Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  “Alright, leave her alone,” Whit said. “If she wins, she wins. If she loses, it’ll likely be her last race. I’ll ring her up and see if I can get her to agree to a cease-fire.”

  “Do you honestly think she’ll listen to you?”

  “She might. Her mother and I have always been on good terms.”

  “I ain’t taking that chance. I’ll handle your mayor.”

  “I said leave her alone. What about our silent partner?”

  “There are some things you don’t want or need to know. Not now, not ever,” said Virgil. “We’ve always been clear on that. If anybody takes a hit, it’ll be me. I’ll step down for ninety days or so until the dust settles. Maybe even six months, if that makes you feel any better. But if Victoria’s little outburst in that editorial board meeting was any indication, she’s gunning for a fight, and I aim to give her one. We’ll carry it right out into the street, so the good people of Atlanta can see what she’s really made of, if we have to.”

  “This has to stop,” Whit said, gripping the small glass. “It’s time to call a truce and unwind this thing.”

  “It’s too late for that, Whit, and you know it.”

  Whit went to swig his liquor and instead lobbed it at the cedar-paneled wall.

  “Well, hell, deep down you two are just alike, aren’t you?” Virgil said. “You always were the kind to get blinded by a piece of ass.”

  “You stop right there, Virgil!”

  “You put this whole damn thing in jeopardy on account of your bleeding heart. You don’t owe her a goddamn thing,” Virgil shot back. “She could spend a thousand years thanking you a thousand times a day, and it still wouldn’t be enough for all you’ve done for her.”

  “I said let it be! Shut it down right now!”

  Whit got up, stormed out, and slammed the front door behind him. Virgil leaned back and assessed the situation. There were moves to be made, he knew. Despite Whit’s fussing, his latest plan was already in motion.

  He’d planned for the possibility that Dobbs might link him to the detective at some point, especially with that secret cop squad of hers and all. He figured Haverty must’ve started flapping his gums the minute Pelosi got hold of him. The fact that Dobbs had already spilled it all to the editorial board left him flat-footed.

  Half the day had gone by, and he hadn’t heard a peep out of Lucky. Virgil clicked the button on his Bluetooth headset and tried calling again. Right about the same time, he heard the propellers slicing through the winds over the main house. He stepped outside and walked to the edge of the helipad. The air grew cooler as the chopper descended onto the tarmac. Lucky, the pilot, and a third man, Riley Lester, stepped out, ducking beneath the slowing blades.

  Virgil greeted his guest straightaway. “Glad you could come all this way,” he said. “How’s your family?”

  “Everybody is fine, under the circumstances,” Riley replied.

  “Indeed.”

  “Weather’s ugly. We could’ve met down in the city,” Riley said, tipping his nose toward a bank of rain clouds. “We’ve got a half dozen safe houses still operating. My brother said this was urgent, so here I am.”

  “I appreciate the courtesy.”

  If he was feeling uneasy, Virgil figured Lucky was trying not to let on. But Virgil, having known him for the full of his adult life, spotted the hesitance in his eyes. Lucky motioned to the pilot to wait in the chopper.

  Virgil escorted his guest inside. They traded small talk as they waited to be served a supper of pan-seared duck breasts, roasted potatoes, and collard greens. It would be the first and last time he and Riley would ever meet, he figured, so Virgil made sure the meal was something special. He had been accustomed to talking to his brother in person, but the situation was different now. Dickey Lester was wearing a court-ordered ankle bracelet, and his calls were no doubt being monitored. Virgil regretted getting into business with them, given their proclivity for violence, but the brothers were sitting on prime property, and those acres were key to his plans for Resurgens. When the time was right, he’d kick Cole and Raffi to the curb and walk away with billions in construction contracts. Then too, knowing what he knew about Dickey and Victoria made his plans all the more delicious.

  Lucky picked over his plate until it was cold and indigestible. Riley ate slowly and methodically until the plate was scraped clean, like he was dining at a five-star restaurant. He dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin, folded his hands across his lap, and waited. When Virgil was satisfied that his dinner companion was full, he stuffed his jowls with the last corner of sweet bread and tossed his napkin onto his plate, signaling he was ready to get down to business.

  “You sure you wanna stay around for this?” he asked Lucky.

  Lucky got up abruptly, leaving his chair pushed back, and left the room.

  “A glass of wine? Maybe a cocktail?” Virgil offered. “I’ve got a full bar.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink when I’m working,” Riley replied. “My brother is a generous man. He sent a gift for you.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small black box, and slid it onto the dining room table.

  “What’s this?”

  “An external hard drive.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “Everything Hampton Bridges has been working on for the last six years.”

  Virgil patted the top of the case and grinned. “How much will this cost me?”

  “Again, my brother is a generous man.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hampton settled in for the fireworks. The first and only debate of the campaign cycle was about to get under way in studio 1A at Georgia Public Broadcasting. The theater-style, cushioned armchairs were brimming with local boldfaced names.

  Tom Houck, an ever-present, loquacious, gravel-voiced politico, who had had the ear of every sitting mayor dating back to the mid-’70s, was seated behind him, trading guffaws with Maria Saporta, who published a widely read blog about the politics and business of Atlanta. Next to them sat Alexis Scott, a legendary journalist in her own right whose grandfather founded the nation’s first black-owned newspaper in the twentieth century. Hampton greeted them gingerly. He was, after all, the same reporter who’d gotten into a drunken car accident with a barely legal mistress not so long ago, and the embarrassing shine hadn’t quite worn off. Scott, as is her custom, was most gracious, while Houck eyed him warily. Saporta, with her shock of long gray-streaked brown hair and toothy smile, offered a consoling glance.

  He had been one of them, Hampton lamented, a high-flying political columnist and statehouse bureau chief, glad-handing and swigging craft beers at Manuel’s Tavern, until his untimely downfall. The whispers among his colleagues had been especially hurtful, though he was learning to live with that now. Valerie Norbreck-Haynes camped out in an empty seat next to him.

  To Hampton’s surprise, Whit Delacourte appeared near the rear doors, wandered down the aisle, and sat at the end of the first row. There were no security guards and no assistants. He had come alone, dressed in a weathered polo shirt, a pair of neatly pressed khaki slacks, and well-worn dock shoes with no socks, all of which Hampton found odd. His presence caused a stir among the press corps, but Delacourte seemed oblivious to the chatter. Hampton watched as he crossed his long legs, dangling them over the aisle, and settled in. Saporta near ’bout ran out of her shoes getting over to greet him. Delacourte traded niceties until she apparently got the message that he wanted to be left alone.

  Hampton turned his attention to the glorious stage. It was outfitted with blue and red draperies, a row of faux Roman columns to give everything a regal effect, and three freshly polished podiums. The klieg lights were still dim when the moderator, Buzz Landry, ambled in to a smattering of applause and took his place at a fourth lectern situated at a safe distance to the left of the others.

  At 7 P.M. sharp, the stage lit up and he opened the televised event.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Atlanta Press Club Deb
ate, presented by Georgia Public Broadcasting,” he said. “I am Buzz Landry, your moderator for the evening. Tonight, you will hear from the three major candidates in a special election for Georgia’s Fifteenth Congressional District.” There was another smattering of applause.

  Landry then paid his respects to the late Ezra Josiah Hawkins, asked for a moment of silence, and laid out the ground rules before he got down to the business of introducing his prey for the evening. As her name was called, Mayor Dobbs strode onto the debate stage wearing her signature St. John suit, a Georgia flag pin, and an above-it-all attitude that was hard to miss. State Representative Sarah Mitchell made her entrance, wearing bookish glasses and waving like the second runner-up in a beauty pageant. Pastor Goodwin followed her in, dressed to the nines and grinning like he’d been invited to a neighborhood potluck. Hampton wondered how much he paid a cosmetic dentist for that glorious smile. The trio shook hands and awkwardly paused for a group photo.

  Mayor Dobbs made sure their revelry wouldn’t last long. She delivered a rousing opening statement that brought half the audience, which was packed with her own supporters, to their feet. She invoked the name of Congressman Hawkins at least four times inside of one minute, so much so that Hampton lost count.

  Over the next ninety minutes, Hampton watched as Dobbs shellacked the preacher like an old coffee table before she kicked his wobbly legs out from under him. For her part, Mitchell stayed on message and was turning in a passable appearance. Neither she nor Goodwin was any match for Dobbs. The bats hadn’t been that hot since the Braves beat the Cleveland Indians in the ’95 World Series. Dobbs came out swinging and kept the bases loaded, but her defense was the real showstopper.

  When Mitchell got up the nerve to challenge Dobbs over her high school relationship with a now-indicted drug kingpin, the mayor seemed to leap over the outfield wall and snatch the ball into her glove.

  “Maybe we should stroll through your yearbook,” she said, turning to face Mitchell straight on. “Maybe we should talk about your college sweetheart and first husband, Jefferson Chait, who is now doing time in a federal camp for insider trading and wire fraud. Or maybe you’d like to talk about your second husband, Leland Mitchell, who gambled away the family fortune on every poker table from here to Vegas and back. Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss your father’s unceremonious ouster from Southern Bank and Trust for spearheading a mortgage fraud scheme that put more than three thousand Georgians out on the street.”

  Dobbs had come ready to bust out every pane of Mitchell’s glass house, if need be. Mitchell looked positively dumbfounded as she gulped a waiting glass of water.

  “And as for you, Reverend Goodwin,” the mayor said, pivoting on heels and swinging her head in his direction.

  The moderator stepped into the fray before Dobbs could get her well-manicured hands around the pastor’s neck. Whatever she had on Goodwin would have to wait for the next round of questions.

  Through the years, Landry had toppled more than his share of politicians—including a sitting governor, two candidates for secretary of state and a west Georgia pediatrician who had his eyes on a congressional seat. Dr. Art Felix had not expected questions about a decades-old divorce that included allegations of adultery, statutory rape, and witness tampering.

  Landry was a tough customer, Hampton knew, and delivered his fastballs with a disarming silkiness that you couldn’t see coming until they hit their mark. His southern accent was as thick and smooth as the waterfalls cascading through Tallulah Gorge. Somewhere north of sixty-five years old and still anchoring a morning-drive newscast on public radio, the white-haired reporter seemed to hit a new stride with every election cycle. Hampton eyed him closely now, wondering what manner of devilment he had up his sleeve.

  Moments later, without warning, Landry lowered the boom.

  “Pastor Goodwin, this query is for you. Your opponents have both released their tax returns, yet despite repeated promises, you have not opened your books. However, charitable filings by your foundation show that you paid yourself and members of your family at least six million in fees since its inception just four years ago, while making grants of less than ten percent of its revenue. It appears that the largest—and in two of those years, the only—beneficiary was the Goodwin family. First, will you release your personal tax filings? And second, how do you explain taking nearly ninety percent of your foundation’s dollars for yourself and your family?”

  Measuring his words, Goodwin responded, “I am a servant-leader. My wife and two sons work full-time at our foundation, and since 2010, we have awarded more than six hundred scholarships to college students around the country.”

  “Yes,” Landry said. “By my math, Reverend, that would make each one worth about a thousand dollars, or about the same amount you billed the foundation for a single dinner in New York last summer. Mr. Goodwin, if your donors cannot trust you with their money, how can the people of the Fifteenth District trust you to do their business in Washington?”

  The preacher stammered and coughed, but there was no answer.

  Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!

  Hampton noticed Goodwin gripping the podium to steady his shaking hands. He’d written about the fake charity and the eye-popping $250,000 payment that went to his eldest son, R.J., who was fresh out of college. The story was languishing in the legal department, waiting for the final go-ahead.

  “He seems to be at a loss for words,” Mayor Dobbs chimed in unexpectedly. “So then, let me answer for him. The fact is, while Pastor Goodwin has been jetting around the globe, preaching the good word to poor people about sowing a seed to gain riches, he was enriching only himself. For the money he raised, that foundation could’ve funded an entire four-year degree for every single member of the current Morehouse, Spelman, and Clark Atlanta freshman classes. The only street paved with gold is the driveway leading up to his house. He could have paid to expand and repave all forty-two miles of I-285.”

  The crowd burst into laughter. The time-limit bell sounded, but the mayor kept going. Dobbs rolled her shoulders back as the reverend stared down at the empty lectern.

  “And one more thing, Pastor,” she said. “I noticed another foundation beneficiary in the records. It seems a woman named Yvonne Ingram received in excess of two hundred thousand dollars a year, beginning almost two years ago. The same Yvonne Ingram gave birth to a baby girl in April of 2012.”

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  “Pardon me, Ms. Overstreet? I don’t know what you’re implying. Yvonne Ingram is a loyal member of our church and the executive director of our family foundation. She is a good and faithful servant, and she earned every penny of her salary.”

  “It’s ‘Mrs.,’ thank you, and the question is who and what she was serving.”

  Holy Mother of God!

  Landry stared at Pastor Goodwin as if he were the devil incarnate coming to collect innocent souls. The audience didn’t make a sound, and whoever was operating the time-limit bell didn’t see fit to interject. Mayor Dobbs continued with the waylay. Hampton waited for the kill shot.

  “It is my understanding Miss Ingram is a member of your church, as you duly noted. However, as head of your family foundation, she had no official duties other than cutting checks, and she had been, in fact, funneled over half a million dollars to keep her illicit relationship with you and your child together out of the public eye.”

  “How dare you, ma’am,” Goodwin feebly protested.

  “Dare I do, Pastor Goodwin. We can ask her about it, if you wish, since she’s seated here in the audience tonight.”

  Hampton watched the blood drain out of the preacher’s face as he spotted his mistress among the spectators. He flipped his notebook open and said, “It’s all over but the shouting now.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Victoria trailed Marsh through the kitchen door, down a side hallway, and into the master bedroom. Her bones were aching, but the day was behind her now. A warm bath, a little music, and maybe a ha
lf tablet of ibuprofen were the perfect prescription. The prospect of running for reelection felt like a woolly coat in the summertime. She could not imagine doing it again every two years, as Ezra had. He’d been thirty years her senior and in Congress nearly as long, running every election like he was a newcomer fresh out of the sticks. She missed him now. His long veiny hands and smooth-as-cake-batter skin, the way he chuckled when she chided him over his packed schedule.

  Run every day like you’re running from behind.

  Where he got the vigor, she did not know. Ezra never knew a day without the work. He was always in the fight, sunup to sundown and every moment in between.

  Stay ready. Sometimes the fight comes to you.

  On nights like these, she leaned on that.

  Sometimes the fight comes to you.

  They’d stopped briefly at the central campaign headquarters, she and Marsh, located along the Peachtree–Brookwood split in the heart of Midtown. There were four campaign offices in all, two to the south and another situated in a strip mall in far-north Fulton County, but this was the nerve center, the guts of the Dobbs campaign, where decisions were made. Volunteers and staffers greeted them with thundering applause.

  “Don’t come for me unless I send for you!” one volunteer shouted.

  “Twirl on that!” Roy Huggins chimed in.

  They raised a toast of cheap champagne in their Styrofoam cups while Miss Rosetta sat quietly at a corner table with her purse in her lap. A driver was dispatched to carry her home. Victoria broke away from the well-wishers to hug and kiss her mother good night.

  “You are your father’s child. Remember that, Victoria,” she said. “He was in that room tonight, even if you couldn’t see him.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I could feel him, Mama,” Victoria said. “I want him to be proud of me.”

  “He might not’ve liked all that mudslinging. But your daddy loved your every breath. He’s watching over you, even if you don’t always know it.”