The Broker (41 page)

35

THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE AT THE HAY-ADAMS WAS ON
the eighth floor, with three large windows overlooking H Street, then Lafayette Park, then the White House. It had a king-size bedroom, a bathroom well appointed with brass and marble, and a sitting room with period antiques, a slightly out-of-date television and phones, and a fax machine that was seldom used. It went for $3,000 a night, but then what did the broker care about such things?

When Sandberg knocked on the door at nine, he waited only a second before it was yanked open and a hearty “Morning, Dan!” greeted him. Backman lunged for his right hand and as he pumped it furiously he dragged Sandberg into his domain.

“Glad you could make it,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yeah, sure, black.”

Sandberg dropped his satchel onto a chair and watched Backman pour from a silver coffeepot. Much thinner, with hair that was shorter and almost white,
gaunt through the face. There was a slight resemblance to defendant Backman, but not much.

“Make yourself at home,” Backman was saying. “I’ve ordered some breakfast. Should be up in a minute.”

He carefully set two cups with saucers on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and said, “Let’s work here. You plan to use a recorder?”

“If that’s all right.”

“I prefer it that way. Eliminates misunderstandings.” They took their positions. Sandberg placed a small recorder on the table, then got his pad and pen ready. Backman was all smiles as he sat low in his chair, legs casually crossed, the confident air of a man who wasn’t afraid of any question. Sandberg noticed the shoes, hard rubber soles that had barely been used. Not a scuff or speck of dirt anywhere on the black leather. Typically, the lawyer was put together—navy suit, bright white shirt with cuffs, gold links, a collar bar, a red-and-gold tie that begged for attention.

“Well, the first question is, where have you been?”

“Europe, knocking about, seeing the Continent.”

“For two months?”

“Yep, that’s enough.”

“Anyplace in particular?”

“Not really. I spent a lot of time on the trains over there, a marvelous way to travel. You can see so much.”

“Why have you returned?”

“This is home. Where else would I go? What else would I do? Bumming around Europe sounds like great fun, and it was, but you can’t make a career out of it. I’ve got work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“The usual. Government relations, consulting.”

“That means lobbying, right?”

“My firm will have a lobbying arm, yes. That will be a very important part of our business, but by no means the centerpiece.”

“And what firm is that?”

“The new one.”

“Help me out here, Mr. Backman.”

“I’m opening a new firm, the Backman Group, offices here, New York, and San Francisco. We’ll have six partners initially, should be up to twenty in a year or so.”

“Who are these people?”

“Oh, I can’t name them now. We’re hammering out the details, negotiating the fine points, pretty sensitive stuff. We plan to cut the ribbon on the first of May, should be a big splash.”

“No doubt. This will not be a law firm?”

“No, but we plan to add a legal section later.”

“I thought you lost your license when …”

“I did, yes. But with the pardon, I’m now eligible to sit for the bar exam again. If I get a hankering to start suing people, then I’ll brush up on the books and get a license. Not in the near future, though, there’s just too much work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“Getting this thing off the ground, raising capital, and, most important, meeting with potential clients.”

“Could you give me the names of some clients?”

“Of course not, but just hang on for a few weeks and that information will be available.”

The phone on the desk rang, and Backman frowned at it. “Just a second. It’s a call I’ve been waiting on.” He
walked over and picked it up. Sandberg heard, “Backman, yes, hello, Bob. Yes, I’ll be in New York tomorrow. Look, I’ll call you back in an hour, okay? I’m in the middle of something.” He hung up and said, “Sorry about that.”

It was Neal, calling as planned, at exactly 9:15, and he would call every ten minutes for the next hour.

“No problem,” said Sandberg. “Let’s talk about your pardon. Have you seen the stories about the alleged buying of presidential pardons?”

“Have I seen the stories? I have a defense team in place, Dan. My guys are all over this. If and when the feds manage to put together a grand jury, if they ever get that far, I’ve informed them that I want to be the first witness. I have absolutely nothing to hide, and the suggestion that I paid for a pardon is actionable at law.”

“You plan to sue?”

“Absolutely. My lawyers are preparing a massive libel action now against
The New York Times
and that hatchet man, Heath Frick. It’ll be ugly. It’ll be a nasty trial, and they’re gonna pay me a bunch of money.”

“You’re sure you want me to print that?”

“Hell yes! And while we’re at it, I commend you and your newspaper for the restraint you’ve shown so far. It’s rather unusual, but admirable nonetheless.”

Sandberg’s story of this visit to the presidential suite was big enough to begin with. Now, however, it had just been thrust onto the front page, tomorrow morning.

“Just for the record, you deny paying for the pardon?”

“Categorically, vehemently denied. And I’ll sue anybody who says I did.”

“So why were you pardoned?”

Backman reshifted his weight and was about to launch into a long one when the door buzzer erupted. “Ah, breakfast,” he said, jumping to his feet. He opened the door and a white-jacketed waiter pushed in a cart holding caviar and all the trimmings, scrambled eggs with truffles, and a bottle of Krug champagne in a bucket of ice. While Backman signed the check the waiter opened the bottle.

“One glass or two?” the waiter asked.

“A glass of champagne, Dan?”

Sandberg couldn’t help but glance at his watch. Seemed a bit early to start with the booze, but then why not? How often would he be sitting in the presidential suite looking over at the White House sipping on bubbly that cost $300 a bottle? “Sure, but just a little.”

The waiter filled two glasses, put the Krug back in the ice, and left the room just as the phone rang again. This time it was Randall from Boston, and he’d have to sit by the phone for another hour while Backman finished his business.

He slammed down the receiver and said, “Eat a bite, Dan, I ordered enough for the both us.”

“No, thanks, I had a bagel earlier.” He took the champagne and had a drink.

Backman dipped a wafer into a $500 pile of caviar and stuck it in his mouth, like a teenager with a corn chip and salsa. He chomped on it as he paced, glass in hand.

“My pardon?” he said. “I asked President Morgan to review my case. Frankly, I didn’t think he had any interest, but he’s a very astute person.”

“Arthur Morgan?”

“Yes, very underrated as a president, Dan. He didn’t
deserve the shellacking he got. He will be missed. Anyway, the more Morgan studied the case, the more concerned he became. He saw through the government’s smoke screen. He caught their lies. As an old defense lawyer himself, he understood the power of the feds when they want to nail an innocent person.”

“Are you saying you were innocent?”

“Absolutely. I did nothing wrong.”

“But you pled guilty.”

“I had no choice. First, they indicted me and Jacy Hubbard on bogus charges. We didn’t budge. ‘Bring on the trial,’ we said. ‘Give us a jury.’ We scared the feds so bad that they did what they always do. They went after our friends and families. Those gestapo idiots indicted my son, Dan, a kid fresh out of law school who knew nothing about my files. Why didn’t you write about that?”

“I did.”

“Anyway, I had no choice but to take the fall. It became a badge of honor for me. I pled guilty so all charges would be dropped against my son and my partners. President Morgan figured this out. That’s why I was pardoned. I deserved it.”

Another wafer, another mouthful of gold, another slurp of Krug to wash it all down. He was pacing back and forth, jacket off now, a man with many burdens to unload. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Enough about the past, Dan. Let’s talk about tomorrow. Look at that White House over there. Have you ever been there for a state dinner, black tie, marine color guard, slinky ladies in beautiful gowns?”

“No.”

Backman was standing in the window, gazing at the
White House. “Twice I’ve done that,” he said with a trace of sadness. “And I’ll be back. Give me two, maybe three years, and one day they’ll hand deliver a thick invitation, heavy paper, gold embossed lettering: The President and First Lady request the honor of your presence …”

He turned and looked smugly at Sandberg. “That’s power, Dan. That’s what I live for.”

Good copy, but not exactly what Sandberg was after. He jolted the broker back to reality with a sharp “Who killed Jacy Hubbard?”

Backman’s shoulders dropped and he walked to the ice bucket for another round. “It was a suicide, Dan, plain and simple. Jacy was humiliated beyond belief. The feds destroyed him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Well, you’re the only person in town who believes it was a suicide.”

“And I’m the only person who knows the truth. Print that, would you.”

“I will.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Frankly, Mr. Backman, your past is much more interesting than your future. I have a pretty good source that tells me that you were pardoned because the CIA wanted you released, that Morgan caved under pressure from Teddy Maynard, and that they hid you somewhere so they could watch and see who nailed you first.”

“You need new sources.”

“So you deny—”

“I’m here!” Backman spread his arms so Sandberg could see everything. “I’m alive! If the CIA wanted me dead, then I’d be dead.” He swallowed some champagne,
and said, “Find a better source. You want some eggs? They’re getting cold.”

“No thanks.”

Backman scooped a large serving of scrambled eggs onto a small plate and ate them as he moved around the room, from window to window, never too far away from his view of the White House. “They’re pretty good, got truffles.”

“No thanks. How often do you have this for breakfast?”

“Not often enough.”

“Did you know Bob Critz?”

“Sure, everybody knew Critz. He’d been around as long as I had.”

“Where were you when he died?”

“San Francisco, staying with a friend, saw it on the news. Really sad. What’s Critz got to do with me?”

“Just curious.”

“Does this mean you’re out of questions?”

Sandberg was flipping back through his notes when the phone rang again. It was Ollie this time, and Backman would have to call him back.

“I have a photographer downstairs,” Sandberg said. “My editor would like some photos.”

“Of course.”

Joel put on his jacket, checked his tie, hair, and teeth in a mirror, then had another scoop of caviar while the photographer arrived and unloaded some gear. He fiddled with the lighting while Sandberg kept the recorder on and tossed up a few questions.

The best shot, according to the photographer, but also one that Sandberg thought was quite nice, was a wide
one of Joel on the burgundy leather sofa, with a portrait on the wall behind him. He posed for a few by the window, trying to get the White House in the distance.

The phone kept ringing, and Joel finally ignored it. Neal was supposed to call back every five minutes in the event a call went unanswered, ten if Joel picked up. After twenty minutes of shooting, the phone was driving them crazy.

The broker was a busy man.

The photographer finished, collected his gear, and left. Sandberg hung around for a few minutes, then finally headed for the door. As he was leaving he said, “Look, Mr. Backman, this will be a big story tomorrow, no doubt about that. But just so you know, I don’t buy half the crap you’ve told me today.”

“Which half?”

“You were guilty as hell. So was Hubbard. He didn’t kill himself, and you ran to prison to save your ass. Maynard got you pardoned. Arthur Morgan didn’t have a clue.”

“Good. That half is not important.”

“What is?”

“The broker is back. Make sure that’s on the front page.”

______

MAUREEN
was in a much better mood. Her day off had never been worth a thousand bucks. She escorted Mr. Backman to a private parlor in the rear, away from the gaggle of ladies getting worked on in the front of the salon. Together, they studied colors and shades, and finally
selected one that would be easy to maintain. To her, “maintain” meant the hope of $1,000 every five weeks.

Joel really didn’t care. He’d never see her again.

She turned the white into gray and added enough brown to take five years off his face. Vanity was not at stake here.

Youth didn’t matter. He just wanted to hide.

36

HIS LAST GUESTS IN THE SUITE MADE HIM CRY. NEAL,
the son he hardly knew, and Lisa, the daughter-in-law he’d never met, handed him Carrie, the two-year-old granddaughter he’d only dreamed about. She cried too, at first, but then settled down as her grandfather walked her around and showed her the White House just over there. He walked her from window to window, from room to room, bouncing her and chatting away as if he’d had experience with a dozen grandkids. Neal took more photos, but these were of a different man. Gone was the flashy suit; he was wearing chinos and a plaid button-down. Gone were the bluster and arrogance; he was a simple grandfather clinging to a beautiful little girl.

Room service delivered a late lunch of soups and salads. They enjoyed a quiet family meal, Joel’s first in many, many years. He ate with only one hand because the other balanced Carrie on his knee, which never stopped its steady bounce.