David Ellis - Breach of Trust

“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I have to go now.”

She watched me a moment, still with those studious eyes. “Will you keep in touch with me?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure this out,” I said.

Her expression told me that I’d wounded her, that she’d had more in mind than merely the imparting of information. But I couldn’t do anything about that. My thoughts and emotions were tangled up and I defaulted to the classic Kolarich option, retreat.

“It was fun seeing you again,” I said, a comment which widely missed the mark in all directions. It seemed like an appropriately awkward note on which to exit.

I called Hector’s cell to find out where to meet up. Then I hooked up with Lee Tucker for the hand-off of the F-Bird before taking a cab to a union rally over in Hector’s district. When I pulled up there were about a half-dozen people picketing the place. They’d managed to gain the attention of at least one camera. They were protesting over Antwain Otis, the death-row inmate scheduled to be executed tomorrow night. I was still a little rattled from my dinner with Essie, thoughts of lust and passion and guilt and bitterness forming one hell of a knot in my chest. I never thought performing an undercover role for the federal government and hearing about death-row inmates would serve as a welcome diversion from my thoughts.

I walked in through a side door protected by the governor’s security detail, one of these somber robots who had my name and even recognized me now. I stepped into an anteroom much like the one at the last rally. Madison Koehler was pacing while she barked into her earpiece at some poor subordinate. Brady MacAleer was eating chicken wings with some people I didn’t know. I peeked into the main room and saw Hector Almundo warming up the crowd, mostly speaking Spanish to a group of blue-collar Latino workers, two hundred strong.

Carlton Snow took the microphone next, starting with his patented joke about snow and then working his magic for about twenty-five minutes. He introduced himself by talking about his parents and his family’s struggles when he was a kid. No talented politician’s bio is complete without tales of humble beginnings, say, a union-worker father who got laid off before he got cancer and had his leg amputated because the insurance company denied coverage, or some variation thereof. It was because of his upbringing that Carlton Snow was singularly qualified to relate to the common man, why he gets up every day wondering how he can improve the lot of working-class families in this state.

I watched the whole damn speech and found myself calming again. Snow was pretty good in a room, I suppose, and afterward in the adjoining room, Hector was jacked up, talking with some people in Spanish and beaming at the attention he was receiving, being so close to power again. I saw Charlie Cimino and waved to him and the others were there, too, Madison and Brady Mac and Peshke, all of them working their cell phones furiously.

As much as I disliked politics and in spite of my real purpose for being here, I had to concede that the power was enticing. Everyone wanted a photo with Governor Snow. Everyone wanted a few words or an autograph. He was the odds-on favorite to win the nomination and, in an election that was probably going to go to the Democrats nationally-either Hillary or Barack would be formidable-Snow would stand an excellent chance of being elected to a full term. And from there, certainly in his mind, there were no limits.

For some reason there was beer, and everyone started drinking, including me. I made eye contact briefly with Madison, and she gave me an important nod, like maybe I’d done something right. Or maybe she had plans to use me as a human jungle gym later, but I wasn’t on that agenda at this point. I was fucking her plenty with the recording device inside my coat pocket.

“Tomorrow’s the announcement.” Charlie, liquored up himself, whispered harshly in my ear. “Both of them, SLEU and the Laborers. You did it, Jason. Those jobs for Rick Harmoning’s people-Mac says there are some pissed-off people but you did it. It’s done,” he concluded. “It’s fucking done.”

Tomorrow was the announcement? Did that mean tomorrow George Ippolito would be named to the vacancy on the supreme court? And did that mean the feds were going to swoop in tomorrow, before it could happen? I felt a flutter of panic. I couldn’t stomach the idea that Ippolito would be on the court, even for a day. But I didn’t want Chris Moody, Lee Tucker, and company to make the arrests tomorrow, either. I wasn’t done. I hadn’t found my killer yet.

But I did find Madison Koehler, busy conferring with someone in one corner of the room. I stood an appropriate distance from them but made myself visible. When her subordinate looked sufficiently beaten down by Madison and skulked away, I moved in.

“The unions are announcing the endorsements tomorrow?” I asked.

She seemed annoyed with me. “Yes?”

“What about George Ippolito? Does he get appointed tomorrow?”

“And why is that your concern?” In Madison’s world, it was all about control. She compartmentalized. The strategists did strategy. The lawyer did law. I’d done my part, conducting sham interviews and writing up a glowing recommendation for Judge George Ippolito. I didn’t need to know anything beyond that.

“Ippolito had asked to see the recommendation,” I said. “Plus I thought Pesh might want some help with the press conference.”

She glared at me for a moment. You could almost see ice forming between us. “If you must know-no, we’re not appointing George tomorrow. No need to be so obvious. We’ll wait a few days. Maybe after the primary, maybe before. Does that address your concerns?”

“It does, and as always, Madison, it was a pleasure speaking with you.”

I deflated with relief. I had a few more days, at least.

The outsiders slowly filtered out, and soon it was the same group, making a circle out of the folding chairs, a bucket of icy beers in the middle. The governor, Hector, Madison, Mac, Pesh, Charlie, and me. With the outsiders gone, there was a palpable sense of relief in the air. These people felt comfortable with one another. This was the team, against everybody else. I imagined that when you do these campaigns, these are the kinds of things you remember most fondly, the downtime, the drunken camaraderie. Boy, that really made me the fly in the ointment, didn’t it?

The group was half conversing jointly and half broken up into whoever was sitting next to you, which for me meant Charlie and Hector. At one point Peshke cleared his throat and said, “Eleven-thirty tomorrow, Willie Bryant’s going to lose his appetite for lunch.”

Everyone clapped at the reference to the union endorsements tomorrow. Governor Snow, his sleeves rolled up and collar open, waved everyone down. “We don’t slow down now, guys.” He looked at Pesh. “Gardner and Harmoning are going to be there?”

“Joint presser outside your office,” Peshke said.

“I love it. I love it!” Snow grabbed Peshke’s shoulder. “Great job, everybody. And when do we leave?”

“Day after tomorrow,” Madison said.

“We’re going to take some digits from Willie downstate,” said Brady Mac. He was probably taking a lot of the credit on this, along with Charlie. I didn’t know where I fit in on that meter, nor did I care, under the circumstances.

“Let’s go drink some good stuff,” said the governor.

Everyone shuffled off to the waiting limos. Madison signaled me and said, “Ride with us.”

Madison announced the seating arrangements as we approached the two vehicles, and no one seemed to question it. I ended up in a limo with the governor, Hector, and Madison.