CHAPTER 1
Monday Morning

        The bottom became clearer with each spin of his soon to be lifeless body.  Gray veins in the Italian marble floor below, billowed like waves in a seductive and beckoning sea.  Mayor Elijah D. Farrow's meticulously tailored pinstriped suit flapped with each twist of his flailing limbs as he plummeted through the five-story rotunda of City Hall.  Even in mid-flight, he still looked the part of a man who had risen triumphantly from the ghettos of San Francisco to the height of political power and wealth.
        Grotesque stone gargoyles that had greeted him every day of his administration were now alive and dancing ecstatically on their cement perches, cheering him on to his final destination.  The wings on carved cherubs protruding from ornate wall panels seemed to flap in delight as Elijah tried in vain to find some trace of sympathy in their angelic, yet tormented faces.
        Florentine scrolls carved into the forth floor balcony that once read "San Francisco Founded in 1880", now proclaimed "MAYOR ELIJAH D. FARROW COMMITS SUICIDE AT CITY HALL".  Nothing mattered to him any longer.  Dorian was gone.  His wife had betrayed him.  Above all, the city and the people he loved more than life itself now mocked and pitied him.
        It wasn't true what he had heard about death.  Your whole life doesn't pass before your eyes when you die.  Inside the fall, he could only see the horrifying events that led him to jump from the top gallery.  The second hand ticked as if each second were a day, and each day an eternity.

*    *    *    *    *
        Muted light enveloped the large conference room at City Hall.  The mayor's staff looked as rested and eager as possible considering it was 8:00 on a Monday morning.  For most, the slightly crooked neckties, eyes ringed with brown circles, and stockings slightly sagging at the knees, told of weekends filled with excessive drinking, obsessive worrying, and sleepless nights.
        The room bulged with a mix of young political whiz kids, a smattering of gray-haired civil service survivors, and wide-eyed neophytes who were clueless as to the gravity of their role in running the great city.  Hands clung to coffee stained paper cups from the shop on the first floor, and expensive leather attaché cases littered the floral printed carpet.
        Five to six bodies slumped at tables placed around the room in no particular order.  Although there was no pattern to the location of the tables, one in the center of the room held staff who ranked as elite members of the mayor's inner circle.  No one dared occupy these coveted seats without unanimous consent from the fiercely territorial pack.
        The Mayor's Chief of Staff , Cynthia Fulton, stood near her seat at the center table, and addressed the gathering of 60 employees.  
        "We have a problem in city hall, and some of you…you know who you are…are the cause of it."
         Bodies shifted in vinyl padded seats as Cynthia continued.
        "Mice droppings have been spotted throughout the building, and there's been an infestation of roaches and ants in the fourth floor staff lounge.  I've said this before people, and I'll say it again, please do not leave food in your desks."
        A stifled laugh escaped from a new staff member in the rear of the room, followed by dead silence.  Cynthia looked in the direction of a red-faced young man.
        "This is no laughing matter people.  I've worked for Mayor Farrow for four years, and I know for a fact that he'd be very displeased to know that his beloved City Hall had an infestation of vermin."  
        A man in horn rimmed glasses near the rear of the room whispered to his tablemate. "If her husband wasn't one of the biggest contributors to the Mayor's campaign, she would have been fired years ago."
        Even after it became clear that the "problem" Cynthia referred to was only a problem in her own mind, no one in the room relaxed.  The critical tone had been set for the week
         "Now to the next item," Cynthia continued, "As you all know, it's time again for the annual ‘Clean Our Streets' campaign.  We expect each of you to sign up as many volunteers as possible.  The Mayor would like all of you to attend."
As she spoke, the rear door opened and Mayor Elijah Farrow walked in.  With his arms sternly crossed, and eyes squinting, he leaned against a wall in the rear of the room.  His black suit hung as though stitched with skilled precision directly onto his muscular six-foot frame.  A cranberry colored silk tie, knotted to perfection, jutted from beneath a crisply starched white shirt, revealing the subtle red tones in his flawless skin.  
Cynthia paused mid-sentence and greeted Elijah.  
        "Good Morning Mr. Mayor," she said.  "I was just reminding everyone about the  ‘Clean Our Streets' campaign and how you would like them to participate."
         "Correction Cynthia," Elijah interrupted.  "Everyone who expects to have a job Monday morning will be there with a broom in one hand, a plastic trash bag in the other, and a god damned pack of grinning volunteers on their heels.  Cynthia I want you to report to me personally any staff member who does not show up.  Understand?"
      Cynthia attempted to change the subject.  
       "Mayor Farrow, we are expecting more media coverage this year, and KCOP has agreed to air the opening ceremony at Civic Center."
        "I don't care if ABC, NBC and CBS are all there," Elijah said curtly.  "Just make sure that every one of my staff shows."  He jerked his stiff body away from the wall, uncrossed his arms, and peered into the now mortified crowd.   
        "Some of you don't seem to realize this job is not just a paycheck it's an honor.  You show up at community events when it's convenient for you.  And don't think I don't know why; it's because most of you don't even live in San Francisco.  That's why I get so damn many complaints about you not returning constituent calls, leaving early, and not giving voters the respect they deserve.      Let me remind you that you represent me, and if you fuck up, I get blamed on Election Day.  So Cynthia, I'll say it again since you chose to ignore me the first time.  I want you to let me know who in this room doesn't show up, and I'll deal with them personally."
        Cynthia stood frozen as all eyes in the room probed her face for the humiliation they all now assuredly shared.  She simply replied, "Yes, Mr. Mayor".  
        The staff meeting continued for the next half-hour without further commentary from Elijah.  Several brave staff members asked pointless questions in attempts to appear interested and concerned.  Cynthia had recovered quickly from her most recent dressing-down at the hands of the master she blindly served.  From rat droppings, and the ‘Clean Our City' campaign to dress codes, the meeting was adjourned after the introduction of two new wide-eyed young staff members.  
Bodies retrieved briefcases and coffee cups, and filed solemnly through the double doors into the cavernous hall.  Cynthia gathered her morning newspaper and darted through the crowd towards Elijah.  Naomi Sharp, the Mayor's Press Secretary, followed closely behind.  Both women waved off comments from staff members as they passed through the crowd.  They focused on catching Elijah, who had exited the room and was now moving rapidly towards the elevators.  
Naomi was a tall woman who, regardless of the weather, wore two-piece, monotone wool suits.  Her stiff, shoulder-length hair bobbed like a straw hat, as she maneuvered around people whose names she never felt the need to learn.  Her costume bracelet rattled with each swift step she took.   
The two women caught up with Elijah.  Together they fell quickly into step as if they had been at his side the entire length of the hall.  Lesser staff members moved to the wayside as Cynthia and Naomi took their rightful places next to the mayor.  Elijah stared directly ahead.
        "Cynthia, don't ever ignore a directive I give you again," he said.
        "I wasn't ignoring you Mr. Mayor, I…"
        "And please don't tell me I misunderstood your behavior.  I know what I saw." His voice was calm, but the stern expression conveyed the depth of his annoyance.  "Naomi," he continued,  "What time are we scheduled to meet with Ken Livingston, and what the hell does he want?"
        Naomi's throat dried as she strained to respond.  "Eleven o'clock Mr. Mayor.  I'm not sure why he wanted to meet, but I thought it best considering the negative press he's been giving you lately.  I tried to get him to give me a heads up, but he wouldn't."
        "Well next time check with me first," Elijah said as he pressed the elevator button.  "It took months for me to live down his last article about hypodermic needles in park sandboxes and the ‘river of shopping carts used by homeless people flowing like an oil slick along city sidewalks'.  He's obviously trying to make me look like a fool, and I don't want to be blind-sided by that asshole again."
        "Yes sir.  I tried to clear it with you first but . . ."
        "Never mind.  Just don't let it happen again."
        Cynthia was relieved the focus had shifted from her.  The three stepped into an elevator heading up to the fifth floor.  The doors closed and Elijah's firm body slumped against the back wall with a thud.
         "Naomi.  Get me the most recent stats on the homeless.  How many, how much we're spending on shelters, and some success stories.  I want to be ready for Ken this time."
          Naomi scribbled the mayor's instructions and was answering, "Yes sir." as the elevator doors slid open.