She looked around for a moment before the Capitol cop on duty rushed over and offered to help her find a seat. They wished they were him: oh, for an excuse to engage her in a conversation. They all watched as she shook her head-her long hair flipped back and forth, her features crinkled so beautifully. She chose her own seat, an aisle chair far in the back, where she was by herself. They watched as she sat, and they peeked and stared as her skirt rose and showed a little more leg. Great legs. Long legs. Legs that seemed to go all the way to the ceiling.
One of the reporters, tall and lanky, with a well-groomed fashionable three-day stubble, who obviously thought of himself as a cocksman, spun around in his seat and unloaded a flash of teeth. “Hey, babe, what paper you with?”
“I’m not.”
“I’m with the
She said nothing. It meant nothing.
“My name is Rex,” he tried again. “Rex Smith. So why’re you here?”
By now every eye in the room was on her and Rex. Rex had had the nerve to do what they all wanted to.
The universal hope was that he failed miserably.
“I work in the Department of Defense,” she said. “I was having lunch nearby. Thought I’d drop by and watch.”
“You have a name?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” In other words, get lost.
“What’s yours?”
“Mia,” she said. No last name, just Mia. She began digging through her briefcase, visibly trying to ignore him.
Spurred on by all the stares he was attracting, Rex wasn’t about to back down. He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say, so he offered the lame compliment, “Nice name.” Another smile and he asked, “So, what do you do in the Department of Defense?”
“Well, Rex, I’m a lawyer,” she answered without looking up.
“A lawyer.”
She finally met his stare. “Yes,” she said very calmly, very coldly. “I specialize in suing reporters for lying, defamation, or deliberate falsification.”
“Oh.”
“So I suggest you turn around and pay close attention to the hearing, Rex. Get every detail right. I’ll be watching.”
Rex stared blankly at her for a long moment, then turned around; he suddenly became preoccupied with his reporter’s pad. A few chuckles broke out among the other reporters. It was a brutal putdown. They admired her delivery.
Mia ignored the stares and chuckles and went back to digging something out of her briefcase.
As chairman, Earl entered five minutes late, fell gingerly into his chair, pulled his pants out of his crotch, offered the witnesses a pleasant, hospitable smile as if they were old chums, welcomed them to the hearing, then led off with a few empty peremptory remarks about the great importance of protecting our troops, buying them the very best equipment, and the role of this committee in oversight.
Then he fixed his bleary eyes on the three accountants. In his most homespun tone, he asked, “So you three fellas are all executive vice presidents?”
The older, plumper one in the middle answered, “Actually, sir, I’m a senior VP.” He motioned at the men to his left and right. “Rollins and Baggio here are executive VPs. They work for me.”
Earl nodded. “A senior VP, huh? Guess that makes you pretty high up over there.”
Edward Hamilton, the senior VP, offered a quick smile in response. This was so easy. “I’m one of only ten senior VPs in the company,” he announced as if he were a finalist for Miss America. Any second he’d be blathering about world peace.
“So we got the right folks up here to talk about this GT 400?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“And we should expect you to know a lot.”
“I think that’s a fair assumption, sir,” Hamilton answered with a loud, confident smile.
“Good, good. I was hoping GT didn’t send a coupla dunces up here.”
Hamilton chuckled. He decided a little more explanation might be helpful. “Rollins, Baggio, and I have been overseeing the GT 400 from its birth, you might say. I’d venture to say we know as much as anybody.” He smiled brightly. He should’ve said about the finances, but why waste words?
“Well, then, I’m surely delighted you’re here,” Earl announced, smiling tightly as one of his aides leaned forward and handed him a piece of paper. He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the paper for a moment. He cleared his throat, leaned into the microphone, and asked very softly, almost pleasantly, “Can any of you gentlemen tell me when you first became aware of the rollover problem?”
“I’m sorry.” Hamilton hesitated, then asked, “What problem?”
“I’m sure you heard me. The rollover problem.”
“I’m, uh, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t, huh?” Earl asked. He leaned his big bulk forward in his chair, planted his elbows, and asked, “Do you think a company that wants to sell the military a multibillion-dollar product has a responsibility to thoroughly test it?”
Hamilton by now was completely flustered. He glanced at the stooge from congressional relations for help, for advice, for a signal, anything. The stooge couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the floor. “I, uh, well-”
“This is one of those easy questions, Mr. Hamilton. Answer it.”
“Uh… why, yes. Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. Now, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
A nervous smile. “No, sir.”
“Now, if, during the course of this testing, a problem surfaces, what should the company do?”
Again Hamilton glanced anxiously down the row at the weasel from congressional relations. He was looking away; the walls of the chamber now seemed to hold his interest. After a long pause Hamilton said, “To be frank, this isn’t my area of-”
“Look at me, not him,” Earl barked. “This is my hearing after all. Do I need to repeat the question?”
“No.” Hamilton drew a deep breath and fingered a few spreadsheets. What was going on here? “I suppose it should report the problems.”
“You suppose?”
“Uh… yes, I believe it has that legal responsibility.”
Earl nodded. “So why didn’t you?” he asked in a very reasonable tone.
Unsure what this was about, Hamilton said, “I wasn’t at the testing.”
It was the wrong answer and Earl made him pay dearly for it. He lifted up a thick binder and waved it in the air like a thunderbolt he was about to stuff down the witness’s throat. “Have you seen this report?”
The question was spurious; no, of course he hadn’t seen it. Other than Earl, nobody in the room had laid eyes on it. The report-a thick compendium of charts and graphs and diagrams and tables-had only been compiled late the night before. It had been placed in Earl’s hands only that morning.
The man who prepared it, formerly a research analyst at the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, now a hired whore at a local think tank, had labored around the clock for two weeks trying to get it right. To his dismay, the GT 400, it turned out, had an almost impossibly low center of gravity. He was forced to tinker with the computer models until a ninety-degree turn performed at 140 mph did, in fact, produce a mild tipover.
The best-designed European race car would be hurtling toward Mars long before that speed. As for the GT 400, it couldn’t surpass 60 mph if it had three rocket engines strapped to its ass.
Hamilton was squinting, trying to see what Earl was waving around. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, well, I expected you’d say that,” Earl said, rolling his eyes and glaring with contempt at this pathetic attempt to lie. “This here’s an expert report showing that the GT 400 is subject to rollover.”
Hamilton exhaled a deep breath. “I find that hard to believe.” He had no idea whether it was true or not.
