Ballots and Blood (26 page)

“I am very honored one of them has blessed us with their presence here tonight.” The hall fell to a hush as the crowd waited with anticipation. “This person came simply to worship the Lord. There was no plan to speak to you. But I asked this person to say a few words. So please join me in welcoming the First Lady of the United States, Claire Long.”

As the crowd erupted in a standing ovation, Claire walked on to the stage in a white chiffon dress, waving to the crowd. Popilopos shook her hand and stepped into the shadows as she approached the Plexiglas pulpit.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Claire, smiling demurely. The crowd would not stop, their applause sustained, the noise rising in volume. “Please . . . you're taking up my time,” joked Claire. They dutifully took their seats. “Thank you, Jonah, for that introduction, and thank you for that warm welcome. I'm not here tonight to make any kind of political statement. I leave that to my husband.” (Laughter.) “I am here tonight for one reason only and that is to testify that Jesus Christ is Lord, and if you will accept Him into your heart as your Savior, you will find a peace that surpasses all understanding and life eternal.”

The crowd cheered and applauded.

“Whatever you are facing in life, Jesus is the answer,” said Claire. “I know I have found that in my life. and I hope you will find it in yours. God bless you all.” With that she was gone, exiting the stage as quickly as she entered, the roar of the crowd sending her on her way.

Popilopos stepped back to the podium. “Aren't we blessed to have a First Lady like that?” he asked.

“Yes!” shouted the crowd.

In the back of the hall, Dan Dorman leaned over to the White House reporter for CBS News.

“What was with the dress?” he asked. “Is she channeling Aimee Semple McPherson?”

“I don't know, but whatever she's doing, it sure is smart.”

“How's that?” asked Dorman.

“She just locked up the Christian vote for Kerry Cartwright and every other candidate Long is backing in the midterms,” said CBS News. “And she did it without appearing at a political event or endorsing a candidate. It's brilliant.”

“I don't know,” replied Dorman. “Popilopos is a nut. When the American people figure out he's Claire Long's spiritual mentor, they're going to wonder if there are séances going on in the White House.” He made a mental note to do some digging around on Popilopos's ministry.
That might turn up some interesting nuggets,
he thought.

OUTSIDE A RUN-DOWN TENEMENT BUILDING in Jersey City, New Jersey, a dark blue van inched down a side street, trailed by two unmarked squad cars. From the roofs of surrounding buildings, police snipers crouched on their bellies, high-powered rifles with scopes poised. Nearby, some middle-school children kicked a soccer ball on a makeshift field of dirt and brown grass littered with aluminum cans and Hefty bags filled with rotting garbage. A stray dog scampered by.

The van came to a stop, and its back doors swung open. Out piled a dozen FBI SWAT team members wearing Kevlar vests, combat boots, and black helmets, carrying semiautomatic rifles, barrels pointing in the air. The police cruisers disgorged another eight Jersey City police detectives and FBI agents with sidearms drawn. The latter wore body armor under blue Windbreakers with yellow letters that read “FBI.” The SWAT team leader opened a metal door and led them inside.

In the semidarkness of the stairwell, their eyes adjusted. As they walked up the first flight of stairs, a little girl who appeared to be approximately ten years old chased a kitten down the hallway. They continued up the stairs until they reached the sixth floor, where the SWAT team leader cracked the door to the hall and glanced in either direction. They hustled into the hall and moved quickly to the end, where they stopped short of the door to apartment 627.

The SWAT team leader turned to the lead FBI agent. He nodded. The SWAT team leader banged on the door with his fist. “Open the door! Come out with your hands up! Police and FBI!”

No response came from behind the door. The SWAT team leader banged on the door again. As he did, they heard the sound of people running around in the apartment.

“Let's go,” said the lead FBI agent. “Go, go, go!”

The SWAT team leader pulled his semiautomatic rifle across his chest and kicked in the door, almost knocking it off its hinges. “Go!” he shouted.

They poured into the apartment, their boots banging on the floor and rifles cocking as they exploded through the doorway. A small man of Arab descent in his twenties stood in the middle of the living room, his hands in the air, shaking like a leaf.

“Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” he cried.

One of the detectives spun him around and threw him to the floor, placing a knee in the small of his back and pulling his hands behind and cuffing him.

They moved on to the back bedroom. The SWAT team leader pointed to his men, directing one group to check under the bed and in the closet while the other proceeded to the bathroom. One of the SWAT team members opened the bathroom door, where a man with a shock of black hair and a beard, wearing jeans and a V-neck T-shirt stood wide-eyed, holding a .38 Magnum pistol, his hands trembling.

“Put down your weapon,” ordered the SWAT team member.

Suddenly the young man got off a shot, which missed. The SWAT team member fired three rapid shots from his M4 rifle, hitting the man in the chest and blowing him backward into the bathtub. As his body crumpled lifeless in the tub, the shower curtain fell and draped over him like a plastic funeral veil.

At that moment the closet door slid open slightly. Six automatic rifle barrels pointed at the cracked door.

“Come out with your hands up, or we'll do to you what we just did to your friend,” barked the SWAT team leader.

A short, squat man in bare feet wearing jeans and a grungy polo shirt crawled out of the closet on his hands and knees, then rose on his knees to put his hands in the air. “Don't kill me, cops!” he cried.

The SWAT team leader grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, handcuffing him with plastic cuffs. The raid completed, they took two out of three members of a terrorist cell alive. Hassan Qatani's interrogation was beginning to yield tangible results.

21

G
. G. Hoterman sat in a conference room in the Federal Court Building waiting to testify in the trial of Michael Kaplan. After a seemingly endless jury selection that dragged on for eight weeks, with defense lawyers striking the maximum number of jurors and using polls, focus groups, and jury consultants to seed the jury with the most favorable candidates (professional African-American women between the ages of twenty-five and forty-nine years), the much-anticipated trial was finally underway. It had been nineteen months since a grand jury indicted Kaplan on seven counts of perjury and obstruction of justice in the Dele-gate scandal. In that sense the trial was like a time capsule, hurtling official DC back to the scandal-plagued and acrimonious presidential campaign of two years earlier, when Long won as an independent in the first contest thrown into the House of Representatives in nearly two hundred years.

Hoterman was conflicted to say the least. As one of the most important prosecution witnesses (he cooperated with the investigation to avoid being indicted himself), he feared sending Kaplan to prison and dashing Sal Stanley's reelection hopes.

Journalists packed into the courtroom, including media celebrities like Marvin Myers, who had a bit part in the drama because Kaplan was a source of leaks to him, an embarrassing fact for both that emerged during discovery. Court sketch artists sat in the audience, charcoal pencils poised. Kaplan sat at the defense table, not a strand of his jet-black hair out of place, wearing a gray suit, blue tie, and a look of steely determination.

“Alright, let's review what we discussed,” said Walt Shapiro, Hoterman's attorney. “Don't try to remember something you don't recall. Answer only the question as asked. Don't volunteer anything.”

Hoterman nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. Dierdre reached over and took his hand.

“If defense counsel claims you're testifying as part of a deal with the prosecution, don't let him get under your skin,” Shapiro instructed. “Stay calm. Tone is critical.”

G. G. nodded. “I'm afraid he's going to attack Dierdre.”

Shapiro's poker face betrayed no emotion. “He probably will,” he said matter-of-factly. “Be prepared for it. Don't lose your cool. That's what they want. Their entire objective is to undermine your credibility.” He turned to Dierdre, leveling his gaze. “I know it's difficult, but you need to do the same. The jurors will be watching you, too.”

Dierdre gazed through fearful eyes, nodding.

Two knocks came on the door. A court bailiff stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Hoterman, they're ready.”

G. G. followed the bailiff down the hall and into the courtroom, walking down the center aisle, every eye following him. He felt the weight of Kaplan's accusatory stare but kept looking straight ahead. Stepping into the witness stand, he heard the presiding judge ask him to remain standing to be sworn.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” asked the bailiff.

“I do,” said Hoterman in a firm voice.

“You may be seated.”

The lead prosecutor for the Justice Department approached Hoterman, his face expansive and welcoming. “Mr. Hoterman, how long have you known the defendant?”

“Seventeen years,” said Hoterman.

“You and he were friends.”

“Yes.”

“Describe how you came to form the Committee for a Better America.”

“Well,” said G. G., his tone deliberate. “After Super Tuesday, the race for the Democratic presidential nomination was very close. I was supporting Sal Stanley. I got a call from Mike in early April, as the last primaries began to wind down. I think Stanley then had a lead of only about ten delegates. Mike was worried about conventions coming up in states where the primary was a beauty contest and the convention chose the delegates. He said they needed an outside group to run an independent expenditure for pro-Kaplan delegates.”

“What did he ask you to do?”

“Raise the money.”

“How much did he say he needed?” asked the prosecutor.

“One million dollars.”

The prosecutor paused, letting the amount sink in. “Which states did he mention?”

“Virginia and Minnesota.”

“Was it your understanding Mr. Kaplan would direct how CBA expended funds to achieve this objective?”

“Not exactly,” said Hoterman. “But my impression was he had veto power.”

The prosecutor walked in the direction of the defense table, standing no more than three feet from Kaplan, whose eyes smoldered. “The entire operation was an extension of the Stanley for President campaign, directed by Michael Kaplan, isn't that correct?”

The defense counsel jumped to his feet. “Objection, your honor. The prosecution is leading the witness.”

“Overuled,” said the presiding judge. “You may answer the question, Mr. Hoterman.”

“Not entirely. But CBA would not have been formed without Mike's encouragement, and certainly its primary objective was to elect delegates who would vote for Sal Stanley at the national convention in Chicago.”

“Mr. Hoterman, I'd like for you to look at an e-mail and attached document.” The prosecutor took a piece of paper from the hand of one of the other prosecutors and handed it to G. G. “Your honor, for the court's record, the witness has been handed Exhibit 124-B.”

Hoterman studied the piece of paper.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“These are my notes from a meeting held in the conference room of Hoterman and Schiff the week after I got the first phone call from Mike about the convention operation.”

“Who attended that meeting?”

“Me, Dierdre Rahall, my deputy at the law firm, the executive director of the Stanley campaign in Virginia, and Melinda Lipper, who was the chief fund-raiser for the Stanley campaign.”

“Can you please read the highlighted sentence in your notes?” asked the prosecutor.

“MK will provide list of approved vendors/contractors.”

“And does MK stand for Michael Kaplan?”

“Yes.”

The prosecutor handed G. G. another piece of paper. “Mr. Hoterman, I wonder if you can tell me if you recognize this document? Your honor, the witness has been handed Exhibit 144-C and D.” At the defense table the attorneys flipped through their evidence books to the correct page, studying its contents.

“Yes. This is an e-mail from Mike Kaplan with an attached list of Virginia convention delegates and party officials to be paid by CBA.”

“Who else received this e-mail?”

“Melinda Lipper.”

The prosecutor bobbed his head with pride. He turned on his heel and said to the defense, “Your witness.”

The lead defense counsel stood up slowly, his face a portrait of practiced disdain. He moved around from behind the table methodically like a lynx tracking its prey. In a slow lope, he glided in front of the jury box, stopping six feet short of the witness stand.

“Mr. Hoterman, you told the FBI the first time you were interviewed that you didn't recall receiving a phone call from Mike Kaplan . . . isn't that correct, sir?”

“That is correct,” said Hoterman, his voice level. His collar felt tighter and his heart raced. He braced for the coming attack.

“Now you tell this jury, under oath and facing penalty of imprisonment if you commit perjury, not only that you can pinpoint when the call took place, but that Mr. Kaplan was allegedly anxious and upset. Which time were you lying, Mr. Hoterman, then or now?”

G. G. physically recoiled from the charge, pulling his head back sharply. “My memory was jogged by notes I found later,” he said slowly, struggling to maintain his composure. “Once I remembered, the details came rushing back to my mind.”