Booktree.ng_Forgotten-Witness

“You wound me. I will take credit for at least ninety
percent. However, I fear I was in no position to counsel
anyone back then. I’m old, I’m not Methuselah.”
“I doubt there was ever a time you didn’t make sure you
were pulling some strings, Ambrose.”
Jerry barked his signature laugh. It was easy to see why he
was re-elected time and again. Big and jovial, he could kiss a
baby and a call girl with the same aw-shucks aplomb. His PR
was so good that only a handful of people knew that he was
the biggest skirt chaser in D.C. and that handful didn’t
included his wife. Ambrose didn’t like that, but he did like
Jerry’s smarts. The man could remember everything: every
detail of testimony, every statistic, every word uttered in his
presence. He was driven not by power but by the puzzle of
politics; a puzzle of how people fit together, why certain ones
were pivotal and others passed through life without notice. Of
course, Jerry wasn’t Woodrow. Woodrow was the real deal; he
was Ambrose’s moral compass.
“I only take credit where it’s truly due, Jerry,” Ambrose said
magnanimously. “And when it is to my advantage.”
“Next year you’re going to be elected president,” Hyashi
interjected. “Then you will have to take credit or blame for
everything. It won’t matter if you make the decisions or not.”
“If I was reluctant, I wouldn’t run,” Ambrose noted. “I don’t
want eight years to go by and–”
“I think you better figure four, there, Ambrose. No need
jinxing things,” Woodrow warned.
“Eight years. Four is not enough,” Ambrose insisted. He
was speaking to the choir but sometimes the choir forgot the
tune. “My friends, there are those inside our country who
believe our borders are not sacrosanct and that our country
belongs to anyone who wishes to claim a part of it. In the
extreme, there are those who would like to make us disappear
like a little cube on a computer screen. I’m not talking about