"Little" Sister Pt. 04

All of my "clients" did something illegal, with the best of intentions. Lawyers talk ofmens reaandactus reus.In English, that is the guilty mind and the guilty act. I was awash with people that conceded the guilty act, but wanted to challenge the guilty part of guilty mind. Shit.

Part of me wanted to sympathize. Part of me wanted to pick their motives apart. In Joanna Smith's case, that worked. She was paid quite well to provide coverage from ICE. In good conscience, I could tell her she was fucked. She lost her house, but I never looked back.

Marion Sanduski was a pre-marriage counselor, who leaned toward taking the plunge. If it took falsified records, sobeit. Like St. Valentine, he provided marriage to people the government said could not marry. St. Valentine was executed, but I hoped for something less permanent. It took some work, but Marion Sanduski was allowed back into pre-marital counseling—with a state representative looking over his shoulder.

Marion's story made the front page of section C. Along with the result for James Weber, I became locally famous. In some ways it helped. Mostly it was a hassle. I had never envied Francine. My own experience with fame taught me sympathy. It could be worse.

Jason Porter appeared on the cover of an auction catalog. Within weeks, he is one of the most sought after models on the East Coast. That sells things short. He was also the symbol of unreachable sexuality for the younger generation. Flocks of girls and young women would follow him anywhere he went, including the bathroom.

Stories of his size reached fantastic proportions (I once held it in my mouth. I knew better). Stories of his appreciation of fellatio were not exaggerated. Jason really did know all there was to know, from the male perspective. It was no small part of my sexual education to understand that even Jason deferred to his partner in terms of pacing. Therein lay the conflict. Some feminists saw fellatio as the ultimate debasement.

Others, like myself, saw fellatio as woman empowerment. It all depended on who was getting off and why. I have had similar conversations with subs. They will tell you that there is a sense of power in a scene expressly constructed for them. As a Dom, I could understand how much attention is devoted to achieving the correct stimulus for the sub. For example, Mario's flogging—bamboo cane and two strand whip alternating, seven strokes each, just to get a small reaction.

Politics is almost as convoluted. The distinctions of right and wrong fade. Even with win and lose, things get murky. The real standard is supplicant and power broker. At least at one stage, that is always clear. Once in the system, the mesh of favor and favor owed becomes very difficult. Even the terms of legal and illegal can go awry. This is how Congressmen get in trouble with the law. It is sufficient to say that I was an advocate of convicted felons, before I was the advocate of half-way houses.

FD Consulting was a lobbying company for all intents and purposes. To be sure, we received a number of requests for analysis or expert opinion. My first official appearance in the General Court (New Hampshire's House and Senate) was to testify, not to lobby. The State had an issue with foster placements going badly wrong. FDC was asked to quantify the problem and compare the numbers to the rest of the nation.

I subcontracted the statistics to one of my nine students, but I signed the report and I needed to defend the numbers. The questioning was so mundane as to be humorous.Yes, I ran a consulting firm. Yes, I also ran a nonprofit. No, there was no conflict. Beacon Light Services had no interest in foster care at that time. No, I did not crunch the numbers personally. I had an MIT graduate do that. Yes, I approved her work. No, I did not plan to wear a men's suit to my own wedding. My husband could do that. Yes, I would consider adopting if I could not have children. No, I did not think a skirt suit set a bad example.

It was crazy, but my report was well received. Oddly, both sides seemed to think I was an extremist for the other end of the political spectrum. Dr. Richards is patient with the ignorant or ill informed. I thought of how Elspeth looked, with her panties hobbling her ankles and her ass bared for a spanking. The various Representatives seemed to get the idea. My firm collected a nice check and we went on.

Still, Beacon Light Services and Beacon House were not coincidental titles. I named my nonprofit after the planned facility. People came to know me in my FD Consulting hat, but recognized me when I wore my Beacon Light hat. Very few were so slow they did not make the connection of names. When it came to fund raising, it did not hurt that I could use the magic words, "Matching Contribution." Sean signed off on up to $50,000.

Things started slowly, as one might expect. In August we collected less than $500 toward the eventual house. That was enough to rent a storefront (with me guaranteeing the rent) and start looking for volunteers and clients. Christine, while still in New Jersey, was a God send, writing letters to all the area churches and religious affiliated charities. While very little money came from the churches, we did recruit volunteers successfully.

For clients, the priests and ministers were happy to give us more referrals than we could handle.

Chapter 19 – Holiday Cheer

By Halloween, we had a full time staffer (paid minimum wage) and half a dozen regular volunteers. One successful ploy was to offer space for quilting and craft clubs. Many of the participants were raised in rural areas. Some were Amish.

Our Amish connections in Pennsylvania were a big reason why we could afford even a minimum wage staff member. Young people on Rumspringa are supposed to pay their own way. However, their families want to keep in contact. We could help with that. As it became clear we were a good place to learn the ropes of the city, interest in the home community grew. In November, Evaine Schaeffelker took her place as Director. Both activity and support exploded. By spring, it was clear a permanent location was feasible.

Technically, I had nothing to do with the Beacon House project, except as a contracted consultant. The contract was for $1 a month and expenses. Everyone in the the General Court knew that I was supporting the project. In practice, I held the fort until Evaine could take over. After that I spent more time in Hanover working to get long term university involvement. In effect, we were shooting to coordinate a trifecta—initial construction and start up costs, University sponsorship and ongoing State funding.

The first element proved easiest. As expected, the Richards' Foundation matching funds primed the pump. Much of the support from Amish sources was in kind (goods not money), but an authentic Amish quilt can be worth $200. Canned produce sold at $50, or more, per twelve jar case. Our volunteers made cloth caps and gift cards for individual jars, which we sent for a $10 donation. Local churches held bake sales and other fund drives. By Christmas we had over $100,000 in hand, with pledges for that much again.

On another front, Dartmouth is the big name in New Hampshire higher education, but there are other colleges. Getting Ivy League schools to "play nice" with state colleges is always an issue. One of my hats was as good will ambassador to all of the other schools. The state's second largest college, Southern New Hampshire University, is in nearby Manchester. I had coordinated my summer research through them. In the state capital is Granite State College, which is part of the state university system. Though GSC primarily focused on online students, colleges could not get any closer. Both could provide local resources and manpower, if they were inclined.

In the halls of state government, Senator Robertson was marking time. She had votes lined up, but not enough of them. An actual building would be important, but a set of annual financial statements would be very helpful. We were waiting for the end of the year, to close the books. With all this as background, Morgan invited me to a holiday reception at the Governor's House.

I was not sure what to expect, but I would at least be able to meet Governor Russam and her husband. I had hopes for getting her support, because she was reputed to be an avid theater buff. She was also a Weld from Boston. Elspeth knew several of her cousins, a generation removed. I was not prepared for the possibility she knew of me, but when I was introduced her eyes lit up. She stepped forward to shake my hand.

Her exact words, "My Goodness, Adele didn't exaggerate. You really do make a statement. I love that top, but I cannot wear lavender. I'll have Jerome bring you by later, so we can sit and talk. Enjoy the party." With that, she turned to her next guest, while a dozen heads turned toward me.

I have never been able to hide. Even as a child, playing hide and seek, I was the one everyone found. Part of it was clumsiness. Part of it was being bigger than everyone else. While it occurred to me that a low profile might be helpful, I made no attempt to escape attention. Instead, I made sure my phone was on record, then pressed as much flesh as I could manage in an hour.

I knew what crowds could be like. If you spend time with Francine Martel or Jason Porter, you understand that people will just walk up and start talking. This was the first time I was the person they wanted to see. Such is the power of the Governor's attention. I recalled the reception atCivitano'sand did my best to cope.

Most of the interest was simple curiosity. If the Governor was interested, so were all the groupies. Their interest might have waned, but someone recognized me from a wedding picture. Did I mention the full page article in Unique Bride magazine? That article had two pictures, both in a suit. The larger picture was of me in the morning coat and top hat. The smaller photo showed me in a suit very similar to the one I was wearing.

Once fashion was in play, there was no escape. Before long someone found the picture with the sealskin coat. Another found my two graduation pictures. Talk about before and after. When someone found the one with Angela Molinari and Edith Dryden, followed quickly by one of me with Francine, I was an instant celebrity. Someone asked if I had seenHard Time.I forgot to be coy and mentioned the special showing. Someone said, "Oh My God. I was there."

It's a small world. Her name was Amy O'Connor. We attended the same high school, five years apart. She knew of my reputation growing up and knew that Francine was local. Most of all, she knew about my relation to Richards Enterprises. Nothing puts the damper on liberal adoration like ties to capitalism. Amy saved things by asking if I really did the whole wedding. We were back to the article in Unique Bride.

For the next half hour I told stories of the wedding preparations. Everyone wanted to know about the merry-go-round. Since half the problems involved making room around the damn thing, I was well equipped to spin yarns. Eventually I moved on to the ceremony and the reception. A surprising number had seen my picture on the wooden horse, but none had connected it to me. From there we moved to the gown, the ball and the duet dance.

Everyone had seen that, so they started talking. I a chance to look around, but I could not see the edge of the crowd. In hindsight, I must be a very good story teller. Even without mentioning the bondage dungeon or hanging Francine out the window, a lot had happened that week. Press attention was world wide, so that much was given. I seemed to have the knack for making it come alive. However, I saw a young man waving for my attention.

Jerome took me to a parlor near the reception area. As I sat and received a cup of tea, Jerome whispered in Governor Russam's ear. As I waited, she stirred her tea, then said, "Jerome tells me you dazzled half my guests. Do tell." What could I say?

I tried, "I was telling stories about the merry-go-round wedding. I supervised the preparations, so I know most of the good ones. If you can name drop Francine Martel and Jason Porter, it's easy to get attention." I was sort of proud of that.

Another assistant came into the room. This one had a stack of magazines. Uh oh. Sure enough, one was Unique Bride. Another was the New York Times Magazine. Below that was the Fortune edition with a feature story on Sean. After those, the articles were printouts, but there were several. Two had my graduations. Another covered my recent dissertation. Several mentioned me in relation to my work in Boston or Manchester. It had the look of a quick search, but by someone good.

Gov. Russam rested her hand on the pile. They had made their point. She said, "You didn't make waves until five years ago. Since then, they keep getting bigger." She reached for a manila folder that was on the the table when I entered. "This is your dissertation from Dartmouth. You are probably aware that we keep an eye on their top students, but you were flagged from your time at Yale. A PhD four years out of high school will turn heads. Doing it at Yale, well..."

She tapped the folder with my dissertation. "I am going to read this tonight. An old friend suggested it. That", she gestured at the magazine stack, "tells me I should. What Jerome tells me suggests it may be urgent. You have decided to go into the political arena, which means I need to know who you are and what you are doing. Don't be too alarmed. This is simple prudence on my part.

"Now, since you are here, we can have a friendly chat. Understand that I would ask most people what I could do for them. You are not most people. Your pet project seems to be a half-way house of some kind. Tell me about that."

I did. I told her about how Morgan brought me the idea. I told her about hitting Marc Brunner with a rock. I told her about Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter. I told her about JFK, Ronald Reagan, Abraham Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt. I told her about Lars and Georg Karl. I told her about Sheila, Sean, Christine and the baby. About halfway through, my phone battery went dead.

When I wound down, Gov. Russam simply nodded, then stood. My time was up. She walked me to the door. Her comment was cryptic, "Adele never overstates anything. I should have known."

In the reception room, almost everyone had gone. Staff was beginning to bag trash and collect chairs. I felt a pang of recognition. Morgan Robertson was waiting. Her face was full of questions, but she dragged me to a coffee shop before saying anything. Rather than answer, I pulled out my phone, which was dead. I pulled out a backup battery and played our conversation. It wound down just after Eleanor Roosevelt.

We sat in silence. Morgan broke it, "You know you spent more time with her today than most of the Court have in the last year, more than I have in eight years."

It did not surprise me. I asked, "Who's Adele. She mentioned Adele twice. Who is she talking about?"

Morgan did not know. We talked about the project, then parted for the night. At my apartment, I asked Elspeth, who turned completely white. Adele Cabot was the unofficial Empress of Beacon Hill. All young girls of good breeding addressed her as Grandmother. Elspeth once told me she would correct Cotton Mather's sermon notes. I once referred to her as Elspeth's persnickety grandmother.

Adele Cabot evidently had an opinion about me. Who knew?

Chapter 20 – Spring Planting

My time with the Governor was quietly seismic. Though no one said anything, it was clear the ground had shifted. On one side of things, FD Consulting was soon turning down business. I hired a full time secretary and a 24 hour message service. It still was not enough. My reputation with Paroles and Pardons soon expanded into sentencing issues and similar criminal law concerns. A law firm contacted me about a bill with an upcoming vote.

In case it was not obvious, legislatures pass laws. Representatives, Senators and interest groups need lawyers to give advice about what wording will work best. For this reason, most lobbyists are either from a law firm or are hired to represent one. I set up my shingle as a consulting firm, but it could not last. The question was exactly how to take the plunge into advocacy. When I was first openly approached, I decided I needed time with my own adviser and my guru, Sean and Sheila.

I contacted the law firm, asking for permission to talk to my family in New Jersey. There was no nondisclosure agreement, but manners are important. As long as it stayed in New Jersey, they were willing. The trip down was a trial. A late winter storm had left mud and slush everywhere. I took the Toyota and vowed to get a decent second car before I came back. Beacon House could have the beater.

I was so glad to turn into the gate, I almost did not notice the lights lining the drive. At the wedding, we had purchased dozens of batter powered LED lights, in several colors. A paper bag and some sand turned the lights into luminaries. I think Sheila must have liked the idea, because little lights were everywhere.

Sean met me at the garage, which meant Sheila was reluctant to bring the baby. That was cool. Protectiveness runs in the family. Sean gave me a big hug, then signaled for a security tech to help with the bags. I snorted as I recalled my attitude of two years before, when no one but me touched my bags. Live and learn.

As expected, Sheila and Christine were in the nursery. Not surprisingly, Sheila was nursing the baby. Christine was carefully not hovering. In a sense, it was comical, but her devotion was fierce. Do not fuck with Christine's people. Just don't.

It was about six weeks since I had last seen Cindy. I could see she had grown. At the christening, she had been tiny, less than five pounds. When I left in August, she was still under eight pounds. At Christmas, she was much bigger. Sean told me the first few months had been a bit slow, but she made up for the growth during the fall. Two weeks before her birthday, she was over twelve pounds and growing at over a pound a month. Everyone was breathing a bit easier.

The feeding did not take long. Sheila passed the baby to Christine. Cindy's open mouth showed at least two teeth. Recalling my nipple piercing, I winced. Knowing both Sheila and Sean, this had to be a conscious choice. I wondered how long they planned to continue, but I was not about to ask. Instead I inquired whether Cindy could eat solid food yet. Sheila smiled. Sean said she would eat mashed carrots and loved avocado. Like mother, like daughter.

Cindy, which was her legal name, was a very alert baby. One test I knew was pulling a bead through a tube. Cindy's eyes would track the position of the bead from one end to another. For under a year, that was very good. I was convinced that she would be at least normal when it came time for school. She was also adorably cute. I had mixed feelings about that. On one hand I felt an urge to praise her. On the other, I could not forget my own childhood.

In the end, I decided to call on Dr. Douglas. I contacted her office and said I would drop by for a courtesy visit. She made a couple of minutes available, PhD to PhD. The short version was that she would call me if Sean and/or Sheila developed a serious case of denial. Otherwise, she confirmed that Cindy was a well adjust baby, working on toddler.

Mollified, I went back to the Residence and packed for New Hampshire. I think I mentioned that Sheila was a bit telepathic. She came to my room, carrying a large box. It was full of things from the "attic", meaning any of the many storage rooms around the house. The highlight of the list was a case of jewelry. Nothing was costume, but there were also no highly valuable stones. Rather these were ordinary pendants, cameos and brooches.