by David Chill
"Blair told you about us? Prick."
"Didn't have to," I said. "Hey, he's single. Good-looking. Some women would call him a catch. No reason you can't have some fun."
"I wish he didn't talk so much."
"Yeah, well. Me, too," I said.
She took a long drag on her cigarette, held the smoke deep inside her, and then blew it out slowly toward the ceiling. "Men suck. All of them."
"Thanks for letting me know."
"Sorry. I'm trying to sort some things out. How long have you been at the bar?" she asked.
"A little bit," I shrugged. "Maybe ten minutes. Could be fifteen. I really haven't been keeping track."
I took another sip of my drink and looked around. There was a commotion across the lobby, and soon there were at least twenty men in suits and ties darting about, barking into cell phones, giving terse orders to the hotel staff. There were some arms raised in exasperation, and voices raised in anger. Finally, two of the men in suits marched over to the glass door at the hotel entrance and stretched a piece of tape across it. An argument ensued with a couple of patrons wanting to get out, but the men in dark suits pointed to a couch on the lobby and snapped at them to sit down. They sheepishly followed the directive, the whirling confusion and nervous energy growing in force around them.
Two of the men in dark suits walked into the lounge and looked around. They walked through the place as if they owned it, sizing up the space, inspecting the faces, many of whom paid little attention to them. Finally, one of them cleared his voice and spoke loudly and authoritatively.
"Folks, this hotel is now on lockdown. You will not be able to leave the hotel or the lobby. We don't think it will take long, but no one will be allowed to leave, or even to go upstairs to your room until we're done."
"Who the hell are you?" demanded a middle-aged man with a graying beard and a receding hairline. "And just where do you think you get the authority?"
"We're the United States Secret Service. And we have absolute authority. And I would caution you to be calm and cooperate. This is not a joke. It's not up for discussion, either. So leave your moral indignation somewhere else, or you'll be handcuffed and taken into custody."
With that, the gray bearded man slinked away and faded into the background. I looked at Iris, whose face had tightened considerably. It was a look that went well beyond consternation and bordered on paranoia. She stabbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and immediately lit another one.
"Listen, Ned," she said quietly. "I think I'm in some danger here. All my jobs on Capitol Hill, those came in the last ten years. I started out with the Company. I think I know what's going on here."
"Maybe you can start by telling me who the Company is."
"CIA. I spent five years there. Right out of college. Started out as an analyst. Moved on to field ops."
"Why are you telling me this?"
At that point, two more agents entered the lounge, Dean and Chuck, the ones who escorted me upstairs a little while ago. They strode quickly and purposefully to our table. They glanced oddly at Iris, and Dean shook his head slightly at her before turning to me.
"Mr. Baker," he started. "I'm glad you're still here. Please come with us."
"What's this about?"
"We'll get to that upstairs. Let's go. Now. And keep your hands where we can see them."
Chapter 14
I rose slowly, sneaking a glimpse of Iris, who was now staring down at the table, silent, detached and vacuous. I made no attempt whatsoever to get her attention, our conversation was over for now. The agents walked me briskly out of the lounge, and we moved across the lobby purposefully, Dean leading the way and Chuck directly behind me. We reached the bank of elevators amidst an absolute din of activity. There were numerous walkie-talkies squawking and blaring, and I managed to make out a few shrill comments that came barking out of their devices.
"We've cleared Little Santa Monica. It's open all through Burton Way."
"Total lockdown of the hotel until further notice. Commander's orders."
"Cedars is notified. They are on high alert."
"Peacock is in motion. Just cleared Wilshire."
"He's AB-positive. Get two units ready."
"The head of thoracic surgery has been notified. He's en route. ETA is four minutes."
A terse-looking agent stood holding the elevator for us. We got in and Chuck pushed eighteen. No words were spoken as we rode up. The elevator opened, and we walked down the corridor again, the same corridor I had just walked down a few minutes ago. It felt so different now. There was a flurry of activity around the vice president's suite, agents speaking in hushed whispers, and a number of agents openly carried long rifles.
Dean took off his glasses and directed me into a room across the hall. It was a suite as well, not as nicely appointed, but spacious. They told me to sit at a table and ordered me to hand over my cell phone. Chuck took it and passed it to an agent outside the room. Then Chuck closed the door slowly, carefully and tightly. There was no compelling need to add any more drama to the moment, but they went out of their way to do so. Slowly, and with great care, both men took seats across from me, stared incredulously and silently, not uttering a word for what was probably sixty seconds but felt like an eternity.
"Let me explain what's going to happen here," Dean finally said. "We need answers and we need them now. And you're going to provide them. You're not getting an attorney at this stage. You're not going to leave until we say you can leave. I urge you to cooperate fully. The vice president has been shot. You were the last person to be seen with him. I don't need to tell you that you are in very real trouble. This is deadly serious and I can only tell you that if you help us, you will be helping yourself. If you don't, you may be looking at spending the rest of your life in jail, and even at the possibility of a lethal injection."
I sat there dumbfounded. My mouth agape, I looked into their cold, hardened, stone faces. The sober, ominous tone in Dean's voice belied the gravity of the situation. His words didn't just feel threatening, they felt murderous. I had done nothing wrong, yet here I was, caught in the midst of a raging tsunami. If what they said was true, my livelihood, my freedom, and possibly even my life could come to a screeching halt. And yet I had only a pittance of information to barter, there was not much I could do to help them. Or to help myself. I knew very little, and that was not good.
"I wish I could offer something of value here," I said, my voice weak and almost cracking. "But the vice president was the one who asked me to come to the hotel."
"What did you talk about?" Dean asked.
"I debriefed him on some focus groups we did tonight. That's it. Nothing else."
"Did the vice president call you himself?"
"No," I said. "His aide. His chief of staff did. Randy Greece. He told me the vice president would be expecting me. But you knew that."
"Do we?" Chuck asked.
"You were waiting downstairs for me," I frowned. "You knew what I looked like. You were the ones who noticed me. You led me up here. Of course you know that."
"Let's focus on what you know, not on what we know," Chuck said. "Before we figure out what to charge you with. Murder or treason. That partly depends on whether the vice president makes it."
"Look," I said wearily. "You're way off base here."
"It's all right, Chuck," Dean said, holding up a hand. "If Mr. Baker cooperates fully, we might be able to let him go home tonight. Not charge him. He just needs to tell us what happened. Every single thing after we led him into the suite."
I had a vague sense that I should have stopped talking at that moment. Demanded a lawyer. That any scenario of my being forthcoming might not be in my best interests. But these are the judgments made in the aftermath, the post-mortem analyses when you have the time and the clarity of thought to review events and reconstruct them in your mind. But in the ferocity of the moment, and in a less-than-ideal frame of mind, I did not even conceive of that as an option. And, cl
inging to the quaint notion I had done nothing wrong, it struck me that cooperation might benefit me in a way that being stoic would not.
I played back my conversation with the vice president as best I could. I felt numb. It could have been due to the fatigue, maybe the vodka, or perhaps the devastating meeting with the oncologist this morning, which felt like a lifetime ago. Or just the astoundingly catastrophic chain of circumstances that led me here. The agents asked me to repeat my conversation with the vice president, and I did, stumbling at times to recall the exact words. Their interest piqued when I mentioned the vice president's less-than-flattering description of his wife.
"What did he call her again?"
I licked my lips. "A bitch. No, a fucking bitch."
"Why would he say that?" Chuck asked.
"There had been incidents. He didn't get into specifics. He said there were police records."
"How long have you been acquainted with the vice president?"
"Not long. A few days. We were just hired in as pollsters. Campaign consultants."
"Why would he tell you this?
"I don't know," I said. "I think he might have been drunk."
The agents glanced at each other, knowing looks that communicated without words. It was clear that the vice president's lack of sobriety did not come as a surprise.
"You said 'we' a minute ago. Who's 'we'?" Dean asked.
"My partner. Blair Lipschitz. Vice President Sudeau hired us."
"Did your partner know you were coming here?"
"Yes," I said.
"How did he know?"
"I told him."
"Why didn't he come with you?"
"The vice president wanted me to come alone," I said.
"Any idea how someone could have smuggled a gun in there?"
I stared at them in disbelief. "No," I said, my voice starting to display some agitation. "My God. You had me go through a metal detector. You patted me down. How on earth could I ever get a weapon past you?"
"You ever been to this hotel before?"
"A few times."
"For what?"
"A few conferences. Met people for drinks. A Bar Mitzvah, maybe."
"Know anyone who works here?"
"No."
"Know anyone who works in Century City?"
"Sure."
"Who?"
"A few attorneys. My accountant has an office here. There's a market research firm I once did business with. I still know a few people there."
Chuck handed me a pen and a legal pad and instructed me to write the names of everyone I knew who worked in the area, and every instance when I had visited the hotel. Then he told me to write down my entire interaction with the vice president tonight, including my conversations with Blair, Randy Greece, and anyone else who might have known I was coming here. Exclude nothing. And write legibly.
It took me awhile, partly because I was tired, partly because I tend not to hold onto intricate details. Whenever I moderated focus groups, they were recorded and often transcribed. Writing a report was easy because I didn't need to remember every comment, and I could discern the nuances again when I listened to the recordings. But the real world rarely offers that luxury, to go back and review, and besides, my mind didn't operate that way. And the Secret Service agents did not look pleased with what they surely considered my attempt to obfuscate.
The door opened and another agent walked in and handed Dean a cell phone. "Pandora wants to speak to you," he said.
Dean took the phone, mostly listened, uttered an occasional "Yes, ma'am," and finally told her that he was talking to the "suspect" now. Yes, the head of the detail would keep her informed. Without a goodbye, he ended the call.
"I'm really a suspect?" I asked, eyes wide, the fatigue giving way to a burgeoning sense of outrage.
Chuck stood up and walked around the table. "You were the last person to be seen with him. You can understand our skepticism, surely?"
"No, I can't. And I don't see where you have a shred of proof. I'm not a lawyer, but I know what circumstantial evidence is."
"Were you on the balcony at all? Or near it?"
"No."
"Was the vice president on the balcony?"
"No."
Chuck shook his head. "There are security cameras everywhere. If you did something, we'll know. If anything about your story is the slightest bit inaccurate, we'll ruin you. Count on it."
"I feel like I'm in the middle of Kafka," I said, rubbing my eyes.
"Where's that?" Chuck asked.
I stared at him in disbelief. "Nowhere," I said.
"Look, Baker. Let me lay this out for you. We swept the area before the vice president arrived. No guns were in that suite. Maybe the gunshots came from outside. But we have agents on the ground. There was no one there at the time. There's an office building across the street, but we've had agents on the scene all day. And none of the windows open up there. The roof of that building is locked. So help me understand how anyone could have shot the vice president tonight without your help."
"I'm not a detective," I said. "I'm not a gunman. I don't think in those terms. But I do think in terms of motivation. And I have none. My God. The vice president just hired us. He's a high-paying client. Why in the world would I ever want to shoot someone who's paying me good money?"
"What's your political affiliation?"
"Democrat. Of course I'm a Democrat, Sudeau isn't going to hire a Republican."
"Funny."
"How so?"
"When you were eighteen you registered as a Republican."
I stared at him, wondering how he could have gotten this so fast. "That was so I could vote for Reagan. I was in college. I switched my party affiliation a few years later. People change their stripes."
"Uh-huh."
"You don't believe me?" I asked.
"I don't believe anyone," Chuck said. "The world is full of liars. It's only a matter of time before they get caught. We'll find out the truth, believe me. Things will go much easier if you cooperate. Anything about your story you want to clarify yet? Anything you want to change?"
"No."
Dean's cell phone buzzed and he answered it. He didn't say much, just listened and said yes a few times. He ended the call, put the phone into his pocket, and took a long, deep breath.
"I'm sorry, Baker."
"What do you mean?"
"That was one of our agents. He rode in the ambulance with the vice president. They got him to Cedars but couldn't do much. Lost too much blood. He didn't make it. We are now dealing with a full-fledged assassination. And you, sir, are right in the eye of this shit storm. Right in the fucking middle of it."
Chapter 15
I spent the next six hours languishing at the suite in the Century Plaza, a few cups of coffee keeping me from sliding wearily off my chair. I repeated my story, then repeated it again for two new agents, then repeated it once more to an even more serious-looking man who identified himself as being with the FBI. When I asked Dean which agency was running the investigation, he and the FBI agent glanced disparagingly at one another, raising doubts that no one I was speaking with was entirely certain.
We were there all night and accomplished little. The moment that pushed things forward happened just as it was becoming light outside. Dean received a phone call and his posture straightened immediately. His answers were terse, but when he ended the call, he hung his head for a moment.
"There's been a development," he said. "A construction crew across the street found a weapon and a bi-pod. The weapon was fired very recently. And there's a window broken. It makes sense. We couldn't have seen the broken window in the dark. The shots had to have been fired from there."
The FBI agent immediately jerked out his phone and walked quickly out of the room. Chuck and Dean glanced nervously at one another. I refrained from asking for an apology. But I did inquire if it was all right with them if I went home.
"Not yet," Dean said. "We verified you did n
ot leave the hotel grounds. Our guys have gone over the security camera footage. You're accounted for. What's not clear is whether you were working in concert with the shooter."
"Again," I sighed, "what motive could I possibly have?"
"We don't know. But I want the name and address of your partner, and that assistant of yours, that Wanda. We'll need to follow up with them. And the people you spoke with at the bar."
I shrugged and handed them Tom Geary's card. If I needed to buy medical marijuana, there were plenty of places in Los Angeles that could accommodate me.
"Don't have Iris's card on me," I said. "But you know her name is Iris Hatcher. She works in the speaker's office."
"Iris Hatcher," mused Chuck. "Where do I know her from?"
"Shut up," Dean told him, and he motioned for Chuck to follow him out of the room. An hour went by. Just as I started to doze off, they returned.
"All right," Dean said. "We're done for now. You can go home, but we'll be following up with you later. Don't leave town. Don't talk to anyone about this."
His tone grated on me, possibly because of my exhaustion, maybe because my righteous indignation hackles rose. After a night of interrogation, it grated on me to have someone tell me who I could or couldn't speak with, and where I could or couldn't go. I reminded myself I was in the midst of an extraordinary situation, the assassination of the second-highest ranking official in the country, an event which bordered on being a constitutional crisis. And since I had nothing to gain by making a smart remark, I kept quiet. In times of crisis, the people with the artillery get to rule. And at the moment, I was simply too weary to do anything more than acquiesce.
They returned my cell phone and rode with me down the elevator. When we walked out, Chuck motioned to a pair of agents that it was all right for me to depart. I glanced around the lobby. There were a few guests trying to check out, hotel employees working diligently to move things along, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy, an impossible task. Dozens of federal agents were patrolling the lobby, some openly displaying handguns clipped to their belts. When I asked a valet for my car, he told me the garage was still on lockdown, and no vehicles could be retrieved yet. I walked down the street, and took an Uber home.
