Steven Gore - Power Blind

“Plus a margin of error of four percent,” Sheridan said.

“Or minus a margin of error of four percent. And how about the rest of the data? A majority favors abortion. Seventy percent of the public believes innocent people are being executed. Seventy-two percent want stricter gun control. And only thirty-six percent think you’re doing even a half-decent job. We need to be careful about how we construct our talking points.”

“You’re not getting weak-kneed on this, are you, Landon?”

“No, Mr. President. Sometimes we have to do what’s in the people’s interest even if they don’t recognize it at the time, and this is one of those moments.”

D uncan looked over at Sheridan after the door closed behind Landon.

“Did you hear his speech to the Press Club yesterday morning?” Duncan asked.

Sheridan shook his head.

“I couldn’t tell whether it was brilliant or just bullshit.” Duncan opened a folder on his desk. “Listen to this: ‘Conditional charity for the poor, not a free lunch… Return matters of governance to the states, reserve for the federal government matters of national character… A humble foreign policy aimed at retilting the trade balance, not at leveling every Islamic dictator.’ ” Duncan closed the folder. “Conditional charity? What the devil does that mean?”

“I think it means the poor eat at the Salvation Army instead of at the public trough.”

Duncan laughed. “Once you translate it into plain English, it sounds like what every Republican president has been saying since Reagan.”

Sheridan shrugged. “Saying and doing are two different things.”

“Except I have a feeling if Meyer gets elected, they’ll be exactly the same.”

It was Sheridan’s turn to laugh. “You mean he’ll be a one-term president?”

“Better a one-term messianic Republican who knows what he believes than a one-term Democrat who navigates by polls and focus groups.”

"Graham,” Tansy Amaro said into the intercom, “Senator Meyer’s office is calling.”

“I guess the pipsqueak went running to his big brother,” Gage said. “I’ll take it.”

Gage punched the flashing button on his desk phone.

“This is Graham Gage.”

“This is Landon.”

“Sorry, I thought I was speaking to your secretary.”

“Since when do we have people running interference for us?”

“I assume you’re running interference for your little brother this time.”

“Interference?”

“He didn’t call you?”

“This concerns him, but not because he called. It was something else. A call from a maniac in San Francisco.”

“Which maniac?”

“The poisoner. Porzolkiewski. He called my office ranting about Brandon. That Brandon killed his son or covered up for the TIMCO people who killed his son. He threatened to go to the press. My secretary promised him I would look into it personally and I’d ask someone to visit him in jail by this time tomorrow.”

“Why me?”

“Brandon said you’ve gotten to know Porzolkiewski.”

“How did he find out?”

“He didn’t say, but I need to put a lid on this thing. I can’t have this kind of grief right now, assuming the media listens to him.”

“Trust me. They’ll listen to him. Maybe not now, but eventually. Do you know the DA’s theory about the case?”

“Only what’s been in the press. I heard a couple of reporters were trying to find a connection between Charlie Palmer and TIMCO, but I assume they gave up. The only story recently was about Porzolkiewski saying he wanted time to hire a lawyer.”

“I’ll tell you the answer, as long as you keep it to yourself.”

“What about Porzolkiewski?”

“I’ll quiet him down.”

“Okay. Just between you and me.”

“I think Brandon and Anston have been involved in a few things that may slop back-”

“Maybe we should talk in person.”

“Where?”

“I’ll be in Des Moines tomorrow.”

“W hat did you think you were going to accomplish?”

“I don’t know,” Porzolkiewski said, “I don’t know what I was doing. Maybe it was a substitute for not having a gun to blow my brains out.”

Porzolkiewski stared down at the table, as if embarrassed by his own weakness.

“Just listen to the noise in this place,” Porzolkiewski said. “I don’t understand why more people aren’t committing suicide in here.”

Only then did Gage’s mind register the yelling and clanging that composed the relentless gray background noise of the jail.

Porzolkiewski finally looked up. “You’re the reason I’m locked up in this joint.”

Gage shook his head. “Like I planted the poison in your storeroom?”

“No. You got them to search for it. How do I know you’re not in it with them?”

“In with who?”

“Brandon Meyer and Marc Anston. You sure as hell aren’t doing anything to get me out of here.”

“Tell me what I should be doing.”

Porzolkiewski spread his arms. “How should I know, you’re the investigator.” He tapped his chest. “I’m just the schmuck who pushed his kid too hard.”

Gage squinted at Porzolkiewski. “Now you’re blaming yourself because he took the job at TIMCO?”

Porzolkiewski’s shoulders slumped, and then he exhaled and said, “Now that you repeat it back, it sounds stupid.”

Gage leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Look,” Gage said, “everything in life could’ve turned out differently. Just because you think back and one thing seems to have led to another, doesn’t mean everything was inevitable and you’re responsible. That applies to Brandon Meyer, too. And threatening his brother just makes you look like a paranoid lunatic.”

Porzolkiewski rose and stared out through the wire mesh window of the visiting room door.

“This place is unreal,” Porzolkiewski said. “It makes everything unreal. There’s no way to control your thoughts, they just fly around with nothing solid to hold on to. Then they start to hook together in weird ways.” He turned back toward Gage. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I called the senator’s office. Everything just seemed like a huge conspiracy.”

“You want to talk to a psychiatrist?”

Porzolkiewski shook his head. “Jailhouse shrinks just want to drug people up because they know there’s nothing they can do about this place and the way it makes you go crazy.”

“Then let me give you a few things you can to hold on to when things seem to start spinning.”

Porzolkiewski sat down.

“Lieutenant Pacheco is having toxicology tests done on every liquid or powder that was in Charlie’s room. We’re also checking out the background of the physical therapist. How he got hired by the agency and how he got assigned to Charlie. Spike says they’re stonewalling, but we’ll keep pushing. If we can prove he was planted there, the case here will look weaker and maybe we can get you transferred out to Contra Costa County. There’s no law that says you have to go to trial in the county where you were first arrested.”

“How does that help?”

“It’s a quieter jail and close enough for your lady friend out in the Delta to visit you every day.”

“They have conjugal visits out there?”

“Sorry. You’ll have to get convicted and sent off to state prison for that.”

Porzolkiewski winced. “I think I’ll pass.”

"Thanks for bringing dinner,” Faith said to Gage as they sat on the edge of the circular fountain near the Hearst Anthropology Museum on the UC Berkeley campus. It was at that spot decades earlier that an ex-cop chanced to offer a napkin to a graduate student who’d splashed coffee on her blouse just before her first meeting with her dissertation committee.