the wall of signatures again.
“Where’s yours?” I said.
“Never signed.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, I’ve never been up here, officially,” he said with a grin. “And second, I’m more the observer type, you know? I like to watch, not be watched.”
“You don’t want to be part of history?” I said, gesturing at the signature of an Ohio State basketball player now in the NBA.
“Kind of like I said before, Woody. I record history. I don’t need to be part of it. So listen. You and Dr. Cooper ever want to spice things up . . .” He showed me the key with arched eyebrows.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“I bet you will.”
We descended a few minutes later, me leading, easing my way down, feeling the strain on my knees even more than on the way up. Halfway back down to the level where we’d started, Hershey stopped me and led the way through a door into a room filled with desks and metal racks, and then out into a corridor. We climbed down another set of stairs and a minute later found ourselves in an enormous circular hall.
“The Rotunda,” Hershey declared. He pointed up, and I stared into what looked like the inside of a giant bell overhead. “We were just walking around the outside of that,” he explained. “The outer wall of that dome is what all the signatures are written on.”
I nodded, and followed him as he walked slowly around the circumference of the room. On the far side we stopped in front of a marble frieze depicting Confederate generals surrendering to their Union counterparts at the Battle of Vicksburg. At the top, a bust of Lincoln looked out over the room.
I started at the sound of Hershey’s echoing voice, reading the inscription. “‘Care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphans,’” he said. He stood there a moment longer before walking to the center of the room. He gestured upward at the salmon-colored interior of the dome.
“I love seeing this at night,” he said. “Gives you a real sense of reverence.”
“Reverence?” I said, skeptically.
“Sure. Can’t you feel it? The aura? The vibe? Our founders’ hopes and dreams, enshrined in a building it took decades to construct in order to last centuries. We’re at ground zero of democracy in Ohio. The home of eight presidents. Count ’em, eight. And as they say, as Ohio goes, so goes the nation.”
“Help me out here. A minute ago you were cracking wise about lunatics and groins. An hour ago you were stage whispering your contempt for almost everyone we met at the Clarmont, except for your Democratic operative pal who you ogled instead. No offense, but am I missing something?”
“Oh, and you’ve never made fun of the things you love?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what I’ve gotten myself into.”
“So I’m a hypocrite—congrats on the big reveal. Among other things, it probably puts me in good company with all the people I write about. Satisfied?”
“Not really.”
“Open your eyes, then. I mean, look at it.” He gazed around the Rotunda, gesturing at the walls. “To paraphrase Obi-Wan Kenobi, ‘You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.’ But it’s my hive, and yours too, and the people’s of Ohio. It’s all we’ve got and it’s actually something. And I’ll be damned if I let the fools who run this place ever forget that.”
I followed his gaze, and stared up into the dome again. I lowered my eyes and thought about what he’d said. After a minute I had to admit I saw his point. There was something undeniably majestic about the place, a stateliness that recalled the pillars of Democracy, of ancient Greece and Rome. Glancing about, I half expected to see a crowd of senators in sandals and togas pass by waving parchment rolls at one another in heated debate. I blinked, clearing my head. I looked around again and settled on an enormous oil painting hanging to my left.
“The Battle of Lake Erie,” Hershey said. “Turning point in the War of 1812.”
I studied the painting, observing a man with wavy, dark hair, his arm outstretched as he commanded a small boat of sailors in the heat of battle.
“Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry,” Hershey continued. “He’s the ‘Don’t give up the ship’ guy.”
“You don’t say.”
“He commanded the Lawrence in the battle. After the British more or less pounded it into oblivion, he got in a rowboat, traveled half a mile through the raging battle to the Niagara, fired that ship’s do-nothing captain, took control and let the Limeys have it. Unbelievable. They don’t build men like that anymore.”
“I guess not.”
“Afterward, he wrote that famous line to his commander: ‘We have met the enemy, and they are ours.’“
“Stirring.”
“Maybe. But I prefer Pogo’s version,” Hershey said.
“Which is?”
“We have met the enemy and he is us. Much more appropriate for this place.”
We stood a few more minutes, taking in the scene, neither of us talking. Then Hershey turned abruptly, headed down a set of stairs, and used a key to open a door. We stepped inside. “Pressroom,” he said, turning on the light and gesturing around the windowless room, consisting of cubicles down the middle and on either side—some empty, some with computer monitors and keyboards, some bulging with reports and books and stacks of paper. At the far end of the room sat a wooden table empty except for the ubiquitous blue Triple F binder. A sign above two TVs bolted to the opposite wall said, “No man’s life, liberty or property are safe while the legislature is in session.”
“So now you’ve seen it,” Hershey said. “The luxury penthouse of the media elite.”
“I always suspected it,” I said.
We retreated, crossed the hall, went through another door, descended a set of stairs past a green metal and glass elevator shaft, and arrived back at the Crypt level. I had paused to look at the commemorative gavel again when I heard a sound. I turned and was blinded by a flashlight.
“Put your hands up,” a voice squeaked. “Do it now.”
9
I WAS STARTING TO COMPLY, DESPITE THE fact the voice sounded like that of a young child or a very old woman, when I heard Hershey say, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Ephraim?”
“Not with miscreants like you sneaking around.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, if I’m not mistaken. Kill the klieg light, will you? Want to introduce you to someone.”
After a moment the light winked off. I blinked, trying to get my bearings in the partial
