“There’s some cash in the side pocket. That should hold you until you get to Flint.”
“Tell your wife that I said thank you,” Chanel said, opening the passenger door. “She don’t know me from Adam’s house cat.”
“She’s my ex-wife, and she’s better than anything that I ever deserved. Call me at the number I gave you from every stop.”
Chanel opened the passenger-side door and got out. As Hampton watched her disappear into the terminal, her words kept replaying themselves: I am a transgender woman. My mama named me Malik.
That night, Hampton bolted the doors to his house and rechecked the window locks. He scanned the high school yearbook again until he found a class photograph of Malik Townsend, wearing a tuxedo jacket and bow tie. He was awarded the “Best Lead Actress” prize for a school rendition of Dreamgirls. It was a small, high school production, but Malik, dressed in a sequined gown and fake eyelashes, stunned in the role of Effie White. Hampton went through the arrest records from 1985 again and found a mug shot of Malik that matched Chanel’s date of birth.
This was the kind of scoop that reporters waited their entire careers to get. It had to wait, though, Hampton knew. He was thinking about an unfinished manuscript now and how Chanel had unwittingly rewritten everything.
“And Congressman Hawkins?” he remembered asking Chanel.
“We were in love,” she said, “until the day he died.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Inside Goodwin’s campaign headquarters, situated in a strip mall on Piedmont Road near the Lindbergh MARTA station, the phone bank bustled with volunteers. Every call was scripted and the responses were tallied on a whiteboard that covered the span of the back wall. A live feed, chronicling the social media buzz and managed by a three-person team, spooled down a vertical flat-screen monitor, punctuated with soft beeps.
Virgil Loudermilk came up with the campaign slogan himself: One Atlanta. The communications team found it brilliant, but they were paid handsomely to believe such things.
A smattering of applause broke out when the Reverend Goodwin walked in. He’d been out door-knocking for most of the day, and judging by his dour demeanor, the neighborhood canvassing had not gone well. He dug deep and greeted the room with a decidedly upbeat speech, though it was difficult to hide the disappointment on his face.
“The tide will turn,” his campaign manager assured him. “Our opponent has near one hundred percent name ID, and right now she’s the sentimental favorite. The good news is you’ve got over a hundred thousand Twitter followers.”
“How many of them did we buy? How many of them are going to vote for me? What are the real polls saying?” Goodwin asked.
“Paid social media advertising is good campaigning. The numbers look good, but the only poll you need to worry about is the one they take on Election Day.”
“It doesn’t feel good out there right now.”
“It’s still early, Pastor Goodwin.”
“We’ve got less than two weeks to go. Early is late.”
The truth of the matter was Robbie Newkirk had been shipped in from Florida to run things because no reputable local talent wanted the job and every available campaign manager out of D.C. balked at the chance to flush their professional life down the drain. In his brief career, Newkirk had two congressional wins and a handful of local elections under his belt. Even so, the DNC refused to take his calls, and he privately accused the national chairman of pressing his thumb on the proverbial scale.
“The mayor has a lot of friends in Washington. It isn’t over until it’s over,” Newkirk assured Goodwin with a hearty pat on the back. “We’re halfway in. Let’s get you some coffee. The briefing team is setting up in the back.”
“Briefing team?”
“You have an editorial board meeting at the Times-Register in three days, and the first debate comes right after that,” Newkirk said. “Your wife dropped off some comfortable clothes, if you want to get changed.”
“I’m fine,” Goodwin responded, pulling off his tie. “Just don’t send me to see another Mrs. Renfro.”
“Renfro?”
“A white lady over on St. Charles Avenue in the Virginia-Highland,” Goodwin said. “She called me an Uncle Tom right to my face and told me to get the hell off her porch.”
“We won’t win every vote,” Newkirk said. “As long as we keep Dobbs under fifty percent, we can force a runoff and reset the clock.”
“How does that help us?”
“Turnout is always low in a special election, but it’s even lower in a special election runoff. It will come down to that.”
“You’re assuming we can beat Sarah Mitchell and make that runoff.”
“Pastor, I assume nothing. All I can promise you is that we’re putting everything we have into this.”
Goodwin followed Newkirk through the maze of makeshift offices and into a conference room. J. T. King was handing out bundles of position papers and gave one to Goodwin as he stepped through the door.
“Take a seat, Reverend. We’ve got work to do,” King said. “Robbie, order up some supper. We might be here a good long while. How’s the yard-sign planting coming along?”
“Slow but good. It’s a steady build out there,” Newkirk answered like a platoon sergeant. “We’re taking this thing block by block.”
Goodwin struggled through the talking points. When it became clear that he was having trouble with policy details, the group took a break, scarfed down dinner, and moved on to debate prep.
“Robbie here will play the role of Mayor Dobbs, and I’ll be the moderator,” King said.
The debate opening statement had to be rewritten three times before Goodwin caught the rhythm. “This doesn’t sound like me,” he complained time and time again. “I wouldn’t say it like that.”
“We want you to be comfortable,” Newkirk said. “Take your time, Reverend.”
When they got to Black Lives Matter, Goodwin stopped and slapped the table.
“It isn’t that I necessarily disagree with Dobbs on this,” he said warily. “My own sons have been stopped for no good reason. My oldest boy got locked up in Fayette County for driving six miles over the speed limit and missed his lacrosse match. We should take a hard look at police accountability, especially when somebody dies. I don’t care what color they are. These police unions—”
“—are among your best allies,” King said, cutting him off. “You’re getting a lot of donations from the police and fire unions. They’re out there knocking on doors and putting flyers on every parked car that they can find.”
“I understand that, and I am grateful for every one of them,” Goodwin said. “I also understand that when an officer fires their gun, the people deserve to know why they did it. Nobody here can argue with that. And the way I see it, neither will the people of the Fifteenth District.”
“Alright, alright, let’s come back to it,” King said.
“Fine,” Goodwin responded, scanning the page. “Let’s talk about these guns.”
Newkirk sat up in his seat and arched his aching back as Goodwin rambled on about mass shootings and the need for an assault weapons ban. King slumped down in his chair. He’d have to explain it all to Loudermilk, who wouldn’t be pleased to hear that Goodwin was about to get mollywhopped by Victoria Dobbs in the first debate. It was plain to see that he was no match for her agility on the issues and wouldn’t be able to counter her ability to dive deep into the minutiae and deliver policy solutions that everyday people would understand.
“Dobbs is a Harvard-trained, former state lawmaker and two-term mayor who has been preparing for this moment every single day of her life,” King said finally. “Remember, you’ve been doing this for a few weeks. For Dobbs, it’s like mother’s milk.”
The door clicked open, and Virgil Loudermilk appeared. Lucky tagged along behind him.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” he boomed. “How’s it going, Rev!”
The men traded perfunctory handshakes
.
Newkirk stood and offered him his seat. “No, please, Mr. Loudermilk. I will stand.”
Lucky, who hadn’t eaten since noon, gobbled up the last Styrofoam plate of fried chicken salad while Virgil held court.
“They’re putting me through my paces,” Goodwin said. “But I’ve got to stay true to myself and my values.”
“Reverend Goodwin, this is the best team that good money can buy,” Virgil said, folding his hands over his belly and rearing back on the chair’s hind legs. “I don’t suspect you’ll agree with everything, but we ain’t got but a few days to get you ready for the fight of your life.”
“I understand the editorial board is a tough bunch.”
“No, that’ll be easy. It’s Victoria Dobbs whom you need to concern yourself with.”
“She’s that good?”
“Did you look at the game tapes we sent over to your house?” King asked.
“Not yet,” Goodwin admitted. “The campaign calendar has been full, sunup to sundown. My wife is already complaining about the hours.”
“It’ll take everything you’ve got and then some,” Virgil said. “And, yes, Dobbs is that good. She sings talking points better than a church choir. It’s a real humdinger when she takes it off the cuff. Pardon my language, but she can cajole the shit out of a snake and raise the dead from a grave. Now, the editorial board will take it easy on you.”
“How do we know that?”
King smiled.
Virgil chuckled and said, “Because I own them.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Her cell phone blared on the nightstand, rousing Victoria from what had been the first good night’s sleep she’d had in weeks. She rustled in the blankets, huffed, and rolled over. Marsh was awake then too, clearing the crust from his eyes.
“I thought we agreed that you were going to turn it off at night,” he said.
“You agreed,” Victoria said with a yawn. “You know I can’t do that.”
Their girls, nestled between them in the king-sized bed, were still sleeping like freshly nursed, three-day-old puppies. The rumbling stopped and started again. Victoria was annoyed.
“Who’s calling here at this hour?”
“I’ll get it,” Marsh said.
His expression turned grave as he said, “Uh-hun, uh-hun. Thanks for letting us know.”
“Who was that?”
“Roy.”
“My press secretary?”
“Where’s your iPad?”
“On top of the dresser. Why?”
“Hold on.”
Marsh eased out of bed, retrieved the tablet from atop the mirrored dresser, and began tapping the screen.
“What’s your password?”
“The day we met.”
“Help me out here.”
“You don’t remember our anniversary?”
“C’mon, Torie. Not now.”
“February twelfth. Add three zeros.”
Thumbing through the tabs, he blew out a heavy gust of air. “Baby, this isn’t good.”
“What is it now?”
“Your second favorite roving reporter is out with a new story this morning.”
“Kathy Franco? About what?” Victoria said, sitting straight up.
“Us.”
“What do you mean ‘us’?”
Marsh waved her into the bathroom. “Look at this,” he said, handing over the tablet. He sat on the edge of the sunken bathtub, bare chested in his pajama pants, and buried his face in his hands.
Victoria immediately soured as she read through the lengthy story, which listed a string of anonymous women who had allegedly slept with Marsh. There was a studio photograph of Samantha Geidner, the reality television starlet whom Victoria had come to loathe the sight of. Franco had quotes pulled from a 911 tape and even had a firsthand account from Mrs. Gaffney, their neighbor. Victoria reread the last line: “Repeated calls to the mayor’s office went unanswered.”
Victoria scrolled through the story twice. “This is a hit job.”
“What are we going to do about it?” Marsh asked.
“Nothing,” she said dryly. “We aren’t going to do anything.”
“I know you better than that.”
“We aren’t going to do anything, Dr. Feelgood. You’ll screw anything walking, won’t you?”
“C’mon, Torie. That’s not fair.”
“Damn, if it ain’t. You got us into this and I’ll get us out,” Victoria said. “Just keep your damn mouth shut and your pants up. I’m going to need your call history. Pull the cell bills.”
“What?”
“I said pull the goddamn itemized bills,” Victoria demanded. “I don’t care what’s in it. Pelosi will review invoices and make certain your little harem stays in check. Get him a list of names.”
She reached into the shower, turned on the jets, slipped off her nightgown, and got in.
“And call Roy back,” she ordered over the smoked-glass stall. “Tell him to draft a statement. No press conference. And ask him to bring the policy briefing book he put together.”
“So you’re actually going to that editorial board meeting?”
“You bet your wayward ass I am.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“Everything.”
* * *
The mayor was still reeling when Pelosi picked her up from the house. Victoria admired his sturdy bearing. A barrel-chested Italian with a severe Brooklyn accent and jet-black eyes, Salvatore Pelosi had a commanding presence, even though he rarely spoke more than a few words at a time. It took some cajoling and promises she knew she had to keep, but wrangling him away from Congressman Hawkins’s staff was decidedly one of the best decisions she’d ever made.
“You can’t buy that kind of loyalty,” Hawkins once told her. “Treat him right, and he’ll protect you with his life.”
Victoria knew that now. Pelosi had proved himself indispensable on more than one occasion since she hired him onto the APD and stationed him in the mayor’s office. A former Defense Intelligence agent, he quickly went about the work of setting up an internal security detail, an off-the-books squad of officers whose only job was protecting the mayor and her interests.
Each member of the special unit, comprising eight men and two women, received counterterrorism training under Pelosi’s supervision and remained embedded within their respective zone commands. Not even their shift supervisors were aware of their dual assignment to the Special Operations Corps or that the unit itself existed. The mayor had a public security detail, though none of the SOC members were officially appointed to it. Even with the feds on protective duty now, the circle around her remained intact. Everything moved on Pelosi’s command.
Last spring, soon after word of the secret squad leaked to a blogger at DrivingGeorgiaRight.com, the missives abruptly stopped and the articles disappeared after two plainclothes members paid a predawn visit to a house on Land O’ Lakes Drive in northeast Atlanta. Eric Byrne was startled to find them standing in his bedroom when he awoke one morning. He hurriedly tapped the keys, deleting files and sweating like a Coke can while they looked on.
“Who are you?”
“The important thing is we know who you are, Eric,” one of them answered, dropping a thumb drive in his lap.
Byrne was immediately confused. “What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s your next story. Publish it by midnight.”
That night, at exactly 11:59 P.M., the first revelations about Hampton Bridges, his drinking proclivities and penchant for young coeds, went live.
It had been an especially crafty SOC unit officer, a freshman recruited from a GBI surveillance team, who tracked down that 911 call from Mrs. Gaffney and determined which dispatcher had handed it over to an investigator working out of Zone 2. Detective Shaun Haverty, a twelve-year veteran, was hauled into police headquarters for questioning, and at first denied knowing anything about the call or who sent the message to a reporter.
The detective kept demanding to see his union representative, until Pelosi entered the interrogation room and snapped on a pair of leather gloves. Through a one-sided window, the mayor stood stone-faced and folded her arms as she watched Haverty stiffen.
“I am going to ask you one time, Detective Haverty,” Pelosi said. “Who do you work for?”
“I don’t understand the question, Lieutenant. I am employed by the City of Atlanta. I have a part-time job directing traffic for Sunday services up at Peachtree Road United Methodist. I’m saving up to buy a new house,” he nervously explained. “My wife is due in December.”
The blow to his right eye came quick and without notice. Victoria flinched as blood splattered and the detective fell backward in his chair, nearly tipping over. Dazed, Haverty looked up into the ceiling fan and mouthed something indiscernible. Victoria could not tell if it was a prayer to God, a plea to Pelosi, or both. Tears rolled down both sides of his inflamed face. The mayor swallowed and steadied herself. It was an unusual request, but she had demanded to see the interrogation in person.
“Once again, Haverty, who do you work for?”
Pelosi’s words were firm and more deliberate now. He punctuated every syllable with a pause.
“I want to see my lawyer,” Haverty mumbled.
Pelosi snatched him up by the throat with one hand and clocked him in the jaw with the other. Haverty spat out a glob of blood.
“I don’t have all motherfucking day, Detective. Make it plain and you can go.”
Victoria watched Haverty closely from the adjoining room. His eyes darted left to right, and then pinned on the viewing window.
“She’s out there, isn’t she? Mayor Dobbs, ma’am, please. I’m going to lose my job and my pension, either way.”
“I’m afraid more than your paltry pension is on the line. You can walk out of here with your head up, go home to your wife with your integrity intact, or I can roll a stretcher in here. The choice is yours,” Pelosi said. “Game’s over. Give me the name.”
A second officer, a hollow-eyed woman with a pageboy haircut named K. L. Wade, handed Pelosi a nightstick.
Paper Gods Page 18
