by Brian Haig
“I want it done fast.”
“I’ll put my best people on it.” Dozens of them at inflated costs.
“Don’t get caught.”
“Not a chance. A good cover and he’ll never know a thing. Anyway, we’re still watching his house. We’ll add a few more men, watch him everywhere he goes.”
“What are you waiting for?”
O’Neal and Morgan backed away and fled from the office. The moment the door closed, Bellweather put his rear end on the corner of Walters’s desk. “Good call,” he said.
“I know.” Walters walked back behind the desk and collapsed into his chair. He picked up the picture that O’Neal had left in the middle of the blotter.
It was taken by one of the trailers following Morgan and Charles that night. A color, blown up to ten-by-twelve, showing Charles meeting Morgan on the street corner. He pinched the bridge of his nose and studied it closely. The mystery man was maybe five inches taller than Morgan, thin, well dressed, wearing an expensive blue cashmere topcoat. The shot was blurry and mildly out of focus but showed that Charles had dark features, dark, swept-back hair, a large beak, and shrewd eyes. “Know who this guy is?” he asked without looking up.
“Not a clue. Who?”
“The billion-dollar man.”
16
The hearing was everything they had paid for. And every bit as entertaining as they’d hoped.
Four GT executives showed up—three accountants and a smooth-looking, unctuous lapdog from GT’s congressional relations branch, brought along to appear friendly and ride herd on the number nerds. The executives arrived ten minutes early and seated themselves at the long witness table. They came armed with spreadsheets, which they spent five minutes meticulously arranging on the table. They came fully prepared to answer the most vexing questions about the cost of the GT 400.
The two previous days, the three accountants had spent long hours in front of murder boards exhaustively preparing for the hearing. A team of inquisitors bellowed questions at them, contradicted, argued, and browbeat until the three never blanched at the most egregious assault. The hearing was only a pro forma cost review. A mundane event, nothing more. But given the egos in Congress, there was always the risk of some loudmouthed representative trying to grandstand at their expense. They were ready. They had all the answers. They sat quietly and tried to hide their cockiness.
Thirty-five members of the congressional subcommittee were in attendance—an unexpectedly large turnout for such a tedious hearing. All were seated on the large podium, already looking bored out of their minds. All thirty-five had tried to squirm out of it, but Earl had bent elbows and traded favors in an effort to arrange a large audience. In addition, a small cluster of reporters, including one from the Washington Post and one from the New York Times, were on hand, seated in the empty rows of chairs reserved for guests. They’d been lured to the hearing by telephonic tips from a sneaky member of Earl’s staff he often used to plant stories or leaks. The reporters had been told to expect a big story and plenty of fireworks. A pair of C-SPAN cameras were rolling, a common sight these days, nothing to be alarmed about. Three bright-looking staffers were hunched in their seats directly behind the empty chairman’s chair, exchanging notes, smirking at each other, eager for the fun to begin.
The air of boredom broke with three minutes left to begin. The door in the rear cracked open and a new visitor stepped inside, an attractive female dressed in a flattering red business suit that nicely accented her dark brunette hair, long legs, and slender figure. She had large green eyes, a small, upturned nose, high cheekbones, and a wide, generous mouth. The thirty men on the podium sat up and took notice. A few male reporters noisily shifted seats to make room for her.
She looked around for a moment before the Capitol cop on duty rushed over and offered to help her find a seat. They wished they were him: oh, for an excuse to engage her in a conversation. They all watched as she shook her head—her long hair flipped back and forth, her features crinkled so beautifully. She chose her own seat, an aisle chair far in the back, where she was by herself. They watched as she sat, and they peeked and stared as her skirt rose and showed a little more leg. Great legs. Long legs. Legs that seemed to go all the way to the ceiling.
One of the reporters, tall and lanky, with a well-groomed fashionable three-day stubble, who obviously thought of himself as a cocksman, spun around in his seat and unloaded a flash of teeth. “Hey, babe, what paper you with?”
“I’m not.”
“I’m with the Journal,” he said, as if that meant something.
She said nothing. It meant nothing.
“My name is Rex,” he tried again. “Rex Smith. So why’re you here?”
By now every eye in the room was on her and Rex. Rex had had the nerve to do what they all wanted to.
The universal hope was that he failed miserably.
“I work in the Department of Defense,” she said. “I was having lunch nearby. Thought I’d drop by and watch.”
“You have a name?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” In other words, get lost.
“What’s yours?”
“Mia,” she said. No last name, just Mia. She began digging through her briefcase, visibly trying to ignore him.
Spurred on by all the stares he was attracting, Rex wasn’t about to back down. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say, so he offered the lame compliment, “Nice name.” Another smile and he asked, “So, what do you do in the Department of Defense?”
“Well, Rex, I’m a lawyer,” she answered without looking up.
“A lawyer.”
She finally met his stare. “Yes,” she said very calmly, very coldly. “I specialize in suing reporters for lying, defamation, or deliberate falsification.”
“Oh.”
“So I suggest you turn around and pay close attention to the hearing, Rex. Get every detail right. I’ll be watching.”
Rex stared blankly at her for a long moment, then turned around; he suddenly became preoccupied with his reporter’s pad. A few chuckles broke out among the other reporters. It was a brutal putdown. They admired her delivery.
Mia ignored the stares and chuckles and went back to digging something out of her briefcase.
As chairman, Earl entered five minutes late, fell gingerly into his chair, pulled his pants out of his crotch, offered the witnesses a pleasant, hospitable smile as if they were old chums, welcomed them to the hearing, then led off with a few empty peremptory remarks about the great importance of protecting our troops, buying them the very best equipment, and the role of this committee in oversight.
Then he fixed his bleary eyes on the three accountants. In his most homespun tone, he asked, “So you three fellas are all executive vice presidents?”
The older, plumper one in the middle answered, “Actually, sir, I’m a senior VP.” He motioned at the men to his left and right. “Rollins and Baggio here are executive VPs. They work for me.”
Earl nodded. “A senior VP, huh? Guess that makes you pretty high up over there.”
Edward Hamilton, the senior VP, offered a quick smile in response. This was so easy. “I’m one of only ten senior VPs in the company,” he announced as if he were a finalist for Miss America. Any second he’d be blathering about world peace.
“So we got the right folks up here to talk about this GT 400?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“And we should expect you to know a lot.”
“I think that’s a fair assumption, sir,” Hamilton answered with a loud, confident smile.
“Good, good. I was hoping GT didn’t send a coupla dunces up here.”
Hamilton chuckled. He decided a little more explanation might be helpful. “Rollins, Baggio, and I have been overseeing the GT 400 from its birth, you might say. I’d venture to say we know as much as anybody.” He smiled brightly. He should’ve said about the finances, but why waste words?
“Well, then, I’m surely
delighted you’re here,” Earl announced, smiling tightly as one of his aides leaned forward and handed him a piece of paper. He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the paper for a moment. He cleared his throat, leaned into the microphone, and asked very softly, almost pleasantly, “Can any of you gentlemen tell me when you first became aware of the rollover problem?”
“I’m sorry.” Hamilton hesitated, then asked, “What problem?”
“I’m sure you heard me. The rollover problem.”
“I’m, uh, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t, huh?” Earl asked. He leaned his big bulk forward in his chair, planted his elbows, and asked, “Do you think a company that wants to sell the military a multibillion-dollar product has a responsibility to thoroughly test it?”
Hamilton by now was completely flustered. He glanced at the stooge from congressional relations for help, for advice, for a signal, anything. The stooge couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the floor. “I, uh, well—”
“This is one of those easy questions, Mr. Hamilton. Answer it.”
“Uh… why, yes. Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. Now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
A nervous smile. “No, sir.”
“Now, if, during the course of this testing, a problem surfaces, what should the company do?”
Again Hamilton glanced anxiously down the row at the weasel from congressional relations. He was looking away; the walls of the chamber now seemed to hold his interest. After a long pause Hamilton said, “To be frank, this isn’t my area of—”
“Look at me, not him,” Earl barked. “This is my hearing after all. Do I need to repeat the question?”
“No.” Hamilton drew a deep breath and fingered a few spreadsheets. What was going on here? “I suppose it should report the problems.”
“You suppose?”
“Uh… yes, I believe it has that legal responsibility.”
Earl nodded. “So why didn’t you?” he asked in a very reasonable tone.
Unsure what this was about, Hamilton said, “I wasn’t at the testing.”
It was the wrong answer and Earl made him pay dearly for it. He lifted up a thick binder and waved it in the air like a thunderbolt he was about to stuff down the witness’s throat. “Have you seen this report?”
The question was spurious; no, of course he hadn’t seen it. Other than Earl, nobody in the room had laid eyes on it. The report—a thick compendium of charts and graphs and diagrams and tables—had only been compiled late the night before. It had been placed in Earl’s hands only that morning.
The man who prepared it, formerly a research analyst at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, now a hired whore at a local think tank, had labored around the clock for two weeks trying to get it right. To his dismay, the GT 400, it turned out, had an almost impossibly low center of gravity. He was forced to tinker with the computer models until a ninety-degree turn performed at 140 mph did, in fact, produce a mild tipover.
The best-designed European race car would be hurtling toward Mars long before that speed. As for the GT 400, it couldn’t surpass 60 mph if it had three rocket engines strapped to its ass.
Hamilton was squinting, trying to see what Earl was waving around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, I expected you’d say that,” Earl said, rolling his eyes and glaring with contempt at this pathetic attempt to lie. “This here’s an expert report showing that the GT 400 is subject to rollover.”
Hamilton exhaled a deep breath. “I find that hard to believe.” He had no idea whether it was true or not.
“You calling me a liar, son?”
The reporters perked up and began scribbling notes—the promised entertainment had arrived.
“No, sir. It’s just I find that report—”
But Earl was already furiously waving another paper in the air. “And what about this?” he demanded, now sounding quite aggrieved. “I received this here letter from somebody in the Defense procurement office. Know why? He became incensed by what he called a big whitewash during the GT 400’s shoddy testing.” Earl was wired and on a roll; he’d managed to squeeze “incensed,” “whitewash,” and “shoddy testing” into the same sentence.
“That’s absurd.”
Another aide bent forward and handed Earl a thick stack of clippings. He grabbed them and began flinging them, one by one, on the floor in the direction of the witness table. “Know what these are?” he yelled. “Newspaper and magazine reports from the past few weeks. They detail the shoddy testing and deplorable effort by your company to hide the rollover problem.”
Hamilton’s mouth hung open. His face was red and forming the first drops of sweat; he could not stop tugging at his shirt collar. He felt as though he were suffocating. This was just so atrociously awful, so unfair. If Earl wanted to know about amortization rates or outyear repair costs, fine. But Hamilton wasn’t a vehicular engineer. Hell, aside from a few glossy photos in the company brochures, he’d never even seen a real GT 400. He tried two or three times to make that point, but Earl talked right over him as he kept flinging those damning articles in his direction like bullets.
When Earl’s hands were finally empty, he yelled, “I can’t believe you’d come in here and ask us to spend forty billion dollars on a rolling death trap.” He paused, wanting to be sure the reporters captured his pet phrase. “Forty billion. For a rolling death trap,” he repeated, again, more deliberately this time, as though the more slowly the words were pronounced, the more lethal they became.
“I’m sure we can explain those reports and that letter,” Hamilton sputtered lamely.
“Explain now. I’m listening.”
“Well… I—” This was all so humiliating; he hated Earl Belzer.
“Do you know we are at war, sir?”
“I read the papers, yes.” That glib response just popped out of his lips. He instantly regretted it.
Earl carefully removed his reading glasses and placed them on the table. “Was that crack meant to be funny?” he sneered.
“Uh, well, no,” Hamilton stammered, visibly squirming in his seat. The murderboard sessions were a limp badminton game compared to this.
“ ’Cause let me tell you something, boy. Over three thousand of our fine boys and girls have died over there. Three thousand sons and daughters slaughtered by Muslim fanatics and weirdos. Maybe that’s funny to you and your company, but not up here, Mr. Big Shot executive.”
The other thirty-four committee members were now wide awake and watching intently. Most were old pros at this game, and until this moment had reserved a fair amount of pity for poor Hamilton trapped behind that big witness table. It was all about power. Earl was both a player and the ref, free to make his own rules, free to barrage his witness with unanswerable questions, free to interrupt at will.
Hamilton never stood a chance. He was a bit player in a long, hallowed congressional prerogative to hold lopsided hearings, scold and browbeat witnesses, and never allow anyone but the members to deliver a complete or coherent thought. It was ridiculously unfair, of course. Still, Hamilton was expected to adhere to the proper decorum—behave like a slaughtered lamb, lie down, and be gracefully butchered.
A row of deepening scowls were now glaring down at the witnesses. Rollins and Baggio began quietly inching their chairs away from Hamilton, avoiding the line of fire, trying to dodge a stray bullet from Earl, who looked like he wanted to pull out a gun and blast away.
Hamilton wanted to get up and bolt, but his feet felt like concrete. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as contritely as he could the moment Earl seemed to be finished.
The aides hunched in the seats behind Earl launched into giggles as they fingered the large stacks of papers positioned on their laps. Hamilton couldn’t take his eyes off them—what would they hand Earl next? What other loathsome crime was this awful man going to accuse him of? What fresh claim was going to appear, without warning, out of t
hin air?
He needn’t have worried. Earl was out of ammunition—the remaining papers were a harmless collection of office memos and take-out menus carelessly added to the mix—but his aides had been ordered to appear ready to drown the witnesses in damning reports.
Earl fixed him with another nasty frown, then said, “I won’t waste any more time reviewing the vast hoard of material I’ve received”—he waved a dismissive hand through the air as though his aides had three trucks full of reports and terrible claims and dreadful assertions that, out of generosity, Earl would not rub in his face—“and I don’t know whether all these reports and complaints and technical analyses are true or not. I’m no expert in such things. But my daddy always used to say, where there’s smoke, there’s somethin’ burnin’.”
Hamilton knew he had to do something. He took a deep swallow and said, “I’m sure we can satisfy your curiosity on these rumors.” He paused and tried to look hopeful. “Now, uh, now that we know your specific concerns, I feel sure that—”
“Are you proposin’ another hearing?”
“Yes,” Hamilton said, exuding relief at the thought of someone else taking this awful beating. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
Earl stared at him in disbelief. “Do I work for you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Uh… no.”
“That’s right, Mr. Big Shot. You might find this hard to believe, but this committee stays fairly busy with the people’s business.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Earl bellowed with a ferocious finger pointed at Hamilton’s face. “This is my committee. I set the rules. You speak only after you are asked a question. Do you understand that?”
