by Jason Pinter
As Rawson was led out of his office, he looked at his daughter and said, “I was wrong. You were the lion.”
Then Rawson Griggs was led away.
Alena sank to her knees, alone in her father’s office, with its spectacular views overlooking the grandeur of the city he helped build, and cried.
Rawson Griggs sentenced, Mayflower Party collapses
Country looks to repair its wounds behind leadership of President-Elect Annabelle Shaw
By Grace Rivas and Eric Celsun
The stunning collapse of an American empire was complete today as iconic businessman and former presidential candidate Rawson Griggs was sentenced to life in prison after being found guilty of six felony charges, including conspiracy to commit murder in the death of Mr. Griggs’s son-in-law, Paul Bracewell, and treason for Griggs’s partnership with the foreign activist group PoliSpill, which coordinated with the Griggs campaign to kneecap both of Mr. Griggs’s Republican and Democratic opponents. A jury found unanimously that Mr. Griggs knowingly orchestrated an effort by foreign bodies to influence the United States presidential election by working with PoliSpill to first target Republican Richard Bertrand, who dropped out of the race, and then Annabelle Shaw, who weathered the storm and went on to win the recent election despite the lowest voter turnout in decades, defeating Wisconsin governor Bobby Garrett by a narrow electoral college margin of 279-259.
Despite facing charges that could land him in prison for the rest of his life, and being removed from the national ballot in the wake of his indictment, Rawson Griggs received nearly two million write-in votes from supporters who were convinced Griggs had been set up by his political opponents, or who felt his alleged crimes were not severe enough to swing their vote.
Griggs’s daughter, Alena, at the center of the investigation, was hailed as a whistleblower for getting a confession of her father’s crimes. Yet Ms. Griggs was called a pariah: many felt that their dreams of a Griggs presidency were dashed when his crimes came to light. Ms. Griggs, long seen as the heir apparent to an iconic American empire, has not spoken publicly since her father’s indictment. And with the Griggs Organization’s assets frozen, it remains to be seen how she intends to carry on her family’s business, if at all.
The Griggs trial featured testimony from Jeremy Stanton, the so-called “Upper East Side Hero,” who had been hired by Griggs after he prevented the assumed attempted murder of Alena Griggs and Paul Bracewell. But after thousands of emails and phone logs were subpoenaed from Griggs servers, the Department of Justice uncovered proof Bracewell had been targeted by Griggs himself after learning that Bracewell had been acting as an informant for Annabelle Shaw’s campaign.
Amidst his suspicion of Rawson’s crimes, Jeremy Stanton had resigned from the Griggs campaign. Following the controversy surrounding a never-aired interview with his estranged father, Stanton was later assaulted by men who were then identified as employees of Phillip Costanzo’s security firm. One of the assailants, Fernando Diaz, has been identified as the brother of Domingo Diaz, the inmate who killed suspected assassin Dastan Nogoyev in prison as he awaited arraignment.
The Griggs Organization, once a hallmark of American industry, money, power, ambition, and success, lies in shambles.
Following Rawson Griggs’s arrest, thousands of pro-Griggs supporters organized demonstrations around the country. In Pleasant Prairie, Michigan, hundreds of unemployed men and women held a vigil for Mr. Griggs outside of a now-shuttered Jelly Belly plant. Griggs had drawn thousands to his rally in Prairie last year, and residents, facing a devastated local economy, believed a Griggs presidency would bring this derelict town back to greatness.
“I don’t care what he did or who he had to go through to do it,” said Ann-Marie Butler, 56. “You don’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Rawson found some bad eggs, broke them, and we should be praising him for it, not jailing him for it. Whatever Rawson Griggs did, he did for the good of the country. But I know Rawson will pull through. Beasts survive.”
The result of the Griggs incarceration is a nation that is as divided as ever, with an unpopular president-elect presiding over an electorate whose majority did not vote her into office, whose party does not control the House or Senate, and who will find many of her proposals blocked by an admittedly obstructionist Republican Party.
President-elect Shaw, in a press conference following her victory, said of the Griggs scandal, “Rawson Griggs tapped into a very real anger felt by many Americans. I do not condone his horrific actions, and I am thankful his presidency did not come to pass. America as we know it would have ceased to exist. But I do want to tell the many people who believed in Rawson Griggs that we feel their pain. That we will not stand by while our cities and towns crumble. That we will not forget them. Rest assured that the common man and woman will be remembered and play a role, a significant one, in the future of this great country. I am proud to be a president for all of us.”
Following her press conference, President-elect Shaw sped to a $25,000 a plate fundraiser at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Manhattan to help pay down her millions of dollars in campaign debts and to raise money to aid her transition team.
I’m going to die. This time, for real. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. My luck has run out. Please bury me next to my loved ones.
Those words ran through Remy’s mind as he straddled the bicycle seat, hooked his shoes into the clips, and prepared to take Trevor’s spin class for the very first time. The studio was filled to capacity: fifty trim and toned “students,” all clad in colorful spandex and polyester outfits, waiting to sweat off half their body weight over the next forty-five minutes. Remy looked around, terrified. He hadn’t seen this much muscle and sinew since he went on an ill-advised first date to the Bodies exhibit. Remy wondered if anyone ever had the misfortune of passing out before the class actually started.
He was sitting front row center, as promised. Chris sat on the bike to his right. To his left was a girl in her mid-twenties wearing a neon green sports bra with abs that looked like the underside of an egg carton. Generic dance music was playing as everyone clipped in and adjusted their bikes.
“This was a very bad idea,” Remy said to Chris. “Any advice?”
“Just don’t fart during class,” Chris said. “That’s a big no-no.”
“Got it. Do they have paramedics here? You know, just in case?”
“Quit whining,” Chris said. “I’ve only seen three people die during Trevor’s classes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course not, you big ninny. You’ll love it. Trust me.”
A side door opened and Trevor walked up to the podium. A single bike sat atop the mount. The class cheered and clapped as Trevor clipped in. He plugged his iPhone into the speaker setup, which was about the size of a small SUV. Trevor wore a large brace on his ankle, but otherwise looked no worse for wear. He had on a gray, sleeveless CyclePro t-shit, black spandex pants, and a blue headband. Trevor looked like he’d just escaped a 1980s fitness video, but it worked.
Trevor clasped his hands together and leaned forward.
“Thanks, everyone,” Trevor said, beaming. He choked up as he spoke. “It feels so, so great to finally be back. It’s been a long, tough road to get to this point. But now I’m back and I can’t wait to kick all your asses.”
Forty-nine people clapped. They were fired up. Remy couldn’t understand why so many people were this excited to get their asses kicked.
“Now, I said I wouldn’t embarrass them,” Trevor said, “but this is my class, so tough shit. I want to thank my loving and patient husband, Chris, who put up with my cabin fever the last few months and finally learned how to make the bed. I love you, babe.”
Chris blew Trevor a kiss and waved to the class.
“And my good friend, Remy Stanton. Some of you might know Remy from this little election thing over the past year, it wasn’t really that big of a deal, and we won’t hold it against him that he
worked for Voldemort before finally wising up. Seriously, though, Remy’s the best friend a guy could have and I’m glad he’s here. And this is his first class, so I’m going to make it special.”
Remy didn’t want special. He was just fine with not falling off the bike.
“Now,” Trevor said, flicking a switch that turned the studio into a dark cave. “Let’s ride!”
Trevor turned the music on, Remy prayed to God, and the class began.
He was still alive. He felt like a human puddle and looked like a drowned rat, but Remy had survived. For forty-five minutes, Remy pedaled, sprinted, climbed hills, and occasionally had to remind himself to breathe. Chris was right, though. He felt like he might throw up, but the adrenaline rush was fantastic. It was the best workout he’d gotten in, well, forever.
When the class ended, Trevor thanked everyone again, dismounted his bike, and gave Chris and Remy a slimy hug.
“So,” Trevor said to Remy as he toweled off. “What’d you think?”
“You played too much Beyoncé,” Remy said.
“My classes are usually ninety percent women. They like Beyoncé. People don’t get pumped listening to Barry Manilow, or whatever the hell you keep on your iPhone.”
“Barry Manilow is a little too gangster for me.”
“Seriously,” Chris said. “How’d you do?”
“Weirdly enough, I loved it. I’m shocked to say that. So am I invited back?”
“You’d better come back,” Trevor said. “But from now on you have to book on Sundays at five p.m. just like everyone else. My classes fill up in less than one minute. No joke.”
“You’re like the pied piper of gross, sweaty insanity.”
“I take that as a wonderful compliment. So, on to brunch next?”
“I’ll go shower,” Remy said. “Meet you out front.”
“Go ahead. Oh, and bring your friend.”
“My friend?” Remy said. Trevor pointed towards the back of the studio. Remy’s jaw dropped. Alena Griggs was standing there, wearing a white tank top and green Lululemon pants. She was sweaty, her ponytail askew, and breathing like she’d just climbed a mountain. Remy wondered if his beating heart was visible through his shirt.
Alena waved at Remy, and he went over to her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey. So…can I hug you, or would you prefer to wait until I’m no longer a sweaty mess?”
“Give me a hug, you sweaty mess.”
Remy wrapped his arms around Alena. He felt like crying. They hadn’t seen each other in months. God, he’d missed her.
“Alena emailed me last week asking if she could come to my first class back,” Trevor said, putting his arms around them both. “As you can see, I put her in the back row. Now don’t get me wrong, I like this gal, but I don’t need all you celebrities taking away my spotlight.”
“Totally understandable,” Alena said. “Consider me a regular from now on.”
“We’re going for brunch after this,” Trevor said. “Care to join us?”
“Only if where you’re going makes a good Bloody Mary,” she said.
“Ooh, I like this girl,” Trevor said. “Go get ready. Everyone meet outside in fifteen.”
Remy touched her hand, felt her fingers curl around his. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“I’m glad you came. Maybe at some point we can catch up. Just the two of us.”
“I’d like that.”
“Hey, oh my god, I love you two. Can I get a selfie?”
One of Trevor’s “students” had noticed Remy and Alena, and was holding out her cell phone eagerly. Her trapezius muscles were bigger than Remy’s head.
“Sure,” Alena said.
The girl posed in front of them and they all smiled as she took the picture. “My boyfriend is gonna freak,” she said. “Thanks! So are you two, like, a couple?”
“Alright, move along,” Alena said.
The girl left, and Remy laughed.
“I thought I was done with those,” Remy said.
“You’ll never be done with them,” Alena replied. “Now go get cleaned up.”
Remy showered and changed and met Trevor, Chris, and Alena outside the studio. Their faces were all bright red and sweat-sheened from the workout. Remy was starving. Forget Bloody Marys, he didn’t care about drinks as long as they served food. Preferably something carb-related and smothered in cheese.
Trevor and Chris walked ahead, holding hands. Remy felt awkward. He wanted to touch her hand, see if she was receptive or recoiled. The choice was taken from him when he felt Alena take his hand, gently. He folded his hand around hers and smiled.
“Should we…talk about everything?”
“Not yet. Sometime. Right now, I just want to be Alena and Remy. No last names.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
They walked towards the restaurant. Then Remy heard someone call out from behind them: “Mr. Stanton! Ms. Griggs!”
Alena whispered, “Ugh, not another one.”
Remy turned around. A man was jogging hurriedly up to them. By the time he arrived he was out of breath. He was in his mid-forties, slightly pudgy, with wispy black hair. He was wearing gray slacks and a brown sport jacket.
“Peter Drummond, Daily Wire,” the man said, heaving. “Somebody…hoo, give me a second…posted on Twitter…that they saw you both in at CyclePro. Really glad I caught you. Mr. Stanton, mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Sorry,” Remy said, “we’re on our way to eat. You can email me.”
“Mr. Stanton, please. Just quickly. How do you feel about President elect Shaw?”
“I’m sure she’s a very nice woman,” Remy said.
“Did you vote for her?”
“It is the constitutional right of all Americans to keep their ballots private,” Remy replied.
“What are your plans now that the election over? Will you go back to Pulaski & Associates?”
“Not at the moment,” Remy said. “I’m kind of happy being a free agent for a little while. Now, excuse us.”
They continued to walk, leaving Drummond standing behind them.
“Just one more question,” Drummed shouted. “Mr. Stanton, would you ever consider running for office yourself?”
Remy stopped. He looked at Alena. She smiled. Shrugged.
He said, “Give me a minute.”
Then Remy turned back around.
To my hearts: Dana and Ava. The word love is inadequate for you. Being a husband and a father fills me with pride every day.
To mom, dad, and Ali, always.
To the many people I spoke to in various parts of government and political consulting in the research for this book (none of whom I can name). Thank you for your fascinating stories, your candidness, and for essentially doing the trapeze above a swimming pool filled with piranhas in the three-ring circus that is politics.
A few of the books I read in researching this book that are well worth your time:
Game Change by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 by Hunter S. Thompson
Trump Revealed
Dark Money by Jane Mayer
It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis
All the President’s Men by Carl Bersntein and Bob Woodward
Nixonland by Rick Perlstein
The Selling of the President by Joe McGinniss
The Golden Kazoo by John G. Schneider
Thank you to my readers, who have waited patiently for a new book. I hope this was worth the wait.
Jason Pinter is the bestselling author of five thrillers with over one million copies in print worldwide in over a dozen languages, as well as the Middle Grade adventure novel Zeke Bartholomew: SuperSpy. He has been nominated for the Thriller Award, Strand Critics Award, Barry Award, RT Reviewers Choice Award, Shamus Award and CrimeSpree Award. Two of his books—The Fury and The Darkness—were chosen as Indie Next selections, an
d The Mark, The Stolen and The Fury, were named to The Strand’s Best Books of the Year list. The Mark and The Stolen both appeared on the ‘Heatseekers’ bestseller list in The Bookseller (UK). The Mark was optioned to be a feature film.
He is the Founder and Publisher of Polis Books, an independent publishing company he founded in 2013. He was recently named one of Publisher Weekly’s inaugural Star Watch honorees, which “recognizes young publishing professionals who have distinguished themselves as future leaders of the industry.”
He has written for The New Republic, Entrepreneur, The Daily Beast, Medium and The Huffington Post, and has been featured in Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, MediaBistro, Mystery Scene and more. He lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife, their daughter, and their dog.
Visit him at www.JasonPinter.com and follow him at @JasonPinter.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Jason Pinter
Published by Armina Press
Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design
Interior design and formatting by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN 978-1-943818-99-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907545
