by Greg Fields
By contrast, he observed early in life that athletic excellence was applauded more loudly than the less visible forms. He enjoyed sports, but as a boy excelled at none. Football intimidated him, basketball sped past him, and baseball mystified him. He wanted very badly to find a sport, any sport. In high school he stepped onto the tennis court and dove into the pool, and in so doing realized his breakthrough. While most boys his age pursued the major team sports, Dan Rosselli lit upon two lesser sports with commensurately less competition. He played tennis for four years, advancing once to the state tournament where he was quickly dispatched. That got him a trophy. He swam, too, and did even better at that. By his senior year he was team captain, earning honorable mention all-state in the breaststroke. That got him several trophies. He gave each one to his parents and watched their admiration grow.
One day, when he was a tender fifteen, he took a walk on the boardwalk near his home. It was late autumn, and cold, so the beach was vacant. He heard from offshore a cry for help. Peering through the gray, windblown mist he saw, ninety or a hundred feet from shore, a flailing figure and, behind that, a capsized dinghy. Rosselli hesitated, weighing risks and rewards. A few seconds later he leaped fully clothed into the surf, swam out to the panic-stricken fisherman and began pulling him in. The fisherman was icy; even though he had been in the water only a few minutes he had entered the early stages of hypothermia.
Only in retrospect did Rosselli realize the full risk he had taken and vowed to himself to be more careful should something like that ever arise again. The local newspaper, though, found itself a hero. Dan Rosselli basked in the glow for months afterward.
Rosselli was tall, owner of a large frame that easily grew larger if he were not observant. He possessed, too, an outgoing, garrulous personality that fit his size. One looked at Rosselli and could not imagine anything devious, calculated or improper working through his quick mind. He exuded an innocent warmth—large brown eyes and a perpetual smile on a rounded face, topped with light brown curly hair, something in toto of a teddy bear. Rosselli told many jokes and laughed frequently. He enjoyed being with people and could not understand how anyone could favor the solitude of constant introspection. He did not brood, or ponder, or withdraw. He considered himself a moral man, and accepted that as an ongoing reality. He investigated matters no further.
He had been conditioned from birth to his enjoyments. He relished material comforts, and good companionship, and, perhaps above all else, approval. His life had begun with modest amounts of each. He learned his pleasures and over time developed ways to expand them. Dan Rosselli’s personality grew from these desires. He was, in the end, a materialist unencumbered by the higher questions. The warmth of his personality was not in actuality a façade, for he did truly enjoy the people and the life around him, yet it was a device that facilitated the gain of his most sublime pleasures.
College, too, was a device. A degree meant a career. Whatever he might learn in the course of attaining the necessary grades would be incidental. It was all a means to an end, and the end was comfort. Rosselli hoped for medical school. Doctors made more money than anyone, he reasoned, and people tended to respect them highly. It might even be a way to keep the applause ringing in his ears.
The friendship between Conor Finnegan and Dan Rosselli was complementary because, quite simply, they provided each other an audience. Rosselli, for many reasons, saw Finnegan as a special individual, distinct from the thousands of other students at the college. Finnegan perceived this and came to relish it. They enjoyed each other’s company, the lightness of it, the unburdened levity, the stories, the sharing of common situations. Finnegan grasped again, in Rosselli, the self-justification he craved, while Rosselli, in an effort to add to his own image, wore Finnegan like a badge.
The two drank much wine that night. They put Reg Coleman far out of their minds, and Tom McIlweath, too, and virtually everyone else. They spoke of themselves, relating incidents from their pasts and presents. Finnegan grew philosophical, Rosselli giddy. Around 8:30, friends they knew from the dormitory came in and joined them at their table. The conversation broadened and became earthy. Near midnight Finnegan and Rosselli rose to return to their rooms. Each was very drunk but alive with the wordless exultation of youth, of companionship, of joy, of power. They staggered out the door, Finnegan measuring his steps to make certain he didn’t jostle any tables.
They had eaten well, they had drunk extremely well. They had shared the peculiar company reserved for a carefree and innocently arrogant youth. Finnegan and Rosselli wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders and bumped their way home. Because they felt like it, as they passed the student center they sang the alma mater.
Conor Finnegan had always been a believer in Providence. Or rather, he believed that, for whatever reason, Providence was a believer in him and so sat perched comfortably upon his shoulder.
His whole life had reinforced the notion that the Fates regarded him as their special child. It had always been that way. Even now, in undertaking the most substantive challenge of his tender life, he could consider himself fortunate. He had weathered the bumps and absorbed the doubts. In retrospect, it had all been good for him. Those midyear uncertainties had served him well. The basic confidence of Conor Finnegan, that unshakable faith in himself, remained intact.
And so Finnegan was not given to worrying about his future. He possessed some real physical and intellectual talents. These, carefully refined, would be enough to cashier whatever opportunities Providence put in his path. Finnegan trusted the creativity of his own character. Let Providence take its course.
He projected for himself a career in the law, which, he felt, had a certain glamor to it, an intellectual vitality. Moreover, as he conceived it, such a career might allow him to accomplish some genuine good. Finnegan wanted to help people. About that he was sincere, for he possessed a latent, rigid sense of ethics. Where he perceived injustice (and it was all around him—racially, economically, socially), he felt an inward ache. Man’s inherent brutality gnawed at him. His circumstances now permitted him to do nothing—he had no clout—but that was bound to change in due course. He knew intrinsically that the pleasures, the carefree amusement, the intellectual dabbling of his current lifestyle was nothing more than a prelude to something grander. He would enjoy what he had now—it would build him up—and then he would use it all, whatever he had, whatever he could, when he was able at last to wield his strengths in pursuit of what he knew, he knew, to be just.
Finnegan knew all this in a general sense. He trusted the details to take care of themselves.
One late evening in early March, Lanny O’Hanlon received a telephone call on the floor’s phone at the end of the hall. He was gone half an hour. When he returned, Finnegan had already crawled into bed.
“Some woman, Lanny?”
“My father. Roommate, what are your plans for the summer?”
“Hadn’t really thought much about them. I suppose I’ll go home and find a job. Or maybe not. Why?”
“My father called to tell me his friend, the senator, is looking for a legislative intern. Someone to do research, a little writing. Shake a few hands and look presentable.”
“In D.C.?”
“No. In Boston. The district office.”
“So what are you getting at?”
“Dad says that internship will be reserved for me. The senator owes him a few, I think.”
It was true. Kevin O’Hanlon was a U.S. District Justice in Boston. He knew the state’s junior senator quite well. Their careers had more or less intertwined.
“Anyway,” continued O’Hanlon, “There are ninety-nine other U.S. senators, and they all need interns. Dad asked if I knew anyone who’d be interested. I told him that nearly everyone I knew would be interested, but there was only one I’d recommend.”
“Me?”
“You. I presume you’d want to work for one of the California senators. Dad said he’d tell our boy to put in a wo
rd for you with your boys. They’ll be expecting a letter from you within the week. Take your pick. You can work for the old one or the young one.”
Finnegan sat up immediately. O’Hanlon had once again taken him completely by surprise, and an electric sensation rippled through his limbs. “What are you saying, Lanny? All I have to do is write my senators, ask them for an internship and tell them who I am?”
“Dad said it’ll be all arranged. Write them tomorrow and wait to see who’ll make the better offer.”
“Jesus, I can’t believe that.”
“Listen, pal, these guys get hundreds of letters from people asking for jobs. Maybe thousands. They don’t know who to pick. Everybody looks the same and they all look damn good. My dad’s doing them a favor. He’s giving them some guidance. As long as you write a somewhat coherent letter and don’t drool or pick your nose during the interviews, you’re in.”
“Holy Jesus, Lanny, I don’t believe it! This is great!” Finnegan exhaled the words in an excited prattle. O’Hanlon, as ever, remained cool.
“The best part, friend, is that both senators have Los Angeles offices. You can still go home and chase beach bunnies.”
Finnegan and O’Hanlon talked well into the early morning, Finnegan in the rich, endless web of wondrous exuberance, O’Hanlon in his calm New England nasality. Finnegan at last dropped off to sleep around 3:00.
The next morning he rushed through classes and sprinted back to his room before lunch. He agonized over the precise language of his letters, taking special care with the one to the stylish junior senator who had caught Finnegan’s eye upon his election and whose politics seemed more compatible with his own. After two full hours, a missed meal and an odd March sweat, Finnegan had his final product.
He sent an identical letter to each senator, then impatiently waited for response. As the week ended, his excitement waned. ’These things probably happen all the time,’ he thought. ’They’ll toss my letter in with the rest.’
He was wrong. Within two weeks he received a note from both senators requesting that he come to Washington for a brief interview. Would he call the senator’s office for an appointment? One wrote, “I have heard your praises sung by my colleague from Massachusetts and I am confident that we can find a suitable place for you.” Finnegan dashed for the phone as soon as his pulse calmed enough for him to speak normally. He succeeded in securing two appointments within hours of each other. Both administrative assistants knew his name and were expecting his call.
Finnegan rose at 4:30 one morning in mid-March, showered, put on his best and only suit and crawled behind the wheel of his old car. His appointments were at 11:30 and 1:30. He calculated the drive to be at least three hours, down the Turnpike, across the eyelash of Delaware and through Maryland’s thick neck. He wanted to leave himself plenty of time. Finnegan’s most immediate concern was the car: it carried a ton of miles, and had not been running well this winter. But there was nothing he could do about that now. If it broke down, so be it. He would trust to Fate.
Shortly after entering the Turnpike, along the flat, spongy lands of Central Jersey, the sun broke to his left. Finnegan loved the morning, the stark, gestating purity of it. His radio pulled in a station from Richmond. Once again, he felt the entire continent at his feet—a clear, virginal continent fresh for the plucking. The morning would be sharp. No clouds blocked the sunlight, and the sky rose to a deep, deep blue with a gentle orange rim on the horizon. A classic, crystal morning. In his exuberance, in his optimism, Finnegan knew that the broad omnipotence of youth rose within him in parallel to the morning sun.
To himself he defined politics as the brokerage of position among those invested with the power to devise and implement public policy. And while the ethics of any particular action might be called into question, he had no doubt that the system remained unassailable as a whole. Power, he knew, carried its own arrogance, but it also carried immense potential to shape complex systems to the benefit of those on their margins. The system bestows certain individuals with the privilege of action, and he saw himself on the verge of some very small portion of that privilege. He felt exalted, he felt honored, but, in the final analysis, it was no less than what he ultimately expected for himself. He might be onto something here. Providence, his friend and lover, may have murmured her most profound whisper. He would have to wait and see.
Around 10:00 Finnegan reached the outskirts of Washington. The city rose up out of its suburbs almost at once: white, vertical, pointed. Finnegan tried to catch glimpses of the landmarks as best he could while negotiating thick traffic in unfamiliar streets. He had spotted the capitol dome and homed in on it as his target. Perhaps after his interviews he would have time to explore the city a bit. It looked green and white, a lot of open space and a lot of marble, unlike the conglomerated chaos of New York. The houses, though, were so narrow, and so close together.
Capitol Hill was a mass of confusion. Finnegan could find no place to park. At a quarter after eleven, after several passes through the capitol area, Finnegan at last parked at Union Station. He would have to walk a bit, and quickly, but it would give him a chance to stretch, to relax himself and to get a feel for the wonderful pace of these streets, these buildings and the people inside them. He felt himself close to the core.
Much to his disappointment, he did not meet with the senior senator. He met instead with the man’s chief legislative assistant, a short, snarly man about fifty or fifty-five with deep lines around his mouth and forehead. His full head of hair had grayed only at the temples. The aide removed his suit coat when Finnegan entered his office, and his belly hung over his straining belt. Nothing about the man put Finnegan at ease. His entire demeanor gave the impression of a busy man putting up with an unnecessary and annoying interruption. Finnegan, feeling like an inconsequential worm, tensed immediately in response and came across as the young man he was. He stammered and stuttered through the brief, unsmiling interview. When he left, the aide merely said that they would be in touch, but it might be a few weeks.
Finnegan walked back down the Hill to a coffee shop he had passed on his hike from Union Station. He tried to recompose himself over lunch. He would have to be stronger, that much was clear. He would not be put on the defensive. The aide had no use for him, but that shouldn’t have upset him. If the senator had not wanted him there, he wouldn’t have been there at all trying to impress this unimpressionable man. The fact that this interview was even taking place should have been enough to bolster his confidence enough to make his words and thoughts flow smoothly. Finnegan would be ready for the next interview. That would not happen again.
He finished his lunch while reading that morning’s Washington Post. ’Good paper’, he thought. ’Good city.’
Finnegan walked back up the Hill to the Dirksen Building, down the street from his earlier appointment in the older Russell Building. He opened the door to the appropriate office at 1:28 by his watch.
“May I help you?” The receptionist was absolutely gorgeous, a blue-eyed blond with a rich, tan complexion. Finnegan drew himself up.
“I have a 1:30 with the senator. Conor Finnegan.”
She picked up the phone and punched one of several buttons. “Joyce, Mr. Finnegan is here to see the senator . . . Thanks.” She hung up and smiled. “His assistant will be right with you. Won’t you have a seat?”
Finnegan sat, and for the next few minutes kept stealing glances at the receptionist. After a bit the senator’s personal assistant walked briskly into the anteroom. She, too, caught the young man’s eye—a soft redhead, green eyes, slender figure, maybe thirty, maybe a touch less. ’Jesus,’ he thought. ’Are they all this gorgeous?’
“Mr. Finnegan, right this way.”
He obediently followed through the door into a labyrinth of desks, bookshelves, file cabinets, cords, wires and bodies. The staff’s work area seemed incredibly small. Beehives would not be more congested.
They entered a second foyer, one with secretarial
desks adjacent to three doors on the two side walls and directly in front of them. The redhead opened the door ahead and poked the upper half of her sublime body through the space. “Senator, Mr. Finnegan to see you.” She turned back to Conor, smiled and gestured.
“Thank you,” Finnegan whispered as he walked past her, catching a deep, rich scent of orchids.
The senator stood to greet him, then walked out from behind the desk extending his hand and smiling warmly. “Conor Finnegan. So good to meet you. Please, sit on the couch. Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be fine.”
“Two coffees, Joyce. Cream and sugar?” Finnegan nodded. “With cream and sugar,” the senator called after the retreating goddess.
The senator was tall and tanned, still showing the marks of an athletic past. He was by no means old. In fact, he was the second youngest man in the Senate, having won his seat two years previously at the age of thirty-nine. He had captivated Californians with his crisp, dynamic oratory, his youthful demeanor and his glamorous lifestyle. His best friends were among the wealthiest people of a generation, he owned homes in West Los Angeles and on the Carolina coast, his schooling had been superb. The senator had grown up in the East. He had attended an exclusive prep school, then Harvard, then Yale Law. Along the way he had married an aspiring actress who had little talent but looked the part of young glamor. That beauty translated well to the political realm in which she thrived as the candidate’s dutiful wife. She met the cameras handsomely, muttered memorized responses to predictable questions, and scrupulously avoided anything smacking of original thought. Her husband’s budding legal career landed him in the House of Representatives by the time he turned thirty-three. After three terms he ran for the Senate. The California electorate had been thoroughly charmed by the whole attractive package, and he won easily. Politics had little to do with it.