rush to undo eighty years of draining, reclaiming and planting.
S.R. 52 would cause reclamation to happen far too fast. It would wipe out lives and livelihoods beyond anything he figured Grant Lawrence had even imagined. Things like this needed to be taken very, very slowly. And Lawrence didn’t seem to understand that.
The senator didn’t understand the economic ripple effect that would occur when, lacking fertilizers and pesticides, per-acre yields plummeted and the layoffs began. The ripples that would run through other south Florida businesses, sinking them when they had no customers. Then it would spread out in ever-widening waves, because the businesses that would fail in south Florida would no longer be buying supplies from businesses elsewhere. Randall Youngblood could see that as clearly as he could see his hand before his face. And because S.R. 52 covered all of agriculture, the disaster that would stem from south Florida was only a small part of the overall picture.
Then there was the truly major issue of America’s position as a beacon of hope in an ever-hungrier world.
It wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that the Soviet Union had been brought down by the Randall Youngbloods of the United States. People who lived in perpetual near-famine looked with envy upon the opulence of American life, and nowhere was that opulence more apparent than in the ordinary supermarket. Fresh vegetables, meats, breads, all manner of foods, readily available, at affordable prices, on any given day.
And that was, in large part, a function of chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Lawrence might not see it, but the birthday cake he would have at his daughter’s party was a byproduct of the very industries his legislation was trying to undermine. And Randall, for one, did not want to pay ten dollars a pound for sugar, or five dollars a pound for tomatoes. That was the alternative S.R. 52 would make inevitable.
The simple fact was that Americans liked to live above their means, and the agriculture industry helped to make that possible by producing a comparative abundance of food. Yes, the cost of that was being passed on to future generations, in the form of environmental changes that would have to be dealt with. Grant Lawrence and others seemed to view that as a moral issue, but it wasn’t. It was a political issue, a choice made by the citizens of a democratic society. And they made that choice every time they went to the supermarket and bought ordinary produce rather than the more expensive, “all natural” items that were never more than a niche market.
Senate Resolution 52 had to fail. Not to make Randall Youngblood rich—he was already rich—but to keep America fed, fit and strong.
He was ruminating on that thought when Bill Michaels knocked at his door.
“So where do we stand?” Randall asked.
Michaels had that look in his eyes again, the look of a lion on the fringe of a herd of gazelles. “I think we have an angle to play.”
Randall nodded for him to continue.
“The media’s going to spin Lawrence as the victim of yet another personal tragedy. They’ll bring up his wife’s death. Hero conquers adversity and all that.”
“Right,” Randall said.
“Well, there’s a rumor that the public didn’t get the whole story when Lawrence’s wife died. They don’t have anything specific. Just that certain lines of inquiry were deflected, very obliquely, very discreetly.”
“Could be something,” Randall said. “And it could be nothing. And it could be something that’ll make him even more the hero.”
“That’s true. And obviously we don’t want to open that can of worms before we know what the worms look like. But I’ve got a man looking into it.”
“Anything else?” Randall knew something that vague wasn’t enough to get Michaels’ blood pumping.
Michaels, ever the performer, let the moment hang for just a beat longer. “Yes. My source also says there’s something fishy about the nanny’s death.”
“Fishy how?”
“He doesn’t know yet,” Michaels said. “But the lead detective—a woman named Karen Sweeney—doesn’t like the smell of it.”
“Stay on it,” Randall said. “And stay invisible.”
Michaels smiled. Randall hoped he himself would never be the object of that particular smile.
“I’ll handle it, sir.”
Grant Lawrence called the homicide squad himself in the late afternoon. It felt strange to do it, rather than have someone else handle it for him, the way so many things in his life were handled for him, by people who seemed to be in a conspiracy to protect him from the ordinary details of his life.
He had secretaries, both in Washington and in his public offices here. He had Jerry Connally, his right hand. All of them seemed to want to handle everything for him, sometimes even including his political duties. Occasionally he felt hemmed in. Mostly he was grateful to be able to keep his focus.
But today he made the call himself. A supplicant, which wasn’t a familiar position for him anymore. But he sure as hell didn’t want to bring Jerry into contact with the police more than necessary, and he knew if he called his secretary at the local office, she would have a ton of messages from the press, constituents and colleagues. He wasn’t ready to deal with any of that.
So he called robbery-homicide and asked to speak to Detective Sweeney. Much to his amazement, she was there.
“Yes, Senator,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if I might be able to get into my house. There are some things I want for my daughters. Frankly, Detective, they need the comfort of the familiar right now. Their own clothes, their own toys, their own pillows and blankets. I left Washington in such a hurry this morning that I didn’t even pack for them, other than bringing Belle’s favorite stuffed animal and Catherine Suzanne’s blanket.”
“I understand.” Her voice remained detached. “Let’s see…I’ll be leaving here in about an hour. How about I meet you at your house in an hour and a half?”
“That would be fine. Thank you, Detective.”
“No problem, Senator.”
But as he hung up, he realized it might be a problem for her. Through the detachment of her voice, he had sensed great fatigue. Well, she’d been up most of the night. He brushed away the concern that he was imposing even more on her limited time. His girls came first, and he wasn’t going to let their needs go unmet.
The phones at his parents’ house had been ringing most of the day, and the line he had been on rang as soon as he hung up. The family wasn’t answering. His parents’ assistant, Keith Fairfield, was taking all the calls and messages in the office four blocks away, through the magic of call forwarding. Poor Keith. He was probably ready to tear his hair out…as were his own secretaries, now that he thought about it.
He was going to have to speak to the press at some point. There was no escaping it. At the very least, he needed to issue a statement. He realized without guilt that he was trying to avoid what had happened, unwilling to address it head-on.
He shook his head as if trying to clear it, feeling the fatigue of a sleepless night and the unbearable weight of grief
