As vice president, he was strong, but he knew his place. That meant he was fully aware he had not been elected. He knew his role was virtually meaningless compared to the president's. He accorded the president the same kind of reverent respect he expected from those under him when he worked in business. He understood that his most important function at its most fundamental level was simply to be there, to be ready, if the president should die. And that had happened this past August, one week before the Republican Convention.
President Cole dropped dead of a massive heart attack on the private tennis court tucked into the bushes on the South Lawn of the White House. It was a stunningly beautiful summer day. He had just put the finishing touches to his acceptance speech and was planning to take a week off with his family at their getaway house on Sea Island, Georgia.
He stole out back for a tune-up game with a mid-level aide. Witnesses said he had just broken service and was poised to win the first set when he crumpled to the ground. By the time the Secret Service agents got to him, which was in seconds, he was already dead. By nightfall, Clayton Hutchins had taken the oath of office on the porch of the vice president's mansion on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Like Jerry Ford, he became president without ever winning a single vote on a national ticket.
At a time of almost indescribable distress within the Republican Party and sorrow across the entire nation, Hutchins again proved to be a reassuring force. He accepted the nomination of his party by acclamation at a subdued convention in Chicago. He vowed to continue on the path blazed by Cole, a man he said he loved. He nominated Theodore Rockingham, a grandfatherly, even statesmanlike veteran of past Republican administrations, as his vice president. Throughout the autumn campaign, he remained silent as his Democratic opponent, the respected senator from Colorado, Stanny Nichols, got pelted by accusations over some decade-old income tax issues back home. It was still a tight race, but Hutchins was watching his poll numbers climb in the wake of the attempt on his life. As I sat in the Oval Office on this day, two months into Hutchins's presidency, victory in the election had become more realistic than at any other point in the campaign-realistic enough that Hutchins had just started thinking what he might do once he achieved it.
Back in August, one of the first things he did after taking the oath was place a call to Powers's sprawling cattle ranch, to plead with the elegant Texan to return to the White House for one last tour of duty on behalf of party and country. Powers was perhaps the most experienced, most respected political adviser in America, a confidant to Republican presidents for three decades, a former secretary of state who had blazed around the world on missions of war and peace. He knew Washington and he knew power, and he knew how to handle the latter within the curious circus of the former, and for that, I suspect, he had been an invaluable part of Hutchins's smooth transition. They were an odd pair, these two, a consummate government outsider and the ultimate creature of the capital, a virgin and a pimp, if you will.
"Sorry to cut in on you here," Powers said to me, as the president pulled a thick Waterman writing instrument off a side table and penned a note in the margin of the memorandum. As Powers took the papers back and walked from the room, a telephone console tucked on a shelf beneath the side table gave a soft, melodic ring. I looked down in surprise, having not seen anything there, and wondering who it is that calls the president. I answered my own question, watching a red light blink along a column that had various agencies listed: CIA, State, Chief of Staff, Treasury. The light illuminated beside the FBI.
"Yes," Hutchins said, sounding annoyed as he answered the phone. There was a pause as he listened, then he seemed to cut the caller off, saying, "Look, I appreciate this, but I've got several things going on right now, like a presidential campaign. I will call you later when I have time for a full briefing." He hung up without saying goodbye, then turned to me. "I get a little flesh wound in the shoulder, and everyone acts like I have to drop everything in the name of a national catastrophe. Life goes on, except, I guess, for that poor bastard who took the poke at me."
That would have been as good a time as any to cut in with a nicely placed segue, something original like "Speaking of the poor bastard.
Any idea who the hell he is?" But I didn't feel comfortable enough yet, not with the president, and especially not here in the Oval Office, which was about as intimidating a place as I'd ever been in. I wondered if the word fuck had ever been uttered within these pristine confines, then remembered Nixon and assumed it had.
"So, where are you in terms of our discussion Thursday?" Hutchins asked, cutting hard to the point.
My eyes drifted around the room for a minute. All this time to come up with a pat answer, and I didn't actually have one. I looked out the French doors, into the Rose Garden, where the last of the season's hardiest flowers fluttered in the autumn breeze. I looked down to the circular drive, then beyond to the South Lawn, and imagined being here early on a Thursday evening, stepping onto the patio and walking across the grass to Marine One, giving a quick wave goodbye to the gathered staff, and lifting off for Camp David for a weekend of blissful seclusion, maybe a few holes of golf. Finally I looked at Hutchins, and from my sense of it, not a moment too soon, because he seemed to be getting aggravated with me. Searching for an answer, I punted. I decided to offer the truth.
"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."