Chapter 5

He arrived at the apartment exhausted. He had a farmer’s tan from a full day of taking swings, drinking lukewarm beer, and chatting it up with two traders he never met before. Chalk it up to one of Stewart’s lazy days.

He crawled into bed and snuggled close to Caitlin who breathed calmly in a deep sleep. He wrapped himself around her body, hugging it like it was the only thing that mattered. She was the only person who understood him. She woke up when he put all of his weight on her. He turned into a child when something bothered him. Stewart rarely got personal with staff members. He got personal with Simon on a few occasions, but never one of the other staff.

The unfairness of Sara French’s and Stewart’s relationship didn’t anger him as much as it reduced him down to size. He wasn’t as important as he used to be.

“Okay, Simon, what’s wrong?” mumbled Caitlin, half asleep.

“Nothing.”

She rolled on top of him and buried the side of her face in his collar.

“What’s wrong, sweetie? I know you want to tell me.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Oh, poor baby. A rough day?”

“Yeah.”

She kissed his lips and then ran his tongue down his body. Nothing healed him as well as Caitlin’s warm mouth in the middle of the night.

He arrived the next day at campaign headquarters a little on the late side. He planned to make a few phone calls and tell his fundraising staff the big news – that they’d be hosting this glamorous fundraiser before election time. Although he was still a little miffed about the whole idea, he couldn’t help but feel excited about meeting the President again. He met him before in for a brief minute or two at an earlier fundraiser, a thousand dollars a plate no less, and there were only too many people willing to fork out that kind of dough for the President’s ear.

He called in his fundraising staff, three of the hardest workers he’d ever been around. They were young and just as ambitious. If he weren’t in love with Caitlin, he’d definitely be seeing the girl who took charge. Kimberly was much like Sarah French, only younger, sexier, and very loyal to him. She’d do anything Simon asked, including running his personal errands every now and then. He once asked her to escort a philanthropist to a fundraising dinner. This was a couple of weeks back. The guy’s wife died a few weeks earlier, and he needed a date. Kimberly filled in without comment. She didn’t ask any questions or put up a fight, just did the job and flirted with the guy until he pulled out his checkbook. She made sure he had a good time and connected the guy with others of similar interests. The guy was looking to sell something, and she hooked him up with another guy interested in buying it. And for the trouble he donated heavily to the Briarwood campaign. He didn’t have to believe in the Briarwood platform at all. He only needed access to a buyer and to rub elbows with people who could buy other things from him. If he didn’t get what he was looking for, the campaign went without a donation and instead sent him junk mail, an occasional cold call, an invitation to another gathering, or maybe a personal note from Simon urging him to attend.

Kimberly had a lot to do with Simon’s success. She worked around the clock renting out hotel rooms, hiring caterers, and taking care of invitations. The other two suits with her handled the telephones and grassroots initiatives to prey on volunteers who telemarketed Briarwood to registered voters in the district – mostly the undecided and the people who normally didn’t care about the political process. He thought of Kimberly as a refined customer service representative. She lubricated the fundraising machine by assisting the contributors, tailoring her work to their needs.

Kimberly also had a crush on Simon. Besides doing anything he asked, she occasionally asked him out. Having power over Kimberly came in handy, and he took advantage of it all the time. She became his personal assistant. What Sarah French was to Stewart, Kimberly was to Simon. Of course Simon never slept with Kimberly, but once in a while the thought did cross his mind. She tempted him, especially one night when they stayed in for the 2000 Convention. He loved Caitlin too much, even though Kimberly made eyes at him, not only on that trip, but also at a few other functions in and around.

Simon sat them down and told them about the President’s visit and the fundraisers to be held. They gasped at the idea. They were shocked how little time they had to prepare for it.

“I know it’s short notice, but we have to get things going. Don’t worry about cold-calling for now. I want all of you working on the President’s visit. I want you two guys to report to Kimberly, and Kimberly will report directly to me.

“Are we using the Waldorf again?” asked the bright-eyed Kimberly.

“Yes, we always use the Waldorf. Call them right away.”

In the middle of the meeting, one of Stewart’s assistants knocked on the door. She was a young, blonde intern out of.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sample, but Mr. Briarwood would like to see you.”

“Can it wait? I’m a little tied up right now.”

“He says it’s important.”

The intern seemed a little nervous. Stewart probably wanted to go to the club and have a game of racquetball, or maybe he needed a partner for golf again, something along those lines. He dismissed his staff and visited Stewart down the hall.

Stewart looked out the window, the suspenders on his back running up him like a vine. He had the most original collection of suspenders he’d ever seen. His slicked-back hair and his reluctance to say something right off the bat told Simon that something serious was on his mind.

“Have a seat,” he said.

Simon sat down, but Stewart stayed quiet, pondering something. Stewart often got like this when he calculated and strategized.

“I’m kind of busy today, Stu. Y’know we have the big fundraiser coming up.”

“Yeah, we do.”

Stewart picked up a newspaper and slapped it down in front of him.

“Do you have anything to say about this?”

The front cover of a weekly, liberal tabloid showed a cartoon of a smiling congressman Briarwood and Charlie Sample shaking hands and exchanging a bag of money for an oversized I.R.S. credit card.

“Oh, Stewart,” said Simon nonchalantly, “they do a story like this every year. Last year it was the congressman fathering an illegitimate child. C’mon, no one’s going to believe this.”

“You haven’t read the article yet.”

“Why bother? They’re only trying to generate scandal before the President arrives.”

“They don’t know the President’s coming. No one does. The article is part of a month-long series on my father’s campaign and his campaign financing practices.”

Stewart was visibly upset. He paced the room. He didn’t look at him, just kept pacing while Simon read the article.

Besides campaign fundraising violations, the article accused congressman Briarwood of taking bribes from the wealthy real estate developer Charles Sample, Simon’s father. It was one of those long investigative reports that made him cringe in his seat.

Charlie Sample did develop land in. Sure there was never enough land to go around, but whatever was available, you could bet that the Samples had a hand in developing it. That’s how tight the relationship was between Charlie Sample and the city council, also the State Assembly, and even the incumbent mayor. But most New Yorkers didn’t know about Charlie Sample’s business deals outside the State – in places like,,, and even in. Charlie Sample had his finger in a lot of pies. He owned slices of property all over the nation.

Simon knew very little of what his father did. Charlie kept him out of it, now that his son was in the national political game. Sample Real Estate usually developed luxury apartment buildings and commercial centers for publicly held corporations.

‘So what?’ thought Simon. ‘My Dad is successful at what he does. They’re always trying to bring him down.’

But the article went on to say that Sample owned and developed low income housing in other states. This nifty statement took Simon by surprise, because the only way Charlie Sample would develop low-income housing was if he got an incentive from the federal government to build it, hence the motivation to bribe Briarwood.

Most people loathe the tax system. Most people loathe the I.R.S., but tax policy can actually work for you if you’re a big time developer like Charlie Sample. The article said that Sample Real Estate owned a low-income apartment complex near the Bus Terminal. This property was one of many, not only in the state, but throughout the nation. Sample built low-income housing all over the place. In return, Sample received the low-income housing credit, or LIHC. The tax credits he received from the feds offset the taxes he owed for the upscale units he built. In order to receive the tax credits, good ol’ Charlie had to make a commitment to let low-income residents stay in these buildings for a period of thirty years.

Sample knew about the LIHC long before the rest of the industry caught on. Congress voted in the LIHC in 1986, and that’s when Sample went into action, buying up low-valued land and making cheap buildings that now house thousands of low-income tenants. The LIHC made this possible. His relationship with Briarwood alerted him to the tax credit. Hell, Briarwood was the one who proposed the damn thing. But now the big expansion ended, and the economy couldn’t decide on which way to go, and congressman Briarwood, when elected, would win the chairmanship of the and Means Committee. Briarwood, with Sample’s money as an incentive, would vote to reform the LIHC guidelines.

No longer would developers have to wait thirty years to convert their units to the market rate. Briarwood would introduce legislation to make the limit fifteen years, not thirty, and apply the fifteen-year limit retroactively to those developers who owned more than their fair share of low-income buildings. Should this law go into effect during the next Briarwood term, Charlie Sample stood to make millions. He could convert his low-income buildings to luxurious condominiums and charge market rates for them. Of course in the big cities there were rent stabilization laws to deal with, but at least he could raise the rents somewhat and still profit from the reform. If Sample received the LIHC in 1986, the time had already passed. Charlie Sample would convert those units meant for poor folk and offer them to the middle class, maybe even the upper class. Not bad for fifteen years’ work. Not bad for Charlie Sample’s image over the years – a developer that had heart enough to build housing for the poor, until, of course, Briarwood raises the credit cap and shortens the limit.

“This is ridiculous!” yelled Simon. “No one’s going to believe this. First of all, your father would never approve of a fifteen-year reduction in the limit, and second of all, this is just a smear campaign by the opposition who has no chance of winning. The distribution of this trash paper is so low that they have to invent something to get people to buy it. No one’s going to believe this, and no one’s going to read this either. Have Sarah French put a spin on it, she’ll know what to do. No one’s going to buy this. It’s too scandalous to be true.”

“Sarah’s got other things to worry about. Taking her away from the President’s visit to deal with this shit is not happening.”

“Then don’t use her, because by this time tomorrow, no one will care. This is a shitty paper, Stu. These accusations are not only false, they’re outrageous. We just deny it if any of the big league papers get interested. This is nothing to be worried about.”

“They’re running a story on the campaign for four weeks. Don’t you think the dailies will get a whiff of it by then?”

“Not if you pull Sarah for a few minutes just to make a statement. That’s all we need.”

“I’m not using Sarah on this.”

“Then let’s not worry about it. This is an easy victory. Let’s not waste another minute on it.”

“But I am worried about it. Sarah says we have lots of reasons to worry. She thinks that this will snowball before election day.”

“You talked to her about it?”

“Yeah I did.”

“Before you talked to me?”

“Yeah. I had to. We had to move quickly on it.”

“But you just said she has more important things to do.”

“She does,” he sighed. “Simon, we already made a decision on it.”

The slack of Stu’s face gave Simon goose-bumps and then a strange release of pressure at his temples. He knew what was coming, and it would alter his universe.

“Stewart, this is a ridiculous charge. Why the hell should I bow out when nothing has happened yet? No one cares about this story.”

“Not yet. No one cares about it yet.”

“It’s a trashy weekly tabloid for Chrissakes! No one’s going to give a shit. No one will pay attention to it.”

“With the President coming, it’s a potential risk.”

“Stu, buddy, look at the date on this. Look at the fucking date. This was first released ten years ago, and none of the dailies moved on it. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Simon’s hands grew warm and clammy. He breathed heavy. His heart palpitated like a jackrabbit’s.

“Listen, and I hate to do this, but why don’t you take some time off from the campaign, okay? Only a couple of weeks while this thing blows over, okay?”

“A couple of weeks? Stu, we’re at the beginning of a Presidential fundraiser. Who the hell else is qualified to handle this? You’re overreacting. These are false charges, totally false. They have no proof of this.”

“I know you’re upset, but this is much too serious to have you working on the President’s visit and having this rumor blow up into something much bigger.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. Just take a break for a couple of weeks until we deny these allegations, okay?”

“But the story’s running for a month. Why not take me off the campaign for a month instead of two lousy weeks?”

“We were considering that, but right now it’s wait and see.”

“Who’s we?”

“We, Simon, we! The campaign staff.”

“So you discussed this with the others?”

“Simon, please.”

“By ‘we’ you mean Sarah French, don’t you.”

“It has nothing to do with Sarah. No one would do anything to hurt the campaign, especially with a major event ahead of us.”

Simon sighed and threw up his hands.

“Don’t make this more than it is,” said Stewart. “It’s a vacation, that’s all, until we can get a handle on this thing. I can’t ignore what this may do to the campaign.”

He poured him a drink from a closet bar. Simon loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. The article hit him by surprise, but Stewart’s handling of the situation surprised him even more. One minute Simon’s telling Kimberly to rent out the Waldorf, and the next he’s suspended from his job amidst allegations that no one in their right mind would ever believe, especially with the numbers way ahead of the Hispanic guy.

“How would it look, Simon? You’re the head of fundraising. If they mentioned you, we’d be on the cover of every newspaper and magazine in the city. You’re the missing link they need.”

“It’s bullshit, and you know it.”

He sucked up his drink and slammed it down on Stewart’s desk.

“Simon, this doesn’t reflect the incredible work you’ve done so far. This is not a personal attack on you, it’s just the way the game is played.”

“Well sorry for taking my job and my life so personally. I just can’t believe you’d cut me loose because of this thing.”

“My decision is final.”

“This is bullshit.”

He slammed the door on his way out.

“Call me this weekend, alright?” yelled Stewart.

Kimberly stopped him before he left the building.

“Simon, we’re still in a meeting.”

“Not anymore. Go see Stewart. He’ll tell you what to do. I’ll be back in a couple weeks.”

“Is everything alright?”

“No, but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Just keep an eye on things until I get back.”

He exited the office with the weekly tabloid rolled in his fist. He felt like beating the reporter who wrote the story with it. He could have gone to the club, but the club was probably the worst place to go after being ordered out. He would only go there to get drunk and bend the bartender’s ear, telling him how unfair things could be and how bad things always happen to good people.

In the elevator he banged the newspaper on the wall, and then he remembered to keep his cool and not to get overly emotional. He wanted to take the paper and beat Sarah French’s head with it. He sat himself down at an Irish pub a couple blocks away.

Getting drunk had always been a futile attempt. It lifted him for about five minutes, and in an effort to feel high like those first five minutes, he drank even more - a woman bartender, no less, at a bar that he had no excuse for being in. Sure, the high felt nice. So did the self-pity, and Simon did that a lot when he was down and out. Yes, one hell of a day, and he had nothing better to do than mope. Damn liberals in the press always hell bent on destroying the vision he had of a perfect world, albeit a conservative world, but Simon had plans of making that world a reality. Not that everything was laid to waste exactly. He still had his job after all, and he still was a wealthy man to some extent. This was just a leave of absence until things cooled off.

Politics can get dirty awfully fast, and he still had his suspicions about Sarah French. Maybe she leaked the story to the liberal press to get him out of the picture. He’d always been such a tight-ass with money. He had raised big bucks on the last campaign, but money just wasn’t needed this time around. Simon was struck by the awful position of working for a cause he believed in while the others around him, Stewart in particular, cared very little about the conservative platform. It was supposed to be a conservative campaign about conservative issues. Politics and conviction, however, didn’t go very well together this time around. No one really cared what the hell you believed just so long as you won the election with the same logic that had been used in past campaigns. The collaborative process in narrowed it down to a few key issues and events. The media narrowed it down as well, so in the end a candidate won on ideology more than his promises. The candidate’s character was only a by-product of an overall ideology that was packaged and resold to an apathetic public. Just a fact of life, Simon thought. That’s how Briarwood appealed to the public – by saying the same things, behaving in the same way, yet being brought up to date by media professionals and coaches if only to look shiny and new.

Of course most of the deal making took place in the back rooms, the trading and negotiating. Simon had very little to do with this. He just brought interested parties to the table if only to get them spending. Stewart did the rest, and God knows what he did with the money Simon raked in. It troubled him that such a loyal friend would let him go like that. Or maybe Simon had a little growing up to do.

In politics one doesn’t really have any friends. It used to be a lot different. The both of them were young, enthusiastic, and committed. But all that idealism eroded when Briarwood’s lead over the Hispanic guy grew so large that there was really no need for an ideal, just the bare-boned reality of getting the most bang for the buck, like Stu sleeping with Sarah French and this stupid Presidential fundraiser that wasn’t even necessary. No, a lot of things didn’t make sense to Simon Sample just then, drinking his scotch, looking to the bartender for some comfort.

And what about his dreams of succeeding Briarwood someday? It all seemed a little hazy, his ultimate dream a little less pronounced, as though he didn’t really have any control over the outcome of his life but was instead hindered by hidden forces and people he thought he knew but knew no longer.

Saddened by these events but determined to get back on the campaign, Simon left the bar with the newspaper in his hand. He raced up, the afternoon sky dripping into dusk, the clouds a little runny with a light shower. The farther uptown he walked, the angrier he got, the liquor and the newspaper helping his anger along like a horsewhip.

As soon as he got home he called Stewart.

“I feel like shit,” said Stewart on the other end, “but if you were in my position, what would you do?”

“I’d stop sleeping with Sarah French.”

“What do you have against her anyway? A little intimidated by her?”

“She’s clouding your judgment. For all I know she leaked the story.”

“So we’ve turned to conspiracy theories now?”

“Who the hell else would do it? The paper didn’t get the story on its own. Half of their reporters don’t even know how to write a grammatical sentence let alone prove what they wrote.”

“I understand your position, Simon, but what’s done is done. This is nothing personal. We can’t put the President’s visit in jeopardy.”

“And that’s another thing that pisses the hell out of me.”

“Simon, you’re on vacation, okay?”

“How long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“By that time your father will be in. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Why don’t you take Caitlin out to dinner?”

“I don’t mean just tonight. There aren’t too many positions open in the city for political fundraisers. Y’know, Stu, I feel betrayed here, if you want me to be honest. I’ve worked hard, and this is the thanks I get?”

“There’s no need to be bitter about this.”

“I have a right to be bitter. What do you expect me to do right now? For all I know Sarah French will take my job by the time I’m back. I can’t believe you go for her nouveau schemes on how to win elections, because we’re not doing it the right way.”

“Oh, that’s right – Simon Sample always has to do things the right way, the squeaky-clean traditional way. You sound like my fucking grandmother for Chrissakes. You think I want it this way? Do you think I wanted the commie paper to print that garbage?”

“I guess not, no. But you have no right throwing me off the campaign.”

“Listen, Simon, I can’t get into this, alright? But you’re out. Wait a couple of months, and I’ll call you.”

“At least tell me ‘s a possibility.”

“Once this thing blows over, everything’s possible.”

“Do you actually believe my father is bribing your father?” asked Stu. “Do you expect people to believe that?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“It doesn’t change anything. This is a business of perception. The dailies get a whiff of this, and all of us are screwed.”

“I still don’t agree with it – why I have to be forced out. It’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Simon, but I tell you what, and I’m doing this because of our friendship and because I care about you.”

“I’m not a charity case. I don’t want your charity.”

“Will you just listen? If you get this paper to print a retraction and stop their investigation, then you can have your old job back. Is that fair?”

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that? They work for the opposition. They’re not going to listen to me. And besides, why should I have to lift a finger to save my own job when there’s no bribery going on anyway? Why should I have to lift a finger to prove my own innocence?”

“This is not a trial, Simon. You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“I feel like I’m on trial. I never did anything wrong.”

“I’m not going to argue about it anymore. Get a retraction, and you can come back.”

“Fine,” said Simon, “I’ll do just that.”

“Listen, I’ve got to go. Dinner with you and Caitlin next week?”

“Why not? I’ll have nothing better to do.”

After he hung up, he had an urge for Caitlin. She always put his mind at ease. She was probably shopping along Madison Avenue. Money was never in short supply, and at least he had that to be thankful for. But his dream of becoming a congressman had been pushed out of the picture. His missed campaign headquarters, Kimberly, the pleasures of delegating authority, hell, even the Manny the computer guy he couldn’t do without. He was removed from the social climb and envisioned himself down the road as some sort of playboy, Caitlin the social butterfly at his side, and the thought of this sickened him a little – to be around people who had no knowledge of politics, and worse – people who didn’t even care. He had to get back into it, and really he had never fought for anything in his life. He played by the rules, cared about the rules, and had conviction, but never had he been reduced like this. He blamed Sarah French, his nemesis who probably leaked the story to the press, and images of her power business suits and snotty attitude towards him burned like embers in his churning mind. It was just a damn shame that good ol’ Simon Sample had been pushed out of his job after years of hard work, the only kid at who actually did his homework, all those meetings with political donors, all of that hustle to put Briarwood on top in the last election. But then his mind swung in a more moderate direction. Better to be calm and cool about this, not so hell bent on getting even. Play his cards right, minimize his anger, go to the commie newspaper and get a retraction, and then maybe everything else would fall into place. He had a right to be bitter, but bitterness never carried a guy very far. Yet something felt good about this bitterness. He finally had a right to be bitter.

Since Caitlin was out shopping, he needed more people around him. Their apartment together on the East side had a certain seclusion about it. They had spent months selecting the furniture – the four post bed, the leather chairs and sofa, the artwork on the walls, the Persian rugs. Caitlin picked out everything, and at times he felt like a foreigner in his own home, as though the place were a museum littered with antiques, rare books, and artifacts that made the place a neo-conservative shrine for the twenty-first century, a decorative paradox that planted them in the middle of all trends whenever they gained steam. The place was great for dinner with friends, but all alone he couldn’t help but leave and take a cab to his club on. He was still a little drunk but wanted to be with others.

A doorman let him into a wide lobby. He checked his coat and ascended a flight of marble stairs, the music getting louder the higher he went. The room at the top had a bartender in uniform serving drinks and a piano player in the corner eking out quiet Cole Porter tunes. Already a group of his boys sipped drinks at a prewar oak table. He usually engaged in bragging rituals with these characters. On this evening, though, he had nothing to brag about. These weren’t the type of people a once-proud Ivy league guy would come crying to either. He had to keep his game face on and think of positive things, the things that he had, like his girlfriend, his apartment, his Jaguar under a tarp in a local garage. The tweedy-types greeted him without too much fanfare. Thew were laughing about something, but when they saw him, they all turned a little solemn.

“Boys,” said Simon, shaking hands.

“Simon, glad you could join us,” said one of them.

He sat down and ordered a drink.

“Did you hear the latest?” asked one of the guys, “My girlfriend just landed a column at Vanity Fair.”

“Really?” said another. “That’s pretty exciting. She’s going to take care of you now that the market is bad?”

They all had a chuckle over that.

“Actually she’s flying to next week. She’s covering a story in and.”

“Pretty soon, ol’ here will be decked out in Armani suits. Quite an improvement.”

And another round of laughs. The only person not laughing was Simon.

“So, Simon, what’s with you? How’s Caitlin doing?”

They always asked about Caitlin. She was every guy’s dream – her looks, her attitude, her social skills. These sharks saw her as the ultimate girl to be running around with, and it was no accident on Caitlin’s part. She groomed herself like a kitten and avoided topics that were threats to their manhood. She partied, she loved life, and strangely enough, that’s what Simon loved about her too – a smart girl who pretended not to be so smart. Instead she used her talents in other ways – at social gatherings, in the bedroom, picking out her wardrobe, looking good in front of the cameras for Town & Country. She outclassed every other woman in, and when Simon sipped his drink and pondered her for a spell, he sensed that they had very little in common. Although stitched from the same cloth – both from wealthy families, both educated, both successful, both good in bed – Simon saw himself a little differently. He believed in things. He cared about taxes and wanted everyone to know that he cared. He loved the idea of defense spending, disliked flaky artist-types, and generally believed that eight years of was something that no American should ever have to go through again. He had a political mind and imagined stump speeches, a campaign trail, a home in the suburbs of. He wanted it badly enough, and his father told him time and again that he would replace Briarwood someday. This was his destiny.