Sweet Poison (8 page)

“What news?” asked Jane, slipping out of her jeans jacket and draping it over her shoulder.

Luke kept his voice low. “One of Pettyjohn’s blogger surrogates finally found a hand grenade. We’ve seen trolls out there in the blogosphere for months trying to find a supernegative with real gut-level traction. They finally did.”

“Speak English.”

“Sorry. I’ve gotten so used to the jargon, I figure everybody understands. Let me regroup. What happened today is a lesson in how effective bloggers can be when they’re outside the campaign. Candidates benefit most from the netroots when they inspire bloggers to do their work for free. If this information had shown up on the Pettyjohn blog site—or one of his paid operatives’—their campaign would have been criticized for going negative. I mean, you’re dad’s got a certain infatuation level in the local blogosphere, but I don’t know. This will be a hard one to negotiate. With the posting on YouTube, it won’t be long before the papers pick it up. The clip’s already had over seventy-five thousand hits.”

“Pick
what
up? What clip?” There was a reason why Jane didn’t like most computer geeks. Luke was exhibit A.

“From the first day of the campaign, your father began taking hits about the fact that he’d spent his life as a defense attorney. But the more the Pettyjohn campaign talked about that, the more your dad talked about making business, government, and our various communities partners in solving our environmental problems, about the need to modernize our infrastructure, about a major new school-funding initiative. In a sense, the Pettyjohn partisans have waged a one-issue campaign—your father’s moral corruption—while your dad’s been talking about the issues. It’s a clever strategy. He counters their claims by ignoring them.”

“I know all that. What’s the
news?”

“Well, it looks like someone’s done some serious research and come up with the names of all the people your father has defended during his career. They stripped it to include only the worst of the worst, then made a list, adding the type of crime and the release date for those who were sent to prison. Turns out, two murderers, one attempted murderer, two rapists, one child molester, and four gang-related drug dealers are back out on the streets this year, thanks to the work your father did for them.”

“Oh,” said Jane. She finally got it.

“And this morning, there was a long op-ed in the
Star Tribune
condemning his values, saying sure, maybe his job is necessary for the system to work, but it’s also dirty. And because of that, he shouldn’t be a candidate for the highest, most honorable office in the state. It’s been said before, but it’s starting to stick. Speaking of that, one of the rapists who recently got out of prison—one of the felons your father represented—came by the campaign office yesterday to volunteer some of his time. His name was Hodge. Corey—”

“I know him,” said Jane. “His aunt has a cleaning business. She’s worked for both my father and me for years. My father took the case as a favor to her, so maybe he came by as a way to say thank you.”

“Didn’t seem all that grateful to me. What he seemed like was a guy with a short fuse. If we get lucky, he won’t come back. Anyway,
it’s all there in today’s
Strib
for everyone to see. Couldn’t be worse timing, with the election so close.”

“I’m sure Pettyjohn planned the attack all along.”

“Probably. But if it came from them, they hid their tracks well.”

“You think it could have come from someone else?”

“Whatever the case, connecting your father with these specific felons—showing names and faces and the mayhem they caused—is creating a supernegative in people’s minds. And yesterday, somebody sent YouTube a video clip of your dad talking to one of the local TV stations about a man, I think his name was Gibbons, who was sentenced to eight years for a violent assault charge back in 1994. Your dad said the case against him was weak, that he never should have been convicted. As soon as the guy got to prison, he tried to kill a prison guard, then he went to work on his cell mate. He’s still inside, serving a life sentence now, so he’s no threat to the community, but still. Those clips about the attempted murder of the guard are all on the YouTube piece right after your father basically says the guy was wrongly accused. If nothing else, it shows terrible judgment on his part. The blogosphere is buzzing with it.”

“Maybe it will blow over,” said Jane, knowing her tone sounded less than confident. “You know what they say about the public having a short attention span.”

“Not that short. If we can’t figure out a way to bury this before the next news cycle, it’s not going to be pretty.”

Ever since her dad had tossed his hat into the ring, Jane had been afraid something like this would happen.

“The one thing we’ve got going for us is that none of the people who were released this year have reoffended. That’s huge. We put out a press release this morning to that effect. It’s up on the bulletin board near the phone banks, if you want to read it. I don’t think it’s anywhere near strong enough. If we’re forced to put out another one, and then another, trying to answer new charges, we end up playing defense instead of making Pettyjohn fight on our terms, the way we’ve done up until now.”

He made it sound like a war. But then, that’s exactly what it was.

“You working the phones today?” he asked.

“Maybe later this evening.”

“Just remember, when you call people, some of them are going to want to discuss this.” He pointed to a stack of papers next to the coffeepot. “Those are the latest talking points.”

“Thanks,” said Jane.

One of the computer volunteers stuck her head in the doorway. “Hey, Luke, we got another problem on the Web site. It’s just one thing after another. The link that takes people to the pledge page is broken.”

“Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Talk to you later,” he said, nodding to Jane as he stomped off.

Jane spent the next few minutes reading through the talking points. She was almost done when Steve Worlander walked in.

“Jane, hi. Tanya said you wanted to see me.”

A couple other staffers had wandered into the break room, so she motioned for him to follow her back to the small cubby where the microwave and refrigerator were kept.

Steve was in his late twenties. When she first started working on her dad’s campaign, she was struck by how young the staffers were. Most were in college, or were recent graduates looking to gain both experience and credentials for their own political careers. Steve had surfer boy good looks and might one day be a mover and shaker within the state Democratic Party himself.

“I understand you were with my father on Saturday when the plane went down,” said Jane, lowering her voice.

He nodded, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks.

“I’d like to know the details.”

“Hasn’t your father talked to you?”

“Briefly, but he didn’t give me any specifics. I fly that plane myself. I need to know what went wrong.”

“I might not be the right person to ask. I don’t know anything about planes or how they work.”

“I’m sure you issued a press release. What did it say?”

“That the plane had mechanical problems.”

“Okay. Tell me what they were.”

He leaned back against the counter, folded his arms across his chest. “Like I said, I don’t know.”

“Then describe what happened.”

“Well, it seemed like some of the controls wouldn’t work.”

“What controls?”

“The steering, I think.”

“Then how did my dad get the plane down safely?”

“The engine cut out and then—”

“In flight?”

“Yeah. But then it kicked in again. It was working when we landed.”

That’s not what her dad had said. “Did my father send a distress call?”

“You know, Jane, it all happened so fast, I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember.”

“Sorry.” He gave a weak smile. “Like I said, it all happened so fast. I was in one of the backseats. And I was pretty scared. Don’t tell anyone, but I had my eyes closed.”

“Were you low on fuel?”

“No, I saw them gassing up the plane before we left Bemidji.”

“Were you carrying anything extra heavy?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You know, a Cessna is a pretty safe aircraft.”

“That’s exactly what your father always says.”

She was being stonewalled. This guy was going to make a great politician one day. He’d given her exactly nothing. “It seemed like you were on the ground for a long time—over half an hour—before John Thompson radioed the tower in St. Cloud that you were okay.”

“Was it that long? I don’t think so. Although I never looked at my watch.”

“Did my dad try to restart the engine after you landed?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t work.”

“Wouldn’t work.”

“No.”

“Look, Steve, what
aren’t
you telling me?”

He suddenly became innocence incarnate. “Nothing. Honestly. You should talk to your father if you want more specific answers.”

“If the plane wouldn’t start, if it had serious mechanical problems, how did it get back the same afternoon?”

His eyes shifted sideways. “Did it?”

“Yes, Steve, it did.”

“I wish I could help, but honestly, I don’t know anything more about it. We were picked up by a van on Saturday afternoon and taken to St. Cloud. That was the last time I saw the plane.”

She searched his face.

“You’re clear now? We’re okay?”

“Is my father expected here anytime today?”

“He’s doing a brunch with journalists at ten, a house party at noon, another one at three, dinner with representatives of the St. Paul fire department at six, and then a speech to the American Association of University Women tonight at eight.”

“Just another day in politics.”

“That about covers it.”

For the moment, there wasn’t much she could do. “Thanks, Steve.”

“No problem. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Like hell you are, she thought, watching him walk away.

Luke was still working on the problem with the Web site link when Charity sailed through the open door of his office looking flushed and upset.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, typing in a couple more keystrokes and then glancing up at the wall clock. It was ten after two. He knew he’d never make it until five. He wouldn’t have come to work at all today if he could have convinced Christopher to spend the day having some fun.

“It’s Gabriel.” She took a quick look over her shoulder. “I was just about to leave when I saw his car. It’s parked across the street.”

“Is he in it?”

She nodded. “I’ve got pepper spray and believe me, I’m not afraid to use it, but I thought maybe you’d walk me out to my car.”

“You need to get yourself a restraining order,” said Luke. How many times did he and Christopher have to tell her that?

“I talked to my parents’ lawyer. I’ll have one by the end of the day tomorrow.”

He picked up a pencil, began working it through his fingers. Charity wasn’t in her usual jeans and T-shirt. Monday was her day off, but she was wearing a tailored gray suit, stockings, and heels.

“Why are you so dressed up?”

“It’s my grandmother’s birthday. Look,” she said hesitating, then easing down on a chair, “I wasn’t going to mention anything. You’ll hear soon enough.” She brushed at her bangs. “I found out at church yesterday … There’s going to be a trial. The church council has prepared a judicial complaint.”

Luke wasn’t surprised. And yet he hadn’t been prepared for how disappointed—no, incensed—he felt.

“You know how sorry I am.”

That you opened your big fat mouth, thought Luke. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I love you guys. You both mean the world to me.”

He thought she used the word
love
way too freely. Lots of people did. Like saying it was supposed to cover a multitude of sins. He put his hands on the desk and stood. “Let’s get you out to your car safely.”

On the way to the front door, they talked about her grandmother. “You met her once, remember? We all had lunch together at Muffuletta in Milton Square? Must have been a couple years ago.”

“Yeah, I remember. She was a hoot.”

“I always fix a big meal at her house on her birthday, invite the entire family. It’s kind of a tradition.”

“You’re a dutiful granddaughter.”

“She’s turning eighty and still going strong. She drinks. Smokes. And swears like a sailor. She’s taught me a lot.”

“About drinking, smoking, and swearing?”

“No, birdbrain. Stuff like how not to be afraid to fight back. And she’s got this great bullshit detector. I wish I had one like it. It would have saved me a lot of grief.”

“What did she think of Christopher and me?”

“You she liked. Christopher she loved.”

“I can live with that. Did she ever meet Gabriel Keen?”

“Oh, yeah. She said he gave her the willies. I should have listened.”

Luke placed a hand against her back and maneuvered her out onto the sidewalk. Keen’s Saab was parked behind a white van, the window down, his arm propped on the door. “Somebody should put that guy out of his misery.”

“A year ago,” said Charity, walking quickly to keep up with him, “I would have told you it was wrong to even think that way. Now—”

“Now you’d like to see him facedown in a swimming pool.”

“God forgive me. I would.”

Luke looked both ways, then trotted across the street. “Get lost,” he shouted, balling his hands into fists. As he reached the front of the car, he banged on the hood.

“Kiss my ass, you freakin’ faggot,” called Keen, laughing.

Luke grabbed Keen’s arm, tried to open the door and pull him out onto the pavement, but the door was locked.

Keen started the motor, turned the wheel, and gave the gas pedal a hit.

Luke had to step away or he would have been knocked down. “You better watch your back, Keen. You’re not the only one with a hard-on for some outlaw justice.”

“You’re a joke,” shouted Gabriel. As he drove away, he called, “Tell Charity I’ll be in touch.”