This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Cynthia awoke to 238 missed emails, 186 missed calls, and 502 missed text messages. She opened her news aggregator app, and every major outlet led with her story: New York Times, Washington Post, POLITICO, Fox News, NPR, all of them.
Her eyes bulged.
She gingerly placed her ancient phone on the coffee table as if it might explode. On her way to the kitchen, she physically jumped every time it pulsed with new notifications, which melded into a near-constant rumble, making it appear to come alive with malicious intent. It slid off the table and onto the floor, where it embarked on a sideways crawl across the living room. Everyone, it seemed, was trying to get a hold of her.
Cynthia warily ate a bowl of cereal at her dining room table and watched the phone on its unhurried journey toward the front door. It had traveled approximately two feet since she’d sat down five minutes ago. Maybe, she mused, it would walk right out and leave her alone.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, much as a swimmer might prepare for an Arctic plunge.
“OK,” she said out loud. “This is what you wanted. Deal with it.”
She stood from the table, walked resolutely to the phone, bent down, straightened up, and continued resolutely walking right into the bedroom, where she crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
Ten minutes of panicked breathing later, Cynthia reemerged from her cushioned cocoon and grabbed her phone as it gently rammed the side of her doormat. She held it like a Claymore mine and stared at the screen, which might as well have read, “Front Toward Enemy.”
The next two weeks of Cynthia’s life were packed to the gills with in-person, remote, and phone interviews. Her days started at around 6 AM and, by the time they ended past midnight, she’d been plastered with what felt like a Grand Canyon’s worth of sedimentary TV studio makeup. She repeated her story on seemingly infinite panels, talk shows, news programs, podcasts, and radio segments, always seeking to thread the nearly impossible contradictions of being likable but not frivolous, knowledgeable but not overeager, attractive but not slutty, serious but not haughty, that every woman in the public eye must balance.
Her social media following skyrocketed into the hundreds of thousands, along with the corresponding geometric rise in ethnic slurs, threats of violence, and—of course—dick pics. But this is what you did to succeed, and this is what first-generation Hispanic immigrants were expected to endure on the path to success: absolutely demolish their physical and mental health in the attempt.
By the time the news cycle had mercifully (from Cynthia’s perspective) shifted to cover a fashion mogul/influencer/reggaetonera who had claimed to be Puerto Rican for years when she was actually an Italian girl from Westchester County, Cynthia could barely stay awake with quadruple her daily recommended dose of Adderall. She sat on her bed and scrolled through her somewhat more manageable inbox in a fugue state, eyes only half-open, brain operating at 15% capacity, when a new email jolted her into full consciousness. A spokesperson had reached out on behalf of Griffin Elzos. He wanted her to interview him.
The following morning, Cynthia folded her arms over her blazer and shivered as she walked into the atrium of Elzos’ newest, 80-story office building overlooking Biscayne Bay. She approached a polite Haitian security officer sitting behind a monolithic block of gray marble. He and his desk appeared miniscule against the sheer refrigerated emptiness of the white-paneled foyer, which rose a full forty feet in height. Cynthia made a quick mental calculation of how much rent Elzos could make if he filled that imposing vacuum with offices, but hey, it must be nice to be rich enough to burn money on the most minimalist aesthetic possible: sterile, frigid air.
The guard lowered the automatic swinging arms that barred entry to the elevator bank. Her ears popped three times as the car rocketed up to the top floor. A receptionist behind another monumental stone slab led Cynthia through a labyrinth of chest-high cubicles, post-abstract expressionist wall art, and frosted conference room windows to a set of plain hardwood double doors.
“Mr. Elzos is expecting you,” she said before thrusting them open.
The office was nothing special, barely larger than a middle-class living room. Glass shelves held a smattering of awards, picture frames, and handful of books along one wall. The other was largely taken up by an enormous, black, recessed TV. The back wall, however, was a single sheet of glass with a breathtaking view of the bay. The William H. Powell bridge arched over a patchwork of alternating green and blue open water framed by Virginia Key’s and Key Biscayne’s amber mangrove forests. When Cynthia squinted, she could just glimpse the Florida Keys on the horizon.
The vista was only somewhat obstructed by a 60-somethingish man sitting behind a rectangular desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a defunct fast casual restaurant. The only object on its surface was a slim, metallic laptop.
Griffin Elzos wore slacks, felt loafers, a button down, short-cropped gray hair, and a short-cropped gray beard. He looked—to Cynthia’s eyes—like un gringo. That might not mean much to those born outside South Florida, but to Miami’s native denizens (only 12% of which were Anglos), it speaks volumes. The man’s generic whiteness would’ve looked perfectly at home ordering a Malbec at a Bal Harbour wine bar, attending a Cocoplum garden party, or yelling at a Publix sandwich lady to speak English.
Elzos glanced up from the screen and smiled at Cynthia.
“Good morning, Ms. Burgos,” he said. “Please take a seat.”
Cynthia looked around her Spartan surroundings, which failed to proffer anything on which she could possibly sit other than the floor.
“Oh! Of course,” he continued, slapping his forehead in exaggerated contrition. “This happens more often than I’d like to admit. My fetish for stark simplicity always poses issues for guests. I just messaged Jessica to bring in a spare seat.”
“Why not just leave a chair in here?” asked Cynthia.
“I don’t like clutter,” answered Elzos as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Cynthia took out a pen, notepad, and opened a recording app on her phone.
“Do you mind if I record?” she asked.
“Of course not,” answered Elzos.
She placed the phone on the floor.
The receptionist who guided Cynthia into the office re-entered with a shiny aluminum cylinder the height and width of two paint cans stacked atop each other. She unceremoniously placed it in the middle of the floor and left. This, apparently, was Cynthia’s seat.
But Cynthia was game, so she joined her knees and ankles to make sure her skirt didn’t ride up and carefully sank onto the canister, legs at an acute angle to the floor.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, balancing precariously on the cylinder she could swear had been placed in a freezer an hour before her arrival.
“Oh, I thought we already had,” retorted Elzos.
Cynthia gave him a thin, curt smile.
“I read your call transcript with Governor Santos…”
“As has half the country, thanks to you,” interrupted Elzos, his eyes narrowing.
“Right,” she continued. “Do you acknowledge that the transcript accurately documented your call with Governor Santos?”
“I do.”
“So, you admit you offered to donate $65 million to the governor’s reelection campaign?”
“I do.”
“In exchange for exclusive development rights to Seabreeze Ridge?”
“I don’t,” he replied flatly. “And we’re calling it Miami Heights now. Has a better ring to it.”
Cynthia shot him a skeptical look.
“The transcript is very clear. The governor offered to circumvent the public bidding process in return for your donation.”
“My battalion of corporate and campaign finance attorneys disagrees, Ms. Burgos,” replied Elzos sharply. “I happen to have your article open on my monitor. Shall we check the record?”
He smacked his lips and turned to his laptop.
“The governor mentions all the bureaucracy associated with state contracts. I correctly note that she has built a reputation of cutting through red tape—a factual statement that can be easily confirmed with a simple online news search. Then she changes the subject by explicitly (explicitly!) stating the unrelated nature of the segue into how her reelection committee has not yet hit its fundraising goals. I commiserate and offer to help her meet it. And that’s the end of the conversation. No stated exchange of the contract for the donation. No quid pro quo whatsoever.”
Elzos leaned back into his chair with a satisfied expression.
“You seem to be splitting extremely fine hairs, Mr. Elzos,” said Cynthia. “Any rational person would assume you offered that $65 million at the governor’s suggestion in return for the ability to develop Seabreeze Ridge.”
“Miami Heights,” corrected Elzos with. “And call me Griffin. We’re all friends here, Cynthia. May I call you ‘Cynthia?’”
Cynthia shrugged and almost fell off the cylinder.
“Go ahead,” she said upon regaining her balance.
“Judicial rulings are not based on assumptions,” he started. “They are based on facts. And the fact of the matter is that the Supreme Court has stated that bribery entails unambiguously offering an X for a Y. There was no offer made or accepted in that conversation so, regardless of the fineness of the hairs being split or what you believe a rational person might think, defendants have successfully made the very same argument before the highest court of the land.”
Cynthia clenched her jaw and fought the urge to launch into a rant about how monied interests had bought the United States’ judicial system.
“Let’s move on to my next question,” she offered through her teeth. “Have you signed a contract with the state to develop Seabreeze Ridge?”
Elzos gave her a strained laugh.
“Remember,” he held up a finger and answered in the tone of an elementary school teacher losing patience with his class. “It’s Miami Heights. And we’ve signed a memorandum of understanding.”
“So, not legally binding?”
“Not yet but soon enough.”
“What are your plans for the neighborhood?”
Elzos’ eyes brightened.
“Ah! Now we finally get to the good part!” he exclaimed. “I want to build a modern Camelot—a city on a hill housing at least 20,000 residents. The more affordable single-family townhouses at $3 million apiece will be built on the lowest elevations. Mid-rise condos worth $5 million will ring the central portion of the Heights. The uppermost levels will be dedicated to luxury high rise condominiums starting at $8 million and—at the hill’s very pinnacle—we’ll build a 1,000-foot skyscraper christened Miami Elevated. Think Mont saint-Michel! Think Assisi!”
“Think a giant boob with the world’s pointiest nipple,” muttered Cynthia.
“What was that?” asked Elzos.
“Nothing,” she replied innocently. “How much will all that be worth?”
“You mean the total real estate value?”
“Yes.”
“My appraisers estimate around $279 billion.”
Cynthia whistled.
“Not bad for $65 million!” she exclaimed.
Elzos glared at her before continuing.
“Linear parks like green belts will separate the different levels. Automated gondolas and street cars will travel regular circuits so there won’t be any need for automobiles.”
“Public parks and functioning public transit,” quipped Cynthia. “If only the rest of Miami were so lucky.”
“Indeed,” agreed Elzos. “Unfortunately, excellence comes at a premium.”
“How do you plan on keeping out the parts of Miami that can’t afford that premium?”
“A 20-foot concrete wall. It’ll all be very tasteful. We’ll commission murals from local BIPOC artists.”
Cynthia failed to suppress her disgust. She cleared her throat.
“OK, and how will your residents get to and from Seabreeze Ridge? It’s 20 miles to their offices in Brickell. I doubt they’ll want to spend two hours in traffic either way.”
“It’s ‘Miami Heights,” Cynthia,” said Elzos, at the end of his patience. “And we’ll build a private highway right across the city only accessible to residents. With a 100 miles per hour speed limit, they’ll be at their desks before they know it.”
“And who will police this highway?”
“A private security force, of course.”
“Of course,” assented Cynthia with a patronizing smile. “How will the thousands of service sector workers needed to run your neighborhood travel to it?”
“We’ll charter a private bus fleet to depart from strategic locations throughout the county.”
“Will they also use your new highway?”
Elzos laughed incredulously.
“Of course not! The expressway is just for residents. A greyhound would slow traffic, not to mention ruin the entire experience! No, the help can take the street grid.”
He paused.
“I can tell by your demeanor that you think this is all very gauche one-percenter nonsense. You probably think I’m ruining the city.”
Cynthia slackened her face to present a perfectly placid expression.
“I think you ruined the lives of many of the 15,000 people who used to live on Seabreeze Ridge and now have nowhere to go.”
“I see we’re not going to come to an agreement on nomenclature,” he retorted tersely. “As for the former residents, the property owners will be properly compensated by the state. The renters will be given assistance until they can find new housing.”
“You take the governor at her word on all that?”
“I do,” he answered forthrightly. “All of South Florida will benefit from lower housing costs because Miami Heights will concentrate the highest net worth individuals into a single, dense neighborhood, granting everyone else cheaper rents, cheaper mortgages, and cheaper property insurance now that private insurers are finally returning to Florida specifically because they want to insure Miami Heights.”
Elzos leaned forward in his chair, propped his elbows on the desk, and knit his fingers together.
“I don’t lack self-awareness,” he said. “I know you’re judging me. You think I’m enabling the rich’s worst impulses, making them more insular, more privileged. But allow me to pose you this: the rich will always pursue those impulses. Does it truly matter if they do it in Fisher Island, Indian Creek, or Miami Heights? At least by putting them all in my development, the rest of South Florida can benefit.”
Cynthia’s legs had fallen asleep.
“Got it,” she said, rising unsteadily from the canister. “That’s all I have for you. Do you have anything else you’d like to add before I go?”
“Nothing at the moment, but I’ll make sure to ring you up if I do.”
“OK. Thank you for your time.,” Cynthia closed the notebook and moved toward the doors. “I’ll send your executive assistant a link to the article when it’s published.”
“It’s been a pleasure hosting you,” replied Elzos with a wan smirk. “Have a wonderful day.”
The smile fell from his face as soon as Cynthia walked out the room. Half a minute later, Jessica reappeared through the doors.
“Make contact with the Mossad vets,” he commanded. “I want them on her like white on rice. They need to intercept and analyze every email, call, and message she sends or receives. I want to know everything. Also, for Christ’s sake, use secure comms, unlike Santos’ clowns.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied briskly. “I’ll use a burner phone.”
“Thank you. Dismissed.”
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