Capitol Betrayal (22 page)

“And did the president play any role in this festivity?”

“Well, yes. He opened up the ceremony.”

“Was he on time?”

A stricken expression came across Sarie’s face. She looked as if she had been caught in a trap. Perhaps she had. Swinburne was frighteningly well informed.

“No. He did not appear on schedule.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I’m his chief of staff. A big part of my job is making sure he is where he’s supposed to be. On time. So when he didn’t show up in the Rose Garden, I went to look for him.”

“And did you manage to find him?”

“Eventually. It took a good fifteen minutes.”

“So I will assume, knowing how quickly you move, that he wasn’t in any of the first fifteen or so places you looked for him. Where did you finally find him?”

Sarie pursed her lips. “In the Portrait Hall. Just beyond his secretary’s station outside the Oval Office.”

“And what was he doing there?”

“He was… looking at the pictures.”

“What pictures?”

Sarie took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving. Ben didn’t need a sixth sense to realize this was something she really didn’t want to talk about.

“Each incoming president gets to choose which of the full collection of presidential portraits in the White House gallery they wish to have hanging in the hallway, where they are bound to see them almost every day. Most everyone keeps Washington and Lincoln, but there’s room for more. Clinton chose Jefferson, because he was named for him. Dubya chose his father, an obvious gesture of respect. Reagan chose Coolidge, because… well, no one really knows why he chose Coolidge. Silent Cal had been in the basement so long they weren’t sure they could get all the dust off him.”

Even Swinburne smiled a little. “And whom did President Kyler choose?”

“Kennedy. And FDR.”

“And what was he doing in the gallery with these pictures?”

Sarie looked away. “Well, I don’t know that he was doing anything, exactly…”

“Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said sternly, “you are under oath. Tell the cabinet members what he was doing.”

She sighed. “He was talking to them.”

Beside him, Ben saw the president avert his eyes, toward the floor.

A discernible susurrus flowed through the room. Swinburne appeared incredulous, although Ben suspected he wasn’t even surprised. He must’ve known what he was fishing for. “He was talking to the portraits?”

“Oh, you know how you do when you’re alone and you don’t think anyone is listening. You just start saying your thoughts out loud. It’s no big deal. I remember a deb who talked to the centerpiece at her coming-out party.”

“What exactly was he saying?”

Sarie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “I believe they—I mean he—was talking about… God.”

Swinburne blinked. “God?”

“Sure. I guess you’re probably unfamiliar, but he’s the head deity who created the universe and—”

“I know who God is, Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said, confirming what Ben had long suspected: he had no sense of humor whatsoever. “What was the president saying about God to the inanimate portraits on the wall?”

“He was asking JFK if he believed in God.”

Swinburne nodded several times. “And did he?”

“Objection,” Ben said, without great hope. Mostly he just wanted to break up Swinburne’s maniacal flow. “How are JFK’s religious beliefs relevant to the matter at hand?”

“The point of the testimony,” Swinburne said with a sneer, “is to demonstrate the depth of the president’s delusional mental state.”

Cartwright nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to allow it.”

“So,” Swinburne said to Sarie, “did JFK believe in God?”

“JFK didn’t answer,” she said, smiling. “At least not so as I could hear him.”

“What did the president have to say on the subject?”

“He said he wondered about JFK’s immortal soul. He said that JFK mentioned God from time to time but that he doesn’t seem to have been very religious. He mentioned that JFK didn’t seem to observe at least one of the Ten Commandments.”

“I see.”

“He wondered if JFK had placed his faith in God when his PT boat was sunk. Then he asked FDR if he lost his faith when he contracted polio. And he asked about FDR’s lack of attention to the same commandment.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, I didn’t just stand there eavesdropping. I went to finishing school, you know. I have manners.”

“Of course. What did you do next?”

“I cleared my throat and made a lot of noise. I didn’t want to startle or embarrass him. Then I approached and laid my hand on his shoulder and told him the kiddies were waiting.”

“What did he say?”

“He… didn’t answer at first.”

“And then?”

Sarie looked like a caged cougar. Ben wondered how many other people knew this story—and who might have been able to call her on it if she hadn’t come forward with the details. “Then I noticed that he was crying. Big-time tears. All over his face.”

“Crying. I see. Did he say anything?”

“Yeah. He grabbed my hand and asked me if I would pray with him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, you heard what I said, you big bowl of grits. He wanted me to pray with him.”

“And what was your response?”

“Well, I’m aware there is some precedent for this sort of thing in the White House. I didn’t see as it would hurt anything. And we were celebrating a religious holiday. In a pagan sort of way.”

“So you prayed with him.”

“Sure. Why not? Nothing I didn’t do every week back at the Southern Baptist church in Birmingham. He did all the talking.”

“What did he say?”

“He prayed for guidance. He prayed for insight. And he prayed for, um, his immortal soul.”

“His immortal soul? Did he actually use those words?”

“He did.”

“Was there something he was concerned about? Felt guilty about?”

“If there was, he didn’t share.”

“Did he pray for anything else?”

“Yes. He also, um—” She cleared her throat. “He prayed for God to forgive JFK and FDR for their marital indiscretions and to take their souls up to heaven.”

“I see,” Swinburne said, steepling his hands. “How thoughtful of him.”

“Yeah. I thought so.”

“How did he look when all this took place?”

“I don’t know what you mean. He looked like himself.”

“Eyes, complexion, posture…?”

“His eyes were red, but he had been crying. His face seemed red, too. Kinda puffy. He’s so tan, though, sometimes it’s hard to tell about that. He was slouching. He didn’t have his presidential aura. He seemed tired.”

“And what happened after that?”

“Nothing. After we finished with the praying, he cleaned up a bit, then followed me outside and opened the egg roll. Just like nothing had ever happened.”

“No more odd behavior.”

“No. He was completely himself again.”

“But for a time, when he was talking to the pictures and all—he did not seem himself?”

Sarie thought for a moment. She had pretty much opened herself up to this one with her last remark, and she knew it. “I suppose not. Or perhaps it was just a side to him I hadn’t seen before.”

“In fifteen years of working with him.”

“Right.” Her eyes lowered. “Right.”

“Ms. Morrell, since President Kyler took office, how many other such erratic episodes have there been? Instances of the president behaving oddly.”

Ben wanted to object—it was clearly a leading question and assumed facts not in evidence. But since she was a hostile witness—albeit a pretty cooperative one—he knew Swinburne could get away with it.

“I don’t know. Most of the time he has been perfectly normal. Sharp as the best needle in my mama’s sewing kit.”

“But how many times has he been… odd?”

Sarie shrugged. “I dunno. Once or twice, maybe.”

“I’ll assume that means at least twice. Would you tell us about those incidents, please?”

She tossed her head back, swinging her long hair out of her face. “Well, there was that deal in the White House swimming pool. That was kinda…” She looked at the president apologetically.

President Kyler smiled. “Weird?”

She smiled back. “Your word, not mine.”

Swinburne made his trademark grunting noise again. “I will ask the witness to address her comments to me.”

“My pleasure, cutie pie,” Sarie responded.

“What happened at the swimming pool?” Swinburne demanded.

She leaned back. Ben got the impression this story was going to take a while. “It was another one of those disappearing-president deals. He was supposed to be taking a meeting—come to think of it, he was supposed to be meeting you, wasn’t he?”

“Was this the Tuesday before last?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“He was supposed to be meeting with me. He kept me waiting for more than an hour.”

Ben sighed. Now the prosecutor was actually testifying—but it would be pointless to object. They had to get the evidence before the cabinet as expeditiously as possible.

“Right. Well, speaking as the keeper of the president’s schedule—you got off easy. Next time bring a book to read.”

“I’ll try to remember that. So what was he doing in the swimming pool?”

“Strange as it may seem, he was swimming.”

“I’m guessing there was more to it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought this up as an example of odd behavior.”

“Well, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first. Till I stepped up to the edge of the pool to talk to him. That’s when I noticed…”

“Yes?”

“He wasn’t wearing any clothes. Forgot the ol’ swimsuit, you know what I mean?”

Ben saw several low-key looks exchanged across the room—and on the closed-circuit screen. The president was staring intently at the floor, making eye contact with no one.

“I mean, it’s not that unusual, is it? I know when I was growing up, the boys used to go to the Y early in the morning and they’d all swim naked. I don’t know what that was all about, but it was why Daddy never took me to the Y on Saturday mornings.”

“But the president apparently didn’t have your daddy’s scruples.”

“I don’t think the president expected me to drop by.”

“Wouldn’t he always expect his chief of staff to come get him when he’s overdue?”

“I think perhaps he had lost track of the time.”

“What was he doing?”

“Laps.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Eventually. Once he noticed me. He, um, asked if I wanted to get in.”

Swinburne arched an eyebrow. “How agreeable of him.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“I didn’t have my suit.”

“Apparently that’s not a requirement in the presidential pool.”

“It is for me.”

“Did the president seem embarrassed by his nakedness?”

“Not really, no.”

“Did he provide any kind of explanation?”

“Well, I guess at one point he did say that he longed to be free, free like a butterfly, free like the wind. Maybe that had something to do with it.”

“And was he surprised when you declined to get in with him?”

“Actually, yeah. He was. A bit cranky about it, too. Almost as if he had forgotten about, you know, gender differences and such.”

“What happened next?”

“Oh, I eventually managed to get the little butterfly out of the water. I held out a towel—well, I held it between us to block the view, if you know what I mean. He was jabbering exuberantly about how good it was to be alive! Jumping up and down like an eight-year-old. At one point he asked if I thought it would be a good idea to hold the next cabinet meeting at a nudist camp.”

Ben saw several necks stiffen on the television screen.

“And your reply?”

“I told him I thought it would be an interesting experiment, but he would have to get a different chief of staff because I wouldn’t be there.”

“Thank God for that,” Swinburne said. “You may be the only thing that’s kept the executive branch from descending into total chaos.”

“Well, I try to help out where I can.”

“Was there anything else unusual about this encounter?”

“Wasn’t that unusual enough?”

“Any crying or praying? Talking to imaginary friends?”

“Not this time, sugar.”

“Fine. I believe there was at least one other instance of unusual presidential behavior that you observed.”

Darn. Ben had been hoping he might forget. He scanned the room, wondering if anyone else was as tired of this as he was. Unfortunately, all he saw was rapt attention. He decided that objecting on the grounds of repetition might be ill-advised.

“Yes. There was. Just one other. Three days ago.” Her face lost all traces of attitude and humor. Ben got the disturbing feeling that this episode was going to be the worst of them all.

“And what did he talk about on this occasion? Butterflies?”

“No,” Sarie said, lowering her eyes. “Suicide.”

With one word, Ben knew Sarie’s testimony had transformed from an account of eccentric behavior to something far more dire.

“Had the president gone missing again?” Swinburne sounded almost hopeful.

“In a sense. It was late at night. After hours. He wasn’t missing any meetings. His wife just wondered where he was. I think he was late for their weekly gin game or something.”

“Is tracking the president in your job description?”

“I was doing it as a favor for Sophie.”

“I see. How long did it take you to find him this time?”

“Over an hour.”

“Really? I would’ve thought a hyperkinetic sort such as yourself could’ve covered the entire White House in an hour.”

“Twice. But I still couldn’t find him. Because he wasn’t there. Not exactly.”

Ben wondered if she would wait for the obvious question. She did. There could not be any surer sign of her reluctance to proceed.

“Where did you find him?”

Sarie took a deep cleansing breath, then released it slowly. “On the roof.”

Swinburne went bug-eyed. “What?”

“His keepers were going nuts, naturally. He hadn’t logged out—not that he would’ve been allowed to leave by himself—but they couldn’t find him. He might still be up there if we hadn’t heard from a cook. Turns out there’s a service panel in the corner of the kitchen. Climb through and you’re out on the roof.”