Ballots and Blood Read online

  13

  Congressman Don Jefferson walked briskly into the conference center at The Villages, the retirement community outside Orlando that was a veritable honeypot of votes and campaign contributions for GOP statewide candidates. The parking lot was packed with golf carts, the favored mode of transportation inside The Villages—it looked like a good crowd, which put a spring in Jefferson’s step. A body man opened the door, the soggy 90-degree humidity giving way to the frigid air and Ethan Allen furnishings of the lobby. Jefferson was scheduled to address the monthly meeting of the Conservative Republican Women’s Club, a breakaway from the state Republican women’s federation, which these true believers considered too moderate and an apparatchik of the party establishment.

  A short, energetic woman with a deep tan and a gray pageboy haircut approached in lime-green slacks and a white cotton blouse. “Don! Don!” she shouted, waving frantically.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “I’m the president of the club.” She smiled brightly, her dentures sparkling in the bright light. “Welcome! We’re so excited you’re here.”

  “Well, I’m glad to be here,” said Jefferson in his best aw-shucks baritone. His blue suit was a half size too large and slightly wrinkled from the campaign trail. His coat had an American flag lapel pin prominently displayed. “Thanks for having me.”

  A clutch of women approached like bees buzzing around a daffodil, fairly trembling with excitement. “It’s him!” one of them whispered to her friends.

  “He’s more handsome in person,” said another.

  “Don, I’ve already got your bumper sticker on my golf cart,” said a third. (No one called him “Congressman.” He was their friend and no titles were required.) She smiled proudly.

  Jefferson laughed. “Well, I’m honored, but I haven’t announced if I’m going to run or not!” he faux protested. “I don’t even have a bumper sticker yet.”

  “Yes you do!” she replied. She pulled a batch out of her purse and waved them. “See? I had them printed myself?”

  “Oooooh! I want one!”

  “Me too!”

  A woman with a bubble of hair dyed fire-truck red mixed with tangerine approached. “Don, can I get a picture?” she asked.

  “Why, of course,” said Jefferson. “Be happy to.”

  The woman handed her camera to her husband. Jefferson buttoned his coat and plastered on a smile. He felt the woman’s hand wrap around his torso, her left side pressed against his rib cage. “Be sure to get my good side,” she joked to her husband as he snapped the picture, the flash lighting up the room. “I’ll put that on my Facebook page!”

  A spontaneous click line formed, with women brandishing cameras, cell phones, and BlackBerries to get a photo with the man of the hour. Jefferson dutifully stood there, his body man grabbing business cards, notes, and pamphlets from those who wanted to get involved in the as-yet-unannounced campaign. After about ten minutes, the event’s organizer approached.

  “Don, we have to get started. Follow me,” she said. They walked to a head table together as the crowed worked their way to their tables. “This is the biggest crowd we’ve had since Bob Long came here for one of his final appearances of the presidential campaign,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “We usually have two hundred people for our monthly meeting. Today, because you’re here, we’ll have almost 850.” She paused for dramatic effect. “They don’t just want you to run; they’re demanding you run.”

  Jefferson’s eyes grew wide.

  After a prayer from a local pastor, the pledge, and the national anthem, the meal was served. As they worked their way through a plate of rubber chicken and cold yellow rice, various local elected officials and party activists approached the head table to greet Jefferson, some of them handing him business cards or getting photos. Whenever they handed him something, Jefferson passed it to the body man, who stood to the side, a look of bemused anonymity etched on his face.

  After a former state representative and failed state senate candidate offered to host a fund-raiser, Jefferson leaned over to the club president.

  “If I decide to run, should I get her involved?” he asked.

  The woman pursed her lips. “She’s a sweet lady who means well, and I would certainly get her involved, but between us, she can’t organize a two-car parade.”

  “Got it,” said Jefferson, smiling.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “You bet. Let’s get the show on the road.”

  The club president walked to the podium, beaming. Table conversations petered out as the room fell silent. The crowd crackled with anticipation.

  “Well, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” she said with brio.

  “Here, here!” someone shouted.

  “It is my great pleasure and a tremendous honor to introduce a man who truly needs no introduction to this audience. He was recently rated by the National Journal as the third most conservative member of the House of Representatives in the entire country.” The room broke into applause as Jefferson smiled. “How did you only come in third, Don? What are you doing wrong?” she joked to gales of laughter. “As chairman of the Republican Study Committee, he helps to set the agenda for the Republican majority in Congress. A member of the Budget Committee, he has fought for lower taxes and balanced budgets. He is a man who believes in the Reagan philosophy of limited government and a national defense second to none.” She paused, glancing down at Jefferson. “And he’s good looking, which never hurts, does it, ladies?” Jefferson blushed as the women tittered. “He’s long been talked about for higher leadership in the House. But if what I read in the papers is accurate, you just may be able to vote for him for U.S. Senate next year!”

  The room exploded in a standing ovation. “Ladies, please welcome our friend and a conservative hero, Congressman Don Jefferson!”

  Jefferson approached the podium, head bowed, wearing a restrained smile, his rubbery face a picture of humble pie. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Please be seated.”

  The crowd slowly took their seats.

  “Thank you for that warm introduction,” Jefferson began. “As we gather here today, I want you to contemplate this fact about our nation: from the dawn of human civilization, down through the millennia, through wars and bloody convulsions, all the way until today, there has been only one nation whose explicit and sole reason for existence was to serve as a refuge from tyranny, and that is the United States of America.”

  The women were transfixed. They were under his spell, and he knew it.

  “Whether it was the first Pilgrim settlers of the New World who fled religious persecution, the Irish who came when their farms were turned into wastelands by famine, the Jews who fled the pogroms of the motherland, or more recently, the refugees from Castro’s Cuba, Chavez’s Venezuela, and the Ayatollah’s Iran, America, unique among all nations, has welcomed those who fled tyranny and terror because they wanted to be free.” He raised his chin, cocking his head to the side. “And I want to begin with a question: if America is not free, where will these people go? The truth is, there is nowhere else for them to go.”

  Heads nodded throughout the room. “That’s right,” someone said in a low voice.

  “We can only remain free with the right policies and visionary leadership. And as long as Salmon Stanley is in charge—”

  “Boo! Hiss!” replied the crowd.

  “I thought you might react that way,” joked Jefferson. Everyone laughed.

  “As long as Sal Stanley controls the U.S. Senate with an iron grip, enabled by the special interests and the labor unions, that body will be the graveyard of every conservative, commonsense policy we propose.” He rocked on his toes, preparing for the roundhouse punch. “We’re doing our job in the House. We passed a tax cut. It died in the Senate. We passed an energy bill to put us on the path to energy independence. It died in the Senate. We have passed crippling sanctions against Iran. It still awaits Senate action.” He paused for dr
amatic effect. “So maybe what we need is to take some of the leaders and reformers in the House and move them over to the Senate and give Sal Stanley his walking papers.”

  The crowd leaped to their feet, exploding in applause. “Run, Don, Run! Run, Don, Run!” they chanted.

  Jefferson wore a look of unrestrained satisfaction. He glanced over at the club president, who wore the sinister grin of a Tammany Hall ward boss. She winked. He winked back.

  “You’re tempting me,” said Jefferson a little too loud into microphone.

  “RUN, DON, RUN!! RUN, DON, RUN!! RUN, DON, RUN!!”

  Jefferson stepped back from the podium, basking in their love. He wondered: Was this enough to propel him past the party establishment, lobbyists, an incumbent governor, and the smart money that would bet against him? His head said no, but his heart said yes.

  In the back of the room, the state chairman of the Faith and Family Federation watched the scene with a mixture of excitement and awe. He pulled out his BlackBerry and punched out an e-mail to Ross Lombardy: “At Villages. Jefferson just told GOP women he might run. Standing O.”

  Thirty seconds later, Ross fired back: “Super. Can he win?”

  “Think so,” the state chairman fired back. “Grassroots r on fire.”

  Ross replied: “He needs $.”

  The state chair put his BlackBerry in his pocket. He thought to himself, Didn’t it always come back to the dough?

  AN AIDE ESCORTED TRUMAN GREENGLASS through the Mansfield reception room, named after former Democratic Majority Leader Mike Mansfield, with its Oriental rug, period furniture, and portraits of former majority leaders, who stared down from the walls like a great cloud of witnesses. As the aide pulled open the door, Greenglass found Sal Stanley seated in a thronelike wingback chair, with Senator Tom Reynolds of Oklahoma and Senator Susan Warren of Nevada, the new chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, seated on the couch in front of him.

  “Truman, come on in,” said Stanley with a wave of his hand. As Greenglass approached, he rose from his chair and greeted him with a firm if perfunctory handshake.

  Reynolds and Warren stood as well. Greenglass sized her up. She wore a yellow St. John outfit and matching pumps with a David Yurman gold necklace and earrings. Her short black hair had brown highlights, Greenglass guessed to hide the gray. Her milky skin showed the fading beauty of a still-striking woman, the wrinkled flesh of her neck betraying the years traveled to the pinnacle of power. The book on Warren was simple: smart, tough, liberal but not a wacko, obsessed with her own image in the press. Stanley elevated her over a more senior member of the committee who he saw as unreliable. She owed him. Greenglass would have to tread lightly.

  “Truman, we’d like to move forward on the Iran sanctions bill,” began Stanley, crossing his legs and leaning in his direction. “We’ve looked at the language of the House bill as well as the draft Perry put together before his death. Assuming we can all agree, we think we can get it out of Foreign Relations promptly and get it to the floor next week.”

  Truman nodded. He opened his leather-bound legal pad. “I brought some draft language for you.” He glanced about. “Should I give it to you, Madam Chair?”

  Stanley nodded. “Sure, give it to Sue.”

  Greenglass extended his hand across the coffee table. Warren took it from him and held the paper in her hands, scanning the text. Everyone else was silent as she read, her eyes widening in apparent shock.

  “I’ll run this up the flagpole with other members of the committee,” she said coldly. “But I don’t want to mislead you. I’m not a fan of including a trigger for military action.”

  Stanley shifted in his seat, chortling. “Absolutely not,” he said. “That won’t fly.”

  “But Senator Miller and I agreed on this language,” said Greenglass. “We had a deal.”

  “Senator Miller is dead,” replied Warren. “I’m the chairman of the committee now. I’ve discussed it with our members, and they’re not buying. Tom can introduce it as an amendment, but we’ve whipped it, and I can promise you it won’t pass.” She leaned back in her chair, a smug look on her face.

  Greenglass did a slow burn. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring down Warren. “Senator, the president feels very strongly about this. Time is running out. Iran has weaponized a nuclear device. We don’t have the luxury of trying sanctions for six months and then coming back with a second resolution authorizing military action that will take weeks or months to move through Congress. This is for all the marbles.”

  “Truman, I’m not opposed to military action if and when it comes to that,” shot back Warren, her steely blue eyes steady. “But I won’t mix the two. This is a sanctions bill. If we’re going to authorize the president to go to war, it has to be a stand-alone bill.”

  “Why?” asked Greenglass. “There’s no procedural or constitutional reason to do that.”

  “Because I’m chairman of the committee, and that’s the way I want to proceed,” said Warren. “Period.”

  “Sue’s right,” said Stanley. “The votes aren’t there on our side of the aisle for a trigger. So I really don’t know why this keeps coming up.”

  Reynolds remained silent up to that point, simmering with barely repressed anger. “Sue, if you do that, I will introduce a competing sanctions bill with bipartisan support,” he said, his eyes shooting darts. “I’ve got a commitment from Kravitz to be a lead sponsor. He thinks he can bring half a dozen Democrats with him. The bottom line is, you may win in committee, but you’ll lose on the floor.” He paused, letting the dead air hang. “Do you really want to lose the most important foreign policy vote since the Iraq war?”

  Warren’s face hardened. “Is that a threat, Tom?”

  “No, it’s a promise.”

  Stanley crossed his arms, assuming a defensive posture. “Tom, you’re playing with fire. If we do what Sue and I recommend, we can pass this bill with bipartisan support, strengthening the president’s hand with Russia, China, the UN, and the EU. If we go your route, this becomes a partisan issue.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a partisan issue, Sal,” said Reynolds. “Perry Miller was on board. We ought to honor his memory by doing what he wanted.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” shot back Stanley. “We don’t go to war to honor someone’s memory.”

  Warren turned to Greenglass. “What’s the administration’s position going to be, Truman? Are you going to support a competing bill?”

  Greenglass hooded his eyelids. “We would prefer not to go in that direction. But if it comes to that, we’ll make it clear we support authorization for additional measures if the NSC and DNI conclude the sanctions are insufficient. That’s always been our position.”

  “I’m disappointed but not surprised,” said Stanley, disgusted. “We’re getting nowhere. Tell the president the consequences will be a divisive process and delay.”

  Greenglass’s eyes smoldered. “Senator, I hope we can disagree without being disagreeable.”

  “I do, too, but given the emotions on both sides, I’d be lying if I said I was optimistic,” said Warren.

  “One last thing,” said Greenglass, pulling out another piece of paper. “Here’s some language that we’d like included that has nothing to do with the so-called trigger.” He handed it to Warren.

  “What is it?” she asked, eyes scanning the text.

  “It blesses technology transfers to Iran for organizations promoting democracy and human rights,” said Greenglass. “Basically it allows us to provide them with cell phones, satellites, secure broadband access, et cetera so the Green Movement can organize free from detection by the current regime.”

  Warren narrowed her eyes. “Do we want to telegraph that we’re doing that?”

  “We need clear statutory authority.”

  “Alright, we’ll look at it.”

  “Anything else?” asked Stanley.

  “Not that I know of,” replied Greenglass.

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p; “Alright then,” said Stanley. He rose and shook Greenglass’s hand. “Looks like we’re going to cross swords again. Tell the president this is a matter of principle.”

  “As it is with us, Senator,” said Greenglass in a hollow voice.

  He and Reynolds walked out together, accompanied by an aide who led them through the reception area. When they reached the hallway outside, Greenglass turned to Reynolds and pulled him close in a power clutch.

  “Can you roll ’em?” he asked, his voice urgent.

  “I think so,” said Reynolds, puffing up like a poison toad. “A number of Democratic senators don’t want to look weak on national defense right before the elections. They don’t want to vote against challenging Iran.”

  Greenglass nodded. “I need you to cut that deal on technology transfers. It’s critical.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But Sue’s in Sal’s clutches.”

  Greenglass shook his head. “Gotta have it. We’re kind of pregnant on this one, if you get my drift.”

  “Alright. I get it.”

  Greenglass turned and headed down the hall, heading toward the exit and his car and driver, which was waiting to take him back to the White House. His stomach was in a knot. Not only was he facing a battle royale in the Senate over the sanctions bill, but the technology transfer language now hung by a thread. If it failed to pass, all the work he did to equip the Green Movement would be in legal limbo, and his career would hang in the balance.

  14

  G. G. Hoterman stood on the eighteenth tee box at the Badlands course in northern Las Vegas, staring at a lake on his right and a desert hazard twisted with rocks, cactus, and sagebrush. The carry over the desert was 241 yards. Walking to the ball, carrying the massive girth of an aging former high school offensive lineman on spindly legs with much effort, he stared down the fairway, waggling the clubhead of his $750 TaylorMade driver. Pulling the club head back, his eye glued to the Titleist logo, he pulled the shaft down and turned his wrists over, rocketing the ball high in the air with a slight draw. It headed right for the desert.