Washington, DC – October 2014
Elizabeth can feel the heat on the tips of her ears. She knows her leg is fighting every urge to begin bouncing. She knows her heart is racing, her lungs feel empty, and her mouth is dry. She's trying her best to remain calm and collected, but this is harder than she thought. The questions are invasive and uncomfortable, and she's struggling to keep her composure, her anxiety threatening to overwhelm her.
The way the details flow off her tongue is foreign to her. She's never had to sit and explain it all at once in chronological order. In therapy, she gets to control the pace and the topic, and it doesn't have to make sense in time and space. In therapy, she doesn't have the eyes of the entire country on her and a camera recording her every word and facial expression. In therapy, she is safe and can take breaks, cry, and be comforted. But now, under the public scrutiny, that control is gone, and she's left feeling exposed and vulnerable.
She knows Conrad has not left the hearing room. She keeps an eye on the camera that is trained on him. He's watching and listening, surely trying to figure out how he will spin her testimony. He's looking for a weak spot, a hole in her armor, a way to strike.
It's a struggle to keep her breathing under control and maintain her composure. Her hands remain folded on the table as she runs her right ring finger over her left, where her wedding band used to be. She had thought about how it would feel to do exactly this. She had imagined being strong and powerful. She had imagined taking charge and owning her experience as a survivor. She had imagined the freedom and relief that would fill her soul and body. She had not expected her fear, pain, and anger to feel so raw. She hadn't expected the shame she has long been reminded is not hers to carry to the surface. She has had enough time to reflect on the abuse she suffered and her choice to stay silent, a choice she has spent years regretting. But at this moment, as her emotions threaten to overwhelm her, she begins to wonder if she is a victim or a survivor.
"Agent McCord, can you please tell us how you connected your—" she watches as the congressman searches for the right word to describe what happened. She knows this will be a difficult topic for the committee and the general public to process and understand.
"kidnapping," she offers him in a controlled tone, knowing it was so much more than just that.
"Yes, kidnapping. How did you connect it to Conrad Dalton?"
She nods, almost feeling something akin to freedom, knowing she's done talking about Samuel Rodriquez in the context of the things he did to her and took from her for those eighteen months she spent with him.
"When I returned home to DC, I was inpatient at Walter Reed for a few months as I was gaining weight and rehabbing my shoulder. I was assigned George Peters as my handler. He was a high-level operative at the CIA and a close friend. At that time, I had begun to come out of the initial shock of being rescued, and I had truly begun to heal from my physical injuries in a tangible way, both of which gave me some time to think about what I had been through and why it had happened. I became stuck on a couple of details about Samuel Rodriguez, which were that he wore a cross on a chain around his neck and he spoke fluent Spanish with no discernable accent. Those two things confirmed to me he was not a faithful Muslim from Iraq or a member of a terrorist organization. I confided those details to George, along with the sinking feeling that I had been purposely set up. We sat on that until I was released from Walter Reed. At some point, George received files containing the information on my setup as well as two others containing various Cold War era war crimes committed in South America by Conrad Dalton's team."
"Did Agent Peters share the information with you?"
"He did share the information, which I have provided in entirety to the committee; however, not the informant's identity. We now know that the informant was Luca Whitman, who will be testifying to this committee on this matter as well," she says as she allows herself to begin to relax into the facts that are no longer so personal or so violent.
She watches as the congressman looks through his copies of the files, knowing he hasn't had long to become familiar with their contents.
"And what did you do with this information?" he asks, and it takes her a moment to process his question.
"Excuse me?"
"You've waited what, nearly ten years, to share this information? You allowed this man you have said set you up to be kidnapped to remain the Director of the CIA, run for and become the Governor of New York, and run and become the President of the United States? Why, Ms. McCord?"
"You can't be serious," she breathes. She's not sure she can handle the emotional toll of having her credibility and character questioned by men who have never faced anything like she did.
"I'm very serious, Agent McCord; as a CIA Agent, you took an oath to the Constitution, correct?" His tone has switched on her. He had been nearly empathetic while questioning her about the actual kidnapping. Now, his tone has become accusatory and harsh, and she knows the committee will use her responses as a measure of whether she is being truthful and forthcoming.
"I did, Congressman, and I do stand by that oath. Frankly, I was traumatized. It took me a long time to recover from what I experienced and what happened to me. At the time, I was an easily impressionable woman with children to protect who was terrified of a man with connections and power who was threatening the lives of my children. I am by no means claiming that waiting this long was good for my country, this country that I loved and served for years. I will remind the committee that Conrad Dalton is a man who is known for using his connections and power against people who don't do exactly as he says. Simply put, I was scared of him, Congressman."
"I'll ask you again, Agent McCord, why did you wait until today to come forward with these allegations? If you've had these files and the knowledge contained in them, why have you waited until today to provide this information and make your allegations against the President?"
"In those files, you were sent an audio recording of a meeting between me and Conrad Dalton from September of 2005 in which Conrad Dalton threatened to kill my children if I told anyone what happened to me. At that time, I was still incredibly vulnerable and recovering from what had happened to me. When he threatened their lives, I believed him. The only thing I knew to do as a mother then was to stay silent and disappear under a new identity as he instructed."
"What changed, Agent McCord?" She reads his tone as becoming empathetic once again, as if maybe he thought the hard questions needed to come from an ally and not the enemy.
"I got help. I was able to work through the trauma of my experiences and begin to see that I had options other than silence. I began to feel confident in myself and my ability to fight back. However, I was still being constantly threatened with the murder of my three children. Five days ago," she has to pause to think about the absurdity of that timeframe. Five days, she thinks. It's been five days since everything has changed. She takes a steadying breath.
"Five days ago, my hu—ex-husband showed up in Los Angeles, where I have been living under my assumed identity, Lisa Aldin. He had been sent there by George Peters in an attempt to get me to do exactly this. Before George was murdered, he sent me an email telling me it was time and that I was ready for this fight. He was right. It is time, and I am ready. My children are safe. Conrad Dalton's threats can no longer hold any weight, and I am not going to allow him to continue to terrorize in order for him to continue to hold power over this country and her people."
She notices a distinct feeling of completeness in the room. There is no more to say or ask, and she feels the satisfaction that comes from knowing her role in all of this is done for now.
"Thank you for your time and service, Agent McCord." The chairman takes back over, "We will let you know if we have more questions, but for now, I believe we'll take a five-minute break and reconvene with Luca Whitman, which, considering the late hour, will take us through the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. Let me end here with this: Mr. President, should anything happen to Agent McCord or her family in the midst of this investigation, it is clear to me the world will know it was you. That's all for now. Thank you."
Elizabeth can't help but turn around to look at Conrad. His jaw is tense, and his posture is rigid. She knows she hasn't won yet. There will be weeks of this investigation, at the very least, and even with the evidence and witnesses they have, the case against him will not be cut and dry. He has a team of the best lawyers in the world and the backing of the Presidency.
But she can walk past him now, her head held high and Henry on her heels, and feel the beginnings of a hard-won victory.
British Airways Flight 167 Cambridge, UK to Washington, DC – October 2014
Will takes his much too expensive seat in first class on the 787. He hadn't even had to try to shove his small backpack under his seat. He's a light traveler, and beyond that, he wanted to be home fast. He's heard she testified for nearly seven hours. The story, the possible criminal American president involving a high-profile figure, is not only the buzz on social media he's noticed. No people are talking about it among themselves. In the airport security line, he caught the staff at the small airport sandwich place talking about it, too.
He had wanted to yell at them and remind them that the CIA agent they were talking about was a real person. He hasn't watched the testimony, but he downloaded it from the CSPAN YouTube channel. He figures he has sixteen hours to kill, so he might as well start listening.
He's still determining what he wants. Is he more afraid to hear the truth, or does he want to hear every word she has to say? He doesn't even know anymore. He has spent so much time now under the weight of her loss, which co-mingled and stewed along with the loss of their parents. He's calmed down enough to realize she had her reasons, however terrible they might be, but he's still angry.
He's not even sure that's the right word. He's been angry since he pressed his brand-new Reebok sweatshirt onto his mother's bleeding chest as she died. Anger is constant for him.
He waits until the plane reaches cruising altitude before he can order a drink, though. He doesn't normally drink, but he knows this is going to hurt, so he asks the stewardess for a neat whiskey. He's going to need alcohol to listen to this. He takes a sip, plugs in his headphones, and presses play.
Washington, DC – October 2014
It's fairly late into the evening when Elizabeth and Henry walk back into the safe house that will be home for the foreseeable future. She realizes now how weird it will be to share a space with her family once again so quickly. Isaac Bishop had requested they stay in one place to make security both easier and more affordable. Now, as all the buffers are gone and sent to their own homes, she enters the house as an outsider in her own family's lives.
She sighs as the weight of the last five days and their exhaustion comes down onto her shoulders. She's startled when Stevie hugs her before she's even had a chance to shrug her jacket off.
"I'm proud of you, Mom," her daughter whispers. "You did so well,"
Elizabeth's mind reels with at her daughter's words. Her blazer feels tight on her shoulders, and her hands get clammy, "You-you watched it?"
"Yeah," Stevie nods into her chest, and Elizabeth's stomach drops. She fights the urge to push her daughter away. Her tolerance for touch is not high anymore, especially when she feels like this. She knows Stevie means well, but her heart is pounding, and her lungs are burning.
"We all did," Stevie tells her, "it's not like it was a secret, Mom,"
"You all did? You and Allie and Jason? Y-You all know what—" her words ramble quietly as she can no longer stand her daughter's tight hold. Guilt mingles with her anxiety as she backs away, placing Stevie a firm arm's length away from her, "Why did you watch that?"
"Because we love you," her daughter is saying, her brows furrowed, as if it's a no-brainer.
"That's not what I wanted, Stevie. You shouldn't know those things," she shakes her head, stumbling through her words. She hadn't factored in her children having extremely detailed knowledge of the worst moments of her life.
"Mom," Stevie reaches for her, but she flinches back. As she watches her daughter's hurt and confusion flash across her face at the rejection, she hates herself for it as more guilt piles on.
"I gotta—I need a minute," she mumbles and begins to close herself off. Elizabeth is not used to having a support system in dealing with this type of stress. She is not used to having her kids in her business, and she's not used to sharing her vulnerabilities, especially ones she's kept secret for a decade.
"Hey," Henry's hand is warm and comforting on her lower back, though, to his surprise, all that makes her do is slap it away.
"I—I can't do this," she breathes. "Not right now. I need a minute." She can barely form words, her breath coming in gasps as she turns and bolts up the stairs. She can hear Stevie asking Henry if she did something wrong and if she's going to leave again. Her heart feels heavy and broken as she runs.
She's not even sure why.
When she gets into the bathroom, she slams the door shut and leans against it.
"Breathe, Elizabeth," she whispers to herself, "You've gotta breathe,"
She slides down the door and rustles desperately in her pocket for her emergency blue raspberry extra sour warhead, which she unwraps and pops into her mouth.
She sits on the floor, leaning her head back against the door, and counts the minutes as she lets her candy melt. The sour taste burns her tongue, and the artificial blue raspberry scent is overpowering, forcing her body to the present with the hard wooden floor under her and her fingernails digging into her palms.
She takes a deep, full breath and focuses on relaxing her hands. She flexes her fingers so her palms open, and she stares at the pink half-moons left behind by her nails. She takes a moment to look at the small, dark bathroom only illuminated by a single nightlight air freshener combo. She feels so inadequate for her children. She has never forgotten what it meant to be their mother, but she knows now that she has forgotten how to parent. She is not prepared to help them navigate their feelings. She's not sure how she's supposed to talk to her daughters about being violated so violently and her son about what it all means.
As the blood quits rushing in her ears, she begins to listen to what's happening outside the bathroom she's contained herself in.
She can hear Henry talking, probably to Stevie, about the importance of giving her space and time to process, reassuring her that she's not going to leave again, and reprimanding her for being so forceful. She can also hear Patrick reading to Henry's twins, and she thinks she hears Jason in there as well. She wonders where Allison is not, fully comprehending it's after nine-thirty, and she could very well be in bed. It's been an exhausting day for all of them.
She remains seated on the cold, hard tile, her legs pulled up against her chest. She doesn't know how to re-integrate herself into this life. It's messy, full, complicated, and filled with so much love and emotion that she has trouble processing. She is used to a life of silence and simplicity. She had fallen into a nice little lonely routine where her only concerns were how fast she did the Times Crossword. It was a routine where her only emotions were sadness and emptiness, but it was a routine she could manage, nonetheless.
"Elizabeth?" Henry's soft voice comes from the other side of the door, "You've been in there for about an hour. Can you, at least, tell me you didn't climb out the window and run away?"
She thinks he may have been going for a joke, but she can hear the underlying hurt and pain. She would love to be mad at him for not trusting her to stay now that it's clear this is going to be really hard going forward for a while. But she's not mad. She's not even upset.
"I'm still here," she mumbles, unsure if he can hear her.
"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, his tone soft as if he doesn't know how to navigate her. He doesn't really, she knows. He wasn't there for her recovery, and they've spent so much time apart.
"Yes," she tells him, struggling to get up, "but I don't think I can move yet."
It happens sometimes. Her legs feel so heavy. She's not sure why.
"Okay," he says. "I'll wait."
She knows he will. He will always wait for her.
"Are the kids asleep?" she asks, trying to focus on something.
"Um, they're at least pretending to be. They're probably on their phones," he says, knowing she doesn't have experience with their children as teens.
"How is Allison? Have you talked to her?"
"She's alright," he tells her, "she's just confused and trying to figure it out. We all are,"
"And Jason?" she sniffles.
"He's processing. Um, he can be a tough nut to crack, a lot like somebody else I know,"
She can hear the smile in his voice and the rustling as he sits down on the floor on the other side of the closed door.
"Does Stevie think I rejected her?"
"No, I explained to her that this is a normal reaction for someone who has gone through what you have. She understands that you just got overwhelmed. You've had a very long day."
He's being so understanding, and it feels so unfair, she whispers, "So have you,"
"It's not a competition, Elibet," he says softly.
"Henry," she sighs, and suddenly, she's crying again. She makes her way up to her knees and makes the one-hundred-eighty-degree turn to face the door. She opens it with a shaky hand and finds him sitting in front of her, looking a little bit tired but so beautiful, his eyes warm and his expression open and patient.
"I don't know how to do this anymore," She confides in him.
"Do what?"
"Be what they need from me," she whispers, her insecurity evident.
"Hey, none of us know how to rebuild this. Okay, you're not alone in that.
"I don't deserve your kindness,"
"I'm not being kind," he smiles, "I'm being honest. It's hard for all of us."
"Why aren't you more upset with me?"
He shrugs, "The way I see it. My life has been flipped upside down. I found out that I've been used, that my twins were not a very happy accident, and that the woman I have always considered the love of my life is very much so alive. But I also found out that none of that was your fault. And I'm not totally excusing you for being gone for so long, but mostly right now, I'm just happy that you found it in you to come back.
"Henry," her voice cracks as her tears stream down her cheeks.
"Elizabeth, look at me," he says. He's looking at her with the same intensity, determination, and unwavering strength. "I love you, and we will figure out the rest, okay? It won't be easy, it'll be hard, and there will be devastating moments, I'm sure. But we got love, and maybe that's all we need to learn how to co-parent again—maybe it's all we need to think about you and me someday. But that's all for tomorrow. Tonight, I want to make sure that you know that we're all here and that we love you."
She swallows, knowing the only thing in her way is forgiving herself. She wants to believe him. She wants to believe everything will be okay, that her family will be happy, and that she'll be able to move past this. But the guilt is so suffocating. Through all the therapy and all the recovery, she's coming to find she still hasn't rid herself of the burden of Samuel's claim of ownership. He had forced into her head over and over again that her family would not want her, that she had been ruined. Finding out about the redhead had solidified that belief.
But here, Henry is, waiting for her.
She nods and looks down, unsure of how to respond. Then his arms are around her, holding her against his chest.
"I love you, too," she whispers for the first time in a decade. Possibly, there is a light at the end of this tunnel.
A/N: In part three, we go on the roller coaster that will rebuild the McCords' lives.