Black President

by Brenda Hampton

  “Chanel Hamilton,” I said, extending my hand to Andrew’s, shaking it. “I’m doing a live and exclusive interview with her tomorrow night. Find out what you can about her, relay her interviewing style to me, and tell me what to expect.”

  “I can tell you what to expect without doing any research,” Tyler said. “She’s going to hit you with a bunch of got’cha questions, and she’ll attack you like a pit bull in a skirt. I don’t recommend that you conduct your first exclusive interview with her, and as a matter of fact, I’m totally against it.”

  “I agree,” Andrew added. “Especially not after what happened tonight. Allow news about your State of the Union Address to spin for about another 24 to 48 hours. Then, I’ll schedule an interview with you and Mr. Davidson on CNN.”

  “Sorry, but no thanks.” I shot down their recommendations. “I prefer to interview with Ms. Hamilton, tomorrow night.”

  Andrew held out his hands, pleading with me. “I mean, gosh, Stephen, what am I being paid for if you refuse to listen to my advice? I have my reasons for doing things, and we all know that Chanel Hamilton is not that good at what she does. Mr. Davidson is my final choice.”

  “She may not be good at what she does, but her show gets good ratings. Numerous people who I want to reach watch her, and they think she is as good as it gets.”

  “I beg to differ, but a lot of people who you’ll need to impress watch CNN.”

  “No matter what news channel I appear on, they’ll all tune in. And there is only one person I’m interested in impressing tomorrow night. By now, you should know who she is.”

  We all turned our heads to look at Chanel Hamilton. She was speaking to my mother, and when they pivoted to look in my direction, I responded with a nod, then walked off to converse with other guests.

  * * *

  Later that night, I went to the Master Bedroom where Raynetta lay sound asleep in nothing but her silky skin. The canopy bed she lay in was draped with white sheer fabric. Part of the thick comforter was tucked between her legs. The room had a slight chill, so I folded the comforter over her body, covering it. I then planted a soft kiss on her forehead and quietly closed the door behind me.

  People often wondered where presidents slept, and I’d be the first to admit that it wasn’t often in this room. The simplicity of it didn’t do much for me, and I guess the most intriguing thing about it was the historic nature of it. Besides that, it wasn’t like there was much action happening between Raynetta and me, so many of my nights were spent in the Oval Office where I lay back on the sofa and fell asleep while meditating or listening to jazz music thump through the speakers. That was where I’d spent the night, and by six o’clock in the morning, my prayers had gone up, workout was done, and I was in the shower, preparing myself for a new day.

  With my eyes closed and soapy suds and water rushing down my milk-chocolate skin, I was in deep thought. Reality was starting to kick in, and after what had transpired on Capitol Hill last night, I predicted that I had my work cut out for me. According to my schedule, that was also posted online, I had a ten o’clock meeting with a few members from my administration, a one o’clock luncheon with several members of Congress, a two-thirty meeting with my secretary of Defense, and a five o’clock brief meeting with the VP. What wasn’t on my schedule was my early-morning briefing, my meeting with the press, and my interview with Chanel Hamilton. My press secretary, Sam Dotson, insisted that it would be best if I handled questions from the media today regarding my State of the Union Address that had many people up in arms. So, dressed in my navy silk suit and black leather shoes, I headed back to the Oval Office. My cologne wafted through the corridor, and people parted like water in the Red Sea as they stepped aside and watched me. Like always, Secret Service was close by, and so was Tyler. He met me right at the Oval Office doors, and we went inside for an early-morning briefing provided by the director of National Intelligence.

  For some, to hear the kind of shit that was going on around the world, as well as within our own country, it could be depressing. There were times when I cringed, flinched, and even scratched my head as I listened in to the top secret information. I thanked the director for his time, and right after he left, so did Tyler. I sat at the Resolute desk, right between the American flag and the Presidential flag, thinking about how troublesome things had gotten. My hands swayed across the desk, and just for a moment, I wanted to make sure this was no dream. I started to read several letters from the American people that Andrew classified as highly important. I smiled at a few, laughed at others, and agreed with many. But right as I was reading a letter from an eleven-year-old girl who had been battling cancer, there was a knock at the door. I lifted my head and in walked Raynetta, dressed in a cream-colored pantsuit.

  “I was surprised that you didn’t wake me last night,” she said. “I had been waiting on you all night, as I always do.”

  “By the time I got to the room, you had fallen asleep. I came here to get a little work done, and I fell asleep on the sofa.”

  “That’s what you always say. Before I get my day started, is there anything important that I should know about? I hate to be out there mingling with people and don’t have answers.”

  “Get used to it, because I can’t share everything with you. The only thing you need to know about is our interview this evening with Chanel Hamilton. I’m not sure how busy your schedule is today, but be here no later than six.”

  Her mouth opened wide. “Interview? Why can’t you conduct the interview alone? I hate being in front of the camera like that, because I very well may say the wrong thing.”

  “You won’t, especially when you already know the protocol. When I want you to stay silent, I’ll kiss the back of your hand. When you want me to elaborate more, pat my leg. When I want you to add more to the conversation, I’ll wink. And when either of us gets bored with the interview, we’re supposed to pat our feet on the floor.”

  Raynetta rolled her eyes, then sighed. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten us into, but I sure hope it’s all worth it. Have a great day, and try your best not to hurt anybody.”

  “I won’t, but I’m sure you will.”

  Raynetta chuckled a bit as she left my office, closing the door behind her. I continued to read the letter; it truly broke my heart. Many people thought that the presidency enabled me to play God. In no way could I ever fill His shoes, but I intended to do my best, even with my many flaws. Thinking of my flaws, I rubbed my hairless, smooth face that had been smacked with aftershave. My hazel eyes shifted to my cell phone that sat near the edge of my desk. Vera Walton, a woman I had met while on the campaign trail, had been texting me on my private phone. She had been named Teacher of the Year, and many would say that her reputation was stellar. We had hooked up a few times, but when I became president, I backed away from her. Hadn’t replied to one single message, and in her last text message she wasn’t exactly happy about it. She referred to me as a phony-ass Negro and threatened that the world would soon know what I was all about. I never suspected that my encounter with her would get out of hand, but if things got too hectic on that end, she would be dealt with.

  * * *

  Several minutes after noon, I followed Sam to the Press Briefing Room where everyone stood as I entered. The room was somewhat narrow, but was packed wall-to-wall with reporters who came to get updates, question me, report, and listen to what I had to say. With Sam standing behind me, I stepped up to the podium with a serious expression on my face. The media wasn’t always nice to us around here, but this time, I was there to speak for myself instead of allowing Sam to do it.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m sure that many of you may have questions about my State of the Union Address to Congress and to the American people, but please make your questions brief and precise. I do have a busy schedule today, so my time with the press is limited. Besides, I’m sure that many of your questions will be answered tonight during my exclusive interview with Chanel Hamilton. Be sure to tu
ne in—I expect it to be interesting.”

  I made a gesture to a reporter in the front row who anxiously waved his hand while I was speaking.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I watched your State of the Union Address last night, and in conjunction with many Americans, I thought you sounded a bit harsh toward members of Congress. While we’ve certainly had our problems with them, to suggest that they put away their cell phones was a bit much, don’t you think?”

  “At the end of the day, it all boils down to a respect thing. And if you or anyone else thinks that my request was too harsh, then you’re in for a rude awakening because I will require that all members of Congress do way more than that. I get that—”

  “Bu . . . but you’re not paying their salaries. The American people are. How can you put forth such demands and expect for them to play by your rules?”

  “They will do so, and you’re about to play by my rules too. Do not interrupt me while I’m speaking. Doing so will get you ignored.”

  I turned to my right, calling on another reporter. Appearing nervous, she stood and cleared her throat.

  “Mr. President, first let me say that I enjoyed your speech last night. But why call Senator Brassley a f-ing coward and go after the Speaker? You said it was a joke, but there seems to be much tension between you and Speaker Robinson. Is there, and if so, how do you expect to work with him in order to get things done?”

  “This is the last question that I will answer about my tone, so here is my answer. Get used to it and don’t expect for me to bite my tongue. I will work with anyone who works with me. If they choose not to, and prefer to cause more gridlock on Capitol Hill, then I’m going to roll right over them. The American people expect me to get things done while I’m here. I’m not going to waste time with idiots who have issues with the color of my skin, and if you’ve listened to Speaker Robinson’s comments about me, then you know why our relationship is what it is.”

  She quickly followed up, “Are you insinuating that he’s a racist?”

  “I have my own opinions. Make yours based on facts and common sense.”

  More hands waved in the air. My eyes shifted across the room to another reporter who stood to address me.

  “Mr. Jefferson,” he said, but I quickly interrupted him.

  “Again, for future references, and just so we’re all on the same page, please address me as President Stephen C. Jefferson, Mr. President, or President of the United States. Thank you.”

  The reporter straightened his black-framed glasses, then wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “I apologize, sir, but, uh—”

  “No, not sir, but Mr. President. Next time, come better prepared and I’ll answer your question when you’re ready. You seem flustered so I’m moving on.”

  Many members of the press appeared shocked by my bluntness. But the way I saw it was like this. From day one, people needed to know that I wasn’t going to be treated unfairly. I wasn’t going to allow inappropriate things to be said about me or the ones I loved. I intended to stand up to ridiculous comments that were said by professionals who should know better. And even though some people felt as if the president should always take the high road, I felt differently. Every man needed to defend himself. I had no intentions of sitting back and being bullied by people whose ultimate goal was to break me.

  I had already answered several more questions from some reporters who acted as if they had sense. I called on one final reporter before wrapping this up.

  “President Jackson, I mean Jefferson, you touched on this briefly in your speech last night, but do you have more specific plans on what to do about ISIS? Over the years, this terror group has expanded. I would like to know how you intend to go after their leaders and put an end to their organization.”

  I started to walk away from the podium after he referred to me as President Jackson, but since it was the last question, what the hell?

  “In closing today, I really wish that all members of the press, who should be privileged to be here today, would do your homework and come prepared with informative questions that the American people deserve answers to. I’ve wasted time answering 16 out of 20 questions that weren’t even relevant to issues that really matter. ISIS is, indeed, a threat. We are putting forth every effort to shut them down. It wouldn’t be wise for me to provide specificities, because many of the things we discuss are top secret and shouldn’t be conveyed to the world. It is my—”

  “But you said that your administration would be transparent, didn’t you?”

  A hard stare was given to the reporter who interrupted me. I blinked, then lifted my hand in the air. “Good day, everyone. Until next time.”

  I walked away, ignoring a bunch of more questions that were being fired at me. And when Sam and I were away from everyone else, he reached out to shake my hand.

  “Good job, Mr. President. I love your style, and I hope that I can do as well as you did in there.”

  “You will. Trust me, you will. But sometime today, or tomorrow, let me know who the female reporter was in row seven, seat two.”

  Sam halted his steps, turning to me with a puzzled look on his face. “That’s uh, uh, I can’t remember her name. But is there a reason why you want to know her name? Did she offend you?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just want to have it for my own personal reasons, that’s all.”

  He nodded, then proceeded down the corridor with me. I couldn’t help but to think about how messy things were about to get.

  3

  First Lady Raynetta Jefferson

  As hostess of the White House, I had a busy day. I was in attendance at several social events that I worked with my staff on to put together. Then I joined some of the children who were here to tour the facility. I didn’t mind keeping myself busy, and I made sure that my staff kept my schedule as full as possible. That way, I wouldn’t get in Stephen’s way. I could be a real B at times, but, at least, I knew it. Then there were times when I just didn’t want to be bothered. Like tonight, with this interview that I wasn’t looking forward to. We had already put ourselves out there for the American people. What else did they need to know about us? What else did Stephen have to say, and how many questions did he need to answer? I almost changed my mind about joining him, but I felt much better after I ate something. The chef prepared chicken and rice for me. It was seasoned to perfection, and I topped it off with dessert, which was a slice of apple pie.

  I left the kitchen and returned to the Master Bedroom, where my closet was. It was a tiny closet, and many of my clothes and shoes had to be put in another room. I wanted to look real nice tonight, so I opted for a light-blue dress with rhinestones around the neckline. My jet-black hair was parted through the middle, and wavy curls fell along the sides of my face. I didn’t wear any jewelry, aside from my wedding ring. My black heels gave me more height, and I sprayed on a dash of sweet perfume before joining my husband in the White House Family Room.

  When I arrived, three cameramen were already there. Part of the room was being staged for the interview and the news reporter who was going to conduct the interview stood by the fireplace, talking to my assistant. I had watched the reporter on TV before, and I found myself turning the channel because of her snippy attitude. But there she was, looking dolled up and ready to go. The short red dress she wore melted on her curves and revealed her shapely legs that were bare. Like always, her hair was pulled away from her face and curls flowed down her back. I was surprised by how beautiful she was in person, but her looks didn’t intimidate me one bit. I strutted over to her with my hand extended and a welcoming smile on my face.

  “Hello, Ms. Hamilton,” I said. “How are you?”

  Within a few seconds, the direction of her eyes traveled from the tips of my shoes to the top of my head. Jealousy was visible in her eyes, and fakeness was upon us. I was gifted at reading people so well. And, quite frankly, that was one darn good gift to have, especially in a place like the White House.

 
“I’m doing well, Mrs. Jefferson. Thanks for asking, and I hope you’re ready to get started. My cameramen are almost done. I was just speaking to your assistant about certain issues you may not want to discuss. I spoke to the president yesterday; he set no limitations on what I can ask. I want to clear that with you as well.”

  “Whatever he says goes. We’re an open book, but I hope that your questions revolve more around things that may be beneficial to the American people, instead of personal questions that revolve around us.”

  “There will be a mixture.” She looked at her watch. “Do you know when we can expect the president to join us?”

  “I’m here,” Stephen said, swiftly coming through the door, looking fabulous as ever. He damn sure took my breath away, and from the way Ms. Hamilton’s eyes popped out of their sockets, I could tell that her horny little self was pretty impressed too.

  His masculine cologne followed him into the room, and tailored suits, along with the seriousness in his eyes, always made him look ready for the cover of GQ magazine. With his clothes off, Playgirl magazine would be more fitting.

  “I know I’m a few minutes late, but never too late,” he said.

  His eyes were locked on Ms. Hamilton. If anyone could read my husband, it was me. There was lust trapped in his eyes, and whenever he double licked his lips, it was an indication that he was ready to taste something. Possibly those loud red lips of hers that were covered with gloss. I had to sway his attention in my direction, and I did so when I cleared my throat. He spoke to everyone else in the room, then reached for my hand and escorted me over to two chairs that faced Ms. Hamilton’s chair.