“I say, if we don't hear from her within the next hour we have to get the police involved,” Tony said. “The longer she's out of communication, the more likely she's in some sort of danger.”
Sheridan followed closely on the heels of Tony's logical trail and came to the same conclusion.
“Agreed,” he replied. “If something happens to Camille, the entire stadium deal is over.”
“Have you bought the property yet?” Tony asked.
“Not yet. Vandercliff's attorneys are drawing up the papers now. They should be ready this week.”
“What's the delay?”
“They're drawing up a contract that ensures the land is only used for the stadium. Crazy old bitch is obsessed with the team. She doesn't mind fucking over Camille, but draws the line at the goddamn Dobers.”
“How did you talk her into selling the land to you? I have to admit I didn't think you had a chance.”
Sheridan turned away from Tony and walked to the open patio doors. The view was nothing more than a black hole with the gentle roar of the Pacific Ocean serving as the soundtrack.
“You underestimate my charm,” he said peering out into the blackness.
“I've never underestimated anything about you,” Tony said to his back. “But I've heard how eccentric she is.”
“Anyway, it's almost a done deal now,” was Sheridan's way of bringing the topic to a quick end. “All I have to do is sign the contract this week, then sit back and wait for the city to come knocking at KeyCorp's door.”
Tony sensed there was more to be told. “So you didn't say how you convinced her,” he gently pressed.
Sheridan turned sharply from the doors. “Would you fucking drop it,” he said angrily. “What the fuck are we going to do about Camille?”
The harsh words snapped Tony back into the present. “I still say we should call the police. She is a public official, and if there's been a kidnapping the FBI will have to be involved.”
“Shit!” Sheridan yelled. “That's all I need is the fucking feds digging around in my business. It'll take them all of five minutes to connect me to KeyCorp.”
“You need to calm down,” Tony said moving in closer. “Why would they look into your finances?”
“Of course they will! When something happens to a wife, the first person they look at is the husband, and money is always the assumed motive.”
The logic was inescapable. “Then all we can do for now is wait,” Tony replied. “Text her again. Tell her you're going to call the police.”
“I just fucking told you! I can't call theâ”
“I understand. Just send it and see how she responds. At the very least we'll know if she's still alive.”
Sheridan sent the furious text.
“If I don't hear from u I'm calling the police.”
The two stared intently at the phone in Sheridan's hand, waiting for a response.
Bing
.
“Do not call the police! I am fine,”
came the glowing response.
Sheridan held the phone up as they read the message together.
“How do we know it's her?” Tony asked suspiciously.
“We don't,” Sheridan replied.
“Ask a question only she and you would know the answer to.”
Sheridan thought for a moment, then typed,
“I need to know this is you. Tell me what we did after your State of the City address.”
Sheridan turned the phone away from Tony and waited for the response.
Bing,
sounded again.
“You ate my pussy in the back of the limo. Do not disturb me again.”
Sheridan immediately turned off the phone. “It's her,” he said, dropping it into his pocket.
“What did she say?” Tony asked anxiously.
“Never mind. It's her.”
Â
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It was just after 3:00 a.m. in New Orleans. Camille, Lazarus, and Isadore continued their unusual conversation in the living room at Headquarters.
“We realize this must all seem fantastic to you,” Lazarus said. “But, I assure you, it's all very true.”
“I must admit I'm not fully convinced,” Camille said in an attempt to press the men into telling her more. “I've never been one to believe in conspiracy theories.”
“Perhaps if we gave you a little demonstration,” Isadore said with a boyish smile and opened a carved wooden box with pearl inlay sitting on a lone pedestal next to the sofa. A telephone like none she'd ever seen before was inside. As soon as the lid opened, an antenna with a small round satellite mounted on the tip extended from the box and began to rotate. Multiple red and white lights on a panel began to blink in no particular pattern.
“Pick it up,” Isadore said playfully. “I think it might be for you.”
Camille looked at the two men, then slowly lifted the receiver to her ear.
“Hello,” came the voice on the line.
Camille immediately recognized the soft baritone voice.
“Is this . . .?” she asked clutching her chest.
“Yes, it is,” came the reply. “And you must be Camille.”
The satellite continued spinning as she spoke. “Yes . . . yes, I am.”
This has to be dream,
she thought looking at Isadore and Lazarus who were clearly entertained by her reaction to the voice.
“I see you finally met The Committee. Don't let them intimidate you,” the president said with a slight chuckle in his tone. “They're more impressed by you than you are by them.”
“And you work for The Committee?” she summoned the courage to ask.
“No, no, we work together,” came the amused response. “I'm a member of The Committee, and you will be too, if all goes as planned. Once elected, U.S. presidents hold a seat on The Committee for life.”
“I still don't know exactly what this plan is,” she said boldly. “It's all been very cloak-and-dagger up until now.”
“Well, I suspect they are anxious to tell you, so I'm going to let you all get to it. It was lovely speaking with you finally. I look forward to meeting you very soon.”
The line went dead. Camille looked again at Isadore and Lazarus who by now had taken seats on the couch.
“Please sit down, Camille,” Lazarus said pointing to a floral print wingback chair directly in front of them.
“The Committee is comprised of the most powerful and influential people in the country, two of which are Isadore and myself.”
Camille listened intently as the story unfolded.
“Our purpose is simple,” Lazarus continued. “We run this country. We decide the state of the economy. We decide when a war is needed, and when it should end. The Committee sets national priorities, and, as it relates to you, we decide who will be president.”
The words reverberated in Camille's head. The casual manner in which they were delivered caused her stomach to churn. All he said was completely contrary to everything she'd been taught in high school history, college, and constitutional law courses. Conversely, she found the absolute power these men wielded to be intoxicating. It was all, and even more than she ever desired.
“Which is why you are here tonight,” Lazarus continued as Isadore studied her reaction. “I will be blunt. The Committee selected you as our choice to be the first black female president of the United States of America.”
The words smacked her in the face like a wet bag of sand. After recovering, she asked simply, “Why me?”
“That is an unnecessarily self-deprecating question,” Isadore said. “You see, Camille, within the confines of these walls there is no room for modesty. Far too much is at stake. Your statement should have been, âWhy not.' But in answer to your question, apart from your obvious beauty, intelligence, and highly evolved and innate political acumen, you understand power and aren't afraid to use it, as you demonstrated clearly when you swiftly and decisively dispatched John Spalding.”
Camille immediately leaned forward in the chair to speak, but Lazarus raised his hand to silence her defense.
“No need to deny or defend your decision. The Committee is above the law. We
are
the law,” Lazarus said firmly. “You did what was necessary, and you handled it beautifully. Los Angeles needs a new stadium, and you are not afraid of collateral damage, if that's what it takes to make it happen. When you made that decision, we knew we picked the right person.”
“Exactly,” Isadore said.
The men gave Camille a few moments to absorb all they had said and that which was unsaid.
“So, you know Gillette Lemaitre?” were her first words.
“Squawk!” came Count Basie's piercing contribution from the corner of the room.
“We facilitated your introduction,” Lazarus said. “I'm sure you recognized the resemblance,” he said pointing to the portrait over the fireplace. “Juliette Dupree is Gillette's great-great-great-grandmother.”
Camille bolted from the chair. “You set me up!” she snarled. “You spy on me. You completely invade my privacy. What gives you the right?”
“I've already told you,” Lazarus said calmly . . . “We are the most powerful people in this country. The usual rules do not apply to us, and as of tonight, they don't apply to you either.”
“And what if I'm not interested?” she asked with a measure of disdain. “What if I tell you to go fuck yourself?”
“Then we would drive you back to the airport,” Isadore contributed. “You would return to Los Angeles, and we would all pretend this meeting never took place. You would not hear from us ever again.”
“Oh, it's
that
simple,” she said sarcastically. “And what if I went to the media and told them all about your little club?”
The two men laughed. “You still don't get it.
We
control the media,” said Lazarus. “Besides, who would believe you? Headquarters? Secret society? It's all nonsense, right?”
Camille looked at them blankly.
“Now sit down and talk to us,” Lazarus said in a fatherly tone. “We all know the idea of becoming president appeals to you, so the righteous indignation is pointless. The challenge for you is getting past your middle-class sensibilities and accepting the fact they are no longer useful to you. Once you've accomplished that, everything else will come naturally.”
Camille relaxed her defensive stance and slowly returned to the wingback chair. Everything he said was accurate. Especially concerning her desire to be president. She rarely admitted it to herself. It was so farfetched she could hardly afford to entertain the notion. Governor, yes, without question. But . . . president? “
The country isn't ready yet,”
had always been her disheartened conclusion. That is . . . up until now.
“Talk to us, Camille,” Isadore said. “What are you thinking right now?”
In the context of the fantastic discussion, the rules Lazarus spoke of seemed to gradually dissolve. Being in the room, with Juliette Dupree looking down on her, had the effect of creating an entirely new and magnificent canvas upon which to paint her life.
“I'm not entirely sure what I'm thinking,” she said almost defensively. “I'm angry you took such liberties with my lifeâwhile at the same time, I'm honored. I feel betrayed by . . .” She stopped without completing the sentence and looked up at the portrait.
After a moment's pause she continued. “You obviously know it would be a lie if I said I wasn't interested.” She paused again. “What happens if I say yes?”
“Then you would go back to Los Angeles and let us do the hard work,” Lazarus said in a calm and reassuring tone. “We will ensure you become governor, and then president. We would, of course, keep you abreast of the important developments and guide you through the entire process.”
“That's it?” she said cynically. “You're asking me to turn my entire career over to you?”
“Basically, yes,” Isadore replied unapologetically.
Camille stood again and walked to the wooden box containing the telephone. She looked at it intently and ran the tips of her fingers over the pearl inlay on the lid.
“How much time do I have to think about it?” she asked without looking at the men.
“Take as much time as you need,” Lazarus said. “There's no rush.”
“There is, however, one more thing,” Isadore added slyly.
“And what is that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Sheridan,” he replied.
“What about him?”
“Please sit down, Camille,” Lazarus said.
“Are you familiar with a company named KeyCorp Development?” Isadore asked.
“Yes,” she said cautiously. “The city has bought several properties from them. What do they have to do with my husband?”
Isadore looked at Lazarus for permission to speak, which was again granted with a gentle nod of head.
“Camille,
Sheridan
is KeyCorp Development.”
Her legal mind calculated the ramifications of the statement with lightning speed. “That's ridiculous,” she said. “The CEO of KeyCorp is Michael something. Michael Kenigrant.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“Of course . . . I . . . no, but my staff has met with . . .” she stopped as her brain caught up with the answer.
“Camille,” Isadore said with as much compassion as he could muster, “Sheridan is Michael Kenigrant, which is why no one has ever met him.”
“I suppose you can prove it,” she said with her last ounce of fight.
“You'll learn quickly enough we don't say anything we can't back up,” Lazarus replied. “This week, Sheridan is scheduled to sign papers to finalize the purchase of the Playa del Rey property where you plan to build the stadium. His intent is to sell it to you for three to five times what he paid for it, just as he has done with many other properties in the city.”