and I and Shelly each have a microphone before us.” He pointed to the other items on the table. “These small objects are high-definition television cameras. It’s customary to record all background-check interviews, so that we can review transcripts for accuracy, if necessary. When the interview has been completed, the tapes will be secured in an FBI vault. At a later date to be determined, they will either be destroyed or given to you for your collection of personal papers, whichever you desire.”
“That’s fine with me, Director Smith,” Stanton said.
He was an impressive man, Kerry thought, handsome, with a fine baritone speaking voice, and he exhibited no signs of nervousness, as many men in his shoes would have.
“If I may, I’ll begin by going over the answers on the questionnaire you completed, to be sure we have your answers correct and to your satisfaction.”
“Fine.”
“Let’s begin with your birth,” Kerry said, getting right to the point. “Where were you born?”
The governor smiled. “I was born in the backseat of a 1957 Cadillac Sedan de Ville, on the way to the San Diego Women’s Hospital, where both my father and maternal grandfather were born.”
“Can you tell us the circumstances surrounding that event?”
“My family have had business connections with Mexico for three generations,” Stanton said. “My grandfather was a Coca-Cola bottler in San Diego, and my father, after his graduation from Oxford University, in England, and with his father’s help, bought the franchise to bottle Coca-Cola in Tijuana, Mexico, along with a Mexican business partner with whom he had roomed at Eton and Oxford. My father fell in love with and married his partner’s sister, and they built a home in Tijuana, so that he could closely supervise the business activities and advertising while his partner managed the bottling plant.
“My parents had planned for the birth to occur in San Diego, since there was no equivalent to Women’s Hospital in Tijuana. The day before my mother was to move to my grandparents’ home in San Diego to prepare for the birth, which her doctors had predicted would take place two weeks later, my father was about to leave for work when my mother went into labor. She later told him she had had mild contractions during the night but had thought nothing of them.
“He panicked, of course, and hustled her into the rear seat of the car, while his regular driver got the car started and headed for San Diego.
“My father was, like most American men of that day, unacquainted with the details of the birth process, and as my mother tells it, when my birth drew very near, his panic gave way to hysteria. He had a slightly different version of the story, of course, but the result was that my father and his driver, Pedro Martнnez, a family employee, changed positions, and my father drove while Pedro, coming from a society where births were not always accomplished in hospitals, delivered me. He did a good job, apparently, and when we all arrived at the hospital, the doctors and nurses praised him for his skills.”
“That’s a delightful story,” Kerry replied, laughing, “but can you tell me exactly what time and where, geographically, you were born?”
“Well, I was pretty young at the time, so I’ve had to rely on my parents’ accounts and that of Pedro, of course, who has told me the story more than once, and they were all pretty busy for half an hour or forty-five minutes. As I understand it, I drew my first breath only a minute or so after crossing the border.”
“Are your parents still living?” Kerry asked.
“My father passed away more than twenty years ago. My mother is still alive, but she is ninety-two and suffers from Alzheimer ’s disease. She’s in a residential facility in San Diego.”
“What about Mr. Martнnez?”
“Pedro is still alive and living outside Tijuana on a bottling company pension. I last saw him early this past summer, when he and I were both in San Diego, and, although his health is not good, he is alive.”
“Can you give us his address?”
“The bottling company in Tijuana will have it,” Stanton replied.
“Why? Are you looking for confirmation?”
“Frankly, Governor, yes. It’s not that we doubt your account, but as you say, you were pretty young at the time, and the question of whether you were born on American soil has become pertinent.”
Stanton frowned. “You mean my citizenship? My father was an American citizen, so I am, as well. I have an American birth certificate and an American passport.”
“I understand, Governor, but a vice president must be a native-born American, and a potential problem exists in the legal definition of what is native-born.” Kerry produced a sheet of paper. “This is what Section 1401 of the U.S. Code says about aliens and nationality:
“ ‘The following shall be nationals and citizens of the United States at birth: (a) A person born in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof.’ (b) This one is not relevant, it’s to do with Indian tribes and Eskimos. ‘(c) A person born outside of the United States… of parents both of whom are citizens of the United States.’
“I believe your mother was a citizen of Mexico at the time of her birth?”
“That’s correct,” the governor replied.
“There is another situation that might apply: one born to a foreign national and a U.S. citizen who, prior to the birth, was present in the United States for periods totaling not less than five years, at least two of which were after the age of fourteen.
“Now, according to the form you completed, your father’s early years were spent almost entirely in Mexico, and from the age of eight, he was educated at Eton, then Oxford, in England, and he was twenty-two years old at your birth. We’ve combed through this very carefully, and the most we can put him in the United States, conforming to the statute, is three years and two months, so that part of the statute does not seem to apply to you. Finally, there is a circumstance where the citizen parent has been physically present in the United States for a continuous period of one year, and you do not qualify under that circumstance, either.”
“But I was born in California,” the governor replied.
“Governor, if our investigations can confirm that, you will have no problem meeting the qualification.”
The governor was frowning. “So where do we go from here?” “We’ll interview Pedro Martнnez, and that should do it. In the meantime, let’s keep working our way through the questionnaire.”
14
Kerry Smith and Shelly Bach were on the way back to the Hoover Building after the interview with Governor Stanton.
“I think the governor is looking pretty good,” Shelly said.
You’re looking pretty good, yourself, Kerry thought. Shelly was a long-legged blonde who dressed better than a female FBI agent had any business dressing. “I think so, but we’ve got to clear up this birthplace question. I want it thoroughly documented for the file, because, believe me, this is going to come up at his confirmation hearing.”
“Sounds like this Pedro Martнnez is the man we have to talk to,” she said.
“How’s your Spanish?” Kerry asked.
“Pretty good, actually. I minored in it at college, and I had three months at the Army language school in Monterey, California, as preparation for working in the Albuquerque office. Then I got transferred here.”
“I want you to call the Coke bottling plant in Tijuana, find out exactly where Martнnez lives, and interview him. Be sure and get an audio recording of the interview. I’ll authorize a jet for your trip, so get out there, interview the old man, and get back here. We’ve got to have this thing wrapped up by the end of the week, or the director will eat us both alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So?” the Director asked.
