The Last Debate

by Jim Lehrer

  Hill and the others sat straight up as if they had been goosed, or maybe caught playing with matches or showing one another their private parts.

  “Is it true?” Beard shouted at Hill.

  “Yes … I’m afraid it is. Don, Jesus … Yes. I’m sorry. I was just on my way down to talk to you about it. I’m sorry, Don. We’re working on the language of a press statement now. The damned thing leaked.…”

  Beard returned to his own office, grabbed his suit coat and raincoat off a coatrack, and, without a word to anyone, walked out to the elevator, rode it down to the first floor, exited the CNS Building on Columbus Avenue, and went home—never to return.

  He had his personal effects collected the next day by a paralegal in his lawyer’s office. That lawyer also from that day on did all of Beard’s communicating with CNS, which under an anchor-only contract had to continue to pay Beard an estimated $5.7 million a year for three more years.

  Joan Naylor, who was already in New York holed up secretly in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, anchored the CNS Evening News that night and has been doing so Monday-through-Friday ever since.

  The written announcement said it was another “historic first for women” in that Joan had become the first sole woman anchor of a major-network nightly news broadcast. Several lines about Beard’s “monumental contribution” to the development of television news in America and at CNS were left in, but a reference to his moving on to do “special assignments for the news division” was deleted. Hill and the others apparently concluded that Beard’s dramatic departure was pretty good evidence their ex-anchorman was not about to do anything else for them.

  The going of Don Beard was front-page news in all major American newspapers. He had been anchoring the CNS Evening News for fourteen years and, according to most polls, was among the most prominent human beings in America. He was no Walter Cronkite, but he was at least what The Philadelphia Inquirer TV writer called “pretty much beloved.” But even those who did not like him at all liked even less the way the network booted him. The handling of the dismissal was the principal subject of many radio call-in shows and of editorial writers and commentators. “Shameful,” “barbaric,” “stupid,” “uncaring,” “dumb,” were some of the words used. “Forcing a man like Don Beard to hear about his firing from some reporter shoots the callous-imbecile needle all the way to the top,” wrote an editorial writer in The Oregonian.

  The network’s statement and all of its words that followed, interestingly enough, never said why the change was being made, why Joan Naylor was given Don Beard’s job. Since Beard was only fifty-nine years old, there wasn’t even a retirement cover available. Joan in for Don, that’s it. Time for a change. Life on the information superhighway moves on for Don, as it did for Ross. And for basically the same reasons. But while the obvious conventional wisdom was that it was done because of Joan’s new star prominence from Williamsburg, no network release or official even mentioned the fact that she had been one of the famous Williamsburg Four.

  The conventional wisdom, in this case, was absolutely correct. Williamsburg was the sole cause of what happened. Ten days after the debate, with her suspension still in effect, Carol Reynolds, the Washington bureau chief, came to Joan’s house. She told Joan the verdict was in and she—Joan—had won. The tide had made a permanent turn, according to the public-opinion polls and the calls and letters that had come to the network and everywhere else they had checked. Joan and her three panelist-colleagues were solid American heroes—by a good 70 to 30 percentage points on average.

  “So, as usual, our powers-that-be at the network want to go with the numbers,” Carol Reynolds said. “They want to make you America’s first solo woman principal network anchor.”

  They want to make you America’s first solo woman principal network anchor. Those were the cumbersomely arranged words Joan Naylor had worked toward and dreamed most of her adult life about hearing, words she thought she probably never would hear. Some other woman might hear them in a few years, but not her.

  It meant moving to New York, Jeff practicing New York rather than Washington law, the twins finding another good Quaker school. But life is tough, even for the relatives of those on the information superhighway. Her lawyer-agent negotiated what she said was a “terrific deal,” but she would not tell me what it contained. And I have been unable to find out from anyone else. Some newspaper accounts on the day Beard took his booted hike put Joan’s salary at $2.5 million a year. That sounds way too low to me, but I have only the sound to go on.

  Joan had no illusions about what had happened. She said to me: “In a perfect world, I would have preferred that this had happened through the normal course of professional events and accomplishments rather than as a result of the Williamsburg spotlight. But television news is not a perfect world and never will be. I feel badly for Don Beard in the way it was handled, but, again, nobody said it was going to be an easy and thoughtful world either. I am sure when the time comes for me to go, something similar will happen. Live in the fast track, die in the fast track.”

  I returned to the Tenley Health Club two nights later at six. I thought being there the very next night might be a little obvious. My T-shirt, a gift from a friend, said MISSISSIPPI UNIVERSITY FOR WOMEN.

  “How long have you been coming here?” I asked Nelson after a few minutes of side-by-side pumping on the turbobikes.

  “Quite a long time,” he replied.

  “I hope to come here for a long time, too,” I said.

  “Good for you,” he replied.

  And that was pretty much the way the dialogue went over the next four side-by-side pedalings over the next eight working days.

  He pleasantly answered my stupidly inane questions with two or three words but with no interest and no questions in return. But for no reason—he neither said nor did a thing that was relevant—I became obsessively certain this was indeed my man. Sid Nelson knew what I wanted to know. Sid Nelson could tell me everything I ever wanted to know about those Meredith statements. I also became a fan of Sid Nelson. There was something about him that I envied. He was the kind of man most other men wanted to be—if only for a few minutes at a time on special occasions. The polite tough guy of few words who could, like Superman, stop powerful trains with one hand, fly faster than a speeding bullet, slay madmen and giants with the flick of a finger.

  On that sixth evening with him I also became convinced that I could spend quite a long time on a turbobike at the Tenley Health Club next to Sid Nelson and never get there. I would never get on a friendly enough footing to take a subtle first step such as opening the conversation a bit to a discussion of the Washington Redskins or the deficit and then maybe ever so gently suggesting a drink or dinner, and on and on, small step by small step. I had the sudden feeling that we could both grow old and die here side by side and nothing would ever have happened.

  So, my legs still pumping away, I simply decided to get on with it. We had been together less than five minutes. The only words spoken were those of our customary brief exchange when I came in. They were about the weather, which was cold and rainy, a typical winter day in Washington.

  Now I said: “Mr. Nelson, why did you give those statements about Meredith to Mike Howley?”

  He had a smile on his face when he spoke. “We had an office pool on how long it would take you to ask,” he said, not even cutting down on his pedaling speed. “I just lost. I said eight. This is six. I can’t remember off the top of my head who has six. Miller. Bob Miller. Right. He’ll be delighted. Two and a half is not to be sneezed at.”

  “Two and a half what?” I said.

  “Dollars.”

  “It must have been a very small ante.”

  “A quarter apiece. We are but hardworking men of law enforcement, please remember.”

  “So you know who I am?”

  “Thomas Blaine Chapman. Thirty-four, white Caucasian, no known physical handicaps or distinguishing scars or marks. Born in New Haven, Connecticut.
Only child. Father: law professor; mother: sociology professor. B.A., American studies, Williams. Single. Divorced. Straight. Sexually active. Light drinker, no drugs. No arrest record. Worked on three different newspapers as a reporter. Now contributing editor of The New American Tatler under assignment to write the definitive work about the four panelists in the Williamsburg Debate. Who are they and why did they do what they did? Income: approximately a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars per annum. Resides Tribeca section, New York City. Rents. AA credit rating. Speaks no foreign languages. Personal politics unknown. Parents: both registered Democrats, no record of activism.”

  He was still pedaling. So was I. In my brain as well as with my legs.

  My God, my God. I kept pedaling.

  Have they been following me? Do they have a tap on my phone at the office? What about the hotel room? Have they bribed Jennifer Gates at the office?

  I kept pedaling.

  “You might say, yes, we know who you are, Mr. Chapman,” he said.

  I said: “When did you get on to me?”

  “When you first appeared across the street in that homeless sunglasses outfit.”

  “You guys are good, no question about that.” My God, what an understatement!

  “What kind of tradesmen would we be if we did not keep a good eye on our own backsides?”

  My mind was still throwing and fielding questions and accusations about my stupidity and naïveté and the fact that my life was probably in danger. Maybe he’s going to kill me now. Right now. Or if not now, tonight in the hotel. Or tomorrow at the office.

  But I went on with it. I said: “Are you going to tell me anything, sir?”

  “Time for the whirlpool,” he said, stopping pedaling and getting down off his bike.

  It was over. He had exposed me to myself as a fool and this was the end. So long, Thomas Blaine Chapman, thirty-four, single, college-educated, sexually active.

  “I need your help, sir, if I am going to tell the American people the truth of what really happened,” I said.

  Nelson was two steps away from our bikes when he turned back to me and said: “The truth?”

  “Yes, sir. Will you help me? I’ll take it on deep background. I’ll never mention your name.”

  Nelson wasn’t moving. I said: “I’ll be more than glad to pay you for the information. I know what you know is a commodity as valuable as if it were a jewel, a fine diamond.…”

  That moved him. And I thought there was a chance—a real chance—that the next story anyone was going to come across about Thomas Blaine Chapman was his obit.

  Nelson came back over to me. I stopped pedaling as he grabbed the bar across the front of my bike and leaned into my face. In a voice that sounded about as menacing as any I had ever heard, he said: “There are some things that are too important to buy and sell, and the truth is one of them, Mr. Chapman.”

  And he left. I saw only one silver thread lining his departure. I was alive.

  Which was much more than I could say about my story.

  12

  Inauguration

  There was no choice but to launch a full-court press on Michael J. Howley much earlier than I had planned.

  Howley was the hero-villain and thus the central figure in this remarkable story. I knew almost from the beginning that eventually I would have to confront him, but I had hoped that when the time came I would be there with some direct and telling—I have here in my hand!—evidence of exactly what he did and possibly even why. That had not happened. Without some solid material from Nelson or someone else on the origin of those abuse statements and how they got to Howley, it was unlikely Howley would drop on his knees and confess his sins to me. All I could do now was embellish and carefully word what I had from the other three panelists and see if I could at least put him on the spot. And if I got lucky I might pry something loose.

  I called his office at the News every morning and afternoon for five straight days. I played no games. Each time I identified myself and reminded the message taker to remind Howley that he and I had talked before and what I was doing for The New American Tatler.

  I was never put through to Howley and he never called me back.

  I escalated the approach. On day six I told the person who answered his phone—it was a woman—that I needed to confirm “the origin of some videotapes.” No response. The next day I added the phrase “of someone giving someone else a folder of women’s statements.” Nothing. Day eight brought the additional line: “There is also some sound on the tapes.” Still nothing.

  I called Jerry Rhome. At first I thought he was going to brush me off, too. But eventually—on the fourth call—he came on the line.

  “Hey, Chapman, what I know is what I told you,” he said. “I ain’t got nothing more to say.”

  I told him it was imperative that I talk to Howley and explained my problem in getting his world-famous employee to even return a phone call. “He’s a free man in a free press in a free country,” said Rhome. “If he doesn’t want to talk to you, he doesn’t want to talk to you. So be it. Besides that, he’s on some Greek island right now.”

  “What Greek island?”

  “None of your business.”

  I waited an hour and then had Jennifer Gates call the News and ask for Howley. I told her afterward that she definitely could have made it as an actress. She clearly convinced the person at the News that she really was Mike Howley’s neighbor, and water was running out from under his front door. “Obviously there has been a break in his water pipes. What should I do? Who should I call? The firemen are here. They want to speak to the owner. I didn’t know where he was. I don’t know what to do.…”

  The island was called Santorini. He was staying in a rented house.

  Something heavier than a phone call was called for. I drafted a letter and then sent it Federal Express—three-day delivery guaranteed.

  It read:

  Mike Howley:

  I now have a full accounting of your predebate activities. I know where the statements came from and how they got to you. I feel you are entitled to give me your version of the events, your intentions and motives. All I want to do is get it right. Please call me at 202-555-5421—collect—at your earliest convenience. This is urgent. My magazine’s deadline approaches with the speed and force of a Metroliner from New York.

  Sincerely,

  Tom Chapman

  And I waited for the phone to ring.

  Inauguration day turned out to be as important a day in my professional life as it did in Paul L. Greene’s.

  For him, there was still a Christmas-morning surprise element to it. The people of the United States of America had had seventy-nine days, from November 4 to January 21, to get used to the idea that Paul L. Greene of Nebraska was in fact going to be their next president. But, according to the polls and the anecdotes, there was still an aura of fairyland disbelief to the whole thing. Here was a guy who had been so far behind, so counted out, that to read the flood of stories about “President-elect Greene” and his family and cabinet and all the rest had a fictional or dream quality to it. Someone said it was as if Michael Dukakis had defeated George Bush, Barry Goldwater had come from nowhere to suddenly cream Lyndon Johnson, and George McGovern had done the same to Richard Nixon in 1972.

  There he was, this man Greene, this man they were now calling “a quiet, steady man with Lincolnesque possibilities,” standing in the bitter cold on the stage in front of the west side of the Capitol taking the oath of office.

  Joan Naylor, alone behind a glass-enclosed and heated booth a hundred yards away, was anchoring CNS’s coverage of the inauguration. She looked and sounded terrific, as she had every Monday-through-Friday evening since she replaced Don Beard on the nightly news broadcast. Since she took over, The CNS Evening News had risen from its customary third place in the weekly Nielsen ratings to tie ABS News four times for second place. She told me the network brass were so excited the first time it happened that they sent cases of
champagne and strawberries and chocolates to both the New York and Washington newsrooms. “We’re hoping they’ll give us all Rolls-Royces if we ever win second place outright,” she said.

  Henry Ramirez and Barbara Manning, now the famous Hank and Barb, were part of their network’s coverage. They were broadcasting from a huge suite at the Willard Hotel, around the corner from the White House, where they were to make comments and interview celebrities while the inaugural parade passed by and under them on Pennsylvania Avenue. They had become huge celebrities themselves, of course, and much of it had to do with their “America’s favorite love story” image as partners on the screen and in bed.

  It was after they cut their first AIDS public-service commercial for safe sex that urged the use of condoms that I decided once and for all to determine what was really going on. In the commercial, they stood there together, grinning first at each other and then at the camera. Henry held up a condom and said: “There is only one way, and this is it. Right, Barb?”

  “Right, Hank,” said Barbara.

  I felt there was an issue of credibility and honesty involved here that had nothing to do with any prurient interest in sex.

  The breakthrough came from a pharmacist at a drugstore near Henry’s apartment in Arlington, the close-in Virginia suburb. With some words and other inducements I got the man to tell me that Henry, a man he recognized from the debate, had purchased a package of condoms. “He even gave me a smile and wink and said, ‘Watch my smoke, amigo’—something like that,” said the pharmacist. I matched the date of the purchase with those given to me by waiters and doormen and determined—circumstantially, at least—what I wanted to know. Henry bought the condoms during the early evening of the same day that he first took Barbara back to her place and spent the night. But there were only three condoms in the package and, according to the pharmacist, Henry did not replenish. “He came in the store many times after that, but he never bought them again,” said the pharmacist. Henry also went back to Barbara’s place many times after three times, most particularly after they became Hank and Barb. She also accompanied him to his apartment several times. It is possible, of course, that he had another supplier of condoms or that they had decided to truly one-up Jack and Jill by having a “love child.” I doubted—doubt—that. But in their new world anything was—is—possible.