by David Chill
In the twenty minutes the Detective waited, he pieced together a few ideas. He thought of sharing his thoughts with the Feds. But he remembered the last time he worked with them. He also thought of how they treated him up on thirty-three, like a local yokel who just got in their way. And he knew that while they might not dismiss his ideas, both the FBI and the Secret Service had a certain ugly history, not always publicized, of taking an investigation and royally fucking it up. The LAPD Detective decided he would keep his part of the investigation clandestine, at least initially. If nothing came of it, there was no one to laugh at him. If something did materialize, he'd be able to rub it in the Feds' faces. The idea was appealing. He saw Mendoza enter the lobby, his bag slung over a shoulder. Leading him to the elevator, they walked on and the Detective punched the round white button to take them up to the thirty-fourth floor, not the thirty-third. He doubted any Feds would be there. He assumed the floor would be devoid of law enforcement. He was right.
* * *
The Mercedes glided silently through the empty, darkened streets of Burbank. Blair kept up a steady chatter about what questions to expect from Merry Teale and how best to answer them. I mostly looked out the window and tried to ignore the running commentary.
We pulled onto the studio grounds, a lone security guard waving us through the gate and directing us to park in the reserved spaces near the newsroom entrance. I had passed the NBC lot numerous times, but this was my first opportunity to go inside. From the outside it looked like any other business park, although the familiar peacock logo was a reminder this was not just any business.
After checking in at the reception desk, a perky young assistant led us to the green room, where we would wait for forty-five minutes before entering the set. The green room is not green of course, and it isn't even very comfortable, it's just a holding pen where on-air guests wait until the network is ready to interview them. There was a countertop holding a large coffee urn, and a tray of bagels and pastries. I helped myself to black coffee, passing on any food. Blair loaded up with a raspberry Danish, and asked one of the staff to make him a pot of decaf. A makeup girl came in and insisted on dusting our faces with some powder, saying the bright lights would create too much glare on our faces, especially when we began to perspire.
"You all set?" Blair asked, between mouthfuls. "You ready to roll?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," I said. While I hadn't intended on following Blair's advice, I had indeed stayed up all night. My feeble attempt at napping produced nothing more than tossing and turning for a few hours. Every time I started to drift off, my mind nervously snapped me awake, racing at the thought of what questions might be asked. Leslie finally told me if I wasn't going to sleep, I might be so kind as to let her indulge.
At four-fifteen, we were led onto the brightly lit set, which was little more than two chairs placed in front of a green screen. We were told the background image would be an aerial photo of the San Fernando Valley at sunrise. The production assistant proudly showed us the pink and gold photo, with the purple mountains in the distance creating a gorgeous panoramic vista. It made for good viewing, but it was, of course, completely false, the image having been shot a few years ago and used repeatedly. We were not overlooking the Valley, the sun had not come up, and there were no windows on the set. And June gloom was still in full force, so even the traces of a colorful Valley sunrise this morning would be hidden behind a wall of gray clouds.
They put earpieces on us, and we had a brief run-through with Merry Teale in New York. She told us the first question she'd be asking, a general query into the vice president's final conversation, and that we would have seven minutes on air. She was upbeat, encouraging and, perhaps, sensing my nervousness, told us to relax and everything would be fine. Easier said than done.
We waited until after the news update at the half-hour, and a production assistant pointed to us and indicated we'd be on air in thirty seconds. There was a monitor facing us, so we could view the New York set live, and we could see Merry gathering her notes, and taking a last sip of coffee before checking her smile in a mirror. The assistant began counting down the numbers verbally while holding up the same number of fingers, going silent at two, then one. The show's soft theme music faded as we went live, and the distinctive voice of the morning anchor came through loud and clear in our ear sets. She sounded important.
"For our next segment, we'd like to welcome Ned Baker, the last man to speak with the vice president before he was so brutally gunned down in Los Angeles on Wednesday night. Mr. Baker is a pollster, and we also have Blair Lipschitz, his partner at the Baker Lipschitz Team. Gentlemen, thank you for being with us. I know it's early out there in California."
"Never too early for you, Merry," Blair said, smiling his dazzling smile. "Thank you having us."
"Our pleasure. So, Mr. Baker. You were the last person to see the vice president alive. Can you tell our viewers about your meeting with him."
"I'll tell you, Merry," Blair broke in. "The vice president had just hired us to do some work on his campaign, some important focus groups that Ned moderated. These were among likely voters, and it was just stunning to hear how much they loved the vice president. This country is going to miss Rich Sudeau, miss him terribly. I don't know how he can be replaced. We were totally convinced he was going to be our next president. This is so tragic."
"Ah ... yes. But let me get Mr. Baker's take on this, seeing as he was in the room with the vice president. What was his mood? Did he appear nervous about anything? Concerned?"
"No," I said quickly, not letting Blair jump in one more time. "The vice president was in a great mood. He was very happy. He wasn't nervous at all."
"Then there was no sense of premonition. That he might have known something was about to happen."
"If he did, I certainly didn't notice it."
"How do you react to the FBI referring to you as a person of interest?"
My body tensed for a moment, but there was no time to think, only to react. "I'm not aware of that, but I can only tell you it is absolutely ridiculous. I don't know how anyone who knows the facts could possibly say something so wrong. It is patently false."
"And let me also add, Merry," Blair said, "that the FBI has made more than its share of mistakes over the years. Same with the Secret Service. This is just one more in a long line of bungled pratfalls. Ned wouldn't hurt a fly."
"You know everyone is wondering how something like this could ever happen," she said. "The Secret Service is supposed to go to extraordinary lengths to protect the president and the vice president. This is really quite shocking, isn't it?"
"Merry," Blair said, "We're as shocked as you. Everyone in L.A. knows when the president or vice president is in town, because the entire city grinds to a halt. They completely stop all traffic. You would have thought they'd have secured the entire Century City area. But they failed. And now they're trying to hang my partner because of their own disgraceful performance."
"That's quite a statement, Mr. Lipschitz."
"And one more thing," Blair said, railing on. "The Secret Service agents who interviewed me looked incredibly out of shape. Don't they have a gym they can use? It's awful, Merry, really awful. The problem with the Secret Service is the whole agency is loaded down with nepotism. They really should just hand this investigation over to the CIA. Those guys know what they're doing. They're the real pros. I know a couple of these agents. They'll find the person who did this. They're the best!"
"All right, all right," she said, wanting to move on."I hear you guys. We'll let the investigation take its course. But as your partner mentioned a minute ago ... Mr. Baker, you conducted some focus groups on Rich Sudeau's behalf the other night. Can you tell our viewers what was the purpose of those focus groups?"
"The vice president," I said, starting to wonder how much confidentiality still existed when the client who hired you was no longer alive, "wanted to get some insight as to how familiar the voters were with him. With his background. What w
as their impression of him. And how much more of his life story he needed to share with them. It was apparent not everyone knew the real Richard Sudeau."
"And let me also add," Blair interjected, "the vice president was keenly interested in the issues the average American has been concerned about. And even though this great man is no longer with us, we need to keep his spirit alive. We need to honor and cherish his memory. Even though he won't be here to lead us, the issues he cared so deeply about remain. And we only hope and pray that someone as capable as the vice president will come forward soon and throw their hat in the ring. And we look forward to working with them."
"That is fascinating," Merry said, intrigued, the hint of a smile forming. "Do you have any suggestions on a candidate?"
I looked over at Blair and wondered the same thing. And it was starting to become clear that Blair had an agenda, one that was seditiously covert, a codicil of sorts, a plan he hadn't bothered to share with me. Maybe he thought I'd object, maybe he thought I'd say the wrong thing. But Blair was simply good at ginning up an audience, generating curiosity, and allowing that twinkle in his eye to capture the viewers.
"Merry, there is no one who could replace Rich. He was a man of the people, someone who rose to become a giant in Washington. They didn't know the obstacles he was able to overcome in his life. And no one running right now has Rich Sudeau's breadth of experience. But at this point, all we can do is send our thoughts and prayers to his family as they try and get through this awful time."
And then it occurred to me what Blair was doing, the cunning hint, the subtle dropping of a reference, and the laying of the foundation for the next step of the presidential campaign, which was to say, the next step of our careers. I wondered how far Blair would go with this, two days after the death of Richard Sudeau, but it didn't take long to find out. And it struck me that Merry knew where Blair was going with this as well.
"Speaking of the vice president's family, can you comment on any plans that the family might want to do something, make a gesture perhaps, that might establish something in his honor?"
"I'd prefer not to speculate Merry," Blair continued. "The family needs this time to mourn and to grieve. But I was speaking with the vice president's staff, and there are indications that this may go beyond just building a monument to Rich's legacy. And we all know his wife Amber is a formidable woman. She is one of the brightest lights in Washington. It would not surprise me one bit if she picked up the baton."
"What are you suggesting?" she asked.
"I think it would be a superb idea for Amber to continue what Rich started in his campaign. Not only to honor Rich, but because Amber Sudeau would be a phenomenal leader in her own right."
"Well, now!" gushed Merry. "That is indeed a piece of news. How do you think the country would react to this?"
Blair began to respond. I wasn't entirely sure why I plunged in, maybe it was my feeling left out of the loop on this, feeling I needed to re-establish my own presence here. So I broke in. There's an old saying that if you want to be a leader, find a parade and jump in front of it.
"I have to tell you," I said, cutting off Blair, "that during the focus groups, Ms. Sudeau's name came up, and it was very clear how highly regarded she is. Voters are extremely impressed with her, and I sense they would be very open to hearing more about who Amber Sudeau is."
"Now before we go any further," Merry said, "I need to ask you, does this possibility we're discussing here, the potential candidacy of Amber Sudeau for the presidency. Could it in any way smack of political opportunism on her part? Of taking advantage of the public's sympathy toward a grieving widow?"
"I think the American people are too smart for that," Blair chimed in fast, grabbing back control of the conversation. "The American people know the real deal when they see it. Rich Sudeau was the real deal and so is Amber. No one is going to get conned here. And if anyone thinks Amber is going to run thinking she'll just be getting the sympathy vote, then they're going to be very surprised."
"Well, this is quite a remarkable turn of events," Merry said. "I do hope you two will keep us posted and come back and talk again soon. Maybe we can even get you to fly out to New York next time."
"You know, we've got a very busy consulting practice, Merry, but we would be delighted to squeeze you in again," Blair smiled brightly. "We look forward to seeing you in person."
"Thank you for having us," I added, attempting to muster a smile, but knowing I could not match the thousand-watt dazzler that Blair displayed at every opportunity.
"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. And we'll be back after these messages."
And with that, the bright lights overhead were quickly turned off, and the studio became noticeably darker and cooler. One of the directors came over and congratulated us, reiterating Merry's invitation to return, and telling us this was a terrific segment. A different production assistant then led us out of the studio, down the hallway, and into the lobby.
"So, that was the angle you were working," I said as we walked toward Blair's black Mercedes.
"It was indeed. Sorry I couldn't give you a head's up. You know, some things are just better coming as surprises. Trust me, you're better that way. I know you. I can hit my mark, but you can't. You come off as more natural when you just react, rather than try and deliver your lines."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said dryly. "But it sounds like we may have more work."
"We may indeed. But after this, Amber's going to let the interest in her rise organically for the next few weeks. She's a grieving widow and all. Like Merry said, she can't afford to look like she's taking advantage of the situation. We can't make her out to be Lady Macbeth."
"Certainly not," I said. "But that was quite a bombshell, nevertheless. How long have you known about this? Or did you instigate it?"
Blair stopped in his tracks and stared at me. "What are you implying?"
"What was your role?" I responded evenly.
"I was giving this some thought. And when I was talking with Randy Greece yesterday, I floated the idea. Greece didn't sound all that surprised, but you know how things are played in Washington. Those guys are figuring out all the angles, too. With Sudeau gone, his whole staff is going to be scrambling for work. Some can join other campaigns, but it's not like they'd be running the show. Not like here, with Amber. The transition would be seamless."
"And all you did was pass along an idea."
"What I did," he said with a smile and a wink, "was keep the money flowing."
Chapter 17
The first trickles of light were emerging in the eastern sky. We stopped for breakfast at a 24-hour coffee shop in Toluca Lake, a few minutes from Burbank. Even at five in the morning, there was no shortage of patrons, and the restaurant hummed with activity. In addition to NBC, the Disney and Warner Brothers studios were nearby, and production crews were readying themselves for an early shoot.
"Hey, listen Blair," I said, picking at my scrambled eggs. "I'm going to take a few days next week. I need some R&R."
"Oh? Going someplace?"
"Yeah, not sure where exactly," I said, still unable to discuss my medical condition. I had known Blair for over a dozen years, was keenly aware of his penchant for endless talking, and was reticent about sharing a confidence that could slip out in idle conversation. And I wasn't comfortable sharing my cancer diagnosis with anyone besides Leslie and Angelina yet. I had endured a number of life-altering events over the past few days. Incredible as it might appear on the surface, being diagnosed with a terminal illness actually got placed on the back burner. I needed time to think, time to talk more with Leslie and Angelina, time to absorb all of this. And I had an appointment at the hospital on Monday morning as well.
Blair drove me to Century City, where the hotel, still buzzing even as dawn was breaking, had removed the lockdown, and the valet was able to fetch my car. A number of news vans were still parked there, and I kept my head down to avoid being seen by anyone. I had had e
nough face time with the media for one day. But it turned out there was no cause for concern. Our Hello America segment would not air on the west coast for another hour.
I went home, kissed my family as they ate breakfast, avoided any in-depth conversation about my seven minutes of TV fame, and suggested programming the DVR to watch it later. I trudged upstairs, swallowed another one of Leslie's Dalmane capsules, and crawled into bed. The daylight was starting to creep in through the bedroom blinds, and I vaguely wondered how nocturnal animals like raccoons and opossums could snooze all day and prowl all night. My mind eventually eased, and I went to sleep, not stirring until late in the afternoon. Leslie told me the phone had been ringing off the hook all day, but I was blissfully unaware. I had silenced my cell phone and turned off the ringer on our bedroom landline. I had finally slipped into my own private world for nine hours and it felt good. I went downstairs and fixed another afternoon pot of coffee.
"Ned, I hope you don't mind," Leslie started.
"Mind what?" I frowned.
"I invited some company for dinner."
"Oh," I said, sensing that blissful feeling begin to disappear.
"It's Eli and Jill. And Courtney, too. They're concerned. They want to get together. And I'd like someone to talk to as well."
"What do you mean?"
Leslie sat down. "Look, I know the diagnosis has been hard on you. And I respect that you want to keep it quiet for now. I personally wouldn't, although I think I understand. But I need to speak with someone about it. And I don't have anyone. Except Eli and Jill. Of all our friends, they're the only ones who know. And they're the only ones I can talk to. I've been keeping this bottled up the past few days and it's eating away at me."
I took a deep breath. It made sense. My initial annoyance that Eli had told his family about my situation quickly dissipated. They were our friends, they should know. I was compartmentalizing my diagnosis, but I also had so much going on, I could afford to. I had other things that diverted my attention, from the bizarre to the ridiculous, but this also meant I didn't have to focus on my illness. Leslie had no such outlets. And no matter what happened to me, the world would go on. A surviving spouse is the one who has to pick up the pieces and keep moving.
