Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  “What about me? Will I have to go before a grand jury?”

  “No. That’s done. Your lawyer will demand a hearing to quash the subpoena. Oliver has already checked the docket to ensure they can schedule a hearing almost immediately. That will take place in a closed courtroom before the chief judge of the US District Court of DC. All parties will agree to that. Remember, we could have the makings of a constitutional crisis. The courts will move quickly to resolve it. I assume that’s in your newspaper’s best interest as well.”

  “This is new territory for me. I haven’t a clue what to expect.” Beck knew little about the grand jury system except that it was all done in secret.

  “Think back to the Bush-Gore presidential election debacle,” said Fahy. “The Supreme Court doesn’t want to get involved in another fiasco like that. It lost a lot of credibility with the public in that decision simply because it involved political candidates. The pressure is on the federal district court to find the facts and do it quickly before the election. That puts pressure on Oliver to come after you and me immediately. This is now a race against the clock.”

  “Jesus.” Beck shook his head. “I wish we could nail down Oliver’s connection to Bayard. We’d be set then. Our staff writer in South America got a tip that Oliver was the one who actually introduced Bayard to the Lamurr people, but he couldn’t find any of Oliver’s real estate deals in Costa Rica to tie them together.”

  “Costa Rica? Oliver doesn’t own property in Costa Rica. He’s in Tortola.”

  “What?” Beck sat stunned.

  “The Virgin Islands, not Costa Rica. Your source got it wrong. Oliver has been going to Tortola for twenty years. He goes down there every winter for three weeks. He usually goes down around Christmas and stays till after the Martin Luther King federal holiday. Whatever he owns, it’s there. That’s his Caribbean base.”

  Beck thought about it. “That makes sense. Both Grand Cayman and Tortola are British. Roger Kindred could easily help his brother with any real estate details on another British island. Shit. I’ve got to reach our correspondent and send him to Tortola.”

  “Well, you’d better be damned quick about it. Look, if you can give me anything—anything—on Oliver before the hearing, maybe I can head it off or slow it down.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “I have a personal stake in this, same as you.”

  Beck realized what strange bedfellows he and Fahy had become. Now he might have to entrust Fahy with his future. The thought scared the hell out of him.

  46

  As he slid into the bucket seat of his Volvo, Beck punched speed dial on his phone. The rain had stopped, and the sun was attempting to break through the clouds, but the chill had not dissipated. He turned up the heat in his car.

  “Shit!” Nancy said. “But we might be in luck. The last I heard Bobby was in Honduras. That should be a quick flight to the Virgin Islands. I’ll get back to you.”

  The phone went dead. Beck didn’t get to tell her about the subpoenas. He was scheduled to take the afternoon off. His editors had been urging him to cut back on his hours. Fat chance now.

  He drove north toward Old Town Alexandria against the oncoming rush hour traffic. It was just beginning its daily southern crawl out of the District. He was back at his condo in under fifteen minutes thinking about all of those government workers sitting in traffic. Beck dropped his tweed sports coat and notebook in Red’s lap and flipped on his satellite radio. Jimmy Buffett sang a song about an expat in Paris. Beck glared at Red and paced back and forth.

  “Red. This is crazy. Can they actually send me to jail for doing my job? Do I have a choice? The first commandment of journalism says I go to prison to protect my source. I become a friggin’ martyr for the profession. I make history and headlines. But I don’t want to spend months of my life in prison for some principle. That’s stupid. I don’t have a cause. I’m not political. I just enjoy chasing down dirty politicians.”

  He stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the railing, looking at the dreary sky. That fits, he thought. Nearly all of the leaves from the large pin oak—his privacy shield against the world—lay in a pile in the neighbor’s backyard.

  He heard small voices and glanced down in their direction, eyeing two children playing on a swing set in the neighbor’s backyard. A young blonde girl jumped out of her swing and rushed to dive into the heap of leaves. Every fall, he lamented the disappearance of his private world on the balcony. It affected his decisions to enjoy a cigar since he did not desire the scrutiny of neighbors. And this was Old Town where politically correct was, well, politically correct. Cigars were frowned upon as his neighbors ate their yogurt, drank their craft beers and green tea, and practiced yoga. And what about Geneva? Jeez, she’d actually have to put on some clothes.

  The thought of her naked brought a smile to his face. In many ways, they were alike. He was a private person who loved exposing public people’s hypocrisy. Geneva too was a private person imprisoned in others’ public hypocrisy. Somehow, he thought, maybe her nakedness was her way of rebelling, of cleansing herself of the slimy feel of the city.

  Was she once a young idealist who ran smack into the wall of Washington’s reality? Is that how she became a well-paid hack for a big corporation? She certainly made more than he did as a journalist. Without the royalties from his books, which provided him a comfortable financial cushion, he’d be in some shabby basement apartment near Dupont Circle like many of his colleagues.

  Maybe the murders and this lawsuit were the foundation for his wall of reality. He always thought of his profession as a moral calling. Keeping the government honest and all of that preachy stuff. But how far was he willing to go for his ethical calling? To jail? That was a bit too much reality for him.

  Nailing politicians was a game—a match of wits between good and evil. But this Bayard story was different. This was bigger than anything he had ever attempted. The ramifications were huge.

  Beck was like Geneva, a misfit in this town. Yet both of them fed off its questionable ethical energy. While they weren’t guilty of the types of crimes and hypocrisy he loved to expose, their fortunes and livelihoods depended on the continued existence of the town’s sleaze factor. It wasn’t just a living; it was their parasitic way of life.

  Neither of them, he figured, had the guts to turn their backs on it. Sit on a beach the rest of his life? Please. Not as long as he could play the game. He was not a cliche. He might last a month in the sun. He wasn’t so sure about Geneva. She could probably last a lot longer.

  He grabbed his cell phone and called Nancy again.

  “Bobby is on his way to the airport,” she said. “He’s—”

  “There’s more,” Beck interrupted. “We’re being served with subpoenas.” He walked her through his conversation with Fahy.

  “Shit,” she said. “I’ll notify reception, Baker, and Curtiss. We’ll be ready.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Hang in there, champ. These sleazeballs may have the entire weight of the government on their side to throw at us, but we’ve got the Constitution. The First Amendment is pretty powerful stuff.”

  He knew Nancy was usually good at calming him during a crisis, but her words rang hollow this time, doing little to soothe his anxiety. He’d never tread this territory before. He felt like a deer in headlights, not knowing which way to go and glaring at that oncoming big monster semi about to turn him into political roadkill.

  47

  The next day Beck examined Bobby’s e-mails. They included scans of real estate documents with Oliver’s and Kindred’s names all over them. Bobby had spent time at the tax assessor’s office in Tortola, he explained to Beck. He gleaned the government’s assessment of the current value of each piece of real estate. He then hit the dusty deed books in the local courthouse.

  “I always follow the money,” Bobby told him over the phone from the island courthouse. That made Beck laugh. It was a familiar line from an old movi
e that reporters loved to quote after a few too many at the bar.

  Beck printed out Bobby’s e-mailed scans and laid them on a conference room table so he could see everything at once. He found one rental property purchased in 1995, financed through a mortgage company, and paid off two years ago. The other houses were bought in the last four years. All were financed by Sunrise Meridian.

  But it was the final set of documents Bobby e-mailed that caught his eye: a property that was sold by and financed by Sunrise Meridian. It was owned by Jersey Shore Ltd., Bayard’s company. The documents were notarized by the paralegal in Kindred’s office. The property address was next door to Oliver’s first home.

  Beck called Nancy in and showed her the last document.

  “Finally, we’ve connected them,” he said.

  “But what does this really prove?” she asked. Nancy bit her lower lip, contemplating the array of documents on the large table before her.

  Beck took offense at her question. “It proves they both were tied to Sunrise Meridian and Lamurr.”

  “It doesn’t prove Oliver had anything to do with Bayard’s relationship with Lamurr or Sunrise Meridian. It shows only that they might have known each other as neighbors. We need more. Bobby’s going to hate me. We need to send him back to his source in Venezuela with these documents.”

  “Shit.” Beck shook his head in disgust.

  “This won’t hold up in any story. We really can’t use it.” Nancy picked up the documents in both hands and looked them over again. “It shows everything but a Bayard-Oliver direct connection. Hell, this wouldn’t even hold up in court.”

  Beck remembered what Fahy had told him. Wouldn’t it? he wondered.

  “EXCUSE ME. MS. MOORE?” A tall, balding man, probably in his mid-fifties and wearing a zip-up rain slicker, stood at the conference room door. “Ms. Moore?”

  “Yes,” Nancy turned.

  “You’ve been served.” He handed her a subpoena, just as Fahy had predicted. He then turned to Beck and shoved a piece of paper in his hand without saying a word. He then quickly stepped out of the room and walked away.

  “Nice,” said Nancy. “Reception was supposed to call me and let me know when he arrived.”

  “This has never happened to me before,” Beck said.

  “No biggie. Curtiss will handle everything. Now give me that thing. I’ll make copies for Baker and have the originals couriered to Curtiss.”

  Curtiss quickly filed a motion to have them dismissed. The subpoenas ordered Beck and the Post-Examiner to reveal to the court all of their sources for Beck’s story. It was now pretty obvious to Beck there was no way Bobby could pull together information in time for a story on Oliver before the hearing.

  And just as Fahy had predicted, the Post-Examiner was immediately granted an appeals hearing. Beck had to hand it to Fahy. He knew exactly what Oliver was up to. He was not only a Boy Scout and top Justice official, he was a political soothsayer as well.

  Maybe, Beck thought, Curtiss could get the subpoenas dismissed. But no matter what, Beck was going to have to testify in court. And if the judge refused to dismiss them and Beck then refused to reveal his source, he thought he would likely go to jail. How in the hell, he wondered, had he gotten himself in this situation just by doing his job?

  He needed to improve his odds.

  Beck combed through papers and dozens of his notebooks in his bottom desk drawer looking for the burner phone. He finally found it in the middle drawer where he remembered putting it so he would know exactly where it was.

  ‘Jesus,” he mumbled to himself. “I’m losing it. Can’t even find the fuckin’ phone.”

  Cheryl Rose, sitting at the desk in front of his, looked up from her computer screen and glared at him.

  “Sorry. Just talking to myself,” he said, and felt his face flush. Too much to think about, he told himself. Too much going on.

  He pocketed the small phone and headed for the elevator, which creaked and spewed strange sounds as it delivered him to the parking lot on the roof of the Post-Examiner. He looked around, scanning for reporters, who frequently visited this concrete oasis for a smoke and some downtime. The lot was empty except for dozens of sedans, vans, and SUVs with baby car seats and pet carriers strapped tight in the backseats. We all make lifestyle choices, thought Beck. He made the call.

  “We need to talk,” he told Fahy. “I may be able to help you.”

  BECK WAS ALREADY SEATED when Fahy arrived at the restaurant three hours later. He was at the rear table with his back to the wall in Fahy’s usual seat.

  Beck held a large manila envelope. The restaurant was nearly deserted. As usual, the owner stood behind the counter, looking busy. He was always cleaning something. Today, he appeared to pay no attention to them. He flipped on the radio, joining a salsa already in progress. They turned at the sound and glanced at the man, who gave them a faint nod and went back to his work.

  “I really shouldn’t be doing this,” Beck whispered. “If my editors find out, they’ll kill me. It could mean my job. Here’s something we dug up on Oliver that ties him to Bayard. They’re next-door neighbors, and both do business with Sunrise Meridian.”

  Beck slid the envelope across the table, and Fahy riffled through the pages, barely glancing at them. “The subpoena won’t be quashed. I can guarantee you that,” Fahy said. “I’ve already checked with court officials. The judge wants to see this through to whatever end.”

  “Can you do anything with this Oliver information?”

  Fahy looked closer at the real estate documents from Tortola. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. We’ll see.”

  “Okay, but if it gets out that I gave you info on Oliver, it’s probably my job. I need your word you won’t tell a soul where you got this.”

  “Kind of ironic, don’t you think?” Fahy said. He folded the envelope and placed it in his jacket pocket. “We both need to keep our sources a secret.”

  Beck knew this was stepping way out of bounds even for an investigative reporter who sometimes stretched his professional ethics just a little for the good of his story. Deceiving the old man in Grand Cayman who lived next door to Bayard was a white lie—nothing as serious as this. This was deceiving his bosses. But Beck wasn’t about to reveal his source to any judge. That would be breaking the honor code of his profession: never burn a source. The way he saw it, he really had no choice.

  He was the one facing jail time, not Nancy, not anyone else at the paper. Sure, they’d support him, but he could be locked in a small room like a caged bird for weeks or even months—or even worse. Could it get worse? How long would a judge lock him up? He was claustrophobic.

  Just thinking about a small space and four walls closing in scared the hell out of him.

  He realized he’d been staring down at the table in thought. It reflected decades of daily meals on cheap china, heavy chipped coffee mugs, and dull steel silverware. They were all etched into the surface of the faded Formica top. All that time, he thought. All those meals. The owner behind the counter trapped in this small, shabby restaurant every day—the same thing every single day. He understood that monotonous daily repetition could soon be his future. He felt trapped.

  Fahy interrupted his wandering mind. “What a dilemma. Your job or you go to jail. Glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  Beck looked up as Fahy spoke. He felt like Fahy had somehow turned the tables on him. Up until now, Fahy was beholden to him to keep his secret. Now it seemed the other way around. Whether Beck liked it or not, they now had a mutual bond of codependence. Beck suddenly felt he had fumbled the ball. Maybe he shouldn’t have given Fahy the information on the ties between Bayard and Oliver. But it was too late now. He couldn’t undo what he had just done.

  48

  Not wanting to get scooped on its own involvement in the news, Baker ordered a page-one story covering the government’s attempt to reveal Beck’s source. Courts reporter Steve Giegerich quoted Publisher Kath-erine Cunningham’s s
tilted official statement in his story: “When the government goes after the sources of stories whose veracity has never been challenged, it chips away at the foundation of democracy and every American’s right to an open and honest government.”

  Beck thought it sounded a bit pious. But it was Baker’s choice. He wrote it. Cunningham signed off, and Giegerich quoted it verbatim. In the tenth paragraph, Curtiss spouted something about setting a bad legal precedent. It sounded all high and mighty to Beck, the type of prose the press loves to hype in any challenge to the First Amendment.

  When the Boy-Scout-in-chief of the public integrity division first leaked the story, Beck thought Fahy was the only one taking a risk. Now he understood otherwise. Beck knew all too well that, while the federal government couldn’t attack the accuracy of his story, it could legally compel him to reveal his source. None of this, of course, made any sense. What good would it do to find out the story’s source if the facts were still true? Welcome to Washington’s political playhouse, he told himself.

  There was no federal shield law for reporters—and not a lot of sympathy for pushy ones like Beck. Many had gone to jail for less. He thought of the New York Times reporter who spent a hot summer in the Alexandria city jail for refusing to reveal her source after a CIA agent was outed by a previous administration. He could end up like her. He wasn’t in a strong position to argue with public opinion at the moment, especially since Bayard’s running mate, Ford Patten, was leading in the public opinion polls.

  When the subpoena story hit the important front stoops, sidewalks, and ambitions of Washington, cable television audiences across the nation heard and saw the swelling chests of American journalism. Beck tuned in to watch the early morning newscasts and coffee-addled talkathons. Disheveled First Amendment scholars from local universities were awakened from their intellectual slumber to make their ninety-second disoriented comments.