Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  By noon, it was clear to Beck the pundits, by a wide margin, were condemning the government’s action. Only a few conservative commentators on Fox News wondered if Beck had revealed any classified information, which could have made his behavior criminal. That rattled Beck. But any rereading of the story would quickly dissuade that kind of thinking. At least Beck thought so. But then Beck knew facts and pun-ditry were rarely on the same page.

  Nationally, most of his journalism colleagues played the story as a battle between two titans—the overreaching government and the heroic press always ensuring the public’s right to know. It was the type of fight the national media love: a test of wills over the First Amendment. Beck would have found it amusing had he not been in the middle of this mess. Raising the banner of a free press was not only an easy story for the cable windbags and newspaper op-ed pundits, but it also spiked ratings and improved profits. Beck was a one-man profit center for the national cable media right now—at least until the next white coed kidnapping, he thought.

  The political bloggers went on a tirade, blasting Beck for harming their government and their future vice president. They operated out of ignorance and were truly representative of their audiences, Beck thought. They knew nothing of journalism’s sacred rules and grand code of ethical fairness. Grabbing an audience and making headlines was their only concern—capitalism at its best. Beck understood their motives and dismissed them. But their criticism still stung. He was not accustomed to the limelight.

  As for Beck’s real role in all of this, old walrus face, attorney Charles Curtiss, advised him not to answer his phone. The newsroom operator screened his calls. He was not to comment to the press. Here he was, an advocate of openness and transparency, ordered to shut down and shut up by the Post-Examiner’s First Amendment eight-hundred-pound gorilla. His world made no sense. He was already a caged animal and feeling the walls close in on him.

  God, if the world only knew the whole truth about Oliver’s connection to Bayard. He had to figure out a way to get that story out.

  49

  Keith Crocker sat at his desk and stared at his computer screen, preparing to make his morning trades. He was thinking about yesterday, about kissing Geneva and touching her, and about so many other future possibilities, when bank partner Robert Gettlin stepped into his office doorway.

  Keith looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe,” Gettlin said. “I noticed you set up a personal account for Geneva Kemper of Serodynne and her husband, Michael Harvey—Senator Michael Harvey—without consulting the partners. Do you think that was a wise idea?”

  Keith was stunned. How did Gettlin find out about Geneva’s trading account, and how much did he know about their scheme to enrich themselves? He stared in the man’s direction, not focusing.

  “Mr. Crocker.” Gettlin’s words broke the silence. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “Sorry,” Keith said. “I’ve been concentrating on other work. What was your question again?”

  “Didn’t you think you should talk to the partners before you opened a personal account for a representative of a large corporate client? In this case, Geneva Kemper and Serodynne Corporation? And her husband is a US senator, for crying out loud.”

  Keith caught the sarcasm and exasperation in Gettlin’s voice. He had to respond. “I was trying to remember the details of her account. She asked me to set it up. She’s now my client. I didn’t know I needed to seek the partners’ permission to set up my clients’ accounts—no matter who they were.”

  “But her company is a client as well.”

  “Serodynne is also mine, if you recall. You and Mr. Bernstein assigned it to me. No one wanted to deal with Ms. Kemper’s quarterly dog and pony show anymore. If I remember correctly, you were seeking new lucrative accounts, and old stable ones like Serodynne were downgraded in importance. That’s why you assigned it to me.” Keith was on a roll, now feeling more confident with every word he spoke.

  Gettlin shifted in the office doorway, hands dapperly positioned in the pockets of his expensive suit coat. “Why did you invest in options in her company?”

  “It’s a perfectly legitimate trade. She gave me a small amount of money to invest. After going through the financials of her company with a fine-tooth comb, which is my job, I decided Serodynne was not a good investment. So I bet against it.”

  “Is it advisable to have your client bet against her own company?”

  Damn. He couldn’t deny what was on the books, and Gettlin, obviously, had been snooping around.

  “As you noted, she was my client. She told me to invest for her as I saw fit. I won pretty big. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “It just seems odd. I was checking the trade records, and you invested dozens of your clients in the same thing.”

  “When I see a hot opportunity, I try to make my clients money,” Keith said. “Unlike the rest of this firm, which has a history of trading for itself and against its own clients. Hell, the firm wouldn’t have had all of those financial problems five years ago had the partners been thinking about their clients instead of themselves.”

  He paused, bolder now, but also worried. How much of his trading had Gettlin examined?

  “I was thinking of shifting some of my clients’ accounts and maybe some firm funds into Serodynne or even Lamurr.” Gettlin’s tone had softened.

  If they dumped a bunch of money into either company, thought Keith, it would surely draw the attention of the feds. It would be far too much activity beyond his small number of trades, which had never drawn scrutiny before. His and Geneva’s plan could blow up before they had a chance to cash out.

  “Forget it,” Keith said. “The government moved its big Pentagon contract from Lamurr to Serodynne. There’s no play left. You won’t see any stock movement for a long time. I’m cashing in the gains for my clients.”

  Gettlin leaned against the doorframe looking at Keith and said nothing. Keith didn’t know what to say and stared back in silence. Had he blown it?

  “Nice work,” shot back Gettlin. “Maybe we should do lunch some time and talk about some of your ideas. Perhaps you should rethink your future and get on the partner track. We could use some winners in this firm that benefit all of our clients.”

  “Thanks. I’m happy with where I am, but I’ll take you up on that free lunch.” Keith smiled at him.

  Gettlin grimaced. Obviously, he had no intention of ever taking Keith out to lunch. Gettlin was sizing him up, or perhaps just looking for a good stock tip to placate top clients. Lazy bastard, thought Keith.

  Gettlin turned on his heels and walked down the hall in that slippery way only a partner could manage. The blood pulsed in Keith’s temples. He buried his head in his hands as sweat poured down his face. How had he pulled that one off?

  The throbbing subsided. Was there something more to the conversation? If Gettlin was snooping around, maybe others were as well.

  He needed to cash out as quickly as possible. There wasn’t time to tell Geneva. He would just do it, but very carefully. He did not know who was watching.

  50

  Beck, his editors, and the lawyers stepped out of several yellow cabs at the plaza in front of the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse on Constitution Avenue. Television satellite trucks blocked most of the curb. As Beck navigated around them, he recognized some of the blow-dried correspondents strategically positioned on the sidewalk doing live stand-ups.

  There, they would breathlessly cablecast the judge’s ruling to the elderly, the infirm, the retired, and the unemployed—all of those tired, poor, and huddled masses etched so famously inside the Statue of Liberty—who welcomed the daily chore of watching midmorning television at home in their sweats and pajamas while the rest of America left for work or class or shopping.

  Funny, thought Beck. Only comedians and television journalists did stand-up. What did that say about the state of his profession?

  As soon as the press horde
recognized Beck and his colleagues, they swarmed, surrounding Beck and company with dozens of cameras and microphones and blocking his path to the courthouse.

  Beck immediately felt his claustrophobia kick in. He closed his eyes momentarily, determined to proceed. Then he opened them and saw his attorney take the lead. Fortunately, Curtiss must have weighed nearly three hundred pounds and easily pressed through the mob scene, which stepped back to keep their expensive electronic equipment from getting crushed. Curtiss, it appeared, had been through this routine before.

  He had earlier warned everyone not to speak publicly before the hearing. Beck kept apologizing to his colleagues, all shoving to get closer, as he stepped carefully behind Curtiss through the media mass to the courthouse’s front door. Cameras and other recording devices were not allowed inside.

  Curtiss stopped and turned to the cameras. “Pipe down,” he yelled. “We’ll have a statement after the hearing.”

  Now Beck sat in the chief judge’s cavernous, windowless, ornate federal courtroom with Curtiss at his side. For the first time in his career, he had become part of his own story, and he didn’t like it. And unlike all his other stories, he didn’t know how this one would end. Would he become a sacrificial pawn in this judicial sideshow? He thought of all of the people who would dance in the street to see him taken down—and that included most of the subjects of his investigative pieces. God, that would be embarrassing.

  Maybe he would make the history books. Unless, of course, the newspaper’s attorney had some brilliant legal strategy that would spare him the privilege. Curtiss had yet to share anything of the sort. Frankly, Beck thought, he’d rather make a quick exit than history.

  He thought about his colleagues who were not allowed into this closed hearing. The legal correspondents were probably pontificating numerous scenarios; it was all gamesmanship and showbiz to them. Just another day’s work.

  But for Beck, this was real truth or consequences. They’ll go home and sleep in their own beds tonight, he thought. But he could end up on a concrete bench in a six-by-ten cell.

  He shuddered at the idea. His body suddenly felt cold.

  He did not belong in this place. He wrote the stories. He worked in relative obscurity. The only time his name appeared in the newspaper was his byline. The only time he appeared in public was for an interview on a cable news shows or on the dust jacket of one of his books. But now, he was part of the lead paragraph, and his picture was in nearly every newspaper in America.

  For the first time, he felt like a victim. But hell, he knew he was responsible for his current state of affairs. Did his sources from his many stories feel victimized like this? He wondered if they felt this vulnerable, like they had lost control of the situation. Maybe his previous investigative pieces were too harsh, or maybe he was too self-righteous about his noble calling and not concerned enough for the welfare of the people he wrote about.

  Was he now paying the price for his journalistic arrogance? Maybe it was time he reexamined his methods, his ideals. He had always thought he was the moral, righteous type—above the Washington fray. Now he wondered if that was just his facade.

  He sat next to Curtiss at a long wooden table in this chandeliered echo chamber, waiting for a judge to march in and decide his fate. He had lost control of the story. That’s what really pissed him off. His writing, his sources, his research talents—no good here. No additional interviews, no extra phone calls would make a difference. He couldn’t write his way out of this one. He had shown his entire hand and now waited to see what cards the other guy had to play. At this point, he would have to rely on the skills of others.

  When this was all over, no matter how badly it went for him, Beck was determined to examine his ways. Maybe it was time he changed—if that was even possible for him.

  Nancy Moore and Robert Baker sat in the first row of the visitors’ section. Nancy was the only person other than Beck who knew the identity of his source. Baker, the old warhorse, was seated next to her. He was a famous civil rights reporter and later the newspaper’s London bureau chief in the day when newspapers made obscene amounts of money. He was one of the canniest journalists of his time, which is why Beck knew he deliberately never asked to know Beck’s source. After Nancy, Beck admired him most for his cunning and ability to cut through a complicated story to immediately find its core.

  Only Curtiss, the senior partner at James, Howell & Gordon, a graying, prestigious city law firm, sat with Beck at the table.

  Waiting.

  The double doors at the back of the room swooshed open simultaneously, followed by a commotion of expensive leather soles and male chatter echoing off the marble floor. Jackson Oliver, assistant attorney general for the criminal division, led a group of five down the center isle of the courtroom and to the neighboring prosecutor’s table. He looked just like the photos in the old newspaper clippings. Oliver hadn’t aged in ten years. This guy appeared more formidable than Beck had thought.

  Beck spied Fahy among the attorneys. What the hell was he doing here? Guaranteeing that Beck kept his promise? If he thought he would talk, wouldn’t he hide out far from the news media outside?

  He looked none too happy to be there.

  Chief Judge John Savage stepped deliberately from a side door. “All rise,” bellowed the bailiff.

  “Attorneys, please approach the bench,” instructed the judge.

  Curtiss raised his eyebrows and looked briefly at Beck.

  Beck caught the glance. Curtiss appeared perplexed at the judge’s order. Oh great, thought Beck, his lawyer hasn’t a clue. That’s a good way to start this thing and exude confidence with your client. It was not the look he needed from his attorney right now.

  Curtiss charged forward, joining the swarm of suits in front of the judge’s bench, all with their backs to Beck.

  From his vantage point at the defendant’s table, Beck watched Oliver and Curtiss engage in a lively discussion, but he could make out only an occasional word. The conference dragged on forever.

  “Then we’re all agreed,” the judge said, and the lawyers rocked their heads in affirmative obedience, took a step back, and returned to their tables.

  “What’s up?” Beck whispered.

  “No big deal,” Curtiss said. “Just some prehearing maneuvers.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the judge, “as agreed, Mr. Oliver will step aside from this case, and the new lead prosecutor for the Justice Department will be Mr. Daniel Fahy.”

  WHAT JUST HAPPENED? Beck turned in his seat and looked for Nancy in the visitors’ section. Her gaping mouth said it all. She tilted her head and shifted her eyes toward Fahy. Beck turned back. Fahy stood shuffling papers at the next table, not looking in their direction.

  Beck glanced back toward Nancy and mouthed silently. “What the fuck?”

  She shook her head slowly and looked away.

  “Your honor,” Fahy said. “In light of recent developments in this case, I would ask for a ten-day continuance. The prosecution needs to review the case, and we would like to examine the possibility of bringing in an additional witness.”

  “This case has national implications,” the judge said. “I will grant the continuance, but not for ten days. I will give you two. We will meet again at ten a.m. sharp Friday.”

  Judge Savage banged the gavel.

  Just like that, it was over—at least for a couple of days. Beck didn’t move. He sat silently trying to take it all in. Now he was totally confused. What had Fahy done? Where was this headed? How could Fahy prosecute the source of his own leak? And if he did, and did so aggressively, was Beck still bound by his promise not to reveal Fahy as his source?

  51

  THE NEXT DAY, Beck met with the lawyers, Cunningham, Baker, and Nancy in the publisher’s conference room. Cunningham sat at the end of the table with a copy of the morning’s newspaper opened to a short, page-two account of the previous day’s events. Baker, Beck, and Nancy were on one side of the table and the lawyers on
the other.

  “Fahy says he’s bringing the property rental manager Beck interviewed in Grand Cayman up here to testify,” Curtiss said.

  “What can the manager say to make the prosecution’s case?” asked Cunningham.

  “I have no idea,” Beck said. “I didn’t tell him anything about any source.”

  “Then I’m not sure what Mr. Fahy is up to,” Curtiss said. “I did find out Oliver was dismissed from the case because he also has ties to Sunrise Meridian and Lamurr. I don’t know how the judge got that information, but I certainly hope it didn’t come from anyone in this room.”

  Curtiss glanced at Beck, then Nancy, and finally Baker. Everyone was silent.

  “We need to be ready for this, no matter what comes along.” Cunningham rose and gathered her papers, signaling the end of the meeting.

  “Beck?” Nancy said as they entered the elevator. She pressed the button for the newsroom, and the doors closed on them. “It wasn’t me.”

  Their eyes met. She held her gaze and then rolled her eyes.

  “Look,” he said, “the Justice Department has its own investigation going on. I don’t know what happened.” “Yeah. Right.”

  Beck wondered if she bought it.

  His talk with Red last night had begun to clarify things. Beck must have paced the floor and worn the oriental rug out for more than an hour. But he was happy with the results. It was obvious Fahy somehow manipulated the system—using Beck’s leaked information—to set himself up as prosecutor. That had to be a good thing for Beck because they both had so much to lose. Beck now had to figure out how he could seize control of the situation from Fahy. He was determined he was not going to let others decide his fate.

  52