Fatherless: A Novel

by Dobson, James

  “What?” The shock outran Kevin’s composure. “You want to increase transitions?”

  “Of course,” Franklin replied. “You’ve seen the census numbers. How else could we possibly avert another economic free fall?”

  Kevin’s brain scrambled for a quick, obvious rebuttal. None existed.

  A light seemed to go on inside Dimitri’s head. “I see,” he said knowingly.

  “See what?” Franklin asked.

  “I’m surprised at you, Congressman,” Dimitri said to Kevin, prompting a quizzical expression. “I would have thought your team had researched my company before you cashed my donation check.”

  “They did. Based upon your pattern of giving to fiscal conservatives we saw no reason to dig further.”

  “So you have no idea why I would be troubled by the notion of curtailing transitions?”

  Kevin stared blankly as Franklin shifted in his seat, apparently embarrassed by an unspoken oversight.

  “Mr. Dimitri’s company owns the patent on PotassiPass.”

  Kevin didn’t recognize the name, prompting Franklin’s further explanation.

  “It’s the lethal injection serum used by NEXT transition clinics.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Julia scheduled nothing on Thursday so that she could remain in her hotel room. She planned to use the whole day writing up her Wednesday interview. She had always done her best work when creating and reaching mental milestones. Today she would finalize all but one section of The Breeders. Friday she would cross the finish line by recording and inserting an on-the-record conversation with Kevin Tolbert.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon Julia caught herself rereading the same perfectly crafted paragraph she had read the hour before. Any additional tweaks, she realized, would add nothing. She had even found time to select the ideal pictures to include with each section. It had been an unusually productive morning thanks to the unbelievably useful notes captured the prior day. She congratulated herself on the decision to get back to DC early to speak with Dr. Bryce Richert.

  She closed the document and opened another, falling into her instinctive pattern of using the momentum of one productive milestone to propel her toward another. Scanning the list to find the most promising topic for her next column, Julia recalled the pending sale of RAP. She imagined handing all nine million of her loyal readers over to the next flavor-of-the-month writer. Creative motivation died, replaced by a perplexed gaze.

  Why would RAP cut my column when so many readers love my stuff? Or did they?

  No other columnist will attract as many subscribers as me. Or would they?

  I’m sure I’ll land an even better opportunity elsewhere. Or could she?

  The snowball grew throughout Julia’s treadmill jog and followed her into the shower where she had hoped to melt anxiety in the warm water of relaxation and stubborn heat of self-confidence. No change.

  She heard a ping while brushing through freshly washed hair and gazing searchingly at the woman in the mirror. Securing the sash around her waist she found her phone buried at the bottom of her purse.

  Two messages had arrived during her forty-minute retreat.

  “Paul?” she said after tapping the RETURN CALL option.

  “Jewel!” He seemed agitated. “Where have you been?”

  “You mean for the past twenty minutes?”

  “Thirty-one!” he corrected. She glanced at the time marker on his message to confirm.

  “Thirty-one, then. I was in the shower, if it matters.”

  “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon for Pete’s sake!”

  “Three o’clock in DC,” she explained. “I’m in a hotel room where I’ve nearly finished the breeder story.”

  “Good.” Air seemed to seep from his uptight balloon, his voice gradually lowering as he spoke. “That’s why I called. Things are moving fast around here.”

  “Fast how?” She braced herself for devastating news.

  “They announced the sale to the editorial board this morning.”

  She said nothing.

  “No news yet on the fallout, but I’m worried.”

  “About?” she asked.

  “About my job. Your column. Everything.”

  “What do you need?” Julia asked, one drowning person hoping to rescue another.

  “I need a very strong piece from you. And I need it fast.”

  Julia placed her hand on top of her closed tablet. It contained 90 percent of what Paul wanted. But the missing 10 percent represented a promise she had made to Kevin Tolbert, his proposal in his own words.

  “The story’s written, Paul,” she said to shore up his wavering confidence. “I only need one more day to add the final bit.”

  “Thank God!” he exhaled. “Send it.”

  She hesitated. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I don’t yet have clearance to use the most important parts.”

  “What do you mean clearance?” he asked warily.

  “I cut a deal, Paul. Kevin Tolbert gave me first option. We’ll have twenty-four hours to scoop.”

  “Twenty-four hours before what?”

  “Before Franklin’s austerity proposals go public,” she explained. “Trust me. It’ll be worth waiting another day.”

  “One day?”

  “One day,” she said hopefully. “I have an on-the-record interview with Tolbert in the morning. I should have it written up by end of day tomorrow.”

  She heard muffled mumbling on the other end of the line, probably Paul counting backward from his final copy deadline.

  “I need it by five o’clock mountain standard time.”

  “You’ll have it.” She sensed the net being removed beneath her.

  “Good. I secured prime placement for this piece,” he said. “Lead story in the weekend culture watch section.”

  Lead story? Julia thought with delight.

  “The editorial board started salivating when I told them what was coming.”

  “Wait.” What Paul was saying suddenly sank in. “You had no idea when I’d be finished with the story.”

  “I would have if you had answered your phone!” he said defensively. “I had to act fast or we’d have lost our window. Maybe the only window we’ll get.”

  Julia felt a slight wobble in her high wire.

  “I need a preview, Jewel. If you can’t send it, then read it to me.”

  “Read it?”

  “Yeah, read it. I want to hear what you’ve got.”

  Julia hated reading her own writing aloud. Her voice never carried the force of her words as powerfully as black text on a white screen. But she reluctantly began, gaining confidence with each paragraph as she heard Paul’s audible grins grow more pronounced. She paused midway to get reactions from her audience of one.

  “Good opening hook,” he said reassuringly. “And I love the way you’ve portrayed Franklin. What an arrogant conniver!”

  She continued, finally reaching the portion where she described Dr. Richert’s mantel filled with photos of grown kids and their broods of grandchildren.

  “Very nice,” Paul reacted. “The embodiment of Breederville!”

  She continued reading, placing special emphasis on the demonizing descriptions of Dr. Bryce and Carol Richert, complete with subtle mockery of their inane justification for overpopulating an overcrowded planet.

  “‘Every baby born brings one mouth to feed but two hands to work.’ He actually said that?”

  “Every word. Not a second of hesitation. He really believes it.”

  “Scary! Perfect!” Paul exclaimed.

  “Wait till you see the picture I took in his office. Here it is.”

  Three taps on her tablet sent the image to Paul’s in-box.

  “Brilliant!” he reacted four seconds later. “Is this for real?”

  “He estimated two thousand newborn pictures, every one of them hanging side by side in his office hallway.”


  “This is it!” Paul exclaimed.

  “This is what?”

  “This is what we need for the title screen! Just think, Jewel, a clean headline: THE BREEDERS in all caps overlaying this image. Talk about evoking nightmares in your single and carefree fans!”

  Julia imagined and liked the idea.

  “The only thing that would make it better is a picture of a younger, haggard Mrs. Richert with a crib-lizard hanging on her breast!” He laughed irreverently. “You didn’t get anything like that, did you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she retorted good-naturedly.

  “No matter. This image alone says it all. Readers will hate Franklin’s plan before they’ve even heard what’s in it! The editorial board is gonna love this. Well done, love!”

  Back on top, she thought.

  Paul took a long, deep breath in satisfaction and relief. He said nothing for several moments.

  “What?” she prompted.

  “I owe you an apology, Jewel.” The words didn’t come easily.

  “For what?”

  A long silence. She waited, certain Paul was seeking words to fess up about Monica Garcia.

  “I don’t know. I guess I forgot just how good you could be.”

  “Thanks, Paul. But you don’t owe me an apology. I owe you my thanks. I know you took a risk assigning me this piece. I just hope it pays off.”

  Another gap in the conversation.

  “One last thing,” Paul said. “I think we need an insurance policy just in case.”

  “Insurance? What do you mean?”

  A slight hesitation, the kind liars use to turn corners in their tall tales.

  “I think we need to go a step beyond demonizing the Bright Spots proposal and mocking the breeder culture,” he mused. “After all, Franklin’s austerity plan will be his opening salvo in pursuit of the presidency.”

  “I’m listening,” Julia said.

  “There are rumors Franklin asked Congressman Tolbert to draft and present his full plan.”

  “Really?” Julia understood why. Kevin Tolbert was an impressive and articulate young leader, the kind of person Franklin would like to have at his side when conducting press conferences and explaining big ideas. All Kevin lacked was a national platform, a proving ground for more influence. Something Franklin was in a position to give.

  “Every visionary leader needs an expendable team member,” Paul added.

  “What do you mean by expendable?”

  “You know. If the austerity plan is well received Franklin looks brilliant and Tolbert moves up a notch. But if the plan falls flat Franklin can distance himself from any unpopular elements.”

  “The Bright Spots proposal?” she realized. “He wants it in the package but wonders how it will be received.”

  “That’s my guess. Anyway, we need to cover our bases regardless of whether Tolbert is a hit or a flop.”

  Julia tensed. “Cover our bases?”

  “What you’ve written so far will leave a very bad taste in the mouths of readers. But guilt by association is one thing. Actual guilt is another.”

  She didn’t follow.

  “This story needs to do more than leave a bad taste. It needs to trash the reputation of the leading voice for breeder ideals.”

  “Wait a minute, Paul. You know I’ve never played that game. I’m as willing as anyone to portray stupidity as stupid. But I won’t manufacture—”

  “You won’t need to manufacture anything, Jewel,” Paul interrupted. “I’ve received dirt on Kevin Tolbert that will significantly sharpen the teeth of your story.”

  Four faces flooded Julia’s mind. First Angie’s, then Tommy’s, Joy’s, and Leah’s.

  “What kind of dirt?” she asked.

  “It’ll be in your message box no later than tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “Where have you been?”

  Kevin sensed a level of frustration in Troy’s voice that would have prompted his friend to rub a bald spot onto Kevin’s head if they had been in the same room. He glanced at the display on his phone, the same phone that had been sitting in his car for the past hour. Six new messages. Five of them from Troy.

  “I’m sorry, buddy,” he said. “I took a walk after lunch. I needed to think.”

  “I figured your lunch would have ended hours ago.”

  Kevin looked at the time. “I guess it did. Sorry.”

  “You already said that.” A brief silence turned fury into alarm. “Is something wrong? What happened?”

  It was the question Kevin had spent the past few hours trying to answer for himself. What had happened during his lunch with Franklin and Dimitri? Had they courted him or cornered him? Was he being invited into the corridors of power or ousted from the think tank of solutions? And more importantly, should he accept Franklin’s offer?

  “Well, he started by asking me to present the bright spots concept to a gathering of big donors, some event sponsored by a group called…” He tried to remember the precise name. “Something like the Saratone Fund.”

  “The Saratoga Foundation?” Troy asked.

  “That’s it. You’ve heard of it?”

  “Heard of it? Yes, I’ve heard of it. The Fort Knox of campaign funding. Every fiscal conservative in the Senate owes his or her election to the Saratoga Foundation. He asked you to speak at their fund-raising event?”

  “That’s what they said,” Kevin replied.

  “They?”

  “Evan Dimitri was with him.”

  “Aha!” Troy said, as if finding a missing puzzle piece on the floor.

  “What?”

  “That explains the sudden generosity of our mysterious donor.” Kevin couldn’t remember a time when Troy had sounded so excited. “Well done, Mr. Congressman!”

  An unsettled feeling prevented Kevin from joining the celebration.

  “That’s not all,” he continued.

  “I bet. Tell me everything!”

  “Franklin asked me to oversee the draft process for the full austerity coalition plan.”

  “No way!”

  “He also wants me to present it during his press conference next week.”

  “Holy…” Troy took a deep breath. “Kevin, do you have any idea what this means?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Troy,” Kevin cautioned. “I see red flags all over this one.”

  “Red flags? You must be kidding. The cutest girl in school just winked at you and you’re reluctant to wink back?”

  The analogy prompted a laugh that released part of the tension that had been building in Kevin for hours. But the conversation with Dr. Richert about Julia reminded him that Washington, DC, attracted Machiavelli disciples and Dorian Gray clones. Things were rarely as they appeared. Especially when they involved mysterious donors and flattering invitations.

  “What happened to the Troy Simmons who never trusts anyone and who remains skeptical to the end?” Kevin asked.

  “You’re right, of course,” Troy acknowledged. “But I’ve spent nearly four hours imagining the worst, then the best, then the worst again. So you’ll forgive a little enthusiasm in light of what seems pretty good news.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see? Tell me you said yes.”

  “Franklin said it for me.”

  “You honestly considered saying no?”

  “I don’t know, Troy. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

  Troy curbed his enthusiasm to offer Kevin breathing room, slipping comfortably into his position as chief confidant. “I’m all ears.”

  “Evan Dimitri makes me nervous, for starters. He comes off like a guy accustomed to pulling strings.”

  “Money is a pretty effective puppeteer,” Troy confirmed. “But you know how to navigate power players. Why the concern about Dimitri?”

  “His vested interest in growing the transition industry, to start.”

  “What?”

  “His company owns the patent for the m
ain serum used by NEXT.”

  “You mean…?” Troy prompted.

  “The check we deposited came to us compliments of the very transitions we came here to end.” The admission sent a mild nausea into Kevin’s stomach, a sensation Troy seemed to share during a long silence.

  “I’m sorry, Kevin.”

  “For what?”

  “We should have researched Dimitri more closely. I hate that you were caught by surprise.”

  “It’s not your fault. If I recall correctly, you were the cautious one. I guess I was too eager to believe my own optimism.”

  “So what’d you say when you found out?”

  “I held my tongue. I wanted to hear them out.”

  “And?”

  “And Franklin made a point of emphasizing how important it was for his plan to incorporate a wide range of ideas. They like the bright spots concept because it will round out the package with something upbeat and positive to offset proposed expansion of the transition industry.”

  Another long silence.

  “That’s when Franklin said he wants me to write and present the full plan. Put his arm around me like his best friend and potential running mate.”

  “Did he mention running mate?”

  “Kari mentioned it. But he didn’t dismiss it.”

  “Kari?”

  “Kari Samson, Franklin’s favorite aide. She joined the lunch.” He paused. “Don’t ask.”

  “You did need to take a walk!”

  “I honestly don’t know what to do, Troy. Franklin seems to be handing me the keys to the kingdom, opening doors of influence I can’t imagine opening any other way.”

  “Do you think God might be working in one of his trademark mysterious ways?”

  “Maybe. How could anyone be sure?” Kevin wondered aloud. “But what I do know is that I can’t sell policies that will grow an industry I consider evil.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “Not directly. But he said he had read my original proposal, including the part about restricting transition wealth transfers to charity.”

  “So he knows how you feel about the Youth Initiative?”