Dad, I’m sorry you didn’t like the article. It breaks my heart that it’s come to this. Sometimes I think if Mom were still alive everything would have turned out differently. As for a statement, say what you must. But remember that history will judge you not for the power you wield but for the way you wield it to improve the world. About that, at least, I’m sure we can agree.
She scanned the email again. She had borrowed the line about history from an op-ed her mother had written for the New York Times in the early 1990s, a piece Jack himself had quoted in speeches over the years. She knew he would recognize it.
When she hit “send,” she shelved her misgivings and joined Niza and Joseph in discussing a new case. Her efforts at distraction lasted until the conversation ended; after that, they failed spectacularly. She slid into such a deep hole of introspection that by the end of the workday three people had asked if she was okay.
On the drive home, Joseph added his voice to the chorus: “Something happened,” he said. “You haven’t been yourself all afternoon.”
She reacted with exasperation. “What is it with everyone? Am I leprous or something?”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “The article came out, didn’t it?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he replied.
“Yes, it’s the article,” she conceded eventually. “The press is asking for interviews; my father is angry and he’s going to make a public statement; even my brother is irritated with me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Her eyes blazed. “I’m not going to talk to them.”
“I don’t mean the media.”
“What am I supposed to do? I’m his daughter, for God’s sake, but I hope he loses the election. What does that make me? Benedict Arnold? Judas?”
“No, it makes you honest.”
“Sometimes honesty is a curse,” she retorted, staring out the window at the Intercontinental Hotel and remembering her father’s words:
“Talk to me like you did when you cared what I thought.” She felt a tear break loose, then more followed; she couldn’t hold them back. It seemed as if the wedge of the past had turned into a chasm between them. Yet the fault for their estrangement was no longer Jack’s alone. The mess of pain and blame and misunderstanding was hers to share.
Joseph reached out and took her hand. “Whatever you do, I’m with you.”
In the storm of her emotions, the touch of his warm skin felt like an anchor. “Thank you,” she said, realizing how much she meant it.
Over the next four days, Zoe amassed over a dozen emails from journalists. Some praised her courage; others questioned her motives; but everyone wanted something from her—more details about her work in Africa, a glimpse into the Fleming Randall financial empire, prognostication about the election, a family biopic, a photo shoot for a glamor magazine, the list was endless and diverse. More than anything, however, the press wanted a reaction to her father’s statement, delivered in a televised press conference, which she had watched on the Internet.
The Senator’s remarks had been brief and largely oblique, deflecting attention from her and highlighting his commitment to restore fiscal discipline to Washington. Near the end, however, he had dealt her argument a glancing blow, reiterating that the sacrifices necessary to stave off the long-term insolvency of the United States had to be shared by everyone, including recipients of foreign assistance in the developing world. It was this statement to which the media demanded a response, and the sheer repetition of the inquiry tempted Zoe to break her silence.
On Tuesday afternoon, she left her desk and called Naomi Potter in New York.
“Zoe!” the editor exclaimed. “The woman of the hour. Your piece has generated tremendous interest. We’re thrilled. What can I do for you?”
“I think I might like to do an interview,” Zoe said.
“Let me guess,” Naomi replied. “The critics found your email address.”
Zoe expelled a breath. “Yes.”
“Welcome to the big leagues.”
“So who can I trust? I want someone credible who isn’t interested in shock or spin.”
Naomi chuckled. “You’re asking for a fossil. Not many of them left.” She took a breath. “Look, you need to be realistic. If you go on television, you’re going to hear the same questions you’re getting in your inbox. You could do something in print.”
Zoe hesitated. “I’d prefer live. It’s more personal.”
Naomi thought for a moment. “All right, I may have something for you. I got a call last week from Paul Hartman, Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Apparently, your article inspired him. He’s sponsoring a hearing on foreign aid in the debt crisis, and he was hoping you’d join the panel. It could be a political stunt, since your father is on the committee. But I’ve known Paul for a long time. He sounded genuine.”
Zoe conjured an image of herself testifying before the Senate. The media would be present; the TV cameras would record her every word. But the format would allow her to tell her story without interruption. There was little risk that she would lose control of the message.
“I’m interested,” she said at last.