The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

The satellite continued spinning as she spoke. “Yes . . . yes, I am.”

  This has to be dream, she thought looking at Isadore and Lazarus who were clearly entertained by her reaction to the voice.

  “I see you finally met The Committee. Don’t let them intimidate you,” the president said with a slight chuckle in his tone. “They’re more impressed by you than you are by them.”

  “And you work for The Committee?” she summoned the courage to ask.

  “No, no, we work together,” came the amused response. “I’m a member of The Committee, and you will be too, if all goes as planned. Once elected, U.S. presidents hold a seat on The Committee for life.”

  “I still don’t know exactly what this plan is,” she said boldly. “It’s all been very cloak-and-dagger up until now.”

  “Well, I suspect they are anxious to tell you, so I’m going to let you all get to it. It was lovely speaking with you finally. I look forward to meeting you very soon.”

  The line went dead. Camille looked again at Isadore and Lazarus who by now had taken seats on the couch.

  “Please sit down, Camille,” Lazarus said pointing to a floral print wingback chair directly in front of them.

  “The Committee is comprised of the most powerful and influential people in the country, two of which are Isadore and myself.”

  Camille listened intently as the story unfolded.

  “Our purpose is simple,” Lazarus continued. “We run this country. We decide the state of the economy. We decide when a war is needed, and when it should end. The Committee sets national priorities, and, as it relates to you, we decide who will be president.”

  The words reverberated in Camille’s head. The casual manner in which they were delivered caused her stomach to churn. All he said was completely contrary to everything she’d been taught in high school history, college, and constitutional law courses. Conversely, she found the absolute power these men wielded to be intoxicating. It was all, and even more than she ever desired.

  “Which is why you are here tonight,” Lazarus continued as Isadore studied her reaction. “I will be blunt. The Committee selected you as our choice to be the first black female president of the United States of America.”

  The words smacked her in the face like a wet bag of sand. After recovering, she asked simply, “Why me?”

  “That is an unnecessarily self-deprecating question,” Isadore said. “You see, Camille, within the confines of these walls there is no room for modesty. Far too much is at stake. Your statement should have been, ‘Why not.’ But in answer to your question, apart from your obvious beauty, intelligence, and highly evolved and innate political acumen, you understand power and aren’t afraid to use it, as you demonstrated clearly when you swiftly and decisively dispatched John Spalding.”

  Camille immediately leaned forward in the chair to speak, but Lazarus raised his hand to silence her defense.

  “No need to deny or defend your decision. The Committee is above the law. We are the law,” Lazarus said firmly. “You did what was necessary, and you handled it beautifully. Los Angeles needs a new stadium, and you are not afraid of collateral damage, if that’s what it takes to make it happen. When you made that decision, we knew we picked the right person.”

  “Exactly,” Isadore said.

  The men gave Camille a few moments to absorb all they had said and that which was unsaid.

  “So, you know Gillette Lemaitre?” were her first words.

  “Squawk!” came Count Basie’s piercing contribution from the corner of the room.

  “We facilitated your introduction,” Lazarus said. “I’m sure you recognized the resemblance,” he said pointing to the portrait over the fireplace. “Juliette Dupree is Gillette’s great-great-great-grandmother.”

  Camille bolted from the chair. “You set me up!” she snarled. “You spy on me. You completely invade my privacy. What gives you the right?”

  “I’ve already told you,” Lazarus said calmly . . . “We are the most powerful people in this country. The usual rules do not apply to us, and as of tonight, they don’t apply to you either.”

  “And what if I’m not interested?” she asked with a measure of disdain. “What if I tell you to go fuck yourself?”

  “Then we would drive you back to the airport,” Isadore contributed. “You would return to Los Angeles, and we would all pretend this meeting never took place. You would not hear from us ever again.”

  “Oh, it’s that simple,” she said sarcastically. “And what if I went to the media and told them all about your little club?”

  The two men laughed. “You still don’t get it. We control the media,” said Lazarus. “Besides, who would believe you? Headquarters? Secret society? It’s all nonsense, right?”

  Camille looked at them blankly.

  “Now sit down and talk to us,” Lazarus said in a fatherly tone. “We all know the idea of becoming president appeals to you, so the righteous indignation is pointless. The challenge for you is getting past your middle-class sensibilities and accepting the fact they are no longer useful to you. Once you’ve accomplished that, everything else will come naturally.”

  Camille relaxed her defensive stance and slowly returned to the wingback chair. Everything he said was accurate. Especially concerning her desire to be president. She rarely admitted it to herself. It was so farfetched she could hardly afford to entertain the notion. Governor, yes, without question. But . . . president? “The country isn’t ready yet,” had always been her disheartened conclusion. That is . . . up until now.

  “Talk to us, Camille,” Isadore said. “What are you thinking right now?”

  In the context of the fantastic discussion, the rules Lazarus spoke of seemed to gradually dissolve. Being in the room, with Juliette Dupree looking down on her, had the effect of creating an entirely new and magnificent canvas upon which to paint her life.

  “I’m not entirely sure what I’m thinking,” she said almost defensively. “I’m angry you took such liberties with my life—while at the same time, I’m honored. I feel betrayed by . . .” She stopped without completing the sentence and looked up at the portrait.

  After a moment’s pause she continued. “You obviously know it would be a lie if I said I wasn’t interested.” She paused again. “What happens if I say yes?”

  “Then you would go back to Los Angeles and let us do the hard work,” Lazarus said in a calm and reassuring tone. “We will ensure you become governor, and then president. We would, of course, keep you abreast of the important developments and guide you through the entire process.”

  “That’s it?” she said cynically. “You’re asking me to turn my entire career over to you?”

  “Basically, yes,” Isadore replied unapologetically.

  Camille stood again and walked to the wooden box containing the telephone. She looked at it intently and ran the tips of her fingers over the pearl inlay on the lid.

  “How much time do I have to think about it?” she asked without looking at the men.

  “Take as much time as you need,” Lazarus said. “There’s no rush.”

  “There is, however, one more thing,” Isadore added slyly.

  “And what is that?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Sheridan,” he replied.

  “What about him?”

  “Please sit down, Camille,” Lazarus said.

  “Are you familiar with a company named KeyCorp Development?” Isadore asked.

  “Yes,” she said cautiously. “The city has bought several properties from them. What do they have to do with my husband?”

  Isadore looked at Lazarus for permission to speak, which was again granted with a gentle nod of head.

  “Camille, Sheridan is KeyCorp Development.”

  Her legal mind calculated the ramifications of the statement with lightning speed. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “The CEO of KeyCorp is Michael something. Michael Kenigrant.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

&nbs
p; “Of course . . . I . . . no, but my staff has met with . . .” she stopped as her brain caught up with the answer.

  “Camille,” Isadore said with as much compassion as he could muster, “Sheridan is Michael Kenigrant, which is why no one has ever met him.”

  “I suppose you can prove it,” she said with her last ounce of fight.

  “You’ll learn quickly enough we don’t say anything we can’t back up,” Lazarus replied. “This week, Sheridan is scheduled to sign papers to finalize the purchase of the Playa del Rey property where you plan to build the stadium. His intent is to sell it to you for three to five times what he paid for it, just as he has done with many other properties in the city.”

  Camille feared her legs would give way under the weight of the revelation. This can’t be! she thought steadying herself on the wooden box. Sheridan would never do that to me.

  “We’re sorry to have to tell you this,” Lazarus said, “but it’s better you find out now, before we precede any further with our relationship.”

  Lazarus stood from the couch and walked to her side. “Are you all right? I know this must be difficult. Even powerful people are hurt when they’re betrayed by someone they love.”

  “I’m fine,” she said bravely. “But you still haven’t given me any proof.”

  Lazarus reached into the breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to Camille. “Is this proof enough?”

  Sheridan’s face was buried deep between the legs of Gloria Vandercliff. His pants were around his ankles, and she was contorted in ecstasy. Camille saw the Rolex watch she bought him the previous Christmas on the hand used to prop her legs in the air.

  She looked expressionless at the picture.

  “The woman your husband is performing cunnilingus on is Miss Gloria Vandercliff,” Lazarus said. “Apparently, he is quite well known in certain circles for this particular skill. In this instance, he provided the service as incentive for her to sell him the Playa de Rey property. He’s a liability, Camille. You will never be president if he remains in your life.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked. “Divorce him?”

  “No, no,” Lazarus said with disdain. “That would be worse than a scandal over his business dealings.”

  “Then what are you . . .” she began.

  “You can’t be serious?” she asked looking from Lazarus to Isadore, then back again.

  “It’s the only way,” Isadore responded.

  “You’re insane,” she interrupted.

  “Are we, Camille?” Lazarus said leaving her side. “I want you to think about it before you decide.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” she said indignantly.

  Lazarus looked down at his watch and exclaimed, “Oh my, Isadore, would you look at the time. I think we should be getting Camille back home now. We have taken far too much of her time already. I did promise she would be home in time for work this morning. If she leaves now, we can have her back in LA by 8:00 a.m.”

  “Of course, of course,” Isadore said jumping from the couch and taking her hand. “Camille, think about what Lazarus said,” he advised with compassion. “When you get back to LA, talk with Gillette. I’m sure the two of you will figure out the best way to handle this.”

  “Squawk!”

  Chapter 8

  It was a stormy night at sea. The water thrashed with deadly force. Violent winds whipped the waves into cyclones almost reaching the heavens, and then cascading down currents only to be spewed up again by the spiteful ocean. A million stars looked down helplessly from the black void with pity for the souls who would soon be subjected to the wrath of the angry sea.

  Hattie stirred restlessly in her bed. It was just after 3:00 a.m., and sleep had not come easy. The shallow slumber offered no refuge from the dream brewing over the tempestuous sea.

  “Don’t go out there,” she mumbled. “It’s not safe.”

  The sea grew angrier with each word muttered from behind the thin veil of sleep.

  “No one should be out there. It’s too dangerous,” her almost inaudible ramblings continued.

  Hattie’s hands jerked in the air over the bed as if warning someone to stay away. A tress of grey hair fell from beneath her nightcap as her head rolled from side to side. Again her hands jumped into the air. “Don’t go any closer.”

  Then she saw them. Six mounted horsemen began to rise from the sea in the eye of the cyclone. She couldn’t make out their faces, but saw that the riders had human forms.

  “Who . . .” she gurgled and stammered. “Who are you?”

  Her body tensed watching the slow rise of the six figures from the sea. The waters calmed as if in deference to their presence. Hattie’s head lay still, and her arms became rigid. The figures glowed in the starlight.

  Hattie craned her neck from the pillow to get a closer look. But she couldn’t see their faces.

  “Who are you?” she muttered again. “Show your faces.” Hattie’s words were clear and distinct even in the stormy sleep.

  The figures ignored her command and continued their slow rise from the deep. They released a mist that danced above their heads. The sea became deadly calm. The waves subsided and the ocean surface was now a glassy platform with only ripples around the horses’ restless hooves.

  Hattie waited patiently for whatever was to come next. Then, out of nowhere, a seventh figure appeared directly in front of the equestrians. Hattie saw clearly that it was a woman. She could see the features of her face and intensely green eyes. Even though there was no wind, her flowing hair danced in time with the vapors around her head. Hattie knew immediately it was Camille Hardaway. The energy emanating from her was unmistakable, regardless of how the form manifested.

  One of the horses broke rank and stepped forward. The rider was also a woman and clearly the most powerful of the group. She held a crown in one hand. Camille moved to the side of the horse and bowed her head as her hair continued in the windless dance.

  The powerful rider paused with the crown directly above Camille’s head and said words Hattie couldn’t hear. She slowly lowered the crown onto Camille’s head. Upon contact, the crown began to glow, and the powerful figure returned to her place in the line of six.

  The air responded with a violent gust. Waves crashed and whirlwinds of water formed once again. The storm returned angrier than before.

  Hattie’s body reacted to the crowning with a sudden jerk of her chest into the air.

  “No!” she cried out. Hattie bolted upright in bed, breaking the binds holding her in the dream. “No!” she screamed into the quiet Los Angeles night.

  “Where the fuck have you been. Do you know how worried I was?”

  Camille entered the master suite still wearing the aqua gown from the evening before. The flight home from New Orleans was awash with anger, fear, and hope. Polite offers of tea, coffee, and freshly powdered beignets from Angel were greeted with a curt, “No, thank you.” She also refused offers for sleep and instead spent the four-hour flight simmering in a stew of outrage and betrayal. Even the prospect of becoming president was overshadowed by thoughts of Sheridan’s deception.

  Another black Escalade greeted Camille in the hanger in Long Beach and swiftly drove her home. She calmly climbed the stairs of the mansion and saw Sheridan pulling up his boxers upon entering the bedroom. She stood framed in the doorway and simply stared at him.

  Sheridan rushed to her and embraced her rigid body. “I was worried out of my mind,” he said nuzzling her neck. “Where were you? I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”

  Camille looked coldly over his shoulder and said nothing.

  “Where did you go? Are you all right? What’s wrong?” he asked sensing something was amiss. “Talk to me.”

  Camille removed herself from his embrace. She walked to the bed, tossed her clutch onto the mattress, turned to him, and said, “I am going to ask you a question. If you lie to me there will be serious consequences.”

 
“What is this all about?” he asked innocently. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “What is your connection to KeyCorp Development?” she asked succinctly.

  Sheridan froze when he heard the question he’d hoped would never come from her lips.

  “KeyCorp? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a simple question,” she said firmly. “What is your connection to KeyCorp Development?” His stunned expression answered her question.

  Sheridan braced his body and cocked his head to one side. “It appears you already know the answer,” he replied calmly. “How did you find out?”

  “How could you do this to me?” she asked.

  “I did it for us. Where do you think the money for all your designer gowns came from?” he asked defensively. “The cars, the jewelry, the trips around the world. Don’t you see, I did it for us? For you.”

  “You fool. You idiot! I could go to jail. I could lose my office. You fucking, stupid idiot.”

  “You’re overreacting. Who else knows about it? The feds?”

  “No,” she snapped.

  There was a hint of relief on his face. “Is it someone we can pay to keep quiet?”

  Camille laughed and said, “You don’t have enough money to pay these people off. But you won’t have to because they will never tell anyone.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” he asked, closing the distance between them. “If you trust whoever it is, then everything will be fine.”

  Camille raised her hand and slapped Sheridan hard on the cheek. His head lurched sideways from the blow.

  “I’m going to let you have that one because you’re upset. But if you ever raise your hand to me again—”

  Camille responded to his incomplete threat with another slap landing even harder than the first. Sheridan immediately lunged at her, gripping her neck with both hands. She landed on the bed with him on top of her squirming body.

  She scratched and clawed at his bare back and yelled through the pressure of his grip, “I’ll kill you. You fucking idiot! I’ll kill you!”

  Their bodies wrestled and twisted in the fabric of her dress as they toppled off the bed and hit the floor with a loud thud. Camille landed on top. Rage exploded onto her face as she pounded his head with her tightly clinched fists. Sheridan tried to protect his face, but the assault was relentless. He bucked his hips upward and sent her flying onto her back. Then he scrambled to his feet and wrapped his powerful arm around her neck from behind. Camille’s diamond earrings whipped from side to side, and her hair became a jumble of silk strands as she struggled for freedom.