This 44-part series began running in WCT Nov. 8. Readers can read all the installments to date at www.windycitymediagroup.com
From the journal of John 'Jack' Quincy Adams, Chief Secret Service Special Agent in Charge, The White House. Code Name: One.
Part 37. The Real Story
Jack Adams, the Secret Service agent charged with assassinating President George W. Bush and being held for psychiatric evaluation, has told the psychiatrist the 'public' story. In a computer file secretly delivered to his children, he now reveals the 'real story.'
Dear Quincy and Abigail: What you are about to read is the part of this 'diary' that no one else will see. This file is self-destructing. You will notice that every time you scroll down, what you have just read on the previous screen disappears. So I implore you to read carefully with a mind to remembering it.
Nearly everything in the official report about that week at the ranch in Crawford is true. The only things that aren't contained in the document that Haber will turn over to President Pelosi and the Archivist, are the things you are about to read. Raife, now promoted to Secret Service Director, is letting me write this down for you so you will know the truth about your father, but of course they can't let it survive, which is why this is a self-deleting file.
Two days before I set out to complete Project Intervention the Ice Queen appeared on the doorstep in Crawford around 6:15 a.m. She had received a call from her granddaughter and had driven there to tell them that their daughter was pregnant. And surprise, it wasn't Jenna stepping over the line this time. It was the quiet one. The 'good one.'
The first thing the senior Mrs. Bush did when she barged in was give me 'the look'. The Ice Queen never did anything family-related in front of others and it was no use telling her about security or protocol. She'd just give that You-have-five-seconds-to-start-walking look of hers that singed eyebrows and the room emptied. I stepped outside and stood near the door. Naturally, I left my jacket on the leather chair.
The best was yet to come: Grandma had counseled her namesake to have an abortion and Barbara had agreed. An appointment with the Ice Queen's Houston gynecologist had already been scheduled. Trailblazer was in agreement with his mother—as usual. 'You're absolutely right, Mom. We can't have a scandal like this. Not now. Not with everything up in the air like it is.'
'The hell she will,' Laura said. She was not shouting. In fact, she was speaking so softly the flag mike on my jacket was barely picking it up.
'Laura, this isn't….' Trailblazer began.
'This is your baby, George, and you're going to have it. You and your mother. You two with your self-righteous ranting against abortion when you don't have the slightest notion of what it's like to be in that situation. I'm surprised you haven't' launched a 'Just Say No to Sex' campaign. No, George, there will be no abortions in this household. Not on my watch. And if you even try it, I'll be on the phone to Molly so fast it will make your heads spin.'
The Ice Queen laughed that deep, whiskey laugh of hers and growled, 'George, you'd better get little Missy here under control. What kind of man are you anyway? Jesus, George. Barbara has her first appointment with Paulson on Wednesday. I'll keep you posted.' Then the door opened and I came to attention, but she halted and turned back to say something else, which I didn't need my headset to hear. 'And another thing, while I'm at it. If you hadn't forced Andy Card out and replaced him with a real Chief of Staff and if you hadn't let Scottie quit as press secretary and go off and write a book that we're all going to regret, you wouldn't have to handle this on your own. I've kept quiet about all that, but both your father and I think it was a big mistake—as usual when you're left on your own. So mind how you deal with this, George. It'll knock you right on your butt if you're not careful.' The next thing I knew she was blustering through the outside door like a linebacker and headed back to her SUV.
She revved the engine, peeled out, and headed back to Houston. I pictured her in her Escalade barreling up Highway 6 at 100 mph, hunching over the wheel like Elvira Gulch, her white mop of hair brushing the windshield as she leaned into the glass giving emotional impetus to the 400 horses in front of her.