The Submission - Amy Waldman [126]
“Khan had nothing to do with it,” the governor said. “You’re referring to what Kyle so nicely framed as the Bangladeshi bounce”—Kyle shifted as if he itched—“and I think that’s been taken care of.” Her smile was breezy.
Paul stared at her. A career in investment banking inured even the most sensitive soul, which he was not, to ruthlessness. But his mouth was agape. Had Geraldine leaked Asma Anwar’s immigration status to Alyssa Spier? The young woman now faced deportation. The president himself had apologetically explained that immigration officials couldn’t turn a blind eye to her status, however tragic her story. Her exit was far from certain: her lawyer was vowing to fight her removal, which could take years, and her defenders within Congress and out were demanding “mercy citizenship.” But her life had been upended and the damage compounded by the subsequent leak of her $1 million in government compensation. Had Geraldine put that out there, too, the better to sap more sympathy? The governor’s ambition kept outflanking Paul’s imagination. And in this case, it offended his sense of decency, too. The Bangladeshi bounce had worked on him.
“Earth to Paul,” Geraldine said impatiently. She wanted his thoughts on how long she should wait after the jury announced its decision to announce hers, and whether to then convene a new jury. “That’s my thinking,” she said. “One with more family members.”
“I’m not sure things are going to wrap up so neatly, Geraldine”—she stiffened—“Governor. Assuming the jury backs Khan, which is where they’re leaning, they won’t be complacent about your vetoing their choice.”
“Perhaps they need to reread the bylaws. They have no recourse.”
“But they’ll keep looking for one,” Paul said. “They don’t want this decided on public sentiment alone. You’ll remember that’s why we had a jury in the first place—to yield a more considered judgment than the public has the capacity—the time, I should say—to provide.”
“And the jury did a brilliant job,” Bitman said, with a lift of her eyebrows. “But the process was always meant to allow the people to weigh in, and they have, quite clearly. They don’t want it.”
The looks Kyle and Harold exchanged suggested, to Paul, two brothers arguing over which one would tell their mother her Spode teapot had shattered.
“The trouble is sorting out why they dont want it,” Kyle said, too fast. He excelled at bringing the governor’s bad news to others but was unpracticed in delivering such news to her. Her brow furrowed. “The trouble is sorting out why they don’t want it,” he said more slowly. “If they don’t want him simply because he’s a Muslim—the bottom line is that you can’t rely on public opinion if it’s only about his religion.”
“Then Paul, you should have called all of that crap out of bounds.”
“You said the people needed to vent,” Paul said, pleased that he had managed to tie her hands while appearing to do her bidding. “They vented.”
Her pupils went bullet-hard. “They vented about the design: that, not his religion, is the problem here. He created an Islamic paradise!” she snapped. “If nothing else, we should deny him for being an idiot. Did he really think that would fly?”
“The problem,” Harold said, with another look at Kyle, “is that he hasn’t acknowledged it’s a paradise, in fact he said explicitly in the hearing that Islamic gardens were only one possible influence, and that, structurally, the features we point to as Islamic actually predate the religion. Which means we’re only deducing it’s a martyrs’ garden, what you will, because he’s Muslim. That places the Constitution on his side, not ours. If a Catholic designed that same garden no one would care. And even if he were to admit it was—”
“Which he won’t,” Paul interjected.
“That might not be sufficient to bar him, either, since—I’ve done some research—this iconography is cultural