While Kramer was prepping, Scuzzy was searching. He had to find Sally Winters again. She held the key. He now knew about the health rumors swirling around Corcoran. If Sally would talk, wow! he could topple a president. Claire Winters was out of the picture. But what about Roger Winters? Sally was moved six months ago. Maybe he now knows where she is. And maybe, for some green stuff, he would cough up the address.
So he traveled again to the Missouri Ozarks and Poplar Bluff. Warm weather didn’t make the town any more appealing than it had been the previous winter. Only Scuzzy was in for a surprise. He had company. Smack dab in the middle of this one-traffic light town, there was a van from Fast Copy, the tabloid television news magazine syndicated across the country. Competition for Winters was the last thing he expected — or wanted.
He found the Fast Copy producer, Jeff Blakey, in Poplar Bluff’s one and only diner. Scuzzy knew him from the scandal circuit. Blakey was tough and aggressive and would be no happier to see Scuzzy than Scuzzy was to see him.
Scuzzy slid into the booth where Blakey was sipping coffee, browsing through a paper. “You on vacation too?” he joked.
“Come here every summer, Scuzzy,” said the startled Blakey. “Don’t you?”
They were silent for a second, then Scuzzy ventured a proposition.
“Look, we’re both here for the same thing,” he started. “We could either trip over each other to get to this guy first — and chance losing him — or we could go in together.”
“How do we even know he’s connected to the girl?”
“Don’t worry, I know,” Scuzzy said. “I talked to him some months back. He’s her father, alright. What I don’t know is whether he knows where she is.”
“Why didn’t you ask that the first time?” Blakey asked.
“What do you take me for?” Schwartz said. “Of course I asked. He said he didn’t know where she was and didn’t know all this shit was going to break around her. Now, I think we can give him a greater incentive to talk.”
“So it’s a race to get to him first?”
“Hard to imagine a race in a town like this,” Scuzzy said. “Maybe we should join forces.”
“What are you suggesting?” the producer asked warily.
“Split the money,” Scuzzy said. “If he knows where she’s stashed, we’ll each offer him fifty thou. One hundred thousand should open him up a bit. And if we find the girl, we’ll promise him another hundred.”
“If we get her, we could be set for life.”
“If we get her, we split the cost and break the story at the same time—you on your Sunday night show, me in our paper Monday morning.”
“Don’t you think she’ll have some protection?” Blakey asked.
“I know she has some protection and I got the bruises to prove it,” he said.
“They got goons out already?” the producer asked.
“Already? They’ve been following me for months. Look, Corcoran’s presidency is at stake and he’s not going to let some tabloid star knock them off their perch. If they can help it. Remember, these guys got their start working for Nixon.”
“You think, if we greased him enough, the father could run interference for us?” Blakey asked.
“Doubtful,” Scuzzy said. “We’ll be lucky to get an address for the girl. ‘Member, the feds are watching him like a hawk too. He doesn’t want to end up in the pokey. He’s trying to be a good citizen these days. He doesn’t need no more trouble with Uncle Sam.”
So Scuzzy and Blakey bird-dogged Roger Winters’ mangy barn until he arrived, then pounced. Winters remembered Schwartz, but wanted none of his fast talk. Other reporters had already been around, Winters said, the feds weren’t far behind. “Just leave me alone,” the old man said. “I’ve already given you too much already.”
So there they were, outside the front door to Winters’ barn-house when Scuzzy started talking green.
“You never mentioned any of this before,” Winters said warily.
“Didn’t know it could be this good of a story,” Scuzzy said.
“What are you going to do if you find my daughter?”
“Same thing I did with her old boyfriend,” Scuzzy said. “Talk. Probably offer her some dough too. She probably could use it, being sick and all.”
“What’s so important about what some sick girl remembers?”
“It’s who she remembers it with, sir,” Blakey interjected. “If the president’s got what she’s got, it’s something everyone should know about.”
“Well, I think it’s nobody’s business,” the militia man said. “If the president’s sick, who cares? He can still run the country. Doesn’t affect me at all. Besides, I’m afraid what may happen to Sally if you get a hold of her.”
“Nothing, sir, absolutely nothing,” Scuzzy said, trying to reassure him. “We’ve talked before, as you know—”
“Yeah, and it got her moved real quick,” Winters said. “I didn’t forget that. How do I know you both aren’t really working for the government, anyway, and you’re just trying to sucker me in.”
With that, Scuzzy took off his jacket and lifted his T-shirt up to reveal welts on his abdomen were still bluish and black and red. Winters recoiled, stepping back into his doorway.
“These didn’t come free of charge, sir,” Scuzzy said. “They came express delivery from the U.S. government.” He pulled his shirt down. “We don’t work for the government, sir. We’re trying to find out what the hell they’re doing up there. Your daughter’s probably a victim. She may even be in danger. Only publicity can ensure that she’ll be alright. The best thing this president would like is for Sally to disappear. If we get to her first, it’ll be hard for them to do that. She needs our protection.”
“You’re going to offer her some money to talk?” Winters asked quietly.
“If she needs some help, we’re in position to be helpful,” Scuzzy said. “We can also find a way to thank you if you lead us to her.”
“How much you talking about?”
“$25,000 now, $25,000 more if the address pans out,” Scuzzy said, explaining that there would be a small down-payment plus a big check. They soon were at Winters’ rickety kitchen table signing documents. By the time Scuzzy and Blakey left, they had a lead on what they hoped could turn into the best story of their careers. Now that we know where she is, they thought, how do we get to her?
McCord met with Kramer a few days before the Labor Day weekend. Usually a quiet time in Washington, the town was percolating this year because of all the talk of the president’s health. McCord spent most of the week preparing for Corcoran’s return to Washington over the holiday weekend. The last supposedly non-campaign session of Congress before the presidential campaign was about to start and McCord wanted the president’s agenda — as well as the president — to be ready. If he could only figure out what Kramer had on his mind…
So McCord blocked out one afternoon, took a deep breath and ushered the reporter into his office. Kramer was taller than the chief of staff remembered. The tuff of hair on his head was an island in the sea of an advancing widow’s peak. His features were thin, though he had a large nose and long fingers. They curled around a thin pen, but he took few notes, apparently relying on his tape recorder for exact quotes. Occasionally, he would pick up the small machine to note the counter number or change tapes. But for the most part, McCord noticed, Kramer sought to put him at ease so as to get him to talk and think out loud. Kramer was clearly trying to turn the interview into more of a conversation than an interrogation.
But McCord had advised enough politicians and chief executives in his time to know he shouldn’t fall for Kramer’s ingratiating manner or his low-key approach. I have to be the reporter, McCord kept reminding himself, I’m doing this to learn, not to inform.
They began with the Reagan years and McCord’s time with Corcoran in the White House press office. Slowly, Kramer brought him toward the present — Corcoran’s days as columnist, his first Senate campaign, how he turned his Senate seat into a national platform, the early planning on the presidential campaign and then the race through the primaries. As Kramer guided him closer to the present, McCord became cagier, less forthcoming. When it came to the machinations at the convention, he became nearly mum, reluctant to say anything that would antagonize any party faction.
Kramer, sensing McCord’s reluctance, in turn became more aggressive, pushing the chief of staff about the fights over the platform and the choice of Linda Amster as vice president. Kramer seemed to know about the tensions of the time, but McCord, while not denying the conflicts, tried to down-play them, characterize them as the normal give-and-take of a party getting used to a new, if controversial, leader.
It was nearly two hours into the interview before Kramer got around to Sally Winters.
“You know I have to ask you about Sally Winters,” the reporter said, almost apologetically.
“I know about your interview with the First Lady,” McCord said.
“Did you know her?”
“Sally Winters? Oh, no,” McCord said quickly. “I had never even heard of her name until it came out in the Top Star News.”
“You didn’t know that Corcoran was having an affair early in the campaign?” Kramer asked.
Neat try, McCord thought to himself. Ask a question that assumes what he would not readily admit. But it’s not going to work, he said to himself.
“Tom Corcoran had no affair, Buzzy,” McCord said. “That’s just tabloid gossip.”
“You didn’t see her around the campaign at all?”
“No, she worked in the Senate office and that was before the campaign started.”
“And you’re helping out her now?”
“Yes,” McCord said. “When we learned she was sick, the president remembered her from his days in the Senate and directed that we get her help.”
“Do you know she has AIDS?”
“Yes, we do,” McCord allowed. “It’s very sad. We’re trying to get her the best treatment possible.”
Kramer’s head perked up. The White House press office had refused to acknowledge that she had AIDS.
“The press office has refused to admit the president knows she has AIDS,” he said.
“We only found out when we reached out to her,” McCord said. “We didn’t want to talk about her condition publicly in order to protect your privacy.”
“But you are talking about it now…”
“Well, we think you can handle this information in an appropriate manner. In our conversations with her family, they have raised no objection to saying why she is sick.”
“You know, there are a lot of questions about the president’s health,” Kramer said.
“Yes, I know and that’s been very frustrating,” McCord replied. “The president had a rough winter battling allergies and then took on a weight loss plan that turned out to be too aggressive. Remember, he had just returned from a grueling two-week trip to Europe and his body’s defenses were down. Jet lag and all that. But the jogging has been good for him and he’s had a fine vacation and I think you’ll see, when he comes home, a very vigorous president very comfortable in his job, ready for a hard-fought re-election campaign and a second term. This administration has steadied the economy, cut the size of government, brought integrity back to the White House, beefed up our defenses and made the United States respected again around the world—”
“Enough spin,” Kramer interrupted. “No speeches in my book.”
“Oh — all of this is just for your book?”
“Well,” Kramer said. “I guess what you’ve said about Sally Winters having AIDS could find itself into the newspaper tomorrow. But I’m still confused. Think about how this looks from the public’s perspective. A tabloid says a young woman was his former mistress. Then the president rushes to give help to a former staffer he claims to barely know who happens to have AIDS. At the same time he is suffering from some mystery AIDS-like ailment that causes him to lose weight and stamina. You can imagine some people might be skeptical when you say there is no connection between the two.”
“First of all, there are no AIDS-like symptoms, as you call them,” McCord said angrily. “Don’t let your imagination get the best of you. There is no connection. Only cynical reporters who never liked this administration and can’t accept the fact that Tom Corcoran is president of the United States would suggest such a thing.” McCord thought Kramer was fishing, that he really didn’t have a “smoking gun” connecting Corcoran to Winters. He thought he may have the upper hand.
“Well,” Kramer said, “that cynical mind you accuse us of having would say that, by helping out Sally Winters, you’re also buying her silence, that you can’t afford for her to publicly confirm what the Top Star News has reported. It would be politically fatal for a conservative president to have had an affair, not even getting into the health issue.”
“That’s nonsense!” McCord was starting to get annoyed. “The liberal media are always seeing conspiracies where none exist. It might make good copy, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. This president is not Bill Clinton. He has never chased women for all the years that I have known him—and that’s quite a long time.
“Let me say this as plain as possible. Tom Corcoran did not have an affair with Sally Winters. Tom Corcoran does not have—” McCord suddenly stopped. He had almost put the words “Corcoran” and “AIDS” in the same sentence, something he had promised himself that he would never do. He coughed to cover his near-faux pas, then steadied himself. “Tom Corcoran is not suffering from any mystery illness. We are helping the girl get treatment and the president’s humanitarian gesture should not be misinterpreted in any other way.”
Kramer’s fishing expedition had come to an end. The interview was now approaching three hours and, lazy late summer day that it was, McCord decided he had spent enough time with the author. He was also relieved that the Kramer did not appear to know anything more than anyone else. He’d given him his tidbit for the day. He didn’t want Kramer around long enough for him, McCord, to slip and say something he should not. Besides, he had some back-filling to do as soon as Kramer left. The president and the press office needed to know that he had revealed Sally Winters did in fact have AIDS, so they wouldn’t be caught by surprise.
“I’m afraid that’s all the time I have,” the chief of staff said. “It’s been a pleasure. I look forward to reading your book when it comes out.”
“Well,” Kramer said, gathering his belongings, reluctant to leave.
McCord quietly buzzed his secretary with his phone, a signal for her to come in and help usher his guest out of his office and the White House without any further damage.
With Kramer was gone, McCord slumped in his chair, unsure of whether he had dodged or taken a bullet.