Elizabeth
25 January 2017
Wednesday
My name had been sent to the Senate.
Soon - as in tomorrow - I would be the Secretary of State.
'Relax, you'll get it by an 'overwhelming majority'" Will had said. Like a benevolent God, handing out favours in exchange for sins.
Elizabeth Masey, Secretary of State.
But who would've thought that on the eve of my greatest career achievement, I'd be in the passenger seat of a 5 hour drive to bumpkin town Oceana with Lamar Jackson as my partner in crime.
Even Abigail's sneakily delivered good luck note from the Secret Service couldn't make me enjoy the title. Instead this soon to be confirmed Secretary of State was trying to find a sleeping position with only the soothing blues of the car stereo to lull her to sleep.
The truth is I haven't earned this position but I'm gonna make sure I did it proud.
As the sun starts to peek over the horizon I pull into the first garage I could find. At 7:30 in the morning there's something desolate about this place. My companions snoring is all the conversation accompanying me. Everything about the place whispers small town. Even the McDonald's that we're breakfasting at is just a short, stocky, beige building that looks more like a local diner than an established outlet.
I didn't even know they could make them so -bland. Regardless of its appearance this is our final stop before heading to the trailer park.
With Lamar's looming promise of sending me to the guillotine for my crimes, today is one of the days where it seems like everything will be worth it.
Lamar had found us a new person to approach. Some IT guy, tired of being paid off, wanted to give us something on Fatima Reza. The one third of the Trillium hydra that we needed to take down. According to Lamar, he was our smoking gun.
As we edge towards the single-wide mobile home - a spacious 3 bedroom modern rental perched on the greenest grass - I glance sideways at the writer.
He's nervous. It's the first time I've seen him lose that gungho smile since he started working with us. However, I don't have time to worry about him. Because, there over the silver mesh fence, sitting on the porch of his faux red-brick home is Richard Davison.
60 years old with a glass of whiskey in his left hand and a cigar on his lips, just watching the world go by from his front lawn. He looks old but spry with his wrinkled brown skin.
Most importantly, he looks like a wealth of information.
"Weird little girl." His Southern voice rasps. "Po' thing was so sickly. Something with her nervous system or something. Wouldn't speak to anyone on the team. Always angry about it too. But one thing she knew was dem computers." Smoke curls past his nostrils as he rocks himself on the swing bench.
"It was 3 of us there and some goons. Me, Lonny and her. Didn't know each other from a pile of dirt. Spent a year up at that ranch. State of the art security and tech. They gave us anything we wanted. Lobster for dinner, we got it. Massage therapy, we got it. Only catch was, we couldn't talk to nobody, couldn't even leave the damned compound. They brought us together said here's what we want you make and we just got to it."
He takes a sip of his deep brown liquor. Not even offering us a drink. So much for that Southern hospitality.
We wait and he seems to be done with his story. Or maybe he's just reflecting.
I've learned the trick to getting people to talk is to listen. Give them time to gather their thoughts. It's an exercise in patience but one that always pays off. You keep quiet long enough and people will tell you exactly where they buried the body in no time.
