Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  “J.T., my man, that’s what we have consultants for,” Virgil chimed in with a laugh. “Reverend Goodwin here is a Democrat, at least on paper. As long as he wasn’t caught with a small boy or a dead girl, we can clean it up.”

  The men chuckled, but Goodwin maintained a serious expression.

  “I will not bear false witness,” the preacher interjected.

  “We don’t expect you to lie, son,” Virgil assured him.

  “Son?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Chalk it up to my country ways.”

  Goodwin shook it off.

  “There are ways to position these things, and most of it will never come up,” King said. “Because you are running as a Democrat, most folks will assume you’re on their side. We aim to keep it that way.”

  “Is Dobbs the only opponent we expect?” Goodwin asked. “What about the general election?”

  “There won’t be a general. This is a come-one, come-all special election, and no Republican with all of their marbles would think to sign up for this,” King said.

  “True enough. But there is no telling who else might decide to toss their hat into the ring. I hear Sarah Mitchell is toying with the idea of running. That’s why we plan to go early and hard,” Virgil said. “It’ll keep the noise down. If need be, we’ll flood the zone with more candidates to dilute the vote.”

  “I don’t even have a campaign manager,” Goodwin said.

  “You will by morning. We’ve got everything you need, ready to go,” King said. “We’ll put together a briefing team and hire a speechwriter.”

  “My wife, Esther, writes all of my speeches.”

  “We’ll let her look over things,” King assured him. “We’ll want to make certain the message points are in line with your voice. She can help with that.”

  Goodwin relented. “Okay, okay.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and straightened his tie.

  “So, you’re in?” King asked.

  “My wife and I prayed over this. We believe this is our divine purpose. The answer is yes.”

  Virgil called for the server again and ordered up a round of cigars and double-malt Scotch.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, standing under the muted gold lighting. “Meet the next United States congressman from the Fifteenth District of Georgia!”

  Whit Delacourte wandered in as the men raised their glasses. “Well, he sure does have nice teeth,” he quipped.

  SEVENTEEN

  The open-invitation party at the downtown Hyatt Regency hotel got off to a grand start. A raft of direct mailers topped with marquee names and a heavy social media push delivered an overflow crowd. Bartenders poured rounds of wine and uncapped ice-cold beers at ten dollars a pop as hundreds of revelers squeezed into the Centennial Ballroom well before the program was scheduled to begin. A banner stretched above the empty podium, emblazoned with the newly unveiled campaign slogan that simply read: BELIEVE.

  Reporters roamed between the high-top tables festooned with blue and white balloons, searching the crowd for interviews. Lobbyists, representing big-money interests, chowed on bounteous bowls of chips and nuts, mingling among neighborhood activists bedecked with campaign buttons. B-list politicos and a handful of nameless preachers jockeyed for positions close to the stage while a throng of volunteers checked in attendees on iPads and dutifully handed out self-sticking name tags.

  Pastor Melham from Ebenezer, dressed in his finest linen suit and a freshly shaven head, strode in with his wife, Suzanna, and an entourage fit for a king. Melham immediately began chatting up Beau Easley, the president of Central Atlanta Progress. A dispatch of plainclothes security guards lined the exits, studying the crowd. Another flank covered the podium perimeter.

  The woman of the hour remained sequestered in a presidential suite on the twenty-second floor. Earlier that day, Marsh and Victoria had their first meal together since the brouhaha, and the laceration appeared to be healing nicely. The thawing had begun only because Rosetta put her foot down, made the lunch reservation at Canoe, and demanded that they ride together in the same car.

  “You’re not getting up on that stage without your husband,” her mother scolded. “And I don’t give a damn how much of a low-down son of a gun he is. Living with your father was no bed of roses, I can tell you that.”

  “Mother, tell me Daddy didn’t.”

  “Yes the hell he did, and that ain’t all of it neither. You can kick Marshall’s behind again later, if you want to, and I’ll be right there with you, but tonight you’ve got a race to win.”

  The Atlanta Way.

  Marsh was now quietly flipping through the TV channels in the master bedroom of the hotel suite while a team of makeup artists and hairstylists worked their magic on Victoria in the outsized dining room area. Her mother and the girls were holed up with the remaining family, including in-laws and a host of cousins, in two spacious adjoining suites down the hall.

  Victoria hadn’t spoken to her brother in the days since she told him that she was bringing on a new campaign manager. Chip didn’t take the news well, but given the ugliness touched off by revelations of his connections to Richard Lester, it had to be done. She’d called him twice, at Rosetta’s urging, only to be sent to voice mail. She was less concerned about her brother than what she would wear that night.

  She’d chosen a belted winter-white St. John suit, coupled with a pair of closed-toe, cross-strapped Gianvito Rossi slingbacks, for the occasion. Her mother’s twenty-fifth-anniversary pearls were the perfect complement. Her campaign manager, Roy Huggins, who was hired only five days ago, ran through the announcement speech again before running off a new copy on a mobile printer.

  “It’s all here,” he said, handing her the scripted remarks. “Criminal justice reform, public education, jobs, wage inequality, renewable energy, smart development.”

  “You know nobody in Atlanta gives a hoot about an energy policy, Roy,” Victoria said, interrupting the briefing.

  “Except Georgia Electric,” he responded. “Clay Robinson is expecting to hear something tonight.”

  “Fine, keep it. But pare back the language. Clay is a good lobbyist and an even better friend. He’ll understand. Add more about social justice, mass incarceration, and gun control. Oh, and comprehensive immigration reform. We need a preemptive strike on Rudy Goodwin and to hit Governor Martinez where it hurts at the same time. Invite Clay in for a one-on-one tomorrow morning.”

  “But the Concerned Black Clergy breakfast starts at eight A.M.,” Roy complained. “Reverend William Barber and the president’s faith coordinator are flying in. Dr. Bernice King said she likes to start on time.”

  “Well, now it starts at nine. We’re talking about a bunch of preachers. They’ll be late anyway. And you don’t know Bernice like I do.”

  “Who’s going to tell Pastor Lowery?”

  “You, of course.”

  “Okay, but remember we’ve got to get white independents to win. This isn’t a Moral Monday rally.”

  “You’re right, this is moral every day. This is a referendum. Change the speech,” she said, as the makeup artist began applying false eyelash strips. “Stay around here long enough, and you’ll soon realize that there are no independents in Georgia. This isn’t California or Michigan. We take sides down here. I can fit all the so-called moderates around here in a shoebox. Make the revisions and get me a fresh copy. I fully intend to defend the Fifteenth District.”

  “Ma’am, we’ve got twenty minutes.”

  “That’s just enough time for these lashes to dry,” said Victoria, eyeing him warily. “Never mind, I’ll do it off the cuff.”

  “The whole speech?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But we’ve spent days—”

  “Remember my speech at the Democratic Convention in 2012?”

  “Of course I do. Studied it, line by line.”

  “I never looked at the teleprompter?”

  Roy grinned and nodded.

  The doo
r clicked open, and Sal Pelosi stepped inside, tailed by her brother, Chip, who was beaming from ear to ear. Chip was a good-looking man, not unlike his father, and dressed to the nines in a Tom Ford suit and slip-on loafers.

  “Look at you!” he exclaimed. “Fine as hell, looking just like Mama.”

  “I’m so glad you came.”

  “I cain’t wait till the niggas see you!” he said, stumbling over a corner table. “Where’s that husband of yours? Nigga, where you at? Get on out here, so I can see that split in your wig!”

  Victoria immediately soured.

  “You’re drunk!” she said, jamming her finger at Chip.

  “I ain’t been drinking, I swear to God, on Daddy’s grave.”

  “You’re going to need Jesus, John, Peter, and Paul to keep me from whipping your behind tonight, if you don’t turn around and walk out that door.”

  “We’ve always been niggas, always gone be, straight up out of SWATS. Believe that.”

  “Our father didn’t raise us on that and you know it. If Mama was in here, she would’ve popped you in the mouth.”

  “Daddy is dead and Mama, bless her heart, ain’t long behind him.”

  “You better pray she lives a good long time. Mama is the only thing standing between you and the gutter.”

  “You’re everything Daddy always said you would be. You do know how to count those coins, though, huh? Big house and fancy cars went right to your head. You don’t even go by Vicki anymore. Don’t sound quite as rich as Torie, eh? Tor-eeeeeee Dobbs. Sounds like some white sorority girl. Or is it Victoria? Which is it now? I wanna make sure I get this right.”

  She was out of her seat now, draped in a hotel robe with a head full of pin curls, and charging toward Chip. Pelosi stepped into her path. Marsh emerged from the back room and grabbed her left arm before she could plant a fist in her brother’s jaw.

  “You gone bust me in the head too? No need in holding her back, Doc,” Chip said dismissively. “She’s full of shit now and always has been. Where your water hose at?”

  “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sleeping under a bridge or cooling your heels in the state pen. Never forget that I’m the only reason you aren’t in shackles, eating dry oatmeal and soggy toast.”

  “You ain’t never been about shit.”

  “Get him out of here, Sal. Make sure you keep him nailed down for a few hours.”

  “You’re going to detain me? Under what law?”

  Pelosi parted his suit jacket and let Chip get a good look at the revolver strapped to his side.

  “You’re fool enough to think I need one,” Victoria said.

  “Oh, so that’s how you do your only brother? I’m your blood. You’re going to put your goon squad on me? I ain’t no hood rat.”

  “Hood is as hood does.”

  “You don’t want it with me. I’m the last person to want to step to and you know it. I know where your bones are buried. Remember, I helped dig the graves.”

  “Are you threatening me again?”

  “Look at you, clowning like you’re some kind of saint. With a cold-blooded-ass wife like you, I get why your husband got him a little taste on the side!”

  Victoria resisted the impulse to dive-choke him on the spot.

  “Shut the hell up and get sober, Chip, and I might find you a new job. And stay away from those dope boys. Keep messing around with Dickey, and you’ll wind up sharing a jail cell.”

  “You weren’t calling him a dope boy back in the day. I was all gravy when you were driving his fancy cars and shopping on his credit cards, right?” Chip shot back. “Queen Victoria, who knew you still had a little ghetto left in you? When the smoke clears, remember it was niggas like me that got you where you at.”

  He smoothed his suit jacket and strutted out. Pelosi radioed a second man near the elevator.

  “Keep Mr. Dobbs on ice,” Pelosi ordered. “I’ll tell you when to let him go.” He turned and said, “Clear this room.”

  Victoria suddenly found herself alone with Marsh.

  “What was that all about?” he said quietly.

  “It’s just like Chip to get out of pocket. He’s out of control.”

  “So what, he said a word we don’t use in our house? If I had a dollar for every time you uttered something foul, I could buy you a whole closetful of Hermès bags. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t,” Victoria said.

  “That’s clear.”

  “He deserved it after what he said to me. He wants to destroy us.”

  “We’ll get through this,” Marsh said, his voice breaking up and trailing off. He stopped, palmed her face, kissed her forehead, and said, “I want us to get through this.”

  “I don’t know how we do that,” Victoria whispered. “I’m being honest. It’s going to take more than a nice lunch. This is hard.”

  “You need to go after your brother. Talk him down. He has to be on that podium tonight. He’s been with you the whole way, and you need him on your team.”

  “I can’t afford to have him in that room tonight.”

  “If he isn’t there, people will talk.”

  “They are already talking.”

  “So, you’re going to throw him out on the street like that? He’s family.”

  “He’ll be my brother until the day he dies, but I don’t know what Chip is hopped up on this time, and there is no telling what he might do or say. How does he even know what happened at the house? I can’t afford to take that chance.”

  “He didn’t seem inebriated to me. A little riled up, that’s all,” Marsh said, “and you are still my wife, even if you don’t want to be, and no matter what we go through, he is ours.”

  Victoria let out a deep, knowing sigh. She went to the door, opened it, and poked her head into the hallway. “Sal, go get him. My husband and I need to spend some time with my brother. Roy, tell Pastor Melham to start the prayer.”

  “He might not ever stop talking.”

  “That’s the point.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The rear doors opened and the ballroom erupted. Roaring applause, punctuated by whistles and joyful shouts, as the mayor and her family entered the ballroom just after 8 P.M. Standing room-only, the waters parted as they made their way through the throng and toward the stage. Victoria hugged and glad-handed well-wishers along the way. Her husband was sporting a small bandage on his head. According to the official statement from the mayor’s office, there had been a boating accident out on Lake Oconee. A sail whipped around, struck him in the forehead, and knocked him out. Hampton found it curious, if not unbelievable, that the mayor and her husband had taken a road trip only days before the campaign launch.

  She was among her people tonight, Hampton thought as he rolled his way around to the right side of the podium and pulled the brake on his wheelchair. The circular configuration was something new, strategically built to allow her to address the indoor rally like a town hall. Dobbs understood the value of good stagecraft. Rumor had it that True Blue Strategies, a team of highly successful campaign consultants out of D.C., was the mastermind behind the work.

  Hampton spotted the lead man, Roy Huggins, following closely behind the Dobbs-Overstreet family. Huggins, according to his research, had been dispatched from the Democratic National Committee. That, in itself, was usual given the prevailing wisdom not to get involved when more than one Democrat would be on the ticket. The new website was a glory to behold, and there was a new field director too. While most of the paid staffers were Georgia-bred, the influence of Washington-based advisors was clear. There was no sign of Chip Dobbs, her wayward brother. Hampton figured she’d tossed him out like a load of dirty laundry.

  This was going to be less of an announcement than the kickoff of a four-week coronation, though Hampton was sure she would run every day like she was twenty points down. The mayor once made the mistake of taking a state senate election for granted and nearly lost. Mabel Darnell famously called Dobbs a “show horse,” and Dobbs q
uickly paid her back by leaking the incumbent’s tax returns, a sealed civil judgment, two misdemeanor assault charges dating back fifteen years, and documentation of a county lien on her house. Dobbs knew how to sling a bucket of mud and come up clean. The one-sided race went down as the most expensive statehouse campaign in Georgia history. Darnell got drubbed and Dobbs danced her way to the Gold Dome.

  Hampton checked the battery levels, stuffed his tape recorder into a breast pocket, and waited for the speech to begin. It would be a spectacular show, even with Pastor Melham’s lackluster opening. Dobbs, despite her questionable ethics and ofttimes coarse demeanor, was one of the best stump speakers in all the land.

  Despite the electricity that filled the room that night, the fight to replace Congressman Hawkins would be nothing short of an all-out donnybrook. Dobbs was stepping into the ring, dukes up and chest out. The Reverend Dr. Rudolph Goodwin was said to be gearing up and had hired a small team that same morning. There was no firm word on timing, but the announcement was expected to come in days, along with a promised lineup of marquee endorsements. A crop of social media pages was in play, and someone was already posting under @RudyInTheHouse on Twitter. Almost as quickly, a spate of bloggers, no doubt hired by the Dobbs campaign, published video clips from his sermons.

  Goodwin was a televangelist who gallivanted around the globe on private jets. It was no secret that he sunned in Costa Rica and pushed “prosperity gospel” to his flock of largely working-class black people, who dutifully gave up a tenth of their earnings. The good reverend called it “sowing a seed,” but Goodwin seemed more interested in lining his pockets with millions in tax-free dollars. His gated McMansion in South Fulton and a private jet had been a gift from his congregation. In multiple self-published books, he touted “joyful submission” for women and zero-tolerance for the “abomination” of gay marriage. A YouTube video of him and his pastoral staff running through a pile of money spread out over the altar went viral. Some of the videos had been scrubbed from the internet, citing copyright violations, proof that Goodwin already had a small army of high-end lawyers working to polish his reputation.