by Joseph Flynn
“If you’re as lucky as I am, it doesn’t matter who the hell gets elected president. But if you’re one of the guys I used to work construction with, if you’re one of the craft people who works behind the camera on a movie or if you’re married to any working stiff, it damn well matters who you give your vote for president to.
“You know why I’m going to vote for Patti Grant? Because I almost went straight home from work that day, and if I had she’d be the one looking out for my interests right now.”
Marsden raised a beer bottle in salute to the president.
WorldWide News Headquarters — New York City
“Bloody brilliant,” Hugh Collier said.
He’d just finished watching the rebroadcast of the Marsden video on WWN. Every major television network, broadcast or cable, had been showing it all day. Even Fox. They’d put their own spin on it, of course, saying Marsden’s interests as a young construction worker weren’t the same as those of the wealthy actor he was now. The fact that he’d failed to recognize the difference cast grave doubt on his political judgment.
They sure did like his movies, though.
Turning to Ellie Booker as she sat next to him in the WWN chairman’s office, Hugh asked, “What do you think of the video, Ellie?”
“On its own, it’s terrific. You think about its implications, that’s where things get really significant.”
Hugh had spent the past week begging Ellie to come visit him in New York.
He’d told her he’d get down on his knees and do anything she liked from that position, if only she’d see him again.
She’d told him the things she liked were best accomplished from other postures by guys who had a different point of view. She did confess, though, that having someone grovel just to see her did have its appeal. Especially when that someone was the new chairman of WWN.
Sir Edbert Bickford’s will had left controlling interest of his media empire to his nephew. Hugh had been shocked when the estate’s solicitors in London called him the day before he’d intended to fly home to Australia. Hugh had been told him he was Sir Edbert’s principal heir, and would inherit all of his uncle’s stock in WWN.
Hugh had said, “Christ, when did all this happen?”
The solicitors said Sir Edbert had changed his will one week prior to his tragic death.
That was when the fog lifted. The old sonofabitch had been trying to protect himself. He shoots Hugh and dumps his body into the ocean. Then he plays the grieving father figure.
“The poor chap. So distraught over the troubles the company faced. Thinking he’d failed me. I wanted to show him how much faith I had in him. Tell him we’d emerge victorious and go on to even greater glory. That the keys to the kingdom would soon be his. If only I’d told him when I had the chance.”
No doubt Uncle would have managed to produce a crocodile tear or two.
No one would ever think he’d murdered the nephew he’d just made his heir.
Then Sir Edbert would be beset by another tragedy as he discovered Hugh had been the misguided soul who’d bribed officials in the U.S., the U.K. and around the world. Poor, poor Sir Edbert. Best to let him off the hook with a token fine and let him wallow in his misery.
Of course, the inheritance might have been seen as a motive for Hugh to kill his uncle, if anyone could prove he’d known about it. Hugh quickly arranged for a lie detector test to be administered to him with police officials looking on. Other than the control questions used to establish the baseline for an honest response, Hugh had allowed only one query: Had he known that he would inherit the bulk of Sir Edbert’s estate before his uncle had died?
He answered no and that was shown to be a truthful response.
Sir Edbert’s solicitors swore that they had not communicated the recent change in Sir Edbert’s will to Hugh Collier.
There was no physical evidence that Hugh had done anything other than try to save his uncle after he fell into the Potomac River. There was no one to contradict him when he said Sir Edbert had been on the balcony of his stateroom when Hugh went inside to get himself a drink, and when Hugh had returned Sir Edbert was gone.
Hugh had no idea of how his uncle had gone over the side.
Only saw him flailing in the water when he looked.
Pleading ignorance, he had no details to keep straight.
There was no way for a clever detective to trip him up.
In short, he was now golden.
“What are the implications and when do things get significant?” Hugh asked Ellie.
“The big implication is that Putnam Shady is emerging as a political mover and shaker. First, he launches a lobbying fund for the common man, ShareAmerica. Next, he gets Darren Drucker, the third richest man in the world to set up a liberal Super-PAC, Americans for Equity. Then he persuades the ad agency with the best reputation in the country for doing creative work to sell Patti Grant’s candidacy. Still not done, he talks Drucker into starting his own broadcast network.”
“It helped that Drucker owned twenty TV stations already,” Hugh said.
“Yes, it did, but Drucker didn’t put them together for a purpose other than earning money until Shady came along.”
Hugh smiled. “I can’t help but like that chap’s name.”
“Just wait until he starts eating WWN’s lunch. See how you like him then.”
“Point taken. What else do you see for our future?”
Ellie said, “The president’s campaign is showing us television will go the way of the printed book. It will continue to exist, but it will play second fiddle to Internet video, the same way hardcover novels have fallen behind ebooks in sales and consumer preference.”
Hugh steepled his hands and looked over them at Ellie.
He said, “Name your price, Ms. Booker.”
She smiled and answered, “Freedom.”
Hugh understood that. Once Sir Edbert had died and the trumped up documentation that Hugh had been WWN’s bribemaster had been disposed of, he’d paid a fine of a hundred million dollars to the government with no admission of guilt. That ended the DOJ investigation and the feeling of relief had been immense.
Hugh had also passed the word throughout the company that he’d chop the balls off any employee who ever paid a bribe to anyone.
Then he’d set about rebuilding the news organization that Ethan Judd had stripped bare. He followed a two-prong approach. He brought ten of the most esteemed names in television news out of retirement and hired scores of the brightest journalism school graduates from around the country. The network still used too much filler but it was coming on strong.
He’d even been able to sell off the contracts of Mike O’Dell and the other mad dogs who’d been hired to staff WorldWide News in Review. Satellite News UK, SNUK, was launching a new division, Satellite News America, SNAM. They’d snapped up the whole motley crew.
The competition in TV news would be fiercer than ever in the coming years.
That was why Hugh felt he had to have Ellie Booker on board.
“Financially rewarding freedom?” Hugh asked her.
“Beaucoup bucks, yes. You pay on delivery. I remain an independent contractor.”
“We always get first look,” Hugh said.
“Unless you pass on two consecutive projects.”
“You promise not to bring me any poison-pill projects.”
“You promise not to pay any other independent source or in-house employee more than you pay me.”
They shook hands on the deal. Ellie passed on drinking to it.
After she left, Hugh looked at the portfolio of television pilots Uncle had commissioned. Only one stood out. Woman in Command by Carina Linberg. The story of a female Air Force pilot who blasted her enemies to bits. Metaphorically or otherwise. He liked it.
Felt the market for tough women dramas would continue to grow.
He took a phone call just before leaving for lunch.
Former RNC Chairman Reynard Dix had a photo
he said Hugh should see.
“I’m afraid we don’t do that sort of thing anymore,” Hugh said.
He gave Dix the name and phone number of a chap at SNAM.
The White House
McGill told Edwina Byington he could wait to see the president this time. The president was meeting with the vice president, the Democratic Congressional leadership and her chief of staff; the meeting had been unscheduled and was very urgent. McGill knew better than to ask what was up — most of the time.
With Todd and Crosby on the loose, though, the thought occurred to him those two pricks might take it to mind that a bit of domestic terrorism could be just the thing to disrupt the hunt for them and maybe even distract his Secret Service protection.
He asked Edwina, “Nobody’s been setting off bombs, have they?”
The president’s secretary shook her head.
“It’s not that bad, but it is serious.” Edwina looked around to make sure no foreign potentate or tabloid reporter was drawing hear. Seeing the coast was clear, she beckoned McGill to come within whispering distance. He complied.
“It’s political,” Edwina said. “An October surprise. Targeting the vice president.”
McGill sighed. This damn town, he thought.
Having shared one confidence, Edwina gave McGill another nugget.
“Before this meeting, the attorney general was in with the president.”
McGill held up a hand. He didn’t want to know. He took a seat.
Thirty minutes later, doing nothing more than sitting and staring off into space, trying to work out his own problems, McGill was starting to make Edwina fidgety.
“Is there something I might help you with, Mr. McGill?” she asked.
He said, “I’d like to see a certain Marine, have him come here. I don’t know whether I should make the request of the commandant of the Marine Corps or the secretary of defense.”
“I’d think the commandant. It would be better form to respect the individual service branch if it’s not an overarching matter.”
“No, it’s nothing that big. You have the commandant’s phone number?”
“Of course.” Edwina hesitated before asking, “Is this something of which you’d think the president would approve?”
McGill thought Patti would go along, if not approve.
He told Edwina, “Chances are, yes. If not, I’ll take the heat.”
Edwina looked as if she were offering up a silent prayer. Then she asked, “Would you like me to make the call for you?”
“I would.”
Edwina called the commandant’s office at the Pentagon. She was put through immediately.
“General Abel, this is Edwina Byington at the White House calling on behalf of James J. McGill. Do you have a moment to speak with Mr. McGill, sir? Thank you.”
Edwina extended the phone to McGill. He took it.
She whispered the general’s name to McGill. “Patrick Abel.”
McGill nodded and said, “General Abel, thank you for speaking with me, sir. I was wondering if I might have a few hours with one of your men, First Sergeant Ciro Vasquez. I met him last year when he was stationed at Camp David.”
The commandant asked if he might know why McGill wanted to see Vasquez.
“Certainly. I want to know if First Sergeant Vasquez would like a rematch.”
DOJ Press Room — Washington, D.C.
Attorney General Michael Jaworsky stood behind a lectern at the front of a packed Department of Justice press room. Deputy Attorney General Linda Otani stood to his right. To Jaworsky’s left was a forty-two inch flat screen television.
The Grant administration had its own October surprise.
One whose timing had been anything but planned.
An announcement that legitimately could not be put off until after the election.
“Good afternoon,” Jaworsky said. “The federal government was provided with information that led to the arrest this morning of thirteen people on charges of first degree murder, capital murder, conspiracy to murder and destruction with the use of explosives.
“More specifically, the individuals who will be named are charged with the bombings of medical clinics in Wisconsin and Ohio. Both of these facilities provide legal terminations of pregnancies. In the Wisconsin bombing, a security guard was killed. He was married and the father of three children. In the Ohio bombing, a nurse staying on the premises late to catch up on her paperwork was killed. She was the single mother of two children, both under five years of age.”
Jaworsky paused to take a sip of water.
“All the persons taken into custody surrendered peacefully. No harm came to them or to the special agents of the FBI who made the arrests. The evidence recovered not only connects the people taken into custody to the Wisconsin and Ohio bombings, it also shows they planned to continue their bombing campaign, despite knowing they were already responsible for the deaths of two people.
“After consulting with the president, I will take the unusual step of telling the American people now that their government will not seek the death penalty for these defendants, even though the heinous nature of their crimes make that a legal option.”
The attorney general saw that every newsy in the room was wondering why capital punishment was being taken off the table. He would have been disappointed if they hadn’t been curious. He had an explanation he wanted to sell them.
“The reason we are not seeking the harshest punishment available is that both the president and I do not want to see this chain of tragedies claim any more lives. Murder must be punished severely and we will seek sentences of life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, but the government does not wish to add to the body count.
“Deputy Attorney General Otani will now provide you with the names of those people arrested and the charges that have been brought against them. Neither she nor I will answer any questions. All the information we are prepared to share at this time is contained in the press releases you will be given.”
Jaworsky was telling them they shouldn’t ask whether Erna Godfrey had provided the information that led to the arrests. Erna’s betrayal of her former comrades in zealotry had resulted in a problem for the Bureau of Prisons. There was no doubt her actions would make her a target for death. But the system didn’t have anywhere to put her that would be safer without also being a far harsher place to live.
For the time being, a special detail of correctional officers watched over her.
The attorney general looked on from the sidelines for a moment as his deputy ran down the names of the people arrested that morning. Three of them claimed the title reverend. Two of the pastors looked penitent in their booking photos; one was clearly defiant.
Jaworsky wondered if any of the reporters was smart enough to see the other half of the strategy for announcing that he wouldn’t seek the death penalty. There was a presidential election right around the corner. A new administration might not be so lenient in its approach.
The death penalty might be more politically appealing.
That point would be made clear to those with their lives on the line.
The hope was most if not all the defendants would cop a plea.
Wrap up this awful mess before the administration either left office or started a new term.
The White House
First Sergeant Ciro Vasquez wasn’t able to make it to the White House until the following morning. When he entered the White House exercise room McGill extended a hand to him. Vasquez, wearing combat boots, utility pants and a green T-shirt with the word Marines on it, gave him a look. Then he shook hands.
“You have a good trip, First Sergeant?” McGill asked.
“Military transport, sir. It’s familiar.”
Vasquez had come from Okinawa, his posting after requesting a transfer from Camp David.
“What I’m curious about,” McGill said, “is whether you’re well rested and not hungry.”
“I’m good, sir.
”
“Still pissed off at me?”
Vasquez repressed a flip answer. He was in the White House, and there were two women watching him and McGill. One blonde, one dark haired.
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?”
“Of course.”
“No, I’m not pissed, but I am a guy who likes to even the score.”
“Maybe even come out ahead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why’d you try to brain me?”
Vasquez shrugged. “Just a reaction. After seeing what you did to Captain Wolford.”
“You know that Captain Wolford is doing just fine now, right?”
“Yes, sir. He’s stayed in touch. You don’t mind my language, he told me I was a dick for not accepting your invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at Camp David last year.”
“You were. So how are your hands?”
“Both good, sir.” Vasquez extended his fingers, curled them, brought them back out.
McGill nodded. “All right, First Sergeant, here’s the reason I had you travel halfway around the world. There’s a guy looking to kill me. I made sure he’s good and mad at me, too. I don’t know if he was ever in the military, but he was a field op for an intelligence agency so there might be some overlap in training. What I’d like to do is spar with someone else who has a gripe with me. You came to mind. I’ll use my shillelagh. You’ll use a shillelagh, a staff and … we never did get to the knives last time. Do you know how to use them?”
Vasquez nodded, allowing himself a small smile.
McGill said, “We’ll go at each other hard. Injuries are acceptable. Fatalities are not. Agreed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bet you’ve been studying my stick work. Looking at videos and whatnot.”
Vasquez frowned, as if McGill had spoiled his surprise.
“Yes, sir. I saw some stuff, but none quite like yours.”
“Well, let’s get started. Maybe you can pick up a few tricks.” Without taking his eyes off the Marine, McGill said, “Margaret?”