The CJIS complex is bigger than three football fields. They collect fingerprints, DNA, incident reports-”
“But they haven’t figured out who tried to kill the president, have they?” Lehman tweaked.
“No,” Salter said, leading them down the main corridor, not missing a beat. “Have you?”
22
Ben had not been in this most elegant of all the assembly rooms in the Senate complex since the confirmation hearings for Justice Roush. Hadn’t missed it any, either. The room was beautiful, but the ornate decor couldn’t erase the stress and trauma that he now associated with this room and probably always would.
Relax, he tried to tell himself. Enjoy the ride. You’re not defending anyone this time around. Not attempting anything difficult, really. Just offering up some testimony. Lending support to a bill. That’s what senators do. Isn’t it?
The Old Senate Caucus Room had remained virtually unchanged since the building was constructed almost two hundred years ago. The white marble columns and the gold-leaf crown molding were reminiscent of Versailles. The high ceiling made the room appear much larger than it actually was, particularly when viewed on television. It made for an impressive display, which was why the Senate used it almost any time they suspected a hearing might get significant media play.
Media play. The thought made Ben’s stomach whirl like a butter churn. He hated media play. Off on the left side of the room, he saw the single television camera shared by all the networks that would record and transmit the committee hearings to anyone who might be able to tear themselves away from The Price Is Right. The blinking red light laughed at him and dared him to speak aloud. He hated being on television and he hated seeing himself on television even more. He could always spot a flaw, something he could have done better. He’d come a long way since his early days, but he was still no Clarence Darrow or William Jennings Bryan, and he never would be.
Media play. His hands got sweaty just from whispering the words to himself. And he was considering running for a full Senate term? Who was he kidding? At least when he’d been at the White House press conference he’d had the president’s advisors to assist. Now he was on his own. Not even Christina was here. She hadn’t spoken to him for days.
There had been protestors outside, mostly from the ACLU and other civil libertarian groups. The Capitol Police were doing their best to keep them under control, but they had shaken Ben as he passed by. Some even called him ugly names. Traitor. Fascist. The press was almost equally aggressive, shouting questions and shoving microphones in his face. He should be used to that by now. But in truth, ever since the Oklahoma City attack, he had found himself more jumpy and nervous, especially in a crowd. They might be relatively harmless political protestors exercising their First Amendment rights, but now, Ben’s imagination saw every disapproving face as a potential assassin, heard every loud noise as a gunshot. It unnerved him-exactly what he did not need before testifying.
He remembered the September 2006 incident when a man crashed his car into a security barricade and ran into the Capitol Building with a loaded handgun. He had led the Capitol Police on a merry chase before they finally cornered him in the basement and took his gun-along with the crack cocaine in his pocket. Didn’t matter what precautions anyone took. If a loony with a car and a gun could get in here, no place was safe. No place and no one. The next attacker could be lurking just “You aren’t wearing the red.”
Ben jumped a foot in the air when he abruptly heard a voice in his ear. He turned and saw Tracy Sobel leaning toward him. “What are you talking about?”
“I left a message on your machine. About your attire. Blue suit, red tie.”
“I did wear a blue suit.” He only had two, and they were both blue.
“But not the red tie. Our media consultants thought that the red tie was key to persuading the home audience.”
“Perhaps we should focus on persuading the Senate Judiciary Committee. Otherwise it won’t matter what the people think.”
“It always matters what the people think,” Sobel said, checking off items on her clipboard faster than Ben could read them. “That’s why we spend so much time manipulating the people and telling them what to think.”
“Well, let Director Lehman wear the red tie.”
“No, he’s supposed to wear brown. He’s law enforcement. People want law enforcement to seem sturdy and competent-not warm. You, on the other hand, need to be warm.”
“And that is because…?”
“Let’s just say you don’t have a naturally effervescent personality. Shall we take a seat?”
Ben followed her to a pre-designated position on the front row of the gallery. “I happen to think I can… effervesce as well as anybody.”
“Yes, just keep telling yourself that. Try not to stutter when you do it.”
Ben took his seat. He noticed that Sobel’s makeup was more pronounced than usual; he assumed that was because she knew she was about to be on television. Seemed even the president’s chief of staff wanted to look good to the folks out in Televisionland. He’d heard rumors that she had ambitions that went higher than chief of staff. He was beginning to suspect they were correct.
A few minutes later, they were joined by Senator Jeffrey DeMouy and Homeland Security Director Carl Lehman. DeMouy was the first to crush Ben’s hand. “Good to see you again, Kincaid. Ready to sell this bill to the committee?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ben said, and he meant it. “I assume you’ll go first.”
“Actually, I’m not going at all.”
“What?”
Sobel intervened. “The president was concerned about having both of his designated hitters appear before the committee.”
“Then use him!”
Sobel smiled slightly. “No. Traditionally, the committee calls witnesses who have actual knowledge of the matter at hand. True, they are usually advocates, but the advocacy is based on some experience or education. And they usually aren’t senators. Why should one senator have to listen to the opinion of another senator in committee? That’s what they’ll have to do when the bill goes to the floor.”
“Then why-?”
Sobel held up her hand impatiently, as if to prevent him from asking a question to which she already knew the answer. “You’re in an entirely different situation. For one thing, you only barely count as a senator.”
“Thank you so very much.”
“Moreover, your background is in criminal defense-the exact antithesis of law enforcement. You’ll make a good contrast with Director Lehman. You sit on different sides of the courtroom and yet you both support this bill.”
“But that part about experience and knowledge-”
Again she cut him off. “You were there on April nineteenth. You experienced the attack firsthand. Forgive me if this seems callous, but it’s a fact-your close friend was critically injured. That gives you an enormous amount of credibility. No one’s going to question your right to address the committee.”
There it was, just as plainly as it could be put. In the world of politics, even the potential loss of a dear friend ultimately became nothing more than grist for the political mill.
“Got some good news,” DeMouy said, grinning. “The House Rules Committee just voted in favor of the amendment. It will go to the floor of the House next week.”
“Where it’s certain to be adopted.”
“That’s what the pundits tell me.” He gave Ben a pointed look. “Which means it’s all down to the Senate. Where the president put us in charge.”
That’s just dandy, Ben thought. If he hadn’t been nervous before (and he had been), he was certainly nervous now.
Sobel withdrew a stapled bundle of papers from a manila envelope and handed it to Ben. “Here are some
