by J. L. Brown
He sighed. “Not well.”
Whitney extended her arm to place the pen in its gold-plated holder in the center of her desk. “Why not?”
“Because every time I make a dent in my stack of books,” he said, “you give me more work to do. It isn’t fair.”
She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him. “When I proposed this reading contest, I wanted it to be predicated on the number of books read.” Whitney and Landon shared a love of reading, particularly books on history, politics, and current events. “You should have made it easy on yourself and read all the short books on your Kindle. But instead, you had the idea to change the contest to number of pages. Bragging rights are at stake. Are you raising the white flag?”
Landon was never one to back down from a challenge. “Do you need anything else, Senator?”
“What are you doing this evening?”
“Reading.”
She rose. “Join me for dinner and then a meeting with Ted later.”
“Yes, Senator,” he said. “Is this invitation another ploy to prevent me from winning the contest?”
*
Whitney and Landon sat at a table in the back of the American cuisine restaurant enjoying an after-dinner coffee. An older establishment, the restaurant had not changed with the times and, in consequence, was nearly empty. The social climbers and power players in DC did not dine here, which was okay with Whitney.
Landon took a sip from his cup. “How does it feel being the de facto nominee?”
“As if the fight has just begun.”
“The campaign will start to get ugly. Their PACs are flush. Expect an avalanche of negative ads.”
“Could be worse. We could still be resolving our differences by dueling.”
“Can you imagine the Capitol surrounded by a mass of duelists?”
“The American people would need to elect a new Congress.” She paused. “Perhaps that’s not such a bad idea.”
They shared a laugh. Landon’s smile no doubt drove the young women crazy. He would go far in politics.
“You haven’t mentioned how you feel about my compromise with Sampson,” Whitney said.
“Not my place, Senator. You did what you felt like you had to do.”
“I wanted to talk to you about the campaign. I need something substantial to make a move.”
“I thought you were focused on women’s rights.”
“I am, but I need something else. Something with a broader appeal.”
“Health care reform’s been taken. Education reform appropriated by the other party. Campaign finance?”
“People don’t care about campaign finance reform, and politicians have no incentive to change the status quo.”
“The deficit? It’s a financial reality. We must reduce spending, and you would be perceived as doing what is best for the country rather than for your party.”
“After the election.”
“Social Security?”
“Can’t win.”
“Income inequality.”
“The country’s not ready.”
“Climate change?”
Whitney sighed. “I know firsthand the impact of climate change on my state. The increased ice storms, droughts, and extreme hot and cold temperatures have hurt Missouri’s agricultural production. We need to reduce greenhouse-gas emissions, but the regulatory impact may hurt middle-class families.”
“And ship jobs overseas.”
“Climate change is important to me, but not the issue I want to bet my campaign on. The sad part is, Al Gore will end up having the last laugh, but our grandchildren won’t find the joke funny.”
Landon shook his head. “Combating the untruths. Used to be facts were facts. Now, facts are relative to which party you belong to. What did Senator Moynihan always say?”
“‘Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not to his own facts.’ Some politicians and organizations, like Patriot News, realized their agenda could be propagated by what Lenin once said: ‘A lie told often enough becomes the truth.’” Whitney sipped her coffee. “I also believe it comes down to the ‘Genius of the And.’ People are oppressed by the ‘Tyranny of the Or’; that you must believe in one idea or the other but not both. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, ‘The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.’”
Landon nodded. “The conservatives have mastered the formula of a simple message repeated over and over again: pro-life, pro-family, pro-guns, pro-smaller government. If only our party would craft a consistent, coherent, and simple message that could compete. The problem is trying to distill complex issues down to simple-minded sound bites.”
Whitney set her cup in the saucer. “Corralling individual Democrats to stay on message is harder than herding cats.”
She glimpsed the pink wristband underneath his shirt cuff as he also replaced his cup. Someone in his immediate family was a breast-cancer survivor. Mother? Sister? She needed to be better about remembering these things.
Landon hesitated. “I’ve been working on something.” When she remained silent, he hurried on. “A transaction tax on hedge-fund managers.” He described how his proposal would work and how much tax revenue would be generated.
Whitney was skeptical, but listened in silence. When he finished, she gave him her most serious expression. Or at least, she tried. “We would never want to put forth a proposal for political reasons.”
He didn’t try to conceal his smile. “Of course, we wouldn’t.”
*
Her driver dropped them off at her national campaign headquarters, in an office building on K Street in Northwest Washington, DC. The outer area, where the phone bank was located, had been bursting with activity an hour ago. The volunteers—calling citizens at home and interrupting their dinners, TV watching, video-game playing, or tweeting—had left. The walls displayed several oversized pictures of her. Whitney still found gigantic close-ups of her face disconcerting.
They entered the conference room. On one wall, a large sign read, Senator Whitney Fairchild for President - Our America, Our Future. Ted Bowling glanced up from his laptop, an almost imperceptible shadow darkening his face when he saw her companion.
Whitney waved her hand in front of her nose. “This room smells like an ashtray, Ted. You know you’re not supposed to smoke in here.”
“Sorry, Senator, stressful day.”
She sat and crossed her legs, as Landon sat next to her, removing the electronic tablet from his briefcase.
Ted began speaking.
“I just emailed the numbers to you. We’re down twenty points against Ellison. Your approval rating with women is trending higher—I think the ERA is helping—but the numbers are still soft in other categories: young voters, Latinos, middle-class white men. We need to do something big.”
“I agree. Go on.”
Ted coughed. “Income inequality. Talked about in the media for years. Over the last forty years, the top one percent of the US population is seven hundred and fifty percent better off, while the middle- and the lower-income classes’ wealth—”
“I know the numbers, Ted.”
“There are a lot of voters in that ninety-nine percent.” He rapped the table with his knuckles on each word. “The ‘wealth creators create jobs’ line is a lie, which is becoming more apparent every year. The only thing wealth creators create is more wealth for themselves. We must develop a policy that won’t be considered a ‘wealth distribution’ tactic or ‘class warfare,’ terms that turn off independents, moderates, blue-collar workers, and all those afraid of anything reeking of Socialism.”
“Be that as it may, what do you suggest?”
“Poll after poll shows the majority of Americans are not opposed to tax increases on the rich. We’ve enacted increases before; we can do it again. This would result in a small increase in taxes for the rich, relative to their incomes, but billions of dollars in additional r
evenue.”
Whitney brought her right index finger to her lips with her thumb under her chin, her thinking position. “Hmm . . . .”
Ted continued in earnest. “The strategists and I also think we should propose increasing estate taxes to pre-George W. levels.”
She remained silent.
Landon cleared his throat. “May I make a suggestion?” He waited until he had their attention. “There are a lot of ways to increase revenues. One idea I had was to impose a tax on the financial markets. The original purpose of financial firms was to raise capital for the private sector. Instead, they focused on making as much money as they could trading for themselves; helping businesses find capital became an afterthought. To generate higher returns, these firms took on increased risks. Our lost decade showed the awful, sometimes irreparable consequences of speculation on our markets and our economy.”
“What do you propose?” she asked, although he had told her at dinner earlier.
“Levying a transaction tax on hedge-fund managers and other large, complicated financial transactions. This would decrease speculation and create an incentive for long-term investment. In the short term, tax revenues will rise.”
“Why do you think your plan will work?” Ted asked, in a tone indicating he believed quite the opposite.
“The European Union implemented a similar tax several years ago. Yes, the financial markets took a hit at first, but, as their economies recovered, investors began to consider the tax as another cost of doing business.”
Whitney shifted in her chair. “Why hedge-fund managers?”
“I don’t believe we should tax every transaction, which would hurt individual investors. To Ted’s point, the Republicans oppose any increase in taxes or regulations on the ‘wealth creators.’ Most hedge-fund companies employ five employees or fewer. Sometimes, it’s one person, a computer, and an algorithm that buys and sells based on discrepancies of supply and demand in the market. These firms generate billions of dollars a year. One firm during the Aughts generated a billion dollars in one day.”
“The Aughts?” Ted asked.
Landon ignored the sarcasm. “The last decade.”
Whitney nodded. “So you’re saying these fund managers don’t create jobs or make anything.”
“Well, not exactly. But they don’t create the jobs ascribed to them by the other party. And, to top it all off, they’re taxed at the capital-gains rate, which is a third of the ordinary rate, or what a normal business person pays.” Landon pulled an accordion folder from his briefcase and handed it to her. “I took the liberty of running some numbers under various scenarios.”
Ted still did not try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. “Of course you did.”
Landon ignored him. “I also propose a change in tax policy to discourage short-term investment. Capital gains on stocks sold within one year would be taxed at seventy-five percent; one to three years, fifty percent; twenty percent after five years; and zero percent beyond that. We should also eliminate capital-gains taxes for those Americans making less than, say, one hundred thousand. This will bring in new investment and allow investors’ wealth to grow tax-free. It’s all in my analysis.”
Ted stared at Whitney, his face flushed. “We should poll this first.”
“Who in the ninety-nine percent would be against this proposal?” she asked.
Ted and Landon did not answer her rhetorical question while she perused the proposal she had read in the restaurant earlier. Landon had written a one-page summary with supporting analysis, data, and charts. She closed the report cover.
“No one.” She answered her own question. “I like it.” Whitney gave Ted a sweet smile. “Polls be damned.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chattenham, Pennsylvania
Jade Harrington listened to the computerized female voice guide her as she drove down the Delaware Expressway, thinking about the Baton Rouge, Pittsburgh, Houston, and Chattenham cases. No explicit evidence tied the cases together so far, besides all four victims’ involvement in conservative media.
Oh . . . and they all had their heads bashed in and their tongues cut out.
Jade turned onto Interstate 476 and headed north. Her cell phone rang.
“Hey, you.” Zoe.
“How’s my kitty?” Jade asked.
“Card’s fine. Lonely. Meowed he wanted to come home and live with me, but I told him you needed him.”
“He’d come back once he found out you’d try to turn him into a vegan.”
“He’d live longer. And I’m not a vegan.”
“Thanks again for taking care of him. After what happened at your apartment . . .”
Silence, then, Zoe said, “We’re best friends. It’s going to take a lot more than you being a knucklehead to drive me away. Where are you?”
“On a case.”
“I know, silly.”
Jade did not respond for a moment. “I may need your help with something.”
“Really?”
“Don’t sound so happy. Talk to me about income inequality.”
“What about it?”
“It was a major issue during the Occupy Movement, but you don’t hear about it as much now. Why not?”
“Depends on where you live. The problem’s still there. Simmering. And one day it will boil over.”
“Why?”
“The issue hasn’t gone away. When the poor and the middle class realize the American Dream is just that—a dream—they’ll revolt.”
“What’s the solution?”
“How much time do you have?”
Jade glanced at the navigation system display. “Not much.”
“When are you coming home? We can discuss it then.”
“Not sure,” Jade said, “but I’ll let you know. I’m flying into Reagan.”
“National.”
“Sorry, I forgot.” Zoe refused to call the former National airport by its proper name. Jade passed the sign indicating her exit was one mile away. “Listen, I need to go.”
Driving through a quaint town of pizza joints, cafés, a Dunkin’ Donuts, bars, restaurants, and a dry cleaner’s—everything a college student could ever need or want—she turned right a half mile later at the small wooden sign: Chattenham College, Home of the Eagles. Founded 1863.
Jade drove down a long, paved drive with oak trees on both sides interspersed with tall, black, old-fashioned street lights. She veered right, around an administration building made of fieldstone and meandered through the heart of the campus: rolling lawns, a plethora of trees and shrubs, wooded hills, classrooms, and dormitories. Students sporting backpacks ambled along the sidewalks in ones, twos, and threes. A peaceful campus.
She located the college radio station in one of the older buildings and parked behind a campus police car. A uniformed black gentleman with short gray hair waited for her in the cramped, barren lobby, reading a copy of Sports Illustrated.
The officer eyed her and nodded with approval. “You must be Agent Harrington.”
Jade, not sure what test she had passed, said, “Yes.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Nate.” He stuck out his hand. “I’ll be honest with you. I was surprised to learn of the FBI’s interest in this old case. Come on. I’ll take you up to the studio.” Nate headed down a hallway and led her up a narrow flight of stairs.
“The campus is about four hundred acres with two thousand students,” Nate said over his shoulder. “Founded in 1863 by Quakers. The station has been around since 1939, six years after the invention of FM radio. It’s one of the oldest college radio stations in the country.”
“Who manages it?”
“It’s always been run by the students.”
On the second floor, Nate opened a door to a modest room. The term “studio” was generous. The room consisted of a small area with engineering equipment and a space for the DJ. Vinyl albums and CDs packed the scuffed white shelves.
She examined a mural on the wall displaying an impressi
ve pictorial history of the school. She peered closer. In the corner of the drawing, a woman held a basketball with laces, wearing an early twentieth-century uniform, skirt and all. Jade was thankful she never had to play ball in a skirt. Her penchant for diving after loose balls could have been problematic.
“This mural is amazing,” she said. “It’s a shame it’s tucked away in here. It should be in a museum.”
After a moment, she straightened and turned to Nate.
“What can you tell me about the victim, Kyle Williams?”
“I remember Kyle. A loner. Although the school’s mission is to be fiercely independent, it’s still pretty liberal. He never fit in. Kyle was the only person who ever had a conservative program at the station. He often got into heated discussions with his co-workers.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“We interviewed all of them at the time. They didn’t care much for his politics, but they liked him well enough. None of them seemed to have a motive for murder and their alibis checked out.”
Nate started toward another staircase.
“Kyle had just completed his show and went down these stairs and out the back door. That’s the last time anyone saw him.” Nate paused. “Except for his killer, of course.” He exited the building and Jade followed him toward the corner of the parking lot. He stopped at the farthest space under a huge American elm tree in full bloom. “His car was parked here. His body was a couple of feet from the driver’s side door. His car keys were found next to him and he still had his wallet on him.”
“On the phone, you said the weapon was a blunt instrument.”
“According to the medical examiner and my personal observations.”
“Any evidence?”
“No murder weapon. No fingerprints. No evidence. The victim was a good kid. I knew him and liked him. He didn’t deserve this.”
“Do you have much crime here?”
“No, except for the typical college stuff: underage drinking, public intoxication, disorderly conduct. We had a huge problem with date rape many years ago. More so than now, anyway. Around the time Kyle was killed, now that I think about it.” He shook his head. “I’ve worked here for almost twenty years.” He stared down at the asphalt. “Never saw anything like what happened here. Before or since.”
