Chapter Text
After everything with the Texas memo, Miguel gets an email.
Cryptically worded, vaguely ominous, and with a promise of cash; he recognizes the name, Sean Holmwood. He googles it with dread in his heart to find, yes, the email is from some former BreitBart guy who eventually made his own offshoot conservative news site.
He scoffs at it at first. The guy seems like an ass and he’s probably desperate, too, if he’s going after Miguel of all people. So, he deletes the email, closes his phone, and carries on with his day for a good hour.
An hour later, he goes to the recently deleted folder and stares at the zeros in the amount he’s promised. Restores the email, but just keeps it in his inbox without a reply.
As the days go by and the engagement numbers on his articles about the Texas memo start to tick down, predictably, the usual kick-in-the-ass to get on with the new story starts to hit.
He keeps at his work. Rolls his eyes at guys that Sean probably supports. Grinds his teeth with another Jeffrey or Mitch comes on TV and blatantly lies.
He hates these guys. They hate him . He’s a journalist. He’s a democrat. Among a swath of other reasons. He’s probably blocked this guy on twitter already, honestly. He actually has a respectable career, unlike these guys getting laughed off by anybody who isn’t one of them. Even a few thousand with a possibility for more isn’t enough for this.
But when it’s a week away from payday and he gets his credit card statement in the mail, he’s still thinking about it. He’s still wondering what made them email him. Maybe they’re hoping he’s got more memos from the Claremont campaign.
And he does. One: just about workplace diversity within the campaign. Not much use to anyone, honestly.
Except a guy who’d be able to spin it for some bullshit “Claremont HQ Goes Woke” article. He’d find a use for it. He’d pay for it, clearly. He’d pay enough to cover Miguel’s bills for the month.
He thinks it over and over every step of the reply, nearly talks himself out of it several times, but stops thinking about it the second he hits send. Too late by then.
Miguel Ramos [email protected]
to Sean Holmwood [email protected]
What day and time? We can discuss the pay further when we meet.
He gets a reply back within an hour, a day and time, a coffee shop just outside of DC. A promise to have a bit extra pay, “for the trouble”. He’s not sure if that means the trouble of going out of his way to meet-up or the trouble of working with somebody like Sean.
He’s visited once. It was nearly empty, but with music just loud enough that he couldn’t focus and had to find somewhere else to work. Fitting for something like this, he supposes. Also explains why more than a few people glared at him when he walked in with a laptop, if this is the usual clientèle and their activities.
He adds it to his calendar, stares at it to be sure he got the details correct, then stops staring at it when his body starts to catch up with what his mind has done and his nerves kick in.
It’s fine. At worst, Sean wants the contact that got him the memo in the first place — which he’s not giving out. He’ll send off the memo. Get paid. Go home and forget about it. It’s going to be fine.
It’s just a meeting.
Miguel arrives to the coffee shop ten minutes early, with his laptop in tow. He orders an iced americano, clocks the seemingly pointed lack of oat milk on the menu and gets almond instead.
He scans his eyes across the room while waiting for his drink and doesn’t see Sean yet, so he finds his own seat at a small two-person table.
He sits and stirs his drink, stares at the ice and tries not to talk himself into leaving. Especially not with less money and more subpar coffee.
Precisely on time, Sean Holmwood arrives dress sharp and without hurry. He taps his knuckles to the counter, exchanges a few words and a few dollars with the barista. They hand over a coffee after a few moments.
He doesn’t greet Miguel, just sets down his cup and sits with a sigh.
“What else do you have on Claremont?” Sean asks, after a moment.
Miguel shoots back, “how much did you bring?”
“An extra thousand. You didn’t give me much to go off of.”
He didn’t give up much because he doesn’t have much.
“I’ve got one other memo. It’s more about their workplace than the campaign itself,” he explains, “I know Alex from a few events, I mostly got lucky with the memo and the quote.”
Sean pulls at that string, though, “How close are you?”
“We’d talk when we saw each other, at least before the memo,” he says. He hasn’t seen Alex since, but he’s hoping the time in Texas will be enough for him to halfway-forget about the article. Hopefully enough for him to pick up on the heavy hints he’s been dropping for months, too.
Sean seems to think about it for a moment, then, “This new memo’s from the same place as the last one?”
Miguel nods. It is. It’s just something that only right-wingers desperate for more anti-Claremont fodder would care about. People who could never be convinced to vote for her, anyways, so he doesn’t feel too bad handing it over.
Sean purses his lips for a moment, as if he’s thinking it over, but still fakes a smile when he says, “You’ve got a deal, then.”
They exchange bank information, and Miguel watches the transfer go through while Sean watches his hand on the send button. He clicks send the moment the money comes through.
He closes his laptop and tucks it into his bag; he’s already itching to get out of this place and never speak to this guy again, but Sean seems to sense it on him, and holds up a finger as he takes a sip from his coffee.
Great.
Sean swallows, clears his throat, taking his time. “If you happen to see Alex around, or any of the first family — maybe talking to somebody interesting, or doing something interesting,” he shrugs with a laugh, “or doing some body interesting. Give me a call.”
He passes a number, surely a burner, and Miguel glares down at it. “Am I getting paid for that, too? I’m not a photographer. I’m certainly not passing around their information for free, either.”
“Of course,” Sean says, “If our photographers get there in time, you’ll get paid.”
With money already in his account and the memo out of his hands, he’s finally able to properly barter with this asshole, “how’s it my fault your photographers aren’t quick enough? Hell, how do I know they actually missed him? What’s stopping you from just not telling me?”
Sean grimaces, “We’re not paying you to send us all around DC for cash.”
“I won’t,” Miguel says “But I’m not telling you shit if I’m not getting paid for it.”
“Five hundred?”
“Dollars?”
“No, pesos.”
Miguel is half out of his seat and halfway through a swear when Sean holds up a hand and speaks.
“Alright, alright. You’ll get paid for what we find. Quarter of whatever we sell it for if we find anything.”
He takes his time easing back into the seat, still not comfortable in it, “Quarter of what? How much?”
“Depends on what you find, doesn't it?” Sean pushes the card forward, again, “Just call me if you find anything, alright? All I’m asking.”
“Whatever.”
He feels sick but he still grabs the card and jams it into his pants pocket as he gets up to leave.
He thinks Sean says something in parting, a goodbye or a thanks or some grumble in annoyance for all he knows. He doesn’t stop to listen, just keeps walking until he’s back into the fresh air. The card jabs into his thigh through his pocket.
He tries not to think about why they wanted this. Why they wanted him in on this, specifically. Where the money’s from and why they’ve got enough to just throw it around at possible leads. He doubts its just Sean, the revenue for Miguel’s own site isn’t always great and he highly doubts Sean is doing that much better.
He pays his credit card statement and his utilities with the money. Only then does he save Sean’s number into his phone.