by Stuart Woods
“Yes, sir,” Kitty replied and hung up. She went to her laptop, found Bob Kinney’s direct line, and called it.
THE SENATE COMMITTEE reconvened after a lunch break, and Jacob Friedman, Stanton’s attorney, rose. “Mr. Chairman, since Governor Stanton was pretty young at the time of the events described by Mr. Sheedy, I would like to call a rebuttal witness on the events of January 9, 1958.”
“You may do so, Mr. Friedman,” the chairman replied.
“I call Special Agent Shelly Bach of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Friedman said.
There was a stir in the audience and many strobes firing as the tall blonde agent walked purposefully down the aisle and stopped to be sworn. Then she sat down where Mr. Sheedy had sat.
“Good morning, Special Agent Bach,” Friedman said, rising.
“Good morning, sir, and Mr. Chairman,” Shelly replied with a fetching smile.
“A little background first, please,” Friedman said. “How long have you been an agent of the FBI?”
“For seven years,” Shelly replied. “I was recruited out of Yale Law School.”
“And what are your current duties?”
“I’m assigned to the office of Assistant Director Kerry Smith for general duties in the Washington, D.C., area.”
“And what was your most recent assignment?”
“I was assigned to the background check of Governor Martin Stanton after the president selected him. This is a routine examination of persons appointed to high office in the government.”
“And what did your review of Governor Stanton’s background reveal?”
“Nothing of a derogatory nature, but the full report could be released only by the director of the FBI.”
“Let me be specific: Did your investigation reveal the birthplace of Governor Stanton?”
“Yes. Governor Stanton was born between the United States border and Women’s Hospital in San Diego, California.”
“And how did you learn this?”
“First from Governor Stanton’s own account of his birth, as related to him by family members and a staffer.”
“And how did you substantiate this account?”
“At the direction of Director Kinney, Assistant Director Smith and I traveled to Mexico, where we interviewed Mr. Pedro Martínez, who was an employee of Martin Stanton, Senior, and who actually delivered the baby who is Martin Stanton, Junior, while the elder Mr. Stanton drove the car.”
“Did you find the account of Mr. Martínez convincing?” Friedman asked.
“Yes. He confirmed every detail of the story Governor Stanton had told us and in a most convincing manner.”
“So we have an accurate account of events from the only person still living who knows every detail of that morning’s events?”
“That is correct.”
“And as a result of your investigation, you have determined beyond any doubt that Governor Stanton was born on United States soil?”
“Yes, sir. That is correct.”
“I’ve no further questions at this time, Mr. Chairman,” Friedman said, then sat down.
The chairman turned toward Melfi. “Does the junior senator from Arizona have any questions for this witness?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman, just one or two.” Senator Melfi leaned into his microphone. “Special Agent Bach,” he said, “are you aware of the testimony given this morning by retired Border Patrol Agent Martin Sheedy as to the actual birthplace of Governor Stanton?”
“Yes, sir, I have read the transcript.”
“And that is from direct testimony before this committee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your testimony is secondhand, isn’t it? This Mr. Martínez has not appeared here today.”
“That is correct.” Melfi smiled and took a deep breath. “But,” she said, interrupting him, “I have a tape recording of the interview that we conducted with Mr. Martínez three days ago, and I would be happy to play it for you.”
“Please do so, Special Agent Bach,” the chairman said, before Melfi could react.
Shelly removed a CD from her briefcase and handed it to a committee staffer, who inserted it into a machine and pressed a button. The voices were clear, as Pedro Martínez told his story.
When the recording had ended, Shelly said, “Mr. Chairman, I spoke with Mr. Martínez by phone this morning, and he has expressed his willingness to come to Washington and repeat his story in person should the committee ask him.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the chairman responded.
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Melfi cut in, “I have another question or two for Ms. Bach.”
“Proceed.”
“Special Agent Bach, you have told us of the investigation of Mr. Martínez’s story, but have you also investigated the story of the retired Border Patrol agent, Mr. Sheedy?”
“Since we heard of Mr. Sheedy’s account of events only this morning,” Shelly said, “we have not had time to fully investigate his assertions.” Melfi was smiling again. “Except,” Shelly said, “that I spoke to the gentleman who was Mr. Sheedy’s commanding officer at the time, Mr. Ronald Wicks, who is now retired and living in San Diego. He told me that when Mr. Sheedy was in training, in December 1957, his account of the position of the U.S. Border Control Station in Mexico was accurate. However, he also told me that on January 1, 1958, both the Mexican and American Border Patrol stations were moved onto their respective soils, and that the U.S. station was several yards inside the United States. Mr. Sheedy’s first day on duty at the border was eight days later, and apparently, he was not aware of the change.”
Melfi sat, staring at her, speechless.
The chairman spoke up. “Mr. Melfi, do you have any further questions for this witness?”
“Ah, no, Mr. Chairman, not at this time.”
“Do you wish to recall your previous witness, Mr. Sheedy, for rebuttal testimony?”
“No, Mr. Chairman,” Melfi replied.
“Special Agent Bach,” the chairman said, “you are excused, with the committee’s gratitude.”
Shelly closed her briefcase, rose, and left the room, followed by the lens of every camera.
“We will continue with the questioning of Governor Stanton,” the chairman said.
22
WILL, NOW UP AND DRESSED, SWITCHED OFF THE TV IN HIS SUITE, WHICH HAD BEEN tuned to C-SPAN. “That was very satisfying,” he said to Kitty. “Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have you the seating chart for the dinner this evening?”
“Not yet, sir, they’re still working on it. All the guests have given at least one hundred thousand dollars to the Democratic National Committee, so they’re being very careful about the seating arrangements.”
“Did anyone besides Charlene Joiner give a million dollars?”
“Yes, sir. Helene Branley, the widow of William, former head of Branley Industries. She’s ninety years old.”
“Will she be at the dinner?”
“That’s in doubt, sir; she’s a bit frail.”
“I want her there, even if she’s in a wheelchair,” Will said, “or, if that doesn’t work for her, a gurney. And get me the chairwoman of the event on the phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
BACK IN HIS BORROWED OFFICE at the White House, Martin Stanton made a cell-phone call to Sacramento.
“Hello?”
“Did you watch this morning?”
“Every minute of it. You were superb.”
“It did go well, didn’t it. What’s-his-name looked like a complete ass.”
“What’s-his-name certainly did.”
“How are you?”
“Horny.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d love to. When?”
“In a few months.”
“Oh. I made a formal application to the potential employer yesterday.”
“Good. I expect I’ll hear about it soon, but I’ll have to keep th
e whole business at arm’s length. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s better for both of us.”
“I’ll be in town for a day, you know that?”
“Of course.”
“We have to be very careful while I’m there; we can’t act on our feelings.”
She sighed. “I know. You can depend on me.”
His phone began ringing. “Hang on. I’ve got a call.” He picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“The president for you, Governor Stanton,” the White House operator said.
“Of course.” He whispered into the cell phone. “Gotta run.” He cut off the cell call.
“Marty?”
“Yes, Will.”
“I watched the second half of the hearing, and I thought it went brilliantly.”
“Yes, it did. I don’t know who that agent was, but she was perfect.”
“I’d never heard of her, either, but I suspect Bob Kinney sent her for a reason.”
“A very apparent reason. How’s it going in L.A.?”
“Ask me tomorrow. I’ve got to get through this fund-raiser tonight.”
“I know, all the heavy hitters.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a room with that much money,” Will said.
“I’m sure it won’t be the last room like that. How do you feel about running against Bill Spanner?” The Republicans had nominated the comparatively young senator from Ohio the evening before.
“I think he could turn out to be a handful,” Will said. “Since he doesn’t expect to be elected, he can say and do anything he wants, and, from what I know of him, he will. The disadvantage is, next to either of the other two, I’d look young, but next to Spanner, I look old.”
“Not old, wise.”
“By the way, Marty, I had a call from Joe Tracy at Justice, and he tells me that your chief of staff in Sacramento, Barbara Ortega, has made a bid for head of the Criminal Division.”
“Yes, she told me about it, but I’m staying at arm’s length from the process, and she knows that. I don’t want any appearance of any improper influence.”
“I guess that’s why she gave me as a reference instead of you,” Will said.
“Did she? Do you know her?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve met her a few times. It was clever of her to use my name; that got Joe’s attention.”
“She’s a very smart woman,” Stanton said.
“I take it she has your wholehearted support?”
“Off the record, yes, of course. And if Joe Tracy should walk in front of a bus, I think she’d eventually make a fine AG.”
“Well, on that recommendation, I’ll write Joe a note, just to formalize my support.”
“I’m sure Barbara would appreciate that.”
“Marty, I’m sure Tom Black’s people grilled you about any of your personal relationships that might jeopardize your candidacy.”
“Yes, of course. You need have no fears on that account. Oh, were you referring to Barbara?”
“Well, yes.”
“Our relationship has been very close but entirely professional. She has nothing to do with my divorce.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Again, my congratulations on the hearing. I hear they’re voting today, and your nomination will go to the full Senate tomorrow. I don’t anticipate much of a debate.”
“Anything I can do, anyone I can talk to, let me know, Will.”
“You’ve already done your footwork. Let’s have dinner in the quarters tomorrow night and celebrate.”
“I’d love to. Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks, Marty. Good-bye.”
Stanton hung up and heaved a sigh of relief. He had not been kidding when he had told Barbara how horny he was. He was having wild dreams about her, and when he was back in Sacramento it was going to be very difficult to keep his hands off her.
23
AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN, WILL LEFT HIS SUITE WITH KITTY CONROY AND FOUR Secret Service men to walk to the meeting room where the dinner was being held. More agents would be stationed along his route through the gardens, he knew. The Secret Service didn’t like him walking through hotels or their gardens, even one as upscale as the Bel-Air.
Will had spent the last hour going through a three-ring binder filled with photographs and short bios of the dinner guests, who were the hundred biggest contributors in California. It was his habit at the smaller dinners to rule out name tags and impress everybody with his memory of names.
The guests had been drinking since six-thirty, so they would be well oiled by the time he began to move among them. This was the kind of event the Secret Service liked, where every guest was known to them and had been vetted for criminal records or threats against the president. This was a “soft” event, except for Charlene.
Kitty spoke as they walked. “The committee chairman has followed your instructions to the letter,” she said. “Mrs. Branley will be seated on your right, perhaps in a wheelchair, we’re not sure yet, then Ralph Braden, the new CEO of Branley Industries, then Charlene, and boy-girl after that. Rivera, the governor-to-be will be on your left, then his wife, then boy-girl.”
“Charlene will try to change the place cards,” Will said.
“I’m on that, and so is the Secret Service.”
“How am I going to avoid an embrace with Charlene?”
“Frankly, I don’t know,” Kitty replied, “but even with no press or photographers there, you’re going to have to avoid the appearance of pushing her away. She’s a very popular lady with this crowd, and she has probably slept with half of them.”
“There’ll be a photographer there to take pictures of me with everybody,” Will said. “See that he leaves the room before the presentation of Charlene’s check.”
“Don’t worry, there’s only one, and he’s on my staff,” Kitty replied.
“See that no photos of me in the same frame as Charlene are released to the press.”
She opened the door to the meeting room for him. “Don’t worry.”
Will strode into the room and grabbed the first outstretched hand. “Hello, Mike,” he said. “How are Alice and the girls?”
The astonished man, whom he had never met before, managed to say, “Just fine, Mr. President,” before Will grabbed another hand. The photographer stayed at his elbow, getting at least one shot with every contributor. Then, out of a corner of his eye, Will could see Charlene Joiner elbowing her way through the crowd toward him. He tacked to his left, allowing the crowd to fill in between them, giving Charlene a cheerful wave.
A minute later, however, she appeared before him, wearing a dress that reminded him of the one Marilyn Monroe had worn when she sang “Happy Birthday” to Jack Kennedy, but lower-cut.
As she held out her arms to him, Will grabbed her hands and pulled them in front of her as he pecked her quickly on the cheek. He could feel the backs of his own hands pressing against her impressive breasts. “How are you, Charlene? Good to see you!”
“Will . . . ah, Mr. President, I need a moment of your time,” she was saying, but Will had already turned to another guest and his wife and was posing for a quick photo with them.
God only knew what cause Charlene wanted to buttonhole him about, he reflected. Larry Eugene Moody, her murderous ex-boyfriend, already had had his death sentence commuted. What the hell did she want now?
Will worked his way forward in the room, making progress, shaking hands, making eye contact, hugging and kissing wives, occasionally unable to block a hug from a male guest. Mentally, he counted, and when he was at ninety-two he had made the dais. Mrs. William Branley was being pushed in a wheelchair toward her seat next to his. Charlene was standing on the other side of her, and he managed to keep the wheelchair between them. Then, as he was about to take his seat, Charlene made her move and was deftly blocked by a large Secret Service agent who pretended to adjust Mrs. Branley’s chair, while another agent held Charlene’s chair. Reluctantly, she sat down next to the Branley
Industries CEO, who immediately engaged her in conversation.
Will sipped lightly from a glass of champagne and conversed with Mrs. Branley until the first course arrived. Then he turned to Lieutenant Governor Rivera. “Mike, congratulations on ascending to the throne.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Rivera replied, smiling broadly, “but it may be more of a hot seat.”
Will laughed. “I expect you’ve got a pretty good handle on the job by now. After all, you’ve had a great role model in Marty.”
“That I have,” Rivera said, “though we disagree on a few issues.”
“I hope they’re local, not national,” Will said. “We can’t have any public squabbling between you two until after the election.”
Rivera seemed under no illusions about the seriousness of Will’s little joke. “You can rely on me, Mr. President.”
Will finished his first course, and when the filet mignon was served, he cut it in two and ate only half and a few vegetables. He avoided dessert and drank only a few more sips of his champagne. When coffee was being served he excused himself for a moment and used a backstage men’s room. “Don’t let anybody near here,” he said to an agent as he went inside. He had visions of Charlene barging in and holding his dick for him while he peed.
When he left the men’s room he stood in the wings and pretended to consult some notes while the little lectern was placed on top of the dinner table and the microphone rigged. The Secret Service used the opportunity to herd all the waiting and bussing staff out of the room and guard the doors against any premature return. Finally, when only guests and guards were left in the room, Miguel Rivera stood, welcomed the audience and, eventually, after what sounded like a campaign speech for his next term, introduced Will. As the crowd leaped to their feet, an aide exchanged the California seal for the presidential seal on the lectern, then Will stepped out.
He stood there waving and pointing at people until the applause slowly died, then began to speak. “As I was saying twenty-five million dollars ago . . .” The crowd roared and applauded again.
WILL FINISHED HIS SPEECH, then turned to Mrs. Branley to receive her check for a million dollars. As he thanked her profusely, he saw Charlene remove an envelope from her purse and push her chair back; then Kitty Conroy appeared from nowhere, plucked the check from her hand, and surreptitiously used a hip to shove her chair back in.