The Hearing (8 page)

Warren shook his head. “Bad news.”

“Because?”

“I haven’t had much time, just since lunch yesterday. Grandfather made a lot of money in tobacco and timber, father still
takes care of it, lives on a forty-five-acre estate in Connecticut. Gus’s personal holdings are in a blind trust. His judicial
record and reputation show anti-choice, anti-affirmative action, heavy on judicial restraint,
stare de-cisis,
the usual coloring of your basic rich Ivy League southern white conservative right-wing fundamentalist bigot.”

“That’s quite a lot since lunch yesterday.”

“Just the highlights. Film at eleven. You wanna call Bobbie?”

Bobbie McQuire was national director of the Reproductive Rights Alliance, one of the nation’s largest feminist rights groups.

“Does she know yet?” Everyone would know. If Warren hadn’t told them, Helen would do it when he left. Sam Waller of the National
Defense League, Debbie Jennert of the Women’s Assistance Fund, Sheila Riesman of the Social Action Center, the whole array
of activist groups who lived and died by influencing legislation, appointments, nominations.

Warren grinned.

“You told her.”

“Maybe.”

What made Warren so secretive? No one knew him. You called, all you got was the machine. Did he have a home? Where’d he take
the women?

H
i, Ernie.”

John Harrington had never been comfortable calling Ernesto Vicaro “Ernie.” He wasn’t a first-name person, and a man as fat,
ugly, and evil as Ernesto Vicaro was not someone Harrington could think of as Ernie. It was hard having clients you hated.
But Harrington was a product, like a right fielder, for sale to anyone with the money. Ernesto had insisted. “Call me Ernie.”
Sweating and wheezing. So what the hell, at $500 an hour he’d call him Ernie.

Harrington lowered his chin and looked up through his thick black eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”

Down to business, get in and get out. Prisons depressed
him. He’d never been in a prison till Vicaro. People in prison rarely had enough money for lobbyists.

“Wrong question.” Vicaro smiled, tiny baby lips opening a damp red wound in the heavy flesh. “I’m gonna do something for you.”

“What’s that?”

Vicaro said, “Gus Parham.”

Harrington wasn’t surprised to hear the name, though he had no idea what might be on Vicaro’s mind.

Vicaro waited, looking smug.

The interview room was like a green-walled toilet, smelling of sweat since Vicaro had oozed into the metal chair.

Vicaro didn’t speak. Harrington was determined to wait him out, stink or no stink.

After half a minute, Vicaro opened his mouth and exhaled loudly, his foul breath propelling droplets of foaming spit. “I just
read about him in the papers.”

“Did you?”

Harrington moved his chair back. At $500 an hour he had to listen to Vicaro, but he didn’t have to breathe his spit.

Harrington said, “He might be nominated for the Supreme Court.” Some
Washington Post
columnist had had it three days earlier, mentioning unnamed sources on the Hill.

Harrington, a senior partner in Parks & Simes, a Washington law firm that lobbied for a half dozen international corporate
clients, had had a call last week from Helen Bon-dell letting him know that Parham was a potential nominee. Helen’s Freedom
Federation was opposing the nomination—”We don’t like his record”—and she obviously suspected that Harrington wouldn’t be
too happy with it either.
She knew that Parham’s strong anti-crime views were not likely to match the goals of one of Harrington’s clients, Ernesto
Vicaro.

And of course she was right. Vicaro, serving time in a federal penitentiary from which he continued to direct the multinational
activities of a South American conglomerate whose interests included cocaine trafficking and arms dealing, wanted changes
in the American government’s approach to law enforcement. He was after a relaxation of federal sentencing guidelines, a tightening
of procedural controls on police and prosecutors, broader authority for federal parole board members, a far more malleable
procedure by which convicted federal felons might win early release. The last two of these, which could critically influence
the possibility of Vicaro’s eventual freedom, were encapsulated in
Javez v. Rench,
a case challenging the federal law under which Vicaro had been sentenced.

He also wanted the decriminalization of marijuana and, eventually, cocaine. He already controlled coca plantations, processing
labs, and distribution networks. Legalization would eliminate all the people Vicaro had to pay so liberally to do his illegal
processing, shipping, warehousing, and retailing. Hundreds of millions of dollars in bribes to Latin American officials would
no longer be necessary. Decriminalization would let Vicaro turn his expensively illegal operation into an even more profitable
legal enterprise. Another R. J. Reynolds.

If the drive for legalization could ever be moved out of the legislative branch, where it had little support, into the Supreme
Court (as abortion had been), Vicaro wanted justices there who would not oppose it. And the thin edge of the decriminalization
wedge was almost certain to appear
before the Supreme Court later that year in the form of
Hacker v. Colorado,
an appeal testing the constitutionality of a state law prohibiting the growth of small amounts of cannabis in private homes.
Vicaro saw the court as evenly divided both on that case and on
Javez v. Rench.
He did
not
want Gus Parham’s vote tipping the balance.

And if Vicaro, who paid Parks & Simes $20 million a year, didn’t want Gus Parham on the Supreme Court, John Harrington didn’t
want him there either. So when Helen Bondell called, Harrington had said, “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll do what I can.”

At eight o’clock the following morning, Harrington had had a phone call from “Jonathan.” Harrington had never met Jonathan,
knew nothing about him except that he had the voice, vocabulary, and diction of an extremely genteel upper-class Englishman.
Whenever Vicaro needed Harrington to know something and didn’t want to send a letter or observe whatever prison procedures
were necessary for making a phone call, he managed, in ways Harrington had no desire to know, to contact Jonathan. And Jonathan,
for reasons Harrington also did not want to know, ever so graciously passed the message to Harrington.

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“My friend would like to see you. He says it’s extremely important. Today, if at all possible.”

“I don’t know if I can get a flight. I’ll try. If I can’t make it late today, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Thank you very much. He said today. I’ll see he gets the message.”

So Harrington had told his assistant to clear his calendar and book him on the next flight to Chicago, nearest airport to
the federal prison where Vicaro was incarcerated.

Responding now to Harrington’s remark that Parham might be nominated for the Supreme Court, Vicaro said, “You are wrong, my
friend. He will be nominated for nothing. And if he is, he will not be confirmed.”

“You sound very certain.”

“Mr. Harrington …” Vicaro always called him Mr. Harrington when he was serious. Harrington didn’t like it—nobody liked it—when
Vicaro got serious. “I’m going to tell you something, and you will know what to do with it.”

Harrington didn’t like the sound of that, but he said, “I’m listening.”

Vicaro leaned forward, an operation requiring the labored displacement of more than 300 pounds of deadweight flesh. He looked
up at Harrington and exhaled. This time Harrington did not pull back. He had a son at Princeton and a daughter at a private
school in Virginia.

“Parham’s a thief.”

Vicaro, studying Harrington, looked like a delicately triggered bomb. Harrington didn’t want to disturb the atmosphere. After
ten seconds he said, “Why do you say that?”

“Because … I am thinking of the airport.”

Harrington didn’t understand. “Yes?”

“And the suitcases.”

Still in the dark. “Yes?”

“There was four million dollars in the suitcases.”

Oh,
that
airport,
those
suitcases. “Okay.”

“You’re not surprised, when I tell you that?”

“Should I be?”

“They
counted
three million, Mr. Harrington. Three million one hundred eighty-six thousand and four hundred, to be exact.”

“You have a good memory.”

“It was my money.”

“What are you saying?”

“What am I
saying
?” Vicaro wheezed, pushing himself heavily back into an upright position. “I am
saying
that Judge Augustus Parham is a thief.”

“Why is he a thief?”

“Because he
stole
eight hundred thirteen thousand and six hundred dollars. Out of the suitcases.”

This was ridiculous. If Gus Parham had been after money he’d have accepted the offer Harrington made in his Montgomery office.
But that had been vague promises. This was stacked cash, right before his eyes. People who had never seen four million dollars
in hundred-dollar bills didn’t understand. The sheer blaze of it could burn principles to a crisp.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I was there when the four million went into the suitcases. I counted it. Parham said he sent the cop—Carlos somebody—to the
phone to call for help. So while the cop was gone, he scooped up a few handfuls, stuffed them into his briefcase, pockets,
whatever. The
fact
is, when they counted the money at the bank, there was only three million one hundred and eighty-six thousand and four hundred
dollars. Eight hundred thirteen thousand and six hundred dollars was missing. Parham took it.”

“That’s very interesting.”

True or not, Harrington didn’t care. If it was true, it’d be easier to prove. But even not true, it might be made into a credible
allegation. When you wanted to destroy a nomination, credible allegations were all it took.

“That’s what you call it?
Interesting?
”

“It’s more than that, Ernie. But it’s your word against his.”

“Maybe not.”

Vicaro smiled. Those little red baby lips, pulling back from tobacco-stained teeth. Harrington had never seen anything so
revolting.

“Tell me your thoughts.”

“I think the cop—Carlos …”

“Carl Falco.”

“Yeah, Falco. Carlos knows.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was there, right? Maybe he got some too. They’re good friends, I hear.”

Harrington thought it over. Vicaro could swear out an affidavit. It wouldn’t be worth anything, a convicted felon accusing
the prosecutor who locked him up, but it’d be a piece of paper, a document. Carl Falco, a conspiracy between him and Gus,
that was—
no one
would believe that. But Vicaro. An affidavit. Maybe. Yeah. The more he thought about it, the better it got. Handled
just
right. He’d give it to Helen Bondell. She’d know how to make the most of it.

Carl saw him on the corner across the street from the Montgomery DEA office, just standing there, doing nothing. He did not
look like a man who stands on street corners doing nothing.

Carl turned right, headed for the garage where he parked his car, and heard footsteps at his back. He stopped at the corner.
The steps stopped. He crossed against the light. The steps followed. Outside the garage, Carl stopped, turned, and faced the
man.

“Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

The man was young, early thirties, small, tanned, nice-looking. His dark gray suit jacket fit like another layer of skin.
The laced shoes were black and shiny. His smile, filled with charm, matched his friendly eyes. Carl had never seen him before,
but he knew him. An attorney, good school, ambitious, sharp, fun to be with until he started chewing on your liver.

“Excuse me for following you. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how to make the approach.”

That’ll be the day.

“Can I walk along with you for a minute?”

If this isn’t a setup that’s not his suit.

“It’s a request, really. Unofficial, very informal you might say. Just something for you to know.”

Carl remained silent.

“It’s about the thing a few years ago at the airport? When all that money was found? The amount of money the police said they
counted was substantially less than what was really in the bags, and someone thought that maybe you would be willing to help
clear up the question about why that was. My client—well, I don’t know how to say this. He’s very wealthy, and he wanted just
to let you know that if you were ever willing to help clear up that question he would be very appreciative, and if—”

Carl took a step forward and planted his right foot solidly on top of the man’s left instep. As the man looked down in surprise,
Carl placed his other foot on top of the other instep. Then, applying all his weight to the top of the feet, Carl put both
hands on the man’s chest, and pushed. The man let out a sharp cry, flailed briefly at the air, and fell stiffly backward,
his feet still flat on the pavement.

Carl heard a sound like the snapping of dry Popsicle sticks.
Crack! Crack!

He left the man in the street, recovered his car from the garage, and met Esther and the kids at McDonald’s for lunch. He
was starving.

“What happened?” Esther said. “You look really pleased.”

“Someone had a difficult question, and I was able to give him an answer.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

No one was sure who had designed it—Helen or a predecessor—but everyone liked the Freedom Federation’s conference room. It
was ostentatious, flamboyant, cocky, deliberately pompous. It mocked itself, mocked Washington, and mocked the people who
met there. The walls were white, the carpet was white, the ceiling was white, the table was white, the chairs were white,
the telephones were white, the pads of paper were white, the pencils were white—even Helen, when she hosted Freedom Federation
meetings there, tried to wear white. Warren Gier once showed up in a white suit and white shoes. He said the room was like
an albino cat. “A Siberian tiger, I think, invisible against the snow, eyes of burning phosphorus, ferocious. The perfect
background for spilled blood.” Helen said Warren was probably the only one who really appreciated the self-ridiculing irony
of all that white. Some other Federation operatives, lacking Warren’s flair, would have preferred the color of mud.