“Character assassination,” said Jack. “It’s what MacLeod does best.”
Chapter 18
Jack couldn’t shake the crowd. Members of the media dogged them all the way out of the building, and the vibe in the courtyard outside the main entrance had gone decidedly hostile. Jack’s guess was that the MacLeod campaign had bused in more bodies for the post-hearing demonstration. If their chant was any indication, the president’s latest tweet had put out a new hashtag: “Unfit! Unfit! Unfit!”
Jack had reserved a town car for their getaway, but just getting to it was a struggle. He and Charlotte pushed their way to the curb and jumped into the back seat, the shouting still audible through closed doors. It was a bright day but the interior dimmed in what seemed like a partial eclipse of the sun, as demonstrators pressed their protest signs and posters against the car windows. Several demonstrators raced across Monroe Street and jumped in their vehicles to follow. Leading a mob directly to Charlotte’s house made no sense. All it took was one lunatic for Charlotte’s worst fears to become reality, and it seemed fair to assume there was at least one out there, given the string of “hope you die” text messages flooding Charlotte’s cell phone.
“Stop looking at those,” Jack told her, as the car pulled away slowly from the curb. A line of cars and pickup trucks was forming behind them, engines running, an impromptu parade straight to Charlotte’s residence. Jack needed a better exit strategy. The answer came in an unexpected text to Jack from the senator’s lawyer, Matthew Kipner.
“Meet at Govs Club,” the message read.
Jack hadn’t planned on meeting with Kipner or anyone else from either campaign. But his suggestion made sense. The Governors Club was private, meaning no media and no demonstrators. Jack redirected the driver, and in just a few minutes they were safely inside.
The Governors Club was not the political “meet market” that was the bar at the Hotel Duval, but it was just a block away from the Capitol, which put it on anyone’s list of Tallahassee’s institutions of power and privilege. Brass chandeliers, fireplaces, and paneled walls of burled wood and exposed brick conjured up images of cigar-chomping power brokers. The reality, however, was that Florida’s laws on open meetings and “government in the sunshine” made it risky for government officials to cut deals in a private club. It was better suited to private meetings, like the lawyer-to-lawyer discussion that Kipner wanted with Jack.
“Can I see you alone for a minute?” asked Kipner.
Charlotte was a club member, so she was comfortable by herself at the bar for a while. In fact, she seemed to relish the idea of time alone. Kipner led Jack into a back room, which struck Jack as the “belt and suspenders” approach to confidentiality, given that they were already in a private club. It was just the two lawyers in the company of a stuffed pheasant on the fireplace mantel.
“Your client is going through hell,” said Kipner.
“No offense, but it’s not because she’s a huge fan of Senator Stahl. She believes in her position.”
“It’s only going to get worse. Starting Monday, this case is no longer about the intent of the Founding Fathers and the purpose of the Electoral College. MacLeod is a master of the personal smear campaign. Proving that Charlotte is ‘unfit’ to serve as an elector will be nothing less than a scorched-earth campaign.”
“She knows that.”
“But is she ready for it?”
“She will be.”
“They will dig up everything in Charlotte’s past.”
“I have no way of knowing everything in her past,” said Jack. “But I do know that not everything is admissible in a courtroom. We’ll fight it one battle at a time.”
Kipner was clearly not happy with Jack’s position. “Legal victories don’t matter from here on out. If they can’t use it in the courtroom, any dirt they dig up will still be national news on television. They will besmirch her reputation and assassinate her character in every way possible, if for no other reason than to send a clear message to every other Republican elector in the nation: the law may allow you to vote for a Democrat on December fourteenth, but if you do, you will pay a terrible price.”
Jack chose not to mention that the attorney general had explicitly confirmed as much. “I can’t control what happens outside the courtroom.”
“All I want to know is if your client is going to hang in there. Is she firm in her decision to vote for Senator Stahl? Or might we lose her?”
Jack didn’t want to be flip, but trying to predict a client’s actions in a situation like this was only slightly more scientific than using your kids’ birth dates to “Pick 6.” “I don’t think there’s any way to know until Charlotte walks into the State Capitol on December fourteenth and votes.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“Here’s what I can tell you. Charlotte is a fighter. If she backs down and votes for MacLeod, it won’t be because the attorney general is too rough on her in the courtroom. She has other concerns. Her own personal safety being the biggest one.”
“I’m sure we can find a loyal Democrat willing to pay for a bodyguard.”
“You can’t do that. If you provide anything of value to Charlotte, the attorney general will rush into court and accuse her of taking a bribe. You can’t even pay Charlotte’s cab fare to the courthouse.”
“All right. If you want to play it that straight, that’s your choice. Besides her personal safety, is there any other reason we might lose Charlotte’s vote?”
“Yes, obviously. She could end up a convicted felon for breach of oath.”
“That’s not as bad as it sounds, though. Right?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I spoke to a top-flight criminal defense lawyer about this. Just out of curiosity, of course. Breach of oath is a third-degree felony. With no criminal record, there’s no chance your client will get jail time.”
“That’s true. Florida has a sentencing point system, and there’s no way her points will add up to jail time for breach of oath. But as a convicted felon, she can’t be a lobbyist in Florida. I’ve seen it happen to lobbyists convicted of DUI. They’re done in Tallahassee.”
“She doesn’t have to worry about that.”
“Easy for you to say. She knows her career as a gun lobbyist is over, but she’s an experienced lobbyist who can work for plenty of other industries. That door closes entirely if she’s a convicted felon.”
Kipner leaned forward in his chair, looking Jack in the eye. “A felony conviction precludes her from lobbying in Florida. Not in Washington. Hell, even Jack Abramoff registered to lobby after serving four years in prison. I’m sure someone as talented as Charlotte would find plenty of work after the election, even as a convicted felon.”
Jack took a moment to react. Kipner was smart enough not to say “after the election if Stahl wins,” but the implication was there. “I know you would never suggest anything improper, Matthew. But there are people who might construe what you just said as a promise of steady work after the election. A quid pro quo.”
“You clearly misheard me, Jack. I’m not making any promises. I’m simply making an observation. You may choose to share that observation with your client. Or you may choose not to share it. It’s totally up to you.”
Jack had given him a wide-open opportunity to back away from the implication; Kipner chose not to, instead playing it way too cute for Jack’s comfort level. “I need to check on Charlotte,” Jack said, rising.
“We’ll talk again soon,” said Kipner.
“Actually, I think it’s best if we don’t talk again between now and December fourteenth.”
“What? Come on, Jack, you’re making way too much out of this.”
Jack hesitated, not wanting to sound pious. But if Kipner wasn’t going to let it go, then neither would Jack. “That’s the funny thing about politics, isn’t it,” said Jack.
“What?”
“Nobody ever thinks they’re the problem.”
>
Jack glanced at the stuffed pheasant on the way out, glad the bird was without ears.
Charlotte waited at the bar while Jack was in the Pheasant Room. The lunch crowd filed into the club’s dining room. Charlotte recognized at least a dozen fellow lobbyists, lawyers, and lawmakers who walked right past her. It was amazing how people she’d known for years could pretend not to see her. At least the bartender said hello, giving her the usual college-football razzing as he poured her a glass of chardonnay.
“How ’bout them Dawgs, Miss Charlotte,” meaning his University of Georgia Bulldogs.
Like everyone who grew up in the Florida Panhandle, Charlotte was a die-hard fan of the Alabama Crimson Tide; like everyone from Georgia, Clem was a big talker until Alabama cleaned up in the SEC championship each December. But Charlotte loved chatting it up with him, and she loved the way he and all the Georgians called her “Miss Charlotte.” And there were plenty of them in Tallahassee. A little-known fact among Floridians was that their state government was in large part run by Georgians who commuted to work every day from across the state line.
“This seat taken?”
Charlotte immediately recognized the voice, but she couldn’t contain her surprise as Madeline Chisel climbed onto the barstool beside her.
“Am I not toxic to you?” asked Charlotte.
“At my age I find ‘toxic’ interesting.”
Charlotte tasted her wine and smiled a little. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Madeline smiled back, then turned serious. “Honey, you have really stepped in it this time.”
“Paulette Barrow never could stand me,” she said, a bit philosophical. “It’s not like I’m losing a friend.”
“Don’t fool yourself into thinking the attorney general is calling the shots here.”
“Is that what you came by to tell me?”
“No,” said Madeline. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Cop-killer bullets.”
Charlotte knew exactly what she meant. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“You must’ve known it was me who put them in your ammo can. I was always the one who said that if someone busted into our office looking to pay back the gun lobbyists, he’d probably be wearing body armor.”
Charlotte nodded. “Interesting thing is that my lawyer never doubted me for a second when I said they weren’t mine. But he didn’t point the finger at you. He thought it was somebody in law enforcement who planted illegal ammo at the scene.”
“Typical defense lawyer reaction. They think all cops plant evidence and all prosecutors hide it.”
“They are a suspicious breed,” said Charlotte. “Defense lawyers, I mean.”
“Look, the bottom line is that you knew it was me. You could have thrown me under the bus when Barrow tried to use it against you. You didn’t. So I thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Gotta go,” said Madeline, as she climbed down from her barstool. “I’m meeting a client for lunch. But good luck to you.”
“I think I’m going to need it,” said Charlotte.
“You will,” said Madeline. “But there’s something you should keep in mind.”
“What’s that?”
“I owe you one, kiddo. Use it wisely.”
Charlotte watched her old boss walk away and, for a minute, felt a little less lonely.
Jack and Charlotte ate lunch at the Governors Club and left around two o’clock. The town car had long since left, but it was a short walk to the hotel and Jack’s rental car. The last time Charlotte had called for a ride she’d landed upside down in a ditch, so she seemed more than happy to accept Jack’s offer to drive her home.
“Turn here,” Charlotte told him.
Jack had been mostly honest in his talk with Kipner at the club. He did have a plan to keep Charlotte safe, and it was strictly between him and his client. Jack just hadn’t shared it with her yet.
“It’s the yellow house on the right,” she said.
“I probably could have guessed,” said Jack. Media vans were parked on the street, and a dozen or more reporters with their camera crews were waiting on the sidewalk. Jack slowed his rental car.
“Have your house key ready,” said Jack. “We’ll roll right past them and park in the driveway. Walk—don’t run—inside. Answering questions at a media ambush never goes well. We’ll hold a press conference later.”
“What if they follow us to the door?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
A flock of reporters and cameramen hurried toward the moving car as Jack steered into the driveway. Jack drove slowly but didn’t stop until he was beyond the mob, entirely on private property, and bumper to bumper with Charlotte’s parked car. The demonstrators had apparently grown tired of waiting, but they hadn’t left without parting remarks. Charlotte’s entire car had been egged, a thin layer of goo baked onto the finish by the morning sun. Someone with a can of black spray paint had posted a welcome-home greeting on Charlotte’s front door. The “Unfit” mantra seemed to be catching on.
“Go straight into the house,” said Jack.
Charlotte took a deep breath and gave Jack a look that signaled she was ready. The car doors opened simultaneously. As coached, Charlotte walked at her normal pace to the front door. Jack went to the end of the driveway, each step drawing more intense questioning about the criminal charges, the election, and a jumble of other things that were no more than noise to Jack.
“My client needs time to herself,” Jack announced to the media, as cameras rolled. “We will hold a press conference soon. Until then, please respect her privacy. Thank you for understanding.”
Jack had nothing more to say, but it wasn’t enough for this crowd. A barrage of questions followed him all the way to the front door, but the media respected the property line, no one stepping beyond Charlotte’s mailbox near the end of her driveway.
Jack found his client in the TV room, half-submerged in the overstuffed couch. The white Bahamian shutters on the window were closed, though not quite all the way, the thin horizontal slats of sunshine the only light in the room.
“Is this what my life is going to be like until the meeting of the Electoral College?”
Running the gauntlet was taking a visible toll on his client. It seemed like an opportune time for Jack to pitch his “protection plan,” but before he could say anything, a cacophony of shattering glass erupted in the kitchen. Charlotte jumped over the back of the couch to take cover.
“Get down!” she shouted, and Jack hit the floor.
Jack hadn’t heard a gunshot, but Charlotte’s reaction was on the level of a home invasion. Jack grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911, but Charlotte was already taking matters into her own hands. Jack was on the phone with the operator as Charlotte slid across the floor toward the closet, where he assumed she was going to hide. But instead of opening the closet door, she opened only the bottom panel of the three-panel door and retrieved a handgun, which the panel was constructed to conceal.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked her, but she ignored him. Charlotte rose to a crouch, standing only as tall as necessary. She gripped her firearm like a professional, the way Jack’s wife was trained to respond, and quietly started toward the kitchen.
“Sir, what is your emergency?” asked the operator.
Jack told the operator what he knew, but he was more focused on what Charlotte was doing. With her back pressed against the wall, she glided out of the room.
“Is there an intruder in the house?” asked the operator.
“I don’t know,” Jack said into his phone. “We heard a window smash.”
Charlotte disappeared down the hallway, leading with her handgun. Jack wished she would just stay put and wait for the cops, but that was like wishing he’d put his client-protection plan in place sooner. Pointless.
“Officers on the way,” said the operator.
“The owner o
f the house is checking things out. She’s armed, so don’t shoot her.” He added a quick description of Charlotte and what she was wearing.
“Noted,” said the dispatcher, and the call ended. Jack waited, hearing nothing from the kitchen. Then Charlotte called for him—“Jack, come here”—in a voice that conveyed no urgency. It seemed that the immediate emergency had passed. Still, Jack walked cautiously into the kitchen.
“Take a look at this,” she said.
Charlotte was crouched over a blanket of glistening glass pellets on the floor. Something had flown through her bay window and shattered it to pieces. Charlotte pointed, directing Jack’s focus toward a black handgun magazine. It had apparently skidded across the kitchen and come to rest by the icemaker.
“Somebody threw a magazine through the window?” asked Jack.
“If you threw a single round, it would bounce off the glass like a pebble. But a fifteen-round magazine will do the trick. If your aim is to send a message.”
“How about shooting through the window? Doesn’t that send the strongest message of all?”
“Not if your message is literally scratched onto the side of the magazine.”
“Can you read it?”
Charlotte didn’t want to get too close, and she definitely didn’t want to touch it, knowing that this was a crime scene. She used her smartphone and zoomed in with the camera function. “‘B-P-R-E-P apostrophe D.’ Be prepared.”
Jack thought for a moment but came up empty. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“The magazine holds nine-millimeter rounds,” said Charlotte. “Nine by nineteen millimeter, to be exact.”
“So?”
“So there’s more than one way to refer to nine-by-nineteen ammo. Nine-mil Luger is one. Nine-mil parabellum is another. No difference, really. Just parabellum is the name the first maker gave to a nine-millimeter bullet with the little extra powder that comes with a nineteen-millimeter casing.”
Charlotte’s clear implication was that “parabellum” was somehow significant. “I’m not following your point.”
The Big Lie Page 10
