William Southold | Opinion Columnist |The Southold Report
“Speaking fiction to power one story at a time.”
Veritas Per Ficta!
I had stopped at my usual Starbucks on the way to the office, the same one where I last met Sarah Sanders right before her departure from job and DC, and was surprised to see lawyer Michael “The Burger” Giospani sitting there. I had never run into him here before. You may remember from several previous Southold reports, Mr. Giospani is a “post conviction specialist”, with expertise in “springing” wrongfully convicted felons or at least greatly reducing their sentences, usually by way of well researched and typically obscure legal technicalities. Michael “IN-N-OUT” Burger, it says on his card. His office is on K Street, not at all near here.
“Southold”, he said, as he motioned me to come over, “lemme buy your morning brew.”
Actually, I had been meaning to check in with him, now that Mueller is scheduled to meet with 2 Congressional committees for questioning. I could have taken this as just a coincidence, but I’ve watched enough Bosch on Amazon Prime, and read all the Bosch novels, to know not to jump to conclusions so easily. I told him I would order, and then come over.
“Make sure you tell ‘em to put it on my tab,” he said.
I said thanks and told him I would, thinking as I turned to the counter I was glad gift horses drank expensive coffee too.
So, anyway, that’s how I came to get this information I’m reporting to you this morning.
“So what brings you over to this side of town this morning?”, I asked him sitting down across from him. “Meeting a felon?” I glanced around as if I was trying to asses the crowd. “Let me see . . . I think I can see some likely suspects.”
“No, no,” he chuckled obligingly, going along with my joke. “I usually meet them at Denny’s. Actually, Sarah said I might catch you here, and I guess it worked.
“So, then the question becomes, why are you trying to track me down? Why not just call?”
He paused at this, took a sip of his latte. I don’t know if it was just my suspicion, but he seemed to lower his voice.
“I wondered if I could sound you out on a few things. Nothin’ much.”
“Sure. Although I’m the one usually conducting the interview.”
“I was wonderin’ how you was feelin’ bout Trump, given his latest, shall we say, flare up.”
“I assume you are talking about his latest tirade, what has it been now, going on 4 or 5 days? Going off on Paul Ryan, those 4 members of Congress, telling them to go back where they came from, and now piling on.”
“Yeah, that would be it.” He stopped, took another sip, probably to see if he could read my reaction. “What did you think?”
“I thought it was lousy,” I said, without hesitation. “It stinks.”
“But not racist.” This wasn’t a question.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Are you gonna write about it? I mean, I sorta been followin’ what you been puttin’ out there. Hasn’t been too . . . complimentary, when it comes to Trump.”
“It will be what I think, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I been readin’ your latest, and I’m not the only one, if catch my drift.” He followed this with a couple pumps of his dark, bushy eyebrows.
“Well, I would hope not” I said. “Wait a minute, are you telling me people at the White House are reading the Southold Report? Who, exactly?”
“Well . . . I got certain attorney, client . . . responsibilities.” Again with the eyebrows, three pumps this time.
“Wait!” I said, as his “drift” was becoming more obvious. “Are you telling me that someone at the White House read my report, and brought it to the attention of the President?”
“Well, like I said, “attorney, client”. I really can’t comment.
“Trump himself!” Now I was the one to lower my voice, as I leaned closer to him.
“Well, like I say. I got restrictions.”
“Someone read my stuff, brought it to the attention of the president . . . however”. I paused to collect my thoughts. “And they sent you to find me, to what? To suss out what I might write next?” I said this in a voice that I hoped conveyed that I was finding it hard to believe, even though I would like to believe it, honestly.
“All I can tell you is that the big man don’t like bad press, even if it’s fake bad press, like you say it is. It all gets people thinkin’. In the wrong direction, as far as he’s concerned.”
I honestly didn’t know what to say next, so I started to drink my, by now, lukewarm coffee. But then I thought what the hell, I’d tell him what has been running trough my mind the last couple of days.
“Well, you can report back, if that is indeed what you are doing, that I plan to make up something good, something that expresses exactly how I believe these last few days have been the lowest of the low, in the history of presidential behavior. Nothing even comes close.”
I have grown to enjoy my conversations with Mr. Burger over the last few years, and I would be sorry if this news put an end to our relationship. I pushed my cup aside and explained I was late to the office, and started to get up.
“Wait,” he said. “Just hold on. Look,” he said, standing up to get close to me. “I just do my job. They got me in an iron clad, and they even got the right to extend, if he should get reelected. Can we step outside? Please, just one more thing.”
He saw me to the door, took my arm, and guided me to an area where no one was sitting outside.
“Look,” he said again. “You write whatever you want to write, I don’t care how bad it is. I kinda liked that last bit about, what was it, Pathetic Man?”
“Super-Pathetic Man,” I corrected.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Flyin' through the sky. I really liked that one. You know, there’s gaslightin’, and then there’s gaslightin’ with farts. Well, just between the two of us, he’s been doin' a lot more than tootin’, he’s layin real turds all over the place.”
He stopped when I didn’t pick up the conversation, wondering if he would say more. He did.
“I don’t like what’s been happenin’, especially to those four nice ladies, and he deserves what he’s gonna get for it. He’s never gonna let me leave, if he thinks I can be a use to him. I’m stuck right now, and someone like him would have me tied up in court forever, just to get back at me if I tried. Besides, I think he’s gonna need some “post conviction” work, and he knows I’m the best, so, to be real about this, I made my own bed and I’m stuck in it.”
I still didn’t say anything.
“You go now, and write your stuff. Maybe you could have your super pathetic character bein’ propelled though the air with farts, or somethin’”
He gave me a pat on the back as I thanked him again for the coffee. Our relationship might not be over.
“And if you want to, go ahead and write everything I said. It might be nice to be shunned by that crew. Certainly be nice to see Rudy all red faced. Like I say, he won’t fire me. He’s too selfish for that. But I wouldn’t mind bein' on the outs. That would suit me just fine.
I nodded. “If you’re OK with it.”
"I’ll just tell everybody that you made the whole thing up, just like all your other stuff. Speakin’ fiction to power. That’s a good catch line. Veritas per ficta. Truth through fiction. I think you gotta good game goin’.
With that I left him, went to the office, and what you just read is what actually happened. Or did it?
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