by Ralph Reed
The advance man guided them down a narrow hallway to an office, apparently for the manager. Without asking anyone if they could use it, he turned the knob and opened the door. Covitz and her finance director closed the door.
Her face etched with anxiety, Covitz asked, “Did they find Frank?”
“Yes,” said the finance director. “He was on the beach.” She began to choke up. “Kate, he’s dead.”
“Oh, God!” screamed Covitz, sobbing. “No! No! No!” She fell into the arms of her finance director and sobbed uncontrollably.
AN AMBULANCE TRANSPORTED FRANK COVITZ’S body to the Monterey County coronor’s office for an autopsy as required by state law. The Carmel Police Department went into lockdown, maintaining silence on the death of one of the town’s most prominent residents until Kate Covitz could arrive from San Francisco. They also searched the beach cottage, where police found a suicide note. As she hurtled down the 101 Expressway, Covitz called her two adult children to relay the tragic news.
The next morning at 8:00 a.m. Pacific time, Covitz’s office released a statement. “We may never fully understand what caused this vibrant, loving, and joyful man to feel his life was no longer worth living. We will remember him as a loving husband, devoted father, and a visionary who impacted countless lives for the better. In this early hour of our grief, we ask for the prayers of the people of California and request the media respect our privacy during this time of mourning.”
Covitz immediately suspended her campaign, pulling down television and radio ads and cancelling public events indefinitely. Heidi Hughes followed suit within the hour. In characteristic fashion, Covitz’s grief propelled her into a whirling dervish of activity, meeting with attorneys to handle the couple’s complicated financial affairs, cleaning out Frank’s office, lovingly boxing up his personal effects, and making funeral arrangements. Her grief soon gave way to anger. How could Frank abandon her like this? she wondered. Why would he take his own life when he had so much to live for . . . the children, the grandchildren, their life together?
One of the most high-profile Senate races in the nation ground to a halt. The entire political class was thunderstruck. The macabre details of his suicide only added to their morbid curiosity. But an anonymous blogger in Carmel put a post up on a community Web site that held forth a clue to the mystery: “I know a real estate agent specializing in the Monterey peninsula who recently spoke with Frank about putting the Covitz beach property up for sale, reportedly for $5 million. Their house in DC was already on the market. I know he was having financial difficulties, and it may have led him to end his life.”
32
As reporters descended on Carmel to cover Frank Covitz’s suicide, another bombshell dropped in Los Angeles. In LA Superior Court, Grand Central Station for Hollywood celebrities behaving badly, Samah Panzarella’s attorney filed a lawsuit accusing Jay Noble of paternity, abandonment, and emotional and mental cruelty. Panzarella’s suit sought $20,000 a month in child support and $8 million in damages. Within minutes, Merryprankster.com posted the news under the head-snapping lead: “Jay Noble’s Baby Mama Sez: Pay Up or Else!!”
The news landed in DC like a howitzer. Jay’s cell phone went off at 6:10 a.m. as he rode in a government sedan to the White House. It was a thoroughly unhappy Charlie Hector.
“Jay, I want to see you and Phil as soon as you get in,” he said with clipped efficiency, his voice jagged. “We’re going to get a lot of press inquiries about this lawsuit, and I want to make sure we have our facts straight.”
“Phil knew this was coming,” said Jay, trying to sound calm. “But the timing’s horrible.”
“What?” screeched Hector. “Phil knew? Why wasn’t I told?”
Jay pulled the receiver away, protecting his ear from Hector’s blast. “I don’t know,” he said haltingly. “I assumed Phil told you. This bimbo was trying to shake me down, and Walt was talking with her lawyer to try to keep it out of the media.”
“We’ll deal with why I was not informed later,” snapped Hector. “But something of this magnitude should have been brought to me by you. What were you thinking?”
Jay’s heart pounded. Hector was no fan of Jay’s. This screwup was going to give him more ammunition he needed to clip Jay’s wings in the White House, where their power struggle was an open secret. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” said Jay, backpedaling furiously. “I should have come to you. That’s my bad. But I was so distracted by the preparations for my Senate testimony, I thought Phil and Walt could handle it.”
“Terrific. Now I get to inform the president. He’s not going to be happy . . . at all.”
“Charlie, I’m sorry to cause heartburn for the president,” said Jay, his body quivering with fear. “I met this girl when I was in Caly raising money. It’s a stickup. She hired a liberal, ambulance-chasing personal injury attorney I defeated for a state assembly seat eighteen years ago. The guy’s had a vendetta against me ever since. I’m telling you, it’s total nonsense.”
“I hope for your sake that’s the case,” said Hector. “You’re already in the penalty box for the IRS flap. Jay, you’re becoming a distraction.”
Jay wanted to scream into the phone: Are you threatening me? Have you forgotten I got you your job as chief of staff? Instead, he kept his temper in check.
“Walt’s all over it,” said Jay. “He says she has no case, and he doubts she’s even prego. The timing alone is suspicious and ought to tell us what this is about.”
“Nevertheless, you need to get off the front page,” said Hector. “We’re burning too many calories cleaning up your messes. Get your sorry rear in my office as soon as you get in.”
The line went dead. Jay knew if it was up to Charlie, he’d probably be out. Would the president stand up for him? He hoped so, but it wasn’t like the old days. Long had to protect himself. He was supposed to testify in three days. His stomach churned, sending acid reflux running up his throat and into his mouth. He smelled a rat. He was sure either Sal Stanley or the Covitz campaign dropped the dime on him.
THE LINE OF MOURNERS FILING into St. Bartholemew’s Catholic church in downtown San Francisco stretched for half a block. The guest list for the funeral of Frank Covitz read like a who’s who of the financial and political elite of California: Governor Mack Caulfield, the mayors of San Francisco and Los Angeles, most of the state’s congressional delegation, major donors, CEOs, and a sprinkling of Hollywood stars. Presided over by the bishop of the San Francisco diocese, it featured eulogies by Frank’s eldest son, his brother, and one of his business partners.
As people filed out after the service, Kate stood in the foyer wearing a black dress and white pearls, accepting condolences. Many were in shock. For her part, Kate kept up a brave front—planning the funeral and dealing with the estate and lawyers preventing her from having to fully confront her grief. She was running on adrenalin.
A friend and her husband approached her, their faces sympathetic. “Kate, we’re all pulling for you,” said the woman. “Frank had too good a heart for this world.”
Kate nodded in the direction of the casket. “Frank never wanted a political life,” replied Kate sadly. “He finally found a way out, didn’t he?”
“SATCHA SANCHEZ ON LINE TWO,” announced Jay Noble’s assistant.
Jay closed the door to his office and picked up the receiver. “Well, at least you can’t say I lead a boring life,” he quipped with morbid humor.
“Honey, I’m so sorry about this,” said Satcha. “I can’t believe this gold-digging witch.”
“Yeah,” said Jay. “She’s bad news.”
“I feel horrible. I mean, I introduced you to her.”
“I remember,” said Jay. “It was at that party at The Standard in LA.”
“I only invited her because I thought she’d be fun. I wanted you to have a good time and blow off some steam. I never thought it would lead to this.”
“Don’t worry about it, Satcha. It’s not your fault. Who knew?”
“The lawsuit is complete bull, isn’t it?”
“Total,” replied Jay, trying to sound confident. “My attorney thinks it’ll be dismissed. But it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg in legal bills. Not to mention a PR beating.”
“Should I call her and urge her to drop the suit before Shapiro gets his pound of flesh?”
“Bad idea,” said Jay. “We can’t rewind the tape. . . . The suit has been filed. Given our relationship and your profile, you need to steer clear.”
“Alright,” said Satcha, her voice filled with regret. “I just wish I could do more to help.”
Just then the door opened, and Jay’s assistant stuck her head in. She mouthed in a half whisper: “The First Lady is on the phone.”
Jay did a double take. He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Claire?” His assistant nodded. “Satcha, I have to grab another call. But thanks for your call. You’re the best.”
“Hugs and kisses,” said Satcha, making a kissing sound.
He picked up the other line. “Hello, ma’am. To what do I owe this honor?”
“Jay, I just wanted to call and tell you I’m praying for you. In fact, my entire Bible study group is praying for you,” said Claire. “We’re lifting you up before the throne of grace and asking for God’s protection as you endure all these attacks.”
“Thank you, Claire. That means the world to me. It really does.”
“Jay, the Holy Spirit has shown me this is a Satanic attack. The enemy is trying to destroy you because you’re important to Bob and the country. This is a spiritual battle.”
Jay didn’t quite know what to say. “This woman’s lawyer is some trial lawyer I helped defeat for state assembly. It’s a political hit job.”
“It’s more than that. We wrestle not against flesh and blood but against the principalities and powers of darkness in the heavenly realm,” said Claire, her voice firm. “Second Corinthians 5:10.”
“I hear you,” said Jay politely. He had heard about Claire’s Christian faith, but he feared she might be drinking the Kool-Aid. Still, he appreciated her reaching out and supporting him. It was a good sign there was no daylight between him and the president.
“Jay, do you mind if I pray with you?”
“No, not at all. I’d be honored.”
“Father, I pray for my brother Jay,” Claire began. “You have placed him in a strategic position at the highest level of government. The enemy would love nothing more than to destroy and discredit him. Surround him with Your love and grace. I pray against those who would seek to destroy him, that they would be destroyed instead and, as was the case with Mordecai in the book of Esther, his enemies would be hung on the scaffolds they built for him. When Jay enters that Senate hearing room, I pray You will surround him with Your angels, and I ask that he would sense Your presence and rest in Your strength. In Jesus, Amen.”
Jay choked up. Through his tears he chuckled at the line about his enemies being hung on the scaffolds. “You’re hard-core, Claire,” he laughed. “I haven’t been prayed over like that in a long time.”
“Just because I became a Christian doesn’t mean I’m a wimp. I never shrink from a fight,” said Claire.
“How well I know that’s true,” said Jay. “I’ve always liked the fact you have a little vinegar in you.”
“I came to Christ, Jay. I didn’t have a lobotomy.”
Jay laughed.
“Jay, one other thing.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“In the future keep your pants on. Bob and I love you like a son, and we think you’re brilliant. But Bob’s the president. For his reputation if not your own, you need to clean up your act. Find a nice, Christian girl and make her your wife would be my advice.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, ma’am.”
“You do that. Good-bye.”
Jay hung up the phone and shook his head. When the good Lord made Claire, he thought, He sure broke the mold.
THE WALL STREET JOURNAL HAD been working on story for weeks, chasing down leads from New York to DC, San Francisco to Boston, Switzerland to the Cayman Islands. Ironically, the story was about to go to press when Frank Covitz killed himself. Confident of their exclusive, Journal editors resisted competitive pressure and held the story until after the funeral. It would have looked mercenary to publish it while the body was still warm.
The day after the funeral, the story ran on the Journal’s front page under the headline, “Husband of U.S. Senator Faced Criminal Charges at Time of Death.” Relying on securities filings, real estate records, and analysis by tax lawyers, and a former IRS commissioner quoted on the record, it reported Frank Covitz evaded tens of millions of dollars in taxes by relying on illegal tax shelters, offshore accounts, and phony trust funds. Settlement negotiations between the IRS and Covitz’s lawyers dragged on for months. Days before Frank’s suicide, the IRS threatened to make a criminal referral to the U.S. attorney’s office in Los Angeles.
All told, Covitz owed $42 million in taxes, penalties, and interest at the time of his death. Beyond the eye-popping amount of money, the most politically explosive revelation was that trust funds used in the course of the alleged fraud were jointly held by Frank and Kate Covitz. Her signature appeared on many documents the IRS alleged were part of a sophisticated ruse to evade paying taxes.
Heidi Hughes was at the FBO at the San Diego airport, having just wrapped up a speech to a local chamber of commerce, when the Journal posted the story. She stepped into a conference room to join a hastily arranged call with her campaign team.
“Everyone’s here, Heidi,” announced her campaign manager.
“Good. I’ve only got a minute before I have to get on the plane,” said Hughes. She was focused. “I hate to benefit politically from such a personal tragedy, but this Journal story is a bombshell.”
“It’s a game changer, Heidi,” said her general consultant, a grizzled veteran of twenty years of statewide campaigns in California.
“It’s only a matter of time before the LA Times piles on,” observed Hughes.
“They’ve already called,” said the campaign press secretary. “Twice.”
“The answer is, ‘We have no comment,’” said Hughes. “We don’t know where this is going, and I don’t want to get in front of any cameras . . . at least not yet.”
“Roger that,” replied the press secretary. “I can hold them for a day.”
“This is going to be hard for Kate to explain,” said the general consultant. “Tax evasion, fraud, money laundering. She can’t hide behind her husband. She signed the documents. She’s an accomplice to multiple federal felonies.”
“She can claim ignorance, but that just makes her look worse,” said Hughes.
“I think the election is the least of her problems,” said the campaign manager. “The IRS could claw back some of the money they moved offshore or put in trusts, go after their houses, even the insurance money. She could end up bankrupt and in prison.”
“Do you think she knew what Frank was up to?” asked Hughes. “I can’t imagine she did.”
“Of course she knew,” said the general consultant. “Kate may be a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them. She’s going to have a hard time convincing voters she didn’t have a clue what was going on.”
“Well, today we can keep our heads down. But at some point, this takes on a life of its own, and I’m going to have to comment on it,” observed Hughes.
“It’s a grenade going off in a lunch box,” said her consultant. “The media will take the lead, but we can’t ignore it. At some point you’re going to have to take a position. Let’s face it, we’ll probably end up hitting her with an ad.”
“I should express sympathy for her loss but say she’s an elected official, these are serious charges, and the people of California deserve an explanation.”
“We demand . . . an explanation,” said the campaign manager, his voice mocking.
“What if it turns out she
participated in a scheme to evade taxes?” asked the press secretary. “Should she be prosecuted?”
“I’m not going there,” said Hughes.
“That’s up to the IRS and prosecutors,” said the consultant.
“I got to go,” said Hughes. She sighed. “First, Frank’s suicide. Now this. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I wonder how this affects the race. I guess it’s hard to know.”
“She’ll drop seven points in seventy-two hours,” said her consultant.
“You really think so?”
“Count on it.”
Hughes hung up and headed for her plane. She wondered: Was she on her way to the U.S. Senate? And given the price Kate Covitz paid, was it even worth it?
THE HIGH COMMAND GATHERED IN Charlie Hector’s office to plan the White House’s response to the Panzarella paternity suit. Joining Hector and Jay were Phil Battaglia and Walt Shapiro. Jay sat slumped on the couch, his face pale, looking crestfallen. Shapiro sat next to him, holding a gold-embossed leather pouch like a shield. Hector and Battaglia sat in wing chairs. Everyone was tense.
“I’ve talked to the president,” said Hector, shamelessly playing the POTUS card for leverage. “He suggests Jay settle with this woman and admit no wrongdoing. Get it off the front page.” He turned to Shaprio. “I assume that’s doable, Walt.”
“Too early to tell,” said Shapiro. “The attorney is a partisan Democrat who’s taken the case on contingency. If this were about the legal merits only, I’d say yes. I’m not sure it is.”
“Paula Jones, call your office,” said Battaglia.
“The guy hates my guts,” said Jay. “I defeated him—”
“Hold that thought, Jay,” said Hector, holding up an index finger. “Anything can be settled, right? It’s just a question of how high is the price.”
“We can’t have Jay deposed and be asked detailed questions about intimate relations with the woman,” said Battaglia. “It opens him up to perjury or a leak.”