Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [50]
As with every Parmele campaign appearance, this rally had been choreographed from Washington by White House political adviser Chet Fletcher, whose exquisitely detailed plans had been transmitted to political operatives from the Indiana Democratic National Committee. Judging from Fletcher’s seeming obsession with detail, it was assumed that the roly-poly adviser relished putting together such appearances. The truth was that Fletcher did not enjoy the task, beyond deciding where the president would appear and what he would say. The requisite circus atmosphere created by local partisans—the audience of the already convinced and committed; the exuberant high school bands that would play at the drop of a hat for any politician; the balloons and posters and signs placed in the hands of the party faithful; the usual cast of local politicians lined up to praise their leader, make their speeches, and hope they weren’t backing a loser; the programmed applause and scripted cheers—was distasteful to this particular political puppeteer. He viewed such events as being akin to the epidemic of unrealistic reality shows on television. But to leave such planning to others would have been unacceptably stressful. Fletcher micromanaged it all.
The black sedan in which he rode was directly behind Parmele’s black limousine. With Fletcher was the president’s congressional liaison, Walter Brown, and Parmele’s lead speechwriter on domestic policy issues, Laura Havran, a Ph.D. and former American history professor. Fletcher had lobbied for her to join the staff once Parmele took office; he was more comfortable around academics than around the veteran political operatives occupying the most important positions in the administration.
“Did you make those changes I wanted?” Fletcher asked Havran as they proceeded from the airport to where the rally would take place.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course he might not follow the script.”
“As usual,” Brown said, laughing.
Fletcher winced and looked out the window. A small crowd had gathered and was strung out along the boulevard to witness the procession of limousines and police vehicles. He didn’t understand why anyone would waste time gaping at a bunch of cars passing by. This was no presidential motorcade, with the nation’s leader waving to the crowd from an open limousine. That scenario had been considered. But with Indiana designated as a politically hostile state—and with JFK and Dallas always in mind—Fletcher had nixed any notion of open cars. Get to the rally as quickly as possible, put his man at the podium, pump out the requisite messages to the party faithful, bag the checks, and get back to D.C.
“The first lady seemed in good spirits this morning,” Brown said.
“She looked lovely,” Havran said.
“Yes, she did,” Fletcher agreed, his attention still on the onlookers lining the route.
“I thought Robin handled the questions about her nicely yesterday at the briefing,” Havran said, referring to the president’s press secretary, Robin Whitson, another handpicked Fletcher hire and a former academic with a Ph.D. in communications. The questions had come from a cantankerous wire service reporter known to be a perpetual thorn in the administration’s side.
“I’m sure you’re aware, Robin, of talk that the president and the first lady have discussed divorce once he wins a second term,” the reporter had said. “Will you deny that divorce is being discussed?”
“As I’ve said before, the president’s personal life is very much his own and shouldn’t be a subject of questioning at these briefings.”
“Oh, come on, Robin,” said the reporter. “A president’s personal life, especially his relationship with his wife, can have an impact on his performance. The American people have a right to know if things are rocky in the White House bedroom.”
Before she could answer, another reporter said, “Where has the first lady been? She’s never with him.”
Robin smiled, leaned on the