Just the Truth

by Gen LaGreca

  "Of course, you can trust me. I've never betrayed you, have I? Your sources are safe with me."

  "Then keep them safe and forget about this issue!"

  "But I need to know something."

  "What?"

  "Did Spenser ever mention someone, or something, called Fox?"

  Sean looked genuinely puzzled.

  "No."

  "Did the senator mention—"

  "I never admitted—"

  "I mean, did Spenser's ally mention the word Fox to you?"

  "No. Why do you ask? What does that word have to do with anything?"

  "You're sure?"

  "I told you all I know."

  When Sean drove Laura home later that evening, there was a last, lingering glow of daylight in the summer sky and a lingering smile of contentment on his face. Despite their differences, he looked like a man who savored the time spent with his companion. Although he was a local celebrity and bachelor, with ample dates and sexual encounters, he treated other women differently than he treated Laura. Despite his public support for women's groups that rejected the customs and manners of the traditional male-female relationship, Sean acted in quite a contrary fashion with Laura. He instinctively opened the door for her, pulled out her chair, helped her on and off with her coat, engaging in the niceties that stressed his awareness of her not merely as a friend, but as a woman. Laura instinctively enjoyed the courtesies that expressed his masculinity and caring. They were not simply two people who were friends, but a man and a woman who were friends.

  For dinner dates, Sean met other women at the designated restaurant, but he picked up Laura at her home or office. If he wasn't spending the night with one of his other dates, he put the woman in a taxi to take her home, but he escorted Laura to her door.

  That night was no exception. He drove Laura home, passing the shops and eateries on the main thoroughfare of her neighborhood; then he turned onto a quiet side street of old row houses. He parked his car and walked with Laura to the renovated brick house with the turret, bay windows, and surrounding wrought iron gate, where she lived. He walked with her through the gate, up a few steps, and to the front door.

  It was here that he stopped and waited, allowing her to make the first move, never pushing her. He knew he would not be invited in. She usually gave him a quick embrace, kissed him on the cheek, and said goodnight. This time he gently grabbed her arms. He had something to say.

  "Laura, I want you to drop the Spenser case."

  "But if, as you say, there's no basis for my suspicions—"

  "But what if there is something to them? If what you suspect is true and there's something sinister going on—even if there's just a one-percent chance that there's foul play—I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to you because of a lead I gave you."

  She looked up at him, smiled, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He slipped his arms around her slender waist and breathed her perfume, his hair-trigger desire ready should she ever . . .

  "You're a dear, Sean, but don't worry about me." Pulling back, she rested her arms on his chest. "Goodnight."

  His phone chimed. He grabbed it from his shirt pocket and looked at the text identification on his screen.

  "Sorry, I have to read it," he said.

  She could see the sender's name, too. It was Darcy Egan, the chief advisor to President Martin.

  "Darcy's working late for a Sunday," she remarked.

  "Apparently."

  Laura read the message as Sean did:

  Interview with the president is yours if we can suggest a few questions and see the final cut before you air.

  Sean's face lit with excitement. He quickly texted back:

  Yes to your conditions.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Laura, saying, "I got the interview!"

  "Yes, I saw."

  He reached his arms out to her to resume their hug, but she stepped away.

  "Aren't you happy for me, Laura?"

  "You're going to let Martin's people feed you questions?"

  "No, not at all. They'll just make suggestions. I can work in a few of their ideas."

  "And you're going to let them approve the interview before you air it?"

  "I said I'd let them see it."

  "That's their word for approve it."

  "It's a good idea to have them look it over. That way I can correct anything I may have gotten wrong."

  She didn't reply.

  "Go ahead, say it. You're disappointed in me."

  "JT would never allow—"

  "Times have changed."

  "Goodnight, Sean," she said, with a touch of resignation.

  A subtle nod of his head accepted their impasse. He smiled and left.

  Back in Sean's car, the scent of Laura's perfume left a sweet memory on his shirt. As was his habit, he had parked so that he could see her row house from his windshield. That way he could linger a few minutes, watching lights go on in her home and thinking about her as she moved around beyond the drawn drapes. Was she watching television? Showering? Curling up in bed with a book? After evenings spent in her company, he felt an intimacy with her—or was it with something inside himself? His thoughts would wander inexplicably to events locked long ago in a backroom of his mind, and he'd get a sudden urge to revisit them briefly, wistfully, as he sat in his car after seeing Laura home.

  That night, what came into his mind, seemingly out of the blue, was a trip to a museum that he had taken with his class when he was seven years old. The children had received money from their parents to pick up souvenirs at the gift shop. The other children gravitated toward games and toys; however, he was drawn to another item. It was a small live cactus, with a bright red ball of a flower atop its prickly stalk. The delicate beauty of the plant fascinated him, so he selected it. During the bus trip home, the other children excitedly played with their action figures, toy cars, coloring books, and other items they had purchased, while he sat alone, holding the cactus. Some of the children began laughing at him; then others joined in. They jeered at his peculiar selection and made him feel like a misfit. Why did he pick such a silly item? Under his classmates' mockery, he questioned his choice. Why was he the only one who liked a prickly little plant with the big red cap of flower? Why was he so different from the other children? Why was he so . . . sensitive? When his stop came, he rushed out of the bus red-faced, anxious, and embarrassed. Before reaching his home, he tossed the plant in a trash bin.

  The story of the plant made his mind wander more. That incident was somehow connected to other painful memories. It reminded him of a piece of music he loved but rarely played. In his childhood, his older brother had made fun of him when he played it, so like the cactus, he had tossed that music into a trash bin of painful memories. He suddenly had an urge to hear it. He reached for his phone and hunted for the piece, hidden in his music collection. It was an aria from an opera—a tender, romantic soprano's song. He sat there quietly in the car, playing the tune, enchanted by the ideal of beauty and joy that it conveyed. He leaned back, savoring the music and the heartening, uplifting feelings it unlocked.

  His mind drifted to Laura. He thought of her passionate defense of Reed Miller. If the government's suit against Reed had been pursued, it could have severely weakened Miller News Network, the Taningers' most formidable competitor. Yet Laura had defended Reed repeatedly on her show. Laura had told Sean that her father had demanded she stop, but she refused. She'd said the lawsuit was unfair and that Taninger News shouldn't want to win that way, by means of a government cudgel over the head of its competitor. She'd warned her father that next time the Bureau of Fair Trade, or another agency, could find a reason to come after his businesses. What happens to a country that punishes success? she had asked, in editorials in Taninger News and in commentaries on her television show.

  Sean had to admire her spirited stand in Reed Miller's case. He thought of the special relationship that Laura had with her ideals. Sh
e never backed down. She never cowered. She never let anyone's disapproval or mockery dissuade her from what she believed was right. She put her ideals on a pedestal, out of anyone else's reach.

  As the music played, his phone chimed again, jogging him back to reality. It was another text message from Darcy:

  Call me in the morning.

  He glanced at the time on her message. Although it felt longer, only fifteen minutes had elapsed since her first message. Like a splash of cold water, Darcy's text was bracing. He turned off the music, straightened up, and drove away.

  Chapter 3

  Although her office door and blinds were open, Laura barely noticed the activity in the newsroom outside. She leaned forward in her chair, her body tense, her eyes focused on one of her wall monitors, which was broadcasting a live press conference. The Washington, DC, mayor and police chief were discussing the murder of James Spenser. With the seal of the city hung on the wall, the police chief stood behind a lectern addressing members of the press.

  Five days ago, he explained, James Spenser was the victim of a beating and robbery by an armed assailant. When the victim resisted, the assailant fatally shot him, then fled. The police recovered a bullet from the crime scene, and they were hunting for the killer. They also were beefing up security in the neighborhood where the crime was committed. If anyone had information concerning this case, the chief gave a number to call. He then took questions from the reporters.

  Taninger News' reporter, Vita Simpson, asked, "Is anyone investigating whether James Spenser, a high-level official in the president's administration, could have been specifically targeted?"

  The mayor tapped the police chief on the shoulder. The chief moved aside to let his boss handle the question. The mayor waved his arm dismissively.

  "There are some wild fillies out there that rear up and whinny about conspiracy theories, but we have no evidence of this being anything other than a random street robbery turned tragic," he said, smiling contemptuously. "Now if anybody else has a question—"

  Vita, however, persisted. Like a small bird with a mighty song, her bellowing voice belied her petite frame. She asked, "Mr. Mayor, can you tell us if James Spenser was being monitored at work?"

  The mayor laughed, saying, "We're not a police state, Ms. Simpson, despite some people's paranoia."

  "Did anyone suspect James Spenser of being a whistleblower? Did anyone know who he was about to meet and what he was about to say when he was killed?"

  "You'll have to ask the Feds that," the mayor replied.

  Laura watched with pride as the unflappable Vita continued.

  "I already have," she said. "I asked the people at Justice and the Bureau of Elections. They said this was a law-enforcement matter, and I should ask you."

  "And you have your answer." He placed his arm around the police chief's shoulder protectively. "Now if you think our city's great men in blue aren't doing their job to your standards—"

  "I was not attacking the police, Mr. Mayor."

  "If you have a complaint about the city, you can take it up with the department of consumer affairs."

  He looked away from Vita and called on another reporter.

  Laura watched the officials field a few more questions before ending the meeting, but nothing of note was revealed.

  She turned off the monitor and leaned back, mulling over the issue. In the five days since Spenser's death, she had tried to obtain more information about the matter, but to no avail.

  After repeated calls to the director of the Bureau of Elections, she had succeeded in speaking only to an assistant.

  "If you tell us what James Spenser wanted to meet with you about, maybe we can answer your questions," the staff member had said.

  "I don't have to tell you anything," Laura replied in her calm but frank manner. "Your job is to give me information, not the other way around."

  "Why do you want this information?" the assistant asked.

  "I don't have to give you a reason."

  "Did Spenser say anything to you before he died?"

  "Did he say anything to you? Or to any of his co-workers?"

  "I'll call you back after I speak to my supervisor."

  The call never came.

  Laura had sent Vita to question employees at the Bureau of Elections, but the agency's staff had been instructed not to speak to reporters.

  In the weeks before her communication with Spenser, Laura had tried to get information about the $400 million discrepancy she had found. She had contacted the Department of the Budget, which listed the itemized expenses for various agencies, including the Bureau of Elections, and where she had found the $400 million line item for the development of the SafeVote system.

  "You'll have to ask Elections about that," the person on the phone told her.

  "But Elections doesn't list that item, and you do. It's in your posted report."

  "We can't speak for it. If it's on our report, then we got it from Elections."

  "But shouldn't your accounting and their accounting match?"

  "You'll need to talk to them about that."

  When she had inquired with the Bureau of Elections, she was told that someone would look into the matter and get back to her.

  "Who? When?" she asked.

  "We'll call you back," she was told.

  The call never came.

  She'd then turned the matter over to Samuel Quinn, the company's attorney, whom she was to meet with at that hour. Like clockwork, Sam appeared at her door.

  "Ready for our meeting?" Sam asked.

  "Yes, Sam, come in."

  He closed the door behind him and sat down. A pin-striped suit and starched white shirt made the 60-year-old attorney look elegant. Wary eyes behind black-rimmed glasses on an unsmiling face made him look tough. Laura knew him as a fierce fighter for the Taninger companies. For decades, Sam was her father's and grandfather's trusted advisor, and he was the man she called to handle important legal matters for Taninger News.

  "What do you have for me, Sam?"

  "I sent inquiries to the director of the Bureau of Elections—by phone, email, special courier—but Sandra Frank is ignoring us. Because you have only a limited time to investigate this matter before Election Day, I'd say it's time we file a Public Disclosure Request."

  "I figured it would come to that."

  Every agency of the federal government was required by law to reply promptly to a Public Disclosure Request, which was a formal document submitted by a member of the media seeking information about a matter involving that department. The Public Disclosure Request was meant to show the government's commitment to full transparency, disclosure, and cooperation with the press and the public.

  "I'll request information on the contractors being used by the Bureau of Elections for the planning, development, testing, and roll out of SafeVote," Sam Quinn explained. "I'll ask for the company names, addresses, key personnel, and complete contact information, as well as a description of the work that has been done, is being done, and will be done, as well as the payment for it. I'll request a full accounting of the $400 million item noted without a recipient in the Department of the Budget's list of Elections' expenditures in developing SafeVote."

  "Okay, Sam. Maybe that will get them to respond, along with the segments I'll do on my show. I'll let my audience know that we're being stonewalled and that we're waiting for important information in this matter."

  He nodded and rose to go. As he walked toward the door, he turned back to her with a final thought. "When your grandfather was attacked by his critics, I remember him saying, 'The more important the truth of a matter is, the more likely you are to be shot down for exposing it.'"

  "That sounds like something he would say."

  "You still want to go ahead?"

  "I'll wear a bullet-proof vest."

  "Then we'll get to the bottom of this." The attorney with a reputation for being hard-boiled winked at her with the warmth of an uncle.

  She smiled
at him fondly in return.

  Chapter 4

  Early that evening, the lights were on in Kenneth Martin's office. A well-dressed, dark-haired man of fifty-eight, the president of the United States, was sitting on a sofa conversing with aides in the landmark mansion in which he lived and worked.

  In the four years of Martin's first term, changes had been made to the building. Martin believed that the iconic house symbolizing the presidency should reflect what the country stood for in the current day, and not what it had stood for in the distant past. That required modernizing.

  First, Martin changed the official name of the residence to the People's Manor in order to prompt Americans to think of the house as theirs, rather than as his. Then, he had the white exterior of the mansion painted gray. He thought the pure white color looked too unblemished and upstanding. The new gray color, he believed, was humbler, reflecting both America's flaws and virtues.

  "Now the house is more realistic," he had said after the repainting. "No person is perfect, and no nation is either. The new gray color shows we're not beyond reproach, and we're not placing ourselves above any other country."

  President Martin also had the towering marble columns outside the mansion modified. On the surface of each column, sculptors added in relief a larger-than-life, smooth, abstract human figure, with only the bare outlines of a head, torso, and limbs, all identical with one another. A blank oval served for a face with no eyes, nose, or mouth. A few curves served for the torso with no details to indicate gender. The arms and legs were in a dormant position.

  "The columns are now the people. The people are now holding up this house," the president liked to say of the new look. "We're all alike, and we're all in this together."

  Statues on the grounds that depicted great thinkers, war heroes, and past presidents were replaced by sculptures of humbler subjects: a woman with a tattered dress and disheveled hair, extending her hand as if looking for alms; a man hunched over, with his head down, looking dejected; a child rummaging through a trash bin, picking out a morsel of food.