The Incumbent

by Brian McGrory

  "All right, out," she said to Martin as she came angrily around my bed to grab the computer.

  He was cool as a cucumber, and what he had to say, he said in a very calm way. "You touch that laptop, you make even one more step in its direction, I start screaming at the top of my lungs that you've just killed my baby. I'll wake people up from here to Chevy Chase."

  Seeing the look on his face, knowing what was at stake, I believed him.

  Apparently, so did she. With nary a word, she backed up and stormed out of the room, I assumed, to get the security guards, though if she did, they never showed up. Martin, of course, closed the door to the room and locked it. Meanwhile, I typed. I wrote of Hutchins in his hospital bed, oozing bravado, accusing the militia of being haters. I wrote of his recollection of a flash and the sudden burst of pain. I wrote of his vow to return to the campaign trail by the weekend. Then I wrote my own account, beginning with the brilliant autumn morning, the pageant of colors, then quickly flipping to a blood-spattered sand trap and the Secret Service agents hurtling themselves into the line of fire.

  When I was done, Martin took the computer and sat in one of those standard-issue hospital chairs, kind of low with an orange cushion back, and read, shaking his head all the while, rarely typing in any edits.

  "Jesus Christ, I hate to tell you this, but you're good," he said finally.

  "I know."

  A visitor knocked, turned the knob, realized the door was locked, and then opened it with a key. He was a fifty-something man, fairly pleasant looking, actually, who said he was with the hospital's public relations department.

  "Mr. Flynn, I have about fifty reporters downstairs in the cafeteria who are clamoring to see you," he said. "They asked me to invite you down for some questions."

  Martin said, halfheartedly, as he plugged the computer into the phone jack and transmitted the two stories up to Boston, "Yeah, shit, I meant to tell you about that. You've become quite a little celebrity."

  I was overcome by exhaustion and, conceited as I am, feared that in this condition I would look pale and bloated before the unforgiving eye of the television camera. "Can you take care of this tonight?" I asked Martin. "Tell them the doctor insisted I didn't come down, and tell them I'll be there in the morning to help as much as I can."

  I was drained, mentally and physically. I'm a reporter, and tonight, that's what I did. It felt good. Still, something had changed. I had somehow turned into an unwitting celebrity, just for being there. My future was even in some doubt, though maybe a nice doubt, given this job offer I had received. Everything was so tiring, and I felt woozy.

  Martin fiddled with the computer and made a call to the newsroom to make sure the stories had arrived safely. When he hung up, he turned to me in that pointed way of his and said, "Okay, so tell me. Why were you playing golf with the president of the United States?"

  This was not an issue I felt like dealing with right then, but it was obvious, even in my semicomatose state, that I really had no choice.

  Lying in bed, I looked straight ahead and said, "I'm doing that story on presidential pardons that you and I discussed, trying to figure out if there's any rhyme or reason to the pardons that the White House gave out last summer, and then a new one last month. It's unusual for them to pardon convicts in the middle of a campaign, and there are a couple of names I'm curious about, so I call the White House press office.

  "They're helping me out a little bit, and the next thing I know, Royal Dalton calls and wants to know if I play golf. He says Hutchins is looking for a partner for Thursday morning during a quick campaign layover in D.c." and would I be available? If I play, he says, I might be able to lob him a question or two on the pardon issue."

  Martin nodded, then asked the obvious question. "Did you?"

  "Never got the chance," I replied. "I was waiting to do it after the round, and there was this small matter of getting shot."

  I was so tired I could barely speak. Mid-conversation, I faded in and out of consciousness. I vaguely recall a doctor coming in, checking my pulse, fooling with the machines around my bed, talking softly with Martin. Two other visitors stepped into the room and showed the doctor badges. "FBI," I heard one of them say, the guy with the trench coat.

  Looked like he was from central casting. The other was a younger woman with luxuriant black hair and a business suit. I could barely hold my eyes open, but as I did, I saw her smile at me, a nice smile that showed sweet dimples on a face that looked vaguely familiar. The doctor chatted with them a while, and then they left. Martin then left with the doctor, giving my forearm a quick pat on the way out.

  Half-asleep, I remembered my earlier mysterious telephone call, a man's voice, a stern warning. Lies, everyone's telling lies. And I faded out again, this time to a place so blissful I would never find it again.

  three

  Friday, October 27

  There is that final scene in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy regains consciousness in her farmhouse in Kansas, surrounded by her farmhands and neighbors-all of whom resemble the characters in her dream visit to the Emerald City. That's what I felt like, only it was the Bethesda Naval Hospital, not Kansas, and gathered around me were a pair of FBI agents, the hospital public relations director, Peter Martin, my pal Gus Fitzpatrick, a man in a white laboratory coat, who my deductive skills led me to believe was my doctor, and a few assorted friends from college and the paper. Everyone, it seemed, but the joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Martin stepped toward the bed and tossed the Friday-morning Record into my lap. "President Survives Assassination Attempt," the headline screamed, stripped across the top of the front page in big block letters. "Secret Service Kills Gunman; Believed to be Militia Member.

  11th Hour Election Turmoil Expected." And under that, over two separate stories, "Record Reporter, Injured by Gunfire, Witnesses Event." And above another: "Hutchins: I Will Not Bow to Threats."

  "We're the best paper on the biggest story in the country today,"

  Martin said, absolutely exhilarated. "Forget country. In the world.

  We're being quoted all over the networks, all over the wires. You're a celebrity. The publisher and editor both wanted me to come down and thank you and ask if there's anything the paper can do for you during your recovery."

  Martin paused, and the hospital public relations man spoke from the back of the room. "Sir," he said, "Keith Madigan, with Naval public affairs. I still have a room of about sixty reporters downstairs, and every one of them keeps asking when you're coming down to talk."

  He had barely finished his sentence when the female FBI agent spoke out. "Samantha Stevens, special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Kent Drinker, assistant director. Before you go anywhere, we need to speak with you about the events of yesterday."

  From the back of the room, the doctor was next. "Look, before anyone does anything, I have to talk some things over with Mr. Flynn and do some tests. I'm going-"

  He wasn't quite finished, but I had already had enough. "Before I do anything, could I just get a moment alone with-" I looked around the room real fast for someone to talk to who could just give me a breather and explain how upside-down my world had become. I thought of Martin, but quickly backed away from the idea. Too nervous. If I chose any of my friends, the others would be insulted. "Gus," I said. "It will just be a minute, and then we'll take care of everything else. Doctor, I'll be ready for you right afterward. Agent, I have all the time you need, obviously." And I looked at the hospital PR man, forgetting his name. "And sir, if you could just tell my colleagues that I'll be down within an hour, well before deadline. Explain that I'm tied up right now with my doctor."

  I noticed that all of the blinking, beeping machines had been pushed away from my bed, and the needles and tubes had been pulled out of my arms, replaced by small bandages covering gauze pads. I was glad I hadn't been awake for that. I felt better, physically. My chest still had the sensation that someone quite heavy was nonchalantly standing on
top of it. But I didn't have that queasy, groggy feeling of the night before, and truth is, the pain wasn't all that bad and I felt quite rested.

  As everyone but Gus slowly shuffled out of the room, politely pausing at the door to let each other go, the telephone rang, a penetrating ring that almost caused me to jump up out of my bed. I grabbed it before anyone else could, having a nagging, almost subconscious sense of who might be on the other end. The FBI agent, Stevens, must have sensed a change in my voice, because she shot me a quizzical look as I spoke my greetings.

  "Mr. Flynn," the voice said, clear as a bell again, dignified, with impeccable pronunciation, like some sort of headmaster at a private school. I looked out the window as I held the receiver to my ear and noticed that the sun was shining brightly, illuminating a rich blue sky that marked what must have been another perfect autumn day. "Mr.

  Flynn, this is not a joke. This is not a game." He spoke those two sentences as if they were one, barely pausing, speaking dramatically, maybe even reading from something prepared.

  "There are things happening all around you that you must learn," the man said. "I will help you, but I can only do so much. You will be leaving the hospital tomorrow morning. I will telephone you tomorrow afternoon, at your house, when you will have more time and privacy to talk."

  How on earth did he know when I was leaving the hospital? I wondered.

  I didn't even know when I was leaving the hospital. I looked over in the direction of the door, trying to act as casual and unassuming as I could, and saw Stevens still standing there, overtly staring at me, almost as if she was trying to peer through the phone lines to see who was at the other end. I'm not sure why I immediately hid this caller from anyone. Maybe it was my lifelong distrust of authority. Maybe it was my knee-jerk need for privacy. Perhaps it was my simple love of secrets, especially ones that I could someday report in the pages of the Record. Regardless, I spoke in a loud, cheerful tone that sent a clear message to the caller that I was protecting him, and a contrary message to anyone in my room-read: FBI agents-that I had a friend, or at least an acquaintance on the line.

  "I'll look forward to that," I said in a booming voice, with a forced smile. "It's really good to hear from you again. I can't believe you were this nice to call. Take care."

  I hung up, and everyone kept walking out the door, except for Gus, who I think was both confused and delighted by my request that he stay behind.

  "Gus, what is going on here?" I asked, cutting to the chase once everyone was gone. "Am I all right?"

  "All right? You're a star, kid. You're not just going to be all right, you're going to be better than you ever were before. Your performance in today's paper is the talk of the country."

  Gus is a national treasure. Every city, every newspaper, no, every guy my age should have someone like Gus-a leathery-faced geezer of a man who has seen wars start and end, watched children born and, in one case, die, has witnessed fads come and go, all through the eyes of someone who knows what matters and, more important, what doesn't. Gus tends not to get excited by much. It's not that he doesn't care. In fact, he does. It's just that he's seen so much, remained so even, and is so confident of who he is and what he likes that he knows deep in his psyche what is truly worth getting excited over. Gus is a guy, in short, who you can trust.

  Gus works in the pressroom of the Record. When I saw him standing in my hospital room, it was the first time in what must have been ten years that he wasn't wearing his ink-smeared hunter green apron draped over his work clothes. He was my father's best friend at work, back when they worked the overnight shift at the Record, keeping watch over the mammoth printing presses, recasting inks, and refilling the massive rolls of newsprint that rattled through the presses and turned into the next day's newspaper. It was, I used to think, and probably still do, the most important job in the world, the manifestation of which used to be on our kitchen table every morning, in black and white, when my father arrived home from work and I awoke to go to school.

  As a kid of twelve, I told my father I wanted to work at the Record, and he immediately assumed I wanted to do just what he did. It wasn't until I was maybe seventeen years old, as we leaned against his car eating cones at the local Dairy Queen, having just come back from splitting a large bucket of balls at the driving range, that I explained to him I wanted to be a writer, a news reporter, perhaps even cover politics and go off to Washington. He didn't say much. No one in his family had ever been to college, let alone held a job with a title like Washington correspondent, and I'm not sure he knew how to react. When I was a senior in college, in Connecticut, he died of a severe stroke. He never saw me walk into the newsroom of the paper he had worked at for more than thirty-five years.

  Gus did, though. After school, I did what all would-be reporters have to do: worked my way up through what would count as the minor leagues.

  I wrote for a small paper in Vermont for a year, built some clips, then took a job with a paper in suburban Boston and beat the Record day after day for a year and a half, until they had no choice but to hire me. That first day in the newsroom was the culmination of my loftiest dreams. There I was, among all the people I had read for so long-huge names in the industry, Pulitzer Prize winners, editors who had been to Washington, traveled overseas, jetted across the country on presidential campaigns. That first day I stood arranging a few books at my desk. I was dressed in a crisp Brooks Brothers pinpoint shirt, a neatly striped tie, the woolen trousers to a smart gray suit. Gus came walking up to my desk, limping as he does, given that he was born with one leg two inches longer than the other. I suspect he had never been in the newsroom before during business hours. I don't know if he had even talked to a reporter in his life. He was short and balding, and he stopped in front of me, staring with a long, proud gaze, a hint of a smile rounding out the edges of his lips. It was deadline, and Gus was wearing his apron during what must have been an early start to his shift.

  He extended his hand to me, and I knew what my father would have felt.

  I moved past his hand into a soft embrace, and Gus wrapped his right arm tightly around me and hit me hard in the back, speaking into my ear, "You're going to be the best reporter this place has ever had."

  He stepped back and said, "Your father helped me get this job, at a tough time in my life. If I can do anything to help you, I will."

  Then he walked away, leaving a black ink smudge on my new shirt.

  Beside me, a rather bleached-out reporter in a bright bow tie, Troy Ellis, whose name I had read for years, usually over stories about academia and other intellectual issues, looked at me with shock, rolled his eyes in a superior way, and said in an exaggerated Brahmin accent,

  "My God, that looked interesting."

  I was kind of caught. I was the new kid here, one day in the newsroom, standing among all these people who were my heroes, yet one of them was making fun of Gus. What the hell, I thought. "That, Troy, is someone more interesting than you would ever understand."

  Troy didn't seem to understand even that, which I sensed was part of a pattern with him. He said nothing and turned back to his computer, me to my books, and that was that.

  "Well," I said to Gus, who had settled into the orange vinyl-backed chair beside my hospital bed, "tell me, what on God's good earth is going on here?"

  "What's going on here is that, through the luck of the skilled, you've just placed yourself at the center of the biggest story in America.

  There's nothing bigger. You're the witness to an assassination attempt on the president of the United States. From what I read today, you're his journalistic equivalent of a confidant. In my own humble view, this story is going to get a lot bigger before it fades away. The presidential campaign is in turmoil, and because of the militia? I mean, come on. The militia taking a crack at our president?"

  "Doesn't get much bigger, does it?" I said. I was getting tired just thinking about it, the layers that would be involved, the assassination investigation, the impact on t
he race, the stories about American culture, reports from the hinterland on the antigovernment movement spreading across the country. And the reach for the explanation on how it came to this: the attempted murder of the president.

  Gus said, "I want you to be careful. This little room is like a cocoon, but that's all over soon. You are going home tomorrow."

  Jesus, I thought, the voice on the telephone was right. Gus continued:

  "Everyone's going to want a piece of you. The FBI is going to want a piece of you. The TV cameras are going to want a piece of you. Even the president is going to want a piece of you. You should enjoy it, but do your job. You're the best reporter I've ever met, and granted, I'm a bit biased. But do your job, and everything else will take care of itself."

  These were the reassuring words I wanted to hear, and, lying in bed, I said quietly, "Thanks."

  We made small talk about golf with the president and the FBI agent who had been in the room and the likely impact of this shooting on the campaign. After a while, Gus stood up from his chair to leave, and hesitated a moment at my bedside. He looked down at his feet as if he was not quite sure what to say. "You going to be all right at home?"

  he asked shyly.

  Truth is, I wasn't sure. I hadn't spent more than three straight nights in that house in the last year. Suddenly I thought of my dog, alone there over the past twenty-four hours, and a wave of panic washed over me. "Jesus Christ," I said. "Do you know if Baker is all right?"

  "The dog is fine. Your dog sitter came over and picked him up yesterday afternoon when she saw your picture on television. She said she'll bring him back when you get home."

  I paused, basking in the relief. "I'll be fine," I said.