by Ralph Reed
“Good. But as long as I can review the documents and e-mails, and we can do a murder board, I’m really not worried.”
Shapiro and Battaglia exchanged worried glances. “We can agree to that,” said Walt. “But it gives them what they want.”
“The money shot,” said Jay.
“Correct,” said Shapiro.
Jay frowned as they sat in silence. Finally, he stood up and began to pace the room in a highly agitated state. “To hell with ’em!” he shouted, throwing up his arms. “Give ’em the money shot. I’ll ram it right down their throats.” He wheeled to face them, placing his hands on the table, his face animated. “Let me tell you something, Stanley’s going to rue the day he called me to testify.”
“Alright,” said Battaglia. “We’ll agree to sworn testimony. You okay with that, Walt?”
“Not entirely, but it’s Jay’s call.”
“Alright,” said Battaglia, reviewing his notes on a legal pad. “We’ve gone back and forth on the parameters of the questions the senators can ask. Our waiver of executive privilege will be limited. We’re only agreeing to have you answer questions about communications you had with Treasury and IRS.”
“What are they asking for?”
“They want access to any communications between you and anyone at any agency or cabinet department.”
“Forget that,” said Jay dismissively.
“If we agree Jay will testify under oath, I assume we can hang tough on other issues, including the parameters of which questions will be allowed,” said Shapiro.
“Yes,” said Battaglia. “That’s from on high.” He pointed in the direction of the Oval.
“What if a member of the committee just ignores the agreement?” asked Jay. “What do I do . . . refuse to answer?”
“That’s what Walt’s there for,” replied Battaglia.
Shapiro smiled like a Cheshire cat. “We have ways of dealing with such transgressions.”
“We should get Republican senators teed up to object,” said Jay.
“Sure. We can have leg affairs handle that,” said Battaglia, making notes.
“When is this going to happen?” asked Jay.
“We haven’t finalized negotiations, but my guess is a week or ten days.”
Jay nodded. “I’ll be ready. And I may have a few allies out there with big audiences who may have something to say around that time as well.” He winked.
“I have no doubt,” said Battaglia with a smile. “Can you spell, S-T-A-N-T-O-N?”
As the meeting broke up, Shapiro turned to Jay. “You got a minute?” he asked.
“Sure,” Jay replied. They walked down the hall, through the West Wing lobby, and up the narrow stairwell leading to Jay’s office. Once inside, Shapiro closed the door.
Shapiro’s eyes bore into Jay, lids hooded. “Do you remember ever meeting a woman named Samah Panzarella?”
Jay felt his stomach flip. “Why?”
“I got a call from her attorney. She claims you had sex with her in LA a few months ago. Seems she’s pregnant.”
“Oh, is that all?” replied Jay.
Shapiro did not flash a smile. “Between us, did you sleep with her?”
“This is protected by attorney-client privilege, right?” asked Jay.
“Yes. Anything you say to me is privileged,” replied Shapiro.
“Okay,” said Jay, with a sigh. “I met her at a party in LA when I was hanging out with Satcha Sanchez. I was there for a fund-raiser with the president. Layla—that’s her nickname—and I had a few drinks. We danced. A few months ago I went out to do a fund-raiser in Orange County and I texted her. We met for drinks at the Chateau Mamont and then to a club.”
“I don’t hear an answer to my question,” said Shapiro, his eyes piercing.
“We fooled around, made out, that kind of thing,” said Jay. “But I didn’t have sex with her. There was no intercourse. At least not that I recall. Of course, I did have a lot to drink.”
“It would seem to me you’d remember that.”
“I would sure think so.”
“Well, it’s not good,” said Shapiro with a heavy sigh. “Her attorney wants a DNA test and is threatening a paternity suit.”
“It’s a shakedown,” said Jay. “They know I can’t have the negative publicity, so they’re looking for a pay day.” He scrunched up his face, deep in thought. “Should I call Satcha and see if she can talk this chick down off the ledge? She’s her friend.”
“I don’t recommend that,” said Shapiro. “I’ll write her attorney a letter, tell him you have no such recollection. Then let’s see what happens.”
“Alright,” said Jay, his face drained of color, looking like he had been hit by a bus. “If this comes out before I testify, it’ll be very bad.”
“You lead an interesting life,” said Shapiro.
“Tell me about it.” He stared at the wall, shell-shocked. “What do we do if you can’t back this guy off the plate? He could go to People magazine . . . or worse.”
“We’re not going to be passive in dealing with her,” replied Shapiro. “We’ll threaten her with a libel suit if she goes public with knowingly false charges. And you can offer to take a DNA test. That’ll call their bluff.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Jay. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. There are two words you never want in the same sentence: your name and DNA.”
“You might want to party less when you’re in California,” dead-panned Shapiro.
Jay walked Shapiro to the stairwell and watched him descend the stairs to the lobby. As he staggered back to his office, his head spinning, his assistant said something about a conference call waiting, but he couldn’t make out the exact words. His mind raced. He hoped Shapiro could work his magic. If not, he was about to go into the barrel with a box of razor blades—and the president was going to be royally ticked.
31
The senators stood in front of a podium covered with microphones outside the Senate Majority Leader’s office, faces hardened, lips pressed. The press gathered round feigning interest, exchanging knowing smirks. Everyone knew the news conference was going to be a clubbing, and Jay Noble was the piñata.
Sal Stanley stepped to the microphone as his colleagues jockeyed for position behind him, craning their necks to get in camera range. Television lights illuminated them, causing tourists to gather.
“Today I have sent a letter to Attorney General Keith Golden signed by forty-one senators calling on him to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate whether Jay Noble obstructed an IRS investigation of a political ally of the president,” said Stanley, his face stretched like putty. He held up the letter to a flurry of camera flashes. “These are serious charges. The Finance Committee’s investigation has revealed a level of corruption that is frankly shocking. Not since Richard Nixon was impeached in part for using the IRS to harass political enemies have we seen such an abuse of power.” He paused, his eyes intense. “Only an independent counsel can conduct a fair investigation of the White House’s politicization of the IRS free from any further hint of political manipulation.” He folded up his statement and placed it in his coat pocket. “Any questions?”
“Senator, the independent counsel statute expired years ago,” said Roll Call. “Why not just pass the statute and force the appointment of an independent counsel?”
“It’s a fair point,” said Stanley, raising his chin, projecting confidence. “But given Republican control of the House, passage of an IC statute is highly unlikely. This investigation needs to be conducted now.”
“But you haven’t even tried, Senator.”
“I’ll be sure to check in with Speaker Jimmerson to gauge his interest and report back to you,” Stanley deadpanned to chuckles.
“What do you say to those who claim you’re the one with serious ethical challenges, given the indictment of Michael Kaplan?” asked the Washington Post. “Your critics say basically people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw
stones.”
Stanley’s eyes shot darts. “That matter was investigated by a Republican Justice Department,” he said through clenched teeth. “A grand jury voted to bring an indictment, which is an accusation. Mike Kaplan deserves the same presumption of innocence any other citizen is granted under our laws. The charges related to Jay Noble are entirely different. The Long administration can’t investigate itself.”
“If I may briefly comment,” said Senator Craig McGowan, a notorious camera hog and Stanley stalwart, sliding to the podium. His jet-black hair and cherubic face projected earnestness mixed with shameless self-promotion. “I believe the charges against Mike Kaplan were a textbook case of the criminalization of political differences, but that is a debate for another day.” Stanley stood beside him, staring into space. “The charges against Jay Noble are contained in sworn testimony by three IRS employees about White House interference in an audit of a prominent supporter of the president. Let me be clear: if the president had knowledge of this, it is an impeachable offense. That is why Attorney General Golden should name an independent counsel, and he can do so without any additional authority by Congress. He has that authority now.”
The press largely ignored McGowan. He was windowdressing. They hungered for Stanley trying to take down Noble, who thwarted his presidential ambitions in the recent campaign and was even now trying to defeat him for reelection in New Jersey.
“Question for Senator Stanley,” said Politico. “What is the status of negotiations with the White House over the president’s waiving executive privilege and allowing Jay Noble to testify before the Finance Committee?”
Stanley stepped back to the podium. “We are hopeful those negotiations proceed and Mr. Noble appears before the committee,” said Stanley. “Previous presidents waived executive privilege in similar cases. Remember Condaleeza Rice, who was then national security advisor to President George W. Bush, testified before the 9/11 Commission. But because the allegations by Mr. von Fuggers were made under oath, Mr. Noble’s testimony must be sworn and take place in public. So we just don’t know what the White House will do.”
“If Jay Noble does appear,” asked Politico, “and he addresses these questions in a way the committee finds satisfactory, isn’t it possible an independent counsel is unnecessary?”
“In a word, no,” said Stanley. “I don’t anticipate that happening.” His colleagues smiled and the press contingent chuckled. The news conference over, Stanley headed back to his office, trailed by staff and the other senators.
“Do you think there’s any chance Golden takes the bait?” asked Leo Wells, the Democratic whip.
“I doubt it,” said Stanley, head down. “He’s on a short leash to the West Wing. Battaglia says, ‘jump,’ Golden asks, ‘how high?’”
Within minutes the New York Times posted an update on its Web site beneath the headline: “Senate Democrats Demand Special Counsel in Widening Investigation of Key White House Aide, Jay Noble.”
SENATOR KATE COVITZ TRIED TO reach her husband for two hours on his cell phone but got no answer. She was on her way to yet another fund-raiser, a reception for gay supporters at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. The fund-raisers were a blur now. Her husband was at their weekend place in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a two-bedroom cottage three blocks from the beach they purchased a decade earlier. She was scheduled to drive down from San Francisco after the fund-raiser and meet him for a late dinner at a favorite restaurant and a rare day off. She was looking forward to it.
Frank Covitz was a wealthy commercial real estate developer who helped finance his wife’s early campaigns for Congress. His $200 million fortune and controversial investments became an issue in this and other campaigns. An avid golfer, he loved the Monterey peninsula, was a member at Pebble Beach Golf Links, and he and Kate spent as many weekends there as their busy schedules allowed. He sent her a cryptic text message earlier in the day that read, “You’re the best. Miss you. Love to you and the children. Forgive me.” He had recently been the target of a hit piece in the LA Times, and was feeling down.
Unsettled, Kate tried to call him repeatedly. As they entered the lobby of the Mark Hopkins, she turned to her finance director, eyes fearful. “I can’t get in touch with Frank,” she said. Outwardly, she looked terrific, sheathed in a lavender St. John pantsuit, matching Stuart Weitzman heels, dark brown hair feathered to her shoulders.
“Really? That’s odd,” said her finance director. “Want me to try him?”
“No,” she said. “Call the Carmel police and ask them if they can run by the house.”
The finance director nodded stoically. Everyone on the campaign staff was used to what they called “Frank management.” She stepped into the corner of the lobby, out of earshot, to call the police while Covitz walked into a reception and click line for those who gave or raised at least $5,000.
Covitz kept her game face on, a frozen smile affixed and teeth bared, greeting donors and bundlers as if each was the only person in the room. After brief remarks, she went into a holding room before they headed upstairs for the large reception. She sat at a table with several glasses, a pitcher of water, and a plate of mints.
Her finance director entered the room and closed the door. “I got a call back from the Carmel police.”
“Did they find Frank?”
“No,” replied the finance director. “They went by the house and he wasn’t there. Or at least he didn’t answer.”
“He’s probably on the golf course,” she said. “I swear he’d play in the dark if they strung lights on the course.”
“I don’t think so. His car is in the driveway. So if he went somewhere, he must have walked.”
“Maybe he went with someone else,” said Covitz. “I’ll call Pebble Beach and see if they’ve seen him.” She scrolled through her BlackBerry for the number and dialed it. “Hello,” she said. “This is Kate Covitz. I’m trying to reach Frank. Have you seen him out there this afternoon?” She paused, listening to the answer. “I see,” she said, her facial expression disappointed. “Well, if he turns up, would you mind having someone call me, or have him call me?” She gave the person in the golf shop her phone number and hung up.
“Not there?” said the finance director.
“No,” said Covitz quietly. Her growing concern was palpable. But 150 donors were upstairs waiting for her to speak to them. She’d deal with it after the fund-raiser. “Let’s go upstairs,” she directed. “I’ll work the room, hit the marks, make brief remarks, and then I need to get down to Carmel.”
She and her finance director left the hold and headed for the elevator, which was held open by a campaign advance man. They rode silently up the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened, she walked down the hall toward the Top of the Mark, the bar at the top of the hotel offering beautiful views of the city and the San Francisco Bay.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” intoned an announcer. “The senior U.S. senator from the state of California, Kate Covitz!”
The crowed broke into loud applause and cheering. Covitz bounded on to a stage, her plastic smile masking her inner turmoil, pointing to familiar faces in the crowd, her body bathed in the flashes of cameras.
AN APB FOR FRANK COVITZwent out from the Carmel Police Department at 5:42 p.m. The dispatch was sent to all local law enforcement, including the Carmel-by-the-Sea Beach Patrol. Half an hour later, one of the beach patrol officers who remembered seeing a man who fit the description strolling on the beach jumped on an all-terrain vehicle, its large tires giving it the appearance of a moonwalker, and gunned the engine, hurtling toward the end of the beach. It was a beautiful late summer day, the sun low in the ocean mist, seagulls flying and squawking overhead, children running to and fro, couples holding hands as they walked on the white sand.
Reaching the end of the beach, the patrol officer got off the ATV and stepped gingerly across the large rocks separating the ocean from the marshlands inland. He could make out Clint Eastwood’s Mission Valley Inn
in the distance. The waves crashed against the rocks, sending white foam and spray into the air. He stood on top of a high rock, surveying the surrounding landscape. That was when he spied the body.
He was a white male, approximately mid-sixties, dressed in a white-and-blue checkered shirt, brown belt, khaki chinos, and Gucci loafers with no socks. The police report would record that the victim had suffered “severe head trauma.” In less clinical terms, the top of his skull was blown off, his scalp hanging by a flap. His torso rested against a rock, his left arm lay across his chest, his hand closed tightly in a fist. His legs were splayed underneath him in opposite directions. His right arm lay on the sand, also with a closed fist. A .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver lay on the ground. The blood from the wound covered the side of the rock and sand at its base. The cylinder of the revolver held three bullets. One shot had been fired.
The beach patrol officer picked up the revolver with a Bic pen so as not to leave prints and sniffed the barrel. The pungent odor of fresh gunpowder filled his nostrils. He touched the victim’s neck with his index and middle finger. There was no pulse, but the body was still warm. He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. “I got a body,” he said. “End of the beach by the Mission Inn.” He paused. “I’m going to need an ambulance and a Crime Scene Unit.”
BACK AT THE MARK HOPKINS, Kate Covitz wrapped up her speech and dove into the crowd, hugging necks, signing autographs, pecking cheeks, and posing for photos. The scene took on the feel of a nightclub, with thumping music and a surging mass of humanity, with some bodies bumping and grinding. Everyone was having fun. And why not? Covitz was up six points in the polls and raising dough by the bucketfuls. Best of all, from this crowd’s perspective she wasn’t afraid to embrace the gay community. When she finished working the room, Covitz headed for the elevator, walking purposefully, eyes straight ahead. When she saw the stricken face of her finance director drained of color, she knew something was terribly wrong.
“What?” she asked.
“I need to tell you something,” she said. “Not here.”