Senate Cloakroom Cabal (6 page)
She understood his point. She had heard H.T. on the subject more than once. It was why it took so long for anything to get done in Congress.
“We all need to pick our fights carefully,” he said. “I like and respect you, and I don't for one minute suggest you change your point of view.”
That surprised herâbecause that's what she thought this was all about. Then he said: “Only that you change your vote.”
M
ichael, I don't want you to be disappointed in me,” Senator Dalton said softly, while the two sat in her office. “Senator Crawford is an honorable man.”
“It's whose honor he honors, is all I'm saying,” he responded sourly.
“This is all pure crap, if you'll excuse my expression, ma'am. There is nothing wrong with the Rogers's drug. It's all a sham. The drug is superb, but for some reason, Senator Kelly'sâ” He stopped. “Sorry.”
“Don't curb your passion on my part. Do we know that Rogers didn't phony up the reports?”
“Independent firms do the majority of the tests. A German company also tested the drug. There were three, sometimes four, different groups testing. Not one was off from the others by as much as three percent. Everything says the drug is what it has been touted to be. People could start receiving the cure in weeks. Rogers is ready.”
She rose and walked to a window overlooking C Street and Union Station. Bad thoughts flashed through her mind. She remembered the bribing of judges in the beauty contests and the devious tactics by some of the parents. Could this be happening in the United States Senate?
Crawford's advice to be patient resounded in her head. The Senate leadership had too many ways of squashing an upstart senator. What she needed was an independent investigator. Her father immediately came to mind. The former governor had plenty of connections. Even though she wanted to be her own person, she also knew calling him might be the wisest thing to do.
Capitol Hill was unlike any place she had ever knownâmuch got done by what was
understood
, not by what was said. There were two faces to everything.
“Will there be anything more?” Michael was standing by her desk.
She turned back to face him. “Oh, I didn't mean for our meeting to be over. I just needed a moment to think.” She walked to him. “I will play their game for now. Meanwhile, you and I will keep digging. Are you friendly with Senator Crawford's AA?”
“Somewhat,” he said unenthusiastically.
“Is there a way we could find out through him what the senator really thinks of me. I feel he's a friend, but we need to be absolutely sure how politically secure I am with him.”
Michael's face brightened. “I think my friend Nancy . . . she and Gordon know each other. In fact, one time . . . well, he was interested in her. I'll work it out.”
“I must sound desperate, but I've never been alone like this,” she said, concerned. “I've always had a great support group. We need to know what's being whispered. How easily, if a crack appeared in the Kelly armor, could some of my colleagues be swayed?”
Michael looked more pleased. This was right down his conspiratorial alley.
“I'll talk to Nancy and Tyrell. It's dumbfounding how loose-lipped staff can be. Get them together, they blabber their heads off. I'd never learn anything without those gossip sessions,” he said cavalierly. “This'll be like a fox in a henhouse.”
She laughed. She liked that he was a game player. “Get me Senator Crawford. I'll let him tell the majority leader.”
The game was on. Now, if she could only find someone who could dig more deeply and professionally into all of this.
T
hat evening in a downtown Washington, DC, hotel, Stanley Horowitz had just ushered Tom Kelly into the posh suite the pharma used for entertaining.
“Let's sit over here.” The pharma chief indicated two love seats facing each other. “I heard Dalton changed her mind. Crawford turned out to be a good choice.” Horowitz went to a small bar. “Still bourbon on the rocks?”
“That'll be fine,” Kelly said, as he sat down, exhaling like a weary traveler.
“What does Crawford know?” the trim, expensively dressed pharma asked, while he tonged ice cubes into a tumbler.
“We made it all about party unity, Stanley. We didn't have to tell him anything.”
“That was a gutsy call,” Horowitz said, as he poured bourbon over the cubes.
“Roanne is not stupid,” the Senate majority leader said. “I imagine her experiences in those beauty pageants, where politics are probably dirtier than on the Hill, taught her a few things.”
They laughed. Horowitz handed Kelly his drink and then sat opposite the senator. “Yeah, we'll keep her reined in. Test her on small things, see what she does.”
“I don't know where I'd be without you, Stanley,” Kelly said sarcastically. He downed a swallow of his savory drink. “Our mantra is strong: party unity over personal desires.”
The pharmaceutical lobbyist smiled and picked up his brandy snifter, swirling the liquid under his nose before taking a sip.
Kelly continued, “Watching your lobbyists dancing around this has been fascinating. They don't know which way to go with Rogers.”
“It's difficult when you have to go after one of your own. Don't underestimate Harley Rogers. World War II types like him have plenty of moxie. They've got an inner strength that doesn't exist in the baby boomers. Tough breeds know how to pull a âTeddy Roosevelt.' Don't get cocky. Caged rats can still be dangerous,” the pharma spat.
“What's to worry? He's right where you want him. Their stock's in the tank.”
“The important thing is getting the FDA's
not approvable
so we can forget about this damn drug. Just remember, we don't manufacture cures; we only manufacture dependencies.”
“Fred assures me it's a done deal. They had a little blip when one of their key people working on the Tutoxtamen approval was killed; his car ran off the road. Virginia state police reported he had a high alcohol count. For some reason, that caused the Administrative Committee not to meet for ten days. I understand everybody is in sync now, and they will make their announcement any day. Then we'll get to work on prescription discountsâ your little trade-off for Rogers.”
The feisty pharma grunted. “We've got our protests all lined up.”
“Don't overdo it,” Kelly said anxiously. “We don't want this to drag out.”
“The public doesn't think for itself. It lets its representatives in Congress do that for them. People know you gotta spend money to make money. All manufacturers invest in research and development. It is an absolute essential, which costs.”
Kelly loved to push the arrogant pharma's buttons. “Yeah well, the truth's getting out about who really pays for most of your pharmaceutical R&D.”
“Fortunately, the public ignores those book-writing malcontents. No university getting huge grants from the government is going to sanction negativity like that. They'd lose their financing.”
“The Internet's blasting holes in our control of what gets said,” Kelly complained. “We've always had protesters, but they were easily dismissed before. There's too much media out there. They never shut up. I know. I see the emails.”
Horowitz acted shocked. “Don't tell me you read that bullshit.”
“I only read what my AA or the leadership chief of staff puts in front of me, which is bad enough, and those only scratch the surface, from what they tell me.”
“Remember another old mantra:
If we don't get YOUR money to spend
on OUR research and development, you will die,
” the little man chirped.
“Yeah well, slogans and mantras be damned, we need to turn to the issue of price reform on your drugs.”
The lobbyist paced the room. “Aren't you awestruck by how many years we've been able to play political football with drug costs for the elderlyâ and with Medicare and Medicaid? The public is really dumb about it, which of course plays directly into our hands. You argue on the Hill, but nothing gets done. However, when something does happen, it ends up favoring us.”
Kelly smiled. “Yeah, that Medicare prescription drug benefit bill a few years back even surprised me. Your pharmaceuticals lit up the stock market. What a bonanza.”
Horowitz nodded. “I do have to admit it was a huge windfall. It's fascinating what you all get done when you really try.”
“One thing we can't do is negotiate drug discounts or create a government formulary. That puts the ball squarely in your court,” Kelly said. “This is your opportunity to come out smelling like a fresh bouquet of roses, demonstrating your good will and giving us your discount prescription plan.”
“What more can we do?” Horowitz said magnanimously. “The Feds are very nicely financing our R&D with billions in grants to the biomeds, nonprofit labs, and universities. With all that generosity, it's the least we can do. We certainly don't want the public to get off their partisan asses and join together against us. We'll throw them some bones. Three of our healthiest companies with their own cancer drug will take the lead.
“After you have your hearings, we'll buckle under. Each of our companies selected will march out their plan to help the elderly and the infirmed. That'll keep you as the majority party. Maybe even propel you into the White House.”
Kelly smiled. “We'll take the wind right out of the opposition's bellicose sails.” The two men sat back, held up their respective glasses, and saluted each other.
“H
ello,” I said, answering the house phone, while balancing an almost-sleeping Tyler in my arms. This was a home day for me, and I'd given Anna the day off. I had just finished feeding my son, and he cozily snuggled with a soft, light-blue blanket as I held him in the crook of my arm, holding the cordless phone in my free hand.
“Ms. Wolfe?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes,” I answered cautiously, while shifting Tyler to make sure he stayed snug. “This is Laura Wolfe.”
“I am Nelson Probst with Mrs. Osterman's office,” he said, with a slight hint of a question at the end, as though saying
you know who Mrs.
Osterman is, don't you?
I knew. Lillian Hatfield Osterman is publisher and majority owner of the
Washington Daily Star.
I played it straight. “Yes, Mr. Probst.”
“Nelson, please. Would you hold a moment for Mrs. Osterman?” he said aloofly.
“Certainly.” I moved a few steps to Tyler's port-a-bed and made the difficult maneuver of balancing the phone between my neck and shoulder while putting him down, almost losing the phone in the process. I glanced down at Tyler, who was fast asleep. He was peaceful. I wasn't.
What would the publisher want with me? We'd met a couple of times in her office in the months following the serial killings. Could this be a late welcome-back call? I doubted the publisher did that. A female voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Hello, Laura?”
“Yes. Hello, Mrs. Osterman.” I couldn't call her by her first name. Certainly couldn't say “Hi, Lil.”
“How is your son?” She had the soft, smooth, alto voice of a well-bred woman.
“Tyler? Oh, I, eh, just put him down,” I stammered at her personal question. “He's doing very well.”
“Excellent. I am delighted to hear that. Laura, I have wonderfully good news. You have been awarded the Pulitzer Prize in journalism for investigative reporting. Congratulations.”
To say I was shocked would be a major understatement. My eyes teared. As much as I had thought about it and wanted it, it was overwhelming to hear my publisher utter the words:
You have been awarded the Pulitzer
Prize in journalism for investigative reporting.
“Laura?”
“I . . . I'm here,” I stammered. “I'm just . . . I . . . well, thank you.”
“No. It is we who thank you, Laura. I wanted to be the one to tell you. It is well deserved. Needless to say, it will be on the news tonight, and we will announce it on page one with your picture in the morning,” the self-satisfied voice intoned.
I found the sofa and plopped down. Tears were running down my cheeks.
“The official announcement from Columbia University's School of Journalism will be made shortly. Do you have anyone there to help? It may get very busy for you.”
The publisher's concern brought me back. I needed to call Anna. “We have a nannyâ”
“Good,” Osterman cut in. “Well, we will coordinate with Editor Lassiter. There will be an official presentation in a few weeks, a luncheon in your honor. You will find Nelson very accommodating about procedure.”
“Yes, I'm sure. I'm a little overwhelmed.”
“I'm sure you are, my dear.”
I was sure her syrupy tone was well-meaning, but she was still the same Lillian Osterman who told Lassiter to
get your reporter under control
or fire her.
I had been a beat reporter digging up dirt inside the White House, and people had complained, namely Gerty, our senior White House correspondent.
“Mrs. Osterman, I need to call my husband.”
“Certainly. I fully understand. When will you be back in the office?”
“Tomorrow. Today, if you'd like,” I sputtered. Anytime.
“Yes, well, at the earliest.” She sounded perturbed.
“Shall I call Mr. Probst?” Then I remembered she would be calling Lassiter.
“No need,” she said politely. “We will call Avery. There will be many things . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, of course. Does she know?”
“Yes.”
I was finally regaining my composure. “I will call her right after I talk with my husband.”
“Yes. We look forward to seeing you. And again, congratulations.”