The Kingmaker's Redemption E-Book

Harry Pinkus

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Fans of John Grisham will love The Kingmaker's Redemption with its intrigue and powerful courtroom showdown

When political kingmaker Jack McKay chooses to change the arc of his life by representing a candidate he really believes in, he unleashes the full fury of his former client Liberty Party leader, Randall Davies. Davies becomes laser focused on ruining Jack's career and his life by having Jack framed for a horrible crime he didn't commit. Randall's son, William, is the candidate opposing Jack's new client, Lindsay Revelle. Besides revenge, bringing Jack down would most certainly ensure Wialliam Davies' being elected.

When the Wisconsin Department of Justice launches a task force aimed at cracking down on child pornography around the state. Davies uses his sway over key individuals in Jack's orbit and their political connections to devise and implement a strategy using the DOJ's crackdown to implicate Jack in a crime he didn't commit.

The heart of the story is the struggle of Jack and his team to unravel the conspiracy aimed at destroying his life. Gaining his acquittal in a suspenseful courtroom showdown would not only prove his innocence, restore his reputation and reinstate his parental rights, it would ultimately bring down the Liberty Party, their candidate, and Randall Davies in the process. If he fails, his life is ruined.

Leseprobe

The Kingmaker’s Redemption

©2021 Harry Pinkus. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-952782-16-9 (p)

ISBN 978-1-952782-17-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021937850

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Allison Itterly

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I can’t imagine anyone writing and publishing a novel on their own. So many people have contributed to making mine a reality. First and foremost, I want to thank my wife Jackie and son David for their love and encouragement throughout the process. As in my life, I couldn’t have made it this far without them. I also want to acknowledge my Beta Readers: Kathy, Eric, Sue, Linda, and Patrick for their constructive critiques which steered my work in the right direction. Finally, I want to thank Terri and all the staff at BQB Publishing for bringing this project to life. Special thanks to my editors, Allison and Caleb, who taught me so much and guided me so adeptly to the finish line.

I would be remiss if I didn’t recognize the influence that our American system of government had on the arc of this story. While flawed in many ways, democracy is ultimately dictated by the will of the people. The individual struggles of our fellow citizens to achieve liberty and justice within that system is the story of America and was the inspiration for this book.

CHAPTER 1

The band was playing “Happy Days Are Here Again” as the newly elected candidate proclaimed victory, smiling to the cheering crowd with both arms raised above his head like a victorious prizefighter. “Seashells and balloons! Seashells and balloons!” Jack said, quoting former basketball coach Al McGuire. Not that he would have been heard over the cheers anyway. These election victory celebrations were opportunities for revelry, not conversation.

Jack McKay had guided another candidate through the morass of a special election campaign and brought him home a winner. On to the state legislature for Brian Gordon. Jack had done the same for Bill Richards, the current assemblyman who had resigned mid-term due to ill health, thus necessitating the special election. The Liberty Party would surely be most appreciative. Jack had again saved the district from the dreaded Opposition, a fact which was underscored by a tap on his shoulder.

“Nice job, Jack,” Randall Davies, the local Party chairman, bellowed as he pulled Jack into the hallway. “You’ve brought in another one.”

There was Jack, at a little over six feet tall, handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair, standing toe to toe with Randall, who was at least five inches shorter, balding, with a paunch and an unlit cigar in his hand. The two looked like something straight from central casting for a film noir drama.

“It was particularly difficult this time. Your boy actually had an opponent.”

Davies smiled. “Winning the unopposed races are equally important. Your ability to keep people out of a race is a wonderful byproduct of your many successes.”

“And the Party’s clout in the area doesn’t hurt either,” admitted Jack.

“Don’t sell yourself short, my boy. Power, money, and expertise are a winning formula. We supply the first two and you bring us home with the third.”

“Some would call it an unholy alliance.”

“Not at all.” Davies smirked. “It’s what moves our whole political system. Without influence, resources, and know-how, we’d only have ideas. And ideas are like an automobile—if you don’t have gasoline and a driver they go nowhere.”

“Wow, Randall. That’s deep.”

Jack knew full well that Davies’s idea of resources and knowhow included using any and all means necessary to achieve his objectives.

“So much for political theory,” said Davies. “I’ve got some business to discuss with you. We’d like to engage your firm to run our candidate for Congress. The primary is just a few months off, and we need to get started before the Opposition gets organized.”

The Reform Party had long struggled to gain a foothold in Wisconsin, and when the media dubbed them as the “Opposition,” the name stuck.

“So, who will you be running?” Jack asked.

“My son, William,” Davies said proudly.

His choice was an obvious one. Having his son in Congress would provide the perfect surrogate for Davies to achieve his objectives.

William was currently the head of the County Business Development Commission, an appointment his father had arranged by calling in a couple of markers. It was a visible enough position to get William’s name out, and one that allowed him to curry favor with the voters. A few well-placed, revenue-producing programs went a long way.

“Unopposed in the Party primary, I assume,” Jack said.

“Yes, and hopefully all the way to Washington,” Davies said proudly.

“Randall, I’m sure the Opposition will run someone. They can’t let a Congressional seat go unopposed.”

“True, but if we pull out all the stops early on, they will only put out a sacrificial lamb. They won’t waste a potentially strong candidate on a losing cause. We’re shooting for virtually unopposed.”

“Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out. Why do you need me?”

“You’re the expert, remember? And why do I have to sell you on this?” Davies smiled. “Here’s another guaranteed winner I’m dropping in your lap. A six-figure retainer to ride a shoe-in. Explain to me why you’re not, at this very moment, waving a contract in my face.”

“I just love it when you get angry,” Jack joked. “I’ll give it every consideration.”

He offered his hand. Davies took it and held it firmly in his enormous mitt. “I will hear from you by the end of next week.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“You will,” Jack assured him.

Davies released Jack’s hand and walked briskly away.

As Jack left the hall, he took a moment to reflect. He was a very skilled PR man. His specialization in getting candidates elected was unmatched, but had he turned into a puppet for the Liberty Party? He had worked for Reform Party candidates from time to time, but when the Liberty Party called, he always answered and ultimately delivered. The Liberty Party dominated the political landscape in southeast Wisconsin, gaining so much overwhelming influence that they had become known simply as “the Party,” and Jack had played a major role in that. Was it something to be proud of or just a way to make a living? Either way, he had most assuredly made a fine living.

His PR firm now had sixteen associates with clients ranging from major consumer products companies to candidates for the school board. In Lakeville, if you wanted to promote your product or your candidacy, you contracted with McKay & Associates.

While the firm was well respected in all areas, Jack specialized in politics. He was most skilled in getting hired to promote a candidate. His reputation was such that just his being retained was often enough to keep the opposing candidates at home. Capitalizing on a “hire me or I’ll find someone to run against you and make sure that they kick your ass” modus operandi, he intimidated numerous unopposed candidates into paying him to do nothing except to keep them unopposed. He rationalized that they got elected so they received fair value.

It did not, however, do much for his self-esteem, which was already waning. The cynical nature of the job was obviously taking a toll.

Jack hurried to his car in the crowded Marriott parking lot. It was a typical cool autumn night. This time of year, the brisk breeze off Lake Michigan was a sure sign that the seasons were changing. So, too, was his life.

The twenty-minute drive home gave him enough time to collect himself for the uncomfortable encounter that awaited him. It would be nothing unusual. A cool greeting from his wife Sandy, followed by a warm, adoring hug from his daughter Maya. It reminded him strangely of a hot fudge sundae, cold and hot all at once. That was his home life, a hot fudge sundae.

He was sleeping in the guest bedroom these days. Sandy was, as always, a warm and loving mom who took great pains to keep their home life as close to normal as possible. When Maya was around, Sandy was civil to Jack but showed no signs of affection toward him. Maya knew something was up but didn’t seem to be overly fazed by it. Six-year-olds were very perceptive, but Jack was convinced that her interpretation of what was going on was that Mommy and Daddy were mad at each other over some grown-up issue and that it would pass. Sandy was not about to let it pass.

Their house was one of those nouveau Tudors. It was enormous, almost six thousand square feet, and made to look like a seventeenth-century country estate in the Cotswolds. He parked the Lexus in the three-car garage and entered his castle.

“Maya, it’s time for bed,” Sandy ordered after Jack received his welcome-home hug from his gleeful daughter.

“Daddy just got here. Five more minutes, please!” Maya pleaded, pulling on her pigtails. She was small but nonetheless formidable when pleading her case.

“Daddy will tuck you in and that will be your five minutes.” Sandy had negotiated this before and was, like with this round, most often victorious.

Jack, the master dealmaker, was merely a bystander in these negotiations.

“Okay,” Maya conceded as she headed off to get ready for bed.

Jack turned to Sandy and told her, “You’re great at that.” He meant it.

“If only I had that kind of influence with you,” Sandy bemoaned. Her bright green eyes showed both anger and sadness.

“Listen, I have always respected your wishes,” Jack said as he stood. Even his seven-inch height advantage was no match for Sandy’s intensity.

“Let’s not have that discussion right now. It will only escalate, and we need to get Maya to bed. Tonight’s a school night, and it’s already an hour after her bedtime.”

“Fine, I’ll put her to bed and then we can put the boxing gloves on,” Jack said,

Sandy said nothing, but the tears in her eyes spoke volumes. Brokenness that had no tool for fixing. Where there was once a bright burning flame, he saw only a single ember, kept aglow for their daughter’s sake.

As ordered, Maya had gone to her stuffed-animal-filled room and was lying in bed when Jack entered. “Daddy, tell me a story,” she begged. Funny how all kids invoked that line to buy a few more minutes before lights out.

“Not tonight,” Jack responded. “It’s already way past your bedtime. I’ll owe you an extra one tomorrow.”

“All right, two stories tomorrow. Good, long ones with monsters and a princess and a turtle who’s really a handsome prince.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a frog who’s really a prince.”

“I like turtles better.”

“You also like to stall. Good night, little lady.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

Sitting on the edge of Maya’s bed, he kissed her, and then hugged her a little tighter than usual. Turning out the light, he closed the door and returned to the living room knowing that he had to go a few rounds with Sandy before he could rest.

“She’s in bed now. Let the games begin,” Jack kidded as he sat down in his usual spot, the leather armchair across from Sandy’s position on the couch.

Sandy kept a straight face. “It’s sad that you think this is in some way funny. Our marriage is ending. Our daughter will be devastated, and you see it as some kind of game.”

“What do you want from me? I’m only trying to be civil. A little humor makes it easier for me to deal with all this.”

“I didn’t see it as humor so much as trivializing our sorry state of affairs.”

“At least affairs aren’t part of our problem.”

“As far as I know,” she said sarcastically as she poured herself a glass of Merlot.

“Now who’s being pejorative,” he shot back.

“Okay. Let civility reign.”

“Sandy, I still love you and want a chance to try to save our marriage.”

“I know you do, but your version of love and mine are not in sync. I need to be the center of your universe along with Maya, of course. Your career consumes you to the point where there is almost nothing left for her and me. It would be unfair for me to ask you to change, even if I thought it possible. Which I don’t.”

“So, I get no chance to prove you wrong?” Jack poured himself a drink.

“No. I want out and expect you to go through with the collaborative divorce meeting on Monday. If we do this thing cooperatively, we can save a lot of pain for all of us, especially Maya.”

“Okay. But can I ask you one question?”

She nodded.

“Do you still love me?”

“I still love the memory of the man I married. Unfortunately, that man is long gone.”

This was feeling more and more like a prizefight, Jack thought. Lefts, rights, rounds won and lost. He decided it was time to throw in the towel.

“Fine. Monday then. I have a late dinner meeting tomorrow, but I’ll be home first to spend some quality time with Maya.”

“Good. I’m going to bed.”

Jack flipped on the TV and turned to the news. There was the victorious Brian Gordon with his hands thrust above his head like a football referee signaling a made field goal.

The newscaster reported, “The Liberty Party has retained the District Forty-Two seat in the state legislature. This win allows them to maintain their legislative majority.” Jack drifted off to sleep knowing that he had had a successful day on at least one front.

CHAPTER 2

Jack awoke to the sound of the garage door closing. It was Sandy driving off to take Maya to school. Somehow during the night he had made his way from the living room to the bed in the sparsely decorated guest room. He showered and dressed in the bathroom he shared with Maya, then headed to the kitchen where he wolfed down a bowl of Cheerios and headed off to the office.

The morning commute was routine until he encountered a dump truck full of gravel that was peppering the cars behind it. He was very protective of his new Lexus and imagined the flying gravel creating a galaxy of scratches on the hood and windshield of his $60,000 automobile. Jack popped the accelerator and flew around the truck. The exhilarating rush of horsepower did much more to wake him up than the triple latte he’d picked up at the Starbucks drive-through. The sheriff’s deputy had clocked him going eighty-five in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.

“I was trying to pass a gravel truck that was spewing its load all over the freeway,” Jack said.

“You passed him like he was standing still,” the deputy responded. “I had you at eighty-five miles an hour.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to save the paint job.”

“It’s my job to save lives. Your driver’s license and registration, please.”

Jack handed them over and watched in the rearview mirror as the deputy made his way back to his cruiser to run the plates and driver’s information through the on-board computer. He returned a few moments later.

“Your record is clean, Mr. McKay. I’m letting you off with a warning. Next time try to stay within the speed limit when taking evasive action. By the way, the sheriff says hi.”

Jack realized that his good fortune was due in large part to having run the sheriff’s campaign. The sheriff must have overheard the deputy calling in the incident and ordered the warning. Thankfully, he hadn’t run the opponent’s campaign.

The offices of McKay & Associates were housed in a converted warehouse building on Bay Street on the downtown side of the harbor. The building had been home to the Greenfield Grain Company for nearly one hundred years. The company folded in the early sixties and the building stayed mainly vacant until 1975 when the area became the focus of the early gentrification movement. With over two hundred thousand square feet, it was the largest vacant building in the harbor area with a lake view. Its proximity to downtown made it perfect for conversion to loft offices and condos. Jack’s firm had acquired a twenty-five hundred square foot space in 1995, two years after establishment of the firm.

McKay & Associates grew steadily in the nineties, and when the architectural firm next door closed in 1998, they expanded into that space, giving them a little over five thousand square feet. The offices were an open concept with exposed beams, painted pipes, and shiny industrial ductwork. The majority of the staff occupied high-tech cubicles arranged in pods. The key executives each had private offices with lake views. The two conference rooms were furnished in typical boardroom fashion: large, polished wood table with swivel chairs.

When Jack walked through the door that morning, he received a standing ovation from the staff. This was customary on the morning after a successful election outcome. It was a little awkward on those occasions when they represented several candidates running for various offices in the same election as invariably some won and some lost. But the unwritten rule was that the staff stood and applauded if anybody won.

“Well done, Jack,” congratulated Peter Evans, the firm’s managing partner. Peter was Jack’s right-hand man, almost from the beginning. Jack elevated him to partner after five years, allowing him to buy a minority stake over time using a portion of his annual bonus.

“Thanks, Peter, but it was a team effort as always.”

“Spoken like a twenty-game winner at an awards dinner.”

“Clichés are the lifeblood of PR, you know that.”

“Just calling them as I see ’em,” Peter said, carrying on the gag.

“So, what do we have going today?” Jack asked, returning to business.

“The Consolidated Foods people have decided to go with a regional firm and are ready to meet. They want a full capabilities presentation. It’s down to us and two other firms, one from Milwaukee and one from Chicago.”

“The meat of the sandwich again.’” Jack alluded to the geographical irony. Lakeville was right between the two on the map and was often considered an unsophisticated buffer zone, as it was half the size of Milwaukee and about a tenth the size of Chicago.

Getting the analogy, Peter responded. “The meat’s the best part.” Jack hoped so. Landing the contract for opening six grocery stores would be huge. The grand opening events alone would generate over $100,000 worth of billable hours. And they had the home court advantage. No firm knew Lakeville the way McKay & Associates did. But knowing the market and the ability to reach it were not the same. They needed to impress upon the client that they really knew their stuff and had as much firepower as the big city boys.

“Their key execs are coming in from their Atlanta headquarters to lay out their plans for entering the market and to review our capabilities. A typical meet-and-greet. They’ve scheduled us in for eleven on Monday morning,” Peter said.

“Crap!” Jack exclaimed. “I’ve got a commitment on Monday that’s going to be almost impossible to break.”

“We have to make that meeting,” Peter huffed. “Their people will only be in town on Monday. It’s then or not at all. I can handle it if you’re busy.”

“No, I’ll be there. This is too important to miss. Sandy’s going to have a fit.” Jack had to be there. Peter was extremely capable, but Jack was the personality. No one could sell the services of McKay & Associates like McKay himself.

“Your meeting is with Sandy? Sorry to pry, but what’s so important.”

“We’re getting a divorce,” Jack said, slumping into his private office.

“I’m very sorry,” Peter responded.

Jack knew it was no surprise. The rumors had been circulating for months. He closed the office door. His office was modern, like the rest of the company’s except for the antique mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. It was in terrific shape with just the right amount of wear to show it had been well used. Jack sat down at the desk and stared out the window at the harbor. All he heard was his assistant Donna rustling papers at her desk outside his office. Donna had long been the company cheerleader and den mother. She had joined the firm at the very beginning. At the outset she was the entire clerical staff. Her job grew as the company grew, eventually overseeing all of the office administrative functions. Jack made her his executive assistant, which allowed her to step back and enjoy some time off, something she seldom did.

His mood had turned sour. All of the exhilaration of the election victory ovation and making the finals of the Consolidated Foods deal was gone. How was he going to explain the need to change the meeting to Sandy? He told her he would make the session without fail. It would only serve as further evidence of his “business over family” attitude. He was certainly guilty of that most often, but this was a case of poor timing, not a conscious decision on his part.

The collaborative divorce session could be rescheduled without harm, he thought. The meeting in Chicago could not. The question was how to explain it to Sandy in a way that would not instigate another major battle. Ever the PR man, he would explain diplomatically that the circumstances, not his endeavors, created the scheduling conflict. He would clear his calendar to accommodate any mutually agreeable rescheduled date. In fact, this new contract, if won, stood to increase his net worth and therefore her share of their community property.

Gathering all of his arguments, he called Sandy on her cell phone. He knew full well she was going to be angry no matter how well he positioned the dilemma.

“Hi,” he said when she answered. “I’ve got a problem that I need to discuss with you.”

“We have lots of problems that need discussion. That’s why we’ve hired divorce attorneys,” she shot back.

“Funny that you should bring that up—”

“You’re not canceling for Monday, are you?” she interrupted.

“Well, yes,” Jack said rather sheepishly.

“Unbelievable. It took you less than a day to break your pledge. This really pisses me off. So, what’s your well-concocted excuse?” Her voice rose several octaves.

“The well-concocted excuse, as you call it, is very real. Consolidated Foods has set a meeting in Chicago for Monday. If we don’t attend, we’re out of the running for a huge contract.”

“Send Peter,” she countered.

“I can’t. We need all hands on deck for this one. My name is on the door, remember? My presence is required.”

“Your presence is required at our meeting too,” Sandy reminded him.

“Listen, I will clear my calendar for any alternate day or time. Cut me a little slack on this, please. I will make this up to you.” Jack pleaded, angrily tossing his notepad on the desk.

“I will see what I can do,” she said, mocking him. “As far as making it up to me, I’ll just add it to the long list of ‘make goods’ you owe me. Expect to pay off on all of your markers as we come up with a settlement. Jack, there is a price for everything, and your turn at the checkout counter is coming.” Sandy’s tone was extremely edgy, almost ominous.

Jack breathed a small sigh of relief. He knew his day of reckoning was coming, but he had apparently averted the issue for the moment. He now had to collect himself so he would be able to proceed with the Consolidated Foods meeting. Peter would be relieved.

Jack’s assistant buzzed the intercom. “Jack, Lindsay Revelle is holding on line three for you.”

“Thanks, Donna,” he answered. Curious as to what the call could possibly be about, he paused for a few seconds and then pressed the line-three button. “This is Jack McKay.”

A deep, warm voice on the other end said, “Mr. McKay, this is Lindsay Revelle. You probably don’t know who I am, but I’m considering a run for Congress and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“First, I do know who you are, and second, call me Jack.”

“Well, Jack. Will you take a meeting with me when I tell you that I am going to run against the Liberty Party candidate? Oh, and please call me Lindsay.”

“Lindsay, we have represented many candidates from the Reform Party.”

“The word on the street is that William Davies will be the candidate for the Party. I assumed your close working relationship with his father and the Party would preclude you from representing anyone else.”

“It wouldn’t, and if you assumed I wasn’t available, why are you calling?” Jack was somewhat puzzled.

“I was hoping you hadn’t committed to a candidate yet and that you had an open mind.”

“I haven’t and I do,” Jack assured him.

“Good. A meeting then?”

“Sure. When would you like to get together?”

“How does Monday sound?”

Jack laughed out loud.

“Did I say something funny, Jack?” Revelle said quizzically.

“No, Lindsay, not at all. It’s just that Monday’s schedule has been a collection of conflicts for me all day. How about lunch on Wednesday?”

“Lunch is fine with me, but do you want to be seen in public with me? Your Party friends might get uncomfortable.”

“You seem a lot more concerned about my relationship with the Party than I am. Besides, I could be meeting with you to talk you out of running against their guy or just seeking campaign advice from a Rhodes Scholar in political science.”

“You don’t need any advice from me on campaigning. That’s why I want to meet with you. I’m the one seeking counsel.”

“Wednesday lunch it is,” he said.

They made plans to meet at Kathryn’s, a delicious soul food restaurant. Jack was still pondering the phone call. Would he actually run a candidate with ideas who held real promise as a public servant? Randall Davies would string him up by his balls.

Jack returned to his desk and moved on to his emails, which were mostly the usual newsletters, press releases, and spam. A press release from the County Business Development Commission caught his eye. PetroMark Oil, a large oil and gas company, was looking for a location for a Great Lakes depot where tankers would off-load fuel that would ultimately be distributed to their Midwest gas stations. Lakeville was a potential site. McKay & Associates had represented PetroMark when they entered the market five years ago, and now they were considering working on William Davies’s campaign. The same William Davies who, for the last three years, chaired the County Business Development Commission.

He and Peter should stay on top of this one. PetroMark might need a little PR assistance, given the environmentally sensitive area of the harbor. Under the circumstances, young William would need to be guided through a potential political disaster if the PetroMark project encountered substantive local opposition and he was on the wrong side of public opinion.

“Peter, can you join me for a minute?” Jack squawked into the intercom.

“Be right in,” Peter replied.

Jack started in before Peter had made it all of the way through the doorway. “Did you see the tidbit on PetroMark looking for a depot site?”

“Yes. And I spoke with Rick Cartwright about it yesterday. He said they would like to work with us and we’re going to chat again tomorrow.”

“I suppose you didn’t feel this was worthy of mentioning.” Jack was visibly irritated and gave Peter a most disapproving stare.

“I was saving it for the staff briefing at ten. We always review these sorts of things at the briefing. It only happened yesterday after you left, and I’ve seen you for all of five minutes this morning. I’m not hiding anything, if that’s what the look is supposed to imply.”

“It’s just that big, new opportunities are the things that we live for. They are the ‘breaking down the doors to deliver the news’ kind of occasions,” Jack said in his most professorial tone. “Particularly when they’re tied into a political candidate that we’ve been asked to represent.”

“You mean William Davies is in on this?”

“Here. Look at this.” Jack showed Peter the press release email.

“Hmmm. Could be a conflict for us. What’s your take?”

“It’s an ethical dilemma for sure. Legally it may or may not be a problem. Regardless, if we take on Davies’s campaign, we should recommend that he recuse himself from the PetroMark project negotiations.”

“If?” Peter said in disbelief.

“Yes, if. We may want to go with the underdog candidate on this one.”

“Who’s the candidate?”

“Lindsay Revelle.”

“Lindsay Revelle? He can’t win.”

“We have backed a few long shots in the past.”

Peter was turning red. “Not like this one. Win or lose, the Party will blackball us until the twenty-second century. We’d be out of the political campaign business, and since the majority of our corporate clientele are affiliated with the Party, we’d be committing professional hara-kiri. And furthermore, if Lindsay Revelle opposes the PetroMark project, we lose on all counts. How can this be good for the firm?”

“As you said, we’ll discuss it at the staff meeting,” Jack said dismissively.

Peter left without a word. Jack envisioned steam whistling from Peter’s ears.

Could I really align myself with Lindsay Revelle? Jack pondered. Revelle certainly had all the right stuff: education, physical presence, progressive politics, and strong ties to the community. Even a reputation as a star basketball player. He rolled all of it around in his mind. Was it something he might really enjoy and reinvigorate his passion for politics or merely some quixotic attempt to save his self-esteem? One thing was certain. It would surely be a return to the roots of his political upbringing.

Growing up in a working-class home, in the Milwaukee south side neighborhood of Bay View, he adopted the belief early on that a well-organized group representing the common man could use the political process to compete with big money interests on legislative issues.

His father, Raymond, had been a foreman and union representative at Bucyrus-Erie, the company that manufactured giant industrial cranes in nearby Cudahy. Jack’s father instilled a strong work ethic in him early on. Jack had many chores, and he cut lawns and shoveled snow for spending money. It often seemed like his father was his foreman too. Actually, his father wanted a better life for Jack and recognized his ability, if not the drive in him. He used to say, “Jack, you need to go out on a limb sometimes, that’s where the fruit is.”

His father also introduced Jack to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Together, they watched all the old movies with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. Jack read all the original short stories and books. He was particularly influenced by Sherlock’s oft-repeated saying, “You see, but you do not observe.” He took it to heart. Attention to details helped him in school, on the basketball court, and in business.

His father’s union involvement in those days gave Jack insights into their political power. Candidates got nowhere without their support. How times had changed. Union members had become much more independent, seldom voting as a bloc. They had also gotten much more conservative, coming curiously close in ideology to the big money interests they once opposed. It occurred to Jack that the African American and Hispanic political groups had the potential to wield political clout in much the same way as the unions once did. It was a detail that weighed heavily, and it reminded him of his father.

His intercom buzzed with another incoming call from Donna. “The staff is waiting for you in the large conference room for the briefing,” she reminded him.

“I’m on the way.”

When Jack walked into the crowded conference room, Peter was passing out copies of the County Business Development Commission’s press release on the PetroMark project to the six-person team seated around the large wood conference table with a pile of file folders and a laptop in front of each team member. Jack took a seat, grabbing coffee and a sweet roll on the way.

Peter began the briefing. “As you all know, we have represented PetroMark in the past. I spoke with Rick Cartwright, their executive VP, and they’d like us to represent them on this. We would be working directly with Don Buckley, their VP of marketing. Jack and I feel there may be a conflict if we choose to represent William Davies for Congress. His commission is negotiating with PetroMark for the land, tax concessions, etc. Thoughts?”

“Is there a legal conflict for Davies?” Carol Meyers asked. She was the head of McKay’s Marketing Communications Department and effectively number three in the organization.

“I don’t think so,” interjected Jack.

“Then why would it be a problem for us?” Carol asked.

“It’s not that it would be a problem for us,” Jack responded. “It’s because it could be a problem for both of the clients by creating the appearance of collusion. We would be the connection between them. With us being tied to both, they in turn would be tied to each other. That perception would damage both of their causes. Not exactly the positive PR they would be looking for from us.”

“I see your point. Which client do we choose?” Carol asked.

“Jack has another variable to throw into the hopper,” Peter interjected somewhat sarcastically.

Jack laid out the details and implications of Lindsay Revelle’s call. When he finished his scenario, he could tell not everyone was sold.

“So,” he said in admission, “we have quite a maze to traverse.”

Peter was the first to respond. “It seems to me the best option is just to sign on with PetroMark and sit out the campaign. They can be a lucrative, long-term client whereas the candidates could be a once and done deal. Even if they win and continue to use us in the future, it still doesn’t match what PetroMark can mean to us.”

The heads around the table were bobbing up and down in agreement, except for Jack’s.

Peter looked at Jack quizzically. “You don’t agree?”

“It’s definitely the safest approach,” Jack asserted. “I’d like to have my meeting with Lindsay Revelle before we decide. If he doesn’t present some compelling reason for us to run his campaign, I’ll go along with the group. The more I think about it, the less I want to work with Davies. This situation gives us the perfect out with PetroMark being a long-standing client.”

If Jack knew anything about Peter, he knew his business associate was squaring him up, deep down preparing for battle should Jack try to impose his own will on the firm.

CHAPTER 3

As promised, Jack hurried home from work to spend time with Maya. As he drove, Jack reflected on how he and Sandy had met nine years earlier when Jack was doing the PR for an event to commemorate a new wing at the art museum. Sandra Freeman, “call me Sandy,” was the assistant to the managing director of the museum. They had worked together planning the event and took an immediate liking to one another.

She was smart, funny, and very attractive. Jack had long been a bachelor and was not easily infatuated. In Sandy, however, he found that certain someone who totally captivated him. She, too, was taken in. He was tall, dark, and handsome, not to mention accomplished. The romance moved quickly. They were living together within a few weeks and married less than a year later. Now they were adversaries in a crumbling marriage.

Jack arrived as Maya was finishing her favorite meal, macaroni and cheese. Sandy nodded hello and vacated the kitchen quickly when he arrived.

“Daddy, want some mac and cheese? Mommy made lots.”

“No thanks, honey. I have a dinner meeting later.” Jack grabbed a Pabst Blue Ribbon from the refrigerator instead.

“I thought we were going to have a story night and everything.” Maya pouted.

“We are. My meeting doesn’t start until after your bedtime.”

“You work too much.” Maya sounded very much like her mother.

Jack couldn’t disagree. “You’re right. But I’m home now so let’s have some fun.”

“It’s story time,” she squealed as they adjourned to her bedroom.

Jack spent the next hour and a half by Maya’s bed telling her stories. Some he read, some he made up. They all had happy endings, which, like all fathers, he wanted Maya’s life story to have. He promised her silently he would do everything he possibly could so his little princess lived happily ever after.

After tucking her in and telling her the story of the turtle who became a handsome prince, he turned out the light and headed to the garage. On the way out, he encountered Sandy in the kitchen cleaning up.

“I’m really sorry about Monday. I know it will be a hassle rescheduling. It was unintentional, I assure you,” he said in his most conciliatory manner.

“I’ve reset it for Wednesday at two. I trust you can make it.”

“I have a twelve-thirty lunch date. It will be tight, but I can make it work.”

“See that you do.”

Jack resisted the temptation to respond. It would only end in rancor and cause him to be late for his dinner meeting. He left saying nothing further.

Jack accepted for the first time that his marriage was actually over. He had hoped somehow, someway he could save it. His feelings for her hadn’t gone away but Sandy was so bitter and full of blame directed at Jack, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. It was time to move on, and no one would be a better sounding board than his dinner companion, Mickey Martin.

Mickey had been the first big-name client of Jack’s firm. In fact, he was Jack’s first client period. Jack moved to Lakeville from Milwaukee in 1992 after a four-year stint with Blackburn & Benjamin. B&B was the premier PR agency in Milwaukee and probably the entire Midwest. Jack had always wanted to be involved in the political campaign side of the firm but was stymied by his boss, Norman Dudley, who ran that department and didn’t care for Jack at all. Jack was the young up-and-comer, and Norman Dudley was old school. They clashed at every intersection. Jack knew if politics were to be in his immediate future, it would not be at B&B.

Jack’s big break came when Mickey called and announced he was running for Circuit Court Judge in Lakeville and wanted him to run the campaign. Jack jumped at the chance and bolted from B&B to open McKay & Associates.

Mickey was an old family friend, having met Jack’s father when Mickey defended some of the union workers involved in a highly publicized picket-line scuffle during a labor dispute. In those days, Mickey was ever the people’s champion, always rising up to protect the oppressed and unfairly accused. He relished being the underdog in a case. His reputation grew after winning numerous high-profile cases against enormous odds. He was a larger-than-life character, sort of a combination of Rocky Balboa and Robin Hood.

As esteemed as he was as a defense attorney, it was as a circuit court judge where Mickey did his best and most important work. He was known throughout the county as the most fair and impartial arbiter of justice in the court system. It was rare to find a judge so universally praised by both defense and prosecuting attorneys.

In his first election campaign, Mickey had fierce competition from the Party. Jack was masterful in exploiting Mickey’s reputation as the people’s champion fighting against the big political machine. Ironically, that campaign ultimately brought the Party to Jack’s doorstep, retainer in hand. Jack’s first and possibly greatest political accomplishment was getting Mickey elected to the bench in 1993. Fifteen years later, Mickey would be standing on the other side of the same bench.

Easing the Lexus onto the freeway, Jack dialed Mickey’s number on his cell phone.

Mickey answered quickly, “Jack, how are you?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“The powers of deductive reasoning, my dear Watson,” Mickey said in a poor imitation. “I was expecting your call. I seldom get any others except solicitations, so it was a good guess. Anyway, I had my housekeeper program special rings for certain callers. Amazing devices these new phones. Even a blind man like me can have caller ID.”

Mickey teased about modern technology even though he’d had one for years.

“What would you like to eat? I can bring something in, or we can go out,” Jack offered.

“Let’s go to Scarfido’s. I’d love a pizza and some garlic bread.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mickey was legally blind, the result of a horrific car accident seven years ago on Valentine’s Day. He was an alcoholic, and that night he was driving home drunk from a romantic evening out with his wife, Dolores. Mickey had lost control of the car and drove into a ditch, flipping his Oldsmobile over four times. Dolores was thrown from the car and killed. Mickey suffered multiple broken bones and head trauma, rendering him almost completely blind. He endured a long, painful recovery in the hospital followed by an equally painful court battle on felony charges for drunk driving and manslaughter. Most of all, he suffered the painful loss of his wife and family.

Dolores had been the center of his universe for more than thirty years. She shared his life in every way. On that fateful night, he’d not only lost the love of his life, but he’d lost the love of his daughter, Roberta. Bobbie, as she was called, could not forgive him and subsequently moved to Madison. They had not spoken since.

His life was shattered. His wife was dead, his daughter was estranged, his career and eyesight were gone, and he only had himself and his alcoholism to blame. After a successful plea bargain, Mickey did thirty-nine months for involuntary manslaughter in a minimum-security facility in Allenton. It was there where he started to put his life back together. After overcoming the physical effects of withdrawal, he attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings to work on his sobriety and emotional scars. His salvation was the only way to acknowledge Dolores’s sacrifice. Mickey studied the disease and wrote articles on alcoholism treatment and worked to draft legislation to fund programs that assisted the afflicted and their families. He had found a new purpose for his life.

When Jack drove up in front of Mickey’s, His Honor was sitting on the porch in one of his unusual costumes enjoying the beautiful fall evening. Mickey had always been the Antichrist of sartorial splendor, but after he lost thirty pounds in prison and stopped drinking, his appearance got downright silly. Mickey hated to spend money, particularly on clothes, so he refused to buy anything new that fit his current physique. So, there he was, all of five-six, looking like a fourteen-year-old boy going to a junior high school dance wearing his father’s blue blazer. A green- and white-striped shirt over madras plaid pants completed the comical ensemble.

“It’s nice to see you, Mickey. Dressed to the nines as always,” Jack opined.

“I wish I could return the compliment,” Mickey joked. Mickey’s blindness wasn’t total. He lived in a visual fog, only able to make out vague shapes and varying degrees of light. He saw just enough to allow him to live on his own. Fiercely independent, he took great pride in navigating without assistance.

“You see a whole lot more than you let on. I wish I had your powers of observation.”

“And my good looks,” Mickey playfully added.

“Enough with the amusing pleasantries. Let’s get going. I’m hungry and I have some serious stuff to discuss with you.” Jack took Mickey’s arm.

“My counsel comes at significant cost,” said Mickey.

“So I’m buying dinner again?”

“Yes. My pension from prison is meager,” Mickey lamented tongue-in-cheek.

“Are you kidding me? You still have your confirmation money. I’m only buying dinner because I feel sorry for you, you cantankerous, old sot.”

“Insults. You expect me to be an enjoyable dinner companion and to give you the benefit of my infinite wisdom and you insult me. I should turn around and go back in the house.”

“You won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hungry and I’m buying. Besides, you know I love you.”

“I do, but I still won’t sleep with you.”

It was good to know the playful repartee had never been lost.

On the way to Scarfido’s Pizza, Jack laid out the firm’s dilemma with PetroMark and Davies. Then he rounded out the story with the call from Lindsay Revelle.

“Well,” Mickey said, pausing for emphasis, “Peter’s solution is certainly the easiest and most prudent. You can probably get off the hook with the Party citing your ongoing representation with PetroMark. Randall Davies will most likely hit the ceiling, but you’d be able to move on without burning that bridge. That is, if you don’t sign on with Revelle.”

“Agreed.”

“But you seem intrigued with Revelle. Is it that you feel an affinity toward him because you were both jocks who turned out to have more to offer than a sweet fifteen-foot jump shot?”

“First of all, I rode the pines for four years in Madison. I’d hardly call myself a jock. Lindsay Revelle is a Rhodes Scholar. A well-respected man of ideas. The fact he averaged over twenty points per game in college and was known as ‘Ring the Bell Revelle’ has nothing to do with it.”

“Spoken like a true PR man. Are you sure he hasn’t hired you already?”

Without answering, Jack pulled into a parking space in front of the restaurant and took Mickey inside. Scarfido’s was a Lakeville classic. It opened in 1953 and hadn’t been updated since. Top-notch thin-crust pizza had made them the local favorite among those who preferred the wafer-thin, crisp variety to the deep-dish Chicago style. The crowded bar area still smelled of cigarette smoke from the past. The feisty waitresses scurried about the dining room serving pizza and drinks to hungry patrons seated at tables and booths covered in plastic tablecloths.

They made their way to their customary corner table in the back of the dining room. The waitress knew they didn’t need menus. Mickey agreed to share their usual, a large cheese and sausage along with an order of garlic bread, but with one caveat. “I’ll share, but no pepperoni.” Getting down to the business at hand, Mickey put both hands on the table and leaned towards Jack.

Listen. The real question is whether or not you’re willing to risk your livelihood for what you believe in. And frankly, you’re not even sure what you believe in since you haven’t yet met with Revelle. You must be expecting a Revelle-ation,” he quipped.

Jack smiled. “Your puns are getting worse in your old age. It’s not that all of a sudden. If I’ve gotten religion, it’s because I need a change from doing what’s expected or easy. I want to enjoy the challenge which can only come when the outcome is in doubt.”

“Sounds like religion to me.”

“Come on, Mickey. I’m talking about changing my life here.”

“Why the sudden revelation? Sorry, I mean new direction for your life. Is there something more going on here you haven’t shared with me?” Mickey said

“Well, there is one small thing. Sandy wants a divorce,” Jack replied sarcastically.

“Small thing, hmm. I’d hate for you to omit any big things.”

“That’s it for now. What’s your advice?”

“Stay away from the pepperoni. It’ll talk back to you all night. The last time I had the pepperoni, I drank an entire bottle of Maalox.”

“Mickey!” Jack growled, wanting Mickey to get back to the subject at hand.

“OK. I’m giving no marriage counseling, but it certainly complicates matters. You’re going to have to seek advice on that subject elsewhere. I will, however, be watching out for Maya’s wellbeing. I take that responsibility of being a Godfather very seriously. As far as your career is concerned, you obviously need to meet with Revelle and decide if he is the man you think he is. If in fact he is, you owe your associates an in-depth explanation of your position and together you need to decide what’s best for all concerned. They have a tremendous stake in all of this, particularly Peter. The long-term implications for the firm are enormous.”

“You’re right on all counts.