Big Ugly

Chapter One

The first sinkhole was dug for me by Happy Gilliam, the chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee.

I never should have laughed at what Happy said. He didn't intend it as a joke, but it was so politically incorrect, it just tickled my funny bone.

"I live for the fund-raising, frankly," was what he said. "It's my favorite part of the job. In fact, it's the only part of the job I like."

I was the only member of the caucus who laughed. Maybe that should have told me something.

Gilliam had to know if these words were repeated to the media by any of the dozen senators present, they could have a major negative impact on his presidential campaign. Yet he was not worried about leaks, and he was right. The necessity for constant fund-raising made every member of the Senate kith and kin. We were all, every one of us, Democrat and Republican, parties to a vast conspiracy against the laity, more particularly against donors, and most particularly of all against donors who were also lobbyists.

So Happy Gilliam, part Sioux and part millionaire, one-time national trapshooting champion, now the people's champion from the Texas panhandle, spoke freely: "When I was in private practice, I got to have truck with smart, rich, well-educated folk all day long. Now -- whew!" He mopped his huge, handsome eyebrows. "Now I can't wait for the fund-raisers. Come on six o'clock, bye-bye Girl Scouts, hello smoked salmon and bubbly, and hello there, Miss Becky, that's sure a lovely name tag you have on there! Right there."

My laughter echoed off the walls of the caucus room. I looked up at the paintings of two former chairmen of the Campaign Committee. They were stern, disapproving. I looked around the big oak table at the Democratic members, all veterans except for me and "Binky" Brownswall from Nebraska. Two or three thin smiles. No one else laughed.

I couldn't figure out why. Gilliam had a point, and it was funny. There are never any frowny faces at fund-raising events, not at breakfast, not at lunch, and not at cocktails. Everyone there is highly paid, except for the elected officials. These events are our taste of flying first class. We can't take it in salary, so we take it in kind. The press is rigorously excluded; all the stars are in alignment for a full, free, and frank exchange of views.

Except, that's what never happens. What does happen is the lobbyists present their views, and the senators listen. And eat. Thoughtfully. And nod. It doesn't matter if your mouth is full of smoked salmon and caviar, because the last thing anyone wants or expects is for you to say anything. Or, worse, ask a question. If there's one thing you don't ask at fund-raisers, Gilliam told me early on, it's questions.

With a couple of campaigns behind me, I had internalized that the fund-raising operation never sleeps, not even between elections that are six years apart. But even I, big-city cosmopolitan Terrence Mullally, was not prepared for the pace. I had almost six years to go before my reelect, and I was doing eight events a week.

In April 1999, I had been in Washington three months. I was perched on the arm of a chintz chair in my inner office in the Hart Senate Office Building, talking alone with Lanny Green, my brilliant boy wonder chief of staff.

"Make hay while the sun shines," Lanny advised me. Lanny is a twenty-six-year-old veteran. Notice: not a twenty-six- year veteran. He seems to know Washington cold. He's actually from the District, born here, but Southeast, not Northwest. His father was a hardworking Mexican, had a lousy job with the railroad, raised Lanny attentively. His mother drifted away early -- drugs -- but Lanny's dad stuck his mother's name on him on the theory it was more "acceptable." Father's surname was "Analfabetismo," or something. Guy was a saint. Lanny never talks about him. Or his mother.

"How come the sun is shining? I'm on lousy committees with no influence, and I'm the most junior member of the club."

Lanny took this in stride. His expression didn't change. Maybe his eyes narrowed a bit. Lanny's a good-looking guy, though he has no size to him. Light brown hair cut short -- stops at the top of the ears, no sideburns. He wears tweed herringbone jackets, though he's the least tweedy person I know. Pays no attention to grooming. Ridiculous floppy Hush Puppies that he never takes off. Lanny would never be accepted as a principal in any profession, just as an aide. He doesn't care. He lives inside his head. Hazel eyes, not distinguished. He makes them dull, no intelligence showing. Protective coloration, not unknown in the animal kingdom.

"Point taken as to Ethics and Judiciary, Boss, but while you may think Agriculture is a jerkwater committee because your stupid state -- excuse me, our stupid state -- doesn't have any plant life, the rest of this glorious rich-soil country we live in views it as the goddamn hot corner. You think the soybean and sugar people are knocking down our doors to raise money for you because they want to talk about the Massachusetts soybean industry? Not in Worcester, not in New Bedford, not in Ripton, trust me. Or maybe your views about desirable qualifications for federal judges? Better pack a lunch."

"I thought they wanted to ask me what I really think about ethics. I could give them an earful of Aristotle..."

"That would go over big. You'll get your chance, anyway, at the event at the Humphrey Center on Thursday. It's all for you, and you alone."

"Who's coming?"

"Soybeans, corn, wheat, sugar -- cane and beet -- some garden veggies. Those last actually do care about immigration, and they're on the right side of the issue -- namely, liberal -- for the wrong reason -- namely, exploitation of migrant labor. I love it." Lanny and I shared a well-developed sense of the absurd.

"Any human beings?"

"Depends what you call Happy Gilliam."

"Why the hell is he coming?" I shouldn't tell this, but I had been rather enjoying the idea of my very own party, where I would be the only object of flattery and attention, and wouldn't even have to perform.

Lanny put his face close to mine. "Only one reason, Boss," he whispered. "Nobody else will come without him."

"Oh. Why didn't you say so? So." I shrugged to show I didn't care.

Most of the lobbyists in attendance at the Hubert Horatio Humphrey Center on Thursday, April 8, had one thing in common. Can you guess?

They had breathtaking legs.

Happy Gilliam, known to be a ladies' man, had arrived early and was not making much of an effort to look anyone in the eye.

I drew Lanny to the far side of the gigantic ice sculpture depicting dolphins, mermaids, and a big man with horns and a trident. "I forget," I said. "Is this about money or sex? I thought it was about money."

"It is, Boss, the micros are just to get your attention. Think of it as a mnemonic aid."

"Funny, vegetables are not what I think of when -- "

"Vegetables? Who said anything about vegetables? 'Hush yoah mouf,' " he hissed in imitation of Happy Gilliam. "'Weah talkin' prass spoats, son, prass spoats puren' simple.'"

I lowered my head. "What?"

"Price supports. Republican orthodoxy hates them. These people are not displeased to see the Dems back on top. You're against Republican orthodoxy, remember? That stick-in-the-mud Harold Dellenbach. You hated him, remember? And you did the country and these people a favor by beating him, don't ever forget. Hsst, here they come."

A row of legs advanced on us, precision-marching. Why how dee-lighted I was to see each and every one of them, I understood they had already been most generous and I was highly appreciative, no I'd not yet had an opportunity to review in detail the administration's proposal to do away with price supports entirely, it had not in point of fact come up in my campaign so I certainly had an open mind on the issue...

These were all code words. They meant, give me more money. The Rockettes understood this. The oldest among them -- and if she was over thirty, I'm Mahatma Gandhi -- took one step toward me and spoke quickly, distinctly: "Senator, I'm Sarah Blakeslee. The stakes for our industry are actually higher than you might imagine. Adoption of the Brinker bill" -- she evidently knew I was not a fan of President Brinker -- "would be absolutely devastating to the millions of American families who depend on us. Many of them" -- she smiled cunningly without missing a beat -- "many of them low-income families, especially immigrant families from south of the Border, with no other means of support for their children."

Thanks to you, I thought. Or did I say that? I quickly scanned their faces. No, I hadn't said it. Better start paying more attention, though. God, you're never safe. I put down my glass of champagne, still full.

She had me pegged as a big-time liberal because of where I came from. She couldn't possibly know about Lanny's father, or how close I was to Lanny. Or could she? She was not looking at Lanny or including him in the conversation -- but that's how a class act would play it. When you're doing someone's friend a favor, you don't rub it in while they're both present. That way you preserve everybody's pride. And deniability.

"We expect the vote in the committee to be relatively close, but in all likelihood favorable." Why was she telling me she didn't need my vote? Did I drink that champagne? No, those were shrimp. Gah!

"The problem, for us and those we employ, including those of modest means, is that as soon as the committee's recommendation reaches the floor, there will be no shortage of demagogues, there will be no shortage of columnists or editorial writers, to bellow that the committee is a pawn of special interests, that the recommendation was bought and paid for, and that the matter must be viewed as though the committee had never held a hearing, or called a witness."

"But I don't have any of your products in my state."

"Precisely my point, Senator. We don't need more support from the tobacco states. We don't need more support from the farm belt. They'll be laughed out of town by the national media. We need an honest broker, a person of recognized intelligence and integrity who comes to these issues, these problems, with a fresh eye. We need credibility on our issues, Senator. You've got it."

I chuckled. "Credibility, but no background," I observed.

"Oh, we can get y'all the background," was the enthusiastic suggestion from a junior Rockette, the only one falling out of the top of her dress as well as the bottom. The lead negotiator wheeled on her, and I was glad I couldn't see her expression, because whatever it was, the junior Rockette shut her mouth and shrank right back into her dress.

Rockette in Chief turned to me with a businesslike smile. She walked to the side, with Gilliam in tow. I saw I was to follow, and did so.

"We are prepared to be generous," she said.

"How do you know where I'm going to come out?"

"We don't. We just...we're prepared to be generous." She looked up at Gilliam's massive head. As the Lord is my witness, he patted her behind. "I can vouch for that," he said. This surprised me. The lady did not look or act like a bimbo. Her clothes were Talbot's all the way, her face showed character. And I was looking at her face.

She turned back to me. Her expression was pleasant, her voice inaudible beyond our group of three. "Tonight has raised fifty thousand dollars so far," she said briskly. "If it would not offend you to make an in-depth and good faith study of our issues, with a view to becoming a disinterested champion if, and only if, you should be persuaded of the merits of our cause...we will raise another three hundred seventy-five thousand."

This was a mood-changer. I glanced at Gilliam, who could not have failed to hear. He was looking into the middle distance. His expression was 100 percent approval.

"Sounds reasonable," I said, forgetting to pause thoughtfully first. I barely resisted the temptation to pluck at my chin, but it would've been too late anyway. They could see the hook coming right out through my gill plate.

I drew Gilliam aside before it was time to go. We bowed our heads in conversation -- a sign no one was to join us.

"Is this real, Happy? Do they honestly think there's a snowball's chance in hell the administration will follow through with that bill? It's just not like them. That Ohio mafia is damn near corrupt wherever big business is concerned, near as I can tell, and agriculture is big business."

Senator Gilliam seemed troubled by this. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Yes, it is real, and they are worried. If it were merely a question of reaching, of persuading, President Brinker and his staff, that would be one thing. But that cowgirl from Florida is using the national press to push the bill, and that makes it difficult for the president. Cuts into his flexibility."

The cowgirl reference was to Martha Holloway, the vice president of the United States, like Gilliam an expert shot.

She had been a maverick one-term governor of Florida, and had been handpicked for the ticket to deliver two things: women's votes, and the state of Florida. As usual, she had gone two for two. Actually, she usually went twenty-five for twenty-five.

"I knew she had a save-the-Everglades bill, but what does she care about the rest of this stuff? I thought she just hated sugarcane."

"She's looking for issues for 2000; she doesn't really care."

"So you're with the camp that says Myron Brinker won't run again?"

"I don't know. It's a free country, and he's sixty-five."

"Sixty-six," I corrected him.

"Whatever," said Gilliam, and walked off in the direction of Miss Blakeslee's well-cut pink suit. I let him go alone.

My prosecutorial instincts led me to shake hands with every single Rockette and other hanger-on in the room before leaving, looking each one in the eye and repeating their name out loud. If you're going to be receiving a lot of money in contributions, you better know or have met a lot of people. Otherwise, some bored and trigger-happy assistant U.S. attorney might start asking a lot of dumb questions. Like, where did all this money come from and what was it for? Okay, so maybe not so dumb, really.

Having already begun work on my cover story, I was feeling well pleased with myself as Lanny and I left the veggies behind and jaywalked across Louisiana Avenue to meet my bride at the Dubliners. Their seafood is first-rate, but I wouldn't have cared if all they served were breadsticks: you can sit outdoors there, and sitting outdoors in Washington, D.C., in April at twilight is my idea of a good time. Also, I was in a good mood because I couldn't wait to share with Emma, and with Lanny, this latest bit of Washington dissonance -- three hundred seventy-five thousand dollars in exchange for a disinterested, good-faith review. Which the taxpayers are already paying me to do anyway.

Windblown Emma was waiting for us at a table by the railing. She had made zero effort to get ready for our date -- blue jeans, spads, no makeup -- but she had on a cream-colored silk blouse, and wore her sunglasses perched in front of a messy French twist. Those two things were plenty good enough for me. As well as for the waiter and passersby, unfortunately. Lucky I'm not the jealous type.

She kissed both of us full on the lips. Me first, but I thought she might have lingered just a fraction of a second longer on Lanny.

We ordered oysters and drinks. I nearly fell off my wrought-iron chair laughing as I related the tale of the Rockettes and the two sidebar conversations at the fund-raiser. I noticed that Lanny didn't chuckle. This puzzled me.

Momentarily only.

"How come that isn't an illegal gratuity?" Emma barked. My head snapped around.

Lanny, no fool, had seen the ref glowering.

"Because that statute applies only to officers of the government," I explained.

"But you're an officer of the government."

"No, I'm not. It's been defined to apply only to the executive branch. Remember I used to make my living indicting people under those laws."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I didn't say it made sense. I said that's what the courts have held." I took a defensive swig of white wine.

"Well, then, how come it isn't bribery? That sure as hell applies to everybody."

"Because it's not in return for me doing something."

"Why do you think they're giving it to you?"

"Doesn't matter. Justice Scalia says you need a quid pro quo. Unanimous Court, not just crazy Nino. It's not a quid pro quo."

"Yes, it is. That's precisely why you think it's funny -- and, Lanny, I know damn well you think it's funny, too, so wipe that innocent look off your face -- because these people are being so hypocritical."

Hmm. This was food for thought. Why was Washington dissonance so funny, anyhow?

"There was no agreement."

"What, you think agreements have to be in writing? You sound like those dumb juries you complain about, that think if you don't have a videotape or a signed confession you can't prove anything. The agreement can be inferred."

I briefly wished Emma had not trained in law. She had opened a cut over my eye with these jabs.

"Lanny says the system makes honest men act like felons," I suggested, looking reproachfully at Lanny.

"No, it makes felons act like felons," said the ref tartly. "Or it makes honest men into felons. Al Capone had to start somewhere, sometime."

Lanny swooshed his finger around in his Singapore sling and began singing softly, "'For he's a jolly good felon, for he's -- '"

"Lanny, please!" I had no arguments left, just a naked appeal. It worked, unlike my arguments. There was a moment of silence.

"You're just hot and bothered because you love Martha Holloway because she's a woman," I said to Emma. "Doesn't mean she's always right. The country has gotten along fine with price supports for a long time."

"No, I like Martha Holloway because she's honest, unlike just about every other top person in the government. And anybody who could get Phil Vacco appointed U.S. attorney in Boston has pretty good taste, too."

"Okay, I agree with that," I said, hoping to buy more silence.

In fact, I did agree. Phil Vacco was the man I had defeated for Suffolk County district attorney in 1996, a Boston Republican, that rarest of breeds. I had brought him into the DA's office to try white-collar cases and he covered both of us with glory, convicting fifteen banks of currency violations. We tried the cases together. Very high profile, sent me to the U.S. Senate and brought him to the attention of Vice President Holloway. She's a former federal prosecutor, likes straight shooters, and is in charge of appointing U.S. attorneys for the Brinker administration.

I thought I might be out of the woods with Emma. I smiled and tried to exude integrity. It didn't work.

"Let me ask you this." Emma leaned forward on her elbows. "Would you tell the whole conversation to your pal Phil Vacco, the pillar of rectitude, the prosecutor's prosecutor, if he was the U.S. attorney down here?"

"You mean, in his professional capacity?"

"No, in case he was a disc jockey. Yes of course I mean in his official capacity, you moron. Oh, sorry!" She thrust her napkin to her mouth in mock alarm.

I steadied myself. "Well, no. Not because I'd have legal exposure, but because he'd face political exposure, come under political pressure. To do the wrong thing."

"I think he could handle it." She studied me. Why wouldn't Lanny throw himself between us?

After a moment, she resumed her attack:

"You know what I think is the wrong thing?"

"I believe so, sweethead, but why don't we hear it anyway."

"I think putting your crown jewels inside a vise operated by Happy Gilliam is the wrong thing. You said he was standing right there. Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that he's one-eighth red-blooded American Indian, I just don't trust him any further than I can throw him."

Lanny and I looked at each other. This was not just a trenchant observation; this was an action-forcing observation.

"Sweetest, I thought you were an idealistic grad student with your nose in a book, not the latest coming of Metternich. Anyway, Happy is still planning on running for president of the United States, he can't afford to be seen double-crossing people."

"Oh? I would've thought that means he can't afford not to be seen double-crossing people. You think state and city bosses support candidates for president because they personally love them?"

"Darling, your newly chosen field, I remind you, is primatology. Why not stick to monkeys?"

"I am." She was looking right at me. Why couldn't I have married a chorine?

The next morning I summoned Sarah Blakeslee, Rockette Supreme and chief lobbyist for all agribusiness interests nationwide, to my suite. She was prompt, dressed like a nun, dark blue suit to the throat. Bustline repressed, too, must be wearing an industrial-strength brassiere.

I don't consider myself paranoid, but I did plan to have a "frank" conversation with her; and anyone who has ever been a federal prosecutor will not have such a conversation in an enclosed space where there might be a microphone recording what is said, no matter how remote the possibility.

"Ms. Blakeslee, so good of you to come, why don't we go for a walk outside."

"That bad, huh? I don't wear wires, you know. Not good for business."

"No, it's just that it's a beautiful day for a walk."

"Except that I forgot my umbrella. I'm not Martha Holloway, I won't say you should be investigated by an independent prosecutor just because you accepted a legal campaign contribution."

This was a first-rate piece of political hit-and-run. Since 1997, the Brinker administration had been stonewalling Dem- ocratic calls for the appointment of an independent prosecutor to investigate the secretary of commerce, who had apparently prospered in office. There was just one little chink in the stone wall: the vice president of the United States had said that while she had full confidence in Commerce Secretary Withers, she would have no objection to the appointment of an independent prosecutor, thought it would promote public confidence in the resolution of the matter. Didn't even claim she was misquoted.

The lobbyist community was horrified, and none more so than the lobbyists for agribusiness, who had other reasons to be wary of Ms. Holloway.

"Okay, let's go," I said.

When we had sloshed our way along the magnolia and rhododendrons for a hundred yards or so, and were safely out of range of any mikes, she said in a natural voice: "What's the scoop?"

"Everything's okay on one condition: you give an equal amount, three-seven-five, to Happy Gilliam for his presidential campaign."

"You're not even supporting him, are you?"

Her eyes were worried as she looked up at me, worried she might have missed an item on the who's-sleeping-with-whom whirligig of campaigns in formation and destruction. Washington is never happier than when the major pretenders to the presidency all keep house inside the Beltway. Information is the coin of the realm; proximity makes it easier to come by.

"I mean, not yet, that is. Are you?"

"You haven't missed any announcements, if that's what you mean. But...you heard me."

First I saw relief, that she hadn't dropped a stitch. Then I saw my message sink in. Then I saw wheels turning as she did some quick calculations and accommodated herself to my message. The bright, confident look returned.

"Senator, we love Happy Gilliam. We've raised him much more than that already."

"I know, I mean on top of, fresh meat, get me? Or fresh vegetables. And I want him to know it, and I want him to know that I know. But I don't want to talk to him about it."

Sarah Blakeslee looked up and gave me a smile.

"I understand perfectly," she said, and shook my hand. She was the picture of intelligence. "I have to make one stop, but I'm sure everything will be fine, acceptable. When shall we three meet again?"

We three meet again? Not at all necessary for the game I have in mind. How about bloody not on your life, is that a good start? Didn't she get it?

"That may not be necessary. Let's take it a step at a time."

"Perfect," she said, stopping at the corner of Delaware and shaking my hand again. "Couldn't be better."

A jury would have a tough time finding this lady guilty of anything, I thought as I watched two well-turned ankles retreat briskly up the glistening Avenue.

I looked around. The seagulls were wheeling over Union Station like confetti in an updraft.

That afternoon, Happy Gilliam was on the subway car in front of me in the little tunnel train that takes you from the Capitol back to the Senate office buildings. We were through for the day. I fell in step with him on the platform. He didn't seem surprised.

"Thank you for coming last night, Senator."

"You're more than welcome. You're doing the right thing, they're good people. And I appreciate your initiative this morning."

So Sarah Blakeslee doesn't waste time. But I knew that already.

"Yes, it'll look like we had the biggest party in history together, three hundred seventy-five devoted admirers at two grand a pop."

"No, it won't. They won't be the same channel. And I wouldn't ever mention figures. The walls have ears."

"I appreciate that. I spent seven years in the Justice Department in New York."

"I'm well aware of that."

"But, ah, not to put too fine a point on it, of course, but what is meant by not 'the same channel'? All these federal races are a thousand bucks per person, aren't they?"

"If that's how you take it, they are." He was walking straight ahead, his face virtually tucked into his shirt collar. He might as well have had a hand over his mouth, as Lyndon Johnson used to do. Silly me, I hadn't realized the walls are lined with lip-readers as well as ears.

"And if that's how you take it," he muttered, "you're a fool."

This could have meant a number of things. There's hard money, there's soft money. There are formal campaign committees, and there are political action committees. And independent expenditures. And educational nonprofits. I didn't say anything, just kept walking.

"Take it in your official campaign committee," said Happy, "all you guarantee is the get-a-life libs at Common Cause are going to scream at you for every dime."

"So, the source of my thr -- , my amount, and, uh, the other amount, might not be the same?"

"Source will be absolutely the same." He stopped at his office door, shook my hand, smiled for the camera that was not there. "Enough said," he whispered. "Maybe too much said, in fact." He clapped me on the shoulder and said in a normal voice, "Just a word to the wise." He pushed open the massive door, revealing a beehive and a wedgie, both over bursting polka-dot dresses.

"I get it," I said. Then I wished I hadn't.

Happy had already turned. Had he heard me? The door closed slowly, heavily, behind him. Everything about Happy Gilliam was heavy.

A word to the wise.

I didn't feel wise. There is a word, though, a legal word, for what I felt like.

I felt like a coconspirator.

Events left me no time to regroup. Both Washington dailies led their Saturday editions the next morning with a richly detailed account of financial and ethical transgressions on the part of Simon Buffington, the deputy attorney general of the United States. Both papers cited official sources. Neither paper had called Buffington for comment. No other newspaper in the country had the story.

This was a classic inside-the-Beltway bag job. Whoever had leaked these facts was powerful enough to insist that the story run as dictated, without being balanced by any outraged reaction from the subject or his allies. Newspapers don't like to do that, so the source had to be someone they would need to depend on in the future, or they wouldn't have gone along with the deal.

By midmorning, Buffington and his boss, Harry Frobisch, were firing back, stressing the usual two completely inconsistent points: number one, this is all hogwash and completely false; number two, this is an outrageous and highly illegal leak of confidential grand jury information, a criminal investigation of the leak has already been undertaken, whoever gave this scurrilous material to the papers is in big trouble, in fact anyone who doesn't shut up about this may be violating grand jury secrecy, etc.

I had seen this defensive gambit executed many times before, but never more smoothly or forcefully than by Simon Buffington. He spoke for thirty minutes without notes at his press conference, seamlessly rebutting each factual allegation and simultaneously lambasting the faceless and sinister forces behind all this lawless innuendo. Buffington had stood number one in his class at Harvard Law School thirty years earlier. He now wore rimless round spectacles, tinted brown. It was impossible not to think of Trotsky.

By midafternoon, every Democratic officeholder in Washington was on TV clamoring for the appointment of an independent prosecutor. Except me. I didn't think I had enough facts, I told the press. I didn't add that I was so sick of seeing senators on television pompously reading from pieces of paper that said, "Let no one be a judge in his own cause!" and "Who shall guard the guards themselves?" that I wanted to throw up in my briefcase.

I also didn't add that I was feeling a little tender about allegations of financial impropriety these days.

Two days later was the annual White House reception for freshman members of Congress.

Washington's oddest couple, Myron Brinker and Martha Holloway, stood in a receiving line just inside the East Room. Brinker's people made sure three protocol officers as well as Hortense Brinker stood between them, well spaced out. The Tribune had to use a wide-angle lens to get the two of them into the same shot for the next day's edition, capturing the contrast between her peroxide blond exuberance and his coffinlike air.

Wonders of modern technology, I thought, when I saw the photo. In Trotsky's day, they would have airbrushed out the people between them.

And then airbrushed Trotsky, too, come to think of it. Maybe we are making progress....

This mandatory Washington occasion was -- how shall we say it? -- a delicate one. Most of the freshmen were Democrats. Brinker hated them and they hated him. All anyone could think about was Simon Buffington, and no one could mention his name. In the president's house, it would have been too impolite. It was like ignoring a mastodon in the receiving line. We all asked each other, "What's new with you?" and received prompt replies: "Oh nothing much, what's new with you? Anything? Or nothing?" "Not much. Nothing, really."

Martha Holloway wore a gray pinch-waist jacket and skirt with navy trim, cut to two inches above the knee. She was about five foot nine but wore heels, and her obviously dyed bouffant hairdo made her taller than Myron Brinker. A single strand of pearls at the neck, both wrists covered with bracelets. No rings: she had never married and perhaps wanted no mistaking that. She was forty-seven and looked five years younger.

Her welcome of me and Emma was more electrical than physical.

"Senator, Mrs. Mullally, so good of you to come!," sweeping us along with arm and words. "I followed and admired your career in law enforcement, Senator, both in New York and especially Boston, you broke new ground there with the bank cases, and of course we're thrilled you produced Phil Vacco for us, he's simply one of our star U.S. attorneys, I consult him constantly about field issues in the Justice Department, isn't it awful about Simon Buffington, they should just have independent investigations and clear the air with both him and Secretary Bob Withers, don't you think, Mr. Congressman! So good to see you thanks so much for..."

At this point, I could no longer hear her voice and realized we were a good ten feet downstream, abreast of an obviously unhappy protocol officer who had not enjoyed the veep's remark about Buffington and the commerce secretary. I was studying his face with amusement when he opened his mouth and said, "Mr. President, Senator Mullally."

I looked down into unsmiling little red pig eyes.

"Honored to meet you, Mr. President," I said.

"Mullally, yes, you are the tall one, aren't you? Well, you beat a great man in Harold Dellenbach. Harold was one of our lions."

"Thank you for having us, sir," said Emma, taking his hand. "Mr. President."

"Yes," he said.

What a pill. I wasn't thinking about him, however, as we waited for our car at the west vehicle entrance.

I followed your career in law enforcement in New York. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I was a medium-level assistant U.S. attorney in Brooklyn, she was governor of Florida. She never would have followed my career there.

She must have gone back and followed it. Later. After I got elected a senator. Maybe even after she talked with her fair-haired boy Phil Vacco, my best friend in law enforcement.

My best friend on top of the table, anyway.

That night I dreamed of Detective Lieutenant Rudy Solano, my deer-hunting buddy, my fellow crime-fighter, who got me my job as an assistant U.S. attorney in Brooklyn. My dead buddy.

At first, he was a benign figure in my dream, giving me a sense of belonging, washing away the terrible sense of poverty and social isolation I had felt at the orphanage and the foster home.

Then I saw the money on the bed, I saw the cheap metal bedpost, the bare lightbulb. My one-room apartment. Three years I lived there. Dreams don't have time to be subtle. That was the first time I took too much money, money that didn't belong to me. Thanks, Rudy.

Then, still in his police uniform, Rudy Solano was a judge, pointing at me, lecturing me: How could you do this? I was a prisoner in the dock, I was on trial. I looked over at the witness box. Sarah Blakeslee and her fellow lobbyists were dancing there, in full stage dress. U.S. and foreign currency was spilling from their décolletés. They seemed unaware of my presence. Judge/Lieutenant Solano directed me not to look at them. I felt ashamed. I looked anyway. The top of the junior Rockette's dress finally gave up the fight and fell off. No supports there, industrial or otherwise: full breasts, straight out, bright aureoles, staring right at me. No, wait, they were eyes, scornful eyes. They were Solano's eyes.

Solano's face began to sweat and shake, as I had seen it do in life. He fell from the judge's bench, landing in the snow, in hunting clothes covered with blood, as I had found him when Sergeant Gatto drove me up to Jaffrey that Saturday night. I was there, in the snow, in my dream. The yellow tape from the police barrier stuck to my clothes. It was still there the next day when I walked into my office in the Hart Senate Office Building. Everyone was staring at it. How am I going to explain this snow, this tape?

Emma was dabbing at my temples and forehead with a cool washcloth.

"What? What's that? What are you doing? What time is it?"

"Nothing, honeybun, nothing, you were just giving a speech, is all."

"About what?"

"You said, 'Rudy, stop it, that's enough, you're not hanging me out to dry. Gilliam's in too.'"

I stared at her.

"We don't by any chance feel guilty about what we did with Happy Gilliam, do we? Or Rudy Solano, maybe?"

Had I muttered something about Rudy falling, bleeding? That must be erased. Of course, I never saw that happen. Must shield Emma, save myself.

"What else did I say?"

"That's all, my poor baby. I just hate to see you sweat like this. You must have a fever." She kissed my temple. I felt a vein pulsing against her lips. Hope she didn't notice. Wait, why? It was only a bad dream!

"Well, there's obviously no connection, just dream logic. The stuff with Gilliam may not be the Daily Mail's cup of tea, but it's completely legal under current law. Not that an independent prosecutor couldn't change the rules on you at any time."

Emma patted my arm.

"Yes, dear, it's very worrisome that they could change the rules and not give you a written opinion in advance as to what's illegal. Now go back to sleep."

I didn't want this sarcastic line pursued any further, so I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, even though my mind was racing and I now wasn't sleepy at all. I had been giving too many hostages to fortune.