by J. L. Brown
“What are we, at camp?” Tishman chortled, gazing around at the others.
No one else laughed.
Noah scanned the faces of the men and one woman sitting on the sofas and chairs. In addition to Tishman, in attendance was a real estate developer who had built more than one million square feet of office space in the city; the CEO of the online conglomerate which handled transactions for almost every individual and business in the world and was—as of this morning—the second most valued company on the New York Stock Exchange; the mayor of Seattle; and Kyle Madison. The combined net worth of the people sitting in Noah’s living room was somewhere north of a hundred billion dollars.
“Welcome,” Noah said. “You all know why you’re here today. Our president needs us. Our country needs us—”
“Aren’t you being a little melodramatic, Blakeley?” Tishman interrupted.
“No, I’m not. We’re facing an issue that can tear this country apart. How can we help her fight income inequality?”
“Seattle has led the way on income inequality,” the mayor said. “We were the first city to raise the minimum wage to fifteen dollars an hour. And now all the other major cities are following suit.”
“We don’t need a stump speech, man,” Tishman said, as he struggled up from the couch to fetch another drink. “All you politicians do is talk. It’s time to do.”
“I’ve done a lot,” the mayor retorted. “You’re just not paying attention.” He paused. “I’m getting ready to launch an extensive initiative around equity. I’d like for all of you to be a part of it.”
“We must figure out how to stop these protests, before they impact businesses and tourism,” the real-estate developer said, “in your city.”
“Our city,” the mayor said. “My point is that we need to show America the way again. We can enact progressive measures here in Seattle that will demonstrate to other areas of the country that they work.”
The developer shook his head. “But that will take time. Anything like that won’t be felt for years.”
“Are the protests such a bad thing?” the CEO of the online conglomerate asked. “They’re keeping the issue in the public eye.”
The wealthy progressives debated for over an hour. Noah listened to the powerful people around him. He noticed Kyle Madison didn’t say much either, her eyes on him for most of the evening. She didn’t bother disguising her distaste. Or was he imagining it? She wore a smart black business suit and matching Gucci shoes. His wife had a pair just like them.
After a time, they quieted, the conversation exhausted. A rare time when this group had nothing to say.
Finally, Kyle spoke into the void. “Have any of you heard of the Equality One Foundation?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Washington, DC
“This is not a good idea,” Sasha said.
“Getting out and walking or going to see Hampton?”
“Both. The former makes us look stupid. The latter makes you look weak.”
Her driver let them out at the corner of Louisiana and Constitution Avenues in Northwest Washington. Whitney had insisted it would be fine if they walked the rest of the way. Imploring her to reconsider, Josh McPherson argued that she was making a mistake and taking an unnecessary security risk. The look of consternation on his face made her almost laugh out loud. Josh and the Secret Service agents scrambled at the change of plans.
Whitney and Sasha passed through the ninety-foot atrium, which afforded an abundance of natural light into the building. The Hart Senate Office Building was the most contemporary of the three Senate buildings. Whitney, however, preferred the neoclassical architectural style of her former workplace, the Russell Senate Office Building.
The two of them were ushered into Senator Hampton’s office on the seventh floor. His staff formed a line and stood respectfully to shake her hand. It was not often that a sitting president visited the Hill except for the annual State of the Union address.
The senator rose as she entered, arm extended. “Madam President.”
“Senator.”
Representative Howard Bell and Senator Paul Sampson sat in chairs opposite the desk. Bell rose, slow and reticent, to shake her hand, as did Sampson. Hampton returned to the chair behind his desk. A power move.
Bell and Sampson glanced at each other.
“I’m the senator,” Sampson said.
Bell stared at him for a beat, and then scanned the room for another chair. A quick-thinking staffer brought him one.
Sasha continued to stand, staring at Hampton. He hesitated and then plastered a smile on his face. “Madam President. Please.” A chivalrous gesture toward his desk chair. He settled in the chair next to Sampson. Sasha moved to a sofa behind them.
Whitney wasted no time. “Something needs to be done.”
Hampton tilted his head back, the ever-present smirk on his face. “To what are you referring?”
“The unrest in this country,” she said. “Nine people lost their lives in Seattle. The widening gap of income and wealth among our citizens. Take your pick.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Pass the legislation I put before your chamber.”
“Isn’t it our job to create legislation?”
“It used to be. How many bills have you passed this year?”
“Now, see here—” Bell said.
Hampton waved him to keep quiet. “Instead of always penalizing the people who reach the top, why don’t we find ways to empower those at the bottom. Provide opportunity. And help people rise up out of poverty.”
“Save it for your constituents. You don’t really believe that anyway.”
“My anti-poverty initiative is starting to gain some traction.”
“But how long will it take before we’ll see the impact? What about the middle class?” Whitney looked at Hampton. Although the Speaker of the House had the most power over legislation—arguably more than the president—Eric Hampton was the leader of the Republican Party, since former President Richard Ellison left office. “It’s a good bill, Eric.”
He held her eyes for a beat. She rarely used his first name. He leaned back in the chair, smoothing his tie. “I concede that there is an inequality of opportunity. Let’s work on the portions of your bill that address that. But, let’s get down to it, shall we? What’s in it for us?”
Meaning, what’s in it for him. He wanted her to betray one of the values she had built her career on. Campaigning against pork. “What do you want?”
Hampton stared off into some middle distance, and then turned around in his chair. To his staff: “Leave the room.”
They quickly shuffled out of the office. He turned to Sasha.
“She stays,” Whitney said.
He hesitated and then nodded. He gestured toward Bell and Sampson. “Our districts and states need infrastructural improvements. With interest rates at historic lows, now is the time to invest. I get that. If you could see your way to allocate a significant portion of federal funds to us, we can make this happen.”
She glanced at Sampson, wondering what had happened to him. Their political stances used to be more alike than different. He shrugged, his hands in their customary position on top of his stomach. “You owe me.”
“Paul, I owe you nothing.”
Whitney looked back at Hampton. She would need to amend the proposal just enough so that he would receive some of the credit. Still, she hesitated. He had reneged on deals with her before. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. He was her only option.
“A senator once said, ‘There are two things that are important in politics. The first is money, and I can’t remember what the second one is.’” She came around Hampton’s desk to shake his hand, aware that she was making a pact with the devil. “You have a deal.”
She pivoted to leave, staring straight ahead. Ignoring Sasha, still seated, whose head shook vigorously in dissent.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Arlington, Virginia<
br />
Christian shifted in the passenger seat and glimpsed back at his son. “Excited?”
Jade glanced up at the rearview mirror. Mark shrugged, but didn’t respond. He continued to stare out the window. She looked over at Christian and mouthed, “Chill.”
Parking at a strip mall near her home, she strode toward a nondescript storefront with a faded Won Ho Tae Kwon Do Academy stenciled in the glass. Christian and Mark ambled behind her.
They were greeted in the lobby by a diminutive, athletic man with short-cropped gray hair in his mid-sixties wearing the blue dobak (uniform) of the school. His black belt sported six thin gold stripes at the end of the right side of the belt, his full name in cursive stitched on the left.
Jade bowed, barely bending. She straightened. “Master Ho, I would like to introduce you to Mark.”
Mark Merritt extended his hand dutifully for a handshake. Master Ho ignored the hand and gave Mark a slight bow. “I bow to show my respect to you and to our art. You should do the same.”
Mark imitated him. His arms flat against his sides, his hands pointing down.
“Very good.” Master Ho looked at Jade. “Excellent timing. I have time before my next class. He’ll be done in a half hour.”
Jade’s instructor pointed at a small room, the interior of which could be seen through a square window from the lobby. Mark glanced up at his dad, reluctant.
Christian touched his shoulder. “Go on.”
The boy followed the older man through the door, glancing back at his dad before entering the room. Christian started for the window.
Jade reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging him in the opposite direction. Toward the front door.
“I want to stay,” he said.
“That’s why we need to leave,” she said, smiling. “He’ll be okay, Dad.”
He appeared unconvinced.
She let go of his wrist. “Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee next door.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Washington, DC
After dropping Mark off at home, Jade and Christian returned to the Bureau. In her office, she went over the police reports from the three murdered bullies. She had lost count of how many times she’d reviewed the case files, hoping to find something she had missed. The cases were linked, but she needed evidence. The last few weeks had offered none. Her office phone rang.
“Agent Harrington.”
“Good afternoon, Agent Harrington,” came the smooth, confident female voice.
A stirring in her stomach.
The voice continued. “This is Kyle Madison.”
Jade aligned the five pens on her desk in perfect formation. “Ms. Madison, how can I help you?”
“We enjoyed a wonderful evening together. I think you can call me Kyle.”
“Okay, Kyle. What can I do for you?”
“So formal. Okay. I’m in town on business. Did you receive my message?”
That would be the message Zoe overheard the day Christian and Jade got drunk. She hadn’t returned the call.
“I did.”
“I’m staying at the Hay-Adams hotel. I was hoping you could meet me for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight . . . ”
“We could discuss the case.”
“Do you have additional information pertinent to your case?”
“I may.”
“Ms. Madison—Kyle—if you have information material to your case, tell me now.”
“Ms. Harrington—Jade—I’ll meet you at the restaurant in the lobby of the hotel at seven. Don’t be late.”
“Kyle—”
Jade looked at her phone. Call Ended.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The White House, Washington, DC
Sasha glanced over at her, as if to say something, but remained silent.
“What’s on your mind?” said Whitney.
“What’s wrong with you? Is everything all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
After enjoying a working dinner in the residence, the two women sat on matching sofas in the sitting area. The window allowed an unobstructed view of the Washington Monument and the National Mall. A bottle of wine rested on the glass table between them.
“You’re more pensive than usual,” Sasha said. “Notwithstanding the weight of the world on your shoulders, I think it’s something else. Xavi?”
Whitney flicked her hand as if shooing a gnat. “I wouldn’t waste my time.”
She couldn’t tell Sasha the truth. That Cameron Kelly, the state representative fighting for justice for a murdered congressman, was a rapist. And the father of the baby she gave up for adoption.
Instead, she said, “My kids. They’re not speaking to each other.”
“Is that all? I don’t always speak to my siblings, either. They get on my nerves.”
“No. It’s more than that. They have always been close. I think politics, of all things, is getting between them. Emma is becoming more liberal every day, and Chandler is heading in the opposite direction. Any day now, I expect to hear him call into Cole’s radio show. If he does, I’ll disown him.”
Whitney smiled to indicate she was kidding.
“It may be just part of growing up. Trying to find their own way. Striving to find their own identities, separate from yours. And the First Gentleman’s.”
Whitney stared out at the Monument. Constructed in two phases, pre- and post-Civil War, the structure was built with marble from three different quarries. The spotlights now made the bottom third of the structure appear pure white against the purple sky. “Perhaps. Sometimes, it feels as if I am losing my son. As if I have to choose between him and the presidency.”
“If you were a man, you wouldn’t need to make a choice. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“Maybe. But I feel this way just the same. My family means everything to me. I don’t want my legacy to be that ‘she was a great president, but a lousy mother.’”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
Whitney opened her mouth and then closed it. “I don’t know. Easter? I’ve been meaning to . . . ” She shook her head. “They’re busy now. Chandler’s in summer school, and Emma’s in New York interning for a nonprofit that focuses on income equality.”
“Madam President, you’re an amazing mother, and a role model that both of your children are trying to emulate. They want to leave their mark on the world. Not sit around and rest on your laurels. You should be proud of them.”
Surprised by the tears pressing against her eyelids, Whitney had never cried in front of Sasha or any of her staff. She was not about to start now. She did not speak, afraid her voice would betray her.
Sasha reached out and took her hand and stared deep into her eyes. “Remember why you entered politics in the first place. To help people. And you’ve done that. You continue to do that. You have many things you want to accomplish. I believe in you. Many Americans believe in you. You need to finish what you started.” Sasha released her hand. “Be more gangsta.”
“Gangsta? What? Are you going all ‘Sasha Fierce’ on me now?”
“What do you know about ‘Sasha Fierce’?” Sasha stopped smiling. “This New New Deal legislation is your legacy. You can’t beg for it. You must take it.”
Whitney understood, with a deep certainty, that Sasha was right.
“Eisenhower said that ‘every president needs an SOB.’” She smiled at Sasha. “I guess you’re mine.”
“I would be honored. You can start calling me ‘Fierce,’ if you’d like.” She winked.
Whitney smiled. After a moment, she said, “As the first woman president, I can’t fail. I would be crippling every woman who tried to run after me.”
“Then, we just can’t let that happen, can we?”
Whitney held up her glass. “No, we can’t. Now, how about some more wine . . . Fierce?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Washington, DC
“To what do I owe this visit, n
ow that you’re famous?”
“I was in the neighborhood?”
“Yeah, right,” Zoe said, opening the front door wider to let Jade by. The explosion of colors in Zoe’s Adams Morgan apartment never ceased to overwhelm Jade’s senses at first, and then the colorful ambiance embraced and drew her in. The walls displayed framed posters from various local and national political campaigns she had worked on: marriage equality, taxation without representation of DC citizens, and the Equal Rights Amendment that passed six months ago.
The bookshelves reflected her fascination with all things African: Nigerian statues, Ghanaian mementos from Zoe’s time with the Peace Corps, and Ivory Coast knickknacks, including swaths of Kente cloth.
Jade moved to the sofa. A big round orange throw pillow rested in its corner. She held it under one arm like a basketball.
“One day, I’m going to get rid of that thing,” Zoe said. “Beer?”
Jade nodded, throwing her suit jacket on a chair. After Zoe left the room, she lay down and started shooting the pillow straight up in the air to herself.
Zoe returned. “I knew it. Here.” Jade sat up and took a sip of the India pale ale.
Zoe flopped onto a cushioned circular wicker chair. “By the way, I ‘liked’ your fan page on Facebook.”
Jade thought about the high school girls’ comments about Facebook. “It’s all so ridiculous. I’m not even on Facebook.”
“You’re famous, your Highn-ass.”
“Nice . . . ”
“You have a following. Get over it. You’re a verb. A guy at work the other day said he ‘Jaded’ a presentation.”
Jade set down the beer, lay back, and resumed shooting. She changed the subject. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Enough.”
Jade cocked an eyebrow.
“Enough gun violence. Our goal is to reduce the number of mass shootings. Create a national database, implement universal background checks, and resurrect the assault weapons ban.”