The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear (23 page)

Eddie looked up and shrugged and bore down on the phone. “Well, if you haven't heard about the investigation, that only proves how fucking serious it is. They always keep the serious stuff really quiet, and you know it. We're not talking about a slap on the wrist here, Artie. We're talking the big bullet. Death penalty. No play for years. Disband, got it? Now can we talk about these delegates?”

I wanted to reach through the television and throttle Armstrong George. What made it worse was that I knew just how reasonable and reassuring he appeared. The bombings were like star witnesses that George was putting on the stand to make his case that America needed “serious action for serious times.” And if, God forbid, it turned out that my own brother was involved, it would not only kill Hilda Smith, it would also make J. D. Callahan once again the guy everybody in America could laugh at. This would make getting dumped by Sandra Juarez and walking off
Meet the Press
look like a mild social faux pas.

I tried to tell myself that it was insane to think that Tyler might have been involved with the bombings. The problem was that it did make some terrible sense. Look at the facts: Tyler had been a skinhead, a group hardly noted for their racial tolerance. He loved explosives and guns—just look at what a blown-up mess he was. He loved Armstrong George, and the son of a bitch had been friends with Somerfield George in the army—something he had never told me about. Why hadn't he told me when I saw him?

Eddie ended his call and stretched. “Where the hell you been?” he demanded. “I'm so goddamn pissed off I was hoping you did get blown up.”

“NCAA?” I shot back. “That's a new one. Excellent.”

Eddie allowed himself a slight smile. “What would they do if their football program went belly up? Spend all their time screwing their sisters?”

“I hope you put it to them just like that.”

“It's not a time for subtlety. We've got squirrelly delegates all over the place.” He pointed to the list of delegates in my hand. There were twenty-three names. “We're moving these to uncommitted.”

Oh, shit. My heart started racing. Every delegate on the list had been listed as a solid Hilda Smith delegate just twelve hours earlier.

“This is death,” I said simply. “Does anybody know this?”

Eddie shrugged. “I'm going by what our whips are telling us for every state. But you know how it is. Every news organization in the world is polling these delegations. Somebody's going to break a story that our people are going soft. And then…”

“The dam bursts. Jesus.”

From the television monitor, I heard her voice: strong, level, a touch cutting. God, I knew that voice so well.

“Governor Armstrong,” Sandra Juarez shouted, “can you say categorically that your campaign had nothing to do with the recent phone calls attacking Vice President Smith?”

“Yes, I can.” He answered the question head-on, without a trace of defensiveness. It was a pro's response.

“Can you explain, then,” Sandra Juarez continued, “why it is that the questions for the phone calls were written on stationery of your own Colorado Republican Party?”

Sandra was standing to the side of the half circle of reporters surrounding George. She was so short that she was almost covered by her colleagues. But her voice rang loud and her hand shot up, brandishing a piece of paper.

“No, I have no idea,” Governor George replied, still calm.

“Are you saying that you are unaware of any connection between your campaign and the Colorado Republican Party and these phone calls?”

“Yes.”

Behind George, his aides stirred nervously. Off to the side, alone, as always, his son stared hard at Sandra, as if he might intimidate her into withdrawing the question. Good luck with that, asshole. Other reporters joined in, shouting follow-up questions. Paul Hendricks was the loudest, clearly outraged that Sandra Juarez had hijacked his story. A George press flack stepped forward, cutting off the questions. I felt a tingle of hope return. Maybe this could still work. God bless Sandra, the evil bitch.

“Here's the draft resolution,” Eddie Basha said, pushing a piece of paper into my hands. The resolution read just like we had discussed, a straightforward denunciation of the bombings.

“But it's still all about defense. I hate fucking defense. All this does is maybe stop us from losing before we get started. That's it.”

“We need defense,” Eddie answered tiredly. “That's the point. Right now, she's our best offense.” He pointed to the television, where Sandra was still working over Armstrong George. “God help us.”

“This is what we do,” I said, startling Eddie. “We get this resolution passed. Then we follow it up right away with another, condemning the politics of personal destruction. We draft some kind of bullshit code of political ethics and we make a motion for it to be included in the party platform.”

“I like that,” Eddie said immediately. “Try to pump these phone calls up into a bigger deal.”

A large man in a dark suit burst into the trailer. He was overweight, with a broad, bright red face.

“Governor Kowalski,” I said, holding out my hand and trying to look pleased.

The man waved a piece of paper like a sword. “This your idea of a goddamn joke, Callahan? You want me to introduce this resolution? Then what do you want? Me to get down on my knees and kiss Armstrong George's ass on national television?”

“What don't you like about it?” I asked evenly.

“Like? Like? What's to goddamn like? Are we going to fight this guy or roll over and play dead?”

I tried to explain what passed for our strategy: play defense on the first resolution, then introduce a second one about the politics of personal destruction that would make Armstrong George look bad.

The governor of Illinois's broad Polish face looked as if it were about to explode. “Well, let me tell you something, I've been running for office since you were stuffing envelopes, and you win elections by going out and kicking the other guy in the nuts, not standing around with your hands over your crotch so you won't get hurt when the other son of a bitch kicks you in the balls. You getting my message here, Callahan?”

“Governor, we think that if we can get George on the defensive on this push poll stuff, we can begin to turn this onto character and principle. Tomorrow morning, the vice president is planning a major speech that will directly challenge everything that Armstrong George stands for. We are going to clean his clock, Governor, trust me.”

Lisa Henderson appeared at the door, looking annoyed as always. It was getting crowded. “Am I interrupting an important meeting, Governor?” she asked, clearly irritated that something, anything, was happening and she had not figured out how to make it about her.

“Lisa,” Governor Kowalski said, “Callahan here was just telling me that the vice president plans a major speech tomorrow. It's about goddamn time.”

Lisa stared at me furiously.

“And,” the governor continued, “I want you to know and I want the vice president to know that I think this resolution you want me to introduce is a piece of shit. You got it? I'll do it, because I ain't running this railroad, and I'll force my people in line, because that's how we do things where I grew up, but Jesus fucking Christ, it's time we started busting some ass and quit apologizing. And this other little thing, this ‘campaign code of ethics,' I guess it won't hurt, but for heaven's sake, what the fuck are we doing showing up at a gunfight with a knife?”

Lisa looked once more at me as I bent my head slightly.
Go with me on this,
I was desperately trying to plead with her.
Just go with me.

“We appreciate your help, Governor,” Lisa finally said with a sigh. “We wouldn't be here without you, and when Hilda Smith is president, we won't forget.”

“You're goddamn right you won't forget, because I'll be in your face every fucking day.” He laughed and left the trailer.

“What have you done this time, Callahan?” Lisa turned on me with fury. “I just saw this resolution and I think you've lost your mind. Our delegates will never go along with this. It's an endorsement of Armstrong George. And who the hell are you to think you can do this without the approval of the vice president?”

I went through the strategy once again. When Lisa heard the idea of the campaign ethics resolution, she brightened. “Well, that I do like. These phone calls are unbelievably vicious. This is a huge issue, much bigger than anything else. I just know it. People are outraged.”

Walter Robinson stuck his large head inside the trailer.

“Walter,” I said, “this is Lisa Henderson. The vice president's chief of staff. Lisa, this is Walter Robinson, the New Orleans Police Department officer who has been very helpful. He liaises with the FBI.”

They shook hands.

“I'm Eddie Basha,” Eddie said. “Don't worry about me.” He was already onto another phone call.

“I need to ask Mr. Callahan a couple of questions about the bombing last night,” Walter said. “He was there, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I heard he was very much there. Having a great time, I heard.”

God,
I thought,
she hates me. Why am I surrounded by people who hate me?

“Mr. Callahan,” Walter said formally, “could you just step out for a minute? Sorry to bother you.”

Outside the trailer, Paul was waiting for us. “How'd you guys get in here, anyway?” I asked.

“I made Paul an official deputy.”

I laughed.

“So what did you find out?” Walter asked. On the way back from Renee's, I had called Walter and told him to meet me at the Superdome.

All around us, people were scurrying about with the manic gleam of imminent panic. A blue curtain divided the trailers from the convention floor, where the muffled roar of a thousand people milling about mixed with the loud music pumping through the sound system. For some reason, they were playing Motown hits.

Paul walked up and pointed to a trailer marked “RNC Finance Reception.”

“That's where I want to be,” he said, nodding to the trailer. “I want those folks raising money for me.” He looked at the bland trailer like it was an oasis in the middle of a long march through the desert.

“We're going to work out that money,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable even mentioning it there. I looked around for any reporters. You didn't have to know that Walter was a cop to know he was a cop. Everything about him screamed cop. Local cop. Not a fed. How many people knew the FBI had interviewed me? Jesus, if that story got out. Now the NOPD. I'd be a goner, a total joke.

I led them to a trailer marked “Rules Committee.” The Rules Committee had finished their work before the convention started and had no use for a trailer, but they still got one. Everyone always wants their own trailer.

“Jesus Christ,” the man inside the trailer shouted as soon as I opened the door.

“Oh God!” the woman yelled.

The middle-aged man and woman looked up in shock. They made a comic spectacle: the man with his gray suit pants hanging around his ankles, the woman with her tailored suit pulled up, her pantyhose lowered. She was bent over one of the computer tables and the man was behind her. His already-red face exploded in color. I backed out of the trailer without saying a word and steered Walter and Paul away from the trailer entrance.

“The mayor of Cleveland and a local newswoman,” I explained. “She interviewed me a couple of months ago.” We walked off so the couple could scurry away.

We went back inside the trailer, which reeked of sex. It had probably been designated as the official trysting site and used by God knows how many lovers over the last few days.

“Tell me about your brother,” Walter broke in, collapsing on the small couch in the back of the trailer.

“Half brother,” Paul said.

“He was in the army,” I started in. “Got hurt in an accident. Discharged. Drifted around. Started working as a bouncer in strip clubs. Moved into management.”

“And?” Walter asked. He was looking at both of us with a level, intense gaze. He was a cop listening to a witness who was probably trying to protect a suspect. It occurred to me that Walter was likely good at this. He had been doing it for years.

Paul picked it up. “He'd been a skinhead since he was like eight years old. He was a skinhead when he went into the army and one when he got out. Those are the guys he hangs out with. Women too. There are female skinheads too, you know.”

“What I don't get,” Walter said, looking at Paul, “is why I've known you for over twenty years and you got this brother who's blowing himself up and running around with a bunch of Nazi types and you like never mentioned it?”

Paul answered. “He never lived with us. He lived with his mother.” He paused. “They lived in New Iberia.”

“Uh-huh,” Walter said. “And what else?”

Paul and I looked at each other.

“What?” Walter demanded. “For Christ's sake, Paulie, you think you can lie to me? You think you can get over on me? Who is his mother, anyway?”

I sighed. “She was our babysitter.”

Paul corrected me. “His babysitter,” he said, pointing to me. “I was too old for one.”

Walter stared for a half moment, then sort of laughed. “Oh, Jesus and Mary. He did?” We nodded. “I shouldn't laugh, but your babysitter? Christ fucking Jesus. That's something. How old was she?”

“Fourteen,” I said.

Walter whistled. “Fourteen? He was a child molester.”

Paul and I both winced. “Come on,” Paul said. “What were you doing when you were fourteen?”

“Okay, statutory rapist, not child molester. That better?”

“Renee said she didn't have any idea where Tyler was, and I believe her. But here's something interesting. Tyler and Somerfield George were in the army together.”