The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (17 page)

"Did you just quote the Smashing Pumpkins?" asked Jennifer with a smile.

"Very good," laughed Porter.  "I may be the rat that never gets out of his hellish cage, but I'll do my best to help the other rats escape theirs.  Then God can judge me and that will be that.” 

Jennifer sat in stunned silence once again. 

“Tough to hear, I know,” said Porter, “but that’s where I'm at.  So how about enough of Theology According to Porter?  For now, just do what I told you.  When you are with Luis, you have to follow what he says because I will only be communicating with him.  I won’t call you anymore in case they are bugging your phone.  And you won't be calling me because I'll be destroying this phone as soon as I hang up.” 

"Jen," h
e began, pausing to choose his final words to the sister he once lost, “if this is the last we speak, please know that I love you…and my grief over failing you will follow me even after death.”

Softly, Jennifer responded, “I love you, Mr. Porter Brown.  Now, go get that son of a bitch.”

Chapter 18

Political Edg
e

April 2012

Noon on
April 5
th
was cold and wet in Charleston.  James Holland had meticulously planned every detail of tonight’s event, from the guest list to the thread count of the cloth napkins.  Most of the well-connected citizens, unions, and business leaders already knew Holland was the one who ran the state, but securing an invitation to his gubernatorial announcement had them more frantic than the unwashed masses desperate for a lottery win.  The political and social climbers understood access to the formal evening, and quasi coronation, would offer them the opportunity to heap praise on their present and future leader, as well as to grease the palms of those with whom they would cut deals and influence the legislative agenda for the next eight years.  Holland knew this and was very strategic to whom he granted an invitation.  Porter Brown was not on his list.

At the service entrance to the Marriott Town Center, the crew from Angelo’
s Catering hurriedly unloaded the last of their equipment.  Each hotel entry had one video surveillance camera, except the service door which had three.  Porter, his face shielded by five days of growth, picked up a small flat of drinking glasses, hoisted it on his left shoulder, and followed the rest of the wait staff through the back door. He wore the white button down shirt and non-pleated black slacks of the catering staff and attached a black ponytail extension tucked under a black ball cap with ‘Memini Quis Es’ embroidered on its front.  Porter’s trigger phrase in Latin for all to see was an added touch of which he was especially proud.  His hope was that after tonight he would still be able to remember who he is rather than was.

Inside the cavernous staging area
, Porter found his way to the control room.  “Oh, sorry,” he said to the portly audio/video director whose affinity for Motley Crue was evident from his t-shirt and cap.  “I thought I could cut through here to get back outside.” 

“No
problem, dude,” said the heavy metal fan. 

“
Wow, so this is where all the magic happens, huh?” asked Porter, feigning interest. 

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain
,” joked the technician. 

Porter laughed along and asked
, “So you’re going to make whoever’s here tonight sound great?” 

“Oh, he won’
t need any help,” said the man whose brown, shoulder length hair hardly moved as he shook his head from side to side.  “Jack,” he said as he offered his hand to Porter. 

“Phil
,” said Porter. 

“So, you don’t know who'
s here tonight?” asked Jack. 

“No idea
.  I’m just here to serve drinks for the next six hours, get my 60 bucks, and go drink it away before the pub closes.” 

“Right on
,” answered Jack.  “But tonight is not just any old banquet.  The guests you'll be serving are the power brokers of West Virginia.  If you get a chance to rub some shoulders it will probably serve you well.” 

“Is that right
?” asked Porter.  “Why, is this for the coal or medical industries?” 

“
Neither," answered Jack, "But I'm sure each of those will be well represented.  Tonight's deal is for James Holland, the Attorney General.  He's announcing his candidacy for Governor.”

“Wow.  That is a big deal
,” said Porter.  “Are you handling the lighting from in here, or just the music?” 

“Come on
, Phil.  I’m not just a music monkey.  I'll handle every aspect of the night.  The lighting, the music, the video screens, and the teleprompter.” 

“
No kidding," said Porter already knowing this answer.  "Man, I would love to learn how to do what you do.  Any chance you would let a guy you just met be your intern for the night?  They're not going to miss me out on the floor."

"You sure?" asked Jack.

"Yeah, I’m sure. We've got enough servers.” 

Jack thought for a moment and said
, “Why the hell not.  It’s just me in here.  If you’re willing to lose your gig to learn how to run the back stage, then I’m happy to help.  Plus, if I need to take a piss, I’ll have somebody to cover me.” 

“
Thanks, Jack.  Glad to help out your kidneys,” Porter said with a laugh.

*****

As Jack concluded two hours of audio/video basics, Porter added, “Seems fairly simple.” 

“It is
,” answered Jack, “but remember ‘no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy’.” 

“Moltke the Elder
,” said an impressed Porter, referencing the architect of Germany’s Wars of Unification. 

“Exactly
,” said Jack.  “And I’ll bet none of the elite who come here tonight could identify who that is, much less his tactics or leadership style.” 

“Isn’t that how it always is
,” said Porter, playing into Jack’s contempt for the uneducated successful class.  “We’re just two grunts in the background doing all the work to make these people even more successful and I’m sure we, well you for sure, know more than probably all of them combined.” 

“Damn straight
,” answered Jack.  “And I know I could run this state a whole hell of a lot better than they do.” 

“Absolutely
,” answered Porter, certain he now understood Jack's motivation.

Thirty minutes of political philosophy later, Jack asked Porter to stay in the room
so he could grab a quick bite at the mall on the next block.  “I shouldn’t be gone more than a half hour.  You sure you’re cool with staying here?” 

“No problem at all
,” answered Porter.  “In fact, let me cover your lunch as a thank you for being my instructor.” 

“Forget it
, Phil,” responded Jack.  “It’s been great just having someone back here, let alone someone who knows his political and historical shit.” 

“No, I insist
,” said Porter as he handed him a $100 bill.  “Call it lunch, tuition, or beer money between friends.”  The crisp, new Ben Franklin quickly persuaded Jack to overcome his protest. 

“You’re the real deal
, Phil.  I’ll be back as quick as I can.” 

“Take your time
,” said Porter.  We have three hours until this goes live and you have it all ready to go.  So enjoy lunch.  It’s going to be a long night.  Just bring me back a cheeseburger.”

“
You got it,” answered Jack, already halfway out the door.

Assured that Jack was not going to interrupt him, Porter opened up the program which
held the teleprompter speeches and made some adjustments.  To insure the night went as he had planned, Porter added a disruptor which kept the prompter from being turned off once it had reached Holland's announcement text.  All Jack would have to do, is exactly what he normally does…turn it on and let it run.

When
Jack returned, he and Porter continued their political discussion until 30 minutes prior to the start of the activities.  The control room offered Porter a superbly cloaked vantage point.  Located directly behind the stage, Porter could see the entire ballroom through the darkened, one way glass.  Multiple monitors showed him the images from the three cameras trained on the speaker’s podium.  As the guests began entering the room, Jack said, “T-minus twenty five minutes.  That’s our cue.”  And he pushed the start icon on the presentation software.

“I hate this background music
,” Jack said. 

“What is it
?” asked Porter. 

“Some new age, jazz-
infused, baroque-impressed, avante garde, and whatever other pretentious bullshit term Mr. Holland could come up with.” 

“Oh, so you met with him
?” asked Porter. 

“Biggest pain in my ass, and I don’t mean that because he’s gay
,” said Jack, displaying a wide smile.  “That dude had me go through every last detail of the night.  He chose the music, wrote the copy for both his speech and the guy who will introduce him, decided on the background to display between each event, and told me the exact moment when the lights are to be dimmed.  I know I’ve never met a control freak like him before. Plus, he wouldn't let me hear any of it.  That prick made me wait outside as he rehearsed for over two hours.  He knows the media will carry this as the lead story on their 11 o’clock news and he wants to bask in his own glory.” 

“No kidding
,” said a smiling Porter, anxious for the night to unfold.

*****

"T-minus one minute," said Jack as he watched Holland and a few others assemble on the stage.  "Let's light the candle."

“Ladies and gentlemen
,” began Darin Haddad, Holland’s campaign chairman, “I want to formally welcome you as we celebrate what I think most of you already know.  And what is it that you already know?” Haddad waited for someone in the audience to say, “Holland for Governor,” because the teleprompter instructed him to do so. “That’s partially it,” Haddad continued.  “No, the reason we are here tonight is because Attorney General James Holland is a power-hungry narcissist who sees his coronation to the Governor’s mansion as his birth right.”  This time, Haddad paused on his own.  He gave a quick glance behind him where Holland was seated, unsure why Holland had chosen those words as a way to lighten the mood.  Holland returned his gaze with a quizzical expression; not wanting to alarm the crowd that anything was unplanned, but wholly befuddled as to why his campaign chief would disparage his character, especially in the introduction. 

Haddad turned back to the audience and continued
, “No, seriously, folks.  We’re here to celebrate Attorney General Holland’s desire to advance our state to its true potential.  And the most effective way for him to achieve that is to be our chief executive officer.”  The crowd needed no prompting for applause.  As it dinned, Haddad said, “So please, put your hands together for the first openly gay candidate seeking the highest office in the state; our future Governor of the great state of West Virginia, James Holland.”  The background music playing a selection from the big band era screeched to a halt and Queen’s “Killer Queen” blared as Holland made his way to the podium.  Porter and Jack howled with laughter in the control room.

Seething on the inside
from the introduction, Holland did not register the irony of the song welcoming him to the podium as he greeted Haddad in the standard political embrace.  To the audience, the two were all hugs and smiles as the they faced the crowd.  Away from the pick-up of the microphone, Holland breathed fire through his smile.  “What the hell were you doing?” 

“Just reading
the prompter,” said Haddad defensively. 

“The hell you were
,” barked Holland quietly.  “That ad-lib shit just cost you your chairmanship.  And gay?  That’s just a rumor.” 

As the crowd continued their a
pplause while Freddie Mercury serenaded the would-be governor, Haddad ended his discussion with Holland in protest, “I didn’t ad-lib one word.  I read it just as you wrote it.”

Holland stood at the podium waiting for the
applause to fade.  “Thank you, Darin.  Everyone, let’s give a big round of applause for the state’s best campaign manager, Darin Haddad.”  On cue, the crowd responded.  Porter sat in his cocoon waiting for the next line.  “And thank you for the wonderful welcome you showed me; and I don’t mean just tonight.  For the past 18 years you have welcomed me as one of your trusted leaders, and for that I will never be able to fully express my gratitude.  Who would have believed that an assistant pastor from a small church, with no money and no connections could ever get elected as a state representative?  And then as a state senator, and then as attorney general for these last eight years.  How is that possible?  Well, all of you know.  Don’t you?”  His supporters offered scattered yes’s, uh-huh’s, and yeah’s.  “Of course you do.  It’s because I took bribes and extorted many of you.”  Holland stared at the teleprompter in disbelief.  He had read the words like a newscaster reads the copy; without regard for the meaning.  The crowd offered some nervous laughter thinking this was a continuation of Haddad’s unconventional introduction.  Holland’s brow moistened as he decided how to proceed.  If he waited too long to continue, the crowd would sense something amiss.  But to speak off the cuff would risk an inconsistent delivery of the most important political speech of his career and worse…terrible media coverage.  He chose to forge ahead and catch the words inserted by the only other person who had access to the speech. Holland smirked a bit as he thought of the pain he would inflict on Jack.

“I’m only kidding, folks
,” Holland said, thankful the text offered him a recovery line.  “My success is the result of your unwavering trust in me and my judgment to do that which is in the best interest of the greatest state in the Union.”  Holland relaxed a bit as he recognized the text as his own.  “Tonight, I ask you to trust my judgment once more.  It is my firm belief that West Virginia is on the precipice of greatness.  For far too long we have been the butt of the nation’s joke.”  The crowd roared in spontaneous agreement.  “Are your parents siblings?”  “No!” the crowd shouted.  “Did we invent the tooth brush because we only had one tooth to clean?”  “No!” they responded even louder.  “Do we speak unintelligibly, live in trailer parks, and smoke meth?”  “No!” answered most.   “Of course we do,” said Holland, forcing a smile in the hopes the crowd would see this last comment as a joke. 
Damn you Jack
, he thought.