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I Confess

So I was talking with Peter Schmitz the other night after he left the courthouse, and we traded some hair-styling tips. Has anyone else noticed how, in the early days of the trial, his ponytail was slicked back with gel and looked kind of dark, but now that a witness has testified that the driver of the BMW that killed Greg Lopez had short, dark hair, Peter's back to a fuller, streaky blond look? Sort of a modified Sydney Stone? "Body counts," he calls it. Then he said he had something to confess to me: what really happened that night a year ago, after he and Spicer Breeden got into Breeden's BMW and peeled out of LoDo, speeding down I-25. "I've never told anyone this before," Peter confided with that nice Teutonic accent that gets heavier even as his hair gets lighter. "The truth. It was like this. I got in the car and..."

Oops. You weren't supposed to read that. That's from my confidential files--the confidential files stored in my computer, where only I can access them. Not that I really need to see them, anyway, because they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

And so later that night, I was talking with Brad Irwin and Suzanne Terry, 1997's version of Klondike and Snow, and commiserating with them about how truly sad it was that the leaders of the Free World were ruining their wedding reception, booting them out of the Denver Museum of Natural History so they could have some pesky G-7 meeting there and think up ways to save the universe. And Brad, who'd just beaten up mayoral spokesman Andrew Hudson pretty good on the Today show, said he had something to confess to me: why he was really making such a big deal about finding a new place to hold the reception when several other couples have already caved in and generously agreed to let the city pay for their weddings and receptions and potential kids' college educations. "I've never told anyone this before," Brad confided. "The truth. I'm a lawyer, so I have to tell the truth, or I can be disbarred. It was like this. We never really threatened to sue..."

Oops. You weren't supposed to read that. That's from my confidential files--the confidential files stored in my computer, where only I can access them. Not that I really need to see them, anyway, because they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

By now I was in a really chatty mood, so I decided it was about time to talk with John Ramsey again. So, per usual, we started railing about how truly trashy those tabloids are and why it's a shame that people pick on the Ramseys just because they dressed JonBenet up in swimsuits and dyed her hair and made her perform like some second-rate lounge act. And I told him that even though I'll talk to just about anyone, I wouldn't have talked to the police, either, if my daughter (which I don't have) happened to turn up dead in my basement through no fault of my own. And then John said he had something to confess to me--and I wouldn't even have to pay $50,000, which is apparently the going rate per word at the Globe. "I've never told anyone this before," John sobbed. "The truth. It was like this. Santa and I were up late that night, sniffing schnapps..."

Oops. You weren't supposed to read that. That's another document from my confidential files--the confidential files stored in my computer, where only I can access them. Not that I really need to see them, anyway, because they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

Then I heard that Clarence Kay was in trouble again, and I knew I had to check in with him, since we've schmoozed after each of his previous ten arrests for domestic violence. And each time, he's as nice as nice can be and simply can't understand why his past and present girlfriends don't understand that he's just showing them how very much he cares and that he doesn't mean to hit them or stalk them or threaten their new boyfriends. And I told him he should give it a rest and go read Vance Johnson's book or something, but Clarence was still confused. Because now he's been charged with violating a restraining order and disturbing the peace after he showed up on an ex-girlfriend's porch Friday, screaming obscenities. So I was talking with Clarence, and he said he had something to confess to me, and he wouldn't even use swear words. "I've never told anyone this before," Clarence whispered. "The truth. It was like this. I knew that she still loved me, that she had it coming..."

Oops. You weren't supposed to read that. That's another document from my confidential files--the confidential files stored in my computer, where only I can access them. Not that I really need to see them, anyway, because they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

Talking with Clarence had put me in kind of a sporty frame of mind, so I thought I would contact my old friend Pat Bowlen, who I talk to all the time anyway, and ask what was really up with this stadium deal and maybe see if it was too late to get those old uniforms back, at least in time for Halloween, when the jerseys would be useful for making giant stuffed pumpkins. And I was talking to Pat, who is really, really misunderstood, and he admitted that when he mistakenly signed away the revenue stream for the skyboxes at Mile High Stadium, he actually thought he was signing citizenship papers, because he really, really wants to be a U.S. citizen and keep the Broncos in Denver for ever and ever. And then he said he had something to confess to me. "I've never told anyone this before," Pat said. "The truth. It's like this. I've got this really sweet offer from Cleveland, and..."

Oops. You weren't supposed to read that. That's another document from my confidential files--the confidential files stored in my computer, where only I can access them. Not that I really need to see them, anyway, because they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

By now, I think you can see just how dangerous it is to keep confidential files, even if they are hoaxes, fakes, completely made up.

So I called Stephen Jones to tell him I now can sympathize with him after all those mean Oklahoma City bombing stories and also because I wanted the recipe for the ravioli he'd fed that swine reporter from the Dallas Morning News before he'd swiped all of Jones's confidential files. And I also wanted to tell Stephen how very enlightening, if completely incoherent, his two dozen different explanations of Tim McVeigh's confession had been. And Stephen, who's been doing a lot of talking for the past ten days, said that even so, he had something he wanted to confess to me. "I've never told anyone this before," he said, and I believed him, because he is a lawyer and cannot lie without running the risk of being disbarred. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It's like this. A couple weeks before the trial, we needed really big body counts...

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