Authors: John Gilstrap
At All Costs (30 page)
Goddamned sad state of affairs is what it was. If Sherman could get his hands around those punks who made the whole world afraid of his hometown, then that just might be the best present anyone had ever given him.
One of the funny things about all this hazardous waste stuff was that no matter how much you rationalized the problem away in your head, and no matter how hard you listened to all those suit-and-tie experts the EPA sent out to tell you just how safe everything was, it was tough not to listen to the rest of the world. When everybody thought of Newark, Arkansas, in the same light as Love Canal or Chernobyl, it was hard to stand up as a resident and say, “No, no. My home is safe!” The instinct was to listen to what the other people had to say. The instinct was to avoid the place like the plague.
Which was why Sherman hated going out there so much. He’d signed on as a cop eighteen years ago to deal with crime and criminals. God knew they could be dangerous; especially on Friday and Saturday nights when the knife and gun clubs got together after an evening of drinking and hollering. But the biggest and the baddest guys he’d ever run into on the street were visible, living creatures. Well, the winners were living, anyway, and the losers didn’t pose a hazard to anybody. Out there at Ground Zero, the worst hazards were invisible.
The suits from the EPA were very clear about that. The chemicals that were spilled out there were mostly odorless and tasteless, and the ones that weren’t were so toxic that by the time you smelled them, you were already poisoned. They’d say this stuff, and then in the next breath, they’d tell Sherman and his neighbors that they were perfectly safe where they remained. How stupid did the government think they were, anyway?
What Sherman wanted to know was how the hell could they be so sure that there was nothing wrong if there was no way to know the hazard was there in the first place? That just didn’t make any sense.
So what did the EPA do to protect the community? They built a damn fence. They start with a hazard that nobody can detect, and then they try to throw a fence around it! Like the germs or the atoms or whatever the hell you called those toxic little monsters were afraid to cross a line drawn in the dirt. Who was kidding who here?
Sherman was no scientist; far from it, and he’d be the first to admit it. But he knew that things that were invisible weren’t going to stop at any fence line. They were going to get picked up by air currents, and they were going to be spread all over hell’s half-acre, poisoning everything and everyone they came in contact with. Unless the government had come up with some special kind of force field that they hadn’t told anybody about, and if they’d done something like that, why wouldn’t they have said?
No, sir, a fence was just a fence, nothing more. It wasn’t designed to keep out anything but people and animals.
Which made him reflect that, after fifteen years of inbreeding, some mighty scrawny, mighty strange-looking deer lived inside those fences. Sherman and his buddies—avid hunters all of them—had talked about that a lot over the years. One of these days, Sherman liked to say, one of them deer was going to talk back to him, and when that happened, he was leaving town for good.
God
damn
he hated this part of the job.
damn
he hated this part of the job.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
Clayton Albricht’s closest staffers had redubbed his office the War Room. The place was bedlam as a dozen people manned fifteen phone lines, all in a united effort to save their boss’s ass.
Everyone agreed early on that staying at home and running damage control from there was exactly the wrong image for the senator to project. Illinois’s ship of state needed to look strong and steady, even as the hull leaked water by the tankerful.
Better late than never, Clayton started his day around two that afternoon. He had smiled politely and waved to the sea of reporters and cameramen as he backed his Oldsmobile out of the garage, but he refused to entertain any questions. “I’m running late,” he mouthed through the glass. Man of the people that he was, the senator drove himself, alone in his car, while his chief of staff, Chris MacDonald, and his press secretary, Julie Baker, sneaked out the back door to drive separately in the cars they’d stashed a block away.
The media motorcade was something to behold. On the drive in to Capitol Hill from his home in McLean, Virginia, Clayton felt genuine concern for the other drivers on the road. The news vans were so intent on photographing his every move that they’d forgotten some of the most basic principles of right-of-way. Entering the Beltway, in fact, an NBC truck very nearly lost a game of chicken to an eighteen-wheeler hauling gasoline. In the interest of public safety, the senator turned on his flashers and slowed to an unnatural fifty-five-miles-per-hour pace, thus allowing the camera crews to get their obligatory shots of him driving to work. He wore his blandest committee-meeting face as he navigated the right-hand lane, and tried not to think about just how much he needed to sneeze. Under this kind of scrutiny, he didn’t feel like providing easy footage for
Saturday Night Live.
Saturday Night Live.
The parking garage under the Russell Senate Office Building proved to be the great equalizer. Security restrictions prohibited the cameramen and reporters from following him to his parking space, so, for a few minutes, he was alone again to collect his thoughts, absorbing the peace of the silent vehicle. This story was barely a day old, and already it was spinning out of control.
Clayton sighed. It was going to be a very trying couple of weeks.
The elevator ride wasn’t nearly long enough to suit him. By the time the polished wooden doors opened onto the marble hallway, the knot of reporters had re-formed, and they followed him all the way to his outer office, where Julie Baker had already arranged to have coffee and snacks brought in as appetizers for the vultures.
Finally, as he reached for the handle to his private office, Clayton turned and faced his pursuers for the first time. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, the softness of his tone forcing everyone else to fall silent, “the stories printed this morning in the
Washington Post
are entirely false. I have my suspicions as to what might have prompted such vicious attacks on me, but until I have more details, I truly have no more to tell you. The moment I have those details, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you very much.”
Washington Post
are entirely false. I have my suspicions as to what might have prompted such vicious attacks on me, but until I have more details, I truly have no more to tell you. The moment I have those details, you’ll be the first to know. Thank you very much.”
The room exploded with questions, but he just turned and disappeared through the door. The center of activity seemed to be the conference room at the end of the inner hallway to his left, so he headed that way. Activity in the War Room ceased as the door opened, and Clayton beckoned with two fingers for Chris MacDonald to follow him. Activity resumed the instant the senator turned his back to the room.
“Good morning, Senator,” Veronica said as Clayton entered her office on his way to his own. Under the circumstances of the day, she seemed far too chipper, but Clayton didn’t mind a bit. Part of her job was to remain optimistic, even when everyone else’s mood was in the sewer.
“Thanks, Ronni.” Clayton accepted the cup of coffee she’d prepared for him, and allowed her to help him off with his car coat. “How are you holding up?”
Veronica made a snarling noise and curled her lip, digging deep furrows into the already wrinkled skin around her mouth. “Those reporters make me so mad,” she fumed. “Sometimes I wish somebody would just blow every newspaper to kingdom come!”
Clayton smiled. “You know, Ronni, I’ve shared that very thought more than once this morning.”
“I’ll buy the explosives,” Chris MacDonald chimed in, filling the doorway on his boss’s heels. At fifty, Chris was the baby of the room; and at six-three, he was the tallest by six inches.
“This is where we really hope that the office isn’t bugged,” Clayton grumped. He led Chris into the inner office and closed the door behind them.
Without invitation—he didn’t need one after all these years—Chris took his assigned seat in the leather chair in front of Clayton’s desk. By now, he swore that the seat bore his buttprint. In the midst of chaos, Chris remained forever unflappable. And as a twenty-five-year veteran of Senator Albricht’s political wars, Chris MacDonald was exactly the right man to have on your side in a crisis. Clayton knew it, and so did Chris.
“Let me have it,” Albricht opened. He knew from his chief of staff’s body language alone that the day had yet to bring its first bit of good news.
Chris opened the leather binder on his lap, exposing a rat’s nest of papers and chicken scratchings. “It’s just getting uglier, sir,” he said evenly. “The distinguished gentleman from Arizona has called for your resignation from the chamber floor.”
“Oh, now
there’s
a surprise,” Clayton scoffed, lowering himself into his high-back leather chair.
there’s
a surprise,” Clayton scoffed, lowering himself into his high-back leather chair.
Chris produced a pair of drugstore-issue half-glasses from his suitcoat pocket and flicked them open with a jerk. He settled the white plastic monstrosities just so on his nose, then read from the transcript. “‘So loathsome are pedophiles to the American people that the mere accusation of such deviancy lessens a legislator’s ability to govern . . .’ ”
“Oh, Christ!” Clayton boomed. “This from a man who’s tried to defile every pretty young thing on the Hill!”
Chris continued without breaking stride. “‘. . . I’d like to believe that for the sake of not only his own reputation but that of this esteemed chamber, the senator from Illinois would have the common decency to step down and save us all the embarrassment of his inevitable fall.’ ” He looked up. “God, how that man does ramble!”
Albricht shook his head. “I don’t suppose he mentioned the billions he’s stolen from the taxpayers just to keep those useless Army bases open in his home state, did he?”
Chris smiled and pretended to search through his stack. “No, I don’t remember seeing anything to that effect.”
A moment of silence passed between them. Typically, Chris ended up being the de facto leader of these thrice-daily briefing sessions, but under today’s circumstances, he felt that the senator should set the agenda.
Finally, Clayton began with a deep sigh. “Anyone from our side of the aisle weighed in yet to help?”
He already knew the answer, and Chris replied only with a look. As the feeding frenzy grew geometrically by the hour, both in size and in ardor, Albricht understood that his colleagues would pull away from him. He already felt it happening. The media had convicted him as the worst type of criminal, and try as they might to retain an open mind, the general public believed what the media told them. Some crimes—or even rumors of some crimes—were simply unforgivable to the average American, and a smart politician would never provide such low-hanging fruit for his political enemies as to be seen within fifty feet of a man who diddles boys.
The more Clayton proclaimed his innocence, the more defensive he looked, and everybody knew that only guilty people were ever defensive.
Good God, Frankel was good. However he’d managed to put this all together, he’d done a masterful job. But there was time. Clayton’s constituents wouldn’t really have to get involved in any of this for another five years. Fortunately, rhetoric alone didn’t seem to do permanent damage anymore—a fact proved every day by the lying sack of shit who currently owned the White House. It was all about the length of a story’s legs. When the media got bored, the public forgot. And there, the president and his friends had the advantage of leading the media’s preferred party. Still, Clayton couldn’t imagine how the story could stay active for another five years. Certainly, his future opponents would dredge it back up, but by then, the voters’ passions would have dimmed.
“I want Frankel’s head,” Clayton announced.
Chris arched his eyebrows high. “You mean, you’re still gonna fight him for the directorship?” Politically, there was only one right answer here, and it involved the consumption of a pound of crow.
The senator scowled and blew a puff of air through his lips. “I’ll hang the son of a bitch with his directorship. The higher he climbs, the bigger the grease spot will be when he hits bottom.”
Chris suppressed a smile. His boss’s colorful imagery was the single attribute that had made the most popular politician in Illinois the most hated man in Washington. “Do I hear a plan brewing here, or are you just dreaming?”
Clayton leaned forward in his chair and planted his elbows on the mirrored mahogany of his desk. “That son of a bitch broke the law and he did it with specific intent of hurting me and my family. For the second time, I might add. I want to find a way to ruin him, Chris, and when I’m done, I want the public clamoring for body parts!”
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
Albricht seemed startled by Chris’s tone. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not suggesting anything illegal. Well, certainly not as illegal as what he tried to pull on me.”
MacDonald scowled and fell silent. As he shifted in his chair, he closed the leather binder. “Senator,” he said carefully, “I know how upsetting all of this is, but you’ve got to remember who exactly we’re dealing with here. This is no minor political rival, sir. This is the FBI. And he’s got the full support of the president of the United States. You’re the one presumed guilty here. If they so much as sense that you’re jiggling the web they’ve worked so hard to spin, they’ll slap you with a felony. The country loves Frankel, and they’ve shown an unending willingness to believe that grass is pink if the president declares it to be so.”
Albricht completed the logic for him. “And everyone outside the Midwest thinks I’m Adolf Hitler.”
Chris shrugged. “Well, you
do
want to kill off all those children and old people.”
do
want to kill off all those children and old people.”
“Don’t start with me.” Clayton’s forefinger threatened, but his wry smile was genuine. “So what do you suggest, Chris? Just sit and do nothing?”
MacDonald shrugged. “Well . . . yes. Politically, I think that’s the best course. If you let it go, Frankel gets his big chair, and all the rest of this just runs its course and dies. In five years, if you still want this thankless job, you’ll still have an even shot with the voters.”
Albricht leaned back again and spun his chair around to face the Capitol. He considered his chief of staff’s advice carefully, then spun slowly back around to face him. “To hell with the political prudence. I’m older than fossil shit as it is. Last time Frankel had me in his sights, I just let him go. I took the politically expedient route, and now the cockroach has come back to infest me again. This time it’s personal, Chris.”
Chris shook his head and closed his eyes. “I won’t do that, Senator, and it’s not appropriate for you to ask. I will not . . .”
“For crying out loud, Chris, will you
relax
? I’m not suggesting that anyone break any laws, okay? I don’t even want to stretch them a little. Just get people working on Frankel’s background. In a perfect world, I’d have accumulated a ton of shit on him and nailed him on the witness stand during the confirmation hearing, but now that’s not going to happen.
C’est la vie.
Frankel’s still got enemies stashed all over the country, though, and I want you and your people to get to know every one of them.”
relax
? I’m not suggesting that anyone break any laws, okay? I don’t even want to stretch them a little. Just get people working on Frankel’s background. In a perfect world, I’d have accumulated a ton of shit on him and nailed him on the witness stand during the confirmation hearing, but now that’s not going to happen.
C’est la vie.
Frankel’s still got enemies stashed all over the country, though, and I want you and your people to get to know every one of them.”
“Under what auspices?”
Albricht shrugged. “I don’t care. Keep it all unofficial. Just find the people who hate him, and take lots and lots of notes. Sooner or later, we’ll have enough to choke him.”
Chris opened the binder again and scribbled a few notes. “And how do you want to fund it?” he said, looking up.
The glare he got in return said,
Give me a break.
Give me a break.
“Gotcha.” Chris stood. “And as for the media?”
Albricht frowned. “Tell Julie to keep ’em well fed.”
His orders clear, Chris MacDonald rose from his formfitting chair and left Albricht’s office, closing the door behind him.
Alone again in the quiet, the senator spun his chair one more time to take in his favorite view. Chris’s worries were all legitimate ones, and bombast aside, Clayton worried about continued retaliation from Frankel. Those pictures that Wiggins alluded to on the telephone scared the hell out of him. God only knew what hideous poses they’d attach his face to.
Much was at stake here. Truth be told, Clayton didn’t give much of a shit anymore about his future in the Senate—he’d had a nice run, after all—but he cared a great deal about how the history books would record his tenure here.
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