“I swear to Christ I don’t know what happened. But I just can’t imagine leaving someone hurt in the street. I may not be much of a politician, but I’m not that bad a person.”
Just then his cell phone rang. He looked at the display. “It’s my father.”
Wallander listened and nodded his head. “But dad, if I have an attorney when I contact the police, they’ll think I’m guilty.”
I could hear the volume of his father’s voice get louder, but I couldn’t make out his words.
“No dad, of course I appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I know you’re looking out for me.”
He listened some more.
“Yes sir,” he said and closed the top of his phone.
“My father retained Seymour Arrington. He used to be the District Attorney in this county. He’s waiting for me in his office. It’s only a couple blocks from here. Can you come with me?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need to make sure all of your conversations with your counsel are privileged. If I’m there, your attorney may not be able to assert the privilege on your behalf.”
“But, you’re an attorney.”
“Yes, but I’m not your lawyer. Besides, I might have to give a statement on your behalf. Remember, you called me for a ride last night.”
He nodded his head.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“I’m your friend. I believe you’re telling me what you remember, and I just can’t believe you would leave the scene of an accident.”
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
Wallander stared at me as I thought about my response.
“I haven’t spoken to my father since I was 16 years old. He walked out on my mother and my brother and me. I don’t know if your father’s advice is right or wrong. I don’t know what I would do if I were facing this problem. But I do know that I would have liked to have my father’s advice if I were in a jam like this. Go to Arrington’s office.”
Wallander stood up and squeezed my shoulder.
“You know,” he said. “I heard a lot about you before we met. How you were a hero in the war and all. In my caucus they talk about you a lot, and none of it is particularly complimentary. Even my father told me I shouldn’t trust you.
You turned out to be nothing like I expected. I bet if it turns out that my truck was involved they’ll all think I was driving and ran away, probably my dad may have his doubts. But not you,” he said and shook his head. “I will not let you down.”
“Go see your attorney.”
I watched him as he walked past the window. I hoped our friendship had not clouded my judgment. Even though Wallander sometimes acted like a dilettante I believed he was not the kind of man who would cut and run in a crisis.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Samantha Binnager
I finished my coffee and walked back to the hotel. When I entered the lobby Samantha Binnager was standing at the desk speaking with one of the staff. She turned and smiled at me. She was stunning.
“Well hello,” she said. “What a pleasant coincidence. I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?”
“Uh-huh. I was thinking that I shouldn’t have left you that voice mail message. You probably think I’m being a tad pushy and wonder how I got your cell phone number.”
“As a matter of fact, I was a little curious about that.”
“You weren’t going to call me back. Were you?”
I didn’t respond, but then she hadn’t told me how she had gotten my number either.
“Look, I was really grateful you helped me out last night, and just wanted to thank you.”
“Well, you already have, and like I said, since I was there to give a friend a ride home anyway...”
“So, would you like to have that drink with me?” she asked.
“I know you’ll think it’s lame. But I really have some calls to make.”
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” she said and laughed.
“I wouldn’t characterize it quite that way,” my reply even sounded lame to me.
“Look, even though I’m doing some work for the NRA, I promise you I’m not armed,” she ran her hands down her sides.
“I can see you’re not packing; but you are dangerous.”
“Touché. Tell you what. I promise not to hurt you if you agree to meet me for a drink when you’re finished making your calls. What do you say?”
We agreed to meet later that evening at one of the local watering holes where the politicians hung out.
“In case something comes up and you can’t make it, here’s my card. I wrote my cell phone number on it.”
Her card read: Samantha Binnager, Communications Consultant, Dunlap Holdings, Inc.
“What exactly does a Communications Consultant do?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you when we have that drink.”
Carlota’s email prioritized my calls: family, staff, constituents, politicians, and unknown. I looked down the list and among the unknowns was Jack Collins. Since I had already spoken with Nicky, I dialed Collins number first.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Jack Collins. Ya can leave a message if ya like, and I may return the call or not, as I like,” I laughed at the message that had been recorded in Collins’ soft Irish brogue.
“Jack, it’s Bernie, if you’re there pick-up if not here’s my cell.”
“Bernie lad. It’s good to hear your voice,” Collins response boomed over the telephone. He spoke as if nothing had happened during the last year since he had left his phone number to a Korean dry cleaner and vanished into thin air.
“Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“He’s dead.”
Although Michael Jackson had just passed away, I didn’t think Collins would emerge from his heretofore-secret location to call about the passing of the King of Pop.
“Who died?”
“Earl Samson.”
I had never been one of Samson’s fans, or for that matter Michael Jackson’s either, although I liked some of his earlier stuff, when he was a child, Jackson not Samson.
“I didn’t know that, too bad.” I said trying to sound sorry.
“Yeah, I never liked the prick either,” he replied.
“Jack, where the hell have you been? I mean, except for one cryptic call several months ago, I thought you had died.” Collins had called when I was still a constituent service representative for the governor, to convey a message about having the governor’s back or something.
“It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
“Does that mean I’ll be seeing you sometime soon?”
“Of course.”
“So how did he die? I had heard that he was sick; but I didn’t think it was that serious.”
“He had a fatal illness… lead poisoning,” he deadpanned.
“What?”
“He shot himself; blew his brains out.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Actually, I think it was rather considerate of him.”
“You’re losing me. What do you mean he was being considerate?”
For the next 15 minutes Collins explained how Samson had been primed by the U.S. Attorney who was prosecuting Senator Cinaglia to implicate the governor in one of senator’s kickback schemes “It was all total bullshit. I mean, the governor has his faults, but he didn’t take any money from Cinaglia. He didn’t have to. For Christ’s sake, the governor has more money than the feckin Pope.” Collins concluded.
“So what’s going to happen now?”
“Well, I suppose the prosecutor will go to Plan B.”
“What’s Plan B?”
“Damned if I know Bernie, but Blackburn’s a crafty son of a gun, I’m sure he’ll come up with something else. He’s hell bent on bringing the governor into this mess. I think Blackburn has ambitions to run for office, maybe for governor. He sees the Cinag
lia case as his way into the lime light.”
“But the reason for my call was not to give you sad news of our friend’s passing. I wanted to warn ya that Attorney General Conrad and his buddy Bob Worthington are gunning for ya. Those two assholes want your head on a spike. What’d ya do to make them so angry?”
“As far as I know, the only thing I did to Worthington was turn down his campaign contribution. As to Conrad, well, that’s a long story. It will have to wait until we can get together.”
“OK, but watch your back. Those two are some treacherous bastards.”
After I finished returning my calls I called home again. Nicky and Bobby weren’t there. I left a message, hoping I didn’t sound as homesick as I felt. It was approaching the time I had agreed to meet Samantha Binnager. I contemplated calling her and making up some excuse for postponing our meeting. Binnager would probably not be put off; besides since she worked for Worthington she may be able to shed some light on the mystery of why my refusal to accept the NRA’s campaign contribution had triggered such an irrational reaction.
She was waiting for me at the bar. I watched as she deftly refused the offer of a drink from an overly muscled young man with no neck, who was flexing his bicep and asking her to feel his muscle. In dispatching her suitor, she did not resemble the troubled woman of the previous night who was unable to fend off the advances of State Representative McCorkle who did not remotely possess the physique of her current admirer.
“I was beginning to think you were standing me up,” she said as I took the bar stool to her left allowing her to turn her back to the young gorilla with the biceps and no neck.
“I would never do that.”
She stared at me for a moment and said, “No, I didn’t think you would.”
I ordered a light beer and waited for her to initiate the conversation.
“You don’t do this very often, do you?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Sit at a bar and make small talk.”
“No, I don’t. But if you like, I’ll flex my bicep.”
She laughed and raised her glass in a mock toast.
“So?” I asked.
“That’s right I invited you for a drink to thank you for saving my honor last night.”
“It was my pleasure. But to be blunt, you really don’t strike me as the kind of woman who needs to be rescued. In fact, I think you hurt that young man’s feelings when you rejected his offer of companionship,” I said nodding in the direction of no neck who was explaining to his buddies at the other end of the bar that Samantha must be a lesbian for fending off his advances.
“Really? Do you think it was some kind of an act, a pretense to get you to drive me home?” Her eyes searched my face for some sign that I was teasing her.
“Dunno. It’s just that you appear to be able to handle yourself pretty well without assistance from the likes of yours truly.”
We endured an awkward moment of silence.
“I wonder if you can help me out with something,” I said breaking the silence.
“Certainly, if I can,” she smiled.
“Your client, Bob Worthington apparently doesn’t hold me in high regard. In fact, I understand that he would like to put my head on a spike, or something like that.”
“And why exactly would Mr. Worthington want to do such awful things to you?”
“You know, I’m not really sure. I mean I know we have an honest difference of opinion regarding access to firearms. And I did return his generous campaign contribution. But that’s the full extent of our dealings.”
“You mean you actually returned his campaign contribution?” she said in mock horror.
I nodded.
“None of the politicians I’ve encountered would ever do something as inconsiderate as that.”
“I guess I’m not like the politicians you’ve encountered.” Just then my cell phone vibrated in my pocket, I looked at the display it was Nicky.
“Hi honey.”
She must have heard the background noise and asked where I was.
“Actually, I’m sitting at a bar having a drink with a beautiful woman.”
She asked why.
“She wanted to thank me for saving her honor last night.”
I listened to Nicky’s reaction.
“My wife told me to tell you to leave her husband alone,” I said to Samantha.
Binnager nodded in the affirmative.
“I think she understands.”
After another warning, I said, “I love you too, and give Bobby a kiss for me.”
“Was that really your wife?”
I nodded.
She gave me a look of disbelief and shook her head.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Dirty Low Down
It was all a set up. Binnager told me Worthington had hired her to get me in a compromising situation, nothing fatal, just a little something to hang over my head, in case I got out of control, like an insurance policy. She called it a honey trap. She was the honey and, well you get the picture.
“But why me?”
“I never ask the why; just the who and the what.”
She gave me one of her cool and appraising looks.
“You’re a good guy. I’ll tell Worthington you wouldn’t take the bait. That you’re some kind of a Boy Scout, you know, in love with your wife, that kind of thing.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t be so disappointed. I meant it as a compliment,” she said.
“Do you think he’ll believe you?”
“Probably, but whatever it is that he’s got against you, it must be important to him. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
That was the second watch my back warning I had been issued in the past hour or so. One more and I was going to be ticketed for failing to watch my back in a warning zone or something.
As I walked back to my hotel the lyrics of a Boz Scaggs song kept running through my mind:
Nothing you can’t handle.
Nothing you ain’t got.
Put the money on the table,
Drive it off the lot…
Same old schoolboy game,
got you in this mess.
Hey son, better get back to town,
Face the sad old dirty low down.
That’s exactly what I had to do. Get back home and talk this over with Nicky, and if I hadn’t been hallucinating and had actually gotten the call, with Jack Collins too.
The next morning the local newspaper headline screamed:
“State Representative a Suspect In Fatal Hit and Run!”
The story reported that a vehicle owned by Wallander fit the description of the Suburban that witnesses saw leaving the scene of the accident. According to the report the detective investigating the crime became suspicious when Wallander appeared with counsel to report that his vehicle was missing.
‘People normally don’t have their attorney with them to report a missing vehicle. In fact, most people don’t even come into the station. It’s very unusual, according to Detective Alfred Reese.’
This was not good. I berated myself for not insisting that Wallander call the police without involving an attorney. But after all, who was I to interfere with Wallander’s father’s advice?
Later that morning as I sat in the House Chamber while the budget debate droned on, I looked across the aisle. Wallander sat all alone, as if he had the plague or some other contagious disease. No one from his party sat on his row, or anywhere within hailing distance. I nodded to him and gave him the thumbs up. He forced a smile in response.
When the morning session recessed I was summoned to the speaker’s office. Many of the party leaders who had attended the previous strategy meeting were assembled there.
“Gentlemen, I’ve got good news and bad news,” the speaker began. “The good news is the governor and the Rs have agreed to a stop gap budget, so we can all get the hell out of here. The bad news is that the compromise is so low we’ll have
to come up with stringent cuts if we can’t work something out that makes sense. So when you get back to your districts, you have to stir up your constituents.”
The leaders debated the best strategy to get public opinion behind them for the next two hours. I understood that a threatened cut in education financing and the likely layoffs of police and firefighters would generate a great deal of controversy in my district. We all agreed that those two points should be the cornerstone of our public relations attack.
“Bernie, can I speak to you for a moment?” the speaker asked as the meeting broke.
“It looks like your buddy Wallander is in deep dodo.”
“I saw the newspaper article this morning. Have you heard anything more?”
“They found Wallander’s truck in a body shop in Derry Township. The dents on the truck are consistent with the hit and run investigation report. There was blood on the hood of the vehicle. If it matches the victim’s Wallander is toast.”
“Even if his truck was involved, it doesn’t mean he was driving,” I said.
“That’s true, but it sure doesn’t look good. Anyway, Wallander’s not our problem. He’s on the other team. We have our own miscreants to worry about,” the Speaker responded.
“Mr. Speaker, I wonder if you can help me with something.”
I filled him in on Bob Worthington and Samantha Binnager’s revelation of the failed attempt to set him up.
“You say the only dealings you had with Worthington was the return of the NRA’s campaign contribution?” he asked.
“As far as I know.”
“This just doesn’t add up. There must be something else. Look, until we get to the bottom of this, you better…”
“I know I’d better watch my back!”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
You’ve Been Served
I drove back from Harrisburg checking the rearview mirror the entire way. Too many people had warned me about watching my back for me to ignore the danger. Now all I had to worry about was driving into someone in front of me.
I was concerned about my friend Phil Wallander. The press was having a field day with Phil’s history dating back to his college fraternity days. Even though there had been no incidents of any kind during the last several years, Wallander’s reputation as a party animal was hard to shake. The media had already convicted him of the hit and run, despite the fact that there had been no match to victim’s blood, no direct evidence that his Suburban was the vehicle involved, and even if it was his truck that he was at the scene, let alone driving the vehicle. Why let the facts interfere with a sensational story?
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