Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [187]
Rosenzweig and Marcus walked three blocks to the Deux Chemineés restaurant, shaking off the chilly rain to settle in for an excellent French dinner. They were joined by classmate Richard Porter and New York lawyer George Conway, two more elves who had come to town specially for the occasion. As they popped champagne corks to toast a $300 million corporate deal that Porter had just closed, the conversation steered far wide of the radioactive topic. Marcus believed that his goal had already been accomplished. Indeed, Rosenzweig had processed five “highlights” of inside information. These key points were, as Rosenzweig himself recalled, “president, sex, Jones trial, lying, jobs for silence.” He had agreed to take that cryptic information back to Washington and see if it was within OIC’s bailiwick. “I’ll ask,” he had told Marcus.
In the private room with a fireplace, as Porter poured fresh glasses of champagne, the four men enjoyed their bubbly along with the warm fire and congenial conversation. At some point that evening, while Rosenzweig was visiting the restroom, Marcus pulled Conway aside and whispered, “I told him about Lewinsky.” Conway’s jaw dropped open.
Rosenzweig took the 11:00 P.M. Metroliner back to D.C., sleeping soundly. It had been good wine and a pleasing meal. Years later, reflecting upon this night, he expressed dismay, on several levels, at what had transpired. First, he would kick himself for not paying more attention to the warning signals. His chat with Jerome Marcus in the law firm’s lobby would turn into “probably the single most significant moment in my life.” Yet Rosenzweig had missed the clue and treated it like no “big deal.” He would later do his best to explain: “It wasn’t like I thought this was some grave issue that was going to magnify itself into national significance. It was my friend telling me an interesting story that I had, you know, fairly substantial doubts as to, but it was like any other lead or tip.” He had misread that signal. “I mean, it will follow me forever,” Rosenzweig said.
The other disappointment was that his own friends had put him in this position of peril. Jerome and Richard were “good people.” But how could they justify this maneuver? “I feel a bit like they took advantage of our relationship,” admitted Rosenzweig. “And I feel a little hurt by it. They both had nice law firm jobs, didn’t run much risk … so I feel a little aggrieved.” He would never know for sure if his friends had “conspired” beforehand, to pop the question to him. But that question was indeed popped. Rosenzweig dutifully brought back the radioactive information to the OIC offices the next day. His former classmates had used him as a carrier. “This was a play they were making,” Rosenzweig concluded.
With a sigh, he added, “And it was a fairly effective one.”
THE next morning, Paul Rosenzweig rolled into work late. His mini-road trip to Philadelphia had been his first break from OIC labors in months. When Rosenzweig finally sauntered into Jackie Bennett’s office to pass along the intelligence he had picked up in predinner chat, it was already afternoon. “It wasn’t a burning thing,” Rosenzweig recalled. “I didn’t bolt into the office and rush to him to pass along the tip.”
Bennett’s fourth-floor office was the largest in the OIC suite, even bigger than Ken Starr’s, with expansive windows that provided a first-rate view of the capital. To the east, one could see the Ford Theater and the Hard Rock Café, with buses unloading tourists at regular intervals. In another direction, one could see men and women walking briskly into the FBI building and the monolithic Justice Department center. Four years’ worth of black binders containing Vince Foster reports, and reams of other documents filled the bookcases in Bennett’s office. On the wall were a picture of his wife and three boys, and a framed copy of the front page of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette with the headline “Governor to Resign”—a trophy