Ballots and Blood (38 page)

The press largely ignored McGowan. He was windowdressing. They hungered for Stanley trying to take down Noble, who thwarted his presidential ambitions in the recent campaign and was even now trying to defeat him for reelection in New Jersey.

“Question for Senator Stanley,” said
Politico. “
What is the status of negotiations with the White House over the president's waiving executive privilege and allowing Jay Noble to testify before the Finance Committee?”

Stanley stepped back to the podium. “We are hopeful those negotiations proceed and Mr. Noble appears before the committee,” said Stanley. “Previous presidents waived executive privilege in similar cases. Remember Condaleeza Rice, who was then national security advisor to President George W. Bush, testified before the 9/11 Commission. But because the allegations by Mr. von Fuggers were made under oath, Mr. Noble's testimony must be sworn and take place in public. So we just don't know what the White House will do.”

“If Jay Noble does appear,” asked
Politico
, “and he addresses these questions in a way the committee finds satisfactory, isn't it possible an independent counsel is unnecessary?”

“In a word, no,” said Stanley. “I don't anticipate that happening.” His colleagues smiled and the press contingent chuckled. The news conference over, Stanley headed back to his office, trailed by staff and the other senators.

“Do you think there's any chance Golden takes the bait?” asked Leo Wells, the Democratic whip.

“I doubt it,” said Stanley, head down. “He's on a short leash to the West Wing. Battaglia says, ‘jump,' Golden asks, ‘how high?'”

Within minutes the
New York Times
posted an update on its Web site beneath the headline: “Senate Democrats Demand Special Counsel in Widening Investigation of Key White House Aide, Jay Noble.”

SENATOR KATE COVITZ TRIED TO reach her husband for two hours on his cell phone but got no answer. She was on her way to yet another fund-raiser, a reception for gay supporters at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. The fund-raisers were a blur now. Her husband was at their weekend place in Carmel-by-the-Sea, a two-bedroom cottage three blocks from the beach they purchased a decade earlier. She was scheduled to drive down from San Francisco after the fund-raiser and meet him for a late dinner at a favorite restaurant and a rare day off. She was looking forward to it.

Frank Covitz was a wealthy commercial real estate developer who helped finance his wife's early campaigns for Congress. His $200 million fortune and controversial investments became an issue in this and other campaigns. An avid golfer, he loved the Monterey peninsula, was a member at Pebble Beach Golf Links, and he and Kate spent as many weekends there as their busy schedules allowed. He sent her a cryptic text message earlier in the day that read, “You're the best. Miss you. Love to you and the children. Forgive me.” He had recently been the target of a hit piece in the
LA Times,
and was feeling down.

Unsettled, Kate tried to call him repeatedly. As they entered the lobby of the Mark Hopkins, she turned to her finance director, eyes fearful. “I can't get in touch with Frank,” she said. Outwardly, she looked terrific, sheathed in a lavender St. John pantsuit, matching Stuart Weitzman heels, dark brown hair feathered to her shoulders.

“Really? That's odd,” said her finance director. “Want me to try him?”

“No,” she said. “Call the Carmel police and ask them if they can run by the house.”

The finance director nodded stoically. Everyone on the campaign staff was used to what they called “Frank management.” She stepped into the corner of the lobby, out of earshot, to call the police while Covitz walked into a reception and click line for those who gave or raised at least $5,000.

Covitz kept her game face on, a frozen smile affixed and teeth bared, greeting donors and bundlers as if each was the only person in the room. After brief remarks, she went into a holding room before they headed upstairs for the large reception. She sat at a table with several glasses, a pitcher of water, and a plate of mints.

Her finance director entered the room and closed the door. “I got a call back from the Carmel police.”

“Did they find Frank?”

“No,” replied the finance director. “They went by the house and he wasn't there. Or at least he didn't answer.”

“He's probably on the golf course,” she said. “I swear he'd play in the dark if they strung lights on the course.”

“I don't think so. His car is in the driveway. So if he went somewhere, he must have walked.”

“Maybe he went with someone else,” said Covitz. “I'll call Pebble Beach and see if they've seen him.” She scrolled through her BlackBerry for the number and dialed it. “Hello,” she said. “This is Kate Covitz. I'm trying to reach Frank. Have you seen him out there this afternoon?” She paused, listening to the answer. “I see,” she said, her facial expression disappointed. “Well, if he turns up, would you mind having someone call me, or have him call me?” She gave the person in the golf shop her phone number and hung up.

“Not there?” said the finance director.

“No,” said Covitz quietly. Her growing concern was palpable. But 150 donors were upstairs waiting for her to speak to them. She'd deal with it after the fund-raiser. “Let's go upstairs,” she directed. “I'll work the room, hit the marks, make brief remarks, and then I need to get down to Carmel.”

She and her finance director left the hold and headed for the elevator, which was held open by a campaign advance man. They rode silently up the elevator to the top floor. When the doors opened, she walked down the hall toward the Top of the Mark, the bar at the top of the hotel offering beautiful views of the city and the San Francisco Bay.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” intoned an announcer. “The senior U.S. senator from the state of California, Kate Covitz!”

The crowed broke into loud applause and cheering. Covitz bounded on to a stage, her plastic smile masking her inner turmoil, pointing to familiar faces in the crowd, her body bathed in the flashes of cameras.

AN APB FOR FRANK COVITZwent out from the Carmel Police Department at 5:42 p.m. The dispatch was sent to all local law enforcement, including the Carmel-by-the-Sea Beach Patrol. Half an hour later, one of the beach patrol officers who remembered seeing a man who fit the description strolling on the beach jumped on an all-terrain vehicle, its large tires giving it the appearance of a moonwalker, and gunned the engine, hurtling toward the end of the beach. It was a beautiful late summer day, the sun low in the ocean mist, seagulls flying and squawking overhead, children running to and fro, couples holding hands as they walked on the white sand.

Reaching the end of the beach, the patrol officer got off the ATV and stepped gingerly across the large rocks separating the ocean from the marshlands inland. He could make out Clint Eastwood's Mission Valley Inn in the distance. The waves crashed against the rocks, sending white foam and spray into the air. He stood on top of a high rock, surveying the surrounding landscape. That was when he spied the body.

He was a white male, approximately mid-sixties, dressed in a white-and-blue checkered shirt, brown belt, khaki chinos, and Gucci loafers with no socks. The police report would record that the victim had suffered “severe head trauma.” In less clinical terms, the top of his skull was blown off, his scalp hanging by a flap. His torso rested against a rock, his left arm lay across his chest, his hand closed tightly in a fist. His legs were splayed underneath him in opposite directions. His right arm lay on the sand, also with a closed fist. A .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver lay on the ground. The blood from the wound covered the side of the rock and sand at its base. The cylinder of the revolver held three bullets. One shot had been fired.

The beach patrol officer picked up the revolver with a Bic pen so as not to leave prints and sniffed the barrel. The pungent odor of fresh gunpowder filled his nostrils. He touched the victim's neck with his index and middle finger. There was no pulse, but the body was still warm. He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. “I got a body,” he said. “End of the beach by the Mission Inn.” He paused. “I'm going to need an ambulance and a Crime Scene Unit.”

BACK AT THE MARK HOPKINS, Kate Covitz wrapped up her speech and dove into the crowd, hugging necks, signing autographs, pecking cheeks, and posing for photos. The scene took on the feel of a nightclub, with thumping music and a surging mass of humanity, with some bodies bumping and grinding. Everyone was having fun. And why not? Covitz was up six points in the polls and raising dough by the bucketfuls. Best of all, from this crowd's perspective she wasn't afraid to embrace the gay community. When she finished working the room, Covitz headed for the elevator, walking purposefully, eyes straight ahead. When she saw the stricken face of her finance director drained of color, she knew something was terribly wrong.

“What?” she asked.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. “Not here.”

The advance man guided them down a narrow hallway to an office, apparently for the manager. Without asking anyone if they could use it, he turned the knob and opened the door. Covitz and her finance director closed the door.

Her face etched with anxiety, Covitz asked, “Did they find Frank?”

“Yes,” said the finance director. “He was on the beach.” She began to choke up. “Kate, he's dead.”

“Oh, God!” screamed Covitz, sobbing. “No! No! No!” She fell into the arms of her finance director and sobbed uncontrollably.

AN AMBULANCE TRANSPORTED FRANK COVITZ'S body to the Monterey County coronor's office for an autopsy as required by state law. The Carmel Police Department went into lockdown, maintaining silence on the death of one of the town's most prominent residents until Kate Covitz could arrive from San Francisco. They also searched the beach cottage, where police found a suicide note. As she hurtled down the 101 Expressway, Covitz called her two adult children to relay the tragic news.

The next morning at 8:00 a.m. Pacific time, Covitz's office released a statement. “We may never fully understand what caused this vibrant, loving, and joyful man to feel his life was no longer worth living. We will remember him as a loving husband, devoted father, and a visionary who impacted countless lives for the better. In this early hour of our grief, we ask for the prayers of the people of California and request the media respect our privacy during this time of mourning.”

Covitz immediately suspended her campaign, pulling down television and radio ads and cancelling public events indefinitely. Heidi Hughes followed suit within the hour. In characteristic fashion, Covitz's grief propelled her into a whirling dervish of activity, meeting with attorneys to handle the couple's complicated financial affairs, cleaning out Frank's office, lovingly boxing up his personal effects, and making funeral arrangements. Her grief soon gave way to anger.
How could Frank abandon her like this?
she wondered.
Why would he take his own life when he had so much to live for . . . the children, the grandchildren, their life together?

One of the most high-profile Senate races in the nation ground to a halt. The entire political class was thunderstruck. The macabre details of his suicide only added to their morbid curiosity. But an anonymous blogger in Carmel put a post up on a community Web site that held forth a clue to the mystery: “I know a real estate agent specializing in the Monterey peninsula who recently spoke with Frank about putting the Covitz beach property up for sale, reportedly for $5 million. Their house in DC was already on the market. I know he was having financial difficulties, and it may have led him to end his life.”

32

A
s reporters descended on Carmel to cover Frank Covitz's suicide, another bombshell dropped in Los Angeles. In LA Superior Court, Grand Central Station for Hollywood celebrities behaving badly, Samah Panzarella's attorney filed a lawsuit accusing Jay Noble of paternity, abandonment, and emotional and mental cruelty. Panzarella's suit sought $20,000 a month in child support and $8 million in damages. Within minutes, Merryprankster.com posted the news under the head-snapping lead: “Jay Noble's Baby Mama Sez: Pay Up or Else!!”

The news landed in DC like a howitzer. Jay's cell phone went off at 6:10 a.m. as he rode in a government sedan to the White House. It was a thoroughly unhappy Charlie Hector.

“Jay, I want to see you and Phil as soon as you get in,” he said with clipped efficiency, his voice jagged. “We're going to get a lot of press inquiries about this lawsuit, and I want to make sure we have our facts straight.”

“Phil knew this was coming,” said Jay, trying to sound calm. “But the timing's horrible.”

“What?” screeched Hector. “Phil knew? Why wasn't I told?”

Jay pulled the receiver away, protecting his ear from Hector's blast. “I don't know,” he said haltingly. “I assumed Phil told you. This bimbo was trying to shake me down, and Walt was talking with her lawyer to try to keep it out of the media.”

“We'll deal with why I was not informed later,” snapped Hector. “But something of this magnitude should have been brought to me by
you.
What were you thinking?”

Jay's heart pounded. Hector was no fan of Jay's. This screwup was going to give him more ammunition he needed to clip Jay's wings in the White House, where their power struggle was an open secret. “I'm sorry, Charlie,” said Jay, backpedaling furiously. “I should have come to you. That's my bad. But I was so distracted by the preparations for my Senate testimony, I thought Phil and Walt could handle it.”

“Terrific. Now I get to inform the president. He's not going to be happy . . .
at all.”

“Charlie, I'm sorry to cause heartburn for the president,” said Jay, his body quivering with fear. “I met this girl when I was in Caly raising money. It's a stickup. She hired a liberal, ambulance-chasing personal injury attorney I defeated for a state assembly seat eighteen years ago. The guy's had a vendetta against me ever since. I'm telling you, it's
total
nonsense.”