Wave (3 page)

In the brightly lit office of Long Beach Township Mayor Donald J. Harper, a trio of attorneys sat in their conservative suits and waited. On the opposite side of the enormous, L-shape desk, Harper was hunched forward, elbows on the glass, hands together, forefingers raised like a church steeple. He paid his guests no mind. It was as if he’d forgotten they were there.

They sat like a judgment panel, left to right, in three chairs. At one end, a young man with dark hair and GQ features was reviewing some papers that had nothing to do with the mayor’s case. As far as he was concerned, Harper was yesterday’s business. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and J. Quentin Taylor—a third-year attorney who already owned a new BMW and a 32-foot yacht—didn’t waste his energy on lost causes. He had come today only because due process and professionalism demanded it, but in his mind this was nothing more than the final viewing of a corpse.

Next to him was the only female in the group. Susanna Graham had been with the firm less than a year, had in fact been out of law school less than two, but she already knew how to carry herself like the frigid corporate bitch she’d always longed to be. With one leg crossed over the other, she stared down Harper and wondered why an elite firm such as hers had ever gotten involved with such a loser.

Jay Bennett was the senior member of the coven, a full partner in Thomasen, Smithfield, Bennett, and Clarke. It was one of the largest firms in South Jersey, handling everything from divorces to personal injuries to criminal litigation. Forty-nine and in perfect health, Bennett had silver hair and wore small, round glasses set in tortoise-shell frames that cost more than most people made in a week. He was single, had no major vices, and was so introverted that people who had worked with him for years had no idea how he felt about anything. That was just how he wanted it.

Bennett allowed another moment to pass, and then, realizing they might end up sitting there all day if someone didn’t say something, offered, “Mr. Mayor, Judge Hadley will be expecting a decision on our plea in about—”

“You know,” Harper interrupted, “there was a time when I wouldn’t have taken a paper clip that wasn’t mine.” He let out a little laugh that seemed more like a cough.

Taylor removed a silver pen from inside his jacket and scribbled something on one of his papers, apparently unaware his client had spoken. Graham rolled her eyes and repositioned herself yet again. Bennett nodded noncommittally and studied the beige carpeting.

“Did you know I installed the first direct sewer line to Vol Sedges? That’s right. They said it was impossible. Others tried to do the same thing and failed. I got it done in less than a year, nearly half a million dollars under budget, and I was only thirty-one at the time.” He was glassy-eyed and dreamy. “The schools were a mess, too. The board was run by tired old people with no ideas or enthusiasm. The textbooks were ten years out of date, the best teachers wouldn’t submit resumes, and the students’ test scores were in the twentieth percentile statewide.” He smiled and straightened up slightly. “I changed all that. In two years we moved up to the seventieth percentile, renovated both buildings, got all new books, cleaned out the board—and no one’s taxes went up a cent. Not one cent.”

Harper fell silent again, wrung his hands, and stared into space. The smile faded as he returned to whatever mental hideaway he’d been in all morning. For weeks, in fact.

Graham shot her boss an urgent look. Bennett cleared his throat. “Mr. Mayor, you really do need to tell us what it is you want to do. If we don’t contact the judge by day’s end, we run the very serious risk of—”

“My dream—my ultimate dream—was to go to Washington. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, I knew that,” Bennett replied. “I think we all knew that.”

“That’s what I wanted more than anything—to be a U.S. senator. The best senator the Garden State ever had. A legend. The kind of politician who was grudgingly admired even by those who hadn’t voted for him. It was a big dream, probably an impossible dream, but it drove me. It gave me the strength and the passion to do things I wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. Have you ever had a dream like that, counselor?”

As he looked to Bennett for an answer, he realized it was the first time he’d made eye contact with any of these lawyers today. Bennett didn’t reply, didn’t appear as though he had a reply. Harper laughed again and appraised Bennett’s colleagues, then shook his head. He knew about the dreams of people like this—to acquire as much wealth and power as possible while leaving a trail of human casualties in their wake.
What a group
, he thought.
Three Stooges
. And then, from someplace deeper,
How did I ever get mixed up with this crowd? There was a time when I wouldn’t have given them a second glance.
Finally, and most chillingly—
Thank God my father isn’t alive to see any of this.

The Harper family had a broad and varied political history on LBI, spanning four generations and more than a hundred years. Donald Harper’s great-grandfather had been the mayor of Beach Haven, one of LBI’s larger towns, before ultimately reaching the state legislature. He authored the state’s first environmental laws, some of which were still in effect and had created a power base for New Jersey’s conservation groups. Harper’s paternal grandfather, while never holding an elected office, was an influential local businessman who had played a key role in early railroad lines to and from the island. His other grandfather had sat on the numerous city councils for more than three decades, while his father, Roy Allan Harper, was the only mayor elected to serve more than one LBI town—two terms in Barnegat Light and one in Long Beach Township. When he died of a massive heart attack in June of 1997, nearly five hundred residents and luminaries attended the funeral.

It seemed only natural that Donald, the oldest of three children, would carry on the legacy. There was tremendous pressure, considering the family’s gloried history, but he accepted his role without hesitation. As a young boy he would stand in front of his bedroom mirror and give mock speeches, tirelessly trying to emulate the dramatic gestures of heroes like JFK and Winston Churchill. He joined the student council in sixth grade—the earliest it was permitted—and was president within a month. In high school he won popularity through charm, intelligence, and a fanatic devotion to preparedness. During the debate for that presidency, he crushed his opponent so overwhelmingly that the hapless victim received only nineteen votes.

Harper left LBI to attend Colgate University, went on to claim his master’s degree in political science with a minor in civic management, then did a four-year stint in the Air Force, where he reached the rank of captain. It was during this brief military service that he put the finishing touches on his already considerable leadership skills. When he returned to his hometown, he was ready.

He won his first race for mayor, but it was close. His opponent, a popular moderate Democrat named Brenda Morrison, preyed on his youth and inexperience. But she went overboard and ended up looking like a bully while Harper earned voters’ respect by keeping cool under pressure. The residents also remembered his father, some even remembered his grandfather, and they just plain liked the nice young man with all the fresh ideas. Morrison knew her stuff, but she had passed her prime a few steps back and seemed more interested in winning the job than actually doing it. Harper discussed the issues and—perhaps most importantly—appeared to know what was going on in people’s minds. Morrison didn’t.

Not long after Harper took office, the voters discovered their new mayor also had a gift for numbers. He announced there would be no increase in local taxes and, after some number-crunching and cost-cutting, managed to bring the township budget out of the red for the first time in recent memory, giving the town an actual surplus.

In the years that followed, one success led to another, and Harper’s influence and popularity grew to the point where people started calling him the “Mayor of LBI.” The other mayors, knowing it was to their advantage, rallied behind him. By the time Harper hit forty-five he had the island in his back pocket and began seriously thinking about going after his Holy Grail—a senatorship. He had the record, the support, and the financial commitments. In Washington, incumbent Senator William Lacey was on his way out, having announced his intention to retire after his current term. The New Jersey Republican wheels were already sniffing out Harper as a potential candidate, and they liked what they saw. Republicans traditionally had a tough time in New Jersey, especially on the senatorial level, but Harper had developed a following among moderate Democrats and was considered a potential crossover candidate—something the conservatives hadn’t enjoyed in the Garden State in ages. All in all, the current seemed to be flowing in Harper’s direction.

And then Gus Riggins entered his life.

Riggins was a slovenly, foul-mouthed creature who had spent his professional life in the construction business. He didn’t trust people who wore suits, and felt most of the human race was essentially valueless. He bragged about the fact that he never finished high school yet had more money than anyone he knew who’d graduated from “one of those so-called institutes of higher learning.” After fifteen years as a laborer, he’d started his own business, Riggins Builders, Inc., and cultivated it into the second largest construction company in South Jersey, overshadowed only by the almighty Hovnanian empire.

Harper and Riggins were aware of each other and kept their distance through the years. Harper thought Riggins was dangerously ambitious and was glad they never had any direct dealings. Conversely, Riggins felt Harper was just another Ivy-League prick who’d been born on third base and had no clue what hard work was really about. But when the town announced they were going to build a new shopping center on a prime Sixth Avenue lot that had previously been untouchable due to a litany of legal snafus, Riggins decided, come hell or high water, that the contract would bear his name. And the Honorable Donald J. Harper was the one man who could make it happen.

His first thought was of that business chestnut known as blackmail; it had yielded good results for him in the past. So he did some digging. He hired a small band of sleazy detectives and sank a little money into a Dun and Bradstreet report. One month and three thousand bucks later, however, he was forced to swallow the fact that Harper was as clean as fresh snow—there was nothing, absolutely nothing. All this did was inspire him to double his efforts.

He considered threats, then realized that would be too risky. A guy as popular as Harper had allies everywhere; he’d likely pay a hefty price without reaching his objective. Bribery appeared to be out of the question, too. So what was this man’s weakness? Which button needed to be pushed?

Riggins decided to utilize a tool he despised—charm. He had it but didn’t like to use it. It was a little too close to butt-kissing, and Gus Riggins was no butt-kisser.

But in this case he was willing to make an exception. He paid Harper a visit on a sunny summer morning wearing a suit and tie he’d bought off the rack the night before. His hair was swept back in lush, greasy strokes and his face was smoother than it’d been in years. His immediate objective was to shatter whatever negative image Harper had built of him through rumor and reputation. He wanted to show this upper-crust Boy Scout that he had not one, but two sides to his character—the rough-hewn, blue-collar side that had enabled him to claw his way through the cutthroat ranks of the construction industry, and the classier, urbane side that made him every bit as refined as anyone in Harper’s world.

Much to his surprise, Riggins found himself actually liking Harper. As easily as Riggins could play the role of an elitist, Harper could curse like a millworker and produce jokes that were so off-color they’d make a hooker blush. Riggins soon realized what this man’s true gift really was—he could connect with anybody. And it wasn’t all smoke and mirrors, either—somehow, he really knew. By the end of their first meeting, Riggins felt Harper was someone he could deal with.

And best of all, he’d found the Achilles’ heel he’d been looking for—Harper loved money.

The first trip Harper took to Atlantic City on Riggins’s tab occurred less than a month later. Riggins had done some work for a number of smaller casinos and was friends with all the owners. He went out of his way to make sure the mayor had a grand old time—free room, free meals, thousands of dollars in credit, a few shows. Harper brought his wife on the first trip, but afterward he always went alone, usually with the aid of a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. He was a smart gambler, able to stay afloat longer than most, but in the end he always walked away a loser. That didn’t matter ultimately—Riggins kept sending the cash, and Harper kept accepting it. He lost track of the grand total after awhile. Some of it went to AC, some straight into his pocket. It seemed to be flying around everywhere. Riggins even taught him some of the basic principles of creative accounting, and Harper, to his own shock and surprise, found himself occasionally making use of his new talents. It was like an addiction over which he had no control. The sickness was always there, but he had managed to keep it at bay on his own. Once Riggins appeared, that resolve was stripped away. Part of Donald Harper hated himself for what he was doing, but another part was having the time of his life.

Four months after their initial meeting, Riggins got the contract. Subsequent deals followed, and Harper continued to enjoy himself. Years later, in hindsight, Harper realized Riggins had slid the knife in so skillfully that he wasn’t even aware of it. By the time word of their little arrangement leaked out, it was too late to deny it.

The local media picked up the story first. Initially they kept direct allegations to a minimum and buried the text in places where it would be generally overlooked. When some of Riggins’s enraged competitors pressed for more information, however, Newark’s
Star-Ledger
became interested, and the beginning of the end was at hand.