Elizabeth
15 November 2016
Wednesday
I feel tired.
Constantly.
My head hurts and my feet are almost too heavy to drag myself to work. I know what it is. I felt it the moment I started wistfully fantasising about marshmallowed hot chocolate by the window: year-end fatigue. Where the days start to blend into each other and all that keeps you going is the promise of holidays peeking on the horizon.
The creeping cold no longer tempts my body with an extra hour under the covers, but has become my morning alarm clock. The last time I slept a full day was in the . God, I miss that cabin.
Instead of clearing my caseload, I've hired extra hands. One's that don't know about the office downstairs. That way, everything remains separate. The newly hired paralegal and the college graduate were there so that I could shirk my duties and still keep DC safe.
Now that the presidential roadshow is over and a new era is about to begin, the news cycle has finally stopped caring about my sex life and returned to more important things, like world peace. Instead unfounded speculation about how the Electoral College electoral college would vote different to the public, raised questions again on the legitimacy of the voting system. Parallel to that are the whispers of my name as Mitchell's Secretary of State-elect.
I know that that particular rumour, is a special brand of PR designed to introduce me to the public. Now people would start looking me up, looking into me before William announced it.
But I'll deal with it when the time comes. For now, my sex life a dwindling echo in the tabloids, I can concentrate on my real task: Bringing down Trillium.
As we moved forward, some cases went to the small claims court. Others involved officers caught in misconduct; a lost docket here, a deleted video there. Bridge made small arrests that we hoped would lead to something. But there were bigger cases too: sons of judges who'd broken the law, military officers who became Washington wonderkids; and all had a scandal exposed by a seemingly above board transaction. One by one, we were shaking this tree.
I know we're getting somewhere. It isn't far but we're definitely not losing. No, Margaret Minsk made it obvious that we were clearly moving some buttons.
Elizabeth
10 November 2016
Friday
Margaret "Dolly" Minsk looked cute. In a wicked woodland witch sort of way. Her wrinkled skin stretched across her face in layers of Botox and age. Her Chanel tweed suit was a victim of late 50s corporate fashion, an immaculate uniform topped by her grey-haired updo.
The woman was a well-preserved fossil. Her rheumy eyes and downturned lips trembled with every syllable she tried to speak. Her voice was gravelly from use, or cigars, or was it whiskey. It doesn't matter. Margaret was old, but also cunning.
She was one of the brightest lawyers of her time and probably of mine. She hadn't acquired her power from nothing. Still, it was strange that she sat down in the seat opposite me at the Army Navy Country Club. Not only because of the high health risk and expense of being carted here, but also because Martha had long since retired and her business had nothing to do with the state.
Margaret represents sharks of an entirely different kind. She became head partner at a time when Mazzone successfully managed to wash his way into the system. Wanted by the FBI in over 10 states and she just simply disappeared his assets into legitimacy and he was able to simply go wherever he wanted without ever turning on anyone. No one knew how she did it and she wouldn't tell.
And now she was standing in the country club with the hands of a wizened tree, warning me to "stop digging".
"Stop digging what, Dolly?" I ask coolly over the steaming cocoa and croissants the club has provided.
