Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

Now Pace laughed. As the Chronicle reporter turned to his left to look at the committee bench, Hines would, indeed, be at his back.

“If you can’t see, let me know and I’ll remove my head,” Pace joked.

“Taking it off yourself is better than having it handed to you, which is what you’ve been doing to me the last few weeks,” Hines said. “I don’t know where you’ve got your sources buried, but when all this is over, you ought to dig ’em up and treat ’em to dinner.”

“I don’t think anybody’s going to want to be seen with me for a while. Some people don’t even like me calling anymore.”

“I don’t doubt it. If Stan Travis ever finds out who you’re talking to, he’ll lock ’em up and toss the key in the Tidal Basin.”

“Or one of those Tidewater sinkholes,” said the reporter across the table. Pace didn’t recognize him, although the piece of white paper taped to the table surface in front of him said he worked for The New York Times. Pace extended his hand and introduced himself.

“Greg Hayward,” said the Times correspondent, grasping Pace’s hand. Pace had seen the byline on major congressional and political stories.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Pace said. “You covering this as a political story?”

“Not really. It doesn’t fit into a nice category. It’s the best story of the day, and I’m happy to get it. Justin Smith would have drawn it in other circumstances.”

Pace felt the sadness overtake him. “I miss him,” he said.

“So do we all,” Hayward replied. “If nobody from the Times has had the grace to thank you, a lot of us who loved Justin appreciate what you did. If you hadn’t talked to the medical examiner, we wouldn’t know how Justin died. I don’t think he would have rested very well.”

“I knew Justin was too ornery to keel over.”

“Believe it,” Hayward said. “I don’t think we have anybody to replace him yet.”

“A spot in the Times Washington bureau shouldn’t be hard to fill.”

“They’re talking about keeping the job in New York.”

Pace was surprised. “Why? All the regulatory apparatus is here.”

Hayward shrugged. “They’ve been doing a lot of things that defy understanding. I try to keep a low profile and hope they’ll leave me alone.”

Pace twisted around, trying to spot Jill Hughes among the throng of reporters. She was assigned to do a color piece on the hearing, to capture the mood of it. He located her where he imagined she’d be: front row, center. They made eye contact and Pace gave her a warm smile.

A door behind the bench opened, and the six committee members filed in, followed by Ingersoll and a lawyer named Brent Hammond, retained as special counsel for this investigation. Harold Marshall came with a man whom Pace didn’t recognize.

“Well, well, well,” Greg Hayward said. “Only the best for the Cobra.”

“Who is he?” asked Pace.

“Woodrow Wilson Vredenberg,” said Hayward.

“Good Republican name.”

“Vredenberg?”

Pace smiled. “What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s a high-priced, high-powered trial attorney from New York,” the Times reporter explained. “Knows his way around Wall Street, too. He could tie this hearing in knots if Green doesn’t do something to control him. He’ll whereas and whyfor us to death.”

“Why should he do that?” Hines asked. “His client asked for this session.”

“I’m only telling you what he could do.”

Pace flipped open his notebook and jotted down the name of the lawyer. Greg Hayward spelled it for him.

“Hey, Pace, here’s your prime source.” The voice belonged to Joe Howard, a veteran Senate reporter for the AP. Howard cocked his head toward the bench. Kathy had come in to talk to Hugh Green and was bent over next to him.

“Wrong,” Pace said. “Not that lady. Regardless of her personal feelings toward me, her professional loyalty is to Green.”

“That’s your story,” Howard said nastily.

“Yeah, that’s my story. You got a problem with it?”

“Give it a rest, Joe,” Hayward said quickly. “You got a big mouth.”

“And maybe you wanna do something about it?”

“No, I want you to do something about it,” Hayward replied angrily. “Shut it!”

Howard snorted and turned back to his notes. Pace continued to stare at him in anger and disbelief. He felt Jeff Hines lean into his shoulder.

“Let it alone, Steve,” Hines said, loud enough for Howard to hear. “He’s not worth it.”

Pace broke off the stare, but the knot in his gut wouldn’t loosen. He let himself look back in Green’s direction, but Kathy was gone. He turned to Hines. “She isn’t a source,” he said. “It would be too obvious, and it would end her career.”

“I believe you,” the L.A. Times reporter said. “And if I didn’t, what difference would it make? It’s nobody’s business but yours.”

“Thanks.”

“De nada.”

The cast of players was in place, and Hugh Green rapped his gavel.

“This is a very unusual proceeding this morning,” he said. “This committee is accustomed to conducting its proceedings in executive session, not to keep truth from the public, but to protect the lives and careers of those under scrutiny. We act very much like a grand jury, hearing evidence from many sources, occasionally engaging in fishing expeditions and speculation. To have such evidence made public could do irreparable harm. Moreover, unlike the regular committees of the Senate, there is no majority here; the seats are divided evenly between the majority and minority parties. Although the subject of the committee’s investigation asked for this hearing and asked that it be public, the request would not have been honored but for a bipartisan vote to make it so. I have no other opening statement, but I will offer each of my colleagues five minutes for initial remarks.” He turned to his left. “Senator Justica?”

“I could have missed this part,” Jeff Hines whispered to Pace.

“How can you say that?” Pace challenged. “They’ve all got shiny new soapboxes.”

Hines pointed a pen at Pace’s nose. “My point, exactly. You’re so perceptive.”

Eleanor Justica was, by any estimation, an elegant-looking woman. That her presence came naturally made her all the more appealing. The Republican Party counted itself fortunate to have her. The Democrats would have given anything to steal her away. That wasn’t likely. Indiana isn’t a Democratic stronghold, and as the daughter of a wealthy corporate executive and the wife of a successful and highly-regarded thoracic surgeon, she wasn’t inclined to be stolen.

This day she was dressed in a striking plum-colored suit and had her shoulder-length light-brown hair pulled back over her ears and held with decorative combs. When she let her hair fall naturally, she had a tendency to keep pushing it back over her ears like a schoolgirl. She didn’t want to be seen on television constantly fiddling with it.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” she said. “I don’t plan to use my entire five minutes. This hearing was scheduled at the behest of my friend and colleague, the honorable senator from Ohio, and I don’t want to infringe on his time. I will state for the record that I was one of those who voted to go forward with this unusual session, not in order to bring Harold Marshall before the nation to humiliate or denigrate him, because I don’t believe that will be the result of this hearing. I firmly believe the senator from Ohio is a capable, honest, and forthright man who acted in the best interests of a constituent and did nothing whatsoever wrong by any standard this committee or the general public can use to judge him. I fully expect he will answer the questions of this committee completely and openly, and at the end of the day’s proceedings, we will be able to terminate any further inquiry into his actions. I yield back the remainder of my time.”