by Ben Miller
She stared at the digits displayed on the phone. She felt far less resentment than she had the night before, likely the product of several hours of cooling off and a good night’s sleep. She knew that she couldn’t really justify her acrimony; Jack had never done anything to personally harm, defame, ridicule, or insult her. He had simply written a book, a book that he felt was important to write. He hadn’t known that Corinne had also begun to write a nearly identical book about the sensationalized murder case. At least, she was pretty sure he hadn’t. This acknowledgment made her feel better, but it didn’t completely erase her bitterness.
“Nobody’s perfect,” she said aloud to her empty apartment. If someone else had been there, with knowledge of her thoughts, this hypothetical insider would wonder if she were referring to herself, with her unreasonable grudge, or to Jackson Byrne, who had unknowingly robbed her of a perceived opportunity.
She hit SEND and put the phone up to her ear. The line rang once before going straight to voice mail. “Hello, this is Jackson Byrne with the FBI. Please leave your name, number, and the reason for your call, and I will return it as soon as I can.” Beep.
Corinne opened her mouth to speak, but then didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know how to begin. “Jack” might come off as a little too familiar, yet “Special Agent Byrne” felt too formal. He had introduced himself as Jack, which is how she referred to him throughout the Hollows case. After several silent, awkward seconds, she hit END.
She hated that she had hung up, and that she was now spending so much time thinking about this. “Fuck it,” she mumbled, again to no one, and hit SEND again to redial.
21
“Harrison Sullivan.” The tall, slender, confidently-dressed Most Powerful Man in the World introduced himself as he shook Jack’s hand. Surely The President knew that Jack recognized him. Jack concluded that The President introduced himself in this unpretentious manner to help put his company at ease. It worked.
A former Senator from the state of Washington, Harrison Sullivan neared the end of his first term in office. Three years ago he earned the Democratic Party nomination on a platform of radical change in an otherwise stagnant political climate. The momentum from that race carried him through the Presidential Election toward a stunning victory over the heavily favored Republican incumbent. However, he quickly realized the difficulties of working with the multitude of tired curmudgeons that populated Capitol Hill. By the time he found his footing and began to accomplish only a few of the ambitious goals that highlighted his original campaign, he needed to turn his focus to his re-election.
“Jackson Byrne, Mr. President,” Jack said as he shook the man’s hand. “It is very much an honor to meet you.”
“You look surprised,” The President noted. “They didn’t tell you I would drop by, did they?”
Jack began shaking his head when Johnson spoke. “Where’s the fun in that, sir?”
The President shook his head, feigning disapproval. He turned to face Prince. “Philip Prince, how are you doing these days?”
Prince shook his hand. “Quite well, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”
The President turned to Jack, pointing a finger back at Prince. “Philip here was one of the first people I met in DC. A wet-behind-the-ears crusader fresh off my Senatorial election, I hadn’t even unpacked all of my boxes in my office, just across the street…” He pointed out the window. “Philip shows up with a bottle of wine to welcome me to the city.”
Prince nods and utters a gruff chuckle.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. President?” Johnson asked as he closed the office door and motioned toward the leather armchair beside where Jack had been sitting.
“You know I really can’t stay long. I just wanted to meet you, Jack. I read your book and found it very insightful. And troubling, frankly. Monty probably told you that he read it too, but I’m guessing he just skimmed it.”
Jack laughed at The President’s honesty. “He admitted to skimming.”
The President looked back at Johnson, raising his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. He turned his attention back to Jack. “Well, your book points out several flaws in our government's efforts, and I’m excited to hear that you’re considering running for political office. You have my full support.” He extended his hand again, and Jack shook it again.
“Thank you, sir. That really means a lot.”
“You’ll meet a lot of people in the next several months, many of whom will make promises they won’t keep. But I am serious, Jack. You let me know if there’s anything you need. You can always get in touch with me through either of these gentlemen.” He alternated his thumb between Prince and Johnson.
“Thank you. Again.” Jack felt he was running out of things to say, other than expressing gratitude.
“Philip tells me you’re quite the hockey fan,” The President probed.
“Big Caps fan,” Jack replied. Now the conversation moved a little closer to his wheelhouse. He could talk politics with intelligence, but, in this company, he feared that eventually he would find himself in over his head. He could wax about sports and hold his own with anyone.
“Growing up, everyone around me loved the Canucks, even through those many down years, but I just couldn’t pull for a Canadian team. I grew up a huge Gretzky fan, so when Edmonton traded him to LA, I instantly became a Kings fan. Tell you what, Jack. If the Caps and the Kings meet in the Stanley Cup Finals, I’ll make sure to get you a spot in my box to go see one of the games.”
Jack contained his excitement as best as he could. “That would be awesome,” he said, deciding immediately after the words left his mouth that he must have sounded like a 15-year-old. Too late to take it back, though, so he hoped his juvenile vocabulary came off as enthusiasm rather than immaturity.
“All right,” The President nodded. “I have to run.”
Immaturity, Jack thought. He thinks I’m a complete tool.
“Again, Jack, nice meeting you,” The President said. They shook hands for a third time as Jack agreed, and thanked The President for the umpteenth time. The President turned to Johnson and Prince, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Gentlemen, a pleasure, as always.”
“Thanks so much for coming by, sir,” Philip said. Johnson opened the door as The President waved a hand while exiting. Johnson closed the door behind him. The energy in the room suddenly seemed different to Jack, diminished from mere seconds ago.
Johnson turned back to face them and then walked back to his chair. “He is such an inspirational man,” he said. Prince nodded in agreement as the two of them sat down.
Jack felt speechless, a disquieting sensation for him. He did not think of himself as someone who would get star struck, but he guessed the term adequately described his current state. He also still felt a little embarrassed. Awesome? The word repeated in his head. He decided he would leave out that part when retelling his story of The Time I Met The President.
“So, where were we?” Johnson posed to the group.
Prince answered quickly, as if he made a point of remembering from the beginning of their diversion. “We were going to explain to Jack what happens from here, now that he has decided to run for office. Right, Jack?”
Jack considered this for a brief moment. Is he asking me if this is the point at which the conversation had halted, or if I had truly decided to run in the election? Jack decided it was both, but more the latter than the former. “Right.”
Johnson responded. “Well, let me tell you where things are on our end.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “And, it pains me to say this, as I know you are a trustworthy man, Jack, but, given my position and my personal history, I feel I must: What we say here should go no further than this room.”
Jack never broke eye contact. “Of course.”
Johnson nodded, instantly seeming more relaxed again. “Philip told me that he discussed Rupert Schultz with you.”
“Briefly,” Prince interjected again.
“Briefly,” Jack concurred.
Johnson continued. “Senator Schultz won his election four-and-a-half years ago on a fairly typical, mostly liberal Democratic platform. But, in his years in Congress, he has become more conservative in his politics and more liberal in his personal life. Downright cavalier, actually. This recent DUI is not his first blemish, by any means. His personal record is tainted by several, shall we say, unbecoming events. When we put this together with his changing politics, Mr. Schultz has turned into a bit of a disgrace for the Democratic Party. The American People don’t stand for disgraceful people serving in public office—nor should they— and we as a Party do not either.”
Johnson smiled and looked directly at Jack. “You’re married, right Jack?” His tone had quickly changed from a didactic one back to a conversational one. Good politicians could do this effortlessly. As Jack quickly realized, Montgomery Johnson was a great politician.
“Yes. Vicki and I have been married for almost eleven years now,” Jack replied. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
Johnson nodded, already knowing the answer. “Surely you dated in your younger days. A man like you— good-looking, athletic, intelligent— must have had his share of girls knocking at your door at some point, yes?”
Jack tried to seem convivial, but he was losing patience with this line of seemingly rhetorical questions. “I went on some dates back in my day, sure, but not more than the average guy. I was more of a ‘serial monogamist,’ I suppose.”
Johnson’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “‘Serial monogamy,’ yes! So, tell me, Jack, when you broke up with one girlfriend, wasn’t it always more comforting to have another girl in mind, waiting in the wings? I’m not saying that you would jump right into bed with her, but knowing that you had another prospect waiting always made a break-up much easier, didn’t it?”
“Sure,” Jack complied.
“Well, Jack, in that same vein, I plan on holding a meeting with Rupert Shultz in the very near future to ask him to resign as Senator. That is, if you will commit to running for his spot this fall.”
“How soon do you need an answer?” Jack asked.
“Now,” Johnson replied without missing a beat. “Now would be good.” For such a kind man, he could really apply a lot of pressure.
“Well, what about my current job?”
“Of course, you would need to resign from the FBI,” Johnson answered.
“What about income? Benefits? Health insurance?” Jack asked matter-of-factly.
Johnson waved at this notion, as if it were a gnat floating by his face. “We have several funds to help support you financially during your campaign. That won’t be a problem. The only problem arises in the unlikely event that you lose the election.”
Prince jumped in. “It should go without saying that the Democratic Party will offer its full support of your campaign. However, we won’t be able to support you following the election should you lose.”
Jack nodded in understanding.
“But we don’t expect you to lose, Jack,” Johnson added. “You’re our ace-in-the-hole, our next-girlfriend-in-waiting. We would never give up a seat in the Senate—even though it’s currently occupied by a buffoon— if we didn’t have full confidence that we would get it right back.”
“When would I have to resign?” Jack queried.
“If we move ahead on his, Schultz will resign before the end of the month. There would be an emergency primary, perhaps as soon as next month, which will be a breeze; we would not officially nominate anyone else from the Democratic Party,” Johnson assured him.
“So…?” Jack asked; Johnson had not really answered his question.
Prince jumped in. “This is really going to be a full-time job by the beginning of next month. It’s going to be important for you to find staffers, meet backers, lobbyists, and so on in the coming weeks before going into your full-blown campaign. The actual election will likely be held this November. So, you would need to resign from CASMIRC… now.”
“So you see why we need an answer now. We have an unusually rapid timetable on this, Jack,” Johnson added.
“You were born for greatness, Jack,” Prince stated. “This is the appropriate next step for you.”
Jack nodded. He knew that Prince was right. Despite some doubts about leaving CASMIRC, he had more important items on his agenda now. Finally, Jack said confidently, “I really feel that my heart is in this. I want this.”
“Then let’s make it happen,” Johnson said convincingly.
The meeting ended a few minutes later, and Jack thanked them both. He and Prince rode the elevator down to the first floor together and exited the building.
“I’m proud of you, Jack” Prince said, squinting into the mid-morning sun as he pulled on his overcoat. Though still a bit chilly, even for April, Jack left his overcoat slung over his left arm.
“Thanks, Philip. I think I am too,” Jack replied.
“You should be. And, I don’t want to sound too clichéd, here, but…” Prince began.
Jack’s head gave a slow nod, as he turned from Prince to also face the sunlight. “I know…”
“He would be, Jack. He would be very proud.”
22
A short while later, Jack stared at the reflection of the great obelisk as it bounced off the water in front of him. What a strange way to memorialize someone? he thought. He had read the Dan Brown book some years back, the one that put forth the hypothesis about the Obelisk being an important symbol to the alleged Mason George Washington. He couldn’t remember which of Brown’s novels had theorized this particular conspiracy theory. They were all basically the same, anyway. Still, even if one bought this theory, isn’t it odd to erect a huge phallus in honor of one of your country’s patriarchs? Why not a bust, or a full-bodied statue like Lincoln or Jefferson?
He sat on the third row of steps of the Lincoln Memorial, drinking his Grande Starbucks coffee. He left the house in such a hurry that morning that he didn’t have the chance to savor his morning brew. Jack recognized very well the cliché that he had come here—to the Reflecting Pool— to reflect. But this was one of his favorite spots in the city, and he couldn’t deny the calming effect this place always had on him.
He thought about his time with the FBI, and with CASMIRC specifically. In a relatively short time—seven years total—he had played a role in over fifty investigations, the vast majority of which had led to successful convictions. He felt proud of his work, but he also had grown tired of it. His speech for Johnson and Prince was not insincere. He had always dreamt of serving in the Senate; he did want to do more with his professional life on a policy level. He purposefully left out of his monologue, though, that recently he felt more and more defeated by the horrors of his current job. The various crimes that he encountered through CASMIRC had always sickened him, but he always found a way to put that nausea aside. He focused on the details—the forensics, the pathology, motive, means, opportunity. He had become quite adept at profiling, trying to think like the killer, the kidnapper, the pornographer, or the pedophile. He could accomplish this comfortably because he was nothing like those people; he had learned to think like them without associating with them.
On the other hand, he struggled with the victimology— trying to understand how a person becomes a victim. Jack had much difficulty fathoming how children could play a role in their own victimization. With few exceptions, they are all so innocent. As Jonah got older— developing from an adorable novelty into a unique little person, full of hopes and dreams, flaws and weaknesses— victimology became even harder for Jack, a near impossibility. He could not think about the victims without associating with them. Though Jack occasionally lacked insight, that morning at the Reflecting Pool, he possessed enough to recognize this growing inability to think about child victims as a harbinger for his resignation from CASMIRC. It served as much of a motivating factor as did his desire to run for the Senate.
With t
hat thought he took the final sip of coffee from his Styrofoam cup. He reached to his belt and took out his Blackberry, turned it on. He had one voicemail.
“Hi, Jackson Byrne, this is Corinne O’Loughlin. I am doing some investigating into a new case and was hoping to discuss it with you. Please call me back when you can…” And she left her cell and office numbers, which Jack did not write down. He knew he had kept both numbers stored in his phone.
Wartime, he thought. What’s she looking into?
Jack remembered Corinne very well, a talented and tenacious investigative reporter. He had met her in the early stages of the Hollows investigation. He first remembered seeing her at the crime scene, though they did not speak. He had already been working the case as a Missing Person/Possible Abduction, so he was one of the first on the scene when Lamaya Hollows’ body was discovered. Though it was an unusually chilly and windy May morning, Corinne wore only a light sweater to the crime scene. No jacket, wind-breaker, or even a scarf. Her wavy red hair had been pulled back in a pony-tail, offering no relief to her nape from the cutting spring wind.
The following day, while Jack exited the home of the victim’s famous father, Lamond Hollows, Corinne approached him to ask some questions. She didn’t come armed with a microphone or recorder aimed at his face, just with a notebook and a seriousness that struck him immediately. He felt she could be an ally, if utilized properly, and he had been right.
“Special Agent Byrne, I’m Corinne O’Loughlin from The Washington Post,” she had said, extending her hand. Jack shook it, then stuffed his hands into his pants pockets as he turned to lean against the door of his car. Again, though the weather has eased up some, Corinne seemed underdressed for the conditions. Jack noticed that she had straightened her hair, put it back in a clip near the crown of her head, with strands falling down on either side.