“I’m your alibi too, aren’t I?”
“Only if you tell them my full name.” She slides the envelope back into her jacket and her eyes meet mine again. “And why would you do that?”
I pick up the phone and dial the front desk.
THE FINAL BALLOT
BY BRENDAN DuBOIS
Eventually the room emptied of the two state police detectives, the detective from the Manchester Police Department, the Secret Service agent, the emergency room physician, and the patient representative from the hospital, until only one man remained with her, standing in one corner of the small hospital room used to brief family members about what was going on with their loved ones. Beth Mooney sat in one of the light orange vinyl-covered easy chairs, hands clasped tight in her lap, as the man looked her over.
“Well,” he said. “We do have a situation here, don’t we?”
It took her two attempts to find her voice. “Who are you?”
He was a lean, strong-looking man, with a tanned face that seemed out of place here in New Hampshire in December, and his black hair was carefully close trimmed and flecked with white. If he looked one way, he could be in his thirties; if he looked another way, he could be in his fifties. It depended on how the light hit the fine networks of wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. Beth didn’t know much about men’s clothes, but she knew the dark suit he was wearing hadn’t come off some discount-store rack or from Walmart. He strolled over and sat down across from her, in a couch whose light orange color matched the shade of her chair.
“I’m Henry Wolfe,” he said, “and I’m on the senator’s staff.”
“What do you do for him?”
“I solve problems,” he said. “Day after day, week after week, I solve problems.”
“My daughter . . .” And then her voice broke. “Please don’t call her a problem.”
He quickly nodded. “Bad choice of words, Mrs. Mooney. My apologies. Let me rephrase. The senator is an extraordinarily busy man, with an extraordinarily busy schedule. From the moment he gets up to the moment he goes to bed, his life is scheduled in fifteen-minute intervals. My job is to make sure that schedule goes smoothly. Especially now, with the Iowa caucuses coming up and less than two months to go before the New Hampshire primary. In other words, I’m the senator’s bitch.”
Beth said, “His boy . . .”
“Currently in custody by the state police, pending an investigation by your state’s attorney general’s office.”
“I want to see my daughter,” Beth said. “Now.”
Henry raised a hand. “Absolutely. But Mrs. Mooney, if I may, before we go see your daughter, we need to discuss certain facts and options. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be unpleasant, but believe me, I know from experience that it’s in the interest of both parties for us to have this discussion now.”
Anger flared inside her, like a big ember popping out of her woodstove at home. “What’s there to discuss? The senator’s son . . . he . . . he . . . hurt my little girl.”
She couldn’t help it, the tears flowed, and she fumbled in her purse and took out a wad of tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes and nose. While doing this, she watched the man across from her. He was just sitting there, impassive, his face blank, like some lizard’s or frog’s, and Beth knew in a flash that she was out-gunned. This man before her had traveled the world, knew how to order wine from a menu, wore the best clothes and had gone to the best schools, and was prominent in a campaign to elect a senator from Georgia as the next president of the United States.
She put the tissue back in her purse. And her? She was under no illusions. A dumpy woman from a small town outside Manchester who had barely graduated from high school and was now leasing a small beauty shop in a strip mall. Her idea of big living was going to the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut a few times a year and spending a week every February in Panama City, Florida.
And Henry was smooth, she saw. When she had stopped sobbing and dabbing at her eyes, he cleared his throat. “If I may, Mrs. Mooney . . . as I said, we have a situation. I’m here to help you make the decisions that are in the best interests of your daughter. Please, may I go on?”
She just nodded, knowing if she were to speak again, she would start bawling. Henry said, “The senator’s son Clay . . . he’s a troubled young man. He’s been expelled twice before from other colleges. Dartmouth was his third school, and I know that’s where he met your daughter. She’s a very bright young girl, am I correct?”
Again, just the nod. How to explain to this man the gift and burden that was her only daughter, Janice? Born from a short-lived marriage to a long-haul truck driver named Tom — who eventually divorced her for a Las Vegas waitress and who got himself killed crossing the Continental Divide in a snowstorm, hauling frozen chickens — Janice had always done well in school. No detentions or notes from the principal about her Janice, no. She had studied hard and had gone far, and when Janice came home from Dartmouth to the double-wide, Beth sometimes found it hard to understand just what exactly her girl was talking about with the computers and the internet and twitting or whatever they called it.
Henry said, “From what I gather, her injuries, while severe . . . are not permanent. And she will recover. Eventually. What I want to offer you is a way to ease that recovery along.”
Beth said sharply, “Seeing that punk in prison — that’ll help her recovery, I goddamn guarantee it.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure, Mrs. Mooney?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Really? Honestly? Or will having Clay in prison help
“You’re talking foolish now.”
A slight shake of the head. “Perhaps. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with the press, consultants, and campaign workers. You do tend to talk foolish. So let’s get back to basics. From my experience, Mrs. Mooney, there are two avenues open to you. To us. The first is the one I’m sure has the most appeal for you. The attorney general’s office, working with the state police, pursue a criminal indictment against Clay Thomson for a variety of offenses, from assault and battery to . . . any other charges that they can come up with.”
Beth crossed her legs. “Sounds good to me.”
“I understand. So what will happen afterward?”
Beth tried to smile. “The little bastard goes to trial. Gets convicted. Goes to jail. Also sounds good to me.”
Something chirped in the room. Henry pulled a slim black object from his coat, looked at it, pressed a button, and returned it to his pocket. “That may occur. But plenty of other things will happen, Mrs. Mooney, and I can guarantee that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a media frenzy you’ve never, ever experienced before. I have, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, personal or political. Your phone rings constantly, from all the major networks, the cable channels, the newspapers, and the wire services. Reporters and camera crews stake out your home and your hair salon. Your entire life is probed, dissected, and published. Your daughter’s life is also probed, dissected, and published. All in the name of the public’s right to know. If your daughter is active sexually, that will be known. Her school grades, her medical history, information about old boyfriends will all be publicized. If you’ve ever had a criminal complaint — drunk driving, shoplifting, even a speeding ticket — that will also be known around the world.”
Beth bit her lower lip. “It might just be worth it, to see that little bastard in an orange jumpsuit.”
“No doubt you feel that way now, Mrs. Mooney,” the man said. “But that will be just the start of it. You see, in a close-fought campaign like this one . . . the opponents of the senator will see you and your daughter as their new best friends, and they’ll try anything and everything to keep this story alive, day after day, week after week, so the senator will stumble in the Iowa caucuses and lose the New Hampshire primary and then the White House.”
