Paper Gods Page 4

  “Mayor Dobbs, will you run for his seat?” Bridges asked again.

  Before he could utter another syllable, Victoria lowered her head and raised her palm. She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up at Bridges.

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Bridges,” she said. “Our focus and yours should be on the lives lost in that sanctuary. Our thoughts must remain with those who are still fighting for their lives. Whatever the political questions of the day, they can and will wait. We are all here, including you, by God’s mercy.

  “Representative Hawkins is at rest, but if he were here now, he would tell you that the Fifteenth District never belonged to him but to the people of Georgia,” she said. “Atlanta has lost another of her sons. An angel in our midst, Congressman Hawkins belongs to the ages now, but my thoughts and prayers are with all of the families. Need I remind you that four people were murdered here today in the halls of Dr. King’s church? As mayor of this great city, I can tell you that no effort or expense will be spared to track down the perpetrator of these vile acts. What happened here will not go unanswered.”

  The mayor then paused and said, “There will be justice.”

  FIVE

  Forty-five minutes later, Hampton wheeled himself into the dimly lit newsroom and through the bank of empty cubicles until he got to the last row. He parked himself at his desk and was busy transcribing his notes when Tucker Stovall poked his head over the partition.

  “Kathy Franco is on her way in. She’ll take the shooting and you take the politics. I expect you to handle this delicately.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I already asked the mayor if she planned to run in the special election,” Hampton said. “She still loves me, you know?”

  “Who’re you kidding? Dobbs would sooner see you run through a wood chipper, ass first. Tell me you didn’t ask the mayor about her political ambitions.”

  “Of course, I did.” Hampton shrugged. “You should’ve seen her making eyes at me, Tuck. It was just like old times.”

  “Last I recall, and correct me if I misstate the facts, she was threatening to burn this whole damn paper to the ground with an eight-fucking-figure lawsuit. It took us six weeks to get a beat reporter back inside City Hall. Dammit, I knew I shouldn’t have sent you out there.”

  Hampton couldn’t hold back a laugh. Tucker wasn’t amused.

  “Sorry, chief. But Her Majesty was at least generous enough to write tomorrow’s headline for us.”

  “Which is?”

  “‘There will be justice,’” Hampton said, singing the words and waving his hands dramatically as if conducting a symphony orchestra.

  “Well, that is beautiful,” Tucker deadpanned. “Now, get me a story to go with it.”

  “She’s running for Congress. Her name will be on that ballot. Mark my words.”

  “Tell me she didn’t say that. The body isn’t cold.”

  “Not exactly, but she swung the door wide open. I’d bet my last five dollars on it.”

  “You don’t have five dollars,” Tucker quipped. “Hell, you don’t even have cable TV.”

  Hampton was forced to concede the point.

  “Well, if I did,” he said with a half grin, wheeling himself around. “Your mayor spat out some crap about how close she and the congressman were, and that’s true enough. They were thick as thieves, emphasis on ‘thieves.’”

  “Now she’s my mayor?”

  “She isn’t mine,” Hampton said. “Let’s get this straight. Your mayor, I mean, our mayor will not miss an open jump shot.”

  “You never let your crazy get in the way, do you?”

  “It would be insane to think she isn’t running. Hell, she was out of the gate with a press conference before any other elected official could get to the scene. She didn’t even let the police chief speak.”

  “Just write me an obituary, Hamp. Do it right and it’ll be front-page, above-the-fold. We’ll run it with a big photo spread. Site traffic is already bumping off the news, so we have to go with angles the national press will miss.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “And get me a sidebar on Mayor Dobbs. Not a single syllable about any political intentions she may or may not have. Save it until after they get the body in the ground. If it checks out, I’ll run it.”

  “You know we call you Fucker, right? Get it? Fucker Stovall. Rhymes with Tucker.”

  The editor frowned.

  “Come on, now, you know it’s funny.”

  “Kiss my black ass, Hampton.”

  “You haven’t been black since 1975,” Hampton said under his breath, muffling his voice with his hand.

  “What did you just say?”

  Hampton threw up a weak salute. “I said, sir, yes, sir.”

  “Whatever. Take a shower,” Tucker said, walking away. “You smell like a bag of dead frogs.”

  Tucker was right. The mayor despised the very air that he breathed. He’d stalked the mayor for a comment and caught her coming out of an Atlanta Press Club luncheon. Dobbs responded by threatening to upend his career.

  “Never attempt to fuck up someone else’s life with a lie, when yours can be destroyed with the truth,” she’d said.

  Just as the mayor had predicted, Hampton’s life began to unravel one thread at a time. The fight was still smoldering nearly two months later, when Hampton got into a near-fatal accident coming out of Athens, Georgia. He was rushed to a hospital. He woke up the next morning, handcuffed to the bed railing. A county sheriff’s deputy read him his Miranda rights.

  In court, Hampton claimed the steering column jammed and the brakes went out without warning. The accelerator stuck to the floorboard, he tried to explain. The judge was more concerned about his blood alcohol level, which tipped over twice the legal limit. Barrow County prosecutors concluded he was drunk and no further investigation was warranted. Hampton was convinced that someone had tried to kill him. He had written dozens of stinging stories over the years, and had plenty of sworn enemies to boot, though none greater than the mayor herself.

  An anonymous blogger with DrivingGeorgiaRight.com had pointed the finger at the mayor’s office and the suspected team of henchmen that she supposedly kept on the APD payroll. The comment section quickly filled with fanciful conspiracy theories. Although no one could definitively name any of the suspected squad members, Salvatore “Sal” Pelosi was said to be the lead man. He was officially a lieutenant, but it was no secret that Pelosi, the mayor’s body man and driver, ran the department. A former Defense Intelligence officer, Pelosi had also worked for Congressman Hawkins.

  Days after the accident, a string of career-killing stories was leaked while Hampton was still wired up from head to toe, and foggy from the constant flow of industrial-strength pain medication. Rumors of a potentially deadly political payback were quickly dismissed and overshadowed by revelations of Hampton’s predilection for pretty young coeds and bargain-basement booze.

  His female companion had, thankfully, walked away with only minor injuries. Before Shoshana, there had been Lena, another intern at the paper, who had especially talented fingers. And before that, there was Natalie, who at thirty-two was the oldest of the bevy, and a string of other nameless beauties.

  A man is only as faithful as his options.

  Hampton emailed his first draft to a waiting copy editor just before sundown. The obituary was a damn fine job and read like a novel, he had to admit to himself. All twenty-two hundred words of resplendent glory were written mostly from memory. He had followed the congressman’s comings and goings for years on end. Surely, nobody in the newsroom knew Hawkins better than he did. The sidebar was clean, as Tucker had ordered, and contained nothing Hampton thought would set the mayor off or get him fired.

  Hampton reared back in his chair and let the front wheels ride up. He admired the songlike tribute he’d composed and how he had carefully woven in a few perfunctory lines that alluded to the congressman’s
previously covered misdeeds. He couldn’t resist the urge to mention the time Hawkins nearly got himself clipped on a misdemeanor solicitation charge at a run-down motel on Spring Street back in ’85. Although the incident happened some thirty-odd years back, Hampton was sure he’d be stirring that pot again before long.

  SIX

  Just before midnight, near on thirty-six hours after the massacre, the mayor’s three-car motorcade turned off Peachtree Street and onto Andrews Drive. The SUV inched its way up the cobblestone driveway, guided by a string of glowing ground lights. A pair of black sedans with silent blue strobe lights crawled to a stop along the sloped curb and waited on the street.

  Victoria longed for a night’s sleep in her own bed, the small pleasure of sipping chamomile tea laced with honey in the morning. She examined the Bible again. It didn’t belong in an evidence locker, she’d decided. There was a strange placeholder marking in Proverbs. A single verse was highlighted. It was the sort of thing Victoria might have written off to chance. But Hawkins had led an orderly life and did almost nothing without clear purpose.

  Her husband was outside, barefoot and dressed in faded blue medical scrubs. Marsh traded a few hushed words with Sal, and then opened the rear door.

  He took his wife by the hand, leading her through a side door, across the mudroom, and into the kitchen. It was a stunning room, not unlike the others, appointed with premium KitchenAid appliances that Victoria was never home long enough to put to good use. A rack of rarely used copper pots hung over the center island. She dropped her purse and the Bible on the custom-cut Calacatta marble countertop and melted into her husband’s arms.

  There was something reassuring about his rough stubble brushing against her cheek, the firmness of his broad chest, the way his strong fingertips gripped her waist. She’d missed his touch. The love that had brought them together was alive again, at least in that moment. Their nine-year-old girls had been asleep for hours, he assured her.

  “Do they know?”

  “They saw a breaking news report,” Marsh said. “They’ve been asking about you.”

  Looking away, Victoria said, “I should’ve called, I know. I didn’t want them to hear me cry.”

  “I know, baby girl. I know.…”

  She felt herself quaking in his arms. He squeezed her tighter.

  “His name was Keenan. I went to see his mother over in Cabbagetown this morning. He was supposed to be in children’s church, but she said that he loved watching her sing. She was in the choir stand when the shooting started. He was her only child.”

  Victoria’s face was dry, though her eyes were still puffy and red as if there were no more tears left to cry.

  Together, they climbed the grand stairwell, went to their daughters’ room, and kissed them as they slept. That night, with City of Hills in an uneasy slumber, Victoria slipped off her shoes, slid between her husband’s legs, and rested her face against his chest as they lay on a tufted leather chaise in the upper den. In the dim gauzy light, they lay together, saying nothing until Marsh drifted off.

  Victoria let her eyes trace over the family photos that lined the credenza. Her daughters, Maya and Mahalia, with their bright expectant smiles, a framed news clipping of her father walking a picket line somewhere in ’60s-era, segregated Alabama, and a photo of her—his eldest child—pausing to shake the dean’s hand as she received her law degree from Harvard. A silver-framed, black-and-white wedding photograph of her and Marsh taken under a gazebo in Piedmont Park stood on the edge of her desk. Her dress was a flowing, jewel-busted Vera Wang purchased by Hawkins as a wedding gift. The gown was magical, just as her marriage had once been.

  The winds picked up outside. The gridded, lead glass windows shook in their hardwood frames. Victoria rose quietly and tiptoed downstairs. She retrieved the Bible and her handbag, a limited-edition Hermès Birkin bag that Marsh had given to her last Christmas, from the kitchen counter and returned to the den. There was nothing in this life that she could not have, including three Birkins, a cache of Louis Vuitton handbags, and custom-built cedar closets, and she had learned to stop apologizing for that.

  Marsh was Dr. Marshall Langston Overstreet, a celebrated heart surgeon, sitting president of the National Medical Association, and grand sire archon of the prestigious Sigma Pi Phi fraternity, commonly known as the Boulé. She was a Dobbs—Victoria Angélique Dobbs Overstreet—known as “Torie” to her closest friends and family. Even without the Ivy League pedigree, without her tenure in the statehouse or second term as mayor, without the various seats on charity boards, frequent appearances on NBC’s Meet the Press, and unimpeded access to the White House, in Atlanta that was more than enough.

  The bookmark was curious, if not oddly unnerving. It was a skillfully folded bird of some kind, with a long, sharp, and open beak that made it appear as if it were swooping down on its prey. She read the verse that had been outlined in yellow highlighter. It was Proverbs 21:15. The scripture read like a message from the grave.

  When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous, but terror to evildoers.

  She was anxious about the whipping gales outside, and about this menacingly beautiful birdlike creature as she fingered its smooth edges. Hawkins, with advanced arthritis, could not have mastered such a thing. She knew he had received mailbags loaded with cards and letters from his constituents almost daily, usually from people who wanted help unsticking a Social Security claim or information about his stance on some obscure piece of legislation. Death threats, she knew, were not uncommon. Most of the intimidating messages came from anonymous email and Twitter accounts these days, although a few angry and invariably misspelled missives trickled in via snail mail.

  A woman from upstate Washington called the congressman a dozen or more times a day to lodge her complaints against the “treasonous Marxist” until she received a visit from the FBI field office in Seattle. Gloria Cozza was cooling her heels in a maximum-security mental unit now. Before her detention, Cozza had become well known to various national news anchors. She proudly admitted to taking a one-way, cross-country Megabus to wait outside Anderson Cooper’s Lower Manhattan loft. The doorman said Cozza circled the block twenty or more times before he lost count and called the police. Then there was the envelope laced with talcum powder sent from a black farmer in Mississippi.

  But there was something about this bird, the painstaking detail with which it had been constructed. Victoria noted the craftsmanship, the precision of its folds. Its layered wingspan, tightly woven tail, and strong and curved beak reminded her of a vulture.

  When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous, but terror to evildoers.

  Hawkins was among the righteous, she lamented. He’d used his bully pulpit in an attempt to block the new gun-carry rights that sailed through the Georgia state legislature. The irony that he had been shot down in a church was not lost on her. The governor had recently signed an open-carry law that included college campuses, houses of worship, and nightclubs.

  She laid her head down on the desk and fell asleep. Her cell phone buzzed just before 5 A.M.

  “Mayor Dobbs, I need to make you aware of a situation,” Chief Walraven said through the speakerphone.

  A SWAT team had a house surrounded on Washington Street, two blocks south of Turner Field. The suspect, a thirtysomething man, was hunkered down inside with a woman and two children, he explained.

  “Ex-Army, three tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan,” Walraven said. “Thirty days in the mental unit at Walter Reed. Administrative discharge. He was a scout sniper.”

  “Was Deacon Garvin able to identify him?”

  “I’m sorry to give you the news. Mr. Garvin passed away a few hours ago in surgery.”

  Victoria abruptly stood up and paced the room. “You’ve got eyes on him?”

  “Yes. We’re doing our best to take him into custody. Our negotiator made contact ten minutes ago. Said he wants to talk to the president.”

  “I bet he does,” Victoria said b
lithely. “Put him down.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” she said, her voice growing cold and bold. “I said shoot him.”

  The mayor ended the call, tossed the phone onto her desk.

  “Did you just say ‘shoot him’?” Marsh said, rising from the chaise.

  She bowed her head, drew a cross over her heart, then turned on the flat-screen TV.

  “What if it isn’t him? You ordered an execution.”

  “And what if I had taken a bullet? What if it were one of our girls instead of a little boy you’ve never met?”

  “We don’t know who killed Hawk,” Marsh said, reaching for her. “It could’ve been any-damn-body.”

  “Who the fuck is ‘we’?” she said, pushing past him. “That bastard shot ten people in the middle of Ebenezer with a goddamn assault rifle. Fucking Ebenezer, Marsh! He slaughtered a child! Have you forgotten about that?”

  “What in the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are?”

  “This is my city!” she screamed. “And if I have to blow that motherfucking house up myself, this ends tonight!”

  “What man shoots a sitting congressman, then goes home to biscuits with his wife and children? Torie, you know better than that. This doesn’t make sense. Baby, think about it.”

  “If he has a heart attack, I’ll be sure to inform you, Dr. Overstreet. Right now, I’m the only mayor this city has. They elected me.”

  “So that’s it?” he said. “This is what you’ve become? You order a man slaughtered by a SWAT team to keep your poll numbers up? What’s next? Are you running for Congress? Or are you going to challenge Governor Martinez?”

  Victoria smirked. She had already run the calculus on a congressional bid. Her brother’s side deals had been a real problem, politically. But she’d decided that if she actually filed for the special election, she wouldn’t let anybody, not even her own brother, stand in her way. He had betrayed her. These days, she talked about Chip as if he were dead.