"Michael, I'd like you to meet Earl Mercia."

    Earl Mercia was about 5'9, 175 pounds, with nearly-black thinning hair. He stood there in a cocoa-brown suit that hadn't seen the warm side of an iron in way too long. His shirt was pressed, but he had on a canary-yellow tie that fairly announced his arrival. I noticed his overcoat and hat were on the coat rack.

    "Earl's a private investigator that I've hired to look into certain aspects of that transcript we reviewed yesterday."

    "Really? Peter, can I talk privately with you for a minute?" I whispered in his ear. "Peter, I don't think this is such a good idea. There's no proof. For another thing, how the hell is Earl Mercia going to get close enough to find out any information? And third, this is the president of The United States we're talking about!"

    Peter whispered back, but not as quietly. "Well, for one thing, I know who we're talking about, Michael. Earl's a pro. Been through this lots of times. Remember when Senator Hammond was photographed with that almost-naked hooker? Earl. Or when Senator Feathers was caught being drunk and disorderly in Baltimore? Earl. Or when that Georgia congressman admitted to placing bets on football and baseball games? Earl. Or when…"

    "OK, OK, I get the point, Peter." I launched into what was basically Jack Denif's argument against going forward with this. "But at the end of the story, all that happened was that those senators' lives and reputations were ruined, despite the fact that they had done well by their states throughout their terms. I'm not sure if we should be dishing this kind of stuff to our listeners. It's different with actors. They ask for it, almost expect it. But politicians, by and large, want to be good public servants. They don't ask for their private lives to be exposed."

    "You think their responsibility to the public ends at five o'clock, Michael? Bullshit. These people want everyone to think they are holier than thou, and are good, God-fearing, church-going, morally-upstanding leaders of the community. They're hypocrites, every goddamn one of them. And as long as we have the ability to tell a factual story to let the public decide whether or not they need the information, we're going to tell a factual story. Earl's on retainer. He's got two weeks to find out something, or else we'll call off the dogs. For now. If he can't find anything provable, then we'll move on."

    I just kind of stood there.

    "Besides, Michael," Peter said slowly and deliberately, "you were the one who came to me with this information."

    I sat down at the round table. Earl Mercia sat down next to me, with Peter across from us. "What's first, Earl?" Peter asked.

    "First, I cash the retainer," he said, laughing a deep, guttural laugh that he thoroughly enjoyed. "And then I go back to my office and start making phone calls."

    "Who're you going to call?" I wondered.

    "Just let me handle that, Michael. You go do your radio show." His contempt for me oozed out from behind his lips and hung in the air. We stared at each other for ten seconds or so before Peter said, "Well, then, Earl, go cash the retainer."

    We all stood up and Earl walked toward the coat rack. "Don't bother calling me for an update," he said to us both. "I know I've got two weeks to find something. I don't need to be wasting my time talking to you. If I find anything, I'll call you right away." He turned and left.

    "Well, Peter, he's a pleasant guy."

    "He's an annoying son of a bitch. But he's good. If there's any dirt, he'll find it."

    I started to leave his office when Peter stopped me.

    "Look, Michael. No other network will touch this story first. But if we break it, they'll all follow, and we'll get the credit. The Betz Radio Network will be the biggest in the business. In the world." I remember just standing there, hands in my pockets. I must've looked flustered.

    "Michael, don't worry about it. We won't do anything without hard facts and double corroboration. Promise."

    I ran my hands through my hair, muttered, "OK," and went back to my office to prep for Senator McNary.

    McNary hadn't talked publicly, at least at length, about his run for the vice presidency with Willkie. Now, back from a vacation with his family, McNary was ready to chat about anything and everything, according to his press secretary.

    McNary was the senior senator from Oregon, the Senate minority leader, the first candidate from the Pacific Northwest to be on the national ticket. He'd been in Washington for about twenty years, first as a representative from Portland, then as senator for the past fourteen years. Running with Willkie was safe for him, as he didn't face a re-election challenge until 1942. It gave him a higher profile and made him an instant contender for the Republican nomination in 1944.

    He arrived at the network by himself, twenty-five minutes before air time. He was tanned, looked rested, and was in a jovial mood. I met him in the hallway, and we went into studio to get comfortable. We were talking about football (he was a booster of the Oregon Ducks, although privately he was a big Notre Dame fan), his vacation in the Virgin Islands and Foreign Correspondent (which he had seen last night and loved.) Then he offhandedly said something that struck me.

    "You mean the one on NBC, Senator?"

    "Yeah."

    "I heard it. What did you think?"

    "Well, it was standard Roosevelt. I couldn't believe he mentioned Lucy Mercer, though."

    I stopped making notes and looked right at him. "What do you mean?"

    "Well, and this is off-the-record, Michael, OK?" I nodded. "Everybody in Washington knows he and Lucy have a thing going. I don't really care, but it just points to his arrogance. Winning a third term has given him a rather imperial air. He's beginning to think he's not just the president. He thinks he's a ruler."

    "You really think so, Senator?"

    "Well, again, off the record, yeah, I do. That's one of the things that I was so concerned about. No president has ever gone past two terms. It's tradition. Now, here he is, going for three, and who knows, maybe four or five. I'm not sure that's good for the country."

    "What does that have to do with Lucy?"

    "Well, by mentioning her on the air, he's almost signaling that he's completely above scrutiny. Look, I know he's got a tough job. And his marriage is one of convenience. But don't flaunt it in public. Keep it private, where it belongs."

    "Senator, do you think it's an issue the public should know about?"

    "What? His fooling around? No, not really. Unless he continues to make these kind of public statements."

    "But as I recall, he only mentioned that he saw her dancing by herself."

    "C'mon, Michael. You know there's more to it than that."

    "How would I really know that, Senator? Really? Tell me how I'd know, and I'll check it out."

    McNary thought about it for a second, and then said, "No. Nice try."

    The show went well, as he was forthcoming about a lot of issues and ideas that had been brought up during the campaign. I found it interesting, though, that he and Willkie hadn't spoken since the day after the election. McNary also said that the war in Europe should remain the war in Europe and the US needed to maintain its isolationist policies. When pressed, he admitted his long-time friendship with Henry Wallace had made his defeat a little easier ("at least there's a good guy as vice president") and deflected the notion that he may run for president in four years. "That's a long way off, Michael. I have no idea what will happen. And I have to run for re-election in two years, so there's a lot of decisions to be made."

    It was a good, fast hour. McNary agreed to come back another time, and I honestly said I looked forward to it. He was a good guest, able to answer questions in an informational and entertaining way.

    When the show was over, we stood up and shook hands across the console. As we shook, he said to me, "Lorena Hickok."

    "What?"

    "Lorena Hickok. She's a friend of the First Lady's. But don't mention my name."

    I already knew Lorena. Why Senator Charles McNary would tell me to ask Lorena Hickok about FDR's affairs was beyond me. But I thanked him for the information and for being a good guest.

    I was sitting in my office when it hit me about twenty minutes later. I told Peter to have Earl Mercia look at Lorena Hickok. Lorena Hickok was a fine writer and reporter. She grew up in Wisconsin, and got a job covering University of Minnesota football for the Minneapolis Tribune. She was one of the first women reporters of any kind, let alone sports reporters. Then she moved to New York to work for the Associated Press, and covered some big stories, like the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. Then the AP assigned her to cover Eleanor Roosevelt during the 1932 campaign. They hit it off and became close friends.

    Lorena Hickok felt she could no longer objectively cover Roosevelt. She quit the AP and took a job with the White House to write field reports from around the country, to give the new president a sense of what was really taking place before, during and after some of his reform measures were enacted. Her reports were legendary among the staff. Instead of a dry field report, she would write flowing prose that captured the essence of what life was like.

    Eleanor and Lorena remained very close friends through the first two terms. Lorena was a stocky woman, not a beauty. Her reporter friends, whom she kept during her years working at the White House, called her Hick, and she fit right in with them, smoking cigars and playing poker whenever she had the chance.

    It took less than an hour for Earl Mercia to report back to Peter. He said Lorena Hickok had moved into the White House four days after the election. He said he'd get back when he had more details.

    Moving into the White House in and of itself was somewhat newsworthy, but not that unusual. Many staffers lived there. So the big questions were: where was she living; what was she doing; and why did she move in?

    I had met the First Lady on a number of occasions, handshaking in reception lines, none of which, to my mind, were outstanding enough to cause her to remember me. The Marion Anderson episode made me, for the first time, reconsider the clout and influence Eleanor Roosevelt had on this country. It was the right thing to do, and she did it with the graceful style of a skilled bulldozer driver.

    One of the great singers of our time, Marion Anderson had been denied the opportunity to sing at a large national event simply because she was black. Eleanor Roosevelt found this untenable, illogical, and completely unjust. So, she invited Marion Anderson to sing at the White House and at The Lincoln Memorial in front of thousands of people in a nationally broadcast event sponsored by the First Lady.

    It was said that Lorena was the one who encouraged Eleanor to become more socially outspoken and active. It took awhile for Eleanor to adjust to being First Lady, but once she found her stride she took off. She had been the administration's point person during the first two terms to put a human face on the new policies being enacted. She began a wildly popular weekly newspaper column (which I always thought was ghost-written by Lorena). She traveled constantly, or so it seemed, to promote the administration's policies and her own agendas of social activism, justice and equality for all.

    So here I was, in my office by myself, struggling with issues of public policy, private behavior and religious beliefs. But I kept asking myself if the public really needed to know all this. I remember thinking that was different than if the public had a right to know all this. Clearly, I believed the public does have a right to know all this, but they may not need to. I came to call this The Denif Argument. There had to be something else to tip the scales in favor of making this knowledge public.

    That night, I went to the movies to relax. I was preparing for tomorrow's show. My guest, Edward G. Robinson, was coming on to talk about his latest movie, Brother Orchid. It involved a gangster on the lam, who takes refuge in a monastery and turns his life around. Robinson had already made a series of gangster pictures, and this comedy set him in the role, but played against type.

    Robinson came on the show and was one of the best guests I've ever had. We'd never met before, but he was bright, articulate, well read, glib, insightful and funny, and did it all with that distinctive voice that easily transversed good and evil. We talked about Brother Orchid and what attracted him to it.

    The character I play, Little John Sarto, is a big-time racketeer who goes to Europe for five years to add culture to his life. He turns over his operation to Jack Buck, Humphrey Bogart's character, expecting to reclaim his lead spot when he comes back. But Buck's got other ideas, and Sarto soon finds himself squeezed out. He ends up hiding in a monastery, where he reclaims more than his racketeering operation. He reclaims his life. I was intrigued with the notion of how a person who does terrible things on a regular basis is, deep down, just a guy looking for some way to be decent."

    He also had the glad-handing down pat: "I love your show. I listen all the time." We hit it off, and he agreed to come back and talk about his next movie, the screen adaptation of Jack London's The Sea Wolf.

    I got off the air and Peter said Earl Mercia had struck paydirt, but wouldn't tell me what. He told me he was meeting with Earl and the network lawyers at 5:30 p.m. He wanted me there, too.

    There were six corporate lawyers in the room, one each from Tax, Accounting, Copyright, Civil and Commerce, plus Bart Johnson, the BRN Lead Corporate Counsel, along with Earl, Peter and me. Earl walked over and handed me a piece of paper with a woman's handwriting on it. He told me to read it out loud.

    I cleared my voice and began to read:

The White House

    I found two letters and a road map today and did I devour them! I forgot to write you that after 10:30am on December 15, I will be free to meet you and I will have nothing to do so come as early as you can. Why don't we, if the weather is nice, take our lunch and go off each day to neighboring places? If we think we'll be tempted to stay the night we could take a bag and telephone back to the White House what we decided to do. There may be people staying here so I think one night anyway we'll stay away, as otherwise we might have to be polite a while in the evening unless the guests all dine out which is quite unlikely.

    There's a bit about you and a picture in the Literary Digest. It's nice! Tommy is mailing it to you.

    Press conference at 11 this morning, then two women to see, had five of the girls to lunch and worked all the rest of the time on accumulated mail, but I'm fairly caught up tho' I won't be able to ride tomorrow.

    John came in tonight and dined with us. I do like him. They sat on my sofa all evening and seemed to have a swell time while I worked!

    Dear One, and so you think they gossip about us. Well, they must at least think we stand separation rather well! I am always so much more optimistic than you are. I suppose because I care so little what "they" say!

    I rather think some of the girls are getting pretty good champions! There have been one or two inaccurate stories and I spoke about them this morning and I trusted the majority of them were with me!

A world of love and my thoughts are always with you,

E.R.

    I sat down, the letter still in my hand. I looked around, my gaze finally settling on Earl Mercia. "Well, this doesn't prove anything. Where'd you get this letter? And how do we know it's real?"

    Earl said, "You're right. This doesn't prove anything. But there's lots of them."

    "Lots of what? Letters?"

    "Yeah, lots of them."

    "Where'd you get them? How do we know these are real?"

    Peter spoke up. "The handwriting matches known samples of the First Lady's. It's genuine."

    "But I'll bet Eleanor writes lots of letters to lots of people," I said.

    "Yeah, she does," Earl said, "but she doesn't say she wants to stay the night with any of them." All the lawyers in the room laughed.

    "So what are we talking about here, guys?" I said. "What's the point of this meeting? And where did you get this, Earl?"

    "I can't tell you where I got it. But I can get more."

    I looked at Bart Johnson. "He doesn't have to tell us where he got it?" He shook his head. "So what are we doing here?"

    Then Peter took over. "Michael, the lawyers all agree that this looks like the real deal, no forgery, no fakes. We think it's a legitimate news story, and we'd like you to investigate it more, and then prepare a story on it."

    "On what? That the First Lady might be having an affair with a woman? What kind of story is that?"

    "A big one, Michael. Maybe the biggest."

    I immediately started thinking about all the different angles we'd have to cover. First, we'd have to ask the First Lady and Lorena Hickok if there was anything to it. After their denials, we'd have to have back-up documentation to refute their denials. Then we'd have to deal with FDR himself, who was no slouch at bringing the full weight of the Federal Government down on anyone who crossed him. We'd have to talk with religious leaders and community leaders.

    I figured this story would go nowhere fast. As I walked back to my office, Earl Mercia approached me.

    "Take a look at this, Michael." He handed me a 9x12 envelope. "I didn't show this to anybody else yet."

    "Why do you want to show it to me then, Earl?"

    "Because you think I'm a contemptible slimeball. You think that uncovering information in this fashion is beneath you. You think that this kind of investigation is low-class. Maybe it is. But I'm just doing my job, and I do it well. Go on. Take a look."

    I opened the envelope. It was a picture of the president and Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd. He was sitting in his wheelchair. She was sitting on his lap facing him, her legs spread on either side. There was clearly more going on than cuddling.

    "Holy shit," I said. "Where'd you get this? When'd you get this?"

    "I took it. Last night."

    "Wow." I just kept saying wow.

    After a minute, Earl spoke up. "Look, I'm just doing what I do. I've seen a lot of stuff in my time. Betz hired me to find some stuff out, and I'm finding it out. It's all right there. Barely taking me any effort. You just gotta know where to look. Personally, I don't care what they do. They can hump dogs for all I care. But you - well, you gotta decide what to do with this info. I'll see you later, Michael. And when I do, I'll have more stuff."

    He left the picture with me. "Hey, Earl , you want this?"

    "No," he said without turning, "you figure out what to do with it."

    I put it in my briefcase and took it home.

    I didn't sleep much that night. I wrestled with the hard, cold facts: the president of the United States and the First Lady were each having affairs with women.

    At eight o'clock the next morning, I was waiting in Peter's office. He spotted me as he walked in.

    "Michael! Goddamn, I'm glad you're here." He was beaming ear to ear. "Have you seen this yet?" He tossed me the picture of Lucy and the president sharing more than just a wheelchair. That son of a bitch, I thought. Earl Mercia didn't take me into his confidence. He'd already given this picture to who knows how many people. "Yeah, I've seen it, Peter. That's why I'm here."

    "Good, good, good. What do you think?"

    "If we pursue this story, it'll hurt us. FDR is too powerful. He'll figure out a way to kill us. The public will side with him. And everybody loves Eleanor."

    I'll never forget what happened next. Peter Betz leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Then he started talking very slowly, very quietly, very deliberately.

    "They are big, and they are powerful. But there is freedom of the press. And unless we in the press continue to monitor the big and powerful, the little guys don't stand a chance. Like you." He reached into his desk and pulled out another 9x12 envelope and slid it across to me. "Take a look at this."

    I opened the envelope and saw a picture of me with Sharon Tozzi. It was the two of us, making love, naked and in her apartment, shortly after I began at BRN. It was unmistakable that it was the two of us, and I certainly couldn't deny the authenticity.

    "Where'd this come from?" I asked.

    "Earl gave it to me. He took it."

    "He took the picture? Why?"

    "He was doing his job."

    "Somebody hired him to take this picture of me?"

    "Well, somebody hired him to take pictures of you, and he got this one. There's others, too."

    "There's more?"

    "At least a dozen that I've seen. But this is the best one, the one that shows exactly that it's you and Sharon."

    "Who hired him?"

    "Earl won't say. Client privilege. He's very ethical."

    "Ethical my ass. Who hired this son of a bitch?"

    "Well, he did say it was a government official, a high-level government official. Judging by the timing of this picture, which was shortly after we went on the air, I have a pretty good idea."

    I thought for a moment. "John Nance Garner?"

    Peter shrugged his shoulders. "Could be. I don't know for sure. But what I do know is that the government is watching your every move. Shouldn't we watch theirs?"

    All of a sudden, this became personal. I hated the idea of being followed, my private life invaded by government snoops.

    "If it was Garner," Peter Betz asked, "do you think he didn't show these pictures to anybody? Like his boss?"

    For some reason, I started to laugh. "At least you can see my ass. You can't see FDR's."

    Peter Betz relaxed. "I've known Roosevelt for years. He covers his ass every chance he gets."

    "Who else knows about these pictures, Peter?"

    "Bull shit. Who knows?"

    "Bart Johnson. That's it, really."

    "I've got to call Sharon and let her know."

    "Be careful, Michael. Then what are you going to do?"

    I started to leave his office, when I turned and said, "I don't know. I've got to think about it, Peter."

    "Fair enough. Just don't think too long. Other hounds are sniffing this story."

    I went back to my office and immediately put in a call to Sharon at Senator Buckfield's office.

    Her voice was all business. Even after all this time, she was still mad. "What do you want?"

    "I need to see you. Today."

    "What about?"

    "I can't talk about it over the phone. But we need to see each other today."

    She sighed deeply. "OK. Lunch?"

    "No. No place public. Either in a conference room over in your area, or a conference room here."

    "Conference room? Who else is going to be there?"

    "No one, Sharon. Promise. Just you and me."

    "I'll come over there. 10?"

    When she arrived, I remembered why I had initially fallen for her. She was a gorgeous raven-haired beauty, thin and graceful, with an elegant demeanor about her. But she also had a no-nonsense attitude that permeated everything. She was the package, the total package.

    We walked into a small conference room that was just down the hall from my office. I closed the door and we sat across from each other. She still had her coat on.

    "Well?" she said impatiently.

    I slid across one of the 9x12 envelopes and told her to open it. She looked at me with bewilderment, but did it. She pulled out the picture of the two of us, then slumped back in the chair. "Oh my God," was all she muttered. She slipped off her coat without ever putting the picture down. "Are you - we - being blackmailed?"

    "No," I said flatly.

    "Then how did you get this? Who took this?"

    "A private investigator that BRN hired also was hired to do this, and he shared them with us. But he was hired by a high-level government official to follow me. And he ended up taking a series of pictures of us."

    "A private eye took pictures of us? Who's got them? Where are they?"

    "Well," I began, "I assume he still has the negatives. Who has the prints, I'm not sure. But I've been told I can assume lots of high level officials have seen these."

    "Like Buckfield?"

    "No, he's probably not high enough."

    Sharon remained slumped in the chair, now with a puzzled look on her face. "Not high enough?" I could see the wheels spinning in her head. "For God's sake, Michael, he's a United States Senator, on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. There's not many people higher…" Just as she said that, I could tell it clicked. "Roosevelt?"

    "I don't think he OK'd it, but he's probably seen them."

    For a minute or so, Sharon just sat there, staring at the picture. Every now and then, she'd grunt, shake her head and close her eyes. I put a glass of water in front of her, but she didn't touch it. Then she said, flatly, "Garner."

    "Could be," I told her. "I don't know for sure, and the private eye won't say. Client privilege, he says. But that's my guess. He was probably mad over that first-day interview I did with him, and set out to find whatever he could about me." Then I chuckled and said, "But now he's gone, and I'm still here."

    "Michael! Don't be so cavalier about this. This is a picture of you and me - me! - and there's others out there floating around. Who knows who's seen them? What are we going to do?"

    "Well, that's a good question, Sharon. Here. Look at this." I slid the other 9x12 envelope across the table to her. She grabbed it while never removing her gaze from my eyes.

    Slowly she opened it, and pulled out the 8x10 black-and-white photo. Her eyes widened. She whispered the startled whisper of someone whose breath has just been taken away. "That's Roosevelt and, uh, uh..." She continued to stare.

    "Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd." Finally, I said, "So, what are we going to do?"

    She slipped the photo back into its envelope and said, "Wow. I didn't know you could do that."

    "Do what?"

    "THAT! I didn't know you could do THAT!"

    "Oh. That. I was kind of surprised, too. Anyway, the question is, what are we going to do? What should we do with this information?"

    "The information about the pictures of us, or the pictures of Roosevelt? And who took those pictures? The same guy?" I nodded. "The pictures of Roosevelt and Lucy. What should we do?"

    Sharon looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "What should we do? You mean, what should you do, or what should BRN do?"

    "Both, I guess."

    "Nothing. You should do nothing. What's it prove, Michael? That FDR is human? That wheelchair sex is possible? That you're a scumbag for hiring a private eye to spy on the president? It's none of your business. Or, more accurately, it's none of your fucking business." Sharon had regained her power, stood up and took a couple steps toward the door. "I'm not thrilled about the pictures of us. But it's been awhile and nothing has happened, and now that I know about them, I'll be prepared, at least a little bit, for what might happen. But spying on the president of the United States is beneath even you and this network. And the only person to get whacked in this deal will be you." She had her hand on the doorknob when I said, "Eleanor is having an affair with Lorena Hickok."

    "WHAT?"

    "Eleanor is having an affair with Lorena Hickok."

    "Eleanor Roosevelt?" Again, I nodded.

    Sharon stood there, stunned. Her mouth drooped open, her coat still draped over her arm. I could see her mind racing. "Eleanor and Lorena?"

    "Yeah."

    She walked back over to the chair and sat down again. Her coat was draped across her lap and she picked up the glass of water. "Let me get this straight," she said, taking a sip of water. "The vice president hires a private eye to take pictures of us, so you hire a private eye to take pictures of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. And you find out that each is having an affair - with a woman. You have pictures of Eleanor?"

    "No, we have hand-written letters."

    "Uh-huh." She drank some more water. "So you call me up to show me our pictures and ask my advice. Am I missing anything?"

    "Well, you're close enough. We didn't have the pictures of us before we hired this private eye. That was an unexpected development. I just found out about the pictures of us right before I called you this morning."

    "And you want to know what you should do. Like, is this a news story? Right? Is that what you're asking me?"

    "Basically, yes."

    Sharon drank some more water, gently set it on the table. "Paul Buckfield has known FDR for twenty-five or thirty years. He's known that FDR uses a wheelchair almost all the time, but whenever he's in public, he stands, and with help, it looks like he walks. You know that, too, but you don't report it. You don't say he gave a speech today and lied when he walked. You just say he gave a speech today. He's the first president ever to run for and win a third term, and he just carried all but ten states. The American people, by and large, love him. I love him. I voted for him, again. I voted for him because I think he's the man to lead us through whatever is coming up, and because he's done a great job so far. And I'll bet you that if he's been fooling around with Lucy, he's been doing it for a while. And Eleanor, well, people love her more than him. The common person really connects with her. So I guess what I'm saying is this: if you and this network drag them through the mud of a sex scandal, the only ones to get hurt will be you and this network. People will find it interesting, and they'll certainly talk about it. But it won't be front page news for long, and you'll get crushed. And frankly, Michael, I'd help crush you." She took a long drink of water, stood up, walked toward the door and said goodbye without ever looking back.

    The more I thought about it, the more I came to believe it was a news story. The public not only had a right to know this, but a need to know it. This kind of behavior is a true barometer of character, of honesty and integrity. If they lie about cheating on their spouses, how can we ever believe them when they talk to us about policies they want to make? It didn't matter that every human being on Earth would probably lie to cover up an affair. I even lied to my high school girlfriend when I went out with another girl. I became convinced that our national leaders needed to set the standard all ordinary citizens should follow. I'll admit, I was pretty mad about the pictures of Sharon and me. I felt violated, hunted, abused, threatened - all of that at the same time. I felt that if the Government would do that to me, what would they do to somebody else? The fact we hadn't been blackmailed by those pictures of Sharon and me did not diminish my feelings of anger and violation.

    But what about this notion of spying on the president? Have we crossed the line of fair play and investigation? Is his private life more open for dissection than mine? If I don't like being trailed and photographed, should we expect the president to have a thicker skin about it simply because he's the most photographed person in the world?

    And what about Sharon's assertion that the public will care for a moment, but won't want to hear much about it? Could she be right? I doubted it. Just from doing my radio show, I had come to believe the topic that most interested listeners was sex. Doesn't matter if it's Errol Flynn and his reputation, or Ted Williams and an unintentional double entendre, people were riveted to the radio when sex was discussed. Her point, though, was that those are fleeting references contained inside a daily one-hour show. The public, she believed, was not interested in a steady diet of sexual chatter, especially about the President and First Lady. That was the easiest point for me to dismiss. I knew the public would follow it detail by detail.