No Comment — August 10, 2009, 12:34 pm

Fredo’s New Job

It’s taken more than two years, but Alberto Gonzales has finally found a job. On August 31, he starts teaching a political science class at Texas Tech University in Lubbock with a one-year appointment that a political friend, university chancellor Kent Hance, a former Democratic congressman turned Republican, wrangled for him. Curiously, the former attorney general couldn’t land a job at the law school, just as he’s had no offers from major law firms. It’s a “tough economic climate,” Gonzales says by way of explanation. In an earlier interview he was more candid: “Any law firm that does due diligence on me sees all the investigations and the possibility that I might be indicted and they say, ‘Not right now.’”

But controversy has followed Gonzales even to the Texas panhandle: more than seventy professors at Texas Tech have lodged a petition complaining about Gonzales’s appointment, citing his “ethical failings” and arguing that his presence on campus will tarnish the university’s reputation. To mark the occasion, Sunday’s New York Times Magazine offers a brief interview with Gonzales.

In the interview, we learn that Dubya and Gonzales have not spoken to one another since Bush left office. Bush is focused on building his legacy, and it seems he doesn’t see Gonzales, his White House counsel and second attorney general, as a part of it. The core of the interview lies in this exchange:

Q: Would you agree that your reputation was damaged by your service as attorney general?

A: It has had an effect, a negative effect, no question about it, and at times it makes me angry because it is undeserved. But I don’t want to sound like I am whining. At the end of the day, I’ve been the attorney general of the United States. It’s a remarkable privilege, and I stand behind my service.

Perhaps it’s worth a quick reminder about the specifics. What did Alberto Gonzales do that shaped his reputation?

  • In his first year as White House counsel, he attempted to legalize torture, commissioning a series of memos designed to offer a legal shield to those who committed acts of torture, and he denigrated the Geneva Conventions as “quaint and obsolete.” But he consistently misrepresents his role in the process. He recently told the Wall Street Journal that he didn’t really play an “important role” in any of this. Who did? “John Yoo had strong views,” he said.

  • He oversaw a Justice Department that reached historically unprecedented levels of politicization, in which career employees were dismissed based on their political beliefs and prosecutions were initiated or squelched to advance the Republican Party’s electoral agenda.

  • He dismissed nine U.S. attorneys on grounds which were clearly improper and politically motivated, then lied about the reasons and stonewalled Congress, in one hearing using the words “I can’t recall” or a similar formulation seventy-one times.

  • He played the key role in authorizing an illegal warrantless surveillance program, signing authority for it himself when John Ashcroft refused to do so and making a nighttime visit to Ashcroft’s hospital bed to pressure him to sign.

Just how seriously does Gonzales take his new job? In response to a question about the syllabus for his class, he draws a blank, suggesting that he hasn’t quite gotten around to preparing one. Then he promises “the students a behind-the-scenes look at how the White House is really organized and how it operates.” I hope someone’s taking good notes. Sounds like they may learn a lot more than congressional investigators and Special Prosecutor Nora Dannehy, who seem to have heard repeatedly that Gonzales just had no recollection of the inner workings of the White House, especially with respect to legal issues.

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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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