There was no one who could bail us out and no one to turn to, only lawyers. His parents were dead. My mother was dead and my father was in poor health. My friends and colleagues were supportive, but the IRS was too intimidating. This was bigger than all of us. I had no special talent I could suddenly market for a cool million or two. I knew I’d only blow what little was left if I tried to beat the odds in a Vegas casino. I wasn’t a Bonnie and, anyway, there was no Clyde. The burden was on my shoulders. Everybody else—especially the lawyers and Nathans staff—looked to me for answers, solutions.
So I had to come up with some.
I knew this: Howard and I had got Spencer off to a good start and I wanted to keep our lives on course no matter what. We were dedicatedto giving him the sound, balanced world neither of us ever had. Howard had screwed it up big time, that’s for sure. Maybe he wanted us to have the best of everything? That didn’t wash. “The best of everything” was why we were in this mess, why I was a defendant in a federal tax fraud case, why I felt lost, and, day by day, why I was moving from denial toward anger.
Ch apte r 10
“Y OU SHOULD GO to court. You’d be great on the witness stand,” Bob Woodward said to me across the table in his Georgetown kitchen. Spencer and I were having pasta with Bob, his wife, Elsa Walsh, and their two-year-old daughter, Diana. Bob and I had met covering the antiwar movement in 1970 when Bob was working for a suburban newspaper and I was with UPI. Not long after that he moved to the
Washington Post
and the rest is history. I met Elsa soon after they married in 1989. Both of them were friends of Howard’s and mine.
“A civil court in D.C. will rule against the IRS because the jury’ll be with you,” Bob said. Elsa nodded.
When he covered Watergate, Bob had had his own moment under the IRS thumb. Both he and his partner, Carl Bernstein, were audited.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “They’d see me the way the IRS sees me, and that’s not very flattering.”
“How many women in Washington are single parents?” Elsa said. “How many women in Washington are raising boys by themselves? Women jurors would be on your side. You’re more sympathetic than you realize.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stomach to have our dirty laundry washed in a courtroom. The government lawyers would turn our world inside out and upside down. Read what the agent on my case wrote about me. That’s the approach they’d take. They’d hold me up as the poster child for selfish indulgence.”
Bob was the only person I trusted to read Deborah Martin’s IRS report. I figured with his experience as an investigative reporter there wasn’t anything he’d see that would shock him. He would not make assumptions about Howard or me. He would look at the facts and weigh them. And, above all, he would be discreet.
Bob got back to me quickly. “I’m sending this report over to Sheldon Cohen. He’s my tax lawyer. I first went to him during Watergate, when Nixon had the IRS audit me. I’ve been with him ever since. He’s good. He used to be the commissioner of the IRS. You’ll like him. Call him in two weeks.”
He gave me Sheldon’s number and two weeks later, to the day if not the hour, I called him. His voice was calm and assured. His tone was warm. “You’re in quite a jam, aren’t you? Why don’t you come by and see me?” Sheldon was a partner at Morgan, Lewis, and Bockius, where he headed the tax law department. He was one of the sharpest, most respected tax lawyers in the country. I thanked my good fortune that he would see me.
The law firm’s offices were about five blocks from the White House. The building was in the hub of the “old” downtown. The meeting was utterly different from my first go-round a few months earlier at Caplin and Drysdale. For one thing, I skipped the elegant suit and the rest of it. Instead I dressed as I
So I had to come up with some.
I knew this: Howard and I had got Spencer off to a good start and I wanted to keep our lives on course no matter what. We were dedicatedto giving him the sound, balanced world neither of us ever had. Howard had screwed it up big time, that’s for sure. Maybe he wanted us to have the best of everything? That didn’t wash. “The best of everything” was why we were in this mess, why I was a defendant in a federal tax fraud case, why I felt lost, and, day by day, why I was moving from denial toward anger.
Ch apte r 10
“Y OU SHOULD GO to court. You’d be great on the witness stand,” Bob Woodward said to me across the table in his Georgetown kitchen. Spencer and I were having pasta with Bob, his wife, Elsa Walsh, and their two-year-old daughter, Diana. Bob and I had met covering the antiwar movement in 1970 when Bob was working for a suburban newspaper and I was with UPI. Not long after that he moved to the
Washington Post
and the rest is history. I met Elsa soon after they married in 1989. Both of them were friends of Howard’s and mine.
“A civil court in D.C. will rule against the IRS because the jury’ll be with you,” Bob said. Elsa nodded.
When he covered Watergate, Bob had had his own moment under the IRS thumb. Both he and his partner, Carl Bernstein, were audited.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “They’d see me the way the IRS sees me, and that’s not very flattering.”
“How many women in Washington are single parents?” Elsa said. “How many women in Washington are raising boys by themselves? Women jurors would be on your side. You’re more sympathetic than you realize.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stomach to have our dirty laundry washed in a courtroom. The government lawyers would turn our world inside out and upside down. Read what the agent on my case wrote about me. That’s the approach they’d take. They’d hold me up as the poster child for selfish indulgence.”
Bob was the only person I trusted to read Deborah Martin’s IRS report. I figured with his experience as an investigative reporter there wasn’t anything he’d see that would shock him. He would not make assumptions about Howard or me. He would look at the facts and weigh them. And, above all, he would be discreet.
Bob got back to me quickly. “I’m sending this report over to Sheldon Cohen. He’s my tax lawyer. I first went to him during Watergate, when Nixon had the IRS audit me. I’ve been with him ever since. He’s good. He used to be the commissioner of the IRS. You’ll like him. Call him in two weeks.”
He gave me Sheldon’s number and two weeks later, to the day if not the hour, I called him. His voice was calm and assured. His tone was warm. “You’re in quite a jam, aren’t you? Why don’t you come by and see me?” Sheldon was a partner at Morgan, Lewis, and Bockius, where he headed the tax law department. He was one of the sharpest, most respected tax lawyers in the country. I thanked my good fortune that he would see me.
The law firm’s offices were about five blocks from the White House. The building was in the hub of the “old” downtown. The meeting was utterly different from my first go-round a few months earlier at Caplin and Drysdale. For one thing, I skipped the elegant suit and the rest of it. Instead I dressed as I
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