Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  Baker wanted to walk through the entire story before his midmorn-ing story meeting with his editors. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the object in front of Beck.

  “My answering machine.”

  “And?”

  “Listen.” Beck turned it on, and they listened to all thirty-five minutes of the conversation, which meandered onto several topics involving the campaign. It also enabled Beck to identify all the participants. Laurie Frank was the attractive blonde sitting on the couch in Bayard’s great room. She was Patten’s assistant campaign treasurer. And Baker recognized the voice of Fred Betz, the campaign’s polling guru, who was explaining to the group which media markets they would target with the drug money, based on his survey results.

  “Tread lightly, people,” Baker admonished. “Write deftly. Use a scalpel, not an ax. We really are dealing with the future of the free world. That’s no exaggeration. We must be one hundred percent sure we get it right. Nancy, have you documented the nonprofits’ spending?”

  “They’re all identified on the audio,” Nancy said. “I’ve got three reporters nailing down their spending habits and media buys.

  Altogether, I’ve got a team of six working on it. We should have it all pulled together no later than tomorrow.”

  So on a Friday, just over a week before the election and a day after the Walrus and Hedelt had gone over every word in the final draft with a sharp pencil, Beck awoke early and took the elevator downstairs to retrieve his morning paper. He didn’t bother to look online. Not for something this big.

  He pulled his paper out of its clear plastic bag and unfolded the front page and reveled in his work. The headline “Patten Campaign Funded by Drug Cartels” screamed across six columns at the top of the front page. Inside the paper, he found two more stories, four sidebars, several charts created by the art department, and one large graphic explaining the money flow. The stories covered every aspect of the money laundering scandal, from real estate deals in Grand Cayman to how much of the drug money the nonprofits were spending in support of Patten’s presidential bid. He buried his face in the newspaper, reading every headline, still standing in his running shorts and T-shirt in the lobby of his condo building. Finally, he pushed the elevator button to go back upstairs.

  He thought about how different this story was from his first. There was no waiting around to showcase it on a Sunday. The allegations were so important and the money trail evidence so solid, there was no talk of the Post-Examiner losing credibility by running the story this close to the election. If Nancy was concerned, she showed no signs this time.

  The online staff had uploaded an edited version of the audio to the newspaper website along with still photos of Kertsos, Frank, and Betz. There were no file photos of Franz. Beck then flipped on his television. Even at six in the morning, the Friday morning news shows had already tossed their prepared scripts and were airing wall-to-wall coverage of Beck’s funding scandal story. On his drive to work, talk radio talked about nothing else.

  Barely more than a week before Election Day, and the cable news channels had their kidnapped white coed and shark attack all in one story. Beck felt giddy. He knew the cable channels could run with his story for days. Once again, Beck had provided them with a ratings bonanza.

  “How do you keep doing this?” asked Tom Reed. Reed was the third writer this morning to drop by Beck’s desk to congratulate him. Beck sat back, drinking it all in along with his morning coffee. He had left for the office early, as soon as he had finished reading his story. He secretly wanted to soak in the adulation of his colleagues.

  He jumped online at his desk to check on the latest news. The Patten campaign had released a defiant statement denying all of the allegations. Beck made a few calls to check on the whereabouts of Kertsos, Frank, and Betz. They all had disappeared from the public stage. Then he switched to a new online website that ran instant polls. They were devastating to Patten’s campaign. Prior to the story, Patten had a small, but comfortable lead. Hours after his story ran, Beck saw the public had begun to absorb the meaning of the Post-Examiners stories. Patten was now losing by a percentage point. Beck was amazed his story could have such a sudden impact.

  “The nonprofits named in your story are not backing down,” said Nancy. She had been following the aftermath of the story all morning and had reporters tracking the campaign’s media spending. It had been the hit of the morning editors’ meeting, she said. “Their ad buys, made before your story broke, are still running on broadcast television, cable, radio, and online channels in every battleground state. The news channels, which are getting rich off his campaign spending, aren’t about to return millions in advertising dollars—dirty drug money or not.” Nancy shook her head. “Journalistic integrity. You gotta love it. It just can’t compete with an open wallet.”

  FOX NEWS INQUIRED ABOUT the origin of the audio. How had the liberal newspaper acquired a recording of such a meeting?

  Baker hunkered down in his closed-door office with Nancy and Beck. Now they faced a journalistic dilemma. Using Fahy’s phone to secretly record the campaign’s private conversation, without the participants’ knowledge, would never pass the smell test in a journalism ethics course. That was the behavior of the sleazy London tabloids, and they had ended up in court for their shoddy behavior. If Baker revealed how Beck had bent the rules of engagement, the story would be tainted. Political attack dogs would shift the media focus from the content of the story to the journalistic tactics used to obtain it. The newspaper had little choice but to respond to the questions.

  Nancy and Beck sat in Baker’s office trying to justify Beck’s actions for more than an hour. Baker sat quietly, taking it all in. Finally, he grinned at Beck and tapped one of his brown cigarettes on the top of his cluttered office desk.

  “You really could say this recording came through a confidential source,” Baker said.

  Beck grinned back. He knew exactly how to respond.

  An hour later, the newspaper released a statement to Fox News and the rest of the media, quoting Beck as saying the recording came through a Post-Examiner confidential source. Clever, he thought, noting he used the word “through” instead of “from.” No one picked up the nuance, however. Technically, it was the truth. Ethically? Well, that was another matter, Beck thought.

  The media were satisfied, and that’s all that mattered. They quickly shifted their attention deficit disorder to another facet of the story. The white coed was dead. It was time to look for another shark attack.

  BECK AND NANCY had lunch in the cafeteria to get away from the madness in the newsroom.

  “Look,” she said, “I know you’re all jazzed about this story and the reaction. You’ve done well, and you deserve the adulation. But you need to pace yourself.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “I want you to stay that way. Take the weekend off. Lay low out of the spotlight and try to absorb what you’ve accomplished. You’re beat. I can tell. We need you in fighting form for Election Day. Remember, you’re the poster boy. We’ve got six reporters to cover this now. Take a break.”

  Beck had to admit he was exhausted. He left work right after lunch for his condo. When he arrived home, he grabbed a beer and sank onto his leather couch face to face with his flat-screen. He escaped into old mystery and action movies with an occasional break to catch up on the latest news about the Patten campaign. It was a bit otherworldly and just plain weird to hear newscasters refer to him over and over again in their stories. He even saw video of himself taken outside the federal courthouse.

  He began to understand why Nancy wanted him to lay low. If he accepted all of the requests for interviews this weekend, he would be old news by Election Day. The paper needed his poster boy routine ready for election night. At the end of the day, he thought, it’s all about marketing and making money, especially now in the endangered newspaper business.

  AND NOW IT REALLY WAS THE end of the day. Beck was being miked in the studio for
his third network television appearance of election night. He’d lost track of how many political pundits had already predicted a Patten loss on the morning talk shows. The drug story had saturated the public conscience so thoroughly that more than 90 percent of potential voters were aware of the funding scandal. Maybe Beck’s stage was larger than he had given himself credit for back in that diner with Geneva. Patten was going to lose, and it was because of Beck. That was a heavy load to bear, and it had taken Beck a few days to grasp the weight of history on his shoulders. Nancy was wiser than he had given her credit for. She was right to suggest he take a little time off to prepare for this day.

  His role tonight was to dash from one Washington television studio to the next to be interviewed by network and cable news anchors. The Post-Examiner hired a driver to carry him from place to place so he could tout the newspaper’s accomplishments on a maximum number of media outlets. The last time he enjoyed any media attention was on his second book tour three years ago when his publisher mustered a half-dozen interviews in New York. His audience back then was miniscule compared to what he faced tonight.

  Other Post-Examiner writers who had helped with the stories were also called upon to flaunt the newspaper. But, by now, Beck was the celebrity brand they all wanted, and the one the Post-Examiner was more than willing to promote as the face of the franchise.

  The company marketing vice president instructed him to always refer to the web page audio to build traffic to the Post-Examiner website. During his first interview, Beck felt a little awkward trying to remember his lines and to promote the newspaper’s website. The questions were all softball. It was election night, and the producers at one of the networks explained to him privately he was merely color commentary. The real star was the vote count.

  By the fourth interview, Beck was a pro with the lines and website endorsements, easily dropping them into his answers and commentary. But by the fifth time he sat at a desk in a studio and clipped on his microphone ready to repeat himself again, he was feeling a bit abused by his bosses and had grown bored with this gig. This is not what he had originally signed up for. The adulation was fine, but he wanted to celebrate his victory with his friends and colleagues. He felt alone as he sat in the cold, stark television studios with their hot lights glaring down on him in front of millions of viewers.

  AROUND ELEVEN O’CLOCK ON ELECTION NIGHT, Beck trudged into the Post-Examiner newsroom. He was spent. He dumped his sports coat on top of his desk, flopped down in his chair, and looked around the frenetic room, taking it all in.

  The political reporters not attending presidential campaign victory parties or following important state and federal races around the country crowded into the newsroom, yelling at editors with updates and pummeling their computer keyboards, spitting out copy for the national desk as quickly as their fingers could move. Many of the crew huddled around televisions and computer monitors, watching the networks tally results and then rewriting story leads as quickly as numbers came in. Everyone on staff worked on election night. Phones jangled nonstop throughout the newsroom, bellowing like instruments in a ghastly off-key orchestra, building to a chaotic crescendo.

  Beck loved the chaos. This was what the news business was all about. He walked over to the metro desk to check out the latest, but everyone was too busy to pay him any attention. He walked by the national desk, which had the lead story, and they ignored him as they inserted the latest state polling numbers into their copy. He felt like a fish out of water in his own newsroom. His colleagues were completing a story he had started. He realized he had no important role tonight. It was almost as if he wasn’t there. Beck realized he felt very tired.

  The television anchors babbling on the overhead monitors all predicted a bad night for Ford Patten. Projections based on exit polling showed he would easily lose the race once all votes were counted.

  Beck’s cell rang. He turned away from the commotion.

  “It’s Jen. I just had to call and say hi. And congratulate you on your story.”

  Beck no longer heard the turmoil in the newsroom. All he heard was the voice of the woman who, like no other, made him feel something very different. He gasped for air, and his voice failed him.

  “Beck? Are you there?”

  “Wow. It’s been forever. How are you?” he blurted out. For so long, he had wanted to talk with her, and now he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I’m sorry. It’s the campaign and Secret Service. I’m in a hotel waiting for the victory party. I borrowed one of my aide’s phones to call you.”

  Aides, thought Beck. It had been only a few weeks, and she’d already acquired political aides. Their lives would never be the same. “Doesn’t sound like there will be a victory.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Beck’s words again failed him. “This hasn’t been easy. Everything has changed. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  “Look, I haven’t much time. It’s crazy here. I’m getting bounced around like a pinball following the Secret Service wherever they tell me to go.”

  She must feel as isolated in the midst of her chaotic evening as he did in his, he thought. “Will I hear from you again?”

  “Look, I have to go. My handlers say I need to go to the ballroom. Something’s happening, and they want me there.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

  All the old feelings surged to the surface. It literally felt like forever since Harvey became the vice presidential nominee and Geneva was sealed in a Secret Service cocoon. The call made him realize just how much he’d missed her.

  And yet, he had been so busy chasing the drug cartel story, he hadn’t had time to think much about her. He knew he needed to slow down—have a real relationship with a woman that lasted more than a few months. But he loved his job too and wondered if the two could ever coexist. He believed Geneva was the first woman he’d ever met who appreciated his obsession. She understood his passion for his work—his calling—and that he was an adrenaline junkie. She actually seemed to admire his drive. And yet he still had this uncomfortable feeling she had an ulterior motive. There was no evidence, just a gut feeling since she was so close to his story, and now her husband had profited from his work. Yet Geneva seemed to take no pleasure in any of it. She seemed more like a free spirit in a buttoned-down culture trying desperately to escape conformity.

  He stood near the edge of the large room facing a wall, his cell phone still clung to his ear. He hadn’t moved since Geneva hung up. Then the cacophony of election night surged into his brain again, and he was back in the newsroom.

  “Did you see this?” Nancy’s voice came from behind him. He turned, and she pointed to the television monitor hanging from the ceiling. “Virginia’s early absentee voting is going to tilt the state to Patten despite today’s exit polls showing him losing badly. Illinois and Ohio look like they’re going in the same direction.”

  Beck looked up at the screen and saw the Virginia tally showing Patten slightly ahead. He couldn’t believe it. After all of this, Patten might pull this out?

  The television anchorwoman quickly called a Patten campaign aide from the green room and put him on the air to talk about early voting. The tone suddenly shifted from contempt to respectful as the aide explained how the campaign’s massive early get-out-the-vote drive was changing the outcome in many of the toss-up states.

  “No one considered the impact of early voting, which took place long before your story ran,” Nancy said. “Patten could have run up a big enough lead with voters weeks ago to win this thing. Wow, what a story that would be. He could still win at a time when a huge majority of the public now despises him.”

  “You’re kidding. A crook wins the presidency?” Beck grimaced.

  “Jeez. Never happened before. Has it?” Nancy said.

  As the evening turned into morning, the projections migrated in Patten’s favor. Gradually, Patten’s electoral college count was
climbing, getting closer and closer to the magic number of two hundred and seventy. By three in the morning, there was no decision.

  Beck gave up. He was spent and had no stomach to hang out in the newsroom any longer and be unproductive. He drove home to crash, questioning his role in all of this. He’d lost the woman he loved, and he’d lost his adrenaline rush tonight. Now he was even questioning what had happened with his job. How did he get to this place? He was supposed to be on top of the world, yet nothing seemed to be going his way.

  63

  Daniel Fahy, still dressed in a plaid bathrobe and slippers, picked up his morning Post-Examiner, neatly tucked in its plastic bag on his front sidewalk. He opened it to the front page and read the headlines in the dim morning light. Two days after Ford Patten won the election by a slim margin, the nation faced a constitutional crisis. Patten was yet to take office, and the Democrats, who controlled neither the House nor the Senate, were already calling for his impeachment if he were to ever take the oath.

  He flipped to the op-ed page. A Post-Examiner columnist called for the electoral college to dump Patten in favor of Michael Harvey. “The president of the United States is not elected by popular vote,” wrote the columnist, “but by electors chosen by voters in each state. It’s civics class 101. We can still fix this.”

  Fahy picked up the phone in his den and dialed the private number he had been given several weeks ago. “You read this morning’s Post-Examiner?”

  “Yes,” said Michael Harvey.

  “I assume you’re going to do it.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Too bad about Ford.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “The presidency is a zero-sum opportunity. If he falters, that leaves only one choice,” Fahy said. He hung up the phone and headed for the bathroom to take his morning shower. There would be no workout today. Instead Fahy flipped on the morning news. The idea was quickly taking hold of the public psyche. It was cited, paraphrased, e-mailed, and tweeted tens of millions of times, according to the newsreader. Governors and officials from both major political parties were already talking to local politicians and electors about a deal. The public outcry was real. The United States had to be saved from the drug-infested campaign of Ford Patten, said one television commentator Fahy heard as he was shaving.