, too. But they could never have imagined the media weapons we have today,” said the professor. “They could never have conferred for three months in total secrecy, either.”
“You mentioned a first draft tonight.” Charles Bishop took a measured sip of whiskey. “Have you ever heard of one annotated by the New England delegation?”
The professor’s glass stopped in midair. “Tell me more.”
“As the story goes, they all jotted down their thoughts on a bill of rights.”
“My God,” Professor Stuart Conrad whispered, “what a find.”
“What a find for a divided nation,” said Bishop. “Something to remind us that our contentious times have precedent. Every idea we have has been in dispute at one point or another … every article of the Constitution … even the Bill of Rights.”
“Where is this draft?”
“It’s a Pike family legend. If you’re interested I have a bit of research.”
“Well … certainly.” The professor seemed overwhelmed at such a gift.
“And tell me, what’s the title of the book you’re writing?”
“The Magnificent Dreamers. Something for the general reader, I hope.”
“We could use a few magnificent dreamers now. If you keep me posted on your research into a New England draft, I’ll give your book the attention it deserves on ANN.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Kate Morgan arrived at her father’s office, as ordered, at nine o’clock. Sunlight filled the room and turned Manhattan to gold.
She wore a crisp white shirt and tailored black slacks. And she had presence. That was what her father had always told her. Presence and talent. Otherwise, he said, he would never have given her a job.
“Morning, boss,” she said. “You wanted to see me?”
“Good show last night.”
“Thanks.” Kate was a daughter. She liked the approval of her father.
“But answer me this: What did I tell you when you took the job?”
“You told me a lot of things.”
“I mean, about which side we’re on.”
“I thought we were on the side of the truth.”
“Sometimes, we need to frame the truth.”
Kate sat on the edge of her father’s desk. “What are you saying?”
“Kelly Cutter blew that professor out of the water last night.”
“You chose the professor. I chose Kelly. I did a better job.”
“Is she a friend of yours?” Bishop looked over his reading glasses. “A special friend?”
“I met her in Vermont. I gave her a ride in my plane.”
Charles Bishop shook his head. “A daughter who flies planes and shoots guns and spends time with right-wing wacko women.”
“I hardly know her, but I’d like to know her better.”
“Remember, you produce one of the most influential shows on cable. But it’s not an interview show. It’s designed to get our political point across.”
Two days later, Kate Morgan resigned. “Dear Dad: I wasn’t cut out for this. I don’t need it. I’m moving to Vermont to shoot my guns and fly my planes and hang out with whoever I want, even if it is a right-wing wacko woman.”
THE CLINTON IMPEACHMENT scandal started Paul Doherty and Martin Bloom talking again about the lost Constitution. But they weren’t looking for it. Finding something that hadn’t been seen in ninety years—if then—would be like hitting the lottery. Only fools played the lottery, especially when business was good. And business was great.
The dot-com boom was making everyone richer. People were looking for ever more exotic investments. And in times of Constitutional crisis, the Founding Fathers paper that they collected only grew more valuable.
The Old Curiosities should have been satisfied with that.
But they had taken a step down a very dark path fourteen years before. Soon they would take another.
ON AN OCTOBER afternoon, Marlon Secourt appeared unannounced at the Old Curiosity. He wore an Arnold Palmer cardigan that billowed on him like a tent because beer had beaten golf in the battle for his belly. His pretty blond wife was with him. She was about half his size, with barely a wrinkle in her pantsuit or on her face.
He had also brought another couple who appeared better matched. The man was smaller than Marlon, fitter, a coiled spring with a crew cut. And the wife had the calm confidence of a first wife who expected to be the only wife: Clinton and Betty Jarvis.
“We’re headed for Bar Harbor,” said Marlon, “to play Kebo Valley, eighth oldest golf course in America.”
Jarvis said, “Marlon’s told us you’re the best in the business.”
That endeared him immediately to Martin, who said, “Is there a period you’re particularly interested in, Mr. Jarvis?”
“Please, call me Clint.”
“But never Clinton,” said Marlon Secourt.
This brought a big laugh from Paul Doherty, something less from Martin Bloom, and a smile from Clint Jarvis. The wives looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Jarvis said, “I’m interested in documents about the birth of the nation.”
“That’s how we met,” said Marlon. “Over golf and documents at a New England Rarities Convention. Then he started contributing to the Morning in America Foundation. Then along came Bill Clinton. Now we’re brothers in arms.”
“Our hope is to see a morning in America again soon,” said Jarvis.
“A collection like ours proves that there’s always another bright morning,” said Martin, “no matter which side of the political fence we’re on. To mix the metaphor even more, the political pendulum swings, but the center holds.”
Jarvis nodded. “It’s our greatest strength, that center.”
“So,” said Doherty, “is there something specific you’d like to see?”
“I’m interested in reading the Founding Fathers’ thoughts on their religious faith.” Jarvis wandered over to a display case. “But you have a draft of the Constitution?”
“I think you mean the first public printing,” said Doherty. “We bought it years ago. We’re letting it appreciate in value.”
“Is it here?” asked Marlon.
“No. It’s in our safety deposit box.”
“Mr. Jarvis is interested in all the drafts,” said Secourt. “We even stopped in Boston on the way up to see the Gerry draft.”
The wives looked at each other again, rolled their eyes again. Fellow travelers, fellow bored-silly sufferers.
“Gentlemen, I won’t beat around the bush,” said Jarvis. “Marlon brought me here so that I can tell you this: Should you come up with a document like the Gerry draft, with annotations, I’ll pay you a million dollars, cash on the barrelhead.”
“A million dollars?” Paul Doherty looked at Martin.
“Moreover,” he went on, “if you find a draft with annotations that show the thinking of one of the Framers about the relationship of this government to its Christian roots, I’ll pay you two million.”
When they were gone, Paul Doherty said, “So … who was that guy?”
“Someone who doesn’t get the part about the separation of church and state.”
“Someone with a lot of money, too.”
“Maybe we should start looking again.”
PROFESSOR CONRAD DID not start looking until the semester was over, which may have indicated how seriously a real scholar took this story. Then he made his annual pre-Christmas pilgrimage to the Old Curiosity to buy rare books, and he brought one of his prized seniors along. Her name was Jennifer Segal.
It was a nasty Portland afternoon with the east wind giving new meaning to the word raw. But it was warm in the Old Curiosity. During the holidays, Martin and Paul put up a tree, and in the afternoons they served sherry as well as coffee.
They greeted Conrad and his protégée like major spenders, even though Conrad seldom bought volumes worth more than a hundred dollars and, when he saw a catalogue item he liked but couldn’t afford, he came begging for a look before it was sold.
At least his teaching assistants were pretty, said Paul Doherty. This one had long legs, dark hair, and gold-rimmed glasses that seemed like a mask of maturity hiding her innocence.
“I wanted her to see a true time tunnel,” said the professor. “A rare-book store.”
Martin asked, “What is Miss Segal interested in?”
The professor nodded, as if to give her the freedom to speak.
She said, “I’m doing an independent study for the professor on a legend he’s heard about.”
“Oh,” said Martin. “What legend would that be?”
“That a first draft of the Constitution, annotated by the New England Framers, was spirited out of Philadelphia in 1787.”
Martin sat, perhaps because his legs had gone weak.
“We hear”—Paul Doherty cleared his throat, perhaps because it was constricting suddenly— “we hear legends about a lot of things.”
“Indeed,” said the professor, oblivious to their reaction. “So if you’d point her in the right direction … it could make for an interesting senior thesis.”
Martin and Paul looked at each other. Senior thesis? Is he serious?
Doherty recovered first and poured glasses of sherry all around. “Where did you hear this wild story?”
The professor took a glass, took a sip, nodded his approval as though he thought they really cared about his opinion of the sherry. “You know Charles Bishop? He owns American News Network. I’m something of a regular now. Have you seen me?”
“You’re a star,” said Doherty, who usually rooted for Kelly Cutter.
Bloom downed his sherry in a single swallow. “Charles Bishop, you say?”
“It’s an old family legend,” said the professor. “Bishop descends from Will Pike.”
“Of the Pike-Perkins Mill?” Martin refilled his glass.
Whether he knew
it or not, Professor Stuart Conrad had just given the Old Curiosities more information than they would ever give him or his student.
THE MILLION DOLLARS that Clinton Jarvis was offering suddenly began to smell stronger, and Martin Bloom decided to follow the scent back to Millbridge.
He called Buster McGillis, who said to come visit, but warned that his wife had died of a stroke at Thanksgiving, so he was feeling pretty gloomy. “I could use the company.” And Buster gave that chuckle again, a little softer, a little sadder.
There was snow in the wind on the day that Martin arrived.
This time, he got inside the big house. Buster brought him into the kitchen, the warmest spot in the high-ceilinged gloom. The vinyl tablecloth was stained with coffee splotches, and grains of sugar were scattered from the bowl to Buster’s mug. The ashtray was half full and another cigarette sat on the edge, curling smoke into the air.
It looked like a table where a lot of talk had passed over the years, a lot of coffee drunk … some beer, too.
On television, Bill Clinton was speaking … about something.
“It’ll be a terrible thing.” Buster filled two coffee mugs. “A terrible thing to convict him. He’s for the workin’ man. Too bad we got no place to work.”
“Too bad the mill’s closed,” said Martin Bloom.
“Don’t even have our own diner in town. We have to go all the way to Route 495 to get one of them Whoppers with Cheese.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” said Martin.
Buster took a puff of the cigarette, put it back on the edge of the ashtray, rubbed his big hands together and crunched the knuckles. “Yeah.”
Then the back door opened. “Buster! Hello, Buster!”
A big man with a potbelly let himself in. He wore a New England Patriots Windbreaker and a knit cap.
“My only friend, Morris Bindle,” said Buster. “Hey, Bindle, here’s that bookseller guy. Comes around every ten years or so, lookin’ for the same thing.”
“What’s that?” Bindle gave Martin a suspicious look.
Martin cringed when Buster said it out loud to another total stranger: “A lost first draft of the Constitution. You ever see anything like that layin’ around at the historical society?”
The Lost Constitution Page 55
