by Fiona Wilde
“Good Morning, citizens,” Holden said by way of his trademark greeting, “and welcome to Newstalk Live, where newsmakers shape what you” – he pointed directly at the camera – “will be talking about tomorrow.
“Today we have Bradford Hopkins, Republican candidate for the U.S. Senate. Welcome Senator Hopkins.”
Hopkins nodded and smiled. “Thank you for having me, Mark. And I’d like to thank the citizens of this fine state for putting us ahead in the latest poll. Apparently they’re looking past the glassy surface of Clara Faircloth’s campaign and seeing that it’s more shallow than they thought.”
In Lindsay’s apartment, Clara snorted loudly. “Dear God, what a line,” she said. “I wonder how long it took him to come up with that?”
“Well, it does appear that the mood has shifted a bit, given the latest revelations about Ms. Faircloth’s campaign manager Lindsay Martin. Unfortunate business…”
“Not for the voters, Mark,” Hopkins laughed. “It was a gift, if you ask me. Clara Faircloth exercised poor judgment hiring a young, inexperienced radical. The press regularly threw Lindsay Martin softballs because – and I know it’s politically incorrect to say this, but I’m a man of truth – they threw her softballs because she’s young and attractive. Who knows, maybe that’s why Clara Faircloth hired her. Young, attractive single woman to spend time with. And you see how my opponent has stood by her woman. Obviously they are very committed.”
Mark Holden looked shock. “Just what are you implying?”
Hopkins adopted a look of shocked innocence. “I’m not implying anything at all,” he said. “But this is a traditional state, and we need to make sure who we elect shares good, hard-working Judeo-Christian values.”
In front of Lindsay’s television, she and Clara sat speechless at what they both knew was a strong implication of a relationship between the two women.
The Newstalk host looked at Hopkins without speaking for a moment and then pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. As he put them on he slid a folder towards him and opened it.
“Values are important to you then?” he asked.
“Mark, they are the bread and butter of this campaign. That’s why I’ve won the endorsement of every major fundamentalist Christian group in this state. That’s why I surround myself with people who are above repute, people like Ron Sharp over there.”
Ron felt a slight wave of nausea and at Lindsay’s apartment she looked down at the floor while Clara wordlessly shook her head.
“Values. Hmm. Mark Holden opened the folder. Now then. Harlan Ruskin.” He looked up at Hopkins. “Friend of yours?”
Hopkins paused, trying to read Holden’s face. “Yes, he’s a friend. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I mean, we don’t play golf every weekend or anything.”
“You would if you could,” Holden said. “You’ve got a condo over at the Willow Branch, correct?
Hopkins smoothed his tie and glanced over at Ron, a sudden look of panic on his face. Ron looked back at him, expressionless. The plan was in motion, and he wasn’t about to stop it.
Hopkins looked back at the host, smiling. “Well, to tell you the truth, Mark. I’ve been blessed. Very blessed. I’ve made it no secret that I’ve been successful. I have several properties.”
“When did you acquire the condo at Willow Branch?”
Hopkins laughed. “I don’t know; back in 2002 or 2003. Not that it matters. It’s this kind of thing that gets people off track. I’d much rather talk about my platform on the economy. I’ve got a fabulous initiative to cut Medicaire…”
Holden held up his hand. “We’ll get to that. Looking at my information, you acquired the condominium in 2003, not long after Willow Branch was developed. In fact, it was you convinced the county commission you were chairing at the time to grant Harlan Ruskin clearance to develop the land Willow Spring now sits on, is that correct?”
Hopkins was beginning to sweat. Visibly.
“Again, I don’t recall. I could have my research department check if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said the host “Mine already has, and it appears you came into a possession of a luxury condominium at Willow Branch.” He looked up at Hopkins. “Do you deny it?”
“No. I don’t deny that I have a condominium at Willow Branch.”
“Did you pay cash for the condominium? Because the deed was absent from the Registrar’s office when we checked. There’s no record of it. It’s not listed in the financial disclosure information you were required to fill out when you filed to run for Senate.”
“I’m sure there’s an oversight,” Hopkins said.
“There must be, because the official deed arrived this morning in a packet sent anonymously to our station. How is it, Mr. Hopkins, that you came to be in possession of a document that’s supposed to be on official file.”
Hopkins began to sputter.
“And then there are these.” Mark Holden held up two photos. “Recognize these? They are original photos taken by private investigator Bill Coats – photos of Allen Richardson, former head of the Army Corps of Engineer. Viewers may recall that Richardson lost his job after these photos came out, and the new head approved the development of the land Willow Branch now sits on – development you opposed when the school wanted to build there.”
“You should know we caught up with Bill Coats this morning.” Holden gestured to someone off the set. “Roll the tape.”
A screen in the background filled with the image of a pudgy, balding man rushing to his car, a reporter in pursuit.
“Mr. Coats, if we could have just a minute of your time.”
“I don’t have nothing to say to no reporter,” the man said. He chewed on a cigar as he spoke and tried to pull his blue Members Only jacket over his face.
“I’m Jack Manchester, with Newstalk Today. We came into possession this morning of some photos you took of Allen Richardson, the former head of the Army Corps of Engineer. We also found receipts showing you were employed at the time by Bradford Hopkins. Do you deny you took the photos?”
Coats stopped. “I ain’t got no comment.”
“What about Lindsay Martin? Did you investigate her as well?”
“I told you, I ain’t got no comment.” When the reporter blocked his path, Coats became more irate. “Who I work for is my own damn business. So what if I did dig up information on a few people - not that I’m owning up to it – but if Hopkins did hire me it was only because I’m good. And I always get what I’m looking for.”
A beefy hand covered the lens of the camera and there was the sound of a scuffle before the screen went black.
“Mr. Hopkins?”
The politician looked at the host, his face blank. “What do you have to say to that?”
“What do I say? What do I say? I tell you what I say. I say that this is just another liberal media trick designed to distract the public from high taxes, disastrous government giveaways and other facets of the leftist agenda.”
Holden was unfazed. “Might I remind you that I’m a conservative?”
Hopkins’ face flushed again.
“Are you? Well, I’m starting to doubt your credentials.”
Ron all but laughed from the sidelines, and on the couch, Lindsay and Clara were watching Hopkins’ implosion with open-mouthed disbelief. No one insulted Mark Holden. No one. He as not only a pre-eminent journalist, but a sought out one who – while conservative – was sought out by prospective guests who knew him to be well-respect, genial and fair. To alienate Mark Holden was to alienate his viewers, much of whom comprised what Hopkins believed to be his base.
“All I’m asking you for is a straight answer, Mr. Hopkins,” Holden pressed. “You say you champion values and honesty, so addressing these allegations shouldn’t be that difficult.”
“I refuse to answer anything based on nothing more than innuendo,” Hopkins said, ignoring the fact that Holden had solid evidence in front of him. “In fact, if that is even �
� as you say – my folder then someone got it illegally from my office.”
“So these are your documents?” Holden asked, tapping the papers.
“I’m not –I’m …” Hopkins turned to Ron Sharp. “Ron get out here. Ron’ll tell you what kind of guy I am.”
Ron walked over to the table, his eyes fixed on Bradford Hopkins’ face. The politican’s expression was desperate and confused as his campaign manager calmly took a seat beside him and reached out to shake the host’s hand.
“He’ll tell you,” Hopkins was continuing. “He’ll tell you how hard I’ve worked for my endorsements, how loyal I am. He’ll tell you about the endless hours I’ve spent praying about and planning for the good people of this state. Ron Sharp has worked more closely with me than anyone else over the past eight months. He knows my character. He’s seen me in action. Tell him, Ron. Tell him what kind of person I am.”
Ron Sharp looked first at Hopkins, then at Mark Holden. The host looked slightly irritated.
“Well, you’re not an invited guest, but here you are, so I guess you should get a chance to respond since your candidate seems to have lost the ability to speak for himself.”
“Well what do you expect?” asked Ron smoothly. “He’s caught in a situation he can’t spin his way out of. And if he thinks I’m going to help him this time he’s wrong.”
Hopkins looked over, his face pale. His one word – “What?” – was barely audible.
“You heard me,” Ron said. “You’re right; I’ve been closer to you than anyone else. I’ve seen your character up close. And it’s an ugly thing. In fact, I’m surprised at how well you’ve hidden who you really are from the public. But the more I’m around you the more I realize that eventually you would have revealed yourself anyway. Which is why I’m coming forward now to say, ‘I quit.’”
“You can’t be serious,” Hopkins said.
“I’m completely serious,” Ron insisted. “I should have done it sooner, but – and this is my personal failing – it took your character assassination of Lindsay Martin to convince me that you’re nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I’d be doing myself and the voters a disservice if I did any more to get you elected.”
Hopkins began to sputter again and stood, pulling his mike from his lapel. For a moment, he stood there and balled his fists up, as if he were going to hit Ron. But Ron looked at him and smiled. “Go ahead, if you’re man enough,” he said. “But if you do the voters will get to see you beaten twice.”
Hopkins stormed off, leaving the viewers shocked. But no one was more shocked than Clara Faircloth and Lindsay Martin.
“Oh. My. God.” Clara said while beside her, Lindsay, who didn’t know what to say, began to cry.
Mark Holden turned to Ron Sharp now, his earlier reluctance to interview him gone.
“So you had nothing to do with the hit piece on Lindsay Martin?”
“No, I did not,” Ron replied emphatically. “It was a terrible move on Hopkins’ part, and it made me sick. Lindsay Martin and I may have been in opposite camps, but her past is her past and from all I’ve seen she’s a productive member of the community. She certainly is sharp and the worst thing I can say about her is that she’s been a formidable opponent.”
“So you wouldn’t have gone along with this if you’d know your boss..”
“Former boss,” Ron corrected.
“Former boss,” Mark Holden clarified. “So you wouldn’t have gone along with the leak about Lindsay Martin if you’d known your former boss was going to do it.”
Ron shook his head. “Absolutely not. I would have advised against it and would have quit on principle. He didn’t tell me for that very reason, I’m sure. He’d have known that I thought the tactic was simply a distraction from the greater issues – issues Hopkins pretended to care about.”
“Powerful words,” Mark Holden said. “And I think we all know what we’re going to be talking about tomorrow.” He reached out and shook Ron’s hand.
“So what’s ahead for you now, Ron?”
Ron gave a small, sad smile. “Hopefully honest work, this time for honest people.”
“Good luck,” Mark said and turned to the camera. “And that concludes this segment of Newstalk Live.”
At Lindsay’s apartment, Clara Faircloth stood up from the couch.
“I just remembered,” she said. “That I have somewhere to be.”
Lindsay, still in shock, looked up.
“Where?” she asked.
Clara smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does,” Lindsay, said, standing. “I’m you’re campaign manager.”
“Not today,” Clara said. “I’m giving you the day off.”
“Why?”
The older woman grinned. “Because I have a feeling you’re going to be having company this afternoon.” She picked up the donuts. “I’ll take the rest of these.”
She walked towards the door, turning back to Lindsay as she was leaving. “Fix yourself up,” she said. “I bet you he’ll be here within the hour.”
Chapter Ten
She wasn’t sure if she really wanted him to come over.
It was fifteen minutes since Clara had left, since Bradford Hopkins’ disastrous appearance on Newstalk had ended. Fifteen minutes since Ron Sharp had openly rejected the man whose campaign he’d been successfully building against Lindsay’s candidate.
“I’ll be you he’ll be here in an hour,” Clara had said. Lindsay knew she was right, but she couldn’t seem to pry herself from the spot on the couch. The past few weeks had been a rollercoaster of emotions, from the initial heated encounter in the elevator when Ron had spanked her, through their shared revelations of dominance and submission, to what she’d thought had been a betrayal of her trust to this very public redemption.
It all had been so overwhelming and Lindsay wasn’t sure she was ready for another whiplash turn of events. Not yet. She knew Ron valued her submission; it was the yin to his yang. In her he thought he’d found someone completely compatible to him; and she’d thought she’d found the same in him.
But Lindsay couldn’t help but wonder whether she should give herself over to her submissive tendencies. Was it really a good thing to put so much trust in a man? To give him so much power to hurt you - not just for correction but for his own ends if he so chose? She’d been wrong about Ron; he’d no been the one behind her betrayal. But one thing she hadn’t been wrong about was how vulnerable her submissive tendencies made her.
She suddenly looked down and realized in horror that she was still in her nightgown. Twenty minutes had passed now and Lindsay was seized by a sudden panic. She couldn’t let Ron see her like this. She couldn’t let him even see her. Not until she’d had time to think about everything, time to process what had happened and what it all meant.
She ran back to the bedroom and pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans followed by her favorite sneakers. Winding her still-wet hair in a bun she reached for her purse and her jacket.
Rushing out of the apartment she took the stairs down to the back exit and got into her car. As she pulled out she dialed her phone.
“Clara,” she said when the woman answered the phone.
Clara’s voice was amused. “Honey, I told you to take the rest of the day off and patch things up with…”
“I can’t.” Lindsay said. “I just can’t. I need to think, to be alone. I was wondering.
That cabin you have up on Lake Sherman – can I crash there for a day or two? I still have the key from when we went up there for the retreat.”
“Of course,” Clara said without hesitation.
“And if Ron comes looking for me….”
“What should I tell him?” Clara asked.
“Tell him I’ll call him when I get back,” Lindsay said.
Clara sighed. “Will do,” she said. “But if he’s as determined as he seems he’s not going to want to wait. He put a lot on the line to prove himself to you, dear.�
��
“I know,” Lindsay said miserably. “But…”
She stopped. She couldn’t tell Clara why she was so confused. She couldn’t tell her about her submissive tendencies and how they played into it. Clara was a good friend, but there were just some things that were just too hard to explain.
“Just tell him to wait.”
She was entering traffic and told Clara she had to go. Turning north, she sped through the other cars and headed for the exit. The further away she got from the city, the better she felt. There were no easy answers, but what answers there were she hoped she could find at the cabin.
***
He arrived at her building by cab, handing the driver a fifty without even looking at it. “Keep the change,” he said as he exited. Normally, Ron was meticulous about money and always counted his change. But he had more on his mind today.
A new doorman was standing sentry when he reached the building.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa young man,” he said officiously as Ron moved to rush past. “This is a private building. You can’t just go up..”
Ron wanted to tell the man that the last doorman had been more accommodating but held his tongue. “Would you please ring Lindsay Martin and let her know she has a visitor.”
“It won’t do any good,” the doorman said. “You just missed her.”
“Missed her?” Ron jammed his hands in his pockets and turned around, exasperated. Then he turned back to the doorman. “Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said. “The residents don’t generally leave an itinerary with the doorman.” There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Besides, even if Ms. Martin had given me that information I wouldn’t share it with you.”
Ron bit back a retort, knowing his anger was being misdirected. The man was just doing his job, even if he seemed to be enjoying it a bit too much.
So Ron turned and hailed another taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked as Ron climbed in the back seat.
He sat there for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure. Hold on a second. Let me make a phone call.”