The Latina President...and the Conspiracy to Destroy Her

by Joe Rothstein

  

  “Hey, lady We had a deal. We were going to tell each other about our men, just as we did our boys.”

  “Who can remember?” said Tenny. “It’s not that there were so many, it’s just that so many weren’t memorable or worth talking about.”

  The friends were sharing a late super in the White House, along with Fish, who had brought with her the disturbing news that the Judiciary Committee staff was looking into the drugs, guns, and money-laundering accusations.

  “Not their jurisdiction, is it?” asked Carmie.

  “Only if they want to build a case for impeachment,” said Fish.

  “Impeachment?” Carmie was appalled. “Because of a bunch of off-the-wall stories the media’s been chasing?”

  “Larry Anderson tells me he thinks they’re trying to build a case for a full-scale impeachment investigation. Subpoenas, depositions, the works.”

  “They wouldn’t!”

  “Larry says he thinks they will and to get prepared.”

  Larry Anderson was the ranking Democrat on the Judiciary Committee. A veteran legislator, sometimes irascible, but a vote and voice the White House had learned to rely on.

  “Hard for me to believe,” said Tenny. “I’m still pretty popular and they’d be taking a big risk. They couldn’t get enough committee votes to do it, could they?”

  “Not sure,” said Fish. “Zach Bowman, the chairman, is hurry-up ambitious. Wouldn’t even be surprised if he was planning to run against you if you go for re-election. Larry’s kind of a wild man, but he’s with our staff all the time. He’s our early warning system. Take it seriously and get ready.”

  “I don’t know how to get ready,” said Tenny. “It’s all so far from real I don’t even know what I’m fighting.”

  

  Ben Sage didn’t know whom or what they were fighting, either. What he did know was a brilliant campaign when he saw one. For originality and effectiveness, the anti-Tennyson campaign he had been watching develop was hugely impressive. So impressive he found it hard to believe that any of his professional counterparts were masterminding it.

  Ben speared an olive from the bottom of his martini glass. He and Lee were at the Big Fish in Rehoboth, making a quick escape from a day of high tension. Earlier, Henry Deacon, Tenny’s chief of staff, had called to alert him that the House Judiciary Committee had scheduled a vote on whether to launch an impeachment investigation. Could Ben and Lee get ready for action, just in case it passed? The rest of the day was spent reorganizing their other campaign commitments. Then a quick flight to Delaware’s Eastern Shore getaway. They needed some time to talk, to think, to get perspective.

  “I just learned about the history of the martini glass,” Ben said.

  “Tell me,” said Lee, “Another jokey accident?”

  “No. The gin needs to stay cold to stay good, so that’s why the long stem. The wide brim at the top helps the gin’s flavor to open up. Then the cone shape keeps the gin and vermouth from separating.”

  “And why such a narrow vee-shaped bottom?”

  “For the olives, of course. They can’t just float around aimlessly. And the slanted side of the glass supports the toothpick. Brilliant engineering, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think about it at all. I just enjoy it.”

  “Lee, what do you think we’re up against here? I don’t know anyone who we compete with who could dream up and run a campaign as effective as the one they’re running against Tenny.”

  “You don’t think it’s just the Republicans getting smarter?”

  “Possible, but unlikely. What has me stumped is where they’re getting all of this shit out of South America, Mexico, and all the places outside the U.S. Your guess?”

  “The oil companies are my prime suspects. They work all over the world. They have their own FBI and local armies. They pay off everyone. And they’ve got a lot to lose if she wins the Future’s fight.”

  “Maybe so. How about the banks? What goes for oil goes for them, too.”

  “Maybe both?”

  “But these guys have never run campaigns like this before. They have enough clout in Washington to get their way without being part of an international conspiracy.”

  Ben drained his martini glass and motioned to the waiter for another.

  “Is it that important to know where it’s coming from?” asked Lee. “Isn’t it enough to know what the Republicans are doing with all this stuff and try to beat it back?”

  “No, it’s not. We need to know who and why. Unless we know who we’re up against, we won’t know what to expect next. We’ll just be running around trying to fix holes they punch in her. How do we get ahead of it and punch back?”

  “Let’s add the health insurance people to the list of suspects. They demolished the Clintons, even when health reform was at eighty percent in the polls. They’re really good. Now Tenny’s moving everybody to Medicare, pretty much wiping out private health insurance. That’s plenty of motive and a track record of great campaigning, besides.”

  “Good point. But I think I’m leaning toward the oil guys because of the international angle. To collect evidence or invent it, they need to be deeply embedded in Mexico and Central America and South America. Contacts everywhere. Strong enough contacts to find nuggets of information others can’t find, and to buy or intimidate people who usually can’t be bought or intimidated.”

  “Yeah. You may be right,” Lee said. “You know, I read Steve Coll’s book about Exxon, Private Empire. He tells the story of a time when Lee Raymond was running the company and there was a lot of concern in America about gasoline shortages. One of Raymond’s key guys suggests that the company should build more refineries here to make America more energy secure. Raymond says, why would I do that? We’re not an American company. That’s the way these guys think. The term banana republic started with all the military horsepower we threw into the poor Central American countries to make them safe for the United Fruit Company. These guys have been pushing smaller countries around forever. They’re incredibly good at it. They may lose a battle now and then but they hardly ever lose a war they really want to win.”

  “Well I’m pretty sure this isn’t about bananas. So are we settling on oil? Are those the guys we’re fighting?”

  “Not settling. But they’re prime. They have the contacts and the power to do it. And they’re smart enough to get others to pick up the tab so that their fingerprints aren’t all over it. If it fails, you can be sure some of the guys in Congress will take the rap, not them. That’s the way they play.”

  Plates of fried oyster appetizers interrupted the conversation. The two partners munched through them hungrily. Food for more thought.

  Ben had spent all of his years in politics working in the United States. He had little experience elsewhere, the way some political consulting firms did. He had been thinking domestic politics, not international conspiracies. Until impeachment showed up on the radar. Now he was struggling with a whole new range of unfamiliar possibilities.

  “One more thing,” said Lee. “Who stands to gain immediately if Tenny is thrown out of office?”

  “Immediately? The Vice President. Rusher,” said Ben.

  “Exactly,” said Lee.

  29

  “NO!!” Congressman Anderson shouted.

  In his frustration he repeated his vote three more times: “No! No! No!”

  If he could, Congressman Lawrence Anderson would have yelled loud enough to sway the crystal chandeliers in the U.S. House Judiciary Committee hearing room. He considered all of this talk about impeaching U.S. President Isabel Aragon Tennyson pure nonsense.

  After thirty years in the U.S. House of Representatives, Representative Anderson looked, sounded, and indeed was authoritative in many things. But for the last few sessions of Congress, he and his fellow Democrats had been in the minority. Even as ranking Democrat on the House Judiciary Committee, he had little power or authority. Years ago, when he
was just a freshman member of Congress, Anderson also had a front row seat for an impeachment effort, Bill Clinton’s. That was, as he saw it at the time, a shameful hunt for nothing more than dirty underwear.

  Now, once again, members of the House Judiciary Committee were being asked to vote on whether to launch a full-scale impeachment investigation of a Democratic Party president.

  It was July, months into the committee’s inquiry. Committee staff had been sifting documents, traveling to U.S.-Mexican border locations, interviewing supposedly talkative drug dealers and cartel members, listening to current and former U.S. border guards and Drug Enforcement Agency agents. They were piecing together a story, a case, and none too quietly. Periodically there were leaks, exclusives. Always followed by official “no comments.” Committee members were being briefed in executive sessions. The official public silence was more damning than the evidence. If this was too serious to discuss in public, it must be really bad. A petri dish for rumor and conspiracy theories.

  The media chased anonymous tips, whispers, hunches. Media investments need pay days. And so scraps appeared often, most of them lightly sourced, or non-sourced, or spun from loose threads in unmatched socks. The total affect for President Tennyson was the creation of a lead weight, slowly dragging her into a sea of yet unproven guilt.

  Finally, a press conference. Committee Chairman Zachary Bowman announced the committee had enough cause to ask the full House to approve an official pre-impeachment inquiry.

  Representative Anderson’s “no” vote was the seventeenth “no” on the roll call. There were three more votes to go, and only one more vote was needed to derail the Republicans from moving any further down the impeachment track. Before the roll call began most who thought about it expected the resolution to lose. The Republicans were used to bringing up votes just to embarrass the president, losing, and then bringing them up again. They had never tried for impeachment, until now.

  “Mrs. Diaz.”

  Lenore Diaz, Latina American member from New Mexico, Democrat, first-termer, winner of her seat in an election so close it required a recount.

  “Yes,” said Ms. Diaz.

  Yes? For a resolution that could wind up unseating her own Democratic president? A sister Latina?

  A stunning vote. Republican members of Congress, watching on television from the cloakroom off the House floor certainly didn’t expect it. Neither did White House staffers, watching from their offices near the Oval Room, or reporters covering this story.

  A day earlier Lenore Diaz had received a brief, meaningful message. Either vote for this or your son Ralph pays. Ralph Diaz was serving three months in the Albuquerque Corrections Center for his role in a gang fight. The message was stark. No explanation. No qualifiers. But from the way that message was delivered Lenore Diaz knew it was not a bluff. Ralph was eighteen, a bit on the wild side like so many eighteen-year-olds, but a good son. It had broken her heart when the judge sentenced Ralph to jail. She blamed herself and her own political ambitions. Time bought at the expense of being with Ralph. Ralph already was paying a price for her career. She could not take a chance that the price would get even steeper. There were some very bad people in New Mexico. She knew who they were. And how bad they were.

  The clerk moved on.

  “Mr. Foster.”

  Darrell Foster was scared stiff. Foster didn’t tolerate pressure very well. Foster the flake, his colleagues called him. You could never count on him. Easily swayed. Never consistent. Not particularly trustworthy even when he claimed he was with you. Diaz’ vote put him in a place he did not expect to be. Foster’s vote would be decisive. A congressman whose entire career modus operandi had been one of ducking, running and crouching as low as possible was about to be the judge, the last word on whether a popular president of his own party might be railroaded out of office.

  “Mr. Foster.”

  Earlier in the day Foster had come to a decision. He planned to vote “yes,” for the investigation. In his Maryland suburban congressional district, Foster had been fighting a growing reputation for being a mindless puppet for the president or whatever his party leaders wanted him to do. He had voted in favor of each bill the president had sent to the House—immigration, single payer healthcare, and others nearly as whopping big and controversial. Each vote had added to a growing legion of political enemies. By his count, the impeachment resolution was going down anyway. A “yes” vote from him would show his independence with no consequences. How he voted wouldn’t matter.

  But he hadn’t considered Diaz.

  The pros and cons spun in Foster’s head like tumblers in a slot machine. Create a months’ long investigation that could remove President Tennyson from office? Incur the wrath of fellow Democrats? There would be a lot to answer for at home and right here in Congress.

  But...congressional wrath could be short-lived because there’s always another vote they want from you tomorrow. An impeachment hearing would be televised live, not bad for his reputation back in the district. He could always vote against impeachment itself later. And if Tennyson wasn’t guilty of all of the messy stories about her, the investigation would clear her.

  The clerk was looking his way. So was Judiciary Chairman Zachary Bowman. So were all of those television cameras. The eyes of the world. The voters in his district. Nowhere to hide and no more time to think about it.

  “Yes,” said Congressman Foster.

  Foster’s vote was like the starter’s gun at a track event. House members gazed at the cloakroom television in disbelief. Suddenly, and for most of them unexpectedly, impeachment would rise to the top of the House agenda, and each member would have to deal with it.

  The final “yes,” from Arizona Republican Congresswoman Paige Lerner, came as anticlimax and only after heavy gaveling by Chairman Bowman.

  The House Judiciary Committee had decided that all of the sordid stuff circulating in the tabloids and swirling in sludgy media backwaters would be transformed from rumor and innuendo into prime time coverage with live witnesses, under oath.

  

  Ben Sage and Lee Searer watched the vote in their Georgetown office, surrounded by their staff. The air hung heavy, coated by the shock and uncertainty that usually follows the announcement of a death. No one said a word. No one could think of anything to say.

  Ben felt something he had not experienced for a long time, and seldom in life. Nausea, evoked by dread. From countless past experiences he knew that when he was uncertain of an outcome, it usually meant he lost.

  Ben’s cell phone dinged within moments of the vote.

  Deacon.

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “On my way.”

  “I’ll pull together a core group.”

  “Deac, don’t do or say anything until I get there.”

  “Not that easy. The media guys are all over Carlton in the press room. They want her. They’ll take him. Christ, they’ll take anybody.”

  “Resist it. Tell Carlton to close and lock the gates. No leaks. And for God’s sake don’t let her talk to anyone.”

  “Wait,” a ridiculous notion just struck Ben. “Does she even know?”

  “She knows. Fish called her right away. It’s the only call I let in there. She’s still with the OMB people about the budget. My guess is she treated the news from Fish like it was a social call.”

  Brief pause while they both considered the fact that the President of the United States had not watched her own impeachment proceedings on television, had not reacted when the vote went against her, and had kept working with the budget nerds even after hearing the news.

  “Ben Do you think any of this is true?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I hoped you’d be more definite than that.”

  “Sorry. That’s all I’ve got right now. Getting to either no or yes is going to take a lot of work. Lock the doors and get her cell phone away from her.”

  

  The next mo
rning’s meeting in the Oval Room was no different than others—six days each week whether in Washington, D.C., or traveling. It was a management tool Tenny picked up from the guys in the Pentagon. Meet at 7:00 a.m. No chairs. Everyone stands. Tight, specific agenda assembled by the overnight staff. Today’s opportunities and crises. Things that happened while we were asleep that need tending or watching. Loose ends from yesterday. Here are the jobs. Who’s doing this? What resources do we need to get it done? Objective? Deadline? Who’s got responsibility? Anyone have anything else we haven’t covered? Meeting adjourned. Seldom more than thirty minutes. Staff always. Plus, key players from inside and outside the administration who happened to occupy that day’s hot seat. That meant Ben was there this morning, the day after the Judiciary Committee vote.

  “Ben?” she said, when it was his turn to speak. “You’ll work closely with Deacon and others on the House impeachment problem?”

  “Yes, Madam President. We’ve already started. White House counsel needs to prepare a paper defining what can be done by government staff and what we’ll need to outsource. I’ll work with him on retaining private counsel that understands the politics of this. I’m arranging a defense fund from private contributors. Talking points have been prepared and distributed. We will keep your personal time and involvement at a minimum.”

  For Ben, Lee, their staff, and Deacon’s, it had been a long night.

  “Thank you,” said President Tennyson. “Deacon, see that Ben is properly credentialed as a counselor to the president for the duration of this problem.”

  And then it was on to the federal response to the drought problems in Arizona.

  Meeting over, Deacon pulled Ben aside.

  “She wants to see you. Wait here.”

  Others filed out until there were just the three of them left. Tenny gave Ben a quick hug and motioned for him and Deacon to sit opposite her on the sofa.

  “I’m going to say this upfront,” she said. She had an earnestness that always accompanied tough situations. “I had that affair with Gabe. It went on for maybe a month and I loved every minute of it. He swept me away, that gorgeous, smooth-talking cad. It took a while before I found out he was a scoundrel and a dangerous one at that.