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It's February 9, 1987, 11pm.

Robert Budmick Farlin, the former national security adviser to President Reagan, is locked away in his home office in Bethesda, Maryland, a suburban community on the edge of Washington, D.C., furiously typing away.

Bud's wife, John, has already gone upstairs to bed, but Bud can't sleep. He has a lot on his mind.

For weeks, he's been mired in a political scandal that's rocked the Reagan administration to its core, a scandal that threatens to take down the president and everyone around him.

It involves backroom deals and shady arms dealers, offshore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands and illegal covert operations. They're calling it the Iran Contrafare.

Bud is known for being tightly controlled, even intense, but all day long he's been feeling unhinged as he hears voices of newscasters swirling through his head.

Tom, officials here are calling it the worst scandal of the Reagan presidency and costing him a top adviser.

The president was still maintaining today that his Iranian arms deal was not a mistake. The attorney general said later, former national security adviser McFarlin, had also been aware of the scheme.

A major turning point was a few weeks back during Reagan's state of the Union address, but hasn't been able to get it out of his mind.

I took a risk with regard to our action in Iran. It did not work, and for that I assumed full responsibility. The goals were worthy, but we did not achieve what we wished and serious mistakes were made in trying to do so.

Serious mistakes, with Bud's name all over them. His misdeeds are public knowledge now, and people in Congress want to exact their pound of flesh. In just a few hours Bud is scheduled to appear before the Tower Commission and investigative body appointed by Congress to look into the Iran Contra scandal.

He'll be forced to answer difficult questions about his activities, potentially illegal activities during his time in the White House.

Bud is a Marine. Marines are trained to fight, not navigate a swamp of media scrutiny and partisan politics. His entire life all he wanted to do was serve his country, and now he feels like he's failed.

And if he does go down, all his ideas for international relations will never be heard, so he types and types deep into the morning, essays covering everything from arms control with Russia to diplomatic relations in the Middle East, recommendations for his former boss, President Reagan, who didn't want to listen, even when Bud had his ear. Maybe he'll listen now.

Bud writes something else too. A handwritten note to his wife, John, the woman with whom he spent the last 33 years of his life, asking for her understanding and forgiveness.

He gets up from his desk, walks to the kitchen, and puts the stack of papers on the counter with the letter to his wife on top. Then he pours himself a glass of red wine, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a bottle of pills. Valium.

He puts one in his mouth and uses the wine to wash it down, and then another, and another, methodically until every pill in the bottle is gone. In all Bud swallows 30 tablets.

He bows his head, says a quick prayer before heading upstairs. When he climbs into bed, John is still awake. She can send something as different.

Bud, what's wrong? Nothing. Bud reaches over and takes her by the hand. I just want to hold you for a little while.

Okay. Good night. Good night.

John da kisses him on the cheek. It's all part of their nightly routine. But tonight, blood knows it might be the last.

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