Trouble's in the air and two very different men are looking at crushed toothpaste tubes, sodden piles of dentifrice and wondering what's next.
We hear that the legal facts surrounding the Duke Lacrosse team seem to be disappearing with alarming regularity, even as the media hype is being ratcheted up in the local electoral bazaar by a vast confab of voluble hucksters.
The recent Real Clear Politics report on the mess at Duke, in their questions about whether the whole ball of yarn is unraveling, demonstrates that the word "victim" has been changed to "complainant", while the no room left for hedging "was" has been transformed into the far milder "alleges," as the case appears to be caving in with the same speed that the Titanic slipped from view.
New speak is thriving at Duke, as the case is rearranged, re-vamped and re-worked while the wheels of justice seem to slip and slide around in the growing morass of this rather unique and clumsy send up to fairness, replete with prayer vigils and pointed press conferences given by an obviously harried Da, Mr. Mike Nifong--genuflecting for acceptance, groveling for votes and performing his best southern preacher in tongues imitation--in more than 50 fractious media interviews.
The big media circus has sure come to Duke, bigtime, with a doddering clumsy Nifong in the center ring, garbed in a top hat, waving a white tipped cane, pointing to the sweaty lads in the tiger's cage and asking the cheering lynch mob, in between the stilted pantomimes in the other circles, when to raise the barred door for the big cats' lunch.
Meanwhile, on the national front, another case with greater gravitas seems to be faltering along, losing steam, as it slowly staggers to a halt under its own ponderous weight of baggage and camp followers.
Patrick Fitzgerald seems to be slowly sinking into the same quicksand with his highly touted Libby indictment, despite being hailed as the new brilliant squeaky clean Elliot Ness by the New York Times, a paper never noted for inaccurate hyperbole when it comes to an active White House opponent.
Much to the disagreement and certain dyspepsia of the progressive political pundits, Mr. Fitzgerald has had to take a second sheepish step backwards after his initial all out charge for the finish line, an Electoral College sweep and an early standing offer for attorney General, or at least an invitation to the Indian wrestle off with Elliot Spitzer or was it Elliot Ness, who can be sure anymore?
The first awkward withdrawal was called when it was revealed by Mr. Bob Woodward, a relatively well known journalist possessing some relevant credentials, explained that he had learned of the late great Valerie Plame exhaustive spluttering before the great defender of all that's right and noble, the new Untouchable without the Thompson gun, Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald averred and ejaculated that the previously indicted Mr. Scooter Libby had.
Taken aback, Mr. Fitzgerald waffled, back peddled and singularly ran amok, signaling the first chink in the otherwise perfect Democratic Chobham armor used on the latest premier weapon launched for the upcoming investment of the White House and for engulfing Western world.
Then another tragedy struck, ball lightning slid down the mast, St. Elmo's fire glittered in the rigging, old curses returned to haunt, a Jonah walked among his staff, his prize money turned to dust, threats of mutiny spread below decks as another correction had to be made to the positively true bill, which now seemed less than absolutely bona fide.
Mr. Fitzgerald, in a bold sword stroke, claimed that the whole Iran - Niger uranium yellow cake caper was no longer the key element in the CIa's 2002 Intelligence Estimate, after all, but was a lesser fact, and could be found with enough time and exhaustive patience--with a strong enough will, superior reading skills and a magnifying glass--somewhere deep in that 96-page tendentious tome and nowhere right up front as he had originally described.
Mr. Fitzgerald's own buttressing of the big lie, that Bush lied, is slowly coming undone, its shiny wrapping is washing away in the rain of liberal tears.
and so, it appears, two mighty cases are disintegrating on the winds of fate.
Despite the groveling for votes by playing every race card in his hand and then some, who knows what will await Da Mike Nifong, who has sunk every incisor he has in his head and those that sleep in the glass on his night stand into the Duke Lacrosse case.
Then there's Patrick Fitzgerald, Sir Galahad, or the Loch Ness hamster, or whomever. Who can say where he'll end up--probably in far better shape than that progressive pandering pitbull, Mr Nifong.
The federal boys, no matter how lousy the case and how many folks they trample to death along the way, always do better in the end than the local yokels.
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