by Tom Grace
“You seem to be enjoying this,” Niki said distastefully. “Building someone up only to tear them down again.”
“Journalistic Darwinism,” Turcott said with a shrug. “Look, I know you’re part of Egan’s publicity team and what he did in Africa was great, but at the end of the day should he really be running this country? I don’t think so.”
“I think he would have made a fine president, perhaps as good as that man,” Niki said with a tilt of her head toward Jefferson.
“News flash: Jefferson bought slaves, too.”
The incensed crowd outside roared to life, chanting Hell No! Egan Must Go!
Turcott glanced at his watch. “Like him or not, Ross Egan is always punctual. I’ll miss that when he’s gone.”
“Sir, you have to get behind the line,” a police officer informed Turcott sternly.
Turcott lifted the rope cord and slipped in beside Niki. She trained her camera toward the portico and captured Ross Egan’s arrival. He strode into the rotunda confidently. His long wool cashmere topcoat was unbuttoned down the front, fluttering as he moved. Egan chose a dark blue suit for this occasion; the creases on his pants were razor sharp, the tailoring impeccable. He was clean-shaven, alert and calm—not at all the image of a man mired in the political scandal of the century.
“Get a good picture of him quitting,” Turcott whispered into Niki’s ear. “I’ll need it for the book I’m writing about how I brought him down.”
Niki turned from her camera. “You did this to him?”
“Uncovering his dirty little secret is going to put me front row in the White House briefing room, on top of the Times bestseller list, and it might even win me a Pulitzer. Then you and I will have a matched set— one for making him, and the other for breaking him.”
Camera flashes marked each step of Egan’s long, slow walk to the lectern. He moved purposefully through the gauntlet, each footstep tapping softly on the marble floor.
“I have a brief statement to make,” Egan said in a businesslike tone. “I will take no questions afterward. I am here today to discuss the serious charge leveled against me by the President. While I might take issue with the speculation and inferences, the factual substance of the President’s claim is correct. I did, in fact, purchase a slave. There is nothing that I can offer in my own defense.”
“I just hope I can find the woman he bought,” Turcott whispered. “The victim’s side of a story like this would add some serious seven-figure sizzle to my advance.”
Niki felt her hands tighten on the camera body, knuckles bulging white under the taut skin. She pivoted about and struck Turcott’s face with the lens. Turcott staggered back, dazed by the blow. Niki then furiously smashed her camera on the floor.
“You seek to profit from a woman’s pain?” Niki shouted at Turcott. “You are evil.”
Niki ducked under the rope line and stormed straight toward Egan, her eyes on fire with rage. Egan’s Secret Service detail quickly closed in around him and a pair of burly police officers moved to intercept her.
“It’s all right!” Egan called out. “It’s alright. She’s with me.”
The officers each grabbed one of Niki’s arms and looked to Egan for confirmation.
“She’s okay,” Egan said reassuringly. “Let her go.”
The officers released Niki. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure before proceeding at a more measured pace. Egan waited at the lectern in silence as Niki approached. He turned as she stepped onto the platform and they stood for a moment, face-to-face. Then she touched his cheek.
“To be truly free,” Niki said softly, “I have to do this.”
Egan saw the plea in her eyes and nodded that he understood. He stepped back, ceding the lectern to Niki.
“Ross Egan has said he will offer no defense against the President’s claim that he bought a slave,” Niki began. “I am here now to refute that false claim.”
“I am Niki Adashi. Though I was not born here, I am an American citizen. The country of my birth no longer exists, and the people who live in peace in the new nation of Dutannuru are most thankful for all that Ross Egan accomplished on their behalf.”
The crowd outside jeered and booed loudly as Niki spoke. She ignored them and continued on.
“As a young woman, I worked for Ross Egan and his wife as a nanny for their child. The Egans helped many people during the Safolese civil war, and made many enemies in the Cudjoe regime.
“One day, my mistress and I were taking food and medical supplies to a village. The fighting was far away, so we thought the journey safe. A Safolese raiding party attacked us. Our military escorts were killed and we were captured. They smashed”—Niki choked back a sob—“the baby on the ground and killed him. Maggie Egan and I were both raped many times. We were beaten terribly. Because Maggie Egan was white and an American, they killed her.”
The sounds of the protesters outside quieted as Niki continued her story.
“I was taken across the border, far into the Sahara Desert, and sold to a vile man named Mustapha. The work was hard, and I was raped often. I became pregnant three times, and I was often beaten. Now, my body can no longer bear children.
“I was held in bondage in the desert for several years. My family believed me dead, and those who survived the civil war had fled our old village. My prayers for deliverance from Mustapha were answered when Ross Egan found me in the desert.
“I swear that I have never had sexual relations with Ross Egan. I have not had sexual relations with any man since my liberation. I cannot.
“Ross Egan is not Mustapha!” Niki declared, fighting back the tears. “Ross refused to defend himself against the President in order to protect me. He was willing to suffer public humiliation and defeat because of lies rather than reveal my plight and break his promise to me.
“Ross Egan could have easily defeated the President’s lie by telling the truth, but he would not harm me to win this election. He came here today to end his campaign, to withdraw from the public stage in false infamy, to spare me the trauma of a public revelation of all I had suffered. Ross Egan is not a politician like the President—Ross Egan is a man of great honor.
“For me to be free of the demons of my past, I must let them go and make my peace with all that I cannot change. My victory comes in my survival. What was done to me does not define me.” Niki turned to Ross. “I am so much more.”
Ross smiled. He had told her that as he transported her out of the desert.
“Not one of us is perfect. This president standing behind me owned slaves, but the good of his life, and what he and the other Founding Fathers gave to all Americans, far outweighs the bad. President Lincoln, who freed the slaves, was not perfect, but his good deeds far outweighed his sins. Ross Egan is not a perfect man, but in his actions you can clearly see, he is the better man.
“Mr. President, you are wrong! Ross Egan never bought a slave. He never owned me. Ross Egan saved me.”
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
ON AIR
NOVEMBER 5
“Ross, I am almost never at a loss for words,” Garr Denby said to open the interview, “but I have to admit that Niki Adashi left me speechless.”
“That makes two of us,” Egan agreed.
“I mean, if you listen to the tape after we cut back from your press conference last Friday, there’s what seems like a minute of dead air before I could make words come out of my mouth. I am a highly skilled broadcast professional and this kind of thing never happens on this show. Well, almost never happens.
“So, for anyone living under a rock, let’s recap. The President’s opposition research team uncovers a nugget of information about you that they think is your kryptonite, your Achilles’ heel. The President drops this bombshell during the final debate, hoping you won’t have enough time for effective damage control. The President’s October surprise: Ross Egan bought a slave.
“The media lapped it up because it fit the template. Conservati
ves are mean-spirited bigots—so it only makes sense that a white conservative would own a black slave. Conservatives are the oppressors, and they have nominated an evil Simon Legree as their candidate. The op-eds practically write themselves.
“Now, when the left lies, they try to insert a sliver of truth to make what they’re saying appear reasonable. In this case, you did in fact pay to acquire a woman who was being held as a slave, correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“But that little fact was all they knew, and from it they spun a narrative that transformed you from an enlightened man who toppled a dictator and saved the Earth into the most evil man on the planet. In less than a week, you went from being the likely winner of the presidency in a landslide victory to something lower than dog excrement. And you did nothing to counter this flow of unadulterated sewage being dumped on you by the left.”
“I couldn’t fight the lies without revealing the whole truth,” Egan explained. “And revealing the whole truth meant sacrificing a woman who suffered unimaginable horrors. I couldn’t do that just to win a political office.”
“In the modern vernacular, you couldn’t toss Niki under the bus to achieve your political ambitions.”
“Sacrificing Niki for the presidency would be like selling my soul.”
“So Friday, just days before the polls open, you emerge from your self-imposed exile to—”
“Quit,” Egan said, filling in the blank. “Every conservative on the ticket was being hurt by the charge against me. To give these bright and energetic men and women a fighting chance, I had to provide a face-saving way for them to distance themselves from me. It was the best outcome that I could salvage from a bad situation. This election has always been about more than me.”
“So what happened on Friday was not staged?”
“That deer-in-the-headlights look you saw on my face when Niki charged the lectern was absolutely genuine,” Egan admitted with a laugh.
“Then she delivered a speech about truth, integrity and freedom that would have made Dr. King proud.”
“She left me speechless.”
“But you quickly recovered and got back in the game none too soon. Weekend polling shows you once again pulling away from the President by double digits. The only fly in the ointment, as it were, is the absentee ballots cast during the fog of the slavery allegations.”
“That’s why we need to get the word out to all those folks who, after everything hit the fan, may have decided to sit this election out. Their votes still matter.”
“That is absolutely right,” Denby concurred. “At this moment, the hope for an American renaissance has never been brighter, but it is up to We the People to live up to our heritage and reclaim our birthright.”
“I’m very optimistic that we can remind the people of this great nation about the truth of American exceptionalism,” Egan said.
“I won’t keep you because I know you have a few more campaign stops on the West Coast before you head back to Michigan to cast your ballot. May I just wish you good luck and Godspeed.”
“To us all, Garr, to us all.”
CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
MORAN TOWNSHIP, MICHIGAN
NOVEMBER 6
Outside the township hall, members of the press far outnumbered the voters of the sparsely populated district waiting to cast their ballots. If the bumper stickers on the backs of trucks and even a few snowmobiles were any indication, Egan’s advantage among the hometown voters was insurmountable.
Egan arrived at the polling place at nine in the morning with his parents, Niki, and his security detail. He was dressed casually in jeans and a heavy wool sweater, looking vigorous and outdoorsy. With her ever-present camera, Niki set to work documenting the historic day.
“I have something I need to take care of inside,” Egan shouted to the media waiting the required distance away from the polling place. “But I’ll pop over when I’m done.”
One television cameraman accompanied Egan into the hall. He and Niki followed Egan as he presented his credentials and queued up for a booth. The process moved quickly and he ceremoniously fed his ballot into the scanning machine.
“So, who’d you vote for?” a reporter from Detroit asked with a laugh as Egan emerged from the hall.
“The American people,” Egan replied.
TRAVERSE CITY, MICHIGAN
“Boys, the west coast polls are closing,” Rhetta Egan excitedly sang.
She shared a long couch with Niki and Maya in the sitting room of the Grand Traverse Resort’s presidential suite. All three were still clad in plush white robes, their natural beauty enhanced by a day at the resort’s spa that pampered them from head to toe.
Ross Egan stood on the patio with his father, Burton Randell, and Garr Denby. All were dressed casually, enjoying the view on this clear, starry night with a glass of port and a fine cigar. They had spent the afternoon challenging their modest golfing skills on Gary Player’s Wolverine course, followed by a gourmet dinner with the ladies served in the suite.
“Shame we can’t smoke these inside,” Denby opined.
“We’re probably breaking the rules doing it out here,” Leon offered, “but I’m sure the management will let it slide just this once.”
“Did you send my thanks to your crew in Montana?” Ross asked Burton.
“I did, and I expect they are watching the returns with the relief that comes from a job well done.”
“It’s not over, though. They’ll have to lie low until the inauguration. Then I’ll pardon the lot of them for any rules they might have bent a little in exchange for their expertise.”
“They’re all patriots and I’m sure they would be proud to serve their country.”
They finished their cigars and reentered the suite in time to see the first tallies posted for the eastern states. From New England to Florida, the East Coast was awash in Republican red. The President managed to pick up a few electoral votes in states that divided their electors proportionately, but Egan was off to a commanding lead with the opening returns.
“The big question now is coattails,” Denby opined. “Just how many rock-ribbed conservatives are going to ride your wave into Washington?”
Ross shrugged with a smile, happy to enjoy the evening with family and friends. Burton tapped away on the glass screen of his tablet computer, skimming through raw data returns and crunching the numbers almost as quickly in his head.
“I don’t think you’ll be lacking for politically sympathetic company in D.C.,” Burton offered. “You may even have a larger majority in both houses than the President enjoyed during his first two years in office— enough to possibly run your amendment proposals out to the people.”
Denby raised his glass high. “Power back to the people, where it belongs.”
“Hear, hear!” everyone else replied.
“Just an hour after the West Coast polls have closed,” the news anchor reported, “and we are confident in calling the election for the presidency of the United States for Ross Egan …”
“Congratulations, son,” Leon said, with a bear hug.
“… huge voter turnout has turned even the bluest of states red and we are looking at an electoral sweep that could rival that of the Eighty-Four election.”
“We are so proud of you,” Rhetta said before leaving a bright red lip print on her son’s cheek.
Using the sleeve of her robe, Rhetta carefully tried to remove the smudge.
“… Ross Egan will be the first unmarried president in well over a century,” a political analyst offered. “He’s a self-made billionaire and now, the next leader of the free world. That has got to make him perhaps the most eligible bachelor in history. The D.C. social scene will be abuzz with who will be on his arm for important state functions.”
Amid their private celebration, the suite phone rang. Niki pressed the mute button to silence the television. The phone rang again.
“I know you are dying to do this,” Ross said to D
enby with a mischievous smile.
Denby set his glass down on a side table and dramatically picked up the phone.
“Ross Egan’s suite. This is Garr Denby. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Denby put a hand over the receiver as he stifled a belly laugh.
“Yes, Mr. President, he is here and I will be so very pleased to get him on the line.”
Egan accepted the handset from Denby, who mouthed the words Thank you.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Ross said respectfully. “Thank you, sir. And, yes, good help is very hard to find.”
Leon elbowed Denby, who was near tears with laughter.
“I appreciate that, and I look forward to working with you and your staff on the transition over the coming months,” Ross continued. “Again, thank you for the call, Mr. President, and good night.”
“So he’s conceded?” Maya asked.
Ross nodded.
“Ding dong, this presidency is dead!” Denby said with a laugh.
“Yeah,” Ross replied. “And now the real work begins.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED
All but Niki left the presidential suite for their own rooms to dress for the victory party in the resort ballroom. She remained, at his mother’s request, to capture a few final candid shots of Ross before his first public appearance as president-elect.
They dressed separately, and when Niki returned Ross had to pause to appreciate her transformation.
“My dad would say that you clean up real good,” Egan offered.
“And what do you say?” Niki asked as she set her camera case on the bed.
“Since you are my date tonight, thank you.”
I do require some assistance, if you don’t mind.”
Niki turned on her heel to reveal a zipper that opened down to the small of her back. Egan considered making a witty, intimate remark, but immediately thought better of it. That Niki would expose herself to him in this way was a significant expression of trust and he would not make light of it.
