Two hours after getting the news that Tim Rutherford wanted him on The Press Box that Sunday, Sam was on the charter back east, leaving Molly to cancel all his weekend events in Wyoming. She had counseled putting Rutherford off a week but Sam wouldn’t hear of it.
“And give him a chance to back out?” Sam had asked. “No way. You heard what he said two weeks ago. Let’s see who’s full of hot air now.”
The show was live from the NBC studio in Washington. Sam knew that Rutherford lived on a farm outside McLean, allegedly a property owned at one time by his great-great-grandfather. Who knew if it was true? But it served Rutherford’s pose that he wasn’t a New York guy, just a folksy reporter from the country. Garrison Keillor with a political bent.
Sam arrived wearing khakis and a brown shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He knew that Rutherford would be shirt and tie and he wanted to make the contrast clear. A woman met him in the lobby and took him to makeup. He was in the chair when Rutherford stepped into the room. He hadn’t dressed for the show yet and was wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. Cowboy boots. Sam recalled that he and his wife raised horses of some kind. Like most talking heads, Rutherford was smaller in person than he appeared on TV. Even with the boots, he couldn’t have been any taller than five-eight or so.
“I just heard the news that your daughter’s home,” Rutherford said after offering his hand.
“She is,” Sam said.
“That’s wonderful. You and your wife must be overjoyed. I can’t imagine.”
“No, you can’t,” Sam said.
“I didn’t hear any details.”
“You’re not going to get any from me. It’s private.”
The fact of the matter was that Sam himself didn’t know what had transpired. The news had broken while he was on the charter the night before. He’d made a quick pit stop in New York and found Vanessa at home. Rachel was acting superior and distant; she wasn’t saying anything other than Vanessa was safe and the subject was closed. The media had been informed only that the little girl was home and that there would be no further statement. The case was closed. It wasn’t, not to Sam, but he had to get on the shuttle to Washington. He would get some answers when he got back that afternoon.
“I can tell you one thing,” he said to Rutherford. “I got her back on my terms.”
“That’s good.”
Sam turned in the chair for a better look at Rutherford, while the makeup woman tried to stay with him, applying the base.
“So what’s going on here? Why am I suddenly worthy of The Press Box? Don’t tell me your numbers are dipping.”
Rutherford laughed. “If they were, I’m not sure you would be regarded as a tonic for that.”
“You might be surprised. In the end, it’s all about the numbers, isn’t it?”
“I hope not,” Rutherford said. “I’ll see you out there.”
The studio backdrop was sparse, with some early American artwork and a few bookshelves. The man had won several Emmys but none were in evidence. False modesty. Two oak chairs, with deep brown leather padding. It was a three-camera set-up, all very familiar to Sam. There was a sound booth to the left of where Sam sat, with the director and a few others inside. Sam settled in and waited as Rutherford did a rather abbreviated intro. In fact, everything about the host seemed a bit rushed, uncharacteristically so, as if he had a job to get out of the way.
“Let’s go back to 2000,” he began, turning to face Sam. “At that time, you—”
“Before we start,” Sam interjected. “I just want to say what a pleasure it is to be here, Tim. After all this time.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you,” Rutherford replied. “Now if we can go back—”
Sam smiled. “I must say, though, you look much bigger on TV.”
Rutherford took a moment before returning the smile. “What looks large from a distance, close up ain’t never that big.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“Bob Dylan.”
“Right,” Sam said, enjoying himself now. “From the left-wing Big Book of Quotes?”
Rutherford allowed his smile to pass. “In 2000 Hillary Clinton announces her candidacy for a Senate seat in New York. You called her an opportunistic she-devil. Is that correct?”
Sam shrugged, leaning back in the chair. “Probably. Sounds like me.”
“Opportunistic,” Rutherford said. “Why did you think that?”
“First of all, opportunistic is pretty much a synonym for Clinton, isn’t it?”
Rutherford looked at him evenly, saying nothing.
“Okay,” Sam said. “I know what this is about. Although I was expecting something a little more original from you, Tim. This is the parachute issue, right? Hillary landed here from Arkansas and now I’ve jumped feet first into Wyoming, and you’re trying to establish a parallel between the two. Let me tell you the difference, Tim. Hillary moved to a large-population blue state from where she could best mount her failed assault on the White House. She and Bubba decided the road to Washington went through the Empire State. She didn’t care about New York, she only cared about D.C.”
“And you care about Wyoming?” Rutherford asked.
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Why do I care about Wyoming?” Sam asked.
Rutherford nodded. “What makes Sam Jackson’s parachute any different than anybody else’s?”
“It’s simple,” Sam said. “I’m not in the loop. I’m not a guy who’s spent his life currying favor and kissing rings and making the right connections, all in order to someday get himself elected. I didn’t find this candidacy, it found me. I understand the people in Wyoming, but more importantly—they understand me. We’re in this together.”
“You feel a bond with them?”
“Of course I do. They understand hard work. They know what this country used to be. They know what No Surrender means.”
“Do you think the people in Wyoming hold you in high regard?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And do you hold them in high regard?”
“Yes, I do.”
Rutherford nodded to the sound booth. “I want to play you a recording.”
Sam glanced in the direction of the booth. Before he could speak, he heard his own voice.
“—any idea who I’m courting out there? I’m courting a whole state of mouth-breathing morons. To do that, I have to stoop to their level. Is that too fucking complicated for you? Are you just as stupid as they are?”
Sam turned on Rutherford, who was sitting forward now, his eyes focused. “That is your voice, Sam Jackson? That is you, talking about the people of Wyoming?”
“That is not me,” Sam said. His breathing became ragged.
“It is though,” Rutherford told him calmly. “It is you.” He looked toward the booth once more. “We have more. Let’s listen.”
As the tape began, Sam got to his feet, jerking the microphone from his collar. “This is bullshit! It’s a fucking set-up. I will sue you and this fucking show and this fucking network.”
When he was gone, Rutherford turned to the camera. “And we’ll be back.”