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“His father is a convicted felon and being connected to him in any way would be a stain on the campaign.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow,” I say. I’m not necessarily surprised that he said it. I’m only shocked that he didn’t spin it more. There was zero sugar-coating to his response. But he did leave out one important detail.
"Is it because of Michael Hass’s crime? Or because you wrote the parole board to request denial of his parole?” This question proves a bit trickier, and I don’t get such a rapid-fire response.
“Yeah, I’ve learned a few things, Dad. And maybe you’re aware of this, maybe not, but he has another parole hearing in two weeks. Your letter showed up in his lawyer’s research.”
The line is still silent, and that fuels me. I much prefer the fast truths. The silent plotting is the kind of thing he should reserve for opponents, not his own daughter.
“Dad, please say you aren’t—”
“I am. I already did,” he says.
I shoot to my feet and scan my surroundings before cupping the phone.
“You alreadywhatexactly?” I seethe.
“Wrote another letter supporting denial. Brooklyn, he’s a convicted felon.”
I laugh out at his logic.
“Says the candidate running on prison reform! What happened to your strong belief in our justice system and reforming those in it to become meaningful, contributing members of society once again?” Bullshit. It’s all bullshit! It always is, but I was blinded by my admiration for him. I thought my dad was different. I thought he stood for more than simply getting the gig that leads to the next gig. I’m sick.
“It’s not so black and white, Brooklyn. You don’t understand the details,” he says.
“Well, good thing I’m getting an expensive prep school education that has armed me with a fairly good understanding of the law, history, and the Massachusetts judicial system. Michael Hass’s weapon wasn’t loaded. He wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, and he cooperated fully with police. Dad, he’s literally the poster child for the point you’re trying to make. Cameron says his dad has completed more educational hours than any other prisoner in the past two decades.”
“Brooklyn—” He cuts me off, which I hate. He’s done it since I was a child. When I’m on a roll and making a point, he simply uses an authoritative tone and brings my ideas to a halt. My train of thought is already gone.
“What?” I shout. I’m out here alone, but anyone walking within a hundred-yard radius probably heard that.
“Do you know the Powells?”
I shake my head and part my lips as my brow draws in so tight it folds.
“Yes, I know the Powells. They’re Cameron’s grandparents. Headmaster Powell. I go to this school, so yeah . . . I know who they are.” I’m flustered and pissed, and I can’t stop pressing my palm into my forehead.
“I wrote both letters at their request.”
And . . .fuck.
My hand falls to my side.
“They asked you?”
“To request a denial. Yes, they did,” he finishes for me.
I spin slowly, my mind pivoting back to Cameron, his peaceful dream, and the faint smile on his lips when I left him minutes ago.
“Why?”
“They have their reasons,” he says.
“That’s dodging my question,” I bite back.
“Hmm,” he mutters into the phone.
