“Sounds good, Mom.” I looked down at the front page of the newspaper and saw a picture of me staring back. It was an old head shot, taken for the local bar association’s legal directory. The headline across the top said, CONGRESSMAN’S SON WRONGLY ARRESTED AFTER SAVING FRIEND’S LIFE.
I scanned the article, which prominently featured the statement that my father had prepared in the jail’s reception area. Near the end of the article were several quotes from unnamed sources. The first was a quote from somebody within the police department claiming that the arrest was a “black eye” for the police and that there was going to be “all political hell to pay for those responsible.”
The last anonymous quote stated that I was a “community leader” who took on legal causes for “little or no money because of a commitment to service instilled at an early age.”
Then I felt my body tense as I read the final paragraph of the article:
Justin Glass is rumored to be running for political office in the near future, and this incident will likely spur him into action. He has long been committed to addressing issues of police misconduct and eliminating racial disparities, which he may pursue as a state legislator.
I shook my head. “Lincoln.”
“I know,” my mother said as she walked out the door. “Your father is none too pleased with your brother.”
I smiled when Sammy poked her head through the doorway. “You should be in school.” I said it with a hint of humor, but meant what I said.
“Daddy.” Sammy waved the comment away, then changed the subject. “You’re famous, newspaper and television. Bunch of reporters are out there in the street, even that woman from KMOV. Can I meet her?”
“Not today.”
I held out my hand, and Sammy came over to the bed. She put her little hand in mine and sat on the edge. Her hand wasn’t as little as it once was, and her weight was enough to cause the bed to sink on that side. My body rebelled against the movement. I tried to keep a straight face and hide the pain, but Sammy noticed.
“Are you gonna be OK?”
“Just a little sore.” I patted her back. “It’ll all heal soon. I’ll be up and around, and then I can parent you proper.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She leaned over and kissed me on my cheek. “You scared me.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ll always be here. Not going to leave you.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise.” I pointed my little pinky up in the air. Sammy wrapped hers around mine and we finished the ritual. I attempted to project the confidence and hope that I knew she needed, but I also knew that my eyes likely betrayed me just as my father’s sad eyes had betrayed him the night before. Pinky promise or not, we lived in a harsh world. If it happened to me once, it could happen again, and I knew it could happen to her, too, and maybe she wouldn’t be as lucky.
I noticed some movement in the doorway. “Looks like your grandpa wants to talk to me now.” I nodded toward him, and Sammy turned to see Congressman Glass.
I patted her knee, then gestured to the door. “Why don’t you go see if Grandma or somebody else can round me up some toast and orange juice? Then we can hang out for the rest of the day, maybe watch a movie.”
Sammy smiled. She always liked the idea of helping her dad. “You got it.” She jumped off the bed, which caused another shot of pain up my side, then ducked past my father as he came into the room and shut the door.
“Sorry to interrupt.” He walked over to the window and picked up the chair that my mother had been sitting in. “Got a flight to catch back to DC in about an hour, so I haven’t got long.” He moved the chair closer to the bed and sat.
I picked up the newspaper that had been folded next to me. “Nice article.” I was being sarcastic.
My father shook his head. “Reporters.”
“Mom says you especially liked the dramatic conclusion.”
“Lincoln.” His face curled up in disgust when he said my brother’s name. “The boy couldn’t resist. I told him to keep his mouth shut. He promised that he would, then off he went, blabbing.” He leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes, signaling the end of the discussion. He’d had a moment to vent, and now it was done.
My father was controlled like that. He never allowed himself to get too wound up.
I waited as he prepared himself to move on to other topics. Eventually he said, “So about that retirement.” His tone was more defeated than triumphant. “Can you hear me out?”
I could tell that there was something weighing on him, but knew better than to move forward too fast. “Maybe.” I smiled. “I’m on a lot of painkillers at the moment. I could fall asleep at any moment or howl at the moon.”
“Bet you’re right.” My father’s lips curled into a tight smile; then he took a deep breath and sat up straight. His eyes locked on me. “Been thinking.” He was serious. “You know I’ve been kicking around the idea of retirement for a long time. Somewhere along the line I lost the energy to do it, but I stayed on. Kept running every two years. Kept raising money. Kept going through the motions. Know why?”
“No.”
“Well I’ve been waiting for you.” My father lowered his head, as if he were making a horrible confession. “Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites, Justin, and I love both you and your brother, Lincoln, very much. But this isn’t about parent and son. It’s about a legacy. It’s about merit, and it’s about all those people out there who depend on us to help them out, to be their voice.”
My father looked away from me and shook his head. “Sounds corny as shit.” Then he came back to me. “Sounds so naive, out of step.” He took his time. “But politics ain’t a game to me. Never been a game, but too many people think it is.” He gestured to the outside. “Buster, Lincoln, everybody. That’s why our community is in such trouble. That’s why Congress is so dysfunctional. It isn’t politics that’s the problem. It’s the people who get into politics.”
“Guess I’m not following you.”
My father looked down at his feet. Then he decided to come out and say it directly. “I came back to Saint Louis last night to tell Buster and Lincoln that I want you to run for Congress. I want you to be my replacement. Always have. You’ll have my full and public support.”
I froze as I considered the ramifications. “But, Lincoln . . .” I thought about the years he’d spent toiling in the political trenches, attending meetings, collecting favors, courting support. “He’s earned it.”
“You think I don’t know that?” My father stood up. “Your mother said the same thing. Of course I know that. Lincoln’s worked hard, but to what end? Building the brand.” He said the last part harshly. “Lincoln and Buster both”—he shook his head—“they’ve lost sight of the mission.”