Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [48]
Foster walked into Nussbaum’s office in the West Wing, allowing his eyes to glance at the screen, as Nussbaum declared, “We hit two home runs today.” He noticed that Foster “seemed distracted.” Foster barely reacted to the good news relating to their dual victories. Bernie stood up and put on his suit jacket, determined to savor the moment. He announced, “I’m going out to lunch.”
It was the last time Bernie Nussbaum would ever see Vince Foster alive.
An administrative assistant named Linda Tripp, a holdover from the Bush administration, occupied a station outside the two men’s offices. Just after noon, Tripp brought Foster a lunch tray from the White House mess hall. Her boss had requested his usual. Tripp added some M&M’s to the tray, knowing that Foster enjoyed this special treat. He ate his meal, which consisted of a cheeseburger, french fries, a Coke, and a few of the tiny chocolate candies. All the while, he glanced at a newspaper. Tripp recalled, during later questioning by federal authorities, that the White House lawyer appeared to be unusually preoccupied. Three times that morning, he had traded phone calls with his friend Bill Kennedy. They never connected. When Foster walked out of his office at approximately 1 P.M., carrying his suit coat but no briefcase, he mentioned to Tripp that there were still some M&M’s on the tray—she was welcome to eat them. Foster’s last words were, “I’ll be back.”
Ten years later, having returned to his law firm in New York as a hard-nosed litigator, Bernie Nussbaum looked back on that bright July afternoon with a hitch in his voice: “To this day, it’s a sad story. We lost [Vince]. Lost him. He went and killed himself. It was ten years ago.… Such a sad thing.”
THE day was hot, with temperatures climbing to ninety degrees. In mid afternoon, according to official reports, Vince Foster drove his gray 1989 Honda Accord bearing Arkansas license plates to Fort Marcy Park in Fairfax County, Virginia. The park was just off the George Washington Memorial Parkway along the Potomac River, less than seven miles from the White House. Fort Marcy had been constructed as a Civil War fortification to guard Washington against Confederate attacks. It was now operated by the National Park Service as a place for travelers to make pit stops along the parkway, and to enjoy picnics in this beautiful historic setting. Here, atop a small hill with a Civil War cannon in the background, Foster sat down, cocked an antique .38-caliber revolver that had belonged to his father, jammed the four-inch barrel toward the back of his throat, and fired a single bullet into his mouth.
A confidential witness identified in official reports only as “CW” had parked his van in the parking lot and walked into the park, searching for a discreet place to urinate. CW came across what he believed, at first, was a mound of trash. He then realized he had stumbled upon a dead body, the right side stained with blood. The confidential witness jumped back into his van and drove 2.75 miles to the parkway headquarters, where he reported the body to two National Park Service employees, who quickly dialed 911. The time was 5:59 P.M. When U.S. Park Police and rescue personnel arrived on the scene three minutes later, they found Vincent W. Foster, Jr., wearing dress pants and a white button-down shirt, lying dead on the ground just north of the Civil War cannon, two hundred yards from the parking area nearest to the Chain Bridge Road exit. He was positioned on a slant, his head tilted upward, his hair still neatly combed, his legs pointing downward. A pager marked “WHCS” was still attached to his belt. It had been turned off to prevent incoming messages. A pair of glasses, later determined to be Foster’s, were