The Jury Master (32 page)

After the initial shock of Castañeda’s blunder, the West Wing regrouped, drew up the drawbridges, and hunkered down. Madsen gave strict orders to the White House press secretary that no confirmation of Castañeda’s statement was to be released; the White House was to have no official comment. First they needed to find out exactly what Castañeda had and had not said. Calls to reach him had not been successful. Whatever Castañeda did say, Madsen feared it was premature. Mexico’s chief negotiator, Miguel Ibarón, had hinted that Mexico was prepared to accept the most recent United States offer, which had precipitated the South American summit, but there had been no further confirmation. It was not that simple. Agreeing to assist the Mexicans to increase their oil production and actually being able to do it profitably were two entirely different things. It was not like the Middle East, which spewed oil from each hole punched in the ground. Madsen preached caution, but Robert Peak, more concerned that Castañeda had stolen the spotlight and desperately in need of a little illumination with his approval rating plummeting, compounded Madsen’s problem by scheduling an evening address to the nation. It had only further stirred the news media pot.

Madsen stretched his neck and felt it pop. His legs ached for exercise, and his ear remained red and sore from the relentless telephone calls, one politician or bureaucrat after another. It was what he detested about Washington: the need for every decision to be considered, reconsidered, and considered again. Everyone had an interest. Everyone had a political chit to call in. No wonder nothing was ever accomplished. There were so many middlemen, so many t’s to be crossed and i’s to be dotted, you couldn’t take a crap without needing presidential authorization to wipe your ass.

That would change. Madsen would be a commander in chief unlike any Washington had ever seen. He’d make decisions. His decisions would stand.

While he waited for a draft copy of the president’s speech, Madsen picked up one of the newspapers on his desk. The stack remained untouched. He scanned the headlines and paragraphs his staff had underlined. After a quick twenty minutes he picked up the paper at the end of the stack, a copy of the
Boston Globe.
The double-column headline caught his attention immediately:

BRANICK FAMILY TO

HIRE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

He smirked. Let them. Let them spend their money. Maybe then they’d be satisfied. Their investigation would come up blank, and they’d be forced to back off their criticism of the DOJ. Death was another thing that separated civilians from soldiers. Soldiers understood that death was always a possibility. People lived and people died. Some died in service to their country, defending the principles on which it was founded. Others died of old age. But they died. It was their time. Soldiers came to accept death as a part of nature’s cycle. Civilians never did. They grieved for years for deceased spouses, parents, and children. They made shrines to those who had gone before them, prayed to them for guidance and counseling. When his Olivia died Madsen had allowed himself forty-eight hours to get his affairs in order and move on. He had needed just thirty-six.

He read the article beneath the headline. The news conference had been held in Boston, outside the family home. The article reported little of substance. Madsen was about to put it down when his eyes shifted to the photograph accompanying it. A woman stood at a microphone, surrounded by a dozen people. It looked like a gathering of the fucking Kennedys. The caption identified the woman as Aileen Branick Blair, Rivers Jones’s nemesis. That brought a wide smile to Madsen’s face. Jones had sounded relieved to learn that Blair was heading back to Boston and sending her husband to clean out Joe Branick’s office. Madsen looked at his watch. Jon Blair was likely meeting with Peak at this very moment. Then it would be over. The family wouldn’t want to dig in the boneyard Madsen had created for them.

He looked again at the photograph. Joe Branick’s family encircled Blair like a gospel revival group, the whole Irish Catholic clan present in a show of support, starting with the man directly at her side. Her husband.

Jon Blair.

P
EAK REGARDED SLOANE
with the doleful blue-gray eyes and measured smile that had become famous during the campaign, and which Washington satirists now exploited in political cartoons. Nothing in those eyes indicated either recognition or confusion.

“Jon. It’s a pleasure. I only wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

Sloane felt the collective weight of a thousand gorillas lifted off his shoulders. “Mr. President,” he said, shaking Peak’s hand. “Thank you for seeing me. I can only imagine how busy your schedule is. I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time.”

“Call me Robert, please, and don’t apologize. This was my idea, after all. I’m sorry Aileen could not be here. I haven’t seen her for quite some time.”

“She’ll be disappointed,” Sloane replied. He looked to Jones. “We didn’t know . . .”

“I understand. I wanted to speak to you directly,” Peak said. He looked to Jones. “Thank you, Rivers.”

Jones turned to Sloane and shook his hand, all business. “There’ll be a car waiting at the West Gate for you. You’ll be escorted there.” He handed Sloane a business card. “Please feel free to call me at any time, for any reason.”

Sloane took the card. “You’ve been most accommodating, Mr. Jones. I’m very grateful to have had the chance to meet you and for all of your hard work. I’ll be certain to pass it on to the rest of the family.”

Jones beamed like a kid getting a compliment in front of the class, gripped Sloane’s shoulder, and exited through the door where the woman with the bug jewelry stood waiting. The door closed behind her.

Peak guided Sloane to one of the two blue-and-beige striped couches. He sat in the rocking chair, taking a moment to pour himself a glass of water from a pitcher on a marble table. “I’m supposed to drink eight glasses a day for a thyroid condition. I use the bathroom more than I use the telephone.” He held the pitcher up to Sloane.

Sloane nodded. “Please.”

The glass would also serve as a prop, something to keep his hands occupied and to allow him to stall for time, if he needed it.

“How’s Barbara doing?” Peak asked, as if on cue.

Sloane took the cup and sipped at the edge. He knew from the newspaper articles that Joe Branick’s wife’s name was Katherine. Branick had two daughters. It was unlikely Peak had singled out one over the other. By process of elimination he deduced that Peak’s inquiry was about Branick’s mother, but he couldn’t take the chance he might be wrong.

“As well as can be expected. She’s taking it hard. This is about the last thing any of us ever expected.”

Peak’s chest suddenly heaved and shuddered. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and blotted his eyes, which had quickly watered. The emotion seemed to come from nowhere. Sloane had not expected it.

“I’m sorry.” Peak took a moment to regain his composure. “Other than Sherri, you’re really the first person I’ve had the chance to talk with about this since I delivered the news to Katherine. I guess it overwhelmed me.”

“I understand,” Sloane said. Despite the sudden burst of emotion, he could not feel the depth of Robert Peak’s pain. When he tried it was like a rock skipping across the surface of a body of water, deflected away.

“Joe and I have known each other for forty years. It seems like only yesterday we were at Georgetown. We had so much ambition.” He smiled at the memory and cleared his throat. “We talked about this, you know? We talked about sitting in this very office. The first time we met here we had a drink and toasted to ambition and fulfilled dreams.” Peak blew out a breath. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I get up every morning and I think it was just a bad dream, that it wasn’t real. Then I see a story in the paper or I turn to ask him a question at a staff meeting, and he isn’t there.” He shook his head. “I relied on him heavily. I relied on his advice so heavily.”

Sloane nodded in silence.

Peak continued. “I’ve known Katherine almost as long as I’ve known Joe. You know, I was the best man at their wedding?”

“Yes,” Sloane said.

“The hardest part was talking with little Joe, seeing his pain. They were so close. I envied their relationship. God knows I love my daughters, but . . . well, when Joe asked me to be little Joe’s godfather, that was a very proud moment for me.”

“You’ve been a good friend, Mr. President. I know Joe felt the same way.”

Peak shook his head. “Robert, please,” he said again. “And I’m not so sure. If I had been a better friend, perhaps this would not have happened.”

The door to the room opened. The woman with the killer brooch entered carrying a tray of sandwiches and fruit. She left it on the table between them. “Rivers indicated you had lunch plans. I thought you might be hungry,” Peak said.

Sloane nodded. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

There was a brief pause. Peak rubbed a hand across his chin, then sat forward, getting down to business. “I wanted to speak to you directly, Jon. I’m afraid the investigation has uncovered some troubling information.”

Sloane put his glass of water on the table, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap. “Troubling?”

Peak stood, walked to his desk to retrieve a manila file, and handed it to Sloane, sitting as Sloane opened it. “It was found in Joe’s briefcase.”

Sloane pulled out a handwritten letter sheathed in plastic. Evidence. The letter detailed how Joe Branick loved his wife and family and never meant to cause them any pain. It rambled, sometimes angry, sometimes confusing—the words of a man on the edge. There was a woman involved. Sloane read the letter carefully, then reread it, committing things to memory in case he needed to talk about them with Aileen Blair. Then he put it back in the plastic sleeve. This was one of those moments he was expected to say something, to express shock. He went with his instincts.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said after a pause.

Peak pushed away from the back of the rocking chair. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to break that to you, Jon, but it’s one of the reasons I wanted this meeting. I didn’t want the family to hear this from anyone else. I ordered Joe’s office sealed and I had most of Joe’s personal papers removed.”

“That was your decision?”

“I suspected something like that,” he said, pointing to the letter.

Sloane looked up at him. “You suspected this?”

“I was aware Joe was having an affair, Jon.” Peak sat back down and leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded. “It went on for some time. Joe was discreet, but I won’t lie and say I didn’t know about it. Katherine, as you know, was not fond of Washington and all of the public events. Joe usually attended alone. We talked about it once, but he said it wasn’t my place, and I respected that. He was my friend, not my son. It wasn’t for me to judge him.”

Sloane continued to study Robert Peak’s eyes, but he remained unable to get past them, to feel anything about what Peak was thinking. Despite the gravity of the moment, and though Peak’s tears appeared to have flowed freely, Sloane could feel no angst or inner turmoil emanating from the man. He saw Peak like Dan Rather at the CBS news desk: flat and devoid of emotion.

“I’ll be honest. When it started I was more concerned with how it might reflect on my administration. I was concerned about a scandal.” Peak shook his head. “It was shortsighted.”

This was an unexpected turn of events, a surprise witness at trial. It was impossible to be fully prepared to respond. The key was to obtain as much information as possible without looking alarmed. “Who is the woman?” Sloane asked.

“She lives in McLean,” Peak said. “None of us is innocent of wanting things we can’t have. I can only imagine the pain and confusion Joe must have been experiencing when he realized his mistake, not to mention the guilt.”

“Has anyone spoken to her?”

Peak shook his head, a grave expression on his face. “Not yet.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “This is delicate, Jon. If the Justice Department starts hammering on her, she’s liable to get an attorney and we’ll have one hell of a circus. I’m not worried about covering my own ass anymore. I’m too damn angry for that. But I don’t want this for your family, for Joe’s family. I don’t want the press kicking him around like a football, not after everything Katherine and the children have been through. I want them to remember the husband and father they loved and respected.” He sat back, contemplative. “The last couple of days I’ve thought a lot about John F. Kennedy Jr. and that moment captured by thousands of cameras when he put his hand underneath the flag to touch his father’s coffin. I thought of what he had to live through over the next thirty years. Wasn’t it enough that he lost his father?” Peak used the handkerchief to wipe errant tears from the corners of his eyes.

Sloane’s mind swirled with questions, but he knew he was already pushing the envelope, that it was time to wrap this up and make a graceful exit before making a mistake. He knew it instinctively. He knew it from experience. And yet he found himself pressing, because the voice of Aileen Branick Blair kept telling him not to believe it.

Let’s get one thing straight before you get started and waste both of our time. My brother did not kill himself.

Sloane believed her. “May I ask how you know all of this? If no one has spoken to this woman, where did this information come from?”

Peak blew his nose into the handkerchief and wiped his upper lip, then took another drink of water. “Joe was here the night before he died. We spoke for about a half hour in my private quarters in the White House. It was all the time I could give him; I had a state dinner to attend.” Peak refilled his glass and took a drink. “I tried to get him to stay but . . . Joe was agitated and upset, Jon. He wasn’t himself. Still, I never suspected . . . Joe was not the type of man . . .” Peak’s voice trailed. After a moment, when he had regained his composure, he said, “I tried to calm him. I tried to get him to drink some coffee and clear his head and spend the night at the White House. He wouldn’t have it.”