The first and most obvious is known as "on the record." It is also the best and most straightforward, meaning anything and everything that a given person tells you can be used in the newspaper, fully attributable to whoever said it. Unfortunately life, and especially the journalism that supposedly reflects it, isn't always so cut and dried. People might be fired for talking to reporters, or reviled, or even endangered, so all too often conversations between sources and reporters tend to be "on background." That means all the information is fully usable, attributable to some mutually negotiated title such as a "senior administration official" or a "ranking federal law enforcement officer." But the vague attribution not only masks the identity, it also shades the potential motives for spreading that information. Reporters have to beware, but often don't. The third condition is "deep background," which means a source will provide information to a reporter provided it is not attributable to anyone or anything at all. In this case, the reporter-or more often, a columnist-can use the information in an analysis as either opinion or fact. The fourth, and most extreme, is "off the record," which, in its purest form, means the source is providing the information only to give the reporter a better understanding of what is happening, but the information cannot be used in a story unless obtained elsewhere.
The problem with all this is that only the best reporters and most knowledgeable sources fully understand the intricacies of the ground rules. Most don't actually have a clue, and "off the record" too often means "on background" to the reporter or the source. Inevitably and invariably, people get burned, sources become irate, and inaccuracies end up in print.
Interesting gambit by him. I said, "All right. Tell me off the record, and we'll figure out afterward how to attribute it."
As if trying to get the words out before I changed my mind, he immediately said, "Daniel Nathaniel is a paid federal informant. I received a tip on an assassination conspiracy, and I went to him to try to measure its validity. We had worked together on other cases, and he's always proven helpful and reliable."
To say the least, I was stunned, though I tried not to show it. Here was a guy, Nathaniel, whose entire purpose in life was supposed to be rallying against the federal government he claimed to despise, and instead he was actually on the FBI payroll, squirreling away money made from informing on his militia brethren. And I thought I knew the guy.
In the verbal gap, Drinker said, "You see what I mean. You write this, Nathaniel's underlings kill him by tomorrow night."
That they would, but that wasn't my particular problem, or even my most significant concern. I asked, "So were the two of you on the level about this Wyoming militia leader, or was that a concocted story?"
"We believe it to be true, though obviously I don't have it hard enough to bring charges yet. But Nathaniel told me then what he seems to be telling you now. This is what he had heard."
I frantically tried making sense out of what he was saying, but trying to piece the information together felt like shuffling a deck of cards.
"So are you saying that you suspected an assassination attempt was coming before the president ever got shot?"
"Yes."
"And you couldn't do anything about it?"
"Well, we tried."
I said, "I'd like to put that part on background, that a federal informant-unnamed in print-confirmed your suspicions of a conspiracy."
He paused for a moment, then said, "Sounds like as reasonable a compromise as I can get."
I said, "Two more things. First, on the record. You're sure that corpse you have is of a guy named Tony Clawson?"
Sounding taken aback, he said, "We have no reason at this moment to think it's anyone different." Back in the Watergate investigation, that's what Washington Post editor Benjamin Bradlee called a nondenial denial. Interesting.
"Second, on background, are you guys investigating any connection between any Democratic campaign operatives and this assassination attempt?" I threw that out there bald, trying to get an answer equally as blunt.
"Look, we pursue lots of leads and head down many different avenues in an investigation as comprehensive as this," he said. "I'm not going to comment or even acknowledge every specific one."
I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, so I said, "Specifically I'm wondering about Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson."
"Not going there."
I said, "I'll be in touch."
He replied, "If I were you, I would do that. This case is breaking fast."
We hung up, and sitting at my desk with nothing to look at but the back of Julie Gershman's neck, I was left to wonder, breaking as in breaking news, or breaking as in breaking apart?
There is something intrinsically wonderful about the bar at Lespinasse, a French restaurant in the heart of downtown Washington. The polished mahogany walls soar perhaps thirty feet toward a frescoed ceiling.
Portraits of dead presidents gaze at waiters quietly shuffling across the thick floral carpet. Soft leather chairs and upholstered couches exude the aura of a corporate boardroom or a private men's club, which, according to some women activists, are one and the same.
If nothing else, it is a haven from the constant slights and indignities of official Washington, where a twenty-something receptionist for a freshman congressman will answer a call for the press secretary from the New York Times and ask impatiently, "And what is this regarding?"
Not here, not now, not when the nice members of the Lespinasse management are fetching upward of $6 for a cold beer, though they don't even carry Miller. For me, that was a small price to pay for such comfort and civility. For Peter Martin, guardian of the bureau budget, the costs here always seemed a bit excessive, though as with so many other finance-related matters, I largely ignored his protestations with no discernible penalty. Once, when I turned in an expense form for a $179 lunch for two here, he looked the bill over quizzically and asked,
"What, you break a window or something?"
The bar seemed particularly soothing this evening. At the very least, I was fairly confident no one would take a shot at me. So I ordered a Heineken and slumped deeply into a soft settee with my eyes closed and my feet up and thought of the frustrating afternoon I had just left behind. I had made calls to anyone I could reach in the realms of federal law enforcement and national politics, asking whether Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson were being investigated in connection with the assassination attempt. From everyone I asked, I got only incredulity. In fact, I suspected I was starting to sound pretty stupid, and wondered if I was being intentionally led astray by Powers in the house of mirrors that was this story.
When I opened my eyes, I found the alluring figure of Agent Samantha Stevens looming above me.
"My God," she said in the way of a greeting. "You don't look so great."
"That's a risky thing to say," I said. "I feel like a million bucks.
As a matter of fact, I've never felt better. I feel like I could go out and complete a triathlon right about now, which would make it my third this month."
She seemed unsure how to take this reaction, so I flashed her a sizable smile. "Long day," I added.
She looked typically beautiful, her face freshly washed and largely void of makeup, her jet black hair glowing in the soft light of the wall sconces, her short navy blue skirt revealing perfectly toned legs that seemed, as my friend Harry Putnam is fond of saying, to start on earth and ascend toward the heavens. She settled into a leather chair diagonally across from me. I was increasingly smitten by her, though I recognized the need to rein it in.
"I appreciate you meeting me on short notice," she said, speaking deliberately. "I know how busy you are."