Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [207]
The young woman whom Carter observed that day was strikingly pretty, with long black hair, lively eyes, and a disarming openness. He perceived her to be pleasant, bright, articulate, and an easy conversationalist. As they talked about her situation, “she didn’t appear particularly excited or anxious.”
The story the potential new client told the lawyer was innocuous enough—a large number of former interns at the White House, Lewinsky said, were being subpoenaed in the Paula Jones case. She had been swept into this dragnet. Monica slid a copy of the subpoena across the table. Carter examined it, scratching his short, trimmed beard. With Christmas coming at the end of the week, there was only a small window of time in which to get this job accomplished. He asked Monica, “Well, what are your vacation plans?” She said that she was going to New York to visit her mother for the holiday. Carter swept his finger across the legal document, giving it a quick read. Besides compelling Monica to give her deposition in January, the subpoena also required her to produce tangible items, most of them connected in some way to President Bill Clinton. Carter said, “Okay, I want you to go around your house … see if you can gather up as many things as you think are described in that list that’s attached to it, and bring those to our [next] meeting.”
Two days later, Monica returned to Carter’s office with items responsive to the subpoena: several White House Christmas cards signed by the president and First lady; a photo of interns standing at the South Portico of the White House with Bill Clinton (the photo appeared to be machine-signed with the president’s autograph); and a photo of Bill and Hillary Clinton standing with Monica and her date in front of a Christmas tree at a White House holiday party. There were several short, innocuous notes from the president, such as “Thanks for the tie,” “Hillary and I send best regards,” and “Thanks for the poem for Boss’s day.” Carter surmised that these, too, were machine-signed. The material that Monica had dumped onto the table of his conference room appeared to be the sort of standard mementos that any intern working in the White House might save for her scrapbook.
Carter now delved into specifics: Did Monica know why she had been subpoenaed? Had she ever been with the president alone? Did she know of others whose names were on the witness list?
Monica replied with a poker face, “I don’t know.” (She never breathed the name of Linda Tripp.) She had delivered mail to the president once or twice during the government shutdown, she said. She had no clue why anyone might be spreading this gossip about her; it was a bunch of hooey.
The client’s responses were persuasive to Carter. She told him, “I mean, I’m a woman just starting my employment career and I just would not like to be associated with this Paula Jones craziness.” Monica explained that she was in the process of seeking new employment in New York, where her mother had relocated—being dragged back to testify in the Jones case was not a good thing for any young woman in her position. Carter nodded his head. “I can understand that,” he said, scratching his beard thoughtfully.
By the end of the meeting, Frank Carter was satisfied. His lawyerly instincts told him that there was “no danger whatsoever here.” He tapped his pen on the conference table; he proposed that he draft a motion to quash the subpoena. He would argue to the Paula Jones judge that having to testify was an unnecessary embarrassment for any young woman seeking to get on her feet, whose only sin was having worked as an intern within physical proximity of President Bill Clinton.