SPOTLIGHT.

Two weeks before President Wright’s assassination, I got dinner with a friend. We hadn’t gotten together in a while. We were both adults, with jobs and families and responsibilities that deprived us of time– precious time, that we often took for granted. We’d push back dinners and delay phone calls, thinking, selfishly, that there was always tomorrow.

Our decision to get dinner that night hadn’t been planned. It wouldn’t have happened at all if we hadn’t run into one another in an elevator in the Capitol Building, each on our way to meetings. It’d been a while since we’d seen each other face-to-face, and while he looked a little tired, it was the same old David.

David Schwartz and I met twelve years ago, young hopefuls putting our faith into a new startup media company called Politico. It wasn’t much at the time, an online publication in an era when people were still believing in physical newspapers. But we were young and passionate and convinced we were doing the ‘right thing’. David was always keen on that idea. He believed in objective reporting and never blaming the suspect until he was sure they were guilty. It sounds obvious, like that’s just something a reporter is supposed to do, but David never thought of it that way. He was good because he was good, not because he should be. He just was. He slept at the office more times than I could count, not letting himself off the hook until he could get to the bottom of his story. I always admired that about him.

We worked together for a few years, helping to build Politico into the beacon you read your morning news from today, and remained friends even after I moved on. In the wake of this week’s events, I’m going to admit something I never would have before: The Witness, of which I am proudly the Editor-in-Chief, is a silly magazine that should rarely be taken seriously. But if David looked down on the career path I’d taken, he never showed it. He’d send me screenshots of articles from The Witness along with funny little lines like, “I thought I saw Bigfoot on my drive in this morning!”. 

Admittedly, we lost touch over the last few years. Our lives got in the way of our friendship, David almost always at work and me, absent, preoccupied by my own world. As I get older I find myself confusing my desires with my priorities. If I knew what I know now, I would have made the time, though I suppose that doesn’t matter much now.

I don’t think we talked much about work at dinner. Mostly we did what old friends do: reminisced and caught up. A part of me wants to let everyone know that it wasn’t him– no way it could have been– but I have no way of knowing that. I wasn’t there. Had he already panned his attack by then? Did he know what he was going to do? It’s haunting to think about. For the most part, since the news broke, I’ve tried not to.

It’s hard for me to reconcile the David I knew with the one whose face is plastered across the news. I know I shouldn’t at all; whoever I think I knew hardly matters now. David will never again be known as a son, or a friend, or a colleague. Those labels fade behind what he’s become.

I’m not asking you to forgive the man who assassinated the President. I cannot forgive him for that. I will not.

I only hope that Theresa Wright finds peace in her beyond, and that David’s family and friends can mourn their loss with the same respect we give those who mourn the President’s.

“No, David,” Julian shakes his head, as though it hurts to say the name. You must see, I have no other option. Great things are gonna happen for this country, I will make them happen, and I wish you could stick around to see tha. I wish I had the luxury to prove you wrong.“ Finally, he pushes himself off the loveseat, patting away any creases to his suit. "But it happens that I have to right your wrong now, and the only way to do that is death.” Julian’s hands drop from his lapel and he joins them together. The agents are quiet, observant. Waiting. “It’s not an easy decision to make; just be glad you’re not burdened with the same choice as I.” A beat. “I promise I will make a great country for your friends and your mother to live in.” His gaze hardens, and if it all sounds sincere, it’s because it is. “It will not be in vain, I promise you.”

Then, Julian shakes his head, waving it off. “I don’t care if they remember me,” he says, honest. It never had been about credit, or a legacy— perhaps only by the things Julian would leave behind, but it’s of small importance if his name is attached, or if it isn’t. It’s about change, positive change, and for as long as he has his wits, it will remain that way. “But for what it’s worth, they’ll remember you, that I can guarantee.” And then, the knife’s twist: “David Schwartz,” he proclaims as though reading a headline. “The man who killed the President.”

“Gentlemen.”

And so it happens.

Thing One wraps the noose around his neck, all while Thing Two forces fabric over David’s mouth as to keep down any screaming.

“I’ll have to condemn you in public, of course,” Julian still talks as they work, and through David’s struggle, “and if you end up watching this from somewhere beyond, know my words won’t be genuine.” Thing Three prompts David up on the chair he’d been previously sitting on, and Julian has to look up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, David. I really am.”

The second drags on for too long. Julian can hear David’s breathing as though it’s down his neck. A nod. 

And then, the push.

“Wait, what?!” 

All of the strength David has gathered in the face of death is shattered by this announcement. One by one, each suppressed emotion explodes within him -- fear, panic, regret -- until wide-eyes begin to fill with tears. He thought he’d made peace with his own death, but the survival instinct kicks in a little too late. 

“You can’t do tha--” David shouts until his mouth is blocked and all that can be heard is muffled begging.

David blinks, and the next second he’s standing on a chair with a noose around his neck. It feels like there are more than a dozen hands working the scene until the three men step back. David looks at Julian. He kicks and turns, squirming to release himself from the noose but the more he tries the tighter it gets. Please, he screams with his eyes. Don’t do this.  

And then, his body falls limp... except the appendage between his legs. 

One might make the assumption that Julian wants David Schwartz dead.

That assumption would be wrong.

People like David, well— they were the people Julian admired the most. They were the driven, brilliant individuals that would shape a better America. It was a shame he had caught onto so much, but failed to see the future that Julian’s choices would get them. How he failed to see that Theresa Wright would spare David now, but wouldn’t lift one finely manicured finger to stop a war, or the gunning down of so many innocent victims across her country.

Well. Perhaps it wasn’t really hers anymore.

“I’m alright, thank you.” Julian tells him. Then he sighs, interlacing his fingers together, leaning back slightly in his seat. “So. What questions do you have for me?" 

Although it might sound like it, the question wasn’t at all rhetorical. He wanted answers, and that much Julian could respect. He could provide.

"I heard you’re a journalist. And you’ve been interested in me for quite some time. I must admit I’m a little hurt to have never gotten an interview request from you. Perhaps if you had gotten your answers from the source, we could have avoided all…” — he faintly gestures around them, to the dark of his apartment, to the men holding David down — “this.”

A beat.

“We could have avoided all this if you just hadn’t given her those documents. You are the reason Theresa will die.” He laughs a breathless, nervous sort of laugh. “Though if you think about it, there would be no need for you to die if she hadn’t showed me the documents, either. So in a way, she’s the reason that you’ll die, too. It’s really quite poetic, don’t you think?”

David retreats his gaze to the tabletop for as long as he can muster as Julian continues to talk. It is revealed only in this moment how Julian Berkeley thinks, the way he justifies his own actions, if only for a fractional amount of time, and David can find some solace in this fact. He almost believes it. 

And so, he succumbs to the situation as a small, hoarse scoff leaves him. 

David looks up to meet Julian in the eyes once more. “I’ve never liked poetry.” 

David is not at all comfortable with the grasps that are keeping him place, as the loudest thought in his head leads with how he could expose Julian Berkeley for everything that he is. Perhaps he could run into his room, turn on his laptop and send all the files that would expose Julian for everything that he is.

“You are the reason Theresa will die,” David replies. He can’t help but look up at Julian, betraying nothing in his gaze as he accepts his own fate. “You are the reason I will die. This could’ve been avoided if you didn’t do everything that you’ve ever done. You are despicable. One day, you will be in my place, and only then will you understand that everything would have been for nothing. America will not remember you.” 

Julian had done his part. 

Immediately after, despite the Secret Service that advised otherwise, Julian had insisted on following them to the hospital, because that was Theresa in the operating room— his President and partner, his friend, and he couldn’t leave her alone at a time like this. The fact that he’d ordered each bullet shot into her was something not to be dwelled upon.

When everything started, well over twenty years ago, Julian had come to terms with the rules of this game, as well as accepted the sacrifices that would come along the way. Losing Theresa had never been his plan, until David Schwartz made it so. 

Conveniently for him, the hospital was deemed unsafe for the time being, and would be cleared for the Vice — and soon to be — President when security was enhanced and the journalists blocked away. More conveniently still, Julian knew just who to visit in the meantime. 

This was the most amateur as he would ever be, to personally involve himself like this, but Julian had become too experienced and well connected not to make sure he covers his footsteps in the snow. 

"Hey, David,” he says, as though greeting an old friend. Considering what they shared between them, it didn’t feel too out of place. There’s no room for a breath or a beat after the words, a chance to run. In that split second after their eyes meet, the men which are twice the size of David and his frailness, grab him by both his arms, forcing the phone out of his hand. It’s handed to a third and last man, who already starts working on it. The devil’s in the details, and all. “I must say, I love your apartment. It’s really,” — Julian looks around again — “It’s quite cozy. I need to admit I don’t love all the pictures of me — we’re gonna have to take some of those down, aren’t we? —,” he says, absentmindedly, as a reminder to himself and the sharp-suited friends who’d accompanied him there.

Then, almost as if he had just noticed David standing there, Julian motions to a nearby chair, opposite the loveseat he’d claimed for himself. “Please. Take a seat.”

Two men appear to tower over David, making him feel smaller than he already does, sucking the air around him as if to tell him the fight for his last breath begins now. 

Instinctively, David attempts to resist as he looks down at the sheer force of steel grasping his arms, securing him in place, though you wouldn’t be able to tell solely from their grips. Like they’re holding a pheasant. Post hunt. 

If he died now, the last thing he would have seen are these hands. He would die staring at how weak, afraid and desperate he is. Just like ten years ago, when he couldn’t even look Julian in the eye, wearing posture like an apology. This time has to be different. It’s probably the last chance he’s going to get. 

And so, David looks up to meet Julian’s gaze once more, the tension in his arms is released as his eyes glaze over with one final realisation: he has nothing left to lose. Even as Julian echoes the voice of a simple friendly neighbour down the hall, David sees nothing but a man he’d meet in Hell. After all, once this is all over, they’d be one and the same: dirt.

At Julian’s demand, the guards move towards the chair and take David with them. He’s pushed down into the seat. 

“Would you like a drink?” David asks, gaze betraying nothing but a desolate winter. A sigh. “Mr. Vice President.”