Chapter Text
Congresswoman Samantha McKinley times her SoulCycle sessions perfectly— 7AM means she's showered and camera-ready by the time the morning shows start covering her latest bill. Today they're playing the clip where she talked about "community restoration" again. Her points about the collar program's fiscal responsibility are landing well with the target demographic.
She scrolls through her notifications while her housekeeper makes a green smoothie. Three texts from her financial advisor (ignore), two from her campaign manager (later), and one from her husband Brad about the Aspen house payment (definitely ignore).
"Coming up next: Representative McKinley's controversial expansion of rehabilitation visibility requirements—"
On the flatscreen TV, the press room at the Capitol is packed. On the flatscreen TV, the United States House of Representative seal looms large. And on the flatsceen TV, Samantha McKinley is a masterclass in presentation: glossy blonde hair smoothed into a flawless blowout, a navy blazer tailored to power, pearl earrings lending just the right touch of old-money composure. Her makeup is camera-ready but understated, reinforcing the image she’s spent years perfecting: polished, firm, but never brittle. The kind of woman who commands attention without demanding it.
She doesn’t fidget. She never does. Instead, she stands with the practiced ease of someone who has done this a thousand times: hands lightly resting on the podium, shoulders squared, mouth poised between a firm line and an inviting curve. A smile when needed, but not too much. Strength, but not severity. Femininity, but not weakness. A presence designed to reassure voters and keep donors happy.
"Congresswoman," a reporter from the Post calls out, "how would you respond to the countless survivors of sexual abuse who have spoken out about the program?"
"Let me be clear," she leans forward slightly, the way her media trainer taught her. "Do you know what happens every day in prisons across the country? We strip-search them. We force them to remove all of their clothing. To bend down and expose themselves. Daily. Would you call that sexual abuse? Would you publicly campaign for its abolition? Let our nation’s inmates smuggle in knives and drugs? This is the same principle—temporary surrender of privacy for rehabilitation purposes." She's used this line six times this week. It plays well with the law-and-order crowd.
A murmur ripples through the room. Time for her favourite statistics.
"The data speaks for itself. Eighty-four percent of collar recipients don't reoffend. Seventy percent report improved understanding of social responsibility. And we've saved taxpayers millions in incarceration costs."
"Furthermore," she continues, "my bill would expand successful elements of the program. For instance, extending visibility periods to up to six months for repeat offenders. Implementing mandatory community service components—"
"You mean forced labour," someone calls out.
Her smile doesn't waver. "I mean valuable job training opportunities. Would you rather see these people sitting in cells? This program gives them a chance to contribute to society while learning their lesson."
She thinks about the collar wearer she'd seen at Whole Foods yesterday, carrying someone's groceries. Such a better use of time than sitting in jail. Such a visible reminder of consequences.
Another hand rises. "What about the psychological impact—"
"The psychological impact of accountability?" She cuts in smoothly. "Yes, it's significant. That's the point. Actions have consequences. When I was growing up, my father taught me about personal responsibility. If you can't do the time, don't do the crime."
She doesn't mention her own shoplifting incident in college—the one her father's connections had quietly made disappear. That was different. She'd learned her lesson naturally, through proper channels. These people need more... visible correction.
"I'm proud to sponsor this bill," she concludes, standing straighter. "It's fiscally responsible, it's community-oriented, and most importantly—" she gives her warmest smile to the cameras, "it works."
"Turn it off," she tells her assistant. "What's my schedule?"
"Fundraising breakfast at eight, committee meeting at ten, lunch with the Panoptix lobbyist at noon—"
"Push the lunch. Tell them I'm doing constituent meetings." She doesn't need anyone tracking that particular connection. Not with the markets being so... volatile lately.
Her phone buzzes: Brad again. The Aspen payments can wait. The speaking fees from last month's "Women in Leadership" conference will cover it. Or the consulting work that definitely isn't related to her committee position. Or—
"Ma'am?" Her assistant appears in the doorway again. "Your brother's on Line One. Says it's urgent."
Samantha sighs. Thomas only calls when he needs money or…
"Sam." His voice is tight. "Turn on CNBC."
She does. The ticker at the bottom of the screen makes her smoothie turn to acid in her stomach:
BREAKING: SEC INVESTIGATING MEMBERS OF HOUSE JUDICIARY COMMITTEE FOR ALLEGED INSIDER TRADING. REP. MCKINLEY NAMED AS PERSON OF INTEREST.
"It's not what you think," Thomas says. "It's worse. They have the texts."
Her office becomes a war room within hours. Staffers hunched over phones, speaking in urgent whispers. Don, her campaign manager, paces with his phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp: "No comment at this time. The Congresswoman has no comment at this—"
Her father's voice mail again. Again.
Across the room, Mia, her chief of staff, stands by the window, polling numbers printed and ready before Samantha even has to ask. Tablet in hand, her expression unreadable, her usual sharp efficiency dulled at the edges. "The Post is running with it," she says. "Times too. They're connecting it to the Panoptix contributions—"
"Those were completely legitimate," Samantha snaps, but she's already texting the lobbyist: destroy the records.
Read receipt. No response.
Her lawyer arrives— Harrison with the $1200 hourly rate and the Harvard Law degree that usually makes problems go away. But he's not smiling.
"Say nothing," he tells her. "To anyone. Not even—" His phone buzzes. He reads the message, face going pale. "Shit."
"What?"
"Judge assignment just came through. Martinez."
The room goes very quiet.
Her phone lights up. Minority Leader's office. She stares at it until it stops ringing.
"Sam." Harrison's voice is careful. "There are going to be calls for you to step down from the committee."
"Like hell—"
"From your own party."
Another call. Unknown number. She lets it ring.
Brad texts: CNN saying 8 million???
Delete.
"Martinez," she says to the room at large. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. "Can we get him removed? Or— or force him to recuse himself? Conflict of interest—"
"After what you said about his daughter?" Harrison doesn't finish the thought.
The collar program. His daughter's protest. The press conference where Samantha had suggested some people clearly needed "extra rehabilitation."
Her chief of staff reappears now with a printout. Mia with the polling numbers, dropping. Campaign contributions, frozen. Instagram followers—God, who cares.
"Ma'am?" She hovers anxiously. "Congressman Morris's office asked me to remind you about tomorrow's fundraiser—"
"Tell him I'll be there."
"He... um. He wanted me to tell you not to come."
Oh.
Her phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from Thomas: They're executing search warrants.
She looks around her office— her perfect, polished office with the view of the Capitol and the framed photos with donors and the filing cabinet where she keeps the Panoptix contracts…
"Harrison," she says quietly. "How screwed am I?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just stares at his phone as another message comes through.
"Remember how you told Martinez he was an example of why we need more visibility in the justice system?"
She does. Fuck, she does.
"Well," he says, still staring at his phone. "Looks like he agrees."
"Absolutely not." Samantha paces Harrison's corner office, heels clicking against hardwood. "There has to be another option. What about home monitoring?"
"Martinez specifically cited your speech about how 'ankle monitors lack the necessary element of visible deterrence.'"
She stops pacing. "That was different. That was for—"
"For other people?" Harrison pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's exactly the point he's making."
“Eat shit, Harrison.”
"We need to discuss every option. The evidence is substantial."
"Then bury it. That's what I pay you for."
"Sam." Harrison arranges three folders on his desk with practiced precision. "Let me be extremely clear about our position here. The SEC has the texts. They have the financial records. They have documented meetings with Panoptix executives that coincide precisely with your stock purchases and legislative pushes."
She stops pacing. "That was all completely—"
"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Not even in here. The evidence is overwhelming, the jurisdiction is clear, and prosecution has an absolutely bulletproof case." He taps each folder in turn. "Look. Selfishly speaking, I would love to bill you thousands of hours for a trial. I would love to drag this out for months. But if we go to trial, you will lose your seat, your assets, and your freedom. In that order."
Her phone buzzes. Another message from party leadership about "containing the situation." She's been calling in every favour, every connection, but doors keep closing. Even her father's golf buddy on the appeals court had just coughed awkwardly and mentioned something about optics.
"What if I agree to step down from the committee?" Her voice sounds strange to her own ears.
"The prosecution won't accept it." Harrison starts organizing his papers again, a tell she knows means bad news coming. "They're offering a deal that makes this go away. Three weeks versus, at minimum, five years. Those are your options, and that window is closing."
"The appeals process—"
"Would take months. Long after the sentence is complete. And good luck appealing your own plea deal." Harrison sighs. “Look. If we move fast, we can control the narrative. Frame it as you wanting to experience the program firsthand. Show your commitment to—"
"To what? To my colleagues giving me orders on the House floor? While Santangelo makes fucking TikToks about it?"
"While you keep your seat. While you keep your freedom. While this becomes a footnote instead of a headline." He checks his watch. "The prosecution needs an answer by tomorrow. After that, they proceed with the full indictment."
She stares at her reflection in his office window. Still perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect blazer. Still in control. Still—
"I can't." Her voice cracks slightly. "This program isn't meant for..."
Harrison doesn't engage with that. Just starts writing numbers on his legal pad. "If we go to trial, you're looking at a minimum of sixty months. Plus fines. Plus forfeiture. Plus the media circus that would end your career anyway." He looks up. "The deal expires at noon tomorrow. Your call."
"We can control this narrative." Don spreads documents across her dining room table. The estate is empty except for Samantha's core team—Don, Harrison, Mia, Kevin, Eric. No staff, no servants. No witnesses.
"The Panoptix CEO agreed to a private fitting," Harrison says. "Their facility in Arlington, not the downtown center."
She nods. Of course they agreed. She'd helped expand their contracts into three new states.
"We schedule it between your leadership breakfast and the fundraiser at the Conrad," Don continues. "Limited press access. Focus on the community service angle—reading in schools, maybe. Something photogenic."
"Better make it nursing homes," Mia murmurs. "No. Hospice. Less chance of inappropriate requests."
They've mapped out every minute of the three weeks. Carefully chosen public appearances. Strategic photo-ops. A rotating team of staffers to run interference. They're even coordinating outfits to minimize the collar's visibility in photos.
It could work. It has to work. She's already drafted her statement about "choosing" this option to better understand her constituents. Her team has focus-grouped every word.
"The Martinez camp pushed back on private security," Harrison warns. "But we can have your regular detail nearby. Just not... directly intervening."
She examines her manicure. "And the House schedule?"
"We've arranged for you to miss any controversial votes. Plenty of representatives take brief leaves. The story will be about your voluntary community service, your dedication to—"
"And Santangelo?"
A pause. Her campaign manager clears his throat. “His base hates you anyway. Let him post. But we're focusing on you. Stability. Experience. Grace under pressure."
She stands, walks to her wine fridge. The Bordeaux is perfectly chilled. "We can make this work." Her voice is steady. Confident. "A minor setback. Show them I can handle anything with dignity."
Her team nods. They're good at their jobs. The best money can buy.
"The Panoptix fitting is scheduled for Thursday," Harrison says. "They assured me personally it will be handled with the utmost discretion."
She sips her wine. Everything is under control. She has resources, connections, an entire team dedicated to maintaining her image. This won't be like other cases. This will be carefully managed. Dignified.
Her phone buzzes. A text from the Panoptix CEO herself: Everything arranged as discussed. This will be painless.
She sets her glass down. Perfectly steady hands. Perfectly maintained control.
This is fine. This will be fine.
She can handle three weeks of anything.