Voice of the Nation

Chapter 10

G | C

May 23, 2014

9:00 am

I slammed the newspaper on his desk—not caring that it caused an avalanche of memos to flit to the floor or that the door was still swinging on its hinges from my violent entrance.

"Tell me this is a misquote," I growled.

Jackson blinked and then sprang to his feet in delayed reaction.

"Georgie!"

"No—the only words I want to hear out of your mouth are: Yes, Georgie, of course this is a misquote. I would never sell my soul to those spineless, corrupt—"

Jackson strode toward the door and promptly slammed it shut before the rest of the staff could hear anything further.

He let out a frustrated huff before sending me a glare over his shoulder. "Remember what office you're standing in."

"That's just the problem," I seethed as I rounded on him yet again. "See, I thought I was in Congressman Sherman's office. The politician who couldn't be bought, who wasn't afraid to stand up—"

"Georgie—"

"Who listened to his constituents, who actually gave a shit about their lives—"

In two steps he was a hair's width from me, his pointer finger flexed between us. "Watch it—"

"Who listened to those mothers and fathers who lost their kids to gun violence! Who heard the stories of little children being gunned down—"

"You don't understand—"

"I understand you promised Margaret O'Leary that you'd get justice for her son—"

"And I will!"

"When!" I exclaimed, practically shouting now. "When, Jackson? Next term? When it's popular with the pollsters? Or are you going to wait until your goddamn donors get behind it?"

Jackson's eyes widened in shock, but he only shook his head. "You're being short-sighted. Killing this bill is part of a longer strategy—"

"That's bullshit!"

"Georgie!"

"No, that's BULLSHIT!" I bellowed. My hand flew to my mouth as my clasped fingers did their best to reign in my ragged breathing. Eventually, my hand-formed into a fist which I lowered to my side.

I could feel Jackson's eyes watching me and flinched under his glare. "Look, you're being emotional. I understand, but you can't let that cloud your judgment—"

"No." I shook my head adamantly. "I'm not being—Mrs. O'Leary was emotional, Jackson. At her son's funeral! He was five, or don't you remember?"

He said nothing, so I went on.

"Is it emotional for me to remind you how small his coffin was?"

Jackson focused his attention out the window. "Stop."

The hell I would.

"Mrs. O'Leary had a long-term strategy. A college fund little Christopher will never get to—"

"I said stop!"

I stared at my boss, at the man I worked myself to death for. The man I campaigned for, hell the man I voted for.