Ballots and Blood (32 page)

“Announce we're returning the money today and release a statement saying I've done nothing wrong and look forward to cooperating fully with the investigation,” said Jefferson. “Then I'll meet with the media when I go back later in the week.”

“No news conference,” suggested the campaign manager. “They all start trying to outperform one another when you do that. It's not a good dynamic. I'd do a series of one-on-ones and maybe one ed board.”

Jefferson frowned. “I don't know,” he said. “Maybe it's better to just bite the bullet and take the tough questions and lean into this. I've got nothing to hide.”

The dead air hung as everyone absorbed the impact of the day's news. They hoped to knock Lightfoot out of the box with a quick blow. Now they were in for a long, bloody slog.

“It's unfortunate Terry's caught up in this,” said the chief of staff. “It's going to make it far more difficult for us to stay out of the story.”

“It's a stinking mess,” said Jefferson. “Not just for him, but me. Who knew?”

“He needs to keep his mouth shut and stay out of the paper,” observed the chief of staff.

“If it's any consolation, I've seen people survive a lot worse than this,” said the attorney. “Lightfoot's going to have his problems. And it was unrealistic to think we'd have smooth sailing.” He paused, adding brightly: “Hey, Don, look on the bright side . . .”

“What's that?” asked Jefferson.

“You're not Buddy Tisdale.”

Everyone allowed themselves a morbid laugh. It wasn't that the joke was funny—far from it. But laughing was less painful than crying.

TRUMAN GREENGLASS STARED AT HIS computer screen, his stomach doing flips, the pain of a migraine headache shooting through his skull like hot knitting needles being twisted slowly in his brain. The news accounts splashed across the Internet of the raid on ASC headquarters by federal agents filled him with panic. The photographs of FBI and DOD investigators carting out boxes, computers, and file cabinets sent a shudder through him.

What worried Greenglass was the most explosive aspect of the ASC probe wasn't the campaign contributions, bribes, or gratuities the firm paid to Buddy Tisdale, or any other member of Congress for that matter. It was the fact that Aristotle was the main conduit for covert aid to the Green Movement in Iran, including the elimination of key members of the nuclear program and the Republican Guard, a program so secret it was known by only a handful in the entire government. One of them, Senator Perry Miller, was dead.

Greenglass picked up the phone and dialed the direct number of his main day-to-day contact on Iran at the State Department: Michael Moyle, undersecretary of state for Middle Eastern Affairs. Moyle answered on the first ring.

“I assume you saw the story regarding ASC?” asked Greenglass.

“Yes,” replied Moyle. He let out a pained sigh. “I'm afraid it's going to get choppy.”

“Choppy?” asked Greenglass, his voice rising. “This is a cluster. We already have the FBI asking questions about my involvement in covert aid to the Green Movement. Now we've got an interagency task force and a U.S. attorney with every phone and hard drive at Aristotle.”

“I hope their shredder was working overtime.”

“You and me both,” replied Greenglass. “Were they encrypting their e-mail?”

“I don't know.”

“Me, either. If they didn't, it's not good.”

Silence hung on the line as they mulled their options.

“Someone's got to alert the DNI, the SecDef, the SecState, and POTUS,” said Moyle.

Greenglass thought a moment. “I'll tell Charlie and the president.”

“I'll handle my boss and the SecDef,” said Moyle.

“Listen, Michael, it's absolutely critical you and I stay simpatico,” said Greenglass.

“Don't worry,” said Moyle. “I won't let any daylight between us.”

Greenglass hung up the phone, staring at it for moment. Could he trust Moyle? He didn't know. When the artillery started to fly, people tended to look out for themselves.

LIZ ROBINSON BREEZED INTO JAY'S office without announcing herself. Engrossed in a phone conversation, he motioned for her to grab a chair. When his call was done, he turned to face her. “What's up, sunshine?” he asked. “I hope it's not about me again.”

“Shockingly, it's not . . . for once,” said Lisa, twirling a pen in her hand as she scanned notes on her legal pad. “What do you know about this Jonah Popilopos?”

Jay shrugged. “He's a televangelist who wears a white suit and bears a striking resemblance to Yul Brenner. Shameless self-promoter. Claire apparently attended his revival in New York City recently, and he pulled her up on stage.”

“I know,” said Lisa. “Who can forget the white dress? Anyway, Dan Dorman called and is asking about Popilopos's relationship with Claire. Specifically, he wants to know how many times he has visited the White House. He's asking to see the visitor logs.”

“Great,” said Jay. “Dorman's such a jerk.”

“You don't have to convince me. But what should I say? I mean, this is fairly delicate insofar as it involves Claire's personal faith.”

“Kick it to the East Wing,” said Jay. “Don't give Dorman the time of day. Have Claire's press secretary give him some innocuous statement about how she knows a lot of evangelical, Jewish, and Catholic leaders, and she has met with many of them on interfaith issues, et cetera.”

“What about the visitor logs?”

“Put in the records request and then slow-walk it. Maybe after the piece runs, Dorman will forget about it.”

“Alright,” said Lisa. “But Dorman's a jackal. And from what I hear, this Popilopos guy is a bit of a nut.”

Jay smiled. “Yeah, but he's our nut,” he said, laughing. It was becoming an increasingly common saying around the West Wing.

Lisa just shook her head and left.

26

S
al Stanley sat in his spacious, elegantly appointed office in the Capitol surrounded by his leadership team, known informally as “the Sanhedrin.” They sat on twin green Queen Anne sofas anchoring the room: Democratic Whip Leo Wells; Chuck Clay, chairman of the Democratic Senate Campaign Committee and a prodigious fund-raiser; and Pat Broome, chairman of the Democratic Policy Committee. In the past, Michael Kaplan would have attended the meeting, but he was currently on trial just a few blocks down Constitution Avenue. Also joining was Aaron Hayward, chairman of the Finance Committee, to give an update on his investigation into the Long administration politicizing the IRS.

“We're not always the best in the world at staying on message, especially when we don't have the White House's megaphone,” said Stanley, his hands grasping the arms of his thronelike, wingback chair as though strapped into an electric chair, his long legs crossed, his foot slipped half out of a black loafer, leg bobbing the shoe from the end of his toes in a nervous tic. “But in this case we've done a good job pounding home Long's abuse of power. The narrative is hardening that Long promised to change the way Washington works, and instead he's treated the sewer like a Jacuzzi.” He allowed himself a low, satisfying chuckle. “The
Times
editorial today was devastating. Have you guys all seen it?”

Several heads nodded.

“No, I haven't,” said Broome, her fair skin drained of energy by a long day of work, her auburn hair chiseled with flat iron and hair spray to the rough texture of hewed granite. “I've been in meetings and hearings all day. What did it say?”

Stanley turned to one of his ever-present staffers, several of whom sat against the wall in chairs scribbling notes, scrolling through their BlackBerries. “Get today's
Times
editorial and make a copy for everybody,” he said. “It called Long out for promising the most ethical administration in history and now tolerating corruption on a Nixonian scale. Said Noble was Long's Bob Haldeman. As I recall, the headline was, ‘Noble the Ignoble.'”

Everyone laughed at the skewering of their nemesis and former Democratic wunderkind. Their laughs formed a symphony of nasal guffaws, low wheezes, and high-pitched cackles.

“That's rich. That's classic,” said Broome, her knees bouncing.

“Just goes to show you, if you want to stick it to your enemies, sometimes the best thing you can do is let 'em win,” joked Clay.

“Don't remind me,” said Stanley with a mock grimace. He held open his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

“Now the shoe's on the other foot. Can you say ‘subpoena power'?” asked Wells, his lips curled into a sardonic grin.

“I don't want to rain on the parade, Mr. Leader,” said Hayward, who had been holding back during the fun and games. “But I got a call from Phil Battaglia today. He's ready to deal. They're going to send Noble up to testify.”

“What?” asked Stanley, incredulous. He shot forward in his chair, the veins in his neck protruding, his nostrils flaring.

“That's what Battaglia said,” replied Hayward crisply. “He asked me to come over to the White House tomorrow and work out a deal.”

“What
kind
of deal?” asked Stanley, his voice rising to a squeal. “There is
no
deal with this White House. Noble's been subpoenaed. He will appear before the Finance Committee pursuant to that subpoena, answering all questions truthfully and honestly, under penalty of one year in prison for each count of perjury.
Period
..

Hayward recoiled from Stanley's blast. He was the senior member of the group, having served on the Finance Committee for twenty-four years and chaired it for six years. He didn't like being told how to run his committee.

“It's not that simple, Sal,” he said firmly. “The only way to get the Republicans to agree to issuing subpoenas to the White House and the IRS was to hold a fair hearing. I got a full day with von Fuggers as the sole witness. His testimony was devastating.”

Several grunted their assent.

“We have to give Noble the opportunity to respond. If this investigation looks partisan, it will backfire.”

Stanley methodically tore a mint from its foil wrapper as Hayward droned on self-righteously, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Don't tell
me
about
partisan witch hunts!
” shouted Stanley, hurling the wrapper at the candy bowl. It bounced off the bowl, skittered across the coffee table, and fell to the floor. “A good friend of everyone in this room is on trial right now on trumped-up charges,” he said. “Mike Kaplan is staring at twenty years in federal prison. He faces disbarment. What was his crime? Paying consulting fees to delegates in Virginia! Do you think for
one minute
this Justice Department hesitated to throw the book at him?” Stanley's voice quavered. His facial muscles twitched. “Jay Noble blocked an IRS audit of illegal activity by a tax-exempt organization, including the personal enrichment of the head of that organization, forced a career civil servant into retirement, and you tell me to
be fair!?
” He shook his head. “Aaron, I feel like we're operating in parallel universes.”

Hayward maintained his composure, his poker face unmoving. He let his silence speak louder than words:
I am not budging.
Everyone else stared at the floor, studying the carpet or gazing into space, discomforted by Stanley's outburst. The pressure of Stanley's reelection campaign (caused, not incidentally, by Noble's recruiting Kerry Cartwright to challenge him) and the still-painful loss in the presidential campaign exploded to the surface.

“Amen,” said Clay, a notorious brownnoser and Stanley dead-ender who was the majority leader's handpicked choice to run the campaign committee. He rapped his knuckles on the coffee table. “They've gone after Kaplan and the leader. Let's fight fire with fire. Noble should not get any special treatment.”

“Look, I
loathe
Noble and everything he represents,” said Wells, who positioned himself to Stanley's left within the caucus and made no attempt to hide his desire for his job, secretly hoping he was defeated in November. “But I don't see the White House agreeing to waive executive privilege without ground rules. If we compromise, we still get him in front of the committee.”

“And not just the committee,” said Stanley, seemingly calming down. “The media, too. They hate him.”

“Let's not get carried away. Noble will be lawyered up,” said Broome. “Besides, he's too smart to out-and-out lie. He'll review every call and e-mail. Unless we have a witness to directly contradict his testimony, he could be a problem.”

Stanley glowered, his eyes smoldering. “He's a problem either way,” he said.

“Pat's right,” said Hayward. “Noble's agreeing to testify is not necessarily a gift. He'll be well prepared. He'll dissemble a lot. The Republicans will have their talking points—”

“Dictated by the White House,” said Wells.

“Agreed. Which is why I need to work out a deal with Battaglia,” said Hayward. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning into Stanley. “I'll depose Noble and everyone around him. They'll be plenty of contradictions if only because people have fuzzy and selective memories. It's unavoidable.” He arched his eyebrows, his eyes scanning their faces. “I've run this investigation to our benefit so far, haven't I?”

Stanley appeared to soften, his fleshy jowls sagging. “Of course, Aaron,” he said. “Hans von Fuggers was brilliantly played. I just want to make sure we don't let Noble hide a crime, and a felony at that, behind executive privilege.”

Wells cleared his throat. “I think Aaron should go down to the White House tomorrow,” he said. “Let's see what Battaglia proposes. If we can force Noble to give sworn testimony without unreasonable restrictions, I don't see how we lose.” Always looking for a way to undermine Stanley—and curry favor with the bulls of the caucus like Hayward, who held the key to his future aspirations to be Democratic leader—Wells stuck in the knife.