by Mara, Wil
Nancy took her arm. “We’ve got oranges, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, no, you already do so much for—”
“Karen, we’ve got plenty.”
Karen finally relented, but Nancy knew it would bother her for the rest of the day. She would probably bring two oranges tomorrow—one for Patrick, and one to replace the one Nancy had given him today.
“Okay, well there’s also some money in here in case the ice-cream truck comes around. And I packed their swimsuits just in case Bud wants to take them on the boat.”
The two boys bounded into the sunny Holgate kitchen, bursting with springtime energy. Patrick, four, was the older. He was as skinny as a rail and as fair-skinned as a ghost. Michael, three, was dark-haired, pudgier, and wildly freckled. He considered his brother something of a god and shadowed him ceaselessly. This didn’t seem to bother Patrick in the least.
“What are we going to do today, Mrs. Erickson?” Patrick asked, grabbing hold of Nancy’s floral dress and jumping up and down. Michael did likewise.
“Boys, boys…” Karen pleaded.
Nancy smiled and looked down adoringly at her charges. “Well, your mother brought your swim trunks along, so I guess you’ll have to go out on the boat at some point.”
The boys cried gleefully—Karen was amazed at how much noise two small children could make—and jumped some more. Nancy beamed down on them, not the least bit put off by the intensity of their enthusiasm, while Karen thanked God once again for bringing Nancy Erickson into her life. She was nothing short of an angel.
The women had met in 1979, when ten-year-old Karen walked into a Beach Haven Elementary School classroom on the first day of sixth grade. Teacher Nancy Erickson was writing her name on the blackboard (which was actually pea green) as Karen slid quietly into a seat in the second row. Their mutual fondness was instantaneous—Karen was a well-behaved, hard-working student, and her new teacher was patient, gentle, and nurturing. Karen cried when the school year ended and she had to move on to another grade, another room, and another teacher. After college she moved away from LBI, but, like so many others, she eventually returned.
She spotted Nancy at Holy Innocents Episcopal Church, on Marine Street, shortly after she got married, and the two women essentially picked up where they’d left off. Having lost her mother to breast cancer two years earlier, Karen adopted her former teacher as something of a surrogate. Nancy accepted the role without hesitation.
Nancy started watching the boys sparingly at first, when Karen and Mike were in a jam and needed someone quick. She soon found that after almost ten years of retirement she not only missed the interaction with youngsters but looked forward to Patrick’s and Michael’s exuberant presence. She and Bud had three children of their own, but all were grown and had long since moved off to build their own worlds. Only one of them, a son who designed industrial-application software in California, had children, and visits were infrequent. Patrick and Michael filled an emotional void.
When Nancy first proposed the idea of watching them all four days a week that Karen worked at Tarrance-Smith Realtors, just a few miles past the Causeway on the eastbound side of Route 72, Karen resisted. She was concerned that the boys would run the couple ragged. Nancy was in her late sixties, Bud over seventy. But Nancy would hear none of it—she said she felt as fit as a cheerleader. That was only part of the truth. The rest was based on an opinion that she and Karen shared—that daycare just wasn’t what it used to be. Nancy wanted to make sure these two boys that she had grown to love received a solid foundation. Under her care they never sat zombie-eyed in front of a television set. Instead, they were taken on nature walks and slow rides around the bay behind the house in Bud’s little motorboat. They were given basic lessons in math and spelling.
For Karen and Mike, Nancy and Bud were a dream come true. They were overjoyed to the point of guilt. Karen insisted on paying Nancy at least the same amount she would have paid to put them into daycare. Nancy refused the money at first, but agreed to take it once she realized Karen would have it no other way. She had taught Karen to be proper and decent, and she had taught her well. In fact, Karen was still uncomfortable referring to Nancy by her first name, which Nancy insisted on. In her heart, Karen could not think of the woman as anything other than “Mrs. Erickson.” Most of the time she simply formed her sentences and questions in such a way that using a name was unnecessary.
“Okay, I’ve got to go,” she said, looking at her watch. “Mommy’s going to be late.” She crouched down and opened her arms. “Come give me a kiss.”
The boys charged over and nearly knocked her down, smothering her with affection.
“I love you guys.”
“Love you, too, mommy,” they replied in an uneven chorus.
“We’ll walk out with you,” Nancy said, following the ritual.
Karen stepped out into the bright spring day. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, pulling the keys from her purse as she walked away, backward.
“We’ll be fine,” Nancy told her. The boys were already waving. They looked perfectly happy. Maybe too happy, Karen thought. Aren’t they supposed to be sad when I go? They certainly were when Mike left for that meeting in San Francisco three days ago. They cried until she had to distract them with ice cream and a Disney movie.
She climbed into her Nissan Maxima and waved back through the windows. She continued waving as she pulled away. Watching the three of them grow smaller in the rearview mirror, she felt the sting of tears that hadn’t diminished even slightly over the last two years.
In the brightly lit office of Long Beach Township Mayor Donald J. Harper, a trio of attorneys sat in their conservative suits and waited. On the opposite side of the enormous, L-shape desk, Harper was hunched forward, elbows on the glass, hands together, forefingers raised like a church steeple. He paid his guests no mind. It was as if he’d forgotten they were there.
They sat like a judgment panel, left to right, in three chairs. At one end, a young man with dark hair and GQ features was reviewing some papers that had nothing to do with the mayor’s case. As far as he was concerned, Harper was yesterday’s business. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and J. Quentin Taylor—a third-year attorney who already owned a new BMW and a 32-foot yacht—didn’t waste his energy on lost causes. He had come today only because due process and professionalism demanded it, but in his mind this was nothing more than the final viewing of a corpse.
Next to him was the only female in the group. Susanna Graham had been with the firm less than a year, had in fact been out of law school less than two, but she already knew how to carry herself like the frigid corporate bitch she’d always longed to be. With one leg crossed over the other, she stared down Harper and wondered why an elite firm such as hers had ever gotten involved with such a loser.
Jay Bennett was the senior member of the coven, a full partner in Thomasen, Smithfield, Bennett, and Clarke. It was one of the largest firms in South Jersey, handling everything from divorces to personal injuries to criminal litigation. Forty-nine and in perfect health, Bennett had silver hair and wore small, round glasses set in tortoise-shell frames that cost more than most people made in a week. He was single, had no major vices, and was so introverted that people who had worked with him for years had no idea how he felt about anything. That was just how he wanted it.
Bennett allowed another moment to pass, and then, realizing they might end up sitting there all day if someone didn’t say something, offered, “Mr. Mayor, Judge Hadley will be expecting a decision on our plea in about—”
“You know,” Harper interrupted, “there was a time when I wouldn’t have taken a paper clip that wasn’t mine.” He let out a little laugh that seemed more like a cough.
Taylor removed a silver pen from inside his jacket and scribbled something on one of his papers, apparently unaware his client had spoken. Graham rolled her eyes and repositioned herself yet again. Bennett nodded noncommittally and studied the beige
carpeting.
“Did you know I installed the first direct sewer line to Vol Sedges? That’s right. They said it was impossible. Others tried to do the same thing and failed. I got it done in less than a year, nearly half a million dollars under budget, and I was only thirty-one at the time.” He was glassy-eyed and dreamy. “The schools were a mess, too. The board was run by tired old people with no ideas or enthusiasm. The textbooks were ten years out of date, the best teachers wouldn’t submit resumes, and the students’ test scores were in the twentieth percentile statewide.” He smiled and straightened up slightly. “I changed all that. In two years we moved up to the seventieth percentile, renovated both buildings, got all new books, cleaned out the board—and no one’s taxes went up a cent. Not one cent.”
Harper fell silent again, wrung his hands, and stared into space. The smile faded as he returned to whatever mental hideaway he’d been in all morning. For weeks, in fact.
Graham shot her boss an urgent look. Bennett cleared his throat. “Mr. Mayor, you really do need to tell us what it is you want to do. If we don’t contact the judge by day’s end, we run the very serious risk of—”
“My dream—my ultimate dream—was to go to Washington. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Yes, I knew that,” Bennett replied. “I think we all knew that.”
“That’s what I wanted more than anything—to be a U.S. senator. The best senator the Garden State ever had. A legend. The kind of politician who was grudgingly admired even by those who hadn’t voted for him. It was a big dream, probably an impossible dream, but it drove me. It gave me the strength and the passion to do things I wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. Have you ever had a dream like that, counselor?”
As he looked to Bennett for an answer, he realized it was the first time he’d made eye contact with any of these lawyers today. Bennett didn’t reply, didn’t appear as though he had a reply. Harper laughed again and appraised Bennett’s colleagues, then shook his head. He knew about the dreams of people like this—to acquire as much wealth and power as possible while leaving a trail of human casualties in their wake. What a group, he thought. Three Stooges. And then, from someplace deeper, How did I ever get mixed up with this crowd? There was a time when I wouldn’t have given them a second glance. Finally, and most chillingly—Thank God my father isn’t alive to see any of this.
The Harper family had a broad and varied political history on LBI, spanning four generations and more than a hundred years. Donald Harper’s great-grandfather had been the mayor of Beach Haven, one of LBI’s larger towns, before ultimately reaching the state legislature. He authored the state’s first environmental laws, some of which were still in effect and had created a power base for New Jersey’s conservation groups. Harper’s paternal grandfather, while never holding an elected office, was an influential local businessman who had played a key role in early railroad lines to and from the island. His other grandfather had sat on the numerous city councils for more than three decades, while his father, Roy Allan Harper, was the only mayor elected to serve more than one LBI town—two terms in Barnegat Light and one in Long Beach Township. When he died of a massive heart attack in June of 1997, nearly five hundred residents and luminaries attended the funeral.
It seemed only natural that Donald, the oldest of three children, would carry on the legacy. There was tremendous pressure, considering the family’s gloried history, but he accepted his role without hesitation. As a young boy he would stand in front of his bedroom mirror and give mock speeches, tirelessly trying to emulate the dramatic gestures of heroes like JFK and Winston Churchill. He joined the student council in sixth grade—the earliest it was permitted—and was president within a month. In high school he won popularity through charm, intelligence, and a fanatic devotion to preparedness. During the debate for that presidency, he crushed his opponent so overwhelmingly that the hapless victim received only nineteen votes.
Harper left LBI to attend Colgate University, went on to claim his master’s degree in political science with a minor in civic management, then did a four-year stint in the Air Force, where he reached the rank of captain. It was during this brief military service that he put the finishing touches on his already considerable leadership skills. When he returned to his hometown, he was ready.
He won his first race for mayor, but it was close. His opponent, a popular moderate Democrat named Brenda Morrison, preyed on his youth and inexperience. But she went overboard and ended up looking like a bully while Harper earned voters’ respect by keeping cool under pressure. The residents also remembered his father, some even remembered his grandfather, and they just plain liked the nice young man with all the fresh ideas. Morrison knew her stuff, but she had passed her prime a few steps back and seemed more interested in winning the job than actually doing it. Harper discussed the issues and—perhaps most importantly—appeared to know what was going on in people’s minds. Morrison didn’t.
Not long after Harper took office, the voters discovered their new mayor also had a gift for numbers. He announced there would be no increase in local taxes and, after some number-crunching and cost-cutting, managed to bring the township budget out of the red for the first time in recent memory, giving the town an actual surplus.
In the years that followed, one success led to another, and Harper’s influence and popularity grew to the point where people started calling him the “Mayor of LBI.” The other mayors, knowing it was to their advantage, rallied behind him. By the time Harper hit forty-five he had the island in his back pocket and began seriously thinking about going after his Holy Grail—a senatorship. He had the record, the support, and the financial commitments. In Washington, incumbent Senator William Lacey was on his way out, having announced his intention to retire after his current term. The New Jersey Republican wheels were already sniffing out Harper as a potential candidate, and they liked what they saw. Republicans traditionally had a tough time in New Jersey, especially on the senatorial level, but Harper had developed a following among moderate Democrats and was considered a potential crossover candidate—something the conservatives hadn’t enjoyed in the Garden State in ages. All in all, the current seemed to be flowing in Harper’s direction.
And then Gus Riggins entered his life.
Riggins was a slovenly, foul-mouthed creature who had spent his professional life in the construction business. He didn’t trust people who wore suits, and felt most of the human race was essentially valueless. He bragged about the fact that he never finished high school yet had more money than anyone he knew who’d graduated from “one of those so-called institutes of higher learning.” After fifteen years as a laborer, he’d started his own business, Riggins Builders, Inc., and cultivated it into the second largest construction company in South Jersey, overshadowed only by the almighty Hovnanian empire.
Harper and Riggins were aware of each other and kept their distance through the years. Harper thought Riggins was dangerously ambitious and was glad they never had any direct dealings. Conversely, Riggins felt Harper was just another Ivy-League prick who’d been born on third base and had no clue what hard work was really about. But when the town announced they were going to build a new shopping center on a prime Sixth Avenue lot that had previously been untouchable due to a litany of legal snafus, Riggins decided, come hell or high water, that the contract would bear his name. And the Honorable Donald J. Harper was the one man who could make it happen.
His first thought was of that business chestnut known as blackmail; it had yielded good results for him in the past. So he did some digging. He hired a small band of sleazy detectives and sank a little money into a Dun and Bradstreet report. One month and three thousand bucks later, however, he was forced to swallow the fact that Harper was as clean as fresh snow—there was nothing, absolutely nothing. All this did was inspire him to double his efforts.
He considered threats, then realized that would be too risky. A guy as popular as Harper had allies everywhere; he’d likely pay a hefty
price without reaching his objective. Bribery appeared to be out of the question, too. So what was this man’s weakness? Which button needed to be pushed?
Riggins decided to utilize a tool he despised—charm. He had it but didn’t like to use it. It was a little too close to butt-kissing, and Gus Riggins was no butt-kisser.
But in this case he was willing to make an exception. He paid Harper a visit on a sunny summer morning wearing a suit and tie he’d bought off the rack the night before. His hair was swept back in lush, greasy strokes and his face was smoother than it’d been in years. His immediate objective was to shatter whatever negative image Harper had built of him through rumor and reputation. He wanted to show this upper-crust Boy Scout that he had not one, but two sides to his character—the rough-hewn, blue-collar side that had enabled him to claw his way through the cutthroat ranks of the construction industry, and the classier, urbane side that made him every bit as refined as anyone in Harper’s world.
Much to his surprise, Riggins found himself actually liking Harper. As easily as Riggins could play the role of an elitist, Harper could curse like a millworker and produce jokes that were so off-color they’d make a hooker blush. Riggins soon realized what this man’s true gift really was—he could connect with anybody. And it wasn’t all smoke and mirrors, either—somehow, he really knew. By the end of their first meeting, Riggins felt Harper was someone he could deal with.
And best of all, he’d found the Achilles’ heel he’d been looking for—Harper loved money.