Try Try Again (2 page)

“Jill, are you there? I just wanted to tell you I left my
loyalty-card collection. I think it’s under the dresser. Could you go look?”

Jill very much wanted to say,
Why, did That Bitch leave
it in our bedroom one day when you ‘had her’ over? How’s that for loyalty?
But she just said, in as cool a voice as she could manage, “I’ll look later and
text you.” She hung up, and hurried into the living room. Episode four of
season two of ‘Try Try Again’ was about to start.

Halfway through episode four, Jill’s gamelight had not yet
come on. Time for the British Foods commercial, which was new for season two.
The scene right after the commercial was her favorite, she thought it was her
best chance to win. Liv Saunders and Charley Dukes would be seated at the
defense table, watching Chief of Police Gardner response to the prosecution’s
questions; saying he saw Charley shoot the Congressman. This testimony wasn’t
particularly crucial – some thirty-five other people saw the same thing, and
seven had been dutifully trooped to the stand and testify to that.

Chief Gardner had been on the platform with Congressman
Barnes seconds before Barnes had stepped down into the crowd and been shot.
Gardner had said he’d been – ah – reaching for his weapon when … Actually, Jill
had heard Gardner had been ducking for cover. Not blaming him, she thought, who
wouldn’t duck when a man a few feet away pulls out a pistol and starts firing
wildly? Gardner had suffered a flesh wound to his right hand, and so the
ducking was seldom mentioned – especially by Gardner. ‘Heroic Chief Scott
Gardner’ had been well-honored.

Coming out of this commercial and a half-second black
screen, as Jill knew and had practiced, Prosecutor Brent Nielsen would ask
Gardner how many shots he’d heard, and Gardner would say “Three or four. Maybe.
Or could be five, y’know how awful everything got, sounds bouncin’ around ...”
“And did you find all the bullets?” “Not sure, sir, but we found three: one in
the deceased’s body and two in the concrete wall behind him. Those two were
mostly fragments, though. And if there were any more, we just couldn’t find ‘em.”

“And did you or Agent Sullivan return fire?”

“No, sir. There were just too many civilians around. And the
assailant had turned and run, anyway. He’d stopped shooting.”

During this exchange, Charley and Liv would be seated at the
defense table quietly. It was tough to be in-character with someone who was
just sitting. Unlike statues, seated people had body-motions, and nods, and
breathing patterns that could be very subtle. But Jill believed she had Liv, in
this scene, nailed. Charley would lean forward, as if he were about to stand.
He’d look up with an odd, startled expression on his face, and Liv would glance
at him, and give him a thin but reassuring smile.

Jill was ready, as the commercial voice concluded its pitch
by saying kidney pie was rather tasty, and those viewing the commercial, if
they were so inclined, might be interested in considering this sturdy product
of a proud island for their tables.

She assumed the alert seated posture Liv had shown in the
real trial two years before, and readied her mouth for thin smiling. The
half-second black screen cut to the courtroom. Just then, Jill’s gamelight
turned on.

Jill was ready; she was always ready. But wait! Something
was different. There was Liv’s thin but reassuring smile, which Jill duplicated
on her own face, but what was she smiling at? Charley hadn’t looked up, hadn’t blinked,
hadn’t startled, because that second and a half had apparently been cut out of
the film.

She felt thrown off-balance, but stayed in character as Liv
Saunders. Yes. She had caught her mental balance and was anticipating Liv’s
expressions and movements as Liv prepared to cross-examine Officer Gardner. Liv
rose from the defense table in a way that implied, wordlessly, Gardner was not
to be believed, hero or not. At the same time at home, Jill got up from her
chair.

Liv cleared her throat. Her face had just begun to register
sympathy for the Chief’s wound, but the careful sympathetic expression and
gesture were more formulaic than real. Jill had picked up on the difference,
and was pretty good at mimicking Liv’s exact expression and tone of voice, as
she would say 6.7 seconds later, “I’m sorry about your….” Jill cleared her
throat at the same time Liv did.

Jill’s gamelight stayed on, and started blinking. She
concentrated hard not to be thrown off-character by her suddenly being watched
by the show’s computer – because she knew, very quickly, she had duplicated her
thousand-dollar win from the year before, and more.

She was now the attorney, and Liv’s copycat. Jill now felt
completely in control of the courtroom as Liv strode to face the witness with
the bored-cop look.

Jill / Liv began to cross-examine the officer. Jill’s
gamelight was still blinking. One hundred fourteen and a half seconds later,
the gamelight went out. Jill collapsed into her chair, shaking and not daring
to understand what she had done, how much money that could mean.

She knew there would be publicity, fans, blogposts, tweets.
In season one, Truda Vallon and Duane Rondo had, separately and as two
different characters, stayed “lit” for almost a minute, and had won something
over half a million dollars and become famous. But no one had ever lasted
longer than that. Now Jill had.

Even before the show was over, Producer Frank Dickstein
himself, and Hub Landon the director, had each video-mailed her their
congratulations. As the episode ended, an announcer said no one had equaled the
performance of Ms. Jillian T. Hall of Pimmit Hills, Virginia that night. Jill
had won not only $50,000 for winning or tying the most T-slices for any agonist
playing Liv that night, but also, having won more T-slices than any other
agonist playing any character that night, she was also awarded an amount for
each T-slice she did win or tie – totaling a previously unheard-of $2,761,314.
The sum of these two numbers was close enough to three million dollars, everyone
called it three million, except the IRS.

Truda Vallon and Duane Rondo came in second and third.

Ellie dropped by, and they hugged and had a beer. Roger
called, and she disconnected him. Reporters took up residence on her lawn.
Everything was wonderful, exciting, dream-like. She was dreaming. Wasn’t. Was.
Wasn’t. – Wasn’t.

By the time an officious aide called with the official word
and asked for her bank’s routing number, Jill was no longer in doubt; she was
rich.

Senator Thomas James Conning, honorary doctor of various
things from Harvard, Yale, and Shippensburg University of Pennsylvania (his
alma mater), anticipating a third term as U.S. Senator from that state, was
worried.

He’d done many things for America: voted 96% the way his
party wanted him to; given speeches in support of their causes; lent his name
to weighty and thoughtful op-eds; been photographed several times with the
President and with lesser Presidents from overseas. He’d even personally
contributed to candidates of his own party, those who could benefit his future
plans. Thomas Conning intended to run for the White House, a fact his staff had
hinted to the press, while the Senator himself was slightly more reticent, in
public, about the matter.

Yes, Thomas Conning wanted to be President. But there was a near-term
threat to his Senate sea, and his Presidential ambitions, that was Ezra Barnes.

Barnes was a popular Congressman from central Pennsylvania
who was expected to announce for Conning’s seat any day now. The race would be close,
Conning figured: he had experience and incumbency, but the demographics
cancelled out that advantage. Yes, Barnes would be a tough opponent. Although
Conning was a popular Senator, early polls showed Barnes narrowly behind and
closing fast.

Barnes was a former prosecutor, which also concerned
Conning. He’d heard Barnes’ staff was looking into Conning’s voting record,
with an eye to accusing him of selling votes. Any accusation could be damaging,
even if untrue. But Conning hadn’t sold a single vote, had he? None that anyone
would find out about. And well, traded a few favors with the Administration,
but who hadn’t done that? Voted party line on bills when the Majority Whip told
him to play ball or eat shit. But who hadn’t done that? Play ball that is, not
eat shit.

Conning considered the plusses and minuses of his
forthcoming campaign against Barnes. As Pennsylvania was a “politically
confused” state (as Conning thought of it), there were too many variables to
feel safe:

First, Pennsylvania elected Democrats at times, and
Republicans at times; and which time was which, was unpredictable.

Second, the state was heavily populated east and west, with
relatively few people in the fly-over counties. Conning lived in the east side
of the state, which gave him some advantages and some disadvantages. But Barnes
represented a district right in the middle. He could therefore seem appealing
to both east and west, or to neither. The Keystone State’s famously fickle
voters would decide which.

Third, money, the one truly bright spot. Barnes was
struggling to raise enough to be competitive, whereas Conning’s war chest was
awash in money. The secretive way this money was raised, through an
intermediary named Sybille Haskin, was highly pertinent to the future of Thomas
James Conning, and indeed, the future of the entire Republic and the God
Indivisible for which it stands.

Barnes’ staff was searching for a weakness, but Conning was
sure they hadn’t discovered the weekly, sometimes daily betrayal of his country,
Conning was actually performing. But that was patriotic, right? For our
nation’s defense, not personally for him. Not really. No.

Well before the death of Ezra Barnes, Sybille Haskin, using
the name Sally Netherton, had arranged to visit Thomas Conning at his office in
the Russell Senate Office Building, portraying herself as a wealthy heiress
looking for a worthy politician to support. Salivating, in this situation, was
highly appropriate for Conning and his staff. And so, one pleasant Washington
afternoon in March, she entered his suite and was asked three times if she would
like coffee, or tea, or a certain modest, but ambitious Pennsylvania beverage.
Gracefully, she declined all offers.

Conning’s admin informed the Senator, Ms. Netherton had
arrived. “Show her in,” he said.

She entered Conning’s private office and smiled. Conning was
not comforted by that smile. Never mind he thought people’s appearances didn’t
matter. Especially where money was concerned. It wasn’t that she was
unattractive: indeed, she carried herself with the thin grace of a barracuda
and could have been, or might have been some years before, worthy of being a
sex-object for any Senator or Cabinet member. But now she reminded him of the
Wicked Witch of the West, especially wearing black. She was about fifty-five
years old, he estimated. The age of the actual Wicked Witch was unknown, but
probably similar.

However, and in spite of the ambitious beverage, she had
smiled and accepting Conning’s polite gesture, sat down across his desk from
him.

After a few words of polite blather, he got as close to the
point as he was prepared to go at the moment:

“Ah, Ms. Netherton, what can I do for you today?”

Her answer didn’t add to the time-wasting pleasantries, and
she got right to the point. “Senator,” she said, “I’m not here on my own
behalf. I represent a major defense contractor: ConDyne, in fact.”

“Yes,” said the Senator, “I’ve met with your people
frequently. Very well informed, very dedicated, very…”

She interrupted. “I know. And you sit on the Armed Services Committee
where you have a significant amount of influence, and acquire a significant
amount of knowledge.”

“Yes,” said Conning. Where was she going with this? A
worry-line crossed his brow.

“ConDyne feels we’re the odd man out in learning about
future defense procurements. The other major players always seem to know what’s
coming down the pike. We don’t. We need to correct that unfairness. All we want
is a level playing-field, a fighting chance.”

She’s one who’d never waste an opportunity to bedeck a
politician with clichés
, he thought; but what he said was “Well, I can
certainly see why you would need a fair shot at major procurements, and …”

“In brief, Senator, ConDyne is interested in knowing what
you learn in your committee and subcommittee meetings, things that may affect
future defense procurements, and we’re prepared to contribute significant
amounts to your re-election committee – suitably fragmented and fronted and
SuperPac’d – in exchange for this information. And when the time comes, your
Presidential campaign as well, if you decide to run.”

Conning sat back. He’d been approached before with similar
offers, but always there had been hints, winks – not this woman’s blunt
approach.

“My vote,” he said huffily, but inaccurately, “is not for
sale.”

“No, senator,” said Netherton, “we’re not asking you to vote
any particular way, or to advocate for ConDyne in public or private. As I said,
we’re merely in search of information. That’s understandable, isn’t it? Just
give us your notes from those closed-door defense briefings you go to. And be
sure to take good notes.”

“Well, certainly, if you’re being treated unfairly…”

“We are. And that’s what we’d like. Take a week to think it
over. Your calendar is free exactly one week from today at this time, and I’d
appreciate a second meeting then.”

Conning wondered how she could know about his calendar for
next week. He didn’t know these things, himself.

“Is that acceptable?” she said, rising from her chair.

“But there are considerations, details …” Conning sputtered.

“Fine,” she said. We’ll go over them next week, if you’re
still on board with us then, I mean.”

Conning regained a trace of Senatorial dignity. “I don’t
know. The public interest, after all, and my constitu…”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I know about your deal with Tidewater
Logistics Supply,” she said. “And not even a Pennsylvania firm! No one else
need know. See you in a week?” She smiled at him, looking like the barracuda
had eaten an excellent lunch, fins and all. “See you in a week!” she repeated.

His visitor walked out of his office, nodded to the
front-desk staff, and was gone. Conning reflected how she hadn’t touched
anything in his office – anything that would leave fingerprints. That gave him
a sense of comfort. Good girl. Careful.

The Senator pondered. This deal would be for the nation’s
good, right? For National Defense and a Strong Vigilant America. Keep repeating
that. Favoring a major defense firm by dribbling out a few secrets from closed-door
Congressional hearings was useful to ConDyne, of course, but also to Our
Nation. And certainly useful to Thomas Conning, who had always coveted major
infusions of campaign funds from organizations with enormously patriotic
reputations and starched-collar Boards.

That evening, Conning’s visitor contemplated her
conversation with the Senator with some pleasure. A real pushover, already
hooked. Haskin had a moment of annoyance at the mixed metaphor. She removed the
“Sally Netherton” ID from her purse and put it in a safe place. That name was
for Thomas Conning only – quite an honor for him, actually, to be the sole
target of that name.

One week later, Thomas Conning was waiting nervously for a
visitor he couldn’t afford to avoid. It was a mark of their respective power
his guest could be late without calling him and with no apologies, and he would
just have to suck it up.

Several minutes late, Haskin entered Conning’s office and
once again sat across the desk from him. Other than a perfunctory “Hello, Senator,”
she got right to business. “Well?” she asked, “have you been thinking?”

“You’re a fake!” Conning blurted. “There is no Sally
Netherton, at ConDyne or anywhere else except for fourteen other women, none of
whom could be you.”

Conning was surprised when she laughed at him. “Senator, do
you really think I’d use my real name in a matter of this – delicacy? Besides,
you needn’t have kept our appointment today, but you did. So we must still be in
business.”

Haskin continued. “For a year or two I went by ‘Smith’ but
‘Smith’ is so tired, isn’t it? And everyone thinks you’re a spy. So I picked a
different name.”

Conning was silent. He could have refused her offer. He
could have lost the election and become an elder statesman, headed up prestigious
foundations, made too much money from ponderous speeches – but he didn’t. Now
he was crossing the line because the chance to be President, he believed, no
matter how chancy, was worth the risk. When you give up aiming for the top, you
might as well just bag it. Besides, she knew about his Tidewater deal.

Haskin paused, and then said, “Have you considered our
offer? I can give you a few details now. One million dollars a month, plus or
minus but it averages a million a month, funneled in various ways you needn’t
know, about into your Senatorial campaign fund or accessible by your fund upon
request. For a Presidential run, we’ll increase that substantially. Do we have
an agreement?”

Conning nodded.

“Thank you, Senator. Now for this morning, I have a few
items to discuss with you. First is something I need right now: the proposed
RX-140 tactical missile.”

“I can’t tilt that award to ConDyne,” Conning said, almost
rising from his seat.

“I know,” she said, “but I do need to know how the missile targets.
I’ve heard one of the Defense labs has come up with a new targeting technology,
apparently quite effective.”

“– yes,” said Conning warily. “There have been subcommittee
hearings…”

“And you have copies of the technical specifications.”

“Just summaries. I could get those. The Committee has been
given nothing more detailed, nothing an engineer could use for…”

“Summaries will do, Senator. Next Thursday?”

“Ah –” the Senator hesitated. “All right. Where?”

“You’ll receive an email at eight o’clock Thursday morning.
You will not recognize the “from,” but the text will include the letters “XRGIW.”
You will have thirty minutes to attach images of that summary to your response
and press “Send” before that address, and your response, will be wiped clean,
will never have existed.”

Conning was impressed. But wasn’t this just a little too
Spy
vs. Spy?
It would have been easier just to hand her a xerox behind closed
doors. What game was she playing? Whatever, the money couldn’t be beat.

“Can we agree on that?” she asked. Conning hesitated.
Was
this a sting?
But then he remembered the potential Tidewater Logistics
Supply exposé, and he nodded. What could he do? And there was all that money.

“Fine,” she said. We’re almost done for today. I do have a
few clarifications about our joint enterprise, however,” she said, pulling a
small notepad from a pocket and running down a page with a finger. “You’re not
going to be President if you’re perceived as corrupt. So first; you will not
take any bribes or any other illegal money from anyone. Except us, that is. You
will not use the funds we donate in any way that would violate campaign laws.
You will break off all communication with Tidewater, now. You will not sell
your vote or make any side-deals we haven’t specifically approved.”

Conning was about to object, but “Sally” added in a softer
voice “We’re paying your campaign fund enough, we believe we can insist on your
staying out of trouble. You might get caught and then you would be worthless to
us. I think we can cover up your past misdeeds, but we don’t want you
committing any new ones.”

Conning stared at her. He felt trapped. What could he do but
agree? And after all, ConDyne’s goals for him aligned well with his own goals. And
– President!

Haskin and the Senator said perfunctory goodbyes, and she
left his office.

On Haskin’s way out she passed by the Senator’s wife, who
was just entering. Marie Conning wondered who the departing female was. She
looked powerful, determined, bitchy. And tall and slim and dressed in black.
Would look great with a whip. Just the Senator’s type. She’d had her hands full
keeping his hands away from just that type. Sometimes she’d failed.

The demand “Who was that woman!” almost escaped her lips.
But she suppressed it, substituted something more subtle. “Was that Congresswoman
Alanov?” she asked the admin, who seemed to be in charge of the Senator’s
calendar that day.

“Oh no, ma’am,” she replied. “That was Ms. Netherton. Sally,
I believe. I think she’s from one of the big defense firms.”

Marie Conning nodded to the admin and walked into her
husband’s office with a smile.  “Ready for lunch at the 701?” she asked.

As Sybille Haskin left Capitol Hill, it occurred to her
Conning’s staff might think she and the Senator were having an affair. The
thought amused her briefly, but then worried her. Sex scandals had a way of
getting blown up much more than scandals about money, or drunkenness, or
influence. Haskin didn’t get off on sex. She’d tried it once, thought it
disgusting – two pigs in the same mud. Power was her sex. The thought of power
quickened her breathing, brought out a little sweat, made her hands just barely
tremble, left a trace of moisture.

She thought of a few ways of squashing the rumor of an
affair, if there was such a rumor, but none seemed immediately workable.
Perhaps it would amount to nothing; Congressional staffs were discreet, leaving
the impression that their bosses were purer than mere mortals, would never go
to bed with anyone but their spouses, and even then would not practice anything
but the traditional American male-on-top, and would pray first.

Haskin again put away her “Sally Netherton” ID. “Sally”
would be gone not long after Thomas Conning became President of the United
States; “Sybille” would be gone whenever that identity became inconvenient. She
recalled her own birth name with distaste. Never again, she thought,
remembering the traumas of grades K through 12, inclusive, how the other kids
had taunted her, told her their dads had bombed and machine-gunned people with
names like hers.