Shoot (18 page)

“So, you called on people to shoot Speaker Chesterfield and now you’re celebrating that shooting?” one of the reporters asked.

“Divine will…”

“Our prayers are for the victims and their families but divine will is what will be seen in the future as having happened now,” Dodge said. “God, not me, has decreed that these things have happened and the Lord does not make mistakes, which is what people make because they are ‘We the People’…”

“The hour of freedom…”

“The hour of freedom is coming.” She tossed her shiny chestnut brown hair. “Shoot, this election is about freedom and God wants us to be real free and clear about our choices, which we have done and will do on election day. Just ask God in your heart and he will for sure guide your hand.”

“So, are you saying the murders of five members of Congress was a good thing and was ordained by God and you should be nominated?” a confused TV reporter asked.

“Murder not good but…”

“Murder is not good, of course, not for you to put words into my mouth, that’s also not good to trick the American People with lamestream media mumbo-jumbo, and we have no control over that and must do what he ordains because we have free will because we are a free people who must carry on and make the best of a bad situation and make no mistake that we will make the best that it can be and will be made, you betcha.”

“Umm… okay, thanks,” another reporter said, turning away.

“What a putz,” Izzy muttered. “
El tonel vacio mete mas ruido
.”

“What?” I asked him.

“An empty cask makes the most noise,” Izzy translated.

Next to Dodge, waiting his turn, was Clayton Littleton, obviously sprung on bail. We worked our way through the crowd of delegates until we got to the inner ring, with half a dozen men holding their rifles at port arms across their chests.

Izzy held his gold badge up and called out to Dodge.

“NYPD, ma’am. We need a few moments of your time, please.”

The gunman closest to Izzy swung his barrel toward him. Phil closed the distance until he was on Izzy’s left, almost touching the guy.

“Ease your finger off that trigger, pal,” the taller Phil said clearly and calmly. “You’re a daisy if you do.”

The rifleman opened his mouth to speak but his chin fell when he looked down at Phil’s nine-millimeter Beretta, which was inches from his gut.

“Now, please, sir,” Phil told him. “We don’t want any mishaps.”

“Thank you for your help,” Phil told him, elbowing him aside with a smile.

Izzy repeated his spiel to Dodge and her husband, explaining they were investigating the homicides.

“Of course, we fully support law enforcement,” Dodge told him. “They are our first line of defense.”

“That’s great,” Izzy said. “We just need you and your friend Mr. Littleton to cooperate in our investigation, as all of your other colleagues are doing.”

“What can we help you with, officer?” Fred Dodge asked, trying to get in between Izzy and his wife.

“Where were you between nine last night and nine this morning?” Izzy asked, standing his ground.

“In my room, with my husband and my family,” she said.

“Great,” Izzy said. “We just need a quick test on your hands and clothing and also on that rifle you have and we can let you get back to your convention.”

“
What
?” Littleton piped up, outraged.

“You friggin’ kidding me?” Fred Dodge shouted. “The government has finally come for our guns!”

“I don’t want to keep your weapons,” Izzy explained. “We just have to test for gunshot residue and ballistics.”

“I said it would happen and here it is!” the former governor declared in a loud voice, causing the TV crews to scurry back to her. “The mongrel Moslem administration has come for our god-given guns.”

“Lady, I’m investigating five murders and we are asking everyone who…”

“The time has come!” Littleton shouted, not to be upstaged. “First gun control and now this!”

I noticed Phil still had his piece out, swiveling it around, watching the gunmen, especially their hands. The cameras were back, the lights on. Izzy had his friendliest smile on, his most easygoing tone.

“Mrs. Dodge, many of the other delegates have already agreed to help us solve these terrible murders, by eliminating all of you good people,” he said. “But you can refuse to speak to us, that’s your right. It’s cool, because, hey, anything you tell us can be used if there is a trial. You could get a lawyer. I know they’re expensive, so, if you like, we could ask a judge to get a free one for you. Do you understand that?” Izzy handed her a white card.

“Umm… sure, I guess… but…”

“Did you just read my wife her rights?” Fred asked, dumbfounded.

“I don’t have to read them. I know them by heart. Mrs. Dodge, now that you understand your rights, are you willing to speak to us and to cooperate?”

“How dare you?” Fred asked. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“NYPD. And you’re in my city. Well, Mrs. Dodge? Will you speak to us and submit to testing?”

“No way!” Fred shouted.

“I didn’t commit any crime,” the bejeweled politician protested. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Mandy!” Her husband shouted. He was clearly aware that she had just given the media a new lead story.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Izzy told her. “We’ll be in touch. Soon. Have a nice day. How about you, Mr. Littleton? Are you willing to speak with us and submit to—”

“I will never submit to the Zionist Occupation Government and their jack-booted thugs,” Littleton announced.

“You’re the one wearing combat boots, pal,” Phil said. “These are cop Oxfords. Aren’t we your first line of defense anymore?”

“So, to be clear, ma’am,” Izzy said for the cameras, “you are refusing to cooperate in this homicide investigation.”

“That’s right, I will never surrender my guns,” Mrs. Dodge added, recovering.

“Cold, dead…”

“You can have my gun,” she shouted dramatically, directly at Izzy, with an exaggerated hair flip, “When you pry it from my cold, dead hands!”

She tried to stare Izzy down. He glared calmly back at her until the applause ended.

“Hold on,” Izzy told Dodge. “I’m thinking.”

Miranda Dodge blinked but Izzy didn’t. Her husband pulled her away and the convention resumed around us. Tiffany was at the podium, and informed Dodge that her motion to have her own nomination ballot was denied. Dodge’s supporters booed, hooted and hollered for ten minutes, waving D
ODGE FOR
P
RESIDENT
signs, before running out of steam. Dodge stepped to a microphone stand at her native Alaska delegation area and demanded to be recognized.

“The chair is not recognizing delegates at this time,” Tiffany announced. “We will proceed with the vote on the nomination of Senator Katharine Carroll for President of the United States. Please come to order for the calling of the role.”

“NO!” Dodge protested. “You don’t have enough votes! Without us, you won’t even have a quorum! You won’t have a candidate—you won’t be able to do anything. I want my vote first or we walk!”

“Again, the chair is not recognizing delegates until after the vote.”

“That’s it! We’re leaving!”

“Is the delegate from Alaska informing the chair that she and her pledged delegates are resigning from this convention, under rule 22 point 9, section F?”

“Shoot yeah! We resign, we secede!”

Her crew went wild, making it difficult to hear Tiffany at the podium.

“Very well, the chair acknowledges your irrevocable resignations and wishes the delegates the best of luck.”

Dodge and her large block of Tea Party delegates swarmed for the main exit, pumping her signs, chanting her name. She led the exodus, waving and smiling for the camera crews, who went with them. It took another ten minutes for them all to exit and gather in a tight crowd in the main gallery outside where a podium had already been set up for her. Dodge gave TV interviews about her move, explaining that she had stopped the convention, which could not achieve a seventy-five per cent quorum needed for any action. Izzy, Phil and I followed from a distance and watched from the exit arch. Tiffany began quickly calling the names of the states, asking how many in each delegation voted for Carroll.

“Madam Chairwoman, the great state of Alabama is proud to cast its six remaining delegate votes for Katharine Carroll for President of the United States!”

Tiffany continued at a very fast pace, alphabetically polling the states. Some seemed to have a lot of remaining votes; Alaska did not answer when called. Some state delegations had only a few left but all the votes cast were for Carroll. We strolled over to the edge of Dodge’s mob to listen to her interviews.

“So you control the convention because you control the quorum?” a reporter asked her.

Dodge’s husband leaned toward her but we couldn’t hear his prompt.

“That’s correct, Diana, it’s all about Parliamenting Procedure and vote counting,” Dodge responded, obviously trying to sound brainy.

“Perhaps you can explain to me what rule 22 point 9, section F is?”

Dodge’s eyes bugged, as if someone had squeezed her ass. She obviously had no clue. She tilted an ear toward her husband and then dodged the question.

“
We
know what it is, Diana, but that’s far too technical and boring for everybody. The point is, this convention must recognize me as the rightful candidate or everything will stay deadlocked.”

“No, I really don’t know what it means. What
is
rule 22 point 9, section F?”

“We are too busy with the country’s business to waste time on tech-supporty, kinda gotcha questions, Diana. Let’s keep message discipline here.”

“Okay, why do you think you deserve the nomination when you only have, at most, twenty-five per cent of the delegates?”

“Because I am the only candidate who can beat that liberal liar Amelia Calhoun in November! All the polls show that I will beat that Democrat fat cat.”

“Actually, the only poll that shows that result was your poll.”

“Next question,” Dodge snapped.

A lot of cellphones sounded in the press gaggle. One by one they stopped waving their hands to ask questions and ran back into the convention hall. Within a minute or so, Dodge was standing alone, confused. Without the press noise I could now hear what was going in the main hall. Tiffany was well along in the alphabet and the applause by the remaining delegates was building as more and more votes piled up for Katharine Carroll.

Dodge looked at her husband, confused. He mirrored her expression. Dodge’s delegates drifted back toward the hall, as she and her husband and their team huddled. They broke and walked as fast as they could back toward the convention floor. They were stopped at the entrance by a wall of security. Inside, Tiffany had reached the end of her hurried roll call.

“Wyoming?” Tiffany asked.

“Madam Chairwoman, the cowboys and cowgirls of Wyoming, the Equality State, is proud to cast all of their votes for the next president of the United States. Senator Katharine Carroll!”

Everyone except Dodge’s people went berserk. The convention chanted Carroll’s name, stamped their feet and cheered. Dodge and her group hurled curses and threats— even their signs—but were denied access and ordered to leave as they had resigned from the party and from their delegate status. The quorum was no longer an issue— because their departure meant they needed fewer delegates in order to take action. Rule 22 transferred the seceding votes to whoever received the most votes, which was Carroll.

“This convention stands in recess until the acceptance speech at seven p.m. this evening,” Tiffany announced, banging the gavel and leaving the stage.

“They can’t do this!” Dodge moaned. “They will pay for this! I will kill those motherfuckers!”

I transcribed her words into my phone and sent them to the newspaper. Dodge didn’t notice or didn’t care that a few TV crews were back, shooting her tantrum. Her husband was glaring directly at me. The ventriloquist was furious, as the dummy flailed in the spotlight.

“This isn’t over! Payback’s a bitch,” Dodge spat. “I will destroy every one of them! Who fucked up? What the hell was rule 22 whatever?”

Rule 22 was mathematics. When Dodge pulled out, her delegates’ slots were voided for the rest of the convention, lowering the number of votes needed for a quorum or to pass a nomination. I couldn’t resist.

“Something you probably should have read before shooting your mouth off,” I told Dodge before walking away.

My stomach growled. I realized it was two in the afternoon. I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet and was starving. There was a food and beverage table backstage, where Tiffany was orchestrating TV interviews with the new candidate on a small, brightly lit set with traditional furniture that looked suspiciously like the White House Oval Office. I loaded a plate with mysterious finger foods: green dumplings, red eggrolls, mini sandwiches and the best food in the world— those little pigs in blankets with mustard. Izzy and Phil joined me but ate fast and rushed back to Chesterfield’s room, to supervise the removal of his body to the Medical Examiner’s office.

As I chowed down, I was amazed how quickly the names on the signs were changed and how fast the back-benchers had come forward. I watched Senator Katharine Carroll explain to one interviewer what happened on the floor prior to her nomination and then quickly launched into her political talking points, already campaigning against the Democratic nominee. Her hair and makeup were perfect, her words polished. Maybe too polished.

“My liberal opponent, Senator Amelia Calhoun, failed to protect the people under her command in the State Department and they were defenseless against the terrorists who killed them,” Carroll declared. “That would never happen on my watch.”

Boring.

“You were right, Shepherd,” Tiffany said, sliding up to me as I finished my food. “Dodge and her people never bothered to read the rules. They walked right into the trap.”

“Your new boss is walking into a trap of her own right now,” I warned.