The People's House

by David Pepper

  This was an incredibly convenient theory from someone who might be the accomplice, or the mastermind. But of course, I had told my editors the exact same thing two days before.

  “You may be correct. But justice also demands anybody involved in the scandal should be held accountable.”

  “Of course, if there is evidence proving that person was involved. But mere speculation only lets the politicians off the hook.”

  Kazarov moved on to a different topic.

  “Mr. Sharpe, I have read about your father and his noble career.”

  Like the mention of Scott, the reference to Dad grated my nerves.

  “The current system is what keeps true servants from entering politics or surviving in politics. Men like your father, who want to get things done.”

  “I agree with you. But it is the system we have.”

  “That is the same thing that Oliver said to me. But in the end, he tried to do something about it.”

  His tone suggested that Kazarov sincerely admired the dead lobbyist. But then again, Ariens was now six feet underground, and the Russian could identify the poison that put him there.

  * * *

  After a few final minutes of conversation, Kazarov and I walked down the hallway to a dining area, where Holmberg joined us. The same butler who had woken me in the morning served us an English breakfast.

  All talk of Abacus ended. Instead, our discussion wound its way from Kazarov’s trajectory from engineering student to tycoon, to my political observations, to a short explanation of American football. Kazarov remained highly agitated by the dysfunction of the American political system, and had clearly spent a lot of time thinking about it. And I confirmed many of his negative assessments.

  Afterward, we walked to the front door, where the Russian bade me goodbye.

  “You have been most pleasant company, Mr. Sharpe. I had looked forward to your visit, yet you still exceeded my expectations. Best of luck with your research and story. We will be watching closely.”

  That’s what worried me.

  “I believe it.”

  With me in the rear seat, the Rolls pulled out of the stone gates around 11:00 and drove up to the small airport ten minutes later. The Gulfstream engines were already firing. Apparently, I had been polite enough to earn a trip home.

  The plane departed ten minutes later. This time, I rode alone. A Gulfstream all to myself, I settled back in my seat after the plane reached cruising altitude, and spent the eight-hour return trip weighing the options.

  Of course, Kazarov was right. The biggest fish in the story was Stanton. His involvement would prompt demands for full-scale reform of Washington. I’d finally have the bombshell story on gerrymandering I’d always dreamed of, and it would actually do some good.

  Kazarov was also correct that Stanton and other political hacks would do all they could to deflect blame elsewhere. If some other person or entity participated, and they could make them the bad guy, they would do it in a heartbeat. Just look at what those jackals had done to me.

  At the same time, whatever the consequences, journalistic ethics required me to pursue and report that aspect of the story.

  But the reality was that I had no hard proof connecting Kazarov and Marcellus to Abacus. Yes, the signs all pointed to Kazarov. The theory made perfect sense. But as the Russian clearly understood, it was all speculation at this point. Nothing we could publish.

  In fact, Kazarov just demonstrated that he had a strong defense. Ariens, his chief lobbyist, the architect of Energy 2020, was not only not part of the plan, but had discovered it and planned to blow the whistle.

  Kazarov’s closest American ally, his own representative, had stood in the way. And paid for it with his life.

  Chapter 53

  PENNSYLVANIA: 162 days after the election

  I squinted, then shook my head, as I stepped through the plane door into the bright Pennsylvania sunshine. Ten feet away, on the airport tarmac, my truck beamed, shining from an apparent cleaning and boasting four new Firestones. I reached into my pocket to see if I still had my car keys. They jingled, still there.

  Nothing like a hot wire, car wash, and tire service all in one.

  Before I descended the stairs, the pilot tapped my shoulder. He handed back my phone.

  “Thank you” was the only expression I knew in Russian. “Spasiba.”

  It was 1:05 p.m., and I drove directly back to Youngstown.

  After powering my phone up, I checked my messages. Two from Scott, one from Andres. A bunch from Santini. And the most interesting one came from Arlene Brown from the night before: “Mr. Sharpe, I have some information I want to share with you. It’s urgent.”

  I called Santini first to let him know I was fine. Not wanting to tell him what happened, I lied.

  “In all the drama, I lost my phone. Had to get a new one.”

  “Whatever, Sharpe. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  I then called Brown back. She didn’t answer but returned my call twenty minutes later. She started talking so quickly I had to slow her down.

  “Congressman Stanton is really worked up, terrified of your story. He met with the chief of staff and top security officer yesterday, and I overheard most of what they said.”

  “Dennison?”

  “That’s him. How do you know him?”

  “Research.”

  “They know your story will run soon, and their goal is to shift the blame from themselves. To identify others who were part of the Abacus scandal. They are desperate to get ahead of all this.”

  “That’s helpful. Thank you, and keep me posted.”

  Exactly what Kazarov had guessed would happen.

  If I was going to beat their story, I had to move. So I made three quick calls, taking notes as I drove.

  The first was to Speaker Marshall’s office, the second to Minority Leader Williams. First, to confirm that neither had received the dictated memo from Ariens two years ago. Second, to get their reaction to the many connections between Stanton and the Abacus plot. Their responses to my first question did not surprise me. Their answers to my second did.

  The next call marked my final attempt to identify Stanton’s accomplice.

  “Jim Johnson here. Don’t you have someone else you can pick on?”

  “Nah. You guys are my favorite target.”

  “Well, you sure made our newly acquired brand famous. Thanks for the great marketing.”

  My first story must have cost them millions in damage control.

  “You’re welcome. I did have one question I wanted to ask you. When you purchased Abacus, did you interact much with the people you bought it from?”

  “Honestly, it was the oddest transaction I’ve ever done. They were hesitant to meet in person, and were concerned about overlapping as we moved in.”

  “So you never met in person?”

  “Nope. We never had a face-to-face meeting. Never shook hands. Like two ships in the night, they finished moving out the day that we moved in. Then they were gone.”

  “How about names? You get to know their names?”

  “Sure. I interacted with a few people. The main guy’s name was Gustav Miller. Only talked to him on the phone. Come to think of it, I don’t even know who else was involved. A lot of foreign people. Strange outfit.”

  “And was anything left behind after they moved out?”

  “No, they took everything. And quickly. They were rushing to get out of there.”

  “I received some photographs that were taken before you guys moved in. Was there some kind of security camera system there when you moved in?”

  “I’m sure there was, but whatever system they had was gone when we got there. For security purposes, we added our system the first day we moved in.”

  �
��The very first day?”

  Opportunity.

  “Yep. When people see folks moving in or out, that’s when security risks are highest. Gotta get those cameras up immediately.”

  “You said you overlapped one day. Was the day you put your cameras up the same day they were still moving out?”

  “They had basically moved all their stuff, but there were still a few people tying up loose ends. That would have been the one day we overlapped.”

  “So you might have recorded things that day?”

  “I can’t imagine we didn’t. But we were installing those cameras all day, so not sure how much footage we would have gotten.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, in order to get my story correct, I would love to view the tapes.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I email you the files, you have your people review them, and if there’s any material you find noteworthy, call me back. My only request is if it’s proprietary, that you don’t use it in a public way.”

  “We can agree to that.”

  I chuckled at the concept of “my people” reviewing it.

  * * *

  I pulled into the Vindicator parking lot at 3:30 p.m. and sat down at my desk 10 minutes later. The emails from Jim Johnson had already arrived. Each email attached a video file from a different camera. And each camera had a number. The last email attached video from camera 6, the first, camera 1. The numbers corresponded with the order in which Diebold installed the cameras.

  Camera 1 began recording at 9:48 a.m. The subsequent cameras were installed and turned on about every forty-five minutes thereafter, with a lunch break in between.

  I viewed footage from camera 6 first and worked my way down. Diebold must’ve mounted cameras in largely the same locations as Abacus had because I recognized the views from the Stanton tour two years earlier.

  Camera 6 was mounted in the loading dock area. It began operating at 2:15 p.m. Six trucks delivered boxes and large equipment via the loading dock over the ensuing four hours. Camera 5, in the research room, turned on at 1:32 p.m. New boxes and equipment were also visible there, but no one walked in and out from 1:50 on.

  Lots of activity appeared on cameras 3 and 4, mounted outside the building at 11:15 a.m. and 12:18 p.m. Trucks, smaller cars, and vans moving back and forth. People walking back and forth, lugging equipment, furniture, boxes from vehicles, into the building, then coming back out for more.

  Camera 2 was back inside and peered down from the end of a long hallway. It began capturing footage at 10:38 a.m. I fast-forwarded through the hours of activity, primarily people from the parking lot delivering materials to the offices and other rooms that adjoined the hallway.

  Finally came camera 1, the front lobby camera. It provided the exact same view as the photograph of Stanton when he entered Abacus two years ago. Installed at 9:48 a.m.

  Like camera 2, video footage showed lots of activity. Two men took down the old Abacus logo behind the desk, laid it on the floor, and replaced it with Diebold’s. A casually dressed woman dedicated several hours to organizing the front desk. Lots of folks walking through the lobby, lugging items back and forth.

  As I fast-forwarded to noon, I paused as one figure in particular walked into the lobby from the outside. Even from the back, I knew the man—from his height, his build, his shock of brown hair, his gait, even his clothes—khaki pants with a light blue sports coat. I’d seen that outfit before.

  The man approached the reception desk and spent a few minutes conversing with the woman standing behind it. He wandered about a dozen feet to the left of the desk and peered down a hallway. Another man, who looked slightly taller, walked in from the right side of the lobby. He wore a baseball cap along with jeans and sweatshirt. He first talked to the woman, and then the three engaged in a short conversation from about a ten-foot distance. Finally, the visitor walked back toward the desk, turned toward the lobby exit, and walked back outside. As he did so, the camera finally captured a direct view of his face.

  It was Lee Kelly.

  Of all the days to show up at Abacus, Kelly arrived on moving day. Stumbling into this frenzy of activity, a rushed effort to clear the scene, must have confirmed Kelly’s hunch that Abacus was up to no good. And that explained his call to me shortly thereafter.

  I quickly re-ran the footage from cameras three and four. Kelly’s Escape already was in the parking lot when camera 4 was installed. Must have been parked there for some minutes prior to the camera turning on.

  And at 12:33 p.m., Kelly returned to the Explorer, not directly from the lobby, but from another part of the parking lot. Probably had been looking around the outside premises. That’s when he must have called the Vindicator and left his message, only minutes before getting back in the car.

  I watched Kelly open the door and climb in. Four minutes later, the car reversed about fifteen feet, and then drove forward while turning left, and headed out the exit.

  This footage made three things clear:

  Kelly did stop by Abacus before heading to Stanton’s.

  He drove away in his own car.

  And if Kelly had shown up a few days earlier, or even a day or two later, he would still be alive.

  * * *

  Even though I was exhausted, I spent the early evening finalizing the draft. Added the quotes from Marshall and Williams, and from Ariens’ dictated memo, which Kazarov agreed to let me use so long as I didn’t disclose where they came from.

  So after explaining the other connections to Stanton, I added a new section:

  In addition to Simpson, famed lobbyist and long-time Stanton friend Oliver Ariens also became aware of the plot early on. Only days before his death, Ariens dictated a note that he intended to deliver to Speaker Williams and Minority Leader Marshall describing precisely what Abacus intended.

  I quoted the note in the next several lines.

  Although he shared it with at least one close confidant, the memo was never delivered to its intended recipients. Ariens died before he had a chance to send it. The coroner deemed the death a heart attack.

  * * *

  As I wrapped up around 8 p.m., my cell phone rang once again. A 202 area code. As angry as I was, I picked up.

  “You have a lot of nerve to call me!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Janet Compton replied. “Working with foreign clients is challenging, as you can imagine. I tried to tell them there was a better way, but they thought it was the only way to get the two of you together in complete secrecy.”

  “It’s still a crime, and you were complicit.”

  “Well, I hope you at least picked up some important information from the trip. I’m calling because I wanted to pass something along to you.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do. What is it?”

  “Don Young, Tom Stanton’s chief of staff, wanted to meet. So I did. Met for about an hour. He’s asking all the same questions you were.”

  “Was he trying to figure out who was behind Abacus?”

  “I think he’s trying to figure out who to blame for it. They know they’re up a creek, and are desperate to get ahead of your next story.”

  “I had another source tell me the same thing.”

  “Even worse, I worry they’re trying to pin it all on Oliver. Young told me that Stanton first learned of the plan from him. They say he sent a note around the time he died.”

  “Did he really admit that?”

  This added a critical fact to the story—Stanton’s office acknowledging they received Ariens’ note, just as Kazarov had said. So Stanton had heard about Abacus from both Ariens and Simpson, both of whom died shortly thereafter.

  “He just offered that up. But he said they ignored it until your story. Now they want to know who was behind the plot, and I worry they’re going to pin it on Oliver.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. And
let me assure you, I have clear proof that Ariens did not participate in the plot, so that won’t go anywhere.”

  “Good. Thanks, and glad I could be helpful.”

  “You’re still digging out of a deep hole, but I appreciate it.”

  I re-opened my story, and based on the call, added an additional sentence.

  Although he shared it with at least one close confidant, the memo was apparently never delivered to its intended recipients. Ariens died before he had a chance to send it. The coroner deemed the death to be due to a heart attack.

  But a source close to Stanton stated that the congressman—a long-time friend of Ariens—also received a note from Ariens about the plot.

  * * *

  Finally, Arlene Brown called back.

  “I think Stanton and Young have finally hatched their plan.”

  She walked through the calls Young and Stanton had asked her to make. Everything she said made sense. It was exactly the approach I would expect out of Stanton and Young.

  “You’ve been an enormous help. I can’t thank you enough,” he said.

  She did not respond with a simple “you’re welcome.” But with a sigh, followed by a long pause.

  “Mr. Sharpe, I thank you. I pray for forgiveness every day. Forgiveness for the fact that I did not do anything to stand up for Joanie when she needed my help,” she replied. “That’s why I keep calling you. I think this has been God’s way of answering those prayers. He gave me a second chance to stand up for her, and for what is right.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Brown.”

  With little time, I began furiously typing away on my computer. I was not editing my story, but composing a separate email. A long email, under the subject line: “Highly confidential.” It described the key findings of my weeks of research—the Simpson memo, the thirty-one districts, her death. But it also described many facts that I left out of my story, things that I had promised not to write about: Simpson’s Facebook page, the years of abuse, the secret boyfriend.

  It took about twenty-five minutes. And in addition to its many paragraphs, the email provided a link to Simpson’s Facebook page, attached a scanned version of the Simpson memo, and included the photographs of Stanton visiting Abacus.