Ballots and Blood (47 page)

“Including force if necessary.”

The chief of naval operations stepped forward. Healey stepped to the side, happy to share the spotlight with his naval Top Gun. “Each of these aircraft carriers has eighty-five fixed-wing aircraft, including the F-18 Super Hornets and the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter wings. Each guided missile destroyer in the carrier group can launch five guided missiles at a target.” He bobbed his chin for emphasis. “We will have sufficient firepower to carry out whatever military or other objectives we are given by the president and Secretary Healey. Of that I am totally and completely confident.” The reporters scribbled furiously.

“How soon will the aircraft carriers be in the Gulf?” asked the
Wall Street Journal.

Healey stepped back to the microphone. “They're traveling a relatively short distance, from the Arabian Sea and the Med,” he replied. “Two days at the most. The training maneuvers will take place this week.”

“How long will they stay?”

“As long as the situation requires it,” said Healey, stone-faced.

Within minutes the press reported the USS
Harry S. Truman
and USS
Ronald Reagan
were steaming to the Gulf, armed to the teeth, ready to use force against Iran to keep the Strait of Hormuz open. Cable news networks had a field day, displaying maps of the region (with Iran highlighted in blood red) and showing stock footage of navy fighters catapulting off carrier decks. The usual retired generals and admirals did a bum's rush to television sets to predict the outcome of a conflict as war clouds threatened. Political commentators, meanwhile, wondered what the impact of Long's October surprise would have on the elections, now only twelve days out. Democrats smelled politics. But they were helpless to do anything about it.

DON JEFFERSON'S CAMPAIGN BLAST E-MAILED his resignation letter to the media shortly after noon. His advisors batted around the idea of a news conference but ultimately decided not to subject their candidate to hostile questions. Better to let the letter speak for itself.

“Dear Governor Birch,” the letter began officiously. “It has been my great privilege and honor to represent the people of Florida's Fifteenth Congressional District for six terms in the House of Representatives. Over these years I have worked to rein in out-of-control federal spending, reduce taxes on small businesses, grow our economy and create jobs, and ensure a national defense posture second to none.” Shifting gears, the brief letter offered an apologia of Jefferson's decision to leave the House. “Because of the rigorous demands of a statewide campaign for U.S. Senate, I am no longer able to devote my energies to my few remaining congressional duties and believe it is best to pass the baton to my successor. In order to give Florida the advantage of seniority in the next Congress, I hereby resign from the House of Representatives, effective at noon tomorrow. I respectfully ask that you fill this vacancy by appointing the person chosen by the voters of the Fifteenth District to represent them in Washington.”

The looming ethics charges were conspicuous by their absence in the statement and news release. When a reporter for the
St. Petersburg Times
, perturbed at being robbed of the chance to interrogate Jefferson at a news conference, asked if the Ethics Committee's pending charges played any role in his resignation, a Jefferson spokesman said without hint of irony, “For Congressman Jefferson, this had nothing to do with politics. This was about giving the people of Florida an effective voice in Congress by ensuring his successor has the greatest seniority of any new member elected this year.”

Newspaper editorials rained down on Jefferson, demanding either he or the Ethics Committee release its findings before the voters went to the polls. Such goo-goo protestations were all for naught. The Ethics Committee had no authority over Jefferson as a former member, but the voters still did. How they would react was anyone's guess.

KATE COVITZ SAT IN THE conference room of the
Los Angeles Times
wearing a pensive expression on her face. The room was filled to overflowing with editors and reporters who crowded around the table and sat in chairs lining the wall. Covitz had an entourage as well: her long-time personal attorney, tax accountant, press secretary, and campaign manager. The stakes were high. With ten days left before the election, the largest newspaper in the state had yet to issue an endorsement in the Senate race. A tape recorder lay in the middle of the table, and Covitz occasionally eyed it as if it were ticking bomb. The editors announced their intention to post the entire audiotape and transcript on the
LA Times
Web site.

“Let me start at the beginning,” said Covitz. She spoke haltingly and slowly, as though trying to avoid making a mistake. “When my husband started working as a developer twenty-five years ago, I helped with the books. I was treasurer of the company. Over time, as his business grew, it became more than I could handle, with the children, managing the house, and my other responsibilities. When I was elected to Congress, I backed out of the picture even more. But I continued to sign documents when asked.”

“So even though you remained legally an officer—”

“Allow me to finish, if I may, and I promise I'll take questions for as long as you want,” said Covitz firmly. “When I signed the various trust documents, I was told by the attorneys it was for purposes of estate planning. I had no knowledge tax avoidance was a factor beyond the obvious, which was to establish nontaxable trusts for our children and grandchildren. That was my only role in the trusts. I had no involvement in my husband's other businesses for the past fifteen years, and I was surprised when I learned of their financial condition. With that I'm happy to take any questions.”

“So you were not aware the trusts were designed to evade income taxes?” asked a reporter at the end of the table.

“No. Estate taxes, yes, as allowed by federal law. I did not know my husband's attorneys were using those same trusts to avoid income taxes,” said Covitz. “I did what any other person would do under similar circumstances. We hired lawyers and accountants and I told them to err on the side of making sure I paid my fair share of taxes. Period.”

“How do you respond to critics who ask how you can make tax policy for the taxpayers of California and the nation if you were ignorant of your own personal taxes for so long?” asked one of the editors.

Covitz visibly flinched. “I would say there are many spouses in California who sign tax returns and rely on their accountants to make sure they are fully complying with the law.”

“But the IRS and SEC both say you didn't comply with the law.”

“That is a legal matter between the trusts and the IRS,” said Covitz. “I have instructed my attorneys to make every effort to settle this matter as expeditiously as possible and pay every dime we owe under the law.”

The editor arched his eyebrows. Faces fell in shock. “You mean you're prepared to pay $40 million in back taxes and penalties?”

Covitz's attorney jumped in. “The senator has inherited this situation as the sole beneficiary of her husband's estate. I can't get into a specific dollar amounts, but we are making every effort to reach a settlement. Without speaking for the IRS, let me just say they are open to reaching an amicable and mutually acceptable arrangement.” He smiled tightly.

“Do you feel betrayed by your husband?” asked a smart-aleck reporter with a disheveled look and brillo-pad hair. Covitz knew him as one of her tormentors at the paper.

“No, not at all. We had a wonderful life together. Frank was a loving husband and father. He was in an impossible real estate market and tried desperately to turn it around,” said Covitz, keeping her game face on. “When he couldn't, he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure and did not feel he could go on. I do not feel he let me down, but I wish he had confided in me, and I will always wonder why he didn't.”

Covitz answered questions for nearly two hours, occasionally helped by her attorney or the accountant. It was a virtuoso if slightly stilted performance, showing grace under pressure and toughness. When the grueling session was over, once they were safely out of earshot in the parking garage, Covitz turned to her press secretary.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

“I think it begins the process of putting it behind us. The editorial page editor told me after today they'll likely either endorse you or stay neutral. They can't stand Hughes.”

“Do you think hating Hughes will be enough?” asked Covitz.

“It better be. It's going to have to be.”

They piled into a black Chevy Suburban and headed out of the parking garage, turning right on Sepulveda and heading for the next stop, a speech to college Democrats at Occidental College. Covitz yearned for the
Times'
endorsement. If she didn't get it, she wasn't sure she would win.

KERRY CARTWRIGHT LUMBERED FROM HIS pew and walked up the steps to the pulpit of the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Newark, a portrait of political humble pie. The pastor, Bishop Eugene Sheets III, a cherub-faced man with blindingly white teeth, was a fierce advocate of education reform and school choice who battled the teachers unions and Democrats in Trenton for years. Now he was doing what he could to help Cartwright in the African-American community. He put his arm around Cartwright's ample waist and pulled him close in a hug of great symbolism.

“Our guv-a-nah doesn't just talk the talk; he walks the walk,” said Sheets, his brow glistening with sweat. He picked up a folded white handkerchief from the pulpit and wiped his brow. “We thank Ga-awd for him!”

“Amen,” the congregation replied in unison.

“He has been there for our community through thick and thin,” Sheets exclaimed. “He offers a hand up, not a hand out.”

“Hallelujah!”

“Those who tried to keep black folk down used to stand in the schoolhouse door to keep us out,” shouted Sheets, his voice rising to a raspy shriek. “Well, we got in. But today they stand in the doorway of crime-ridden, drug-infested, gang-plagued school houses where children can't read and write and try to keep us in!”

“Preach it!”

“We're tired of second-class citizenship. We're tired of the wealthy folk in the rich suburbs sending their children to the good schools while other young people—and let's tell the truth, Hispanic and black children—are left behind. We're tired of the powerful special interests taking precedence over the most precious resource in our community . . . our children!”

“Amen!”

Sheets dropped his voice to a whisper. “Governor Cartwright is our brother. He is my friend, he is your friend, and I believe by God's grace, he is going to be the next United States Senator from New Jersey. Give him a warm Ebeneezer Baptist welcome.”

Cartwright held a microphone in his hand and bowed his head modestly as the entire congregation stood to its feet and applauded. After everyone took their seats, he cracked, “I have nothing further to add, pastor.” Everyone laughed.

“As I see it, education is the ultimate civil rights issue,” said Cartwright, his standard talking point when addressing minority audiences.

“Amen!”

“If our children can't read and write, then they can't get a good-paying job, and without a good job and economic empowerment, what good is the vote?” The approving murmurs of the crowd lapped over him like waves of affirmation. “The reason you want the vote is to be able to get better schools, good jobs, and opportunity!”

“Hallelujah!”

Cartwright gripped the pulpit with his free hand as though steadying himself. “This isn't about white or black, Republican or Democrat, rich or poor, liberal or conservative,” he said, now on a roll. “It's about right and wrong. It's
wrong
to force children in New Jersey to stay in a school that is not safe and where they cannot learn.” The crowd broke into loud applause. “If you send me to Washington, I'll deliver that message to the nation's capital and every corner of this nation.” He held his hand in the air as though delivering a benediction. “May God bless you and the great state of New Jersey.”

Bishop Sheets jumped from his thronelike chair on the stage and wrapped Cartwright in a manly hug, his sweaty face leaving a smear of perspiration on his cheek. He then grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close, whispering something in his ear. Cartwright laughed and waved once more to the crowd, bounding down from the stage in a jog and heading for the exit, shaking hands on either side as he walked up the center aisle.

A New Jersey state trooper stood at attention in the parking lot, holding the rear door open. Cartwright removed his coat and slid in. Bill Spadea, his political strategist, joined him the back.

“That guy's a stud,” said Cartwright to no one in particular.

“Big time,” said Spadea. “I don't think we'll get a lot of votes out of Newark, but all we have to do is hold down Sal's vote. Every vote we get out of here comes right out of Stanley's hide.” He flashed a wicked smile. “And this is playing major head games with Sal.”

“I hear you, Kemo Sabe.” Shifting subjects, Cartwright asked: “We gave Sheets a grant, right?”

“Absotively. Thirty-five grand from the Department of Faith-Based and Community Affairs.”

“What was it for?”

“He's got an after-school program for latchkey kids. It's won some national awards. Clean as a whistle, boss.”

“Good. And what about the other money? We took care of him, didn't we?”

“One of our donors gave a hundred grand to Children First, his school choice group. He earmarked 50K of that for the ground game. But you don't know anything about that.”

Cartwright chuckled. “Is a 50 percent commission the going rate?”

“Whatever works, right?”