The first thing I saw when I got to my office this morning was a fellow who had “Capitol Hill wonk” writ large all over him, impatiently cooling his heels and glaring at my private secretary, who, despite that, maintained her composure and professional demeanor admirably. My visitor practically leapt out of his seat when I entered the room.
“Mr. Collins?” Mystery Man demanded.
“Guilty as charged,” I responded, “and you are?”
Instead of introducing himself, he dove into the pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a piece of paper. “This,” he said, “is a cashier’s check, made out to you, for your standard minimum ninety minute consultation at your stated hourly rate.” He handed the check over for my inspection. The figure was correct. “I require a meeting with you at your first opportunity.”
“That would be right now,” I told him, “since my nine o’clock appointment called me on my cell phone while I was driving here and canceled for reasons beyond his control.” I strode over to the door leading to my office and opened it, gesturing inside. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”
“Mr. Collins,” he said as he took a seat in front of my desk, “I work for a certain very powerful person in Congress. Yesterday, he had an… encounter with federal law enforcement.”
“These things happen in Washington,” I allowed, “but perhaps you are mistaken. I’m a consultant, not a lawyer.”
“Believe me when I tell you, Mr. Collins,” he declared, “that my employer has the best legal minds available working on his behalf.”
“That’s comforting to know.” I opined, “But in that case, what do you need me for?”
“Because my employer’s senior staff and a team of lawyers were up all night, formulating a defense. And part of that defense is to get the best minds inside the Beltway working the problem, using their brains, experience and, I might add, contacts, to resolve the situation in my employer’s favor.”
“Well,” I shrugged, slipping the check into my desk drawer, “I certainly hope I can be of some assistance.”
“I wouldn’t be here, Mr. Collins,” my guest assured me, “if my employer, several of his attorneys and I were not absolutely sure that you can.”
“I’m definitely flattered, sir.” I replied, “What’s up?”
“My employer has been a member of Congress for a number of years and serves on five committees, three of which are highly influential. He’s a great man, with many friends, as could be expected. But those gumshoes and green eyeshade guys at the FBI and IRS don’t see things the way the honest, hard working and practical citizens of my employer’s state do. No, those peckerwoods are out to get this fine man, based on a bunch of trumped-up charges.”
“Oh, I know what’s going on,” I speculated, “he’s some liberal Democrat who’s against the war in Iraq and the Republican-controlled Administration is using Executive Branch enforcement agencies to discredit him and destroy his political career.”
Mystery Man caught his breath momentarily. “Ah, no, not exactly.”
“You mean,” I gasped, “your employer is a Republican?”
Mystery Man blushed bright red. “Yes,” he whispered sheepishly, “a… senior… Republican.”
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed, “It’s Senator Ted Stevens, isn’t it? You’re here because the IRS and FBI searched his house in Girdwood, Alaska yesterday. They carted off boxes and bags full of evidence, and took pictures all over the place – especially the wine cellar.”
Mystery Man visibly squirmed in his seat, but remained steadfast. “Mr. Collins, if I were prepared to admit that, you would not have been paid with a cashier’s check.”
“Good point,” I conceded. “Okay, then, for the record, I don’t know who the hell we’re talking about.”
Mystery Man visibly relaxed. “Exactly. This person we are discussing is just some senior Republican who has recently had one of his domiciles searched by the IRS and FBI.”
“Could be anybody,” I vouched.
“Right,” Mystery Man nodded.
“After all, things being what they are in this town, that kind of stuff happens all the time, practically.”
“All the time,” Mystery Man agreed with obvious satisfaction.
“So, by any chance, is your employer mixed up with a very wealthy fellow who won millions of dollars in federal contracts and then ended up pleading guilty to bribery and conspiracy charges?”
Mystery Man glanced up at the ceiling, finally producing a curt “Could be.”
“And maybe there are ongoing Interior and Commerce Department probes into another outfit your employer was, shall we say, pretty cozy with? A ‘scientific’ outfit associated with a major industry in your employer’s district or state? One that might serve the purposes, as it were, of that industry?”
“Maybe.”
“And is it possible that your employer had a bookkeeper, accountant or personal assistant involved who has recently testified before a federal grand jury about all this?”
“Anything’s possible, Mr. Collins.”
“And by any remote stroke of luck is it the case that two major watchdog groups have called for your employer to resign these influential committee appointments you mentioned?”
“I would hardly characterize that as ‘luck,’ Mr. Collins.”
“Of course not,” I averred, “no doubt ‘misfortune’ would have been a better choice of words.”
“Much better, Mr. Collins. This entire affair is extremely unfortunate. My employer is one of the best men I have ever known, and everybody who works for him has a similar opinion.”
“Of course. No doubt about that, none at all. As they say, sir, ‘whose bread I eat, his song I sing,’ do they not?” I inquired.
“I’ve heard that,” he responded flatly.
“Not sourdough bread is it?”
“I’m pretty sure my employer is fond of that,” he affirmed dryly, “most of us are.”
“One of my favorites, too,” I offered. “Okay, I suppose you and your lawyers have discussed the significance of any existing paper trails?”
“My employer had the, uh, fellow who pleaded guilty oversee some, ah, improvements to some property my employer owned. The subcontractors sent their bills to that guy, you see, and then they received payment in the form of checks from my employer.” Mystery Man looked rather sad and uncertain after relating the story.
“If that’s true,” I assessed, “it looks pretty bad for your employer. I mean, if he wanted to be above board about it, he should have hired somebody – anybody else, really – to perform those improvements and he should have written checks to the prime contractor, not the subcontractors. Why, the subcontractors don’t even have a business relationship with the client in most construction projects – the subs work for the prime and the prime has the business relationship with the client. You have to admit, that sure looks fishy.”
“Somewhat… unorthodox, anyway,” Mystery Man sighed wistfully.
“Any idea,” I tactfully pursued, “where your employer got the money he paid the subcontractors? Because, even though I’m not a cop or a mouthpiece, when I see a setup like that, I sort of think ‘money laundering,’ you know?”
“Mr. Collins, you must realize that as a member of Congress, my employer is very well compensated.”
“Not all that well,” I rebutted, “One hundred sixty five thousand a year is peanuts to a lot of people in this town. That amount of money is chump change to the typical K Street lobbyist.”
“Let’s just assume,” he shot back in a clearly irked tone, “for purposes of this discussion, at least, that my employer came by every cent of that money honestly.” Mystery Man leaned forward, gazing intently for emphasis. “What I need from you, Mr. Collins, are ideas about how my employer can, first of all, manipulate public opinion so that he retains his Congressional committee seats; secondly, conduct a counter-information campaign in his home state so that everyone knows the real truth about this great, good, honest man, thus preventing his opponents from using these baseless allegations as political fodder in upcoming elections; and, thirdly, restructure his image so that potential jury members nationwide will be favorably disposed toward him.”
“That last one, sir,” I protested, albeit mildly, “sounds a bit like, ah, jury tampering.”
“Under no circumstances,” he proclaimed, a bit self-righteously, “was that third point intended to mean that any of the practices recognized as jury tampering would be used. There is an entire discipline, as I am sure you are aware, Mr. Collins, devoted to jury member selection, and the techniques used in it are totally legal. That’s the kind of thing we have in mind – just, well, sort of more… widespread and applied in a… proactive manner.”
Leaning back in my chair, I told him, in my best consultant’s voice, “I understand. Please allow me to consider these issues.”
Mystery Man was appropriately patient as I thought about his needs, goals and requirements. Situations like this are my specialty, to be sure, but that doesn’t mean I always arrive at an instantaneous solution. After about ten minutes, my guest began to fidget and clear his throat discretely, raising his eyebrows slightly as he quietly harrumphed.
“Okay,” I finally responded, “how about this – ‘Mr. Good Guy,’ your employer, sets up a Web site and posts all his financial records – with minimal redactions to protect account numbers and other individuals’ privacy – on that Web site.”
“He can’t do that!”
“Why not? We’re operating under the assumption that he came by all his money honestly, so, provided that the information presented didn’t offer the opportunity for identity theft or invasion of privacy…”
“Mr. Collins!” Mystery Man interjected with, I think, a bit more energy than was called for, “Assumptions are useful tools for analysis, but let’s not get carried away with them!”
“So,” I surmised, “that means, if Mr. Good Guy did post such information, either some of the information would reveal, let’s say, questionable transactions or, on the other hand, not all the figures would add up?”
“Something of that nature,” Mystery Man sniffed.
“Right – scratch full disclosure, then. How about if Mr. Good Guy were to turn all of his financial affairs over to a large, reputable accounting firm? Divest all his holdings into blind trusts, that sort of thing?”
“He won’t do that!”
“Because?”
“He won’t do that because that would mean turning over all his financial records to a third party.”
“A third party,” I prodded, “who might have the accounting acumen to notice, not to put too fine a point on it – the presence of certain improprieties?”
“I can’t say whether or not such a hypothetical person would or would not find inconsistencies in my employer’s financial records, but I can assure you, Mr. Collins, that under no circumstances is he willing to stand naked before anyone!”
“Except Mrs. Good Guy, I suppose?”
“Oh, well, yeah – her, of course. Not that she had anything to do with the scams… I mean the financial dealings of my employer.”
“All right then,” I continued, “how about the house? Mr. Good Guy could give it to charity – structure some kind of deal for maximum tax write-offs over several years…”
“No way is he going to give up that house! It’s prime all-year resort town real estate!”
“All the more reason,” I pressed on, “for him to consider giving it to a charity that provides summer getaways for inner-city children, for example.”
“If I suggested that my employer do that, he’d have a heart attack,” Mystery Man responded emphatically.
“Then how about if Mr. Good Guy goes to the federal investigators and turns over some real, useful evidence on the people he was involved with in these shady deals? With that, the feds can look good, catching a bunch of corrupt business leaders, their scumbag lobbyists and the crooked politicians who whore for them, while Mr. Good Guy can cut a deal to avoid getting reamed.”
“These people are his friends, relatives, business partners and former staff, Mr. Collins!”
“I see. And they have more on him than he does on them, I bet?”
“Not necessarily,” Mystery Man managed to choke out. “Some of them, I guess, yeah, they could put him away for a long, long time.”
“So it’s a Mexican standoff on that option, huh? Everybody’s in it so deep, nobody could come out clean? Yeah, in that case, the feds will look for a little fish to rat out your employer, because nailing him looks much better in the press.”
“Yeah.” Mystery Man took out a handkerchief and wiped nervous perspiration from his brow. There was silence for another two or three minutes while I ran my brain cells at maximum RPM.
“How about pulling a Scooter Libby?”
Mystery Man looked up from his brooding. “A what?”
“You know – Mr. Good Guy pretends he’s been taken for a ride by a subordinate. Is your employer, like, kind of old?”
“Old enough, I suppose.”
“Old enough to pull a Ronald Reagan and appear to be an affable, competent leader who nevertheless is just a wee bit befuddled – in a lovable sort of way, of course – just enough so people would believe that he’d delegate important matters to his trusted and loyal staff? A staff, you see, that contained one bad apple, one Scooter Libby character – a person upon whom everything could be plausibly blamed?”
Mystery Man blanched white as a sheet. “Oh, my God,” he muttered, crestfallen, as his face contorted into a writhing mass of wrinkles and worry lines, “Oh, my God.”
“Ah,” I breathed out quietly, “My sympathies. That person would be you, sir, would it not?”
Mystery Man began to rock slowly back and forth in his chair, muttering “Oh, my God” over and over.
After a few minutes of that, I dipped into my desk drawer, removed the check and rallied myself to speak words I very seldom utter. “Would you like to have this back?”
Still rocking, he shook his head and extended his hand as if pushing away at a plate of rotten prison food. “No, no… you earned it.” In an instant, as if seized by something beyond his own body or mind, my visitor pulled himself together, resolute. Then, just as quickly, he collapsed back in the chair. “Oh [expletive deleted]!” Mystery Man exclaimed, “my [expletive deleted] passport expired last [expletive deleted] week!”
“Not to worry,” I consoled him, jotting a name, telephone number and email address down on my desk note pad. “Here,” I offered, “take this. It’s contact information for a fellow at the State Department who owes me a few favors. Meet with him by one o’clock today and you will have a new passport by four-thirty.”
Without another word, Mystery Man lurched forward, snatched the note from my fingers and was gone. I waited ten minutes, put the check in my pocket, and headed for the bank.