THE PRESIDENT 2

by Monroe, Mallory

  Dutch stared at his wife, admiring her even more. “Well believe this,” he said, pulling her back into his arms, his dormant penis reasserting itself inside of her. “I love you dearly. Even though you can be a pain in the ass sometimes,” he added with a grin.

  “Oh yeah?” she said as his penis began to increase in its fluidity. “Bet I’m no ass pain now.”

  And Dutch, realizing what she meant, couldn’t help but laugh.

  SEVEN

  After the Jennifer Caswell story left the headlines as quickly as it had appeared, the hostage crisis, although still front page news, began to lose its intensity too. Mainly because there was no new news, no more proof of life videos, no new demands or threats from the captors. But also because of the behind the scenes maneuvering by SEALS teams that the press was alerted by the White House to not report for security reasons. But within a week of this more peaceful madness, a new story broke, this one so ridiculous on its face that not even the president’s chief of staff saw it coming.

  It was after the president and the Speaker of the House had played eighteen rounds of golf at the usual secluded location inside Andrews Air Force Base. Max and the Vice President were also in attendance as they prepared to leave the base known for shuttling heads of state in and out of the country, when Max reminded the president that the press was also waiting.

  Although Dutch hated photo-ops in general, he knew he and the Speaker were required to stand before the press and give them one. And they did. They smiled, shook hands, joked about both being winners, and prepared to walk away. Questions were being hurled, as they always were when the president was in earshot, until one caught his ear and couldn’t be ignored.

  “Why did the First Lady intervene to help Marcus Rance, sir?” the reporter asked.

  Dutch and Max stopped in their tracks, causing the others to stop too. Dutch glanced at Max. Max shrugged. Then Dutch walked back toward the press corps. As soon as he did, the reporter clarified his question.

  “Your wife’s brother, sir, has had his death sentence commuted to life after your wife intervened on his behalf. My question to you is, sir, why would she do such a thing, given his heinous crimes, and isn’t it a conflict of interest for her to have done so?”

  “My wife,” Dutch said, careful not to lose his cool, “did not intervene in any way on behalf of her half-brother, a brother she has never even met, or anyone else. I don’t know who fed you that story, but they fed you a load of garbage.”

  And then Dutch walked away, with Max, the Vice President, and the Speaker of the House, hurrying behind him.

  But Dutch wasn’t back inside the West Wing an hour before Max and Allison were coming into the Oval Office with more information.

  “It’s true, sir,” Max said as soon as he walked up to his desk.

  Dutch was seated behind his desk, his reading glasses on, as he and the National Security Advisor reviewed, for the tenth time, the hostage rescue and its operational progress. Dutch looked up at Max, frowning.

  “What’s true?” he wanted to know.

  “She did intervene on behalf of Marcus Rance.”

  Dutch removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. “That’ll be all, Eddie,” he said to his National Security Advisor.

  Ed Drake, understanding, quickly left the office.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Max?”

  Max sat down in front of the desk. Allison remained standing. “It’s even in the White House guest log, Dutch.”

  “What’s in the guest log?”

  “The fact that Gina met with Marilyn Feingold, the wife of the governor of Texas, and that even Mrs. Feingold is admitting that Gina attempted to intervene. Feingold, of course, declares Gina’s intervention had nothing to do with her husband’s ultimate decision to accept the defense request and commute Marcus Rance’s death sentence to life in prison without the possibility of parole. She declares that the facts of the case are what influenced his decision. But it just stinks like mad, Dutch.”

  Dutch remained calm, although he was raging inside. “And why would the governor want to help my supposed brother-in-law?”

  “Because he chaired the Texas branch of your reelection campaign, remember?” Allison said. “He’ll be out as governor next year and he’s been angling for a cabinet post in your administration after his term is over.”

  “And he thought,” Dutch said, his temper rising, “that he could gain my support by commuting the sentence of some murderer? Just because that murderer happens to be my wife’s half-brother?”

  Allison looked at Max.

  “Yes, sir,” Max said disgustedly too. “That’s exactly what that fool thought.”

  ***

  Gina sat in the master dressing room within the second floor residence, on the southwest corner of the White House, and looked at the rack of designer gowns at her disposal. LaLa was in the room with her, and so were three other assistants, as she attempted to find the perfect gown for the upcoming state dinner. It was a relaxed, festive environment, until the president walked in.

  The aides, who were perfectly relaxed with Gina, became stiff and formal on his arrival.

  “Hello, sir,” LaLa said with a smile. “Please tell your wife that another McQueen gown won’t cut it. She needs to expand her horizons a little more. Trying something daring.”

  Dutch stood over Gina, looking at the rack of clothes. “Which one is your preference?” he asked his wife.

  “This one,” she said, pointing to a McQueen gown of lace and careful stitching.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Dutch said, and Gina smiled.

  “Two to one in favor,” Gina said to her friend. “So much for your daring,” she added.

  “Whatever,” LaLa said with a smile.

  Dutch, however, placed his hands in his pocket and walked toward the window. When he did that, Gina looked at LaLa.

  “Okay, girls,” LaLa said as she began to leave, “let’s go and do some real work, shall we?”

  LaLa and the aides left. When they did, Gina walked over to Dutch and they both stared out of the window.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “Your meeting with Marilyn Feingold,” he said.

  Gina frowned. “Who?”

  “Marilyn Feingold,” Dutch said, looking at her. “The wife of the governor of Texas. You know Texas? Where your brother is serving his prison time?”

  Gina didn’t like his snide tone. “If you’re asking if I remember meeting with her, the answer is yes. But she never said she was the governor’s wife. I just thought she was a member of some organizations. She may have assumed I knew who she was, but I didn’t. It wasn’t until she had left did one of my aides point out that she was the wife of the governor of Texas.”

  “But you discussed Marcus Rance with her?”

  “No, not really.”

  “What does that mean, Gina? Either you discussed him or you didn’t!”

  “What are you jumping down my throat for?”

  “Did you discuss him?”

  Gina was suddenly concerned by Dutch’s harsh tone. What had she done now? “We talked, yes, and she did mention the death penalty, and she gave an example and we discussed it.”

  “What example?”

  “She was talking about pit bulls.”

  Dutch frowned. “Pit bulls?”

  “That’s why she was here. She and some other ladies represented the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Pit Bulls or some such name.”

  “Who the hell would have scheduled a meeting like that for you?”

  “Somebody on Max’s team actually,” Gina said. “I did voice my displeasure.”

  “What did this Society want with you?”

  Gina smiled. “They wanted me to take up the cause of pit bull cruelty, can you believe it? I mean, I don’t want to see pit bulls brutalized, and I understand the problems they face, but come on? There are crack babies out there, babies born with AIDs, hungry families, people losing
their homes, and they want me to invest the little good will I do have with the American people on pit bull cruelty? Apparently the woman who had set it up has a pit bull herself and she thought it would be a neat cause.”

  Dutch shook his head. “Next time they schedule meetings like that for you, you tell me about it.”

  “I will.”

  “But what about Marcus Rance? Did his name come up?”

  “It came up, yes, that’s what I was saying. Mrs. Feingold bought it up herself, comparing the plight of pit bulls to the plight of people on death row. She knew I opposed capital punishment of any kind. And she asked if I would want my brother’s sentence commuted to life.”

  Dutch closed his eyes as soon as she said that, and then reopened them. “And of course you said you would?”

  “I said I was against the death penalty for any reason and for anybody, so yes, I said I would. Not because of my kinship with Marcus Rance, such as it is, but because of the principal of capital punishment itself. That was it, Dutch, I declare that was it.” Then she stared at his troubled eyes. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing, except that Marcus Rance’s sentence has just been commuted to life by Mrs. Feingold’s husband. Thanks, according to the press, to your intervention.”

  Gina couldn’t believe it. She just stood there staring at Dutch.

  Dutch exhaled. “Damn,” he said.

  “But it was nothing!” Gina insisted. “It was just an offhand comment.”

  “Gina, how many times do I have to tell you to watch what you say around here, offhand or not?” Dutch exhaled, ran his hand through his thick mop of black hair. “It was no issue, you know it and I know it. But the press, they don’t know that. Little offhand comments like this are their bread and butter, and don’t you forget that!”

  Gina stared at Dutch. Her fed-up with this town meter was slowly moving off the charts. “What can I do?” she asked in a deflated tone, because she knew there was always some sick, political, pandering way to make it up.

  “Max suggests you go to one of those victims of violent crime centers here in DC and meet with some of the victims. That way you’ll look more sympathetic to the victims rather than the perps.”

  “I am sympathetic to the victims.”

  “You know it, I know it. We need to make sure the public still knows it.”

  Gina shook her head. “But to have me going to a victim center after the commutation, like the American people are stupid or something. That is so bogus, Dutch.”

  “I know it is. But do it,” he ordered, looking her dead in the eye.

  Gina nodded, still reluctant. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Dutch kissed her lightly on the lips, and left.

  “Shoes,” Gina said aloud, and went back to her rack of gowns.

  ***

  Two days later, after visiting two of those victim centers in the DC area and actually learning something she thought was rather profound, she made a decision. That night, alone in the residence with Dutch, she tried to figure out a way to tell him about it.

  “How did it go today?” she asked him. They were in the residence dining hall eating dinner. Dutch at the head of the table, Gina sitting to the right of him.

  “It was the usual unusual, you know how it goes. Plans are being drawn and redrawn, the economy is beginning to pick up some steam, and we’re finally having some private communications with the hostage takers.”

  “The media would broadcast it live if they found out.”

  “Some already know. The big three networks know, but for the safety of the hostages they have agreed to keep it under wraps.”

  “Really? And you expect them to keep their word?”

  “It’s happened before. As long as they know the hostages’ lives are at stake, they’ll remain silent.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “Also,” Dutch said a little less enthusiastically. “My mother phoned.”

  Gina bit into a biscuit and looked at him. “What did she want?”

  “To see me.”

  Not us, Gina thought. “Where?”

  “Nantucket.”

  “Are you going?”

  Dutch hesitated, staring down at his bowl of soup. “Yes,” he said. “I’m still upset with her for opposing our marriage, and doing so publicly, but she’s still my mother.” Gina nodded. “And she says it’s very important that she sees me.”

  “What could be so important?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m assuming it’s personal.”

  “You mean she could be ill or something?”

  “She’s sixty-four years old. It’s possible.”

  Gina nodded. Then she told him about her day at those victim centers and what happened during her last few minutes at one of them.

  “I was just giving my usual spiel, you know,” she said, “about how things will get better and how to look on the bright side and I stayed away from all controversy and focused only on sunshine and happiness. Max would have been proud. I even told a group of teenage victims to forgive their perpetrators, saying that not forgiving only hurts them.”

  “You told them right,” Dutch said, reaching for another biscuit to dip into the wonderful pea soup the Chef had prepared.

  “I know it was the right thing to say,” Gina replied. “But then one of them, a real skinny kid with little squinty eyes, asked if I had forgiven my brother.”

  Dutch looked at her. “Forgiven him?”

  “Yeah. For being a drug dealer. For that drive-by he committed and those people died. For disgracing my father’s name. He wanted to know if I forgave him for that.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told the truth. I said no. I mean, I haven’t even thought about Marcus Rance, at least not like that. But then the kid says, ‘how can you ask us to forgive, when you can’t even do it?’ That just stunned me, Dutch. Not only was I a fake for even agreeing to go to that center to begin with, just to appease some press that won’t give us credit anyway, but I was being a hypocrite about it too.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  Gina hesitated. Then stared at her husband. “I want to see him, Dutch.”

  Dutch could hardly believe his ears. “See him? Why?”

  “Because he’s my father’s son. Because I need to look him in the eye and I don’t know why. But I want to go and see him. I just think I should see him. He is my brother.”

  “He’s your half-brother.”

  “He’s my father’s whole son, Dutch. And I loved my father. I feel I should do this.”

  Dutch was shaking his head before she finished her sentence. “That’s out of the question, Regina,” he said.

  “But why?”

  “What do you mean why? The mid-terms are coming up.”