Taking Out the White Trash

Mark called at 11:30. He was in Brooklyn. Paula Jones was coming into JFK and he wanted me to come with him to find her. I was so startled that I didn't even finish drinking my beer. I rummaged around in my desk and found a copy of the front page of the New York Post from last week with the headline PAULA BLOWS IT. There was a picture of her on the front of the page. I washed up and met him downstairs.

Mark picked me up and he noticed after only a few blocks that he was driving in the opposite direction of the airport. He stopped for gas. I asked him for flight information so that I could find out what gate she'd be arriving at. I'd slipped my United frequent flyer card into my wallet before I left the house. I called and told the clerk that I had a friend arriving at the airport at 12:22, but I had no idea what gate or even what city they were coming in from. They weren't able to search their flight database for an arrival time. I thanked her and hung up. As with Swissair, she believed everything that I said, and I felt guilty for using such a nice person.

Mark likes to bring me along to JFK because I supposedly know my way around it. JFK has nine different terminals even if you don't count the new one that houses Air France. Unfortunately as we came in down the Van Wyck Expressway, the signs indicated that United flights from LA (LAX) and San Francisco (SFO) went to Terminal 6, while all other flights went to Terminal 7. We were stuck. Mark opened his notebook and found a flight number and arrival time. I punched the information in to United's automated system while we sat at the split between the road to Terminal 6 and Terminal 7. I told him that Terminal 7 was the odds-on favorite, but he waited anyway. The system said Terminal 6. He decided against parking on the street and parked in the short-term lot.

We got to Terminal 6, and everything started to go wrong. The front doors were locked. I saw from the monitors that a flight after midnight from SFO had been cancelled. Mark saw the photographer's truck go around Terminal 6 and chased after him to Terminal 7. I called again to the United frequent flyer line and got a live person who informed me that the flight number was going into Kennedy Terminal 6, Gate 1, twenty minutes sooner than we expected. The plane that had just pulled in was the one that we wanted. I signalled Mark and we ran across the road to the terminal. We had both forgotten that Terminal 6 was two buildings separated by a bridge. Arrivals came into the building that was in the rear.

My assignment was to lurk around independently. I followed someone with a cell phone into the bathroom. I thought he was speaking in some kind of code to an editor. Everyone becomes the enemy in combat, I guess. Or more likely, everyone tries to sound self-important when they're talking on a cell phone. I took a whiz and tried to listen to him but couldn't. I walked outside and bought a soda. Walking down the terminal, I saw that the passengers had started to arrive.

I got into position and saw that Mark had walked up to a couple of women. I wanted to signal to him that there was no way it was Paula Jones--she was simply too short. I thought about screaming to him but continued to look behind him instead. I forgot the basic rule of travel: first class gets off first. I got there just as he quietly said, "Miss Jones, I'm Mark Stamey from the New York Post. I know you're not talking to the media right now, but is there anything you can tell me?"

Paula got a confused look on her face, and said "How did you know we were going to be here?" Her handler, Susan MacMillan-Carpenter said that she had no comment at that time. We walked along with them for awhile, anyway. Linda was looking hard at Mark when she asked what paper he worked for. She giggled, "Oh, we like The Post." It's probably true. The Post is a conservative newspaper that probably gives her good press, but she may have been talking about the paper's Local Ambassador Mark, something he maintains to this day.

We tried to get them to talk. I realized that I had nothing to say, so I said, "Miss Jones, I think you're doing a great thing for the country. Keep up the good work. You've got a lot of friends in New York." She said "Thank you" gracefully. The 'gracefully' was more apparent than the words she spoke: she had been taught how to deal with people. She smiled like a little doll. She had a great butt that packed her faded blue jeans wonderfully. I was desperately committed to getting her to say something, and all I could come up with was, "You are a role model for all of my sisters." Again, nothing but "Thank you."

Susan MacMillan-Carpenter was talking to Mark. I heard her say, "I don't know how you do it, but you're really different than all the other reporters." I thought she was going to launch herself at him. (I found out later how Mark does it when I asked him what she meant when she said that. I won't repeat it, as it's his secret, but it's appalling. He says it works every time.)

Gary Miller showed up and talked Paula into taking a picture. He was using a camera with a motor drive on it, so each picture was probably about six. He took over and said to Mark, "How about one with your son?" and so on as he continued firing off shots.

Two hours later at the Post Newsroom in Rockefeller Center, he printed off a picture for us from a Macintosh. The reason Mark's head is down is because Ms. MacMillan is talking to him outside the frame. The reason I'm leering is that I had been staring at Paula's ass. Notice how well Paula has posed for this picture. She's the only one that is prepared for it.

Before that night, I was very anti-Paula Jones. I thought her sexual-harassment case lacked proof. I wasn't too happy that she'd helped to introduce Monica Lewinsky to the world. I was a Clinton supporter, and I knew that she was getting the backing of some pretty ugly conservative groups.

Surprisingly, I liked her. I think history will support her more than it will Bill Clinton. The reports that he raped someone in 1971 are probably just the beginning. What would it mean if this woman that I thought was nothing but gold-digging white trash was right? I will vote for Hillary Clinton over Psychofuck Giuliani in the 2000 Senate race, and I don't think Clinton should have been impeached, but I can't wait for him to be out of office and irrelevant.

The next day, it was announced that the President had settled with Paula for $850,000. Susan MacMillan-Carpenter went on to work for Abe Hirschfeld, the guy who had offered Paula $1 million to go away. He was accused of hiring a hit man to kill off some political enemies, and he needed a good press agent. Paula Jones received $210,000 after her attorneys got their claws into the settlement.

She nearly nailed the President that tried to nail her, though. Not bad for a secretary from Little Rock.