The Committee

by Terry E. Hill

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

One year after the dramatic murders that took place at New Testament Cathedral, Gideon Truman’s career as an investigative reporter is at its peak, and his popular syndicated television show attracts A-list celebrities, as well as national and international politicians. When Gideon set his sights on political power couple Camille and Sheridan Hardaway, life becomes complicated for him once again.

Camille Hardaway is the first African-American female mayor of Los Angeles, and rumors are swirling that she could be on her way to the governorship—and perhaps even the White House. To most observers, the Hardaways are the ultimate couple on the rise, but whenever Gideon sees the Hardaways on the front page of a magazine or at an event, he gets an uneasy feeling about Camille. Something just isn’t right.

What Gideon doesn’t know is that Camille is backed by The Committee, a secret group of powerful, wealthy people who have selected every United States President since James Monroe. They also declare wars, direct foreign policy, and control the nation and much of the world economy. The current generation of Committee members has decided that Camille will be the first female president, and they begin to clear her path. Their methods include lies, intimidation, bribery, and murder.

When Camille’s husband dies, it is ruled an accident, but Gideon’s reporter instincts kick in. He is convinced that this is another case of an ambitious woman eliminating the man standing in her way. When The Committee learns of Gideon’s investigation into the woman they now own, they reach the only logical conclusion: Gideon Truman must die.

Release date: December 29, 2015

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

It was well after midnight. Blue flames in gas lanterns throughout the French Quarter danced like children awake past their bedtime. Puffs of white fog crept down the lanes toward the icy embrace of Lake Pontchartrain. The steady, rhythmic clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestone road and the scrape of wooden carriage wheels in their wake was all that could be heard.

The carriage came to a rolling halt in front of 543 Rue des Bourbon when the coachman pulled gently on the reins and uttered the command, “Whoa there, whoa!” further shattering the quiet of the night. The two neighing horses trotted anxiously in place until it became apparent they had reached their destination.

The coach sat still for moments while the fog formed a cloudy bed around the wagon wheels. When the door finally swung open, sugar baron Jean-Luc Fantoché extended his patent leather boot and emerged into the night. Dressed in formal evening attire from a night of dinner, theater, and libations at Victorian Lounge in the Columns Hotel, Fantoché was now more than ready for his final stop.

The home was the largest on the street. A short brick path covered with a trellis of dripping lavender wisteria led to the white antebellum mansion. The door opened slowly and Juliette Dacian Adelaide Dupree appeared in the threshold as Fantoché approached.

“You are late,” she chided.

“Please forgive me, mon bel amour,” he said removing his top hat and lifting her hand to his lips. “The play was longer than I anticipated. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

The couple entered the home filled with Rococo and Gothic Revival furnishings, finely woven Persian rugs, and a patchwork of oil paintings that gave it the distinct air of American aristocracy. Fantoché embraced Juliette passionately and kissed her lips. She quickly pried herself away from the clinging man and entered the parlor with him following close behind. Oil-burning lamps cast quivering shadows throughout the room, and a lone black candle flickered on an oak mantel above a fireplace. A silver chalice cradled the candle with an inscription at the base, “Dans cette flamme brûle le destin de l’homme.” In this flame burns the destiny of man.

They were greeted by a loud, “Squawk!” from a blue and gold Macaw pacing anxiously from side to side on its perch in a cage at the far corner of the room.

“Quiet, Amadeus. It is only our master,” Juliette said sarcastically.

“I’ve missed you so, ma chérie,” he said placing gentle kisses on the nape of her neck. “I could think of nothing more than your touch the entire day. Your intoxicating scent of lilac. The feel of your soft skin against my cheek.”

Juliette was unimpressed by his poetry. “Do you speak to your wife so affectionately,” she asked mockingly, “or are your empty words reserved for the mistress you come to at ungodly hours of the night?”

“You are more than my mistress,” he said continuing his journey of kisses. “I love you and only you. She means nothing to me. Your kiss gives me reason to live. Votre beauté nourrit mon âme.”

Juliette was the illegitimate daughter of a French cotton baron and his thirteen-year-old slave. The mingling of French and African blood produced a beauty that was legendary in New Orleans. Her strawberry blond hair retained just enough nap to form naturally luxurious curls that cascaded like waterfalls over her shoulders and full breasts. Jade-green eyes devoured men’s souls, and her skin shimmered like honey fresh from the hive. She was the exotic Creole jewel countless gentlemen of means and power longed to possess.

“Yes, but you love her money,” she said with arms limp at her sides. “I am nothing more to you than your concubine,” she goaded. “The whore you come to in the middle of the night and have your filthy way with.”

“Please do not say such horrible things, mon amour,” he replied painfully. “You are my world.”

“Nonsense,” she snapped, abruptly pushing him away. “I could be with any man I choose. Men wealthier and more handsome than you . . . and this is how you treat me. Like a common whore.”

“I am your servant, Juliette,” he said with pleading eyes. “What more will you have me do to prove my love. Shall I buy you more jewels? More gowns from Paris? A mansion more lavish than this? Tell me and I shall do it with joy and great pleasure.”

Despite her young age of twenty-five, Juliette was a master of manipulation. She knew the shortest distance to a man’s soul and once there, took complete control. For the last eight months, she accepted Fantoché’s extravagant symbols of affection and feigned ecstasy when his hulking body pounded into her delicate flesh. She laughed at his feeble attempts at humor and praised his overly simplistic political ramblings. Not because she loved him, or even liked him, but because she had been charged with the seemingly impossible task of making Jean-Luc Fantoché the governor of Louisiana in the coming election of 1852.

Hattie Williams never dreamed she would still be alive today. Her life’s motto had always been, “When the Lord decides to take me home, I’ll be ready.” However, He wasn’t ready for her just yet.

The last year took a heavy toll on her once-sturdy body. Hattie saw her beloved pastor, Hezekiah Cleaveland, gunned down in the pulpit of her church. She wept at his graveside as they lowered the mahogany coffin into the ground. She also assisted in the home going of his wife, Samantha. The taking of a life would have destroyed a lesser woman, but her soul rested contently in a cradle of peace because she knew it was necessary in order to save other lives.

Hattie’s once jet-black hair now gave way to a current of grey. Arthur, the name she affectionately gave the constant gnawing pain in her knee, slowed her once-imposing gait to an unsteady hobble. She stood in the center of her garden, surrounded by a six-foot pink brick fence, with the afternoon sun resting on her shoulders. A wooden cane in one hand and a wicker basket half filled with freshly picked tomatoes in the other. These days she couldn’t walk the full distance from the garden to her back door without stopping to steady herself at least once.

This was her second pause on the walk from the back row of the garden to the house. She used moments like this to marvel at the bounty around her. Bursts of yellows, greens, reds, and whites surrounded her like spurts of colorful water from an underground spring. Squash of every variety, bell peppers, cauliflower, a rainbow of heirloom tomatoes, onions, and okra were the precious gifts the soil gave her this year.

Hattie stood with her rubber-soled boots planted firmly in the damp soil. Suddenly, she felt a gentle rumble beneath her feet. She thought it might have been the beginnings of a California earthquake, but quickly realized something more otherworldly was in the works.

The light-headed feeling she always had when God was about to tell her something slowly enveloped her body. She looked toward the house and saw the three-legged stool used when weeding standing at the foot of the steps. There was no way she’d be able to get to it in time. Lord, couldn’t you have waited till I got to my stool? she thought as the ground continued the gentle quake. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to stay on my feet.

Hattie braced her hip against the cane and accepted she may have to stand in the center of the garden for a long time. She was ready, and the ground knew it. The intensity of the tremors steadily increased. Time slowed, and the clock stopped ticking. She was now in God’s hands and on His schedule. “Tell me, Lord,” she said out loud. Hattie saw her words form a ripple in the thick fog enveloping the entire yard. “I’m here, Lord. Tell me what you want me to . . .”

The ground quaked violently before the last word escaped her lips. She took a measured step backward to prevent herself from falling into the crevice forming only a few feet away. The front two rows of precious collard greens slid into the pit as the gaping hole grew wider. Next went an entire row of snap beans tied to wooden trellises with white string.

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” Hattie firmly recited, undaunted by the devastation to her garden and the danger to herself. “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Hattie was now in full warrior mode. No hint of Arthur, and no sign of fear. She forgot the cane and basket in her hand. To her, they felt like the cold steel of a shield and sword. She was ready for whatever might leap from the pit.

The rumbling stopped, and the ground slowly steadied as suddenly as it started. Hattie stood only feet away from the cavernous hole. She looked down and only saw blackness. The snap beans and collard greens were gone. All that was left was the bottomless void. She stood poised at the edge knowing this was not the end. Something was stirring down there. She sensed it in her bones. Something evil and powerful. Something she would be required to do battle with.

Hattie stood beyond the reach of time. There was no before or after. There was only the now, and her senses were operating at their peak. She was prepared to see, hear, smell, and even touch whatever emerged from the black hole.

Then she saw them. A pair of glowing brown eyes appeared in the darkness as if they were switched on like a lightbulb. They looked directly at her. She didn’t feel threatened. They looked at her with a silent plea. Help me.

The eyes slowly rose to the surface. Hattie squinted to see who they belonged to. There was something familiar. A gentleness she’d felt before. A kindness she had encountered in the not-so-distant past.

“Who are you?” Hattie said to the eyes as they crept closer. “What do you want from me?”

There was no response. Hattie pressed on. “In the name of Jesus, I command you to reveal yourself.” Hattie gripped the cane and basket tighter. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Then she heard it. “Help me,” came the weak reply to her command. “Please, help me.” The words echoed in the hollow of the crater.

Hattie recognized the voice. She heard it again. “Please help me before they . . .” The voice trailed off, but the eyes continued rising.

“Before they what?” Hattie asked firmly.

A hand slowly sliced through the darkness and reached toward Hattie. She didn’t move as the disembodied eyes and hand continued rising. Hattie was ready to reach down to the hand, but first she insisted on confirming to whom it belonged.

“I will help you because God sent you to me for a reason, but first you have to tell me who you are. Say your name!”

The eyes and hand were almost level to the ground when Hattie finally saw the face. It was Gideon Truman. “Gideon, is that you?” Hattie called out.

“Help me, Hattie.” The plea became urgent as if he were being chased. “Help me, please,” came again as she scrambled to the edge of the hole, “before they . . .”

Hattie dropped the basket and reached forward. “Give me your hand, baby,” she said, bending to the edge of the abyss. “I’ve got you, Gideon. Just give me your hand.”

Gideon’s fingertips were only inches from Hattie’s open palm. She stretched further and struggled to keep her balance with the cane. Then, suddenly, a massive howl erupted from the depths of the pit. The earth began to shake again. Hattie’s feet slipped on the edge as the dirt gave way beneath her.

“Help me. Please help me. It’s here. Don’t let it take me,” came Gideon’s frantic plea.

“You’re almost out, baby,” Hattie said as she neared the limit of her reach. “Take my hand. You can do it.”

The terrifying wails from the bottom of the pit continued as the two struggled to make contact.

“I can’t reach you!” Gideon cried out.

“Yes, you can. Just a little further.”

Hattie overestimated the strength of her knee and lost her balance. She tittered on the edge with no thought for her own safety. “Just another inch. You can make it.”

Their hands finally met. Hattie grabbed Gideon with a grip strong enough to transform a lump of coal into a diamond. She planted her heels into the ground and struggled to lift Gideon from the darkness. She felt something tug his body from the opposite direction. The horrifying howl continued as she jerked harder, but her strength was matched measure-for-measure by the powerful force pulling in the opposite direction. It was an evil she had never before encountered. Pure and ancient. An evil so dark she questioned her ability to fight it off. Hattie knew she was in the throes of battle for Gideon’s life with the ungodly force.

“I can’t hold on. It’s too powerful,” Gideon cried out. “Let go, Hattie, or it will pull you in with me!”

“Don’t let go, Gideon. I won’t let it take—”

Before Hattie could complete the sentence, her feet slid in the crumbling earth and Gideon’s hand slipped from her grasp. She fell and landed on her back between the rows of bell peppers and squash, sending her cane sailing behind her. She saw Gideon descend into the darkness and scrambled back to the hole.

“Gideon!” she cried out. “Don’t go. I’m here. Don’t go.”

But it was too late. The crater began to close as she crawled to the edge, and Gideon’s eyes quickly vanished. The only thing remaining was blackness and the faint echo of the howl.

Hattie was now on her hands and knees at the spot where the hole had been. She cried while digging into the dirt, slowly accepting it was too late. Hattie sobbed into the earth, breathless with perspiration dripping from her brow.

“Not again, Lord,” she said through tears. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Hattie’s watch began to tick once again. The second hand resumed its normal course. The fog lifted and neatly hoed rows of greens, beans, and peppers surrounded her like soldiers standing guard over a wounded warrior.

The council chamber at Los Angeles City Hall was filled to capacity. Hundreds more squeezed into the balcony, and the overflow crowd in the halls pressed toward the massive double doors, each taking turns trying to convince the security guard they were important enough to enter the auditorium.

The drone of a thousand conversations drifted to the cathedral ceiling and bounced off the marble walls. A gaggle of photographers and reporters sat on the floor in front of the podium beneath the eye line of the audience. Two 300-inch monitors hung to the left and right of center stage, each beaming the live image of the empty dais.

It was almost 6:00 p.m. The room grew anxious in anticipation of the mayor’s entrance. The side door opened and Mayor Camille Ernestine Hardaway entered the room just as the walls threatened to vibrate from the chatter.

The babble of a thousand words swirling in the air suddenly crashed to the floor the moment she set foot in the room. Within seconds, the only sound heard were Camille’s red Prada soles walking across the 100-year-old maple wood floor toward center stage. As usual, Camille took full control simply by entering the room. Was it because she was stunning? Or was it the way her perfectly formed five-feet-nine-inch body effortlessly sliced through the air like a shard of light on a starless night. Maybe it was the chilling black Yves St. Laurent blazer and skirt, which appeared to have been sewn directly onto her body. A white ruffled collar and cuffs provided the perfect accent for the masterfully crafted suit.

Whatever the cause, Camille was in control long before she made eye contact with anyone in the room. She planted her feet confidently behind the lectern and flashed the smile that ruled the city. The audience stood reverently and applauded as cameras from the front of the room flashed furiously to capture every glint of her white smile, shimmering hair, and glistening eyes.

Camille humbly acknowledged the recognition with a nod and wave as she scanned the room with keen eyes storing every detail for future use. A mane of silky black hair framed a face far too beautiful for the rough-and-tumble world of big-city politics. Her flawless skin glowed like amber in the halo of camera flashes.

Camille allowed the ovation to run its course before she spoke. The audience took their cue and returned silently to their seats as she readied her lips to speak.

“Good evening, everyone, and thank you for joining me in my sixth State of the City address,” were the first words she spoke. “I am honored to serve as the forty-third mayor of Los Angeles; a world-renowned international city that celebrates diversity and leads the way in job creation, innovation, education, health care, and the environment for our future generations.”

Her sensuous tone coated the room like a layer of warm honey. Seductive undercurrents lulled even her most ardent enemies into a suspended state of unwilling submission.

Camille was born less than two miles from where she now stood. Adopted at birth by two doting parents who, from the moment they laid eyes on her, believed she was destined for greatness. No one was surprised when her IQ tested at 158 in high school. Her parents mortgaged their home to put her through college. She received an undergraduate degree in political science from UCLA in three years and a Juris Doctor from Harvard before turning twenty-four. She effortlessly passed the California Bar exam on her first attempt. There was no other place in the world she could be at this moment, other than standing center stage at city hall.

“Greetings to the president of the city council, Salvador Alvarez, and to all the members of the city council. Greetings to the many city commissioners, elected officials, department heads, and to all our honored guests here tonight.”

Camille masterfully scanned the room as she spoke without notes or teleprompter. She made direct eye contact with someone in the room with every sentence. All present would have their very own two-second private audience with the mayor before the end of her State of the City address.

“At the dawn of this new year, and the third year of my second term, the state of our great city is still vital and strong. As strong financially and economically as we have ever been in our history.

“Nevertheless, we must also recognize there are still fractures in the strong foundation we have built, tears in the social fabric that, if we do not attend to with all our energies, will erode that foundation and reverse our dramatic progress.”

Camille methodically increased the rate she spoke. The words soon took on the cadence of a learned Baptist preacher crossed with a seasoned politician on a winning campaign.

“Jobs and confidence are back, but our economic recovery has still left thousands of people behind.

“Our neighborhoods are revitalized and new construction is all around us, but some still look to the future, anxiously, and wonder whether there’s room for them in a changing Los Angeles.”

Sheridan Hardaway sat quietly in a front row, aisle seat, with fingers intertwined at his chin and legs crossed at the knee. The tip of his Gucci loafer pointed directly up at his wife and the black Armani suit wrapping his six foot four frame looked as dashing sitting as it did when he stood.

For many in the room it was difficult to decide who to look at . . . the beautiful charismatic mayor at center stage or her painfully handsome husband, with hair like luscious black whipped cream only yards away.

“Too many of our residents, people who work hard and make a decent wage, men and women squarely in the middle class, grow frustrated, as the city becomes ever more expensive and their dream of starting a family or owning a home falls further out of reach.

“This rising cost of living, the financial squeeze on our city’s working- and middle-class families—these are the fundamental challenges of our time, not just for our city, but for great cities around the world.”

Tony Christopo. . .