The Committee (17 page)

Camille sat in front of the little white house on Grape Street for almost ten minutes before summoning the courage to open the car door. As was the custom, she looked in every direction to ensure privacy, and then hurried up the walkway holding a small leather box. The front door opened as soon as her foot touched the first step. She paused before proceeding quickly up the stairs.

Madam Gillette Lemaitre appeared in the threshold. “Hello, Camille,” she said with a broad smile. “I've been expecting you. Come in, come in.”

Camille looked her in the eye and asked, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“What's important now is you know.”

The women entered the foyer. Camille waited for the irksome call of the bird, but the house was silent.

“I just made myself a cup of tea,” Gillette said while directing Camille into the living room. “Would you like one?”

“No,” came her curt reply.

“Then sit down and tell me why you've come.”

“I assumed you already knew why I'm here,” Camille replied sarcastically.

“I have an idea, but I'd like for you to tell me,” Gillette said calmly. “How was your trip to New Orleans?”

Gillette sat in her favorite chair with the steaming cup of tea on the side table and motioned for Camille to sit on the couch directly in front of her. Camille was still unsettled by all The Committee knew about her life and movements.

“Sit down, girl,” Gillette chided. “You're making me nervous standing over me. Relax. You know everything. You're one of us now.”

“I'm
not
one of you,” Camille snapped. “Whatever it is ‘you' are.”

Gillette laughed slightly. “I'm afraid you are, my dear. Just knowing we exist makes you one of us. No need to fight it. You've been chosen, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

The edict sent a chill through Camille's entire body. Yes, she wanted to be president, but at what cost? Yes, she felt betrayed by Sheridan, but to what lengths was she willing to go for revenge?

“You still haven't told me why you're here.”

“I'm here because I want answers.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Who are you?”

“You already know who I am.”

“Don't play games with me. You know exactly what I mean,” Camille replied bravely.

“All right, dear. There's no need to get upset. I am Madam Gillette Amanda Fontaine Lemaitre. I am the great-great-great-granddaughter of Juliette Adelaide Dupree, whose portrait you saw in New Orleans.”

“And you work for Lazarus Hearst?”

Gillette released a hearty laugh and said, “No, no, my dear. You have that backward. Lazarus Hearst works for me.”

Camille furled her brow in confusion. “
You?
That's ridiculous. Lazarus is one of the richest men in the world.”

“Yes, because I made him so. Money isn't the only determining factor for power, darling. Some of the wealthiest people I know are also some of the weakest, while some of the poorest . . . well, let's just say I would never want to cross them.”

“And Isadore Montgomery? I suppose he works for you as well?”

“That is correct,” Gillette said.

Camille looked at her with a questioning eye and thought,
She is either delusional or completely insane.

“Yes, darling, I know. It defies logic. Flies in the face of everything you thought you knew about the world. Two of the richest men in the world answering to a little old black woman in a two-bedroom house in Watts.”

“It does seem . . . fantastic,” Camille said with a patronizing tone.

“Fantastic though it may seem, I assure you it's true.”

“And The Committee?”

“Ah yes, The Committee. Juliette Dupree's great grandmother formed The Committee to do her bidding. Since then, her descendants have inherited it and are charged with selecting the members and directing their actions. And I,” Gillette said lifting her open palms as if presenting a gift to Camille, “am the next in line.”

Camille sat in amazement.
This can't be real,
she thought.

“I can see by the look on your face you find this all hard to believe.”

“You're right. I don't believe it.”

“That's understandable. But before you run to call Adult Protective Services to report a batty old woman on Grape Street, I ask you to do one thing.”

“What?” Camille replied hesitantly.

Gillette pointed to a circa 1970s white, slimline telephone on a table near the kitchen door. “Pick up the phone on the table.”

“Why?”

“Indulge an old lady. Pick up the phone.”

Camille looked from Gillette to the telephone, then back to Gillette. The routine seemed familiar.

“Go ahead. What have you got to lose?”

Camille walked to the table and slowly removed the receiver and placed it to her ear.

“Yes, ma'am?” the baritone voice on the line said.

Camille gasped loudly and dropped the receiver to the hard wood floor. The spiral cord recoiled and caused the receiver to bounce three times with hollow thuds.

“Don't be rude, girl,” Gillette said calmly from her chair. “Pick up the phone and talk to the man.”

Camille stared at the receiver on the floor and could hear the muffled voice of the man saying, “Hello, hello. Gillette, are you there?”

“Go on,” Gillette said pointing the receiver. “Speak with him. Maybe you'll believe him since you don't believe me.”

Camille kneeled down on the floor. Her bare knees rested on the hardwood. She obediently returned the phone to her ear and said, “Hello.”

“Is this Camille again?” the president said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied slowly.

“This is a very good sign. I worried Lazarus and Isadore might have scared you off. All that Gillette has undoubtedly told you by now is true. She likes you, Camille. Don't fuck this up. Just do as she says and everything will be fine. I have to go now. Having lunch with my secretary of state. I'll speak with you again very soon.”

The line went dead. Camille sat stunned on the floor. She looked blankly up at Gillette.

“Are you all right?” Gillette asked. “You can hang up the phone now.”

Sheridan frantically paced the floor in his downtown office. It was 12:30, and he hadn't spoken to Camille since the attack earlier that morning. He touched the place on his cheek where she had scratched him.

“Ouch,” he snapped. “Fucking bitch.”

Sheridan knew he had to move quickly.
She's probably talking to Gloria Vandercliff right now,
he thought, then said out loud, “You're not going to fuck this up for me, Camille. You owe me this for putting up with your power hungry histrionics. I got you elected. If it weren't for me, women would have never supported you. You used me,” he said slamming his palm on the desk. “And now, you
owe
me.”

Sheridan used his handsome face and muscular body as commodities to exchange for power, access, and money. He entered the marriage with his eyes wide open. Although they never discussed the terms, both he and Camille knew the union was not based on love.

“You silly woman,” he said to her imaginary figure standing in the office. “I never loved you,” he shouted. “I married you because I wanted to get as much money out of you as I could. You
knew
that! You're not innocent in all this, you bitch. I did my part, and you're going to pay me for it. Sheridan Hardaway doesn't do anything for free.”

Sheridan darted to the desk, grabbed the telephone, and dialed. “Gloria,” he said after composing himself. “This is Sheridan Hardaway. How are you?”

There was a brief moment of silence before she spoke. “What do you want?” Gloria Vandercliff asked curtly.

“I'm calling to find out where we are on the contract from your attorneys. I haven't heard from them and wanted to know if there was anything I can do to move our deal forward.”

“We don't have a deal, Mr. Hardaway. I've changed my mind. I'm selling the land to your wife.”

Sheridan struggled to maintain calm. “But we had a deal,” he said. “I thought you enjoyed my eleven reasons,” he tacked on with an anxious grin. “What happened? Why did you change your mind?”

Again, there was silence on the phone. “I got a call, Sheridan,” she finally responded.

“A call? From who?”

“I can't say,” she said nervously. “It's too dangerous for me to do business with you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said impatiently. “Is it the money? I'll pay you ten million more for—”

“Stop. Just stop,” she shrieked. “It's
not
about the money. I don't have anything else to say on the subject. Please do not call me again.”

The line went dead. “Hello. Hello. Gloria!”

Sheridan slammed down the phone. “Fucking cunt!” he shouted. “Fucking bitch!”

Sheridan immediately dialed Tony Christopoulos.

“Sheridan, I can't talk to you,” Tony said before Sheridan could speak.

“Tony, what the fuck is going on? Did Camille call Gloria Vandercliff? She backed out of the deal.”

“That isn't my concern,” Tony said coldly.

“What do you mean, not your concern? You're in this as deep as I am.”

Sheridan felt the walls of the office begin to close around him. The room seemed to grow smaller with every word spoken. Had Camille gotten to them both? Did Tony betray him? The questions darted through his mind in rapid-fire.

“Tell me what you know. Gloria said she got a call from someone. Tell me who the fuck it was!”

Tony grew stiff when he heard about “the call.” The conversation earlier that day with Lazarus Hearst played in fast-forward in his mind. He felt the weight of the cell phone Lazarus delivered on his doorstep in his pocket.

“Listen to me, Sheridan,” Tony said in a hushed tone. “You fucked with the wrong people this time. My advice to you is to shut down Key . . . shut down the company. Pack your bags and leave the country. You're in much deeper than you know, and there's no way out.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I can't say anymore,” Tony said hurriedly. “Do not call me again. Do you understand? Never.”

 

 

Camille sat on the sofa while Gillette busied herself in the kitchen making another cup of tea. Her life had changed so dramatically in the last forty-eight hours, and time was needed to absorb it all. The sound of Louie's claws scratching the perch provided a soundtrack for the scene at Headquarters that played in her mind.

Doberman Stadium was steadily crumbling at her feet. Her husband made millions using information she inadvertently provided him. And now her dream of becoming president of the United States rested in the hands of the matronly woman making her a cup of tea in the next room.

“Do you want cream or lemon?” Gillette called from the kitchen.

Camille did not respond.

“Never mind, darling. I'll bring them both.”

Nothing in life had prepared her for the revelations of the last few days. There had been no course in law school covering secret societies. Sunday school curriculum didn't include tales of an old lady with a black candle who, by definition, was the most powerful person in the country, and arguably, the world. Her father never told her real power had little to do with money but everything to do with how you use and leverage the gifts you're born with.

The world she knew, studied, and mastered ceased to exist the moment she received the call from Lazarus Hearst. Her highly evolved tools of logic, reason, and deduction seemed inadequate in this strange new world. She wasn't equipped to process the information, so she resorted to the one last trick in her repertoire. Fake it until the next move is calculated.

Gillette returned to the living room with a tray of herbal tea in a chipped cup, a little ceramic cow filled with cream, and two saucers with brown sugar cubes and freshly sliced lemon wedges.

“Here you go. Drink this. It'll calm your nerves.”

Camille placed the leather box next to her on the sofa. “Thank you,” she said, not to be polite, but to confirm she still had the ability to speak.

“I know this is a lot to take in, but I have every confidence in you. You're doing just fine.”

“Can you explain one thing to me?”

“Of course, Camille. Anything, just ask.”

“Why me? Out of all the potential candidates you had to choose from, why did you choose me?”

“That's an easy one. There are no other candidates. You see, dear, you have a gift no other person on earth has. Now before you ask,” Gillette said anticipating the next question, “I can't tell you what the gift is. You will have to discover it for yourself.”

“How will I discover it?”

“Just by being you. The fact you are sitting here demonstrates you are on the right path. Everything you've accomplished and every step you've taken up to this moment has led you directly to me.”

For the first time, Camille sensed something very comfortable about Gillette. Something familiar she couldn't quite explain.

“Who are the other Committee members?” she asked casually reaching for the cup of tea.

“Oh, honey,” Gillette laughed, “committee members don't even know who all the other members are. Just know and find comfort in the fact that they will reveal themselves to you at exactly the right times in your life, at times when you will need them the most.”

Camille's training in the art of investigation took over. “How did your family become the head of The Committee?” She was no longer faking it.

“My, my,” Gillette said clearly amused, “straight to the heart of it. Like you, my dear, the women of my family have a particular gift. It took generations to harness the power and allow it to evolve into what it is today.”

“And that gift is . . .?”

“The ability to control a man's destiny and direct his fate.”

“So basically you're saying you are God?” Camille mocked.

“No, no,” Gillette laughed. “Now that really would be ridiculous. We simply use the gift God gave us.” Gillette slowly lifted her hand and pointed to the black candle sitting on the dining-room table.

“The candle?” Camille whispered.

“Yes, my dear. The candle.”

“Where did it come from?”

“No one really knows. The original wax has been continually blended with new wax and passed down from generation to generation. The unifying ingredient is a single drop of blood from each of the women with whom it has been entrusted. The furthest we can trace it back is to the late 1600s when our family first settled in Louisiana. Juliette, however, is credited with releasing the full extent of its power in the mid-1800s when she changed the course of the nation.”

With lightning speed, Camille recalled the significant events of the nineteenth century. She looked at Gillette in disbelief and said, “You don't mean . . .?”

Gillette smiled. “Yes, my dear. Lincoln didn't free the slaves. It was Juliette Dupree.”

Camille held the warm cup of tea firmly. Her capacity to process information was depleted by this latest revelation. Despite her logic, despite her IQ of 158—placing her comfortably in the range of genius—and in spite of her position as mayor, Camille believed every word Gillette said. She'd seen, and benefited from, the power of the candle. She had spoken to the president of the United States twice. She even lit the candle. Camille searched her extensive library of reason and logic, but found no justification for not believing it was all true.

“Camille,” Gillette said gently, interrupting her thoughts, “besides getting answers to your questions, why else have you come to me?”

Camille was silent.

“Are the contents of that leather box for me?”

Camille placed her hand gently on the case.

Gillette looked at her warmly and asked, “Do you think now would be a good time for us to talk about Sheridan?”

 

 

Gideon entered Tony Christopoulos's suite at city hall. The outer office was simply decorated with blue-cushioned chairs surrounding a coffee table. A large ficus tree sat in the corner, and the floors were covered with new burgundy carpet.

Gideon walked directly to the assistant sitting in front of the door leading to Tony's office.

“Good afternoon,” he said to the nondescript woman behind the desk.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with a curious smile. There was something familiar about him. She didn't know exactly what. “How may I help you?”

“My name is Gideon Truman, I'm a reporter.”

The woman looked surprised. The voice coupled with the brown skin and broad smile instantly jarred her memory.

Her back stiffened, and her smile reduced by an almost undetectable fraction. It, however, did not go unnoticed by Gideon, “Of course. Yes,” she said. “I thought I recognized you.”

“I don't have an appointment, but I was wondering if I might be able to speak with Mr. Christopoulos. You see, I'm working on a story about the recent boom in development in major cities around the country and wanted to get his perspective on it. I'm on a deadline, and I would really be grateful,” he added with a seductive smile.

The woman nervously reached for the silent phone and quickly pulled her hand away. “I'm afraid Mr. Christopoulos is very busy today. I can have him call you later if you'd like.”

“I have a few hours until my next appointment. I can wait, if that's all right with you.”

The receptionist stood and said with a slight huff, “I'll see if Mr. Christopoulos is free now. Please have a seat and I'll be right back.”

Before Gideon could cross his legs, Tony entered the room.

“Mr. Truman,” Tony said approaching with a guarded smile and extended hand. “I'm Tony Christopoulos, Mayor Hardaway's chief of staff. We met at the State of the City address.”

Gideon met Tony halfway and shook his hand. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Christopoulos.”

“Please call me Tony. I'm a fan of yours.”

“As I told your assistant, I'm working on a story about the sudden increase in development in urban cities in the last year, and I wanted to speak with someone from this city. Several people suggested I talk to you.”

“Who exactly are the people who suggested you speak with me, if you don't mind me asking?”

“To be honest, I actually don't remember. Just colleagues of yours, I suppose. But I do recall they spoke very highly of you.”

The two men locked eyes. At this point, the entire exchange had little to do with the words they spoke and everything to do with what their eyes were saying.

“Really?” Tony said holding his cards close to his chest.

“Look, Mr. Christo . . . Tony, I'm kind of in a bind here. This is a small human interest story, and I'd really like to get it done quickly so I can start working on a piece about Mayor Camille Hardaway.” Gideon paused briefly to allow the hint of a threat to sink in. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” he asked innocently. “I promise to not take much of your time.”

Tony couldn't disguise his discomfort behind the thin civil servant veneer. He diverted his eyes and looked at his Rolex two times before answering.

“I don't know,” he said slowly. “I really do have a lot—”

“Just a few minutes, Tony. No more, I promise.”

Tony looked over his shoulder to the assistant for help, but found her desperately trying to go unnoticed behind the desk.

“I suppose . . .” Tony finally said.

“Great! I really appreciate this.”