by Ralph Reed
A media feeding frenzy erupted. Cable television and the blogosphere degenerated into a shouting match of accusations and insults hurled by angry partisans. The White House deployed Johnny Whitehead to do radio interviews with Andy Stanton, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Glen Beck. As he made the rounds, Whitehead delivered the administration’s message: Penneymounter and the far-left could not defeat Diaz on substance, so they rummaged through his garbage and smeared him with a twenty-four-year old unproven rumor. A high-stakes scramble among the networks ensued for the first televised interview with Solis. Her attorney fielding calls from the Today show, Oprah, and Marvin Myers.
At 2:00 p.m. Taylor Sullivan crossed the alley from the Eisenhower Executive Office Building (EEOB) to the West Wing, ducking up the narrow stairwell to the second floor. He was joined by Lisa Robinson. She rapped her knuckles on the doorway to Jay’s office and walked in. They stood silently in front of his desk as he spun a reporter.
“Be careful,” Jay warned, dropping his voice with mock suspense. “When have I ever steered you wrong? Trust me: when all the raw FBI interviews come out, they will be highly exculpatory. There’s zero proof that Diaz was the father.” Jay paused, listening to a question. “Her motive? I don’t know and I wouldn’t want to speculate.” He paused again. “This is on very deep background. And please don’t say ‘White House source.’ Say ‘administration source.’ That way it could be coming from here or DOJ. Okay?” He hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Lisa. “You’re spinning like a top.”
“Marvin Myers,” answered Jay. “I think we’ve got him to a good place. He’s skeptical. He thinks the fact Solis dropped at the eleventh hour is fishy.”
“Taylor has something to share with you,” said Lisa.
“Mind if I close the door?” asked Sullivan, glancing about nervously.
“No, go ahead,” said Jay. Sullivan pulled the door closed.
Sullivan returned to the desk and took a chair, letting dead air hang. “Turns out Joe Penneymounter’s got a girlfriend,” he said matter-of-factly.
Jay raised his eyebrows. He looked at Lisa. Her expression telegraphed concern. “I’ve heard that, too,” said Jay. “But I never got anything specific on it.”
“I have. Her name is Natalie Taylor. She’s the communications director at the Judiciary Committee,” he said. “He hired her last year and jumped her over three other candidates with more seniority and stronger qualifications.”
“Looks like he jumped her in more ways than one,” Jay said, the edges of his mouth rising as he reached for a can of Diet Coke. “Who knows?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Everybody. It’s an open secret on the Hill. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t come out already.”
Jay turned to Lisa. “How did it get out?”
“I’m told he had a girlfriend behind the back of his girlfriend.”
“Oh, that’s a problem,” said Jay, nodding. “You can’t ever have a mistress on your mistress.” He turned to Lisa. “Well, what do you think?”
“The press knows, but they’re sitting on it. No one wants to be the first to run with it. I also think they’re protecting him until after the Diaz vote,” she said cautiously. “If it ever got out we leaked it, the repercussions would be . . . well, I don’t want to think about it.”
“Who says we’re leaking it?” asked Jay.
“It gets better,” said Sullivan, leaning forward, the veins in his bald head visible. “After she graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and before Penneymounter hired her, she had a page under an assumed name on a Web site called MySugarDaddy.com.”
“What the heck is that?” asked Lisa.
“It’s a Web site where women advertise themselves to men with big bucks,” said Sullivan, a crooked grin spreading on his beefy face. “The sugar daddies are looking for hot babes. They advertise themselves for three to ten grand a month.” His cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk, his mouth curled into a boyish smirk. “It’s capitalism at work!”
“How utterly pathetic,” said Lisa.
“What was her price?” asked Jay.
“Seventy-five hundred a month,” said Sullivan.
“Her page isn’t still up, is it?”
“No, but we have the screen shot,” explained Sullivan. “They’re archived.”
“How did you find out about this?” asked Lisa in amazement.
“A little bird told me,” deadpanned Sullivan.
“This has to come out at some point,” said Jay. “I can’t believe Penneymounter would be this reckless. It’s like he has a death wish.”
“The guy is a notorious skirt-chaser,” replied Sullivan. “But it doesn’t do us a lot of good if it doesn’t get in the water in time to help Diaz. We’ve got a narrow window here.”
“I’d be careful,” instructed Jay. “It can’t come from here or the Hill. Maybe a blogger? Or, better yet, TMZ or the National Enquirer.”
Sullivan nodded. Lisa pursed her lips in disapproval.
Jay read her thoughts. “Lisa, no one’s suggesting we do it.”
“Watch your step,” Lisa warned. “If there are any fingerprints, I’m on the record saying this is a bad idea. And I didn’t bring Taylor in. You did.”
Jay seemed taken aback by Lisa’s brushback pitch. “Lisa’s right,” he said. “Sit on this for now. If it starts to seep out, maybe we help it along. But for the time being, stand down.”
Sullivan’s face fell. He leaned forward in his chair like a Doberman pinscher straining at his leash. “Fine,” he said with passive-aggressive resignation. “But sooner or later, if we’re serious about confirming Diaz, the other side has to feel pain.”
Jay knew Sullivan was right. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped the dime on Penneymounter. Would it be them . . . or someone else?
ROSS LOMBARDY WAS IN his office in Alpharetta, Georgia, on the campus of New Life Ministries, when his assistant stuck her head in the door. “There’s a man claiming to be Stephen Fox on the phone. He says he needs to talk to you,” she said. “He says it’s important.”
Ross’s eyes widened. “The Stephen Fox?”
“I couldn’t believe it either. But it’s him.”
Ross picked up the phone. “Mr. Fox? Ross Lombardy here.”
“I’ve been watching you on television,” said Fox without even saying hello. “You’re good. I may not agree with you, but man, you’re good. You’re as smooth as they come.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ross could hardly believe his ears. Fox was one of the wealthiest men and biggest liberal funders in the country. He stroked a $10 million check to Movon.org, $15 million to the Committee for a Better America, and he hosted a fund-raiser for Sal Stanley at their palatial Palo Alto estate. What was Fox doing reaching out to him?
“Please, call me Steve,” said Fox slickly. “Listen, I have a business proposition for you. But I need to discuss it with you in person.”
“Sure,” said Ross with slight hesitation. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“It’s about Diaz,” said Fox. “Look, I’m a Democrat, but I’m also an American, and I think what’s going on is disgusting. I’m ashamed of my party. This attempt by Penneymounter and Stanley to lynch a fine man is anathema to me.” He paused. “So it seems we have a shared interest here.”
Ross’s mind raced. He almost wanted to take notes of the bizarre conversation for his memoir. No one would ever believe him. “That’s good to hear,” he said.
“Listen, I’m going to be down at my house in Bermuda for the next couple of weeks. I’d like to sit down when I get back, but by then I’m afraid this might all be over,” said Fox. “If you can break away, I’ll send a plane up and bring you down here and we can visit.”
“Okay,” Ross heard himself saying.
“Do you play golf?” asked Fox hopefully. “Bring your clubs if you want.”
“A little,” said Ross. “I work too hard. I don’t have the time to play.”
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“You need to change that,” said Fox. “Did you know that the lower someone’s handicap is, the wealthier they are?” They both laughed. “Jack Welch was a scratch golfer. Duffers are losers. Just remember this, Ross: no one ever got ahead by working themselves to death. You get ahead by getting other people to work themselves to death.”
“I guess I haven’t figured that part of the business world out yet,” said Ross. To his surprise he found himself liking Fox. His Donald Trump-like self-parody, his Master-of- the-Universe affectation, and his complete lack of self-awareness were somehow endearing. So this is how the other half lives, he thought.
“Andy Stanton has,” joked Fox. “He’s getting all the glory, and you’re killing yourself. If you worked for me, it would be different.”
“I don’t think that would be advisable for either of us,” said Ross.
“Probably not,” said Fox breezily. “But it sure would give the New York Times a bad case of whiplash!” He laughed at his own joke, then reloaded. “I’ll have my girl call your girl and set it up. See you soon.”
“Look forward to it, Stephen,” said Ross.
“Me, too. Who knows . . . maybe we can make some beautiful music together.”
Ross tried to get his bearings. Fox wasn’t a big fish . . . he was a whale! Worth $10 billion, he was a living legend. Given Fox’s left-wing politics, it would be dicey. But Ross found himself intrigued, even excited. As he picked up the phone to tell his secretary to set up the meeting, he felt a jolt of adrenalin.
THE DINING ROOM OF the Diaz home in Alexandria was thick with tension. The curtains were closed, fastened with safety pins to block the view of TV crews that maintained a twenty-four-hour vigil on the sidewalk outside. They were prisoners in their own home. Present for a meeting were Art Morris and Diaz’s handlers from DOJ and Phil Battaglia from the White House. Diaz sat at the head of the dining room table, looking thunderstruck. Frida sat beside him, her face etched with anguish.
“How’s Penneymounter going to handle Solis?” asked Battaglia.
“It’s a highly fluid situation,” replied Morris. “Rumors are flying and no one knows the actual truth. But we’re hearing that Solis is on her way to DC on a private jet paid for by Pro-Choice PAC. Judiciary staff will depose her tonight at her hotel and, assuming the deposition goes smoothly, she’ll testify tomorrow.”
“That’s quick. Make sure minority counsel is present for the deposition and can ask questions,” directed Battaglia. “I don’t want any closed-door sessions.”
“Agreed. That’s what Tom Reynolds worked out with Penneymounter, but they’re still ironing out details,” said Morris. “Things are happening fast. We’ll double-check it.”
“Okay,” said Battaglia. He let out a long sigh. “Marco, we don’t know yet whether you will go before the committee to rebut her testimony, but I think for purposes of tonight’s meeting, we should assume you will. Let’s get your side of the story straight.” He turned to Frida. “Mrs. Diaz, I know this isn’t easy. If you’d like to be excused, we understand.”
Frida raised her chin, her facial muscles twitching with emotion. “No,” she said firmly. “I know Maria’s lying. I want to be here.”
“If she accuses me of forcing her to have an abortion, I’m definitely going back before the committee,” said Diaz, his voice ragged. “You won’t be able to hold me back with a team of horses.”
“Let’s set that aside for now,” said Battaglia calmly. “Just tell us what you remember about what happened during the time frame of her allegations.”
Diaz stared at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts. “It happened late in our second year at Yale,” he said. “We’d dated since the second semester of our first year, when we were in the same contracts class. The relationship became physical.” Battaglia took notes on a legal pad as Diaz spoke. “Late that second year, in the spring, we began to drift apart. She started hanging out with the Caesar Chavez types, who were protesting the lack of minority professors. They staged a walkout, and she participated. I was moving in the other direction, getting more active in the Federalist Society.”
“Did you argue about your political differences?” asked Battaglia.
“I wouldn’t say we argued,” replied Diaz. “But we talked about it. We knew we were growing apart and going in different directions.”
“Then what happened?”
“It was gradual,” said Diaz. “She became distant. We saw each other less frequently. I was busy lining up my second-year internship, writing for the law review, and so forth.”
“But you were still having sex?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
Diaz glanced at Frida, embarrassed. “A lot. We were kids.”
“And when did you become aware she might have become pregnant?”
“We broke up near the end of the semester. My internship was in DC and hers was in Dallas and that forced the issue,” said Diaz. “It was somewhat mutual, but I precipitated it. A few weeks after we broke up, she came by my apartment and told me she was late. She was afraid she might be pregnant.”
“What did you tell her?”
“My reaction was mixed. I loved her, so part of me thought, ‘Okay, let’s go ahead and get married.’ But another part of me knew it wouldn’t work. I told her I’d support her whatever she decided. But we didn’t know yet if she was pregnant or not.” He paused. “The timing of it was very awkward in that we were breaking up at the time.”
“Marco, were you or Maria using birth control at the time?” asked Morris.
“I wasn’t. I was under the impression she was.”
“Alright, after she came by the apartment and told you she thought she might be pregnant, when was the next time you spoke to her?”
“A couple of days later. She was on her way to the health clinic on campus and was going to take a pregnancy test. I still remember standing in the window of my apartment watching her walk away.”
“What did she say when she stopped by?”
“She just wanted my support,” said Diaz. “I held her in my arms. She teared up a little bit. Then she left.”
“And then what happened?” asked Battaglia.
“She called me a couple of days later and said the test came back negative,” said Diaz. “We were both relieved, as you can imagine. I think we both knew when the pregnancy scare ended in a false alarm, we were probably done as a couple.”
“I know there’s no way to know,” said Battaglia. “But did you ever suspect she was faking her pregnancy in order to manipulate you into marrying her?”
“No,” said Diaz. “I thought the stress of exams, the end of the semester, and our breakup might have just caused her to be late or miss her period.”
“Any chance she was pregnant and had an abortion without your knowledge?” asked Battaglia. The question struck like a fastball at the head.
“I don’t know. If so, she didn’t tell me.” He paused, glancing around the table. “I was so relieved when she said she wasn’t pregnant, I didn’t ask questions.”
“My point in asking the question is, she might have had an abortion,” said Battaglia. “That doesn’t prove you were the father or approved of it, much less pressured her to do it.”
“I would never have done such a thing,” said Diaz.
The room fell silent. The lawyers seemed to have run out of questions. Diaz looked like he had just stepped out of the ring after twelve rounds in a heavyweight fight. Frida appeared pale and drawn. It had been a brutal but necessary cross-examination.
“Now what?” asked Frida.
“We wait,” said Morris. “The next move is Penneymounter’s.”
The lawyers got up from the dining room table and headed for the front door. Before they left, they hugged Marco and Frida and urged them one more time to hang in there, offering words of encouragement, telling them the nightmare was almost over. But Marco could tell from the looks of the White House lawyers even they d
idn’t believe it.
THIRTY-SIX
The G-5 carrying Ross Lombardy banked left as it made its final descent into Teeterboro airport, thirty minutes outside New York City. The sky was overcast, the Manhattan skyline shrouded in mist. The plane belonged to Internet magnate and equity-fund impresario Stephen Fox, who had moved the meeting from Bermuda to New York City at the last minute. As the wheels hit the runway, Ross felt a twinge of excitement. The truth? He longed to play with the big boys and run with the masters of the universe on Wall Street. As an evangelical whose nose had been pressed against the glass of elite culture his entire life, Ross dreamed of being ushered past the red velvet rope that had long been closed to his kind.
When the jet taxied to a stop, Ross ducked into a Town Car for the ride into the city. Always on the go, he whipped out his laptop and watched the latest pro-Diaz ad from the Faith and Family Federation, running in seven states targeting six centrist Democrats and one moderate Republican, at a cost of $625,000 per week. The media buy was both expensive and profitable. The Federation bombarded its three million supporters with daily e-mails asking for contributions, and the money was pouring in at a rate of $1 million a week.
When the Town Car pulled up in front of the Four Seasons, Ross walked to a house phone and dialed the operator. She rang Fox’s suite. An aide answered. “Hello, Mr. Lombardy,” he said. “Mr. Fox is waiting. Come on up.”
Ross rode the elevator up to Fox’s floor and knocked on the door. An assistant to Fox, a striking brunette wearing a black, silk, low-cut blouse and charcoal grey skirt opened the door, ushering him into a massive suite. Fresh fruit, cheese, and assorted soft drinks lay on the dining room table. Fox glided in from the adjoining bedroom, sans coat and tie, trailed by two other men, and extended an outstretched hand.
“Ross, thanks for coming. Pleasure to meet you,” said Fox smoothly, his voice low and inviting. “You had a good flight, I hope?”