Gideon's Sword (54 page)

She nods, staring right through me. “I really am sorry about your friend.”

I nod a thank-you.

“So I guess I’ll see you around the Capitol?” she asks.

I force another smile. “Absolutely,” I say. “And if you ever need anything, just call my office.”

She likes that one. “And don’t forget,” she adds,
lowering her voice in her best impression of me, “the best thing you can do in life is make the right enemies…”

“No doubt about that,” I call out as the door closes. She’s gone, and my voice tumbles to a whisper. “No doubt about it.”

18

H
EADING UP THE
fourth-floor hallway as the door slammed behind her, Viv told herself not to look back. However her nametag had gotten there, all she needed was to see the desperate look on Harris’s face to know where this was headed. When she first saw him speak to the pages, he’d glided through the room so smoothly, she was tempted to look at his feet to see if they touched the ground. Even today, she still wasn’t sure of the answer. And it wasn’t just because of his charm. At her church in Michigan, she’d seen plenty of charm. But Harris had something more.

Of the four speakers who welcomed the pages during orientation, two gave warnings, one gave advice… and Harris… Harris gave them a challenge. Not just as pages, but as people. As he’d said, it was the first rule of politics: Don’t count even the smallest person out. When the words left his lips, the entire room sat up straight. Yet today, what she just saw in that room—today, the man who had the balls to give that speech—that man was long gone. Today, Harris was shaken… on edge… Without a doubt, his confidence was broken. Whatever had hit him, it’d clearly cracked him in the sternum.

Picking up her pace, Viv rushed toward the elevator. It didn’t take a lifetime in politics to see the hurricane coming, and right now, the last thing she needed was to step inside the whirlwind.
Not your problem,
she told herself.
Just keep going.
But as she pressed the call button for the elevator, she couldn’t help it. With a sharp pivot, she took a fast glance at Harris’s door. Still shut. No surprise. From the ashen look on his face, he wouldn’t be coming out for a bit.

A hushed rumble broke the silence, and the door to the elevator slid open, revealing the elevator operator—a dark-skinned black woman with cobwebs of gray hair at her temples. From her wooden stool in the elevator, she looked up at Viv and lifted an eyebrow at her height.

“Momma fed you the good stuff, huh?” the operator asked.

“Yeah… I guess…”

Without another word, the operator raised her newspaper in front of her face. Viv was used to it by now. From high school to here, it was never easy fitting in.

“Home base?” the operator asked from behind the paper.

“Sure,” Viv answered with a shrug.

The operator turned away from her paper, studying Viv’s reaction. “Crappy day, huh?”

“More like a weird one.”

“Look at the good side: Today we got taco salad bar at lunch,” the operator said, turning back to her paper as the elevator lurched downward.

Viv nodded a thank-you, but it went unnoticed. Without looking back, the operator added, “Don’t sulk, sweetie—your face’ll stick and all that.”

“I’m not… I—” Viv cut herself off. If she’d learned
anything in the past few weeks, it was the benefit of staying quiet. It was the one thing her family always tried to teach—from her dad’s work in the military to her mom’s job in the dental practice, she knew the value of keeping her mouth shut and ears open. Indeed, it was one of the reasons Viv got the job in the first place. A year ago, as her mom was hunched over the dental chair, a patient in a pinstriped suit was having his wisdom teeth taken out ASAP. If she hadn’t been listening to the mumbled small talk, she’d never have heard that the patient was Senator Kalo from Michigan—one of the oldest proponents of the page program. Four impacted teeth later, the Senator walked out with Viv’s name in his suit pocket. That was all it took to change her life: one kind favor from a stranger.

Leaning against the back railing of the elevator, Viv read the newspaper over the elevator operator’s shoulder. Another Supreme Court Justice was stepping down. The President’s daughter was once again in trouble. But none of it seemed important. On the floor, the rest of the newspaper was tucked below the wooden stool. The Metro section was on top. Viv’s eyes went right to the headline:
Hit-and-Run Driver’s Identity Released
. Below the headline was the photo Harris just showed her. The young black man with the soft smile. Toolie Williams. Viv couldn’t take her eyes off him. For some reason, her nametag was found near a dead man. Even the very best reason couldn’t be good.

“Can I borrow this a sec?” she asked as she bent down and grabbed the paper from under the stool. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled it close. The photo blurred into a forest of gray dots. With a blink, it snapped back—and Toolie Williams was once again staring straight at her.
Her thoughts rolled back to the Senator. That was all it took to change her life. One kind favor from a stranger.

“Here you go,” the elevator operator announced as the elevator bucked to a halt and the door creaked open. “Second floor…”

From the moment Viv lowered her head to duck past the Senator from Illinois and his leering glare, she could hear her mother’s insistent scolding in the back of her brain.
Stand up for yourself. Always stand up for yourself.
That was part of the reason Momma had wanted her to come to Capitol Hill. But right now, as Viv looked down at the grainy photo in the newspaper, she realized Mom only had part of the picture. It’s not just about standing up for yourself—it’s also about standing up for those who need it.

“This your stop or not?” the operator asked.

“Actually, I forgot something upstairs,” Viv replied.

“You’re the boss lady. Fourth floor it is—up, up, and away…”

Squeezing outside the elevator the moment the door opened, Viv rushed up the hallway, hoping she wasn’t too late. Her oversized suit jacket fanned out behind her as she ran. If she missed him now… No. She didn’t want to think it. Stay positive. Stay positive.

“Sorry… coming through…” she called out, cutting between two male staffers, each carrying a redwell accordion file.

“Slow down,” the taller of them warned.

Typical, Viv thought. Everyone likes to boss around the pages. Instinctively she slowed her pace to a calm walk—but within two steps, she looked back at the two
men. They were just staffers. Sure, she was a page, but… they were just staffers. Picking up speed, she started to run. It felt even better than she thought.

At the end of the hall, she stopped short, made sure the hallway was empty, and knocked on the door.

“It’s me!” she called out.

No answer.

“Harris, it’s Viv. You in there?”

Again, no reply. She tried the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Locked.

“Harris, it’s an emergency…!”

There was a click. The doorknob turned, and the heavy door flew open. Harris stuck his head out, cautiously checking the hallway.

“You okay?” he finally asked.

Wiping her palm against her pant leg, Viv reasked herself the question. If she wanted to walk away, this was her chance. She could feel her ID dangling from her neck. She never reached for it. Not once. Instead, she stared Harris straight in the eye.

“I… uh… I just… you still need help with that pickup?”

Harris tried to hide his grin, but even he wasn’t good enough to pull it off. “It’s not gonna be as easy as you think. Are you sure you can—?”

“Harris, I’m one of two black girls in an all-white school, and I’m the dark-skinned one. One year, they broke into my locker and wrote
nigger
across the back of my gym shirt. How much harder can it get? Now tell me where to go before I get all skeezed out and change my mind.”

19

S
TARING AT THE
sheet of paper taped to the side of the cloakroom’s stainless steel refrigerator, Viv followed her pointer finger up the alphabetical list of Senators. Ross… Reissman… Reed. Behind her, out on the Senate Floor, Senator Reed from Florida was delivering yet another speech on the importance of the rent-to-own industry. For Reed, it was the perfect way to get his pro-business ratings up. For Viv, it was the perfect moment to bring the long-winded speaker some water. Whether he wanted it or not.

Scanning the water chart one last time, she read through the three columns:
Ice, No Ice,
and
Saratoga Seltzer.
Viv still saw it as one of the Senate’s best perks of power. They didn’t just know how you liked your coffee. They knew how you liked your water. According to the chart, Reed was a no-ice guy.
Figures,
Viv thought.

Anxious to get moving, she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, poured it into a chilled glass, and made her way out to the Senate Floor. Senator Reed hadn’t asked for any water, nor did he raise his hand to summon a page. But Viv was all too aware of how security in the
page program worked. Indeed, with so many seventeen-year-olds working alongside grown staffers, the program made sure that every page was always accounted for. If Viv wanted to disappear for an hour or so, the best way was to pretend it was work-related.

As Viv placed the water next to the Senator’s lectern, the Senator, as usual, ignored her. Smiling to herself, she still leaned in close—just long enough to make it look real—as if she were getting directions. Spinning around with newfound purpose, Viv marched back to the cloakroom and headed straight for the head of the page program’s desk.

“Reed just asked me to run an errand,” she announced to Blutter, who was, as usual, dealing with another call. Flipping through the locator sheet on the desk, Viv signed herself out. Under
Destination,
she wrote
Rayburn
—the farthest building in the Capitol complex where Senate page deliveries were still allowed. That alone bought her at least an hour. And an hour was all it would take.

Within five minutes, Viv pushed open the burled-walnut door of the House cloakroom. “Here for a pickup,” she had told the security guard. He buzzed her right in. As she stepped into the cloakroom, she was smacked in the face with the steamy smell of hot dogs. Further up on her left, she followed the smell to the small crush of Members and staff crowded in front of a tiny lunch counter, the source of the hot dog smell. Forget cigars and other backroom clichés—on the House side of the Capitol, this was the real cloakroom whiff. And in that one sniff, Viv saw the subtle but inescapable difference: Senators got catered ice preferences; House Members fought for their own hot
dogs. The Millionaire Club versus the House of the People. One nation, under God.

“Can I help you?” a female voice asked as she made her way out to the House Floor.

Turning around, she saw a petite young woman with frizzy blond hair sitting behind a dark wood desk.

“I’m looking for the page supervisor,” Viv explained.

“I prefer the term
sovereign,
” the woman quipped just seriously enough to leave Viv wondering if it was a joke. Before she could comment, the phone on the woman’s desk rang, and she pounced for the receiver. “Cloakroom,” she announced. “Yep… room number?… I’ll send one right now…” Waving a single finger in the air, she signaled the pages who sat on the mahogany benches near her desk. A second later, a seventeen-year-old Hispanic boy in gray slacks and a navy sport coat hopped out of his seat.

“Ready to run, A.J.?” the woman asked as the boy gave Viv the once-over. Seeing her suit, he added an almost unnoticeable sneer. Suit instead of sport coat. Even at the page level, it was House versus Senate. “Pickup in Rayburn B-351-C,” the woman added.

“Again?” the page moaned. “Haven’t these people ever heard of E-mail?”

Ignoring the complaint, the woman turned back to Viv. “Now what can I help you with?” she asked.

“I work over in the Senate—”

“Clearly,” the woman said.

“Yeah, well… we… uh… we were wondering if you guys keep track of your page deliveries. We have a Senator who got a package last week and swears he gave the page another envelope on the way out—but naturally, since he’s a Senator, he has no idea if the page was House or Senate. We all look alike, y’know.”