by David Pepper
Whatever Oliver witnessed in their shared Capitol Hill apartment made him uncomfortable around her. She had a good sense of what it was.
Later, when Tom moved to Georgetown, he essentially disappeared between Monday and Thursday. A morning phone call, and sometimes one at 9:00 or 9:30 in the evening, were the only times he would call during the day. She knew he was a night owl, yet he still never talked to her after 10:00.
And then there was Arlene Brown. At Tom’s side for years, she had been such a sweet woman. So positive, so gracious. But around the time Tom moved to Georgetown, she changed. Like Oliver, she couldn’t look Irene in the eye. Whenever Irene called, the pleasant voice that answered the call became pained once Irene identified herself as the caller. No more small talk. No laughs.
Add it all up, and Irene Stanton was certain her husband was with other women all the time. At first, she cried herself to sleep most nights in Bucks County, eyes often puffy and red as she drove the kids to school the next morning. But over time, she grew numb to it. She went through the motions of appearing together, beauty queen smile and wave always on full display, but then they lived their separate lives.
Her causes kept her engaged. But except for her kids and some Philadelphia friends, her personal life felt empty.
For years.
Then Joanie Simpson died. And everything changed.
Irene never met her, but from the photos in the paper, she knew the young aide was exactly Tom’s type. In fact, the researcher looked slightly like she did when he’d ogled her all those years ago. She guessed that her husband was sleeping with this young woman up until the time of her brutal slaying.
And then, within days of her death, Tom’s behavior changed completely. He started paying attention to her for the first time in years. Proactively, not just when he was required to.
He reached out to their kids. He added family photos to his office. He even started calling her after 10:00. And now, out of the blue, a dozen red roses. A sweet note.
A wife, more than anyone, could detect it. Joanie Simpson’s very public death had spooked her husband into changing everything about his personal life.
On the one hand, and on the surface, Irene was thrilled to have Tom back for the first time in decades. Which is why her first response to the flowers had been a sigh and a smile, and a few minutes dedicated to putting them at the center of the table. The girl from Scranton loved the renewed attention.
But by afternoon, that wore off. The sight of those roses now provoked the opposite reaction. And the anger that boiled up as she looked at them clarified for her that Tom’s switch had come too late.
After years of feeling helpless about her empty personal life, after years of betrayal, she now felt empowered. Empowered to even the score. To set things straight.
Irene Stanton knew something no one else did. And it was time to do something about it. White House be damned.
At 4:00, she called a private investigator and set up a time to meet. Ten minutes later, she walked to the edge of her backyard, faced the woods, and tossed the flowers, vase and all, as far as she could.
Chapter 32
WASHINGTON, DC: Three months before the election
“What gives?”
Stanton and Lee Kelly nearly collided in the members-only dining area at the Capitol. The two had been friendly in the early years. For a time, they had played squash every few weeks. So Stanton was taken aback by the ferocity in Kelly’s voice.
“What do you mean?” he asked, raising both hands up.
“Of course I know you’re going to try to beat me, but coming to my district twice in four months? And those ads going after me are over the top. It’s like you really want me gone. Bad form, Tom.”
“Sorry, Lee,” Stanton responded. “It’s not personal. Your party’s on the wrong side of too many issues, and this is our best chance to get some big things done.”
“But you know our voting records are barely different,” Kelly shot back.
“It’s your vote for leader that matters, nothing else. You know that.”
As Stanton walked away, he chuckled.
If only Kelly knew.
By visiting eastern Ohio only twice, he had actually taken it easy on his old friend. He saved the full-court press for districts where he didn’t know the Democrats as well. He had initially crisscrossed the country, dropping in on each of the targeted districts. Unlike with Kelly, he sought out and recruited top-notch candidates. Raised money to help them. Jetted back to their districts to rally the troops. Orchestrated early attack ads, followed by really nasty mail. All much worse than what he had done against Kelly.
It only made sense. How often do you get a preview of the next election, district by district? If the Abacus plan was going to happen, he might as well position himself to take full credit, and gain full benefit.
Sure, Lee Kelly was a good guy, so he had treated him better than most. But the poor guy was going to lose Ohio’s Sixth District no matter what. So even there, Stanton needed to stop through at least twice to get any of the credit.
Chapter 33
LONDON: The day before the election
“We are in place in thirty-five districts. From those districts, we have identified the twenty-seven races that remain close today.”
On a cold, drizzly London morning, Liam Andersson briefed Kazarov on the next day’s plan.
On the large screen in front of them was a map of the United States. Thirty-five districts across the nation were highlighted in red. Twenty-seven of them had large, black checkmarks over them. Andersson pointed up at the map.
“Those will be our targets. Through our Abacus machines, we will eliminate the requisite number of votes over the course of the evening to secure close victories.”
Kazarov nodded in approval.
Andersson continued.
“As you would expect, there are a number of our districts where the targeted candidate looks to be far ahead. With our machines in place, we could opt to win those districts as well. But the amount of vote elimination required would increase the risk of detection.”
“And we don’t need those seats to win anyway,” Kazarov said.
“Exactly. Winning every district would raise alarms.”
“Have we hidden all evidence of what we are doing?”
“Yes, sir. The result tomorrow will, of course, be a surprise. But the districts are competitive enough statistically that there will not appear to be any irregularities. And because we control some counties in each district, we are able to spread the elimination of votes broadly enough that no county will see an extreme statistical shift in its voting pattern.”
“And the machines?”
“The modems allowing us to initiate the program in selected machines are impossible to detect. Outside of those, our machines look and operate exactly like Diebold’s. And like the test we ran in the primaries, the early votes have already shown that our strategy works perfectly. Less than 15 percent of the voters are noticing the missing mark on the paper receipt, and they immediately correct it. The remainder confirm the paper receipt that displays no Congressional vote, so the vote disappears.”
The wonders of engineering and patent theft. Kazarov paused for a few moments, then allowed a small grin.
“Plus, your friend Mr. Stanton has been an enormous help.”
“What do you mean?” Andersson asked. Focused solely on the Abacus operation, he had not been part of the Stanton surveillance operation.
“Having received a brief glimpse of the future, our esteemed politician has devoted the past year to campaigning with great passion in our districts. For his own political gain, he will eagerly take credit for our results. And we will happily let him take it.
“And how about our plan for after the election?” Kazarov asked.
“It is underway. We shou
ld be able to sell Abacus to another company within a few months, and move our employees out. Any buyer will likely replace our machines almost immediately. Their interest will be in acquiring our portfolio of locations.”
Stanton’s young researcher had demonstrated that anyone looking closely might deduce the role Abacus played in the election. So Kazarov had set two priorities: to conceal the scheme long enough to accomplish his legislative goals, and to eliminate any connection back to Marcellus.
As long as investigators didn’t discover who was behind the company, it would be impossible for them to rescind the one legislative decision that Kazarov valued.
“The crime may be discovered,” Kazarov insisted. “It is our fingerprints that must be hidden.”
Chapter 34
YOUNGSTOWN: 148 days after the election
It didn’t take long to pinpoint the exact Philly neighborhood where the Escape was parked: Society Hill.
Like Georgetown, it was famous for its cobblestone streets and eighteenth- and nineteenth-century row houses.
Helpfully, the angle of the photo and the house numbers further narrowed the location. Four parallel streets enjoyed that view of downtown Philadelphia at the point where the house numbers fell in the 1800 range.
Lombard Street, Pine Street, Delancey Street, and Spruce Street.
Like any county in America, the Philadelphia County Auditor’s website would provide the easiest way to find who lived at a precise street address. So I logged on and wrote down the name listed for every even-numbered house number between 1840 and 1860. The names wouldn’t mean anything, but at least they would provide a universe for further research. Who knows? Maybe Jody Kelly would recognize one of them.
Lombard Street: Smith, Burghard, Thomas, Avril, Marsh.
Pine Street: Jacoby, Kennedy, Mansfield, Gomez, Ahn.
Delancey Street: Wu, Merriman, Stanton, Porter, Jefferson.
Hold it.
1846 Delancey Street. Paul M. Stanton. Any relation to new Majority Leader and Pennsylvania Congressman Thomas Stanton?
Lee Kelly had been friendly with Stanton over the years, enough that when Kelly publicly lashed out after Stanton attacked him last year, I had written a story about it.
I quickly searched to affirm this was Stanton’s residence. Of course, Stanton would not officially live in central Philly. His district represented the suburbs. But politicians commonly keep a “district home,” where they are expected to have a residence, and their real home, where they actually live. Journalists stopped caring about this deceitful dichotomy years ago, and it rarely came up in campaigns because so many on both sides of the aisle did it.
Yep, Stanton had a son named Paul, and his full name matched the name of the owner of 1846 Delancey. A quick online search showed that Paul Stanton had left for school in Colorado years ago and never returned. Odds were good that Tom Stanton lived in this home when he wasn’t in Washington and kept it in his son’s name to hide that fact.
No big deal, except for the fact that Kelly had parked outside this secret home on the final afternoon of his life.
Chapter 35
WASHINGTON, DC: 146 days after the election
“That is the most ridiculous story I’ve seen in a long time,” Stanton said.
Young had forwarded the Youngstown Vindicator story to his boss, and Stanton called him right away.
“Yeah, but didn’t you visit them?” Young asked.
“Given this story, never mention that to me or anyone again, and erase the email you just sent,” Stanton shot back angrily. “All I saw was a small Philadelphia company trying to survive a tough time.”
Outside of Joanie Simpson, Stanton had never discussed Abacus with anyone else on his staff.
“Understood,” Young replied.
“In terms of response, it looks like Marshall is on top of this,” Stanton said. “Let’s let him take the lead.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Stanton hung up. He didn’t frazzle easily. He was on one hell of a winning streak. In addition to his high-profile legislative victories, visits to Iowa and New Hampshire were already building the presidential buzz.
But this story threatened to blow it all up.
Just as he had done the day after Simpson’s death and after the election, he racked his brain to ensure he had eliminated all connections to the Abacus plan. He had destroyed the hard copy of Simpson’s memo and erased the electronic file. No other copies of the written memo had ever emerged from her apartment or at her office desk. He even had erased the original Abacus visit from his official calendar.
No. Starting with Simpson herself, all connections between him and Abacus had been wiped away.
As the week played out, he was buoyed by the pushback Marshall and their Republican colleagues successfully mustered. It was all fading more rapidly than he expected.
He relaxed, looking forward to an Iowa City speech the next weekend.
* * *
Young burst through Stanton’s office door at 10:00 in the morning, the Thursday after the story broke.
“You’re not going to believe this, but the guy that broke the Abacus story just called our office,” Young said.
Stanton looked up from his desk, narrowing his eyes as he heard the bad news.
“Why does he want to talk to us? Did you tell him Marshall was leading on this?”
“We absolutely did, but he insisted on talking to you.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“He wouldn’t say. Only that he had some questions that only you could answer.”
“About Abacus?”
“He didn’t say it was about Abacus. But I’m not sure why else he would be calling.”
Stanton sat quietly for a few seconds. He remembered the reporter from a phone call in the fall. Seemed like a burnout, going through the motions like most reporters he had encountered over the age of fifty. He had actually been impressed that the same guy had shown the moxie to break the Abacus story.
“If we refuse, it may be worse. Tell him I have five minutes to talk. I’ll just deny everything anyway.”
* * *
Stanton’s chief of staff called back and patched me through.
“Good morning, Congressman. Thank you for taking my call.”
“You’re welcome. Now that you’re Bob Woodward, to what do I owe this call?”
“Let me cut right to the chase. You and Lee Kelly were friends for years, weren’t you?”
“We sure were. Such a tragedy what happened to him. Awful.”
“But you fought pretty hard to get him out of office?”
“We talked about this before, if I remember right. That’s my job. He knew it; I knew it.” Stanton said. “But he was a good man, we went back a long way, and I still can’t believe he’s gone. Can I ask why you are calling me asking about Lee Kelly?”
I had set up the entire interview for the next question—talk casually, get him comfortable, get a sense of how he answers basic, straightforward questions, and then, boom.
“Because I wanted to know why he was parked outside your Society Hill townhome only five hours before he died.”
The phone went quiet. For a long time.
“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I have acquired photographs of Lee Kelly’s Escape parked outside your Delancey Street townhouse the same day he died. What were you and he talking about when he stopped by?”
“Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He uttered the words slowly. Angrily.
“Do you deny that that’s your townhome on Delancey Street?”
“It’s my son’s, but I do stay there on occasion.” Smart answer. Stanton didn’t want to dig a deeper hole by lying when it was clear I already knew the answer. And technically,
his response was factual.
“True. I can’t imagine your son stays there often when he has a family and works in Colorado.”
Getting under the skin of a pro like Stanton was the best way to cause a rare misstep.
“Sharpe, if you’re going to write an imbecile story about how I sometimes stay in downtown Philly, be my guest. As for Kelly, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. And you can quote me on that.”
I didn’t back down.
“The day Kelly died, he drove to Philadelphia. His car was seen outside your Philly townhome that afternoon. At that time and afterward his wife was unable to reach him by phone. Now, you just admitted you were friends, and he told me the same last year. I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence that he was parked one door down from your home. You guys must have talked about something?”
“I’m done,” Stanton shot back. “I told you I have no idea what you’re talking about. Haven’t you already gotten enough grief for your cockamamie conspiracy theory about Abacus? And now you’re trying to suggest that I had something to do with the death of an old friend? Give me a break.”
“I wasn’t suggesting . . .”
My receiver clicked, and then sounded a solid dial tone.
I retraced the call in my head. Had Stanton let anything slip?
The congressman deftly admitted the one damaging fact I already knew. His tantrum at the end felt like a slight overreaction. Then again, I had intentionally pushed the man’s buttons. Come to think of it, Stanton’s little fit was the perfect excuse to get off the call as quickly as possible.
This guy was a pro.
Chapter 36
YOUNGSTOWN: 150 days after the election
I received my share of death threats over the years. Covering corruption will do that. But they had never amounted to anything. So the threats that came after the Abacus story didn’t bother me.