The attention was short lived, though, and before he could completely correct his slouch, the woman had turned away and was, once again, deeply engrossed in whispering with her co-conspirators. In theory, Beamon was to be the star of this show, the reason they had gathered there, but right now he felt more like an ornament. And the longer he was ignored, the more he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. Beamon turned to look behind him at the empty benches lined up between him and the distant double doors he'd entered through. There were no cameras and spectators were nonexistent. Other than himself and the five members of Congress towering over him at their enormous desk podium the room contained only a few young aides who seemed to have perfected the art of melting into whatever wall they stood against. If it weren't so goddamn dangerous, the whole thing would have been funny. Nothing he said here today was going to make any difference. His future, or lack thereof, was preordained.
