by T. F. Jacobs
“It’s hard to say that is their intention, but who knows.”
Silence hangs in the air.
I’m not sure if there is a legal case for this, but there is something here. If people knew, there would be unrest. More fuel to the fire.
“Is this something you can find proof of?” I ask Brit.
“I would say so. I’ll look into it.”
“Good. We’ve got a lot to go on, but we’ll need to tighten up our stories. We still need more to go on if we are going to make this happen. Brit helped me get a lobbyist position where I can get the proof we need that American True Care is pushing shady and corrupt deals through Washington. Most of the proof is conversation, and the only way to capture that is to be there. Once I start to prove myself, they will feed me a bigger piece of the pie. Aly, I know you want to stay off the record, but will the rest of you come forward?”
Brit and Rob both nod, and then Alex does too.
“I don’t want to end up dead. Just promise me that,” Dominique says.
“You won’t. I promise.”
“Okay then. I’m in.”
Brit stands. “I’ve got phones for everyone to stay in touch. Make sure this is the only way we communicate. I programmed my number inside. Everything goes through me first, and I can pass it to the others. It’s the only way I can trust that we’re safe.”
She passes out the burner phones.
I’m not sure I like her idea of everything going through her. It just doesn’t sit right. But I have to guess she knows what she’s talking about, and being discreet is of paramount importance.
“Also, here are some flash drives. We will add to them as we go. I’ve encrypted them myself, and they’re impenetrable. And if anything happens to one of us, the rest of us still have the ability to make this case happen. It’s a failsafe,” Brit says.
“But nothing’s gonna happen, right?” Dominique asks.
I can feel all eyes on me now. “Right,” I agree.
Brit nods, then pulls out a black rectangle and tosses it to me.
I fumble to grab it.
“Hide them well.”
Maybe under the bed? Behind the fridge? My apartment isn’t that big, and I don’t have a ton of possibilities. But I’ve also never been broken into.
“Last thing for today. The bill,” she says after a long pause.
I pull out the copies. “Like I said, the bill is looking to place age limits on vaccinations. It also looks to set insurance-price regulations on them.”
“The question that comes to mind is why? Why would they want to cut off certain people from being eligible to be covered by vaccines? And why would they want to regulate the prices?” Rob asks.
“Seems pretty obvious to me. If they cut people off, it’s just one less thing they have to cover. And the price regulation ensures they aren’t paying astronomical fees on behalf of their clients. They don’t have the client in mind; they have themselves in mind. But of course people will be happy, because it will be one more thing they can get cheaper.”
I can see each of them putting two and two together. What I said makes absolute sense. I know it, and now they know it too.
“And here’s the cherry on top,” I say.
I hold my phone up and scoot closer so that everyone can see it.
The image of the salt-and-pepper congressman with the voluptuous blonde woman materializes.
I press play.
“Actually I think I will let you two be. I can come back later.”
The phone is turned away from me, but I know that on the screen the congressman and Miley are both looking at the door.
“Oh and, Congressman, the American True Care bill for vaccines?”
The video plays for another minute, and I watch my new associates’ faces as each of them turns to shock. I thought what I had was good, but seeing their reactions, I know that it’s gold.
Brit grins from ear to ear. Her narrowed eyes focus on me.
“Holy shit,” she says.
“Wow,” Alex adds.
“Yup,” I return.
“May I?” Brit asks.
I hand her the phone. A moment later, she pulls a laptop from her bag. Then she connects a cord between the two devices.
“I’ll add this to the file. Rob, you think this is good enough for the Post when it comes time?”
“I think it is certainly good enough for the Post,” he answers. He’s smiling too.
She hands back the phone.
“Delete the video. We have it now.”
I’m hesitant but figure she knows what she’s talking about. The phone can likely be hacked, whereas the thumb drive most likely can’t. Unless it’s stolen.
She stands, and everyone follows suit.
“Thanks, guys. We’ll be in touch soon. If you hear or see anything else, use the phone,” I say.
“Looking forward to working with you,” Dominique replies.
We all shake hands and exchange parting pleasantries.
I head through the door as a couple of the others linger behind in conversation.
Suddenly something chimes from my pocket.
My BlackBerry. The ring is still unfamiliar.
I pick it from my pocket and see Rebecca’s name on the display. What does she want on a Saturday?
“Hello?” I ask into the receiver.
“Where the fuck are you? I sent you an e-mail last night and didn’t hear back,” she yells into the phone.
“It’s Saturday. I wasn’t aware we were supposed to be in the office on weekends.”
I stall in front of the entrance.
“Well last night wasn’t the weekend. Was it?”
“I guess not. Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to see the e-mail. What’s up?”
I’m trying to mask my anger. I loathe the way she talks to me, like I’m some sort of dog.
“We need you on a plane to DC tomorrow afternoon to meet with Congressman Connelly on Monday.”
I look out the window, then turn around.
“Congressman Connelly? As in the majority whip?”
“Who else would I goddamn be referring to? Are you going to make me regret giving you this job?”
Holy shit. My heart leaps into overdrive.
Congressman Connelly is the Republican House majority whip. Whatever he says or wants happens. He’s the man behind all of the action on Capitol Hill. The enforcer. Anyone who knows a lick about politics knows that he might be considered one of the most powerful politicians not just in the States but in the world.
“No, of course not. But why me?”
“Our DC lobbyist is out sick. Appendix or some bullshit. And let’s just say you surprised me with Byers. So don’t fuck this up.”
“Thank you, Rebecca. I won’t.”
“My assistant one-day aired you the bill, your flight, and hotel. The information is inside.”
“Rebecca, I won’t let—”
But I’m cut off before I can finish. She hung up.
Okay then.
I pocket the phone and then launch back into the room.
“I just got my next call,” I announce.
They look up from their conversations.
“They want me to go to DC to meet with Congressman Connelly.”
It takes a second, but their eyes widen with comprehension.
“The whip?” Aly asks.
“That’s the one.”
Brit’s mouth drops open, and she exchanges a telling look with Rob.
“Do you have any idea how big this can be?” Rob says to Brit from across the room.
The room is silent for a long while.
“I leave tomorrow,” I finally say.
“The meeting is Monday?” she asks.
I nod.
“Send me the details of your meeting once you get them. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we need to go even bigger. Let me think through logistics tonight,” Brit says.
My head is spinning. This is
all too surreal. Too fast moving. Maybe I’m making a mistake.
But I’m not. This is exactly what I’ve been chasing.
The tension in the air is almost palpable; we are on the verge of something massive.
I can feel my fingers on the match.
Chapter 8
The flight is so smooth I feel I must be dreaming. My seat reclines flat, and the champagne is never ending.
The booze acts as a distraction from my sorrow and angst. Sitting in first class leaves me with a feeling of guilt in my stomach. Lexi and I always flew in seats at the back of the plane, pinned between crying babies and bathrooms. Now she’ll never get to experience any of it.
My buzz fades by the time I arrive at the hotel. My room is another penthouse, but this time the marble floors stretch at least a hundred feet in either direction. A grand piano sits beside the enormous window with a vantage of the Capitol building a couple miles off.
The burner phone in my pocket buzzes once.
A text.
No, it’s actually a message from an app I don’t recognize called TextGone.
Record anything you can. We need this. I’ve got something in the works that may require change of plans. Keep you posted.
What the heck? It must be from Brit, but what could possibly be in the works that requires a change of plans?
I look back at the phone, but the message has disappeared. Must be some sort of untraceable message that automatically deletes. Smart.
I let the massive shower fill with steam before jumping inside to be alone with my thoughts.
In just two weeks, the love of my life has died, I’ve put together a team of whistle-blowers, I’ve nearly doubled my salary, I’ve bribed a congressman, and now I’m about to meet the majority whip of the United States of America. More precisely, I’m about to incriminate him.
A man I don’t know. A man with an unheard-of 70 percent favorability rating. A man who, from everything I’ve seen on television, is respectable and seems like a great guy.
Here goes nothing.
. . .
I don’t drink coffee.
I love the smell of fresh ground beans but can’t stand the taste.
In spite of my aversion to coffee, I found an article about the congressman’s love for black coffee, and picked one up at the local Starbucks.
While waiting to pass the time, I spent the morning reviewing the American True Care bill. Several times I thought about downing a cup of coffee myself because of all the mind-numbing jargon inside.
The bill simultaneously accomplishes two feats—it lowers premium costs for healthy Americans without preexisting conditions by 15 percent and also raises procedure costs for out-of-network and uninsured persons by 50 percent.
In theory this looks great. Insurance costs go down for average Joes, and more people will seek insurance because out of network costs will be too high. Win-win.
Not so fast.
The bill also calls for deductibles on healthy persons to be raised by 20 percent. So in actuality, insurance companies will pick up hundreds of thousands more customers, and the costs of the healthy, low-cost citizens will go down slightly, but if anyone gets sick, hurt, or injured, they end up paying more. In sum, the bill produces more paying customers for the insurance companies, and if anyone does get sick, the higher deductibles ensure that the insurance companies pay less. At the end of the day it’s just more money in American True Care’s pocket.
The craziest part about it is that I’m the guy who is going to make it happen. And people will eat it up because more Americans get insured, while monthly premiums are lowered.
The bullshit we let slide.
I’m headed to Connelly’s office even though my meeting isn’t until four p.m. I need to see if I can get him to change venues to a restaurant, that way I have a better shot at recording anything that goes down. I’m expecting this to be far more difficult than my meeting with Congressman Byers. Everything I’ve read about Connelly implies that he’s a good guy. One whom money can’t buy. He is, however, facing reelection, and campaign contributions seem to be my only bargaining chip.
After checking in with a security guard at the front desk of the high-ceilinged grand entrance, I make my way up the elevator to the fourteenth floor.
A hallway leads to dozens of different doors.
I twist open the heavy black one second from the end. Congressman Connelly’s name is engraved on a placard atop it.
“Hello,” says a soft but friendly voice from the front desk.
A plump young woman in a vibrant purple dress sits behind the desk with a dozen red roses in a vase on top.
Seeing them reminds me of Lexi.
The weekly flowers from Monet’s.
How she’d smell them the second I handed them to her.
I take a deep breath, then put on a smile.
“Hi. I’m David Higgins,” I say.
She looks down at a calendar on her desk.
She looks up.
“Do you have an appointment?”
She looks annoyed. She doesn’t want to have to give me the usual spiel about the congressman being a very busy man, and yada, yada, yada.
“I do,” I say. I try to be as cordial as possible. “It’s not until this afternoon, though. I just wanted to bring the congressman a coffee and check to see if he might be willing to do a change of venue. I was hoping to take him out to dinner instead?”
She looks back down to her calendar.
“Ah, yes. Four p.m.”
I nod.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Higgins, but the congressman doesn’t do dinner meetings. He prefers the office. For convenience.”
I had a feeling this might not be so easy.
“Do you mind if I ask him really quick? I was thinking of Mariano’s. I hear they make fantastic Italian.”
It’s by far the most expensive place in DC, and I doubt many people would turn down a meal from a two-Michelin-star chef.
She curls her lips into something resembling a smile. Obviously not genuine.
“I’ll pass along the word that you were hoping to take him to Mariano’s, but I’ve never seen him accept an invitation before, and I doubt you will be the first.”
I consider going around her, but that probably won’t do me any good. For all I know she’ll call security. I don’t know who the guys downstairs are, but I have to imagine they’re official. Maybe the secret service, maybe the police. Who knows.
“Thanks so much.”
I leave the coffee cup on her desk, then turn toward the door.
. . .
Four hours have gone by, and still no word from the congressman. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’ll still be able to record in his office. It is a private office we’re talking about, not the Capitol or the White House.
But the fact that he doesn’t do dinner or lunch invitations is troubling. It tells me he’s not easily bought. Not easily manipulated.
But he’s the whip. A man whose job it is to wheel and deal. To bribe and offer inducements, or to threaten in order to get what he wants done.
He took the meeting, so he’s got to be willing to hear me out. Am I misreading this?
A buzzing from my pocket draws my attention away from my avocado sandwich on rye.
I wipe the bread crumbs on my napkin, then reach for the burner phone.
A message on TextGone from Unknown.
Try to keep him there as long as possible. Trust me.
I understand the need to be cryptic, but damn. Even if I wanted to reply for more context to the message, I can’t, because there isn’t a contact to reply to.
I raise my hand to signal the waiter.
I need a whiskey.
. . .
My heart is hammering.
I’m early. I run my hand through my short blond hair to slick it to the side, just the way Lexi liked it.
I twist the handle to the heavy door for the second time today.
Inside, the pl
ump woman in the vibrant purple dress is still sitting behind her computer.
She looks up with a choreographed smile that fades ever so slightly when she sees me. Her eyes narrow with recognition. Unpleasant recognition.
“Hello again,” I say. I put on a fake grin that’s so good I could probably win an Academy Award. I want to see her just as much as she wants to see me, and we both know it.
“The congressman is in a meeting.”
“Not a problem. I’ll just have a seat here if you don’t mind.”
She turns to her computer, and as she does, I notice the subtle yet visible eye roll.
I take a seat in one of the two wooden chairs against the wall.
I wait.
Ten minutes pass.
Then twenty.
Soon it’s 4:11.
I look over to the secretary, contemplating asking her if the congressman knows I’m here. But she’s smug. She loves that he’s making me wait.
The door swings open.
A pale, white-haired man emerges, eyes fixed on me. It’s Connelly. Judging me. Sizing me up. Then another man appears at his side. This one is tall, maybe six foot six, with brown hair and a cleft chin. I recognize them both, but I certainly didn’t expect to see them both. The second man is none other than Joe Jones, the most powerful man in Congress.
The Speaker of the House.
“Mr. Higgins?” Connelly asks. It’s not so much a question as it is a way of breaking the ice.
“Yes, sir. Great to meet you, Congressman,” I answer as I stand.
His secretary looks upset. She’s no longer winning.
We shake hands. His shake is quick, firm, and proper. The shake of a man who shakes hands all day. A man who enjoys the art of brevity. Then I turn to the Speaker, a man who towers over me, which is a foreign feeling because I’m a tall guy. He grins that famous television smile I’ve seen on CNN almost every day of the last couple years.
“I’m Joe Jones. Pleasure to meet you, David. I hear good things about American True Care.” His hand sweeps in and takes mine, giving me a welcoming glad hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Speaker. And you as well, Congressman.” I look from the towering Speaker to Connelly, his whip.
Truthfully I’m a bit starstruck, and my brain is still catching up with the situation, but I have to wonder what the nature of their meeting was. Boy, would I love to have been a fly on that wall.