The Last President: A Novel of an Alternative America (11 page)

TRANSCRIPT: AMERICA WANTS TO KNOW (excerpt)

Sunday, February 24, 1974

Today’s interview is with United States Senator Kevin P. Ryan, a New York Democrat, very much in the news today because of the serious charges he has leveled against the administration.

Interviewers:

Daniel Gores of the
Baltimore Sun

Roberta Gondolphe of the United Broadcasting Company

Morris Feffer of the
New York Post

Moderated by George Brownworthy

Brownworthy: Welcome to
America Wants to Know
, Senator Ryan. You startled America at a news conference Thursday with a series of broad-based charges against the administration and its policies, particularly in regard to specific allegations of wrongdoing in several government agencies. Do you intend to further document these charges with hard evidence, and do you intend to have the Senate Judiciary Committee, of which you are a member, launch an investigation?

Ryan: Let me, ah, state my position once again, Mr. Brownworthy. These were not specific charges of wrongdoing, for I named no individual and cited no specific acts. There have been serious allegations made to my office, and I felt that the American public has a right to know what is going on in its government.

Brownworthy: Mr. Gores.

Gores: Don’t you feel, Senator, that such charges should be investigated and their veracity determined before you make them public and, perhaps, frighten a lot of people?

Ryan: As I said in my press conference, Mr. Gores, a list of the specific charges, with as much detail as was consonant with preserving the anonymity of the informants, was turned over to the Justice Department for action some two weeks ago. They have informed me that there is no basis for action, which I do not believe. As I do not have the facilities myself to conduct the necessary investigation, my only recourse was to go to the people. As to frightening the public, if an express train is racing down the track out of control and about to hit you, telling you about it might scare the heck out of you, but it will probably save your life.

Brownworthy: Miss Gondolphe.

Gondolphe: As you know, Senator, the Presidents press secretary, Robert Fuller, was questioned about these changes at a White House briefing on Friday, and he denied the truth of any of them. He was quoted as saying, “Senator Ryan is a Democrat and it’s an election year. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear even wilder charges coming from his office before November.” How would you reply to this?

Ryan: Over national television I will refrain from using the first phrase that comes to mind. But just let me say this: The information has been coming into our office for some time from a wide variety of sources. How Mr. Fuller—or his boss—can completely refute it overnight is something I would like explained. Such efficiency should be shared with the other branches of government.

Brownworthy: Mr. Feffer.

Feffer: Let us go over some of the charges we’re talking about here. You said that the IRS was using its authority to investigate tax returns for political motives—

Ryan: In certain instances.

Feffer: Yes, in certain instances. And that the FBI was engaging in political activities—

Ryan: That’s right.

Feffer: And that certain governmental regulatory agencies—like the FCC and the CAB—were using their power to harass the political enemies—you did say “enemies”—of the administration.

Ryan: You understand that these were not accusations. That is, not on my part. These allegations were made to me, and I couldn’t ignore them. I tried to get confirmation or denial from the various agencies. What I got was a constant runaround. So I had no choice but to go to the people.

Feffer: What do you think that this governmental interference indicates, Senator? Assuming that the charges are substantiated. What is it that’s happening to the government?

Ryan: That’s an interesting question, Mr. Feffer. I was about to reply that it wasn’t the government but the executive branch, but that wouldn’t be true. There are signs of a great malaise in this country, and it is the government, and the people, who are feeling it and who are causing it.

We live in a period of increasing polarization, between black and white, between young and old, between city and country, between political right and left. The government’s role should be to minimize and try to eliminate this condition, but it seems to be doing everything possible to exacerbate it.

I think this must stop, and I think it must stop soon. If it doesn’t, either the country will blow apart or we’ll be living in a police state. And my Irish ancestors wouldn’t like that.

Vandermeer leaned back in his Executive Swivel Rocker and laced his hands behind his head. For a couple of minutes he stared up at St. Yves, who stood in front of his desk, without saying anything. Then he leaned forward and the chair popped back up to work position. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“Quite sure,” St. Yves said. “Our routine checking was bound to pay off sooner or later. We’ve found the leak.”

“The President will be pleased,” Vandermeer said. “Hell, hell be overjoyed. You may get a pair of cufflinks for this.”

“Right under our noses all the time,” St. Yves said. “It was—”

Vandermeer raised a restraining hand. “I don’t want to know,” he said, removing his glasses and sighing wearily before he looked up at St. Yves. “Just get rid of the son of a bitch.”

“Right,” St. Yves said. He returned to his own office and picked up the phone.

FEDERAL COURTHOUSE BOMBED

BY BELINDA CHOMSKI

Special to The New York Times

SAN FRANCISCO, March 1—

A bomb went off at eight o’clock Friday morning in a downstairs washroom of the Federal Courthouse at 450 Golden Gate Avenue in downtown San Francisco. Several people entering the building at the time suffered minor injuries and Mrs. Edith McCabe, a clerk of the court, was rushed to San Francisco General Hospital for treatment of a serious head wound.

A group calling itself the People’s Revolutionary Brigade took credit for the blast in a phone call to the
Berkeley Barb
, a counterculture weekly newspaper, which was received apparently only a minute or so after the bomb went off. The PRB called the blast an act of war against the “totalitarian pig fascist government.”

There was nothing in the world for George Warren but the car in front of him on the twisting road: the hunter and his prey. He goosed his engine and flicked his brights on. The car in front speeded up in response. Keeping his brights on, Warren edged up and fell back, edged up and fell back, closing the gap on the straightaways, and falling back on the curves.

The driver of the car ahead must have thought Warren some sort of idiot; only Warren knew that he was the hunter. He and those who had given him license. He edged forward, this time keeping the pace on the curve. The car ahead was handled well, but that didn’t matter. The end would be the same.

Warren kept crowding, forcing the car ahead to speed up. Now Warren had to pay full attention to handling his Camarro through the curves. But the car ahead, pushed, was going even faster. Now a straightaway and Warren pushed harder, tailgating and forcing the car ahead up to seventy—seventy-five—eighty.

Now the curve.

The item in the
Washington News
was brief, and Kit, idly skimming the pages over his morning coffee, almost missed it. He was turning the page when something made him turn back and read.

Bethesda. A freak one-car accident at 10:15 p.m yesterday evening on the Little Falls Parkway killed the lone driver. The victim, Miss Dianna Babbington Holroyd, 49, of the Bethesda Garden Apartments, reportedly died instantly when her foreign sports car went out of control and plunged into one of the deep ravines beside the Potomac River.

The State Highway Patrol stated that a mechanical failure on a sharp curve had apparently caused the fatal accident.

Miss Holroyd was employed in the Office of Management and Budget.

Kit read it through slowly three times, expecting the words to somehow rearrange themselves between readings. They refused to do so. Carefully putting down his cup, he called up the White House switchboard and left word for his assistant that he wouldn’t be in. He poured himself another cup of coffee, and read the brief news story three more times. Then he picked up the phone again and called Sergeant Veber at Second District Police Station. “I need a favor,” he said.

“Who doesn’t?” Veber asked. “Lets hear it.”

“Do you have any connections in the Maryland State Police?”

“I could manage an introduction,” Veber said cautiously. “What for?”

“I need to look at an accident report,” Kit told him.

“That, ah, sounds arrangeable.”

“I need to look like I’m coming from you,” Kit said.

“You mean as opposed to—”

”You got it.”

“I don’t like it,” Veber said. “But for a friend.… You are a friend?”

“I do my best,” Kit said.

“I’ll call you back. Give me your number.”

Two hours later Kit was at the Maryland State Police Headquarters for Montgomery County in Rockville introducing himself to a Sergeant Yost, a thin, graying man with a pencil mustache.

“Yes, sir,” Yost said, shaking his hand. “Sergeant Veber said you were coming, Mr. Archer, and he said not to ask for any ID.”

“I appreciate his calling,” Kit said. “And I appreciate your taking the time to help.”

Yost shrugged. “Luckily, I’m not a very curious man. Veber said to expect a Miles Archer, and here you are. He said you wanted details on the Holroyd case. I’ve pulled the file for you. We only have a prelim—ah, a preliminary workup—”

”I know the terminology, Sergeant,” Kit said.

“Yes,” Yost said, “I thought you might. We have the prelim: accident report, eyewitness account, coroner’s prelim. No reason we can see to go further. Of course, we’ll follow the routine, but right now it looks like a typical traffic accident.”

“Anything to say it wasn’t?” Kit asked.

“The fact that you’re here.”

Kit took the report folder, opened it, and leafed through the typed forms. “Who was the investigating officer?”

“As it happens,” Yost said, “I was.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The victim was alone in her car, driving fast—but as far as we can tell, not abnormally fast—southbound on the Little Falls Parkway when the car failed to negotiate a sharp left curve and shot off into the ravine. This is the testimony of the two eyewitnesses, and it’s substantiated by the tire marks, which start right before the edge of the pavement and continue straight off through the shoulder and over. The pavement was dry. There are no skid marks—that is, no breakway marks to either side. The tire marks show locked brakes, so it was clearly not suicide. Car caught on fire, but it didn’t burn too bad. We put it out with hand extinguishers when we showed up.”

“Is that what killed her?” Kit asked.

“No, sir. The body was burned some, but the coroner says she broke her neck clean—died instantly.”

“Badly burned? Any question of identity?”

“Oh, no. Thumbprints check with Motor Vehicle Bureau records. It’s Miss Holroyd, all right.”

“Um,” Kit said, feeling sick.

“Witnesses were a couple in a parked car on a turnout above the curve. Had a clear view. Said the car just shot right off. They looked out when they heard the brakes squeal.”

“Any other witnesses?”

“That’s not clear. There was a car behind. Our couple saw it pass by a few seconds after. But it might not have been close enough to even know there had been an accident.”

“The driver must have heard the brakes squeal if the people above did.”

“You’d think so. Anyway, he didn’t stop.”

“Where’s Miss Holroyd’s car now?”

“In the police garage. Our mechanic will give it a going-over, probably this afternoon.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“I don’t, but he might,” Yost said. He scribbled on a note pad, then ripped the page out and handed it to Kit. “Take this over with you.”

“Thanks,” Kit said, sticking out his hand.

Yost took it. “My pleasure, Mr. Archer,” he said. “Stay out of alleys.”

“What?”

“I read mysteries,” Yost said. “Love them. Miles Archer was Sam Spade’s partner. Died in an alley in San Francisco. Shot through the pump.”

“Veber picked the name,” Kit said. “I didn’t know he had a sense of humor.”

Dianna’s Jag was up on the rack with two men going over it when Kit arrived at the garage. The body was burned paint and twisted metal, except, miraculously, for the front end; the sleek feline bonnet with its twin headlamps still gleamed British racing green. But from the windshield back, the car was junk.

“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the mechanics said, as Kit walked past the row of police cruisers being serviced, toward the Jag, “but this area is off limits to civilians.”

Kit handed him the note. “Yost sent me,” he said. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Yes, Mr. Archer,” the mechanic said after reading the note. “Always glad to help you government people. What can I do for you?”

The note said:

Jim—give Mr. Archer whatever assistance he requires.—Yost.

Kit wondered how and where it was encoded that he was a government man, but he knew better than to ask. “It’s about the Jag,” he said, pointing. “You been looking it over?”

“That’s right, Mr. Archer. We just got started.”

“Looking for anything special?”

Jim shrugged. “We’ve got to assign some cause to the accident,” he said. “Have to rule out sabotage. It doesn’t happen very often—but it does happen. If the brakes failed, we check for rusty or rotted brake lines—or for cleanly cut or hacksawed ones. If its a wheel lost, we check for stripped threads, or saw marks. If it’s a gas fire or explosion, we check near hot spots for fresh-looking punctures or cuts in the tank or fuel lines. Once found a drilled tank directly above a drilled-through muffler. Never found out who did it, though.”

“And if it’s steering?” Kit asked.

“That’s what it was with this one, okay,” Jim said. “Faulty maintenance, probably, but an accident. The universal went. It does that sometimes.”

“The what?”

“The rubber universal on the steering column. Here, I’ll show you.” He called over to his assistant. “Bill, lower the thing, will you?”

The assistant dropped the hydraulic lift, and Jim opened the hood, raising it onto its stand-bar. “There,” he said, pointing to the disconnected joint halfway down the steering linkage.

“Got a flashlight?” Kit asked.

“I’ll do better than that,” the mechanic said, and he swung a powerful sodium light down from its stand and turned it on.

Kit focused the light on the broken piece. The hard rubber-metal bonded part had separated from its lower U-fitting, which now dangled uselessly from the lower arm.

“It just came apart,” the mechanic said. “Old and brittle. Cracked. The heavy strain of a high-speed turn ripped it apart. It should have been replaced years ago.”

“I want it,” Kit said.

“Well,” the mechanic licked his lips. “I dunno—”

”Call Yost if you want,” Kit said, “but get that part out for me.”

“I guess it’s okay,” the mechanic said. He went off for his socket wrench set and in two minutes had the unit off. “You’ll sign for it?”

“Sure,” Miles Archer said.

Lowell MacDuffee of MacDuffee’s English Motors, Silver Spring, Maryland, stared sadly down at the rotted rubber of the universal. “This piece of crud was not off Dianna’s car,” he said.

“I saw the police mechanic remove it,” Kit told him.

“I don’t care what you saw,” MacDuffee said. “This is a standard maintenance item, and I’ve been maintaining Dianna’s car for two years. For that matter, she bought it here. Wait a minute.” He turned to the office file behind him and slid open one of the drawers, leafing through it until he found the right folder. “Here’s a record of the work we’ve done on the car. And here—wait a minute—here is the part. We sold it to her a little over a year ago.”

“You install it?”

“It doesn’t say. She may have done it herself—she did all her own minor maintenance. Or I may have done it for her. She wasn’t charged for labor, but for good customers we’re careless about that.”

“But you can’t swear you installed it.”

“No, I can’t. But look”—he picked up the defective part—“this thing’s at least five years old. Hell, it’s probably ten. It’s a routine replacement point on all circa 1960 Jaguars—the XK-150 sports cars, the three-point-four, and three-point-eight sport saloons, even the big Mark IX mothers. It’s a five-dollar part, takes five minutes to change. This isn’t the one that was on her car. This is off a junker—or a junk pile.” He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from his top desk drawer and stuck it in his right eye. Then he carefully went over the part: the severed metal end-plate, the eight bolts, the eight nuts and washers.

“There’s two overlapping sets of impressions where the end pieces have been socked up against the holding flanges on the steering column arms. That means this piece of crud has been installed twice. And look at this rubber: most of it has torn across, but here where it started is a clean, even break. It was sliced about a quarter of an inch to get it started. I’m not a detective, but it sure looks to me like someone wanted that part to give at the next major strain.”

“You’re doing fine,” Kit said. “Thank you.”