The Governor's Wife (44 page)

"I can dream."

They got out of the truck. Lindsay threw the satchel over her shoulder and walked down the dirt road. Jesse watched her, a moment too long for Inez's liking.

"Doctor! Hurry!"

She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

Jim Bob Burnet's office smelled like McDonald's. Eddie Jones had brought breakfast that morning. They now ate Egg McMuffins. Eddie had come to Austin to lay low after those incidents involving civilians in Iraq, which was fortunate for Jim Bob; he would soon collect on his insurance policy.

Spread across his desk were magazines and newspapers from around the country with Bode Bonner's image on the front cover and front page. And each story cited James Robert Burnet, Ph.D., as the genius behind the Republican machine in Texas, the man with his finger on the pulse of politics in Texas. "The next Karl Rove."

Bode Bonner had transcended politics. He now occupied that rarified airspace of an American icon. He had survived an assassination attempt by Mexican hit men in broad daylight, and he had shot and killed his three assailants. It was a scene straight out of a Hollywood action-thriller. Bode Bonner was a real-life American action-hero.

Which worried Jim Bob Burnet.

Because while the American people loved their heroes, the American press loved to bring their heroes down. Especially a conservative Republican hero. The liberal media would not allow a Republican hero to succeed in politics today. They would attack him—or her, in Sarah Palin's case—relentlessly. She's stupid, she's inexperienced, she's racist, she's dangerous. The press knew that if they repeated a lie a hundred times every day for a hundred days, it became the truth. Then that flock of sheep known as the American people would believe it. Know it. Vote it.

It was a short journey from man of the people to scorned by the people.

They were a fickle crowd, the middle class. The rich and the poor shared the same motivation when it came to politics: money. The poor voted to get more money from the government; the rich voted to keep more money from the government. It was that simple for them. But the middle class, their motivations were more complex, more fluid, more fickle. They didn't vote on money alone. Sometimes it seemed as if they voted on everything but money: abortion, gun control, gay marriage. Family values. Social values. Christian values. American values. The rich and the poor worked overtime to destroy any social values still standing in America, so the middle class voted to restore those values. Which had proved an exercise in utter futility, but that had not stopped the middle class from trying.

Every election.

Consequently, pollsters across America constantly tried to find the pulse of the middle-class voter, which usually proved impossible. Their views changed daily, hourly, apparently in response to the latest story on the evening news or
Entertainment Tonight
. But one response to the polls that came through loud and clear: the middle class demanded a presidential candidate who portrayed family-social-Christian-American values, whatever that might be at the moment.

Not someone who betrayed those values.

So Jim Bob had examined Bode Bonner's middle-class values index and found it lacking in three distinct areas: (a) his daughter was a lesbian; (b) his wife had left him; and (c) he had a twenty-seven-year-old mistress. He could explain away (a) and (b), but Mandy Morgan was simply too gorgeous to explain away. Middle-class men might envy Bode Bonner, but their middle-class wives would hate him. And they would not vote for him. He would lose the election because of her. If Mandy Morgan were exposed as Bode Bonner's mistress.

Or should he say, when.

Jim Bob knew it was only a matter of time. He had no doubt—none at all—that at that very moment, somewhere out there, those sneaky liberal media bastards were readying an all-out attack on Bode Bonner, American hero. That's what they do.

And they would do it to him.

He knew the press had people poking into every nook and cranny of Bode Bonner's life. And everyone in his life. They would eventually happen upon Mandy Morgan. They would learn the truth. They always did. And when they did—when the images and stories were splashed across the televisions of America, the middle class would feel betrayed yet again. Bode Bonner, American hero, would be revealed as just another Republican hypocrite, preaching family values while screwing a girl young enough to be his daughter. And they would not vote for him. He wouldn't make it out of Iowa. So Jim Bob Burnet, chief political strategist for the leading Republican presidential candidate, had come to a tough decision.

Bode Bonner must end his affair with Mandy Morgan.

Jim Bob glanced over at the TV in the corner; it was on, but the volume muted. He wanted to catch the morning news headlines. But the screen showed a female reporter standing in a desolate scene of shanties and shacks with a river behind her. The byline read: "Colonia on the Rio Grande outside Laredo, Texas." Jim Bob pointed the remote at the TV and increased the volume. The reporter—a pretty Latina—spoke into a handheld microphone.

"They all fly into the Laredo International Airport, rent a car, and drive west on Mines Road to an unmarked dirt road that leads south to the eighteen-foot-tall border wall."

A video played on the screen.

"They drive through the gates and another mile to
Colonia Ángeles
. It is as if they are believers journeying to a holy shrine. But they are television and print journalists coming to interview Jesse Rincón. He remains bewildered by the attention, but the
colonias
need the money the attention brings, so he grants the interviews. I too have come to meet Jesse Rincón this day."

The screen now switched to a live shot of the reporter and a Latino in a white lab coat.

"From the Mexican border in Texas, we're now joined by Dr. Rincón."

"Good morning. Welcome to
Colonia Ángeles
."

"Doctor, these
colonias
—these slums—they line both sides of the river, from here to Brownsville. Why?"

"NAFTA."

"The trade agreement?"

The doctor pointed toward the river; the camera swung around to capture the Rio Grande and the slums on the far side.

"American companies relocated their factories across the river, for the cheap labor. Our cars, clothes, televisions, electronics, furniture … they are all made across the river. The factories are called
maquiladoras
. The word means 'to submit to the machine.' And submit the Mexican workers did. They are paid one dollar an hour for work Americans were paid twenty dollars an hour …"

Filthy brown kids gathered around the doctor, as if attracted by the cameras.

"Oh, look," Jim Bob said, "they put kids in the shot. He's politicking."

"Maybe they live there," Eddie said.

Back on the TV, the doctor was saying, "Of course, they cannot live like human beings on a dollar an hour, so they live like animals in these
colonias
on both sides of the river, while the American managers live in fine houses in Laredo. But the jobs lured millions of Mexicans from the interior to the border. At the peak, the
maquiladoras
employed two million Mexicans. But the boom has gone bust."

"What happened?"

"The American companies moved a million jobs to Asia. The poor Asians, they will work for twenty-five cents an hour. American companies troll the planet for the cheapest labor."

"What happened to the Mexican workers?"

"Fired. The men went to work for the cartels, the women became prostitutes. NAFTA polluted the river and turned the borderlands into one big slum and an entire generation of Mexican women into prostitutes. Our leaders pass these laws but they do not foresee the consequences. Perhaps they do not even look, since they do not have to live with the consequences."

The doctor waved a hand at the scene.

"This is the 'international trade' you hear about on the evening news.
Maquiladoras
and
colonias
, sweatshops and slums, drugs and death, prostitution and pollution, that is what our desire for cheap goods does to the rest of the world."

"The factories polluted the Rio Grande?"

"Yes. And the pollution makes the people sick."

"Why doesn't the Mexican government stop it?"

"Calderón cannot worry about pollution when he cannot feed his people. If he cracks down on the
maquiladoras
, the Americans will take all the jobs to Asia."

"Governor Bonner cut funding for the
colonias
during the last legislative session and is expected to veto all funding in the next budget."

"So I have heard."

"Perhaps Governor Rincón would not."

"I am just a doctor."

"Well, Doctor, prominent Latinos in Texas are promoting you as a possible Democratic candidate for governor, like Mayor Gutiérrez of San Antonio. I spoke with him yesterday in San Antonio. This is what he said."

The screen switched to a video of the same reporter with Gutiérrez.

"Dr. Rincón could beat Bode Bonner. My people will vote for him."

"The people of San Antonio?"

"All Latinos in Texas."

"But Governor Bonner's polls show strong support among Latinos in national polls after he rescued those Mexican children and survived an assassination attempt."

"Yes, that was a good thing the governor did. And I am thankful that he and his daughter survived the shooting. But Latinos in Texas have been waiting a long time for a Latino governor. That time has come."

Jim Bob pointed sharply at the screen. "That fucking Gutiérrez and his Mexican Mafia. This is his doing. He's still mad because we took Texas from Mexico. You'd think they'd fucking give it up—hell, we stole Texas fair and square a hundred seventy-five years ago. But they still bitch and complain and sue to get their land back. Mexicans actually sued to get back Padre Island, can you believe that?"

"What would happen to all the condos?" Eddie asked.

"Nothing. They're already owned by rich Mexicans."

The screen went back live to the
colonia
. To the reporter and the doctor.

"Could Jesse Rincón be the first Latino governor in the history of Texas? Historically, Latinos have not come out to vote. But when they do, their numbers will decide who sits in the Governor's Mansion. That could be Jesse Rincón."

The reporter put a arm through the doctor's and a devilish grin on her face.

"And ladies, he's thirty-eight and single. This is Carmen Cavazos, reporting live from outside Laredo, Texas."

Jim Bob froze the frame on the handsome face of Jesse Rincón. He stared at his worst nightmare: a handsome, educated, articulate Latino. He felt like Apollo Creed's manager watching a young Rocky Balboa pulverizing a side of beef with his bare fists in that scene from
Rocky
. And he saw all his dreams dissolving into dust. Bode Bonner would not win the White House if he lost the Governor's Mansion. And James Robert Burnet, Ph.D., wouldn't be the next Karl Rove.

"I can't lose this election."

"You?" Eddie said from the couch.

"You know what I mean."

Eddie chuckled. "I think I do."

"Time to earn your pay, Eddie. Go down to the border, check him out, dig up some dirt."

"He looks clean."

"Everyone's got dirt, if you dig deep enough. And if you can't dig it up, you can always plant it."

"You worried about that Mexican doctor?"

"I get paid to worry."

"But the boss beats Obama—how can he lose in Texas?"

"Because he'd be running against a Latino in Texas."

"Maybe he's gay?"

"The doctor?"

Eddie aimed a thumb at the TV. "She said he's thirty-eight and not married."

"We're not married."

"We were."

Jim Bob smiled. "Latinos won't vote for a gay governor, would they? Even if he is one of them."

Lindsay Bonner sipped her wine. She and Jesse sat on the back porch. The evening breeze was gentle and warm. The windows behind them were open, and the soft music drifted out.

"How did the interview go?"

"The reporter, she brought up my running for governor. Mayor Gutiérrez, he is at it again."

"On national TV. Jesse, I know Jim Bob Burnet. He won't let this pass. He'll look for dirt … your dirt. If he can't find any, he'll make some."

"But I don't want to be governor. I told the reporter."

"She was pretty, the reporter?"

Like a teenage girl.

"Yes, very."

Jesse stood and held a hand out to her. She put her wine down and took his hand. She stood, and they danced. Then he kissed her.

"Jesse, it would be a sin."

"If love were a sin."

"I'm still a married woman."

"Your husband, he has forgotten that."

"But I haven't. Jesse, I've lived my life a certain way. I can't change now, even if I—"