Page 61 of One of Us Is Guilty

Patrick entered his father’s office and shut the door behind him.

The old man, dressed in a white shirt and red tie, sat behind his favorite desk, one of his five-hundred-dollar cigars between his fingers, the same kind he always smoked. Similarly, the desk was the one that used to be in his office in Manhattan. Now, it was in a much smaller, darker room. Bookshelves behind his father were lined with novels he had never read and pictures of him with various world leaders. Among the photographs: his father having dinner with Colonel Gadaffi, playing bridge with Saddam Hussein and posing on the steps of his private plane with Henry Kissinger. He wondered if these infamous men knew at the time they were posing with an equal.

His father was a different kind of monster, but no less dangerous.

And considerably wealthier.

As he sat down, he stared at the wood grain on the desk, and the deep layers of varnish. Anything to stop him from having to look at his father’s blood-red eyes.

‘We’re not going to let any of this harm your chances in the election,’ said his father, smoke curling from his caterpillar lips.

‘I don’t see how. This kind of scandal, the shit just sticks,’ he said.

‘No doubt about it. But there is something we can change. We can change who the shit sticks to. We have to make sure that it’s not you. But I need to know if you’re up for this, Patrick.’

For the first time that day, Patrick raised his head and stared into his father’s blood-soaked eyes and said, ‘Of course, Dad. I mean, I know how important this is to you. You’ve done so much for me.’

‘Good. At last you’re thinking with your head and not your dick. You got yourself involved with two fuckin’ dangerous women. We need to make sure the right person goes down for this. You’re going to testify against Vanessa at the trial.’

‘That will be difficult. It’ll all come out, about me and Molly. What if they ask questions about Teresa?’

‘Are you really that fuckin’ stupid? Wait, don’t answer that. You’re running for public office, so clearly you’re not the brightest spoon in the drawer. This is now damage limitation. I never wiped your ass when you were a baby, but Jesus H. Christ I’ve been cleaning up plenty of your shit since then. Wait, you’re not using again, are you?’

‘No, I’m still clean. No drugs.’

‘Drinking?’

‘In moderation. You know it was never the booze that was the problem. Not really.’

‘You’re my fuckin’ problem. Do you know that? I’ve had to carry you your whole life. It’s time to stand up now, son. You’re going to testify against her. You’re going to say there was no affair and that she was crazed with jealousy.’

‘But if I accuse her of the murder, won’t her lawyer just accuse me?’

‘Voss is keeping an eye on things for us. And don’t worry about Eddie Flynn. He’s under control.’

Control had multiple meanings when it came from his father’s lips. Patrick was under his father’s control, and so were a great many men. But none of them were loyal. Not to a man who ruled through fear.

‘This has to look right, Patrick, for the election. So you’re going to see Rex Buchanan, and you’re going to file for divorce.’

Patrick looked back at the desk as he said, ‘Won’t that piss off Vanessa? You said it yourself – she’s dangerous. If I accuse her, she’ll accuse me.’

‘You’re a joke. Do you know that?’

‘Dad—’

‘Shut up. Do you remember Boris Cherry?’

An image flashed in his mind of Boris sitting where he sat right now, across the same desk from his father. Boris and his father had been close for twenty years, his right-hand man. And he had made Patrick watch as he fired him. Made him watch Boris plead for his job. Made him watch Boris cry like a child.

‘I remember you made me watch you fire him,’ said Patrick.

‘Right, and do you know what happened to Boris afterwards?’

Shaking his head, Patrick said, ‘I remember he died, but I don’t remember how.’

‘I had him blacklisted in the industry, Patrick. The only job in media Boris was going to get was sweeping the floors on the nightshift at CNN. He killed himself six months after I fired him. And do you know what, son? When I heard about it, I was so glad I’d fired him. I knew, right then, I’d made the smart decision. You remember how he cried? He was weak. I always knew it. And when Boris stepped off the roof of his building that just confirmed it for me. Look, I’m not an animal. I sent a wreath to his widow. Something small and cheap. Just so she could be sure of how little I thought of her late husband. Only the strong survive, son. And you’re going to get past this whole thing. You’re going to get elected in New York, and in five years’ time, it’s the White House.’

After a few seconds, Patrick realized his mouth was lying open and he was staring dumbfounded at his father. They had never spoken about Boris since that day Patrick saw him fired. He had heard about Boris’s death, but he had no idea of how his father truly felt. Not until this exact moment. It was not a surprise, but it was difficult to hear nonetheless.