58
By the time the year turns, and spring arrives, I am out of excuses to stay. By then, I have finished the President’s ghostwritten autobiography. My name is nowhere connected to the book and I plan to keep it that way. I’m halfway into the second draft of the one I want to write.
The editor at the NY Times and my publisher kibosh the idea of publishing my book as non-fiction under my name citing the very real possibility that I will be sued. I bow to the pressure. The book still sells well as fiction under a pen name, and I have enough money left to add to my retirement account. Meanwhile, I go back to what I love best: writing investigative articles for the Times.
“Did you see this coming?” Mom asks me at the start of Richter’s second term.
“What coming?” I toss back. We’re eating
