Coleen Rowley: The Special Agent

(6 of 8)

Her hyperactivity at work is mirrored in her personal life. She walks fast with the long strides of a runner; she speaks without a filter--just a few words will set her off on a discourse about heart disease or what's wrong with the criminal-justice system. Her fiercest exclamations are "Well, heck!" and "Oh, my gosh!" She often leaps to her feet to make a point, waves her arms, pounds her fist and attempts impersonations of the characters in her stories, practically dancing in place while Ross lies on the turquoise leather sofa and the kids go about their business. When imitating FBI higher-ups, she lowers her voice several octaves, tucks her chin in, squares her shoulders and sways side to side. Her routine imitating her mother Doris Cheney involves a higher pitch. A sure sign that Rowley is uneasy is when she becomes still and her hands start gripping each other.

During one interview, Ross stood beside a reporter so he could signal Coleen when to stop talking. Other times he interrupted. "Are you sure you want to say that, Coleen?" he'd say. Or the more direct "No! Stop! Don't say any more!" Her memo reflects her stream-of-consciousness narrative style. "No wonder why the FBI headquarters is mired in mediocrity!" she wrote in a footnote. "That may be a little strong, but it would definitely be fair to say that there is unevenness in competency among Headquarters personnel."

Rowley doesn't like to keep track of her keys, her purse or her four children. "I'm such a Type A," she admits. "I have no patience. It's hard for me to do homework. Ross is so much better." Ross has been a stay-at-home dad ever since Coleen was in training at Quantico and someone had to stay home with the baby. He takes care of every detail of the household. He's the one the four kids--Tess, 21, a student at the University of Minnesota; Bette, 17, a high school senior; and grade-schoolers Meg, 9, and Jeb, 7--come to when they need their homework checked or pears sliced. He pays the bills, fixes meals, sets the alarm clock and does the Christmas shopping. They've collaborated every year of their 22-year marriage on the homemade Christmas card. She does the drawings; he does the deadpan humor.

Behind the wheel of the family's beige Windstar minivan, Rowley is the first to admit, she is an aggressive driver, passing slower-moving cars on a two-lane highway at every chance. It's hard to tell her exact speed, since the speedometer is broken. The needle swings between 70 and 100 m.p.h., even when she's braking. Every now and then, Rowley pounds the dashboard above the gauges. "This is what Ross does," she says with a shrug.

The night Rowley got the call from CNN, Ross had been watching a TV interview with a Senator. He could tell the man had read her memo from the comments he was making. "I said, 'Oh, my gosh, he's read it!'" Ross recalls. As Coleen drove up the driveway, Ross ran down to meet her.