The Puppet Master
Page 9
Abrams was not sure what she wanted to do with her life, but it wasn’t going to be practicing law. That might be enough for Papa Bernie, but she had greater ambitions than the noble practice of law, as Bernie always put it.
Besides, she had never been a great student, and was not doing all that well in law school. Her greatest attributes were her looks and her guile, not her book skills. She wasn’t even sure she’d survive her first-year final exams, which weren’t that far off. She had, however, planned ahead.
Chris Mazur was her shy and socially inept first-year property law professor. Abrams knew Mazur was head over heels for her. He was carrying her in his class, and in his heart. She was confident he’d give her some advance indication of what would be on her property final. If she played it right, he might even help her prepare for some of her other first-year exams.
But there was a price for everything. For the past couple months, she had been seeing Mazur on the side, usually one night a week, as often as Mazur could get away from his wife. At first it was just for some tutoring, but it was obvious to her that he was interested in much more than that. She was right. Before long, she was tutoring him. She didn’t know what was worse, having to sleep with him or having to pretend she liked it. What she did know was that there was no point in being hot if she didn’t take advantage of it. At least it doesn’t take very long, because he can’t keep it up very long. What a loser!
Most of their time together was actually spent listening to Mazur ramble on about abstract principles of property law. He truly seems to think I’m interested in this stuff. And him! Well, there are worse things. It’s a small enough price to pay to get through my exams. Small enough. Haha.
Tonight was “their” night. Mazur would start by talking about whatever they were covering in class at the moment. Around the time he would start pawing her, she would turn her questions to what would be important enough to include in her final exams. Isn’t it fitting that the keys to my vault are the keys to his vault?
CHAPTER 31
Thursday, February 12, 7:30 a.m.
CHIEF MURPHY ADDRESSED THE special task force. “We got him! Mayor Jackson, District Attorney Reilly, and I will be addressing the media at ten o’clock this morning.”
With one exception, everyone present was demonstrably excited, and relieved. Lotello was less enthusiastic. “What’s the matter, Detective?”
“Nothing, Chief. I just can’t help thinking that it’s a bit soon to be celebrating.”
Deputy Mayor Arnest seemed to answer for them all. “C’mon, Frank. Everyone recognizes that Norman has been dealt a tough hand and deserves some compassion. But the killing has stopped. We have the killer off the street. People no longer have to worry about their safety.”
“Well and good, but I think we need to slow down a little. Has Norman confessed? Said what he did? Why he did it? Has he said why he singled out Wells, DiMarco, and Johnson?”
Sounding every bit like the prosecutor he was, Reilly was quick to take up the challenge. “Yesterday afternoon, Norman was out there in front of the Capitol building shouting at the top of his lungs, ‘I killed you.’ What more of a confession do you need than that, Frank? Obviously, Norman blames our political officials for all that he has lost. Including his son.”
“You’re the lawyer, Vince, but I’m not sure what we’ve got—beyond some gibberish from a guy who seems pretty far off his rocker. I think we should be a little more circumspect before we run around announcing what it is we think we’ve got.”
“Maybe so.” Reilly added, “but we can’t press Norman any further until counsel has been appointed to represent him. We certainly don’t want to lose this case on some legal technicality.”
Leaving no doubt as to what side of the debate he was on, and that he was not willing to continue belaboring the matter, Murphy cut Lotello off. “Detective, the people of this town deserve to know about these developments. Now. We’re gonna take care of that at the mayor’s press conference this morning. I want to express my profound thanks to everyone on this task force for their help in pursuing our charge, and obtaining this fine result. Pending any new developments, this special task force has completed its service, and will not be convening any further.”
CHAPTER 32
Thursday, February 12, 10:00 a.m.
WITH DISTRICT ATTORNEY REILLY and Chief of Police Murphy again at his side, Mayor Jackson addressed the throng of reporters present for the second time in three days.
The mayor touched briefly on Cliff Norman’s tragic story but focused more on the loss of the three politicians and the work done by his police force. “In particular, I want to congratulate our special task force, and the skill and resolve they brought to bear in attaining this outstanding result. I’m limited as to what more I can say at this time. But I will take two or three questions before we allow our judicial system to run its course.”
After a few harmless questions that shed little light on anything, other than buoying his confidence, Mayor Jackson took what proved to be one question too many. “Mayor Jackson, Rachel Santana, Washington Post. I have two questions for you. First, specifically what did your task force do to lead to Mr. Norman’s apprehension? Didn’t he essentially march out onto the streets and volunteer that he had committed these crimes? Second, while I don’t condone the murder of anyone, is everything as black and white here as you make it out to be? Personally, I find it difficult to separate the good guys from the bad guys. Care to comment on that?”
“What I think, Ms. Santana, is that you’re just showboating. Your questions are in very poor taste, and unworthy of any answers beyond what I have already said.”
“When it comes to showboating, Mr. Mayor, you seem to be the pot calling the kettle black. Isn’t it you doing the showboating?”
“Ms. Santana, it is reporters like you who give your profession a bad name. I will not dignify your remarks any further. Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Santana notwithstanding, this is in fact a great day for all of D.C., indeed for all of America. More details will be forthcoming as appropriate. Thank you for your attention and support.”
CHAPTER 33
Thursday, February 12, 10:30 a.m.
THINGS WERE MOVING ALONG even better and quicker than he had hoped. There was really little more for him to do at the moment. He would just sit back for a while and watch how things progressed.
CHAPTER 34
Thursday, February 12, 11:30 a.m.
BERNARD ABRAMS HAD BEEN the Washington, D.C., public defender for as long as anyone could remember. He loved being a lawyer and he loved his job—making sure that those who could not afford first-rate legal representation received it whenever they needed it.
Also for as long as anyone could remember, Melinda Raines had been his secretary. Never married and without any close family, she was consummately and singularly devoted to Abrams, to a fault, always watching out for him and making sure he had whatever he needed to do his job, and to do it well, especially since his wife passed away a few years earlier.
Lately, it was taking more and more to make sure Abrams was on top of things. He was getting older. His health was starting to suffer. He was slowing down, and his memory wasn’t what it used to be.
“You sure seem to be in a good mood today, Mr. Abrams. Anything I should know?”
“Julie called. She invited me to lunch. I’m on the way right now.”
Raines knew Julie was the apple of her grandfather’s eye. He loved her more than he loved life itself. He was so proud when she got into Georgetown Law. Like her grandfather before her.
Raines didn’t have the heart to remind Abrams that he was supposed to have a working lunch today with one of his deputy PDs who was about to go to trial on a custody matter. She would reschedule the session. “Have a nice lunch, Mr. Abrams. Say hello to Julie for me.”
“I will. I should be back by two o’clock. Please don’t forget to get some lunch yourself, Ms. Raines.”
* * *
Suddenly, Julie was standing by his side, smiling sweetly and giving Abrams a peck on the cheek. “Hi, Papa, how are you?”
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Sit down. Your grandmother would look at you and say you’re too skinny. We need to fatten you up a bit. How are you?”
“Oh Papa, I’m fine, but I do miss Nannie.”
“Let’s order, honey, and then you can fill me in on how things are at school.”
“Great. I’m going to have a Jack’s salad. What about you?”
“I’ll have my usual, sweetheart, the poached salmon. Old habits die hard. Jack really makes it up nice for me. Don’t you want something more than a salad?”
“I had a late breakfast. The salad’s perfect for me, Papa.”
They ordered their lunches and were each sipping iced tea when Abrams asked, as he always did, “How are your classes?”
“Classes are fine, Papa.” Julie smiled.
“Okay, Ms. Smarty Pants, how long do you get under the Rule Against Perpetuities?”
“Really, Papa, you’re quizzing me on that old English common law rule? It’s ‘lives in being plus twenty-one years.’”
“Guess I can’t fool you. Did you say you wanted to talk to me about something?”
“I do, Papa. I’m starting to look around for a summer job. One of the places I want to apply is the White House. They have summer internships for law students. Do you know anything about the program?”
“I do. It’s a great program. We hired a couple of deputy PDs who interned at the White House during the summer. They had only good things to say about the program. It would be a terrific opportunity for you to land one of those spots.”
“Papa, uh, do you think you could put in a good word for me over there?”
Abrams paused. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure how good an idea that would be. First of all, I don’t really know many people in the new administration. Second, it might look like I was tampering, trying to influence the outcome of the process.”
“Oh, gee, I really was hoping you could help make this happen for me.”
“Hmm, I don’t think so, honey. Besides, you won’t have any problem. You’ll knock ’em dead. They’ll love you.”
“Oh well, if you can’t, you can’t. That’s too bad. I guess I’ll just have to figure out some way on my own … to get them to love me.”
The double-entendre in Julie’s response passed right over Abrams’s head. “What I will do is check with a few people I know to see if I can come up with some references you can include on your application.”
“I’d really appreciate that, Papa.” Barely having touched her salad, she said, “Do you mind if I run, Papa? I have a class in a few minutes.”
“No problem, sweetie. Run along. I’ll call you with some names for your résume. They’ll need to meet you, of course, so they can honestly say they know you. That shouldn’t be any problem.”
“Okay, thank you, Papa. That’ll be great. Take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard. Love you.”
“Love you too, baby. Take care. Study hard.”
“Will do. Thanks again, Papa.” Julie was up and off. Leaving Abrams nursing his poached salmon and iced tea. By himself.
* * *
JULIE ABRAMS WALKED OUT of Jack’s feeling none too happy. Yeah, thanks, Papa … for nothing. I guess I’ll have to get that internship my own way. From what I hear, there are a couple of guys in the White House who will indeed want to … love me.
CHAPTER 35
Thursday, February 12, 5:30 p.m.
PETER FOSTER WAS THE executive director of the National Association of Investment Bankers, the NAIB. Headquartered in plush offices overlooking the Potomac, the NAIB is charged with protecting the interests of the multibillion-dollar brokerage houses collectively referred to as Wall Street. Its budget to protect those interests was virtually unlimited.
It was Foster’s job, and the job of a few others like Foster, to assure that Congress and the White House left Wall Street alone to do pretty much as it saw fit. The NAIB lobbyists were very good at what they did. They knew just where, and how, to spend their money. Congressional oversight committees were fine, so long as they did little more than pay lip service to the laws they were supposed to enforce. Just enough to keep the natives from getting restless. Otherwise staying out of the way.
Foster and his cohorts had done their job well. There was no denying that Wall Street had pushed the envelope too far this time, bringing the country to its knees in the process. But not before Wall Street had gilded its pockets with record-high billions of dollars in fees placing loans that never had a chance of being viable.
It was only a matter of time before the mortgage system of the early 2000s would collapse under its own weight. Some of the brokerage houses were going to go under as well, although the strong ones would survive and come back even stronger. Most of the senior executives of those that would not make it already had their tens of millions in bonuses safely tucked away and would be absorbed into the brokerage houses that did survive.
Congress and the White House would be handing out billions of dollars to rebuild the economy. Main Street would get some of those dollars, but it was up to Foster and his cronies to see that Wall Street would get most of it.
Foster had watched this morning’s events concerning Cliff Norman unfold with the same amazement as everyone else. To him, Norman was nothing more than a casualty of the current economic downturn. He wondered how Norman could possibly think killing a few politicians would change anything. Sure, he’ll catch a few sympathetic headlines. For a while. Then end up in some nuthouse while the rest of the world carries on, business as usual.
Foster was secretly amused to see the country’s finest public servants in a deep sweat as some of their brothers and sisters were being cut down by this madman, fearing they could be next. Not the least among those was House Speaker Nancy Jamison from California. Having ridden the new president’s popularity to a high-profile position of her own, she was one of the most stressed out on the Hill. Earlier in the afternoon, Jamison had telephoned Foster to set up a meeting. Foster was on his way to hold Jamison’s hand. Unlike Wells, certainly nothing else about Jamison worth holding!
“Over here, Pete.”
“Madam Speaker, nice to see you again,” Foster replied, slipping into the booth and giving Jamison a chaste peck on the cheek. “You’re looking very well, as always. How’s the family?”
“Fine, Pete, and yours?”
“Great. Mary’s off doing something or other in New York. The grandkids are getting bigger and busier every day, way too much for me to keep up with. What’re you drinking, Nancy?”
“Just soda water, Pete.”
“George, another soda water for the speaker. I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s, neat.”
“Coming right up, Mr. Foster. Good to see you again this evening.”
“You too, George.”
Returning his attention to Jamison, he said, “What did you think of this morning’s events, Nancy? Pretty colorful, huh?”
“You find this humorous, Pete? I don’t. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I certainly didn’t mean to make light of this fellow Norman’s circumstances. He’s clearly had a rough time of it.”
“Norman? I don’t give a damn about Norman. Someone’s running around killing off our political leaders. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder every time I hear any little noise. My stomach’s in knots. Am I next? This needs to stop, now! I only hope Norman is the guy, and that these killings are now over.”
Jamison was just getting started. “Even if Norman’s the killer, I’m afraid there’s still going to be a lot more to all of this before things quiet d
own. You’re not blind, Pete. You must be picking up the same growing public sentiment I am. All these demonstrations, all these obnoxious marches, one after another. Didn’t you hear that jackass reporter Rachel Santana riling up her followers at the press conference this morning? She and the rest of the media are going to be milking this for all it’s worth. Crying that Wall Street’s not the only culprit behind this economic tailspin. That Washington’s not been doing its job. We’re going to be under a ton of pressure to put some real oversight in place. This is not good for either of us, Pete.”
“With all due respect, Madam Speaker, aren’t you overreacting just a little? So long as Wall Street gets what it wants, it’s always willing to take the heat. Sticks and stones and all that. I understand you have a constituency to answer to. Wall Street does not. It’ll continue to hang in there, to live up to its end of the bargain. You and your colleagues are just going to have to do the same: remain cool and ride this storm out.”
“I understand, Pete. I don’t mean to suggest we don’t know where our support comes from. I’m only saying we may soon have no choice but to point the finger at Wall Street. Your clients need to appreciate that.”
“Within limits, Madam Speaker, within limits. Let’s just stay coordinated and we’ll get through this. Whatever the issue of the day, we always manage to land on our feet.”
“Okay,” Jamison added, “but your people need to understand the grassroots pressure out there is building to unprecedented levels. Up on the Hill, we’re simply not used to this. I gotta run, Pete—another one of those awful command-performance dinners tonight.”
I hope this bitch understands she’s bought and paid for—like the whore she is. And that she’d better continue putting out. Like she’s paid to do. “I understand, Madam Speaker. You run along. I’ll settle up here. Let’s stay in touch.”
“Absolutely. Thanks, Pete. Good night.”