by P. G. Abeles
“Okay, so what about the cyanide?”
“Sodium cyanide.” Samuels was always precise.
“Readily available?” Connor asked. Samuels sipped the remnants of his beer and nodded.
Connor probed further. “As what?…rat poison?” he asked.
Samuels replied. “It used to be available commercially as ant killer. But now it’s more regulated, mostly confined to industrial uses. In addition to the danger from topical exposure, it also produces a highly toxic, extremely flammable gas that’s liberated by carbon dioxide, called hydrogen cyanide or HCN.”
“So somebody in an air-conditioned car in August..?” asked Connor
“Their breathing would release the gas, yes,” responded Samuels.
“And cyanide does what, exactly?” Connor asked.
Samuels considered. “In the most basic terms…” he looked significantly at Connor, “it prevents the body’s cells from synthesizing oxygen and they explode.”
“Ugggh.” Connor was disgusted.
“It’s not pretty,” agreed Samuels. He continued. “Initial symptoms would be nausea, dizziness, rapid breathing, diaphoresis.”
Connor was writing as fast as he could. “Dia-phor—what?”
“Excessive sweating,” replied Samuels. He continued, “Within minutes there might be vomiting, unconsciousness, convulsions, and fluid would start to accumulate in the lungs.”
Connor was confused. “But it took her a day to die…right?” he asked.
Samuels weighed his words carefully. “I think it might be more correct to say that in deference to the feelings of her loved ones, she remained on total life support for nine hours.”
“I see.”
Samuels continued in a lower voice. “By most reports, her systems were fully shut down and she had little or no brain function by the time she arrived at the hospital—perhaps even before.”
The waiter brought the wine, uncorked it, and after a quick sampling by Samuels, poured two glasses. They both patiently watched the waiter move out of earshot before resuming their conversation. Samuels paused, thoughtfully. He went on to explain. “People don’t really survive sodium cyanide poisoning. Even with a full course of amyl nitrate, sodium nitrate, and sodium thiosulphate administered almost immediately, there’s usually irreparable brain damage.” Samuels paused again.
“So to be accurate, she wasn’t dying at the hospital—she was really, already clinically dead.”
Connor considered. “But the press reports said that she died of a brain hemorrhage after a burst aneurysm.”
“Maybe she did,” Samuels shrugged. “It would be nice to think the press sometimes reports things accurately.” As Connor looked puzzled, he continued.
“But that’s the biological explanation of what happened, not the proximate cause. The proximate cause was cyanide poisoning.”
“So why didn’t it show up in the autopsy?” Connor paused to sip his wine. It was delicious with the Lasagna Bolognese, the house specialty.
Samuels explained. “Cyanide naturally occurs as a bacterial by-product as tissues decompose.” Samuels continued. “It’s notoriously difficult to stabilize in tissue samples—particularly if blood is only taken from one site, or unless organ samples are stored in containers with a 2% sodium fluoride additive.”
“And were they?” Connor asked hopefully.
“Were they what?” replied Samuels.
“Stored with the additive?” Connor replied.
“No,” said Samuels.
“What about the body? Any tell-tale signs?” asked Connor.
“Sure. Victims turn bright-pink, like a bad sunburn.”
“Ahh…What does that look like on an African American?” asked Connor quizzically.
“Like an African American with a sunburn,” said Samuels.
“I mean,” Samuels paused to consider. “I suppose their mother might notice, not a Caucasian coroner.”
“Anything else?” Connor said.
“There’s sometimes dark vomit around the lips. Internal tissues might be bright-pink due to oxyhaemoglobin. The mucosa on the lower third of the esophagus may be damaged, and depending on how dilute the solution, the stomach might show some damage where the rugae have eroded, or petechial hemorrhage occurred,” Samuels concluded.
“Okay. Whatever that means. Any of that show up?” inquired Connor.
“Yup,” said Samuels.
“Which?” questioned Connor.
“All of it,” replied Samuels.
The waiter appeared to ask how everything was. They both waved him away with thanks. Connor said quietly. “Well, that’s proof, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Samuels replied. “There was damage to the esophagus—but the victim was on a ventilator for nine hours—there’s no way to prove when the damage occurred. The stomach and stomach contents revealed high levels of cyanide—so much so that the examiner became ill as the gas left the body cavity. But the assistant who took over stored the samples in a formalin preservative…” Samuels trailed off.
“Okay…” Connor answered, waiting.
Samuels continued, “Rendering the samples useless.”
“But you said the M.E. got sick from the fumes,” Connor protested.
“Or handling the viscera,” Samuels agreed. “No doubt about it. But without the samples, it wouldn’t hold up as evidence. A defense attorney could just claim the M.E. had the flu and didn’t know it.” Samuels considered a moment. “You know, there’s a good reason bad guys use sodium cyanide to poison people.”
Connor nodded, aggrieved. “Yeah, because it’s virtually undetectable and impossible to prosecute.”
“Well, that...” Samuels laughed a mirthless laugh, “and its highly effective. It kills something like 95% of people exposed to even small amounts.”
They both sipped their wine soberly. Their food was growing cold. Something was tugging at Connor.
“Wait. Where have I heard about HCN?”
Samuels looked thoughtful. “Ever investigate any arsons?”
Connor shook his head. “No. Why?”
Samuels explained. “Most lay people describe it as smoke inhalation—but it’s actually inhalation of HCN that causes most deaths in structural fires.”
Connor considered—he knew he had heard about it—and, recently. He just couldn’t place it. “No, that’s not it, but somewhere…”
Samuels considered for a moment. “Ever been to the Holocaust Museum?”
Connor nodded his head. “Sure. Last time I was in D.C.”
“Well, HCN was the Nazis’ weapon of choice for murdering the Jews and undesirables in the concentration camps.”
“What?” asked Connor, not sure he’d heard correctly.
“Sure,” Samuels replied. “HCN is the chemical composition of the gas marketed in the 1940s as Zyklon B.”
Chapter Fifty
Oxford, Mississippi
THE FIRST PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE between the two political parties’ nominees was scheduled for the last week in September. If there was nothing remarkable about the timing—the choice of location was laden with symbolism. Mississippi was the scene of some of the most contentious, even violent episodes in the civil rights movement. And, the state university known as “Ole Miss,” in Oxford, Mississippi, had been at its epicenter.
In 1962, a handsome U.S. Air Force veteran with an unblemished nine-year service record named James Meredith had attempted to enroll at the University of Mississippi. He applied one day after the inauguration of John F. Kennedy, inspired, he said, by Kennedy’s belief that things could change. Of course, previous attempts to register African Americans had been made, so far with disastrous consequences. In 1958, the state had committed an African American teacher named Clennon King to a mental institution after he attempted to attend summer school at the university.
But James Meredith had a powerful ally that Clennon King did not have. The United States Supreme Court had ruled in his favor—agreeing w
ith his contention that he had been denied admission to the University of Mississippi solely on the basis of his race. Three times that September, Meredith was turned away by an ugly mob. Finally, on September 30th, surrounded by federal troops and U.S. marshals, Meredith was able to enroll and take his seat in a Colonial American History class.
Even then, his admission was not achieved without violence—two people died in the angry clashes prior to his admission, and over 28 U.S. marshals were wounded by gunfire. Meredith and his guards had been assaulted by a mob hurling bricks, Molotov cocktails, and glass bottles. Many in the crowd carried (and discharged) weapons. The crowd was only finally dispersed by tear gas.
That first hurdle overcome, life at the university still wasn’t easy for Meredith. If he sat down at a table in the cafeteria, the other students would leave. In the classroom, if the students weren’t able to leave, they turned their backs. At all hours of the day and night, Meredith was harassed by students bouncing basketballs on the floor above his room. Racial slurs and threats were left in Meredith’s mailbox or slipped under his dorm room door. Compounding all of these challenges, he had no privacy. For Meredith’s protection, he was escorted everywhere by U.S. marshals, who were with him 24 hours a day until he graduated.
From a purely tactical point of view, Republican strategists thought the Malloy campaign was out of its mind. Holding the debate on a campus so fraught with reminders about toxic race relations in the past could, they believed, only benefit Okono—the first African American in U.S. history to win a major party’s nomination for president.
The strategists argued that the media and attendees at the Gertrude Ford Center could hardly miss (directly across campus, west of the Lyceum above the campus’ center point known as “the circle”) the life-size, bronze-cast statue of the diminutive Meredith striding towards a limestone portico with the words: courage, opportunity, perseverance, knowledge—one word emblazoned on each of the four architraves—a testament to Meredith’s fortitude and achievement.
But, whatever the reason, the Malloy campaign accepted the Okono campaign’s choice. Perhaps at that point they were just eager to make sure the debate took place. The Okono camp had been making noises about no debates at all.
The debate was supposed to cover foreign policy and national security, but the recent bank failures had pushed the U.S.’s overseas entanglements out of the news. The economy was on everyone’s mind—including that of the moderator—the sad-eyed eminence gris of public television.
Throughout the debate, in a move that was purposely respectful, Republican candidate Malloy referred to his opponent as Congressman Okono. Okono, by contrast referred to Governor Malloy as “Joe.” Commentators were struck by the fact that Malloy never looked at Okono directly, but consistently addressed his answers to the moderator. Insiders speculated that the truth-telling Malloy couldn’t pretend to respect a man he had come to despise. Malloy made it a point to emphasize Okono’s naiveté and lack of preparation. But if Malloy’s answers were more knowledgeable and assured, the way Joe Malloy looked—very old, very stiff, and very, very white—was a hard sell to a generation who grew up on the youthful, multi-cultural, waxed and buffed perfection of television performers.
Okono, on the other hand, looked the part of a hero: whip-slim and elegant. But for all his physical advantages, Okono, the barker of “new politics,” was no debater. He seemed uncomfortable, disengaged. He stammered. He stuttered. The great rhetorician whose soaring words of hope had inflamed the hearts of students at college campuses all over America, did not perform well without a teleprompter, a fact that (for the most part) the media obligingly failed to point out.
In early strategy sessions, one staffer had suggested Okono wear a wireless electronic receiver, whereby a coach could feed him the answers to tough questions. Appelbaum regretfully rejected the idea as too risky. A previous presidential candidate had been busted when the network chosen to provide the pool video had—contrary to an agreement between the campaigns—unwittingly set up cameras behind the candidates. Minute 23 of the C-SPAN video had clearly showed a rectangular object placed between the Republican candidate’s shoulder blades, and what appeared to be a wire snaking around his upper arm and neck.
The media had mostly ignored the story, even as a NASA scientist, expert in analyzing digital photos, had confirmed it. But the moderator of that debate was also the moderator of tonight’s contest. Without ever acknowledging that he believed the reports, he’d made it clear to both sides that he was not going to be embarrassed again by flagrant flouting of the rules. Besides, one of the tech guys pointed out, someone with a spectrum analyzer could detect the frequency and tune in—even record the coaching as it was broadcast to Okono! No, it was too risky.
If his staff didn’t have much confidence in his debating skills or broad knowledge, what Okono did have was resources. Most political campaigns ration campaign buttons and paraphernalia. Not Okono’s—his lawn signs and stickers were free and everywhere. But a larger indication of the truly gargantuan, limitless money the Okono campaign had amassed was the profligate way they spent it. And there was no better example of that than what happened at Ole Miss.
When Malloy came out on the stage, he was seeing it all for the first time. A veteran of political campaigns, the Republican governor prided himself on his rugged adaptability. Okono, by contrast was like a delicate hothouse bloom. Appelbaum and Okono’s other handlers knew that to perform even adequately, Okono would have to be relentlessly prepared and rehearsed. What should have concerned people was the level of preparation that the Okono campaign staffers thought was necessary for a man who declared himself ready to lead the free world. Because Okono’s team did the unheard of in campaign spending—they paid their set people to create an exact replica of the stage at the Ford Center—down to the curtains and the cup holders—so Okono could practice.
The calculated gamble paid off. The debate may not have changed many minds. But the Okono campaign considered it a huge win, simply because it wasn’t a devastating loss. Okono had held on and by doing so, had exceeded expectations. That was enough. More to the point, they all congratulated themselves, Okono looked great, so straight and handsome—compared to the aging-before-our-eyes Malloy.
As the Republican pols had predicted, the network commentators couldn’t resist the historical significance of the debate with the first African American presidential candidate taking place at the site of one of the most significant —and hardest won— battles in the civil rights movement. And why would they? It made for a great angle. What they did not mention was the strange later career of James Meredith.
After his graduation, Meredith kept himself aloof from the civil rights ministers, claiming they had corrupted the movement in exchange for money and favors. In 1968, after receiving a law degree from Columbia, he famously declared that he thought East Coast liberals (like Columbia professors Clothard and Pippen), not Southern conservatives, were the greatest enemies of African Americans. Meredith’s claim, derided by his fellow civil rights activists, was that a segment of the white liberal elite were merely using African Americans as pawns in pursuit of their own socialist agenda. His fellow activists turned on him with a fury. After working briefly for a conservative Republican senator (he claimed no Democrat would hire him), Meredith had largely flitted from job to job, selling insurance one year, used cars the next. Meredith’s increasingly conservative views and grandiosity had become an embarrassment to the civil rights establishment.
Previous to the event, commentators had waxed rhapsodic on-air about the wonderful symbolism if James Meredith himself were present as a witness to the great achievement of another African American. Curiously, the only two who seemed uninterested in creating the historic parallel were James Meredith and Okono’s team. For whatever reason, Meredith did not attend the debate. When asked directly, the Okono campaign refused to comment on whether or not he had been invited.
Chapter Fifty-One
&nbs
p; October, 2008
Washington, DC
ON THE FIRST SUNDAY IN OCTOBER, the Malloy campaign sent an email to the reporters covering the presidential race that they were convening an emergency conference call. The announcement was not unexpected given the revelations in recent weeks. An intrepid journalist from one of the national weekly magazines had started tracking some of the donations to Okono the FEC had identified as problematic. A preliminary investigation revealed donors with obviously made-up names contributing tens of thousands of dollars to the Okono campaign.
During the conference call, the Malloy campaign announced that the Republican National Committee was filing a complaint Monday morning with the Federal Elections Commission, asking them to examine all contributions received by the Okono campaign, both itemized and un-itemized. Tellingly, the problems the RNC identified were in the itemized filings, which represented less than half of the total contributions received. Okono had now raised more than $460 million dollars—more than any campaign in history. At least $250 million of that amount was from so-called ‘small dollar donors’ and no information about their identity—who they were or where they came from—was provided at all.
By contrast, the Malloy campaign pointed out, Governor Malloy had kept his promise to accept only public financing (a point on which his campaign was continually reminding people) and was limited to a measly $85 million. Most importantly, his campaign manager hastened to point out, the donors of all contributions Malloy received—of any dollar amount—were available online to anyone who cared to look. They concluded: “We believe that, in violation of the law, the Okono campaign has accepted contributions from foreign nationals and has knowingly done so, through at least its failure to reasonably investigate where all the money is coming from.”
Coming this late in the game, it seemed obvious that the Malloy campaign didn’t really expect to get any legal redress. Even in the highly unlikely event the banks froze the Okono campaign’s assets (a campaign could wish, after all), nobody was going to be able to sort through a presidential campaign’s muddled books in time to make a fair appraisal. However, it was a way of generating —they hoped— some media attention to the Okono campaign’s profligate spending, and even more staggering fundraising. People, the Republicans reasoned amongst themselves, would have to start asking where all the money was coming from, wouldn’t they?