The Committee (2 page)

“Not again, Lord,” she said through tears. “Don't let it happen again.”

Hattie's watch began to tick once again. The second hand resumed its normal course. The fog lifted and neatly hoed rows of greens, beans, and peppers surrounded her like soldiers standing guard over a wounded warrior.

 

 

The council chamber at Los Angeles City Hall was filled to capacity. Hundreds more squeezed into the balcony, and the overflow crowd in the halls pressed toward the massive double doors, each taking turns trying to convince the security guard they were important enough to enter the auditorium.

The drone of a thousand conversations drifted to the cathedral ceiling and bounced off the marble walls. A gaggle of photographers and reporters sat on the floor in front of the podium beneath the eye line of the audience. Two 300-inch monitors hung to the left and right of center stage, each beaming the live image of the empty dais.

It was almost 6:00 p.m. The room grew anxious in anticipation of the mayor's entrance. The side door opened and Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway entered the room just as the walls threatened to vibrate from the chatter.

The babble of a thousand words swirling in the air suddenly crashed to the floor the moment she set foot in the room. Within seconds, the only sound heard were Camille's red Prada soles walking across the 100-year-old maple wood floor toward center stage. As usual, Camille took full control simply by entering the room. Was it because she was stunning? Or was it the way her perfectly formed five-feet-nine-inch body effortlessly sliced through the air like a shard of light on a starless night. Maybe it was the chilling black Yves St. Laurent blazer and skirt, which appeared to have been sewn directly onto her body. A white ruffled collar and cuffs provided the perfect accent for the masterfully crafted suit.

Whatever the cause, Camille was in control long before she made eye contact with anyone in the room. She planted her feet confidently behind the lectern and flashed the smile that ruled the city. The audience stood reverently and applauded as cameras from the front of the room flashed furiously to capture every glint of her white smile, shimmering hair, and glistening eyes.

Camille humbly acknowledged the recognition with a nod and wave as she scanned the room with keen eyes storing every detail for future use. A mane of silky black hair framed a face far too beautiful for the rough-and-tumble world of big-city politics. Her flawless skin glowed like amber in the halo of camera flashes.

Camille allowed the ovation to run its course before she spoke. The audience took their cue and returned silently to their seats as she readied her lips to speak.

“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for joining me in my sixth State of the City address,” were the first words she spoke. “I am honored to serve as the forty-third mayor of Los Angeles; a world-renowned international city that celebrates diversity and leads the way in job creation, innovation, education, health care, and the environment for our future generations.”

Her sensuous tone coated the room like a layer of warm honey. Seductive undercurrents lulled even her most ardent enemies into a suspended state of unwilling submission.

Camille was born less than two miles from where she now stood. Adopted at birth by two doting parents who, from the moment they laid eyes on her, believed she was destined for greatness. No one was surprised when her IQ tested at 158 in high school. Her parents mortgaged their home to put her through college. She received an undergraduate degree in political science from UCLA in three years and a Juris Doctor from Harvard before turning twenty-four. She effortlessly passed the California Bar exam on her first attempt. There was no other place in the world she could be at this moment, other than standing center stage at city hall.

“Greetings to the president of the city council, Salvador Alvarez, and to all the members of the city council. Greetings to the many city commissioners, elected officials, department heads, and to all our honored guests here tonight.”

Camille masterfully scanned the room as she spoke without notes or teleprompter. She made direct eye contact with someone in the room with every sentence. All present would have their very own two-second private audience with the mayor before the end of her State of the City address.

“At the dawn of this new year, and the third year of my second term, the state of our great city is still vital and strong. As strong financially and economically as we have ever been in our history.

“Nevertheless, we must also recognize there are still fractures in the strong foundation we have built, tears in the social fabric that, if we do not attend to with all our energies, will erode that foundation and reverse our dramatic progress.”

Camille methodically increased the rate she spoke. The words soon took on the cadence of a learned Baptist preacher crossed with a seasoned politician on a winning campaign.

“Jobs and confidence are back, but our economic recovery has still left thousands of people behind.

“Our neighborhoods are revitalized and new construction is all around us, but some still look to the future, anxiously, and wonder whether there's room for them in a changing Los Angeles.”

Sheridan Hardaway sat quietly in a front row, aisle seat, with fingers intertwined at his chin and legs crossed at the knee. The tip of his Gucci loafer pointed directly up at his wife and the black Armani suit wrapping his six foot four frame looked as dashing sitting as it did when he stood.

For many in the room it was difficult to decide who to look at . . . the beautiful charismatic mayor at center stage or her painfully handsome husband, with hair like luscious black whipped cream only yards away.

“Too many of our residents, people who work hard and make a decent wage, men and women squarely in the middle class, grow frustrated, as the city becomes ever more expensive and their dream of starting a family or owning a home falls further out of reach.

“This rising cost of living, the financial squeeze on our city's working- and middle-class families—these are the fundamental challenges of our time, not just for our city, but for great cities around the world.”

Tony Christopoulos, the mayor's chief of staff, recited the speech word-for-word along with Camille in his head. “
And to sustain our economic recovery and this renewed confidence in our city, we must confront these challenges of affordability directly, in the Los Angeles way, big-hearted, but clearheaded.”
He knew every word . . . because he wrote it.

He beamed with a silent pride in the seat next to Sheridan. His eloquent words delivered by such a ravishing and influential mouthpiece was more than the twenty-nine-year-old Harvard graduate from Dowagiac, Michigan, could have ever imagined happening in his life. Camille liked to surround herself with beautiful things, and Tony was no exception. His brilliant analytical mind alone was justification enough to trust such a young man with the important position, but his Abercrombie & Fitch body and face made it impossible for her to select any other candidate as her number one man. She trusted him with her political life.

Camille continued after another raucous ovation following her last proclamation. “One of the fundamental responsibilities of any mayor is ensuring public safety. Los Angeles remains one of the safest big cities in America. Thank you, Police Chief Nettles, Adult Probation Chief Wasserman, Juvenile Probation Chief Fullerman, and District Attorney Hansel Patterson.

“Homicides are down 30 percent from last year, among the lowest in forty years, with shootings half of what they were ten years ago. But we can do better.

“With new police and fire academies made possible by our economic recovery, we'll hire and train more first responders, from 911 dispatch operators to firefighters to police officers. Soon you'll see more officers walking a neighborhood beat, from Wilshire Boulevard to Third Street to the South Central.”

Camille's glance rested an extra second on one of the reporters in the faceless clutter at the front of the room. She recognized Gideon Truman from his network news program.
What is the national media doing here?
she silently considered between promises of improved public transportation and a new baseball stadium.
That's curious.
Their eyes locked in the span of a few seconds. The two most influential people in the room exchanged an imperceptible acknowledgment of each other's powerful impact on the world.

“The new Doberman Stadium will be a multiuse indoor 175,000-seat arena,” Camille continued. “It will house our beloved Los Angeles Doberman Baseball franchise, which we all lovingly refer to as ‘The Dobers,' becoming the new home of the Dobers who have called Los Angeles their home since 1958. The project will be financed privately, and the land will be purchased by the city of Los Angeles. The team would be given a sixty-six-year lease for the arena.”

Camille spoke for exactly one hour, six minutes, and twenty-two seconds, stopping only to allow applause following every touted accomplishment and proposed initiative. The audience collectively decided to remain on their feet at the fifty-two-minute mark. There was no reason to sit. The room and every person watching the live feed from the comfort of their home was now more in love with Camille than they were on the day they cast an avalanche of votes ranking her the U.S mayor with the highest-winning margins for two consecutive terms.

Camille stepped from behind the podium and walked to the edge of the stage headfirst into a storm of applause and cheers at the climactic conclusion. She went from one end of the stage to the other, blowing kisses to crowd and flashing the victory sign. She was a rock star and, thanks to Gideon Truman, the entire country was now watching.

The lobby at city hall quickly filled with the same faces that Camille had just shared her vision for the future of the city with. Waiters in cinched vests and ties pirouetted among the crowd balancing trays of champagne, sparkling water, and assorted hors d'oeuvres. A circle of two-story marble pillars held a mosaic concaved ceiling arched over the who's-who of the city. State and local politicians, deep-pocket Democratic donors, and corporate power brokers oozed from every crack in the Italian tiled floor. The mood was festive, and the smell of success and power was in the air. Camille delivered the speech that could easily catapult her to the governor's mansion, and everyone present knew it.

She was surrounded by a squadron of reporters, each clamoring for her attention.

“Mayor Hardaway, you've had another amazing year,” one shouted over the crowd. “What do you say to the critics who said you didn't have enough political experience to run a city the size of Los Angeles?”

The question caught Camille's attention. She deemed it worthy of a response. “I'd say the facts prove they were wrong. Under my leadership Los Angeles has fully recovered from one of the worst economic downturns since the Great Depression and is now more vital and stronger financially and economically than we have ever been in our history,” she replied immodestly.

“You have one year left until you're termed out,” another reporter shouted from the three-deep circle around her. “What are your plans after you leave office?”

Another question warranting her attention. “I haven't thought that far ahead. I know whatever I'll do, it will be in the service of the people of this great city and state.”

The reporters continued peppering Camille with questions. “Do you have plans to run for governor?” a bold member of the press asked. Another called out, “Have you considered running for senator?” She took a step toward them and the corps parted as she politely replied, “As I said, I haven't decided yet. Now if you will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I really must circulate. I'm neglecting my guests.”

Camille moved from circle to circle in the room. She shook hands, signed autographs, and posed for selfies. It was her night, and she was in her element. She worked the room with the finesse and grace of a ballerina. A thousand eyes followed her every move. All observed and appreciated each toss of her hair and calculated flash of her smile.

Gideon Truman was no exception. He had interviewed presidents, A-list celebrities, two popes, and international dignitaries, but there was something unusual about Camille Hardaway. He didn't know exactly what.
She is undeniably beautiful,
he thought as he watched her from across the lobby.
But that isn't it.

His keen reporter eyes followed her as she transitioned from one conversation to the next, leaving no one feeling snubbed or dismissed. Camille knew how and when to make enemies, but tonight wasn't the time. It was a time to shine and to bask in the glory of her successes.

The longer Gideon watched her, the more uneasy he grew. His stomach began to gurgle as he found himself transfixed by her every move. He couldn't take his eyes away, even when he tried.
There's something not right about that woman,
he concluded as her maneuvers brought her only three feet away. The gurgle in his gut escalated to a gentle rumble.