Ballots and Blood (41 page)

“I see. You would have been
delinquent,
” said Hayward sarcastically. “Is that particularly true if the organization in question turned out millions of votes for Bob Long?”

“No, sir. But they raised the concerns, and I passed them on. That's my job.”

A staff member handed Hayward a sheet of paper. His eyes scanning the contents. “Mr. Noble, please turn to Exhibit 450-A.” He waited as Jay and Shapiro flipped through a large binder to the page. “This is an e-mail from Mr. Thomas to Ross Lombardy on November 20. It reads, ‘OPP sent nomination of Lee Fenty for IRS commish to Hill. Solid guy. Andy will be pleased.'” He stared down at Jay, his eyes accusing. “Obviously a reference to Reverend Stanton getting more favorable treatment from the new commissioner of the IRS. I suppose this would be another example of something being decided solely on the merits?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Fenty was a career civil servant with impeccable qualifications.”

“You see nothing unusual about the White House political director telling a prominent supporter being audited by the IRS that he'll be pleased with the new management?”

“Senator, Mr. Fenty has already testified no one at the White House encouraged him to give favorable treatment to Andy Stanton,” fired back Jay. “If you're suggesting this e-mail was part of a White House attempt to influence the IRS, then apparently Mr. Fenty disagrees.”

“Mr. von Fuggers agrees,” said Hayward impatiently. “So do two other IRS agents who have testified to White House interference.” He picked up a stack of papers, waving it for the cameras as still photo shutters fluttered. “How would Mr. Fenty know? He was not confirmed until after von Fuggers was reassigned and resigned in disgust.”

“If that is the case, then according to your time line, Mr. Fenty could not have been part of a conspiracy to influence an audit if he came to the IRS after the fact. You can't have it both ways, Senator.”

“Don't tell me what I can and can't have, Mr. Noble,” bellowed Hayward, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You're the witness. Keep that in mind?”

“Yes, Senator.”

Walt Shapiro nearly came out of his chair. He leaned into the microphone. “Mr. Chairman, with all due respect, is this a hearing or an inquisition?”

“Counselor, I've served in the senate for twenty-four years and chaired this committee for eight years. Are you trying to tell me how to conduct a hearing?”

“No, Senator, but I believe this is known in a court of law as brow-beating the witness,” said Shapiro, eyes aflame, his jaw firm.

“You're not in a court of law!” shouted Hayward. “You may well be in court before this is over. But today you are at
my
hearing before
my
committee, and your client will answer
my
questions.”

“He has answered all your questions, and he will continue to do so pursuant to the White House's agreement with this committee, Senator,” said Shapiro. “I'm only asking that he be treated with a modicum of decency and respect.”

“Well, I see my time is up,” said Hayward, ignoring Shapiro. “I'll turn it over to the other side of the aisle.”

IN THE RADIO STUDIOS OF New Life Ministries, Andy Stanton spun in his chair, clapping his large hands together. “Ladies and gentlemen, you heard it yourselves! Aaron Hayward didn't lay a
glove
on Jay Noble. This isn't a fair fight. It's child abuse! I'm waiting for a referee to call the fight before someone gets hurt.”

He pressed a button on his console, playing a tape with the sound effects of a flurry of punches landing. “Is this it? Is this all they have? Some innocuous e-mail and the testimony of a disgruntled government bureaucrat with liberal sympathies who's flogging a book on CBS and MSNBC?” He leaned into the microphone, lowering his voice to a silky baritone. “Brothers and sisters, we are at war. The chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee is dead. The French foreign minister is dead. Both murdered by terrorists working for Rassem el Zafarshan. Two U.S. officials are missing. Iran has a nuclear weapon. Zafarshan has enough yellowcake to build a dirty bomb and blow up a major U.S. city.” He dropped his voice to a hush. “In the midst of the worst national security threat since September 11, who do the Democrats target? Momar Salami? Not on your life! Zafarshan? No . . .
me
. Poor little old me, someone who pastors a church and a ministry. Imagine
that!
”

He roared with laughter. “It would be funny if it were not pathetic. It should tell you all you need to know about their priorities, their worldview. Are the Senate Democrats holding the hearings on the murders at the European Union conference in Rome? No! They
ignore
the terrorists, but they are scared to
death
of evangelical Christians. If an evangelical ministry simply asks to be free from the harassment of the IRS, get on your helmets. Hire lawyers! Alert the cable news bookers! Everyone get dressed up in your best pin-striped suit for a kangaroo court!” Andy worked himself into a lather, but his producer held up his thumb and index finger, closing them together. A hard break loomed.

Andy nodded at the producer. “My friends, that's why we need the biggest turnout of freedom-loving, Constitution-defending, God-fearing patriots we've ever seen in November. Starting with Sal Stanley, we need to show this crowd the door. Now, I want you to do something. Call the Senate switchboard. Do it right now. Ask your senator if he agrees with this charade of a hearing, and don't take ‘no comment' for an answer. Back after this.”

The program's theme music played over the speakers in the studio. Andy pulled his headphones off his gigantic skull, smoothing his hair with the palm of his hand. Impulsively, he checked e-mail on his laptop. He spied an e-mail from Ross Lombardy. It contained only one word: “Wow.” Andy chuckled.

THE WHITE HOUSE WAS INSISTENT Jay would testify for only one day. Get your pound of flesh, but get it all at once, it vowed. The committee interpreted this as a biblical “day,” dragging the hearing into the night, hoping Jay would crack. But Jay held his own, crossing swords with the Democrats and hitting softballs lobbed by the Republicans. A little after 8:40 p.m., after answering questions and deflecting accusations for eleven hours with only a short break for lunch, he emerged from the Hart Building. When he appeared on the curb, a crowd numbering more than one thousand turned out by the Faith and Family Federation began to chant as if on cue.

“We love Jay! We love Jay! We love Jay!” they shouted. Many held signs of support. “Jay is Noble! Senate is NOT!” read one. “Noble, 1; Senate, 0.” read another.

Jay flashed a broad grin and gave the crowd a thumbs-up before stepping into the Town Car. They roared with approval. Inside the sedan, he speed-dialed Ross Lombardy on his cell phone. Lombardy answered on the first ring. “Jay, you were terrific! Congratulations.”

“Thanks, buddy. Hey, that's quite a rent-a-riot. Appreciate it, pal.”

“My gift to you, friend,” said Ross, suck-up juices flowing. “We bussed them in from Liberty University, Trinity University, and New Life. They chanted for ten hours. They made all the network news broadcasts.”

Another call flashed on Jay's cell phone. “Hey, I got to grab this call. Say hi to Andy for me.” He answered the other call.

“Jay, I have the president on the line,” came the voice of the White House operator.

“Okay, put him through.” He felt his heart leap.

“Jay?” came Long's voice over the line, crisp and clear, as if he were in the next room.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Claire and I are up in the living quarters,” said Long. “We've been watching you on TV while we ate dinner. I just wanted to tell you it was a home run. You put the honorables right in their place. Very impressive.”

“Thank, you, sir. I wasn't sure testifying was the right thing, but I'm now convinced it was. We had to hit back.”

“One hundred percent,” said Long. “You were flawless. Unflappable. We're proud of you. And listen, I've got your back. Don't let those SOBs get you down.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Jay hung up the phone. A wave of emotion rushed through him. In the back of the car, cloaked behind smoked windows and bulletproof steel, he broke down and cried, his shoulders shaking with sobs, the tears falling in drops on his suit pants.

34

E
d Dowdy sat in the lobby of the W Hotel in Times Square sucking on a black Starbucks with two shots of espresso. Wrapped in a blue pin-striped suit with a blue tie and a tailored shirt with flashy gold cuff links, he looked a little like the Pillsbury doughboy dressed for a
GQ
cover shoot. He was in Manhattan to escort Jillian Ann Singer on a series of book pitch meetings to major publishers. The elevator opened and out stepped Singer, looking resplendent and ready in four-inch heels, black skirt above the knee, black spectator jacket, and a tight-fitting navy blue silk blouse. She flashed a nervous smile.

“You look great,” said Dowdy effusively, bouncing to his feet.

“Really?” she asked. “My outfit's not too much?”

“Noooo,” said Dowdy. “You look sexy . . . but in an understated way.”

“I've been accused of a lot of things,” she replied, laughing. “Understated is not one of them.”

Dowdy blushed. “You look great, really.”

“So do you. Love the tie!”

“Got it at the Hermes store yesterday,” said Dowdy. “A hundred and eighty-five bucks! Can you believe it? For a tie.”

“You'll be able to afford it if these meetings go well.”

“We'll both be rich after today.”

“Let's hope,” she replied. She sat and crossed her legs, placing her hands on her lap. “Okay, give me my last-minute instructions.”

“Just be yourself.”

She frowned. “Anything but
that
.”

“No, that's what they want. Tell them what you want to accomplish with the book. Titillate them a little, but don't give it all away. You want to leave them begging for more.”

“I'm good at that, honey,” said Singer, dropping her voice to a husky female baritone.

“Well, there you go! You'll do great.” They walked to the elevator and rode down to the motor lobby, where a Town Car waited on the curb. They were scheduled to pitch five publishers in one day. The goal: sparking a seven-figure bidding war for Singer's tell-all.

After a short drive across town, the Town Car pulled up in front of a glass and granite skyscraper, headquarters of Alex Lane Books, an imprint of Regency Publishing, which, like all publishing houses, had been swallowed up by a media conglomerate. The drive for best-sellers and fat profits took its toll on Regency's once-legendary editorial staff—all good news for Singer and her team. Bob Simms, who signed on as Singer's literary agent after a referral from Marvin Myers, met them in the cavernous lobby. He wore a stylish brown suit, his face cracking with a crooked grin, black hair flecked with gray.

They rode up the elevator together and walked into the lobby of Alex Lane Books. A tall, willowy African-American receptionist escorted them to a modern conference room with glass walls, white leather chairs, and a black granite table. A large spread of bagels, cream cheese, and fruit sat in the center of the table, along with coffee dispensers, bottled water, and pitchers of orange and grapefruit juice.

“They rolled out the red carpet,” said Dowdy. “Good sign.”

“Alex is a hustler,” said Simms with professional detachment. “She wants this book, I assure you, if only to keep a competitor from getting it.”

Dowdy grinned and tore into a raisin-cinnamon bagel slathered with cream cheese. The door opened, and in walked Alex Lane, the famously aggressive, strikingly attractive publisher who made hundreds of millions for Regency. She made a career signing offbeat books like the memoir of a professional wrestler and the heartrending story of a mother who lost three sons in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. She was accompanied by the house's publicist, two editors, general counsel, and a couple of eager-beaver deputies.

“Hello, Bob,” she said, greeting Simms with a peck on the cheek. Trim with the figure of a professional tennis player, she wore a black leather skirt, Dior heels, and a leopard-patterned sleeveless blouse. Dowdy noticed her flawless skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, lush lashes, and feathered brown hair.
She's hot
. he thought. Everyone took a seat.

“Welcome, Jillian,” said Lane, her eyes warm and inviting.

“Thank you,” said Singer.

“Tell us why you want to write this book.” She paused for effect. “Besides money.” Everyone laughed appreciatively. The joke broke the ice.

“I want the American people to know who I am,” said Singer. “I'm not a prostitute. I'm not a criminal. I want to shatter the stereotypes about bondage and domination. It's not a bunch of weirdos in dungeons spanking one another. It's about overcoming inhibitions, exploring the boundaries of convention. There's nothing dirty about it.”

Lane raised an eyebrow suggestively. Her aides shifted uncomfortably in their seats. “So you're thinking of this as . . . the apologia of a dominatrix?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Somewhat.”

“That's not a bad title,” said Simms with a grin.

Alex shook him off. “I understand that's a motive for you,” she said. “But as an author, if you want this book to break through the clutter, it has to settle some scores. It should be a postfeminist manifesto about the empowerment of women. Think Gloria Steinem meets the Happy Hooker, with a sprinkling of Naomi Wolf.”

Singer gave her a blank stare. Simms jumped in. “We can do that,” he said eagerly.

“And sex,” offered one of Lane's deputies, cocking his head suggestively.