Opposition Research

“...an excellent series of D.C. thrillers.”

—P.J. O’Rourke, NY Times best-selling author “It’s like drinking beers with your buds at an Irish pub and a novel breaks out.”

—Rock Neely, author of the Purple Heart Detective Trilogy and River of Tears “In Opposition Research, master storyteller, Rick Robinson, once again rips off the false façade of American politics and shows how things really work. His quirky cast of characters exposes the dark underbelly of political campaigns; showing what’s wrong with Washington, and what it would take to make them right.”

—Rod Pennington, Amazon Top Selling Author With over four decades in law and national politics, Rick Robinson’s novels are as current as today’s headlines. Robinson’s manner of relating political life and the campaign trail to readers has earned him Amazon top seller status, often placing multiple books in the top 100 at the same time. Published by Headline Books, Robinson’s numerous writing accolades include being named International Independent Author of the year.

When he and his wife, Linda, are not at some local pub in Northern Virginia sampling the Guinness stew, Robinson can be found playing electric mandolin in an Irish punk rock band or wading waist deep in a cold river aggravating trout.

OPPOSITION RESEARCH

Opposition Research is politics’ dirty little secret. Digging up buried skeletons can bring an opponent’s campaign to a dead standstill. And former United States Senator Richard Thompson just can't get politics out of his blood. Following his last stint on Capitol Hill, Thompson and his close circle of friends are embarking on a new endeavor—running a consulting firm that specializes in opposition research. But when their digging uncovers lethal information, it places Thompson and his crew on a dangerous ride spanning from Little Italy to California and back to the nation‘s capital. In between, winning or losing a campaign becomes overshadowed by life and death itself.

OPPOSITION RESEARCH

Opposition Research

Rick Robinson

Publisher Page an imprint of Headline Books, Inc. Terra Alta, WV

Opposition Research

by Rick Robinson copyright ©2020 Rick Robinson All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com

Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books

ISBN 13: 9781946664839 Library of Congress Control Number: 2019948274

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedication To all our friends at Ireland’s Four Courts in Arlington, Virginia.

Thanks for giving me a safe-haven in which to write and pints of properly poured Guinness by which to remain inspired.

And to my extended family Cathy Teets and Ashley Belote

“I’m a little worried about this Sollozzo fellow. I want you to find out what he’s got under his fingernails.”

Vito Corleone, The Godfather “The only summit meeting that can succeed is the one that does not take place.”

Barry Goldwater, US Senator

Prologue “Nice ride, Tony,” the slim young woman with coal black hair said as she ran her hand seductively down the quarter panel of the dark sedan. A “Jersey Girl” from Hoboken, Peggy Geraci worked at a bank in Manhattan and knew her way around Little Italy. Her low cut, bright yellow sundress left just enough of her ample cleavage to the imagination to draw the attention of the young man. She nudged her friend Adriana Turturro with a laugh, knowing the answer to the question she was about to ask. “You own that machine?”

“Keep movin’, Peg,” Anthony Poggione said with a sly smile and a wink. All three of them knew the automobile was not his. He was making good dough, but not the kind of money to buy these wheels.

It was one of those hot and sticky summer evenings for which New York was so well-known. The humidity punctuated the smell of freshly baked Italian bread and pastries in the air. “December 1963”

by Frankie Vali and the Four Seasons blared from the open window on the third floor of a brick tenement.

Poggione was also from the neighborhood, so he knew exactly how this little game of cat and mouse worked. And even though he was an up and comer, this car was currently outside of his price range.

He did not take the question as an insult. He knew the sexy woman was toying with him, so he played it sly. “I’m on duty, tonight,” nodding his chin upward as he spoke.

“A workin’ stiff,” Adriana teased. “Ain’t he a regular John Paul Getty?”

Poggione acted annoyed, but was enjoying the attention. “Work hard and play harder,” he said, adjusting his crotch with his right hand.

“Ain’t that right, babe?”

“I know he’s a stiff,” Geraci replied with an air of sexual familiarity. “That’s for sure.” Poggione was well-known around town as a tough street kid with a future. His reputation as an earner was moving him quickly up the family ranks. Because of his sudden affluence and

Opposition Research

square-jawed good looks, more than one woman sought his attention, and he denied few advances. He worked hard and partied harder.

He always made sure the ladies remembered a night with him. A wild night Geraci spent with him days earlier was fresh enough to leave her wanting more. She was there to make sure Tony knew she wanted more. Geraci began to sway as she sang along with the song, “Oh what a night …”

Poggione reveled in his sexual prowess being part of his street reputation. He flaunted it. “Yeah,” Poggione laughed, pointing his thumb at the car. “Come back sometime and we can see how well you move in the backseat, babe.”

But in Peg Geraci he had met his sexual match. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head at the handsome 20-something man, not knowing if the invitation was real or a joke. Either way, she was ready. “Maybe I will come back,” she said. “Or maybe …

I’ll come now.” She moved a step closer and ran her hand down her neck to her abundant chest to get his blood racing. “Come like never before …”

It worked. Poggione eyed Geraci’s shapely figure slowly up and down, feeling his pants tightening across the crotch as he gazed. God, she was something to behold. Suddenly he snapped back to the reality of his situation. He was working. “Not now, Peg,” he instructed commandingly, “keep movin.” He slapped her on the ass for emphasis.

Double-parked on the street in Little Italy, New York, the brandnew navy blue 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood Sixty Special Talisman Poggione stood beside gave notice to everyone in the neighborhood that Carmine Bonomini was having dinner inside the Palermo Café. A block off the main drag, the small discreet venue was a favorite of Bonomini and his closest associates. The food was excellent and the owner was attentive to the New York Boss and his capos. Poggione was Bonomini’s muscle for the night. Geraci was tight, but this was business. Even though Little Italy was supposed to be safe territory, he straightened up.

Not dissuaded by Poggione’s abrupt change in disposition, Geraci approached him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Show me the back seat sometime and I will keep movin’,” she said. Running her 6

Rick Robinson

index finger slowly down the front of his tailored sharkskin suit coat, she added, “And it’ll be sooooo good, you’ll beg me to stop movin’.”

She started running her hands seductively up and down her hips as she picked up with the song, “Oh, I, got a funny feeling when he walked into the room …”

Poggione pondered the offer. Looking around the neighborhood, nothing appeared unusual. Tourists and families strolled freely back and forth across the street, checking the menus posted outside of restaurants and munching on freshly made Italian cannolis and cool gelatos. He smiled, realizing no one would really pay attention if he took the young woman into the back room of the nearby mob-exclusive social club for a quickie. Bonomini’s dinners usually went on for five hours or more and he was only two into this outing. Poggione could hike up her dress, quickly relieve his growing groin and, more likely than not, no one would know. For a C-note, he could probably get someone in the social club to cover for him and Don Carmine would be none the wiser.

“So, what about it, Tony?” Geraci queried as she leaned forward and whispered softly in his ear. “Wanna do it, again?”

Poggione paused again as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Their first encounter had been a level of sexual enjoyment beyond his wildest expectations. If he got his rocks off with her again, no one would be the wiser. No one except, maybe, Don Carmine Bonomini who made it a point of knowing everything going on around him. And therein was the problem. If Bonomini caught wind of Poggione letting his guard down, even for a quickie, there would be hell to pay.

The head of one of the five ruling families of New York, Bonomini had risen to power following the death of Vinnie Bacino in 1972 – a brutal hit leading to a bloody two-year mob war. A Bacino man originally, Bonomini switched sides. His pledge of loyalty to the other families had been rewarded at the end of the war with Bonomini controlling the Lower East Side.

Initially, the truce allowing Bonomini to head one of New York’s families had been fragile, at best. For a year, everyone in all five families slept with one eye open. To some, the entire four years since Vinnie Bacino’s death seemed like a lifetime. For others who clung to a belief that no one wanted a new war, peace carried a false solace.

7

Opposition Research

Still, the lack of recent gunfire did not comfort Carmine Bonomini – and for good reason. The bitterness of street wars ran deep. Carmine “Four Vowels” Bonomini had safe houses all across Manhattan, just in case another war erupted and he needed to seek refuge. He knew Bacino’s closest associates had been ordered by the other families to forgive his transgressions. Forgiving was easy. Forgetting them was another matter. Although it was never mentioned out loud in Commission meetings, everyone knew at least one of Bacino’s old capos had put a price on his head. Bonomini understood a world where enemies were disguised as friends. He always traveled with a tight group of close associates and with proper protection. Tonight, the protection was Poggione.

For a young button man like Anthony “Tony” Poggione, the deep grudges of a forgotten war meant little, especially when a pretty woman was pressing her hard nipples into his chest as he leaned back against the new Caddie. His mind again raced to their previous sexual encounter. Poggione pulled the woman close and ran his hand down the back of her right thigh. “Yeah,” he said looking into her eyes. “Let’s do it.”

Enthralled by Geraci’s body, Poggione was startled when the door to the café flew open. Not immediately seeing Bonomini’s large figure in the doorway, he had just slid his hand under Peg’s dress and into her panties when he noticed his Boss. Caught in the act, he swiftly stood up straight and pushed Geraci backward. “Sorry, Carmine,” he stammered.

“Are you kidding me,” Bonomini barked, wildly waving his arms.

Poggione mumbled a couple of unrecognizable words as a response.

The pinpoint gaze of Bonomini’s beady eyes indicated he was not happy. “I’m not payin’ you to get laid,” he shouted.

Wobbling on her platform shoes after being pushed away, Geraci grabbed Poggione’s arm in an attempt to keep from falling, a move causing Poggione to pull her closer unintentionally.

“Come on, babe,” Poggione blurted trying to free himself from her grasp. His quick motion accidentally caught on one of the spaghetti straps of Geraci’s sundress, tearing it loose. The top of her dress slid down, exposing a white strapless bra. “Let go of my arm.”

8

Rick Robinson

“Vaffanculo,” Bonomini snarled, getting madder by the second.

“Get a grip on yourself.”

“Boss,” Poggione stammered as if being speechless would somehow constitute grounds for forgiveness. “Carmine, I … I …”

Peg Geraci simultaneously struggled to maintain her balance and pull the top of her dress over her exposed bra, while her friend Adriana laughed hysterically at the unfolding scene. As Poggione continued to push her away, Geraci started to actually fall and she once again grabbed his forearm in an uncoordinated ballet of awkward movements. Amid the confusion, Poggione inadvertently stepped backward off the curb and stumbled a couple of steps towards the street with Geraci following involuntarily behind.

Bonomini was unamused. He stepped down off the sidewalk, reached out, grabbed Poggione’s collar with one hand and slapped him hard with the other, barely missing Geraci who was still holding on for balance. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Bonomini caught movement to his left. He turned and his eyes widened in fear as Nickie and Georgio Gambattista rounded the corner. Former capos of Bacino, the Gambattista brothers spent years patiently plotting their revenge for Bacino’s loss of power. With anger further fueled by adrenalin and cocaine, they strode boldly towards Don Carmine Bonomini. Their teeth were ground tight and their eyes wild.

Bonomini immediately headed back toward the doorway from which he had emerged, seeking shelter inside the café. But he was at least twenty feet away.

From his position in the street, Poggione could see the two men moving quickly towards Don Carmine, their hands emerging from inside their jackets with weapons drawn. The two innocent women flirting with a lowly button man suddenly found themselves in the middle of all hell breaking loose. Geraci clung to Poggione.

As the first shot rang out, Geraci pushed back against Poggione, looking at the face of one gunman as he fired a bullet directly into the massive chest of Bonomini. Stunned by the impact of the initial slug, Bonomino dropped to his knees and called out Poggione’s name – first in surprise, then in anger. The second shot – right between the eyes – sent the big man sprawling to the pavement.

9

Opposition Research

As if it was all happening in slow motion, moving toward his boss, Poggione used his left hand to push Geraci out of the way while going for the weapon inside his suit coat with his right hand. His heart was pounding as the second shooter turned and put two shots into Poggione’s shoulder before he could even reach the sidewalk. The exit wound sprayed blood across Geraci’s yellow dress and one of the bullets grazed her left tricep.

“Nickie,” Geraci shouted – ignoring the people ducking and covering on the sidewalk. She knew the second shooter. “What the hell are you doing?”

The gunman looked at her familiar face with a surprised expression. “You shouldn’t have said my name, Peg,” he muttered, pointing his pistol in her direction. Before he could fire, a blast sent him sprawling backward. Poggione was wounded and shaking but controlled enough to hit a target at close range. He watched as the man spun and then collapsed down the quarter panel of the car before hitting the pavement. A trail of blood dripped down the Caddie.

Poggione looked at the blood running down Geraci’s arm, took a deep breath and fell to his knees. The pain was agonizing and he fell chest first into the street. Rolling and looking towards the sidewalk, he could see a portion of Bonomini’s body, but the Caddie was blocking his view of the man standing over his boss. He heard him spit on the twitching body. Fumbling with his gun, Poggione could not get off a clean shot at the attacker.

As Poggione lapsed from consciousness amid the chaotic screams, he heard the voice of Franki Valli: “I felt a rush, “Like a rolling ball of thunder, “Spinning my head around, “And taking my body under.

“Oh, what a night.”

Despite the past two years of peace, the war was not yet over.

Three more slugs to the back of Bonomini’s head were merely an announcement of the end to an uneasy truce.

10

Rick Robinson

Chapter 1 “Uncle Pen played the fiddle Lord how it’d ring, You can hear it talk, You could hear it …”

Richard Thompson stopped playing his electric mandolin in midchorus and adjusted the cheater glasses on the bridge of his nose while squinting at the music stand. “Holy shit,” he mumbled to himself, removing the headset connected to his amplifier, hooking it around his neck. “How does Ricky Skaggs ever play this? I can’t move my fingers that damn fast.”

For many, an office at a campaign consulting firm might have seemed a strange place to practice bluegrass music. But those who knew Richard Thompson would not find the situation at all odd. And whether it was sitting in with an Irish punk rock band, where all he had to be was loud or struggling with serious Bluegrass tunes, it was not hard to tell the former Congressman and Senator loved music as much as politics. Maybe more. And now that his days as a public official were behind him, he took his role as a not-so-talented mandolin player quite seriously.

Life under the public microscope had finally caught up with Richard Thompson. Decades in politics had turned Thompson’s hair completely grey and left wrinkles on his face not earned by those in other less stressful professions. Eyeglasses were a permanent fixture on his nose and he was hinting at investing in hearing aids. Still, he kept his enthusiasm for the game.

Thompson’s new office was in the same complex where he had practiced law prior to his career in politics. About ten minutes from

11

Opposition Research

Cincinnati on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River, the three-story colonial brick building was close enough for Thompson to be at a Red’s game on short notice, but still keep his feet firmly planted in his beloved Bluegrass State. Although located in the same building as his old law practice and one floor away from another close friend, Joe Bradley, also known as The Fat Man, the new office looked nothing like something you’d find in a normal consulting company or business.

A traditional lobby and conference room transitioned to something unique upon entering the friendly confines of Thompson’s private office space.

There was no desk in the office. The only items of furniture were a conference table, a couple of chairs and two wall-mounted televisions. The remaining wall space displayed an eclectic collection of political awards and music memorabilia. Pictures of Thompson with political and world leaders were mixed in with oddities like a framed guitar pick once owned by the late Warren Zevon. Another wall contained a picture of Thompson on stage playing with Irish punkers, The Fighting Jamesons. The centerpiece of the office was a bar stool, surrounded by an amplifier, a music stand, and three black metal tripods holding two mandolins and a guitar. A mixing board and two monitors allowed his friends to drop by for impromptu music jam sessions. To the chagrin of many in the building, these occurred regularly, though they usually began toward the end of the business day when the cars in the parking lot started to thin out.

Several years prior, Richard Thompson left Congress after completing multiple terms on Capitol Hill. His return to Kentucky to resume his law practice and to teach a few college classes did not last long. A Senator from Kentucky had resigned abruptly, Thompson headed back to Washington when the governor appointed him to fill the unexpired term. Now retired once again from public life, Richard Thompson had returned to his home state, joined the campaign consulting firm of his former Phi Delta Theta fraternity brother, Michael Griffith.

Thompson replaced the headset and was launching into another attempt at “Uncle Pen” when there was a knock at his office door.

Without waiting for an answer, the door swung open and Thompson’s new business partner, Michael Griffith, barged into the room. Although 12

Rick Robinson

Thompson loved music, his new livelihood was still politics – but no longer running himself, going instead to the business side of the game.

At Griffith’s urging, Thompson was heading up a new element to Griffith’s political consulting operation focused exclusively on opposition research.

Shaking his head, Griffith pointed at the mandolin. “Mind if I interrupt rehearsal long enough for a little business?” Griffith asked, mock irritation in his voice. “It would be nice if we could pay a few bills while you try to become a star.”

“Morning, Griff,” Thompson laughed, leaning the mandolin onto one of the tripods and scissoring the headset around the music stand.

“Good to see you,too. Come on in. No wait, how silly of me. You’re already in.”

“Sorry, boy,” Griffith replied, holding up a manila file folder while flopping down in a chair. “This can’t wait.”

After decades of friendship, Thompson was used to Griffith’s bursts of mindless enthusiasm. “What is it this time, Griff?” Thompson asked, feigning exhaustion at another of his partner’s tirades. One of the best political advisors in the business, Griffith was also prone to running down more rabbit holes than the Easter Bunny. “Russian collusion in the race for Mayor in Bromley, Kentucky?”

“Bigger!” Griffith shouted, waving the folder around like a victory flag. “Our newest employee has come up with something big.”

“Bigger than Russians in Monkey’s Eyebrow?” Thompson rolled his eyes at the thought of what might be coming next. “You have my full and undivided attention. Do tell.” He moved to the conference table and sat down.

Former FBI Agent Argo sheepishly followed Griffith into Thompson’s office. “Sorry, boss,” Argo said, shrugging his shoulders.

“He insisted this couldn’t wait.”

Leo Argo was a burly Cuban-American and former top-ranking agent at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was indeed the newest (and at the moment only) employee of the new campaign venture, having taken a momentary sabbatical from being the live-in partner of CIA Director Jane Kline. When a wild and widely publicized shootout left him unable to continue his career at the FBI, Thompson and Griffith snagged him to do the investigatory work for the opposition research 13

Opposition Research

side of their consulting company. As they had all known each other since Thompson’s first campaign for office, it was a perfect fit.

“How in the hell did you find this shit, Leo?” Michael Griffith asked excitedly, thumbing through the stack of papers in the folder. As he ran his finger across one particular page, wrinkles appeared on the brow of his bald head. “This …,” he said, bouncing his index finger on one line. “I mean this, man. This is some heavy duty, career-ending stuff here. There’s not a politician alive who could talk their way out of this one.” Griffith passed the page to Thompson gesturing to the spot to be read first.

“Thanks,” replied Leo Argo. The big man cast an imposing shadow over one of the nation’s most sought-after political advisors. However, Argo was genuinely confused by Griffith’s exuberant response at having dug up dirt on one of Griffith’s own best clients. “I was afraid you’d be pissed at me about it.”

“Pissed?” Griffith exclaimed in his trademark southern drawl while throwing his hands in the air and looking over at his business partner.

“Richard, did you hear Leo? He thinks I should be pissed.”

“So I heard,” Thompson replied, scratching at a two-day growth of beard. Following his stint as a Member of the United States Senate, Thompson had let his grey hair grow out and had fallen into a pattern of not shaving for days on end. Wearing a scruffy maroon and white tee shirt from his alma mater, Eastern Kentucky University, he looked more like a liberal arts professor than a former libertarianleaning public official. “You know, I was kind of thinking the same thing myself.”

“I’m surprised at you, Richard,” Griffith paused and looked at Thompson. “You of all people should know I’m not pissed. This is what we do,” he said smirking. “In political consulting, we dig the dirt, bust the dust. And when we find something like this, we’re happy.”

“We are?” Thompson and Argo asked simultaneously.

“To the max,” Griffith replied. “In fact, I’m so happy I could kiss Leo on the lips right now.”

Frowning at the prospect of a lip lock from Griffith, Argo held up his hand and stepped back toward the door. “Try to contain yourself,” he said. “Please. I’m good. Really.”

14

Rick Robinson

Barely acknowledging Argo’s comment, Griffith continued without missing a beat. “I’ve got a big ol’ Chris Matthews type chill running down my leg right into my alligator skin boots. This file makes my friggin’day.”

“New boots?” Thompson asked, looking down and around the table.

“Yeah man,” Griffith replied. “Like ‘em?” He lifted a foot to show them off to everyone.

Thompson looked down at the black boots with silver tips. “No,” he replied.

Griffith shrugged his shoulders. “Luckily for me, I don’t give a big hairy rat’s ass what you think.”

Argo shook his head and chuckled at the banter between the two. He politely coughed to get back to the business at hand. Both were now looking at him as he spoke. “I’m not quite sure how this makes your day,” Argo directed at Griffith. “The dirt I dug up is on your own client, right? He’s a candidate paying you money to get him reelected.” Argo leaned against the door frame.

“Precisely,” Griffith shouted, winking approvingly at Argo. “Now you’re catching on.” He then looked at Thompson. “I told ya the boy was smart as a whip.”

“No, I’m not.” Argo shook his head, more confused than before.

“I really don’t get it.”

“It’s what I told you to do,” Griffith replied. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but …”

Griffith cut him off. “You are the one who digs up dirt no one else can find,” he said, tapping his finger on the conference table for emphasis. “That’s your job. We brought you on board because as a retired FBI agent, you are better than most at opposition research.

You did this for a living at the Bureau. Now we’re paying you twice as much to do it for politics.”

“That’s exactly how you described my job,” replied Argo, shrugging his shoulders while remembering their initial conversation weeks ago in DC. “It sure as hell was how I described it,” Griffith said, exhaling while taking a momentary vacation from his exuberance. Pausing long enough to let it sink in for Argo, he held up the file and asked, “Well, 15

Opposition Research

you tell me then. What did you just learn about our friend?”

“Your client’s been in office for two terms,” Argo said in a steady cadence. “And he’s hiding something.”

“Richard,” Griffith said. “Leo thinks our client is hiding something.

He doesn’t understand yet they are all hiding something. Every goddamned politician has something in their closet they want to be hidden from view.” His voice rose to a high pitch. “Oh, no. Woe is me. Our client is hiding something.”

Thompson thought about how he had met Leo Argo years ago in an FBI sting during his first run for Congress. Argo and Director Cline had pulled him out of more than one tough scrape and he felt somewhat obliged to save him from Griffith’s antics. He needed to learn, so he begrudgingly nodded at Griffith’s broad statement and returned his gaze to Argo.

“But this man is hiding something big,” Argo said.

“Precisely,” Griffith said. “And has anyone ever found this before?”

Argo shook his head. “No.” “Dead on, man,” Griffith said, almost gleefully while running his fingers across his bald head.

“But he is our client,” Argo reemphasized.

“Straight up,” Griffith replied, raising his hands in admission.

“Guilty.”

“And I found it on our behalf.” Straightening up from the door, Argo walked into the office and sat at the table.

“Right again,” Griffith admitted, pointing a finger at Argo. “Don’t rub in the fact I didn’t find it during the first campaign. I pride myself on opposition research and I’m not happy this one got by me in the past.”

“I’m not rubbing it in,” Argo said, still puzzled by Griffith’s pleasure in his own client’s trouble. Accustomed to FBI protocol, this job was new to him. It was becoming apparent he had a lot to learn about politics. Michael Griffith was one of the biggest political consultants around and Argo was happy to hit a home run on his first big assignment. He just did not know why Griffith was so happy he found the dirt on his own client rather than an opponent. He decided to change topics. “You really want to know how I got it?” he asked. “But fair 16

Rick Robinson

warning, it could make you a co-conspirator.” He looked at Griffith then Thompson.

Griffith slapped his knee and let out a loud guffaw. “Hell, no,” he said, accentuating his southern accent for emphasis. “Hell to the freaking no,” he repeated laughingly before passing the file to Thompson.

“Check this out, man.”

Thompson studied the pages carefully, while Griffith continued to talk so quickly he was nearly unable to enunciate the words. “The great Congressman Ryan Reynard,” Griffith said, standing and walking around like a Southern Baptist tent evangelist. “The protector of all things sacred to the institution of the American family,” he paused, “once married an Argentinian woman for money so she could get a green card. He even used an alias. What a beautiful wedding night it must have been.” He looked at Thompson. “Think she wore white?”

Looking over the top of his glasses at Griffith, Thompson asked, “Did Reynard pay his last retainer? Seriously, this business is a bottom-line venture for me. I’ve still got a kid in college.”

“First rule of political consulting,” Griffith replied, putting his right hand solemnly over his heart. “Always get your retainer up front and make sure it clears the bank before you write the first memo.”

“Good,” Thompson replied, closing the folder and tossing it to the conference table. “Because when we tell Congressman Reynard what Leo dug up, he’s likely to fire us.”

“Naw, bubba bear,” Griffith replied, shaking his head. “You’re wrong there. You and Leo are missing the point about this whole situation. Reynard is going to love us. In fact, by the time I’m done with him, he’ll want to have all of us over to his house for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’ve just ruined his career and probably his marriage,” Argo interjected. “I’m not expecting turkey and dressing.”

“Oh, you newbies,” Griffith laughed. “You two are so naïve about the narcissistic ways of all these sociopaths who insist on calling themselves public servants.” Griffith pointed at Argo. “Leo, you found a political grave so covered in dirt, Congressman Reynard’s likely convinced himself he never really buried anyone there in the first place.”

“Still not following you, Griff,” Argo replied. “Get to the point where he serves me pumpkin pie.”

17

Opposition Research

“Hot damn, man,” Griffith replied. “He’ll never show you the love.

He will hate your guts for the rest of his ever-loving, miserable life.”

“Great,” Argo sighed. “So I’ve got a fan club. Why then am I invited to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“You’re the easy one to bring to the table,” Griffith said. “He’ll want you at the table because he’ll want to know what you’re up to.

Remember The Godfather Rules …”

“Oh hell,” Thompson sighed, placing his forehead in his palm.

Many political consultants liked to use analogies to explain political strategies. Some quote from the books, the Art of War or The Prince.

Others use sports analogies. Michael Griffith used the Godfather trilogy of movies. No client could go for more than a day or two without hearing a story about Don Corleone and his sons or their nefarious associates. “Here he goes.”

Griffith smiled. “After Michael Corleone gave control of the Corleone Family operations to Frankie ‘Five Angels’ Pentangeli , he paid him an unexpected visit. Michael sat in what used to be his father’s chair and explains how his father taught him to ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

Remembering the scene from the second movie, Argo nodded his understanding. “And I guess I’m the enemy.”

“You’ll be Reynard’s worst enemy ever,” Griffith continued. “But he’ll be afraid to let you go to work for someone else. He just may deliver your dinner invitation on the naked breasts of DC’s finest stripper.”

“I’ll make sure my wife doesn’t answer the door,” Argo smirked.

He had heard Griffith’s Godfather Rules before, but they had never been directed at him. He understood the point being made and nodded. “And you,” Argo asked. “Why will you get invited to dinner?”

“I’ll deliver the message, so initially he may hate me even more than you,” Griffith replied. “I can almost see his face turning red and contorting in all directions at once. But a week or two after the cat is out of the bag, I come riding in on a white stallion to save the day.

Deep down, Reynard knows I’m the only one who can spin him out of this situation. I’ll get invited because he needs me. Hell, I’ll get dinner and left-overs to take home,” he said gleefully.

18

Rick Robinson

“You sure, Griff?” asked Thompson. “I’ve known you all of my adult life and I might even punch you in the nose for revealing something like this.”

“That’s because you’re Captain America,” Griffith said snarkily.

“The biggest thing you have to hide is unpaid parking tickets from your freshman year at college.” Looking at Argo, Griffith pointed an accusing finger at Thompson before continuing. “When we were rooming together in college, he was such a nerd. He drove a yellow Chevette for Christ’s sake.”

“Really?” replied Argo, already in the middle of one conversation he was following only with difficulty. He sure as hell did not want to start another. “I never would have guessed.”

Griffith was not even listening. “It was so damn small. We would get a couple of fraternity brothers together and move it just enough to get it past the parking lines. He had four tickets before he figured out what we were doing,” he continued while snickering.

“And I made him pay every ticket,” Thompson interjected, blushing as he defended his college days.

Griffith shook his head with laughter. “Hell, they were only five dollars a pop back then. Twenty bucks was well worth the price of that joke.”

“This isn’t a joke though, is it Griff?” Argo asked. “This is far bigger than college parking tickets.”

Griffith went serious. “Damn straight,” he replied. “But remember one thing, if you found it, it means someone would have found it eventually,” he said confidently. “It would have taken someone else a while longer. We merely expedited the process. Once Reynard is over the initial shock, he’ll understand.”

The light bulb went off for Argo. “I get it,” he interjected. “We find it first and end up making a lot of dough advising him on how to survive this crisis.”

“At first, we’ll have to convince him to stay with us,” Griffith said.

“His first instinct will be to leave.”

“It sure would be for me,” Thompson interjected. “In fact, I’d probably resign from office and leave it all behind.”

“That’s because you’re you,” Griffith said, again rolling his eyes for Argo’s benefit. “Reynard’s ego is as large as the Capitol Dome. It 19

Opposition Research

won’t take too much to convince him the future of Western Democracy rests on his pasty white shoulders. By the time I’m done working him over, he’ll stay. And he’ll stay because of us. He knows we can plant flowers on the grave he’s dug for himself. It’ll be a well-orchestrated drama. We’ll have it all planned out – right down to how many tears he’ll shed when he tells his wife.”

“You guys really think he can survive this?” Argo asked, shaking his head.

“People have survived worse,” Thompson admitted. “I served with this one guy from down south who was a regular with a highpriced hooker in DC. She got busted and gave up his name.”

“I vaguely remember the case,” Argo said. “It was about a decade ago, right? We had a piece of the investigation over in the Hoover Building.”

“Yeah,” Thompson said, smiling. “She went to jail and he’s in leadership.”

Argo looked at Griffith. “And you think Reynard will keep us on retainer, even though you were the one who ordered me to dig up the dirt?”

“Precisely.”

“This is so messed up, man,” Argo said, getting up from the table still confused by the entire situation.

“Which is precisely why I set this research venture up, at least on paper, as a separate company,” Griffith replied. “Opposition research can make or break a campaign, but it’s good to have a layer of deniability between the campaign advisors and the gravediggers.”

“Gravediggers – nice,” Thompson said, staring at the file on the table before looking up inquisitively at Argo, who had begun to pace.

“Seriously, Leo,” he said, a pained look on his face, “Where did you come up with this? I can’t imagine how, with Reynard having two terms in office, this never surfaced before now.”

“You didn’t break any laws getting this, did you?” Griffith chimed in. “Walk the lines, but don’t cross ‘em.”

“Come on, Griff,” Argo replied. “I love my new gig with you guys, but I’m not going to jail for you.”

“So, how’d you get it?” Thompson continued. “This will be devastating to Congressman Reynard’s reelection bid. He’ll want to know 20

Rick Robinson

where we found it.”

“Just plain old detective work,” Argo said, as he sat back down.

“Internet?” Griffith asked.

“No, sir,” Argo said. “Anyone can do internet searches. All those really do is give you leads. I just followed up on those leads, which eventually led me to the Los Angeles doorstep of the former Mrs. Reynard. She doesn’t even know her former benefactor is now a member of Congress.”

“So you found her ‘in a Hollywood Hawaiian hotel?’” Thompson asked, singing the last couple words of the question.

“Huh?” “If you’re going to work with him,” Griffith said, pointing to Thompson, “I suggest you study up on your Warren Zevon references.

He’s prone to singing lines from songs at any given – and usually inopportune – moment.”

“One of my many charms,” Thompson added, smiling.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Argo replied.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” asked Griffith.

“I just found out about the Zevon thing,” Argo said defensively.

“Not Zevon, man,” Griffith exclaimed, shaking his head. “Did you mention Reynard?”

“Hell no,” Argo replied. “I just acted as if I was following up on facts from her original application for residency. If she knew who her ex was, she’d have spilled the beans. She was terrified I was going to send her back to Argentina.”

“Good,” Griffith concluded. “So, enough about Reynard for right now. I’m headed back to DC tomorrow and I’ll meet with him later in the week. Richard, be on standby. You may need to do some of the talking to keep him in the race.”

“Ten-Four,” Thompson replied with a salute. “But what’s the next assignment?” he continued. “You want us to look into the open seat in Florida? I could use a trip to the beach.”

“I thought you were worried about the bottom line,” Griffith grumbled.

“I am,” Thompson said, leaning back in his chair. “Combining a trip for politics with a get-away for Ann and me is all about the bottom line.”

21

Opposition Research

“Yeah,” Griffith replied. “Yours, not mine.”

“Worth a thought,” Thompson said.

“Naw,” Griffith continued. “Before Leo heads back to DC to be with his lovely wife, I want him to take a look at Josh’s race.”

“Why?” Argo asked. “I thought when he replaced Richard in Congress, you said he couldn’t be beaten.”

“Anyone can be beaten,” Griffith insisted, rapping his knuckles on the table to emphasize his point. “Josh is up on his own merits and his opponent coming out of the primary on the other side. We just need to be ready if there is a swing in the national polls. I want to be able to hit hard if numbers start turning.”

“Gotcha,” Argo said, pulling a small notebook out of his shirt pocket, scribbling down a few notes.

“Richard hired Josh to be the political director for his first campaign for Congress and Josh ended up being his Chief of Staff in DC,” Griffith said. “And since I ran Josh’s campaign for Congress after Richard stepped down, he’s been pretty well vetted.”

“You said that about Reynard, too,” Thompson said under his breath, but just loud enough to be heard.

Griffith returned Thompson’s comment with a stare before going on. “As I was saying, we’ll need to do some work on Josh, but I want to know everything there is to know about his opponent … this Billy Wilson dude. He’s scheduled his post-primary kickoff tour for next week and by that time I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

“Is Josh in DC right now or is he in the district office?” Argo asked.

“He’s in town,” Griffith replied. “As a matter of fact, we’re all going to dinner tonight at Walt’s Hitching Post. I thought Richard already told you.”

“I’m living in a hotel until I head back to DC in a few weeks,” Argo said. “My evening schedule is pretty open.”

“Joe will be picking you up,” Thompson said.

“Should I talk to Josh at dinner tonight?” Argo asked.

“Only when it’s appropriate,” Thompson answered. “We’re going to Walt’s Hitching Post for ribs.” Nodding towards Argo, he added,

22

Rick Robinson

“We’ll have a small private room off to the side, but it’s a happening place.”

“Best ribs in the Midwest,” Griffith added. “The Fat Man wanted to take you there sometime anyway. So this all works out.”

“There will be a lot of folks there and many will be stopping by the table to say hi,” Thompson added.

“That’s Richard’s way of telling you he’s somebody,” Griffith laughed.

“Don’t go there, Griff,” Thompson pointed. “You’re the one constantly on television and radio.” Thompson looked at Argo. “It’s like going out to dinner with a rock star.”

“Great,” Argo concluded. “But going back to my assignment on Billy Wilson, by everything I assume you mean good and bad.”

“Damn skippy,” Griffith replied, popping up out of his chair. “If he cheated at four-square in kindergarten, I want the names of the children whose psyches are forever damaged by it.”

23

Opposition Research

Chapter 2 Joseph Bradley sat down at a table in the outdoor courtyard of the Coppin’s Bar and Grille on the first level of the Hotel Covington. A legend in the local legal community for his intellect, scruffy looks, and reputation as a ruthless litigator, he was called The Fat Man out of respect. A former law partner of Richard Thompson and his closest confidant, The Fat Man had met Leo Argo during Thompson’s first campaign for Congress when Argo was still with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Since that first meeting, the pair formed a friendship over their shared connection to Thompson, becoming further bonded through their common love of baseball and food. For them, any trip to the ballpark was the equivalent of a papal audience at the Vatican for a cradle Catholic.

The Fat Man pulled a baseball from his suit coat pocket and placed it on the table. A teetotaler, he was uncomfortable in the trendy bar serving hand-crafted cocktails and nervously rolled the baseball back and forth between his pudgy palms. Trying to avoid looking out of place in the trendy bar, he let his mind wander to the days when he and Richard Thompson practiced law with a passion for causes no one else would take on. They had been a hell of a team with The Fat Man adding intellect to Thompson’s undeniable political instincts.

A waitress with long curly red hair and an array of colorful tattoos on each forearm approached the table. “What ya got there, dude?” she asked, watching the ball slowly roll from left to right and then back again. “Come out here for a game of catch?”

“This?” The Fat Man asked, handing her the baseball. “I’m not going to play catch with this ball. This is priceless. It’s autographed by Tony Perez.”

The woman took the ball and looked at it in wonder. Although located in Covington, Kentucky, the hotel was only a few blocks and 24

Rick Robinson

a river from where the Cincinnati Reds played baseball for decades.

“My old man loved the Big Doggie,” she said, closely inspecting the signature before handing it back to The Fat Man. “My Pop loved the Big Red Machine. He used to go on and on for hours about their heroics back in the 70s.”

“He was my favorite too,” replied The Fat Man, running his fingers through his salt and pepper (albeit scraggly) beard. “So many hours of my misspent youth were centered around listening to the Reds on my transistor radio.”

“Transistor radio?” the girl asked.

“Before there was an app on iPhones, a transistor radio was my generation’s app – a hand-held radio with a small, inadequate speaker and an antenna twice the length of the radio itself.”

The waitress smiled. “Got it,” she said.

The Fat Man returned the grin. “Of course, mine was red.”

“Well, of course.”

“The Big Red Machine may well have been the greatest baseball team ever assembled, but Tony Perez,” The Fat Man paused, looking at the baseball for emphasis, “he was the heart and soul of the team.”

“I dig it,” the waitress replied. “So, your name is Leo?” she asked, referring to the personalization of the autograph on the baseball.

“No,” The Fat Man replied, again rolling the ball on the table back and forth between his two hands. “My name is Joe. Leo is the guy I’m meeting here in a few minutes.”

“Is he a Reds fan too?” she asked.

“No,” The Fat Man replied, shaking his head. “But he’s a big fan of Cuban baseball. Along with being a Cincinnati Red, Tony Perez is the greatest Cuban player of all time. The guy I got this for is CubanAmerican. His pop grew up just outside Havana before coming to the United States back in the sixties.”

“Got it.” The waitress gave a thumbs up. “How about a drink while ya wait?” she asked. “It’s happy hour.”

“Lemonade,” replied The Fat Man, smiling.

“Anything to sweeten it up a bit?” the waitress asked. “All of our top-shelf liquor is specially priced. We’ve got one of the best bourbon selections in town.”

25

Opposition Research

“Just your sunny disposition,” The Fat Man replied. When she looked at him funny, he added, “I don’t drink.”

“Got ya,” she said winking. “One lemonade, on the rocks, sidecar of sunny disposition.”

While the waitress was walking away, The Fat Man heard the bell on the elevator door ring out. He nearly knocked over the wrought iron table as he stood up to hail Argo as he walked into the hotel’s lobby. “Leo,” he shouted, waving vigorously. “Over here, man.”

A broad smile broke across Argo’s face as he turned in The Fat Man’s direction. Before he could even get within ten feet of the table or utter a greeting, The Fat Man tossed him the baseball. Argo caught it and looked at the inscription. “From Tony Perez? No shit?”

“Of course,” The Fat Man replied proudly.

Argo’s eyes welled up at the sight of the baseball. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking. “Jesus, you know what this means to me?”

The Fat Man was proud of the fact he had surprised Argo with the gift. “I thought you might like it,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

Argo looked at the inscription closer. “Perez was it for my old man and me,” Argo whispered. “Hell, he was family for us.”

The Fat Man sensed Argo’s inability to come up with an appropriate manner in which to say thanks, so he retreated to his odd sense of humor to any awkwardness. “Fidel wasn’t available to sign,” he said. “He’s dead, you know.”

“Funny,” said Argo, gently tossing the ball a few times in the air before putting it into the side pocket of his navy-blue sport coat.

“You’re limping a lot less than the last time I saw you,” The Fat Man said, looking down at Argo’s leg before extending his hand, not sure how much motion restriction remained from the bullet wound forcing Argo’s FBI retirement.

“I don’t think so,” Argo replied, slapping the handshake aside and putting a big bear hug on his friend, lifting him into the air. “How ya doing, Joey?”

“I’m doing great,” The Fat Man muffled into Argo’s chest. “At least as long as you don’t cut off all my air.”

Argo put The Fat Man down and stepped back, adding, “And the last time you saw me, I was still in a wheelchair.”

26

Rick Robinson

“Yeah, I guess so,” The Fat Man said, gesturing towards the table for Argo to join him. “I was so damn worried about you.”

“It takes more than a bullet to the knee to keep me down, man,” Argo said, sliding into the booth.

“Bullet,” the waitress said as she placed The Fat Man’s lemonade on the table. She studied Argo’s face for a moment and then pointed a finger at him. “I know you,” she said. “You’re that guy from television. You’re the FBI agent who was shot last year. I remember. Your picture was all over the news.”

“Shhhhh,” Argo put his finger up to his lips. “Please,” he pleaded, looking around the bar making sure no one overheard them.

The woman smiled, winking at Argo. “Our little secret,” she said.

“Now, how about a drink?”

“Now you’re talking,” Argo replied, rubbing his hands together.

“Got any local beers?”

“Yeah,” the waitress said. “Bircus Brewery is from the next town over. We keep their Ludlow Pale Ale on tap here. It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’ll take one,” Argo said. Returning his attention to The Fat Man, he asked, “So how the hell did you get Tony Perez to autograph a baseball to me?”

“He’s a very close personal friend of mine,” The Fat Man replied, nodding his head confidently. “We have lunch together all the time.”

“Seriously?”

“No,” The Fat Man chuckled. “Actually, I hounded him at a Red’s Hall of Fame event until I thought they were going to call the police on me. I told him who you were and your Havana heritage. He was happy to oblige – well, as long as I promised to quit following him for the rest of the evening.”

Argo laughed at the thought of the awkward encounter. “This is a cool hotel,” he said, glancing around.

“Yeah,” The Fat Man said. “Griff and Richard wanted to put you up at the chain hotel down the street, but I thought you’d like this place better.”

“It sure has a lot of character,” Argo said, looking around the bar.

“My room is dark blue.”

“That’s cool,” The Fat Man said. “Right?”

27

Opposition Research

“I guess so,” replied Argo. “A couple of months ago, I was with the FBI. I’m used to staying in places that accept government rate.

They usually don’t have blue rooms.”

“I love this neighborhood,” The Fat Man said. “My dad used to own a tuxedo store a few blocks from here. And I went to school just a couple more beyond. Once a year, we’d come to this building to buy my school clothes for the year.”

“School clothes?”

“Yeah. It was a department store when I was growing up,” The Fat Man recalled fondly while glancing around the hotel, as the waitress approached with their drinks.

“That’s cool, Joey.”

“That’s why they call this place the Coppins Bar,” the waitress said, placing Argo’s beer on the table. “That was the name of the store.”

The Fat Man continued. “We’d buy all my school clothes and then go across the street and eat at Woolworth’s lunch counter. It was a big day.”

“I bet,” said Argo, drinking a swig of beer, smiling his thanks to the waitress who was turning toward another table.

“Enough about my schoolboy memories,” The Fat Man said laughingly. “How goes the new gig?”

“Interesting to say the least,” replied Argo. “Thompson and Griffith are as different as night and day.”

“They’ve been together since college,” said The Fat Man. “They are as different as pitchers and catchers. But like a good battery, they’re joined at the hip.”

“Hip, hell,” said Argo shaking his head. “They’re like an old married couple. I expect them to start finishing each other’s sentences anytime now.”

“Just like a pitcher knowing the signal before the catcher gives it,” The Fat Man said. “But I worked with Richard, not for him. We were a team too. Neither of us ever ordered the other to do anything. We always came to an agreement on how to do things, sometimes without even knowing it was happening. I’m just kind of curious — is he okay as a boss?”

28

Rick Robinson

Argo could see where The Fat Man was heading. “As you might expect, he’s a bit odd,” he said.

“How so?”

“On my first day at the job,” Argo said, taking a drink from his beer, “he and Griff both gave me gifts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Argo wiped the beer from his upper lip. “Griff gave me the DVD collection of the Godfather Trilogy. Told me to go home and watch the whole thing before I came back to work.”

The Fat Man laughed out loud. “And I bet Richard gave you a CD of Warren Zevon’s Greatest Hits.”

“CD Hell,” Argo replied. “He gave me an iTunes mini player with Zevon’s entire discography on it.”

The Fat Man laughed and bumped his fist on the table. “That’s my boy,” he exclaimed.

“At least I wasn’t instructed to know all the songs before coming back to the office.”

“Wait until he starts singing ‘Gorilla You’re a Desperado,’” replied The Fat Man. “There’s really a song about a criminal ape?” Argo said, taking another drink from his beer. “This is going to be weirder than I first thought.”

“So here’s the deal,” The Fat Man said. “By now you’ve discovered Griff relies on the Godfather to express any given political situation.”

“Yeah,” Argo replied. “And Thompson quotes Zevon lyrics at the drop of a hat.”

“Welcome to my world,” The Fat Man laughed. “I’ve been dealing with these boys up close and personal for decades now.”

“Sorry for you, man,” Argo said, laughing.

“When you and I talk, what do we do?” The Fat Man asked, waving his right thumb back and forth between the two of them.

“I don’t know,” Argo replied, shrugging his shoulders. “We talk.”

“No,” said The Fat Man. “We use baseball terms.”

“Yeah,” Argo said. “I guess.”

“When you told me about the last shakeup in the President’s cabinet,” The Fat Man said, “you told me the hit-and-run was on.”

29

Opposition Research

“Right.” Argo drew out the word.

“And I knew exactly what you meant.”

“So I’ve got to watch movies and listen to music,” Argo grunted.

The Fat Man nodded his agreement, “What is odd is that nine times out of ten, their references are relevant. They make sense.”

“And the tenth?” asked Argo.

“Smile and nod like you agree,” The Fat Man instructed, laughing.

“Everyone has their cross …” Argo paused. “I guess I just found mine.”

“So what campaigns are you working on?” asked The Fat Man, knowing Argo’s job description in the new company was opposition research. “Whose dust are you busting?” The Fat Man never really understood the “dust busting” reference, but wanted to sound cool and knowledgeable in front of Argo.

“Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you privately before dinner,” Argo said, downing the last drink from his beer. “Tell me what you know about this guy running against Josh.”

“You’re doing opposition research in Josh’s race?” The Fat Man asked surprised. “Why in the heck are you shaking him down?” The Fat Man rarely cursed. “Heck” was extreme for him.

“I don’t really ask questions,” Argo replied, signaling the waitress for another beer. “I just do the work they ask. I don’t ask why.”

“Well, Billy Wilson isn’t much of an opponent,” The Fat Man replied.

“Why do you say that?” Argo leaned forward placing his elbows on the table.

“He seems like a nice enough guy,” The Fat Man shrugged. “He just doesn’t seem to have any real community ties outside of Maysville.

It’s hard to win up here in this part of the district without being known.”

“Well, neither did Josh before he started working for Thompson,” Argo countered.

The Fat Man raised a finger and nodded in agreement. “And that’s the funny thing,” he said.

“What?”

“Billy Wilson grew up away from here and was pretty much invisible until he ran for State Representative a couple of years ago,” The 30

Rick Robinson

Fat Man said. “Just like Josh, he came out of nowhere. Except Wilson was local. Usually, you hear about young politicians before they run. They work on campaigns or something and make a name for themselves. Josh had been around local political circles because of Richard. Over time, people like him eventually accumulate a strong enough personal resume to run for office themselves.”

“And that’s why you think he’s not much of an opponent?” Argo queried.

The Fat Man paused for a moment to ponder the question. “No,” he said. “I think he’s running too soon in his career. Right now, I just don’t think there’s any ‘there’ there. Nice kid and the party has high hopes for him, but no real substance. Otherwise, I don’t know much about him.”

“Maybe,” Argo replied. “I just need Griff and Thompson on the same page before I start. There is a real disconnect between the two of them on this one.”

“They disagree on strategy?” The Fat Man rubbed at his unkempt beard in disbelief. “That’s odd. They’ve been together so long, they’re like an old married couple. Like you said, they usually finish each other’s sentences. What’s the issue?”

“A tracker,” Argo replied. When The Fat Man wrinkled his nose, Argo continued. “You know, the guy you hire to go around and film the opponent’s every movement and word.”

“Okay,” The Fat Man said, considering the concept. “Like the college kid who caught that one Senator using a racial epitaph to introduce him to the crowd at an event. It was a ‘gotcha moment’ ending a campaign.”

“Yeah,” Argo replied. “Griff wants me to hire a tracker to start working at Wilson’s rally on Monday.”

The Fat Man instantly got the grasp of the conflict. “And I suppose Thompson thinks it’s a waste of time and money.”

“I sense it’s more than dollars and cents,” said Argo. “After I gave my report, Griff and Thompson went behind closed doors for a long time. There was a lot of loud conversation. I have the idea that Richard has some kind of moral objection to it.”

The Fat Man nodded. “Typical Richard,” he replied. “I’ve known him for a while. And while I love the boy, he has this self-righteous 31

Opposition Research

streak in him. We talk politics a lot and I know he doesn’t like the ways campaigns have become so mean and nasty. He thinks elections should be decided on issues and philosophies instead of dark campaign ads featuring slip-ups.”

“I can see his point,” Argo replied. “But does he really think he can change things larger than him?”

The Fat Man laughed. “Actually,” he said. “Yes. The crazy guy thinks he can change the world on his own and politics is the one place where he wants to leave a mark.”

Argo shrugged his shoulders and motioned for the check. “Whatever. I don’t get a vote,” he said. “But I’m curious. What do you think? You know, about Josh’s race. Should we go full-tilt Bozo and hire a tracker.”

The Fat Man thought for a moment. “I agree with Richard on this one,” he said, holding his hand up to Argo declining Argo’s offer to pay the bill and handing the waitress his credit card. “Personally, I wouldn’t use a tracker, because I wouldn’t waste the money. But it runs much deeper for Richard than just the dollars and cents and he will want to avoid using a tracker as a matter of principle. Regardless of the rationale, I’d follow his lead and ditch the tracker.”

“Got it,” Argo nodded acceptance.

“But just in case,” The Fat Man said, signing the credit card receipt. “Keep busting dust on Josh’s opponent. Political landscapes change quickly these days. I’d hate to see Josh caught flatfooted for want of good opposition research.”

“Right,” Argo said, leaning forward and speaking softly for confidentiality. “Just one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked The Fat Man. “Got any idea what ‘busting dust’ means?”

32

Rick Robinson

Chapter 3 Richard Thompson tossed his tired frame onto the bed at his house, letting out a loud groan as he flipped on the local news channel. He immediately began a dialogue with the person on the screen, giving a report about escalating conflict in some remote third-world country.

“Really?” he moaned. “Like you could even find Jordan on a globe if I spotted you the continent.”

Another comment from the television commentator brought a loud raspberry.

His wife, Ann, had just exited the shower and stood wet and naked in front of the bathroom mirror. Having a running discussion with newscasters was one of Thompson’s many “charms” Ann suffered through on a daily basis. For the most part, she dealt with it as an odd quirk in his political personality. There were other times, however, it got on her nerves. This was one of them. She was hoping to get a little more attention than the local newscaster.

“Well, good evening to you, too,” she yelled from the bathroom with a note of irritation in her voice she hoped was noticeable beyond her own hearing. “Thank you, honey. How was your day? Me? I had a good day too.” She paused and let the silence sink in.

Thompson closed his eyes exasperated at the thought of a brewing marital conflict – a repeat of something happening too often since Thompson had left public life.

Ann did not appreciate the silence. “You know most normal couples start after-work conversations without the benefit of newscasters,” Ann said grumpily, running a brush through her hair as she spoke.

33

Opposition Research

When Thompson mumbled a nearly inaudible response to his wife and lover since college, Ann knew what was happening. Her husband was in a bad mood over something from the office. This was nothing new. They had few real fights. Most conflict came as a result of Thompson’s focus on his jealous mistress – politics.

Every campaign spouse feels the pangs of playing second fiddle to life in politics. Both partners in the relationship struggle to keep the business of campaigns out of home life. Yet, neither ever really escape it. Something as simple as a trip to the grocery store to pick up milk often results in an aisle confrontation with a malcontent over some issue trivial to most, but of glaring importance to them. Failure to give that person your utmost, undivided attention results in rumors of the candidate or spouse being disconnected with your constituency or arrogant. In reality, the only thing of actual importance on such an occasion is the expiration date on the jug of milk.

Spouses of candidates definitely suffer the worst, fearing something they say or do will sully the career dreams of their always public partner. Ann Thompson had grown accustomed to this when her husband had been in office. She never expected it would continue following his retirement from public life. Suddenly Ann was wondering if being the spouse of a consultant – especially one with a conscience – might be worse.

Still, Ann Thompson knew the drill. It had happened so many times over the years. Something was bothering her husband and it was likely connected to a campaign. Her surprise at this point was more the change in her husband’s disposition since the morning. Earlier, over breakfast, Thompson had been excited at the prospect of having dinner in the evening with his closest friends.

Michael Griffith was Thompson’s fraternity brother and the man who had guided their every political move. He had introduced Ann to Thompson in college. The Fat Man was his law partner and close friend. Congressman Josh Barkman was a mentee and someone the couple treated as their own son. And Leo Argo, although a newer acquaintance, had saved Thompson’s life by taking a bullet for him.

Breakfast had been a whirlwind of stories of how all these relationships had made their lives better. Ann was used to rapid mood swings from her husband, but this switch surprised even her.

34

Rick Robinson

When Ann walked out of the bathroom to see her husband lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling instead of her naked body, she knew something was amiss. Even in tough political times, Thompson nearly always responded to her sexually. When this time he did not, Ann walked to the bed and curled up beside him. She wrapped herself around her husband and said nothing until their breathing became synchronized. Only then she spoke. “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Thompson’s response was so familiar to any political husband or wife who by instinct and longevity knew prying was a part of the job description for a spouse. Ann Thompson immediately knew her questions were not only expected, but necessary. “Come on, babe,” she said. “What’s up? Something is. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What the hell am I doing?” Thompson mumbled.

“Aw shit,” Ann thought. “Here we go again — the whole purpose in life debate. I should write a book about how many times I’ve listened to this tired lecture. I’m laying here naked and horny and he wants to discuss the meaning of life vis-à-vis politics.

Ann met Richard when they were students at Eastern Kentucky University. As if from a movie script, they met via student politics. At the time, Richard Thompson was too shy to express an interest in Ann and she had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever. It was mutual friend Michael Griffith who forced the two into a date resulting in a lifetime commitment. It was, in fact, why both so much appreciated Michael Griffith’s friendship. He made them happen.

As if by a script that had been played out so many times before, Ann snuggled in tighter and asked. “Okay,” she asked in a tone resigning herself to her fate, “tell me what’s going on?”

“Same old shit,” he replied tiredly.

“Gotta give me more than that,” Ann said, this time truly confused.

“I thought you were excited about tonight. Outside our family, we’re having dinner tonight with everyone who matters to us. You were happy about it this morning. Now you’re suddenly dreading it. What happened today?”

“Nothing,” Thompson said softly.

“Something happened,” Ann said, rubbing her hand up and down his chest. “You know you’re going to tell me. So let’s suspend playing 35

Opposition Research

twenty questions and just tell me.”

“I guess my morality happened,” Thompson laughed.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Ann thought. “That’s a start,” she repeated. He’s not pissed at anyone. It’s the old inner-conflict happening – again. One thing Ann knew about her husband is he always struggled to do the right thing, even if it cost him politically.

When he was in Congress, he loved to buck party leadership by casting a dissenting vote on some piece of legislation. She feared his switch from elected service to the purely political side might sooner or later cause some inner turmoil. She just had not expected it to happen in his first weeks after joining Michael Griffith’s consulting company.

“What’s the deal?” she asked. “Is Griff wanting to go full swift boat on someone?” Ann was referring to a television ad used by a group to attack Senator John Kerry’s military record in Vietnam.

“Nope,” Thompson started to loosen up a bit and stroked Ann’s hair. “Griff wants to hire a tracker in Josh’s race.”

“A tracker,” Ann replied flatly.

“Yes,” sighed Thompson.

“Some college kid who goes around filming Wilson to catch his every misstep?” Ann continued her interrogation.

“Yes,” Thompson said. “Can you believe it?”

The response irritated Ann and she stiffened up, lifting herself off her husband and leaning on her arm. “That’s it?” she asked. Looking down at Thompson’s face. “That’s the only thing bothering you?”

“What do you mean?” Thompson replied. “It’s not the only thing.

It’s everything.”

Ann was normally quite understanding of her husband’s mood swings over moral dilemmas. This was not one of those times. Her own mood had now swung and she was pissed. She sat up and smacked her husband on the arm. “I’m curled up laying here next to you naked, vulnerable and ready for a good round of date-night sex,” she scolded. “I even timed my shower for when you’d be getting home. And now I’m getting no rise out of you because of a goddamned tracker? Everybody hires trackers.” Ann’s voice was rising, along with her level of anger.

“Don’t you see what’s happening out there, Annie?” Thompson asked. “It’s not the tracker. It’s what the tracker stands for. It’s ev36

Rick Robinson

erything I’ve been against in politics and now I’m in a company supporting what I’ve opposed my whole political life.”

This was an old conversation between them, one beaten to death while Thompson had been deciding whether to team up with Griffith.

She scooted away and rose to her feet. “We still have bills to pay.”

“No shit and this is what I’m going to do to keep us in the lifestyle to which we’ve become accustomed?” Thompson groaned, smacking his hands over his eyes.

The comment pissed Ann off even more. She shook her head in anger, put on a robe, and headed back to the vanity in the bathroom.

“You’re goddamned right you are.” She was not in the mood for a meaning of life discussion combined with the one in which Thompson bemoaned how he was just a kid from small Kentucky towns.

Thompson watched her stomp back into the bathroom. “What?” he asked. “Where’s the whatever-makes-you-happy speech?”

Ann was combing the tangles out of her hair. “Out the door at this point,” she said loudly. “That ship has sailed.”

“Great,” Thompson mumbled. “And here I’m trying to figure out who I am.”

Ann marched back into the bedroom. “Who you are?” she repeated Thompson’s words hotly. “You’re Richard ‘Freakin’ Thompson. That’s who you are. Husband. Father. And one of the best political minds in the country. You and Michael Griffith know more about politics than anyone in the business. You two have forgotten more than most other people know. People are flocking to you guys for your advice. Why is that wrong?”

Thompson put his hand to his forehead. “Because sometimes our advice may be morally wrong,” he replied.

“To hell with that, babe,” Ann insisted, pointing the hairbrush at her husband. “It’s reality. It’s the way the world is today. Sometimes you may give good people advice on how they can win that’s not necessarily aligned to fit with your own tight parameters of right and wrong. That’s not immoral.”

“Then what is?” Thompson asked, throwing his hands in the air.

“Giving the same advice to the wrong candidate,” Ann said calmly.

“Remember the guy who tried to hire you last week? What was his name? Deuser?”

37

Opposition Research

“Yeah,” Thompson said.

“Getting a jerk like that elected dog catcher would be morally wrong.” Ann was ignoring her normal filters and having her say.

“So do the ends justify the means?” Thompson asked.

“In this case, you’d be doing it for Josh,” Ann said. “And for him, you’re damn right it does. We’d do anything to keep him there because we know he’ll do what’s right in office.”

And who cares if we get a little dirty along the way, Thompson thought to himself for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said out loud.

“I still have a problem with it.”

Ann turned and retreated into the process of readying herself for dinner. “Well, it’s time to put on your big boy panties,” she said, stroking the brush through her blond hair. “What would Griff tell you?”

“I don’t know.”

Ann rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror. “Michael is always giving you some advice by quoting from the Godfather, right?”

“Yeah.”

Ann herself had sat through the movies so often that she too knew all the lines. “He’d quote Hyman Roth and say, ‘this is the business we have chosen for ourselves.’”

Thompson stared at the ceiling. Perhaps Ann was right, he thought. All should be fair in love, war, and politics. The means, however unpleasant, justify whatever means utilized to elect the right person to office. It’s been like that forever and is not going to change. Ann is right. At least they were backing the right candidates. Even Congressman Reynard, with his closet full of skeletons, has redeeming qualities. Still, Thompson had hoped for more in the campaign for his old seat in Congress. He had hoped to run a campaign on issues and positions, not dirt. Maybe they could get there without a tracker.

Thompson pondered his position for a long time until a noise from the bathroom brought him back to reality. Just moments ago, his wife – the person he loved more than anyone in the world – had tried coming on to him and he had turned her away. “Hey, babe?” he asked.

“What?” Ann replied shortly “Want to come back in and snuggle?”

Ann stared in the mirror. “I’m not in the mood anymore.”

38

Rick Robinson

“What?”

Ann grabbed a tube of hand lotion, stepped from the bathroom and tossed the container at Thompson, lying in bed. “Take care of yourself tonight.”

Thompson caught the tube. Well, ain’t I about the biggest idiot in the entire world? he thought.

39

Opposition Research

Chapter 4 Kentuckians have a natural love for their two most popular products – horses and bourbon. Add a large rack of open-flame cooked barbecued ribs to the formula and you have a Northern Kentucky restaurant called Walt’s Hitching Post. In a state where the word “Secretariat” is still said with solemn reverence, Walt’s is a place where homage is respectfully paid to the sport of kings. Winner’s circle photos of horses owned by locals adorn the walls along with autographed memorabilia from racing greats like jockey Willie Shoemaker and trainer D. Wayne Lucas.

The most sacred room at Walt’s is a small private room dedicated to “The Kid.” Before being inducted into the Horse Racing Hall of Fame, Steve Cauthen was a teenage apprentice getting mounts at River Downs and Latonia Race Track (now called Turfway Park). Under the tutelage of his father Tex, he honed his skills and was known to those around the tracks simply as “The Kid.” Of course, all said it with a little more respect after The Kid won the Triple Crown aboard Affirmed in 1978. Those three races in which Cauthen’s ride engineered three wins by a combined total of less than one horse length are still thought to be the greatest series of races of all time. Following Cauthen’s historic heroics, it took thirty years for someone else to win a Triple Crown.

The feat also earned Cauthen a series of awards, including Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year. One of Cauthen’s lesser-known accolades is a dining room at Walt’s where the walls feature his pictures and trophy cases protect silver cups from his Hall of Fame career. And today, even though he is a grown man breeding racehorses in Boone County, Kentucky, older people around Northern Kentucky still refer to him as “The Kid.” 40

Rick Robinson

Of course, Walt’s is also the place where all the local politicos hang out. So, when the new campaign crew arrived in town, Thompson wanted to have dinner at Walt’s to let everyone on the other side know he was not taking Congressman Josh Barkman’s reelection campaign for granted. In this area, politicians can telephone, telegraph, or tell the customers at Walt’s. They all get the same depth of coverage.

For his part, Congressman Josh Barkman’s eyes lit up when he entered the small private room at Walt’s Hitching Post to find Ann and Richard Thompson already seated. When Thompson had decided not to run for reelection to Kentucky’s Fourth Congressional District, Barkman had fought a crowded field to win the party nomination and eventually the seat. Since then he had become known as a hard-working public servant never losing contact with the electorate. This year no one opposed him in the primary, allowing him and his campaign team to focus entirely on the general election. Nevertheless, they had built a sizable campaign war chest, ready for any challenge.

This election cycle, however, seemed different. Michael Griffith was now prone to railing in recent strategy meetings about voters always carrying their anger to the polls. It’s been happening for years.

He warned the problem this election year was that people had too many things to be angry about – real or perceived. “In the world of vitriol,” Griffith noted, “business is booming.” He was warning all his clients about getting caught up in the political venom infecting the left and the right. But, like Thompson, he kept special watch over Barkman. Griffith considered him a friend. Violating his own Godfather Rule about politics being strictly business, he was taking any challenge against Barkman very personally. Thus, the heated battle with Thompson over a tracker was surprising even him.

Barkman’s entrance to the room broke an icy silence between Thompson and his wife. Dressed casually in jeans, light blue button down and Navy sport coat, Barkman still looked very Congressional.

Even when they dress casual, people like Barkman always have the look of someone commanding any room they enter. Small strands of grey hair were sneaking into his blond curls and his face was gradually showing its political age. But the loss of Josh Barkman’s boyish good looks had left him with the stoic good looks of a veteran Member of 41

Opposition Research

Congress.

Both Thompson and Ann stood to greet Josh.

“Congressman,” nodded Thompson, pulling Barkman close for a warm embrace.

“Senator,” came Barkman’s dutiful reply. Even though Thompson had been appointed to fill out a very short unexpired term, he still carried the title for life.

“Knock it off you two,” grumbled Griffith, who walked in directly behind Barkman, the heels of his alligator cowboy boots clicking on the hardwood floor announcing his arrival.

“What?” asked Thompson, holding his arms outstretched.

“All the formal ‘Congressman’ and ‘Senator’ bullshit,” Griffith said, his voice getting higher on the formal titles. “Neither of you’d be anything without me.”

“Who’s he?” asked Thomson, pointing at Griffith.

“Never met him before,” Barkman laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought the campaign hired him as my driver for the night. Are you with Uber or Lyft?” he asked.

First flipping both men the bird, Griffith nudged Barkman in the side. “I told you they’d beat everyone here,” he said. “He’s a pain in the ass about being early.”

“How are you doing, Annie?” Barkman asked, hugging Thompson’s wife. “And what’s it like having this bloke around all the time?” He waggled a thumb towards Thompson. “He driving you nuts yet?”

“Oh, there are days,” Ann Thompson said, forcing a laugh. She was still a bit miffed at the events from earlier. “Whenever he is under my feet too badly, I tell him there are new poll numbers over at the office. He runs out of the house like a jackrabbit,” she said with an eye roll.

Barkman chuckled. “He still hasn’t figured out the whole email and PDF thing?”

“Oh no,” Ann replied, shaking her head. “He must have paper.

It’s easier to yell and mumble at paper than a PDF on a laptop screen.”

Waving his hands, Thompson interrupted the reunion between Barkman and his wife. “Hold on a minute,” Thompson insisted looking at Griffith. “You guys came over here together, didn’t you?

42

Rick Robinson

“Sure,” Barkman replied. “Why?” “I was just wondering what you were discussing in my absence?”

Thompson asked.

Griffith looked slyly at Thompson. “I wanted to go over some numbers with the boy before we discussed the budget.”

“That’s cheating, Griff,” Thompson smiled, pointing an accusing finger. “But then again, I figured you’d use your time with Josh in an attempt to influence his decision on a tracker.”

“And I bet you didn’t even mention it to Ann,” Griffith asked.

“Dear God,” Ann interjected, “All he talked about before we left and on the way over here was the damn tracker.”

“And she’s got a helluva lot more influence on Josh than me,” Griffith concluded.

“So how are you leaning?” Thompson asked, both men looking at Barkman for his decision.

“Enough already,” Barkman said, laughing while holding his hands in a T to indicate a time out. “I just got here. My biggest decision today was picking jeans versus dress pants. For the time being, let’s keep it simple. Drinks. Let’s argue about drinks. I’m leaning towards a Michter’s bourbon neat.”

“Simple?” Griffith exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. “There is no such thing as simple. You people around here spend more time arguing over ribs and chili than anyone I know.”

“Gold Star,” said Ann, raising her hand.

“Skyline,” said Thompson at the same time, raising both hands.

“Knock it off,” Griffith said. “Chili comes from Texas. It ain’t made with chocolate and it ain’t meant to be poured over spaghetti.”

“And I suspect you have the same contempt for our ribs,” speculated Barkman.

“Montgomery Inn,” said Ann. “Walt’s,” said Thompson, again speaking at the same time as his wife.

“Kentucky’s Fourth Congressional District has many pressing issues which divide the masses,” said Griffith, speaking like a news announcer. “In an area where anti-establishment movements are engrained in the fabric of the people, the normal dividing lines of traditional mores move along strange lines not always defined by tradi43

Opposition Research

tional party affiliations. I’ve got polls where conservative Catholic Democrats can be pro-life and Libertarian Republicans can be prochoice. But the hottest debate in this damn community is over where to eat ribs and chili.”

The Fat Man and Leo Argo entered the room watching everyone laugh at Griffith’s assessment of the region’s taste buds. “Apparently we missed the joke,” said The Fat Man. “Check your fly,” instructed Argo, whispering into The Fat Man’s ear.

“Come on in,” shouted Richard Thompson. “The big boys are here. Time to double down on the ribs.”

“And the bourbon,” Griffith added.

There’s always been a polite tension between Michael Griffith and The Fat Man. Interestingly, the subject of the tension was usually their mutual affection for Richard Thompson. Griffith had been with Thompson since college and had orchestrated his entire political life.

The Fat Man had been Thompson’s law partner and closest confident outside of politics. Each respected the other’s intellect, but also envied the other’s influence over Thompson. Thompson rarely caught on, but one to the other, the conflict was apparent. The thing they shared – besides Richard Thompson – was a love of the battle. At one point or another in their relationship, one bargained for the other’s battle advice and emerged better for it. One of The Fat Man’s proudest moments was when Griffith referred to him as a wartime consigliere.

Argo looked around the small room and silently read the inscriptions on the trophies. He remembered the name Cauthen but struggled to remember why. When he saw a framed Time magazine cover of the jockey in his famous pink and black racing silks, smoking a cigar under the caption “A Born Winner” it came back to Argo. “It’s that jockey dude I see on television every year at Derby time,” he said.

“He’s not a dude,” said The Fat Man, rolling his eyes.

“He’s ‘The Kid’,” exclaimed Thompson, Ann and The Fat man in unison.

The group settled into the room and conversation quickly ran from favorite bourbons to legislation pending in Washington. The ribs were spicy and the hot slaw – well – hot. When the talk finally came around to Barkman’s campaign, Ann, The Fat Man and Argo watched as the 44

Rick Robinson

candidate and his two closest advisors discussed the pros and cons of hiring a tracker to follow Barkman’s opponent. Griffith was pushing for the hire and Thompson stood opposed. For his part, Barkman took it all in until announcing he had heard enough. “I’m done,” Barkman said, waving his hands like a dealer stepping away from the blackjack table. “I’ll sleep on it and give you my answer in the morning.”

“Fair enough,” said Thompson with the self-assurance of a man who felt he’d won the argument.

“Good idea,” said Griffith with equal confidence.

Just then Donny Arnsberger, one of the owners of Walt’s, peeked his head into the room. “Hey folks, sorry to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” said Thompson, motioning him to enter. “Come on in.”

“Thank you,” Arnsberger said. “I trust everything was good tonight.”

“Excellent,” said Ann. “You outdid yourself tonight. But I seem to say the same thing every time we’re here.”

“How’s business?” Thompson asked, leaning back in his chair while patting his belly. “I could come here every night for dinner and die a happy man.”

“Great,” said Arnsberger. “I’ll make a standing reservation. And business is great, especially tonight since we have a star in the midst.”

At the mention of being a star, Griffith sat up in his chair. “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say …”

Arnsberger cut him off. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Griffith, but I wasn’t referring to you.”

Griffith looked shocked.

Pointing to Argo, Arnsberger proceeded, “Some of the staff would like their picture taken with this gentleman. He was on all the news shows when he was shot last year. He’s like a big hero.”

Seeing Griffith deflate like a punctured balloon, Thompson busted out laughing in a loud guffaw.

“Knock it off,” snarled Griffith.

“I don’t think so,” said Argo, shaking his head as he looked sheepishly at the floor. “I really didn’t do anything …”

45

Opposition Research

“No sir,” said Thompson, barely able to control his giddiness. He stood up and nearly pulled Argo from the chair. “Go meet your adoring public. Come on. We’ll all go meet your public.”

The entire group emerged from the room to watch as Argo lined up with the staff for photos. From the corner of his eye, Thompson noticed someone filming the entire scene. Except instead of having the phone aimed at Argo, it was pointed to Barkman. He walked over to the person holding the camera, “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Richard Thompson.”

The young short-haired woman in jeans and a tee shirt looked down then up. “They told me this would happen pretty quickly,” she said.

“What?” Thompson asked. “Who are they?”

She squared her shoulders and looked Thompson in the eyes.

“My name is MacKenzie Morris. I’m the tracker hired by the Wilson campaign. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” she smirked.

Thompson’s face went flush. “Nice to meet you,” he said in a steady rhythm, trying to control his anger. It took a lot to push Thompson over the brink, but when he got angry, it could manifest itself quickly. He knew it and walked away before losing his cool.

As Argo continued to endure being the center of attention, Thompson grabbed Griffith by the arm and whispered in his ear. “I need to talk to you, Griff, now,” Thompson snapped.

“I get it,” Griffith replied. “Argo’s getting all the attention, not me.”

“No,” Thompson said. “Now.” “It’s okay,” Griffith said, trying to act pitiful. “You all had a good laugh at my expense.”

“That’s not it,” insisted Thompson, grabbing Griffith’s arm and pulling him back towards the private room.

“Calm down, man,” Griffith replied. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

Thompson pushed the door closed. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I want to hire the tracker now.”

Griffith was confused. “You just argued with me for a half hour about this,” Griffith said.

Jerking his head towards the door, Thompson asked, “See the girl with the camera?”

46

Rick Robinson

Griffith peeked his head out the glass door towards the group.

“She looks familiar,” he replied, pausing to recall the context in which he knew her face. When it came to him, he rolled his eyes. “DC,” he continued. “She’s out of campaign school – got a reputation of being as wild as a cat in water. She walks the edges for her candidates.”

Thompson nodded. “Well …”

Griffith looked puzzled and then his eyes opened wide. “Don’t tell me,” he started.

Thompson nodded his acquiescence. “She’s tracking for Billy Wilson.”

“No shit?” Griffith said, rubbing his bald head.

“No shit!” Thompson snarled, pointing to the lobby.

“And suddenly you’ve changed your mind about us hiring one,” Griffith said smiling, looking at the group.

“Yeah,” Thompson snarled.

“It sounds like you’re suddenly taking this situation very personally,” Griffith said with a self-satisfied chuckle. He looked back at Thompson, unsuccessfully struggling to keep his smugness in check.

Remembering Griffith’s Godfather Rules for politics, he shook his head. “This isn’t personal Griff. I swear. It’s strictly business.”

“You sure?”

Thompson turned to Griffith with fire in his eyes. “Just hire the damn tracker,” he said.

47

Opposition Research

Chapter 5 “Quiet, Luca,” said the balding old man to the small black and white Jack Russell terrier he was walking along the sidewalk bordering Pacific Coast Highway. Stretching the length of the leash to meet a much larger dog coming in the other direction, a gentle tug drew the terrier back. “No,” he scolded before giving a treat and pointing an accusatory finger. “That dog will make you sleep with the fishes. He’s too big.”

“Aw, Jeffrey let him get closer,” said the thin, freckle-faced woman walking alongside. Her spindly legs shot out from her shorts like twigs.

“Maybe he’ll make a new friend.” She paused. “We could use some new friends.”

“Shush, Jackie,” Jeffrey replied dismissively, his white tufts of hair shooting out from under his light blue bucket hat. “None of us needs any new friends. We all have each other.”

Polarized sunglasses, black socks, sandals, khaki shorts and a loose-fitting muscle t-shirt bearing the logo of a local surf shop, the man with the pale white, bony legs looked no different than anyone else living in the small manufactured home community a block away from the ocean. The only thing making his partner look any different than him was her grey hair eventually bled into blond coloring, defying any definitive color description on the hair dye label.

“I know, honey,” Jackie replied, looking around at the mass of people moving around on the street. Hipsters with colorful tattoos on roller blades weaved in and out of people headed towards the pier with their surfboards tucked under their arms. “It’s just sometimes I’d like a girlfriend to talk to. I get lonely sometimes,” she added.

The man’s eyes narrowed into a piercing stare. “You know, it’s not possible.” Paraphrasing the words of Hyman Roth, the fictional

48

Rick Robinson

character from the Godfather, Jeffrey held up his right index finger.

“This is the life we’ve chosen for ourselves.”

“I know,” Jackie replied, lowering her head. “It just seems like all we ever do is watch television and take Luca for a walk.”

Seeing Jackie’s unhappiness, Jeffrey put his arm around the woman.

“And look around you,” he said in a comforting tone. “It’s a damn good life.” He tapped his finger under her chin and raised it up. “Look at the ocean. Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve brought you to the most beautiful spot in America. And we do not have a care in the world.”

“I know,” Jackie said, forcing a smile. “I do love it here. It’s just so far from home. Don’t you miss home?”

“Of course, I do, baby,” Jeffrey said, nodding nostalgically, thinking about the life they had left behind on the east coast. “But I can’t go back and neither can you. We’ve been through this so many times before. Our lives are different now.”

“We do have each other,” Jackie said reluctantly. “Let’s walk to the pier.”

“You go,” Jeffrey replied, pulling on the dog’s leash to stop his progress down the sidewalk and reversing directions. “Luca and I want to go home and watch the news.”

“You’re always watching the news,” she complained.

“I know,” Jeffrey said. “But Luca and I are ready to head back.”

He took out his wallet and handed her ten dollars. “You go to the pier and get an ice cream. Tonight, after the news, I’ll take you to Paulie’s for dinner.”

49

Opposition Research

Chapter 6 The Colonial Cottage is about a mile from the Griffith/Thompson satellite business office and the pair make it a practice to meet there every morning for breakfast. A quaint local spot on the Dixie Highway in Kentucky, the stone entrance and three gables across the top make it stand out amongst a half mile line up of strip centers and fast-food restaurants. And while the look is distinctive, the Colonial Cottage is best known for its home-cooked meals. Later in the day, the place is filled with locals feasting on comfort food with sides of fresh green beans and homemade cream pies.

Richard Thompson frequented the Colonial Cottage for the goetta, a meat and grain sausage-like concoction, originally created in nearby Cincinnati by its German community. And while Thompson went there for the food, Michael Griffith loved the place for its clientele. He’d spend the majority of his time there wandering from table to table, talking to patrons about local issues. He said it gave him a feel for what “fly-over” America was really thinking. Personally, he despised the goetta.

There are two sections of the Colonial Cottage. On one side is a traditional restaurant with four-top tables able to be rearranged at a moment’s notice to accommodate any party of diners. A fireplace along the wall gave the place a homey feel. On the other side of the restaurant is a small nook with an old-fashioned, sit-down counter where you can look into the kitchen and see the cooks making everyone’s meals. Across from the counter were a couple of maroon leather booths.

Upon entering the Colonial Cottage, the pair stuck with their normal routine and went in opposite directions. Thompson headed to their regular booth across from the luncheon counter and began read50

Rick Robinson

ing the morning news via the multiple emails he received every morning. Griffith, on the other hand, started wandering through the traditional restaurant side, talking to customers. His cowboy boots clacking on the parquet floor as he walked, he was hard to ignore. Thompson marveled at the strategic manner in which Griffith approached the room. He’d simply greet some while sitting and talking with others.

This morning, he spent an inordinate amount of time at one particular table where an older couple sat enjoying their morning routine. Thompson recognized them as regulars, so he looked up occasionally from his cell phone just long enough to make sure Griffith was not badgering the couple too badly.

The owner of the Colonial Cottage, Matt Grimes, stopped by to freshen up Thompson’s coffee. “Your boy is on a roll today,” Grimes commented.

“Yeah,” Thompson said apologetically. “Sorry. He’s wound up.”

“Not a problem,” Grimes replied laughingly. “The folks around here kind of like him.”

“I find that frightening,” Thompson said, stirring some cream into his cup. “If he gets out of hand, I’d be glad to call the police.” He added, “And you better pour one for him. He’ll be wrapping up soon.”

As Grimes headed back to the kitchen, Griffith finished his round of talking at the tables, Thompson was already on his second cup of coffee. He was accustomed to waiting out Griffith’s morning ritual.

“You know what that one old boy just told me?” Griffith asked excitedly as he slid into the booth.

Thompson calmly stirred one more container of cream into his coffee. “He told you to go away and leave him the hell alone,” Thompson replied.

Griffith sighed, flipping Thompson the bird. “No, smart ass,” Griffith snapped. “He told me he and his wife were both lifetime in one party and for the very first time, they voted the other way in the presidential election.”

“So did a lot of folks last time out,” Thompson replied, tapping his spoon on the cup. “Cross-over voting in the last presidential is hardly a revelation worthy of a news alert.”

“That ain’t all,” Griffith said, ignoring Thompson’s disinterest. “The wife says she’s going back to her party roots. She’s straight-ticket 51

Opposition Research

voting this year. And the husband, this guy says he’s sticking with his vote from before and doubling down. Their grown kids are either voting third-party or staying home.”

Thompson thought for a moment. Knowing Griffith’s love of Godfather references, he came up with a response to which Griffith would relate. “So, in the words of Hyman Roth to Michael Corleone in Havana,” he said. “What does that tell you?”

“Tells me they don’t watch the news together anymore,” Griffith laughed. “And their kids sure as hell aren’t driving them to the polls on Election Day.” Thompson smiled at the comment. “Seriously,” he said. “I’ve got my own ideas of what’s happening these days. What do you think?”

Griffith paused for a moment, rubbed his chin, and pondered the question. They had discussed this a lot over the recent months and he continued to ponder the answer himself. “It tells me we’re at a point where the electorate is wishy-washy,” Griffith said, nodding his head to confirm his own conclusion. “You and I have been talking about it for a while, but we may have actually reached a point where the wind changes direction every two years or so. Party labels mean less than they did when we came up in the game.”

Richard Thompson nodded agreement. “Do you know what each party stands for anymore?” he asked. “I sure as hell don’t. And I’m supposed to be a party-guy for a living.”

“I think it’s bigger than simply a party label,” Griffith continued, waving at the waitress for a menu. “They can’t relate to parties because party labels don’t relate to them anymore.”

“When we got involved back in college,” Thompson mused, “we sure as hell believed.” Leaning forward in the booth, Thompson brought the mug of coffee to his lips and drank.

“Shit, junior,” Griffith laughed. “We drank more Kool-Aid than the first pew at the People’s Temple.”

“We were going to change things,” Thompson said, fondly recalling his naïve youth.

“Oh, don’t go there, Richard,” Griffith replied, smiling at Connie, their regular waitress, to get her attention. Connie was a large redhead woman used to waiting on the pair.

52

Rick Robinson

Connie approached the table. “Morning, boys,” she said. “The usual?”

“You betcha, darlin,” Griffith replied, exaggerating his drawl and adding a wink for good measure. Thompson looked up and added a “yup” of his own.

Connie smiled and nodded her acknowledgment of the order before making her way back to the kitchen.

Griffith returned to the conversation. “Everyone in college believes they are going to change the world,” he said. “Then we get jobs and wives and kids and a dog.”

“Leave the dog out of this,” Thompson laughed.

“Okay, the dog is free of blame, but only because he’s incapable of guilt unless swatted with a newspaper,” Griffith said. “But one day we wake up and a couple of dozen campaign cycles have gone by and nothing is different. Whether it’s an ad or a Facebook page, people still vote for an image we put on a screen.”

“I hate to admit it, but I agree with you,” Thompson nodded, sipping his coffee. “We’ve been through the two-year cycle so many times. But the feel is definitely different now. Things are changing. I’m trying to figure out the ‘why.’ I’m not sure I totally understand it yet, but I know it’s changing. I guess our job is to figure out how to catch the latest lightning in a bottle, huh?”

“Populism,” Griffith tapped his index finger on the table. “You’ve been talking about it for years, but I’m finally beginning to believe it’s the motivating force. No one has been able to harness it yet. Couching a message like a latter-day incarnation of William Jennings Bryan is what will work.”

Thompson was surprised at Griffith’s reference to the Nebraskan orator known to thrill crowds as the “Great Commoner.” Bryan had represented his party three times as its nominee for president on a platform of single issues resonating with the electorate. Although he never reached the White House, he created a model of populist-politics candidates on both sides of the aisle tried to emulate for years with varying degrees of success. Thompson looked up at the television behind the breakfast counter. “Look,” he said, pointing at the customers sitting at the counter on stools and watching the morning news. “That’s what’s happening.”

53

Opposition Research

Griffith turned to look at the television on the wall over the counter.

“What?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“National cable news,” Thompson said confidently.

“So,” Griffith replied with a shrug of his shoulders, turning his attention back to Thompson.

“If Bryan had cable at his command,” Thompson said confidently, “he would have changed history. I mean old radio tubes wouldn’t stand a chance against a good modem. People on the prairie huddled up around their television sets following his every word with Facebook posts and twitter rants.”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Griffith laughed. “But for as long as he liked to speak, I’d love to have had 15% of his buy as a fee.”

“We’re here at a small place, in ‘small town’ Kentucky and they’re not watching local news,” Thompson said. “They’re watching national news – talking heads who represent a point of view instead of news.

Bryan would be the perfect Presidential candidate today.”

“Each side is doing it though,” Griffith added, sipping his coffee.

“Trying to message populism – no matter what their underlying philosophy.”

“So how do we capture the message?” Thompson asked.

The pair ceased conversation as Connie delivered breakfast to the table. After some small talk with her, they continued their political discussion.

“We talk to Connie,” Griffith said as the older waitress walked away. “We message every issue like we’re sitting in her living room on her overstuffed recliner talking directly to her.”

“I get it,” Thompson said tentatively.

“What?”

Thompson leaned forward and spoke softly. “The thing bothering me about this guy running against Josh is, what if he can he capture it.

In any given year, he’d have a snowball’s chance in hell. I’m just afraid he can adjust his message to get Connie and people like her to pay attention. If she watches this Wilson guy and he catches on, it’ll be bad. And if another populist wave is coming, we’re done.”

“And what makes you think he can out message us?” Griffith asked.

“The bridge,” Thompson winced.

54

Rick Robinson

Of all the spans connecting Kentucky to Ohio, none is more controversial than the Brent Spence Bridge. A double-decker, multi-lane behemoth, it was built in the early 60s and named for the local Congressman who had Chaired the House Banking and Transportation Committee in the 50s. Labeled as one of the most obsolete bridges in America, for more than a decade its replacement had been a hot political issue. Two major north-south interstates bottleneck where the bridge crosses the Ohio River between Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky causing a twice-daily traffic nightmare. On any given day, an accident on or near the bridge can, at the very best, cause a multihour back up. And, at its worst, the bridge can produce accidents resulting in death. Politicians on both sides of the river continue to plead for its replacement every year and each year nothing changes – other than the politicians making the pleas. Thompson had been one of those politicians. “I wasn’t surprised when Wilson let the press know his general election kickoff announcement for Congress would be made at the height of morning rush hour at the foot of the bridge,” Thompson continued. “I’m just afraid he’ll get traction on it. In the current state of affairs, government can’t do shit, even build a bridge.

It’s the ultimate populist message isn’t it – roads – bridges – potholes.

Hell, there’s a good chance there’ll be a crash about the time he holds his press conference.”

“Is that it, pal?” Griffith asked, sensing something more was at play. “What are you really afraid of here?”

“Nothing,” Thompson dipped his chin avoiding eye contact with Griffith.

“Come on, Richard,” Griffith added. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“Oh, let’s do,” said Griffith, smacking the table top. Thompson’s eyes shot up. “You didn’t get it done. It’s your William Jennings Bryan silver standard issue,” he said. “The people wanted a bridge and you didn’t get it done when you were in office.”

Thompson shook his head. “Not now, Griff,” he said. “I don’t want to go there.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Griffith asked, his voice rising. “It’s your issue.”

55

Opposition Research

Thompson pointed his finger. “Because there’s a young college kid standing around the hostess stand. I assume that’s the kid you want to be our new tracker. We might as well invite him to the table and talk to him.”

“You aren’t interviewing him,” Griffith instructed.

“Why the hell not?” Thompson asked, outrage lacing his voice.

“Because you’ll spend too much time talking about how the lyrics of Warren Zevon influence today’s political policy,” Griffith snapped.

Thompson pondered the comment for a moment. “And you won’t make him watch The Godfather?”

“I would,” Griffith replied. “Which is precisely why Leo is going to do the interview. He’s the one in charge of opposition research for Josh and he’ll know what he’s looking for anyway.”

Thompson was not happy with the decision, but he understood the rationale. “Well, invite him over so we can at least get to know him a little.”

“Well, let’s talk to him in the car,” Griffith said. “I’ve got a flight to DC.” “Today?” Thompson asked incredulously. “Really? You didn’t tell me you were going back so quickly.”

“I’ve got to meet with our friend Reynard,” Griffith replied, shifting to get up from the booth. “I’ve got plenty of clean clothes in both offices. I need to be in Arlington today.”

“Now? Right before the Wilson announcement?”

Griffith flicked a five dollar bill on the table for Connie. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he said. “You can handle it.”

56

Rick Robinson

Chapter 7 Dustin Ewing sat fidgeting in the office lobby, nervously bouncing his right leg while leaning forward in his chair and trying to look calm.

Thumbing through a Rolling Stone magazine he found on the coffee table in front of his modern (and uncomfortable) chair, he took in the modest office space. The space was so newly renovated it still smelled like fresh paint and the artwork was on the floor leaning against the walls.

Ewing had just endured a wild drive to the airport with a former United States Senator and one of the nation’s top political consultants. Both had barked instructions and comments at each other resembling the rapid-fire cadence of a Sunday morning political talk show. Taking it all in from the back seat, Ewing’s head had whipped back and forth so quickly, he still felt dizzy. And after they dropped Michael Griffith off at the airport, the short ride back to the office was no better. Thompson went quiet and barely spoke in a whisper about his ideas on politics and government, while constantly changing the channels on the satellite radio, eventually popping in a Warren Zevon CD. As they drove, Ewing just nodded in agreement at both politics and music.

The young student suddenly doubted his decision to take the job interview. A young, lanky baby-faced man with caramel colored skin and short dreads in his final year at Northern Kentucky University, Ewing really did not need the money. He wanted the job to get a couple of co-op credits in his final year and to learn a little more about politics from the ground floor up. The street cred of this job appeared top notch. Richard Thompson was one of the respected alumni of the university’s law school who had gone on to become a United States Congressman and Senator. Michael Griffith was larger than life in na57

Opposition Research

tional campaign circles and had contacts of benefit to him in over four dozen offices in DC. When Ewing agreed to interview with the campaign to reelect Josh Barkman, it seemed like a no-brainer he would take the job if offered. At this point, the thought of just walking out of the interview briefly crossed his mind, until he realized his car was back at the Colonial Cottage.

“Hey Dustin,” came a commanding voice as Leo Argo walked into the lobby of the office suite from the adjoining conference room, his hand outstretched in a friendly greeting. “I’m Leo Argo.”

Ewing returned the handshake, instantly recognizing Argo from his FBI related news coverage. “Good morning, Mr. Argo,” Ewing replied. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” The big man’s presence seemed to fill the room and put Ewing at ease.

Argo nodded an acknowledgment. “And no one has called me Mr. Argo since I left the Bureau,” Argo confided. “Call me Leo and we’ll get along just fine.”

“Got it,” Ewing said, instantly feeling comfortable with the large Cuban-American’s demeanor.

“Come on back,” Argo said, motioning to the conference room.

“And I’ll tell you a little about what we’re looking for and see if you’re interested.”

As soon as they sat down, Ewing reached into a leather portfolio and handed Argo his resume. “You’re looking for a tracker, right?”

Argo glanced at the resume as Ewing continued his pitch. “Well, I have some campaign experience. I’ve worked for …”

Argo held up his hand. “Stop,” he instructed. “I know your resume.” Argo put the paper on the table.

“Sorry,” Ewing said sheepishly. “I’m a little nervous. What are you looking for then?”

Argo cocked his head. “You,” he replied.

“Pardon me?”

Argo opened up a file folder and began reading. “Born in Paducah, Kentucky. Number one in a class of 210 students. Despite leading your team to the state playoffs, you turned down what amounted to a full-ride to another school on a baseball scholarship for a full academic scholarship to NKU. You are majoring in political science with a minor in English. Your grade point is in the top five percent of your 58

Rick Robinson

class and one of your professors says you have the ability to dissect a complex problem and reassemble it in a way a third-grader could understand it. Your Informatics professor was almost in tears telling me his deep regret in not talking you out of political science and into his program.” Argo paused and looked at Ewing to gauge his reaction. “Should I continue?”

Ewing simply stared at Argo, unable to formulate a response.

“It’s opposition research, Dustin,” Argo said closing the file. “It’s what I do.”

“Okay,” Ewing replied tentatively.

“If all I wanted was someone to follow an opponent and take video, I’d have put another resume in this file. But I want something more. I want someone who can understand the importance of information, dig it up, and present it in a usable form.”

“And you think I’m your guy?” Ewing shook his head. “I don’t know, Leo. I don’t have that kind of experience or knowledge.”

“You have the computer experience and I’ll give you the knowledge,” Argo assured. “I need a team player who can find information and know instinctively if it matters. You have the ability. You just don’t know it yet.”

Ewing paused for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow,” Argo replied. “Right after your 1:00 class.”

“Damn, you did do your homework,” Ewing said, laughing about how Argo even knew his class schedule. “Just one thing?”

“Shoot,” Argo said, leaning back in his chair.

“Can you give me a lift to my car?”

59

Opposition Research

Chapter 8 As popular as Michael Griffith was to one party, Roger Dusing was just as sought after in the other one. His bare-knuckled approach to politics was well known to both sides. Unlike many political consultants, he relished taking on established incumbent candidates and took great delight in seeing them fall. Short and stocky, he looked like an angry fireplug with arms. A street fighter, he was the general consultant for the Wilson for Congress campaign.

This particular day found Dusing in his personal recording studio in DC working on an advertisement for an incumbent Congresswoman from the northeast. The Congresswoman was sitting upright on a stool in front of a green screen. A boom microphone covered with a foam filter hung above her head, just out of sight of the camera. A teleprompter was reeling the tightly written script directly in front of the camera. The walls covered with acoustic tile to reduce echoes could not mute the noise of a shoot not going well.

“Cut!” Dusing shouted, everyone in the cramped studio looking at him. “Let’s do it again,” he grumbled, interrupting the candidate recording the commercial. The candidate herself audibly exhaled.

“What?” the woman asked, testily throwing her hands in the air. “I was doing it just like you told me.”

“I can see your eyes moving as you read from the teleprompter,” he snapped.

“I thought I was looking straight ahead,” she replied.

“You were looking straight ahead,” Dusing said, not looking up from the monitor. “Your eyes were running from side to side like someone in a neck brace watching a tennis match. This is your close up.

Quit reading the goddamned script with your eyes.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down.

60

Rick Robinson

“Time is money in a studio, Congresswoman,” Dusing said. “And you’re wasting a lot of both right now.” He sat back in his director’s chair and rubbed his forehead.

“Come on, Mr. Dusing,” said one of the Congresswoman’s aides.

“Give her a break.”

Everyone in the studio looked at the staffer in shock. Apparently, no one had warned him of Dusing’s mountainous ego. He was not to be interrupted, especially by some unknown staffer whose role was to be seen and not heard.

The consultant shot out of his chair and nearly sprinted to the staffer. “This is a talking head shot,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberatively, merely inches from the staffer’s face. “In case you don’t understand the concept, she is speaking directly to the people of her district. Those are the people keeping you in a job. We need precision in message and delivery with sincerity. Eyes darting about while reading a script can be seen on the screen. You lose the whole sincerity thing, you putz.”

“Then why don’t we just let her read it and put the message over stock video of the district? It would have the same effect,” the staffer ventured, taking a step back while his blood pressure roiled a bit at the putz moniker.

Dusing’s face grew red and his eyes narrowed. “Okay, Mr. Expert,” he spit out. “Since you know so damn much, let’s do it your way. Better yet, why don’t you run the campaign and I’ll take your spot answering constituent emails. Dear Mr. Smith, thank you so much for letting me know about your support for HR 1777, the I Don’t Know What the Hell I’m Talking About Act. I share your concern for whatever the hell it is you believe and will continue to keep up the fight to get it passed.” He paused. “No? Then shut up and let’s stop wasting time and money.”

The staffer looked at the candidate apologetically. “Let’s try it again,” the Congresswoman said, clearing her throat. “I think I have the cadence this time. I can get this done without a script.”

“Let’s take five,” Dusing said, holding up five fingers while making his way to the studio door. “I’ve got a few calls to make. Practice and I’ll be back in five.”

61

Opposition Research

Dusing slammed out of the studio into the hallway towards the bathroom. He was barely out of the door when his assistant ran up to him, her arm outstretched with a telephone. “Billy Wilson, Kentucky 4, on the line.”

Wilson had only recently signed on to use Dusing as the campaign’s general consultant and he had not yet endured Dusing’s fiery temper.

So Dusing calmed his voice and spoke. “Billy,” he said, with as much joviality as he could muster. “How goes the announcement preparation?”

“Pretty good, Roger,” came Wilson’s response. “I like the speech you sent me as a draft, but I want to discuss some changes.”

“Changes?” Dusing snapped. The day was not getting any better.

“Yes,” Wilson continued, “I like hitting the bridge stuff, but I’m a little concerned about attacking Richard Thompson over it. I mean he’s still well liked here and it’s really not his fault the damn bridge is falling apart. I think it’s a little over the top.”

“You do?” Dusing said slowly, trying to control a temper already aggravated by the situation in the next room. “And I suppose it’s all of your years running campaigns giving you this queasy feeling.”

“I don’t mean to offend you …”

“Do you want to win this race?” Dusing shot back, interrupting the candidate while pacing in the narrow hallway.

“Of course, I do,” Wilson replied. “But …”

“But nothing,” Dusing interrupted again, beyond caring his temper was showing. “You’ll take my advice,” his pacing increasing with his rising temper. “I’ve got candidates lined up and down the street begging for my guidance and if you want to play nice just so you can someday show your kids campaign posters, find someone else.”

“But …”

“No buts, Billy,” Dusing replied. “That damned bridge represents everything wrong with the leadership being offered by Barkman. He can’t get it done. Thompson couldn’t get it done. We’re going to let the people know it’s your turn to get it done.”

“Well, I doubt I can get it done without changes in the appropriation process,” Wilson said. “Maybe we could talk a bit about how we can change the way money is appropriated.”

62

Rick Robinson

“People don’t want to hear that crap,” Dusing said, motioning for his aide to get him some water. “They want to hear you’re a man of action and your opponent is a shithead. We’ve got to draw a line of demarcation between the two of you and Thompson is where the line begins. It ends at Barkman.”

“Well, I guess …”

“Buck up, Billy-boy,” Dusing said as he was handed a bottled water. “This is the big leagues. And if you don’t want to play hardball, find a new manager.” Dusing halted in front of the door awaiting an answer.

There was silence.

“Are we good?” Dusing asked, taking a drink.

“I guess so,” Wilson said reluctantly.

“Great,” Dusing said without skipping a beat. “Did you hire the tracker I sent you?”

“Oh yeah,” Wilson replied. “We caught them out at dinner last night.”

“And …”

“They were pissed,” Wilson chuckled.

“Good,” Dusing said, smiling. “Pissed makes mistakes happen.

Send me the video. We’ll see what we can use in an ad.”

63

Opposition Research

Chapter 9 To the south, Washington, DC is surrounded by bedroom communities comprised of small neighborhoods, each with their own distinct personalities. Old Town Alexandria is comprised of older historic homes and rich with history (and tourists). Crystal City has malls and restaurants that cater to the Pentagon it abuts.

When Michael Griffith had bought a townhouse in the area of Arlington Courthouse, he did so for several reasons. Less than a mile up Wilson Boulevard from the Marine Corps Memorial, the area is what the name implies – the home of all county offices. In the small neighborhood, Griffith had all he needed—shops, grocery stores, restaurants, and bars. And only two stops away from DC on the subway, Griffith had also recently moved his DC-area office to the Courthouse neighborhood. Michael Griffith did not need a high-priced office near the Hill. People came to him.

And once Griffith had set up shop in Courthouse, his partner Richard Thompson had been all in to spend time at the new office for one simple reason – its proximity to Ireland’s Four Courts. An authentic Irish pub in the center of the neighborhood, Thompson quickly became a regular. The dark wood of the pub was filled with everything from Guinness posters to sports team banners. The walls behind the bar were stacked with pewter mugs bearing the crest of the pub personalized with names of the regulars. Stained glass windows displayed the names of great Irish authors and Gaelic greetings. An evening inside the bright red exterior of the Four Courts left one with a feeling of having gone on a bender in Dublin, Ireland, complete with staff from the island.

Initially, a bit taken aback by the atmosphere of the pub, Griffith was now also a regular with his own mug on the wall behind the front 64

Rick Robinson

rail. He liked the place because he could go in and, despite his DC fame, the regular clientele did not seem to care. The bartenders tended to flip him a lot of good-natured shit at the bar, so he generally conducted his informal talk-over-lunch meetings in the quieter James Joyce Room, just off to the side. While the regular crowd clamored over the latest Chelsea game, Griffith held court with a plateful of bangers and mash.

Fresh from the airport, Griffith dropped by his office for a quick look at his emails and some small talk with staff. The calendar on his phone notified him he was late for a meeting at the Four Courts. He smiled at the thought. For this meeting, he wanted to be a little late.

“What’s up, Michael?” shouted Harry, a brawny, quick-witted bartender from County Westmeath. His distinct mid-Island Irish accent filling the bar as Griffith entered. “Your a regular?”

“Absolutely,” Griffith replied, wedging his way between two other frequent patrons, Phil and Arnie, watching a football match. “How’s it going lads?” Griffith’s southern drawl made the words sound funny.

Arnie, a tall, strapping Scotsman with a crew cut, spit some Copenhagen juice into a paper cup, before pointing at the television.

“This wanker couldn’t kick his way out of a paper bag.” Arnie’s Scottish accent usually got heavier with each succeeding Guinness and went over the top as the pints were combined with sidecars of Jameson.

Griffith put his arm around the big man in the timeless tradition of male bar-bonded familiarity. “Boy, if I knew what the hell you meant,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure I’d agree with you.” As Arnie attempted to explain his comment, Griffith stared at the soccer game on the television.

“Don’t mind him,” Phil interjected, leaning over toward Griffith. A former paratrooper turned State Department bureaucrat, Phil was seemingly joined at Arnie’s hip. If it was Happy Hour or a game was on at lunchtime, the two would likely be found together at the bar.

“He’s far worse when it’s a rugby game.”

Mairead, a short Irish woman from just outside Limerick with eyes as dark as her hair, handed Griffith his mug of Budweiser. “Someday, I’ll get ya to drink a real feckin’ beer,” she said with a goodnatured smirk.

65

Opposition Research

“Not until our wedding night,” Griffith replied, raising his glass in a toast.

“Aw, feck,” Mairead could use the Irish F-bomb in speech like a comma. “There ya go talking about marriage again. Me auntie told me about men like you.”

“And she’d love me,” Griffith smiled, adding a bit of his Southern twang.

“Like the plague,” Mairead replied with an eye roll. “Hey,” she added, waving her bar towel in the general direction of the back room.

“There’s a guy back there waiting fer ya, love.”

“Thanks, doll,” Griffith replied. Taking a deep breath before a quick drink of his beer, he turned and headed to the side room. His beer was in one hand and a slim black portfolio holding a manila file folder marked “Opposition Research” was in the other. Once through the maroon curtain separating the two rooms, he spied Congressman Ryan Reynard sitting at a high top in the corner.

“You work right next door,” Reynard snarled. “At least you could have the courtesy of being on time.” A short, chubby man with pale skin and ruddy cheeks, Congressman Reynard had mastered the art of the comb-over in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his receding greying hairline.

Griffith extended his hand. “It’s good to see you, Congressman,” he said. “How’re things on the Hill?”

“Skip the pleasantries,” Reynard snarled, ignoring Griffith’s hand.

“What’s so damn important I have to be summoned to Arlington to see you?”

“So we’re cutting right to the chase,” Griffith replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down to face Reynard.

“Damn right,” Reynard snapped, clearly irritated by what he viewed as something more than an inconvenience.

“Okay then.” Griffith opened the portfolio and slid the file folder across the table. “Take a look.” Waiting for the fireworks, Griffith leaned back and took a drink of beer.

Reynard opened the file and began reading. First his face went pale. Then red. Then, as he watched his political life flash before his eyes, his hands began to shake. He looked at Griffith. “How the hell did you find this?”

66

Rick Robinson

“Is that really important?” Griffith asked before taking a long pull on his mug. “The point is I did.”

Reynard sat for a moment and pondered the question. “Dusing,” he said softly, referencing the campaign consultant running the campaign for his opponent in the upcoming election.

“I said it’s not important,” Griffith said.

“Bullshit,” Reynard snapped, pushing his half-empty water glass aside. “If ‘how’ is not really important, then why’d you look?”

“Fair question,” Griffith said, nodding. “Because if we can find it, anyone can.”

“Dusing found it,” Reynard said. “And he leaked it to your dumb ass to get me to drop out. He’s out to ruin me.” Reynard slapped the file back onto the table.

“No,” Griffith replied, slamming his mug on the table, mimicking the Congressman’s action. He did not appreciate the “dumb ass” remark. “Dusing is not what happened here. No favors. No call-ins.

We’re just that damn good at opposition research. And we research our clients as thoroughly as our opponents.”

Just as Griffith had thought, Reynard lost it. He quickly rose from the table, stepped back and pushed the file at Griffith. “I should have fired you years ago.”

As the Congressman stormed out of the bar, Griffith took a large pull of his beer. “Well, that went well,” he laughed darkly.

67

Opposition Research

Chapter 10 Main Street in Huntington Beach is a peaceful stroll from the small manufactured home where Jeffrey and Jackie lived. The sidewalk was filled with shapely young girls in skimpy swimwear showing off their bikini tans to young men playing music on the street for tips. The youthful action on the main drag was in stark contrast to the older folks headed to the pier at the end of Main Street carrying their fishing gear.

As the couple walked past the specialty shops and bars, Jackie found the cosmic blend of people occupying Huntington Beach infinitely interesting and she chatted incessantly to Jeffrey about their differences. Occasionally, they stopped so Jeffrey could talk to a shop owner or a waiter at a sidewalk café. Their walk was just invigorating enough to make them hungry for a nice veal cutlet and a bottle of Coppola red wine at Paulie’s.

Near the end of the shops on Main Street, Paulie’s was unlike any other restaurant on Main Street. Clear lights hung over the outside seating area, which in the evening gave it the feel of an Italian eatery rather than a beach bar. Inside, the walls were covered with handpainted tiles and black and white pictures of the homeland. An autographed picture of Frank Sinatra hung behind the bar. Two marble pillars stood like guards at the front entrance. Paulie’s tended to cater to an older clientele. This particular evening was so delightful, Jeffrey decided to forgo their regular table inside for a spot outside at the street café.

They sat quietly, as they often did, enjoying the silence of the moment as much as the veal. From their sidewalk table against the building, Jackie was able to people watch, as Jeffrey kept a close eye on those coming and going at the restaurant.

68

Rick Robinson

“Not a bad life,” Jeffrey stated as the waiter paid close attention to their glasses, pouring more wine each time their glasses got less than half empty, careful not to spill a drop on the green and white checkerboard tablecloth.

“It is beautiful out here,” Jackie sighed. “The sunset over the Pacific was truly stunning tonight. I’m glad we watched it from the pier.”

Her voice trailed off.

“What?” Jeffrey asked.

“It’s just sometimes I wonder …”

Jeffrey’s eyes went cold. “No,” he cut her off. “You know there are things we can never discuss. We are masters of our own destiny.”

“I’d just like to see more than this small strip of land,” she said timidly, averting Jeffrey’s glare as she spoke.

“We live in paradise,” Jeffrey replied, waving his hands at the beautiful scenery. “Enjoy that we have this.”

Jackie knew better than to push the issue, but she did so anyway.

“Maybe just a car drive up the coast one afternoon. We could drive up the highway for a couple of hours, have lunch somewhere new and turn around. That would break the monotony. And no one would ever know.”

“No,” Jeffrey snapped. He wiped his mouth on his black napkin and threw it over his unfinished veal.

Jackie pouted and looked down at her food, the sadness in her eyes apparent.

Jeffrey was not surprised by Jackie’s comments. He had felt her malaise growing for months. He understood her restlessness, having covered his otherwise stoic emotions for years. Truth be told, he was entertaining thoughts of escaping himself. The risk never seemed to match the reward. He reached across the table and cupped her tiny, frail hands in his. “Jackie,” he whispered.

Jackie looked up into his eyes, her bottom lip trembling.

“I’ll think about it,” he said gently.

“Really?” Jackie lit up. “You’re not saying so just to make me happy. You’ll really think about it?”

“I’ll look into it,” Jeffrey said. “It would be nice to get away. Even for a few hours.”

69

Opposition Research

Jackie clutched his hand. “Oh Jeffrey, please don’t be kidding me about this.”

“I promise,” Jeffrey replied, waving the waiter over to their table.

“We’ll seal it with a toast.”

“More wine, Jeffrey?” A broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, Italian man with a salt and pepper receding hairline and mutton-chop sideburns approached the table. He carried a fresh bottle of uncorked Coppola. His heavy Brooklyn accent betrayed his east coast roots.

“Yes, sir,” Jeffrey replied. “This evening is a special night.”

Jackie looked up at Ronnie. “And tell the chef the cutlet was exceptional tonight.”

Ron was the only waiter allowed to serve Jeffrey and Jackie, a relationship persevering well over a decade or two. A former New York cop who had moved west after retirement, Ron was a staple on the main drag in Huntington and he was well known to the regulars at Paulie’s as 30785, his old badge number from the force. Jeffrey and Jackie were among the select few who knew his actual name.

“I will definitely tell him,” Ron replied while cutting the foil from around the top of the bottle of Coppola and then pulling a corkscrew from his pocket. As he was screwing it into the cork, a young man in baggy pants with blond hair tucked up under his backward facing ball cap, drunkenly stumbled into Ron knocking him to the ground, the bottle of wine breaking on the sidewalk. The man’s girlfriend reached for Ron, but the young punker pushed her back. “Asshole,” he drunkenly mumbled as Ron picked himself up off the sidewalk.

“I am so sorry,” Ron said to Jeffrey and Jackie, immediately placing himself between the couple and the drunk. The wine flowed from the broken bottle onto the sidewalk, running into the gutter. “Hey, pal, you got a problem?” Ron asked as he balled up a fist and moved closer.

Jeffrey raised his hand and said, “Wait.” Ron glanced back at him and stood down. Jeffrey’s eyes focused on the drunk youth. “Shouldn’t you say something, young man?” Jeffrey asked, pointedly. “You knocked him down on the sidewalk and broke my bottle of wine.”

“Screw you, old man,” the punk replied. “He got in my way.”

“It’s okay, Jeffrey,” Ron said, trying to diffuse the situation which was garnering far too much attention from customers as well as people 70

Rick Robinson

on the street. He started using his feet to scrape the broken glass into the gutter with the wine. “I’m sure I got in this punk’s … err ... young man’s way.”

“Damn right,” the kid replied, feeling drunkenly cocky.

“Jeffrey, please,” Jackie pleaded, pulling on his sleeve. “Don’t.”

Jeffrey held up his hand to hush Jackie and shrugged his shoulders. “It would just have been polite if you’d have helped this man up from the ground and pardoned yourself.”

The young man tried to move around Ron’s immovable blockade and into Jeffrey’s face. “He got in my way, old man,” he said in a threatening manner. Unable to maneuver around Ron, he stepped back, snapping his bent arms up and down in a classic street thug move.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Jeffrey threw up his hands. “Not a thing,” he replied laughingly.

“In fact,” he glanced at Ron with an unspoken ominous message, “I’ve obviously overstepped my bounds. What is your name, son?”

“Carlos,” the kid replied. “But everyone calls me Cathead.”

Ron looked at the odd sharp slope of the kid’s forehead, blond mane and the puffy eyebrows covering eyes like pointed ovals and started to laugh.

“What’s so funny, dude?” Cathead asked, again throwing his hands around like so many wanna’ be gang bangers with too many tattoos.

“Your head does look like a cat’s,” Ron chortled, covering his mouth. “So they call you Cathead. That’s funny. You see that, Jeffrey?

He looks like a damn cat and they call him Cathead.”

Cathead and Ron suddenly went nose to nose in an imposing sidewalk standoff until Jeffrey intervened by standing up and calmly separating the pair. “I am so sorry, Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey replied. It took a moment, but the pair moved apart. Addressing himself to Ron, Jeffrey took control of the situation. “Please give Mr. Cathead and his lady friend a bottle of wine and put it on my tab. In fact, see they have dinner and a second bottle of wine if they are so inclined. I surely don’t want to upset a customer of this fine establishment. Please make sure they have an evening to remember.”

Cathead pushed back his shoulders in a combination of pride and defiance. “Fine,” he said, looking at Ron and then Jeffrey. “I’ll forget it this time, old man. Just don’t let it happen again.”

71

Opposition Research

“You can rest assured it will never happen again,” Jeffrey replied softly, the punk totally missing the angry gleam in Jeffrey’s eyes. “Come on, baby,” Jeffrey said to Jackie. “Let’s head home and let these kids have a good night at our expense.” Jeffrey and Jackie quickly left the restaurant and headed hand-in-hand back down Main Street towards the Pacific Highway.

“Did you really mean it, Jeffrey?” Jackie asked as they walked.

“Yes,” Jeffrey mumbled. “I am buying their wine.” His mind was still focused on the incident having had just occurred at Paulie’s.

“Not the wine or the punk,” Jackie said, pulling on his arm. “He means nothing. I don’t care about him.”

“What then?” Jeffrey asked, impatiently.

Jackie sighed in frustration. “You know,” she said. “I mean about getting out of Huntington Beach for a few days.”

Jeffrey had completely forgotten about the earlier conversation between them. He took her hand and brought it up to his lips. “Yes, my love. I’ll start planning. It will be difficult, but we’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey,” Jackie said appreciatively. “I love you so much.”

As the pair approached their home, Jeffrey fumbled through his pants pockets. “Well, shit,” Jeffrey said, stopping in mid-stride just short of their street.

“What’s wrong?”

“I left my wallet back at Paulie’s.” He stopped patting himself and turned to head back.

“Please don’t go back,” Jackie pleaded, tugging him towards home. “Let’s get it tomorrow.”

Jeffrey placed his finger against Jackie’s lips. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Take Luca for a walk and record the news before you go to bed. This won’t take too long. I want to watch the news, though, before I go to bed.” *** About an hour later, the man who called himself Cathead stumbled into the men’s room at Paulie’s. As he stood at the urinal, two other men quietly entered, the second man locking the door behind them.

72

Rick Robinson

Before Cathead could finish peeing, Ron, the waiter, grabbed the man by his blond man bun and slammed his feline shaped face into the wall tile. Blood spattered as Cathead’s nose broke against the wall, making a crunching noise reminiscent of sticks breaking on a hiking trail in the woods. He fell to the ground screaming, “What the hell? What the hell?” Cathead rolled from side to side several times and then reached around for something in the back of his pants. Before he could grab it, Ron kicked him hard in the jaw. Blood was now flowing from his nose and mouth. Ron placed his heel on Cathead’s neck.

Very calmly, Jeffrey reached down and removed a gun from the back of Cathead’s oversized baggy pants. “Do you see this?” Jeffrey laughed, holding up the weapon to Ron like a treasure. “A Glock. My guess is he didn’t buy this at Walmart.” He leaned down and looked in the man’s bloody face. “Mr. Cathead, now you didn’t steal this gun, did you? I assume you went through all proper federal channels to buy this legitimately.”

“Jesus, old man,” Cathead slurred, blood pouring profusely from his mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Manners,” Jeffrey said, nodding at Ron to kick him in the ribs, an action producing a loud grunt. “I told you earlier tonight to be polite.

You’re a very impolite young man.” Jeffrey shook his head in mock disappointment. “You have such potential, but you lack the common decency so prevalent in young people today.”

“Screw you,” Cathead yelled at neither and both of them at the same time, now clutching the ribs Ron had so obediently kicked.

“Screw me?” Ron laughed before kicking Cathead again in the ribs. “No, pal. Screw you.”

“You’re a dead man,” Cathead sneered from a fetal position on the floor. “I’ll kill you.”

Ron continued to laugh, obviously enjoying his task. He then lifted up the punk’s head and brutally smacked it down on the floor. The thud of his head on the tile sounded like the beat from a broken drum set.

“You talk like a big man,” Jeffrey crouched and looked down at Cathead’s eyes. “You ever use this gun?”

73

Opposition Research

“I’ll damn sure use it on you,” Cathead said, his youthful bravado overcoming his intelligence.

Jeffrey looked briefly at Ron before violently thrusting the gun into Cathead’s mouth, chipping a tooth in the process. Cathead’s eyes widened at the realization he was about to die. “Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Cathead. I’ve shot people before for less than what you did tonight. All I want you to do is to show some respect when you come into my restaurant.”

“Your restaurant?” Cathead mumbled, his words barely audible from having the cold barrel of a gun in his mouth.

“Yes, sir,” Ron instructed. “You messed with the wrong man tonight.”

Jeffrey nodded. “Listen to him, Mr. Cathead. We’ve been together for quite a long time and he knows what he’s talking about — a wise – wise man.” Jeffrey removed the gun from Cathead’s mouth and stood up.

“And maybe next time you do something stupid like you did tonight, you’ll think twice about how some people may have pride in ownership in a joint like this.” Ron reached down and grabbed the kid’s wallet from his back pocket and tossed it in the air. Jeffrey caught the wallet.

Cathead was crying now. “Take whatever you want,” he pleaded.

“Just don’t kill me.”

“Oh no,” Jeffrey replied. “I don’t want your money. I told you the wine was on me. I’m buying.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” Cathead cried curling back up on the floor.

“I’m just taking your driver’s license as a little security,” Jeffrey said, pulling Cathead’s driver’s license from the wallet before tossing the wallet on the floor. “When you think you can come back and be polite, I’ll buy you another bottle of wine and give this back,” Jeffrey said, waving the license in his face.

“Yes, sir,” Cathead moaned as snot and blood ran down his face, pooling under his cheek.

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours,” Jeffrey continued in the same, modulated tone, standing as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.”

74

Rick Robinson

“And then, if you don’t come back, we’ll find you.” Jeffrey brushed his hands together as if washing his hands of the matter. Pulling out his own wallet, he slipped Cathead’s license in it.

“Okay, okay. Okay!” Cathead untucked himself, attempting to rise off the floor.

“What? What was that?” Ron yelled, kicking Cathead in the ass.

“I meant yes, sir, yes sir,” Cathead screamed.

“And you don’t want us to come and find you.” Jeffrey continued as if Cathead had never spoken.

“No, sir, no, no.”

Jeffrey threw a couple of hundred dollars on the floor from his own wallet. “Go buy some respectable clothes,” he said. “You look like a wannabe gangbanger without the fashion sense.”

Cathead, too busy crying and moaning, hardly acknowledged the cash on the bloody floor.

Ron jumped back in. “And get rid of the man bun,” he added. “It makes you look ridiculous.”

“I think we’re done here,” Jeffrey nodded. “Oh, and if you think about going to the police …”

Cathead looked up into Jeffrey’s dark eyes – eyes that promised Cathead something worse than the beating he’d just endured.

Ron grabbed Cathead by his man bun, before leaning down and whispering in his ear. “We are the police.”

75

Opposition Research

Chapter 11 Billy Wilson seemed anxious as the small red sedan made its way northwest on the Double-A Highway. A lonely stretch of road meant to connect eastern and northern Kentucky, it was named for its beginning and ending points (Ashland to Alexandria). The road has become more infamous than famous, known for its twisting, blind curves and the regular appearances of deer frozen by headlights in one lane or another. Car crashes and medical airlifts are regular occurrences on the Double A. This morning the fog was dense, but the driver – campaign staffer MacKenzie Morris – sped forward. They were on a tight schedule.

With his wife Emmy by his side, Wilson fidgeted in the back seat as they headed towards Northern Kentucky for his big campaign announcement. The speed and the fog did not seem to affect him. He was apprehensive because he was formally kicking off his fall election campaign. Reading his speech one more time, he shifted back and forth, occasionally pausing to make a note on the final draft. The wiper clearing the fog off the front windshield acted as a metronome for the flow of the speech.

Wilson paused for a moment, looked out the window and took a deep cleansing breath.

His wife Emmy grabbed his hand and patted it softly. “Calm down,” she instructed. “You’re going to do great.”

Absorbed in his speech, Wilson was unfazed by his wife’s advice and nervously tapped his toe on the floorboard.

“You’re going to do great, Boss,” Morris chimed in, drawing an unwanted glare in the rear-view mirror from the candidate’s wife.

Morris looked straight ahead at the twisting road and flipped the wipers to a quicker pace.

76

Rick Robinson

“Easy for you to say,” Wilson replied, not noticing the uneasy eye contact between the two women. “Everyone’s not looking at you,” he said, closing the file folder and placing it on his lap. “This is do or die for me.”

“The hell they aren’t,” Emmy said, hotly, the marital tension palpable. “I’m under a microscope too, you know. Maybe more so. You don’t have to smile and nod when people walk up to you in the grocery store to tell you how much they love Josh Barkman.”

“You’re right,” Wilson said empathetically, grabbing her knee and squeezing it gently. “I know this is tough on you, too.”

“And after you give this speech attacking him and that focha vieja Richard Thompson, it’s going to get worse,” Emmy said. “People have no filters anymore. They’ll let me know they don’t like it, but they won’t say jack shit to you.”

“Sorry,” Wilson said sincerely, putting his arm around her, smiling at her “old coot” comment in Spanish to describe Richard Thompson.

“I’m ready for it,” Emmy replied, relaxing into her husband’s embrace while plastering a fake smile on her face. “I believe in you. And if the consultants tell you this is our ticket to the next level, I’m ready to put up with catching flak from the old white ladies at the IGA.” Wilson leaned over and kissed his wife. “I know,” he said. “Thank you and I love you.”

When Morris was sure the couple wasn’t looking, she rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew the couple’s fiery past and the lovey-dovey bullshit got on her nerves. She was here at Dusing’s request and she wanted to put Wilson in the win column for her own career.

Billy Wilson grew up in Maysville, Kentucky, the half-way point on the Double A. The son of William and Betty Wilson, small business owners of a family restaurant with a picturesque view of the Ohio River, it was life in a small river town. Since he arrived in the fourth grade, Billy was the model kid – class valedictorian at Mason County High School and a two-sport letterman. He had met Emmy while attending Morehead State University. She was an attractive darkskinned Latino from Miami and it took some convincing to have her follow him to live in a small-rural Bluegrass town. But Billy Wilson was convincing and Emmy ambitious. Both were planning for life beyond Maysville and Billy wanted Emmy by his side. Politics was the 77

Opposition Research

quickest route and his popularity in the community had soon led to a seat in the Kentucky state General Assembly.

During legislative sessions in the state’s capital of Frankfort, the couple was the toast of the town. Billy was an aggressive legislator with a bright future in politics and Emmy was the unusual international star atop Billy’s career. Despite rumors of marital infidelity on both their parts, they were A-listers to any event.

With only one term in the state legislature, party backers convinced Wilson it was time to make a move for higher office. Convinced Barkman was vulnerable in a year when an anti-incumbent wave might influence independent voters and excite party faithful, Wilson decided to abandon his safe state legislative seat and jump into national politics. At the urging of his party’s major financial backers, he hired Roger Dusing to run the race. Dusing did not answer every potential client knocking on his door and his fees were expensive. He never admitted to Wilson his interest in the campaign was driven in part by the thought of facing Michael Griffith in a head-tohead contest. Dusing wanted the opportunity to beat the biggest name from the other side finally. In a battle between two of DC’s largest egos, Dusing wanted a victory he could rub in Griffith’s face. He had personally written Wilson’s speech hoping it would piss Griffith off.

In the car, Wilson continued his final run through of the speech, adding yellow highlighting to lines he wanted to punch up. When finished, he looked at his wife, “Well?” he asked, reluctantly. “What do you think?”

Emmy paused. She was not one to hide her feelings. “I know you don’t like the tone,” she said, her face growing serious. “But this speech takes us to the next level. This is the big league, baby. They’ll respect you after this. Hell, they may even start fearing you.” She nodded for emphasis. “An hour from now, we’re on our way to Washington, DC.” The remainder of the drive was a blur as the fog began to lift and the passengers could see the rolling hills and farmland. Small talk was at a minimum as Wilson closed his eyes and began to get his mind set on the speech. Once off the treacherous Double-A Highway, they made their way to Covington, directly across the Ohio River from Cincinnati’s Paul Brown Stadium. A flood wall blocked the view of 78

Rick Robinson

the river, but put them directly in front of the perfect prop for Wilson’s speech – the Brent Spence Bridge linking Ohio and Kentucky.

A large crowd had gathered in the empty lot next to the Holiday Inn on the street below the bridge. It was an odd setup – a few risers, a podium and some flags in a sketchy vacant lot with a dilapidated bridge in the background. While it was not necessarily the place a person would locate a business, it was perfect for Wilson’s political coming out announcement. It was early enough, so the morning rushhour backup, even without an accident, was creeping across the Ohio River into Cincinnati at about ten miles per hour. When Morris pulled the car up and the Wilsons exited, a cheer erupted from the 300 or so supporters huddled around the small stage, with the American flags and a traffic-snarled bridge as a backdrop.

Television cameras were staged in a roped off area, broadcast trucks behind them. Several local reporters were doing live broadcasts, while the print reporters jostled into position to record Wilson’s speech on their smartphones. Amidst the crowd stood Dustin Ewing, a small video camera pointed at the podium and a smartphone headset over his ears, allowing him to communicate directly with Leo Argo.

“Sitrep?” Argo asked. When the request for a ‘situation report’ was met with total silence by Ewing, Argo had to remind himself this was not an FBI operation. “So what’s happening there, Dustin?”

Ewing surveyed the crowd. “Only a couple hundred people so far,” he replied. “Okay, I guess, for a weekday morning event. I just thought there’d be more.”

“Get a good crowd shot so we can get a count,” Argo instructed.

“Thompson wants to see which local elected officials they have on board.”

Ewing slowly panned the audience. “Got it,” he replied.

“Remember,” Argo instructed. “Get the introduction, Wilson’s speech, and the press questions, then get the hell out of there. He’s got three more stops before he has a rally tonight back at his parents’ restaurant in Maysville. We need you to look like legitimate press for as long as we can get away with it. The camera helps. Take notes on that reporter’s notebook I gave you. You have to look legit.”

“On it, Boss,” Ewing replied. “And I’ll check in after each event,” he said, repeating the instructions he had been given earlier.

79

Opposition Research

“Let me know how many reporters start falling off as you get to various stops,” Argo added. “They all have deadlines and a bunch are likely to be long gone by the time they reach Wilson’s family restaurant.”

“Got it,” Ewing replied.

“If you’re the only one left,” Argo instructed, “bug out.”

“We’re still on for tonight, though?” Ewing whispered, hoping no one else around him heard the conversation. “Right?”

“Absolutely,” Argo responded firmly. “Michael Griffith has a little surprise for the Wilson campaign and we need to get his reaction on tape.”

“Roger.”

Argo chuckled at Ewing’s attempt to sound military.

“You headed down the Double-A tonight?” Ewing continued.

“Already on my way,” Argo replied, from inside The Fat Man’s grey Avalon. “Got Joey here with me.” Argo glanced over at The Fat Man. “Really? You’ll be awful early,” Ewing sounded surprised. “It’ll be hours before Wilson gets to Maysville.”

“We’re going to do a little old-fashioned opposition research on Billy Wilson and his family,” Argo replied. “If you get done with the third stop early, come by the county courthouse. I’ll teach you a little about record room research.”

“Cool,” Ewing replied. “I mean, Roger that.”

“And remember to keep an eye out for the guy from the picture.”

“Dusing?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Ewing said. “He has his film crew all set up to get good shots of Wilson with the bridge in the background. He’s pushed everyone in the crowd up around the podium to make the crowd look huge through a camera lens.”

“Sounds about right,” Argo replied. “If he’s shooting so much this early, it means he may drop off by tonight. Film crews cost money and right now they don’t have much of it. Griff and I have a bet. I’m hoping he’s headed back to DC on the 4:00 p.m. flight. Griff thinks he’ll be in Maysville.”

80

Rick Robinson

“I’m with you,” Ewing replied.

“Too early to get cocky, kid,” Argo said. “Just remember. If he does show up in Maysville, just keep your distance from him until I give you the signal.”

“Roger that!”

81

Opposition Research

Chapter 12 Mason County, Kentucky is named for Founding Father George Mason, known in American history as the Father of the Bill of Rights.

A small rural county with a population just under 20,000 people, it is located on the Ohio River halfway between Ashland and the state’s northernmost tip. A strong supporter of Kentucky’s secession from the Union during the Civil War, it is known as a Democratic stronghold. It’s also known as the birthplace of Roy Bean, who eventually gained fame in Texas as “The Hangin’ Judge.”

The county courthouse in Maysville is a stately white coloniallooking building with large columns and a clock tower. As with many rural communities across America, county records here are still kept in hardback paper books on ceiling-high stacks of rolling shelves. A small room with a high-top table in the middle for reading records, every available space in the record room contained a book. The oldest records were actually hand-written with many just an X for a signature verified by the county clerk. The room smelled musty and every time a book was opened dust particles could be seen dancing through the sunlight coming in through the windows.

The Fat Man grabbed an index book, tossed it onto the table and flipped it to a tabbed page.

Michael Griffith let out a loud cough as The Fat Man began to thumb through the pages. “This room has more dust than Montana in The Grapes of Wrath,” he complained.

The Fat Man briefly looked up from his book. “Oklahoma,” he said.

“What?” Griffith replied.

“The Grapes of Wrath starts in the dustbowl of Oklahoma,” The Fat Man said. “Tom Joad never ventured into Montana.”

82

Rick Robinson

Griffith frowned. “Who the hell is Tom Joad?”

“Did you ever read The Grapes of Wrath?” The Fat Man asked with a slight smirk.

Griffith wandered around the room. “Required reading for my class in Modern American Literature at Eastern Kentucky University.” Griffith paused, pondering his response. “I think.”

“I call bullshit, Griff.” Richard Thompson was standing on a ladder looking at a shelf containing yearly automobile taxation bills across the room’s top inside wall. “You dropped the course,” he said, laughing.

“Did not,” Griffith replied, resuming his stroll around the room.

“I know because it was an early morning class and you wouldn’t get out of bed. Hell, you were lucky to make the weekly fraternity meetings and those were at 6:00 pm on Sunday nights.”

“I don’t remember it that way,” Griffith said, frowning while shooting Thompson the evil eye. “I am certain American Literature is somewhere on my transcript.”

“And you read The Grapes of Wrath?” The Fat Man asked, continuing his perusal of the book in front of him.

Griffith searched his memory a bit while the others worked. “Well, maybe I saw the movie?”

There was a long pause.

“Who was in it?” The Fat Man asked, never glancing up from the book he was reviewing.

“What?” Griffith asked.

“The Grapes of Wrath,” The Fat Man asked, looking up briefly to meet Griffith’s eyes. “You said you saw the movie. Who starred in it?”

“How the hell would I know,” Griffith said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Because Richard’s betting you never read the book,” The Fat Man replied blandly. “And if you can’t name the classic American actor who played the lead role,” he continued. “I’m betting you never saw the movie either.” The Fat Man stared at Griffith, his brow arched up, waiting for a response.

Griffith tossed his hands in the air. “Okay,” he said. “I never saw the movie either.”

83

Opposition Research

“But he heard Springsteen sing ‘The Ghost of Tom Joad’ at a concert last year,” Argo laughed.

“Yeah,” Griffith added, pointing his finger at the group. “And don’t tell me I wasn’t there. I was — third row. Center stage. Bruce killed it.”

Thompson climbed down the ladder and placed a few books on the work table next to The Fat Man. “You want to tell him it’s standing room only on the floor of a Springsteen concert?” Thompson asked.

The Fat Man reached for a stack of post-it notes on the table.

“No, let it go,” he said, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “I don’t have the will right now.” A smile spread slowly across his scruffy face in triumph. The Fat Man loved being right, especially where Griffith was involved.

“And what does all this have to do with us getting this document review done in one day?” Argo asked dryly.

Griffith was getting frustrated and started to pace around the room.

“Nothing,” he said. “Not a damn thing. I was trying to point out it was dusty and moldy in here.”

“And in these pages is where we start our research,” Argo said.

“These pages speak volumes. I used to do this all the time in FBI investigations. Once it’s in these pages, you can’t take it back.” Argo looked at his watch. “And the courthouse closes at 4:00, boys. Let’s get moving.”

Thompson kept placing yellow post-it notes on pages in the small books he was reviewing. “They’ve only had a couple of cars over the years.”

“Who?” Griffith asked distractedly pacing around the room like a caged animal. “Bruce Springsteen? I doubt that. I bet he has lots of cars.”

“No,” Thompson replied, shaking his head as he spoke. “The Wilson family. They’ve only had a couple of cars. Nothing fancy. Must have paid cash for them because there are no financing statements showing bank loans. I’ve noted them all for copying, but there’s not much here.”

“Just another piece of information,” Argo said. “We don’t know if it’s part of the puzzle until we see it all.”

84

Rick Robinson

Griffith went to The Fat Man and looked over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for liens and mortgages,” The Fat Man replied, adding, “against the Wilsons, not the Boss.” The Fat Man snorted at his own jibe.

“Then I don’t get it,” Griffith said, scratching his head. “Why are you looking under the letter I?” “It’s a weird little trick about indexing of old records,” The Fat Man said. “You find the book for the person’s last name, but then go to the tab for the first vowel in their last name. From there, you have to go through the index to find the person. When you get to the name, there will be references to other books where there are copies of the liens and mortgages.”

“So, for Wilson …” Griffith said, trying to understand the system.

“We need to go to the W index book and look under the tab I,” The Fat Man replied.

Griffith was perplexed at the logic. “That’s damned odd,” he said.

The Fat Man winked at Thompson, who was still placing post-it notes on automobile registrations. “So, if I was looking for Henry Fonda …”

Griffith thought hard for a moment. “F under tab O,” he said confidently. Argo and Thompson began to laugh. Griffith was oblivious to The Grapes of Wrath reference. “What?” He threw his hands up in frustration.

“Nothing, Rex Reed,” Thompson scoffed. “I’m damn glad you’re good at politics. Otherwise, you’d be working somewhere as a gaffer for infomercials.”

“And you’d never been elected dog catcher of Ludlow, Kentucky,” Griffith snapped.

“Touché,” Thompson replied good-naturedly.

“Come on guys,” Argo said with some urgency in his tone. “We’re on a time crunch here. The record room closes soon and I’d like to get everything I need in one trip. That damn Double-A Highway is scarier than downtown DC at rush hour.”

Each of them went back to his assigned task. Thompson continued looking for vehicles and liens while The Fat Man searched the real estate books. Argo headed to the court clerk’s office to search 85

Opposition Research

criminal indexes too old to be found on the county’s online computer files. Griffith continued walking around the real estate record room, looking out the windows while muttering to himself about The Grapes of Wrath and occasionally typing notes in his iPhone.

All of them were so engrossed in their own searches, none realized Dustin Ewing had walked into the room. He looked at each of the men engrossed in his own world of research. Finally, he coughed to announce his presence. “Gentlemen,” he said.

“Hey, Dustin,” Griffith stepped forward and shook his hand. “Great to see you.” He looked around the room. “Great to see anyone after a day with these jokers. How’d it go today? Any surprises?”

“No, sir,” Ewing replied, shrugging his shoulders. “It was pretty uneventful. In fact, it was very close to what you told me would happen.”

“Did he stay on topic?” Thompson asked, looking up from the table.

“No, sir,” Ewing replied. “After the first speech, he dropped the bridge.”

Griffith pointed a finger at Thompson. “I told you he’d drop the bridge in the rural areas,” he said. “I figured he’d localize his message.

Where did he go?”

“Standard party talking points,” Ewing said. “The bridge speech was his highlight reel.”

“And you got them all, right?” Griffith asked. “Each stop? Every speech?”

“Yes, sir,” Ewing responded, patting the shirt pocket holding his iPhone and reporter’s notebook. “I’ve got it all. Every word.”

“Great,” Griffith replied. “And Dusing?”

“Boy, the man never stops moving,” Ewing replied, his tone almost admiring. “He was running around at each event like a madman.”

“But did he stick around for all the stops?” Thompson asked.

“No, sir,” Ewing said. “Dusing booked before the last stop. About midway through the speech, he jumped in a car with a campaign staffer and headed out. He was not at the last speech.”

“Perfect,” Griffith said, rubbing his hands together. “Perfect.” Griffith thought about his meeting with Reynard. “Hey, Richard,” he added. “I 86

Rick Robinson

forgot to tell you, Congressman Reynard is blaming our research on something being leaked by Dusing.”

The point caught Thompson’s attention. “And?” he asked.

“Same response I expected,” Griffith said. “He’s going through the steps of grieving, only he’s blaming it on someone else. I’m going to give it a few days and get back with him on a plan of attack. He’ll come around.”

“He better,” Thompson said. “He may be an ass, but I still want the 15% of his media buy. He lives in a good metro area. I want his business, Griff.”

“And we’ll have it.” Griffith thought it was best not go into too much detail in front of Ewing, so he changed topics. “How about the press, Dustin? Did they all hang around?”

“There were one or two that hung through all the stops,” Dustin replied. “Mostly the local crews in the eastern end of the district.”

“Did anyone recognize you?” Griffith asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ewing said.

“Well, I see the whole gang’s together,” Argo said as he bounded through the door, a small stack of paper in his hand.

“Hey, boss,” Ewing said.

Argo patted Ewing on the back. “Hey, Dustin, did you enjoy your indoctrination by fire today?” he asked, setting papers down on the table.

“As a matter of fact, Leo,” the young man said smiling. “It was exhilarating.”

“Good,” Argo replied. “Let me slow down your blood pressure a bit.”

“Okay,” Ewing said tentatively.

“See all these books?” Argo asked, opening his arms to the volumes spread across the table.

Ewing nodded affirmatively, his eyes growing wide at the number.

“See all the pages marked with post-it notes?”

Again, Ewing continued to nod.

Argo took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to Ewing. “They all need to be copied,” Argo said. “Make sure to get a receipt.”

87

Opposition Research

“Come on,” Thompson said, motioning towards the door. “Let’s get a coffee before we head over to the Café. We’ve got other fish to fry tonight.”

“See you over there, Dustin,” Argo said, following Griffith, Thompson and The Fat Man out the door.

Ewing looked at the pile of old books marked with post-it notes as Griffith walked past, patting him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the exciting world of opposition research,” he laughed.

88

Rick Robinson

Chapter 13 Constituents visiting Washington, DC are often taken aback when they see the office arrangement for their local United States Representative. Unlike television shows portraying them working in luxurious quarters, Members of Congress have rather meager spaces. Most have a three-room suite. The lobby is half a room, the front cramped with a receptionist and an intern to greet visitors. The back of the room houses the Chief of Staff. On one side or the other, there is a second room where the staff works at side-by-side desks. On the other side of the lobby is the Member’s office. Television sets are always on in all sections of the suite.

While each office is furnished with the same standard desks, chairs, and couches, they do get to choose between a couple of colors for curtains and wall colors. The walls are usually filled with “grip and grin” photos of the Member shaking hands with famous people they’ve met and bookshelves are lined with awards reminding them they are “Champions” of something or another. The view from the window behind the Member’s desk depends on seniority. A new member may be looking out at the air conditioning unit of the Longworth House Office Building, while more senior Members have a picturesque view of the Capitol dome.

Congressman Ryan Reynard slouched back onto the couch at the end of the office opposite his desk and watched as a younger man walked in and closed the door behind him. “No more votes today, Congressman,” the man instructed the Congressman, as he walked past the window and pulled a bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer of the drab standard government issued desk. He grabbed two glasses out of the same drawer, poured a couple of three-fin-

89

Opposition Research

gered shots, handing one to the Congressman.

“Thanks, Matt,” Reynard replied, Reynard’s companion stood behind an overstuffed black leather chair positioned caddy corner to the couch and examined his drink in the late afternoon sunlight coming in through the window. Reynard pulled off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. “I need this today. Hell, I need a couple of these.”

Matt Webb had been at the Congressman’s side since Reynard’s first campaign for city council. An intern at the time, Webb had a keen intellect and a nose for politics usually reserved for someone twice his age. Both had seen potential in the other and a team was born. Even though both were prone to cross the line occasionally, each trusted the other with his career. The years of office hopping from city council to county to state to federal office were showing in the grey hair surrounding his otherwise balding dome.

Webb took a couple of steps forward. He towered over Reynard in height and he leaned down, tipping his glass at Reynard, before taking a seat in the black leather chair. He took a sip before speaking.

“I thought so,” Webb replied. “You looked a little stressed today. I canceled your constituent meeting with the people complaining about the coal-fired power plant raining sulfuric acid down on Jasper County.”

“Good,” Reynard replied, stretching his arms over his head. “Those bastards never vote for me anyway.”

“Exactly,” Webb responded. “I figured you wouldn’t be upset.”

“Committee meeting?” Reynard asked, guessing at the excuse Webb had invented for the canceled appointment.

“Security briefing,” Webb smirked.

“Oh, good,” Renard replied. “Sounds more serious. Gotta keep an eye on those Commies.”

“Commies, sir?” Webb laughed. “That’s so 1990s. Rogue nations possessing weapons of mass destruction. We’ve got to work on your wedge issue language.”

Reynard ignored the joke. “Who’s meeting with them?” he asked.

“The Commies?” Webb replied deadpan. Then smiling, he shrugged his shoulders. “State Department, I suppose.” He paused.

“Or maybe the CIA. Yeah, it’s the CIA.”

90

Rick Robinson

“No, you idiot,” Reynard said, rolling his eyes. “Who’s meeting with my adoring public – my constituents?”

“Oh, them,” Webb laughed. His gags and puns usually made Reynard laugh. “Committee staff counsel. You’ll be sending her a nice hand-written note later thanking her for her help.” He paused for a moment before taking another sip from his drink. “Why so stressed?”

“Stressed isn’t even close to the right word,” Reynard replied. “I went notches above stress days ago. I’m in full-blown panic right now.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Webb responded, pulling out his smartphone to check the calendar. “This might ease your pain. After your reception tonight in the Cannon Building, you are having dinner with your wife at the Capitol Hill Club.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Reynard exclaimed, putting his hands over his eyes.

“I forgot all about her coming up here for the Congressional Spouse luncheon tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Webb said. “You already sent her flowers.”

“Thanks,” Reynard replied. “But there could not be a worse time for her to be here.” Grabbing his drink, Reynard tossed back what was left in his glass.

Never having seen his boss quite so shaken before, Webb went to the drawer and poured them both a second shot of bourbon. “What the hell is going on?” he asked as he poured.

Reynard paused for a moment and glanced out the window. He was not sure if he should confide in Webb, but to some degree, he had no other option. He decided to ease into the explanation. “Tell me, what do you know about Roger Dusing?” he asked.

“Other than he’s been sniffing around for a candidate to run against you,” Webb replied, as he sat back down, “probably no more than you do.”

“He’s an asshole,” Reynard said into his glass, taking another drink.

“Well, who doesn’t know that,” Webb said, laughing while raising a toast. “The only people who hate him more than the people he opposes in campaigns are the people he works for on the trail.”

“I need you to sniff around a little bit yourself,” Reynard instructed.

“I need some details on how he operates. Find out what the Democrats say about him. How does he do his oppo research? What are 91

Opposition Research

his vices? I want to find out all we can about the little shit.”

Webb pulled out his smartphone and started typing a note to himself.

“No notes,” Reynard said, quickly holding up his hand. “Whatever you learn, keep it up here,” he said, tapping his index finger on his temple. “And whatever we do or find out, it stays between the two of us.”

“I don’t get it,” Webb said, scratching his chin. “Why the sudden interest in Roger Dusing?”

“Because, Matthew,” Reynard gulped down the remainder of his drink. “We’ve got a problem.”

92

Rick Robinson

Chapter 14 Campaigns for public office have dramatic impacts on candidates, staff members, and their families. The hours are grueling, with appearances set at a pace few except those who love the game could possibly meet. From the time the candidate first steps into the car in the morning to the last stop of the day, each day seems to be running behind schedule. Frantic phone calls about being late for meetings are often followed up with return frantic phone calls bemoaning lackluster crowds awaiting the candidate when they arrive. Once the candidate shows up, greets everyone, speaks, answers media questions, and heads to the car, it’s almost guaranteed they are running another fifteen minutes behind. It’s a vicious and daily cycle. You never make up time on the campaign trail.

Adding to the pressure of tight schedules, car time is also spent “dialing-for-dollars.” These phone calls allow the candidate to throw all personal dignity aside and beg potential donors for money. When candidates are not making calls asking for money, they are getting calls from their consultants and pollsters telling them they need more money to win. At the end of any given campaign day, a candidate is tired, irritable, hungry – and prone to make mistakes.

Michael Griffith was predicting this would be a long and tiring day when candidate Billy Wilson would be prone to “rookie mistakes.”

A crowd had gathered outside the Maysville Café when the town’s favorite son running for United States Congress, Billy Wilson, stepped from the car adorned with campaign signs and stickers. He helped his wife Emmy from the car and seemed genuinely surprised by the crowd.

It was larger than expected for the final stop. Wincing, he noticed a few Barkman signs in the crowd. Reminding himself those coming into

93

Opposition Research

his parent’s café needed a ticket, Wilson forced a huge smile. He was finishing what he thought was a friendly end to a very long day of campaigning. He was not going to let a few signs spoil it.

As he exited the car, Wilson noticed only one camera crew filming the stop. When the reporter thrust a microphone in front of Wilson, the candidate stopped. Near the back of the crowd, Griffith, with a blue University of Kentucky cap pulled low on his head, smiled and nodded to Ewing to approach the candidate, as well.

“Billy,” the reporter asked, “in your first speech today, you mentioned the bridge in Northern Kentucky. It appears bringing a bridge home to your constituents will be a major plank in your campaign.”

“Yes, I did,” Wilson said, smiling for the camera. Dusing had briefed him on this question and how he should respond. “A new bridge across the Ohio River is vitally important to not only this district, but the entire Commonwealth of Kentucky. We need jobs and a new bridge will bring jobs.”

“All jobs?” the reporter followed up. “Or are we just talking about union jobs?”

Wilson looked down and saw the reporter’s credentials, making it clear the question was from a network with a political agenda. “Well,” Wilson replied calmly, “union labor is the backbone of this country.

Their work on a bridge will bring customers to businesses in this District. I don’t suspect union members will look to see if my Mom and Pop’s restaurant is organized, but I can tell you they will benefit from the trades’ work on a new bridge.”

“Are the workers at your parent’s café members of a union?” the reporter asked.

“Don’t need to be,” Wilson said, smiling confidently. “Our family believes in paying a living wage, not a minimum wage. Thanks for your questions, though.”

Griffith stood just close enough to hear the banter. Damn, he thought to himself. The kid handled that pretty well.

As Wilson was answering questions from the reporter, Ewing made his way to the other side of him. As soon as the candidate was finished with the reporter’s questions, Ewing blurted out, “Earlier today you blamed the lack of funding for the bridge on previous office holders in this Congressional District.”

94

Rick Robinson

Wilson was not entirely surprised by the follow-up question and he recognized the young man from previous stops. Again, Dusing had briefed Wilson on how to address follow-ups – run straight at Thompson and Barkman. Make them own the bridge blunders. Wilson was uncomfortable with the confrontational nature of the reply, but did so anyway. “I absolutely did,” Wilson replied. “Richard Thompson and Josh Barkman dropped the ball. The loss of jobs from failed leadership over a crumbling span of concrete rests squarely on the shoulders of Thompson and Barkman.”

As Wilson started to walk towards the café entrance, Ewing barked another question. “But assuming you know the appropriation process in Congress,” Ewing said, “what would you do differently?”

Tilting his head, Wilson looked at Ewing and noticed he was not wearing any press credentials. “I’m sorry, who are you with?”

“Me,” came a voice from the crowd. Richard Thompson stepped from the crowd and removed his hat. “He’s with me. I’m Richard Thompson and I’m the guy you’ve been talking about all day.”

“Senator,” Wilson said, a panicked look in his eye. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Of course, you weren’t,” Thompson said calmly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been telling people lies about me today. I wanted to see if you were willing to put any meat on those old bones.”

“I didn’t say things all day,” Wilson stuttered, forgetting the cameras were rolling.

“Oh,” Thompson replied. “So, you only told lies about me wherever you thought it would get you votes.”

Some in the crowd jeered Thompson. But several others, planted there at Griffith’s direction, cheered. They pulled more signs and stickers from under their jackets announcing, “Re-elect Josh Barkman to Congress.” Thompson looked at Wilson, “I don’t think these folks are buying it, Billy.”

Wilson looked totally shaken and confused. He muttered a couple of words and then, remembering he was being filmed, stiffened his back and pointed an accusatory finger at Thompson. “You’ve let this community down, Senator.”

“This community?” Thompson scoffed, waving his hands to encompass the area. “Maysville? Because Maysville has a bridge right 95

Opposition Research

up the road. In fact, it was money procured by my predecessor, from my party that built the bridge this community uses every day.”

“You know what I mean, Senator?”

“And I’m not sure a whole lot of union laborers in Northern Kentucky will drive an hour on the Double-A to get lunch at your family’s place. The only thing it will cost our district is higher gas taxes to pay for the darned thing. You want to help your family’s business, go bus tables. But if you want to help taxpayers, commit to tightening the purse strings of the federal government.”

Wilson’s father, Bill Sr., a short, stocky man with black hair and olive skin, was watching all of this transpire from the doorway of his restaurant. As he watched the exchange, his temper reached a boiling point. He shot out the front door like a cannon, his wife Betty in chase.

“Get the hell out of here,” he instructed, waving his arms at Thompson in a threatening manner. “This is a private party. You’re not welcome here.”

“Calm down, Dad,” candidate Wilson implored his father.

“And I’m standing on a public sidewalk,” Thompson said. “I suggest you all go ahead and go inside to your private party – especially if you don’t have the courage to explain yourself. I’ll stay out here with the people wanting the government to pay a fair price for federal projects.”

The senior Wilson snapped and took a wild swing at Thompson, snarling, “You sonofabitch.” When he missed and stumbled forward, he shoved the former Senator. Looking at Ewing, he made a threatening move toward him.

Thompson straightened himself from the shove and recognized it was quickly getting out of control. Grabbing Ewing’s arm, he looked at the young man. “That’s enough, Dustin,” Thompson said, pointing at the camera. “Shut it down. I think it’s time to leave this private gathering.”

As they walked away, the remaining news crew got footage of Billy Wilson, his wife, and mother pulling the family’s patriarch back into the café. In the back of the crowd, Michael Griffith readjusted his cap and walked towards the campaign van parked about a block away. Midway to the van, he joined up with Thompson and Ewing.

“Boys,” he said boastfully. “That was a command performance.”

96

Rick Robinson

Thompson shook his head. “I didn’t like it,” he said. “It was supposed to go down differently.”

“What?” Griffith asked almost gleefully.

“It was supposed to be between Wilson and me,” Thompson grumbled. “I didn’t know his father would get involved.”

“Me neither,” Griffith said, slapping Thompson on his shoulder.

“But it turned out great for us.”

“Why?” Thompson snarled. “Because we got someone’s dad to look stupid on television?”

Ewing knew he was walking between two giants in politics. Despite his opinion, he kept quiet.

“Knock it off, Richard,” Griffith instructed. “We set a plan in place.

We all agreed to it. They caused it to change.”

“I feel like dirt,” Thompson replied curtly.

After a few more moments of silent walking, the van was in sight.

“Permission to speak?” Ewing asked.

Thompson and Griffith looked at each other. If nothing else, the kid had balls. “Sure,” Thompson replied begrudgingly.

“I wanted this job because you came and spoke to our political science club on campus,” Ewing said, avoiding eye contact, but directing the remark to Thompson.

“Really?” Thompson asked. “Hmmmm … I remember the meeting.”

“Yeah,” Ewing said nodding. “And you told us every campaign was made up of a specific number of days.”

“See,” Griffith said, looking at Thompson. “I told you to stay away from campuses.” He then looked at Ewing. “Personally, they give me the heebie-jeebies.” As usual, Griffith laughed at his own joke.

“And you said,” Ewing continued to Thompson as if Griffith had not interrupted, “on any given day, the staff’s job was to win the day.”

Recognizing his own advice, Thompson looked at the young man.

“And what did we do today?”

“Tie,” Ewing said. “He got an early bounce from his announcement. It should be his best day of the race. He should win the day.”

“But …” Griffith said, looking at Ewing.

“We did what we had to do to make it a tie,” Ewing said. “We didn’t win the day, but we made the best day of his campaign a tie.”

97

Opposition Research

“The kid has a point,” Griffith said, looking at Thompson for a response.

“I say, bite it, Billy Wilson,” Ewing nodded. “Bite it.”

“Damn,” said Griffith, smiling at Thompson while putting his arm around Ewing as they walked, “I like this kid.”

98

Rick Robinson

Chapter 15 One of Jeffrey’s great loves in life consisted of watching the news while drinking wine. He watched so much news, he seemed obsessed with the stories of the day. Jackie hated when he got in television news mode. His stare at the television screen sometimes became so intense, it was hard to communicate with him. Jackie figured television news was better than having Jeffrey hang out at the local massage parlor about three blocks from the beach. So, most of the time, she kept quiet when he was watching the news. Today, though, she felt compelled to speak up – albeit at the commercial break.

“Were you serious, Jeffrey?” Jackie asked from her white cotton, slip-covered chair.

“Of course, I was,” Jeffrey replied, waving his hand in disregard.

“About what?”

“You know what,” Jackie insisted.

“No, sweetheart,” Jeffrey said. “I do not.” Jeffrey took a drink from his wine glass, his eyes never leaving from the television.

“Getting out of here,” Jackie reminded him. “Even if just for a couple of days. I’ve got to get out of here. It’s driving me nuts. I’m going stir crazy.”

“I told you I’d work on it,” Jeffrey replied, still looking at the television.

“I just don’t want ‘I’ll work on it’ to become ‘I forgot about it,’” Jackie said, glancing at the television. “I’ve got to see more than some damn cable news program or I’ll go insane.”

With the commercials ending, Jeffrey rudely shushed Jackie quiet.

“Welcome back,” the host stated, looking seriously at the camera. “If you don’t believe politics to be a combat sport, a campaign

99

Opposition Research

reporter from one of our affiliate channels, Mike Powers, reminds us of an old poem.” The intense smile was lightened with a slight laugh all reporters seem to perfect. “The rhyme ends something like this – And politics are the damnedest in Kentucky.”

The video began to roll, showing various clips of Powers covering the Billy Wilson campaign for United States Congress. “Covering political news can become monotonous at times,” Powers said. “Candidates stick to party talking points to first secure their base and then move in whatever direction their advisors tell them will swing undecideds and independents. It’s rare we see anything outside the ordinary. For news teams, we get our questions in, shoot some Breel, and head off to the next campaign. But today was different.”

The camera focused on Billy Wilson as Powers continued. “This is Billy Wilson,” Powers said, his own voice asking questions of Wilson in the background. “He’s seeking to become the United States Congressman for Kentucky’s Fourth Congressional District. Yesterday, I was interviewing him before a campaign stop at his parents’ family-owned restaurant in a small, rural Kentucky town, when a surprise visitor spoke out.”

The background footage switches, showing Richard Thompson emerging from the crowd. “Richard Thompson, a former Senator and Congressman, he held the state’s junior Senate seat for a short while after the previous Senator died from a heart attack. He’s also mentor to incumbent Congressman Josh Barkman of Kentucky’s Fourth District. Watch as former-Senator Thompson begins questioning Wilson on criticism aimed partially at him for failure to acquire the funding for a bridge spanning the Ohio River at a point about 60 nautical miles north.”

The interaction between Thompson and Wilson continued in real time when it suddenly pauses. “An unusual move for a former United States Senator to show up at an event for an opposing candidate and it’s not your race, but this is just the kind of stunt thought up by wellknown campaign consultant and political fire-brand, Michael Griffith.”

Powers declares. “But it’s not the end of the story. Remember when I said the event was at the café owned by the challenger’s parents?

This is candidate Wilson’s father.” The video continued to show the altercation between Thompson and the senior Wilson. “Apparently, 100

Rick Robinson

he’s taking this interaction quite personally.” When Wilson senior took a swing, Powers laughs in the voice-over and did a dead-on Howard Cosell impersonation. “Wilson misses with the right.”

“It all ends as Billy Wilson and his family usher the elder Wilson back indoors into the family-owned restaurant. You can see them all inside, arguing and then hugging behind the neon ‘Best Sweet Tea in Town’ sign.”

The camera switched back to Powers. “A reporter from our affiliate in D.C. caught up with Wilson’s campaign consultant and confidant to Capitol Hill elite, Roger Dusing.” The camera caught Dusing looking at video of the incident before angrily walking away. “Apparently, he had no comment,” Powers voiced over Dusing’s retreat.

A super slow-motion view of the errant punch continued to run behind Powers. “The Barkman campaign, through Washington campaign guru Michael Griffith, refused comment on this Kentucky Kerfuffle.” The slow-motion froze on Thompson ducking the punch.

“This is Mike Powers reporting from Maysville, Kentucky.”

Jeffrey looked at Jackie. “Pack your bags, baby.”

“Why?” Jackie asked, confused by the request.

“Because you’re right. It’s vacation time,” he said, making some notes on scrap paper as he spoke.

“Oh, Jeffrey. Really?” Jackie jumped up from her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. “I love you.”

“I’ll get with Ron to make the arrangements,” Jeffrey assured her.

“He has a new young man working for him who will be more than glad to assist us.”

“Where are we going?” Jackie asked excitedly.

Jeffrey never looked up and continued jotting down notes. When he was finished writing, he looked up. “Our nation’s capital,” he replied. “We’re going to Washington, DC.”

101

Opposition Research

Chapter 16 Roger Dusing snorted like an angry bull as he looked at the name and number showing up on his chirping phone. Billy Wilson. Videos of the incident in Maysville were all over the news and Dusing’s phone had been ringing non-stop with calls from print reporters looking for a quote. A news truck parked outside his office caught Dusing off guard and without comment. His temper was in full view and he did not care who saw it. He took a deep breath and clicked the call. “Are you kidding me?” he shouted into the phone.

“Sorry, Roger,” Wilson replied, pacing around his parent’s restaurant and looking out the window at a television truck parked on the street.

“Are you kidding me, right now?” Dusing repeated, adding another F-bomb at the end for good measure.

“Listen, Roger …” Wilson tried to speak, but Dusing cut him off.

“No,” Dusing yelled. “You listen, you stupid sonofabitch. I told you to stick to a script. Didn’t I make it clear enough for you?” Dusing popped out of his chair in his office and paced while he spoke.

“And I did,” Wilson replied.

“I’m pretty sure taking a swing at a beloved former Senator we’re trying to dirty up was not part of the script.” Dusing was getting madder by the second. “I wrote the script,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that. Here. Let me check. Nope, no fisticuffs in my script.”

“It wasn’t me. It was my dad,” Wilson implored.

“Well, what the hell got into him?” Dusing shouted. “What the hell was he thinking?”

“I have no idea,” Wilson replied. “He’s an emotional guy, I guess – especially when it comes to his only son.”

102

Rick Robinson

“Well, get him under control,” Dusing demanded loudly. “I can’t have some old man screwing up this campaign.”

“He meant no harm,” Wilson said. “He thought he was defending me.”

“Well, he sure as hell caused a lot of harm,” Dusing replied. “I won’t tolerate stupid mistakes.”

This time Dusing pushed Wilson too far. “Lay off my dad,” he said with authority.

“I’ve told you before,” Dusing replied. “You’re paying me to win.”

“Yes, I am.” Wilson was the angry one now. “And you cut out to catch an earlier flight. Maybe this would have never happened if you’d have stayed like we discussed.”

“Don’t go there, Billy,” Dusing warned. “You think you can win this thing without me?”

“No,” Wilson said. “That’s why I hired you. I wanted the best our side had to offer. Even if it cost more.”

“And I got you targeted for support by the party,” Dusing said.

“You’re a challenger and I got you targeted. The money you raise off targeting alone will pay the difference between me and some dweeb from back home who thinks he’s a consultant. I’ve paid for myself three times over.”

“I expect more,” Wilson countered. “I expect you to be around when I need you. You walked yesterday and Michael Griffith outplayed you. If you’re pissed at anybody, be pissed at him. Or be pissed at yourself. Not me. And definitely not my dad.”

There was a long silence.

“You want to write a script?” Wilson asked. “Write me one about how we play this in our favor,” he concluded before hanging up the phone.

Dusing went back to his desk and stared at the screen on his computer. He pulled his opposition research folder on Josh Barkman from a file drawer and studied it carefully. After about fifteen minutes of reading, staring at the wall and sipping tequila, he started to type.

INTRO – Female driving a car during rush hour on the Brent Spence Bridge. Not moving, she honks her horn and yells at the traffic.

103

Opposition Research

Screen freezes traffic through the windshield and fades to a grainy black and white image of the scene.

Female voiceover – “It’s right to be mad about traffic in Northern Kentucky, but you’re honking at the wrong person. Congressman Josh Barkman and his cronies in Washington got you into this jam.”

Fade from black and white to color video of Billy Wilson in front of the bridge.

“It’s time for a change. It’s time to elect Billy Wilson to clear the lanes for a new bridge and a new future for all of us.”

104

Rick Robinson

Chapter 17 It had been a week since the dust-up with the Wilson campaign and rather than spending the weekend at home, Thompson and Ann headed south for a little rest and relaxation. After spending the weekend in a houseboat on Lake Cumberland with friends, Thompson decided to stay over on Monday to do a little fishing on the Cumberland River. Having an extra fly rod with him, he was attempting to teach Ann the finer aspects of the sport.

“I’m not quite sure how you find this relaxing,” Ann Thompson said, tenaciously unwrapping the tiny fly tangled in thin fishing line around her brand-new Orvis fly rod. “This is frustrating as hell.”

Thompson looked at his wife. One ass cheek peeking out of her shorts and her nipples taut and erect from standing in the cold water of the Cumberland River, he felt his own shorts tighten a bit. Looking at his own frame, he came to the same sad conclusion he had reached on so many occasions. She was aging far better than him. He grabbed the rod and quickly got the line free. “Try it again,” he said encouragingly. He was getting as much delight from watching the swaying of her breasts than from the actual fishing.

The cast snapped quickly, the fly landing only a few yards from her feet. “Damn,” she said.

Thompson eased up behind his wife, slid his left hand around her waist and placed his hardening crotch directly in the center of her butt.

He placed his right hand on her wrist. “Let me help you,” he whispered in her ear.

Feeling Thompson pressing against her, she wiggled her ass back against him. “Help me with what?” she asked, laughing. “Is that a trout in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

105

Opposition Research

“Take your arm back at the elbow and keep your wrist straight,” Thompson replied, helping her make a casting motion with the rod.

“Think ten o’clock and two o’clock and keep your wrist straight.”

Ann’s next attempt produced the same result as the last. “Easy,” Thompson said, working her arm. “Work it softly and slowly,” he said, pumping her slightly from behind. “Like you’d handle, well, you know.”

This time the fly went exactly where Ann was aiming. A broad smile of accomplishment danced across her face. “Bingo,” she exclaimed. Holding the rod with one hand and the excess line with the other, she turned her head slightly and kissed Thompson. “Only you can get me to toss a fly properly by talking dirty to me.”

Thompson returned the kiss by nuzzling his lips against the back of her neck. “I’m sorry,” he said softly as the strike indicator floated lazily with the slow current.

“Sorry,” she laughed. “Don’t be. It’s my first good cast all day.

You should dry hump my ass every time I do this.”

“No,” Thompson replied. “Not that. I’m sorry about how irritable I’ve been lately.” He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, babe,” Ann replied. “Neither of us has been exactly ourselves lately. The new business is a strain on both of us. Before we wanted people to win. Now, we’re responsible for their future.”

“That’s what we do now,” Thompson agreed. “We win.”

“And we pick the right people to support,” Ann added.

“That’ll be the hard part,” Thompson said. “But we can make it work.”

“You’ve got to remember you don’t set the climate,” Ann said, still working her fly rod. “And you damn sure aren’t going to change it. So pick the right people and win.”

“We’ve got to learn how to deal with this and keep our emotions under control,” Thompson said, letting his left arm wander up from her waist to her breast. Gently, he pinched her erect nipple.

Ann let the arm holding her rod drop to her side, still keeping it in her hand. She turned and kissed Thompson passionately and deeply.

“Emotions under control,” she replied, reaching her free hand to his crotch. She rubbed him through his shorts. “All except one.”

106

Rick Robinson

Thompson was kissing Ann back when suddenly the line on the rod went tight and the tip of the rod bent downward. Ann had a fish on the line. She spun towards the water. “Oh shit,” she screamed.

“I’ve got a bite. What do I do?”

“Grab the green line and start pulling him in,” Thompson instructed, moving next to her.

“Okay,” Ann replied, pulling frantically on the bright, fluorescent green fly line.

“Slowly,” Thompson instructed as the fish broke water and jumped into the air. “Let him wear himself out.”

“Okay,” Ann mumbled, pulling on the line at a slower pace. “He’s going everywhere.”

“That’s because he’s trying to get off the hook,” Thompson said, watching the zig-zag motion of the line.

“He’s fighting me,” Ann said, resisting the urge to reel him in faster.

“He’s supposed to,” Thompson replied, grabbing the net. “His instinct is to get loose. So keep the tip of your rod up. And the line tight.”

The line zipped back and forth. “Damn, damn, damn,” Ann muttered as she continued to bring the fish closer.

“A little bit further.” Thompson grabbed the line and led the rainbow trout into the net. “Nice rainbow, baby.”

“Holy crap,” Ann said, looking at the fish. “I can’t believe I did it.

That was a hell of a rush.”

Thompson removed the small hook with a pair of plyers and lowered the net just barely into the water. “Get your hands wet,” he said.

“I want a picture of you holding this one.”

Ann wet her hands and reached into the net.

“Right hand around the tail and left hand under the belly,” Thompson instructed, all the while snapping pictures. “Now, lower him gently in the water.” It only took a moment for the fish to revive and snap itself out of Ann’s grasp. It was gone in a flash.

Ann looked over at her husband. “Well, catching a trout was a lot more fun than I ever expected.” She put a hand on her hip. “What do we do now?”

“Normally,” Thompson said slyly, “I’d pull out a victory cigar.”

“But ...”

107

Opposition Research

“I was thinking we might go back in time to what you were pulling out right before your big catch.” *** In Arlington, Virginia, Congressman Ryan Reynard sat with Matt Webb, both enjoying a Guinness with a sidecar of Jameson. In their Capitol Hill business suits, they looked no different than the normal happy hour crowd at Ireland’s Four Courts.

After some initial small talk, Webb looked at his boss. “Why are we here?” Webb asked, looking around at the crowd. “Are we meeting Michael Griffith? Isn’t this his hangout?”

Reynard looked nonchalantly at his beer. “Yes, it is,” he replied.

“But Griffith is at his Kentucky office working on his favorite campaign.”

“So why are we here?” Webb repeated. “We could have gotten a drink over at the 116 Club.”

“Because I want you to get familiar with this place,” Reynard instructed. “In fact, I want you to start coming here every evening – especially when we know Michael Griffith is in town.”

“I don’t get it.” Webb was confused.

“I want to know more about Griffith,” Reynard replied. “He got outsmarted by Dusing. Somebody got to Dusing and fed him some lies about me. Dusing got them to Griffith. I’m sure of it. This is where Griffith met me last time. Hell, it’s where he meets everybody. I want to know who he is talking with outside the office. Then I can prove my theory.”

“Are we switching consultants?” Webb asked. He thought Reynard’s conspiracy theory was a bit far-fetched.

“Not yet,” Reynard replied. “I just need to know the answer before we meet again.” *** The Fat Man stood at a whiteboard that took up an entire wall in the office War Room. Argo and Ewing had begun posting their opposition research on the whiteboard. File folders containing the opposi108

Rick Robinson

tion research documents obtained at the Mason County Courthouse were scattered across a conference table. Though their initial analysis had seemingly gone in a thousand different directions at once, The Fat Man had taken over and begun moderating the discussion, collecting and organizing the information as if in preparation for the trial of the century. Scribbled notes in black marker on the whiteboard wall were underlined in green and blue, while red lines connected specific notes in one column with those in others.

“Pretty uneventful life,” Ewing said, looking at the scribbles and arrows on the board from his seat at the conference table.

Argo sat next to him and rested his chin on his left hand, studying the various columns. “I don’t know,” he said. “Joey, go over it one more time.”

The Fat Man groaned. “We’ve done it twice, Leo,” he groaned.

“You’re starting to look like a relief pitcher in the ninth with three runners on and no juice left.”

Argo was used to The Fat Man’s baseball analogies by now.

“No,” he replied slowly. “There’s something more …” He continued to stare at the board.

“All we have is right here,” Ewing said, pointing to the paper laid in stacks across the desk.

“Humor me,” Argo said, glancing at Ewing.

“What are you looking for, Leo?” The Fat Man asked.

“Confirmation,” Argo replied.

“Of what?” Ewing asked, turning towards Argo.

“Take a good look at Joey’s timeline,” Argo said, pointing at the board.

“His father bought a couple of cars and lived in one house for a lifetime,” The Fat Man said.

“Right here,” Ewing said, raising the registration papers and loan filings.

“And here is the deed,” The Fat Man added, pointing to the deed.

“I know, I know,” Argo said, scratching at his bald head. “Just do it one more time.” So The Fat Man began the explanation of the documents he had done twice before, creating a timeline of the Wilson family. About mid-way through Argo interrupted. “Stop,” he commanded, rising from his chair and walking toward the whiteboard.

109

Opposition Research

“What?” Ewing asked.

“We’re not done yet,” Argo replied.

“What do you have, Leo?” The Fat Man knew his friend was on to something.

“Nothing,” Argo replied with a smile. “Absolutely nothing.”

“I’m lost,” Ewing said, shaking his head.

“Precisely.” Argo laughed softly. He did not want to embarrass the young man and turning to him said, “It’s okay, kid. So was I.” The Fat Man recognized the intense look in Argo’s eyes. “Where are you going, Leo?” “Where’s the old man from?” Argo asked.

“Maysville,” Ewing responded.

“No, no, no,” Argo’s voice words came at a fast pace. “Before Maysville. Where are they from?”

Ewing and The Fat Man looked at each other.

“Where did they come from?” Argo replied, sitting back down and making notes on his legal pad. “All we have is the part of the story where they came to Maysville. Billy was a couple of years old at the time when they showed up there. I want to know where these people lived before they came to Kentucky.”

Ewing frantically thumbed through the papers in one of the file folders. “Here,” he said, handing Leo a car registration. “They used to live in Appleton, Wisconsin. When they registered their first car, they had to list a previous address.”

Argo took the paper and looked at it. “No street address,” he said. “It’s got the town, but no street.”

“So what is in Appleton Wisconsin?” asked The Fat Man. “I don’t know,” Argo replied, “yet.” *** Congressman Josh Barkman stood behind a makeshift podium in Michael Griffith’s Kentucky satellite office, a camera with a blinking red light pointed directly at his face.

“Is this really necessary?” Barkman asked, gesturing at the camera. “I mean, I know I have to practice the speech, but don’t you think the camera is a bit much.”

110

Rick Robinson

“Josh,” Griffith replied confidently, “you’re as good at the podium as anyone I’ve ever coached.”

“Thanks,” Barkman replied, smiling. “I see a big ‘but’ coming.”

“As big as one of the Kardashian girls,” Griffith howled, raising his arms.

Barkman scowled. “Give it to me straight,” he said. “But I think I know where you’re headed.”

Referencing his ever-present Godfather Rules, Griffith continued.

“The other day we went to the mattresses.”

The reference to the Corleone Family declaring war on the other organized crime families of New York was familiar to Barkman.

“Dusing,” he said knowingly, leaning on top of the podium.

“Yep,” Griffith replied. “He’s pissed. He called me the other day.

He’s ready to go to war on this race – make it high profile.”

“And you think he’ll take revenge on you against me,” Barkman said.

“Of course,” Griffith shrugged. “Which will be his downfall.”

“There’s another Godfather Rule coming, right?” Barkman asked.

“Absolutely,” Griffith said, instantly going into his best Michael Corleone voice. “It isn’t personal. It’s strictly business.”

“And me?”

“What about you?”

“Am I personal or strictly business?” Barkman asked.

Griffith shook his head. “Shut the hell up and do the speech one more time,” he replied.

Barkman rolled his eyes and continued the practice. “Thank you.

Thank you,” Barkman said, waving his palms downward as if to quiet an imaginary crowd. “You know it has been my distinct honor to serve the people of Kentucky’s Fourth Congressional District for several years now. There. I said it. I’m an incumbent and darn proud of it.

And I’m also proud to announce my candidacy for reelection to continue fighting for those issues we find so sacred.”

Griffith clapped his hands. “Applause,” he shouted. “Don’t forget to wait for the applause to die down.” ***

111

Opposition Research

Ron sat on a bar stool at Paulie’s in a red and black silk bowling shirt, sipping a gin and tonic while – through the doorway – he watched the young women in bathing suits making their way to the beach. As he looked, he spied Cathead walking towards the restaurant via the cross street. When he entered Paulie’s, Ron patted the stool next to him and signaled the bartender to bring two more drinks.

“Welcome back, Mr. Cathead,” Ron said politely, ignoring the bruises and cuts on the young man’s face.

“Thank you, sir,” Cathead replied. “I want to thank you for the work you’ve been giving me. The extra money has definitely helped out.” Per Jeffrey’s instructions, Ron had found Cathead and given him some light jobs as a test.

Ron took in Cathead’s crisp suit and tightly cropped hair. “You’re certainly looking more prosperous,” he said, taking the drinks from the bartender and handing one to Cathead.

“It’s kind of funny,” Cathead said, sitting down at the bar.

“What?”

Cathead ran his hands down the lapel of his suit. “People are more respectful to me in this suit than they ever were in the shit I was wearing before. They give me their collection money right away.”

“That’s because they know you’re part of my crew,” Ron replied, looking Cathead up and down. “A suit always helps.”

Cathead put down his drink and handed over a wad of money.

“Sit back down,” Ron said, counting the cash while checking off names against what was collected. When he was done, he handed five hundred dollars back to Cathead.

“Thank you, sir,” Cathead replied. “I missed that Lokesak fellow.

He ducked me, but I’ll find him. He can’t hide forever.”

“I’ll deal with him,” Ron said. “I know where he hides out when the money is due. It’ll cost him an extra point on the VIG, but he’ll give it up. He always does.”

“Oh,” Cathead said, opening a paper bag he had at his side and pulling out a bottle of Coppola wine. “I want to replace the wine bottle I broke.”

“Good man,” Ron replied, taking the bottle. “I’ll make sure Jeffrey knows of your gesture. It shows some integrity.”

112

Rick Robinson

“Thanks, I appreciate the second chance,” Cathead replied. There was an awkward silence as Ron looked at Cathead. “What? Did I do something wrong?” he asked nervously “Not at all,” Ron replied smoothly.

“Then why are you staring at me?”

“Cathead,” Ron said slowly. “Have you ever been to Washington?”

113

Opposition Research

Chapter 18 Jeffrey and Jackie sat quietly in the back seat of a mid-sized, light blue sedan. Shedding their normal beach attire, Jeffrey was wearing a blue sport coat with a blue button-down shirt and grey slacks and Jackie was decked out in an ill-fitting white pants suit. Old school values demanded they dress up for air travel, especially for a crosscountry jaunt.

As Ron drove through the normal hassle of Southern California traffic to a private aviation hangar at Orange County airport, he kept glancing at the pair in his rearview mirror. He knew Jeffrey had promised a trip to Jackie, but he could not understand why they were visiting Washington. Trying unsuccessfully to gauge Jeffrey’s mood, he kept lobbing meaningless questions at Jackie and watching Jeffrey for his reaction. In between, he honked his horn at drivers cutting him off in traffic. Wearing one of his trademark silk bowling shirts – this time white against black – he would flip the bird at anyone reacting to his displeasure with their driving.

As they drove, Ron continued his interrogation. With each successive question, Jackie was becoming more and more excited, her voice rising as she described the monuments and museums she intended to visit. All the while, Jeffrey’s gaze remained stoic. The short drive from Huntington Beach to John Wayne Airport seemed to be taking too long for both men’s tastes – one anxious to get the trip started, the other worrying about when it would be over.

Surrounded by palm trees and old hangars from the Santa Anna Army Air Base, the small airport in Irvine, California actually serves more private aviation than commercial flights. Once the home airport for Howard Hughes and his private aircraft, the airport currently bears

114

Rick Robinson

the name of actor John Wayne. Not only were the runways used for planes since the early days of flight, but they were also credited with being the first commercial drag racing strip in the country. In bygone days, locals would run dragsters on Sundays when the airport was closed to air traffic.

When they arrived at the private aviation area, Cathead was patiently waiting out front. Pacing and drawing on a vape pen, he was dressed in a newly acquired black, pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red tie. The man bun was gone and his hair was tightly trimmed. One eye still showed a bit of a bruise from the beating he had taken at the restaurant. Ron chuckled to himself while noticing the haircut made his sloping forehead resemble a feline even more than before. But Ron suppressed the thought and wiped the smile from his face as he greeted the young man warmly. “Good morning,” Ron said, reaching out to shake Cathead’s hand. “How are you doing today?”

Jeffrey and Jackie remained in the car, gathering up their personal items before exiting the vehicle on the side opposite Ron and Cathead.

Jeffrey was in no hurry – he wanted to make sure Ron had enough time to give Cathead his final instructions.

Cathead took a hit on his vape. “A bit nervous,” he replied, returning the grip with a firm shake.

“Don’t worry, son,” Ron replied. “Despite your first meeting, you’ll find Jeffrey is quite reasonable. You’ll enjoy your time with him. And it could be quite profitable for you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the Boss,” Cathead replied, exhaling a foggy stream of vaper as he spoke. “You guys have sent quite a few Benjamins my way. I appreciate the extra green.”

Ron nearly rolled his eyes at Cathead’s youthful jargon, but managed to squelch the urge to do so. “Then what is it?” Ron asked.

“You’re pacing like a … well … a cat.”

Cathead laughed at the feline reference before lowering his head.

“I’ve just never been on an airplane before,” he said.

Ron was amused at Cathead’s naivety. Even if Cathead could somehow learn who he was flying with, he might not grasp the significance. If ignorance is bliss, Ron thought, this idiot is the happiest sonofabitch on earth. Then out loud he said, “Not to worry,” pointing a thumb at the Citation X over his shoulder. “It’s totally safe and 115

Opposition Research

you’ll be traveling in luxury. You’ll love the ride.”

“Yeah,” Cathead said, looking at the plane. “This ride is dope.”

“Don’t talk that way around Jeffrey and Jackie,” Ron instructed, wincing at the thought of anything being referred to as “dope.” He nodded assertively at the young man. “Jeffrey is old school. Show some damn respect.”

“Yes, sir,” Cathead replied. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good,” Ron replied, grabbing an envelope from his pants pocket and placing it into Cathead’s suit coat.

“What’s this?” Cathead asked.

“Expense money,” Ron said, offering a knowing wink. “The Boss has cash and he’ll be taking care of you in DC, but you may need some dough for yourself. This should cover you.”

“Thanks,” Cathead said, reaching for the envelope.

“Don’t pull it out here,” Ron instructed, placing his hand on Cathead’s forearm and forcing the envelope back into the coat. “Jesus.

Use some sense, boy.”

“Oh yeah,” Cathead said, apologetically while securing the envelope back in the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Sorry. I’m still learning, I guess.”

After directing Cathead to gather the luggage for the plane, the threesome entered the building. After pointing Jackie to the restroom, Ron pulled Jeffrey aside to the front windows and looked around before he spoke. “You sure you want to make this trip, Boss?” he asked, drawing Jeffrey in closely. “I can cancel the plane and we’re only out the deposit.”

“And fly commercial?” Jeffrey asked, shaking his head. “You know I can’t go through regular security.”

“I’m not talking about TSA and you know it,” Ron replied.

Jeffrey placed his hand on Ron’s shoulder and smiled. “Alas, I do, my friend,” he replied.

“Then why are you doing this?” Ron asked, opening his palms and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s too much. The risk is too high.”

Jeffrey smiled knowingly. “Jackie needs a vacation,” he declared, knowing full well Ron would not believe his reply.

“Bullshit,” Ron said, nearly spitting the words and pointing a finger at Jeffrey. “I’m calling bullshit.”

116

Rick Robinson

“Call all you want,” Jeffrey replied, staring back at his friend with a sardonic smile. “I’ve made my decision.”

“It’s hot in DC,” Ron continued shaking his head in general disapproval.

“More humid than actually hot,” Jeffrey replied. “I’ve been doing some research on the Weather Channel app. It’s really humid there this time of year.”

“You know what I mean,” Ron said sharply, his arms flailing in exasperation as he spoke. “You’re top of the list for the FBI and the New York families if one side doesn’t get you the other might. The next time I see you it could be behind bars or in a box.”

“Fair observation,” Jeffrey concluded.

Ron shook his head. “Personally, I don’t like either option.”

Jeffrey took a deep breath and smiled slyly. “Ronnie,” he said, “you know you’re my most trusted and loyal friend.”

Ron appreciated the changing tone of the conversation and Jeffrey was finally speaking frankly. “Thank you,” Ron replied, smiling.

“You know I feel the same way about you.”

“In fact,” Jeffrey confided, placing a hand on Ron’s shoulder, “you’re like a brother to me.”

Ron nodded a sincere acknowledgment. “Brothers by different mothers.”

“Which is why I can’t tell you my business on this trip,” Jeffrey went on. “Some things are best left unsaid. Right now, people must believe you’re a former cop turned waiter, serving up wine and stories to all the locals of Huntington Beach. There may come a point where you don’t want to be my brother. A casual acquaintance may be better than a bonded friendship.”

“Okay,” Ron said, sticking out his hand, resigned to the fact he would not be getting any further clarification.

Jeffrey returned the handshake with a hug and a kiss on Ron’s cheek.

As the men were finishing their long goodbye, Ron looked over Jeffrey’s shoulder as Cathead led Jackie across the tarmac to the plane. “You sure you want that mook traveling with you?” he asked, gesturing at Cathead as the young man helped Jackie up the plane’s steps.

117

Opposition Research

“Absolutely,” Jeffrey said confidently. “We’ve given him a taste and now he’s hungry.” Jeffrey paused and poked Ron in the chest.

“Just like you were when you came out west years ago seeking your fame and fortune.”

“Don’t even compare me to him,” Ron laughed. “I never had a damn man bun.”

“No,” Jeffrey chuckled, “but you had more gold chains than a character from the Bible,” he laughed.

“And probably more crosses to bear,” Ron sighed. “But he’s so green.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jeffrey said. “A bit impulsive, but he did replace my broken bottle of wine. He’ll be an asset. And if not, well …” He smiled and knowingly patted Ron’s arm.

“Yeah, dispensable,” Ron said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Right,” Jeffrey agreed. “And you have all the pieces in place.”

“Correct,” Ron said, “When you get to DC,” he explained, “you’ll be landing at Dulles in the private air terminal. Dulles is way out of town and you’ll be just another private arrival. There will be a car waiting there for you. It will take you and Jackie to the hotel and wherever she wants to go sightseeing. Cathead will be on his own to pick up your go-bag.”

“Got it,” Jeffrey said, turning to his watch, Cathead coming towards them. “Here comes the mook.” Cathead opened the door and walked toward the duo. He looked at Jeffrey respectfully. “Good morning, Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey addressed Cathead, looking him up and down. “You’ve cleaned up quite nicely.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cathead replied. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

Jeffrey appreciated the change in Cathead’s demeanor following their first meaning. “Call me, Jeffrey,” he said. “You’re one of us now.”

Jeffrey shook Cathead’s hand while placing his left hand on the young man’s shoulder.

The words echoed in Ron’s head, remembering decades ago when Jeffrey had said the same thing to him.

Cathead was taken aback by the simple gesture. “Thank you, Jeffrey,” he said. “The bags are all on board.”

“Even Jackie?” Jeffrey asked, jokingly.

118

Rick Robinson

Clearly not getting the joke, Cathead laughed nervously. “Well, sir ... I mean Jeffrey … the plane is loaded and ready to go. I’ll get them to fire up the engines,” he said, heading back toward the plane.

Jeffrey looked at Ron. “If something goes wrong,” he said solemnly, “the Huntington operation is yours. The restaurant, the rackets … everything.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Ron insisted.

“I’ve already called my consigliere,” Jeffrey replied. “Everything is in place to transfer Paulie’s to make it legal. The rest, you’ll have to handle personally. But once they know the restaurant is yours, it will all fall into place.”

“I am without words,” Ron said, solemnly placing his hand over his heart. “Thank you.”

“No one lives forever, my friend,” Jeffrey said, placing his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “And I’ve made it longer than anyone ever expected.”

119

Opposition Research

Chapter 19 The United States Capitol is one of the most beautiful buildings in all America. Despite the negative political climate of any given time, approaching the domed structure on the Hill gives one the sense all domestic turmoil will somehow work itself out and the great experiment in democracy will survive. The building housing modern day scallywags and thieves also holds the spirits of leaders like Will Rogers, Davey Crockett, and Henry Clay. When the bright sun hits the white dome on a cloudless day, relief overcomes the persistent anxiety induced by mindless meanderings on social media and the screaming madmen and madwomen of the twenty-four hour news cycle.

As majestic as the outside of the Capitol is, a slow walk from end-to-end and floor-to-floor is the equivalent of thumbing through an old-school American history book – the ones containing more words than pictures. Hallways connecting both Chambers of Congress are lined with detailed sculptures of men and women who shaped each state’s unique chapter in America’s story. Artwork varies from huge paintings of stories passed down century after century, to ornate ceiling frescos depicting the faces of leaders whose names are long forgotten. Still, all of the symbols, collectively and individually, embrace the values upon which the Republic is based. An unrushed tour of the artwork alone would require visits over multiple days.

Unfortunately, for today’s tourists, much of this beauty is hidden from the general public due to security concerns. One of the great rooms hidden from view is the Speaker’s Lobby. Located directly behind the House of Representatives, it is a place where members of Congress can go to mingle, meet with staff or simply escape the political worries of the day by sitting next to a fireplace with a cup of coffee

120

Rick Robinson

while looking out a window at the view down the National Mall. For most, the distant outline of the Lincoln Memorial offers solace they cannot find on the floor of the House.

Sitting alone in a rare quiet time in the Speaker’s Lobby, Matt Webb was looking out one such window, but he was hardly pacified by the magnificent view. He was troubled and it was obvious from the scowl on his face.

Congressman Ryan Reynard stepped up beside Webb and for a moment he said nothing. Then Reynard nodded in the direction of the image of Lincoln nearly a mile away. “You know,” he said, “they say the statue of Ol’Abe in the Lincoln Memorial is actually two separate sculpts.”

When Webb offered no response, Reynard continued. “If you stand on one side and look up,” he said, “Lincoln is relaxed. His leg is outstretched and his hand is open. His mouth almost gives the hint of a smile. They say that side represents Lincoln at peace.”

“And the other sculpt?” Webb replied, already knowing the story, but was disinclined to remind the Congressman of such.

“Oh, it’s much different,” Reynard replied. “If you look at it from the other side, his hand is balled up in a fist and his leg is drawn back underneath him. The stare is contemplative and he’s frowning. That side of the sculpture represents Lincoln at war.”

The two continued to gaze down the National Mall towards the Lincoln Memorial. Webb broke the silence. “I assume there is some sort of lesson in all of this.”

“Oh yes,” Reynard replied, scratching his chin as he spoke. “We’re at war here.”

Webb was puzzled by the reference. “Afghanistan?” he asked.

Reynard rolled his eyes in exasperation. “No, Matt,” he said. “The campaign.”

“A little dramatic, don’t you think,” Webb replied to Reynard, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “War? Really?”

Reynard was not amused by his staffer’s response. “Oh, we are at war, my friend,” said assuredly, but quietly. “Make no mistake.

Someone wants to end my career on the Hill. They’ve fired the first shot by digging deep enough to find my first wife.”

121

Opposition Research

“First wife?” Webb exclaimed loudly, then he remembered where they were. He looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was within earshot and then proceeded in a confidential tone. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s what I’ve been so agitated about recently,” Reynard replied, grasping Webb’s arm. “Griffith came to me with documentation of how Mrs. Reynard is actually the ‘current Mrs. Reynard.’”

“Oh hell,” Webb said, shocked by the news. He dropped his head into his right hand and rubbed his brow back and forth. “I had no idea.”

“Neither does my wife,” Reynard smirked.

“You’re kidding me?” Webb said, looking at his boss. “She’ll absolutely lose her mind.”

“She’ll lose me,” Reynard concluded. “If she finds out about this, she’s out of here.”

“No shit,” Webb agreed.

“Which is exactly why we visited the pub the other day,” Reynard reminded Webb of their visit to Ireland’s Four Courts. “I’m convinced someone gave this to Griffith and we need to know who.”

“You sure Griffith didn’t find it on his own?” Webb asked. “He’s got that new opposition research wing of his firm he was touting when the last time he called you. The FBI guy who got shot up last year is working for him.”

Turning, Reynard leaned against the window sill, his back to the Mall. “Those bastards in there,” he sneered, pointing towards the floor of the House of Representatives. “The ones on the other side.

They want me gone because they know I’m the future.”

Webb thought Reynard was overestimating his own Washington worth, but such is the ego of many Members of Congress. At one time or another, each of them obsesses over some God-given road map leading from the Capitol to the White House. Pennsylvania Avenue is the Yellow Brick Road to political immortality. Some of them think of it so often, they start believing it might actually occur. Reynard himself had recently reached such a point. Webb offered a simple nod of acknowledgment to humor his boss.

“We can’t let this happen,” Reynard continued, leaning over and poking Webb in the chest as he spoke. “We have a future.” He paused 122

Rick Robinson

before correcting his own thoughts. “No, we are the nation’s future.

It’s within our grasp.”

“Except for, uh, the situation …” Webb interjected.

“Yeah,” Reynard sighed, “except for the situation.”

“Since you’ve told me you had a first-wife I didn’t know anything about, do you want to go ahead and tell me who she was and what happened to her?” Webb asked, a combination of empathy, curiosity, and need-to-know political reconnaissance all driving his question.

“You know, get it off your chest?”

Reynard pondered the question for a moment. He was smart enough to realize Webb’s motivation for asking was in support of Reynard’s own best interests. “Ever go to the race track?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Webb replied. “I went up to Pimlico last year for the Preakness.”

“Not that kind of track,” Reynard said smirking. “Tracks like Pimlico have big-time stakes days like Triple Crown and Breeders Cup prep races.”

Webb nodded, not quite sure where his boss was headed. Reynard was prone to going off topic into unrelated stories at times, but Webb was adept at following him.

“I’m talking about minor league tracks out in the hinterlands,” Reynard continued. “Places where purses don’t cover the feed bill and where the closest thing to a good horse is what you see on a simulcast screen.”

“No, sir,” Webb replied. “I’ve never been to one of those.”

“Well, I have,” Reynard said, turning to gaze out the window, but not really seeing the scenery. “My old man took me there constantly when I was growing up.”

“I never met your father,” Webb said. “He was long gone by the time we’d met.”

“Good for you,” Reynard scoffed. “He was a mean drunk and a degenerate gambler.”

“I’m sorry,” Webb said, placing a hand lightly on Reynard’s shoulder.

“Don’t be,” Reynard said, dipping his shoulder to shrug Webb’s hand off his body. “It’s what made me tough enough to face anything, including this shit show.”

123

Opposition Research

A staffer or intern no more than 21 or 22 years old entered the Speaker’s Lobby and both men stopped talking as she passed through to the House Chamber.

When they were alone again, Webb asked, “And what does your father have to do with all of this?” As he did so, Webb crossed his arms and turned away from the window, back toward the interior of the lobby. The conversation already was deep and being overheard was a concern. Sharing the information Reynard had chosen to share just outside the floor of the House of Representatives suggested to Webb that Reynard’s anxiety about “the situation” was so intense it might be clouding the Congressman’s judgment.

“A lot of those tracks feature races of horses other than thoroughbreds,” Reynard continued, staring off into the distance as if recalling memories he would rather forget. “Ever watch trotters?”

“No sir, I haven’t.”

“It’s a race where the driver rides behind the horse on a little buggy,” Reynard explained. “Unlike a thoroughbred race, the horse trots instead of sprinting or galloping.”

“Hmmm …,” Webb said. “Now that you mention it, I have seen them on the big screen at the sports bars in Vegas. Weird to watch, but I’ve never bet them.”

“Don’t,” Reynard continued. “They’re too easy to fix. The driver gives a little tug on the reins and the horse breaks stride and has to drop back.” Reynard paused and took a deep breath. “My old man did it all the time. He’d pay drivers to throw a race. Break a favorite and have the right combination, you can come up big. I was with him one night when he did it.”

“And he lost?”

“Oh, hell no,” Reynard said. “He won. In fact, it was one of the biggest tickets he’d ever cashed.”

“Okay, so, what was the problem?”

Reynard looked over and smiled at Webb. “My old man’s rigged win was at the expense of someone else. Someone important – a made guy.”

“Mob?” “Oh yeah,” Reynard said. “The Mob used to run a whole bunch of those old tracks. I was with him. When the race was over, he 124

Rick Robinson

collected his winnings and we headed out to the parking lot. A man came up to us with two other guys and asked for Dad’s winnings.

When my father refused, the man took his money and beat him to a pulp.”

“Jesus.”

“Seventeen years old and two guys held me while I watched my father get beaten within an inch of his life. Right in front of me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Webb replied, rubbing his hand across the top of his bald head.

“When Dad got out of the hospital, one of the guys came to our house,” Reynard said. “They told Dad he could have his winnings back if he did them a favor.”

“A favor?” Webb asked. “For the guys who’d beat the crap out of him?”

“Yeah,” Reynard replied, absently nodding his head. “It seems they had some prostitutes with immigration issues. They were going to be deported, unless …”

Webb finished the sentence. “… unless they married an American citizen.”

“I was a teenager, for Christ’s sake,” Reynard said emotionally, fighting back his rage.

Webb stared at his boss, unable to speak.

“I was afraid they were going to kill my dad,” Reynard said, shaking his head and clenching his fists. “He asked and I did it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Webb whispered.

“Nothing to say,” Reynard said, regaining his composure. “It was quick and dirty. We got married and then quietly divorced. She disappeared and I was assured the documents would be forever hidden.”

“And they were until now,” Webb said.

“Until now,” Reynard repeated.

Webb thought of the turmoil his boss was experiencing. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Dusing is behind this,” Reynard said with confidence. “And he leaked it to Griffith to slow down my rise. I’m convinced Dusing’s afraid of me. Griffith could have never found this. The records were too deep. He had help.”

125

Opposition Research

Webb scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would Dusing give this scoop to Griffith and not just use it himself.”

“It keeps his hands clean,” Reynard replied, rubbing his hands like he was washing them. “He knows I’m fast-tracking and he needs to stop my rise. What better way to screw me over than by doing it through my own consultant?”

Webb did not quite agree with the logic, but stranger things have motivated DC actions. “So, what do we do about it?”

Reynard went to one of the couches and sat down, with a simple hand gesture inviting Webb to do the same. “Like I said, start hanging out at that bar in Arlington. Ireland’s Four Courts.”

“Well I’ve been there before without you,” Webb said. “I’ve gone there a few times to watch rugby.”

“So does Michael Griffith,” Reynard said. “He goes there all the damn time now. He even has his business meetings there.”

“Even his confidential ones?” skepticism coloring his question.

“Especially his confidential ones,” Reynard said, remembering his own meeting there with Griffith. “It’s where he told me about discovering my whore bride. He likes having meetings out in the open. It makes him feel important and in a position of power. It’s from all that Godfather bullshit he’s always talking about.”

“Okay,” Webb said hesitantly.

“You’ve met Griffith, right?” Reynard said. “You know what he looks like.”

“Of course, I do,” Webb replied incredulously. “I’ve met him when we’ve had campaign stuff. You’ve always tried to keep the office separate from the campaign, but I’ve been around him in those circumstances.”

“So, he could recognize you?”

“Well, I would hope so,” Webb replied, cocking his head. “But Griffith seems like the kind of guy who only pays attention to the people at the top.” He pointed to the Member of Congress pin on Reynard’s coat lapel. “He’d probably only remember me if I had one of those.”

“Still, we have to be careful here,” Reynard concluded. “Like I told you, go and blend in. Wear your rugby jersey. Pull a cap down low. Get some petty cash out of the campaign and charge it to stamps 126

Rick Robinson

or something. Buy a lot of Guinness and Jameson for the regulars.

Gain their drunken trust. See if they’ll talk. See if they’ll drop a dime on who Griffith meets with on a regular basis.”

“Got it.”

“And take one of your friends with you,” Reynard continued.

“Why?” “If Griffith walks in the front door,” Reynard was crafting the plan as he spoke. “You walk out the back. Maybe, your friend can get closer and pick up some direct dirt from Griffith himself.”

Webb thought his boss was way over thinking his master plan and Webb had no intention of trying to get anyone to hang out with Griffith to get information. Instead of speaking up, Webb simply nodded – a response Webb intended as mere acknowledgment, but Reynard interpreted as an agreement.

“I need to confirm its Dusing who is handing him this bullshit. I need to find out if they’re working together or if an intermediary is just playing Griffith,” Reynard continued. “Either way, I get both sides cornered. My enemies and my supposed friends are both suddenly indebted to me.”

Reynard grabbed Webb by the arm and led him to the floor of the House, which was out of session. Except for a few staffers from each party’s cloakroom, no one was in the chamber. Webb looked around the room. He had been to the House floor countless times over his career. Nevertheless, as on all prior occasions, he was impressed by the grandeur of the room, from the paintings of Washington and Lafayette to the bust of Moses – the Giver of Laws – that looks down on the Speaker.

“Ever look under the chairs?” Reynard asked, pointing at a small compartment under each cushioned seat in the House chamber.

“No,” Webb replied. “Isn’t it where they used to put the daily edition of the Federal Register and the Journal?”

“Used to,” said Reynard.

“Now it’s online, but I guess the Architect of the Capitol never took them down,” Webb said.

“Not quite,” Reynard said. Reaching under one seat, he pulled out a black canvas bag with the words EMERGENCY ESCAPE HOOD silkscreened on it.

127

Opposition Research

“What the hell?” Webb replied.

“It’s a gas mask,” Reynard said. “If this place gets hit by a terrorist attack, it gives a Member of Congress thirty minutes of oxygen to find a safe haven.”

Webb had never heard anything about the gas masks before. He took the package and looked at it. “Damn.”

“You and me,” Reynard stated, confidently pointing at the bag, “we’re down to our last thirty minutes of air. Fix this or we’re dead.”

128

Rick Robinson

Chapter 20 “Whenever there’s a conflict, the President sends his Envoy. Bombs in Damascus, or Jerusalem,” Richard Thompson sang one of his favorite Warren Zevon songs out loud while bounding through the front door of his office.

Fresh off a fishing trip where he and his wife had reconciled many of their marital issues, Thompson felt rejuvenated. Most importantly, he felt motivated to plunge wholeheartedly into his new role in Griffith’s campaign organization. If it meant people like Josh were winning races, he was ready to play the political game. Shedding his guilt about how Billy Wilson’s parents reacted to the Maysville incident lifted a burden. In any event, the campaign was already moving on to the next level of battle.

The twenty-four hour news cycle on the dust-up in Maysville had run its course, but Griffith’s quick ad on social media featuring the incident was gathering hits and likes at a rate normally reserved for pictures of nipple slips of famous actresses. Not to be outdone on negative advertising, the Wilson camp was focusing all its media efforts on the bridge. Thompson was in for more than a dime. He was in for the dollar. So, this is what it’s like to be Michael Griffith, he thought to himself as he finished a chorus of The Envoy. I think I could get used to this.

The Fat Man and Leo Argo were waiting for Thompson in the office War Room, a conference room where each wall was a whiteboard containing notes and strategies for each campaign under contract with Griffith. The Fat Man was wearing his normal ill-fitting blue suit and Argo had on khaki cargo pants and a black t-shirt bearing the FBI logo over his pocket. When Thompson entered the room, he thought it looked like Argo was providing protection to some third-

129

Opposition Research

world ambassador. He pointed back and forth at the pair. “Looks like another threat to world peace for the envoy,” Thompson sang as he walked to the whiteboard, grabbed a marker and placed a large X through the words Wilson Announcement.

The Fat Man and Argo looked at each other, uncomfortably considering who should respond first to Thompson’s musical entrance.

“Welcome to my world,” said The Fat Man smiling at Argo. “I’ve been dealing with these outbursts of random songs for nearly three decades now.”

“I’m not sure what to think,” Argo said. “Is he always like this?”

“Yes,” The Fat Man said. “Through highs and lows, he’ll always come up with a song. Think of it as Tourette’s in the Key of G.” Argo was not satisfied. “But why this song at this particular moment?” he asked. “I mean, what is this song? Is it even real? I’ve never heard it before.”

The Fat Man waved his hands like a referee indicating a team declining a penalty. “No, no, no,” he declared with great urgency, glancing at Thompson. “Don’t even go there. His reference to a song can lead us down a rabbit hole with copious amounts of obscure music trivia taking days to explore and eventually climb out of.”

“Too late,” Thompson declared, proudly raising his hands in victory like Notre Dame’s Touchdown Jesus.

“I blame you,” The Fat Man whispered to Argo while elbowing him in the ribs.

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. “I didn’t know.”

“Newbie,” The Fat Man replied.

Unfazed by the exchange between his two friends, Thompson paced the room. “My friends, every person of power has an envoy – a fixer if you will – a devoted servant stepping in at the very moment the person needs them most.”

“And I suppose, at Wilson’s announcement you were Josh’s envoy,” Argo theorized.

Thompson spun and pointed at Argo. “Precisely,” he said excitedly, before starting to sing again. “Whenever there’s a crisis, the President sends his envoy …”

“Alrighty then,” The Fat Man said. He was used to Thompson’s weird songs, but he did not necessarily like the way this musical rant 130

Rick Robinson

was going. He knew Thompson as a moral public servant whose life was guided by some True North philosophical compass magnetically pulling him to beliefs in democracy, the Republic and all the stuff taught in a 1970s era Civics class. Suddenly, seemingly overnight in the context of the new business venture Thompson’s demeanor was dramatically changing, and to Thompson, the reelection of Josh Barkman seemed to be like a priority without principle. Though superficially jovial, Thompson somehow seemed mean and The Fat Man did not like it. In any event, it was a discussion The Fat Man would save for a time when the pair were alone.

“The goal each and every day of a campaign is to win the day,” Thompson declared triumphantly. “When Wilson screwed up, we won the day, boys.” Thompson turned and sketched a poorly drawn mushroom cloud. “We screwed up his announcement and gave ourselves an issue to throw before the voters. Billy Wilson does not have the temperament to be a Congressman. We didn’t tie. We won it with a big ol’ atomic bomb.”

“Congratulations,” said The Fat Man in a tone easily confusing the ambiguously blurred praise with sarcasm. “You should be proud of yourself.”

“But that was yesterday’s news,” Thompson sang a new tune.

“And yesterday’s gone.”

“This one’s on you,” said Argo to The Fat Man. “Sorry,” The Fat Man replied. “I normally see them coming.” He looked back at Thompson. “Beatles?”

“Wrong!” Thompson shouted, gleefully tossing his hands in the air. “Chad and Jeremy. But it was recorded at Abbey Road. So nice guess.”

“I should know better than to guess on music trivia,” The Fat Man said.

“Correct,” Thompson said, turning to focus on the whiteboard again. “You need research.”

“And here comes the tie in,” The Fat Man whispered to Argo.

“And today, we start winning days with more research.” Thompson was erasing portions of the whiteboard about the Barkman/Wilson battle The Fat Man had written there earlier. Holding his marker, Thompson was ready to start listing items. “Tell me, what do we know 131

Opposition Research

so far about our opponent?”

“He’s pretty clean,” The Fat Man replied. “So far, it’s all pretty standard.”

Thompson wrote STANDARD LIFE and underlined it. “So, what the hell do we have?”

The Fat Man winced. “Cars, mortgages – you know, the regular stuff,” he said, pointing at the other part of the whiteboard wall on which the team had been categorizing data.

Thompson picked up a green marker and wrote BORING. “Not exactly the stuff of award-winning campaign ads, guys.”

The Fat Man shrugged his shoulders. “Right now, we don’t have a lot,” he said.

Argo looked over at The Fat Man. “Maybe, maybe not,” he jumped in.

“Whatcha got, Leo?” Thompson asked, leaning forward in eager anticipation, putting the cap on the marker.

Argo cocked his head. “Nothing but a hunch,” he said.

“Which is …” Thompson’s voice trailed up to indicate a question.

“Yes,” The Fat Man repeated, somewhat aggravated Argo was going down a road he had not previously shared. “Which is …”

“At this point nothing more than a gut feeling,” Argo replied.

“Former FBI Agents don’t have simple hunches,” Thompson said.

“I can see it in your eyes, Leo. You’re onto something.”

“Maybe,” Argo replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Just something I want to follow up on and put it to bed.”

“And what do you want to put to bed?” Thompson pressed.

“I told you,” Argo replied. “A hunch.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Thompson asked, smiling.

“No,” Argo said. “Not until I do some additional research.”

“Entailing …?” Thompson’s asked, rolling his hands in a tight circle encouraging Argo to share more.

“A day trip to Appleton, Wisconsin for a little fishing,” Argo said.

“Fishing trip?” Thompson asked. “Leo, I’m as much into walleye fishing as the next guy, but we’re in campaign mode. It’s game time, my man.”

“Well, not literally fishing,” Argo laughed. “I thought you lawyer types called discovery a fishing expedition. I’ll be fishing for informa132

Rick Robinson

tion. Dustin found a piece of the family bio indicating they moved to Kentucky from Wisconsin. I’d like to travel there for a little record room research.”

Thompson thought for a minute. “What do you need?”

Argo spoke in a matter of fact tone. “I’ll be in and out in one day,” he said. “Airfare and an Uber. And I’d like Joey to come with me.”

Thompson was curious as to the underlying catalyst for Argo’s trip and looked at The Fat Man. “No idea,” The Fat Man said. “He won’t tell me either.”

Thompson’s initial reaction was to push Argo harder. However, as the pair were still getting to know each other in the context of an employer/employee relationship, Thompson wanted to support Argo, if only for the morale boost showing confidence in Argo’s judgment.

“Okay, Leo,” Thompson said. “I’ll okay it. Go win the day.” Thompson stood, indicating the end of the meeting, and he headed to his office continuing to sing.

The Fat Man turned to confront Argo. “What the hell, Leo?” he complained, no longer attempting to hide his aggravation.

“What?” Argo said, throwing his arms out with palms up, trying to look innocent.

“Since our last meeting, I know you’re onto something,” The Fat Man exclaimed, “but why do you need me?”

“I need someone who can help me explore a record room quickly,” Argo replied.

“On a hunch?” The Fat Man replied.

“Because it’s a hunch, Joey,” Argo said. “I’m not going to stir everyone up over a hunch until I get more intel.”

“Okay,” said The Fat Man, standing and approaching the whiteboard Thompson had been using. “But what are you looking for?” he asked, reorganizing the markers Thompson had used in an order consistent with The Fat Man’s obsessive and compulsive nature.

“Something very, very specific,” Argo said.

“What?” The Fat Man turned as Argo gathered up some of the files on the conference table.

“Whether we’re researching the right guy.”

133

Opposition Research

Chapter 21 The webpage for Dulles International Airport informs visitors it’s only a quick 30-minute commute from the airport to the District of Columbia. On any given day, local traffic turns that half-hour commute into a much longer journey. Built in 1962 and named for anticommunist Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, in some cities the main building would be heralded as art-deco if it had been located in one of the hip portions of the urban core in any major American city, but it simply feels sterile as an airport terminal. While most people doing business in DC utilize Reagan Airport in Alexandria for their travel, Dulles is considered the better facility for international travel and private general aviation aircraft.

Cathead took the luggage from the belly of the Citation X and walked over to the black Lincoln Town Car, placing it ever so gingerly into the trunk. When he saw Jeffrey and Jackie coming through the front door of the private terminal, he rushed to the side of the car to open the door. Jackie slid her bird-like tanned legs into the car.

Jeffrey tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll be a minute,” he said, nodding at Cathead to step out of earshot of his traveling companion.

“You’ve got your instructions, Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey said when they were behind the car. “Any questions?”

“None, sir,” Cathead nodded. “I think I’ve got it.”

“Don’t think,” Jeffrey warned with a fiery gaze. “This is your first big task on this trip,” he instructed. “I need to know you can pull this off.”

“You can count on me, sir,” Cathead replied. He was proud Jeffrey was placing such faith in him.

“Good man,” Jeffrey said, patting Cathead on the arm. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

134

Rick Robinson

“Enjoy the sights,” Cathead said.

Jeffrey reacted with a stare chilling Cathead to the bone. “Don’t let me down.”

Cathead watched the Town Car disappear into the distance, then tossed his backpack over his shoulder and began walking towards the main terminal at Dulles. As he walked, he struggled not to let anything distract him. He was singular of focus and determination was etched on his face. Not a short hike by any means, it took a while for Cathead to reach his destination. He surveyed the situation and quickly found the place where he needed to buy a bus ticket to the Metro. He pulled some of Ron’s expense money from his pocket and bought a ticket. It was not long before he hopped the bus to the Metro’s Silver Line Wiehle-Reston East Station.

Once onboard the Metro, he stared at the map on the train, studying how to get from the Silver Line to the Blue Line, which would carry him to his destination. The tracks of the Metro line initially ran above ground between the east and west lanes of Interstate 66, with local neighborhoods just beyond the road. As he sat on the train, he watched the suburban neighborhoods lining both sides of the tracks fly by.

Traffic was heavy heading in and out of the District of Columbia and at a standstill in many places. Looking at the bumper to bumper cars and imagining the frustration of the drivers reminded Cathead of being on the five back in California. Shaking his head and bringing himself back to reality, he tried to focus on his instructions and the contents of his backpack.

He unzipped the backpack and rustled through the black canvas bag, careful not to pull anything out so far that others might see. Inside the backpack were a variety of hats for him to change into on a regular basis, just in case he was picked up on street cameras. Cathead thought it silly, but Jeffrey seemed obsessed about the hats, fearing wearing only one would leave a trail. So as instructed, Cathead pulled out a black Irish peaky hat and tugged it down tightly on his head. He ran his right hand to the bottom of the backpack and felt the handle of a sheathed knife. Rummaging around a bit more, he felt the handle of a gun. Ron had told him he’d have a Sig Sauer. Looking around to make sure no one on the train had noticed his deadly contraband, Cathead removed his hand and slowly zipped up the backpack.

135

Opposition Research

Cathead’s instructions about what to do at the end of his journey were not nearly as clear as the very specific directives about how to get there and what to wear along the way. Jeffrey had kept Cathead’s cell phone, so he could not be tracked by its GPS device. But it also meant he could not reach out to Jeffrey, Ron or anyone else for clarification if things did not go according to plan. Therefore, Cathead reviewed the limited instructions he had memorized repeatedly in his head, trying desperately to not forget a single detail. He was to take the train to the Old Town Metro station and proceed down King Street to a restaurant called the Fish Market. He was to go in and just sit at the bar. From there, well, he had no idea what to do next. Ron told him his contact would find him.

Following a transfer from the Silver Line to the Blue Line at Rosslyn, Cathead continued on a route taking him past Arlington National Cemetery, the Pentagon and Ronald Reagan National Airport. When he finally arrived at the Old Town Metro station, he grabbed the handle of the backpack and walked onto the elevated platform, looking in every direction trying to decide which way might take him to the Fish Market. The street below was abuzz with activity. He noticed many people were boarding a bus resembling a trolley car. He watched as the bus pulled away, circled back around and made a right. Cathead decided the bus probably was headed toward a shopping or business district, which would be his best bet at finding the restaurant. After he got to street level, Cathead started off on foot to the street the bus had taken. A few minutes later, he was walking down King Street.

The sidewalks of King Street were made of old bricks. The new leather dress shoes he had bought made his feet hurt as he stumbled along the uneven surface. King Street seemed to be the longest street in the world, at least twice the length of Main Street in Huntington Beach. Cathead pressed forward as he walked past blocks of old colonial townhomes that now contained offices, shops, restaurants, and bars. He made sure not to bump into anyone on the crowded sidewalk as he moved quickly down the street. Due to the oppressive humidity, sweat poured from under his hat. Nearly twenty blocks later, he finally saw a sign for the Fish Market.

At the end of King Street, the Fish Market is a staple in Old Town Alexandria. With the fresh catch of the day on an icy display in the 136

Rick Robinson

front window, it is a popular stop for tourists and locals alike. Before he got to the entrance to the Fish Market, he switched hats to a grey flannel topper. Following the instructions he had been given, Cathead went to the end of the bar and took a seat facing the windows out onto the street, ordered a beer, and waited. The friendly bartender tried to engage Cathead in conversation, but he quietly sipped on his beer waiting for … well, whatever was supposed to happen next.

Cathead had been at the bar more than an hour when a woman approached him. She was a short brunette with her hair pulled back in a loose messy bun. She sat next to Cathead and pulled off her black horn-rimmed glasses. Never looking anywhere other than forward, she spoke. “That beer looks good,” she said.

Unsure if this was his contact, Cathead stiffened his back and tried to give the appearance of looking tough. “It is,” he said. “Nice and cold. Like you, apparently.” He figured if she slapped him, she was some random woman sitting next to him in a bar. If she did not, she was his contact.

The woman did not take the bait. “You know what goes good with a beer?” she asked, waving off the bartender.

“No,” Cathead replied.

“A cigar,” the woman instructed.

“Really?” Cathead took a long pull on his beer.

“Yes.” “I’m new around here,” Cathead said, cocking his head. “Just where should I go to get a good cigar?”

“A block up the street,” the woman replied. “Same side. You can’t miss it. The smell of smoke will hit you about two doors before you get there.” And with that, the woman got up and walked out of the Fish Market.

Cathead reached in his wallet, tossed some money on the bar and followed her out onto King Street. When he looked up and down the street, she was nowhere to be found. So, he made a right and headed up the street. It was not long until Cathead found the cigar shop. The woman was right. The smell gave the store away. The door to the cigar shop was wide open and a group of men – young and old – were sitting around in metal chairs smoking cigars and pipes. In the back of the store was a large humidor.

137

Opposition Research

A young man with a long red beard stood and greeted Cathead as he entered. “Hey, how ya doin’?” the man offered in a Scottish accent. “What can I help ya with today?”

“Just looking for a cigar to enjoy,” Cathead replied.

“Well, ya’ve come to the right place,” the man said, pointing to the back of the store. “I’ve got the biggest humidor in town. If you can’t find the smoke ya want here, ya ain’t gonna find it in da city.”

“Thanks,” Cathead replied as he headed to the large walk-in humidor. He walked around looking at the brands and wondering why he had been sent to this small store.

Another man in the humidor wearing a “Twisted Sister” tee-shirt approached him holding a box of cigars. The man was big and had a large colorful tattoo around his arms and neck. “Looking for a recommendation on a cigar?”

Cathead looked at the size of the man and the fact he stood between him and the exit. He thought of unzipping the backpack and reaching for the Sig Sauer. Instead, he kept his cool and went with attitude instead. “What?” he replied.

“Cigars?” the man reiterated, holding the box out to Cathead. “If you’re looking for a recommendation, I have a brand I think you’ll like.”

“Okay,” Cathead responded hesitantly.

“Hoya de Monterey,” the man continued. “Black wrapper. But you should buy the whole box. They’re cheaper that way.”

Cathead looked over the man’s shoulder towards the front of the store. The old crowd was smoking and telling stories, just like they had been when he came in. But across the street, through the front window, he saw the brunette. Cathead hesitantly took the box from Tattoo Man. “Thanks,” he said.

“There’s a great place to burn one down by the river, a block or two to your left,” said Tattoo Man, looking intently into Cathead’s eyes.

As Tattoo Man headed out of the humidor and towards the front door, Cathead proceeded to the cash register.

“Ah, nice choice my friend,” the bearded cashier replied. “Hoya is one of the old brands and one of my favorites.”

“Thanks,” Cathead replied. “I’m looking forward to trying one.”

138

Rick Robinson

“Anything else you need … a cutter … a lighter?” the cashier asked, pointing at the items in his glass case.

Cathead looked at the wide array of wool hats on a shelf behind the cash register. “Yeah,” he said. “Let me have that green plaid hat.”

When Cathead walked outside the cigar store with his new hat atop his head, the brunette had once again disappeared, and Tattoo Man was gone. Wandering down King Street towards the Potomac River, he stopped at a bench along the street and sat down. Scanning up and down the street, he placed the backpack between his legs. He pulled the box of cigars from a plastic bag and opened it up. As he fumbled through the batch, it quickly became apparent one cigar was missing. Under the place where the missing Hoya was supposed to be, he found a car fob to a Ford.

Cathead looked quizzically at the fob. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he mumbled to himself. As a lightbulb went off in his otherwise dim head, he smirked and hit the lock button on the fob. Across the street, the lights to a silver Ford Focus flashed on and off. “Well, sonofabitch,” he said. He sat on the bench for a few minutes to ensure no one was staking out the vehicle. Once he was sure he was clear, Cathead walked across the street to the car. Tossing his backpack onto the floor in front of the passenger seat and easing into the driver’s seat, Cathead noticed a map on the seat next to him – the old-fashioned multi-fold type, like the ones they used to give away at gas stations. There was writing on the front page. THIS WILL GET YOU WHERE YOU NEED TO GO. VERY HOT. DUMP AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. Cathead looked up and saw the brunette and Tattoo Man standing on the corner opposite him. He tipped his new hat at them, started the car and pulled out.

139

Opposition Research

Chapter 22 The World War II Monument is the newest addition on the National Mall in DC. The brainchild of World War II veteran Roger Durdin and Representative Marcy Kaptur (D-OH), fundraising for it became the passion of former Senate Leader Robert Dole (R-KS). A fitting tribute to America’s Greatest Generation, Dole is so committed to the idea of the memorial that he often spends afternoons sitting under a tree near the Visitors’ Center, greeting fellow veterans who come to the nation’s capital as part of Honor Flights. Barely able to rise from his wheelchair, Dole poses for pictures and thanks veterans for their dedicated service.

This day, there were no Honor Flights and Senator Dole was likely resting quietly at his residence in the Watergate complex. Instead, a group of tourists wandered around reading the inscriptions and having their pictures taken in front of some of the 56 pillars depicting individual states and US territories that participated in the war effort. On the far side of the structure people snapped photos of 4,048 Gold Stars, each representing 100 Americans who died during World War II. As Jackie stood at the entrance to the memorial and marveled at its majesty, the wind blew off the nearby Potomac River, offering some much-needed relief from the oppressively humid weather. Jackie led Jeffrey immediately to an engraving of the prayer Franklin Delano Roosevelt shared with Americans the evening of June 6, 1944 – DDay and read it out loud.

“My fellow Americans: Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far.

140

Rick Robinson

And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer: Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our Nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.

Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.

They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard.

For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph.

They will be sorely tried, by night and by day, without rest until the victory is won. The darkness will be rent by noise and flame. Men’s souls will be shaken with the violences of war.

For these men are lately drawn from the ways of peace. They fight not for the lust of conquest. They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate. They fight to let justice arise and tolerance and goodwill among all Thy people. They yearn but for the end of the battle, for their return to the haven of home.

Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom.

And for us at home — fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas — whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them—help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice.

Many people have urged that I call the Nation into a single day of special prayer. But because the road is long and the desire is great, I ask that our people devote themselves in a continuance of prayer. As we rise to each new day, and again when each day is spent, let words of prayer be on our lips, invoking Thy help to our efforts.

Give us strength, too — strength in our daily tasks, to redouble the contributions we make in the physical and the material support of our armed forces.

And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons wheresoever they may be.

141

Opposition Research

And, O Lord, give us Faith. Give us Faith in Thee; Faith in our sons; Faith in each other; Faith in our united crusade. Let not the keenness of our spirit ever be dulled. Let not the impacts of temporary events, of temporal matters of but fleeting moment let not these deter us in our unconquerable purpose.

With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogancies.

Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister Nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace; a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil.

Thy will be done, Almighty God. Amen.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Jackie surmised, looking up and viewing the site from one end to the other.

“It certainly is, my love,” Jeffrey replied, his right arm around her shoulder. He humored her, although his mind was focused elsewhere.

“Wasn’t your father in World War II?” Jackie asked.

“Yes, he was,” Jeffrey replied.

“Pacific or Atlantic?” she asked.

“Atlantic,” Jeffrey replied.

Jackie opened the folder given to tourists and looked at the detail of the memorial. “Then, we should enter through the Pacific arc over there,” she said, pointing to her left.

“Great call, my dear,” Jeffrey said, looking at his watch. He was supposed to meet Cathead at the pond adjacent to the memorial in about twenty minutes. Spending time wandering around as tourists was perfect. They went from pillar to pillar, with Jackie stopping to read each inscription as they walked.

“My legs are starting to hurt,” Jeffrey said to Jackie, again looking at his watch.

“Oh baby, I’m sorry.” There was a wisp of disappointment in her voice.

“I may go back to the room and rest,” Jeffrey declared, trying to appear tired.

“I’ll go with you,” Jackie sighed, looking at the various other sights within walking distance.

142

Rick Robinson

“Oh no,” Jeffrey insisted, grabbing her hand. “This is your trip.

Go and enjoy yourself.”

“Are you sure?” Jackie said, looking at Jeffrey with a mix of relief and guilt.

“Absolutely,” Jeffrey replied, leaning down and kissing her on the forehead. “I want you to have fun on this trip.”

“Really?” Jackie asked enthusiastically. “I can keep going without you?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “Walk up to the Lincoln Memorial and see all the sights you want to see, I’m going to head back to our room.”

Jackie hugged Jeffrey and went on her way up the National Mall towards the Lincoln Memorial.

Jeffrey watched Jackie disappear in the mass of people walking along the reflecting pool. Once she was out of sight, he headed to what is known to some DC tourists as the Duck Pond, a small pond to the north of the World War II memorial. There sitting alone on a park bench was Cathead, his backpack on his lap and another black canvass bag between his legs.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey said as he approached the young man. “Nice hat.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey,” Cathead replied. “I picked it up at the cigar store.”

“Along with some good cigars, I hope?” Jeffrey asked in a knowing tone. Jeffrey sat down beside Cathead. Sore from all the sightseeing, he stretched out his legs.

Cathead smirked. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve got a whole box I think you’ll enjoy.”

Jeffrey looked down at Cathead’s bare hands. “I assume you wore the gloves from your backpack in your travels.”

“Of course,” Cathead’s brain flushed with heat as he lied, but his expression never altered. He did not think to wear the gloves, but what Jeffrey did not know would not keep Cathead from remembering the beating he had received and did not want repeated.

“Good,” Jeffrey replied. “And where is the car?”

“I left it in a public parking lot near the Jefferson Memorial,” Cathead replied, nervously pointing toward the Potomac. “I walked here.”

143

Opposition Research

“Good thinking,” Jeffrey said, placing his index finger on his temple.

“We have to be safe.”

“There are a lot of cars there,” Cathead continued. “So it should be a couple of days before it’s even towed.”

“Perfect,” Jeffrey said, satisfied his plan was working smoothly.

“We’ll be long gone by then,” he continued. “Ron is setting up a meeting for me,” Jeffrey informed Cathead. “I need you to go ahead and scope the place out.”

“Who are you meeting?

“The man’s name is Michael Griffith,” Jeffrey replied, reaching in his wallet and handing him a photo. “He hangs out at an Irish pub across the river in Arlington. The address is on the back of the photo.”

Cathead looked at both sides of the photo. “Got it,” he affirmed, placing the photo in his backpack.

“But, if he is there, do not approach him directly,” Jeffrey instructed.

“Try to get close to see what he’s talking about. But otherwise, just scope out the bar.”

“What do I do then?” Cathead asked. “Should I come and find you?”

“No,” Jeffrey warned. “I’ll find you.”

144

Rick Robinson

Chapter 23 Just north of Lake Winnebago in the heart of Wisconsin’s Fox River Valley is the city of Appleton. Settled in the 1840s, it was a central point for fur traders wishing to do business with the Ho-Chunk and Menominee tribes. Paper mills eventually replaced fur trading and the city’s residents lived gritty industrial lives. As late as the 1970s the town was often referred to as a “sundown town,” effectively prohibiting African-Americans from being on the streets after sundown.

Today the percentage of the city’s minority population has ventured up into the teens. In 2016, the Wall Street Journal declared Appleton as having the highest rate of heavy binge drinking in America.

None of these facts were the reason Leo Argo and The Fat Man hopped a morning flight to Appleton, Wisconsin. On the flight, Argo explained to The Fat Man the reason for their quick research trip.

When Ewing had found a record in Kentucky revealing the Wilson family was from Appleton, basic online background search sites did not reveal their former presence there. The small town was the county seat of Outagamie County. A trip to the county courthouse was in order to review records and confirm the background of the Wilsons prior to their life in Kentucky.

Argo and The Fat Man grabbed an Uber to the Outagamie County courthouse and headed immediately to the office of the Register of Deeds. In a small record room, the two definitely stood out. People who spend their days in record rooms all tend to know each other. It was apparent who the out-of-towners were in the room.

The two ignored the stares and quietly went about exploring the indexing system of the deeds, mortgages, and other records. Like so many record rooms, it seemed to be a jumble of new and old systems. Newer records were indexed and stored on computers, while 145

Opposition Research

older documents were bound in paper books organized by the type of documents contained in the book. Deeds were in one set of books kept on one side of the room, while mortgages and other liens were on the other side. Even The Fat Man, accustomed to record room research, was perplexed by the system.

“You’re new,” said a red-haired woman with freckles who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, her highpitched voice had a northern accent straight out of central casting from the movie Fargo. At any point, Argo was expecting her to say, “Oh ya dere.”

“Do we stand out badly?” Argo laughed. His quick gaze around the room caused most others to look away and get back to their work. Most real estate lawyers do not cast an imposing shadow like the one Leo Argo did as a result of his size and demeanor.

“It’s a small community,” she replied. “And you have a Mexican accent.”

“Cuban,” Argo corrected. “My parents were from Havana.”

“We don’t get many of either in this record room,” she said laughingly with a sparkle in her eye.

The Fat Man looked at the pretty girl. “And I’m sure I stand out, period,” he said jokingly.

Sticking out her hand successively to Argo and The Fat Man, she introduced herself. “I’m Aimee Leonard,” she said. “I own one of the title insurance agencies in these parts.”

“Hi, Aimee,” Argo said, returning the shake. “I’m Leo. Leo Argo.”

The Fat Man followed. “I’m Joe,” he said with a vague wave of his hand around the room. “I’m a lawyer, but from Kentucky. This system is really throwing me off.”

“I’m a lawyer too,” Aimee replied. “Don’t feel bad. I have trouble keeping paralegals because they get so frustrated with our system. In this room, I do most of my own title searches. I know these records pretty well. What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Just a name,” Argo replied, looking around at the stacks of books lining the walls. “Bill or William Wilson.”

Aimee laughed. “Well, that’s pretty obscure,” she said. “Couldn’t you just pick something more common like Jim Smith?”

146

Rick Robinson

“It’s all we’ve got to work with,” Argo said. “We’re looking for any evidence of Bill or William Wilson allegedly living in Appleton in the early seventies. Car titles, deeds, mortgages, marriage records … anything.”

The Fat Man was puzzled by Argo’s use of the word “allegedly,” but said nothing.

“Great,” Aimee replied. “I can help you out. Which county?”

“What do you mean?” The Fat Man asked. “This county, I guess.”

“Well,” Aimee, replied, going to a map on the far wall of the room and running her fingers around Appleton’s city borders. “Appleton is in three counties.”

The Fat Man and Argo looked at each other dejectedly. “You’re kidding me,” Argo replied, looking at the map.

“Nope,” Aimee said, again pointing at the map as she spoke.

“You’re in Outagamie County, right now. But parts of Appleton are also in Calumet and Winnebago Counties.”

“And where are the courthouses for those counties?” asked The Fat Man. “Calumet County is in Clinton,” Aimee said. “And Winnebago County is about half an hour south of here in Oshkosh.”

“B’gosh,” The Fat Man added.

Aimee put her hand on her hip and smirked. “Wow,” she said.

“We’ve never heard that one before.”

Argo looked at The Fat Man who was turning a bright shade of red at his failed attempt at humor. “Sorry,” Argo apologized. “My friend specializes in dad jokes.”

“Bad ones, I see,” Aimee laughed.

“So we’ve got to hit three courthouses to find evidence of Bill Wilson?” The Fat Man asked, trying to manfully regain some credibility.”

“Yes, sir,” Aimee replied. “That is unless you happen to find the guy you’re looking for in the first one.

“Or not find him,” Argo muttered. Looking at The Fat Man, he continued, “We better get to work if we’re going to hit three counties and make our evening flight back.”

“Got it,” The Fat Man replied, looking at Aimee. “We’ve got a lot of paper to rummage through. Can I ask a favor?”

147

Opposition Research

“Sure. Why not?” Aimee shrugged. “Glad to help.”

“If you can show him the criminal records,” The Fat Man said, “I can figure out the real estate records, car registrations, and marriage licenses.”

“Sure,” Aimee said, grabbing Argo by the arm. “Come on big guy, follow me.”

The Fat Man went to the real estate records first. An hour or so of searches turned up nothing, so he headed to the index for marriage licenses. He found no evidence whatsoever of Bill Wilson in the right age range. Searches of other records by Aimee and Argo returned similar results. After the pair thanked Aimee for her assistance, Argo and The Fat Man ordered up another Uber. Outside the courthouse and early on the Uber ride the pair remained quiet, only occasionally talking baseball statistics.

About ten minutes on the road south to Oshkosh, The Fat Man turned the conversation to the topic of their research. “You said something weird back there,” he said to Argo.

“Did you hear Aimee’s accent?” Argo replied, looking at The Fat Man expectantly.

“Yeah,” The Fat Man replied. “So what?”

“And you think I said something weird,” Argo said laughing.

“No,” The Fat Man corrected Argo. “She said something weirdly.

You, on the other hand, said something weird.”

“My God, your wife must want to shoot herself at times,” Argo replied. “What did I say weird?”

The Fat Man ignored the personal jab. “When we were talking about Bill Wilson living in Appleton, you said ‘allegedly.’”

“Caught that did ya,” Argo replied with a sly smile.

“Yes, I caught it,” The Fat Man said, waiting for an explanation.

“Well I’m out of practice,” Argo said, shaking his head. “I slipped.”

The Fat Man continued. “We’re here on a hunch and now you’re saying Bill Wilson is allegedly from Appleton,” he stated in an even tone.

“Exactly,” Argo replied. He knew The Fat Man was not going to relent, so it was time to tell him his theory. Still, Argo wanted to have a little fun with The Fat Man in the process. “Yes, sir, he is an alleged person at this point.”

148

Rick Robinson

“Okay,” The Fat Man replied, knowing Argo was trying to talk in circles. “I’ll bite. Just what are we hoping to find here?”

“Joey, my friend,” Argo replied. “It all depends on if I’m right or wrong.”

The Fat Man cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows in disbelief.

Argo was going to make him work for it. “Right or wrong about your hunch?” he asked.

“Correct,” Argo nodded.

“So what are we looking for?” The Fat Man asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Argo smiled.

“Of course, you can,” The Fat Man said. “We’re on the same team. Remember?”

“I mean,” Argo said, “I can’t tell you because I don’t know what I’m looking for yet.” He turned to look out of the window at the scenery passing by, awaiting The Fat Man’s next question.

The Fat Man was good at sniffing out trails, but now he was getting exasperated. “I’m lost,” he declared.

Turning back toward The Fat Man, and truly not wanting to upset his friend any further, he stopped the evasion tactics. It was time for Argo to let The Fat Man in on the hunch. “In Kentucky, we were looking at records proving Bill Wilson’s existence, right?” he asked.

“Right,” The Fat Man replied. “Deeds. Car titles. Mortgages.”

“Exactly,” Argo replied. “All those documents prove he exists ... in Kentucky.”

The Fat Man shook his head. “I’m still not following you.”

“Now we’re looking for something trying to establish Bill Wilson’s real existence,” Argo replied. “We might find documents showing he’s a fake or, maybe, we’re looking for absolutely nothing at all.”

“What?”

Argo was enjoying the process of revealing his theory in fractional increments, but he decided it was time to go ahead and blurt it out.

“I’m looking to prove Bill Wilson never existed,” he said.

“You’re talking stupid now,” The Fat Man snorted. “I’ve seen him. You’ve seen him. Hell, Richard nearly got in a fight with him. I’m pretty sure the punch means he exists.”

“Oh, I know there is a guy in Kentucky using the name Bill Wilson Sr.,” Argo said. “And I know he has a son running for Congress.”

149

Opposition Research

“And you believe neither existed in Wisconsin?” The Fat Man queried, shaking his head. “You’re still not making any sense.”

Argo patted The Fat Man on his leg. “Joey,” he asked, “have you ever heard of WITSEC?” The Fat Man paused. “Let me guess,” he scoffed. “It’s an Irish punk band Thompson is making you listen to during your off time.”

“Funny,” Argo said, shaking his head. “It’s a good guess, but WITSEC is a federal witness protection program.”

The Fat Man tried to run the acronym through his head and mumbled a couple of words.

“Don’t try to figure it out,” Argo interjected into The Fat Man’s mumblings. “Unlike other government agencies where everything has an appropriate acronym, the Federal Marshall Service could never come up with a catchy name. It literally means ‘witness security.’”

“Witness protection?” The Fat Man’s voice was flat. “Going a little overboard on your hunch, don’t you think?” he asked.

Argo smiled at The Fat Man’s reaction. “Did you ever watch the movie Goodfellas?” Argo asked.

“Of course.” The Fat Man replied. “I love that movie. I can’t walk past the television when it’s on. My wife and I know all the lines.”

“Good,” Argo continued. “Then you’ll remember the end of the movie when Henry Hill was in witness protection.”

“Right,” The Fat Man replied. “He said he was living with a bunch of schnooks.”

“Do you know where he was living?” Argo asked.

“I think I remember reading he entered witness protection somewhere out west,” The Fat Man replied. “Somewhere like Omaha.”

“Correct,” Argo said. “Omaha was his first stop. But do you know about his second stop?”

The Fat Man shook his head negatively. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Where was Henry Hill’s second stop?”

Argo smiled. “About two hundred yards from your office.”

“What?” The Fat Man was surprised by the answer. “No way,” he exclaimed.

150

Rick Robinson

“Henry screwed up in Omaha,” Argo said, continuing the story.

“They moved him to Kentucky. His first stop was at a place called the Drawbridge Inn.” “They just tore it down a couple of years ago,” The Fat Man replied. “It was right across the parking lot from the office. My buddy Jim Willman ran the place.”

“Well, for about six months, your pal had a customer by the name of Martin Lewis,” Argo said.

“Like Dean and Jerry?”

“Yeah,” Argo laughed. “Those were Henry’s favorite comedians.

And Martin Lewis lived at the Drawbridge while the United States Marshalls built a home for him somewhere out in the southern part of the county called Beech Grove.”

“Oh my God,” The Fat Man responded. “That’s not too far from where I live.”

“His kid went to a school called Simon Kenton, class of 1984,” Argo said. “And the government started him in business. He ran a horse carriage service in downtown Cincinnati.”

All this information was coming way too fast for The Fat Man. “I’m truly stunned,” he said. “My wife and I took our kids on one of those carriages.”

“Well, the horse gig is where Henry screwed the pooch,” Argo said.

“How?” Argo was having fun telling The Fat man about the celebrity on his home turf. “One day, the Marshalls saw Henry in the newspaper with a perm and fake mustache promoting the business.”

“Bad for protection if you’re in the news, I suppose,” The Fat Man deduced.

“And it was right around the same time the Marshalls figured out he’d stiffed someone very important for one of the horses he’d acquired for the carriage service.”

“Who’d he stiff?” The Fat Man asked.

“The governor of Kentucky,” Argo said with a laugh.

The Fat Man ran his fingers through his beard. “I’m dumbfounded,” he said.

151

Opposition Research

“So were the Marshalls,” Argo said. “Once he screwed over the governor, a state trooper figured out his real identity. The Marshalls freaked out and moved him to Seattle. He was eventually kicked out of the program for dealing drugs.”

“Okay, you have my attention now,” The Fat Man stated. “So you think Bill Wilson is a Henry Hill?”

“Maybe?”

The Fat Man thought for a moment. “I thought the FBI ran witness protection.”

Argo shook his head. “No, sir. The program is run by the US Marshalls, not the FBI. But I know quite a bit about it from my days at the Bureau.”

“Go on.” The Fat Man was now hanging on Argo’s every word.

“When someone goes into the program, they set up what is called a Legend,” Argo said. “They set up all the evidence someone needs to run a normal life. Most of the times they set the person up with a new existence.”

“Like a new name,” The Fat Man said.

“Bland, like William Wilson,” Argo replied. “As milquetoast as you can get. Nothing too flashy for WITSEC.” “And a business,” The Fat Man said. “Like a horse carriage business.”

“Or like a restaurant,” Argo replied. “And the Marshalls get them driver’s licenses, cars, and homes and give them an old address just for good measure.”

The Fat Man thought for a moment about their trip to Appleton.

“Like the prior address in this small city in Wisconsin, located across three counties, written on some already obscure record in Kentucky,” he said.

“Now you know my hunch,” Argo said, placing his hands palms up and relaxing back into his seat.

“So you think Bill Wilson might be in,” The Fat Man paused.

“What is the name of the program again?”

“WITSEC,” Argo replied.

“Bill Wilson Sr. might be in WITSEC.”

152

Rick Robinson

“I told you before we came here, it’s just a hunch,” Argo said.

“I’m going with my gut here. WITSEC was real sloppy in the early years. More than one protected witness got whacked because the Marshalls did a poor job hiding them.”

“That can’t be good for morale,” The Fat Man deadpanned.

“It wasn’t often, but it happened,” Argo said. “Remember, back then there was no internet. Real estate records were not available on a laptop. Not many wise guys would go through record rooms searching car titles and doing real estate exams. So what the Marshalls did usually worked – except when it didn’t.”

The Fat Man looked disappointed “So you don’t know what we’re looking for …”

Argo cut him off. “But I’ll know it when I see it,” he interjected.

“The mantra of the program is DON’T DO ANYTHING.” “And Billy Wilson Sr. did something,” The Fat Man said.

“Damn right he did,” Argo said. “He did something big enough to make national news. And if my hunch is right, there may be a lot of folks wringing their hands over what to do next.”

“And did your hunch just get stronger in the courthouse?” The Fat Man asked.

“Actually, yes,” Argo replied. “Putting down the name of a town covering three separate counties is the kind of thing the Marshalls would do to throw anyone who might be looking off the trail.”

The pair sat in silence for a while and watched the Wisconsin countryside roll by. It was The Fat Man who broke the silence. “So how bad were they?” he asked. “You know, the Marshalls.”

“Oh my God, Joey,” Argo replied. “Back in the early years, they were horrible. Congress had a couple of hearings threatening to shut them down. They did such stupid shit.”

“Such as …” The Fat Man said, urging Argo to dish some dirt.

Leo chuckled. “They faked documents so poorly, it was embarrassing. There was this one Marshall who made fake birth certificates for everyone in the program. Except he used his own birth certificate as a template. He’d just white-out his name and type the goons name over his. A whole bunch of protected witnesses had the same birth date and place of birth. It was sloppy things.”

153

Opposition Research

The Fat Man looked at the Uber application on his iPhone. Their Uber driver was named Sullivan. “Hey, Mike,” The Fat Man got the driver’s attention tapping him on the shoulder. “Turn around,” he instructed.

“Excuse me?” the driver replied.

The Fat Man reached into his wallet and handed Mike a $20.

“Turn us around and head back to the place where you picked us up.”

Argo looked at The Fat Man quizzically. “What’s up, Joey?”

“We need to go back to the courthouse in Appleton,” The Fat Man said. “I think I can make your hunch a reality.”

154

Rick Robinson

Chapter 24 Ireland’s Four Courts was abuzz with activity as the loyal fans of Arsenal football intently watched their team on all the television screens in the pub’s front bar. Yells and screams went up each time their team kicked a ball anywhere within the vicinity of the goal. The noise was so loud you could hear it out in front of the establishment’s distinctive fire engine red walls bordering Wilson Boulevard.

“Hi, Katie. Hey, Lauren,” Michael Griffith said walking past the two at the hostess station as he entered.

“Need a table for a meeting tonight, Mr. Griffith?” Katie asked.

“It’s pretty loud in the front bar. But I can set you up in the James Joyce room, if you need something quieter.”

“Not today, sugar,” Griffith replied. “Just want a couple of pints before I head home.”

“I thought this was your home,” Lauren remarked with her English accent, giving Griffith some cheek.

Michael Griffith laughed and pointed at the British woman with a “you and me” gesture as he headed to the long bar and cozied up between a couple of the regulars.

“You want your mug today, Mr. Griffith?” asked Brendan Walsh, one of three brothers working at the pub. Griffith’s personalized mug sat proudly among some of the regular patrons on the wall behind the bar. Brendan reached for Griffith’s mug and discreetly tried to pull something from inside.

“Whoa, whoa, there junior,” cried Griffith as the bartender slipped the contents of the mug into his pocket. “What the hell ya got there, boy?”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Griffith,” Brendan said, sheepishly pulling a small gun-like device from his pants pocket and handing it to Griffith.

155

Opposition Research

“What the hell is this?” Griffith asked.

“It’s a bottle opener,” Brendan replied, taking the plastic gun back.

To demonstrate, he used it to open a bottled beer ordered by another patron. “Like with any other opener, I can use it to open the bottle.

But with this one, now it’s off, I can shoot the bottle cap at someone.”

Brendan turned and shot his brother Tim in the forehead.

For his part in the drama, Tim Walsh did not seem amused.

“Sweet,” Griffith laughed. “But why keep it in my mug?”

“Because,” Brendan said smiling. “Mug Number 2719 is for ‘The Godfather.’ If I’m going to make somebody sleep with the fishes, I need the Godfather’s approval. Right?”

Griffith laughed and shook his head. “I guess my reputation precedes me,” he said. “Even at my pub. Just make sure to wash out my mug before you pour any beer in it.”

“You got it.”

Griffith looked at the television screen and then at the people on either side of him. Once his beer arrived, he took a sizable gulp. “You boys know there is a NASCAR race on today?”

Arnie, the large Scotsman with the heavy accent, spat his smokeless tobacco juice into a plastic cup and snarled at Griffith. “I swear to Christ,” Arnie declared, making a fist, “if you touch the television control, I’ll knock you into next week.”

“Nine televisions in this room,” Griffith continued. “Look around you.” He counted each one, pointing to each as he said the number out loud.

“So?” Arnie asked. “What’s your point, you arse.”

“Can’t you dedicate just one screen to southern rednecks?” Griffith asked sarcastically.

“No,” Arnie growled.

“You know, we rednecks got feelings too,” Griffith said, wiping his eyes as if he was crying.

“You want some southern love?” Arnie asked, his eyes never moving from the screen.

“Actually, yes,” Griffith replied flippantly. “It would be a particularly comforting gesture.”

“Too bad for you,” Arnie said, the disgusted look on his face never wavering. “The Bournemouth match is on later today. That’s as 156

Rick Robinson

far south as we go.”

Griffith put his arm around Arnie and kissed him on the top of his balding head. “Damn,” he said. “Apparently Toby Keith has never been to this bar.”

Ireland’s Four Courts was so crowded, and Griffith was so busy jabbing the regulars, he did not notice two people grabbing open seats down the bar to his left. If he had, he might have picked up on the fact one was wearing a rugby jersey as opposed to the red and white colors of Arsenal soccer and might be familiar to him. And another – sitting a man away – had a peculiarly shaped head.

After the game ended, Arnie’s friend Phil looked over at Griffith.

“So, what’s going on these days, Griff?” Phil asked.

“Same ol’, same ol,’” Griffith replied, taking a drink from his pewter Godfather mug. He paused, searching for another simple saying. “Frost on the pumpkin and the cow’s outta’ the barn.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Phil asked with a laugh.

“No,” replied Griffith, laughing at being called out. “But I’m sure I’ll use it in a campaign ad at some point.”

Phil chuckled at the thought. “You’re at the pub now, not the CNN studios.” He paused and took a drink from his pint. “Seriously, got any good campaigns brewing?”

“Aw hell, Phil,” Griffith replied. “Running a campaign consulting firm is like running a whore house. It’s always a cluster of people who’ll pay anything for a moment of satisfaction. I’ve always got something going.”

“Aren’t you wrapped up in the Florida race?” he asked.

“Oh, there’s a beauty,” Griffith laughed. “Designing a campaign to determine the lesser of two evils.”

Seated only a few spots away, Webb struggled to listen to the conversation. He leaned forward and to his right, blocking the view of Cathead, who sat silently sipping his beer.

“How do you do it?” Phil asked.

“Do what?” Griffith asked.

“Design campaign plans for the lesser of two evils,” Phil prompted.

“Because he’s a wanker,” Arnie interjected.

Griffith smiled at Arnie’s assessment but decided not to respond and answered Phil directly. “It’s the nature of democracy,” Griffith 157

Opposition Research

replied. “I didn’t make the rules.”

“But isn’t the lesser of two evils, still evil?” Phil pondered.

“Phil, ol’ Buddy,” Griffith replied, placing his arm around Phil, “you were in the military, right?”

“Yeah, right.”

“And did you ever question the mission?” Griffith asked.

“All the time,” Phil replied. “Constantly.”

“Ah,” Griffith said, raising his index finger. “But did you ever disobey or disregard an order.”

“Never,” Phil said proudly. “I was a good soldier and did what I was told.”

“So you did what you were told.”

“Damn right I did.”

“Even though more than half of our foreign policy is based on the simple premise the devil we know is better than then the devil we don’t.”

Phil got the point. “But they’re both still devils,” he said, finishing the thought to its conclusion.

“Precisely,” Griffith replied. “And yet we all feign shock and surprise when the devil we backed turns out to be a bad dude.”

Phil nodded his head. “I get it.”

Arnie looked up from his pint. “Gawd damn Yanks.”

“Campaigns are no different, man,” Griffith declared. “People put their names on the ballot and then battle it out. I don’t create them.

Hell, I don’t even vote for them. I just give them the ammunition to fight their battle. Don’t blame me because they can’t live up to the expectations you set for them. And certainly, don’t blame me because you’ve let the bottom of the barrel rise to the top.”

“I bet you’ve got some stories.”

“Brother, you can’t even imagine. And I’ve got a guy now who is the best at busting dust on people.”

“Really? And by busting dust, I assume you mean digging up dirt,” Phil asked.

“Oh, the shit he’s dug up,” Griffith said gleefully.

“Care to share?”

“Oh, hell no,” Griffith replied. “I care to watch NASCAR. Which is what I’m going back to my home to do.” Before Griffith could finish 158

Rick Robinson

his beer and make his exit, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw it was Thompson. About the time Griffith hit the button to talk, Arsenal scored a goal. The cheer was so loud, it muted Griffith’s greeting. “Hang on, Richard,” Griffith shouted in the phone, as he started moving out back toward the pub’s outdoor beer garden. He looked at Brendan as he moved through the crowd. “Son, can you bring me a beer back on the smoking deck?” The Walsh brother nodded, indicating he had heard Griffith’s request.

When Griffith was clear of the crowd and the noise out back, he put the phone up to his ear. “Sorry about the racket, Richard.”

“I take it there is a game on at the Four Courts,” Thompson guessed.

“Oh, yeah,” Griffith replied. “The place is packed. I think I’ll finish my beer out here and head home.”

“Soccer or rugby?”

“How the hell would I know?” Griffith chuckled, shrugging as he spoke. “A bunch of guys in red jerseys kicking and hitting a bunch of guys in white jerseys.”

“And let me guess,” Thompson laughed. “No NASCAR.” “Not one damn screen on the race,” Griffith declared indignantly.

“They’re just all liquored up and singing songs every time someone scores.” Griffith pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and fumbled around for his lighter. Before he could find it, a man in a rugby jersey offered a light. “Thanks,” Griffith said, not even looking at the man.

“You’re welcome,” Thompson replied through the phone.

Griffith frowned “Not you, numbskull,” he said, taking a deep drag. “I was talking to the guy who gave me a light.”

“I thought you quit,” Thompson pointed out.

Kevin Walsh, the third brother working at Ireland’s Four Courts brought out a beer and placed it on the high-top table on the deck. He grabbed a couple of empty glasses off another table and wiped it down. Griffith nodded his thanks. “Hey, you’ve got your cigars,” he said to Thompson. “I like a smoke every now and then, especially with a cold beer. Of which I also have a fresh one right now.”

“But …”

159

Opposition Research

Griffith cut Thompson off as he took a gulp of beer. “Is this going to be a lecture about the current state of my health?” he asked. “Or do we have something else to discuss. I’ve got an important rugby game to watch … or soccer … or something.”

“I love you too,” Thompson replied sarcastically.

“Smooches back, sweetheart.”

Thompson continued. “Anyway, we do have business to discuss.

Leo is in Wisconsin today.”

“What?” Griffith asked. “Why the hell is Leo traveling when we have campaign work to do?”

“He’s got a hunch.”

Matt Webb, of Congressman Reynard’s office, who had given Griffith a light, pulled his cap tightly down on his head. Webb took a drag of his own cigarette, hunched over his beer, trying to appear as if he was listening in on the call.

Kevin turned to walk back into the bar with his collection of dirty glasses when he bumped into a guy with a weird shaped head. “Excuse me, man,” Kevin said good-naturedly. “Didn’t see you there.”

Cathead did not say a word. He merely turned to the side, allowing Kevin to walk past. Then he headed to another high-top and fired up his vape pen.

“What’s the hunch?” Griffith asked, momentarily distracted by the man.

“He won’t tell me,” Thompson replied.

“What do you mean he won’t tell you?” Griffith refocused. “I assume he has a source?”

“Again, he won’t tell me.” Thompson’s tone clearly indicated he wanted Griffith to pick up on what he was not saying.

Suddenly a light bulb went on in Griffith’s head about the work Argo was doing on the Barkman race. “Does it relate to our favorite client?” he ventured.

“Bingo,” Thompson replied. “He’s hot on the trail of something about Wilson.” This was, of course, a comment Webb could not hear in this one-sided listening session.

“Whoo-hoo!” Griffith shouted. “Leo doesn’t have hunches. He has solid research we can use to make money.”

160

Rick Robinson

Thompson was not following Griffith’s reasoning. “But he said it’s just a hunch.”

“I know, I know,” Griffith replied. “I trust his hunches and I don’t care about his sources. His FBI instincts found us illegal immigrant wives. They’ll find us more.”

With that pronouncement, Webb’s head snapped up and he got out his phone.

“I thought you’d be pissed we spent money we could be spending on ads.”

“Pissed?” Griffith said, smiling. “Knowledge is money in our business, pal. We get someone out of a campaign by confirming juicy knowledge, we save money. I’ll take the knowledge from any source.

Hell, I’ll even take it from sources Argo won’t divulge.”

“I’m truly stunned by your reaction,” Thompson declared, admitting his confusion.

Griffith smiled and took a drag from his cigarette. “Godfather Three,” he said.

“You hated Godfather Three,” Thompson replied. “You said it was an abomination to the series.”

“Horrible movie,” Griffith agreed. “But some really good rules came out of it.”

Thompson had been here before. “And I get the idea I’m going to hear one now,” he moaned.

“Finance is a gun,” Griffith said, quoting Don Altobello from his meeting with Vincent Corleone. “Politics is knowing when to pull the trigger.”

“So?” “So, we are holding the gun,” Griffith said. “Our friend will let us know when to pull the trigger.”

“Okay then,” Thompson said. “I’m glad we’re clear on this.”

As Griffith continued the conversation with Thompson, Webb typed out a cryptic text to Congressman Mike Reynard. “YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT DUSING. BUT HE’S GIVING HIS INFORMATION TO THE FBI GUY, NOT GRIFFITH.” “Alright boy,” Griffith concluded. “I’m headed back inside with the regular drunks and getting some dinner to go.”

“Seventy-five cent wing night?”

161

Opposition Research

“Oh yeah,” Griffith said in his best low-down, Barry White voice, causing Thompson to laugh. “I’ll call you tomorrow to see what Leo dug up this time.” He hit the button ending the call declaring to himself, “Suddenly I have an appetite.” Griffith took one last puff off his cigarette and as he did so he glanced over at Webb. “Thanks for the light.”

“You’re welcome,” Webb replied, keeping his hat pulled low over his face.

Griffith pounded his cigarette into the ashtray, grabbed his beer, and turned to head to the back door. “Do yourself a favor,” he added as a final admonition to no one in particular. “Stay out of politics.”

Griffith laughed at his own advice and headed back into the bar.

Cathead watched Griffith walk back into the Four Courts and took a pull on his vape. “What was that all about?” he asked.

“Piss off, asshole,” Webb snarled. “And mind your own damn business.”

162

Rick Robinson

Chapter 25 Located just across the street from Thompson’s office, the Wong family have been offering up a variety of Chinese food in an upscale atmosphere for more than forty years. To the people of Northern Kentucky, the Oriental Wok is more than a restaurant. The kitsch on the walls is part of its enduring charm. From “Hollywood Walk” stars featuring the names of the establishment’s regulars to the large gong which is rung for patrons’ birthday celebrations, the Wok is an institution representing a model for economic stability of the region.

Richard and Ann Thompson were regulars at the Wok. When Thompson was on the candidate side of politics, he had held more than one fundraiser and rally in the Wok’s party room. Richard and Ann’s “Hollywood Star” was in a prominent position on the wall in the entrance to the restaurant. This particular evening, Richard was enjoying the Pad Tai, while Ann was eating her favorite, chicken fried rice with sesame sauce on the side.

“I spoke to Griff today,” Thompson said, taking a sip of his green tea.

“Really?” Ann replied in mock astonishment. “Don’t you guys talk like a dozen times a day,” she said. “I swear you guys are like two old women.”

“Watch where you’re going with this,” Thompson admonished with a smile. “You’re only two years younger than me. Calling me old puts you squarely in the senior citizen headlights.”

“Dream on, Gramps,” Ann laughed. “No matter how old I get, You’ll always be older.”

“Ha – Ha.” The sarcasm in Thompson’s voice was obvious.

“Sorry,” Ann laughed. “I couldn’t resist. So what did Griff have to say?”

163

Opposition Research

“Remember how I was worried about spending too much money on sending Leo and Joey to Wisconsin?” Thompson asked.

“Yes,” Ann replied, pouring sesame sauce over her rice. “And remember how I told you it was the right call.”

“Well,” Thompson said nodding. “Griff thought so too.”

Ann smiled. “Told you so,” she said as she began eating her dish, her eyes rolling in delight at the task.

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder,” Thompson was well aware his wife had urged him to allow the expenditure. “I guess I have to be a little more free-wheeling on these things.”

“Look, baby,” Ann said, reaching across the table and grabbing her husband’s hand in a reassuring gesture. “Griff is the most soughtafter consultant in DC because he’s willing to go out on the limb. Hell, taking a risk was how he got you elected the first time.”

“You’re right,” Thompson replied.

“Say it again,” Ann said beaming. “I don’t think I heard you the first time.”

Thompson rolled his eyes. “Just eat your chicken,” he said. “Maybe your fortune cookie will tell you to express more humility in your small victories.”

Ann laughed again and went back to her meal. “When is Griff coming back here?” Ann asked.

“A couple of days, I think,” Thompson replied, squirting a lime over his Pad Thai. “He said he scheduled a meeting with someone from the left coast. He’ll figure out his flight plans after the meeting.”

Of course, no meal at the Oriental Wok is complete without a personal visit from the restaurant’s owner and his bottle of plum wine.

Mike Wong placed himself at the couple’s table and engaged the Thompsons in a vigorous political debate regarding the election while keeping Thompson’s glass full of wine. When Thompson’s phone rang, he looked at the number and excused himself from the table. Upon his return, he nodded at Mike. “Sorry, Ann,” he said to his wife. “We have to cut this one short.”

As Mike waved the waiter over to the table to get the Thompsons a final bill and to-go bags for their food, Ann looked at her husband.

“What’s up?” she asked.

164

Rick Robinson

“Leo and The Fat Man just landed at the airport,” he said. “They said they have some information needing immediate attention.”

“You want me to go?” Ann asked as she collected their food and her purse.

Thompson thought for a minute. “Yeah,” he said. “Your instincts have been pretty good lately.”

The couple paid their tab and drove literally across the street into the parking area for the building housing the campaign consulting firm’s offices. They went inside and were sitting in Thompson’s office, chatting about nothing in particular, when Argo and The Fat Man burst through the door.

“Well, well, boys,” Thompson said, as he read the expressions on the faces of his two friends. “You’re grinning like the Cheshire Cat.” The Fat Man was the first to speak. “Leo’s hunch was dead on,” he announced.

Thompson nodded affirmatively. “Okay,” he said. “But as Leo never actually shared his hunch, I’m not sure if this news is good or bad.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Argo replied. “I didn’t want to get everyone fired up on a wild goose chase.”

“Let’s start there,” Ann interrupted. “Richard told me about the research you did down in Mason County at the courthouse and how it led to you having a hunch about something. What caused your Spidey Senses to suddenly tingle?”

Argo and The Fat Man placed their briefcases on the table as Argo continued. “The records in the courthouse were way too minimal,” Argo replied.

“Minimal?” Ann asked. “I don’t get it. What do you mean by minimal?”

“In this day and age,” Argo said, “every person – especially an adult businessman – should have fistfuls of records. Home mortgages, second mortgages, refinances, car loans.” He pointed at Ann. “You and Richard have had all those over the years, right?”

“Yes, of course we do,” Ann said.

“We do,” Thompson echoed. “Where are you headed with this, Leo?”

165

Opposition Research

“Bill Wilson Sr.,” Leo continued, “a well-known local businessman in a small Kentucky town, has no real paper trail at the courthouse.”

“Hmm, that’s a bit weird,” Thompson asked. “But, what’s the connection to the race?”

Argo smiled. “So, who gave him the money to start a business without putting a lien on everything in the building?”

The Fat Man jumped in. “Want to take a guess?”

Both Thompson and his wife shook their heads.

“You did,” The Fat Man said, pointing fingers at the Thompsons with a wickedly delightful smile on his scruffy face.

“You just lost us, Joey,” Ann replied.

“Well, not you personally,” The Fat Man said. “But your taxpayer dollars.”

“Small business loan?” Thompson asked.

Argo jumped back in. “Not quite. Due to the records I saw at the courthouse, it led me to suspect Bill Wilson Sr. was in business thanks to the United States Marshall Service and their witness protection program.”

“WITSEC?” Thompson asked incredulously. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“So you know of the program?” Argo said “Of course,” Thompson replied, sitting back in his chair. “We held a hearing on the program back when I served in the House.”

“Bill Wilson Sr. is in WITSEC,” The Fat Man announced proudly.

Thompson cocked his head. “I spent money on you two going to Wisconsin and you come back with some half-assed theory about the candidate’s dad being in witness protection.”

A slow grin spread across Argo’s face. “It’s not a theory, Boss,” he said. “Joey, show him the paper,” he instructed as he took a seat.

The Fat Man reached in his briefcase and handed over an automobile registration from the 1970s. “Take a look,” he said.

Thompson looked at the form and then handed it to Ann. “Okay,” he said. “What did I just see?”

“Back in the 70s,” The Fat Man said, “a whole bunch of states used social security numbers for identification on a lot of documents.

Due to identity theft issues, no one does it anymore.”

166

Rick Robinson

Ann stared at the document for a closer review. “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, handing the document back to Thompson. “The social security numbers of Billy Wilson’s parents are sequential.”

Thompson looked at the document. “Impossible,” Thompson said.

“How could that be?”

Argo reached over and grabbed the paper. “Sloppy work by the US Marshalls back in the early days of WITSEC,” he replied. “When they prepared Legends …”

“Fake background stories,” The Fat Man interjected. After a glance from Argo, he added, “Sorry. Go on.”

“When they prepared background stories for people in the program, it not only included new names, but new social security numbers too,” Leo said.

“And they were stupid enough to make them consecutive,” Ann asked.

“Apparently so,” Argo continued. “There was this one mob guy WITSEC set up as a businessman on the West Coast. The Mob caught up with him because his entire family and a couple of cousins in business with him all had socials in sequential order. Of course, once he was hit, WITSEC changed the manner in which they handed out the numbers. But there is no telling how many got assigned through the old system and stayed that way.”

Thompson was reeling from the news. “Bill Wilson Sr. was mobbed up,” he said softly. “Holy shit. I sure as hell didn’t see this nugget of information coming our way.”

Ann looked at Argo, then The Fat Man and finally, her husband.

“The question is … what are we going to do with it?” she asked.

Thompson shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea,” he replied. “I’ve got to call, Griff. He’s supposed to fly in the day after tomorrow afternoon. He has some big meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Well, you better get him to cancel his meeting,” Ann said. “This is a time bomb that could blow up a lot of lives.”

167

Opposition Research

Chapter 26 “Well, feck me,” Mairead yelled, gazing at the mess behind the bar at Ireland’s Four Courts. “Just once, I’d like to open up knowing Kevin emptied the garbage from the night before.” She was grumbling to herself as she pulled a bag from the canister, spun it around once or twice before putting a twist tie at the top.

The doors were barely unlocked when Arnie walked through the front door. On days of rugby games, he was always first in the bar to watch the broadcast. He was such a regular that if the doors were not open by game time, he would simply enter through the kitchen and watch the game until the cleaning crew arrived. “Good morning, Mairead,” he called out happily, sitting down at the bar. “How about a Guinness with a sidecar of Jameson? And can you get the game on?”

“Don’t feckin’ start with me, Arnie,” Mairead snapped. “I’m not in the mood to be ordered around, even by you.”

“Well, who shit in your blood pudding this morning?”

“Kevin,” Mairead said, holding her arms wide to show the bag in front of her. “I swear I think he has no idea where the trash dumpster is located.”

Arnie shook his head “I take it the lad closed up last night?”

“To be sure,” Mairead said nearly spitting her words. “And left the feckin garbage for me.”

“Well, it was a wild crowd last night,” Arnie tried to shield the night shift bartender. “Most of the game crowd stuck around.”

“Don’t even think of defending him, Arnie,” she said, continuing to set up the bar.

“I tell ya what,” Arnie said, pointing at the television. “You get the Munster game on and my beer started. I’ll take the trash out for you.”

168

Rick Robinson

“Deal,” Mairead said, smiling for the first time since she walked through the door.

“And don’t forget my sidecar of Jameson.”

“Don’t push me, love,” she grumbled back at Arnie.

Mairead watched happily as Arnie carried the garbage down the narrow hallway leading to the beer garden and the dumpsters, hidden from public eye by movable wooden fences in the rear parking lot.

The game dialed in, Mairead washed her hands and started pouring Arnie’s drinks.

Arnie walked slowly back into the bar, grabbed the shot of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp. Pounding the shot glass on the bar, he pointed, demanding another.

“Jesus, Arnie,” Mairead said. “It’s seven in the morning, love.

Slow down.”

When Arnie angrily tapped the glass again, Mairead obliged his request. As she looked on in amazement, he downed the second shot with the same gusto as the first. When he caught his breath, he looked up. “Call the police,” he instructed.

“A little early for that, don’t ya think, love?” Mairead replied, laughing. “We usually don’t call the coppers on you until you’re fully liquored up. And normally only after your team loses.”

“Call the police,” Arnie repeated, his eyes intent.

“You’re serious?”

“There’s a dead body in the dumpster.”

“Jesus, Arnie,” Mairead shouted, pointing a finger. “What’d you feckin’ do this time?”

169

Opposition Research

Chapter 27 Many people think the Smithsonian is one museum when it, in fact, is a collection of nineteen museums in and around the Washington, DC area. It would take weeks just to walk through all of the various collections – and probably a year to see everything. One museum taking more than a day to explore is the National Air and Space Museum on the National Mall. The most popular of all the Smithsonian museums, only the Louvre in Paris, France gets more annual visitors.

Even Jeffrey was enthralled as he and Jackie made their way through the collection of airplanes, missiles and spacecraft. Jeffrey stood in front of a replica of the Eagle, the Lunar Module that landed on the moon in 1969.

“I was a teenager then,” Jeffrey said, pointing at the Eagle. “Back when the Apollo landed.”

“Yeah,” Jackie said, staring at the Eagle. “Me too.”

“But I remember it so well,” Jeffrey said, fondly recalling the event.

“Even though we were separated by distance when Neil Armstrong said ‘Tranquility Bay here. The Eagle has landed,’ I felt a brotherhood. A bond.”

“A brotherhood?” Jackie asked.

“I wanted to be an astronaut,” Jeffrey shared. “Hell, in the summer of 1969, every kid in America wanted to be an astronaut.”

Jackie looked at Jeffrey, puzzled. He had never revealed this tidbit about his youth to her before. “Did you ever try to pursue it?” she asked. “You know, being an astronaut?”

Jeffrey laughed out loud. “Come on, Jackie,” he said, grabbing her hand and kissing it. “Kids from our neighborhood would never have NASA on their shirt pockets.”

“You’re right,” Jackie replied.

170

Rick Robinson

“All our old friends were lucky if they had their name on a pair of coveralls at the corner garage,” Jeffrey said.

“True,” Jackie replied sadly.

Jeffrey smiled, leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Or we joined a crew.”

Jackie giggled. “There’s more space stuff on the second floor,” she said, pulling Jeffrey towards the stairs. “Let’s go look.”

As the couple turned to make their way to the second floor, they ran squarely into a large bearded man with colorful tattoos around his neck and arms. As each in the trio exchanged “excuse me” with the other, a brunette approached from the side and slipped a piece of paper into Jeffrey’s hand as she walked past. As Jackie was straightening herself from the collision, Jeffrey looked down at the paper.

“30785” was all it said – Ron’s New York City police badge number.

She had Jeffrey’s attention, but first, he needed a diversion for Jackie.

“You know, Jackie,” Jeffrey said, turning and pointing to the nearby cinema in the museum, secretly crumpling the piece of paper with the cryptic message into his hand. “The movie on space flight is starting in ten minutes. Let’s see the movie first and then we’ll go through the exhibit.”

“Oh, okay,” Jackie replied. By this point in her life, she was used to Jeffrey making spur of the moment changes to their plans. Seeing a movie as opposed to an exhibit seemed a minor schedule change at most.

Jeffrey handed her a twenty. “Go buy two tickets,” he said. “I have to use the bathroom first.”

“I’ll wait.”

“No,” Jeffrey instructed. “The meal we had last night is not agreeing with me. This could take a few minutes and I want us to get good seats. I’ll meet you inside.” Jeffrey all but pushed her toward the box office.

Jackie purchased the tickets and gave one to Jeffrey. “Don’t miss the start of the movie,” she said, heading inside the cinema.

Once she was out of sight, the brunette and Tattoo Man were at Jeffrey’s side. “And who might you be?” Jeffrey asked. Without saying a word, the woman handed Jeffrey a phone and the pair walked a few feet away. “Hello?” Jeffrey said, his eyes following the brunette.

171

Opposition Research

“Jeffrey?” came a familiar voice on the phone.

“Ron?” Jeffrey asked. “Why are you bothering me on my vacation?”

“Because this is not a vacation,” came the response. “And we’ve got a problem.”

Jeffrey walked further away from the odd pair. “What is the problem, my friend?” Jeffrey asked. “Is the Grille not paying their protection money again? Deal with it.”

“It’s bigger,” Ron replied. “Way bigger. Cathead screwed the pooch, big time.”

Jeffrey froze in movement as well as tone. “How?” he asked seriously.

Ron sounded shaken. “He killed some guy last night.”

Jeffrey had heard and understood the words, but did not want to acknowledge them as real. “He did what?” Jeffrey asked, rhetorically.

“Don’t make me say it again, damn it,” Ron said. “Can you still see the woman who handed you the phone?”

Jeffrey looked over at the pair standing a few feet away. “Yeah,” he said nodding. “What about her?”

“Those are the people who arranged your go-bag,” Ron said, swiftly attempting to explain the situation. “They’re out of New York.”

“Then why are they not back in New York?” Jeffrey asked.

“Because, I also hired them to follow the kid,” Ron explained nervously. “I didn’t tell you, but I wasn’t sure he was ready. I had them stay to follow Cathead.”

Jeffrey went rigid. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to know because I knew you wouldn’t be happy.”

Jeffrey was reaching a boiling point, but he tried to remain calm as tourists mingled around him. “I am not happy.” Each word was said slowly and with great emphasis.

“Yeah, well, you’ll be less happy when you find out what happened last night,” Ron instructed. “She’ll tell you what happened, but you’ve got to get out of DC tonight. No ifs, ands or buts.”

“I still need to meet with this Griffith fellow,” Jeffrey declared. “I have a meeting set for tomorrow morning.”

172

Rick Robinson

“Out of the question now,” Ron replied. “The woman will explain it to you.” With that simple declaration, the phone went dead.

Jeffrey took a deep breath, patting the phone while walking over to the woman. “It seems you have something to tell me,” he said, placing the phone in her hand.

“Yes, sir,” the woman replied. “We’ve been tailing your associate ever since I gave him the car with the bag.”

“So I assume you were at the Duck Pond on the Mall yesterday when we met.”

“We were,” she replied. “In the distance. I saw you. You didn’t see us.”

Jeffrey liked that she was showing respect. He paused for a minute, searching the crowd before he spoke. “Okay, then,” he said. “You have Ron’s trust. So you have mine. What happened?”

“Yesterday,” she said, “your colleague went to an Irish pub across the river in Arlington.”

Jeffrey nodded. “As I told him to do,” he said.

“Well, while he was there,” she continued, “he had a few too many to drink. He kept trying to talk to another man in the bar who was intent on ignoring him.”

“And?” “And late in the evening, there was an altercation,” she said. “He followed the man into the parking lot behind the bar. I went out the front door to circle around back. By the time I got there, they were already arguing and your associate threw a punch.”

“Who won?” Jeffrey asked.

“Depends on your perspective, sir,” the woman replied. “Before I could get to them, your guy pulled a serrated knife from his backpack and whacked him.”

Jeffrey was stunned. He could not believe what he was hearing.

“Once the guy started bleeding out, he jumped on his chest and stabbed him in the ribs a few times for good measure.” The woman shook her head. “It was gruesome. He was possessed.”

Jeffrey coldly considered the situation. “Where’s the body?” he asked.

“Your guy tossed it in the dumpster behind the pub,” the woman said. “It’s in a strip of businesses where there is a post office and a 173

Opposition Research

couple of other restaurants. There are security cameras all over the place. We couldn’t get to the body without being on video.”

“The boy is dumber than I thought,” Jeffrey mumbled almost to himself.

“Unfortunately, it gets worse,” the brunette said nervously, Jeffrey’s enraged glare sending shivers down her spine.

“I can’t imagine how,” Jeffrey replied icily.

“It’s all over the news this morning,” the woman replied. “The dead man was an aide to a United States Congressman.”

“So federal law enforcement will be on it immediately,” Jeffrey said, more to himself than her.

“Yes, sir,” she responded. “They are. FBI, Capitol Hill Police and a bunch of local black and whites are already on the scene. It won’t be long until they see the tapes.”

“Where is the boy?” Jeffrey asked.

“We have no idea,” she replied. “It was in our best interest to get the hell out of there without being seen.”

Jeffrey exhaled in exasperation. “Okay, how about the car you got him,” Jeffrey asked. “Is it still over by the Jefferson?”

“It’s still there,” the woman said. “I was afraid he’d grab it and take off. We just looked. It’s got a parking ticket on it, but no boot yet.”

Jeffrey nodded, his mind working overtime to plan an escape. He looked at the woman’s accomplice. “Big guy?” Jeffrey asked. “You got a phone?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

Jeffrey opened his palm. “Give it to me,” he instructed.

“I am supposed to meet Cathead in about two hours,” Jeffrey informed the pair. “We are supposed to be at the Navy Memorial by the Metro stop. Stay in the distance, but follow him from there.” Jeffrey pointed at the man. “I’ll use your phone to call Ron for further instructions. Until then, follow him, but do not engage him.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

“Be ready to roll out of DC on a moment’s notice.”

The woman shook her head. “How can you be so calm?”

Jeffrey nodded towards the cinema. “Because I have a movie to watch.”

174

Rick Robinson

Chapter 28 West Virginia looked lovely as a crescent moon shone brightly on the countryside through the late evening light fog and a Ford Focus made its way westward. Jackie was scrunched up across the back seat, sleeping while Jeffrey navigated Cathead across old US 50. Little was spoken as the carload of miscreants crossed mile after mile taking them a route out of DC rarely noted as the route of preference on any GPS device.

While Cathead was driving, he was somewhat distracted —his mind was whirling with concerns about leaving Washington so quickly.

Did Jeffrey somehow know he had whacked a stupid drunk at Ireland’s Four Courts? he thought. The whole thing had happened so quickly, Cathead barely remembered it. The incident hung like the cloud of fear hanging over his head.

As instructed, Cathead had remained at the pub until Michael Griffith left. Griffith drank so long it was dark when he finally departed and Griffith had appeared more than a bit tipsy when he finally exited the pub. Once Griffith was out the front door, Cathead headed to the back porch for a vape. When he reached the porch, the man he had previously encountered – Matt Webb – was there on the phone talking to someone about none other than, Michael Griffith. Not sure how all of this was coming together, Cathead decided it would be a good idea to listen in on the call. Cathead soon confirmed they were talking about something Griffith knew about the man on the other end of the call.

When Webb noticed Cathead’s presence, Webb tried to get some privacy by stepping off the porch and he wandered into the small parking lot behind the strip of businesses alongside the pub. Cathead waited a few seconds and followed, nonchalantly attempting to keep 175

Opposition Research

a distance just close enough to hear as much as he could of the conversation, but not look like he was not listening. By the time Webb finished up his call, it was impossible for Webb not to see Cathead was following him. “What the hell is your problem, dude?” Webb exclaimed hotly as he strode aggressively towards Cathead.

To Cathead’s regret, he took Webb’s quick stride as physically threatening. His street instincts took over and as soon as Webb was within arm’s length, he threw a punch landing squarely on Webb’s jaw. The blow sent Webb violently to the pavement, but he jumped up quickly, swinging a wild punch and launching himself into Cathead and the serrated knife hidden from view in Cathead’s left hand.

Cathead sank the knife into Webb’s stomach, pulling it upward along the rib cage. Webb fell to the pavement. In way too deep to walk away, Cathead finished the attack by stabbing the knife into Webb’s chest several times.

Looking around quickly for witnesses, Cathead slung Webb’s lifeless body behind a wooden screen meant to hide the bright blue dumpster. Hidden by the screen, he leaned against the dumpster and tried to regain his composure. Once Cathead had regained his breath and composure, he tossed Webb’s lifeless body into the dumpster.

Cathead was spooked by the unexplained quick exit from DC. As they drove, he asked question after question dancing around the abrupt departure and why they were headed to some small unnamed town in Kentucky. But Jeffrey responded to Cathead’s repeated nervous queries not by substantive replies, but with meandering stories of Jeffrey’s parents and his somewhat nefarious New York upbringing.

While Jeffrey gave him no indication he was aware of the incident, Cathead was still nervous and his guard was up.

Jeffrey stared out the window and continued the small talk as he watched the mile markers on US 50 roll by. “Well, Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey said softly, looking at his watch and then back out the window, “you’ve done quite an admirable job this week.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey,” Cathead replied. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Jeffrey reached over and patted Cathead on the thigh. “Well deserved, son,” he said. “I’ve told Ron about it, too.”

176

Rick Robinson

“You told Ron?” Cathead asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“Absolutely,” Jeffrey replied. “He makes all hiring and firing decisions.”

“Okay.” Cathead drew the word out slowly.

Jeffrey went on. “You need to be part of the team. What do you see as your role when we get back to Huntington Beach?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Cathead said somewhat sheepishly.

“Well, think about it,” Jeffrey said. “There’s a place for you in our organization.”

Cathead was surprised by the offer and began daydreaming about life back in California. “I will, Jeffrey,” Cathead nodded solemnly. “I definitely will.”

Up ahead on the road, Jeffrey saw the emergency lights of a vehicle beside the road blinking in the distance. “Mr. Cathead,” Jeffrey said, pointing a finger at the parked vehicle. “Pull over.”

“Why?” Cathead asked, glancing over at Jeffrey and confused by the order.

“They are obviously in need of assistance,” Jeffrey replied, looking at his watch. “It’s well past midnight and it looks like they’ve got a flat or something.”

“So?” Cathead replied.

Reaching over, Jeffrey put his hand on Cathead’s knee. “It is time for our good deed of the day,” he said. “Pull over. Let’s get our hands dirty.”

Jeffrey had his quirks, like insisting Cathead constantly change hats. If the boss wanted to stop and provide AAA roadside assistance who was Cathead to argue. “Your call, boss,” he said, slowing the car and directing it to the side of the road. He pulled in front of the distressed vehicle and backed up until they were only a few yards apart, the yellow lights of the emergency blinkers reflecting off the Ford.

“Good boy,” Jeffrey said, exiting the passenger door and meandering to the back of the car. “Let’s see what’s happening here.”

Cathead did likewise, but not before grabbing his Sig 320 and placing it under his belt near his spine. As he made his way past the 177

Opposition Research

driver-side quarter panel of the distressed car, he did not notice Jeffrey changing directions. “Got some car problems here?” Cathead asked, his eyes focused on the person beside the disabled automobile.

A woman was standing on the other side of the car, cloaked in the darkness of the night. “Flat tire,” she declared from under her hoodie.

“Thank God you pulled over.”

“Let’s take a look here,” Cathead said as he crossed in front of the headlights, kneeling down to look at the tire. About the time he realized the flat tire was actually full of air, a spray of road gravel hit him in his left shoulder. Still kneeling, he looked to his left and saw Jeffrey speeding away in the Ford Focus.

Jeffrey’s last view of the scene was seeing Tattoo Man swing a flat jack squarely into the kidneys of Cathead.

“What’s up, Jeffrey?” came a sleepy voice from the back seat “Nothing, love,” Jeffrey replied. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where’s Carlos?” she asked groggily.

“We had to drop him off to see some friends,” Jeffrey replied.

“We’re about halfway to Kentucky. Get some sleep.”

178

Rick Robinson

Chapter 29 It is said that a cat has nine lives. And, Cathead had seemingly lost several of them since meeting Jeffrey.

When Tattoo Man struck Cathead in the back, the blow landed squarely on the Sig 320 – a handgun known for failing military tests and discharging as a result of something as simple as being dropped to the ground from waist level. As the flat jack hit Cathead, the Sig fired. Due to the obscure angle, the bullet grazed Cathead’s ass and caught his assailant in the right foot. Tattooed Man immediately fell to the ground, screaming in pain as he hit the gravel. Grabbing at his foot, he tried to scoot away from Cathead at the same time.

With the realization Jeffrey had set him up, rage flowed through Cathead. He stood, grabbed the bloody Sig from his back and leveled the weapon squarely at Tattoo Man’s forehead. The decision to pull the trigger was without conscious thought. As the bullet ripped through the man’s skull, Cathead heard the woman scream. For good measure, he placed a second bullet in the man’s heart, watching his body jerk as he did so.

From the corner of his eye, Cathead caught sight of the woman running from the car toward the nearby woods. He spat on the ground as he leveled the Sig and fired a shot, missing its mark. Knowing the wound to his own backside would not allow him to pursue the woman with any speed, he crouched down and steadied the weapon on the front hood of the car. The second shot caught the woman in the leg.

She screamed as she fell to the ground.

Cathead smiled at his shot, limping his way through grass moist from the morning fog to where the woman lay writhing in pain. Her hood fell back and he recognized her as the brunette he had met days earlier. “So good to see you again,” Cathead hissed. “Got any cigars for me?”

179

Opposition Research

“Kiss my ass,” the woman replied angrily.

“Now, is that any way for a lady to talk,” Cathead mocked.

“You’re as big a piece of shit as Ron said,” the woman spat. “I hope you rot in hell.”

“Strong language for a bitch about to die,” Cathead said. “Where are they going?” Cathead asked angrily, leaning in.

“No place you’ll ever find them,” the woman replied.

Cathead shrugged his shoulder and fired the Sig into her knee.

She let out a loud, piercing scream.

“I’ve got four bullets left,” Cathead snarled. “How many I use here depends entirely on you.”

The woman flipped him the bird while clutching her leg.

A second bullet hit the other knee. The scream was even louder than the first and the tears running down her face a river of ruined mascara and dirt.

“Now, where should we go next?” Cathead said, pointing the gun at her crotch.

“You’re a psycho,” she stuttered out between sobs.

“I sure am,” Cathead said as he continued to fire. The woman was rolling from one side to the other, and remarkably, the two shots missed their mark. Angered at the bullets he had wasted, Cathead kneeled on the woman’s stomach, pinning her to the ground. He licked his left pinky, reached down and found an entry wound. “Tell me,” he instructed with an evil smile. Her teeth clenched, she remained resilient. Cathead stuck his baby finger in the wound and wiggled it around.

The woman screamed throughout the excruciating pain. “Aw,” he said in mock sympathy. “Does that hurt?”

When the brunette would not reply with anything but a scream, he aimed his Sig and fired a shot into the woman’s foot. With shock starting to set in, Cathead slung his knee over her body to straddle her torso. He slapped the woman across the face with his free hand to stop the screaming and then placed the barrel of the gun firmly between her eyes. Her eyes focused dully on him. “Tell me where they are going?” he commanded.

The woman shook her head from side to side, crying silently, but Cathead’s body made any thought of resistance futile. Cathead repeatedly tapped the gun on her forehead. “Tell me,” he demanded 180

Rick Robinson

angrily. “Where is that piece of shit going?” Cathead placed the gun between her lips.

With the gun in her mouth, the woman nodded and mumbled a muffled “Okay.” When Cathead had removed the gun, she looked at him in defeat. When he remained silent, he raised the gun as if to strike her. “Maysville, Kentucky,” she blubbered out.

“What? Where the hell is Maysville, Kentucky?”

The brunette freed an arm to try to block an angry blow from Cathead. “I don’t know?” she yelled hysterically. “But Maysville is where he told us he was going.”

Satisfied, Cathead smiled and once again placed the gun between her eyes. Although she knew from the outset her chances of surviving Cathead’s attack were slim to none, the scant hope she would survive died in her eyes. It was a dance between the hunter and the hunted where the outcome was foreseen by both. Cathead pulled her weakened arm back and placed it under his knee. Defenseless now, she closed her eyes and awaited her fate.

Smiling in recognition of his superior position, Cathead pulled the trigger …

To their mutual surprise, nothing but a click emanated from the Sig. Math had never been one of Cathead’s strongpoints. Forgetting the original misfire, he was unaware he had already fired eight shots from the clip. Pissed and embarrassed at his own stupid miscalculation, he dropped the clip out of the gun. Cathead raised his hand with the gun and struck the brunette across the temple with a tremendous blow. He continued hitting her until he realized her breathing had ceased.

The encounter had exhausted Cathead and he collapsed across the body of the woman. Once he regained his strength, he stood up and slowly stumbled back to the road. When he reached the car, he turned the emergency blinkers off and ran his fingers through his hair — the reality of his situation sunk in. Jeffrey and Ron had betrayed him. Jeffrey was headed to some city in a state Cathead could not probably even find on a map. His own injuries, although not life-threatening, were painful. And his only companions were two dead bodies alongside a rural road in West Virginia. All things considered, this was not one of Cathead’s better days.

181

Opposition Research

Before he could deal with his betrayal, he first had to take care of the bodies. Cathead grabbed Tattoo Man by the arms and tugged his massive body away from the road. It was about twenty-five yards to where the woman was, but he somehow thought it would be better if the couple was found together. Through the wet grass, Cathead slipped and slid as he pulled the big man closer to the woman. Due to the wound in Cathead’s backside, the short journey seemed to take hours.

Once Cathead had him at her side, he sprawled the body face-up across the woman’s in a simple cross.

Exhaustion won out and Cathead sat on the mound of bodies.

After resting for a few minutes, he patted down Tattoo Man. In his vest pocket, Cathead found a pack of cigarettes. Menthol. Not really Cathead’s preference, but on a dark road in the middle of the night, it would do. He lit up a cigarette with the lighter he also had found and considered his options. Either he could escape this cluster by trying to disappear or he could seek vengeance. Neither was optimal, but the gut feeling of revenge took over. He wanted to return to California and he determined he could not do so as long as Jeffrey was alive.

And, his street cred attitude was taking over his better judgment, Nobody screws over Cathead, he thought.

Cathead put the cigarette out on Tattoo Man’s forehead and stood to straighten himself. He searched the bodies and then went back over to the roadside to search the car. As a result of his efforts, he found another weapon, some drugs, and cash.

As he placed the new weapon under his belt, he mumbled to himself, “Now all I have to do is find Maysville, Kentucky.”

182

Rick Robinson

Chapter 30 “Hey, Annie,” Michael Griffith said to the wife of his best friend as she opened the door to their home in the old suburban neighborhood, the Thompsons having chosen an older brick home with character just beyond the newer subdivisions where McMansion flourished.

“Well, hello Griff,” Ann Thompson replied, reaching out and kissing Griffith on the cheek. “To what do I owe this honor? You haven’t visited the house in a while.”

“Aw hell,” Griffith replied brazenly. “Ya know I love ya, Annie. If my stupid ass best friend hadn’t fallen so hard for you, I’d have swept you off your feet years ago.”

“Oh Michael,” Ann batted her eyelids and placed her hand over her heart. “You have such a way with words. My heart’s just beating a pitter-patter. You’re giving me the vapors at the thought of being the first ex-Mrs. Michael Griffith.”

“I do have a certain way with women,” Griffith guffawed as he walked through the door. “It’s one of my many charms.”

“Seriously, Griff,” Ann replied, closing the door after Griffith entered. “This is awful early for you.”

“Well, after what Richard told me on the phone last night, I delegated my morning meeting to an intern and caught the earlier flight in.”

Ann led Griffith into the kitchen. “I assume you need some coffee?” she said, reaching for a mug.

“Perfect,” Griffith replied, pulling up a chair to the kitchen island.

“Just as well on the meeting,” he continued. “The guy was a no-show anyway. My admin called me when I landed.”

“Why’d you decide to come here instead of the office?” Ann said, pouring a cup and handing it to Griffith.

183

Opposition Research

“I called the office and Richard wasn’t there,” Griffith said, taking a sip before putting the cup down on the counter. “I’ve been calling your husband ever since I landed and can’t get him. So I thought I’d come over here and roust his ass out of bed. We’ve got work to do.”

Ann laughed. “He’s here,” she said, pouring a second cup for herself.

“Well, why in the hell won’t he answer my calls?” Griffith asked, dramatically tossing his arms in the air.

“Really?” Ann laughed, pouring cream into her cup “You need to ask?”

Griffith rolled his eyes. “He’s playing that damn mandolin, isn’t he?”

“Of course,” Ann said, drinking from her own cup. “You ought to know by now my husband is a creature of habit. Shave. Shower. And then twenty minutes of finger exercises on his precious mandolin. He’s trying to adapt one of his favorite Zevon songs into mandolin-based Bluegrass.”

“I know the routine,” Griffith replied, shaking his head. “I wish he’d put as much effort into our company as he does his music. I could use twenty minutes of attention some mornings.”

“Dream on, honey,” Ann replied, raising her cup in a toast. “I feel the same way. You’d think he’d put those finger exercises to better use.”

“Well, then.” Griffith cocked an eyebrow. “You’re saying I still have a chance.”

“One in a million, Griff.” Ann scoffed at the thought.

“But, it’s still a chance,” Griffith said, pointing his index finger upwards to emphasize the point. “Perfect.”

Now it was Ann’s turn to roll her eyes. “Let me go find your business partner,” she said, walking over to the steps leading upstairs.

“Hey, Richard,” she shouted.

“What do you need, babe?” came the reply from upstairs.

“Cut the morning session short,” she replied. “Griff’s here. He took the early flight.”

Thompson bounded down the stairs wearing jeans and a grey Fighting Jamesons fanboy tee shirt. “You’re early,” he said to Griffith

184

Rick Robinson

entering the room and throwing a one-armed man hug around his friend. “I wasn’t expecting you until after lunch.”

“After your call last night,” Griffith replied. “I decided to come back to Kentucky on an earlier flight.” He took a gulp of coffee.

“Plus, I was hoping you wouldn’t be here and I could convince your wife to leave you and run off with me.”

Ann handed a cup of coffee to Richard. “I told him he doesn’t have the money to keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed.”

“Just as well,” Griffith continued, lifting his cup as he spoke. “My appointment this morning was a no-show anyway.”

“So, you skipped a chance to get a good Irish breakfast at the Four Courts?” Thompson asked in mock disbelief. “There’s some big rugby tournament on television this week. They should have been opened early.”

“Well, it would have been a little difficult, seeing how it’s still surrounded by yellow crime scene tape,” Griffith replied.

“Crime tape around the pub?” Ann asked.

“Yeah,” Griffith replied. “And a shitload of police cars.”

“Wow,” Thompson said. He paused a moment and asked, “I wonder what the hell Arnie did this time.”

Griffith chuckled but then turned serious. “Haven’t you seen the news?” he asked. “The murder of a Congressional aide in Arlington?

Turns out it happened right behind the Four Courts.”

“Wow,” Thompson replied, stunned. “No, well, I mean yes, I saw the report, but I didn’t pay close enough attention to realize it happened behind the pub.”

“It took a day,” Griffith continued, “but they finally released the name of the victim.”

Thompson shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “I had the news on, but the sound off,” he said. “I was practicing my mando. Anyone we know?”

“Hell yes, son,” Griffith replied. “The guy was Congressman Reynard’s Chief of Staff. I think I met him a couple of times during campaigns. I had no idea he hung out at the pub. Damn Reynard is having a bad week.”

185

Opposition Research

“Well, not to belittle Reynard’s loss, but we’ve got our own problem,” Thompson said. “As I told you on the phone last night, we’ve got some serious stuff to decide.”

“Sounds like Leo hit the jackpot again,” Griffith said. “The boy certainly has a nose for the dirt.”

“Yeah,” Thompson said. “I guess the only question is what we do with it.”

“I want to see everything laid out in front of me before I make a decision,” Griffith said.

“I thought so,” Thompson replied. “I set up a meeting for this afternoon.”

“Yeah, about that …” Griffith’s voice trailed off.

“What?” Thompson asked.

“Well, when I changed flights,” Griffith said, “I called the boys and told them we’d meet here this morning.” He looked at his watch.

“They’ll be here in about five minutes.”

“What?” Ann exclaimed. “Leo and Joe are on their way here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Griffith replied. “And Dustin too.”

Thompson shook his head and laughed. “Dude, you are so screwed.”

“Michael Griffith,” Ann shot back. “You mean to tell me I have three men headed to my house and I haven’t even cleared the breakfast dishes yet?”

“Four,” Griffith muttered under his breath. “Josh will be about ten minutes late.”

Ann pointed her finger at the sink. “Then get your country ass over there,” she instructed, “rinse off those plates and get them in the dishwasher. Now.” “Yes, ma’am,” Griffith said, lowering his head.

“And you better damn well hope they don’t show up before you’re done,” Ann continued outraged.

Griffith tried to make a joke out of the situation. “So, I guess our courtship is off?” he asked.

The joke fell on deaf ears. Ann grumbled and headed in the opposite direction, picking up the morning newspaper and depositing it in the wastebasket.

186

Rick Robinson

Thompson assisted with the cleaning, taking obvious delight at how pissed Ann was at Griffith, elbowing him in the ribs when she wasn’t looking. The kitchen was relatively clean when The Fat Man and Argo arrived. Dustin was not too far behind them and Congressman Barkman rounded out the crew about five minutes later.

After exchanging pleasantries, The Fat Man and Argo spread all the research across the kitchen island, recreating the paper trail they had explained to the Thompsons the previous night. Each piece connected to the other, creating a road map leading to Bill Wilson Sr. When they finished, all expectant eyes were on Griffith as he ran his hands across his bald head. He was silent for a moment before he spoke.

“You’re sure of all this?” Griffith asked, exhaling slowly as he spoke.

“Record rooms don’t lie, Griff,” Argo replied. “The paper trail is pretty convincing.”

Thompson had never seen such a serious look on Griffith’s face.

“Bill Wilson Sr. is mobbed-up,” Griffith declared.

“Was,” Argo interjected. “He was mobbed-up.”

Griffith placed both hands on the island and leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “What’s your degree of certainty, Leo?” Argo shook his head and waved his hands across the documents.

“Ninety-nine percent,” Argo replied. “It’s all right here.”

The normally jovial Griffith remained somber. “This is serious shit, Leo,” he declared.

All eyes in the room were following the exchanges back and forth between the two as if they were watching a tennis match. “Tell me about it,” Leo replied. “This isn’t just opposition research anymore.”

“Wait a minute,” Barkman jumped in. “I mean, we’re actually considering calling my opponent’s father a mobster.”

Both Griffith and Argo looked at Barkman. “The implications are much, much bigger than this campaign,” Argo said.

“If Leo is right,” Griffith continued. “We’ve just unintentionally exposed someone in witness protection.”

“Meaning?” Barkman asked.

Argo pursed his lips. “Meaning,” Argo replied, “I’ll need to let the US Marshalls know I’ve uncovered one of their people. Winning or 187

Opposition Research

losing a campaign will be the least of their problems.”

Griffith looked around. “You think he has a contract out on him?”

“A contract?” Ann exclaimed. “If this is leading up to one of your Godfather Rules,” she said, “I do not find it amusing. Not at all.”

“This isn’t a Rule,” Griffith replied. “This is deadly serious.”

Argo continued Griffith’s thought. “Ann,” he said softly. “I’m pretty sure Bill Sr. put a wiseguy in jail. For that era, most people put into the program were Mafia. It only seems logical for the times.”

“But the records,” Ann said. “The family has been in Kentucky since the seventies.”

“For the Mob,” Argo said, “there really isn’t a statute of limitations on being a rat. It’s pretty much a life sentence. If they find him, he’s a dead man.”

Thompson stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor.

“I’m guessing this guy has been sleeping with one eye open for decades,” he said.

“No shit,” Ann replied. “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“And with the video of him losing his cool at the café going viral, we may have exposed him,” Barkman said. “So, what do we do Griff?”

Griffith responded immediately. “Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?” Argo asked incredulously. “What do you mean? I’ve got to …”

Griffith cut him off. “Not a damn thing until you’re one hundred percent,” he said.

Argo pondered the directive. “How do you propose I get there?” he asked, frustration coloring his tone.

“Go pay the elder Wilson a visit.”

“What?” The question came from everyone around the table nearly simultaneously.

Unlike the others, Argo was initially silent. “When?” he asked.

“Today,” Griffith said. “We need to get this under control as quickly as possible.”

Dustin chimed in. “Should I go and film it?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Ann stated with the authority of a mom making a final decision for the family. “You will not be getting in the middle of this.”

188

Rick Robinson

Thompson thought for a minute. “But Joey, you should go with Leo,” he said. “I’d like to have our lawyer at the table to witness the conversation. And of everybody in this room, the old man is most likely not to know either of you two. You’ll be the least likely to spook him.”

“What if he recognizes me from television?” Argo asked in reply.

“Then he’ll know you’re former FBI,” Griffith said. “He’ll know to take you seriously.”

The Fat Man scratched his scruffy beard and looked at Argo.

“So, I guess I’ll drive.”

189

Opposition Research

Chapter 31 “I really thought long and hard about which car to take,” The Fat Man said to Leo Argo as the grey Avalon made its way along the Double-A Highway. The Fat Man owned two nearly identical Avalons.

In tribute to his favorite Cincinnati Reds Hall of Famer, one car bore a license plate “C D BOL.” The other Avalon’s plate was “HT D BOL.” Placed properly in the driveway, they were homage to Tony Perez’s often cited quote about how to approach hitting, “Juss see de ball, hit de ball.”

“I noticed,” Argo replied as he fiddled with his smartphone. “You chose ‘HT D BOL.’” “Yeah,” The Fat Man replied, hands on the wheel precisely at 10 and 2. “I figured we’ve already seen the ball.”

“And now,” Argo enhanced his otherwise mild Cuban accent to reply, “we hit de bol. The choice of cars was not lost on me, Joey.”

“We’ve found the ballpark,” The Fat Man said. “Now it’s game time.”

“We’re in new territory here, my friend,” Argo replied, putting his phone into his shirt pocket. “I’m certain this guy is Mobbed up.”

“You ever been around wiseguys before?” The Fat Man asked, somewhat titillated by using the word “wiseguy.”

“Oh, I’ve been around them before,” Argo responded. “I’ve just never exposed one from WITSEC before.”

“This is serious, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight, Joey,” Argo replied, nodding with his forearm propped up on the window ledge, rubbing his forehead.

The Fat Man pondered the soberness of Argo’s reply. “If you’re right about all of this, are we in trouble?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t want you to think this is all about me, but could I get disbarred for this?”

190

Rick Robinson

“Finding US Marshall mistakes don’t get us into trouble,” Argo assured his friend.

“Good,” The Fat Man said. “That’s a relief.”

“But they may get Bill Wilson Sr. whacked.” ***

After stopping at a small roadside “no-tell’ motel and resting for a day, Jeffrey drove across the bridge from Portsmouth, Ohio into Kentucky around lunchtime.

“I still don’t know why Carlos decided to continue his trip with someone else,” Jackie said. She knew something was up, but she was used to such situations with Jeffrey. She was under no illusions of her partner leading a not-so-pious life. She knew his background, at least most of it. But she had come to like Cathead and hoped the trip had not led to his demise.

“Ron set everything up, my love,” Jeffrey replied. “Don’t worry about Mr. Cathead. He is doing just fine. We will catch up on his adventures as soon as we return to California.”

“So why are we going into Kentucky?”

“So many questions,” Jeffrey replied dismissively.

Jackie grimaced and looked out the window. She knew better than to push.

“Let’s just say we’re going to pay a visit to some old friends.” *** Cathead had driven all night from the site where he had killed the brunette and Tattoo Man. Drinking from a bottle of Jack Daniels, he sat alone in the car watching the Ohio River run slowly by … a new gun by his side ... and ready for revenge.

191

Opposition Research

Chapter 32 Leo and The Fat Man entered the Wilson family restaurant and requested a table for two. The Fat Man seemed nervous.

“Calm down,” Argo instructed, glancing around the interior of the café. Sitting on the main drag, almost every table in the restaurant had a view of the Ohio River. An old school place where waitresses still wore uniforms, the Wilsons’ had made sure they maintained a real down-home feel, right down to the white tablecloths and real cloth napkins. The unstained hewn wood walls darkened the interior, but added to the home-spun ambiance. Argo and The Fat Man seemed to be the only ones in the place without a country accent.

The Fat Man repetitively bounced his legs under the table. “I’m nervous as heck,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Argo replied, amused by his friend’s angst.

“Why?” The Fat Man asked, glancing from side to side.

“Because we were seated and the Wilsons did not recognize us,” Argo replied, picking up the menu and looking down the list of entrees.

“Let’s just do this and be done with it,” The Fat Man said.

Argo continued to peruse the menu. “In a bit,” he replied. “We’re going to have dinner first. Isn’t that what you folks call lunch here?

Dinner?”

“What?” The Fat Man was nonplussed. “It’s lunch, okay?”

“Then I agree,” Argo replied. “Let’s have lunch.” When The Fat Man failed to even look up, Argo continued. “You know, food. Damn it, Joey, I’m hungry.”

“The thought of food is making me ill,” The Fat Man exclaimed, putting his hand over his mouth.

192

Rick Robinson

“You think the catfish is good here?” Argo continued undaunted

by The Fat Man’s queasiness. “I think I want the fried catfish.”

“I might throw up,” The Fat Man was serious.

Argo noticed the pale look in his pal’s face. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth,” he said, trying to hide a smile.

“It will help.”

“This isn’t funny, Leo,” The Fat Man reprimanded. “I’m a wreck.”

“Or is it breathe in through your mouth and out your nose,” Argo said without looking up from the menu.

“You’re evil,” The Fat Man concluded.

Argo looked up. “I’m getting a kick out of you,” he said. “But there is another reason to take our time, as well.”

“Why do we have to wait?”

“I need to observe Mr. and Mrs. Wilson before we approach them,” Argo replied. “I want to see their demeanor.”

The Fat Man shook his head. “It’s times like this I wished I drank alcohol,” he admitted dejectedly.

“I think this is a dry county,” Argo deadpanned as he peered over his menu. “Anyway, you seem to enjoy food,” he added.

“That’s kind of mean,” The Fat Man said. “A fat joke? Now?” “Not really,” Argo said, patting his belly. “So do I.” “Fair point.”

Argo went back to studying his menu. “Let’s order lunch,” he said, “talk about baseball and observe the Wilsons while we eat. Think of this as a baseball game.”

“Okay.” The Fat Man liked the analogy. “What are we looking for?” he asked.

“Any sign they are spooked by a reliever in the bullpen,” Argo replied. “Certain pitchers ‘own’ particular batters. If they see us as one of those batteries, we’ll know what’s on their mind.”

“Got it.” The Fat Man was suddenly buying into the plan. “And then?”

Argo knew the baseball references would calm down The Fat Man. “Then we engage Mr. Wilson in some polite conversation,” he replied.

“Before walking to the mound and making the actual call to the bullpen,” The Fat Man replied.

193

Opposition Research

“Precisely,” Argo said with a pleased smiled. “I might make an agent out of you yet, Joey.” He looked again at the menu. “I’m still up for the fried catfish.”

Argo was not able to talk his companion into trying the fried catfish lunch special, so The Fat Man dined on the fried chicken while Argo feasted on the Ohio River bottom-dwelling delicacy. The meal went well. The Fat Man was about to order bread pudding and ice cream for dessert when Argo informed their waitress the pair would simply have coffee. “No bread pudding?” The Fat Man asked with puppy-dog eyes.

“The Wilsons have visitors,” Argo replied, nodding to a table at the far end of the restaurant.

Nonchalantly, The Fat Man glanced in their direction, noticing Mrs. Wilson was particularly upset by the pair sitting at the table.

“Who’s that?” The Fat Man asked.

“I have no earthly idea,” Argo replied. “But they obviously cut our place in the friendly conversation line.”

“Or unfriendly,” The Fat Man said.

The Wilsons sat with the new couple and the tension was palpable. “Something’s up,” Argo said.

“What?” The Fat Man’s nerves suddenly spiked. “Are they DC people?”

“I don’t think so,” Argo replied. “Check out the looks on the faces of Bill and his wife. They are stunned and scared.”

“Love to be a fly on the wall over there,” The Fat Man replied as Bill Wilson Sr. hit his fist on the table and then pointed at the man. He continued to observe as Mrs. Wilson placed her hand over her husband’s. Still, The Fat Man and Argo could not hear any portion of what was obviously an intense conversation.

As the two couples continued their encounter, a man with an oddshaped forehead hobbled into the restaurant. Ignoring the friendly greeting at the hostess stand, the man pulled a Glock from the front of his pants and fired a shot into the ceiling. As soon as the weapon discharged, and over the screams of the patrons, he pointed it at the man seated across the table from the Wilsons. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the man shouted. “I am sorry to announce the restaurant is temporarily closed. Would everyone please stand up and pro194

Rick Robinson

ceed to the far corner of the place. This won’t take too long. Regular service will continue in a few minutes.”

The man at the table with the Wilsons stared directly at the gun.

“You are making a big mistake, Mr. Cathead.”

“Not nearly as big a mistake as you did last night when you didn’t waste me yourself, Boss,” Cathead replied. The word “Boss” rolled out of his mouth with utter contempt.

As Cathead argued with Jeffrey, Argo quickly pulled his service weapon from the back of his belt-line, quietly placed it on the table and covered it with his napkin.

“You brought your gun?” The Fat Man whispered, eyes wide.

“I’m always packing, Joe,” Argo replied, his jaw firm and eyes focused directly on the man called Cathead. “The next time he turns, untuck your shirt and put this in your belt behind you.”

The Fat Man immediately obliged. “This won’t go off, will it?” he whispered.

“I sure hope not,” Argo replied seriously.

As others began scrambling to the corner in compliance with the directions given by Cathead, Argo and The Fat Man remained seated.

Cathead heard the two whispering and swung his head in their direction. “You too, boys. I said the place is temporarily closed. Get moving.”

“Got it,” Argo replied, placing his hands in the air. He noted a large bloodstain on the rear of Cathead’s pants. “Just a little shaken by all of this.”

“Well, get your shit together, amigo,” Cathead said. “And start moving.”

Argo looked at The Fat Man and nodded.

“What the hell?” Cathead screamed. “Are you guys a couple or something. Don’t seek approval from each other, just move.”

Argo stood up and glanced at Cathead’s butt. “It looks like you have an issue going on with your backside.”

Glancing back at Jeffrey to make sure he was remaining in place, Cathead responded out of the corner of his mouth. “Forget about my ass and get yours moving.”

Argo nodded for The Fat Man to stand up and offered an open palm for him to go first. As soon as they were moving, Cathead turned 195

Opposition Research

his torso to get a better look at Jeffrey. When he did, Argo reached into The Fat Man’s belt for his gun. When he had the gun in hand, Argo purposely tripped The Fat Man, slamming him to the floor.

Cathead pivoted back toward Argo quickly, but before he could react, Argo raised his weapon and fired. It only took one shot as Cathead’s brains splattered across the floor and the force of the bullet propelled Cathead onto the foursome’s table. The women screamed and fell to the floor.

As Cathead fell, Jeffrey was already reaching for his own weapon, tucked under his shirt, but keeping his hand just inches away from actual contact.

“Don’t,” Argo instructed coolly.

Jeffrey looked quizzically at Argo. He knew him from somewhere.

After a momentary pause, he smiled. “I know you,” Jeffrey said.

“You’re the FBI agent …a wise guy on all the news shows … the one who got all shot up.”

“You watch too damn much television,” Argo replied.

“No. I know exactly who you are,” Jeffrey said, his hand moved slowly to the gun. “You’re the celebrity lawman.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Argo instructed as he inched closer and closer to the table in a “fire-ready” position.

Jeffrey hesitated for a moment and thought through the situation.

He smiled. “But you’re not me, now are you.” Jeffrey’s quick move for his gun was met by three successive shots to his chest.

Jackie let out a scream as Jeffrey’s body was propelled back over a chair, bounced off a table, and hit the floor with a deadweight thud. The gun went flying and Jackie threw herself on Jeffrey’s dead body.

Argo approached the table and quickly kicked the gun away.

“Bill?”

Bill Wilson was looking stunned by the events, unable to talk. The only person still sitting at the table, Wilson was staring at the dead bodies on the floor of his café.

“Bill,” Argo shouted. “Eyes on me.”

Bill Wilson Sr. snapped back to reality and turned to Argo. “What?”

“Are you packing?” Argo said loudly.

“Packing what?”

196

Rick Robinson

“A weapon?” Argo clarified for a man obviously in shock. “Do you or Mrs. Wilson have a weapon on your person?”

“No. No, of course not,” Wilson replied, finally grasping Argo’s question.

“Leo?” The Fat Man asked meekly.

“In a minute, Joey,” Argo replied without taking his eyes off the Wilsons.

“Lady?” he shouted at Jackie, who was cradling Jeffrey on the wood plank floor. “You got a gun?”

She shook her head negatively as she rocked Jeffrey’s body back and forth, tears running down her face.

“Leo?” The Fat Man interrupted again.

“Not now, Joey,” Argo replied. Without looking away or altering the aim of his weapon, he instructed the Wilsons to put their palms on the table. With their arms outstretched on an adjacent table, Argo did a quick pat-down. During the process, Argo noticed a visible scar on Mrs. Wilson’s arm. When Argo was satisfied there were no other weapons, he made eye contact with a woman in a red sundress who was huddled with the crowd in the corner “You,” he shouted, nodding at her. “Call 911. We need some immediate police backup.”

“Yes, sir,” she stuttered and did as instructed.

“Tell them the man holding the gun on everyone is former FBI,” Argo added. “He’ll lower the gun when they enter.”

As soon as the call was placed, Argo continued. “And everyone else please go out the back door and wait for the police. They’ll need to take statements about what just happened. Nobody leaves. Understood?” Once everyone was out the door, Argo focused his attention on the Wilsons. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilson,” he said, “why don’t you sit over by the hostess stand?”

“Her name isn’t Wilson,” Jackie screamed, still rocking Jeffrey’s lifeless body.

“Shut up, Adriana,” Mrs. Wilson spun and shouted at the woman.

“Tony’s dead and it’s your fault,” the woman said as if Mrs. Wilson had pulled the trigger herself.

“I thought his name was Jeffrey,” Argo said.

“Wilson isn’t her name.” The woman repeated, pointing her finger at Mrs. Wilson. “Her name is Peg Geraci.”

197

Opposition Research

“Stop it, Adriana,” Mrs. Wilson snarled. “This is none of their business. Just shut up.”

“Tony’s dead god damn it,” the woman spat. “And your blood is on him. Again.”

“Leo?” The Fat Man called again.

“I said, not now Joe.” Bill Wilson Sr. looked at Argo. “May I get my wallet out of my back pocket?”

“Slowly,” Argo said. He heard sirens approaching in the distance.

“I’m giving this to you before our local guys get here,” Bill Wilson Sr. said. “You’ll need to call this number.” The card was for David Kidd, a US Marshall out of Lexington. “My wife is in WITSEC,” he continued. “I guess we all are. But she witnessed a mob hit years ago.”

Argo smiled at Wilson. “I thought you were the one in protective custody.”

“Are you kidding me?” Wilson replied, astonished by Argo’s assertion. “I was never even in a crew. I was just a guy from the neighborhood.” He pointed at his wife. “Peg and I graduated together.”

Argo looked at the body the woman was crying over. “And him?” he asked.

“That piece of shit is Tony Poggione,” Mrs. Wilson replied. “I think you’ll find him on the FBI’s most-wanted list. He’s been on the run since the seventies.”

“And the woman?” Argo prompted.

“My best friend from the old days back in Hoboken,” Mrs. Wilson said, shaking her head in disbelief. “She’s not a friend anymore.”

“Call Marshall Kidd,” Bill Wilson said, nodding at the card. “He’ll explain it all.”

“How about him?” Argo asked, nodding at Cathead.

The Wilsons looked at Cathead and then each other. “No idea,” they replied in unison.

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Wilson looked at Argo and shook her head. “And why do you not seem surprised all of this,” she asked. “Who are you again?”

“Sorry for the informality of the introduction, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson,” Argo said, not quite knowing where to start. “My name is Leo 198

Rick Robinson

Argo and I am retired from the FBI. I’m not surprised by any of this because I’ve been around the Marshalls who run WITSEC. I kind of know how this works.”

“And why are you here?” Bill Wilson asked. “Why today?”

Argo grimaced. “I work with the campaign consulting firm owned

by Michael Griffith and Richard Thompson. I found all the background linking you to WITSEC. I was coming here to talk to you about it. I’m sorry.”

“This is horrible,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“If he hadn’t shown up, it would have been worse,” Bill Wilson said, comforting his wife. “I don’t like the reason, but I for one, am damn glad he was here.” He looked at Argo. “Call Kidd,” he said.

“He’ll want to intervene quickly.”

“Kidd told us something like this could happen,” Mrs. Wilson said remorsefully. “But it’s been so long.”

“Don’t worry,” Argo assured her. “I’ll straighten it all out with Marshall Kidd.”

“Well, if you’re going to be talking to David, there’s one more thing you’ll need to know,” Mrs. Wilson said, her eyes filling with tears.

“Yeah?”

“Tony Poggione is my son’s biological father.”

“What?” Argo was shocked.

“Not a pretty chapter from our lives,” Bill Wilson replied. “But Tony Poggione is my son’s real father. He was here to blackmail us.

He wanted a piece of us to keep quiet.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Leo exclaimed.

Mrs. Wilson wiped away a tear. “I’ve always prayed this day wouldn’t come,” she said softly, the emotional toll revealed in her voice.

“I bet.”

“And now it has,” Bill Wilson interjected. “We’ve survived up until now. We’ll continue. I just hope the Marshalls won’t move us.”

“Leo?” “What Joey?” Leo finally turned and looked down at The Fat Man still laying on the floor.

199

Opposition Research

“Will you call an ambulance, too?” The Fat Man asked with urgency in his voice.

“No need for one,” Argo smirked. “The bad guys are all dead.”

“Not for them, Leo,” The Fat Man said. “I need one for me.

When you pushed me down, I think I tore my Achilles tendon.”

200

Rick Robinson

Epilogue The television was on a cable news channel when Griffith hushed everyone in the consulting firm’s conference room. Mike Powers came on the screen standing in what is known as the Triangle, a place in the back of the United States Capitol where reporters do their live reports. “Today on Capitol Hill,” Powers began, with his brand-new cable news “logoed” microphone in front of him as a reward for his coverage of the Barkman/Wilson race, “Congressman Ryan Reynard announced he would be stepping down from his seat in the House.

Reynard said the brutal death of his Chief of Staff near a bar in Arlington, Virginia, was too much for him to bear. Matt Webb was murdered by an assailant who later killed two people in West Virginia and was killed himself during a botched robbery attempt at a restaurant in rural Kentucky. Reynard said his resignation would be effective immediately.”

“So what’s it like?” Griffith asked Argo, who was seated at the conference table across from him.

“You mean to shoot somebody?” Argo asked.

“Two people,” said the Fat Man, limping into the room on crutches.

“It sucks,” Argo said decisively. “There is nothing good about shooting people.”

“Aw, hell,” Griffith replied. “I ain’t talking about the shooting.”

“Then what?” Richard Thompson asked.

Griffith smiled and pointed at Argo. “I want to know what it is like for Leo to be wrong about Billy Wilson’s dad being in the Mafia,” he said.

“In my defense, I was close,” Argo shrugged. “It was her in WITSEC instead of him.”

201

Opposition Research

“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” Griffith said, slapping the table.

“That’s a little cold,” said Ann Thompson, frowning at Griffith. “I mean, even a little too morbid for you, Griff.”

Griffith let Ann’s comment roll off him with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I would have never guessed Billy Wilson’s mother was the one in WITSEC either,” Richard Thompson said, quickly changing the subject away from Argo’s erroneous assumptions.

“Apparently,” Argo continued to ignore both Thompson and Griffith, “she witnessed a major mob hit back in the 70s when a Don was whacked in Little Italy. In order to testify, she entered the program, but not before marrying a guy from her old neighborhood she could bring along with her.”

“But that guy – Bill Sr. is not Billy Wilson’s biological father.” The Fat Man interjected.

Leo looked at The Fat Man. “You tellin’ the story or me?”

The Fat Man returned the stare unfazed. “You’re doing fine,” he said, patting Argo’s hand. “I’ll jump in when you miss a detail – like how you pushed me down and …”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Griffith. “We’ve already heard the story a dozen times.”

Argo continued. “Billy Wilson’s real father was the old guy who tried to go for his gun in the cafe. According to Marshall Kidd, Tony Poggione, also known in this case as dead guy number two, was an old flame of Mrs. Wilson’s. They hooked up once and she got pregnant. To her misfortune, she was a witness to the assassination of Carmine “Four Vowels” Bonomini. The scar on her arm was a memento from getting grazed in the cross-fire.”

“How about the other lady?” Dustin Ewing asked. “How does she fit into all of this.”

“Mrs. Wilson’s best friend,” Argo replied.

The Fat Man jumped in. “And also, a witness to the Mob hit.”

Argo crossed his arms and glared at The Fat Man with feigned indignation.

“But Leo should tell you about it,” The Fat Man said softly.

202

Rick Robinson

Argo continued. “The best friend and Poggione immediately disappeared after the shooting. Apparently, they’ve been living in southern California ever since. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Wilson, Poggione was also sleeping with her best friend. In a follow-up treatment for getting grazed in the shootout, she found out she was pregnant. Hence, the quick and convenient marriage to her childhood sweetheart before entering the program.”

“Okay,” Griffith said satisfied. “But how about dead guy number one? Who the hell was he? How does he fit into all of this?”

Argo looked at The Fat Man, who indicated with an approving nod and a royal wave of his hand he would not interrupt. “Some noaccount, small-time hoodlum from Huntington Beach, California,” Argo said. “The FBI is connecting the dots on everything now. They also have a warrant out for some former NYC cop who was apparently running rackets with Poggione.”

The Fat Man could not help himself. “Which is why the “best friend,” the one who was living with the older guy, is in the protection of US Marshalls as we speak. She’s giving them all the skinny on this old cop.” He paused, sheepishly looking at Argo. “But I’m sure Leo was going to tell you all about it.”

Just then, Congressman Josh Barkman walked into the conference room. He had been in the office, but he had been using Thompson’s personal office to make a few calls. After greeting everyone, he announced, “I just got off the phone with my opponent.”

“And what did you tell him?” Thompson asked.

“I told him I was sorry to hear about the robbery attempt at his parents’ restaurant the other night,” Barkman said. “And how glad I was to hear there happened to be a concealed-carry patron there to intercede.”

Ann Thompson smiled. “I’m proud of you, Josh,” she said.

“He knows we know,” Barkman said, looking directly at Griffith.

“When he tried to explain, I assured him we do not intend to make a campaign issue out of this unfortunate situation.”

“What?” Griffith said, slamming his fist on the table. “This is a silver bullet. Pardon the unfortunate pun. But this would end his campaign.”

“And likely his life,” Barkman added.

203

Opposition Research

“The incident sending the Wilsons into protective custody happened a long, long time ago,” Argo jumped in. “We did a quick check.

Everyone likely to want Mrs. Wilson dead is already dead themselves.

If we out them in the news, someone might feel it a point of pride to seek them out. However, if we let it go, the Wilsons will likely die in Maysville, Kentucky of old age.”

“I hate you damn true believers,” Griffith muttered.

Barkman pointed at Dustin. “By the way,” he said. “You’re fired.”

“What?” Ewing said, stunned by the news of his sudden unemployment.

“You’re no longer tracking for the campaign,” Thompson chimed in.

Ewing was shocked. “I’m depending on this for my degree,” he said. “I need the hours.”

“Calm down,” Ann Thompson, patting Ewing’s hand. “I told you two not to mess with him like this.”

“I’m confused,” Ewing declared, looking around the room.

“You’re no longer my tracker,” Barkman said. “You’re now my press secretary.”

Ewing smiled broadly. “Hot damn.”

“Now,” Barkman said, looking at Griffith. “Not to be running my own campaign or anything ….”

“Good call,” Griffith interrupted.

“But, I’ll need a statement about how we’ll be temporarily suspending our campaign while the Wilson family recovers from this senseless tragedy and expressing our thoughts and prayers to them during this difficult time.”

Thompson raised an eyebrow at Griffith. “Got a Godfather Rule for this one, pal?” he asked.

“Not a damn one,” snarled Griffith. “Being nice is new territory for me.”

“Well, then,” Thompson replied singing, “Well, you better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone, Cause the times they are a changing.”

THE END

204

Rick Robinson

Appendix My novels always have a touch of truth in them. A news story, a factoid or a documentary somehow inspires a series of lies I weave into a novel. This story is no different. As a huge fan of the movie Goodfellas, I was surprised to discover Henry Hill once really did live across the parking lot from my old law office. For those who want to know more about Hill’s connection to Northern Kentucky, I suggest you read “How Well Do You Know Your Neighbor – The Story of Henry Hill” by Bob Webster in the January/February 2011 edition of the Bulletin of the Kenton County Historical Society. It is easily found online.

And to learn more about witness protection, I recommend WITSEC: Inside the Federal Witness Protection Program by Pete Earley (Random House, 2009).

205

Opposition Research

Acknowledgments There are always a bunch of folks to thank when I write a book.

It’s been two years since my last one was published, so I must search the aging memory banks a bit to make sure I mention everyone. If I missed anyone, I apologize. I’ll catch you on the next one.

First, since I’ve moved to DC, my writing home has been Ireland’s Four Courts in Arlington, Virginia. Dave Cahill, the head honcho, all the managers (Tim Walsh, Mairead Hartnett, Harry Dunne, Shane Canny and Kalina Yordanova) and all the staff, who always take care of Linda and allows me to hang around at the end of the bar while I write. Any resemblance between the people I drink with and characters in this book are purely coincidental – I think, well, probably.

Sometimes the writing sessions get a little fuzzy. Along with my regular drinking buddies Arnie, Phil, and Andy, thanks to everyone working at the pub who make my writing easier.

A couple of people actually paid good money in charity auctions to have their names included in this book. You know who you are.

Don’t blame me if you ended up a bad guy or dead.

Thanks to my pal Ron DiAmbria, former NYPD, for letting me use his badge number and for keeping me out of a fight in Las Vegas.

Ask him for the details.

Every author I know would rather be a rock star than a writer.

My own bandmates – Phil Tatro and author Dennis Hetzel – have made it into past books. We don’t get to play as often as we used to, but even a one-night session will inspire my writing. Mike Powers and Jeffrey McLaughlin (front men for The Fighting Jamesons) made it into the book because they occasionally lower their standards and let me play mando with them.

Shout out to DJ Caulfield for the back cover photo.

206

Rick Robinson

Debbie McKinney – time to release another one. Thanks.

I could never write a book without the collaborative assistance of Mark Morris and Jeff Landen. Thanks for coming through once again.

My publisher, Cathy Teets at Publishers Page (an imprint of Headline Books) never presses me on deadlines. Thank goodness. Her, “a book is ready when it’s ready” approach has been a blessing over these past couple of years.

My wife Linda remains my greatest fan, most critical editor and best friend. I tell folks the only thing we really argue about is my use of hyphens.

And to our kids: Josh, Zach, and MacKenzie – we love you.

207

Books by Rick Robinson The Maximum Contribution Sniper Bid Manifest Destiny Writ of Mandamus The Advance Man Killing the Curse with Dennis Hetzel Landau Eugene Murphy Jr Strange Bedfellow Alligator Alley The Promise of Cedar Key Opposition Research

“...an excellent series of D.C. thrillers.”

—P.J. O’Rourke, NY Times best-selling author “It’s like drinking beers with your buds at an Irish pub and a novel breaks out.”

—Rock Neely, author of the Purple Heart Detective Trilogy and River of Tears “In Opposition Research, master storyteller, Rick Robinson, once again rips off the false façade of American politics and shows how things really work. His quirky cast of characters exposes the dark underbelly of political campaigns; showing what’s wrong with Washington, and what it would take to make them right.”

—Rod Pennington, Amazon Top Selling Author With over four decades in law and national politics, Rick Robinson’s novels are as current as today’s headlines. Robinson’s manner of relating political life and the campaign trail to readers has earned him Amazon top seller status, often placing multiple books in the top 100 at the same time. Published by Headline Books, Robinson’s numerous writing accolades include being named International Independent Author of the year.

When he and his wife, Linda, are not at some local pub in Northern Virginia sampling the Guinness stew, Robinson can be found playing electric mandolin in an Irish punk rock band or wading waist deep in a cold river aggravating trout.

OPPOSITION RESEARCH

Opposition Research is politics’ dirty little secret. Digging up buried skeletons can bring an opponent’s campaign to a dead standstill. And former United States Senator Richard Thompson just can't get politics out of his blood. Following his last stint on Capitol Hill, Thompson and his close circle of friends are embarking on a new endeavor—running a consulting firm that specializes in opposition research. But when their digging uncovers lethal information, it places Thompson and his crew on a dangerous ride spanning from Little Italy to California and back to the nation‘s capital. In between, winning or losing a campaign becomes overshadowed by life and death itself.

OPPOSITION RESEARCH