The U.S. Capitol June 30
Addis flipped through the stack of compact discs in Senate Majority Leader Hugh Palmer’s private hideaway office in the Capitol building. It was all reggae. The senator had never publicized his fondness for the music he first encountered as a Peace Corps volunteer in Barbados in the 1960s. He did not believe Iowa voters would appreciate his devotion to ganja music. Only in his most private spots and moments—and this windowless office was one of Washington’s more private locations—did Palmer indulge.
The small television on the desk was turned to an all-news channel, with the volume muted. Video footage of Governor Wesley Pratt appeared. He was standing outside a grocery store in Florida, with several reporters questioning him. Addis turned on the sound.
“I don’t care which one I run against,” Pratt was saying. “But it’s not time to be campaigning. We’re all still mourning. I’ll be going to Washington for the Christian Women’s Association conference. But we’re not campaigning yet. And since you asked, I don’t think there’s much difference there on the key issues. You know, both have said they’re for this anti-Christian trade treaty with China.”
He’s right, Addis thought. With the President gone, would Margaret change her position? Follow her natural instincts? Or would she defend her husband’s decision? Addis guessed that the China treaty was not foremost in her thoughts this week.
“Look at it. We got a country that tortures Christians—imagine being thrown into jail because you worship Jesus Christ—and we’re going to treat them like an equal? I don’t see why any Christian in this country would stand for that. But, we’ll have time to talk about this soon.”
“What do you have to say about the report on the wires that Edwin Hanover, President Hanover’s brother, is supporting you?”
Addis shook his head.
“Listen, I want everybody’s support. And I know he’s a religious man. But where I come from, we stand with our kin. Family first. So I’m happy to pick up votes from anyone, but I don’t want to be a part of anything that brings personal pain to a widow—a woman whose husband made the ultimate sacrifice for our great land. Thanks. Melinda’s shouting at me from the car. I gotta go. We’ll see you soon.”
He’s getting better, Addis thought. If he gave up the heavy Christian stuff, he’d be competitive. Thank God, Addis said to himself, for … God.
He changed channels and stopped when he came to a broadcast of the House of Representatives. Nine days after the assassination and congress had resumed business. A jowly congressman from Houston was in the well. He was the one, Addis recalled, who once got an intern pregnant. “I ask for unanimous consent to revise and extend my remarks,” the legislator said in a booming voice. Only in Washington, Addis mused. You make a speech on the floor of the House and then you can change the transcript before it appears in the Congressional Record. For whatever reason. Add sentences that were never uttered. Remove words that were actually said. Reality and official reality.
Addis thought of a phrase Hanover had liked to use: the king’s truth. Hanover had borrowed the term from the king of Saudi Arabia. In the first year of the administration, the king met with Hanover at the White House. At a subsequent press conference, a reporter asked if Hanover had agreed to help the Saudis set up an electronic surveillance post in northern Saudi Arabia. The king fielded the question. “Nothing was asked for,” he answered. “Nothing was promised. Next question.” He then pointed to a woman from French television.
When Hanover and the king left the East Room, Hanover thanked the king for handling the question. The two had discussed establishing such a base, which was supposed to be a secret installation. The Saudi winked at Hanover and said, “The king’s truth.” Hanover laughed. “Sure could use some of that sometimes,” he replied. With a slim smile, the king remarked, “Comes with the job, Mr. President. Comes with the responsibility. Those with great responsibilities must be permitted to decide what it is for others to know. That may be the most difficult duty of a leader. And, here, it is indeed my truth, for I do not remember any asking or any promise. I remember only a preliminary exchange of views.”
Hanover later told Addis about this conversation, and the phrase became a private joke between them. When Hanover had to respond to an inconvenient disclosure or a White House foul-up, he would look wistfully at Addis and say those three words, but never so anyone else could hear.
Addis switched the television to the Senate channel. Palmer was on the floor, trying to block legislation that would force federal workplace safety officials to provide forty-eight-hour notice to companies before they
conduct on-site inspections. The measure would render safety inspections meaningless, for employers could temporarily remedy any potential violations. Again, Addis thought, his party, imperfect as it was, was at least trying to stop the other side from screwing Americans who do the hard work. Or, that is, a portion of his party was.
When Sal Conditt, Addis’s successor as Palmer’s chief of staff, had escorted Addis to the hideaway, he had informed Addis that Palmer did not believe he had the votes to stop the provision. There were going to be too many defections from their party.
During their walk through the Capitol, Conditt had been as gruff as always. Addis assumed he knew that Addis had advised Palmer not to hire Conditt, a fast-riser at party headquarters and a veteran of several presidential campaigns. Addis considered Conditt to be in the Hamilton Kelly category: professional political guides. These were aides who cared little for policy particulars, except in one respect: that they lead to political success. Addis knew—he was certain of it—that Palmer saw the difference between a Sal Conditt and a Nick Addis. But Addis also realized that a Conditt was tempting to a politician juggling multiple responsibilities, obligations, and desires. A Conditt made life work, the trains run. He rarely asked uncomfortable questions. Who could resist that?
Addis sat in a birchwood rocking chair and looked at the familiar pictures on the wall. Palmer marching for civil rights. Palmer marching against the war. Palmer and his wife and the movie actress, whose advances Palmer admirably had not accepted. Addis thought about the days when these hideaway offices—reserved for senior members of Congress—were occupied by the old southern bulls. When Addis first worked on the Hill, there were still porters and janitors who could pass on stories of that era. The prodigious booze sessions. The all-night poker marathons. The brawl that left one senator with one less tooth. And all the women granted individual tours of these private areas: aides, receptionists, constituents, lobbyists, interns, and prostitutes. One porter, since retired, told Addis about a janitor who once came upon a senator alone, naked and bound in his hideaway. Addis asked which legislator that had been. “I can tell a story and still keep a secret,” the porter said.
Addis looked at the small refrigerator in the corner. He knew it contained only bottles of spring water.
Palmer burst into the office.
“Shit,” he said. “Lost Sterling and Canton. That probably does it.”
He dragged his hands through his thick, gray hair. His legs still look half-a-foot too long for the rest of his body, Addis told himself.
“Did you have commitments?” Addis asked.
“Yes, I had fucking commitments from them. But I don’t have an army of cell-phone-carrying, god-damn lobbyists who give them money and
tell them how to vote. You try holding this party together. Talk about a dysfunctional family. Hell, I have the widows of those poor S.O.B.s killed in that chicken factory fire in North Carolina in the gallery. And it doesn’t mean diddley. Reed and Mahr wouldn’t even see them when they went to their offices.”
“Do you think it’d be different if he was still … ?”
Palmer threw his jacket on the couch and sat behind the desk. He grabbed a handful of roasted peanuts from a jar.
“Don’t know, Nick,” he said, as he cracked open a shell. “He would have had to push these bastards hard. And, you know, rest-in-peace and all that, but he wasn’t always so good at pushing for the right things … . I did call Brew and asked if the White House could do something. He seemed a slight bit distracted.”
“He’s trying hard to hold on.”
“And then I tried to get Alter to say something. As if Treasury—or he—cares. There’s no corn growing there.”
“And Mumfries, on his own, sure as hell won’t.”
Palmer sighed. “It’s just not easy doing what’s right. And I got to get back there soon. Sal already chewed me out for taking time to talk to you. He feels threatened whenever we spend time alone. So what do you have on your mind that you don’t want to put on a telephone line?”
“It’s about the assassination.”
“Got briefed on the phone by Grayton. Don’t much care for that one. And the commission’s meeting soon. They’re going give us the whole dogand-pony show when we get together. Fucking nutcases. At least this isn’t going to help Pratt, Gravitt and those yahoos who want more guns out there and who dump on big government all the time.”
Palmer crunched several peanuts against the desktop.
“So what then?” he asked.
“I don’t think they got it right.”
Palmer did not reply at once. He peeled several nuts and ate a handful.
“What’s not right, Nick?” he asked.
“The story.”
“What part of the story? And how, may I ask, do we know this?”
Addis gathered his thoughts.
“I’m not sure about everything. Clarence Dunne was looking into this. So was this woman at the CIA. They tracked down Dawkins before anything was announced. I don’t think it had anything to do with a white supremacist, antigovernment thing. And while they were doing this, the CIA woman—”
“Does she have a name?”
“Yes, it’s Julia Lancette … . Someone tried to run her off the G.W. Parkway. And you saw what happened to Dunne—”
“Still unconscious in the hospital?”
“Last I heard … . Also, a friend of the Georgetown student killed in the Mayflower—she was hit by a car on her bicycle, hours after she told me and Clarence that she and her friend worked for a bizarre escort business.”
“A what?”
“I don’t know. And then the fellow who ran the service was killed, too.”
“Nick, you’ve been working overtime.”
“Senator, it just kind of happened.”
“And the proof that these deaths may be connected?” Palmer asked.
“Basically, just that woman’s—”
“The bicycle rider?”
“Yes, her word.”
“But she was a … and now she’s—”
“Yes,” Addis said.
“And the CIA?”
“Someone inside, a psychiatrist, told Julia that he once treated a guy with the same tattoo found on the assassin. It probably was Dawkins. Which could mean the Agency’s somehow connected. And they killed his report on this.”
“Okay, okay,” Palmer said.
He placed a row of peanuts on his desk and applied his palm to each one, breaking them open in succession.
“Nick, here’s the question I have for you: Why are you telling me?”
Addis blinked. He rubbed his chin. He thought it was obvious. He began to worry.
“Well … you’re on the presidential commission on the assassination.”
“Yes, I am. But I’d have to be a damn fool to say a single syllable about the CIA being involved in the assassination unless I got something we lawyers call evidence. You got five thousand FBI agents chasing after every turd Morrison and Dawkins ever kicked out. Everyone’s swarming over what happened to Clarence. Do you know for certain if he was out last night doing something that was part of this little independent investigation you two got going?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So I think it would be premature for me to say that the attack on poor Clarence was connected. And then there’s the CIA. I dislike the pricks there as much as anyone. Except for Wenner. I like him fine, but he can’t control his own gang. Like a rabbit in charge of mules. Or maybe it’s the other way around. But I can’t start to say boo about them. Even at one of our own meetings. I do, and it will leak. Don’t you think Gravitt would
get a horse’s boner, telling a reporter I was accusing the CIA of something like that? It’s a no-brainer for him. Either I look like I’m batty, or the administration is implicated in this god-awful thing. And what else can I do? Tell Wenner. Tell Mumfries. Hell, Nick, you could do that yourself. You could hold a press conference right now on the steps of the Capitol. I’ll pick up this phone here—”
Palmer lifted the receiver.
“Hello? Press gallery? Please notify everyone that Mr. Nicholai Addis, senior adviser to the President of the United States, wishes to meet with the congressional press corps in two-and-a-half minutes … . We can whip up a fine audience for you, Nick. But seems to me you have stories, not proof. Damn interesting stories. But I’m not going to be your storyteller.”
He put the receiver down. The line rang. Palmer put the phone to his ear. “Fuck them!” he said. “Tell them that I better not see their backsides at the next caucus meeting crying about how the transportation grant formula screws their states.”
He slammed the phone.
“Lewis and Davis. Lost them, too … . Nick, there’s something else.”
He scooped up the peanut shells and dumped them in a metal garbage can.
“Haven’t even told Sal this yet. But I will … . Kelly called last night. Asked if I was free enough of ‘obligations’ to talk to Sam about the future. I said I was plenty free. Sam called me twenty minutes later. Said that Rick Torrie is going to be leaving by the election. They found a lump in Suzy’s breast. So Sam asked if I would consider being Secretary of State.”
Addis’s stomach tightened.
“He said, ‘Sure, we’ve had our differences. And we’ll have plenty more. But if you think you can work with me, let’s give it a try.”
“And you just have to declare your support … .”
“He did ask if we could announce this soon. Before the convention. Said he had other Cabinet changes. Wants to do them all at once—”
“And make sure that Margaret can’t …”
“You know, Nick, I honestly don’t think it’s a good idea for her.”
“What did she offer you, Senator?”
“Damnit, Nick, I’ll never get you to call me Hugh, will I?”
“Not while you’re in office.”
Palmer placed his hands behind the back of the chair.
“Nothing, Nick. Nothing at all. Which was fine with me. But she didn’t even say anything about Vice President. I don’t think she’s put any thought to it yet. Which shows she shouldn’t be doing this.”
“And you told Mumfries?”
“That I was honored by the invitation. That I would have to talk to Shirley about it. That I would let him know tomorrow morning.”
“And you’re thinking …”
“Look at those god-damn baboons down there.”
Palmer threw a handful of peanuts at the television screen.
“They don’t give a god-damn shit if somebody’s husband or wife who makes minimum wage plucking feathers from a carcass gets roasted alive because a fucking supervisor bolts shut a fire door so employees can’t sneak out for a smoke.”
“And you’re thinking …”
“That I’d like to leave the zoo and join the circus.”
“But Mumfries. It’s not like he’d be voting right on this bill.”
“Better to worry about one clown than ninety-nine.”
“Well, then, congratulations, Secretary-designate.”
“Fuck you, Nick,” he said with a laugh.
“And all those differences Mumfries mentioned?”
“One trapeze at a time.”
And don’t forget the mountains of elephant shit. Accepting the China trade accord. Retreating on global warming negotiations. Forcing foreign ministers of Third World countries to adopt austerity budgets in return for loans.
“Good luck, then,” Addis said.
“And I know you mean it.”
“I do.”
There was a knock, and Conditt opened the door. “Excuse me for being the schmuck you pay me to be,” he said, “but you should get back there if you want to keep a loss from turning into a massacre.”
Conditt shut the door.
“You got to love him,” Palmer said. He stood up and grabbed one more handful of peanuts.
“Not really,” Addis said.
“Call me later if you need to. And if you find anything hard … take it to another commission member.”
Palmer laughed and straightened his tie.
“Just kidding. If you come up with something solid, I’ll be there for you. But it has to be solid. Feel free to use the phone if you need to. And help yourself.” He left the office.
“Thank you, Senator,” Addis said to no one. “Thank you very much.”
Addis exited the rear of the Capitol and walked through the plaza. He felt the heat rising from the asphalt and looked toward the sky. No clouds today. He saw the Statue of Freedom—a woman wearing flowing draperies, her hand resting on the hilt of a sword—atop the Capitol dome. She faced east, out of the city, not toward the Mall, not toward the White
House—as if she were considering an escape from the capital city, perhaps peering toward a place of refuge in the distinctly nonfederal and dilapidated neighborhoods beyond Capitol Hill. Addis wondered why he had never noticed this before.