David John stops talking, no chance for Jessup to ask another question, even if he could figure out exactly what it is he needs to ask his stepfather, because Brandon Rogers’s BMW turns into the driveway. Brandon drives slow, the engine throaty and powerful, a call to attention. The car is a deep black, cleaner than any car has a right to be on a wet November morning, and the windows are dark enough that if Jessup didn’t know who was driving, he’d be able to imagine the devil behind the wheel. The car goes off the gravel and turns onto the slick grass, the all-wheel drive handling things fine, the rear lights white as Brandon puts it into reverse and backs into a spot next to David John’s van. The action of Brandon backing the car in pisses Jessup off. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but something about it seems to sum up everything he dislikes about Brandon, the privilege, the clothes, the smugness of always knowing he’s right. There’s a part of him that wonders if he can get away with keying Brandon’s expensive car.
He can hear music drifting from inside. It takes him a second to understand that Brandon is blasting opera. Wagner or something else that makes Brandon feel like a good Aryan, but whoever it is, it’s pretentious and ridiculous and it’s opera and Jessup just wants to smash Brandon’s nose. He tries to calm himself down. Brandon is helping Jessup, isn’t he? He shoves his hands into his pockets so that his balled fists aren’t obvious.
But Brandon is oblivious to what’s in Jessup’s head, because he gets out of his car looking pleased with himself.
“I call, and they come running. Got those media fuckers in my pocket. I can take a shit on them one day and make them dance the next. They know I’m ratings gold. All I’ve got to do is promise a show and they’re puppets on a string. We’ve already got Fox News and MSNBC, and I just got a text from my guy at CNN. They’ll have a truck here in the next ten minutes. Got a couple of print people, too. Washington Post is sending somebody, and I think we might have the Times. A reporter from TakeBack, too, of course.” He shakes David John’s hand and then Jessup’s. “We’re going to have a good turnout.”
The passenger door opens, and another young man, midtwenties and wearing a suit, gets out. He’s small, five six, and skinny, holding an expensive-looking video camera with an attached microphone. He puts the camera up to his eye, a solid red light making clear that he’s recording. Brandon waves his hand, clearly annoyed. “For Christ’s sake, Carter, not yet.”
Carter lowers the camera, the red light winking off.
All four of them turn at the sound of another car coming onto the gravel driveway. It’s Earl’s truck. Brandon nods. “Good, good,” he says. He looks at Jessup, stops, tilts his head, the smile slipping a bit. “Going to have to fix your tie, Jessup.”
David John laughs. Jessup can’t stop himself from flinching, but it’s a friendly laugh. His stepfather claps his hand on Jessup’s back. “That’s what I said.”
Brandon nods. “Yeah, we want him looking neat. Put together. I want to see the coat, but I think this is going to be perfect. Neat, but not too neat. You can’t look like you’ve got money. You’ve got to look like a good American going to church.”
Jessup thinks, isn’t that what I am, a good American going to church? But it’s clear that Brandon doesn’t care what Jessup thinks. He’s already moved on to where Earl is parking, greeting David John’s brother, telling them to head on inside while he goes and talks to the two news crews who are here, makes sure they have everything they need, helps them get set up so they’re rolling when the cops show up to serve the warrant.