In early 1998, when the world first learned the name Monica Lewinsky, a debate erupted: Did Bill Clinton do it, or didn’t he? In the scandal’s first days, before his infamous finger-wagging “I did not have sex with that woman” statement, Clinton’s strongest denial was this: “There is no sexual relationship.”

I remember talking about that quote with a colleague named Hal, and being astonished that he took it at face value. It was a totally fake-sounding denial, this weird present-tense statement that didn’t really even address the question. But Hal was insistent that Clinton had done nothing with Lewinsky, and that this statement was the proof.

“Speaking of affairs,” I told Hal, “I’ve heard you’ve been getting it on with [name of another colleague]. How’s that going?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hal blurted. “I’m not having an affair with her!”

“Well, see?” I said. “That’s what someone says when it’s really not true.”

I thought of this conversation a few days ago, after reading the comments of Nan Talese, the publisher of James Frey’s now-thoroughly-discredited A Million Little Pieces. Talese’s remarks on how Frey’s catalogue of lies made it into print as nonfiction, and how she knew nothing about it until recent weeks, make about as much sense as Clinton’s strange non-denial denial. If she’s lying, which I think she is, she’s doing it badly. If she’s telling the truth, it’s even more bizarre.

Talese claims that, until a few weeks ago, she had absolutely no clue that the book contained falsehoods. From the Jan. 23 New York Observer:

“When the manuscript of A Million Little Pieces was received by us at Doubleday, it was received as nonfiction, as a memoir,” said Ms. Talese by phone. “Throughout the whole process of publication, it had always been a memoir, and for the first year and a half it was on sale, it was always a memoir with no disputation. It was never once discussed as fiction by me or anyone in my office.”

Something’s screwy here. James Frey has said repeatedly that he initially shopped the book as a novel. Others have corroborated this. He – and more importantly, his agent – would have had to be either stupid or insanely brash to have then turned around and approached a major house like Doubleday with the same basic proposal, while trying to hide the fact that they’d already shopped it around as a novel.

The world of New York publishing just ain’t that big. People talk to each other. It’s unlikely that Talese, a big, connected name at a big, connected house, would have had no inkling about what Frey had circulated. And even if by some chance she didn’t, there’s no way Frey and his agent could have known that for sure. If, as Talese implies, Frey and his agent simply forged ahead in the belief they could hoodwink Doubleday, it would be a truly extraordinary display of literary chutzpah.

Talese dug herself deeper on Oprah last Thursday, when she responded to very specific questions about the book’s vetting process with odd Hallmark generalities:

Oprah: We asked if you, your company, stood behind James’s book as a work of non-fiction […]And they said, absolutely. And they were also asked if their legal department had checked out the book. And they said yes. So in a press release sent out for the book in 2004, by your company, the book was described as “brutally honest and an altering look at addiction.” So how can you say that if you haven’t checked it to be sure?

Nan: You know, Oprah, I mean, I think this whole experience is very sad. It’s very sad for you. It’s very sad for us.

Getting sadder by the minute, I’d say. Talese had an opportunity to come clean here, and she didn’t. She could have admitted that Doubleday made mistakes – after all, it’s obvious that they didn’t do the checking they should have in response to legitimate queries. Why not just admit that? And if you’ve really been duped by your author, why not then reveal that as well?

All these things make me suspicious of Talese’s claims. But the thing that truly convinces me she’s lying is the Clintonesque lack of outrage, the weak “There is no relationship” response she offers in lieu of the indignation and anger you might expect. Put yourself in Talese’s shoes, in the situation she claims she was in. A writer lies to your face to get you to publish his book. He writes a falsified “memoir” under your imprint. His fakery is discovered, and you and your publishing house are suddenly under siege: Reporters question your integrity, the book’s film deal is under threat of collapsing, readers start demanding their money back.

If I’d been blindsided like that, protecting that writer would be the last thing on my mind. But that’s what Talese has been focused on. She’s protecting him for a reason, and it’s not because she’s worried about losing more money if he’s totally discredited. He’s going to sell many, many more copies of this book in the next few months, even more so than he would have sold without the “scandal.” I think she’s protecting him because she agreed to – maybe even urged him to – write fiction as fact, and now he’s paying the price.