17

Thursday ended with an office meeting called by Bill Masterson. He assembled six other ADAs and me in our largest conference room and, in typical Masterson style, got right to the point.

“We’ve got four months before the primary, and things are getting kind of nasty on the campaign trail.” Masterson was seated at the head of the table. Regina Granger sat at his right hand. From the look on her face, she probably knew the purpose of this meeting. The rest of us did not.

“My little RV tours of the state seem to be picking up momentum, and some of the front-runners are getting spooked,” Masterson said.

For the last six weeks, Masterson had been touring around in an RV a supporter had loaned him, attending small events and church services while shaking hands with every Georgian he could find.

“One of my opponents just sent out a direct-mail hit piece.” He passed around a glossy tri-fold that had some unflattering shots of a young Bill Masterson dancing with somebody other than his wife on a dark dance floor. There were pictures of three other women who alleged that Masterson had fostered a hostile work environment at the DA’s office.

“Years ago, when I was the chief assistant, our illustrious DA would throw an office party every Christmas. Some of you were here and know that spouses weren’t invited. Things sometimes got a bit out of hand. One of our ADAs got fired about ten years ago and filed a sexual-harassment lawsuit against my predecessor. But since I’m the one now running for office, this whole thing somehow becomes my fault.”

I had heard stories about the office parties. I wrote off most of it as legend. Everybody who worked for Masterson knew that he was a fair boss who treated everyone the same. He was rough around the edges but never tolerated anything that remotely smacked of harassment.

His wife had filed for divorce six years ago because Bill was an incurable workaholic; she finally gave up trying to compete with his work. As far as I knew, there wasn’t even a hint of an affair. He had dated a few women in the last couple of years but spent most of his time at the office, consumed by the job.

“They’ve quoted a few rape victims who claim I was less than enthusiastic about pursuing their cases. Same for three or four battered wives. Throw in a few anonymous sources who say I like dirty jokes around the office, and you’ve got yourself a pretty good piece.”

Just hearing this reminded me of why I never wanted to go into politics. I liked the courtroom, where at least there were rules of evidence and, for the most part, impartial judges. Politics usually degenerated into something that resembled a middle school food fight more than the lofty democracy our founders envisioned.

“My political advisers asked me whether the women in my office would be willing to sign a petition stating what an enlightened and fair-minded boss I am,” Masterson continued. “I told them you might do so as long as you didn’t have to sign it under oath.”

There were some nervous chuckles, and I got the sense that the other ADAs, like myself, were anxious to help. We all knew politics could get ugly, but it was hard to watch a good man like Masterson get slimed for something he didn’t do. He had gone to the mat more than once for just about everybody around the table, and prosecutors had a way of sticking up for their own.

“My consultants want to put together a ‘Women for Masterson’ piece that we could distribute to the media and turn into a television ad as well. They’ll be asking each of you individually, but I wanted to meet with you first and let you know that you don’t have to get involved and, though it goes without saying, it won’t affect your job evaluations either way. In fact, I was reluctant to drag any of you into this, and I’m sorry that I have to make this request. I would rather just ride it out. But I’m being told that if we don’t respond aggressively, the public will assume it’s all true.”

“This is crap,” Regina said as soon as Masterson took a breath. Bill’s voice had been calm and measured, but Regina was fired up. “I’m sure every one of us would be willing to sign whatever you need. And you might as well have one done for ‘African Americans for Masterson’ too because that will probably be the next attack.”

After Regina spoke, the brownnosing began in earnest, and all of us told the boss that we were on board. He thanked us for our support, told us not to believe everything we read in the papers, and apologized again that he had to make this request. A few of my coworkers started reminding each other of how Bill had stood up for them when they were attacked by this defense attorney or that defense attorney, but Bill cut them off. He said he didn’t want to waste our valuable time eliciting pats on the back. “The streets aren’t getting any safer while we sit around singing ‘Kumbaya,’” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”

I got up to leave with the rest of the women, but Masterson had other ideas. “Brock, can I see you a minute?” he growled.

Regina stayed behind as well and listened as Bill made his request. “I’ve asked Regina to be part of our television commercial,” he said. “It would help me a lot if you’d be willing to say a few words as well. Maybe remind folks that I prosecuted your mother’s killer and that’s part of the reason you’re working for me now.” Masterson shrugged. “It would probably take some of the sting out of the claims by these victims.”

“Plus, you’re photogenic,” Regina said. “I’ve got a face for radio, but you’ve got a face for TV.”

I agreed to do the TV spot and then gave Bill and Regina an update on the Tate investigation. I reported that we were making progress, though we couldn’t yet prove that Tate had access to the drugs.

“A minor point,” Masterson said sarcastically. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you enjoy the play?”

I just agreed to do you a favor, I wanted to say. But things didn’t work that way with Masterson. He was always straight up, a man who didn’t believe in owing people.

“I understand,” I said. “But Tate is already acting guilty.” I detailed my conversation with Tate after the bond hearing—everything except my threat at the end.

“Definitely guilty,” Masterson responded. “Wants to take a polygraph, answer police questions, and cooperate fully. Basically a confession.”

I hated it when Masterson slipped into his sarcastic mode. But the man had a point. “I didn’t say I was ready to indict yet.”

“The queen of understatement,” Masterson replied.

The next day, film crews were at our office. Regina Granger, big and boisterous, looked straight into the eye of the camera and confidently proclaimed her support for her boss and trusted friend, Bill Masterson. She did it on the first take while I watched nervously. The camera crew decided to do a second take with Regina just to be on the safe side.

After she finished, it took me five tries to get the right amount of intensity and enthusiasm. Everybody kept encouraging me, telling me I was a natural, but then they would suggest another try and give me some coaching on how to change my facial expression or hold my hands or talk slower or faster or look toward a different spot. When they finally said, “It’s a wrap,” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

The mudslinging commercials from the other candidates started running on Saturday, and “Women for Masterson” responded on Sunday. Despite the counterpunch, Masterson’s consultants worried that he had dipped in the polls. “Negative ads work,” they told him. “Positive commercials are just damage control. We need to think of something more creative. We need a game changer.”