The Big Lie

by James Grippando

  “Then you’re obviously no baseball fan.”

  “That’s not true! I love baseball.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s your favorite team?”

  “The Blue Wahoos.”

  “Blue Wahoos? Sounds like a fruity cocktail that some underage girl would come in here and try to order.”

  “Bless your heart,” she said, a southern woman’s way of saying “get real.” “The Blue Wahoo stadium in Pensacola is the best minor league park in all of baseball. How could anybody not love a team whose colors are Blue Angel navy and Tin Roof tin? And by the way”—bah the way—“where do you come off makin’ fun of the Blue Wahoos when you’ve got yourself a baseball bat signed by a man named Carl Yazamatraz?”

  “Yastrzemski.”

  Charlotte blushed. “Sorry. All this talk ’bout Wahoos, Blue Angels, and tin roofs has my southern accent comin’ out in a big way.”

  “Could also be the tequila and not enough sleep.”

  “More likely the tequila.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Theo. “I love the accent. Love the passion. But you still don’t get a pass for not knowing who Carl is.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Theo leaned on the bar, resting on his forearms—huge forearms, like the fishermen on the docks at Pensacola Bay, where Charlotte’s mother would take her to buy snapper for supper.

  “Twenty-three years with the Boston Red Sox,” said Theo. “Eighteen-time All Star. His jersey was retired, so there will never be another number eight. Elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame the first year he was on the ballot.”

  “Well, what do you know? Carl and I have something in common. I was elected to the Electoral College the first time I was on the ballot.”

  “There you go,” said Theo.

  Charlotte smiled awkwardly, then looked away. “Except nobody ever got killed for being elected to the Hall of Fame.”

  It was a mood killer, and Charlotte immediately regretted saying it.

  “Really sorry you have to deal with that,” said Theo.

  “Thanks,” she said, and she downed the rest of her “sipping” tequila.

  Theo excused himself to help another customer. Charlotte shook off the effect of the shot; no matter how smooth, even the añejo had a kick. Tequila didn’t usually make her sleepy, at least not right away, but she could feel herself running out of gas. If it hadn’t been the worst week of her life, it was close. She was looking forward to a restful night with no demonstrators calling her an “elitist bitch,” no crazy redneck driver to land her in the ER, no hateful text messages or crank calls, no parabellum ammunition flying through the kitchen window in a declaration of war. And no death threats—at least none she was aware of.

  Charlotte climbed down from the barstool, which triggered another tequila head rush. She took a moment to steady herself. Theo was tending to other customers, and rather than wait for him to return, she decided to walk around to the other side of the U-shaped bar and say good night. She was a few steps away from the curve of the “U” when either her instinct or paranoia kicked in. She glanced at the entrance door: a couple leaving, two more couples coming—nothing unusual. She kept walking, but the sensation of being watched was palpable. She glanced toward the front of the club, through the plate-glass window with the painted-on cy’s place in backward letters, and froze.

  Standing outside the bar, on the other side of the glass, was someone wearing a camouflage jacket. And a baseball cap. Just like before—in Tallahassee. Charlotte froze. With the colored glow of neon bar lights reflecting off the window, it was impossible to make out the face, but she could almost feel the stare right back at her. It was enough to tap into Charlotte’s fight-or-flight instinct: she chose fight. She wasn’t carrying, so she grabbed the Yastrzemski bat from the bar and raced to the front door.

  “Hey!” Theo shouted.

  Charlotte kept going, weaving through customers and knocking a drink from one woman’s hand as she rushed to the exit. Inertia carried her out the door and almost to the curb, but she fought to make a hard left turn and continued down the sidewalk.

  “Stop!” she shouted, but the camouflage jacket was already halfway down the block. Charlotte gave chase.

  “Charlotte!” Theo was running her down from behind

  The camouflage jacket was pulling away from her. Charlotte reached inside herself to find another gear, but it wasn’t there—not after three shots of tequila and everything else she’d been through. She was spent and could barely breathe. The sprint ended three blocks away from Cy’s Place. Charlotte was hunched over with her hands on her knees, recovering, when Theo caught up to her.

  “I don’t know where you’re going, but you can’t take Carl.”

  She handed over the bat, struggling to get out a single word. “Okay.”

  “Charlotte, what gives?”

  She caught her breath. “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell Jack?”

  “Why don’t you want to tell him?”

  Charlotte gazed down the block, toward the forested end of the Grove, where century-old banyan trees and sprawling live oaks blocked out the moonlight, making a dark night even darker.

  “Because Jack can’t fix this.”

  “How do you know?”

  Charlotte looked up at a former death-row inmate, who was at least a foot taller than her. “Because Jack would never hurt anyone.”

  Jack’s phone rang on the nightstand. It was after midnight.

  Andie was sound asleep, her head and torso on Jack’s side of the bed, her legs and feet on hers. Andie’s idea of sharing a mattress was a bit like their golden retriever’s notion of sharing the couch. At least Andie didn’t drool when she kissed him.

  Jack grabbed the phone, jumped out of bed, and went into the master bathroom to take the call without waking his wife.

  “Mr. Swyteck?”

  Jack didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on the line, and it was filled with hesitation.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Gwen Stahl.”

  Jack was suddenly wide awake. He hadn’t seen or spoken to the senator’s wife since a pre-convention fund-raiser that his father had roped him into attending.

  “I’m sorry for the late call, but I’m still on Singapore time. My daughter and I just got back to Miami today.”

  “It’s fine. I was . . . up anyway,” he lied.

  “Uhm.” More hesitation.

  “Yes?” Jack asked.

  She sighed, and Jack heard the crackle on the line. “I’d like to meet with your client. Please. If you would allow it.”

  Chapter 21

  At 6:30 a.m. Jack’s bedroom began to brighten, hinting at a new day. Jack had a severe case of “it doesn’t feel like the weekend.” He’d slept, but not well, having drifted in and out since the midnight phone call from Mrs. Stahl.

  “Max, quiet,” said Jack.

  Jack’s plan had been to sleep until eight, but his golden retriever had other ideas. Max was the most talkative dog Jack had ever known. Mornings especially. It was a throaty rumble that preceded the insertion of a big wet nose into Jack’s ear and seemed to say, “Hey, Jack, I got a plan—let’s jump in the pool and then go roll in the mud!” Eight years, and Max still didn’t get it: mud first, pool second.

  Jack rolled out of bed quietly, careful not to wake his wife. Max happily followed him to the bathroom, the kitchen, the backyard for a pee—the dog, not Jack—and then back to the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Not since the general election had Jack and Max started the day with a morning run to the beach and back. Judging from the excited tail wagging, Max in his endless optimism had somehow fooled himself into thinking that today was the day when life returned to situation normal: dogs rule. Jack hated to disappoint him.

  “Sorry, pal,” he said.

  “I’m going with you,” said Andie. She was seated on the edge of the bed, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

  “The meeting is with my client,
Gwen Stahl, and me.”

  “The three of you can meet in private. But your client is being stalked, and you have a family who would miss you if something crazy happened. Take advantage of the fact that your wife is an FBI agent.”

  The call from Gwen Stahl had been the first call after midnight. The second was from Jack to his client, who’d agreed to the meeting. The third was from Theo to Andie. Theo had promised Charlotte that he wouldn’t tell Jack about the stalker who’d followed her to Miami, and Theo had kept his promise: he told only Andie.

  “Abuela can watch Righley,” said Jack. His grandmother was a fixture in the house on weekends, no limit to her love for her only grandchild.

  “And I’ll watch you,” said Andie.

  The meeting was set for 9:00 a.m. Jack chose a spot that minimized any chance of being sighted by the media. South Grove had the canopy of a rainforest, and tucked behind a stand of oaks and royal poinciana trees that lined Main Highway was an eighty-year-old house with yellow siding and bright blue shutters. It was Jack’s old law office. The new tenant was a friend who, judging from the campaign poster that was still in the window, had not voted for President MacLeod.

  Jack and Andie arrived first, and Charlotte was right behind them. She’d brought Theo with her, so apparently she’d forgiven him for breaking his promise to keep quiet about the Yastrzemski episode. Jack introduced his client to Andie, and Charlotte drew the obvious deduction.

  “Looks like everybody’s got a bodyguard these days,” said Charlotte.

  It suddenly occurred to Jack that with all the controversial clients he’d represented in his career, from a GITMO enemy combatant to an alleged white supremacist, never before had Andie felt the need to protect him. A lawsuit over the “peaceful” election of the president of the United States was the first.

  The key to the office was beneath a potted bromeliad on the front step. The “bodyguards” waited outside, enough concealed firepower between the two of them to stop a charging rhinoceros.

  “What do you think Mrs. Stahl wants?” asked Charlotte as they headed inside.

  “She wouldn’t tell me. Whatever she has to say, she wants to say it to you.”

  “Has she said anything to the media since all this talk of a gay lover started?”

  “Not a word,” said Jack. “Even the divorce petition her lawyer filed was bare-bones. ‘The marriage is irretrievably broken.’ No juicy details for the press.”

  Jack heard a car door slam outside the office window. Mrs. Stahl stepped away from her Mercedes and walked toward the building. She was alone, which surprised Jack, as presidential candidates and their wives were entitled to Secret Service protection. Andie showed the senator’s wife inside, and the door closed.

  “Nice to see you again, Jack,” she said, shaking his hand.

  Jack hadn’t seen her since early summer, and with all the fund-raisers she and her husband had done in South Florida, he doubted that she even recalled meeting him. Jack introduced his client and led the women into the next room. Jack had almost forgotten how cramped his old office space was. The room directly behind the tiny reception area was the only one large enough for three people, as long as one of the three wasn’t Theo.

  “No Secret Service?” asked Jack, still curious about her traveling alone.

  “It ended one week after the general election,” she said. “That’s the law. I presume it’s because the meeting of the Electoral College is traditionally a nonevent.”

  Jack wondered if that was an additional reason Andie had insisted on coming this morning, her knowing something that he didn’t. “It may be time to change the law,” he said.

  They took seats around a small glass-top table in what had always been a cozy room, though Jack’s friend had added more feminine touches, right down to potted plants that were actually thriving, unlike the ones Jack used to kill on a regular basis by forgetting to water them. Mrs. Stahl insisted that they call her Gwen.

  “Have you any idea why I asked for this meeting?” she asked.

  “No,” said Charlotte.

  “Oh, let’s be honest. Surely it’s crossed your mind that a woman in my position might not be the senator’s biggest fan.”

  “I understand,” said Charlotte. “If I were married and my husband cheated on me, I don’t think I’d be out encouraging Republican electors to jump ship and vote for him.”

  “I’m sure a lot of women would feel the same way,” said Gwen. “But I’ve done a lot of thinking over the last few months, and this isn’t about revenge.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Charlotte.

  “Let’s start with the political reality,” Gwen said. “Millions of people lied in this election. They lied when they told pollsters, their friends, and maybe even themselves that sexual orientation didn’t matter—and then they went into the voting booth, and it did matter. It’s the rumors of a gay lover that killed my husband in the purple precincts and cost him the Electoral College. And before you ask—don’t. I didn’t come here to confirm or deny rumors.”

  “We weren’t planning to ask,” said Jack.

  “Thank you. It’s a private matter.”

  Jack left it at that—though his gut told him that Gwen was not the spouse who was “the last to know.” If he had to guess, she knew. In fact, other than the proverbial two it takes to tango, she might well have been the only one who knew.

  Charlotte cut to the chase: “Do you want me to vote for the senator, Mrs. Stahl?”

  “Gwen,” she said. “And, yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish I could tell you that I’m a patriot who is putting my personal pain aside for the good of the country. But that’s not it. I’m here for just one reason. My daughter.”

  “My wife felt the same way,” said Jack. “We have a daughter.”

  “You’re reading too much into my words. This is not about the good of a future generation of women or anything like that.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Jack.

  “We had a Colombian nanny who lived with us for years. She was like family. Under MacLeod’s immigration policy, she couldn’t get her visa renewed. So she left, and now she can’t get back in. Rachel has been grieving ever since. If my husband wins, the nanny comes back. I’m sorry, but it’s that selfish.”

  “Lots of families are in that situation,” said Jack.

  “Which is sad, but like I said, I’m not here for other families or for anyone else. After what I’ve been through, I’m here for Rachel. That’s it.”

  Jack understood her bitterness, but he questioned whether this really was all about a Colombian nanny. Jack’s read was that the senator’s wounded wife was simply unwilling to look an unfaithful elector in the eye and say what she still believed in her heart was the truth about her unfaithful husband: he was a “better man” than Malcolm MacLeod.

  Gwen gazed across the table at Charlotte, one woman to another. “I’m asking you to please hang in there.”

  Jack wasn’t sure his client would promise anything, or if she still thought it was worth the threats and abuse she was taking.

  Charlotte didn’t answer right away, but finally she spoke. “Five million do matter,” she said. “I’m not voting for MacLeod.”

  Chapter 22

  Jack returned to Tallahassee Sunday afternoon with his client.

  “Did you go to church today?” asked Charlotte.

  It wasn’t a totally random question. They were riding in a rental car to Charlotte’s house, and they’d passed at least a dozen since leaving the airport.

  “No. Did you?”

  “I was under house arrest,” she said, only half kidding. “Do you mind stopping for five minutes? I could use His help tomorrow.”

  The court hearing to determine Charlotte’s “fitness” to serve as elector was less than eighteen hours away. If Attorney General Barrow held true to the hype over the weekend, the carpet bombing of Charlotte’s character would last for days.

  �
�Can’t hurt to ask,” said Jack.

  Charlotte was a member of Tallahassee First Baptist Church, which came as no surprise to Jack. Any girl who’d grown up in the Panhandle had a transfer letter from her hometown pastor to gain membership wherever she went, even if her spiritual life was no longer in perfect order. The regular Sunday services had ended, but the doors remained unlocked until dark. Charlotte went inside, and Jack waited outside on a bench near the sidewalk. He was admiring the beauty of the old steeple when he realized that he’d visited this church before. Early in his death-penalty career, on the way to the Florida Supreme Court to ask for a last-minute stay of execution, Jack had actually popped in to pray that Governor Swyteck would stop signing death warrants. God wasn’t listening that day. Or so it seemed.

  “Hey, buddy. Got a cigarette?”

  The man was wearing a hoodie and looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, even though it was nearly dinnertime. He was holding a cardboard sign that read: will work for medical marijuana. Florida voters had made it legal in the previous presidential election, but a qualifying patient needed a licensed physician to get it. He gave the man a couple of bucks, which was all Jack had on him. The cashless society was a really shitty turn of events for panhandlers, though Jack surmised there was probably an app for that.

  Five minutes passed, and Charlotte was still inside. Jack used the Watch Live TV app on his phone to see how President MacLeod was spending his Sabbath. He was at a rally in Texas. “What a sore loser that Senator Stahl is,” the president told the crowd. “He did the whole fake media circuit this morning. Face the Nation. Press the Meat.” The crowd roared. “Sorry, I meant Meet the Press. Freudian slip.”

  Charlotte came out of nowhere. “What are you watching?”

  Jack put his phone away. “A really bad movie, I think.”

  Jack had reserved a room in the hotel across the street from the courthouse and wanted Charlotte to do the same. But her legal bills were adding up, and paying for a hotel while her house sat empty was more than Charlotte could swallow, even if she was making herself an easier mark for the media, demonstrators, or worse. They drove to her place and did a final prep session in her family room. Jack ordered Chinese, and it arrived close enough to the dinner hour.