Fatherless: A Novel (21 page)

Matthew resumed cleaning tables. Dr. Vincent’s advice was just what he’d needed to hear. So why, he wondered, did he feel
worse instead of better?

A chilly
breeze blew off the Potomac, quickening Julia’s pace and making what she had intended to be a thirty-minute power walk into
a vigorous sprint between wind-shielding monuments. She had planned to wake early and begin shaping notes and interview recordings
into the beginnings of a feature story. But another exhausting dream and a two-hour time zone difference had conspired against
her best intentions. Several fruitless attempts to compose an opening paragraph had digressed into a halfhearted effort to
craft an outline. After nearly an hour, Julia threw in the towel. She decided to catch a transport from her hotel to the National
Mall, where she hoped to sort through the clutter in her mind.

She began her walk at the Jefferson Memorial with an eye toward the massive granite bust of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The
fifteen-minute route fell to six as Julia rushed for protection from the cold offered by the form of the slain civil rights
leader. His eyes seemed to look across the Tidal Basin toward founding father Thomas Jefferson. She considered the irony of
slaves working Jefferson’s plantation while he penned the famous words of the Declaration of Independence that later seeded
Dr. King’s dream.

As she blew warming breath into her cupped hands Julia admired how far her nation had come in the nearly thirty years since
the King memorial had been built and dedicated to the memory of a man who embodied consummation of the founder’s vision.

All men are created equal
. Despite the annoyance of a masculine pronoun she admired the progress the idea empowered.

And they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights
. She wondered why Jefferson had rooted his big idea in a creator’s intent. Wouldn’t personal autonomy have been equally self-evident? Didn’t one’s unalienable rights include controlling one’s own body, choosing one’s own offspring, and ending one’s own existence?

Julia found it odd that the man credited with separating church and state had included a religious argument in his most important
founding document and that the memorial celebrating civil rights used the form of a former pastor. Everyone knew that innovative
solutions such as the Youth Initiative would have been impossible in either Jefferson’s or Dr. King’s generation. Hers, by
contrast, enjoyed the benefits of activist courts and pragmatic politicians who had managed to untether national policy from religious
ideals.

The wind died down a bit, offering Julia motivation to continue her run. Assuming she could make the Lincoln Memorial in about
seven minutes, she slid her numbing hands inside the thin protection of her jogging suit pockets. She began running at a slow
pace to give her mind room to think through the conversations of the previous day.

Nicole Florea had characterized Kevin Tolbert as a radical who wanted to undermine the Youth Initiative by proposing crazy,
unworkable ideas.

Despite sounding reasonable and articulate, Kevin had indeed appeared eager to advance ideas that Julia considered naïve.
Even if it was true that the primary resource shortage was young people and even if one could entice women to have more kids,
it would be decades before those children would make any serious contribution to the economy. The Youth Initiative had generated
immediate fiscal savings by going with the grain of public sentiment. Breeder values, by contrast, ran opposite to common
assumptions and against the new American dream.

And then there was Trisha Sayers. Julia had enjoyed the tour of the Her Look Inc. corporate office complex. The entry and
every hallway displayed life-size photographs of glamorous models strutting the world’s most trendy runways, a stroll down
memory lane of the gradual shift in women’s power fashions over the prior decade. After giving Julia the grand tour the superstar-turned-fashion-mogul
invited her to dinner at one of the finest restaurants overlooking the Potomac. It was there that Julia recorded Trisha’s
criticism of the bright spots perspective.

“I couldn’t believe when Anderson approved further exploration after Tolbert’s pitch,” she explained while sipping wine with
an elegant grace Julia found striking. “I mean, does he really think we can sell such an outrageous idea?”

“How outrageous?” Julia had asked.

“He wants to bring women like us back to the Middle Ages. He didn’t even seem embarrassed when he said we should penalize
those who choose childlessness. As if the government has any business forcing us to lose our figures to wipe snotty noses!”

Julia remembered the nonstop action of her evening with Tommy, Joy, and Leah and the relief she had felt driving away from
the Tolbert home Sunday afternoon knowing she would spend that night in a quiet hotel room. She also remembered the look on
Angie’s face when Joy leaped into her mommy’s arms during their Sunday-morning reunion. Angie had clearly enjoyed the break,
but also missed the source of her exhaustion.

“By the way, your figure’s adorable! Ever model?”

“Thank you. No, I never modeled.” Julia blushed slightly before pressing on. “Did Kevin Tolbert actually say we should penalize
childless individuals?”

“Almost. He said we should make it easier for those who choose parenthood.”

“Because?”

“He claims we should consider the time and money they put into raising kids an investment in our long-term economic stability.
He actually wants us to subsidize parenthood!”

Julia remembered thinking Trisha’s derisive laugh tarnished her lovely face.

“That’s why I called Paul.”

Trisha called Paul?
I thought it was the other way around.

“I knew RAP would spin the story well. But I never imagined he would assign a powerhouse like the famous Julia Davidson! I’m
a big fan of your column.”

Julia savored the memory of the compliment while ascending the steps toward a massive Abraham Lincoln sitting in stoic contemplation.
She was not breathing as heavily as she’d expected, which reminded her of the one-mile altitude drop from Denver to DC. She
approached the sixteenth president’s feet, jogging in place to keep her heartbeat steady. Turning to the left she noticed
the text of his most famous speech inscribed on the south wall. She moved closer to read the familiar 271 words.

Before she reached Lincoln’s references to the bloody Gettysburg battleground a familiar ping interrupted Julia’s reading.
She tapped the headset in her ear. A voice message from Paul Daugherty.

“Hi, Jewel. We’ve got trouble. But don’t worry. I have an idea. Listen to the attached, then call me right away.”

Julia opened the pocket zipper to remove a tiny control center device and tapped the
PLAY ATTACHEMENT
option. She didn’t recognize the voice, probably that of a no-name research assistant or one of countless freelance academics
paid on retainer by the RAP Syndicate.

“Hi, Paul. I looked into the breeder question you floated and found something you might find useful. It appears that somebody
on the Hill named Simmons requested numbers in anticipation of an upcoming task force presentation.”

Troy Simmons
? Julia wondered.

“This Simmons guy asked the research team to either substantiate or repudiate something labeled…let me see…here it is…something
he called ‘bright spots trend lines.’ Unfortunately, I only managed to access one side of the conversation. I don’t have the
questions, just the answers. Get this. The summary shows economic growth pockets that run polar opposite to general trends.
From what I can piece together the data seem to correlate high fertility and low transitions with economic strength. It looks
solid at first glance, but I can’t imagine. There must be a flaw in the analysis somewhere. I’ll keep you posted as we dive
deeper but I wanted to get you what I had. You know where to send questions.”

The message ended, prompting Julia to tap Paul’s image to return his call.

“Hi, Jewel. You got my message?”

“I did. Did I hear correctly? The Bright Spots proposal has merit?”

“Whoa…slow down, Nelly!” Paul said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. All we know at the moment is that some analyst somewhere
gave data to an anonymous congressional aide that supports a proposal we haven’t seen.”

“Troy Simmons.”

“Who?”

“It’s not an anonymous congressional aide. I’ve met him. His name is Troy Simmons, Kevin Tolbert’s chief of staff. He and
I spent an hour together yesterday afternoon.”

“Wow. You really did get inside!” Paul sounded genuinely impressed. “What did you learn?”

“Not much. Sharp guy. Seems genuine.”

“A breeder?” Paul asked.

“No. Well, not the way you mean it, anyway. But I think it’s safe to assume he falls in the anti–Youth Initiative camp.”

“What about Tolbert?”

Julia hesitated. Could she trust Paul with details of an off-the-record conversation?

“Nothing official yet.”

“Anything unofficial?”

“Not really. Like I said in my text, he invited me to attend the austerity coalition meeting this afternoon. I hope to learn
something useful then.”

“Look, Jewel. The editorial board is breathing down my neck here. They expect a proactive piece ready for review soon. I’ve
told them I’ve got my best people on the story and that we’ll deliver with our usual excellence.”

“Best people? Who else?” Julia heard herself ask.

“Best person, then. But I have to tell you I’m getting sweaty palms here. I stuck my neck out to get you this gig, Julia.
Please tell me you’ll deliver.”

Julia could not recall a time when Paul had seemed so anxious for a story. “Of course I’ll deliver, Paul! But why the panic?
Is there something I need to know?”

“No!” he snapped. “There’s something I need to know. Can you deliver a feature story that links this Bright Spots proposal
to the source?”

“Source?”

“You know, guilt by association.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” she confessed.

Paul assumed the vocal posture of a mentor tutoring his young apprentice, causing Julia to chafe while listening. “People
care a whole lot more about being with it than they do about being right. All you need to do, Jewel darling, is craft a story
that will make it easy to frame details about economic growth pockets and demographic trends with the more important reality
of the situation.”

“Which is?”

“Which is that the people proposing these changes are hopelessly behind the times. Come on! Increased fertility? Reduced transitions?
What kind of nonsense is that in this day and age?”

The idea had merit. It would be easy to associate the Bright Spots proposal with her assigned title,
Breeders
. She would fulfill her promise to let Kevin make his case in his own words, and she was confident she could also link the
ideas to a religiously extreme mind-set.

“Don’t worry, Paul,” she said. “I promise you the editorial board will be pleased.”

“That’s good,” he replied. “Because all eyes are on this one, love.”

The call ended.

Julia thought of four million transition volunteers as her eyes fell on the words President Lincoln once spoke about previous
national heroes.

Julia entered
Kevin’s office ten minutes before the two o’clock start of the austerity committee session. A small team of interns rushed
about handling Troy’s final-detail commands.

“You replaced yesterday’s trend graph with the one I sent this morning?” he asked the back of a head that was facing a computer
screen.

“Yes, sir.” The young man swiped his display. “Here it is.”

Troy moved closer, confirmed the change, and gave an affirming nod. “Thank you, Shaun.” He placed his hand on the intern’s
shoulder. “I guess we’re ready to send it.”

“Good thing, seeing as how the meeting starts in eight minutes!” Shaun said as he moved his finger toward a
SEND
icon at the top right corner of the screen. He froze his extended hand. “Speak now or forever…”

“We’re out of time,” Troy said. “Do it.” A field commander reluctantly advancing his outnumbered troops.

The intern tapped the screen, placing the confidential document onto thirteen digital tablets soon to assemble in a nearby
conference room.

Julia watched Troy for a moment, a man standing at the intersection of elation and unease. “Hello, Troy.”

He turned toward her voice and offered a welcoming grin. “Hello, Ms. Davidson.” He sounded like a man eager to escort a lovely
debutante to the ball.

“Nerve-racking, isn’t it?” she asked.

“You could say that.”

“I get the same feeling every time I send a column. I just know it could be a little better if only I had a few more minutes
to change a word here and there.”

He smiled. “It’s only the most important presentation Kevin may ever give. I should have an endless window for tweaks, don’t
you think?”

“I’m sure it’s great.”

He took one last look around the room, apparently running through a mental checklist. The final item confirmed, Troy darted
into his office to retrieve a suit jacket hanging over his chair. “Shall we go?” he asked while reaching back awkwardly for
the second armhole.

“Aren’t we forgetting your boss?”

“He went over fifteen minutes ago. Wanted to confirm your attendance with Anderson.”

“Anderson?”

“Brent Anderson. He runs the austerity coalition for Franklin.”

“Is he the one they call Franklin’s Scalpel?”

“One and the same. But I like him. He’s managed to keep soapboxing and grandstanding to a minimum so the committee could move
quickly.”

“He approved my attendance?” Julia asked.

“His office sent the OK last night in reply to Kevin’s message explaining your deal. You attend as our guest with the assurance
everything you hear in the meeting will remain off the record until Congressman Tolbert approves going public.”

The description made Julia claustrophobic as the walls of journalistic freedom closed in. She tried to remain optimistic by
telling herself the gamble would pay off.

“Right. Any concerns?”

“No. Kevin just wanted to confirm it with Anderson in person to avoid misunderstandings. He’s got good instincts about that
sort of thing.” Troy moved in front of Julia to open the door. “After you.”

She walked through as Troy quickly thanked the team of exhausted well-wishers staying behind in the office.

A flight of stairs and a few hundred feet later they entered a room where twenty chairs surrounded a long conference table.
Smaller seats lined the walls on either side. Julia immediately noticed Kevin Tolbert leaning into a man sitting at the head
of the table, presumably Brent Anderson. She also recognized the woman seated in the middle who, seeing Julia enter the room,
motioned toward her.

“Excuse me, Troy,” Julia said. “I need to say hello.”

Troy appeared concerned. “You know Trisha Sayers?”

“We’ve met once before,” she said casually. “I’ll be right back.”

Julia continued scanning the room while Trisha gushed flattery over her blouse and shoes. A few other faces seemed vaguely
familiar, quick images flashed on the television whenever Congress sat listening to the president’s State of the Union address.
Gradually the wheat began to distinguish itself from the chaff as other official coalition members joined Tolbert, Anderson,
and Sayers sitting at the conference table. The other two dozen attendees found chairs against the wall. Like Troy, most of
them placed an open tablet on their laps from which they could deliver on-cue talking points to a boss’s screen four feet
away.

The room quieted from informal chatter toward a gradual hush as each member noticed the time. Trisha patted Julia’s hand,
a new-best-friend gesture doubling as a condescending dismissal. She moved quietly to the open seat beside Troy, who held
his head at a slight bow.

“Sorry. Everything good?” she asked.

“This is it,” he whispered anxiously.

In contrast to her host, Julia felt a sudden wave of confidence. The only journalist in the room, she had managed to gain
exclusive access to a presentation likely to stir tremendous controversy. Over the next hour she would receive the intelligence
needed to craft the most important feature story of her career, one that might very well put her back on top of the RAP journalistic
empire. This was going to be a good day.

“Thank you all for arriving on schedule,” Brent Anderson began. “You all know it goes against every fiber of my being to say
it, but I need to delay our start a few minutes.”

Troy raised his head and looked directly toward Kevin. Both seemed troubled by the departure from protocol.

The doors opened. Senator Franklin walked in with an entourage of five or six others.

“It appears that delay will be unnecessary,” Anderson said. “I guess even my boss fears arriving late to one of my meetings,”
he added with a slight chuckle.

“My apologies, everyone,” Franklin said. “Please, carry on.”

“They didn’t tell us Franklin was coming,” Troy whispered to Julia.

All eyes watched Josh Franklin as he took a seat beside Trisha Sayers, to her obvious delight, while the other newcomers slid
into remaining open spots along the wall.

“Before today’s presentation I’d like to wrap up one matter from our last meeting.” Anderson glanced at his tablet. “The coalition
voted ten to three in favor of the neutral consent confirmation proposal presented by Representative McGurn. But in hopes
of reaching unanimous consensus we asked the congressman to recommend alternative language that would accommodate concerns
raised by the minority. I’ll let Mr. McGurn explain.”

“You’ll find the revised wording on your tablet now,” McGurn began. “Please open the document titled
Neutral Consent Draft Two
and follow along.”

He read the document aloud. Despite lawyer language, Julia caught the gist. The fiscal austerity coalition would recommend
making it harder for transition volunteers to sidestep co-approval. Mere digital signatures would no longer suffice. Clinics
would be required to obtain fingerprint confirmation by a neutral party. “I believe adding the fingerprint requirement will
satisfy Dr. Richert’s concerns over potential abuses in the system.”

“Doctor?” Anderson asked.

No comment. The doctor gave a solitary nod, as if reluctantly coerced to accept minor edits to a useless proposal.

“All in favor of the amended language?” Anderson hurried on.

A dozen hands went in the air. Anderson’s followed, making the recommendation unanimous.

“Done.” He handed the meeting to Kevin. “Representative Tolbert.”

Julia glanced at the nameplate sitting on the conference table in front of the intense-looking gentleman who had prompted
the fingerprinting proposal. She typed
DR. BRYCE RICHERT
into her search field to learn more about the mysterious yet obviously influential man. Details immediately populated her
screen: head of obstetrics and gynecology for a network of regional hospitals who had five grown children and a dozen grandkids.

Julia jotted herself a note:
Research Dr. Richert.

She turned back to see Kevin standing. He scanned the delegates like a rookie skier mentally preparing for his first downhill
run.

“You should have received an executive summary of my presentation on your tablets just before this meeting began.”

He looked toward Troy, who winked confirmation of delivery.

“Please open the document labeled
Bright Spots Proposal
if you wish to follow along.”

Julia circled the table with her eyes, trying to pick up body language clues. Not surprisingly, Trisha’s posture evoked images
of a stubborn child holding her breath to protest the dab of spinach on her plate. Senator Franklin, by contrast, appeared
eager to learn more about the young congressman’s innovative idea.

It was then that she lost her ability to focus. Just over Franklin’s shoulder she noticed the smug face of one of the senator’s
tardy guests. It was Monica Garcia, apparently pleased to finally catch Julia’s eye.

How on earth did she get in here
? Julia fumed. She quickly reached the only available conclusion. Paul had thrown Julia the scraps by connecting her to Nicole
Florea and Trisha Sayers. As usual, he had reserved the prime cut for Monica.

Anger quickly morphed into alarm. Inside access to a presidential hopeful would trump anything Julia might write from the
perspective of a mere first-term congressman. She wondered whether Paul even intended to publish Julia’s story. Was the whole
assignment a charade?

Don’t be ridiculous!
she scolded herself.
Why would he waste my time and his? Why bother badgering me for progress? Why suggest a story angle and title so perfectly
suited to my reputation?

Julia willed herself past a budding paranoia by reminding herself of the facts. Monica might have had what it took to earn
a senator’s favors, but she didn’t have the journalistic instincts necessary to craft a convincing exposé on an entire subculture
like the breeders. Julia might have been forced to remain in the bullpen the past few seasons, she told herself, but she remained
the most experienced, strongest pitcher on the RAP team. And Paul Daugherty knew it.

Shifting her eyes back toward Kevin as he began the most important presentation of his political life, Julia recognized the
time had come to write the most compelling story of her fading career.