Ballots and Blood Read online

  “I hope their shredder was working overtime.”

  “You and me both,” replied Greenglass. “Were they encrypting their e-mail?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me, either. If they didn’t, it’s not good.”

  Silence hung on the line as they mulled their options.

  “Someone’s got to alert the DNI, the SecDef, the SecState, and POTUS,” said Moyle.

  Greenglass thought a moment. “I’ll tell Charlie and the president.”

  “I’ll handle my boss and the SecDef,” said Moyle.

  “Listen, Michael, it’s absolutely critical you and I stay simpatico,” said Greenglass.

  “Don’t worry,” said Moyle. “I won’t let any daylight between us.”

  Greenglass hung up the phone, staring at it for moment. Could he trust Moyle? He didn’t know. When the artillery started to fly, people tended to look out for themselves.

  LIZ ROBINSON BREEZED INTO JAY’S office without announcing herself. Engrossed in a phone conversation, he motioned for her to grab a chair. When his call was done, he turned to face her. “What’s up, sunshine?” he asked. “I hope it’s not about me again.”

  “Shockingly, it’s not . . . for once,” said Lisa, twirling a pen in her hand as she scanned notes on her legal pad. “What do you know about this Jonah Popilopos?”

  Jay shrugged. “He’s a televangelist who wears a white suit and bears a striking resemblance to Yul Brenner. Shameless self-promoter. Claire apparently attended his revival in New York City recently, and he pulled her up on stage.”

  “I know,” said Lisa. “Who can forget the white dress? Anyway, Dan Dorman called and is asking about Popilopos’s relationship with Claire. Specifically, he wants to know how many times he has visited the White House. He’s asking to see the visitor logs.”

  “Great,” said Jay. “Dorman’s such a jerk.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. But what should I say? I mean, this is fairly delicate insofar as it involves Claire’s personal faith.”

  “Kick it to the East Wing,” said Jay. “Don’t give Dorman the time of day. Have Claire’s press secretary give him some innocuous statement about how she knows a lot of evangelical, Jewish, and Catholic leaders, and she has met with many of them on interfaith issues, et cetera.”

  “What about the visitor logs?”

  “Put in the records request and then slow-walk it. Maybe after the piece runs, Dorman will forget about it.”

  “Alright,” said Lisa. “But Dorman’s a jackal. And from what I hear, this Popilopos guy is a bit of a nut.”

  Jay smiled. “Yeah, but he’s our nut,” he said, laughing. It was becoming an increasingly common saying around the West Wing.

  Lisa just shook her head and left.

  26

  Sal Stanley sat in his spacious, elegantly appointed office in the Capitol surrounded by his leadership team, known informally as “the Sanhedrin.” They sat on twin green Queen Anne sofas anchoring the room: Democratic Whip Leo Wells; Chuck Clay, chairman of the Democratic Senate Campaign Committee and a prodigious fund-raiser; and Pat Broome, chairman of the Democratic Policy Committee. In the past, Michael Kaplan would have attended the meeting, but he was currently on trial just a few blocks down Constitution Avenue. Also joining was Aaron Hayward, chairman of the Finance Committee, to give an update on his investigation into the Long administration politicizing the IRS.

  “We’re not always the best in the world at staying on message, especially when we don’t have the White House’s megaphone,” said Stanley, his hands grasping the arms of his thronelike, wingback chair as though strapped into an electric chair, his long legs crossed, his foot slipped half out of a black loafer, leg bobbing the shoe from the end of his toes in a nervous tic. “But in this case we’ve done a good job pounding home Long’s abuse of power. The narrative is hardening that Long promised to change the way Washington works, and instead he’s treated the sewer like a Jacuzzi.” He allowed himself a low, satisfying chuckle. “The Times editorial today was devastating. Have you guys all seen it?”

  Several heads nodded.

  “No, I haven’t,” said Broome, her fair skin drained of energy by a long day of work, her auburn hair chiseled with flat iron and hair spray to the rough texture of hewed granite. “I’ve been in meetings and hearings all day. What did it say?”

  Stanley turned to one of his ever-present staffers, several of whom sat against the wall in chairs scribbling notes, scrolling through their BlackBerries. “Get today’s Times editorial and make a copy for everybody,” he said. “It called Long out for promising the most ethical administration in history and now tolerating corruption on a Nixonian scale. Said Noble was Long’s Bob Haldeman. As I recall, the headline was, ‘Noble the Ignoble.’”

  Everyone laughed at the skewering of their nemesis and former Democratic wunderkind. Their laughs formed a symphony of nasal guffaws, low wheezes, and high-pitched cackles.

  “That’s rich. That’s classic,” said Broome, her knees bouncing.

  “Just goes to show you, if you want to stick it to your enemies, sometimes the best thing you can do is let ’em win,” joked Clay.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Stanley with a mock grimace. He held open his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Now the shoe’s on the other foot. Can you say ‘subpoena power’?” asked Wells, his lips curled into a sardonic grin.

  “I don’t want to rain on the parade, Mr. Leader,” said Hayward, who had been holding back during the fun and games. “But I got a call from Phil Battaglia today. He’s ready to deal. They’re going to send Noble up to testify.”

  “What?” asked Stanley, incredulous. He shot forward in his chair, the veins in his neck protruding, his nostrils flaring.

  “That’s what Battaglia said,” replied Hayward crisply. “He asked me to come over to the White House tomorrow and work out a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” asked Stanley, his voice rising to a squeal. “There is no deal with this White House. Noble’s been subpoenaed. He will appear before the Finance Committee pursuant to that subpoena, answering all questions truthfully and honestly, under penalty of one year in prison for each count of perjury. Period..

  Hayward recoiled from Stanley’s blast. He was the senior member of the group, having served on the Finance Committee for twenty-four years and chaired it for six years. He didn’t like being told how to run his committee.

  “It’s not that simple, Sal,” he said firmly. “The only way to get the Republicans to agree to issuing subpoenas to the White House and the IRS was to hold a fair hearing. I got a full day with von Fuggers as the sole witness. His testimony was devastating.”

  Several grunted their assent.

  “We have to give Noble the opportunity to respond. If this investigation looks partisan, it will backfire.”

  Stanley methodically tore a mint from its foil wrapper as Hayward droned on self-righteously, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Don’t tell me about partisan witch hunts!” shouted Stanley, hurling the wrapper at the candy bowl. It bounced off the bowl, skittered across the coffee table, and fell to the floor. “A good friend of everyone in this room is on trial right now on trumped-up charges,” he said. “Mike Kaplan is staring at twenty years in federal prison. He faces disbarment. What was his crime? Paying consulting fees to delegates in Virginia! Do you think for one minute this Justice Department hesitated to throw the book at him?” Stanley’s voice quavered. His facial muscles twitched. “Jay Noble blocked an IRS audit of illegal activity by a tax-exempt organization, including the personal enrichment of the head of that organization, forced a career civil servant into retirement, and you tell me to be fair!?” He shook his head. “Aaron, I feel like we’re operating in parallel universes.”

  Hayward maintained his composure, his poker face unmoving. He let his silence speak louder than words: I am not budging. Everyone else stared at the floor, studying the carpet or gazing into space, d
iscomforted by Stanley’s outburst. The pressure of Stanley’s reelection campaign (caused, not incidentally, by Noble’s recruiting Kerry Cartwright to challenge him) and the still-painful loss in the presidential campaign exploded to the surface.

  “Amen,” said Clay, a notorious brownnoser and Stanley dead-ender who was the majority leader’s handpicked choice to run the campaign committee. He rapped his knuckles on the coffee table. “They’ve gone after Kaplan and the leader. Let’s fight fire with fire. Noble should not get any special treatment.”

  “Look, I loathe Noble and everything he represents,” said Wells, who positioned himself to Stanley’s left within the caucus and made no attempt to hide his desire for his job, secretly hoping he was defeated in November. “But I don’t see the White House agreeing to waive executive privilege without ground rules. If we compromise, we still get him in front of the committee.”

  “And not just the committee,” said Stanley, seemingly calming down. “The media, too. They hate him.”

  “Let’s not get carried away. Noble will be lawyered up,” said Broome. “Besides, he’s too smart to out-and-out lie. He’ll review every call and e-mail. Unless we have a witness to directly contradict his testimony, he could be a problem.”

  Stanley glowered, his eyes smoldering. “He’s a problem either way,” he said.

  “Pat’s right,” said Hayward. “Noble’s agreeing to testify is not necessarily a gift. He’ll be well prepared. He’ll dissemble a lot. The Republicans will have their talking points—”

  “Dictated by the White House,” said Wells.

  “Agreed. Which is why I need to work out a deal with Battaglia,” said Hayward. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning into Stanley. “I’ll depose Noble and everyone around him. They’ll be plenty of contradictions if only because people have fuzzy and selective memories. It’s unavoidable.” He arched his eyebrows, his eyes scanning their faces. “I’ve run this investigation to our benefit so far, haven’t I?”

  Stanley appeared to soften, his fleshy jowls sagging. “Of course, Aaron,” he said. “Hans von Fuggers was brilliantly played. I just want to make sure we don’t let Noble hide a crime, and a felony at that, behind executive privilege.”

  Wells cleared his throat. “I think Aaron should go down to the White House tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s see what Battaglia proposes. If we can force Noble to give sworn testimony without unreasonable restrictions, I don’t see how we lose.” Always looking for a way to undermine Stanley—and curry favor with the bulls of the caucus like Hayward, who held the key to his future aspirations to be Democratic leader—Wells stuck in the knife.

  “The key is he has to be sworn. He must be under oath,” said Broome. “The only way to force him to tell the truth is if a perjury rap hangs over him like the sword of Damocles.”

  “Agreed,” said Hayward. “I’ll tell Battaglia that’s nonnegotiable.”

  “Okay, that’s the game plan,” said Stanley. “One final question: what about Stanton? Do you call him?”

  “We’ve discussed that. I lean no,” said Hayward. “It’ll only make him a martyr. He’s on television and radio four hours a day, and he has a big audience.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Besides—and I never said this—in spite of his bluster, he’s cooperated. He veered into gray areas, but I doubt he broke the law.”

  “Don’t let that leave this room,” joked Stanley, to knowing smiles.

  “He’ll raise $10 million on the radio and over the Internet if we call him,” said Clay. “You know the drill: we need a legal defense fund to fight the IRS.”

  “Right,” said Stanley. “But we should highlight his opulent lifestyle. He flies around in a G-5, lives in a mansion, all paid for by little old ladies sending in their Social Security checks.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hayward. “That’ll all get into the record. And we’re planning to depose Ross Lombardy.”

  “Good,” said Clay. “Make that deposition last three days. Run up his legal bills and keep him off the campaign trail. He’s putting the hurt on our candidates.”

  “Alright, Aaron will drive a hard bargain on Noble’s testimony and drop the dime on Stanton with timely leaks to the Post, the Times, and other media outlets without ever calling him to appear as a witness,” said Stanley. “Everybody agree?”

  They all nodded.

  Stanley rose from his chair, the meeting adjourned. He glanced at his body man, who pointed to his watch. They were pressed for time to get to the first of three fund-raisers scheduled that evening. He calculated he would need $45 million for the reelect, not counting union efforts and independent expenditures. He could thank Noble and Long for that.

  JAY’S ASSISTANT STUCK HER HEAD in the door of his office. “It’s Walt Shapiro,” she said in a low voice, cupping her hand over her mouth to make sure no one overheard her mention the name of the most prominent criminal lawyer in town. “Line two.”

  Jay motioned for her to close his door. He placed a call to Shapiro’s direct line at his law firm about an hour earlier. With the Kaplan trial in full swing, he did not expected to hear from him so quickly. His stomach filled with butterflies as he picked up the phone. “Walt, it’s Jay Noble. Thanks for returning my call so promptly.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “It was good to hear from you.”

  “I assumed you had your hands full with the trial and all.”

  “I would have called earlier but couldn’t for that very reason. I’ve got a couple of clients who are witnesses,” said Shapiro smoothly. “How can I help you?”

  The guy’s involved in the biggest corruption trial in DC in a decade and he’s got ice in his veins, thought Jay. “Well, I don’t know if you have a conflict or not,” said Jay slowly. “And I would certainly understand if you felt you needed to refer me to another attorney.” He swallowed hard. “But if you’ve been following the news regarding Hans von Fuggers, who recently retired from the IRS, he’s leveling some serious charges against me.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” said Shapiro. “I don’t have a conflict. Now, obviously, I’ll have to check with my partners and make certain there isn’t anyone else in the firm representing someone else in this matter.” He paused. “I’m trying to remember, who’s representing von Fuggers . . . isn’t it Ted Stricker?”

  “I think that’s right,” said Jay.

  “Ted’s a good lawyer, but I thought he was an odd choice,” said Shapiro obliquely. “It signals more of a media play than litigation.”

  “That’s my impression,” said Jay. “Shopping a book and doing 60 Minutes isn’t about winning a legal settlement. That’s someone looking for an advance.”

  Shapiro sighed. “I’m afraid that’s the way the game is played by too many.”

  “Still, I need to err on the side of caution and defend myself, so I need a criminal attorney who knows how to handle a high-profile case that generates a lot of media interest.” Jay did not mention that he decided to testify before the Senate Finance Committee, fearing it might scare Shapiro away. Better to drop that on Shapiro after he’s on board, he thought.

  “That’s smart,” said Shapiro, his voice calm, his tone soothing. “If more people contacted me before they ever talked to the FBI or prosecutors, there would be a lot fewer people in trouble. Someone’s natural instinct at a time like this is to prove they’ve done nothing wrong; and by trying to disprove a negative, they make mistakes, some of which are fatal.”

  “Exactly,” said Jay. “I know the feeling. All I did was give someone at Treasury a heads-up about complaints I’d received about selective enforcement by the IRS. I didn’t ask for special treatment for anyone. But of course that’s not how it’s going to be portrayed.”

  “Not when it’s you,” said Shapiro. He paused. “So have you decided whether you’re going to have to testify before the committee?”

  Ouch! Jay hoped to dodge that touchy subject. “Not yet,” said Jay slowly. “But frankly, I may have to t
estify, or at least agree to be interviewed by committee staff. We’re war-gaming that now.”

  “Well, I’m not your attorney, at least not yet,” said Shapiro. “But as a general rule I’d try to avoid appearing before the committee.”

  “I agree,” said Jay. “But why?”

  “I’m not worried about your telling the truth,” said Shapiro. “But I don’t want to give them the money shot.”

  “You mean the photo of me raising my right hand, being sworn in?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m beginning to think it might be better to go ahead and testify rather than be crucified in absentia,” said Jay.

  “What’s going on now is still less problematic than testifying,” said Shapiro. “To a certain extent, von Fuggers gets discounted as a disgruntled former employee.”

  Jay grunted in acknowledgment. “How soon do you think you can determine whether or not your firm has a conflict? Obviously this thing is moving pretty fast.”

  “We can do our due diligence by tomorrow. I’ll call you then. Assuming there are no unanticipated issues, maybe we can sit down tomorrow afternoon.”

  The two men exchanged contact information and hung up. Jay was now more confused than ever. His head told him to listen to Shapiro’s advice and ignore the committee’s subpoena, while his heart told him he could no longer serve Long effectively unless he cleared his name. He didn’t know which to follow, his head or his heart.

  27

  Lisa Robinson approached the podium in the White House briefing room trailed by a coterie of grim-faced aides, wearing a black skirt, white blouse, and aqua jacket. Her flowing black hair, turned-up nose, blue eyes, lush lashes, milky-white complexion, and immaculate makeup gave her the appearance of a china doll, but she was all business. “I have a message from the president. I’ll read it and then take your questions,” she said crisply.