Franklin Affair (16 page)

ELEVEN

In the taxi from Dulles, R made two calls on his cell phone.

The first was to Jack Hart, the deputy editorial page editor of
The Washington Post.
Jack had been the one who handled R's op-ed page piece on Ben; without hesitation, he agreed to meet R at the
Post
in the morning at ten. All R had said was that it was urgent, to which Jack had replied, “Isn't everything—but sure, come ahead.”

The other call was to Wes Braxton at the Eastern Pennsylvania Museum of Colonial History.

R began with the story he had roughed out on the plane. It was a lie but a small one, designed to buy some time and possibly much more, if necessary.

“Wes, about those papers from the cloak. I've had them checked for age and the like, and they certainly do appear to be authentically eighteenth century. There seems little question of that.”

“I'm delighted to hear it,” said Braxton, “although not surprised. The chain of possession on the cloak was right on that path.”

R said, “Mmm, yes. Further examination also confirms my cursory reading for content the other day when I was with you. They appear to be someone's notes—or diary—as I had suspected.”

“Somebody from the eighteenth century, for sure, then? Joshiah Ross, the guy who originally bought the coat?”

“Almost for sure, yes. But there appears to be no coherent message or story. The mention of murder and things like that are in apparent reference to somebody having seen it in a dream or otherwise imagined it.”

“What about those initials that seemed to be referring to Benjamin Franklin—and maybe other Founding Fathers?”

“We were able to trace most of those initials to other people and meanings.”

“That's a disappointment,” said Braxton. “I was hoping that they would turn out to be something of real value.”

So far so good—with the small lies.

“There's no reason for disappointment, Wes. I am pretty sure they would have great value in the antiquities market for serious private collectors of eighteenth-century American memorabilia.”

“You think so?”

“I'm almost certain. I have come across many such people in my work. A lot of money changes hands for authentic examples of colonial life—such as these papers.”

There was a brief silence. Clearly, Wes Braxton was doing exactly what R wanted him to do. He was considering.

“When you say ‘a lot of money' what could we be talking about? God knows we need money at our place, as I told you. A little infusion of cash might be exactly what the doctor—and my future—ordered.”

Now it was R's turn to consider—or at least continue the thinking he had already done about how high a price to throw out. How much would it take to get Braxton's attention and support?

“It's only an estimate,” said R finally, “but it could go as high as fifteen thousand—possibly seventeen five.”

“You don't mean the cloak too, do you? We couldn't sell that under any circumstances.”

“No, no. Just the twelve sheets of paper.”

There was quiet. The taxi was near the end of the two-lane section of Glebe Road, in the lane for crossing Chain Bridge into the District.

“Obviously, I would have to run this past our board and the Ross family heirs.”

“Do you want me to make inquiries within the collectors' crowd to measure interest?”

“Would you do that? I hate to ask you to perform as a kind of broker in this.”

“It's not a problem. I don't mind.”

It's not a problem. I don't mind.

The call ended with the promise from each to get back to the other with an update when either had new information.

Then, once he was home, R sent an e-mail to Clara Hopkins in Philadelphia.

clara:

i need your help on another “small” item. could you determine the whereabouts on September 7, 1788, of ben, adams, hamilton, madison, and washington? i would love exact place and activity if possible. the information should be available for each through diaries and their own personal letters. i would suggest beginning with the databases at the libraries that house their respective papers—madison's at the university of virginia, hamilton's at columbia university, adams's at the massachusetts historical society. we should have that information on ben right there in wally's files but, if not, his papers are at yale. the library of congress and the national archives are the places to go for washington. you probably already know all this and, if so, forgive me.

thanks.

r

She responded in less than a minute.

dear r big boss:

yes, sir. i will do what i can. it may not be quite as simple as you suggest. but we'll see. again, i guess it's too much for you to accompany the request with some word on WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON?

when are you coming back to philadelphia? an assistant of some kind in elbow's office called this morning to inquire. she said the president would like a word with you about an important matter.

i wouldn't mind speaking to you myself. and, yes, of course, i already knew where the papers of the founding fathers are kept. i do not forgive you. but, for now, i remain your obedient servant,

clara

Elbow?

R answered:

tell elbow's office—and you—that i may be back in philadelphia tomorrow. probably early afternoon. thanks again. and i'm sorry again.

• • •

R laid out the two articles on Jack Hart's desk, exactly the way Rebecca had marked them.

“That's mine on the left, Jack,” he said. “The other is something written by Timothy Morton in the late seventies. It was in a magazine.”

Jack Hart, a
Post
foreign correspondent and White House reporter before coming to the editorial page, was a man who was moderate in just about everything, from his early forties age, height, and weight to his shirt size and his opinions. Even his office on the seventh floor of the
Post
building on 15th Street Northwest was moderately sized—and decorated with framed copies of front pages of the
Post
and watercolors of flowers. He and R had first met a couple of years ago at a Library of Congress symposium on journalism as history.

Jack immediately noticed the bright red underlines on each of the articles. Silently, he read the ones on his left—R's piece—and then on Morton's.

Back and forth his head went, a second and then a third time.

“So what's the urgent problem?” he said to R.

“Maybe I should have made it clearer that some of the points were patterned after what Morton had written,” said R.

“You did.” Jack lifted the op-ed piece and read out loud: “ ‘Timothy Morton, in a most perceptive essay in 1977, had proclaimed the need for Benjamin Franklin to be given his rightful place in our hearts and minds—as well as our history books.' All you did from then on is relate, through paraphrasing mostly, what he wished for to what has finally happened.”

“Some of the wording later could be too similar.”

“All right,” said Jack, beginning to read again. “You said for instance, that Franklin had always been known for flying kites and making up platitudes—more or less. So did Morton. So what? I don't get the problem. You didn't steal any direct quotes. Had you just read Morton's piece before writing yours?”

R nodded.

“That happens a lot. You read something, put it aside and write your own, and some of the other guy's stuff sticks. It's no big deal.”

R shook his head.

“Somebody's about to try to make it a big deal?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Jack put the two clippings one on top of the other and handed them back across his desk. “What's gotten into you historian types of late? Everybody seems to be running either scared or at each other.”

“Well said, Jack.”

“What do you want me to do about this?”

“Will you publish a letter of amplification—something like this?” R put a piece of white copy paper on the desk. On it he had written:

There was an inadvertent omission of full attribution in my recent op-ed piece on Benjamin Franklin. While there was a mention of an earlier essay by Timothy Morton, there could have been other, more specific attribution given to some of the Morton material.

I very much regret the omission—and I apologize to Mr. Morton.

R. Raymond Taylor

Jack read it. “Following the old maxim, ‘The best defense is a good offense,' ” he said. “Is that it?”

“That's it.”

“I don't think it's necessary—but whatever pleases you, pleases me. I have something to show you too, by the way.”

Jack shoved a manila folder toward him. There were five, maybe six, opened letters in it.

“Our loyal readers have risen up,” said Jack, “to point out that while there is no
major
memorial to Ben Franklin in D.C., there is, in fact, a marvelous statue of the man in front of the old post office building on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

R had seen the statue a number of times, but it was not the same as a monument on the Mall, which had been his point. He skimmed through the letters. One gave some of the statue's history—sculpted in marble by Jacques Jouvenal, dedicated on Ben's birthday, January 17, 1889, by Ben's granddaughter Mrs. H. W. Emory. . . .

“It turns out the statue was a gift from Stilson Hutchins, the founder of this newspaper,” said Jack.

“If you want to include a line about it in my little note, feel free to do so.”

“Great idea—done.”

R heaped thanks on Jack Hart and caught the elevator back downstairs, where he hailed a taxi. He considered having the driver go over to Pennsylvania Avenue to look at the Ben statue again but he decided to go directly to Union Station to get on with his day. He arrived in time to catch the 11
A
.
M
. Acela express to Philadelphia.

A bush bearing gifts was waiting for him at 30th Street Station some ninety minutes later.

• • •

“Welcome to Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love,” said Harry Dickinson. “I thought you'd never get here.”

“How in hell did you know I'd be on this train?” said a most unhappy R. He knew his voice was too loud, but he didn't care.
Leave me alone, Harry Dickinson!

“I didn't. This is the third train from Washington I've met. I just came down from New York this morning to see you. I haven't left the train station. Your girl told me you were coming—”

“She's not my girl!” yelled R. “She's a professional historian—a Ph.D., a scholar! She works for Benjamin Franklin University!”

Harry, bushy as ever, put up his hands as if to say, Shush, please. “OK, OK, I'm sorry. Pipe down. They'll have the cops on us in a moment.”

R looked around. People were indeed staring at him. Here in this marvelous high-ceiling cavern of a train station, there were travelers who had stopped to see what the man in the tweed jacket and blue button-down shirt was ranting about. Was he a terrorist? Was he crazy? Why would anybody scream in 30th Street Station? Isn't this exciting? Or is it scary?

R rolled his eyes and waved at a couple of the spectators. They began moving again, away from the obviously mentally deranged man.

“Come with me upstairs to the Amtrak Cub so we can talk,” Harry said. “I bring tidings—tidings of great joy, to coin a phrase.”

R angrily shook himself away from Harry and took a step toward the door where the taxis lined up. “I don't want to hear your tidings.”

“Come with me or I'll throw a fit and shout, even louder than you. I'll claim you made a pass at me. They'll have a Sex Crimes
SWAT
team in here in a blink, and away we'll both go to jail—”

“All right, all right. Five minutes, that's it,” said R. “Five minutes of tidings and I'm gone.”