"Whitewash": The Definitive Insider's Account of the Shocking Valeria Soledad Scandal

WHITEWASH

The Definitive Insider’s Account of the Shocking Valeria Soledad Scandal

How Race, Politics, and Espionage Roiled the Julian White House

Erik Blair

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

WHITEWASH

Th e Definitive Insider’s Account of the

Shocking Valeria Soledad Scandal

Copyright © 2009 Charles D. Cossson

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ISBN: 978-0-595-33633-3 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-78435-6 (ebook)

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iUniverse rev. date: 5/18/2009

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE—THE TOWER OF BABEL

HOLLYWOOD JUSTICE

THE TRIM AWARDS GALA

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

THE PRESIDENT’S SERVICE

PHOENIX RISING

WARDROBE MALFUNCTIONS

THE SCUM-TIDE ROLLS IN

WHAT WOULD JULIAN DO?

A WINTER REMEMBRANCE OF MAY

A NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

MOTHS TO THE FLAME

OUTSIDE THE BOX

GRIP AND GRIN

RESIGNATION

THE SHADOW

EPILOGUE

A NOTE ABOUT THE INDEX

People that are really very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history.

—Vice President Dan Quayle

Author’s Note

The entirety of the following chronicle is true, insofar as it can be. For example, having never seen a priest in such circumstances, I cannot know whether Senator Peter Pohl actually had the same glowing but guilty look of satisfied self-hatred worn by a perverted priest who has just buggered a youngster. That is simply metaphor. Aside from that caveat, however, to those who yet doubt the veracity of these events I can only say, in the words of Dr. Johnson (via Disraeli), that I have provided the facts; I am not obliged to provide comprehension.

A few points about journalistic technique. Key participants in this story were interviewed repeatedly in an attempt to catch them in a contradiction. Others provided contemporaneous notes, classified materials, or secret grand jury files. Sources who were interviewed on deep background were referred to only by a suitably pornographic pseudonym. Nonetheless, any account that attempts to explain not only the who, what and where of political events, but also to show how and why those events occurred (as a historian does) will inevitably be informed by the author’s subjective opinion. Particularly when the author believes a certain person is a venal rat. And so, inevitably, we are left to ponder these events with perhaps nothing more than the usual hope one can bring to a political book: that it will provide ample ammunition for proving that those with whom we disagree are completely, utterly wrong.

Erik Blair

Washington, D.C. 4 July 2013

Perhaps the most invidious and least understood form of segregation is that of the word—Ralph Ellison

In the beginning, there was the word—John 1:1.

PROLOGUE—THE TOWER OF BABEL

I am well aware, dear reader, that as I fumble here to provide you with a serviceable prologue, I am quite drunk. But, I assure you, I remember exactly where I was when it happened. I was driving past the ghastly monument to the Second World War-bloody thing looks like castoff scenery from Triumph of the Will-when I heard the final peal of the division bell: the news that Lindy Williams had resigned.

As I listened to the news hissing out of the car radio like air from a wounded tyre, I began breathing irregularly. I stopped on Constitution Avenue and got out. In cold silence, I crossed over the sidewalk and up a grassy knoll, ignoring the paved pathway entirely. I strode deliberately through the backlit shadows, heading west until I came to the Vietnam memorial. Its stone wall begins at ankle height but as you progress toward the center you descend, until the black wall is a few feet over your head. The impression is acutely one of drowning.

When you reach the center of the memorial you are able to stand there, back to the wall, arms outstretched at either side like a crucifixion, and the stone becomes an extension of the body, a tool. It becomes two long outstretched black fingers pointing, accusingly, at Washington’s obelisk on the left and Lincoln’s Greek temple on the right.

You, the fingers seem to say to the monuments, you were derelict. You weren’t watching over us and let us get astray. Where have your spirits gone? Or perhaps the fingers are speaking to us instead, saying Look! Look and remember your principles. Have the courage to fight for them, as your heroes had the courage to fight.

No, I began to think, they are saying both, all at once, in a jumble of contradictions. Thoughts were buzzing too too fast as I stood there, holding my arms out flush against the cold flat granite, watching the monuments shine like magnesium beacons against the sky. I heard a choir, somewhere off in the distance, singing We Shall Overcome. Had that been only in my head? Was I just imagining this? No matter; it was real enough. I sung along, softly, but lost it and began to heave, suppressing a sob. We shall overcome, someday. But it was not, obviously, going to be today.

Indeed, that day has not yet arrived. Instead, here in the second putrid decade of the 21st century, we have returned to tribal division. Yet, with the aid of time (and as I feel my present delirium receding), I retain reason to hope. I have come to see that polemic and dissension are the fetid, decaying worms that keep the soil of our society fertile. God destroyed the Tower of Babel, it is true. A united mankind would threaten His obsolescence, and so He cleaved humanity into squabbling factions. It would be tempting to conclude from this that God is a selfish bastard. But Babel was a fool’s errand. A single and harmonious humanity would be nothing more than a humming machine of abandoned minds beaming out at the sky from a flowered garden of irreality. It would be, in a word, dreary. And, as you will see in the pages to come, I have been blessed with interesting times. Perhaps God is not so selfish after all.

HOLLYWOOD JUSTICE

OK, lights up, comes the yelp from a stage manager. Ready, camera one?

Ready, comes the reply, crackling back into his headphones.

Ready camera six?

Ready.

OK, we go camera six, dolly back and then right to one. Make it look like she just appeared from nowhere. Ready sound?

Ready.

OK, here we go people. Three, two, one, cue lights, and—.

Suddenly, multi-coloured lights go up a stage curtain. Music-a brassy, generic New Orleans horn riff-rolls over a television sound stage, and spotlights sweep a cheering audience ensconced in crushed-velvet seats.

A rumbling voice with a sound like leaden butter intones Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to this edition of…‘Hollywood Justice!’ Red flashing applause signs go up at each corner of the stage but the reminder is unnecessary. The audience is in a palpable fervor: stomping, clapping, hooting and then, in unison, chanting.

Lindy, Lindy, Lindy, Lindy, goes the war whoop.

Camera one, says the stage manager, and Lindy Williams appears on cue. She beams proudly at the camera, smiles at the applause, and then raises her hands up to either side, making a double V for Victory gesture, albeit with the wrists turned down.

She is caramel-toned, with soft hair and bright eyes. Hers is not the obvious glamour of youth. She is sexy without being sexual; it is not merely beauty but resolve. She is smiling and strutting, working the crowd with silk chocolate elegance.

Yah, alright, says Lindy. Hearing her speak, the crowd quiets. Wow. Y’all are fired up today.

The whooping crescendoes again. Lindy steps to one side and takes a seat in a pastel-beige modern chair, stage left.

OK, ladies and gentlemen, we have secured a great show for you today. Smith McClain is here! There is raucous applause. Smith McClain live on the streets, with our camera crew, working a little bit of justice! First, though, can I bring out my very special co-host, Erin Loveda!

There is again loud applause; perhaps owing to the relative levels of estrogen in the audience, it is in fact louder than the applause for Smith McClain.

Erin Loveda comes bounding across the stage, leaning into her stride with an impressively pert pair of breasts and a still more impressive set of bright white teeth.

Erin, it’s so good to see you, says Lindy.

Lindy, I’m just really excited about our show today, and a big ‘hola!’ to everyone watching us, here and at home. I know lots of you out there have seen all sorts of reality shows, I mean, there’s ‘No Man’s Island’ and ‘The Big Fat Hunt’ and ‘Bachelor Bang’ and even ‘Do You Know Who I Am?’ But here at ‘Hollywood Justice’ we do things a bit differently. Our motto, you know, is ‘you can be entertaining without being evil.’

You’re so right, Erin, and today we have got some great stuff, real stories that will uplift and unite. Thank you, all of you, for being here today and for tuning in to ‘Hollywood Justice.’ We’re going to take a short break, and then we will be right back!

Music comes up in the studio. OK, we’re clear, says a disembodied voice, offstage. Meanwhile, viewers at home are entertained by dancing pants, cartoon soap bubbles, and wise oatmeal-eating grandfathers. They are advised by Gastroease to say oh what the heck at the buffet bar, and encouraged by a political candidate who is doing something about air pollution. Then, a sporty, leather-seated military vehicle ascends a 90-degree vertical cliff while clean, white children wave from the back seat at some extremely surprised rock climbers. Lindy herself does the voice-over, intoning about rich Corinthian leather.

A full three and one-half minutes of lightness and goodness pass, interrupted only by a short, somber word about starving, dirt-faced Latin American children and how you can help. But before anyone can grimace, the moment is over.

OK, we’re back, Lindy says, her voice parting the wash of applause. Smith McClain has battled terrorists as super-heroic everyman John Dowling in ‘Die With Difficulty’ and played an everyday man who finds out he is a superhero in ‘Stain Resistant.’ And so he is no stranger to the drama of justice. A down-to-earth guy who never fails to notice the little courtesies that add up to a better world, please welcome…Smith McClain!

McClain strides on to the set from stage right, wearing dress corduroy pants, a white shirt, and a tan sportcoat. He is moving in time to the beat of soft hip-hop jazz, a sweet shuffle with a lively trumpet riff thrown in for colour.

Smith, thanks so much for being on our show.

Aw, hey, my pleasure Lindy. I think everyone in Hollywood admires what you’re doing. I’m very honored to be a part of it.

It’s nice of you to say that.

I’m totally serious. Every week Loni and the kids and I tune in for some great entertainment. And inspiration, he adds, on message.

Well, why don’t you set it up then? Tell us a little about your segment.

Chet Moon, one of your producers, he was on the phone with my agent Niles and they were thinking about what I could do when Niles pulls into a parking garage and he sees this guy cleaning the garage. Just sweeping up gum wrappers, cigarette butts, stuff we don’t even think about. And this guy, looking right at him, just crumples up, I don’t know, a wrapper or something, and throws it on the ground.

The studio audience murmurs.

So Niles goes to Chet, ‘Hey, I’ve got it!’ and off we go.

OK, off we go, Lindy says. Smith McClain, in action, on Hollywood Justice!

The video rolls. We are looking at a parking garage from the back of a tint-windowed van. A short, gaunt Asian man pushes a broom in an empty parking space. The tires of a shiny gold convertible Porsche squeal around the corner and then squeal again as the driver brakes suddenly, noticing the broomed man just nearly in time.

The driver honks, to which the janitorial gentleman replies with a short set of inaudible sounds and a small, pleading, hand gesture. We hear a honk again, followed by louder noise, possibly cursing, from the cockpit of the Porsche. The janitor steps aside with a weary look. With the car engine off, we can now hear their conversation.

Please, sir, so sorry. Not done sweeping corner. Please hold car waiting. Just one moment to finish corner.

The driver gets out, leaving the car door ajar and binging. He is deeply tanned, a curious shade of orange, and there are large tufts of grey over the ears, making his head look for all the world like an aged, mold-topped pumpkin.

Look, old man. I don’t care. I can’t wait and—. He is interrupted by the fey chirping of a small silver cell phone, which he pulls from his pocket. An earpiece hangs from a long cord and he has just stuffed it into his ear when he looks up and sees Smith McClain watching from the glass doors, arms folded acrost his chest, staring coldly.

Sid! Yeah, Sid, uh, I’ll have to call you back. I got Smith McClain here. Yeah, no shitting. Smith McClain. What? I can’t tell you right now. I’ll call you back.

He stares. McClain is coming towards him. He pockets his phone and breaks into a wide smile.

McClain stops in front of him. Hi. Nice Porsche.

Thanks.

I drive an Escalade. Luxury and reliability. No money down at your local Cadillac dealer, for a limited time only. He sticks out a hand. Smith McClain.

Mr. McClain, it’s good to see you. Rel Lampert, you might remember. I do development for Film-o-Rama. I was at Walter Valent’s Oscar party.

McClain purses his lips, then turns away. He inverts a near-empty bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, drinks the remaining contents, and flips the empty at a large round bin marked RECYCLING. The plastic bottle bounces once on the rim and falls in, dead center through the narrow hole in the top.

No, I don’t remember, says McClain. I hope you don’t mind if we just cut the crap. What I do remember is not two minutes ago you were such a big hotshot you had to take up an attitude with my janitor friend here. You forget common courtesy?

Panic, thinks Lampert.

Mr. McClain, I’m sorry, but…but there’s no misunderstanding here. I was simply asking the janitor to be careful as I pulled into my parking space.

It’s a questionable tactic, denial; it backfires.

No, I don’t think so. I saw the whole thing and you’re wrong except for one thing: you are sorry. He’s just trying to do his job and you might not think it’s important, but it’s important to him. And it might just be important to you some day when you get a wad of bright orange Bubble Rainbow on your Bruno Magli tasseled loafers.

Lampert has the look of a fish that has just been smacked with a cement trowel.

Mr. McClain, I—.

What, you gonna argue this? How about an apology?

OK, new tactic: confession.

You don’t have to shout. Can’t we all just get along? Lampert turns to the janitor, who is leaning on his broom, eyes as wide as tea-saucers. I would like to offer you an apology.

The janitor mumbles something nearly inaudible, but McClain interrupts. No, you have to apologize correctly. Why don’t you start by using his name?

But I don’t know his name!

How many times you park in this garage? Every day?

Well, not every…well, yes, often.

And how many times you see this man in here?

Um, I guess about twice a week.

And you never stopped to say ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ Why not?

I, I…oh, forget it. Excuse me sir, I’m Rel Lampert. And your name is?

Wing Lee, says the janitor, still clutching his broom as a shipwreck victim would a floating timber.

Ming Lee, pleased to meet you.

No, he said ‘Wing Lee,’ says McClain. Use his name correctly and apologize."

Mr. Wing Lee, I apologize if I was rude to you in any way. I won’t have it known that Rel Lampert is inconsiderate.

McClain does not let up. I got news for you. We already know you’re inconsiderate. And it’s usually bad form to put concern about your own reputation at the center of an apology. I’m being so particular, Mr. Lampert, because the fact is every rude gesture you fling at a passing car litters our world as sure as if you’d flung a lit cigarette out the window. You might not think it matters, but pick up a newspaper. Won’t take long to see the desperate things that happen in this world because of hurt feelings.

As if his own words had reminded him, McClain softened.

Alright, McClain says. Your little tantrum doesn’t make you evil for all time. You have a choice. You can continue with this careless attitude, thinking that people who don’t bend to your needs are the problem. Or, you feel the urge to get pissed off at an innocent person, pretend you’re the movie star. Pretend the world is watching you and see if you don’t remember to be a better person.

How awful–meeting Smith McClain on these terms. Such a major star!

Now, Mr. Lampert and Mr. Lee, says McClain, some of my associates would like to talk to you.

What? says Lampert. What about?

A camera crew emerges from the van, moving quickly to catch the expression on Lampert’s face. Wing Lee loosens his grip on the broom.

Mr. Lampert, we’ve just filmed this whole incident for ‘Hollywood Justice,’ and we hope you won’t mind if we air it on national television, says McClain.

What! What’s going on here? Is this some sort of set-up? says Lampert.

No, it’s not a set-up. None of this is scripted, says McClain. None of this was planned. I assure you, Mr. Lampert, this is reality.

Oh holy fuck!

The screen fades dark and the lights come up on the cheering studio. Oh, wow. Smith, that was fantastic, says Lindy. Wasn’t it?

Yeah, says Erin. That was very real, very live, very very good. We helped Rel Lampert to be a better person today, wouldn’t you agree, everybody?

They do.

OK, says Lindy, after a break we’ll be right back with Smith McClain, here on ‘Hollywood Justice!’

The cameraman signals to Lindy and, immediately, she turns to McClain. Wow. You really got a live one. Somebody in the business?

McClain turns to her, causing the makeup person patting his forehead to veer off-course and pat him square in the eye.

Ow shit! Hey, watch it! He pauses, looking at Lindy. She says nothing, but he is quick to supplement his apology. My fault. Caught you off guard there.

He turns back to Lindy. Yeah, but not a front-office guy. Still, he signed the waiver. Everybody wants to be on your show. Ah, but I sound cynical. I think they do it for the right reasons. It’s a way of setting themselves up so that they have to act better. Like announcing you’re going to Betty Ford.

I agree. And I know you have some personal knowledge of that kind of thing.

Believe me, Lindy, that whole time I was drinking, there were a gazillion times I wished I could pick up a magazine and read about my work instead of my marriage. Marriages. Or what stupid thing I did at a nightclub, or what my hotel room looked like, or which car I smashed up. I mean, it got to where my real life was bigger than my work.

I know what you mean about the tabloids. Not everybody respects their audience, you know? says Lindy. So much pressure to be perfect out there. We are trying to lift people up and that means we have to make it safe for them to admit a mistake. I suppose we are a little like Betty Ford in that way.

Yeah, well, says McClain, Lampert’s a long way from perfect.

And we’re back, Lindy, the camera voice says. Ready, three, two, one….

Welcome back, everybody, to Hollywood Justice. I hope all of you enjoyed our real, live, on-the-street scene with my very special guest, Smith McClain. Thanks to Smith’s intervention, I think it is safe to say that entertainment producer Rel Lampert and janitor Wing Lee have a new understanding of each other. I think Rel, in particular, has done a lot of thinking about how he acted in that parking lot.

Well, Lindy, I hope that’s right. But why don’t we see for ourselves? says Erin.

Absolutely, Erin. First, let’s bring out Wing Lee!

Wing Lee, now wearing a worn but clean woolen suit and dark shoes with thick sneaker soles, peeks out from a sidestage curtain, curious and blinking. Smith motions to him and Lee walks across the stage, blinded by the lights and searching for the audience in the hot white glow. Lindy, Erin, and Smith each turn to him with both arms wide open. Mr. Lee, welcome to Hollywood Justice! says Lindy.

Lee nods to the audience, saying nothing. He sits down, next to McClain, who throws an arm wide over Lee’s shoulder. Didn’t think you were going to wind up on TV, did you my friend?

No, I thought you were making movie! I should get out of the way. When you hear train coming on foggy day, don’t wait till you see it to get off tracks.

McLain beams. You bet, Mr. Lee. Boy, you are just full of wise sayings.

But you know, says Lindy, Wing Lee’s quiet decency is exactly what has been missing from television-and from reality-for as long as I can remember. Lindy looks at Lee maternally. And now, Mr. Lee, we have another surprise for you. Are you ready for a surprise?

He pushes his glasses up his nose. I’m ready.

Are you ready to be part of a television moment?

I’m ready.

OK, let’s bring out Rel Lampert! There are scattered boos from the audience.

Shussh, says Lindy. Let us not miss the point everybody. You know what I’ve said: you can try and take the so-called ‘bad people’ and lock them away, or throw them away, or send them back over the border or what have you. But that is not my idea of justice. Justice is forgiveness. So let us work justice, Hollywood style! Bring it on!

Rel Lampert comes out from behind the curtain, moving slowly but smiling. His clothes are subtle, reserved. His only accessory is a thin, gold wristwatch. He does not extend a hand until Smith does. Rel, good of you to be here, says McClain. Took guts to be here. That’s good. Guts is good.

Lampert takes a seat next to Lindy. She leans close and touches him on the arm.

Thanks for being here, Rel. I know this isn’t easy. But I’m very glad you’re here. OK, everybody. We have all seen it. We all know what occurred in the parking lot. So we’re here to talk it out. OK? Rel, can you talk about what happened?

Well, of course. Everybody saw it. I was a colossal jerk.

Good. Laughter.

And I feel, well, very ashamed. I’ve been under a great deal of pressure. Not that it’s an excuse. But things are just bottled up inside sometimes, and I just lost perspective. Forgot to stay aware of the big picture.

Mmm hmm, says Lindy, supportively. Anything else?

Well, yes, Lampert says. He turns to Wing Lee. "Mr. Lee, you seem like a very wise person. So I suspect you’ve realized I didn’t mean anything against you personally. I feel badly I lost my temper-we all get mad sometimes-but I got mad at you in a way that was unfair. As if you were an inanimate object. And, well, Lindy, before I