Inside the dimly lit room, MacLachlan lay still, an oxygen mask over his face, his chest slowly rising and falling with each struggling breath. MacLachlan’s wife sat by his side, her eyes puffy from hours of weeping. She wore pearls and a pink suit—more Beltway than Terre Haute; she looked as if she’d been at a Daughters of the American Revolution luncheon when she got word of the shooting the day before.
Jesus, thought Charlie, was that only just yesterday? It felt like a month had passed; this was a whole new Washington, DC, reality to which he hadn’t yet adjusted, one where death wasn’t something that happened just to our boys in Korea.
The tiny room was crowded: House Speaker Joe Martin was standing off to the side talking to majority leader Charles Halleck from MacLachlan’s home state of Indiana and Democratic leader Sam Rayburn of Texas. Near them stood the vice president, Richard Nixon, with a complexion almost as wan as the patient’s.
Charlie and Street introduced themselves to MacLachlan’s wife, Henrietta, who struggled to maintain her composure. She raised her hands helplessly. “The idea that he could survive the Nazis in France but not the Puerto Ricans in Washington…” Her eyes darted toward Street, presumably to see if he might have taken offense. But Street’s face revealed only sympathy.
“I’ve known him for only a short while,” Charlie told her, “but he is one of the most principled men I’ve ever met. And he’s strong. If anyone can fight this and survive, it will be him.” The words rang hollow as he said them. In France, he had seen the mightiest fighters perish in pathetic accidents and the weakest cowards make it through the grisliest of conflicts. None of it meant anything.
“Oh, Congressman Marder, he has such nice things to say about you,” she replied.
The room settled into silence for a few moments until two staff members poked their heads in the doorway to retrieve Vice President Nixon, followed not long afterward by aides collecting the Speaker of the House. Charlie and Street engaged in some small talk with Halleck and Rayburn.
“How are the others?” Street asked.
“They’re okay,” Rayburn said. “Better ’n Mac.”
“We just saw Davis and Jensen at Bethesda,” said Halleck. “They’re sharing a room. Doctors say they’re going to be fine.”
“Sumbitches were arguing.” Rayburn chortled softly, casting a cautious glance toward Mrs. MacLachlan before he lowered his voice. “Davis wanted to listen to The Lone Ranger on the radio. Jensen wanted music, said he’d had all the shooting he could take for one day.”
Charlie smiled politely, too aware of the gravity of MacLachlan’s situation to feel comfortable joking at his bedside about survivors. He and Street sat down on two metal folding chairs and stared at the patient as he labored to breathe. They didn’t know what to say or where to look.
“Mrs. MacLachlan, Sam and I need to stop by and visit some of the other wounded members of Congress,” Halleck said, “but we’ll be back soon. If there is anything at all we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call.”
She accepted his farewell absently, with a small nod. The congressmen made their way out of the room and Charlie turned his attention to the bed. In addition to the oxygen mask, MacLachlan had two IVs that were dripping clear fluids into his forearms. Charlie was following the trail of a blue tube from MacLachlan’s arm through a mess of cords and wires when Street nudged him.
MacLachlan’s eyes were open.
His wife jumped to her feet. “Christian?” Mrs. MacLachlan asked “Christian?”
MacLachlan didn’t move his head or neck. He blinked rapidly, a look of incomprehension on his face. His gaze shifted from right to left, taking in Charlie and Street, and then to his wife. His right hand slowly rose from the bed, and she clasped it with both of hers; tears began to stream down her cheeks.
MacLachlan struggled to speak; he laboriously yanked the oxygen mask from his face. His wife gasped and looked at Charlie and Street, alarmed. MacLachlan, grimacing with pain, turned his eyes to Charlie and sent him a piercing glare.
“Jen…Jennifer,” MacLachlan said. “Under Jennifer.”
He looked depleted by the effort; his eyes closed as the oxygen machine suddenly emitted alarmed, loud beeps. Two nurses and a doctor raced into the room. A nurse replaced the oxygen mask, then looked over her shoulder at Street and Charlie. “Gentlemen, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” she said firmly. Charlie and Street barely had time to grab their coats before the door slammed behind them.
“Jesus,” Street said.
Charlie was shaking his head, trying to make sense of what they’d just heard.
“‘Under Jennifer’?”
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday, March 4, 1954—Morning
Capitol Hill
Charlie felt as spent as a wrung dishrag. He pushed himself up from his chair and dragged himself out of his office to walk to the Capitol. A joint session of Congress awaited him, where he would be treated to a bipartisan welcoming of the governor-general of Canada. Part of Charlie couldn’t believe—indeed, was appalled—that so many folks proceeded as if there hadn’t been a mass shooting in the House Chamber just three days ago. It felt as though they were behaving as if the shooting was a normal, if unfortunate, event—a fender bender, a coffee spill, though all six wounded members of Congress remained in the hospital, MacLachlan in a coma. Charlie tried to continue his day-to-day activities in a barely awake zombielike state he hadn’t experienced since France.
From the end of the hallway, he heard a familiar voice. “You okay?” He turned around to see Davis LaMontagne and was instantly reminded of the lobbyist’s request and the damning folder about Boschwitz, the one Charlie had last seen right before the Puerto Ricans started shooting. In the previous three weeks, Charlie had studiously avoided saying anything other than a brief hello to LaMontagne, and here he was to finally force the matter.
“Davis,” Charlie said. “Damn.”
“You didn’t give it to anyone?” LaMontagne said.
“I lost it on the House floor during the shooting,” Charlie conceded.
LaMontagne’s face was hard to read. “I gave you that folder three weeks ago. You were still carrying it around Monday?”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “Sorry.”
“And you don’t know where it is, I presume?”
“I don’t.”
LaMontagne’s eyes narrowed.
“You do know six congressmen got shot?” Charlie asked, an edge in his voice. “And that MacLachlan’s probably going to die?”
LaMontagne turned around without answering and walked away down the hall. Charlie shook his head in disbelief.
“What was all that about?”
Charlie turned; Isaiah Street emerged from around a corner of the hallway, where apparently he’d heard the exchange.
“You know how once you get this job, everybody wants something from you?” Charlie asked as the two proceeded down the four flights of stairs.
“You bet,” said Street. “Everybody from the Speaker to my aunt Estelle. So?” Street prompted as they both stopped on the second floor to light cigarettes. “What’s LaMontagne after you for?”
“He wanted me to provide the McCarthy Committee with some pretty damning information about one of his business competitors.”
“And is the competitor a Red?”
Charlie shrugged as he put away his German lighter. “Dunno. Maybe. I was supposed to give it to Bob Kennedy. Three weeks ago.”
“Just taking your time.”
“I don’t know why I was waiting so long.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Yes, I do.”
Cigarettes in hand, they proceeded down the stairs.
“Listen, speaking of requests, I was just about to make one of you,” Street said. “I want you to use your Manhattan connections to block permitting on a General Kinetics factory they’re trying to build in Harlem. Civil rights activists in New York are making this a national cause, so I’m getting heat back home too.”
“They want to stop it? They don’t want the jobs? I can’t imagine Congressman Powell trying to stop any employment opportunities in Harlem.”
“No, you’re right. Powell isn’t on board with me here.”
“So why are you and the civil rights activists opposed?”
“It’s a chemical plant, Charlie. Vinyl chloride.”
Charlie looked at him blankly.
“Have you ever heard of Mossville, Louisiana?”