The People's House

by David Pepper

  “Tom, I want you to look at that monitor over there. Our viewers are seeing it as well. You see that?”

  He recognized the photo instantly. It was the Abacus lobby, the company logo clearly visible. Worse, there he was right in the middle of the shot.

  Sharpe! That son of a bitch had mentioned evidence of the visit. Maybe he’d gotten his hands on an old electronic calendar. But photos? Close-ups? Time-stamped? This was far worse than he could have imagined. And how the hell did Turner have them?

  “Is that you, Tom?”

  “Um.”

  “How about this photo? This looks a lot like you, and it looks like you’re looking right at . . . What is that, an Abacus machine? And this one looks like you overseeing some sort of loading or shipping process, am I right?”

  “That is me,” Stanton said, almost in a whisper. “As I said, we looked into it a little . . .”

  * * *

  “Yes!”

  I raised my arms as if signaling a touchdown, letting out a cheer.

  She’d definitely gotten my email! Her next questions got only nastier.

  “This looks like more than just ‘a little’, Tom, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I checked out this facility near Philly, but I had no idea what they were up to.”

  “Sure looks like you’re getting a pretty close look at things, Tom. And this was well over a year before last year’s election, wasn’t it?”

  Stanton sat dumbfounded as Turner let the brutal question linger unanswered. Then she moved to another.

  “Tom, can you tell us who Joanie Simpson is?”

  “Uh, yeah, she was a research assistant for me a couple years back. Tragically, she was killed jogging in a Washington park.”

  “Is this a photo of her?”

  On the television monitor, a close-up shot of the young woman appeared. It was the Friday night Facebook photo, the one taken the night before she died. Turner’s team must have followed the link I had emailed, the one connecting to Simpson’s Facebook page.

  “It sure is.”

  Through the television screen, every feature of Stanton’s face betrayed him. False grin. Sweat beads trickling down his brow. Eyebrows elevated.

  “This is the night before she died,” Turner said. “It’s from her Facebook page.”

  “So sad.” Stanton shook his head.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Turner asked.

  “I actually try to avoid thinking in those terms when it comes to staff.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, I think she’s beautiful.”

  “Others did too.”

  “Do you know what’s funny, Tom?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whenever we found her in a photo with you, she never smiled.”

  Silence.

  “Is that strange?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? She always smiles, except when you’re nearby?”

  “Maybe she was professional in the workplace or nervous around authority?”

  “Nervous around you?”

  “Not me. People in authority.”

  “Oh. By the way, although she always posted things on Facebook, Joanie never posted on Thursday nights. Can you think of a reason for that?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You don’t know how she spent her Thursday nights?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We talked to her boyfriend at the time she died. He’s a good young man, a Republican. Would it surprise you to learn that he thinks you forced her to come over to your townhouse on Thursday nights?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, we’re going to interview him on our program tomorrow night, so we can learn more then. You may want to watch.”

  Long pause.

  “Speaking of your staff members, do you recognize any of these women?”

  Next flashed a series of photos. All young women. I didn’t recognize any of them.

  Stanton did. He simply stared at the screen, dumbstruck.

  “Tom?”

  “They all worked for me. Good workers all.”

  “Nothing else you want to say about them?”

  Silence.

  “We’ll talk more about them later—all of them. But I brought up Joanie Simpson because she stumbled upon this Abacus plot as well. Did you and she ever discuss it?”

  “Yes, we did. Briefly. After Ariens told me about it. Like I said, I had my staff look into it.”

  “And did she tell you about the detailed plan?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Actually, if you look up on the screen, we have an image of a memo she sent you—a copy generously provided by the Youngstown Vindicator—that explains exactly what’s going to happen in Abacus districts. Do you recognize it?”

  “My staff prepares a lot of memos. As I told the Vindicator, I never saw it before they showed it to me.”

  “But Tom, this was a big one. And it may have been given to you on a Thursday night. That’s what her boyfriend told us. Are you sure you don’t remember it?”

  “Never saw it.”

  “Well, sure looks like you knew exactly what it said. It laid out thirty-one swing districts where Abacus had its machines. Here they are on this map on your screen.”

  A map of the United States showed up on the screen, highlighting the thirty-one districts that Simpson mentioned in her memo.

  “Should it strike our viewers as a coincidence that you campaigned in those thirty-one districts last fall?”

  “No. Of course I campaigned in the key districts.”

  “But you didn’t go to other swing districts that she didn’t have in the memo. What are the chances of that?”

  “I have no idea!”

  “Pretty incredible odds. You went to the same thirty-one districts outlined in your murdered staff member’s memo. But no others. It’s like her memo outlining the conspiracy served as your guide for the election cycle.”

  Stanton muttered something in response, but it was unintelligible.

  “Well, we’re running out of time for my questions. I know you had some ideas on who was behind this. Now who was the guy you said was behind this Abacus plan?”

  “His name is Oliver Ariens.”

  “And he died two years ago?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “But he was able to pull off this elaborate plot from the grave?”

  “He sent me a note about it, yes. Then it happened as he described.”

  “Maybe he was telling you about it to warn you. You’re a powerful congressman, maybe he expected you to stop it.”

  “He represents some of the most controversial industries in the world, Bridget. They would be paying him, working with him, to undertake such a scheme. Not stop it. And they clearly did what he said they would, even after he died. That’s why we need a committee to investigate it, as I’m proposing.”

  “So you’re sure he wasn’t trying to stop it? And that’s why he told you about it?”

  “I . . .”

  “And either way, why didn’t you try to stop it? Never mind. Does it haunt you that people seemed to die so quickly after telling you about the Abacus plot?”

  “I’ve had a difficult couple of years. Lost some important people. People I respected. But I don’t think it had anything to do with Abacus or me.”

  “Sure seems strange. More to come, I guess.”

  She paused for a few seconds.

  “Well, Tom, that’s all the time we have for tonight. I really appreciate you coming on to walk through your theory about this scandal. I also want to thank the Youngstown Vindicator for their partnership on this story. They w
ill have more of the details we talked about in their newspaper tomorrow and online beginning at midnight tonight . . .”

  As she said that, a chyron of the Vindicator’s website appeared on the bottom of television sets all over the country.

  “. . . I have no doubt there will be investigations following our discussion and their story. You’re welcome to come back anytime! Good luck as you decide whether to run for president.”

  She stated the last sentence right to the camera, a smile on her face as she spoke directly to millions across the nation. Stanton might as well not have been in the studio.

  “Good night.”

  Another round of music closed out the show. I leaned back in my chair, clenched my right fist, and tapped it three times against the wooden table.

  * * *

  Turner got up from the desk and walked out of the studio without saying a word.

  Stanton gazed straight ahead for a few moments, shell-shocked at what had happened. He reached up to unclip the mic.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  The young woman, the one he tried to touch only thirty minutes before, smiled sweetly as she asked him this.

  “I got it!” he snapped.

  He stumbled down the hallway, back to the green room. He had left his briefcase in there. Stanton was eager to talk next steps and damage control with Young.

  He opened the door. His briefcase remained on the floor right where he had left it.

  Young was gone.

  * * *

  Irene Stanton watched the entire interview in tears.

  Seeing her husband skewered for all his transgressions was a wonderful sight. But the fact that she enjoyed his comeuppance reminded her how broken her marriage was. And she knew this night marked the end of three lost decades.

  She ignored all the incoming phone calls that started at nine. Friends, wives of Tom’s colleagues, calling to express their sympathy or to ask questions. Her best friend calling to cheer. Her kids, who had stopped caring about their dad years ago, were checking in to see how she was handling it.

  She ignored them all.

  Instead, she packed her bags. Loaded them in the minivan. And drove away at 10:30. First to Washington, D.C. for a day then out west to spend time with her children.

  Time to start over.

  * * *

  Over the course of the interview, five people tried calling. Arlene Brown, Peter Kreutzer, Mary Andres, Jodi Kelly, and Scott. I let all five go to voicemail.

  My story would provide a lot more details than her interview had. But the brutal hour accomplished my primary goal—completely discrediting Stanton’s attempt to get ahead of the story, and to blame Ariens in advance.

  Plus, even as a print reporter, I can admit that some things are made for television. That interview was one of them.

  Perhaps feeling guilty about our confrontation a few weeks back, Turner provided a huge boost by giving the Vindicator our appropriate credit. Even better, on national, prime-time television, she provided a free preview and plug for the story.

  I also was impressed. How the hell had Turner so quickly found photos of other women Stanton had harassed? How did she even know who they were? Someone else was talking. Who was it?

  I headed home and went to bed early. I still had to meet Dennison in the morning. The day would surely turn into chaos after that.

  * * *

  I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. After tossing and turning for forty minutes, I turned on my TV and logged onto my laptop to observe the tidal wave that would start at midnight once my story posted.

  But the wave started far sooner.

  Between nine and midnight, Turner’s interview with Stanton exploded as breaking news on every cable show. Up and down the dial, pundits replayed and analyzed clips of the usually unflappable majority leader fumbling answer after answer—sweating at the sight of Joanie Simpson, freezing when confronted with the photos of his tour through Abacus, and melting down under Turner’s barrage of haymakers.

  And then midnight hit, when the Vindicator posted the story. After Turner’s plug, my handiwork quickly became the bible of this scandal. The story itself, the photos, the Simpson memo, the thirty-one districts, the Marshall and Williams quotes, and the Ariens transcript—all there to be scrutinized and parsed.

  Within an hour, every major newspaper retold the story on its own website, faithfully crediting the Vindicator for the game-changing scoop.

  New York Times: “Youngstown Paper Finds Stanton at Heart of Vote-Stealing Scheme”

  Washington Post: “Majority Leader Part of Abacus Scandal, Paper Finds”

  Wall Street Journal: “Speaker Calls for Answers as Stanton Tied to Abacus Election Scandal”

  The devastating photo of Stanton examining an Abacus machine served as the centerpiece, Exhibit A, of every story. Always with the Vindicator credit.

  After the initial surge of reporting, I managed to catch some sleep in the early morning. When I awoke at 6:30 the next morning, the story and Congressman Tom Stanton were the talk of the country.

  By then, the Times and Post had already added online analytical stories from their premier political writers. Both explained how the extreme gerrymandering of districts and a weak system of elections had combined to allow such a scandal to happen. Both called for dramatic reforms to both.

  And the Today Show’s John Walters led off that morning’s program with a long story describing the Abacus scandal and Stanton’s role. Walters interviewed Speaker Marshall at length, and the Speaker promised to get to the bottom of the scandal. His tone made it clear that he meant it.

  I also checked my messages from the night before. All congratulations and thanks. Jody Kelly sounded ecstatic. Arlene Brown, thrilled. Peter Kreutzer said he was inspired to come forward now.

  Scott sent a couple texts as well.

  “Awesome job, Dad! You did it!”

  One other text appeared.

  It came from a longer number, one I didn’t recognize at first. But as I opened it, the prior two messages from the same number appeared.

  “Simple: go back to White Castle in 5 minutes.”

  “Don’t Be a Fool: Keep Them Alive.”

  Someone from Kazarov’s operation, if not Kazarov himself.

  But this new text was more positive: “Well done, Mr. Sharpe.”

  * * *

  As I drove to meet Dennison at Dunkin’ Donuts, I made up my mind. I had learned my lesson from the previous go-around, so I wouldn’t be the story this time. Wouldn’t even try. No interviews. No appearances. Let the politicians and the D.C. pundits talk through this one. Stay in the background and watch things unfold from afar.

  In fact, what a perfect time to get back out west to see Scott and Jana. It had been far too long. So over the weekend, I’d head out there. Take a little hiatus. I’d earned it. In fact, I should have done it a lot sooner.

  Only a few things to do beforehand.

  First, I walked into Dunkin’ Donuts just as Dennison’s Suburban pulled in. We sat down at exactly 8:00, each with a dark coffee and glazed donut in front of us.

  “Holy shit, Sharpe. I can see why Stanton wanted you kidnapped.”

  “I guess our little story packed a punch, huh.”

  “Sure did. But was a long time coming.”

  I could only imagine all that this man knew.

  “Not sure what you’re willing to tell me, but I appreciate you meeting with me. And I especially appreciate you not making me disappear.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “So what did you want to share?”

  “First, the guy is a serial abuser of women. And a complete asshole. You’ve done our country a favor by taking him down. The man should not be president, and now won’t be thanks to you.”

  “Did you see it all for you
rself?”

  “Of course. I hate admitting this, but I did most of the driving a few years back. A different girl every night. I was sort of the chauffeur, driving them to and from his Georgetown home. Some of them seemed to enjoy it. But most of them rode home miserable. I’m ashamed that I played the role I did, and I was in denial most of the time.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “After the girl was killed, the night visits stopped. The boss was spooked people would catch on to him. And then one day I saw her photo hanging in the office hallway, sort of a tribute to her—so happy, so pretty. Looked like a different person than the girl I drove home every night. The contrast woke me up. So I vowed never to do it again if he asked me.”

  “And did he?”

  “Once. I refused. If he started the visits up again, I wasn’t part of it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I was with him the day that he visited Abacus in person. I drove him there and waited in the parking lot. I knew something was up when he wanted to go there alone. Then when he came out after visiting for an hour, he sat quietly for about twenty minutes. Outside of muttering about some Swedish guy lying through his teeth, he didn’t say a word. Was deep in thought. I think he knew exactly what was going on there. And your first story confirmed it. No one else understood why he was so unnerved by your story. But I knew exactly why.”

  Good. A guy with a front-row seat just confirmed two key elements of my theory. But a few other questions lingered.

  Dennison beat me to the punch.

  “Sharpe, how the hell did you know who I was? And why did Chief Santini seem to know my name as soon as they brought me to the station?”

  “Well, I was followed here for about a week. When we ran the license plate, it came back to you. And because you’re a retired cop, Santini was able to figure out who you were, and where you work now.”

  “My plates were on another car? Jesus. That explains why my front plate was stolen a few weeks back. I had to get a new one.”

  Those Kazarov people are intense.

  Dennison wouldn’t admit a crime, but I figured I’d still at least broach the topic of Simpson’s death. See how he reacted.

  “I actually learned more about you than just your license plate.”

  “Yeah?”