I think. An independent counsel was named by the attorney general to investigate the president's possible role in Havlicek's death, though truth be known, I don't believe he had any. Not Black's style, not then, not now. The Democratic-controlled Congress appointed a select committee to probe possible election fraud and abuse of power. The ever-dignified vice president, Ted Rockingham, met reporters on the White House driveway and pleaded with the country to give Hutchins the benefit of any doubts. Whether he'd get it, whether he'd need it, who really knew.
These were the thoughts I was thinking as I kicked my feet up on my desk after another difficult deadline on Wednesday night, the day after the election. It was the end of a whirlwind day of Washington events, capped by an Oval Office address delivered by Hutchins in which he portrayed his own redemption as being part of the American dream he had long espoused, the American way. Now, he said, it was time to heal, both himself and the country, and he would like to see the job through.
Ironically, while Hutchins, the admitted criminal, spoke, Drinker, the law enforcement agent, was being detained under heavy guard at a military hospital just outside Washington, facing a battery of federal and local charges, among them conspiracy to commit murder. You know what they say in Washington: it's never the crime, always the cover-up.
Dozens of FBI agents were working with D.c. police to try to determine who actually fired the shots out at Congressional. They had a body.
They just needed an identity to go along with it.
And me? I've been running crazy with the story. We did a takeout on the early years of the real Clayton Hutchins, the only child of deceased parents who died by his own hand, all alone, in his early twenties, only to see his name and childhood resurrected by a man who would become president of the United States. I received an invitation from Hutchins's secretary to join him for dinner on Friday night. That would be interesting. Meantime, every television interviewer from the smallest cable channel to the biggest network has tried to book me for their show. To each, I say, I don't talk, I write.
And television is the least of it. That day, a Hollywood producer called me at work, trying to buy my story for a substantial six-figure sum.
"Is Ernest Borgnine still alive?" I asked him.
"Um, I'm not really sure, why?" he replied.
"When you find out, give me a call," I said, and hung up.
I haven't heard back from him, which is just as well.
Well, on this Wednesday night, after deadline passed, after the bureau cleared out, after even Martin left, I wandered over to Steve Havlicek's desk, sat in his swivel chair, and ran my hands over some of his things, which were still laid out on his desk exactly as he had left them. He had a mug with the words "World's Best Dad" on it. He had several legal pads scattered about. He had a Cross pen with his name on it, which I thought was unusual. I had never seen it before.
Inside his top drawer, he had a pound bag of peanut MandMore's, opened and mostly gone. I pulled a box out of the supply closet and packed his stuff slowly and carefully into it, leaving out the autopsy report on the mystery man who fired those first shots at Hutchins and me.
Good taste prevails once again. I wrote out a quick note saying,
"Margaret, we all miss Steve more than we can ever say. This story is happening because of him. Very best, Jack." I dropped the note in the box, sealed it up, and left it for Barbara to ship to Boston.
As I walked out, I had the feeling of accomplishment, so much so that after I got home, I walked down to the cellar and pulled out a couple of folded-up moving boxes. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, hesitated for a moment in the hallway, then pushed open the door to the nursery.
Inside, slowly and surely, I took several stuffed animals out of the crib, removed the tiny cotton blankets and sheets and folded them up, placed them in a box, then lugged it down to the cellar. Back in the nursery, as Baker sprawled out on the Winnie-the-Pooh rug where I had slept a couple of weeks before, I unpacked the toy chest, putting each stuffed bear and dog carefully into one of the boxes. I threw away the dried-out jar of wet wipes. I took the few pairs of infant pajamas out of the drawers and put them into the box. I was picking up a Gund bear on top of the bureau when I heard a knock on the door downstairs.
Baker, of course, was thrilled. He limped down ahead of me. I pulled the door open and there stood Samantha Stevens, a special agent with the FBI. It must have been raining out, because her hair was matted to her head. She held a bottle of wine beside her.
"I got your message this morning," she said, standing on my stoop.
"Thanks again for the apology."
I said, "Don't mention it. I got your message this afternoon saying I'm not such a jackass."
She smiled mischievously and said, "You're not."
"Come in."
She stretched out her arm and handed me the bottle of wine. "Peace offering," she said. I hadn't seen her since Havlicek's funeral. I hadn't spoken to her-a couple of passing conversations aside-since we kissed on the sidewalk outside of Kinkead's.
As I took the bottle, she pointed to my hand, which still held the blond teddy bear, and said, "New toy?"
I didn't laugh. "Old toy, actually," I replied.
She quickly understood what I meant and studied my face for a moment while I studied hers. We were both quiet, though I'm not sure if it was out of awkwardness or relief. She followed me into the kitchen, and I put the bear down on the counter to open the bottle of wine.
When I turned around to face her, she drew close in that way she does, hardly seeming to move at all.
She put her face against mine and kissed me on the lips, not passionately, but warmly, then she pulled away, her eyes closed for a second, then open, looking into mine. That's when I kissed her, bringing my hand up to caress her wet hair. It was a long kiss, again, not so much passionate, but warm, strangely familiar, so natural.
She said, barely moving her lips, "I missed you." I glanced at the dog lying on the floor behind her, at the stuffed bear sitting on the countertop. I stared into her eyes for a few silent seconds and said,
"I missed you too."
And at that moment, a future seemed to emerge from the past, like life from ashes, like wine from old grapes, something with a bit of whimsy and so much more.
"Good," she said. "Don't be a jackass again."
"I'm promising you," I replied. "I won't."
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Ande Zelleman, my first and best reader and the one who encouraged me the earliest and hardest to write something other than the daily news.
To Richard Abate and the elite team at International Creative Management, who gave me equal doses of encouragement and expertise.
To George Lucas of Pocket Books. His talent with words is exceeded only by his way with people. The book wouldn't be this book without his deft hand, his vivid imagination, and his seemingly blind faith in the writer fortunate enough to pen these pages.
To my sister Carol, who helped me with the medical scenarios contained within, to my sister Colleen, who didn't so much encourage as provoke me into this endeavor, to my mother, who's always been there for everything else.
To the great people of The Boston Globe; especially Michael Larkin, who hired me too many years ago and still edits me now; Matt Storin, the editor who has entrusted me with the greatest jobs I will ever know; David Shribman, the wisest and warmest of bureau chiefs in the city-Washington, D.c. - that has gotten all too cold. Thanks as well to Greg Moore and Helen Donovan for their confidence. It's a crazy, wonderful way to make a living, this business of newspapers, and there's no better place to do it than the Globe.