“Now you’re starting to get it,” Hobbs said. “You see, back then, Schrader had video of only one president cavorting with a teenager.” He paused for dramatic effect, then continued. “Now he has video of a second.”
Devereaux glanced upward as though he might see the Cabinet Room, or even the Oval Office, from where they were sitting. “You mean—”
“That’s right. Before he got into politics, when he was just an ordinary billionaire business baron. By the time these guys rise to national prominence, they seem to realize their association with Schrader isn’t good for their brands. But by then it’s too late.”
“Schrader’s blackmailing the president?”
“No, that’s the thing. The basis for the non-prosecution agreement, in fact. Schrader isn’t interested in leverage. There’s nothing he wants and can’t buy. Except one thing.”
“To stay out of jail.”
“Bingo.”
“That’s the deal you made with him?”
Hobbs nodded. “Schrader’s got a high-powered lawyer, Sharon Hamilton, and she made it clear that Schrader had created the material purely as a get-out-of-jail-free card, to be played only under the narrowest of circumstances. If those circumstances were to disappear, the material would never surface.”
“You believed that?”
“What choice did I have, really? But yes, I believed it. Schrader had been compiling the material for years. He could have used it sooner if he’d wanted to, in a variety of ways, but he never did. And the material inculpates Schrader as much as it does the subjects captured. Those videos aren’t a gun. They’re a doomsday weapon.”
The waiter came by and refreshed their coffees. When he was gone, Devereaux said, “What’s changed, then?”
Hobbs appreciated that Devereaux was being polite. The more direct version of the question would have been Why are you telling me this? Or even What do you want from me?
Hobbs took a quick glance around, but it was reflex—there was no one within earshot. And of course, the entirety of the White House was swept constantly for bugs. This was as safe a place as any to talk.
“After the non-prosecution agreement, Schrader made himself scarce in South Carolina. He bought new property—on Bainbridge Island, in Washington State. Built a twenty-eight-million-dollar compound, with mooring for his yacht and a helipad. And went back to doing what he does. He owns an Airbus ACH130 helicopter that delivers six girls at a time, a ten-minute flight from Seattle.”
Devereaux said nothing, and after a moment, Hobbs continued. “Three days ago, the FBI arrested Schrader in the Western District of Washington State. Turns out an assistant US Attorney there has been spearheading an investigation for the past year. And lord almighty, does she have the goods. Schrader’s got no way out.”
“Except one.”
“Ah, but here’s the problem. This AUSA, Alondra Diaz. She’s a zealot. I explained to the US Attorney in the district—good guy named Meekler—that Schrader can’t be prosecuted. I didn’t give details, but Meekler got the gist, and recognized there would be rewards for cooperation. He told me he’d make sure Diaz understood she had caught the wrong fish and that she’d throw him back in the water.”
“And?”
“Meekler talked to her. Standard Are you sure we have our ducks in a row talk. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Diaz was adamant. And she’d made sure to have lots of reporters present when the FBI made the arrest. Meekler’s afraid if he pushes too hard, someone’s going to start writing stories about it.”
“What about your non-prosecution agreement?”
“Only binding in the district in South Carolina.”