Death of a Political Plant

by Ann Ripley

  They reached the elevators, and went up two floors to the members’ dining room. All the way, Paschen fielded questions and comments with good grace. “Yep, that’s right, we’re down in the polls, but not for long. Look for a significant news release in about five days.” “You liked the President’s speech last night? Wait until the convention; he’s got a dynamite acceptance speech. He’s going to outline a future for the country that will make sense to you and every other American.” “Doubt the President can help you with that right now, but give it a few months. Let’s talk about it after the first of the year.” “Terrific idea. Call the appointments secretary—we’ll get together on it next week.”

  Ironclad confidence and self-assurance, like an old dreadnought from the turn of the century. But the dreadnoughts, if she recalled correctly, were not impervious to being sunk; she wondered if that wasn’t what was going to happen to President Fairchild, along with all of his people, including Tom.

  When they were seated at a table, one of the better ones in the room, they were suddenly left alone, as if they had acquired a communicable disease. Tom explained this phenomenon. “It’s an unspoken rule that once you arrive here with your lunch guests, you are given privacy while you eat. So don’t worry. We’ll have a chance to talk. You can order the classic bean soup if you want to, or anything else you want, fish, roast beef.”

  He looked at his watch. Louise could read the Rolex label. But of course he would have a Rolex watch. Again, she was reminded of the harried rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. “We don’t have a lot of time. You already know that, right?”

  “I understand, Tom.” She smiled at him, wishing he would relax; it was a strain being in the presence of a busy man whose right eye tic was now in full operation. He was beginning to make her feel both nervous and guilty. “Tom, I’m honored to have been invited here, and I promise I won’t overstay my welcome.”

  “Now, now,” he said, with an embarrassed grin, “you know I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes, you did, and it’s all right, believe me. As a matter of fact, I don’t have much time, either. You probably don’t know this, but I lost a friend yesterday.”

  “A friend.”

  “Actually, it was on last night’s news. Jay McCormick. Or, as they called him, John McCormick.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Paschen. “Heard about that. Speech-writer. Used to be a reporter for some California paper. Gashed his head and fell in a fishpond, didn’t he?”

  “That’s what the reports are saying.”

  “That’s not what happened?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Her stomach was churning, just thinking about the fact that her ship had left the dock, so to speak: She was launching her own private probe for Jay McCormick’s killer. Or maybe the launch was yesterday, when she sat in the gloom of her family room, the storm threatening outside, and decided to withhold evidence from the police. “Maybe we had better eat first. I’m feeling awfully hungry.”

  His gray eyes lit up. “Want fast service? A girl after my own heart! Let’s go get in the buffet line.”

  The buffet table was sumptuous and she loaded her plate. Tom looked over at it with approval. “I can tell. You’re the kind who doesn’t come back for refills, right? Me, neither.” At the table, he piled food onto the back of his fork, continental style. In between bites he lifted his head to say, “Thought if we hurried, there would be time for a quick tour around the White House gardens. Would you like that?”

  Surprised, she stuttered, “I—I’d love it,” Louise began to feel better in spite of herself, the pain of her friend’s death yesterday being diminished by the very fact that she could look forward to the adventures of today.

  But she needed to handle things right. As she delicately cut into her rare roast beef and added a dollop of horseradish sauce, she realized the luncheon mood would be soured if she came right out and told Tom that the environmental show was in doubt. Instead, she started out by pumping him about the opposition campaign.

  He gave her a vignette of the various players and where they came from, with the focus on Rawlings and Upchurch and his men. There was no doubt in his mind that Rawlings, though buffered from direct contact with the more outrageous campaign charges, was the author of these charges.

  Although she had seen at close hand how tough Rawlings could be, she couldn’t buy it. Her expression apparently revealed her skepticism, for he said, “You don’t believe me, Louise, but you should. That guy is an old street fighter who knows every dirty hold and sucker punch in the repertoire. I told you, he’s orchestrating this whole goddamned thing, and it’s going to fly in his face in no time at all.”

  She must have looked dubious, for the expression in her companion’s gray eyes had hardened. “Okay, I’ll prove it. I’ve researched Rawlings, right back to when he was a little thug in grade school. Talk about early criminal records of presidential children: This guy had a long rap sheet by the age of twenty, when just by accident some pol saved his ass, got him into college and then into politics. Huh. Shows you how close crime and politics have always been. What gets me is that everyone thinks he’s such a pleasant, straight-up guy.”

  Tom even knew something about Goodrich’s campaign headquarters and about Nate Weinstein, the man who ran the office; Tom apparently respected Weinstein, regardless of their party differences, as a hard-working and honest political worker. At that, she put down her fork and pulled a little pad out of her jacket pocket and jotted down a couple of notes.

  Paschen paused with a forkful of food midway to his mouth and looked at her curiously. “Now, just what the heck are you going to do with that information?”

  “Oh, probably nothing. I just like to know what’s going on and who’s involved.” She smiled. “You know better than most other people that being in the know is important in Washington.”

  “Hmm. Well, Louise, just remember, as I give you this primer on national campaigns: Not all the people involved in them are running on the same wavelength. There are the Indians and the chiefs. And in the Goodrich campaign, there are other distinctions to be made as well. For instance, between the seasoned professionals and the crazies. That’s what I call Upchurch and his gang. In fact, if I know some of the campaign workers there, and this probably includes the man who heads the office, they’re ashamed to be involved in the disgraceful stories those guys have been peddling.”

  She was afraid he wouldn’t answer her questions regarding the murder charge against Fairchild. But he did. His face colored with refreshed anger and his voice was low. “Right now, we have a lot of people working on that one. The evidence they purport to have is from over thirty years ago, and it’s these army records that supposedly contain the investigation of the President’s involvement in the murder of this file clerk. Well, hell, Louise, it’s a pack of lies. We know records can be faked, and this is a good job of fakery, no doubt. That’s why we need to get hold of the records themselves. We’ve demanded to see them, and I think it will happen”—he raised his arm and consulted his watch again—“about two hours from now.”

  “That’s great; I hope you find out the truth. Tom, can I ask you another question about the Goodrich campaign office? Would they hire anyone that they didn’t know well?”

  He looked at her speculatively. “I don’t know why the devil you want to know all these things, Louise. But the answer is maybe. They’re just like our campaign office, and I’m sure you know there’s always a main office downtown, with subsidiary offices around the metro area. We’d take on a hotshot outsider, a speechwriter, advance man, somebody like that, whom we didn’t know. He’d have to have a dynamite rep and we would vet him well, believe me, and so would they. There’s nothing worse than having unreliable people in your national campaign office.”

  His eyes glittered mischievously, and together with the wild cowlick, the grade school boy was very much in evidence. He gave just the slightest wink. “Campaign offices are
filled with secrets that you don’t want given out to the general public.”

  She put her fork down, through with eating, for she could hardly suppress her excitement. She was more convinced than ever that Jay McCormick had done just that, infiltrated Goodrich’s campaign. She even had a way to prove it now. She had to find his story. Then, just as fast as her spirits rose, they fell, as she remembered that the person who killed jay had the story.

  Or maybe not.

  Knowing Jay, there had to be a backup somewhere. A backup disk or hard copy. Or had they found that, too?

  Tom was nearly finished with his meal, and she had run through most of her questions. Casually, she said, “I bet you have the inside dope on everybody in Washington, don’t you?.”

  His jaw tightened. “If you mean are we checking their FBI files, no way. The Fairchild administration has stayed clear of that one. But there are other ways of checking people.” He smiled knowingly.

  “Now tell me what you know about a woman named Lannie Gordon.”

  Paschen looked faintly annoyed. “How come you’re so interested in all these people who are the President’s worst enemies?”

  “Oh, Lannie, too?”

  “If I weren’t a gentleman, I might have a name for her. She’s a worthy foe, let’s put it that way: Preps those tobacco company presidents and the whole industry—and God knows they need her more than ever, since they made that big settlement to avoid lawsuits. Naturally, she hates the President’s guts because of his antitobacco initiatives.” He leaned toward her. “Now, Louise, just why do you want to know about her? She is a tough character—I’d steer clear of her, if I were you. She might sue you, and if she did, she’d win.”

  “She’s Jay McCormick’s ex-wife.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting,” said Paschen. Louise could see him trying to factor it all in. “Lannie’s one of the toughest infighters in this town. Hands out money to Goodrich’s campaign in pots. It appears to be legal, until someone reforms campaign financing again. Actually, it stinks like fuckin’ rotten eggs, Louise, but we both court big money. The rules are Byzantine, and if I know her, she follows the rules. Sorry for the lapses in language; sometimes I forget you aren’t just one of the boys, but then, I don’t know how in hell I could forget,” and he smiled fondly at her.

  “Thanks for all that information. Now I need to talk to you about our proposed two-part program on the President’s bill” It seemed as good a time as any to slip in the fact that Marty Corbin and the Channel Five general manager continued to drag their feet on the project. “There are problems, I’m afraid.”

  “Two parts? More than one show?”

  “We’ll divide it into two segments, if we do it.”

  “But not more reservations,” he said crossly. Having finished his lunch, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, neatly folded it beside his plate, and gave her his full attention. She felt intimidated; the whole reason for this lunch was for him to hear the words that the show was a done deal. And she was going to tell him something quite different.

  “However, the writer is preparing scripts that may be able to overcome the difficulties they foresee.”

  His lips compressed in an amused, cynical line. “Difficulties? What a handy euphemism, Louise. You mean, Corbin’s afraid Fairchild’s a dead duck, right? And then where would these silly programs be, if the whole bill gets watered down or overturned a few months after it was aired?”

  “Oh, it isn’t quite like that.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. That’s what you’re thinking. You and your reruns. Do you guys think the environment is going up in smoke if the President loses the election? Christ, Louise, I get impatient with Channel Five. That bill is sound; it is going to take more guts than Congress possesses to nullify it, even if Fairchild does go down the tubes.”

  The fretful expression still on his face, he picked up a spoon and tapped it impatiently on the white tablecloth. “Why, I even expected to have another media person here today. Cheryl Wilding of Channel Eight’s real hot for a story on the environmental bill. She had to cancel because she was sent out on a breaking story.”

  Cheryl, her cohost John’s rejected girlfriend, was beautiful but unscrupulous; she had fabricated evidence that nearly sent Louise to jail for murder, but was never charged with anything and was still a popular TV anchor. She was probably ten times more important in Tom Paschen’s eyes than Louise, with her humble public television gardening program.

  Now the luncheon fell in context: Tom was trying to kill two media birds with one luncheon. She felt less important than ever.

  Then he reached down into his briefcase and produced a thick booklet, which he plopped on the table between them. “If it’s any use, here’s the bill itself. Show that to Corbin and your general manager.” He slipped in a quick smile to soften the words: “See if it impresses them in the least.”

  If only Paschen had made his case directly with her producer, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She looked him straight in the eye. “Tom, I’m sorry about this, but that’s really all I can say at this point.” She patted the big stack of paper beside her. “And thanks for this. I am really sorry about the uncertainty. But I’m still hopeful.”

  Hopeful wasn’t good enough for the chief of staff. He frowned and hunched over his coffee. He wouldn’t be happy until the Channel Five powers that be said yes, and until then, he would be bugging her, not Marty, not the general manager. Whether she liked it or not, she was still in the middle.

  Then, they were distracted by what could only be described as a grand entrance. Paschen acknowledged it with a disgusted grunt. At the doorway of the dining room stood Fairchild’s opponent, the possible next President of the United States, Congressman Lloyd Goodrich. He was a handsome, white-haired man with highly colored cheeks.

  Tom practically sneered at the legislator’s dramatic arrival. “Look at that sickening expression on his red face. He thinks just because he’s dead even in the polls with a sitting president three months before the election that he’s going to win it.”

  With Goodrich was an entourage that included Franklin Rawlings, Willie Upchurch, Ted French, and several prestigious-looking individuals. “Who are those others?” Louise asked.

  “Big donors, most likely. They like to bring ’em here; it makes them feel as if they’re on the inside. It’s even better than visiting a congressman’s office or watching him show off in a hearing room.”

  As the group passed their table, Paschen’s eyes covertly watched each one. When Rawlings veered off to approach their table, he sat up straighter. “Franklin,” he said coolly.

  “Tom.” An insincere hand on Tom’s shoulder. And then all Rawlings’ attention was directed to Louise.

  He said, “I see you’re being courted again, Mrs. Eldridge. I hope you keep looking at the big picture.” A warm smile suffused his face. His tan suit, although well cut, did nothing to enhance his sallow complexion.

  “I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “I hope the point is taken,” he persisted amiably, but she noticed that his smile seemed forced. Giving her a little wave, he sauntered off toward Goodrich’s big round table.

  Paschen hunched forward again toward Louise, his eyes blazing. “What the hell does he want from you?” he asked her in a stage whisper.

  “The same thing you want: to sell his candidate’s position on the environment.”

  “Louise, they’re poles apart. Goodrich doesn’t care a flying fuck for the environment!”

  “I know that, Tom.”

  But they weren’t done with the Goodrich crowd. Suddenly, Ted French doubled back and stood looking down at the two of them. “Hi, there. Tom, you can’t keep this woman to yourself, and I see Franklin has met her. I demand an introduction this time.” He slid his hand onto the back of Louise’s chair and leaned his large, broad-shouldered frame over, giving her an uncomfortable sense of being smothered by hi
s sheer bulk. She looked into his sharp-featured face and met the blue eyes, that indeed had been taught to feign friendliness upon meeting a new person.

  Since she could not escape him, she twisted back in her chair to provide a little distance between them, and extended a hand. “I’m Louise Eldridge.”

  He looked at the seething chief of staff, bowed over her hand, and said, “Ted French, and I’m charmed, just the way Tom is. I see you two together quite a bit these days. What gives?”

  She gave him a droll look, and when she spoke, her voice was husky. “That’s because we’re having a torrid romance. It occupies Tom morning, noon, and night.”

  Paschen looked startled, then broke into a pleased grin. French straightened up to his full height. “Well, I know you’re putting me on.”

  “French, just what the hell do you want here?” demanded Paschen.

  The other man smoothed his blond hair back in a nervous gesture and said, “I just thought you’d want to know that another story’s coming out on the Diem matter.”

  Paschen interrupted him. “Look, I don’t care about those stories; they’ll be shot down soon enough. Now. I wish you’d go away and leave us alone.”

  At that moment, a distinguished-looking older man at the next table tweaked French’s tweed coattails. Then he got serious and gave them a sharp tug. In a shaking voice, he said, “Sir, do you have no scruples?” It was an echo of a famous remark out of the political past, and Louise struggled to place it and then did: the Army-McCarthy hearings.

  Tom grinned. In a low voice he told Louise, “Congressman Robert Fulton, who, incidentally, sponsored us here for lunch. French is in for it now.”

  The stern-faced congressman looked up at the Goodrich campaign aide through thick trifocals and said, “This dining room is sacrosanct, young man. Those who come here yearn for and deserve privacy in which to conduct their business. And you, you are abridging the very rules under which this place was instituted, back in the days when lawmakers and their associates were thought to be gentlemen. So, would you kindly leave Mr. Paschen and his companion alone to finish their luncheon, and prove that you have some semblance of those old-time and still-revered values?”