Bobby gets some endorsements from teachers’ and autoworkers’ and women’s groups, and some farmers’ groups as well, but it is only when Governor Roberts whispers low the sweet words to my friend Ross—“Nine-percent raise over two years with no layoffs”—that the television-friendly capital city police endorsement develops, their flock of blue uniforms and square jaws making a vivid backdrop for Bobby’s latest get-tough-on-crime speech. The visuals prove good enough that footage from the event is immediately included in his final round of television commercials. This is a great relief to me. I begin to permit myself to entertain the thought that, on balance, I may have done more good than harm for Bobby’s campaign. Assuming Laura and Cindy and I can keep the incoming ballistic missile from reaching its target.
As we move into the last few days before the debate, the other missile that has not been launched is Allan Bernstein’s. His editorial has yet to appear. Neither Bobby nor I know what to make of this. Is he trying to find a national newspaper of particular prominence and wide syndication? Lining up other reporters besides Jeremy Taylor to bolster his credibility? Waiting until the last moment so that voters will hear only the accusation and not the rebuttal? Or has he gotten cold feet?
I do not get long to muse over what has not happened. My hands are too full with what is happening, most especially negotiations with Erickson Bruce to avoid a trial. I am preparing a final counteroffer for a settlement on the proceeds of Jeannie’s estate—hoping to save at least something for Brendan and Andrew—when I finally get around to verifying Jeannie’s claim about the profit she made.
The court registry says that Jeannie paid $61,000 to Walter Lamphere for the rock-strewn ravines and unimproved weedy creek-threaded acreage, which she sold to the state seven months later for $510,000. The account from her shell company of Anbren indicates she paid back the $35,000 she borrowed within eleven months after she borrowed it. She also paid $700 in interest.
“Where’s the rest of the interest?” I ask.
“That’s it.”
“Seven hundred bucks? Wait a minute here. That’s like what, two percent? Who’d you borrow it from?”
“Freedom Savings and Loan.”
The first year, she says, was cheap but in the second and third year it would go to the standard rate. I immediately give her a research project and, just in case she needs one, a powerful incentive to complete it quickly and well.
I call Erickson Bruce, tell him something has come up, and ask if I can have a one-day grace period to gather the materials for the settlement determination. He says I can have all the time I want if we pay the sum of $530,000 the state requests. Otherwise we can work it out in court.
“Still under a lot of pressure?” I ask.
“Actually, yes. There are some very angry people that this is in civil court at all. They wanted criminal court.”
“I imagine these people would also like to see a gaudy trial with a long list of prominent witnesses.”
“And it is my duty to tell you their wish will be gratified if you don’t settle by tomorrow at three p.m.”
“I hear you,” I say. “Loud and clear.”
Since there is nothing I can do until I get the information on Freedom Savings and Loan, I return to the campaign trail.
Bobby is holding up, more or less, though he is ignoring the parts of the schedule calling for periods of relaxation. He has been up in the cold dawn to shake hands at the change of shifts at meatpacking plants or farm machine manufacturers’, and, despite the urging of everyone around him, to bed after midnight with no rest in between. While he is a private and in some ways shy man, Bobby seems to feed off both the campaigning and Wheatley’s turning up the heat. And perhaps it is easier being the focus of the pressure than it is trying to protect someone else from it. As the debate day nears, I begin consuming so much Maalox, I leave the bottle sitting out on top of my desk.
There have been a few times late at night when I have seen a look of absolute bone-tired exhaustion creep over Bobby’s face, and more recently in the middle of the day as well. But still he goes on, giving interviews, polishing the next speech, returning the last phone calls, scribbling off the last handwritten thank-you notes to supporters—one of them, Laura tells me, to a Henry Spencer in appreciation for his unsolicited $1,000 contribution, another to Freddie McMasters for his return to the campaign.
Cindy tells me the campaign has proved to be fantastically expensive and that, despite Kurt Swanson’s help, Bobby is being outspent three to two. Although television advertising is crucial and they have budgeted every available dollar for it, it still is far too costly to be able to match Wheatley’s final blitz. And the last polls taken two days before the debate confirm the common wisdom: negative ads work.
According to Jeannie, Freedom Savings and Loan had no problems during the savings-and-loan catastrophes of recent years, partly because it is held by a financial group that ran a tight ship and kept a close eye on it during the go-go eighties. And partly because the major investor in that group has deep pockets and is politically very well-connected to help his interests survive federal scrutiny. Jeannie did not know who this investor was until an hour ago. It is Gerry Dolan, Bobby’s one-time tennis opponent, head of Congressman Wheatley’s party in this state.
A number of pieces of the puzzle of her transaction fall into place. Freedom Savings and Loan was the bank Jeannie’s public-interest group had their accounts with. Their board of directors included men and women of all political stripes and, perhaps as a result, they were willing to invest in women’s and minority businesses when the big banks would not. Jeannie says it was simple. A friendly, trusted member of Freedom’s board tipped her off to the availability of land that might go to the state by eminent domain, then offered to help with the financing—a low-interest loan is pretty damned helpful. Frightened by her future of illness and certain disability, Jeannie jumped at it. She was frightened enough not to have considered, much less smelled, the rat.
I get to the capitol building by late morning, make my way down the familiar polished marble halls, and present myself to Erickson Bruce’s receptionist.
A few words on the phone later, the prosecutor welcomes me in, gestures for me to sit down, and asks if I have the cashier’s check with me. Instead I hand him the photostat of the Anbren check to Freedom Savings and Loan.
I let him look at it for a moment before I say, “Those angry people who want to see a gaudy criminal trial to hound my client wouldn’t happen to be named Gerry Dolan, would they?”
The special prosecutor does an excellent job of masking his surprise. But his silence is, as they say, eloquent.
“And the people who brought this case to your attention way back in the spring after Bobby won the Senate primary wouldn’t happen to be friends or associates of Mr. Dolan, would they?”
“What is your point?”
“My point is that Jeannie Parrish was sandbagged. Someone knew her vulnerability—medical, financial, emotional—and made her a hugely tempting offer. And when she didn’t have the cash to take it herself, magically the financial help was offered to make it possible. And after she took the bait and eventually got her reward, the transaction suddenly, also magically, got brought to your attention.”
“What is the connection between Freedom and Gerry Dolan?”
I explain it to him. “Jeannie should have looked this gift horse in the mouth. But with all due respect, so should you when the case was first brought to you.”
He is silent once again.
“Here is the offer the estate wishes to make. One hundred fifty thousand to the state for its expenses for investigation. Two hundred thousand to Mr. and Mrs. Walter Lamphere of Vero Beach, Florida, the retired farmer and his wife who sold the land to Ms. Parrish in the first place, provided, of course, they agree not to pursue the matter further. And provided that the state agrees to stipulat
e that Ms. Parrish’s behavior was not a violation of state law.”
“Or?”
“Or I think we should have that gaudy trial Gerry Dolan wants so much. With a very long list of prominent witnesses. And a cross-examination that will include the charge that a politically motivated dirty trick, whether they meant it to or not, put stress on a tragically ill young woman in a way that worsened her disease.”
Erickson Bruce spreads his hands and puts them on the desk. “Let me look into this a little further. If your finding appears to have a sound basis, I think the interests of justice will be served by your offer. I must tell you that we will have to point out in our final report that Jeannie Parrish behaved in an ethically questionable manner. The state bar will have to make its own decision about her future in the law.”
I nod. Such a report will not come out for many months. And “ethically questionable” is a very circumspect phrase for Jeannie’s conduct.
I head back to my car, relieved I did not have to hand over the cashier’s check for $530,000—$45,000 of which was my own interest-free loan to Jeannie. I had brought the check with me just in case my analysis somehow proved faulty.
I do not expect to hear from Bruce’s office for several days, and, not wishing to raise false hopes, I hold off passing along the news of a settlement. To my surprise, I get a fax from the prosecutor at my office that afternoon. “Your offer has been accepted,” it reads. “Settlement papers to follow.”
I hope someday Erickson Bruce will favor me with the details of his conversation with Gerry Dolan. It must have been strong stuff.
I call Jeannie. Her satisfaction and relief at the outcome are blunted by the knowledge that she was, in her words, “played for a sucker.” I try to tell Bobby the news. I have a hard time getting through to him. I ask that a message be given to him that “there will be no trial” and to please get back to me for the details. Laura calls to tell me he is unable to. He is involved in a dense string of campaign appearances before the debate. When Scott Bayer arrived with his assistants, with them came a bristling array of television equipment for the final practice sessions. He and Bobby and their entire staff moved into the Riverway Hotel in the capital, across the street from the Hindley Auditorium, where the debate will be held. I am able to arrange for a room on another floor, small, but with a double bed big enough for me to toss and turn in on the final night.
Thirty-six more hours to get through, I remind myself. And then Laura can handle this directly with Bobby. Cindy, Laura, and I have carefully worked out the final details about what to do.
Laura has arranged to call me before she goes out to give the two previously arranged speeches she must deliver this afternoon. Since Annie has midterm tests in school and won’t join her parents and brother until the big day tomorrow, Laura plans to give Bobby her undivided attention until then. But Cindy has her hands too full with prepping the spin doctors and talking to reporters—something she calls “feeding the animals”—to fill in for Laura.
Which is where I come in.
The mail is supposed to be brought in by mid-morning. Laura’s speech is at a noon luncheon. When she leaves Bobby, I become his shadow. Until then, I decide to wait in the lobby conference room Cindy has set up as her office, which is where the mail arrives, leaving instructions for any of my calls to be forwarded there. Cindy’s son and daughter zoom in and out, trailed by a cheerful but already beleaguered eighteen-year-old babysitter Cindy has hired to keep track of them.
There are two reporters from large dailies checking in with Cindy when I arrive. To everyone’s surprise, Bobby comes in himself. Without a look at anyone else in the room, he goes up to Cindy and lays into her in a red-faced tirade about some newspaper article, taking the equivalent of about a three-inch strip from her back. She tries to mollify him, with no luck at all, then indicates that there are reporters present and says they should take up the matter privately, but Bobby is deaf, dumb, and blind. He finishes scorching the air, turns on his heel, and heads out, looking right through everybody, including me. After he disappears, a deep silence falls on the room.
The reporters, former colleagues in the same business, know and like Cindy, and they are offended and angry at Bobby’s behavior. It’s clear she knows there is no way she can get them not to report this incident, but after about a half hour of working on them, she at least gets them to agree not to use direct quotes from the hiding he gave her.
After they leave, Cindy slowly shakes her head and says, “Not what we needed. I just hope they put it somewhere in the middle of a story on general stuff.”
“Has he done that before?”
“Not to me,” she says.
“It’s not personal, you know.”
“I know,” she says. “I also know that he’ll be calling soon to apologize.” She holds out her hand for a moment and, though thirty minutes have passed, watches it tremble. “It’s still no fun to receive.”
“Can I get you something? Coffee?”
She nods and asks for a diet soda. “We were just lucky there were no cameras or somebody hanging around with an open mike.”
I go get some pop for her, sit at one end of the conference table Cindy has set up as a desk, and brood about Bobby. The mail is late. Cindy takes a call, checks on her kids. I read some campaign papers for a while, and at last decide to use the phone to call up to Bobby’s room. Laura answers and tells me she may have to cancel her speeches.
“Why?”
“Bobby’s running a fever. He’s coming down with something.”
“Oh, no,” I groan. “How bad is it?”
“About a hundred and one. Headache, stiff neck, some chills.”
“When did it start?”
“In the night. I just now got him to take his temp. He’s resting,” she says in a low voice, “trying to shake it off. He says to apologize to Cindy for blowing up. And Ben?”
“Yes, what?”
“Don’t tell anyone about the fever. He doesn’t want Wheatley or anyone in the press to get wind of it.”
I promise I will keep mum. Another secret. There must be a hundred of them by now. I pace outside the door, go to the bathroom, buy a paper, check at the desk to see if I have any other messages, and then return to Cindy’s office. I have been gone perhaps ten minutes, not long, but long enough.
I find Cindy, alone, a small heap of mail on her conference table. On top of it is an open Federal Express package. She is wearing the earphones of her daughter’s Walkman and is listening to a tape. The look of shock on her always-expressive face tells me what she is hearing.
She sees me. She removes the earphones and turns off the tape player.
“I knew it,” she said.
“Is that it?” I ask, pointing at the machine, my pulse racing.
“What else could it have been that you and Laura know about and had to protect Bobby from knowing? I mean, I knew it, of course I knew it. But I still couldn’t actually believe it.”
I hold out my hand. “Give it to me, please.”
She gives me the Walkman and the earphones. I rewind the tape, put on the earphones, press play. “I’m just about to go to bed,” I hear my voice say. “Oh, now that sounds nice,” Laura purrs. The rest of the conversation, or seduction, occurs just as we spoke it. Appended after a space of dial tone, is Laura saying, “I’m glad I came over.” My voice replies, “Me, too.” I turn off the machine.
“Is there a note?” I ask.
Cindy hands me a typewritten page.
Emergency. Personal:
For Robert Parrish.
This is a tape of something of the utmost urgency and of the greatest personal importance to you. It concerns the well-being of you, your wife, and your children.
It Is For You Only To Listen To
I study the package. There is no return address. I write down the Federal Expres
s label’s registration identification number, thinking perhaps it can be traced. Though for what purpose, I don’t know. I already know who sent it. Clive Sanford.
“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath. “At least we got it. But we’re still going to have to be on the lookout in case there are more.”
Cindy is having trouble looking at me. She gestures toward the pile of mail.
“There it is.”
I sift through it. It is all envelopes and circulars and catalogs. There are no other packages. Cindy stands there, not helping, not speaking. “Is there another mail delivery today?”
She shakes her head.
“You’ve left instructions,” I ask, “for any special packages to be brought to you?”
She nods, still not looking at me.
I check my watch. “It’s getting late,” I say, thinking that if I know Bobby, he will insist on Laura going to the luncheon.
She straightens. “How could you?” she asks in a shaking voice. “How could you do it?”
I start to frame a reply. “It’s a long story. All I can say is, it is not at all what you think.”
She shakes her head, as if clearing it. “I thought he was your friend—”
“This is the wrong time to get into this,” I say.
“And I thought you were his friend.”
“I am. But let’s keep our eye on the ball right now.”
To my surprise, Cindy’s eyes brim. “This is not what—”
“Look, things are hard enough for all of us at the moment.”
Sounding the Waters Page 29