His press secretary, Art Snell, escorted me to Abelard’s hideaway office, off the Senate floor. It was a grand room, fit for a congressional blue blood like Abelard, evoking all the history and power of the Capitol. There were heavy drapes that hung to the floor; gilt-edged mirrors on two walls; a handsome painting over the mantel of a Hudson River landscape; fine old couches and chairs that had been lent by a museum and, out the window, a magnificent view of the Mall. The beauty of the room added to my unease. I hadn’t told Snell the subject, other than to say that I was writing a campaign profile of the senator, and Snell obviously expected it was going to be a normal interview, with questions about Abelard’s positions on nuclear terrorism and welfare reform and tax policy. He kept mentioning position papers he wanted to send me.

Abelard received me graciously. He was a neat, compact man, much smaller in person than he seemed on television. He had close-cut gray hair, strong cheekbones and sharp blue eyes that suggested an agile mind. He sat motionless in his chair, waiting for me to begin. I had no idea, watching him, whether Dr. Soderberg had given him any advance warning. I wondered, looking at the clear, composed face, whether he was on medication.

I was very decorous, dressed as neatly as if I were applying for a job. I felt like a complete phony sitting there, pretending to be nice when I was about to go for his jugular, and I wanted to get it over with.

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Senator,” I said. “I’m afraid that this isn’t going to be an easy interview, for you or for me.” I turned on my tape recorder and set it on the coffee table, between me and Abelard.

“What do you want to ask the senator about?” interjected the press secretary. “I thought you were doing a profile.” He could already tell that something bad was about to happen, but he didn’t know what it was.

I cleared my throat, swallowed, sat up straight in my chair. “Senator, I want to ask you about your treatment for clinical depression. I have three sources who have described your hospitalization in 1982. And I have a copy of your prescription for antidepressants.”

Snell, the press secretary, was on his feet. “We’re not answering your questions. This interview is over.” His voice was shaking, he was so upset.

But Senator Abelard stayed in his seat. He was still calm, but the spark in his eyes had suddenly gone out and the color in his cheeks had drained. He had arrived—finally and suddenly—at the moment he had been dreading for fourteen years. He drew a deep breath, said nothing for a time, and then spoke.

“Please leave the room, Art. I wish to talk with Mr. Truell alone.”