On a steamy Sunday last July, at about half-past noon, a caravan of unmarked SUVs exited the FBI’s Washington, D.C., field office, an eight-story concrete building that exudes all the charm of a supermax prison. The cars moved swiftly across the city; speed was critical. There were indications that the target, who had canceled the lease on her apartment and packed her belongings, was about to take flight.
What I Learned from Ross Perot
In 1992, I was just a kid sitting in front of the TV, flipping through channels, looking for something—anything—to watch. No cartoons. No sitcoms. Just golf on one channel and an old businessman sitting at a desk on another. He had that Southern drawl, the kind that...
