Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 40662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 203(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
If I do this, though, I need to make sure the American people are on my side. Otherwise, it’s a waste of time. If they don’t want Medicare For All, then it won’t ever happen.
At the end of the day, that’s how it works. The people choose what they need. We just do what they want.
If only it were that simple.
“Good, right?” Karl shakes my hand as the cameras flash. I have a cup of vanilla in my hand.
“Delicious,” I say, smiling at the old man. His wrinkles are deep, almost etched into his skin.
“Thank you for your visit, sir,” he says. “It’s a real honor.”
I nod as the cameras keep flashing. This is a nice photo, a good way to show that I care about my local people.
When the pictures are over, the Secret Service guys usher Karl away. I sigh and offer the rest of my yogurt to a Secret Service guy, I think his name is Travis.
He shakes his head and politely declines. So I toss the damn thing into the trash.
“Questions next,” Charles grunts at me. “Prepped for that?”
I shrug. “Always.”
“Good. It’ll be softball stuff. Economy, jobs, that sort of thing.”
“Fine.”
He hesitates. “You seem distracted.”
“Not really. I just hate these things.”
“We all do.”
“But they’re necessary.”
“Did I need to say that?”
“No,” I grumble.
“Good. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
We walk away from the store, stopping out front. There are a bunch of microphones set up and reporters standing around in a loose semi-circle. Secret Service is all over the place like freaking ants.
I step up, put on my best press smile, and dive right in.
Charles was right, they are softball questions. I answer them easily, spouting off my usual middle-of-the-road stuff, trying to stick to the script.
Meanwhile, in my head, I’m considering doing something way outside of myself.
Finally, we get toward the end of the session, and one reporter from CNN raises her hand. Linda Torres is a short woman, dark skin, serious eyes, reputation as a no-bullshit person. I call on her casually, not thinking anything of it.
“Mr. President, why did you have a young staffer brought into the White House late last night?”
Everyone glances at her then back at me. I blink, surprised by the question.
I glance at Charles. His face is angry, but he doesn’t move.
“Mr. President?” she presses. “I believe her name is Maggie Thomas. She ran a popular political blog?”
I take a breath. “I’ve been considering some policy decisions,” I say slowly. “Ms. Thomas has been aiding me.”
“Aiding you how?” Linda asks.
“She specializes in polling, and I trust her opinion when it comes to what the younger generations are thinking.”
“She’s consulting as a young person?” Linda asks. A few reporters laugh.
“Essentially,” I say, smiling.
“It’s unusual to bring staffers using White House vehicles,” she presses. “And so late at night. Why was it so urgent?”
Charles steps forward. “That’s enough, Linda,” he barks at her. “I know you’re sniffing for a story, but there isn’t one here. The President already answered you.”
I smile. Good old Charles, there when skulls need cracking.
“Actually, I’m not satisfied,” Linda says. “Why did you bring a young, female staffer in so late at night?”
“That’s enough,” Charles practically roars. The tension is palpable.
Linda just made an insinuation. Everyone knows exactly what she’s implying by her question, but we can’t exactly admit to understanding. As soon as we do, we’ll look guilty.
Charles steps in front of me. “Enough questions,” he says.
I sigh and turn from the mics. The reporters all burst out into questions, wanting to know more about Maggie. I hesitate, about to follow an agent to our motorcade, but I stop myself.
I turn back to the microphone.
“There is nothing improper happening here,” I say to Linda. The press quiets down and Charles glares at me. “Maggie Thomas is a smart young woman, and I work late hours. I’m the President. I don’t have time to lie around, watching TV and using social media. If I need to discuss something with a staffer at nine at night, I’m going to do it.”
Linda frowns. “But in person, sir?”
“In person is the only safe way,” I say, and smile at her. “You reporters are probably bugging all our phones.”
The press laughs, and a lot of the tension dissipates.
“Now, that’s enough questions for today, thank you,” I say before Linda can press the attack again. I nod at Charles and walk back toward the cars.
He walks alongside me. “She’s going to be a problem,” he says softly.
“Who? Linda or Maggie?”
He looks at me, but doesn’t answer.
I sigh and climb into the back of the car.
Seeing Maggie so late was a mistake. I know it, she probably knows it. I don’t understand how Linda could possibly know about that meeting, though. It’s off the books, and only the Secret Service was aware.
Maybe they leaked it. I can’t be sure of anything these days. I’ll have to look into that.