No Comment — August 4, 2007, 6:11 am

The Bush Administration’s Not-So-Secret Secrets

The Bush-Cheney Administration will be remembered for decades for its shamelessly political manipulation of security classifications. A number of general themes have emerged. One is that when documents are stamped “secret” (or better yet “top secret”) this is far more likely to mean “this would be politically embarrassing to us if it got out” than “this affects the nation’s security.” And “embarrassment” covers a sliding scale. Sometimes it would simply make the administration look stupid or inept. On other occasions, it would actually link people to their crimes—as when torture and other serious mistreatment of prisoners is concerned, or the warrantless surveillance practices which are so much in the news.

In both cases, the “secret” conduct involves felonies. But such things are “secret” only so long as political interests hold firm. As soon as it’s politically expedient to leak secrets, that happens–no questions asked and no investigations launched. Witness two examples of Administration-sourced disclosures of “secrets” just in the last week.

In an interview with Fox News, House G.O.P. leader John Boehner revealed that a FISA court judge had made a ruling against the Administration which blocked a surveillance program. He disclosed details of the ruling and of the program—both of which the Administration had, up to that point, insisted were highly classified and compartmentalized information, the disclosure of which would severely harm national security, as the Washington Post revealed today.

The Administration’s reaction? No problem. Boehner is supporting the Administration’s efforts to secure the amendment of FISA. And, hey, what the hell, it was on Fox News. Apparently, disclosure of classified information is only a problem when Democrats do it and it’s in opposition to the Administration’s various power grabs.

Or consider a second case. Last week, Alberto Gonzales perjured himself repeatedly in testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee. One of the most egregious of several perjuries had to do with his account of his visit to the hospital bedside of John Ashcroft to extract the ailing attorney general’s signature on a document. Gonzales’s account flatly contradicted that of the vastly more credible former Deputy Attorney General James Comey, and the next day, FBI Director Robert Mueller also contradicted Gonzales, producing what one source call a “new ice age” between the Attorney General and the FBI. In order to try to protect Gonzales from mounting calls for appointment of a special prosecutor or for impeachment hearings, an Administration source leaked to the New York Times and the Washington Post specific information about the changed nature of the surveillance program—which involves data mining—in order to help Gonzales make a case that his irreconcilable statement stemmed from a “different understanding” from Comey and Mueller, not from a conscious falsehood. Again, allegedly extremely sensitive material was passed to the media; it was done by the Bush White House; and it was done to bail out an attorney general in extremis.

All of this points to the role played by security classifications in the Bush-Cheney Administration: partisan politics, 24/7.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

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"She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. 'Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.'"
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