I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. It felt like a scene from a movie that conveniently ties plot points together when two critical characters in the storyline share a moment of implausible significance – where the intrepid reporter finally runs his target to ground.
So at first I had trouble getting my words out. “I’m Andrew Breitbart,” I exhaled. Instead of hanging up, Bertha Lewis laughed like someone I would probably like in a different setting – but certainly not in this lifetime now that we are permanently and publicly tied to one another as media-based adversaries.
I knew the awkwardness of the moment would turn into trouble when I started asking her pointed questions and, sure enough, we soon we found ourselves in trouble.
“Did you go to the White House last year?” I asked.
Bertha Laughed heartily. ”No,” she said.
“Really?” I pushed.
“No. One hundred per cent not. Not this year. Not last year. Not ever,” she stated firmly, all the while maintaining an awkward and ironic joviality that was likely born of the weirdness of our impromptu exchange.
“Are you aware that the White House is claiming that the proof you are not the Bertha Lewis who was given a personal tour of the White House residence in early September is that you are Bertha M. Lewis? I asked. “And the one on the visitors log is Bertha E. Lewis. In an online database I see you once had ‘Evans’ in your name.”
“That was a former husband, who is now dead,” she said.
“I’m sorry about that,” I responded sincerely, as we defied the odds that the awkwardness couldn’t get any greater. READ MORE...
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