Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [265]
Bernie’s first question was, “Bill, how much is this going to cost? What do we need?” Ginsburg answered, “Bernie, it can go from hundreds of thousands to millions, especially if there is a trial, because they’re going to indict Monica for perjury and there’s going to be a trial… We’re probably going to have to file a suit against the president.” At this point, Ginsburg lowered his voice a notch. “To tell you the truth, Bernie,” Ginsburg whispered, “I’m scared. Can you imagine me trying the president of the United States of America?” Bernie answered candidly, “No, Bill Ginsburg, I can’t believe it.” He thought for a minute and asked, “Are you an expert in this area? You’re a malpractice attorney.” Ginsburg reassured his friend, “Look, Bernie, you’ve seen me in trial. This is no different than a medical malpractice case where you put your issues [in] and carry on the trial.” Ginsburg added, by way of comfort, that he had contacted a Washington, D.C., criminal attorney named Nate Speights to assist him on the case.
At that moment, Bernie Lewinsky was nearly overcome. Two lawyers? This was going to cost a lot of money. It was also going to do untold damage to the family name: “Lewinsky” would become a synonym for “presidential sex scandal.” Toward President Clinton, at that moment, Bernie felt only a numb uncertainty. After all, he still did not know the true story. Toward Monica, Bernie’s overwhelming feeling was, “God, what have you done? What have you been doing?” He was seeing flashbacks of a little girl splashing in the pool at their first home in Los Angeles—a radiant little girl he called “my little Farfel,” a Jewish term meaning “noodle”—and thinking, “Oh, my God, you’re in trouble, we’ve got to protect you.”
MONICA Lewinsky had crept out of her apartment and had driven away in her brother’s Ford Explorer SUV—it was being stored at her Watergate parking garage while he attended college—heading for Dulles Airport. She worried that if she didn’t watch carefully over her shoulder, “a van would zoom up, swoop me in and they’d arrest me.” Yet she met her arriving passenger without a hitch. As Bill Ginsburg walked out into the cold Washington air wearing a gray crewneck sweater, a cameraman appeared and asked, “Are you William Ginsburg?” The California lawyer answered, “That’s me.” He was surprised that someone on one side or the other had already leaked his identity to the press, allowing this lone cameraman to follow his movements from Los Angeles via Pittsburgh—most likely by obtaining the planes’ manifests. As the camera rolled, the television journalist asked, “What’s going on?” Ginsburg smiled into the camera and stated genially, “I don’t know what’s going on,” walking away with a polite bow. From that point forward, the California malpractice lawyer became known to the American media as “the avuncular Mr. Ginsburg.”
For sure, he was an anomaly in Washington: a bearded, laid-back-looking medical malpractice lawyer from Los Angeles; a graduate of University of California-Berkeley with a major in theater arts and literature who spoke and moved with a dramatic flair. He was a highly successful Jewish lawyer who had begun his practice in Los Angeles at a time when Jewish lawyers were still a distinct minority. An irreverent, funny, sarcastic, smart, occasionally kamikaze-like civil defense lawyer, he felt comfortable wearing gold chains around his neck and had little time for up tight, Brooks Brothers Washington lawyers who appeared to him more like lobotomized human beings than inspired