When No One Is Watching (13 page)

CHAPTER 19
D
anny Moran awoke early on the final day of his incarceration. He knew he should feel excited to be going home, but he didn’t. In fact, he felt completely incapable of experiencing anything resembling excitement. If anything, he felt an even greater sense of remorse. He had spent all of July and August in prison, but those sixty days had passed quickly. It was too easy. He felt like he deserved more punishment.

 

The state correctional facility in Kankakee was a minimum-security prison about sixty miles south of Chicago. It was no country club, but it wasn’t exactly Alcatraz, either. The facility had a well-equipped, state-of-the-art exercise room and an outdoor running track. It had a decent-sized library, as well as limited access to computers and the Internet. Most of the guards were surly and the food was bad, but with a few exceptions, the inmates seemed like a group of fairly normal individuals who were determined to keep their noses clean while they did their time. The truly dangerous element of the prison population resided elsewhere, so Danny never felt afraid or threatened, nor did he ever feel abused or oppressed. And something about that bothered him. His conscience told him he deserved worse than he was getting.

Danny had always been one to use his time productively and efficiently, because time was one commodity that seemed far too scarce in his busy life. Now, for the first time in his adult life, he had an abundance of time on his hands. He could have used it to plan for his future, since he’d been forced to leave the law firm and needed to develop plans for a new career. He could have used the time to focus on his physical and mental well-being by embarking on a physical fitness program and spending time in the library. He did none of those things. He was consumed with self-loathing, which numbed his mind and rendered him completely unable to focus on anything.

During his first several weeks in prison, Danny had tried on a daily basis to compose a suitable letter of apology to the McGrath family, but he just couldn’t get it right. The feelings were heartfelt, but no matter what words he used, the family might think he was writing to ask their forgiveness. He wasn’t. He knew he didn’t deserve their forgiveness. Hell, he couldn’t even forgive himself; why should they forgive him? So he gave up trying.

Had he been able to, Danny would have responded to his guilt and pain by drinking himself into oblivion. He desperately wanted to be lulled into that sweet forgetfulness that only alcohol could bring. However, drinking was not an option, so Danny did his best to pass the time by immersing himself in work assignments that didn’t require much in the way of thought or human interaction. The prison was undergoing a complete repainting that summer, so from breakfast until dinner, he slapped fresh paint on the walls of the offices, corridors, and sleeping quarters in the old prison building. Although painting was a task that he had always despised because he found it tedious and mind-numbing, that was precisely what made it attractive now. In the evenings, he worked in the library, entering data from the ancient card catalog into the library’s new computer database. Again, it was a way to avoid human contact and the torture inflicted by his conscience whenever he allowed himself to think.

Danny had three visitors during his stay in prison. Karen had come a single time, within a week of his incarceration, to inform him that she was leaving him and leaving Chicago. She told him she could no longer handle his drinking and that she couldn’t stay in a place where shame and humiliation would always be with her. She said that she would stay with Allie until he was released from prison, and then she would move back to California to be near her family, leaving Allie behind to finish her senior year of high school with her friends. Danny made no attempt to change her mind. He couldn’t blame her.

Blair Van Howe also paid him a visit, and Danny had been delighted that at least one of his old friends seemed to care enough not to ostracize him; however, his happiness over the visit faded when he saw Blair on television that evening, speaking to a throng of reporters in front of the prison.

“Why are you spending time with a convicted killer?” one of the reporters had asked.

“Danny Moran made a mistake, and it resulted in a terrible tragedy,” Blair responded. “People should hear about these tragedies, and I intend to do my part to call attention to them. Those who drink and drive must be held accountable. Mr. Moran is paying for his mistake, and I hope others will learn from it. However, I also believe in compassion—for the poor, the unemployed, the sick, and, yes, even those who have made serious mistakes and run afoul of the law. Our society is well known for both its sense of justice and its sense of compassion, and we must strive to keep it that way.”

Danny understood politics and tried not to take offense at the fact that Blair’s visit had almost certainly been orchestrated by his campaign team to further his political agenda, yet some part of him hoped that friendship had brought him there as well.

The only other visitor was his daughter. Allie came every weekend, often on both Saturday and Sunday. Those visits were the only source of happiness in an otherwise bleak and depressing existence. Her fresh face, her bright smile, and her cheerful demeanor were a striking contrast to everything and everyone else around him. Just a few months ago, he had thought of her as a child, innocent, naïve, and dependent. Now, as she was about to begin her senior year in high school, she suddenly seemed mature, confident, and dependable. Perhaps it was his own crisis that had caused her to grow up fast, or perhaps she already had and he had simply been too busy to notice. Either way, he needed her now, and she was there for him. He didn’t know how he would have coped without her.

Danny walked toward the visiting area, his spirits lifting with the realization that he was surveying the grim prison surroundings for the last time. The guard swiped his ID through an electronic card reader. He heard a loud metallic click, and the heavy metal door swung open. His eyes fixed on the beautiful young woman standing across the room. She was almost as tall as he was now and had the same pale blue eyes and perfect rosy complexion as her mother, although her face was framed by a thick mane of unruly raven hair, unlike Karen’s bone-straight blonde tresses.

They stood and stared at each other for a moment; then Allie rushed toward her father and held him in a tight embrace.

“Hi, Pops,” she said in a voice thick with emotion.

“Hello, little girl.”

“Let’s go home,” Allie said. She grabbed her father’s hand, and they walked through the large wooden doors into the bright September sunshine.

CHAPTER 20
S
am McIntire lumbered into the cramped office and flung the morning
Tribune
across the desk toward his son-in-law. “Feast your eyes, buddy boy!” he said with a broad grin.

 

Blair read the front-page headline: “Van Howe Opens Wide Lead in Polls.” According to the article, he was leading his opponent, Scott Carlson, by ten percentage points, and the gap was widening.

“Hot damn, Sam! We’re on cruise control now!”

“Bullshit!” Sam responded in his booming voice. “You can’t coast during a campaign. We’ve got some real momentum now, and we need to keep pouring it on.”

“And we will,” Blair replied with conviction. “Hell, I’m not going to stop until the polls close on November fifth. I’ve never had this much fun in my life!”

He meant it. Blair was playing the most exciting role he’d ever played, and he was loving every minute of it. The media attention, the enthusiastic crowds, the opportunity to rub shoulders with the city’s business and political leaders—it was a thrill beyond anything he’d ever known or even imagined. And for Blair, it was absolutely effortless. He felt as if he were doing what he was born to do.

Kimberly Van Howe and Sam McIntire were relishing their roles, as well. Kimberly maintained an active campaign schedule, visiting schools, hospitals, soup kitchens, and other charitable enterprises. Her mission was only partly to win the votes of those she was visiting. Mostly, her public appearances were intended to help shape the Van Howe campaign image as one characterized by compassion and a desire to help the underprivileged. Kimberly accomplished that goal with flying colors. The press loved her. She looked great on camera and came across as witty and engaging whenever reporters were anywhere near. In the eyes of the media, she was unfailingly cheerful and accommodating, although behind the scenes she was shorttempered and demanding with everyone, including her husband and father.

Sam McIntire was living the fulfillment of a dream. Although Blair had hired a professional campaign manager, Sam was the primary architect of the Van Howe campaign strategy. Having spent a lifetime immersed in the Chicago political scene, Sam knew it as well as anyone alive, and he navigated those waters with a level of adroitness that left the entire campaign team in awe. His unparalleled network of relationships and contacts secured a level of clout and high-profile support that no political opponent could hope to match.

“Let’s take a look at the calendar,” Sam suggested. “I want to get these fundraisers locked in.”

They walked out of the small office and into a large room filled with portable cubicles and telephones, which were fully manned by eager volunteers in the afternoons and evenings, but empty at the moment, as it was not yet 8:00 a.m. Piles of posters, bumper stickers, and lawn signs were everywhere. The office itself was stark, but functional. The location was ideal. It was on Western Avenue, the primary commercial street running north and south through the Beverly neighborhood, in the heart of the third congressional district. A large red, white, and blue sign in the front window proclaiming “Van Howe for Congress” provided great visibility, and the location was easily accessible to the legions of young volunteers from the area who were clamoring to be part of the Van Howe campaign team.

Hanging in the center of the painted cinderblock wall, surrounded by a collage of campaign posters, was an enormous whiteboard calendar covering the remaining sixty days until the election. It showed all of the speeches, fundraisers, and meetings that had been scheduled, as well as target dates for advertisements and various other communications.

“The mayor wants to host a fundraiser for you at his beach house a week from Saturday,” Sam said, tapping that date on the calendar with a massive index finger. “I’m trying to line up the governor for the following week.”

“Will we get a decent-sized crowd?” Blair asked. “That’s pretty short notice, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. When people are invited to a reception hosted by the mayor or the governor, they’ll show up, don’t worry about that,” Sam replied confidently.

“Are we planning them too close together?”

“Nope. Like I said, people will show, and we can’t wait. The clock is ticking, and we need the dough now. We should absolutely blitz the airwaves during October—television, radio, newspapers, and the Internet. That’ll cost us some serious money.”

“Stuart has been working on the new ads,” said Blair, referring to his media consultant. “He’s come up with some great stuff. I think you’ll like it.”

“Excellent! I may have some good stuff, too. I just heard from a source who tells me he’s got some dirt on Scott Carlson,” said Sam in a conspiratorial tone.

“What kind of dirt?” Blair asked, a troubled look crossing his face.

“Apparently, our friend Scotty has a long history of extracurricular activity with his female staffers, including some who were underage.”

“We’re not going there, Sam!” Blair said emphatically. “I don’t plan on saying a word about that during the campaign, and I don’t want it leaked to the media or anyone else, either. I mean it! I don’t want anyone to think we won by slinging mud. This campaign is all about taking the high road. Besides, we’re up ten points in the polls. There’s just no need to go there.”

“All right, Blair, don’t get so worked up about it,” Sam said, sounding disappointed. “Just remember, it’s there if we need it. By the way, speaking of dirty laundry, Danny Moran was released from prison a few days ago. He can get on with his life now, so you can stop beating yourself up over that.”

Blair looked down, his mood immediately darkening at the reminder. “We should find a way to help him get his life on track,” he mused. “Maybe we can help him find a job.”

“Don’t tempt fate!” Sam said sharply. “You dodged that bullet once, and you were damn lucky. Any link between you and Danny Moran from this point forward is a potential land mine. You can’t be doing him favors or associating with him in any way. As far as you’re concerned, he’s a criminal. He committed homicide. You can’t be consorting with someone like him.”

“Come on, Sam, we both know that’s not true. Danny’s no criminal. For Chrissakes, he’s probably the most ethical person I’ve ever known. In fact—”

“Drop it, Blair! He’s out of your life now. Got it?”

Blair looked at his father-in-law uncertainly, saying nothing.

“Look, Blair,” Sam continued. “You’re entering public life now. Politicians make sacrifices. They make hard decisions. Sometimes you’ll need to do things you find distasteful, but you do it for the greater good. You can do great things as a congressman, so you need to put your career first, and Danny Moran is poison to your career. You understand that, don’t you?”

Blair avoided Sam’s gaze and looked absently at the large whiteboard calendar. He sighed deeply and slowly nodded. “I understand, Sam,” he said with quiet resignation.

CHAPTER 21
L
ast call, Danny. One more?” The bartender nodded at Danny’s half-empty beer mug.

 

According to the clock behind the bar, it was one forty-five. “No thanks, Pete,” Danny replied, draining his beer in one long swallow and leaving a five-dollar bill on the bar. “I better shove off.”

“Need a cab?”

“No, I can walk. See you tomorrow, Pete.”