by Stuart Woods
Will shrugged. “Okay, the rest of the country will like him better as they get to know him, see him on more Sunday morning shows and in campaign appearances.”
“He’s doing Meet the Press this Sunday,” Moss said. “I hope you’re right.” He shuffled some papers. “But there’s something else.”
Will looked at Moss closely. “What’s the problem?”
“You took a hit on the A-bomb explosion in Pakistan: down four points nationally.”
“I don’t understand. I didn’t explode the bomb, the Pakistanis did.”
“As I said, I haven’t had time to analyze all the data yet, but it seems that four percent of Americans somehow hold you responsible, at least in part, for the incident.”
“That’s nuts,” Will said.
“Yes, it is, but that’s how they feel.”
“Four percent of all Americans feel I’m partly responsible for a nuclear explosion halfway around the world?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“So after the convention and the arrival of Marty Stanton in the campaign, I’m down four points net?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s depressing,” Will said. “Any indication of how they think I’m partly responsible?”
“No, sir. This is raw data.”
“So a chunk of the American people think the president is omnipotent and feel he should be able to stop bad things from happening before they happen?”
Moss shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s there.”
“In a tight race, four percentage points could cost me the election.”
“Fortunately, you’re not in a tight race. The Republicans are voting at their convention tonight, so tomorrow we’ll know who their candidate is, and we can do a head-to-head comparative poll. That will tell us better where we stand.”
“Okay. Let me know what that poll says.”
There was a knock at the door, and Kitty Conroy stuck her head in. “Got a minute, boss?”
“Sure. Come in. Anything else, Moss?”
Moss shook his head and left.
“What’s up, Kitty.”
“They’ve put Charlene Joiner at the head table for your speech tomorrow night.”
Will felt a flash of annoyance. This went back years. He had represented the woman’s boyfriend at his trial for the rape and murder of a black woman in his home county seat, and the boyfriend had been convicted and sentenced to death. Charlene was a knockout blonde, and he had, before he was married, slept with her on one occasion, and she had managed to parlay the press reports of that incident into instant fame and a career as an actress. She had also turned out to be a very good actress and had built a huge career, winning an Academy Award, while maintaining her place as America’s foremost sex symbol.
Charlene had also conducted a campaign to get the boyfriend’s death sentence set aside, badgering Will for a presidential pardon, and, incredibly, she had succeeded, apparently by seducing the governor of Georgia, who had commuted his sentence to life. And every time Will turned up in California, she had been there, finding a way to be at his side for a photo op.
“My very clear instructions to the committee,” Will said, “were that Charlene would not be seated anywhere near me. Did someone not get that message?”
“They did, but this morning, Charlene made a million-dollar contribution to the Democratic National Committee.”
“A million dollars?”
“It’s not unprecedented, but it happens rarely enough that they don’t want to make her angry by seating her somewhere else. The contribution is already on the AP wire, and it will be all over tomorrow morning’s papers. If she’s seated anywhere but on the dais, it will ignite a story that will make headlines for a week.”
“Then cancel the dinner,” Will said petulantly.
“Will, come on. She’s nailed us on this one, and there’s nothing we can do about it without making things infinitely worse.”
“All right, then, tell them I want her as far as possible from me at the head table. And I mean that!”
Kitty sighed. “There’s more: Charlene wants to present the million-dollar check to you before you speak, and she wants to say a few words.”
“This is insane,” Will said. “I can’t accept the check-it’s against the campaign funding laws.”
“Not if it’s made out to the Democratic National Committee. After all, you’re the head of the party.”
“Kitty, are you telling me that I can’t stop this from happening?”
“Not without causing a huge rumpus in the press.”
“Then tell the Secret Service to shoot her.”
“Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard yet,” Kitty said, “but I don’t think I can talk them into it.”
“I want that head table packed with people who are more important than Charlene is,” Will said, “and I want all of them between her and me.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kitty said.
“And if you can’t get this done, you’re going to have to shoot her.”
Kitty beat a hasty retreat.
20
Martin Stanton checked himself in the men’s room mirror one last time. His suit was perfectly pressed, his necktie centered, his graying hair neatly combed.
“Time to go, Governor,” his lawyer said.
They walked from the men’s room out into the hallway, where they were joined by two Secret Service agents, then down the hall and into the grand Senate hearing room. Flashbulbs did not pop, since no photographer had used flashbulbs for decades, but the dull whomp of strobes firing filled the room, raising the light level to a point where a blind man could read the fine print.
Stanton, followed by his lawyer, strode down the center aisle, and stopped before sitting down. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.
“Good morning, Governor Stanton,” the chairman replied. “The clerk will administer the oath.”
Stanton raised his right hand and chanted the words, then took a seat, his lawyer beside him.
“And good morning, Mr. Roberts,” the chairman said to the lawyer. “I trust your presence here will be superfluous.”
“As do I, Mr. Chairman,” Jacob Friedman said smoothly. “Good morning.”
“Governor,” the chairman said, “I take pleasure in welcoming you to the Senate this morning, as I am sure do all the members of the committee. I understand that you have an opening statement; please proceed.”
Stanton took the statement from his pocket and laid it on the table before him, though he was sure he would not need to refer to it. He began to speak, fixing a small smile on his face, and as he did, something behind the row of senators moved, catching his eye. Stanton relied on his peripheral vision to watch an aide rush from a door behind the senators to the side of the junior senator from Arizona, a famously right-wing Republican, and hand him a small black box and some earphones. The man put on the earphones and listened, and he appeared to enjoy what he heard.
Stanton did not miss a beat, and he did not refer to his written statement. He finished and sat waiting.
“I have a few questions,” the chairman said, “and then we will take turns to question the witness.” The chairman’s questions were benign, not to say bland, and they offered Stanton the opportunity to make a few free points. The chairman then said, “The junior senator from Arizona, Mr. Melfi.”
Melfi smiled broadly, perhaps too much for the subject of his questioning. “Governor, I once heard you tell the story of your birth, and I wonder if you would relate it once more for the benefit of us all?”
“Of course, Senator,” Stanton said, and he launched into the tale he had told at a thousand political meetings and dinner parties. When he had finished, he waited for the next question.
“Mr. Chairman,” Melfi said, “I apologize for this departure from procedure, but it was brought to my attention only moments ago that a witness has come forward with information highly pertine
nt to my questioning of the governor. I request the opportunity for the committee to hear this witness now, before we continue with the governor.”
“Mr. Melfi,” the chairman said, “this is highly irregular. I am sure you know that witnesses must be vetted by staff before appearing before the committee.”
“And the witness has been vetted by staff,” Melfi replied. “They completed their process only four or five minutes ago. I assure the chairman that this will take only a very few minutes, and, as I said, his testimony is highly pertinent.”
A staffer came over, handed the chairman a sheet of paper, and whispered something in his ear. The chairman asked a brief question, then turned back to Stanton. “Governor, I apologize for this interruption, but I think we should hear this witness.”
“Of course, Mr. Chairman,” Stanton replied. “Please call him.”
The chairman consulted the sheet of paper in his hand. “The committee calls Mr. Marvin Sheedy.”
Stanton turned and looked up the aisle to see a small, elderly man using a cane walk slowly forward to be sworn. He took a seat at the other table, next to where Stanton sat.
“Mr. Sheedy,” Senator Melfi began, “would you state your full name and address for the record?”
Sheedy cleared his throat and leaned into the microphone. “Marvin Ellis Sheedy, 101 Sun Terrace, Phoenix, Arizona.”
“And what is your occupation, Mr. Sheedy?” the senator asked.
“I retired fifteen years ago from the United States Border Patrol,” Sheedy replied, “after thirty-five years of service.”
“Mr. Sheedy, do you recall where you were on January 9, 1958?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Sheedy replied. “I was on duty at the border station between Tijuana, Mexico, and San Diego, California. I remember, because that was my first day on the job.”
“I see. Mr. Sheedy, was that day memorable for any other reason, besides its being your first day in the Border Patrol?”
“Well, yes, sir, it was.”
“Can you tell us why?”
“Well, it was a little before nine o’clock in the morning. I had been on duty only since eight o’clock, when this Cadillac car came racing up to the border station-it cut off another car-and screeched to a halt right in front of me.”
“Can you describe the car?” Melfi asked.
“It was a four-door, real new, painted yellow, with a black fabric top. I was told later that it belonged to a Mr. Stanton, who crossed the border often and was well known to several of the officers.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, there was a man and a woman in the backseat, and she was lying down. The man in the back yelled something at the driver, then both of them got out of the car and changed places. When they did, I saw the lady was having a baby.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, the fellow in the backseat with the lady held it up and slapped it, and it started crying.”
“And what did you do?”
“I yelled at the driver to get the hell out of there. I guessed he was going to a hospital, you see. The driver, who I later found out was Mr. Stanton, stomped on the gas and got the hell out of there.”
“And you’re sure, Mr. Sheedy, that while the car was stopped at your station, the baby was born?”
“Oh, yessir,” Sheedy said. “That was the first time, before or since, I saw a baby born.”
“Mr. Sheedy,” Senator Melfi said, “where, precisely, was your station located?”
“My station was about fifty yards south of the border. You see, we were located there, so in case we found somebody trying to cross the border illegally, we could stop him before he entered the United States.”
“You’re certain about the location?”
“Oh, yes sir,” Sheedy said.
“Mr. Chairman,” Melfi said, “that concludes my questioning of the witness. I would like to point out that his testimony affirms that Governor Stanton is not a native-born American citizen, as the rules of the Immigration Service define that status, and so, because of that and other circumstances in Governor Stanton’s father’s life, he is not eligible to serve as vice president of the United States of America.”
All hell broke loose in the hearing room.
21
Will Lee was sitting up in bed in the presidential suite of the hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles when his phone rang. It was six forty-five a.m. He picked it up. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast, Mr. President,” Kitty Conroy said, “but there’s been something of a bombshell in Governor Stanton’s confirmation hearing.” She related the events of a few minutes before.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Will demanded.
“Right out of left field, sir. Apparently Senator Melfi has been doing some digging.”
“You get on the phone to Bob Kinney. His people have already checked out Marty’s story, and they have the testimony of the man who delivered Marty in the car. Get moving!”
“Yes, sir,” Kitty replied and hung up. She went to her laptop, found Bob Kinney’s direct line, and called it.
***
The Senate Committee reconvened after a lunch break, and Jacob Friedman, Stanton’s attorney, rose. “Mr. Chairman, since Governor Stanton was pretty young at the time of the events described by Mr. Sheedy, I would like to call a rebuttal witness on the events of January 9, 1958.”
“You may do so, Mr. Friedman,” the chairman replied.
“I call Special Agent Shelly Bach of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Friedman said.
There was a stir in the audience and many strobes firing as the tall blonde agent walked purposefully down the aisle and stopped to be sworn. Then she sat down where Mr. Sheedy had sat.
“Good morning, Special Agent Bach,” Friedman said, rising.
“Good morning, sir, and Mr. Chairman,” Shelly replied with a fetching smile.
“A little background first, please,” Friedman said. “How long have you been an agent of the FBI?”
“For seven years,” Shelly replied. “I was recruited out of Yale Law School.”
“And what are your current duties?”
“I’m assigned to the office of Assistant Director Kerry Smith for general duties in the Washington, D.C., area.”
“And what was your most recent assignment?”
“I was assigned to the background check of Governor Martin Stanton after the president selected him. This is a routine examination of persons appointed to high office in the government.”
“And what did your review of Governor Stanton’s background reveal?”
“Nothing of a derogatory nature, but the full report could be released only by the director of the FBI.”
“Let me be specific: Did your investigation reveal the birthplace of Governor Stanton?”
“Yes. Governor Stanton was born between the United States border and Women’s Hospital in San Diego, California.”
“And how did you learn this?”
“First from Governor Stanton’s own account of his birth, as related to him by family members and a staffer.”
“And how did you substantiate this account?”
“At the direction of Director Kinney, Assistant Director Smith and I traveled to Mexico, where we interviewed Mr. Pedro Martнnez, who was an employee of Martin Stanton, Senior, and who actually delivered the baby who is Martin Stanton, Junior, while the elder Mr. Stanton drove the car.”
“Did you find the account of Mr. Martнnez convincing?” Friedman asked.
“Yes. He confirmed every detail of the story Governor Stanton had told us and in a most convincing manner.”
“So we have an accurate account of events from the only person still living who knows every detail of that morning’s events?”
“That is correct.”
“And as a result of your investigation, you have determined beyond any doubt that Governor Stanton was born on United States soil?”
“
Yes, sir. That is correct.”
“I’ve no further questions at this time, Mr. Chairman,” Friedman said, then sat down.
The chairman turned toward Melfi. “Does the junior senator from Arizona have any questions for this witness?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman, just one or two.” Senator Melfi leaned into his microphone. “Special Agent Bach,” he said, “are you aware of the testimony given this morning by retired Border Patrol Agent Martin Sheedy as to the actual birthplace of Governor Stanton?”
“Yes, sir, I have read the transcript.”
“And that is from direct testimony before this committee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your testimony is secondhand, isn’t it? This Mr. Martнnez has not appeared here today.”
“That is correct.” Melfi smiled and took a deep breath. “But,” she said, interrupting him, “I have a tape recording of the interview that we conducted with Mr. Martнnez three days ago, and I would be happy to play it for you.”
“Please do so, Special Agent Bach,” the chairman said, before Melfi could react.
Shelly removed a CD from her briefcase and handed it to a committee staffer, who inserted it into a machine and pressed a button. The voices were clear, as Pedro Martнnez told his story.
When the recording had ended, Shelly said, “Mr. Chairman, I spoke with Mr. Martнnez by phone this morning, and he has expressed his willingness to come to Washington and repeat his story in person should the committee ask him.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the chairman responded.
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Melfi cut in, “I have another question or two for Ms. Bach.”
“Proceed.”
“Special Agent Bach, you have told us of the investigation of Mr. Martнnez’s story, but have you also investigated the story of the retired Border Patrol agent, Mr. Sheedy?”
“Since we heard of Mr. Sheedy’s account of events only this morning,” Shelly said, “we have not had time to fully investigate his assertions.” Melfi was smiling again. “Except,” Shelly said, “that I spoke to the gentleman who was Mr. Sheedy’s commanding officer at the time, Mr. Ronald Wicks, who is now retired and living in San Diego. He told me that when Mr. Sheedy was in training, in December 1957, his account of the position of the U.S. Border Control Station in Mexico was accurate. However, he also told me that on January 1, 1958, both the Mexican and American Border Patrol stations were moved onto their respective soils, and that the U.S. station was several yards inside the United States. Mr. Sheedy’s first day on duty at the border was eight days later, and apparently, he was not aware of the change.”
