Chapter 24
Patrick
There was nothing in this world that made Patrick feel weaker, or smaller, than sitting outside his father’s office waiting to see him.
The townhouse had been finished when Patrick was fourteen, but his father didn’t move in until Patrick was close to sixteen.
It had taken some time to furnish it and complete the snagging works.
Considering it was really two townhouses converted into a vast mansion, Patrick hadn’t been surprised it had taken five years.
On the third floor, the walls were covered in dark oak paneling lined with paintings of hunting scenes with men in red jackets on horseback, surrounded by hounds in woodland.
Each picture was illuminated by a lamp above it with a green glass shade.
This floor of the house looked like an old English golf club lounge.
Patrick sat on a green leather studded couch.
His right foot tapped on the oak herringbone floor, giving a beat to his anxiety that echoed down the hallway to the sturdy oak door at the end.
He rubbed his hands together, trying to expel more nervous energy.
The door at the end of the hall opened and Dekker took long strides toward him.
‘Go on in,’ he said.
Patrick got up without a word, met Dekker’s gaze for a moment.
The South African was hard to read most days.
He had that dead look in his eyes, as if he had seen the worst of humanity and was resigned to being a part of it.
Standing half a foot taller than him, and considerably wider in the shoulders, Patrick felt even more like a naughty child summoned to see his father.
He made his way to the open door, stopped, turned back and saw Dekker had been watching him. There was something calculating in that look, the way that butchers look at a side of beef – deciding where the prime cuts would lie.
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.
‘You have to be strong, for once in your life,’ said Julian, and took another drag on his cigar. Patrick watched the ash glow red, and shivered.
Julian saw his son’s reaction, and followed his gaze to the stogie in his hand. He took the cigar from his lips and blew on the hot, smoking tip, and smiled.
‘Nothing is more important than getting you into office. You’re going to divorce that bitch wife of yours, but we’re not going to finalize the divorce until after the trial and she’s convicted. That way you won’t have to pay her any alimony. Then we get back on the campaign trail. Okay?’
Patrick nodded.
‘Say it,’ said Julian.
Patrick’s mouth moved but no words came.
‘Say you’re going to testify against her.’
‘I’m going to testify against her.’
‘Say you’re going to divorce her.’
‘I’m going to divorce her.’
‘Again.’
He was a frightened boy again, sitting in his father’s office. Filled with hate and fear.
‘I’m gonna divorce her.’
‘Louder . . .’
‘I’m gonna divorce her!’
‘What is weakness?’
‘Empathy is weakness,’ answered Patrick.
‘Are you weak?’
‘No, Pops, I’m not.’
‘Because if you can’t do this, there’s an alternative . . .’
Bile instantly filled Patrick’s mouth. He swallowed it back down, and balled his fists to stop his hands from shaking.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Patrick.
‘You’d better. If you can’t, then Vanessa is going to do something very stupid.
The pressure of the trial and the weight of her guilt might just be too much.
People in that kind of situation think there’s only one way out.
So man up, son. Or I’ll have to make sure Vanessa throws herself off the roof of her hotel. ’