After Jack called, Maddy sat around drinking more coffee for a while. She'd had gallons, and had barely eaten all day. But she felt too heartsick over what had happened to be hungry.
A little while later, she called Bill, and wondered if he was asleep as she let the phone ring. He answered finally, and she was relieved that he didn't sound sleepy.
“Are you sleeping?” she asked hesitantly. He recognized her voice instantly and was pleased she'd called him. He'd seen all her broadcasts from the hospital, and was keeping his TV on, in case she came back on.
“Sorry, I was in the shower. I was hoping you'd call me. How's it going?”
“There's nothing much going on,” she said, sounding tired, but happy to talk to him. “We're just sitting around waiting. He should be out of surgery soon. I keep thinking about Phyllis.” Maddy knew how much she loved her husband. They all knew it. She made no secret of it. They'd been married for nearly fifty years, and Maddy couldn't bear the thought of it ending this way for them.
“I don't suppose you've been able to see her?” Bill inquired, but he hadn't seen the First Lady on any broadcast, on any channel.
“She's upstairs somewhere. I wish I could, not for us, but just to let her know that we're thinking of her,” Maddy answered.
“I'm sure she knows that. God, you wonder how things like this happen. With all the security, it still does from time to time. I saw the original tape in slow motion. The guy just stepped right up and plugged him. How's the injured Secret Service guy doing?”
“They operated on him this afternoon, and they say he's in serious, but stable condition. He was lucky.”
“I hope Jim will be too,” Bill said solemnly. “How are you? You must be exhausted.”
“I'm getting there. We've been standing around here all afternoon, waiting for something to happen.” It reminded them both of Dallas and John Kennedy. It was before she was born, but she had seen all the footage on it, and he'd been in grad school.
“Do you want me to bring you some food?” he asked, sounding concerned about her, and she smiled at the suggestion.
“There must be two thousand doughnuts here, and all the fast food in Washington. But thanks for the offer.” She noticed a cluster of doctors moving toward a microphone, and told him she had to go.
“Call me if anything happens. Don't worry about waking me. I'm here if you need me.” Unlike Jack, who only complained that their broadcast was too boring.
One of the doctors was wearing a surgical cap and paper slippers over his shoes, and green surgical scrubs, and Maddy correctly guessed he had just come from surgery, as he stepped up to the podium they'd set up in the lobby. And instantly, all the news crews were crowded around him.
“We don't have anything dramatic to tell you,” he said, looking serious, as cameras all over the room began focusing on him, “but we have every reason to be optimistic. The President is a strong, healthy man, and from our perspective, the surgery was successful. We've done everything we can right now, and we'll keep you posted with bulletins through the night, as he progresses. He's under heavy sedation right now, but he was regaining consciousness when I left him. And Mrs. Armstrong asked me to thank all of you. She said she's very sorry,” he said with a tired smile, “that you all have to sleep here. She wishes you didn't have to. That's all for now,” he said, and left the podium without further comment. They had been told earlier that there would be no questions. He had told them all the doctors knew themselves. The rest was in God's hands.
Her cell phone rang almost as soon as the doctor left them. It was Jack. “Get an interview with him.”
“I can't, Jack. They already told us he won't do it. The man's been in surgery for twelve hours, and they're telling us everything they know.”
“Like hell they are. They're feeding you press kit crap. For all we know he's brain dead.”
“What do you suggest I do? Crawl into Armstrong's room through the heat vent?” She was tired, and annoyed that he was being so unreasonable and so demanding. They were all in the same boat. They had to wait for whatever announcements were made, and harassing the surgeons wasn't going to get them more information.
“Don't be cute, Mad,” Jack said, sounding annoyed. “Do you want to put your viewers to sleep, or are you working for some other network?”
“You know what's happening here. We're all getting the same stuff,” she said, sounding exasperated.
“That's my point. Get something different.” He hung up on her without saying good-bye, and a reporter from a rival network smiled at her and shrugged in sympathy.
“I'm getting the same crap from the head of our newsroom. If they're so smart, why don't they come down here and do it.”
“I'll have to remember to suggest that,” Maddy smiled back at him, and settled into a chair with her coat over her, until the next press announcement.
A team of doctors came back to them at three in the morning, and those who were asleep woke up to hear what they had to tell them. It was more of the same. The President was still holding his own. He had regained consciousness, was still in critical condition, and his wife was with him.
It was a long night, and in spite of another release at five, no one gave them any significant news until seven in the morning. Maddy was awake and drinking coffee by then. She had slept about three hours in disjointed little bits and pieces, and she was feeling stiff from sleeping curled up in a chair all night. It was like spending a night at the airport during the snowstorm.
But at least at seven, the news was a little better. They admitted that he was uncomfortable and in considerable pain, but he had smiled at his wife, and sent his thanks to the nation. And his team of surgeons was extremely pleased with him. And they actually dared to say that they had every reason to believe he was going to make it, barring complications.
And half an hour later, the White House released the identity of the man who had shot him. He was now being referred to as “the suspect,” although half the country had seen reruns of the tape that showed how he had shot the President. The CIA believed that it was not part of a plot to assassinate the President. The suspect's son had been killed in the action in Iraq that summer, and he felt that the President was to blame for it. He was a man with no previous criminal record, no history of violence, or mental instability, but he had lost his only child in a war he didn't understand and didn't care about, and had been depressed ever since. He was in custody, and being watched carefully. The rest of his family was shocked. His wife was apparently hysterical. He had been, until that moment, a respected member of the community, and a reasonably successful accountant. And it saddened Maddy to think about it.
She sent a note to Phyllis Armstrong through one of the press secretaries, just to let her know that she was there, and praying for her. And she was stunned when a note came back from her a few hours later. She had just jotted the words, “Thank you, Maddy. He's doing better, thank God. Love, Phyllis.” But Maddy was enormously touched that she had taken the time to write it.
Maddy went on the air again at noon, with the latest report, that the President was resting comfortably, and although still listed in critical condition, they were hoping that he would soon be out of danger.
“If you don't give me something interesting soon,”
Jack said when he called her after the broadcast, “I'm going to send Elliott over to do it.”
“If he can get anything different than the rest of us can, then send him,” she said, sounding exhausted. For once, she was too tired to be affected by Jack's threats and accusations.