Opposition Research: Stealing The White House

Jefferson)

Chapter 1: Reconnaissance

December in Wisconsin…what incredibly bad timing. The heavy snowdrifts outside his hotel were the perfect setting for reruns of It's a Wonderful Life. Christmas…’tis the season to be jolly…shoveling snow, if you live in Wisconsin. Barron was shoveling dirty slush, the unsavory and sleazy gunk of Presidential candidates’ lives – the stuff that goes on when no one was supposed to be watching.

Wisconsin was a world away from the Florida Panhandle and the Christmases of Barron’s childhood. How do these people survive winters like this? Who would ever live here? Why would they want to?

Barron gazed at the muted TV. At times like these, he wished he didn’t love his job quite so much—all alone in Wisconsin while other people enjoyed their families. But other people would only complicate his investigation. Their judgmental eyes scanning across the cold, simple facts were neither necessary nor wanted while he burrowed through the rich gardens of documents and public records like a human earthworm. And the interviews … all those long conversations with strangers, persuading them to give up secrets long held private and buried.

Most people didn’t know this side of a political campaign. They saw the glad-handing that has been the particular stock in trade of American candidates, but they rarely saw the political contributions with all of their accompanying promises and implicit demands. His job was to discover secrets … the tiny forgotten details of lives that could destroy hope and ambition for one while elevating another above the jousting field.

And always lurking in the background was a single constant: none of it had to be true. It only had to be damaging. People reveled in the disclosure of facts, never mind that they were spurious half-truths. The President’s political guru had proven that plausible misreadings of truth were always defensible as unintended misinterpretations.

Barron thought about the months of tracking down largely useless information on the candidates. He would mine these nuggets of truth that could betray the secrets candidates would want buried. A large field of hopefuls jockeyed for position in a race where incumbent President Vern Walker could not run for reelection. Barron fired up his laptop. The internet made some kinds of detective work much easier and replaced some of the gumshoe drudgery. Type a candidate’s name in Google and thousands, even millions, of hits appear. One might hold buried treasure. But tracking down those would be too time consuming—an entire election cycle could pass before digesting them.

There had to be better way. Then it hit him. Every member of Congress had his or her own website courtesy of the federal government. Their web pages showed them kissing babies and giving loyal supporters photo ops with their elected officials. They were a minefield of unwitting information. Who gave money and whose picture got published in a newsletter would be an interesting study in campaign financing. He decided he would subscribe to every online newsletter he could, one for each of the candidates. It might give him eyestrain, but it also might lead to some very juicy material.

Barron typed in the standard address olenson.senate.gov and waited to see what appeared on his screen. In seconds there was a newsletter, as if written to his specifications, showing the good senator shaking hands with supporter Gordon Nickel of Collier Pharmaceuticals International. Wonder how much money that photo cost him? He wondered around the site before he found what he was looking for: Sign up to have this newsletter mailed to you once a month to keep track of your senator’s activities.. Barron filled out the form which asked for an address—something Barron knew they never checked—and typed in his standard e-mail address undercovergenius@driftwood.com.

Next he consulted his list of candidates and typed in jefferson.house.gov. This yielded another display: the Congressman visiting a school in Detroit. Barron wondered what kind of influence that principal had to pull off such a coup. He searched the site for a way to follow the antics of this particular congressman. Having typed in his particulars, he left his e-mail address and set his eyes on the next candidate.

Barron decided to check his current employer…he might as well know what the big boys were doing while he toiled in the bone yard of past events gone sour. He typed in Strongwell@myNC.gov. Up came a smiling visage of his boss: not overly handsome but rugged, with straight teeth and blond hair groomed to perfection. Barron wondered once again how much backroom brawling had brought this very ordinary man to seek the presidency of the United States. Given his family fortune, money was definitely not going to be a problem for Strongwell. Barron searched his list for the next subject.

Elizabeth Ressler was the darling of Palm Beach. Typing in Ressler.senate.gov brought up a picture of the aging senator with her faithful chief of staff on her arm. He signed up for the newsletter and quietly wondered how he would ever sift through them all without developing diabetes from their sugary contents.

Wisconsin was never a fertile burial ground of political skeletons. This was a clean state. It would be so much easier to find the bodies in states like Illinois or Ohio where politics had always been a blood sport. Dick Olenson, in contrast, made it simple. His website displayed the before-and-after pictures of the Wisconsin senator. His private lap-band surgery had reduced his rotund physique from Taft size to a squared Reaganesque profile. There had never been a Presidential candidate who admitted to cosmetic surgery, and this paunch-ectomy was the ultimate tummy tuck. Other candidates would never be able to use the lap-band story against Olenson. After all, Elizabeth Ressler of Florida would shrivel like a raisin without her regular injection of Botox.

And no one would be surprised to find that a Florida politician was being pumped full of something. Honesty had long been a foreign concept for officeholders in that state. Childress should know: his own family had been active in Panhandle politics for decades. The dirt slung in elections there was far nastier than any road apples found on his family's dairy farm. Maybe that's why he had avoided any political involvement himself.

Barron graduated from Georgia Tech directly to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Tall, tanned, and good-looking in an everyman kind of way, he worked undercover to build cases against marijuana growers and South American drug rings that operated in his home state. All too often, the criminals danced dangerously close to elected officials who looked the other way. His position was the Florida version of an FBI agent. It insulated him from political pressure, but never obscured his vision of how money and power interacted.

Maybe he should have gone on to law school. At least there he could avoid the seamy side of crime, and there was more money in practicing corporate law. Well, maybe. Getting away from that was the reason he even considered a job running background checks for the state GOP. Three times the salary, no drug rings, and less chance of getting shot. He must have been good at this. It only took one election cycle working for the state party for them to offer his services to a presidential candidate. Now this Florida cracker was reporting to a former governor of North Carolina ... the Honorable Robert Strongwell, the next President of the United States.

Being an elected official ought to be a higher calling, like the feel-good Jimmy Stewart part of the old movie showing in the hotel room. But politics had become flatulent and smelly, more disgusting at every turn. Barron needed to get back to work; nothing like a little role-playing to improve his mood. He reached for his cell phone and dialed the number shown on his laptop.

Hello, Nurse Zewitski, I'm Charles Tucker with the CDC in Atlanta, Barron said in his deep baritone voice. We're tracking the use of Protensa by medical professionals to study its off-label uses. I know you worked with Dr. Olenson when that drug was brought to market. Can you help us with some information?

The nurse hesitated slightly and didn’t answer. Barron knew he would have to improve his cover story.

The folks at Kloster Pharmaceuticals told us the doctor worked closely with them and gave them advice on how patients fared with the drug. We think this could very helpful to others. Could you tell us the doctor’s experience with those in congestive heart failure?

The chance bask in the limelight was enough to move the nurse into gear without further prodding. Well, I know that Kloster spent a lot of time and money helping Dr. Olenson test the drug on his patients. The company must have been happy … they bought that lake house for him.

Bingo! This was more than Barron had hoped for. He quickly checked his enthusiasm and pressed for more details. Doctors like your former boss are never given the reward they are due. By the way, have you been to the lake house? Maybe I can reach him there, but I can’t seem to locate a number for him at that address.

Oh, yes … and it's beautiful. But the house and phone are in his wife's name. Something about taxes. You can try him there at 608-555-1200.

In an instant, Barron had Googled Olenson's wife in Wisconsin online records and found the address of the lake house. He quickly thanked the nurse before he betrayed himself and turned his attention to other assets listed in the wife's name.

Finally … something more than the mysterious weight loss for the good senator. This might even make the dour Lawrence Whitlock smile. Governor Strongwell's right hand and alter ego had been pressuring Barron to find damning information … and fast.

~~~~

Barron was thankful that the Wisconsin Highway Department could handle the heavy snowfall. Interstate 43 was dry and clear from Milwaukee to the small town of Fox Point. As Barron checked his GPS for the address of the vacation home, he noted a small convenience store with gas pumps not far from his turnoff.

Approaching the shore of Lake Michigan, the lots became larger and the homes grander. That kind of square footage suggested executive and CEO homes rather than something appropriate for a moderately successful physician turned Senator. Barron’s law enforcement experience trained him to spot such inconsistencies. That would easily explain why this home was in Mrs. Olenson’s name. Barron wondered how many Kloster Pharmaceutical executives had homes nearby. He wheeled the rental car to a stop on the shoulder and opened his laptop. Sure enough, Wisconsin property tax records showed some familiar names: Gesstner, Dellenbach, and Deming … the holy trinity of Kloster Pharmaceuticals.

Barron’s cell phone played the ominous tones of Beethoven’s Fifth, the custom ring tone for Lawrence Whitlock. Barron pictured his boss in his rumpled seersucker suit with a face to match. As always, the boss’ timing was impeccable.

Well, Genius, what have you found? Even Whitlock’s tone of voice was grating and demeaning.

Barron countered his boss’ impatience by slowly revealing what he had learned. Funny you should ask. I’m sitting in front of a very impressive house on Lake Michigan, and the neighbors all seem to work for a certain drug company.

Is there a direct tie to Olenson?

The home is in his wife’s name, but there’s no way they can afford this, even on their combined incomes.

Whitlock chortled in delight. Ah, yes … the home at twenty-nine Largesse Lane! Have you talked to anyone around there yet?

No, Boss, but I’ll see if anyone answers my knock-and-talks. There’s a convenience store nearby – sometimes those store clerks see a lot.

Don’t be afraid to spread some cash around. A C-note ought to get them talking.

Barron knew money would grease tongues, but he preferred to get information without paying for it. Paid informants often tried to tell more than they knew to earn their fee. He thanked Whitlock for interfering and walked to the door of the home closest to the Olenson driveway. He got no takers to his knocks at the neighboring homes. These were largely weekend and summer houses and their occupants were still in the city.

The Fox Point Quick Stop resembled an old general store, with everything from gas, bait and tackle, to the required fishing licenses. Barron waited for the clerk, a tall, lanky kid just the legal side of eighteen, to finish a chatty conversation with a gas customer. He turned to face Barron, who put his coffee and doughnuts on the counter.

You must be new around here.

I’m just visiting, Barron quickly replied. Don’t guess I’ll need a fishing license this time of year. He wondered how much bait it would take to get this kid talking.

I sell mostly beer and cigarettes until spring hits. I know every car that stops here. We’ve got some big wigs from Milwaukee who come up here every weekend in their luxury cars. You’ve got a rental, huh?

Barron saw his opening. I imagine some of these rich guys have a little private time up here when their wives aren’t around.

It’s not just the men. This doctor’s wife brings up a guy my age for a different kind of bait and tackle. I sell ‘em gas and beer when she’s driving him around in her car with those special license plates.

Special plates … you mean the doctor’s emblem?

No, that’s around the plate. This one says US Senate.

Barron quizzed the clerk further. She doesn’t seem very careful.

Not many reporters up here, and the rich people keep to themselves. Besides, her husband has his visitors, too.

Barron slaved to contain his delight. You mean they both have their own flings?

I guess they use the house at different times, and the old guy has an older woman about the same age as his wife. That’s probably all he can get with that belly of his.

Barron had what he needed: the Senate license plates, the descriptions, the expensive house, and the dirty laundry. Whitlock would love this. Barron thanked the kid and left.

He resisted the urge to call Whitlock with this latest news, the little voice in his head suspecting there was much more. His years as a cop had finely tuned his barometer for the unsavory. The wife’s affair piqued his interest, especially the clerk’s reference to the age of Carol Olenson’s lover. This called for some real detective work, not just an online search. Barron reversed course to Milwaukee to the school where Carol Olenson was listed as a guidance counselor. Jefferson High School was just west of downtown in a middle-class neighborhood, and Barron’s hunch proved right. He was just in time for the basketball team to be ending its holiday practice session.

Even at six feet two, Barron found himself looking up at the faces of these players in the gym. Barron stroked their egos to get what he wanted. You guys run a hell of a screen. I wish there were guys with your height on my team when I played. Barron felt older than his years, but continued without pause. I’m doing background checks for a scholarship fund. Is your guidance counselor, Ms. Olenson, working over the holidays?

Three of the players stayed close enough to Barron to talk with him. An African-American kid with a shaved head was the first to talk. Man, she blew outta here. She’s at Northside High now.

She was traded, another shorter kid chimed in.

Barron smelled a rat in this transfer. Seems odd they moved a guidance counselor in midyear.

The three boys all giggled and high-five’d each other. She was doing too much guidance around here.

Barron wanted to snicker, but he played dumb. You mean she was in trouble?

No, man, she was hookin’ up with a kid here. At least that’s what he said.

The shorter player rejoined, She went for a quarterback. Guess she couldn’t handle a point guard. Lundquist ganked a scholarship and some smash.

Barron’s’ eyes widened involuntarily, as all three players laughed at him and walked to grab their coats. The cracker detective was still translating their words into English. Gank some smash. She was screwing a student? Incredible!

Barron knew a midyear transfer of school personnel only happened in emergencies or to cover political tracks. A quick check on his PDA confirmed the presence of Carol Olenson as the guidance counselor at Northside High. He