“You’re here to discuss the congressional subpoena that’s rumored to make an appearance next week,” he told her.
“I am.”
“I have executive immunity. They can’t compel me to appear at an investigative hearing.”
“Let’s think this through, Jonathan. Yes, you can claim executive privilege. But the investigation is centered on activities that predate your time in office. They have nothing to do with the presidency itself. Which means you’ll be hard-pressed to claim immunity.”
Donahue-Carr was a former constitutional lawyer and never tired of reminding him about it.
He swirled his wine, checked its legs.
“The constitutional demands of due process of the law are going to outweigh executive privilege here,” she continued. “This isn’t some penny-ante case, Jonathan. It’s a multibillion-dollar investigation. And leaving questions unanswered — questions about relationships with defense contractors — we can’t afford that.”
“Careful, Vicky, you sound like you believe what you’re reading on the Huffington Post.”
“Wilson, Truman, Ford, TR — all of them testified before Congress,” she said. “Even fucking Lincoln.”
She was growing exasperated. Exasperated was good. It made people ineffective and careless. He noted that she was gripping the back of the chair. Still, he did not invite her to sit.
“Voluntarily,” he said calmly. “They appeared voluntarily.” He took another sip. “I can ignore a subpoena.”
“Can,” she said. “But shouldn’t. There’s talk of impeachment.”
“Impeachment.” He allowed himself a rare chuckle. “It didn’t matter for Andrew Johnson. Didn’t matter for Clinton. And it won’t matter for me. Impeachment of the president of the United States has a perfect record: oh for two.”
“The sample size is hardly reassuring.”
He set down his fork and his knife, streaked with organ meat. “When I first took office, they were serving on the Reagans’ china pattern. Bold red border rimmed with a gold band. I found it too … obvious. So I went with the Wilson service here.” He picked up his plate and tilted it so the food slid off and plopped onto the tablecloth. He displayed the smudged face of the china. “The first one to be manufactured in the United States.”
Donahue-Carr took in the sight.
“You know what both plates have in common?” he asked.
“The Presidential Seal,” she said.
“That’s right,” he said. “In case I forget who I am.” He set down the plate, thumbed the outer band of matte gold encrusted with stars and stripes. “The thing is? I don’t forget. Not for a single moment since I put my hand on that Bible. Ask a dozen people what the president’s job is and you’ll get a dozen answers. But above all else, the job of the president is to demonstrate order. To maintain security. To project power. That keeps citizens from the realm of chaos. It keeps them from having to contemplate the realm of chaos. It keeps them happy and industrious, minding the laws of the land and paying their taxes and letting the grown-ups do what needs to be done. Having the president hauled before Congress undermines those American necessities.”
“I’m not sure you’re aware of just how bad public sentiment is, Jonathan. You’re balanced on a seesaw right now. One step the wrong way and the whole thing tilts. There’s only so much we can sustain.”
“We?” He looked up at her. “Because I’m feeling like I’m the one doing all the sustaining these days, Vicky. So when you say there’s only so much we can sustain, do you mean our ticket? Or our party?”
“I mean the country.”
As soon as the words escaped, he saw the regret writ large on her face. The wrinkles around her eyes had rearranged themselves, her lips taut and bloodless.
So there it was. He’d pushed her buttons and forced an outburst, and the truth was laid bare. She’d shown that her loyalty, already worn down from the attrition of the past years, had grown dangerously thin.
Helpful data.
He couldn’t stretch the fabric of his influence so tightly that it gave way. And judging from the expression on his vice president’s face, it was reaching that point. If she turned on him, the whole house of cards would collapse.
“I’ll take your counsel under advisement, Vicky,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
She started out.
“John Nance Garner said the vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit,” Bennett said. “It’s likely apocryphal, but hell, you catch the drift. I don’t think that’s a fair characterization of the office. Do you?”
Donahue-Carr cleared her throat. “No, I don’t.”
“After all,” Bennett said, “you’ve done your job for me. You delivered Pennsylvania twice. And we squeezed just enough mileage out of that one-eighth of you that’s Venezuelan to get over the hump with the Hispanics. Didn’t we?”
The rims of her nostrils reddened, but she held her composure admirably. “We did.”
“The unions have your respect. That proved helpful. And your track record gave me cover against concerns that I was in bed with Wall Street. You’re pretty but not threatening. That helped bring men to the polls while not putting women off. I owe you for that as well.”
When he slid his chair out, it made a scuffing sound on the square-patterned rug. He stood, set his napkin beside his plate. “What do all those benefits you offer have in common?”
Her breathing had quickened, the rise of her chest visible. “I don’t know.”
“They’re all in the past. I’ve won both of my elections already. You’d do well to remain useful to me in the future.”
Her nod was more like a tremor. “I understand, Mr. President.”
She exited, her footfall quicker than before.
17
Stray Dogs
Evan dined a few blocks from Castle Heights at a restaurant specializing in “New American” cuisine, a designation he found simultaneously meaningless and redundant. Sitting at the patio’s edge, he ordered a whole branzino roasted in a parchment wrap with a side of steamed kale. Though the bar offerings were extensive, none of the vodkas rose to his palate, so he opted for Pellegrino, which he drank garnished with a wedge of lime.
It was a consummate Angeleno night — warm edging into cool, neither too dry nor too humid, a soothing breeze. Looking into his glass, he pictured Jonathan Bennett’s face swirling behind the bubbles and wondered what the president was doing at this very moment across the breadth of the continent. Readying battle plans of his own? Gathering intel on the other wayward Orphans so they could be put down like stray dogs?
Sipping from his glass, Evan registered the sting of betrayal as something physical, a knife between the ribs. He was reviled by the country he’d served, unwanted and deemed not worthy of living, hunted on the authority of orders issued at the highest level.
They had made him who he was and then found their creation to be unacceptable.
His pleasures now were simple. Using his skills to help those not merely in need but also worthy. And sipping sparkling water alfresco on a glorious California night.
He engaged in a quiet sitting meditation, timing his inhalation, doubling the count for his exhalation. And again.
The Fourth Commandment: Never make it personal.
This would be a mission like any other.
Except infinitely harder.
He checked the RoamZone, confirming that the display showed no missed calls, which brought a wave of relief.
He settled back in his chair, scanning the restaurant. Eating by himself gave him the freedom to study everything around him even more closely. One of the regulars, an older woman, sat alone in her usual booth. Stiff tweed suit, face done up, cell phone on the table. She drank a single glass of white wine with dinner every time. She always overtipped. The phone never rang.