Ballots and Blood (29 page)

Singer cleared her throat nervously. “My name is Jillian Ann Singer, and until recently I was the founder and CEO of Adult Alternatives, LLC,” she began in a too loud voice. Her attorney reached over and adjusted the microphone, moving it farther away. “After spending most of my career as a model and an actress, I founded the company eight years ago to give consenting adults a safe and healthy place to pursue fantasies and explore the boundaries of adult play in ways both non-judgmental and fully compliant with the law.”

On the front row the press sat on the edge of their seats, their eyes lit up like Christmas trees. The thought bubbles over their heads seemed to scream:
Is this really happening? It's too good to be true!

In the back of the room, Dan Dorman leaned over to Satcha Sanchez, never one to miss a drive-by shooting. “Actress?” he whispered. “Is that what you call a chick who starred in
Lonely Wives, Home Alone
?”

“I haven't had this much fun since Monica Lewinsky,” muttered Satcha under her breath. “TMZ alert!”

“Forget TMZ, we'll have it on page 1, column 1 tomorrow,” joked Dorman.

“At Adult Alternatives, we viewed ourselves as being in the entertainment business,” continued Singer, her eyes fixed to her text. “We provided our clients, many of whom came from prominent positions in business and government, with an escape from the conformity and convention of their daily lives.” The media perked up at the reference to prominent leaders in business and government. Might she name names? “Adult Alternatives was not a prostitution ring. Sex between employees and clients during paid sessions was strictly prohibited, and that prohibition was included in a written employment agreement. This policy was strictly enforced, and violation could lead to termination of an employee.” She paused. “If employees chose to see clients on their own time, that was their right, but they were not to be compensated.”

Her defense complete, Singer moved to the money line. “Discretion and confidentiality were the guiding principles of my business from the beginning,” she said, her chin raised. “We always treated the client relationship as sacred and inviolable. However, if the government prosecutes me, I will release the client list to the media and the public.” The press corps rustled in anticipation, seeming to beg,
Do it now!
“I will do so reluctantly, not to cause public pain for my former clients, but so those clients can verify we never provided sex for hire. This is the only way to vindicate myself and salvage my reputation and the reputations of my employees.”

Singer's attorney approached the podium, barely able to repress her joy. In the back of the room, more than thirty television cameras recorded the scene. As the two women stood together, clasping their hands together in support, still camera shutters clicked and whirred. It was a media feeding frenzy.

“Before Jillian Ann takes your questions,” said the lawyer. “I want to state that due to the ongoing FBI investigation, she will be unable to answer any questions about Adult Alternatives or the circumstances of his death.”

“Ms. Singer, are you claiming that not a single client of Adult Alternatives had sex with an employee?” shouted the Associated Press. “You expect the American people to believe that?”

Singer leaned into the microphone. “Yes,” she said. “Our employees playacted with clients, entertained them, and empowered them to actualize fantasies. They did not have sex with clients during sessions on company time.”

The attorney moved aggressively, a grave expression on her face, and leaned into the microphone. “Just to be clear, the operative word here is ‘during sessions.' Adult Alternatives had no control over what employees did on their own time, any more than any other employer would. If they chose to see clients after hours, which they may have, it is a free country, and Jillian Ann could not prohibit them from doing so.”

“Isn't that a convenient ruse?” shouted Reuters. “So they met for sex elsewhere?”

“No,” fired back the attorney, who seized control of the news conference, sucking all the oxygen out of the room while simultaneously protecting her client, who gradually assumed a deer-in-the-headlights pose. “It was a written company policy, signed by all employees, and it was in full compliance with both federal and District of Columbia law.”

“I wonder if I could ask Ms. Singer a question,” said Dan Dorman from the back of the room. Heads swiveled. Dorman was a bigfoot. Singer approached the microphone with obvious trepidation. “Ms. Singer, do I understand you correctly that if you are arrested on any charges, you will release the client list? Or do you hold out the possibility you will keep it confidential in exchange for reduced charges by prosecutors?”

“If arrested on any charge, I will release the client list,” said Singer, her facial features hardening.

“Why not release it
now
.” asked
the
Huffington Post
. “Doesn't the public have a right to know?”

Her attorney grabbed the microphone again. “We have no plans to negotiate with the Justice Department or the district attorney for reduced charges. Jillian Ann has done nothing illegal. If charged, we will fight the charges and release the client list.” She allowed herself a slight smile, the ends of her mouth turned up. “If we were to go to trial, which I think is unlikely, we will call former clients to testify. Thank you all very much.”

Singer and her attorney exited stage left, accompanied by two rent-a-cops with crew cuts and grim expressions hired for the occasion. They ignored shouted questions from the media.

“Will Amber Abica be charged with being an accomplice to murder?”

“Did you have any other terrorists among your clients?”

As the press filed out of the room to head back to the office and write or produce their stories, their eyes danced with undisguised glee.

“This just got a lot more interesting,” said Dorman.

“You think there are big names on that client list?” asked Satcha.

“I sure hope so,” replied Dorman, smiling.

PHIL BATTAGLIA LEANED FORWARD, HIS elbows on his desk, wearing his best game face. Jay slumped in the chair opposite him, his arms crossed, a studied scowl on his face, looking all the world like a middle-school cutup called to the principal's office. Lisa sat straight-backed in the chair next to him, a legal pad on her lap, thumbing through a printout of that day's page 1 mud ball from the
New York Times
. The headline screamed, “IRS Agent Resigns After White House Blocked Audit of Evangelist Ally.” The story generated chatter throughout the West Wing all morning about how best to respond. This was the gathering of the war council.

“I've called this meeting at Lisa's request,” said Phil slowly, his fleshy jowls hanging, his face puffy. “I feel like we're going in circles. We keep having the same meeting.”

Jay glanced at Lisa. He didn't want to go next.

“The
Times
story is their usual hit piece,” said Lisa. “It's based entirely on the charges of a disgruntled former employee at the IRS and anonymous sources at Treasury. It's pretty ugly. The bigger problem is the rest of the press takes their cues from the
Times.
”

“I saw it,” said Battaglia. “They're conflating Jay's contact with the White House liaison at Treasury with a decision by a career IRS legal counsel not to proceed with a lower-level recommendation to revoke the tax-exempt status of Stanton's ministry. They're trying to stir the pot before the Finance Committee holds its hearings.”

“Look, guys, I'm a target,” said Jay matter-of-factly. “This is why I didn't want to come to the White House in the first place. But I'm here now, and this is the price of doing business.”

Lisa turned to Jay, her eyes open and sympathetic. He felt his stomach jump. A thought rifled through his mind: was she still attracted to him? Or was it just a combination of his imagination and his own deep yearnings?

“Jay, I know you believe I think you're a liability to the president,” she said, her voice soft. “But that's not the case. I know you're being attacked because you're effective. You helped save Marco Diaz's confirmation, you've held our electoral coalition together, and you're critical to us winning control of the Senate in November.”

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

M
embers 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.