“What’s not gratifying is that none of you are asking the important questions. You ought to be asking when the legislature is finally going to pass my gambling bill, which is essential to restoring the financial stability of our state government. You ought to be asking who illegally bugged the governor’s office and distributed the infamous audio file to the media.
“But it is apparent that you have something else on your minds.” She smiled slyly and paused for dramatic effect. “So, since you asked-and because you are plainly obsessed with the subject-let’s talk about sex.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your salacious news reports over the last five days. They’ve been more entertaining than an entire season of my favorite TV show-Scandal. The saga of Olivia Pope’s affair with the president of the United States is riveting fiction, and the show deserves its huge following. But lately, the fiction about my affair with a newspaper reporter has been giving it a run for its money, driving up both newspaper circulation and TV news-show ratings. I’ve always been a strong supporter of a vigorous press, so I’m sorry to be the one to spoil your fun, but perhaps you are ready to hear the truth.”
Another pause.
“Liam Mulligan and I have been close friends since high school, and we’re both big kidders. What you heard on the audio file was me joshing him about his choice of underwear, which, frankly, I find mystifying. I understand why a guy would wear a Red Sox cap or Bruins jersey, but darned if I get why he’d wear his favorite teams’ colors where only that special someone gets to see them. After all, nobody who gets that close is thinking about baseball or hockey, so what’s the point?
“Mulligan? Would you care to explain?”
I bent to the microphones and delivered my line: “I’ve been supporting my teams for years, Governor. Seems to me it was time they gave me some support where I need it most.”
That drew some laughs. It also prompted an indignant shout from Iggy Rock.
“Do you think this is a joke, Governor?”
“I do,” she said. “Just not as big a joke as you are, Iggy.”
With that, reporters started shouting questions again. Again the governor shushed them.
“Mr. Mulligan I and do not have, never have had, and never will have a sexual relationship.”
“Never will?” I said, ad-libbing a line and pouting in mock disappointment.
“Sorry, darling, but I am immune to your boyish charms.”
I gasped, my feigned shock drawing more chuckles.
“For the record,” the governor continued, “Mr. Mulligan did not get me pregnant, and I did not recently have, and have never had, an abortion. Any more questions?”
More shouts.
“One at a time, please. Mr. Bedford?”
“We’ve all seen the photo and heard the audio. Why should we believe your denial?”
Fiona paused again for dramatic effect.
“Because I’m gay,” she said.
That stunned the room into silence.
“At the conclusion of this press conference,” Fiona said, “my administrative assistant will distribute notarized copies of a medical examination that was conducted yesterday afternoon by Dr. Martin Philbin, the chief of staff at Rhode Island Hospital. It will confirm that I have never been pregnant. And to satisfy your impertinent, prurient, and entirely inappropriate obsession with my private life, it will also confirm that my hymen is intact.
“I trust that when you report this earth-shattering news, your stories will be accompanied by the appropriate apologies to me and to Mr. Mulligan. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to turn to some matters of actual importance.
“Two weeks ago, a routine, monthly sweep of my office by statehouse police uncovered several listening devices. These devices illegally intercepted the infamous conversation that was subsequently edited to remove its innocent context and then e-mailed to dozens of news outlets. The Rhode Island State Police traced the IP address and discovered that the e-mail was sent from a computer in the reading room of the Providence Public Library. The state police then examined video from a surveillance camera mounted beside the library entrance and observed Cheryl Grandison, vice president of the Stop Sports Gambling Now super PAC, entering the library just ten minutes before the e-mail was sent. That alone would not be sufficient evidence of guilt. However, the state police also interviewed two witnesses who observed Mrs. Grandison using the computer in question and five witnesses, including me and Mr. Mulligan, who saw her take the photograph that was included in the same e-mail.
“At six o’clock this morning, Mrs. Grandison was arrested at her room in the Omni Hotel. She has been formally charged with violating Chapter 11, Section 35-21, of the Rhode Island General Laws, which prohibits both the willful electronic interception of oral communications and the disclosure of the contents of such communications to third parties. The crime is punishable by five years in the state prison, where the accommodations, I assure you, are not up to the Omni’s standards. Mrs. Grandison was arraigned in Providence District Court and released after posting a thirty-thousand-dollar bond.
“According to press reports, the super PAC Mrs. Grandison represents is funded by the National Collegiate Athletic Association and the five major professional sports leagues, which vigorously oppose all forms of legalized sports gambling. We believe her intention was to create a scandal that would derail the gambling bill by forcing my resignation. The five sports organizations have disavowed any knowledge of her actions.
“One last point,” the governor said. “State law also prohibits anyone from willfully disseminating the contents of an intercepted conversation if they know, or have reason to believe, that it was illegally obtained. Since it was apparent on its face that my playful conversation with Mr. Mulligan was illegally intercepted, every news organization represented in this room could face criminal charges, and the reporters and editors directly responsible could spend the next half decade behind bars.”
More shouted questions.
“One at a time, please. Mr. Hardcastle of The Dispatch?”
“Are you are seriously considering prosecuting news outlets?”
“That’s up to the attorney general.”
More shouts.
“Mr. Rock?”
“Are you currently in a lesbian relationship, and if so, can you tell us the name of the lucky girl?”
“None of your fucking business. Thanks for coming, and have a nice day.”
42
“How do you think it went?” Fiona asked.
“Are you kidding? You slayed ’em.”
We were sitting on the couch of infamy again, a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon White Gold, two Waterford crystal goblets, and a corkscrew laid out for us on the coffee table.
“Pop the cork,” she said.
So I did, filling the goblets and handing her one. We clinked glasses and drank.
“One thing, though,” I said. “Could coming out hurt your reelection chances?”
“If anything, it’ll help,” Fiona said.
The population of Rhode Island was 44 percent Catholic, the Bishop of Providence was fervently anti-gay, and the state had lagged behind the rest of New England on the gay marriage issue. But here, like elsewhere in the country, there had been a stunning change of heart. Two years ago, the state legislature had finally legalized gay marriage. The vote wasn’t close. Fifty-six to fifteen in the Senate. Twenty-six to twelve in the House. According to the opinion polls, the new law had overwhelming support among every demographic group except thugs named Mario.
“I was surprised you called on Iggy,” I said.
“It was part of the plan,” she said. “I was fishing for that final question, and I figured he’d have the bad taste to ask it.”