ALSO BY JOE MCGINNISS
The Selling of the President
The Dream Team
Heroes
Going to Extremes
Fatal Vision
Blind Faith
Cruel Doubt
The Last Brother
The Miracle of Castel di Sangro
The Big Horse Never Enough
Copyright © 2011 by Joe McGinniss
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. www.crownpublishing.com
CROWN and the Crown colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-307-71895-2
Map on this page by Mapping Specialists, Ltd.
Jacket design by Laura Duffy
v3.1
For Nancy,
And for the next generation: Chrissy, Suzy, Joe, Matthew, and James
And for the next next generation: Dylan, Lauren, and Carly; Sebastien, Cecilia, and Samuel; and Julien
And for Kevin, Yves, and Jeanine, without whom there would not be a next next generation
rogue (rōg), n.: An elephant that has separated from a herd and roams about alone, in which state it is very savage.
—WEBSTER’S REVISED UNABRIDGED DICTIONARY
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Acknowledgments
Illustration Credits
ONE
Saturday, May 22, 2010
I MOVED IN next door to Sarah Palin today. It was a dazzling Alaskan spring day: sky blue, air cool, sun warm, the water of Lake Lucille glimmering, mountains standing in bold relief beyond the southern shore, resident grebes tending noisily to their nests.
Sitting on my deck overlooking the lake at 11:00 PM, I consider myself as lucky as a man can be. It has been more than thirty years since I last spent a summer in Alaska, yet here I am. A light breeze blows from the northwest, riffling the lake’s surface. The glowing mountains on the far side reflect the day’s slowly waning light.
(illustration credit 1.1)
I arrived in Anchorage ten days ago. I stayed with my old friends Tom and Marnie Brennan in their house on Government Hill while looking for a place to rent.
The first possibility was an “executive apartment” in a grubby East Anchorage neighborhood populated mostly by empty storefronts and overflowing garbage bins. (Question: How can the stores be empty and the garbage bins full?) The apartment was in a squat concrete six-plex. The rent was $2,400 per month, utilities not included. I arranged to see it on Wednesday, three days ago.
At 11:00 AM, I pulled into the asphalt lot outside the apartment building to wait for the rental agent. I got out of my car to stand in the warm spring sunshine. Almost immediately, the main door opened and a young woman holding a baby emerged onto a concrete landing a few steps up from the parking lot. The baby was crying. The woman put the baby down on the concrete and sat in a plastic chair. She covered her face with her hands and she, too, began to cry.
A moment later, the door flew open again. A young man in a T-shirt and blue jeans strode out. His head was shaved. He wore a goatee. His arms and neck were covered with tattoos.
“Get back inside, bitch!”
The woman lowered her hands and looked at him. Through her tears, she said, “Can’t you understand that I’d rather be dead than stuck here living with you?”
He grabbed her by a bare arm and yanked her to her feet.
The baby continued to cry.
“Listen, bitch—”
“Hey!” I shouted. “Take it easy there.”
He let go of the woman’s arm and looked down at me from the landing. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Your new neighbor?” I said.
“Let me tell you, mister,” the woman said, “you don’t want to live here.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
She nodded, then went back inside with the man, leaving the baby crying on the landing. The rental agent still had not arrived. I got back in my car and drove off to resume my search.
The next day, Thursday, May 20, I found a “mother-in-law” apartment in a house owned by a schoolteacher in the Hillside district of Anchorage. Hillside wasn’t the most convenient area—it was at least a twenty-minute drive from downtown and more than an hour from Wasilla, where I’d be spending most of my working hours—but at $1,650 a month it was better than $2,400 and the need to put the domestic abuse hotline on my speed dial. I arranged to see the apartment at 6:00 PM.
I’d bought a cell phone the previous fall, when I’d spent a month in Anchorage and Wasilla doing research. I turned it off when I left the state and had only just reactivated my account. The missed-calls list showed half a dozen from someone named Catherine Taylor, every three or four weeks, from December through April. My voice mailbox was full because I didn’t know how to empty it, so she hadn’t been able to leave a message. The phone rang on Thursday afternoon.
“This is Catherine Taylor. I’m so glad I finally reached you. Colleen Cottle told me last fall that you’d be coming back in the spring to work on your book about Sarah Palin and that you’d need a place to stay. I’ve got a house in Wasilla that’s available.”
I told her I expected to sign a lease on an Anchorage apartment within hours.
“Oh, that’s too bad, because I thought you might find my place convenient. It’s actually right next door to Todd and Sarah.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. In fact, they were renting it themselves until October. Todd renovated the whole upstairs.”
“This could be a pretty amazing stroke of luck. Can I come up tomorrow to take a look?”
We arranged to meet at the house at 1:30 PM. Catherine gave me directions: Take the Parks Highway to Wasilla, proceed past all the big-box stores and fast-food outlets to the sign for the Best Western. Turn left, then left again at the stop sign just before the Best Western parking lot. That’s called West Lake Lucille Drive, but it’s only a dirt road, about a hundred yards long. Turn right at the end, just before the fence. Catherine Taylor’s house will be up the short driveway, toward the lake.
At dinner, I tell Tom and Marnie what happened. They find it hard to believe.
“You come back here to work on your book about Sarah and a woman calls up out of the blue and offers to rent you the house right next door?” Tom says.
“Yup.”
“It must be a trick,” Marnie says.
Tom agrees. “It can’t be for real. Nobody could be that lucky.”
I DRIVE TO Wasilla the next morning. In good weather it’s an easy forty-mile trip on four- and six-lane highways. Halfway up, the Matanuska-Susitna Valley suddenly opens out in all directions, suggestive, even in 2
010, of grand dreams and infinite possibilities. It’s only when you hit Wasilla that the possibilities shrivel into lost opportunities and the dreams mutate into a nightmare of exurban sprawl.
It used to be said that Wasilla was a trading outpost bounded by two lakes: Wasilla Lake and Lake Lucille. Now it’s a city of 7,028 located between Chili’s and Wendy’s and stuffed to the gills with stores such as Wal-Mart, Sears, Target, Lowe’s, Home Depot, and Fred Meyer, and enough small-fry evangelical Christian churches to make Jesus himself weep from the effort of trying to count them all.
I don’t exaggerate. There are the Wasilla Bible Church, Wasilla Assembly of God, Church on the Rock (all three of which Sarah Palin has attended), Sunny Knik Chapel, King’s Chapel Alaska, Abundant Life Church, Wasilla Lake Church-Nazarene, Mat-Su Evangelical Covenant Church, Wasilla Christian Church, Wasilla Community Church of God, King of Kings Evangelical Lutheran Church, Fairview Loop Baptist Church, Faith Chapel Pentecostal Church of God, New Life Presbyterian Church, Valley Church of Christ, Apostolic Worship Center, Independent Baptist Church of Wasilla, Glad Tidings Full Gospel Church, Church of Christ at Wasilla, Mid Valley Christian Center, Meadow Lakes Christian Center, Word of Faith Assembly, Frontier Christian Ministries, Big Lake Baptist Church, Pilgrims Baptist Church, Northern Lights Mennonite Church, Trailhead Wesleyan Church, Valley Open Bible Fellowship, Bread of Life Church of Mat-Su, Word of Life International Ministries, Slavic Evangelical Church Nadezhda, Gospel Outreach Christian Center, West Valley Family Church of the Nazarene, Christian Fellowship of Wasilla, Pioneer Christian Fellowship, Independent Baptist Church, Settlers Bay Community Church, Faith Bible Fellowship, Valley Christian Conference, North Bear Street Community Church, Valley Sovereign Grace Baptist Assembly, Birch Harbor Baptist Church, Schrock Road Community Church, and Crossroads Community Church, not to mention another dozen or more Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist, Seventh-Day Adventist, Mormon, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Russian Orthodox, and Jehovah’s Witness churches, and at least another twenty-five or thirty just down the road in Palmer.
There are no synagogues in Wasilla, but there are more than thirty-five chiropractors, or approximately one for every two hundred residents.
Before seeing Catherine, I drive to the other side of Lake Lucille for coffee with Rod and Colleen Cottle, whom I’d first met the previous fall. In its early days, Wasilla’s two main business establishments were Teelands general store and Cottles gas station. Colleen was a Teeland. Her marriage to Rod was the Wasilla equivalent of a Cabot marrying a Lodge in Massachusetts.
Colleen knows everything there is to know about Wasilla. She and Rod are lifelong friends of Sarah’s parents, Chuck and Sally Heath. Sarah and her siblings grew up with the Cottle children, and Sarah spent many a childhood hour playing in their backyard.
Colleen wastes no time filling me in on all I missed over the winter. Bristol has broken up with Levi, but is practicing abstinence with Levi’s best friend, Ben Barber. Ben’s mother is manager at the Wells Fargo branch in Wasilla. His father, Jack Barber, is an old-time, oft-married bush pilot. There is also somebody who’s the boyfriend of somebody’s niece who knows Judy Minnick, who used to work as a hostess at the VFW, who’s a friend of Sarah’s sister Heather Bruce, in Anchorage. Speaking of Sarah, I should talk to Scott and Debbie Richter, who own land with the Palins—including the cabin at Safari Lake that Todd and Sarah didn’t pay property tax on—but they probably won’t talk to me because Debbie had an affair with Sarah’s former legislative director, John Bitney, and then Todd made Sarah fire him, and Bitney married Debbie after she and Scott divorced, and the Bitneys have a cabin on Big Lake. Also speaking of Sarah, Track is out of the army and still dating Britta Hanson, the daughter of a Lutheran minister, who’s not to be confused with Brad Hanson, with whom Sarah had the affair back when Brad and Todd were partners in the Polaris snowmobile store in Big Lake. Angie Johnson, one of the ex-wives of Mike Wooten, whom Todd and Sarah tried to get fired from the state troopers when Sarah was governor after Mike and Sarah’s sister Molly divorced, was just killed in a head-on collision on the Parks Highway, along with a couple of her children, but not the ones she had with Mike. If I want to talk to Mike, I can probably reach him through Conrad Holler at Rainbow Pawn, but it’s doubtful he’ll talk to me because he’s keeping a low profile because Todd is still obsessed with getting him fired, even though the whole Palin family ate the moose he shot without a permit because Molly, who had the permit, wouldn’t do it. And speaking of Todd, he’s gotten real uptight and suspicious and doesn’t trust anyone anymore because, for the first time in his life, he’s got money and it’s just too much for him, especially because he knows people around here now are fed up with Sarah and him, and besides, he’s got Willow to worry about after the vandalism of Audrey Morlock’s house in Meadow Lakes.
Whew.
“And Catherine Taylor has been trying to reach you for months. She’d like to rent you the house she owns right next to Todd and Sarah.”
“I spoke to her yesterday. In fact, I’m meeting her at the house in half an hour.”
“Well, it’s practically falling down. It’s been vacant all winter. She used to have a bunch of ex-cons and drunks and drug addicts living there, supposedly trying to rehabilitate, although I don’t think most of them ever do. They were setting up a meth lab in the basement. Catherine had to call the troopers to get them out. And before that there was a woman living there whose fiancé’s son tried to kill her with a machete.”
“Sounds like she’s due for a tenant who won’t cause her any trouble.”
“I assured her you were mature and responsible and that you’d be a perfect neighbor for Todd and Sarah.”
I TURN LEFT at the stop sign at the entrance to the Best Western and drive down a rutted dirt lane. There are a couple of cabins in the woods on either side. In less than a hundred yards the lane ends at a clearing marked with DO NOT ENTER and NO TRESPASSING signs. There’s an abandoned delivery truck and three abandoned cars and an abandoned boat and three unused sheds in weeds at the edge of the clearing. The weeds stop at a ten-foot-high wooden fence, the uglier, back side facing Catherine Taylor’s property.
(illustration credit 1.2)
Close to the lake is a dilapidated ranch house that looks at least fifty years old. The wood siding has started to rot, some of the exterior glass is broken, and the steps leading up to the front door sag. The fence runs alongside the house, only six feet from it. On the other side, built smack-dab up against the fence, looms Todd and Sarah’s much newer, bigger house.
Catherine arrives twenty minutes late. She tells me she’s older than me, but I don’t believe it. She looks at least ten years younger, with dark hair and a dramatically expressive face. She carries herself like an actress and speaks in a manner that suggests familiarity with soliloquy. “I used to be quite photogenic,” she says. She’s so exuberant that I feel it’s only with difficulty that she’s resisting the impulse to reach out and pinch my cheek.
“What do you think?” she says.
“I think it’s right next door to Todd and Sarah.”
When I was in Wasilla last fall, I’d stopped by the Palin house to drop off a copy of Going to Extremes, my book about Alaska in the 1970s. I’d inscribed it, “To Sarah Palin—from one author who loves Alaska to another.” Track came to the door and we had a brief, pleasant chat as I gave him the book. “You wrote this? Wow! That’s awesome.” I told him I was glad he’d made it back safely from Iraq. He thanked me and said he’d give the book to his mother.
As we stand outside, Catherine, who lives in Settlers Bay, a residential enclave ten miles west of Wasilla, tells me she received title to this house, and to the vacant lot adjacent to it, in a divorce settlement with Clyde Boyer. Clyde is an accountant who was the father of five children before Catherine married him. They had no children of their own. He was chairman of the Mat-Su Valley hospital board when they illegally banned abortions. He took up with the marriage counselor Vivi
an Finlay after Vivian’s husband died of a stroke. Clyde and Vivian are now married and live in Homer.
You don’t simply conduct a business transaction in Wasilla, or anyplace else in Alaska. Even in preliminary discussion, you become a member of the other party’s extended family—more often families—to a degree that can leave you reeling from intimate information overload.
Catherine got the Lake Lucille house in 1997. It was surrounded by woods on both sides until the Palins built on the adjacent lot, which they bought after Sarah became mayor. The Palin lot was landlocked, meaning they had no vehicular access to it (see diagram, next page).
The seven two-acre lots in what is known as the Snider subdivision are long and narrow, offering a hundred feet of lake frontage and extending from the lake back almost to the railroad tracks. Catherine’s house is on Lot 2. The Palin property is Lot 3. West Lake Lucille Drive, the dirt road leading from the Best Western, provides road access to Catherine’s property. The private Nevada right-of-way that extends from South Hallea Lane to Lot 7 is where Charlie Nevada built the first house in the subdivision.
When you cross the railroad tracks on South Hallea Lane you immediately see a dirt track on the left with an old wooden sign that reads NEVADA. That’s the right-of-way that goes to Lot 7. It cuts across the back of Catherine Taylor’s property, providing the only land access to Lot 3. I used it in the fall when I dropped off a copy of my book at Sarah’s house.
(illustration credit 1.3)
The Palins had no road access to their new property, but Todd didn’t consider that a problem. Instead of asking for permission or offering a modest payment, he simply told Catherine that they’d be building next to her and cutting across her property in order to do so.
The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin Page 1