Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

She closed her eyes.

No. He couldn’t fake that. He couldn’t. He could not be capable of anything dishonest or dishonorable.

Not a man who could look, act, and speak as he did.

Not a man who could love her as she knew he did.

No. She would not doubt him.

There had to be some good explanation.

Washington, D.C.

Monday, November 17, 6:15 p.m.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry I couldn’t return your calls sooner. I know you’ve been worried, but I’ve been in meetings all afternoon… Yes, and I appreciate your daughterly concern. But I’m all right. Really… No, you don’t have to do that. Besides, I won’t be back home until late tonight… We’re just doing damage control. Right now, we’re trying to salvage the House bill… Sure. It’s very difficult right now. This Hunter fellow has messed things up terribly. I just don’t get it. He seems to have some kind of personal vendetta against us…I hear what you’re saying, but that’s a debate for another time. At the moment, I have to get back to my dinner companions… I will… Love you, too.”

MacLean left the alcove outside the restrooms and returned to his table. He liked the Old Ebbitt Grill, one of the better places for seafood and steaks. But tonight he had little appetite; coming here had been Carl Frankfurt’s choice, and since it was so close to the Press Club, he didn’t argue.

He slid into the plush green velvet seat on his side of the mahogany booth, facing both Frankfurt and Charlie Alexander, Congressman Horowitz’s white-haired chief of staff. “Sorry again. My daughter was worried.”

Alexander waved off the interruption. “No problem. Carl and I were talking about this situation while you were taking her call. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, Ken.”

MacLean knew that. So did Carl, whose morose expression was not improved by a half bottle of Cabernet.

“We’re willing to do whatever it takes, Charlie.”

The patrician-looking veteran of decades of Capitol Hill battles nodded and finished chewing a piece of his pork chop. “Sure,” he said. “But we’re gonna have to wait a while now. Till after the holidays, when all this hopefully blows over.”

It stung him. “I was really hoping we could get in a vote this year, before the recess.”

“No go, Ken. The congressman wanted that, too. But word is out all over the Hill about the news conference. MSNBC ran it live, and I’m sure Fox and CNN and everybody else will show clips tonight. We were counting noses this afternoon. Right now, we have less than a forty-sixty shot at passage. Odds are probably gonna go lower than that by tomorrow. We have to let all the hysteria die down a bit.”

“I understand.” He felt desolate, for the first time in years. The dream had been within his grasp, only to be snatched away. Torn from him by some self-absorbed fear-monger, pandering to society’s basest instincts.

Alexander poked at the last piece of meat on his plate, then held it up on the end of his fork, gesturing with it to emphasize his points. “Look, Ken, I know how you feel. But Morrie warned you to keep a low profile on this, didn’t he? I know, I know, you had to respond to that Inquirer hit job, I understand. But you shoulda just issued a written rebuttal. Not held a frickin’ news conference. You never do that on something this emotional. These things can turn into sideshows.”

“Tell me about it,” Carl mumbled, his body sagging low over his plate.

“All right, then,” MacLean said. “So, how do we play this from here?”

Alexander took a big gulp of red to wash down the last morsel, then smacked his lips appreciatively. “At this point, I don’t think it does us any good for you to put out some kinda written reply. It only keeps this in the headlines. We need to turn down the volume, let this fade from people’s memories. And it will, trust me. So, you go about your business quietly. You do what Morrie told you before: You stay out of the limelight. Do whatever it is you people do, but don’t make a big public issue about it.”

“We won’t. The only thing we have coming up is our annual Christmas party. It’s black tie, invitation only. So there’s no chance of that reporter being admitted.”

“Good… Ah, look, Ken, I know Morrie has attended that in the past. But circumstances being what they are, I’m guessing he may take a pass this year. Now, I’m not gonna speak for him and say that’s definite; just don’t be surprised if it turns out that way.”

He gritted his teeth, forced a smile. “I’ll understand if he can’t be there. Although please convey to him my hope that he will.”

“Absolutely. He’ll consider it, sure. We’ve got, what, over a month. If everything’s calmed down by then, he’ll probably show.” He wiped his mouth with his white linen napkin, leaving a pink stain, then dropped it in a heap on his plate. “Look, Ken, I know how tough this is for you, but we gotta face realities. The congressman is one of the most progressive Members. He’s on your side. This bill means a lot to him, too. Morrie’ll do everything he can to get everybody in the caucus back on board right after the holidays, and then we’ll stick it back on the calendar. I figure we can get this through in early March. Just be patient a bit longer.”

He slid awkwardly out of his seat and stood. He was a big guy: big belly, big lips, big red nose, big booming voice. MacLean also got up and shook hands. Alexander nodded at Carl, who remained seated and sullen.

MacLean returned to his seat. He looked at his half-eaten portion of Alaskan halibut. He wasn’t in the mood. Instead, he picked up his glass of Spanish white, an Albarino.

“Well, Carl. It looks as if we have to recalculate our priorities for the next month.”

The psychologist bobbed his head. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about that for the past hour.”

“I’m listening.” He took a sip.

“The way I see it, Ken, some of our flagship programs are now in jeopardy. I’m especially worried about the Accelerated Community Reintegration Track.”

“Yes, it would be a prime target in this poisoned atmosphere, wouldn’t it? A lot of our sponsoring partners in the communities are likely to back away from us when our contracts come up for renewal in January.”

“So if we’re going to meet next year’s quotas and mandates from the board, we’d better act now and put a lot more clients into the pipeline before it might be shut off.”

MacLean twirled the glass; the pale gold liquid shimmered in the light of the table lamp. “That makes sense to me. There are so many who have earned their chance. It would be cruel if their hopes were dashed because of all this.”

“Anyway, I have a list of candidates for placement. I can have it on your desk in the morning. And I’d like at least four of them to have Christmas furlough opportunities this year.”

“I’ve always trusted your judgment about such things, Carl. You know these clients better than anyone. I’ll sign off on the list and submit their names, along with our recommendation, to the various state corrections departments.” He was about to take another sip, then paused. “Remember, though-we were just warned to stay out of the spotlight. Is there anyone on your list who might provoke any more public controversy?”

Carl Frankfurt picked up his fork and broke off a piece of trout parmesan. “Of course not. My furlough candidates, especially, are model clients. You wouldn’t believe how much they’ve grown. Ken, I would trust every one of those guys with my life.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Tuesday, November 18, 1:25 p.m.

“It’s me, Danika.”

“Hi there, Mr. Hunter! How are you this afternoon?”