by P. G. Abeles
If he’d come of age in meaner streets, he might have known of Archie Newton, or at least heard his name. At 86, Newton still spoke with the soft cadences of his southwestern Texas childhood, where he’d grown up as the youngest of 14. It might seem surprising to some, perhaps, but if you were an African American born in the 1920s, San Antonio was one of the best places to live. The proximity of the Mexican border and a still visible Native-American population largely made racial discrimination moot. Part of the frontier mentality was that everyone minded his own business—and what a man chose to do on his own property, or could accomplish by his own industry, was his own affair.
Of course, each ethnic group still self-segregated. Latinos, whites, and African Americans all had their own stores and businesses, stores that catered almost exclusively to their own community. Archie Newton’s family had been successful farmers and somehow (no one quite remembered how) ended up owning a funeral home. And then, because it made sense, the Newtons started to supply the caskets, flowers, and clothes for the deceased. Then, because they already had one (and, like any business, there were certain economies of scale), his father had bought another funeral home, and then another, all over southwestern Texas—until the Newton family had become mini-moguls of death.
His parents put a premium on education, and every one of their children finished college, most, like himself, going on to law or graduate school. By the 1950s, Newton had become a famous lawyer handling civil rights cases for such luminaries as Malcolm X and the Black Panthers. He never stopped exercising the entrepreneurial muscle he learned from his parents, however. He bought a radio station catering to Detroit’s African American community and renovated and refurbished a landmark theatre, where he produced shows with African American headliners.
He ran for city council and, to no one’s surprise, won handily—for the next 20 years. Like many black activists of his generation, he converted to Islam. But unlike many of them, he had retained his Christian name. When asked, he replied he thought he owed it to his Baptist mother.
The host read the prepared questions, nodding his head at appropriate moments. He had a date tonight and he’d be psyched if the taping finished a little early. His big wind-up was a question about candidate Okono. It was a no-brainer, an uncomplicated question designed to tease out an endorsement Newton had already given publicly.
“I was introduced to Okono by a friend who was raising money for him.” Then, without any prompting from the host, Newton said,
“I was contacted by my good friend Muhsin al-Nasih. He asked me to write a letter in support of Okono’s application to Harvard Law School.” As the host blinked uncertainly, Newton sought to explain
“Mr. al-Nasih is the principal advisor to Prince Abdul-Wahid bin Khair al Din, one of the richest men in the world.”
Whatever the producers had expected, this was not it. The host was off his prepared cue cards now, so he just asked the most obvious question:
“And did you?” he asked
“Yes, I did,” said Newton.
“I said, there’s a young man who has passed all the requirements necessary to become president of the Law Review and I hoped they would treat him kindly.”
The program had never had a particularly large audience, but seemingly within hours, the story had exploded on the internet. First was the tie with the highly controversial Muhsin al-Nasih, a black nationalist and outspoken critic of Israel (and by extension U.S. Mideast policy), who had served as OPEC’s principal American lawyer for 20 years. The idea that al-Nasih had raised money to pay for Okono’s law school would raise Jewish hackles everywhere. And the questions would start. How would such a radical international high-roller even know a then-29-year-old community organizer from the South Side of Chicago?
But, weirder still, for a candidate who was constantly harping on his Christian credentials, was the additional link that Newton provided (without any prompting) between Okono and one of the richest, most proactive Muslims in the world (a man his critics called an Islamic Supremacist!). A man who was not only a member of the Saudi Royal Family but close advisor to the King? Well, it wasn’t clear what to make of that. What was clear, however, was that it probably wouldn’t play that well on Main Street.
The Okono campaign immediately went on the offensive. Press Secretary Jim Latchky insisted that Newton was mistaken—calling the story a “fabrication.” Okono did not know al-Nasih, Latchky insisted petulantly. Al-Nasih had never raised money for Okono, and never solicited a recommendation for Okono from Archie Newton. Of course, the obvious question went unasked: how could Latchky be certain of any of this, if, as Okono claimed, he did not know al-Nasih?
The Okono campaign recognized within hours that they had a major problem on their hands. Okono was already on thin ice because of his relationship with The Minister and other black activists who the Israeli-lobby considered rabidly pro-Palestine.
Reporters were on the phone in minutes to the Harvard law professor Newton had mentioned writing.
“Would he comment on Newton’s statement: Had Newton written to him on behalf of Okono?” they asked.
The law professor sounded paralyzed, like a groundhog just realizing it had broken cover too early. “Let me call you back,” came the response. Reached a few hours later, he was better prepared. He said simply:
“No comment.”
Next reporters contacted al-Nasih. He confirmed that he had known Okono for years, but refused to address Newton’s statement. He politely said he must decline further comment “out of respect for Congressman Okono.”
Just as the story was picking up steam, Josh Stein ran a piece in the Political Insider that a spokesperson for the Newton family was, essentially, issuing a retraction. The spokesman Stein cited claimed Archie Newton (whose age he misstated by 2 years) had mis-remembered the event and had a failing memory. Stein ended his column authoritatively: “This should put the Okono/al-Nasih story to bed for good.” In other words: show’s over, folks. Move along.
But there was one problem. Contacted by a lone journalist to confirm Stein and Latchky’s joint story; Newton’s family insisted they didn’t even know the man who claimed to be their family spokesperson. Archie Newton had an exceptional memory, they insisted. They had never retracted Newton’s comments; never been contacted by, or confirmed anything with Josh Stein. Said Archie Newton’s longtime assistant of the “family spokesperson” quoted by Stein: “Who is that guy?” They’d never heard of him. Newton, and his family, stood by his original statement about helping Okono, he insisted.
Chapter Forty-Two
Quantico, Virginia
TWO MEN IN LAB COATS HUDDLED OVER A MICROSCOPE.
“See what I mean?” said one.
“Well, I guess that confirms it. It’s hard to think of another explanation for how or why sodium cyanide is in a congresswoman’s car.”
The younger one asked: “The guys on the scene didn’t report any odor. Is that curious?”
“Not necessarily,” the older man replied. “It was probably in a powder form. Sodium cyanide releases hydrogen cyanide gas when exposed to the air but a lot of people can’t detect any smell…and it’s completely odorless when dry. So the smell might not have been that strong. Probably strongest when she first opened the car door. But by the time she was found unconscious, they’ve got all the doors open—the chances of it being detected by the emergency rescue people was pretty remote. Also, keep in mind, we’re evaluating this from the point of view that it’s a crime scene. When the EMT’s arrive, she’s still alive, the rescue guys are thinking heart attack or stroke. She’s…what?... late 50’s? Early 60’s? You can’t blame them for not suspecting poison. Holy shit.” He paused, stunned. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
The younger man was still looking at the slide. “So, what was the mechanism for dissemination? They just left some in the car expecting the fumes to overwhelm her?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said the older man, “But rememb
er the coroner’s report? There was dermatitis on the hands. I would guess they put it on something they expected her to touch.”
“What? You think they just scattered it on the seat?”
The older man considered. “Well, they found some residual traces on the seats, but probably not enough to kill her. And you couldn’t be certain someone would touch the seat.”
“So, what? Gear shift? Steering wheel?” the younger man asked.
“That would be my guess,” replied his colleague.
“But how would they get it to stick? It’s a granular powder.”
“Not sure,” the older man replied. He looked at the slide again, obviously thinking. There was a long pause and he considered the options. Finally he said, “Ask the techs to test all the surfaces for DMSO.”
“DMSO?”
The older man nodded. “And tell them as a precaution to wear heavy rubber gloves—not the usual nitrile. Protective suits, the whole thing.”
The younger man started taking quick notes in an illegible scrawl. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” the older man replied. “Two things—call the coroner in Atlanta: ask them, did they notice a garlic smell on the deceased?”
“Okay.” The younger man wrote it down. “What else?”
“Have the techs bring a UV light when they’re testing the car.”
“Why a UV light?” asked the younger man
“Para-benzoquinone in DMSO reacts with cyanide to form cyanophenol,” said the older man.
The young man, smiled, pleased. “Which is fluorescent.”
“Right,” said the older man. “They’re looking for a blue-green glow.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Arlington, VA
THEY HAD BEEN INVITED FOR A POW-WOW with the former McCracken-pol, Danny Englund. Curiously enough this was to take place at the headquarters of the Republican candidate for president, Joe Malloy. Englund greeted them warmly as they shuffled back into his tiny cubicle. Certainly working for the Republicans had improved his wardrobe—but the stale cigarette smoke that clung to him tighter than a shadow and the constant snapping of his Nicorette gum seemed to indicate he hadn’t abandoned all his bad habits. As they perched on folding chairs, Englund had handed them each a copy of what he grandly called his ‘white paper’. As they started to read he began.
“Obviously, as youse can see, I’m workin’ for the Malloy campaign. My, ya know, purpose or whatever, is to organize the McCracken supporters, youse guys, and to do that, I’ve like developed a strategy of like lasering in on key counties in battleground states.” New to suit-wearing, he shot his cuffs importantly and smiled smugly. “I don’t mind telling youse, the folks around here have been pret-ty impressed.”
Betty Jo quickly flipped through the pages of Englund’s paper and exchanged a long look with Lacey. Danny Englund smiled expectantly, obviously anticipating their congratulations and praise.
Betty Jo locked onto Danny Englund with a piercing stare.
“Your plan?” she questioned sweetly.
“Yeah, my plan,” he bristled, then just as suddenly he relaxed. “Brilliant, ain’t it? See us old Democratic dogs aren’t about half dumb—”
Betty Jo cut him off. “Danny, this is bullshit. This is Lacey’s plan. Our plan.” Betty Jo kept a careful watch on Lacey from the corner of her eye—afraid of her friend’s reaction.
Englund objected: “No, I—”
Betty Jo continued, her voice still polite, but with a hard edge now.
“We brought you this plan. When we introduced you to the Malloy campaign guys. And we don’t need you to organize us. We’re already organized. We have 14,000 volunteers. You said you were going to help us do some fundraising, get some money for flyers and stuff…from Democrats.”
Englund snapped his gum, irritated. “Jay-sus, Betty Jo! Don’t be such a bitch. We’re all the same team, youse and me right?
Lacey addressed Englund coldly, calmly, her voice soft. “Tell me, Danny, how many volunteers have you signed up?”
Englund brightened. “Well, that’s the beauty of my plan, right?” He caught Lacey’s eye.
“Okay, your plan, whatever. McCracken’s supporters aren’t going to sign up with a Republican, right? So you bring your volunteers and I’ll direct youse.”
Lacey regarded him steadily. “I see. So, it’s our plan and our volunteers, but you’re going to be in charge, is that right? And the Republicans are providing the funds—and, of course, your salary?”
Englund frowned. The meeting obviously wasn’t going as he had anticipated. Drawn by the undercurrent of tension, Malloy staffers were curiously sticking their heads around the thin partition.
“Right,” he said carefully. All at once, he brightened once more, remembering. “Did I mention they’ll be prizes, ladies?”
Betty Jo was so appalled she couldn’t help herself, “Prizes? Prizes for what?”
Englund treated her to his best game-show-host smile. “Well, I thought, ya know, a little friendly competition between the McCracken groups—ya know to see which of youse gets the most volunteers. And the winner gets an all-expenses paid trip to go with me to the—wait for it—Republican National Convention! How’s that for great, girls, huh?”
Lacey couldn’t stand it anymore. She stood up. “Betty Jo, we need to go.”
But part of Betty Jo resisted, shocked that all their plans had unraveled so quickly and completely. She wanted to believe that they still might salvage something—but then she saw the look on Lacey’s face and she saw…cold, epic wrath. Polite, smilely Lacey looked like Zeus about to unleash a thunderbolt. Betty Jo quickly ushered her out of the office as Englund followed, wringing his hands and looking even more confused than usual.
As they emerged into the summer sunshine, Englund’s remonstrances to return and “work things out” still ringing hollowly in their ears, Lacey took a deep breath.
“Betty Jo, I’m sorry. I hope you understand. I can’t do that to my volunteers,” she said apologetically. “Even if I could hold my nose, they wouldn’t stand for it, and they’d be right. Danny Englund promised to set us up with McCracken donors. That’s never happened. Now he’s glomming off the Republicans we introduced him to—passing off our plans, our volunteers, our hard work—as his own. Frankly, and I’m sorry if this sounds mean, but the guy is as dumb as a rock. And, I could excuse that if it weren’t so obvious he thinks he’s smarter than we are. For me, this is about restoring power to people who feel they were crushed by the process. I’m sorry—but I don’t see how putting them under the thumb of someone like Danny Englund accomplishes that.”
Betty Jo considered. Typically, she made her decision quickly.
“You’re right, Lacey. We do our own thing. Raise our own money. It won’t be easy—but hey!” she said with a laugh “Who said that truth, justice and the American way was supposed to be easy?”
Lacey laughed. “Gosh, Betty Jo, I think I got you out of there just in time,” Lacey said with a wink.
“Why do you say that? Betty Jo asked curiously.
Lacey laughed, “You’re already starting to sound like a Republican.”
Chapter Forty-Four
September 2008
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
PRINCE ABDUL-WAHID BIN KHAIR AL DIN was not a handsome man. Of middling height, his male-pattern baldness was almost disguised by his copious use of hair spray and blow dryer. It wasn’t so much that people didn’t notice he was balding, as that they were so distracted by the implied engineering required to achieve the sculpted erection of hair he had left. He had small dark eyes, a small dark mustache and a very large dark mole to the left of his mouth. It was often said that he looked like a man from a different time, specifically a Lebanese rug salesman from the 1970s. The closely fitting dark turtleneck, the large-patterned suit, the rimless tinted glasses—all conspired to create a look more at home in the era of disco balls and male falsetti.
However, as he contempla
ted his life as the 29th richest person in the world, it is doubtful that any of that concerned him. What did annoy him, he claimed, were the financial magazines that consistently under-reported his $25 billion fortune. For a private man, he’d taken the unexpected step of inviting one of its reporters to spend a week with him. Of course, it was hard for any reporter to get beyond the Prince’s 317 room palace, conspicuously adorned with 1,500 tons of Italian marble. Or the two indoor pools (one designed to look like an African watering hole with 25 taxidermied animals in natural poses (which the reporter considered vaguely wonderful and disturbing at the same time. Should you splash?).
There were 250 television sets—mostly tuned to CNBC’s business news—Prince Abdul’s obsession— and four kitchens devoted to Lebanese, Arabic, Continental, and Asian cuisines, respectively. It was like eating in a different restaurant every night; especially as the prince insisted on eating in a different part of his palace, as well. Ah, the foibles of princes!
His jewelry collection was valued at over $700,000,000, but seldom worn by his 24-year-old fourth wife. The children from his first marriage had made him a grandfather, and he famously doted on his two grandchildren. He followed a predictable, if unusual, routine that seemed more appropriate to a rock star than a businessman. After dinner, he read the papers from the U.S. and U.K. and then stayed up until four or five in the morning, frequently texting friends and business associates nonstop. He claimed to require only four hours of sleep. True or not, official business hours for Crown Holdings began at a very civilized 12:00 p.m. and ended at 6:00.
Three hundred cars—one Mercedes was supposedly encrusted with diamonds—ferried the prince and his retinue to Crown Holdings’ various offices and construction sites. When he wanted to visit one of the five-star hotels that he owned in London or Paris, he had an Airbus A380 (the world’s largest passenger aircraft), designed to look like the interior of a house, to fly him there in style and comfort.