And that’s where In Frame came in. I also had no illusions about my place on this media roster. This interview with the senator would appear next to the article on “Best Neighborhood Bars of the World.” In Frame was the first interview of the day—the warm-up act. I was expected to discuss Asa Heathcote the man. “Light fare,” as Virginia had described it. As the senator’s tour progressed across town, I knew that news reporters would be rolling their eyes when they heard that Heathcote had started his morning with me. In Frame still had critics who thought we wrote “fluff,” and Virginia was banking on me delivering softball questions. Something about this fact riled me. Like a modern-day Walter Mitty, I imagined myself asking the questions that I knew Virginia wanted me to steer away from.
The rising sound of voices and forced laughter meant that Senator Heathcote had arrived. As if on cue, I saw the entourage, led by Sharlene, amble into the smaller conference room that had been set up for the occasion, including Diet Dr Pepper on ice—procured from an emergency CVS run. Virginia spotted me and waved. A sturdy woman dressed in a beige suit with sensible one-inch heels, Virginia had readers perched on her blond head and a set jaw, making her look tense as she clutched her giant plastic binder.
Heathcote had a reputation for being heavily “handled” by his team. If you spend time with many members of Congress, you’ll find that some of the best-known members are the least high-maintenance, driving themselves places—or famously taking the train or Metro to appearances with the latest edition of the Washington Post tucked under their arms. I’d often find the Speaker of the House sitting alone in the green room holding a 7-Eleven coffee cup, having arrived early at our events in his 2001 Toyota Camry. Asa Heathcote was not this type of senator. His staff treated him as though he were destined for something much bigger and they were going to propel him there. Media were given strict instructions about topics that were—and were not—off limits in interviews. Violations of any of the rules outlined by Virginia or the senator’s chief of staff meant you were never granted another interview.
I straightened my dress and headed down the hall toward the conference room. Nearly sixty, Heathcote was good looking and charming with a perpetual tan and a mane of thick silver hair. He was also one of those men who shook your hand and clasped it with his other hand, a fake gesture that, frankly, I hated.
“Hello, Senator.” As I held out my hand, the clasp came around, rehearsed like a Broadway dance number.
“Helen Lambert,” he smiled. “You look wonderful. Virginia tells me you run the place.”
“I do, Senator.”
He looked around. “No barbecue?”
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “We don’t have a grill up here. Fire code and all,” I said. “We’ll start here with a few questions. Then we’ll have a little golf lesson on the roof.”
He looked down at my Narciso Rodriguez cream shift dress and bone-colored Louboutins, hardly golf attire. “Uh… okay,” he said.
I glared at Virginia for putting me in this spot.
As if on cue, Sharlene pointed the way through the doors and up a set of stairs that led to the expansive balcony, as though she were a Price Is Right model. “We have a new putting green on the roof,” she chirped.
Cliff, the politics reporter who’d come in to cover the interview, rolled his eyes at me from behind the senator.
“Excellent,” Heathcote said. “Reminds me, Helen. I played golf with Bishop last weekend.”
“Did he beat you?” I teased, knowing the answer. Heathcote was the best golfer in Washington.
“Almost.” Heathcote chuckled. “His short game is still lacking.”
This wasn’t just a comment about Bishop’s golf game and we both knew it. My former boss was facing a stiff challenger in the next election, and the fear was that while he was good on the national stage, he often couldn’t get past the challengers in his own state. “He’s got a tough election coming up.” I shifted my weight, my shoes suddenly uncomfortable. As I did, I noticed the senator’s blue eyes—they reminded me of the Van Gogh that hung in the Hanover Collection, one of the color studies for Starry Night.
“While I’d love to pick up the seat,” Heathcote said, laughing, “I’d sure hate for it to be at the expense of Bishop. He’s a good colleague. Reliable.” We assembled ourselves in front of the camera while the crew made adjustments to lighting and sound.
“You have the list of questions?” Virginia smiled down at me as I arranged myself in the chair. This was her reminder not to deviate from her questions one bit.
“I do.” I smiled, holding up her notes. She didn’t get a good look at the paper or she’d have seen my own notes as well. Our video producer counted me down.
We started with the usual stuff In Frame did well. How had Heathcote moved from professional golfer to the Senate? How much did he still golf and where? How did his passion for adoption happen and why did he feel more attention needed to be paid to getting older children placed in homes? His answers to the questions about adoption were well rehearsed. There was nothing new here. Even I was bored with my own line of questioning.
I looked at my notes. The next question was so bland, I couldn’t ask it. I couldn’t let In Frame be humiliated by not even trying to ask Heathcote a hard question. It was my duty to make the man at least attempt to spin an answer to my question.
“So,” I began. “Don’t you want to tell us whether the rumors are true about you being slated as the vice presidential nominee? Come on, tell us everything.” I laughed, leaning forward and placing my hand on his arm, avoiding Virginia’s eyes. “Tell us. You know you want to!” Even as I asked the question, the curious phrasing I’d chosen caused me to look down at my own notes. That wasn’t the way I’d planned to ask it.
I was waiting for a clever roundabout non-denial denial. The kind of thing Asa Heathcote was brilliant at. But the room was silent. Heathcote began to speak and then blanched a bit, as if he was arguing with himself. I swear I heard him mumbling, “No. Don’t do it.” The man’s head shook back and forth. So odd was the scene before us that the cameraman made eye contact with me. I saw Virginia move toward Heathcote, but he held her off with the flick of his hand. I’m sure she thought he had this covered. I’d pay later for asking the question, but there was nothing to worry about here. This man was used to deflecting unwanted questions. As we sat there, I began to sense something was seriously wrong. “Senator?” I had considered that he was choking, but he didn’t seem to be turning blue.
Heathcote’s bottom lip quivered. He began fussing with his hands, clasping one over the other again and again like some strange patty-cake. Next, he struggled with his tongue, stopping and starting to speak. His team stepped closer. For a moment I wondered if he was having a fit or a stroke of some kind. He picked up the glass of Diet Dr Pepper and his hand began to shake violently. I tried to take it from him, but he pushed me away.
“Yes.” The answer came out in waves of breath like a panting dog. “I was asked last week and I accepted it. We’re announcing next week, and then we’ll do a tour of the South.” He tried to stop but didn’t seem able to control the next wave of words. “Yes, yes. I’m going to be the nominee. Yes. Yes. They asked.” I watched Heathcote put his hands to his tan face as if he was feeling his mouth, perhaps hoping to hold it shut. “But they’re worried about it coming to light that I got my assistant pregnant and made her put the child up for adoption. They’re trying to pay her off.” Then he let out a groan. “Oh God. I don’t know why I just said that…”