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I had just left the CNN set when I was handed a letter from a lawyer saying his client would soon be charging me with rape. My life, and assumptions about sex scandals, would change forever.

By Tucker Carlson

Sep 13, 2003 | It was June 2001, and I had just gotten off the "Crossfire" set when one of our producers handed me a stack of mail. On the way to the elevator, I glanced at it. On top of the pile was a registered letter from a law firm. It got my attention immediately. I've never had a pleasant letter from a lawyer.

This one was worse than most. It was written by an attorney in Indiana named Paul M. Blanton who wanted to let me know that his client, a woman named *Elizabeth Jansen, was planning to file criminal sex charges against me in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. "Ms. [Jansen] has informed me that she was raped by you," Blanton wrote. "If you should have any questions or concerns about any of the aforementioned, please do not hesitate to contact me."

Should I have any questions or concerns? I didn't know where to begin. Rape? Kentucky? Criminal charges? I knew I hadn't raped anyone. I didn't think I'd ever even been to Kentucky. The name Elizabeth Jansen sounded mildly familiar, though I couldn't recall why. I had the feeling that my life was about to change for the worse. I felt weak.

Then I noticed that the envelope had been opened. My producer had read the letter. She was looking at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, like she'd just discovered a terrible secret. Which I guess she had, but then so had I. I called her into my office and shut the door. I want you to know I didn't do this, I said, I promise. She looked relieved. "Of course not," she said.

I knew CNN wouldn't be as easy to convince. In fact, I knew the network would fire me immediately if it found out about the letter, and certainly if charges were filed against me in Kentucky. The one thing every journalist knows for certain about sex scandals is that they're always true. Partly true, anyway. Maybe you didn't rape this woman, they'd think; maybe you just had unusually rough sadomasochistic sex with her and she misconstrued it. Or maybe your affair with her simply fell apart in an acrimonious way, perhaps over your cocaine habit. Maybe you had sex with her but never knew her name. Something definitely happened between you, though. People don't just make up specific allegations out of nothing.

I went next door to see Bill Press, who was going through his own mail. I showed him the letter. He had two words of advice: "Bob Bennett." Bennett, who represented President Clinton during the early Lewinsky period, is the first lawyer most people in Washington think of when they hear the phrase "explosive allegations." For the scandal-besieged, Bob Bennett is almost a cliché. And for good reason. If you suspect you could be in deep trouble, there's no one better.

I finally reached Bennett on his cell phone an hour later. He was on a shuttle bus heading to the Hertz lot at an airport in the Midwest. He listened quietly. "First," he said, "don't worry. Second, don't tell anybody. I'll be back in town tomorrow. Call me."

I went home and went to bed. At three in the morning I woke up feeling completely out of control. Still half asleep, I was suddenly convinced that somehow I must have raped this woman, whoever she was. I must have done it while sleepwalking or during some sort of memory-erasing seizure. She couldn't have made up the whole thing. Maybe I have a brain tumor, I thought. Maybe I'm leading a double life I don't even know about. Maybe I'm going insane.

I got up and walked downstairs. For an hour I sat on the front steps thinking about my life, my wife and my three children, my job, and how it was all going to end because of something terrible I didn't even remember doing. I felt sadder than I had in a long time.

The next day, I found out more about what I had supposedly done. According to Elizabeth Jansen, whose lawyer relayed the details to Bob Bennett, I was in Louisville, Kentucky, one night two months before. Jansen, an accountant who lives 40 miles away in Mauckport, Indiana, was also in Louisville. We met at Harper's Restaurant on Hurstborne Parkway, where I slipped narcotics into her drink. By the time she awoke, she was covered with blood. She knew immediately that she had been violently raped. By me. In the restaurant. Presumably within view of dozens of other people, not one of whom had thought to report the crime to the police or the press.

It was a preposterous story. I'd never heard of Harper's Restaurant. I'd never been to Louisville. Judging from my schedule in March, I couldn't have gotten there. I was on television almost every night in Washington. Bennett explained this to Jansen's lawyer, Paul "Matt" Blanton. Fine, said Blanton, prove it. In seven days, we're going to the prosecutor. By the way, he added, we have evidence that Carlson and my client know each other. There's correspondence.

*Salon has changed the name of the woman for this excerpt.

Next Page: Turning to Clinton's lawyer, and taking a lie detector test

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