The iCongressman (4 page)

CHELSEA

I escaped the confines of our office and retreated to my
spot on the west stairs of the Capitol to admire the sunset and take a short
break from another crummy day here in Washington. The chill in the air, even
now in early May, causes me to shiver, even wrapped in my favorite white wool
winter coat. My butt is freezing on these stone steps, but the serenity is
worth the minor discomfort.

“You changed your hair. It looks good,” Blake Peoni says in
greeting as he suddenly sits next to me. Ugh, so much for serenity. Now that we
have established he is observant enough to notice my long swooping curls, what
could he possibly want?

“And your cologne still makes me want to gag,” I say in
retort. Blake is fit, handsome, and has the same Italian features Vince does,
but that’s where the similarities end. A half dozen or so years older than us,
he’s more experienced, twice as jaded, and has a soul as black as road tar.

“Good to know your hatred of me hasn’t ebbed any over time.
It’s a pretty view, isn’t it?” Blake asks, admiring me more than the setting
sun. I keep refusing to look at him.

“This is my spot, and I don’t like sharing it.” Blake’s
laughter at my comment annoys me, and the last thing I need is more stress
today.

 
“Do you remember that
night after the election when you told me your staff used to meet in the same
park we were standing in?” he asks, eliciting a curious nod from me. “You are
sitting in the exact place I was when Roger sent me up there to go after you
guys. So technically, it’s my spot.”

“You are turning ruining my life into an art form,” I scold,
rising from the cold stone to walk away. Blake grabs me by the arm gently, and
something about the look on his face and the feel of his hand stops me from
jerking away from him.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea. I never seem to say the right thing to
you. But I’ve been where you are. Part of me still is. I see your frustration
with the system, with Washington, and even with Congressman Bennit. Nobody
understands that better than I do.”

As much as I want to leave, I know he’s right. The mere
thought of my experiences here makes me emotional now. And although I don’t
want to admit it, even to myself, I desperately need someone I can talk to who
can relate to me. I shudder inside to think that person may be Blake, but I sit
back down anyway.

“What makes you the expert on how I’m feeling? What are you
even doing these days?”

“Nothing of any interest, I can tell you that,” Blake
responds with a deep exhale. “I am the smallest cog in a huge,
multi-million-dollar K Street lobbying machine.”

One of the first introductions made to any staffer who
arrives in this city is to the advocacy groups housed on K Street in Northwest
Washington. The street itself is not the epicenter of lobbyists it once was,
but the “K Street” reference serves as a powerful metonym for the entire
industry.

“Sounds exciting,” I say, completely disinterested.

“It’s a sympathy job that was given to me at the bequest of
a relative who happens to be close to the lawyer who runs the lobby. At least I
can pay my bills, and it does keep me in Washington.”

“I guess that’s where we differ, Blake. I can’t stand this
town and won’t be able to leave it soon enough.”

“Is Congressman Bennit thinking of resigning?” Blake asks,
without a hint of sarcasm or arrogance in his voice. He almost sounds …
concerned.

“That’s funny. Quit isn’t in the man’s vocabulary.”

“Good. Then you’re already winning.”

“Winning? This is winning? Maybe I slapped you too hard on
that bridge a year and a half ago and jarred something loose,” I say, fighting
against my own emotions to stay in control. “Being ignored by, well, everybody,
and getting censured twice is not winning.”

“It is when their sole purpose is to get the congressman to
resign, which you said he won’t do.”

“I thought they were just trying to make us look bad so they
could hit us with it during the campaign this fall.” In fact, I’m certain
that’s what they’re trying to do. I have no idea where Blake is going with
this, or where he’s getting his information from. I also have no idea why he’s
bothering to tell me.

“I thought so too, but I have it on good authority the
intent is much more sinister and immediate than that.”

“Oh, really?
Are you going to tell
me who this ‘good authority’ is, or where you got your information from?”

“It’s not important. What is important is they won’t stop
with a second censure if he doesn’t resign on his own. They are going to find a
way to try to expel him before the next election.”

“Same old Blake.
You will never
change, will you? Saying it ‘is not important’ tells me you are full of it. Not
that I expect anything less.”

“Don’t take it out on me because you’re mad at him,” Blake
says, now really getting on my nerves.

“What?”

“You’re pissed at your boss because he’s not fighting the
way you think he should. He decided to play by the rules when he got here and
has been paying the price ever since.”

“You know his record? Are you seriously telling me you think
he plays by the rules?”

“He abandoned social media and tried to be the typical
politician. You think he needs to be the maverick the people in the Connecticut
Sixth District thought they were electing; only he’s not listening to you.”
Blake pauses a moment to study my face, which I’m
positive
is betraying me again. “Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong and I’ll walk away right
now and you’ll never hear from me again.” Tempting, but even with my guard up
against his BS, I’m curious.

“What’s in this for you, Blake? Why do you care? Who put you
up to this?”

“Nothing is in it for me, other than a vested interest in
seeing you guys succeed.”

“Yeah, right.
Whatever.” Blake may
or may not be telling the truth, but he’s holding back on something, and it
probably has to do with whoever is behind him having information “on good
authority.”

“I’m not asking you to believe me, but I am asking you to
trust me, just this once.” I roll my eyes at him, but don’t interrupt. “Please
tell him I want to meet with him. He can choose the time and place, and I’ll be
there. You’re his chief of staff and need to look after his best interests.
This is in his best interest.”

“And if I feel a meeting with you is not?” I’m on the fence
with this, and need some time to think about it. Like so many other times since
I have been in Washington, I don’t know what the right course to take is.

“Then I’m sure you’ll say so when you let him know what we
talked about today and it becomes his cross to carry.”

SPEAKER ALBRIGHT

“Boy, when the House adjourns for a long weekend, ya’ll
don’t waste any time hitting the road, do you?” the burly voice of James Reed
calls out from the entrance of the terminal.

He’s right. The House adjourned only a couple of hours ago,
and I made a beeline for the departures terminal at Reagan National Airport
without wasting much time in between. How he found out about my schedule enough
in advance to meet me here will remain a mystery, although I shouldn’t be
surprised. Information is your primary commodity when you run one of largest
and richest lobby firms in Washington.

“How are you, James?” I ask, dropping my carry-on bag to
free my right hand and shake his. Hand may be a bit understated. It’s more like
shaking the paw of a four-hundred-pound grizzly bear.

James Reed could easily be confused with a retired NFL
lineman if he wasn’t one of the most influential men in Washington. Standing
over six feet tall, with a hulking build and graying hair, the large
African-American from the backwoods of Kentucky is as imposing physically as he
is professionally.

“I’m doing well, Mister Speaker, thank you so kindly for
asking.”

“What brings the head of Ibram & Reed to Reagan National
on a Thursday evening?”

The one reward for making regular campaign donations to
members of Congress is access. Universally accepted is the proposition that
someone providing financial benefits is afforded ample opportunity to convey
their views to any member of Congress. The more money and influence the lobby
has, the more access is given, even if that means an impromptu run-in near the
ticketing counter at an airport.

 
“Michael Bennit.”
Damn, I just cannot get away from this guy for even a day. “Let’s move off to
the side so we can chat, shall we, sir?”

I follow him away from ticketing to the corridor that
connects Terminal A with Terminal B. The huge picture windows and
Jeffersonian-style arching domes create a large space which offers at least
some privacy so long as we stay away from the shops that line the hall.

“Why are you worried about Bennit, James? He poses no threat
to you, your firm, or lobbying in general,” I observe, after finding a quiet
spot next to one of the windows and away from the horde of people trying to get
out of town.

“I respectfully disagree. Every day
that
renegade remains in his seat is
another day that puts our whole system
in jeopardy,” James responds with his usual southern charm.

“I never thought you would be so prone to
over-exaggeration,” I say with a smile. It is not returned.

“Hardly.
Ya’ll are working damn
hard to push him out, so I’m willing to bet your members are leery of him,
too.”

Information is the coin of the realm on Capitol Hill. The
best lobbyists make
themselves
invaluable to members
of Congress and their staffs by providing useful information, and often get
some in return. James Reed is the best of the bunch, and he often knows more
about what is happening here than most lawmakers do.

 
“I have been hearing
some grumbling from the caucus,” I say, relaying a half-truth. It’s been more
than grumbling, as evidenced by the majority leader pleading with me in my office
a couple of weeks ago. “He has been censured and reprimanded for his behavior,
as has been appropriate. I’m not sure I would characterize it as pushing him
out. You still haven’t answered my question. Why is the largest firm in the
Washington lobby so concerned?”

Lobbying is a huge industry, and one very difficult to
define. Federal law requires a degree of official reporting on union and
corporate expenditures on influencing public officials, but it only scratches
the surface of the amount of actual money spent. The official report claims the
tally exceeds three and a half billion dollars a year, but anyone who peddles
influence in Washington, James Reed included, will tell you that the number is
far greater.

“You don’t need me to connect the dots for you, Mister
Speaker.” He doesn’t. Money talks in this town, and when a politician doesn’t
need money, Reed and the rest of the lobbyists lose influence. This was not
historically the case, but it is the modern reality, and people like Reed have
made millions cashing in on it. He won’t stand by idle and let that change.

“What are you asking me to do?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything, Johnston. I am here to
offer my assistance. I can make Michael Bennit go away, and make you the hero
for looking like you’re cleaning up corruption in Congress. It will get the
conservative firebrands in your party off your back and send a message to the
moderates to toe the line.”

“That sounds like a great plan, but this isn’t my first
dance at the ball. Everything you do comes at a price. You need me for
something, or you wouldn’t be here making me late for my flight home.”

He offers up a laugh I’m sure is more for theater than
substance. I look at my wristwatch, now with legitimate concern that my flight
will leave without me. As Speaker of the House, I’m entitled to my own
taxpayer-funded jet like the one Nancy Pelosi, a predecessor of mine, used to
use. To avoid the appearance of impropriety, given the nation’s voracious
spending, I choose to fly commercial. The last couple of Speakers started the
tradition, one that I am cursing myself for continuing at the moment.

“You are correct as always, Mister Speaker. This effort is
pro bono, as we lawyers might say, but I will need your help when the time
comes.” Somehow his statement is supposed to sound wise and strategic, but his
native Kentucky twang makes him sound ridiculous. An observation I’m not dumb
enough to ever mention to him.

“Are you going to share the details?”

“It’s best that ya’ll don’t know the details, Mister Speaker.
Plausible deniability and all.
Just know I’m taking
care of it, and when the results come to light, ya’ll know what to do.”

“With due respect, James, this is beginning to sound like
something I don’t want to be associated with. I cannot engage in something
illegal, or in a conspiracy to entrap a colleague in the House.” There, my ass
is officially covered in the remote chance he’s recording this conversation. In
reality, if James Reed is going to use his extensive resources to help get rid
of Bennit, I’m all for it providing he isn’t planning on offing the guy.

“Yes, I understand your apprehension. The reality is, sir,
you will go along with the plan. I mean, how would the party respond to a poor
showing by the GOP in November? It’s an election year, and you have members in
tight races that are going to need … substantial financial support. It would be
a shame if the well dried up so close to the finish line.”

The threat, while not overt, was received loud and clear.
He’s got me by the balls, and he knows it. I’m third in line to the presidency,
yet the man in the loud, obscenely expensive suit has my political career in
his hands and is the one calling the shots. Welcome to politics in modern
America.

“Don’t let me hold you up any longer, Mister Speaker. Go
catch your flight. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon,” he says with a wink and a
big smile, before swinging around and heading for the door leading out of the
terminal.