Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  “Yeah,” says the senator. “I’d bet on Jody.”

  “She’d be tough.”

  “She’d be better than Trotter.” The senator shakes his head absently. “She’ll never win a primary but she’d be the better candidate in the general. I wouldn’t gain a thing. I knock off Trotter and get an even tougher opponent.”

  I open my hands, helpless. “That may be.”

  “To say nothing of the fact,” the senator continues, “that now I’m the guy who used a highly technical legal argument to knock off my challenger. How gracious do I look then?”

  “Okay, also true.”

  The senator is contemplative. But he shows no hint of frustration or conflict. He has laid out for me all the reasons that we can’t use the Ace to disqualify Langdon Trotter. Yet the conversation is not over. His explanation is not a denouement. It’s a segue. “There’s another option.” He leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. “We go to Trotter and show him what we have. We do it privately. A one-on-one meeting.”

  “Our point being?”

  The senator’s fingers rise slowly off his table. “The point being, we explain the state of affairs and give him some options. Maybe a trade-off.”

  “Trading what for what?” I ask.

  “I always heard Trotter wanted to be a judge,” he says. He considers the thought, then nods. “It would make some sense. A former attorney general appointed to the state supreme court. Or the federal bench, if we keep the White House.”

  “What are we talking about, Grant?”

  “Monte’s retiring,” he continues. He means the current U.S. senator, Raymond Monte, who has broadly hinted that he will not seek re-election in two years.

  I work my jaw a moment, then lean forward, like I’m trying to get a closer look. “Are you suggesting that we show Trotter our Ace, and tell him to drop out voluntarily?”

  The senator eyeballs me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Trotter dropping out is no different than us knocking him off.” He laces his hands together. “No, Jon, that’s not what I meant, and I think you know that.”

  I inhale. “We show this to Trotter and tell him to lose?”

  A smile from Senator Grant Tully.

  “Throw the election?” I ask, suddenly aware of the volume of my voice. I lower it an octave. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Keep an open mind there, Jonny.” Grant allows his head to tip backward slightly. His eyes move off me to the ceiling again. “Trotter would sooner lose than be knocked off on a technicality. He wouldn’t be able to show his face in public if we disqualified him because his people accidentally filed a photocopy of a critical document. He looks like an amateur.”

  “Maybe,” I offer.

  “So—” The senator opens his hands.

  “So what?”

  “So he’ll do anything not to let that come out.”

  “You’re that sure he’ll lie down.”

  “It’s not a question of lying down. We’ve got him, Jon. He’s done with this race, one way or another.” Grant wags a finger with authority. “He’s done.”

  We sit in silence. I can only imagine the reaction of the Attorney General when the news is dropped at his door.

  “He still runs for governor,” says the senator. “But he runs to lose.”

  “How’s he do that, incidentally?” I do not hide the exasperation in my voice. “Really, Grant. Tell me how a politician loses an election without anyone noticing.”

  The senator looks away with distaste. “Come on, Jon.” He clears his throat. “He refuses to debate. He can justify that to his people. He’s a state official, I’m more a local face. He can say he doesn’t want to give us the publicity. But we’ll crucify him for refusing to debate. So will the papers.”

  “Okay.”

  “We can control his ads. We go negative and he doesn’t respond. He says he wants to take the high road. That’s a loser course, but it lets him lose with dignity. We pound him on television, he says nothing in response, the papers say what a guy, but we beat his ass November seventh.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Christ, he can get sick,” says the senator. “He claims he has some virus or something, limits his campaigning. He’s got the bad back.”

  “All of this may be possible,” I say. “Until September twenty-third. That’s the last day we can file a complaint for a problem with his papers. After that, doesn’t matter whether there’s a problem or not, you can’t touch him.”

  “September twenty-third. Okay.”

  “At which point Trotter is free to renege. You lose your leverage.”

  “Yeah, that may be,” Grant concedes. “I think if Lang cut a deal with me, he’d stick to it. But if not, at least I’ve kept him quiet the next six weeks. I’ve got a lot of ground to gain between now and September twenty-third.”

  I steady a stare on Grant. He is probably expecting me to go with him on this. I mean, probably my biggest contribution to the Democratic Party over these last several years has been knocking challengers from the ballot. That’s the big thing everyone misses in politics—ballot access. Getting on the ballot in this state is slightly easier than solving a Rubik’s Cube or finishing a heptathlon. In general, it sounds easy enough—fill out some forms and get citizens to sign your petition. But in practice, it takes a mountain of work and considerable knowledge of the intricacies of our election laws. First, there are the forms. Statements of candidacy, statements of economic interest, the petition sheets. There are about thirty mistakes you can make just on these forms alone, many of which are fatal to a candidacy right there—Trotter is the perfect example. There are requirements for the people who circulate the petition sheets to get signatures. They must be registered voters of this state; they may only circulate for candidates of one political party per election cycle. The signatures on the petitions can only come from citizens who are registered voters in the district, and they have to live at the address they put down, and they must sign, not print, their name. The list goes on; if you need three hundred signatures to get on the primary ballot, you better get at least nine hundred, because more than half of the signatures will be bounced for one reason or another. All told, with form requirements and signature and circulator restrictions, there are dozens of things you have to do right. So when some upstart, outside reformer tries to get on the ballot against one of our Democratic incumbents, it’s even money I will find a way to knock him or her off in a ballot challenge.

  Democracy in action. Or maybe anti-democracy. Hey, I’m just the lawyer. I don’t make the rules, I just make sure opponents follow them. If they don’t, I stick it to them, like any lawyer would do for any client.

  But I do make the rules. There is not a single piece of legislation in this state pertaining to elections that doesn’t cross my desk for approval. So the big parties set the complex rules and use their lawyers to make sure they are followed, and the little guys have to pore over an election code that makes the Internal Revenue Service regulations look like a coloring book.

  My point being, I probably don’t have the right to get on my high horse here. But it’s one thing to challenge Langdon Trotter’s ballot access based on the requirements of the law. It’s quite another to use the threat of a challenge to essentially force the Attorney General to surrender the election.

  “Don’t do this,” I say.

  The senator appraises me a moment before nodding curtly. “You don’t want to be part of it—I understand.”

  “I don’t want anyone to be part of it. I mean, this is—” I catch myself, freeze in my seat.

  “This is what, Jon?” Senator Tully delivers the question with no sense of irony. “Unethical? Immoral?”

  “All of those, yes. But I was thinking of illegal.”

  A subdued burst of amusement from the senator. He rises from his seat, walks to his window. His jacket is draped over his chair; he is in shirtsleeves and navy braces strapped over his narrow shoulders. He looks out the wi
ndow, allows for a deep inhale. “Jon, do you think I’ll be a good governor?”

  “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you would.” He is speaking to the window. “Because you’re a friend first. But tell me honestly—do you think I’m the right man for the job?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why? Why do you think that, Jon?” He turns to me now. “And don’t—don’t tell me what you tell other people. Don’t give me campaign-speak. Tell me what you tell yourself.”

  “Because you stand for what you believe in,” I say. “You are a pro-life Democrat. You know that’s the wrong stance for your party—your own caucus has ripped you a new one for it—but it’s what you believe. You oppose the death penalty. You’ve known your whole life that you’d be running for statewide office, and you read the polls. About seventy percent of our state favors capital punishment. Every Democrat who has run for governor who opposed the death penalty was crucified for it. But you don’t care. It’s what you believe. You’ve opposed tax cuts for the last six years because you don’t think they’re fiscally responsible. That’s not a popular position. Some of our own members have pleaded for you to change your tune. But you’re looking out for the state.” I smile. “You’re political, no question—frankly, if you weren’t, I’d be a little worried. But you’re the guy to lead the state.”

  The senator accepts this monologue with no expression. “Now tell me your honest opinion of Langdon Trotter.”

  “I think Langdon Trotter would support the death penalty for shoplifters if it would give him one more vote. I think his only belief is that he should be the governor. It’s pure power lust.”

  “Okay.” The senator moves to his desk and sits on the edge. “If I were able to dredge up some ugly secret on Trotter and make it public, what would you think?”

  “Part of the game.”

  “In some sense immoral, though. Right?”

  “Sure. But you go in knowing the rules.”

  “That makes it okay?”

  “That makes it acceptable, I suppose,” I say.

  “This isn’t different.” The senator drops a fist softly on his thigh, dangling from the desk. “Not in any meaningful way.”

  “It’s different to me, Grant. I’m a lawyer. I have to uphold the rules of ethics. I can’t be party to—I can’t be a part of this.”

  “So like I said,” says Grant, “you won’t be.” He opens his hands. “You’ve advised me on the state of the law. I accept that. You’ve counseled me not to do it. Your job is finished.”

  I sigh. “Well—”

  “But do me this favor,” he says. “Talk to Dale Garrison about this. About all of this. All of our options. I want to make the right decision.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just ask him—don’t—” He’s struggling for words here. “Leave it wide open for him. Tell him we’ll do whatever he wants. Don’t show your hand. Tell him we’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell him that, Jon. Tell him I said I’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “I heard you the first three times.”

  “That way, he feels free to give an objective opinion.”

  “You’ll do whatever he wants.”

  “Good.” The senator inhales deeply. “And we’ll take it a step at a time.”

  “Sounds good.” I get to my feet. “Maybe I’ll still have a chance to talk you out of this.” But as I say these words, I sense that it’s already a done deal in Grant’s mind. I’ve got the map. He wants me to feel out Dale Garrison because Dale is going to be the messenger. Dale is going to be the one who meets with Lang Trotter and drops the bomb. Dale’s a sensible choice, to the extent that there is anything sensible about this scheme. So I’ll have to make it my job to guide Dale toward my side. Or I may see my lifelong friend, Senator Grant Tully, make the biggest mistake of his life.

  “Say, Jon.” Grant is calling to me.

  “Yep.” I stop at his doorway.

  “How’s things?”

  “Fine. Busy but—”

  “You’re still hanging your head a little.”

  I close my eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “You talk to her lately?”

  “Um, no. Not recently.” He’s referring to my ex-wife, who moved out of the house and out of town about ten months ago. Tracy and I were together for almost five years, until she informed me in the middle of last year that it was time for her to go.

  “Come by for dinner this weekend,” he says. “The kids are going for pizza with Audrey’s folks. We’ll have an adult dinner.”

  Grant’s wife, Audrey, is a sensational cook, along with being a hell of a lady. Grant met her when he was first elected to the senate and married her seven years ago. They have a five-year-old, Amy—my goddaughter—and Christopher is three.

  “I told you, no pity.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” He raises his hands. “Audrey was just asking about you.”

  “‘How’s Jon doing?’” I mimic a female voice. “‘Has he gotten over his wife dumping him?’”

  Like most jokes, I’m only half-kidding. Grant doesn’t like the humor. He doesn’t like the self-deprecation and he doesn’t like the ring of truth to it. The guy thinks he’s my big brother.

  “She didn’t dump you,” he says, informing me how my marriage fell apart. His expression lightens. “Besides, it’s not pity. You know Audrey’s always had a thing for you.”

  “Well, sure, I know that.” I play along.

  Grant smiles. “So give her some hope. She’s stuck with a homely Irishman like me.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  “Or let’s us go out and throw a few back Saturday night.”

  “Maybe.” I pat the doorway. “In the meantime, don’t come up with any more stupid ideas about this race.”

  6

  WHEN YOU WORK for Senator Grant Tully, you skip the headline of the Daily Watch—typically devoted to some national or international incident—and head straight to the article above the fold, then the Metro section. The Watch likes to consider itself a national paper and fills pages and pages on Washington and the rest of the world, but the only interesting information to the senator is the state and local stuff. He couldn’t care less who is president, or even who gets elected to the U.S. Senate from our state.

  Today I approach the paper with reticence, fearing the top-fold story will cover my favorite deputy attorney’s brush with an intruder in the middle of the night. But it doesn’t. I turn inside, pages 2–3, 4–5, but still nothing.

  Then I go to the Metro section, the purely local stuff. It’s on the fourth page, which is the last real page, in a thin column on the left side. HOMEOWNER KILLS BURGLAR. The reporter got my information on the intruder, noting his “long criminal record” as well as his brother’s arrest and the civil lawsuit against Bennett. Cops called it a justifiable shooting. Favorable story.

  Good. I drop the paper and take a sip of coffee, look out over the breakfast crowd. The place is Langley’s, nothing more than a greasy-spoon diner that happens to be on the bottom floor of the County Building. The cuisine is average at best; I have half of a feta cheese omelette on my plate that I don’t plan to finish. The crowd is a veritable who’s who of the legal community. You can’t wave your arms in the place without hitting half a dozen judges or elected officials.

  I wave to the waitress for my check and I catch the eye of none other than the Republican candidate for governor, Langdon Trotter. He saw me and I saw him. Now I have to say hello to this asshole.

  Lang Trotter is carving his eggs into bite-sized pieces, elbows out, working the knife like its object was the political future of Grant Tully. “Jon,” he sings as I walk up, before making eye contact with me. He drops his utensils and offers a hand.

  “Mr. Attorney General,” I say. “Nice to see you.”

  Trotter is a guy’s guy, silver-haired and burly, an outdoorsman, a strong, lined face. H
e has a commanding voice and a direct manner that, combined with his physique, dominate a room. One of the only guys I know who makes me feel small. The women on staff in the capital tell me that they find him attractive not so much on classical criteria but on his persona. That’s women for you. Guys see tits and ass, women see confidence and power.

  Trotter opens his hand to his guest. “Judge Dixon, Jon Soliday.” We shake hands.

  “Jon here is Tully’s chief counsel,” says the Attorney General. “You won’t find a guy in this state more knowledgeable about the legalities of elections and campaign finance. If he weren’t such a believer, I’d try to woo him to my side.”

  “I’m blushing over here,” I say, feeling awkward as usual around this guy. Even when you’re standing and he’s sitting, he towers over you. This guy was born with a cigar in one hand and a rifle in the other.

  His eyebrows rise as his fork plunges into some breakfast meat. He will not allow a brief hello with me to interrupt his breakfast. A subtle way of establishing our respective statures. “How is the senator?”

  “Working hard,” I answer. “Like you, no doubt.”

  “He’s a fine opponent, I’ll say it to anyone.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “How are we going to play?” Trotter’s eyes fix on me now.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s always more fun when we play nice,” he says. “The senator and I, we both have plenty of years left.”

  “True, true.”

  “He more than I.” The Attorney General winks at his breakfast companion. He offers his hand. “I always wish my opponent the best of luck.”

  I shake his hand for the second time. “Same to you, Mr. Attorney General. Nice meeting you, Judge.” I head to my seat wishing like hell I had eyes in the back of my head.

  7

  NOT TEN MINUTES after I arrive to work Wednesday morning, Bennett Carey walks into my office holding some forms. “Take a look at these,” he says. “The D-7s.” These are financial disclosure forms that our candidates have to fill out every three months. They have to tell the world what money they received and from whom, and how much they spent and on what. Because Ben and I are the lawyers for the Democratic Party, we have to approve every one of these, not only for Senator Tully but for every Democratic candidate for every race for state representative, state senator, and the constitutional offices.