Theoretically.
But Lincoln understood the current disarray of modern journalism. He wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. For community newspapers operating with either volunteers or somebody making less than minimum wage per story, he e-mailed an electronic draft of a story about his announcement for Congress. It was all in the package—quotes, photos, and headline. They didn’t even need to send a reporter, just cut and paste.
He did the same for the political reporters at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the Associated Press. They’d probably get their own quotes, but the draft saved them time and made them happy.
For the television stations, Lincoln hired his own videographer. If no cameraman or reporter made it to the announcement, that wasn’t a problem. His communications director sent the raw footage as well as edited versions to all the stations. Then, for the bloggers, thirty-second clips were posted on YouTube and Vimeo so that they could be embedded into their websites.
It was orchestrated perfectly.
My father spoke to the small room of fifty people, announcing his retirement. He got choked up a few times, and I swore that I saw him glance my way. He wanted me to be taking his place, but he understood my choice was final.
I stood next to Annie in front of a large GLASS FOR CONGRESS sign, and we watched my father introduce my brother. He gave Lincoln a hug and then receded into the background.
Lincoln smiled as family members, campaign workers, and some folks from the community whooped and hollered in the back of the room.
“I want to thank my dad for being a wonderful father, mentor, and example to me and my brother.” He turned back, looked at our father, and nodded. “Thank you.” Then he continued. “I also want to thank my brother and Mayor Angela Montgomery. They are my campaign cochairs, and some of my closest advisors.”
That was the plan that Lincoln had devised for us. To the extent there were rumors about my relationship with Annie, we now had a legitimate and simple reason for our late-night dinners and meetings. We could say that we had been planning and coordinating his future campaign.
Neither of us liked it, but the move was smart. The direct connection to Lincoln gave Annie some assurance that her crumbling marriage and rocky personal life wouldn’t come to light because of him. For Lincoln, saving Annie helped neutralize the one person who could’ve prevented him from achieving the next step in his career: me.
Standing on stage, I was a pawn. My brother, Lincoln, was the chess master.
He played us beautifully, Annie and me.
The Glass and Montgomery machines were now connected.
My heart sank a little as I exited the highway onto McKnight Road and then drove into a neighborhood with huge trees, large lots, and no sidewalks. This was no longer the city proper.
The Nathan Baxter School was on the left, set far back from the street. Beautiful buildings rose up from a distance on the school’s fifty-acre wooded campus. They were all light tans and beiges. The campus could easily be confused with a small liberal arts college.
The small parking lot was dominated by fancy cars that cost more than I earned in a year. I parked my rusted Honda Civic next to an Audi, then I walked up the path. Ahead of me, I saw the Judge waiting on a bench near the entrance. He stood when I got closer. “How’d it go?”
I shrugged. “As expected.” I stopped at the front door. “The torch was officially passed this morning.”
“Surprises?”
“Nope, everybody stuck to the script.” I opened the door, allowing the Judge to enter the school first. “At the end, some reporters asked questions. You could tell Dan Dooley is going to rant about dynasties and nepotism in his next column, but Lincoln knew it was coming. Jane Mix from the Dispatch asked Lincoln whether he knew who was going to run for his state Senate seat. She was looking at me the whole time she was asking.”
“Bet she was.” The Judge laughed as we walked through the bright and clean foyer toward the administrative offices and the director of admissions.
“Lincoln saw we were about to go off-message, so he simply smiled and told her that”—I paused for dramatic effect, transitioning into my best Lincoln Glass impersonation—“‘Today we’re all focused on everything that our father has accomplished during his many years of service and ensuring that his legacy continues for this district. I am honored to carry on that legacy.’ Then one of Lincoln’s lackeys ended the press conference before anybody could ask about the state Senate seat again.”
“Still thinking about it?”
“Yes.”
The Judge pressed for more. “Leaning toward it?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Time,” I said. After weeks of hedging and indecision, it felt odd to just come out and admit the truth. “The job might be interesting. I might be able to do some good.” Then I gestured at the immaculate building that surrounded us. “And the extra money might be enough to pay for tuition at this school . . . or part.”
The Judge smiled. “The prodigal son returns.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After visiting the school with the Judge and enjoying the rest of the weekend, I spent Monday morning hanging out at the Northside Roastery. In the past it may have been considered to be hiding, but today it was for the sake of productivity. There were too many things happening at my office.
I sat at a table near the front window, watching a steady stream of people coming and going. They were the mothers of the Lost Boys. Some of them were alone, but most had an auntie or grandmother with them. A small kid or two often trailed behind.
Hermes kept my cup of coffee filled as I switched back and forth between watching and working on my laptop. There were over a dozen e-mails from Emma, some related to routine office management, but also summaries of potential cases: an aggravated robbery, a divorce, and a domestic assault.
They didn’t excite me, but it didn’t matter whether or not they excited me. Where once I’d have let them slip away, now I didn’t have that luxury. Emma needed to get paid, and if I really didn’t want the Judge to pay for most—if not all—of Sammy’s tuition, I needed to make some real money.
I took a sip of coffee, leaned back in my chair, and watched as an older man shuffled by on the other side of the street. He had two plastic grocery bags from Dollar Time. I knew what he’d think of a private school that cost three times what he probably had to live on in a year.
I slumped a little bit in my chair. Then I scrolled back through the e-mails describing the potential cases and, for each one, pressed “Reply” and instructed Emma to sign them up. I’d meet with them when they paid the retainer.
Emma came into the coffee shop a little after four and sat down across the table from me. “Working from here now?”