Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  “Well, after all Sam, he is a politician.” They both laughed. “You got something solid to go on?"

  "Not a goddamn thing," Sam replied. "But my gut says something isn’t right. Makes me want to go after him like a bloodhound.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Hang on.” Johnson paused and talked briefly to someone else in the newsroom. “Sorry. Anyway, Dodson’s impatient as hell to get this profile wrapped. You, uh, lining up sources in Iowa?”

  Sam knew what he meant. “I’m working on it.” After a pause he added, “I talked to her tonight. I can’t promise you Westphal.”

  “Well,” Johnson sighed the word, “I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose we could pull you off it and put Bundy on the profile, but I’d have to explain to Dodson …”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Sam interrupted. “I’ll try to work it out. Steve, I want the story.”

  They were old friends and Johnson had no desire to bring unprofessional conduct from years ago to the attention of a general manager who had a continual line of great journalists begging him for work. “Do the best you can with it then. Erickson’s going back to Iowa late tomorrow afternoon. Are you traveling with him?”

  “You tell me. I thought I would. Didn’t Sarah clear it with you?”

  “She was too busy trying to leave.” Again Sam heard a voice in the background ask Johnson a question, and he added, “See if there’s room for you on Erickson’s plane back to Des Moines and email me the cost. I’ll run it past the penny counters.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, and one more thing; our ‘On Capitol Hill’ blog posted a squib late last night about your wife becoming majority counsel for the Finance Committee. Looks like you’ve got a friend in a high place.”

  “Last night? We discussed for the first time last night, and she was still batting it around …”

  Johnson broke in, “Sam, Friedman got it early this week. He just couldn’t run it until Morton confirmed it. Which he did, last night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Dodson asked me this morning why you hadn’t filled us in. I said I’d touch base with you. It never occurred to me you didn’t know.”

  For a moment Sam didn’t answer. Then he sighed, “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess I’d better start reading our blogs to keep up with my wife.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, Sam writhing inside as he realized his editor had to deal with two conflicts in the same conversation, one involving his wife, the other a former girlfriend. Then Johnson said, “Hell, you two probably haven’t had much time for talking with me sending you all over the country. We’ll just steer you clear of Finance, and everything will be fine.”

  “Right.”

  “Look, my other line’s ringing. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” The line went abruptly dead.

  For a while Sam just sat there. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed his home number. When the voice mail came on, he hung up without leaving a message.

  At seven the next morning, Swede Erickson’s hotel suite was buzzing. When Pat Donnelly walked in, a key drive in hand with downloaded links to the latest Erickson news stories, the phone was ringing, a man from room service was leaving, and at least five staffers stood around the table, having coffee and talking. Seated at the table was Erickson himself, an enormous breakfast in front of him.

  Acknowledging Donnelly with a tip of his fork, he ate as he listened to the briefing several staffers were providing, one after the other. Frequently the candidate asked quick, direct questions and God help any staffer who didn’t have the answers. Occasionally he’d fire a rapid list of instructions to the assistant seated next to him, taking notes.

  Donnelly looked at the intense faces surrounding him, thinking each person in the room believed herself or himself essential to Swede’s campaign. He was aware that even he was not immune to Erickson’s ability to motivate people. It was a loyal group.

  “OK, Benny,” Erickson leaned forward in his chair as a staffer finished his briefing. “I understand that the governor’s wife thinks she can’t do anything that looks too supportive to our campaign until I get her husband’s endorsement.” His face broke with his most charming smile, which took everyone in the room into his confidence. “But Mrs. McCormick has more influence with her old man than anyone else in this state. You’ve got to set up a little bit of time with her for me today. Just make sure it’s in private.”

  Benny nodded. “I won’t let up until she gives you some time. You think you can influence her?” He grinned, as his boss drew back in mock surprise.

  “Come on, Benny! I might not be much with the young girls, but like my wife is always telling me, I do have a way with little children and bossy blue hairs. She’ll love me.” He winked to emphasize his words, and everyone laughed.

  “OK, folks, give me a few minutes to finish my breakfast and read what they’re saying about me this morning.” He turned to Donnelly, who handed him the key drive. Pat took a vacated seat at the table while Swede plugged it into his laptop and began hitting links.

  Erickson ate in silence for a few minutes, reading, then said, "Look at this story in the Record. The Chamber of Commerce office back home burned down. Hell of a picture. Tess’s, of course.” He turned the screen toward Donnelly who looked down at the picture of a volunteer fireman, his face contorted, either from cold or stress or both, tiny icicles hanging from his helmet and beard in the freezing night. Swede went on scanning stories about his campaign and the race in general and laughing at an editorial cartoon of himself.

  With Politifix on the screen, he scanned Sam’s story, then went back over it again, reading carefully. Finally, he asked, “Have you met this Waterman character, Pat?” Swede’s eyes were still on the monitor.

  “I had a drink with him last night.” He wondered if Swede already knew that.

  Erickson’s eyes came up, with a vague smile on his lips. “And you told him I’d decided about the debate?”

  Donnelly couldn’t read just how Swede felt about it. “Well, he was very sure you would, and I thought it would be smart to just go ahead and confirm it.” He added quickly: “It’ll give you a chit with the guy, and it didn’t cost us a thing. It was a way to get some good will with a hot shot.”

  “Uh-huh,” Swede looked back at the story and said nothing more until his assistant came back into the room.

  “What is it, Deb?” he asked a little absently.

  “We just got a travel request from a reporter named Samuel Waterman of Politifix. He’d like to fly to Des Moines on the campaign plane.”

  “Well, speak of the devil.” Swede grinned. “I was just reading his story.”

  “He says he’s working on a profile on you and thought the flight would be a good time for you to do an initial interview with him. One problem though - the plane’s full. I told him that, but he’s awfully insistent.”

  Swede sighed. “Pushy bastard, eh?” He looked over at Donnelly, before he spoke again. “OK, Deb. Tell him we’ll make room for him.” As she left, he muttered, “After all, we want to stay on his good side.”

  Pat looked concerned. “Who are you going to bump? We need all the staff that’s going, and we can’t piss off the other traveling press by booting one for Waterman.”

  Swede rose, pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair, and put it on. Straightening his tie, he said, in a mocking Irish brogue, “Well, Paddy me boy. I’m thinkin’ you’re the lad I’ll leave behind.”

  “Me?” Donnelly was so surprised he groped for his next words. “But ... I ... I’ve got to go with you. You’ve got a fleet of press on you, and I’m the person who’s riding herd on them. Plus there are about a thousand arrangements for this debate that need to be finalized …”

  “Yes, but plans have changed.” Swede turned to look at him, and for the first time Patrick Donnelly realized the eyes were cold and glittering with rage. “Now my plan is getting the message across to my remaining staff that I, and on
ly I, decide who is told what, and when. It seems I must have neglected to make that clear, especially to you.”

  “But, Swede,” Donnelly’s voice was a croak. “I only did what I thought would help you most.”

  “Oh, you can still help me, Pat.” Erickson’s smile was ice. “You’ll be a good example. It’ll be a long time before anyone on my team forgets who calls the shots.” He started for the door.

  “My God, we’ve been friends for years.” Donnelly babbled, stunned. “I’ve been with you on every one of your campaigns.”

  Erickson paused, his hand on the doorknob. “But you forgot your place. I can’t have that. Better find a way back to Des Moines and start looking for a job. You’ve got a family to support.”

  He left the room with Donnelly staring speechlessly after him.

  Chapter 15

  Sam hurried to the charter gate at the airport, slinging his bags onto an empty seat, and putting his fully charged cell phone to his ear. As it rang, endlessly it seemed, he swore softly and checked the time again. Finally, Sarah’s disembodied voice drifted through the line.

  “Mills.”

  “Christ, where have you been?”

  “Oh, hello, Sam. It’s always such a pleasure to take one of your calls.”

  He spoke in a rush. “Look, I’m at the airport now, and we’re leaving in about ten minutes. I’ll file from Des Moines, but I doubt I’ll have much. I’m hoping to get an initial interview for the profile in flight.”

  “Well, we’ve got a little problem. After Steve saw your email with the flight cost, he couldn’t approve it. He doesn’t want you to take this flight.”

  “What?” Sam barked the word, and several other reporters traveling with Erickson turned to look at him.

  "I sent an email about this, Sam. Didn't it come in on your iPhone?"

  Sam knew there were several messages in his work email he hadn't bothered to open yet. He lowered his voice. “I guess not. Listen, I'm already at the gate, and I had to practically force myself onto this flight like a hijacker. I told these people it was imperative I talk with Erickson today. Jesus, Steve told me just last night that Dodson was hot to get this profile done. Put him on the phone.”

  “Sam, Johnson was very clear about this. Don’t start …”

  Through clenched teeth, Sam tried reason with her. “Look, if Steve made the decision, then I need to talk to Steve. I don’t have time for you to play messenger. And if I’m gonna yell at someone, I’d rather yell at the source. Put him on the line.”

  “He’s not at his desk. It’s a simple situation, Sam. The flight costs too much and he doesn’t want you on it.”

  “Well, last night he said he did, and I had to beg to get a seat. It’s taking off any minute so I need to talk to him, and I need to talk to him now.”

  “He’s in Dodson’s office.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck where he is. Get him and put the goddamned phone in his hand.”

  The hold music came on abruptly. Nervously, Sam watched, swearing under his breath, as people started to board. At last, the line crackled and Steve Johnson said, “Don’t get on that plane.”

  “Damn it, Steve, what are you doing to me? What the hell happened between last night and today?”

  “A $1,300 price tag for a lousy one-way flight, that’s what the hell happened. I don’t know why you’re so surprised. You know if we don’t make budget a head or two could roll, so I'm going to do whatever I can to stay above the red line. We can put you on a commercial round-trip for half that, probably less.”

  “Oh come on, you know they just make up those estimates. The plane is full. I’m sure the final cost won’t be that high. Do you want a good profile, or do you want to sit and count your fucking nickels and dimes?”

  “I want a great profile, and you’re going to write it for me. But first, you’re coming back to D.C., and we’re going to talk about it. Then you’re going to book a flight on United or Northwest or whoever flies to Iowa. If that doesn’t suit you, then you can get on that campaign plane, but you’ll pay for it yourself. Now, if you’re holding up that flight, I suggest you stop your beefing and explain what’s going on.”

  “Yeah? And just what the hell should I say? This morning, I made a pain in the ass of myself, insisting on having a seat.”

  “Then they won’t be surprised when you do it again. Hell, I don’t care what you tell them. Just do it, and remember to call next time to make sure the cost has been approved.” The connection broke.

  Sam turned to find the woman everyone on Erickson’s staff called Deb coming toward him.

  “Mr. Waterman? You really must board now.”

  Sam frowned. “It was kind of you to fit me in, and I’m sorry that I’ve caused you the trouble, but I’ve been called back to Washington.”

  “Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.” Her voice was shaky, and she cleared her throat. Sam noticed her eyes were puffy and red.

  “No, it’s just business. But you look like you’ve had some bad news.”

  She sighed raggedly. “Yes.” Her eyes filled up again, “Governor Erickson just told us Pat Donnelly is no longer with us.”

  For an instant, Sam thought she meant he was dead. “What happened?”

  “He was dismissed this morning. I just can’t believe it.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  Sam’s eyebrows shot up as he took her elbow and walked her toward the gate, asking softly, “Did the governor say why?”

  She shook her head. “But he wants to meet with the whole staff once we get to Des Moines. I’m sure he’ll explain then.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, and Sam leaned in to hear. “I can tell he’s absolutely furious about something, though.”

  “Where’s Donnelly now?”

  They stopped at the gate door, and she glanced around nervously before saying,

  “The last time I saw him was in the Governor’s suite. I assume he’s still at the hotel.” Her chin trembled as she asked, “If you see him, please tell him how sorry I am?”

  “Sure.” Sam was thinking too fast to pay her much attention, but added absently, “Have a safe flight.” Then he hurried off to grab a cab back downtown.

  Late that afternoon, Sam went from Reagan straight to the newsroom, and ten minutes after he walked in the door he was standing in Mike Dodson’s office.

  “That’s it? Good God, Sam, are you sure?” Dodson leaned back in his chair and looked from Sam to Steve Johnson and back again, frankly skeptical. “I can’t buy it. There’s got to be something more.”

  “I know how you feel.” Sam shook his head. “I had a hard time with it too. And believe me, Pat Donnelly was more surprised than either of us. The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him. I really pressed him, and he was in such a state of shock, he was pretty much verbally incontinent. The guy was babbling.”

  “And he said Erickson fired him over tipping you the debate decision?” As Sam nodded, Dodson’s expression turned sour. “That’s nothing! Why fire a guy over something that would be announced soon anyway?” Again he looked expectantly at the two men, neither of whom could answer. “No, Donnelly must have pissed off Erickson over something bigger, and this was just the straw that broke the candidate’s back.”

  “That was my immediate thought too,” Sam said. “But from everything I can find, Donnelly’s story is the truth. The assistant I talked to at the airport was pretty broken up about it. If Donnelly and Erickson had been on the verge, she wouldn’t have taken it so hard because she would have seen it coming. When I talked to her, she was in tears. Said she couldn’t believe it.”

  “The other staffers back her up?”

  Sam shot an uncomfortable look at Johnson, before he answered, “I can’t get anything from them. The assistant said Erickson planned to have a meeting with them as soon as he got back to Des Moines, and he must have slapped an ironclad muzzle on them. I can’t get a quote from the lowliest aide, even off the record. Those people are scared to say one
fucking word. I imagine that assistant is shaking in her shoes right now because she told me the little she did. I couldn’t even get her on the phone later.”

  “Bloody hell, so where exactly are we?” Dodson asked.

  Johnson answered. “The story is up whenever you want to look at it. Sam got some good stuff from Donnelly. Strange as it seems, the guy sounds sincere. He insists that up until this morning, he and Erickson were pretty tight. As Irish as he is, he named his youngest kid Eric. When Erickson asked him if he was Sam’s source, he didn’t even try to deny it. He said he thought Swede might not approve of it, but he never dreamed he’d cut him off without a backward glance. Erickson wouldn’t even let him on the plane home.”

  Dodson laughed. “Talk about kicking someone when they’re down. What have you got from Erickson himself?”

  “Only the official statement he handed everyone. ‘It is with regret that we announce Patrick Donnelly, yadda, yadda, yadda.’ I couldn’t get through to Erickson to comment on what Donnelly told me,” Sam said, and then watched as Dodson silently mulled the situation.

  “Well,” Dodson sighed at last, “I think there’s more here than we’ve found out.” He looked Sam over again, as he added, “Be sure you keep your eyes peeled when you’re working on the profile. Try to get something more from the governor himself on this.”

  Sam’s eyes were bright. “The more I see of this guy, the more things don’t seem quite right. If he’s trying to control every word that comes out about himself, there’s something he doesn’t want people to know.”

  It was nearly eight when Judith Sampson put her briefcase down in the entryway of her Alexandria townhouse and immediately kicked off her pewter Prada heels. Bending, she picked them up and started toward the bedroom to change, glad to be home.