12
Lark
The mayor’s prediction came true. As I had known it would.
The press latched on to Court’s arrest like leeches trying to suck us all dry. They were camped out in front of the campaign office, City Hall, the Kensington residence. Court was under unofficial house arrest. Which I’d gathered meant his mother had threatened him within an inch of his life if he left his penthouse.
It wasn’t ideal.
A week ago, we’d joked about the opposition using the word feminism against us for a sound bite. Now, we had this mess.
I could already see the television ads screaming how the mayor claimed to be tough on crime while she had a delinquent son. Whether Court had done anything or not was irrelevant. It was the headline, the flashy story, the sensationalized side of it that sold newspapers.
