Ballots and Blood (44 page)

“Well, it's been a long day,” Walt said with a sigh, his voice tired. “But I think we have a deal. I wanted to call you and make sure you felt comfortable with the direction this is going before we draw up the papers.”

Jay picked up the wireless receiver and stepped to the wet bar, pouring a scotch into a tumbler with no ice. “Okay. What does it look like?” He opened the door to the terrace and stepped outside, watching the lights of DC twinkle against the black. A light breeze cut through the late summer humidity.

“She started out at a million dollars,” said Walt.

“
What!?
That's nuts. No way!”

“I know. I told her attorney hell would freeze over first. It's been like chipping away at granite with a toothpick, but after hours of back and forth, I got them down to $300,000.”

“Three hundred grand?” he squealed. “Jeez, that has to be the most expensive date in human history.”

“Actually, that was Monica Lewinksy.”

“I'm sick to my stomach, Walt. Are you sure you can't get the price down?” He took a deep swig of the scotch to settle himself.

“I don't think so,” replied Walt. “They're dug in. They know the election is in twenty-four days, and you can't afford the bad publicity. Believe me, they wanted a lot more.”

“I've certainly got the money. But I hate to give it to
her.
What a sleazy, bottom-dweller this chick is.”

“Her attorney's worse. I'm going to have to take a shower as soon as I leave here.”

“Trust me, I know. The guy should be disbarred.”

“Now, you want the good news?”

“Please.”

“They've agreed to a joint statement in which she states you engaged in no wrongdoing and there is no evidence of paternity. And—this is the big concession from our standpoint—neither she nor her attorney can make any public comment about you or this episode beyond the joint statement, or they have to return the entire settlement amount.”

“That's good. That's very helpful. But if I'm going to fork over that kind of money, she has to drop all claims of paternity, period.”

“I agree, if we can get it,” said Walt. “But if we buy her silence and she admits no proof, you're home free. She can't ever talk about this again, or we sue her to claw back the settlement. And we'll win.”

“Yeah, Walt, but what are the odds I'll want to do that?”

“Slim and none. But she doesn't know that. We'll have a sword over her neck forever.”

Jay leaned on the rail and stared into the night, his eyes narrowing as he thought through his options. “You think this is the best deal we can get?”

“I do. I think you should take it and move on with your life. You can't have this thing hanging out there, not with the IRS matter still going on. That's not over yet.”

There was a long pause. “Alright, make the deal,” said Jay at last. “But e-mail me the draft joint statement before you sign the papers so I can approve it.”

“Will do.”

Jay hung up the phone.
Three hundred thousand dollars!
It was after-tax income, so it was really closer to a half a million bucks. He felt a mixture of anger and self-pity welling up inside. He downed the scotch and hurled the empty glass against the wall, shattering it. The only consolation was Sal Stanley might be in even worse shape. If Kaplan was found guilty, Sal would be dead politically. If he wasn't, Jay had a problem, and getting the Senate would be that much harder.

36

L
isa Robinson sat in her office in the West Wing, her high heels kicked off, hosed feet on her desk, spinning one of her favored reporters at the
Washington Post.
Christine Featherstone was an up-and-comer in the DC sisterhood, with a string of page-one scoops to her credit and a commentator slot at National Public Radio and PBS. More importantly, she was not Dan Dorman. Lisa relished stabbing Dorman between the shoulder blades by leaking to other
Post
reporters. She hoped his editors would figure out he was in the journalistic equivalent of Siberia and replace him as chief White House correspondent.

“You claim the president isn't mad at Jay,” said Featherstone, working her prey and betraying a colleague at the same time. “But he has to be disappointed, right? You guys are trying to make the midterm election about Sal Stanley and the Senate being a graveyard for reform, and all you read about instead is Jay's zipper and his Machiavellian machinations.”

Lisa kept her guard up. She might have grown weary of Jay, but he still made her. Loyalty was the currency of the realm in Long-land. “I can't speak to private conversations between the president and Jay,” she said, staying on message. “But no one in the White House believes Jay attempted to influence the IRS audit of New Life Ministries. That includes the president. And, off the record, no one believes Jay fathered Panzarella's baby.”

“Why not?” pressed Featherstone.

“Which one, the IRS flap or Panzarella?”

“The LA party girl.”

“Simple. She's not his type.”

Featherstone let out a cackle. “Well, you would know. . . . You dated him, right?”

“Ooooh,” said Lisa, drawing out the syllable. “Low blow, sistah.”

“I'm just sayin'.”

“Well, I'm not his type either.”

“So his type is somewhere between classy, smart, tough woman and skank?”

Lisa burst out laughing. At that moment one of her deputies burst in, his body vibrating with the kinetic energy of a five-year-old. Lisa cupped her hand over the phone. “What? You look like you need to pee.”

“The Kaplan verdict is in,” he said, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

“Christine, did you hear?” Lisa said into the phone. “The Kaplan jury's reached a verdict.”

“Wow. What is it?”

“We don't know yet. The jury is coming into the courtroom now.”

“So . . . whaddayathink? Will he go to prison or walk?”

Lisa dodged Featherstone's question as if it were a grenade. “I don't know and I wouldn't want to speculate. Let's talk after we hear it.” She hung up the phone and spun her chair in the direction of a bank of five television sets on the wall tuned to Fox, CNN, MSNBC, Bloomberg TV, and CNBC, the volume turned off. “Turn up the sound.”

Her deputy picked up a remote and unmuted FOX. A blonde reporter stood outside the Prettyman Federal Courthouse holding a cell phone to her ear and a microphone in her hand. “We are awaiting word from inside the courtroom, where FOX News has a reporter standing by. As soon as the jury foreman makes the announcement—” She held up her finger to the camera. “Wait . . . wait!” she said excitedly. “The foreman is addressing the judge. We have a verdict.”

The male anchor leaned into the camera. “What is it?”

The court reporter nodded. “I'm being told now . . . Kaplan has been acquitted on five counts, including the most serious charges of obstruction of justice. The jury was unable to reach a verdict on two counts of conspiracy. On three counts of perjury, GUILTY. On one count of lying to the FBI, GUILTY. Mike Kaplan . . . GUILTY of four counts. A shocking development here in the nation's capital that promises to make this hard-fought midterm election even more interesting and hard to predict.”

Along with everyone else in the communications shop, Lisa sat in stunned silence. After two-and-a-half years, the scandal that propelled Bob Long to the Oval Office was over. Barring a successful appeal, Mike Kaplan was on his way to prison. And Sal Stanley? Well, stick a fork in him.

SAL STANLEY HAD JUST WRAPPED up a speech to the Jewish Community Center MetroWest in Whippany, a forty-minute drive from Manhattan. He delivered his usual stump speech, seasoned with a predictable recitation of pro-Israel bromides and his Jewish bona fides. A crowd of about three hundred sat in a steamy room on metal-backed chairs, arms crossed and lips pursed, looking like they were about to play bingo.

“I've talked long enough,” said Stanley, slipping off his coat and handing it to his body man. He paced the floor, his eyes darting, holding a wireless microphone, one hand stuffed in his gray pants pocket, looking a little like a game show host. “Any questions? I've debated Tom Reynolds on the floor of the Senate, so there's nothing you can say that will offend me.”

The crows laughed appreciatively at the barb slung at Reynolds, Stanley's chief nemesis and the most camera-hungry right-wing blowhard on Capitol Hill, which was saying a lot.

A short, wiry woman with a bubble of hair dyed fire-engine red stood up. “Senator Stanley, given the failure of the sanctions bill and Iran's threat to Israel, I hope we can count on you to support Israel if it attacks Iran's nuclear facilities. So, can we?”

“Well, you certainly didn't start off throwing softballs, did you?” joked Stanley to chuckles. “I strongly supported sanctions legislation. We
cannot
allow Iran to obtain a nuclear weapon. President Long insisted on an unconstitutional ‘trigger' for military action that killed the bill.” Stanley's rivalry with Long was the elephant in the room, and Stanley had so far tiptoed around it. “I say this with no animosity: elections have consequences. It was the most shameful failure of presidential leadership I've seen in my career.” There, he said it! Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Then Stanley seemed to catch himself. “Now, I say all this more in sadness than anger.” No one believed him.

“I hope the EU sanctions will work,” said Stanley. “There are a lot of things I can't talk about because they are classified.” It was a clear reference to the CIA's not-so-secret war inside Iran. “Certainly Israel is a sovereign country, and it has a right to defend itself.”

A man with beady eyes and a bulbous nose stood up. Stanley vaguely recognized him as a Republican plant. A “tracker” from the New Jersey GOP stood in the back, his digital video camera trained. Stanley braced for the question.

“Senator, you've said Mike Kaplan is your best friend,” the man began in a firm voice. He was instantly greeted with a chorus of hisses from the overwhelmingly Democratic crowd.

“It's alright,” said Stanley, holding up his hand. “Let him ask his question.”

“If Michael Kaplan is convicted of perjury and obstruction of justice, will you repudiate him and condemn his conduct?”

More boos. Stanley face turned to stone. “Let's welcome our friend from the Cartwright campaign,” he said sarcastically to jeers and laughter. He pointed to the tracker. “And in the back of the room is one of Jay Noble's minions, recording this for the White House and FOX News.” Stanley waved theatrically to the camera. “Everyone wave to Jay.” More laughter. Then Stanley spoke in bullet points. “Mike Kaplan is innocent until proven guilty. I'm not going to prejudge the case. I testified to his character, not the evidence, which is up to the jury to decide. Mike is a good friend, but I'm not going to comment on a pending legal matter.”

“I didn't ask you to comment on the case,” pressed the man. “I asked you if you would condemn his criminal behavior if he is convicted.”

Stanley's posture stiffened. “He hasn't been convicted,” he shot back.

“Yes, he has,” said the questioner. “I just got a news alert on my iPhone. He was convicted of four counts of perjury and lying to the FBI.” There were audible gasps. Stanley went white. “So tell us . . . will you condemn Mike Kaplan
now,
Senator?”

Stanley struggled to answer, his lips moving, but making no audible noise. He turned to his body man. “Is there a verdict?' he asked. The body man nodded. Stanley's eyes were desperate. “If that is the case, all I can say is that I will keep Mike and his family in my thoughts and prayers. I believe an innocent man has been wrongly convicted in a case poisoned by politics from the beginning. I retain my faith in our criminal justice system, and I believe he will ultimately be cleared on appeal.”

With that Stanley headed for the exit, trailed by a mob of reporters. They followed him into the parking lot where a black SUV with tinted windows waited on the curb.

“Senator, are you disappointed by the verdict?” shouted the
New York Times.

Stanley stopped on the curb. “I've said all I have to say,” he said, biting off the words. “I continue to believe Mike Kaplan is innocent. I hope he is cleared. But for me this closes a painful chapter, and I am moving on.” With that the doors closed, and the SUV sped away.

“Where's he heading next?” asked the
Bergen Record.

“Fund-raiser in the city,” replied AP. “Closed press.”

“We'll find him,” said the
Times.
“This is one issue he can't duck.”

“If he does, he's dead meat.”

“He may be dead anyway,” chuckled AP.

MARVIN MYERS SAT ON A television set five blocks from the Capitol. He pulled the flap of his jacket down, sitting on his buttoned coat, checked his tie, and removed a throat lozenge from his mouth. He took a sip of water from the bottle and cleared his throat. The floor director talked into a headset. “Thirty seconds,” she said. “Fifteen, ten, five, four, three.” She pointed at the anchor, then made eye contact with Myers, pointing her finger to Camera Two to indicate which camera he should look when speaking.

“Joining us now for reaction on the Kaplan verdict is syndicated columnist and regular contributor Marvin Myers,” said the anchor, his spray-tan nearly matching a wave of brown hair that billowed from the back of his head, peaking at his forehead. “Marvin, you've covered Washington's political scene for decades. How do you think the conviction of Michael Kaplan today is likely to impact the mid-term elections?”

“Actually, I'm entering my fourth decade covering politics in this town,” said Myers smoothly. Like all insiders, he referred to DC simply as “this town.”