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Authors: Mavis Kaye
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aloud when he finally steered the green beauty out onto Inter-state 30 and headed west toward his Arlington retreat. The rush of afternoon air, warm but dry, and sight of the long, flat expanse of highway ahead, eased his tension a bit, so, despite his problems, he decided that seeing Brigette later was not a bad idea.
As he shifted into fifth gear and eased the speedometer up past seventy miles per hour, he reached into the glove compartment for his cellphone. The car had just reached eighty when he pressed the talk button and dialed Brigette’s number. The phone rang twice before he heard a loud popping noise underneath the car. Instinctively he pressed his foot to the brake, then began frantically pumping them when the car didn’t respond. Before he could swerve to avoid the colli-sion, the Porsche slammed into the back of the slower-moving U-Haul truck ahead of him. The truck was driven twenty-five yards before it came to a halt with the totaled sports car buried in its rear end.
16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 51
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FIVE
Washington, D.C.—Thursday, July 19
C o ng res s m a n D av e Ha m l i n (R-Idaho) stood in front of the wide, triple-paneled mirror in the immaculate art deco men’s room at Georgia Brown’s, the upscale soul-food restaurant on 15th Street in downtown Washington. As the elected representative of the Second Congressional District in Idaho, Hamlin was a first-term congressman. In most Washington circles, he was both an anomaly and a curiosity. And for many members of the Congressional Black Caucus he was an embarrassment. The Caucus, however, had little choice in accepting him. He was, after all, black, or, as he insisted, brown.
Staring into the mirror now, his reflection appeared blurry and distorted, and he wavered unsteadily as he blinked his eyes and leaned closer to the crystal-clear glass. He was drunk. Smiling, he peered at his image, and in a deep baritone voice intoned, “My fellow . . . Amer-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 52
52
W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?
icans.” He repeated the phrase several times and laughed as the sound echoed throughout the empty room.
“My fellow Americans,” he began again, “I come before you to stand behind you . . . to tell you something you already know.”
Then, straightening his black bow tie and adjusting the lapels of his tux, his expression shifted. He thought of all the occasions when he had been and would again have to be perfectly serious despite having had a few too many cocktails. He pulled his shoulders back, drew himself up to his full height of five-seven, and set his round, bloated face in a mask of statesmanlike propriety. “My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight, at this historic juncture in our great nation’s political life, to announce my candidacy for president of the United States.
I am deeply humbled by your unwavering support. . . .”
He smiled at the authoritative timbre of his voice, the ease with which he could shift and project deep sincerity even when, as now, he was thoroughly intoxicated. And if things kept going his way, he might have to speak to the American people in exactly that manner. Congressman Dave Hamlin was convinced that he had been chosen to undertake the historic journey that had started back with his election as the first and only African American ever to be elected president of a senior class at Mountain View High School in Twin Falls, Idaho.
Today that journey had been fueled considerably. Earlier in the day an aide had informed him that his support for the current farm subsidies bill had elicited a huge contribution to his political action committee by the owners of a major midwestern agricultural cartel.
The beauty of his position was that the general public would applaud him for supporting the nation’s small-farm owners. It couldn’t be better, he thought; he was indeed blessed. Yes, throughout his life, doing the right thing had been extremely
As he shifted into fifth gear and eased the speedometer up past seventy miles per hour, he reached into the glove compartment for his cellphone. The car had just reached eighty when he pressed the talk button and dialed Brigette’s number. The phone rang twice before he heard a loud popping noise underneath the car. Instinctively he pressed his foot to the brake, then began frantically pumping them when the car didn’t respond. Before he could swerve to avoid the colli-sion, the Porsche slammed into the back of the slower-moving U-Haul truck ahead of him. The truck was driven twenty-five yards before it came to a halt with the totaled sports car buried in its rear end.
16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 51
,
<
<
,
FIVE
Washington, D.C.—Thursday, July 19
C o ng res s m a n D av e Ha m l i n (R-Idaho) stood in front of the wide, triple-paneled mirror in the immaculate art deco men’s room at Georgia Brown’s, the upscale soul-food restaurant on 15th Street in downtown Washington. As the elected representative of the Second Congressional District in Idaho, Hamlin was a first-term congressman. In most Washington circles, he was both an anomaly and a curiosity. And for many members of the Congressional Black Caucus he was an embarrassment. The Caucus, however, had little choice in accepting him. He was, after all, black, or, as he insisted, brown.
Staring into the mirror now, his reflection appeared blurry and distorted, and he wavered unsteadily as he blinked his eyes and leaned closer to the crystal-clear glass. He was drunk. Smiling, he peered at his image, and in a deep baritone voice intoned, “My fellow . . . Amer-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 52
52
W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?
icans.” He repeated the phrase several times and laughed as the sound echoed throughout the empty room.
“My fellow Americans,” he began again, “I come before you to stand behind you . . . to tell you something you already know.”
Then, straightening his black bow tie and adjusting the lapels of his tux, his expression shifted. He thought of all the occasions when he had been and would again have to be perfectly serious despite having had a few too many cocktails. He pulled his shoulders back, drew himself up to his full height of five-seven, and set his round, bloated face in a mask of statesmanlike propriety. “My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight, at this historic juncture in our great nation’s political life, to announce my candidacy for president of the United States.
I am deeply humbled by your unwavering support. . . .”
He smiled at the authoritative timbre of his voice, the ease with which he could shift and project deep sincerity even when, as now, he was thoroughly intoxicated. And if things kept going his way, he might have to speak to the American people in exactly that manner. Congressman Dave Hamlin was convinced that he had been chosen to undertake the historic journey that had started back with his election as the first and only African American ever to be elected president of a senior class at Mountain View High School in Twin Falls, Idaho.
Today that journey had been fueled considerably. Earlier in the day an aide had informed him that his support for the current farm subsidies bill had elicited a huge contribution to his political action committee by the owners of a major midwestern agricultural cartel.
The beauty of his position was that the general public would applaud him for supporting the nation’s small-farm owners. It couldn’t be better, he thought; he was indeed blessed. Yes, throughout his life, doing the right thing had been extremely
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