Mental State, page 12
Reverend Lincoln nodded, but he couldn’t speak.
“Maybe there should be, but there isn’t,” Schafer said.
They sat down, exhausted from the passion they both brought to the issue.
“So, what, we just walk away from him and his family?” Reverend Lincoln resigned himself but couldn’t let go just yet.
“Yes. As hard as that may seem, it is the right thing to do.”
“That’s a big ask, Mike.”
“I know.” Schafer reached down and put a leather satchel on Reverend Lincoln’s desk. “You’ve been inconvenienced. You’ve made a bet on a horse that you didn’t know was lame. You’ve spent some of your reputational capital. We understand that. So this will defray those costs.”
Reverend Lincoln ignored the bag.
“You told me why you think you know he did it, but you haven’t told me why you think I should care.”
“Assuming you aren’t interested in justice.”
“Don’t lecture me about justice, Mike. Don’t tell me my people get justice in your system, Mike. Don’t tell me that not fighting for this boy, whether he did it or not, is in the interests of justice for the black man.”
“Save it for the adoring crowds and the talking heads. We need this to go away.”
“You said. Why?”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Linc?”
“Maybe I am. Explain it to me, Mike. You owe me that.”
“Think about what happens if this boy gets off. You work your magic, and the jury acquits him, even though he did it. But imagine that no one ever knows that, so you aren’t tarnished with getting a killer back on the streets. Let’s just pretend.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“For you and him, maybe. But think about it from the president’s perspective. She doesn’t care about Marcus or this dead professor. What she cares about is the future of our country. All three hundred plus million of us. Her legislative accomplishments, the ones that are going to give hundreds of thousands of Marcuss a better life, are being evaluated by a Supreme Court that is stacked against her. And then, fortune gave her a chance to nominate a new chief justice and finally swing the balance of the court back in our favor. Judge Pham is that chance. And what do you think will happen to his nomination when it turns out that Professor Johnson was murdered, but just not by this Marcus kid? The press and the public and some fence-sitting senators might start asking who else might have done it. That isn’t exactly the story we want in the news in the lead up to the confirmation vote. We need some Republican votes, Linc, and we don’t need any doubts.”
“But I thought the professor was going to support—”
“I hope you don’t think I’d put my faith in that. We’re talking politics here, Linc. Conspiracy theories are already flying around the internet. We need this kid to go down. It is fortunate that we know he did it.”
“Seems convenient.”
“Look, Linc. If it is up to me, I don’t care if the kid did it or not. I’m with Dr. Spock—the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I’m not happy he is one of yours, but if you ask me if I trade the freedom of Marcus Jones for a chance to preserve what we’ve built—a new social safety net for working Americans—and to put a reliable vote on the court that will make the close cases five to four in our way for a change, I’ll take that deal every day and twice on Sunday.”
“I’ve never doubted your ruthlessness,” the Reverend said.
“But it isn’t up to me, Linc.”
Reverend Lincoln put his head in his left hand. His breathing slowed.
The chief of staff ignored him and went on. “The president wouldn’t make that deal. She sent me here only after she was convinced the boy did it. I wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t completely sure this was the right thing to do.”
Reverend Lincoln leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ornate tin ceiling of his office. He had to admit that Schafer’s concern about conspiracy theories derailing the nomination, while somewhat far-fetched, was not outside the realm of possibility. And in politics, possibilities like that mattered. Schafer was who he was because they mattered to him. He took care of things before they became things.
The Reverend leaned forward and saw the bag sitting on his desk.
“What’s in there, Mike?”
“A bright future for Operation LIFT and the causes you care so much about.”
Reverend Lincoln fingered the handles. He looked back up at Schafer, who was looking again at his Blackberry.
“I don’t understand the logic here, Mike. I mean, I just don’t think this is going to matter so much to Judge Pham’s nomination.”
“Take the bag, Linc. The boy did it.”
Reverend Lincoln reached forward and pulled the bag toward him.
“I’ve got another appointment in town,” Schafer said as he rose and put out his hand. “Can I tell the president that she can count on you?”
Reverend Lincoln stood up and grabbed Schafer’s extended hand.
“You can.”
“Great. Thanks, Linc. You did the right thing.”
Schafer was gone in an instant. When the walnut door slammed behind him, Reverend Lincoln opened the bag. He gasped at its contents. At least one million dollars in bundled one hundred dollar bills filled every inch of the large bag. It was the biggest donation in the history of Operation LIFT, and yet no one could ever know it happened.
Twenty-four hours later, Dorothy Jones walked into the large open room of the Temple, expecting to find hundreds of volunteers making signs and manning the phones. The halls were empty and not a staffer could be found. The tables were there to hold the brothers and sisters who were going to shout from the plazas and the streets that Marcus was innocent. So too were the reams of paper for flyers and the poster board and markers for signs. But not a one contained the message—“Free Marcus!”—she expected to see. The banks of phones sat silent.
Dorothy Jones found her way up to the second floor to the office of Reverend Lincoln. His assistant told Mrs. Jones that the reverend was out of the office for the next few days and couldn’t be reached. When Mrs. Jones asked about her son’s case—“Do you know about Marcus?” she pleaded—the assistant handed her a note and started to escort her toward the exit. When Dorothy Jones found herself out on Martin Luther King Drive, she opened the folded note. The message from Reverend Lincoln, written in a graceful hand, was simple: “I regret that Operation LIFT cannot assist you any further. We wish you and Marcus well. God bless you, Reverend T.D. Lincoln.”
CHAPTER 24
Mike Schafer headed just down the street to the Rockefeller University Law School, satisfied that he’d avoided one potential disaster but knew he needed to avert another. Schafer’s black Chevy Suburban pulled into the parking lot, and Secret Service agents went about clearing a safe path for him. Chiefs of staff didn’t always travel with entourages, but Schafer did. Ensconced in the comfort of the SUV, he listened to Alan Jackson and typed out instructions to his team back in Washington. A dozen emails went out in the few minutes while the agents did their work; one went to the president. All it said was: The Padres won. When Schafer got the all clear from the Secret Service, he strode from the SUV with confidence, and headed straight for the dean’s suite. His old friend Sylvia Ostergaard was expecting him.
When she saw him cross the threshold, Dean Ostergaard felt herself flush. She wanted to run across the room, put her mouth on his, and take him right there in her office. It had been a long time since she felt that about anyone, far too long. And she’d longed for Mike Schafer to be inside her for the better part of two decades.
“Mike!”
“It’s been too long.” He embraced her, kissing each cheek.
“It feels like the first time I saw you, that first day in Griswold Hall.”
“I remember that day.” He pulled back and stared deeply into her dark eyes. “You were wearing a black dress and black stockings, and with your jet black hair, you looked like a character from The Munsters. A beautiful, charming, intelligent Munster.” Ostergaard smiled the biggest smile she could remember. He smiled back.
Schafer didn’t remember any of that. In preparation for this meeting, he’d studied a picture from their first day at Harvard Law School that one of his aides found in their class yearbook. She was standing aloofly in the corner while a dozen or so students posed arm-in-arm for the camera. She was blurry and distorted in the blown-up picture, but Schafer got what he needed out of it.
“Sit down,” she pointed toward a chair at her marble side table. “Can I get you something?”
“Tequila.”
“I guess that can be arranged.”
“I’m joking, Sylvia. I’ll have a coffee, black.”
While she went to see about coffee, Schafer checked his Blackberry. The president had written back: the subject line and the message content were blank. It was her way of saying she’d received the message, understood it’s meaning, and had no further instructions.
“Your coffee, sir.” The dean’s assistant handed him a tall green mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“No thanks. Just black.”
Dean Ostergaard closed the door behind her assistant and walked back to her chair, running her hand along Schafer’s broad shoulders as she did.
“I’ve missed you, Mike.”
“How have you been, sweetie?” he played along.
Back in her seat, she spread her arms and glanced around her large office, filled with books and memorabilia from her time as dean.
“Pretty great. Pretty damn great. How about you?”
“No complaints.” He typed out a quick message on his Blackberry as he answered. He looked up as he pressed send. “I feel like a firefighter battling the Great Chicago Fire, but how can I complain about that? The work is always interesting and we are all that stands between millions of people and misery.”
“That’s what I like the most about you, Mike, your modesty!” She reached out and held his hand.
Schafer squeezed it affectionately and met her eyes again. He could see in them a yearning, and with his look he let her know that he felt it too. He held onto her hand and stroked her pinkie gently with his thumb.
“I’d love to spend the day with you, Sylvia.” He let her savor the comment for a few seconds. But before she could formulate a response, he added, “But I needed to be in Washington three hours ago.” He looked down again at his Blackberry. It was an email from his assistant rescheduling a relatively trivial meeting, but Schafer pretended it was important. “Excuse me for a second.” He got up and walked out of the room. He stood outside, in view of the dean’s window, pacing back and forth for a few minutes, talking to no one on his cell phone. A few moments later, he was back in her office. She was sitting at the table, her hand still extended to where his had been.
“I really need to get back. The president…I just have to get back.”
“I understand,” she said forlornly as she pulled back her hand.
“So, what was so urgent that I had to see you?”
“Look, Mike. I am extremely grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I am not sure I’ll ever be able to repay your kindness and support.”
“No problem, babe. You earned it.”
“Thanks. I’m certain I did, but I’m also certain I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
“Hopefully you didn’t make me fly here to tell me that.”
“No, you know I didn’t.”
“Good.”
She paused and shifted in her seat. “I’m worried, Mike.”
“Don’t be.”
“Murder? Fucking murder?”
“Calm down, Sylvia.” His voice was steely. “We have this under control.” He looked over his shoulder.
The dean stood up and walked to the other side of the room and sat behind her large blond wood desk. It was her position of power. She knew that Mike hadn’t asked for Alex and for Marcus because he wanted to nominate them to cabinet positions or send them Christmas cards, but she had never expected it to go this far or this way.
“It feels like this is spinning out of control. You asked me for a favor…a big favor, and I delivered. You asked me for a way to get to the professor, and I gave you a way in. I even paid for business class so he’d be more likely to take the trip.”
“And we appreciate what you did. That plan worked perfectly.”
“Then you asked me for a vulnerable student; I gave you a name. I rigged it. The kid didn’t fail. Bright kid. I altered the exam. I deleted an entire answer. I demanded a hard line on the grading so you’d have someone who…fit your parameters. There is no way I’d have let him flunk that kid. Do you know the blow back I’ve gotten for that? Hell, if I were the head of BLSA, I would have been mad as hell too.” She took a deep breath and let that sink in. She went on, more calmly, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, not just because I owed you but because I was sure you’d take care of things. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I’m taking care of things, Sylvia. Nothing has gone differently than we expected. We didn’t have one plan, we had many. When one didn’t work out, a backup was ready. That’s how we do things. How we make sure we protect ourselves and our friends. That includes you. We are right where we want to be.”
She nodded along but wasn’t reassured. It was just the force of decanal habit.
“Well, not where we want to be exactly, but we are not in jeopardy. I’ve deployed the power of the presidency to ensure this doesn’t go sideways. Trust me.”
He reached out for her.
“What am I supposed to do?” she said. “If you tell me to sit tight and keep my mouth shut, I’m going to freak out. I can’t just sit here calmly with a dead professor and a former student about to be tried for a first-degree murder he didn’t commit. I’m involved in this, whether you want me to be or not, Mike.”
Schafer paused long enough for it to be awkward. But he was really lost in thought. He’d never known her to be weak minded or weak willed; if he had, he wouldn’t have chosen her for this important job. But he could sense her loyalty cracking.
“The president of the United States of America chose us—you and me, Sylvia—for the most important mission of her second term.”
“I know.”
“When I called you several months ago and asked for help, it wasn’t your old law school friend calling, it was the president asking you to serve your country. Just as if she were asking you to take a machine gun nest. The president doesn’t send troops into battle lightly. You know that.”
She nodded.
“I’ve been in that room. I’ve seen her struggle and I’ve even seen her weep. But I’ll tell you that her resolve is sure and her decisions are always motivated by the welfare of the American people. She isn’t a selfish person, Sylvia. You know that.”
“Well, not personally.”
He smiled at her, and they shared the moment.
The dean went on, acknowledging the point. “When I voted for her, twice, I assumed that to be true.”
“This appointment isn’t about her or her legacy. It is about not allowing a bunch of right-wing judges to undo what we’ve accomplished for the American people. Every president dreams of changing the ideological balance on the Supreme Court, and we have the chance to swing it to our side for the first time in more than a generation.”
“I know what’s at stake, Mike. You don’t need to—”
“This isn’t just about our accomplishments being at risk, although the current court could undo them all, but about ten, twenty, fifty years from now. What will those presidents be able to do as a result of our work? The Constitution can start being about what we can do instead of what we can’t do. Isn’t that worth a few casualties?”
“I know…I know.”
“I don’t think you do, Dean Ostergaard. I don’t think you do.” Schafer was tired of fake flirting. “If you did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What should I do? I’m afraid the truth will come out.”
“You did the right thing. Marcus will be tried and convicted of the murder of Alex Johnson, just like we’ve designed this from the minute we learned, well, you know, the story about Pham. It would have been better if his brother didn’t get involved and it was ruled a suicide like we planned. But this was a good backup plan, and I always wear a reserve chute. A couple, in fact.”
“I wish I didn’t know it. The story about Pham and all this, you know. I wish the whole thing…”
She trailed off like a balloon deflating. It was a pathetic comment, and Schafer didn’t respect her for it. But he understood where it was coming from. He knew the comment also probably contained more regret than just knowing what she knew. It was also the first sign to either of them that she regretted the Faustian deal struck with Rockefeller University Trustee Michael Schafer. Sylvia Ostergaard’s ambition had always been a force pulling her toward self-improvement, but for the first time, she could see how it could be her undoing. She was right where she wanted to be, but West Virginia’s gravity was pulling her back. It was like she’d fooled everyone long enough, and now she had to be returned to rightful place so the balance of the universe could be restored.
Schafer knew she needed a pep talk.
“Do you know how we got here, Sylvia? How the president got in this pickle?”
“Pickle? You sure are downplaying this mess.” She was starting to get irritated. But she was curious as to the answer, and at this point thought if she didn’t get back on board, she might be the second Rockefeller Law professor killed by Schafer’s boys. “Go on.”
“When Chief Justice Rabinowitz died it was our chance. Our chance! Pham wasn’t the president’s first choice. He wasn’t in her top ten, well, maybe in the top ten. In any event, when Malin Olsen had to withdraw on the eve of the senate vote because our own party viewed her as a lightweight, it was a real blow to the president. Then the first couple of potential replacement nominees ran into difficulties in the vetting process. The president couldn’t chance another failure, so she put together a top-flight vetting team—do you know Bob Gerhardt?”
