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The research doesn’t lie…
The band onstage strikes their final note, and they announce that they’ll be taking a short break. My dad’s campaign manager steps behind the podium and introduces himself, then he smiles and begins giving a long list of adjectives to describe my father. None of which actually fit.
Honorable, inspiring, self-made…
Minutes later, my father takes the stage in a black bespoke suit, and the room erupts into an applause so deafening that it drowns out the clattering in the kitchen. Behind him, a massive screen comes to life. It shows bright and tear-jerking images of him being a ‘good person’, images of him smiling and being the perfect candidate.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiles and looks around the room. “Thank you all so much.”
He holds up a hand to calm the clapping, and they settle into their chairs.
“I want to thank you all for your incredible support of my campaign,” he says. “As you know, I almost dropped out due to—” He pauses, choking up and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away a fake tear. “Due to the loss of my beloved daughter, Meredith, but your unwavering support kept me going.”
Stepping out of the kitchen, I move behind a waiter’s tray and take several deep breaths as he continues speaking.
“Meredith would’ve been so happy if she were here tonight.” He smiles and looks up to the ceiling, earning a soft round of applause. “This one is for you, Mer. I hope you’re up there watching me, and I hope you’re proud of your old man. I love you.”
A much louder applause fills the room, and he clears his throat. “For the people of New York, I promise that you won’t regret electing me to this position, and I want you to know that this is only the beginning…”
Keeping my head down, I double-check to make sure that my ear-pods are working, and I wait for him to finish his short, self-serving speech. (The word “I” is in it three hundred times)
It’s time to take him down.
Right after the crowd gives him an undeserved ovation that lasts far too long, he steps down and begins taking pictures with his donors.
Pulling out my phone, I call the number that leads to Michael’s newest burner phone.
“Yes, Meredith?” he asks.
“Tell Trevor to play the tape now.”
“Done. See you soon.” He ends the call, and my heart races against my chest. I’ve rehearsed for this moment hundreds of times, played the role inside and out, and now it’s time to see if my father is still as good of an actor as he thinks he is.
The screen onstage turns on again, and more images of him on the campaign trail begin to play. The crowd becomes transfixed by a short video of him purchasing a jacket for a needy boy in the park.
They give him more applause. More cheers.
As another feel-good clip plays, I dial the number that’s linked to his emergency line and watch as his secretary picks up the cell phone.
“Mr. Leonardo Thatchwood is unavailable at this time,” she answers, her smile unwavering. “How may I assist you?”
“It’s an emergency,” I say. “Please give him the phone now.”
“Miss, I’m unable to do that without knowing who you are and what you need from him. If you tell me how you got this number, or what’s going on—”
“It’s about his daughter, Meredith,” I say, cutting her off. “The police have found her alive. I think it’s a miracle…”
Her eyes widen, and she leaps out of her chair. She rushes across the ballroom, pushing her way through all of his suits and supporters, holding the phone out to my father.
She’s mouthing, “Take this call right now,” and he’s giving her an annoyed smile, since he can’t show any emotion other than happiness for the cameras.
“Yes?” he answers. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to right now?”
“It’s me, Dad.” I keep my voice firm. “Meredith. You know, the daughter you paid to have murdered a few months ago.”
His face turns ghost-white within seconds, and he struggles to pose for a photo with the founder of an elite prep school. “Who is this really?” he says, forcing a smile again. “I’m not interested in playing any games right now.”
“No one is playing games, Dad,” I say. “Don’t you recognize my voice? Then again, since we haven’t spoken in a while, I guess you’ve forgotten…”
He swallows and stands still, and the screen behind him suddenly stops playing nice videos. Now it’s playing the start of the video I first saw in route to Mexico—him sitting down in front of the flower shop guy.
It’s not as grainy as it was before, though. Now, it’s perfectly clear.
It’s the extended version of the film, and the pleasantries are exchanged first.
“Mr. Thatchwood,” Flower Shop guy says. “Pleasure to see you again.”
