Free Ballots and Blood by Ralph Reed Page A

wondering if he knows something we don’t know. Maybe the physical evidence is pointing him in this direction?”
    â€œGive me the blow by blow. I need specifics.”
    McConnell opened her leather-bound legal pad and began to flip through the pages, reviewing her notes. “He asked whether or not the classified portion of the State Department budget provided military materiel, night-vision goggles, satellite phones, laptops, GPS, and other technology to the Green Movement.”
    Battaglia let out a long sigh. “This investigation is going places it shouldn’t go. Believe me, Miller was up to his armpits in all kinds of things. The guy was like a shadow government. But even if the Iranians or Rassem el Zafarshan or someone else was involved in Miller’s murder, we can’t let that compromise a presidential finding.”
    â€œBut we have to cooperate.”
    â€œThere’s cooperation and then there’s cooperation.”
    â€œWhat if the FBI decides to play hardball?”
    â€œTwo can play that game,” replied Battaglia, his eyes unblinking.
    McConnell felt her stomach tighten. It had never occurred to her that Miller’s personal scandal and tragic death would land like a grenade in the West Wing. Up until now DC gossip centered around the client list of the dominatrix service, which everyone assumed included some big names, among them members of Congress. Now it was clear there was far more at stake, not the least of which appeared to be a top secret plan to bring about regime change in Iran.
    JAY RODE THE ELEVATOR TO the rooftop of The Standard Hotel just off Figueroa Street downtown. It was just after 11:00 p.m., and he was meeting Satcha Sanchez, the Latino news anchor from Univision and “It” girl of broadcast journalism for a nightcap. A beefy security guard with a shaved head and beefy arms wearing black Prada and an ear piece accompanied him.
    When the elevator door opened, a wall of sound and light hit Jay, causing his brain to go into overdrive. Spinning blue directional lights illuminated the rooftop lounge, hundreds of partiers in skinny jeans, hot pants, and minidresses sprawled across couches and lounge chairs, the thump-thump of club music filled the air. Waiters bustled to and fro carrying trays of drinks.
    â€œMr. Noble, welcome to The Standard,” said the club manager. “Ms. Sanchez asked me to tell you she’s on her way. She’ll be here shortly.”
    Jay nodded. “Sounds good,” he said.
    â€œAllow me to take you to your table.”
    The club manager escorted Jay past the bar, which was jammed with dozens of partiers waving their hands, trying to get the attention of harried bartenders throwing bottles of vodka and gin. A DJ at a turntable bobbed his head as though in a trance, headphones wrapped around his head. A swirl of bodies bumped and grinded to the music. Jay followed the manager up some steps to the pool area, where a row of metallic red and blue egg-shaped containers with beds were stuffed with nimble bodies of both genders, their arms and legs entangled, lips locked. A group of young women splashed about in the pool in string bikinis, tossing a beach ball back and forth, absorbing the stares of male spectators. The place was a meat market.
    â€œThis is quite a party you’ve got here!” Jay shouted over the music.
    â€œBest in LA,” replied the manager with a sly smile.
    They arrived at the VIP section, guarded by another security guard wearing wraparound Gucci sunglasses. The club manager lifted the velvet rope and escorted Jay to a back table with a couch and two chairs. A woman with dark brown skin in red shorts with long legs, black pumps, and a black top sat on the couch. She eyed Jay seductively.
    â€œYou must be Jay Noble,” said the woman in a low purr, extending her hand. She wore a white gold and black onyx bondage ring and a yellow gold and black rhodium pyramid bracelet with