I was starting to wish I wasn’t. “That’s nice,” I told him, “but the question was about the show with Louis Gibson.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for getting a word in edgewise.
“Yeah.” He walked around the set of his show, which was as simple as these things get. Two chairs, which were considerably more worn than you might think, a piece of shag rug that went out of style with Nehru jackets and lava lamps, a lot of lights and boom microphones hanging from what appear to be bathtub pipes. Still, like all the other times I’ve been on a television or film set, I felt perfectly at home. Now if I could just convince someone else I belonged there.
“He came on to talk about his 23rd Psalm in the Schools thing,” Suarez said. “You know, the shorthand for ‘religious schools getting government money and blowing the separation of church and state out the window.’ Gibson comes on, all smoke and mirrors, and gets himself bent out of shape when I call him on it.”
“I hear he took a swing at you.”
“Yeah. I told him he was working against family values by trying to make the schools only for kids who come from certain families, and he, um, took exception to that.”
“I’m told you got mad and threw him out, told him never to come to your studio again.” Suarez made sure his chair, and not his guest’s, had a bottle of Evian water on a small table next to it. “I hear you actually had to be held back by your producer. I hear you told Gibson you’d kill him if you saw him again.”
“That’s right.” There was a rundown sheet on the table next to the Evian water. It was stamped “preliminary,” because this was Thursday, and the show would air live Sunday morning. I guess the water was preliminary, too.
“May I see a copy of the tape?”
“I’ll make sure my assistant gets you one on the way out,” said Suarez, who never stopped smiling.
“Aren’t you concerned that a guy whom you threatened on live television turned up dead six days later?”
“Why should I be? I had no motive to kill him.”
“You were mad at him for hitting you on your own show,” I tried.
Suarez laughed. “Mr. Tucker, are you in show business?”
“I have my aspirations.”
“Who doesn’t?” He looked heavenward for a moment, deriding amateurs like me as a reflex. “Well, you need to learn one thing about the TV business,” Suarez said, taking on an air of condescension only those with disproportionate self-esteem can muster. “You don’t ever kill someone who gets you ratings like that. Geraldo got hit with a chair, and nobody remembers what the argument was about, but they remember him with the broken nose. You can’t buy publicity like that. It was the same thing with Gibson.”
“You mean. . .”
“Absolutely. It was great television.”
Chapter
Four
I took a long shower when I got back to the hotel, and then Abby and the kids came in from the hotel pool. My wife, demurely covering up with a pair of sweat pants over her bathing suit, was still enough to melt the fillings in my lower molars.
“Did you cause cardiac arrest in any of the men down there?” I asked her.
“Only one,” she said. “Luckily, there were paramedics standing by. Had you warned them I might be swimming today?”
“Yes, I felt it was my public duty.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I brought the one-piece. They revived him without even using the paddles.”
I kissed her, then got the exciting run-down on a day spent looking at a large statue of a man in a chair, then swimming indoors.
“It was spooky, Daddy,” Leah said. “I thought he was going to get up and walk toward me.”
“I know, Puss,” I said. “But he was such a nice man. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“It would be cool, though,” my son chimed in. “Like a monster movie.”
Asperger’s Syndrome kids like Ethan—and other children on the autism spectrum—reach a level of maturity during their pre-teen and adolescent years that approximates about two-thirds of their chronological age. Ethan, at twelve, was about as mature as the average eight- or nine-year-old. So he was very much into monster movies right now, as long as they weren’t too scary. He loved the original Dracula, although he was also addicted to the Mel Brooks version, Dracula: Dead and Loving It, which has not yet achieved “classic” status. Mel is a genius, but I’ll take Young Frankenstein over Dracula any day.
Stephanie had insisted we have dinner at her house that night, so we got into our “good” clothes (the only one who looked classy was Abby) and took the Metro to a stop near her brownstone.
I had been prepared for the fact that Steph lived better than I did (I’m prepared for that fact with most people I know), but I wasn’t ready for the three-story, original brick, 1800’s-era home with Stephanie Jacobs Gibson standing in the doorway.
Keep in mind that I’m not an architecture reporter. I’m used to a house where you’re lucky if the walls have no holes in them. This was more like a place where you’d be amazed if the walls didn’t have Picassos on them.
Still, it wasn’t a museum—it was a home. The house, as far as I could tell, embodied the tug-of-war between Legs’ desire to show off what a big deal he was and Stephanie’s natural inclination toward living the most normal family life she could provide for her children.
Her sons, she said, would not be joining us that night. Steph and I had discussed that point ahead of time. The conversation would invariably have drifted toward the murder, and that was not something Leah and Ethan needed to hear. So I would meet privately with Jason and “Lou Jr.” as Stephanie called him, Saturday.
We sat down to dinner in a large dining room. The food was already on the table—there was no sign of servants, although I was willing to bet Steph hadn’t done all this work herself. The conversation began with Halloween costumes (Ethan had been Dracula—Leah, some Powerpuff Girl or another), and then moved on to the city of Washington, D.C.
“If you like, I can help with the executive tour of the White House and the Capitol,” Steph said to Abby, who was smiling a radiant smile I knew meant she thought Steph was showing off.
“No thank you,” Abby said. “But I think we want to see everything every other regular citizen does.”
“You know, I think that’s wise,” Stephanie said. Pretty soon, there might be an invisible fistfight in the room, given the looks that were being passed back and forth. Of course, being an idiot husband, I had told Abby about Stephanie’s odd behavior at Louise’s house, and that might have had something to do with the level of tension. On the other hand, the kids saw nothing, and thought this excursion was just too cool.
Stephanie had asked about their eating habits, and I’d explained that Ethan, especially, was very particular about the way he eats, which is not at all unusual with Asperger’s kids. And she had provided exactly what I’d said he’d eat: Hebrew National hot dogs, French fries (pardon me: Freedom fries) and water. Luckily, Leah will eat all those things, as well as many others, so we were covered for both kids. The adults were having somewhat more elegant fare—Chicken Kiev on a bed of rice and vegetables.
“What do you think you’d like to see while you’re here?” Steph asked Abby.
“Well, since it’s Ethan and Leah’s first trip, we thought maybe the Washington Monument, the Capitol, and some of the Smithsonian Museums. Air and Space, definitely.” Abigail is the only woman I know who can look elegant while eating asparagus.
“All very good choices,” Stephanie said, nodding. “Not the White House?”
Abby flashed me a look, and I shrugged the tiniest bit. “I think we’ll wait until there’s a president we’d rather visit,” said my wife.
Stephanie, to her credit, did not react—she just nodded. I had no idea if she agreed with Legs’ politics or not, but they had bought her this house and all the things that went with it.
“Yeah,” said Leah. “We don’t like this president. We wanted the other
man to win.”
“A lot of people did,” said Stephanie. “But I guess we have to deal with what we get.”
Leah, waving her ketchup-laden hot dog, decided to elaborate. “We didn’t vote for him. How come we have to listen to him?”
“Do you get Cartoon Network?” Ethan piped up.
Stephanie looked from one to the other. She decided Ethan’s was the easier question. “I don’t really know,” she said. “After dinner, you can check, if you want.”
Ethan looked at Abby. “May I please be excused?”
“Not yet, Ethan.”
“Mom!” Leah sounded wounded. “Ethan just cut me right off! He didn’t say ‘excuse me’ or anything!”
“I know, honey,” Abby said. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“But it’s not fair!” Leah gestured with her hot dog, which went flying and landed, ketchup side down, of course, on the Oriental rug.
Me: “Leah!”
Leah: “Oops. Sorry.”
Abby: “Oh, my. Leah, you’ve got to be more careful.”
“Now can I be excused?” I don’t think I even need to identify the speaker.
Stephanie, however, was all purpose. Before I saw the hot dog hit the floor, she was up, grabbing a bottle of club soda from the sideboard behind her. With her napkin and the soda water, she managed to obliterate the stain before I could even get out of my chair. “Wow!” I said. “Do you do windows, too?”
Steph stepped back to admire her work. “If you get to it quickly,” she said, “there won’t be any mark at all.”
“And since you knew my family was coming tonight, you had plenty of club soda lying around.”
She stopped, and looked at me strangely. “Actually,” she said, “it was for Louis. He used to drink that stuff like it was going out of style. I haven’t gotten out of the habit yet, I guess.”
“I’m sorry,” Leah said in a small voice.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Stephanie told her. “Nobody’ll ever know.”
“No,” said Leah. “I’m sorry your husband died.”
Stephanie looked at her a moment. “So am I, Leah. So am I.”
It turned out Stephanie did have Cartoon Network, so we stayed for a few hours after dinner. The kids went inside to discover the delights of Cow and Chicken, while we talked in Steph’s living room. Steph and I decided on a time for me to interview her sons on Saturday.
Finally, though, we packed up the brood, still complaining about having to leave while Scooby-Doo was on (on Cartoon Network, Scooby-Doo is always on), and found our way back to the hotel. It was late, so we packed the kids off to bed (although both of us harbored suspicions they’d search for Cartoon Network on their bedroom TV) and then retreated to our own bedroom. It was hard to believe we’d awakened this morning at home in New Jersey.
I lay down on the bed, and reached for my overnight bag on the floor. Abby was getting herself cleaned up in the bathroom, and I could see her through the open door, taking off makeup. I found the script in my bag, and pulled it out.
“I brought some reading material for you,” I called to her.
She walked out of the bathroom and looked, saw the script. Abby smiled. “You know,” she said, “it’s awfully late, and I’m tired.”
“You always read before bed.”
“Yes, but what I’m saying is, I can either read some of the script, or. . .”
“Or?”
She walked to her bag and started to rummage through it. “Or, I can put on that nightgown you picked out. Now, which one will it be?”
I am so weak.
Chapter
Five
It had taken a good deal of maneuvering to get me an interview with Madeline Crosby. After all, it was Legs Gibson’s rumor-mongering that had kept her off the Supreme Court, so she was-n’t likely to acquiesce to a plea from Stephanie. And if Crosby had even heard of Snapdragon, it was likely to have been in the context of the odd classical music review they might run to fill space between the headbangers and the rappers.
So, I had had to rely on Mitch Davis, over at USA Today, to pave the way. Davis, after much grousing about “giving aid and comfort to the enemy,” had made a couple of phone calls and advised me never to call him about this story again. Spoil-sport.
Crosby maintained a home office in, of all places, the Watergate complex, on the assumption that lightning never strikes twice in the same place, I guess. I was buzzed in on Saturday morning while Abby and the kids were out looking at Archie Bunker’s chair and the Fonz’s jacket at the Museum of Cool Stuff From Television. That Smithsonian is really a fun place.
In her mid-fifties, Madeline Crosby was not (forgive me, Madeline!) a beautiful woman. But she had a face so full of wisdom and wit, and eyes with just the right hint of sparkle, that it never occurred to me she was anything but lovely.
She had been an up-and-comer out of the John Marshall School of Law in Chicago, class of 1970. A year clerking for Justice Thurgood Marshall didn’t hurt, and by the late 1980s, Crosby was too strong a candidate for the Federal bench to be denied. It wasn’t until the mid-90’s, when she was nominated to the Supreme Court, that the allegations of an abortion—a legal abortion, it should be noted—were made, not terribly surreptitiously, by Legs Gibson. Her nomination was scuttled within a week, although the abortion issue was never directly cited. Everyone knew Legs’ news leak had done the job it had set out to do—it kept Madeline Crosby from being a terrific Supreme Court justice, because her point of view wasn’t far enough to the right.
Crosby gave me a curious, but not interested, glance as I walked into her office. She was reading a document on her desk, wearing a pair of half-glasses that I would no doubt need within five years. She gestured to a chair.
“Sit down, Mr. Tucker.”
I did so, and took out my tape recorder as I waited. I also had a reporter’s notebook and a pen, but they were mostly to give my hands something to do during the interview. I don’t trust tape recorders, but I confess that I don’t take notes as carefully when I’m using one as I do otherwise.
Crosby put down the document and took off the glasses. She regarded me carefully, trying to determine if I were friend or foe.
“Why am I seeing you, Mr. Tucker?”
“A question I’ve been asking myself all morning, Your Honor.”
She chuckled. “You’re here investigating the murder of Mr. Gibson, is that right?” I nodded. “Am I a suspect?”
“Hardly. Although you probably had the best motive I’ve come across so far. No, Your Honor. . .”
“Oh, please call me Madeline. ‘Your Honor’ will keep us here until Tuesday.” The sparkle in the eyes hadn’t been lying. Madeline Crosby was a real human being.
“Thank you, Madeline. I’m Aaron.”
“And you were saying, Aaron, about how I wasn’t a suspect, although you implied that I would be if I’d had any nerve.”
She caught me off-guard with that one, and most people have a hard time doing that in conversation. I stuttered for a moment, and felt my mouth open and close.
Madeline Crosby laughed. It wasn’t a victorious, “gotcha!” kind of laugh—it was genuine delight in having amused herself. “Oh, not to worry, Aaron,” she said when she was finished laughing. “I’m not going to bite you. I just couldn’t resist.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The fact is, I’m here for background on um, Mr. Gibson, and since he built so much of his reputation at your expense. . .”
Crosby sat back and sighed. “You figured that I’d have something to say about him. Well, I do. Louis Gibson was an asshole of the first degree. And you may certainly quote me.”
Well, I had my lead paragraph for the Snapdragon story right there, even if nobody ever found out who killed Legs. When an almost-Supreme Court Justice calls someone an asshole and asks to be quoted, you’re having a good day as a journalist.
“How did you find out about his allegations to begin with?” I asked.
&nb
sp; “The fact is, I read them in the Post the day after the Washington Times printed them, like everyone else,” she said, shaking her head. “But I had been called by other media as soon as the Times story broke. That, you must understand, was such a confusing, whirlwind time. You hear rumors that your name might be on the list, then you get them confirmed, then you get the phone call from the President, and then your life is immediately a matter of public record from beginning to end. So I barely had time to think about the issues I thought were important, that I might be asked about. This article came from out of the blue.”
I nodded. “Did you ever meet Louis Gibson?”
She smiled a bit and put her fingers to her eyes for a good long rub. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. It was years later. By then, Gibson was the head of that bogus foundation of his, and he showed up at a fundraiser where I was speaking. He was there, of course, to try and stir up the opposition, show that there was dissent within the party, even though the only dissent in the room was his, and he wasn’t a member of any party I’d ever join.” Crosby opened her eyes again and caught me in her gaze. “He walked up to me afterward and offered his hand. Can you imagine? If you have strong enough convictions to sabotage someone’s career, the least you can do is stick by them and refuse to act friendly toward her. But, no. Here he comes with his cute little wife by his side, putting out his hand, waiting for the photo op so he can show he’s really a nice guy after all. Well, he wasn’t a nice guy, and I told him in graphic terms what he could do with his hand.”
“In front of his wife?”
“To tell you the truth, she didn’t seem to mind,” Crosby said. “I remember her chuckling just a bit at the suggestion.”
“That’s not inconsistent with what I know,” I told her. “Madeline, can you think of anyone who would want Louis Gibson dead?”
“I can think of hundreds of people who are thrilled that he’s dead. On both sides of the aisle, by the way. Either because he was such an incredible impediment to progress, or because it leaves a big spot open that some reactionary idiot will want to assume. Decent conservatives considered him an embarrassment.”
A Farewell to Legs Page 13