by Ralph Reed
The question landed like a howitzer. “I think that’s an exaggeration.”
“Really?” asked the prosecutor, feigning surprise. “I just went through every position he held for more than a dozen years, and you appointed him to every one of them. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but I appointed a lot of people. Very few excelled on the level Mike did.”
“Indeed,” said the prosecutor. “His net worth at the time of his indictment was eighteen million dollars. Not bad for someone with an unselfish commitment to public service who had little personal wealth at the time he came to work for you.”
“Objection!” shouted the defense counsel. “Counsel is leading the witness.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
The prosecutor stared at Stanley more in pity than anger. “No further questions,” he said.
OUTSIDE THE COURTROOM, STANLEY STOOD before a mountain of microphones on a small podium, a phalanx of reporters gathered around. His attorney stood immediately behind him, a look of profound discomfort plastered on his face. The majority leader rejected the advice of his political advisors to avoid the media. He didn’t want to look like he was hiding.
“Senator, how do you think it went?” shouted CNN.
“Well,” said Stanley, his face drained of color, his lips pressed together. “I was glad to be able to testify on Mike Kaplan’s behalf. I believe he’s an innocent man.”
“How do you think this will impact your reelection campaign?” asked Politico.
“I don’t know. Sometimes you have to do the right thing, regardless of whether it helps or hurts you politically. This was the right thing to do.”
“Without being critical of Mr. Kaplan, surely you would admit you would have preferred not to be here today?” asked AP.
“Unlike a lot of people in this town, I’m not a fair-weather friend,” said Stanley, his chin raised defiantly. “Mike Kaplan is my friend. I will not turn my back on him.”
Within minutes the headline rifled across news Web sites, “Stanley: I Won’t Turn My Back on Mike Kaplan.” There was little surprise when a few days later a poll conducted by a consortium of newspapers in New Jersey showed Stanley trailing Kerry Cartwright by four points. The Dele-gate scandal and the Kaplan trial were an albatross around the majority leader’s neck, and a growing chorus of chatterers in DC doubted he could survive.
IN THE PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE in the Palazzo Chigi, just off the Piazza Colonna in the heart of Rome, Lorenzo Brodi and Bob Long sat in thronelike chairs, flanked by translators. In diplomatic-speak, their visit was the first “bilateral” of the European Union conference, an honor accorded to Brodi as the head of state of the host country.
Renaissance frescos and decorative stuccos depicting biblical scenes on the ceiling and walls gave their encounter an almost sacred ambience. Staff lined the wall, among them Jay, Lisa Robinson, and Truman Greenglass. Ironically, it was Jay’s first visit to the prime minister’s office since he engineered Brodi’s victory the previous summer. He gazed at the frescoes, impressed by the palace that resembled an Italian Versailles. It was quite a rush watching two of his winning clients plotting the future of the planet. It was a long way from running state legislative races in the San Fernando Valley, which is how he began his career.
“Thank you for letting me borrow the brain,” joked Brodi. “Isn’t that his nickname?”
“We call him something else,” volleyed Long, lips curled. “It can’t be printed in a family newspaper.” He shot Jay a mirthful look. “I hope he didn’t charge you as much as he did me.”
“I paid in euros, so I came out ahead,” said Brodi, flashing his white teeth.
“I don’t comment on currency exchange rates,” laughed Long.
Jay shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew Long didn’t like it when he got too much glory or publicity.
“Lorenzo, I need your help on the Iran sanctions package,” said Long, shifting gears, reaching across to place his hand on Brodi’s broad shoulder. “We’re going to have to drag the Russians and the Spanish to the water. I’ve always been there for you. I need you on this one.” It was a veiled reference to the CIA’s role in Brodi’s election. He paused as the translator spoke in Italian, his eyes locked on Brodi’s.
When the translator finished, Brodi’s eyes flashed with recognition. “Mr. President, you have my support. We sent troops to Iraq and Afghanistan. We lost men on the battlefield in the struggle with terrorism. Italy will be there. We must not allow Iran to gain nuclear weapons.”
Long’s face broke into a wide smile. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Lorenzo.” He glanced at Greenglass, looking for stage directions. “What about the Spanish?”
“We will push them,” said Brodi. “We will push the other EU members. We must present a united front. Anything short of that will be seen as weakness by the Iranians.”
“Time’s running out,” said Long.
“What do you think the prospects are the sanctions will work?” pressed Brodi.
Long’s face grew somber. “Fifty-fifty.”
“I was hoping you’d say better than that.”
Long sighed in frustration. “The only thing left are bad options and worse options,” he said. “Our intelligence says we’ve got six to nine months. After that, who knows?”
Brodi leaned forward, his black eyes intense. “I’m with you until Salami is gone or Iran is disarmed, Mr. President.” They rose and shook hands. Brodi pointed to the paintings surrounding them. “This was once Mussolini’s office,” he said proudly. “He survived an assassination attempt in this very room. He delivered speeches from the balcony.”
“I wouldn’t mind giving a speech off that balcony myself, but the media in my country already thinks I’m Il Duce,” joked Long. They both enjoyed a laugh as official photographers snapped photos. The advance staff and Lisa Robinson moved in to choreograph a joint news conference with the Italian and U.S. press.
Brodi walked over to Jay and pulled him close, clasping his hand. “Look what you got me into,” he said.
“It’s better than the alternative, sir,” fired back Jay.
“What’s that?”
“Losing.”
Brodi laughed. “Have fun while you’re back in Rome,” he said with a wink.
“I’ll do my best.” During the meeting he had been texting Gabriella Felissi, the fetching wine goddess who was his flame during the Brodi campaign, but she had not responded.
“Let me know if you need any help,” said Brodi. He was notorious for his retinue of exotic dancers, singers, models, and aspiring actresses known collectively as “Brodi’s bimbos.”
“I think I can handle it,” said Jay.
Brodi spun on his heel and slid to Long’s side as they left the room to face the press. It was then Jay noticed his old CIA handler standing in the corner. Their eyes locked. The CIA handler turned to leave, heading down the hallway of the prime minister’s suite. It was the first time Jay had seen him since the Agency dispatched him to Israel on a government jet to advise Hannah Shoval’s campaign. Jay decided it was unwise to greet him.
At that instant a text message came in from Gabriella. “Hey, babe. R u in town? Can we get together or r u too busy?”
Jay felt his heart skip a beat. “Sure. Drinks or din din?”
“Mmmm,” came her reply.
Jay texted, “1. Save Western civilization. 2. Hook up with Gabby.”
“Not sure about the order . . . but I’m impressed,” Gabriella texted back.
Jay smiled. Truman Greenglass walked over. “What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing,” lied Jay. “Just an e-mail from a friend.”
ED DOWDY WAS A BOTTOM-DWELLER among lawyers, specializing in those who lost at love and life: divorces, DUIs, and debtors. But Dowdy did not pine away in anonymity. A few years earlier, he read about a female Hill staffer who had an affair with a U.S. senator. On a lark, he cold-called her. The sexual harassmen
t suit he filed against the senator fizzled, but a small fortune followed as he negotiated a book deal and reality TV show contract for the woman. He now represented Jillian Ann Singer, the former CEO of Adult Alternatives.
Dowdy sat with his feet on his desk, chewing on an unlit cigar. “Ed Dowdy. D-O-W-D-Y,” he said smoothly into the telephone receiver. “Tell Mr. Myers I represent Ms. Singer.”
Marvin Myers came on the line, his voice singsong. “Mr. Dowdy, what can I do for you?”
“It’s not what you can do for me,” said Dowdy. “It’s what I can do for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Mr. Myers—”
“Please, call me Marvin.”
“Alright. Marvin, as you know, Ms. Singer founded Adult Alternatives, LLC, and was CEO for seventeen years. It specialized in providing legal entertainment for consenting adults. It is not a prostitution ring.”
“I know who Ms. Singer is, believe me. How could I not?”
“Ms. Singer is a very savvy businesswoman. She’s made millions, frankly. But her business has been destroyed by the publicity surrounding Perry Miller’s death, even though neither she nor her employees had anything to do with it,” said Dowdy, in full sales pitch mode. “Once the FBI determined a terrorist murdered Miller, that should have ended the investigation. But prosecutors are threatening Jillian Ann with jail time.”
“I sympathize with your client, Mr. Dowdy, but I don’t know if this merits a column,” said Myers, swatting away the pitch.
“I agree. It merits several columns.”
“How so?”
“We are prepared to provide you with the complete client list for Adult Alternatives . . . for consideration, of course,” said Dowdy. “This will be one of the biggest stories of the decade.”
“I’m interested,” said Myers, intrigued and repelled at the same time. “If it appeared in my column first, it would certainly guarantee prominent coverage.”
“That’s why I called you first.”
“I’m afraid we have a challenge.”
“What’s that?” asked Dowdy, sounding disappointed.
“I have a policy against paying my sources,” said Myers. “I think that works in your favor. There are plenty of other ways for your client to realize monetary benefits without me compensating her.” His brain shifted into overdrive. “Book deals, magazine exclusives—there are a lot of options. Lots.”
“I respect that, Marvin, I really do. But Jillian Ann’s ability to support herself in the short terms is ruined. I have to look out for her interests. I hope you understand.”
“Certainly,” said Myers. “Does she have a literary agent?”
“Not yet. That’s on our to-do list.”
“I could help . . . if you wanted. I’m good friends with Bob Simms.” Myers could almost hear Dowdy’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Simms was the biggest literary agent in New York for political authors, steering a long string of presidents, pols, and cabinet officials to mid-six and seven-figure contracts.
“I’d be deeply grateful for an introduction,” said Dowdy.
“Sure,” said Myers. “Happy to.” Having gained the upper hand, he moved in for the kill. “Why don’t you, me, and Ms. Singer meet for lunch and discuss this further?”
“You bet,” said Dowdy. They penciled in a date for the next day. Hanging up the phone, Dowdy put the unlit cigar between his teeth and smiled. If he could negotiate a print and broadcast exclusive with Myers (hopefully for six figures) and get Singer a book and a movie deal, he’d be in tall cotton.
29
Gabriella walked into the lobby of the Hotel Hassler looking purple-licious in a black bustier and purple-striped Dior skirt, volleyball player legs seeming to extend forever to Ferragamo heels, brown hair flowing to sun-kissed, bare shoulders. She blithely ignored male gazes that followed her as she headed for the bar. Preternaturally confident and alluring, she slid to a table in the back where Jay sat alone, sipping an espresso.
When Jay caught sight of her, a thought hit him: did she wear this killer outfit for him? Or was it just his imagination? He hoped for the former but feared the latter. They embraced, pecking cheeks. She looked down at his coffee and frowned. “Espresso?” she asked disapprovingly. “What, no wine?”
“Jet lag,” said Jay. “I’m running on caffeine.”
A waiter appeared. “Ms. Felissi, what can I get you?”
“Mmmmmmm,” she said, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. “Bring me a bottle of the ’99 Reserve.”
“Two glasses?” asked the waiter.
“Yes, and a decanter. I want it to breathe.” She talked with her hands in a characteristically Italian way, making a shape of a decanter with her fingers and then twirling her hand under her nose. The waiter nodded and departed.
Jay grinned admiringly, shaking his head.
“What?” asked Gabriella.
“I forgot you own any room you walk into,” said Jay. He downed the espresso. “I missed you, darn it!”
“You have no one to blame but yourself,” fired back Gabriella with a regretful lilt in her voice. “You’re the one who left.”
“Because the president asked me to.”
“Don’t spin me, lover. You had a choice.”
Jay threw his head back and laughed. “So you outrank the president of the United States? That’s your story?”
“Who’s better, me or him?” she asked with a wicked grin.
“At what?”
“You know what.”
“Gabby, we had a Supreme Court confirmation going south,” said Jay. “We’re about to go to war with Iran. And on top of all that, the midterm elections are in seventy-two days, and we have to win control of the U.S. Senate.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Jay in a rare moment of candor. “We’ve got good candidates. We’ve spread the field. We’ve got Sal Stanley, the Senate Majority Leader, playing defense.” He shrugged. “We have a shot.”
“Don’t be so modest. You’ll win.”
“Speaking of winning, how’s Brodi doing?”
“Well, let’s see,” said Gabriella sarcastically. “His trade minister is about to get indicted for taking bribes from companies in exchange for trade missions. His legislative agenda is dead on arrival. His latest round of plastic surgery was botched, making him look eternally surprised, and he got caught cheating with an underage actress who once did a porno.” She made quotation marks with her fingers when she said “actress,” giggling. “Other than that, he’s doing great!”
“Ouch!” exclaimed Jay. “That’s worse than I feared.” He noticed the Tuscan sun had bronzed Gabriella’s shoulders and chest, giving her skin a bronze glow. Freckles flecked her nose, which he found endlessly attractive. A rush of memories flooded his mind: sipping wine on the terrace at the Hassler watching the sun set over St. Peter’s, a lazy afternoon spent at Ufizzi gallery in Florence, a midnight swim under a full moon at the Felissi family villa in Carmignana. Why, he wondered, had he ever left?
“You elected him, baby,” said Gabriella.
“Yeah, well, the other guy was a fascist.”
The wine steward approached with the bottle, presenting the label to Gabriella, who glanced at it and nodded approvingly. He methodically inserted the corkscrew, pulled out the cork, opened the bottle, and poured a small amount into a glass. Gabriella twirled it in the glass, lowered her nose to inhale the aroma, and nodded again. The steward poured the bottle into the decanter and left.
“I haven’t had a bottle of your wine since I was in Italy,” said Jay.
“But you took five cases home with you.”
“I know. I’m saving them for a special occasion.”
“Like what?”
“A visit from you.”
Gabriella blushed. “I want to come. But I’ve been so busy with business.”
Jay reached over for the decanter and poured wine into their glas
ses. He picked up his glass, clinking it with Gabriella’s. “After the election,” he said, raising his glass. “I’ll come to Italy or you come to DC. Deal?”
“It’s a deal.”
After two days with virtually no sleep and an eight-hour flight across the Atlantic, the wine hit Jay’s bloodstream like grape moonshine. He felt light-headed. “Boy, I forgot how good your wine really was.”
“And what about me?” asked Gabriella, leaning forward. Jay felt her shoeless toes tickling the back of his calf. “Did you forget how good I was?”
“No,” Jay heard himself say. Their eyes locked as they drank.
Jay knew Gabriella wasn’t real. Her world was artificial, a world of five-star resorts, house servants and cooks, private jets, good food, great wine, . . . and . . . she was an escape from the take-no-prisoners, smash-mouth politics that was his life. He might hook up with Gabriella for a night of romance, but then he’d be back on Air Force One with Long heading back to the political wars. But as he took another long sip of Brunello, he decided to worry about that tomorrow.
MARVIN MYERS HELD COURT IN a private dining room at Tosca Ristorante, the power lunch spot for the K Street crowd in downtown DC, joined by Jillian Ann Singer and Ed Dowdy. Given the speculation rocketing around town about Dowdy shopping the client list, it was a dangerous time to be seen in public. Taking extra precautions, they arrived separately before the lunch crowd. Singer hid her face behind a scarf and large designer sunglasses.
“So tell me, Ms. Singer, have you been interviewed by the FBI?” asked Myers as he took a bite of mushroom risotto. “If you don’t want to answer, I understand.”
“I don’t mind,” said Singer. “They interviewed me the day after they found Perry Miller’s body.” Myers noticed the puffiness of Singer’s skin. Black roots were visible beneath a mountain of bleached blond hair. A life spent in illicit pleasure had taken its toll, but underneath, like the bright colors in a master’s painting obscured by years of smoke and dirt, she still possessed a smoldering beauty.
“That happened before I was representing Jillian,” said Dowdy in self-congratulation, his face glistening with summer sweat. “They’re getting nothing from her now, I assure you.”