Chapter Thirty-One
The media went wild over the arrest of the president’s son, as well as his top colleague and partner in crime, Stanley Ritter.
Talking heads hashed and rehashed the details until every single piece of dirty laundry had been fully aired out, ironed, worn and washed again.
Sam’s first marriage was taken apart in excruciating detail.
The details of Nick’s birth to teenage parents were fully examined, scrutinized and analyzed.
And throughout the day, President David Nelson maintained his shock and innocence, even as the chorus grew louder for him to resign from office in the wake of his son’s stunning arrest.
“Please, God, don’t let him resign,” Nick said that night as the clock approached midnight.
They were in bed at the end of a long and excruciating day that had involved more paperwork than Sam had done for any case ever.
They had been meticulous in their documentation of every detail so there’d be no way Nelson could get off on a technicality of their making.
He was going down, and he was going down hard.
Couldn’t happen to a better guy. On the confiscated computers, the FBI lab had already found damning text messages, emails and phone calls tying Christopher Nelson and Stanley Ritter to Dante Fields as well as the reporters who’d produced the slam pieces with Nick’s mother, and the information tortured out of Peter.
They also uncovered evidence tying the two men to the private investigator they’d hired to take the photos of the children in Sam and Nick’s lives.
Terry had spoken to several Democratic members of Congress who’d been approached by Christopher Nelson about voting against his father’s choice of vice president when Nick’s nomination had come before them last November.
None of them had yielded to Christopher’s request, preferring to side with the titular head of their party—the president—on the matter. Sam had passed the info along to Avery.
“You think Nelson will be able to hold on to the presidency?” Sam asked Nick.
“I sure as hell hope so. The last thing I want right now is a promotion.”
Sam shuddered at the thought of it.
“I took the job knowing it was possible I could have to step up at any time, but not like this. Never like this.”
Hating the despair she heard in his voice, she curled up to him, placing her head on his chest and her arm across his midsection.
He wrapped his arm around her. “Don’t let go, okay?”
“I won’t, Mr. President. Not now or ever.”
“Shut up!” he said, laughing.
“How will this unfold?”
“There’ll be a congressional investigation.
They’ll look into whether Nelson had any knowledge of what his son was up to.
If they discover he knew, he could be impeached.
If they can’t prove he knew and he survives the investigation as well as the court of public opinion, he’ll be able to hold on to his office, but only because he can’t run again. If he can’t hold on…”
Sam blew out a deep breath. “How long will that take?”
“Months. Unless a connection between Nelson and his son’s activities is somehow established right away—then it could be over in a matter of days.”
“I can’t get my head around that possibility.”
“I know. Me either. Let’s hope he’s able to survive it, or we’re in for an address change.”
“Don’t even joke about that!”
Nick laughed. “I have to laugh or I might cry.”
The secure phone he was required to carry with him at all times startled them when it rang for the first time ever. He let her go to reach for it on the bedside table.
“This is Nick Cappuano,” he said, sounding very presidential, not that Sam would tell him that. He sat up in bed. “Hello, Mr. President.” Grimacing, he glanced at Sam.
Sam sat up, too, and watched over her husband as he listened to the president.
“I appreciate that, sir. I’m sure.” Nick listened for another minute or two before he said, “Yes, sir. I appreciate the call and the concern for my family.” He rolled his eyes at Sam. “Good night.”
“Tell me everything,” Sam said. “Leave nothing out.”
“That’s called a secure line for a reason.”
She glared at him. “Spill it.”
“He and Gloria are appalled by the charges against their son. He had absolutely no knowledge of what his son was doing. He knew Christopher wasn’t thrilled with his choice of vice president but never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d go so far as to try to do something about it.”
“He said he’s appalled by the charges,” Sam said. “Not by what his son has done. Does that mean he’s going to defend his actions?”
“He’d be a fool to do that. There’s no way he could hold on to the presidency if he chooses to publicly support his son’s so-called innocence in a plot to threaten the vice president’s family, not to mention Peter’s murder.”
“That’s because we’ve got Christopher screwed, glued and tattooed. There’s no way he’s getting out of this, and his father would do well to put some distance between himself and his son if he wants to stay in office.”
“I can’t imagine having to choose between Scotty and being president.”
“It wouldn’t be a choice for you. A. Scotty would never do something like this. And B. You’d pick him every time.”
“Yeah, I would, but that’s because I’ve never had the burning desire to be president that so many other politicians have. They’d sell their souls to the devil for that job, and that’s what makes them do dumb things like allow their sons to run roughshod on their behalf.”
“Look at Arnie Patterson and what he and his sons did for power. After watching that go down, how could Christopher Nelson be so stupid as to think he’d get away with a scheme like this?”
Apparently, others were wondering the same thing.
On the TV, photos of Arnie Patterson, his sons, White House deputy chief of staff Derek Kavanaugh and his late wife, Victoria, appeared on the screen.
Patterson had planted Victoria with Derek to get information about the Nelson administration and then killed her when she fell in love with her husband and refused to turn on him.
“Who knows?” Nick said. “I feel terrible for Derek to have his wife’s murder being rehashed all over again.”
“Hopefully, he’s staying away from the TV tonight.”
“I’m sure he’s dealing with full-on crisis mode in the West Wing.”
“Should you be there?”
“Probably. Terry says we’ve been overrun with requests for interviews, but I’m not saying anything on or off the record.
What can I add to what’s already been said other than I hope Christopher Nelson and his cohort fucking fry for daring to threaten my wife and son, my brothers, my nieces and nephews, my family, all because my popularity has eclipsed his father’s. It’s disgusting.”
“I told you that Twitter account with five million followers was going to get you in trouble.”
“It’s ten million now.”
Sam cracked up laughing and he joined in.
“How’s your hip?” he asked, running a gentle hand over it.
“Still aching but better than it was.”
“All I’ve been able to think about since I got your message earlier is how you can’t spread your legs and the many, many ways we can work around that.”
“So while this thing blew up with Nelson, which could lead to him resigning and you becoming president, that’s all you could think about?”
“That’s it.”
“No one could ever accuse you of not having a one-track mind.”
“You could never accuse me of that.” He nuzzled her neck as he reached over her for the remote, which he used to shut off the TV. Running his hand down her arm, he captured the hem of her lightweight nightgown and worked it up and over her injured hip. “God, Sam, that looks painful.”
“It’s not so bad. How about you show me some of these so-called work-arounds?”
“I’d be afraid to hurt you.”
“I got hit by a car today and walked away. Do your worst.”
He tightened his hold on her. “Too soon to joke about it.”
“I’m fine. I swear I am. If I wasn’t, I’d say so.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
She pushed her ass back against his hard cock. “Yes, I would. Teach me something new, Mr. Vice President,” she said in a breathy—and bad—impersonation of Marilyn Monroe.
His low chuckle rumbled through both of them. “Well, if you insist.”
“I do. I insist.”
“Don’t move.” After kissing and caressing her until she was on the verge of begging, Nick moved very gently as he pressed into her from behind, her closed legs making for an extra-tight fit. “Ah, God, that’s hot, Samantha.”
“Mmm, don’t stop.”
“Will you still love me if I have to be president?”
“Not as much as I love you as vice president.”
He tweaked her nipple, and Sam gasped with laughter.
“I love you no matter what,” she said.
“Keep telling me that. I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”
She covered the hand he had placed over her heart with her own hand. “I’ll never, ever, ever get tired of telling you.”