by Lawson, Mike
Kiser’s dark eyes flashed, emitting enough heat to melt steel.
“You people make me sick,” she said. “Molly Mahoney is a privileged little brat who’s committed a crime. But she has a big shot for a father who can afford a high-power defense team, and her lawyers are going to throw up a smoke-and-mirrors defense. They’ll say that somebody stole little Molly’s identity and opened accounts in her name, and that somebody else over at Reston is really the bad guy. And maybe they’ll win, DeMarco, but I’ll be damned if I’ll help them. I’m going to do everything I can to put Molly Mahoney in a federal prison.”
DeMarco was stunned by the force of her anger; she was acting like Molly had mugged her grandmother. “Jesus, Kay,” he said, “can’t you concede that it’s even remotely possible that she could have been framed?”
“No! She wasn’t framed. She did it!”
“Then what was her motive? Why would she do something like this?”
Kiser laughed. “You need to get to know your client a lot better, DeMarco.”
What the hell did she mean by that?
* * *
DeMarco returned to his office, which was in the subbasement of the U.S. Capitol. Not the basement, the subbasement—and his work space was smaller than some walk-in closets. Located down the hall from him were the janitors, and across the hall was the emergency diesel generator room. His was not a power office. He did have a title, though. The flaking gold paint on the frosted glass of his office door proclaimed him Counsel Pro Tem for Liaison Affairs.
The title was John Mahoney’s invention—and complete nonsense.
DeMarco had worked for Mahoney for a long time but there was no organizational chart that showed this to be the case. Mahoney preferred this in part because of DeMarco’s family history and in part because he sometimes asked DeMarco to do things that he didn’t want traced back to his office. This meant that if DeMarco was ever caught doing something inappropriate on his boss’s behalf, Mahoney could—and would—deny any connection to DeMarco’s position.
DeMarco had a small refrigerator in his office, one just large enough to hold a six-pack of beer. He pulled a Coke out of the fridge—it was too early in the day for beer—popped the top on the can, took a careful sip to avoid cold liquid touching his temperamental tooth, and booted-up his computer. He wanted to know about Douglas Campbell.
If Neil had been available, DeMarco would have called him and Neil would have charged him—meaning the U.S. Treasury—a mind-boggling amount of money, but he would have turned Campbell’s financial and personal life inside out and upside down. For Neil, most computer security systems were a weak joke, and within a couple of hours he would have examined Campbell’s bank accounts, tax returns, and credit card statements; he would have learned about every investment Campbell had ever made and if the investment had turned a profit or not.
But Neil wasn’t available—he was off with his bride, wallowing in pleasures of the flesh—so DeMarco did about the only thing he could do: he googled Douglas Campbell, and since the name was only slightly less common than John Smith, he got about two zillion hits. An hour later he found one article about the Douglas Campbell he cared about. The article was in the Charlottesville Daily Progress and was about the reunion of a University of Virginia football team that had gone to the Florida Citrus Bowl twenty four years before—where they lost. The reason the reunion made the papers was that a couple of the UVA players had gone on to play in the pros and one was a Hall of Famer. Campbell wasn’t the Hall of Famer. He had played defensive tackle for the Cavaliers and his football career ended after college.
Having learned nothing other than the fact that Campbell had once played college football, DeMarco called a neighbor in Georgetown. The neighbor lived across the street from him and worked at the IRS, and he answered DeMarco’s questions every year when DeMarco was grappling with his tax return—usually at ten o’clock at night on April 14. The accountant liked DeMarco because his wife had become a teetotaler and wouldn’t allow alcohol in their house, so if the poor guy wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of drinking a beer, he’d find some excuse to visit DeMarco.
So the IRS accountant was a pal and a neighbor—but he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of giving DeMarco Campbell’s Social Security number, which DeMarco needed. DeMarco, consequently, had to resort to pleading and lying. His neighbor knew he worked for Congress and the lie DeMarco told was that his interest in Campbell was related to a classified security issue, but he couldn’t say exactly what the issue was.
“Look,” he said, “I just need to check a few records related to this guy but if I call Homeland Security—which I could, of course—they’ll take forever. Plus, if I get those guys involved, the next thing you know Campbell’s on the no-fly list and he’s got federal agents interviewing him. I don’t think the guy’s done anything wrong so I don’t want to screw him like that, but I need to look into a few things and for that I need his DOB and his SS number. I mean, come on, you know me. It’s not like I’m gonna steal the guy’s identity or something. Oh, hey, I forgot. The Nats are playing Pittsburgh tomorrow. Maybe you oughta drop by and watch the game with me and have a couple of beers.”
His neighbor finally gave him what he needed, but he wouldn’t give him any other information off Campbell’s tax returns, so DeMarco’s second call was to a company that performed credit checks.
Molly Mahoney had told him that Campbell appeared to live above his means, and DeMarco wanted to see if there was any evidence of this. Specifically, he wanted to know how much Campbell owed on his credit cards, the size of the mortgages on his two houses, and any outstanding loans he might have on cars and boats. The company he called worked mostly for banks trying to avoid lending money to folks trying to buy a home, and all they needed to do their job was Campbell’s name, date of birth, and the Social Security number wheedled out of his neighbor.
The next thing DeMarco wanted to know was if Campbell had a criminal record—which he thought was pretty unlikely—and what he needed was some law enforcement agency to run Campbell’s name through their database. DeMarco knew a few cops but he met almost all of them while working for Mahoney, and not under circumstances where they became his friends. One of them had wanted to arrest him. Neil, once again, could have obtained what he wanted, but since Neil wasn’t there he called Perry Wallace, Mahoney’s devious chief of staff.
Perry Wallace knew several cops who had political ambitions, like the desire to be appointed to a high-profile job in some federal law enforcement agency. Politics was all about connections and favors, and Perry Wallace had the connections. Normally, Perry would have refused to do DeMarco’s legwork for him, but since DeMarco was working on something involving Mahoney’s daughter, he reluctantly called a cop and asked him to do a record check on Campbell. The cop he called turned out to be the deputy chief of the D.C. Metropolitan Police Force, and he called DeMarco half an hour after Perry Wallace talked to him.
The deputy chief, a guy named Foster, sounded like he was irritated that he was having to waste his time on grunt work like a background check. He told DeMarco that Campbell had no convictions and, except for a couple of traffic tickets, hadn’t had a brush with the law in over twenty years. But twenty-four years ago—the same year the Cavaliers lost in the Citrus Bowl—Campbell was arrested for drunk and disorderly, which for a college football player wasn’t exactly earth-shattering news. But at the same time, he was also arrested for obstructing a homicide investigation—and that went way beyond your normal frat boy prank.
“But nothing ever came of it,” Foster said. “He was never formally charged or indicted and the whole thing was dropped. And I can’t tell from the records I was able to access what the whole thing was all about. All I’ve got here is a Charlottesville PD case number and the name of the detective who worked the case. And one other thing. The record is cross-referenced to another
record involving a guy named Russell McGrath who was arrested at the same time and for the same things but, like I said, nothing ever went to trial. It sounds like they just arrested these guys to rattle their cages, but since this all happened more than twenty years ago, I doubt if anyone will remember anything. Do you want the case numbers and the detective’s name?”
“Yeah, I guess,” DeMarco said, and wrote down the information.
DeMarco turned back to his computer and looked again at the article on the team reunion in Charlottesville. Russell (Rusty) McGrath had also been on the team. He was one of the guys who made the pros.
DeMarco sat for a moment, trying to decide if he should call the Charlottesville police department, and decided not to. Maybe he’d call them later if there seemed to be a reason for calling them, but he agreed with Foster that he’d most likely be wasting his time trying to find someone who remembered an arrest that happened almost a quarter century ago.
He looked at his watch. It was almost six—time to knock off for the day—and that’s when the phone rang. It was the credit checkers, and the news they gave him wasn’t what he’d expected at all.
He decided to go see Douglas Campbell.
14
Douglas Campbell lived in Chevy Chase, Maryland.
His house was a behemoth with a three-car garage and had a front yard about as big as a soccer field. One of the garage doors was open, and DeMarco could see a Lexus SUV, this year’s model, which sold for seventy or eighty grand if you got all the bells and whistles. And Molly had said that Campbell also owned a boat.
The credit checkers had told DeMarco that Campbell had an excellent credit rating. In fact, other than a couple of credit cards that he paid off monthly, he didn’t owe anybody anything. He’d purchased his Maryland home for one point seven million ten years ago, and his “cottage” on Chesapeake Bay had cost six hundred grand, and neither place had an outstanding mortgage. Molly had told him that Campbell made around a hundred and fifty thousand a year; he couldn’t imagine how he owned all the things he owned and was debt free. He either had an excellent financial adviser or a very rich wife—and DeMarco hoped this wasn’t the case. If Campbell was completely legitimate that wouldn’t help Molly.
DeMarco rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was a forty-something blonde wearing white shorts and a pink Izod T-shirt. She had a cute, upturned nose and was fashionably thin, but her skin was leathery from too much unprotected exposure to the sun. Ex-cheerleader was DeMarco’s first impression. She’d probably been as cute as a button twenty years ago but her looks were fading, like a photograph left sitting too close to a window.
“Is Mr. Campbell available?” DeMarco asked.
“Doug?” she said, as if confused that DeMarco would be asking to see her husband in his own house. The woman swayed a bit as she stood in the doorway and DeMarco thought she might be drunk. The glass in her hand was another clue.
“Yes,” DeMarco said.
“Oh. Well, he’s out back, barbecuing. Ha!” she added, as if the idea of her husband cooking was hilarious. Not funny hilarious, but pathetic hilarious. “Why do you want to see him?” she then asked, her eyes narrowing, maybe thinking DeMarco was selling something.
“I work for Congress, Mrs. Campbell. I need to ask your husband some questions about an ongoing investigation.”
“Is that right?” she said, but she was already losing interest and looking back at the television in the room behind her. Entertainment Tonight was on, and Nancy O’Dell was asking some teenage actress with arms the diameter of spaghetti if she might possibly have an eating disorder.
“Yes,” DeMarco said. “May I come in please?”
“Nah, the place is a mess. Just walk around the side, that way, and you’ll find the master chef. Ha!” she said again and closed the door.
* * *
DeMarco walked around the house as directed and saw Campbell—and the kidney-shaped swimming pool behind him. The patio he was standing on was constructed from stone that looked like granite, and Campbell’s barbecue was big enough to roast a luau pig.
Campbell, as might be expected of an ex-college lineman, was a big man, at least six five. Also, as might be expected, twenty-plus years after his playing days, he was packing forty or fifty pounds he didn’t need. He had thinning blond hair combed forward to provide the most coverage for his scalp, and his complexion was ruddy from drink, sun, and lack of exercise. He was wearing a blue apron over Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt; the apron had a picture of a big red lobster lying on its back with X’s for eyes. Campbell was using his two-thousand-dollar barbecue to grill two hot dogs.
“Mr. Campbell?” DeMarco said.
“Uh, hi,” Campbell said. “What . . .”
“Your wife told me to come back here. My name’s Joe DeMarco. I work for Congress and I need to talk to you.”
“At this time of night?”
It was only seven p.m. “Yeah,” DeMarco said. “When a situation involves the daughter of the highest ranking Democrat in the House, folks like me tend to work overtime.”
“Oh, it’s about Molly.” Campbell shook his big head. “It’s really a shame about her. I just can’t believe it.”
“That’s good, Mr. Campbell, because nobody else believes it either.”
“Well, that lady from the SEC sure as hell does. Man, I’d hate to have her down on my ass.”
“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, Mr. Campbell,” DeMarco said. “The SEC knows that somebody at Reston Tech has been leaking insider information for twenty years. In other words, a long time before Molly Mahoney began working there.”
But as long as you’ve been there.
“You’re kidding,” Campbell said.
DeMarco just stared at him.
“Hey, where are my manners?” Campbell said. “You wanna drink?”
“No,” DeMarco said.
“Well, I’m gonna make myself another one. I’ll be right back.”
Campbell’s reaction to DeMarco’s statement about something criminal going on at his company hadn’t been right. Too nonchalant. No big surprise. No big denial. Just off.
DeMarco looked through the sliding glass door that allowed entry to Campbell’s kitchen from the patio. Campbell was mixing his drink, head down, his back to his wife, trying to ignore her, while she made angry, jabbing gestures at his back as she yammered at him.
Two drunks in an unhappy marriage, DeMarco thought.
Campbell came back to the pool, a gin and tonic in his hand. He took a gulp of his drink then turned the hot dogs on the grill. He had the heat up too high and the hot dogs were scorched black on the side that had been facing the flame.
“Does your wife work, Mr. Campbell?”
“Not unless you call hitting tennis balls work,” Campbell said. “Anyway, what does my wife working have to do with . . .”
“You didn’t seem particularly surprised when I told you that the SEC has been trying to find a criminal at Reston Tech for twenty years.”
“Sure I’m surprised,” Campbell said, “but if something like that’s really going on, I sure as hell don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s not what Molly says.”
“What’s that mean?”
It was time for DeMarco’s big lie. “Molly overheard a conversation between you and another person in two thousand . . . Well, I’m not going to go into the details—we’ll save those for the trial—but when the SEC finds out what she knows, they’re going to start looking at you again, and this time they’ll find something.”
“Are you saying Molly’s accused me of doing something illegal? Well, if she has, it’s bullshit and she’s lying to take the heat off herself. And I’ll tell you something else, pal: this discussion is over. Right now. I’m not saying another word to you witho
ut a lawyer present.”
“Now, I know you have a partner, and . . .”
“A partner? What are you . . .”
“And when Kay Kiser hears what Molly has to say, she’ll find your partner.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Do you know how the government makes most of its cases, Mr. Campbell? By rolling one of the people involved. WorldCom, Enron, Madoff—in all those cases, one guy rolled and told the government what all the other guys did. And the reason the one guy always rolls is the government grants him immunity. The trick is, you have to be the first guy to turn over. But if you wait, and if somebody else talks first, then you get nothing but time in the pen. In your case, a federal pen.”
“This is outrageous! You get the hell off my property,” Campbell said, glowering down at DeMarco. Ordinarily, DeMarco would have been concerned goading a guy Campbell’s size, but Campbell was not only drunk, he also looked pretty foolish in his barbecue apron, his big gut pushing out the cloth.
DeMarco didn’t move. “I think you live far above your means, Mr. Campbell. There’s no way you can afford this place, your beach house, your boat, and all your cars and not be up to your neck in debt. But I did a credit check on you, and you’re debt free.”
“You gotta lotta goddamn nerve doing credit checks on me. Wait’ll my lawyer hears about that. And I know my rights. It doesn’t matter if you’re from Congress, you can’t interrogate me without a lawyer present.”
“Sure, I can. I’m not a cop. I’m just the guy who’s going to get Molly Mahoney off the hook—and if that means packing you off to prison for a dozen years, that’s fine by me.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Campbell shrieked. “I haven’t done a damn . . .”
“Your hot dogs are burning, sir. And remember what I said: only the guy that rolls first gets a pass. Now, here’s my card,” DeMarco said and placed his business card—the one that had nothing on it but his name and phone number—facedown on the patio table.