Fatherless: A Novel (5 page)

“Earth to
Kevin. Are you with us, boss?” Troy asked as a congressional intern shifted nervously in the chair beside him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” the congressman replied. “Sorry, Troy. The largest donation ever received. Got it.”

“I guess I expected a bit more enthusiasm. You do remember that it will take money to run another campaign?”

“Of course.” He forced his thoughts away from Angie’s anxious face and the baby-powder scent of little Leah. He had gently
squeezed them both before heading to the office. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Troy asked. The intern made a slight move toward the door, but Kevin waved him back to his
seat.

“No. I’m fine.” He saw no reason to discuss Leah’s situation until they knew something concrete.
It could be nothing. Stay positive
. He was struggling to heed the advice he had given Angie.

“OK. As I was saying, he’s a first-time donor. We checked the database and then I asked everyone on the team. No one has record
of any prior communications or meetings.”

“Name?” Kevin asked.

“Dimitri. Evan Dimitri.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell with me either. What do you know about him?”

“He owns a majority share in an equity investment company. I asked around and learned he has donated to other campaigns, mostly
on the right. Still, he may be trying to cover bases on something. That’s all I know at the moment.”

“So there’s no cause for concern?”

Kevin’s loyal guardian shook his head. “I don’t know. It feels odd. No prior gifts or connections. It doesn’t usually work
like that.”

“We can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth, Troy. Schedule a lunch so I can thank him.”

“Already set,” Troy replied. “I’ve also asked Shaun here to research his company and associations.”

The intern grinned at the mention of his name. “We’ll update you before you meet the guy,” he said.

The door opened. “Excuse me, Congressman. It’s time to head to your ten o’clock appointment in Senator Franklin’s office.”

“Thanks, Renee. Tell the driver I’ll be right down.”

“Driver?” Troy said. “Since when can we afford a driver?”

“We can’t. Franklin offered his.”

Troy gave Kevin a
be careful
frown before raising his
way to go
eyebrow. “Make us proud, Congressman.”

Sliding into the long leather seat of the senator’s limo, Kevin remembered the first rule in courting power brokers:
They believe their own good press, so be sure you’ve read it
. He opened his tablet to scan for any news items referencing Franklin. One story surfaced.

Scanning the rest of the article, Kevin found a link to Franklin’s SLASH citizen network. The running tally at the top indicated
more than a trillion dollars had been categorized as “unworthy spending” by users, every one of them a registered voter in
someone’s district. Another number revealed how many of the proposed cuts had made it through Congress to date, 64 percent.
The app had created enormous austerity momentum in Washington. It had become political suicide to oppose any Franklin cost-reduction
proposal.

Five minutes later, Kevin found himself standing in a large office complex being greeted by a cheerful receptionist. One look
around the bustling room reminded Kevin of his place in the political food chain. Franklin lived a very different reality,
including assistants who had assistants, drivers and pilots, and a long line of lobbyists jockeying for five minutes of time
with the most popular fiscal conservative on Capitol Hill. The significant donation Kevin had received that morning would
have been a mere rounding error in Senator Franklin’s campaign budget.

“Kevin!” The senator extended his right hand while lifting the other toward his guest’s shoulder. “Thank you for taking time
to meet on such a hectic morning. I bet your staff greeted you with a laundry list of urgent decisions the moment you got
back from the summit.”

The comment was another reminder of Kevin’s lesser world. Troy’s list of “urgent decisions” that morning had taken less than
fifteen minutes to discuss.

“Thank you for the invitation, Senator. I’m honored.” Kevin meant it. He admired Joshua Franklin, a man many described as
a political genius. “Congratulations on the epi-genome story. The
Journal
seemed upbeat.”

“We only need to find a few trillion more to make a dent!” the senator huffed in mock dissatisfaction. “Please, have a seat.”

As Kevin settled into a chair he noticed a young woman poke her head inside the office. “Excuse me, Senator, I’m afraid they’ve
initiated roll call.”

The senator cursed. “I’m sorry, Kevin. We’re trying to rush through another austerity cut before the break. You know the drill.”

“Shall I bring Congressman Tolbert a drink while he waits?” The young woman smiled at Kevin in a way that made him slightly
uncomfortable. Rumors about Franklin’s “intern harem” were probably exaggerated, but Kevin preferred denying his imagination
any room for mischief.

“You don’t mind walking with me, do you, Kevin?” Franklin asked. “I don’t want to waste your time. I think we can settle our
business on the fly.”

Our business
? Kevin wondered. “That’s fine. Lead the way.”

“Two issues,” Franklin began as they paced quickly down the hall toward a waiting car. He raised a single finger. “First,
I want you to play a key role in the coalition I’m forming. Like I said in Scottsdale, we need to get ahead of this budget
revision fallout before it hits the public.”

Kevin had expected the request, but tried to appear surprised. “Thank you, sir. Although I’m not sure I’m the most qualified—”

“No need for false humility, Kevin,” Franklin interrupted. “You and I both know the Western State mantle is shifting from
Nicole to you.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Kevin protested.

The senator stopped. “Yes, you are,” he said while looking into Kevin’s eyes. “And so is she. Let’s face it. Old is out of
style, and Nicole has definitely passed her sell-by date.”

Kevin paused. There was only one thing to say. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”

“Good,” Franklin said as he resumed walking while raising another finger. “Second, I need every member of my coalition to
support phase two of the Youth Initiative.”

Kevin froze in his tracks. Had Franklin surmised Kevin’s covert opposition to the program? He had very intentionally remained
under the radar to avoid being labeled disloyal—or worse, naïve.
The budget comes first
. He and Troy had agreed.

“Senator Franklin, sir,” Kevin responded. “I don’t think I can form an opinion on that one yet since we haven’t seen the specific—”

The senator cut him off. “Listen, Kevin, I know you’ll need to hold your nose on this one. Lots of us will. I’ll be the first
to admit it’s not a perfect solution.”

“I’m not sure it’s a solution at all,” Kevin heard himself say.

The senator forced a patient smile. “I understand your opposition, and I respect your religious convictions.” He seemed to
be reading a script. “But we can’t sacrifice the savings it generates. This fiscal hole is deep enough already. I’m not aware
of any other way to cut as much from entitlement spending. Are you?”

Kevin held his tongue. He knew he could not afford to blow this opportunity. Franklin could open doors he would never walk
through on his own. An appointment to Franklin’s coalition could provide the ideal platform to propose changes, give him leverage
no freshman representative from a midsize district could hope to attain in isolation.

“Listen to me, Kevin.” Franklin’s tone and demeanor softened, transforming him from power-wielding strategist to affectionate
uncle. “In a matter of weeks the entire nation will know that what we’ve done so far isn’t working. The markets will panic.
Voters will get angry. I need leaders ready to articulate workable solutions. You’re smart and you’re popular. I really want
you on the team.”

“Can you give me a few days to think it over?”

“Afraid not. We’ve already prepared two versions of the press release. One has your name and the other Congresswoman Florea’s.”

“Has she already agreed?” Kevin asked.

“I haven’t spoken to her yet. We’re having lunch today. She wants this pretty bad, and I’ll need at least one player from
the Western coalition. I had planned to tell her the role has been filled by a sharp young leader who will represent the Western
states with reasoned, fiscally viable recommendations.”

Kevin heard the approaching clack-clack of a woman’s heels running to catch the senator from behind. The young aid from Franklin’s
office positioned a signature screen before the advancing senator, offering a stylus pen and pointing him to the right location
on the screen. The interruption gave Kevin a welcome moment to gather his wits.

The deficit first. That’s how we gain credibility
, he reminded himself.

Franklin finished signing as they approached the car doors. “What do you say?”

“I’m in.”

“And the Youth Initiative?” Franklin pressed.

“I’m not sure I can support it, but I promise to withhold criticism until we find something better.”

“Not likely,” the senator scoffed while extending his hand to Kevin’s. “Deal. Welcome to the team, Congressman Tolbert.”

“Thank you, Senator Franklin.”

As Kevin watched the senator’s limo pull away from the curb he felt surges of elation and trepidation collide within.

Julia drove
through the neighborhood well below the posted fifteen miles per hour, giving herself ample time to envy each house more than
the last: three-car garages, perfectly manicured lawns, white stone facades, double oak doors situated behind enormous front
porches at the ends of rosebush-lined walkways. She wondered how much time and money each resident of the Mountain Springs
Resort Community spent trying to outdo the next.

“Arriving on right,” announced a friendly dashboard voice. Julia pulled into a long driveway that encircled an ensemble of
red boulders positioned in front of what she guessed to be a five-bedroom, four-thousand-square-foot residence. The only thing
missing from the picturesque scene was a tree swing blowing casually in the wind or a kid’s scooter leaning delinquently against
the side of the house. Like the eighteen other neighborhood homes she had passed since turning onto Summerhill Lane, this
address showed no signs of children.

Pressing the doorbell prompted an echo of orchestral chimes followed by the faint
yip-yip
of a tiny dog eager to defend its master against Julia’s invasion. Several minutes passed, the pooch growling threateningly
while Julia checked her schedule. She definitely had the right time.

Through the window Julia noticed a fortyish woman tying her waist sash while rushing toward the entryway. “Shush, Teddy!”
she ordered before opening the door. Hannah Walker retained a natural beauty, a hint of gray at her roots and a mature figure
in a lovely Asian silk robe.

“Ms. Walker? I’m Julia Davidson. We exchanged texts last evening.”

The dog retreated in deference to his queen.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.” Hannah appeared flushed, as if she had hurriedly splashed and toweled her face
to wash away tears.

A lovely interior reflected a woman who enjoyed spacious, ordered beauty. The contrast to the crowded, disheveled Santos apartment
could not have been more stark. It seemed lawsuits had the power to link disparate worlds. Julia thought of the awkward grieving
rituals that occur at funerals between distant cousins who no longer send Christmas cards. Something similar united Jeremy
Santos and Hannah Walker.

Julia and her hostess endured polite small talk as Hannah offered and poured fresh-brewed tea, delaying the conversation she
seemed reluctant to begin. It was one thing to anonymously feed information to Jeremy Santos’s lawyers; it was another thing
entirely to go on the record with a prominent journalist.

Hannah finally summoned the courage to ease into the topic Julia had come to discuss. “I’ve read your columns.”

Julia waited as Hannah bolstered apparently waning courage with a sip of tea. The scar across her jaw showed itself for the
first time.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she continued.

“Wrong? About what?”

“About the volunteers.” Hannah paused, pressing herself to finish what she had started. “They aren’t heroes.”

Julia took immediate offense. Not for herself. For millions of others. What could be more heroic than transitioning your resources
to loved ones rather than wasting them on costly end-of-life expenditures? “I’m sorry?” she heard herself say.

“They aren’t heroes. They’re sheep.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“Have you ever participated in a transition, Ms. Davidson?”

The question silenced Julia. Her column had repeatedly celebrated the transition industry. She had defended its virtue against
religious extremists. But she had never actually witnessed the procedure firsthand.
Who had
?

“Ever spoken to someone just before they enter a transition room?”

Silence again.

“I didn’t think so,” Hannah continued. “There was a time I read your column to convince myself that what I was doing was good,
something important for the economy and best for the volunteers.” She stopped, remembering her manners. “Forgive me. I hope
this doesn’t sound like I’m being critical of you.”

“Don’t worry.” Julia’s professionalism conquered her offense. “You need thick skin in my line of work.”

Hannah offered a polite laugh before continuing. “To be honest, what you wrote probably motivated me to continue the job longer
than I might have.”

“Are you thanking me or blaming me?” Julia asked.

“Neither. I just think you should know that what you write has an impact. That’s why I’m trusting you with my part of this
story. Only a tiny fraction of the population knows anything about the Youth Initiative beyond headlines touting budget savings
or mocking religious nuts.”

Julia felt her conscience prick her. Hannah seemed eager to expose a dark side to the industry that had left a scar on her
formerly perfect world. Like Jeremy, she saw Julia as a sympathetic ally in her pursuit of revenge. Julia had let them think
it.

She recalled Paul’s words. “
We need to get ahead of this story before some crusading reporter plays it wrong
.” Attacking NEXT or the Youth Initiative would definitely violate RAP Syndicate’s editorial agenda, not to mention undermine
her own journalistic credibility.

Julia began the formal interview. “I understand you quit your job after the Antonio Santos incident.”

“I was given an extended medical leave to recover from this.” Her hand gently caressed a faint line across her jaw. “At least
that was the official reason. I certainly didn’t need six months. My doctor removed the stitches after a few weeks.”

“Employer generosity?”

“More like employer anxiety,” Hannah mocked. “They didn’t want me at the clinic when the police began asking questions.”

“Police? What kind of questions?”

“I don’t know. I assume they didn’t want anyone around who might veer off the official script.”

“Would you have?” Julia asked.

“No. I’ve seen their report. Pretty accurate,” Hannah explained. “The irony is that giving me such a long leave ended up creating
more problems for them.”

“Because?”

“I’d been fighting feelings of depression for nearly a year. The time away from work gave me an opportunity to reflect.” Hannah
stared out the window for a moment, appearing to reach for distant memories of better days. “I had always been a fairly upbeat
person. My husband used to call me his little joy bubble.” She turned slightly red at the admission. “He hasn’t used that
nickname in a while.”

“We all have ups and downs.” Julia realized the comment sounded tactlessly glib. Hannah didn’t seem to notice.

“I found myself becoming short with Philip, more irritable, much more difficult to be around. At first I assumed normal hormonal
swings. But I never swung back. And then the dreams began.”

Julia’s eyes widened. “Dreams?”

“A sequence of faces.”

“A man?” Julia asked.

The question surprised Hannah. “Sometimes. There are lots of faces. They haunt me.”

“Who haunts you? The boy? Antonio?”

“No. I don’t remember his face. I had stopped looking them in the eyes long before his appointment.” Her voice broke. “I’m
sorry. This is hard to talk about.”

Julia sat in silence while Hannah reached for a tissue.

“They’re sheep to the slaughter,” she continued.

“But transitioning is a voluntary activity,” Julia defended. “Sheep don’t volunteer.”

“They don’t resist either.” Hannah paused for another sip of tea. “Before they realize what’s happening, a knife slits their
throat, turning them into a meal for the people they had trusted to protect them.”

Julia showed disapproval at the analogy.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” Hannah pressed. “I don’t like to think about it in such naked terms either. But it’s true.
Where do the assets go?”

“I suppose to loved ones or a charity of the volunteer’s choice,” Julia guessed.

“Seventy percent goes to family members who, in the past, would have been saddled with the cost of care.”

“Of course. Who wants to burden their kids with—”

“Any idea where the other thirty percent goes?” Hannah interrupted.

“I don’t know. The cost of the procedure?”

“A small portion. The rest funds Youth Initiative advocacy programs. Last year alone the transition tax contributed nearly
thirty billion in new revenue to the federal bottom line. But that pales when compared to reduced entitlement spending. Fewer
beneficiaries in 2041 translated into about two hundred billion in savings, an amount that will accumulate year over year.”

Julia’s eyebrows lifted at numbers more impressive than she had realized.

“I can’t tell you how often I repeated those statistics to myself, trying to connect what I was doing to some greater good.
Everyone wins, right?”

“Don’t they?”

“Maybe. But someone has to hold their shaking hands, wipe their dejected tears, calm their quiet panic.” Hannah looked Julia
in the eyes. “Slit their outstretched necks.”

Julia flinched at the analogy.

“It wears on you,” Hannah continued. “Pep talks work for a while. Affirming columns like yours and employer perks only carry
you so far. I convinced myself they were something less than fellow human beings.”

“Sheep offering themselves in sacrifice?” Julia filled in the blank.

Hannah nodded slowly. Shamefully.

Nervous about the direction of the conversation, Julia’s tone altered from that of confidential confessor to that of suspicious
reporter. “What’s your stake in the Santos lawsuit?”

“My stake?” Hannah seemed to notice the change in her guest’s tone.

“Are you a co-litigant? Do you stand to receive any payment if Jeremy wins?”

“He has won.”

“I mean if he wins the appeal process.”

“No. I have no financial stake in the case whatsoever,” Hannah defended herself. “In fact, my husband could lose his biggest
client when this story breaks. That’s why I’ve tried to remain anonymous.”

“What does Philip do?”

“He’s a process efficiency consultant for NEXT clinics.”

Julia sat in silence, absorbing the revelation.

“He knows what you’ve done? Knows you’ve been helping Jeremy?”

“Of course,” Hannah replied. “He agrees with what the suit demands.”

“Demands?”

“Have you read the details of the case, Ms. Davidson?”

“Most,” Julia bluffed.

“Then you know about the gaping hole in the permissions process. It’s easier to schedule someone for a transition than it
is to book an airline ticket.”

“And?”

“The current procedures don’t protect volunteers from coercion,” Hannah explained. “I estimate two-thirds of my clients participated
against their will.”

“They sign an approval form, usually in the presence of a spouse, child, or parent. That seems like adequate protection to
me.”

“You mean the person exhausted from managing their care? The person likely to inherit their assets? The one who has put his
or her life on hold to help a parent delay the inevitable?” Hannah looked like a teacher scolding a lazy student. “Do you
honestly expect that person to discourage a parent’s transition?”

The possibility of such subtle coercion had never occurred to Julia.

“Would you put your career on hold if your parents needed your full attention for who knows how long?” Hannah continued. “What
would you do if given the option of keeping yourself alive for another five years or freeing the money to fund a grandchild’s
college education? How would you feel being called a debit, knowing others consider you a liability rather than an asset?
Yes, they grant permission. What else can they do?”

Sheep to the slaughter
, Julia remembered.

The Antonio Santos case involved much more than a distraught mother’s accidental death or a clerical slipup in the massive transition machine. This story was not about a minor casualty, but the fate of a program contributing hundreds of billions
of dollars in revenue to the federal bottom line.

It was more than Julia wanted to know.