by David Chill
A few chuckles broke out among the men. I waved it off. "I'm yesterday's news," I told them.
"It's a long news cycle," said Phil McManus. "You've become quite the celebrity. Feels like there's something about you in the news every day. I'll bet you never thought you'd be this famous."
Truer words were never spoken, and I desperately wished that whatever fame or infamy hovering about me would quickly dissipate. Angelina had told me my appearance on TV had spread like wildfire around the school, albeit more among parents than the kids.
"It's not the type of fame I ever wanted," I told him, and then paraphrased Andy Warhol. "But everyone gets their fifteen minutes. Mine will be up soon."
"Nah," Dan said. "Someone posted that Hello America segment of yours on YouTube. It'll be there until the end of time."
"Hey, should we even be talking to a person of interest?" joked Eddie Andrews. "Next thing you know the LAPD is going to be knocking on my door."
I turned to Eddie. "The LAPD? What makes you say that?"
"There was a detective being interviewed on TV last night. He was investigating that woman who was killed. You know. The vice president's girlfriend."
"Oh?" I asked.
"Yeah, that woman. Iris something-or-other. Worked for the speaker but was supposedly at the Century Plaza that night. The reporter said she had some ties to you."
"I met her a couple of times, hardly a conspiracy," I said and then thought of something. "Do you happen to recall that detective's name?"
Eddie furrowed his brow in thought. "Weird name. A phrase or something you might hear at a yacht club. Like an anchor. Buoy, maybe? No, it was Mooring. Karl Mooring."
At that point my cell phone rang. I answered and it was Blair. He was loud and animated, more enthusiastic than usual.
"Hey, get your big boy pants on, my friend. We've got a meeting this afternoon. Five o'clock."
"With who?" I asked.
"With the next President of the United States, that's who. Amber Sudeau."
I took a breath. I marveled again at the lack of pain. But I couldn't stomach another whirlwind day. "Where?"
"No worries, we don't have to get on a Gulfstream this time. Pandora's coming here. Keep quiet about it, this is super-top-secret stuff, can't have the media getting wind of this. Amber's still a grieving widow."
"I'm not the one we need to worry about keeping secrets. Why is she in town?" I asked.
"To meet with her new strategists," he laughed.
I took another breath. This one did not come as easily. "I take it that's us."
"You take it correctly, señor. We're back in the picture."
"Which hotel are we meeting her at?" I asked.
"No hotel, it's at a friend's house," he said. "Obviously, she's steering clear of the Century Plaza. Doesn't want any part of that place. You shouldn't, either."
Blair swung by my house later that afternoon and picked me up. The address we were given was in Beverly Glen, one of the many canyons that slither through Los Angeles. For most people, the Glen is just a commuter artery connecting the San Fernando Valley with Beverly Hills and Century City. For the ones living there, it's a rustic enclave, a hideaway that more resembles a lowbrow, backwater community than a ritzy neighborhood adjacent to Beverly Hills. We drove up the winding, two-lane road, with its humble-looking general stores, but the shiny new BMWs and Mercedes out front gave the facade away. Beverly Glen was not unique in that regard; some of the priciest real estate in Los Angeles is tucked away inside of secluded areas nestled inside of the Santa Monica mountains, multimillion dollar homes sitting on the edge of a long, steep gulch.
As we snaked our way through the canyon, Blair finally came upon the address we were looking for, and we turned into a carport. I looked around and shook my head. There were no homes nearby.
"Does someone live around here?" I asked.
Blair pointed to a funicular, which was a tram-like rail with a cart attached, a device with two green plastic benches that might have once been in use at Disneyland.
"Hop in," he said. "This is the only way you can get to the main house."
We climbed inside the contraption, pressed a metal button, and slowly the cart began to escalate up a fairly steep hill. It was a rickety ride that took about ninety seconds. We finally settled in front of a marvelous home perched upon the edge of a cliff, a series of wooden stilts holding it up. We were met by a pair of Secret Service agents, ones with whom I was thankfully unacquainted, who quietly and efficiently ran us through a metal detector and did the wand swipe before signaling to another pair of agents that we were okay. The door opened and we stepped inside.
The home was a shrine to glass. It had polished, white oak floors, high beamed ceilings, and a wall of windows facing the mountains. On a sunny afternoon, this house most certainly would provide a sensational view. But not today. Murky clouds, silent and levitating against the cliffs, projected a darkened gloom.
"Welcome!" came a voice. We turned to see a tall, slender man with shiny silver hair approach.
"Jimbo!" said Blair, and he gave the man a brief hug. "Thanks for arranging this."
"My pleasure," the man said and turned to me. "I'm James Zeppa."
"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking hands. "Gorgeous home. A bit inaccessible."
"Part of the charm. I like living away from the crowd."
"Jimbo's one of Amber's Angels," Blair cracked. "The first of the big donors. King maker. Or Queen maker, in this case."
"Well, let's hope so. Come on in, they're waiting for you," James said, leading us into a den area that was lined with windows as well. They were shiny, clear, and spotless. I wondered who climbed the ladders to clean them.
Amber Sudeau was standing in a corner with Randy Greece, looking out at the distant hills, their conversation quiet and muted. Greece noticed us first and turned and smiled. Amber's face was welcoming but subdued, a serious expression befitting a grieving widow. Greece was formal, in a white shirt and navy tie; Amber's attire was more relaxed, a gold knit top and black slacks.
"Gentlemen," she said, shaking hands coolly. "Thank you so much for coming on short notice. I hope I didn't interrupt your Saturday."
"Our time is your time," Blair crowed.
I made eye contact with Amber and spoke. "Not a problem. My daughter had a softball game, they're in the playoffs, but that was earlier."
"Did she win?"
"As a matter of fact, they did. She pitched a shutout. They advance to the state quarterfinals next week. High school. It's exciting."
"I can imagine," Amber said. "I played basketball in prep school. One of the best things I ever did was participate in sports. Builds confidence, especially for a girl. It's important."
"We're very proud of her," I said.
Amber Sudeau nodded and motioned for us to sit. The meeting could not have felt more awkward for me. We had last met two weeks ago to discuss propping up her husband's fledgling campaign. Now he was dead, Blair and I were the subject of an ongoing and seemingly endless federal assassination inquiry, with the killer still at large. And we were invited here to discuss how best to position Amber to pick up the mantle and claim the party's nomination as President of the United States. If anyone else in the room felt the surreal circumstances, they did a good job of hiding it.
Taking a cigarette out of her purse, Amber suddenly looked at Jim Zappa. "James, do you mind?"
"Of course not," he said, reaching over and placing a green onyx ashtray next to her. She lit the cigarette, and Blair, taking it as tacit permission, quickly lit one up as well.
"I didn't realize you were one of the bad kids," Blair said, blowing some smoke in the air.
"Nervous habit," she said. "I keep quitting. Then something overwhelming happens, and I just go right back to them. It's like building a sand castle. You put in a lot of hard work. And then one wave washes it all away."
I tried not to cringe. One wave washes it all away. I tried to focus on Amber
, but those words, a metaphor for life, my life, were bound to stay with me.
"We wanted to thank you, first of all. For the focus groups. Great job, Ned. Fascinating info. I streamed them. It was a nice testament to Rich."
"No problem," I said. "I'm just sorry things turned out the way they did."
Greece spoke. "Yes. We're all terribly saddened. But through adversity, well, opportunity sometimes arises."
"It does indeed!" Blair broke in. "And let me just say, she would make an excellent president. We're in her corner."
"Um, yes," Greece said, his jaw jutting out and his lower teeth showed over his upper lip. They looked a little crooked. "We're interested in pursuing this a little further. Just exploratory, mind you. We'd like you to do polling this week. Assess Amber as a candidate. Let's field it in Iowa and New Hampshire to start. If we see traction there, we can launch a national poll."
"Sure thing," Blair said. "We can be in the field tomorrow if you like. Whatever you want, we'll handle it."
"Right. Listen," Greece said, picking up Amber's cigarette and taking a puff before handing it back to her. "It's important there are no footprints here. Put Amber's name in along with a bunch of other celebrities. No one can know that Amber has a poll out. It's critical this be kept quiet. We can't have her appear opportunistic. Looking to take advantage of all this."
I nodded solemnly. Blair prattled on about our discretion, but I couldn't help but think opportunistic was exactly what some people would think. Whether she jumped in the race now or in six months. Whether or not there was a movement afoot to "persuade" her to run. There was the sticky stigma of gratuitous exploitation lurking in the shadows. And no matter whether it was her idea or she was propelled by others, there would always be that whiff of cunning and greed surrounding her candidacy. Part of me had severe reservations, but the other part could not ignore the financial windfall. Every time my conscience rose up and shined a light on what felt remarkably wrong here, I came straight back to my illness, my mortality, my desire to take care of my family. That, coupled with the realization that no one else here seemed to give a whit about morals or ethics or anything besides fame, power and the hefty payday that would follow.
At that point, Amber took a final drag on the cigarette, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, and quickly stabbed it out in the golden ashtray. She looked directly at me, her big brown eyes settling on mine for a second too long. She was a handsome woman, finely polished, nicely coiffed. Just like her late husband, Amber looked every bit the part of the distinguished public figure; she even had Rich Sudeau's big white smile.
"Tell me something, Ned," she finally asked.
"What's that?"
"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," I said, looking back at her for a long moment, too. The words were unspoken but her silent gaze was crystal clear. She knew. Somehow she knew about the cancer. Either someone had uncovered it or someone had told her. I probably should not have been surprised, but I was, and it was evident she was reading it across my face.
"It's all right," she said, trying to reassure me. "Certain things have a way of getting around. I just need to know you'll be okay."
I wracked my brains trying to think of how she could have found out. How the FBI agent I spoke with last week found out. Was I being paranoid, were my movements being watched, did someone have a way of observing my every step, hearing my every word, reading my every thought? I wanted to ask, but certain questions could not be asked of certain people. And even if I did ask, the truth would not be forthcoming.
"I guess privacy is a thing of the past," I sighed.
"Perhaps. But how are you really doing?"
"Fine, I feel great. I've had treatment and the issue is resolving itself. Nothing to worry about, the doctors are very optimistic. And I'm feeling one-hundred percent now," I said, not bothering to put that figure into a context. When you sense no one is telling the truth about things, a bizarre sense of legitimacy emerges. Dishonesty suddenly becomes an acceptable norm. One becomes easily complicit.
"That's wonderful news, Ned. I feel much better."
"Me, too. Say, do you mind if I ask you a question. It's the same question I asked Rich. Why do you want to be president?"
"Why is that important to you?" Greece asked.
"It's not so much me. But someone on the campaign trail is going to ask Amber. She has to have a good answer. Being better than the other guys won't cut it with voters. Running on behalf of Rich's legacy won't cut it, either."
"I see your point and it's a good one," Amber said and turned to Greece. "Randy, could we have one of the speechwriters start working on that? I agree with Ned. It's important to have an answer."
"Absolutely," said Greece. "And Ned, I'm glad you're feeling good. We've already fired one pollster this month. We'd like to keep you around for a while."
"I'd like to stick around as well, " I said, privately disappointed that Amber, like her late husband, didn't have a well-thought-out answer for why she wanted to be president. At least not one she was willing to verbalize to me. I decided to change the subject. "I have another question. Could you tell me about Frank Phelan. What happened there? Why did he fail?"
Amber and Greece glanced at each other. "It's not something we think will affect you," Greece finally said.
"I'm not going to sugarcoat things," I said. "If the polling shows weak support, you need to know about it. I'm going to tell you. And you'll need to have a plan to combat it."
"Look," Greece replied. "I know Rich was unhappy with his standing in the polls. But despite what he said, he didn't blame Phelan for that. Yeah, Phelan got outsmarted by the opposition. I'm sure you heard that story, that Sanderson's people got wind the Des Moines Register was in the field with a poll, and they upped their ad spend so their poll numbers would spike. But that wasn't the reason."
"Okay. Then what was it?"
"Ned," Amber started. "We've been following you two since last year. The job you did for Justin Woo in California. You do great work. And you're quiet about it. You go about your business and you don't look to get your faces in TV."
"Except for last week," I muttered.
"We understand that," Amber said. "And we did want to float the idea of my possible candidacy. But Rich was upset with Frank for going on TV and simply using the vice president to self-promote. Frank Phelan's face was on the air as much as Rich's. Maybe more. We can't have a pollster or a consultant on our payroll going rogue. It's about the candidate and the movement we're leading. You have to buy into it. We didn't feel Frank Phelan bought into it."
I considered this. When Blair and I consulted for Justin Woo, the whole Woo family was intimately involved with running the campaign, and Justin's brother Arthur was the campaign manager. Everything went through the family first, and they decided Justin would be the face of the campaign, with Arthur appearing on news outlets occasionally as his surrogate. No one else was allowed to talk to the media, and Blair and I respected their wishes. We knew that inside the political community, people were keenly aware of our contributions, even though we were not public figures. And ultimately that led us to Rich Sudeau. And now Amber.
"We're in!" Blair said. "No worries about that."
"And we'll respect your wishes," I interjected. "If you don't want us in front of the camera, we won't be."
"Fine," said Greece. "This campaign has to be about Amber. It's incredibly sensitive, especially when it comes to Rich's legacy. People need to be assured Amber isn't perceived as being calculating. There has to be a consistent message and it needs to be cautious. We're in unchartered waters here. Either we're going to pull off a coup or we'll wind up on the ash heap of history."
"Understood," I said. "None of us want to see that happen."
Chapter 25
I was a little surprised when Frank Phelan agreed to meet me for a cup of coffee, and he even suggested we do it right away. He had answered his phone on the first ring, expressed no resentment about th
e pernicious reality that we'd been hired to replace him. In fact, he even offered some congratulations, sounding envious that we had deftly threaded two needles: getting handpicked by Rich Sudeau, and then being kept on by his widow.
Frank was sitting at a small table inside of Stan's, a landmark donut house in Westwood Village, just down the street from UCLA. Stan's was legendary among donut aficionados. The bakery had been around for many decades, and had a few unique treats. I waved at Frank, who was already digging into a large frosted donut. I turned back to the counter and hesitated momentarily before ordering a coffee and a Reese's Pocket, which was a thick, chocolate-enrobed gut bomb, stuffed with peanut butter. I walked over to his table and set them both down.
"Good choice," he said, pointing at my breakfast, "but murder on the waistline."
"I have a new motto. Life is short, eat dessert first," I said, taking a bite and breaking through the chocolate glaze, digging into a deep vein of peanut butter.
Frank chuckled as he took a sip of coffee. He had a short, chunky build, and he maintained a nice personality baked into average appearance. I had run into him over the years at various research conferences and focus group facilities. We had engaged in small talk, gossiped about which pollster had landed which client, but never sat down and had a long conversation. We were colleagues, which meant we could share each other's pain when it came to clients, their picayune requirements and sometimes unreasonable requests.
"Well now, how are you holding up?" he asked as he finished eating a donut with flakes of coconut sticking out of thick white frosting.
I looked at him and didn't answer right away, chewing methodically and enjoying my breakfast. I vaguely wondered if he also was privy to my cancer diagnosis; it was beginning to feel as if nearly everyone did.
"I'm doing okay."
"Secret service finished grilling you?" he asked, indicating he was talking about a different type of misfortune.
"I guess. You know, the investigators I've spoken with are all from a hodgepodge of agencies. FBI, DHS, Secret Service. We even had an LAPD detective swing by the office. I don't think these guys ever talk to one another. They mostly just ask the same questions."
