The day when political Washington could finally unclench its jaw after months of pent-up tension -- a day for gloating or gloom, feverish spinning, bloggy celebrations of "Fitzmas," contemplations of the (allegedly) fallen mighty -- began humbly enough.
In one of his first on-the-record acts after a two-year investigation into the leak of a CIA agent's identity, Special Counsel Patrick J. Fitzgerald rearranged the courtroom furniture. He saw there weren't enough big black rolling chairs at the prosecution table in Courtroom 4. He began wheeling them over one by one.
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After pulling four chairs over to the table, Fitzgerald waxed more loquacious than he had in two years.
"I think we're okay."
After that, things started happening very quickly. The dozens of reporters staking out the E. Barrett Prettyman U.S. Courthouse got their first new facts in a long time: A grand jury had indicted Scooter Libby on five felony counts that included perjury, obstruction of justice and making false statements. The top aide to Vice President Dick Cheney was looking at 30 years in prison and $1.25 million in fines if convicted and sentenced to the maximum possible.
Aftershocks rippled seismically from the courthouse on Constitution Avenue, to the White House, the Justice Department, around the city and the country, on this bad day for the Bush administration, and this very, very bad day for I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby.
By the time prosecutors made it from the courthouse to the Justice Department, four blocks away, at 1:30 p.m., about 45 minutes after announcing the charges, they could look up at the television screen in the Justice lobby playing CNN and learn more news: Libby had already resigned and left the White House.
It was one of those days to scrutinize the staged comings and goings of the powerful men who run this country. "I'm going to have a very good day," Karl Rove declared to reporters upon leaving for work, and he gave that chipper grin he had offered all week to photographers staking out his house in Northwest.
President Bush left the White House for a morning hop to Norfolk to address military personnel, and on his way out the door he gave an odd half-smile. Was it a pained grin? A playful one?
He came back shortly after noon. Marine One approached the South Lawn of the White House a minute ahead of schedule. About 30 yards south of the helipad, a small bulldozer was parked next to a mound of dirt, apparently in the midst of digging a giant hole. It all made for an odd juxtaposition: Marine One, a loud and imposing symbol of presidential potency, descending from behind the Washington Monument and into what looked like a grave.
Farther down Pennsylvania Avenue and around a corner, there was disorder in the court.
Reporters wanted to be in exactly the right spot in U.S. District Court when Fitzgerald publicly pulled the pin on his prosecutorial hand grenade. They wanted to absorb the full blast. But where?
