The Nominee

by Brian McGrory

  As I went to place the papers and clips carefully back in the shoebox, I thought of what was missing from this collection, which was the same thing missing from the wall in the dining room—no letters of commendation for Officer Sweeney, no flowery tributes to a fallen brother, no photographs of the mayor presenting the heartbroken parents with an American flag after a funeral fit for a hero. All they had was a generic poem, written anonymously. Then I saw why.

  There on the floor beside the cardboard box was another old clip, this one more fragile, the ink worn from constant handling and smudged in one place, as if from a single drop of water. I picked it up. It was aBoston Record story, and I was startled to see the familiar byline of Robert Fitzgerald.

  The story carried the intriguing headline, “Deadly Mistake,” and appeared in the paper the day after the news story of Michael Sweeney’s death. The lede was classic Fitzgerald prose: “He was the meticulous architect of what was to be a valiant strike at one of the most notorious and nefarious drug dens in the city of Boston. He met with informants. He conducted surveillance. He filed for search warrants.

  “But when the hour came, Michael Sweeney, a young detective, the son of a veteran Boston cop, made one mistake: He led his brethren to the wrong apartment. And that one mistake cost him his life and likely led to the death of an elderly man of the cloth.”

  The story went on for seventy or so more lines, quoting police officials anonymously saying that Sweeney was an ambitious young officer who made the rookie mistake of relaying the wrong address in the briefing report given to all officers taking part in the raid. Those police officials say Sweeney had a history of being careless in his details. They said the department would likely admit fault in the reverend’s death and offer his estate somewhere along the lines of two million dollars. Of Sweeney’s death, they said he was mistakenly shot by another cop and implied he had brought it on himself.

  I was so engrossed in the story that when I got to the end, I found myself sitting in Hank Sweeney’s easy chair, and jumped up with a start.

  They made a scapegoat of him.

  Obviously something wasn’t right here, or someone. I rested the frail newspaper clip on top of the others in the shoebox and began looking around the rest of the living room—the name seeming to belie the present feeling and the mood. Sweat formed on my forehead, along my lower back and under my arms. The smell of the house began making me nauseous. But I forged on, in search of Mary Mae, knowing full well I wasn’t going to find her. In that case, what I was looking for, I didn’t really know.

  I do know there were various knickknacks on the shelves of a bookcase wedged into a corner—some Hummels and several pictures of a dignified, well preserved older woman who I assumed was Mary Mae herself—in one with Sweeney, in another smiling behind the wheel of a new car with the sticker still on the back window. Strange as it sounds, her smile made me smile too. She was like that.

  I walked into the bedroom, where there was another photo on the bedside table of the ever-photogenic Mary Mae standing on the balcony of a resort hotel room at sunset. I pulled open the lone door inside the room and saw a closet filled with both of their clothes—hers on the left, his on the right. Most of hers were wrapped in plastic, as if they had just come back from the dry cleaner.

  I was thinking that my voyeuristic tendencies were starting to get the better of me and that it was time to take leave when the sound of the telephone crashed through the heavy, hot air. I actually jumped. I regrouped and was, for some strange reason, drawn to the ringing phone, and walked out from the bedroom back into the living room to watch it. The phone, a Princess touch-tone, sat on the bookshelf between a framed picture of the couple and a small silver urn. Mid-ring, it kicked over to an answering machine, and I suddenly heard Sweeney’s distant voice saying, “We’re not here right now to take your call, but you know what to do at the beep.”

  It beeped, then came Sweeney’s voice all over again, sounding tired, his words slurring into each other. He was out of his coma, obviously, but barely.

  “Mary Mae,” he said, and then paused. The tape quietly rolled and I moved closer—so close, in fact, that I was standing right over the machine, hunched down trying to hear not just each word, but every inflection. I found myself staring at the turning cassette as if I might be able to see Sweeney’s face in it, and maybe that of Mary Mae.

  “My Mary Mae, remember how you’d get up on your toes and kiss me when I went off to work and tell me to watch myself because I was the only husband you’d ever have?” He paused as if composing himself, drawing in breaths. It sounded as if it hurt him just to talk.

  He continued, “Well, I didn’t do so good last night. I took a risk and I got shot right in the gut.” I could hear him moan as he moved in his hospital bed. “I know, I know. I’m a horse’s arse. I’m too old to be doing this, running around like a kid. You used to tell me that all the time.

  “But I’m helping this guy, this reporter, to figure out whether the publisher of theRecord was murdered, and I think he was. This guy’s good. Been with theRecord for a while. Used to work in Washington. I know you didn’t have any use for the paper, but I stayed with it, even after what they did. Anyway, I figure if I help this kid out, maybe he’ll help us get some justice. Just a thought.”

  Another long pause. I stood directly over the tape, still straining to listen, and think I heard him choking back tears on the other end.

  “I don’t know, Mary Mae. It’s an idea. It’s tough for me to figure these things out by myself.”

  Another pause, I thought I heard him convulsing, though I didn’t know whether it was in pain or sadness. My hands, helpless, began moving just to give me a sense of action, mobility. At one point, I put my right hand on the receiver and almost jerked it up to talk to him, but just as quickly I pulled it away.

  “I’m so sorry that I’ve been gone so long. I don’t like to be without you and I know you don’t like to be without me.”

  I heard a door open, whirled around, and stared into the kitchen, bracing myself for what was to come. Granny Clampett? Mary Mae? Then I realized the sound came from the phone, in the hospital room, not here in the house.

  Sweeney said, his tone more upbeat and firm, “Okay, honey, I love you too. I’m going to get myself patched up and get out of here soon.” And with that, the line went dead.

  My eyes settled on the photograph of the woman, smiling next to her husband, her arm around his waist and his around her shoulder. Then I scanned the rest of the shelf, fixing on the small, silver urn. I picked it up and turned it around and saw the engraved words that I expected to see: Mary Davis Sweeney, 1930–1997.

  One of the two cassettes in the machine rewound. The rest of the house was filled with the dull ring of dead air. I stood alone and quiet, staring at the urn, thinking of Sweeney in the Public Garden two nights before.

  I can’t even remember what it’s like not to be married to her, and I’d never have it any other way.

  I placed the urn carefully back on the shelf and said, “Mary Mae, old Hank is one hell of a guy.”

  Then I strode from the living room, through the dining room and the kitchen. I walked out the door, locked it, slipped the key back under the mat, and jogged through the neighbor’s yard. The sun was so hot by then I thought I might self-immolate. Sheer desire for the car air-conditioning spurred me on.

  I snapped open the driver’s side door. Mongillo now had his laptop fired up and his phone hooked up to a headset with a microphone, and continued gabbing and typing at the same time. The air in the car felt so cool it almost felt cold. He cast a quick glance my way when I got in, and returned to his call.

  I pulled out my own phone and called directory assistance. I asked for the Marshton Town Hall, was connected, and requested to speak to someone who handles vital statistics. The phone rang again and a frail-sounding woman answered, “Bella here.”

  I put on my best, friendliest, I-could-be-your-hard-working-son voice, and
said, “Bella, hi, my name is Jack Flynn. I’m a reporter forThe Boston Record. I’m working on a story and need one very quick piece of information that I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  “Hi, Jack,” she said. “I moved down from Boston last year. I get theRecord sent down in the mail.”

  I was about to point out that she could read it on-line, same day, free of charge, but decided this probably wasn’t the right time. Nor was it the right time to say that quick prayer of thanks to the gods of journalism who seemed to be smiling down on me that very minute. Instead, I said, “That’s terrific. This looks like a great town to move to.”

  “Oh it is,” she replied. “We have so many things to do here.”

  “I can’t even imagine. Unfortunately, I’m in kind of a rush right now. What I’m looking for is a death certificate on a Mary Davis Sweeney, who died in 1997. Is it possible to get the cause of death on her?”

  “Well, we’re not supposed to do this by phone. Normally you’re required to come in and fill out an official request, then pay a five dollar administrative fee for the certificate, unless you want a raised seal, then it’s twenty dollars.”

  I knew, though, with the word “normally” that I had her, provided I didn’t screw up. I said, “I know this is a hassle, but is there any possible way that you might help a fellow Bostonian out on the phone, and I’ll send the money to town hall?”

  She paused and said, “Hold on.” For the next two minutes, I listened to the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” played by Muzak. Who knew?

  She picked up the phone again. Her tone was markedly different, less friendly. She said, “Mary Davis Sweeney. Says here she died of a gunshot wound.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  She paused, then said, “Self-inflicted.”

  I thanked her, quickly hung up, and made a circular motion with the index finger of my right hand, signaling Mongillo in no uncertain terms to hang up the goddamned telephone and talk to me. He did, proving once again how much smarter he is than he looks.

  I said, “Tell me everything you know about that botched drug raid where the minister died, and tell me what you think Fitzgerald did wrong.”

  Just one more mystery in the increasingly complex mix.

  Thirty-Two

  WE TOUCHED DOWN AT4:30P.M.at National Airport, renamed Reagan National Airport, though I refuse to call it that, not because I don’t like Reagan, but only because I don’t like change. We emerged from the terminal to a stream of warm sunshine and a late afternoon breeze both inviting and fragrant—all of it in direct contrast to Marshton, my dark mood, and hell, my entire life.

  This was a town I knew better than most. I settled into marriage here. I was widowed here. I broke the biggest story of my life here, watched my Georgetown house torn asunder, saw too much death and heard far too many lies, and finally, I left myself with no choice: I had to go. Yet, I’ll confess, it always feels good to drop in for a visit, if only to catch a burger and a cold Sam Adams over at the University Club grille room, where I remain a member in reasonably good standing.

  Vinny Mongillo, by the way, spent the entire flight from West Palm on the AirPhone running up, I don’t know, fifteen, maybe twenty thousand dollars in charges. At one point he took my peanuts and drank most of my Coke when he thought I was dozing, and as we disembarked, every one of the flight attendants said goodbye to him by name. I don’t think they even gave me the standard, “Have a nice visit.” I obviously wasn’t on my best game.

  Vinny took a cab downtown, to the paper’s Washington bureau to work the phones and see if he could develop a follow-up story to our front-page hit of that day on the governor and his suspect record. I hopped in another cab for my planned meeting with the aforementioned governor on Capitol Hill. What he wanted, I had no idea, but to say my interest wasn’t piqued would be like Vinny saying, “I’ll have the salad.” It’s neither real nor right.

  I didn’t know Lance Randolph particularly well, and I liked him even less than I knew him, though it’s not lost on me that there should have been a bit of a bond between us. He followed his father into the family business of politics. I followed my father into the family business of newspapers—granted, not at as high or glamorous a level. He took over before he was fully ready. I might take over before I’m fully ready. He’s young and good looking. I’m young and good looking. Did I just say that out loud?

  Give me just a little something, would you? Maybe no one’s noticed, but it’s been a trying few days.

  So why wasn’t I a Randolph fan? Because I thought he had it too easy. I never believed he was forced to pay his dues. I thought he was born on third base and kept telling people he hit a triple. All of which is why I love being a reporter. You get to write what Mongillo and me wrote that morning and take the guy down a peg at one of the most critical points of his gilded life. All this and no license required.

  Speaking of which, as I got out of the cab behind the Capitol, I watched a petite young television reporter, bright lights shining on her heavily made-up face, perform a stand-up for the nightly news. “Peter, Governor Randolph spent most of the day shuttling between senators’ offices, trying to mitigate further damage from today’sBoston Record report. He remained unavailable for comment, but in a White House photo opportunity with the British prime minister, President Clayton Hutchins says he sees no, and I’m quoting here, damned reason in the world—end of quote—to withdraw the nomination. As you know, Peter, the president’s relationship with theRecord has been an especially trying one. Back to you.”

  As the lights went down, I felt a fleeting temptation to tap the woman on the shoulder and explain that I’m the guy who wrote that story for theRecord, and hey everyone, look at me, look at me. But not my style.

  It did, however, give me a quick dose of satisfaction at having broken what was obviously deemed a national story about the president’s nominee to serve as attorney general. Having been trotting around the bowels of Florida all morning, I had been detached from the rest of the world and hadn’t realized the full impact of our work.

  I met Randolph’s aide, Benjamin Bank, a nervous little chipmunk of a man in a cheap blue suit, at the southwest entrance to the Russell Building on the Senate side of the Hill. We shook hands, though I didn’t exactly pull a muscle trying to make small talk. As much as I was curious, I was also more than a little irritated by the cryptic lead-up to this meeting, and didn’t fully understand why we couldn’t have used that perfectly acceptable means of communication known as the telephone. It’s the classic act of a politician and his self-important aides, thinking that everyone will drop everything on their vaguest whim.

  Still, I got bored with the silence, and blurted out, “So, Benjamin, a good day on the Hill?” I asked this suddenly as we walked together toward the Capitol. I might have sounded a little too upbeat because poor Benjamin inched toward the curb and gave me a sidelong look.

  He replied, “I think the governor accomplished much of what he set out to do today, which was to make the acquaintance of a few key senators on both sides of the aisle and solidify his personal relationships here in Washington.”

  Allow me to interpret that for you folks without a Master’s degree in Bullshit from the University of Buttsuck, or without a few years under your belt in DC. What Benjamin really said was, “We led the governor around by the nose and he didn’t drool on his own shirt or have a visible erection around any women under the age of twenty. We’ll call it a win and head back to Boston.” What a business.

  Forgive me for revealing my mood, which grew more foul every minute that I was forced to be with someone like Benjamin Bank, who lives to lie, at least in public. And for anyone keeping score at home, I am the public, or at least its representative.

  My meeting with Randolph was to take place in the Capitol hideaway office of Bill Gillis, the senior senator from Massachusetts. Ranking senators generally get two offices—their regular suite over in one of the Senate buildings and thei
r private getaway right in the Capitol building where they might keep a couch and a soft chair for whatever occasions arise, including, well, nevermind. They often set up a little bar inside, and they hold the only key. As a fellow Democrat from his home state, Gillis played the role of Capitol Hill big brother to Lance Randolph, and as such, provided him some office space and gave him a little tour, which, knowing Gillis, probably included the Monocle for a four-martini lunch. But that’s another issue.

  We climbed a wide marble stairway and clicked along an ornate hallway with washed marble floors and walls until we climbed another, steeper stairway. We zigzagged down a confusing mishmash of identical corridors, seeming, at one point, to completely double back. Finally, Bank cut in front and motioned with his hand for me to stop at a nondescript office door on our left. He knocked once, opened it a crack, stuck his face inside, and said, “Jack Flynn is here, Governor.” He stepped aside to allow me to walk through.

  “Hello there, Jack,” Randolph said as I stood within the narrow confines of the tiny office. He was sitting on a hunter green leather couch with his feet up on a coffee table, reading through a sheaf of typewritten papers. He stood up slowly, shook my hand and added, “Take a seat.” I did, in an adjacent easy chair. Bank closed the door on his way back out.