“So did they tell you who’s on with you today?” Alice asks, splitting a glance in the mirror between Kimba and me as the makeup artists apply color to our cheeks.
Beltway’s format is similar to old school late-night television in that the guests stay as others are added. It’s kind of Bill Maher-esque with the host encouraging conversation and interaction between the guests.
“It’s Rhonda Mays?” Kimba asks. “The special education advocate?”
“And Senator Biggs,” I add. “Republican from Ohio, right?”
“Oh.” Alice’s brows pull into a careful crinkle like she doesn’t want to fully frown. “We had some booking changes. Only one other guest today. I’m sorry you weren’t apprised.”
I stiffen. I don’t like walking into situations blindly. Anyone working for any length of time in DC knows that about me. Kimba and I think quick on our feet, but I don’t like to be caught flat-footed. I’ve been ambushed more than once by some reporter trying to make their name off my possible gaffe. Preparation is key.
“Who?” I ask curtly.
“Owen Cade.”
Motherfucker.
Not Owen personally. He’s not a motherfucker, as far as I can tell. He’s actually proven to be an excellent senator. Moderate in some of the ways I’d prefer him to be progressive, but not a douchebag. He’s compassionate, seems to put his constituents first, has never been associated with any scandal, and has that “it” factor most politicians would give their left nut or boob for. He has stock in that “it” factor.
Like his brother.
“That’s fine,” Kimba says. “Thanks, Alice.”
“Oh, good,” Alice says, relief on her face. “See you out there. Someone will come get you when it’s time.”
The door closes behind Alice and I catch Kimba’s eyes in the mirror.
“You know I don’t like surprises,” I say through a thin opening in my lips as the makeup artist traces the outline of my mouth.
“I know you don’t like Cades,” Kimba says, her eyes obediently to the ceiling while her tech applies mascara.
“I think that looks great,” I tell the makeup artist, gesturing toward her bags and brushes and colorful palettes. “Thanks, but we’re done.” I look at Kimba’s tech in the mirror. “You, too.”
“I’m almost done,” she protests. “I just need to—”
“You’re done,” I say with a smile that barely moves my freshly-painted lips.
Once we’re alone, Kimba and I share a long look in the mirror. The name Cade always makes me feel ill at ease.
“You know he’s in town, right?” Kimba asks.
“Who?” My muscles tighten, braced for her answer.
“Maxim. Testifying before Congress about climate change.”
“Oh.” I look away from my friend to the safety of my own reflection in the mirror, finding stray hairs to smooth. “How nice he remembered he’s an American and graced our shores.”
“He’s in America all the time, but a lot of his business is overseas.”
“Sounds like you’ve kept up with him a lot more than I have, which is not at all.”
“It was ten years ago, Lenn. I know he lied to you—”
“Right. Ten years ago, which is what makes this conversation completely unnecessary.”
I last saw Maxim face-to-face in that Oklahoma conference room. His threat of “coming back for me” has proven an idle one, though he did try to maintain contact at first. His text messages—unreturned. Postcards from faraway places—tossed in the trash. Voice mails—deleted before I could hear the plea in his words. The incident . . . okay the fucking . . . in the conference room demonstrated that I’m vulnerable where Maxim Cade is concerned, so I had to shut down every attempt, cut him off at every pass, and keep him out of my life. He was so busy risking his life in the Amazon or where-the-hell-ever, it wasn’t hard to do.
And then it all just . . . stopped.
I was left to assume his threat to come back for me was indeed an empty one. Each time he’s been in DC to testify before Congress, I half-wondered if he might show up at my office. The element of surprise and all that, but no. Over the last decade, he’s seemed completely focused on building his clean energy empire, just like he said he would. The crusader and the capitalist, too busy to come back. Or maybe he just moved on.
Like I have.
The door opens and a production assistant pops in.
“They’re ready for you, ladies.” She opens the door wider and gestures ahead with her clipboard. “If you’d follow me.”
Bryce Collins is who I thought he was, with questions ranging from subtly condescending to blatantly sexist.
“So they call you the Kingmaker, Ms. Hunter,” he says. “But it seems you like to focus on making queens. About sixty percent of your candidates are women.”
“It’s actually closer to seventy percent,” I offer with a wide, proud smile.
“What do you have against us guys?” he asks, his humor lined with invisible barbs.
“As we discuss in our book Louder, Kimba and I decided we wanted to amplify muted voices—wanted to position in places of power those most concerned about marginalized groups, especially women, people of color, LGBTQIA, and those with disabilities.”
“Seems like we add letters every day for being gay,” Bryce says with a caustic laugh.
“Try to keep up,” Kimba says. “It’s the least we can do.”
“Yes, well, you’re running a candidate now who hits on several categories,” he says. “Susan Bowden, a gay woman, married with three children. How’s the Denver race going?”
If he’s sniffing around a story, we can’t afford to give anything away, not with Kristin barely contained.
“Susan is an exceptional leader.” My smile comes naturally. “We expect big things from her—things that will benefit people who need better representation, especially women seeking equal pay.”
“I keep hearing about women not making as much,” Bryce says with a shrug. “But you ladies seem to be doing really well, and a lot of other women, too.”
“We command the same rates as our peers,” Kimba replies. “Every woman is not in a position to demand. Those are the ones we fight for.”
“Yes, well,” Bryce continues. “You mentioned your book, Louder. In it, you’re very critical of some of this nation’s forefathers, Ms. Hunter. Men widely recognized as heroes.”
“Recognizing their contributions without exposing their shortcomings, the discrepancies between rhetoric of freedom and systemic mistreatment and exclusion of marginalized groups, is a disservice,” I say, trying to check my irritation. “As for them being heroes, how could I consider Andrew Jackson, a president who ratified the death of my ancestors, a hero? A man who sent them on the Trail of Tears? Is he my hero? The men who stripped us of our heritage, stole our language, forbade our customs—they aren’t my heroes. My ancestors, the people who resisted them, those are heroes to me.”
“Forgive me.” Bryce leans forward, his eyes gleaming, obviously relishing the rise he gets out of me. “But your sentiments don’t sound very patriotic.”
“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism,” I quote. “I love this country too much to settle for the lies written in our history books. I love the constitution too much not to hold the men who wrote it accountable for the truth of its principles.”
“Some would call your perspective radical.”
“Some would be right,” I say with my sweetest smile. “I’ll continue loving this country on one hand and exposing the government’s kleptocratic practices on the other.”
“What are we supposed to do with that information, Ms. Hunter?” Bryce asks. “Feel guilty for something our ancestors did? Doesn’t this line of discussion simply perpetuate the divisiveness that’s tearing our country apart? How is this productive?”
“Not only is it productive, it’s essential. Most Americans don’t really know the full truth of what happened to Native p
eople because our history books don’t tell it. We have to know what happened if we are to ensure it never happens again. And it’s not just what occurred in the past, but what’s still happening. We’re still living with it, and there are things that can be done now. This is not about blaming for the past. It’s about us all being responsible for the future.”
Bryce blinks at me, apparently at the end of his combative line of questioning, and turns his attention to Kimba. The light of battle in her eyes tells him he doesn’t want any of that, and he offers a softer version of the thrust and parry for the next few minutes, until we break and add Owen Cade to the set.
“You’re doing great, girls,” Bryce says, patting Kimba’s hand.
“We’re not your girls,” I say mildly. “We’re your guests, and thanks for having us.”
He watches me for an extra few seconds, picking through what is admittedly backhanded appreciation. “Thanks for coming at the last minute,” he finally replies.
I want to ask why the last minute. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in our book, our causes or us in general, but I’m distracted by Owen Cade taking the seat next to me. They’re checking his mic, which gives me a chance to check him.
I’ve seen him before, of course. He’s a California senator, but our paths have crossed very little. Maybe that was intentional on my part. I’ve never allowed myself to think too much about it. About him. Or about his brother.
He couldn’t be more unlike Maxim. Where Maxim is dark-haired and green-eyed like his father, Owen looks very much like his mother, fair with blue eyes. Truly and literally the golden boy of politics. He reaches across the aisle, manages to remain civil in the most vitriolic political climate, and at least, as far as I’ve heard, never cheats on his wife.
“Ladies,” he says to Kimba and me once he’s settled. “Glad to be on with you today. I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, but I know of your father and grandfather, of course, Ms. Allen. Their contribution to the civil rights movement is invaluable. So sorry for your family’s loss.”
Kimba’s grandfather died years before, but her father passed away from a heart attack just a few months ago. Pain tweaks her expression for a second, but she clears it and pulls the professional mask in place before most would notice. “Thank you, Senator Cade,” she replies.
“Please,” he says. “Call me Owen.”
She won’t. Neither will I.
“And you, Ms. Hunter.” He turns that piercing blue stare on me. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”
“Really?” I keep my voice neutral and am relieved when Bryce asks for our attention to review the next segment. It’s mainly questions for Owen, but Bryce wants us all to be prepared.
“We’re back,” Bryce says into the camera, “and joined by Senator Owen Cade. Thank you for being with us, Senator.”
“Thank you for having me,” Owen replies. I wonder if his humility is an act. Has to be. His father and brother certainly aren’t humble. Maybe he’s just the best actor of the family.
Bryce is much more solicitous with the fine senator than he was with us. Even if Owen wasn’t one of the most powerful members of the Senate, he’d still have the famous Cade pedigree on his side. That always garners attention and respect. Bryce’s opening salvos are pretty standard, inquiring about Owen’s recent votes and positions he’s known to hold on safe topics. But Beltway wouldn’t be as popular as it is if Bryce didn’t go for the jugular, and ask the questions everyone wants to know.
“And can we soon officially add presidential hopeful to your titles, Senator?” he asks cagily.
Owen laughs, his posture relaxed, and sits back in his chair. He crosses an ankle over one long leg with the same physical ease and strength as his brother.
“I’m not ruling it out,” he says. “I’m not prepared to make any announcements quite yet, though.”
“Your family has a history in politics,” Bryce continues, “but is even better known for business. Cade Energy, led by your father, and CadeCo, led by your brother, who are famously estranged from one another. Where do you fall in the spectrum of their beliefs?”
“I’m not my father or my brother.” The affable smile dissolves from Owen’s face, and I see traces of the ruthlessness his family is known for. “I represent the people of California, and have for the last ten years. My brother is, as most know, a strong proponent of clean energy and my father is in oil and gas. I believe climate change is one of the most pressing issues we face now and assuredly in the foreseeable future. However, I’m a pragmatist, and understand change doesn’t happen overnight. We are an oil-producing and dependent country. Millions of jobs are tied to fossil fuel production. I believe in responsibly transitioning this nation to less fossil fuel dependence as we cultivate green-energy solutions like wind and solar.”
“Your brother’s made quite a lot of money from these energy solutions he’s so passionate about America adopting,” Bryce says. “He was added to the Forbes list of billionaires this year. Quite convenient that the measures he recommends are the very ones that line his own pockets.”
Owen’s smile reappears. “My little brother has risked his life in places most of us barely know exist collecting data in the fight to save our planet. He’s an adventurer, a capitalist, and an overachiever, but he’s not an opportunist. An opportunist wouldn’t sign the Giving Pledge, committing half his wealth to charity over the course of his lifetime.”
“Spoken like a loyal big brother,” Bryce says wryly.
“I’m loyal to the people I care about,” Owen says. “Including the people who vote for me. I work for their interests.”
“And when the interests conflict with those of the many oil lobbyists your father employs?” Bryce asks, impressing me with his journalistic tenacity.
“I love my father,” Owen says carefully, allowing a slight smile. “But I don’t work for him.”
“Ms. Hunter,” Bryce says, jolting me by introducing my name into the conversation. “I’m interested to hear your thoughts. You’ve challenged Cade Energy over several pipeline projects through the years.”
“The ones that would cross protected grounds, yes,” I say, recovering quickly enough to respond. “So many cities in this country have been built from subterfuge and land grabs that broke treaties and promises.”
“You’ve actually stopped some of them,” Bryce says, glancing between Owen and me.
“Win some, lose some.” I turn my attention to the senator, too. “I’m curious, though, Senator Cade, to hear your thoughts about corporations stealing land for these projects. Should companies like your father’s be allowed to commandeer property that doesn’t belong to them, sacred lands, for instance, for the sake of their own interests?”
“Check my record on pipeline construction, Ms. Hunter,” Owen replies, holding my eyes in a steady stare. “On more than one occasion I’ve blocked pipelines that potentially violated a treaty with tribal leadership. I’ve actually worked with Senator Nighthorse, whom I believe you helped elect, on this and MMIW legislation.”
“MMIW?” Bryce asks. “All these acronyms. Could you clarify for the uninitiated?”
“Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women,” I say.
“Right,” Owen confirms almost gently. “I’ve worked with Senator Nighthorse and his wife, Mena, on MMIW, as well as on the issues of pay equity and criminal justice reform, which I know is of special interest to you, Ms. Allen.”
“Certainly,” Kimba says. “I’ve been following the legislative developments around reduced mandatory sentences. Great work that I hope will prove fruitful.”
Owen Cade is impressive in his own right. By the time the taping concludes, I think he’ll actually get my vote if he decides to run.
We’re taking off microphones when a knock comes on the dressing room door.
“Come in,” Kimba and I call in unison.
Owen Cade pokes his slightly tousled blond head through the door. His security detail is in t
he hall, and he stands half in, half out of the small room. “Ladies, could I have a moment?”
Kimba’s eyebrows raise to the same level of speculation I feel. “Sure. Yes, sir. Of course.”
“No sirs, please,” he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
“I grew up in Atlanta,” Kimba says dryly. “You’ll have to excuse my southern roots knee-jerk manners. They’re hard to shake.”
Owen leans against the wall with a half-smile. “I’m going to run for president.”
Maxim predicted it years ago, but hearing it from Owen still takes me by surprise. I clear my throat and reply, “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll make a fine candidate.”
“I think I can with the right team running my campaign,” he says, looking between the two of us. “How would you like the job?”
For a moment, I’m too shocked to respond, and then I do in the most inappropriate way. I snort . . . as one does in the face of a powerful senator.
“Sorry.” I cover my mouth and shake my head as if clearing it. “You’re just not our usual client, and I’m not sure how we could help you.”
“Why is that?” He frowns and tilts his head.
“Because rich white boys don’t need our help,” I say flatly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, our mission is to put people in power who will champion the marginalized.”
“Which I plan to do,” he replies without missing a beat. “Did you not hear me discussing my plans for criminal justice reform, women’s pay equity, and missing and murdered indigenous women? Where better to install an ally than in the oval?”
“I don’t think—”
“All I’m asking you to do right now is to think about it,” he cuts in and hands Kimba a card. “That’s a direct line to me. I hope I’ll hear from you soon.”
And with those final words, he leaves.
“Can you believe that guy?” I ask once the door closes behind him.
“Yeah. The nerve of him, offering us the biggest opportunity of our lives,” Kimba says, an irritated note in her voice. “That man is probably the next president of the United States, Lenn. You know that, right?”
The Kingmaker Page 20