Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  “Have I?” Curtiss shook his head and smiled and looked down at the polished mahogany table. He raised his glance and looked directly at Beck. “Son, you stick to writing your stories. Let me handle the law.”

  He knows. Oh shit, he knows. Beck was too stunned to speak. He just looked at his lawyer.

  Curtiss picked up his briefcase and snapped the clasps closed. “Jesus,” he said under his breath. He whirled his heavy body and strode out the door without another word.

  Beck stood alone in the small room. He wondered what Curtiss would do. He’d just won a major case—one that would headline the national news feed for the next twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t take his suspicions to the judge, would he? No, Beck told himself. It would do his lawyer no good to tell the world his client had colluded with the prosecutor to win his case. And besides, what evidence did he have to prove it? It was only his suspicion. And this was Washington after all, where reality never really is how it appears to the public.

  Outside the courthouse, the media madhouse resumed. Curtiss instantly switched into conquering hero persona and positioned himself in the middle of the media mob on the plaza, surrounded by dozens of cameramen, reporters with outstretched microphones, and print reporters with their digital recorders and low-tech notebooks.

  As Beck stepped out of the courthouse door unnoticed, he spotted his former colleague Kerry Rabidan near the middle of the scrum, grilling Curtiss. Beck quietly watched the scene from afar. What a zoo, he thought. What a crazy life. Beck’s sense of relief overwhelmed him, and he felt drained.

  “Yes,” said Curtiss, “it’s obvious from the evidence that no Justice Department employee leaked the story to the Post-Examiner” He went on to explain how word of the investigation was inadvertently leaked through a third party.

  “Wasn’t this Jackson Oliver’s case?” Rabidan shouted.

  “Yes, but the judge saw fit to replace him with Mr. Daniel Fahy.”

  “Why was that?” she asked.

  “You’ll have to ask the judge. Not my decision.”

  “But he originally was supposed to prosecute the case, correct?”

  “He was,” Curtiss said. “But like I said, I would urge you to ask the judge for any specifics on why he was replaced by Mr. Fahy.”

  Curtiss knows exactly what he’s doing, thought Beck. He just lit a fuse under Jackson Oliver.

  “One at a time, please,” Curtiss yelled to the reporters as they shouted over one another. “I’ll answer all of your questions.” As the man reveled in the media attention, Beck found it hard to believe only moments ago his lawyer had accused him of obstruction of justice. Of course, Curtiss would never come right out and ask him what he had done. He couldn’t, Beck remembered, because if Beck affirmed any obstruction, Curtiss would be bound by his professional ethics to go to the judge.

  His lawyer didn’t want the whole truth. It would complicate his narrative, Beck realized. After all, his case wasn’t about the truth. It was all about winning.

  Beck looked back at Curtiss working the crowd. Everybody wanted to take credit for a win—any win—especially in this town. Curtiss was now the star. Andy Warhol was right about fame. This was his fifteen minutes, and old walrus face was going to take full advantage of it.

  Beck slipped unseen around the corner of the building with Nancy and Baker. They waved down the first cab and escaped the headline-obsessed mob.

  His emotional roller coaster was finally over. It was time he returned to his world—one that made sense to him and where he was the captain of his own ship. Tomorrow, he told himself. After a good night’s sleep to recharge his batteries. He wanted to be at his best again. There were still too many unanswered questions about his original story that he needed to explore.

  54

  That afternoon, a few hours after Beck left the courthouse, Bayard stood in a Senate committee room and announced he would sacrifice his political career and voluntarily remove himself from the party ticket rather than put Senator Ford Patten’s presidential campaign and his own party through the distraction of dealing with the frivolous accusations against him. It was time, he said, to put America back on the right track, and Ford Patten was the only man to do it.

  Beck and the entire newsroom staff were glued to their computers and the many flat-screen monitors hanging from the newsroom ceiling, watching the live feed of Bayard’s announcement.

  “Nice going,” said Tom Reed, the paper’s religion writer.

  Another reporter yelled from across the room, “Way to go.”

  A couple of reporters began to clap, and several walked up to Beck to shake his hand.

  Baker walked out of his glass-enclosed office to survey the commotion in the newsroom. He grabbed a straight-backed visitor’s chair next to a reporter’s desk and climbed on it, towering over the newsroom.

  “There will be no gloating. None. Not a word. Is that clear?” he barked. He scanned the scattered reporters who froze in silence. “This is a tragedy for the nation, but it also proves why we need a free and impartial press. We should all take great pride in what this newspaper has accomplished, but I’ll cut your balls off if I see anyone gloating. And that goes for you too, ladies.” He scanned the newsroom again. With a satisfied nod, he stepped down and walked back to his office. The newsroom returned to its boisterous calm.

  Beck repressed a grin, silently absorbing the accolades and feeling the pride of his accomplishment. He had actually forced a US senator—a vice presidential candidate—to resign. He’d never had a story this big before.

  Nancy crossed the large room over to Beck’s desk and in a near-whisper said, “Good going. I think some of the crew want to take a trip down the block.”

  He smiled. He and a half-dozen other reporters headed for their favorite watering hole around the corner from the Post-Examiner for a not-so-quiet celebration. As he crossed the street, he spied the man with the graying hair and goatee, the one who had bumped into him days ago. He approached in an unbuttoned, dirty black coat and again came toward him in the crosswalk.

  “You,” Beck said, stopping in the middle of the street. “You.”

  “Hello, Mr. Kemper,” said the man as he passed.

  Beck pivoted his way. “Who the fuck are you?”

  The man turned. “Nobody. Pardon me,” he said in a Hispanic accent. He tipped his battered fedora, turned away, and kept walking.

  “What do you want from me?” Beck screamed at the man’s back.

  Everybody turned to look at Beck as the strange man continued to cross the street, not looking back.

  Nancy looked at Beck. “What the hell was that?”

  “He’s after me.”

  “Jesus, Beck. It’s just another crazy homeless person.” “You don’t get it,” he blurted out.

  “Look, you’ve had a rough week. Come on. Let’s celebrate your victory.”

  “You don’t get it,” he said again. “I’m being watched.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him through the crosswalk. “You just need a drink,” Nancy said. His colleagues instinctively gathered around him like a protective shield but said nothing. Beck looked again for the stranger who had disappeared into the crowd on the other side of the street.

  “I’m serious. Someone has been following me,” Beck said.

  “Let’s talk about it inside.” She gripped his arm tightly, and Beck did not resist as she pushed him forward out of the street.

  Nancy sat next to Beck at the bar and told the others they would meet them at the table in a few minutes. He could tell she was studying him.

  “Do you really feel you’re in danger here in DC?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I’m being followed. I’ve seen that guy before on the street.” Beck then explained how he had confronted the man before.

  “He called you Mr. Kemper. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Beck paused and looked at her. He knew he could trust Nancy to keep things between them. So he told her about traveling t
o Cayman with Geneva.

  “That would explain that old man’s comment in court about your wife,” Nancy said.

  “Things got a little mixed up down there,” Beck conceded. “But why would anyone be following you now?” “Why do you think?”

  “Oh come on, Beck. That’s Hollywood. This is Washington. Nobody spies on reporters here. The backlash would be too great. We’ve sorta got immunity, a protective shield in that department.”

  “I’d like to think you’re right, but after my place was bugged and after running into this guy twice and seeing him on the street—something is going on.”

  After two hours of drinking, they stumbled back to the office. When they reached the newsroom, Nancy walked directly to Baker’s office. A few minutes later, she stepped back into the newsroom and immediately walked over to Beck’s desk.

  “We’ll have your condo swept again tomorrow,” she said. “And the boss wants you to take a few days off.”

  “Really?” Beck shook his head in disgust. Oh great, he thought, they’re humoring him, and they think he’s nuts.

  55

  “I told you that you’d be sleeping in your own bed tonight,” Geneva said. She had arrived at Beck’s condo uninvited with a bag of groceries for a salad and a bottle of her favorite Malbec. She needed some time with him.

  “I admit I was worried. My attorney pulled it off.”

  “I have something special for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I hope you haven’t made plans for the weekend because I’ve rented a cabin in the mountains for us. My car is packed. I just need you to fill an overnight bag, and we’re off.”

  “Your timing couldn’t be better. My boss told me to take a few days off. I think I could use it. Sure we couldn’t take longer than the weekend?”

  If only he knew, she thought. “Sorry, I’ve got a busy week next week. I’d like to make the most out of the time we have.”

  AFTER A TWO-HOUR RIDE, Beck and Geneva sat in front of a large stone fireplace, with orange flames hugging split oak logs. The fire stole the chill from the mountain air. The cabin was little more than one large room that combined the kitchen, bedroom, and living area. The only other room was a spa, which consisted of a bathroom with a walk-in shower, a six-foot hot tub, and a walk-in closet. It was a couple’s cabin to be sure, thought Geneva.

  A bottle of red wine breathed deeply on the dinged copper kitchen countertop, cozying up to two tall stemmed glasses standing at the

  ready. Beck filled them, and they sank into the couch. Their eyes locked onto the flames.

  Geneva nestled her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her. She could tell from his body language that he was physically and emotionally spent. Geneva raised her head only to sip the wine and to kiss him and then returned to the warmth of his body.

  Later, she prepared a salad of greens, spinach, olives, tomatoes, avocados, and green onions, mixed with an explosion of exotic spices. It was a recipe, she told him, she had learned while living in Europe. Afterward, Beck washed their plates and glasses while Geneva packed water bottles and a bottle of merlot into a green rucksack for tomorrow. Then they retired to the bed and made love slowly and rhythmically, and then quickly fell asleep.

  The next afternoon the temperature was cool as they hiked the mountain trail. A cloudless sky provided clear views of the Shenandoah Valley below. They paused at every clearing to gaze at the vista. After a couple of hours of steady uphill climbing, they sat on a rock formation to rest and opened the wine.

  Plastic cups in hand, they sat in silence and watched a single-engine white Cessna fly through a mountain pass below them and above the valley farm fields about a mile away. The plane headed west toward the mountain range on the other side of the valley. Slowly, it turned into a pinprick in the vast blue sky as it rode the air thermals, dodging puffy clouds and escaping beyond the next ridge.

  “That’s liberating,” Geneva said, nodding toward the plane.

  “What’s this?” Beck asked, raising his plastic cup.

  She nuzzled her face into his chest as she put her arm around him. “This is my security, my comfort.”

  He looked down at her. “Thank you. I guess.”

  Geneva pushed back silently, looking out over the valley, and grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Beck was a considerate man, a kind man, she thought. Yet he played some of the toughest political hardball in all of Washington. Politicians in both parties—conservatives and liberals alike—feared his byline. Could idealism really make him blind to her deception? She felt twinges of guilt. She pulled him to her and kissed him. She needed to absorb every aspect of this moment. She knew it must come to an end, but until then, she would savor every minute.

  THAT EVENING, THEY DROVE DOWN THE mountain seeking comfort food at a small diner in the village they had passed through on the way to their cabin. Calling it a village was a polite misnomer for a town with no obvious zoning and glaring neon signs. Rather, a hodgepodge of rundown shops, convenience stores, fast-food joints, and gasoline stations on either side of a two-lane highway with a double yellow line begged for the attention of those passing through on their way to Pennsylvania’s ski resorts.

  The night was cool, and Geneva felt a slight chill and grabbed her sweater from the backseat of the car. The gray and wet of winter, which she knew brought potholes and loose gravel to the local streets each year, had yet to descend on the valley.

  Bubbas and sturdy women, stuffed into tight sweaters spilling over the tops of their jeans, stopped to talk to friends on the sidewalk. A group of anorexic teenage girls, whose appearance in tight jeans, padded bras, low-cut attire, and raccoon-eyed mascara rendered an image leaning toward hookers rather than high schoolers, crowded a street corner. They smoked cigarettes, and Geneva heard them talking as they walked by about who wore what at Friday night’s homecoming football game.

  None of them fit into Geneva’s high-octane existence in Washington where daily workouts, salon visits, and Botox injections kept women in fighting form to do battle in their image-conscious bubble of influence.

  As they entered, she looked around the crowded restaurant at the other diners. Young people, middle-aged couples, two old men drinking coffee, and a couple of truck drivers in uniforms with their names embroidered over their right breast—all people who were unaffected by what she and Beck did for a living.

  She could tell from Beck’s expression as they waited to be served, he too was feeling it. “Different world, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yeah. It’s like once you’re outside the DC Beltway sphere of influence, my work probably doesn’t mean much to most people. You think about it, and you realize just what a small stage we play on. It’s like we’re nobody here. There’s probably not one person here who knows about— or cares about—yesterday’s court case or that a vice presidential candidate resigned.”

  It was obvious to Geneva that Beck was feeling unsure of himself, even after a major victory. “Hey, stud,” she said to him, “you did well this week. You not only won your case, you took down a vice presidential candidate. You should be proud of what you do.”

  Beck gave a slight grin but said nothing. He looked into her eyes and she returned the gaze. It was killing her not to tell him the truth. She would wait until tomorrow. One more night, she told herself.

  When they returned to the cabin, the night turned into the most passionate of their relationship. Geneva aggressively came back to him again and again, her appetite insatiable. For a while, she could tell Beck must have thought he had died and gone to heaven. And she wouldn’t let up, sending him to heaven over and over again. They lasted for hours. Taking breaks and then starting all again. She did not stop until he finally said enough. Heaven could wait.

  It was better than the hell she feared she was about to put him through. They lay exhausted, their bodies covered in sweat. Beck fell asleep holding her in his arms. She looked up at the glow of the fireplace embers bouncing around the wood
beams in the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep.

  56

  The next morning, Beck ventured down the mountain early and found the Post-Examiner, the News-Times, and the Winchester, Virginia, newspaper. He was hoping to find a New York Times but had no luck. Geneva had two cups of special blend coffee waiting when he returned. The fresh aroma of hazelnut mixed with the distinct smell of oak logs burning in the fireplace filled the room as they settled under the covers for some leisurely reading.

  This was their first Sunday morning together in bed reading the newspaper, and Beck was enjoying it. He could see himself with Geneva doing this on a regular basis. Beck scanned the front pages. Patten was scheduled to announce a new running mate tomorrow. Bayard announced he would not give up his Senate seat. Kerry Rabidan’s frontpage story in the News-Times quoted Bayard saying he was not resigning from the Senate but had an obligation to fulfill his term. Funny, Beck thought. When did Kerry start covering politics?

  He scanned further. There was nothing about Fahy’s boss Jackson Oliver. What would ever come of that?

  Geneva fried up some corned beef hash and eggs for Beck in a cast-iron skillet. She was quiet during their late morning breakfast, barely taking a bite of her English muffin. He knew they had to leave in a few hours. The last day of any vacation—even one this short—always made him sad. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that it was ending and he was returning to his daily routine. Yet it was a routine he loved. Note to self: he needed longer vacations.

  They sipped their mugs of coffee in silence. “Beck, I have some bad news,” Geneva said finally.

  “Oh?”

  “We can’t see each other anymore.”

  “What?” He nearly dropped his cup on the table, spilling his coffee.

  “Harv is going to accept Ford Patten’s offer to replace David Bayard on the party ticket. I’ll be surrounded by Secret Service twenty-four hours a day starting tomorrow. It will be impossible for us to be together.”