Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [223]
In the end, Tripp declared that she would go to her grave satisfied that she had delivered Monica to OIC for the sake of a higher good. “I know that Monica feels she hates me, and that makes me sad because I don’t hate her, in fact, at all,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m completely disappointed in her choices and completely horrified that she chose the path she did after the affair … but, no, I don’t hate her.”
ERIC Holder was bedeviled by the call from Jackie Bennett. It certainly put a damper on his evening at the Wizards’ game, not to mention the fact that the Wizards lost 89–79 in the final three minutes. Holder was a veteran of the American criminal justice system. He was not ordinarily rattled by calls like this. After graduating from Columbia Law School in 1976, he had worked his way up from trial lawyer in the Public Integrity Section of the Justice Department, to judge on the D.C. Superior Court, to U.S. attorney in Washington, and now to deputy attorney general. A tall, handsome African American man with an easy manner that neutralized opponents, Holder had entered the Justice Department with a positive view of special prosecutors. He had admired the work of Archibald Cox and Leon Jaworski during the tumult of Watergate; he respected the special prosecutor concept as a healthy one. Thus far, the relationship between the Justice Department and Ken Starr’s Office of Independent Counsel had been positive enough. There was no reason to think that it would change.
The next afternoon, Holder and Jackie Bennett swapped phone calls, with Bennett continuing to delay as long as possible, telling the deputy attorney general, “Late afternoon or early evening—after 6—would be better for us.” The two men finally agreed to meet in Holder’s office at 6:15 P.M.
As the clock ticked away, Jackie Bennett received a second urgent phone call from Michael Isikoff. This time Bennett closed his door and took the call. The Newsweek reporter cut to the chase. “I know what you guys have been doing,” Isikoff said. “I know everything. We need to talk.” There was something “sort of threatening” about his tone. The prosecutor told Isikoff, “Come on over. We’ve got to talk face-to-face.” Bennett hung up and immediately dialed Linda Tripp at the Pentagon. How in God’s name had Isikoff learned all of these details? he thundered. Where was the journalist’s information coming from? Tripp replied innocently, “Oh well, the only person I talked to was Lucianne Goldberg.” Bennett nearly blew a gasket. Lucianne Goldberg, the queen of literary gossip? Hadn’t they made it clear that Tripp was to “keep all this secret”?
By the time Bennett slammed down the phone, Isikoff had arrived in a cab. The two men took seats in the small OIC conference room. Bennett slumped down, narrowed his eyes, and stared at the tenacious reporter, who was a foot shorter than him. Isikoff was an intense man with dark, slightly graying hair, in his midforties, who wore intellectual-looking wire-rimmed glasses. As usual, he was “all business.” The journalist slapped his cards on the table: He knew about everything—about Tripp, about Vernon Jordan, about the FBI body wire, about Starr’s involvement in the case, about Monica Lewinsky’s sexual relationship with the president; about all of the “salacious stuff.” It was a blockbuster story—maybe even the story of the century. He, Isikoff, was prepared to print it soon, whether or not OIC chose to corroborate any details. Now came the kicker: Isikoff’s deadline was Saturday. Before he could run the story, protocol required that he contact Vernon Jordan, Monica Lewinsky, and the president’s lawyer Bob Bennett, to give them a chance to rebut the explosive allegations.
“So if there’s some reason you don’t want me to do that right now,” Isikoff said, “I need to know