“Did an officer go to your home that night, Mayor Dobbs?” McCaskill asked.
“No, I took a call from Chief Walraven and assured him that all was well. The security detail was told to stand down and my husband declined to press charges.”
Victoria stretched her neck, let it crack, and continued. She had their full attention now.
“My husband and I have begun the difficult work of putting our marriage back together. We are committed to what we know will be arduous but personal work.
“That being said, I was curious about some things. I wanted to know, as you well might, who sent that package to my home and who then leaked the story to Mr. Bridges and Ms. Franco. I wanted to know who violated federal privacy laws by disclosing my husband’s medical reports.
“Now, I understand as well as anyone that politics is not for the faint of heart. Proverbial as they made be, shots get taken and fired. But I wanted to know how my private life showed up on your front page this morning with such perfect timing, in the midst of my campaign for Congress, hours before this editorial board meeting was set to begin. These are the questions that you should be asking yourselves.”
Stovall stood up and abruptly ordered the reporters from the room.
“No one writes anything until I see it first,” he said as they filed out. “Bridges, stay seated.”
Victoria drew a sheet of paper from the briefing book and continued, walking through the bullet points. The page was used merely for show. Victoria had memorized every line.
“This morning, Detective Haverty answered those questions, Mr. Stovall. He turned over his banking records, showing cash deposits in various increments dating back two years. If necessary, Chief Walraven’s office will provide you with redacted copies for your review. Haverty claims that he was being paid by Mr. Loudermilk to monitor the actions of various public officials, including myself and at least four unnamed others. He tailed my husband for at least a week. A GPS tracker was attached to his car.
“Mr. Haverty somehow accessed my husband’s cell phone accounts without a warrant and took photographs that remain too painful for me to look at. He also sent Mr. Bridges a passcode-protected email message using a proxy server. The last deposit, forty-five hundred dollars, was posted this morning after the story went live on your website last night and in time for the print edition.
“My press secretary tells me that your internal legal team cleared the story and that Mr. Loudermilk personally reviewed it.”
Stovall was blinking rapidly now. Bridges didn’t make a sound. McCaskill was strangely impassive, clicking her pen on the table in a steady rhythm.
“So that I am clear,” the mayor continued, moving in next to her, “we believe Mr. Loudermilk paid a member of law enforcement, a city employee, to spy on my family, sent me the product of his illicit behavior, and then promptly fed the story through that same city employee to a reporter at this newspaper, which of course is coincidentally controlled by his family. And if that were not enough, Mr. Loudermilk reviewed and gave the story his Good Housekeeping seal of approval.”
The Atlanta Way.
Feeling a spate of satisfaction with herself, Victoria turned toward the window and perused the wondrous skyline. The milky clouds that floated over Stone Mountain seemed to liquefy under the midday sun. She looked at them again. Then, staring into Stovall’s eyes, she said in a single breath:
“And now, you expect me to believe—even after answering a flurry of pedantic policy questions today—that I stand a chance of earning your endorsement, not that it means anything anymore. Mr. Loudermilk used to tell me that he owned this editorial board, and now I know that to be true.”
She was visibly angry now. Roy Huggins stood up. Victoria raised her palm before he could part his lips.
“I was frustrated when this paper went after my brother with unfounded, sordid allegations and, even as he lay in a burn unit, clinging to life, one of your reporters thought it right to come to his church and stalk our closest friends and family. I was disappointed when an obituary supposedly written in honor of Congressman Hawkins was littered with decades-old, unsubstantiated rumors. I understand that you have a job to do and that this is a for-profit enterprise. I do not expect you to parrot my speeches or give me a free pass. However, what I do expect is that you will honor your obligation to this city and to your readers. I expect fundamental fairness, not a hit job at the behest of a profiteering political arsonist with an axe to grind!”
Victoria collected her Chanel handbag from her chair and swung it over her shoulder.
As she and Roy began to leave, Victoria turned and said, “Ms. McCaskill, I fully expect that you will call Mr. Loudermilk to personally inform him of my allegations. You should know that my lawyers are drafting a federal civil suit, specifically naming you and Mr. Loudermilk among the defendants. I know that you are his point person in this newsroom and I will prove it. Who can say if there will be criminal charges? I imagine, though, that you’re going to be spending a bit more time with your beautiful family.”
The once-stolid McCaskill looked panic stricken. The notion that she was one of only two syndicated black women columnists in the country, as well as an Alpha Kappa Alpha and Spelman sister who had grown up in Mechanicsville, was not lost on Victoria. She could take no pleasure in taking McCaskill down.
“And, Mr. Bridges, don’t fret,” the mayor said dismissively. “It looks like you were just a patsy and it doesn’t appear that you have anything worth taking, other than what’s left of your pride.”
THIRTY-ONE
The storms erupted over Atlanta. Virgil took cover at his compound located due south of the Chattahoochee National Forest in Ball Ground, Georgia. Besides the torrential rains slicking interstate highways, filling creek beds, and flooding residential enclaves, the chatter class was alight with back-fence talk about the political warring going on. There were simply too many people in that editorial board meeting for word not to get out, and Atlanta was, and always had been, the biggest small town on earth. For the most part, Victoria Dobbs came out smelling like a rose, and Virgil could think of better things than hearing his name swish around in the mud.
There were some, at least according to Libby Gail, who were bursting with delight over the mayor’s latest predicament, and this was music to Virgil’s ears. It was all too perfect: the husband, the children, the big house in Buckhead, the fancy cars and European ski trips. Her storybook life was falling apart, and that was due cause for celebration.
Pacing the paved circular drive, Virgil pulled back the sleeve of his summer windbreaker and rechecked the time. It was unseasonably rainy and cool for mid-July, but with yet another tropical storm system coming up off the Atlantic coast, Georgia didn’t stay dry for more than a few hours at a time.
If you don’t like the weather in Atlanta, wait a few minutes. It’ll change.
The same could be said for the politics. For now, Virgil was more concerned about Hurricane Victoria than a forecast that promised flooding. He hadn’t expected her to go quietly, given her predilection for histrionics, but her latest salvo was clearly intended to burst the dams. There had been a time when she was more amenable, even likable, Virgil recalled. Victoria was a smart woman, he knew, and stunningly beautiful even when she was in a huff.
He’d been introduced to Victoria, then a young lawyer working in a forgettable department somewhere in the City Hall Annex, not long after she graduated from Harvard Law. The daughter of Park and Rosetta Dobbs was gorgeous if not more than a little presumptuous. Still, he’d been taken with her sure-footed brilliance and, at the urging of Ezra Hawkins and his brother, Whit, Virgil agreed to take her under his wing. When she later needed campaign cash, for one political pursuit or another, Virgil had been Johnny-on-the-spot with every dime she needed and more. If there were strings to be pulled, he pulled them. If there were political bones to be buried, he was handy with a shovel.
Well, it wasn’t long before his precious little pea
cock fattened up, fanned her feathers, and began strutting about the political yard. He’d expected as much. Truth be told, keeping Dobbs in line all those years had been more than a piece of work. Be it not for Whit, Virgil would’ve cut her off before she got out of the statehouse. Now, the Great Torie Dobbs was the sitting mayor, running for Congress and threatening to personally set him on fire.
It was near ’bout 2 P.M., and the chopper had not yet arrived. He scanned the densely clouded sky, half regretting that he’d sent Lucky on such a critical errand. He worried the helicopter might not make it off the ground with the weather around Atlanta being so bad and all. The flight up from the city was a dead twenty minutes in clear skies, at best, but he hadn’t heard from Lucky in well over two hours.
The Loudermilk estate, situated along Hawks Nest, was an impressive spread, not unlike his house in Atlanta or the chalet down on St. Simons Island. The twenty-thousand-square-foot main house stood on a six-acre lot surrounded by lovely pastures and once belonged to Big Whit and given to his adopted son and his wife upon his death. Virgil immediately quit-claimed the deed to Libby Gail, calling it an anniversary gift. He’d spent millions renovating the place over the years, under Libby Gail’s supervision, of course. A spectacular master suite now overlooked the bi-level swimming pool, red clay tennis courts, and a private lake. A helipad sat on the left end of the front pasture. The five-seat Agusta A109C helicopter had been a gift to himself spring before last.
“Goddamn you, Lucky,” he grumbled, cursing the whipping winds. “Where in the sand hell are you?”
Thanks to the circus act the mayor put on, there were decisions to be made. Live news trucks currently surrounded his house and office in Atlanta. Libby Gail complained that a reporter from the Associated Press kept calling her cell phone and some fella from CNN showed up at the Buckhead Diner, hoping to find him there in his usual spot.
Of course, the Delacourte Enterprises corporate communications director issued a perfunctory statement, promising a full investigation that Virgil knew would never come to fruition. The Times-Register editorial board published a joint opinion column proclaiming the virtues of independent journalism and called for his immediate ouster. They would have no choice but to endorse Dobbs now, he figured. McCaskill resigned, over his fervent objections, and Virgil knew he might have to step aside, at least for a while.
Mud dries and flicks off.
Until then, he was content to stay at his luxury farmhouse and far away from the shutterbugs and rubberneckers. Besides, the refrigerator and wet bar were fully stocked. And, at least here he wouldn’t have to listen to Libby Gail’s mouth. His brother, Whit, was another matter. He’d driven up earlier that morning, and the two argued until Virgil agreed to relinquish his role as chief legal counsel and give up his seat on the board of directors. Both of which would be temporary, Whit promised, assuming their contingency plans worked out.
“What in the hell did you do this time?” asked Whit, immediately tearing into Virgil before he’d made it out of the car.
“I said I would take care of it.”
“Take care of it? Is that what you call this?”
“She can’t prove a word of it,” Virgil said. “My hands are clean.”
“Your hands haven’t been clean since you took a mud bath in that plastic swimming pool Daddy had out in the backyard.”
“You approved this mission yourself.”
“I didn’t tell you to go bribing a cop. That’s a federal offense!”
“And the least of our worries right now. I said I would take care of it. You have my word on that.”
Red faced and huffing, Whit was beside himself. Virgil made every attempt to pacify him, but his brother wouldn’t hear it.
“C’mon in the house, and let’s talk this thing out,” Virgil pressed. “You didn’t drive all the way out here to stomp your feet across my driveway.”
“No, I came out here to kick you in your fat ass!”
“Settle down, Whit,” Virgil said. “This’ll all blow over. We’ll win the race, and everything at the company will be sausage, grits, and gravy.”
“You think I give a damn about that right now? I’m tired, Virgil. Enough is enough!”
Virgil leaned against the porch column, lit a cigarillo, and took a long, studied draw.
“Put that out,” Whit demanded, waving the smoke away.
“This is my house, and you might run things down in Atlanta, but I’m the king out here. Daddy left this place to me. You and Baby Sister got a majority stake in the company and I got the house. Nice bargain for you, if you ask me.”
“Goddammit, I said put it out!”
It wasn’t like Whit to holler like that. Virgil’s usually mild-mannered brother had always been slow to anger. Whit seemed to be letting him have it for transgressions old and new, Virgil reckoned. He hadn’t seen his brother like that since they were in grade school when he mixed up some vinegar, peroxide, and baking soda and tried to blow up a model airplane that Whit had spent all summer painting and admiring. Then there was the girlfriend he stole from his brother in the ninth grade. Virgil had a knack for making Whit’s ass itch.
“Fine, fine,” Virgil said, extinguishing the butt in the wet grass. “We’re in this together. You remember that.”
“Until we ain’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Whit said. “I’ve been pulling your ass out of a ditch since the day your daddy dropped you off at our house on Sycamore Avenue, and there’s only so much more I can do. I promised your mama, rest her soul, that I’d see after you. But if she knew you like I did, she’d dump your ass off at the nearest Greyhound station. The sun didn’t rise in her eyes until your incorrigible ass woke up in the morning.”
“I’m only trying to see after Cole. You and I know that poor boy of yours ain’t got a lick of business acumen,” Virgil said. “We set up that construction company and gave him a heap of money. Him and that wife of his rolled through every bit of it. Before I knew it good, he tried to buy up every distressed commercial property from here to Mississippi, and he can’t keep Raffi out of Phipps Plaza, not that he tries real hard.”
Whit nodded in agreement.
“Every time I turn around, they’re jetting off on shopping trips on Delta private charters,” Virgil said. “He doesn’t have our daddy’s mind for money. Hell, he spent his entire trust fund inside of seven years. I did what I had to do to keep them afloat. Now, I cut off his jet account last month like you told me to. But, he’s burning a hundred grand a month in expenses on God knows what.”
Whit nodded again, waved the lingering fog of smoke away, and hesitantly agreed to take the discussion inside. He followed Virgil across the hardwood foyer and into the cedar-paneled great room.
“You know the doctor said I can’t be around tobacco smoke,” Whit said.
“Dr. Kessler told you to lay off fried pork chops and red-eye gravy too, but you’re still eating them.”
“A man’s gotta have something to hold on to. What do we know about that detective of yours?” Whit said, resting his bones on the oversized sofa. “Would he testify?”
“There won’t be a case. Anyway, Lucky sent the wire transfers from the Cayman account. It’s his word against mine, and we know how that will go. We’ll do what we have to do.”
“There won’t be a case? Are you going to buy off a U.S. district attorney too?”
Virgil scanned the ceiling and said nothing.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Whit said, studying the deep wrinkles in Virgil’s jowls.
“I’ll take care of Haverty,” Virgil said. “The wheels are already in motion.”
Virgil called for a housekeeper and had her bring a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon up from the cellar and two shot glasses. It wasn’t noon yet, but he figured a little liquor would help smooth things out.
“You have to step down,” Whit said, wincing and tossing back a glass. “T
he least you can do is take a leave of absence while we sort this thing out. Wilma agrees with me.”
“Baby Sister always sides with you,” Virgil protested. “That doesn’t mean diddly-squat.”
“That’s fifty-six percent of the voting shares. We might have to terminate your employment contract. We’ve got to protect our interests here.”
“This is my daddy’s company too,” Virgil said. “I’m still a shareholder.”
“Don’t make me exercise the morality clause.”
“You can’t be serious about this. Take your time and think about what you’re saying.”
“And we’ll need to shut down Resurgens too.”
“That’s all he’s got. Cole doesn’t have any marketable skills, other than picking out women’s shoes at Neiman Marcus, and you know it.”
“Maybe we can sell it,” Whit said. “Private transaction. Get his name off of it, set him and Raffi up in another business. I don’t care if it’s a food truck. I’ll put him on an allowance.”
“Any sale, private or otherwise, will draw fire for sure. I say we leave it as it is for right now.”
“And what about our mayor?”
Virgil poured another round. Whit, waiting for an answer, didn’t touch his shot glass.
“What are we going to do about Victoria?” Whit asked again. “She’s threatening a civil suit and a criminal investigation.”
“Empty promises,” Virgil said. “There’s no way she’d put her own neck on the chopping block like that. She’d swell up like a puffer fish if they ever put handcuffs on her.”
“I’m nobody’s prosecutor, but I can’t see where she’s broken the law,” Whit said.
Again, Virgil said nothing.
Paper Gods Page 20
