Breach of Trust

71

The Gymnasium, packed to full capacity of about two thousand, simultaneously went up in a roar at the announcement of Governor Carlton Snow. The governor appeared from the hallway, doing his typical gubernatorial calisthenics-wave, thumbs-up, point, and repeat-as he moved toward the center of the basketball court, encircled in purple for the high school’s nickname. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans, which from what I had gathered from watching the news and reading the papers-I was paying more attention to such things of late-was the governor’s trademark look on the campaign trail.

There were kids in the audience but it was mostly adults, the racial mix being approximately two-to-one, black to white. We were on the city’s south side, at Duerson High School. The place was badly in need of refurbishing, but the gym was in pretty good shape. One of the guys I played ball with had come from Duerson, but it was my first time in the building.

“Thank you for the very nice greeting,” said the governor. “Usually, this time of year, when you hear Snow’s coming, it’s bad news.”

I sensed this was not the first time the governor had cracked that joke, but the audience liked it. In a corner not that far from me, where the reporters who were following the campaign were gathered, a couple of them traded glances that indicated they’d heard the line more than once.

I was standing next to Hector Almundo, dressed resplendently as always, who had actually arrived with the governor but came over to me. He’d given me a brief rundown. Today’s theme was education, and the governor was unveiling a plan to add more teachers to the city schools by expanding gambling-adding a new casino just outside the city-and using some of the state’s share of the gambling revenues for funding.

I was aware of the fact that we had some casinos in this state but I’d never visited one, nor had I stopped to consider the moral ramifications of legalizing gambling at all. I guess if I’d thought about it, I’d say, don’t go if you don’t want to play. But the point seemed to be that gambling carried with it some unsavory baggage like prostitution and addiction, and the people who seemed to play the most-the ones looking for the big score-tended to be the people who could afford it least.

“Well, these people seem to like his proposal,” I said to Hector, leaning into his ear.

“These people are teachers,” he said back. “That’s who he’s doing it for.”

Ah. Rallying the base. “Why spend time courting people who are already voting for you?” I asked.

Hector looked at me and smiled. Oh, the naive child was I. He leaned into me but had to speak up as the crowd erupted in applause. “This is just the setting, J. He’s doing it for the cameras. These campaigns are mostly television these days. Or Internet. Same thing. Plus G-O-T-V.”

I didn’t know what the hell that meant. “That’s different than regular TV?”

His smile turned to laughter. “Get out the vote,” he shouted over the din. “The more excited they are, the more they make sure that they and their friends go to the polls. We need a big turnout in the city because Willie’s doing well downstate.”

The governor went on for more than thirty minutes. He was good at what he did. He knew how to punctuate his lines, and he knew how to connect with the audience. He had that ridiculous politician’s smile but they all did, so it didn’t strike me as a handicap.

When it was over, I followed Hector and became part of the entourage. There was the state police detail and Madison and some other people, including a guy whom I recognized from the photo Chris Moody had showed me as William Peshke. We filtered into three stretch limousines that were part of a cavalcade, and before I knew it I was sitting next to Hector and this Peshke guy. And I was sitting across from Madison Koehler and Governor Carlton Snow.

The governor put out his hand. Madison squirted some sanitizer in his palm and he rubbed his hands together voraciously, like he was about to settle down to a big meal. Then he took a sweaty bottle of water from her and took a long swallow, smacking his lips with satisfaction when it was over.

“That was fun,” he said. His adrenaline was still flowing from the event. He looked around the cabin for a response, and it didn’t take him long to get it. You were on. They love you. Let’s see Willie Bryant work a room like that.

“You’re Jason,” he said to me.

“Nice to meet you, Governor.” And please say hello to my little recording device, which I had nicknamed FeeBee.

“You, too. Yeah.” He nodded at me. “Like your tie.”

“Just trying to keep up with Hector.” My former client was into the monochromatic thing these days-today it was a tan shirt and mustard tie.

The governor looked at Hector and allowed a wry smile. Then to me, he said, “You played ball at State.”

“Yes.”

“I remember that game. Your last one. I was there. You went off on that linebacker after that crackback block.”

I forgot that he’d gone to State as well. Greg Connolly had mentioned it.

“Then you punched out Karmeier the next day.”

Jesus, does everybody remember that? Well, Tony was All-Conference and a captain. Apparently I’d carved out a place of infamy at my alma mater.

“You keeping us out of trouble?” he asked.

“Doing my best.”

He drank from his bottle again. “Well, it’s a full-time job if I ever heard one.”

More appropriate laughter from the posse.

“You know everyone here?” he asked me.

Well, let’s see. I’d fully explored your chief of staff’s naked body a couple times now. I kept your buddy Hector from a stint in the federal penitentiary. .

“Bill Peshke.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Call me Pesh.”

I recalled what Chris Moody had said. Peshke was a special adviser to the governor but he was a campaign guy. The strategist. Moody had mentioned a turf battle with Madison Koehler. He was in his mid-forties, on the lean side, polished and plastic. His hair was sharply parted and well-sprayed. His clothes were pretty decent. His smile was robotic and his eyes moved about the limo, like he was looking for a better offer.

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you,” he said.

“Pesh is the one with the PhD,” said Hector. “That means he’s smarter than the rest of us.”

The governor clapped his hands together. “Where to now?”

“Darling Theater,” said Peshke.

I knew that place. It was a small auditorium on the near north side. I saw a concert there once. The Pogues, I think. Back when they had mosh pits. Do they still have those?

“Right, right. Okay, good, good.” The governor looked at Madison. “What’s Willie doing?”

“Marinaville,” she said. “Talking about crime and tort reform.”

“And we have that ad?”

She nodded as she checked her BlackBerry. “It’s up tomorrow, unless he gives us something today to throw in. It’s running in every major market downstate.”

When we reached Darling Theater, we were escorted into a side room that I hadn’t known existed. A spread of food lay across some long tables, cold cuts and pastas and fruit. Some others filtered in who were interested in chatting with the governor before he entered the auditorium. Hector and I held back. He seemed interested in being my guide, imparting his expertise to me, the young grasshopper. Also, it didn’t seem like anyone else was particularly interested in conversing with him. The thought crossed my mind once again: What was Hector doing here? I kept falling back on the same conclusion. Window dressing. But it gave me a problem.

“Willie’s playing to his base,” Hector explained to me. “Downstate, conservative Democrats. He’s been talking more about gun owner’s rights and tort reform, the kinds of things you expect a Republican to talk about.”

I thought I was supposed to ask, so I did. “Why?”

Hector shrugged. “He’s made the calculation that it’s how he wins. Moving to Carl’s right is easier than to his left. He’s running against an incumbent. He’s the challenger.”

“Snow isn’t the incumbent,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone calls him Governor. Same difference.”

That was a popular line around here.

“Where’s Charlie tonight?” I asked.

Hector shook his head. He didn’t know. “You like working with him?”

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

“But you still remember who got you here, right?” He said it with a hint of playfulness, an elbow in my side, but he meant it. He wanted the finder’s credit, to the extent I turned out to be an asset to the governor. I wouldn’t be, of course. When everything came down, the last thing anyone would want to do is claim credit for bringing me into the fold.

But Hector didn’t know that, obviously, and in fact I was doing my level best to keep him at arm’s length. I couldn’t change the fact that he was here, that for some reason the governor kept him around the inner circle. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be a player in the illegal stuff. He hadn’t been in on the conversations with Madison, Mac, Charlie, and me about the supreme court appointment or about getting those jobs for the union guy’s people. Window dressing, like I said. A good face to put forward, but not someone who would be counted on for the wet work.

“So what do we have you doing?” he asked, as if he were reading my mind, in tune with my concern.

“Nothing much, yet,” I said.

He didn’t seem to like that answer. “You and Madison and Mac-you had dinner the other night? You’ve been meeting?”

“We’ve talked about a few things,” I said.

“And Charlie, too,” he added. “What, but no one can tell me?”

“Nothing to tell,” I assured him. I imagined that Chris Moody and Lee Tucker would be none too pleased with my response. I was walling off Hector. I knew what they’d say, what they’d already said about Hector: He’s not your client anymore. He’s as fair game as anyone else. But I just couldn’t see it that way. They were technically correct, but this guy and I had shared his deepest, darkest secrets. I’d stood with him at the abyss, we’d been to war together-choose your metaphor-and no matter what I might have thought of him on a personal level, I couldn’t just shrug off that coat.

Hector was clearly displeased and clearly trying not to reveal that emotion to me. He wanted in on the good stuff. He wanted to be involved. It was, in many ways, the same-old, same-old with Hector. He wanted respect.

“Let’s do it!” Governor Snow said to someone. He was wearing a navy suit and red tie now. I hadn’t noticed him changing clothes. Other than Peshke, the entourage held back in this adjoining room as the governor fixed his hair and walked on stage.

I poked my head into the auditorium and saw the governor doing his hey-nice-to-see-ya-how-ya-doing calisthenics before taking a microphone. I hardly knew the guy, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to know him in the time I had. I was assuming, at this point, that ten days was all I had at the maximum, and possibly as little as a handful of days. How was I going to figure out who was behind the murders of Greg Connolly and Ernesto Ramirez and Adalbert Wozniak?

“Usually this time of year, when you hear Snow’s coming, it’s bad news,” the governor quipped.