Kathleen Willey Reports Stolen Manuscript, Suspects 'Clinton Operative'

Kathleen Willey had planned to spend the Labor Day weekend proofing pages of her forthcoming book, “Target: In the Crosshairs of Bill and Hillary Clinton.”

Instead, she says, someone broke into her Powhatan County home Friday, Aug. 31, and stole a copy of her unpublished 230-page manuscript. Her publishers are “aghast,” she says.

“I think it’s a Clinton operative,” Willey says. “It sounds like Watergate. It’s amateurish, but I know they’re not amateurs.”

Style Weekly reported in its Sources Say column Sept. 5 that World Ahead press planned to publish Willey’s book Nov. 20.

The book -- likely to get special attention considering Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign -- details Willey’s allegations that then-President Bill Clinton groped her during a private Oval Office visit in 1993.

The story swept the Richmonder, a political activist and former fan of Clinton, into a national scandal that included Paula Jones and eventually Monica Lewinski. Willey maintains that she and her family received threats from the Clinton camp and that a stranger approached her while jogging and instructed her to lie in her Jones disposition. She says the book details the intimidations she endured.

Of the weekend break-in, Willey says she was sleeping upstairs in her two-story house with the windows open Friday night (Aug. 31). She vaguely recalls her dogs barking, she says, but they quieted down and she went back to sleep.

“I realized the next morning that my purse was gone,” Willey says. She called the police and canceled her credit cards. Then, she says, she found her purse in the woods. The credit cards were there, but the cash was gone.

A spokesperson with the Powhatan Sheriff’s Office confirmed that a deputy responded to a report of breaking and entering in the 2600 block of New Timber Way Sept. 1 -- in the block where Willey resides -- and that a purse was reported stolen.

What really has Willey reeling is that she discovered one of her two book manuscripts missing from the desk in her first-floor study. She says someone had also gotten onto her laptop computer, broken her car antenna and did something that caused her DirecTV service to malfunction.

“I think they were looking for one thing and they made it try to look like a petty burglary,” she says. “It’s scary stuff to realize somebody was in your house. I’m still scared.”

It was hot in the Oval. Summertime DC. You know, like when
the crawdads clumb onto the mangrove roots just to keep from
being gumboed alive.

Or was that mandrake? No, that was Lasater’s deal.

I was thinking about Gore and wishing he would give me a key
to the thermostat covers when she walked in.

“Mr. President, do you remember me? Mrs. Edward Willey?”

Remember her? Legs going up like a Roman candle; a rack to
shame the 24-pointer I wasted at Camp David, even
if the SS had to tether it first. Yeah, I remembered the dame,
like Bennett remembers San Francisco, Sacco remembers Vanzetti,
like Hillary remembers...every gall-danged thing.
Like how nervous Vince wa...

“Mr. President?”

“Huh? Yes. Yes, Mrs.Willey. Sit down. Sit down.”

Her dress was sultry and clingy, like a hot intern. Her knees
stayed tight until she was seated. Then she crossed her legs in one
practiced motion, her hose making a slithery sound.

Out of all the broke down, multi-colored rug, sweaty hot Oval
Offices in the world, she had to pick mine.

I thumbed the intercom and told Betty to hold all calls.
Then I asked Willey why she came.

“My husband has embezzled a lot of money that we have to pay back,
Mr. President. And I need something more than the volunteer job I
have. I mean, Easter Egg rolls....”

I wanted to feel her pain, but she was across the desk. How
could I get into her...pantry. That was it. The pantry.

“Mrs. Willey, would you like a cup of coffee?”

She couldn’t turn it down. I stood and gestured toward the
galley just off the Oval and motioned for her to go in ahead
of me. It was like little animals when she walked.

I asked her how many lumps she wanted, but I was thinking about
how many lumps I was getting...one in the throat and one down at
the Y.

As much as I hate carpet burns, I suggested that we
adjourn into the study. Groans I make in the galley ricochet like
singing in the shower, and I felt an aria coming on.

The difference between the flourescent lights in
the galley and the warm tungsten lamps n the study was startling.
Her hair went from copper to a warm auburn and I went for
a hug. As I held her tense frame up close, her warmth began to
spread to me, rapidly getting hotter and wetter. I backed up
and took her squashed coffee cup from between us and sat it
on the end table.

“Mr. President, aren’t you afraid someone will walk in here?”

“No, no,” I told her how sorry I was for her troubles and pulled her
against me again, my lips finding hers before she turned her head
sharply, leaving my tongue to dart into her earring.

That was when I realized I was being set up. Women could
not resist me. Brother Graham told me so himself.I slid a finger
into her breast pocket looking for an West Wing pass in case
Hillary had sent her. There was none. I would have to threaten
her to buy her silence. I took her hand and made sure she felt the
hard barrel of my thigh-holstered snub nose. It’s a repeater.

“It’s not that I’m glad to see you. It’s just something I’ve
wanted to do for a long time,” I hissed.

That did it. She paled and backed away, “I have to be going. It
would kill my husbandif I did this.”

More than you ever knew, Sister. More
than you ever knew.

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