The Killing Vote

by Bette Golden Lamb

  “What I may have thought in the beginning,” Bradberry said, “or even until a few minutes ago, doesn’t matter.”

  “Solutions! That’s what we need. Drastic solutions. Humane, yes. But still drastic.”

  “Am I the only naïve one here,” Bradberry said, “the only one who thinks there must be a better way?”

  “Wake up! You’ve seen all the projections. How did you think we were going to lower our costs?” “I thought this was about bioethics,” Silver interrupted. “Now we’re talking about budgets.”

  “Ethics, budgets, cost containment. That’s the whole picture,” Rudge said, as if explaining it to a nitwit. “And if any of you doubt that, then you don’t understand the problem.

  Chapter 7

  Dick Abrams visualized the scatter of important papers covering his desk, and smack in the middle was a long list of things that had to get done today.

  But he realized thoughts like that were only a distraction; he’d damn well better focus on President John Armistead Tyler who was waiting for him in the Oval Office.

  He glanced at his freshly shined shoes and made sure any stray bits of dandruff were absent from his dark suit. Of course he’d already checked all of that before leaving for his appointment, but he knew the President was strangely obsessive about the grooming of everyone who came to see him. With all the things on a President’s agenda, Abrams never could never understand his rabid obsession with how people should present themselves.

  Like anyone was going to go into the Oval office looking like a slob?

  Maybe the President was worried about offending the Great Seal of the United States woven in the middle of the rug in that cloistered room, or maybe he thought the portrait of Abraham Lincoln gave his long dead hero a viewing site from the grave.

  That tickled his funny bone.

  He nodded to several of the Secret Service personnel and checked his watch to make sure he was on time for his appointment.

  “Hi, Josi,” he said to a new intern he’d been introduced to only the day before.

  “Hi, Mr. Abrams.”

  “Call me Dick,” he said, slowing for a half a second before picking up the pace. He waved as he continued on, returning her wide smile. It took all his concentration to keep his eyes on her face instead of traveling to where her huge breasts were barely contained in a conservative blouse and suit. His wife would kill him if she knew what was going on in his head.

  Hell, she doesn’t know the half of it.

  It was probably juvenile but even after three years as Chief of Staff he still got a rise out of strolling down the West Wing of the White House. He allowed himself that bit of vanity. After all, he was a part of the Executive Branch, and at the operative core of John Armistead Tyler’s administration.

  As he walked into the Oval office, his eyes rested on the President, backlit by a wintry sun coming in through three large spotless windows. He looked at ease and unexplainably comfortable for someone who’d had a very rough three years in office. War, pollution, global warming, energy problems, and healthcare costs were not issues the President liked to focus on and his poll numbers reflected his lack of involvement.

  Plainly put, his stats were in the toilet.

  There was no denying it—he was a lightweight in the accomplishment column and the voters knew it. If Tyler had any hope of winning again, or propping those size thirteens on the ornate desk for another four years, he needed to show his stuff.

  And he would need something awesome.

  Abrams thought about three years earlier when he’d been asked to serve as the President’s Chief Of Staff. Like an idiot, he’d simply walked away from his Senate seat.

  Actually, it wasn’t quite that simple.

  Becoming Chief lost him the opportunity to chair the Senate Banking, Housing and Urban Affairs Committee. At the time he’d been blinded by the President’s declaration that there was no one with a better handle on the nation’s pulse … and his country needed him.

  Ego. Every politician’s undoing.

  “I’m still not convinced about this Desisto thing,” the President said. “I don’t even want to think about what the opposition would do to me if it gets out. Hell, even a whisper before we’re ready and I’m toast.”

  “No worse than what they’ll do to you when Medicare goes dry,” said Abrams.

  “I gotta tell you, Dick, the whole concept scares the poop out of me.”

  It pissed Abrams off when the president’s diction slipped into his back hills Southern roots, especially when he got caught up in complex situations.

  “No doubt we’ll have to play down the fact the program will be of greater benefit to budgetary problems than to actual healthcare,” Abrams said.

  “That’s the least of my worries,” Tyler said “The public hates government no matter what government does.” The chief executive’s frown deepened. “I still don’t think that I can get away with putting my stamp of approval on a program of selective euthanasia. No matter what kind of fancy words the spin doctors use to describe it.” The President picked up a carafe of water, filled a glass, and took a sip as if he was trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.

  “Who does Maurice Seldon have ram-rodding this thing?”

  “Wilson,” Abrams said.

  “W. Wade Wilson?” The President leaned forward across his desktop. When he received a quick nod of assent from Abrams, he added, “What’s he doing mucking around with Desisto? And why wasn’t I told.?”

  “It’s what’s happening, sir.” Abrams said. He raised his palms upward and shrugged.

  “I don’t like being kept in the dark. You know that.” Tyler picked up a solid silver casino chip, a gift from a Nevada delegation that had paid a visit earlier in the day. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I thought our esteemed HHS Secretary was going to find someone inconspicuous to carry the ball on Desisto. Hell, that’s why I put that idiot in Health and Human Services in the first place—to follow orders.” He manipulated the chip through the fingers of one hand like a seasoned gambler.

  “That was the plan. But Hygea and Wilson didn’t think Seldon was moving fast enough, so they sort of did an end run around him and stepped up the pace.”

  “Damn that Wilson! He’ll be the death of me yet.” The President flipped the chip in the air, caught it with one hand, and slapped it down on the back of his other hand. He gently rolled back the covering hand as if revealing something momentous. “How do you tell heads from tails on a casino chip?” he asked, squinting at Abrams with one eye closed.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He placed the chip in the center of his desk, pushed it slowly this way and that with his index finger. “That Wilson plays politics like it was a game of roulette. Moves his bet around until he finds a hot spot, then rides with it.”

  “He did help you get elected, Mr. President.”

  “Yeah, and in between he helped finance a couple of reelection campaigns that allowed the opposition to gain control of the Senate.”

  “So why don’t you tell Seldon to get rid of him?” Abrams didn’t bother to hide his distaste for Wilson.

  The President cocked his head to one side and gave Abrams a do-I-need-to-answer-that look, then said, “The man sits on a mountain of money, and he gets things done.”

  Abrams grinned. “Just making sure we’re both still working from the same get-elected-at-any-cost script.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t really surprise me that a controlling son-of-bitch like Wilson would take to Desisto like a fish to water.” Tyler was getting agitated. “But getting into bed with Wilson could leave me standing bare-assed on the White House lawn. That man would rent out his mother for medical experiments, if the price was right.”

  “Well, Seldon thinks you should take another shot at assisted euthanasia.”

  “And that from a man who’s dumb as a post. Dick, I’m leaving that pile of crap alone. Everyone who’s ever tampered with that has gone down in flame
s. Mess with it again and I might as well concede the election here and now. No, thank you!” He spun around and stared out the window for a moment, then whipped back around to face Abrams. “Wasn’t Seldon the one who brought us the Desisto Project in the first place?”

  “I believe you’re right, sir.”

  “So what’s going on? Am I missing something? Why isn’t Seldon here to explain any of this?”

  The President picked up the telephone. “Katie? See if Maurice Seldon’s around the Capitol anywhere. If he is, I’d like to see him. Now! Thanks.”

  “So?” Abrams queried.

  “So, the next time I start talking about appointing someone from the opposition to a cabinet post, it’s going to be your responsibility to start chanting: Seldon, Seldon, Seldon.”

  * * *

  “Mr. President,” Maurice Seldon said. “As I’ve said before…we can’t tamper with the existing healthcare package this late in the term. It’s my recommendation that Desisto be initialed immediately.”

  The staff had tracked the HHS Secretary down in the White House exercise room and made it clear the President was waiting.

  John Tyler never got tired of having people at his beck and call. He was known for pulling people from any department on a “right now” basis for the slimmest of reasons. At the moment, he was enjoying Seldon’s discomfort at standing in gym clothes in the Oval Office.

  Tyler stared at the HHS Secretary and Dick Abrams, who shared a leather couch on the other side of a glass coffee table.

  “We’ve had meeting after meeting about this, Maurice,” the President said. “And frankly, my attitude hasn’t changed one iota: I don’t want fingers pointing at me.”

  “Mr. President,” continued Seldon, “please believe me when I tell you that we all share that concern.”

  “Don’t patronize me! And those grass roots bioethical committees Hygea created across the country? I can’t believe anyone with their wits about them would approve something like Desisto.”

  “Nothing’s finalized, Mr. President. Everyone knows nothing happens without your final signature.”

  “And what makes you think I want any part of it?”

  “Because we’re giving the people what they need with Desisto,” Seldon said. “After all, isn’t it our moral obligation to preserve the financial integrity of the nation?”

  “What’s your point?” The man irritated him. Always stating the obvious.

  Seldon stared at his scuffed cross-trainers for a moment before answering. “You’ve been trying to push through your Middle East program for three years now, right?”

  “Yes, and if we’d held control of the Congress at mid-term—”

  “But you didn’t, and you won’t this next time, either, unless you come up with a dazzler that puts you back in the running. Right now, Desisto appears to offer what your Administration needs. Unless, of course, you want to be remembered as the president who wiped out Social Security and Medicare in a single term of office.”

  “You know, Mr. Secretary...uh, Maurice, I sometimes wonder just whose side you’re on.”

  “I’m here only at your pleasure, Mr. President.”

  The President looked from Seldon to Abrams. “I don’t like moving in the open like this,” he said, giving them both a stony stare. “Is it really Desisto or lose the election?”

  They both nodded.

  The President rose and paced back and forth between the chair and his desk. “Who ever dreamed up this ridiculous cloak and dagger name—Desisto Project? Was that you, Maurice? Because it looks more like a conspiracy than a project.”

  “I really can’t remember, Mr. President,” answered the HHS secretary. “Probably came from the same think tank that created the scenario in the first place.”

  “They call that thinking?” He roughly spun the antique globe that stood behind his desk. “I’ll bet that idea came out of some healthcare company’s fertile, twisted imagination. Either way, I still don’t like it.”

  “No one likes it,” Seldon said.

  “But you’re proposing it, nevertheless.”

  “If we’re going to save Medicare,” Seldon said, “it’s an absolute necessity.”

  “Don’t lecture me,” the President snapped. He sat back down behind his desk and nodded at Seldon. “I still want to know how W. Wade Wilson is mixed up in this Desisto thing.”

  “Wade came in, looked down from the top of a huge pile of Hygea money, offered a few suggestions, and I let him run with them.”

  “He’s a lobbyist, damn it. And now I’m told he’s considered the lead dog.”

  “What difference does that make, Mr. President? We need him … and his connections.”

  It wasn’t the kind of answer Tyler wanted to hear, but he didn’t pursue it. “Thank you for coming over on such short notice, Mr. Secretary,” he said, eyeing the sodden exercise clothes.

  “I’m always at your disposal, Mr. President,” Seldon said.

  “Yes, well, remember, I don’t want this thing blowing up in my face. It’s me, John Armistead Tyler, the historians will roast, not you.”

  “That’s always foremost in my mind, Mr. President. Perhaps we can find a way to hang the whole thing on Congress.”

  “Now wouldn’t that be nice, especially considering the lack of cooperation they’ve given this term.” He spun around and took in the panoramic window view. “See what you can do to accomplish that. See what that fucking W. Wade Wilson can do.” He raised a hand, dismissing Seldon.

  Once the HHS secretary was out of the room, the President got up, walked around his desk, and sat down next to Abrams on the couch. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Dick. How sincere is Seldon about Desisto?”

  “Maybe you should talk to W.W. about that,” Abrams said.

  “No, just give me a reading.”

  “Seldon’s a political animal, Mr. President. Not only that, a member of the opposition party. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “If you so much as look like you’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ I’ll personally put you on a bus back to Seattle.”

  “We’re all always at your disposal, Mr. President.”

  “Asshole!”

  “Like I said, I’ll keep an eye on Seldon.”

  “Good! I don’t want him resigning before the election.”

  “You mean you’ll need someone to blame if Desisto goes sour, and who better than a semi-loyal member of the opposition, along with Congress?”

  “Screw you, Dick Abrams.”

  “What about W. Wade Wilson?” Abrams said.

  “Yeah, well screw him, too.” He took ion a deep breath and sighed. “But not before this whole mess is settled.”

  Chapter 8

  “Today’s census report,” Garrett Rudge’s assistant said, handing him a computer-generated printout. Rudge placed the papers in the center of his desk without looking up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget Mr. Yost. He’s still in the waiting room.” She turned and left the office.

  Rudge hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t want that man in his waiting room, now or ever. He’d even used the rear entrance to his office coming from the committee meeting to keep from seeing him until it was absolutely necessary.

  He frowned as he scanned the 24-hour readout of the hospital’s patient population and their medical status, focusing on recent admissions.

  At first glance, the report was mostly the expected hospital entries. Then he zeroed in on two patients listed as critical:

  Myra Jackson—78 years. Trauma patient. Multi-system injuries.

  To OR for surgical removal of foreign object in the mediastinum.

  Massive blood loss. Extremely critical.

  Della Paoli—66 years. Stroke vs. automobile trauma -ICU.

  Unresponsive. Critical.

  He took his gold Cross pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and slowly circled both na
mes.

  Gathering the papers from the desktop, he slipped them into the thin glove-leather portfolio and pulled out his notebook computer.

  Things were looking up.

  He punched in Jackson’s name and searched for a status update, then did the same for Paoli. Nothing new on either of them. He tapped the keyboard then brought up the women’s demographics and personal insurance records.

  Myra Jackson

  Next of Kin: Stanley Jackson, nephew; #7 Boardwalk Plaza, Tiburon CA. (415) 555-8832.

  Medicare: Part A & B. Active

  Address: 4022 Geary, 2C, San Francisco CA

  Rudge tapped both the Medicare double coverage and the upscale address with his pen, then checked the other critical care patient on the list.

  Della Paoli:

  Next of kin: None

  Medicare: Part A. Part B—Not Active.

  Address: 4555 Grove St. San Rafael.

  He looked again at the “Next of kin” entry for Paoli, and the Marin County address, which he knew was in a rundown part of San Rafael. He leaned back in his chair, smiled, and took a deep breath. The serene moment passed quickly when the intercom buzzed on his desk.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Rudge, but Mr. Yost is still in the reception area. He won’t leave, no matter what I tell him.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll just be a moment.”

  He reached into his portfolio and pulled out a disposable cell phone, punched in a long string of numbers, waited for the caller-protecting circuitry to connect him to Wade Wilson’s office. He stood and paced in a tight figure eight behind his desk.

  “Government Relations,” a female voice said. He knew it was Wilson’s young assistant, Calli Morin.

  “George Desisto calling,” he said.

  “If you’ll hold, please, Mr. Desisto, I’ll check to see if Mr. Wilson’s available.” In a few seconds she was back on the line. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Wilson is out of the office.”