Triumphant: Chapter 11
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 2:18 p.m., at the Hilton Midtown in Manhattan
The small ballroom is over-crowded, with wall-to-wall people - just as William Bracken had planned and hoped. The master politician knows how the media will portray the event. He can hear them now, reporting how the gubernatorial candidate had anticipated a small, intimate, late luncheon setting with some of his top donors, but instead ended up with the raucous and passionate crowd assembled here this afternoon.
It is not the type of event he would have done a few years ago, when his SuperPAC was humming along nicely. Until that bitch Beckett stuck her nose into things, that is – relieving him not only of his revered Senate position, but even in the aftermath of his release from prison, the SuperPAC fund is now out of the question.
As is the presidency he so desperately sought. At least for now, that is.
Yet another loss the man attributes to the detective in question.
In the back of the room, Elena Markov sits bored, her legs crossed and her fingers twirling the fake blonde hair in her wig. She sits at one of the back tables with a few of the Senator's supporters. She has been with the ex-Senator long enough to know his speeches, his catch-phrases, his mannerisms. She can almost – almost – predict his words in advance, as she glances at the back of the heads in front of her, watching the heads nod like bobble-head dolls. He doesn't talk policy. Instead, he manages to passionately articulate exactly what he knows they want to hear. Her lips purse in disgust at the ease in which he manipulates the masses.
Her eyes cautiously drift from one person to another at the table with her, noting how each set of eyes is focused squarely and exclusively on the figure some one hundred and twenty feet away at the front of the room on the podium.
She marvels at how Bracken – always good on the speaking stump – has turned his abrupt dismissal from the Senate into a rallying cause, an 'us-against- the-world' mentality that his supporters feed on without a second thought. He has managed to tap into something deep, as his mass of supporters who are now fed up with politics as usual, ironically see the career politician as an answer to their plight and buy into his message without question or hesitation.
Elena shakes her head, not for the first time wondering about the sheep mentality of the American public that is so willing and eager to follow the voice of a persuasive shepherd . . . even if that shepherd is actually a wolf in disguise. And in this case, she muses to herself, a wolf with a far more dangerous mate that waits in the shadows.
She hears the voice of Jerry Ratcliffe, a reporter from one of the cable networks, which snaps her back into the present moment. Jerry is favorable to the Brackens, and his question from the press corps is another plant from Elizabeth. Jerry's question – in fact – is the entire reason for this particular speech and press conference this afternoon. There is always a primary reason or motivation for every public Bracken appearance. Although he may appear to be thinking on his feet and adept at impromptu questions – in reality – everything is staged and well-thought out. He is simply a consummate actor playing his role perfectly, executing his lines and his stories flawlessly.
"Mr. Bracken," Jerry begins, "You made an interesting comment a couple of days ago at a recent press conference that I'd like to ask you about."
The ex-Senator, as planned, takes a step backward and then moves from behind the protective embrace of the speaking podium and stands in front of the structure. He exudes confidence and transparency with the move.
"You mentioned, sir, that as it pertains to the recent rash of horrific murders here in our city, all of which seem to at least mention the name of author Richard Castle, you said sir – and I quote – 'perhaps things are not what they seem.'"
All heads that were previously turned to face the reporter now pivot – in unison – toward the political candidate on the stage. Again, Elena is reluctantly impressed with how easily this crowd is manipulated. She is reminded of the marionettes she witnessed as a child back home in Russia, at the local theatres. In this case, however, it is a roomful of puppets, with a mass of strings towing them to and fro.
"Is there a question there, Jerry?" Bracken asks, ever smiling, and drawing polite chuckles from the audience.
"There is, sir," Jerry replies, as planned, now pulling the audience's attention back to himself.
"When asked what you actually meant by that," Jerry continues, "You responded – and again I quote – 'I have said enough – you can decide what to do with that.' So I ask you sir, what exactly did you mean by that statement – that things might not be what they seem? Is there something else you know that you are not telling us?"
William Bracken makes a show of turning toward the podium and grabbing the plastic bottle of water that rests there. He unscrews the top and takes a slow swallow, then replaces the cap, and holds the water bottle in his left hand, and casually places his right hand inside his pants pocket, striking the perfect pose of casual confidence and honesty. His smile disappears, and a more serious expression paints his face, reflected in his voice.
"It has been widely reported," he begins, his eyes remaining focused on Jerry for the time being, "that the violence that has beset our city has been laid at the feet of one Richard Castle by the media. And while I – like everyone else – am taken aback by the ferocity of these murders, of these crimes, I – at the same time – am not one to rush to quick judgement."
He makes a show of running his free left hand through his hair before continuing, as if contemplating a lost thought.
"Might I remind you," he continues, his gaze still singularly focused on Jerry Ratcliffe, "that I, too, was a victim of crimes being laid bare at my feet as well. Crimes that stripped me of my personal freedom. Crimes that stripped me of my service to this country in the Senate." He pauses for a moment, his gaze now lifting and scanning the crowd.
"Crimes that stripped me of my reputation."
He gazes at the sea of cameras and phones recording his every word, his every movement, and suppresses a smile as a number of his supporters shout their disgust at his 'framing.'
"No!" cries one voice.
"No, Will, we're with you!" yells another, as he raises a hand to silence the encouraging voices.
"I know, all too well, what it feels like to be framed, my friends," he continues, his voice remaining lower than normal. "As you know, those accusations against me were finally proven baseless," he reminds them, offering a solemn look to the crowd now hanging on his every word.
"Those accusations were proven to be lies, supported by falsified evidence. And at that time, everyone – including many of you – held me liable."
The cacophony of voices, rife with emotion, explode across the small ballroom, as person after person swears they were always loyal to the corrupt politician.
"Not me, Will!"
"Never!"
"I never doubted you, Senator!" a female voice cries out, using his old title. He again raises a hand to quiet the audience, but this time their pitch has risen above the single, calming gesture. He is forced to raise his voice to shout them down, to the pleasure of his wife sitting off to the side, and the admiration of his assassin sitting in the back.
"Please! Please!" he exhorts the crowd, "I meant no ill will to any of you with my words. None at all. You know me! You are my people, my extended family of sorts," he tells them, as scattered cheers and applause break out.
"My point is this," he speaks above the still-thundering noise, which forces him to raise his voice yet again. "My point, my people, is this . . ."
He raises both hands – one free, and one containing his water bottle – to quiet the crowd, which finally responds to his gestures and raised voice.
"My point, my friends, is simply this. I know what it is like to be falsely accused. I know the utter helplessness, and sadness and betrayal that consumes you when you are in that dark place. Friends desert you. Colleagues whisper behind your back. If you're lucky, you have family that stands strong with you."
He gazes back toward Elizabeth, sitting on stage behind him, and smiles, placing his fingers to his lips, offering a kiss as a salute.
"I was lucky in that respect," he offers, and then quickly continues.
"My point, my friends, is that perhaps this rush to judgement against Mr. Castle is nothing more than all of us – once again – passing judgement prematurely upon an innocent man based upon circumstantial evidence."
"Circumstantial?" a female voice from his left asks out in a loud voice. He finds himself staring eye to eye, across the room, with Ramona Vasquez. He recognizes her, of course, from her in-the-field reporting of the events of which he speaks.
"Yes, Miss Vasquez," he repeats, "Circumstantial. At least I now believe it to be as such." He then turns back to the audience at large and continues.
"Many lives have been taken, in Mr. Castle's name. And in the most horrific manner. Obviously, one has to wonder if he had any involvement. But then I consider my own history, my own path that I was forced to walk against my will. And I begin to wonder . . . To slaughter a man in your own bed? To blow up your own establishment – a historic establishment to our city, no less? To torch your own vacation home? To uproot your entire family to an undisclosed location, as he has done with his daughter and mother . . . which by the way, can you fault him for that?"
Gazing across the room, he purposefully stops every four or five heads, and catches their eyes. It's important that everyone buy this particular story.
"Yes, I began to have my doubts," he continues. "Doubts which were – just this morning – confirmed for me. I can tell you that sources have shared with me that it is Mr. Castle's father – not the author himself – who is the more likely perpetrator of these crimes."
There is a rising spattering of whispers and gasps that mask the stunned faces in front of Bracken, as he continues, now walking along the makeshift stage towards his left.
"It is Mr. Castle's father who, again, we now believe, to have been the culprit of the rash of murders that occurred during Mr. Castle's absence months ago. Think about it, my friends. It would make sense that a man of his means would do anything to find his son."
"What do you mean when you say 'a man of his means?'" a question from the middle of the room is shouted out. Bracken cannot place the voice, but ignores it nonetheless. It's the story that is most important right now, not the details. He has learned – long ago – that it is the story, not the truth, which wins out. Repeat a story enough times, repeat a few key phrases enough times, and it becomes truth in the minds of listeners – even if the story itself is blatantly false.
He recalls Elizabeth's words from years ago – words that have stuck with him, and carried him to countless victories.
"People believe what they hear, and what they read, Will – even if the words ring false – say them often enough, let them hear or read the words often enough – they will become their truth."
He brushes the thoughts away as he continues his newest story.
"Now, why he has chosen to duplicate his former murderous spree is beyond any of us. And of course, we certainly cannot rule out the possibility of a copycat perpetrator . . . but even I admit that seems unlikely."
The bustle of activity in the room rises as a couple of reporters make their way – running – out of the ballroom, while scattered whispers begin to rise to the ceiling. Ramona Vasquez turns to Larry, who holds the camera atop his shoulder.
"You're getting all of this, right?" she whispers frantically.
He nods his head, wordlessly mouthing the word "absolutely" to his colleague.
"But why?" Jerry Ratcliffe asks, himself now standing. "Why – and exactly who is this man who you believe to be Richard Castle's father?"
William Bracken gazes hard at the reporter, pausing for a couple of seconds before responding.
"I believe you can now see why I stated earlier that I had said too much," he replies. "I can tell you that much of this information – I understand – to be classified. Beyond that, I would pose that question to our friends at the state department. They are better suited to answer those questions."
He turns and walks back toward the center of the stage, and places the water bottle back onto the podium, then turns back to the audience.
"I won't be taking any more questions, my friends," he says with an affable smile. "I hope you understand - it's time for Elizabeth and I to take our leave now, but we will be here to chat personally for a few more minutes. As always, I thank you for your support . . . and your vote," he adds with a charming smile.
With that, the ex-Senator makes his way to the steps at the far right of the stage, and takes the hand of his wife, Elizabeth, who joins him. Together, they descend the three steps down to the floor level where the tables have been set up for this luncheon. Patrons begin to stand, eager to ever so briefly interact with the popular politician. Hand in hand, their smiles intact, the couple casually, but quickly, make their way to the second row of tables, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with some of their familiar friends and supporters.
Ramona Vasquez watches as the couple easily and effortlessly plays the crowd. She glances around for a few seconds before picking up her purse from the table. She begins to make her way toward the back of the ballroom and the exit, where Larry, her cameraman has already exited, wanting to beat the rush out of the room.
As he shakes hands, Bracken lifts his gaze toward the back of the room and finds the blonde wig, and the set of eyes behind it. Elena barely nods her head, and then slowly exits the room through the door some fifteen feet away from her. The explosion from the front of the room, underneath the makeshift raised floor on which the speaking podium resides, rips through the front of the ballroom, knocking virtually everyone still sitting or standing in the first row of tables to the ground.
William and Elizabeth Bracken are at about the third row of tables when the explosion hits, just beyond the shatter zone but still close enough to be knocked to the ground. Others behind them still milling about in the first row closest to the stage are not so lucky.
The secret service officials are immediately on top of couple, forming a protective ring, weapons drawn. One secret serviceman, a large Hispanic man, lies face down on the floor, caught in the blast. There is screaming and crying, as pandemonium quickly settles on the crowd, most of whom are now trying fervently to get to safety.
Within seconds, the Brackens are roughly pulled to their feet, mock fear plastered on their faces, as they are unceremoniously all-but-carried out of the ballroom by the remaining secret servicemen.
At the same time, phone calls are blasting across the city, now detailing the failed assassination attempt on the would-be-governor of New York. Ramona Vasquez stands near the back of the room with her mobile phone in the air, videotaping the mass hysteria in the room. No, it won't be the best footage for the early evening news, but it also won't hurt her already-rising status with a few of the competitor networks in the city. Getting a clean shot of the Brackens hurriedly pushed and pulled out of the room – mere feet from her vantage point near the door – will be played continuously through the night.
Outside the hotel, the blonde-haired woman jogs at a brisk pace, keeping pace with the frightened mass of humanity streaming out of the hotel. There is no need to draw attention to herself by walking calmly – even though she knows there is no further danger. Elena is satisfied with this afternoon's proceedings, knowing that by mentioning the potential involvement of Castle's father, Bracken has moved an important piece on her strategy board. The faked assassination attempt provides the flanking move, as she has now moved her most important piece into position onto the board.
She smiles as she considers the barrage of questions the current administration will now have to address, as she considers Castle's father once again.
The bait is set. Now it is simply time to wait for the mouse to come to the cheese.