by J. L. Brown
“Yes, Senator.”
She put her purse in the lower right-hand drawer and scanned the top of her desk. She never checked her email first thing. She liked to find her equilibrium before dealing with all the messages that needed an immediate reply and the overwhelming majority that did not. She eyed the briefing books stacked on the right top corner of the desk, in order of priority. Sean had printed out her messages, also in the priority of whom she needed to call back first. She nodded her approval. She had a good team.
She did not think about Grayson.
At the knock on the door, she looked up. Landon stood in the doorway, a smile on his face.
“Come in.”
He sat across from her.
She stared at his hair. Someone had taken an ax to it.
He rubbed his buzzed head. “My barber got a little carried away.”
She squinted. “It’ll grow out. Someday.” She picked up some papers and started skimming through them. “Bring me up to speed.”
Whitney had been out of the office for a few days on a road show through Michigan, Indiana, and, of course, Ohio. She had told Ted before the campaign began she was not going to stop doing her job even though she was running for president of the United States. During the previous election primary, a congresswoman from the other party missed almost half of the votes that came to the floor and had a two-month stretch when she didn’t vote at all. Although Whitney suffered from perpetual jet lag, she flew back to the Hill for every vote. Representing her constituents was important to her. And why she was here.
Landon finished his briefing and left. She thought about the last couple of months and how the media had jumped all over the Graysongate story, the bill that benefited Grayson’s business, and the negative impact on her polling numbers. Then, the president’s animal cruelty scandal broke—Piggygate—and her poll numbers started to rise again. Finally, her husband’s affair had catapulted her numbers through the roof. What a crazy profession I have chosen.
She returned to the memorandum in front of her. Another rap on her door.
“Senator,” Landon said, a strange expression on his face. “I think you’d better come see this.”
She held his gaze and frowned, but followed him into the anteroom. He stopped a few feet from the television where Sean and other members of her staff stood. She refused to have a TV in her office. Sometimes she needed a break from the noise.
The Breaking News flash was crawling across the bottom of the screen. An impressive graphic with the words Talk Show Killer at the upper right hovered next to the commentator’s head.
“In an exclusive breaking news story, a person claiming to be the Talk Show Killer sent an email message to this network. Our investigative reporters now believe the murders of conservative blogger Pete Paxson of Houston five years ago, conservative newspaper columnist Taylor LeBlanc of Baton Rouge two years ago, and Pittsburgh conservative radio personality Randy Sells this past January are all related.
“The killer claims to have murdered Randy Sells because conservative talk radio dominates the airwaves and the time has come for moderates and the left to be heard.” The pretty anchorwoman, whose hair seemed incapable of moving, glanced down at a sheet of paper and back up to the camera. “This person goes on to state that the public is being brainwashed and likens right-wing radio programs to the Nazi propaganda machine. Until the Federal Communications Commission brings back the Fairness Doctrine or news networks take it upon themselves to present both sides of significant issues, the murders will continue, according to this self-proclaimed killer. We will be reading the full email on the air at the top of the hour. We will also post it on our website, www.msnbc.com. MSNBC will keep you updated on this important story.
“After the break, we’ll talk to a panel of experts about how MSNBC is the leader in providing fair and balanced reporting.”
The group stood in silence for a few moments. Landon muted the television. Whitney’s employees turned to her, studying her reaction. She shook her head.
“This is terrible news.” She took in each of her staff members, her eyes resting on Landon.
“My office.”
“Yes, Senator.”
Sean went back to his desk and resumed working. The other staffers drifted back to their offices.
Landon put the television remote down on a Roll Call newspaper on the coffee table and followed Whitney into her office. He closed the door behind him. She sat behind her desk. He remained standing.
She stared at him. “Find out anything you can about the killings and whether they’re related.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“And get a copy of the email.”
“Yes, Senator.” He stopped at the door and turned. “Do you want this closed?”
“Yes.”
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She abhorred violence. The next thought—she could not help herself; she was a politician after all—was about the impact this news would have on her campaign. Would it help or hurt?
One thing she knew for sure: her husband’s affair had become yesterday’s news.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Washington, DC
Cole Brennan entered the small, quaint church near the White House. The nave was quiet and empty, except for the lone man sitting in the front row. Cole ignored the beautiful, stained-glass windows he had admired on a previous visit and sauntered down the center aisle. He sat down, a little too close to the man. The man scooted away from him.
“Funny you asked to meet me in a church,” the president of the United States said. “When was the last time you were inside one without the cameras present?”
“Ha, ha. Your sense of humor has always been underrated.”
“What do you want, Cole?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your animal troubles? Why did I hear about it for the first time on the news?”
President Richard Ellison examined his hands. “I barely remember the incident. It was a long time ago. I was young. Sixteen. The court records were supposed to have been sealed.”
“You didn’t think it was going to come out? In this day and age? Everything you did from elementary school on is fair game.”
“My daddy paid off a lot of people. Most people thought it was my brother, anyway. He was the one always in trouble.” Ellison sighed. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. If I could go back and change it, I would. It happened. My friends and I were drunk. Out-of-our-minds drunk. I made a stupid, youthful mistake, which I now deeply regret.”
Cole laughed. “Save the speech for the cameras. I’m not saying it was a mistake, only you should’ve told me about it.” He leaned back and crossed one ankle over the other and interlocked his hands over his belly. “In high school, my buddies and I talked this crane operator into putting an old Volkswagen Beetle on the roof of the school. The principal freaked out, not knowing how the car got there or how he was going to get it down. I was one of the ones he questioned, of course—I was always up to something—but talked my way out of trouble. I learned from that situation that I can convince anyone of anything, which is why I’m in the profession I am today.”
“Fascinating,” Ellison snapped. “Shit,”—the word coming out in two syllables—“Cole, I don’t have time for—or care about—your glory days. Get to the point of why I’m here.”
“You must get out ahead of this Postal Service issue. I set everything up for you. All you need to do is take the ball and cross the goal line.”
“You’re always telling me what I must do. Right now, I have other pressing matters.”
“You always have other pressing matters.”
The president’s voice softened. “This time may be different.”
“How so?”
“We’ve intercepted a threat.”
“What kind of threat?”
“Terrorist.”
“Where?”
Ellison shrugged, distracted. “That’s all I can tell y
ou.”
“Have you seen the latest numbers? Your approval rating is down to forty-three percent. The race shouldn’t be this close. She’s inexperienced and a woman, for God’s sake.”
“I’ve seen the numbers. We’re fine. Just a blip.”
“I can’t believe her husband’s affair is helping her.”
“Did you have something to do with that? The affair?”
Cole sat back, smug. “Like I said, everything from elementary school on is fair game. He should’ve known we’re always watching.”
Ellison shook his head in disgust.
“She’s showing she’s not tough enough to be president,” Cole said. “‘No comment. No comment.’” He mimicked Whitney. “Anyway, she’ll be out of the office for a week once a month.”
The president gave him a quizzical expression.
Cole shook his head, as if the president were an idiot. “Her period.”
Ellison turned from Cole and said nothing.
The two men remained silent for a long time, lost in their own thoughts. The president stared up at the intricate sculpture of Jesus nailed to the cross. Cole, at the floor.
Cole lifted his head, a slow thoughtful movement. He looked into Ellison’s eyes. “Maybe a terrorist attack wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
“You’re not joking,” Ellison said.
“Presidents win elections because of wars and conflicts all the time. You can demonstrate your leadership skills in our time of need.”
“Then I would rather lose this election than hope for an attack that could kill thousands of our people,” Ellison said. “What do you know about this serial killer going after conservative talk-show hosts?”
“Nothing much. Why?”
“Because the right-wing extremism of you and your brethren has something to do with it. That’s why. The rhetoric has gotten out of hand, and I believe it hurts the party and galvanizes their base.”
“Bullshit. Without me, you wouldn’t have been nominated, and you wouldn’t be where you are today. And don’t you forget it.”
Ellison gave Cole a sideways glance. “What if there is a serial killer out there? How would your show go on without you?”
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Cole. “There’s that sense of humor again.”
Ellison leaned forward, about to rise. “Do you remember how we met?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It was at a fundraiser. You sidled up next to me at a urinal in the restroom. That’s when you made your first demand.” He laughed without mirth. “Thinking back on it now, what an appropriate place.” The president stood. “I’m done taking orders from you, Cole. Go ahead and run.”
He walked toward the empty choir chairs and the side door, where his Secret Service detail was waiting.
For once, Cole Brennan had no response.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Washington, DC
Jade sat at her desk, Christian and Dante hovering behind her. After being alerted by another agent, they watched the MSNBC broadcast on the Internet. Within minutes, the president of the network, at Jade’s request, had forwarded her the email in its entirety. CART—the FBI’s Computer Analysis and Response Team—was tracing its origins.
The three of them read in silence.
To Whom It May Concern,
Several years ago, a movement swept across this country called “Occupy Wall Street.” The people participating in these protests did so for many reasons, but the main reason was to protest the unfairness of America’s wealth belonging to the top one percent of the population while the other ninety-nine percent struggled during the Great Recession. The movement was not against capitalism per se, but against a system that was rigged to favor the few. The same could be said for talk radio.
Conservative talk radio controls 76% of the market, which means a majority of US citizens are hearing one side of the argument on our myriad of complex issues. How is this different from the propaganda machine propagated by Goebbels under Hitler? Our citizens, some of them uneducated, functionally illiterate, or lazy, listen to this propaganda as if it were news. It is not.
There is a lot of big money behind conservative talk radio. The government must regain some control and make sure the media are serving the informational needs of all Americans. Our citizens deserve the right to hear both sides of an argument so they can engage in intelligent discussions and make informed decisions. Some would argue that citizens can just “Change the channel,” but since a significant number of talk-radio stations are conservative, finding a liberal talk-radio station is difficult and a moderate one impossible. In addition, what if one does not want to change the channel? What if one wants to receive fair and equitable reporting like the good old days?
The party in power wants to turn back the clock. I agree. Let us do so in the following ways:
1) Restore requirements that broadcasting ownership must include local owners. Talk radio has been ambushed by large group owners holding multiple licenses in different markets. These owners are more likely to air conservative programming;
2) Provide incentives to women and minorities to own broadcasting licenses. Minorities and women are more likely to air liberal or moderate programming; and
3) Bring back the Fairness Doctrine requiring broadcasters to present both sides of controversial issues and give fair and balanced reporting.
If the above suggestions, or something similar, are not implemented immediately, then more conservative talk-show hosts are going to die. And there is nothing the FBI can do to stop me.
Sincerely,
TSK
Jade didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “TSK?”
“His initials?” Christian said.
“Or a message like ‘tsk, tsk,’ as if he were scolding the reader,” Dante said. He straightened. “All I know is this is a bunch of liberal B.S.”
“What else?” she asked, ignoring Dante.
“Max said the killer has above-average intelligence. That jibes with whoever wrote this email,” Christian said. “Check out the style, word choice, and sentence structure.”
“I’m not sure how intelligent he is,” Jade said, “if he thinks killing radio personalities is the best way to attain what he wants. I need to get this to Max.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Let’s look at this from a broader perspective. What is he trying to tell us?”
Dante circled around her desk and moved into her field of vision. “More people are going to die.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Arlington, Virginia
That evening, Jade sat on the couch in her living room surrounded by files and papers, her cat, Card, on her lap.
An Earth, Wind & Fire album played on the turntable, the volume low. She paused to listen to the much-needed rain falling outside. This was her favorite room in the house, its hardwood floors in need of polish, the sparse but comfortable espresso-colored furniture, her shelves crammed with books and her precious album collection. She came out of her reverie when a key was inserted into the lock of the front door.
A moment later, Zoe poked her head around the wall that separated the foyer from the living room. “Hey, you. Hard at work, I presume?”
Jade gave her a tired smile. “Of course.”
Zoe shook off her raincoat.
Jade did a double take at the clothes Zoe wore on her short, thin body. Skin-tight green leggings, a bright colorful African shirt, and some of the largest earrings Jade had ever seen. “Does that outfit even go together?”
Zoe laughed and held up a bag. “Food!”
“What is it?”
“Healthy takeout. Imagine!”
Jade pretended to whine. “Do we have to?” Zoe was always bugging Jade to improve her eating habits.
“Just because you look healthy doesn’t mean you are healthy.”
Zoe moved toward the kitchen at the back of the house, and Jade turned her attention back to the file she had been reading. Zoe came out with
a tray holding a paper plate with two chicken wraps, a side salad, and a glass of water for Jade. Zoe left and returned with the same meal and a Hoegaarden beer for herself.
“How did you know?” Jade said, setting the file down beside her on one side and the cat on the other.
Zoe scrunched up her face and rolled her eyes. “I know how you are when you’re on a case. You forget to eat, call your friends, and do all the other things us mere mortals do.”
Jade stood. “Be right back.”
She went to the half bathroom in the foyer, washed her hands, and double-checked that Zoe had locked the front door behind her. Jade returned, placing the tray in her lap, and took a bite of the chicken wrap. It was delicious. She realized she had forgotten to eat breakfast. And lunch.
“This is right on time. Thank you. How’re things with you?”
“Fine. Busy. The possibility of being a part of helping to elect the first woman president and passage of the ERA has everyone at the office fired up and motivated.”
“How’s your friend?”
“She’s fine. I haven’t seen her much, because of work, but we’re okay.” Zoe paused. “I think.” She laughed.
Jade had long ago stopped calling Zoe’s partners “girlfriends.” Her relationships didn’t last long enough. Zoe went through girlfriends like Imelda Marcos went through shoes. Jade, of course, heard the rumors about Zoe and her in college, the conventional wisdom that if you were a woman basketball player, you must be gay. She didn’t care about the rumors or what other people said about her. Her business was her own. Jade’s only significant relationships in college had been with a basketball, her coach, and her teammates. Zoe was the one person she allowed to get close to her—sort of—and she wasn’t going to change that to please others.
“What do you expect?” Zoe continued. “I grew up in a free love, peace, and happiness household with a father named Harry and a mother named Moon. Let’s say I didn’t have great role models for committed relationships. Anyway, enough about me. I know I can’t ask what you’re working on, but how’s it going?”