From Grand Ambition to Grand Jury in One Easy Step

Bob Scott poured himself another drink, emptying the bottle. If he could have jumped into the bottle and pulled the cap over him, he would have. “This is all happening too fast,” he muttered, pacing his living room in robe and slippers. He needed time to think, but time seemed to be racing. In fact, all his senses seemed out of kilter. Was the room getting smaller? Darker? Where was that buzzing in the back of his head coming from? He was vaguely aware of sweat on his upper lip. For a moment, he thought this is how it must feel when people lose their mind.

“Stay calm,” a voice in his head said. “That’s the most important thing.”

“No, it isn’t,” another voice said. “The most important thing is: Don’t take the fall alone.”

This was the worst moment of Bob’s young life, except for that time he fell off the Stairmaster at the health club and all the women laughed. But this was a close second: three months into his job as freshman state legislator and indicted! Oh, boy, the papers would have a field day with this one. For a moment, he actually brightened as his thoughts strayed to wondering whether any officeholder had ever been indicted faster. “Hmm,” he thought, suddenly intrigued with the possibility. He made a note to call the people Monday at the Nixon Library and have them check it out.

First things first, though. “This is preposterous,” he kept saying to himself over and over again. “This can’t be happening. How did things get to this point?”

He had pondered moments like this, but mostly when thinking about getting hit by a bread truck when stepping off a curb. He had run that scenario through his mind countless times--the person who doesn’t have a care in the world but who then takes one fateful step and, pow, just like that, right in the kisser. See ya. He always wondered how things like that could happen; how your life could be turned upside down in a flash. Now, he had an inkling. Yesterday he was a young legislator feeling like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and today it’s Mr. Scott Goes to Lompoc.

Relax, he told himself, you’re overreacting. “This is only an indictment,” he said. “Only an indictment. Only an indictment.” He said that over and over. By the fifth time, he felt the need to throw up and he was forced to lower his head between his knees and make a cold compress. He told himself not to say the word again.

The phones were notably silent. Why wasn’t anyone calling, he wondered. Why weren’t the big shots who got him into this mess encouraging him? How would they feel if their butts were indicted for what amounted to election fraud? The thought of that squeezed a tiny smirk from him, and he wondered why he reacted that way. He knew why no one was calling. They probably thought his phone line was tapped. The district attorney has a burr in his saddle over this case, and the house was probably wired from top to bottom. He wondered where the microphones were.

He looked at a group picture on his mantel. It was taken on election night last year and showed him and party officials. He noticed in particular how happy he looked. The expression “pre-indictment smile” came to mind. He reread the inscription from his mentor, the one that read, “You’re on your way!”

He thought about the charges against him. It never occurred to consider himself a crook or a felon. Yet, the thought of fighting the charges drained him of all energy. He reconstructed the line of defense, as it currently existed. Basically, it was that the D.A. had it out for him. He swished that around on his tongue and had to admit that if that was the defense, he was in hot water. Yeah, a Republican D.A. targets a Republican legislator. “Got to come up with something better,” he scribbled on a note pad. “Any chance D.A. secretly a Democrat?”

He reread his comment in the paper in which he said that the D.A. timed the indictment for maximum impact, inasmuch as the primary election for the full two-year term was coming up this week. In retrospect, he wished he hadn’t said that. The best he could hope for was that no one would pick up on the irony of him claiming the D.A. was trying to influence an election.

“Of all the nerve,” he said out loud, “trying to influence an election.” He chuckled at his mock disdain.

The laugh made him felt good. It was the first time he’d laughed all day. He tried to think of some other jokes to take his mind off things. Off the top of his head, he couldn’t think of any.

Dana Parsons’ columns appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.