Ballots and Blood

by Ralph Reed

  One by one, the candidates gave abbreviated versions of their stump speech. The donors listened respectfully, but their eyes glazed over. Grizzled and cynical by years of writing checks, they had heard it all before. When Jefferson wrapped up his remarks, people began to head for the exits, Jay included. He had to catch the last shuttle back to DC.

  “Jay?” came a voice behind him. He turned to see Don Jefferson barreling down on him like a lynx.

  “Congressman!”

  “Can I talk to you . . . in private?”

  “Sure. Step into my office.” Jay led the way onto the apartment’s huge terrace, which offered a breathtaking view of Central Park. The two men stepped into the corner to keep from being overheard, huddling in a power clutch. “What’s up?”

  “I need to tell you something in confidence,” said Jefferson, his face somber.

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “I’m resigning my congressional seat tomorrow.”

  Jay maintained a poker face. “Are you sure you need to do that so close to the election?”

  “The Ethics Committee is demanding I agree to an admonishment for bringing dishonor on the House,” said Jefferson, his eyes piercing. “If I do that, my campaign is finished.”

  “I see,” said Jay, absorbing the blow. “If that’s the case, there aren’t a lot of good options. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

  “One other thing,” said Jefferson, moving in closer, their bodies nearly touching. “I’d like the president to come down for me the weekend before the election. This race is going to be close. It could make the difference.”

  “We haven’t made a final decision yet on the last week of his travel,” said Jay noncommitally. “Where would you want him?”

  “Jacksonville and Orlando.”

  “Both places?” asked Jay, incredulous.

  “You want me to win, right?”

  Jay laughed. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I can put Air Force One on two tarmacs in Florida when we also have to go to California for Heidi.”

  “Do what you can,” asked Jefferson, his voice pleading.

  “If we can, we will,” said Jay. “We’re with you all the way.”

  “I’m sorry about this ACS nonsense,” said Jefferson.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jay dismissively. “If it wasn’t this, it’d be something else. It’s the price of doing business, pal.”

  With that Jay breezed through the foyer on his way to the elevator, hugging necks and grabbing shoulders as he moved. He was the portrait of confidence. But inside his stomach was churning. If the ACS scandal took out Jefferson and Covitz benefited from an outpouring of sympathy over her husband’s suicide, they’d miss control of the Senate by one seat.

  MARVIN MYERS BELLIED UP TO the bar at a right-wing confab at Charlie Palmer’s, the DC steak joint and inside-the-Beltway watering hole. Everyone was walking on pins and needles, mainlining Real Clear Politics, Politico, and other Web sites for the latest polls and gossip emanating from the key House and Senate races.

  A top Republican leadership aide sidled up next to Myers and ordered a double vodka on the rocks. He was all forehead and cheeks with a flattened nose, as if someone hit him with a frying pan. Myers recognized him as an occasional source. “How’s it look out there on the House front?” he asked.

  The aide took a swig of vodka as he pondered the question. “Comme ci, comme ca. It’s plus or minus 5 right now. There’s plenty of blood in the water but not many seats in play.”

  Myers nodded.

  “Our problem right now is some of our own guys won’t man up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Follow me,” said the aide. “This is confidential.” They maneuvered their way through the crowd, walking out on a patio overlooking Constitution Avenue and leaning against the rail. “I had lunch today with a good friend of mine who used to be on staff at Energy and Commerce. He’s now the lead counsel for the Ethics Committee.”

  Myers nodded.

  “He said the Don Jefferson case is about to blow sky high. They’ve got e-mails proving his former chief of staff violated the lobbying and gift bans. If Don doesn’t agree to an admonishment by the House, there’s going to be a trial.”

  “I’d heard it wasn’t going well for Jefferson. Is it the Rs or the Ds on the committee?”

  “Both,” said the aide, grimacing. “That’s my point. We’re two weeks from a midterm with the House and Senate on the line, and we’re shooting our own guys on the battlefield. This could cost us the Senate. It’s nuts!”

  “The timing is atrocious.”

  “Do you think the Democrats would do something this stupid?” asked the source, his face twisted with anger, vodka breath belching forth.

  “Probably not.”

  The aide polished off his vodka. “Don’t burn me on this one, Marvin.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I could have gotten this anywhere.” The source disappeared into the crowd. Myers glanced around to make sure no one overheard the conversation. He decided it was time to make his exit. The party was a dud anyway. Now that he had a scoop, he needed to start working the phones to see who could confirm Jefferson’s impending ethics charges.

  38

  Secretary of Defense Jock Healey walked to the podium in the Pentagon briefing room, trailed by grim-faced aides. At his side was the chief of naval operations, a jug-headed admiral with a shock of black hair who commanded an aircraft-carrier group during the second Gulf War and was known for a near-theological belief in naval superiority. He wore dress blues and spit-shined shoes, a rack of ribbons on his chest. The press was alerted there would be a big announcement.

  “After extensive consultation with the president, the Joint Chiefs, and NATO allies, we are beginning a series of measures designed to enhance our military presence in the Persian Gulf,” said Healey, eyes narrowing to slits, jaw jutted, a five-o’clock shadow evident on his face. Reporters cocked their heads and craned their necks as if responding to the call of a dog whistle.

  “Today I have ordered the USS Harry S. Truman and the USS Ronald Reagan from the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean to the Gulf,” Healey continued in an even voice. “They will participate in previously scheduled training maneuvers. Each carrier group includes three guided missile destroyers and a frigate. They have a combined total of thirteen thousand sailors and marines. We are dispatching the additional carrier groups in anticipation of responsibilities flowing from recent developments related to the Iranian regime, including the need to protect our allies and to keep these vital waterways open and free for commerce and trade.”

  The room exploded with shouted questions. “Secretary Healey, is this a direct response to Momar Salami’s threat to close the Strait of Hormuz?” asked NBC News.

  “I would not call it a direct response,” replied Healey, gripping the lectern, glowering. “We are aware of President Salami’s intemperate remarks on a wide range of topics. But this action is broader in nature. We have many vital security interests in the region. In the event we need to protect those interests, it’s much easier if our forces are in the area.”

  “What will the United States do if Iran closes the Straits?” asked FOX News. “Is it prepared to take military action?”

  “That’s a decision we will make at the time,” said Healey, his face expressionless. “Suffice it to say, we have made clear our intention to keep them open.”

  “Including force if necessary.”

  The chief of naval operations stepped forward. Healey stepped to the side, happy to share the spotlight with his naval Top Gun. “Each of these aircraft carriers has eighty-five fixed-wing aircraft, including the F-18 Super Hornets and the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter wings. Each guided missile destroyer in the carrier group can launch five guided missiles at a target.” He bobbed his chin for emphasis. “We will have sufficient firepower to carry out whatever military or other objectives we are given by the president and Secretary Healey. Of that I am totally and c
ompletely confident.” The reporters scribbled furiously.

  “How soon will the aircraft carriers be in the Gulf?” asked the Wall Street Journal.

  Healey stepped back to the microphone. “They’re traveling a relatively short distance, from the Arabian Sea and the Med,” he replied. “Two days at the most. The training maneuvers will take place this week.”

  “How long will they stay?”

  “As long as the situation requires it,” said Healey, stone-faced.

  Within minutes the press reported the USS Harry S. Truman and USS Ronald Reagan were steaming to the Gulf, armed to the teeth, ready to use force against Iran to keep the Strait of Hormuz open. Cable news networks had a field day, displaying maps of the region (with Iran highlighted in blood red) and showing stock footage of navy fighters catapulting off carrier decks. The usual retired generals and admirals did a bum’s rush to television sets to predict the outcome of a conflict as war clouds threatened. Political commentators, meanwhile, wondered what the impact of Long’s October surprise would have on the elections, now only twelve days out. Democrats smelled politics. But they were helpless to do anything about it.

  DON JEFFERSON’S CAMPAIGN BLAST E-MAILED his resignation letter to the media shortly after noon. His advisors batted around the idea of a news conference but ultimately decided not to subject their candidate to hostile questions. Better to let the letter speak for itself.

  “Dear Governor Birch,” the letter began officiously. “It has been my great privilege and honor to represent the people of Florida’s Fifteenth Congressional District for six terms in the House of Representatives. Over these years I have worked to rein in out-of-control federal spending, reduce taxes on small businesses, grow our economy and create jobs, and ensure a national defense posture second to none.” Shifting gears, the brief letter offered an apologia of Jefferson’s decision to leave the House. “Because of the rigorous demands of a statewide campaign for U.S. Senate, I am no longer able to devote my energies to my few remaining congressional duties and believe it is best to pass the baton to my successor. In order to give Florida the advantage of seniority in the next Congress, I hereby resign from the House of Representatives, effective at noon tomorrow. I respectfully ask that you fill this vacancy by appointing the person chosen by the voters of the Fifteenth District to represent them in Washington.”

  The looming ethics charges were conspicuous by their absence in the statement and news release. When a reporter for the St. Petersburg Times, perturbed at being robbed of the chance to interrogate Jefferson at a news conference, asked if the Ethics Committee’s pending charges played any role in his resignation, a Jefferson spokesman said without hint of irony, “For Congressman Jefferson, this had nothing to do with politics. This was about giving the people of Florida an effective voice in Congress by ensuring his successor has the greatest seniority of any new member elected this year.”

  Newspaper editorials rained down on Jefferson, demanding either he or the Ethics Committee release its findings before the voters went to the polls. Such goo-goo protestations were all for naught. The Ethics Committee had no authority over Jefferson as a former member, but the voters still did. How they would react was anyone’s guess.

  KATE COVITZ SAT IN THE conference room of the Los Angeles Times wearing a pensive expression on her face. The room was filled to overflowing with editors and reporters who crowded around the table and sat in chairs lining the wall. Covitz had an entourage as well: her long-time personal attorney, tax accountant, press secretary, and campaign manager. The stakes were high. With ten days left before the election, the largest newspaper in the state had yet to issue an endorsement in the Senate race. A tape recorder lay in the middle of the table, and Covitz occasionally eyed it as if it were ticking bomb. The editors announced their intention to post the entire audiotape and transcript on the LA Times Web site.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” said Covitz. She spoke haltingly and slowly, as though trying to avoid making a mistake. “When my husband started working as a developer twenty-five years ago, I helped with the books. I was treasurer of the company. Over time, as his business grew, it became more than I could handle, with the children, managing the house, and my other responsibilities. When I was elected to Congress, I backed out of the picture even more. But I continued to sign documents when asked.”

  “So even though you remained legally an officer—”

  “Allow me to finish, if I may, and I promise I’ll take questions for as long as you want,” said Covitz firmly. “When I signed the various trust documents, I was told by the attorneys it was for purposes of estate planning. I had no knowledge tax avoidance was a factor beyond the obvious, which was to establish nontaxable trusts for our children and grandchildren. That was my only role in the trusts. I had no involvement in my husband’s other businesses for the past fifteen years, and I was surprised when I learned of their financial condition. With that I’m happy to take any questions.”

  “So you were not aware the trusts were designed to evade income taxes?” asked a reporter at the end of the table.

  “No. Estate taxes, yes, as allowed by federal law. I did not know my husband’s attorneys were using those same trusts to avoid income taxes,” said Covitz. “I did what any other person would do under similar circumstances. We hired lawyers and accountants and I told them to err on the side of making sure I paid my fair share of taxes. Period.”

  “How do you respond to critics who ask how you can make tax policy for the taxpayers of California and the nation if you were ignorant of your own personal taxes for so long?” asked one of the editors.

  Covitz visibly flinched. “I would say there are many spouses in California who sign tax returns and rely on their accountants to make sure they are fully complying with the law.”

  “But the IRS and SEC both say you didn’t comply with the law.”

  “That is a legal matter between the trusts and the IRS,” said Covitz. “I have instructed my attorneys to make every effort to settle this matter as expeditiously as possible and pay every dime we owe under the law.”

  The editor arched his eyebrows. Faces fell in shock. “You mean you’re prepared to pay $40 million in back taxes and penalties?”

  Covitz’s attorney jumped in. “The senator has inherited this situation as the sole beneficiary of her husband’s estate. I can’t get into a specific dollar amounts, but we are making every effort to reach a settlement. Without speaking for the IRS, let me just say they are open to reaching an amicable and mutually acceptable arrangement.” He smiled tightly.

  “Do you feel betrayed by your husband?” asked a smart-aleck reporter with a disheveled look and brillo-pad hair. Covitz knew him as one of her tormentors at the paper.

  “No, not at all. We had a wonderful life together. Frank was a loving husband and father. He was in an impossible real estate market and tried desperately to turn it around,” said Covitz, keeping her game face on. “When he couldn’t, he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure and did not feel he could go on. I do not feel he let me down, but I wish he had confided in me, and I will always wonder why he didn’t.”

  Covitz answered questions for nearly two hours, occasionally helped by her attorney or the accountant. It was a virtuoso if slightly stilted performance, showing grace under pressure and toughness. When the grueling session was over, once they were safely out of earshot in the parking garage, Covitz turned to her press secretary.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

  “I think it begins the process of putting it behind us. The editorial page editor told me after today they’ll likely either endorse you or stay neutral. They can’t stand Hughes.”

  “Do you think hating Hughes will be enough?” asked Covitz.

  “It better be. It’s going to have to be.”

  They piled into a black Chevy Suburban and headed out of the parking garage, turning right on Sepulveda and heading for the next stop, a speech to college Democrats at O
ccidental College. Covitz yearned for the Times’ endorsement. If she didn’t get it, she wasn’t sure she would win.

  KERRY CARTWRIGHT LUMBERED FROM HIS pew and walked up the steps to the pulpit of the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Newark, a portrait of political humble pie. The pastor, Bishop Eugene Sheets III, a cherub-faced man with blindingly white teeth, was a fierce advocate of education reform and school choice who battled the teachers unions and Democrats in Trenton for years. Now he was doing what he could to help Cartwright in the African-American community. He put his arm around Cartwright’s ample waist and pulled him close in a hug of great symbolism.

  “Our guv-a-nah doesn’t just talk the talk; he walks the walk,” said Sheets, his brow glistening with sweat. He picked up a folded white handkerchief from the pulpit and wiped his brow. “We thank Ga-awd for him!”

  “Amen,” the congregation replied in unison.

  “He has been there for our community through thick and thin,” Sheets exclaimed. “He offers a hand up, not a hand out.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Those who tried to keep black folk down used to stand in the schoolhouse door to keep us out,” shouted Sheets, his voice rising to a raspy shriek. “Well, we got in. But today they stand in the doorway of crime-ridden, drug-infested, gang-plagued school houses where children can’t read and write and try to keep us in!”

  “Preach it!”

  “We’re tired of second-class citizenship. We’re tired of the wealthy folk in the rich suburbs sending their children to the good schools while other young people—and let’s tell the truth, Hispanic and black children—are left behind. We’re tired of the powerful special interests taking precedence over the most precious resource in our community . . . our children!”

  “Amen!”

  Sheets dropped his voice to a whisper. “Governor Cartwright is our brother. He is my friend, he is your friend, and I believe by God’s grace, he is going to be the next United States Senator from New Jersey. Give him a warm Ebeneezer Baptist welcome.”