Ballots and Blood (51 page)

“Whitehead gives Marvin a statement saying he made an error in judgment, it was years ago, he's reconciled with his wife, he's forgiven, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah,” said Jay.

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

Lisa gulped. “So . . . does Whitehead stay on the ticket?”

“That's above my pay grade,” said Jay. “Just freeze Marvin for a few hours. We can deal with the fallout later. If we're lucky, it's a speed bump, and we can get through it.”

Lisa rose from her chair, slightly dazed, and headed down the hall to the vice president's West Wing office. She thought Jay was delusional. This wasn't a speed bump; it was a multi-car crash. She wasn't looking forward to facing Whitehead. And if she couldn't persuade Myers to hold his scoop until after the polls closed on the West Coast, Hughes would lose in California and they would lose the Senate in the process.

IT WAS JUST AFTER 8:00 P.M. and Ken Klucowski hunched over a laptop in the count room at the Gaylord Hotel in Orlando staring at the county-by-county vote returns on the secretary of state Web site. Klukowski was worried. Jefferson was holding his own along the vote-rich I-4 corridor, but his margin in the panhandle counties was not what he hoped for. If Lightfoot swamped them in Birch's home turf of Pinellas and Hillsborough Counties (Tampa and St. Petersburg), along with her expected lopsided victories in Dade and Broward, they would lose in a cliffhanger.

Jefferson was climbing the walls, calling his cell phone constantly. Klukowski ignored his calls. The truth was he didn't have anything to tell him.

One of the propeller-heads on the campaign bounded over, studying his BlackBerry like a talisman.

“What?” barked Klukowski.

“I've got some potentially good news,” said the staffer.

“I need some. Feed me.”

“You know how we're up only 942 votes up in Bay County?”

“Yeah. That can't be right.”

“It's not. I just found out that total doesn't include early votes or absentees.”

“Now we're on to something. What do those look like?” asked Klukowski.

“According to our county chair up there, we won 62 percent of the early vote. But all the votes cast before Friday for Lightfoot were thrown out. So apparently it's going to be closer to 75 percent.” The staffer's eyes widened. “We're talking four thousand more total votes.”

“Good. We're going to need them.” Klukowski's cell phone rang again. It was Jefferson. Klukowski decided to answer it. “Hello, Congressman,” he said abruptly.

“What's going on?” asked Jefferson. “The numbers on the television don't look good.”

“They're going off AP,” said Klukowski. “We're looking directly at the secretary of state's Web site.”

“What does it look like?”

“It's going to be close. It'll be a long night. The good news is they haven't accounted for all the early Lightfoot votes that are going to be thrown out.”

“What do you think?” pressed Jefferson.

“We've got a shot. If Marie hadn't gotten in, it was over. But now we're in a fight.”

“I assume you've got the lawyers on full alert?”

“Are you kidding?” said Klukowski, laughing. “I've got attorneys pre-positioned in every county in the state. We're ready to file injunctions tonight in federal court if it comes to that.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

Klukowski fixed his gaze on the laptop screen and refreshed the secretary of state Web site. He kept a close eye on Duval County, which was Jacksonville. They had a good ground game there. He hoped it was enough.

THE PRESIDENT WAS IN THE residence on the second floor, monitoring the returns on television as they flowed in from around the country. Claire drifted in and out of the room, occasionally pausing to watch the talking heads. Jay stood in the corner of the room, speaking in hushed tones on his cell phone.

The phone rang in the living quarters. Jay cupped his cell phone with one hand and answered the hard line with the other. It was his assistant.

“I've got Bill Spadea on the phone calling from New Jersey,” she said. “Do you want to take it?”

“Yes. Put him through.”

Spadea came on the line. “Jay, the governor's going to win, and it looks like it won't even be close. It's five points now, but with most of Bergen County still out, we may hit seven. And we're going to pick up the congressional seats in the Sixth and the Eighth Districts, too.”

“That's fantastic, Bill. Congratulations.”

“Who is that?” asked Long, overhearing the conversation.

“Bill Spadea with Cartwright,” Jay whispered. “They're going to win, and they're picking up two House seats.”

Long motioned for the phone. “Bill, I've got someone who wants to talk to you,” said Jay. He handed the phone to the president.

“Bill, you've done a great job,” said Long enthusiastically. “Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Spadea, his knees going weak. The leader of the free world was thanking
him!
“I'm just glad we could deliver one of the two seats we need to gain control of the Senate. It was an honor. Beating Stanley was icing on the cake.”

“It's huge,” said Long, pumped. “You guys did a fantastic job.”

“Is Don Jefferson going to make it?” asked Spadea. He was talking shop with the president of the United States!

“We don't know, but we think so,” said Long. “It's close.”

“I sure hope he hangs on.”

“So do we, but it may go to a recount.” Long handed the phone back to Jay.

“Bill, don't wait for Stanley to concede. Have the governor declare victory,” he instructed. “We need the momentum for Hughes in California and the House seats on the West Coast.”

“Will do,” said Spadea. “I'll get the governor downstairs ASAP.”

Jay hung up the phone and turned to the president. “Well, it took two years, but we got him,” he said matter-of-factly. For Long and Jay, it was sweet revenge. Stanley stole the Democratic presidential nomination from them and was a thorn in Long's side ever since. Now he was finished.

Long seemed conflicted that the end had finally come. “I'll give him this: he was an able adversary. The word
quit
was not in his vocabulary.”

Claire walked into the room just as the networks cut to Kerry Cartwright walking on stage. Red, white, and blue balloons fell from the ceiling, the crowd punching them into the air with their fists as “I've Got a Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas blared from loudspeakers.

“I've got a feeling that tonight's gonna be a good night!” the crowd sang along.

“Did Sal lose already?” asked Claire.

“Yes, ma'am,” said Jay. “He's toast.”

“Serves him right,” said Claire, her voice withering. “He is positively the most evil person I've ever met in my life. Oh, thank
goodness
he lost.”

The phone rang again. Jay answered it. “What?” he asked. “Why?” He paused listening. “I'll call him right now.” He hung up.

“Who was that?” asked Long.

“Lisa,” said Jay, his face white. “She's been trying to get Marvin Myers to hold the story about Johnny until the polls are closed on the West Coast. He says he's got all he needs, and he's going to post it on his Web site in the next ten minutes.”

“Oh, no,” said Claire.

“Call Myers,” said Long. “See if you can stop him.”

“What if he wants to talk to you?” asked Jay. “He's knows I'm with you.”

Long scrunched up his face. “Tell him I'm otherwise occupied.”

“Alright,” said Jay. He stepped into the kitchen, the semidarkness partially illuminated by a fluorescent light over the sink. He dialed Myers's cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Marvin, it's Jay,” he said, barely pausing. “Listen, I know what you've got, but the veep isn't going to have a statement tonight. We're focused on the elections. If you hold off until first thing tomorrow morning, I'll give you Johnny exclusively.”

“I can't do that, Jay,” said Myers, brushing off the offer. “I don't know who else has the documents. I've got the story and I'm posting it. It'll be on my Web site and the
Washington Post
Web site in minutes.”

“Marvin, come on! Give me a few hours,” Jay pleaded, his voice shaking. “After all I've done for you, if you cost us the California Senate seat, you won't get directions to the washroom after tonight. You'll be persona non grata around here.”

“Let me tell you something,” said Myers, his voice dripping like acid. “I've been in this town for forty years.
No one
threatens me . . . not even you. I was here before you got here, Jay, and I'll be here long after you're gone.”

“Good night, Marvin. I'm sorry it's turned out this way.” He hung up and walked back into the den.

“Well?” asked Long. “Any luck?”

“No,” said Jay, beside himself. “He's shafting us.”

Long let out a sigh. “Once this breaks, the late vote will turn against Hughes. Now we really need Jefferson to hang on.”

Jay gazed at the image of a beaming Kerry Cartwright delivering his victory speech, his stomach churning. Florida was hanging by a thread, and once Myers posted his story, the world would turn upside down.
At least we beat Stanley,
he thought.

42

T
he sun rose at 7:12 the day after the election, the dawn stirring a sleep-deprived, confused capital. In California, Kate Covitz rode a wave of sympathy to victory despite legal and financial woes. In Florida Don Jefferson clung to a thirty-four-hundred-vote lead out of more than seven million votes cast, with a recount looming. Meanwhile, as all eyes were on the Senate, the Republicans lost the House by five seats. Finger-pointing in the GOP was rife, most directed at Gerry Jimmerson, who was certain to be ousted as Republican leader.

Most shocking, Johnny Whitehead was outed on election night as a client of Adult Alternatives, the dominatrix service where Perry Miller lost his life. “BAD BOY WHITEHEAD GOT SPANKED!” sneered Merryprankster.com, never known for subtlety. The White House reeled at the revelation.

Jay walked out of the West Wing after pulling an all-nighter and crossed the alley to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. He entered the ornate Indian Treaty room, which was turned into a war room. Folding tables covered with phones and laptops stretched the length of the room. A few staffers stared at computer screens or surfed Web sites. David Thomas presided like a general at Gettysburg, surveying the carnage with dispassionate discipline and cool detachment.

“What's the latest?” asked Jay. “POTUS will want an update.”

“We're buttoning down Florida,” said Thomas, dark circles under his eyes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, giving off the aroma of body odor. “Max Stampanovich has a veritable SWAT team of lawyers. We've got attorneys on the ground in all sixty-seven counties, and they'll be present for the recount. We're flying in reinforcements with experience in recounts this morning on charter jets. They're killers.”

“Any word yet on how Lightfoot plans to play it?”

“She's in the bunker. But our guys think three thousand plus votes will be hard to overcome.”

“If they can steal it, they will,” said Jay.

“No question. We're loaded for bear, legally and politically.”

“Good.” Jay grunted in disgust. “I still can't believe Gerry lost the House. We did our job. We assumed he'd do his. That was a
huge
mistake.”

“Worst run midterm I've ever seen.”

“If it weren't for the pain it will cause us, I'd say good riddance.”

“Total,” agreed Thomas. They stood in silence for a moment. “Too bad about Heidi. I hate that Covitz got away.”

“Me, too,” agreed Jay. “You know what's funny? She probably would have won if Covitz's husband hadn't killed himself.”

“Yeah, it was that blasted sympathy vote,” said Thomas. He stared into space for a moment. “The Whitehead story didn't help.”

“No.”

Jay turned to leave, signaling the meeting was over. “Thanks, guys!” he shouted to pasty-faced aides hunched over their laptops. They waved and smiled wanly. His assistant opened the door. Jay turned back to Thomas. “Make sure Jefferson hangs on,” he said. “Don't let him play nice under any circumstances.”

“Don't worry. He's not in charge anymore, thank goodness. It's in the hands of the lawyers now, and they're junkyard dogs.”

“There are three big losers from last night,” said Jay, ruminating. “The biggest is Stanley. After that, Jimmerson. He'll probably resign. Finally, Mike Birch. He tried to get cute by appointing Lightfoot, and it blew up in his face. I don't even think the guy can run for president now.”

“He's done,” said Thomas. “The question is, who will the Republicans run now?”

“If we're lucky, nobody,” said Jay. With that he was gone.

IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after 9:00 a.m. when Johnny Whitehead strode to the end of the driveway of the vice-presidential residence at the Naval Observatory wearing a blue suit and a blue patterned tie, an American flag pin visible on his lapel. A small podium with the vice- presidential seal affixed to the front was set up with two microphones on top. A press pool awaited consisting of the chief AP White House reporter, two broadcast and cable network reporters, and Dan Dorman with the
Washington Post,
who had by sheer luck made the draw. It was Whitehead's first public comment since Marvin Myers's story broke about his having once been a client of Adult Alternatives.

Whitehead approached the podium and pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. His eyes were tired, his facial expression somber. Cable news and broadcast networks preempted regular programming to cover the event live.