A Just Cause (27 page)

Next, Ellis reminded the senate of the tollway shakedown. In contemptuous tones that betrayed his indignation, he explained how the governor had announced a package of improvement contracts for the Illinois Tollway Authority that was contingent upon the contractors making campaign contributions. Ellis used the governor's own words from the criminal complaint:
“I could have made a larger announcement, but I wanted to see how they performed by the end of the year. If they don't perform, ‘F' 'em” (560–61).

The house prosecutor moved on to the governor's scheme to extort money from an executive at Balmoral Park horse-racing track, coercing him to pay a contribution if the governor signed a bill favorable to the horse-racing industry before the end of the year. Blagojevich's former chief of staff, Lon Monk, was the lobbyist for the racetrack, and the governor used this connection to coerce Balmoral Park into raising cash in exchange for signing the bill. This charge was vividly presented to the senate, accompanied by the released government audiotapes (561–63).

During his closing arguments, Ellis again employed the recordings to supplement his narrative interpretation. Hearing the tapes along with the prosecutor's presentation of the evidence had a profound impact on the senators. Even though they had heard the tapes twice before, the senate chamber grew silent. One more time, Ellis set the scene for each of the four recordings. He emphasize that Blagojevich knew exactly what was going on. Monk and Johnston were in Springfield working to pass the bill. Ellis's choice of words in explaining the conversations to the senate served the prosecution's purpose: to divulge the governor's intent. He reminded the senators, “The Governor is saying John Johnston doesn't want to pay the contribution until he's sure the bill is actually going to reach the Governor's desk” (564), using “pay” instead of saying “make the contribution.” Ellis's technique of using the recordings of the governor's voice and then interpreting what had been heard left little doubt as to Blagojevich's culpability. The senators and those in the galleries sat in silence.

In a rapid, staccato delivery, Ellis recounted numerous other pay-to-play schemes and was keen to associate Blagojevich with convicted felons. Ali Ata admitted in federal court that he had paid for a position with the Illinois Finance Authority (IFA) and that he was told to report to the now convicted Tony Rezko. Mercy Hospital received a permit for expansion only after it gave a contribution to the governor.
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Joe Cari admitted that he told companies wishing to do business in Illinois that they needed to hire certain consultants that the governor and his administration had chosen (578–80).

Turning to Blagojevich's record of mismanagement and maladministration, Ellis reminded the senate of the role of the legislative branch regarding the separation of power. Again in rapid-fire oratorical style, his voice rising, Ellis summarized the litany of charges: The governor disregarded the
verdict of the Joint Committee on Administrative Rules (JCAR) on four different occasions and instructed the Illinois Department of Healthcare and Family Services (HFS) to implement the FamilyCare program in spite of JCAR's objections. To secure jobs for selected people, often unqualified, the governor's Office of Intergovernmental Affairs directed the Illinois Department of Employment Security to manipulate job descriptions, avoid veterans' hiring preferences, and tell employees to falsify their job applications. The executive inspector general investigated and determined that the governor's office was behind these actions, which demonstrated “a complete and utter contempt for the law.” The governor used the legislature's so-called efficiency initiatives to “subvert the appropriations process” and merely move funds from one agency to another, resulting in contracts to favored consultants, including one contract granted to a company that did not exist at the time. Blagojevich violated federal and state law by directing the purchase of flu vaccines from a foreign country, despite knowing that such a purchase was illegal and that the vaccines were not needed. The I-SaveRx program was “more of the same.” Although the FDA told the governor—twice—that importing drugs from a foreign country was illegal, he proceeded anyway, apparently looking for “splashy press releases.” Finally, Blagojevich told the Chicago Cubs baseball organization, which was seeking IFA funds, that “they better get that project done by the January meeting of the IFA” because he was “contemplating leaving office in early January 2009” (580–84).
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To some aspiring governors sitting in the senate, those words were especially poignant.

The house prosecutor had summarized the evidence and made his case. His argument was well organized, succinct, and compelling. The recordings of the governor's voice still resonated in the senate chamber, and his culpability seemed evident to all. Now Ellis summarized the impeachment process and the governor's reaction to it. Even though Blagojevich had chosen not to participate and had instead referred to the trial as a “kangaroo court” and a “sham,” claiming that “the fix is in,” Ellis reminded the senate that the proceedings had been beyond reproach. He said that their actions and the actions of the house did not warrant any of the accusations leveled by Blagojevich. The senate had questioned the witnesses presented by the prosecution and had deliberated fairly. The evidence presented was overwhelming and unquestionably exhibited a pattern of abuse of power. He again interjected the names of Ali Ata and Joe Cari and their admitted corrupt activities with the Health Facilities Planning Board. Ellis ended his
closing argument by declaring, “The people of this state deserve so much better. The Governor should be removed from office” (586–88).

As Ellis left the podium, the senate chamber remained hushed. The proceedings had reached the final stage, and all eyes focused on the door behind the senate rostrum. Everyone waited anxiously for the governor to appear. Following the procedure established by the senate parliamentarian, the chief justice asked, “Is the governor present?” Fitzgerald then informed the senate that he was advised that the governor was in the building and would arrive shortly. He told the senators to stay close to the chamber and to stand at ease. The chamber gave a collective sigh of relief as the senate disengaged from the spectacle before them. Some senators spoke quietly with each other, while the galleries remained silent.

John Cullerton instructed Andy Manar to find the governor and bring him to the senate floor. Madiar, Manar, and Cullerton had discussed just how to summon the governor. Andy Manar had worked with the governor on budget matters during the last session, and all three felt that Blagojevich would be more comfortable with someone he knew. As Manar left the senate floor, the pressure of working seven days a week for the last two months began to take its toll. He was anxious. Both Manar and Madiar had officially been in their jobs less than a month, but during the preceding two months, working through the Christmas and New Year holidays, they had organized the senate with new people and new committee assignments, directed swearing-in ceremonies, and prepared for the unprecedented event of a senate trial to remove the governor. The trial was being covered by national and international press, and both men felt that the world was watching. Madiar and Manar even synchronized their watches to the senate clock to ensure that the proceedings progressed in a timely fashion. Still concerned about the governor's antics—“How do you outthink crazy?”—Madiar spoke with the senate sergeant at arms, Claricel “Joe” Dominguez Jr., and asked the eight-year veteran of the US Marine Corps to stay close to the governor. Madiar and Manar were painfully aware that this had to go right.
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The governor had to come to the senate floor, but Manar was not convinced that Blagojevich would appear. Earlier that morning Manar had checked with the Illinois Department of Transportation to verify that the governor's plane had left Chicago for Springfield and that Blagojevich was on it. Now he had to find the governor. He left the senate floor and entered the hallway behind the senate chamber. The security staff had cleared the hallway, and the press was restricted to the senate galleries and a small
roped-off area at the hallway's east end. Security staff had also closed the elevators, so Manar made his way past the press to the steel stairwell and walked down one floor to the governor's office on the capitol's second floor. He entered the backdoor of the governor's suite, where he was met with a strange silence. The office was empty—no staff and no security. Andy Manar was familiar with the governor's office; as the former policy and budget director, he had been in the office many times. He passed through several rooms and the conference room. “No one, not a single person was there,” he later recalled. He went to a reception area outside the governor's office and noticed a man he did not recognize. When the person asked what he wanted, Manar said he had come to get the governor and escort him upstairs. He was told to wait in the conference room he had just walked by.

In the dark-paneled room the minutes passed, and Manar began checking his watch. Five minutes went by, then ten minutes. Suddenly the governor walked by the conference room. Blagojevich behaved as though there were nothing special about the day. He seemed to be in his usual campaign mode, walking with a spring in his step. He often would enter fund-raising events like a prizefighter enters the ring, with his staffers leading the way, their hands on each other's shoulders, chanting something unrecognizable. Now, on this final day, he seemed to have no appreciation of what was transpiring one floor above. “Hey, Andy, what are you doing here?” he asked. Manar had no time for small talk. “Governor, we need to go upstairs,” he said. Blagojevich looked puzzled. “Why do I have to go upstairs?” he asked. After an awkward moment, Blagojevich seemed to regain himself and acknowledged what was happening. They went into the governor's office, where moments later they were joined by a group of people. Deputy Governor Louanner Peters was among them, but the rest were strangers to Manar. The group began to joke and engage in small talk. Manar was cognizant of the time and the people waiting upstairs. “Governor, it's time to leave,” he said. Rod Blagojevich seemed to acknowledge the moment. He went into the washroom just off the governor's office, and after several minutes the door flew open. The several minutes in the washroom seemed to rejuvenate Blagojevich. If he had been hesitant before, he was running now, toward the back stairs, with his entourage running behind. Andy Manar struggled to catch up.

On the landing before the third floor, he finally caught up with the governor and stopped him. A few feet above, the press waited in the hallway behind the roped-off area. Stopped on a narrow stairway landing, the
small entourage was isolated from the crowd of reporters that waited a few feet away. Their voices were amplified in the cavernous stairwell and resonated between the capitol floors. Manar began telling the governor what to expect when they arrived in the hallway behind the senate. The crush of reporters would be on the left behind a rope, he explained, and they would proceed directly to the senate floor, through the door from the back hallway. He informed Blagojevich that no one else would be allowed on the senate floor. Blagojevich insisted that a woman with the group be allowed to accompany him to the senate floor. “This is personal,” he said. Aware of the time passing, Manar relented after some discussion, even though he did not know who the woman was. Upon reaching the third floor, he discovered that the woman had a press badge. Manar told the governor that no members of the press were allowed on the senate floor and that the woman would not be allowed to accompany him. After further, somewhat intense discussion, the governor finally relented.

Andy Manar and Rod Blagojevich entered the senate hallway and walked quickly past the suddenly animated reporters shouting out questions. The woman and the rest of the entourage proceeded up one more flight of stairs to the senate gallery. From the senate hallway, a small wood-paneled corridor leads into the senate chamber. The corridor has a door to the hallway and, at the opposite end, a door leading to the senate chamber. Manar and Blagojevich entered the corridor, and Manar closed the hallway door behind them. Alone with the governor, Andy Manar was “struck by the strange silence.” The audio system was on, all the senators were in their seats, the galleries were full, but the chamber was deafeningly silent. Blagojevich had stood at the senate rostrum when swearing in the senate a few days before, but now Chief Justice Fitzgerald was at the rostrum, presiding over the impeachment trial. Manar wanted to make sure that the governor knew where to go; he did not want an awkward moment. He explained to Blagojevich, “I'm going to open the door, Governor, and when you walk in, turn to the right and a podium is set up for you to speak from. There's a pencil and paper on the podium for you to use.” With those words, Andy Manar reached for the door to the senate. Before he could open the door, however, the governor reached over and put his hand on Manar's forearm. Looking straight at Manar, Blagojevich said, “Andy, I didn't do anything wrong.” “Governor, you don't have to convince me,” Manar replied, pointing to himself. “You have to convince those fifty-nine people out there.” He opened the door, and Rod Blagojevich walked onto the senate floor.
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When Chief Justice Fitzgerald noticed the governor, he called for the sergeant at arms, Joe Dominguez, to escort the governor into the chamber. Fitzgerald welcomed the governor and informed him that the podium was the same one used by the house prosecutor and that it would be permissible to move a “step or two away” if he needed to (590). Blagojevich, dressed in a finely tailored dark suit with a solid-colored tie, set his notes on the podium. The governor had not taken part in the preceding days of the senate trial and had chosen not to be represented by counsel, but he had lawyers observing from the senate gallery.
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He had been briefed on the events of the past days and knew what had been said.