Ballots and Blood

by Ralph Reed

  “It would be a dramatic step,” said Myers, chuckling. “For the record, Jefferson is denying he plans to resign.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on that one, to be sure,” replied the anchor drolly. “Final question for you Marvin. Jay Noble has settled with the California woman who sued him for paternity. How might his troubles impact the elections for the White House?”

  “It’s a wild card,” said Myers. “But the Senate hearings on the IRS are over, and Noble acquitted himself well. The lawsuit is now behind him, so Jay is now free to focus on what he does best, namely winning elections. As one senior administration official put it to me, ‘No one is indispensable around here except Long, but Jay is a close second.’”

  “So you think his job is secure . . . for now?”

  “Yes.”

  The segment wrapped and Myers unclipped the microphone, breezing through the makeup room to remove the powder from his face with a baby wipe. He headed down the elevator and was walking across the lobby to the hired car that would whisk him back to his office when his cell phone buzzed. He answered it.

  “Marvin! It’s the indispensable man,” came the booming voice at the other end of the line.

  “Jay?”

  Jay let out a burst of rat-tat-tat laughter. “I’m calling to say thanks for all those nice things you just said about me on TV.”

  “I always look out for my best sources.”

  “Speaking of sources, who was that senior administration official you quoted?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Oh, come on, you can tell me.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I made it up.”

  Jay was stunned. “But I thought everything you said was true.”

  “It is true,” said Myers. “Let’s just say it’s a composite of a lot of different people.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Jay, laughing. “Hey, come by and we’ll grab lunch in the mess.”

  “Sure. I’ll have my girl call to schedule.”

  “Terrific. We need to catch up.”

  “Oh, one last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you want me to keep being your unpaid PR agent, you better have some nuggets for me at that lunch, and I don’t mean chicken nuggets.”

  “Anything in particular you’re on the prowl for?”

  “Yes. Can you find out if Jefferson is going to resign his House seat?”

  “Let me do some checking around.”

  “Feed the beast, Jay.”

  “I get it.”

  Myers hung up the phone and stepped into the back of the hired Town Car. Gazing at the pedestrians as he sat at a red light, he allowed himself a smile. His suck-up cable chatter had worked like a charm: Jay was going to feed him intel from the campaigns all the way until election day.

  G. G. HOTERMAN GOT ON THE news flash on WTOP over his car radio as he pulled up to his townhouse on North Carolina Avenue a few blocks from the Capitol. The sun was beginning to slip behind the Library of Congress, casting shadows from the trees whose leaves were beginning to turn bright yellow and orange with the onset of fall. He parked on the curb and bounded up the steps, anxious to watch the verdict live on television.

  Once inside he grabbed a cold Heineken from the fridge in the kitchen and padded his way down the hall to his study, flipping on the television and settling in to his favorite leather chair. He braced himself, hoping Kaplan would beat the rap but fearing the worst. Hardly a disinterested observer, G. G. played a major role in the trial with his testimony, and his lobbying practice would take a major hit if Stanley lost his seat. Sal was his primary pipeline in the Senate for the care and feeding of his clients.

  CNN assembled a panel of legal eagles to comment on the verdict. “What can you tell us?” asked the anchor expectantly of the court reporter in DC. “Does Kaplan’s legal team have any insight into the jury’s decision?”

  “Not at this time,” replied the court reporter. Someone off-camera handed her a sheaf of papers. Her expression shocked, she read from the paper on top. “We have just received the jury’s verdict. It is a mixed verdict. Guilty on three counts of perjury and one count of lying to the FBI. But the good news for Kaplan, if one can call it that, is he has been acquitted on the most serious charges of obstruction of justice.”

  “As we are just learning the news, it may be difficult to know, but what are the political implications of this verdict for Sal Stanley and the Democrats?” asked the anchor.

  “Kaplan’s lawyers are already vowing to appeal,” replied the reporter. “Democrats will argue this trial represented the criminalization of politics. Kaplan will claim partial vindication in the failure of the jury to find him guilty on the most serious charges. In nineteen days, we’ll know whether the voters bought their argument or not.”

  On the set the faces of the commentators were long. Their stumbling attempts to find good news for Stanley were painful to watch. G. G. knew better. He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He turned down the sound and walked back through the kitchen, turning the knob on the door and entering the courtyard in the back.

  It was a crisp fall evening, and he breathed deeply. G. G. paced back and forth, the memories rushing through his mind like a motion picture: Stanley’s presidential campaign, the blowup with Long in Chicago that split the party, Kaplan’s indictment, his own brush with being indicted, and now this. Suddenly he began to cry. Catching him by surprise, the tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his face, burning his cheeks. His nose ran. He choked back sobs. Always the tough guy on the outside, G. G. was relieved no one could see him in this pathetic state.

  He sat down at a cast-iron breakfast table and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the speed dial.

  “Hello?” came the voice of his estranged wife, Edwina. They had tried to maintain a measure of civility since their separation, if only for the sake of the children.

  “Hi,” said G. G.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Did you hear the news about Mike?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “He was convicted on four counts of perjury and lying to the FBI.”

  “I sorry to hear that, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Me, either. As Walt Shapiro said to me, there were some bad facts.”

  “Are you okay?” asked Edwina, concern in her voice.

  “Not really,” he replied, downcast. “I feel partially responsible for this whole thing. I was involved in the campaign, helped raise the money, then I testified against him. This is not going to help my business either, I’m afraid.”

  “You weren’t responsible for what Mike did. He used you. So did Sal.”

  “I know. But I never wanted Mike to go to prison.”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have lied. If he couldn’t tell the truth to the grand jury, then he should have taken the Fifth. That’s his fault, not yours.” She paused. “You told the truth. You paid a heavy price for it, but you’re not going to prison.”

  G. G. winced at the reference to his grand jury testimony—later leaked—in which he acknowledged a sexual relationship with Dierdre. His honesty cost him his marriage and family. He began to tear up again.

  “G. G.? Are you sure you’re alright?”

  “No,” said G. G., his voice catching. “I want to come home.”

  There was a long pause. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  “Edwina, I wouldn’t blame you if you said no,” said G. G. “If you want to go ahead with the divorce, I certainly have no right to object. I made a terrible mistake. But I’m willing to change. I want to come back to you.”

  “I know you say that now,” said Edwina. “But if I take you back, you’ll just go back to your old ways once the danger of losing everything is gone.”

  “I won’t,” protested G. G. “I would have at one time. But I’ve seen what it’s like out there. It’s not better.�
��

  “I won’t do anything unless you agree to go to see a marriage counselor.”

  “Absolutely,” said G. G. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Let me think about it,” said Edwina softly.

  “Okay. I love you.”

  “I love you. I just don’t know if there’s enough love left to sustain a marriage. I have to go. Good-bye.”

  G. G. hung up and sat in silence, the only noise the chirping of birds in the trees covering the courtyard with a leafy canopy. With Kaplan’s conviction Stanley was toast. G. G. feared the Democrats might lose control of the Senate. If they did, Hoterman and Schiff would take a major hit. But if his business and political contacts were crumbling, G. G. thought, maybe he could still save his marriage.

  37

  It was a pleasant fall evening in New York City, the air crisp, a breeze whistling among the skyscrapers. Jay took the shuttle from DC and now sat in the back of a Town Car wrapping up a call with David Thomas, watching as couples walked arm in arm down Fifth Avenue. He wondered what their normal, happy lives were like and sometimes yearned for one himself. It had been so long, he couldn’t remember what it was like.

  “What are the overnights?” he asked, using the shorthand for polls. “I’m going to see our candidates in a few minutes, and I want to give them some good news if I can.”

  “In New Jersey, KC and the Sunshine Band was up 7. In the three-day roll, he’s up 4,” said Thomas, using their nickname for Kerry Cartwright. Their shorthand for his political team was “The Sunshine Band.”

  “That’s a good trend line.”

  “Stanley’s fav-unfav is 42–49 with a hard-name ID 96 percent,” said Thomas, using pollster speak for Stanley’s cratering popularity.

  “Wow, he’s upside down. The Kaplan conviction is killing him.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still Jersey.”

  “Right. Who knows how much walking-around money Stanley will put on the street?” He paused. “What else?”

  “Jefferson down 2, Hughes down 3.”

  “Ouch. I can’t believe Covitz’s husband’s death and scandal hasn’t hurt her.”

  “Incredible. There’s a sympathy factor,” observed Thomas. “She’s up 7 among women over fifty. She’s a widow and a woman in distress. They identify with her.”

  “What keeps you up at night?”

  “Florida. Jefferson’s going sideways, the ACS scandal is hurting with indies,” said Thomas. “Birch could help him, but of course he won’t lift a finger.”

  “Don’s bleeding from every artery,” said Jay. “Pedal to the metal, pal. Keep the gas on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The car pulled up to the curb in front of the $28 million Fifth Avenue apartment, home for Fred Fincher, the hedge fund billionaire hosting the blow-out fund-raising for Cartwright, Holly Hughes, and Jefferson. Jay was the headliner. The driver hustled to the passenger side and opened the car door. Jay stepped out on the sidewalk. Heads turned as pedestrians recognized him. A campaign staffer stood on the sidewalk with a clipboard. She motioned him to an elevator in the lobby.

  The elevator opened, and Jay stepped into the foyer of Fincher’s apartment, beautifully appointed with marble floors, priceless antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and a massive shimmering crystal chandelier. Fincher was an avid collector of modern art; the paintings on the walls, gave the apartment the feel of a museum. Waiters floated through the room balancing silver trays of champagne, white wine, and sparkling water. Two open bars anchored the main living area, which was already jammed with more than two hundred donors.

  Jay approached the registration table. “Jay!” exclaimed Angelica Manning, who handled all Fincher’s political projects. Jay did a double take. She was distractingly beautiful. Stiletto heels and black patterned hose adorned her long legs, and her jet-black hair fell to her bare shoulders. Rumor had it that she and Fincher were an item, which Jay assumed was more than a minor complication, since he was married.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” said Jay, embracing her. “Talk to me. What’s the take?”

  “It’s 1.9 million,” said Angelica, beaming.

  “You’re the best.”

  “So I’m told,” said Angelica, batting her eyes. “Ready for your victory lap?”

  “Take me to your Kasbah, baby,” said Jay flirtatiously, holding out his arm. “By the way, what victory lap? We haven’t won yet.” As a waiter hustled by, he grabbed a sparkling water with lime.

  “Who are you kidding, boyfriend? You’re a rock star.” Angelica curled her arm through his and led him into the living area. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause and surged forward. “See?”

  Jay braced himself as a short, balding man wearing designer glasses approached. “Jay, you killed at the Senate Finance Committee hearings,” said the man, his Chablis-and-brie breath nearly knocking Jay out.

  “Thank you,” he said. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around to see a man he vaguely recognized as a former senator. He was struck by how much the man had aged.

  “Jay, do you remember me?” asked the senator-turned-lobbyist.

  “Of course,” Jay lied. “How do you stay in such great shape?”

  “I work out. I can use the Senate gym as a former senator.” He smiled. “I also got remarried . . . to a thirty-two-year-old.”

  Jay laughed. “That’ll keep you young. Now I know your secret.”

  People were thrilled Jay survived his combat with the press, the Democrats, and the floozy in LA. . . . What was her name again? Who cared? . . . Her fifteen minutes were up, just the latest in a string of tabloid tarts throwing darts at their hero. Jay’s rendezvous with power had only begun. He was back in the cockpit for the closing weeks of the election. He was brilliant, a master strategist, a genius, really—and he was theirs!

  “Fred!” shouted Angelica over the crowd. “Jay’s here.”

  Fincher sauntered over, a one-hundred-watt smile plastered on. Tall and lanky with a boyish demeanor belying his seventy-six years, his blue eyes fairly sparkled. “The man of the hour,” he exclaimed. “Boy, have they ever been gunning for you.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” deadpanned Jay.

  “Baloney! Sal Stanley, Aaron Hayward, the New York Times, Time, NBC News . . .”

  “Fred, what did Winston Churchill say?” asked Jay, baring his teeth. “There’s nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without effect.”

  Fincher shook his head. He turned to Angelica. “See why I love this guy?” He draped an arm over Jay’s shoulder. “He’s got brass gonads. I love it!”

  “Alright,” said Angelica. “Enough male bonding. Let’s get the program underway.”

  Kerry Cartwright lumbered over from across the room, sweat beading on his forehead, his suit rumpled. “Hey!” he said, pointing at Jay with his index finger. “You’re the one who talked me into this campaign. I oughta slug you.”

  Jay grinned sheepishly. “Actually, it was the president who talked you into it.”

  “That was only because you put him up to it.”

  “Guilty as charged. You can thank me later, Senator.”

  “Whoa! Hold on just a minute. I’m not a senator yet.”

  “You will be in fifteen days,” replied Jay. He leaned into Cartwright. “You’re up 7 in our tracking, pal. Stanley’s unfav is 49. He’s in a tailspin, both engines blown.”

  Cartwright cupped his hand and stage-whispered, “Thank God for Dele-gate, huh?”

  “Tell me about it!” roared Jay. They both laughed. “My guy’s in the White House because of it, and you’re on your way to the U.S. Senate.”

  Angelica grabbed Cartwright and Jay and hustled them to the front of the room, where they stood beside a massive marble fireplace with a Kandinsky hanging over the hearth. Heidi Hughes and Don Jefferson joined them. They all hugged and air-kissed as Fincher banged a fork against a champagne glass.

  “Thank you all for coming,” said Fincher as the crowd hushed. “When the
White House asked if I would be willing to host a fund-raiser for not one, not two, but three”—he held up three fingers—“future United States senators, I foolishly agreed.” The crowd, lubricated with wine and champagne, laughed and clapped. “Then they told me Jay Noble was coming. That’s when I knew this was really important.” (More laughter.)

  “Anyway, Jay needs no introduction. He is the senior advisor to President Long and has been his chief political strategist since he ran for governor of California. Please welcome the most brilliant political mind in America, our friend, Jay Noble.”

  Jay walked to the front of the fireplace wearing a sheepish grin as the crowd applauded loudly. “Thank you, everybody,” he said, raising his hands to quiet them. He turned to Fincher. “Fred, next time you host a fund-raiser, could you do it some place a little more uptown?” (Laughter.) “I mean, come on!”

  “I would have used my yacht,” volleyed back Fincher. “But it’s in Nova Scotia.”

  “Likely story,” joked Jay as he folded his hands in front of him. “It’s great to get outside the Beltway and be with real people, if I can call you that.” (More laughter.) “Seriously, we are two weeks and one day from one of the most important midterm elections of our lifetimes. The issue is whether a Senate poisoned by partisanship and corruption will be able to block every reform measure this president puts forward, or whether we’re going to have a Senate that serves the American people.” He glanced in the direction of Hughes, Cartwright, and Jefferson. “These candidates are among the finest public servants in the country today. They are taking on some pretty tough customers. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with Kate Covitz and Sal Stanley, and it isn’t pleasant.” The crowd nodded knowingly. “Politics ain’t beanbag. These are all close, hard-fought races. With your help they will change more than just the arithmetic of the Senate. They will qualitatively change a dysfunctional chamber in desperate need of new blood.”

  Jay stabbed the air with his index finger for emphasis. “The president and I are deeply grateful for your support. Make no mistake. These three races will determine control of the U.S. Senate.” He turned to Angelica. “If we win two of these three seats, we’ll control the Senate. I think we’re going to do better than that. I think we’re going to win all three.” He raised his right hand in a friendly wave. “Thank you again.”