I would not have been crying. My hands would have been wrapped around his neck.

Standard

New York Magazine cover story on l’affaire Spitzer:

She couldn’t stop crying. Barely one day earlier, the man she’d been married to for two decades, the father of her three daughters, had stunned Silda Wall Spitzer with the revelation that he’d been sleeping with prostitutes. Now here they were, on a cloudy Monday afternoon, in a warren of state-government offices on the 39th floor of a midtown building, among shell-shocked and tearful staffers. The New York Times had just broken the story on its Website.

She hated what he’d done, hated the idea of being seen as a “stand by your man” wife. But maybe appearing together today would somehow help their daughters through this nightmare. And Silda, an experienced lawyer herself, had somehow been able to think objectively about what her absence might say to federal prosecutors. She and Lloyd Constantine, a longtime Spitzer confidant, were nearly alone in arguing against an immediate resignation; Eliot, recognizing he was a political dead man, had wanted to do it first thing Monday morning. So they’d settled on a press conference in which Spitzer would apologize, admit nothing, and cling to his job. It was scheduled to begin at 2:15. Nearly an hour later, Silda wasn’t ready for an excruciating appearance in front of the press.

Spitzer stood still, not trying to console her or to make excuses. He was silent, his head down. He would wait as long as Silda needed. Spitzer dabbed his eyes. Silda slowly composed herself. Then they walked through the door, into the glare of TV lights, for the beginning of the end. Eliot Spitzer’s secret was out.

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