The People's House

by David Pepper

  “At about 10:45, he made a call to a 202 area code where it looks like he had a twelve-minute call. Then in the early afternoon, he made two calls. Both about two minutes long. One was to Youngstown at 12:28. I assume that was to you.”

  She read the number.

  “Yep. That’s my office line. And the other call?”

  “The other was to a 215 number. He called that number about 30 minutes after his call to you—at 1:05—again, lasting about two minutes. That was the last call he made.”

  Philadelphia area code.

  “Can you give me that full number?”

  “Sure.” She read the ten digits. Sitting on the side of the motel bed, I scribbled them down on a Hampton Inn notepad.

  “Thanks so much. I’ll keep you posted.”

  As I settled down, I flipped on the television set. The volume was off, but I scrolled through the channels.

  And there she was. Channel 34. Republic. My new favorite channel.

  Barbie, my ex-wife, talked into the camera. The caption beneath was not subtle: “Reporter’s ex: ‘You can’t trust him.’” I started to turn up the volume to hear what she was saying, and then stopped.

  Don’t take the bait. Don’t get distracted. Just finish the story.

  I turned the TV off and fell into a deep sleep a few minutes later.

  Chapter 41

  PENNSYLVANIA: 90 days after the election

  When Lee Kelly came to, he was still in the car, looking directly ahead through the windshield. He coughed twice, some type of pungent chemical burning his nose. Unlike before, it was dark out.

  Must’ve been out a few hours.

  As he gathered his bearings and gained focus, three horrific realities set in. He still sat in the driver’s seat, but his Escape was speeding up at an outrageous rate. His right foot was on the accelerator, but as he tried to remove it, he found that both his foot and the pedal were bound to the floor. And his hands were tied, with some type of thin twine, to the steering wheel, which also was locked in place, directing the SUV straight ahead.

  The digital speedometer indicated 45 miles per hour. Then 50, 55, 60. He jerked his arms and right leg frantically, trying to free them, but to no avail.

  He next smelled the strong stench of gasoline throughout the vehicle. Even felt damp himself.

  Bang!

  From his left, a smaller car smashed into the driver’s side of the Escape. Not too hard a collision, but enough to jolt his direction twenty degrees to the right. As the Escape veered, it continued speeding up. With the wheel stuck, Kelly was helpless as he shot diagonally across several lanes of highway.

  The speedometer topped out at 87 when he flew off the road.

  The Escape jostled violently as it tore through the guardrail and over a strip of high grass. Just behind the grass, amid the darkness, Kelly first made out the silhouette of a row of tall, wide trees. Five seconds later, he spotted the broad base of an enormous oak tree about fifteen feet in front of him and closing quickly.

  The long grass slowed the Escape slightly. But not enough. The speedometer still showed 78.

  Too fast.

  Too late.

  Kelly didn’t utter a sound.

  Chapter 42

  WASHINGTON, DC: 155 days after the election

  Driving down Connecticut Avenue from my Maryland hotel, I weaved among a wave of fancy cars from the million-dollar Maryland suburbs. High-priced lawyers, lobbyists, and consultants, all rushing to get back to the government that fueled their lucrative practices.

  Once in the District, I passed neighborhoods and streets teeming with young professionals. Jogging, walking dogs of all sizes, entering the subway, and sitting outside of coffee shops catching up before the day began.

  These were the worker bees of D.C.—crammed in apartments, or in large houses they rented together—who staffed the lobbyists and the government decision makers. Ironically, in their first and second jobs out of college, thrilled to graduate from unpaid intern status, many of these kids performed the research and made the recommendations that led to the riches that their older, out-of-District neighbors enjoyed.

  Only in the uniquely dysfunctional routine of the nation’s capital. Millionaire K Street lobbyists huddle with recent college grads in the august halls of Congress as the lawmakers themselves sit separately in dreary call centers dialing for dollars back home.

  Then came Simpson’s old playground, Woodley Park, with the famous Uptown Theater to my right and the Washington Zoo entrance to my left. I passed a string of restaurants and then crossed an ornate bridge high above Rock Creek Parkway. Joggers and bikers scurried far below, only a mile or so from the very spot where Joanie Simpson died.

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a parking space within a half mile of the Capitol and walked to the House entrance.

  It was my first time there in years. I showed my Vindicator ID to security, who in turn handed me a press badge. Nothing beeped in the metal detector—sometimes the metal plate in my bad arm set those off. I then climbed a flight of stairs and followed several long hallways to the speaker and majority leader’s adjoining suites. I wore my fanciest shoes that morning, so each long stride echoed as the hard soles struck the marble floor.

  A long row of portraits welcomed guests to the House leadership suites. Sandra Williams, Paul Ryan, John Boehner, Nancy Pelosi, Dennis Hastert, Newt Gingrich, Tom DeLay, Jim Wright, Tom Foley, and a few others in color, followed by many more white men in black and white. Amazing how many ended their tenure in disgrace or fell into it later. Regardless, their photos stayed forever.

  A door on the left entered into the speaker’s suite. The one on the right, the majority leader’s.

  I opened the leader’s door and entered a waiting room. A young woman at a reception desk, so young she may have been a college intern, smiled up at me.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I would like to meet with Chief of Staff Don Young. Is he here yet?”

  “He normally gets here around ten till. Please grab a seat. Who can I say is here?”

  “Jack Sharpe of the Youngstown Vindicator. He’ll know who I am.”

  I sat down and waited, reviewing my carefully prepared manila folder one last time. Re-checked my phone.

  Working over the chief of staff provided the best pathway in, but would be difficult. Politicians love being in the news, but the smart ones know that the adage “all press is good press” is nonsense. This interview would bring all risk, no reward for the congressman—a no-brainer to decline.

  I’d have to play it just right to flip that equation on its head. And would only have a minute or two to do it.

  * * *

  Five minutes after 9:00, the door opened.

  “Mr. Sharpe, I’m Don Young, the congressman’s chief of staff. How can we help you?”

  Short little guy, bald, Young didn’t smile at all. His assignment was to get rid of me as quickly as possible, and it showed.

  “Is the congressman in today?”

  I already knew the answer, having confirmed before leaving Youngstown that Congress was in session. Stanton would have to be there, at least during the day.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Here we go.

  “This is a public office and a public body that Mr. Stanton leads. His schedule is not a state secret.”

  Already taller than this pipsqueak by a good eight inches, I stretched my 6’2” frame as vertically as I could to intimidate him. But he simply looked up. No response, no expression.

  “The House is in session today. I can’t imagine he’s not in Washington, and I would like to talk to him for twenty minutes.”

  “Let’s save us both some time. You will not have an opportunity to meet with or interview the congressman today, or any day.”

  “But he is
here.” More of a statement than a question.

  Young just stared. So I did the same back. He finally broke the silence.

  “Mr. Sharpe, haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough as it is? The shaky story. The outlandish accusations against the congressman. Your personal baggage.”

  “I’m sure you were stunned by those stories, Don.” I couldn’t help myself. No doubt Stanton’s office instigated the mudslinging behind the scenes.

  But then I laughed. The jab by Young opened the door, so I went for the kill.

  “If you want to talk about baggage, let me bring up a whole crate full of baggage.”

  I said it loudly, and then laughed again, making the conversation as uncomfortable as possible with young staff nearby.

  “I have evidence that Mr. Stanton was engaged in a sexual relationship with Joanie Simpson before she died, and that it took place for her entire time as an employee. We are prepared to print a story on this scandal, but it’s up to you.”

  As I said this, I raised my hand to chest level, displaying the manila folder. Then I went silent for a few seconds. Let the choice sink in.

  “Although we know people are eager to read it, that type of scurrilous behavior is not what I want to write about. And I’m sure it would hurt your boss’ presidential campaign. I’d rather talk to him about more important matters. But again, it’s up to you.”

  It worked perfectly.

  As Young heard the first several sentences, then stared at the folder, his eyes widened, eyebrows raised, and his mouth trembled, all subtly but enough to notice. Told me everything. Young didn’t simply fear the allegation of scandal. He knew it to be true.

  “Mr. Sharpe, there you go again. This is ridiculous.”

  The higher pitch in his voice belied the confidence of his words.

  “You go tell your boss what I just told you. Come back, and we can proceed. Again, it’s up to you.”

  Young looked at me, considering my offer. A lot rode on this decision, for him, and for Stanton. Merely consulting with Stanton would signal that I was on firm ground. But letting a reporter walk away without the boss weighing in also presented a huge risk, and not his to take alone.

  A few more seconds passed.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Six minutes later, the door opened again. Young leaned his head through.

  “Mr. Sharpe, the congressman will speak with you. Come on back.”

  Round one was mine.

  * * *

  We walked through the entire length of the office. Except for its size, pretty standard. Young men and women sat at their desks, typing away on their computers. Several talked on the phone. Iconic photos of Philadelphia all over the walls, along with maps of the district. Assorted Phillies and Eagles paraphernalia. And photos of Stanton with the last three presidents along with numerous foreign leaders.

  It was all so predictable I almost missed the one authentic element in the whole office.

  As soon as I saw it, on the far wall to my left, I stopped. It was a large framed photo of Joanie Simpson. The white matting between the photo and the frame was filled with handwritten messages: “We miss you,” “We love you,” and the like. I stared at her for a good ten seconds. Wonder what Stanton thought every day when he walked past this humble memorial? Seeing the stunning smile that he had never witnessed in person. Hope it pained him.

  At the back of the suite, we walked past a desk and workstation, where an African-American woman in her late fifties or early sixties looked up at me for a moment, then quickly looked back down. Wonder what she knew about her boss’ harassment of a young staffer? As the sentry posted right outside his office, probably far too much to have said nothing for three years.

  We then walked through an open door into a spacious office. Seated behind a large desk at the other side of the room, facing the door, was Stanton himself. As I entered, Young hung back a few feet and closed the door.

  Awards, photos with presidents and foreign leaders, and framed newspaper articles adorned most of the bookshelf behind the majority leader. To Stanton’s left, at about his shoulder level, sat a framed photo of the congressman and his wife. To his right was another photo, this one of his all-American family on a beach somewhere. Happy husband and wife bookended by two proud sons and a daughter. The first lie of the interview.

  Stanton didn’t budge from his seat.

  “What the fuck is your problem?”

  Confidence and attitude offer the best response to a politician in a bullying mood. Strength moves them and projecting that strength gets their attention. So that’s what I threw back at him.

  “What’s my problem? My problem is that I’m trying to get to the bottom of this Abacus scandal, and people seem to be doing all they can to discredit me in the process. Makes me think I must be onto something really big.”

  I chuckled as I said this. Wanted Stanton to know I was enjoying the moment. That I could give a shit if he was mad—in a town of ass-kissers to power, something he would rarely experience.

  “Congressman, let’s go off the record for a few minutes. But I’m going to take a few notes if you don’t mind.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The aggressive reply worked. Stanton eased back in his chair and motioned for me to sit down as well. Young sat to my right, facing us both. I took out my reporter’s notebook and my new Hampton Inn pen.

  “We know about your inappropriate relationship with Joanie Simpson. It went on for years, until the day she died. You covered it up well for it to not come out after she was killed.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Stanton said. I wouldn’t be sitting there if it was ridiculous, but Stanton felt the need to at least mouth the denial.

  I waved off his comment.

  “We don’t have an interest in covering the relationship, as inappropriate and unseemly as it was. And we have no interest in reporting on any other inappropriate harassment that took place here . . .”

  Despite looking as serious as I could, I was greatly enjoying this.

  “. . . but we want to dive deeper into the Abacus scandal, and hope you might help us.”

  I smiled. As direct an offer of journalistic blackmail as I had made in my career.

  “I told you, the first I heard about Abacus was what I read in your story.”

  “But you’ve received checks from them in the past?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course, they’re a Philadelphia company, so I know them. I meant the first I heard of your conspiracy theory that Abacus fixed votes across the country.”

  “I see. So you never had any idea about what Abacus was up to before my story?”

  “For the record, I don’t think Abacus was up to anything. But the theory that they were? Never. What nut would dream that up?”

  “Well, your star researcher—the one you were sleeping with until the day she was beaten to death, the one smiling on your wall out there—sure seemed to know a lot about it. Did you?”

  Pay dirt.

  Even Stanton’s poker face could not mask his alarm at this one-two punch—a bombshell fact followed by a painfully direct question. His neck jerked back an inch, while his eyes widened.

  “Excuse me?” was the best the stunned congressman could muster.

  “Joanie Simpson knew all about Abacus. She figured the whole plot out a year in advance.”

  I let the sentence hang out there. Seconds passed. Stanton stared back as if studying my face intensely enough might coax out what else I knew.

  “Now how would you even know such a thing?”

  He uttered each word slowly. Clearly trying to regain his composure.

  Wrong question.

  “I have a memo she wrote to you, at most a few weeks before she died, walking through the whole thing. I’m happy to refresh your recollection of it.”


  Stanton’s look of dread returned. Even more exposed than before. This was quickly becoming my favorite interview in years.

  For the first time, Young also looked worried. He simply stared at the floor.

  “Not sure what shit you’re peddling. I have no idea what a junior researcher would be dreaming up in her spare time. We certainly never discussed or reviewed anything from her about Abacus.”

  “Do you want to see the memo I have?”

  A trap question.

  If he had never seen the memo before, “no” was the wrong answer. Of course, he’d be curious. But saying “yes” presented its own challenge—minutes of play-acting the role of the surprised reader.

  “Sure, I’ll take a look at it,” Stanton replied, but said as if he had just agreed to let me punch him in the face.

  As I pulled the memo from my manila folder, Stanton glanced directly at the folder itself. He could see other materials were inside. Like a lawyer conducting cross-examination, my hope was to leave him wondering what else I had. How much I knew.

  I handed him the memo, and Stanton leafed through it. He performed well. Whatever was going through his mind, his eyes and expression made it appear that this was his first look at the memo.

  “It looks like this is some sort of draft. All these corrections still to be made. That probably explains why I never saw it. She must’ve died before completing it.”

  “Looks like she was down to her final edits and it was a couple weeks prior to her death. Are you sure you never saw it?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Why do you think she started researching this in the first place? How would she have known to look into Abacus?”

  “I have no idea. She was a curious person. Who knows?”

  “What do you think of what she’s written there?”

  “Seems about as off the wall as your story, to tell you the truth. She was a great researcher, but her intensity could get the best of her at times.”