‘First, I want you to know I’ve had my eye on you; that I brought you into this organization for a purpose. We’ve reached a turning point in the political life of this country, Mr Hess. I’m not talking about Carter or Ford, but about the principles on which all power rests. Our future depends not on individuals but on how our electoral system functions – or can be made to function. And the man who knows how to pull those levers can be powerful indeed.’
He leaned back in his chair as if he had made his point. Mike wondered if he was supposed to chip in, but Crane was merely pausing for effect.
‘What I want you to do is go look at the Iowa decision and see how we can use it. What has happened in Iowa opens the door for all sorts of litigation and we need to be on top of it to stay ahead of the game.’
Mike had read about the Iowa case, but since leaving law school he had not followed gerrymandering issues with as much attention as he perhaps should have.
‘Of course I will, Charles,’ he said, vaguely hoping they were on first-name terms. ‘I’ll read the papers and write a report for you.’
Crane nodded.
‘I want to you understand the importance of this work. Redrawing electoral boundaries will be the hot button for politics in this country. If the party in power can force out opposition congressmen by cutting up their districts and putting them into seats they can’t win, the face of American democracy will be changed forever.’
Mike remembered the idealism with which he had condemned the evils of gerrymandering in law school and decided to venture an opinion: ‘It sure is, Charles. It’s a scandal that a ruling party can draw these crazy new boundaries to shoo in its own candidates. We lawyers need to oppose such abuses.’
Charles Crane let out a guffaw. ‘Mr Hess, you don’t get it! We’re not gamekeepers in this jungle! NIMLO’s role is to tell our clients how to exploit the rules. Sure, we help Republicans and Democrats alike, but they take it and go do what they have to do, including gerrymandering – even,’ he added with a wink that was intimate and derisive at the same time, ‘if that offends your conscience.’
Mike made to object, but Crane waved a hand.
‘You go make yourself an expert on redistricting law and you can be a powerful man: politicians will come running for your help. Gerrymandering is the future, Mr Hess!’
As Mike slipped out of the boss’s cubicle he felt buoyed and confused, pleased at being picked for a big assignment but worried by the prospect of working in a field he found morally dubious. At the other end of the office, he could see Bill Crane gazing in his direction. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining things because of his talk with Susan, but he got the distinct impression that Bill was looking jealous and a little threatening.
In the months that followed, Mike kept out of Bill’s way and saw Charles Crane only rarely. He swallowed his scruples and threw himself into the research. He uncovered case law from across the nation, including examples of Republican states drawing electoral boundaries to prevent black voters electing Democratic congressmen; he saw districts so strangely shaped – long and meandering, sprawling and jagged – that they clearly violated the spirit of the law; and he saw Democratic legislatures splitting seats to maximize their own candidates while packing opposition voters into as few districts as possible.
Mike told Susan he was uncomfortable with the way the electoral process was being subverted. He calculated that the balance of power in the House of Representatives now depended on the results of gerrymandered seats, and the party better equipped to exploit the legal loopholes would soon be able to swing control of Congress in its favour. Both parties had recognized the crucial importance of legal advice, and with key decisions pending on the future of redistricting the whole political direction of the country could soon depend on smart young lawyers like Michael Hess. Susan listened to Mike’s concerns and tried to reassure him.
‘You’re too good for this business, Mike. Really. It isn’t an attorney’s job to worry about right or wrong; it’s his job to help his clients make the most of whatever the legislation allows.’
‘I guess so,’ Mike said. ‘I love constitutional law – I love debating all those gerrymander schemes. You pit your wits and you take pride in building a case that’ll stand up in court, then you get the adrenalin rush of winning for your client. But the problem is, you get so caught up in the game that you forget it has real consequences – like people getting disenfranchised, like parties winning power through litigation instead of policies. In the long run, we lawyers could make the difference between a Republican or a Democrat in the White House, and that’s got to be wrong.’
FIFTEEN
1977–9
In the three years he was at NIMLO, Michael Hess built a reputation as one of Washington’s leading experts on redistricting. The calls from state officials and party lawyers began as a trickle and swelled to a torrent: pretty soon the majority of phone enquiries coming in to the switchboard would open with the words, ‘May I speak with Attorney Hess?’ Bill Crane said nothing, but it was clear from his demeanour that he was jealous. Someone had succeeded in fulfilling old man Crane’s expectations, where he, his son, had failed. Susan told Mike to watch out, but Mike just laughed.
‘What are they going do to me? They’d be lost without the stuff I’ve got stashed up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Redistricting is big potatoes: the politicians are fascinated by it and the lawyers are going to have a field day. So many cases are due in court these next few years that they’ll need every attorney who’s got even the remotest understanding of the issues.’ He paused before producing his clinching argument. ‘And the key thing is that what I’m working on right now could be gold dust, Susan. I’m getting close to constructing a Fourteenth Amendment defence that would get a whole stack of these gerrymanders struck down by the courts. It’ll have to be argued, of course, but it could change the political landscape.’
Susan sighed. Mike was a good attorney, but he had made enemies and he needed to be on his guard.
With his star high, Mike had engineered a part-time job for Mark in the library of the law firm NIMLO shared premises with. Mark was in his final undergraduate year at GW and about to go to law school, so working evenings and weekends at Williams and Connolly was perfect for him.
The two of them were still living in the apartment in South-East DC, but things between them had been strained in recent months and Mike knew it was largely his fault. He had been unpredictable and moody, curt and offhand for no reason. He was worried about his NIMLO work, and always lurking the back of his mind was the memory of his failed expedition to Ireland, but he knew there was no excuse. Mark knew how to avoid stoking his anger, but after a while his very reasonableness had become annoying. Mike watched himself as if from a great height, slowly beginning to destroy the relationship that meant so much to him, just as he had done with David Carlin. More and more frequently, he found himself guiltily packing a weekend bag while Mark was out of the house and sneaking to the train station with sheepish, backward looks, not returning until Sunday afternoon, refusing to meet Mark’s eye and hating him for not asking where he’d been.
One Monday late in October Mike and Mark were home eating dinner when three fire trucks raced past the junction at the corner of E Street.
‘Wow. It’s usually the cops who are in a hurry in this neighbourhood,’ Mike joked, but Mark looked serious.
‘They’re heading down 7th Street, Mike. That’s down to the Lost & Found. I hope nothing’s happened, after all those crazy threats.’
A few crank letters had appeared recently in the local press threatening to firebomb a gay bar in DC. No one had given them much credence, but Mike said he would ring the L&F just to make sure. It took a while for the call to go through, and they were relieved when the barman answered that everything was OK.
A couple of hours later the doorbell sounded and an obviously shaken John Clarkson ran up the stairs.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ h
e panted. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’
John was a friend of theirs, a genial Texan who had come to Washington a decade earlier to study at GW Law School and stayed to work for a Democratic senator on Capitol Hill. He was a regular at the Lost & Found.
‘Are you OK?’ Mark asked. ‘You look awful.’
John was an elegant man, usually perfectly groomed, but he was sweating, his hair awry and his face and hands stained with soot.
‘Let me have some water, will you?’ he gasped. ‘It’s terrible, absolutely terrible!’
Mike ran to fetch a glass as John sank onto the couch clutching his head.
‘It’s the Cinema Follies,’ he said. ‘Burned down. It’s gone, guys. I was going to the L&F but I never got there. I was on L Street and I saw this smoke. I thought, God, where is that? And when I got close I saw it was the Follies on fire.’
John paused to gulp down the water.
‘There was a pile of bodies. The firemen were dragging them out but they were dead, I’m sure of it. There were no windows in the place . . . No one could escape . . . They must have choked to death . . .’
Mike turned to Mark; his face was white.
‘Go fetch some brandy, Mark. And three glasses.’
Mark nodded and hurried to the drinks cabinet. The three of them drank in silence. The Cinema Follies was a popular gay club that showed twenty-four-hour X-rated films for men. It had been premiering a new biker movie called Harley’s Angels and the auditorium on the second floor had been crowded with guys from the leather crowd. Because the side rooms off the main theatre were reserved for private sexual encounters, the management had bricked up all the windows in the building, turning it into a fire trap.
Mike, Mark and John had all been in the Cinema Follies at one time or another and now they sat imagining the smoke, the screaming and panic in the dark crowded room. Mark broke the silence, turning to Mike with an accusing look.
‘You wanted to go see that movie,’ he mumbled. ‘You said you wanted to see it. You nagged me about going! Don’t you realize we could have been there? We could be dead! Why in God’s name did you want to go see some leather flick, Mike? Why?’
Mark was shouting now. John Clarkson was taken aback by his sudden fury, but Mike knew the outburst stemmed from months of suspicion and resentment.
‘What is it with you?’ Mark was yelling. ‘Where has all this fascination with bikers and fetishes and violence come from? What’s so attractive about hog-tying people and whipping them and violating them? It’s so dirty, Mike; it’s so alien to us and our relationship, but suddenly you’re fascinated by it all. God! I hope you’re just talking about it, not doing it!’
Mike looked like he was going to say something, but then changed his mind, stood up and walked out the door.
The DC Fire Department determined that the fire at the Cinema Follies had been caused by a spark from a faulty rug-shampooing machine which ignited flammable cleaning fluid that had seeped into a carpet, setting alight drapes and wooden stairs. Smoke from the blaze had billowed up the narrow staircase into the movie theatre, sending the patrons running for an emergency exit that was locked from the outside. Nine people had died from smoke inhalation, their bodies found clustered round the padlocke d door. Identifying the victims had been difficult because men visiting homosexual establishments usually didn’t carry ID, but the DC authorities eventually revealed that many of the dead and injured were married with children and held a variety of professional jobs. One man who escaped with minor injuries was Jon Hinson, a senior aide to a conservative Republican congressman and campaigning himself for a seat in the House.
Because of his job at the law library, Mark began to see Susan Kavanagh frequently. He liked her and he knew she was a confidante of Mike’s. He called her one afternoon when Mike was at a conference and asked if she would meet him after work for a drink.
It was the start of winter but temperatures had been holding up so they sat at one of the sidewalk tables at Rumors on M Street. They talked about the collapse of Jimmy Carter’s presidency and the worrying rise of Ronald Reagan and the conservative right and how he was sure to be back in next year’s presidentials, and then without warning Mark put his head in his hands and began to sob. He was so worried about Mike, he said, and about his mysterious absences, which were souring their relationship. Mike had begun to make a habit of the unexplained weekend trips and Mark found the secrecy surrounding them humiliating. When Mike came back from them he seemed so different that it frightened him.
‘Do you know where he goes, Susan? He isn’t going somewhere with you, is he? God, I wish he was going somewhere with you. I just have no idea what he’s getting involved in. We always used to tell each other everything – we said we’d never have secrets and never cheat – but this thing’s broken the trust between us.’
Susan said she would like to help, but Mike had said nothing to her. Mark put his hand on Susan’s and said he was grateful to have her to talk to.
‘It’s like he and I don’t speak any more. And I have to talk to someone, so it all gets dumped on you. I’m so sorry . . .’ Mark gave a rueful laugh. ‘But there’s something else too. You know Mike’s always been so preppy in the way he dresses and behaves – like a real college and law school kid, with all his great clothes, so clean cut and chic. That’s how I’ve always known him and that’s how I love him . . . But Susan, I think there’s another side to Mike. He’s started talking about leather and sadomasochism and stuff . . . and he’s got this biker jacket I found in his closet . . . It’s just not Mike . . . or it’s not who I thought he was.’
Susan liked Mark a lot. She didn’t want to see him hurt and didn’t want to see Mike hurt either. For the next few weeks she looked for a suitable occasion to talk to him, but the office was busy and the chance didn’t come.
In mid-December 1979 Washington’s lawyers gathered for the Bar Association’s Christmas party at the Hay Adams Hotel, and Mike and Susan went along as a couple. Mike kept his sexuality a secret in his professional life – prejudice and homophobia were less overt in the Carter years but there were still very few openly gay men in the legal or political communities. Mike had got into the habit of taking Susan to social functions where he might be recognized, and he chaperoned her to events she was invited to.
He enjoyed the feeling of being normal when he was with her, of not having to look over his shoulder every time he grasped her hand; he liked dancing with her and she enjoyed being with him – he had seen her flush with pleasure at another woman’s envious glance. They both loved the Hay Adams – it had such style and old-world charm, with its Tudor-style wood panelling and Elizabethan ceilings and the White House just over the street. As they entered the lobby, they saw Charles Crane looking distinctly proprietorial, as befitted a grandee of the Washington scene.
‘Welcome,’ he cried, as if the Hay were his own townhouse. ‘Welcome, my dears. How lovely you both look—’ then he spotted John Dean, Richard Nixon’s former counsel, and rushed off to glad-hand him instead.
When they were out of earshot, Mike leaned towards Susan with a suppressed grin. ‘Well, how Victorian,’ he whispered. ‘Was that Mr Hay or was it Mr Adams, do you suppose?’
Susan laughed. ‘What I want to know is: where is the noble scion?’
Mike made a show of looking around for Bill Crane and gave an exaggerated shrug.
‘No idea. Skulking behind some column, I guess.’
The evening passed in a glitzy succession of vintage champagne and soft music. After dinner, Mike sat Susan down with a drink and headed for the men’s room. The evening was going beautifully – what he felt like now was a dance. As he walked back towards Susan, he noticed a red-haired woman in a green dress had sat next to her and was chatting animatedly, gesturing and laughing in a manner which suggested she’d had too much to drink. As he approached, she caught sight of him and whispered something urgently to Susan before slinking off in the other direction.
‘Well,’ exclaimed Mike. ‘What was all that about?’ Susan looked uneasy.
‘Just some nosy little bitch. She asked me if you were gay.’ Mike’s face fell. ‘She said the girls in the office have been talking about it, and she had a bet going. She wanted me to confirm it.’ Susan’s eyes were dull with rage and Mike felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands.
At around ten o’clock the MC tapped a glass and called for silence. The speeches were the usual mixture of pomposity and bad jokes and Mike noticed a few people looking at their watches long before the microphone was handed to Senator Hepton to make the closing remarks. A Republican from somewhere in the Midwest, Hepton was one of the right-wing conservatives who had been in the wilderness since the Democrats came to power but were becoming pretty chipper now that Carter was sliding towards record lows in the polls. Hepton made a few wisecracks about the Iran hostage crisis that had been battering the president for over a month, sang the praises of the revolution Margaret Thatcher was carrying out over in England and promised the same reinvigorating conservatism in the US if only the country would have the good sense to elect Ronald Reagan next year.
‘And I’ll tell you a couple of things about Ron,’ he said. ‘He won’t let America be pushed around by mullahs and fanatics; he’ll fix this economy of ours that keeps on breaking down; and he’ll clear out the degenerates and perverts that’ve got their tentacles into the vital organs of our nation. You can rest assured that Ronald Reagan in the White House will heed the warnings of Christians like Reverend Falwell when he says the homosexuals are on the march in this country. We need to remember homosexuals do not reproduce, they recruit! And many of them are after my children and yours . . .’
Mike felt faint. He clenched his hands so tight that his fingernails dug into his palms. He felt Susan take his arm and at the same time knew that someone was looking at him. Glancing to his left he saw Bill Crane smirking in his direction.
The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition) Page 26