Brian Haig - The Capitol Game

Bellweather, in his most deeply paternal tone, and with a frown so sorrowful it verged on tears, took his best stab. “Look, we’re sorry to hear about the break-in, Jack, all of us.”

“Are you?”

“Sure. It’s a lousy world filled with crooked people. I’m sure you live in a big, prosperous house, the kind that attracts burglars. But don’t go paranoid on us. CG doesn’t do this sort of thing.”

“The burglars work for a security firm here, in D.C.,” Jack continued-the denials were expected, his expression said. “TFAC, it’s called. Can anybody help me out? I’ll be damned if I can figure out what the letters stand for.”

By now Bellweather’s face was red and his jaw was clenched. “That’s enough, Jack. You’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s a disgrace coming in here accusing us of this.”

Jack stared at him a long moment, then bent down and dug around in his suitcase again. He flipped a large black-and-white photo onto the table. “The TFAC headquarters,” Jack said. Then, in an effort to be helpful, he pointed at the building in the background. “Who does that look like leaving the building two days ago?”

Four heads jerked forward. Four sets of eyes collectively gawked at the picture. The photo was slightly grainy and out of focus, but without question it was Mitch Walters, actually grinning stupidly at the cameraman as they passed on the sidewalk outside the entrance.

Grinning!

The last attempts at denial or phony innocence shot out the window. Why act any stupider than they already looked? Why issue more denials that were obvious lies? Walters was now staring down at the photo, dumbfounded, gaping in shock. How had they caught him? He wanted to sink into the woodwork and disappear.

Bellweather, now exuding anger, stared hard at Walters-how idiotic could he be, getting caught like that? He wanted to reach over and strangle the CEO.

Phil Jackson, the lawyer, reacted with the instinctive violence honed by decades of D.C. political brawls and scandals. “This proves nothing,” he yelled, on his feet and shaking his finger like a half-cocked pistol. “There are a million possible explanations. Nothing you’ve showed us will stand up in court. It’s all circumstantial conjecture,” he roared.

Jack relaxed back into his chair. He smiled pleasantly at Jackson. “You might be right, or you might be wrong, Phil. It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.”

“Why’s that?” Haggar asked.

“What good would it do me to see you prosecuted? And if it were my intention to sue you, I wouldn’t be here tonight. My lawyer would, spewing threats and dropping subpoenas like confetti.”

“Okay.” Jackson dropped the finger and the bluster. He straightened his tie, struggling to conceal a considerable sense of irritation and relief. “Why are you here?”

“This is your last chance at this deal. As I said, others are offering twenty percent. I’ll be a billionaire inside three years, and I can live with that.” Jack paused before he added, “It won’t hurt to speed it up, though. Considering the circumstances, I thought you might see your way to up the ante another five percent.” Jack pointed at the picture and offered them a cool smile. “Call it the cost of getting caught. I think it’s a fair price, don’t you?”

“Are you threatening us?” Jackson asked, pinching his eyes together.

“Threatening is such an ugly world. Just say I’m adding a little more to the pot than I offered the others.”

“If you don’t mind, we have to talk,” Walters quickly intervened, avoiding the eyes of his three directors.

“Good idea.” Jack stood and adjusted his coat. “Five minutes, then I’m gone.” He picked up his horrible little suitcase filled with terrible things and looked perfectly ready to bolt. “I won’t be back after this, gentlemen. Remember, five minutes.”

The moment the door closed, Jackson snapped at Bellweather and Walters, “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to walk into such a simple trap.”

“It worked before,” Walters insisted weakly, knowing full well how dumb that sounded.

“Yeah, and it worked great this time, too-for him, you fool.”

“Think he was expecting this?” Haggar asked, pointing at the picture. Good question, and everyone stopped to consider it. Was it possible? Was Jack Wiley really that clever? Or were they just that clumsy and dumb?

“No, no way,” Bellweather eventually responded with his typical sense of certainty. “He’s zealous about security. A lot of people are. He has some nice things in his house and added a few extra layers of protection. He got lucky, and our boys made some sloppy mistakes. Why, what do you think?”

“Maybe you’re right. Either way, you underestimated him.”

Walters preferred not to dwell on that inarguable sentence and switched instead to the prominent question that was occupying all their minds. Facing Jackson, he asked, “Could he make a convincing legal case out of this?”

“No, not a chance. Not on the evidence he just described. He could embarrass us, not convict us.”

“Are you sure?”

As only a lawyer can do, Jackson began speaking out the other side of his mouth. “One, we have no idea how much more evidence he might’ve kept from us. I think we all agree he’s very smart.” A quick glance around the table-yes, Jack was definitely smart. Maybe too smart.

“Two, he could subpoena our records and TFAC’s. Look for pay transactions, any hint of a relationship. If it’s there and he finds it, we’ve got big problems.” He examined Walters’s face and got the answer to that question-it was definitely there.

“Three,” he continued, “for sure, he has the burglars on film. In court, in front of a jury, that would be very damaging. Imagine nearly three hours of videotapes, probably showing the burglars searching every nook and cranny in his home. Not stealing. Just searching, then planting the drugs. It would be very difficult to explain.”

Jackson fell quiet and allowed them all to consider how ugly this could become. It was a real mess. They were all creatures of Washington; dodging scandals was the major industry and, to a greater or lesser degree, they all had experience with it. A federal investigation was a possibility-actually, for a firm loaded with so many power hitters, more in the realm of a likelihood. The press would pile on and have a ball, delighted to throw fuel on the barbecue.

Oh yes, the Fibbies would have a field day, crawling around the headquarters, grilling possible witnesses, pitting CG against TFAC, sweating the three burglars and promising a sweet deal to the first one who ratted out everybody in sight.

What were the odds the burglars would take the fall for a bunch of rich old men?

Plus there were three burglars: one was all it took to bring down the house; one blabbermouth and they were all cooked. This could get very, very ugly.

Mitch Walters, particularly, could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back. Wiley had left that horrible photo lying in the middle of the table, a terrifying reminder. Walters tried his best to ignore it, but couldn’t wrench his eyes off it. It was him in that damned photo, him grinning and looking smug and self-important as he left the TFAC premises.

Any jury would stare at that photo and make the inevitable jump to the same conclusion: guilty as hell.

From the corner of his eye he caught Jackson’s mean, skinny little eyes staring at him. It was so obvious what the coldhearted legal thug was thinking. If worst came to worst, in order to protect CG and themselves, they would throw Walters to the sharks. The CEO was wild, on his own and out of control, a rogue agent who had done something spectacularly stupid and embarrassing.