The Big Lie

by James Grippando

  The witness hesitated, but not because the image was unfamiliar. She seemed to be wondering where the attorney general was headed with this image. So was Jack.

  “That’s me, of course, on the left,” she said. “I’m with my husband and Senator Evan Stahl.”

  Jack looked at it carefully. It was like hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs he’d seen over the years of smiling couples posing with his father, usually inscribed with the obligatory “Thanks for your support!”

  “When was this picture taken?” asked Barrow.

  “June, I believe. During the campaign, before my husband and I separated.”

  “Where was this picture taken?”

  “At our house in Coral Gables. Out by our swimming pool.”

  “Was Senator Stahl a guest at your home?”

  “I suppose you would call him a guest. But this was not a social visit. It was a fund-raiser for the Stahl presidential campaign.”

  Jack glanced in the direction of the media section of public seating. Interest was quickly rising, as the point of this photograph became clear.

  “Were you a host of the Stahl-for-president fund-raiser?” asked Barrow.

  “My husband was.”

  “How many people attended this event?”

  “Two hundred or more. We have a big house.”

  “How much money did Dr. Perez raise for the Stahl campaign?”

  “I can’t say exactly. I do know there’s a limit on how much each person can contribute.”

  “Did this event raise more than fifty thousand dollars?”

  She paused to do the math in her head. “I would say yes.”

  “More than a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Probably. Some people showed up with more than one check. One from them, one from their son, one from their daughter.”

  “One from their dead aunt Lilly.”

  “Objection,” said Jack.

  “Withdrawn,” said Barrow. “Ms. Bristol, what does your husband stand to gain if Senator Stahl wins the Electoral College vote on December fourteenth?”

  Jack objected again, but the attorney general fired back. “Your Honor, we’ve already put into evidence the flash drive that contains a bitcoin security key. The state of Florida intends to prove that Dr. Perez met with Ms. Holmes to buy her electoral vote. I have a right to know what he stands to gain from a faithless elector who can deliver a Stahl victory.”

  “Overruled. If the witness is aware of something her husband stands to gain, she can tell us.”

  “I’m not aware of anything,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Barrow. “Let’s talk more about the timing of the fund-raiser. You said it was before you and your husband separated?”

  “Right.”

  Barrow retrieved a transcript. “Ms. Bristol, I want to read a snippet of yesterday’s testimony. Mr. Swyteck asked you this question: ‘Without delving too deeply into personal details, why did you and your husband separate?’ Your answer was as follows: ‘He told me there was someone else.’”

  Barrow laid the transcript aside. “You later concluded that the ‘someone else’ was not Charlotte Holmes, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Your husband never told you that he was having an affair with Charlotte Holmes, true?”

  “Never. That was an incorrect assumption on my part.”

  “Dr. Perez told you that he was seeing ‘someone else.’ That was your testimony yesterday, and your testimony is the same today. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Someone else.’ Those were your husband’s words?”

  “Yes. His words.”

  “Your husband didn’t say he was having an affair with Charlotte Holmes, Charlize Theron, or any other woman. Did he?”

  “No. He said it was someone else. I think I’ve made that clear.”

  “Abundantly clear,” the judge added, groaning.

  Barrow stepped toward the projection screen, referring again to the exhibit on display, the threesome blown up larger than life. “Ms. Bristol, in this photograph of you, your husband, and Senator Stahl, who is standing closer to Senator Stahl? You or your husband?”

  She glanced at the photograph, then back at the attorney general. “My husband is closer.”

  “Who does Senator Stahl have his arm around? You or your husband?”

  She hesitated, her eyes narrowing. “What are you implying?”

  Barrow turned to address the judge. “Would the court please direct the witness to answer the question?”

  “Please don’t argue with counsel, Ms. Bristol.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was the question?”

  Barrow’s voice took on an edge. “Let me ask it this way: Does Senator Stahl have his arm around you?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have his arm around your husband?”

  Again she glanced at the photograph on display. “Yes. But that’s to be expected. I didn’t know Senator Stahl. He and my husband were friends.”

  “Did your husband and Senator Stahl spend time together without you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Did your husband ever take Senator Stahl on his fishing boat?”

  “Sure. My husband took a lot of his friends fishing.”

  “On those occasions when your husband took Senator Stahl on his fishing boat, can you swear for a fact that they did nothing but fish?”

  A rumble from the gallery nearly drowned out Jack’s objection, so he restated it: “Your Honor, I really thought we had moved beyond the campaign innuendos.”

  “Mr. Swyteck, if that’s an objection, it’s overruled. Ms. Bristol, the attorney general is simply asking if you can testify under oath as to what your husband and Senator Stahl were doing every minute of every hour they spent together on the fishing boat.”

  “No, of course not. But it’s a fishing boat. They went fishing.”

  Barrow took a step closer, a control tactic, as if to step on the figurative tail of a squirming witness. “I would like an honest answer, Ms. Bristol: Did your husband and Senator Stahl ever come home from a fishing trip without any fish?”

  Jack was on his feet. “Judge, I have to object. Campaign rumors are no basis for cross-examination.”

  “Overruled. The witness may answer.”

  She clearly didn’t want to. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”

  Barrow repeated it. The witness wrung her hands. “I don’t know. I’m sure there were times they didn’t catch anything. Fish aren’t always biting. But I know what you’re suggesting, and it just isn’t right. It isn’t right at all.”

  Right or wrong, the implication lingered. The attorney general slowly walked back to her table, but she remained standing. “Just a couple more questions, Ms. Bristol. And please listen carefully. Did your husband meet with Electoral College member Charlotte Holmes, his old college friend, at the request of presidential candidate Evan Stahl—his lover?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained. Strike those last two words—‘his lover’—and the witness may answer.”

  Barrow seemed satisfied with the judge’s edits. “How about it, Ms. Bristol? Did your husband meet with Charlotte Holmes at the request of Senator Stahl? And please remember that you are under oath.”

  Her glare could have burned a hole through the attorney general. “How would I know? Ask my husband.”

  “Where is your husband now, Ms. Bristol?”

  “I believe he’s in Mexico.”

  “Did Senator Stahl send him there?”

  Jack objected, and he was again overruled.

  “I don’t know,” said the witness.

  “We would have to ask him. Isn’t that right, Ms. Bristol?”

  “I suppose.”

  Barrow turned and faced the judge. “Your Honor, it is now abundantly clear that Dr. Perez is an absolutely critical witness. Why did he bring the flash drive with a bitcoin address to the meeting? Why di
d he arrange the meeting in the first place? What was his relationship with candidate Evan Stahl? The state of Florida is on the verge of demonstrating that Ms. Holmes’s decision to breach her oath as elector and to cast her ballot for Senator Stahl has nothing to do with ‘truth’ or her conscience. This is an illegal and corrupt political power play that reaches all the way up to Senator Stahl, himself.”

  “What are you asking this court to do, General Barrow?”

  “Give us time to bring Dr. Perez to this courtroom from Mexico.”

  Jack rose. “Your Honor, this has gone on long enough. This all started with a simple question: Can an elector exercise her own judgment and vote as she sees fit at the meeting of the Electoral College, or is she bound by oath to vote strictly along party lines? The court decided that issue against the state of Florida. Since then, it has been one outrageous allegation after another to attack my client’s moral fitness, from sexual misconduct to homicide. This afternoon General Barrow added bribery to the list of malicious accusations. We ask the court to decide the issue today and put an end to it.”

  “We all want this to end,” the judge said. “But this is an important issue with obvious national implications. The meeting of the Electoral College is not until December fourteenth. I don’t see the harm in a short continuance.”

  “I mean no disrespect,” said Jack, “but this court was of the opposite view when the defense asked for time to bring Dr. Perez to this courtroom.”

  “Apples and oranges, Mr. Swyteck. At that juncture, I saw no point giving the defense more time when the government’s case was so weak that no defense was needed.” The judge swung his gaze toward the other side of the courtroom. “In other words, General Barrow, I’m giving you one last chance to meet your legal burden and prove your case. How much time do you need?”

  She quickly conferred with the other lawyers at her table, then answered. “Could we have one week?”

  “Granted. Ms. Bristol, you may step down before we adjourn. I would ask that the media show some restraint and not smother the witness when she leaves the courtroom.”

  Heidi Bristol moved with trepidation as she passed between the tables for the government and the defense, continued through the gate at the rail, and walked down the center aisle. Jack had seen inmates walk down death row with less dread. Several reporters sprang from their seats as she passed, ignoring the judge’s admonition and following her out to the lobby.

  “Nobody move,” the judge said firmly, freezing several reporters in their tracks, as the witness exited through the double doors in the back of the courtroom.

  “The state of Florida has until next Friday to bring Dr. Perez into this courtroom voluntarily or through other lawful means. He will be the final rebuttal witness. Until then, this hearing is adjourned,” he said with a crack of the gavel.

  “All rise!”

  Judge Martin stepped down from the bench. Lawyers and spectators watched in silence as he exited to his chambers, and the entire courtroom sprang into action as the heavy paneled door closed with a thud. Some reporters resumed their pursuit of Heidi Bristol, while others rushed to the rail, firing questions at Charlotte.

  “Was Dr. Perez the senator’s lover?”

  “Ms. Holmes, did you know about the same-sex affair?”

  “How much did they pay to keep you quiet about it?”

  Jack shielded his client from the onslaught, pushing through the crowd as he led the way to the exit.

  Chapter 48

  Senator Stahl got in his car and drove. The media would be all over his neighborhood in minutes, and he needed to sharpen his legal strategy. He called his lawyer from the road to tell him he was heading downtown. Matthew Kipner agreed to meet, but not at his law office.

  “I want to see the boat,” his lawyer said.

  “What for?”

  There was a familiar silence on the line—familiar in the sense that Kipner always paused before he got tough with his client. “Senator, if it’s going to be my job to paint you as a fisherman, I want to see an actual fishing boat.”

  Stahl agreed. He made a quick turn off the highway, and fifteen minutes later reached Coconut Grove Marina.

  A late-afternoon breeze blew in from the bay, and the senator’s ears tingled from the steady ping of halyards slapping against the tall, barren masts of countless sailboats. Motorboats and yachts of every size and description slept silently in their slips. A party boat rumbled up the channel at “slow-wake” speed. It had the earmarks of a bachelor party: loud music blaring from the oversized speakers, young men drinking beers from their college fraternity cozies, and beautiful women in bikinis dancing on the bow. The senator was suddenly reminded of another Democrat’s presidential bid derailed by boat. Stahl had been a boy at the time, and it seemed quaint by twenty-first-century standards that, once upon a time, a single photograph of a married candidate and an attractive young woman in a bathing suit could end a presidential campaign. It probably hadn’t helped that they were on a boat named Monkey Business.

  Stahl met his lawyer at the end of the long, floating pier, where they boarded a forty-six-foot Hatteras Convertible.

  “My floating man cave,” said Stahl. He unlocked the door to the main cabin and showed his lawyer inside. For a career politician, Senator Stahl did not lack for expensive toys. His yacht, though more than two decades old, had all the bells and whistles. It was technically a fishing boat, but the senator had rigged the salon for entertainment, complete with club chairs, a wet bar, handcrafted teak cabinetry, and a flat-screen television.

  “Any fishing gear?” asked Kipner.

  “You betcha,” he said. It was an expression he’d never used, which drew a curious look from his lawyer, who was probably wondering why the senator from Florida was suddenly talking like Hubert Humphrey, Walter Mondale, or someone else from “Minnes-ohhh-ta.”

  Stahl opened the locker and showed him the rods and reels.

  “What do you use for bait to catch dolphin?” asked Kipner.

  “Live shrimp.”

  “Marlin?”

  “Live shrimp.”

  “Snapper?”

  “Live shrimp.”

  It was a test, and his lawyer seemed to be looking for the more nuanced responses of a true angler.

  “Look, I’m not the world’s greatest fisherman,” said Stahl. “But this is a fishing boat, and I’ve caught fish. I have pictures to prove it.”

  “That’s good. You’ll need them.”

  Stahl took a seat in one of the leather captain’s chairs. Kipner took the other one, and they gazed at each other from opposite sides of the old wooden wheel of a ship that had been turned into a round, glass-top table. The lawyer broke the silence.

  “This alleged conspiracy to bribe Charlotte Holmes will almost certainly go away if you lose the Electoral College vote.”

  “I don’t plan to lose. We only have to flip five Republican electors. Four, if we keep Charlotte Holmes.”

  “Did you know that Dr. Perez was going to meet with her?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about a flash drive or a bitcoin payment?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “If you do, please tell me now. Because if you win—if somehow you flip five Republican electors on December fourteenth—this will dog you from day one in the White House. Republicans will call for a special counsel.”

  “Isn’t that just the way it is anymore?”

  “The way what is?”

  “Special counsel,” said Stahl, rising from his chair. He opened the bar and poured himself a scotch, neat. “We should just put it right on the ballot. Page one. ‘Please select one candidate for the office of president of the United States.’ Page two. ‘Please select one candidate for the office of special counsel.’ Let’s save ourselves the time and aggravation of figuring out who the special counsel will be. We hold a general election to elect the members of the Electoral College who elect the president, and on the same ballot we
elect a special counsel to undo the election. Because this idea of waiting four years for voters to correct their mistake—well, that went out of style with feather quills and horsehair wigs.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Evan.”

  He tasted his scotch, then dropped the sarcasm. “Should we reach out to Swyteck?”

  “We? No way. Me? Yes.”

  “Do you want me to hold off on my press conference until after you speak to him lawyer to lawyer?”

  “When do you want to do your press conference?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Are you going to name her by name?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you had an affair with?”

  It was the closest his lawyer had ever come to asking the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Man or woman? Stahl walked to the window, turning his back to Kipner. The sun was a sliver on the cloudless horizon, setting the marina aglow. In this glorious natural light, a bridal portrait on the waterfront was a photographer’s “money shot”—the kind of lighting Gwen had prayed for but didn’t get for their wedding reception at the Coral Reef Yacht Club. The senator could hardly believe that it was going on seventeen years. No, eighteen. It seemed like another lifetime.

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “None of this would have happened if you had nipped it in the bud,” said Kipner. “The minute MacLeod put it out there that ‘she’ was a ‘he,’ you should have named the other woman. What’s the deal, Evan? Why can’t you name her? Is she the wife of a close friend?”

  Stahl didn’t answer.

  “A friend of your wife?”

  Stahl downed more scotch, then turned away from the window and faced his lawyer. “I just can’t,” he said.

  Chapter 49

  Jack made one more attempt to push through the politics. He reached the Leon County state attorney’s office a few minutes before six o’clock. Josh Kutter never missed a Friday happy hour, and he was on his way out when Jack announced himself to the receptionist. Jack promised to be quick, and Kutter gave him fifteen minutes.

  “But only because I like your father,” he said, only half kidding as he led Jack back to his office.