by Don Brown
“Yes, I know all about that,” Richardson said, “which is why I want us to pitch the Air Force for the interior continental United States drone project after we get this one rolling. But all that’s beside the point. It’s already been three weeks since we sent our final revision to the contract to Washington. This is taking way too long, Jack.”
“I’m sure it’s going to work itself out. Our firm has handled government contracts for years. We’ve delivered on projects at the Savannah River Plant, at Fort Benning, and at the Kings Bay Naval Station. We’re the best in the business, remember? That’s why you hired us.” He emptied his glass and set it down. “Patience, Richardson, patience. These things take time.”
“I know your record. But this is taking too long. I’ve never been one to sit around and leave matters to chance.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Watch me.” He picked up the phone. “Ivana?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to get Senator Talmadge’s Washington office on the line. Tell them I want to speak with him—now!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re making a mistake, Richardson.”
“We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER 5
DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
UNITED STATES CAPITOL
OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY AFTERNOON
In the world of politics in the great state of Georgia during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, only a handful of surnames commanded instant recognition, instant attention, and, in some cases, instant respect.
Any Georgian who knew anything about politics could rattle off the names: Nunn. Carter. Chambliss. Cobb. Lewis.
Anyone who bore names such as these, even if they were not first generation, could always turn heads by the slightest hint of a dalliance into the political world in the Peach State.
One such iconic surname, capable of such political head-turning, even in the early twenty-first century, was Talmadge.
The original bearer of the name had been the late, powerful senator and governor Herman Talmadge, who served as the seventieth governor of Georgia from 1947 to 1955, then went on to serve in the United States Senate from 1957 to 1981.
But Herman Talmadge, whose daddy was the longtime governor of Georgia before the son began his long career of governor and senator, remained too powerful and too ingrained in the consciousness of state politics to yield way to the negative aspects of the iconic senator’s career, like his censure and his segregationist past.
None of this was lost on former state senator Robert O. “Bobby” Talmadge, who understood that campaigning with the last name Talmadge in Georgia was like campaigning as a Kennedy in Massachusetts or any of the liberal northeastern states.
Of course, the dirty little secret was that Bobby Talmadge was not related to the long-standing father-son political dynasty that cast a looming shadow over the landscape of the Peach State for the better part of a half century.
When, as a Georgia state senator representing Atlanta’s ultra-wealthy, upscale Buckhead district, Bobby learned through the political grapevine that Georgia’s long-standing senior U.S. Senator, Mack Coble, was stepping down, he hired a private political pollster to gauge his chances.
The results of the poll confirmed Bobby’s hunch. His last name would provide a big leg up on his opponents in the primary, even without a real blood tie to the legendary Georgia dynasty. So he jumped into the race, and his campaign team crafted a theme subtly suggesting a connection without actually saying there was. They purchased billboards all over the state proclaiming:
TALMADGE
HISTORY, TRADITION, COURAGE, CONVICTION
No, Bobby Talmadge was no political dummy. If someone asked if he was related to the epochal Talmadge dynasty, he would answer truthfully, “We’re not directly related, as far as I know.”
But most people didn’t ask. Most assumed. Low-information voters were easily manipulated. And he capitalized on the name all the way to the U.S. Senate.
To confuse the matter even more, Bobby had ordered his staff to hang on the walls of his office the portraits of several former U.S. senators from Georgia, both Democrat and Republican: Sam Nunn. Mack Mattingly. Paul Coverdell. Zell Miller. Saxby Chambliss. Johnny Isakson . . . and, of course, Herman Talmadge.
Above the collection of portraits, he had his staff place a plaque in gold, engraved in black, titled “The Great Peach State—The Wall of Bipartisanship.”
Bobby’s portrait hung right beside that of his famous predecessor with the same last name for the benefit of those Georgia school groups, civic groups, and Chamber of Commerce types who came up for office tours. They would return to the Peach State and vote, and persuade others to vote.
Every potential vote had to be accounted for. No stones uncovered.
Hopefully, by the end of this first term, he wouldn’t have to piggyback on the Talmadge name of the past, but instead would achieve reelection based on his own accomplishments.
He sat in his Washington office, his leather cowboy boots propped on his desk, going round and round on the phone with a young political reporter from the Atlanta Constitution who undoubtedly, given the young pup’s liberal political bias, champed at the bit for some out-of-context quote to benefit the Democrats in next year’s election.
Clearly an environmental wacko, the reporter opposed all forms of energy exploration, and not just worthwhile projects like the Keystone Pipeline or projects on Alaska’s North Slope, but those of more immediate relevance. Like Exxon’s request for federal approval to begin drilling off the Georgia coastline.
The proposal had generated fiery opinions from all corners. Bobby, who favored the project along with anything else that brought jobs to Georgia, measured his words to avoid any foot-in-mouth slip-ups that could be blown out of proportion.
“Yes, Johnny. Of course we must be environmentally sensitive. But we also need jobs in Savannah and along the Georgia coast. And if those rigs don’t get built off the Georgia coast, Exxon will move them a few miles to the north, off the South Carolina coast, where their senators are lobbying for the project. If there’s a spill, it could float down to our beaches anyway, and Savannah wouldn’t have gotten the same economic benefit that Beaufort or Charleston would have gotten . . . Yeah . . . yeah . . . of course I respect their opinions.
“But I’ve also got to respect the Georgians who are still unemployed down on our coast from the last recession. They need jobs for their families to put food on the table . . . No . . . Yes, of course I remember the BP disaster off Louisiana . . . What do I think of it? Well, I think it’s a rare occurrence for one thing, and we’ve got a ton of improved safety measures . . . Right . . . right . . .” He shook his head. “But, Johnny . . . with respect, you’re missing the point . . .”
The cub reporter railed on and on. Was there a question in there somewhere? This kid should resign his job as a political reporter and just go ahead and seek the Democrat nomination for something or other.
Bobby checked his watch. Atlanta Constitution or not, he needed to cut this off.
“Hey, Johnny, I’ve got a meeting coming up with the Augusta Chamber of Commerce. I’m gonna have to—”
No luck.
His office door opened. Tommy Mandela, Bobby’s wily chief of staff and an Emory law grad who never practiced anything except politics, stood there, decked out in his blue pinstripe suit. Mandela may have coincidentally borne the same last name as the great South African Nobel Prize winner, but in ethnicity, in political philosophy, and in shrewd cunning, he was opposite in every way. Bobby read Mandela’s lips. “I need to see you.”
“Johnny, hang on a second.” Bobby punched the Hold button on his phone. “Find somebody else to talk to this guy.”
“They all want you, boss.”
“Tell me about it. Whatcha got, Tommy?”
“Sir, I’m sorry t
o interrupt, but Richardson DeKlerk’s on the phone from AirFlite.”
“DeKlerk? What’s he want?”
“To talk about the drone project, sir.”
“I’ll be right with him.” He punched the Talk button, reengaging the energetic reporter, mockingly known around Georgia political circles as Little Johnny White. “Johnny, I apologize, but something’s come up. I’m gonna let you talk to my secretary, and she’ll set a time for us to finish this. That okay?”
Without waiting for Little Johnny to respond, Bobby punched the line for his secretary. “Maryanne, pick up on two. Schedule a time for me to finish this interview. Find a way to tell him diplomatically that he’s got ten minutes to wrap this up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What line is Richardson DeKlerk on?”
“Mr. DeKlerk is on three, sir.”
“Thanks.” He punched line three. “Richardson. How ya doing this afternoon?”
“As well as can be expected.” The business magnate spoke in his trademark South African accent. “How about you?”
“Doing fine. Hey, listen. You’re on speaker so I can jot down some notes. That okay?”
“Bobby, I don’t care if I’m on a bullhorn, as long as you do what we need you to do.”
Bobby chuckled. “You always drive a hard bargain.” He looked up as Tommy Mandela walked back into the office and DeKlerk kept talking.
“That’s why I’m a multimillionaire, soon a billionaire, if we get this drone project through the worthless bureaucrats up in DC whose sole job is to single-handedly wreck the American economy. You know,” DeKlerk added before Bobby could squeeze in a word, “if this project goes through, it won’t be a bad thing for the Georgia Political Victory Fund.”
Tommy grimaced.
“Now, Richardson, we’ll do everything we can to help. But the GPVF is an independent political action committee. I’ve got nothing to do with them.”
Bobby heard laughing from the other end of the phone. “You’re hilarious, Senator. I’ve got my lawyer, Jack Patterson, with me, and he’s in stitches at the notion that the Fund isn’t your political ace in the hole. Heck, they even send the glossy flyers here to my office, reminding all dutiful Georgians of what a fabulous job-creating record you’ve built for the Peach State. You know we gave a hundred thousand to the Fund when you were first elected.”
“Well, we’re grateful for what they do,” Bobby said.
“I know. I know. These political action committees that allow unlimited contributions to support candidates that are technically—quote—‘independent from the candidates.’ I’d give you a big wink if you were here in Savannah, Bobby. Anyway, there’s more coming to the Fund if this drone deal goes through.”
Bobby’s mouth salivated. DeKlerk touched on all the hot buttons before even making whatever request he had. The Georgia Political Victory Fund was pro-Talmadge, had spent hundreds of thousands already on public relations maintenance during the off years to keep the senator’s image positive, and would spend millions on attack ads against his opponent as the election approached. AirFlite could bankroll a huge portion of GPVF’s budget.
But Bobby had to be careful. He knew the right things to say. They’re separate. We have nothing to do with them. We can’t control what they put out or who they support or what they say.
But the party line was repeated with a nod and a wink, because everybody knew how this worked.
“Look, Richardson. You’re a good friend. I appreciate your support. But I’ve got nothing to do with the political action committees. The Supreme Court in the Citizens United case said corporations could make political contributions. And these super PACs were authorized under that case and can spend whatever they want, but must remain independent of candidates. That’s the law, and I happen to agree with it. Otherwise we’re suppressing people’s First Amendment rights, and the federal government has no right to suppress the First Amendment.
“The Georgia Political Victory Fund is one of these super PACs, operating under the law, and I’m not connected with them in any way.” Bobby glanced over at Tommy, who nodded his head and gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. “Now, how may I help you today, my friend?”
“Look, Bobby,” DeKlerk said, “I appreciate your help so far on our little drone project down here in Savannah. But there’s an unacceptable holdup that my lawyer has just informed me about.”
“Hmm,” Bobby mused. “What kind of a holdup?”
“Jack tells me the entire project is dependent on some nameless, midlevel Navy lawyer holed up somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon, who is supposed to be writing some sort of legal opinion declaring the whole thing legal under some sort of posse— What did you call it, Jack?”
A pause. Mumbling in the background. Sounded like Patterson’s voice doing the mumbling.
“Ah yes,” DeKlerk said. “Some sort of posse comitatus nonsense or something like that.”
“Oh yes,” Bobby said. “That means the military can’t perform police functions in the U.S.”
“I’ve never heard of it. And I don’t care about it. I’ve got billions riding on this project. My future depends on it, and frankly, so does yours.” DeKlerk paused for a second. “Still there, Bobby?”
“Still here, Richardson.”
“Anyway, my patience is running thin. Look. A number of us who sent you to the senate sent you there to cut through this ridiculous baloney-of-an-excuse red tape that has made the American governmental bureaucracy so bloated that, frankly, the whole thing should be burned to the ground so we can start over. I need you to get on the phone and call the Secretary of Defense and cut through all the BS and get this done.”
“I understand.”
“Well then, if you understand, then understand this: I want this contract signed, sealed, and delivered no later than one week from today. And if you don’t deliver, Senator, then I’m sure our mutual friend, Joe Don Mack over at GPVF, might have an interest in knowing that. After all, the GPVF is interested in finding candidates who oppose big government and who can cut through red tape and make things happen. Are we clear on this?”
Silence.
Bobby looked at Mandela, who sat in the chair across the desk with a raised eyebrow.
“Richardson, I share your frustration. The bureaucracy needs to be reined in so we can pave the way for job creation, like AirFlite is trying to do in Savannah. And I’m behind you.”
“With respect, Senator,” DeKlerk said, sharpening his tone, “we need more than you sharing our frustration. We need action.” He paused. “Now!”
Another pause.
“Tell you what, Richardson. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do.”
“Excellent. I thought you would see it my way. Call me as soon as you hear something. One week. You have one week.”
The line went dead.
Bobby looked at his chief of staff. “Tommy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we just got threatened.”
“You know, Senator, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re right, sir.”
Bobby turned in his chair and folded his arms. “We’ve got to stay in good with GPVF.”
“No doubt, sir.”
“DeKlerk’s got a lot of sway with Joe Don Mack.”
“When you give millions to an organization, you’re going to have sway like that, Senator. You know the ole saying better than I do. Money’s the lifeblood of politics.”
“Right. And Joe Don Mack’s gonna follow the money. And if I don’t deliver here, they could throw a primary challenger at me, and the Democrats become the least of my worries.”
“Right, boss. These super PACs are kingmakers. And incumbents are sometimes most vulnerable in the primaries, when you have a lower number coming out with an ideological purpose.”
“No kidding. Anyway, we’ve got to figure out a way to get the Navy moving on this. I can’t afford to lose that fund. Any suggestions, Tommy?”
“Let me think.”
A wry expression crossed Tommy’s face. “Nah. Doesn’t feel right.”
“How come?”
“It might be more effective to call Roberson Fowler and see if he’ll make the call. That way you get the long-standing chairman of the Armed Services Committee involved, and you’ve got plausible deniability. Fowler carries the kind of weight Jesse Helms and Ted Kennedy used to carry, even though they were from opposite ends of the political spectrum. He’s more powerful at the Pentagon than any Secretary of Defense will ever be.”
Bobby felt the lightbulb come on. “Tommy, you’re a genius. On all fronts.”
Mandela chuckled. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks, sir.”
Bobby picked up the telephone. “Maryanne, get Senator Fowler’s office on the phone. See if you can arrange a time for me to speak with him. Tell them it’s a hot topic and I need to chat with the senator ASAP.”
“Yes, sir, Senator.”
CHAPTER 6
HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY
EAST 161ST STREET
THE BRONX
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Phillip D’Agostino kicked back behind his desk in his simple-looking offices in the concrete building down the street from Yankee Stadium, puffed on a Macanudo, and grew angrier by the word as he stared at the lower right corner of the front page of today’s New York Times.
The madder he got, the faster he alternated between sucking on and blowing out the cigar. His wife had given him hell about oversmoking for years, but the smoking had kept him from overeating, which was a problem for many Italian men who ate too much pasta. Liquor wasn’t the problem. It was the pasta. So unlike Big Sal and other godfathers whose bellies had grown rotund over the years, the smoking had kept Phil’s waistline down to his fighting-weight, thirty-six-inch waist, and other than the fact that his black hair was starting to turn gray, the smoking definitely had its benefits.
But one vice the smoking did not cure was that red-hot Italian temper.