Capitol Reflections (11 page)
To pursue peace and domestic tranquility, Jack decided to back away from the confusing signals his wife was sending, but still offer to participate in her search. He even agreed to examine the Haydn104 file that Gwen copied from Marci’s laptop. He’d looked at the file a dozen times now, and nothing whatsoever aroused his suspicion. Granted, the file was unusual, but Marci had been reclusive—even a bit quirky—and Jack thought there might be any one of a thousand explanations for the creation of Haydn104 that no one was apt to guess. Humoring his unrelenting wife, he examined the file carefully, putting the rows of numbers through a dozen different encryption programs. He saw no pattern, no rhyme or reason lurking in the numerals. It didn’t appear that Marci had been playing Nostradamus, couching dire warnings in coded format. He even applied sophisticated musical software to the problem, exploring the possibility that the seemingly random digits might correspond to Haydn’s work if the melodies, harmonics, or compositional keys were converted into mathematical equivalents.
Thus far, Jack had found nothing.
He looked at the oak table in the corner of his office, a ground floor utility room adjacent to the kitchen. On the table was the classic brown Wilson fielder’s glove he bought in the hopes he might one day have a son. Like many childless husbands, he often dreamt of electric trains and games of catch. The mitt, purchased in the spring, was also a not-so-subtle hint to Gwen.
Gwen was actually starting to warm up to the idea of having children. The couple was even beginning to debate which upstairs room would be the best candidate for a nursery. But all discussion of having children had ceased since the Maulders had returned from New York in May.
Jack was firmly convinced that it was time for Gwen to consult a therapist for grief counseling, obsession, or both. She’d lost her dearest friend and she couldn’t get through the pain of it alone.
And nothing Jack did seemed to help.
15
Mark Stern left the Main Street offices of the
Washington Post
, a newly emancipated man. No longer would he have to camouflage his trademark journalistic attitude or profile elite moneychangers residing in modern-day temples where express elevators went straight to the penthouse. He had enjoyed his stint with the
Journal
, but he now wanted two things desperately: renewed contact with ordinary people, and the opportunity to dig deeply when he came across a potential scandal.
Washington Post
, a newly emancipated man. No longer would he have to camouflage his trademark journalistic attitude or profile elite moneychangers residing in modern-day temples where express elevators went straight to the penthouse. He had enjoyed his stint with the
Journal
, but he now wanted two things desperately: renewed contact with ordinary people, and the opportunity to dig deeply when he came across a potential scandal.
His colleagues, who did not yet know the details of his departure, said he was foolish to give up his position at the
Journal
. He was a regular guest on economic and political talk shows on PBS and he was invited to weekly soirees where he mingled with celebrities, senators, and CEOs. What the hell was he doing? Even harsher critics maintained he would never regain his preeminent stature in journalism, but Mark knew this to be rubbish. The
Post
had helped bring down a president and countless congressmen. Stern was still a bestselling author with a loyal following. He was iconic, and he would, with well-turned phrases and an engaging personality, work his way into the mythos of Washington just as he’d done in New York.
Journal
. He was a regular guest on economic and political talk shows on PBS and he was invited to weekly soirees where he mingled with celebrities, senators, and CEOs. What the hell was he doing? Even harsher critics maintained he would never regain his preeminent stature in journalism, but Mark knew this to be rubbish. The
Post
had helped bring down a president and countless congressmen. Stern was still a bestselling author with a loyal following. He was iconic, and he would, with well-turned phrases and an engaging personality, work his way into the mythos of Washington just as he’d done in New York.
Not that second thoughts were an option. No, they definitely were not.
Mark had called the editor-in-chief at the
Post
to offer his services only after he received a call from his lawyer saying, “Welcome to the Millionaire’s Club, Mark! Your termination clause with the
Journal
is finally being enforced since you did that surreal piece on the privatization of social security and how the ghost of FDR is giving our current president nightmares. Your editor obviously didn’t read the column before putting the paper to bed or it wouldn’t have been printed. I’ll give you this much: you must have earned a helluva lot of trust to sneak that one by. But let me ask you one question, my friend. Are you crazy? You had to know—had to—that the
Journal
wasn’t going to swallow a fantasy piece on the biggest hot-button issue in all of politics. Jesus—it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that privatization is something the
Journal
and its readers favor—and favor strongly!”
Post
to offer his services only after he received a call from his lawyer saying, “Welcome to the Millionaire’s Club, Mark! Your termination clause with the
Journal
is finally being enforced since you did that surreal piece on the privatization of social security and how the ghost of FDR is giving our current president nightmares. Your editor obviously didn’t read the column before putting the paper to bed or it wouldn’t have been printed. I’ll give you this much: you must have earned a helluva lot of trust to sneak that one by. But let me ask you one question, my friend. Are you crazy? You had to know—had to—that the
Journal
wasn’t going to swallow a fantasy piece on the biggest hot-button issue in all of politics. Jesus—it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that privatization is something the
Journal
and its readers favor—and favor strongly!”
Mark stopped listening at this point, holding his cell phone at arm’s length from his ear so that his lawyer’s voice sounded like the annoying drone of a mosquito caught behind a microchip. Yes, he was crazy. And yes, he most definitely knew that the
Journal
would invoke his termination clause before the ink on page one had time to dry. He had finally done a mil’s worth of damage by crossing a line big-time.
Journal
would invoke his termination clause before the ink on page one had time to dry. He had finally done a mil’s worth of damage by crossing a line big-time.
He couldn’t understand his lawyer’s whining, though. It was a win-win situation. He would get a cool million for saying what needed to be said on behalf of aging boomers, and he would land on his feet given his previous success. After all, Woodward and Bernstein hadn’t achieved fame by being Boy Scouts.
The controversy, in fact, would actually work in his favor. Naughty journalist goes south … to Washington! The inherent curiosity of readers, coupled with Stern’s recognizable moniker, would sell a lot of papers as liberals and conservatives alike turned to his column to see what he would tackle next. The
Post
was more conservative than the
Times
—he probably wouldn’t be drinking Shiraz with Tony Blankley on summer evenings—but the paper’s management liked his moxie.
Post
was more conservative than the
Times
—he probably wouldn’t be drinking Shiraz with Tony Blankley on summer evenings—but the paper’s management liked his moxie.
Controversy sold papers and kept stockholders happy. Long live the free press.
If anyone had asked Mark whether his career move was prompted by thoughts of Gwen Maulder living in Maryland, he would have vehemently denied it. Hell, he’d denied it to himself a dozen times. He wasn’t a homewrecker, and a friend of a friend had informed him that Jack and Gwen seemed reasonably happy.
In point of fact, Mark would have gravitated to the
Post
even if Gwen lived in Peoria or Pretoria for that matter. He nevertheless thought of her from the moment he made the decision to live and work in D.C. It was, he reasoned, natural enough to wonder what an old girlfriend was doing. He couldn’t help it if he still had feelings for her, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to act on his fantasies.
Post
even if Gwen lived in Peoria or Pretoria for that matter. He nevertheless thought of her from the moment he made the decision to live and work in D.C. It was, he reasoned, natural enough to wonder what an old girlfriend was doing. He couldn’t help it if he still had feelings for her, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to act on his fantasies.
Garrett Park. There was no harm in looking up where she lived, was there? Anyway, what were the odds that he’d ever run into her.
16
Senator Henry Broome IV detested photo ops with his constituents. He considered root canal preferable to posing with thirty-four pimple -faced students from Honolulu High on a class trip to Washington.
“Let’s get this over with, Ms. Chang,” Henry declared, marching down the hallowed halls of Congress with a resolute stride, his polished black wingtips hitting the marble floor loudly enough to cause an echo. “A few smiles, a couple of class photos—no singles—some hand disinfectant and I’m done. Got it?”
“Got it, Senator,” said the very efficient Roberta Chang, a stunning Chinese-American woman and Henry’s chief aide. “You’ll be back for your 11:15 phone call with minutes to spare.” Chang was petite, with lustrous black hair that fell to her waist and swung like a satin stage curtain with each turn of her head. She kept up with her boss with quick, energetic steps as she consulted a sheet listing Henry’s schedule for the remainder of the day.
Five minutes later, Henry Broome stood on the steps of the Capitol, smiling, as a dozen shutters clicked and the Honolulu High Civics Club stared in awe at a man who was on network news, not to mention
Meet the Press
or
Face the Nation
, at least five times a month.
Meet the Press
or
Face the Nation
, at least five times a month.
Henry’s basso profundo voice boomed across the small crowd of students and onlookers. “It’s great to see you here today! It’s heartening to see young adults like yourselves taking an interest in government and coming all the way to our nation’s capitol to watch democracy in action. Please allow me the privilege of taking a picture with your class so that I can be reminded continually that future generations will keep America great! I’m sure your teachers will see to it that everyone gets a copy.”
There was a burst of applause as students lined up on the steps, Henry standing in the middle of the back row, towering above everyone. A teacher with a digital camera took two pictures before Henry broke ranks.
“Thank you all!” called the senator, waving grandiloquently as a broad smile revealed a set of dazzling white teeth. “Enjoy your stay in Washington!”
Roberta Chang escorted Henry away from awestruck students, their pens and pads at the ready, before they could start clamoring for autographs.
“Slam bam, thank you, ma’am,” chimed Henry as he walked up the Capitol steps. “It’s a beautiful morning.”
Right before he entered the stately building, Henry turned around and looked carefully back at the throng. A blond girl, probably a senior, had caught his eye during his close encounter. She could easily have passed for twenty-two or twenty-three, and her miniskirt revealed long, smooth thighs. He would have bet an even grand that she was head cheerleader at her high school.
“Damn, but life is good, isn’t it, Ms. Chang?”
“Yes, Senator. Very good.”
Back in the privacy of his office, he looked at his chief aide. Behind closed doors, the senator’s relationship to his aide was on a far more personal basis.
Although he was the junior senator from the Aloha state, Henry was also the chairman of the Senate Agriculture Committee and, by sheer dint of his charisma, a powerhouse on the Hill. When he graduated from Princeton, all records of Henry’s academic probation and his less-than-stellar 1.4 GPA had mysteriously disappeared from the university Registrar’s Office. With an Ivy League diploma tucked securely under his arm, Henry stood as President Bowen intoned “admitto,” Broome’s Brigade applauding loudly in the wings. He knew instinctively at that moment that he had to toughen up, get serious about grad school, maybe replace soccer and rugby practice with some mental aerobics.
Daddy Broome was going to place him on a completely different playing field soon, and he needed to be ready. Accordingly, he took his MBA in 1981 and became Vice President of Sun Valley Microsystems, an Arizona tech company, by 1984. Moving up to President and CEO after the unexpected retirement of Sun Valley’s head honcho, Henry delegated power judiciously, allowing himself time to attend Stanford University Law School, and passed the bar in 1989. It was in 1991, while working for Peterson, Hewitt, Drake & Keyes, a Los Angeles-based firm specializing in maritime law, that Henry decided to run for a state legislature seat in Hawaii after the incumbent bowed out of politics due to a mysterious illness.
The year 1996 saw Henry’s ascendancy. He ran for the U.S. Senate and won handily. His campaign slogan, “A New Broome Sweeps Clean,” was trite yet effective. The Broome family was once again held in high esteem, even though both of Henry’s parents had died in the mid-eighties. Lanai was now ruled by King Henry IV, as the plantation workers referred to their irascible boss. Since 1980, in fact, he made time to return to the island occasionally to oversee the cultivation of a new cash crop to replace pineapples and sugarcane. With the aid of a botanist and a molecular biologist working full-time on the Broome family payroll, the plants thrived.
New Jersey, Washington, or Hawaii—only the location changed.
The plain truth was that Henry knew how to get things done.
It was 11:15 sharp. A green light and a low beep from the desktop communication system indicated that the senator had a priority phone call. Henry reached for the slim black receiver and took a deep breath.
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