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Politics : Impeach George W. Bush -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?


To: Peter Dierks who wrote (33150)6/5/2005 12:49:11 PM
From: paret  Read Replies (1) | Respond to of 93284
 
Last Man Out: Part One
Ron DiFrancesco was high in the South Tower when the plane struck. An inferno and 84 floors lay between him and his family.

Andrew Duffy
The Ottawa Citizen
canada.com

TORONTO - Almost four years later, Ron DiFrancesco still carries the South Tower with him -- tiny fragments of glass and stucco that occasionally migrate to the surface of his skin.

Mr. DiFrancesco was the last man out of the South Tower before it collapsed at 9:59 a.m. on Sept. 11, 2001. He was, according to the official 9/11 Commission Report, one of only four people to make it out alive that day from above the central impact zone on the 81st floor.

The stories of some of those other survivors are well-known.

But the 41-year-old Mr. DiFrancesco, a soft-spoken father of four, has scrupulously avoided the media spotlight. He doesn't like talking about his escape; he believes it's disrespectful to the families of those who died to celebrate the decisions that allowed him to live.

Mr. DiFrancesco has rejected dozens of interview requests from journalists and filmmakers. He rarely discusses the day's events, even with his children. "They know it's still raw for me, even though I'd be more open to it now," he says.

(Mr. DiFrancesco agreed to talk to The Citizen only with great reluctance and under the condition that he not be characterized as a hero.)

The almost four years since the terror attacks have been difficult ones for Mr. DiFrancesco, who continues to undergo therapy for back and hip injuries. He has also sought the help of a psychiatrist to better understand what he describes as "agitation," and the guilt he feels about his survival on a day when 61 of his Euro Brokers' colleagues died.

Mr. DiFrancesco sometimes suffers bouts of panic: when the lights flicker, for instance. Or, as was the case in August 2003, when he was caught on the subway as a massive blackout cut power across Toronto and much of the northeast.

At those times, it all comes flooding back.

- - -

As was his habit, Ron DiFrancesco woke just after 5 a.m. on the morning of Sept. 11. He washed and shaved and was out the door before his wife, Mary, and his four children had stirred from their beds.

He had to catch the 5.37 a.m. train near his Mahwah, New Jersey home in order to make the subway connection that would take him below the Hudson River to the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

Mr. DiFrancesco always marvelled at the energy of the trade towers. It swept him along the moment he stepped from the PATH subway, in the fifth sub-basement of the complex. It hummed in the express elevators that sped to the skylobby of the 78th floor where he took a second elevator to the offices of Euro Brokers. There, on the 84th floor, it wafted from the office like the smell of strong coffee as his colleagues discussed overnight financial numbers from London and Tokyo.

He was at his desk by 7 a.m.

It was a postcard kind of morning with the sunrise glowing through the windows that lined the east wall in front of him on the Euro Brokers' trading floor. Mr. DiFrancesco worked as a money market broker, orchestrating short-term financial deals between international banks. He specialized in the needs of Canadian institutions.



To: Peter Dierks who wrote (33150)6/5/2005 12:53:10 PM
From: paret  Read Replies (1) | Respond to of 93284
 
Forced to bring 'Deep Throat' to light
Vanity Fair's scoop and family's mission to cash in led Woodward to change his plans
By TODD S. PURDUM and JIM RUTENBERG
New York Times June 5, 2005

WASHINGTON - This was not the way Bob Woodward expected to tell the last chapter of the Watergate story that he and the Washington Post have owned for more than 30 years: the identity of "Deep Throat."

Watergate reporters Carl Bernstein, left, and Bob Woodward meet at Woodward's office at the Washington Post on Tuesday, the day Vanity Fair outed the identity of "Deep Throat," W. Mark Felt.
Woodward, a Washington media machine, has long been largely insulated from normal journalistic rivalries. But last week, in the wake of Vanity Fair magazine's disclosure that W. Mark Felt was his secret source, it became clear that Woodward had been facing months, and even years, of competitive pressure from an unlikely source, the Felt family.

On Wednesday, word came that the family of the ailing, 91-year-old former No. 2 official of the FBI, after failing to reach a collaborative agreement with Woodward, had sought payment in vain for Felt's story not only from Vanity Fair but also from People magazine and HarperCollins Books.

They are apparently still determined to claim their share of the story that has helped make Woodward a millionaire.

Following the money

"It's doing me good," Felt told reporters outside his home in Santa Rosa, Calif., when asked how he was reacting to the publicity. "I'll arrange to write a book or something, and collect all the money I can."

J. Todd Foster, managing editor of the News-Virginian in Waynesboro, said that in 2003, after being frustrated in their efforts to persuade Woodward to cooperate, the Felt family had come to him — roughly six months after he had approached them on his own hunch that Felt was Deep Throat — to propose a collaboration. At the time, Foster was a contributor to People, which he said considered but rejected an article because the Felts wanted payment.

"This was always about the money, and they were very up front with me," he said in a telephone interview.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I'll arrange to write a book or something, and collect all the money I can."

— W. Mark Felt
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felt
Foster and the Felt family then took the project to ReganBooks, an imprint of HarperCollins. But Judith Regan, president and publisher of ReganBooks, said last week that a possible book had collapsed because of concerns that Felt was no longer of sound mind.

It also became clear on Wednesday that the Vanity Fair article had forced Woodward to bow to the institutional imperatives of the newspaper. Senior Post executives said the newspaper had persuaded him the time had come to tell the tale.

Retreat interruption

On Tuesday, Leonard Downie, the Post's executive editor, was speaking at a management retreat on Maryland's Eastern Shore when his cell phone began ringing so incessantly that he turned it off.

He ignored hand-passed notes from the hotel staff. Only when the Post's chairman, Donald Graham, stepped out to take a phone call did they learn of the Vanity Fair scoop.

"He signals me through the door with one of those finger things," Downie said Wednesday. "He said, 'You better call Woodward.' "

For years, the Post has called Woodward on the biggest stories. He holds the rank of assistant managing editor, but is allowed to labor in freedom for months at a time on books — now 11 in all — that almost invariably become best sellers, after their most newsworthy disclosures are doled out in the Post over several days of pre-publication publicity.

Woodward book on the way

The Post reported on Wednesday that Woodward had been preparing for Felt's eventual death by writing a short book about their relationship that his longtime publisher, Simon & Schuster, is now rushing into print.

Woodward said in a brief telephone interview that he had been reluctant to dissolve his pledge of confidentiality, doubting whether Felt was competent to come forward.

Ultimately, after a hastily arranged meeting on Tuesday with Downie, who had raced back to the Post, Woodward's own careful advance planning bowed to the inevitable: Vanity Fair had the goods.

"That story laid it all out, and it's silly to say you have no comment and won't even say whether the ... thing is right, when you know it's right," said Benjamin Bradlee, the Post's executive editor in the Watergate era, who had begun the day, like Woodward and his Watergate co-author, Carl Bernstein, buying time by declaring, "The wisdom of the ages cries out for silence."