DUTCH AND GINA: A SCANDAL IS BORN (17 page)

Penelope Riley couldn’t read anybody’s heart, but she could hear Dutch and Gina at it.
 
Little Walt had already been put down to bed, and she was preparing to leave herself, but the noise became too animated.
 

She walked around, to the back side corridor that led to the presidential bathroom, and listened at the side door.
 
It was obvious what was going on, and she couldn’t tear away from it.

And neither could Gina, as Dutch had her pinned against the stall and was fucking her from the back.
 
It was a pounding because they both needed a pounding and all that could be heard was the slapping sounds of his hard, frenetic thrusts into her.
 
Gina’s hands were stretched out flat against the shower tile as he fucked her, and all she could do was beg for more, was hope he didn’t even think about easing up.
 

This was no love connection for them.
 
This was no sweet little make out session for them.
 
This was pure emotion and nothing else.
 
This was anger release, bitterness release, that hatred that they both were beginning to feel for their fellow man releasing like a torrent of rain.
 
Pouring out of them, draining through every inch of their bodies.
 

And when Dutch could find no more energy, when his thrusts slowed and his penis dipped so deep inside his wife that he felt welded to her, they climaxed.
 
Only Gina’s orgasm was not like Dutch’s.
 
Dutch let out a long, satisfied sigh as he dripped the last ounce of juice he had left in him.
 

But Gina let out a sob as she realized, with this last, sensual feeling lifting up, tightening, and then draining out, as his penis slowly compressed inside of her, that that filthy fishbowl still awaited their return.

And she knew for the first time since her marriage to Dutch, since her arrival to live in DC, why so many once-spirited fish, that could outswim any other fish in the bowl, seem to curl up and die in that very same bowl.

But that fishbowl only became deadlier when Gina and Dutch woke up the next morning, only to be slapped with a summons.
 

The chairman of the committee, a short, stout man who seemed barely able to contain his glee, stood at the lectern on Capitol Hill and made the announcement to the American public.
 

“At eight o five this morning,” he announced, “the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform issued a formal request to the White House for the First Lady of the United States to come before Congress and give answer to the accusations alleged, and so alleged by more than one individual, that she engaged in illegal and immoral activities inside and around the people’s house; that she engaged in these activities while still serving in her official capacity as the nation’s First Lady; and if she, as we, believe that such behavior is inconsistent with the role to which she freely and voluntarily serves.
 
If she does not comply with our request, she will leave us with no alternative but to issue a subpoena. To which,” he added, “we would hope would be avoided and avoided at all cost.”

THIRTEEN

It took nearly two weeks and everything short of an actual subpoena, but the day of the hearing finally arrived.
 
Cable news and even network news channels were billing it as the trial of the century, although it wasn’t a trial at all and they knew it.
 
But given the circus-like atmosphere, given that the hearing room was jam-packed with reporters and activists and even a few regular citizens fortunate enough to get in, a trial, maybe even a trial by fire as the Congressional Black Caucus was calling it, seemed the appropriate term.

Caroline Parker sat with Penelope Riley in Riley’s livingroom, glued to the television set.
 
Liz Sinclair at the White House, and Roman Wilkes at his office in Newark, and even Max Brennan, drinking alone at a bar, were glued to theirs.
 

The White House had been cagey all week about what degree of cooperation the First Lady would actually give, causing many to wonder if she would simply show up and plead the Fifth, or, less likely, show up and notify the committee that executive privilege would be invoked, but those unanswered questions still didn’t stop the networks from interrupting their morning shows and soap operas to give this historic hearing its full attention.
 

But it wasn’t until the motorcade believed to be carrying the First Lady emerged from the White House gates and made its way to Capitol Hill did the already supercharged atmosphere rise to electrifying proportions.

“Who does she think she is, Michael Jackson?” Caroline asked her aunt as they watched it all unfold on TV; as the cameras followed every move the motorcade made, speculating wildly on which car contained the First Lady; as the major anchors discussed this sordid mess with a panel of well-known Washington insiders as if they were discussing the presidential State of the Union address.
 

And the speculation was rampant.
 
“What will she say?” commentators from ABC to Fox to MSNBC to CBS were asking across channels.
 
“Will she admit the affairs but deny the drug use?
 
Will she deny all of the allegations?
 
Will she turn the tables on her accusers and accuse them of some sort of wrongdoing?
 
Will she indict the media?”

It was rank speculation of the first order and none of those watching who viewed themselves as having skin in the game, not Roman Wilkes nor Max nor even Caroline Parker believed for a second that Gina Harber would ever admit to what they all knew were blatant lies.

But inside the hearing room the atmosphere was so charged that if felt like the early stages of a NASCAR race where anything could happen; where at any given moment a wreck to end all wrecks could suddenly flip mangled cars in the air, and human lives right along with them.
 

And for that very reason, every committee member was already seated behind the long, winding podium in the hearing room ready to question the First Lady. The paparazzi that were traditionally allowed to take what they called quick shots of the witness before the gavel went down, were already ten rows deep in front of the witness table.
 
There were, in fact, so many photojournalists that they barely had enough elbow room to click their cameras.

At LaLa’s house in Georgetown, Crader McKenzie was seated on her sofa viewing the events with rapt attention. LaLa, too, who returned from the kitchen carrying a couple cans of Coke, could not take her eyes off of the television set.
 
She handed Crader a coke barely looking in his direction, and sat next to him.
 

Then she frowned.
 
“What in the world is that?” she asked, when the pool camera shot the scene in front of the witness table.

“Photojournalists,” Crader said, popping open his can.
 
“They get to take a few pictures before the chairman calls the hearing to order.
 
It’s a tried and true tradition for these types of hearings.”

“But what if Gina doesn’t want them flashing all of those bulbs in her face?”

Crader shook his head.
 
“She has no choice,” he said.
 
“She’ll just have to sit there and grin and take it.”

LaLa shook her head.
 
“Poor Gina,” she said.
 
“I knew this was going to be a big day for the media, but I never dreamed it would get this big.
 
It’s so frenzy that it almost seems like we’re getting ready to watch the OJ Simpson trial all over again, not some dull congressional hearing.
 
How in the world is she going to handle all of this?”

But as soon as the doors to the hall opened, and Walter Dutch Harber, the President of the United States, came walking in alone, and his wife was nowhere to be seen, it quickly became clear that Gina was not going to have to handle any of it; but that her husband, instead, was taking care of this.

Dutch walked in proudly, his tailored-to-perfection suit fitting his muscular body as if it were stitched on; his jet-black hair brushed back into a freshly cut mane that highlighted his gorgeous jade-colored eyes and strong, sexy jawline.
 
He knew he was the center of attention as soon as he dawned those doors.
 
He knew everybody were amazed that a sitting president would reduce himself to attend some congressional hearing on sex and drugs in the White House, but he refused to allow his mind to drift to any sideshows that would distract him from his singular purpose.
 
His eyes, so intense they seemed glass-like, stared straight at the committee members who called this travesty of a hearing in the first place, as if he wanted them to not only know, but to feel his displeasure.

The shock that reverberated around the room when the spectators realized the president was going to address the assembly became so loud and life-like that a collective, audible gasp could be heard from one row to the next.
 
And suddenly people didn’t know what to do.
 
Some started applauding, others started elbowing their neighbors, others still were too shocked to do anything but stare.
 

But everybody, including the committee members on the podium, stood to their feet at the president’s arrival.

“I should have known something was up when they told me I didn’t have to come in today,” Penelope Riley said as she and Caroline watched in amazement too.
 
“But I just assumed they would let that LaLa Land person keep Little Walt.
 
I had no idea the First Lady was going to stay back and keep him.”

“Never assume anything when it comes to those two,” Caroline warned, a twinge of hurt rifling through her.
 

Dutch, she now fully realized, would do anything for that black bitch, even to the point of disrespecting the office of the presidency by attending some hearing she’d be willing to bet no other sitting president had ever bothered to attend.
 
And by attending he would be the one taking the fire.
 

But that wasn’t what Caroline had wanted.
 
She wanted to see Regina under fire, not Dutch.
 
She wanted to see that wife of his melt like cheap plastic under a withering cross.
 
She wanted to see beads of sweat on her forehead and bitterness in her eyes.
 
She wanted to see her destroyed, and in her destruction, given his inexplicable love for her, Dutch’s own destruction too.

But it wasn’t going to be.
 
Even Max, who sat alone at a long bar counter in Boston, could see that Dutch had decided to spare his wife the embarrassment.
 
Which unnerved him even more; which made him question his decisions even more; which caused him, as he watched Dutch, as he sat amazed to this day by the man’s beauty, to feel a profound sense of loss every time he realized that he would never again be in close proximity of the only human being he had ever loved.

LaLa, however, was less amazed by Dutch’s appearance than by the fact that nobody, not even Gina, had clued her in.
 

She looked at Crader.
 
“Did you know about this?” she asked him.

Crader shook his head.
 
“No, I didn’t.”
 
And then he smiled.
 
“But man is it brilliant.”

LaLa looked at the television set, saw the flustered committee members, saw the excited audience members, and she smiled too.
 
“Yeah,” she said, agreeing.
 
“It is brilliant.”

Once it was realized that the president would be the person sitting at the witness table, the photojournalists, who could hardly believe their good luck when the president entered the gallery, was just as quickly crushed when they were ushered out of the room without being allowed their traditional quick shots.
 

What struck the committee members, who were as awed as the spectators by this turn of events, was the fact that the president had come alone: no lawyers, no advisors, not even the subject of the hearing itself, his wife.
 

And when he sat down, the chairman, confused and somewhat perturbed that he was not notified in advance of this monumental change in plans, gaveled the hearing to order.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” the chairman began.
 
“I must say we weren’t quite expecting you.”
 
Laughter from the gallery.

Dutch, however, was in no mood for their humor.
 
“Good morning,” he said.

“Would I be wrong in assuming, sir, that your wife is on her way?”

“Your assumption would be wrong, that is correct.”

The chairman glanced at the co-chairman and then placed his hand over the microphone and leaned back as the committee’s own lawyers whispered in his ear.

At the White House Residence, Gina sat in the Nursery rocker with Little Walt in her arms.
 
She was still smarting over the fight she and Dutch had had last night about his decision to go to Capitol Hill himself.
 
She had every intention of going.
 
This was her battle, this was her fight, and she never in her life backed down from a fight.
 

But Dutch wouldn’t hear of it.
 
No wife of his was going before those vultures, he made clear, even invoking the
over my dead body
analogy.
 
For days they had been arguing this very point until Gina had decided to give it a rest, since he couldn’t be persuaded, and on the day of the hearing simply dress and go.

But he literally wouldn’t let her.
 
For the first time in their marriage he didn’t suggest that she not do something, he told her she wasn’t going to do it.
 
And because he refused to even entertain her wishes, it was on.
 
Their biggest battle yet.
 
Last night was the worst of it.
 
Dutch argued and she argued and it became so heated that he literally pinned her against the wall and pressed his body against her to keep her there.

“You want to defend yourself,” he said.
 
“I know that’s what you want.
 
And I want that for you too.
 
But not like this.
 
I will not have you, my wife, my lover, my life going anywhere near that firing squad.
 
You hear me?
 
You will not be proving any points in front of them because they aren’t calling you there to hear your point of view.
 
They don’t give a damn about your viewpoint.
 
All they want is to crucify you, and in hurting you, hurt me.
 
That’s what this circus is going to be about.
 
Make no mistake about it, Gina.
 
They want to decimate you.”

Dutch had to settle back down, to calm himself.
 
Gina was amazed at his passion.
 
Tears, in fact, were in his eyes.
 
“When you agreed to marry me,” he said, “it was the happiest day of my life.
 
I knew this was going to be a tough road for you.
 
I knew bringing you to Washington wasn’t going to be anything but tumultuous.
 
But I loved you so much.”
 
Dutch leaned his forehead against Gina as tears began to well up in her eyes too.