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 security 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.