Access to Power

by Robert Ellis

  He made the drive home in ten minutes. When he opened the front door, his dog wagged his tail in greeting and wanted to play.

  “Good boy, Buddha. I’ve had a rough day, too. You want dinner or what?”

  “I already fed him.”

  He flinched, then saw Linda standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a bathrobe and holding a carton of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was having nightmares thinking about Woody. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He didn’t mind and shook his head.

  Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice. The bottle of vodka was in the freezer. As he poured a drink, he glanced at Linda standing before him in her bathrobe and decided that he’d better make the drink bigger. She no longer looked tired. He could smell his own shampoo in her hair, the freshness of his soap on her skin mixed with the scent of her body lotion. She must have just showered.

  “You can’t sleep,” he said. “And I feel like I’m eighty years old. How did you get in?”

  She smiled. “I kept my keys.”

  “I did, too. What’s Hardly gonna say?”

  “Jason’s in Wilmington with a client, but don’t get any ideas. I’m sleeping in the guest room.” When she noticed the size of his drink, she added, “You better go easy with that. The president called. He’s picking you up in twenty minutes.”

  Frank nodded, following her into the study. It was just after eleven and he guessed that the president’s cabin fever had made a comeback.

  “He got me on my cell phone,” he said, yawning.

  As Linda curled up on the couch, Frank watched Buddha hop up beside her, snuggling his head into the fold of her legs. He sipped his drink and opened the cabinets to his media center, revealing three televisions switched to the network affiliates with the sound muted. This was the way he usually ended the night—scanning local news broadcasts for political ads. Once the news readers had informed everyone of the latest beating, rape, or murder, once they broke from the horror they were creating to the commercials that paid for it, only then did he bother to turn up the sound. Even his worried client had mentioned it. Local TV news just wasn’t news anymore.

  “What’s so important that the president wants to talk to you this late at night?” Linda asked.

  “He didn’t say.” Frank grabbed the remote, looking down at her as she settled. “Want to hear a good one?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Is it dirty?”

  “I’ll let you decide.”

  She smiled at him and then nodded like she was ready. Frank gave her a long look, then sat down on the couch with Buddha between them.

  “What if Woody’s murder didn’t have anything to do with a robbery, Linda? What if it was something else?”

  She held the glance, her eyes as gentle as her voice. “I think you’re wishing it was something else because it seems like such a waste.”

  She lowered her gaze and began petting Buddha. Frank glanced at the televisions. A spot came up on channel 4 and he hit the sound.

  It was Stewart Brown’s second spot for Lou Kay. Another hatchet job on Mel Merdock’s good name. Two panels were flipping back and forth. Merdock’s photo was on each side, along with the word Politician on the front, and Texas Millionaire on the back. It didn’t matter that Mel Merdock had never run for office before. The word politician was a red flag to the common TV viewer. If someone ran for public office, then they must be a politician. Guilt by association. The pictures weren’t much better than the words. A shot of a post office box was included with a graphic drawn by hand indicating it as Merdock’s residence and only tie to the state of Virginia. Clearly, Stewart Brown had found his message and would be pounding it home until election day.

  VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

  Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he believes in tax fairness for working-class families. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, tells the IRS that this P.O. Box is his current residence to avoid paying his fair share of taxes. Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he’s ready to represent Virginia in the U.S. Senate. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, says he’ll move to Virginia only if he’s elected. The truth is that we Virginians don’t need a politician or a Texas millionaire representing us in Washington. We need Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. A family man who shares our values. He’s one of us.

  Frank hit the mute button with his thumb. The spot’s message felt like a knockout punch. Blood was running. When he turned to Linda, she was laughing at the shock of the blow.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Merdock’s dead.”

  Frank smiled back at her, shaking his head. The phone rang and he picked it up, knowing who it was.

  “Did you see it?” he heard Merdock ask in a panicky voice. “Did you see it?”

  Frank cleared his throat, looking at Linda as he lied. “Relax, Mel. It’s not that good. We’re gonna be fine.”

  “You really think so?”

  Linda was holding her hand over her mouth, fighting the laughter. Frank turned away, but the sound of fear in his client’s voice only made it worse.

  “It’s part of the business,” he said into the phone.

  “I think we need to meet, Frank. Tomorrow at the house. What’s your schedule like?”

  “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know.”

  “Oh, and Frank,” Merdock said, hedging. “Would you mind if my wife sits in?”

  Frank grimaced, lying again. “It’s okay with me.”

  He hung up the phone, grabbing his glass. He could feel Linda’s eyes on him.

  “Your client isn’t handling it well,” she said. “Let me guess. The wife’s in.”

  He smiled as he chewed it over. Linda knew the score as well as he did. When things start to get tricky, the wife knocks on the door. Then things get really tricky.

  “She’s in,” he said, laughing.

  A horn tapped outside—the president in his unmarked limo. Frank watched Linda petting Buddha. The dog had worked his head up from her legs onto her lap. Her hands were gently stroking the fur around his neck and ears. Buddha was loving it. Frank got up off the couch and checked his pack of cigarettes, realizing that he was jealous of his own dog.

  “You’re smoking again,” she said.

  “I’m not sure. The jury’s still out.”

  “You were smoking last night and I saw the carton in the bag on the kitchen counter. You’d quit for almost two years.”

  “One year, ten months and sixteen days. The week after we had that place on the water in Chincoteague.”

  Linda looked back at the dog. And Frank was sorry that he’d mentioned it before it even came out of his mouth. They had rented a house in Chincoteague after the last election. It was fall on the Atlantic shore and they had the beaches to themselves. Cool and breezy weather, they spent their afternoons wrapped in sweaters and blankets, drinking wine and making love in the open air with long walks in between. On the days that it happened to rain, they burned wood in the fireplace and left out the walks. One week later, their relationship was over. That’s when Frank decided that the only way to kill the pain was to add another. He had quit smoking when Linda left him and it seemed to help. Like any addiction, the withdrawal destroyed his ability to concentrate on anything other than beating what he was craving.

  The car horn tapped again, the president waiting. Frank gave Linda a look as he walked out.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said, closing the front door and double checking the lock.

  Chapter 23

  An unmarked limousine with tinted windows idled at the curb. Frank opened the rear door, saw the president and got in.

  “You look tired,” the president said.

  As the limousine drove off, three parked cars suddenly came to life, pulling into the street behind them with their lights on. Frank noted the caravan of Secret Service agents following them
through Georgetown. He turned, looked up front at the agent beside the driver with the machine gun resting on his lap, then to the president staring out the window. They were passing the bars and restaurants along Wisconsin Avenue. Normal people on the sidewalks, talking and laughing and living their lives out in the open. The president’s eyes seemed to sparkle as he watched them being free.

  “You get the flowers Cindy sent over?” the president asked.

  “Thanks.”

  “You gonna be okay?”

  Frank nodded, watching the president’s eyes drift back to the window.

  “I’ve been locked inside the White House for a year and a half now, Frank. No casual cups of coffee. No walks with my wife on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “You’ve got your own 747 and you never have to stop at red lights. How bad can it be?”

  The president smiled. “You tell me. I’m getting hit on cable every night. Radio’s a joke and the House is overrun with crackpots. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I remember the talks we had during my campaign. I just want to make sure that when everything’s said and done, it was worth it.”

  What the president had just said was true. Since Kennedy’s assassination, Nixon’s resignation and the failed coup d’état attempt over Clinton’s presidency, the office had become more of an interruption in one’s life than an achievement. You lived each day in a cage with glass walls, trying to keep your personal life a secret. Appearances being everything in a media-driven world, any misstep or indication of your humanity came off like evidence that you might be weak or unfit. Frank wondered how the people whining on talk radio would handle it if they were told that they had to live inside a glass box for four years. And that they should consider themselves lucky if they got to stay for eight years rather than four.

  “There’s no reason to worry,” Frank said. “We’re gonna do well this cycle.”

  “What about Merdock? His wife called. She wants to set up a campaign appearance.”

  Frank reached into his pocket and fished out that bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol he’d been carrying for backup.

  “Merdock’s in a tough race,” he said.

  “Lou Kay’s spots are good, Frank. I’ve seen them. They’re real good. I think Stewart Brown’s hungry. Are you gonna pull this one out or what?”

  “We’ve got the money.”

  Frank had made the midnight drive with the president ten to fifteen times before and knew it could go one of two ways. Long or short. When they made a left on M Street, passed Columbia Hospital and made another left on New Hampshire at the Marriott, Frank knew that he was in for the long way around town. After touring Dupont Circle they would head south for a review of the monuments, then hit the bars and restaurants on Pennsylvania southeast of the Capitol. It would be an hour and a half before he was home again. Maybe even longer depending on how many people were on the sidewalks once they reached Capitol Hill. By the time Frank got home, Linda would be in the guest room with the door closed.

  “It’s an off-year election,” the president said. “My two biggest bills are ready to go. The two reasons I ran for office. I’ll need a majority in the Senate to get them through.”

  “You’d need more than a majority. You’d need eight seats, maybe more with the way they’re voting.”

  The president was staring at him. Frank tossed the Tylenol into his mouth and swallowed the caplets with water from a set of the president’s mobile crystal glassware.

  “Is Merdock gonna win or not, Frank?”

  “My advice is to never count on anything. But yes, when it’s all said and done, Merdock’s the next senator from Virginia.”

  Frank slipped the bottle of Tylenol into his pocket, knowing the president’s eyes were still on him.

  “That’s not exactly the way I wanted to hear you say it, Frank.”

  “You know what campaigns are like. His is worse than that.”

  They were passing shops, restaurants, more people walking.

  “If you set something up, I’ll do it,” the president said. “I need him to win. At all costs. Mel Merdock has got to win that race.”

  Frank nodded. The president was gazing out the window again, his eyes eating up all the people on the sidewalks. Frank looked at the water in his glass and drank what remained. Then he sat back in the cushioned seat letting his mind roll through the possibilities. It would be okay, he decided. As long as he came up with the impossible and turned things around. He knew that Merdock’s campaign would be won or lost on television. Not through mailings or personal appearances or even shaking people’s hands. An idea began to form. On television, he thought to himself, with maybe a little help from radio. He’d have to think it over. He wasn’t sure it had ever been done before.

  Chapter 24

  Frank entered his office, dropping his bags from an early morning edit on the couch. He looked through the glass and could see Linda sitting before her computer reading something from the screen into her phone. As his eyes drifted away, he noticed an overnight bag hanging on her door.

  His edit session had gone well, the Senate campaign for a client in Illinois coming together without much effort. It hadn’t started out that way. The opponent’s party had targeted the seat and found a candidate from the business sector who was well funded and attracted early interest. In his mid-forties, articulate and handsome, the man owned a successful firm that leased refurbished copy machines to hospitals, churches, and schools. On paper, he could have been Robin Hood. But then Mario discovered that the counters on the copy machines had been rigged. For every two copies printed, the counter recorded three. A technician came forward, pointing the finger at Robin Hood and claiming that it was company policy. The story got picked by the newspapers, then the local news stations. Within a week their opponent’s campaign had flat-lined and the district attorney had become involved. Now all Frank had to do was keep the story in the mind of the voters so that no one would forget it on election day.

  Frank sat down and looked at the newspaper spread open on his desk. He’d already read the article, but couldn’t help reading it again. It was the story of Woody’s murder.

  His eyes moved across the headline WOODY DARROW SLAIN IN ROBBERY, then down to the photos of Woody and Sonny Stockwell, the teenager who had murdered him. Instead of using Stockwell’s mug shot, The Post had reprinted a photograph from the kid’s high school yearbook. All the attitude was gone, Frank noticed. He looked young, vulnerable, like any other eighteen-year-old in his last year of school. According to the writer, Stockwell had a high IQ and had scored well on his SATs. The kid had been college bound.

  Tracy stepped into the room with her notepad. One quick glance and he could tell that she was anxious.

  “Reverend Neilmarker called,” she said in a voice that trailed off.

  “He found Stockwell’s friend?”

  She gave him a worried look. “Why are you doing this?”

  He didn’t answer, concealing his excitement and beckoning her on.

  “You’re to be at his church at three,” she said finally.

  He nodded. Neilmarker had found Alan Ingrams. Frank glanced at his watch. He could make his meeting with the Merdocks at their home in Virginia and get back to the city in plenty of time. But he needed an hour to get ready for the Merdocks. He had an idea where he wanted to take the campaign, but he needed to flesh it out in writing.

  “Stop worrying,” he said, changing the subject. “Linda’s got a bag packed. Where’s she going?”

  “Colorado. They’re in trouble.”

  Tracy averted her eyes. He could tell she was holding something back and lowered his voice as he made what he thought was the obvious guess.

  “Is Jason Hardly going with her?”

  He watched her trying to fight it. After a moment, she nodded like it hurt. Frank leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The words came easy. He’d been thinking about it ever since he saw them together in the interrogation room the other nig
ht.

  “It’s serious, isn’t it,” he said.

  Tracy stepped forward, upset. “It’s what you did to Ozzie Olson, Frank. She can’t get it out of her head.”

  Chapter 25

  Frank pulled off the street and coasted down the long driveway to a fabulous Virginia mansion set in a neighborhood of similarly fabulous Virginia mansions hidden from the world by all the trees. Frank was familiar with the woodsy setting of McLean, Virginia because so many senators lived here. Three of his clients lived within ten miles along this very road.

  Parking beside a bright red Mustang, he grabbed his briefcase and glanced at the house as he approached the front door. Stewart Brown and Lou Kay had taken a shot of Merdock’s post office box, calling it his residence. They knew that they could get away with it because they knew that Frank could never show where Merdock actually lived. His lifestyle. All the money. One look at the place would do more damage than Frank cared to think about.

  He rang the doorbell and listened to the rich resonating sound that seemed to fit the price of the house and the neighborhood it was located in. As he waited, he spotted Norman, Merdock’s driver and bodyguard, polishing a brand new Lincoln Town Car by the garage. He was buffing the wax on the hood by hand—a stocky, strong-armed man who had worked for the Merdocks in Fort Worth and made the trip east. When Norman noticed him watching, he gave Frank a nod and got back to work. Frank looked past him, pleased to find the Mercedes safely stowed inside the garage and hidden beneath a canvas tarp until after election day. If a candidate were caught riding in a foreign car, no matter what make or model, it would become an issue. And as Frank had explained to the Merdocks early on, there were already enough issues in this race.