It was time for me to sort some of this out. “Cool your jets, Max. You can go back home and tell Harry Reid that he can have an investigation of the Secret Service and that’s all. He has to leave the rest of Treasury alone. If he doesn’t like that, I drop Marilyn in his lap on live television. You’ve met my wife. You want live television committee hearings? I can guarantee that Marilyn Buckman will get you all the live television you could ask for! When she gets done with you guys, you won’t be able to run for dogcatcher, let alone the Senate!” Max looked like he was sucking on a spoonful of sewage, which made Chuck smile. I turned to face him. “Don’t laugh, Chuck. Nobody is going to look all that good if I have to do that. I would prefer to avoid it, but if you make me go nuclear, I’ll go nuclear.” The sly smile left Chuck’s face as I said that.
I closed it out by announcing that Deputy Director Nagel was taking over for Basham, and was already conducting an investigation into the breakdown in the protocols for protection and what had happened. Max countered by demanding that their investigator be involved. I agreed, but insisted that the investigation be finished within three months, which Chuck agreed to, pissing off Max. Afterwards, I met with Ralph Basham privately, and thanked him for his service over the years. When he left, I thought back to when I first met him, as one of the Three Amigos who had investigated 9-11. What a hell of an end to a great career.
The only thing good about the day was when, late in the afternoon, I got a call from Marilyn. She was still in Pittsburgh with Megan. I was getting two or three calls from her a day. Charlie was improving, and his condition had been upgraded to serious on Tuesday. He was still intubated, but his internal functions were rapidly improving, and there was hope that they would be able to start working on his broken bones soon.
I got a message over the intercom that the First Lady was calling, and I picked up the phone. “Hey, there, hun. How’s it going?”
“Just fine, sweetheart!” The voice was weak and scratchy, and a few octaves lower than Marilyn’s, and was the best sound I had heard in my life!
“CHARLIE! Oh my God! How are you!? Did they take the tube out!?”
“Hey, Dad. How you doing?”
“I am doing great now. What’s going on?”
“Here’s Mom.”
I heard some fumbling, and then Marilyn said, “Isn’t this great!? They took the ventilator off a few hours ago, and after a bit they were able to remove the breathing tube. Charlie’s still weak, and he has to rest a lot, but he’s getting better!”
“I’ll come up tomorrow night. I’ll be able to see Charlie Saturday morning.” I spoke to my son again, and promised to see him that weekend.
I actually flew up Friday afternoon. I had Marilyn call Paul D’Agosta and invite him and his wife to dinner Friday evening, and then had her make arrangements with the Hyatt to reserve a small private dining room. I wanted to meet the lawyer who got my wife out of jail, but didn’t need to be photographed with him. Nothing personal, but I didn’t need to have Will explain the caption, ‘President Meets With Prominent Criminal Defense Attorney!’
I landed at the helipad at the hospital and was ushered straight down to Charlie’s room. He was out of the intensive care unit, and was now in a more normal room. I noticed quickly that there was a much more stringent and strict security protocol around Marilyn and Charlie than before. I also didn’t recognize any of the faces of the agents. It was as if an entire new detail was installed. They all looked creepily serious and stern.
Charlie still had about a mile of tubing going into him, and both his right arm and right leg were in gigantic casts, but he was off the ventilator and could speak normally. The bed was inclined to about thirty degrees or so, so he wasn’t flat on his back. I didn’t even have to gown up to get into the room. I went in and his face lit up. Marilyn was on his right side, and Megan was sitting on his left, holding his left hand. “Hey, Dad! You made it!”
I smiled at that, and went around to his left side. I reached out and squeezed the hand I could touch. “Damn, it’s good to see you talking! How are you feeling!?”
He sighed and tried to shrug, but winced as he did so. “Okay, I guess. I feel like I’ve had about a dozen motorcycles run over me. What isn’t broke feels like it’s broke.”
Marilyn came around and gave me a quick kiss. “Megan rigged up a video camera to a television and showed him the accident.”
I looked over at Megan and smiled. “Very enterprising. Hi, Megan, good to see you, too. Not trying to be rude.”
She waved it off. “We watched it several times.”
“It’s pretty grotesque,” commented Charlie.
“I think you scared your mother and me out of a few years of our remaining decrepitude. You’re supposed to inherit from us, not the other way around. Seriously, how are you feeling?”
I got another sigh in response. “Tired. Weak. Everything hurts, at least when I move, and I can’t even move to scratch. I don’t even like sleeping on my back, and every two hours they come in and roll me from side to side.”
“Yeah, it sucks to be alive,” I responded.
Charlie’s left middle finger surreptitiously extended.
“I saw that!” warned Marilyn.
“So did I!” added Megan, who punched his left shoulder lightly.
“When I get out of this bed, you are in big trouble!” he told her.
“I’m not worried.”
I glanced at Marilyn, and she gave me a smile and a knowing glance. Charlie was hooked, that was for sure. We all chatted briefly, and a doctor came in to give us the latest.
Charlie was improving rapidly, but he still had a long way to go. His internal injuries were healed or healing. His right arm had been set normally, and could be expected to heal normally. His broken ribs were very serious, but it looked as if surgical intervention would not be necessary. He was restricted to sleeping on his back, and not raising up until they had knitted together more, a process that could take several more weeks. In the meantime, there were plans to take him back into surgery next week, to begin working on his leg. There would probably be two separate operations, one on his thigh bone, and the other on his lower leg, and he was going to be loaded up with a variety of metal junk. Depending on what was discovered, and the X-rays were pretty gruesome, Charlie was going to get a collection of pins, screws, and plates to hold his leg together. They would be permanent, and his racing career was probably over. Eventually, when the bones had healed, he would be able to begin physical therapy, which would last for many more months.
My son took this all in stride, not arguing or complaining. “The physical therapy, does that have to be done here? Do I have to stay in the hospital?” he asked.
“No, and you probably shouldn’t. If nothing else, you need to start moving around and getting independent again. You can stay in town and visit here for that,” answered the doctor.
“We have a nice home in Washington,” I commented. “And Charlie’s a veteran. I imagine I have enough pull with the Navy to get him into a physical therapy program at Bethesda.”
The doctor smiled and agreed, “Yes, Mister President, I suspect you could. If not Bethesda, certainly Walter Reed, or any of the good teaching schools down there would have a decent program. Try Georgetown or George Washington, for instance.” He shrugged. “Getting the patient into a home setting is generally a positive thing in its own right. By then, he’ll be ready for a change of scenery.”