Under Siege Read Online Free PDF Page B

the chief of staff, but these he used only in the presence of his wife, for the attorney general was an old-fashioned gentleman.
    Others in Washington were less kind. Dorfman had racked up an impressive list of enemies in his two years in the White House. One of the more memorable remarks currently going around the cocktail-party circuit was one made by a senator who felt he had been double-crossed by the chief of staff. “Dorfman is a genius by birth, a liar by inclination, and a politician by choice.”
    Just now as he listened to Will Dorfman, the senator’s remark crossed the attorney general’s mind.
    “What happens if this guy gets acquitted?” Dorfman asked, for the second time.
    “He won’t,” the attorney general, Gideon Cohen, said curtly. He always found himself speaking curtly to Dorfman.
    “There’ll be a dozen retired crocks and out-of-work cleaning women on that jury, people who are such little warts they’ve never heard of Chano Aldana or the Medellin cartel, people who don’t read the papers or watch TV. The defense lawyers won’t let anyone on that jury who even knows where Colombia is. When the jurors finally figure out what the hell is going on, they’re going to be soared pissiess.”
    “The jury system has been around for centuries. They’ll do their duty.” Dorfman snorted and repositioned his calendar on the desk in front of him. He glanced at the vase of fresh-cut flowers that were placed on his desk every morning, one of the White House perks, and helped himself to a handful of MandMs in a vase within his reach. He didn’t offer any to his visitor. “You really believe that crap?”
    Cohen did believe in the jury system. He knew that the quiet dignity of the courtroom, the bearing of the judge, the seriousness of the proceedings, the possible consequences to the defendant-all that had an effect on the members of the jury, most of whom, it was true, were from modest walks of life. Yet the honest citizen who felt the weight of his responsibilities was the backbone of the system. And ten cent sophisticates like Dorfman would never understand. Cohen looked pointedly at his watch.
    Dorfman sneered and hid it behind his hand. Gideon Cohen was one of those born-to-money Harvard grads who had spent his adult life waltzing to the top of a big New York law firm, a guy who gave up eight or nine hundred thou a year to suffer nobly through a tour in the cabinet. He liked to stand around at parties and cluck about the financial sacrifices with his social equals. Cohen was a royal pain in a conservative’s ass. Even worse, he was a snob. His whole attitude made it crystal clear that Dorfman couldn’t have gotten a job polishing doorknobs at Cohen’s New York firm.
    When Cohen looked at his watch the third time, Dorfman rose and stepped toward the door to check with the secretary. As he passed Cohen, he farted.
    Alone in the chief of staff’s plush, spacious Office, Gideon Cohen let his eyes glide across the three original Winslow Homer paintings On the wall and come to rest on the Frederick Remington bronze of a bronc rider about to become airborne, also an original. More perks, Public ones, just in case you failed to appreciate the exalted station of the man who parked his padded rump in the padded leather chair. The art belonged to the U.s. government, Cohen knew, and the top dozen or so White House suffers were allowed to choose what they wanted to gaze upon during their tour at the master’s feet. Unfortunately the art had to go back to the museums when the voters or the President sent the apostles back to Private life. Ah, power, Cohen mused disgustedly, what a whore you are! Behind him, he heard Dorfman call his name.
    Three minutes later in the Oval Office Dorfman settled into one of the leather chairs as Cohen shook hands with the president. George Bush had on his KennebunkPO-RT Outfit this afternoon. He was leaving for Maine just as soon as he finished this meeting, which Cohen had