Walter comes barreling into the makeup room holding a manila envelope. “Jesus, you look like a movie star, Fox really knows how to clean you up.” He goes to touch the top of Cate’s head.
“Don’t touch my hair,” she snaps.
Walter thrusts the envelope at her. Retaliation from Cate warrants a condescending signal that he’s in charge.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Notes for you to review,” Walter says.
“But I have them on my phone.”
A PA steps in with a wire in her ear and a walkie-talkie. “Cate, Chris is ready for you.”
“Excuse me.” Cate walks around Walter and follows the PA down the hallway lined with photographs of former on-air guests—Reagan, both Bushes, Putin; she doesn’t see a single powerful woman in any of the frames. Cate clears her throat and approaches the double sliding glass doors to the set.
Walter follows. “I’m going to watch from the set, not the green room,” he says, asserting command. She can smell Walter’s bad breath behind her.
Cate stands at the entrance behind camera operators in jeans and hoodies checking their cell phones. The set has an eerie silence, unlike Hollywood. Muted televisions mounted along the back wall for the news show can only be heard by those with earpieces. The PA hooks up Cate’s microphone, connecting her to the control room and the audio of the broadcast when it becomes live for her.
Chris Williams, boring suit, caked-on makeup, and a gray comb-over, repositions himself at his desk, completely ignoring Cate until she is directed to take her seat next to him. The makeup artist and hair stylist run to him in between takes like crazed fans.
Cate takes her seat on the stool, crosses her legs, and assumes position. A voice sounds in her ear: “We need to check your levels, can you count backward from ten for us.”
“Ten, nine, eight, seven”—a bright light beams toward her; she frowns—“six, five, four”—before adjusting her eyes and summoning a confident smile—“three, two, one.”
“Cate we’re getting a muffling sound from you, can you unbutton the top button of your shirt?” a man’s voice says from the control room, a poignant reminder that he can see her but she can’t see him.
Cate, confused and not sure she heard him correctly, looks down, hesitating. Chris Williams looks up and over at her for the first time. “Your shirt,” he says, curt and to the point, “unbutton it.”
“Oh.” Cate unbuttons the top button of her blouse as fast as she can, her hand visibly shaking.
“Atta girl.” Chris winks at her.
“And we’re back in ten seconds.…”
Chris adjusts his tie, then turns to the camera. “Joining us tonight to discuss the crisis and shakeup in the White House administration stemming from the domestic violence probe into White House Chief of Staff Tom Derby is Cate Bartholomew, press secretary for North Carolina Senator Doug Wallace, who has openly condemned the behavior and called for Derby’s immediate resignation. Cate, thanks for joining us this evening.”
“Good to be here, Chris,” she says as if she’s been doing this her entire life.
“Fill us in on what’s been happening behind the scenes.”
“Well, Chris, as you can imagine, Senator Wallace and other colleagues in the Senate are shocked, and they have launched an investigation into what exactly happened during the background check of Chief of Staff Tom Derby, as it is highly unlikely that domestic violence would have been missed by the FBI at a top security clearance level unless someone, perhaps even the president, had him cleared anyway.”
“Are you suggesting the president would hire a wife-beater, Cate?”
“Well, Chris, I wouldn’t use the term wife-beater—it’s the twenty-first century, and you’re dating yourself to the Detroit case of the 1940s where and when that term came to prominence, but I digress—”
“Well, wait a minute…” Chris desperately tries to interrupt her, but Cate doesn’t allow it.
“I am suggesting that the president overlooked it in an effort to have the circle he wanted around him. And he’s going to pay a price now.”
“What kind of price, Cate?”
“Well, for one thing, he hasn’t said a word, hasn’t acknowledged the victim, Derby’s wife, and his party is beginning to turn on him. And things are looking pretty good for Senator Wallace regarding our plans to introduce an amendment to the domestic violence bill.”
Chris Williams suddenly notices what a knockout she is. Cate crosses her legs like they’re her weapons of choice, using whatever has been handed to her to fight right back. She lifts an eyebrow, ready for another question.
Chris looks down at his notes. “That’s right, Senator Wallace plans to introduce an amendment to the Violence against Women Act regarding psychological control. Can you explain to viewers exactly what psychological control means? Are you saying men have psychological powers over women?” He looks up from his notes. “Because if so, Cate, I’d really like to try that at home, ha-ha-ha, I mean, what kind of argument is this? The feminists aren’t gonna like it, I can tell you that!”
Maniacal in her focus, Cate leans over the table. “Well, let me explain it to you, Chris, you can learn something new every day.” Chris chuckles to hide his embarrassment. “Coercive control isn’t just about low-level or high-level violence occurring in a relationship. It begins as a psychological state meant to control the partner by instilling copious amounts of fear in them. In the case of Tom Derby and his wife, the photos of her black-and-blue eye and bloody lip are all over the Internet—that is very obvious abuse, but it should never have to escalate to that level. We are interested in catching abuse before it escalates as it begins with psychological control, which can come in different forms such as threatening a partner physically, financially, or emotionally—anything that instills fear and therefore compliance. Statistically speaking, if a woman ever thinks a partner might hit her—even if she reports it was only a fleeting thought—there’s a ninety-five percent chance he will hit her in the future. So, to save countless lives of American women, Senator Wallace plans to implement this amendment in the coming weeks, and we hope the nation, and gentlemen like yourself, support us in doing so.”
Chris leans back in his chair, places his pen atop his notes, and looks into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, Cate Bartholomew, press secretary for Senator Doug Wallace. Thanks for joining us—we’ll be back in a moment, stay with us.”
* * *
Cate walks into the green room removing her earpiece and unclipping her microphone, buzzing with adrenaline. Walter follows her. As Cate hands the PA her earpiece, Walter says, “Excuse me, can you give us a minute?” Alarmed by his tone, Cate walks over to the couch to grab her purse and overcoat; the PA spins back around and out the door.
“Your first time on national television with Chris Williams and you’re going to talk down to him?”
“What? I was giving him facts, Walter.” Cate swings her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave. She checks her phone. No text message from Doug.
“What you said about the president was not a fact.”
“Check the polls if you don’t believe me. The car is waiting for me downstairs,” Cate says, holding up her phone. As she heads toward the hallway, she nearly bumps into Linda Williams, a French textbook poking out of her Louis Vuitton tote.
“Oh, excuse me,” Cate says, locking eyes with Chris Williams’s wife.
“Linda!” Walter exclaims. “Excuse our clumsy press secretary.” Cate glares at him. Walter steps in front of her.
“Walter! Good to see you!” They do a double kiss. “Is Chris still on? I’m trying to catch the end of it.…” Linda reaches for her phone in her tote.
“Linda Williams?” Cate says, interjecting herself. “I’m Cate Bartholomew.” She goes to shake her hand. “Chuck and Meredith Bartholomew’s niece—we met briefly at the Washington Club, they’re also members,” she adds, attempting to prove her place in Washington society even i
f only peripherally—even if only by a thread—even if Cate just went live on her husband’s show.
“Nice to see you again,” Linda says, not remembering her at all. And she doesn’t particularly like the Bartholomews—they don’t typically mingle with members of the press unless it is to their benefit.
Walter notices Cate asserting her social capital. “Great to see you, Linda, lunch at the Press Club next week?”
“Would love it, darling.”
“Lovely to see you again,” Cate says.
Linda smiles. “Take care, sweetie.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Russian ambassador’s residence is a modern glass palace, an old off-white brick building covered in tiny square windows. Sitting high on a hill at the top of Georgetown next to the embassy, the foreign property is protected by layers of black fences, cameras, barbed wire, and cigarette-smoking Russian guards: EMBASSY OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION is branded in gold on a concrete plaque at the “Royal” gates. Stan’s father is somewhere in Helsinki on one of his many business trips, his mother mysteriously (always) missing.
Stan glides down the freestanding winding staircase as if descending from clouds; he’s dressed in a half-unbuttoned collared silk shirt and tight dress pants. In the living room are emblems of American pop culture: Austin Powers prints, a painting of a modern American flag, Marilyn Monroe’s iconic white dress photo, big block letters spelling S-E-X-Y above the fireplace, a swinging clear chair and stripper pole his mother uses for exercise in the corner. Modern sculptures of trolls and dancing ballerinas are found in the dining room and library, near photographs of his father at the Kremlin framed in platinum.
Stan walks over to the light switch—a naked photo of Mick Jagger, the on/off switch in place of his erect penis. A security guard, whom Stan has graciously paid off in cash, monitors the cell phones of addicted teenagers being collected and put into a silver bucket upon arrival. Parents, the few who were ever concerned, know that Ambassador Stopinski has been in the news cycle recently and aren’t particularly thrilled for their children to be entering the domain of the enemy. Social media will remain closed to the invitees. Stan knows this much. The subject line of his private invite was, Baby, I got the tapes. All of them thinking it was funny, none of them knowing why.
Jermaine Dupri’s “Money Ain’t a Thang” blasts through the open space, floor-to-ceiling windows; the finest vodka, sealed in wooden cases carved with RUSSIAN EMBASSY on top (an endless supply of gifts to foreign dignitaries kept in the basement vault), is lined up on identical coffee tables. Plastic soda bottles and aluminum expired credit cards next to bags of cocaine and prerolled strawberry-flavored blunts fill the side tables. Carefully selected juniors and seniors of St. Peter’s Academy and the surrounding private schools flood in, some completely wasted from pregaming, others beelining for the vodka—girls in their tight polo sweaters, miniskirts, long locks pulled up in messy I’m-not-trying-too-hard buns, and pearl studs; dudes in their Nats hats, Capitals shirts, sagging khakis, and trending kicks (plus the occasional pair of boat shoes with no socks).
Billy and Bunny sit on a leather sofa in the corner; Billy’s kissing her neck, his hand on her knee. Mackenzie enters with Marty. Chase arrives with a young freshman, bug-eyed and drunk, smiling and nodding at everyone to prevent vomit from spilling up and out of her esophagus.
“Mackenzie, what can I get you?” Marty asks, the perfect gentleman, red plaid bow tie poking out under his argyle sweater, round spectacles, khakis, and brown loafers.
“Shot of vodka, please,” Mackenzie says, trying to fix the extension clips at the back of her head. Bunny notices this, and the diamond-studded Tank watch on her wrist.
“Ohh, starting off with shots, I likey New Girl,” Chase says.
“Shots for everyone!” Billy shouts.
“Is that the Cartier Tank?” Bunny asks Mackenzie.
“My watch? Um, yeah, my dad gave it to me for my birthday.”
“Nice,” Bunny replies. “Audrey had one, but hers was rose gold.… Did you know her?”
“No. I mean, we had religion class together, but I didn’t really know her,” Mackenzie says.
“Do you know how she died?” Bunny asks, spooking her now.
“Um, I heard in… uh… their house burned down… or something,” she says, nervous she might say the wrong thing.
Marty returns with the drinks. “Shots! Shots! Shots!” he yells, passing them around the group.
Billy raises his shot glass. “In honor of Audrey.”
Bunny scoots closer to Mackenzie. Raises her glass: “To Audrey!” She throws her shot back, slams the glass on the table, leans over and whispers to Mackenzie, who shivers and slams her shot down next, “They beat her with her dad’s autographed baseball bat, then chopped her up in little pieces. We could be next.…” Someone passes Bunny a joint; she takes a hit and blows O’s into the air, leaving Mackenzie alone with the terrifying unknown and her imagination of bloody body parts.
“Whatever kind of piece of shit did this deserves the same punishment as Saudi Arabia or Iraq… sick fucks,” Billy says, slamming back another shot. “No one fucks with us.”
“Actually, dude, the Senate Intel Committee released the report that proved the US’s use of torture post-9/11 was entirely ineffective,” Marty says. He takes a shot, then sits next to Mackenzie and starts rubbing her back.
“Oh yeah?” Billy turns his entire body to face him. “Let’s try it.” It is only when Billy is obliterated that the rage rears its ugly head. “Go get Stan’s snowboard, you’re gonna waterboard me,” he tells Marty, “ask me if I fucked Ashley Waterman sophomore year.”
“Fuck you!” Bunny replies.
“Come on, you know what I mean, baby,” he says to Bunny, “it’s just a game.”
Bunny pouts.
“Oh, like you didn’t lose your virginity to Charlie Nolan.…” he says.
“Okay, we gotta get this on film in case he beats the stat,” Stan says, handing Bunny his iPhone, since everyone else’s has been confiscated and placed in the silver bucket guarded by the Kremlin. She rolls her eyes and presses the red Record button.
“Okay, I’m filming…”
“Okay, dude, but you do know that if it’s done wrong the person can die.” Marty’s is a rhetorical question, and he is nonetheless intrigued by the dare.
“I am aware that you can die from waterboarding, yes.” Billy looks to Stan. “Yo, Putin, go grab your snowboard.”
“And one of your karate bandannas,” Chase pipes in.
“What is waterboarding?” Mackenzie asks.
“Uh…” Marty looks at her and kisses her cheek. “You’ll see.” He looks back to Billy. “Okay, so in all realness, I was watching one of the videos online after Mr. Haight’s twentieth-century American history class, and all these research experts were trying to see if they could reach fifteen seconds.”
“I bet I can beat that,” Billy says. If he’s being forced into the military, he might as well prove himself right fucking now. To everyone.
Stan comes sauntering back with his snowboard and an unlit joint dangling from his lips, Billy carves another eight ball into lines, snorts a few.
Bunny zooms in on Billy doing lines but says nothing, noticing how many he takes.
Marty takes the snowboard from Stan and leans it against the couple of steps dividing the two levels of the living room.
“Let me do the honors,” Stan says, tying his bandanna around Billy’s eyes.
Billy lies down on the snowboard, propped up by the split-level steps. Marty pulls up the demonstration video on YouTube from Stan’s computer, which is hooked up to the surround sound.
“We need straps, we gotta strap him down.” Marty adjusts his glasses up his nose.
“I have dog leashes!” Stan says, excited, then runs to go get them.
“What is going on?” Mackenzie whispers; everyone ignores her.
Stan leaps back into the room carrying two red d
og leashes. He’s got two black Bouviers that have to be groomed at least once a week. Chase grabs one of the leashes from him, Stan takes the other, Marty directing them.
“We need something for his face,” Marty says. He leans down to do a quick bump, then pops back up. “To drown him.” He wipes his nose.
Chase walks over and plucks the white handkerchief out of Stan’s jacket slung on the back of a couch. “This should do it,” he says.
“Wait, we need a jug of water,” Marty says.
“Fuck water, give me champagne!” Billy replies, blindfolded, his torso being tied to the snowboard and the leashes then looped around columns on either side of the steps.
“I got the Cristal, baby!” Stan says as he finishes tying, then runs into the kitchen to grab the jeroboam bottle he was saving for the end of the night.
“Holy shit,” Mackenzie says as Stan struggles to carry the jeroboam out by himself. He pops the cork, spraying champagne all over the living room.
“Wait, wait, wait, we need to give him something to hold in his hand to drop as a sign of surrender,” Marty says.
“Here.” Chase leans over and grabs a porcelain horse off of one of the side tables. “His mom won’t notice.…”
Marty puts the horse in Billy’s right hand “Okay, Billy, drop this horse when you can’t breathe anymore,” he says. Billy’s legs are propped upward on the steps. He wiggles into final position.
Marty and Chase take Stan’s handkerchief from Bunny and tie it over Billy’s nose and mouth, his eyes still covered by the bandanna, while Stan attempts to lift the jeroboam bottle of Cristal, ready to pour as Marty directs.
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