Michael Scherer
Off-the-record with Patrick Fitzgerald
The press chases the prosecutor down courthouse halls, panting like dogs after the meaningless scraps of information he tosses us.
After nearly two years of official, leak-proof silence, special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald revealed one thing Wednesday: He is willing to talk to reporters off-the-record.
But it also became clear that he may be a bit out of practice as to the custom of speaking off-the-record. Typically, the source and the reporter must agree first to the terms of the discussion. Once agreed, the reporter must be prepared to go to his or her grave, or at least to the door of Fitzgerald’s grand jury room, to keep that pledge. (See: Miller, Judith; Cooper, Matt.)
Fitzgerald’s technique was a bit cruder. At two points near midday, he could be seen by passersby barreling down the first-floor hallway of the U.S. District Court in Washington, asking an entire pack of reporters, and presumably the passing public in earshot, to treat his comments as “off-the-record.”
This reporter was present for the second hallway sprint when Patrick Fitzgerald went “off-the-record.” It was a chaotic scene shortly after 1 p.m. With aides at his side, he walked at a brisk clip surrounded by more than a dozen scribes, one from nearly every major newspaper and network, many of them barking questions as they chased him. Though your faithful scribe had no opportunity to agree to Fitzgerald’s off-the-record request, let alone make eye contact with him, you will not find the words he spoke here. Prosecutor Fitzgerald, of course, is not someone to argue with about the technicalities of reporter-source communications. He said a few words, and then he walked out the courthouse door. Before anyone could catch his or her breath, Fitzgerald had already made his way into the back seat of a champagne-colored Crown Victoria, which whisked him away.
It can also be recorded in these pages that rumors had already been making the rounds through the courthouse for nearly an hour about the substance of the first “off-the-record” utterance, a major event by the man who holds the nation’s political future in his briefcase. Apparently, he had said, “I’m leaving,” according to several secondhand accounts. In other words, Fitzgerald appears to have told reporters, “off-the-record,” that his session behind closed doors with the grand jury was done for the day. There would not be, at least immediately, a press conference at the courthouse steps. No frog marching of I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby or Karl Rove. No relief to the weeks of building speculation over the fate of the Bush White House.
For the nearly two dozen print reporters and television producers who had spent the day scrambling through the corridors of the courthouse like fevered rats sniffing for cheese, this was a bit of a letdown. The pack had proved itself particularly inept Wednesday, always standing on the wrong side of the grand jury door or in the hallways, rustling papers and thumbing BlackBerrys, as confused as everyone else. Reporters nodded and smiled in unison at members of the grand jury as they filed in and out of the elevator, cradling coffee or walking on canes, wearing winter coats or shouldering large purses. But that was it. Hardly a word was exchanged. To pass the time, reporters traded theories about what was going on. One cable news producer cradled a walkie-talkie and could be heard at one point saying to an associate at another position in or around the courthouse, “Red dog, this is Grey Fox.” Another reporter, betraying some frustration, mused about her own profession, “We sound like such losers, and that’s because we are.”
The morning had certainly started on a somewhat more optimistic note. Fitzgerald, upon entering the courthouse, had stayed firmly “on-the-record.”
“Today the day?” one reporter asked him after he had passed through the metal detector. “I’ve got no comment, sorry,” he said, striking a sympathetic tone.
Another reporter tried a less direct tack. Referring to the swarm of cameramen outside the courtroom who had all but assaulted him with their lenses when he arrived at the courthouse, she said, “They are getting some good shots of you.”
Fitzgerald, who knows the whole world is waiting for him to speak, took the bait. “Oh,” he said, in an admirably self-deprecating tone. “There is no good shot of me.”
And that’s about all — on-the-record — we got from Fitzgerald.
Salon’s People of the Year: Sgts. Omar Mora and Yance Gray
Before they died in Iraq, Sgts. Mora and Gray proved that in a democracy, dissent is patriotic, even when it comes from soldiers on the battlefield.
In warfare’s long history, the rules of the battlefield have remained unchanged. Soldiers follow their orders, and refrain from criticizing their command. It is a pact. They will fight, kill and die for the decisions of kings, generals and presidents. They will do it all as service, to country, to friends, to family, to honor. In exchange for abstractions, they offer all they have.
So it was noteworthy on Aug. 19, 2007, when seven active enlistees of the U.S. Army published a letter from Iraq in the pages of the New York Times. Over the course of 1,414 words, they offered America a military critique from the field — about the intractable war, about the current military strategy, about the hollowness of the political debate in Washington. In passages thick with nuance, they did what soldiers, even noncommissioned officers, rarely do. In an unmistakable act of patriotism, they went outside the chain of command.
Continue Reading CloseMeghan McCain is not Chelsea Clinton
No fear and a little loathing on the campaign trail with the 23-year-old daughter of Republican candidate John McCain.
There is only one proper place for the candidate’s daughter, sunny and smiling behind mom or dad on the stump, in the campaign ad, on election night as confetti rains down. Everything else is out of place, and fraught with danger. In American politics, the candidate’s daughter has no right to thoughts, desires or a life of her own.
These rules are brutally enforced by the media. If one of the Bush twins gets drunk in college, falling over and straddling a girlfriend’s leg, the camera snaps rock the tabloids, prompting a national dialog about underage drinking. If Chelsea Clinton goes to work for a hedge fund, she calls her mom’s commitment to the poor into question. And nothing more needs to be said about Alexandra Kerry’s see-through mishap on the Cannes red carpet, or Mary Cheney‘s attraction to women, or that time Ashley Biden was arrested for obstructing a police officer outside a North Side bar in Chicago.
Continue Reading CloseWill the real Minuteman please endorse?
Seal-the-border immigration activists squabble over a recent endorsement of Mike Huckabee.
Of all the oddball endorsements of this presidential cycle–see Chuck Norris,, Larry Flynt–perhaps the oddest came over the transom yesterday. Jim Gilchrist, founder of the Minuteman Project, an effort to get Americans with binoculars to sit on the border in Arizona, put his name behind the campaign of Mike Huckabee. ” “Governor Huckabee actually wrote a plan that I can embrace,” gushed Gilchrist in a press release, referring to Huckabees nine-point immigration strategy.
Continue Reading CloseCollege kid caucus stuffing in Iowa?
A debate rages in the first voting state about whether college students should exercise their legal rights.
The clock is ticking on the Iowa caucuses, with just 22 days before zero hour, which means it’s time to address the ever-present specter of electoral fraud. For decades, the Iowa caucuses have been relatively clean affairs, unlike in South Carolina, where muck rules. In part, this has to do with the process itself, which is so Byzantine that for Democrats it looks more like musical chairs than voting. (For those who want to understand how it works, see here and here.)
Continue Reading CloseMike Huckabee’s gay and lesbian thing
When cornered about a 1992 questionnaire on the AIDS epidemic, the kinder, gentler evangelical leader stands by his old anti-gay rhetoric.
The first thing you tend to hear about former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee is that he is a new kind of evangelical political leader — he’s not mad, he lacks the fire and brimstone of damnation, and he tends to speak more about alleviating suffering than identifying sin. Furthermore, he is able to pull off this new attitude without abandoning the core values of his conservative faith. He remains adamantly against abortion, he favors teaching creationism alongside evolution, and he supports a federal amendment to ban gay marriage.
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