looked about twenty-five, with dark, almost black, hair and a wide grin that Marissa suspected could not be as sincere as it first seemed.
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” she asked him. They were standing directly in front of the secretary’s desk.
“By all means,” said Michael. He guided her into the congressman’s office, a large, high-ceilinged room with a huge mahogany desk flanked by an American flag on one side and a Texas state flag on the other. The walls were covered with framed photos of the congressman shaking hands with a variety of celebrities including all the recent presidents.
“My name is Dr. Blumenthal,” began Marissa as soon as she was seated. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Michael shook his head. “Should it?” he asked in a friendly fashion.
“Perhaps,” said Marissa, unsure of how to proceed.
“Are you from Houston?” asked Michael.
“I’m from Atlanta,” said Marissa. “From the CDC.” She watched to see if there was any unusual response. There wasn’t.
“The CDC,” repeated Michael. “Are you here in an official capacity?”
“No,” admitted Marissa. “I’m interested in the congressman’s association with the Center. Is it one of his particular concerns?”
“I’m not sure ‘particular’ is the right word,” said Michael warily. “He’s concerned about all areas of health care. In fact Congressman Markham has introduced more health-care legislation than any other congressman. He’s recently sponsored bills limiting the immigration of foreign medical school graduates, a bill for compulsory arbitration of malpractice cases, a bill establishing a federal ceiling on malpractice awards and a bill limiting federal subsidy of HMO-Health Maintenance Organization-development . . .” Michael paused to catch his breath.
“Impressive,” said Marissa. “Obviously he takes a real interest in American medicine.”
“Indeed,” agreed Michael. “His daddy was a general practitioner, and a fine one at that.”
“But as far as you know,” continued Marissa, “he does not concern himself with any specific projects at the CDC.”
“Not that I know of,” said Michael.
“And I assume that not much happens around here without your knowing about it.”
Michael grinned.
“Well, thank you for your time,” said Marissa, getting to her feet.
Intuitively, she knew she wasn’t going to learn anything more from Michael Abrams.
Returning to the street, Marissa felt newly despondent. Her sense of doing something positive about her situation had faded. She had no idea if she should hang around Washington for three days waiting for Markham’s return, or if she should just go back to Atlanta.
She wandered aimlessly toward the Capitol. She’d already checked into a hotel in Georgetown, so why not stay? She could visit some museums and art galleries. But as she gazed at the Capitol’s impressive white dome, she couldn’t help wondering why a man in Markham’s position should bother with her, even if he were a friend of Dubchek’s. Suddenly, she got the glimmer of an idea. Flagging a cab, she hopped in quickly and said, “Federal Elections Commission; do you know where that is?”
The driver was a handsome black who turned to her and said, “Lady, if there’s some place in this city that I don’t know, I’ll take you there for nothin’.”
Satisfied, Marissa settled back and let the man do the driving. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a drab semi-modern office building in a seedy part of downtown Washington. A uniformed guard paid little heed to Marissa other than to indicate she had to sign the register before she went in. Uncertain which department she wanted, Marissa ended up going into a first-floor office. Four women were typing busily behind gray metal desks.
As Marissa approached, one looked up and asked if she could be of assistance.
“Maybe,” said Marissa with a smile. “I’m interested in a congressman’s campaign finances. I understand that’s part of the public record.”
“Certainly is,” agreed the woman, getting to her feet. “Are you interested in contributions or disbursements?”
“Contributions, I guess,” said Marissa with a shrug.
The woman gave her a quizzical look. “What’s the congressman’s name?”
“Markham,” said Marissa. “Calvin Markham.”
The woman padded over to a round table covered with black loose-leaf books. She found the appropriate one and opened it to the M’s, explaining that the numbers following the congressman’s name referred to the appropriate microfilm cassettes. She then led Marissa to an enormous cassette rack, picked out the relevant one and loaded it into the microfilm reader. “Which election are you interested in?” she asked, ready to punch in the document numbers.