The Shot
Not since Jacqueline Kennedy graced the White House has a first lady been so admired by the American public and the world at large. Anne Seaton was to many people in the United States what Princess Diana was to those in the United Kingdom. She exhibited many of the finest qualities of Jackie and Di: she was beautiful, stylish, intelligent, kind and compassionate. Furthermore, all three of these regal women were known to be devoted mothers.
Yet despite the adoration the American people had for their first lady, their feelings toward Joseph Seaton, her husband, were apathetic. He had been in office for three years, and so far, he had not kept a single promise he made before the election. Now that he was running again, he desperately needed his wife's support on the campaign trail.
"I have my official duties to perform as first lady," Anne argued. "And more importantly there are the children to consider. I can't travel around the country for a year and leave them in the care of a nanny."
"Why not? They'll be fine," Joseph insisted.
"I'm their mother. I'm the one who should dry their tears when they scrape their knees and read to them before they fall asleep at night."
"And I'd like to make sure they sleep in the White House for another four years."
"That's important to you, not to them. Frankly, I think they would just as soon go back home to Pennsylvania where they can lead a normal life again."
"Normal? They'll be shadowed by the Secret Service until they're sixteen whether I'm in office or not."
"But they'll be in their own home, living near their friends, attending their old school."
"You don't want me to be reelected!"
"I didn't say that. What I said was that your being elected wasn't that important to the children."
"And they come first, of course."
"To me, yes. I'm a mother."
"You're also my wife."
Despite his having been unfaithful to her several times during the course of their twelve-year marriage, Anne held no ill will toward her husband. On the contrary, she still loved him very much.
"Poor baby," she teased, brushing the hair from his forehead. "Do you want me to read to you at night and dry your tears as well?"
"No," Joseph replied, slipping his arms around her waist. "I want you to campaign for me."
"Let's compromise," she suggested. "I'll attend some of your rallies."
"How about eighty percent of them?"
When his wife frowned, he negotiated the figure down to fifty percent.
* * *
"My press secretary suggests we flood the media with photographs of the first family," Seaton told Waylon Gebhart, the official White House photographer, as the two men sat aboard Air Force One en route to a speaking engagement in Colorado.
"The standard PR stuff, sir?"
"The holidays are coming up. Why don't we go for more sentimental, intimate images of the family? You know, real schmaltzy pictures. Me kissing my wife under the mistletoe. The kids hanging their stockings on Christmas Eve and opening their presents the following morning."
"But that goes against the guidelines the first lady established when your family moved into the Executive Mansion. She was most specific about letting your children have their privacy."
"This is different. It's reelection time, and my approval rating is ...."
The president's face reddened with a mixture of embarrassment and anger as it did whenever he talked about how little the American public thought of him.
"Let's just say, we must court the voters."
"Got it, sir. I'll have my camera ready to capture all your Hallmark moments."
"Good man."
Waylon knew from experience that those two words were his cue to leave. They signaled not only that the meeting was at an end but that it had come to a satisfactory conclusion. He left the chief executive's private onboard office and went to get a cup of coffee.
The dining area of the plane was empty, so he stared out the window at the clouds. As he drank his cappuccino, his thoughts strayed to the president's wife, arguably the most popular woman in the country. He had photographed her many times during the past three years but almost exclusively at state functions when she was standing dutifully beside her husband. Her appearance and manners on such occasions were always impeccable. The first lady's critics sarcastically referred to her as "Saint Anne." It was a true testament to the woman that political enemies could not find a single flaw in her character and had to resort to ridiculing her perfection.
Except, the photographer firmly believed, no one is perfect.
To Waylon, as to many of his fellow countrymen, Ann Seaton was a beautiful enigma. Here was his chance to possibly catch a glimpse of what lay beneath the flawless exterior, to see the real woman behind the carefully maintained façade. As Alan Turing used banburismus to crack the Enigma code, hopefully Waylon Gebhart would use his Nikon to decipher the mystery of the first lady.
* * *
When Joseph Seaton informed his wife that Waylon would be spending a great deal of time with the family during the holiday season, the first lady objected.
"You know how I feel about photographers taking pictures of our children."
"Yes, I do, and so far, I've respected your wishes, but this is important to me, to my career. We'll use as few photos of the kids as possible. I'll have him concentrate more on you and me and less on them."
"I still don't like it."
"Look, none of this would be necessary if you would have agreed to campaign with me."
"That's not fair," Anne argued. "I'm spending a great deal of time accompanying you to rallies and fundraisers—more than I originally agreed to."
"This is the last Christmas before the election in November. Whether I win or lose, you'll never have to go through this again."
Anne hated to be in the position of having to choose between her husband's wishes and her children's wellbeing. Oddly enough, her own needs were nowhere in the equation.
"Okay," she said, proposing another compromise, "I'll agree to have Mr. Gebhart around us during the holidays, but only if I have approval of what photographs of the children get published."
"Agreed. Besides, I'd like there to be more pictures of you than of the kids. You're the one the public wants to see. You're the cover girl for the White House."
Although he wore a smile on his face, Joseph took no pleasure in complimenting his wife. Inside, he seethed with resentment at having to acknowledge that she was more popular than he was.
That's all the American public wants: a pretty face and a designer outfit! he thought with disgust. But what else should I expect of a society where people like the Kardashians become celebrities.
* * *
"You do realize that as first lady, I don't have the opportunity to do many of the things with my children that I'd like to," Anne told Waylon as they drove to a shopping mall in nearby Alexandria, Virginia. "Before my husband became president, we used to put up the decorations and the Christmas tree ourselves. Now the White House staff handles all that."
"Once he's out of office, you can go back to your family traditions."
"But if he's reelected, we'll have five more Christmases in the White House instead of one. Eight years may not seem like much to most people, but it's a long time in the life of a child. My daughter was seven when we came to Washington. If my husband wins in November, she'll be fifteen when we go back to Pennsylvania. She'll have spent a good part of her childhood here and missed out on the simple pleasures of life—like decorating a Christmas tree."
There were tears in Anne's eyes, and Waylon had to fight the urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, to reassure her that she was a good mother and that her children were lucky to have her. Although a friendship had recently developed between the two, he did not want to test the limits of that relationship.
When the driver pulled up to the mall entrance, the Secret Service formed a protective detail around the first lady.
"It's been a few years since I've gone shopping," she said. "I usually hand a list to one of the White House secretaries who then orders everything online."
"Why don't we start in the toy store?" Waylon suggested.
Immediately, the mall security team cleared the store so that the first lady would not be disturbed while shopping. As she walked down the first aisle, she picked up a Monster High doll and examined it. Waylon immediately began snapping pictures.
"Wait a minute!" Anne teased him. "Some voters would no doubt object to my looking at such a toy. Maybe I ought to be holding a Barbie or an American Girl doll instead."
Waylon lowered his camera. Although she was laughing when she said it, the first lady was serious. Anne knew what the American public would approve of and what it wouldn't condone, and she had to live her life accordingly.
For the next two weeks, he took pictures of the first lady wrapping presents, writing Christmas cards, taking her children to see Santa Claus and baking holiday cookies. These photographs, although carefully staged, appeared to be candid shots of a wife and mother preparing for an old-fashioned family holiday.
"I like this one," Joseph said, indicating a photo of his youngest child on Anne's lap, listening to the first lady read a Christmas story. "I don't suppose there is a way to Photoshop me into the background, is there?"
"That ought to be easy enough to do," Waylon replied.
"Good! Then the voters will think I took time out of my busy schedule to be with my family."
Ironically, the more time Waylon spent with the first lady, the more he became disillusioned with the president, a man he had previously admired and respected. Hell! He had even voted for him in both the general election and the primary.
He doesn't know how lucky he is, the photographer thought. He takes his wife and kids for granted. If I ....
Suddenly, the young photographer was faced with the painful realization that he might be falling in love with Anne Seaton.
I mustn't! She's the wife of the President of the United States for Christ's sake!
He seriously considered resigning his position, but concluded it probably would not be necessary. Although the president's approval rating had gone up since his wife began joining him on the campaign trail, there was still not much hope of Joseph Seaton getting reelected. There would most likely be a new president and a new first lady in office in a little more than twelve months' time.
I ought to be able to control my emotions that long. After all, I'm not some lovesick teenager. Besides, once the holidays are over, I won't be with Anne on a daily basis.
Determined not to let his heart rule over his brain, Waylon remained on the job and performed his duties to the best of his ability throughout the Christmas holiday season.
* * *
President Joseph Seaton paced the floor as his wife finished dressing.
"I don't see why we couldn't spend a nice, quiet New Year's Eve at home," he complained.
"It's surprising you don't want to take this opportunity to garner some more votes," Anne said.
"If it were votes I wanted, I'd have gone to New York and made an appearance in Times Square."
"This is a worthy charity, one I've supported for years. It won't hurt you to go to the benefit dinner with me. God knows I attend enough functions for you."
"I said I'd go; I'll go. Let me call Gebhart and tell him we're almost ready."
"Do we really need to bring a photographer along with us?"
"Might as well use this shindig as a photo op. After all, I am up for reelection."
Like I could forget it, Anne thought with a frown.
Thirty minutes later Seaton and his wife got out of the presidential limousine. Waylon, who had gone ahead in his own car, stepped forward and took their photograph. The Secret Service cleared the way into the Ritz-Carlton, and the photographer took another picture in the lobby as the president helped his wife remove her coat. As always, the first lady, dressed in a pale pink chiffon gown, looked stunning.
"Make sure you get several shots of us coming through the door the moment we're announced," Seaton instructed him. "Got that? Listen for the announcement and have your camera ready."
Waylon walked into the ballroom and waited near the entrance. When he heard the voice over the public address system, he raised his camera. In the instant it took to press the shutter-release button, a shot rang out and the first lady's pink chiffon gown was spattered with blood and brain matter.
Unlike Abraham Zapruder, Waylon Gebhart put his camera down after that one picture. Trembling, he was unable to take any further photographs of the gruesome sight. Around him he could hear people scream and see the Secret Service agents and hotel security staff scramble to locate the source of the shot.
Only after an ambulance arrived and the first couple was whisked away to the nearest hospital was Waylon finally able to think clearly.
"What are you doing here?" a Secret Service agent asked him as he took a drink to steady his nerves. "The president wants you to get over to Sibley Memorial right away."
"Me? Whatever for?"
"You're the official White House photographer. I assume he wants you there to take pictures."
"Of what? His dead wife?"
The agent didn't have an answer.
After being cleared by security, Waylon was allowed to leave the hotel. He got into his car and headed toward the hospital, fighting back his tears as he drove.
* * *
When the photographer gave his name to the agent in charge, he was shown into a private waiting room where the president was expecting word of his wife's condition.
"How's the first lady?" Waylon asked, knowing there was no way she would survive the shooting.
"The doctors are working on her now, but it doesn't look good."
"What did you want to see me about, Mr. President?"
"No matter what happens, I need you to be available at all times during the next week or so. I want everything documented for history. Not since 9/11 has there been such a calamitous event in our country."
Waylon took a seat in the corner, prepared to wait for a doctor to appear.
"Look at my shirt," Seaton said, extending his arm toward the photographer. "There's blood all over it."
"It's just a shirt, sir."
"Take a picture of it. Like Jackie Kennedy said, 'I want them to see what they've done.'"
"Mr. President, are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Don't you remember the photographs of Jackie in her blood-stained pink suit?"
"Yes."
"Well, damn it! Take the picture."
No sooner was the bloody shirt photographed than the hospital's chief of surgery entered the room with the bad news: Anne Seaton, the first lady of the United States, had been officially declared dead.
* * *
Over the next several days, people around the globe were glued to their televisions, radios, computers and smartphones, eagerly awaiting further developments. Who could have done such a thing? they wondered. Not a single person believed that Anne Seaton had been the intended victim. She died because whoever tried to assassinate the president missed his target.
All the guests and employees at the Ritz-Carlton were questioned, and no one seemed a likely suspect. Furthermore, although the entire hotel was searched, no weapon was found. It was then determined that the shooter fired through an open window from outside the hotel. The chances of finding the assassin were slim.
"We've put additional agents on duty to cover you and the children," the head of the Secret Service told the president. "And Homeland Security has declared a red alert. We've also taken the liberty of cancelling your press conference this morning."
"I didn't ask you to do that."
"I naturally assumed that after what happened ...."
"In the future, I ask that you not assume anything. Now go reschedule the press conference. I have a number of things I want to say to the American public."
Seaton next spoke to Waylon.
"I'll want you to take some pictures of me with my children."
"But they just lost their mother, sir."
The president angrily turned to confront the photographer. However, before he spoke, he got his emotions under control.
"One subject my wife was very passionate about was gun control," he explained. "Like most Americans, she was horrified by the Columbine shootings. Then when those little Amish schoolgirls were killed in Lancaster County, she cried for three days. After Sandy Hook Elementary, she honestly believed things would begin to change. They didn't. I'm in the position of being able to show the American public that gun violence affects everyone, even the president's family. It's been fifty years since the Kennedy assassination. Many people have forgotten that lesson."
"But the children, they're so young."
"They're going to grieve no matter what you or I do. Why not force the world to see how deeply they're affected. My wife, God rest her soul, would want some good to come out of her death. I'm honoring what I'm certain would have been her wishes."
Waylon, who probably loved the first lady every bit as much as her husband did, became the president's somewhat reluctant ally in amplifying the sorrow of a grieving nation. His photograph of Joseph Seaton hugging his crying children caused even the president's most bitter detractors to commiserate with his loss.
On the day of the funeral, the streets of Washington, D.C., were lined with crowds of mourners all eager to glimpse the flag-draped coffin as it made its journey from the Capitol, across Memorial Bridge and on to Arlington National Cemetery. Millions around the world watched the televised service, making it the most viewed funeral since Princess Diana's.
After the emotionally charged day, President Seaton appeared before the nation in a televised press conference.
"Many Americans are wondering if, given the great loss I've had to endure, I still plan to run for reelection. I've given this matter a great deal of thought, taking into consideration not just what I want but what my dear Anne would have wanted. I once confided in her that I was less than satisfied with my performance as president. She told me that she thought I was doing an excellent job. I suppose she was a bit biased, but she pointed out that in my three years as your leader there have been no wars, no riots, no scandals, no economic crises, no rise in crime. In short, everything has remained on an even keel. 'That's the sign of a good captain,' she told me. 'He can keep the ship on a steady course.'"
Seaton temporarily stopped speaking, as though fighting back his tears.
"One of the oldest traditions of the sea," he continued, "is that the captain never deserts his ship. I owe it not only to my wife, but to the citizens of the United States as well, to remain at the helm—if the public wants me. That being said, I have also decided not to actively campaign. For the next ten months, when I'm not running the country, I'm going to spend my time helping my children adjust to life without their mother. I've made no secret of where I stand on the issues, so I'll let my record speak for me. I leave it to the voters to decide whether or not they want me in the White House for another four years."
* * *
The ten months leading up to November were most unusual ones for America. Voters, long used to being bombarded by political ads and slogans in the months preceding a general election, were in awe of Joseph Seaton's silence and lack of presence. The opposing party was also surprisingly reserved. Although the presidential candidate did not hesitate to wave his own credentials before the American public, he made no attempt to denigrate the incumbent. He did not even challenge him to a televised debate. Although other political contests still engaged in mudslinging, the presidential race was conducted in an atmosphere of respect.
"I'll be damned!" Secret Service agent Vic Sturges exclaimed as he was reading The Washington Post one day in late September. "Seaton is up in the polls again. I never thought it was possible, but it looks like he's going to be reelected."
"Really?" asked Gebhart who was waiting to meet with the president. "That's quite an accomplishment considering he hasn't been campaigning."
"He doesn't need to. He'll slide back into the White House on the sympathy vote."
"That's ridiculous!"
"You think so? Do you honestly believe the American voters make educated decisions based on a candidate's platform and his past performance? They're swayed by a politician's appearance, his religious beliefs, his war record, his family name. You may think I'm a cynic, but I say that if Joseph Seaton gets reelected—and it looks as though he will—it will be because his wife was killed. Hell, Johnson rode into the Oval Office on the back of a bullet, why shouldn't Joseph Seaton do the same?"
"I don't suppose they're making any progress in finding the shooter."
"Did you really expect them to?" Vic asked with a bitter laugh.
"Sirhan Sirhan was immediately apprehended, and they caught Oswald in less than two hours."
"Maybe they ran out of lone nuts."
"You're not suggesting this was some crazy conspiracy, are you?"
There was a smug smirk on Sturges's face as though he knew something the photographer didn't.
"I just think it's odd; that's all."
"What's odd?"
"That when the first lady was shot, her husband had to have thought he was the intended target. Yet he didn't seem fearful for his own safety."
"He was worried about his wife, whether she would live or die."
"That poor woman took a bullet to the face. You can't tell me she wasn't killed instantly!"
"What are you implying?" Waylon asked.
"Nothing at all," the agent answered, suddenly more circumspect in demeanor. "Don't mind me. I'm just a conspiracy theorist at heart. You're never going to convince me that Oswald acted alone."
"What conspiracy was there to kill Joseph Seaton?"
The only answer Vic gave the photographer was a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders.
* * *
Throughout the month of October Waylon became increasingly perplexed by the conversation he had with the Secret Service agent. Although the FBI was still conducting an ongoing investigation into the shooting of the first lady, there was little written about it in the press.
I should think Americans would be demanding to know who tried to kill their president, he thought with bewilderment.
Even Seaton seemed unconcerned with solving the mystery. In fact, he expressed the desire to put the whole tragic incident behind him and move forward.
Move forward? If my wife took a bullet for me, I'd damned sure want to know who pulled the trigger!
At that moment the photographer had what can best be described as an epiphany. It was as though someone had turned a spotlight on in a dark room. He finally had an inkling of what Vic Sturges was suggesting to him the previous month.
Joe Seaton doesn't care about finding the shooter. His only concern is getting reelected!
Waylon realized that he had been so overwhelmed by his own grief that he failed to see the obvious. Anne Seaton's husband was using her tragic death to gain public sympathy and increase his popularity with the voters. It had always struck him as extremely odd that the president called him to the hospital the night of the shooting to photograph his blood-stained shirt. But then, the president had been behaving strangely for weeks before that night, demanding he take intimate holiday photographs of the first family. After Anne's death those pictures saturated the media.
Another, more telling, memory came to mind, one that had struck a false chord at the time but now took on a more ominous significance. After the president removed the first lady's coat in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, he had told Waylon: Make sure you get several shots of us coming through the door the moment we're announced. Got that? Listen for the announcement and have your camera ready.
It was as though the chief executive knew what was about to happen.
* * *
Three days later, just two weeks before the election, Waylon found himself in the dining room of Air Force One with Agent Sturges.
"I've been thinking about our last conversation," the photographer said.
"Which one was that?"
"About the president getting the sympathy vote."
"Don't pay attention to anything I say," Vic laughed. "I get these crazy notions sometimes. My wife thinks I ought to write for the tabloids."
"I was wondering .... What if the shooter didn't miss his mark?"
"You mean what would have happened had he hit the president?"
"No. I mean what if Joseph Seaton wasn't the intended target?"
Vic's eyes widened with interest, and a slow smile crept across his face.
"It's occurred to you, too, has it?" he asked in a conspiratorial tone.
"It took a while," Waylon replied, "but yeah, the thought eventually came to me."
"We will never be able to confirm our suspicions."
"I don't need confirmation. I know he did it."
"What do you suggest we do about it? I, for one, am not going to the FBI with this story."
"There's always the press."
"We'd still be risking our careers if not our lives. And for what? We'd be ridiculed as conspiracy nuts."
"So, what do we do?" the photographer asked with frustration. "Let him get away with murder?"
"He's the President of the United States. He'll never be questioned much less arrested. Even his political enemies wouldn't want to see such a thing happen. It would forever be a stain on the office. It's all right for a president to cheat on his wife but not to have her shot."
"I'll never be able to live with myself if I do nothing," Waylon cried. "I got to know Anne Seaton during the last weeks of her life, and she was an incredible person. For her husband to have her assassinated so he could get reelected ...."
Overwhelmed by emotion, he suddenly fell silent.
"It's obscene," Sturges concluded.
"You're damned right!" Waylon exclaimed, becoming more animated. "Joseph Seaton may never be brought to justice for having his wife murdered, but we can see to it that he doesn't benefit from his heinous crime."
* * *
Waylon was eating breakfast in his Alexandria, Virginia, condo. It was four days until the election, and with no official photo ops scheduled that day, his time was his own. As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, his cell phone signaled an incoming text message. His heartbeat quickened when he saw who the sender was.
He read the message. There was no greeting or closing. Nothing but a time and an address.
Yes! he thought with elation.
At six o'clock that evening, Waylon, dressed in an old pair of jeans and dirty sneakers, parked his rented Toyota two blocks away from a Georgetown residence often used by visiting dignitaries. When he got out of the car, he pulled the hood of his dark sweatshirt over his head. Fortunately, no one was on the street.
When he walked up the townhouse's outer stairs to the stoop, the front door opened slightly. He could see Vic Sturges through the crack. The Secret Service agent opened the door wider so that Waylon could enter. He then led him upstairs where the president was at that moment being entertained by three high-priced Washington call girls.
"Goddamned fool!" Vic said beneath his breath. "Taking such chances. He deserves what he gets."
The photographer took a small digital camera out of his pocket, pointed it toward the Chief Executive and his three female "friends" and pressed the shutter-release button at least two dozen times.
* * *
Late in the evening before the presidential election, television news departments, radio stations, newspaper editors and prominent Internet bloggers in all fifty states received FedEx, Express Mail, UPS or DHL envelopes with either a fake or no return address. Inside were prints of eight-by-ten glossies of President Joseph Seaton cavorting with hookers, smoking pot, snorting cocaine and taking part in various sexual acts.
While a few of the recipients chose not to share these photographs with the American public, the majority of them did. On the morning of the election, millions of American voters woke to these scandalous pictures of their leader. It was those sordid images that were ingrained on their minds when they went to the polls to cast their votes.
Waylon tuned into CNN several times throughout the day. No sooner did the results start to come in than the outcome of the election was obvious. Blue states and red states alike were supporting Durward Hyden, the president's opponent. States on the West Coast were still voting when Wolf Blitzer announced that Hyden had more than the required two hundred and seventy electoral votes to win the election. It was the greatest landslide victory in U.S. history.
There were only a handful of people at Joseph Seaton's campaign headquarters when the official word came. Most of the volunteers had deserted him after the scandal broke that morning.
"They're waiting for your concession speech," the president's campaign manager announced. "Under the circumstances, I feel it would be best for your children not to be present."
The man who stepped up to the podium to concede his opponent's victory bore little resemblance to the handsome, robust widower who had gotten high while frolicking with three prostitutes the night before. He was haggard, disheveled and broken in spirit.
This is how he should have looked when he lost his wife, the photographer thought as he raised his camera.
After Joseph Seaton concluded his short, emotional speech, he turned toward Waylon. For all his faults, the president was not a stupid man. He correctly assumed that Gebhart, along with the Secret Service agent who was on duty that night, was responsible for his downfall. With a subtle nod of his head Seaton acknowledged his defeat.
* * *
It was more than a week after the election before Waylon Gebhart had the opportunity to upload the election day photographs from his camera onto his computer. There were poignant shots of torn campaign posters lying on the floor, a teary-eyed volunteer watching the election results on television, silent telephones, empty desks and closed doors. These all preceded the pictures of Joseph Seaton delivering his concession speech. The last photo, and Waylon's personal favorite, was of the president's back as he walked away from the podium with his head down and his shoulders slumped.
I don't feel the least bit sorry for you, you heartless bastard! the photographer thought. I only wish you were going to jail where you ....
Waylon caught his breath as a chill went down his spine. His hand went to his mouse, and he enlarged the picture, zooming in on the people standing at the far right of the photograph. One face stood out of the crowd; it belonged to a stunning woman wearing a pale pink chiffon gown. Unlike the people around her, she was not looking in the direction of the retreating president, but instead she was facing the camera, looking directly at the photographer.
Another click of the mouse and he zoomed in again. There was a smile on Anne Seaton's sad but beautiful face. It was one of heartfelt gratitude.
"You're welcome," Waylon said, pleased that he had made Joseph Seaton pay dearly for taking such a precious life.
Yes, that is former first lady Laura Bush. No, Salem is not a Republican. He's a tree-climbing, liberal Democrat.
