David Ellis - Breach of Trust

“Give us a minute, Mac,” said Madison.

“Sure, Chief.” Like the dutiful soldier he was, Brady Mac dragged his knuckles out of the office.

Madison fixed her stare on me. “You don’t like this,” she said.

“It is what it is.”

“That’s exactly right. It is what it is. You don’t win election to the highest office in the state by just hoping that good things will happen.”

“A civics lesson.”

“A life lesson,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“I don’t have time for consciences,” she continued. “You want to be mother superior, do it on someone else’s time. There’s the door, any time you want to walk out.”

“You firing me?” I asked.

“I’m telling you that I don’t want to see that look on your face again. Get on board or leave. Is that clear enough, sport?”

“One thing I’ll give you, Madison: You’re always clear.”

“Good, then.” Her computer beeped, which I think meant an email message had arrived. She turned to it but kept talking. “Today’s my last day in the office until after the primary. We’re going all out now. Good work on those jobs. That’s exactly the kind of creativity we need from you. Now I’ll want to hear that you’ve wrapped everything up on that supreme court appointment.”

“I’ve already set up some interviews with candidates,” I said.

“But George Ippolito wins.” She turned her head and looked over her glasses at me.

Yes, of course, one of the worst judges I’d ever stood before would be the winner of my faux interview process to select the next member of our state supreme court.

I walked back to my office and went to work on the supreme court appointment. I got a call at two-thirty.

“The governor’s in the city today,” a receptionist said. “He’d like to meet you.”

The Gymnasium, packed to full capacity of about two thousand, simultaneously went up in a roar at the announcement of Governor Carlton Snow. The governor appeared from the hallway, doing his typical gubernatorial calisthenics-wave, thumbs-up, point, and repeat-as he moved toward the center of the basketball court, encircled in purple for the high school’s nickname. He was wearing a button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans, which from what I had gathered from watching the news and reading the papers-I was paying more attention to such things of late-was the governor’s trademark look on the campaign trail.

There were kids in the audience but it was mostly adults, the racial mix being approximately two-to-one, black to white. We were on the city’s south side, at Duerson High School. The place was badly in need of refurbishing, but the gym was in pretty good shape. One of the guys I played ball with had come from Duerson, but it was my first time in the building.

“Thank you for the very nice greeting,” said the governor. “Usually, this time of year, when you hear Snow’s coming, it’s bad news.”

I sensed this was not the first time the governor had cracked that joke, but the audience liked it. In a corner not that far from me, where the reporters who were following the campaign were gathered, a couple of them traded glances that indicated they’d heard the line more than once.

I was standing next to Hector Almundo, dressed resplendently as always, who had actually arrived with the governor but came over to me. He’d given me a brief rundown. Today’s theme was education, and the governor was unveiling a plan to add more teachers to the city schools by expanding gambling-adding a new casino just outside the city-and using some of the state’s share of the gambling revenues for funding.

I was aware of the fact that we had some casinos in this state but I’d never visited one, nor had I stopped to consider the moral ramifications of legalizing gambling at all. I guess if I’d thought about it, I’d say, don’t go if you don’t want to play. But the point seemed to be that gambling carried with it some unsavory baggage like prostitution and addiction, and the people who seemed to play the most-the ones looking for the big score-tended to be the people who could afford it least.

“Well, these people seem to like his proposal,” I said to Hector, leaning into his ear.

“These people are teachers,” he said back. “That’s who he’s doing it for.”

Ah. Rallying the base. “Why spend time courting people who are already voting for you?” I asked.

Hector looked at me and smiled. Oh, the naive child was I. He leaned into me but had to speak up as the crowd erupted in applause. “This is just the setting, J. He’s doing it for the cameras. These campaigns are mostly television these days. Or Internet. Same thing. Plus G-O-T-V.”

I didn’t know what the hell that meant. “That’s different than regular TV?”

His smile turned to laughter. “Get out the vote,” he shouted over the din. “The more excited they are, the more they make sure that they and their friends go to the polls. We need a big turnout in the city because Willie’s doing well downstate.”

The governor went on for more than thirty minutes. He was good at what he did. He knew how to punctuate his lines, and he knew how to connect with the audience. He had that ridiculous politician’s smile but they all did, so it didn’t strike me as a handicap.

When it was over, I followed Hector and became part of the entourage. There was the state police detail and Madison and some other people, including a guy whom I recognized from the photo Chris Moody had showed me as William Peshke. We filtered into three stretch limousines that were part of a cavalcade, and before I knew it I was sitting next to Hector and this Peshke guy. And I was sitting across from Madison Koehler and Governor Carlton Snow.

The governor put out his hand. Madison squirted some sanitizer in his palm and he rubbed his hands together voraciously, like he was about to settle down to a big meal. Then he took a sweaty bottle of water from her and took a long swallow, smacking his lips with satisfaction when it was over.

“That was fun,” he said. His adrenaline was still flowing from the event. He looked around the cabin for a response, and it didn’t take him long to get it. You were on. They love you. Let’s see Willie Bryant work a room like that.

“You’re Jason,” he said to me.

“Nice to meet you, Governor.” And please say hello to my little recording device, which I had nicknamed FeeBee.

“You, too. Yeah.” He nodded at me. “Like your tie.”

“Just trying to keep up with Hector.” My former client was into the monochromatic thing these days-today it was a tan shirt and mustard tie.

The governor looked at Hector and allowed a wry smile. Then to me, he said, “You played ball at State.”

“Yes.”

“I remember that game. Your last one. I was there. You went off on that linebacker after that crackback block.”

I forgot that he’d gone to State as well. Greg Connolly had mentioned it.

“Then you punched out Karmeier the next day.”

Jesus, does everybody remember that? Well, Tony was All-Conference and a captain. Apparently I’d carved out a place of infamy at my alma mater.

“You keeping us out of trouble?” he asked.

“Doing my best.”

He drank from his bottle again. “Well, it’s a full-time job if I ever heard one.”

More appropriate laughter from the posse.

“You know everyone here?” he asked me.

Well, let’s see. I’d fully explored your chief of staff’s naked body a couple times now. I kept your buddy Hector from a stint in the federal penitentiary. .

“Bill Peshke.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Call me Pesh.”

I recalled what Chris Moody had said. Peshke was a special adviser to the governor but he was a campaign guy. The strategist. Moody had mentioned a turf battle with Madison Koehler. He was in his mid-forties, on the lean side, polished and plastic. His hair was sharply parted and well-sprayed. His clothes were pretty decent. His smile was robotic and his eyes moved about the limo, like he was looking for a better offer.