The Rake (18 page)

South Bend, October 1991

Justin had had no further meetings with Professor Lejeune since the one in May. When he returned to South Bend in September, the French-department secretary gave him a curriculum, a class schedule (eight
A.M.
, Monday through Friday), student names, and classroom assigned. Justin reported periodically on his students' progress, filing their grades. There was the one problem. Late in September, Justin had to notify the department that one of his students, Lawrence Abraham Custer, Class of '93, had failed every quiz so far. That development earned Assistant in Instruction Durban an ostensibly extemporaneous encounter with the captain of the football team, a magnificence named Ned Rodzinski. The two students were filing, in separate columns, into the dining hall. Captain Ned crossed over to Justin, nodded, and introduced himself. This was an act of ingratiation: the captain of the football team at Notre Dame did not need to identify himself to any living creature in South Bend.

“You know, Durban, Larry Custer is one of the best linemen on the team. Next year he could—I mean it's possible, he's that good—could be elected captain.”

Justin said he hadn't known this.

“Maybe you didn't know that an athlete who is failing a course at midterm is forbidden to engage in any extracurricular activity.”

Justin thought swiftly. One part of quick thinking, in a bind like this, is to know when disingenuous naïveté is appropriate. “Well, Ned, let's just hope he pulls his socks up before the midterm exam. I'm sure he will.”

Ned smiled and rejoined his classmate Barbara, who was a cheerleader for Ned, on the field and off it.

It was late one afternoon soon after the Notre Dame–Michigan game that Justin had the call from the French-department secretary. Professor Lejeune wished to see him.

Justin worried that evening and the next morning. The football crisis having passed—it was two weeks until the midterm, and Custer had indeed pulled his socks up—he couldn't think of any problems with his teaching of French 10ab. His students were doing well, and he gave them two hours every week of office hours, during which he would help any student who came to see him.

Merde alors!
If his commission as assistant in instruction was to be terminated, that would be because older teachers were now available, or student enrollment for the next semester was expected to diminish.

Lejeune addressed him in French: “Sit down; read this.” Lejeune handed him a typed essay, a dozen pages long.

Justin put on his glasses and recognized, after half a page, the essay on Mallarmé that Allard had given him to read the week before.

“I've already read this, sir.”

“You are familiar with it?”

“Well, yes. It was written by Allard de Minveille. He is my roommate. He gave it to me to read.”

“Did you contribute to the writing?”

“No. Well, I told him I thought two or three paragraphs were unclear.”

“Please find the paragraphs to which you were referring.”

Justin went back to the paper, and began to read it page by page. In a few minutes he said, “He must have reworked it. It was where he wrote about the reception given to the early work of Mallarmé. But it seems clear to me now.”

“Are you familiar with the biography of Mallarmé by Philippe Ducoquet?”

“No, sir.”

“Minveille did not call this book to your attention?”

“No, sir.”

Professor Lejeune leaned back in his chair. He looked at Justin and extended his hand for the paper. Justin returned it to him.

“I am responsible for the honor of the students who take my courses.”

Justin nodded apprehensively.

Nothing more was said by Lejeune. He signaled the end of the meeting by picking up another manuscript. “Bien. Merci, Durban.”

Justin got up, nodded, and went to the door.

Back in his room he sat down at his desk. He looked over at Allard's corner, on the other side of the room. His eyes went to the
bookcase. Allard would not be back from the golf course for at least an hour.

He pondered the rows of books, perhaps 200 of them. He made up his mind, got up, and went over to the bookcase, scanning the titles. At the end of the second row, he saw the book he was looking for.

He took it down and leafed through the pages. The book was well marked by pencil lines and an occasional note in the margin, the handwriting discernibly Allard's. He came to the passage Professor Lejeune had called to his attention. It was underlined, perhaps fifty words.

Justin considered reckless action. Should he just remove the book? Destroy it?

What would that prove? He replaced the book, and a while later greeted a cheerful Allard back from the links, his golf cap stamped, N
OTRE
D
AME
1992.

Allard put down his clubs and went to the little refrigerator, reaching for a Coke. “Tu désires?”

“No thanks.”

“What did the Professor of Aloofness want with you?”

“He wanted to know if I had read your essay.”

“The Mallarmé?”

“Yes.”

Allard sat down at his desk. He lowered his head. “So he spotted the plagiarism. Son of a bitch!” He managed a laugh. “Did he think maybe
you
had written it?”

Justin said nothing. He picked up his satchel and went to the door. “I'm going to the library.” He paused. “I hope you're still at Notre Dame when I get back. Why are some bright people so stupid?” That sounded especially scathing in French.

Washington, October 1991

“Honey?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you say jus'…‘yes'?”

“Yes,
dear
.”

“You didn' use to be that way. Is it because I'm not Miss America any more?”

“Oh, Priscilla. You were a terrific Miss America. But that was 1973. You're not
supposed
to be Miss America for the rest of your life.”

“You use to tell me I'd be
your
Miss America for
always
.”

Reuben was trying to read the draft of a speech. “
Always
, honey, came—and went.”

“I'm thinkin' of goin' back to Dr. Ellsworth.”

“Come on! He did your face just—”

“It was 1988.”

“Well, you're not supposed to have your face done every three years.”

“Marilyn Monroe did, I read.”

“Well, dear Priscilla, you're not Marilyn Monroe.”

She got up, walking with measured steps over to the stand-up mirror on the other side of the room. Easing her negligee
over her shoulders, she bared her breasts. “Anythin' wrong with these?”

He looked up. He
knew
that would be a mistake, but it was done, and his staff was now at full, ineluctable attention. His voice took on the habitual hoarseness. “You wanting a little loving?”

She smiled and let her negligee fall to the floor.

Ten minutes later he rose, breathing hard. “I'm going to get myself something to drink.”

“Well, put your shorts back on.”

“Why? I like them off. Even if I don't have to go—like you—and look at myself in the mirror.” But he did turn his head to the mirror, and stole a pleased glance at himself.

“Honey,” her voice was silky, “since you're goin' downstairs, do something for your lovah?”

“Like what?” But of course he knew what she wanted from downstairs. “Okay, I'll bring it up.”

At the bar, he measured the rum carefully, wondering if he could get away with giving her just two jiggers…. No. There would be the quarreling, and to quiet that, he'd have to go back to the bar and get her another slug.

He brought up the rum and Coke, and for himself a cold beer.

She took a good gulp. “Honey, you know, I heard from three different people jus' in the last coupla days you're gonna be president. Not you're gonna
run
for president, you're gonna
be
president.”

“Priscilla, I told you before, we just don't
talk
about that subject.”

“Well, you're gonna
have
to ‘talk about that subject,' like you put it, when you begin to, well, campaign for president. Bess said to me—you know Bess, she does my hair—she said you were gonna, well…go public next week.”

Reuben was surprised. “Where'd she pick that rumor up?”

“I don' know. But she tol' me if I gave her the exact date, she'd fix me up to look real good.”

“You look great, dear. Just great. But don't go and encourage rumors. If it's going to happen it's going to happen.—I'd better sleep in the study tonight. I have to be up real early.”

“Well, don't wake
me
up real early, honey, 'less you want a little more poontang!”

He leaned over and kissed her.

In his study he looked at his watch. It wasn't yet midnight, and Susan worked late. But then Susan wouldn't mind if Reuben Castle rang her at three in the morning. He dialed her number. “My wife's hairdresser told her, like it was a scheduled thing, that we were ready to announce.”

“Well, Reuben, maybe that's because you just about
are
ready to announce. You had it down for October 15—next Tuesday. Well, Hal just told me today to move it up by one day, so it will be on Monday. And
60 Minutes
is going to do you Sunday night. That'll tie in perfectly.”

“I knew
60 Minutes
was cooking up something. They've been all over the place.” He corrected himself silently. Not
quite
all
over the place—
60 Minutes
hadn't poked around in Letellier, as far as he knew.

“You know, the Secret Service will put a detail on you beginning when you announce. Beginning Monday.”

“I'll be working on my announcement tomorrow. We mustn't let Mike Wallace down.”

“Oh, dear no, Reuben. We would
never
survive that.”

“
Never!
” Reuben got into the act, exaggerating in his voice the unthinkability of letting Mike Wallace down.

Manhattan, October 1991

“This guy
what
? Wants to see me about the Sunday program? About
tonight's
program?”

Don Hewitt never used more words than were needed to produce his documentaries exactly as he wished them seen. He was fiercely proud of meeting deadlines imposed by himself on himself, and proud of
60 Minutes
' record of dramatizing a subject or a news event in what seemed, to rival producers, a matter of, well, sixty minutes.

He would spend weeks and months on a segment, inching it along toward a completion not always visualized until the last minute. A dozen proposals rested, unfinished, in the can, pending news developments—turns in the fortunes of presidents and kings, bankers and poets, tennis stars and guitarists. Hewitt would air them when he thought the time was right.

He had considered doing Castle ever since the celebrated “debate” with General Westmoreland, and there was stray material in the can. But it wasn't until Friday, October 11, that Kaltenbach flat-out tipped him off—told him exactly when Castle would announce.

Hal Kaltenbach would never deceive Don Hewitt. Never did, never—Hewitt felt—would. People of true consequence on
the American scene knew the long reach of
60 Minutes,
and Harold Kaltenbach was planning, no less, to make a young senator from North Dakota—
North Dakota!
—president of the United States. Hewitt sensed there might be something to it, this fielding of Reuben Castle for president. Kaltenbach, he knew very well, didn't dissipate his unique resources on out-of-sight long shots. So Hewitt made the deal:
60 Minutes
would go with it on Sunday. But in return, Castle had to announce his candidacy not on Tuesday, but on Monday, giving
60 Minutes
a fabulous scoop. Monday—tomorrow!

Hewitt had needed to prepare a memorable portrait-style segment in just two days. Mike Wallace, the senior broadcaster on
60 Minutes
, was alerted to go with it. He put his top researchers to work with his associate producer, Allan Stoops. It was past midnight Saturday when the phone rang—the special phone with the closely guarded number—and Stoops reported to Hewitt that the segment was completed. And that it was very good.

Now—three o'clock on Sunday afternoon—Stoops called again. “You know, Don, I've got a real feel for the work we did on Senator Castle. I think it's a great segment. But I'm telling you, you've got to see this kid—hear what he says, and see his face. This is what I call life and death.” So Justin Durban was admitted to the apartment house on East 57th Street, only a few blocks crosstown from the studio.

A half hour later Hewitt had everyone assembled at the studio. Two writers, four cameramen, two editors, one makeup woman, three researchers. If Allan Stoops had been able to do so, he
would have mobilized the Seventh Army to quarantine the building. No one was allowed in; no one was allowed out. A single telephone line, on Hewitt's desk, was operating. Twenty other lines were blocked.

And all Hewitt had to work with was a photograph of the senator as a twenty-year-old. Just that, and one live twenty-one-year-old. Calls to the young man's mother failed to reach her. But the Grand Forks lawyer was tracked down on the golf course. The RCMP commander was roused at home, as was the fire chief in Letellier. Showtime minus ten minutes, and Hewitt had three alternatives. The first was to show the original profile exactly as it had been prepared. The second was to kill it and run something from the can. The third was to run the revised segment.

Oh, God, the risks.