Page 39 of The Fourth Option
“I don’t want to give anyone the impression I’m avoiding her,” Matheson acknowledged.
The lights dimmed by a degree. The jazz band in the corner struck up a smoky swing, clarinet tight as a wire, bass murmuring underneath. Bartenders in ivory tuxedo coats flamed sugar cubes for Sazeracs, the scents of lemon and rye wafting through the room.
Carolyn materialized beside them, tablet in hand. “Icy’s on in five minutes,” she said, referencing the digital agenda. “Time to take our seats. The media’s expecting her to announce something big tonight.”
Matheson exhaled through his nose. He was still irritated with Carolyn over the logo and local media, but he had to keep up appearances. It wouldn’t do to look sour with one of his employees in public, especially one as visually stunning as Carolyn.
“Where’s our table?” he asked.
“Near the back. Just like you asked so you can slip out whenever you like.”
They moved among the crowd, the room thick with conversation. Matheson offered tight smiles and firm handshakes, oiled enough to appear gracious, yet indifferent enough to feel powerful.
At the table, Matheson introduced himself to the guests with polished charm. They were pleasant but forgettable: an energy consultant, a foundation director, and someone with a yacht.
Sipping his sparkling water, he scanned the room. The partygoers’ smiles were tentative. The laughter arrived late. Somewhere beyond the stage, a shift was pending, and every person there, from the judge on his third gin to the chief of police by the punch bowl, was bracing for it. The music faded and the spotlight flared to amber at the podium.
As the room light dimmed, so did the conversations.
Matheson shifted his gaze toward the side of the stage as Irene Catherine Isaacson entered, not like a guest but like the reason the room existed. Her tan skin glowed under a gown of green sequins, designed not to shimmer but to strike. Her dark hair had been swept to one side, gleaming under the lights. At forty-five, she still had the athletic good looks of the tennis star she had once been at Tulane. And those legs. Matheson remembered them well.
Theoretically, this was a night to talk about resurrecting the portions of the city that still needed attention after years of neglect. That meant respectful applause instead of wild cheering. The audience was in on the charade as much as the speakers.
While she smiled and thanked the crowd, Matheson felt a flicker of something that lived somewhere between nostalgia and dread.
Matheson had hired her before she became Orleans Parish district attorney, back when she was fresh off a stint as an assistant U.S. attorney arguing federal appeals before the Fifth Circuit. Even then, she knew how to work Washington and how to navigate the FDA. It was Kimbel’s idea to hire her. It was Matheson’s idea to sleep with her.
He had paid her a fortune to push that HPV drug across the finish line, and like she was stewarding her own investment, she’d reeled him in too. They were both married, but that hadn’t mattered until the spouses found out. Icy’s husband left without a fight, knowing better than to take on the shark that she was. Matheson had enough money that he raised the white flag. His wife had taken her newfound fortune to Europe.
Isaacson waited until the last clap died. “Thank you,” she said into the mic, her voice low and deliberate, a slow-burn drawl, velvet over steel. She’d always known how to play up her southern roots.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?” A ripple of amusement moved through the room. “Yes, we’ll get to the auction. Yes, New Leaf does vital work. And yes, I’ll be asking you to open your wallets, your calendars, and your reputations for this cause. Of that, I give you fair warning.”
Laughter.
“But first, let’s talk about progress.”
A few people in the audience exchanged glances.
“Our partnership with the NOPD and the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office has brought the city’s homicide rate down 31 percent over the last three years,” she began. “Though our shared dedication to this mission has lowered crime, drug addiction, and homelessness, we are not satisfied, nor near the goal we have set for ourselves. The work is not even close to being done. But I do think it’s fair to say that we’ve laid the foundation for what we must now build.”
She didn’t just scan the crowd, she measured it. Calculated it. Matheson could picture her rehearsing this speech in her head while running five miles before dawn, while reviewing the attendee list, while slipping into her designer gown and string-thin underwear. Every word was a move. Every pause, a trap.
“…armed robberies down 15 percent. Assaults down 22.”
Matheson thought of the quote often misattributed to Twain:There are lies, damned lies—and statistics.Icy knew that. She’d once explained to him the anatomy of persuasion:ethos, logos, pathos. Credibility. Facts. Emotion. Aristotle’s formula, sharpened to a blade in her hands.
She already had theethos, the credibility, partially inherited, partially earned. Here she was delivering thelogosthrough the numbers. And now, finally, came thepathos.
“I met a mother in the Ninth Ward,” she said. “In 2003, she had twin boys. One was lost in Katrina. The other, she nearly lost to the silence that followed, the abandonment, the despair. Until last year, when her son met an officer from Lieutenant Bates’s COPE unit.”
She paused, letting the acronym settle.
“For those unfamiliar,” she said, “COPE stands for Community Outreach through Police Engagement. A specialized unit created by Superintendent Franklin and led by Lieutenant Cornelius Bates, both of whom are with us tonight, and both proud supporters of New Leaf. Supe. Lieutenant. Please stand.”
Bates rose, all toned muscle and high-wattage smile. The applause was warm, practiced. Kimbel leaned toward Matheson.
“She’s laying it on thick,” he whispered. “She and Bates must have a deal.”
