Chapter Text
January 5th, 1981
The air in the mahogany-paneled hearing room was stifling, but Paul Sheldon looked as if he were enjoying a brisk autumn walk. He sat across from the White Commission board members, his eyes hard and mocking. When the Chairman slammed a copy of My Name is Sue Snell onto the table and demanded to know why Sheldon's publisher hadn't flagged it for "national security" review, Paul didn't even flinch. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
"National security?" Paul repeated, the corner of his mouth twitching with a sharp, literary disdain for the people before him. His eyes were filled with a disgust that he only held for the people of Derry "You mean the security of your own reputations. You weren't worried about that when you were trying to pin a mass casualty event on a eighteen-year-old girl who was pregnant and grieving both her friends and the boy she loved."
"Mr. Sheldon, the implications of the high-energy events—" one board member began nervously, rubbing their hands.
"Save it," Paul cut him off, his voice cutting through the room like an ice-cold whip as his eyes stared them down "I read the transcripts of the interrogations from 1979. I saw how you handled Sheriff Doyle. You tried to gaslight a man while the town was literally burning down around him, asking if he was one hundred percent sure about a girl’s words just so you could force a 'jealous lover' theory. You wanted to make Tommy Ross the villain—a boy who was, by all accounts, one of the few decent souls in that gym—just so you wouldn't have to explain why John Hargensen couldn't keep his sociopathic daughter on a leash since elementary school." His voice was filled with disgust and rage towards their actions but also how they proceeded towards it.
And while he did know that not everyone started a sociopath in elementary school and there was even a book by one of Hargensen’s friends---a girl named Donna Kellogg---encouraging people to give Chris Hargensen a more nuanced portrayal (but grimly acknowledging that a lack of firm, stern parental boundaries and the school system brushing bullying off pushed the girl down the path she took), Paul couldn't help his disgust with the way that Ms. Snell and others were treated after the Prom tragedy.
Paul slowly leaned forward in his seat, his shadow looming over the Commission’s redacted files. "You looked at a massacre and saw a chance to conduct a social experiment on the survivors. You wanted to turn Sue Snell into a scapegoat because you didn't have the stomach to face the truth of what your 'oversight' allowed to happen. Well, here’s the thing about writers, gentlemen: I don't like people who try to edit the truth to save their own skins." He casually tapped the cover of Sue’s book---the cover that was a fire looming over the town "This is karma and the consequence of your callousness. You thought she was a helpless mother you could scapegoat and bury in a filing cabinet. It turns out she’s an author. And in this country, a well-told story is a hell of a lot harder to kill than Sue Snell's reputation."
The Chairman’s face turned a mottled purple. "The Commission—"
The hearing room fell into a silence so profound it felt like the air had been sucked out of a vacuum. Paul Sheldon stood abruptly, his presence filling the space with the effortless gravity of a man who dealt in the life and death of characters every day. He looked down at the Commission members—men in grey suits who lived behind desks—and saw them for exactly what they were: small men terrified of a large truth that they were trying to hide from the public.
"There is nothing you can threaten me with," Paul said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, terrifying certainty with calm, seething rage looming behind his face as he remembered the 'contempt' they had threatened Ms. Snell with if she didn't answer their questions in one questioning "And there is nothing or any so-called contempt you can do to scare me. You’ve spent your careers trying to control the narrative, but you forgot one thing: you don't own that pen anymore, gentlemen."
Across the country, millions watched the broadcast. In Chicago, Sue sat on her sofa with Isabelle, her hand over her mouth, tears blurring her vision. In Virginia, Andy and Vicky McGee stood in their darkened kitchen, mesmerized by the screen. Paul Sheldon, a man who had never met Sue Snell, was standing in the breach, shielding her with his own colossal reputation.
Paul picked up his briefcase, but before he turned to leave, he leaned over the table, his eyes locking onto the Chairman’s. "You wanted a scapegoat and you thought a pregnant girl was an easy target. But you didn't realize that when you come for an innocent mother—someone who has the courage to speak the truth—you come for the public who won't tolerate being scapegoated." He knew that these men in the Commission wouldn't know courage and compassion even if it struck them in the backside "Ms. Snell isn't just a case file that you can use for blame. She’s a survivor, and as of this morning, she’s the most protected woman in America. If a single hair on her head or her child’s head is harmed, I will spend every cent I have and every word I write to ensure your names are synonymous with 'traitor' for the rest of history."
He turned and walked out. The cameras caught his silhouette as he calmly exited the room—a father-esque figure who had just unknowingly declared war on the shadow government.
On news channels and in living rooms, even those who were neutral had to agree as the sentiment became unanimous: Paul Sheldon wasn't just the author of the Misery books but a freaking badass. He had taken the White Commission’s teeth and handed them back in a jar.
"Holy crap, do not mess with Paul Sheldon," Norma remarked in amazement, running her hand through her short brunette hair. Behind her, a sophomore college student in Boston University whom she'd gotten to know---Michael Hartwell---nodded in agreement, his glazed hazel eyes squinting at the television in sharp suspicion.
"Mr. Sheldon has a daughter whom he's gone to great lengths to keep out of sight of the media," Michael Hartwell remarked quietly, running a hand through his dark hair as his lips pursed in disgust at the Commission. He didn't blame Mr. Sheldon for wanting to keep his daughter out of sight of the media "I feel as a parent himself, Mr. Sheldon would understand. Ms. Snell, she has a little girl, doesn't she?"
"I---yes she does," Norma responded quietly in agreement, not giving the identity of Sue's daughter away.
"Well, he did what any good parent would do and Ms. Snell did what a good mother would do," Michael Hartwell rationalized calmly, continuing to write his essay for his upcoming class. His eyebrows furrowed in deep thought and concentration "Soon, a Commission like them won't be able to harass someone like Ms. Snell like that."
"You’re hoping to push forward laws? Laws that will prevent them from questioning them in that fashion?" Norma inquired carefully, raising an eyebrow at this. But on the inside, her heart was leaping at the mere idea.
If laws being pushed forward meant that a blue-collar committee like the White Commission wouldn't question anyone the way they did, especially try to plant those as scapegoats, it'd be another big change to the world.
"Yes, I heard of how you and other survivors were questioned---" his eyes narrowed in disgusted rage and fury, which surprised Norma as Michael Hartwell was normally a kind, soft-spoken young man and he and his girlfriend Anya even helped her on a tour through Boston campus when she first arrived "It was nothing short of invasive and disgusting. Especially what happened to Ms. Snell."
"So you want to prevent their type of questioning...from happening again?" The question blurted from her lips before Norma could stop herself. The young man nodded in determination, his face scrunching up at the mere thought "You lost friends because of something that was beyond your control, and rather than offering kindness....they questioned all of you like criminals to be labeled."
"Michael....I---thank you," the fact that Michael and Anya showed her more patience and understanding than her own parents did for not seeing that the ballots had been tampered with had almost brought her to tears.
Her own parents.....she rarely heard from them the moment she entered Boston University, only getting a phone call once every few months and a letter every now and then.
But with Michael Hartwell and Anya Petrova....for the first time in nearly two years, Norma Watson felt cared for again---like she didn't have to carry the weight of what had happened on her shoulders. They made her feel like herself, even when they weren't trying.
His eyes softened ever so slightly: having a sister of his own, Michael Hartwell couldn't bare the thought of seeing Norma crying "Norma, things will be alright in the end. I promise." He whispered quietly, running a hand through his dark hair "Between you, me, and Anya, we will make changes in the world so no one will ever be treated like this again."
Norma blinked at him in uncomprending silence, even as he got up to answer a phone call from his girlfriend Anya. Her mind was going at a million miles a second, like it normally was----but now, it was filled with concern.
She was studying political science.
He was studying constitutional law while his girlfriend studied international relations.
How do I tell them what I've found about the government? Furthermore....that the White Commission knew of Carrie White's abilities for years and did nothing prior to May of 1979? How?
Over in Los Angeles, the flickering light of the television cast long, dancing shadows across the Los Angeles apartment. James Richardson leaned forward, a low whistle escaping his teeth as he watched Paul Sheldon—the man who had once been just a face in a freshman dorm—shred the dignity of the White Commission on a national stage.
"Look at him, And," James whispered, a mix of awe and pure, cold dread in his voice. But there was also respect in there too for his former classmate. "The Commission could have held him in contempt, but Paul just flipped the script. He’s treating them like a bad first draft."
Andrea sat beside him, her hand tightening on his arm like he was the only anchor holding her still. "It’s incredible. But James, the Shop... I know that they aren't going to just sit there and take a lecture from a novelist." She ran a nervius hand through her braided locs "This Pynchot is going to be out for blood." She advised softly, her hand trembling but her trying to keep herself under control for Matthew's sake.
James rubbed his face, his mind racing back to the days before the world fell apart at Harrison. "Paul’s always had that spine. He lived next to a Mrs. Kaspbrak and her boy back in Derry. He used to tell me about a kid he would chat with back there—Bill Denbrough." Even with the two-year age gap, Paul would tell him how he and Bill would read plays and evaluate them together "He helped the boy with his writing, even with his stutter. That’s how Paul and I met; we were all at Harrison State College together."
He looked at the screen, where Sheldon was currently staring down a Commission member. "Even after May of '69... after I came out of that room a different person, Paul and Bill risked everything even with their growing fame." The two had never asked much of what had actually happened in that room but James would catch some looks they'd give him and know that they suspected something had happened. However, they never pushed him to tell them, wanting him to tell them on his own---which he wound up doing in bits and pieces "They scrambled to get me freelance gigs, cooking jobs—anything to keep me under the radar and fed. They know what it means to be under the spotlight."
James watched the TV screen, where Paul Sheldon’s face was a mask of righteous fury and disgust "He’s a badass," James muttered softly in respect, "but he’s a badass with a target on his back now. The Shop doesn't handle public humiliation well. They’re like a hive of hornets—if you poke them, they don't just sting you; they come for the whole neighborhood."
"You think they'll go after him?" Andrea asked in worry, her eyes darting to the window.
"They'll try to find a way to discredit him first," James said, his voice dropping down an octave that Andrea knew all too well and she found her own heart beating faster. She knew that when James reached that octave, things would be getting serious. "But Paul isn't some college kid they can 'Lot 6' into silence. He’s too bright, too loud. My worry is that they’ll get frustrated. When the Shop gets frustrated, people start having 'accidents.', like the others from 1973 to 1977," He shivered, remembering how those 'car crashes' in Cleveland were clearly more than they seemed "Paul knows the history, he knows what happened to me in that room, and he’s still standing there telling them to go to hell."
He looked over at Andrea, the blue light of the broadcast reflecting in his determined yet furrowed pupils. "He’s doing it for Ms. Snell and her little girl. He’s giving that baby a chance to grow up without a tag on her toe." And in a way, James understood: Paul Sheldon was a parent himself and he even admitted writing the Misery books to help with his daughter's braces and to put her through school, even if he himself didn't really like the books. Ms. Snell was doing what any parent would do for their child "But God help him, because Pynchot isn't going to forget the day a writer made him look like a fool on C-SPAN."
The small television set on the kitchen counter hummed with static, but the image of Paul Sheldon standing down the White Commission came through with a terrifying, beautiful clarity. In the living room of the Chicago house, Noah Snell stood with his arms crossed, a rare, grim smile finally breaking through the lines of worry that had etched his face since the night Chamberlain burned. Around his shoulder, Eleanor Snell had her hands clasped tightly against her chest, her soft brown eyes wide as she watched the famous novelist openly turn the federal investigators into a laughingstock on national television.
"My God," Eleanor finally managed to breathe out, a long-overdue sigh of relief escaping her lips. After everything that had hapoened back in 1979, she knew that this was nothing short of what the Commission deserved for what they did while questioning the survivors "He's tearing them apart. After what they did to you, Sue... after the way they sat in our conference room and looked at you like you were a criminal..."
And with the Ross family suing Professor Jerome of Harvard for the 'practical joker' theory and getting their settlement along with the man being fired, this would send a strong, stern message to those theorists out there: Sue Snell and her daughter were to be left alone.
"It’s karma," sixteen-year-old Tiffany said, kicking her legs over the arm of the chair, a sharp grin on her face. "Pure karma. They wanted to blame you because it was easier than admitting they messed up. Now a celebrity is calling them out on C-SPAN. That is incredibly badass."
Noah turned his sharp, discerning gaze from the screen to his eldest daughter, who was sitting on the sofa, gently rock-syncing Isabelle in her arms. "Sue," he began, his voice low and curious. "How in the world does a college freshman from a dead town in Maine get the author of the Misery series to act as her personal shield? I didn't even know you read his books."
Sue felt the familiar, cold drop in her stomach, but she didn't let her hands shake. She looked her father in the eye, practicing the lie she had rehearsed with Norma and Rita until it tasted almost like the truth. She needed it to be ironclad. For their protection and for Isabelle's.
And she wasn't going to betray her daughter and the psychics she knew.
"It wasn't just me, Dad," Sue managed smoothly, leaning down to adjust Isabelle’s blanket as her baby girl gave a soft, tiny gurgle at the soft sensation around her frame "It was Miss Desjardin. After she resigned from Ewen, she reached out to some old college contacts. Turns out she knows Paul Sheldon's literary agent, a woman named Marcia Sindell. When Miss Desjardin showed them the raw manuscript and told them how the White Commission was trying to force a pregnant teenager into being a scapegoat, Sheldon went ballistic." A wry smile drew across her lips: Paul Sheldon himself had a daughter whom he had done everything to keep out of the limelight of the media. Miss Sindell even admitted in her letter that he had written the Misery series to help pay for her braces and schooling, even if he himself wasn't the biggest fan of the books. So as a parent himself, Mr. Sheldon understood her in a way, even if they hadn’t met "He told his publishers to fast-track it before the government could slap an injunction on it."
Noah nodded slowly, his shoulders visibly dropping as the explanation clicked into place. "Good for her. And good for you, girl. You didn't let them bury you."
"I'm not stopping with this one book, either," Sue continued, a genuine spark of determination hardening her voice as she brushed through Isabelle's light blonde curls. "While I'm working on my psychology degree to become a counselor, I'm going to keep writing. I want to publish books about how bullying starts early. About how the whole 'kids being kids' mentality is just a lie adults tell themselves so they don't have to do their jobs." Now that she thought of it, there was this poem back in seventh grade that raised serious red flags about what could've been going on within the White bungalow but the teacher practically ignored it "I want people to know that when a metal bucket hits a boy like Tommy, it goes beyond any lines crossed and how boundaries need to be put into place." Her eyes hardened at the mere thought of how things could've been different, how Tommy could've gotten to meet his daughter and defend himself from the public had someone been a parent to Chris from the beginning...
Eleanor walked over, pressing a gentle hand to Sue’s shoulder, though her eyes remained locked on the television where the broadcast was shifting to a commercial break. "I think that’s wonderful, Sue. Truly. The world needs to hear it. But..." She paused, her grip tightening slightly. "Be careful. A girl who writes books makes a lot of enemies out of people who prefer the dark."
"I know, Mom," Sue whispered, looking down at Isabelle. The baby’s eyes were open, bright and blue, staring up at her with an absolute, terrifying intelligence that reminded her of a dying girl in a burning parking lot. Sometimes she saw that girl's face in Isabelle's in her nightmare's and even a bloodied Carrie holding a sleeping Isabelle in her arms "But the dark is where they do their worst work. I'm going to be keeping those lights on."