Gideon's Sword (42 page)

What do we do?
I type back on the pager’s tiny keyboard, hiding my hands under the desk so the Senate folks can’t see what I’m doing. Before I can send it, my pager shakes with a new message.

Don’t panic just yet,
Harris insists. He knows me too well.

“Can we please get this going?” Trish asks. It’s the sixth day in a row we’ve been trying to stomp each other into the ground, and Trish knows there’s still plenty to go. “Now, where’d we leave off?”

“Cape Cod,” Ezra says. Like speed-readers in a race, all four of us flip through the hundred-page documents in front of us that show the spending difference between the House and Senate bills. Last month, when the House passed its version of the bill, we allocated seven hundred thousand dollars to rehabilitate the Cape Cod Seashore; a week later, the Senate passed its version, which didn’t allocate a dime. That’s the point of Conference: finding the differences and reaching a compromise—item by item by item. When the two bills are merged, they go back to the House and Senate for final passage. When both bodies pass the same bill, that’s when it goes to the White House to be signed into law.

“I’ll give you three hundred and fifty thousand,” Trish offers, hoping I’ll be satisfied by half.

“Done,” I tell her, grinning to myself. If she’d pushed, I would’ve settled for an even two hundred.

“The Chesapeake in Maryland,” Trish adds, moving to the next item. I look down at the spreadsheet. Senate gave it six million for stabilization; we gave it nothing.

Trish smiles. That’s why she was kissing tush on the last one. The six million in here was put there by her boss, Senator Ted Apelbaum, who also happens to be the Chairman of the subcommittee—the Senate equivalent of my boss, Cordell. In local slang, the Chairs are known as Cardinals. That’s where the argument ends. What Cardinals want, Cardinals get.

In quiet rooms around the Capitol, the scene is the same. Forget the image of fat-cat Congressmen horse-trading in cigar-smoke-filled backrooms.
This
is how the sausage is made, and
this
is how America’s bank account is actually spent: by four staffers sitting around a well-lit conference table without a Congressman in sight. Your tax dollars at work. Like Harris always says: The real shadow government is staff.

My pager again vibrates in my lap. Harris’s message is simple:
Panic.

I take another look at the TV. One hundred seventy-two yeas, sixty-four nays.

Sixty-four? I don’t believe it. They’re over halfway there.

How?
I type back.

Maybe they have the votes,
Harris replies almost instantly.

Can’t be,
I send back.

For the next two minutes, Trish lectures about why
seven million dollars is far too much to spend on Yellowstone National Park. I barely register a word. On C-SPAN, the nays go from sixty-four to eighty-one. It’s impossible.

“… don’t you agree, Matthew?” Trish asks.

I stay locked on C-SPAN.

“Matthew!” Trish calls out. “You with us or not?”

“Wha?” I say, finally turning toward her.

Tracing my gaze back to its last location, Trish looks over her shoulder and spots the TV. “That’s what you’re so caught up in?” she asks. “Some lame vote for baseball?”

She doesn’t get it. Sure, it’s a vote for baseball, but it isn’t just any vote. It actually dates back to 1922, when the Supreme Court ruled that baseball was a sport—not a business—and therefore was allowed a special exemption from antitrust rules. Football, basketball, all the rest have to comply—but baseball, the Supreme Court decided, was special. Today, Congress is trying to strengthen that exemption, giving owners more control over how big the league gets. For Congress, it’s a relatively simple vote: If you’re from a state with a baseball team, you vote for baseball (even the Reps from rural New York don’t dare vote against the Yankees). If you’re from a state without a team—or from a district that wants a team, like Charlotte or Jacksonville—you vote against it.

When you do the math—and account for political favors by powerful owners—that leaves a clear majority voting for the bill, and a maximum of 100 Members voting against it—105 if they’re lucky. But right now, there’s someone in the Capitol who thinks he can get 110 nays. There’s no way, Harris and I decided. That’s why we bet against it.

“We all ready to hit some issues?” Trish asks, still
plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the sea-wall on Ellis Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much of a fight. Like baseball—you don’t vote against the good stuff.

My pager once again dances in my pocket. Like before, I read it under the table.
97,
Harris’s message says.

I can’t believe they’re getting this far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game.

In fact, as Harris explained it when he first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on staff snuck the words
dry cleaning
into a draft of the Senator’s next speech:…
although sometimes regarded as dry, cleaning our environment should clearly be a top priority…
It was always meant to be a cheap gag—something that’d be taken out before the speech was given. Then one of the staffers dared the other to keep it in.

“I’ll do it,” the staffer threatened.

“No, you won’t,” his friend shot back.

“Wanna bet?”

Right there, the game was born. And that afternoon, the distinguished Senator strolled onto C-SPAN and told the entire nation about the importance of “dry, cleaning.”

In the beginning, they always kept it to small stuff: hidden phrases in an op-ed, an acronym in a commencement speech. Then it got bigger. A few years ago, on the Senate Floor, a Senator who was searching for his handkerchief
reached into his jacket pocket and proceeded to wipe his forehead with a pair of women’s silk panties. He quickly laughed it off as an honest mistake made by his laundry service. But it wasn’t an accident.

That was the first time the game broke the envelope—and what caused the organizers to create the current rules. These days, it’s simple: The bills we bet on are ones where the outcome’s clearly decided. A few months back, the Clean Diamond Act passed by a vote of 408 to 6; last week, the Hurricane Shelters Act passed by 401 to 10; and today, the Baseball for America Act was expected to pass by approximately 300 to 100. A clear landslide. And the perfect bill to play on.

When I was in high school, we used to try to guess if Jennifer Luftig would be wearing a bra. In grad school, we made bingo cards with the names of the kids who talked the most, then waited for them to open their mouths. We’ve all played our games. Can you get twelve more votes? Can you get the Vermont Congressmen to vote against it? Can you get the nays up to 110, even when 100 is all that’s reasonably possible? Politics has always been called a game for grown-ups. So why is anyone surprised people would gamble on it?

Naturally, I was skeptical at first, but then I realized just how innocent it really was. We don’t change the laws, or pass bad legislation, or stroke our evil goatees and overthrow democracy as we know it. We play at the margins; that’s where it’s safe—and where it’s fun. It’s like sitting in a meeting and betting how many times the annoying guy in your office uses the word “I.” You can goad him and make your best attempts to alter it, but in the end, the results are pretty much the same. In the world of Capitol Hill, even though we’re split between Ds and
Rs, 99 percent of our legislation is passed by overwhelming majorities. It’s only the few controversial bills that make the news. The result is a job that can easily lapse into a repetitive, monotonous grind—that is, unless you find a way to make it interesting.

My pager once again shudders in my fist.
103,
Harris sends.

“Okay, what about the White House?” Trish asks, still working her list. This is the one she’s been saving for. In the House, we allocated seven million for structural improvements to the White House complex. The Senate—thanks to Trish’s boss—zeroed the program out.

“C’mon, Trish,” Ezra begs. “You can’t just give ’em a goose egg.”

Trish raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see…”

It’s typical Senate. The only reason Trish’s boss is playing the jerk is because the President has been pushing for a settlement in a racial discrimination lawsuit against the Library of Congress. Trish’s boss, Senator Apelbaum, is one of the few people involved in the negotiation. This close to the elections, he’d rather stall, keep the lawsuit quiet, and keep it out of the press. This is the Senator’s way of pushing back. And from the smug look on Trish’s face, she’s loving every minute of it.

“Why don’t we just split the difference?” Ezra says, knowing our usual mode of compromise. “Give it three and a half million, and ask the President to bring his library card next time.”

“Listen closely…” Trish warns, leaning into the table. “He’s not getting a single muddy peso.”

107,
it says on my pager.

I have to smile as it inches closer. Whoever the organizers
are—or, as we call them, the
dungeon-masters
—these guys know what they’re doing. The bets can go from twice a week to once every few months, but when they identify an issue, they always set the game at the perfect level of difficulty. Two months ago, when the new Attorney General came to testify for the Senate Armed Services Committee, the bet was to get one of the Senators to ask the question, “How much of your success do you attribute to the support of your family?” A simple query for any witness, but when you add in the fact that a few days earlier, the Attorney General insisted that public figures should be able to keep their family lives private—well… now we had a horse race. Waiting for the words to be uttered, we watched that achingly boring Senate hearing as if it were the final round of
Rocky.
Today, I’m glued to a vote that was decided by a majority almost ten minutes ago. Even the baseball lobbyists have turned off their TVs. But I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s not the seventy-five dollars I’ve got riding on the outcome. It’s the challenge. When Harris and I put our money down, we figured they’d never get near 110 votes. Whoever’s on the other side obviously thinks they can. Right now they’re at 107. No doubt, impressive… but it’s the last three that are going to be like shoving a mountain.

108
blinks onto my pager.

A buzzer rings through the air. One more minute left on the official clock.

“So what’s the count at?” Trish asks, swiveling at the sound, back toward the TV.

“Can we please not change the subject?” Ezra begs.

Trish doesn’t care. She’s still scanning the screen.

“Hundred and eight,” I tell her as the C-SPAN number clicks into place.

“I’m impressed,” she admits. “I didn’t think they’d get this far.”

The grin on my face spreads even wider. Could Trish be playing? Six months ago, Harris invited me in—and one day, I’ll invite someone else. All you know are the two people you’re directly connected to: one above, one below. In truth, it’s purely for safety purposes—in case word gets out, you can’t finger someone if you don’t know who they are. Of course, it also brings new meaning to the term
anybody’s game.

I look around the room. All three of my colleagues take subtle glances at C-SPAN. Georgia’s too quiet to be a player. Ezra and Trish are a whole different story.

On TV, Congressman Virgil Witt from Louisiana strolls across the screen. Ezra’s boss. “There’s your guy,” Trish says.

“You’re really serious about this Library thing?” Ezra shoots back. He doesn’t care about seeing his boss on television. Around here, it happens every day.

109,
my pager says.

On TV, Ezra’s boss once again rushes across the screen.

Under the desk, I type in one last question:
How’d Witt vote?

My eyes are on Ezra as the pager rumbles in my hand. Here comes Harris’s answer.

Nay.

Before I can respond, the pager vibrates one last time:
110.

Game over.

I laugh out loud. Seventy-five bucks in the toilet.

“What?” Georgia asks.

“Nothing,” I say, slapping my pager against the top of the conference table. “Just a stupid E-mail.”

“Actually, that reminds me…” Trish begins, pulling out her own pager and checking a quick message.

“Is anyone here
not
completely distracted?” Ezra asks. “Enough with the friggin’ Blackberries; we’ve got a serious issue—if the White House gets zilched, you know they’ll threaten a veto.”

“No, they won’t,” Trish insists, clicking away on her pager without looking up. “Not this close to the election. They veto now and it’ll look like they’re holding up funding for the entire government just so they can get their driveway repaved.”

Knowing she’s right, Ezra falls unusually silent. I stare him down, searching for the tell. Nothing’s there. If he is playing the game, the guy’s a grandmaster.

“You okay?” he asks, catching my glance.

“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Perfect.” And for the past six months, it’s been exactly that. Blood’s pumping, adrenaline’s raging, and I’ve got an in on the best secret in town. After eight years in the grind, I almost forgot what it felt like. Even losing doesn’t matter. The thrill is in the play.

Like I said, the dungeon-masters know what they’re doing. And lucky for me, they’re about to do it again. Any minute now. I check the clock on the wall. Two o’clock.
Exactly at two.
That’s what Harris said when I first asked him how we know when the next bet is.

“Don’t worry,” he had said calmly. “They’ll send a signal.”