by J. L. Brown
“I’ll keep trying,” Sasha said.
“Poverty is at its highest level since 1993. It’s harder for the poor to climb out of poverty. It matters more than ever that you were born to the right parents.” She stopped exercising. “Seven percent of the people who work are poor. Who work.”
“We can take on Social Security and Medicare.”
“Not until my second term.” She realized her response came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone. “We’ll fix them on our way out.”
Sasha remained silent, realizing she was supposed to shut up and listen.
Whitney resumed her pedaling. “It’s going to get worse. If the American Dream dies, chaos will reign. An economist on Meet the Press said that if we do not address income inequality, it will create a crisis of legitimacy for the republic.” Wiping her face with a towel, she threw it on the floor. She stared at her chief of staff. “Not on my watch.”
“Understood, Madam President.”
“‘When there is no vision, the people perish,’” she said. She pursed her lips, imitating the expression Sasha often gave her. “Don’t look surprised. I read the Bible, too.” Whitney started pumping faster. “How many do I need?”
Sasha calculated the votes in her head. “At least ten, maybe two more from our side.”
“Bell is not intellectually curious. He just parrots whatever his constituents want him to say. Offer him some tickets to my box at the Kennedy Center. Sampson, too. He’ll drink everything in the fridge, so make sure it’s stocked.”
Democratic Senator Paul Sampson was known for two things: his love of the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers football team and his love of drink.
“What about Hampton?”
“Off camera,” Whitney said, “he has an open mind. More than others in his party. I think he could be persuaded.”
“If something’s in it for him,” Sasha said.
“Be that as it may, schedule a meeting for me to meet with the three of them. Tomorrow.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“Duly noted. Do it anyway.”
Sasha nodded, rising from the chair. “Yes, Madam President.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am. I serve at the pleasure of the president.”
Whitney searched Sasha’s face for sarcasm. And found none.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Seattle, Washington
Noah Blakeley lifted a champagne flute from the tray of a passing server. He sipped the cool liquid, the bubbles just right, as he scanned the room over the lip of the glass. Standing in a ballroom in the Grand Hyatt Hotel on Pine Street downtown, the muted light from the gigantic chandelier above allowed him to observe his fellow guests without appearing as if he were doing so.
He wondered whether other cities had as many fundraisers. He could attend a different one every night, if he desired. Seattle was not known for its pretentiousness like other cities such as New York or Washington, DC, but Noah knew that was a lie. Some pretentious Seattleites just hid behind their outdoorsy Pacific Northwest façade. The same people who excluded him from their cliques. His wife, Diane, never attended these events with him. After having accompanied him to a few functions right after their wedding, she now refused.
Never one to stand still, he began to stroll around the room. He squeezed by a woman and a man in animated conversation. The woman, wearing a tight dark-blue dress with a hint of gold at her neck, whispered to her companion in a fierce undertone. He caught the words “hacker” and “stole” and “cyber.” He wanted to stop and listen, but didn’t want to be conspicuous. Other snippets of conversation reached him: “money” and “million” and “IT consultants” and “beefed-up security.”
What’s going on?
He drained his glass. He needed something stronger than champagne and headed toward one of the bars set up in the ballroom.
A woman dressed in a black pantsuit and an expensive white shirt stood at the back of the line at the bar. Her smile always looked like a smirk to him. He looked down at his own tan slacks and mismatched brown jacket. “Kyle. Hello.”
“Good evening, Noah.” She waved her hand, indicating he should cut in front of her. “Feel free. You seem to need a drink more than I do.”
Kyle Madison was the founder and managing director of a powerful venture-capital firm.
He squeezed between her and the woman in front of her. “Thanks.”
They stood. The silence uncomfortable. Noah hated silence. “How’ve you been?”
“Well, thank you.”
She didn’t bother asking how he was, but instead scanned the room. As if searching for someone more interesting. He had always sensed that she didn’t like him.
“And business?” he said.
“Never better.”
“Have you heard about something going on?”
She looked at him, her dark hair cascading like waves. Like one of those shampoo commercials. He wanted to reach out and touch it but knew she wouldn’t appreciate that. Her beauty intimidated him.
“What do you mean?”
He shoved his hand in his pocket. “Just hearing things. About hackers. Stealing money.”
“Sounds like a bunch of rumors to me.” She spotted someone in the crowd. Or pretended to. “I see someone I need to speak to. If you’ll excuse me.”
Placing her glass on the tray of a passing server, she moved away from him.
Guess she didn’t want another drink after all.
But he knew it was him. He had that effect on people.
Noah inspected his jacket. He pulled a loose thread at the bottom, wrapping it around his finger. And kept pulling. The thread seemed endless. Shit! The woman in front of him glanced down at his engorged finger, and then abruptly faced the bar. He stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket.
He did not speak to Kyle Madison for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The White House, Washington, DC
Sarah, her body woman, poked her head into the Oval Office. “Excuse me, Madam President. Senators Hampton and Sampson and Representative Bell are here.”
“Send them in. And ask Sasha to join us, please.”
Whitney rose, smoothed her skirt, and came around her desk, arm extended. “Gentlemen. How good of you to come.”
“Madam President,” Hampton and Bell said.
Sampson said nothing.
Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, Paul; I didn’t hear you.”
“Madam President.”
She indicated for them to sit on the two sofas facing each other, while she sat on a Queen Anne chair, her back to the window. Sasha entered and sat in the matching chair.
“I won’t mince words.” Whitney looked at Hampton and Bell. “I understand the two of you met with Sasha. What are your thoughts about the proposal?”
Hampton adjusted his black-framed glasses. “We don’t need another ‘Soak the Rich’ proposal. If you want our support, focus on growing the economic pie rather than wealth distribution.”
“Income inequality isn’t the issue,” said Bell. “Economic opportunity is.”
“‘The fact is that income inequality is real; it’s been rising for more than twenty-five years.’” She waited.
The men looked at each other.
“George W. Bush,” she said. “Early 2000s. The gap has widened since then. We have less economic mobility in America today than in class-conscious Europe.”
“You make income inequality sound like a bad thing,” Hampton said. “Howard’s right. The issue is making sure that everyone has the opportunity for a better life. What they do with that opportunity is up to them.”
Senator Paul Sampson rested his hands on top of his belly. “Some income inequality is beneficial. It creates an incentive for people to be productive, innovate, and create wealth.”
Whitney glanced at him. Aren’t you a Democrat? “But too much impedes economic growth and marginalizes the people
at the bottom, leaving them feeling disenfranchised.”
“That’s not the problem,” said Bell. “The quality of life for everyone is improving. Even if you’re poor today, you’re likely to own a smartphone, the latest Nikes, a flat-screen TV—”
Sasha sat up. “Excuse me?”
“What Howard is saying,” Hampton cut in, “is that the government shouldn’t be in the business of altering economic outcomes, but should instead focus on creating opportunities.”
“All right,” Whitney said. “Give me an example.”
Hampton and Bell glanced at each other.
Bell spoke up. “Didn’t you see on the news about those two guys on food stamps who became billionaires overnight by inventing a smartphone app?”
She held up a hand, signaling Sasha to stop laughing. Turning to Bell, she didn’t even try to mask the incredulity in her voice. “You’re kidding, right?” He wasn’t. “How often is that going to happen? Really, Howard. That’s not real life.”
“You make it seem as if being born poor is a life sentence,” Sampson said. “My daddy was a farmer.” He spread his arms. “Now, look at me.”
“Yes,” Whitney said. “Look at you.”
He dropped his arms.
“Social mobility isn’t dead,” Hampton said. “The people with vision and drive, who are willing to work hard and take risks, will be rewarded.”
“An economist once said that ‘it’s harder to climb our social ladder when the rungs are further apart.’”
He leaned forward. “For argument’s sake, let’s say we enact what you propose. How do you intend to pay for it? Taxing the rich is a nonstarter. There’s no way we’re going to sign on for any of the usual class warfare championed by you and your party.”
“My party? Do you think if you say ‘class warfare’ enough, constituents in your party will forget that they are part of that middle or lower class that is falling behind, too?”
“They have so far,” Sasha quipped.
Hampton’s cool demeanor dissipated. “Instead of demotivating the rich with new taxes, how about easing their tax burden by eliminating the corporate tax? They’ll work harder, be more productive, create more jobs, and expand the economy.”
“Come on! Historical evidence proves that higher taxes don’t demotivate people. Between nineteen forty-seven and nineteen seventy-seven, income taxes were high and GDP grew by almost four percent. The top one percent owned sixteen percent of the wealth versus eighty-five today. That’s why Americans remember those times fondly. It was the golden age of the middle class.”
“And what are we going to do with all those tax dollars?” Hampton said. “Our government has a propensity to be inefficient and waste resources.”
“I still don’t understand why so many in your party bash the federal government, when they themselves are the ones making the decisions. That has never made sense to me.”
Hampton glanced at the other two men. “How about this? Instead of the American people funding social programs through the government, what if we allow them to ‘self-tax’ by giving directly to the charities of their choice?”
Sasha sighed, shooting a meaningful glance at Whitney.
Whitney did not try to hide her frustration. “That won’t work. Not all needs can be met by established nonprofits. Poor, minority women would be forgotten. I want to return to Clinton-era tax rates, which will increase revenues by seventy-six billion dollars a year. With just that much, we’re talking about improving a significant number of people’s lives at a small cost to the wealthiest Americans.”
Hampton had started shaking his head when she mentioned the former president from Arkansas. “No way. I can’t even bring that to the caucus with a straight face. The one percent will migrate to Galt’s Gulch.”
“I wish we could discuss income inequality without your party resurrecting Ayn Rand.”
“She has her uses,” he smiled. “The one percent start companies, employ millions of people, pay their benefits, create products. Let’s make it easier for them to provide that. What we really need to do is help them compete in the world marketplace so they can generate that wealth for their workers. Streamline regulations. Reduce their taxes.”
“Or we can increase social benefits,” Whitney countered, “such as food stamps and unemployment. History has shown that benefits stimulate the economy four to five times more than tax cuts.”
Hampton shook his head again, knowing he didn’t need to respond.
“A columnist once said that the rising tide is not lifting all boats, only the yachts.” She decided to change course. “Minimum wage?”
Hampton smoothed his tie. “Historically, minimum-wage increases have been ineffective at improving standards of living.”
She looked at him. “How would you know? Reagan and H. W. kept the minimum wage fixed for nine years, and based on real buying power, it hit a fifty-one-year low during W.’s administration.”
Bell snorted. “It’s easy to raise the federal minimum wage when the federal government doesn’t have to pay for it. Let the states decide.”
“Higher pay increases autonomy, personal freedom, and responsibility,” Whitney said. She turned to Hampton. “Bottom line, it increases their buying power. Conservative principles, Eric. Ones you profess to believe in. Or used to anyway.”
“You’re forgetting the negative consequences. Inflation, higher prices, and layoffs in businesses that can’t afford the new wage.”
“With all due respect, Madam President,” Bell said, “there will always be poor people. Your party has to get over it. That’s what charities are for.”
Before Sasha could react, Whitney said, “Adam Smith said, ‘No society can surely be flourishing and happy, of which the far greater part of the members are poor and miserable.’”
Hampton raised his hand. “Before you quote someone else, I’ll concede to raising the minimum to ten-fifty. But that’s it. That will lift nine hundred thousand people out of poverty.”
Bell protested. “But that will cost five hundred thousand jobs.”
Whitney considered it. Improving the lives of only a million people wasn’t enough for her. She wasn’t getting anywhere with them. She rose to signal the end of the meeting. The three men and Sasha stood, too, Sampson faster than the rest.
“We like the EITC and child-tax credit expansions,” Hampton said. “We can work together on repairing bridges, roads, and schools, and modernizing our shipping ports and airports. We might even give you high-speed and inner-city rail, but we want to privatize Amtrak.” Whitney shook her head. He tilted his head and offered his charming smile. “Come on. Give us something.”
She said nothing.
Hampton extended his hand. “Eliminate the new tax brackets. I’ll float the Clinton-era rates. No promises, though. Good day, Madam President.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Washington, DC
Ethan Lawson leaned into her office. “My office. Five minutes.” He left before she could respond. She mentally reviewed her active cases in preparation for whatever he might ask and grabbed her notebook.
He was hanging up his suit jacket on the mahogany coat rack in the corner as she entered. Over his shoulder, he said, “What’s up?”
Jade sat in the guest chair. “Preparing to testify in the Morales case tomorrow. Merritt and I are interviewing a source in the Blanchett case later today.”
“What else?”
“That’s about it.”
“I heard a rumor.”
She gave him a blank look.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Ethan asked.
“Not really.”
He leaned back in his chair, one hand on his desk. “This is an interesting one, though. It involves you.”
Jade feigned ignorance.
“Rumor has it,” he continued, “that you and Merritt not only have an interest in the deaths of those three teenage boys, but you have an unofficial investigation going. An admin
istrator for the Fairfax County school system told me that you interviewed students at one of his esteemed institutions of secondary education. I also heard you interviewed the parents of one of the victims of this case-that-isn’t-ours. Observed an interview of an alleged suspect, for that same case. Any of that ring a bell?”
He didn’t seem to know about their visit with Jenny Thompson.
Jade tilted her head and shrugged. “Maybe. Who did you hear that from?”
He ignored the question. “You shouldn’t be involved.”
“Why not?”
Ethan raised his hands in exasperation. “It’s not our case!”
“More kids are going to die.”
“Jade . . . ”
“More. Kids. Are. Going. To. Die.”
He sank into his chair. “There are rules for a reason.” He twirled his wedding ring, then sighed. “Until this is officially our case . . . if you continue to pursue it, I’ll place you on administrative leave.”
Jade’s heart beat faster. Her cheeks flushed. She shot Ethan a look and headed for the door. Holding the door open, she turned, staring at him for a moment.
“Then place me on leave.”
She made sure to slam the door as hard as she could on her way out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Columbus, Ohio
“Where is the crowd?” she asked, as she accepted a bottled water from Sarah and took a quick sip.
Sasha shrugged. “Things change when you go from candidate to president.”
What a difference six months make.
Sarah held the daily schedule and the ever-present stack of briefing books. Scanning the invited guests sitting in the three rows of bleachers behind the podium, she said, “Don’t bother to thank Senator Harris in your remarks. He didn’t show.”
“Asshole,” Sasha said.
As Whitney’s body woman, Sarah was on call twenty-four/seven and accompanied her almost everywhere. She didn’t have time for a private life, so Whitney never bothered to ask her about it. A specific document, a Sharpie for autographs, a breath mint, snacks, a messenger, her cell phone, or a sounding board, Sarah anticipated and catered to Whitney’s every need. She even worked out with Whitney sometimes.
