The Peace Maker

by Michele Chynoweth

  It also started a buzz for the next several weeks about the possibility that Leif Mitchell might be next in line for the presidency, perhaps before Martin was ready to give it up. After all, Leif was already vastly more popular than his incumbent father-in-law.

  Saturday Night Live even did a spoof featuring actors playing the president and his son, in which Martin unsuccessfully tried to talk Jordan into running for the presidency before Leif did, then conspired with him to poison the Kentucky governor by lacing his mint julep with cyanide.

  President Greene was livid at the license these shows took at his expense, but knew he should do nothing but ignore it. After much experience he realized that if he tried to debate the media he would draw even more attention to their folly, and their jabs at him would simply become all the more blatant. But he was sorely tempted. His press secretary told him it was normal and would pass. “Bush had it way worse,” his secretary said, trying to comfort his boss.

  The newlyweds spent their wedding night in the White House and Wendy moved into the governor’s mansion the next day.

  There wasn’t time for a honeymoon, Leif told his new wife. The end of the state’s legislative session was looming and he was behind in signing bills and meeting with legislators, lobbyists, officials, and constituents. On top of that, the Kentucky Derby was only two weeks away, and he not only needed to be there to represent the state but had also been asked to sing “My Old Kentucky Home,” the famous official state song, with the University of Louisville marching band. In addition, one of the Derby horses was owned by Emir Ali bin Al Thani of Qatar, who would be visiting the United States to watch his Arabian stallion run, and to meet with Governor Mitchell as part of the governors’ task force project.

  As the town car pulled up to the private entrance of the governor’s mansion, Wendy looked at her new home in awe. “I’ll feel right at home,” she remarked happily. “It’s like a mini White House!”

  Indeed, the architecture was similar. Both houses dated back to the early twentieth century, and like the White House, the huge mansion served both as a private residence and a public building that was open for tours.

  “It still feels too formal to me,” Leif said as they walked into the foyer. “Why don’t we just drop our bags off and I’ll take you somewhere really special. I want you to come meet all the folks at Little River.”

  “But, darling, this is going to be our new home,” Wendy protested. “I at least want to look around.”

  “There isn’t much to see, since I haven’t even been here that long and it’s just me living here. It really does need a woman’s touch.” Leif put his arms around his new bride, smiling down at her. “Since we have the rest of our lives together, and since my parents actually invited us for dinner, why don’t we go to Little River for the evening, then tomorrow you can get started on redecorating?”

  “Well, now I’m nervous. Is your whole family going to be there?”

  “I was going to surprise you, but yes, they want to properly welcome you to Kentucky. And I have something else special to show you.”

  Leif stood next to Wendy gazing into the stall of Phillip’s Pride, the colt that Little Sally had carried to term over four years ago and that Henry Mitchell had named after his son since Leif had saved its life. The farmhands and trainers called him “Phil” for short.

  “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Leif admired the stallion’s red chestnut coat, stroking the white streak on his nose. “He didn’t win last year in the Derby, but he didn’t do too badly either. He’s won a few purse races and I’m sure he’s got a few more in him before we put him out to stud.”

  They heard a whinny at the end of the stalls. “That’s Little Sally,” Leif said with a grin. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Wendy gingerly walked along the hay-strewn stables. She hadn’t dressed for Leif’s special surprise and had worn her high-heeled pumps. Leif proudly walked his wife up to his favorite horse’s stall.

  The mare stood warily eyeing the strange woman who accompanied her friend.

  “She’s a beauty too, huh?”

  Wendy didn’t seem impressed. “What? Oh yes, she is.” She shivered in the night air. The two of them had come to the barn right after dinner with Leif’s family. Leif wanted to show the stables off to his new wife before it got too late and the horses would be asleep. “I should have changed first. Ugh!” Wendy took a step to get closer to Leif so he could warm her up, and the heel of her pump squished into a pile of manure. “This is disgusting! Can we leave now?”

  Leif laughed, putting his arm around her and helping her out of the muck. “I guess this isn’t your thing, is it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Just give me a minute to say good-bye and we’ll go.” Leif took off his dinner jacket and put it around Wendy’s shoulders. He turned just in time to miss his wife rolling her eyes impatiently. She stood waiting with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face as he entered the stall. Leif stroked Phil’s mane for a minute and the horse looked at him curiously with big, liquid-brown eyes.

  “Your mom did good.” Leif spoke softly, fondly to him. “And I bet you’re going to sire a winner one day.”

  Derby Day arrived and Leif had so much on his plate that he was secretly glad Little River didn’t have a Derby horse to race that year. He needed to remain impartial and he had to play host to the emir, the royal monarch from Qatar, bearing in mind the independent Arabian country was one of the largest producers of oil and gas in the world, not to mention one of the Middle East countries that fell under Leif’s special “project” as head of the governors’ task force.

  After a breakfast with the emir and his entourage, Leif addressed the media assembled in the pressroom at Churchill Downs with the normal speech about how much the Derby meant to Kentucky, and how privileged he was to be the governor of such a fine state.

  Then it was time to take the microphone on the platform in the infield, and address the crowd and the news media from around the world.

  Although she didn’t like horses, Wendy did revel in the international attention she received as the First Lady of Kentucky that fine Derby Day. Some of her pride and spunk even returned.

  She stood flashing the adoring public her gorgeous smile as she stood dutifully at Leif’s side, dressed glamorously in a wide-brimmed white hat with red roses that matched her red-and-white polka-dotted dress cinched at her slim waist with a red leather belt. She had been tanning, which set off her blonde hair and brown eyes, and the cameras seemed to linger as much on Wendy Mitchell as they did on the four-legged Derby contestants. Wendy seemed in her element, cheerfully sipping Mint Juleps and chatting with the media.

  Logan Reese was close by on the platform and handed Leif his guitar when it came time for him to sing. Leif approached the mike to thunderous applause, smiled and waved, looking dashing in his black suit, red tie, and white cowboy hat. He wore a single red rose in his lapel.

  When he started strumming the tune and the first words of the lyrics, “The sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home,” Leif forgot that he was the governor, the host to Arab royalty, or the president’s son-in-law. It was as if he was transported back in time to when he was just a country-rock singer playing for small audiences at taverns or at gatherings on the horse ranch. He went back in his heart to when life was simple and he was just a farmhand tending to the horses. The melancholy in his voice was overpowered, however, by the accompaniment of the University of Louisville marching band which traditionally still played the song at the Derby as it had for nearly the past century, and by the sellout crowd, which sang along as the horses, mounted by their jockeys, strode by in the post parade.

  “The one-hundred-and-forty-second Run for the Roses is about to get underway after a special performance of “My Old Kentucky Home” by Governor Leif Mitchell…” The NBC sports announcer’s voice faded as President Greene turned down the volume on the big-screen TV in the president’s quarters living room, where he had been watching t
he Derby coverage.

  He had watched with growing envy as Governor Mitchell triumphantly held hands in the air with Emir Ali bin Al Thani, walked to the infield with a radiant Wendy, melodiously crooned the state anthem with the Louisville band, and was lauded and applauded by over a hundred and fifty thousand attendees and millions more who watched, just as he, the president, did, on their television sets or electronic devices around the globe.

  “Wendy adores him, doesn’t she?” Carol Greene walked into the room and made her statement before noticing the deep frown lines across her husband’s forehead as he stared at the screen.

  “Everyone adores him.” Martin Greene clicked off the set from a remote in his hand and turned around to face his wife, anger and frustration clouding his eyes. “It’s almost as if he’s got some kind of Midas touch, or he’s God’s chosen one. I just don’t get it. It’s not fair. Our daughter loves him more than she does me, our son is closer to him than he is to his own father, the media idolizes him, and he’s more popular now with his music being on the hit charts than I am as the president of the United States of America. In fact, I’d say if he were to run against me one day, he’d probably win, even though the amount of political experience he has could fit on the tip of my little finger.” Martin was pacing now, and held up his pinky finger for effect.

  “Well, that will never happen, so don’t go fretting over it.” Carol Greene tried to soothe her husband’s ruffled pride. “And he can never take your place as Wendy’s and Jordan’s father. As for your popularity, you are in the most powerful position in the world, and you know with that comes a lot of people who want to take you down. No president has ever had much more than a 50 percent popularity rating. Americans, even those who vote for you, are fair-weather friends. When they become even slightly irritated with the economy, or anything else for that matter, they go out of their way to support the next guy who comes along. I think you’re doing a fine job. You’re a great father, a great leader, and one heck of a husband.” She slid her arm around her husband’s waist, but he stood stiffly in her embrace, his chin in his hand, mulling over the situation.

  “Yes, but there’s more to it than that. I have put Leif Mitchell where he is today and no one knows it. Not only that, he is totally ungrateful. So I get no credit whatsoever and he gets all the glory. It’s almost like the higher he rises, the lower I seem to fall. He’s like my albatross.” Martin shrugged off his wife’s arms and stood with his hands resolutely on his hips. “I need to get rid of him.”

  Carol looked at him with concern. “What do you mean?”

  Martin smiled at his wife with the knowing look of a parent talking to a child. “Well, if you were thinking I was going to off him, that’s not what I meant. No, I mean send him away, get him away from me so he’s not constantly making me look bad by his looking so good.”

  “Don’t you think that’s being a little paranoid? Are you really that jealous if him? That doesn’t sound like the confident man who I married.”

  Martin frowned again, angry at the one person who unconditionally stood by his side. “No, I don’t think it’s paranoid, and I’m offended you’d say such a thing. I think you’re the one who’s paranoid. What harm will it do if I, say, send him over to a foreign country for a firsthand observation of how his work on the governor’s task force might benefit the US?” An idea struck Martin, and a righteous grin lit up his face. “Not just any foreign country, though. I’m going to send him to Israel on a peace mission.”

  “Why Israel?” Carol was working hard to keep the worry out of her voice.

  “Because it’s such a battle zone right now that there’s no way he can come out of there unscathed, much less successful as a hero this time. The Israelis won’t welcome him because they’re not happy with us right now, and the Palestinians will think he’s being a traitor. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of there alive. But don’t worry, I’m sure with his luck he’ll be fine.”

  “Martin, what about our daughter?” Now Carol’s tone was tinged with panic.

  “She’ll be fine too. Like you said, she’s got me…us to rely on. She can even move back in if she wants to.”

  “I don’t like it.” Carol was pleading now, but the stern look her husband gave her told her that her attempts to sway him were futile. Still, she had to try. “Please don’t do this, Martin. Maybe you can send him somewhere else, or maybe things will settle down and Leif and Wendy will have a baby. That will divert his attention.”

  “No, that would bring him even more attention. A baby would make things even worse.”

  “That baby would be our grandchild…” She touched his shirtsleeve but he sloughed off her hand like it was a pesky mosquito.

  “Carol, this time you’re wrong, and you’re not going to change my mind. I’m finished discussing it. It’s been a long day, and I have a lot of thinking to do. I’m going to the kitchen for a snack and then to bed early. Tomorrow’s a new day, and I have a lot to consider. I am the president of the United States, after all.”

  Carol watched with a dumbfounded look as Martin strutted out of the room.

  CHAPTER 9

  Chessa

  With the deregulation of most of the limits on campaign fundraising and the increases in media advertising and other expenses to make a successful run, the estimated cost of running a successful presidential candidacy had risen to an estimated two billion dollars.

  As in the past, it would usually take someone who was very rich or someone extremely popular to vie for president. But with the controversial and sweeping deregulation of the Supreme Court’s 2010 Citizens United decision lifting limits on corporate contributions, a successful candidate could also be someone who had the financial backing from a very wealthy company. In the Citizens v. United case, The Supreme Court had ruled that candidates, through SuperPACS, could raise unlimited funding through wealthy corporations.

  Thus, Senator Darren Richards was among the elite who had everything going for him. He had curried enough favor among his colleagues in Congress to get a popular backing in almost all fifty states. He had his own trust fund his parents had set up, making him a multimillionaire in his own right. And he had the financial backing of his daddy’s company, RA Technologies—the biggest biopharmaceutical corporation in the world.

  Chessa had heard the family joke that her husband came out of the womb with a political agenda in his tiny hands. His mother would fondly recall that when he was just five, little Darren would stand on an upside-down milk crate, pretending it was a political soapbox. He would address his “audience,” which would consist of family members who would indulge him, or stuffed animals that he would line up the way a little girl might for a pretend tea party.

  Dorothy Richards often said she believed he got his activist nature from his grandfather, her daddy, who would sit Darren on his knee and tell him stories about how the Yankees defeated the Confederates, about Abraham Lincoln, and about his own membership in the American Legion.

  “His granddaddy would say, ‘Darren, you’re going to be somebody important, like good old Abraham Lincoln, one day; I just know it’,” Dorothy often regaled. “And sure enough, he was right.”

  Darren had run for class president in his freshman year of high school and had come home nearly in tears after losing to a girl. His grandfather had mercilessly chastised him that day when he came to visit for dinner. “Maybe I was wrong about you, boy,” he had said gruffly. “No grandson of mine would lose to a girl, and then come home blubbering about it.”

  Humiliated, Darren turned his anger over that loss into a fierce determination to win at all costs. He went on to defeat the same girl in his sophomore year for the top position of student council president, a position he kept until he graduated. He never told his mother, nor his grandfather, that he had publicly humiliated the girl to win by posting a photo a buddy had secretly taken of her sitting on the toilet in the girls’ restroom.

  Darren called his father to arrange an early meetin
g one morning in his stunning glass-ensconced office in RA’s high-rise corporate headquarters on Manhattan’s Third Avenue.

  With his status as both heir-apparent and US Senator, Darren easily slipped through the lobby’s security force with a smile and a nod, rode the elevator to the fifty-first floor, and stepped out into familiar territory: the highly modern gray granite walls and floors that made up the upper echelon offices of the president, CEO, CFO, and staff.

  He was greeted warmly by the middle-aged yet attractive receptionist who led him back to his father’s domain, which never failed to impress Darren with its floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a spectacular panorama of Manhattan’s East Side.

  Donald Richards was on the phone, apparently with a very important client, and motioned for his son to have a seat in one of the leather chairs that surrounded his behemoth mahogany desk.

  “… and I’m telling you let us worry about the negative press. We’ve dealt with a lot worse and come out better than ever. You just worry about all the profits you’ll make once this new drug is put on the market. And say hello to the wife for me. We’ll have to get together for dinner soon. Listen, I have to run, the future president of the United States just came into my office.” Donald looked at Darren and winked but didn’t smile. The crease between his eyebrows that lingered even after he hung up the phone belied that he was obviously concerned about something.

  Darren and his father both remained seated, not bothering with an embrace or even a handshake. It wasn’t their style to waste time with pleasantries when it came to family, unless they needed to put on a show.

  “So what brings you here this morning, Darren? My secretary said you didn’t want to say ahead of time what this meeting’s about, but I think I can guess. You need some money for the campaign, I bet.” The king of the RA empire reached into his desk drawer and withdrew his checkbook. “How much?”

  Darren shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Dad, you could at least let me ask. But I guess a hundred million would be enough to get me started.”