Free The Last Debate by Jim Lehrer

the most luxurious and most expensive accommodations in the area.
    Hammond told them about the cars and drivers that would take them tomorrow afternoon from the Inn back to the Lodge for the debate. The cars and drivers would also be available to chauffeur them anywhere else they might want to go between now and then. And he gave them maps of the restored area at Colonial Williamsburg and passes to get them into any of the buildings, museums, and other attractions.
    “Feel free to wander,” he said. “Anything you need?”
    “Yeah,” said Barbara Manning. “You got some Valium?”
    They all laughed.
    “When you’re ready to order chow, dial 2–3,” Hammond said. “The menus are over there on the other table.”
    And he left them alone.
    To Barbara Manning the sound of the closing of the door behind Chuck Hammond that night was the loudest, most jarring noise she had ever heard up to that point in her life. In the six days from the invitation call till now she had worked herself up into a state of self-doubt that she said was of Shakespearean and Greek-tragedy proportions. She was way beyond the simple fears of having a locked jaw, a frozen tongue, or even throwing up on national television. She was seriously ill with doubt and fear. So seriously ill that several times during the week she came close to calling somebody and dropping out. Wait for another day, another time. Wait those few more centuries until you are ready, little girl. But each time she backed off. Nobody in her achiever family would understand. Nobody else would either. Take it, do it. And be sick. Here she was. And she
was
talking almost like a normal person.
    Henry Ramirez spent the week working hard on questions for the candidates and waiting for the summons from Jim Weaver that never came. Was he really prepared to go public if Weaver tried to keep him off the debate? I believe he was. Doubt was not something the kid Henry Ramirez shared with the kid Barbara Manning.
    Joan Naylor also threw herself into preparing for the debate, reading stacks of position papers, articles, book chapters, and other things that were relevant to Meredith and Greene and the issues of the campaign. She had no more conversations with Carol Reynolds or anyone else except Marge Willard about not moderating. In a long and painful phone call after the dinner party she had talked Marge out of going public. In return, she had to promise to moderate a panel on “Women Journalists Covering the Military” that Marge’s group was planning for next spring at West Point. Everyone always had an angle, a deal, Joan realized. It wasn’t just her network. In this case it was she who was trading her time, body, and mind for some peace and quiet—for the deal.
    Mike Howley, unlike the other three, declined Chuck Hammond’s offer to be driven to Williamsburg from Washington. Howley drove down from Washington in his own car, listening to some of his own CDs. Was he a country-music man? Classical? Opera? Or was he listening to recorded versions of books? If so, what books?
    A split second after Hammond left them alone in Longsworth D, Howley put a finger to his lips. Hush, please, the gesture said to his three fellow panelists. They watched in silence as he stalked about the room, stuck his right hand inside a bowl of flowers on a credenza, then peered down into the tops of lamps.
    “Hey, Mike, what’s going on?” Joan said.
    “Call it a little prevention sweep operation,” said Howley, still moving and peering and checking.
    “Bugs,” Henry said. “This man is looking for bugs.”
    “You got it.”
    Joan and Barbara exchanged this-is-crazy grimaces with Henry, who then said: “Mr. Howley, this is Colonial Williamsburg. People do not bug rooms in Colonial Williamsburg.…”
    “Mike. My name is Mike. The hotel people put us on the scheduleboard in the lobby. ‘Presidential Debate Press Panel—Longsworth D,’ it said for the whole world to see.”
    He got down on his