*
Joe Hugo was a pale man with prominent blue eyes. He was somewhere in his thirties. Like all FBI agents he wore excruciatingly conservative clothes: a plain grey suit, a white shirt, a nondescript tie, black toecapped shoes. Cam himself was conventional in his tastes, but his unremarkable brown chalk-stripe suit with wide lapels and flared trousers suddenly seemed radical.
Cam told Hugo he worked for Ehrlichman and said right out: ‘I need a wiretap on Jasper Murray, the television journalist.’
Joe frowned. ‘Tap the office of This Day? If that story got out . . .’
‘Not his office, his home. The leakers we’re talking about most likely sneak out late in the evening and go to a pay phone and call him at home.’
‘Either way it’s a problem. The FBI doesn’t do black bag jobs any more.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Mr Hoover feels the Bureau is in danger of taking the rap for other people in government.’
Cam could not contradict this. If the FBI was caught burglarizing the home of a journalist, naturally the President would deny all knowledge. That was how things worked. J. Edgar Hoover had been breaking the law for years, but now for some reason he had got a bug up his ass about it. There was no telling with Hoover, seventy-seven years old and no saner than he had ever been.
Cam raised his voice. ‘The President has asked for this wiretap, and the Attorney General is happy to authorize it. Are you going to refuse?’
‘Relax,’ said Hugo. ‘There’s always a way to give the President what he needs.’
‘You mean you’ll do it?’
‘I mean there’s a way.’ Hugo wrote something on a pad and tore off the sheet. ‘Call this guy. He used to do these jobs officially. He’s retired now, which just means he does them unofficially.’
Cam was uncomfortable with the idea of doing things unofficially. What did that mean? he wondered. But he sensed this was not the moment to quibble.
He took the piece of paper. It bore the name ‘Tim Tedder’ and a phone number. ‘I’ll call him today,’ Cam said.
‘From a pay phone,’ said Hugo.
*
The Mayor of Roath, Mississippi sat in George Jakes’s office at Fawcett Renshaw. His name was Robert Denny, but he said: ‘Call me Denny. Everyone knows Denny. Even my little lady wife calls me Denny.’ He was the kind of man George had been fighting for a decade: an ugly, fat, foul-mouthed, stupid white racist.
His city was building an airport, with help from the government. But recipients of federal funding had to be equal-opportunity employers. And Maria in the Justice Department had learned that the new airport would have no black staff other than skycaps.
This was typical of the kind of work George got.
Denny was as condescending as a man could be. ‘We do things a little differently in the South, George,’ he said.
Don’t I fucking know it, George thought; you thugs broke my arm eleven years ago, and it still aches like a bastard on a cold day.
‘People in Roath wouldn’t have confidence in an airport run by coloureds,’ Denny went on. ‘They would fear things might not be done right, you know, from a safety point of view. I’m sure you understand me.’
You bet I do, you racist fool.
‘Old Renshaw is a good friend of mine.’
Renshaw was not a friend of Denny’s, George knew. The senior partner had met this client just twice. But Denny was hoping to make George nervous. If you mess up, your boss is going to be real mad at you.
Denny went on: ‘He tells me that you’re the best person in Washington to get the Justice Department off my back.’
George said: ‘Mr Renshaw is right. I am.’
With Denny were two city councillors and three aides, all white. Now they sat back, showing relief. George had reassured them that their problem could be solved.
‘Now,’ George said, ‘there are two ways we could achieve this. We could go to court and challenge the Justice Department’s ruling. They’re not that smart over there, and we can find flaws in their methodology, mistakes in their reports, and bias. Litigation is good for my firm, because our fees would be high.’
‘We can pay,’ said Denny. The airport was clearly a lucrative project.
‘Two snags with litigation,’ George said. ‘One, there are always delays – and you want to get your airport built and operating as soon as you can. Two, no lawyer can put his hand on his heart and tell you what the court’s decision will be. You never know.’
‘Not here in Washington, anyhow,’ said Denny.
Clearly the courts in Roath were more amenable to Denny’s wishes.
‘Alternatively,’ George said, ‘we could negotiate.’
‘What would that involve?’
‘A phased introduction of more black employees at all levels.’
‘Promise them anything!’ said Denny.
‘They’re not completely stupid, and payments would be tied to compliance.’
‘What do you think they’ll want?’
‘The Justice Department doesn’t really care, so long as they can say they’ve made a difference. But they will consult with black organizations in your town.’ George glanced down at the file on his desk. ‘This case was brought to the Justice Department by Roath Christians for Equal Rights.’
‘Fucking Communists,’ said Denny.
‘The Justice Department will probably agree to any compromise that has the approval of that group. It gets them and you out of the Department’s hair.’
Denny reddened. ‘You better not be telling me I have to negotiate with the goddamn Roath Christians.’
‘It’s the smart way to go if you want a quick solution to your problem.’
Denny bristled.
George added: ‘But you don’t have to see them personally. In fact, I recommend you don’t speak to them at all.’
‘Then who will negotiate with them?’
‘I will,’ said George. ‘I’ll fly down there tomorrow.’
The mayor grinned. ‘And you being, you know, the colour you are, you’ll be able to talk them into backing down.’
George wanted to strangle the dumb prick. ‘I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Mr Mayor – Denny, I should say. You will have to make some real changes. My job is to make sure they’re as painless as possible. But you’re an experienced political leader, and you know the importance of public relations.’
‘That’s the truth.’
‘If there’s any talk of the Roath Christians backing down, it could sabotage the whole deal. Better for you to take the line that you’ve graciously made some small concessions, much against your will, in order to get your airport built for the good of the town.’
‘Gotcha,’ Denny said with a wink.
Without realizing it, Denny had agreed to reverse a decades-old practice and employ more blacks at his airport. This was a small victory, but George relished it. However, Denny would not be happy unless he could tell himself and others that he had pulled a fast one. Best, perhaps, to go along with the delusion.
George winked back.
As the delegation from Tennessee was leaving the office, George’s secretary gave him a strange look and a slip of paper.
It was a typed phone message: ‘There will be a prayer meeting at the Barney Circle Full Gospel Church tomorrow at six.’
The secretary’s look said this was a strange way for a high-powered Washington lawyer to spend the cocktail hour.
George knew the message was from Maria.