“That’s not the worst of it. She’s trying to tie it all up with the IRS investigation into your company. You’re going to have to respond.”
She found herself shaking her head as the car pulled out into traffic.
“I’m not responding to anything, Mike. Not without a lot more information. What exactly did she say?”
“She’s got a long blog post today. It digs back into your father’s hearings as Ambassador to Russia back around 2000. And mentions you and … your past. When you were in high school.”
Another string of curses from Julia.
“Anyway … looks like she’s trying to make a comeback—at your expense. The blog post was … sensationalist. Stupid. And it stops short of libelous; you’re going to have a very difficult time doing anything about it. And it was big enough that she’s out there now in public.”
Julia closed her eyes and took a breath, then said, “Let me look at her blog, I need to get caught up.”
She disconnected the phone. Moments later she was on Maria Clawson’s website, which had been inactive for three years.
Now it had a sensational headline at the top.
UH OH: RICHARD THOMPSON AND JULIA WILSON
BACK IN THE NEWS WITH NEW AND IMPROVED SCANDAL:
WILSON MUM ABOUT ACCUSATIONS OF DRUG MONEY LAUNDERING
Julia felt bile in her throat. Side by side photos at the top of the page, which was designed like a late 1990s Geocities website with flashing icons and multicolored text, showed her father at the witness table, right hand raised in the air, and an incredibly unflattering photo of Julia and Crank which had graced the cover of National Enquirer two months ago. In the photo of her and Crank, she was leaning over to pick her cell phone off the ground where she’d dropped it on the sidewalk. The asshole photographer had manned to get a shot right up her shirt at a particularly graceless moment.
Crank had stopped making a habit of punching photographers ten years ago, but there were times when she wished he’d start again.
The first three paragraphs of the blog post held no surprises—a recap of the hearing. She scanned through it, interested in how it had gone, but still incredibly resentful of her father’s lies. From the tone of the article, the Armed Services committee had raked her father over the coals.
But the third paragraph started to get interesting.
Not surprisingly, unnamed sources within the Special Prosecutor’s office have named Julia Wilson (wife and manager of obnoxious rocker Crank Wilson) as her father’s primary accomplice, by funneling millions of dollars through a network of shell companies and hidden accounts in the Caymans.
Loyal readers will recall that this is not the first time the two have been linked in scandal. Suspicions that Thompson had arranged a secret abortion for his then fourteen-year-old party-girl daughter delayed Thompson’s nomination as Ambassador to Russia.
Party-girl. The accusation didn’t have the frightening sting it once held. During the first period of Clawson’s campaign against her father, Julia had been under eighteen, and Clawson never identified her by name. But a photograph that should never have been taken surfaced on the Internet—a photograph of Julia, fourteen, lying across the laps of two boys.
She’d been fourteen, scared, abused and desperately lonely and afraid. Harry Easton, now an attaché at the British Embassy in Washington, DC, had been her much older boyfriend back then.
She closed her eyes and shoved the old fears and resentments back. She didn’t have time for this. She could not fall apart. Carrie and her other sisters needed her. Her employees needed her.
She moved on from the blog post to The Washington Post.
Front and center on the paper was the same photo of her father at the witness table. She scanned through the article and winced. Twelve paragraphs in—far down in the article, but still present—Maria Clawson surfaced:
Media critic Maria Clawson linked the current outrage to a series of past scandals involving the Thompson family, including an accusation that Ambassador Thompson arranged a secret abortion for his then fourteen-year-old daughter Julia. In an interview on Fox News, Clawson said, “Before she started managing her drug-promoting counter-culture punk band, Julia had a history of drunken and drugged outbursts which scandalized the diplomatic community. It’s common really—the overprivileged kids of the rich and famous going crazy is almost a stereotype. It’s a shame, really, because with her platform, Julia Wilson could do some real good in the world.”
Julia wanted to kill someone. Starting with that bitch Clawson.
She dialed Mike DeMint back. He answered on the first ring.
“Mike, I want a strategy. We need to hit back and hard. What do I do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “You go on the air. Take her on directly. Tell your side of the story, especially the impact her blog had on your life. I’d suggest something like Barbara Walters. She’s retiring in a couple weeks, I bet she’ll do it. You’re a huge catch.”
Julia shook her head, feeling nauseous. Then she said, “All right. You make the arrangements and let me know. We’ll take it all public. Let me just get permission from my sisters. Some of the story is theirs.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just let me know quick. Your window to strike back is short.”
“How short?”
“With media cycles the way they are? I think you need to move tonight and probably interview tomorrow. I’ll do a brief statement tonight and get it on the website and social media.”
Julia closed her eyes and counted to five thousand. Or maybe five. She hated dealing with the media. “All right,” she said. “Do your worst.”
She disconnected the phone. Traffic was unusually light for DC. Of course, their interview with the IRS had run very late, a marathon session. The clock on the dashboard reported 8:30 pm, which was past time for rush hour. As the driver sped up Wisconsin Avenue toward Bethesda, she texted each of her sisters, telling them her plans. If they were going to survive this, all of this, they had to be there for each other like they’d never managed before.
Fifteen minutes later, the SUV came to a stop in front of the condo.
“Wait a moment,” the driver said. The bodyguard got out of the car and joined two more who were working the lobby.
What felt like thirty minutes later, but was actually only thirty seconds, one of the guards opened the door. “Mrs. Wilson, I’ll escort you inside.”
As she got out of the car, her phone started to ring. She took it out and answered without looking at the caller ID as she followed the guard to the front door.
“Julia.” She felt a chill. It was her father. Her gut reaction was to hang up the phone.
You’ve never done anything but lie to me.
Those were the last words she’d said to her father. When was it … four days ago? He’d tried to make excuses, to avoid taking responsibility for what he’d done to her mother. Her mother. Adelina Thompson had been the most hideous figure in her life. Frantic. Often crazy. Screaming attacks and rage and bitter, hurtful comments.
I woke up to find you on Maria Clawson’s website nearly having sex with a drug addict.
Julia had responded, No, Mother, we were just kissing. Believe me, I know the difference.
I’m sure you do. Her mother’s barbed response had wounded.
I didn’t raise my daughter to be a slut.
The words still bled, no matter how many years had passed.
Alexandra lost in the airport. Can’t you do anything right?
Alexandra hurt when she fell down the steps. I can’t turn my back on you for thirty seconds!
Yes, the words still hurt, but she saw new scenes now, heard new words. Carrie, six years old, throwing a fit because their mother couldn’t play with them. Adelina had been black and blue. She hadn’t gotten off the couch in days.
The police report.
The words had been stark. Incredibly damaging.
Contusions around neck.
Third, fourth and fifth ribs on the right s
ide cracked.
Blunt force trauma.
Her father had been the suspect. The attack had happened one day after the report came back showing Carrie wasn’t related to him.
She walked forward into the lobby of the condo, her heels clicking on the floor, and it felt as if she were running a gauntlet.
His voice sounded ragged. Exhausted.
“Hello, Father,” she said. Cautious.
“Julia. Darling.”
She blinked then said, “What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to my daughters. And Carrie won’t even answer my calls.”
She sighed. “Yet you think I will?”
“You’re my oldest daughter, Julia. We’ve always understood each other.”
She took a breath. “I think you presume a lot more than you ought to. I think you’ve left a lot to be explained.”
“Of course,” he said. “And I’ll answer whatever questions you have. Julia … you and the other girls … you’re all I have.”
She let out a breath. “Not Mother?”
“Your mother is unstable. You know that.”
“I don’t know what to believe from you.”
His response was firm. “Believe this. I’ve had the worst day of my life today. I’ve faced the most brutal Senate hearing you can imagine. And I’m devastated that you girls would believe her over me. After all she’s … done. Julia … please. All I ask is that you listen. Meet me for a drink and we’ll talk. You’ll see. You’re the only one who will listen to me.”
Her mind went to the photos in the police report. Her mother black and blue. The DNA results. The lies about her mother’s age. But then she knew he was right about some things. Her mother was unstable. Her mother had lied to them all, over and over again. And he was her father. He’d always been the stable one. What if there was a real explanation?
“I don’t know what good it will do.”
“Julia, you’re my daughter. You and I … we’ve always been the closest. I’m begging you. Hear me out.”
She sighed. Then slowly, she said, “All right. Let me tell Crank, and we’ll meet. Where?”
Julia. May 6.
The lounge in the Bethesda Hyatt Regency was small and elegant, sitting just to the side of the open atrium that towered above them. On the other side of the bar, a young man, possibly twenty-five, gently played a highly polished grand piano. It was Tuesday evening, so the lounge wasn’t very crowded, but it was relatively dark. Julia and her father sat at a table in the back corner, far away from the other patrons.
“All right,” she said as the waitress walked away with their drink orders—double whiskey sour for her father and club soda for Julia. She craved a drink right then. But this wasn’t the time. “You wanted to talk. I’m listening.”
He frowned and loosened his tie. Julia blinked then glanced at her purse, resting on the seat of the chair to her left. Her father was one of the most stilted and anal-retentive men she’d ever met. For him to do anything so human as to loosen his tie in public showed a level of discomfort that stunned her. But she kept that reaction to herself. Julia had learned a great deal from both of her parents, and one thing she knew how to do expertly was out-WASP her father. She betrayed no reaction to his discomfort.
“First of all—Julia … I need you to know I’m disappointed. Disappointed that after all I’ve done for you … as close as we’ve been … that you would assume the worst without even giving me an opportunity to explain or defend myself.”
Julia didn’t respond. How could he possibly think his actions were defensible? What could he possibly say?
“Well?” he asked.
She shrugged minutely. “What do you want me to say? I saw the police report. You both lied about Mother’s age. You both lied about Carrie and Andrea’s birth. Dad … the police report … she had broken ribs. She was beaten and raped.”
Richard closed his eyes and exhaled. He didn’t answer right away, but the skin between his eyes formed a furrow just above his nose. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers. Julia looked away. She was well aware she had the exact same mannerism when confronted with extreme stress.
“First of all—yes, your mother and I lied about her age. We were … young, and in love. And in Spain it didn’t matter at all that she was seventeen when we married. But I knew full well that would be frowned upon when we went back to the United States. So we publicly fudged the numbers. It never occurred to me it would become a big deal. Who could have predicted how wrong everything has gone in our lives, Julia?”
“And Carrie and Andrea? Dad … that’s not exactly a small lie. She had an affair with a British Prince? For fifteen years or more? Dad, I don’t know about the rest of my sisters, but I feel betrayed. Why did we never know? And the police report? What happened? Why?” She shook her head, speechless. At the word Prince his eyes had widened slightly.
“What’s this about a Prince?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Surely…”
Richard shook his head in disgust. “You see? This is just one more example of her lies. She swore to me that Senator Rainsley was the father. It almost destroyed our marriage, you know. I mean … I wasn’t perfect. And as I told you before, when we were in China, I … was briefly involved with another woman. I made my amends. But this … I assume you’re referring to Prince George-Phillip?”
Julia nodded slowly.
His response was fierce. “She never told me that. She lied to me about who she’d had the affair with. Or perhaps she slept with both of them. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Julia, I don’t know how you can sit there and make accusations against me when you know how unstable she is.”
Julia flinched. Of course she knew her mother was unstable. Not just unstable, but downright crazy sometimes. She closed her eyes, mind drifting back to that awful night in Spain when her mother had collapsed, gibbering in fear. Carrie and Alexandra had been too young to do anything, both of them panicking. They’d arrived in Calella late, it was dark and the streets had been crowded with men and women out partying and drinking. Julia hadn’t known what to do. She didn’t know their grandmother’s address, she didn’t speak Spanish, she didn’t know anything. Her mother hadn’t been able to do anything at all to protect her daughters, then or ever.
Why would I want to know? Why would I ask when my oldest daughter had become a drunken slut?
It didn’t matter how much time had passed, or how many times they had nice Friday afternoon chats on the phone. It didn’t matter how much Adelina Thompson had done for Carrie and Sarah after the accident. Those words couldn’t be taken back, ever. She didn’t believe her father, but she didn’t believe her mother either. She didn’t believe anything at all.
Julia slowly nodded. “Yes. I know she’s unstable. But how else am I to interpret that police report? And it happened the day after you found out about Carrie.”
“Julia, yes, I had a paternity test. I’d suspected for a long time that your mother had an affair with Chuck Rainsley. The first time he ever came to our house for dinner, she spent the entire time blushing and chatting with him. I spent a lot of time that spring overseas, mostly in Pakistan and Afghanistan—”
“Anthony Walker said you were probably CIA and not State Department. Is that true?”
Her father blinked and his mouth tightened. “The Post reporter?”
She nodded.
“He’s astute. I was an employee of the CIA for many years, Julia, under deep cover as a diplomat. It’s not all that uncommon. And don’t talk to me about hiding things from you. No intelligence agent tells their children what they do for a living. That would have put you all in significant danger.”
“So why tell me now?”
He shrugged. “I retired twelve years ago. I can’t discuss specific operations with you or anyone, but my employment with the CIA will be widely public by morning. It was disclosed at the hearing today.”
“So back to … the affair. And th
e police report.”
“Right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “So, I suspected the affair. It was little things. Unexpected moodiness. Did you know that one time she smashed her violin? And left it in pieces on my pillow?”
A sudden flash of memory, one of Julia’s earliest. Carrie was a baby, sitting in her highchair screaming, her little face bright red. She might have been a year old? Julia had been … four? She’d been sitting in the corner, tearing the pages out of a book she’d found. Julia didn’t know if they’d had a nanny then, but she must not have been there that day, because Adelina had seen her and screamed.
Julia, what are you doing? The scream had startled her, and then Adelina snatched the book out of her hands. Julia remembered blood suddenly on her hands, pouring out of two of her fingers. Paper cuts, she realized now. She’d started to shriek, and Carrie was shrieking, and her mother had grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the kitchen doorway where Carrie’s highchair was. The screaming got louder and somehow they shuffled and Julia could still remember the slow motion when Carrie’s highchair tipped over backward, the terrifying smack as it hit the hardwood floor.
Julia shuddered. Yes. She could easily imagine her mother leaving a broken and smashed violin on her husband’s pillow. Adelina Thompson had been dangerously unstable their entire life. In retrospect, she realized that it was a lucky thing Carrie hadn’t fractured her skull that day.
She redirected her attention to her father, who was still speaking.
“…when the report came in, I confronted your mother. She’d lied to me, Julia. For years. So, of course, I confronted her. Adelina was hysterical … she went berserk. She screamed at me and threw things. Julia, I swear to you, I would never lay a hand on your mother. I loved her. I always loved her. And you know that. I stayed with her despite her years of infidelity. The fact is, Adelina is mentally ill. She always has been. What kind of husband would I be to leave her when she was sick?”
Julia grimaced, shifting uncomfortably. What her father said was true. Her mother was clearly mentally ill. Julia had witnessed too many years of panic attacks and anxiety driven freak-outs to come to any other conclusion.
Girl of Vengeance Page 17
