Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“Is that a question?”

“No, it’s a statement of fact. The question is this: Did you order that transfer?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you transfer all of that money out of a money-market account paying nearly eight-percent interest into a checking account paying nothing?”

Marshall protested. “I don’t think this line of questioning is at all relevant here.”

“We do, Senator. Would you answer the question, please? Why did you transfer nearly four million dollars to your checking account?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“That’s not responsive.”

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get.”

“And was it simply because you wanted to that you showed up at the Riggs office on Pennsylvania Avenue shortly before two o’clock on the same day, April 17th, and withdrew $1 million dollars of the deposit in cash? Specifically, 10,000 hundred-dollar bills?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I did it because I wanted to.”

The room came alive with half-whispered expressions of disbelief from reporters and other spectators. The buzzing was accompanied by some derisive laughter. It threatened to get out of hand, and Hugh Green gaveled it down.

“I will have order,” he said gravely, and the room quieted.

Hammond continued. “Did the bank happen to have 10,000 hundred-dollar bills on hand, Senator?”

“I don’t know,” Marshall said as coolly as if he’d been asked for the temperature outside. “I called ahead to tell them what I wanted so it was ready when I got there.”

“What did you do with the money?”

“I took it home.”

Even the implacable Hammond was stunned by the answer. “Home?” he asked.

“Home,” Marshall confirmed.

“Why would you take that amount of cash to your home?”

“And yet again, Mr. Hammond, I did it because I wanted to.”

Hammond was losing patience. “What did you do, Senator, unwrap all those bills, throw them in the middle of your bed and bounce in them?”

Woody Vredenberg, red with anger from his shirt collar to his forehead, slammed a fist on the witness table in a gesture of disgust and protest. Hugh Green smiled.

“I believe we have a protest from the potted plant to your somewhat satirical question, Mr. Hammond,” Green said, bringing down the house. “I will ask that you withdraw it.”

“Withdrawn,” said Hammond, still serious.

Green said, “Continue.”

“Is the cash still in your home?” asked Hammond.

“No, though I wouldn’t tell you,” Marshall replied. “It would invite burglary.”

“Where is the money now?”

“I don’t know specifically.”

“Senator, I have to remind you that you are testifying under oath.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Hammond. The answer is truthful. I do not know specifically where the money is now.”

“But it’s no longer in your possession?”

“No.”

“Who did you give it to?”

Marshall leaned back in his chair and expelled a long sigh. Then he leaned forward and crossed his arms on the witness table in front of him, leaning close into his microphone. “I believe we have reached the point in this inquiry where I must decline to answer your question,” he said.

“I’ll bet we have,” Hammond said disparagingly, and Vredenberg’s fist slammed down on the witness table again. “Withdrawn,” Hammond said quickly, and the room laughed once again. The committee counsel fixed his gaze on the witness.

“Senator Marshall, this committee is investigating the possibility of a willful, organized attempt to conceal the true cause of the crash of Flight 1117 at Dulles International Airport on April 17th. The committee has reason to believe there was scheming, conspiracy, and payoffs intended to protect the Converse Fan engine. Now here you are, admitting that on the day of the crash, you—with an acknowledged interest in the well-being of the Converse Corporation—took possession of a great deal of cash that cannot be traced. And you will not tell this committee what you did with it. If you were sitting up here, sir, don’t you think you’d find that somewhat suspicious?”

“Possibly. But that’s speculative. I don’t know.”

Hugh Green leaned across his Democratic colleagues and whispered for Hammond’s attention. The counsel turned, automatically swinging his microphone away so his conversation would not be overheard. While most eyes in the room were on the two of them, Vredenberg took the opportunity to talk with his client, clapping his left hand over Marshall’s microphone so their talk, too, would remain confidential. Marshall sat with his head bowed, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand squeezing the bridge of his nose.

Green again rapped for order, and Hammond resumed his questioning.

“Senator, changing the subject for the moment, tell the committee a little about yourself, if you would… your background and so on.”

“It’s not a very interesting story, I’m afraid,” Marshall said. “I attended Ohio State and the University of Michigan Law School. I practiced law in Youngstown for more than twenty years, staying active in civic affairs. When I decided to run for the Senate, I ran on issues many voters cared deeply about, and I was elected. I’ve been here ever since.”

“What type of law did you practice in Youngstown for those twenty years, Senator?”

“Civil law.”

“Specifically?”

“I had no specialty as such. I did estates, divorces, adoptions, a little real estate.”

“It must have been a very lucrative practice.”

“No, Mr. Hammond, civil lawyers have steady work, but it doesn’t make them rich.”

“Did you inherit a lot of money?”

“No. My father was a civil lawyer before me. I actually took over his practice.”

“So you didn’t inherit a lot of money, and you didn’t earn a lot of money?”

“That is correct.”

“Then where did you get the $3 million dollars you used to buy the Converse stock?”

Marshall saw the question coming, and he was ready for it. “From my bank account.”

Hammond leaned forward and bored in. “That’s not an answer, Senator. Where did the money come from?”

“Again, I do not believe it is in any way relevant to this hearing.”

Hammond glanced back down at his notes. “It’s expensive to run a statewide election campaign in Ohio, is it not, Senator?”

“It is.”

“How did you finance it?”

“I had a lot of financial backers.”

“Was Converse among them?”

“It was, but only through its political-action committee and by virtue of contributions from some of its executives.”

“In point of fact, Senator,” Hammond was still looking at his notes, “every single top executive of Converse contributed to your campaign to the maximum extent allowed by law, as did the company’s PAC, is that not correct?”

“I don’t recall. It could be.”

Now Hammond looked up. “What possible interest could a California company have in the first-ever campaign of a longshot candidate for the U.S. Senate from Ohio?”

“Like the PAC name indicates, Mr. Hammond, better government.”

“Come on, Senator, you can do better than that.”

“During the time of my Senate campaign, I was also working to get Converse the incentives it needed to move to Ohio. I imagine company executives and workers were grateful for that.”

“Uh-huh,” the counsel said and glanced down again. “You also made a substantial contribution of your own money, in the nature of something over $1 million dollars.”

“That’s not illegal.”

“No, it’s not.” Hammond looked again at Marshall, his eyes hard. “But it is very strange that a simple civil attorney, with no apparent means to such wealth, would have that kind of money to pour into a campaign, as it’s strange that the same simple civil attorney would later turn up with three million more to buy heavily into the stock of one of his biggest campaign benefactors. Again, sir, the situation demands some kind of an explanation from you.”