Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  God damn that woman, he thought.

  Earlier in the evening he’d completed a teleconference with his counterparts in Iowa and South Carolina, Paul Brandstetter and Charles Delmain. They were as outraged as he was that the legislatures in New York, Illinois and California had that day passed new laws mandating that their states hold their presidential primary elections “no later than one minute after the primary election in New Hampshire begins, whensoever that time may be.” Added to that was the stipulation that “any political party that seeks to penalize the state of New York (Illinois or California) shall not have a line for its presidential candidate on the state ballot for the general election.”

  The situation had become impossible for Granby because New Hampshire law decreed that its presidential primary election must be the first in the nation by a margin of one week not one minute. In the past, that coveted head-of-the-line position had been protected simply by moving New Hampshire’s election to an earlier date and by having the national committees of the two major parties threaten any would-be interlopers with a refusal to seat their state delegations at the national nominating conventions.

  What had begun as a New Hampshire primary that had been held in late March had already been moved to early January. Now, it didn’t matter when the primary was scheduled. Thanks to those bastards in Albany, Springfield and Sacramento, their states and New Hampshire were conjoined quadruplets. There was no getting away from them.

  Not that Granby hadn’t tried.

  He’d called the chairmen of both the Democratic National Committee and the Republican National Committee, Henry Melchior and Reynard Dix, and screamed at them. “You’ve got to stop this shit! They’re bluffing. They’d never leave the Democratic and Republican candidates off their state ballots. It’s all bullshit. The Supreme Court —”

  Granby got cut off right there by both men. They reminded him of the states that a majority of the justices, the ones still alive, called home: New York, Illinois and California. Those justices were going to be pro states’ rights in their points of view on this matter.

  “The people then,” Granby argued. “Tens of millions of people will be disenfranchised. They won’t stand for it.”

  Henry Melchior had told him, “Think about the point you’re trying to make, John. Implicit in your argument is seventy million people should wait, hat in hand, to pick among the leftover presidential candidates while every four years a little more than one million people in New Hampshire get the full menu. If my party and the GOP were suicidal enough to bend a knee to you and our candidates weren’t on the ballots in three of the most populous states in the nation, we’d soon be replaced in those states, probably by half-a-dozen new parties. I imagine any of the senators elected from those new parties would be inclined to filibuster any bill that so much as provided road salt to your state.”

  So said the chairman of the DNC, a lifelong resident of Central Park West.

  He was firmly onboard with giving his home state more clout in choosing which Democrat got to run for president.

  The chairman of the RNC, Reynard Dix, had listened to Granby’s rant and concluded, “Maybe sticking to the old system would be the conservative way to go, but Jeez how could we not have our candidates on the ballots in New York, Illinois and California?”

  “You’re not going to win any of those damn states anyway,” Granby yelled.

  “Not this time, but things change. Listen, I’ll talk to some people. We’ll get back to you.”

  “Bastard,” Granby said after he hung up.

  Then Brandstetter called with Charles Delmain already on the line.

  The three of them switched to Skype. In varying degrees, they all looked like men who would face a firing squad in the morning. The thought made Granby regret giving up smoking.

  Brandstetter suggested their states threaten to do what the others had done, refuse to list candidates who didn’t go along with their way of doing things.

  Delmain laughed. “Nice try, Paul. But quite a few of my forebears fought a war on the side of the small states against the side with the big states. It didn’t turn out well for us. The other thing to consider is how much True South is going to cut into the GOP vote. Down here it figures to be substantial.”

  Brandstetter added, “They’re liable to get a good chunk of the Evangelical vote here, too.”

  Granby snorted. “True South, no offense, Charles, is not going to play in New Hampshire.”

  “None taken, John, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to carry the ball on this one. It looks like the world is changing and we just might get left behind.”

  With nowhere else to turn, Granby called all four members of his state’s Congressional delegation and asked what they might do to stymie this insurrection. He was told, in a word, nothing. There were four of them and a hundred and seven members of Congress from New York, Illinois and California.

  In desperation, so he could put a face on his enemy, Granby asked all four of New Hampshire’s Washington cadre who might have been the architect of the hideous new plan. Their unanimous judgment was that it could be only one person: White House Chief of Staff Galia Mindel. Who, of course, was from New York.

  Shortly after midnight, his fifth shot of scotch in hand, Granby realized he could not win.

  As no one else ever had, he’d failed his state, his home, the place he loved above all others. He was sure his failure would kill him, and death would be no less than he deserved.

  Reaching that conclusion, he decided Galia Mindel should die, too.

  4

  October, 2011

  Department of Justice Building — Washington, D.C.

  Benton Williams was ushered into the office of Deputy Attorney General Linda Otani, who greeted him with a polite handshake and a wary eye. She knew that Williams had been Reverend Burke Godfrey’s personal lawyer. In light of Godfrey’s death while being held in a federal medical facility, she suspected Williams was going to announce he would be filing a suit against the government for —

  “I don’t plan to sue the government,” Williams said, “not unless I must.”

  The deputy AG asked, “Why would it even enter your mind to sue the government?”

  “So I might obtain access to Mrs. Burke Godfrey.”

  The deputy attorney general was a lawyer who always read the fine print of any case she handled and she never forgot a word of it.

  “You are not now, nor have you ever been, Erna Godfrey’s lawyer,” she said.

  Williams nodded. “That’s true, and I have not now, nor at any other time, claimed to be her lawyer. However, at the time of his unfortunate death, I was Reverend Burke Godfrey’s lawyer, and we intended to file suit against WorldWide News for causing him great bodily harm, a debilitating blow to his head by one of WWN’s employees, Ellie Booker.”

  “You don’t intend to let a little thing like the death of your client stop you?” Otani said.

  “Not if I can help it, no.”

  “So you’re going to amend your suit to a wrongful death claim.”

  “Precisely,” Williams said.

  “Only you need a client, and that would be Erna Godfrey.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Now, you’d like the opportunity to ask Ms. Godfrey if she wants to pursue a legal action.”

  “I would.”

  “Do you have with you a letter addressed to Ms. Godfrey outlining your proposal?”

  “I do, but I would much rather speak directly with Mrs. Godfrey.”

  “I’m sure you would. May I see your letter to Ms. Godfrey, please?”

  Williams looked like he was going to object but Otani cut him off.

  “This is not a criminal matter, Counsel,” she reminded him, “and we’ve agreed you’re not her lawyer. Mail sent to federal prisoners is subject to prior review. However, if you don’t wish to pursue the matter after all …”

  She shrugged and waited for Williams to make his choice. He took an en
velope out of his briefcase and gave it to her. She took out the one-page proposal and read it quickly.

  “Admirably brief and clearly detailed, Counselor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The only plaintiff you name is WWN. You don’t have it in mind to pursue a separate action against the federal government, now or in the future?”

  “I don’t contemplate that, no.”

  “But you reserve the right to change your mind?”

  “Of course.”

  The deputy attorney general put the proposal back in its envelope and said, “If you like, I’ll see that Ms. Godfrey gets this.”

  “But I won’t be talking to her?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  “Madam Deputy Attorney General, might I raise a point?”

  Linda Otani nodded.

  “I’ve read in the press,” Williams said, “that the government of the United Kingdom is looking into bringing possible corruption charges against WWN, the payment of bribes to police officials and possibly even a member of Parliament or two. That would raise the possibility of the DOJ also bringing charges against WWN under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act. Caught in such a legal pincer movement, the company might declare bankruptcy.”

  “Making it judgment proof against your suit, is that what you mean?” Otani asked.

  “That is my immediate concern, but there is another. If by pursuing your own action against WWN you were to foreclose a civil suit against WWN by the widow of Reverend Godfrey, that wouldn’t look good in an election year, would it?”

  Linda Otani laughed and tossed the envelope on her desk.

  “Erna Godfrey is a convicted murderer serving a life sentence. Her food, shelter and clothing will be provided to her by the federal government. A huge judgment against WWN would benefit you but not her. Whether any of that becomes a political matter is not my concern.” She spelled out why. “I’m not running for office.”

  “Thank you for sharing your personal plans,” Williams said. “I’ll assume your position also reflects the views of the Grant administration, but it is possible another president might see things in an entirely different light. Why it’s even possible a new president might commute Mrs. Godfrey’s sentence, release her with time served being her punishment. At that point, a decision to refuse to let Mrs. Godfrey have her day in court against WWN would look spiteful. It might even tarnish Patricia Darden Grant’s legacy.”

  Linda Otani leaned forward and gave Williams her best prosecutorial glare.

  “Any numbers of eventualities might occur, Counselor. A misguided future president might free Erna Godfrey, but I don’t see any way a future president would be able to justify the release of a person who murdered the spouse of a predecessor. That president’s legacy would be tarnished while he or she was still in office.”

  The deputy AG sat back and waited.

  Williams could take her offer to deliver his letter to Erna Godfrey or leave it.

  He took it, and once he was gone Linda Otani’s anger vanished.

  She’d had to appear hard nosed, of course.

  But she sure hoped she hadn’t just screwed up.

  Push came to shove, politically, she could lose her job like anyone else.

  Camp David — Catoctin Mountains, Maryland

  McGill brought out the escrima sticks the morning Patti left for the White House. He’d planned to let Kenny sleep in and start their workout after breakfast, but his son had climbed out of bed early so he could say goodbye to his stepmother. Patti kissed and embraced both McGills and beamed at them.

  “I couldn’t ask for a better sendoff,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

  They both did and waved as Marine One lifted off, watched until it was out of sight.

  Kenny looked at his father and said, “Sometimes I think I’m living a dream.”

  “Me, too, but then I can’t remember a dream this good. You want to eat first or do a light workout with the sticks?”

  Kenny was excited about using the escrima sticks; that’d be much cooler than playing patty-cakes with your hands. “Let’s do the workout,” he said.

  They went back to Aspen Lodge. McGill got two sticks for each of them, twenty-seven inches long, a half-inch in diameter and made of bamboo. They took them out back. McGill said, “Using the sticks helps to develop hand speed. Which is good. If one of us isn’t careful, we can rap the other guy’s knuckles. Which is painful. So the idea is to hold the stick low and make contact with the opposite end.”

  Kenny nodded, listening closely.

  McGill continued, “We’ll start with the same pattern as we did with our hands: two high, two low. We’ll start easy, see how you feel. If it’s not a strain, we’ll pick up the pace just a bit. After each strike, remember to return the stick to your collarbone.”

  Kenny nodded. He concentrated to get the form right. Swung the stick in his right hand high. It clacked against the stick his father brought out to meet it. In an actual fight, the blow would be aimed at a shoulder or head. The right-hand stick was returned to the collarbone as the left-hand stick swung forward. That stick came back to resting position as the right-hand stick came out again, this time low, as if to strike a knee.

  They ran through the pattern slowly until Kenny was in the flow of it and didn’t need to think about what to do. McGill watched for signs of fatigue or other physical distress. Seeing none, he asked, “You want to pick up the tempo just a little?”

  Kenny bobbed his head.

  McGill put a bit more snap into each swing. Kenny matched him, keeping the flow.

  “If you can,” McGill told his son, “try to whistle a tune that’ll match the rhythm of your motion.”

  Kenny licked his lips and began to whistle. McGill wasn’t familiar with the melody, but he thought it was catchy and Kenny did a good job of rendering it. His son had let himself go, stopped thinking. He was laying down muscle memory, building reflexes that might serve him well someday.

  McGill took joy in watching Kenny, alive, recovering his health and growing strong. What more could a father want? He’d have to train Abbie and Caitie, too.

  Then, as if Kenny had come to the end of the first song, he switched to another. This one was more upbeat. Kenny’s strokes came faster, keeping pace with the new time signature. McGill stepped up his responses.

  The clacks of the sticks meeting were sharper now and nearly without interval. After a moment, Kenny stopped whistling, took a deep breath and stepped back. Sweat ran from his brow and he rubbed his eyes with the back of a wrist.

  McGill moved toward him. “You okay?”

  Kenny lowered his arm and revealed a broad smile. He laughed and said, “I guess I got carried away. All of a sudden I felt really tired, but I feel great, too. Better than I can remember feeling in a long time. The idea of whistling, adding music, that was great.”

  Kenny was breathing hard, but not struggling for breath.

  He just seemed like a kid who was getting back into shape.

  “What was that first song you whistled?” McGill asked.

  “It’s called ‘Some Nights’ by a group called Fun.”

  McGill nodded. A father could approve of that, pending review of the lyrics. He took Kenny’s sticks from him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  “Sounds good.” As they headed into the lodge, Kenny said, “You know, Dad, we’ve heard some stories about you.”

  Looking at his son, McGill said, “Really?”

  “Yeah, Sweetie’s told us some things, Abbie, Caitie and me.”

  That had been part of a plan he and Sweetie had hatched, after McGill’s divorce from Carolyn. Figuring the kids would learn the reason behind their parents’ divorce at some point, and how Carolyn had been terrified that McGill would be killed, they thought some sanitized accounts of their father’s activities should make their way to his daughters and son. Having Sweetie share these morsels privately would lend them greater credence. />
  Not that anything the younger McGills had heard was untrue; Sweetie would never lie to his children or anyone else. But the near instances of death and disfigurement were deemphasized, and the use of violence was always described as a last resort.

  “We always loved hearing stories about you from Sweetie. It was like being let into some secret club. We weren’t told not to share them with Mom, but we didn’t. We held on to them as our own … possessions, I guess.”

  Kenny sat down in the lodge’s kitchen. Navy mess specialists were available to cook for the president and her family, but McGill preferred to do his own cooking for his kids. Before moving to Washington, he’d shared custody with Carolyn and enjoyed making meals for his children. He poured two glasses of orange juice now and sat down across from his son.

  “Are you fishing for something?” he asked Kenny.

  “We haven’t heard as much from Sweetie after she moved to Washington to work with you, but she did tell us one story.”

  “What was that?”

  “About your fight in Paris, under the bridge, against the giant.”

  “I had three people helping me. You heard that part?”

  “Yeah, but that only made me think how big that other guy must have been.”

  “He was very big,” McGill agreed.

  “Sweetie said you didn’t just shoot him because you wanted to take him alive.”

  McGill nodded.

  “So you used sticks like we just used.”

  “They were similar,” McGill said.

  “I kind of thought after you left the police things would be less dangerous.”

  “In general, they are.”

  Kenny nodded as if he wasn’t going to dispute that point. He sipped his juice.

  “Do you worry about me, Kenny?”

  “I never did before I got sick. I thought anybody messed with you, it’d be their problem.”

  High praise from a son, but McGill didn’t miss Kenny’s use of the past tense.

  “What’s changed?” he asked.

  “Well, I didn’t think I was going to get sick. I never thought I might die anytime soon. Now, I’m not so sure about things. I told Patti I worry about the people I love, more than I do about myself. She said that’s something everybody feels.”