He carried her suitcase to the guest room and excused himself, explaining that he had work to do. She threw her backpack on the bed and stood before the window overlooking Q Street. The upscale neighborhood was an oasis of calm in a city of indefatigable ambition. She pictured Joseph’s face and recalled the taste of his kiss. What would you say about this place? she wondered. Would it make sense to you? Does it make sense to me anymore?
She left the window and took a shower. Afterward, she dressed in a gray pantsuit and sky blue shirt that complemented her eyes and took her MacBook to the bed. She had rewritten her speech four times, striving for a harmony between authority and poignancy that would reframe foreign aid as a philanthropic partnership between the American people and their leaders, not as a retirement plan for dictators or a diversion of resources from the domestic poor. Her heart quickened when she reached the addendum. She had almost deleted it numerous times, but whenever her finger hovered over the button, she had stopped herself. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but she wanted to keep her options open.
At noon, Trevor reappeared in the doorway. “Are you hungry? I’m making a sandwich.”
“I’ll help you,” she replied, leaving her computer on the bed.
She followed him downstairs to the kitchen—an urbane blend of dark marble and stainless steel—and fixed her own lunch. The air was charged with all that was unspoken between them.
At last, Trevor said, “Are you sure you want to do this? You may lose Dad for good.”
She sliced her sandwich in half and laid it on a plate. “I have to finish what I started. People like Ben Slaughter have grossly distorted my motives.”
“Don’t be naive. They don’t care about you. They care about controversy. Testifying today will only make things worse.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand. Dad loves you. Do you really want to hurt him?”
Zoe looked away, unable to bear the pain in her brother’s eyes. “It’s complicated, Trevor. There are things you don’t know.”
“Then tell me. Don’t destroy the only family you have.”
His words cut her to the heart. She took her plate to the table and sat down, eating in stubborn silence. For the first time in her life, the gap between them seemed unbridgeable.
At a quarter past one, they left Trevor’s apartment and walked to the Dupont Circle Metro Station. The skies of late spring were clotted with cumulus, and the humid air carried more than a hint of the summer heat to come. Trevor bought her a day-pass and swiped his SmarTrip card, leading the way to the Red Line. They took their place beside the tracks just as the headlamp of the approaching train broke free of the tunnel.
Trevor nudged her shoulder. “You don’t get service like this in Zambia.”
Zoe laughed, grateful for the olive branch of affection.
The trip to Capitol South via Metro Center took fifteen minutes. They emerged on First Street and joined the stream of pedestrians hurrying in the direction of the Capitol. After passing the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court, they made their way toward Dirksen Senate Office Building, the home of the Foreign Relations Committee.
On the cusp of Constitution Avenue, Zoe saw a herd of reporters and cameramen milling outside Dirksen’s public entrance. She turned abruptly and faced the Capitol, the gravity of the moment settling on her shoulders. Trevor put a protective arm around her, reverting to the role he had played since they were children.
“They’re here for Frieda Caraway, too,” he said. “Ignore them and they’ll let you pass.”
She nodded, warding off her doubts. “Let’s go.”
They crossed the barricaded tarmac and entered the throng of journalists. For a second or two the reporters didn’t recognize her, but then someone spoke her name—“That’s Zoe Fleming!”—and the sidewalk erupted with noise. Zoe allowed Trevor to take the lead and walked forward step by step until at last they found shelter inside the doors.
After clearing security, they took the elevator to the fourth floor and traversed the marble hallway to the hearing room. The crowd outside was dotted with journalists, but the atmosphere here was more sedate. One reporter—a man Zoe vaguely recognized—pressed close to her and asked, “Ms. Fleming, isn’t it true that your appearance today is a vote against your father’s campaign?”
She engaged him despite herself: “This isn’t about politics or the election. It’s about America’s relationship to a billion people around the world who live in conditions we would never tolerate for our own children.”
She slipped into the wood-paneled hearing room and kissed Trevor on the cheek, leaving him to find a seat in the gallery. She walked up the aisle and found her place at the head of the witness table. The card beside hers read: “Ms. FRIEDA CARAWAY.” Zoe smiled apprehensively. That Senator Hartman had given her the pole position ahead of an Academy-Award-winning actress was either a reflection of admiration or the basest political opportunism.
She settled into her seat and surveyed the dais, focusing on her father’s nameplate three chairs down from Senator Hartman’s. “MR.