Let Justice Descend. Lisa Black
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Riley asked.
“The election is the day after tomorrow and we’re in a heavily Democratic area. I’m surprised they haven’t burst into tears of frustration.”
Riley sat next to the reporter—and why not, currently down a girlfriend as he happened to be—but she patted the sofa on the other side of her. “Have a seat, Detective Renner. Rick Gardiner tells me you’re taking over the vigilante killer investigation.”
He said yes, he was, then looked away and hoped she would be more interested in political assassination than months-old unsolved murders.
“He told me that was because you had some sort of history with the case. Followed the guy from Chicago and maybe some of the cities I had researched before that—Atlanta and Phoenix.”
“Thank you for your help.”
Flattery didn’t distract her. “Not that you needed it if you already knew all that. He says you’ve been working on it for years. Obsession is the word he used.”
“I’m not the obsessive type,” he said, knowing that of all the lies he had told, that one had to be the most egregious.
Riley pointedly left Jack on his own. He couldn’t have felt much obligation to run interference for a partner who hadn’t even told him he had something going with the hot forensics girl.
Jack watched the conference room door, hoping someone—anyone—would emerge to distract Lori Russo and then tell him something helpful about Diane Cragin.
But Lori pressed: “How’s that investigation going? Anything new you can tell me?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“When I do”—he forced a smile—“you’ll be the first to know.”
Her eyes widened, and she didn’t seem the least reassured. Even Riley looked at him strangely. His reassuring smile must need work, because Lori Russo froze and perceptibly shrank a bit, like Red Riding Hood recognizing wolf teeth under her grandmother’s cap.
An uncomfortably apropos analogy.
“What’s that?” he asked in desperation, pointing to the large dry-erase board. A list of names ran down one side of a casually drawn grid, followed by a column for district numbers. After that, a column labeled only with a dollar sign listed numbers. These had obviously been sponged off and rewritten until neatness no longer counted. Round dollar amounts only, no cents, ranging from $2,681 to $800,000 plus. Next to the name Cragin someone had written 769,422.
Riley ignored him, but Lori said, “Money. It’s how much each member has raised and provided back to the party.”
“They keep that on a board?”
“Fund-raising is a huge part of each candidate’s job,” she told him with slightly mocking sincerity, her equanimity restored. “How can they effect any change in this country without funding to get the right people elected?”
“How indeed?” Jack tried a more relaxed smile, and since it didn’t seem to horrify anyone, he continued: “Ohio has two senators and, what, fifteen representatives?”
“Sixteen,” Riley said, and blushed when Lori rewarded this apt reply with a smile. “But four are Democrats.”
“There’s more than thirteen people up there.”
Lori said, “Those are the people who, in some way, represent the citizens of Cuyahoga County—from the governor to the state auditor to county councilmen to common pleas court judges. Basically anyone who lists a Republican Party affiliation on their campaign literature.”
“The amounts vary quite a bit.”
“Well, what a candidate can reasonably do depends on their district’s socioeconomic makeup, the percentage of party members in their populations, how long the person’s been in office, how many national or local events they have. And some simply don’t need a lot of money. When Cuyahoga used to have a coroner instead of a medical examiner system, our coroner never spent a penny to run for the office, because she never had an opponent. But a campaign for governor can run into the millions, easy.”
“So you’re on the political beat now?” Riley asked her. “I thought you were on crime.”
“Everybody’s on everything in today’s world of journalism. It’s the new cruelty.”
Riley, the guy currently down a girlfriend, took over the conversation, which suited Jack fine. At least it had gotten Lori Russo away from the vigilante murders. The activity in the conference room had cooled physically but not emotionally. A few members of the group had sat down but appeared to be throwing mental daggers at each other over the chipped Formica. Kelly’s expression of desolate worry hadn’t changed. Stanton had turned his back to them all and now watched Jack watching him through the glass.
Riley said, “Why do they post it like that? I mean, why would the common pleas judge care how much the state auditor has raised? They’re in completely different races. And why is Smith up there? His term isn’t going to be up for another four years.”
“Ah, you’ve hit on the heart of it, my friend,” she said, glowing with the thrill of a good tale. “That’s the dirty little secret that the parties never talk about, because this board isn’t for the politicians to keep track of each other. It’s to remind the politicians that the party is keeping track of them. That isn’t the money that they’ve raised for their own campaigns—it’s the portion of the money raised for their campaigns that they have kicked back to the party. And you can bet there’s a similar board over at the DNC. I know, because I’ve seen it.”
Jack stared at her in confusion. Riley just stared at her.
Her hands tumbled over each other as she tried to explain. “Have you noticed that political parties pester you for contributions all the time now, not only for a month or two before an election? I remember bawling a kid out for calling me after election results had barely been tallied, but I’ve since stopped arguing. Parties fund-raise all year, every year. So these office holders or candidates or whatever are expected to raise money all the time, election or not, whether they need it or not.”
“Why?” Riley asked, but she had already continued.
“Established incumbents, especially ones from districts where the vast majority of the citizens are one party or the other, can raise money the most easily and need it the least. If you’re the Republican candidate in a district that’s eighty percent Republican, you’re going to win—once you get past the primary. You don’t need to campaign at all, pretty much. But they spend as much time passing the hat and hosting thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners and calling their friends and supporters as the guy who’s a newbie in a swing district. Ask me why.”
Jack felt sufficiently intrigued to turn away from the conference room. “Why?”
“Because no one turns down money,” Riley guessed.
“Exactly. Because they can and because they want to.” She gestured toward the board. “The more money you give back to the party, the more powerful you become, and the more you’re expected to give, and on and on in a circle. It’s pay to play to the nth degree.”
Riley asked, “What does the party do with it, other than use it for their campaigns?”
“That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, isn’t it, detective?” Lori asked, making Jack’s partner blush again. “They use it for paying the rent on this place, I’m sure, and paying their salaries, and buying air time and campaign literature for that newbie in the swing district who needs a boost. They recruit candidates when necessary. They throw big-ticket fund-raisers to drum up even more money. Beyond that, I would really like to know what they do with it. That’s a story I’ve been working on for a while, but if you thought the vigilante killer could make like a ghost, the party accountant could give him a lesson or two.”
“Is