Joe T. Evangeline checked his appearance in the broad, copper-mirrored glass of a door whose wooden façade held a sign that read the bienville suite. The Guv always found himself mildly annoyed with the insistence of these big cookie-cutter chain hotels to name their overdecorated conference rooms after the founding French gentry of Louisiana.
The founding French gentry, in the Guv's opinion, had done little for his people, the Cajuns, but ridicule them until a time, fairly recently, when Cajun culture, food, and music had become so fashionable in so many ramparts that the Louisiana French gentry, or what was left of it, had flip-flopped and embraced it as their own. Hell, you could go to Commander's Palace in New Orleans, which once styled itself as a classic (in old-school terminology) French Creole restaurant, and where the staff looked dismissively at you if you even asked if there were a Cajun dish on the menu, and these days find the menu overrun with Cajun fare. (The Guv forgave this bit of culinary hypocrisy because he still believed Commander's to be a world-class restaurant.)
The Guv flicked this bit of annoying trivia from his mind. He straightened his tie, smoothed back his salt-and-pepper hair, and plucked a stray strand from his impeccably pressed and expensive gray pinstripe suit jacket. Beyond this very same door, he knew Julie Galjour, vexatious general counsel of the Department of Environmental Conservation, was lying in wait for him, no doubt surrounded by stacks of reports. With her would be various state biologists and hydrologists and their ilk, all in their white shirts and rumpled khakis, all gathered to badger and shame him into submission on the shipping-channel business.
Just how good was Julie Galjour?
Well, he was about to find out. The Guv put his hand on the door, took a deep breath, got ready to push through, then thought better of it. He motioned to a hulking figure down at the end of the hallway.
'ti-Ray Lajaune was his chief bodyguard, an affable Cajun giant from Bayou PomPom, Buddy Dupere's hometown. Joe T. had appointed him on the recommendation of Buddy, who was Ray's godfather (parain, in the Cajun). Ray wouldn't hurt a flea and had not a single minute of martial arts or even basic police training. He'd enrolled in LSU right out of high school, where he'd been a desultory student and too lazy to play sports. Still, he'd been offered full scholarships for football and basketball at LSU based upon tryouts that a friend, on a lark, had coaxed him into. But 'ti-Ray (a Cajunism for Petite, or Little, Ray) had laughed the whole thing off—sports required work. Still, at 327 pounds and close to seven foot, he looked incredibly formidable, and therefore had proved quite effective for Joe T.'s purposes.
Ray approached now with the usual grin on his face. “What's up, Guv?” he said.
Joe T. smiled back and said, “Listen, Ray, I'm goin’ into a damned red aint's nest in there, so if I'm not out in an hour, I want you to come in with some bug spray and liberate my ass, okay?”
Ray laughed his easy laugh. “Hell, you want me to go in there wit’ you? I could probably squash a few aints for you.”
“Naw,” said the Guv. “Ain't nothin’ in there I can't handle. But if I'm not out in an hour, you come knock on the door. I've got another appointment at the capitol, and Minna will skin my butt if I don't get there in time.”
“Okay, Guv,” said Ray. “Minna would probably skin my butt, too.”
The Guv pushed through the door, and there was an instant murmur, followed by the bustle of people rising from their chairs. It was comforting to know that he was still a presence, that he could still transform a room simply by stepping into it.
Julie Galjour rose, pushing back her chair from the head of a long table, and stepped forward to greet him. She was wearing a blue business suit with requisite scarf, and her hair was pulled into a bun. But even the bland suit, the middle-of-the-road scarf, and the unflattering hairdo couldn't diminish her peculiar beauty.
The Guv met her halfway. She smiled, took Joe T.'s hand, and shook it firmly. “Governor,” she said, “how nice of you to come.”
Two things struck the Guv. First of all, Julie Galjour could shake hands better than most men. Second, she beamed.
Now, the Guv had been around her long enough to know that she seemed to constantly beam, which had to be an affectation because, dammit, nobody constantly beamed. Nobody!
“Ms. Galjour,” the Guv replied, turning on his most charming smile, “I can assure you the pleasure is all mine.” Then, looking around the room, spying about a dozen people, he said, “So, who is this gang of thieves and henchmen come to ambush me?”
There was a cackle of nervous laughter (though only a wry smile from Julie Galjour, the Guv observed).
“Governor Evangeline,” Julie said lightly, “I can assure you you're among friends here today. I think you know Deke Trahan, our chief of hydrology. And Sandy Morvant, our head wetlands ecologist.”
The two men stepped forward to shake the governor's hand while Julie Galjour introduced the rest of the table. Joe T. let her, although he recognized everyone in the room—these were bureaucratic regulars whom he'd encountered at various events. Joe T. had a remarkable penchant for remembering names and personal details.
“So, Deke, how's your momma? I know she was in the hospital last year.”
“Fully recovered, Governor,” said Trahan. “Thanks for asking. She'll be thrilled you inquired. She's a big Evangeline supporter.”
“And what about your niece, Sandy? She still at LSU law school?”
“Her final year,” said Morvant. “I really appreciate what you did—helping to get her in.”
The Guv batted away the compliment as if it were a pesky fly buzzing around the gumbo pot. “Sandy, she's a damned bright young woman and woulda got in whether I spoke to the dean or not.” (Of course, this wasn't true. The Morvant niece was an average student, though she came equipped with amazing ambition and, Joe T. had noticed, a great ass. The Guv had called in a chit because the Morvant family was a political powerhouse down in Plaquemines Parish.) He continued, “I know she'll make a terrific lawyer— maybe she'll come to work for us. We could use some terrific lawyers these days, what with the mounting number of vexatious and contentious issues facing our fair state.”
With that, he winked at Julie Galjour. She merely nodded—and continued to beam.
Nothing seemed to faze her. Did she not see that this was a sly dig?
“Anyway, everyone, have a seat,” said Joe T. “Your boss asked me here today to hear her opinion on the Chacahoula Parish shipping-channel business. I'm all ears.”
Julie Galjour laughed. “Now, Governor Evangeline, let me set the record straight. I would never waste your time asking you to listen to my personal opinion on anything. But I think the considered opinion of my department— Deke, Sandy, and these folks really know their stuff—is definitely worth considering. That's why we're thrilled you're here.”
Joe T. nodded. As he rapidly parsed the elements—“I'm not important but my staff is really smart. I trust their opinion enough to drag my überboss into this meeting and spend my political capital on it. And by the way, we're totally honored that a high personage like you would deign to listen to worker drones like us”—the Guv had to admit it was a pretty damned good opening move.
He looked around, wondering if there was a strategic seat he should take but realized that had been decided for him—a vacant chair four seats down from Julie Galjour. Before the chair, a prodigious stack of reports sat on the table like a place setting. If these people expected the Guv to take this stuff home and read it, they'd be sorely disappointed. He'd had his press staff assemble a brain dump on the channel and had already read the significant reports. “I take your point, Julie,” the governor said pleasantly. “Fire away.”
Julie Galjour found her chair, took a sip from a water glass, and gazed intently at the governor. “Well, I won't bore you with a lot of background,” she began, “since you know it as well as we do. Our delta is one of the most commercially and ecologically valuable on earth. Our annual fisheries catch utterly dwarfs Chesapeake Bay and is dollarwise the largest in the nation outside of Alaska. Yet our delta has been shrinking since the turn of the century and shrinking radically for the past forty years. The leveeing of the Mississippi River, and the subsequent diversion of delta-building sediments to the deep Gulf, is certainly a part of the problem, but it isn't the sole problem.
We're arguably the most industrialized wetland system in the world, having had the fortune—or misfortune, depending on your point of view—of sitting on one of the world's great deposits of oil and gas. This has been an unquestionable economic boon for South Louisiana—and, by the way, for the nation—but it's been devastating to our wetlands ecology. Pollution has been a collateral problem, but it isn't the real problem. The real problem has been the wholesale channelization of our estuary for the benefit of oil exploration and production.”
Julie paused to take a breath as Joe T. absorbed her speech so far. He was impressed with her mastery of facts, though this was well-trod ground.
She continued: “We've allowed the dredging of literally thousands of miles of canals to make it easier to get boats, personnel, and equipment to and from oil and gas wells, but these canals have breached the protective barriers between the saltwater and freshwater systems, causing salt water to poison and kill vast tracts of freshwater marsh and cypress swamp. Let us admit that some of this early on was done in ignorance, before science caught up to the value of wetlands. Let's also admit the state's complicity in this. In far too many cases, the political influence of the oil companies over state environmental policies trumped science, not to mention common sense. But casting blame is no longer the point. Subsidence of freshwater wetlands at the hands of saltwater intrusion has had a devastating effect.
“We've lost an estimated one million acres of wetlands since the 1930s. At this very moment, we're losing an estimated two acres of marsh an hour. This translates to about sixteen thousand acres a year, and at this rate—and the rate could escalate if nothing's done—we'll lose an additional three hundred twenty thousand acres by the year 2050. That's a parcel the size, by the way, of Yosemite National Park. Then, throw in another worrisome theory, that the pumping out of all that gas and oil over the decades may be causing the land to actually sink in many places, and you get the picture. The collective consequences of that are staggering, Governor, and—”
Joe T. held up his hand and said, trying not to sound churlish, “Julie, agreed. But I'm reasonably well versed on the background. You may be shocked, but I'd estimate I've read ninety-five percent of the documents in front of me. Let's move to the point of why I'm here.”
Was there a touch of color in Julie Galjour's face at this remark? If so, she recovered quickly.
“I'm not shocked at all. Our technical staff was remarking the other day that they can't remember a governor with a better grasp of policy than you. But, see, we're not just talking about swamp and marshland, Governor. We're talking about our lifeblood and our way of life, and we're seeing it disintegrate before our eyes. It's hard to envision Louisiana's Cajuns without their bayous, their marshes, their swamps. We don't just take sustenance from these things—we take our attitudes, our worldview. Our music comes directly from the landscape, and so does our food and our cooking. So we can't just sit idly by while it dies this inexcusable death. It's the death of us we're talking about.”
She stopped abruptly, reaching for a glass of water.
The governor found himself nodding. Damn, the girl can give a speech.
But the Guv knew he had ammo to parry the “sitting idly by” assertion. After decades of denial, the state—goaded mostly by a grassroots coalition of environmentalists, commercial fishermen, and wetlands owners seeing their property destroyed—had mounted a public-information campaign that finally had dealt forthrightly with the issue and sounded an unmistakable alarm. True, the Guv had been dragged to this bandwagon somewhat reluctantly, but he had joined (while not totally abandoning his pragmatic politics).
Joe T. found himself taking umbrage. “Ms. Galjour,” he said. “I don't want to pick a fight, but nobody's standing idly by. You know better than anyone else how seriously we view the threat, and you know better than anyone else that we're leaning as hard as we can on the feds to throw us a big chunk of change to do mitigation. We're talking maybe eight billion dollars—that's billions, not millions—to do perhaps the most ambitious coastal-restoration project ever envisioned in any nation on earth. To ask Uncle Sam for that kind of money isn't standing idly by.”
For the first time, Joe T. saw a crack in Julie Galjour's façade. An unmistakable touch of color bloomed on her cheeks, and she looked down. After a strained silence, she looked intently at him. For the first time, she was not beaming.
“Agreed, Governor, and I'm truly sorry if I implied that anyone here was standing idly by. It's just very frustrating to see our situation worsen while Washington dithers. The longer they stall, the harder and more expensive it will be to repair the damage. Meanwhile, people south of us are having to contemplate relocating their homes. Down in Chacahoula Parish, residents of the shrimper outpost at Daw-Dawville are already seeing their road become impassable during spring high tides. Most of those homes are up on stilts, but still, it seems only a matter of time before subsidence causes a water-level rise that will make the community uninhabitable. Now, it's a pretty hardscrabble place, I admit, and a lot of people might say it wouldn't be much of a loss. And I don't want to romanticize poverty. But I believe it would be a tragedy. The Daw-Dawvilleans make up one of the unique subcultures of the Cajun Delta. The community goes back a couple of centuries. They are basically what's left of the indigenous subsistence people of South Louisiana, blending Native American, African American, and Cajun cultures. Pete Ancelet at LSU has done pioneering linguistic studies down there that have traced some idioms back to a virtually lost Native American dialect and others back to the African continent. You could never replicate them.”
The Guv held up his hand again, though this time not in exasperation. “Julie, look, I'm well aware of Daw-Dawville and the Daw-Dawvilleans. Believe it or not, I've been down there many times—and not just to campaign. I accept what you're saying, which is exactly why I'm leaning on Washington the way I am.”
Julie Galjour's facial expression softened, and she nodded—though she did not quite recover her beam. “Governor,” she said, “I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. I know you care about the system, and it hardly surprises me that you've been to Daw-Dawville. You're, well”—at this she stared at Joe T. with unusual intensity—“one of us. This is your home, too, and I know you care about it deeply. So forgive me if I've given the opposite impression. Again, I find myself giving sermons to the converted. It's just all so exasperating.”
Joe T. liked this turn of events and simply nodded in response. Silence, he had learned long ago, could be a potent strategy.
It didn't rattle Julie Galjour. She threw the governor a change-up and gave him a completely different look—the look of a predator.
“Which,” Julie continued, “brings us to today and why we're here. Governor, if I may speak plainly, given all you know, I think the state's support for the Chacahoula Parish shipping channel is unconscionable. Setting aside the economic arguments against it—my personal opinion is that it's crony capitalism, pure and simple—it represents a gratuitous assault on a system that's been mugged too often already. The oil and shipping interests want to dig a dagger-straight channel through the heart of one of our most prolific fishing and shrimping grounds—and the Daw-Dawvilleans are right in their bull's-eye. Given what we know about the predations of saltwater intrusion—and given what we know about the weakened condition of the system already—this is like giving a cancer patient low doses of cyanide. It will slowly and surely kill them. Beyond that, how can we with a straight face ask the feds to rescue us and spend billions down here, when we're not even willing to take a stand against a project that's so destructive to our own interests?”
The Guv, who had actually been anticipating this part of the speech, put up his hand once again to interject. But to his surprise, Julie Galjour cut him off.
“Governor, before you say anything, let me make one other thing clear. Neither I—nor my staff—are rabid environmentalists. We are hardly oblivious to the economic benefits that energy development has brought us. We support the concept of multiple use, which means we bend over backwards, in most cases, to make reasonable accommodations between commerce and industry and nature. We believe the system is resilient and can weather many assaults and, if given a chance, can recover. But this just isn't a case where accommodation is in order. This, Governor, is a travesty.”
She stopped, then Joe saw her face lighten again before she continued. “Deke and the team here can speak to specifics. But given that you've read the reports before you, it might be more useful if we could answer any questions you may have about our position.”
Joe T. nodded, trying to soak this all up. Her passion didn't surprise him— but he had expected a softer delivery. Some parallel edged into his mind, and then a somewhat disturbing thought struck him. Gloria!
Gloria had been a woman of selectively strong opinions, and in these opinions, Joe had come to learn, she had an unerring eye for cutting through the bullshit. Not that she was always right. But she came well armed in her convictions.
The governor cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and spoke up. “Julie, while I appreciate your passion in this matter, I do wonder whether words like ‘travesty’ and ‘unconscionable’ are overstatements. At the very least, let me play devil's advocate. First of all, the Corps of Engineers contends that nature herself has already done about one third of the dragline work for the project. That small hurricane that roared through down south about three years ago altered the lower quarter of the natural bayou that forms part of the channel route and scoured it out pretty good. They say this project is simply going to improve upon what nature did. Beyond that, both the Corps and the oil- and shipping-industries reports argue that we and the environmentalists have wildly overstated the adverse impacts on marsh ecology, saltwater intrusion, and fisheries, and that some aspects of the channel could actually improve these things. For example, there are chronic complaints by the fishermen themselves down at Daw-Dawville that segments of the natural bayou are silting in, creating dangerous sandbars and mudflats and obstructing navigation. This project, they say, will cure that.”
There was an edge to Julie Galjour's smile now. “Governor, you yourself know that the Corps of Engineers never met a thing that God made that they didn't think they could improve with a suction dredge or a dragline. If we let them continue, they're going to improve us out of existence. Bayou Go-to-Hell, as I think it's known by the locals down there, does in fact need a little selective dredging. It doesn't need to be straightened out, widened to a hundred yards, and deepened to forty feet. That's simply inviting the Gulf of Mexico into our backyards and the next hurricane to swamp every bit of high ground in the eastern quadrant of our state south of Interstate 10.
Julie went on: “As for what that hurricane did, that's nonsense. The real reason that pathetic little category-one storm scoured out the end of the bayou is that we've already lost—thanks in large part to oil-company dredging and the Corps meddling with the Mississippi River—the barrier islands and buffer marshes that would have very likely protected our natural inland waterways from a storm like that. As for those overstatements alleged by those oil-company reports, well, that's more nonsense. The oil industry and shipping industry bought the reports they wanted. The consultants who did those reports are the most infamous biostitutes in North America. They would find a way to declare Satan's plan for a nuclear-waste dump in heaven to be good for the angels.”
The latter comment brought laughter from Julie's crew—though it ebbed quickly when the Guv failed to join in. The Guv, in fact, was beginning to feel a little irritated. Well, actually, more than a little. She was lecturing him!
“Deke,” Julie Galjour continued, “tell the governor about the Forster-McClintock report.”
The Guv quickly scoured his memory for the Forster-McClintock report but drew a blank.
“Well, Governor,” said Trahan, “Forster-McClintock is a Dallas outfit that the oilies and the chemical industry are fond of using to churn out environ mental-impact statements on their pet projects. Their contribution to this matter is a hydrology-modeling study that ostensibly shows the channel dredging's impact on saltwater levels in the freshwater estuary, potential coastal flooding, and any exacerbating effects of a hurricane should the channel be dredged as proposed. The outfit was founded by a former president pro tem of the Texas Senate. It's got a big D.C. lobbying arm as well. Anyway, you get the picture. What's relevant here is that their study underpins the broader industry report that dismisses our concerns as overblown.
“But, get this, the lead hydrologist on the project was recently unmasked in a Washington Post piece as having faked a significant part of his credentials. Far from having a Ph.D. in hydrology as he claims, the guy was a pre-med student at a Texas Baptist college who failed to get into med school. Beyond that, before his stint at Forster-McClintock, he'd once earned his living as a lobbyist for the Texas tugboat industry. This isn't a guy whose work we ought to be relying upon as a fair critique of our ecological concerns.”
The Guv had already made a note to kick his press aide's ass. If Julie Galjour's crew knew about this, why didn't he?
He struggled to keep his cool. “Okay, Deke, I'll have to sort that one out for myself, but I'll take your word for it for now. But one bad apple doesn't necessarily spoil the bunch.”
Sandy Morvant spoke up. “Well, with all due respect, Governor Evangeline, in this case it could. I understand that our friends at the Advocate across town here are aware of the Washington Post piece, as is the New Orleans paper, and both are preparing stories that go even further. When it hits the press, you know there's gonna be hell to pay. The greenies will be picketing the capitol, and those local interest groups down in Chacahoula Parish are gonna be raising holy hell. It's gonna look pretty bad for us if the state is put in the position of defending what will be perceived as a heavily tainted industry report.”
Joe T. reached for his water glass, realizing he'd been a fool to accept this meeting. It had turned into a debacle. He'd just seen whatever wiggle room he might have had seemingly evaporate.
Of course, this was typical industry tomfoolery. Were the oilies really so friggin’ arrogant that they thought they could get away with something like this?
But he'd been blindsided by his own people. Julie Galjour, as an officer of the state, should have given him a heads-up about this utterly damning report.
It was as if Julie could read his mind. “Governor, I'm sorry about springing this on you, but the truth is, we were as flabbergasted as you are now. A source of Deke's at the EPA e-mailed this to him just as we were walking out the door to come here. We'll forward it to you with the links to the story— that is, if you're interested.”
“Oh, you bet I'm interested,” said the Guv, sounding more peeved than he meant to.
Indeed, he really did want to see the e-mail. He wanted to check the time and the date to make sure Julie Galjour wasn't pulling a fast one. And even if the e-mail had arrived when she said it did, it wouldn't totally prove his subordinates weren't sandbagging him. For all he knew, the DEC might have been the source of the Post story.
Joe T. sought to reestablish some momentum. “Okay, now, putting this aside for a moment, what about the Corps's promise of mitigation? They've held open the possibility of putting in a lock system upchannel as a kind of saltwater-intrusion barrier.”
Galjour looked back at Deke. “You want to answer that one?”
“Yes, glad to,” Trahan said. “Governor, what they really propose isn't a true lock system like, say, the Panama Canal. This would defeat the purpose of the channel, which is to speed up shipping from the Port of Black Bayou to the Gulf. They propose a saltwater-intrusion gate pretty far upstream so that in the event of a hurricane or unusually high seasonal tides they can shut the thing for a few days. But our studies show that, without a true lock, the channel will be a saltwater siphon into much of the system a great deal of the year. And again, as Julie says, the system just can't stand any more of these assaults.”
Joe T. stared at Trahan. So there it was: his scientists were entrenched in their opinion, the oilies had fucked up, and the Guv was left with no cover. If it weren't for the mess, he could and would just tell the oilies to fuck off. But the Guv just hated to be backed into a corner.
After a long silence he said, “Guys, would you mind giving the boss and me a few minutes alone?” He pointed at Galjour.
She smiled and said, “You heard the governor. It's recess.”
Joe T. found himself annoyed even by this little joke. Ms. Galjour was turning out to be a handful.
When the last of the scientists had trudged from the room, Joe T. decided to play some chess. He got up and moved to the chair next to her.
“So, Ms. Galjour, do you always sandbag your bosses?”
The smile melted from her face, and the Guv saw a flash of anger in her eyes.
“I don't know what you mean. If it's about the Post story, well, that happened just as I represented it to you.”
“Mighty convenient.”
Another tremor of anger washed over her face. “There's nothing convenient about it, Governor Evangeline. It doesn't make or break our position, which we arrived at after careful consideration, not political animosity.”
The Guv nodded. “Well, you seem to be taking this whole thing personally.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “Taking what personally? If you mean that I perhaps resent being called a liar, then maybe you're right. I wouldn't lie to you, Governor Evangeline. About this or anything.”
Ah, another crack in her façade.
“I didn't call you a liar, Ms. Galjour. It's my job to question.”
Another spasm of anger. “Then stop questioning us and question them. Or at least question them equally.”
“Who says I'm not?”
“Governor, what is it that you think you owe them? The oil companies have sucked a huge amount of money out of this state. Yes, we've gotten jobs and we've gotten taxes and no one's questioning the upside. But it's come at an enormous price. We can all concede that some of the early mistakes were made out of ignorance, but those days are long gone. That's why this channel plan is so, well, incredibly arrogant. It's a gratuitous assault.”
The governor nodded, trying to keep his cool. “Ms. Galjour, for all your feigned neutrality, ‘gratuitous assault’ isn't exactly neutral language.”
Another flash of anger crossed her face. Then she utterly surprised him.
Her demeanor changed and she leaned forward, put her hand on his arm, and said, like a kindly sister lecturing her wayward brother, “Arghh, Governor Evangeline! You are so exasperating. Yes, I suppose on one level I am taking this personally, and you should be, too. I'm not against political horse-trading. I understand there are times when it's pragmatic and necessary. Believe it or not, I live in the real world. But this isn't one of those times. This is about your people, Joe, the little folks down the bayou who worship the ground you walk on and who vote for you religiously and who now need you to look after them. The shrimpers and the trappers and the crabbers and trawl makers and the maw-maws and paw-paws who sit in their rocking chairs on their porches and are watching the sea come slowly to claim the places they were born and raised their children, and the places where their grandparents and grandparents before them were born. They can't fight this alone, but they're fighting anyway. And they need you to step up.”
She stopped to gather her thoughts, then continued: “It's simple. If we lose the marsh, we've lost our lifestyle, and if we lose our lifestyle, we've lost our soul. The very term ‘Cajun’ will become meaningless. We'll just be another relic people working at tourist traps along I-10, selling CDs and cookbooks and alligator heads and reminiscing about the past. That's just not acceptable. It's not, Governor. It's not.”
During this soliloquy, Joe T. had picked up on two small but distracting things. One, she'd called him Joe. Two, the hand on his arm felt very warm.
And what was he supposed to say now that wouldn't make him appear to be the, uh, cynical politician he sometimes was?
This really was a disaster.
“Julie—do you mind if I call you Julie?”
“Well, I guess I did call you Joe.”
“Yes, you did, and I didn't take umbrage. Now, Julie, let's just say for the sake of argument that I agree with you on every point. You realize that there's no guarantee that the state's opposition will stop this project. The feds often have a mind of their own, and they could just try to steamroll us, no matter what we do. Then I will have squandered political capital for nothing.”
“For nothing? Governor, you will have spent political capital for the right reason. And win, lose, or draw, your supporters down there will understand exactly why they voted for you. Because when the chips were down, you stood firm against the bad guys.”
“Ah, there you go again—bad guys versus good guys. Let me tell you what I've learned from experience: a person in political office who makes decisions by those kinds of judgments usually isn't in political office very long. These matters are usually far more complicated than they seem on the surface.”
Julie Galjour shook her head. She removed her hand from the Guv's arm, reached for her water. “What is it these people have on you, Governor Evangeline?”
Ah, there it was.
Joe T. wasn't sure what stung worse—the remark or the fact that she'd removed her hand from his arm.
Damn Tom Huff.
Damn the mess!
He wanted to shout out that those people had nothing on him—not really!
The Guv looked down at the floor, realizing he suddenly had a huge headache.
After a moment, he looked up. “So, what is it that you've heard, Ms. Galjour? That I'm on the take? In the pocket of the oil industry? Bribed by the tugboat operators? Money, loose women, drugs? I'm sorta used to hearing all sorts of nefarious things about what I am or am not up to. Feel free—add something to the pile.”
Julie Galjour leaned forward, her features softening again. “I didn't mean it that way, Governor Evangeline, and I'm sorry. I know how that must've sounded. Anyway, I don't traffic in rumors.”
The Guv couldn't let that pass. “Well, aren't you something. You might be the only person in state government—hell, the entire state of Louisiana— who doesn't traffic in rumors.”
She gave him another look—something that didn't quite reflect resignation but had an element of contrition in it. “Well, I suppose I've earned your sarcasm,” she replied. “Again, I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm too passionate about the situation.”
Then, pushing her chair back, she continued: “Governor Evangeline, I absolutely respect what you have to do based upon these deeper considerations you describe. I just wanted you to hear us out, and I appreciate that you have. I'll send you the promised e-mail, and we'll await your decision. I think the guys and I will head back to the office.”
With that, she stood and offered the Guv her hand. He resisted taking it. She wasn't supposed to give up. He was counting on more feisty debate. These things were intricate games, and this game, in Joe T.'s mind, had just begun.
“So, that's it?” he replied, finally offering his hand. “You're rolling over?”
The Guv saw a reluctant smile form on her lips. “Governor, I'll never give up fighting for what I believe in, and if I knew of a more eloquent way to make our case, I would. But our position couldn't be plainer, and, anyway, like Daddy is always saying, ‘Cher, don't waste your bait on crawfish that ain't hungry.’ ”
At this the Guv found himself laughing involuntarily. “Your daddy really says that, huh?”
“All the time. Daddy's got a million of these little aphorisms.”
“He is. One hundred percent Cajun, through and through.”
“Well, all right. I've been rendered into a crawfish now. I suppose that's a notch above being a bribe taker. I know for a fact that Cajuns do like their crawfish.” The Guv realized that while he meant this quip to be self-deprecating it had actually come out with a tinge of self-pity.
Julie broke into a full smile. “Governor, you're awfully sensitive for such a shrewd politician. We're gonna have to toughen you up some.”
Joe T., for a moment, found himself speechless. What did she mean, ‘we’?
The next thing he knew, Julie Galjour was turning to go. She got about halfway to the door when the governor said, “Wait.”
She stopped and turned. “Yes, Governor?”
The Guv realized he was perspiring. Normally he didn't sweat, except at campaign rallies in the broiling South Louisiana midday summer sun. “You know,” he said, “maybe we got off on the wrong foot, and maybe there are things worth exploring more. I think it would be helpful if we continued the discussion—without all the supporting cast.”
“So, just you and me, yes? And where would we do this? Over dinner perhaps?”
“Dinner would be great.”
Julie smiled again. “You're good, Governor Evangeline. I'll give you that much. But, let's see, the head of the Department of Environmental Conservation, who just happens to be a single woman, in a candlelit tête-à-tête with Joe T. Evangeline discussing state policy on a shipping channel. I do believe we'd make the gossip pages of the Advocate, don't you?”
The Guv found himself—again—mildly stung. He allowed himself a smile and decided—what the hell—to play his trump card. “Fair enough, Ms. Galjour,” he said. “But for the record, there isn't anything illicit in what I proposed. I am, you know, a single man.”
Joe T. let the statement drop like the quiet bomb he assumed it would be. It was a very convenient and usually potent weapon for destroying hardened feminine defenses.
Julie's features softened appreciably. “Yes,” she replied. “I know, and I'm very sad for your loss. It must've been so hard for you.”
The Guv just nodded.
“You know, Governor, I met your wife once long ago. She seemed like such a wonderful woman—strong, smart, funny. It's hard to understand why God does the things He sometimes does.”
Joe T. nodded again, then found himself saying an improbable thing. “You know, you remind me of her sometimes.”
Julie didn't exactly flinch. But she stared at the governor, unable to respond.
“Oh, geez, uh, I'm not sure how that sounded,” Joe T. found himself saying, “but I didn't mean it to sound, uh, weird. And I'm not entirely flattering you, Ms. Galjour. I had a very complicated relationship with my wife. She was, as you said, strong and smart and she could be funny. But she was often unamused by me.”
At that, he realized he needed to quickly recover his wits. A few more lines like that, and he might as well go on Oprah.
Jesus H. Christ, Joe T.! What's happening to you?
Julie Galjour reached out and put her hand on his arm. He was unable to read what was in her eyes. “I didn't take offense,” she said quietly. “It just startled me is all. I can't imagine how difficult it's been. Daddy says people who love each other look after each other, and it must be terribly hard that she's not here to look after you anymore.”
The Guv, who had for so long trafficked in fake responses with fake emotions, found himself strangely moved by this statement. The problem was that Julie Galjour had only gotten it half right. Gloria had tried to look after him, but, well…He found himself looking away, unable to speak. He was saved by a loud rapping on the door and the imposing presence of 'ti-Ray pushing his way through the door like a slow-moving bear. Seeing Julie, Ray put on his most professional face. “Uh, Governor Evangeline, we need to leave in about ten minutes.”
Joe T. looked up, recovered his wits, and smiled. “No problem, Ray. I think I'm done here anyway.”
He rose. “Well, Ms. Galjour, thanks for setting this up. I'll review the record, and you'll have my decision shortly.”
The old Guv would've pressed Julie Galjour one more time for a tête-àtête. But he felt strangely chastised and defeated. He was really going to need some quality time with his drinking podnah Buddy Dupere this weekend to shake whatever this malaise was.
Julie offered her hand again, and the Guv shook it perfunctorily. She looked at him earnestly, as though she were about to speak, then turned away. When she was halfway to the door, she turned back.
“Governor Evangeline, wait, just a second.” She walked past the Guv to the conference table and rummaged inside her impressive leather bag. She came up with a business card and a pen, flipped the card over, and scribbled something on the back of it.
Then, looking mildly flustered, she handed it to Joe T. “About getting together. There's a crawfish boil Sunday at my parents’ house. I'd love for you to come. It's way down the bayou, a good ninety minutes from here. I wrote down their address and phone number. Have your secretary call first for directions—it's a little complicated. It'll just be the semi-immediate family, which is still a goodly number of people. And don't worry—it's a very Evangeline-friendly crowd. But there would be time to talk more about the channel if you want to. I have to warn you, though, that Daddy's on my side on this one, and if you think I'm passionate, wait till you hear Daddy. On the other hand, Momma adores you and she'll keep Daddy on a leash. He may bark but he won't bite.”
She stopped, as though she had forgotten something, then said, “I know it's short notice, but I hope you can make it.” She turned and walked briskly from the room.
The door shut behind her and the Guv saw Ray winking at him.
“Hot date, Guv?” he said. “She's pretty doggone cute.”
The Guv smiled, trying to put his finger on exactly what he was feeling. In the old days, it might have been a smug reassurance of his powers of attraction and persuasion. But, no, that actually wasn't it.
The Guv was feeling…uh…happy, and more than a little… curious.
“A date?” Joe T. replied. “Are you kiddin’? She just kicked my ass for an entire hour and then pinned me deep in the mud. I don't think a date is what Julie Galjour has in mind.”
Ray shook his head. “I dunno, Guv. What I know about it, Cajun girls don't take just anybody home to meet their mommas.”
The Guv smiled. “I don't think I'm going there to meet Momma. I think she wants me to meet Daddy.”