by Sam Bourne
‘Bad example. But then I think about us. You and me. We can’t let him do that, can we? If he goes, what’s left of us? Actually, you’ve got plenty. You’re smart and you’re beautiful.’
Maggie didn’t know what to say. She felt her eyes pricking, with real tears this time. She had talked about every point of the globe with Stuart Goldstein, every possible permutation of politics, domestic and foreign, yet he had never spoken like this before.
‘But me, Maggie. There wouldn’t be much left of me, would there? For twenty years, I’ve been Stuart Goldstein, the guy behind Stephen Baker. Without Baker, there’s no Goldstein. Who else is gonna hire a big fat Jewish guy who eats gherkins out the jar? Baker was the only one who never cared about all that stuff.’
She could hardly bear to listen. ‘Stuart, don’t. We’re going to come through-’
‘So what I’m trying to work out is, if I’m being selfish for wanting to fight this. If I’m doing it for my sake, not his. Maybe the best thing for him is if we let him walk away.’
‘Enough, Stu. Enough late-night maudlin talk. I can get that in Ireland.’ She wanted him to laugh but he didn’t.
‘You’re right. I know. I know. I’m just so tired, that’s all. We’ve worked so hard…’ His voice tailed off, exhausted, on the edge of defeat.
Maggie felt her heart swell. She had to do this for both of them: for all of them. ‘Go home, Stu: go home and get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning. Things will look better then, trust me.’
‘Good night, Maggie.’
She cut the connection and closed her eyes. What had she got herself into?
25
Washington, DC, Thursday March 23, 07.55
‘I love the smell of fresh bagels in the morning.’
Senator Rick Franklin and his Head of Legislative Affairs, Cindy Hughes, had just stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor of the building on L Street which, to the naked eye, looked like a regulation 1970s-built office block in Washington, DC. Functional and dull.
To those in the know, however, it was – for this hour every Thursday morning, at least – the epicentre of American conservatism. Or, as those on the inside would put it, ‘the movement’.
This was the Thursday Session, when the conference room of a single right-wing think-tank would host the activists, lobbyists, congressional staffers, movers and shakers who together represented Washington’s key ‘movement’ conservatives. At the back of the room, jugs of coffee and trays of fresh bagels alongside bowls of cream cheese. If you were fifteen minutes early, you’d load up a plate and take a seat. Any later than that and you’d be standing at the back or at the sides or spilling into the corridor. The Thursday Session was the American right’s hottest ticket.
When Franklin appeared something happened that he at least had never seen before: a spontaneous round of applause which soon turned into a standing ovation. He had been used to the red carpet treatment at the Thursday Session for at least a month, ever since he had won himself folk-hero status by heckling the President’s first speech to Congress. The media had hated it of course; the press back home were embarrassed: ‘Frankly, Mr Franklin, you’re a disgrace!’ ran one column in The Greenville News. But it had made Rick Franklin, once little noticed outside South Carolina, a star.
This, though, was different: a reception for a leader. He thought back to Cindy’s remark of last night, just before he spread her across his knee and before he telephoned the President to notify him of his imminent impeachment. And you, sir, will only just be started. Already his push to remove Baker had anointed him as de facto leader of the opposition. If he were to succeed, then in three short years’ time, surely he would be frontrunner for…
He waved aside the offers of an empty seat: he was far too humble for such gestures of deference. Instead, and humbly, he stood close to the door. His body language was politician’s semaphore for ‘I’m here to listen’.
Matt Nylind, the activist who had turned this meeting into the dominant force it had become, called for order. Franklin took a good look at him. Classic behind-the-scenes operative; looked like an overgrown college student. One tail of his shirt was already edging its escape over the waistband of his trousers; his glasses were smeared. Just the fact that he wore glasses: no politician would wear glasses. Who was the last? Truman? But these guys – the dweebs who crunched the numbers, drafted the Republicans’ policies and found the flaws in the Democrats’, who blogged twenty-four hours a day and never stopped working to advance the cause, inch by inch – these guys could look awful. No one cared. No one ever saw them. Maybe Nylind would occasionally do a turn on Fox. But basically they were creatures of the dark. Better that way: if voters ever got a glimpse of them in daylight, they’d head screaming for the hills. No, the current division of labour made the best sense. Men like Franklin – with their gleaming white teeth, full heads of hair and pretty wives – would be front of house while the elves stayed hidden in the grotto, working their magic.
Franklin looked at them and felt a surge of gratitude. If it weren’t for these guys, with their BlackBerrys and their obsessive reading of indigestible pamphlets from the Cato Institute, his job would be so much harder. And he loved his job. He glanced at Cindy, standing next to him, her face a picture of studious concentration, and thought how much he loved the perks too.
Nylind was making his introductory remarks: ‘…some big news overnight, but before we get to that I want to run through other items on our agenda. First, governors’ races in Virginia and New Jersey. Baker stole both of those last fall but we’re trending two points behind on the generics. And that was before last night.’ There was some bullish laughter and a smattering of more applause in Franklin’s direction, which he duly acknowledged by inclining his head minutely. Humbly.
Nylind resumed. ‘OK, the legislative agenda. The banking bill. Polling is horrible for us on this right now. Suggestions for how we can turn it around?’
Immediately a voice piped up, though Franklin couldn’t see whose it was. ‘We gotta death-tax it,’ the voice was saying. ‘When the Democrats called it an “estate tax” it was popular. Once we called it a “death tax”, we killed it. We need to do the same with this bill.’
‘Who is that?’ Franklin whispered to Cindy, enjoying the scent of her that came to him as he bent closer to her.
‘Michael Strauss. He’s the head of the American Bankers Association. Lobbyist for the entire financial services sector. Normally sends a deputy. Must be something cooking.’
Nylind was asking for new names for the banking bill. A woman close to the front suggested the ‘anti-wealth bill’. Nylind nodded, but without enthusiasm. ‘Let’s remind ourselves of its core elements. This bill will cap bonuses from now till these banks have paid back the federal government every last cent they owe. Which could take decades. It will be the biggest cap on wealth and individual freedom since Leonid Brezhnev.’
‘Why don’t we call it the Brezhnev bill?’ asked the woman, undeterred.
Nylind muttered, more to himself than the room. ‘Yeah, ’cause that will play really well with eighteen to twenty-fours.’ Then, his volume duly adjusted: ‘Let’s get to the matter of the moment. Republicans on the Hill have set a remarkable lead, showing an aggressive response to the Iranian Connection with a move to impeach the President.’
More applause, which seemed to make Nylind impatient. Such displays were fine for the TV cameras, but here, in his meeting, they just wasted time. ‘Clearly that’s gonna depend on headcount, pulling in moderate Democrats. Which in turn means shifting public opinion to our side of the issue. I suggest the climate will depend less on the technicalities of donations from Iran and more on the general mood created by the Forbes episode. Where do people think we’ve got to on that?’
This was what Franklin had come to hear.
A man standing directly opposite, also too jammed to get a seat, spoke up, identifying himself as a producer of one of the nation’s best-know
n talk radio shows. ‘There’s still plenty of flesh on that turkey,’ he began, with an accent Franklin placed in Alabama. ‘Like the psycho piece. More to say on that, I reckon. And what was this bomb Forbes was gonna drop? Folks are mighty interested in that, I can tell you.’
Nylind interrupted. ‘The White House are trying to say that’s all old news now that Forbes is dead. Drawing a line and all that BS.’
‘BS is right. House Judiciary’s gonna keep the Iran story alive. And we’re going to keep hammering away at it on the show. Exactly how much money changed hands? When did it stop?’
‘If it stopped!’ Someone in the middle of the room, too quick for Franklin to identify.
Now, towards the back, a woman stood up. Franklin recognized her; he’d seen her on Hannity. Sweet-looking, if a little bland; longish hair, maybe some surgery. Attractive, but vanilla cupcake. Kind of like his Cindy, but without the sauce. An image of his assistant in her eyepatch underwear flashed through his mind. He told himself to concentrate.
‘Are we too prim here to talk about the other dimension of the Forbes case?’ Now Franklin remembered. She was a former prosecutor turned TV talking head.
‘The other dimension?’ Nylind was smiling, enjoying himself. He always was a hog-in-shit at these Thursday Sessions, Franklin reflected, but he looked extra ecstatic at this moment.
‘Yes, Matthew.’ Her tone was that of an impatient schoolmistress, circa Little House on the Prairie. And they said conservatives didn’t have a sense of humour. ‘We all know what I’m referring to. The very convenient demise of Mr Forbes. At precisely the right moment for the President.’
Nylind surveyed the room. ‘Once again, let me remind our media colleagues here that the Thursday Sessions are always and forever off-the-record. If you’re here, it’s because you’re a player not a commentator. Remember the rule. You leak, you leave.
‘Good. So we all heard what the lady said. Do we want to go there?’
‘Some of us already have.’ A few titters.
‘But does it make strategic sense?’ Nylind, perennial college boy, was playing the designated adult.
‘There is a risk to it.’ The talk radio guy again. ‘It can make us look wacko. Even if we’re right. Can look a bit, you know, 9/11 truther.’
‘There’s another problem.’ All heads turned towards the back of the room, where the chief aide to Congressman Rice of Louisiana was seated. ‘There’ll be a coroner’s report today, declaring Forbes’s death a suicide.’ The room hushed, the quiet that always comes when meetings used to the hot air of opinions suddenly get a cool gust of fact.
He continued. ‘I got off the phone from the New Orleans Police Department just before I came here. They’re going to announce this morning that their investigation is formally concluding.’
Loud tuts and several shaking heads.
‘It seems awful quick.’ The woman, former lawyer.
Nylind jumped in, ahead of the staffer from the Louisiana delegation. ‘Let’s not forget, gentlemen-’ this in spite of the fact that between a quarter and a third of those in the room were women, albeit women whose political DNA prevented them from crying foul at sexism, ‘-that there are a lot of Democrats in Louisiana. Since Katrina, most of the state officials, in fact. That goes for the mayor of N’Awlins. Who appoints the police chief.’
The lawyer spoke up again. ‘I don’t think that should shut us up. Just because a few party hacks are closing this thing down to help their buddy Stephen Baker. If anything, it makes it worse.’
‘Just remember what I said,’ said the talk radio producer. ‘The guys who say the CIA took down the Twin Towers. Controlled explosions and all that. They make a lot of sense when they’re talking to themselves in rooms like this.’ A few murmurs of agreement, but no enthusiasm.
He ploughed on. ‘I’m not saying it’s off-limits. Hell, we’ll probably do it on the show this afternoon.’ Laughter. ‘But that’s radio. And sure it helps the impeachment effort. Right kind of mood music, no doubt. But it can’t be a strategy for the Movement.’
A few hands rose, but Nylind moved to wrap things up. He wanted to talk about the chairmanship of the Federal Reserve, sensing a vulnerability in Baker’s nomination.
Franklin looked at Cindy and signalled that they should leave.
In the cab back, he stared out of the window, eyeing the blue sky and the wisps of cloud. He wanted to ask the driver to turn off the god-awful foreign music he was playing – sounded Arab or something – but Cindy held him back. The last thing they needed was some row about racial insensitivity.
‘You know what I’m thinking, Cindy?’
‘What’s that, Senator?’
‘I’m thinking that it’s interesting that the Democrats down there in N’Awlins are closing ranks like this, shutting down the investigation. That means there’s something they don’t want the likes of you and me finding out. Like my mammy used to say, if you see a woman get out a broom, chances are there’s a pile of shit somewhere that needs cleaning up.’
‘Well put, Senator.’
‘It also means that this is the moment of maximum vulnerability for the White House. You know what they say: if you can’t kick a man when he’s down, when can you kick him?’
‘I like the sound of that, sir.’
‘Yup,’ Franklin said, gazing at the succession of grand neoclassical buildings that lined the road to Capitol Hill, as if Washington truly were the new Rome. ‘I think it’s time to put some serious pressure on Baker – and those who work for him.’
26
New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 09.12 CST
‘Good morning, Maggie. You are cordially invited to a funeral.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A funeral!’
‘A funeral? Whose?’
‘Are you all right, Maggie? You seem a bit-’
‘Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.’
Telegraph Tim looked wounded, shooting an involuntary glance across the breakfast room of the Monteleone Hotel at Francesco of Corriere della Serra: had the older man – Italian and experienced – succeeded with the lovely Miss Costello where he had failed?
Maggie read his face and sought to relieve his pain. ‘You know, that headache. Couldn’t sleep.’ The truth was, she had collapsed into bed shortly after two and, shattered by a day that had begun in Washington nearly twenty hours earlier, had slept deeply. ‘So what’s this funeral then?’
As she contemplated the scrambled eggs and cooked tomatoes of the breakfast buffet, Tim excitedly explained the morning’s developments.
Forbes appeared to have left no wife or children or family of any kind that could be tracked down. In most cities, that would be a bleak and lonely state of affairs. But not New Orleans. This city still had the Paupers’ Burial Society, a relic of the antebellum days of plantation owners doing good works. The white-suited tobacco growers may have been slave owners, but there was a little corner of their hearts where resided some good. Tim appeared to be quoting from the story he had already written for the newspaper.
‘They left a pot of money to be spent burying the poor. The fund is still there, still paying out.’
‘But Vic Forbes wasn’t a pauper.’ She had to stop herself saying she had seen his apartment.
‘That’s the beauty of it. It’s not just for the poor. It’s for anyone who dies alone within the city limits of New Orleans. If police can find no next of kin, the Paupers’ Burial Society step in.’
Maggie smiled. ‘Must be a pretty liberal bunch, given the way Forbes wound up.’
‘Apparently they don’t care. Anyway, it wasn’t their decision.’
‘No?’ Maggie said, choosing between grapefruit juice and orange.
‘No,’ said Tim, hovering behind her. He explained that while most cities would have wanted the Forbes episode to fade away as quickly as possible, the mayor and tourist board of New Orleans had, after Katrina, a what-the-hell attitude: they had nothing to lose. They reckon
ed there was a marketing opportunity to be had. With so many journalists in town, why not lay on a show? Prove to the outside world that the city hadn’t drowned, that it was still a place with party in its soul.
An hour later, Tim was bouncing from one foot to the other in his delight. He couldn’t believe his luck. This was what any editor in London wanted from a story out of New Orleans. ‘Liz,’ he said to Maggie, ‘truly, we have been blessed on this one. Sex, death, men in tights – and now this!’
Standing on the kerb, he swept his hand at the procession now getting underway on the street. Leading the way was a trio – clarinet, banjo and tuba – playing what began as a slow, mournful spiritual: ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. Behind them was a larger group, dressed the same way: black trousers and red shirts, bearing trombones, trumpets and saxophones, one man with a snare drum on a strap around his neck. These musicians were not yet playing, but moving in a stately fashion. The walk was slow, not quite a regular march, more a sort of graceful shuffling in time to the music coming from the front. Finally, behind them, came the hearse.
When they got close to the media huddle, a woman with a clipboard – a PR for the tourist board, Maggie guessed – had a quiet word and the march drew to a halt, though the music kept playing.
Now more men, all but one of them black, gathered around the hearse. After a minute of pulling and shoving, they emerged holding the silver casket. There were at least a dozen of them, clutching the rails on both sides of the coffin that served as handles. Why so many, Maggie wondered, used to no more than six pallbearers at any funeral she had been to. A moment later she understood.
The refrain kept playing, but the volume was rising. Instead of the clarinet carrying the tune alone, now there was loud brass support, another trumpet or sax joining every few bars. And, as if lifted by the music, those around the coffin made a sudden, swift move that produced a few gasps among the press pack, all but one of whom were white.
The pallbearers raised the coffin aloft, so that it was high above their heads. But they didn’t hold it still; instead they made it sway. Then they brought it down again, to waist level where, once again, they began shifting it from side to side, as if they were rocking a cradle. Whispering the explanation that had been passed along from the PR girl, a TV reporter standing behind explained to the woman next to him that this was another tradition of the jazz funeral: let the deceased dance one last time.