Page 5 of The Night Of
“Mr. Vice President, was there any reason for this? Does anyone know why President Baker would have done this?”
“No.”
“Is there any doubt at all about what happened?” Not even the reporter wanted to say it.
“No.”
“Was there a note, Mr. Vice President?”
“No.”
“You assumed the duties of the president at zero one hundred. Is that President Baker’s time of death?”
“No comment.”
“What evidence is there that this, in fact, was a—”
“It was apparent based on the circumstances and the method. The Secret Service report left no room for ambiguity. President Baker was alone, in a secure environment, and the forensic evidence supports what we believe took place at Camp David.”
“Will there be an investigation?”
“There will be an investigation, but not into the cause of death, which is clear. The investigation will focus on other issues surrounding this event. At this time, there is no reason to suspect any financial issues, medical issues, or any issue of compromise in regard to the actions Steven took.”
“Did the pressure from Hardacre’s disappearance become too much for President Baker?”
“I cannot speak to Steven’s thoughts or rationalizations last night.”
“Where did President Baker get the gun?”
Sharp hesitated. “At this time, we do not have an answer to that question.”
“Was it possibly a weapon from a Secret Service agent, or another military officer, or was it perhaps an unsecured weapon at Camp David that President Baker could have found?”
“At this time, we do not have an understanding of where the weapon used came from.”
“Do you have details on who found President Baker and what transpired after that? Was there ever a chance—”
“The Secret Service responded to the situation immediately. Medical care was provided by the agents while waiting for the evacuation flight, which was on deck at Camp David within minutes of the… incident. Everyone who responded did so admirably, professionally, and to the best of their abilities. A full review of everyone’s actions will be forthcoming.”
Translation: We were all under investigation. We were all about to be put on leave, and our lives were going to be turned upside down, first by the Secret Service, then the FBI, and then, most likely, by congressional committees.
And Sharp had read my name in the report. I knew he had. What had he thought when he saw I had been the one to perform CPR on his best friend? That I had been the senior agent responding, in command? In charge of the president’s life? Of his death?
Sharp was, apparently, done with questions. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “Thank you. Before I go, I want to urge anyone who is struggling with thoughts of hopelessness, despair, or anguish, that you please reach out to a friend, a loved one, or even a stranger. A hotline. Please, ask for help. And please join me in praying for our country and for my friend, Steven Baker.” He nodded to the room, turned, and strode away.
I came back to Horsepower slowly, awareness creeping in on the edges as the quiet sniffles and shaking breaths surrounding me eased into my consciousness. I wasn’t the only one feeling the sucker punch of the last eight hours. We’d lost our man, our president. This was Kennedy again: our failure, our shame.
But Kennedy hadn’t gone out like this.
And, sure, Sharp said there were questions that could never be answered, but there were a whole fuckton of questions that weneededto answer. Where did Baker get that gun? How had he hidden a gun from not just us, his Secret Service detail, but from the ushers, the Residence staff, and even his wife?
She’d had no idea, none at all, about the revolver in Baker’s hand. I’d heard through the rumor radio that when she’d made it to Bethesda, the doctors had already called time of death, and they met her with the hospital chaplain when she landed. She’d known right away what that meant, and she’d screamed, collapsed to the linoleum, buried her face against the floor as the detail hovered over her, not knowing if they should pick her up or leave the First Lady sobbing on the ground. Agent Ramon ended up on his knees and pulled her into his lap, and that was the blurry cell phone photo that went out over the wires. That was what the world had to go on until Sharp’s press conference: a heartbroken First Lady sobbing her guts out in the arms of a helpless Secret Service agent as the chaplain and four doctors stood around like dick warts, completely and totally useless.
There were a million questions, and our director and the FBI director were on the hunt for answers.
I wanted no part of that. I’d give my statement again—I was certain the FBI would be interviewing us all about a hundred more times—and then maybe it was time to turn in the badge and gun and just… go. Find a weary, chewed-out town I could set up in, someplace where people knew not to ask questions. Maybe head to Alaska. Maybe buy a boat. Get the fuck away from this place, from Sharp and Baker and all my mistakes.
Mistakes. That was too gentle a word.
