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By Root 466 0

The scandals surrounding K Street’s lobbyists, with disgraced lobbyist Jack Abramoff leading the way, had dominated the media and Washington conversation for many months. Pictures of corrupt members of Congress delivering staunch resignation speeches, or being photographed leaving courthouses in which they’d been convicted of crimes, aided and abetted by smarmy lobbyists, had brought them unwelcome fame. Neil’s father vigorously defended his son’s decision to abandon a good management job at a bank for the presidency of the Marshalk Group, citing lobbyists as valuable contributors to the legislative process. Unstated, but blatantly obvious to Jeannette, was the fact that the senator, her husband, had choreographed Neil’s move to Marshalk for his own self-interest. She cursed both men in her life, her husband for manipulating his son for personal gain, and Neil for not having the backbone to stand up to his father and make his own decisions.

“I don’t understand,” Neil said.

“I know that, Neil,” she said. “That’s the problem. You don’t understand what’s likely to happen to you if you stay there.”

His carefully blank expression told his mother that he still didn’t understand, although that didn’t necessarily reflect the entire truth. While he was kept out of the loop on many issues within the Marshalk Group—and resented it at times—he couldn’t help but be aware of mounting tensions. The lobbying scandals that had rocked K Street had caused Rick Marshalk and his trusted lieutenants to become more secretive than usual. Jack Parish, the former MPD detective who headed up Marshalk’s security operations, had ratcheted up internal security procedures, including frequent sweeps of the offices in search of electronic listening devices. A new set of rules had been enacted regarding the safeguarding of documents and e-mails. Everything was to be secured at night in new safes Parish had purchased and installed. There had also been a memo circulated in which the importance of not talking about Marshalk business outside the offices was stressed. World War II’s “Loose lips sink ships” and the Las Vegas tagline “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” were quoted.

Jeannette Simmons slid forward in her chair and grasped Neil’s hand in both of hers. Her expression and tone cried out for his attention. “I’ve learned things about your father and what he’s been doing that upset me terribly.” She sat back again and waved her hands in front of her. “I know, I know,” she said. “Politics and politicians have to cut deals now and then to get legislation through and win elections. But your father has crossed the line, Neil, and he’s using the Marshalk Group to do it.”

“What are you talking about, Mom? Are you saying he’s doing something illegal?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What?”

“He’s involved with some very bad people, Neil. So is Marshalk.”

“Who? What bad people?”

“It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you leave Marshalk as quickly as possible before you become tainted by it—or worse.”

He stood, went to the window, and stared outside, his fingers kneading the drape’s heavy fabric. Hearing that his father might be involved in something unlawful, and with unsavory people, was nothing new to him. Those rumors came and went with regularity in Washington, a city driven by such speculation. His father’s legislative deals cut with fellow senators often raised eyebrows. His end runs around the ever-shifting Senate ethics and campaign contribution rules and regulations elicited cynicism, in some cases outright scorn, from those on the other sides of the aisle and like-minded press. And there was the salacious rumor about his having had an affair with a Chicago woman with reputed ties to organized crime, and allegations that as a result he’d gotten into bed not only with her but with them, too.

Until that moment, however, Neil had never been directly confronted with his father’s transgressions, by anyone, let alone his mother. He turned and said, “I wish you’d be more specific.”

“I will be if I have to. I have the proof, Neil. I know