David Ellis - Breach of Trust

I sat next to Hector and across from the governor and his chief of staff. Madison worked her BlackBerry for a moment. Hector and the governor started up a conversation, and Madison signaled me. I leaned forward on my knees.

“You’ll have everything written up for Pesh on the Antwain Otis thing?”

I nodded. “I’ll have it to him first thing in the morning.”

“You’ll hit the highlights? The victims’ families, the senseless crime, that kind of thing.”

I gave her a thumbs-up because I wasn’t sure how it would sound if I answered verbally.

“You should be there when Pesh releases the statement to the press. In case they ask him something he can’t answer.”

“You mean, like, why would we execute someone who’s turning lives around in the prison system? Questions like that?”

Madison’s eyes narrowed. Otherwise, she didn’t move a muscle or react in any way. That was her way, the steely resolve. “There it is again, that attitude. Did we not talk about that?”

I returned the stare. I wasn’t going to debate her, and I wasn’t going to back down. Nor was I going to win the argument.

“Next,” she said. “This thing with the jobs.”

“Rick Harmoning’s people,” I said, thinking that FeeBee in my pocket was now standing at attention.

“Mac says there’s a hiccup with one of the jobs. Someone’s complaining or something. I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to know them. All I want to know from you is that I won’t be hearing about it anymore. Take care of the problem.”

“What is this now?” the governor asked, breaking away from his chat with Hector.

“Just some details, sir,” Madison said.

“Rick Harmoning’s people?” he asked. “Oh, Rick. Oh, okay.”

My heart skipped a beat. I could imagine Chris Moody and Lee Tucker poring over FeeBee’s contents later with bated breath, as Governor Carlton Snow got his hand close to the stove and then pulled it away. Oh, Rick. Oh, okay. Were those statements enough to show, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he knew about this criminal scheme to trade jobs for a union endorsement? Or was he simply aware that Rick Harmoning had requested that certain people get jobs in the Snow administration? Moody would spend hours hashing over such questions. The better answer was that the words the Governor had just uttered were not, by themselves, enough.

The governor and Hector had resumed their side conversation as Madison gave me instructions. That seemed consistent with a governor who didn’t sweat the details. I guess that’s how it had to be. But it made me wonder how much Governor Snow knew about what was going on around him. Rick Harmoning, the union guy, for example. The governor seemed generally aware that Harmoning had put in a request for jobs for his friends in the Snow administration, but did he know that there had been a straight-up exchange of jobs for the union endorsement? I didn’t know, and I didn’t have proof of that yet.

And I wasn’t sure how much I cared. I wasn’t on the same program as my federal friends, Chris Moody and Lee Tucker. I wanted to know who was behind Greg Connolly’s murder-and what was almost my own murder, had I not narrowly escaped during that fun-filled interrogation. That, in turn, would probably tell me who killed Ernesto Ramirez, too. Same people, I assumed, working with Charlie Cimino.

And yes, as much as I didn’t relish being a snitch, I didn’t mind having a hand in exposing corruption at the highest levels of state government. Putting an unqualified judge on our supreme court? Buying union endorsements with jobs and appointments? Shaking down pro-choice groups in exchange for a veto of an abortion bill? I could live with helping the federal government on that score.

But here, I thought, was the difference: I didn’t care if the investigation netted Governor Snow. I wasn’t counting heads, trying to rack up defendants for an indictment. I wanted to know who had me put in that room, naked down to my boxers, to interrogate me; who ordered the murder of Greg Connolly and left him with his pants down in a park; who had Adalbert Wozniak and Ernesto Ramirez taken out. If it was Snow, then so be it, I wanted him to fall. But Chris Moody wanted the governor for political ambition. I just wanted the truth.

“Governor,” I said, “Judge Ippolito wanted me to tell you that he’d be honored to sit on the supreme court.”

“Ippo-Ippolito.” The governor gave me a blank stare initially. It was one I was seeing on him a lot. He looked at Madison. “Gary Gardner’s guy?”

Madison nodded. “We can talk about that later,” she said.

He took that comment under advisement, then nodded himself. It wasn’t hard to see how this worked. Madison was protecting her boss. Everything was stopping at her. The governor would stay above the fray. I was back to my question: How much did Governor Snow really know? He hadn’t even recognized George Ippolito’s name.

The limos pulled up to the Ritz-Carlton. Again, we were in the city, where the governor’s family lived, but he was staying in a hotel. The governor and Madison climbed out of the limo into the cold, fresh air.

Hector signaled to me. “We’ll be right in,” he said to the governor and Madison.

Then he turned to me. “I want a word with you,” he said.

Hector was on his second scotch in the limo, which, combined with a number of beers at the event, lent a rim of redness to his eyes and an easing of his posture. It seemed to put him in a bad mood, as well, if I was any good at reading people.

“What’s this stuff you’re talking about? Jobs for Rick Harmoning and this judge who says hello to the governor?”

Again with this dance. Hector, out of the loop and wanting in. Me, wanting to keep Hector out of the loop to protect him. “How come the governor stays at the Ritz instead of sleeping in his own bed?” I asked.

Hector seemed annoyed by the question, swatting at it like he would a buzzing fly. “He’s in campaign mode. She knows he needs to focus. I doubt she misses him much. But hey,” he said, returning to his subject, “what about all this stuff you’re talking about?”

He swallowed the remainder of the scotch, refilled, and stared at me.

“Look, Hector, they tell me these things in secrecy. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

“Secret from me ? Who got you here, Counselor? You forget that?”

It was partly the booze talking, and Hector had had plenty. But alcohol typically lays bare true emotions, deep insecurities. Hector wanted to be a player again, and he took any secrets as the ultimate sign of disrespect.

“I do what I’m told,” I repeated, which felt like a cop-out, especially coming from me. I tended to be something of a contrarian, and Hector knew that.

Hector held out his hands, like he was displaying himself to me. “You think I’m just some peon? You know I’m going to be the first Latino lieutenant governor?”

I drew back. “You’re not running for lieutenant governor.”

“I’m not running. ” He looked away in disgust. Then he leaned into me. “Mickey Diedman’s going to win guv lite, and when Barack or Hillary becomes president, Carl’s going to get Mickey on the federal bench and appoint me as the replacement.”

All of this was news to me. Having become more attuned to politics of late, I was certainly aware that a downstate county prosecutor, Michael Diedman, was running for lieutenant governor as a Democrat and appeared to be the favorite. It was not exactly an unusual path from county attorney to federal judge. Had some deal been struck?

“Wow, that’s great,” I said, only because Hector’s ego seemed to be suffering and I thought it was what he wanted to hear.