Connors pulled a Don Lino Havana Reserve cigar from the humidor on his desk and examined it. “They say there’s Cuban tobacco in these,” he said, “but don’t you believe it. If there was, you wouldn’t catch me smoking it.”
Mackral had heard the denial before. He didn’t care whether banned Cuban tobacco was in the rope his boss smoked or not. That the company making them claimed the tobacco was one hundred percent Honduran, and that the wrappers were from Connecticut, was good enough. What did it matter?
Connors lit the cigar with care, making sure the lighter’s flame didn’t touch the cigar’s end. There was a time early in his political career when he smoked in public. But as his Southern California constituents led the way in the antismoking crusade—anti-everything and anything pleasurable, Connors thought—he adjusted his public posture: no smoking in public; a daily jog, especially if there was a camera to record it; plenty of pasta, vegetables, fruit, and chicken with its skin removed; and an attempt to change his approach from square-cut gray and blue suits to an occasional tan number, blue blazers over chino slacks when he felt it appropriate, and even open-neck shirts for selected photo ops.
Dennis Mackral, on the other hand, had found it necessary to become a little less Southern California when first coming aboard as Connors’s COS, chief of staff. A year shy of forty, he’d arrived in Washington a dozen years ago as administrative assistant (same job as a COS, different title) to a California representative, a first-termer whose previous career had been in the movies. But his freshman boss was no Ronald Reagan. His being sent to Washington to represent his conservative district was considered an electoral aberration, and he was soundly defeated after one term by a conservative Republican woman, a breeder of show dogs, who convinced voters in overwhelming numbers to reject what she repeatedly called “Hollywood hedonism,” which most voters didn’t fully understand, but knew it sounded bad.
Mackral decided to stay in Washington after his boss packed up and headed west. He changed his California style to better conform with dark-suit D.C., although his natural coppery tan, gelled dirty-blond hair, and laid-back, beachy heritage betrayed his origins. At first, he was viewed as nothing more than a displaced Californian who’d come to town with a loser. But there was a substantive side of Dennis Mackral that eventually became known to staffers on the Hill with whom he became friends. He was hired by a House member as press secretary, was promoted to AA six months later, then joined Senator Connors’s team as deputy chief of staff. Others on the staff were surprised to see the gruff, hard-nosed senator take to the boyishly handsome Mackral, increasingly relying on him to handle important legislative assignments. When the COS resigned, Connors tapped Mackral to replace him. As skeptical as other staff members had been of Mackral, they soon had to agree that he was up to the demands of being chief aide to one of the Senate’s most powerful members.
“You hear from Stassi?” Connors asked from behind a sheaf of papers.
“We’re set to meet at six.”
“Where?”
“Judiciary conference room.”
“We bringing this Perrone with us?”
“No. He’s strictly unofficial, on assignment for Morris and Kellerman. Anything he comes up with is through them.”
“Then why is he here?”
“I wanted you to meet him. Know what you’re paying for.”
“What I’m paying him? I thought he was getting private money.”
“He is. The Yucca Valley fund. Still—”
“Bring him in,” Connors said.
Perrone was even bigger than he’d appeared while seated. He wore an ill-fitting brown suit, green shirt, and yellow tie, and carried a tan raincoat over his arm.
“Say hello to Senator Frank Connors,” Mackral said. They shook hands. “Have a seat,” Mackral said, indicating a chair in front of the desk.
“Well, now, Mr. Perrone,” Connor said from his leather chair, “Dennis says you might have uncovered some information to share with us.”
Perrone shifted in his chair; his eyes were in constant motion, glancing left, right, lighting on Connors, then resuming movement again. He looked up at Mackral, who leaned against a wall, arms crossed, head cocked.
“Well, Mr. Perrone?” Connors said.
“No offense,” Perrone said, “but Kellerman never did tell me what I’m being paid.”
Connors looked to Mackral for the answer. The AA said, “Because you’re not staff, Mr. Perrone—because you’re not officially investigating Congressman Latham—it takes some time to set up the pay. But I assure you—”
Connors said, “Dennis told me a little about the direction your investigation is taking, Mr. Perrone. I’m interested. It’s important to the country and the American people that such information be made public. I’m sure your fee will be worked out to your satisfaction. You have my word on that.”
Perrone, relaxed in his chair, one leg slung over the other, a crooked, satisfied smile on his inelegantly handsome face, shifted position, leaned forward, and said, “I don’t especially trust politicians, Senator. Any politician. Nothing personal. No offense.”
Connors returned the smile: “No offense.”
“What I want is some assurance that if what I’m going after pans out—you know, supports what you want—that I get paid what it’s worth. I mean, I can just let it drop—or keep it quiet.”
“Or get paid by the other side.” Connors’s voice mirrored his impatience. “What’s your politics, Mr. Perrone?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Dennis tells me you share my views of certain things—and people.”
“If you mean I don’t like liberals, you’re right. I was a cop in this city for fourteen years. The liberals made it tough for us to do our job. Arrest a perp, he walks. Book a black, he’s out in an hour. Judges. Politicians. Yeah, I don’t like liberals.”
“That means we’ll get along just fine.” To Mackral: “Work this out with Mr. Perrone at another time. Thanks for coming in, Mr. Perrone. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Mackral motioned Perrone from the office. He walked him into the hallway and said, “Go ahead with your investigation into the allegation you say has been made. Don’t worry about money. You deliver and you’ll be paid accordingly.” He flashed Perrone a wide smile. “You can trust me, Jim. I’m not a politician. I just work for one.” He slapped the investigator on his broad back and sent him on his way.
Mackral spent the next hour preparing a position paper for the senator. Pleased with the result, he left it on Connors’s desk and exited the Russell Senate Office Building through a delivery entrance. He drove to a McDonald’s in the Adams-Morgan section of the city, where he ate a Big Mac and sipped a soft drink until the person he was to meet joined him in the booth.
“Something to eat?” Mackral asked.
“No.” Jules Harris, a freelance investigative reporter, took out a long, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook and a pen from his tan safari jacket, and laid them on the table. “What’ve you got?” he asked.
“This is strictly between us,” Mackral said. “We owe you from that piece you did on the senator.”
The reporter picked up the pen. “Shoot.”
Mackral finished the last bite of his hamburger, drank some soda, and said, sotto voce, “Latham’s confirmation is in big-time trouble.”
“I came all the way here to be told that? Warren Brazier. Right?”
“Right. But there’s more.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“How about a charge of sexual harassment?”
The reporter whistled, said, “You in a rush?”
“No.”
“I’m hungry.”
A few minutes later, a half-eaten cheeseburger in front of him, Harris said, “Proceed. My stomach’s stopped growling. Mind is fed, too. Sexual harassment? Who?”
Mackral’s hand went up. “First, an understanding. I want this out ASAP. Within a day.”
�
��Hold on,” said Harris, holding up his hand for emphasis. “What’s the rush?”
“That’s for me to know, Jules.”
“I can’t just go with this without some corroboration.”
“I’ll give it to you. But you’ve got to find an outlet within twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I can ask. We have an understanding?”
“Sure. Give it to me. Who’s making the charge?”
Molly, Melissa, John from New York, and another page from Ohio went to Georgetown that evening. They would have preferred to have burgers in one of the trendy bars—J. Paul’s, Houston’s, Martin’s, or the Grog and Tankard—but their ages precluded that. So they sat upstairs in the American Cafe and ate sandwiches and salads and drank Cokes, and talked and laughed and kidded one another. Melissa was open in her flirtation with John, although the other young male page, Peter, had also captured her attention at times.
“Aren’t you ever afraid?” Peter asked Molly after another round of Cokes had been delivered.
“Afraid of what?”
“You know, being the daughter of a famous congressman. Don’t you have security?”
Molly laughed as she stripped paper from a fresh straw and plunged the straw into her glass. “Congressmen don’t have security,” she said. “I mean, I guess some do. The Speaker, people like that. But my dad doesn’t.”
“But when he’s secretary of state, he will,” Melissa said.
“I guess he will,” Molly said.
“I guess you will,” John said.
“I hope not,” Molly said.
“It’d be fun,” Melissa said. “Havin’ all those cute Secret Service agents around.” She lightly touched John’s hand on the table. “Don’t you feel like dancin’?”
Molly looked at her watch. It was after nine. The weekday curfew for pages was ten, midnight on weekends. They’d signed a binding code of conduct, and were told any breach of it called for strict sanctions. “We have to get back,” Molly said.
Melissa made a pouty face.
“Yeah, we have to get back,” John said. “What time is the school briefing tomorrow?”
“Six forty-five,” Peter said.
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” Melissa said, “having classes start that early every day. I need my beauty sleep.”
John laughed, and waved for a check. “Better get used to it.”
He was right.
Once school started in the attic level of the Library of Congress Jefferson Building, they’d be taking five forty-minute classes, five days a week, the curriculum accredited by the Middle States Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools. Immediately following the final class of the day, they would report to the page supervisor, where the first order of business might be filing the Congressional Record from the previous day’s proceedings. After that, they’d be busy delivering correspondence and legislative material within the congressional complex, answering phones in the members’ cloakroom and delivering those messages to them on the floor, and manning a telephone bank of incoming requests for page services. They’d be expected to be on duty until five, or until the House adjourned for the day, whichever was later, many times working far into the night. And then, back to their dorm rooms to study and to get ready for the next day. Weekends were relatively free, except for alternate Saturdays, when they were expected to attend a seminar called WISP, the Washington Interdisciplinary Studies Program.
They arrived at the O’Neill Building at five minutes before ten and were met in the lobby by one of five assistants to the dorm director. She narrowed her eyes and said, “Cutting it close, aren’t you?”
Melissa made a show of looking at her watch. “It’s not ten,” she said sweetly.
“I’d suggest you plan your evenings a little better,” said the dorm monitor. With that, she disappeared, leaving Melissa, Molly, and the two male pages alone with the security guard behind the reception desk, a heavyset black man with a wide smile, who said in a deep baritone, “Better play by the rules, ladies and gentlemen. They’re taken seriously around here.”
Molly and Melissa went to their room and got ready for bed. In pajamas, they sat in their beds and read, Molly the book of rules for pages, Melissa that morning’s copy of The Washington Post.
“Look at this,” Melissa said, tossing a section of the paper to Molly in which a picture of Molly’s father with industrialist Warren Brazier appeared, taken a few months earlier when both were in Moscow on a trade mission led by Latham.
The photo illustrated an article reporting that Congressman Latham’s long-standing personal relationship with Warren Brazier was being closely scrutinized by the Senate Foreign Relations Committee as it prepared for confirmation hearings. According to the reporter, Senate minority whip Frank Connors, chairman of the committee, was especially interested in Brazier’s contributions to Latham’s campaigns over the years, and legislation Latham had sponsored in the House benefitting the California businessman.
“Do you know him?” Melissa asked.
“Mr. Brazier? Sure. He’s s-o-o-o rich. He sends me expensive birthday and Christmas gifts every year.”
“He looks sort of mean.”
“Some people say that, but he’s real nice to me and Dad and the rest of the family. We don’t see him much. He’s always traveling. Always in Russia or some other place.”
“I suppose to get that rich, you have to be tough,” Melissa said. “What’s the story about?”
“Oh, that the confirmation committee wants to find out whether my dad did anything wrong. You know, take illegal campaign funds from Mr. Brazier, that sort of thing.”
“Did he?”
“Did he what? My father? Take illegal money from Mr. Brazier? Of course not.”
“That’s good. Well, quarter a seven’s almost here. Night.”
“Good night.”
Melissa fell asleep immediately, but Molly stayed awake. For the first time, she wished her father hadn’t been nominated by President Scott. She had an idea from the beginning, of course—from the moment he announced to her that he’d accepted the nomination—that it meant intense examination of him as a politician and as a man. The family, too. Like his election campaigns back home in Northern California, but magnified a thousand percent. Everything about them would come under a microscope, especially one focused by his enemies. She heard that neighbors had been questioned by the FBI. So had the principal of Molly’s school; what he could offer was beyond her.
But as sleep slowly came, her thoughts turned more positive. It would be exciting to be the daughter of the country’s secretary of state. She didn’t know how her brother, Martin, felt about it because they hadn’t had much contact since the nomination. Her sister, Priscilla, was even more emotionally remote than Martin, living in New York where she was public relations director for a leading steamship line.
Her final thoughts were of Marge Edwards and their lunch. Would she really leave her job as her father’s appointment secretary? She hoped not. In some ways, Marge was more of a sister to her than Priscilla, and certainly a more simpatico figure in her life than Martin.
She decided to call Marge the next morning and urge her to stay with her father, at least until the confirmation process was over and Paul Latham was secretary of state. She knew her father had made enemies over the course of his career in the House of Representatives, individuals unhappy with votes he cast and legislation he championed. What he needed now were all his good, loyal friends to come forward and stand beside him. Good, loyal friends like Marge Edwards.
Paul and Ruth Latham sat side by side on a cushioned glider on a small screened porch at the rear of their Foxhall home. They were in robes and pajamas. It was after midnight. Two citronella candles cast a silent, flickering sense of peace and well-being over the small space. A neighbor’s TV, played too loud, had annoyed them a half hour ago. Now, with the neighbor in bed, the chirping of crickets and the dr
one of cicadas were the only sounds from beyond the screens. Fireflies in the yard provided their miniature fireworks display.
“I still wish she’d decided to live here,” Ruth said.
“I can understand why she wants the dorm,” he said.
“I can, too. But I get nervous when I think about her on her own for the first time. Capitol Hill isn’t the safest part of town.”
Latham smiled and patted his wife’s hand. “She’ll be fine. Security at the dorm and school is heavy. Besides, if she had to get up here in time to make her six forty-five class, there’d be war in the house.”
Ruth laughed softly. “Speaking of wars, Martin’s due tomorrow.”
“I know. I hope the chip has fallen off his shoulder.”
“That’s funny. The chip. He’s knee-deep in wood chips every day.”
“I wish he were a chip off the proverbial old block.”
“Don’t start on that, Paul.”
“I won’t. It’s just that he’s always so damn angry. It’ll be good to see him. Heard from Priscilla?”
“She called this afternoon. She’s off on another trip. Transatlantic. With a group of travel writers.”
“I met with Warren this afternoon.”
“Oh? A problem?”
“Yes.”
Her silence said she was listening.
“I told him I was backing off on the Russian Trade and Investment Bill.”
Ruth Latham had never delved too deeply into details of her husband’s political activities. She was a solid campaigner for him every two years in California, and was an active participant in a variety of Washington charities, which was sincere on her part and also reflected positively on him. But the nitty-gritty of the Hill held little interest for her.
“Isn’t that the bill you said a few months ago was the most important Russian trade bill in your career?”
“Yeah. I said that. And it would be. But there’s something about it that’s off.… It feels wrong. Warren’s staff keeps pushing for amendments to it that—well, frankly, that would distort its original intent. He’s looking for the moon in the bill—earmarked tax breaks, protection against nationalism, accelerated depreciation. Yeah. The moon.”
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