As I sit here tonight, so many months later and miles away, telling you how it happened, committing it to history, I hope it serves some purpose. Maybe it’s already too late. Who knows? In the end, I guess, that’s up to you.

But as I remember that terrible day, I know now I made one significant mistake: I thought that the worst was behind us.

2

As I walked over to the White House I glanced at the half moon; it was startingly bright—the yin of a glass half-full. At that moment, I was pretty certain, the people in New York and Louisiana and Hawaii were experiencing the dark side of that moon.

I’d been to the White House numerous times for press conferences. I still loved the place, but as I waited in the security line I remembered my first meeting there with the new administration. That had been a memorable visit, as meaningful as the starter snapping the green flag at Indianapolis. Less than a week after Wrightman’s inauguration I had been invited to meet privately with Vice President Arthur T. Hunter. I suspect I was selected thanks to Mighty Chair. I’ve never forgotten the advice I’d been given by the late paraplegic columnist Charles Krauthammer when I rolled out of Walter Reed into journalism. “That chair makes people uncomfortable,” he said. This was even before Mighty Chair was a dream, when I was still using a standard ride. “They may dismiss you, they may be overly solicitous, or they may try to use you, but they can’t ignore you. Don’t ever hesitate to use that to your advantage.”

It was valuable advice. I’d gotten quite adept at reading people’s response to the chair, then turning it into a benefit. I’d learned to be whatever they needed me to be. In addition, I’d found that many people underestimated the physically handicapped. Some people actually spoke louder and used simplistic language when speaking to me, as if not having the use of my legs had affected my brain.

I didn’t care. It didn’t matter at all to me if I got an interview because someone felt sorry for me. My disability wasn’t exactly a use-it-or-lose-it situation. But I did use it.

Vice President Hunter, “Artie the Hun,” had been properly solicitous as I walked into his office that afternoon. (Point of explanation: Handicapped people use the language just like everyone else. We walk into rooms, we run to the store, and we’re always ready to roll!) As I walked into Hunter’s White House office, he cleared a spot between two large chairs for me and I eased Mighty Chair into it, maybe exaggerating the difficulty in maneuvering into that space a little.

“Captain Stone,” he greeted me, tenting his hands in front of him and bowing gently. The elimination of the firm look-right-in-the-eye handshake had robbed him of his opportunity to demonstrate he was a man’s man.

Artie Hunter was a bull in a $2,000 suit. He had that kind of intimidating size the military has always loved. The first thing I noticed about him was that he had suspicious hair. It was too full, too dark, too immobile. It was perfectly squared away, like everything else about him. He was the kind of man who made Mike Pence look scruffy. I wondered if he had his general’s stars tattooed on his body. Artie Hunter, it was clear, was a man comfortable in front of a mirror.