IX. Mathew Cooper: Hit and Run
Each recollection of a specific witness brings with it other
adjacent memories of that particular day in court. Matthew Cooper –
Time Magazine. Wasn’t that the morning George told us about
chasing the hit-and-run driver into the Arlington County parking garage?
“I said, ‘One more step and I’ll hit
you.’ The 911 operator was yelling in my ear, ‘Don’t
hit him!’ The driver was drunk as could be. He put up his hands
and said, “Guilty.”
On Friday, July 11, 2003. Cooper called Karl Rove.
“Don’t get too far out on Joe Wilson,” said Rove.
“Some info will be coming out. Like his wife. She worked on WMD
for the Agency. I’ve already said too much.”
(That was also the day that Delia and Kate each said, “Why are we trying Libby? Where are Rove and Armitage?”)
Cooper’s value to us consists of a single conversation with Libby. Double Super Secret background
Saturday afternoon. Time’s deadline approaching. Cooper is by
the pool at the Chevy Chase Club. No cell phones or blackberries
allowed. He’s running back and forth to the parking lot, trying
to reach Libby. Finally, at home, sprawled on the bed, he gets the call
and types some notes. At the end of the conversation, he asks Libby if
Mrs. Wilson was instrumental in getting her husband sent to Niger.
According to Cooper, Libby said “Yeah, I’ve heard that
too” or “Yeah, I’ve heard something like that
too.”
To the grand jury, Libby had previously testified that he’d
said, “Reporters had been telling us that, but “I’m
not sure it’s true.”
The disagreement over those few words now plays a significant role in three of the five counts against Libby.
Our lunch is delivered to the jury
lounge each day at noon. The food is not always a delight. I’d
bet the most common subject during the last six weeks is a yearning for
the hot dog and half smokes cart we can see across the street. It
tickles me because my father, after coming to the U.S. from Ireland at
the age of 17, made sandwiches in a deli that probably sat where this
court house sits now. One day a judge said to him, “Dennis (thank
Ellis Island for the extra “n”) you’ve got the gift
of gab. You ought to think about becoming a lawyer.” My father
applied to law school at Catholic University one week later.
During the testimony portion of the trial, we took advantage
of our hour lunch break to make work calls, read, or play cards (Kate
hooked us on Viuda, Spanish for “widow”). But mostly, we
talked. Movies about memory (Memento, Total Recall, 50 First Dates,
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind); Mattie’s impeccable
attire (she did not repeat a single outfit during the first three weeks
of the trial according to our fashion experts); Judge Walton’s
walking speed (”They ought to call him Scooter.”)
One day early in the trial, the subject of our weddings arose.
When it was my turn, I confessed to getting married in a heart shaped
chapel in Lake Tahoe, wearing bowling shoes, my wife in a high school
prom dress. Two musician friends played “We’ve Only Just
Begun” and a reporter friend (John Tierney of The New York Times)
in a red, lounge-lizard coat with fake velvet collar, recited
“Feelings” into a hand held microphone. That was not a
story I’d have told any other group of people I’d known for
little more than a week. But we needed safe, if inane, topics of
conversation. I was struck every day by my fellow jurors’
discretion. After defense counsel Ted Wells finished his closing with a
choked sob, for example, not one of us mentioned it.
Now that we’ve started deliberations, the lunch hour has
changed. Arguing innocence or guilt, even indirectly (Reasons for Libby
to Lie, Reasons for Libby to Tell the Truth) leaves us tired and
slightly frayed. We still talk, but spend more of our free time hiking
up and down our carpeted hallway, training for the long road ahead.
I
::Tullycast:: 