The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear (24 page)

“You're kidding me,” Paul said. “Why didn't we know this? Why didn't you know this? Like the same unit?”

I nodded.

Eddie Basha burst into the room. “Hell, J.D., you can't disappear on me. Why aren't you answering your phone?” I pulled it out. The battery was dead. Eddie looked at me in disgust, as if I had just found a decomposing animal in my pocket. He handed me a Mophie battery pack for my iPhone. He always carried extras and couldn't believe it when I didn't.

“What's up?” I asked lamely.

“We've got a full-scale revolt on our hands. Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, Wisconsin—”

“Why?” I interrupted.

“They won't go with the motion. They've drafted their own motion attacking Armstrong George as a fascist. It even has those words in the draft. ‘Armstrong George has fascist tendencies.' ”

“Well, that's true enough.” Paul laughed. “I thought that was the point.”

“They say if we introduce the other motion, they will vote against it and introduce their own. That happens, we split right down the middle. We're dead.”

“Where's Governor Kowalski in all this?”

“He says it's a terrible shame, but you can tell he's loving it. He's got ‘I told you so' about ten feet tall all over his face.”

“Bring 'em in.” I sighed.

“Who?”

“Everybody. The revolt states, the governors, superdelegates.”

“J.D., we got like fifteen minutes till the gavel drops.”

“So we better hurry. Let's do it in the locker room.”

Eddie nodded and hurried off.

“I need Tobias,” I said to my brother. “Right here, right now.”

The locker room smelled of disinfectant. I stood on a bench at the end of the room, the renegade delegates and their leaders gathered around me. It was crowded. Eddie had told the leaders of the delegations that they were to come alone, but of course that didn't happen. Word had spread instantly and suddenly it was very important to a lot of people to get inside the visitors' locker room of the Superdome. The visitors' side had been assigned to our campaign; Armstrong George got the home side. This had been decided by a coin toss, and noted columnists had actually tried to dissect the latent meaning in the vice president's ending up with the visiting side.

“We don't have much time this morning,” I started right in. “But I want to thank you all for coming. I'd like to begin with a few words from a man many of you know and a lifelong friend of mine and my family's: the Reverend Tobias Green.”

I'd positioned Tobias at the entrance of the locker room so that everyone who entered had to pass by him. The delegates streamed into the room, spoiling for a fight, but as they encountered Tobias, a remarkable transformation occurred. First came surprise, and a few almost blurted out what almost everyone was thinking—
He's still alive?
—and then there was a sudden pleased awareness that they were in the presence of a man considered to be a genuine civil rights hero. Here was a man who had been on the balcony in Memphis when King was shot, a man attacked by Bull Connor's dogs, a man whom Robert Kennedy had called “an American hero.” Naturally every delegate was wondering what in the world Tobias Green was doing at this emergency meeting in the visitors' locker room of the Superdome, but no one, not even the senators and governors who were superdelegates, asked the question. Even though Republicans, including Hilda Smith, were likely to top out at ten percent—if they were lucky—of the African American vote, Tobias was a link to a past that all but the true racist embraced. That he was willing to come and speak to Republicans, that he had shown a willingness to support a few Republicans here and there through the years, made the gathered delegates swoon in gratitude. At a Democratic convention Tobias would have been one of many prominent African Americans and civil rights leaders but here, today, he was the Republicans' star.

I helped Tobias up onto the wooden bench. He seemed to weigh about ten pounds. “Let us pray,” Tobias announced in a strong, firm voice.

A few of the delegates looked at each other. Pray? What the hell for? But everyone bowed their heads, including the Jews, atheists, and Buddhists in the group, of which there were a few.

“Our Heavenly Father,” Tobias began, “the source of all wisdom and goodness, guide us here this morning as we search for wisdom. Our Father, we ask for Your strength as we look within ourselves to serve You better with our actions. The road is long and we are weak. But our faith in You is eternal. In God's name, we pray. Amen.”

The delegates looked up. Now what?

“My friends, my brothers and sisters, welcome to the city where we have toiled long and hard for justice. It was not long ago that the Freedom Riders were beaten in these streets, and heaven help a black man who found himself in the hands of the New Orleans police. Those of us who worked so hard for so long to bring justice for all, we are fewer and fewer every year. But as our good Lord calls us to greater glory, we pass the torch to a new generation.”

The delegates started to nod as Tobias's strong voice drew them into his spell.

“Once again, these are troubled times in our great land. The heathen rage amongst us as the peddlers of hate find many buyers for the evil they sell.”

“Amen, brother,” murmured Tommy Blue, a Wisconsin delegate and former All-Pro cornerback with Green Bay. He was one of the few black delegates.

“Amen,” Tobias echoed seamlessly. “Though there are differences amongst us here today, we are united by our desire to banish this evil and turn back the darkness.” Tobias's voice began to rise in a strong, lilting cadence. “We find ourselves once again soldiers in the eternal struggle between good and evil!”

“Hallelujah!” cried Irma Levine, a real estate attorney from Boston. She was Jewish.

“Hallelujah, sister,” Tobias agreed. “Though there are differences amongst us, we must now as never before join together arm in arm, just as we did so many years ago with Brother King that fateful day in Birmingham. We must walk past the dogs of hate, through the fire hoses of prejudice, never faltering, united by our love, willing to sacrifice our petty differences so that others may follow us into a brighter, more joyous day.”

“Tell it, Brother Green!” shouted Mayor Henry of Burlington, Vermont. Henry was actually a former member of the Socialist Workers Party, but had made a fortune in real estate and become a Republican. He'd given more than a million dollars to Hilda through various committees.

“So I ask you, brothers and sisters, to put aside your differences and put your faith in the love that unites us! I have known this man since he was but a boy.” Tobias reached out and pulled me next to him. I grabbed his arm, and it felt like a piece of kindling for a fire, hard, knotted, skinny. “When there were those in this city who would cross the street rather than walk next to a black man, his father took us into his home and surrounded us with love. When there were those who championed hate, his father stood before them and shamed them with his love for all men, regardless of race. I watched this boy grow up in a home where many a night a bright cross of fear burned in their yard. I felt for him as he endured the taunts of his fellow schoolchildren because his father was an admitted nigger lover. A proud nigger lover! Today this boy who is now a man asked me to come here and pray for us in these troubled times. But I will do more than pray, I will also beg. Beg that we may leave this room united! Let us not allow the forces of darkness to divide us! Let us join hands once again and march forth to victory! While we may question the route, let us march forth joyfully, confident that our destination will be reached!”

“We're with you, Brother Green!” Tommy Blue shouted.

“Say amen, brother!” shouted Tobias.

“Amen!” cried the delegates.

“Let me hear you say hallelujah, brothers and sisters!”

“Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah!” Tobias echoed.

He held out his arms, his thin black hands shaking. “I can feel the love. I can feel the strength. God help those who stand in our way!”

He lowered his head, still holding his hands outstretched.

Even Governor Kowalski had tears in his eyes.

Tobias stayed in the locker room after the delegates had filed out back to the floor, any hint of a rebellion squashed. Tobias was wearing an all-access pass that I'd given him as part of our deal.

“Felt good, J.D., that it did. Still got the touch.”

I had to admit that he did. His locker room performance had been like watching an aging baseball pitcher come through with 95 mph heat.

Tobias reached into his pocket and came out with several business cards with numbers scribbled on the back. He perused them in exaggerated fashion. “Phone numbers, baby,” he beamed. “You didn't see them stuff them into my pocket? Let's see now”—he stared at the business cards like a gambler studying a winning hand—“I think I'll start with that blonde from Wisconsin. Do my bit for African-Scandinavian relationships. Long tradition of that, you know. Lot of brothers went to Scandinavia in the sixties.” Tobias beamed.

“I'll get the money over to you later today,” I told him as the floor votes started to come in. It was going to be a big procedural win for Hilda. Every delegation was delivering. “I'm sure your Truth and Justice Committee for Lower Utility Rates will put it to good use.”

My cell phone rang. It was always ringing, but this was a special ring that meant the vice president was calling me.

“J.D.,” she said. “I need to see you.”

AS SOON AS I STEPPED INTO HER SUITE,
I knew it was bad. The vice president was there and her husband but the giveaway was the campaign's lawyer, Richard Gomez. He was the one who spoke first, which was a really bad sign. “Have a seat, J.D.” I started to say something glib or funny to break the ice but couldn't muster the energy. Which was probably for the best.

“What can you tell us about your brother, J.D.?” Gomez asked.

“What?” I asked. I was having trouble focusing. It was strange to be in the same room with the VP and not have her say anything. We had been through so much together since New Hampshire.

“Your brother,” Gomez said.

“He's running for public service commissioner here in Louisiana. What do you want to know?”

Gomez looked at the VP, as if this were a meaningful confession. “Not Paul. Your half brother, Tyler.”

I sighed. Jesus fucking Christ. How the hell had it come to this? “Tyler,” I said flatly. “Tyler's mother was my babysitter. He never lived with us. But he's my half brother, yes.”

The three of them stared at me, and I had the pleasant sensation of knowing that I had just regained a bit of the upper hand in whatever was going on. Knowledge was power, and this they hadn't known.

The VP spoke for the first time. “Powell Callahan slept with your babysitter?” she asked, as if she had learned the pope ran a drug cartel on the side.

“Several of them, actually, at least I think so. But the only one he got pregnant was Tyler's mother. Her name is Renee Hutchinson, by the way. Lovely woman. It's just too bad she met my father. Pretty sure my mother ended up feeling the same way. They tried to make the best of it.”

No one said anything for a long time. Then Gomez looked down at some notes he had on a yellow legal pad—the guy couldn't use an iPad?—and asked, “Have you seen Tyler lately?”

“Sure,” I said, “which you must know, or you wouldn't be asking me. You're asking to see if I will lie about it. I saw him out at the strip club he runs on Airline Highway. Then I went back to see him early this morning, but he wasn't there.”

“And why did you go back to see him?” Gomez asked.

“That's easy too,” I said. “I was worried he might be involved in the bombings.”

“Good lord,” Hilda Smith murmured. “Then it's true?”

Which, of course, confirmed what I'd assumed when they started asking me about Tyler: someone had leaked to them. Now I just needed to find out who.

“Why didn't you notify the authorities of any suspicions?” Gomez asked, his voice taking on a harsher tone, as if he was moving in for the kill.

I frowned. “What are you talking about? I went out there with a high-ranking member of the New Orleans Police Department. Of course I notified the authorities.”

This surprised them. Which told me they didn't know that much about what had happened. So I told them everything. Except about seeing Tyler's photo with Somerfield George. When I was finished, Gomez had a dazed sort of look on his face, which did please me. The whole thing was such a shit sandwich he was choking just trying to get it down.

“Well, J.D.,” he finally said. “That's quite a story.”

“I wish you had told me,” Hilda Smith said, and sounded like she meant it. She said it like a human being who was concerned, not a politician. When you're the vice president of the United States and a hair away from being the presidential nominee of your party and a staffer has just told you how his quasi–half brother might be trying to blow up your chances to become president, that seemed like a pretty decent way to respond.

“I'm glad he didn't,” Gomez said, and Hilda Smith's husband smiled. So did I. He was right. “Look, J.D., you know this is a tough one for everybody. But there's only one thing to do. We're going to have to ask you to step aside as campaign manager.”

I stared at him. “Step aside,” I said flatly. “Who would run the campaign?”

“Eddie Basha has agreed,” the vice president said, and then it all made sense. It was Eddie who had told them about Tyler. It was Eddie who had made his move by trying to fuck me. Not trying, actually. He'd done it very nicely. I had to hand it to the guy, I'd taught him well. “We're hoping you would help him in any way you could that wasn't public.”

Gomez looked at the VP sharply. It was the sort of thing he should have asked me privately, not in her presence, and she certainly shouldn't have said it. “I suppose you have a statement ready,” I said.

“Yes, we do,” Gomez said, and pulled out a piece of plain paper with a couple of sentences typed on it. The VP winced. Gomez's bedside manner needed some help. When you showed the patient the X-ray foretelling their death, better not to present it with, “See, those really dark spots are cancer. You can see how huge they are and how close they are to the heart. This is really incredible imaging, isn't it?”

Gomez started reading. It was a standard “For personal reasons, J. D. Callahan is taking a leave from the campaign” announcement.

“You can't do that,” I said, before he was even finished.

Gomez stiffened. “Now J.D., I know this isn't easy but—”

I cut him off. “That ‘personal reasons' will just create a feeding frenzy of people trying to find out the real story. It will consume the campaign. The vice president”—I nodded toward her, as if making it clear I was referring to
that
vice president—“won't be able to get any kind of message through that noise. It will kill the campaign.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you went crazy with that brother of yours,” Gomez exploded, then immediately pulled back, in that robotic, apologetic way lawyers can get when they have let slip a human moment by mistake.

“The decision's been made, J.D.,” Hilda Smith said. “I'm sorry.”

I nodded, then got up. “You'll put out the statement?”

“We will,” Gomez said. Hilda looked a little pained when he said that, and I gave her credit for a bit of shame. “Just put it out. I won't take any press calls.”

There was a long, painful silence in the room, like when the doctor has pronounced the patient dead and the family is quietly looking at the corpse. Then I turned and left the room. I knew two things I had to do: find Tyler, and destroy Eddie Basha.