“I’d love to, but the fate of our world is in my hands, and I need your counsel.”
“Go in, I’d like to speak to Mr. Rokeby alone,” she said.
Cody wished him luck, and they went inside.
“Well-behaved boys. And I admire your home. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”
“Thank you, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. Archer and I are getting a divorce, thanks to all of this.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but you can’t tell anyone else. Not until the fight is over. I met with Samuelson this morning. He wants a deal. The boycott is hurting.”
She pictured sitting across the table from Samuelson, the milquetoast independent who was afraid of her.
“So why didn’t you make a deal?”
“He wants you in the room when I do.”
“Then you and I have to agree on a bottom line.”
Her moment had arrived.
“Then I’ll call Samuelson right now and we can see him tomorrow.”
“Don’t we have to do the tough part first? What do we want? Articulate a position!”
He pulled out his phone and called the Governor’s cell.
“Governor, I’m able to meet you tomorrow with Miranda.”
“Are you with her now?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Then I’d like you to call me when you leave. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And I’d like the meeting to be at 10:00 and I want you to come in the main entrance.”
Samuelson hung up.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow, and he wants us to use the main entrance to his office. He’s been having me come in secretly since the primary.”
“That means he’s going to tell the press he’s meeting with us,” she said.
“Let’s play this out. He’s very manipulative; he’ll try out a position. Watch how I react and then pivot away from it.”
“We’re walking into the enemy without a strategy. Obviously you’ve never read The Art of War or any of the literature on military tactics. This could be disastrous.”
“Alright, let’s sit down and think this through.”
She invited him into her study, turned on the computer and opened a file labeled “Tactics With Leaders.” She told him that all political and business leaders were extremely vulnerable to organized protests, and boycotts were one of the most recognized techniques.
“He knows the boycott is hurting,” Stephen said.
“But he doesn’t know we can expand it to tourism, to conferences, to construction of new buildings.”
He smiled.
“And from what I can see of Samuelson, he’s emotionally cut off, maybe even a closet case. So let’s try and throw in ideas that might evoke sympathy. You know, the elderly couple struggling to pay the property taxes.”
“The young executive who needs the rental income from his coach house.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s very shrewd. You’re up against your equal.”
She went on for another two hours with theory, articles, anecdotes and snippets from The Art of War. But when he left, Stephen was still sure it would end tomorrow.
Chapter Forty-Nine
At 10:45 that night Miranda went downstairs, put on her taupe raincoat, grabbed an umbrella and went outside in the rain. She walked behind the barn, into the woods to the weathered split-rail fence that marked the boundary of their property, opened the gate and wandered through the Gilroys’ land. They had been casual friends over the years, and had made a point of congratulating her after the town meeting victory. Gwen Gilroy had published a novel and Miranda had always harbored jealousy that she could not find the time to finish a manuscript of her own. She stopped at the swimming pool, crouched and ran her hand through the water. She and Archer had spent a happy evening there, listening to jazz, sipping wine. But it had only happened once. They were not invited back. She walked around to the front of the wood-frame Victorian, somewhat less majestic than hers, and rang the bell. She heard the sound of someone walking downstairs, and then a second person. Lights went on. Jim Gilroy came to the door, peered out and opened it.
“Miranda?” he asked with astonishment.
“Jim, may I come in?”
He opened the door all the way and motioned for her to enter.
She stepped into the foyer and saw the familiar furnishings and wallpaper. Gwen, a tall, attractive woman with reddish hair and a standoffish demeanor, looked at her from a few feet behind him. They were expecting some sort of disaster-induced explanation.
“Good evening, I just wanted to tell you what good neighbors you’ve been.”
“Are you moving?” Gwen asked.
“We’re thinking about it. I wish we had spent more time together. Maybe I would have written a short story, a satirical piece about life in this town.”
“Moving where?”
“I don’t know. It seems like I just bring too much trouble to the good people of Lincoln.”
“Where is all this going?” he asked her.
“Where would you like it to go, Jim?”
“Something has to be done about this zoning law. And someone has to head that up. But I don’t want the person leading the charge to be my neighbor.”
“I knew you would feel that way.”
“But kudos, Miranda. We voted for you at the town meeting. There are limits to what we’ll live with.”
“You mean from me?”
“From you, from the state, from everyone who wants to tell us how to live. There are limits.”
“Would you like to come sit down?” Gwen asked in an obligatory sort of way.
“No thanks,” she replied and turned around. She stepped outside and Jim turned on the outside lights. She went down their long driveway to Bedford Road and around to her driveway, wandered down, stopping at each of the sculptures, snapping photos, wiping away tears, thinking of the stormy day they moved in twelve years ago. They had vowed never to leave this home.
She left at 8:00 the next day and drove to Rebecca’s house on Clarendon Street, just blocks from the State House.
“I’m meeting the Governor at 10:00,” she announced after they had greeted each other.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Archer told me. Sit down, my dear. Let me sum up the situation for you.”
Miranda sat in an uncomfortable 120-year-old wing chair bathed in sunlight from giant leaded windows.
“You didn’t take my advice. You went ahead and started Save Our Towns on your own. Archer is furious.”
“It had to be done. Rokeby wouldn’t do it. Now he’s onboard. He can’t pull the trigger.”
“Exactly. And it scared the hell out of everyone.”
“Of course it does. If we’re to fight back, everyone wants it done subtly, with a scalpel, when the moment is right. But the moment is never right. It will always scare the hell out of everyone.”
“You do, my dear, with your shrill voice and the pushy manner. We’re all so impressed with your smarts, we just want to have that for a while, to have you use it. But then you insist on taking over. You push everyone else away.”
“Where is this suave surgeon with the subtle scalpel? Does he exist?”
“No, but I thought there was a chance that you and Rokeby could have worked this out and together you’d be great team. But nobody can work with you. The night he won he needed to stand before his supporters, quote Emerson or Longfellow in an acceptance speech and make everyone feel inspired. Then you should have been there to toast his victory, and we’d all have looked forward to tomorrow. But he just froze and everyone took their cues from him. And it was a disaster. And you can’t lead us either.”
Then Rebecca was up, fiddling with pictures of Archer and his father perched on the grand piano.
“He was a great man, you know. I’m sorry you never go to know him. He would have taught you a lot.”
�
�I’m sorry too. Did Archer tell you we’ve decided to get a divorce?”
“Yes, but I still want you two up there with Samuelson and to get the best deal you can.”
“Did Archer tell you how he feels?”
“About the divorce? He’s devastated. He really loves you, always has. Though he can’t put it into words. You should know he told me the big town meeting was your finest hour, but to be savored from afar, like Crimean caviar.”
Miranda smiled.
“He hates caviar.”
“But he appreciates it,” said Rebecca.
Rebecca moved over to the coffee table and withdrew a .22-caliber revolver. She pointed it at Miranda. Miranda panicked. Rebecca hadn’t done this since she and Archer were dating.
“Now go up there and see that prissy Samuelson and make me proud of how we’ve trained you. And that means keep your mouth shut when you leave his office.”
Chapter Fifty
Shortly after 10:00 an aide took Miranda and Stephen to the Governor’s office. Samuelson’s eyes met hers and she felt a powerful intellect. He was ready to apply all forces at his disposal to defeat her. This was Karl Anderson to the tenth power.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dalton. I’m so pleased you could make it in on such short notice.”
“Good morning, Governor, and I’d like to thank you for finally meeting with someone from Lincoln.”
“Finally? I meet Selectmen from all over the state.”
“You’ve never met one of ours in this office, sir, only in big groups in public places.”
His face became taut and dour.
“It’s just not true that your towns are treated unfairly. I can cite local aid, state services, whatever metric you choose.”
“Governor, I think we’re beyond posturing. If you want to deal with us, then let’s talk about this proposed tax,” said Stephen.
“I was speaking for the benefit of Mrs. Dalton. As a local official, she’s undoubtedly aware of all we do in local aid.”
“Your numbers are inaccurate, sir,” Miranda said. “Lincoln doesn’t actually get the numbers on the state’s pink sheets, which is what you’re referring to. Sixty-two percent of that money mostly goes to our regional school district. Would you like to know the present value of the aid we’ve actually received in the last two years that has no strings? I’ll pull out my laptop right now and give you the number.”
“I’m calling the Secretary of Finance. I’m tired of your demagoguery.”
He pushed a button on his phone.
“Is that what you’d like to do, compare numbers?” Miranda demanded. “We can do that all day. I’ll show you that the state is making a 43% gain on the taxes we pay, 20% more than the mean, that the cost basis of our municipal services is 27% below the mean, that debt levels are 31% below the mean. We’re better run than the rest of the state.”
The Secretary of Finance entered the room and the Governor introduced him.
“Now, about the transfer tax. We never discussed the rate. Our position is …” Stephen said and then realized they weren’t listening. The Governor was watching the body language of the Secretary and Miranda as they made eye contact.
“Go on, Mrs. Dalton.”
“I could go on but let’s just say we believe the state is violating our equal protection rights by the ratio of taxes to benefits. Nobody has challenged it in court—yet.”
The Governor pressed a button and asked for the Attorney General.
Vanessa Sarder appeared in under a minute. The Governor introduced them and the famous former prosecutor, the bête noire of the Boston underworld, a tall, poised black woman in her early fifties wearing a tailored suit, walked into the office. She shook Miranda’s hand in a manly sort of way. Miranda had seen Sarder on TV for years, like everyone else in the state, but meeting her was a jolt. If it were possible to be awed by power, Miranda was feeling the momentary self-importance of being in their company, of their needing three officials to combat her. It was like town meeting night all over again.
An aide pulled over a chair and the Governor resumed the discussion.
“Mrs. Dalton believes the town of Lincoln can sue the state because it supposedly pays more in taxes than it gets back in aid, a constitutional violation. I’d like the Attorney General of the Commonwealth to hear this legal theory and tell me what the chances are this will win in court. Now go on, Mrs. Dalton, make your argument.”
“Why would I spell it out for you in advance?”
“Any complaint challenging the constitutionality of a state law comes to my desk, Mrs. Dalton,” the Attorney General said crisply. “So why not spare me the suspense and tell me how we’re violating the Constitution, or I’ll ask the Governor to excuse me from the meeting and advise him you’re just another disgruntled town official with a crackpot theory. You’ve taken me away from my senior staff. We’re dealing with three crises today.”
“I’m referring to all of the unfunded mandates we are forced to comply with: English-language services, emergency evacuation plans, special training for our teachers for things they don’t need to know. It’s hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, not much to you, to be sure. But it’s enough to challenge in court.”
“We have reimbursement programs,” the Attorney General said.
“And the formulas are based on population. We get only a third back. It’s an equal-protection violation.”
The Attorney General glanced warily at the Governor. He stepped back; she approached him and leaned in so her comments could not be overheard.
“I can’t rule it out, sir. I’ve read memos about the legality of unfunded mandates. A small town can make an argument that it’s a violation of the state Constitution. In some states, courts have been sympathetic to similar arguments.”
“But not here, right?”
“It’s never been tried here,” the Attorney General continued in a close whisper. “I suggest we smoke her out, ask for a meeting with her town counsel.”
“We don’t have time,” the Governor snapped, disengaging and stepping over to an aide.
“Tell me it’s a frivolous theory,” said Miranda.
“We can’t say it’s frivolous, but it’s unprecedented in this state. We’re not concerned,” said Samuelson.
Stephen began to say something, and the Governor ignored him again, pressed another button and asked that “group A” be sent in. Another door on the other side of the office opened and in walked Miranda’s colleagues from the Conservation Commission. The Governor seated them on the couch at one side of the capacious office and immediately asked, “How many of you agree with Mrs. Dalton’s idea that Lincoln should sue the state over unfunded mandates?”
There was cruel, disloyal silence.
“Well, Governor, they didn’t hear the background,” said Miranda.
He summed it up fairly accurately and asked again. There was, once again, silence.
Then Julia said weakly, “I’m sorry, Miranda. We’ve done all we can do. The town doesn’t want more fights.”
“Governor, could I have a few minutes with Mrs. Dalton in another room?” Stephen asked.
Finally recognizing him, the Governor looked at his watch and told an aide to take them out.
“He’s ruthless when he needs to be,” Stephen said in a conference room adorned with a framed photograph of the Governor.
“What does he want?”
“He’s got more people ready to come into his office: Archer, the Board of Selectmen, Longwood people, my Weston coordinator. Need I go on?”
She pulled out her laptop and looked at an article by a Swedish scholar on the behavior of social groups under pressure from outside forces. They tended to turn inward and increase their sense of membership in the group. The exceptions were those who had always felt marginalized within the group.
There was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” asked Stephen.
“Vanessa Sarder.”
He looked at M
iranda for a signal.
Miranda closed her laptop.
“Come in.”
“May I sit down?”
Miranda motioned for her to join them at the small table.
“I want to say I respect what you’ve done, as a woman. I don’t agree with your cause. It’s a bit reactionary, but kudos for getting where you are.”
“Reactionary?” said Stephen.
“I don’t mean to make a political statement. I came as a token of respect for Mrs. Dalton.”
“But you did,” Miranda said, taking back control. “You’re saying we can’t stand up for our rights. When you do it, it’s good, everyone applauds. We read about it in history books. When we do it, it’s reactionary.”
“You don’t strike me as a group that needs any help. Society has blessed you.”
“We want to be left alone. We’re not asking for help.”
She smiled and put up her right hand dismissively.
“I hope you take my compliment in the spirit in which it was offered, Mrs. Dalton,” she said and walked out.
Stephen closed the door and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade down the hallway.
“We can’t cave in to her,” he said. “But I hate doing this. I hate every minute of this fight, this existential, unwinnable, horrible battle you got me into. But I’m in it. I let you suck me in. What have we accomplished? Nothing. Why didn’t you realize this would happen?”
“Because I thought I could change people. That’s what society tells us to believe.”
“You haven’t changed them or us. And you’re not even one of us!”
He slammed a fist onto the table.
“Who the fuck are you anyway?”
“I’m Miranda Kedzie Dalton, soon to be Kedzie again, from St. Johnsbury, Vermont, a little town you’ve probably never heard of, in the Northeast Kingdom, a part of the state you’ve probably never been to and never will get to. I’m the daughter of an ambitious businessman who was taught never to downplay his success. He lived it. I married a rich man who loved me. And I loved him for a while. I’m unhappy, ambitious and intolerant of mediocrity. You know all this. Why make me say it?”
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