I liked it. Dalton froze at the podium, furiously flipping through the briefing book of his mind for an answer. Finally, he punted. "Look, he is monitoring this regularly and closely. He is as concerned as anyone else with today's report. But he is also leaving the particulars of the investigation to those who are expert investigators."
This far in, and finally a usable quote. Hutchins is concerned. As Dalton sought other topics, on this day, there were a round of questions on the Medicare reform proposal, on the latest tax cut measure being touted by Nichols, et cetera. Eventually, the briefing tailed off into a blur of quiet mayhem, with reporters talking to each other and cameramen packing up their equipment and Dalton hesitating at the front of the room before he slinked through the door. I quickly pushed my way through the masses to a wall phone, dialed the White House switchboard, and quietly asked for Sylvia Weinrich, Hutchins's assistant.
"Miss Weinrich speaking," she said, answering the phone in her finishing-school tone, one regularly heard by world leaders, cabinet secretaries, and major contributors, though typically not by some harried reporter from South Boston.
"Hello, Miss Weinrich. Jack Flynn here." I spoke to her, I realized, as if I were talking to one of my former grammar school teachers, forming my words and thoughts carefully, all with a mix of respect and affection and the long-shot hope that she might like me and think I was smart. "The president, I believe, was kind enough to page me with an invitation to stop by. I was wondering if he had a convenient time."
It occurred to me just before she spoke that the page had been some hoax and that Hutchins had no intention of seeing me, all of which would have meant that I was in the process of making a general ass of myself. Luckily, she cleared that up in no time.
"Mr. Flynn, such a pleasure to hear from you again. My, you've been busy. I know the president wanted to see you as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, he has some office time right now and was wondering how soon you might be able to come in."
More than perhaps anyone else on earth, when the president beckons, people-congressmen, activists, titans of industry-drop everything and come, whether they want to or not. That's one of the perks of leadership. Me, I explained that I was in the building-a fact, I had a hunch, that they already knew. Marvelous, we both agreed, and in a matter of minutes, I was inconspicuously walking from the briefing room, through the West Wing, and into the Oval Office for the second time in my life, this time, though, unclear of my purpose and unprepared, I suspected, for what was to come.
He was sitting at that big oak desk, in shirtsleeves, wearing one of those pairs of half glasses that Havlicek had on a couple of nights before, looking dignified. He was reading a sheath of papers in a black binder. The wan November sun streaked through the southern windows behind him and through the French doors that led out to the Rose Garden, where bunches of brightly colored chrysanthemums stood sentry against the early creep of winter. The room was bathed in light and warmth and quiet-just the gentle hum of moving air and the soft tick of the tall case clock. When Hutchins flipped a page, the sound was a relative explosion.
I sat on one of the two couches at the far end of the room, quietly waiting. Sylvia Weinrich had shut the door on her way out. My eyes scanned around from the jar of mints on the coffee table to the busts of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy near his desk to the biographies of Truman and Lincoln that were carefully arranged on the ancient pale yellow shelves. It was mesmerizing, this room, where history wasn't just made but prodded and pulled, nipped and formed. As the moments drifted into minutes, I started wondering if he knew I was here.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." That was Hutchins, finally. He stood up from his desk, snapped his glasses off his face with one hand, and slowly walked toward me, looking haggard.
"You have any idea how much money this country sends to Israel every year in federal dollars?" he asked, not really seeming to want an answer. "Three billion. Three fucking billion fucking dollars. You have any idea how much private U.s. money is raised for Israel annually? Try another billion." By now, Hutchins was standing across from me, taking his seat on the opposite couch, talking softer with every word.
"How good are we to them? Cole just about promised fellatio to every senior Israeli official if they'd just be willing to meet with the Palestinians. Me? The second call I made after I was sworn in was to Jerusalem. No changes in policy, I said. They'd continue to be our best ally in the region. And how do they say thanks to all this money, to all this friendship, to the promise of all this history if they can reach a simple accord with people they know they'll be living beside from now to fucking eternity? They build tunnels and housing on sacred Palestinian land. They know the reaction they're going to get. They know they're fucking things up. Then they just shrug and ask me, "Are you with us or not?" And what can I say? "Yes, I am, though, gee, I was hoping you might behave differently." Well, you know what? Maybe I'm not with them anymore."
This scene was astounding for a few reasons, most notably that this was five days before a monumental presidential election. Hutchins should be standing before cameras, basking in the glow of favorable public opinion polls, looking down the pipe to four years in the White House in his own right. Granted, he was only taking a brief breather here, but the respite should not be spent laboring over the finer or broader points of the muddled and immovable Middle East peace process. It crossed my mind that the Record story might be one reason why Hutchins wasn't happier. The reality of his life was another. He was childless, wifeless, and really had no one with whom to share the moment aside from a group of aides I don't think he particularly liked.
So here was Hutchins, alone with a reporter he barely knew, fretting about issues he had frustratingly little control over.
I hadn't said anything yet, and Hutchins didn't appear interested in my opinion, so I sat in silence, watching closely the sad, almost sour look on his face, the toll of this job, listening to the words flow into what seemed a pool of self-pity. His reputation was that of a hard-charging bull, a man whom I once wrote had a steakhouse charm about him: straightforward, with few garnishments. Today, he appeared wilted, like some hound dog on a hot August afternoon.
"And you," he said, more politely now, paternal. "Where are you on our proposal? You make up your mind yet? You ready to do the right thing and join the team, help make history? I'm about to win four more years. I'll be able to do anything I want, go anywhere I want to go.
I probably won't even run for reelection. I might just use this term to kick an awful lot of ass and let things fall where they may. You could be there, every step of the way, for every kick and all the applause that follows."
Hutchins paused, staring out the French doors. His feet were up on the coffee table. He held his half glasses in one hand, letting them dangle by the stem as some people do, occasionally flipping them around. He reached up and rubbed his eyes with two fingers, massaging them hard as if he were trying to push them back into his head. He looked as if he were about to lose the election rather than win the damn thing.
I said, "I'm putting an enormous amount of thought into your offer, sir. But I think it's fair to warn you that I don't think this is an appropriate time for me."
Hutchins just kind of looked at me for a minute, allowing his eyes to scan over my face, probing, silent.
"Howa your ribs?" he asked, surprising me.
"Much better," I said. "I'm getting a lot more comfortable."
"Hasn't affected your work, for chrissakes," he said, getting that mischievous smile again, looking at me hard, playfully, waiting for a response.