Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  “A criminal? Of course not. Baby, I’m in the witness protection program.”

  He kissed her and then ran out the back door, promising to call her.

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  Jim McGill was on the phone with Galia Mindel. She’d been in a meeting with Stephen Norwood, but when McGill told her the matter was urgent, she gave him her full attention.

  McGill said, “I’ll have Ellie Booker coming into my office any moment now. She wants me to help exculpate her in the matter of Burke Godfrey’s death. I wouldn’t do that for the money, but Margaret Sweeney has told me Ms. Booker can give me the details of how WorldWide News intends to smear the president during the campaign. What I’d like to know, Galia, is whether you already have a good idea of what they’ll do. If so, I won’t have to help Ms. Booker.”

  “Of course, I know,” Galia said, “in broad strokes. It would be helpful to know specifics, but having you work for the woman who will be accused of killing Godfrey would look very bad for the president. She’s going to get none of the evangelical vote in any case, but the damage could extend to enough moderates and independents to hurt us.”

  McGill hated that he had to make political calculations regarding his work.

  Still, he asked, “You think it’s going to be that close?”

  “It’s going to be razor thin,” Galia said.

  “So I’ll tell Ms. Booker to find another investigator.”

  “That would be best, and it was a good idea for you to call me. I know this isn’t easy for either of us, working closely together, but we do have a mutual interest.”

  “Yes, we do,” McGill said.

  “So you won’t mind if I have to call you with either a suggestion or a question?”

  “Anything that helps the president, Galia, you’ve got it.”

  “We’re becoming strange bedfellows, as they say.”

  Sweetie rapped on McGill’s door and poked her head in. “She’s here.”

  “Gotta go,” McGill told Galia.

  He hung up, and Sweetie ushered Ellie Booker into his office.

  McGill got to his feet and took her measure. Not yet forty, he guessed. Thin and full of nervous energy. There was apprehension in her eyes, but there was intelligence, too, and the set of her jaw was firm. She knew she was in a tough spot and was determined to get past it. Ordinarily, McGill respected such grit and would have done his best to be of help, but nothing was normal when your wife was running for reelection to be president.

  Ellie Booker extended her hand to McGill. He took it. Sweetie stayed in the room, providing McGill with a witness to anything that might be said or done.

  McGill came straight to the point. “I’m sorry to say, Ms. Booker, that I won’t be able to help you. The situation makes it impossible.”

  Ellie looked at McGill. It was the first time she’d met him in person. The man had a presence. Looked a bit like an old time movie star. He also had the decency not to try to con any information out of her and then send her packing. She appreciated that.

  “By the situation you mean the politics,” Ellie said. “Well, I can’t blame you if you think I’d cost the president some votes.”

  McGill didn’t respond.

  “Here’s the thing,” Ellie said, “the way things are shaping up, I hope your wife wins again. Really. So I’ll give you a free taste of what I was going to tell you. Sir Edbert’s a dinosaur. He hates any woman he can’t control, the president being the prime example. His nephew, Hugh Collier, is as ruthless as the old man but he’s smart. He’ll try to be a moderating influence. But if Sir Edbert sends Hugh back to Australia or fires him, look out. He’s got a special project in mind. He’ll launch it two to four weeks before the election.”

  McGill wanted to ask what that would be, but he wasn’t going to pay the price to find out.

  Ellie Booker continued, “If Sir Edbert moves onto his yacht, that will mean all out war.”

  “His yacht doesn’t come equipped with cannons, does it?” McGill asked.

  Ellie laughed. “Not the old fashioned kind, but it has the electronics aboard to launch a broadside media attack. Barrages of mud and slime. Vicious stuff. Nobody will be spared. Not your wife, not you, not your family.”

  Seeing McGill’s eyes narrow, she added. “I can expect a small-scale version of the same. I’m not number one on Sir Edbert’s hit list, but I’m in the top five. He’ll sail up and down the Eastern Seaboard, just outside the twelve-mile limit, firing off orders to his TV and radio networks, his newspapers and magazines, laying waste to the reputation of anyone he considers an enemy.”

  “The guy thinks he’s a pirate?” McGill asked.

  “He always has, but no one’s ever given him a good fight.”

  “Sir Edbert starts in with us,” McGill said, “we’ll see if he has the courage to go down with his ship. Thank you for the heads-up, Ms. Booker.”

  Number One Observatory Circle — Washington, D.C.

  Mather Wyman put his hands on Kira Fahey Yates’ shoulders and looked his niece in the eye.

  “You’ll need to find a new job, if you side with me,” he said.

  “I already need a new job. I resigned my position at the White House this afternoon.”

  Wyman lowered his hands. “Politely, I assume.”

  Kira nodded. “With sincere gratitude, too. I appreciate the opportunity I was given. I thanked the president and everyone else with whom I worked. I’d still be there if anyone but you was running against the president.”

  Wyman said, “This won’t cause any trouble for Welborn, will it?”

  “At work? No. He’s Patti Grant’s pet; Mr. McGill likes him, too.”

  “How about between the two of you?”

  Kira shook her head. “Not only do we love each other, we’re stuck with each other and we know it. I won’t go into any intimate details —”

  Wyman held up his hands and said, “No, please don’t.”

  “What I will say,” Kira told her uncle, “is that it would be impossible for either of us to get conversation as good from anyone else.”

  “That is important.”

  “Essential,” Kira said. “The physical part is wonderful, but a well turned word from my flyboy can melt my heart, steel my will or lift my darkest gloom. When Welborn and I have children, I’ll tell them to look for someone they can talk to endlessly without the conversation ever growing tiresome.”

  Kira saw the sudden effect her words had on Mather Wyman. His eyes grew misty.

  She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Mattie. I made you think of Aunt Elvie, didn’t I?”

  “Thinking of Elvie has never been anything but a joy for me. I do miss seeing her, but what I miss most of all is what you just mentioned. I miss talking to her, hearing her voice.”

  Hearing that made Kira decide to call Welborn right away.

  Wyman dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief and pulled himself together.

  “Well, now, I’m having three gentlemen over as dinner guests tonight. I don’t know how sparkling the discussion will be, but it will be important. To me anyway.”

  “I’ll be happy to chat with you afterward, if you’d like,” Kira told him.

  Wyman kissed his niece’s cheek and said, “I look forward to it, my dear.”

  The University Club — Washington, D.C.

  The four tall wingback chairs in the bar were arranged so that drinks might easily be served but conversations might easily be kept private. Senator Roger Michaelson (D-OR) and Governor Jean Morrissey (D-MN) were the heavyweights present. Their seconds were Bob Merriman, Michaelson’s former chief of staff, now a candidate to fill the senate seat Michaelson was leaving to run for president, and Frank Morrissey, the governor’s brother, chief of staff, personal lawyer and confidant.

  The three men had eschewed alcohol and were drinking sparkling water.

  The governor was sipping Bushmills neat.

  She was also, by ten years, the
youngest person at the table.

  Jean Morrissey was blonde and despite her Irish name looked Scandinavian. Roger Michaelson was glad about that. He liked blondes, was married to one. If he’d had to compete against another brunette like Patti Grant, a second brunette since he was going up against Patti Grant again, he didn’t know if he could —

  “You could drop out, Roger,” Jean Morrissey said, “let the president and me have a cat fight. That would be fun for everyone.”

  When had women become such ball-busters, Michaelson wondered.

  Or had they always been that way?

  He said, “Fun, sure, if all you like to do is watch. I’m more of a doer.”

  “What makes you think you’ll do any better than the last time you ran against Patti Grant?”

  Michaelson knew he was being tested. There would be primary debates. If Jean Morrissey could get under his skin in the quiet corner of a private club, she’d make him look like a chump in front of the TV cameras and the nation. Without looking at them, he knew Bob Merriman and Frank Morrissey were watching to see how he’d react.

  “I’ve upped my game,” Michaelson said. “I’ve been here in Washington competing against heavyweights, not overseeing farm bills in St. Paul.”

  Jean Morrissey grinned and raised her glass to Michaelson.

  “Nicely played. I’ll have to keep you in mind as a possible VP pick.”

  Republican Central Committee Meeting — Indianapolis, Indiana

  The conference room in the Canterbury Hotel wasn’t filled with smoke, but the gathering that formally voted on the GOP’s slate of electors wasn’t customarily one that welcomed children, even those who would be within a year of being able to cast a ballot in the next election. In deference to retiring Senator Charles Talbert and in recognition of a decade of service from his former press secretary, Sheryl Kimbrough, an exception was made for Cassidy Kimbrough.

  She was allowed to see her mother approved by unanimous consent to become a GOP elector, pledged — but not legally bound — to vote for the party’s nominee in the Hoosier State’s delegation at the Electoral College.

  All of the nominees were approved by unanimous consent.

  When it came to central committee votes, the fix was always in.

  Even so, once the formalities were concluded, Cassidy said, “Yessss!” She hugged her mother hard enough to make her wince and kissed her on both cheeks. “This is so cool!”

  She turned to Senator Talbert to thank him for sponsoring her mother for such an honor, but he held up a hand and put on a look of mock terror.

  “Now, now, Cassidy, I’m older than Moses and not up to grappling anymore.”

  Taking her cue, Cassidy politely kept her arms at her sides and gave the senator a polite peck on just one cheek. He beamed in appreciation.

  “This experience might make for an interesting college essay, don’t you think?” the senator asked Cassidy. “You’ll be applying to IU, of course.”

  Cassidy said, “I was thinking the same thing, about the essay, and I will be applying to Indiana.”

  What she didn’t say was that she saw IU as her safety school.

  She’d been praying she would be admitted to Stanford for years.

  Sheryl put an arm, gently, around her daughter’s shoulders.

  She was so proud of Cassidy, and she knew about her daughter’s Stanford dream.

  Sheryl had pledged to vote for anyone who might win the GOP’s nomination.

  But she was praying that person would be Mather Wyman.

  That was her secret.

  Darnall Hall — Georgetown University

  Abbie ran to McGill the moment she saw him. It wasn’t the cool thing to do, especially with a dozen or so of your new friends watching. College students, even freshmen, were supposed to be more reserved than that. You didn’t show obvious emotion to a parent.

  When Abbie threw her arms around her father and he lifted her off the ground, though, a cheer went up in the corridor. Young men and women leaned out of their dorm rooms and raised their voices and whistled in approval. McGill lowered his daughter. They faced their audience and just as if they had rehearsed it, took a bow. The gesture received a round of applause.

  Abbie whispered to her father, “A standing ovation. This would make Caitie green with envy.”

  “We’ll keep it to ourselves,” McGill said.

  A young woman stepped forward and Abbie took her hand.

  “You remember Jane Haley from home, right? She’s my roommate.”

  McGill smiled, “Of course, I do. How are you, Jane?”

  “I’m well, and we’re all so happy about Kenny. Everyone here was praying for him.”

  McGill felt a tug at his heart. “Thank you.” He looked at Abbie. “I was thinking I’d take you out to dinner, but if you’d like we can go downstairs to the Epicurean, bring as many of your friends as you like and I’ll spring for pizza and soft drinks.”

  Abbie bobbed her head. “That’d be great.”

  McGill said, “Give me just a minute to talk to the Secret Service, let them know what we have in mind.” McGill walked back the way he’d come and saw Elspeth Kendry standing next to Deke Ky. He extended his hand to Deke. The special agent hesitated only a moment before taking it. McGill told him, “I’m sorry about losing my temper. I’m very happy you’re overseeing Abbie’s security. Everything is working out okay?”

  Deke nodded. “It’s good.”

  McGill told them what he wanted to do, him and the kids.

  Elspeth said, “Give us ten minutes to get set up in the Epicurean.”

  “Right.” McGill went back to talk with Abbie and the young people now clustered in the hall.

  Number One Observatory Circle — Washington, D.C.

  Vice President Mather Wyman and his guests had finished dining and had moved into the sitting room. They were ready to get down to business. Wyman held an unlit Cohiba from the Dominican Republic — the Cuban variety would have been impolitic — in his left hand. His three guests, Senator Crockett of Tennessee, House Majority Leader Peter Profitt of North Carolina and Republican National Committee Chairman Reynard Dix of Georgia had each accepted the gift of a cigar from the vice president but had tucked them into their coat pockets and would smoke only if the vice president lit up.

  All four men were partaking of the bottle of George Dickel Tennessee sipping whiskey Senator Crockett had brought as a gift to the vice president.

  Without preamble, Wyman said, “I’ll do it, be the nominee, but only my way.”

  Crockett lifted his glass, but Profitt and Dix looked at each other.

  The RNC chairman asked the question. “What way would that be, Mr. Vice President?”

  “Think Eisenhower with just a dash of Reagan,” Wyman said.

  “The party has moved on quite a bit, especially since the 1950s, sir,” Profitt pointed out.

  “If he hadn’t been paranoid, corrupt and nearly impeached, I might have mentioned Richard Nixon from the ‘60s and 70s. He recommended a national health insurance plan, if you’ll recall.”

  Senator Crockett, who’d served as a 19-year-old in Vietnam, nodded.

  The chairman and the majority leader looked at each other again.

  Dix said, “I was born after President Nixon resigned.”

  Profitt added, “I was in second grade at the time.”

  “Well, gentlemen, then you might want to read a little of your party’s history. I agree that by today’s lights, Eisenhower, Nixon and even Reagan might be viewed as liberal to moderate. If we were to go back farther and look at Teddy Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln, they would be considered liberal to radical.”

  “Your point being, Mr. Vice President?” Dix asked.

  “My point is that for our party to survive, let alone prosper, it’s long past time for the pendulum to swing back the other way. That’s what I meant by saying I’d do things my way.”

  The majority leader turned to Crockett. “Would you care t
o comment, Senator?”

  “Sounds good to me so far. Short of Candidate Wyman promising to nationalize the Grand Ole Opry, I’m sure I can deliver Tennessee for the GOP. Probably North Carolina and Virginia, too.”

  Wyman smiled and said, “I promise to leave Nashville alone, unless some worthy group there might need a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.”

  Crockett touched up Wyman’s glass of Dickel.

  Profitt, however, defended his home turf.“Why don’t you leave North Carolina to me?”

  The senator said, “I bow to the gentleman from Raleigh. But tell me, Peter, don’t you think all those bright, well-educated families moving into your Research Triangle from other states might be changing the traditional character of North Carolina?”

  Profitt made no denial. Didn’t comment at all.

  “You really think we can win Virginia running as moderates?” Dix asked.

  “Gentlemen,” Wyman said. “We need to look beyond any one region of the country. Our party’s choices are plain. We can try to run to the right of Howard Hurlbert and True South, which will guarantee that we marginalize ourselves. Or we can stake out a position between Senator Hurlbert and President Grant, which, for me, is the only choice.”

  Senator Crockett added, “That’s where the independents and most of America will be.”

  The majority leader said, “It’s never a comfortable moment when a new reality drags you away from old habits.”

  Shaking his head, Dix said, “I just don’t know. It’s more than discomfort for me. Moving to the right is what I think is right.”

  “Think of it this way, Reynard,” Crockett said. “Hard right is where road builders put their ditches.”

  Wyman grinned. He was coming to like the senator’s folksy humor. If he were to have Crockett on the ticket with him, it might well take some of the stiffness off his own image. He could play the self-deprecating straight man.

  But not at the moment.

  “Think of this, too, Mr. Dix. If you want to have a nominee who’s comfortable on the far right, it won’t be me. Who will that leave you? Beau Brunelle? I hear he’s already committed to True South, hoping to recruit candidates for Congress and to be their leader in the legislative branch. Darrin Neff? True South isn’t far right enough for him. The joke is he’s waiting for the Confederacy to make a comeback. Even if you do find somebody who’s remotely plausible, all you’ll be doing is duplicating True South. Dividing the same slice of the pie.”