Legacy - 30. The Scandal - Sammy Austin

Saturday, October 9, 2032 - Eleven Years before the Assassination

I’d already been up for more than an hour when I heard the slap of the morning newspaper as it arrived at the door of our downtown loft apartment. Campaigning for mayor while continuing to run the city schools had taken its toll and the endless weeks of sleeping less than four hours a night had left me feeling like I was in a perpetual fog. Six AM and I was already on my second cup of coffee - not that the caffeine helped much anymore - I needed it just to maintain my perpetual feeling of utter exhaustion.

We were well into the twenty-first century and not many people subscribed to the print edition of The Star any more. Indeed, rumors were rife that the paper would cease publishing a print edition entirely after the coming election. That would be a shame as I really enjoyed the tactile feel of reading the paper. Somehow, reading the news on a tablet didn’t do it for me but, then, I was one of those oddballs who still read books in print rather than on tablet. To me there was no comparison.

Tugging on a pair of shorts, I ambled over to the door and opened it just enough to reach out and grab the paper. As was often the case, however, the paper had fallen short of its mark and I was forced to open the door all the way and step out into the hall where, as luck would have it, our neighbor’s kid across the way was standing in the door, wearing nothing more than a smile. At the age of four, Simon was a terror whose shrieking could be heard at all hours of the night. He was a cute kid but seeing his privates was hardly on my ‘To Do’ list for the day, particularly when I was practically naked myself.

“Did you forget something, Simon?” I asked.

Rather than say anything, he just giggled and stood his ground. The little terror knew what he was doing - he was an exhibitionist in the making.

“Have a nice day, Simon,” I said as I returned to our loft and closed the door behind me.

I poured myself another cup of coffee - my third of the day - and sat down on one of the stools that populated the space in front of our kitchen counter. I unfurled the paper and had just started to sip my coffee when the headline caused me to spew what little coffee was in my mouth all over the counter. The headline read:

AUSTIN ALLEDGED TO HAVE ACCEPTED
KICKBACKS FOR SCHOOL CONTRACTS

What the fuck?

Grabbing my phone to call Rick Simmons, husband of Colts quarterback Billy Mathews and my campaign manager, I realized the battery was dead and I’d forgotten to charge it. No wonder I hadn’t heard from him already. Rick was probably pulling his hair out wondering why his calls were going to my voice mail.

The sound of the door buzzer suggested he or someone else close to the campaign had taken it upon themselves to check on me in person.

“Hello?” I asked, speaking into the door intercom as I held the talk button.

“Where the fuck have you been, Sammy?” Rick practically screamed into the intercom.

“Sorry, Rick . . .” I started to reply.

“Save it, Sammy,” Rick interrupted me. “Just don’t let your battery run down again, OK?”

Laughing, I answered, “You know me sooo well.”

“And don’t forget . . . you need to maintain your south central accent, Sammy,” Rick reminded me. “If you keep lapsing into American Standard English, people will think you’re a phony. You and I know otherwise, but mixing accents is worse than sounding too sophisticated. Got it?”

“Y-e-a-h, . . . I . . . got . . . it,” I answered using my best southern drawl.

“Very funny, wise guy . . . I’ll be right up,” Rick added before the intercom went dead.

After having spent so much of my first year with the Austins learning how to talk properly, it felt strange to revert to speaking with an accent the way I did when I was twelve. According to my handlers, unlearning how to talk was a key component of coming across as an ordinary guy rather than as an out-of-touch geek. Going by ‘Sammy’ instead of ‘Sam’ was also part of our strategy.

There was, however, a big difference between the way I talked when I was twelve and the way I talked now. Some of the more ‘colorful’ expressions I used in my youth would certainly be inappropriate coming from a responsible adult and, of course, my enunciation was much better now. The effect we were going for was, ‘intelligent, but approachable.’

The sound of the doorbell ringing announced that Rick had arrived. When I opened the door, Rick barged in without so much as a ‘hello’. He headed straight for the kitchen, poured himself a coffee and sat on the stool I’d just vacated.

Glancing down at the paper, Rick said, “Good . . . you’ve seen the headline. I would’ve hated to have had to break it to you.” Chuckling, he continued, “Judging from the coffee stains, however, I’m guessing it came as quite a shock, regardless.”

Joining Rick at the counter, I replied, “God, you got that right,” and then I added my own question. “So what do we do now? How do we fight this?”

“I have a call in to our friend at The Star,” Rick answered, “but I expect it will be a while before we hear back from him and, in any case, I doubt he’ll have any useful information. The source is probably a janitor who works in the office next to yours,” he continued, “and the fact that you have money is probably all they needed for confirmation.”

Sighing, I added, “It’s hard as fuck to go after some jerk spreading misinformation when you don’t even know who they are.”

“And with the election only a few weeks away, there’s hardly enough time to mount effective countermeasures,” Rick agreed. “We can only hope Bruce gives us something we can use.

Bruce Warren was our ‘friend’ at The Star. He was one of Brad Reynolds’ closest friends, with their friendship dating all the way back to their involvement in the Gay Youth Alliance in their high school days, and he was now the lead reporter covering the governor’s office. Bruce wasn’t gay, however. Like Brad and me, he was a straight guy with strong beliefs in gay rights.

“Bruce is a good guy,” I added, “and he undoubtedly has access to information that could prove useful. Unfortunately, he’s probably not all that close to this particular story and you can bet The Star is keeping their sources close to their collective chests, even internally.”

“Don’t forget your language, Sammy,” Rick reminded me. “You’re sounding like a geek again . . .”

“But I am a geek,” I protested, “and, besides, it’s just us.”

“How many times have we had this conversation, Sammy?” Rick asked rhetorically. “Unless your speech is genuine, the voters will peg you as a phony. The only way you’ll come across as the real deal is if you actually talk like a regular guy, full time. This isn’t just an exercise, Sammy,” Rick continued. “You really have to become the man whose image we need to project.

“I'm not asking you to become the street thug you might well have become if you’d remained on the street in your youth. You just need to recover enough of an accent and use words and inflections that resonate with the average voter. You have a big advantage over guys like David and Brad Reynolds. At least you have a more humble background.”

“But the Reynolds brothers have charisma,” I countered. “David could read from the Oxford Dictionary and the voters would eat it up.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sammy,” Rick commanded me with authority. “You have a natural charisma in your own right. It was that charisma that allowed you to negotiate a contract with the teachers that many thought impossible. It still amazes me that you got the union to concede to limits on tenure.

“The big difference between you and the Reynolds brothers is that, whereas they're merely exceptionally smart, you’re a super genius and you sometimes come off as someone removed from us common folk. We’ve been changing that, but you have to work with us to make it happen.”

I was about to challenge Rick on the ‘super genius’ point but, then, I knew he was right. It was hard to say otherwise when I was fluent in nearly a dozen languages. The thing was, to me, I really was an ordinary guy. I never forgot where I came from and had dedicated my life to education and public service rather than pursuing the wealth I could have undoubtedly found in the private sector.

And that was what made the allegations of accepting kickbacks so ludicrous. If I'd wanted wealth, I could’ve easily had it through legitimate means. As it was, I had more than enough money to live comfortably, thanks to the generosity of my adoptive parents, the seven-figure income my wife brought in as a prominent attorney and the mid-six figure income I now made as school superintendent. Why would I jeopardize all I believed in for a little personal gain that meant nothing to me?

As I was pondering this question with Rick, Sally walked into the kitchen, reached for the coffee pot and poured herself a mug of coffee before turning to look our way. It was only then that she noticed Rick’s presence.

“Early morning strategy session?” She asked.

“I wish it were that simple,” I answered as I turned the paper so she could see it.

“Oh my!” Sally responded as she picked up the paper and started to read the lead story . . . something I actually had yet to do. After a little over a minute, she added, “At least there’s no substance here . . . not that I expected there to be . . . but it should be pretty easy to refute this.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Rick replied. “The trouble is that allegations have their own news cycle and, even if they turn out to be baseless, we don’t have the time to mount an effective countermeasure. Yes, we can prove beyond a doubt that every penny of Sammy’s and your wealth can be accounted for, but that won’t stop the conspiracy theorists from imagining off-shore bank accounts and secret hide-aways in Colorado and the like.

“Like it or not, the general public is more likely to believe the conspiracy theorists than to believe you. Not only that, but every major and minor media outlet including some you’ve never heard of will be trying to dig up any dirt they can on the two of you. Some of them will fabricate it if they have to. With only a few weeks to the election, we’re in for the fight of our lives.”

“Are you suggesting we just give up?” I asked.

“Not a chance of that happening,” Rick answered. “We’re in it to the finish and we’re gonna throw everything we’ve got at it. Unfortunately, that leaves us precious little time to get your actual message out but, unless we effectively counter the allegations, your message won’t matter.”

“So what do we do?” Sally asked.

“First of all, we’ll schedule a press conference . . . today,” Rick answered. “We’ve got to get the message out there that we’re not taking this lying down. Secondly, we’re going to have to hire a P.I. Trouble is, it can take weeks for even the best sleuth to uncover the truth and that’s time we don’t have.”

“My parents’ firm has an excellent reputation,” I pointed out.

“Indeed they do,” Rick agreed, “but their focus is domestic affairs and industrial espionage. We need someone with connections in local government. I’ll have someone on the payroll before the end of the day.”

“Speaking of which, how much is all this going to cost us?” I asked.

“A couple million, give or take,” Rick answered without blinking an eye. “And we can’t even fund it with campaign contributions. Your supporters wouldn’t like it at all if you used their hard-earned money to counter a scandal. No, you’re going to have to fund this out of pocket.”

“Fuck!” Sally exclaimed.

“Fuck is right,” I agreed. “It’s gonna take everything we have saved and then some.”

“Politics is not a game for those without means,” Rick answered and I hated to admit it, but he was right.

As we were mulling all of this over, the phone rang and Sally answered it.

“Oh hi Paul,” I heard her say and, after a pause, she continued, “You’re calling from where? . . . BWI! . . . Of course we’ll pick you up, and don’t even think of staying at a hotel. You’re staying with us . . . see you at 9:37.”

Hanging up the phone and turning to Rick and me, Sally said, “Paul’s on his way here. He’s taking a leave of absence from the Baltimore PD for what he told his superiors is a ‘family emergency’, but he’s coming here to help us with the scandal.”

“How the fuck did he hear about the scandal?” I asked.

Sally replied with one name that explained it all, “Cliff.” Rick had no idea what she was talking about, however, and so we spent the next hour filling Rick in on Cliff’s posthumous relationship with my best friend. Of course Rick knew of Cliff and his passing from AIDS back when he was in high school but, naturally, he was skeptical.

“I don’t know,” Rick said after we’d finished. “The whole idea of Cliff communicating with Paul through his dreams seems a little spooky to me.”

“I know,” I agreed, “It goes against every sense of logic we’ve been taught since we were little kids. Skepticism is a healthy thing but that doesn’t mean everything can be explained by science and logic. Paul knew about the scandal at the same time we did. Naturally, he got some of the information from The Star’s website, but he’d had no reason to visit the website in the first place, had it not been for Cliff.”

“Something else you should know about,” Sally continued, “is that Paul’s quick rise to detective in the Baltimore PD didn’t just happen. His colleagues call it intuition, but Paul has an uncanny ability to solve crimes. What most don’t realize is that Paul has the ability to ‘see’ crimes through the eyes of the victims.”

Picking up on what Sally was saying, I continued, “Ever since he was a boy, he’s been able to - see an aura or a shadow surrounding people, depending on whether they were good or evil. He also gets premonitions of things that will happen in the future. His ability to see crimes the way they actually happened is simply an extension of this.”

“I don’t know,” Rick reiterated, “but, hey, if Paul can help us figure out who’s smearing you, I don’t care how he does it. We’ll take all the help we can get . . .”

“Speaking of Paul,” Sally broke in, “we need to get going if we’re going to pick him up at the airport.”

Looking at the clock, I responded, “Gees, you’re right.”

Because I drove a tiny Honda Civic and Sally drove a two-seat Audi TT, we took Rick’s BMW 730i. I’d ridden in it a number of times, but this was the first time for Sally and she commented, “Nice car.”

With a grin on his face, Rick replied, “Being married to a Super Bowl-winning quarterback has its rewards. Billy got me this for my thirty-fifth birthday.”

“Are the rumors true that he’s going to retire?” Sally asked.

“Not as long as he keeps winning championships,” Rick answered with obvious pride in his voice. Billy and Rick were both thirty-seven, which was definitely old for professional football. Billy Mathews, however, was still one of the best quarterbacks in the league as evidenced by his most recent, third Super Bowl win. He’d held up exceptionally well and saw no reason to retire. Neither did his fans, nor the Colts franchise.

Pulling into the ‘Arrivals’ lane, Rick said, “Listen, there’s no reason for you to go inside and the last thing you want is to be recognized by a member of the press. If you’re asked to move, circle around and come back here. I’ll go check on Paul’s flight and greet him when he arrives.”

I was having none of that, however. Paul was my best friend and he was coming here for me at a time of crisis. The least I could do was to greet him as he came through the security checkpoint and to help him with his luggage. Reaching for the door handle, I opened the door, got out and strode into the terminal. Sally followed suit and was soon by my side.

“Rick’s pretty steamed,” she said. “He said I should text him if you run into the press or any other trouble. In the meantime he’s parking the car.”

Looking at the display and noticing that Paul’s plane was going to be a half-hour late, and noting his gate information, I decided I might as well get started on my fourth cup of coffee. I headed to the food court and the Indy 500 Grill, a diner-style sit-down restaurant that had been around for at least fifty years. It was even in the old airport way back before it was replaced with the current one.

Much as I was tempted to sit at the counter, I figured we’d have more privacy in a booth and so we asked to be seated. Sally and I ordered our coffees and then, realizing how starved we were, asked to see the menus. We both ended up ordering full breakfasts, figuring we had just enough time before greeting Paul. Rick arrived in fairly short order and we directed him to our booth via text message. He ended up ordering a full breakfast as well.

After finishing up and paying the bill, we headed to the arrivals lounge and waited for Paul. Unfortunately, after scarcely more than five minutes had passed, a news crew arrived from one of the local stations, obviously intent on filming the arrival of someone important. It was a matter of very bad timing.

“We’ve gotta get out of here!” Rick shouted in a whisper. “The last thing we need is for them to spot us,” he added.

“But what about Paul?” Sally asked. I was wondering the same thing. What would Paul think if he arrived, only to find no one waiting for him? Here he had put his life on hold and dropped everything to help me and I was going to hightail it and run away at the first sign of a reporter or two? Not a chance! Not in my book.

It was probably the stupidest decision I ever made but, as my adoptive mother, Lindsey Austin, always used to say, ‘When all you have is lemons, make lemonade.’

Turning to Rick, I said, “Perhaps rather than looking at the arrival of a news crew as a risk, we should consider it an opportunity. Maybe we should seize the moment,” I suggested.

“Sammy, if you’re thinking of going up to them, you’re crazy!” Rick shouted in a whisper. “They’ll eat you alive. Our response to the allegations, and there will be a response, will be measured, well-considered and vetted by a series of focus groups.”

Shaking my head, I replied, “But Rick, that’s not me. I’m at my best when I’m spontaneous. It’s when others write for me that I come off sounding phony. Don’t worry . . . I’ll keep the accent. I’ll stay in character but, right now, the public needs to see the real me. They need to see that I can dish it out just as well as those trying to smear me. I need to come back fighting and, the sooner, the better.”

“Sammy, don’t be foolish!” Rick responded. “I already have a team of professionals working on our response. Trust me on this . . . we will come back fighting and we’ll do it without appearing to be desperate. If you go in front of those cameras now, you will look desperate. You’ll come off as unprepared and unpolished. Believe me, that’s the last thing you want to do. If you do this, I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

Noticing that the news anchor had already recognized me and was pointing me out to the rest of the crew, I replied, “Rick, I hope you’ll reconsider. Running away is no longer an option, nor should it have been an option in the first place. This time you need to trust me on this. For once I know exactly what I’m doing.”

With that, I purposefully strode up to the news crew, Rick and Sally close behind me. Approaching the anchor, I said, “I know you weren’t expecting to see me here and I certainly wasn't prepared to run into you. We came here to pick up a close friend who’s arriving on the flight from Baltimore. Not even an unfounded scandal could keep me from doing so, much to the chagrin of my campaign manager. Such is the nature of true friendship.

“However, since you’re here and I’m here, it strikes me that this is an opportunity for both of us,” I continued. “If you’ll make it quick, I’ll give you an exclusive that could perhaps make your career. I’ll answer any and all of your questions that can be answered before my friend arrives. All I ask in return is that you let me make a brief statement of my own at the beginning of the interview.”

Reaching out with her hand, she replied, “Dr. Austin, you have yourself a deal.”

I was surprised at how quickly the crew was able to set things up and scarcely three minutes after shaking on it, we were ready to go. It was a live feed, too! Looking just to the left of the camera to avoid having a ‘deer in the headlights’ look, I began my statement.

“This morning I grabbed a cup of coffee and opened the door to fetch my copy of The Star as I’m sure many of you did, or perhaps you read the paper on your tablet or computer, or maybe you caught the local news on the radio or on TV. I want to assure you that these allegations are completely false and baseless.

“Let’s take a look at the facts,” I continued, looking directly into the camera, and then slightly to the right of it. “My wife, Sally, and I made our tax returns public when I entered the race for mayor. Anyone can look up the figures on-line. Our combined income of just over two million dollars was earned from Sally’s position as a prominent environmental attorney, my position as the school superintendant, and from dividends earned on investments. Of that, 1.2 million was given to charitable organizations, more than half of it to the public schools.

“Now I ask you, why would someone with a substantial income . . . why would someone who gives more than half of his and his wife’s income away to charities they care about . . . who essentially gives his entire salary back to his employer for the sake of the students entrusted to him, take bribes? Why would someone who has dedicated his entire life to giving back to society . . . to serving the underserved and to making the public school system one that we can all be proud of, risk undermining all of that for personal gain?

“I have always respected the staff at The Star for their honest reporting, their careful attention to detail and their well-thought-out, if not overly conservative editorials. Every news story requires proper corroboration, however . . . something that’s totally lacking with this one. We were never even contacted for comment. The phones in our campaign headquarters are staffed, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

“With that as background, I’d like to go on record . . . right here . . . right now . . . that I never have and never will accept kickbacks, bribes, political favors or other incentives to make a decision favoring one party over another. Sammy Austin is not for sale . . . not at any price.”

“Thank you, Dr. Austin,” the news anchor responded, and then she asked, “but I’m sure you’re aware that throughout history there have been people of far more means than you who have taken kickbacks . . .”

“That may be true,” I interrupted, “but how many of them have given over half their income to charity?”

Seemingly stumped for a moment, the news anchor came back with, “Perhaps that’s the reason for taking kickbacks. Maybe you couldn't afford to give so much to charity and needed the kickbacks to fund your generosity. Maybe you took the money in a misguided belief that the ends justified the means.”

Smiling, I answered, “The ends never justify the means when it comes to taking bribes. What good would my intentions be if I compromised my integrity? How could I hope to deliver on my promise of a better school system? How could I hope to see my dreams become a reality if I owed my soul to someone else?

“No, the Sammy Austin who grew up in and out of foster care and on the streets of the near east side, who was sexually abused as a youth and became HIV-positive, who was taken in and nourished by the generosity of the Austin family, who has dedicated his life to giving back what was given to him . . . that Sammy Austin would never resort to taking bribes. That Sammy Austin would rather live in a shack than take what is not his.”

“So you’re saying you never accepted any money or favors from those who stood to gain from the decisions you made?” she asked.

It took supreme effort to keep from rolling my eyes. How many ways did I need to phrase it to make myself clear? “You cannot imagine how many offers for lunch or dinner I turn down every week,” I answered. “The slightest appearance of impropriety is enough to taint my leadership. If someone has a legitimate need to meet with me, I will meet with them during regular office hours. In cases where a lunch or dinner meeting cannot be avoided, it is, has been and always will be ‘Dutch treat’. I haven’t even accepted a pencil from someone who stood to gain from my decisions,” I concluded.

The news anchor went on to ask a few more questions about the specifics of the allegations, about which we knew no more than anyone else. In the end, even Rick had to admit I’d done a good job.

Finally I spotted Paul and I quickly wrapped up the interview, and the news anchor thanked me profusely.

“Sammy!” Paul practically shouted when he spotted me. Paul was the only one of my friends and family who never stopped calling me ‘Sammy’, even as I insisted on being called Sam. Paul and I had been best friends since we met at the age of twelve. He was the only one I’d let get away with calling me ‘Sammy’.

“Paul!” I exclaimed in return as he approached, and then we embraced each other warmly. Paul was a little heavier than he'd been when we were teenagers but, then, so was I. Neither of us was overweight - we’d just filled out as we’d matured. Nevertheless, Paul still had the same, familiar scent I remembered from my youth. It felt comfortable to be hugging my best friend this way. There was nothing sexual in our relationship - other than the fooling around we did when we were kids. We were as close as any two people could be - we were brothers in almost every sense of the word.

“Do you realize it’s been nearly three years?” Paul said as we separated.

Shock registered on my face as I realized he was right. As a rising star in the Baltimore Police Department, Paul had little time off and even less time to make use of what he did have. When he and Linda managed to visit their families, I was often tied up and, sadly, usually ended up putting off getting together with my best friend until the presumed next visit.

“How pathetic is that?” I asked aloud.

“We both could have and should have made the effort, Sammy,” Paul replied.

“At least you’re here now, when I need you the most,” I responded in return.

“No one gets away with attacking my best friend,” Paul answered. “Whoever it is, we’ll make them regret having been born.” Then turning to Sally, he added, “Hey, Sally,” and he hugged her with nearly as much warmth as he’d shown me moments before.

“Hey, Paul,” my wife replied. “How’s life in the Baltimore Homicide Department?”

Paul’s mood seemed to instantly darken. It was as if a shadow passed in front of his face, but then he brightened right back up and smiled as he replied, “It’s great, Sally. The work is fascinating and, with Baltimore’s homicide rate, I certainly have job security!”

It was clear to me that there was a lot more that Paul wasn’t telling us and, apparently, Sally picked up on it too as she then asked, “Why do I get the feeling that not all is well in Baltimore City?”

Sighing, Paul replied, “It’s not that . . . it’s just that, well, experiencing a murder through the eyes of the victim . . .”

“Oh my God, Paul!” Sally interrupted. “I hadn’t thought of that. How do you cope with something like that?”

“Basically, you don’t,” Paul replied. We’ll talk later . . . this isn’t the time or the place . . . but let’s just say that each victim becomes a part of me . . . and a part of me dies with each victim . . .

“Don’t get me wrong,” Paul continued, “I love what I do and I wouldn’t change it for any job in the world. I just don’t know how I’m going to handle this long term, and it’s not like I can talk to anyone about it other than Linda and you guys.”

“Maybe you should switch back to Major Crimes, or Narcotics,” I suggested.

“But I really like Homicide,” he replied. “It feels like it’s my true calling and I’m putting a lot of murderers behind bars. I’m really making a difference, getting the worst elements of Baltimore society off the streets. This is where I can do the most good. There may come a time when I need to make a change . . . at least for a while . . . but at the moment I’m right where I need to be. I can feel it in my bones.”

Then, with a renewed smile on his face, he added, “Come on, let’s go get my luggage.”