“Okay, it looks like Fairview’s lawyer is going to make a statement,” she said as the camera cut away from her. She got off the soapbox and elbowed her way toward the front. Other reporters gave Cassidy dirty looks as she stepped on toes and squeezed through nonexistent spaces, but she had covered this story from the beginning. She was the one who had made it a story.
Michael Stone didn’t look the least bit nervous as he slowly walked to the knot of microphones that looked like Medusa’s head of snakes. Like Cassidy, he seemed to be one of those people who loved the media blitz. In his hand was a single sheet of paper.
“I am Mike Stone, and I represent Senator Fairview. I would like to read a brief statement from the senator.”
Stone waited until the sound guys had their boom mikes properly hung over the crowd and the camera guys stopped shuffling for their best angle. Speaking slowly and clearly, he said, “Senator Fairview’s statement is as follows: ‘I am an alcoholic, and through the benefit of counseling and therapy, I have come to recognize and accept the fact that alcoholism is a disease and needs to be treated like any other disease. Recent events have crystallized my recognition of my long-standing problem with alcohol and the emotional difficulties attendant to such an addiction. I deeply regret and accept full responsibility for my inappropriate conduct while under the influence of alcohol.
“‘On Saturday, with the loving support of my family and friends, I entered an in-patient facility to address my disease and related issues. I am grateful beyond words for the prayers and encouragement I have received. However, my greatest fear is that the media has turned its attention toward me and away from the search for Katie Converse. I have asked my attorney to fully and completely cooperate regarding any inquiries that may arise during my treatment. It is vital that there be no distractions while Katie is still missing. My only wish is that Katie will be found or come forward.’”
Even before Stone had finished folding the paper in half, reporters were shouting questions at him.
“What is the name of this facility?” yelled a reporter with some kind of Eastern European accent. The tangled story of the underage page and the senator had begun to attract worldwide interest.
“To maintain the privacy of Senator Fairview and the other patients, we are not at liberty to disclose that,” Stone said.
“Was Fairview ever drunk in the Senate?” a reporter from Channel Two shouted.
“Senator Fairview has conducted himself totally appropriately and has been 100 percent sober at all times when he was discharging his duties and responsibilities as a United States senator,” Stone said. “That has never been in question.”
“What about those new instant messages?” Cassidy shouted. “The ones that show him having a sexual conversation with a page while participating in a Senate roll-call vote?”
Stone visibly flinched. Being drunk was Fairview’s only excuse for his behavior. But if Stone said Fairview was drunk when he created those IMs, then the lawyer had just repudiated the other part of the assertion he had made only seconds earlier. He settled for a statement that answered nothing and everything.
“I’m not aware of those reports and cannot comment on them. Look,” Stone continued, his voice finally showing the strain, “while Senator Fairview may have exchanged some inappropriate joking instant messages with a page, he has never, ever had inappropriate sexual contact with a minor in his life. He certainly regrets the silly but harmless communications that he made while under the influence of alcohol, but they are meaningless. He is contrite, remorseful, and devastated by the harm that his actions have caused others.” Stone took a deep breath as his gaze swept over the dozens of reporters. “We ask you—we beg you—to keep focused on the real problem here. A bright young woman is missing and needs to be found. Let’s not forget that Katie Converse is the only thing of importance.”
Then Stone turned and walked back toward the building, ignoring the cacophony of dozens of reporters hollering out questions to which he had no good answer. The show was over . . . at least for now.
Four security guards blocked anyone from following.
MARK O. HATFIELD UNITED STATES COURTHOUSE
December 31
Allison Pierce,” Allison said after picking up the ringing phone.
“Safe Harbor Shelter is on line one.”
“Thanks.” There was no way she had time for this. She pressed the blinking button. “This is Allison.”
“She’s here again. Sonika. I think it’s bad. Can you come? She says she’ll only talk to you.”
“I really ca—”
“Please? I think she needs to get to a hospital, but she refuses to let us take her. She’s so scared. I’m afraid she might bolt.”
Allison took one more look at her desk, which was so covered with papers that she couldn’t see the surface. She sighed. “I’ll come.”
Twenty minutes later she walked into the children’s playroom. Still wearing a dark brown coat, Sonika was crouched on her heels, her face pressed against her knees. She lifted her head, and Allison gasped.