Robert Mueller and Me

Five days after bullets perforated me and killed my little friend, the Director of the FBI visited me in the hospital.  He was surrounded by many minions, who he introduced as colleagues: the US Attorneys and the FBI agents and the support people who would be in our lives for a while.  

He leaned over and asked if he could take my hand.  His was long and large and gentle and comforting.  His gaze was unwavering as he apologized for this terrible thing happening on my watch.  He promised that he and the minions were at our service.  

Then he bent over even closer and squeezed my hand and said I am so very sorry this happened to you.

*****

Months later, he met the survivors and families of the dead inside the US Attorney's Office, to update us on the legal matters, and to take our temperature on sentencing.  

It all became very real to me, the whole death penalty thing, and it must have shown on my face.  The people next to me reached out with their hands and their sympatheic smiles and the Director of the FBI looked me right in the eyes and acknowledged my grief.  

He just nodded his head until I could breathe again.

*****

After the verdict and the sentencing we gathered together one last time, less formally.  There was cake.  Director Mueller came in with a smudge of something white on his suit jacket, that jacket hanging open and not trying to impress anyone with its couturier.  

He rememberd my name, he held my hand, he guided me to the seat next to his, and throughout the meeting he'd give that hand a reassuring pat.  

When he left, he hugged me.

*****

What touched me and mine the most was this:

Not long after I was released from the hospital, my mail included a heavy, vellum, note card size envelope, with a mysterious return address.  My friends were opening my mail (nasty notes were not what I needed at the time; I had no snark with which to respond) but this envelope demanded my personal attention.

Inside, below the seal of the Department of Justice (embossed in deep blue and gold), was a handwritten note from the Director of the FBI.  He was pleased to hear that I was out of the hospital and he hoped that my recovery was going well.  He signed it Best regards, Bob.

Bob.  You know, my friend, Robert S Mueller, the Director of the FBI.  Bob. 

I cried.

******

That is who he was, behind the curtain, in person, with no cameras or reporters, just the head law enforcement guy looking out for those who were hurt.  Taking it personally and following through on his promise to take care of it.  

His death has sent me back to that January, revealing the layers I've managed to put between the sorrow and my everyday life.  It was never any one thing.  It was everything and nothing and things I couldn't explain (I know that CTG sometimes showed up in the niche across from the couch on which I lay for 14 weeks).

Through it all, I knew that Director Mueller was doing what needed to be done, the way it needed to be done.  I hope he knew how much that meant to us.

He was a true public servant.  The world is a lesser place without him.  May his memory be a blessing.