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WASHINGTON, D.C.—TRUMP International Hotel
Room service—a round, middle-aged, black woman with a sharp weave job—rolled a cart into the suite. A small vase with a rose sticking out was on the top and a Washington Post was on the corner; the paper screaming to be looked at just as much as a commercial airplane landing on Pennsylvania Avenue. The case was prominently displayed on the front cover, above the fold, including a high-resolution color shot of David Thurman. The caption read: “Murderer Sought in Supreme Court Judge’s Death.”
The hotel attendant handed over the bill to be signed. Naim signed it and handed it back along with twenty-dollars. Then, the attendant triple-tapped the headline with one pink painted, manicured nail, as if Naim would miss it.
“I’ll never say I child of God, no matter how wrong most of their decision-making has been, he should have his dick cut off,” the woman said straight up. “This is tragic, and I hope the wife survives. But the judge was a black man and always went out of his way to vote like he wasn’t from the same poverty-stricken stock as most of us. I bet some people are celebrating his death. He was still a black man. Sad, but true.”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Naim said. He asked, “What makes you assume it’s appropriate to speak to hotel guests about such a sensitive matter? Normally, religion and politics are off limits, no?”
“Mr. Butler, FYI, what separates this hotel from many others in D.C. is that we know guests if they should be known. It helps us cater to and up-sell to them. You specialize in mitigation, so surely you know of Judge Weston’s horrible record as it relates to criminal justice reform with him being a black conservative, and all.” And, then she was on her chipper way.
“Now that’s how to start a day,” Brandy said, smiling and pulling the cart deeper into the suite.
“Very much so,” replied Naim, reading the article.
“Adore you going to read that crapola on an empty tank. You know you need a full stomach to handle all the lies therein.”
“I am. I always read these kind of articles. I often wonder what the hell does a killer think when they read what the media has to say about them.”
“I bet it’s all wrong. As a certain presidential nominee keeps saying: the dishonest media spreads lies.”
“And he’s right. This piece is full of opinions and all wrong in relevant places.” Sitting the paper aside, he said, “If not for you, I’d truly wonder if the media was as smart as they claimed to be with their Harvard degrees. The media constantly excoriates the Republican nominee, and despite their rhetoric, she beat sixteen other conservatives to be the nominee. They spew too many opinions.”
“Are you getting fresh with me so early in the day?” she asked, pouring extra champagne into his mimosa. “Here,” she said, handing him a champagne flute. “You’re not yourself before a morning libation.”
He took the flute, swallowed the contents in three gulps, and then pulled her into his arms. “So, what do I do next? My client is on the front page of your rival. Probably the lead story on CNBC and Fox News.”
“Why’re you asking me? Last I checked, you’re the attorney.”
“I am, but you’re smart.”
“A split second ago, the media was opinionated and overrated.” She smiled. Then frowned. “I’m the media.”
“Everyone but you I meant.” He smiled, blinking uncontrollably.
“You’re too much.”
He kissed her cheek. Then, reached onto a plate, grabbed a slice of bacon, and put an end into both of their mouths. They nibbled on the bacon until their lips met. “Let’s eat,” he said, “I got work to do.”