Washington, Deceit

Praise for BEST-SELLING AUTHOR IVY HARPER

A probing but enthusiastic writer…

—Publishers Weekly

The finest book on Nebraska I’ve ever read…

—Ted Sorensen, Kennedy Speechwriter

I hired you to write for my Foundation [the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Foundation] based on the brilliance of your book on Bob Kerrey.

—Eunice Kennedy Shriver, Founder, Special Olympics

There may be a happier ending than mere publication, the book is likely to go into a second printing.

—The Washington Post

…as a text on how a young man born into comfortable circumstances in Nebraska found his core in the jungles of Vietnam, ‘Waltzing Matilda,’ is a good beginning.

—The Lincoln Journal Star

WASHINGTON DECEIT

Ivy Harper

WASHINGTON DECEIT

Copyright © 2016 by Ivy Harper. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition

CONTENTS

Dedication | Epigraph

Begin reading WASHINGTON DECEIT

About the Author

To

Americans struggling with predatory student loan debt.

I humbly thank

the Rockin’ Charlotte and Rolls Royce Harper Family I’m from; the Gr8 Gonzalez Family we formed, Carl + Colleen Aagesen, and my Friends (Mary + Daniele) for their advice, generosity, laughter, and love. As always, I remain a grateful girl from the Great Plains.

WASHINGTON DECEIT is Inspired by True Events

Take the illusions from the ordinary man (and woman) and you take away her happiness.

—Henrik Ibsen

As we age, life becomes but a countdown to the coffin.

—Ivy Harper, 2015

The University-Financial Complex (UFC) has done more to create the United States of a Mess than all the pandering politicians put together.

—Ivy Harper, 2006

Love blinds us to faults, hatred to virtues.

—Moses ben Jacob ibn Ezra

CHAPTER 1

Chase Cunningham

I’m marrying my secretary, bro. Capitol Hill aide Connor Cunningham announced the stunner evenly as if the news did not turn a retro cliché on its clever little head. Just wanted to let you know before you read it online.

Chase Cunningham, a struggling lobbyist, tried to summon a sliver of joy at his baby brother’s surprise. But like others in the Cunningham clan, he’d inherited a lot more Cain than he was able to admit. What to say to a sibling who’d upstaged him in the city Chase saw as his own: D.C.

When and where?

Aren’t you going to congratulate me?

Christ, don’t play dad’s ‘brothers before others’ bullshit. We’re way beyond that, don’t you think?

I think you should be glad for me.

"Like we’re close? One more time. Whereya having it?

Brace yourself, bro. Camp David. First wedding there. Ever. Not bad, huh?

Not good, Chase thought. Other families might be thrilled by such heart-warming events. Cunninghams, on the other hand, would find a feud in the making, mocking each milestone every step of the way. Cunninghams could always find conflict in standard family fare. Why should Chase be thrilled that his youngest brother was engaged to the Secretary of Education, a smart, foxy widow with two children who would now count Connor as their paterfamilias?

Chase, the eldest scion in a family whose business was politics, had just left a pointless meeting with a low-level Hill staffer when he first saw his brother. Chase hadn’t seen him in ages. Connor seemed to be ambling towards the Capitol’s iconic Congressional building where minutes earlier Chase had exited. By habit, Chase made the bad-boys-Catholic sign of the cross that meant grabbing your crotch, then touching your hand to the forehead, chest, shoulders while muttering: Testicles, spectacles, wallet and watch. Even as a grown up, Chase still intoned the superstitious prayer daily, most especially before an unpleasant meeting.

It was surreal to run into a sibling in public when you hadn’t seen them in private for eons, Chase thought. He could have sidestepped an encounter if he’d really wanted to, heading off in a different direction while Connor was stopped and smiling into his iPhone, oblivious to anyone and everything. Instead, Chase experienced a split second of absolute fury. With his skinny Washington Post, he swatted Connor hard on the shoulder the way one would a giant horse fly.

What the hell! Connor shouted before he figured out that his brother was the culprit. Connor extended his hand and flashed a wary smile. Chase ignored the gesture and instead, raised his right hand as if to say, ‘Let’s not fake it. No one’s watching.’ Despite the ice, Connor leaned in for a hug. Chase jumped back, spread his arms horizontally, making it clear there’d be no physical contact.

The Cunningham brothers, both tall and lean, stared at each other for a minute before Connor divulged his coup. After the word ‘wedding,’ Chase clammed up. No congratulatory sentiments. Nothing. Nada. Connor broke the awkward silence with a non-sequiter.

Where’d you get so tan?

I walk on the sunny side of the street.

That’s Dad’s line.

He let me borrow it.

Fair play.

Chase, how about acting like a normal brother?

"You’re aware, right, that it’s easy to act like a nice guy. Guess what’s a lot harder? To actually be one."

You’re crazy.

We all are brother…just not on the same day.

So you’re still going to AA?

"What do you care? You’re getting married." Chase’s tone reeked of contempt.

"And this is how you respond." Connor shook his head and looked bruised.

Chase smiled slyly. He was not going to offer a single positive word. No way. Big deal. So Connor was engaged to a member of Sorensen’s cabinet. So it would make national news. So she was stunning. So Connor had even landed a widow and inherited two kids whose dead father would provide for them but not be around to beat the door down during tense custody visits the way he would have if he’d fallen in a love with a divorced mom fleeing from an aggressive ex. God-damnit, Connor had won the love lottery. It galled Chase that Connor would inherit two ready-made kids without the baggage of paternal obligations and a simmering ex-husband.

It was clear Connor was waiting for some upbeat sentiment but Chase was not going to give in. Never. His little brother could stand in front of him forever and Chase would not wish him well. Suddenly, sirens punctuated the air as Hill staffers, tourists, and couriers craned their heads to see the source. At the same time, one of Washington’s leading lobbyists, Henry Krug, approached the Cunninghams with a vigorous thumbs-up. Chase noted that Krug had come from the Cannon HOB just like Connor. Had those two been together? Wtf, as they say.

Hey, congratulations on your engagement, my friend. That’s incredible. Dayton’s quite the catch. Looking like the South African model he once was, the faultlessly tailored Krug strode briskly by but not before smacking Connor’s hand in a hearty high-five. Chase shot Krug a fierce glare. My friend. Since his brother’s announcement hadn’t yet made the airwaves, how’d Krug know? When did they get tight? Jesus Christ, the obsequiousness already had begun. Chase softened his face. Washington still had small-town vestiges and Chase knew that if he kept responding like a pit-bull to his brother’s news, sibling rivalry gossip would get around. It was time to start acting. Chase had been introduced to Krug several times on the political, gala and charity circuit but that was the extent of his contact with the wealthy lobbyist. It took massive control on Chase’s part not to catch Krug up with the real Connor. If this town only knew what an imposter his brother was. The kid was clueless about power but if this engagement went through, Connor would have it. Lots of it. Just like that. Boom. And Chase had been working his ass off to attain it by tirelessly climbing the Hill ladder. And where’d it gotten him? Pretty much nowhere. Nope. Connor could not leap-frog over him. By marriage, no less. That was the oldest trick in the competitive brothers’ book. Not gonna happen.

With Krug gone and the sirens fading, the silence became unbearable. Connor had clearly decided to stop trying. Finally, he turned around and walked away.

Good-bye BB.

BB stood for baby brother which Connor would always be to Chase, even on his ninetieth birthday. Chase needed a drink to deconstruct Connor’s latest one upmanship. Driving to the Dubliner, Chase felt a twinge of regret about the rudeness he’d displayed towards Connor who seemed sincerely wounded. Chase knew he’d used unnecessary cruelty in much the way he smashed insects for the hell of it. Chase honked loudly at the car in front of him who did not gun it for a full nano-second after the light turned green. Put your f-ing iPhone down, sweetheart. He screeched around the driver, certain it was a texting Millennial, only to stare down an old man who looked haunted and confused by Chase’s autobahn behavior. Ouch. If there was one group of Americans Chase still idolized, it was the few living World War II vets and he’d just frightened one half to death. My bad, Chase blurted under his breath as he entered the brocaded, green-walled traditional Irish pub nestled in the lobby of the Phoenix Hotel. He ordered a draft Guinness from a black and white clad, stocky, red-haired server who had a brogue along with a sled-sized tray full of fish and chips.

Chase loosened his tie, downed a large gulp and motioned to one of the regulars he’d come to know by being one himself.

Rory, join me over here. I need someone to talk to.

With a dark Guinness in hand, Rory lumbered over to Chase’s wobbly round table.

How many siblings do you have?

Four. We had a small family.

Close to any of them.

Not really. They all live within yards of me parents. I was the proverbial black sheep.

Where are you in the pecking order?

The youngest.

What’s the break-down? Boys and girls.

Three boys and two girls but my sisters’ husbands are like sons to me mom.

Can I share my philosophy about big Catholic families? Chase was aware that Rory had no job but hanging around the Dubliner where he served as a non-threatening bouncer who had the numbers of the owners who liked to have a regular beholden to them. Rory received all the free drinks he wanted in return for serving as a sort of spy and pitching in when the occasion demanded it. Rory raised his index finger and gave a ‘yes’ motion to Chase’s question.

Okay, a few years ago I came up with what I call: The Big Catholic Family Olympics.

Rory coughed out a laugh and nodded his head as if to say he knew where the conversation was heading.

So, as the first-born—and son, to boot —I won the gold. Are you with me?

Rory smiled broadly.

Our number two was a girl who I call ‘The Silver Sister.’ You get my drift. She won the silver simply by being born second in the womb sweepstakes. The third Cunningham and second sister, Maureen, won the bronze. Get my drift?

Keep talking.

Don’t mind if I do. Think about this; kids four through eight don’t get any metal.

So, you’re saying they’re losers?

In a manner of speaking, yes. I do think they’re scarred for life by not being born with any medals. Metal. Whatever. By not getting parents’ attention when they’re still excited about the job. By the time you get to number four, you gotta admit, it’s ‘been there, done that’ and kids never recover.

Now that you mention it, the top three kids in my family are the most successful. You might be onto something.

I am. And I don’t need an effin longitudinal study to back me up.

How’d you think of that?

I was in a rumble with one of my perennially pissed-off younger siblings who stumbled away yelling ‘You win, Chase, once again, you win’ and it struck me that, indeed, I’m the family top dog. Let’s face it: every race since the Greek Gods first decided to compete gives out a gold, silver, and bronze. There’s no medals awarded for being fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh. Don’t get me started about number eight.

Rory’s hazel eyes twinkled. So now, what’s the deal with this philosophy of yours? Why are you here downing more Guinness than usual? Has your theory been up-ended?

Well, let me just say this: my parents should have stopped at three kids and kept birth order orderly, doncha think?

I don’t have any kids and I don’t ever plan to. I grew up with enough of them poking, pinching, and prodding me every time I turned around. I was glad to get away and I’ve never really missed a single one. To be sure, it’s pretty sad. So tell me. What’s happened to this doctrine of yours that you’re so wound up?

Do I seem shook? Chase Cunningham could not mask the rage that was seeping out of every pore. For more than three decades, he’d effortlessly reigned as the boss of the brothers. Sure, his unchallenged dominance wasn’t realistic after they’d aged out of college and into the real world, but Chase still wanted to control his younger brothers’ destiny. And now, Connor had taken his life into his own hands and it no longer bore Chase’s imprimatur. The worst of the escalating indignities: the baby of the clan was shooting past him, the eldest. Indisputably, beating him. But Chase was not going to give up his place as the most successful Cunningham. At least not without a fight. Or a war, if need be. His life-long identity in the family hierarchy was at stake.

Rory waited patiently for an answer.

I just heard that my youngest brother is engaged.

And that’s a bad thing?

Yeah, I’m gonna have to figure out a way to undo it.

You don’t like his fiancé?

No, she’s amazing. If I told you who she was, you’d know her. Chase could picture Mae Dayton’s taut arms, which he’d only recently learned were called yoga arms.

It’s my brother. He’s not worthy of her. I’ve got to find a way to end the engagement.

You think maybe his intended will come to her senses?

Nope. Love makes you blind and, obviously, she thinks she loves him. I wish I could fill her in on who my brother really is…

Rory interrupted Chase. No good, my man. You’ll just look jealous…if she’s as special as you seem to believe.

You nailed it. You’re a perceptive guy, you know that.

But of course. The Irish wrote the book on grudges and the envy gene is in the Celtic DNA. Don’t know why. But it is. Could ya give me a hint who your soon-to-be sister-in-law is? Rory’s tone was droll.

Sure. Why not? Chase desperately wanted to share his sorrow. She’s a member of Sorensen’s cabinet.

Rory’s face lit up. He knew instantly. Whew! Mae Dayton. She’s a babe. And a widow as well. It’s the luck of the Irish.

How does that mix in with the gene of envy?

Sounds like in this case, it’s divided between the two of you. Your brother’s lucky and you’re envious. Rory knew that Chase had consumed enough beer that he wouldn’t take offense to his stinging assessment. But here’s the thing with luck she’s a lady, as the song says, so she’ll come back to you soon enough."

It’s laughable that Mae Dayton is interested in my brother. She doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her frame.

What’s that got to do with love? I know a lot of men who prefer their women with some meat on them.

Well, I’m not one of them. Here’s my theory on that.

Rory cut in again. You’ve got lots of those.

They come in handy. Men who marry voluptuous women end up preferring lean ones. And men who marry skinny women end up sick of bones and long to fondle more than stick-thin limbs.

Rory could see that plot was thickening. Now Chase was talking about his wife.

How are things going at home? Rory was aware that Chase and his wife had been trying to have kids for a couple of years.

Guess what I did yesterday? I threw our new cat down the stairs. Although I gave Debi carte blanche when she mentioned adopting a cat, I’m not warming up to this feline addition to our household. How can she believe that a kitten could take the place of a pregnancy? Does she honestly think that a critter will ease the burden of us not having any kids? I heard the little bugger clawing at the basement door and I kicked it. The door, that is. Hard.

That sounds bad, my friend.

"It was. I admit it. Hey, why can’t I feel empathy the way I see it portrayed in movies? You know when the devoted husband learns bad news and is supportive to the nth degree? Why can’t I mean it when I tell Debi I’d go along with whatever the Fates dole out?"

Good question.

Truthfully, I want to wrestle the Fates to the ground and pound the shit out of them. But I’m a gentleman and a scholar. We intellectuals are supposed to use the strength of our words to win battles, not our fists.

What’s her reaction?

"She looks pained. I scowl. She responds like a scolded puppy. And you know what? Deep down, I do feel really bad whenever I hurt her. But God, she says the most annoying things like ‘this was meant to be’ and that kind of idiotic remark."

"Sounds to me like this is temporary. It’s a good sign that you hurt when you’re hurting her."

"Yeah, but I still find her grating. Have I told you about that classic New Yorker cartoon where the husband asks the wife what she learned at her first psychiatric session. Her answer: ‘You know the way you are, don’t be that way.’ That’s where I’m at with her."

Rory saw that Chase was getting close to wasted and that he probably would not remember the last half hour’s conversation.

Let me ask you something. Shouldn’t you be happy for your brother? I’m just saying.

Yep. I should be thrilled. But I’m not. What can I say? My wedding was nothing. His is gonna have power brokers congregating. At Camp David, fercrissakes. All of a sudden, my life seems boring.

Why can’t you look at it that you will have more power by virtue of association with your brother and his powerful new wife?

"Why? Because it won’t work that way. We’re not close. He won’t help me out. Younger sibs are selfish. They’ve never had to share. Everything was handed down to them. They don’t know how take care of anybody because the older kids were always tending to them. Younger kids in big Catholic families are narcissistic, spoiled rotten babies. Trust me on that." Suddenly, Chase winced. Drunk as he was slowly getting, he remembered Rory’s place in the big family firmament.

Hey, I’m sorry. I forgot you’re a youngest.

Not to worry. I know you’re generalizing. No problem. But your troubles remind me that I’m glad I left my crazy clan behind. Too much baggage, families are. Rory raised his right hand to let Chase Cunningham high-five him before he walked upstairs to a closet hotel room where he slept off his benders.

"Thanks for listening, Rory. You’re a good guy. You remind me of what a brother should be."

With the barman gone and his fourth beer finished, Chase thought about a life without Debi and a way to stop Connor’s wedding. It could never happen. Neither. Ever. Never. The hops had helped him hatch a plan. Contemplating the details, Chase felt his mood lighten. A sense of peace washed over him and helped push away the escalating panic over his brother’s engagement.

CHAPTER 2

Arik Leaventhal

Assistant U.S. Attorney, Arik Leaventhal, hated the fact that the nation’s worst student-loan-sharks operated in the Great Plains, not to mention his hometown of Columbia, Kansas. He pored over the top-secret document that would prove his point. By now, he could recite the lengthy tome almost by heart. Soon enough, the gist of it would be plastered above the fold and across the screen of every newspaper and media Internet site in the country. Henry Krug and Company were going down. Finally. Arik kept re-reading. To date, there were thirty-some counts with many more to come. As a diligent high school student in Kansas and all the way through law school, Arik furiously examined assignments until seconds before the deadline for turning them in. The courtroom pumped him full of energy but nothing beat a brilliantly written indictment. The rush of being able to take down a lawbreaker through the power of words had no equal. He considered it a gentleman’s way of sword fighting. And the chancellors and student-loan-sharks finally were going to be hit with some well-placed, well-deserved silver to the heart. The public probably didn’t think about it much but someone had to actually write indictments and this was Arik’s baby.

He thought of his tiny, stooped, great-grandmother who had ridden the Orphan Train from rat-infested tenements in New York out to the wheat fields of Kansas in the early part of the twentieth century.

Good people, she’d say, in her broken English when he’d visit her as a small boy in Columbia’s now-gentrified neighborhood, still nicknamed The Russian Bottoms in an homage to the scores of the immigrants who’d settled there. The Plains have just good people. No crooks. New York has bad men. How she loved believing that where they put you was wonderful. Bloom where you’re planted, she’d say in Yiddish, and in her mind, America had no better place than the great Great Plains. Too young to be jaded, Arik would simply nod and listen. But he’d believed her.

It took moving to Washington, D.C. for Arik to see the middle of the country for what it really was: a microcosm of New York and Wall Street. These days Arik thought of Columbia with contempt and, were his grandmother alive today, he’d have to correct her.

Sorry, Nana, but I’ve learned that evil exists everywhere.

But, Arik thought, sometimes the good guys get to quash the bad guys and he and his posse were ready for their win on the legal battlefield. Arik, along with his mentor, Hyatt Deerfield, and his colleague, Chapin Alexander, lately were in prosecutorial heaven knowing that the indictment was going to rattle what Chapin, had dubbed, The University-Financial Complex. For more than a decade, the duo, along with their unofficial boss, former Congressman Hyatt Deerfield and Arik’s direct boss, U.S. District Attorney, Edwin Ewing, had been working to nail the nation’s predatory student loan lenders. Originally, Ewing planned to use Maryland’s new Martin Act to fashion civil indictments against their targets. It was Arik and Chapin’s job—as Non-Profit Investigators (NPI’s)—to unearth enough damning documents and credible witnesses to allow Justice to up the ante to criminal charges.

Arik needed some fresh air. He’d been working for five hours straight. With lunch looming, he left his office, crossed towards a side courtyard and spotted a familiar face. Sure enough, the man strolling towards him had attended Great Plains Law School. They recognized each other at the same moment and after extending their hands, shook like old pals.

How have you been? Arik struggled to recall his classmate’s name.

Arik Leaventhal, fancy meeting you here. Chase Cunningham. Your tort class followed mine. Professor Duggin, the drone.

Good memory. What brings you to Maryland?

"I’m actually from Maryland. Sixth generation."

No kidding, I never knew that.

Yeah, well, we never hung out, did we? I was always given a hard time about Maryland.

Right. The terrapins. Fear the Terp. You’ve got to admit, compared to other macho college mascots, a turtle’s funny. Don’t you think?

Whatever. My undergrad degree is from Maryland so I always stick up for them.

Arik quickly changed the subject. How did you end up in Kansas?

The truth. Couldn’t get into a top law school. Or any good school, for that matter. My LSAT’s were horrible. So, it was somewhere in flyover country. Or not go. And my father would have rather put a gun to his head than not have me become a lawyer. He finally pulled some state strings.

Arik hesitated, unsure how to answer. Cunningham’s truth-fest was a deep dig to both of them. What he’d said was true, but Arik rarely heard it expressed so bluntly. And if Cunningham realized his blunder, he didn’t seem to mind. It didn’t take long after moving to Washington for Arik to learn how dismissive Easterners were of state schools. Especially ones in the middle of the country. The only four that they had even a modicum of respect for were Virginia, North Carolina, Michigan, and Wisconsin. And in that exact order. When disappointed elite Easterners’ kids couldn’t get into an Ivy League college, those four states sufficed. But the Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Wyoming, Arkansas and Oklahoma in particular were still thought of as hick states. Graduates of state schools were essentially barred from landing top law firm jobs anywhere except in their own home state. If you attended the University of Wyoming Law School, you’d better be prepared to practice your entire life in Cheyenne, Casper, or Cody because Chicago, or any major city, was off-limits.

Arik sensed that Chase had a question for him that he was just itching to ask. What was Arik doing in Maryland? And that one Arik couldn’t answer honestly so he was going to have to dodge it.

Okay, you grew up here. So where’s the best place to eat? Maybe that diversion would hold until Arik could break away. It irritated Arik that Cunningham never would have put such a pejorative spin on attending GPU with an Ivy League law school grad. He would have given some bullshit answer about wanting to spend time in the crime-free Great Plains because he’d been mugged. Or he’d maxed out on urban venues. Or his favorite cousin lived in Kansas. Or he planned to be a politician and wanted the worked-on-a-farm bit like Al Gore. Anything but the truth. Of course, any bona fide Washingtonian would know such an answer was hogwash and simply a way to save face. Both men knew that state schools were fine for students from that state but not for applicants from either coast.

Cunningham segued to a riff on Rockville restaurants. Keep talking my friend, Arik thought. He always had been good at getting others to open up to the point where sometimes Arik would walk away from a conversation pleased that he’d barely contributed. At an early age, Arik figured out that you learn more by listening. Arik wanted to make a hasty exit but then he blurted out one more question.

So are you with a firm?

Arik watched as an odd smile slowly crossed Chase’s face. One that Arik couldn’t exactly read.

I’m just now negotiating a new gig, truth be told. You’ve heard of the lobbyist, Henry Krug, right. Well, I’m going to work for him. Chase was making things up as he went along.

Arik’s chest started pounding.

Hmmm. The name is somewhat familiar. Who does he lobby for again?

Turns out he’s pretty much got the entire student loan industry, including thousands of for-profit colleges as his clients. He makes a gazillion dollars but spends most of his time chowing down with Congressmen.

By now, Arik felt that his eyes were telegraphing shock and unease but Chase Cunningham seemed oblivious.

What are you going to do for him?

Chase sidestepped the question. Hey man, did you realize that the number one student loan company is based in Columbia?

"Actually, I am aware of that? What about them?"

Not sure exactly. Apparently there’s some big deal going on but he hasn’t explained it all to me.

Arik tried again. Are you joining Krug or what?

Looks like it. Guess I’m gonna help him with some upcoming legislation. Or something. That’s all I know. Except that there’s good money to be had.

Arik had to get away before Chase asked him about his own career. Arik had never been a good liar and with this unnerving news, he was certain that Chase would see through straight through him.

Hey, Chase, I promised to return a call in the next couple of minutes. Good to see you. Let’s get together and have a brewski. Arik could not remember a time that he’d ever used the favorite Kansas frat boy term for beer.

Chase appeared to be genuinely hurt by Arik’s abruptness. Arik didn’t care as he practically flew down the sidewalk and out of Chase’s sight. Two million people in the Washington, D.C.-area and Arik met a veritable stranger who now had three separate connections to him: his hometown, his law school, and student loans. Could this possibly be a coincidence? He needed to get his colleague on the line.

While waiting, Arik noticed four government employees with lanyards around their chubby necks. One was finishing a joke that had some woman begging God for the third night in a row to help her win the lottery because her home was being foreclosed on, her car had been repossessed, and her children were hungry. The joke-teller had frizzy gray hair and she shouted as she delivered the punch line: So suddenly God’s booming voice comes down from the Heavens: ‘Work with me here, darling, buy a lottery ticket. Her companions all laughed and Arik saw her broad smile. Their response had made her day and it dawned on Arik how different their thresholds were for satisfaction. She was happy with a well-received anecdote and being able to inhale another large lunch with her friends at Rockville’s new Town Centre. He would not be content until universities, student-loan-sharks, and bankers changed their entire modus operandi. Actually, he wouldn’t be happy until the lot of them were perp-walked straight into prison.

The arrogant student-loan-shark bastards, Arik thought. He passed by three-foot high portraits of Maryland’s men in black in the lobby’s hall of justice power gallery. Strategically placed in prime viewing spots hung a gold-framed picture of the state’s only female judge (a second had to step down when she flashed a firearm during a captured-on-camera road rage incident) and one big, blank hole existed because an ancient judge resigned due to the discovery of recorded court admonitions where he accused young women plaintiffs of asking for rape and battery by wearing skimpy attire.

The courthouse had been erected in the 1970’s when miles of American structures were built like prisons and Arik always felt as if he was entering Leavenworth. Cigarette butts lined the pockmarked sidewalks outside that sported shabbily dressed ambulance chasers conferring with their motley crew of clients. The concrete building itself was a stain-soaked putrid shade of gray with an enormous underground parking lot that acted as the front entrance—the better to transport felons, they’d said. Inside, a low-ceilinged lobby was usually filled with wedding-clad Latinos who had to pass through the complex’s only state-of-the-art metal detectors in order to get to the marriage license counter. Arik wasn’t a neat freak but he never failed to notice the filthiness of the tub-like trays that held the keys, cell phones and nail clippers of the passers-through.

The juxtaposition of the office digs of those who serve versus those who steal was stark, yet Arik had long ago decided that he’d found his ideal work. Had he been born earlier, Arik could have been a muckraking media man, too, but journalists could only go so far. Besides, he had to accept the fact that the delivery system formerly known as journalism had died and corporate marketing cacophony had replaced it.

Busted. Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, Arik saw Chase Cunningham once again striding toward him, this time with an urgency that was palpable.

"Hey, buddy, glad I caught you. I was so focused on my life, I forgot to ask you what you’re doing in the good old Land of Mary?" Chase’s steady gaze fixed like a laser on Arik’s now-pale visage. Pretend you’re in the courtroom, Arik thought, and the judge just lobbed a hardball. Think fast.

Well… Arik paused for too long in his mind. I’m actually in the process of getting a new law gig myself, to use your word, and I’m superstitious. I don’t like to talk about potential jobs until they’re in the can. I always feel that I’ll jinx them if I do. Arik blinked several times but beyond that, he felt he’d sounded reasonable. Would Chase Cunningham buy it?

Well, I take it it’s for the government, right? I mean here we are in the bowels of the federal government. Plus, you always struck me as a prosecutor.

How so? Interesting, Arik thought, since Chase had just acknowledged that the two men barely knew each other.

You know there’s two types in law school. Those who want to make money. And those who want to make a difference.

Arik nodded giving Chase a non-verbal cue to continue.

You strike me as the second type. Let’s face it, working for the state or the feds does make a difference. Those cases change lots of people’s lives, not just some rich bastards’ wallet. People follow fed cases. Lawyers are quoted. Prosecutors become household names. You’re lionized in the media, man. The cases are written about. They’re talked about. They’re a big deal. Cause. Effect. Change. Mission. Seriously, state and federal cases are…well, they’re just compelling.

Arik noticed that Chase Cunningham had not taken a single breath and yet he didn’t come across like a slick salesman. Clearly, Chase Cunningham was a contender and, like the energizer bunny, he just kept right on going.

Now, compare that to the mundane work you get stuck with in firms. No comparison. I have a friend who went from the feds to a top firm and guess what. He had some serious whiplash, brother. Big-time whiplash. It hurt so bad, he never did get his sea legs. Or his silk stockings, I should say.

Where is he now? Arik was honestly interested.

Oh, he quit and went back to Justice. He needs a high-octane office.

A loud thrumming rescued Arik. Lightning fast, he fished his phone out of his jacket, unlocked it with his thumb, and made a motion as if to say, ‘I’ve got to take this and see you around. With Chase visibly perturbed, Arik stepped into a bathroom hallway and hid in a stall. When he felt that the coast was clear, he returned to his office where he retrieved his precious document. He placed the 60 plus-page damning treatise—that read like a novel—in his hi-tech aluminum briefcase and swiveled in every direction before he squirreled it away in the back of his boss’s private cloakroom. No one was ever around when he did this. Yet by habit, Arik remained guarded. He folded up his newspapers, turned off his computer, and headed for the elevators. He caught a glimpse of himself in the gleaming doors and saw that he looked nearly bald these days. In his thirties, Arik had made peace with the fact that soon he’d have no hair but he’d felt grateful that at least his Lincoln-like height was not something that could be taken away by the DNA gods. He gave up waiting for the doors to open and sprinted towards the stairs when his cell phone thrummed. Finally, the voice he’d been waiting for greeted him at the absolute perfect moment. Arik lowered his to an almost-whisper. Have I got news for you."

CHAPTER 3

Henry Krug

Sorry, Henry. We got stuck in a taxi and I bailed. Beat Duncan, didn’t I?

Looks like it but don’t worry. I’m a patient man. Lobbyist kingpin Krug tucked his iPhone into the side pocket of his navy blue cashmere Brioni suit.

He gently patted the shoulders of Fortin Sandler, a student loan company client from Kansas whose nickname, Big Sandy, did not reflect his elfin stature. Henry steadied the pug-faced Sandy who continued huffing loudly. Sandler’s ill-fitting suit and crimson tie were askew and perspiration soaked his monogrammed shirt. He held a partially opened bulging briefcase with papers pointing in every direction.

Calm down. It’s fine. Henry led the way to their destination spot, a tiny Georgetown lounge whose under-the-counter butcher-block served as the space for both the chef and the bartender. The host accompanied them to a cramped corner table butted up against a wall that provided total privacy.

Let’s get started, Henry barked in his trademark South African accent. We’ll talk about the meeting later.

I’d rather we wait and let him tell you the bad news, apart from Dayton’s betrayal.

Henry so wished he could tell these guys that nothing in Washington was a true crisis. Washington problems were manufactured. All of them. Created for the sake of law firms who purposely wrote legislation that miles of lawyers got rich unraveling. Members of Congress were full-time fund-raisers and had long ago out-sourced their work to lobbyists. Big Sandy and his partner, Duncan Andrews, from Columbia, Kansas, had signed on to Krug Management Company (KMG) years earlier. The duo also directed a non-profit called SHALL that pretended to help students achieve their college dreams. Really, as far as Henry Krug could tell, it just made Duncan and Big Sandy wealthy men. Henry could not remember what SHALL officially stood for and he really didn’t care. They were cash cow clients and that’s what mattered.

Let’s not waste time. Henry signaled that he wanted to Sandy to talk despite his partner’s absence.

Okay. You know how we’ve always told you that the Department never gave us a response about piggybacking loans to qualify for the Special Allowance Payment and what-not?

The good old SAP, Henry thought, aware that Big Sandy could spend hours blathering on and on about the complicated payment system. Nearly every other one of Sandy’s sentences ended with and what not. Henry wanted to choke him every time he spoke.

Instead, he snapped, Give me the short version. Despite the fact that Henry himself had become a rich man on his cut of the SAP federal subsidy, for the life of him he still didn’t understand the math—and machinations—behind the bloody federal loophole they’d all gotten rich on. Did anyone? Maybe a Millennial from Mumbai.

Well, let’s just say we might be toast.

How so?

"Okay, we’ve based our entire defense on Education not informing us one way or another. We’ve always argued that they never gave us a formal answer about whether our little loophole was legit. And now rumor has it that Dayton might acknowledge at the hearing that there was an Education response letter. And that they can prove an original was sent to Columbia. And that someone at Guaranty Bank signed for it."

Someone by the name of who, Henry said.

We don’t know.

And you all don’t have any record of this? For real?

None. Yep.

Where did you learn this? And when?

We’ve got our ways and a week ago. That’s why we’re here and what not.

A lull passed between them. Henry checked his platinum Tourneau watch and frowned. Clients praised his punctuality, and he basked in their compliments. Lateness, Henry Krug would lecture his kids, reflected poorly on people and worst of all for Washington, it altered the balance of power. Where was Duncan? Henry glanced at a rambling text from his wife, Hadley, who scoffed at the concept of less is more.

Does your man not believe in texting? Henry said just as Duncan Andrews arrived looking like he was ready to punch someone.

I don’t know how you take this city. Washington’s as bad as New York. Worse, for my money.

Sharply dressed with a robin’s egg blue shirt and steel gray suit, Duncan retained the aura of a high school homecoming king even though he’d hit his forties. Beyond that bit of genetic fortune, he dressed more like a Wall Street lawyer than a Kansas farmer’s kid with his as-seen-on-the-screen Italian shoes, ties, and shirts.

Henry gave a half-hearted attempt to rise but instead motioned for Duncan to squeeze into the spot next to Big Sandy.

Where are we? Duncan calmly adjusted his suit jacket as he raised two long fingers to flag down the bartender.

I just learned about the letter. Henry stopped talking while Duncan ordered a rum and Coke. Who signed for it? What did it say?

"We don’t know. For sure. But the word is, it’s straight from the Department and point-blank tells us that we cannot piggyback new student loans on to old ones. That Department regs were crystal clear on the subject. No piggybacking. We haven’t seen it so we’re not sure if it’s fake or not. The only two who could sign for it are sitting right here. Supposedly, it was addressed to us." Big Sandy pointed a stubby finger at Duncan and then jabbed himself in the chest with his whole fist.

For years now, Henry Krug was privy to and part of Washington’s cut-throat ways and there was one thing he’d learned: federal employees didn’t forge letters. He might as well tell them.

Unfortunately, my friends, bureaucrats don’t forge letters. In general, that is.

What Henry didn’t say was that he’d planted political appointees in Education to create the precise problems he knew he’d be called on to fix. For enormous fees.

Well, it appears as if someone’s gotten their hands on it, and they’re ready to introduce it.

Rest easy, guys. I’ve got Congress covered. I know how to buy love. Already purchased. Henry found it somewhat charming that clients between California and Maryland still—after constant cases of corruption—did not understand the extent to which Congress reported to lobbyists rather than the other way around. Despite the steady media drumbeat of congressional gridlock and dysfunction, most clients clung to some grade-school ideal about civics in the nation’s Capital, even when they themselves engaged in plenty of chicanery in their home states. Krug found the disconnect fascinating and fortunately for his business, lucrative. Washington lobbyists were really hired so they’d have a guaranteed buddy when clients came to town. A pal or a paramour who would take sightseeing trips with them under the guise of strategic talks, and reassure them that whatever deal or problem they’d encountered back home would magically disappear because of their excellent Washington representation.

On the Washington end, it was pure theatre. Half the time their meetings consisted of little more than chitchat, trading sports scores, catching a Kennedy Center show if they liked the arts, and savoring fine food at upscale restaurants. But the corporate titans could go home and for a few weeks afterwards start each and every conversation with, We met with our Washington lobbyist… Just that phrase gave clients a whiff of cachet and ostensibly made it all worthwhile.

Duncan Andrews shifted in his seat, which was too narrow for comfort, and without warning changed the subject. He threw out the suggestion that Henry had been hoping he wouldn’t hear.

Enough. We need some good news. Now, we know our headquarters isn’t totally finished but we’d like to visit it. We want the tour you’ve been promising. I suggest we finish this discussion over there. In our new conference room. As he spoke, Big Sandy raised his bushy eyebrows, and shot what Henry took for a snide look towards Duncan. Henry flinched but he was certain his discomfort wasn’t registering with his two guests.

One year earlier, Duncan and Big Sandy had agreed to pay the Krug Management Group (KMG) aka Henry Krug himself, a half a million dollars for what Krug had called the renovation of his Georgetown waterfront lobbying headquarters. Henry described his plan to devote an entire floor to SHALL with a conference room, a suite of small offices, a kitchen, and a panoramic view of the Potomac and the White House. The truth: Henry had spent the entire disbursement on a three-story brick addition and black swimming pool to his Chevy Chase home. There was no brick and mortar Washington headquarters and Henry was going to have to figure out a way, once again, to keep them at bay a while longer.

A Chevy Chase neighbor was developing a 12-story, luxury building that lobbyists like Henry could rent by the day or week and pass off as their actual office space. So many of Washington’s 20,000 lobbyists exaggerated their office set-up to their clients that this entrepreneur rightly determined that there was a huge market for such a grifter’s model. The developer had separate arrangements with sign and banner companies, logo designers, and all the accoutrement that accompany authentic businesses. This included hiring out real estate stagers who could switch out companies from one day or week to the next. There were several floors for lawyers; several for lobbyists, and two for crisis managers and political consultants. The arrangement was perfect for Henry. The problem was that D.C.’s notorious bureaucratic machinations were holding up the final permits so the building wasn’t yet ready for prime time. Henry didn’t even have a key.

The last two trips to D.C., Henry had been able to quell his client’s curiosity but he’d known that this time it was going to be harder. Just another month or so and the building would be