All the Presidents' Pets by Mo Rocca Read Free Book Online Page B

toward Helen Thomas. “Poor thing.”
    While we were looking toward the back of the room, legendary White House reporter Helen Thomas had taken a free seat on the side and was furiously taking notes. A living breathing institution sat a few feet from me.
    I didn’t know any more about Helen Thomas than you could learn from any kid on any street corner in America—that since joining the White House press corps in 1961, the five-foot-three raven-haired Detroit-raised daughter of Lebanese immigrants had covered an unprecedented nine presidents, grilling them with hawklike determination and earning the moniker “Dean of the White House Press Corps.” After her boss at UPI, Merriman Smith, died on April 13, 1970, she became the first female chief correspondent covering the White House, then the first female president of the White House Correspondents Association. Notoriously dogged, she was the only print reporter who accompanied Nixon to China.
    Since then she’d never shirked her responsibility to ask uncomfortable questions. Ford called her methods a “fine blend of journalism and acupuncture.” Clinton called her “the embodiment of fearless integrity.” And every presidential press conference ended with her saying, “Thank you, Mr. President.” Every press conference, that is, until March 6, 2003, when President Bush not only refused to call on her to ask a question, but also ended the press conference himself.
    But that’s really all I knew about her.

    Helen Thomas, Dean of the White House Press Corps.
    For some time Helen had been portrayed as something of a crazy old lady, the Norma Desmond of the White House press corps. Mind you, she was still the same notorious hard worker, who trudged into work at 6:30 A.M. most days. Yes, she’d left UPI in 2000, but she was now writing a syndicated column for Hearst.
    I’d never met Helen Thomas but I’d always wondered: Did the press secretary’s increasingly mocking responses to her questions bother her? At most she seemed bemused by his sarcasm. Many reporters I’d met cruelly mocked her behind her back. They said they teased her because they loved her. I could only imagine how the “popular” reporters treated her. Our eyes met for a moment and I turned away.
    As everyone took their seats a fresh-faced Laurie Dhue rushed in, escorted by CBS’s John Roberts, the John Davidson–handsome heir apparent to Dan Rather. They looked like a star quarterback and head cheerleader. A buzz went through the room as John whispered something in Laurie’s ear and she tossed her head back with a laugh. Norah O’Donnell shot them a jealous look from behind her makeup compact. It was hard not to be envious: Laurie looked amazing. In her red gingham dress she was more radiant than Kim Novak in
Picnic.
    Finally the door behind the lectern opened and press secretary Scott McClellan walked in followed by four press aides. Three of the aides were absolutely unremarkable-looking. The fourth was hard to miss.
    â€œCandy, who is that?” I asked.
    â€œHis name is Ernst Gephardtzenhopf,” said Candy. “We call him Gephardt. Gephardt the Albino.”
    It wasn’t just Gephardt the Albino’s milk-white skin and hair or his pink eyes that struck me. He was tall and hulking, looming over the three other aides. His mien was profoundly serious, no, make that angry. He was, in a word, terrifying. He gave the room a once-over, pausing ever so slightly when he came to me. After registering my presence he settled into his seat.
    I couldn’t help but notice an unnatural bunching around his right upper arm, just below the shoulder. What did he have tied up there? I wondered.
    Scott walked up to the podium and began listlessly reading his statement: “The President is currently reviewing troop movements in Sri Lanka and renewed tensions in the Golan Heights. The President and First Lady regret