I was riveted, fearful that even the slightest movement or noise would stop his inevitable confession.
He continued in a louder, firmer voice. "I paid a steep price. I struck a deal. I traded in my entire life, or what was left of it.
You know what that's like, to give up your life? And now that I've turned myself around, now that I've made it on my own, you're going to hang all that around my neck and choke me to death, all over again?"
He pronounced those last three words by punching out every syllable.
"I deserve better," he said. "You know that."
He paused, stared down at his glass, at the ice melting into the whisky, and added, far more softly, "This wasn't part of any deal."
I probably should have felt pity. But all I really felt was relief.
Sitting in the Oval Office on deadline on the night before the election with the president of the United States, I had him cold. I had my story. I even had my quotes, which I repeated in my mind several times to help commit them to memory.
"Sir, you may be right. It wasn't part of the deal you had with the government. But you had a deal with the American people, and that deal was to tell the truth, to let them know who you are, to be judged on the whole rather than just the past few years."
His voice grew louder. "I did tell them who I am, dammit. I am Clayton Hutchins. I made my money on my own, with no help from anyone.
For chrissakes, I gave up a lucrative life to be Clayton Hutchins. I succeeded. And now you're about to burn me with my own success?
Where's the fairness in that? Where's the fucking fairness in that?"
He pounded his fist on the desk as he asked these last questions. I remained silent, taking in this remarkable situation. Hutchins started up again, seething. "You think I've been a bad president? You think all those people who are planning to vote for me tomorrow believe I'd make a bad president for the next four years? You think my policies aren't carefully thought out? You think I've been corrupt? No, goddammit. No."
He took a long, final sip and slid the glass aimlessly across his desk as he reclined in his chair. "Raj!" he yelled. The steward appeared silently in the doorway. "Another Johnnie, please."
"Sir," I said. "The voters have a right to know who they voted for.
They have a right to know your background, your experiences, the truths in your life, and the lies. All of that shapes who you are, and dictates how you'll act in the future as the country's leader, in times of good fortune and in times of crisis. The voters have the right to the truth."
He shook his head dismissively. "But I struck the deal with the government. I honored my part, they honored theirs."
"Sir, with all due respect, the people are the government. Yes, it's a clich'e, but it also happens to be the truth. And the people have a right to know."
And I believed this. Light, sunshine, is an amazing thing. It keeps a democracy vibrant by keeping the people informed. Informed people are usually wise people, or at least practical. Was there self-interest in this story? Of course. I'm in this business to break news, to tell people that which they don't already know, to place important facts in the rich dialogue of our nation. This wasn't about his sex life or some ancient two-bit misdemeanor. This struck at the very foundation of who our president is, and in this case, was.
He stood up and stared down at me from across the desk, then walked toward the French doors, slowly. He stopped and looked out into the Rose Garden, black but for a few spotlights shining on some chrysanthemums standing sentry against the autumn breezes. Then he walked slowly over to the fireplace and stood there for a moment, gazing at the unfinished portrait of George Washington hanging over the mantel. I sat in silence, following his movements, thinking of the office. I remembered hearing how Ronald Reagan, on his last morning as president, walked slowly from the residence to the West Wing and found it completely darkened and empty. Everyone had cleaned out their offices the night before. He wandered aimlessly around the Oval Office, absently letting his hand drift across the furniture, the walls, all that history, some of it made by him. Then he saluted and walked out the door, alone.
From across the room, Hutchins said to me, "How about a deal? How about I resign, Wednesday morning, win or lose. I'll send my resignation up to the Congress. I'll schedule a speech and tell the public I have some illness or something like that. We'll figure that part out. I'll give you an exclusive interview about it tomorrow night, after the results are in, for Wednesday's paper. You alone, on the details of my resignation. And you agree not to write anything about my past."
He paused and looked at me dejectedly, expectantly, seeking a reaction that he wouldn't get. In fact, it wasn't a bad deal under most circumstances, and would alleviate a lot of bullshit I was about to face, I'm sure, from Appleton and Martin. But there was one essential problem with it. It was another lie.
"I can't, sir," I said. "The public is entitled to the truth."
A flash of anger spread across his face. "The truth is," he said, in something just short of a yell, "the truth is that I've been a damned good president. That's the fucking truth. You want the truth, print that."
"I will, sir. Any story will note your policies, your successes. It will note your popularity. It will also inform voters of your past.
They can decide what they want to do with that information."
He collapsed into one of those pale yellow chairs where he was often pictured on television during photo opportunities with some visiting foreign leader. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the carpet in front of him, looking increasingly despondent. "I tried to save you," he said.
I assumed I must have heard him wrong, so I asked, politely, "Excuse me, sir?"
"I tried to save you, and I tried to save your cohort, Havlicek. And this is the payback I get."
I stared at him as he continued. "When you started asking around about Paul Stemple last month, Drinker just wanted to kill you. Just kill you, no questions asked. Put an end to our fears. I wouldn't allow it. I had another plan. I said I could hire you, give you the job as press secretary. You seemed talented enough to do the job. You'd be on our side, and the questions about me and Stemple would never be asked again. They'd go away forever. I had no idea he was going to try to kill you at Congressional that day."
I gulped hard at this matter-of-fact revelation. "So that wasn't an assassination attempt on you? That was really an attempt on my life?"
"It was, but believe me when I tell you I didn't sanction it. My intent was to hire you. That was the point of golf that day, not to kill you."
By now I had moved over to sit on one of the settees perpendicular to his chair. A single lamp lit this side of the room, leaving both our faces in virtual darkness as we talked, as if we were both sitting just off-stage, just out of the limelight.
I asked, "Why Drinker? What's his motivation?"
Hutchins flashed me a wry look. "Isn't self-motivation always the best motivation?" he asked. I stared at him but didn't answer. He said,
"He expected to be named the director of the FBI soon, by me, once I became elected, and his expectations were probably going to be fulfilled. He knows my goddamned secret. He was involved in the case way back when, and when I was about to become vice president, I had no choice but to call him up and make it in his own interest to keep my past the past."
You never know what people might say in times of triumph and tragedy, how much information they may divulge, the depths of their emotions, and this soul-bearing exercise in the Oval Office was certainly proof of that. In some odd way, Hutchins began to look relieved talking about his past and the efforts to conceal it, so I continued to press him, and perhaps my luck as well. "So it was Drinker who killed Havlicek?"