Lake was already forming them. Hundreds of PAC's, all flush with more cash than any election had ever seen. The shock was now completely gone, replaced by the sheer excitement of the idea. A thousand questions raced through his mind: WhQ'll be my Vice President? Who'll run the campaign? Chief of stag? Where to announce? "It might work." he said, under control.
"Oh yes. It'll work, Mr. Lake. Trust me. We've been panning this for some time."
"How many people know about it?"
"Just a few.You've been carefully chosen, Mr. Lake. We examined mate potential candidates, and your name kept rising to the top.We've checked your background."
"Pretty dull, huh?"
"I suppose. Although your relationship with Ms. Valotti concerns me. She's been divorced twice and likes painkillers."
"Didn't know I had a relationship with Ms. Valotti."
"You've been seen with her recently."
"You guys are watching, aren't you?"
"You expect something less?"
"I guess not."
"You took her to a black-tie cry-a-thon for oppressed women in Afghanistan. Gimme a break." Teddy's words were suddenly short and dripping with sarcasm.
"I didn't want to go."
"Then don't. Stay away from that crap. Leave it for Hollywood Valotti's nothing but trouble."
"Anybody else?" Lake asked, more than a little defensive. His private life had been pretty dull since he'd become a widower. He was suddenly proud of it.
"Not really." Teddy said. "Ms. Benchly seems to be quite stable and makes a lovely escort."
"Oh, thank you very much."
"You'll get hammered on abortion, but you won't be the first."
"It's a tired issue," Lake said. And he was tired of grappling with it. He'd been for abortions, against abortions, soft on reproductive rights, tough on reproductive rights, pro-choice, pro-child, anti-women, embraced by the feminists. In his fourteen years on Capitol Hill he'd been chased all over the abortion minefield, getting bloodied with each new strategic move.
Abortion didn't scare him anymore, at least not at the moment. He was much more concerned with the CIA sniffing through his background.
"What about GreenTree?" he asked.
Teddy waved his right hand as if it was nothing. "Twenty-two years ago. Nobody got convicted. Your partner went bankrupt and got himself indicted, but the jury let him walk. It'll come up; everything will come up. But fiankly, Mr. Lake, we'll keep the attention diverted elsewhere. There's an advantage in jumping in at the last minute. The press won't have too much time to dig up dirt."
"I'm single. We've elected an unmarried president only once."
"You're a widower, the husband.of a very lovely lady who was well respected both here and back home. It won't be an issue. Trust me."
"So what worries you?"
"Nothing, Mr. Lake. Not a thing.You're a solid candidate, very electable. We'll create the issues and the fear, and we'll raise the money."
Lake stood again, walked around the room rubbing his hair, scratching his chin, trying to clear his head. "I have a lot of questions." he said.
"Maybe I can answer some of them. Let's talk again tomorrow, right here, same time. Sleep on it, Mr. Lake. Time is crucial, but I suppose a man should have twenty-four hours before making such a decision." Teddy actually smiled when he said this.
"That's a wonderful idea. Let me think about it. I'll have an answer tomorrow"
"No one knows we've had this little chat."
"Of course not."
THREE
In terms of space, the law library occupied exactly one fourth of the square footage of the entire Trumble library. It was in a corner, partitioned off by a wall of red brick and glass, tastefully done at taxpayer expense. Inside the law library, shelves of well-used books stood packed together with barely enough room for an inmate to squeeze between them. Around the walls were desks covered with typewriters and computers and sufficient research clutter to resemble any big-firm library.
The Brethren ruled the law library. All inmates were allowed to use it, of course, but there was an unwritten policy that one needed permission to stay there for any length of time. Maybe not permission, but at least notice.
Justice Joe Roy Spicer of Mississippi earned forty cents an hour sweeping the floors and straightening the desks and shelves. He also emptied the trash, and was generally considered to be a pig when it came to his menial tasks. Justice Hatlee Beech of Texas was the official law librarian, and at fifty cents an hour was the highest paid. He was fastidious about "his volumes," and often bickered with Spicer about their care. Justice Finn Yarber, once of the California Supreme Court, was paid twenty cents an hour as a computer technician. His pay was at the bottom of the scale because he knew so little about computers.
On a typical day,. the three spent between six and eight hours in the law library. If a Trumble inmate had a legal problem, he simply made an appointment with one of the Brethren and visited their little suite. Hadee Beech was an expert on sentencing and appeals. Finn Yarber did bankruptcies, divorces, and child support cases. Joe Roy Spicer, with no formal legal training, had no real specialty. Nor did he want one. He ran the scams.
Strict rules prohibited the Brethren from charging fees for their legal work, but the strict rules meant little. They were, after all, convicted felons, and if they could quietly pick up some cash on the outside then everyone would be happy. Sentencing was a moneymaker. About a fourth of the inmates who arrived at Trumble had been improperly sentenced. Beech could review the records overnight and find the loopholes. A month earlier, he had knocked four years off the sentence of a young man who'd been given fifteen. The family had agreed to pay, and the Brethren earned $5,000, their biggest fee to date. Spicer arranged the secret deposit through their lawyer in Neptune Beach.
There was a cramped conference room in the back of the law library, behind the shelves and barely visible from the main room. The door to it had a large glass window, but no one bothered to look in. The Brethren retired there for quiet business. They called it their chamber.
Spicer had just met with their lawyer and he had mail, some really good letters. He dosed the door and removed an envelope from a file. He waved it for Beech and Yarber to see. "It's yellow." he said. "Ain't that sweet? It's for Ricky"
"Who's it from?" Yarber asked.
"Curbs from Dallas."
"The banker?" Beech asked excitedly.
"No, Curtis owns the jewelry stores. Listen." Spicer unfolded the letter, also on soft yellow stationery. He smiled and cleared his throat and began to read: " `Dear Ricky: Your letter of January eighth made me cry. I read it three times before I put it down.You poor boy Why are they keeping you there?"
"Where is he?" askedYarber.
"Ricky's locked down in a fancy drug rehab unit his rich uncle is paying for. He's been in for a year, is dean and fiilly rehabbed, but the terrible people who run the place won't release him until April because they've been collecting twenty thousand dollars a month from his rich uncle, who just wants him locked away and won't send any spending money. Do you remember any of this?"
"Now I do."
"You helped with the fiction. May I proceed?"
"Please do."
Spicer continued reading: " `I'm tempted to fly down there and confront those evil people myself. And your uncle, what a loser! Rich people like him think they can just send money and not get involved.
As I told you, my father was quite wealthy, and he was the most miserable person I've ever known. Sure he bought me things-objects that were temporary and meant nothing when they were gone. But he never had time for me. He was a sick man, just like your uncle. I've enclosed a check for a thousand dollars if you need anything from the commissary.