by David Ellis
She took the check from the waiter after we’d finished our coffee.
“You notice,” she said, “that I didn’t ask you about your search for the truth.”
“I noticed.” I smiled. “I’m going to figure it out. I’m getting close.”
She nodded, appraising me with those dark, shiny eyes. “I want you to. I do. I might have sounded like I didn’t before. I just don’t want you to get hurt doing so. That’s all.”
“I understand.”
“If I can ask,” she said. “What do you plan to do when you figure it out?”
I told her the truth. “I don’t know.”
She accepted that. She was willingly staying in the dark, not asking for details. She probably assumed, correctly, that if I’d wanted to share, I’d have done so by now.
“Another question, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“Why have you never told me that you lost your wife and daughter recently?”
It was true. I hadn’t. And I’d forgotten that Essie was now working at my former law firm, where the first mention of my name would have elicited that information.
“Well, anyway, I’m very sorry,” she said. “You’ve suffered. I had no idea. When you were standing outside my house on Christmas Day—”
“It’s not a problem, Essie.”
“This happened—near the time I lost Ernesto?” she asked.
“The same day, actually,” I said. “The reason I didn’t drive my wife and daughter to my in-laws’ house is because I was waiting for Ernesto to call me. So she drove without me.”
“Ah.” I hate pity, and I was seeing it all over Essie’s face. “So you put the two things together, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You blame yourself for—”
“Why don’t we just drop it, Essie,” I said, dropping my hands down on the table to indicate finality.
She placed a hand over her heart. “I have a knack for being direct.”
I blew out a breath. “It’s okay. I like that about you.”
“Oh, Jason. Jason, you can’t do that to yourself.”
I didn’t answer. An awkward span of time passed. Essie counted out cash and placed it with the check. She couldn’t have very much money to her name, but she’d be insulted if I offered to pay. This was how she wanted it.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “But you didn’t owe me.”
Her eyes flashed up at me. A strand of hair slipped out of her clip and curled around her cheek. She was debating whether to say something. She was searching me for a reaction, for a sign. I knew what I was thinking, but not what I was conveying. Something powerful was moving within me, a connection to Essie. Maybe it was just this joint tragedy we shared, like families who bond after losing their loved ones in a plane crash or something. I didn’t know. All I knew for certain was that she was looking into my eyes, and I was looking back, and neither of us seemed inclined to retreat.
“Do you think I asked you to dinner because I thought I owed you?”
That sounded like a dangerous question for me to answer, so I didn’t. There must have been a thousand love songs, and even more romantic comedies, built around this premise. Two people recovering from the loss of their spouses who find each other and rebuild their lives. Look, I couldn’t deny an attraction to Essie, and it appeared that the feeling was mutual. And I felt like I’d crossed a bridge recently. I could swallow the idea of another woman in my life, at least in some fashion. But not this. I couldn’t separate Essie from her husband, from guilt and anger. And I couldn’t think of her in a casual way, a one-nighter or anything even close to that.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I have to go now.”
She watched me a moment, still with those studious eyes. “Will you keep in touch with me?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure this out,” I said.
Her expression told me that I’d wounded her, that she’d had more in mind than merely the imparting of information. But I couldn’t do anything about that. My thoughts and emotions were tangled up and I defaulted to the classic Kolarich option, retreat.
“It was fun seeing you again,” I said, a comment which widely missed the mark in all directions. It seemed like an appropriately awkward note on which to exit.
77
I CALLED HECTOR’S CELL TO FIND OUT WHERE TO meet up. Then I hooked up with Lee Tucker for the hand-off of the F-Bird before taking a cab to a union rally over in Hector’s district. When I pulled up there were about a half-dozen people picketing the place. They’d managed to gain the attention of at least one camera. They were protesting over Antwain Otis, the death-row inmate scheduled to be executed tomorrow night. I was still a little rattled from my dinner with Essie, thoughts of lust and passion and guilt and bitterness forming one hell of a knot in my chest. I never thought performing an undercover role for the federal government and hearing about death-row inmates would serve as a welcome diversion from my thoughts.
I walked in through a side door protected by the governor’s security detail, one of these somber robots who had my name and even recognized me now. I stepped into an anteroom much like the one at the last rally. Madison Koehler was pacing while she barked into her earpiece at some poor subordinate. Brady MacAleer was eating chicken wings with some people I didn’t know. I peeked into the main room and saw Hector Almundo warming up the crowd, mostly speaking Spanish to a group of blue-collar Latino workers, two hundred strong.
Carlton Snow took the microphone next, starting with his patented joke about snow and then working his magic for about twenty-five minutes. He introduced himself by talking about his parents and his family’s struggles when he was a kid. No talented politician’s bio is complete without tales of humble beginnings, say, a union-worker father who got laid off before he got cancer and had his leg amputated because the insurance company denied coverage, or some variation thereof. It was because of his upbringing that Carlton Snow was singularly qualified to relate to the common man, why he gets up every day wondering how he can improve the lot of working-class families in this state.
I watched the whole damn speech and found myself calming again. Snow was pretty good in a room, I suppose, and afterward in the adjoining room, Hector was jacked up, talking with some people in Spanish and beaming at the attention he was receiving, being so close to power again. I saw Charlie Cimino and waved to him and the others were there, too, Madison and Brady Mac and Peshke, all of them working their cell phones furiously.
As much as I disliked politics and in spite of my real purpose for being here, I had to concede that the power was enticing. Everyone wanted a photo with Governor Snow. Everyone wanted a few words or an autograph. He was the odds-on favorite to win the nomination and, in an election that was probably going to go to the Democrats nationally—either Hillary or Barack would be formidable—Snow would stand an excellent chance of being elected to a full term. And from there, certainly in his mind, there were no limits.
For some reason there was beer, and everyone started drinking, including me. I made eye contact briefly with Madison, and she gave me an important nod, like maybe I’d done something right. Or maybe she had plans to use me as a human jungle gym later, but I wasn’t on that agenda at this point. I was fucking her plenty with the recording device inside my coat pocket.
“Tomorrow’s the announcement.” Charlie, liquored up himself, whispered harshly in my ear. “Both of them, SLEU and the Laborers. You did it, Jason. Those jobs for Rick Harmoning’s people—Mac says there are some pissed-off people but you did it. It’s done,” he concluded. “It’s fucking done.”
Tomorrow was the announcement? Did that mean tomorrow George Ippolito would be named to the vacancy on the supreme court? And did that mean the feds were going to swoop in tomorrow, before it could happen? I felt a flutter of panic. I couldn’t stomach the idea that Ippolito would be on the court, even for a day. But I didn’t want Chris Moody, Lee Tucker,
and company to make the arrests tomorrow, either. I wasn’t done. I hadn’t found my killer yet.
But I did find Madison Koehler, busy conferring with someone in one corner of the room. I stood an appropriate distance from them but made myself visible. When her subordinate looked sufficiently beaten down by Madison and skulked away, I moved in.
“The unions are announcing the endorsements tomorrow?” I asked.
She seemed annoyed with me. “Yes?”
“What about George Ippolito? Does he get appointed tomorrow?”
“And why is that your concern?” In Madison’s world, it was all about control. She compartmentalized. The strategists did strategy. The lawyer did law. I’d done my part, conducting sham interviews and writing up a glowing recommendation for Judge George Ippolito. I didn’t need to know anything beyond that.
“Ippolito had asked to see the recommendation,” I said. “Plus I thought Pesh might want some help with the press conference.”
She glared at me for a moment. You could almost see ice forming between us. “If you must know—no, we’re not appointing George tomorrow. No need to be so obvious. We’ll wait a few days. Maybe after the primary, maybe before. Does that address your concerns?”
“It does, and as always, Madison, it was a pleasure speaking with you.”
I deflated with relief. I had a few more days, at least.
The outsiders slowly filtered out, and soon it was the same group, making a circle out of the folding chairs, a bucket of icy beers in the middle. The governor, Hector, Madison, Mac, Pesh, Charlie, and me. With the outsiders gone, there was a palpable sense of relief in the air. These people felt comfortable with one another. This was the team, against everybody else. I imagined that when you do these campaigns, these are the kinds of things you remember most fondly, the downtime, the drunken camaraderie. Boy, that really made me the fly in the ointment, didn’t it?
The group was half conversing jointly and half broken up into whoever was sitting next to you, which for me meant Charlie and Hector. At one point Peshke cleared his throat and said, “Eleven-thirty tomorrow, Willie Bryant’s going to lose his appetite for lunch.”
Everyone clapped at the reference to the union endorsements tomorrow. Governor Snow, his sleeves rolled up and collar open, waved everyone down. “We don’t slow down now, guys.” He looked at Pesh. “Gardner and Harmoning are going to be there?”
“Joint presser outside your office,” Peshke said.
“I love it. I love it!” Snow grabbed Peshke’s shoulder. “Great job, everybody. And when do we leave?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Madison said.
“We’re going to take some digits from Willie downstate,” said Brady Mac. He was probably taking a lot of the credit on this, along with Charlie. I didn’t know where I fit in on that meter, nor did I care, under the circumstances.
“Let’s go drink some good stuff,” said the governor.
Everyone shuffled off to the waiting limos. Madison signaled me and said, “Ride with us.”
Madison announced the seating arrangements as we approached the two vehicles, and no one seemed to question it. I ended up in a limo with the governor, Hector, and Madison.
I sat next to Hector and across from the governor and his chief of staff. Madison worked her BlackBerry for a moment. Hector and the governor started up a conversation, and Madison signaled me. I leaned forward on my knees.
“You’ll have everything written up for Pesh on the Antwain Otis thing?”
I nodded. “I’ll have it to him first thing in the morning.”
“You’ll hit the highlights? The victims’ families, the senseless crime, that kind of thing.”
I gave her a thumbs-up because I wasn’t sure how it would sound if I answered verbally.
“You should be there when Pesh releases the statement to the press. In case they ask him something he can’t answer.”
“You mean, like, why would we execute someone who’s turning lives around in the prison system? Questions like that?”
Madison’s eyes narrowed. Otherwise, she didn’t move a muscle or react in any way. That was her way, the steely resolve. “There it is again, that attitude. Did we not talk about that?”
I returned the stare. I wasn’t going to debate her, and I wasn’t going to back down. Nor was I going to win the argument.
“Next,” she said. “This thing with the jobs.”
“Rick Harmoning’s people,” I said, thinking that FeeBee in my pocket was now standing at attention.
“Mac says there’s a hiccup with one of the jobs. Someone’s complaining or something. I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to know them. All I want to know from you is that I won’t be hearing about it anymore. Take care of the problem.”
“What is this now?” the governor asked, breaking away from his chat with Hector.
“Just some details, sir,” Madison said.
“Rick Harmoning’s people?” he asked. “Oh, Rick. Oh, okay.”
My heart skipped a beat. I could imagine Chris Moody and Lee Tucker poring over FeeBee’s contents later with bated breath, as Governor Carlton Snow got his hand close to the stove and then pulled it away. Oh, Rick. Oh, okay. Were those statements enough to show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he knew about this criminal scheme to trade jobs for a union endorsement? Or was he simply aware that Rick Harmoning had requested that certain people get jobs in the Snow administration? Moody would spend hours hashing over such questions. The better answer was that the words the Governor had just uttered were not, by themselves, enough.
The governor and Hector had resumed their side conversation as Madison gave me instructions. That seemed consistent with a governor who didn’t sweat the details. I guess that’s how it had to be. But it made me wonder how much Governor Snow knew about what was going on around him. Rick Harmoning, the union guy, for example. The governor seemed generally aware that Harmoning had put in a request for jobs for his friends in the Snow administration, but did he know that there had been a straight-up exchange of jobs for the union endorsement? I didn’t know, and I didn’t have proof of that yet.
And I wasn’t sure how much I cared. I wasn’t on the same program as my federal friends, Chris Moody and Lee Tucker. I wanted to know who was behind Greg Connolly’s murder—and what was almost my own murder, had I not narrowly escaped during that fun-filled interrogation. That, in turn, would probably tell me who killed Ernesto Ramirez, too. Same people, I assumed, working with Charlie Cimino.
And yes, as much as I didn’t relish being a snitch, I didn’t mind having a hand in exposing corruption at the highest levels of state government. Putting an unqualified judge on our supreme court? Buying union endorsements with jobs and appointments? Shaking down pro-choice groups in exchange for a veto of an abortion bill? I could live with helping the federal government on that score.
But here, I thought, was the difference: I didn’t care if the investigation netted Governor Snow. I wasn’t counting heads, trying to rack up defendants for an indictment. I wanted to know who had me put in that room, naked down to my boxers, to interrogate me; who ordered the murder of Greg Connolly and left him with his pants down in a park; who had Adalbert Wozniak and Ernesto Ramirez taken out. If it was Snow, then so be it, I wanted him to fall. But Chris Moody wanted the governor for political ambition. I just wanted the truth.
“Governor,” I said, “Judge Ippolito wanted me to tell you that he’d be honored to sit on the supreme court.”
“Ippo—Ippolito.” The governor gave me a blank stare initially. It was one I was seeing on him a lot. He looked at Madison. “Gary Gardner’s guy?”
Madison nodded. “We can talk about that later,” she said.
He took that comment under advisement, then nodded himself. It wasn’t hard to see how this worked. Madison was protecting her boss. Everything was stopping at her. The governor would stay above the fray. I was back to my question: How much did Governor Snow really know? He hadn’t ev
en recognized George Ippolito’s name.
The limos pulled up to the Ritz-Carlton. Again, we were in the city, where the governor’s family lived, but he was staying in a hotel. The governor and Madison climbed out of the limo into the cold, fresh air.
Hector signaled to me. “We’ll be right in,” he said to the governor and Madison.
Then he turned to me. “I want a word with you,” he said.
78
HECTOR WAS ON HIS SECOND SCOTCH IN THE LIMO, which, combined with a number of beers at the event, lent a rim of redness to his eyes and an easing of his posture. It seemed to put him in a bad mood, as well, if I was any good at reading people.
“What’s this stuff you’re talking about? Jobs for Rick Harmoning and this judge who says hello to the governor?”
Again with this dance. Hector, out of the loop and wanting in. Me, wanting to keep Hector out of the loop to protect him. “How come the governor stays at the Ritz instead of sleeping in his own bed?” I asked.
Hector seemed annoyed by the question, swatting at it like he would a buzzing fly. “He’s in campaign mode. She knows he needs to focus. I doubt she misses him much. But hey,” he said, returning to his subject, “what about all this stuff you’re talking about?”
He swallowed the remainder of the scotch, refilled, and stared at me.
“Look, Hector, they tell me these things in secrecy. I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“Secret from me? Who got you here, Counselor? You forget that?”
It was partly the booze talking, and Hector had had plenty. But alcohol typically lays bare true emotions, deep insecurities. Hector wanted to be a player again, and he took any secrets as the ultimate sign of disrespect.
“I do what I’m told,” I repeated, which felt like a cop-out, especially coming from me. I tended to be something of a contrarian, and Hector knew that.