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Jay nodded, stunned by her compliment. “I appreciate that,” he said.

  “But whether this is fair journalism is beside the point. It’s having an impact. We’re off message.” She turned to Battaglia, waving a press release from the Senate Finance Committee, her face and hand gestures animated. “Jay can’t defend himself because he can’t testify. I can say he did nothing wrong, but no one in the press believes me. We need a strategy, Phil.”

  “I agree, but Jay testifying ain’t it,” said Battaglia. “Let me see that news release.” Lisa stood up and leaned over, reaching across the desk and handing it to him. As she leaned forward, Jay noticed her long legs. At moments like this, he wished she wore pants more often, or shorter skirts, but that was verboten in the briefing room.

  Battaglia’s eyes scanned the press release, his brow furrowed. “Who is this guy?”

  “His name is Hans von Fuggers,” said Jay. “He’s a big lib who was chairman of the Democratic Party in the Bronx in a previous life. Part of the Cuomo machine, which tells you all you need to know.” Battaglia rolled his eyes knowingly. “He’s a former tax attorney who worked for the ACLU for a while, then went to the IRS and wormed his way into the bureaucracy, becoming a career civil servant.”

  “It would sure be nice to know if he’s been talking with his friends at the ACLU,” said Lisa. “Can we can get access to his government e-mail account?”

  Battaglia bristled. “Absolutely not,” he said curtly. “But someone on the committee could demand his e-mails be subpoenaed.”

  “There’s going to be plenty there,” said Jay. “He gave $500 to Stanley’s presidential campaign. In the past he gave money to Cuomo and Schumer, among others.”

  “Let’s get that to a friendly reporter,” said Battaglia. “How about Marvin Myers?”

  “Too obvious,” said Lisa. “I’ll get it to Merryprankster. That’ll be red meat for the sharks.”

  Battaglia leveled his gaze at Jay. “Hang in there, champ.”

  The meeting over, Jay filed out behind Lisa. Phil slapped him on the back as he left. In the hallway Lisa turned to him, their eyes locking.

  “Jay, I’m sorry you’re going through all this,” she said softly.

  Jay smiled weakly, touched by Lisa’s kindness. “It’s alright,” he said. “The irony is, if I hadn’t come inside, none of this would be happening. But I know I did the right thing by coming.”

  Lisa nodded. For a moment Jay felt a flood of raw emotion, the remnants of their stillborn campaign romance. Did she feel it, too? She averted her eyes, perhaps sensing his affection and moved quickly down the hall alone. Jay knew right then what he had to do. He just hoped he had the courage and intestinal fortitude to actually do it.

  24

  Members of the Senate Finance Committee sat on the dais like a row of Ken and Barbie dolls in their best suits, hair primped, some stage-whispering to aides who sat behind them for the benefit of the cameras. They all wanted to look their best for what promised to be the riveting testimony of the man of the hour: Hans von Fuggers. More than a few senators had practiced their lines in front of the mirror. Washington dressed up for scandals the way small-town America puts on its Sunday best for a funeral. The difference was that in DC a scandal was cause for celebration, a delightful human confection of mindless entertainment, colorful characters, compelling narratives, schadenfreude, and ritualistic executions. Careers would be made! Some (think Woodward and Bernstein) would become stars; others would do turns on reality shows. Newspapers would sell, and cable news ratings would go through the roof!

  Hans von Fuggers walked into the cavernous hearing room of the Hart Senate Building, the unlikeliest of central figures in the summer’s drama. Pale of complexion with thin brown hair, a high forehead, beady eyes, and a recessed chin, he hardly seemed worthy of the advanced billing. Wearing a light gray suit with a blue paisley tie, he was accompanied by his attorney.

  Senator Aaron Hayward, the sixty-seven-year-old crusty, unreconstructed liberal from Michigan who chaired the Finance Committee, sat beneath the gold U.S. Senate logo carved into the marble wall behind him. His salt-and-pepper hair, lined face, and muted demeanor seemed to belie the excitement surrounding the day’s proceedings.

  “Good morning, Mr. Witness, and to the members of the committee,” he said in an officious voice. “Today the Senate Finance Committee continues its investigation into the improper politicization of the Internal Revenue Service. Our sole witness is Mr. Hans von Fuggers, who served as the chief auditor in the exempt division of the IRS until he resigned four months ago. For some time many have waited expectantly on the edge of their seats for today’s witness to tell what he knows about White House involvement in audits conducted by the IRS. He is appearing before us without any grant of immunity and has agreed to answer all questions.” Hayward rose to his feet. “Mr. von Fuggers, given the gravity of the issues we’re discussing and your role in them and to help ensure there is no misunderstanding about your obligation to tell all you know, would you kindly stand and raise your right hand so I may administer the oath.”

  Fuggers rose. As he raised his right hand, fifty still photographers jockeyed for position, shimmying on their knees and elbows, some lying on their backs. When von Fuggers raised his right hand, the room exploded with camera shutters and flashes.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” asked Hayward.

  “I do,” replied von Fuggers, his voice quiet yet firm.

  “I understand you have a statement you would like to read. Please proceed.”

  Von Fuggers leaned toward the microphone, head down, eyes glued to the papers in front of him. “My name is Hans von Fuggers. I grew up in Peoria, Illinois, and attended Northwest University as an undergraduate and later the University of Chicago Law School,” he began, filling in his biography. “After practicing law for three years with a specialty in the area of taxes and estate planning, I applied for a job with the Internal Revenue Service. I worked at the IRS for seventeen years, rising to the position of senior auditor in the tax-exempt division.”

  The senators sat impassively as von Fuggers read his statement, their facial expressions stonelike. A number followed along from copies of his testimony.

  “Two-and-a-half years ago I was asked to supervise the audit of New Life Ministries, an international broadcast ministry affiliated with a nondenominational church in Alpharetta, Georgia.” He paused, taking a sip of water from a glass on the table. “During the course of our audit, we discovered a number of irregularities and possible violations, including unreimbursed personal use of ministry aircraft, excessive compensation, for-profit entities with close ties to tax-exempt affiliates, and a number of inurement issues.

  “The staff at New Life Ministries made no attempt to disguise their hostility toward me and our audit team,” von Fuggers continued. He spoke in a dull monotone that forced his listeners to lean forward in order to hear him, which added power to his words. “We were placed in a cramped trailer behind the ministry headquarters with an air conditioner that often did not work. One of the staff members asked me if I voted for Sal Stanley for president. Another time a student called one of my audit team members a, quote, ‘fag.’”

  The media perked up at the mention of the antigay slur. The fact the alleged incident could not be verified gave them no pause.

  “Last summer I received a call from Barry Bostrum, deputy director of the tax-exempt division, my immediate superior at the Internal Revenue Service,” said von Fuggers. “He asked me very pointed questions about the status of our audit and pressed me on when we might be wrapping up our work. At that point I asked Mr. Bostrum if I had a White House problem. He said, ‘Big time.’ When I asked for an explanation, he related Jay Noble called a senior advisor to the director of the IRS and demanded to know why the department was allegedly harassing Andy Stanton, a friend of the president. A few weeks later Mr. Bostrum e-mailed me and asked me to present my repor
t on New Life within thirty days. When I told him I could not complete the audit within that time frame, I was informed I would be reassigned.”

  Fuggers took another sip of water, his hand shaking slightly. “It has greatly pained me to see the agency I loved and served for seventeen years politicized in this manner. It undermines the rule of law. It violates the historic protection afforded civil servants who seek to apply that law in an even-handed manner. This administration, and in particular Jay Noble, recklessly politicized a sacred trust.” He turned the page. “For that reason I resigned my position with the IRS. I could no longer participate in this farcical charade, the prostituting of our tax code to serve political ends. Mr. Chairman and members of the committee, I thank you for hearing my testimony, and I look forward to your questions.”

  JAY SAT IN HIS OFFICE in the West Wing, watching von Fuggers’s testimony with David Thomas and a clutch of their loyal aides. Some sat at the conference table while others stood, their arms crossed, doing a slow burn.

  “Talk about holier than thou,” said Thomas, his face filled with disgust. “You get a call from your superior after you’ve been camped out at a tax-exempt organization for a year and a half asking for an interim report and your response is to . . . quit?”

  “He’s an ACLU activist masquerading as a civil servant,” said one of Noble’s aides. “He had Stanton in his crosshairs and dared anybody to stop him.”

  Jay studied the television screen with professional detachment. “You guys work up some talking points for Lisa,” he said at last. “We need to push back . . . hard.”

  “We’ll make ’em wish he’d remained a bureaucrat,” wheezed one of the propeller-heads.

  Jay said nothing in reply. Instead, he left his office and walked down the narrow stairwell leading to the first floor of the West Wing. He entered the suite of offices occupied by Charlie Hector and stopped at the secretary’s desk.

  “Charlie in?” he asked.

  “Sure, go on in,” said the assistant.

  Jay walked in to see Hector standing as he usually did, his eyes scanning papers fanned out on his desk, brow furrowed. The C-SPAN broadcast of von Fuggers’s testimony was on in the background, the volume turned down.

  “What’s up?” he asked, barely looking up.

  Jay took a seat opposite his desk. “Did you watch von Fuggers?”

  “A little bit,” Hector lied.

  “Charlie, we need to waive executive privilege. I need to testify.”

  Hector sat down, exhaling slowly, stunned.

  “Look, I know it’s risky. It puts me in Hayward’s—and Stanley’s—crosshairs,” said Jay. “But let’s face it, I’m there already. The more they drag me through the mud, the more it undermines my ability to serve the president. I have to testify.”

  Hector leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his skull. “I don’t disagree with you. But this is about executive privilege. It’s not a political matter; it’s a constitutional matter that strikes at the heart of the separation of powers. Phil’s going to argue—”

  “Forget the lawyers,” Jay fired back. “Stanley’s going to use the oversight function to go after us every single day. It’s going to be death by a thousand cuts.” He pointed to the television set, then leaned his entire body across the desk, his eyes pained and desperate. “Charlie, I’m begging you. Please . . . let me at ’em.”

  Hector chewed on his lip. “I’ll talk about it with the president.” His eyes locked on Jay’s. “It’ll be his decision.”

  “Fine. Let’s talk to him.”

  Hector nodded. “I’ll try to get with him before he leaves for the day.”

  “Let’s just go talk to him.”

  “Now?

  “If he’s free, you bet.”

  Hector opened his door and stuck his head out. “Can you see if the president can see me and Jay for a minute?”

  The assistant dialed the president’s secretary. After a minute of conversation, she hung up. “You’re good to go,” she said.

  Hector and Jay headed down the hall through the West Wing lobby and down to the Oval Office. They pumped hands with the Secret Service agents, greeted the president’s secretary, and then opened the door to the Oval. Long sat behind his desk, scanning the day’s news clips. Jay noticed he was not watching the hearing.

  “What’d you guys want to see me about?” asked Long gruffly, his eyes searching. He now got defensive when aides came calling. They usually brought bad news.

  “Go ahead, Jay,” said Hector.

  “Mr. President, I believe we should waive executive privilege and let me testify before Hayward’s committee.”

  Long whipped his reading glasses off. “You want to walk into an ambush?”

  “It’s already an ambush, sir,” replied Jay, hands behind his back, bowing slightly. He was in his best suck-up mode, hoping to get Long’s sign-off. “Hans von Fuggers was on the front page of the New York Times yesterday, 60 Minutes last night, and he’s testifying today. He’s attacking me frontally, and it will affect my ability to do my job.”

  Long studied Jay’s anguished face. “Jay, I know it’s no fun getting shot at,” he said. “But I can’t let those piranhas up on the Hill browbeat me into serving up my senior aides as the main course for dinner. This isn’t about us. I took an oath to protect this office, not just for me, but for future occupants.” He tapped on the desk with his index finger. “Read my lips: I will protect the right of the president to privileged advice, come hell or high water.”

  “Mr. President, I wouldn’t do anything to compromise your ability to receive the unvarnished, confidential advice of your aides,” said Jay. “But the question here is what I said to someone at Treasury. Previous White House counsels have allowed EOP staff to testify in the past, with certain ground rules. We should do the same here. If Hayward doesn’t agree to our conditions, I don’t go, period, end of story.”

  Long shot a glance at Hector. “I don’t like it. What do you think, Charlie?”

  “We’re fighting a losing battle, sir,” said Hector. “We’re right on principle. But these are serious charges. My fear is if we don’t let Jay set the record straight, not only will he be damaged, but your presidency will be irreparably damaged.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful,” said Long.

  “It is, sir,” said Hector. “It’s what I honestly believe.”

  “Any e-mails to or from Jay that will be a problem?” asked Long.

  “Not that I know of,” said Hector.

  Long rubbed his chin, thinking for what seemed like several minutes of silence. “You have permission to see if you and Phil can cut a deal with Hawyard that circumscribes what Jay is allowed to testify about.” He pointed with his index finger, eyes aflame. “Not a word of testimony about privileged communications with me or anyone else in this building, Charlie. On that point I will not bend. Understood?”

  “Crystal clear, sir,” said Hector.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” said Jay.

  “Don’t thank me,” said Long. “You’re about to be dropped into the lions’ den.” He raised the corner of his mouth. “Better you than me, pal.”

  They all chuckled, if only to relieve the tension, and Jay and Charlie left the Oval. As they headed down the hall, Hector turned to Jay. “Well, one thing’s for sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re going to need to hire a top-notch criminal attorney. Phil can’t be your lawyer. He works for the president.”

  Jay felt his heart leap in his chest cavity. “Any suggestions?”

  “Yes. Walt Shapiro,” Hector replied. “Call him as soon as you get back to your office. I’ll have my assistant give you his direct dial. I don’t have to go through a receptionist at the law firm and get the rumor mill going. People talk.”

  Jay gulped. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad Long agreed to let him testify. But there was no turning back now. He would just have to grab his rip cord and jump.
/>   IN HIS STATE-OF-THE-ART SUDIO ON the campus of New Life Ministries, built at a cost of $10 million to sustain an earthquake up to six on the Richter scale without affecting the quality of the broadcast, Andy Stanton rounded his shoulders and cocked his head as he prepared another furnace blast at the unholy trinity of the media, the Democrats, and the far left. Stanton’s musical intonations of syllables and sounds, his mesmerizing enunciation of seemingly ordinary words, and the metronome-like, hypnotic spell of his mellifluous voice held a weekly cumulative audience estimated at fourteen million listeners on 875 radio stations around the world.

  “My friends, if you want to know the truth, it isn’t what is said that reveals the elusive gem; it is what is not said. So let us review what you didn’t hear in today’s kangaroo court on Capitol Hill,” said Andy, working himself into a froth. “You didn’t hear that Mr. von Fuggers is a former hired gun for the ACLU, which wants to legalize prostitution and hard drugs and drive any semblance of faith in God from the public square. That’s the real Mr. von Fuggers, not some disinterested public servant with no ax to grind. He’s a political activist.”

  Andy adjusted his headset and wheeled around to face the control room, which was separated from the studio by a soundproof glass wall. “Mr. Producer, please play sound bite number nine from today’s hearing. Go!”

  Andy leaned back in his chair and rocked slightly while the audio cut played. The sound bite included a halting response by von Fuggers to hostile questioning by a Republican senator. Suddenly, Andy jumped up as if fired by a catapult, nearly coming out of his chair.

  “Stop! Stop right there!” he shouted. “That’s enough. There it is, my dear friends, the shocking admission! Mr. von Fuggers admits New Life Ministries fully complied with IRS guidelines for churches and ministries and was given a clean bill of health. That is why his superiors rejected his recommendation to deny our tax-exempt status, not because of political pressure by the White House or anyone else.”

  He spun in his chair, making eye contact with his producer, who squeezed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate time was running out before the next commercial break.