Well fuckingduh.
That’s thereasonnearly all people get into politics in the first place—for their own purposes. Whether it’s because they’re a narcissist, or power-hungry, or genuinely want to improve things, there’s never a completely altruistic reason. There just isn’t.
I’m in politics because I wanted to make my state better for mykids, and any kids they have. Because Ellen’s first teaching job was in an underserved school outside of Nashville. She taught kids, most of them living below the poverty level, whose parents mostly didn’t have insurance, or high-income jobs.
I’ll never forget the first time she had me come meet her at school one day, and she introduced me to her students. Then, she had a small class of abouttwenty kids, mixed ages and grades, from first grade all the way to third, and from a diverse ethnic background.
We didn’t have children yet, but these kids weren’t some free-loading vermin of illegal immigrants, the way some GOP legislators tried to paint them and wanted people to believe. They weren’t miniature terrorists in training, either.
These werekids. Adorable, vulnerable childrenwho deserved a chance to get a quality education in a safe environment and have basic health services.
I think that day hard-shifted me and my thinking in many ways. It opened my eyes. To be honest, despite losing our dad, my brothers and I had a fairly privileged upbringing, in an upper-income area. Including schools that weren’t the most diverse. I had maybe two black acquaintances, and wasfriendly with a guy whose parents were from India, although he was born in Memphis.
I wasn’t a deliberate racist, and neither were my parents, but I wasn’t “woke” back then.
Not by any stretch of the imagination. I had no idea what white privilege was, or that I was a beneficiary of it.
I mean, I considered myself liberal, despite being a Republican. I was for equal rights for everyone, regardlessof race, gender, or orientation. Despite being an atheist, I believed you had a right to your religion, as long as you didn’t try to weaponize it, or use it as an excuse to justify discrimination against anyone else.
Theoretically, I had an idea about how other people lived.
Yeah, after that day at Ellen’s school, I realized I didn’t.
I learned, though.
It made me a better lawyer, in the longrun. Instead of wondering why or how someone got into a situation, I learned to probe deeper andlisten.
Alotof listening.
Am I perfect? No, not by a long-shot. But I stay open to opinions from a diverse range of people.
Right now, I watch Case as she studies me for a moment. “Let’s take fifteen, guys.” She turns to Declan. “Coffee for the governor and me, please. Bring it to his office.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He immediately heads out of the conference room.
I guess I should amend my earlier thought—Casey isn’t the only living person who can make coffee perfectly for me. She’s taught Declan how, too.
Ironically, the guy’s an attorney, and she has him fetching coffee. He’s young, late twenties. I don’t even think he’s thirty yet. If I didn’t know Case as well as I do, I’d think maybe therewas something going on between her and him.
She’s mentored him ever since he was in college. Had him working part-time in our office doing filing and other work like that to earn money, helped him get into law school. Hired him herself right after he passed the bar. I never really got the full scoop on how she knows him, because Case is pretty private about some things, even with me.
The importantthing is that she trusts him. I trust Case, so that means I trust Declan.
So far, he’s proven himself, both as an attorney and as my deputy chief of staff. He worked on my last two Senate campaigns, too, his first one right out of high school, helping Casey as a gopher, the second while basically functioning as my body man and assistant.
Case tips her head toward the door and I drag myself tomy feet to follow her. We retreat to my office, leaving the door open for Declan so he doesn’t have to knock or juggle cups when he brings us our coffee. Once we have our coffee he leaves, closing the door behind him without either of us even having to ask him to.
It feels weird sitting behind my desk now, but I do. I take my glasses off and set them on the desk so I can rub my eyes. My visionwasn’t bad before the plane crash. Thanks to the three weeks of unrelenting sun and the other trauma my body went through I need glasses, mostly for reading and computer work. The ones I have now are line-free bifocals, because it’s a pain to keep taking them off and putting them back on. I can sit and watch TV without them but the screen is a little fuzzy. Driving’s easy, too, as long as I knowwhere I’m going so I’m not squinting at street signs.
When I’m allowed to drive, which is rarely. The only reason the EPU doesn’t put their foot down about the times Casey or Declan drive me anywhere is because they both took several specialty driving classes, like what they put law enforcement officers through, and they both passed them with flying colors. Also, when either of them drive me,at least one security team shadows us.
When I close my eyes and tip my head back, I can’t help but think about the last time I was in here with Ellen, when she knelt between my thighs and smiled up at me before she—
“Case,” I hoarsely say, opening my eyes to hopefully stave away the tears threatening to hit me. “Are you sure I can do this?”
She doesn’t sit. Instead, she rounds the desk andleans against it, staring down at me, my friend in the house instead of my chief of staff.
“I won’t let you quit, George. You’d hate yourself for it as soon as you got your feet under you again. You know you would.”
