After a five-hour deposition not unlike a root canal sans gas, I know what it is like to have to sit in a room crammed with lawyers and answer questions about sensitive personal matters.
I know what it is like to prostrate myself, legally naked, and be subjected to the poking and probing of curious attorneys.
I know what it is like to have people rooting around my past, trying desperately to find any kind of dirt that can be used against me.
Of course, there were no presidential kneepads involved, just a state senator looking to collect millions for damage to his reputation.
Nobody asked me any questions about the peculiarities of my privates. But it sure felt that way.
I have to admit that, in retrospect, the whole thing was generally distracting, a little unnerving and a superb refresher course on the inner workings of our legal system.
I can only wonder if Bill Clinton will feel the same, if and when he testifies in the Monica Lewinsky mess.
For me, the prospect of going tête-à-tête with Richard Sprague, whom I have dubbed the 800-pound gorilla of libel-suing attorneys, was both daunting and an honor.
Daunting because I knew, by his reputation, that Sprague would try to pick me and my words apart and that others in the same position have been reduced to quivering piles of gelatinous goo by the pressure. An honor because, no matter what you might think of his causes or clients, he is among the very best at what he does. The Michael Jordan of 800-pound libel-suing attorneys. The man who won tens of millions from the Inquirer.
The man who would be sitting across the table.
Looking me in the eye.
Demanding that I explain nearly every word I have written about Vincent J. Fumo, state senator, multi-board member, attorney, bank president, helicopter aficionado and mensa-worthy genius whom nobody refers to as Vinny.
After weeks of nervous anticipation and much preparation, I was finally sitting in Sprague's office, waiting anxiously for his arrival.
Like trainers rubbing down a fighter before the bell sounds, attorneys Sam Klein and Jennifer Bromley sat next to me, filling my water glass, offering me words of encouragement and advice.
It was comforting to know that they were there. Klein, the Michael Jordan of libel-fighting attorneys, is the very best in the business. And Bromley has a good chance of following in his footsteps.
Together they, along with attorney Vernon Francis, prepped me well and I was feeling as ready as I possibly could.
Still, like a boxer waiting in the corner for that bell, I was antsy, looking forward to the sting of the first verbal jab.
It didn't come right away.
After a short interval that seemed like an eternity, Sprague shuffled into the room, looking like the judge on Ally McBeal who likes women with clean teeth.
"I was going to wear a gorilla costume, but it's too hot today," Sprague said, momentarily calming the tension in the room.
The calm didn't last long.
After asking me about my background, Sprague threw his first jab, a question about an incident that he tried to portray as violence in the workplace.
After explaining that I had been fired from my job at the Waltham News-Tribune for reading a steamy novel over the loudspeaker, Sprague asked me if I had ever damaged company property.
Right away, I knew where he was going, and how thorough his investigation had been.
And I took the opportunity to explain.
Yes, I damaged property.
Bumping up against deadline and needing to check some clips in the morgue (this being back in the days before computerized clip files), I found the morgue door locked. I kicked it in, then left a note to the morning editors about what happened and inviting them to take it out of my pay, if necessary.
My editors at the time thanked me for my honesty, charged the repair bill to my paycheck and never again locked the morgue.
A silly story, but illustrative of how far Sprague's investigation, on behalf of Senator Fumo, has gone to look into my past.
The questions about my past were just the appetizer.
Sprague, to no great suprise, had me go over my columns word for word. It was an enlightening experience, one that every journalist should go through at least once just to see how it feels.
One exchange really stands out in my mind.
In the column for which I am being sued, I said that mayoral spokesman Kevin Feeley was "like Paul freakin' Revere" compared to the Board of City Trusts.
"What did you mean when you used the word 'freakin'?" Sprague asked me.
I tried to explain that freakin' meant freakin', a slang term to add emphasis.
"But what did you mean by 'freakin'?" he asked again.
He asked me if I meant to use it as slang for the word "fucking." I explained that, because I write for City Paper, I could use the word fucking if I wanted to.
Then he asked me again what I meant by freakin'.
"Freakin'," I told him. "It means in a way, with all due respect, I think the suit is freakin' ridiculous."
That prompted an eruption.
My lawyers were upset.
Sprague began muttering that he would keep me there for days.
There was a short break.
After a brief but stern lecture from Sam, we returned to the table and Sprague returned to his questions.
Including one about a line in one of my columns that said my parents always taught me to stand up to bullies.
Sprague asked me what I meant by that.
I told him that dragging me into a deposition, having me answer questions about my past because of what I wrote, could easily be construed as bullying.
Due to the pressure and my own anxiety, I managed to completely blow at least one question.
An embarrassingly simple one at that.
Sprague asked me why I moved to Philadelphia from New Haven and wanted to know where my wife worked at the time.
I couldn't remember.
After days of preparing for questions about my columns, I never thought to study that. I completely blanked, much to Sprague's chagrin.
He couldn't believe I forgot it.
Looking back, neither can I.
That's how distracting a deposition is.
So I feel your pain, Mr. President. And I can only imagine in horror what would have happened if President Kennedy had to answer questions about Marilyn Monroe during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
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