Chapter 1
There’s a special place in hell for people who waste my time.
Wasting time is at the top of my list of pet peeves, right around being charged for hotel Wi-Fi, people who are rude to servers, and incorrect hashtag use (hint: #ifitlookslikethisyouredoingitwrong).
I have a mountain of work I could and should be doing, but here I am, languishing in this eerily silent office, listening to the ticking of the world’s loudest clock as it crawls farther past our appointment time: 4:26... 4:27...
Typically, I’d rather swim with sharks than schedule a late-afternoon meeting—though frankly, many of the politicians I work with are just as dangerous. I prefer to catch people early and fresh, their brains full of bipartisan possibility and artisanal coffee from Cups, the watering hole of choice for Senate staffers.
A day in the life of a congressional aide looks something like this: Show up at nine brimming with optimism that you can change the world. By ten, the morning’s inflammatory headlines have brought you down a peg, but you’re still in the game. By noon, you’ve put out a fire that your well-meaning but power-hungry boss started with an errant quote. By two, you’ve stopped counting the number of ranting phonecalls you’ve fielded from angry constituents demanding your boss’s impeachment or resignation (either will do). By three, you’re questioning every decision that led you to work in the fiery hell pit that is politics. By four, you’re hanging by a thread. A meeting at the end of the day? You’re asking for trouble. A meeting at the end of the day with theopposition? Sign my death warrant now.
My phone dings with a text. My mom’s sent me some Justin Timberlake meme; he’s eating from what looks like a plate of pasta but is actually his *NSYNC-era hair. It’s ridiculous, but enough to lift me out of my salty mood, for the moment anyway. I text back asking if she’s looked into train tickets yet, and when she responds with a GIF of Alfonso Ribeiro doing the Carlton dance, I’m left to wonder just when I became more mature than my mother.
I giggle in spite of myself, earning me a bewildered look from the staff assistant. Of course,nowshe acknowledges me. I smother my laughter and assume the demure expression of the dignified, professional woman I’m supposed to be.
My meeting is with Benjamin Mackenzie, legislative director and gatekeeper for Henry “Hank” Hammond, illustrious seven-term senator from the great state of Ohio. When I’d emailed Mr. Tardy for the Party a few days ago requesting a meeting, I got back a polite but clipped response letting me know it was four o’clock today or three weeks from now. I was simultaneously intrigued and annoyed. Who’s so booked they can’t meet for a month? He’s either the most popular guy in DC orwaytoo self-important—and since I’ve never heard of him, I’m going with the latter.
Maybe his delay is no accident. Maybe he’s purposely keeping me waiting in some sort of twisted power play to show me who’s in charge. I wouldn’t be surprised, since just about everything is a power play in this town. Well, joke’s on him. I already know he has the upper hand. And the lower hand. Basically, I’m devoid of hands.
I distract myself by looking around Hammond’s lobby. Overstuffed leather couches in a shade of deep cognac—check. Ornate gilt-framed portraits of the senator with former presidents and heads of state—check. I work in this same building—on the same floor, in fact—and all the congressional offices are variations of the same, in both layout and design.
I’m here on behalf of my boss, Senator Carol Warner of New Hampshire: champion of the women’s movement, favorite of cable news anchors, and all-around feminist rock star. After bouncing around in a series of staff positions for various DC power brokers over the past few years, I fought my way up to Senator Warner’s senior legislative assistant (and have the bruised elbows to prove it). With her name on my résumé I can get a job anywhere I want. Not that I’m looking to leave—working for Carol is my every dream realized.
Several months ago, we introduced the Child Care and Education for Working Families Act, the same bill I’m here today to fight tooth and nail for. It’s the first legislation I’ve drafted almost entirely on my own, and it’s as precious to me as a newborn. We developed the bill in the months before the presidential election with the confidence that both the Senate and House would stay under Democratic control—and with the victory of the first female president of the United States all but assured, our legislation was considered a shoo-in for passage.
That was before our candidate lost the election, Republicans won the HouseandSenate, and all hell broke loose.
A few months later and the bill is on life support. Our new goal is to force a floor vote, even if it will more than likely result in defeat. To improve our odds, Senator Warner assigned me the unenviable task of going door to door to convince several of her friendlier, more moderate conservative allies to cross the aisle.
It’s been going as well as you might imagine.
I silently recite my standard pep talk: This bill is important, right, and just. It makes child care more affordable for struggling families, expands educational options for preschool-age kids, and improves teacher training. You’d have to be soulless to oppose this bill. You may as well admit to hating puppies and kittens.
Of course, nothing in politics is ever that simple.
I finally hear voices approaching in the hallway, the noise crescendoing as a herd of men troops into the office lobby. Most give me a cursory glance before vanishing into the recesses of the office—all except one, who peels off from the pack and stops in front of me.
“Ms. Adams?”
When I realize this must be Benjamin Mackenzie, my first reaction is to gulp.Imposingwould be one way to describe him.Massiveis another.
He’s attractive enough: wide across and barrel-chested, with a square-cut jaw, thick dark hair, and strong eyebrows to match. Actually, his hair’s a little on the longish side, like he couldn’t be bothered to cut it this month. The fact that I even notice such an innocuous detail tells me I’ve been in DC too long. I’m so used to impeccably groomed, too-slick political operatives that anyone who defies the norm stands out.
But it’s his size that has me doing a double take. He’s well over six feet, as broad as he is tall. He has that corn-fed, all-American rugged look, like the type of guy you see in those off-roading truck commercials. I picture him doing figure eights against a backdrop of featureless mountain ranges, then heaving himself out of his dusty vehicle looking no worse for the wear, trusty yellow Lab at his heels.
“Uh, yes. Kate Adams,” I stammer.Chill, Kate.I stand and hold out my hand. “You must be Mr. Mackenzie?”
He pauses, something unidentifiable flickering across his features. “Mr. Mackenzie is my dad. Call me Ben.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.”
His eyes hold mine just a second longer than necessary. “Likewise.”
I notice the sudden absence of the rapid-fire keyboard soundtrack of the past half hour and peek over his shoulder just in time to catch the staff assistant eyeing his backside.Indeed.
Ben motions for me to follow him and leads me out the main entrance, heading down the hallway. The leather crossbody he has slung across his chest is stuffed to bulging and probably weighs more than I do. Just looking at it makes my shoulder ache.
He unlocks the door marked SH 724, holding it open for me as he flicks on the lights and motions to one of the two chairs at his desk, and I make myself comfortable while he settles in. He starts unloading things from his overfilled bag—a laptop, stacks of files, loose papers—arranging them in tidy piles on his desk. When he’s done, it looks like an architect’s 3-D model of a skyscraper city, with towers of varying heights stacked up like Legos.
