The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  When we assembled in the Democratic Cloak Room, the Speaker conducted the meeting expeditiously. The caucus unanimously elected the leadership. As we were leaving the meeting to find our families and friends the Speaker motioned to me.

  Harris Sherman, Speaker of the House was about five feet five inches tall and just as broad. He was totally bald and wore designer glasses that had gone out of style when disco died. He may not look the part, but he was one of the shrewdest politicians in the state. He had been elected 11 times by his constituents in Luzerne County. He was both loved and feared by his colleagues in the House as well as other elected officials with whom he served. He was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Mr. Green, welcome to our House.”

  “Thank you Mr. Speaker.”

  “The Governor has told me quite a bit about you. So has Congressman O’Grady.”

  “That’s very kind of them sir.”

  He gave me a thoughtful look. “Even your father-in-law sang your praises, and believe me, a kind word from the Major is rarer than hen’s teeth,” he laughed.

  “Seriously, young man, I appreciate the manner with which you handled Sylvester Johnson’s mess.” The Speaker looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “That man was a total fuck-up.

  The Governor and I have plans for you. You have the attributes our party needs if we’re going to run this state for the foreseeable future. Do you realize you’re the first Iraq War Veteran to serve in the House, really in the entire state government?

  I’m going to appoint you to the Appropriations Committee and to a few of the more important sub-committees. Make sure you come to my office before the House reconvenes next week.

  And one more thing, there’s going to be a real shit storm about to hit the capitol. Of course you just got here, so it won’t have anything to do with you, but watch your ass anyway. OK?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Before I could make my way to the reception area where Nicky and the gang were waiting, a tall distinguished looking man called my name.

  “Mr. Green, I’m Bob Worthington with the NRA, do you have a moment?”

  “Bob, why don’t you let this young man go and join his family and friends, I’ve kept him long enough,” the Speaker interceded. “He just got here and I haven’t had an opportunity to prepare him for lobbyists. Even men of your… stature,” the Speaker said sarcastically.

  “I only wanted to ask Mr. Green why he returned our contribution to his campaign. Not many people running for office turn down the $25,000, we bundled together.”

  “I couldn’t in good conscience accept your contribution. While I respect your organization’s point of view, I simply cannot support it.”

  Worthington stared at me. “But you’re a decorated veteran. I didn’t figure you for some kind of left wing big city liberal.”

  “Well,” I replied, “in the last eight months, three police officers who live in my District were fired upon. Two of those police officers are dead. I went to their funerals. I promised their families I would do something about this epidemic of violence. There are too many violent people with assault weapons and god knows what else on the streets of Philadelphia, and we have to do something about it.”

  “I see,” he said smiling at the Speaker. “So the great Bernard Green is going to Harrisburg to teach us a lesson. Is that it?

  I guess you feel pretty secure, considering you were unopposed. Maybe we can find a candidate who is willing to support our position and run him against you. Then maybe you won’t be so quick to reject our point of view.”

  “Well, if you do that the voters would have to make that decision.”

  Worthington looked at me with what appeared to be real malice. I stared back at the pompous bastard until he turned and walked away.

  The Speaker patted me on the back and said. “I think you just set a record. You’ve only been sworn in for fifteen minutes, and you made your first enemy. Congratulations.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  The Harrisburg 7

  “I was about to send out a search party,” Nicky said as I entered the reception room. The place was mobbed with the newly elected and reelected members of the House of Representatives and their guests enjoying the afterglow of the swearing in ceremony.

  “The Speaker wanted to have a word with me.”

  “Was that Bob Worthington storming out of the caucus room?” the Major asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “He looked pretty steamed. You really don’t want to be on his bad side,” he added.

  “Oh, now you tell me,” I deadpanned.

  “Don’t tell me you ticked him off.”

  “OK, I won’t tell you that.”

  Nicky rolled her eyes. “Gee Bernie, you just got here and you managed to make a powerful enemy.”

  “That’s what the Speaker said,” I laughed.

  My father-in-law gave me one of his looks. “It’s not funny Bernie.”

  “Bernie we’re all so proud of you,” Marti Gronski embraced me.

  “LT, way to go,” Bob chimed in.

  Everyone, with the exception of the Major was ready to move on and celebrate. As we were about to leave the reception hall we were approached by a somber looking man, whose eyes pierced me with a dismissive glance.

  “Major”, he nodded to my father-in-law. “Hello Nicky. Congratulations on your marriage. I assume this is the lucky young man,” he said once again giving me another hard look.

  “Thank you Mr. Conrad,” Nicky replied without her usual sparkle. “This is my husband Bernie Green. Bernie, this is Attorney General Robert Conrad.”

  I extended my hand. Conrad gave me a perfunctory shake. What the hell was his problem? Nicky gave me one of her let it alone looks.

  As we walked over to the Speaker’s Reception I asked Nicky what that was all about.

  “My boyfriend in high school was Bobby Conrad, Jr. I’m sure Mr. Conrad was feeling, well, you know.”

  “I had no idea. I just never made the connection. Obviously our marriage must have reignited Conrad’s unimaginable pain over the loss of his wife and son. I guess you never get over losing someone you love. It must be horrible.”

  She looked at me and sighed, “I guess.”

  The Speaker’s Reception lifted our spirits. We partied through the night. As always, Bob Gronski was the life of the party. Even Mike Zeebooker got caught up in the festivities, turns out the Book is a dancing fool. He took turns dancing with Carlota and all the ladies in their group. Who knew? Just goes to show, you cannot judge a Zeebooker by his, well you get it.

  The next morning the shit storm the Speaker had forecast arrived with hurricane force winds. The newspaper headlines screamed, “Attorney General Indicts State Senators and Representatives.”

  According to the press, the ranking members of the Democratic Party in the Senate, the Leader and the Whip, and five senior members of the House of Representatives had been charged with rewarding staffers with lavish bonuses, cash from the public coffers, for their non-state related political activities. In some cases, the bonuses were for personal services that had nothing whatsoever to do with the body politic. The Attorney General indicated that his investigation was on going. The clear implication was that further indictments could be anticipated.

  The media dubbed the affair ‘Bonusgate.’ I wondered what the press would call such political peccadillos if the Democratic Party headquarters Nixon’s henchmen had broken into had been housed in a building other than the Watergate, say the Pavilion, or the Spa? Would the press moniker be, ‘Iran-Contra Pavilion’ or ‘Monica Spa’?

  “That’s strange,” I said to Nicky as we read the morning paper. “It appears the Attorney General has only targeted Democrats as miscreants worthy of his ire. Attorney General Conrad’s a Republican, isn’t he?”

  “You know I don’t know much about politics. You’re the only elected official I really care about.”

  Just then my cell phone rang. Witho
ut looking I knew it was the governor.

  “Do you believe that son of a bitch?” The governor screamed his greeting so loud it nearly broke my eardrum.

  “Good morning governor, I see you’ve seen the newspapers?”

  “You should see the coverage on Fox news. It’s the fucking lead. Our state is the laughingstock of the nation. Christ we’re being compared to Louisiana.”

  “Things could be a lot worse. At least no one has been accused of selling a U.S. Senate seat.”

  “That prick Conrad is getting ready to run for governor. Do you think it’s a coincidence that he’s only naming Democrats? He’s holding his own party hostage to make sure no one challenges him for the spot.”

  “Listen, there’s going to be a meeting at the mansion this morning. Congressman O’Grady, the Speaker and a few of the Party’s leaders are going to be there. We want you to attend. In fact, the Speaker and O’Grady insist. See you at 10.”

  “Nick, apparently your father’s boss has plans to run for governor. I’ve been invited to my first meeting with the grand poobahs of the Democratic Party. I wonder if it’s anything like the mafia meeting in the Godfather. You know, the one where Don Corleone, embraces the head of a rival family so he can bring his son Michael home. The whole time the Don is plotting to have the other mafiso whacked.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Nicky replied.

  “I need your help on this.” She looked up from the entertainment section of the paper suddenly interested.

  “What does one wear to such an event?”

  She laughed, put down the paper and gave me a naughty look.

  I was almost late for my first inner circle meeting. Nicky did eventually provide her expert advice on the proper attire, smart casual she called it.

  The State Trooper admitted me to the Governor’s Mansion without calling for confirmation. As I limped through the grand foyer the Governor’s Chief of Staff, Earl Samson could not conceal his shock. Obviously Samson had not been informed that I would be among those participating in the war council. Samson did not look well.

  “Green, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Good morning Earl. It’s always a pleasure to see you too. I heard the tour of the Governor’s Mansion is a must see. Am I too early?”

  “You can’t be in on this. The governor must have lost his mind.”

  “I’d love to chat with you, but I believe the meeting is about to begin, and you know how the governor hates to be kept waiting.” Screw him I thought.

  Samson opened the door and let me in. I was surprised that Samson did not follow.

  “Bernie, come in. You know the Congressman and the Speaker, grab a cup of coffee and I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  In addition to O’Grady and Speaker Sherman, U.S. Senator Markam, the U.S. congressmen from Pittsburgh and Wilkes-Barre and the State Party Chairman were also in attendance. This was clearly a gathering of the heavy weights in the state party. I had no idea why I had been invited.

  “You realize Conrad is going to leak the Grand Jury testimony to the press until the primary. This will get a lot of play, and make him a formidable candidate, the public watchdog. The press eats up this shit,” the speaker started the conversation.

  For the next two hours they discussed the grave implications of the indictments and the potential for additional victims of Conrad’s campaign. No one seemed to doubt the legitimacy of the allegations. I listened as the talking heads analyzed the current disaster that threatened the future of the state, or at least the future of the party.

  “Bernie, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Congressman O’Grady observed. “What’s your take on all of this?”

  They all looked at me, as if suddenly realizing I was in the room.

  “Congressman, this is all pretty new to me. When I was in the army I always let the generals formulate the strategy. I figured they knew what they were doing.”

  “Son, if you haven’t figured out by now that like your generals, we’ve all got our heads up our collective ass, you’re not the bright young man we think you are,” he responded and everyone laughed.

  “Well, I just met the A.G. I agree with all of you, he comes off as pious and self-important. But you have to be careful about going after him. His wife and only son were killed in an automobile accident about eight years ago. I don’t know if anyone ever recovers from that. I’m sure the public would be sympathetic.”

  I could tell I had their attention. “I don’t think it’s really necessary to attack Conrad. We should support his efforts to investigate corruption. I’m sure we can work in the angle that corruption is not only limited to Democrats.

  What I think we need to do is get Conrad in the public’s view as much as possible.”

  “Why would we want to give that stiff more access to the public?” The speaker looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Mr. Speaker, that’s exactly why we want him in the public’s view. He’s a stiff. He really doesn’t come off well with people. The more he’s out there, the more apparent it will be that he’s another opportunistic politician trying to benefit by throwing his peers under the bus. From what I hear, nobody likes the guy.

  And another thing, it might help if some of the men he targeted are actually innocent, especially if they’re photogenic and personable, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  “I guess you don’t know any of the Harrisburg 7, do you?” The governor asked.

  “No sir.”

  “They ain’t pretty, and not a one of them is innocent.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “But aside from that, I think you’ve come up with a good strategy. Nobody can stand Bob Conrad. He comes off like he’s above it all. Who knows, maybe if we dig a little we can find out that he’s not quite the white knight he claims to be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Don’t Ever Do That Again

  We returned to Philadelphia and resumed our everyday routines. Nicky worked her day job babysitting the governor while she focused on her singing career. She had started to appear with the Serge Paullo trio. I wasn’t exactly sure how much I liked the idea of Nicky spending so much time with Paullo, who was drop dead handsome. Nicky assured me I had nothing to worry about.

  I juggled my rapidly expanding Representative’s responsibilities with my Brinkley Smoot job. The days flew by. Most evenings, when she was not out on a gig with Paullo and the boys, we talked about our future. It was all too good; somewhere deep down I knew it would never last.

  One morning Mike Zeebooker called me at Brinkley Smoot and asked me to meet him at Billy G’s, the coffee shop near the District Office. From the tone of his voice I figured something was up.

  Zeebooker was already seated at the booth in the back when I arrived, another sign that he wanted our meeting to be confidential.

  “What’s up with the cloak and dagger?”

  Zeebooker sat with his back to the wall carefully surveying the restaurant through his coke bottle lenses before he answered.

  “I’ve been checking the court records for that adoption matter you asked me to look into. You know the case you wanted me to keep between us.”

  I had asked Zeebooker to help me find out what had happened to Nicky’s daughter.

  “Sure Nicky’s daughter,” I figured that if anyone could get through the bureaucratic mess Zeebooker could. “So, did you find anything?”

  He shook his head. “There’s no record of any adoption.”

  “But that’s impossible. Nicky told me her parents made the arrangements. There must be some record of the proceedings, even if it’s under seal.”

  “I’m telling you there’s nothing. But I did check the hospital records and there is a record of Nicky’s admission that corresponds to the date she delivered the baby. I tried to contact the obstetrician who delivered the baby. He died five years ago.”

  “So are you telling me the only person who can tell us what happened to the baby is the Major
? For whatever reason I don’t think he wants Nicky to know.”

  “I have the name of the nurse who assisted in the delivery. She works here in Philly at Temple University Hospital. I didn’t contact her yet. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do.”

  “You did good Book, real good. Let me take it from here.” Zeebooker gave me the name, address and telephone number of the nurse, Helene Schmidt. I realized that it was a long shot that Ms. Schmidt would remember a delivery eight years ago, or even know if there had been an adoption, or whatever, but as odds go long was better than none. “Thanks for helping me on this. I knew I could depend on you.”

  When I arrived at the office Carlota asked me if I would go to the bank rather than disrupt the staff from attending to their important work for the constituents of the District. Her request was a not so subtle reminder that even though I had been elected Representative it was the staff that did all the hard work.

  “Don’t forget to make all the deposits and get the petty cash.”

  “Yes mother.”

  I knew how lucky I was to have Carlota and the ladies watching my back.

  I could tell the second I walked through the door of the Citizen’s Bank branch at 4th and Girard that something was very wrong. It was way too quiet and I detected the unmistakable scent of fear. It reminded me of Iraq. I slowly made my way to the bank tellers, exaggerating my limp as I scoped out the scene. The two bank tellers Kathy and Sheila were watching me as I approached. I saw a young man wearing a hoodie standing next to a well-dressed young woman at one of the tables where the bank deposit slips and other forms were kept. It appeared to me that the man was standing extremely close to the woman, too close. No one was talking; no one was smiling.

  “Hi Kathy, how’s that brother of yours doing? I heard he was the reason Roman won the Catholic League Championship?”

  “Mr. Green, Buddy’s doing fine. Thanks, for asking.” Her response was flat. I could see the perspiration on her brow. I kept up my innocuous banter as I handed Kathy the deposits and other transactions. Her hands trembled as she counted the cash and sorted the checks.