Moreau gaveled the meeting to order. The crowd was restless, and there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in the gallery, especially among the reporters.
The chairman shrugged it off, attributing the commotion to the late start.
He had begun directing the usual parliamentary procedures of the committee, when he noticed one reporter approach Randall Winston, who was seated at the far end of the large table.
The general counsel’s face tightened with concern as he listened to the reporter’s whispers.
Winston looked to the chairman and held up his hand. The reporter backed away as Winston pulled his microphone close.
“Mr. Chairman, it seems that there may be cause to delay our pending vote this morning.”
“Mr. Winston, as much as I regard your performance as counsel to this body, I must say that we have deliberated this issue to the fullest and our action on the matter is warranted and imminent.”
“Mr. Chairman, may I strongly suggest we take a brief recess?”
This was a public meeting, and according to the Louisiana “Sunshine Law” the commissioners were not to hold policy-making discussions in private. Moreau knew that Winston must have a very good reason to interrupt the proceedings.
“Very well,” Moreau sighed. “We’ll reconvene — with a vote — at 10:30.”
The commissioners gathered in the small adjoining office.
In moments, a television had been wheeled into the room and tuned into a local station’s continuing coverage of the day’s biggest news story.
Sherry LeVasseur and Rob Baldwin entered the committee room just as the commissioners rose from their seats.
“What’s up?” Sherry whispered as they squeezed between the crowd of reporters and on-lookers.
“I don’t know.” Rob scanned the news crews for a familiar face. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.” He moved over to one of the reporters, who had just readjusted his radio station’s microphone, one of many that was clumped strategically near the chairman’s seat.
Rob returned after a quick update from the reporter.
“The commission started their meeting — just as if everything was normal — and then suddenly called a break,” Rob said. “They’ll reconvene at 10:30.”
“They hadn’t heard the news?” Sherry was incredulous.
“Apparently not.” Rob shook his head.
“Boy, these guys are more out of touch than I thought,” she added.
After a half hour or so, the commissioners reappeared.
Rob noticed that Randall Winston looked especially haggard. In fact, several of the board members seemed distracted and fidgety.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” chairman Trent Moreau intoned as he rapped the gavel. “If we could have your attention.”
The room fell silent. Three video lights came to life, as the cameras focused on the chairman. The harsh light made the panel of commissioners seem even more stark and lifeless.
“Due to the sudden turn of events concerning matters directly related to our pending decision, our vote to award the licensing of the New Orleans land-based casino will be delayed for an indefinite period of time.” Moreau’s words boomed through the room. “The matter will be re-addressed at some point to be determined later, pending the result of an on-going probe by the district attorney’s office.”
Moreau looked to Winston and nodded.
“Mr. Chairman.” Winston’s usually robust voice seemed feeble and suddenly corresponded with his advanced age.
“Mr. Winston?” Rob couldn’t help but notice that this moment had been planned.
“Mr. Chairman, in light of the sudden complications that have arisen, justifiably delaying the action of our committee, I must regrettably withdraw from future involvement in the business of this body.” Winston removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Rob thought it odd that the patriarch of political insiders now seemed frail and vulnerable.
“I must finally admit that my advanced age would curtail my continued involvement in such a protracted matter.” His voice now shrank even further. “I shall also need to personally address issues of culpability in matters concerning the commission’s business.”
Rob looked at Sherry. Despite Randall Winston’s well-practiced duplicity, it was apparent. Winston’s name would soon join the others in the DA’s investigation.
Chairman Moreau nodded and picked up his gavel, ready to end the proceedings.
“Mr. Chairman.”
It was the voice of one of the female commissioners. Rob looked at her nameplate. It was Nora Simon, a low-key member of the committee that Rob only remembered to be a Caddo Parish attorney, with vague ties to the governor’s family.
“Ms. Simon?” This time, the chairman seemed genuinely surprised by the interruption.
“I too, must withdraw from the commission, without further comment.”
“I see.” Moreau seemed unnerved. He still clasped the gavel awkwardly in mid-air. “Well, if there’s nothing further, then we’ll stand adj —”
“Mr. Chairman. I too must resign, with deep regret.”
The words were hurriedly muttered by another meek commissioner on the far end of the table.
Rob couldn’t see the speaker’s name from his vantage point. News crews and photographers were beginning to rush the table, past the informal and unseen barrier of protocol dividing the gallery from the commissioners’ platform.
The chairman quickly gaveled the meeting to a close, as the board members rose from their chairs and dashed for the back entrance. The reporters pursued unabashedly.
Rob and Sherry worked their way to the committee room’s large double entrance doors, away from the feeding frenzy.
They hurried down the hall and found an elevator. Its doors opened, releasing even more harried news people, carrying cameras, lights and packs of gear. Rob and Sherry yielded to the onslaught, then boarded the elevator and descended to Memorial Hall, one floor below.
“Well, that was certainly interesting.” Sherry rolled her eyes as she spoke.
“Yeah, it looks like the governor had his bases covered with more than just Bellemont.”
“So, now what?” They had crossed the polished lava floor, and Sherry leaned her hands on the railing surrounding the inlaid, bronze relief map of Louisiana.
“Oh, I suppose someone else will get the license to build the casino. Maybe the governor could just apply for the license himself.” Rob chuckled at his attempt at humor, but knew the real irony of the statement was not its impossibility.
He looked up from the map and drank in her blue eyes. That familiar stab in his gut returned.
“What about you?” he asked. “There’s not going to be much of an ad agency to go back to.”
“Oh, I’ve already made that decision.” She smiled, turned around, leaned back against the railing and folded her arms. “I’m heading back to the classroom. Maybe I’ll marry that coach and wash gym socks ‘til I die.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Maybe I’ll teach civics.”
Rob laughed.
“How about math?” he teased. “You worked those odds pretty good on the slot machines.”
They looked at each other for a moment without speaking.
“And you?” she finally asked.
He paused.
“Well, I’ve got a radio station to run,” he said. “And a family to get reacquainted with,” he added softly.
Sherry nodded with a small smile. She leaned forward and they began making their way to the massive entrance doors.
"Good morning. You’re on KLOM.”
“You know, you cut me off the other day — and I wasn’t finished!” The man’s voice was instantly familiar. One of Rob’s regular callers.
“What were we talking about?”
“The damn traffic in this town.”
Rob winced at the light profanity and moved his finger to the KILL button on the time-delay unit.
&nbs
p; “And what about the traffic?”
“Well, I said we should just dig up the bricks on First Street.”
Rob remembered the call.
"I remember now. We need to just dig up the bricks and re-pave the street right in the middle of the Historic District, right?"
"Hell, yeah! Just dig 'em up! And put all the members of the Preservation Society in the hole the bricks came from!"
Rob turned to punch off the line and take another call, but before his finger stabbed the button, he stopped.
He took a deep breath.
“You’ve got a bone to pick with the Preservation Society, huh?” he asked.
Who knows? There might be a good news story here.
From the Author
I’ve had two New York based literary agents represent my work. Both enthusiastically shopped my books to major publishers, confident of getting a sale, though one warned, “You won’t get rich.”
Boy, he was right about that. Neither book sold.
But just having “professional representation” inspired and encouraged me. It was never about the money; I just have to write. And without readers, there really is no point.
“Writing is a lonely job,” Stephen King says in his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. “Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don't have to makes speeches. Just believing is usually enough.”
So, thank you for reading. I would love to hear from you. Visit my website at www.halmharrison.com for news about upcoming books — and my Facebook page (www.facebook.com/halmharrison) just to chat. You can contact me at [email protected]. And please post a review of The Kingfish Commission on Amazon.com.
Thanks again.
The Kingfish Commission_A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. Page 24