Prologue
Auralia lifted her chin to direct Doli’s attention to what was going on over by the parking lot.
“They’ve opened the gates. Here they come.
Our guy is supposed to accept his award first, then allow a few questions as they pass the hat, then they go on to the main speech with Representative Lambton. ”
“You think they’ll go on to the main speech?” Doli asked.
“Absolutely. They’ll need to try to stomp on the sparks of controversy and put it out before it has a chance to roar into life and spread.”
“Poetic.” Doli deadpanned.
“But I don’t think we’ll be here to listen,” Auralia continued as if she hadn’t heard Doli teasing.
“I already talked to Kamar and his crew.” Auralia tipped her ear toward another set of journalists setting up.
“They said if we let them ask the first question, they’ll share footage with us so we can spread out and cover more angles.
I figured, let them get things warmed up, we know they’re going for Lambton’s throat, and he’s not our priority today. ”
“Yup,” Doli said, pointing her camera toward the swarm of people moving through the gates after their bags had been checked. “Worth it. Did you tell Kamar what you’re up to?”
“I didn’t tell anyone anything. It’s you and me.
And them.” Auralia’s gaze took in the mass of people at the bottom of the field, making their way toward the stage.
“All of them.” She bladed a hand against her brow as a visor over her eyes.
“Were we expecting this many? My research said maybe a hundred. That group moving through security looks like more.”
“From my days on the ranch counting cattle,” Doli said. “I’m guessing five times projections. It’s because they announced they’re having the pork pull. Everyone wants a free lunch. I’d like a free lunch. Damned journalistic ethics.”
Auralia went ahead and put her backpack on her shoulders. Did it mess up her professional crispness? Yes. Under the circumstances, she thought it wise. “I have snacks in my bag if you need something.”
“Nah, I’m good for now,” Doli replied.
Seeing the number of people who showed up, Auralia recalled the morning when she had chosen her outfit and decided on her sneakers in case she had to run.
But her mentor, Remi, always told Auralia that when she was going to be working in a crowd, she needed to wear steel-toed boots.
Remi only ever wore steel-toed footwear.
She even wore them to bed, which might seem extreme unless she told you some of her horror stories.
Remi said that while sneakers seemed faster, that was only true if you didn’t have broken toes.
Yup, Auralia made a mistake with the tennis shoes.
And as she moved her car keys to her front pocket with the fob dangling out, ready for a quick press, she thought her second mistake was that she had pulled nose-in, and that was a major Remi Taleb no-no.
Park by the exit, nose out. Even if the vehicle is farther away than the action, it’s faster to run to the front exit than to sit in a scrum.
“Good decision on the boots,” she told Doli.
Doli looked down at her feet, then over to Auralia.
“Sucks to be you. Hey, if we start to get rolled, I’ll lead the way and protect your tootsies.
” There was just the right amount of joviality, the right amount of teasing that masked what both women knew: What they were about to do was to take on an icon.
They were here to break things. And people didn’t like that.
In Auralia’s experience, when people were duped—especially for long times and with an outlay of money—they preferred to suffer the con unwittingly rather than admit they were swindled. Instead of going after the scammer, they targeted the whistleblower or truth-teller.
Egos were fragile, delicate things.
Auralia turned toward the stage, mic in hand. Yes, there was a designated question mic, but in Auralia’s experience, the organizers tended to place hefty brutes around it to scowl and flex. Their intimidation was meant to shut down anyone who wanted to take things sideways.
Doli lifted her chin, and Auralia turned to see Representative Lambton and Sergeant Wesley Price, just visible to the side of the stage, bottles of water in hand, offering a jovial pat on the back and the rise of male laughter.
“Enjoy it while you can, gentlemen,” Auralia muttered.
People pressed in. They saw the credentials and the camera and left a polite circle around Doli and Auralia.
Might have been courteous. It might have been them trying to keep their distance so they weren’t caught up in anything, whether it was a frame of film or the vitriol often spat in journalists’ directions.
It was good either way. Gator had taught Auralia to always keep reaction space around her. And in her job as a global hot spot reporter, that advice had served her well.
Now, the stream of participants had slowed to a trickle.
People settled onto their hips with their feet spread wide to endure the speeches while standing.
It looked like poor planning not to have chairs set up, but Auralia assumed it was purposeful.
Lambton had been in the hot seat lately and likely didn’t want people to settle in.
Instead, they should eat the pork sandwich, feel indebted, and leave.
The two men, Representative Lambton and Wesley Price, with arms lifted and waving over their heads to greet the crowds, strode energetically onto the stage.
Doli signaled Auralia.
“Top of the hour. Here we go.” Auralia was taking deeper breaths and relaxing her rib cage so she could speak from the chest instead of being squeezed by anxiety.
She began her report: “We are here in beautiful rural northwestern Virginia to hear from Representative Lambton and hear what constituents have to say about their experiences with the newest closure of the rural health clinic, adding a thirty-minute drive to find medical help in an emergency.”
Doli signaled the end of the take.
This crowd size was intimidating simply because of the dell shape of the land, which lent well to viewing a stage but also made it feel like folks were clumped together.
Lambton’s greeting was brief, all the perfunctory things. The hellos and the “So glad to see y’all out here on a beautiful day,” were followed with an awe-shucks good ol’ boy, “Hope you came with your appetites.”
After pausing for the polite applause, he invited an initial question from the audience.
Lambton hadn’t introduced Price. Auralia thought this was strategic, too. And that would be his out if he found himself in a tight corner, she’d lay money on it.
“Kamar Brown, International Associated Press,” Auralia’s colleague said from his personal mic.
“Mr. Brown,” Lambton tried to ease his braced posture, but it made him look like a wooden puppet manipulated with strings.
“Representative Lambton,” Kamar said. “Your opponent in this year’s elections has accused you of stolen valor.
In your stump speech, you repeat that you were wounded in battle.
Records and firsthand accounts indicate that you were wounded when a file cabinet tipped over on you.
Do you believe that your office at the base was a battlefield?
And if yes, could you explain your thinking on the matter? ”
Lambert and his stiff-lipped smile were so saccharin that it made Auralia’s teeth itch.
“I’ve said time and again,” he said with his old-boy, glad-hand tone of voice, “I was wounded in theater. I was in Iraq when I sustained my injuries that led to my receiving a Purple Heart, an award that is deeply meaningful to me.” He placed both hands over his heart and closed his eyes for a momentary pause.
“I am proud to have made sacrifices for this great nation.”
“I’m quoting you here, Representative,” Kamar persisted, “‘I know the evils of war; I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I served in Iraq—”
“All true,” Lambton shot out.
“I’ll continue the quote, ‘and I was grievously wounded on the battlefield. I received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star.’ Sir,” Kamar said, “There is a record of the Purple Heart, but not of the Bronze Star.” Would you please elaborate on your claims?”
“Yes, thank you,” Lambton said with a hard stare. “You seem to be a bit hard of hearing. As I said, I was wounded in service of my country, and I will always be proud of my scars and my sacrifices.”
“The Bronze Star, sir?” Kamar pressed.
“Yes, speaking of Bronze Stars,” he looked down at Kamar, “and thank you for bringing it up,” he reached behind him and grabbed Price’s elbow, “I want to introduce you to a Marine who was highly decorated, including a Bronze Star.”
“Slick,” Doli muttered. “Get ready.”
“Yes, yes,” Lambton grinned at Price. “I want to introduce you to my old and very dear friend Sergeant Wesely Price, a hero to Marine veterans.” Lambton drew Price forward to stand slightly ahead of himself. “How many of you here are from Quantico? Any Marines?”
The ranks echoed with cheers.
“Wesley, here,” Lambton continued, swiping away any attention to himself and placing it wherever he could find a resting spot in his P.R.
sleight of hand, “was awarded a Bronze Star for heroic achievement in a combat zone. And when he returned to the States and saw that his fellow Marines were struggling, he continued his service by creating the HONOR Charitable Fund.”
Auralia had particular disdain for the name of this quack charity.
Auralia’s boyfriend was named Honoré on his birth certificate.
His parents had sensed his essence from the very beginning.
Even joining the Marines, they, too, understood that Honoré Duchamp lived his ethos, and they only changed his name enough that they could pronounce it. He was rechristened Creed at boot camp.
Honor was precious. And honor was rare.
The personal side of Auralia was pissed as hell that this con man tainted the word.