Murder at the Kennedy Center (2 page)

Farmer stood. “And,” he said, “let’s not go changing performance schedules at this late date. The show is tomorrow, and there’s enough for this committee to do to make sure the parties and such go well. Thank you all very much, ladies and gentlemen, for taking yet more time this afternoon.” To Andrea, he added, “Call Ms. Gateaux’s manager, tell him to convey to her that we love her, that it is too late to make changes, that her part of the show is prime time, before audience fatigue sets in and before we lose part of the TV audience to a very popular network comedy that cuts in before we’re finished. She’s an artist, she’ll understand.”

Farmer and Leslie Ewald were the first to leave the room. As they led two Secret Service agents into the upper lobby
outside the opera house, Farmer growled, “Stars. Spare me.”

“I know, Ed, but it is wonderful that all these artists have agreed to appear on Ken’s behalf tomorrow night. The jazz lineup alone reads like a Who’s Who, and also having performers like Sammy Davis, Jr., and Joan Baez is really an incredible affirmation of their belief in him.”

“More like a belief in having someone in the White House who appreciates them. Some of these performers aren’t exactly what you’d call left-wing Democrats. Once they saw Ken pick up a head of steam in the primaries, they seemed to have forgotten the impurity of his ideology.” He laughed scornfully. “Like all the other committee frauds.”

Ewald had come in fourth in the Iowa caucus in February, third in the New Hampshire primary the same month. There was talk of dropping out. Then he took sixteen of the nineteen states on “Super Tuesday,” March 8. That was when Perry, Bradley, Cuomo, Gore, Nunn, and Alexander called it quits, leaving only Ewald and Jody Backus in the remaining pro forma races.

Farmer and Leslie Ewald crossed the sprawling main lobby and passed through the Hall of Nations, the flags of all countries currently maintaining diplomatic relations with the United States lining the soaring white marble-veneer walls above them. Farmer helped Leslie on with her raincoat and opened the door to the outside, where her limousine waited. “Ride?” she asked.

“No, thanks. I’m going over to the office.” The senator’s private campaign office was across the street in the Watergate Office Building.

Leslie extended her hand. Farmer took it. She said, “It’s going to work, isn’t it?”

“The show tomorrow night?”

“No, the campaign. He’s going to become president.”

Farmer released her hand. “Let’s just say things are looking good, but you never know. The last primary can’t hurt him, and then the convention will be the coronation. As candidate. Unless something happens that throws everything off—which would open up the convention as it hasn’t been opened for years.”

She stared at him; he was never optimistic, which, she often thought, was unusual for the campaign manager of a man running for the White House. But every time she had those thoughts, she reminded herself that Ed was right, that in the rough-and-tumble, right-and-left, right-or-wrong democracy called the United States, there should be no celebrating until the final ballot had been cast on November 8, and until the Electoral College had pronounced its verdict.

She said, “Thanks for everything, Ed. The gala is going to be wonderful. What a send-off to the convention, what a boost. I may even find it gala and relax and enjoy myself.”

“When you think about boosts and lift-offs, remember NASA and the
Challenger
astronauts,” Farmer cautioned darkly.

Without another word, Leslie Ewald got into her limousine.

Not far from Kennedy Center, in George Washington University’s Lerner Hall, Mackensie Smith peered over his lecturn at the students in his crowded class on advanced criminal procedures. He was a craggy, fine-looking man in heavy horn-rimmed glasses.

“I think that does it for today,” he said, running his fingers over stubble on his cheeks, which seemed to reappear in minutes no matter how many times he shaved. “Aside from the cases you’ve been assigned to analyze by the next time we meet, I have an additional assignment for you.” He smiled as assorted groans welled up. “I expect you to watch the musical salute to Senator Ewald tomorrow night.”

A young man named Crouse said, “Professor Smith, I thought the classroom was not to be used for political purposes.” The other students laughed along with him.

“And this classroom isn’t,” Smith said, closing his portfolio of lecture notes. “All I’m suggesting is that you take an hour out of your busy schedules and enjoy some good music. I expect well-rounded attorneys to graduate from this university.”

“Professor Smith,” a young woman called.

“Yes, Ms. Riley?”

“When Senator Ewald is elected president, will you be his attorney general?”

Smith sighed; he was tired of the subject. “If Senator Ewald becomes the next president of the United States, he will undoubtedly choose someone for that post who wants it. That rules me out. Watch the show. You’ll be quizzed on it.”

He went down H Street to Twenty-second, took a left to G, stopped in at DJ’s Fast Break for a sandwich to go, and slowed to a leisurely walk in the direction of his home on Twenty-fifth. The sky was overcast, and mist that threatened to degenerate into drizzle gave the air a thick quality. It was early June but felt like April, which, Smith reminded himself, was better than feeling like August in Washington, D.C. He pulled the collar of his raincoat up closer to his neck and thought of that question he’d been asked so many times since Ken Ewald seemed almost assured of his party’s nomination.

Mac Smith and Ken Ewald went back a long time together. Their relationship wasn’t intensely political. Smith had never been much interested in partisan politics, but certain issues, certain causes, had always been dear to him, and he approved of Ewald’s stance on them.

They’d first met when Ewald had begun to push, vigorously and at great political risk, for legislation on gun control, particularly handguns. Smith, at the time, was one of Washington’s most respected attorneys, especially in criminal law, and had been asked to testify at hearings held by Ewald’s committee. Shortly after Mac Smith’s appearance, he received a call from Ewald inviting him to a dinner party at the senator’s home. That began a limited friendship that had deepened over the years. It wasn’t that they spent much time together; their busy individual lives precluded that. But there were other parties, issues, occasional plane trips together, and Smith found himself not only the senator’s friend, but an unofficial legal—and, at times, personal—adviser to Ewald and his family.

Issues beyond gun control drew Smith to Ken Ewald. The current president, Walter Manning, had little interest in the arts, and his administration reflected it. Ewald, on the other
hand, was the leading Senate voice in support of all things cultural, and every writer and artist, every musician and theatrical performing-arts group in the country, knew that any slice of the Federal pie designated for them was the direct result of these years of Ewald’s unfailing championing of their cause.

From Smith’s perspective, Ewald was a well-balanced politician. As a freshman in Congress, he’d vigorously opposed the war, yet was a staunch supporter of maintaining military superiority over the Soviets. He’d called for the return of a WPA in which all able-bodied welfare recipients would work, or undergo training while collecting assistance, except the mentally ill, homeless, and AIDS victims. He had his faults, of course, but Smith had few reservations about supporting the man in his run for the White House, especially after the reign of Walter Manning.

Smith turned the corner at Twenty-fifth and headed for home, his narrow, two-story taupe brick house with trim, shutters, and front door painted Federal blue. Attorney general? he thought. It brought a smile to his face. He had thought of many things he might be interested in doing with the rest of his life, but being directly involved in executive-branch politics was not on the list.

He opened the door and entered the place that had been his home for the past seven years. Rufus greeted him with unwelcome enthusiasm. “Stay down,” Smith said, pushing on the blue Great Dane’s huge head. When Rufus stood on his hind legs, he looked his master in the eye.

Smith answered the ringing phone in his study, making sure to put his sandwich on top of the refrigerator, out of Rufus’s reach.

“Mac, it’s Leslie.”

“Hello, Leslie, how are you?”

“Tired but happy. I just came from the final meeting on the show and party. It’s going to be lovely, Mac. I’m so excited.”

“Splendid. I assume Ken shares your enthusiasm.”

“I think so, although I haven’t seen him enough to find out. I’ll be glad when the last of the primaries is over, the convention is behind us, and …”

Smith laughed. “And you’re choosing drapes for the Oval Office.”

“I don’t dare say it. Bad luck to say such things. At least that’s what gloomy Ed Farmer would say.”

“Somehow, Leslie, I don’t think luck will have much to do with it.”

“I just wanted to tell you how well the meeting went, and to thank you again for your help.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“More than you think. It’s always comforting to have the clear-headed wisdom of Mackensie Smith on tap. I’ve got a last-minute idea Boris and Georges won’t like. Have to run, Mac. See you tomorrow. Don’t forget to shave and wear a clean shirt.”

Ken Ewald, senior U.S. senator from California, stood alone in the anteroom behind the president’s box in the Kennedy Center’s opera house. Chairs upholstered in a white, green, and red floral pattern surrounded a glass-topped coffee table. The carpet was the color of ripe cherries. Small paintings dotted pale green walls.

He walked to where the seal hung next to the door and removed it from its hook. His fingers traced the raised wording:
SEAL OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
. The letters were in blue, the background gold. An eagle dominated the center, its breast a shield of red, white, and blue. The seal was always on the wall, unless the president and his party were attending an event in the opera house. When that happened, it was hung in front of the box for the audience to see. Tickets to the box were part of the president’s patronage—to give, if he wished to share them. Otherwise, the box stood empty during performances.

Ewald opened the door and stepped into the box. Below were twenty-three hundred empty seats. The party to kick off that night’s musical gala was in progress onstage. Ewald had been down there moments before. Bored, he’d wandered
up to the box. The lead Secret Service agent assigned to him for the night, Robert Jeroldson, remained outside in the foyer on Ewald’s instructions.

He looked down at the stage where Leslie, their son, Paul, and daughter-in-law, Janet, stood with some of the celebrities who would perform that night. His physical distance from them at that moment was symbolic; never before had he and Leslie worked so closely together, yet he knew the inherent pressures of seeking the presidency created tremendous and understandable pressures on her, and on their marriage. A politician’s wife—she garnered more votes than any platform could.

He surveyed the stage for other familiar faces. They certainly were there, some pleasing, others representing necessary evils. He looked around the empty box and wondered at those who’d occupied the White House in the past. Some had spent considerable time in this presidential box. Others, like the sitting president, Republican Walter Manning, had been openly without interest in the artistic events that gave life to the nation’s cultural center.

He looked down at the seal in his hands and was suddenly overwhelmed at the significance of the office it represented. The decision to run for president had not come easily to him. He’d spent countless hours of private debate over whether he was indeed qualified to lead a nation that not only was the most powerful on earth, but meant so much to him. He knew he was up to the task as far as experience and insight into the workings of government went. Years in Congress—first in the House, then in the Senate—had given him a broad and deep understanding of how things worked, how things got done. But was that enough? Did he want it badly enough, was there enough of the proverbial fire in his belly to carry into the job itself?

He thought back to when Eugene McCarthy had sought the presidency. McCarthy had been on a television talk show. The host—Ewald couldn’t remember who it was—commented that certain critics of McCarthy claimed he did not want to be president bad enough, to which McCarthy replied, in his urbane manner, “No one should want to be president
that
bad.” McCarthy had gone on to say during
that interview that he thought every president should take off one day a week to read poetry, or to listen to music. Ewald had smiled at that comment; it represented, to some extent, his own feelings, even though he knew the suggestion was impractical.

He also thought back to Ronald Reagan, the only president who seemed to come out of the White House looking better and almost younger than when he’d entered. Days off to read poetry and listen to music (or to watch old western movies)? Perhaps. It really didn’t matter. The fact was, Ken Ewald
did
want to be president of the United States, because he felt the things he believed in were good for the country, would take it from a White House mortgaged to big business, oil, and the furthest right of military interests, and return it to a White House in which people mattered more than machines and money.

He went back to the anteroom and hung the seal on the wall. Critics said that he was naive in some of his plans involving social welfare. There were his own dark moments when he thought they might be right, that the only way to govern America was to be hard-nosed, isolated, ruthless. Maybe. But even in those small hours, he told himself that he was not without his own hard edges, his own recognition that to govern effectively
was
to compromise, to allow pragmatism to take the edge off dreams. He was ready to do that. His dreams would be accommodated in the larger context of being president. First, you had to win. You had to
be
there if any part of any dream was to be realized.