Ballots and Blood (43 page)

Lila smiled. “Someone's got to watch your back.”

“It's hard to argue with Lila,” said the consultant. “Worst-case scenario they drop a staff recommendation on you two weeks before the election and we're toast.”

Jefferson nodded, his wheels turning. “Well, counselor,” he asked, turning to Stamponovich. “What do you think?”

“It could happen,” said Stampanovich slowly. “We have some backdoor lines of communication into the committee. We can monitor it. If it looks like the process could go sideways on us, there are other options.”

“Such as?”

“Resign from Congress.”

Jefferson's face went slack. “You think I should consider that?”

“If we're going to get hit with a reprimand or worse, yes,” said Stampanovich. “It's not my first, or even my second or third choice. But it ends the investigation.”

“What's my reason for resigning? Avoiding prosecution?”

“Of course not. It's this: you need to devote your energies to campaign for the Senate, and the people of the Fifteenth District deserve a full-time congressman,” said the consultant. “Make it a virtue. You don't feel comfortable serving in Congress when you're spending your time running for higher office.”

“You okay with that, honey?” asked Jefferson, turning to Lila.

“I'm okay with doing what we have to do to win,” she said.

Jefferson raised his wine glass. “Good answer!” he exclaimed. “That's why I married you, Lila. You're not only beautiful; you're smart!”

The table exploded in laughter. Lila gave him the bored look of a tolerant spouse. The campaign team got a big kick out of their repartee, which often resembled a Sonny and Cher routine. But resigning from Congress to avoid ethics charges was no laughing matter. All of their careers were on the line. They were staring into the abyss.

“SHOULD I CONFERENCE JILLIAN ANN in?” asked Ed Dowdy, who was in his DC office. It was going to be a tough call. He wanted moral support.

“Sure,” said Bob Simms, who was on the phone from New York.

Dowdy dialed Singer's number. She answered on the second ring.

“Jillian Ann? It's Ed. I've got Bob on the line. We just got a fax from Alex Lane and wanted to give you the news.”

“Okay,” said Singer expectantly.

“I've got some good news and some not-so-good news,” said Simms. “Alex took a pass on the book proposal. Ed can forward you her letter, but the gist is she feels there's not enough human-interest narrative; and in terms of the salacious material, the legal department fears publication could be delayed indefinitely by litigation or by the threat of litigation.”

“Oh,” said Singer softly, her voice disappointed. “I'm surprised. That's too bad.”

“It is,” said Dowdy. “Alex was clearly interested. I don't think she's just hiding behind the legal department. They have legitimate concerns about libel lawsuits, and a lot of publishers will just shy away from the legal uncertainty.”

“The good news,” said Simms, “is we do still have one publisher who is interested. They're not known for their big advances, but they do sell a lot of books.”

“I suppose that's good. But I was hoping for an advance.”

“So were we, Jillian Ann,” said Dowdy. “But the publishing business just isn't what it used to be. Between the rise of Amazon, digital books, cost cutting, and consolidation, everyone's scared. Outside of big-name, established authors, it just isn't what it used to be.”

“I see,” said Singer.

“Anyway, we haven't given up by any stretch of the imagination,” said Simms, trying to buck Singer up. “We'll keep plugging until we get you a book deal. Hang in there.”

“I appreciate that,” said Singer. “I'm so grateful for all you guys have done.”

“Our pleasure,” said Dowdy. “Just wanted to give you an update. Sorry it wasn't better, but keep your chin up. It ain't over 'til it's over.”

Singer signed off and hung up. Simms and Dowdy stayed on the line.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Dowdy.

“Honestly?” replied Simms. “I don't think a New York publisher is going to touch this thing with a ten-foot pole as long as the FBI investigation is still going on. I had hoped otherwise, but Jillian Ann is radioactive. She could go to prison.”

“It's too bad,” said Dowdy. “Bob, I appreciate your giving it your best shot.”

“Happy to do it. Sorry it didn't work out. Maybe we can revisit this once the scandal blows over.”

Dowdy hung up the phone and stared into space. The big payday he imagined for himself and Singer turned out to be a mirage. Now what would they do?

35

P
at Mahoney's unmarked car pulled up outside a three-story, brick, townhouse in a nice neighborhood on the outskirts of Arlington. Mahoney noticed the lawns were well manicured, the homes were properly maintained, and school-age children rode by on bikes. It didn't feel like the scene of a crime. There were two police squad cars out front, drawing curious looks from passersby.

He opened the front door and walked on to the main floor. He scanned the room with professional detachment, seeing nothing awry, no sign of a struggle or forced entry.

An Arlington police detective peeked down the stairs from the second floor. “Are you the FBI guy?” he asked.

“That would be me,” replied Mahoney.

“Come on up,” said the detective. “She's up here.”

Mahoney walked up the stairs and into the master bedroom. It was sparsely furnished, with a white carpet and a queen-size bed covered in a pink bedspread with matching comforter. The bed did not appear slept in. A big-screen TV was mounted on the wall. He greeted the two detectives. One of them pointed to the bathroom with his index finger.

Mahoney stepped into the bathroom. The nude body of Jillian Ann Singer dangled from the curtain rod, an electrical extension cord wrapped around her neck. Her unseeing eyes were open, her mouth slightly agape, her arms dangled at her side. Her feet were no more than four inches from the floor.

One of the detectives approached. “So she's the madam?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Mahoney. He glanced around. “Assuming you have no objection, I'm going to have an FBI Crime Scene Unit come out and sweep the townhouse. I want every fiber, every fingerprint, every footprint captured.”

The detective shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But this looks cut-and-dried. The woman was bankrupt, and she was facing time in prison, so she killed herself.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Mahoney. “Is there a suicide note?”

“No.”

“Don't you find that strange? She's got two grown children. Her mother is still alive, living in Florida. Don't you find it odd she didn't give them the comfort of an explanation?”

“Not everyone who kills themselves leaves a suicide note.”

“No. But while about half of the men who kill themselves leave no note, two-thirds of women do. It's unusual.”

“That's not enough for a murder investigation.”

Mahoney's black eyes bore into the detective. “She was shopping her client list to the highest bidder,” he replied. “Careers and reputations were about to go up in flames. There are some very powerful people on that list. Somebody wanted her dead.”

“Okay, that's motive,” said the detective. “Who's the suspect?”

“I don't know yet,” said Mahoney evasively. “But when I arrived at the townhouse in Georgetown where Perry Miller was killed, all the physical evidence pointed to a dominatrix who supposedly asphyxiated him. Guess what? It turned out he was killed by a terrorist operating in a cell trained by Rassem el Zafarshan.” He pulled out an unlit cigar and put it in his mouth. “Things aren't what they appear.” He turned to leave.

“So what do you want us to do, G-man?” asked the detective.

“Sit tight,” said Mahoney. “The crime scene unit will be here shortly. In the meantime don't touch anything.”

He walked down the stairs, dialing the number to his office as he walked. He wondered if Singer cracked under the pressure of threatened prosecution, or had someone on the client list decided it could never see the light of day? He felt a twinge of guilt. He pressured her to testify before the grand jury, hoping it would lead to more information on the Zafarshan network. Now she was gone.

NEWS OF JILLIAN ANN SINGER'S death rocketed across the Internet within minutes. “MADAM OF MILLER DOMINATRIX RING COMMITS SUICIDE!” shouted Merryprankster.com. “DOM DEAD: Jillian Ann Singer, dominatrix to the powerful, whose clients included the late Senator Perry Miller, hangs self,” read the news feed on FOX News. The story was catnip for cable news outlets and gossipy Web sites trafficking in rumors and the unknown.

In the denizens of DC, along K Street and on the Hill, people spoke in hushed whispers about the political implications. Did it signal the end of the threatened leaking of the client list for Adult Alternatives? Or could it mean just the opposite—the list sat in a safe deposit box, and her will stipulated it would be released upon her death? No one knew. Official Washington didn't know if Singer's ex-clients could now breathe easily or wait for the next shoe to drop.

People were still absorbing the news about Singer when another update flashed across the wires. At the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse, where jury deliberations in the trial of Mike Kaplan dragged into their twelfth day, the jury foreman sent a note to the judge asking for clarification of what the jury should do if it found itself deadlocked on some counts but not others. There were eleven counts for perjury, obstruction of justice, destruction of evidence, and providing misleading information to FBI agents. The judge replied pointedly, “I urge the members of the jury to make every possible and conceivable effort to reach a verdict on each count in the indictment of the defendant. Until all such efforts have been exhausted, you should continue your deliberations.”

Kaplan's supporters and Stanley's bitter-enders read the jury's cry for help as a hopeful sign of a hung jury. Court reporters, on the other hand, trained their gimlet eyes on the development and saw bad news for Kaplan. It seemed likely the jury had reached a verdict on some counts. But everyone was guessing.

In the Senate majority leader's suite of offices at the Capitol, the staff pretended it was business as usual even as they surreptitiously surfed news Web sites. Sal Stanley was in hiding, huddled behind closed doors with his chief of staff and top advisors. In a running meeting interrupted by an occasional phone call, he held court, his ruddy skin freckled and lined, his graying hair combed and sprayed, his blue tailored suit and patterned red tie contrasting with a crisp, cuffed white shirt.

“Well, what does it mean?” he asked, reclining in his favorite chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “We're just reading tea leaves, aren't we?”

“Afraid so, sir,” said his chief of staff. “On the other hand, after eleven days without a verdict and they send a flare to the judge. That's not good for the prosecution.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” grunted Stanley. “What do you think, Nathan?”

Nathan Tabor, Stanley's long-time personal attorney and stand-in consigliere, joined by conference call from New York. “Well, I'm an armchair quarterback insofar as I wasn't involved in jury selection,” came his voice over the speakerphone. “But I've got to believe their focus groups helped them get one or two jurors strongly inclined to acquit. It's an educated guess, but I'd say they'll acquit him on some counts and convict on others.”

Stanley frowned. “That's not particularly helpful.”

“No,” agreed Tabor.

“A mixed verdict is better than a conviction on all eleven counts,” said Stanley's chief of staff. “He can claim partial victory and vow to appeal.”

“There's precedent,” said Tabor. “Oliver North, Ted Stevens, to name just two, had convictions overturned.”

“They both lost Senate races,” said Stanley, the worry lines in his forehead deepening. “Unless he's acquitted on all or all but one count, I'm going to drop in the polls like a rock.”

“I don't disagree,” said the chief of staff. “But we can claw our way back. There's still time. I'd rather have it happen now than the week before the election.”

“Been there, done that,” said Stanley. “DOJ indicted Mike the week before the House voted for president.”

“Probably cost you the presidency,” said Tabor clinically.

“No question, which is why they did it,” said Stanley, rolling his eyes. “Nathan, what if it's a hung jury? Could DOJ retry the case before election day?”

“No way,” said Tabor. “How many days are left before the election? No judge will let them impanel a jury and hold a trial in that amount of time.”

Stanley stood up, leaning toward the phone so Tabor could hear him. “Let's hope for that outcome. A hung jury and then slug it out with Long all the way to election day. I'll be like Ulysses S. Grant during the Wilderness Campaign. Blood, guts, and mud until one side bleeds more than the other.”

The chief of staff winced at the metaphor. Stanley signed off, hanging up the phone, and walked silently to the bay windows overlooking the Mall, crossing his arms across his chest, and gazed at the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial in the distance. In his campaign's nightly tracking poll, he trailed Cartwright by one point, with 7 percent undecided. Given his high name ID and long tenure in the Senate, the undecided were unlikely to break for him. The thought hit him: if Kaplan were convicted, he'd lose and his political career would be over.

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 9:00 p.m. and Jay sat at his desk in the book-lined study of his apartment at the Four Seasons, compulsively catching up on e-mail. A television built into the wall of the oak bookshelves was tuned to FOX News, the volume turned down so it was only faintly audible. The phone rang. It was Walt Shapiro, calling from the offices of his firm in LA, where he was attempting to negotiate a settlement with the attorney for Samah Panzarella.