The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  “May I?” Rodriguez asked, holding up White’s package.

  “Be my guest.”

  Rodriguez withdrew a small knife and carefully cut the tape before unfolding the wrapping paper. As he opened the box, he smiled. Grasping the object in the box as if it were a delicate flower, Rodriguez withdrew a mounted gavel. A brass plaque proclaimed that it was the gavel used in the trial where White first represented Rodriguez.

  “The Judge retired last year and gave it to me,” White said. “I thought you should have it.”

  “The Judge would probably not appreciate your gesture, but I assure you that I do.”

  White responded with smiled and a slow, deep nod.

  “And now,” Rodriguez said as he tilted his head toward the package he had given White.

  White ran a finger under the seam of the wrapping paper and tore it from the package. Inside was an autographed first edition of The Making of a Country Lawyer, the best-selling book by Gerry Spence. Spence was the Wyoming lawyer who came to national attention in his defense of Randy Weaver following the standoff with the FBI and A.T.F. at Ruby Ridge, Idaho during which government sharpshooters had killed Weaver’s wife and daughter. White and Spence had met only once, but their shared background in the rugged west and their mutual distrust of government prosecutors created an instant bond.

  White smiled as he examined the book and the inscription; “Lucius, the way of the west will prevail. Non illigitimus carborundum. (Don’t let the bastards grind you down.)”

  “Thank you, Manny. I appreciate this.”

  Rodriguez nodded. “But enough of this,” he said. “We have things to discuss.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have a problem you may be able to help me with.”

  “If I can,” Rodriguez said.

  “I have a client who’s been charged with drug dealing and is the prime suspect in the murder of his partner.”

  “I assume your client is David Shepard, Graham Brochette’s son?” Rodriguez said.

  “That’s right. Has anyone shown any interest in him?”

  “My men have been watching over him. They haven’t seen anything suspicious.”

  “That’s a relief. But that’s not what I was going to ask about.”

  “You want to know about his partner, Tom Jackson!”

  White struggled to suppress his surprise at the extent of Rodriguez’s information. Little escaped Rodriguez’ attention, but this was more than White expected. Now he was sure Rodriguez could find out what he needed to know.

  “That’s right. I have a name that may lead somewhere.”

  “Who?”

  “Richard Barlow. He’s an immigration lawyer in West Palm Beach.”

  Rodriguez laughed.

  White looked confused. “What’s so funny?”

  Rodriguez stopped laughing and a serious expression came over his face as he looked at White. “You really don’t know, do you?’

  White started at Rodriguez with a blank look. “I have no idea what’s so funny?”

  Rodrigues chuckled. “Richard Barlow is Tom Jackson’s step-father.”

  White lowered his head and rubbed his forehead. “Damn! One simple case and I can’t follow the players without a scorecard.”

  Rodriguez stopped chuckling and returned his attention to White. “Why is the father of interest to you?”

  White continued to shake his head. “Bastard sons. Step-sons. Throw in a few dealers with alias’s and we’ll need a scorecard.”

  Rodriguez didn’t laugh. In his world, the use of alias’s was as common as carrying business cards for bail bondsmen. He ignored White’s apparent frustration and returned to the initial inquiry. “Why are you interested in Richard Barlow.”

  White returned his focus to the subject of their conversation. “Right now, it’s nothing more than a hunch. We know he served in Vietnam and represents a lot of clients from southeast Asia. Beyond that, all Horse has come up with are rumors that the lawyer’s representation of immigrants may go beyond getting visas and immigration papers.”

  “And you want to know if his interests extend to importing certain agricultural products?”

  “Something like that.”

  Rodriguez looked at White with the sternness of a father who has caught his teenager smoking for the first time. “You understand, that we do not deal in that product.”

  “I understand.”

  “Very bad,” Rodriguez continued softly as if talking to himself. “Very bad stuff.”

  “Something else has been bothering me ever since this case began,” White said.

  Rodriguez waited without saying anything.

  “My client was arrested when the sheriff got a tip that he and the Jackson kid were holding two kilos of uncut cocaine.”

  Rodriguez raised an eyebrow and nodded.

  “But no dealer is going to waste two kilos of pure blow just to set up a couple of druggies unless it’s damned important.”

  Again, Rodriguez nodded. “Si.”

  White continued thinking out loud. “And I can’t find any reason someone would want to set Shepard and Jackson up for a drug bust.”

  “Perhaps you’re looking for an explanation in the wrong place, my friend.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps it is not a drug dealer who wanted to have your client arrested. Have you considered the possibility that it might be the authorities who arranged for your client’s arrest?”

  “What makes you say that?” White asked as he remembered the conversation with Harry Harris after Jackson was murdered.

  “The authorities have seized much cocaine. They cannot sell it, but it would be of little consequence to them to plant a large amount to ensure an arrest, and possibly co-operation in a larger investigation.”

  “We’ve considered the possibility that something more than a drug bust may be involved.”

  Rodriguez waited while White thought. “We think it might involve a fight between rival distributors.”

  “That may also be true,” Rodriguez said in a tone that was polite but didn’t signify agreement.

  White gave Rodriguez a puzzled look.

  “There are those in our business who co-operate with the authorities when it suits their purposes.”

  “And,” White said, as he wrestled with a thought he would have preferred to ignore, “There are those in law enforcement who occasionally find it advantageous to ignore the law when it suits their own interests.”

  “This is also true.”

  “Either way, I have to start somewhere. Can you help me with Jackson?”

  Rodriguez nodded. “I can ask some questions.”

  #

  As White pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Interstate 75, his cell phone rang.

  “Lucius,” Brochette began. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  White was suddenly tense. He had not spoken to Brochette since David Shepard’s release. Now he felt a twinge of guilt over not calling to check on his client, but he somehow knew that David wasn’t the reason for Brochette’s call.

  “I just received a call from Congressman Tierney.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew the Congressman.”

  “It’s hard not to. Politics and law enforcement is a small community.”

  White nodded before thinking how foolish his gesture was in a telephone conversation.

  “Besides, I worked with the Congressman a few years ago. He was on the House Ethics Committee, and I was with the Public Integrity Section of the Department of Justice.”

  “I assume he wasn’t the target of an investigation.”

  Brochette forced a laugh. “Nothing like that. We were investigating the bribery of public officials in connection with government construction projects. One of the projects happened to be in the Congressman’s district.”

  “And what did the Congressman have to say?” White asked, returning the conversation to the apparent subject of Brochette’s concern.

&n
bsp; “He wanted to give me a heads-up on a potential problem. He couldn’t give me anything definite, but he’s heard some rumblings of opposition to my nomination.”

  “What kind of rumblings?”

  “That’s the thing. He wasn’t clear on specifics.”

  “Didn’t know or couldn’t say.”

  “Probably the former. I think he’d have told me if he knew anything definite.”

  White chewed on his lip thoughtfully before asking, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Well… I know I don’t have any right to ask…”

  White knew what was coming.

  “Damn it, Lucius. I want this appointment.”

  “And you want me to call Jack Lancaster and nose around.”

  Jack Lancaster was chief counsel to the House Committee on the Judiciary. He was also, as Brochette had learned when he first worked with White, White’s law school classmate and close personal friend.

  “I don’t know how much good it’ll do. The confirmation of Presidential appointments is the responsibility of the Senate.”

  “But I have a feeling your friend Jack knows everything that goes on in the Senate Judiciary Committee as well as the House Committee.”

  “That’s probably true,” White said. “I’m going to Washington on Wednesday on a securities fraud case. I’ll see if I can connect with Jack while I’m there.”

  White ended the call from Graham Brochette and turned up the ramp to Interstate 75.

  A blue Porsche with a Dade county license plate pulled into traffic three cars behind him.

  19.

  Outside the hotel on Connecticut Avenue, a light snow was falling. As usual, traffic in the nation’s capital was at a standstill. No one in Washington knows how to drive in the snow. What they did know how to do was blow their horns.

  Leslie was waiting in the hotel lounge when White returned from his meeting with the lawyers from the Securities and Exchange Commission. She smiled brightly as White crossed the room. White struggled out of this winter coat and sat down. Leslie leaned across the table and they kissed. The waitress made her way through the throng of partiers and took White’s drink order, Diet Pepsi with two squeezes of lime.

  As the waitress disappeared into the crowd, Leslie asked, “How did your meeting go?”

  “Not as well as your shopping trip,” he said, ignoring the question. No trip to Washington was complete without a major shopping spree by Leslie.

  “I got something nice for Harry,” Leslie said. She was just beginning to come to terms with Harry’s condition. Recovery remained unlikely, but this was the first time she’d given any indication that she could even think about him without crying.

  “I know he’ll appreciate it.”

  Leslie bit her lip, fighting for control.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute.” As if to prove her point, she touched a napkin to the corner of her eye, removing a tear. “See?”

  White changed the subject. “I see you bought a new dress too,”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Let me see.”

  Leslie stood and did a slow turn, allowing White to admire her new dress, an emerald green silk sheath cut low on the top and slit to her hip on the side.

  “Very nice.”

  “I have a few other things I think you’ll like just as well. Some things for frolic time.”

  White smiled. “Maybe we should skip our meeting with Jack.”

  “Down, boy. I’m not going to miss a night on the town just so you can have your jollies.”

  “I thought you enjoyed it as much as I do.”

  “I do.” Leslie laughed as she threw a peanut shell at him. “But unlike men, women have some self-control.”

  “Tease,” White said, lofting the peanut shell back at her.

  The waitress brought their drinks and a bowl of party mix.

  “So how was your day?” Leslie said.

  “About like any other day of dealing with bureaucratic lawyers.”

  “That good?”

  “They all have too much power and no need to be reasonable.”

  Leslie nibbled at the edges of a cracker but said nothing.

  White looked at her and smiled. “That’s it. No more venting.”

  “You’re getting better. A meeting with government lawyers is usually good for at least a few minutes of healthy bitching.”

  “I guess I’m getting too old.”

  “Older and wiser.”

  “Older, at least.”

  “Not too old to keep me happy.” Leslie smiled as she leaned across the table and kissed him.

  “Maybe you’d like to show me.”

  “Later,” Leslie said, grinning. “It’s time we went to meet Jack.”

  #

  Three blocks east of the Capital Building, in an otherwise nondescript neighborhood of restored brownstone row houses, is the least known seat of power in all of Washington. The Hawk and Dove is the archetypical Capitol Hill bar where legislative staffers have, for more than a quarter century, gathered to talk politics and policies and gripe about their bosses — but never by name. Everyone knows who works for which Congressman or Senator, but custom and etiquette dictate that staffers always referred to their bosses as “my member.” The Hawk and Dove serves Congress in much the same way that the officer’s clubs serve the military; a place where rank is disregarded and issues of state are discussed frankly by the nameless and faceless people who really make government run.

  Snow swirled around White and Leslie as they walked east along Pennsylvania Avenue, still jammed with rush hour traffic. Christmas trees, lighted wreaths, and simulated candles filled the windows of storefronts and townhouses alike.

  Leslie held onto White’s arm and leaned lightly against him as she hummed along with the Christmas music coming from one of the boutiques. “This is what the weather is supposed to be like for Christmas,” she mused.

  As they approached the Hawk and Dove, they heard the clamor of voices from inside. As usual, the front room of the bar — it called itself a restaurant, but its most famous menu items were its fifteen variations of hamburger — was filled to capacity.

  White led Leslie through the crowd, past the sunken fireplace at the back of the main room and into the pool room at the rear of the famous bistro. The pool tables had long since disappeared, much to the chagrin of the long-time habitués, and been replaced by additional tables.

  Jack Lancaster waved as he worked his way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to press the flesh with one or another Capitol Hill staffer or other Hawk and Dove regular.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Lancaster apologized. “Congress is recessing for the holidays on Friday, and there’s still a pile of things to be acted on.”

  Lancaster threw his coat over the back of the booth, slid in opposite White and Leslie and said, “Leslie, you’re looking as beautiful as ever. Any time you want to leave Lucius and come to Washington, you just give me a call.”

  “And what,” Leslie laughed, “will we tell your wife?”

  “That’s what makes her such a good lawyer,” Lancaster said, addressing White. “She pays attention to nagging little details.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Paul,” Lancaster shouted to the bistro manager over the din. “My usual… and another round here.”

  “On its way, Jack.”

  Lancaster returned his attention to White and Leslie, “To what grave misfortune do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?”

  White scratched his ear, taking his time before responding to Lancaster. “What makes you so sure it’s anyone’s misfortune?”

  Lancaster responded with a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding” look.

  “Okay. So maybe I’ve come to you with a little problem every once in a while,” White said.

  “Every once in a while.”

  White shrugged before admitting, “Maybe a little more often than that. You should be accustomed to it.�
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  “Let’s get it over with. Then we can go meet my better half for dinner.”

  Leslie put her hand to her mouth as if she was embarrassed to have committed a major breach of social etiquette. “We didn’t intend to tie up your evening.”

  “Nonsense. My wife would kill me if I let you pass through town without getting together for dinner. Besides, you’re new fodder for her pictures of our latest granddaughter.”

  “I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.”

  Lancaster beamed. “I had nothing to do with it, but thanks.”

  “This is your fourth, isn’t it?” Leslie said.

  “Fifth.”

  “We have been out of touch.”

  “It happens,” Lancaster said. “I’ve lost touch with just about everyone from our law school class.”

  “Yeah,” White agreed. “Isn’t it funny how we lose contact, but the alumni office always seems to know where to find us when it’s time for the annual giving campaign.”

  Lancaster laughed. “You noticed that did you?”

  “It’s hard not to.”

  “But we had some fun back then,” White said, his face lighted by memories of old times and old friends.

  “That we did,” Lancaster concluded before turning to Leslie. “Did Lucius ever tell you about the time the dean—”

  “No, Jack! Not that story!”

  “Oh, come on,” Leslie pleaded.

  “No! No! No,” White protested. “Some things past should be left in the past.”

  “Party pooper.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Lancaster promised Leslie in a stage whisper before returning his attention to White. “Now, what’s the problem?”

  “It’s not actually a problem,” White said. “It’s just something I’d like some information about.”

  “It wouldn’t by any chance have to do with Graham Brochette’s nomination?”

  “You are good,” Leslie said. “Isn’t he good?” she asked White rhetorically.