Fatal Conceit (47 page)

“What I'm about to say is not easy. I've spent my entire adult life in the service of this country's military and civilian leaders, especially my commander-in-chief, the president of the United
States. I may not have always agreed with a president's decision or policy, but I have always carried out my orders to the best of my ability and honored the office of the president, if not the man. So it is with great difficulty and soul-searching that I have reached this decision to break from that tradition. However, the demands of my conscience, prodded by the needless deaths of Americans, and the debasement of this country's security, leave me no choice.”

General Allen paused and looked for a long moment into the camera before continuing. “It is my opinion that the American public has been lied to regarding the events in Chechnya, including this administration's role in what happened, as well as the attempt to cover up a needless tragedy.

“I will leave it to those responsible to reveal their reasons for their actions. My purpose here is to recount the facts as I know them and, where applicable, point out where these facts differ from what Congress, and the American people, have been told. . . .”

As Allen laid out his evidence, Karp positioned himself so that he could study the faces of the jurors. He could see in their eyes and expressions that the general's revelations from beyond the grave fit into the testimonial evidence they'd already heard from the other witnesses. With each point made by the general, their brows furrowed and they began stealing looks at the defendants. Meanwhile, Fauhomme and Lindsey, as well as their attorneys, pretended in the half-light to be engrossed in what Allen had to say, as though they'd never seen the recording before. Of course they had, during the discovery process and then again during the pretrial hearings.

Allen's statement took nearly an hour of crisp, detailed, unemotional exposition. Then, looking up from his notes, the general at last let anger show on his face, as if he could no longer control it. “Four days ago, I was called to a meeting with the president's national security adviser, Tucker Lindsey, and the president's national campaign manager, Rod Fauhomme. At that time I
informed them of my concerns regarding the ‘official' version of the events in Chechnya. I was then told in no uncertain terms that I was not to deviate from the administration's talking points at the hearing before the congressional committee. If I did, I was told that certain private matters would be surreptitiously revealed to the public that would harm my family, my position as the acting director of the CIA, and my reputation.”

Sighing, Allen put aside his notes. “As for my reputation, to quote Shakespeare's Othello, ‘. . . he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him and makes me poor indeed.' But in the end, I'm the one who put himself into this position so that innocent others could be injured by my actions. However, as a result of both the methods used to try to ensure my silence, as well as my own actions, I feel I have no choice but to step down from my position as acting director of the CIA and withdraw my name from further consideration. Thank you and God bless America.”

F
ACING THE REAR OF THE
courtroom, Fauhomme glared for a moment at Ariadne Stupenagel and Karp's wife. He wanted to fix their faces in his mind; after all, he hadn't gotten to where he was in life by forgetting or forgiving people who crossed him.

Where you are in life? Are you crazy? You're sitting in a courtroom with a murder case hanging over your head. Can't you feel the noose tightening?

Fauhomme reached up and loosened his tie as he fought the feeling of panic and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest brought on by the voice in his head. It was the same voice he used to use to deride and debase others, but now like a junkyard dog it had turned on him.

The two women in the back of the courtroom met his gaze with hard looks of their own. He averted his eyes to the rest of the gallery, but there wasn't a friendly face in the crowd. With a shudder he turned back around.

The attorneys were all up at the judge's dais arguing, and he couldn't remember why. The trial was just grinding on and every day seemed to bring a new defeat. He looked over at Tucker Lindsey, who sat staring at the table in front of him with his red-rimmed eyes. More to have someone to talk to than because he
empathized with Lindsey, he said, “Don't worry. It will get better when we present our case.”

Lindsey's pale face flushed as he raised his head slowly and then turned to Fauhomme. “We're fucked,” he whispered. “And it's your fault.” Then his expression went blank again and he resumed staring at the table.

The venom in his codefendant's voice rattled Fauhomme, who was still trying to decide how he would retort when the lawyers finished their business. Faust and Caulkin returned to their seats, having obviously lost whatever argument they were trying to make. They looked almost as defeated as Lindsey when Karp announced, “The people call Connie Rae Lee.”

Mustering a smile, Fauhomme turned to look as the tall brunette entered the courtroom. He'd fantasized that she would appear in court and then refuse to testify against him. After all, they'd shared some good times. He'd taken her places and introduced her to people she would never have met if it wasn't for him. She'd told him more than once he was a great lover and . . . their eyes met and he realized that his fantasy was not about to become reality.

When she edged into the room she looked frightened, but when she saw him her face hardened and her jaw set. Her eyes flashed in anger, wiping the smile from his face. He felt her pass behind him, and his skin crawled as if he expected her to plunge a knife into his back. Instead, she opened the gate between the gallery and the well of the court and walked purposefully up to the court clerk to be sworn in. Climbing up on the witness stand, she looked at him again with contempt.

A mixture of fear and rage coursed through his body.
Here's another one to put on the enemies list
, he thought. The voice started laughing so hard that he hardly heard the first introductory questions and answers, and he had to concentrate to hear the next question.

“Miss Lee, would you please tell the jury what your relationship to the defendant, Rod Fauhomme, was in October of last year.”

“He was my boyfriend.”

“At that time how long had he been your boyfriend?”

“A little more than three years.”

“And did you know the other defendant, Tucker Lindsey, as well at that time?”

“Not well,” Lee replied. “I saw him at some parties and political functions. I knew he was the president's national security adviser and that he and Rod talked a lot. But that was it. I never sat down and had a cup of coffee with him or anything like that.”

“You said the defendant, Fauhomme, was your boyfriend. Would you describe the nature of that relationship?”

Lee shrugged her shoulders. “He lives . . . lived . . . in Washington, D.C., and I'm here in New York, so I saw him whenever he came to town, and sometimes I would go down there. He paid for my condominium on the Upper West Side and gave me an allowance so I wouldn't have to work.”

“What did the defendant do for a living?”

“He runs political campaigns, including the president's. I think he gets paid for television talk shows and the consulting he does, too, but he didn't tell me much about where his money all came from. I just know that he had a lot of it.”

“During last year's presidential campaign, how would you describe your boyfriend's involvement in the day-to-day process?”

“He's a control freak,” Lee said. “He also thinks he's the smartest guy in every room he walks into. Everything passed through him. I once watched him scream at some volunteer college students at a rally for not approving their signs with him first. Anything, or anybody, that was going to be on television or in the newspapers had to be run by him. He used to brag to me that even the generals at the Pentagon had to brief him about what was going on. He had the media so scared that they'd call him and read him their stories, and he'd tell them how to write their quotes.”

“Did he at any time ask you to assist him with his job?”

“Yes. He expected me to be the hostess for parties he threw here in New York.”

“And what were your duties at these parties?”

“Oh, the usual stuff like arranging for the caterer, passing the invitation list through him, getting in touch with people, and making sure there was plenty of alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.”

“Anything else? Maybe not quite so ‘usual'?”

Lee flushed slightly. “Well, a lot of these parties were for wealthy people that he was hitting up for campaign donations or political support. Anyway, they were mostly men, so I was supposed to make sure there were a lot of pretty women there, too.”

“Who were these women?”

“Some were friends or girls I met at my yoga studio—I'm an instructor—or at the theater where I sometimes acted. Others were just girls I'd meet and if I thought they were a good fit, I'd get their names and phone numbers and invite them to the parties.”

“Besides attending these parties, did you ever ask any of these other young women if they would be willing to do more than just show up?”

Lee bit her lip and nodded.

Karp moved in front of the witness stand. “I'm afraid you'll have to speak up so that the stenographer can record your answer.”

“Yes,” Lee said quietly. “Sometimes the men at the parties would be single, or away from home, and they'd express an interest in female companionship.”

“Did this companionship include sex?”

Again Lee nodded, but added, “If the men wanted that, then yes.”

“Were the women paid to have sex with these men?”

“Yes.”

“Did the men pay the women for sex?”

This time Lee shook her head. “No. At least not directly, though they were contributing large amounts of money to these funds Rod controlled.”

“How were the women paid?”

“Rod would give me the money, and I would put it into an account, and then transfer the money from there into their accounts.”

Karp strolled over until he was a few feet from the defense table and looking at Fauhomme. “This man, the defendant Rod Fauhomme, would give you money to pay young women to have sex with the men invited to these parties?”

“Yes.”

Hearing a small commotion behind him, Fauhomme turned in time to see several members of the media get up and leave the courtroom. He knew why. Testimony that the president's campaign manager had paid young women to have sex with important men was about to hit the morning news cycle. He shook his head and turned back around.

In the meantime, Karp kept pressing. “Was the purpose of this just to keep these wealthy men happy?”

“Only partly,” Lee replied. “But Rod also expected the girls to report to me about things they might learn from the men that would interest him.”

“What sort of things?”

“Just about anything. If they were considering supporting another candidate. Or who they were doing business with. How much money they were thinking about donating. A lot of them were associated with big corporations or were from other countries, and he'd want to know their secrets. Like I said, he's a control freak, and the more he knows, the more he can control.”

“How much would these women be paid?”

“It depended,” Lee answered. “A thousand per date, maybe five thousand for a week.”

“Depended on what?”

“If it was just going back to the guy's hotel it might be a thousand,” Lee responded. “But if they called me with something Rod particularly liked, he might tell me to ‘give them a bonus.' Certain
guys were simply worth more than others—more money to donate, or more secrets.”

“How would these women get this information?”

“Whatever came up in conversations, pillow talk,” Lee replied.

“What, if anything, would Fauhomme do with this information?”

“I don't know,” Lee said. “I'd sometimes overhear him talking to someone on the phone about expecting a big donation or that something he'd heard from me needed to be discussed. But if I asked him what he wanted with the information, he'd tell me to mind my own business.”

“Do you know a young woman named Jenna Blair?”

“Yes. I've known Jenna for several years. We've been in some off-Broadway theater productions together; we both came to New York to be actresses and became friends.”

“Did you at some point ask Jenna to attend one of these parties?”

“Yes,” Lee said. “Rod had seen her a couple of times at my apartment, and he asked me to invite her.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Well, Jenna's pretty and has that sort of sporty, athletic look that some men like. Most of the other girls were your typical model or actress types. But not every guy is attracted to that and Rod thought she would be a good fit.”

“And did she attend one of these parties?”

“Yes. I told her she might meet some important people with connections. I didn't tell her about getting paid for sex.”

“And did one of the men at this party ask to date her?”

“Yes. An Israeli businessman named Ariel Shimon was real interested in her. He asked me to ask her if he could take her out.”

“Was he expected to pay for her sexual favors?”

“No. It was just sort of understood that the girls at Rod's parties were available for that if the men wanted.”

“Did you tell Miss Blair about Mr. Shimon's interest?”

“Yes.”

“Did she agree to go out with him?”

“Not at first, especially when I told her that she'd be paid if she also had sex with him and reported anything he said.”