Petr woke in a cold sweat. The bang of the judge’s gavel was in his head. Again. His dry mouth and palpitating heart reminded his frayed nerves of their tenuous state. Did he just say that? Forty days of a national advertising campaign publicizing the dangers of distracted driving. Even the District Attorney didn’t believe it. It was more than they had agreed to. The judge said someone died. Someone should pay for it with jail time. If not, the settlement had to hurt. But forty days? Forty lashes couldn’t have hurt as much.
Petr didn’t cause the accident. He just kept his mouth shut and claimed he didn’t know anything. He did tamper with the evidence. But he was trying to help her. Now it was too late. If he said anything, he would be guilty of spoliation. They would both be guilty and would do jail time. He was just trying to do the right thing. Somehow he had to persevere, to ride it out, and to pay for it. How was he going to get money for the forty days? Petr didn’t have an answer. He closed his eyes and cringed. He threw the covers over his head.
* * *
The President could barely make it off the eighteenth green at the Congressional Country Club. It was oppressively hot. There were better places to be than the District of Columbia during the dog days of summer. Then he saw him. From the corner of his eye, the President saw him approach. The humidity sucked the energy out of you. The President’s Hawaiian-blue polo shirt was soaking in perspiration. He had lost his bet and was not happy. The interloper walked quickly and with a purpose. He had a tie on. The Commander-in-Chief wanted to get to the club house—the air-conditioned club house—just up the hill. His head pivoted as he frantically looked around for his Secret Service detail.
A microphone was thrust in his face, and the reporter shouted, “Mr. President, what are your thoughts about the American soldiers gunned down by the sniper in Qatar?” There was a stony silence.
The irritating reporter, in an ill-fitting beige sports jacket, persisted. “Mr. President, what’s your comment on the breakdown of peace negotiations in the Middle East.” This was supposed to be a no-camera event. “Do you think war is imminent between the Sunnis and Shiites?” The President looked for his security people to get the microphone and camera out of his face. The President was tired and dehydrated and in no mood to answer questions. Especially sensitive questions involving one of his playing partners.
The Secret Service was caught off-guard. They came running to get the pushy correspondent away from the President. But the reporter persisted—he was from the Al Jazeera, the Qatari-financed network. Their policy was wherever their Emir went, they went. The Emir, sitting bemused in the shade of the golf cart, was in the President’s foursome, giving them access to the grounds.
Today was a special day. It was the Carlisle Investment Group’s annual golf tournament—a prestigious event that drew movers and shakers from around the world. Andrews Air Force Base had been sealed off overnight to provide extra security for all the ritzy aircraft in town. The world’s wealthiest individuals partnered with government leaders. Royalty teed off against global financiers. It was a networking event booked on your calendar well in advance—an invite you dared not miss. Carlisle was the world’s largest and most powerful investment company and they knew everybody. And everybody wanted to know them. Especially the three owners of the company.
This was no ordinary golf outing. The Congressional Club had hosted the U.S. Open and the Tiger Woods’ tournament many times—but today’s event was more exclusive. It reeked with power, money and prestige. The golfer who won the closest to the pin contest on the par-three-seventh hole would walk away with a special-edition, luxurious black Bentley with ebony trim. Everything was arranged to make this an unforgettable occasion. Everything—except for the humidity and that pesky reporter near the eighteenth green.
The afternoon sun was beating down on him. The portly President knew at this point he had to give a profound response…something intelligent that could be broadcast. If not, clips of the sweat-drenched leader of the free world in his lime-green khaki shorts, barely able to make it off the green and into his golf cart, would be the lead story. He dabbed his face with a white towel to remove the beads of perspiration. “Yes, I regret the negotiations under the authority of the United Nations broke off. But that does not mean there is not hope. I’m sure the two sides will get back to the bargaining table soon. There is too much at stake to give up. This is a complicated matter that has been centuries in the making. These negotiations will affect the lives of millions of people for many, many years. I am sure the leaders will find a compromise. I know the Special Tribunal in The Hague is still functioning, so perhaps they can find a solution.”
“But Mr. President, that’s not what you said…”
Before the reporter could finish, the President was whisked away and the Secret Service ushered the camera crew off the premises.
