Ballots and Blood (16 page)

“Alright,” replied Greenglass. “Without acknowledging Qatani is in custody, say our agents act consistent with established protocols governing the interrogation of enemy combatants and abide by all relevant statutes. Anything beyond that, refer them to DOJ.”

Lisa nodded, not entirely convinced, jotting notes on her pad.

“What else?” asked Hector, picking up his Rolex and putting it back on his wrist.

“There's a story in the
New York Post
claiming POTUS met with Kerry Cartwright to recruit him to run against Sal Stanley,” said Jay in a flat montone.

“I believe the headline is, ‘Grudge Match,'” said Lisa, her lip curling in a sardonic grin.

“Something like that. Anyway, if anyone gets asked about it, the ticktock is Cartwright came by to meet with the intergovernmental affairs folks about law-enforcement grants, the usual drill,” said Jay. “David and I met with him. He briefly met with the president in the Oval Office. No agenda. It was a courtesy call.”

“There are a lot of courtesy calls with potential U.S. Senate candidates these days,” joked Hector.

“Purely coincidental,” said David Thomas.

Jay's eyes twinkled. “David is the Sergeant Schultz of the West Wing. He sees nothing . . .
nothing.
”

“How did the
Post
find out about it?” asked Lisa.

Thomas shrugged. “People talk.”

“Anyway,” Jay continued. “Cartwright is coasting to reelection, which is in two weeks. We suspect Stanley's people leaked this to ding him. We need to deny we tried to recruit him—which we did not—while leaving him running room if he does decide to go.”

Hector lowered his chin, staring down the table with mock disapproval. “Jaaaay,” he said. “Are you causing problems again?”

“Just doin' my job, Charlie.”

“That's what worries me.” Hector rose from his chair. “Alright, meeting adjourned.”

Everyone gathered up their pads and memos and headed for the door. When Jay reached the threshold, the president's assistant was waiting.

“Jay, the president wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” She also corralled Phil Battaglia and the two headed down the hall, shoulders brushing against each other, toward the Oval Office. Jay wondered:
POTUS wants to see me and his counsel . . . together? Something must be up.
Battaglia opened the peephole to make sure the president was alone, rapped on the door twice, and walked in, Jay trailing behind.

Long sat at the HMS
Resolute
desk, reading glasses on the end of his nose, eyes scanning some papers. When he saw them, he turned his head and snapped off his glasses. “Hey, guys. I needed to see my legal eagle and my one-man brain trust.” He motioned for them to sit down in the chairs on either side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

They both obliged, bathing in the warm glow of presidential attention but also questioning the import and purpose of the impromptu meeting.

The president's face turned serious. Jay noticed his face seemed grayer, the lines in his forehead deeper, his eyes tired. “I need to tell you both about something that cannot leave this room under any circumstances. Those are the ground rules.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” said Phil.

“You know that dominatrix service Perry Miller patronized?” asked Long.

“Sure,” said Jay, startled by the question.

“Well, brace yourselves,” said Long, leaning forward across the desk. “Our own Johnny Whitehead was a client, too.”

Battaglia went white. Jay felt he had been hit in the chest by a cannonball. It took a moment before he could breathe. Long read their shocked facial expressions.

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “Johnny's the last guy on earth I would have guessed was involved in something like this. I mean, the guy's a Boy Scout.”

Battaglia recovered sufficiently to get his brain and mouth working. “We've got two tracks to deal with here,” he said, synapses firing. “The first is the criminal track. The woman who operated the dominatrix service is going to be charged—no way around it, not with a dead U.S. senator in her basement. She either cops a plea and gives up her clients or keeps her mouth shut. My guess is the former. Hopefully the statute of limitations has passed and the vice president isn't charged. The second track—”

“Let me stop you there,” interrupted Long. “Any chance Johnny's name doesn't come out? It was five years ago. Maybe they didn't keep records that long.”

“Mr. President, this is the FBI we're talking about,” said Phil. “It's going to come out.”

“Yeah, you're right.”

“The second track is political. Can he survive? This isn't going to be a one- or two-day story. It's a mushroom cloud.”

The president turned to Jay. “What do you think, Jay?” Long asked. “Can Johnny survive it?”

“Depends,” said Jay. “If it's an isolated incident, perhaps. If this Amber Abica chick turns up on
60 Minutes
describing Johnny's leather fetish, he's done. We just can't have that. He'd probably have to announce he wasn't running again. If it gets bad enough, he might have to resign.”

The president flinched. He was visibly uncomfortable at the suggestion he might have to throw Whitehead under the bus.

“Johnny's a valued member of my team,” Long said firmly, eyes narrowing, jutting out his jaw. “I know they say if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog. But he's my friend and colleague. Besides, I'm a Christian, and I think if someone has repented and been forgiven by the good Lord, who am I to judge? Mercy begets mercy.”

Jay was intrigued by Long's response, even moved. He wished he had whatever faith led Long to be so forgiving. But as far as he was concerned, Long could not make a decision based on Christian compassion when the situation called for cold-eyed politics.

“Sir, you're not Johnny's pastor; you're the president,” said Jay. “There's a difference between being forgiven and being effective. This is going to be extremely damaging, and especially given your profile with the faith community, we have to preserve your brand.” He gestured with his hands for emphasis. “Look, we're going to have a tough reelect. The Republicans are not gonna choose a pro-choice nominee again. They saw how that turned out, and they've learned their lesson. The Democrats won't be hobbled by a scandal. We've got no margin for error.” He paused. “Something like this is more than the system can bear.”

Long looked sad. “I hear you. But I don't want to tell Johnny to fall on his sword.” He looked plaintively at Battaglia, eyes searching. “Phil, can you talk to him?”

Battaglia recoiled. “Mr. President, I think that should be Charlie or Jay. I'm conflicted here because I'm interfacing with the FBI and DOJ on the Miller investigation.”

Long nodded. “I don't think Jay should do it. Bad optics.”

“Charlie's better,” said Jay. “But I'll do it if you need me to.”

Long shook his head in sadness. “This is just
brutal
, isn't it?”

“Unbelievable,” said Jay. “But it is what it is. Mr. President, if we don't get in front of this story and take control of it, it will spin out of control.”

“Alright,” said Long, sighing. “I'll ask Charlie to talk to Johnny. Maybe he'll decide to announce he's not planning on running again. He's getting up there. He can blame his health and age. Then, if and when this hits, it's anticlimactic.”

“That's the best outcome for everyone, Johnny included,” said Jay.

“Charlie should have come to the meeting. Then he wouldn't have drawn the short straw,” joked Long.

“That's why I never miss a meeting,” volleyed Battaglia.

Long chuckled morbidly, standing up. “I ought to make you do it, Jay. You're the one who recommended him in the first place.”

“It helped get you elected, sir. Johnny helped us carry Kentucky and West Virginia, just like I predicted.”

“Yeah, it worked for a while, didn't it?” Long turned to Battaglia. “Phil, why didn't we turn this up in the vetting process?” It was a veiled shot; as the campaign's chief counsel, Battaglia handled the vetting of vice-presidential candidates.

Battaglia's face flushed. “I don't know. I'd have to go back and look at it. I know he was asked if he had any girlfriends or had an affair.”

“Well, I guess he didn't consider a dominatrix to be a girlfriend,” said Long. The president stood up, heading toward the door and the living quarters. “I think we've got a plan. Let's hope it doesn't break before we get our ducks in a row. You guys get on it.”

Jay and Phil turned to leave. Jay acknowledged the president's assistant with a wink and a wave as he departed. But outward signs of ease disguised an inner turmoil. He felt physically ill. He could not believe they were going to have to shoot Johnny Whitehead in the back of the head. His mind raced with another question: who could they find on short notice to take his place as veep?

13

C
ongressman Don Jefferson walked briskly into the conference center at The Villages, the retirement community outside Orlando that was a veritable honeypot of votes and campaign contributions for GOP statewide candidates. The parking lot was packed with golf carts, the favored mode of transportation inside The Villages—it looked like a good crowd, which put a spring in Jefferson's step. A body man opened the door, the soggy 90-degree humidity giving way to the frigid air and Ethan Allen furnishings of the lobby. Jefferson was scheduled to address the monthly meeting of the Conservative Republican Women's Club, a breakaway from the state Republican women's federation, which these true believers considered too moderate and an apparatchik of the party establishment.

A short, energetic woman with a deep tan and a gray pageboy haircut approached in lime-green slacks and a white cotton blouse. “Don! Don!” she shouted, waving frantically.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I'm the president of the club.” She smiled brightly, her dentures sparkling in the bright light. “Welcome! We're so excited you're here.”

“Well, I'm glad to be here,” said Jefferson in his best aw-shucks baritone. His blue suit was a half size too large and slightly wrinkled from the campaign trail. His coat had an American flag lapel pin prominently displayed. “Thanks for having me.”

A clutch of women approached like bees buzzing around a daffodil, fairly trembling with excitement. “It's him!” one of them whispered to her friends.

“He's more handsome in person,” said another.

“Don, I've already got your bumper sticker on my golf cart,” said a third. (No one called him “Congressman.” He was their friend and no titles were required.) She smiled proudly.

Jefferson laughed. “Well, I'm honored, but I haven't announced if I'm going to run or not!” he faux protested. “I don't even have a bumper sticker yet.”

“Yes you do!” she replied. She pulled a batch out of her purse and waved them. “See? I had them printed myself?”

“Oooooh! I want one!”

“Me too!”

A woman with a bubble of hair dyed fire-truck red mixed with tangerine approached. “Don, can I get a picture?” she asked.

“Why, of course,” said Jefferson. “Be happy to.”

The woman handed her camera to her husband. Jefferson buttoned his coat and plastered on a smile. He felt the woman's hand wrap around his torso, her left side pressed against his rib cage. “Be sure to get my good side,” she joked to her husband as he snapped the picture, the flash lighting up the room. “I'll put that on my Facebook page!”

A spontaneous click line formed, with women brandishing cameras, cell phones, and BlackBerries to get a photo with the man of the hour. Jefferson dutifully stood there, his body man grabbing business cards, notes, and pamphlets from those who wanted to get involved in the as-yet-unannounced campaign. After about ten minutes, the event's organizer approached.

“Don, we have to get started. Follow me,” she said. They walked to a head table together as the crowed worked their way to their tables. “This is the biggest crowd we've had since Bob Long came here for one of his final appearances of the presidential campaign,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “We usually have two hundred people for our monthly meeting. Today, because you're here, we'll have almost 850.” She paused for dramatic effect. “They don't just want you to run; they're
demanding
you run.”

Jefferson's eyes grew wide.

After a prayer from a local pastor, the pledge, and the national anthem, the meal was served. As they worked their way through a plate of rubber chicken and cold yellow rice, various local elected officials and party activists approached the head table to greet Jefferson, some of them handing him business cards or getting photos. Whenever they handed him something, Jefferson passed it to the body man, who stood to the side, a look of bemused anonymity etched on his face.

After a former state representative and failed state senate candidate offered to host a fund-raiser, Jefferson leaned over to the club president.

“If I decide to run, should I get her involved?” he asked.

The woman pursed her lips. “She's a sweet lady who means well, and I would certainly get her involved, but between us, she can't organize a two-car parade.”

“Got it,” said Jefferson, smiling.

“Ready?” she asked.

“You bet. Let's get the show on the road.”

The club president walked to the podium, beaming. Table conversations petered out as the room fell silent. The crowd crackled with anticipation.

“Well, this is the moment we've been waiting for,” she said with brio.

“Here, here!” someone shouted.

“It is my great pleasure and a tremendous honor to introduce a man who truly needs no introduction to this audience. He was recently rated by the
National Journal
as the third most conservative member of the House of Representatives in the entire country.” The room broke into applause as Jefferson smiled. “How did you only come in third, Don? What are you doing wrong?” she joked to gales of laughter. “As chairman of the Republican Study Committee, he helps to set the agenda for the Republican majority in Congress. A member of the Budget Committee, he has fought for lower taxes and balanced budgets. He is a man who believes in the Reagan philosophy of limited government and a national defense second to none.” She paused, glancing down at Jefferson. “And he's good looking, which never hurts, does it, ladies?” Jefferson blushed as the women tittered. “He's long been talked about for higher leadership in the House. But if what I read in the papers is accurate, you just may be able to vote for him for U.S. Senate next year!”