Georgie
This didn’t feel right without Jameson, but here I was, sitting in a courtroom, feeling like the walls were closing in on me. The lawyers advised him not to come, that as the president-elect, he would cause a scene. They were right, but I didn’t want to admit that. My stomach was a flurry of nerves, and I felt sick to my stomach. I kept an eye on the closest trash can, in case I needed to sprint toward it. I also scouted all the exits too.
Avon sat next to me, holding one of my hands tightly, while Lewis and Jenkins occupied the seats on the opposite side. If Jameson was barred from attending, then I was relieved to have them both with me. Reluctantly, I reached out to take hold of Lewis’s hand. He surprised me by squeezing it as a sign of reassurance.
We sat together in a long row of uncomfortable wooden pews behind the group of federal prosecutors. From time to time, they dared to look back at me, and I was more than happy to glare at them. They didn’t want the messiness of a trial. Jameson and his team of lawyers felt the same way, but I just felt anger. Russell Hunt should have to answer for the chaos he caused. He should have to face not only me, but also the families of the two agents and the families of the children. Looking around, I saw the widows of both agents and made eye contact. We’ve all been in contact because telling them how sorry I am for their loss, or how grateful I am for the sacrifice of their husbands will never really be enough.
“I think I’m going to puke,” I muttered. Avon eyed me from the side, and I saw Jenkins lean forward to look at me. I scrambled out of my seat and dashed from the courtroom to the closest ladies’ room.
I dry heaved until the spasms subsided and I fell back against the cool metal of the bathroom stall. I waited a few minutes, then wiping the sweat from my brow with a wad of toilet paper, I exited the stall, rinsed my mouth, and returned to the courtroom.
Returning to my seat, Avon and Lewis both reached for my hands. I loved them so much right then. I was going to make a statement. It wasn’t required, but I wanted the judge to hear my words before Russell Hunt was sentenced.
“Are you going to be okay?” Avon whispered.
I was still sweating, and I felt clammy. A bottle of water appeared in front of me, and I graciously accepted it from my beloved spin doctors.
“I will be when this is over and I’ve consumed my weight in chocolate cake.” Avon snorted with laughter, and the federal prosecutors looked sternly back at us. I wanted so badly to flip them off, but I didn’t. That wouldn’t have been very first lady-like.
Movement to the left of me caught my attention, and I gasped when I caught my first glimpse of Russell Hunt. He looked different than he did in my nightmares. His brown hair was limp but neatly combed. He had a light beard and his too-tan skin now looked almost normal. He wasn’t wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, like I thought. Instead, he wore a navy blue blazer, white button-down, and khaki pants. He hardly looked like the expensive rich boy who was the illegitimate son of Lamar Huntley.
He must have felt my eyes on him because when he was seated, he leaned back in the chair and searched the crowd of spectators. His eyes landed on me, and he sneered, his top lip curling up slightly. I looked away in revulsion, fearful that I’d throw up again.
Lewis picked up on my distress and wrapped his arm tightly around me. I graciously accepted his comfort. These men used to be foreign to me, like mindless automatons, and now they were like my family, my brothers. I leaned into his embrace until I was calm, until the bile settled back down.
The judge entered, and everyone stood. For a moment, my view of Russell Hunt was obscured, and I felt relief. When we all sat back down, he stared straight ahead. I looked at the faces across the aisle to see if the governor had shown but no one looked familiar. He was probably advised to stay away too.
I tuned out the proceedings because it was all legal mumbo-jumbo that went straight over my head. Immediately, I thought about the way Jameson explained things to me. He had such a way of taking the most complex of matters—foreign policy, trade agreements, the national debt—and breaking them down into the simplest of terms. I wished he was here now to make sense of all this.
In a daze, I hadn’t realized I was being summoned until soft hands beckoned for my attention. Avon was shaking my arm, telling me the judge called my name. Reluctantly, I shook myself free from my thoughts and stood. I approached the table where the federal prosecutors sat and stood just at the end.
“Ms. Washington, it’s my understanding that you wish to make a statement,” the judge asked, eyeing me skeptically.
I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you are aware that your statement is not a requirement of these proceedings?”
“I am, Your Honor.” I resisted the urge to look back at my small team of support. But I felt them. I knew they were there if I needed them.
“Then you may proceed with your statement.”
“Objection!” one of the defense lawyers roared. I flinched at the sound of his voice and placed a hand over my furiously beating heart. “This is prejudicial toward my client!”
“Mr. Stilton, your client admitted his guilt. I do not understand why you’re objecting to Ms. Washington’s statement.”
“Your Honor, we feel that Ms. Washington’s statement might somehow sway the court to inflict a more severe penalty on Mr. Hunt.”
“I see your point, Mr. Stilton. However, I am inclined to let Ms. Washington speak. Just as I am inclined to let any victim or their families speak.” The judge banged his gavel, and I dared to sneak one look back at Avon, who gave me a slight nod of encouragement.
“Ms. Washington, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I approached a podium placed in the front of the courtroom. My hands trembled as I placed my typed speech on the slanted, smooth surface. I scanned the page, gathering my courage and calming my nerves.
“Your Honor, every night when I close my eyes, I see the face of one man in my dreams. Russell Hunt. And I no longer have dreams. I have nightmares. I feel his hands on me. I hear the hiss of his breath in my ear. And I see his eyes, cold and ruthless, as he knocked me unconscious on the day of the ambush. But I have an amazing system of support to help me. I’m not concerned about myself. Eventually, I’ll be able to move on.
“Instead, I think about the twenty kindergarteners who just wanted to hear a story read to them by a pretty lady. How are they coping in the aftermath of this event? Who is the star of their nightmares? I think about the daughters of Agent David Hanna. They will never get to experience the joy of having their father walk them down the aisle on their wedding day. Russell Hunt’s selfish actions denied them that experience. Agent Alex Myers left behind a pregnant wife. Russell Hunt took away that child’s father before he or she was even born. Russell Hunt hurt me, but I wasn’t the only one, and today, I’m using my voice to speak for those who cannot be here today; who cannot speak for themselves. Your Honor, I ask that you impose the harshest penalty possibly. Not for my sake, but for the children who suffered horrifically and for the children who are now fatherless. Thank you.”
I stepped away and turned back to face the rest of the courtroom. I made eye contact with Agent Hanna’s daughters, Emily and Sierra. I gave them a weak smile. Then I found the eyes of Agent Myers’ widow, Celine, and repeated the same action. And because my stomach was about to revolt, I left the courtroom and headed back to the ladies’ room.
It all came up, whatever remained in my stomach, which was mostly water. Tears streamed down my face and sweat poured down my body as wave after wave of nausea wracked my body. I used one hand to steady myself against the metal wall of the bathroom stall.
“Georgie?” Avon’s voice echoed in the empty room, and I croaked out a reply. The door flew open. Apparently, I was in too much of a hurry to lock it. “Oh, you poor thing.”
Avon knelt next to me and rubbed my back lightly. “Do you want me to get Tweedledee and Tweedledum so we can leave? The judge won’t make his decision today anyway.”
I nodded and flushed the toilet. My throat burned, and my eyes were watery. I splashed cold water on my face and patted it dry before leaving. Lewis and Jenkins were waiting in the hall like two protective brothers, and that warmed my heart.
No words needed to be exchanged. Avon walked beside me, holding the crook of my arm, while Lewis resumed his place on the opposite side and Jenkins followed closely behind. They all closed ranks when we stepped outside the courthouse and the press began to swarm. I dipped my head; Avon and Lewis huddled into me, leading me through the masses. Jenkins placed a firm hand on my back and propelled us all forward.
I collapsed into the back of the SUV waiting to take us back to the airport. I wasn’t staying in Memphis. I wanted to be far, far away from it, and lucky for me, I was engaged to a man with enough money to charter a private plane. Thank God for small miracles.
Once I was free of the stress and anxiety of seeing Russell Hunt and making my statement, my nerves and my stomach settled. But I felt like absolute shit. I was achy and weak. The only thing I wanted was a warm bed and soft pillow. And Jameson.
The ride to the airport wasn’t long, and I felt relieved to board the plush, private plane. The flight would only last a few hours; long enough for me to catch a nap before I was back with Jameson.
“You don’t look good,” Lewis told me, his eyes filled with concern.
“I’ll be fine as soon as we land. I’m just tired.”
He nodded and accepted my excuse. I leaned back against the leather seat and closed my eyes, hoping that some rest would release some of the tension.
Movement roused me from a deep sleep. Strong hands held me close against a warm, firm chest. And a familiar smell.
“Jameson,” I murmured hoarsely.
“You’re in bad shape, little darling.” His voice was low and laced with distress.
“I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep some more. It’s been a long day.”
“I think you’re dehydrated. We need to get to the hospital.”
“No, Jameson. I don’t want to leave you anymore.”
“Oh, don’t worry, little darling. I won’t be going anywhere.”
“Isn’t there some fancy campaign doctor who can make house calls?” My voice sounded like a whine. The last thing that I wanted was a hospital with its bright fluorescent lights and constant beeping.
“If that’s what you want, fine. We’ll find someone.”
I was being jostled, which didn’t help my headache, but I wasn’t about to complain since Jameson was the one carrying me. I drifted in and out while I was moved from the cabin of the plane to the back seat of a limousine. I giggled when I heard the Secret Service agents refer to us as “Maple” and “Mustang.” I loved those names.
“I should have been there with you,” Jameson muttered as he settled against the back of the seat, holding me tightly against his chest. “I should have said ‘fuck you’ to the lawyers and gone anyway. I’m the fucking president-elect.”
He placed a light kiss on top of my head, and I slipped a hand up his chest to his neck. “It’s okay, Jameson. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry? Look at you, Georgie. You’re pale and weak. Jenkins said you were throwing up the entire time. Something could have happened to you.”
I felt the gentle movement of the car, and we swayed together as it made its journey back home.
“We have a doctor coming to the house to treat Ms. Washington,” the agent sitting in the front informed us.
“Thank you.”
“I wished you were there, too,” I confessed. “I hated seeing him. I hope I never have to see him again.”
“You won’t, Georgie. Never again. You did well.”
For the remainder of the car ride, I stayed curled up in my favorite spot: Jameson’s arms. He stroked my hair while whispering softly, telling me about the campaign events. I enjoyed hearing about his day and the people he met because it was what he loved to do. He was in planning mode, vetting the very best to serve in his administration. This was his dream, and he wouldn’t accept anything or anyone but the best.
When we arrived home, I insisted that I could walk inside on my own, but Jameson wasn’t listening. Or rather he heard me perfectly fine but ignored me, continuing to carry me through the foyer up to our bedroom.
He finally set me down on the bed, and I sighed contentedly as my head made contact with the pillow. Jameson informed me that the doctor would arrive any moment; I simply nodded, oblivious to what was happening. He slipped off my shoes and then unbuttoned my pants before gently tugging them down my legs. His fingers worked the buttons of my blouse until he had it opened, and he lifted me gently to slip it off.
“I’m cold,” I complained, my teeth chattering.
Jameson placed a hand over my forehead and grunted. “I think you have a fever. I’ll get you another blanket.”
He was gone only moments, but it felt like an eternity. Especially when you’re freezing. A heavy weight covered my body, and a hand brushed hair from my face. Jameson leaned over me and kissed my cheek softly. “I’ll let you rest while we wait for the doctor.”
I latched onto his hand and stopped him. “Don’t leave me alone. Please.”
“Okay.”
The quiet would break me, and I feared if he left me alone with my own thoughts, I would crumble. As much as I tried to focus on everyone else—the children, the teachers, and the two agents—I couldn’t escape my own fear. Every ounce of courage that I summoned to appear in court and make my statement was gone, leaving me a hollow shell. If Jameson left, then the crippling fear would creep back inside, and I refused to be the woman paralyzed by her anxiety again.
A knock on the bedroom door indicated the doctor’s arrival. Jameson ushered him in, and he introduced himself as Dr. Campbell. I complied as he examined me. He indicated that I was, in fact, dehydrated and hooked me up to an IV of fluids.
“Just let her rest, and she’ll be fine,” the doctor informed Jameson. Jameson sighed with relief, and I was already beginning to drift away when I heard him thank the doctor and the door click shut.
The bed shifted beneath me as Jameson settled in next to me. He took my hand gently in his and stroked the back of it with the pad of his thumb.
“You’re everything to me, Georgie. Without you, I’m nothing.”