The Corcoran Affair

By Philip Lentz

The Corcoran Affair is a fast-paced political thriller set in the nation's capital. President Tom Corcoran is a tough-talking conservative Republican who built his career railing against liberals, gays and social activists. However, just as he is about to launch his re-election campaign, the President learns that he is HIV-positive and on the ve

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ink Start Media
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958004401

Philip Lentz

Philip Lentz is a veteran observer of local, state and national politics - having worked as a journalist, public relation executive, lobbyist, political adviser and speechwriter. He has been a political reporter for several publications, including the Chicago Tribune, Crain's New York Business, the Newark Star-Ledger and the late Philadelphia Bulletin. He also served as press secretary for several public officials, including Paul Tsongas' 1992 presidential campaign, and as a speechwriter for Gov. Andrew Cuomo. He has published two novels - both political thrillers: "The Corcoran Affair: and "Murder at City Hall." He is also a jazz pianist and recently released his first album of original compositions: "Phil Lentz Presents..."

Book preview

Chapter 1

The buzzer on Jack McCord’s intercom bleeped.

Dr. Elsner is here, his secretary said through the speaker phone.

McCord, the White House chief of staff, grimaced. The appointment had slipped his mind and it was the last thing he had time for today.

The president was flying to Chicago that afternoon for a major speech to a convention of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He’d try to keep them happy with some red meat about the Chinese and hope they’d forget about the defense cuts the Democrats in Congress were forcing him to accept. The attorney general wanted to appoint a special prosecutor for the transportation secretary. Something about free flights from American Airlines for his mistress. The secretary of state was demanding to see the president to complain about his Cuban policy. And the allies were still steamed over American plans for secondary economic boycotts for countries doing business with Castro.

McCord decided who got through the gates into the Oval Office and who did not. The secretary of state, yes…the attorney general could probably wait a day…

Mr. McCord?

Bernard Elsner stood at the chief of staff’s desk. The president’s personal physician was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with half-moon glasses falling off his nose. The few remaining strands of hair on his head were desperately in need of a comb. He held a battered leather briefcase under his arm.

May I? he said as he plopped his ungainly frame into the chair across from McCord’s desk. Elsner was a Navy physician who’d been with the government all his life. He had called McCord late at home the night before, an edge in his voice, saying he had to see him as soon as possible. Something to do with the annual physical the president had taken the week before.

McCord, a middle-aged man still as trim as he when he served in the Marines thirty years ago, couldn’t imagine what the fuss was all about. The president, Tom Corcoran, was in decent health. A little over weight, perhaps, not enough exercise, not any, in fact—but where could a president find the time? He didn’t even like to play golf. McCord slumped in his chair, steeling himself for another lecture on reducing the president’s cholesterol count.

As I mentioned over the phone, Elsner began, when I saw these results, I wanted you to see them right away. I was pretty stunned and we checked them several times. The doctor fumbled with some papers in his briefcase, finally putting a clump on top of the neat pile of papers on McCord’s desk.

What are these? McCord said with exasperation.

Look at the charts at the bottom of the first page, Elsner started.

I’m not a doctor, Bernie, McCord said as he thumbed through the pile. What am I looking for?

The numbers say the president’s viral count is abnormally high, Elsner said.

Viral count…? McCord’s voice trailed off.

And his T-cell count is a bit below normal as well, Elsner continued.

T-cells? Whaa—No. no way, no way, McCord said. I don’t have time for this kind of joke…

I’m sorry, Jack, I’m not kidding around, Elsner said, his demeanor increasingly somber. The president has the virus. He’s HIV positive.

The words took a few seconds to register. McCord cocked his head and squinted to Elsner. Then he stared at the papers again. This is crazy, he told Elsner. The president’s not gay, he thought to himself, he doesn’t take drugs, of course. He’s a happily married man with a perfect wife and two perfect daughters. There’s got to be something wrong with your tests, Bernie. Do these again!

Elsner was shaking his head. We did them over and over, several times, he said sadly. We looked to see if there was contamination of the sample or if the results were inadvertently switched with another patient. He paused. They weren’t.

This can’t be happening, McCord thought. Corcoran was a conservative, a Catholic Republican, a defender of the Religious Right, scourge of the libertine left. He was not averse to hinting in speeches that AIDS was just punishment for homosexuals who had sinned against God. Corcoran with HIV? AIDS? This made no sense. How could this happen? Corcoran, in the third year of his first term, was moving the country to the right, slowly, yes but—given a Democratic Congress—rightward nonetheless. This kind of news would destroy his political career and everything they’d worked for. He would become a medical lame duck.

McCord quickly focused on the immediate threat. How close is he to AIDS, Bernie?

There’s no way to tell, Elsner said slowly. "His T-cell count is below the normal range, but it’s still above 200, which is the usual definition of full-blown AIDS—

How far above? McCord questioned.

He’s at 350 cells per milliliter of blood. Five hundred is the lowest part of the normal range. One thousand is what most of us have.

How long do we have before it drops below the line?

No way of knowing, Elsner said. We need to start aggressive intervention immediately to ward off the onset of AIDS.

Geez, McCord thought. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. And in the White House, no less!

Can we turn it around? he asked. These drugs AIDS people take, can they get rid of the virus, make him HIV-negative?

They can reduce the virus, Elsner said, sometimes even remove any traceable amounts. But there are no guarantees. It depends how strong a strain he has. But if we could…

As Elsner droned on, McCord’s head began to fill with the political implications of the physician’s bombshell. Corcoran was not just the president, but McCord’s closest friend in politics. McCord had run Corcoran’s presidential campaign, been his political alter-ego for 20 years—a colleague when they worked together in the Reagan White House, a source for Corcoran when the president was a newspaper columnist, the strategist in his campaign for the U.S. Senate, the field general who designed and managed his upstart presidential campaign.

His mind now zeroed in on the president’s political health.

Who knows about this? McCord demanded.

Just myself and the assistant White House physician, Elsner said.

What about the Bethesda lab?

No, Elsner said. All AIDS tests are done anonymously.

It has to stay that way, McCord said emphatically. No one should know this.

But what about treatment—we have to tell the president, we have to try to save his life, Elsner pleaded.

Oh God, McCord thought. He shook his head. How could he tell Corcoran? The president loved to rail against immortality in public life, denounced Hollywood for sexual promiscuity, ridiculed gays and publicly announced he would never take contributions from gay groups—not that they would give him anything anyway. How do I tell Corcoran he could get AIDS? the chief of staff mumbled to himself.

We need to get him on a drug regimen, inhibitor drugs like AZT, protease inhibitors, drugs to stop the virus from growing, Elsner was saying. This is an illness, a serious illness. But it can be treated. And— here his voice dropped precipitously—we need to tell his sexual partners.

McCord’s mind had floated off, day dreaming about the impending political chaos the president’s illness would create. But he heard that last phrase. His WHAT? McCord said as his head snapped in Elsner’s direction.

Sir, the president must have gotten the virus from someone, Elsner said. I’m sorry, with all due respect, his partners must be tested too.

This president has only one sexual partner! McCord shouted defiantly, then cupped his head in his hands. Who was going to tell Lisa Corcoran, the president’s wife? She could have HIV too! McCord thought with horror. What about the kids?

Mrs. Corcoran should be tested too, Elsner said, reading McCord’s thoughts.

The chief of staff stood and walked slowly to the window of his corner office in the West Wing of the White House. He stared at the tourists lined up to take the White House tour, the Treasury building across the street and Pennsylvania Avenue in the distance. His great skill, the reason the president trusted him implicitly, was his uncanny ability to think ahead, to see the political landscape quicker than anyone else. And that landscape had just become a minefield. McCord thought of the media tracking down everyone the president and his wife may have slept with over the last 20 years. Yes, they appeared to be the perfect couple, but who knew? Obviously, one of them was not chaste. What a witch hunt! Those liberal bastards in the media are going to love this. It could destroy the Corcoran presidency, maybe even the Republican Party for decades to come. McCord realized that his life—and Tom Corcoran’s—had suddenly and irrevocably changed.

Could he have gotten this from bad blood, a transfusion or something? McCord demanded.

That was our first thought, too, Elsner said. What we were hoping for, to be honest. But it doesn’t appear to be so. We can’t be sure when he became infected. But I looked back through his personal records and found no record of a serious operation or any blood transfusions. That’s leaves only two possibilities. Intravenous drugs, which seems unlikely, given Tom, or sexual contact, which appears to be the most obvious cause.

But McCord was still in defiant denial. Then how come Corcoran looks so good? he asked the doctor.

Well, people who are HIV-positive show little if any signs of the illness initially, he said. When someone becomes HIV-positive, there is sometimes an immediate bad reaction, something like a severe bout of the flu, but then they return to normalcy until AIDS sets in.

In fact, McCord remembered during the presidential campaign, a few weeks before the convention, Corcoran had come down with the flu. He was holed up for a week or so and it was a particularly nasty bout. It had gotten into the papers because Corcoran was trying to pick his running mate at the time and most of meetings had to be held at his home, not the campaign office, he was so sick.

After that, McCord thought back, it did seem as if Corcoran’s stamina had been sapped a bit. McCord made sure the schedulers cleared out time in the afternoon most days so Corcoran could rest—actually nap. McCord remembered that the same had been done for Reagan when he was president, so it received little attention. Corcoran was a healthy 55-year-old man. He was on the go 18 hours a day. No one begrudged him a few minutes of rest in the afternoon.

McCord also remembered that Corcoran had had a cold for the last few weeks that he couldn’t seem to shake. He took all the normal medicine. The doctors said it had been a particularly rainy winter, which, combined the president’s allergies, was apparently why it had been so difficult to shake. He thought.

That cold—is that because of the virus? McCord asked Elsner.

Could be, he said. He should have gotten well by now.

There was silence for a moment, then McCord’s intercom beeped. The president’s ready, his secretary said. He wants to go over the Chicago speech.

In an instant, McCord made up his mind. Everything would be normal. No one outside the White House would know and no routines would change. Elsner’s job would be to keep the president looking as healthy as possible for as long as possible. Until he thought of something else.

The presidency, beyond all the hoopla and the pageantry and the drama and the crises, is really the vortex of a huge bureaucracy with a momentum all its own. The White House is bombarded daily by cabinet agencies, congressmen, special interests, old friends, campaign contributors and seemingly everyone with a computer trying to push the president to go there, do this or say that. Everyone wanted a piece of Tom Corcoran and it was Jack McCord’s job to keep the president’s head above this constant clutter, to make sure Corcoran only handled the decisions that couldn’t be made farther down the political food chain, leaving him time to sell himself and his policies to the public and the opinion makers and not worry about the political minutia that could otherwise drown the Oval Office.

Now, McCord knew, if this HIV test were correct, if the president were really sick, the bubble around the president would have to be drawn tighter than ever. McCord had to keep the illness a secret in a town that leaked like a sieve. How long before it seeped out? he wondered. The minute it became was public—Right-wing Republican Has AIDS, what a headline, he thought—Corcoran’s effectiveness as president would be over, disowned by his own political party. McCord knew he had little control over the president’s physical health; but how long could he control the president’s political health? That, McCord wasn’t sure of.

The chief of staff walked down the hall to the Oval Office to discuss the Chicago trip, but he had trouble keeping his mind in the conversation. Day-to-day political concerns suddenly seemed irrelevant, trivial. McCord’s thoughts keep drifting back to Elsner’s diagnosis and the wrenching changes that were in store…if the doctor were right. As the discussion was winding up, the president asked McCord if there were any political bases he should remember to touch while in Illinois. McCord seemed startled, as if awakened from a dream.

Mind elsewhere, Jack? the president asked.

Sorry, Mr. President, McCord said as he tried to focus on Chicago. The Illinois governor would be at the convention, he remembered, and the state’s only Republican senator, named Halloran, was flying out with the president. McCord mentioned some major contributors in Chicago who would enjoy getting an unsolicited call from the president. Soften them up for re-election next year, McCord said. Suddenly, his mind froze. Re-election? Who knows if the president would will even be alive by then? This was getting ghoulish already. He had to talk to the president.

As the meeting broke, McCord approached Corcoran and suggested they meet when he returned from Chicago.

I’ll be back late, Jack, and I haven’t spent much time with Lisa lately, Corcoran said. He was right. He had just returned from a 10-day visit to Europe and as soon as he returned to Washington, Lisa Corcoran had left on a week-long trip to the West Coast. She was returning to Washington late that afternoon.

Mr. President, uh, th-this is important, McCord said, finding himself stuttering in front of one of his oldest friends. I don’t think this should wait.

OK, 8 o’clock in the Oval Office. Corcoran said. And it better be quick.

Yes, sir, McCord said. He knew it wouldn’t be.

Chapter 2

Corcoran’s Chicago speech was political slam dunk. As soon as the president walked onto the stage at McCormick Place, the city’s huge convention center, the cheering began. These were men—and the audience was almost all men—who had fought in Korea and Vietnam and the Gulf Wars and they liked their political rhetoric unvarnished. Corcoran did not disappoint.

You know, I always enjoy speaking to the VFW, to veterans like you, Corcoran began, because you were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, you know what honor, duty and country are. You know what the flag stands for.

They began to applaud. The text of the president’s speech lay on the podium, but Corcoran ignored it. The teleprompter had stopped. The president didn’t need his speech writers back in Washington to tell where to do with this crowd.

There are those—and you know I don’t think I have to name names—there are those who would turn their backs on America, who would turn their backs on the old red, white and blue, who would turn and run at the first hint of hostile fire. He paused to scan the sea of pointed blue hats and expectant eyes focused upon him. But they aren’t in this hall today, he said slowly, bringing the crowd to its feet, cheering. They wouldn’t dare set foot in this ground made hallowed by your sweat, your devotion, your—and I know this is an old fashioned word—by your patriotism. They were screaming now. They, the president went on, slowly enunciating each word, can’t-even-shine-your-shoes!

A roar swept through the convention hall as Corcoran stepped back from the microphone to survey the emotion he had wrought. A small smile creased his lips. When he was on, ohhhh, he knew which buttons to push. And he was usually on. Any unhappiness these vets may have felt toward his compromises with the Democrats in Washington—on defense spending or policies toward Russia and China—they were quickly forgotten in the euphoria of this moment. They were now in the palms of his hands.

You know, some people—and again, I don’t want to give them publicity by mentioning their names, Corcoran said to titters in the crowd, "Some people would have us make nice with China—

Don’t do it, Tom! one vet yelled out.

You tell ’em, Mr. President, shouted another.

I will, Corcoran continued. I will. They would have us coddle them, stretching out the word coddle as if it were a swear word. ‘They’re not Communists any more,’ we are told, just misunderstood nationalists. If we treat them politely, maybe they won’t invade other countries. He paused to laugh to himself. Well, let me tell you something, my friends. No bully was ever intimidated by sweet talk and honey. No bully was ever scared away with U.N. resolutions and meaningless treaties. The bear knows only one thing. And as long as I am president, our fighting men will have all the means necessary to keep the bear in his cage!

They were on their feet again, cheering and shouting. "Some people may tell you that Communism is dead, that we need not worry about this alien philosophy infecting countries around the world, that no one reads Lenin or Marx