DURING OUR first January in Washington, while we were settling into our home in Georgetown (rented to us for a hundred dollars a year by Ambassador O’Malley), introducing our daughters into Gonzaga Prep and the Ursuline Academy, and trying to figure out what the day-to-day operations of the Senate were, a very prominent Beltway power broker and his very decorative wife invited us to supper, perhaps to discover what the young populist from Chicago was really like. A couple of reporters were present, an editor, the German ambassador, the DCM from the Spanish embassy, a columnist from The New York Times, a senior Republican Senator. Dinner jackets recommended.
Big deal for two novices from the Prairie State. At first the harmless little Senator did not garner much attention, as usual a moon-like satellite, reflecting the radiance of his spouse in her white-gold dress with her pale shoulders accented by thin, mostly symbolic, straps, her fiery hair fashioned into a glittering crown, her smile illuminating the silverware and the china and the linen and her contagious laughter enchanting everyone—an elegant woman in an elegant setting. The guests of both genders could not take their eyes off her. Kathleen Ni Houlihan, Maeve the Magnificent, Erihu the goddess. My own imagination was awash in fantasies of what I would do with her when we returned to our bedroom. I had even whispered a gross suggestion into her ear as I helped her off with her wrap. She blushed and smiled.
She spoke to the German diplomat in German, mentioning that as a very little girl, the Old One (as Chancellor Conrad Adenauer was called) had praised her German. She apologized
to the Spanish diplomat for her Mexican accent and answered with graceful charm all the questions addressed to her. Yes, the children were in Gonzaga Prep and the Ursuline Academy and loved it in Washington, but they were adventurers who adjusted easily to change. Yes, she would be doing appellate work for Brown, Berger, Bobbet, and Butts. Yes, she had met some of the Senatorial wives and they had been very sweet, even the Republicans. No, she would not define herself as a Christian, only as an Irish Catholic from the West Side of Chicago. Yes, it was true that the family had two Spanish days a week; even the Senator was becoming more fluent in the language. Yes, the Georgetown neighborhood seemed to be a lovely place to live, though not as picturesque as River Forest, Illinois. Yes, her name was Mary Margaret, contracted to Marymarg, but only by her parents, her siblings, her children, and her husband—but in his case only at certain approved times.
There was uneasy laughter at that last remark in the sex-drenched atmosphere around the dinner table which she had created all by herself.
Finally, half-way through the dinner, they turned to the silent Senator.
What reforms, the Timesman asked, did I plan for the Senate?
Easier to reform the Catholic Church.
But are you not in favor of the abolition of attack ads in political campaigns?
Only of voluntary abstinence.
Your campaign proved, did it not, that a candidate can win an election with little fund-raising and not attack ads?
It proved that in one time and one place a candidate did not need to vilify his opponent to win an election.
The reelection could be more difficult, the editor observed, might it not, especially with Senator Crispjin already in the running with the support of the Examiner and the money of the Roads family behind him?
Six years is a long time.
Office holders, our host said, have a hard time regaining a position that they have lost.
Grover Cleveland being a notable exception. To be candid—and one should never trust a politician when he uses that
word—we have made no decision about running again. We’ll have to see what happens.
An editorial we?
Not at all.
What’s your next book about, The man from the Times asked.
Political trials.
What?
The constant abuse of power by federal prosecutors. Using frightened subordinates to rat out the target, often suborning perjury in the process. Destroying careers by bankrupting defendants with legal fees, using the publicity of their show trials to seek public office, charging perjury against anyone who deceives a federal officer—with nothing like a Miranda warning.
There was dead silence around the room.
Those tactics could be used against anyone in this room. As Martha Stewart or Governor George Ryan proved.
Will you be a Senate maverick, the anchor woman wondered, or will you go along to get along?
We Chicago Irish are genetically programmed to work within systems, to value coalition and compromise, to aim for achievable goals, not perfection. Politics is the art of the possible. I hope to work hard to win the confidence of my new colleagues on both sides of the aisle.
You could be a very dangerous man, said the Republican Senator with a smile.
I hope so, Senator.
You can’t imagine, Senator, my wife said. Beware the harmless little Irishman with the quick tongue and a charming smile.
Especially, I added, if his wife is a red-haired Celtic goddess.
We creamed them, she said later, as she clung to me on the walk down the street to our house, a pose of vulnerability which she had assumed when we thanked our host and hostess.
And I’m going to cream you as soon as we get to the bedroom.
I hope you’re able to wait that long.