The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

Camille masterfully scanned the room as she spoke without notes or teleprompter. She made direct eye contact with someone in the room with every sentence. All present would have their very own two-second private audience with the mayor before the end of her State of the City address.

  “At the dawn of this new year, and the third year of my second term, the state of our great city is still vital and strong. As strong financially and economically as we have ever been in our history.

  “Nevertheless, we must also recognize there are still fractures in the strong foundation we have built, tears in the social fabric that, if we do not attend to with all our energies, will erode that foundation and reverse our dramatic progress.”

  Camille methodically increased the rate she spoke. The words soon took on the cadence of a learned Baptist preacher crossed with a seasoned politician on a winning campaign.

  “Jobs and confidence are back, but our economic recovery has still left thousands of people behind.

  “Our neighborhoods are revitalized and new construction is all around us, but some still look to the future, anxiously, and wonder whether there’s room for them in a changing Los Angeles.”

  Sheridan Hardaway sat quietly in a front row, aisle seat, with fingers intertwined at his chin and legs crossed at the knee. The tip of his Gucci loafer pointed directly up at his wife and the black Armani suit wrapping his six foot four frame looked as dashing sitting as it did when he stood.

  For many in the room it was difficult to decide who to look at . . . the beautiful charismatic mayor at center stage or her painfully handsome husband, with hair like luscious black whipped cream only yards away.

  “Too many of our residents, people who work hard and make a decent wage, men and women squarely in the middle class, grow frustrated, as the city becomes ever more expensive and their dream of starting a family or owning a home falls further out of reach.

  “This rising cost of living, the financial squeeze on our city’s working- and middle-class families—these are the fundamental challenges of our time, not just for our city, but for great cities around the world.”

  Tony Christopoulos, the mayor’s chief of staff, recited the speech word-for-word along with Camille in his head. “And to sustain our economic recovery and this renewed confidence in our city, we must confront these challenges of affordability directly, in the Los Angeles way, big-hearted, but clearheaded.” He knew every word . . . because he wrote it.

  He beamed with a silent pride in the seat next to Sheridan. His eloquent words delivered by such a ravishing and influential mouthpiece was more than the twenty-nine-year-old Harvard graduate from Dowagiac, Michigan, could have ever imagined happening in his life. Camille liked to surround herself with beautiful things, and Tony was no exception. His brilliant analytical mind alone was justification enough to trust such a young man with the important position, but his Abercrombie & Fitch body and face made it impossible for her to select any other candidate as her number one man. She trusted him with her political life.

  Camille continued after another raucous ovation following her last proclamation. “One of the fundamental responsibilities of any mayor is ensuring public safety. Los Angeles remains one of the safest big cities in America. Thank you, Police Chief Nettles, Adult Probation Chief Wasserman, Juvenile Probation Chief Fullerman, and District Attorney Hansel Patterson.

  “Homicides are down 30 percent from last year, among the lowest in forty years, with shootings half of what they were ten years ago. But we can do better.

  “With new police and fire academies made possible by our economic recovery, we’ll hire and train more first responders, from 911 dispatch operators to firefighters to police officers. Soon you’ll see more officers walking a neighborhood beat, from Wilshire Boulevard to Third Street to the South Central.”

  Camille’s glance rested an extra second on one of the reporters in the faceless clutter at the front of the room. She recognized Gideon Truman from his network news program. What is the national media doing here? she silently considered between promises of improved public transportation and a new baseball stadium. That’s curious. Their eyes locked in the span of a few seconds. The two most influential people in the room exchanged an imperceptible acknowledgment of each other’s powerful impact on the world.

  “The new Doberman Stadium will be a multiuse indoor 175,000-seat arena,” Camille continued. “It will house our beloved Los Angeles Doberman Baseball franchise, which we all lovingly refer to as ‘The Dobers,’ becoming the new home of the Dobers who have called Los Angeles their home since 1958. The project will be financed privately, and the land will be purchased by the city of Los Angeles. The team would be given a sixty-six-year lease for the arena.”

  Camille spoke for exactly one hour, six minutes, and twenty-two seconds, stopping only to allow applause following every touted accomplishment and proposed initiative. The audience collectively decided to remain on their feet at the fifty-two-minute mark. There was no reason to sit. The room and every person watching the live feed from the comfort of their home was now more in love with Camille than they were on the day they cast an avalanche of votes ranking her the U.S mayor with the highest-winning margins for two consecutive terms.

  Camille stepped from behind the podium and walked to the edge of the stage headfirst into a storm of applause and cheers at the climactic conclusion. She went from one end of the stage to the other, blowing kisses to crowd and flashing the victory sign. She was a rock star and, thanks to Gideon Truman, the entire country was now watching.

  The lobby at city hall quickly filled with the same faces that Camille had just shared her vision for the future of the city with. Waiters in cinched vests and ties pirouetted among the crowd balancing trays of champagne, sparkling water, and assorted hors d’oeuvres. A circle of two-story marble pillars held a mosaic concaved ceiling arched over the who’s-who of the city. State and local politicians, deep-pocket Democratic donors, and corporate power brokers oozed from every crack in the Italian tiled floor. The mood was festive, and the smell of success and power was in the air. Camille delivered the speech that could easily catapult her to the governor’s mansion, and everyone present knew it.

  She was surrounded by a squadron of reporters, each clamoring for her attention.

  “Mayor Hardaway, you’ve had another amazing year,” one shouted over the crowd. “What do you say to the critics who said you didn’t have enough political experience to run a city the size of Los Angeles?”

  The question caught Camille’s attention. She deemed it worthy of a response. “I’d say the facts prove they were wrong. Under my leadership Los Angeles has fully recovered from one of the worst economic downturns since the Great Depression and is now more vital and stronger financially and economically than we have ever been in our history,” she replied immodestly.

  “You have one year left until you’re termed out,” another reporter shouted from the three-deep circle around her. “What are your plans after you leave office?”

  Another question warranting her attention. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I know whatever I’ll do, it will be in the service of the people of this great city and state.”

  The reporters continued peppering Camille with questions. “Do you have plans to run for governor?” a bold member of the press asked. Another called out, “Have you considered running for senator?” She took a step toward them and the corps parted as she politely replied, “As I said, I haven’t decided yet. Now if you will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I really must circulate. I’m neglecting my guests.”

  Camille moved from circle to circle in the room. She shook hands, signed autographs, and posed for selfies. It was her night, and she was in her element. She worked the room with the finesse and grace of a ballerina. A thousand eyes followed her every move. All observed and appreciated each toss of her hair and calculated flash of her smile.

  Gideon Truman was no exception. He had interviewed presidents, A-list celebrities, two popes, an
d international dignitaries, but there was something unusual about Camille Hardaway. He didn’t know exactly what. She is undeniably beautiful, he thought as he watched her from across the lobby. But that isn’t it.

  His keen reporter eyes followed her as she transitioned from one conversation to the next, leaving no one feeling snubbed or dismissed. Camille knew how and when to make enemies, but tonight wasn’t the time. It was a time to shine and to bask in the glory of her successes.

  The longer Gideon watched her, the more uneasy he grew. His stomach began to gurgle as he found himself transfixed by her every move. He couldn’t take his eyes away, even when he tried. There’s something not right about that woman, he concluded as her maneuvers brought her only three feet away. The gurgle in his gut escalated to a gentle rumble.

  Camille abruptly turned on her heel and looked him directly in the eye before he could look away. “If you will excuse me,” she said politely to a group of four men and one woman standing near him. “We have a celebrity with us tonight, and I wouldn’t be a good mayor if I didn’t pay my respects.”

  Camille walked to Gideon with an extended hand. “Mr. Truman,” she said reaching for the hand still hanging at his side. Her rapid approach caught him unprepared. “To what do we owe the honor of having a reporter of your caliber here tonight? I hope I haven’t done anything to put me under your microscope,” she said with wicked smile.

  Gideon regained his composure and confirmed she was even more beautiful at close range. “Not at all,” he said donning his most shallow party smile. “My producer suggested I come tonight. She thought there might be a big story here.”

  “Big story?” she asked coyly. “Only if you think your national audience is interested in potholes and the homeless.”

  Gideon responded with a laugh. “No, but they might be interested in the woman who could be the first female governor of California.”

  “Tell your producer she shouldn’t believe everything in the Los Angeles Times. That’s a rumor they’ve never bothered to confirm with me.”

  “Well, are you running?” he boldly asked, wiping the painted smile from his face.

  “I like you, Mr. Truman—”

  “Please call me Gideon,” he interrupted.

  “I like you, Gideon, so I’ll make you a promise. If I do decide to run for governor, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Some say it’s inevitable and you’ve already amassed a substantial war chest.”

  “Maybe . . . or maybe not, but I’m certainly not prepared to confirm or deny anything tonight.”

  “Then what can you confirm or deny tonight?” he pressed gently.

  “Handsome and persistent. I like that in a man. All right, Mr. Tru . . . Gideon. I’ll give you a few hints. I have one year left in my last possible term as mayor. I’m still young. My approval ratings are off the charts, and my profile is apparently high enough to get your attention. You’re the investigative reporter. Those are the clues; now let’s see if you can solve the mystery.”

  Before Gideon could respond, Tony Christopoulos approached Camille from behind. “Excuse me, Mrs. Mayor,” he said gently touching her arm, “the senator has to leave, and she asked if you would be available to take a picture with her.”

  “Of course,” Camille said without turning around. “Gideon, this is my chief of staff, Tony Christopoulos. Tony, I’m sure you know Gideon Truman.”

  Gideon was able to tear his eyes from Camille for the first time since she approached him. Tony and Gideon exchanged a familiar glance. One normally reserved for chance encounters at bars on the West Side of town.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Truman before,” Tony said, extending his hand. “But I certainly know who you are. Loved your coverage of Mandela.”

  “Thank you. He was a great man,” Gideon said while admiring Tony’s penetrating brown eyes crowned by thick jet-black eyebrows. Mediterranean and stunning. She does like to surround herself with beautiful men, he thought as he recalled the image of the handsome Sheridan Hardaway on the front row.

  “I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to interview President Mandela shortly before he died,” Gideon continued. “He changed the world.”

  Tony pried his eyes away from Gideon. “Mrs. Mayor, I’m sorry to take you away, but the senator is waiting.”

  “Remember what I promised,” Camille said as she turned to leave. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Tony directed her through the crowd, gently brushing aside a gauntlet of congratulators and requests for selfies with a polite, “I’m sorry, but I promise to bring her right back.”

  When they reached a clearing in the crowd, Camille whispered, “He couldn’t take his eyes off me the entire night.”

  “Who?” Tony asked cautiously.

  “Gideon Truman. If I weren’t a married woman . . .”

  Tony laughed out loud. “You and most of the people in this room. He’s gorgeous. But I suspect, Mrs. Mayor, I might be more his type than you.”

  “You’re joking,” she said with a questioning smile.

  “Rumor has it he has a boy toy stashed away in his Hollywood Hills home.”

  “Too bad,” she said dismissively. “All the handsome ones are either married, gay, or crooks. Oh well, I have Sheridan, so I shouldn’t complain.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Mayor,” Tony replied looking straight-ahead. “You do have Sheridan.”

  “Did you see her tonight?”

  “She was spectacular. Almost too good to be true.”

  “I think we might have a winner.”

  “Have we checked out her husband yet?”

  “Got the boys on it now.”

  A half-smoked cigarette smoldered, leaving a ghostly trail of ash where the cigarette had been. The dimly lit room had an ethereal glow from the smoke as the man behind the large oak desk spoke on the telephone.

  The only light in the room came from a seventy-five-inch screen showing a live feed of Camille Hardaway charming the crowd thousands of miles away in the lobby at city hall. The unknown camera operator stealthily captured images of the mayor seen only in this smoky room, on this screen, and by this singular viewer.

  “Good. We need to know everything about him. Who he’s fucking. Who, if anyone, is fucking him. Finances, drugs, prostitutes, illegitimate children, lies on his résumé dating back to his first job, boxers or briefs, everything. With this one, I even want to know who his parents are fucking. Good-looking guys like him always have a shitload of secrets. Even the most seemingly insignificant indiscretion could derail the entire plan.”

  “Don’t get ahead of the process. It isn’t a plan yet. We’re only at the exploratory stage.”

  “I understand, but I think the country is finally ready for a Camille Hardaway.”

  “No argument here. The real question is, is Camille Hardaway ready for the country?”

  “My gut tells me she is.”

  “Yes, but remember, your gut has been wrong before.”

  “Should have listened to you on G. W., but I can’t always be right.”

  “Wish you’d stop beating yourself up about that. We all agreed he was the man for the job.”

  “And he fucked us royally.”

  “At least our new boy is making up for it.”

  “Yea, but it cost him his entire first term. And he’s still cleaning up the mess.”

  “He got us through the worst of the economic crisis.”

  “Barely.”

  “We got health-care reform. We’re out of Iraq. So it hasn’t been all bad.”

  “Speaking of which, what does he think of her?”

  “He said he wants some alone time with her before she hits the national stage.”

  “Spoken like a true president,” the caller said with a slight chuckle. “That can certainly be arranged.”

  “When will we get the report on her husband?”

  “Should be ready in a few weeks. In the meantime, we’ve got two boys fol
lowing him to see what a week in the life of Sheridan Hardaway looks like.”

  “Good.”

  The surging of an engine roared in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “On my jet. Taking off from Long Beach Airport.”

  “Were you at city hall tonight?”

  “I was. Had to see her in person for myself.”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  “Too early for that. Just wanted to see if she lived up to her reputation.”

  “And?”

  “There is no question she has what it takes to be the first black female president of the United States.”

  “I agree. So now it’s up to us to make it happen.”

  Chapter 2

  The black Escalade carrying Camille and Sheridan glided through the streets of Los Angeles. Wilshire Boulevard held remnants of earlier rush-hour traffic. Camille read e-mails on a pad in her lap while Sheridan checked messages on his phone. A series of electronic dings, chimes, and bings bounced off the darkly tinted windows and leather seats as e-mails, phone calls, and text messages arrived on the devices in steady intervals.

  The heavily armored limousine floated like a magic carpet propelling the mayor and her husband on a cushion of air through her kingdom. It was one of the safest vehicles in the world. Ballistic proof windows, road tack dispenser, smoke screen system, and electric shocking door handles were just a few of the antikidnap devices the car boasted. After her third death threat and the first kidnap attempt, Sheridan and the head of her security insisted the city invest in the most secured vehicle on the market. Not everyone in the city was ready for a black female mayor, and the death threats proved it.

  “You haven’t told me what you thought of the speech,” Camille said without looking away from the glowing screen.

  Sheridan ignored her question and instead asked, “Was that Gideon Truman you were talking to at the reception? What did he want?”

  “It was. He thinks I might make a bid for the governor’s office,” she casually replied.

  “So . . . What did you tell him?”