Breach of Trust (42 page)
“It will work,” I said. “We hire them as interns at the full salary they’d receive as full-time state employees. We can do that. There’s nothing stopping us. We can pay them whatever we want. And the law says we can hire an intern into a full-time position if they successfully complete a six-month probation period. The veterans’ preference doesn’t apply to them.”
Madison thought that through. “So they get the job now, with full salary, and after six months they become full-fledged state employees with benefits?”
“Exactly,” I said.
She seemed okay with that. “And the bad news?”
“The bad news,” I said, “is that everything we’ve just discussed is illegal. We aren’t supposed to do any of this. The law says that we must give a veteran’s preference to all of these jobs we’re trying to fill. It says we must take ‘every reasonable measure’ to ensure veterans are given their rightful preference. We’re doing the opposite. We’re taking every measure to consciously
avoid
the veteran’s preference.”
avoid
the veteran’s preference.”
Madison put down the pen she was twiddling between her fingers and sat back in her chair. “I don’t want to hear that.”
I’m sure she didn’t. But it was essential that I say these things. It had to be clear that I was helping to orchestrate an illegal scheme. Otherwise, the crime-fraud exception to the attorney-client privilege didn’t apply, and everything we were discussing might be deemed privileged and unusable to the prosecution in court. Plus it made the case airtight, when the jury listened to the recording of this conversation. Madison couldn’t claim that she was relying on advice of counsel when her counsel was telling her, up front, that their plan was illegal.
It was one of many times when I took a moment for inventory. I was getting pretty good at this. And what a talent: I was opening doors for people who, if they chose to walk through them, would be rewarded with an indictment from a federal grand jury. I was, for all practical purposes, sending people to prison. I was a loaded weapon. I was like a roach motel for criminals.
“Well, my
job
is to make sure that you hear that,” I answered Madison. “I’m a lawyer. I tell you what the law says. It just so happens I’m also telling you how to circumvent it.”
job
is to make sure that you hear that,” I answered Madison. “I’m a lawyer. I tell you what the law says. It just so happens I’m also telling you how to circumvent it.”
Madison seemed unhappy now. “So what the hell does this mean?”
“It means,” I said, “that if you’re going to do what I suggest, be careful about it. Because it’s illegal. Paper the file. Make a point of needing these people in those downstate counties. Something convincing. And then paper the file again, explaining that with the budget crunch, you have to consolidate or something, and move these people up here. Same thing with the internships. Just create a few internships and maybe—maybe don’t start them at the full-blown salary, because it will be too obvious. Just make it something decent, and let them know, six months from now, they’ll be getting full pay and benefits.” I looked at each of them. “Bottom line, make sure that if anyone asks, they can’t prove that we were doing this to fuck the veterans.”
Madison made a face. She didn’t like my stark description of what we were doing. Criminals never do. They rarely like to talk about what they’re doing out loud. I mean, what I’d said was spot on. The public policy of this state was to thank people who had risked their lives for this country in armed conflict by giving them a small bump in job preference; it was a mandatory state law, and here we were, doing everything we could to circumvent that policy. It made me sick. My only consolation was that I was nailing these people to the wall, courtesy of a recording device in my coat pocket.
“Give us a minute, Mac,” said Madison.
“Sure, Chief.” Like the dutiful soldier he was, Brady Mac dragged his knuckles out of the office.
Madison fixed her stare on me. “You don’t like this,” she said.
“It is what it is.”
“That’s exactly right. It is what it is. You don’t win election to the highest office in the state by just hoping that good things will happen.”
“A civics lesson.”
“A life lesson,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“I don’t have time for consciences,” she continued. “You want to be mother superior, do it on someone else’s time. There’s the door, any time you want to walk out.”
“You firing me?” I asked.
“I’m telling you that I don’t want to see that look on your face again. Get on board or leave. Is that clear enough, sport?”
“One thing I’ll give you, Madison: You’re always clear.”
“Good, then.” Her computer beeped, which I think meant an email message had arrived. She turned to it but kept talking. “Today’s my last day in the office until after the primary. We’re going all out now. Good work on those jobs. That’s exactly the kind of creativity we need from you. Now I’ll want to hear that you’ve wrapped everything up on that supreme court appointment.”
“I’ve already set up some interviews with candidates,” I said.
“But George Ippolito wins.” She turned her head and looked over her glasses at me.
Yes, of course, one of the worst judges I’d ever stood before would be the winner of my faux interview process to select the next member of our state supreme court.
I walked back to my office and went to work on the supreme court appointment. I got a call at two-thirty.
“The governor’s in the city today,” a receptionist said. “He’d like to meet you.”
71
THE GYMNASIUM, PACKED TO FULL CAPACITY OF ABOUT
two thousand, simultaneously went up in a roar at the announcement of Governor Carlton Snow. The governor appeared from the hallway, doing his typical gubernatorial calisthenics—wave, thumbs-up, point, and repeat—as he moved toward the center of the basketball court, encircled in purple for the high school’s nickname. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans, which from what I had gathered from watching the news and reading the papers—I was paying more attention to such things of late—was the governor’s trademark look on the campaign trail.
two thousand, simultaneously went up in a roar at the announcement of Governor Carlton Snow. The governor appeared from the hallway, doing his typical gubernatorial calisthenics—wave, thumbs-up, point, and repeat—as he moved toward the center of the basketball court, encircled in purple for the high school’s nickname. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans, which from what I had gathered from watching the news and reading the papers—I was paying more attention to such things of late—was the governor’s trademark look on the campaign trail.
There were kids in the audience but it was mostly adults, the racial mix being approximately two-to-one, black to white. We were on the city’s south side, at Duerson High School. The place was badly in need of refurbishing, but the gym was in pretty good shape. One of the guys I played ball with had come from Duerson, but it was my first time in the building.
“Thank you for the very nice greeting,” said the governor. “Usually, this time of year, when you hear Snow’s coming, it’s bad news.”
I sensed this was not the first time the governor had cracked that joke, but the audience liked it. In a corner not that far from me, where the reporters who were following the campaign were gathered, a couple of them traded glances that indicated they’d heard the line more than once.
I was standing next to Hector Almundo, dressed resplendently as always, who had actually arrived with the governor but came over to me. He’d given me a brief rundown. Today’s theme was education, and the governor was unveiling a plan to add more teachers to the city schools by expanding gambling—adding a new casino just outside the city—and using some of the state’s share of the gambling revenues for funding.
I was aware of the fact that we had some casinos in this state but I’d never visited one, nor had I stopped to consider the moral ramifications of legalizing gambling at all. I guess if I’d thought about it, I’d say, don’t go if you don’t want to play. But the point seemed to be that gambling carried with it some unsavory baggage like prostitution and addiction, and the people who seemed to play the most—the ones looking for the big score—tended to be the people who could afford it least.
“Well, these people seem to like his proposal,” I said to Hector, leaning into his ear.
“These people are teachers,” he said back. “That’s who he’s doing it for.”
Ah. Rallying the base. “Why spend time courting people who are already voting for you?” I asked.
Hector looked at me and smiled. Oh, the naïve child was I. He leaned into me but had to speak up as the crowd erupted in applause. “This is just the setting, J. He’s doing it for the cameras. These campaigns are mostly television these days. Or Internet. Same thing. Plus G-O-T-V.”
I didn’t know what the hell that meant. “That’s different than regular TV?”
His smile turned to laughter. “Get out the vote,” he shouted over the din. “The more excited they are, the more they make sure that they and their friends go to the polls. We need a big turnout in the city because Willie’s doing well downstate.”
The governor went on for more than thirty minutes. He was good at what he did. He knew how to punctuate his lines, and he knew how to connect with the audience. He had that ridiculous politician’s smile but they all did, so it didn’t strike me as a handicap.
When it was over, I followed Hector and became part of the entourage. There was the state police detail and Madison and some other people, including a guy whom I recognized from the photo Chris Moody had showed me as William Peshke. We filtered into three stretch limousines that were part of a cavalcade, and before I knew it I was sitting next to Hector and this Peshke guy. And I was sitting across from Madison Koehler and Governor Carlton Snow.
The governor put out his hand. Madison squirted some sanitizer in his palm and he rubbed his hands together voraciously, like he was about to settle down to a big meal. Then he took a sweaty bottle of water from her and took a long swallow, smacking his lips with satisfaction when it was over.
“That was fun,” he said. His adrenaline was still flowing from the event. He looked around the cabin for a response, and it didn’t take him long to get it.
You were on. They love you. Let’s see Willie Bryant work a room like
that
.
You were on. They love you. Let’s see Willie Bryant work a room like
that
.
“You’re Jason,” he said to me.
“Nice to meet you, Governor.” And please say hello to my little recording device, which I had nicknamed FeeBee.
“You, too. Yeah.” He nodded at me. “Like your tie.”
“Just trying to keep up with Hector.” My former client was into the monochromatic thing these days—today it was a tan shirt and mustard tie.
The governor looked at Hector and allowed a wry smile. Then to me, he said, “You played ball at State.”
“Yes.”
“I remember that game. Your last one. I was there. You went off on that linebacker after that crackback block.”
I forgot that he’d gone to State as well. Greg Connolly had mentioned it.
“Then you punched out Karmeier the next day.”
Jesus, does everybody remember that? Well, Tony was All-Conference and a captain. Apparently I’d carved out a place of infamy at my alma mater.
“You keeping us out of trouble?” he asked.
“Doing my best.”
He drank from his bottle again. “Well, it’s a full-time job if I ever heard one.”
More appropriate laughter from the posse.
“You know everyone here?” he asked me.
Well, let’s see. I’d fully explored your chief of staff’s naked body a couple times now. I kept your buddy Hector from a stint in the federal penitentiary . . .
“Bill Peshke.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Call me Pesh.”
I recalled what Chris Moody had said. Peshke was a special adviser to the governor but he was a campaign guy. The strategist. Moody had mentioned a turf battle with Madison Koehler. He was in his mid-forties, on the lean side, polished and plastic. His hair was sharply parted and well-sprayed. His clothes were pretty decent. His smile was robotic and his eyes moved about the limo, like he was looking for a better offer.
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you,” he said.
“Pesh is the one with the PhD,” said Hector. “That means he’s smarter than the rest of us.”
The governor clapped his hands together. “Where to now?”
“Darling Theater,” said Peshke.
I knew that place. It was a small auditorium on the near north side. I saw a concert there once. The Pogues, I think. Back when they had mosh pits. Do they still have those?
“Right, right. Okay, good, good.” The governor looked at Madison. “What’s Willie doing?”
“Marinaville,” she said. “Talking about crime and tort reform.”
“And we have that ad?”
She nodded as she checked her BlackBerry. “It’s up tomorrow, unless he gives us something today to throw in. It’s running in every major market downstate.”
When we reached Darling Theater, we were escorted into a side room that I hadn’t known existed. A spread of food lay across some long tables, cold cuts and pastas and fruit. Some others filtered in who were interested in chatting with the governor before he entered the auditorium. Hector and I held back. He seemed interested in being my guide, imparting his expertise to me, the young grasshopper. Also, it didn’t seem like anyone else was particularly interested in conversing with him. The thought crossed my mind once again: What was Hector doing here? I kept falling back on the same conclusion. Window dressing. But it gave me a problem.
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