By John Burtis
Thursday, august 31, 2006
The music has finally stopped and Scooter Libby is wondering why he's the last man standing on the pale green asbestos tiles in the empty elementary school auditorium.
We all remember the dreaded game of musical chairs as kids. The dual purpose gymnasium, which was the scene of so many defeats. The small, cheap victrola with the 78 rpm records. The purple curtained stage. The tension. The thrill of victory and the sulks of defeat. Boys elbowing girls aside in their frenzy, and vice versa. and it seemed, in our memories, that the music always played faster as the numbers dwindled.
Today, Scooter Libby stands alone on the floor. facing a solitary chair, in the gloaming, as the echoes of--The Monkey Chased the Weasel--slowly die in the rafters.
and as Mr. Libby reflects on how it all came to pass, he wonders how it is that he alone remains in this Twilight Zone, where all the spectators have left the hall, as he listens for a Chesterfield smoking Rod Serling to complete his familiar closing monologue as a single spotlight illuminates Scooter's hangdog figure. and slowly, and barely visible at first, a solitary janitor slowly sweeps the floor, and the light begins to fade away as the chair slowly disappears.
It wasn't always so. Scooter had walked the klieg lit corridors of power, with Bill Clinton and with George W. Bush as confidants. He was a bon vivant to their hail fellows.
But then came Joe Wilson, the yellow cake, Niger, Mr. Saddam Hussein, Valerie Plame, blather and more blather, monkey business, Congress, Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald, Judith Miller, Colin Powell and Richard armitage, internal schisms, Mr. Corn and Mr, Isikoff, Mr. Robert Novak, e-mails, the FBI, a grand jury, fading memories, Dick Cheney, frog marching, Dick Whittington, and finally the misadventure--a Billy Joel song if ever there was one.
Somewhere in that perplexing mix, Mr. Libby was tripped up in his recollections and nailed for perjury for a crime which was never committed about a man who everybody knows, it now seems, did the talking about Ms. Plame, while her husband, Joe Wilson lied about the truth to be found in the real evidence of the matter of the tasty yellow cake and Saddam's ready appetite for it.
But the witch hunt continued despite all the insiders trading on the knowledge of the real perpetrator, and it blossomed into an enormous game of musical chairs in a vast elementary school amphitheater, with entire Democratic orchestras playing just for Mr. Libby, directed by Mr. Fitzgerald, and abetted by the drive by media.
But the music suddenly stopped and Mr. Libby is without a chair.
But there are alternatives.
Will Scooter roll over and cop a plea? I'm sure his attorneys may be asking the bedraggled man to contemplate this as they negotiate with the prosecutor's office for the minimums.
Will the Scoot hang tough and go to trial, seeking vindication with a not guilty plea in this sham of a fraud of a hoax of a prosecution? He might just swing it, but then again, he might not. after all, Mr. Fitzgerald has indicted that ham sandwich, the piece of stilton cheese and the two pieces of stale bread before the grand jury already. and Scooter is definitely next on the docket.
Will Mr. Fitzgerald, at last, finally realizing that the whole world finally knows that his entire case has been a joke all along, drop the charges against Mr. Libby? Doubtful.
after all, Mr. Fitzgerald is a trial attorney and is probably just itching to get Mr. Libby on the stand to tear him to shreds, for whatever reason he can now manufacture. Especially in view that Mr. armitage has been identified as Plame name dropper, and was so before the investigation was launched. Black eyes must be avenged in the court room.
Will Mr. Libby sign on a passenger on the New Horizons spacecraft to Pluto, now that the little planet has been reclassified as a minor planet? This might make sense as the big case has been downgraded to a decidedly minor one with the recent defrocking of Mr. armitage. However, he also notes that there is no return trip, which might not augur well for his fortunes.
Both Scooter and Pat could form a tag team in the WWE, the old WWF, and roll around with each other under the bright lights for the short money, in a Texas cage match, with the winner being the one to walk out. But that sounds silly.
No matter what finally happens to Mr. Libby, or what he finally chooses to do, he does have the knowledge that he's the last man standing in a three- year farce, and an expensive one at that. and he cleans up nice.
Sadly, Scooter, unless Mr. Fitzgerald suffers an epiphany or a breakdown, or has some amount of kindness creep into that small piece of coal he routinely calls a heart, may have to face the music in court.
Music, which stopped for the sad sorry almost endless game of musical chairs, of a decided higher type will play again for the Scooter when he hears his sentence for the criminal gaffes he has been dragged in for, if it comes to that
and Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald will smile softly and his eyes will fill with tears at the haunting sound of the strings found in Schubert's String Quintet in C, D. 956, as it's played for Mr. Libby as he disappears into the custody of the federal marshals -- the final swan song of total idiocy.
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