by Joseph Flynn
It had been a long time since Putnam considered himself an innocent, but it was reassuring to hear Margaret wasn’t going to sell him out, any more than she already had.
The president asked, “How do you know I have any plans for you, Mr. Shady?”
Putnam grinned. “Madam President, after you set a guy up, the only thing left to do is bowl him over. That’s why I’m here right now.”
Patti favored him with another bright smile. That was when he realized physical attractiveness could be used as an anesthetic. He was certain a left cross was about to smack him on the jaw, but he wasn’t going to feel much pain because he was so happy about having this beautiful woman smile at him.
It was unfair, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“Mr. Shady — Putnam — I think you’ll be perfectly safe with Margaret watching over you, and I don’t want you to pursue a new career. I want you to continue to be a lobbyist.”
“If there’s any point in being one after your reforms get passed,” Putnam said.
“Things will certainly be different if they do. But …”
Here it comes, Putnam thought.
“If they don’t,” the president continued, “I’ll want ShareAmerica to succeed.”
Putnam looked at her as if he hadn’t heard her words right.
“I beg your pardon.”
“I mean, Putnam, if my reforms don’t succeed, I’ll want the American people to be the ones to seize control of their government. And I’ll want you to lead that effort.”
Ever suspicious, Putnam asked, “You’ll back me up? Publicly?”
The president said, “Yes and yes.”
Putnam took things one step further. “Of course, doing that might be just the thing to persuade Congress to pass your reforms.”
“Indeed it might, Putnam. Are you in?”
What choice did he have?
Kiss up to Derek Geiger and beg forgiveness? No, thank you.
“Madam President,” Putnam said, “you’ve bowled me over.”
The Chief of Staff’s Office
The first time McGill had dropped by Galia’s office, he’d gotten there before she came in, sat in her chair with his feet on her desk and brought her a box of donuts — when he knew she was on a diet. In doing all those things, he’d felt justified. Galia had been mucking around in the business of McGill Investigations, Inc. and boundaries had to be set.
This time, McGill needed Galia’s help, and the shoe was on the other foot. Karma. So he thought the least he could do was be on time for their appointment, and he was. The door was open but he gave it a polite knock anyway and stepped inside.
By way of greeting, he said, “Fifteen minutes?”
“A little less with each passing second,” Galia replied.
McGill nodded and took a seat.
“I was persuaded to look into the killings of the lobbyists on K Street. Given a choice, I would have left the matter to the Metro cops. That’s where it belongs. But with Margaret Sweeney having an interest in Putnam Shady, and now Patti showing her own interest in him —”
“You saw her announcement on lobbying reform?” Galia asked.
“Yes. Saw your postscript, too. Which I assume was something you and Patti rehearsed beforehand.”
Galia nodded. She and McGill barely got along; they competed too directly for the president’s time and attention ever to be friends. But Galia had come to understand that the president’s husband — her henchman, as he’d have it — had a good mind and sound instincts.
“Yes, that was planned.”
McGill nodded. “In working with Margaret, Captain Yates, Putnam Shady and Lieutenant Bullard, different theories have been advanced as to who might have the biggest grudge, the best reason to resort to violence, against the lobbyists who’ve been killed. But I seem to be the only one who thinks the most aggrieved parties are likely to be politicians, members of the House or Senate, who’ve had their plans thwarted by the lobbying community. Or who are simply old fashioned enough and sufficiently affronted that they object to the so-called fourth branch of government being accountable to no one.”
Galia considered McGill’s point of view. She nodded.
“Your idea doesn’t seem far-fetched to me. I can’t stand most of those pricks. The lobbyists, I mean.”
McGill smiled. “You didn’t do the shootings, did you, Galia?”
She smiled back. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Solve the case and pack me off to share a cell with Erna Godfrey.”
McGill shook his head. “Just teasing. I’ve come to know how much Patti needs you, especially now.”
Galia didn’t let the implied compliment win any favor.
“What can I do for you, Mr. McGill?” she asked. She looked at her watch, too, to let him know the clock was still running.
“I’d like to know who, in your opinion, I should look at in the House or Senate as possible lobbyist-killers, assuming there’s anyone who might be capable of such a thing.”
Galia laughed. “Oh, most of them are capable of it. But the numbers go down, as they usually do, in finding the ones who have the courage of their convictions.”
“Yeah,” McGill said, “there is that. If you could give me a list by this after—”
Galia held up a hand. She picked up the pen and pad of paper lying on her desk and set to writing. Within two minutes, she’d filled the page, reread the names and underlined three of them. She handed the results to McGill. He was impressed.
More so, when Galia said, “You still have three and a half minutes left if there’s anything else.”
McGill seized the opportunity. “I was also cajoled into accepting Harlo Geiger as a client in the matter of her divorce against against the speaker. She’s looking for any dirt, anything that might bump her settlement numbers.”
Galia laughed and shook her head. “This damn town.”
“Indeed,” McGill said. “With my circumstances being what they are at the moment, I haven’t had the time to look for any of the speaker’s closeted skeletons. But with Derek Geiger being one of Patti’s political enemies, the thought popped into my head you might have gone to the trouble of doing a little oppo research on the man. If you can let me borrow a cup or two, I’d be grateful.”
Galia was more impressed than ever by McGill’s instincts, and a little sorry she’d made her offer to help. She guarded her dirt like it was gold, which in politics it was. But she had made the offer … and it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have James J. McGill owe her one.
“Of course,” she said.
Not going over the fifteen minute limit by so much as a second, Galia filled and handed over another sheet of notepaper.
Longworth House Office Building, Washington, D.C.
White House Counsel Josette Fortier appeared at Speaker Derek Geiger’s corner office, not having called ahead to let either the speaker or his minions know she was coming. It would have been the polite thing to do, the politically correct thing, but Geiger hadn’t bothered to reply to the president’s invitation to attend her announcement earlier that morning; he’d simply left the chair reserved for him empty.
Which suited the president perfectly, but the lack of politesse on Geiger’s part showed just how chippy things had gotten. Ms. Fortier, an alumna of Tulane and Duke Law School, introduced herself to Geiger’s middle-aged receptionist, Olita Lind.
“Is he in, please?”
As any good lawyer did, Josette asked only questions to which she already knew the answer. Derek Geiger was in; the Secret Service was keeping a discreet eye on him. Why that was, Josette didn’t ask and didn’t care to learn.
Ms. Lind, a single woman dedicated, in the most moral way, to the man for whom she worked regarded the female from the White House with suspicion.
“The speaker is here, but he’s very busy,” she said. “What may I tell him is the nature of your business?”
“Carrying out the intent of the Constitution,” Josett
e replied.
“I beg your pardon.”
The White House counsel put it in layman’s terms. “I’m here on official business.”
“What sort of official business?” Olita asked, raising an eyebrow.
“If you’re privy to all of the speaker’s business, I’ll be happy to tell you. If you’re not cleared for the big stuff …” Josette shrugged.
Damn haughty woman, Olita thought. She’d have liked to turn this snoot over to Cecil Dexter, the speaker’s chief of staff. He was a bulldog who could handle her sort. But he was on vacation in the Greek isles.
“Let me see if the speaker can spare a minute,” she said.
“That’s all I’ll need,” Josette said. There were visitors’ chairs on which she might have seated herself, but she remained standing in front of Olita’s desk. The receptionist buzzed the great man’s office and whispered a concise explanation of the situation. The response she received seemed to disappoint her.
“Speaker Geiger will be right out. You can sit down, you know.”
“Thank you, but I’ll remain on my feet.”
Having achieved her goal, though, she gave ground and took two steps back.
The office suite would have done any corporate titan proud for its square footage and minions bustling about, but Geiger crossed the space, the sea of underlings parting before him, in short order. He looked Josette Fortier up and down with such intense scrutiny that it might have been considered sexual harassment, had she worked for him. Might have gotten his face slapped had he done the same thing in a bar.
“What’s your name?” Geiger asked.
Josette introduced herself, using her title.
“What do you want?” he asked in a harsh tone.
Making it plain that she was to speak in front of Ms. Lind, thus to the whole office staff, thus to the news media, thus to the world. Josette Lind found comfort in the fact that Galia Mindel must have thought of that possibility and prepared for it.
She said, “In compliance with Section Three of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States —”
Eyes going wide, Geiger said, “Patricia Grant is making Wyman Mather acting president?”
Josette continued as if she had not been interrupted, “I am transmitting to you this written declaration.” She handed an envelope to the speaker. “Vice President Mather Wyman will temporarily assume to powers and duties of office as Acting President.”
“When? Why?” Geiger demanded. “For how long?”
Josette refrained from smiling. “That information will be brought to you in an addendum to this notification. Good day to you, Mr. Speaker.”
The White House counsel turned and headed for the door.
“Wait a minute, goddamnit!” Geiger yelled. “I want the details.”
He could want all he wanted. She didn’t work for him, and never would.
When the time came to fill in the blanks, she’d send her deputy.
A graduate of Notre Dame, and a former starting linebacker for its football team.
Hart Senate Office Building
Representative Marlene Berman made it a daily practice to take a thirty-minute power walk every morning before going to work. She maintained her discipline in all but the most extreme weather conditions. On the morning her beloved husband, Henry, had his bypass surgery, she’d walked to the hospital, praying for a successful outcome as furiously as she strode. Having her prayers answered in the affirmative, Marlene later began taking a second, somewhat less vigorous walk with Henry in the evening. In between, three days a week on her lunch hour, she did strength training.
So she had no trouble at all scooting over to John Wexford’s office when she got the call. The Senate majority leader greeted her at the door to his office suite with a bottle of sparkling water in hand. They repaired to his office and Marlene needed only a moment to rehydrate and catch her breath before they got to the matter at hand.
“The president called me and gave me the news she’s invoking the twenty-fifth,” Wexford said.
Marlene slumped in her chair, thinking about that.
“She looked fit and well to me this morning,” she said.
“She is. This is about Kenny McGill.”
Neither of them had been formally told about the dire situation the president’s stepson was facing, but after the call for donors had gone out to the hundreds of workers at the White House, it hadn’t been long before word spread throughout official Washington. It was only due to a rare exercise in restraint on the part of the news media that kept the entire world from knowing. Now that the president was making a temporary transfer of her powers to Vice President Wyman, it would become news.
Marlene Berman smiled. “She’s going to be his marrow donor. Good for her.”
“Very good for her,” Wexford said. “As an example of family values, it’s hard to beat.”
“I was speaking on a personal level, John. I’d do the same for any member of my family, and even for a friend or two. But you’re right: This is going to play well with the public.”
“Madam President already has a winning issue in her most favored enterprise initiative. The usual business curmudgeons are up in arms, saying it will interfere with making cost-effective decisions, but the man and woman on the street love it. And a flash-poll my people just finished show her ideas on lobbying reform are winners, too.”
Marlene Berman’s expression turned wry.
“I wasn’t planning to move on to lobbying, John, how about you?”
He chuckled. “My son-in-law is something of an engineering genius. He has ideas about building cars that are going to turn the industry upside down. He already has all the venture capital he needs to start up. He’s asked me if I’d like to do something productive for a change and help keep the government off his back.”
Marlene laughed. “Doesn’t like burdensome regulations, does he?”
“He’s planning to bring a lot of jobs home to Michigan. He just doesn’t want Washington micro-managing him to death. I’m going to help him, Marlene. This will be my last term in office, but please keep that to yourself for the time being.”
“I will. On the lobbying matter, I don’t think you’ll have trouble helping your son-in-law, even if you have to act in an advisory capacity and let someone else do the actual jawboning. Who could argue with using private capital to create jobs?”
“Yeah, but that’s just me. We both have colleagues who plan to make fat paychecks doing just what Patti Grant’s reforms aim to stop.”
“Tough luck,” Marlene said. “Getting elected to office doesn’t mean you get a license to print money.”
“You know that and so do I, but there will be others who will feel different — at the tops of their voices.”
She nodded, and Wexford could see her running numbers in her mind.
“What’s your count?” he asked.
Meaning how many Democrats in the House would support Patti Grant’s reforms.
“A majority of my caucus plus ten percent,” she said. “How about you?”
“Close to the same. That won’t be enough to pass a bill on the first go-round, but it should be enough to get her to buy in, I think.”
Buy into the notion of asking Patti Grant to run for reelection as a Democrat. Wexford and Berman both liked the prospects for their party better with the president on their side than without her. But Marlene saw one big problem.
“Roger Michaelson will never go along. He hates Patti Grant and will fight her all the way. I’ve heard that he intends to run for our presidential nomination.”
John Wexford nodded.
“I’ve heard that, too. And just before the president phoned me, I got another call.” He smiled. “This one was from Michaelson’s former chief of staff, Bob Merriman.”
Senator Wexford told Representative Berman of Merriman’s scheme.
Which left her to say, “The only question to ask, then, is whether we have any other po
tential candidate who could beat Roger Michaelson, the Republican nominee and a woman who won sixty percent of the vote the first time she ran for the White House.”
The two senior Democrats looked at each other and laughed.
They decided then and there to draft Patricia Darden Grant to be the Democratic candidate to be president of the United States. Knowing full well that acceptance would come only on the nominee’s terms.
McGill Investigations, Inc.
McGill called Sweetie from his office. The list of officeholders who might take serious umbrage — gunshots — at lobbyists they thought had no business screwing with the people’s business lay on his desk. He’d read through the column of names several times. Galia, no doubt showing off, had put them down in alphabetical order. Showing his detachment from politics that didn’t directly involve his wife, McGill failed to recognize most of the names.
He didn’t watch the political talk shows on TV and found the Washington Post to be too much of a company town paper. It existed to tell people more than they ever cared to know about the doings of the federal government. That, of course, was one of the country’s most vexing problem. How do you keep the rascals in Washington in check without having to watch them twenty-four seven?
Heck, people wanted their cars to run smoothly, but changing the oil once every three months was a hassle. Keeping up with politicians — and lobbyists — every single day just wasn’t on America’s to-do list. Maybe that was the point of the killings, to draw people’s attention to the situation.
Everyone loved true-crime stories.
As long as they weren’t emotionally invested in the victims.
Sweetie answered McGill’s call, “Mr. Shady’s suite, Margaret the nanny speaking.”
McGill laughed and said, “Better watch out for that nanny thing. They have dubious reputations in certain circles.”
“Kinky,” he heard Putnam say in the background.
“See,” McGill said.