Senate Cloakroom Cabal (20 page)

Roanne greeted me with an extended hand. “It's wonderful to have you come here, openly.” We laughed lightly. “Let's sit over here where you interviewed me.” It was a casually arranged setting around a large coffee table. I could feel we were different people to each other.

“Are all the senators' offices the same?” I asked.

“Yeah, all government-issue,” Michael joked.

“Our personal accoutrements, of which I have few, are the only difference,” said the senator.

Michael asked me, “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Actually, I would.”

“Senator?”

“Water please, Michael.”

Roanne sat in the chair next to me. We looked at each other and smiled.

She waited for Michael to close the door.

“I had a long talk with my father over the weekend. I would have rather hopped on a plane. I had no idea there had been a wall between us. He knew it existed because of the way I acted around him. I had unconsciously put up a barrier . . .” Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh dear, Michael will wonder . . .” She wiped them away with a very available tissue. She smiled shyly. “I best stay off that subject.”

I returned her smile. There wasn't anything for me to say.

She continued. “After Michael returns and you tell us about Harley Rogers, I will tell you about the call I was on when you arrived.”

Michael arrived a moment later with our drinks.

I told them about Harley, his plans, and Rufus's present relationship with him. I suggested to Michael it might be a good time to garner more information from his friend at Rogers.

“I'll call him. He . . . you're right, this might open him up.”

I nodded.

The senator said, “I believe my father's call to Mr. Rogers, telling him who I was, drew their old friendship back together, prompting Mr. Rogers to discuss his plans with Dad as they would have done sixty years ago. Two warriors slipping back into their old jargon.”

That wasn't exactly how it happened, but I saw no point in correcting her.

44

“T
he call I was on when you arrived was from Senator Alfred Szymanski,” Roanne told me after Michael had gone off to call his Rogers's contact.

I wasn't sure . . . “Szymanski, isn't he—”

“The opposition? Yes, he's the ranking member on HELP.”

I waited. What was this all about?

“They have developed a bill to override one adopted by the Senate a few years ago. Are you familiar with Howard/Wasserman?”

“It pretty well gave the farm to the pharmas,” I said, pleased that I knew.

“Namely, preventing the government from creating formularies. Senator Szymanski needs a cosponsor from our side of the aisle. He asked if I would consider being that person.”

That concerned me. “Wouldn't you be digging a bigger hole?”

“I'm number fifty-two out of fifty-two now. However, I believe three of my colleagues, namely Gavin Crawford, Jean Witherspoon, and my state's senior senator, Harold Raines, would consider supporting a meaningful drug bill, other than the flimsy one our party is proposing. Al has unanimous support in his caucus. That's forty-eight votes. I'd be forty-nine. Gavin, Jean, and maybe Harold would be more than enough to push it over the top. Maybe others would—”

“Wouldn't it get filibustered?”

“Tom could try, but the press would be all over him. Al's proposal will be very popular, especially with the moderates. Fred's proposal is window dressing. Besides, it's time I acted.”

She said that with a
so there
tone. I had liked this woman from the first, and my admiration was growing daily. I may be an outsider, but one with a wonderful front-row seat.

“Because I'm a reporter, when can I do something with this . . . or have my paper . . . ?”

“I will be attending a closed meeting later today with Al and his colleagues. The only one I'm concerned about is Michael—this might rattle his partisan bones. Although, I don't think he's particularly happy with our leadership these days.”

“This would shove Tutoxtamen off the front page.”

“Wouldn't that be a good thing?” she asked. “I imagine Harley Rogers's strategy is to stay under the radar. If he's quiet, the pharmas might even leave him alone. And I would think even an organization their size can only be stretched so far.”

Michael came back in, grinning, highly energized. “Rogers is definitely developing an offshore manufacturing plant. According to Robert, it is somewhere in the Caribbean. Maybe Puerto Rico. He knows six people who have flown there recently.”

“Puerto Rico is just like being in the United States. That wouldn't be offshore. They may as well go to Alabama or Idaho. My guess is it's somewhere our government has no reciprocity agreements. Wily old Harley has an ace up his sleeve.”

Michael appeared a little bewildered. “So Rogers sets up a place to make the drug, but where will he market it?”

I shook my head. “
He
doesn't, Michael. He has someone else to do that for him.”

He puzzled over that and then got it. “The Germans,” he said excitedly. “They worked on phase-testings and clinical trials coinciding with Rogers's testing. I bet they did it for European approval, too.”

“Harley Rogers is an ingenious man,” Roanne said respectfully.

“And the Caribbean is a big place,” I added.

45

O
n my way back to the office, I stopped at the public library and looked up what it takes to build a drug-processing plant. I later scoured maps of the Caribbean.

Roanne continued to impress me. Her cosponsoring of the Szymanski bill would be good for the people. It would certainly drive Senator Kelly and the pharmas up the wall. I could picture pharma lobbyists in Washington sprinting to their respective senators' offices.

I stopped walking and wrote a note to call Senator Pembroke's press secretary after their bill was announced to ask for an interview. I didn't expect I'd get a positive response, but his knowing I called would hopefully create a little anxiety in their camp. Not exactly Journalism 101, but what was the harm. I'd certainly do the interview if he granted it.

During my seven-block walk to the paper, Michael called. I was at a street corner, so I stepped to the corner of a building to be out of the way of pedestrians going four different ways and found I was standing next to a plaque:
National Press Club.

Michael said, “Tyrell and I are having drinks tonight with the guy from Kelly's staff. Want to join us?”

“Where and what time?” I asked.

“Around six, the Hill Retreat at D and—”

“I know the place. Let me check with Jerry. I'll call you back.” I called Jerry.

“What's up,” he asked cheerily.

“I'm conflicted.” I told him about the meeting.

“You knew these things were bound to happen. What would you have done if this were last year?” he asked, knowing how to push my buttons.

“I know you don't mind because you'll have our son all to yourself,” I said, half teasing.

“You can tuck him in when you get home. Are you outdoors?”

“I stopped at the King Library and decided to walk back to the paper.”

“Call me later when you're on the way home.”

I crossed the street and then called Mary.

“Ms. Lassiter is looking for you.”

I picked up my pace and was in the office in ten minutes. I waved at Mary and went straight to my editor's office. I knocked and entered. She wanted an update. I gave it to her right up to having drinks that evening with a possible informant.

“What do you have on Rogers in Puerto Rico?” she asked.

That was old news to me, but I should have included it. “A three-year-old press release on Google said Rogers had opened a clinic for seniors in honor of a longtime employee who was born there. The employee had been killed in a car accident. Rogers personally funds the clinic, and Harley and Sherman take periodic trips there. Do we have somebody in Puerto Rico, a stringer at least?”

“I'll check on it.” Lassiter said reaching for the phone.

I was out of there.

46

I
reached the Hill Retreat at 5:50 and found Michael sipping a beer. I joined him and ordered a diet Pepsi.

“You driving?” he asked, as the waiter left with my order. I shook my head. “Just not drinking. I'm wearing a wire. I want this guy on tape. We have a reporter in Puerto Rico checking out the clinic.”

“Good on both accounts.”

“The senator filled me in on Szymanski's bill. How do you feel about it?”

He smiled. “Recently, my ties to the majority leader have become strained. I'm all for it. She asked if I'd feel out the Hill underground.”

“Where is Senator Crawford on this?”

“I'll see what Nancy—”

“Nancy?”

He frowned and reminded me, “She's cozying up to Gordon Pederson, Crawford's AA.”

“Right. I forgot.” My mind flashed back to my February lunch with Max when I saw Nancy and Kelly sharing a table.
When do I bring that up?
Michael had never mentioned a Kelly/Nancy liaison. “Fill me in on Tyrell's guy,” I said.

“Before I tell you that, I need to say one thing about Ty that you wouldn't know. He won't be talking like the Yale man he is with this guy. He uses street lingo. I don't know why.” He then went on to tell me more about our important guest.

Tyrell and the guy arrived about ten after. I finally got a name: Mort Stroble, big, good-looking with a friendly face. Michael introduced me as Laura Wood, a researcher for Senator Dalton. I wondered if Tyrell, a handsome black man in his early thirties, knew who I really was. Both Mort and Tyrell looked athletic and were sharply dressed. The waiter got the drinks order, and I listened to some Hill talk.

Mort, I guess because he couldn't help himself, was softly hitting on me with sly comments. I didn't want to spoil his fun, so I went with the flow. He stepped lightly: maybe he didn't know about Michael and could think we were a twosome. He was just a guy who couldn't pass up hitting on a female, available or not.

Once he leaned in too close for my comfort, so I hit him with a question. “You like working for Senator Kelly?”

“What? Oh yeah . . . we're close.”

The waiter brought the second round of drinks. There was a lot of back and forth as Michael began drawing Mort out, using flattery as his primary approach. A third round of drinks arrived, and Michael began homing in.

“I never saw a problem with the money,” Mort said. “I mean, they had some things for me to do away from the office, like run an errand, if you know what I mean.” He was loose and trying to be cool.

“Yeah, dude, I know what you say,” Tyrell said, using his street lingo. “It like, you know, they got stuff like they do, they try to hide.” He was also dropping the “g” on his gerunds.

“Yeah, you know what I'm saying,” Mort said appreciatively. “I mean, a lot of money gets spread around. The leader says they gotta move it. He tapped me. The man trusts me.”

Michael and Tyrell were working him well.

“And could he?” Michael asked.

His question surprised me.

“Oh yeah. He gave me a little something every time. It added up.”

True to form, Michael knew what he was doing.

“Yeah, I been there. How much you get?” Tyrell asked.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Mort chortled in a lofty way. “You think you got more than me?”

“I don't know, man. I'm just saying, I got a couple of Cs; it depended.”

“That all? Wow, you work cheap. I got five minimum. One time he got real generous, gave me a grand.”

Tyrell gave a low whistle. “Whew! You the man. Where you go, make the deal?”

“Mostly in the southwest. The wire transfers, you know, they're on the quiet. I get a receipt and give it to the senator. I did it for a couple of other senators, you know, when the big man asked me.”

“Those other senators never asked you themselves?” Michael prodded.

“Naw. I worked for the big guy. It was a favor he was doing for them. I helped.” Seeing his bottle was empty, he signaled to the waiter.

Michael stayed on him. “Did you give them their transfer receipt?”

“No names, just a lotta numbers. Naw, I give ‘em all to my senator. I didn't know who they were for by name. They were just a number to me.”

“Yeah,” Tyrell said. “I'm good with numbers, had ‘em memorized by when I got back.”

Mort hooted. “I'm good at numbers too.”

“Looks like I missed the boat. My senator's pretty straight,” Michael threw off.

“What about you, sweetie,” Mort said, looking at me. He couldn't remember my name.

“I'm too new to be given that kind of responsibility,” I said, proud of my quick response.

Michael winked at me.

“Yeah, you gotta be around a while.”

“You say you good at numbers?” Tyrell challenged Mort. “You ever get yours down?”

Mort had to think about that. “They had, like, two numbers. I think one was the account, the other a routing number or something.”

“Yeah, I dig. Mine was ten . . . no, nine numbers, the other . . . the longer one was like fifteen or something.”

“The last time, eh, my top number had, eh, four zeros, three sixes, an eight, and a nine,” Mort said proudly.

“Wow, that's good man. I never thought—”

“The other had four ones,” he said boisterously, “one of each other except a three. It had two eights.” Self-satisfied, he slugged down his beer.

“Man, you good. Look, I know we all got jobs, so put it on us man, so we see what we gotta do. Ain't fair, you being in, you know, what you in.” Tyrell turned to Michael and me. “Am I right?”

We nodded. “Right,” Michael added. “You have no one to turn to, right?”