-8-
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
3:00 p.m.
Everything was happening so fast. Too fast, Alex thought. Colin had announced his resignation on Friday, and the law required the mayor to declare a special election within three days, so on Monday afternoon, he had set the date for March 25th, and a mad scramble ensued. Any candidates had two critical filing deadlines to meet within two weeks of the mayor's proclamation-campaign finance declarations were due on January 13th, and ballot petitions were due by the 18th.
Now, just 24 hours after the election date had been proclaimed, Alex was walking toward a temporary platform set up in the lobby of One Hogan Place. The TV lights made it hard to see everyone who had gathered, but she could hear them as she and Olivia followed Colin to the stage.
Alex. Over here, Alex. Ms. Cabot, look this way.
Detective Benson, can you stand closer?
A few minutes later, ushered to the podium by a smattering of applause after Colin's effusive introduction, Alex stood in front of a bank of cameras and microphones. It never ceased to amaze her how many reporters turned out for these events. New York did have a large local media, to be sure, but even assuming everyone in Albany might have interest in the Manhattan DA's race, there were still about twice as many red lights in front of her as there ought to be. It was times like these when every reporter dug up old articles and diligently filled in her backstory with the same tired phrases: Witness protection. Drug cartel. Crusader for justice. Lazarus ADA. They could resurrect any story from the dead, she thought, and Arthur Branch's southern drawl came to her unbidden. That's why they call a newspaper's files a morgue, Alex. Those sons of bitches can't let anything rest in peace.
She knew it would happen. It was, in fact, inevitable. What she hadn't prepared for was the intense anxiety she felt. She'd given press conferences, lectures, seminar presentations, and dinner speeches, and usually had only mild butterflies at most. Why was she such a mess now? Her palms were clammy, and sheer force of will was the only thing keeping her lunch down as she stepped to the podium.
"Before I say anything else, I'd be remiss if I didn't thank the District Attorney for that wonderful introduction. Colin, the US Attorney's office is very lucky to be getting you. I've had the pleasure of working with a number of wonderful DA's during my career in this city: Colin, Jack McCoy, Arthur Branch, Nora Lewin and Adam Schiff, and each of them has been a wonderful example of the good that this office can do. I've enjoyed serving the people of New York for a number of years, and look forward to many more years of working to secure justice for the victims of crime in our city, and to making Manhattan a safer place for all of my fellow-citizens. I'm here today to announce my candidacy for the office of District Attorney for New York County."
Flashes fired and shutters clicked, a brief frenzy of light and sound that served to punctuate the point of no return. The declaration was a mere formality, of course. Everyone in the room had known why they were here. A summons from Pam Thomson for a press conference with the EADA could only mean one thing, following as it did on the heels of Colin Samuels' resignation four days earlier. Thomson was the best political PR strategist employed by one of New York's top boutique firms; she had been the first official hire of the campaign.
Once Alex had committed to running-Kate forcing her hand stood out now as the watershed moment where thought coalesced into action, and hesitation into determination-she had moved quickly to surround herself with a team that could get the job done. As she had been reminded lately by more than one person, she could be slow to make decisions. But once she decided, no-one would say she dragged her feet. It was as if she shifted from neutral to fifth gear with no need for the usual acceleration. When she decided to run, she also decided that she'd do whatever she had to do to win. Second-guessing was not a hobby for her.
The press conference was longer than she'd expected, and no doubt shorter than it seemed. Reporters asked the usual questions, though she had to give them credit for finding inventive ways to phrase them. With each query, she grew more comfortable. They weren't hard to answer-she knew what she wanted to accomplish, and how she planned to do it. She deflected questions about the more unusual parts of her history as an ADA, and easily answered the ones about her campaign platform.
Her nervousness dissipated just as it did during a trial, when she found the rhythm of her opening statement and could see the proceedings begin to unfold in a way that made sense to her. Things seemed to slow down a bit, and she could anticipate everything just a split second before it happened: the witness' answer, the defense attorney's objection, the judge's ruling. She wasn't telepathic or prescient. It was more like a cross between a crystal ball and deja vu-operating in a moment that was already feeling like a memory-and it meant things were going her way. Usually she just attributed it to one of those perfect days you have now and again, a sort of lucky break. She wasn't given to this type of narcissistic thinking, but every so often, she saw these moments of happenstance as some cosmic payback for the darker moments she'd come through, and as a sign that maybe-just maybe-she was on the right path.
There was only one deviation from the script. After Pam told the assembled group that the next question would be the last, the reporter from the Post directed his words to someone other than Alex.
"Detective Benson." All eyes turned to the side of the stage, where Liv stood with Liz, Ellen, Kate and Bill, looking on proudly. The sudden attention surprised her.
Even in the confusion of the moment, Alex managed to correct the reporter. "Sergeant Benson," she muttered.
Pam stepped in. "Sergeant Benson is not answering any questions, Jim. Did you have something for Ms. Cabot?"
"It's okay, Pam," Alex said. She wasn't thinking about the campaign, but rather that the reporters would be lucky to hear anything Olivia might want to say. She looked over at her wife. "Liv, do you want to?"
Olivia wasn't a fan of public speaking, but she was a fan of Alex, and she was determined to be an asset to this campaign. She smiled and walked toward the podium. "Sure, babe." She said it quietly, but microphones pick up every sound.
Alex turned back to the reporter. "Jim?"
"Yes, thanks," he said. "Sergeant Benson, I ask you this question as a decorated NYPD officer, rather than as the candidate's wife. Do you think Ms. Cabot is the best person for this job?"
She flashed a brilliant smile in Alex's direction. "Well, Jim, if I weren't the candidate's wife, you wouldn't care what I thought, would you?" Everyone in the room laughed.
"Probably not," the reporter conceded. "But you are, so I do."
"As a police officer in this city, I have no doubt that Alex Cabot is the right choice to be the next District Attorney. I've worked with her, and can tell you unequivocally that she will fight tirelessly and unselfishly for the people of New York, and for the officers of the NYPD, and for the staff of the DA's office," Olivia said. "And as her wife, I can tell you that I am very proud of all she has done, and all that she will do. She will be a wonderful District Attorney." Olivia took Alex's hand, and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. More flashes captured the mutual adoration, and reporters were eager to get the photos transmitted back to their respective offices for immediate posting alongside the coverage of the announcement.
Liz, Ellen and Bill beamed, though not necessarily for the same reasons. Donnelly was pleased to see that Alex had taken her advice to heart: putting Benson front and center in the campaign made perfect sense. Their marriage grounded Alex somehow, made her seem grittier, and even a little more human, maybe. People could identify with that, and the type of people who'd find it somehow offensive weren't in Cabot's camp anyway.
Ellen and Bill, meanwhile, were just happy for Alex. Both of them had known a woman who was driven and consumed with work, and who had been entirely too reluctant to allow herself any personal happiness. Bill knew what Ellen only suspected-that Alex had overcome a variety of fears to get to where she was, both personally and professionally, and he couldn't have asked for a better ending to any story.
When 6:00 rolled around, both Dev Patel and Madeline Taylor were watching their TVs. There had been internet coverage almost immediately after then press conference ended, of course, but no video would be posted until after the evening news.
Their emotions were wildly divergent, too, as they watched. Dev had no TV, and wouldn't normally care to watch one if he didn't need to see something on the local news, so he was viewing the proceedings in a bar. He'd tipped the bartender $20 to turn to the NYN broadcast. He was happy-he had been right about Cabot's candidacy, and so far the parts of the plan he was privy to were all falling into place.
Happy was not a word that described Madeline, who was watching the video in a decidedly more private location. She, too, knew this was an important step in getting what she wanted. But seeing Alexandra and her detective there in full-color sight-and-sound had hit her unexpectedly hard. She had been so consumed with her objectives that she had given only scant consideration to the reality of their marriage. A lesser person might have been overcome, but Madeline quickly gathered herself and assimilated this new perspective into her long view. The cop was clearly both ill-suited for, and socially beneath, Alexandra. But she just might be useful for Madeline's purposes.
All the world's in love with love, she thought. If she helps to get you elected, all the better. I can deal with that later.
