The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

  “I thought you knew me better than that, Brandon.” Sheridan stood from his desk and walked to the bank of windows. The city below seemed to bubble and pop at his feet. A jumble of high-rise towers dotted the horizon like buoys afloat at sea. “I’m a gambler,” he continued. “The greater the risk, the greater the return, and that fucking turns me on. I’ve got a hard-on just thinking about it.”

  “Your erection aside,” Brandon replied dismissively, “the expression ‘moth to flame’ comes to mind. But, it’s your marriage, your fortune, and your funeral. Just remember the people you employ, including me. I’ve got a kid in college and two more coming up behind him. I don’t get as turned on by risk as you do.”

  “Don’t worry, Brandon,” Sheridan said confidently. “I got this. Trust me.”

  Amadeus moved anxiously from one side of his perch to the other, following Juliette Dupree as she walked past his cage to the fireplace. The boned corset her maid had cinched tightly around her waist while she clung to the bedpost gave her the perfectly unnatural hourglass form. Her blue satin dress was sprinkled with finely embroidered flowers of yellows, pinks, and greens on the bodice. Layers upon layers of heavy petticoats and crinoline caused the skirt to blossom into an enormous bell over silk mules crafted especially for her delicate feet.

  Amadeus remained silent for fear of disturbing her concentration as she passed. Juliette stood in front of the fireplace and looked lovingly to the black candle at the center of the mantel. The wick sputtered and sparked at the sight of her, but did not light.

  “Ah,” she said delightfully, “you have anticipated my intent.”

  Juliette gently picked up the candle, moved to the dining-room table, and placed it directly in front of the chair at the head. The candle joined the other items placed there earlier.

  The first was a lock of Thaddeus Barrière’s hair given to her by Black Dahlia. Dahlia was the young beautiful slave charged with washing Barrière’s clothes, cleaning his private sleeping chamber, and grooming his head of unruly brown hair. Dahlia had been raped and abused by Barrière from the day she set foot on his plantation. The state of Louisiana, however, did not consider it rape, as she was merely property with which he could do as he pleased. He also generously shared the sweetness of her flower with his houseguests, associates with whom he desired to gain favor, and even traveling salesmen.

  Juliette would often allow Dahlia to try on the numerous gowns, gloves, and hats filling her closets and bureaus. She would spritz Dahlia with French perfume from crystal atomizers and hang glittering diamonds, rubies, and emeralds from her ears, neck, and wrists.

  “Miss Juliette,” Dahlia would say posing in front of the mirror, “you is the luckiest colored woman in da whole wide world. And far more prettier than any sadity white woman I eva did lay eyes on.”

  On the day Dahlia handed Juliette the lock of hair wrapped in a cloth napkin, she avoided eye contact and said, “I don’t wan’na know what you aim on do’n wit’ it, but whateva it tis, I hope it be terrible bad, ma’am. Terrible bad.”

  The second item on the table was a bill containing the signature of Thaddeus Barrière written in blue ink.

  Juliette received the paper from Rufus Taylor. Rufus was a slave on loan from a plantation in Minton, Louisiana. His skills as a tailor were given to the owner of the local fine apparel shop in exchange for suits the plantation owner received but did not have the ready cash to pay for.

  Taylor had numerous unpleasant encounters at the shop with Thaddeus Barrière. The most memorable of which happened on the day Barrière came in to complain about a button missing from a suit he’d sent to the shop for alterations.

  Rufus was unfortunate enough to be alone in the shop when he arrived.

  “Where is you master, nigger,” Barrière stormed into the shop barking.

  “He’ll be back shortly, sir. May I hep you?” Rufus answered sheepishly.

  “The day a nigger can help me is the day I put a bullet through my brain.”

  Barrière tossed the suit in question at Rufus’s face causing it to wrap around his head like a shroud. “Did you work on my suit, nigger?”

  “Yes, sir. Is they some sort a problem needs fixin’?”

  “The problem is, you filthy animal, a button is missing. A button I especially ordered from London, and you stole it!”

  “No, sir. I would nev’a steal from you, sir. On my grave, sir, never,” Rufus replied.

  “Don’t talk back to me, boy,” Barrière snapped.

  The venomous words were followed by Barrière spitting in Rufus’s face. “I’ll see you whipped for this, boy,” Barrière shouted and stormed out of the shop.

  Rufus was indeed viciously whipped by the furious shopkeeper and, upon being sent back to the plantation in Minton, whipped again by his master whose outstanding debt to the tailor was not fully paid.

  But before he was sent away from New Orleans, he gave Juliette the bill containing Thaddeus Barrière’s signature. The same bill for the alterations to the suit with the missing button.

  “I don’t know what’ya plan on doin’ wit’ it,” Rufus said quietly passing the bill to Juliette across the counter in the shop, “but I hope it’s somethin’ awful bad, Ms. Juliette. Awful bad.”

  The third item on the table was a miniature portrait of Thaddeus Barrière. Juliette received the little painting from the artist, Chauncey Lafayette. Chauncey was a classically trained French painter who made his living traveling from town to town with his wife Simone, painting portraits of wealthy residents. Simone was as black as the night and as beautiful as a sunset over Lake Charles.

  Barrière commissioned Chauncey to paint his portrait. Simone accompanied him to the plantation as his assistant. The couple was greeted at the door by Barrière, who, upon laying eyes on Simone said, “That black bitch is not setting foot in my house.”

  “But, monsieur,” Chauncey said through a thick French accent, “this is Simone, my assistant. You will not know she is even here.”

  “Get off my porch,” Barrière yelled at a frightened Simone. “You come in,” he snapped to Chauncey, “but send your nigger out back with the other darkies.”

  Lafayette spent the next four hours in the home painting a preening and disagreeable Barrière. “You ain’t from round these parts, being a foreigner and all. You don’t bring strange niggers into decent folk’s houses in Louisiana.”

  When Lafayette completed the painting, he showed it to Barrière hoping to be paid quickly and leave the horrible man in his past. But upon seeing the portrait Barrière shouted, “It doesn’t look like me at all. You trying to humiliate me, boy? You’ve made me look like a fat cow.”

  “But, sir,” Lafayette protested, “it is unmistakably you. I took no liberties.”

  “Pack up your things and your nigger and get off my property,” Barrière yelled. “I’ll see to it you never work in New Orleans again.”

  The next day Chauncey and Simone arrived at Juliette’s home, as scheduled by Jean-Luc Fantoché, to paint her portrait. She greeted them each with a kiss on the cheek. “Accueillir, Mr. et Mme. Lafayette,” she said ushering them into her home.

  The afternoon was filled with laughter. Juliette posed gracefully for the life-sized portrait while Simone and Chauncey delighted in her generous hospitality. As Chauncey put the final strokes on the painting of the beautiful woman, Juliette noticed the miniature of Thaddeus Barrière peeking from their art supply portmanteau.

  “Who is that? He is not a very pleasant-looking man,” Juliette asked, already knowing the answer.

  “That is Thaddeus Barrière,” Chauncey answered. “The unpleasantness of the painting does not nearly capture the ugliness of his soul. He is by far the vilest man I have ever met.”

  Chauncey recounted the humiliating experience. “And then he refused to pay me. I spit on his grave.”

  Barrière delivered himself to Juliette without the need for any manipulations on her part.

  “He sounds horrib
le,” she looked to the distraught Simone and said, “I am so sorry, mon précieux bijou. Do not trouble yourself needlessly. He will receive exactly what he deserves sooner than you imagine.”

  She then looked at Chauncey and said, “I will pay you double what you expected to receive from Monsieur Thaddeus Barrière for his portrait and will also reserve a special place in hell for his wrenched soul.”

  The three items now sitting on Juliette’s dining-room table were accompanied by a box of wooden matches and a silver tray.

  Thaddeus Barrière was a man of immense wealth and power in New Orleans and in the state. He owned hundreds of slaves and ran his cotton plantation with a cruel hand. “This great country was built on slavery,” he often said. “Any man who threatens the fine and honorable institution of slavery threatens the very future of our nation.”

  His political path was clear. He was the former mayor of New Orleans and now served as a member of the state legislature. The governor’s mansion was clearly in his sights and no one dared challenge him. That is . . . until Juliette Dupree.

  She took the seat at the head of the table and studied the items painstakingly gathered. “It has been two years since I have had need of your services,” she said looking at the candle. “I command you now to heed my words and, without delay, do my bidding.”

  Sparks sprang from the wick. “Time is of the essence. I command you to unleash your powers.”

  Juliette removed a match and struck it on the coarse side of the box. The flame caused flecks of golden fire to appear in her transfixed green eyes as she lit the candle. The wick burst into flames, and then settled into a gentle burn.

  “Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!” came the rapturous cry from Amadeus on the perch.

  The first item to be subjected to the flame was the document, which she lit from the top two corners and placed onto the silver tray. Then came the portrait of Barrière looking arrogantly up at her face glowing in the candlelight. The oil paint on the little cloth canvas made its consumption by fire a quick and dramatic deed. Finally, the lock of brown hair was placed just above the tip of the dancing flame. The hairs crackled and curled as they melted from the heat, sending a flurry of sparks into the air.

  Juliette placed the burning hairs on the tray on top of the still-glowing embers of other items and said, “Thaddeus Barrière is no more. Jean-Luc Fantoché shall be the next governor of Louisiana.”

  The candle flame extinguished when the three items on the tray stopped burning. The room went dark except for the few orange embers on the tray. The only sound was the approving squawks from Amadeus in the cage.

  “It is and so I let it be,” were Juliette’s final words before exiting the room.

  Studio lights beamed down onto center stage of the CNN set of the Truman Live Show forming an effervescent pool reserved for the famous and infamous. An army of cameramen, technicians, producers, and gofers prepared for the arrival of Mayor Hardaway. Gideon sat thumbing through cue cards in a corner of the studio while a makeup artist dabbed the last bit of powder onto his glowing forehead.

  “Are you almost ready, Mr. Truman?” a studio cypher asked anxiously. “We’re live in five minutes.”

  “Is she here yet?” was his reply.

  “Yes. She arrived a few minutes ago and is in makeup now. She’ll be out shortly.”

  “Good, then, yes, I’m ready.”

  It had been two weeks since he last spoke with Camille in her office at city hall. Gideon had still not shaken the uneasy feeling about her. The familiar rumble in his gut returned when he heard she was in the building. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll find out, even if it’s live on national TV, he thought as he stood from the chair and removed the makeup bib from his neck.

  Nerves he hadn’t felt for years crept from his stomach and consumed his entire body as he took his place under the hot lights. Pull yourself together, boy, he thought as he felt the first layer of perspiration forming on his brow. Don’t let her get in your head, he thought, successfully willing the moisture to not form.

  Suddenly he saw a woman enter the set from the dark shadows. The lights pointing directly in his eyes prevented him from seeing her clearly, but the statuesque silhouette was unmistakable. Gideon was reminded why she was one of the most popular politicians in the country as Camille moved from the darkness into the light.

  Only this woman could make a basic skirt and jacket look like the manifestation of a gifted designer’s ultimate masterpiece. The voluptuous curves of her hips were framed by a deep blue Punto Riso knit suit with a liquid black satin shawl collar and satin pocket flaps. The perfectly rounded mounds of her breasts peeked up from the deep “V” of a black satin shell, demonstrating to all that the power she wielded as the mayor of the great city in no way diminished the sensuous woman at her core.

  Gideon stood and greeted her with an air kiss on each cheek. “Mrs. Mayor, thank you for taking the time from your schedule to do this. You look breathtaking as usual,” Gideon gushed like a schoolboy.

  “It’s my pleasure,” she responded with the confident air of a woman in control. “Is this where you want me to sit?” she asked motioning to one of the two directors’ chairs on the set.

  “Wherever you are most comfortable,” he replied humbly.

  Camille instinctively assessed the positioning of the lights and cameras and concluded the seat she pointed to would capture her best side perfectly.

  The set was minimal and modern. A glossy black floor shimmered like a pool of water under their feet. Two black leather director stools, a sixty-inch monitor positioned just above Gideon’s left shoulder, and a backdrop of neon-blue curtains. Gideon waited for Camille to sit before taking his seat.

  Their images immediately flashed on the monitor behind Gideon. Hands of faceless crew members fumbled to attach microphones to each of their lapels. They were easily the two most stunning people in the room, and arguably, the entire city. Gideon’s dark caramel skin and chiseled cheekbones were more suited for a Calvin Klein model than an investigative reporter. Camille’s flawless skin, flowing black volcanic hair, and mesmeric eyes elicited the usual gasps and seconds of stunned speechlessness from all who looked in her direction.

  The two exchanged preinterview banter, all while being completely aware of the effect their combined beauty had on everyone in the studio.

  “I’m assuming there won’t be any surprises,” Camille asked rhetorically.

  “Nothing you can’t handle,” he replied with as much sincerity as he could muster. “All the questions are straightforward with an emphasis on your plans for the new stadium.”

  “Almost ready, everyone,” came a booming voice from an unknown place. “And we’re live in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 and . . .”

  “Good evening, America,” Gideon said to the camera. “I’m Gideon Truman, and welcome to Truman Live.” Millions of viewers from coast to coast were now entranced by Gideon’s beguiling smile. “Tonight, my guest is Camille Ernestine Hardaway, the first woman to serve as mayor of Los Angeles, California, and, recent polls show, a politician with one of the highest approval ratings of any politician in this country since World War II. Welcome, Mayor Hardaway. Thank you for being here.”

  The camera panned out to include Camille in the shot. The two sat at angles with their best sides facing the camera.

  “Thank you, Gideon. It’s my pleasure.”

  “Now, let me get this out of the way,” he said with his signature boyish charm. “At the risk of receiving thousands of e-mails and tweets accusing me of being politically incorrect or sexist, I must say you are not only one of the most popular politicians in the country, but you are also, hands-down, the most beautiful.”

  “There’s nothing politically incorrect about complimenting a woman,” she said with a carefully portioned measure of modesty and wisdom. “I think everyone enjoys hearing kind words. So, thank you.”

  “You are most welcome. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, we can talk about t
hings important to you and to the people of Los Angeles. As I said in your intro, you are the first female mayor of Los Angeles. How has the experience been for you?”

  “I imagine it has been the same for me as it has been for every mayor preceding me. My gender has had very little impact on my ability to do the job. The people of Los Angeles have been their usual amazing selves and have supported me in most of my initiatives.”

  “You mean you haven’t encountered opposition?”

  “I’m not saying that. Opposition comes with the job. What I am saying is the opposition, support, and even indifference I’ve encountered, I don’t believe, has had anything to do with me being a . . .”

  Gideon, with lightning precision, assessed Camille as she spoke. Playing it safe and down the middle, he silently calculated. All is well in la-la land.

  “. . . and for that reason,” Gideon tuned back in as Camille continued, “I believe Los Angeles is one of the greatest cities in the world.”

  “Ninety-two percent of registered voters, regardless of their party affiliation, feel you are doing a good job as mayor in your second term in office. Eighty-four percent of registered California Democrats and a staggering 68 percent of Republicans polled felt you would make a good governor. What do you attribute these amazing numbers to?”

  “I think voters respond to honest and direct communication. They don’t always agree with me, but they trust I’m going to be straightforward about my position, and that I will fight for what I believe in and for what I believe to be in the best interest of the city.”

  “And you don’t think being a female has helped or hurt?” Gideon asked.

  Gideon saw the subtle dilation of Camille’s pupils. Her eyes tightened slightly and locked with his.

  Stop wasting my time with this gender bullshit. Get to the stadium, she thought.

  “I honestly don’t,” she replied succinctly, but with the smile that won elections.