Ballots and Blood Read online

  Late-arriving reporters scrambled to their seats. In the front row, Dan Dorman of the Washington Post glanced at a colleague expectantly as if to say: Here it comes.

  “I am returning herewith without my approval S.R. 6, ‘The Comprehensive Iran Sanctions and Human Rights Act,’” said Lisa, reading. “The bill fails to address the danger posed by Iran’s nuclear weapons program, its designation by the State Department as the leading state sponsor of terrorism in the world and its involvement in the proliferation of nuclear technology to terrorist organizations, including the network of Rassem el Zafarshan.” Lisa’s recitation was punctuated by the click-whir of still photographers recording the scene. “The House bill instructed the Director of National Intelligence (DNI) to report to the Executive Office of the President (EOP) and the Congress on the efficacy of the sanctions within 120 days. It also authorized ‘any and all measures deemed necessary’ to disarm Iran of nuclear weapons.”

  Lisa pressed her lips into a thin line of lipstick. “However, this provision is not included in the final conference report. Its absence endangers the security and vital interests of the United States, which I cannot countenance as commander in chief. The bill fails to deal adequately with one of the most serious national security issues facing our nation, and for that reason I return it without my approval. Signed, Robert W. Long.”

  Finished, Lisa grabbed the podium as though bracing for battle. “Any questions?”

  “Lisa, how disappointed is the president that he has been effectively humiliated by the Congress on the eve of the European Union meeting?” asked CBS. “Doesn’t this weaken him just before one of the most critical meetings with U.S. allies in years?”

  “No,” said Lisa firmly. “This isn’t about who’s up or who’s down. The issue is: the overwhelming preponderance of evidence indicates Iran has weaponized a nuclear device. The intelligence community has concluded it possesses long-range missile technology capable of striking many capitals in Europe. This bill did not adequately confront that threat.”

  “But the president is asking the EU to enact crippling sanctions when he has failed to do so himself,” said FOX News.

  Lisa bristled. “This has nothing to do with the sanctions. The president supports the sanctions in the bill. The problem is the failure to include a certification process on their efficacy and an explicit authorization for ‘all necessary measures.’ The president previously pledged to veto the bill if these two provisions were not included. He has now done so.”

  “Why not sign the sanctions bill and then seek military authorization in three to six months?” asked Reuters. “Why throw the baby out with the bath?”

  “This is not a time for half-measures. Iran has a uniquely dangerous combination of nuclear weapons and ties to terrorists,” replied Lisa. She glanced down at Dan Dorman, whom she had deliberately passed over for the first few questions. “Dan?” Everyone braced for fireworks; Lisa and Dorman famously despised each other, a legacy of their frosty relationship during the campaign.

  “Lisa, if the president doesn’t persuade the European Union to enforce strict sanctions against Iran, then it seems clear that, along with this defeat in Congress, he’s completely failed to stop Iran’s nuclear weapons program, hasn’t he?”

  Lisa’s face hardened as Dorman asked his question. “I can’t address a hypothetical, Dan. Your question presumes a lack of action by the EU. I reject the premise of your question.”

  “But the U.S. isn’t doing what the president wants the EU to do, so why should they?”

  “My answer is identical to my answer to your original question,” said Lisa, her voice jagged. Ever the pro, Lisa stayed on message. But it didn’t change the fact that Long was headed to Rome empty-handed, hoping his European allies bailed him out. Lisa was just glad the press didn’t know the worst part: Air Force One was wheels up in three hours, and the president still didn’t have the votes in the EU to pass sanctions.

  KERRY CARTWRIGHT LUMBERED INTO THE Hispanic Family Center of Southern New Jersey in Camden, serving one of the largest Puerto Rican communities outside of the island, as well as Mexican-Americans. The Garden State boasted the seventh-largest Hispanic population in the nation, and Cartwright was on the hunt for their votes. He loped to the front of the room and stood behind a small podium wearing a crooked grin, a five o’clock shadow, and the searching eyes of a statewide candidate. A banner behind him read: “Viva Familiar Hispano!”

  A group of Latino children enrolled in the center’s preschool program sat in a circle around Cartwright, bright-eyed, youthful props for the cameras. Their mothers stood beneath the banner, wearing expressions ranging from bemused pleasure to stage fight. In the back of the room stood a row of reporters, their faces reflecting their boredom with Cartwright’s disciplined, cash-rich, consultant-driven campaign.

  “Thank you so much for having me, Jose,” said Cartwright, nodding in the direction of the center’s executive director. “As governor, I’ve made partnering with the Hispanic community a major priority of my administration. I believe strongly in the idea that parents, families, grassroots groups, and faith-based organizations can do a better job of caring for our children and seniors than government. I believe the main duty of government is to assist what Edmund Burke called these ‘little platoons,’ and then largely get out of the way.” He spoke easily and freely, without a note, his right hand chopping the air, the other hand stuffed in his pocket. “I believe we’ve established a model of how to do that here in New Jersey. It’s a model I want to take to the entire country, should I be fortunate enough to be elected as the next U.S. senator from our state.”

  Cartwright spun on his heel and turned to face the mothers behind him. “Are some of you ready to tell us how the Hispanic Family Center has helped you?” he asked, arching his eyebrows theatrically. They shifted nervously. “Don’t worry about the press . . . they don’t bite.” His eyes twinkled. “At least not you, only me!” Everyone laughed.

  Finally, one woman raised her hand. “I say something,” she said.

  “Come on up,” said Cartwright, waving her to the podium.

  “I work as a dispatcher for a local trucking company—”

  Cartwright leaned forward. “Tell everyone your name.”

  “Oh—sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “My name Mercedes Bonilla. I am from Puerto Rico. I am a single mother raising two children, a six-year-old daughter and a four-year-old son. The preschool program at Hispanic Family Center has been an answer to prayer for me and my family.” Her eyes welled up. The other moms nodded knowingly. “I couldn’t be as good a mother without it.” She turned to Cartwright. “I thank God for you, Governor, for understanding the needs of families like mine.” She began to cry.

  Cartwright instinctively enveloped her in a hug. She sobbed on his shoulder as he patted her back with the palms of his hands. In the back of the room, Bill Spadea, Cartwright’s campaign strategist, was beaming. Several of the reporters rolled their eyes.

  The remarks concluded, the video of the event duly recorded for the campaign Web site, Cartwright pumped hands and hugged necks, heading for the door. As he walked, the press surrounded him like bumblebees around a daisy. Cartwright’s press spokesman moved to his side to play defense.

  “Governor, Sal Stanley has a new ad up accusing you of breaking your promise to lower property taxes for homeowners,” said the Bergen Record. “Do you have a response?”

  “You bet I have a response!” blurted Cartwright, stopping dead in his tracks. “Sal Stanley attacking me on property taxes is like Paris Hilton lecturing someone on modesty,” he said, his face animated. “Sal was governor for two terms, and over those eight years property taxes in New Jersey doubled. When I took office, they were the highest in the nation. So it takes real chutzpah for Stanley to attack me.”

  The reporters’ faces lit up like children on Christmas morning. The Latino photo op was over. . . . Now they were getting the juicy stuff. This was fun!
/>   “You promised to hold annual property tax increases to no more than a percent or the rate of inflation, whichever was lower,” pointed out the New York Times. “But property taxes are up 14 percent since you were elected. So what about Stanley’s ad is inaccurate?”

  Cartwright’s nostrils flared. His lip quivered. “That’s a flat-out lie,” he said, his voice brittle. “The annual increases have been lower than I promised in some years, and there was only one year in which the increase was higher than I pledged. When Stanley was governor, property taxes doubled. Actually, more than doubled.” He turned to his spokesman. “What was the actual number again?”

  “One hundred and eight percent,” said the aide.

  “One hundred and eight percent!” exclaimed Cartwright. He did a quick calculation in his head. “So the average increase in taxes on New Jersey home owners was more in just one year under Stanley than in the entire five years since I became governor.”

  “But the fact is taxes have risen more than you promised,” said the Gazette Herald.

  “Are you a reporter or Sal Stanley’s press secretary?” shot back Cartwright. “The ad is a lie. If Sal were Pinocchio, his nose would be growing.”

  The press corps could barely repress their smiles. As Cartwright lumbered past them to a state Town Car warming on the curb, they surrounded his press spokesman. “Can we get an official quote from you on Stanley’s ad?” asked the Associated Press.

  “I think you just got one,” deadpanned the spokesman.

  “No that was from the governor,” said the Times. “That’s different.”

  “Sure,” replied the spokesman. He paused, wheels turning. “How about this: Sal Stanley is a desperate, big-spending Washington politician trying to change the subject from his abysmal record on taxes and ethics. This ad is just his latest failed attempt to distract from the massive property tax hikes that took place during this governorship and the corruption staining him as senator, for which his top aide is now on trial.” He flashed a nasty grin.

  The reporters nodded and laughed, closing their pads and shuffling away.

  Cartwright lowered his bulky frame into the Town Car, pulling the door closed. Spadea sat to his left, looking crestfallen. He knew the footage of the emotional embrace with the Latino mother would now be subsumed by his candidate’s unscripted swipe at Stanley.

  “I know you didn’t like what I said,” said Cartwright, staring straight ahead. “But I learned a long time ago, when someone hits you, you hit back twice as hard.”

  Spadea shrugged. It was just another day at the office for him. “Guess what Jose, the center’s ED, told me as we were leaving?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “He got a call from Stanley’s chief of staff yesterday when they saw the event on the calendar. Asked him if it was true. When he said it was, the chief of staff told Jose not to count on any further help from them on federal grants. Basically tried to muscle him into canceling.”

  “He threatened to try to torpedo his federal grants?” asked Cartwright, incredulous.

  “Yep. Tried to intimidate him into bailing out of our event.”

  “I wish we had that on tape.”

  “Me, too,” said Spadea. “Jose was so insulted he said he’s going to redouble his efforts for us in the Puerto Rican community.”

  Cartwright stared out the window. “Stanley’s feeling the heat. Look at his new ad.” He turned to Spadea. “We’re really in a knifefight, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are, Governor,” said Spadea.

  LONG LEANED BACK IN THE leather captain’s chair in his private office on Air Force One wearing a blue jacket bearing the presidential seal with “Air Force One” stenciled in gold thread. Truman Greenglass sat directly across from him wearing a pensive expression on his face. They were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, heading for Rome.

  “Anatoly, time’s up for the Iranians,” said Long. “We’re done playing hide the ball. We know they’ve got the nuke. Now I need to know . . . can I count on your vote?”

  He sat impassively, rocking slowly in the chair, listening to the Russian leader’s response. “Mmmm-mmmm,” he said quietly.

  Another long pause. “Iran’s nuclear program will be dismantled or disabled,” he said forcefully. “That decision is made. The only question is how. EU sanctions are our last chance to avoid war. If they work, we may be able to avoid military action.”

  Long’s face flushed red. “Anatoly, I’m not surrendering any options in dealing with Iran. Now having said that, I don’t have war plans on my desk.” He brushed a piece of lint off his pants with a sweep of his hand. “If we don’t pass EU sanctions, I may have no other choice. Do I make myself clear?” A final pause. “Alright, do all you can. I need your support.”

  Long hung up the phone.

  “Well?” asked Greenglass.

  “The Russians have convinced themselves anything that hurts the Iranian civilian population is counterproductive,” Long replied. “That rules out serious sanctions. They’re also arguing it’s never been verified independently that the Iranians weaponized a nuclear device.”

  “Did he say he won’t vote with us?”

  “No,” said Long. The side of his mouth turned up. “Anatoly knows without sanctions, we’ll go full out on missile defense—and share technology with the Israelis and moderate Arab states. That is not good for him.”

  “He’s also conflicted by the fact a military strike would put some Russian-built nuclear facilities in danger of being hit,” said Greenglass.

  “Outside of the Brits and the French, the Europeans have got no backbone for this fight,” said Long, letting out a sigh. “We need the Italians.”

  “That’s why you’re meeting with Brodi as soon as we land.”

  “Good. Let’s get him on board.”

  “I’ll get a bottle of wine and invite over a couple of dancers,” joked Greenglass. “That’ll get his vote.”

  “It’s like lobbying the Olympic site selection committee, isn’t it?” replied Long. He got up from behind the desk, pacing the floor, his hands on his hips. “This is the greatest threat since the end of the Cold War, Truman, and we’re hunting down go-go dancers and bottles of vintage vodka for people. Where are the Churchills and the De Gaulles?”

  “Dead and gone, sir.”

  “You got that right.” Long turned and headed for the small bedroom off the office. “I’m going to try to get some shut-eye,” he said. “Keep working it.”

  “Yes, sir.” As Greenglass headed for the conference room, he glanced at his watch. They would touch down in Rome in four hours. If the EU rejected the U.S.-backed sanctions package, they faced more than just public humiliation. They faced a possible military strike against Tehran, and they still didn’t have congressional authorization.

  28

  Sal Stanley sat bolt upright in the witness box in the Federal Court House, ending months of speculation over whether he would endanger his own reelection by testifying on behalf of Mike Kaplan. Wearing a blue suit with muted pinstripes, white shirt, and blue patterned tie, Stanley appeared confident. He was never one to shrink from a fight.

  The defense counsel was wrapping up his softball questions. He stood facing the jury, one hand in his pocket, his face expansive and inviting. He turned to face Stanley. “Senator, how long have you known Mr. Kaplan?”

  “Twenty-seven years,” replied Stanley.

  “Twenty-seven years,” repeated the attorney, punching the syllables for emphasis. “And how would you describe your relationship?”

  “Mike is a good friend and a trusted advisor.”

  “And since you knew him so well over so many years, I would imagine there are few people other than his immediate family who know him better. How would you describe Mike Kaplan’s character?”

  Stanley looked directly at the jury. “Mike is an unselfish public servant and a trusted advisor who gave me sound counsel. He is a man of discretion and integrity.”

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sp; The defense counsel smiled. “That’s quite an endorsement, Senator.”

  “Mike is a rare individual. He is a fine man.”

  “Thank you.” The defense counsel turned to the prosecution table as he sat down. “Your witness,” he said.

  The lead prosecutor rose from his chair and walked directly to Stanley, stopping no more than two feet from the witness stand. Stanley shifted in his seat, anticipating blows.

  “Senator Stanley, Mike Kaplan was your campaign manager when you ran for governor of New Jersey the first time, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “He directed your transition, and you then named him chief of staff.”

  “That is correct.”

  “How long did he serve as chief of staff?”

  “I believe it was a little over three years. He ran the day-to-day operations of the office, scheduling, policy development, and the budget.”

  The prosecutor ignored the embellishment. “After which you appointed him to chair your reelection campaign.”

  “Yes.”

  “After you were reelected, you appointed Mr. Kaplan to become the head of the New Jersey Port Authority.”

  “Yes.”

  “Previous testimony before this court has indicated that after four years as head of the port authority, he joined an international export-import law firm.”

  “Yes,” said Stanley.

  “To your knowledge, there were no state ethics rules or regulations preventing him from interacting with the New Jersey Port Authority in his new capacity?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Not that I am aware of.” Stanley’s face hardened.

  “I see.” The prosecutor paused, turning to make eye contact with the jury. “Do you have any idea what Mike Kaplan’s net worth was at the time of his indictment?”

  “No,” replied Stanley icily.

  The prosecutor approached Stanley, placing his hands on the rail of the witness stand. “Senator, it’s not an exaggeration to say that Mike Kaplan owes his entire career to you, is it?”