The Washington Lawyer

by Allan Topol

  He had developed a close relationship with Yao Xiao when Yao was engaged in an intense battle to succeed Xi Jinping as Supreme Leader. At the time, Liu was deputy director of MSS. In return for Yao’s promise to promote him to MSS director, Liu surreptitiously forwarded to Yao damaging information about the two other possible choices. Liu had no doubt that information about the corruption of one and the sexual proclivities of the other destroyed their chances.

  Thanks in large part to Liu, Yao had gotten the prize: president of the People’s Republic of China, the Supreme Leader. Foreigners rarely understood how powerful that position was in the world’s most populous country. It was Mao Zedong who established the almost unlimited authority of the office. His successors, Deng Xiaoping, Jiang Zemin, Hu Jinto, and Xi Jinping brought their own personalities and styles to the position, but all followed the autocratic approach of Mao to a great extent.

  As a reward, Liu had expected Yao to elevate him to director of the MSS as soon as Yao assumed the presidency two years ago.

  But that hadn’t happened until five months ago, and Liu was concerned that Yao would never have done it if Liu had not greatly benefited from his secret relationship with Andrei Mikhailovich, his Russian partner who had given him a great deal of his information.

  During the year and a half Liu waited for the promotion, he fumed at the ungrateful Yao, who had to know that Liu’s boss, the existing director, was incompetent. But that period of waiting taught Liu a bitter lesson: Yao couldn’t be trusted to keep his word. He also observed Yao turning on other former backers. The man had some of Mao’s qualities. Even after Liu was promoted to director of MSS, Liu had to be careful to avoid having Yao turn on him.

  * * *

  Yao was alone, seated behind a large red leather topped desk in his ornate office. He didn’t come forward or even rise when Liu walked into the cavernous office. Instead, he motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk.

  As he sat down, Liu was struck by the fact that the sixty-three-year-old Yao had aged perceptibly in the two years he had been in the president’s job. He had creases in his face, bags under his eyes, and a sallow look. The pressure of the office was getting to him.

  The desk was empty except for a bound document which Liu recognized as the top secret summary of the documents Xiang had obtained from Senator Jasper, which Liu had personally prepared for Yao—and only Yao.

  The president pointed to the document. “In your summary, you have powerful and sensitive information about American military actions, including their development of a new generation of long-range missiles and their commitment to aid Japan in the event we attack over islands in the East China Sea. How accurate is that information?”

  “Extremely. I prepared it from copies of American internal documents.”

  “Are you certain they were true documents? Not misinformation? The CIA is experienced at doing that.”

  “Quite certain.”

  “What’s your source?”

  Liu had an intelligence agent’s reluctance to disclose a source, but Yao was the Supreme Leader. And he was now staring hard at Liu. Refusal to respond was not an option.

  “US Senator Wesley Jasper from Colorado. He’s the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He has been supplying the documents to my agent in Washington. I’ve code named it Operation Trojan Horse.”

  “Your agent recruited Jasper?”

  “No. I did. At a meeting in Tokyo in July.”

  Liu expected a compliment, but deadpan Yao continued his interrogation. “How did you turn Jasper?”

  “With money.” Liu hoped Yao wouldn’t ask him how much. The expenditures were enormous, but so were the rewards.

  Yao didn’t follow up. Instead he told Liu, “One of the documents you summarized refers to a ‘Five-Year Plan for Asia and Pacific Deployment’ being finalized now by the Pentagon.”

  “Correct.”

  “I want that five-year plan. Get it for me from Jasper.”

  “I’m not sure it’s been completed.”

  “Then, as soon as it is. I must have that document.”

  Yao’s eyes were boring in on Liu. The normally unflappable spymaster felt uncomfortable.

  Leaving the office, Liu decided to call Xiang in Washington and order him to fly to Beijing. A face to face meeting would be better to impress upon Xiang the importance of getting the plan from Jasper.

  Washington

  For Martin, the last several hours passed like an eternity. Finally, it was time to leave for the White House. First, he stopped in the men’s room, where he straightened the collar of his red and blue striped shirt with a matching silk tie, concentric blue circles against a red background. He looked damn good, he decided. But he had to give Francis credit.

  Coming into their marriage, he refused to spend a cent more than necessary for clothes. He remembered growing up, before his mother contracted polio, her taking him to Pittsburgh to Joseph Hornes and buying him his first suit when he was twelve. He recalled her waiting until the final reductions on the end of the season sales. He knew money was tight, but he’d felt sorry when she showed the salesman a defect, convincing him to knock it down another twenty percent.

  That was the way he always shopped until Francis dragged him kicking and screaming into Neiman’s to buy an Italian suit. It cost more than a couple months of his initial salary at the firm where he began his career and where he spent several years before leaving to open his own firm with Glass. Now he wore expensive suits, shirts, and ties, but he still felt guilty spending a lot of money for them.

  Riding down in the elevator, he thought: suppose someone had asked, “What would you give to be chief justice?” He would have answered, “Just about anything.”

  Martin decided to walk. He liked having his office building so close to the centers of power. This was a major factor, he recalled, in his decision to select this new building in the 800 block of Pennsylvania Avenue when they’d outgrown their prior space. The location with Martin & Glass plastered in large black letters across the front had to make an impact on clients. And it probably helped bring in the best lawyers.

  Walking west along Pennsylvania, as he stopped for a red light, he thought about how the firm had grown in the twenty-eight years since he and Fred Glass had opened up near DuPont Circle. Now there were five hundred and twenty lawyers, two hundred and seventy here in Washington. They had offices in New York, Los Angeles, London, Paris, and Beijing. The firm was strong—almost an institution. It was sure to survive and thrive, even if Martin left and became chief justice.

  The light changed. He stepped off the curb and winced. Damn left knee had been hurting for the last month. How much longer could he put off that surgery? He knew the cause: too much pounding in youthful basketball, followed by decades of jogging, skiing, and tennis. And he knew the solution was to replace the knee. But those operations never went as easily as the orthopods said. And, never mind their promises, you weren’t really as good as new. So he took pain killers from time to time, iced it after sports, hobbled when it bothered him, and hoped it would magically go away.

  He stopped at the guardhouse next to the opening in the black wrought iron fence separating the White House grounds from Pennsylvania Avenue. One of the soldiers inspected his driver’s license, checked it against a list of visitors on a clipboard, and waved him through.

  At the end of a twenty-yard walkway, he entered the west wing. In the entrance foyer were four armed guards. Again, his driver’s license was examined, his face checked against the photo. Then he was passed through a metal detector.

  “Follow me,” an escort said. Fourth door on the right, Martin remembered. The last of a series of small offices off the navy blue carpeted corridor. It astonished him that the White House Counsel had an office the size of an associate at Martin and Glass. Washington, Martin thought. Office size doesn’t matter. It’s all accessibility. Arthur’s office was only a few yards from the oval office. No one’s closer to the pr
esident. Next to Arthur’s office was another room. The president’s “other office,” Arthur called it. “Braddock’s hideaway to escape for private time.”

  Martin walked through an open door. “Hi, Mr. Martin,” Arthur’s longtime secretary, Helen, said with a smile. She pointed to the closed door across the room. “He should be with you in a couple minutes.”

  “How’s your daughter like Cornell?”

  Helen groaned. “That’s the trouble, she likes it too much. All I hear about are the boys.” Helen paused to push back strands of long brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Sorry, I’m supposed to call them men. That and the parties. Not her classes or grades. Over Thanksgiving I intend to shape her up.”

  Martin thought about his daughters’ freshmen years. Karen at Yale was nose to the grindstone without a word from him or Francis. Lucy’s first year at Northwestern sounded like Helen’s daughter. Tri Delt was all they heard about. He’d been amused and sympathetic, he recalled. But Francis also lowered the boom during Thanksgiving break. “If she were a boy, you wouldn’t have cut her any slack,” Francis had said.

  Helen added sternly, “It’s a rough world now, and you get only one chance.”

  Moments later, she led him into Arthur’s office. Martin saw the White House Counsel sitting behind his desk looking his usual disheveled self. He was five foot six with a pear shape and thin gray hair ruffled and out of place from constantly running his hand through it. He had a tie loose around his neck. A couple of spots of food on his suit jacket. Gut protruding over the top of his pants with suspenders holding them up. It always amazed Martin that Arthur was such a good tennis player.

  The office had space only for an L-shaped desk and chair with a small table behind it for a computer as well as a coffee pot. There were two wooden chairs for guests.

  Martin didn’t expect an opening greeting. Arthur never bothered with those. He sat down in his desk chair and pointed Andrew to one of the others. The eyes of the perpetually wired New Yorker were darting around the room. Then they zeroed in on Martin.

  “Last Thursday, Chief Justice West came to see the president. The doctors give him a month to live. Two at most. He’s ready to step down as soon as we select a replacement.” Arthur paused. “It’s too bad, but that’s his situation.”

  Martin held his breath, eager to hear what was next.

  “This’ll be Braddock’s first Supreme Court appointment. He wants to change the way the game’s played.” Arthur was shooting the words out in rapid fire. “He hates the idea that the nominee’s views on issues like abortion have become a litmus test. Braddock wants to go back to the way it used to be, before all this bullshit started. When the president found the best lawyer or jurist in the country. Somebody honorable with integrity and high moral standards—a Holmes, Brandeis, or Cardoza.”

  Arthur stopped, letting his words sink in. “Personally, I think he’s naive and idealizing the past. I’ve told him that, but he’s the boss.”

  “I’m all for it. I applaud the effort.”

  “I figured you would.”

  Arthur pivoted in his chair and reached for a mug. “Can I get you a cup?”

  This guy does not need caffeine, Martin thought.

  “Sure.”

  Arthur poured two cups and placed one in front of Martin. The cherry wood desk top, Martin noticed, was already stained with the outlines of numerous other cups.

  Arthur paused to sip his coffee, making Martin wait. “I want to put you on the short list for chief justice.”

  Well, here it was. He felt thrilled. “I’d be honored.”

  Arthur tapped his fingers on the desk. “You answered so quickly. Have you thought about it?”

  “Yes. Ever since I clerked for Hall.”

  “Good. Let’s talk about the selection process. One thing you have going for you is that you’re a very fine tennis player. ” Arthur flashed a smile. His effort at levity, Martin thought.

  “Being serious, I have enormous respect for you as a lawyer. You have one of the country’s great legal minds. I know that from our New York litigation. And you were brilliant last year persuading the court to require a recount in the Ohio senatorial election.”

  “Coming from you, those are real compliments.”

  “I mean them. And I’m amazed that you’ve argued in the Supreme Court forty-eight times and won thirty-nine of them. Phenomenal, given that so many of those arguments were against the United States, and they usually win. So in terms of legal ability, we don’t have an issue. For Braddock, personal character will be the other decisive factor. We’ll have to turn the FBI inquisitors loose. Your whole life goes under a microscope. Can you deal with that?”

  Arthur was looking right at Martin, who thought about Jasper’s call last evening, and the action Martin had taken. Still, he didn’t flinch. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Arthur sounded skeptical and slumped back in his chair. He locked his hands in front of his chest and closed his eyes. It was a tactic Martin remembered Arthur using at depositions. Lulling a witness into over confidence. Then pouncing.

  “I do. No personal issues that would be embarrassing.”

  Arthur’s right eye was twitching. That only began, Martin noticed, when Arthur became White House Counsel. Proof, Martin thought, that the Washington pressure cooker topped the stress level in New York. Here, even at tennis, Arthur kept that beeper hooked up to his shorts. “The president has to be able to reach me twenty-four and seven.” At first Martin had thought Arthur wanted to show off his importance. Later he realized it went with the job.

  Arthur shot forward and leaned over the desk. “Don’t crap around with me. Everybody has something. Tell me the worst now. I don’t want to be surprised later on. What about the judge you gave a bottle of scotch to as a Christmas present before he decided a case your way?”

  Martin thought again about Jasper’s call last night and his call to Gorton. That was precisely what Arthur had in mind. If it ever became public, it would destroy his chances of becoming chief justice. And Arthur would be furious at him for not mentioning it now. But how could he? He’d be eliminated immediately. He had to take a chance it wouldn’t come out.

  “Sorry to disappoint. You can lay out my whole life.”

  “They all say that in the beginning.”

  “This time it’s true.”

  Arthur snarled. “Could there be one virgin in the realm?” His tone was cynical. We may be tennis buddies, Martin thought, but for Arthur this was all business.

  “I don’t know about the virgin part.”

  “How about one truly virtuous man?”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “If something comes out, President Braddock won’t swing with you. We got killed two years ago over the Marian Lawlor appointment to DOD. Sticking with her for a long fucking miserable week after we received info about her ties to Winston Defense Industries. That’ll never happen again. We’ll cut and run. Throw you to the wolves at the hint of trouble. I mean something of substance that tarnishes you, not smoke that somebody blows your way. We’ll hand you a shovel and tell you to dig your own grave. We’ll be so far away that you won’t even remember what we look like. Those are the ground rules. You better understand them.”

  Arthur’s words didn’t surprise Martin. As governor of New York, Braddock had acquired the nickname of Pragmatic Philip. Some said he was dull. He refused to take chances, playing it safe. He had emerged as his party’s candidate as a compromise between two ideologues and was elected in large part by his promise to end the bitterness in America. “Let’s have a period of calm.” Preferring charismatic leaders who tried to lead with a bold vision, Martin had never been a big fan of Braddock’s, but he didn’t share his views with Arthur.

  “Now let’s talk about specific areas.”

  Arthur picked up a pen and pulled over a pad. Martin saw extensive notes on the first page.

  Arthur glanced down at t
he pad. “You must have had some complaints filed against you with bar committees. Let’s start with those.”

  Martin tried to think. “About twenty years ago I took a death penalty case, on appeal, pro bono for Roosevelt Taylor. It was down in Texas. I gave it a good shot, but lost two to one in the court of appeals. The Supreme Court refused to take the case. Taylor filed a complaint with the bar accusing me of malpractice.”

  Arthur smiled. “No good deed goes unpunished. So what happened?”

  “They tossed it out.”

  “I don’t care about shit like that. Anything real?”

  Martin shook his head.

  “What about clients you represented that would be embarrassing?”

  Martin thought about it for a minute and said, “Nothing.”

  “Which foreign governments do you represent?”

  “France, China, Brazil, and Australia. All longtime clients. I don’t see any problems there. I’m a Washington lawyer.”

  “What about health issues? Anything that would affect your ability to do the job?”

  “Hey, you can’t be serious. You’ve seen me running around a tennis court for hours. I’m still going strong when you’re ready to collapse.”

  “Okay, let’s move on. People in this town usually get in trouble because of sex, money, or power. Let’s talk about those.”

  Martin gripped the arms of his chair. He’d have to submit to this—grin and bear it. He took the initiative. “My sex life has been boring. I’ve been married once. We still are after thirty-five years. I’ve been monogamous.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “No affairs?”

  “No.”

  “Not even with one of those women on the tennis team at Kenwood who are always chatting you up? ‘Oh hi, Andrew,’” he cooed.

  “No.”

  “Somebody you met at a bar or on a business trip?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about prostitutes?”

  “Never.”

  “Gay relationships?”

  Martin scowled. “C’mon.”