Five

It had taken a good deal of maneuvering to get me an interview with Madeline Crosby. After all, it was Legs Gibson’s rumor-mongering that had kept her off the Supreme Court, so she was-n’t likely to acquiesce to a plea from Stephanie. And if Crosby had even heard of Snapdragon, it was likely to have been in the context of the odd classical music review they might run to fill space between the headbangers and the rappers.

So, I had had to rely on Mitch Davis, over at USA Today, to pave the way. Davis, after much grousing about “giving aid and comfort to the enemy,” had made a couple of phone calls and advised me never to call him about this story again. Spoil-sport.

Crosby maintained a home office in, of all places, the Watergate complex, on the assumption that lightning never strikes twice in the same place, I guess. I was buzzed in on Saturday morning while Abby and the kids were out looking at Archie Bunker’s chair and the Fonz’s jacket at the Museum of Cool Stuff From Television. That Smithsonian is really a fun place.

In her mid-fifties, Madeline Crosby was not (forgive me, Madeline!) a beautiful woman. But she had a face so full of wisdom and wit, and eyes with just the right hint of sparkle, that it never occurred to me she was anything but lovely.

She had been an up-and-comer out of the John Marshall School of Law in Chicago, class of 1970. A year clerking for Justice Thurgood Marshall didn’t hurt, and by the late 1980s, Crosby was too strong a candidate for the Federal bench to be denied. It wasn’t until the mid-90’s, when she was nominated to the Supreme Court, that the allegations of an abortion—a legal abortion, it should be noted—were made, not terribly surreptitiously, by Legs Gibson. Her nomination was scuttled within a week, although the abortion issue was never directly cited. Everyone knew Legs’ news leak had done the job it had set out to do—it kept Madeline Crosby from being a terrific Supreme Court justice, because her point of view wasn’t far enough to the right.

Crosby gave me a curious, but not interested, glance as I walked into her office. She was reading a document on her desk, wearing a pair of half-glasses that I would no doubt need within five years. She gestured to a chair.

“Sit down, Mr. Tucker.”

I did so, and took out my tape recorder as I waited. I also had a reporter’s notebook and a pen, but they were mostly to give my hands something to do during the interview. I don’t trust tape recorders, but I confess that I don’t take notes as carefully when I’m using one as I do otherwise.

Crosby put down the document and took off the glasses. She regarded me carefully, trying to determine if I were friend or foe.

“Why am I seeing you, Mr. Tucker?”

“A question I’ve been asking myself all morning, Your Honor.”

She chuckled. “You’re here investigating the murder of Mr. Gibson, is that right?” I nodded. “Am I a suspect?”

“Hardly. Although you probably had the best motive I’ve come across so far. No, Your Honor. . .”

“Oh, please call me Madeline. ‘Your Honor’ will keep us here until Tuesday.” The sparkle in the eyes hadn’t been lying. Madeline Crosby was a real human being.

“Thank you, Madeline. I’m Aaron.”

“And you were saying, Aaron, about how I wasn’t a suspect, although you implied that I would be if I’d had any nerve.”

She caught me off-guard with that one, and most people have a hard time doing that in conversation. I stuttered for a moment, and felt my mouth open and close.

Madeline Crosby laughed. It wasn’t a victorious, “gotcha!” kind of laugh—it was genuine delight in having amused herself. “Oh, not to worry, Aaron,” she said when she was finished laughing. “I’m not going to bite you. I just couldn’t resist.”

“I’m glad to hear it. The fact is, I’m here for background on um, Mr. Gibson, and since he built so much of his reputation at your expense. . .”

Crosby sat back and sighed. “You figured that I’d have something to say about him. Well, I do. Louis Gibson was an asshole of the first degree. And you may certainly quote me.”

Well, I had my lead paragraph for the Snapdragon story right there, even if nobody ever found out who killed Legs. When an almost-Supreme Court Justice calls someone an asshole and asks to be quoted, you’re having a good day as a journalist.

“How did you find out about his allegations to begin with?” I asked.

“The fact is, I read them in the Post the day after the Washington Times printed them, like everyone else,” she said, shaking her head. “But I had been called by other media as soon as the Times story broke. That, you must understand, was such a confusing, whirlwind time. You hear rumors that your name might be on the list, then you get them confirmed, then you get the phone call from the President, and then your life is immediately a matter of public record from beginning to end. So I barely had time to think about the issues I thought were important, that I might be asked about. This article came from out of the blue.”

I nodded. “Did you ever meet Louis Gibson?”

She smiled a bit and put her fingers to her eyes for a good long rub. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. It was years later. By then, Gibson was the head of that bogus foundation of his, and he showed up at a fundraiser where I was speaking. He was there, of course, to try and stir up the opposition, show that there was dissent within the party, even though the only dissent in the room was his, and he wasn’t a member of any party I’d ever join.” Crosby opened her eyes again and caught me in her gaze. “He walked up to me afterward and offered his hand. Can you imagine? If you have strong enough convictions to sabotage someone’s career, the least you can do is stick by them and refuse to act friendly toward her. But, no. Here he comes with his cute little wife by his side, putting out his hand, waiting for the photo op so he can show he’s really a nice guy after all. Well, he wasn’t a nice guy, and I told him in graphic terms what he could do with his hand.”

“In front of his wife?”

“To tell you the truth, she didn’t seem to mind,” Crosby said. “I remember her chuckling just a bit at the suggestion.”

“That’s not inconsistent with what I know,” I told her. “Madeline, can you think of anyone who would want Louis Gibson dead?”

“I can think of hundreds of people who are thrilled that he’s dead. On both sides of the aisle, by the way. Either because he was such an incredible impediment to progress, or because it leaves a big spot open that some reactionary idiot will want to assume. Decent conservatives considered him an embarrassment.”

“Can you think of anyone who actually has the guts to kill him?”

“In this town? Not really.”

I stood up. “Thank you so much for your time, Madeline. I appreciate your talking to me.” I turned the recorder off and approached her. “I hope you’ll take my hand.”

She stood and accepted it, smiling. “Yours? Anytime, Aaron. You’re a delightful change of pace from the usual Washington reporter.”

“That’s because I’m from New Jersey.”

Crosby grinned wider. “A much misunderstood state. Really quite a lovely place to live, in spots.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Madeline.” I turned to leave.

“Aaron,” she said, and I stopped on my way to the door. “I’m curious. You didn’t ask me. . .”

“I didn’t ask you what?”

“If the allegations Gibson made were true.”

“That’s right,” I said, “I didn’t ask.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I considered that for a moment. “Because it didn’t make any difference to the story I’m writing, so it’s none of my business.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Aaron,” she said. Crosby’s smile was ear-to-ear now.