U.S. Senator James “Jimmy” Farrell
rated exceptional in various ways.
His path into the world’s greatest
deliberative body was rather unique, as were his politics for a senator from
New York.
His death would be extraordinary as
well.
Jimmy Farrell had been a tough,
bare-knuckles, hard-drinking political leader of the Staten Island Conservative
Party for several years. When the statewide party couldn’t stomach backing
another liberal Republican in a presumably losing campaign against a powerful,
incumbent Democrat, Farrell volunteered to be the Conservatives’ sacrificial
lamb.
But the campaign took two unexpected
turns. First, it was revealed that the married incumbent Democrat had engaged the
services of a long list of prostitutes. Three days later, several media reports
pointed to the Republican personally benefiting from contracts awarded while he
was mayor of a small, upstate city.
It all played into old notions of
Republicans being consumed by money, and Democrats obsessed with sex.
More hookers and more dollars flowed
forth from the media on a daily basis during the final weeks leading up to the
election. After the polls closed, having garnered 36 percent of the vote, Jimmy
became the second Conservative to win a U.S. Senate seat from New York.
Farrell understood the unique
circumstances of his victory, and the history of his state. James Buckley was
the Conservative Party candidate who won the 1970 Senate race because Democrat
Richard Ottinger and Senator Charles Goodell, a liberal Republican appointed by
Governor Nelson Rockefeller after the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy,
split the state’s left-wing vote. Buckley served only one term. And since New
York was arguably more liberal now, Senator Farrell was a sure bet for one term
– that is, barring additional, unforeseen scandals.
In office, Farrell made no compromise.
He spoke his mind, and voted his principles. No sacred cow existed that he
would not slay, and no political third rail avoided his touch.
Backed by a handful of conservative
Republicans, Farrell even led opposition to a highly popular effort – proposed
by Republicans and backed by Democrats – to begin shifting U.S. foreign economic
aid from government projects to helping entrepreneurial start-ups in developing
nations.
Farrell declared on the floor of the
U.S. Senate: “We shouldn’t be subsidizing businesses, big or small, at home,
and we certainly shouldn’t be doling out U.S. tax dollars to businesses in
foreign countries. I want to end government economic aid altogether, no matter
who gets it.” He mysteriously added, “I believe ominous forces are looking to
cash in on America’s naïve generosity.”
It was not surprising that the Senator
from New York drove both Democrats and Republicans over the edge, with some
accusing him of literally being crazy.
But crazy or not in his politics,
Jimmy Farrell certainly was a predictable creature when it came to his
day-to-day personal life.
While Congress was in session, when
not required to be in the Senate, Farrell often could be found dining, drinking
and holding court at The Dubliner Restaurant and Pub, just a block from Union
Station. His favorite meal was the Guinness Burger – sirloin marinated in
Guinness, served on a potato pancake with Welsh cheese and onion straws. The
New York Senator, however, was far more expansive in his beverage selections,
being open to all of the draft beers offered – from Guinness Stout to the
Dubliner Irish Lager.
Members of his staff periodically
tried to get Farrell to limit his attendance at the pub. Their arguments
included the potential political negatives of spending so much time in a bar.
That fell on deaf ears, as Farrell seemed to revel in his one-termer status. As
for pointing to drunk driving risks, Farrell reminded staff that he never drove
himself around D.C. In fact, the responsibility for driving Farrell fell to
different aides on varying hours and days. That reality apparently was the true
impetus behind his aides’ urgings, as each dreaded the duty of getting their
boss out of The Dubliner and back to the Watergate condo he rented.
It turned out that Jimmy Farrell’s
last night on Earth was the final evening for one of his legislative aides as
well.
Once the bullet ripped into and lodged
in Larry Payton’s brain, his vital signs quickly faltered. By the time his body
was dumped on Second Street along the tracks behind Union Station, no spark of
life remained.
Just after midnight, a blue-eyed, blond-haired,
stocky, bushy-mustached man, dressed in a black suit, white shirt and thin
black tie, entered The Dubliner. Few took notice, as he resembled many drivers
seen around the nation’s capital. He asked a bartender where he could find
Senator Farrell.
The barkeep said, “Around the corner,
in the dining room. There’s a group of older gents.”
One of those gentlemen spoke loudly.
His animated hands helped tell a tale, with the beer in his right hand
periodically sloshing over the rim of a pilsner glass.
Farrell’s light gray hair was thick
and wavy, with a few traces of its original sandy brown remaining, while his
complexion was pock marked and ruddy. The Senator’s current facial redness was
partially due to five lagers consumed over the past two hours, and partially to
the extra sixty pounds his five-foot-eight frame had to carry.
The man in the dark suit approached
the table, and waited as Farrell’s story continued. After the Senator and two
others erupted in laughter, the stocky fellow introduced himself as “Mr.
Audia,” told the Senator that Larry had an emergency, and he had been sent to
drive Farrell home.
Jimmy offered his presumed driver a
beer, but it was refused. Audia told the Senator that he would be waiting in
the car outside, ready to leave whenever Farrell was.
Farrell said a bit unsteadily, “Okay,
thanks, I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Twenty minutes and one more beer
later, Farrell emerged into the warm night air and Audia waved him over to the
car, and opened the back door.
As Audia turned the dark sedan onto
Massachusetts Avenue, Farrell focused more closely on his surroundings. “Hey,
this is my car. Why are you driving my car?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Senator Farrell.
Didn’t Larry explain?” He pulled the vehicle over to the curb.
“Larry? No. Explain what?”
Audia pulled a pistol from the gym bag
resting on the seat next to him, and turned around. He looked Farrell in the
eyes.
The alcohol consumed by the Senator
delayed his ability to focus on the weapon. “Hey, what the…”
“Oh, that’s right, Larry’s dead.”
Audia smiled and fired the weapon.
A tranquilizer dart hit Farrell just
below the neck, immobilizing the senator almost immediately.
Audia turned around, shifted the car
into drive, checked his mirrors, and pulled away from the curb. In a
matter-of-fact, almost soothing voice, he said, “Unfortunately, Senator
Farrell, you will be joining Larry in death shortly. But first, I will get some
information from you that my client needs.”
The fear on Farrell’s face eventually
faded away, as his eyes rolled back and closed.
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