“And what firm is that?”
“The new one.”
“Help me out here, Mr. Backman.”
“I’m opening a new firm, the Backman Group, offices here, New York, and San Francisco. We’ll have six partners initially, should be up to twenty in a year or so.”
“Who are these people?”
“Oh, I can’t name them now. We’re hammering out the details, negotiating the fine points, pretty sensitive stuff. We plan to cut the ribbon on the first of May, should be a big splash.”
“No doubt. This will not be a law firm?”
“No, but we plan to add a legal section later.”
“I thought you lost your license when...”
“I did, yes. But with the pardon, I’m now eligible to sit for the bar exam again. If I get a hankering to start suing people, then I’ll brush up on the books and get a license. Not in the near future, though, there’s just too much work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“Getting this thing off the ground, raising capital, and, most important, meeting with potential clients.”
“Could you give me the names of some clients?”
“Of course not, but just hang on for a few weeks and that information will be available.”
The phone on the desk rang, and Backman frowned at it. “Just a second. It’s a call I’ve been waiting on.” He walked over and picked it up. Sandberg heard, “Backman, yes, hello, Bob. Yes, I’ll be in New York tomorrow. Look, I’ll call you back in an hour, okay? I’m in the middle of something.” He hung up and said, “Sorry about that.”
It was Neal, calling as planned, at exactly 9:15, and he would call every ten minutes for the next hour.
“No problem,” said Sandberg. “Let’s talk about your pardon. Have you seen the stories about the alleged buying of presidential pardons?”
“Have I seen the stories? I have a defense team in place, Dan. My guys are all over this. If and when the feds manage to put together a grand jury, if they ever get that far, I’ve informed them that I want to be the first witness. I have absolutely nothing to hide, and the suggestion that I paid for a pardon is actionable at law.”
“You plan to sue?”
“Absolutely. My lawyers are preparing a massive libel action now against The New York Times and that hatchet man, Heath Frick. It’ll be ugly. It’ll be a nasty trial, and they’re gonna pay me a bunch of money.”
“You’re sure you want me to print that?”
“Hell yes! And while we’re at it, I commend you and your newspaper for the restraint you’ve shown so far. It’s rather unusual, but admirable nonetheless.”
Sandberg’s story of this visit to the presidential suite was big enough to begin with. Now, however, it had just been thrust onto the front page, tomorrow morning.
“Just for the record, you deny paying for the pardon?”
“Categorically, vehemently denied. And I’ll sue anybody who says I did.”
“So why were you pardoned?”
Backman reshifted his weight and was about to launch into a long one when the door buzzer erupted. “Ah, breakfast,” he said, jumping to his feet. He opened the door and a white-jacketed waiter pushed in a cart holding caviar and all the trimmings, scrambled eggs with truffles, and a bottle of Krug champagne in a bucket of ice. While Backman signed the check the waiter opened the bottle.
“One glass or two?” the waiter asked.
“A glass of champagne, Dan?”
Sandberg couldn’t help but glance at his watch. Seemed a bit early to start with the booze, but then why not? How often would he be sitting in the presidential suite looking over at the White House sipping on bubbly that cost $300 a bottle? “Sure, but just a little.”
The waiter filled two glasses, put the Krug back in the ice, and left the room just as the phone rang again. This time it was Randall from Boston, and he’d have to sit by the phone for another hour while Backman finished his business.
He slammed down the receiver and said, “Eat a bite, Dan, I ordered enough for the both us.”
“No, thanks, I had a bagel earlier.” He took the champagne and had a drink.
Backman dipped a wafer into a $500 pile of caviar and stuck it in his mouth, like a teenager with a corn chip and salsa. He chomped on it as he paced, glass in hand.
“My pardon?” he said. “I asked President Morgan to review my case. Frankly, I didn’t think he had any interest, but he’s a very astute person.”
“Arthur Morgan?”
“Yes, very underrated as a president, Dan. He didn’t deserve the shellacking he got. He will be missed. Anyway, the more Morgan studied the case, the more concerned he became. He saw through the government’s smoke screen. He caught their lies. As an old defense lawyer himself, he understood the power of the feds when they want to nail an innocent person.”
“Are you saying you were innocent?”
“Absolutely. I did nothing wrong.”
“But you pled guilty.”
“I had no choice. First, they indicted me and Jacy Hubbard on bogus charges. We didn’t budge. ‘Bring on the trial,’ we said. ‘Give us a jury.’ We scared the feds so bad that they did what they always do. They went after our friends and families. Those gestapo idiots indicted my son, Dan, a kid fresh out of law school who knew nothing about my files. Why didn’t you write about that?”
“I did.”
“Anyway, I had no choice but to take the fall. It became a badge of honor for me. I pled guilty so all charges would be dropped against my son and my partners. President Morgan figured this out. That’s why I was pardoned. I deserved it.”
Another wafer, another mouthful of gold, another slurp of Krug to wash it all down. He was pacing back and forth, jacket off now, a man with many burdens to unload. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Enough about the past, Dan. Let’s talk about tomorrow. Look at that White House over there. Have you ever been there for a state dinner, black tie, marine color guard, slinky ladies in beautiful gowns?”
“No.”
Backman was standing in the window, gazing at the White House. “Twice I’ve done that,” he said with a trace of sadness. “And I’ll be back. Give me two, maybe three years, and one day they’ll hand deliver a thick invitation, heavy paper, gold embossed lettering: The President and First Lady request the honor of your presence...”
He turned and looked smugly at Sandberg. “That’s power, Dan. That’s what I live for.”
Good copy, but not exactly what Sandberg was after. He jolted the broker back to reality with a sharp “Who killed Jacy Hubbard?”
Backman’s shoulders dropped and he walked to the ice bucket for another round. “It was a suicide, Dan, plain and simple. Jacy was humiliated beyond belief. The feds destroyed him. He just couldn’t handle it.”
“Well, you’re the only person in town who believes it was a suicide.”
“And I’m the only person who knows the truth. Print that, would you.”
“I will.”
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Frankly, Mr. Backman, your past is much more interesting than your future. I have a pretty good source that tells me that you were pardoned because the CIA wanted you released, that Morgan caved under pressure from Teddy Maynard, and that they hid you somewhere so they could watch and see who nailed you first.”
“You need new sources.”
“So you deny—”
“I’m here!” Backman spread his arms so Sandberg could see everything. “I’m alive! If the CIA wanted me dead, then I’d be dead.” He swallowed some champagne, and said, “Find a better source. You want some eggs? They’re getting cold.”
“No thanks.”
Backman scooped a large serving of scrambled eggs onto a small plate and ate them as he moved around the room, from window to window, never too far away from his view of the White House. “They’re pretty good, got truffles.”