Mounting Fears

by Stuart Woods

  “I know that the National Security Agency can do that,” Marlene said, “but I don’t know that you can do it.”

  “I know a guy that might have the equipment to do it,” Felix said.

  “Hang on just a minute,” Marlene said.

  “Okay, I’m hanging.”

  “We need to look at what we’re getting into here. What you usually do with the recordings you make is get a leg up on the story, get there first.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I’m doing here.”

  “Felix, this is different. If you sell this story to somebody based on these tapes, you’re going to have to give them the tapes, and even if the two voices are the same, those tapes have a lot of gaps in them. The Feds would find out where the tapes came from, and they would be all over you. You really want to go through that for a few grand, which is what you’re going to get for the tapes?”

  “All that, just because I taped a guy and his girlfriend on the phone?”

  “You taped him at the White House.”

  “Well, I don’t know that. He could have been sitting on a park bench in the neighborhood, you know?”

  “It’s still illegal to tape somebody on a cell phone, and if you sell the story, you’ll have to admit that’s what you did. Also, if all of this stuff was somehow confirmed and became believable, you’d be blowing a vice president out of the water. Hellfire would rain down on you, if you did that.”

  “Just because he’s fucking somebody?”

  “You just heard them say he’s married. Remember what happened to Gary Hart?”

  “Who?”

  Marlene sighed. “He was a guy running for president who got caught with a girl on the side—then he wasn’t running for president anymore. And he invited the press to follow him around. Stanton has not issued you an invitation to record his personal telephone calls. Do you want him to get blown out of the water?”

  “What the fuck do I care—I don’t even know him.”

  “My very point.”

  “Look, all these guys are crooks. Why would you care what happened to him?”

  “Well, putting aside simple human decency for a moment, I care what happens to you. Are you willing to trade the possibility of prison time and your face all over the news for the few grand you’d get for the tape?”

  “I might like being famous,” Felix said.

  “There’s famous good, and there’s famous bad. Nobody would ever buy a story from you again.”

  “They might. The publicity might even improve my business.”

  “You can’t operate your business, if that’s what you want to call what you do, from a jail cell, and when you get out, you’ll be Felix the ex-con that nobody wants to know, let alone buy dirt from.”

  “I think you’re overreacting, Marlene.”

  “I’m just trying to be real, here.”

  “Well, how about this: I get this guy I know who has the equipment to compare the tape with a recording of what we just saw?” He began rewinding the TiVo.

  “If you give this guy the two tapes, what’s to keep him from selling the story himself?”

  “He’s a good guy—he wouldn’t do that.”

  “Felix, there’s a real scarcity of good guys where money is concerned, especially money made this way.”

  “Well, I’m just going to look into it, that’s all. I’ll talk to you about it before I do anything.”

  Marlene opened another beer and went back to her pizza. She didn’t speak to him again that evening.

  19

  WILL SAT IN HIS OFFICE ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE, DICTATING RESPONSES TO correspondence into a recording machine. The letters would be typed and ready to mail by the time the big Boeing arrived in Los Angeles. His phone buzzed.

  Will picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Moss Mallet would like to see you.”

  “Send him in.”

  Moss, his pollster, rapped on the door and opened it. “Okay, Mr. President?”

  “Come on in, Moss,” Will said, and pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”

  Moss took a deep breath. “My office has just faxed me the raw data on our first poll since the convention. I haven’t finished all the analysis yet, but I thought you should know what the raw data are before you speak in L.A.”

  “Shoot,” Will said.

  “The appointment of Governor Stanton as your running mate, bumped you up a point in the poll, but—and this is weird—your appointment of him as veep knocked you down a point.”

  “I don’t get it,” Will said. “People want him as my running mate but not as vice president?”

  “The one-point bump seems to have come from Democrats, who like the appointment by seventy percent or so. Eight percent didn’t like it, and the rest are undecided. The one-point drop seems to have come from independents, mostly.”

  “So the net result is flat, no change?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought we’d get a six- or seven-point bump in the polls, based on Marty’s popularity in California.”

  “We did get that in California but not nationally.”

  Will shrugged. “Okay, the rest of the country will like him better as they get to know him, see him on more Sunday morning shows and in campaign appearances.”

  “He’s doing Meet the Press this Sunday,” Moss said. “I hope you’re right.” He shuffled some papers. “But there’s something else.”

  Will looked at Moss closely. “What’s the problem?”

  “You took a hit on the A-bomb explosion in Pakistan: down four points nationally.”

  “I don’t understand. I didn’t explode the bomb, the Pakistanis did.”

  “As I said, I haven’t had time to analyze all the data yet, but it seems that four percent of Americans somehow hold you responsible, at least in part, for the incident.”

  “That’s nuts,” Will said.

  “Yes, it is, but that’s how they feel.”

  “Four percent of all Americans feel I’m partly responsible for a nuclear explosion halfway around the world?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “So after the convention and the arrival of Marty Stanton in the campaign, I’m down four points net?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s depressing,” Will said. “Any indication of how they think I’m partly responsible?”

  “No, sir. This is raw data.”

  “So a chunk of the American people think the president is omnipotent and feel he should be able to stop bad things from happening before they happen?”

  Moss shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s there.”

  “In a tight race, four percentage points could cost me the election.”

  “Fortunately, you’re not in a tight race. The Republicans are voting at their convention tonight, so tomorrow we’ll know who their candidate is, and we can do a head-to-head comparative poll. That will tell us better where we stand.”

  “Okay. Let me know what that poll says.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Kitty Conroy stuck her head in. “Got a minute, boss?”

  “Sure. Come in. Anything else, Moss?”

  Moss shook his head and left.

  “What’s up, Kitty.”

  “They’ve put Charlene Joiner at the head table for your speech tomorrow night.”

  Will felt a flash of annoyance. This went back years. He had represented the woman’s boyfriend at his trial for the rape and murder of a black woman in his home county seat, and the boyfriend had been convicted and sentenced to death. Charlene was a knockout blonde, and he had, before he was married, slept with her on one occasion, and she had managed to parlay the press reports of that incident into instant fame and a career as an actress. She had also turned out to be a very good actress and had built a huge career, winning an Academy Award, while maintaining her place as America’s foremost sex symbol.

  Charlene had also conducted a campaign to get the boyfriend’s death sentenc
e set aside, badgering Will for a presidential pardon, and, incredibly, she had succeeded, apparently by seducing the governor of Georgia, who had commuted his sentence to life. And every time Will turned up in California, she had been there, finding a way to be at his side for a photo op.

  “My very clear instructions to the committee,” Will said, “were that Charlene would not be seated anywhere near me. Did someone not get that message?”

  “They did, but this morning, Charlene made a million-dollar contribution to the Democratic National Committee.”

  “A million dollars?”

  “It’s not unprecedented, but it happens rarely enough that they don’t want to make her angry by seating her somewhere else. The contribution is already on the AP wire, and it will be all over tomorrow morning’s papers. If she’s seated anywhere but on the dais, it will ignite a story that will make headlines for a week.”

  “Then cancel the dinner,” Will said petulantly.

  “Will, come on. She’s nailed us on this one, and there’s nothing we can do about it without making things infinitely worse.”

  “All right, then, tell them I want her as far as possible from me at the head table. And I mean that!”

  Kitty sighed. “There’s more: Charlene wants to present the million-dollar check to you before you speak, and she wants to say a few words.”

  “This is insane,” Will said. “I can’t accept the check—it’s against the campaign funding laws.”

  “Not if it’s made out to the Democratic National Committee. After all, you’re the head of the party.”

  “Kitty, are you telling me that I can’t stop this from happening?”

  “Not without causing a huge rumpus in the press.”

  “Then tell the Secret Service to shoot her.”

  “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard yet,” Kitty said, “but I don’t think I can talk them into it.”

  “I want that head table packed with people who are more important than Charlene is,” Will said, “and I want all of them between her and me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Kitty said.

  “And if you can’t get this done, you’re going to have to shoot her.”

  Kitty beat a hasty retreat.

  20

  MARTIN STANTON CHECKED HIMSELF IN THE MEN’S ROOM MIRROR ONE LAST TIME. His suit was perfectly pressed, his necktie centered, his graying hair neatly combed.

  “Time to go, Governor,” his lawyer said.

  They walked from the men’s room out into the hallway, where they were joined by two Secret Service agents, then down the hall and into the grand Senate hearing room. Flashbulbs did not pop, since no photographer had used flashbulbs for decades, but the dull whomp of strobes firing filled the room, raising the light level to a point where a blind man could read the fine print.

  Stanton, followed by his lawyer, strode down the center aisle, and stopped before sitting down. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

  “Good morning, Governor Stanton,” the chairman replied. “The clerk will administer the oath.”

  Stanton raised his right hand and chanted the words, then took a seat, his lawyer beside him.

  “And good morning, Mr. Roberts,” the chairman said to the lawyer. “I trust your presence here will be superfluous.”

  “As do I, Mr. Chairman,” Jacob Friedman said smoothly. “Good morning.”

  “Governor,” the chairman said, “I take pleasure in welcoming you to the Senate this morning, as I am sure do all the members of the committee. I understand that you have an opening statement; please proceed.”

  Stanton took the statement from his pocket and laid it on the table before him, though he was sure he would not need to refer to it. He began to speak, fixing a small smile on his face, and as he did, something behind the row of senators moved, catching his eye. Stanton relied on his peripheral vision to watch an aide rush from a door behind the senators to the side of the junior senator from Arizona, a famously right-wing Republican, and hand him a small black box and some earphones. The man put on the earphones and listened, and he appeared to enjoy what he heard.

  Stanton did not miss a beat, and he did not refer to his written statement. He finished and sat waiting.

  “I have a few questions,” the chairman said, “and then we will take turns to question the witness.” The chairman’s questions were benign, not to say bland, and they offered Stanton the opportunity to make a few free points. The chairman then said, “The junior senator from Arizona, Mr. Melfi.”

  Melfi smiled broadly, perhaps too much for the subject of his questioning. “Governor, I once heard you tell the story of your birth, and I wonder if you would relate it once more for the benefit of us all?”

  “Of course, Senator,” Stanton said, and he launched into the tale he had told at a thousand political meetings and dinner parties. When he had finished, he waited for the next question.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Melfi said, “I apologize for this departure from procedure, but it was brought to my attention only moments ago that a witness has come forward with information highly pertinent to my questioning of the governor. I request the opportunity for the committee to hear this witness now, before we continue with the governor.”

  “Mr. Melfi,” the chairman said, “this is highly irregular. I am sure you know that witnesses must be vetted by staff before appearing before the committee.”

  “And the witness has been vetted by staff,” Melfi replied. “They completed their process only four or five minutes ago. I assure the chairman that this will take only a very few minutes, and, as I said, his testimony is highly pertinent.”

  A staffer came over, handed the chairman a sheet of paper, and whispered something in his ear. The chairman asked a brief question, then turned back to Stanton. “Governor, I apologize for this interruption, but I think we should hear this witness.”

  “Of course, Mr. Chairman,” Stanton replied. “Please call him.”

  The chairman consulted the sheet of paper in his hand. “The committee calls Mr. Marvin Sheedy.”

  Stanton turned and looked up the aisle to see a small, elderly man using a cane walk slowly forward to be sworn. He took a seat at the other table, next to where Stanton sat.

  “Mr. Sheedy,” Senator Melfi began, “would you state your full name and address for the record?”

  Sheedy cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone. “Marvin Ellis Sheedy, 101 Sun Terrace, Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “And what is your occupation, Mr. Sheedy?” the senator asked.

  “I retired fifteen years ago from the United States Border Patrol,” Sheedy replied, “after thirty-five years of service.”

  “Mr. Sheedy, do you recall where you were on January 9, 1958?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Sheedy replied. “I was on duty at the border station between Tijuana, Mexico, and San Diego, California. I remember, because that was my first day on the job.”

  “I see. Mr. Sheedy, was that day memorable for any other reason, besides its being your first day in the Border Patrol?”

  “Well, yes, sir, it was.”

  “Can you tell us why?”

  “Well, it was a little before nine o’clock in the morning. I had been on duty only since eight o’clock, when this Cadillac car came racing up to the border station—it cut off another car—and screeched to a halt right in front of me.”

  “Can you describe the car?” Melfi asked.

  “It was a four-door, real new, painted yellow, with a black fabric top. I was told later that it belonged to a Mr. Stanton, who crossed the border often and was well known to several of the officers.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, there was a man and a woman in the backseat, and she was lying down. The man in the back yelled something at the driver, then both of them got out of the car and changed places. When they did, I saw the lady was having a baby.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well, the fellow in the
backseat with the lady held it up and slapped it, and it started crying.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I yelled at the driver to get the hell out of there. I guessed he was going to a hospital, you see. The driver, who I later found out was Mr. Stanton, stomped on the gas and got the hell out of there.”

  “And you’re sure, Mr. Sheedy, that while the car was stopped at your station, the baby was born?”

  “Oh, yessir,” Sheedy said. “That was the first time, before or since, I saw a baby born.”

  “Mr. Sheedy,” Senator Melfi said, “where, precisely, was your station located?”

  “My station was about fifty yards south of the border. You see, we were located there, so in case we found somebody trying to cross the border illegally, we could stop him before he entered the United States.”

  “You’re certain about the location?”

  “Oh, yes sir,” Sheedy said.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Melfi said, “that concludes my questioning of the witness. I would like to point out that his testimony affirms that Governor Stanton is not a native-born American citizen, as the rules of the Immigration Service define that status, and so, because of that and other circumstances in Governor Stanton’s father’s life, he is not eligible to serve as vice president of the United States of America.”

  All hell broke loose in the hearing room.

  21

  WILL LEE WAS SITTING UP IN BED IN THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE OF THE HOTEL Bel-Air in Los Angeles when his phone rang. It was six forty-five a.m. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast, Mr. President,” Kitty Conroy said, “but there’s been something of a bombshell in Governor Stanton’s confirmation hearing.” She related the events of a few minutes before.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Will demanded.

  “Right out of left field, sir. Apparently Senator Melfi has been doing some digging.”

  “You get on the phone to Bob Kinney. His people have already checked out Marty’s story, and they have the testimony of the man who delivered Marty in the car. Get moving!”