Landon almost turned his head toward the door to see whether the White House photographer had slipped in behind him.
“I don’t see a filibuster in the works,” Duncan said. “None of the Democrats would even mention the word on the Sunday talk shows.”
“Still, all it takes is one and we’ll have a constitutional showdown. It’s one thing to filibuster a district court judge, another to filibuster a justice of the Supreme Court.”
Duncan returned to his desk. He picked up the telephone and pressed the intercom. He listened, and then said, “I need you in here.”
Stuart Sheridan, Duncan’s chief of staff, entered less than a minute later carrying a yellow legal pad, his pen already poised.
“We need some talking points,” Duncan told him. “This nuclear option threat is sounding stale. We need something that’ll turn a filibuster into a turd nobody’ll want to touch.”
Sheridan tapped the pen against the pad and closed his eyes, then he opened them and smiled. “Tyranny of the minority.”
“Brilliant,” Duncan said, grinning. “Tyranny of the minority. FOX News will go rabid on the Democrats with that one.”
Duncan laughed, and then grinned at Landon. “Did you see the head of the Democratic National Committee on FOX last night?”
Landon shook his head. “I was at a fund-raiser.”
“Hilarious. Every time they cut to a commercial, it was for Preparation H.” Duncan slapped his hands together. “Hilarious. I’ll bet Wyeth Pharmaceuticals didn’t even ask for it. A couple hundred grand of advertising and it probably didn’t cost them a dime.”
Landon didn’t smile in return.
Sheridan pushed through the awkward moment by turning the conversation back to strategy.
“After we do the tyranny of the minority,” Sheridan said, “we’ll send the vice president out to compare the Democrats to the Sunnis in Iraq under Saddam. A minority dictatorship.”
“And then…” The excitement rose again in Duncan’s voice. “And then we wait a couple of days and add something like: Why did we fight for democracy in Iraq only to lose it at home?”
Landon spoke up. “Isn’t that somewhat excessive, Mr. President? The Democrats aren’t traitors.”
“We aren’t calling them that. We’re just making it a matter of majority rule.”
“I’d be careful how far you push the analogy,” Landon said. “The other side will surely point out it’s only the vice president’s vote that gives us the majority and we’ve used the filibuster ourselves a hundred times. And look at the polls. Less than fifty percent want the nominees confirmed.”
“Plus a margin of error of four percent,” Sheridan said.
“Or minus a margin of error of four percent. And how about the rest of the data? A majority favors abortion. Seventy percent of the public believes innocent people are being executed. Seventy-two percent want stricter gun control. And only thirty-six percent think you’re doing even a half-decent job. We need to be careful about how we construct our talking points.”
“You’re not getting weak-kneed on this, are you, Landon?”
“No, Mr. President. Sometimes we have to do what’s in the people’s interest even if they don’t recognize it at the time, and this is one of those moments.”
D uncan looked over at Sheridan after the door closed behind Landon.
“Did you hear his speech to the Press Club yesterday morning?” Duncan asked.
Sheridan shook his head.
“I couldn’t tell whether it was brilliant or just bullshit.” Duncan opened a folder on his desk. “Listen to this: ‘Conditional charity for the poor, not a free lunch… Return matters of governance to the states, reserve for the federal government matters of national character… A humble foreign policy aimed at retilting the trade balance, not at leveling every Islamic dictator.’ ” Duncan closed the folder. “Conditional charity? What the devil does that mean?”
“I think it means the poor eat at the Salvation Army instead of at the public trough.”
Duncan laughed. “Once you translate it into plain English, it sounds like what every Republican president has been saying since Reagan.”
Sheridan shrugged. “Saying and doing are two different things.”
“Except I have a feeling if Meyer gets elected, they’ll be exactly the same.”
It was Sheridan’s turn to laugh. “You mean he’ll be a one-term president?”
“Better a one-term messianic Republican who knows what he believes than a one-term Democrat who navigates by polls and focus groups.”
Chapter 68
"Graham,” Tansy Amaro said into the intercom, “Senator Meyer’s office is calling.”
“I guess the pipsqueak went running to his big brother,” Gage said. “I’ll take it.”
Gage punched the flashing button on his desk phone.
“This is Graham Gage.”
“This is Landon.”
“Sorry, I thought I was speaking to your secretary.”
“Since when do we have people running interference for us?”
“I assume you’re running interference for your little brother this time.”
“Interference?”
“He didn’t call you?”
“This concerns him, but not because he called. It was something else. A call from a maniac in San Francisco.”
“Which maniac?”
“The poisoner. Porzolkiewski. He called my office ranting about Brandon. That Brandon killed his son or covered up for the TIMCO people who killed his son. He threatened to go to the press. My secretary promised him I would look into it personally and I’d ask someone to visit him in jail by this time tomorrow.”
“Why me?”
“Brandon said you’ve gotten to know Porzolkiewski.”
“How did he find out?”
“He didn’t say, but I need to put a lid on this thing. I can’t have this kind of grief right now, assuming the media listens to him.”
“Trust me. They’ll listen to him. Maybe not now, but eventually. Do you know the DA’s theory about the case?”
“Only what’s been in the press. I heard a couple of reporters were trying to find a connection between Charlie Palmer and TIMCO, but I assume they gave up. The only story recently was about Porzolkiewski saying he wanted time to hire a lawyer.”
“I’ll tell you the answer, as long as you keep it to yourself.”
“What about Porzolkiewski?”
“I’ll quiet him down.”
“Okay. Just between you and me.”
“I think Brandon and Anston have been involved in a few things that may slop back-”
“Maybe we should talk in person.”
“Where?”
“I’ll be in Des Moines tomorrow.”
“W hat did you think you were going to accomplish?”
“I don’t know,” Porzolkiewski said, “I don’t know what I was doing. Maybe it was a substitute for not having a gun to blow my brains out.”
Porzolkiewski stared down at the table, as if embarrassed by his own weakness.
“Just listen to the noise in this place,” Porzolkiewski said. “I don’t understand why more people aren’t committing suicide in here.”
Only then did Gage’s mind register the yelling and clanging that composed the relentless gray background noise of the jail.
Porzolkiewski finally looked up. “You’re the reason I’m locked up in this joint.”
Gage shook his head. “Like I planted the poison in your storeroom?”
“No. You got them to search for it. How do I know you’re not in it with them?”
“In with who?”
“Brandon Meyer and Marc Anston. You sure as hell aren’t doing anything to get me out of here.”
“Tell me what I should be doing.”
Porzolkiewski spread his arms. “How should I know, you’re the investigator.” He tapped his chest. “I’m just the schmuck who pushed his kid too hard.”
Gage squinted at Porzolkiewski. “Now you’re blaming yourself because he took the job at TIMCO?”
Porzolkiewski’s shoulders slumped, and then he exhaled and said, “Now that you repeat it back, it sounds stupid.”