And now it was six forty-two a.m. and she sat in the greenroom at the Boston CBS affiliate with her politically brain-damaged boss and his ice bitch of a soon-to-be ex-wife.
M.J.’s letter of resignation was, at that very moment, burning a hole in her briefcase.
The situation was pretty clear. If M.J. couldn’t pull a game-changer out of her ass in the next ten minutes, Richard would be destroying her career before a live television audience, Tamara at his side. Apparently, after her unpleasant visit to his office last night, M.J.’s boss was spurred to action. The FBI had a major breakthrough with evidence, and Richard decided he would never forgive himself if he didn’t contribute to the momentum. He decided to go public first thing in the morning.
Richard now sat across the room from M.J., wearing a suit slightly too big for his post-surgery body. She noticed that instead of a dress shirt and tie, he wore a polo shirt with an open collar. That was his signal to the country that he wasn’t on official business, simply there as a regular Joe. Richard hadn’t spoken in the last few minutes, so M.J. knew he was rehearsing the talking points in his mind. She could just imagine:
Unknowingly, I fathered a child with a young scheduling assistant a few years back:
1. Tragically, the mother has died;
2. Fortunately, I won custody of the product of that union ;
3. Shockingly, the child has been kidnapped!
Now, I will do anything to get her back safely.
And, most importantly, he would add this:
I am not here to answer questions or respond to speculation about my political career. I am only here to ask—no, beg—for everyone’s help in locating my daughter.
M.J. had already tried to talk some sense into him, of course. First, she tried on the phone. Next, it was at the Jefferson, on the private jet to Boston, then in the limo, and again while coming in the back entrance to the studio. But his mind was made up. He was about to kill his reelection bid and snuff out any chance for a vice-presidential nom—over some kid.
She silenced a groan of frustration that began in her toes and rose up into her throat. How dare he keep her from the kind of power she deserved, the kind she was promised? She longed for the delicious feel of digging her fingers into his neck and cutting off his air.
A production assistant stuck his head through the greenroom door. “Five minutes, Congressman and Mrs. Wahlman. You can follow me to the set.”
“Just a minute.” M.J. held up her hand. “Go on. We’ll be there.” She closed the door in the kid’s face.
“Don’t do it, Richard. One last time, I’m begging you.”
He shook his head. “I have to.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You don’t have to do anything. You’re Richard Wahlman, four-term congressman from Massachusetts, cosponsor of groundbreaking debt ceiling legislation, chairman of the Ways and Means subcommittee on oversight, philanthropist—”
“Father.”
M.J. closed her eyes. This was a fucking catastrophe!
It was almost as if he didn’t care! Out of utter desperation, M.J. looked to Tamara. The oh so chic blonde sat in the corner with a glass of sparkling water balanced on her bony Lanvin-covered knee. She wanted no part of this.
Ha! If M.J. thought about strangling Richard, then Tamara was probably fantasizing about breaking his neck, slapping him silly, and cutting off his Johnson—just to warm up! Not for the first time, M.J. wondered whether the roles within that union were backward—Tamara should have served in Congress while Richard hosted dinner parties and charity fund-raisers. Things might have turned out better.