The Means (21 page)

46

Jack Boothe can get the cell phone number of anyone in the press through the aid that manages media relations. He sends a text message to Randy Newhope.

Room 1507. 11 p.m. tonight. Keep it quiet. Jack Boothe

Jack likes how cloak-and-dagger it seems, though it could also seem gay. None of the press has rooms on the fifteenth floor but they're always trying to get meetings with campaign officials, so if anyone sees Randy on fifteen at a weird hour they'll assume that's all he's doing there.

At exactly eleven p.m. Randy knocks on Jack's door. Randy has on jeans and an untucked dress shirt. Jack says, “Take a seat.” He's in a suite with a writing desk and sofas for meeting that are separate from the bedroom. “Before we get started, you should know that the president doesn't know anything about this meeting. This is coming from me.” Jack's words are clipped. There's nothing social or friendly.

Randy sits and keeps his eyes on Jack. He's been in the business long enough to know that the president might know at least the intent of what's about to be said, if not the details. People lie a lot. “Okay.” He sits and leans forward. He doesn't want to look cocky yet.

Jack keeps standing. He has a drink and doesn't offer one. “Randy, where do you stand on the topic of infidelity?” He pauses to watch the expression go blank. “Of presidents?”

Randy shrugs. “I don't think about it much. I don't know if there's been a president who didn't play around, so it doesn't factor in, really. Unless it's egregious.”

Jack doesn't look at Randy. He paces back and forth with slow steps like each footfall has a plan. Randy is at the edge of what he knows to be the inner sanctum and would like to be let in. He's the junior man of the two and would like a handout. Jack likes how the meeting has started. He sips his scotch and says, “I think that's right. It's a nonissue. I'm glad to hear you say that.” He points at Randy when he says this as though directing a stenographer to put Randy on the record.

Randy would like to point out that he made a caveat for egregious behavior but doesn't. He'd like a glass of scotch too.

Jack says, “Some media have made a fuss with speculations about the president's fidelity, but it's only those who want to attack him. They don't like where he stands on the real issues so they go after him on a nonissue. Wouldn't you agree that's a distraction?”

“I guess so.”

“Good.” Jack takes another sip and sits down on the sofa across from Randy. “You have a chance to do something positive for the national conversation. You can get out in front with a piece that reminds everyone to keep their eyes on the ball and exposes the cheap games that some media frauds play.”

Randy now knows there's no nugget of information coming to him. Boothe just wants some help. Randy feels more power so he takes his forearms off his knees and sits back in the sofa. “I don't know, Jack. It's a busy news cycle now on campaign issues. I've got a bunch of other pieces in the works and I don't have room for a highbrow opinion piece like this. I don't think I'm your guy for this.”

Jack expected this and says, “This topic may come to the front of the news cycle very soon and you have a chance to get in front of it. You like a drink?”

“Sure, I'll have what you're having.”

Jack stands and walks to the mini fridge behind the desk. He puts three ice cubes in a short glass and empties an airplane-sized bottle of Dewar's into it. From the desk he picks up a manila folder then hands the glass and the folder to Randy.

Randy drinks and holds up the folder. “What's this?”

“I would consider it a favor, Randy. It's some copy that could help you with a piece like this. I'll be well placed over the next four years and I remember favors.”

Randy puts the folder down on the desk in front of him and finishes the scotch in a large drink. It's not the nervous drink of a person who needs the edge off. It's a show of dominance. “Jack, that's crazy. I'm not even going to open that folder. You can have it back.”

“You won't do the piece?” says Jack.

“I will not. I'm a journalist. This whole conversation is inappropriate.”

Jack crosses his legs and looks over the room as though musing until he's sure Randy is about to excuse himself. “It's interesting that you use the word ‘inappropriate.'”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember I met your wife one time, don't you? What's her name?”

Randy doesn't say anything.

“Emily, isn't it? Emily. She seems very nice. Kids?”

“Two,” says Randy.

“She's a lobbyist at Parks and Solomon, right? I've done some work with that firm.”

“What's this about?” says Randy.

“Has Emily ever met Tara Altman?”

Randy is forward on the edge of the sofa now. “You're an asshole.”

“Randy, I'm not judging you. I think your fidelity has nothing to do with your job performance. Don't you see the parallels here?”

Randy is thinking about what leverage he has that he can throw back at Boothe. He keeps coming up with nothing and his anger rises. “This could ruin me.”

“When you say this, which of your problems are you referring to?”

“This,” and he picks up the folder. “This.” He has no play with Boothe, just anger. He stands and throws it hard overhand but it's only a few papers and it flaps in a frantic pattern then lands back at his own feet to mock his powerlessness. Randy looks for something heavier and finds the phone. He takes it in both hands, then spins like a discus thrower and hurls it across the room. He raises a ceramic lamp over his head, then crashes it to the floor.

Jack still sits with legs crossed. He knew this could happen too. Everyone's under a lot of stress and underrested. Randy needs to feel strong and in control for a moment while he takes his emasculation.

There's a knock at the door which freezes Randy. Jack opens the door only a few inches and says, “Everything's fine, just a slip.” Jack closes the door and says, “Secret Service. They're very good.”

Now he'll reposition the issue with Randy to make it easier to swallow. Jack picks up the empty glasses and fills them while Randy stands, breathing heavy and uncertain.

He hands the scotch to Randy and they stand next to each other. “Randy, I don't see any problems here. This is a story you believe in, you said so yourself. Your readers might like a story like this and I'd still like to look at this as a favor.”

“With a gun to my head,” says Randy.

“There is the unfortunate situation that I know your wife and I have this other information.”

“And you'd use it.”

“I need something, Randy. My campaign does. You put yourself in this position.”

“If this gets out, I'm done as a journalist.”

“It won't get out. Anyway, moving on from journalism might be a good thing. I told you I remember favors. If you raise your hand, you might get a nice spot in the next administration.”

“Like what?”

“I can't make any promises, but I've always thought Ted Knowles is a pussy.”

Randy's felt too many emotions in the last five minutes to think clearly.

Jack says, “Why don't you take the drink with you?” He bends down to pick up the folder and hands it to Randy. “And don't forget this.”

47

Mason is sick of reading notes in his hotel suite. It's eleven p.m. “Call down and have them fix a cheeseburger medium with fries.” An agent picks up the phone for the restaurant. Mason changes into jeans and a sweater and puts on shoes. He leaves the suite and walks to the elevator and the agents follow without a word.

The elevator doors open to the lobby level and as Mason steps forward a shopping cart with four cases of beer pushes him back inside. He looks at the hands on the shopping cart handle and follows the arms up to Jack Boothe's face. “What the fuck are you doing, Jack?”

Boothe can't get out a word. He backs up the cart to make room for the president to leave the elevator. “Excuse me, sir.”

Mason steps out and stops by the side of the cart. “You're a little old for this, Jack. And a little too senior in my staff.”

“Sorry, sir. Just getting this up to some of the younger folks.” The idea that Jack won't be in the center of the drinking is so clearly bullshit that they both just leave it right there.

Mason walks on to the Shula's restaurant in the hotel and Boothe escapes to the elevator wishing he could do over the last two minutes.

Steps from the door to the restaurant, Mason's personal cell phone rings. Incoming calls are rare and he answers it.

“Hello, Ron.”

“Sir, I have some troubling news.”

“Let's get it out.” Mitchell stops walking and covers his open ear with his free hand.

“You know who Samantha Davis is.”

“UBS-24.”

“Yes. She's been a bit underground the last couple months, working on a story.”

“So?”

“You're the story.”

“How much more of this infidelity crap are we going to deal with?”

“This one's different. I'm hearing that she has enough that the executives at UBS have decided to go with it. It likely hits in a few days. Maybe right after the debate. Maybe before.”

“Jesus Christ, Ron, how bad can it be?”

“We need to talk.”

48

“The jury's back with a verdict.”

Samantha Davis, Ken Harper, and David Mueller are in Mueller's office. Mueller is behind his desk and can see the muted television screens on the wall behind Samantha and Ken. Mueller reads the lower third of the screen again. “The jury reached a verdict in less than three hours.”

“That's not good for Meadow,” says Samantha.

Every network had given over hours each day to cover the trial. The state had made a strong case against her though the media reported that she had developed an in-courtroom flirtation with one of the jurors. A three-hour deliberation indicates there was nobody speaking up for her, though.

“Not at all,” says Mueller. “It'll be twenty minutes before they all get seated and read through everything. Let's get back to it.”

“Take us through what you have, Samantha,” says Ken Harper.

“I have the affair. Plenty of details from Monica Morris and this is corroborated by letters, emails, eyewitness accounts, and photographs.”

“Okay, fine,” says Mueller.

“I have them in Florida, together, on the night of the hit-and-run. Again, plenty of details from Monica and there are emails that back up that exact night. The restaurant manager is still there today. He doesn't have reservation records going back that far but he remembers Mason as governor of New York, coming in with Monica, and says that date makes sense.”

“Alright,” says Mueller.

“That restaurant puts them fourteen miles from the hit-and-run, which occurred around midnight that evening. The route from the restaurant to Jupiter would have taken them right along US One where the hit-and-run happened. There aren't eyewitnesses or records addressing it but everything Monica Morris says is plausible.”

Both men exhale. “Christ,” says Mueller.

Ken Harper says, “I think I know how Woodward and Bernstein's editor felt. It's like we just crested the highest part of the roller coaster and are looking down. It's supposed to be fun but I feel like I'm going to throw up.”

“The only thing I don't have is the two of them at the hit-and-run at the time of the hit-and-run.”

“You have Monica Morris's confession,” says Ken.

“And that's all I have, so we need to report it carefully.”

“Are you a lawyer or a reporter?” says Ken.

“She's a damn good reporter,” says Mueller for her.

“You're not seriously questioning whether or not we go with this?” says Ken.

“It's a hell of a thing to go with the day before the debate,” says Mueller.

Samantha says, “I think we go with all of it but tread lightly around the hit-and-run.”

“We have a responsibility to go with it,” says Ken.

They all nod. Decision made.

Samantha leans back. She takes a deep breath through her nose and holds it, then forces it out the way people do when trying to raise courage. “There's one more wrinkle I need to tell you about.”

“Hang on.” Mueller interrupts, standing with remote in hand to come around and sit on the front of his desk. He turns the volume up on UBS. The reporter is reading a text message from her producer inside the courtroom.

“Guilty.”

Ken Harper says, “They'll probably hold sentencing in about a week. Now it's just a question of life or death for her.”

“Jesus,” says Mueller. There's a head shot of Meadow Jones up on the screen, looking like a beautiful little girl, and Mueller is trying to reconcile that picture with a murderer who used a steak knife. He mutes the TV. “What's the wrinkle, Sam?”

THE DEBATE

49

“Gin.”

“Jesus.” Tom lays his cards down on the coffee table in front of him. “Alison, you know you're supposed to be pumping me up before I go out there. Don't you know how to tank a damned card game?”

Alison stands from a leather armchair that a staffer had pulled to the other side of the coffee table and comes around to sit next to Tom on the sofa. The walls are bare. The room is a rectangle, thirty feet by twenty. There are a leather sofa and chair, both cheap, and a dozen folding chairs that are metal with a plastic-covered pad on the seat.

Their son and daughter are in a corner of the room drinking soda. Tom and Alison drink water and stay calm. Peter Brand and eight others from the campaign staff drink coffee as fast as it can arrive to the room and try to project confidence in their man.

An hour before the debate, Brand ushers in a camera crew to take still shots behind the scenes. Tom's family knows what to do at this point of the campaign. They get on the couch together the way they would for a Christmas card photo. They make sure the playing cards are visible. Then they try for some candid-looking shots. The kids stack the cards to a three-level house, then they all laugh when Tom huffs and puffs and blows the house in. Perfect.

Peter Brand thanks the three-person camera crew and ushers them back out. He refills his coffee and sits next to Tom on the couch. Alison sits on Tom's other side, their hands clasped together and resting on the top of Tom's thigh.

“You're ready,” says Peter. “You're as ready for this moment as any candidate I've ever seen. You have all the talent and all the preparation. Go out there and execute, and you will change the face of this election.”

“Thanks, Peter. I feel ready. I'm relaxed, I have all the information and I have conviction.”

Peter nods. He slaps Tom's knee. “You know, there's a moment when I knew you had it. That you could be in a debate in the general for the White House.” Peter sips his coffee and looks at the wall across from them like he's just hit the switch on a projector so they can all watch the moment replay together. “The greatest gift of a politician is knowing how to handle the moments with strangers who know him. You have that gift. We were at a campaign event at Durham High School and a man came up to you and told you he'd lost his job the year before and the bank was foreclosing on his home. You asked that guy what his job was, what he'd been doing to find a new one, how his wife and kids were doing, where the home was, what changes they were making in their grocery shopping. The whole time you were looking him in the eye and you really wanted to know the answers. By the end of it, you knew more about that guy than his own brother would. I watched the whole thing and I knew you'd be our next governor and I was pretty sure you'd get to be right here.”

“I remember that conversation. It feels like a couple decades ago.”

“You're the better man on that stage tonight, Tom.”

Tom sips his water.

“Now listen. No home runs. Just get out there and swing nice and easy. Let it come to you and you'll probably hit one or two out of the park anyway. Just stay firm the whole ninety minutes. Don't do any on-the-one-hand-on-the-other-hand bullshit. For the first time you're going to stand onstage next to the president of the United States. You need to stay strong. Stay decisive. Stay presidential. If he doesn't push you around and you can stay tough, you win and you win big. Tonight will elevate you to presidential status. This is a simple, conservative game plan that gets a big win.”

“Got it.” Tom sips more water. His last coffee was three hours ago because he doesn't want to be jittery onstage and caffeine can do that to him.

At 8:50 p.m. Tom gives his kids a kiss then walks with Alison down the hallway behind the stage of the Tampa Convention Center. The children will take their seats in the audience where Alison will meet them, then after the debate they'll all surround Tom onstage. The hallways have naked concrete floors with a shine and are empty except for security and debate commission personnel telling people where to go.

Tom doesn't realize how hard he's squeezing Alison's hand and she refuses to tell him. They get to the west side of the stage and Tom gives her a hug and kiss and waits to be called out by the moderator.