Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

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.

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 pertinent to my questioning of the governor. I request the opportunity for the committee to hear this witness now, before we continue with the governor.”