Darryl arrives at the office half an hour before Corey is due. He wafts in a cloud of Tide and Pert shampoo. His hair is still wet and his flannel shirt is clean if a little wrinkled. None of it matters because he looks awful. The planes of his face have sharpened, as if he’s lost weight in the few days since I’ve seen him. There are deep, almost purple bruises beneath his eyes.
“Any word from Toledo?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I thank him for coming in. Tell him I won’t keep him long. I do my best to explain my decision to fire Corey. I tell him I had a change of heart about RAPAC’s messaging, that Corey’s messaging strategy was designed to play to working people’s fears, so that elites could cut taxes on the wealthy and gut entitlement programs. I don’t talk about race-baiting; what would be the point? I say ‘playing to folks’ fears.’ It doesn’t mean anything.
Darryl is not even looking at me. He keeps saying, “That guy is such an asshole,” so I figure he doesn’t oppose the decision.
I give up and say, “Okay, should we cut the severance check, then?”
It takes him a moment to catch up with me, but eventually he does. He gets out the checkbook, and we put together the paperwork. Two copies of everything but the check.
Corey arrives a few minutes late and stands at the partition between the reception area and the bullpen, surveying Darryl and me.
“Well if it isn’t the Bobbsey Twins. Although young Darryl is looking a little the worse for wear. You picking up your dad’s bad habits? Doin’ a little oxy? Maybe a little meth?”
“Corey, let’s just get this over with,” I say, to head him off.
It doesn’t even take five minutes to sign two copies of the severance papers. I straighten the PAC’s copy of the papers and put them in a folder, straighten the second set and slide them across the desk to Corey.
I hold up the severance check. “I’ll just need your office key, Corey.”
He stares at me while he fishes his keyring out of his trouser pocket.
While he wrestles the key off the keyring, he regards Darryl again. “Seriously, Darryl. I’m curious. You been doin’ a little oxy? Just like dear old Dad?”
“He’s dead,” says Darryl, baldly. “My dad is dead, so just leave it alone.”
“Wow. Darryl,” says Corey. The key has come free, and he sets it on the desk. He leans back in his chair, eyes ranging over Darryl’s face. For a moment I think he’s searching for words of condolence.
Instead he says, “Welfare interferes with natural selection. It allows the unfit to survive, weakens the culture and the country. Of course, natural selection only works if you die before you procreate. Your dad’s genes are still polluting the pool through you and Riley.”
I’m on my feet. “We’re done here, Corey. Get out!”
I slap the check into his hands, haul him to his feet, and shove him towards the door. He pulls up to straighten his suit jacket and demonstrate I can’t push him around. I hold the office door open, willing Corey to leave the office. He’s got fifty-plus pounds on me and shrugged me off pretty easily. Wrestling him out of the office is likely to get messy. I’m hoping it does. I’ll make sure Corey regrets it.
“Sorry, Darryl. It’s for the best, for the fittest that is, but natural selection sure is a bitch.”
And with that, Corey saunters out the door. I slam it after him.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Darryl. “I should have fired him sooner. Hell, I never should have hired him.”
Darryl is not even looking at me. “Let’s just wrap things up and get out of here.”
52
Not Exactly the Pentagon Papers
Saturday afternoon, November 3rd, three days until the midterms
Corey’s Master Solution isn’t exactly the Pentagon Papers, but I still think it’s not a bad idea to send it from someplace besides RAPAC’s office. I spend a few fruitless minutes in search of an internet café in Modesto. Evidently the internet café has gone the way of the horse and buggy. Finally, I realize I can just hit the public library, which conveniently is just down the street. I scan the Master Solution, lock the original in a drawer in my desk, put the PDF on a jump drive, and head out.
The branch on I Street is the main library for Stanislaus County. It’s an imposing white structure, with broad shallow steps, square white pillars, and wrought-iron light fixtures. It boasts a large bank of dated computers, half of which are being used by kids. Judging by the sounds they’re making, most of them aren’t doing homework.
Signing up for computer time is self-explanatory, and in no time I’m up and running.
I set up a new email address, then type a quick email, giving the Bee a twenty-four-hour lead before the Master Solution will go to local broadcasters and national papers. I provide Corey’s cell phone number, the RAPAC office number, links to the RAPAC website, and links to the negative coverage of RAPAC’s Dangerous World 2.0 ad in the national press. I send the email to Matt Staples, a Bee reporter who won a McClatchy President’s Award for journalism excellence for an investigative series about lawyers holding up local businesses for supposedly violating the American with Disabilities Act. Hopefully he has the investigative chops to verify the provenance of the Master Solution in time to run a story before the election.
What will Corey say if the Bee tracks him down? Probably, “No comment, no comment, fuck you no comment.”
I walk back to the office, picking up lunch on the way. It must be a slow news day because I haven’t finished my sandwich when RAPAC’s general contact account gets an email from Matt Staples, inquiring as to the authenticity of the attached PDF of the Master Solution. I’ve barely opened the email when the office line rings.
I dust off my hands and go to work. I confirm that RAPAC is engaged in an independent expenditure campaign in support of Mike Reed’s campaign for the House of Representatives. I confirm that Corey Strutsky served as treasurer for Real Americans Political Action Committee. I say that in that capacity Mr. Strutsky was responsible for messaging strategy. I say that the document appears to have been written by Mr. Strutsky. I refuse to identify myself and say I have no further comment and hang up.
I think that went pretty well.
I log onto the RAPAC website administrator account and start making changes.
I post a big statement across the landing page of RAPAC’s website: “It has come to the attention of the RAPAC funders that RAPAC’s chief strategist, Corey Strutsky, fomented racial animus to enable tax cuts for the top 1 percent at the expense of entitlements for all. RAPAC has terminated Mr. Strutsky’s contract and updated the PAC’s ads, clarifying the PAC’s position and the ramifications of voting Republican.”
I post Dangerous World 3.0, which now ends with a freeze frame on Imogen’s message:
It sure is fun to Trigger the Libs!
But is it worth gutting Social Security and Medicare?
Republican Vote = Gutted Social Security and Medicare
I also post it to the ticker tape that runs across the bottom of RAPAC’s landing page. I watch it scroll across a couple times.
That’s me done with my POA to-do’s.
My phone chirps, signaling an incoming text. It’s a photograph of the contract I signed with Corey, of my scrawling illegible signature over my neatly typed, all too legible name. The phone chirps again, and the bubble reads, “Wonder what the NYTimes CA reporter will make of that?” Another chirp: “Might as well send it to the Bee’s tip line while I’m at it . . .”
I put the phone down on the desk and take a deep breath. Corey signed another confidentiality agreement just hours ago when I gave him his severance check. He must realize that these texts are a bread crumb trail that law enforcement will follow if he actually breaks the agreement. He’s got to be bluffing. He’s a sadistic asshole, and he’s just fucking with me.
The phone rings and I nearly levitate out of my chair.
“Imogen!”
“What? Is some
thing the matter? You sound . . . weird.”
My heart is trying to punch its way through my chest wall, but besides that I’m fine.
“Nah, just Corey being an asshole, sending me hate texts. What’s up with you?”
“You should block that fucker. Hey, guess what? Sylvia’s letting me back onto the campaign! She says not to consider it readmission to the heavenly kingdom, just purgatory. She said, ‘You elites, you always think you should rule. You’re like Galadriel: In place of the Dark Lord, District 10 would have a Queen, beautiful and terrible as the dawn, all will love you and despair.’ I think she’s a bit of a Lord of the Rings freak.”
“Ouch!”
“But she’s right! Democracy is definitely not just the white folks in District 10 voting. But it’s also not folks voting the way I tell them to. It’s everybody voting as their judgment and conscience dictate. My job is to clear the path, so that as many voters are enabled and feel empowered to vote as possible.”
Wow. Delgado really is something. Even over the phone I can feel Imogen’s excitement. It’s contagious.
“Sylvia’s given me a second chance, a chance to prove that I understand the meaning of the word ‘service.’”
53
Latest News
Monday morning, November 5th, one day until the midterms
Charlene’s snoring wakes me up. How can such a little person make so much noise? I roll her onto her side and curl up behind her, spooning. That works for about fifteen minutes, just long enough for me to drift off. Then she’s at it again, sawing away.
I roll over and reach for my phone in the dark. Charlene’s bedroom has really effective blackout curtains. Given her job, she has to make up sleep well into the morning, thus the curtains. They’re ugly, but effective.
Jeez, it’s already after seven, with just a day until the election. I need to get a move on. I have texts from last night from Imogen and Darryl, both of them looking to grab a drink while Charlene and I were off doing what we do best. Too bad they don’t know each other, or they could have hit the Branding Iron together. Later, another text from Darryl:
“RAPAC story on KCRA3 & the Bee!? WTF!?!!?”
Darryl’s not an exclamation point kind of a guy. I guess he really wasn’t listening when I was trying to explain why I was canning Corey. I can’t imagine the Master Solution was pleasant reading for him. I’ll have to reach out to Darryl after I take care of RAPAC business. I switch to the web browser and pull up the Modesto Bee site.
There it is, the lead story under “Latest news”:
“Political Action Committee supporting Mike Reed foments racial animus to drive support for tax cuts for the wealthy and gut entitlements.” It went live last night about the time Charlene and I got back to her place.
I shoot Darryl a text, to say sorry we missed him last night, let him know I’m heading into the office, and ask how he’s doing. I check email. My personal email is the usual Bay Area mix—friends, networking events, headhunter inquiries. The RAPAC general email is on fire with media and trolling.
I throw on my clothes and kiss Charlene goodbye. I need to be in the office now.
I swing by the apartment for a quick shower, and then head to the office.
The ringing of the office phone is audible through the front door. I stab the key at the lock, missing left, then right. How much did I have to drink last night? Finally, the door flies open and crashes into the wall. The phone’s ringing is piercing as I rush through the reception area into the bullpen. As I make a grab for the receiver on the nearest desk, I note that I am definitely hungover. Charlene is a good time and a bad influence.
“Real Americans Political Action Committee. Can you please hold?”
Through the open door into my office, I can see Corey Strutsky slouched in my desk chair. What is that fucker doing here?
54
A Few Questions
Monday morning, November 5th, one day until the midterms
I find Constance Chu’s business card in my wallet and consider calling her. I can’t help feeling that that will make me look guilty and my momentary panic at the locked interrogation room door is subsiding. The most obvious explanation is suicide. Despondent over the wreck of his career and life, Corey returned to the office Sunday night to commit suicide. He must have made a copy of the office key before he returned the original. As the discoverer of the body, the police need to talk to me, but that seems reasonably straightforward.
Detective Jennings returns, juggling a notepad and paper cups.
Jennings is a bulky forty-something, with pale eyes and sandy hair fading towards gray. His dry, matter-of-fact demeanor is reassuring: a capable guy getting the job done so he can head home and catch the game. We get through the preliminaries, and I try to answer as succinctly as possible. Detective Jennings has a funny way of repeating things I say back to me. There’s no rising intonation in his voice, so they’re not questions. Not only does his voice not end on a up note, he’s the opposite of an up-talker. His voice ends down, in clear, authoritative periods. His repetitions are signals that my answers are inadequate; they feel like stern admonitions that I should work harder to provide better answers.
“How did you know the deceased?”
“He was treasurer of RAPAC, until I fired him. Five days ago, I fired him.”
“You just fired him.”
“Five days ago. Yes.”
“The reason for firing him.”
“Corey Strutsky’s contract with RAPAC stipulated that he served ‘at will.’ I didn’t need to provide a reason for terminating Corey.”
“But you had a reason.”
“He was an abrasive personality—it was not pleasant working with him.”
“So, you didn’t like him.”
“No, I did not.”
“But his personality, his work style, that didn’t change over the months you worked with him.”
“No. He was always abrasive.”
“So, again, the reason you fired him.”
I can’t see how going down the rabbit hole of political messaging will help me or Detective Jennings. I try to keep it simple, to tie off this avenue of inquiry.
“I came to view his messaging approach as deceptive and designed to foment division.”
“Political messaging that foments division.”
Detective Jennings’s face is completely straight. There is not even a whisper of snark or irony in his tone. And yet he manages to make his sarcasm crystal clear.
“It was the deceptive nature of the messaging that was most disturbing to me.”
“Deceptive how.”
Down the rabbit hole I go.
“Both elites and the base talk about small government. When elites talk about small government, they’re advocating a return to self-reliance and drastic reductions in the social safety net programs. But voters believe they mean no restrictions on gun ownership or small businesses. I wanted to run honest small government messaging and let voters make up their minds.”
“How did Mr. Strutsky take the firing.”
“Badly. He was angry. But then, Corey was angry a lot. He wasn’t a happy man.”
I tell him that the last time I saw Corey Strutsky alive was Saturday morning around 10:00. Darryl Gniewek, the assistant treasurer, met me at the RAPAC office at 9:30 to cut Corey’s severance check. Corey arrived shortly after 10:00 a.m. The meeting was tense but brief. Corey got in a few parting shots in the argument about safety net programs and personal responsibility, but the entire meeting was over in less than half an hour.
“Are you treating his death as a suicide?” I ask.
“Did Mr. Strutsky seem like the sort to commit suicide?”
“I’m not sure I know what that sort is. But his life did seem like a bit of a mess. Divorced. Estranged from his only kid. Not generally well liked.”
My voice peters out. It seems churlish to slam Corey now.
“No,” says Detective Jennings.
“No?”
“No. We are not treating Mr. Strutsky’s death as a suicide. We are treating it as a suspicious death.”
“You’ve ruled out suicide?”
“No. Mr. Strutsky’s death is suspicious because it is legally unexplained. Both suicide and suspected criminal activity are possible explanations.”
Detective Jennings inquires how I spent my Sunday evening, so evidently Corey’s ‘suspicious death’ occurred late Sunday. I tell him I met Miss Charlene Kavanaugh at 6:30 and spent the evening and night in her company. I left her apartment a little after 7:00 this morning to swing by my apartment on San Clemente for a shower. I arrived back at the RAPAC office around 8:00 to discover Corey’s body and phone 911.
Detective Jennings inquires if I had noticed anything unusual in the office the previous day, before or during the meeting with Corey, in particular in the kitchenette. I had not. While waiting for Corey to arrive, I made myself a cup of Earl Grey in the kitchenette. Except for the fact that the milk had gone sour, everything was its usual, drab rental self.
Detective Jennings asks if I specifically remember locking the office door. I do. I locked the door while Darryl waited for the elevator. I remember that as I locked the door, I was relieved to have Corey’s key back. Jennings confirms that besides me, the people who had keys to the office were Corey, until he turned his in, Darryl, and the building manager.
Detective Jennings consults his notes, then drops this bombshell. “It appears that someone spread feces over the food supplies in the refrigerator. Presumably after you left Saturday.”
“Are you serious?”
Detective Jennings is serious.
So Corey made a copy of his key, returned to the office, and before he committed suicide, indulged in a little revenge vandalism? Of course, expletives on the whiteboards were too tame for Corey. Why limit yourself to simply saying “Eat shit,” when you can dish up a literal shit sandwich. Revenge, served cold.
Rules of Resistance Page 20