CALL MAMA (9 page)

Ross S. Witherspoon kissed his wife and kids and set off on the campaign trail.

“Be good to Mom, you guys, see you soon.”

Linda-Mae, his wife, taught kindergarten; an elegant lady, refined, articulate, an asset on any aspiring politician's arm, called after him, “See you Saturday, honey.”

She planned to join him for a weekend of campaigning once her parents arrived to take on the task of looking after the kids. Ross S. Witherspoon smelt victory in his attempt to become his party presidential nomination. His entire life centred on politics. His late grandfather lived and breathed politics and had a willing pupil in young Ross for whom he had great plans.

“You can be anything you want, Ross, if you're ambitious enough. Hey, you could even be president of the United States if you had a mind to,” mused the former politician.

He never tired of telling his young grandson how Abraham Lincoln was a home-state nomination in 1860, how the electoral voters from the state of Illinois, with near half its population located in Chicago-dominated Cook County, were a factor in the win for Kennedy over Richard Nixon, and how, in his own opinion, the first black president would sure as hell have Chicago connections.

“A great city, son, one to be proud of, needs good leadership; you can be that guy, you have to work your way up the political ladder and where better to start than here, where folk know you, know your family and know your old grandpappy who was the best mayor ever elected, even if I say so myself.”

“You were, grandpappy, you sure were!” exclaimed the besotted boy who never tired of hearing the old man's memories, which fired his passion to be the best of politicians.

“Don't forget, Ross, our ancestor signed the Declaration of Independence.”

This fact had never been proven, but old Mayor Witherspoon clung to it as gospel, set in stone.

Young Ross S. Witherspoon was taken on a trip to Washington. The impressionable lad, mesmerized by the whole experience, stood at the Lincoln Memorial as Grandpa read aloud to him from the inscription there. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck, his young eyes moist from an emotion he had never experienced before. Capitol Hill, the White House, the splendour of D.C. became for him the driving force to make politics his life. His ultimate aim: Washington D.C.

He was a handsome, fine-featured man, tall, elegant, smartly dressed, a man who could, and did, break the hearts of many from an early age when he discovered his prowess with the ladies. He made heads turn when he entered a room; women were drawn to him like bees around a honey pot. He used them and left them.

He had inherited a legacy from his grandfather specifically stating it was to be used to further his political career. He knew any campaign would require massive funding to elect him to public office. As a single man he also knew his image would be enhanced by the acquisition of a beautiful wife. His sights were centred on that and on amassing funds for his campaigns.

He dated several women in his youth and was introduced to a young, gregarious lady who was heir to the growing Mears Empire. He became determined to develop his relationship with her over the years, seeing dollar signs as each date progressed. Several months into the relationship, Brenda Mears, besotted with her handsome, ambitious suitor who lavished attention on her, making her the envy of every woman who attended glittering functions, announced to her lover that she was pregnant. She was unprepared for his reaction, thinking marriage and children would cement their affair.

“Pregnant? No, this can't be! You crazy woman, this is too soon for my plans right now. I need to do things in the right order. Get rid of it. You foolish woman. You won't trick me into marriage I am not ready for this.”

With that, he stormed off, scaring Brenda with his sudden change of attitude. All further attempts to contact him proved futile. Her calls went unanswered, his staff instructed never to reply to her pleas for his time. A bewildered Brenda, accepting the relationship was over, relied on her father, Molly and Nora to sustain her through her pregnancy. She swore them to secrecy.

“Never, ever, reveal the name of my child's father. I will be the one to tell the child in my own good time.”

Linda-Mae Sheringham always wanted to teach, much to the disappointment of her parents who had hoped their only child would follow them in a law career.

“You can do better than that, honey,” they pleaded.

Linda-Mae followed her heart and qualified as a teacher. She loved the buzz of working with young people, filling their minds with as much knowledge as they craved with their unending questions and comments. She enjoyed watching her charges soak up information like sponges. She returned home each evening exhausted but satisfied with her day's work.

She met Ross S. Witherspoon at her parents' home when they held a dinner party to introduce some friends to a political acquaintance seeking re-election as senator. He had brought with him a young high-flyer who hoped someday to stand for election himself, his mentor promising to introduce him to influential people who could assist his campaign.

Ross dated Linda-Mae for several years as he climbed the political ladder and to the delight of her parents announced their engagement. Within a few months, a lavish wedding took place, paid for by her parents who were more than comfortably off, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the groom.

Linda-Mae, now Mrs. Witherspoon, was a dutiful politician's wife, who accompanied him to meetings, fundraising events and various gatherings. She was not blind to her husband's charming attraction to other women and kept him on a tight leash. After handing over her two children to the safekeeping of her parents, she joined her husband on what was hoped to be a step nearer election for the power-hungry man.

When he was seen to be a serious contender for presidential nomination, his mentor, Steve Wilkes, asked him outright if there was anything in his background that could come back and bite him.

“Squeaky clean, Steve,” he laughed. “There's nothing to worry about; happily married to a beautiful lady, two great sons, good family pedigree, no one can dish any dirt on Ross S. Witherspoon's character.”

“Good to hear that, but we have to be sure of these things. You know our culture with its tendency to mistrust politicians. It's so ingrained in society to be suspicious of those in power. If you want to serve a full term, things have to be clear cut.”

“Steve, you fret too much. I plan to be an honest president of unquestionable integrity.”

“You'll be the first then,” muttered his mentor under his breath.

Steve Wilkes was a shrewd man, never taking any client at face value until he had enquired thoroughly into the credentials of his runner. He employed a private detective to do the tedious groundwork for him, a search that in the case of Ross S. Witherspoon was to have catastrophic results. He regularly employed an ex-con, a shady character, but one who got results for him. Steve never enquired as to methods used; he just paid the guy for information.

Les Soubry first met Steve Wilkes when the latter visited a client in prison. Les was working in the library when Steve passed and said, “Hi.”

The two got into conversation and Steve took the opportunity to develop a business deal with the con whom he perceived to be someone who would relish the job he had in mind.

“Want to earn a few bucks, buddy?”

“Can always use a few bucks in here. What you got in mind?”

“Need a guy monitored… you interested?”

“Like a spy thing? James Bond stuff?”

“Something like that. You know ‘Crazy Pike', they call him?”

“Yeah, crazy by name and crazy by nature.” Les laughed at his own joke.

“Well, I need someone to report to me on the guy. Just listen for any mention of the robbery he committed… we're trying to locate the loot he's hidden. Big reward offered… you'll be well rewarded for any relevant information.”

So began regular spy missions for the bored con who revelled in his newfound wealth.

“Hey Soubry, where'd you get money for smokes?” he was asked by fellow inmates.

“My poor aunt Cristobel died and left me some dosh, not much. My lawyer sends me some dollars, invests the rest for me for when I'm outta here.”

The story sounded plausible enough and allowed Les freedom to spend his few dollars without too many questions being asked. On release from prison, he occasionally continued clandestine work for Steve Wilkes.

“You ready for another assignment, Les?”

“I am that,” said the ex-con seeing dollar signs.

“There's a politician I want you to keep your ears open about. Any mention of him, however small, let me know.”

Les Soubry began frequenting various bars where he knew journalists hung out, hoping he might pick up some useful information since politics was high on the agenda on the run-up to the presidential nominations.

Ross S. Witherspoon threw himself headlong into the road to the White House and announced his plan to run for office. Caucuses were traditionally lively events where local party members gathered to nominate their candidate and many fell under the spell of this charming man. It was no surprise when voters cast their votes at the primaries and Ross S. Witherspoon, nominee for president, was announced at a national party convention. His nomination campaign won him the trophy; delegates flocked behind the charismatic man, seeing in him hope for a bright future for the party and for themselves. A lucrative career beckoned those who could ingratiate themselves with the great man himself. He stood there, a proud man, glowing in the adulation of the crowd, holding firmly the hand of the would-be first lady.

“Now, let's get the real work done. The presidential campaign begins in earnest.”

The crowd was euphoric as they pledged their allegiance, and their dollars, to their champion.

***

Les Soubry, drinking in a dimly lit and crowded bar, overheard part of a conversation between two men at the next table who were discussing the forthcoming election. They then moved on to discuss the Mears investigation. Les picked up snippets of the conversation: “bombshell… get it at the right moment when he takes questions…”

“You sure about this, Sonny? It's way too big to get wrong. You sure your snooper looked into the background of the guy?”

“Kip, trust me on this. My buddy knew someone from the guy's past, used to live near him in Chicago, knew his family. This sure checks out.”

“Hey you, what you think you're doing, listening to private conversations?” said one of the men looking straight at Les.

Les turned back to his drink as Kip O'Rourke and Sonny Woods left the bar.

Near thing that
, he thought to himself.

“Do you think that creep heard anything in there?” asked Kip of Sonny as they drove off.

“No, he looked so out of it with drink he won't remember his own name!”

Les arranged to meet briefly with Steve at the back of the venue while the aspiring politician continued with his speech. He briefed him on what he had heard.

“I thought you'd want this news ASAP.”

Steve was dumbfounded at what Les had to report.

“Owe you big, but keep this to yourself. Tell no one. You understand?”

He handed Les more dollars than the ex-con had ever seen, ensuring the spy would indeed keep the information to himself in the hope that more of the same came his way.

The politician finished his speech. Steve stood at the back of the hall, staring at the man he had mentored and guided to this moment.
I'll have to speak to him after the question session
. He sighed as he moved nearer the podium, hoping against hope that somehow Les had picked things up wrong, but knowing in his heart that what he had just heard was correct.

His speech finished, Ross S. Witherspoon immersed himself in the idolization of the faithful. Like a peacock, he paraded among his followers. His mentor guided him back to the podium.

“Time to take some questions, Ross.”

Having convinced Brenda Mears that the attempted break-in at her home was nothing to be concerned about, George saw off the errand-boys sent to his employer's estate. He read the note he had been given. The envelope contained a disturbing picture of Nora, leaving no doubt in his mind that harm would come to her if he failed to repay his loan. He had no option but to comply with the demands. Also in the envelope was a copy of the agreement he had signed in his drunken state. Highlighted were the consequences of late or non-payment, the reality of which petrified him. The rate of interest shocked him.

“God help me,” he sobbed quietly.

He quickly sent off an immediate payment to the bank number he had been given. This gave him only temporary respite. Before long he had no funds. He was in serious trouble. He sold his precious computer equipment, telling Nora it had gone for servicing. His morose demeanour concerned her. She interpreted his reticence and emotional detachment as lack of interest in their relationship. He ignored all attempts to communicate. He lost weight and no longer cared about his appearance. Molly and Nora were convinced he was seriously ill.

On a few days' leave, he flew to New York, informing Nora that he would be attending a computer course. Arriving at JFK, he was met by a courier and driven several miles to an imposing gated mansion. He was met by a man he thought he had seen somewhere before.

“We meet again, George. You remember me, don't you? I helped you up from a bar stool.”

“I've a dim memory of something like that,” he stuttered.

Barclay Jones continued. “We brought you here, George, to discuss your financial difficulty. You seem to have a problem with repaying the $2,000 we lent you.”

The agitated man attempted to reply.

“Sorry, didn't fully understand what I was getting into… I must have been dipso… just need a bit more time, sir… I'll get the money.”

“How, George? You've no cash. You sold your computer, didn't you? Where do you think you're going to get money? Nora, perhaps? Brenda Mears?”

Poor George almost burst into tears. Barclay Jones continued.

“Don't get upset. We've brought you here to offer you a way out… got a job for you… do it well and the slate will be wiped clean. You interested?”

George visibly relaxed.

“Sure, I'll do anything… what's this place? Who is ‘we'?”

“You'll be told on a need-to-know basis. Listen up: you will be taken upstairs to meet Boss, who will explain everything to you.”

Boss briefed George on the assignment. This was to be his only meeting with the mysterious Boss. He listened intensely; fear crushed him as he took in the enormity of the task.

“Hey, I can't do that! Not Lucy…” he protested. “Lucy trusts me. I won't take part in this crazy idea.”

“Yeah, you will do this, Mr. North. Think about it, you will be debt free. If you refuse, on your own head be it. Yeah, Lucy trusts you, so it should be relatively easy. It's payback time.”

The alternative was explained to him. His beloved Nora would be in serious danger if he failed to comply.

“Oh hell, oh God, don't harm her, please.”

“No one will be harmed, George, if you follow my instructions. I'm afraid you can't leave here until you agree. Think. Do this one thing and you'll not only have your loan paid in full, you'll be given enough dollars to set you and Nora up in business. I'll give you time to consider.”

George was led to a room where he was locked in. The room was near the top of the building. Although it was comfortable and well appointed, there was no television or phone. He was isolated. Enticing meals and drinks were brought to him.
Could live like this with Nora
, he thought.
Maybe, just maybe, I should do what they ask
…

Barclay Jones arrived some time later.

“Have you had time to consider your position? Boss will make it worth your while. You won't meet Boss again; I'm your link man now.”

“As long as no harm comes to Lucy, she's just a kid.”

“You have Boss's word on that.”

Specific instructions were explained to George. He was horrified.

“Return to Chicago now… no crazy ideas or you'll never see your darling Nora again. Alf, here will explain what will happen to her if you breathe a word of this to anyone.”

George shuddered as Alf detailed his graphic plan for Nora.

“Don't… don't touch her… ok… I'll do it.”

George returned to Chicago a broken man. He scarcely spoke. He was too scared in case he let something slip. A few days after his return, Nora, shopping in the mall, was pushed to the ground and had her purse stolen. She screamed in pain. Shoppers came to her assistance. Some hours later she arrived home with her arm in a cast. That evening George received a text. It read: “A warning.” Any thoughts he had of reneging on his mission faded as he comforted Nora.

“The guy came from nowhere, pushed me to the ground and grabbed my purse. I tried to hold on to it, but he pulled furiously. If I'd let him take it I might not be in this sorry state.”

She sobbed in her lover's arms.

George made several more trips to New York. On each visit, more instructions were issued. Nora continued to believe he was attending computer courses. He was given a top-of-the-range computer by whoever Boss was. His driver, Les, spoke sparingly and would not reveal anything about Boss.

“Never met anyone there except Barclay. Don't know anything about Boss.”

Back home, Brenda asked George to collect Lucy from school to allow Nora to visit the dentist. He hurried to the privacy of his room and with heavy heart made a call, saying, “It's on!”