by Allan Topol
Jasper completed the sentence, “Go to jail for a long time.”
Jasper looked angry. “Despite all the valuable documents I’ve given you, now you pull shit like this.”
“Don’t forget we paid you well for those documents. And getting this CD was never in the deal you made with us.”
“Can’t trust you fuckin’ Chinese. I was a damn fool getting into a deal with you devious people.”
Xiang bristled at the slur, but he kept his anger in check. Jasper was totally despicable. No redeeming qualities. Xiang kept focus. “Are you in or out?”
“Okay, what else are you looking for?”
Xiang exhaled with relief. The old politician’s instinct for the deal had kicked in.
“One of the documents you gave me discusses a five-year plan for Asia and pacific deployment being prepared by the Pentagon. I want that five-year plan.”
“It’s not available yet.”
“As soon as it is.”
Jasper kicked at the ground without responding. Finally, he said, “You’re asking for quite a bit. That’s a very critical document.”
“The CD could destroy your life. That’s critical, too.”
“You play a hard game.”
“We should help each other.”
“I don’t know.”
Another pause. Xiang wasn’t sure how the senator would come out.
Finally, Jasper said, “And if I deliver the plan to you, in return you’ll do everything conceivable to get that CD?”
“Absolutely. I’ll even give the CD to you when you give me the plan. You can be the one to destroy it if you’d like.”
“Jasper tapped his foot on the ground, waiting almost a full minute to respond. Finally, he said, “Okay. But you’d better get that CD. Because that’s the price of getting the plan.”
* * *
At 6:30 in the morning Martin, dressed in slacks and a shirt, snatched the newspapers from the front of his house.
He waited to open them until he was in the kitchen with a cup of strong black coffee. Every day’s papers had been bringing trouble for Martin. It was hard not to be paranoid. As he ripped the plastic bags off the Post and the Times, he wondered what they were doing to him today.
Nothing in the Post. Potts had taken a breather. Hooray.
Martin turned to the Times. In horror, he saw his picture at the bottom right of the front page under a large headline. What the hell? He noticed Jim Nelson’s byline. Breathing heavily, he read:
Possible Supreme Court Nominee Represented Terrorist
Andrew Martin, one of the individuals being considered by President Braddock for nomination as chief justice represented a terrorist, who was held at Guantanamo. Martin, assisted by Paul Maltoni, a lawyer in his firm, achieved a legal victory last year for Hussein Khalid.
Khalid, despite being on CIA and FBI watch lists, managed to slip into the United States where he was directing a terrorist cell planning an attack on Los Angeles Airport. Khalid, a Saudi national and Al Qaeda activist, was working with a sleeper cell based in southern California when he was picked up by federal law enforcement officials.
Khalid was then sent to Guantanamo where he was being interrogated to determine the identity and location of the other members of this sleeper cell.
Before the CIA had time to obtain this information from Khalid, Martin employed his legal prowess to gain Khalid’s release. In order to comply with a court order, the CIA had no choice but to let Khalid leave the country. He was flown back to Saudi Arabia.
To date, no information has been obtained about other members of this sleeper cell. Insofar as authorities are aware, the risk that they will implement their planned attack on Los Angeles Airport remains in place.
Martin and Maltoni were called for their comments. Neither was willing to respond.
The article shook Martin to his core. Could Nelson be right? Had they been responsible for this man’s release? If they had, it would end Martin’s chance of being chief justice.
The doorbell rang. That must be Paul.
Martin let him in and handed him the article. “Look at this.”
As he read, Paul’s face turned red with anger. He grabbed a stack of papers from his briefcase. “Nelson has it all wrong. Mohammed Khalid was our client. Not Hussein Khalid; and he was an Iraqi. Not a Saudi. He had no Al Qaeda ties. Nelson’s story is completely false.”
“You sure of that?”
“Here, I’ll show you the documents.”
Martin dismissed that suggestion with the wave of his hand. “Did Nelson call you yesterday?”
“It went into my voice mail. I didn’t return it. You told me not to talk to him.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“The Guantanamo case was my idea. I asked you to supervise me.”
“That’s nonsense. We’re lawyers.” Martin recalled the cell phone number Nelson had given him yesterday. Martin didn’t care that it was early. Livid, he dialed.
“Jim Nelson, here,” a sleepy voice answered.
“Damn you.” Martin was shouting, venting his anger. “Your article is an outrage. Our client wasn’t Hussein Khalid. He was Mohammed Khalid. He was an Iraqi. Not a Saudi. And he didn’t have a damn thing to do with Los Angeles Airport. How dare you write an article like that without checking your facts.”
“Hey,” Nelson shouted back. “Don’t you yell at me. I called you yesterday. You wouldn’t talk to me. You’ve got no bitch with me.”
“Who was your source?”
“C’mon Andrew. You know we never disclose our sources.”
“You didn’t dig this up on your own. Somebody fed you this pack of lies. One of Butler or Corbett’s supporters. Didn’t they? You never got off your fat ass to check. It’s sloppy journalism. That’s what happened. Isn’t it?”
“To use your favorite line. No comment.”
“I’ll call Bill Devlin. Wait till he finds out somebody’s using you. Playing you like a fiddle. Destroying the integrity of the paper. He’ll fire you.”
“You’re a subscriber. You can call anybody you want.”
In Nelson’s last words, Martin detected a hesitation. The swagger was gone. Yes, of course. Someone fed Nelson that garbage. Operating under a deadline, he didn’t verify it. Now Nelson was getting worried.
Francis came into the kitchen. “I heard shouting.”
“Show her the article,” Martin told Paul.
“Oh, hi, Paul,” she said.
When she finished reading, Martin told her, “It’s all a pack of lies. We represented Mohammad Khalid. Not Hussein Khalid. A different person.”
“You better call Arthur Larkin so he can brief Braddock. Try to head this off.”
“Good idea,” Martin said. He knew all too well the juggernaut effect on possible nominees when derogatory news breaks.
He had to bite the bullet and call Arthur. As he reached for his cell phone, it rang. It was Arthur. “Have you seen the morning’s Times?” Arthur sounded grim.
“A total distortion. I did assist Paul Maltoni in representing a prisoner at Guantanamo. But we never represented Hussein Khalid or anyone involved in planning an attack on Los Angeles Airport. Our client was Mohammad Khalid, alleged to have planted a roadside bomb in Baghdad. Big difference. Also, our client ended up being transferred to Iraq, not Saudi Arabia. The Times has it all wrong. I intend to call Bill Devlin and get him to publish a correction.”
“Good, but those things never get the attention of the original. The damage has been done. It’s unfortunate. But send me copies of documents corroborating your representation of this other Khalid fellow.”
“You’ll have them by noon. Anything else I can do?”
“Well, we clearly have a problem. I spent the last thirty minutes with the president talking about it. He wasn’t happy that I didn’t know about your representation of a Guantanamo prisoner. As I told you Monday, we don’
t like being blindsided.”
“I should have mentioned it.”
“That would have been better. But it’s water over the dam. Or under the bridge. Wherever the hell water flows in Washington. Let me tell you where we are.”
Martin held his breath.
“First there’s the personal perspective. President Braddock believes that the character issue is critical. Nothing in this representation adversely affects your character. We know, and the president agrees, that everyone’s entitled to representation. That’s what makes our legal system work. If we lawyers had to be personally identified with the people we represent, we wouldn’t take half our clients. An argument can even be made that you’re admirable defending the underdog—the people who have been arrested, flown off to a strange place, and have no one to speak for them.”
Arthur interrupted himself by coughing. “Sorry. Then there’s the political fallout, which unfortunately trumps the president’s personal views. You’ve been in this town a helluva lot longer than I have. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“Agreed.”
“Sometimes an issue like this appears in the press one day and is gone the next. Other times it becomes a snowball rolling down a hill, getting larger and larger, until it knocks the nominee off a cliff. Remember the nominees’ problems of tax withholding for nannies and receiving of honoraria from questionable public figures. All sorts of things. We’ll just have to wait and see how this plays out.”
Arthur paused to take a breath. “What we care about is the public reaction. How much outrage on Main Street and in the media? Even more, the reaction of the senators and particularly the members of judiciary. They have to confirm whoever we select. We won’t send up a nominee who’s DOA. But for now, you’re still alive. Do you have anything else for me? Anything else you forgot to mention on Monday?”
Martin thought of his phone call with Jasper from Anguilla Sunday evening. That would finish him for sure. “Nothing.”
Martin next called Bill Devlin, the head of the Times’ Washington Bureau. “It’s a disgrace. All the facts are wrong. I’m sending you copies of court documents, establishing that we represented Mohammad Khalid, who was charged with planting a roadside bomb in Iraq. I want a retraction in tomorrow’s paper.”
“If the documents back you up, you’ll get it.”
“And I want the same prominence as today’s. On the front page.”
“I can’t commit to that. Our layout depends on the news we have on any given day.”
“That’s bullshit. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Are you finished?”
“No. You should talk to Jim Nelson. Find out who his source was. How he got the facts so wrong.”
“You know what’ll happen. Jim won’t disclose his source to me, and I can’t compel him to do it.”
In disgust, Martin slammed down the phone.
Martin and Paul gulped down a bowl of shredded wheat and a muffin along with coffee because Francis insisted that they eat. Martin then said, “Let’s go,” to Paul who had come in a cab.
They climbed into Martin’s X-K8 Jag convertible, in British racing green, to go to the office.
As they pulled out of the driveway, Martin asked Paul, “How was the funeral in Ohio yesterday?”
“Really sad. Vanessa’s mother was a basket case. And her dad, who had a couple strokes, seemed out of it. He was the lucky one. Nobody should have to bury a child so young. I met her when you sent me up to the Armed Services Committee on that Taiwan arms bill.”
“Drowned? I think that’s what you told me yesterday.”
“Yeah. The story doesn’t make sense. The police in Anguilla said she was alone. Vanessa would never have gone by herself. She had to be with somebody who left her dead body on the beach. That’s what Allison thinks, too. And she intends to find out.”
Martin didn’t want to seem too interested, but he had to ask. “Who’s Allison?”
“Vanessa’s twin sister. Quite a woman. Professor of archeology at Brown. Really smart. She was a bronze medal winner on the US field hockey team at the Barcelona Olympics ten or so years ago. She flew back to Washington with me last evening. We had dinner together at Central.”
Martin blasted through a light seconds after it turned to red. Two cars honked at him. He ignored them and glanced at Paul.
“What’s Allison doing here?”
“She’s hell-bent on finding out whom her sister went with to Anguilla and what really happened.”
Oh shit, Martin thought. This gets worse and worse.
* * *
At nine in the morning Allison stepped out of Vanessa’s apartment building with trepidation. She looked up and down the street. No sign of the gray Lexus.
She hailed a cab. “Hart Senate Office Building,” she told the driver.
About a year ago Vanessa had introduced Allison to Susan Kramer, another staffer on the Senate Armed Services Committee. Vanessa explained, “She’s my closest friend on the committee, which isn’t saying much.” Allison had to enlist Susan’s help. She realized she had gotten lucky because Geraldine Cox was visiting her mother in Cincinnati, as she told Allison yesterday. The chief of staff wouldn’t be there to thwart Allison’s investigation.
From the cab, she called the committee and was put through to Susan.
“I was so sorry to hear about Vanessa,” Susan said, sounding genuinely sympathetic, not like that bitch Geraldine. “I really wanted to come to the funeral, but Kevin, my seven year old, had strep. The nanny was gone and I had to take him to the doctor. Still can’t believe it about Vanessa.”
“Unfortunately that makes two of us.”
“Can I do anything?”
“I’m in Washington. I’d like to come up to Vanessa’s office to remove her personal things. And maybe talk with you a little.”
“Sure. My nanny’s back. I’m on a normal schedule today. When would you like to come?”
“Half an hour.”
“Good. I’ll be expecting you and alert security to send you up to the committee offices on the fourth floor.”
Half an hour later Susan was waiting for Allison when the elevator door opened. She was in her mid-thirties, a bit chunky, with long brown hair that hung down straight, perfect white teeth, and a winning smile. She led Allison into Vanessa’s office.
“Can we talk for a few minutes?” Allison said.
“I’m just finishing up something for one of the members. Why don’t you gather her things first. Then I’ll come back.”
That was fine with Allison. She wanted to be left alone. After closing the door and looking over the office, she began to cry. She sat down and pulled together. The time for tears was over. She chided herself. She was up against some formidable people. She had to get her emotions under control.
Allison took down Vanessa’s framed NYU diploma and laminated covers from Vogue and Elle from the wall and piled them on a bookcase. Then she turned to the desk. It looked surprisingly neat with only a couple of committee reports and a hearing transcript on top, which surprised her. Generally Vanessa had small stacks of paper on her desk and lots of little personal notes with “to do” lists. Before leaving for Anguilla, she must have put them in her desk drawer.
Allison opened the center desk drawer. All it contained were more committee reports and hearing transcripts, as well as office supplies: a stapler, pens, pads. No personal papers. She checked the side drawers. Same thing.
After her experience in Vanessa’s apartment, Allison understood immediately what had happened. The office had been sanitized. Someone in a hurry, without time to look through Vanessa’s papers to pull out the ones which identified her lover, had simply removed everything. These people were always one step ahead of her.
Allison heard a knock on the door. “Who’s there?”
“Susan.”
Allison opened the door and asked if they could talk in Susan’s office. She didn’t want Susan to focus on the
cleaned-out office and set off alarms. Allison had to do this methodically.
When they were in Susan’s office with coffee, Allison, who decided she could trust Susan, said, “My sister drowned in Anguilla. The police down there said she was alone. Knowing Vanessa, I’m convinced she was with a man who ran off and left her body on the beach. I wonder if she told you with whom she was going.”
Susan shook her head. Allison’s spirits plunged.
“I don’t have a name for you, but last Thursday Vanessa seemed happy. She told me she was going to the Caribbean for the weekend. When I asked her with whom, she looked coy and said, ‘One day you’ll find out. And you’ll be surprised.’
“Then she began waving around the ring finger on her left hand. She told me, ‘I’m getting married.’ When I asked her who the lucky man was, she said the same thing. ‘You’ll be surprised.’ That’s all she told me.”
“I knew it,” Allison said. “She went with a man.”
Susan looked thoughtful. “Vanessa was strong-willed. I suppose it’s possible he changed his mind about going at the last minute and, furious, she went herself.”
Allison thought about that for a moment. “That’s conceivable. Do you have any idea whom my sister was dating?”
“About a year ago, a nice lawyer, Paul Maltoni, from Andrew Martin’s firm. He picked her up here a few times. I liked Paul and asked her why she broke up with him. She said that she wanted to marry someone very wealthy and powerful. She didn’t want just a nice house in Bethesda with a basketball hoop in front and a couple of good-looking kids. ‘But hey, that’s my life,’ I told her. She laughed and said ‘it was fine for me.’”
“Whom did she date before or after Paul?”
“She was very secretive about the men she was seeing. She’d go into her office and close the door for personal phone conversations.”
“You think they were people working on the Hill? Congressmen or senators?”
Susan looked down and fiddled with her wedding ring. “That was my guess. Probably married. But look, it was none of my business. People can do what they want.”