“Has anyone heard of an eighteenth-century journalist named James Callender?”
The room went quiet. All these years and things still hadn’t changed since Sean sat in a Harvard lecture hall: the terror of the professor calling on you and—gasp!—you possibly not knowing the answer. The days when you knew it all or, at least, you needed everyone to think you did. The first time he saw Emily was in a classroom just like this one. Their first day of law school. Torts I. He remembered her sitting in the center row, center seat, leaning forward ready to take notes, while he staked out a spot in the back. He recalled her hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Her green eyes and full lips. She was the first to raise her hand and speak. He remembered thinking she was out of his league, better than him. And he was right. But he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. After class he’d asked her to join his study group. “Who else is in the group?” she’d asked. Sean had smiled. “Just me…” Professor Tweed’s voice broke the spell.
“If you think today’s paparazzi is bad, well, they had nothing on the muckraker James Callender.” Tweed took a sip from a bottle of water. “He actually broke one of our country’s first sex scandals. Anyone know the politician involved?”
The room filled with crowded chants of “Washington,” “Jefferson,” “Madison.”
“Getting close,” Tweed said. “Think the Federalist Papers.” He paced around, then stopped, and pointed to a student in the third row. “That’s right, Alexander Hamilton. Our first Treasury secretary.”
Tweed strutted back to the lectern. “In 1797, our friend James Callender wrote an exposé accusing Alexander Hamilton of financial improprieties while at Treasury. Apparently, Hamilton had been making payments to a shady character named James Reynolds and was accused of speculating on government funds. His honor challenged, Hamilton wrote a ninety-five-page response to Callender. His explanation?” Tweed gave a mischievous grin. “Hamilton said, ‘I’m not engaged in public corruption, I paid the money to Mr. Reynolds because, well, because I was being blackmailed for having an affair with Reynolds’s wife.’”
Tweed scanned the crowd. “Not usually the best defense in the court of public opinion: ‘I am not a thief, just an adulterer.’” Another smile. “But that was just the beginning for James Callender. From there, Thomas Jefferson hired Callender to secretly write scathing stories about John Adams, Jefferson’s opponent in the race for the presidency. Those stories landed Callender in jail in Richmond, Virginia, under the Alien and Sedition Acts—laws that made it a crime to criticize our public officials. Think about that, you could go to jail simply for criticizing the president. How do you think Fox News or MSNBC would fare?” Tweed touched his chin. “It doesn’t sound so bad when you put it that way.”
More laughter.
“So then Jefferson is elected president, and he decides to pardon Callender and others who were convicted under the Sedition Acts. Now, here’s where the story takes a strange turn. Callender gets out of jail and then asks the newly elected president for a job in the government, but Jefferson refuses. Callender doesn’t like that and decides on a little revenge. He writes a story based on a rumor he’d heard while serving his time in that Richmond jail. He reports that Jefferson had a child with one of his slaves. A story no one believes, virtually ruining Callender. But it’s a story most historians now believe is true beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Tweed let that sink in. “This vile man, this muckraker, used his words to shine a light on our public figures, and he went to jail for doing it. He died in disgrace for the Jefferson story. Why do I start this lecture about freedom of the press with Callender? Beyond illustrating that sex scandals in our fair city are nothing new, Callender shows that our founders and the framers of the Constitution struggled with the same tough issues we’re going to discuss today.”
Tweed lectured for another forty minutes before dismissing the class. Sean waited as the students packed their laptops and the circle of after-class suck-ups surrounding Tweed dispersed. He then stepped slowly down to the front of the class.
“Impressive,” Sean said. “Not one student sleeping or surfing the Internet.”
Tweed looked up from stuffing papers into his satchel. “Sean, I didn’t see you here. How are you? I hope you didn’t sit through that entire lecture. I would have stepped out if I—”
“No, I enjoyed it. The students really loved it. I would have liked it even more if I didn’t have several modern-day James Callenders outside my house this morning.”
Tweed raised his eyebrows and gave a sympathetic nod. “You here early for the vigil tonight? It’s going to be a massive turnout.”
“No, I’m going to head home and get Emily and the boys—I don’t want them to have to come alone.”