Adams Morgan June 26
Addis rested his head against the tile and felt the water of the shower cascade over him. He had slept in this morning—the first time in years—but he had not slept well. He wanted a week—a month, a year, maybe more—away. Too much bullshit, he thought; not even a grace period for mourning.
He tried to recall an exercise he once had read about in a book on yoga in the bathroom of a girlfriend. Damn, he couldn’t remember which girlfriend, which bathroom, which city, which year. That made him feel even more worn. Enough, he told himself. The exercise. It was trite. Stand straight but not stiff beneath the showerhead, arms at your side. Try to imagine that you are the water, you are merging with the water. Listen to the stream. Feel yourself flowing. Breathe deep through your nose. Use your diaphragm. Close your eyes.
Addis breathed. He exhaled. Nothing. He couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he again thought about seeing M. T. O’Connor and Dan Carey leave the White House together the previous night. They were deep in conversation and did not notice Addis behind them. He had been able to catch only one full sentence. “That can be taken care of,” Carey said. They both got into her car.
Addis felt the water and remembered a story O’Connor once told him about the consultant. At the start of the administration, O’Connor’s father had died suddenly when an aneuryism burst. While she was working frantically to place scheduling matters in order before flying to Georgia for the funeral, Carey dropped by her office. I heard the news, he said, sorry. She thanked him for the condolences. Then he added: “At least it didn’t happen during an election year.”
No other anecdote so encapsulated what Addis thought was the small soul of Dan Carey. For years, Addis and O’Connor had shared a private
complaint: Carey and the other technicians—the pay-to-play pollsters, the media advisers, the focus-group engineers, the communications specialists—were crowding out the politicos like Addis and O’Connor, who were drawn to the game because they wanted not only to win but to alter policy outcomes as well. Politics—in the White House, on Capitol Hill, across the nation—was becoming ever more dominated by sharpies obsessed with the means. Hundreds of young men and women were enrolled in graduate programs that taught them how to be campaign managers and consultants. There was no requirement they care about anything other than the mechanisms of politics. Addis occasionally was asked to speak at these programs. In the first half of the administration, he had accepted several such invitations, hoping he could discern in the students a reason for optimism. He rarely found it. These days he routinely sent regrets when invited.
Now O’Connor and Carey were talking, sharing a ride somewhere.
Addis shut off the water. So much for do-it-yourself meditation, he thought. He dried off, dressed, and left his house through the back door.
“Mr. Addis, a moment please.”
A thin man in a crumpled white suit was standing next to Addis’s Honda. He was fifty or so, had a craggy, pale face, with dark rings beneath narrow eyes. His accent was British.
My alleyway is turning into Grand Central Station.
“Mr. Evan Hynes-Pierce,” he said and held out a hand. “Pittsburgh Courier-Press.”
Addis ignored the outstretched hand. He had not met Hynes-Pierce but he knew of him. Hynes-Pierce was the reporter probing the Hanovers’ land deal in Rapides Parish. And he was the fellow who, three weeks before the last presidential election, had aired an interview on a television tabloid show with a woman who years earlier had filed a sexual harassment complaint against Margaret Hanover. The woman’s story was accurate to a degree: She had submitted such a complaint when Margaret Hanover was an administrator at a community college in New Orleans. But the accusation had been dismissed quickly by a review board. After the broadcast aired, it had taken less than a day for reporters to locate relatives and friends of the complainant. They explained that the woman had a long history of mental illness and that she had accused numerous men and women of sexual harassment. After the election, Hynes-Pierce was hired by the Courier-Press, where his speciality—skewering the Hanovers and their associates—was much appreciated by the right-wing, millionaire recluse who owned the paper.
“Excuse me, but this is my home,” Addis said.
“Yes it is. Rather ill-mannered of me to intrude on such a fine morning.” He lifted his head to the sky, and the sunlight illuminated the crevices
in his face. His teeth were shaded yellow. “But I have a delicate issue to discuss.”
“Call me at work? I promise I’ll get back to you. Things are a little crazy these days. Surely, you can understand that.”
Addis stepped toward his car. Hynes-Pierce leaned against the door on the driver’s side.
“Why were you making calls to New Orleans and Rapides yesterday?” Hynes-Pierce asked. “Getting ducks in their row, perhaps?”
Addis had been on the phone the previous day to Louisiana. He had spoken to Flip Whalen, who had been Hanover’s chief of staff during the gubernatorial years. Whalen had stayed in Louisiana after the election to tend to his wife, who was battling a variety of cancers. A paper-thin wisp of a man, Whalen was the keeper of the Hanover history. If anything came up that was pre-White House, he was the first call.
The Hanovers had a few deals over the years, Whalen had told Addis. Maybe something in Rapides, but nothing that ever demanded Whalen’s attention. Other money matters had required troubleshooting. Margaret had been on the board of a nursing home firm that was charged with Medicaid fraud, but she resigned promptly. And then there was a financial adviser they had used who was charged with promoting fraudulent securities solicitations. That had sparked a run of newspaper stories, but the episode blew over. Talk to Harris Griffith, Whalen advised, he was their accountant for many years. But be gentle with Griffith, Whalen cautioned, he had gotten caught up in some funny savings-and-loan business and had lost his job at a fancy downtown firm.
When Addis had rung Griffith, his call was answered by a machine. He left a message and next called Mickey Burton, the party’s chair in Rapides Parish. At twenty-seven, Burton was the youngest parish chair in the state. Burton told Addis that a Brit fellow had been nosing around asking about a deal involving the Hanovers and some land near the county airport.
So here, leaning against Addis’s car, was the jerk who was forcing Addis to spend his time digging into the distant finances of a dead man. And Hynes-Pierce knew about the phone calls Addis had made.
“You don’t believe in letting someone rest in peace,” Addis said.
“Actually, I do. Most certainly. The worms don’t care whether their lunch had unfinished business. I am sympathetic to that point of view. Quite reasonable. But, you see, not everyone else involved believes in resting in peace. Look at the grieving widow. Hardly a rester there, right?”
“Fuck you,” Addis said.
“Yes, but as the story continues … Well, the story continues, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe this time you can prove Margaret’s a lesbian.”
“Never did say that.”
“But you didn’t mind other people thinking it—after you rushed to air a story full of holes.”
“It is an imperfect craft. I’ll grant you that. But I do believe in making available as quickly as possible all information that is available. You do realize, the full story rarely comes out all at once. Would you mind telling me whom you were calling in Rapides Parish and why you were placing such calls—while you were toiling as a government employee and being paid by the American taxpayers?”
“I do mind. But, for your own information, I was talking to old friends. A lot of people these days want to talk. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Fine, fine. Trying days. Sad days. I do appreciate. And no one much cares for those of us who pick over dirty bones. But a broader question, if I may? What would you, Mr. Addis, do if you discovered that one of the great men whom you have so ably served, out of, no doubt, your own allegiance to worthwhile causes and principles, had acted, unethically, untowardly, or illegally? Would the public be consigned to the dark?”
“You know, great illuminators like yourself might do better if you weren’t such assholes. Now, excuse me.”
Hynes-Pierce moved away from the car, and Addis unlocked the door.
“So in the fashion of all the professional spinners and concocters in this town, you prefer not to answer legitimate queries?”
“Nice try.”
“Well, a lad can try.” He flashed a jagged smile. “Not even on background?”
“You must be—”
“Then perhaps next time.”
Hynes-Pierce held out a business card. Addis did not take it; he got into the car.
“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time,” Addis said. He shut the door and started the engine.
“There always is,” said Hynes-Pierce, beneath the sound of the car.
As Addis walked down 37th Street, past the row houses, to Georgetown University, he wondered how Hynes-Pierce had learned of the calls to Louisiana. There were only two choices: this end and that end. Louisiana or the White House. Maybe Mickey Burton had asked around and word had traveled back to Hynes-Pierce. That would be damn quick, Addis thought. The other option was more disconcerting.
As he entered the campus, he passed a Secret Service agent standing at the corner. Addis said hello. The agent’s nod was barely discernible. Not a good time for these guys, Addis thought.
He considered the other option: a leak from within the White House. That ordinarily would not be a surprise. But he had told no one about the calls, and Hynes-Pierce was not the normal recipient of White House tips. Most were dished out rather strategically to the major national reporters, who were delighted to be accomplices in the turf fights of the President’s courtiers. Addis worried about his Louisiana project.
Black bunting hung at the front of Gaston Hall. Addis entered through the front, amid a stream of students. He shook hands with the few who insisted. He displayed his White House pass and went through a magnetometer. A uniformed officer then patted him down. Everyone had to be searched under the new security precautions.
Only days ago, Hanover had been scheduled to deliver a noontime speech here. He was going to unveil a billion-dollar plan to outfit public grade schools with computers. Smart Schools for Smart Kids—O’Connor had proposed the name. Originally, the money was to come from reductions in corporate welfare. But when word of the cuts had leaked, party and campaign fund-raisers requested that the President protect the subsidies enjoyed by companies that were being generous to the reelection effort. At the White House, Mike Finn, Brew McGreer, Dan Carey, and Addis huddled. We can deal with the details later, Carey had asserted. Announce the general plan. Do not propose specific cuts. Vagueness carried a benefit. The industries threatened would be sure to donate, as long as they believed they still had a chance to preserve their cherished tax preferences. Addis argued for specific cuts so the computer initiative would be regarded seriously. After the aides wrangled, McGreer drafted a memo for the President, suggesting that Hanover order a list of potential cuts for his future consideration. Hanover took the advice.
All that was now moot. Mumfries had placed the program on hold. Instead, he planned to use the occasion for a speech on how the country needed to move past the tragedy. Kelly had decided it would be mandatory for the entire White House senior staff to attend. Mumfries also invited Margaret Hanover.
Addis was directed to the bleachers on the stage. One of Kelly’s aides was running about with a seating chart; there were assigned spots for each staff member.
One big happy family.
Television crews filled the back of the room. M. T. O’Connor took her place next to Addis.
“Nice little show,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Always wanted to be a prop for Sam Mumfries.”
Kelly trundled across the stage, conferring with assistants and Secret Service agents. He pointed McGreer to his seat in the front row of the bleachers. Finn, Byrd, Ann Herson, Hanover’s white-haired secretary, and others were there.
“Don’t see Dan here,” Addis said.
“He’s on the party payroll, so the invitation didn’t apply. Lucky guy.”
That explanation came a little too quick.
“I’m sure,” Addis said. “Getting along with him?”
“This is a nightmare. Mumfries shit-cans computers-in-schools and does a stupid rah-rah instead.”
“No surprise there.”
“Believe me, I have no expectations. But I can still get pissed. You, my friend, don’t seem to give two shits. Everything’s not done and finished. Not yet. Why don’t you care? Yeah, he’s gone. But we’re not.”
“That’s not it,” Addis said.
“What is it?”
I really don’t want to get into it. Really. Believe me, I have a reason. A damn good one. But not now.
“I’m just worn.”
“We don’t have time for that. Kelly’s put one of his factotums into my office. Already, he’s overruling me.”
“You won’t have to do much more scheduling, I guess.”
“Not for this S.O.B.,” O’Connor said.
The student body president was at the podium, explaining the program schedule to the students and warning that they could not leave the hall once the President arrived.
“What have you been doing?” O’Connor asked.
“Not all that much,” Addis said.
“Margaret told me about your project.”
“Well, I haven’t really done a lot on that front, either.”
“Anything there?”
“What does she say?”
“She shrugs, says Bob would know, and wonders why the attacks never stop.”
“They never will,” Addis said. “Especially if she decides to—”
“Tell me if there’s anything, okay?”
Kelly stood in front of the bleachers. He signaled to Addis.
“Thanks for the list,” Kelly said. “The President is meeting with the history boys for dinner tonight. Feel free to stop by—before dinner.”
Addis nodded; Kelly darted off.
“That’s what I’ve been doing,” Addis said to O’Connor. “Helping Kelly feel like he’s so damn smart.”
“One minute,” a voice on the P.A. system said.
The audience went silent. The technicians and assistants cleared the stage. Behind the podium were several empty chairs.
Addis looked at the side of the stage. Margaret Hanover stood with Sally Mumfries and the two Mumfries girls. Jake Grayton was next to Mumfries. Lem Jordan was a few feet behind them. Jordan’s eyes never stayed still. He scanned the crowd, his hands clenched. When Jordan concentrated, Addis had noticed long ago, he tightened his fists.
The student body president returned to the podium.
“Mrs. Sally Mumfries, and Carla and Ruth Mumfries,” he said.
The three women walked on to the stage and sat in the seats behind the podium. There was a rustle in the audience. No one knew whether or not to applaud.
“Mrs. Margaret Mason Hanover,” the student president declared.
She moved toward the center of the stage, holding herself in a regal pose, chin tilted up. She wore a dark-gray dress. Her hair was in its bun. Again, there was an awkward silence. Everyone in the audience seemed to be asking, do you applaud a presidential widow?
“Clap,” O’Connor said softly.
Toward the rear of the hall, a woman stood and began clapping. A few students followed tentatively, applauding but remaining in their seats. More joined in. Several rose to their feet. The applause gained momentum. It grew louder. More students stood. The clapping picked up pace. Addis saw young men and women crying. Then everyone in the hall was standing and applauding. The volume increased.
Margaret had taken a seat next to Sally Mumfries. She nodded to the crowd. The ovation continued. She clasped her hands at chest level. The audience would not stop.
“Speech,” one student cried.
O’Connor was smiling; a tear ran down her cheek. We must be nearing a minute, Addis thought.
Sally Mumfries handed Margaret a handkerchief and said something to her. Margaret stood up, and the applause went on. She walked to the podium. The student president stepped aside. Margaret’s face was red. She wiped her tears with the handkerchief.
“Please, please,” she said into the microphone. “Please.”
The students remained on their feet. The clapping did not cease.
“Please, please,” she repeated.
Slowly, the applause faded. The crowd began to sit.
“Please,” she said once more.
The audience became quiet.
“Thank you. I had not expected to say anything today. But that welcome was—”
She sobbed once. Addis looked at Mumfries. He was standing stoic, off-stage. Kelly was red-faced; he was fidgeting, and looked at his watch. Yes, Ham, Addis said to himself, this is live on the networks and the cable news channels.
“All I can say is thank you. I know our son Jack would appreciate it, if he were here. I can’t wait to tell him about it.”
She paused and again wiped a tear. O’Connor was squeezing Addis’s arm.
“As you know, my husband was supposed to give a speech here today to announce a program that would bring computers to needy children in schools across the country. Though he is no longer with us, I hope that his ideas and ideals will live on. That’s the least we owe him.”
Applause. A few students returned to their feet. Kelly was whispering to Mumfries. Margaret Hanover waited for the crowd to sit.
“And I want to ask each of you—even those who may not have supported his administration—to promise that, in his memory, you will give a little of yourself. This country doesn’t need grieving. It only needs its citizens—especially its young people—to share themselves with the public good. Bob always enjoyed talking to young people.”
Her voice cracked.
“‘They’re more idealistic than we give them credit for,’ he said to me. I know he was right, and I hope all of you will show that he was, and join me in fulfilling that promise.”
Join me? There it was again. How close could she get? Addis wondered.
“So today another President is here to talk about other things. He and Sally have been so supportive of Jack and me. I cannot thank them enough. Our new President has been called to lead our nation in a difficult time. Please keep him in your prayers in the days ahead. Thank you.”
Days, she said. Not weeks, months, or years.
One more standing ovation. It ended when Margaret sat down. The student body president returned to the microphone.
“The President of the United States,” he said. “Samuel Mumfries.”
Mumfries strode toward the podium. The students rose to their feet again. But it was clear: the applause was less enthusiastic. The staff in the bleachers looked at each other. Kelly slapped his hand against his leg. The audience quickly settled down. Fifteen seconds, Addis estimated to himself.
“Amazing,” O’Connor said.
Mumfries took a drink from the glass of water on the podium.
“I just want to thank you all for that heartwarming welcome you gave to Mrs. Hanover,” he said. “She bears a burden that few of us will ever know. I thank her for the support she has given me this past week. And I do hope she will continue to provide us with her valuable counsel. This nation owes her a debt that never can be repaid.”
Nice job, Addis thought.
Mumfries’s speech was predictable. “The sign of a great nation,” he said, “is how it bears adversity.” There were quotes from the Bible—both Old and New Testament. He referred to a passage from Profiles in Courage. He commended to a new generation the most famous line ever uttered by Franklin Delano Roosevelt: “We have nothing to fear …” Nothing about the assassination investigation. Nothing about policy. Nothing about Mumfries’s political intentions. Nothing that galvanized the hall. At the end of the speech, Mumfries received a respectful standing ovation, more obligatory than charged. Addis could envision the network reports this evening. The story would not be Hanover’s attempt to comfort and motivate a nation but a packed auditorium embracing the grieving widow. Emotion trumps content—especially when content’s so thin.
Mumfries was shaking hands with college officials and top faculty members. Grayton was by his side. The White House staff filed out of the bleachers. Addis passed Kelly.
“Good idea, Ham,” he said. “The President gave a fine speech.”
Kelly grunted in reply.
As Mumfries departed the building, reporters shouted questions at him about his political plans. He pretended not to hear and entered a limousine with his wife and children. Margaret got into another car. O’Connor pushed past Addis at the auditorium’s rear exit.
“I’m going to ride back with her,” she said. “You want to come?”
“No, I have my car here.”
“We should talk. Maybe you should talk to Dan, too.”
“About what?”
“What comes next.”
“I’m not sure I want to know. And I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Getting applause as the wife of a slain president is not the same thing as getting votes.”
“Nick, you think this just happened? Come on. Nothing just happens. You should know that. I know you think Dan’s a sleazebag, but he’s smart. And he cares probably more than you think he does. That girl who first started clapping, she was—well, never mind that. You really should talk to Dan.”
O’Connor ran to the motorcade and jumped into the limousine with Margaret. He pictured O’Connor at a shooting range firing a .357 at a silhouette target. That was two years ago on a rare Saturday afternoon off. She had taken him to a gun club in Virginia to explain her fondness for recreational shooting. This short woman with thin arms discharging a weapon—Addis laughed when he remembered how she had yelled out “Boom!” each time she squeezed the trigger.
That was real clever, Addis thought, as he walked back to his car. Seed the audience. One person could set it off. Damn clever.
“Mr. Addis?”
A woman in a Georgetown University sweatshirt, jeans, and a baseball cap was walking at his side.
“Yes,” he said and kept moving.
“Uh, can I, like, talk to you a minute?”
One more person who wants to tell me how sorry they are?
“I have to get back to the White House,” he lied.
“It’s important—kinda.”
He stopped. They were standing by an ivy-covered fence that surrounded an athletic track.
“I knew Allison Meade,” she said.
His face was blank.
“You know, the girl in the hotel, with that reporter.”
“Sorry. I don’t know anything more than what’s been in the paper.”
“I do.”
Addis didn’t know what to say.
“She was a friend, and, uh, we worked together,” she said. The woman was nervous. She took off her cap and twirled it around a finger. Her brown hair was in a pony-tail.
“Where?”
“This is going to sound real weird … . For this service—it’s called an escort service. But it isn’t like what you think. I mean, we don’t do it. It’s like a scam. Or a partial scam. You call up and ask for a girl, and they tell you this is not a sex service. No prostitution. And the guy always says, sure. He thinks, they just got to say that. And they tell you—the girl—where to go. And you get there. And the first thing you say, is, you know, this is not a sex service. You can look. You can talk to me. I can talk to you. I’ll get undressed. And you can do whatever you want without touching me. Or we can go out somewhere. Or I can tell you what to do. You know, some guys—that’s what they really want. But this is not a sex service. And they’re kinda mad, because they didn’t believe it. But you already got their credit card number. So usually they complain but then they find a way to … have fun. Like I said, weird, isn’t it? Some even call back. If they like us.”
A gust of wind blew a newspaper page across the sidewalk. An elderly woman pushing a stroller approached them. Addis said nothing until she passed by.
“No prostitution, then?”
“Not at all. I swear. But I’ve seen some strange shit.”
“And Allison?”
“We sometimes worked together. Like sometimes you get a call for a twofer. Mainly out-of-towners. Lots of foreigners, diplomats. One night the two of us drove around in a limo with these Arab guys. We were naked, except for the fur coats they had us wear. We didn’t get to keep the coats. It was good money, and without having to …”
“Was she out on a job that night?”
“Don’t know. Maybe, I guess. She worked more than I did. She didn’t always tell me what she was up to. But she never mentioned that reporter guy before. It could’ve been a job. But there’s just no way she could’ve known, that she could’ve been involved … .”
She was crying. Her lips were trembling.
“She called that day. But I was out and didn’t get the message until late. I tried to call her, but she was already …”
Her body heaved with the sobs.
“Okay, okay,” Addis said and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go sit down somewhere.”
She told him that she lived a few blocks away.
“Let’s go there,” he said.
He searched his pockets for a tissue. He found none. As they walked, she calmed down. He asked whether she had told anyone else. She had not. She was afraid.
“And the’rents would go ape-shit,” she explained.
“So then why are you—?”
“—I had to tell someone. Hoped that I could find someone, not the police or anyone like them, who could do something and, I guess, keep me …”
“Out of it?”
“Yeah.”
“But why me?”
She nodded. “This is going to sound major sicko. But I always wanted to meet you. You seem so …”
Is this a con? A sorority prank? Are her girlfriends waiting to see if she can bring Nick Addis back to her house?
“ … nice, and I thought … God, this sounds so dumb.”
“No, no,” Addis reassured. He figured he had to ride it out.
“I tried to talk to you the other night, but I got scared.”
The woman in the alley?
“But your hair?”
“Oh, a wig. Got a bunch, for when clients ask for something specific. It’s not like they expect it really to be real.”
The two walked along without talking. Addis studied her face. The chin was pointy. There were dark patches beneath her eyes. She appeared to be in genuine distress. They crossed a cobblestoned street. He realized he had not asked her name.
“Just halfway up,” she said. “A group house. But no one else will be around.” Addis braced himself for whatever surprise might be in store.
When they approached the house, Clarence Dunne was sitting on the stoop. He looked at Addis and then at the woman.
“Gillian Silva?” he asked.