“Damnit, Nick, it’s just for politics. A campaign ad in blood.”

“You know, he’s always been for it.”

“Yeah, and you went to work for him.”

“We’ve talked about this a dozen times, Holly.”

“And it never made me feel any better.”

“Well, I’m not willing to throw everything else away for a fight we can’t win. The rest of the country is not us. You want to see him take a stand against executing convicted murderers, when seventy percent of voters are for it? Then you can watch the other side troop right in and rip up tax credits for the working poor, cut back school lunches for kids, slash away at old-growth forests, and, while they’re at it, toss tax breaks to people facing the rough decision of whether to put in a pool or a tennis court at their country house. Shit, I’ve always been in this to do what I can, with what we have. You’ve got to figure out what matters the most, and how we can help the most.”

“Everything matters. Especially what you throw away.”

“And would it be better for him not to come? He’s for it. He should be here and take responsibility.”

“Takes a lot of courage to kill a retard whose lawyer was incompetent … . Did he ask you?”

“Yes.”

“You know it’s wrong, right?”

“Yes.”

She got off the bed.

“That’s what makes it worse.”

And what New Orleans meant to him now was an airport where she looked at him and said “Don’t lose,” before passing through a metal detector. That had been the end of it. He had not seen her since.

Shit, New Orleans.

Addis didn’t want to go. Especially not after that phone call he had received a month ago from—damnit, he didn’t want to think about it any more. All this god-damn nostalgia. Put that call aside, he told himself.

Addis checked the screen. POTUS was flashing.

3 - The White House North Gate—June 21

3

The White House North Gate—June 21

Brady Sandlin, wearing a hat, walked through Lafayette Square. “Sandlin” was the name on the press pass; that is how he would think of himself today. He tugged on the beard. It held. He checked the putty on his nose. It was firm. The wig felt snug. He put on the sunglasses and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. Control, he told himself.

At the guard booth, he waited. As the guard checked the credentials of a camera crew, he shifted back and forth on his feet. The drawer opened, and he placed the plastic card in it. The guard asked his birth date. He replied. The automatic lock clicked. He stepped into the booth. Another uniformed guard handed him an access pass on a chain.

“Walk through, please.”

The metal detector whined.

“Step over here.”