While I ate, I mulled through everything that had transpired over the past three days. While many facts had fallen into place in my mind, many questions still remained. Foremost amongst those questions was what possible means did Benjamin think I could use to fulfill his request to make amends for Shifty’s transgressions? While I had identified Shifty, I was absolutely clueless concerning the identity of his victims. The notes didn’t contain much information regarding the victims. Now with the notes gone, I was at a total dead end.
“Sorry, Benjamin, I’m afraid I’ve struck out.”
“Excuse me, sir, are you speaking to me?” It was the young waitress.
“Oh, no. Just verbalizing the voice in my head.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Okay, sir. Is there anything else I can bring you? Dessert? Another glass of wine?”
I was nearly finished with my second glass and hadn’t really contemplated having a third but decided I had nothing else to do with my evening and my flight wasn’t until late tomorrow, so I could sleep in. “Sure, I’ll have another glass. Great recommendation by the way.” She smiled at the compliment and left to place the order at the bar.
I continued to ponder the entire situation. It was obvious that Benjamin was remorseful that his actions had protected the reputation of a man who obviously didn’t deserve it. Yet I had no tools at my disposal that could be more than a minor distraction to Armstrong. I believed Kennedy, if I opened my mouth they would bury me in litigation. There was nothing I could do to stop the continued political climb of a man who preyed on women as if they were sporting trophies. Nothing I could do, but . . .
I jumped up and went up to the bar. The bartender was just reaching for the wine bottle to pour my order. “Hold up. I’ve changed my mind. Something has come up. I need to pay my check and go.”
I spent another thirty minutes in the business center changing my flight before returning to my room. I needed to get some rest. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My new flight left Detroit at 7:55 a.m. Allowing time to return my rental car and get through security at the airport had me leaving the hotel at 6:00 a.m. I was really thankful I’d canceled the third glass of wine. Everything went smoothly, and I found myself in the terminal at Reagan National Airport outside Washington D.C. at 10:30 a.m. I followed the signs to the Metro station and boarded a Blue Line train headed toward downtown. At the Foggy Bottom stop, I exited the station in the shadow of George Washington University Hospital. Walking north, I followed 23rd Street around Washington Circle and to an address between M and N Streets NW. The nondescript eight-story brick building housed a variety of entities ranging from the Consulate General of Peru to the Orange Spoon Cafe and Liquor. At least that was the range conspicuously depicted on the front of the building. The lobby directory listed seventy-five more occupants, many being law firms no doubt devoted to lobbying. After a scan of the directory, I found the Global Institute for Pediatric Health.
Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, I located the double door entrance to the institute. Proceeding through the doors, I found myself in a tasteful but not lavish reception area. I identified myself to the receptionist, and she told me that the director would be available in just a few minutes. I took a seat along the wall. Looking around the room, I saw that the walls were lined with portrait-sized photos of children. Based on their individual appearances and dress, I guessed that they represented virtually all seven continents.
I was paging through a magazine I found on the side table when a door on the other side of the room opened, and Christine Wyatt emerged striding toward me. Immediately, I recognized her from the pictures accompanying the articles about Governor Armstrong, although she was more attractive in person than in the grainy photos. A tall, trim woman she wore her striking white hair in a tight bun on top of her head. Her skirted business suit was a muted blue. A single strand of pearls rode effortlessly on her beige blouse.
“Hello, Mr. Nolan. I hope you didn’t have trouble finding us?” She shook my hand with confidence as she spoke.
“No problems. Thank you for making time for me on such short notice, Ms. Wyatt.”
A warm smile was complemented by her deep blue eyes. “You timed your request perfectly. I was cleaning up emails late last evening when your message arrived. Coincidentally, one of the emails I had just responded to included the cancelation of today’s luncheon meeting. Your message intrigued me and so, here you are. Please, join me in my office.” With that, she turned and walked back to the door of her office, pausing before entering. “Kathy was just about to pick up something for my lunch from the bodega downstairs. Can she get you something?”
“Oh, that’s kind, but no, thank you.” My nerves had obliterated any midday appetite I might otherwise have had.
We entered a modestly sized office decorated similarly to the reception area. Comfortable, but with the primary emphasis on functional. One step up from a midlevel federal government official’s office. Certainly not what I would have expected for a woman who is worth nearly a billion dollars. I could understand the understated style of the offices in general since the institute is a nonprofit and modest decorating probably plays well with donors. Yet, looking around, I saw no signs of the wealth of the occupant. No expensive art pieces from around the world — Ming vases or Van Gogh originals. Nothing that appeared to represent the wealth and social status of Ms. Christine Wyatt.
After we had taken seats at a small round table in one corner of the office, Ms. Wyatt offered me coffee from a carafe sitting on a nearby service table. The coffee I accepted. It gave me the opportunity to stall what I expected to be a very acrimonious discussion. After pouring two cups of coffee, Ms. Wyatt said, “This is the last coffee I can have today. Coffee after lunch, and I don’t sleep at night. Another of the benefits of aging.” Her tone was warm and casual, and her eyes twinkled as she spoke. I recalled from my research that she was five years senior to the governor, so that put her age at sixty-nine. She neither looked nor acted like my preconceived expectations. A warm energy seemed to effortlessly emanate from her. I couldn’t help but like her. Knowing what I was about to do, I was beginning to feel like a real jerk.
A light tap on the door was followed by the entry of the receptionist carrying a small white paper bag. Ms. Wyatt said, “Oh, thank you, Kathy. Please put it on my desk. I am not going to eat in front of Mr. Nolan.” I started to protest, but she held her hand up before I could say a word. “No, no, Mr. Nolan. It’s fine if I eat my lunch later. I have a fashionably late dinner this evening, which makes it a good idea to eat my lunch a bit later. I don’t know what it is these days; people seem to think that starting dinner at 10 p.m. somehow makes the entire event more chic.” Another of those warm smiles.
In an effort to further delay my mission and hopefully ingratiate myself with her enough that I could get out of here alive, I said, “Please tell me about the Global Institute for Pediatric Health.”
Cocking her head to one side, she replied, “I recall from your message last evening that your time is limited today, so I’ll give you my elevator speech and not the entire monologue that I use to browbeat potential donors.” For the next two minutes, she gave me a warmly impassioned outline of the mission and organization of the institute. Their mission being to enhance the provision of medical care for children worldwide. She concluded with, “The only real hope for the future of this planet and its inhabitants lies with our children. If we don’t provide adequate medical care to our children, they will be restrained from reaching their potential, and our future will be lost.”
As she spoke, she seemed to blur all social and geopolitical lines. It was only about adults and children, and the adults had a responsibility to provide for the children. Only if we provided for the children and gave them the opportunity to flourish as adults would today’s and tomorrow’s problems be solved. It occurred to me that had I heard the entire monologue, I might have sold Cap’s Pla
ce and donated all of the proceeds to her institute. She was possibly the most sincerely impassioned person I had ever met. For a moment, I considered apologizing for taking any of her time and simply leaving without saying another word. It might well have been easier to live the remainder of my life with the guilt of failing Benjamin than what I was about to do to this wonderful woman.
My momentary thoughts of retreat were interrupted by her saying, “Enough of my monopolizing your time, Mr. Nolan. Your message mentioned that you had been processing documents for Benjamin Whitt’s estate, and you needed to discuss something with me. There is no way I could turn down any request even remotely related to Benjamin. What a wonderful man. He helped me immensely in the early days of launching this.” She gestured around the office. A sad smile crossed her face as she said, “Yes, Benjamin and I go way back. I will dearly miss him.”
It was obvious that she had a warm relationship with Benjamin. Listening to her speak about Benjamin, I realized that I had seen her at his funeral, although I didn’t recall seeing her in the company of the governor. I asked, “So, Benjamin helped you launch this institute?” I hoped that their strong bond would give credence to his notes.
The smile was now wistful. “He did. This institute was merely a dream in my head when my father introduced me to Benjamin. Benjamin had represented several of my father’s businesses over the years. Anyway, Benjamin met with me numerous times and helped me organize my dreams into the format that is the institute today.” She looked slowly around the office as if the walls held memories. “The guidance he gave me got me off to a solid start. We’ve been around thirty-five years now.”
“Wow, thirty-five years. I had no idea. That is very impressive.”
She nodded. “Yes, we are one of the longer running NGOs. And heaven knows the world needs nongovernmental organizations like ours. Organizations whose mission and priorities are not subject to the latest whims of politicians posturing to cull votes from every obscure element of society. What government funding we receive is certainly impacted by the political winds, but fortunately, over the years, we have been able to wean ourselves from most grant funding having government strings. We are primarily supported by private donations.” Her comments struck me as strong words from a woman married to a career politician. Her mood seemed to return to the lighter side as she added, “Hence my 10:00 p.m. dinners.”
I knew what I wanted to tell Christine Wyatt, I just had no idea how to begin. Finally, I just blurted, “Let me get to the point, Ms. Wyatt.”
She held her hand up and said, “Please, call me Christine. Ms. Wyatt seems so formal, and I’m not really that formal. Do you mind if I call you Jack?”
My train of thought was again derailed. “Oh, ah, of course not. Yes, please call me Jack.” Taking a sip of coffee to collect my thoughts, I forged ahead. “On his deathbed, Benjamin asked me to go through his personal notes. Notes from his entire career. They were his personal observations and reflections on the events and people he experienced.” Christine was gazing at me with interest, although the mention of Benjamin’s deathbed had dampened the light in her eyes. I continued, “Benjamin told me that he regretted failing to appropriately address what he called the most egregious error of his life. He elicited from me a promise to read his notes and address his failure.”
Confusion clouded Christine’s face. “I don’t understand what this has to do with me, Jack.” She gestured with her hand. “The institute would not exist if it were not for Benjamin. He couldn’t have been referring to it?”
Swallowing hard, I said, “No, he was not referring to the institute. He was referring to your husband, to Governor Armstrong.”
Maybe I totally misread her expression, but it looked like a subtle wave of relief washed across her face. “Oh, really.” Drawing out the words, she said, “Benjamin . . . had regrets . . . about Robert? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
How do you tell a woman, a woman who would not need work a day in her life but has chosen to throw herself into making the world a better place, that her husband is a sexual predator? I looked her in the eye. I owed her that. “Benjamin negotiated settlements in at least four instances where women had been sexually assaulted by Robert Armstrong.” I paused. I wanted to read even her micro reactions to the statement. Her reactions would chart my course as I continued. Swallowing hard, her face remained almost passive. Certainly not what I expected. Whether she knew, whether she suspected, or whether she was clueless, I expected some form of outrage to be her response. After all, it was not an insignificant accusation I was leveling.
Finally, she spoke, without emotion. “I see. And these events happened over what time period?”
I gave her the year of the first and the year of the last. I couldn’t recall the exact dates but knew she wasn’t looking for that detail. What she wanted to know was if the time frame overlapped the years of her marriage. It did. I added, “Benjamin’s notes were very specific in stating that, after the last instance, he made it clear to Robert that he would never represent him again in any matter of that nature.”
In a quiet voice, she interrupted me. “Which means there is no way of knowing that the last date you cited was, in fact, the last occurrence.”
I nodded. “That is correct.”
Sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, she asked, “And what exactly was your purpose in bringing me this information, Mr. Nolan?” I was back to being Mr. Nolan, but who could blame her? “I know that you are not here to ask for money. If you were close enough to Benjamin for him to share with you his most personal notes, you are not the type of person who is looking to profit from this information. No, what exactly is your purpose?”
“Benjamin asked me to make amends for his actions, what he deemed his greatest transgressions. I can not identify the victims, not that there would be any way to make amends to them at this time. Without victims, there is certainly no legal action to be brought as a means to make amends. The only action that I can think of to fulfill Benjamin’s request is to attempt to prevent future occurrences. I can’t undo the past, but maybe I can preclude future events.”
Her face tensed. “Ah, so you are here to ruin Robert’s political career. Keep him from running for future office. You believe that his positions of power have created opportunities for him to take advantage of women.”
She had come to the same conclusion that I had but so quickly that I couldn’t help but believe this was not news to her. She was aware of, or at least suspected, his behavior. In a measured tone, I replied, “Precluding opportunity is one factor, but an equally significant factor to me is that I don’t believe someone who has conducted themselves in such a manner should be in a position of public trust. I believe that would be Benjamin’s position if he were still alive.”
A wry smile appeared. “Goodness’ sakes, Mr. Nolan. Do you know nothing of American political history? I would venture an estimate that the number of men who have held the highest office in this country, yet have a record of sexual dalliances, far exceeds the number who are without blemish.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” My tone was harsher than I intended.
Cocking her head, she said, “Oh, is it right you are seeking? How do you know what right is? Who defines what’s right when it comes to qualifications to hold public office? Many in this country don’t believe a Catholic should be president, nor an African American, nor even a woman. Should labels or ancillary factors disqualify persons from public office? What if a candidate likes to play poker? What about golf? I personally think golf is an addictive waste of time for many people. Should playing golf disqualify a candidate?”
I snapped at her. “You’re really going to compare golf to sexual assault?”
Holding her hands up in a surrender pose, she replied, “I am certainly not suggesting that there is any comparison between a game and an assault on another human being. What I am suggesting is that if a behavior should truly disqualify someone from public offic
e, it should be included in the law. Our electoral process has eroded to the point where it is no longer about the qualifications of a candidate, it is about the innuendo that is raised by the opponent. Let’s use the specific situation you’ve brought to me as an example. If the allegations you make are true, they should lead to a criminal prosecution and conviction. That conviction, by law, would presumably disqualify the candidate from public office. Today, though, we do not need a conviction in a court of law to disqualify a candidate. All we need is an allegation. An allegation that the opponent continues to repeat until a sufficient number of people believe it true.” She paused and exhaled deeply. “What I am saying is that I believe unproven allegations should not be a factor in choosing our elected officials any more than race or religion should be.” She clasped her hand on the table and gazed at me. Her expression was one of a person who did not expect their argument to be well received but was satisfied in having made it.
I considered her words for several seconds. “I do not disagree with you on principle, Ms. Wyatt. Qualifications of a candidate to do the actual job has been completely lost in the selection process that is foisted on the voter today. Yet those in public office hold power over their fellow citizens, and character should be a factor in deciding who to hand that power over to.”
“Character. And you believe innuendo and allegation are to be utilized in measuring character? As a man who believed in the rule of law, Benjamin would never have condoned relying on unproven allegations.”
“Again, I agree with you, Ms. Wyatt. Benjamin would not have utilized unproven allegations. It was quite clear from Benjamin’s notes that he did believe the allegations. He believed the allegations, and he found them egregious. His only solace at the time was that he felt he had done as much for the victims as he could in his position as Robert Armstrong’s representative. Yet even that belief was not enough to assuage his guilt when he was on his deathbed.” I locked her in my stare. “You knew Benjamin well. You know he would never have shared his notes with me, with anyone, if he did not regard them as factually accurate.”
Loyal Be Jack Page 22