Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Should we try to lose them?” Cass said. They were being followed by at least four, possibly more, cars full of news photographers. She’d just gotten off the phone with her weepy mother.

“Ix-nay,” Terry said. “Just what we need, a high-speed car chase. We’ll do an availability when we get to Randy’s. They’ll go away after that. I think.”

“Why do we have to go to Randy’s? I want to go home.”

“Because he wants us to. And because he’s the reason your ass is not still back there.”

“You had to involve him?”

Terry rolled his eyes. “He’s a United States senator. If you’ve got any others willing to stand up and shout on your behalf, by all means send ’em to me.”

“Now I owe him.”

“Count your blessings, Miss Life Without Parole. And smile for the cameras. Say a few words. We’re looking for a twenty-second bite on how good it is to be out, how good it is your message is getting out-”

“Are you telling me how to do a press availability?”

“Your lawyer, a decent guy, by the way, is on Prozac because of you. I’ll be standing behind you with a gun pointed at your back. So stick with the script.”

“I have friends in the Pulitzer Nation.”

Randy lived in a large Federal-style mansion in Georgetown that in its day had been home to a future president of the United States, two distinguished ambassadors, Theodore Roosevelt’s secretary of state, and a famous Georgetown hostess who conducted simultaneous affairs with a king of England, the Count of Paris, Haile Selassie, and Josephine Baker. She died, it was said, of exhaustion.

Randy greeted Cass and Terry on the front steps. There was already a horde of media gathered around, a mounted policeman to keep order.

“I’m not going to kiss him,” Cass said to Terry in the car before getting out.

“No one is asking you to kiss him.”

Randy extended a hand. She shook it, formally.

“I’d like to make a brief statement,” Randy said. “First, I want to welcome Ms. Devine back to freedom.” There was applause from the well-wishers. “Second, I’d like to congratulate her for her sacrifice on behalf of what she believes in and stands for. Third, I would like to congratulate the president of the United States for doing the right thing. For once.” Laughter, applause. “Fourth and lastly, I’d like to say that I’m proud to be a foot soldier in this woman’s army. And I look forward to being at her side in the battles to come.” Applause.

Cass looked at him. He looked older than the young congressman she’d met at the airport at Turdje years ago. She had no idea where all this was going, and a thousand misgivings about him, yet she found herself oddly glad to have him at her side.

Randy, Terry, and Cass plunged in. They formed a grassroots coalition, always a good thing to have. They also formed a political action committee and a 527, another good thing to have, since it gives the impression that everyone is behaving legally in the matter of raising soft money. Evincing sincerity while raising “hard money” is harder.

Cass went on TV and wrote endless thoughtful op-ed pieces and gave a blizzard of speeches to any group that would listen. Randy made thunderous orations from the Senate floor, usually to empty seats. In time the media, as is their wont, moved on.

One day, a month after her release from jail, Cass said to Terry, “Is it me, or do I sense a certain…ennui out there?”

“I wouldn’t call it ennui,” Terry said. “I’d call it boredom. Social Security reform, entitlement reform, deficits-face it, it’s dry stuff. The beast is averse to dry stuff. It needs red meat. Pictures, not charts showing ‘out-year revenue shortfalls.’ It was more interesting when the people-as you like to call them-were ripping up golf courses and chucking Molotov cocktails at the cops. Speaking of which, Allen called. You’re being sued by another gated community. It’s called Pine Haven.”

Cass looked depressed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Terry said. “You gave it a good shot. A great shot. You moved it right to the top of the agenda there for a bit. And now, kiddo, it’s time to move on . I need your help on the insecticide account. Larry’s driving me nuts.”

Bucky Trumble was one of very few White House staffers who had “walk-in” privileges in the Oval Office. He did, however, knock before walking in.

“What is it, Bucky?” the president said suspiciously. He didn’t much like the look on Trumble’s face, which resembled a fallen soufflй.

Trumble took a deep breath. “Cass Devine is Frank Cohane’s daughter.”

The president’s face went the color of New England clam chowder. “What are you telling me?”

“Just that. Devine isn’t a married name. She had her name legally changed. She and Frank apparently had some falling-out. She took her mother’s name.”

“Oh, god damnit .”

“Yes.” Bucky waited for the explosion he knew was coming. Sometimes it took a while to build, like a volcano.

“Jesus fucking Christ in the…,” the president spluttered, his face now the color of Manhattan clam chowder, “morning! You’re telling me that we instructed the attorney general to spring the daughter of a major fucking donor to the party?”

“That would…unfortunately appear to be the substance of what I’m…yes, sir.”

The president hurled his pen onto the desk with such force that it skittered off the surface and onto the carpet.

“Who knows about this-this twenty-four-carat calamity?”

“That’s the good news, sir. No one. I mean, I suppose Frank knows, but he isn’t saying anything. He’s probably embarrassed by her. At any rate, this information didn’t come from him.”

“Who did it come from?”

“You don’t need to know that, sir. I made some inquiries. She’s Frank Cohane’s daughter. They haven’t spoken in years. He lives in California -”

“I goddamn well know where he lives. I’ve spent the goddamn night at his goddamn house .”

“Yes, sir. Last October. After the Countdown to Greatness event. You presented him with his Owl pin.”

Owls, of course, are those who contribute over $250,000 to the national party, making them eligible for “special White House briefings by top officials,” “front-row seats at inaugural festivities,” “special issues bulletins,” and of course the odd ambassadorship, cabinet post, or commission position.

The president made a groaning noise.

“He’s donated five hundred thousand,” Bucky Trumble continued. “The other quarter mil ostensibly from his wife, Lisa. Presumably not Cass’s mother. She seemed more the…evil stepmother type. You presented her with a pin, too.”

“This is atrocious staff work, Buck.”

“I do not disagree, sir. The question is how to go forward. I’m of course willing to take the fall here.”

“Goddamnit, we’ve got a campaign coming up. How the fuck is throwing you over the side going to help?”

“Well, I…if you really-”

“Rearrest her.”

“Sir?”

“Throw her butt back in jail. Call Killebrew and tell him-whatever you need to tell him.”

Bucky Trumble puffed out his cheeks. “I’m not sure Fred would really go for that. Rearresting someone-it’s…um.…?tricky.”

“Happens all the time.”

“It does?”

“Well, Buck, it had better goddamn well better happen this time.”

Bucky Trumble flashed forward in time. He saw himself sitting before a grand jury as an independent prosecutor asked him, Did the president specifically instruct you to tell the attorney general to fabricate evidence that would lead to Ms. Devine’s rearrest?