Term Limits (11 page)

The president considered the question and answered, “Well, neither of them is willing to resign, and considering the crisis we're confronted with, I think trying to force them out would be unwise.”

Nance sat still while both men looked to him for his opinion. He was the professional spook of the
group, having spent most of his early years working for Army intelligence and then moving on to the National Security Agency. He had a sharp mind and was good at putting things in motion. The idea for blackmailing Congressman Moore had been his.

“If you're serious about getting rid of them,” Nance finally responded, “you'll have to do it through public pressure and pressure from the Hill. They have to be embarrassed into leaving their jobs.” He paused for a moment, his mind calculating the next move. “The pressure to solve these murders will rest solely on the shoulders of the FBI. If Roach doesn't make progress on the case, it will be very easy to turn the dogs loose on him.” Nance held a finger up in the air. “And I have some ideas on how we may be able to speed up the process.”

THE SUN WAS DROPPING OVER THE WESTERN horizon, and dropping with it was the temperature. O'Rourke walked down the street with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket. His left
hand was wrapped around the handle of a. 45-caliber Combatmaster made by Detonics. The palm-sized pistol packed a huge punch. As a congressman, O'Rourke had obtained a special permit to carry the weapon. He wasn't carrying the gun just because of the recent assassinations. He had started carrying it several years ago to protect himself against the roving packs of gang-bangers that roamed the streets of D.C. O'Rourke had been a bone-crushing defenseman for the University of Minnesota hockey team. With his size and speed, few people toyed with him on or off the ice, but the muggers of D.C. cared little about size. The second most traumatic event in O'Rourke's life had proved that.

The thought of his friend's mugging caused Michael to tighten his grip around the handle of the gun. One year earlier, Michael's best friend had been shot and killed just two blocks from the Capitol. Mark Coleman and O'Rourke worked on Senator Olson's staff and were roommates. One night Coleman was on his way home from work when he was stopped by a twenty-two-year-old crack addict. A witness saw the shaky young man walk up to Coleman and, without saying a word, shoot him in the chest, grab his wallet, and run. The police caught the man the next day. The murderer had already been convicted of armed robbery twice but was paroled early because of a lack of space in the D.C. jails.

O'Rourke hadn't been concerned that his roommate didn't come home that night. Coleman was engaged and spent most of his evenings at his
fiancée's apartment. O'Rourke went into the office late the next morning. He had just won his congressional seat the previous week and was coming in to go over some transition notes with Senator Olson. Michael entered the office with no idea that his friend had been killed. The office personnel were gathered in the reception area hugging each other and crying when Michael walked through the door. O'Rourke stood in shock while one of the secretaries told him the news. Michael looked around the room at all of the people trying to comfort one another and instinctively withdrew. He backed out of the office and left the building.

When he got outside, he headed for the Mall and walked westward, passing the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument. Walking slowly, his mind flooded with memories of his friend and his parents. After passing the Reflecting Pool, he reached the Lincoln Memorial and stopped. He stood and stared back at the Capitol for a long time.

O'Rourke stared at the large rotunda and tried to grasp how a person could be shot and killed so close to the heart of the government of the United States of America. He sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial staring at the Capitol, trying to make sense of a senseless death, trying to understand what was happening to America, trying to understand why someone like Mark Coleman, who had worked so hard, who lived honestly, whose whole life was ahead of him, could be snuffed out by a worthless crack addict.

O'Rourke thought of all the meetings he'd sat in where fat-cat senators and congressmen threw
around billions of tax dollars as if it were a Monopoly game—the money always going to support some special-interest group whose endorsement would be needed in the next election. When the subject of crime came up, it was talked about with enthusiasm and vigor, especially when the press was around, but behind the closed doors of committee meetings the politicians were always more willing to spend money on farm subsidies or defense spending than crime.

The reality of life had smacked O'Rourke harshly in the face that day. He looked at Washington and knew there was no way he could make a difference. The corruption of the system had become too entrenched, and even if there were thirty other congressmen just like him, they couldn't make a dent. The old boys controlled the committees and with that the legislative agenda and the purse strings.

O'Rourke had decided at that moment, one year earlier, as he looked at the large dome of the Capitol, that he was done with Washington. If he couldn't make a difference, he didn't want to be a witness and accessory to the corruption of Washington politics. The hell if he was going to stay in this town and turn into one of them. Washington was built on a swamp, and as far as Michael was concerned, it was still a swamp.

As O'Rourke turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, his mind returned to the present. He noted for the first time since taking office that real change might be possible. The shocking assassination of three of Washington's most prominent political animals was sure to force reform to the forefront.

O'Rourke walked across the street to Blacky's Bar and entered. Glancing over the crowd, he looked for a full head of black hair, and after two sweeps he found her. She was sitting at the far end of the bar surrounded by a group of men still in suits. The sight of her brought a smile to his face.

An attractive woman walked up and grabbed O'Rourke's arm. “Michael, you're late. You'd better get over there and save her. The vultures are closing in.”

O'Rourke continued to stare across the bar. “Yes, I see that.” He looked down and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Hello, Meredith, is she ready to kill me?”

“Michael, you could show up at midnight and she wouldn't be mad. May I take your coat?”

O'Rourke remembered he was carrying his gun and politely said, “No, thank you.”

“Were things pretty tense on the Hill today?”

“Yeah, there was a lot of extra security.”

“Well, you be careful.” The owner squeezed his arm. “Get over there and save her. I've got a booth ready for you, whenever you're ready.”

O'Rourke weaved his way through the crowd and stood behind the pack of cruisers salivating over his girlfriend. He took a deep breath and watched for a moment. O'Rourke placed his hands on the shoulders of the two men closest to him. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The two men turned around and made some room. Liz was wearing a white blouse, short black skirt, black nylons, and black suede heels. A smile spread across O'Rourke's face, and he stepped forward to kiss her on the lips. Then brushing his nose along her cheek, he whispered, “You look great.”

She smiled, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled him closer for another kiss. After several moments, O'Rourke grabbed her by the hand and said, “Meredith has our table ready. Let's go be alone.”

The couple walked over to the open booth and sat down across from each other. O'Rourke grabbed her hands and stared at her. He loved her eyes. He loved everything about her… her thick, black hair, her olive skin, her sharp mind, her great sense of humor, but he especially loved her eyes. Despite his bad attitude toward Washington she had managed to work her way into his heart. Liz was bright, she was aggressive, she was caring, she loved kids. She was everything he wanted. Liz Scarlatti had entered his life a year ago, and even though the last thing he wanted was a relationship, he couldn't resist her.

They had met at a small blues bar in Georgetown. It was a busy weekend night and they happened to be standing next to each other when the band struck up a sultry version of “Sweet Melissa” by the Allman Brothers. The female lead of the band sang it in a slow, seductive way that brought the entire crowd into a rhythmic sway. Standing by the edge of the dance floor, O'Rourke bumped a little too hard into whomever he was standing next to, and when he turned to apologize, there was Liz.

The apology never got out of his mouth. He stared in awe at what he had no doubt was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. His face was frozen, eyes open wide, lips parted slightly. Liz looked up at him with her big brown eyes, and that
was it. O'Rourke felt his heart sink into his stomach, and he couldn't move. Luckily for him Liz didn't freeze. She slowly took the beer out of Michael's hand, set it on a ledge, and then grabbing him by the hand, she led him onto the dance floor. The rest was history.

Over the next year their attraction grew into a serious love affair with marriage on the horizon. There was only one problem at present—Michael wanted out of D.C. and Liz wasn't sure yet. She liked her job less and less every week, but hadn't grown to hate it yet. She had worked hard to get where she was and wasn't quite sure she was ready to give it up and move to Minnesota.

Scarlatti smiled at O'Rourke and asked, “So, did you see me on TV yesterday?”

The smile disappeared from O'Rourke's mouth. “What was that all about? You know how much I hate publicity.” O'Rourke changed his voice and started to mimic her, “‘Mr. President, Congressman O'Rourke says your budget is stuffed with more pork than a Jimmy Dean sausage.' Come on, Liz, I had reporters calling my office all afternoon.” O'Rourke had been mad as hell yesterday when he saw her get up at the press conference and quote him, but now, sitting in front of her, all that anger was gone.

“Well, I'm sorry, Michael, you're a public figure, and what you say is news.”

“First of all, I'm not eligible, and I have no control over what some flighty gossip columnist writes. With you, that's a different story. All I'm asking is that in the future we keep our relationship a little
more private. What is said when we're in bed together stays between you and me.”

Scarlatti leaned forward. “If that's what you really want, I will respect it, but I'll never understand your aversion to the press. You're the only politician I know who consciously tries to stay out of the limelight.”

“Liz, we've been over this before. Let's not go over it again.” Michael gave her a forced smile and then said, “By the way, congratulations! You looked very good yesterday. You were the only one who challenged him. The rest of those pansies rolled over and gave him nice, easy questions.”

“That's why they get called on. Those press conferences are the biggest scams. The president calls on the same people every time because he knows they'll toss him a nice big fat one.”

The president was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office wearing a dark suit, striped tie, and white shirt. Pieces of Kleenex were stuffed between his collar and neck as a woman stood over him and applied makeup to his face. Stu Garret loomed over the other shoulder and read off a list of last-minute reminders. Ted Hopkinson was in the midst of a final check to see that everything was in place. In five minutes they would be live in front of the nation.

Garret waved away the woman who was doing the makeup. “That's enough. He looks fine!… Now, Jim, remember, start out looking somber. We want to show them that you're in pain. Stay kind of slouched over during the first part, like you did during
the last rehearsal. When we get to the last part, about democracy and the founders of this country, I want you to become more stiff and rigid. Sit up straight, but don't pound your fist on the desk like you did during the last rehearsal. It comes off a little too strong. Just stick with your old standby. Pull that arm in tight and shake your fist at the camera. Not too fast. Shake it slow and deliberately, like you're emphasizing every word.” Garret mimicked the move.

Hopkinson approached and pulled the Kleenex out from under the president's collar. “Sir, you know the routine. Please don't touch your face, your shirt, or your tie. The makeup will smear and we're going to be live in minutes.”

Scarlatti and O'Rourke were glancing at their menus, and discussing the assassinations, when the subdued roar of the Friday-night crowd dropped to a hushed silence. When they looked up, the president's face was on every TV in the bar. Several people made sarcastic remarks and were shouted down by the other patrons. The president started to speak.

“Good evening. I will be very brief and to the point tonight. It is with deep sorrow that I come to you, to discuss a great loss to our nation… the tragic deaths of Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, and Senator Downs.… These three great statesmen have given over eighty years of service to the people of America. During that time, they fought with passion for the things they believed in: freedom, democracy, and the welfare of
every man, woman, and child in America. Their careers were long and illustrious. Between them, they authored hundreds of bills that have helped make America a better place to live and work. Their leadership, guidance, and wisdom will be greatly missed in the hallowed halls of Congress, and I will greatly miss their friendship.” The president looked down for a moment and paused. “I would ask all of you, my fellow Americans, to keep Congressman Koslowski, Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and their families in your prayers. They were not perfect; none of us are. Yet they overcame their imperfections and gave everything they had to their country and their fellow countrymen. For this, we will always be indebted to them.” The president paused again, his face drawn, staring into the camera.