A former classmate tells me she and her debate team used to score many a point by citing an esteemed authority by the name of William Gentry. It was an inside joke, Willie Gentry being the driver of the school bus on which the team traveled from one debate to the next. On the bus, however, it was no joke. Whenever Mr. Gentry told you to sit down and shut up, he left absolutely no room for rebuttal.
Back when I worked as a reporter, I learned that bus drivers, janitors, school lunch ladies and the like were great sources of inside information. Unlike their institutional overlords, they have little to lose by speaking truth to power. Higher-ups, on the other hand, pretty much have to shade the truth on a daily basis in order to keep their jobs.
Which brings me to the ongoing investigation of the Trump administration, which—thanks to testimonies from minor functionaries—is being unmasked as the criminal enterprise it has been since day one. And if there’s one thing a criminal enterprise can’t abide, it’s leakers; aka “rats.”
Think of Trump’s appointees as ”Goodfellas,” and the Ukraine shakedown scheme as the Lufthansa heist. Things would have worked out just fine for the syndicate, were it not for an anonymous whistleblower who set in motion the ongoing investigation. Naturally, Trump would like to know the name of said whistleblower, so that he or she could be summarily whacked. But as it stands now, the Don is forced to order up hit after hit in order to keep law enforcement at bay. However, now it appears that the jig is finally up, thanks to—you guessed it—a phone call made on an unsecured line.
“WHAT DID I TELL YOU!?” screams Henry Hill at his babysitter—who knows far more than the feds about her crooked employer’s drug dealing.
So if I were covering the hearings, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to squeeze information out of a Republican, because it’s not in his best interest to speak truthfully, or even candidly—not if he wants to keep his job. No, if I were on the hunt for enlightenment, I’d turn to someone like my old friend Floyd Eaton, resident caretaker of the Wendover City dump. Once, back during the Nixon years, I asked Floyd if he had ever voted in a presidential election, and if not, why not?
“When it comes to putting gangsters into public office,” declared Floyd, “I want no part of it.”
