The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “We’ve all heard stories about Mr. Griggs’s ruthlessness. He may have nearly as many enemies as he does supporters.”

  “Rawson does what it takes to win. It’s not always pretty. But it’s effective. When you go to war, you can’t worry about whether you’re being polite.”

  “We still know very little about Mr. Griggs’s international ties, including any foreign investments and debts. Will he release that information?”

  “If Rawson feels they’ll matter to voters, I’m sure he’ll consider it.”

  “Do you have a good relationship personally with Rawson Griggs?”

  “Yes, proud to say I do.”

  “And Mr. Griggs’s daughter. Alena. Many people say she’s actually his closest advisor. How have you observed their relationship? What do you think of Alena Griggs?”

  Remy paused, then said, “Alena Griggs is a phenomenal woman. Strong and smart. She has all of her father’s strengths. I think Alena is really just an exceptional, exceptional woman. She keeps her father grounded.”

  “That’s quite laudatory,” Grace said.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Remy decided to retreat just a little. He meant what he said about Alena, but for some reason he always felt like he was one step away from crossing a line he shouldn’t approach.

  “Just a few months ago, people didn’t know who you were,” Grace said.

  “I’d like to think some people knew who I was,” Remy said, smiling, cutting her off. Grace laughed and blushed.

  “You know what I mean. You worked for a consulting firm, Pulaski & Associates. You had a stable, what seems like satisfying, career. But then, overnight, you’re a hero. You’re on the cover of newspapers. And then, just a short time later, you’re on the presidential campaign trail with one of the most recognizable men alive. That’s a pretty drastic upheaval, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Without a doubt. My life has turned upside down. I didn’t ask for any attention the night I met Alena and Paul. I just want to turn difficult circumstances into something good, I guess.”

  “Do you think the attempt on Alena and Paul’s life and the attack at the Castle have made Rawson Griggs question his decision to run for president? That his family might be a target?”

  “It hasn’t changed his mind,” Remy said. “If anything, those incidents have firmed his resolve to protect America. It’s clear to Rawson that the people in charge right now are letting those duties slip.”

  “It appears that, barring major upsets, Annabelle Shaw and Richard Bertrand will be the Democratic and Republican nominees for president. Both have long histories of public service. Both have strong fundraising arms and the support of their parties. No third party nominee has won a state during an election since George Wallace in 1968, and no third party candidate has garnered more than five percent of the vote since Ross Perot. Why do you feel Rawson Griggs has a better chance than either of those two?”

  “George Wallace ran on a segregationist platform forty years ago. We’re a different country now. A better country now. Rawson Griggs’s message will appeal to all Americans. And voters across the country feel that Senator Shaw and Governor Bertrand, with all their experience, typify the recycled political class people are fed up with.”

  “You sound very well briefed,” Grace said. There was slight disapproval in her tone, and Remy picked up on it. He wondered if he did sound robotic, coached, a human talking point. But he needed to defend the campaign. Defend Rawson.

  “I wouldn’t have turned my life upside down if I didn’t believe in him.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll be headlining several Griggs events yourself over the coming months. I believe eight events in seven states, including a major event at the Grand Hyatt in Manhattan. You said yourself that your life will never be the same. Do you have any regrets?”

  “Not for a moment,” Remy said with conviction. “I regret not recognizing Alexay Usenov earlier enough to save people. I don’t know, realistically, what more I could have done. It sickens me that people lost their lives. But in a strange way, my getting shot was a blessing. I mean sure, I could have died, but I also wouldn’t be talking to you. I wouldn’t be able to change hearts and minds like we are. A few months ago, I was consultant, walking around handing out my business card and racking up miles, and nobody cared. But people are paying attention now. That’s a responsibility that’s both great and terrifying. Because when you have influence, it’s up to you to wield it properly. And that’s what I want to do, because I think we can do some real good.”

  “That’s a noble goal,” Grace said. “Now, talk about you.”

  “I’m way less interesting than Rawson,” Remy said.

  Grace laughed. “I don’t know about that. Your resumé is impressive. Born and raised in Lancaster, PA. Summa cum laude from Yale, then off to Pulaski & Associates, where you worked with half a dozen Fortune 500 companies. But take me back. Tell me about your family.”

  Remy exhaled. “Well, my mother, Margaret, was my hero. She passed away when I was in high school. Breast cancer. That’s actually one of the issues I want to highlight in on the campaign trail. More access for women to clinics for mammograms and screenings. Less vilification of organizations that offer them.”

  “You know, I can’t really tell if you’re a liberal or conservative,” Grace said. “What would you call yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Remy responded. “That’s why we’re running on the Mayflower Party.”

  “Tell me about your father,” Grace said.

  Remy’s head snapped up with such quickness that Grace flinched.

  “Let’s move on,” he said.

  “You told me about your mother. Now I want to…”

  Remy shook his head. “I’m not going to talk about him.”

  “This is obviously a wound,” she said, not without sympathy. “And I don’t want to pour salt in it. But people want to know who you are, Jeremy. Outside the campaign.”

  “Pouring salt in a wound is your ex-girlfriend inviting you to her wedding. That happened to me once. It sucked. But my father is a wound in the way cancer is a wound.”

  Grace turned off the tape recorder. Remy looked at her, confused.

  “Do you want to talk about it? OTR?”

  “OTR?”

  “Off the record.” Grace’s eyes were sympathetic. “You need to understand that even though I’ve had a very good relationship with the Griggs Organization, and Alena in particular, I need to report this story—your story—honestly. I understand your refusal to talk about your father. And that’s your right. But this is your story.”

  Remy rubbed his head. He knew she was doing her job. Few things irritated him more than when he read puff pieces on politicians and celebrities that ignored or whitewashed anything controversial or interesting. He just never thought he would be on the other side, the one having to hold back. He knew working for Rawson Griggs would open up his life to scrutiny, he just didn’t think it would be this quick.

  “I can’t stop you from writing about my father,” Remy said. “But I won’t comment on him.”

  “Off the record,” Grace said, “I completely understand. My family was no picnic. I haven’t said more than one sentence to my mother in six years. I won’t bore you with the details. But the only times I hear from her are emails from time to time asking for money. Occasionally, I’ll get a voicemail from some new boyfriend of hers, sometimes asking for a little something to help him buy her a birthday present. She hears New York Gazette and assumes every reporter makes Matt Lauer money and lives in a gold penthouse. I live in a studio with a cat.”

  “I live in a studio too,” Remy said. “No cat, though.”

  “I’m not equating my situation to yours. Just saying I empathize.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Remy said, noting the recorder was still off. “How often do you think about it? Your mother, I mean. I don’t mean to pry…well, I guess you’re sort of doing that with me so I’m prying a littl
e bit…but how often?”

  Grace’s demeanor changed slightly. Her face became softer, more reflective. “Want to know the truth?” she said.

  Remy nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Every damn day. It’s affected my life more than anything that’s ever happened to me. Ripples don’t stop. They just create more ripples.”

  He let that sink in. Grace didn’t take her eyes off of him. She picked up her latte and took a sip.

  “Same here,” he said. “Not many things can both paralyze you and drive you. It’s an angry loneliness.”

  “Angry loneliness,” she said, considering the term. “In what way?”

  “Neither of my parents have been a part of my life since I was a kid. My mom passed. My father…wasn’t there. You’re angry at the world for taking them from you, and that anger grows when you’re at school. At college. You see friends’ parents come to visit, bringing them food and gifts. When you get your first job—a good job—and you want to call someone to celebrate, but don’t know who. It washes over you. The loneliness. You know it’s not your fault, but you wonder why you were cursed like this. You wonder why she had to get sick. You wonder why he was who he was.”

  Remy felt like a massive weight was slowly being lifted off his shoulders. He hadn’t spoken about his father, even in such vague terms, in years. Not to Trevor. Not to anyone. Let alone a complete stranger. He’d even threatened to walk out on Rawson Griggs if he pressed the subject. But hearing Grace Rivas say those words—every damn day—it was like she was understood Remy in a way the others couldn’t.

  “You,” Remy said. “You’re not like I expected.”

  “Oh really?” Grace said. “How’s that?”

  “You don’t really think of reporters as people. Okay, that came out wrong. But you’re like actors. All we see is what you want us to see, on television, in print. I had no idea you owned a cat. Besides, the last time I talked to a reporter, it was in college after I hit a walk-off home run to beat Dartmouth. The whole interview lasted about thirty seconds and they still misquoted me in the New Haven Register.” He pointed at the recorder. The recording light was still off. “So, I assume we’re still OTR?”

  “We are. Unless you tell me to turn it back on. Oh, and for the record, you’re not quite what I expected either.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well,” Grace said, “I kind of expected you to be just another fieldbro.”

  “Fieldbro,” Remy said. “What’s a fieldbro?”

  “Spend a little more time in politics,” Grace said, “you’ll figure it out. Oh, and don’t take it personally if people assume you are one. Just…don’t be one.”

  “I will do my absolute best to avoid fieldbro-ness.”

  They both laughed, but Remy looked down for a moment, embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t quite understand. The last few weeks had been a maelstrom of anger and sadness and rage, endless hours talking to the FBI, NYPD, and Homeland Security and the anti-Terrorism task force. Confronted with all the pain and death, being forced to confront the fact that he was powerless to save those lives. For one day, it was nice to just talk, to laugh, to relate to someone else. As much as he enjoyed being around the Griggs organization, Rawson and Alena came from a different world. They did their best to mime understanding true hardship and the fear and uncertainty that came with it.

  But theirs wasn’t organic. It wasn’t their fault. Remy wouldn’t wish his pain on anyone. But talking to someone who could hear him, truly hear him, felt good.

  “Let’s get a drink sometime,” Remy blurted out. “No tape recorder. No suits with guns. Just good drinks and good conversation.”

  Grace sat back, surprised.

  “See that,” Grace said with a smile, “is something a fieldbro would say.”

  “What? What did I do?”

  “You realize this is my job,” she said firmly, though Remy detected the slightest hint of hesitation. “I’m always up to have to have a drink with interesting people…but I think we both know what you were getting at.”

  “Okay. My bad. I shouldn’t have asked. Though I’m flattered I might be one of those interesting people.”

  “I can’t allow there even be a hint of impropriety or accusations of favoritism. Another time and another life, maybe.”

  “Maybe. My fragile fieldbro ego can deal with maybe. I’m still learning, you know. The line. And how not to cross it.”

  “So we’ll chalk it up to inexperience,” Grace said. “I’ll let you go for now. But I might have some follow up questions. You game?”

  “You have my number.”

  Grace took the digital recorder, slipped it into her purse. She dropped a ten on the table and stood up. Remy could see people taking pictures of them with their cell phones. He still hadn’t gotten used to being recognized. Every cup of coffee was a potential photo op. Never before had he taken such precautions to ensure he wore clean shirts and matching socks.

  They walked towards the entrance. As they passed the counter, a clerk with thick muttonchops, ear studs, and a septum piercing thrust his fist out at Remy. Remy flinched.

  “Hey man,” the clerk said. His nametag read Jim. “Remy Stanton, right? Just wanted to tell you to give ’em hell. Griggs has my vote.”

  Remy stuck out his fist and bumped it with Jim.

  “I appreciate it. Sorry, still a bit jumpy.”

  “No worries, my friend. Next time, coffee’s on the house.”

  Remy thanked him.

  As they left the shop, Remy heard someone say, “Jeremy Stanton. Hero of the city. Rawson Griggs’s monkey boy.”

  Remy turned to see a stranger standing there with a massive shit-eating grin, the kind of smile that almost begged you to punch him in the face. He wore gray khakis and a navy sport jacket with a bright blue tie. He had a crew cut and a soft chin. He appeared to be about forty and had the look of someone who either got what he wanted, or complained until it was given to him. And he was staring right at Remy.

  “Help you?” Remy said. The man stuck out his hand. Remy looked at it like he was holding feces. He turned to Grace. He could instantly tell she knew who he was.

  “Mr. Stanton, I’m so sorry for the rude interruption,” the man said with complete and utter insincerity. He had a soft Southern accent. “My name is Doug Rimbaud.”

  Rimbaud waited a beat for Remy to say something. When he didn’t, the man continued.

  “I’m the campaign manager for Annabelle Shaw.”

  Remy’s eyes widened. Annabelle Shaw was the senior senator from Kentucky, and currently the Democratic frontrunner for president. What in the hell was his campaign manager doing here? And why was he such a dick?

  Rimbaud made sure to catch Grace Rivas’s eye.

  “Ms. Rivas,” Rimbaud said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Doug,” Grace said, skeptical. Remy wondered what the hell Rimbaud was doing here. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “I just wanted to extend my thanks, and that of Senator Shaw, to Mr. Stanton. You’re a true American hero and a patriot. It’s just a shame you’re working for a clown.”

  Remy wondered whether it would be worth breaking his hand to punch Rimbaud. He decided it probably was.

  “If you’re Senator Shaw’s campaign manager,” Remy said, “then god help her campaign.”

  Rimbaud reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. He held it out to Remy. “Senator Shaw would very much like to meet with you. Rawson Griggs is a charlatan with no political experience who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the White House. You should consider working for a candidate who can bring about real change.”

  Remy took Rimbaud’s business card. He looked at it. Then he spat on it and tore it into teeny tiny pieces and let them flutter to the earth.

  “That was the patriotic thing to do,” Remy said.

  Rimbaud smiled, amused. “We both know how unlikely it is for a third party candidate to make any sort of dent in an election. Mr
. Griggs’s candidacy is a fun distraction from the real race. He’s entertainment. You, though, could be a tremendous asset to a real campaign and a real, competitive candidate, Mr. Stanton.”

  He couldn’t help but notice that Grace Rivas had taken out a notepad and was scribbling on it. Remy felt like an idiot. Clearly Rimbaud had wanted to get under Remy’s skin, wanted him to lose his cool in front of a reporter.

  “When Senator Shaw loses,” Remy said, “I’ll make sure to look you up if I need to buy a used car.”

  Rimbaud extended his hand to Remy. “It’s been a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Wish I could say the same.”

  Remy took Rimbaud’s hand and pulled it towards him slightly, squeezing just enough so Rimbaud opened his mouth to complain.

  “Ow, my ha….” And then Rimbaud shut up. Too bad. Remy would have killed for Grace to include in her story that Doug Rimbaud squealed like a stuck pig due to a firm handshake.

  “I just want you to know,” Remy said, loud enough so that Grace could hear him, “that this kind of crap is the reason I’m supporting Rawson Griggs. It’s the reason we’re going to win this election. People are tired of games and cynicism.”

  Remy let go of Rimbaud’s hand. Red fingermarks laced the man’s flesh.

  “Say hello to the senator for me. I look forward to meeting her at some point down the road. And if she’s smart, she’ll fire your ass well before then.”

  Rimbaud rubbed his hand, looked at Grace, then back at Remy.

  “He’s not what you think he is,” Rimbaud said. Then he left.

  When he was out of earshot, Grace said, “Well, damn, that was shady.”

  “He knew what he was doing,” Remy said.

  “That card ripping was amazing. I have to include that.”

  Remy laughed. “Go ahead.”

  He offered Grace his hand. She shook it and smiled.

  “It was nice to meet you, Jeremy Stanton.”