"respectful" differences. One of them was in the area of day care.
Hutchins quickly signaled to Democratic senators that he would sign legislation restoring federal subsidies for child care, a decision, analysts later said, that would allow welfare mothers to return to work in greater numbers. Even the most conservative of commentators agreed with him that to create a foundation for a society without welfare, the government had to help poor people get out of the house.
Next, in an impromptu press conference in the press cabin of Air Force One, a correspondent from the Associated Press asked Hutchins about his opinion on abortion. It was the first time he had been asked about the issue as president. Until then, he never had the inclination or the reason to let his feelings be known.
"What the hell business is it of mine what a pregnant woman does to herself?" Hutchins growled at the reporter, in a voice that harked back to Lyndon Johnson. "Do I want her to have an abortion? God, no.
That's not good for anyone-not her, not the fetus, probably not even for society. Am I willing to tell her you can't do this or that with your own body? No again. That's just not what I'm in public life to do."
His answer sent shock waves across the country. The prolife groups, who had always assumed that since Hutchins was a Republican vice president, he was on their side, went ballistic. They arrived in Washington en masse for an enormous protest on the Ellipse, carrying buckets of what they said were dead fetuses that they flung over the iron fence of the White House onto the South Lawn. The mainstream Republican Party was uneasy about his stand but quickly realized there was nothing anyone could do about it, and Ted Rockingham, ever soothing, worked his myriad personal friendships to help calm so many nerves. The nominating convention was already over. Hutchins was president, and like it or not, he was their candidate in the November election. And now he was three points ahead.
My desk telephone jarred me back to reality. It was early yet to be at work, evidenced by the fact that, at 8:30 A.m." I was alone in the bureau. As I reached for the phone, I prayed that this would finally be my conversation with the anonymous source.
"A little less than a week out from Election Day victory, and there you are on the sidelines, and we're giving you the chance to come on over here and get in the game." It was the voice of Lincoln Powers, sounding a little less southern and lilting than it usually did.
"You know what it's like to drive through the White House gates to work every morning?" he asked. "You know what it's like to be quoted in all the major newspapers every day, as someone who matters? You know what it's like to have a whole staff of assistants to help you out, worshipful little things who'll do whatever it takes to make you happy?"
"Anything, huh?" I said, playing along, being a guy. I added, "Look, Mr. Powers-"
"Please," he interrupted urgently, "you call me Link."
"Lincoln," I said, "the president asked me to carefully consider my decision, so I am doing just that."
Powers said, "Absolutely no rush. Meantime, I thought we might get together for breakfast or lunch, talk it all over in a little more detail, the plans I have for you over here."
I said, "That would be really nice, and helpful as well. But things are really pretty rough for me right now."
"I'll have my secretary call you," he said. "We'll set something up for tomorrow or Friday. Maybe you come over here and eat in the White House mess, see how the whole thing feels."
God only knew where the next two days would find me, but I didn't want to say that to Powers, so I replied, "Good, let's see how the days play out. Thanks for thinking about me."
"Before you go, just one more thing," he said, his voice changing, his tone becoming more serious.
"Sure," I replied.
"You didn't get this from me, and this may not be worth anything at all, but I know for a fact that the FBI has assigned a couple of agents to look into any possible connection between Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson and the assassination attempt."
The revelation stunned me. Graham was Stanny Nichols's campaign manager. Mick Wilkerson was his longtime chief political strategist.
Together, they were the brain trust that had catapulted their candidate to the Democratic nomination. Perhaps this is what my anonymous source meant when he told me that nothing was as it seemed. Perhaps my anonymous source actually worked in the Nichols camp.
This didn't gel with anything else I had, but it was something to keep in mind.
"I appreciate the heads up," I replied, trying to contain my surprise.
"As I said, this didn't come from me."
As I hung up, I saw Havlicek pull up to his desk on the other side of the room, then neatly lay out his autopsy photographs and report around his computer, either to get everything within reach or to inspire himself. You could never tell with this guy. I, meanwhile, eyed my phone, picked up the receiver to make sure it was working, then began etching out questions on a yellow legal pad.
"What are you doing?"
That was Peter Martin, arriving at my desk, somewhat more at ease than usual.
"Nothing," I said, feeling like a little kid just caught stealing his sister's crayons. I still hadn't told him about this anonymous voice, and I had no plans to until I got something concrete.
"That's some hit Havlicek has for morning, no?" Martin asked, in a question that explained his good mood.
I said, "It's a great one. I'm going to work the telephones to see if I can help him out on my end. Otherwise, I'll be prepared to jump in and do anything I can in terms of follows. I suspect there'll be many."
"Good. I've got to tell you, I know we're in the throes of battle and all, but Appleton's none too happy about putting a story on the front page of the first edition yesterday, then having to pull it off. He's all over my case about it."
He let that sit out there for a minute, until I said, "I'm sorry. It's entirely my fault. I'll send Appleton an e-mail or give him a call and tell him as much."
"No need. I've got us covered on it," Martin said, shaking his head.
I kept going anyway. "Look, Peter, I screwed up. I know I did. But I think someone was intentionally trying to screw me up, and that someone might be the militia leader and the FBI. This could be a much larger story, an exclusive story, because I made that mistake."
Martin started wringing his hands together, as he sometimes does when a veteran senator announces he's not seeking reelection or the president pocket vetoes a piece of tax legislation. He said, "Go on."
I told him what happened. I told of the talk with Nathaniel, of the phone call with Kent Drinker, of the, well, encounter with the kid named Bo at the Dew Drop Inn. "The obvious question is, why is an assistant director of the FBI paying a house call on one of the nation's emerging militia leaders a couple of weeks before a presidential assassination attempt in which the militia is blamed, at least initially?"
Martin rolled up a chair and sat down beside my desk. He said, "To concoct a story. That's what you think, right?"
I replied, "Well, maybe. But that presupposes that Drinker would know about an assassination attempt, doesn't it? So doesn't that become a little far-fetched?"
"That it does. So why else?" He paused, looking at me, and added,
"Because Drinker had a tip about an assassination attempt? He wanted to check it out with the militia. That's still a good story, no?"
"Could be," I said. "But then, why the coordinated story lines now about this guy in Wyoming, Billy Walbin?"
We both sat there, baffled. My head hurt from thinking, hoping, waiting for this anonymous source. This wasn't so much journalism as algebra-trying to fit all the figures into a complex equation.