I wrote this book a few years ago — and nobody wanted to publish it. But with the rise of AI and the centralization of power in the Executive, I figured I’d publish it myself. If it’s interesting or helpful — let me know!

Exile

By Luke Nagy

Prologue

“Senator Elias, this is our last segment, and it’s been great having you, so before time gets away from us, I want to thank you for giving us the full hour.”

“You’re welcome, Shana; I really love the long form interview, and the opportunity to not feel the pressure to speak in soundbites, but to really lay out my policies and plans in a cogent way. And that’s what I love about your show – real journalism, real interviews, realpolitik.”

“Wow, haha, can I borrow that line.”

“Feel free, Shana, feel free. But really, thank you for the way you and your team are out there giving the public a nuanced look at the facts. And I appreciate how hard you work at staying objective. It’s newswomen like you that preserve my faith in the fifth estate.”

“Well, it’s men like you that make this job possible, so please, keep shaking Washington up!...However, in closing, I do have one or two final questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Senator Elias, you’re currently the Junior Senator from Ohio. You’ve been Ohio’s Governor, US Secretary of State, you negotiated the peace in the Second Boxer War, you’ve been a legislator and an executive.”

“Yes, all accomplishments I’m proud of.”

“Indeed, but it’s your pedigree that people worry about.”

“Yes…”

“Well, Senator, your father is currently sitting in his second term in the Oval Office, and now, you’re hoping to fill the White House for another four. Some are wondering if that’s just too much Elias.”

“Shana, I’ve heard these arguments, we all have, and they aren’t new. Why in the Presidency alone there have been the Adamses, the Harrisons and the Bushes, who were all direct relations, not to mention all the powerful political families, the Kennedy’s, the Clintons, the Roosevelts, and so on and so forth. Americans have never had a problem with electing a president’s son or a senator’s son or a governor’s or a mayor’s. Indeed, given the exclusivity of the presidency, one might argue that Americans prefer to vote for families, because it gives the sense of a known-quantity.”

“One might. But how do you respond to critics who say that you’ve just been the beneficiary of inherited wealth and nepotism.”

“Well, those are two separate claims. And, yes, I, indeed, have been the beneficiary of inherited wealth. So has everyone alive, to some degree. Anyone who sees a doctor is the beneficiary of the inherited wealth of knowledge about anatomy and the scientific method; anyone who watches television or a movie is the beneficiary of the inherited wealth of telecommunications and modern artistic presentations. I mean, I don’t hear a lot of Greek Choruses, or antiphonal chanting, so I’m guessing people prefer the developments that our society and culture have made and don’t mind benefitting from that kind of wealth, which they have inherited.”

“Senator, you know that that’s not what your critics mean when they…”

“No, certainly, I know what they mean. They mean to say that my accomplishments are somehow less valid than someone else’s because my daddy was the Governor of Ohio and the President of the United States. But the simple reality is that every caring parent wants their children to benefit from the good choices that they make. When did it become something shameful in this country to be born within the bounds of wedlock to two parents who love eachother and who were responsible, hardworking, god-fearing citizens, who sacrificed temporary pleasures for long term gains?

YES, I went to Harvard for Graduate School; Yes, I come from a political family. Yes, I come from wealth. I had a great education. I lived in a great neighborhood. I had a stable family who set me on a course for success. Is that bad?

Where are we in our culture when we’ve decided that inherited wealth is bad? Do we really want to disincentivize responsibility? Or are there some who insist that anyone who came from a respectable background, must ad necessitatem be discredited? Why? What’s wrong with giving your children a bright future? What’s wrong with giving your children every advantage?”

“Well, Senator, that’s exactly what critics…”

“You can say, Senator Asher, Shana, we all know who you’re talking about.”

“OK then, Senator Asher, believes that you are only in the position you’re in because you have been given every advantage from birth. And that, and I’m reading his own tweet, “fatcats need to give people who earned it a chance #makeyourownway”.”

“Shana, he’s right. I’m only where I am because I’ve been given advantages. And again, I appeal to logic – we’re all here only because of other people’s work. We all stand on the shoulders of giants, Shana. Do you want to reinvent the wheel every time you want to do anything at all? Why do we, suddenly, think that everyone has to do everything on his own?! You know what that makes for? I’ll tell you: that makes for a squandered, inefficient, and unproductive life. I don’t want to have to do everything myself, I am MORE than happy to reap the benefits of other people’s hard work; I’m more than happy to stand on those giants’ shoulders, because then I can see a little farther. Ray Asher would have everyone erecting scaffolds to see past the wattle hovels we’d build.

No, this line of reasoning is folly. We all reap benefits from wealth we’ve inherited. Sometimes that wealth is financial, but mostly it’s in knowledge and culture. Shana, I look at you, a confident, intelligent, successful black woman. If not for the work of men like Dr. King and other Civil Rights’ Warriors, your phenomenal talents, remarkable wit, and preternatural insight would be squandered! If not for men like Lincoln, you might be picking cotton for some oafish slaver. But Shana, I don’t want you to be a chattel. I want you using your gifts the way God intended.

So, let’s ignore Ray Asher and his inane and vapid arguments. He’s an iconoclast, and a poor one.”

“Wow, Joe, tell us how you really feel.”

“Well, Shana, I’m passionate about this issue, because, to me, it comes down to competence. Am I the most competent man to run this nation, who happens to be running? If so, vote for me; if not, don’t. But don’t get lost in the smokescreen of my roots. My roots only matter inasmuch as they made me who I am. But what matters is who I am and what I will do as President of the United States, should the good people of this country choose me.”

“OK, Joe, one final question, and maybe a follow up, if there’s time.”

“Great.”

“Senator Elias, you’ve written and spoken widely on the role of the executive branch; in almost every speech you give, you talk about the roles of the branches. You say you want to limit the power of the Executive Branch, yet you, as Secretary of State, increased the number of bureaucrats by 150 percent. You also have said that you will enact policies that will increase the number of active agents in every executive branch, from the FBI, to the NSA, to the FAA. How can you be for limiting executive power when you seem to want to make the executive branch a kingdom unto itself?”

“Thank you for that question, Shana, I’d love to explain this. Yes. I want more FBI agents. Every year, more and more crimes are committed at a more sophisticated level, across state and even national borders. Provincial police forces, while primary and necessary, are simply not equipped to handle the kinds of crime we have in this country at the rate we’re having it. We need an expanded FBI, to deal with crime. In the same way we need expanded executive agencies to deal with the growing responsibilities that are falling to the Federal Government.”

“But can’t you see how people could interpret this as an attempt to undermine Congress?”

“Sure, prima facie, it looks that way, but look at what I’ve always said. I don’t want to legislate from the Oval Office. Congress needs to legislate. Too much legislation is done through Executive Agencies like the EPA. I want to change that. But let’s consider several things. First, the legislative branch has largely made itself irrelevant by funding Federal Agencies who are writing laws from their bureaucracies. Congress can shut off the money – then unelected and unaccountable agents will not be writing codes with the force of law. Second, FAR more legislation is coming from the Judiciary than from the Executive branch, especially on matters that matter to people who live on Main Street. Marbury versus Madison continues to amaze me Shana, somebody asks the Supreme Court if they have the power to review constitutionality and, surprise, surprise, they find they do?! People in this country are sick and tired of rogue judges legislating from the bench. They are not sick and tired of having sufficient agents to protect our borders, our currency, deliver our mail, keep planes in the sky, and perform other legitimate functions of government. Third, I’ve said before that I think that veto power was intended to be the review of constitutionality. I believe the president’s veto power, is supposed to largely be a formality.”

“So, you won’t veto anything congress puts before you?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re implying it…”

“What I’m saying is that I’m not going to hold the country hostage if I don’t get my way. If a bill comes before me that my AG says is unconstitutional, I’ll veto it. If a bill comes before me with which I disagree, but is constitutional, I think unless it is immoral, or financially irresponsible, I’ll let it through.”

“So you don’t want to take over the government through a massive expansion of the Executive branch…as…some critics have said?”

“No.”

“You brought up the Judiciary, what do you think the solution is to public displeasure at legislating from the bench?”

“You know, we have laws because we don’t trust people. But then we put people in charge of making laws. A judge is a great thing as long as the man or woman in the robe is a person of real integrity. But when you get ideologues like Judge Mushimoto, or partisan hacks like Justice Dennert, then you get dissatisfaction. People are tired of partisan judges. They want the courts out of politics. Or at least they say they do when the judge is ruling against their pet policy.”

“Indeed, and of course, you’ll be above all that partisan stuff, being an independent?”

“Shana, I think that people on the right have good ideas and people on the left have good ideas and I don’t want to be beholden to a party that will demand my vote. When I supported protectionist trade policies as Secretary of State, my banker friends excoriated me for being anti-finance, but my friends in the trade unions blessed me. However, when I supported right to work legislation in Ohio, my trade union friends burned me in effigy, but my banking buddies drank to my health. Both times I did what I believed was in the citizens’ best interest. And, since we still, last time I read the constitution, live in a representative republic, I as a responsible official am allowed to make decisions as I see fit, regardless of the will of the people. Vox populi is most certainly not Vox Dei.”

“And now you’re sounding elitist.”

“Perhaps. But, I believe that I can make better decisions on how to lead the country than anyone else. If I didn’t believe that then I shouldn’t run for president. Do you really want a Chief Executive who’s just “one of the gang?” We need qualified leaders who can make better decisions than average people. I want an elite government based upon competence and wisdom. Not an elitism of birth or wealth or good looks or even popularity – but competence.”

“Senator Elias, you have the last word.”

“Shana, thank you for a great interview, and for those of you watching out there, thank you for your time. I’ve served my country and my home state my entire career. I’ve legislated and governed; against China, as Secretary of State, it was my plan that won and kept the peace. There are many who are telling you that you shouldn’t vote for me. Why? Am I a party hack? No, I’m an independent. Because I don’t have experience – no, I have plenty. Why then? Because my dad was president? I talk well and I grew up rich? That’s why you shouldn’t vote for me? Comb through Senator Asher’s criticisms of me. Or Governor Perez’. That’s all they have to say.

Look, my policies are out there. But I don’t want to legislate from the Oval Office. What do I stand for? I stand for eliminating the National Debt. Peace abroad. Prosperity at Home. I stand for eliminating waste, shrinking the cost of government and helping individuals help themselves. I want to give States their power back. And I want to see corporate fraud and malpractice caught and prosecuted. I want to see a nation of hardworking, cared for, responsible citizens who have a government they can rely on when times get tough.

A lot of those things I can do from the Oval Office. Most, however, I cannot. Congress needs to do their part and the Supreme Court as well as the Federal Court system need to stop hindering the work of progress. But here’s what I can do, and what I promise I will do. I will execute the law and will carry out all the legitimate, constitutional functions of the presidency without bias towards any party or group. I will work hard to ensure that the future of this nation is not sold out for cheap thrills and irresponsible governance now. I won’t make our grandkids pay for our free lunch. I want to make America big and strong, but I also want to see her stand, not as a mistress among slaves, even willing slaves, but as a wise and beautiful queen, who leads others by her dignity and grace. America, I believe, is still the last best hope for humanity. As your president I will help the people of this nation, and every other nation come to believe that that’s true.”

“Senator Joseph Elias, thank you for your time, it’s been great having you. And for you at home, this has been Real Talk with Shana McGuff, thank you and have a great night.”

Part 1

Chapter 1

President Joseph Elias sat down, for the first time, behind the Resolute Desk and realized that his life’s work had finally paid off. He had worked and struggled, he had sacrificed parties, and girlfriends, and anything even resembling a social life to get here.

In the past, politicians were old frat boys, but since the #metoo movement began a few decades ago, anyone with half a brain was never seen drinking a beer or hooking up with a girl or looking up anything on a computer with a traceable history. Especially not someone with political ambitions like Joe had. He knew from the time he was a child and saw his father elected as mayor of Toledo that he would go further than his father. Well, now he was one step closer. He still needed to be elected to a second term if he was going to match Joe Sr. But that was 4 years away, so he didn’t need to start thinking about that, seriously, for another 18 months.

More than that, it was his first day. Despite his big plans, Joseph realized he needed to wait until tomorrow to put his plan into action. The great thing was that since he and his father were essentially the same people, politically, Joe Jr. kept on everyone except a few cabinet members who wanted to retire, but the number of people leaving the White House was less than 50. It was unbelievable. In fact, Joe Sr. wasn’t even leaving. He was staying on as Joe’s chief advisor.

Sure, some pundits had made jokes, but the truth was that Joseph Elias Senior was the most popular president since Reagan and those who joked about him being his son’s advisor were almost universally dismissed as asses by journalists and the public at large.

In fact, some pollsters were theorizing that Joe Jr. secured his victory, not with his bombastic interview with Shana McGuff, which for 5 weeks was the most viewed video on the internet, but 3 weeks before, when he had told Jeremy Flannigan that he would ask his father to be his chief advisor. Father and son were both incredibly photogenic, well spoken, rich, and confident. More than that, they looked confident.

Both Joes had the power to exude seriousness, without being austere. August was the word. They looked like men who should be carved out of marble. There was a classical look to them. And since his son announced that he would have his father as his advisor, Joe Sr. began growing a well-trimmed, but full and very white beard. He went from being a handsome and still desirable older man, to the reincarnated Nestor of Pylos. His chin-wisdom simultaneously made him look wiser and his son look younger and fresher and more energetic. It might seem like a little thing, but the Elias’ never ignored things like this. And he had planned to grow his beard so carefully, that he ensured that he’d be vacationing on Lake Erie where there would be no cameras while he grew the first two weeks’ worth of growth, then he had no public addresses for another week. So, Joe Sr. got 3 weeks of beard without anyone in the public seeing the transition. Then, within 15 minutes of his son announcing that he would be his special advisor, Elias the elder gave a press conference.

It was brilliant. Within minutes the whole world saw that the man who had led America for a decade had made the transition from great leader to wise teacher. And it made Joe Jr.’s election seem inevitable. It made people want to vote for him, just so they could keep the beloved Joe Sr. in the White House, succoring America with his sagacity and sapience.

Joe thought about what a little thing a few facial hairs made. Yet, how important.

“Is this really whence power is derived?” He wrote in his diary, an enormous, handcrafted and custom leatherbound volume filled with daily thoughts and memoranda and minutiae.

“Does the future of this nation, and perhaps the world, really depend on whether or not a septuagenarian stops scraping a steel blade across his cheeks? Does my dad’s pogonophilia truly set the course for this and all other nations? Perhaps. Perhaps that’s all power is, an old man growing a beard to pass the torch. If so, then my work is going to be more needed than I ever thought possible.

Note: take it slow. Begin with little steps. It’s easier to pick up speed than to try to go full speed ahead all at once and spin my wheels. Σπευδε βραδεως.”

Joe was fanatical about his diary. It was perhaps his only compulsion. He did not pray. He didn’t drink. He didn’t cheat on his wife. He didn’t rely on any of the typical crutches that weaker men used to deal with anxiety. No. Joe never spoke to anyone either. One could never trust anyone. But he trusted his diary. He wrote in a rapid, sloping cursive that changed with his mood. He never turned to the bottle or booty. When he needed to work through an issue, he’d go to his office and scratch out a few pages with a fountain pen, then lock his diary up, safely, in his desk.

To read it would be like walking into an attic – odds and ends here and there, nothing really going together, except that they were all owned by one person. It was mammoth! Two thousand creamy folio leaves hand sewn with a thick and lovely monogrammed leather cover. His wife had bought a dozen of them for him as their first anniversary gift. In these pages there were notes in Greek and Latin, as well as French, German, Arabic, Mandarin, and Hebrew. He had half-finished ideas, and diagrams, and personal struggles. He never reread anything, so, perhaps, calling his notes “memoranda” isn’t entirely accurate. But the physical act of writing helped him to mentally organize information and to evaluate options.

Chess was his other passion. The board was where he worked out policy dilemmas. It helped him to evaluate relative values and strengths, to think through tactical and strategic strengths and weaknesses. Chess helped him understand what the keys to his and others’ plans were. He used the board like some men use a therapist, or pornography. His fertile mind evaluated positions and his subconscious worked out static and dynamic plans. He didn’t know how his mind used chess to sort out his problems – he just knew it worked, and that he enjoyed playing, so he played.

The diary and the board were the only two private enjoyments he allowed himself. The rest of his life was filled with meetings, conferences, interviews, and an enormous amount of briefings and reading. He made sure that he spent at least an uninterrupted hour with his wife, Kelly, and he had always done this, since he began public service. His kids needed time, too, but they only got a shared half hour, guaranteed, every day. In Washington this made him a family man.

He glanced at his watch, he had 5 minutes before he had to head to the press room. He, like his father, would do all his own press conferences. Too many politicians were cowards, idiots, or lazy. The Elias’ were none of those things. They were the first presidents in nearly a century to write all their own speeches, and Joe Jr. often spoke without notes, extemporaneously. He was a great orator, and his ability to speak without preparation is what launched his career. For years, people said he should have gone into law. If he had, they said, he could have a fortune as a trial lawyer.

Elias loved speaking. He loved answering questions. He loved the verbal fencing that happened with journalists and other politicians. He loved the stakes. People were trying to destroy his career, and he relied on his ability to speak clearly, coherently, and convincingly without preparation. It was a high. It was extremely stressful, some days, but mostly, it was a pleasant rush.

His father had naught but faith in his boy, but he warned him often: “a man may have a silver tongue, but silence is golden.” Again, Joe Sr. never doubted Joe’s wit or ability – but he’d seen too many brilliant men brought down while speaking off-the-cuff. Therefore, when Joe Jr. was young, Elias Sr. forced him to wait and silently recite the Greek alphabet every time before he answered any question. It was tedious. It was also effective. Eventually it became Hebrew, then Greek backwards, then Hebrew backwards. Then both. Then Joe Sr. forced his son to recite a line of Shakespeare before he answered. And, oddly enough, it stuck. Even when interviewed on national and worldwide television, Joseph Elias would think, in his head, a snatch of the Bard before he answered any question. He mused “get thee to a nunnery!” when the skanky Delia Traenor asked his about the influence of patriarchy in congress; he quipped “a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality,” when Damon Evens asked him about House Speaker Sarah Roseblum; and when asked to comment on the Pulitzer Prize winning expose written about his father’s Chief of Staff, his mind immediately went to MacBeth: “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing.”

Of course, he never said these things. But the pause gave him enough time to compose his thoughts and not say something damaging to himself. He was disciplined. That was what defined his life was rigid self-discipline. That was how he and his father had gained their power. That was how he intended to expand his own. Soon. But presently, he needed to speak to the press.

Chapter 2

Hanna Pocratsky had only one class on Thursdays. She hated that she had a class, instead of having the whole day off, but this was the only time she could take 20th Century History, and it was a class that she not only wanted to take because 20th Century History fascinated her, but also because it was taught by Professor Jennings, who was her advisor and her woman-crush. Dr. Jennings had, in the midst of Hanna’s sophomore slump, inspired her to get involved in campus politics.

It was a strange thing. Her father, Matthew, had been a politician for all of Hanna’s life. He started off as a County Commissioner, and then, little by little, made his way up the Republican ranks. State Congress was when things really started to happen for him, and then, on January 8th, his daughter Hanna was born. January 8 was a great day because it was his brother’s birthday, so it was easy to remember.

January 8th was also the day that Matthew decided that he would not pursue any higher elected office. He loved politics, he loved being part of government. He hated the mudslinging and the partisanship and the nastiness. More than that, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life campaigning.

He had made a lot of friends in the GOP, and he had shown, at the state level, that he was an able administrator, and a good organizer, as well as someone who could be trusted to follow through and not blame other people.

In short, Matthew was an outstanding politician because he possessed just that special mix of skills and abilities that are common enough to be pedestrian in any other realm but the political. So, after talking to contacts at the state and federal level, he determined that he would work his way up from a low-level position into a higher one, as he has on the elected side.

It never bothered Matthew: the early days; he didn’t mind being a functionary, because he never behaved like a cipher. He had the unique ability to take his work seriously, but not too seriously, while not being discouraged that he wasn’t given bigger projects. He completed his work on time and under budget and there was never a whiff of scandal or in-fighting from his teams. He delegated well, he managed personalities even better, but most of all, and most importantly, he always saved his favors. He never used them for himself. He only ever used them to get rid of toxic personalities.

So, after 15 years of powerpoints, he had gone from a GOP non-entity to a cabinet undersecretary.

Matthew had lived his life for government. He believed, how some men believe in religion, that government had the power to create and sustain human flourishing. It was, therefore, both ironic, and entirely predictable, that his own family languished. Matthew never cheated, never drank, never was abusive, and never even swore. He was also never there.

He loved his family, after a fashion, but he loved them far less and far other than they wanted and needed to be loved. In fact, Hanna’s mother, Staci, had once let slip in a moment of menopausal frustration, that she and Hanna’s father had not had sex in 5 years.

Hanna didn’t hate her father. She was just ambivalent. He wasn’t a bad man, and as far as workaholic fathers, he was better than most. He came to a lot of her volleyball games. He was almost always home on Sundays, and together they all would spend the day eating a big brunch and reading. He was even warm, at times. But he just wasn’t around enough for Hanna to actually make up her mind about him.

What she HAD made up her mind about, was her absolute hatred for politics. Here there was no ambivalence. She hated politics. She refused to watch, listen to, read, comment on, or care about what went on in Washington or anywhere else.

She openly mocked people who were involved in the campus political movements.

But, when she took American History 101 with Dr. Jennings, she wrote a paper, not very good, Hanna later admitted, but compared to what her coevals were turning in, it was the Canterbury Tales. Her paper was on the failure of democracy to provide adequate protections for minorities. Her position, to put it succinctly was that democracies will always abuse a minority, but the minority changes.

Karen Jennings immediately saw Hanna’s potential. She asked the young lady out for coffee and spent the next 3 hours inspiring her to actually make a difference. She told her that Hanna had a voice and that she could, and indeed, had a moral obligation to use that voice to better the world. It only dawned on Hanna 6 months later, as she was thinking about Dr. Jennings’ words, “people who can better the world are committing a moral evil if they do not,” that her father had said something similar many times. She realized that that was her father’s ambition and motivation. Matthew, as she called him to his face, Matty to his back, was driven by some kind of moral code – whether proactive or guilt based, she couldn’t say, but this code impelled him to public service.

One might have expected that this realization, as well as Hanna’s budding interest in politics would have restored the rupture between father and daughter. It did not. Because her father represented some ideas and policies that she found repugnant. Or at least ideas and policies that Karen had convinced her were repugnant. Certainly, Hanna made up her own mind and was her own woman. But Karen was so incredibly persuasive. She never raised her voice or browbeat anyone. Even with students who spent the whole class arguing with her, she never even looked perturbed. She carefully, methodically, and irresistibly laid out her position. Even in areas where she knew she was on thin ice, Karen’s demeanor was just more convincing. She was always in command. She was never shrill or unkind.

Hanna was so inspired by Dr. Jennings that she had decided to follow in her footsteps. She was going to be her GA, next year, and she was going to begin Masters work in History. Today was her final exam of her final class of her senior year. She knew she was going to ace it. She loved history and especially 20th Century History.

As she got to class, she was excited to see Dr. Jennings wave to her. No, she was waving her over. Hanna put her bag down in her seat and walked down the steps to the desk.

“Hanna, you look like a woman who’s ready to be done!”

“Thanks, Dr. J. I took your advice and wore my best outfit.”

“I see that; you look good, girl! you’re gonna distract all the boys.”

Hanna blushed. She had recently broken up with her boyfriend Sean, so that was part of it. But Hanna never felt truly confident with her appearance.

She was a 5’11” lithe brunette. Her curly hair, freckles, and fair complexion made her cute, but not “hot”. Despite her height, she always seemed shorter than she actually was. No one could explain why, but several people had commented over the years when they had begun talking closely to her and realized that she was anywhere from a few inches to a head taller than they. She, like most girls ignored by their fathers, never saw themselves as beautiful. So, it was no surprise that she started hooking up with the first half-ways intelligent, mostly good-looking guy who paid her any attention.

Sean was rich. His dad worked on Wall Street and his mom was eye-candy. He had every intention of following in his father’s footsteps. In every way. Sean Vincent had no intention of being faithful. Ever. He had sometimes left Hanna’s room, after having the desperate-to-please sex that Hanna was all too willing to provide and then went to hook up with some townie girl, or any girl who Sean was fairly confident Hanna wouldn’t know. It seemed to be the perfect arrangement for Sean. He was flummoxed when Hanna found out and was not only angry, but refused to even consider reconciling. He told her that men had needs. He had always been good to her, he brought her dinner 4 nights a week, he hung out with her and did all the things she wanted to do. He never forced her to hang out with his friends, he, and he was telling the truth, had always hung out with hers.

This special pleading only made Hanna angrier, she didn’t like being cheated on and she certainly didn’t like the idea that he had been a good boy and therefore earned the right to have a little on the side. She kicked him out of her room and made such a fuss, that Carly, the RA, had to come by.

It was, therefore, hard to say whether Hanna blushed because she was complimented, because she was still unsure how to publicly react to Sean, because Dr. Jennings was paying special interest in her, or any combination thereof.

“Dr. Jennings!” She said, cocking her head and leaning back.

“Well,” Karen added, with a mock-matronly tone, “you can’t be upset when I tell the truth.”

Karen then brushed a few strands of hair out of Hanna’s face and tucked them behind her left ear. “Sorry, dear, you had a rebel.”

“Pshhhhhhhh,” Hanna leaned forewards jutted out her lower jaw, and blew air out of the corner of her mouth, sending her thin curly hair waving. “Vive le Revolution!”

“Anyways, I’d probably better get back to my seat.”

“Ah yes, oh but wait, tonight I want to celebrate the end of your undergrad and the beginning of your work as my GA!”

“Oh, that’d be great!”

“Great! Meet me at my house at 7?”

“You’re awesome! thanks Dr. J.”

Chapter 3

 “Sit down, Jerry.”

“Why? What’d I do now?”

“You know what you did, I told you not to write that story on Elias and you wrote it, and published it, and it got read by a lot of people.”

“So, you’re mad at me because I’m getting people to read our content.”

“Shut up, you arrogant twerp. I’m angry because you just ignored me.”

“So, when I do something good for the company, but you didn’t want me to do something good for the company and I do something good for the company anyways, that gives you the right to be mad at me?!”

“Listen, smartass, you think you know so well what’s good for this company? You think that readers are what matter? Readers don’t mean a thing! You moron!”

“Well, that’s odd, considering we’re a newspaper.”

“Newspapers make money on advertising. Newspapers are owned by parent companies. The parent company that owns us is owned by a majority shareholder. Do you, in all your brilliance happen to know who that majority shareholder is?”

“Yes, it’s Paul Mullins.”

“Ding, ding, ding! Yes, it is Paul Mullins. And do you know who Paul Mullins’ son in law is?”

“Yes, his son in law is Ray Asher.”

“Two in a row! And Ray Asher ran for and lost what office to Elias just a few days ago?”

“OK, I get your point…”

“No, Jerry, you don’t. You never get the point. You live in your own little world where you think you can publish whatever your bleeding heart tells you. This is not your blog. This is a multinational news outlet. We have TV, radio, print, enews, we have everything. And everything has its place, and you don’t seem to understand that.”

“Don, listen…”

“No, you listen. Your job is not to get stuff read. Your job is to publish filler stories. Your job is to obfuscate. Your job is to put out 15 stories a day that will, along with the thousands of other stories we have coming out every day, make navigating the news so difficult that people have to read the stories we have selected for them so that we can shape their opinions the way we want them shaped. You writing a puff piece on the political enemy of this organization is not shaping opinion the way we want it shaped.”

“Don, it was hardly a puff piece!”

“President Elias has a long way to go, but it seems that, if nothing else, fears that he was an incompetent daddy’s boy have been proved unfounded. He’s set up a government, and is already getting congressmen from both sides of the aisle to meet with him, Wednesday, to “solve” the national debt. Whether you love him or hate him, you must admit, President Elias is not a Manchurian Candidate.”

“Yeah, how is that the fawning obsequious drivel you make it out to be? It’s a statement of fact without prejudice.”

“Ray Asher’s entire campaign was based on Elias being his father’s puppet. Your 30 million views have now made people seriously question Ray’s reasoning.”

“An overwhelming majority of the population think that Ray Asher’s reasoning is asinine, that’s why Elias got 73% of the popular vote.”

“Who cares? Asher says he’s a daddy’s boy, so Mullins says he’s a daddy’s boy, so we say he’s a daddy’s boy.”

“Don, if we say things that are clearly untrue, the public will lose faith in journalism, like they did back when Trump was in. You wanna see another 2020? You want people shouting “fake news”?”

“Don’t lecture me about the “fake news”. I live publishing, and I’ve lived news for 38 years, and I’m telling you, I set the agenda as the editor, and my agenda is based upon the agenda of the shareholders. And right now, the shareholders want a fog of vapidity and a few voices ringing loud and clear that Elias is a chump and America made a big mistake by not electing Ray Asher. The polls are gonna tell us that Elias is hated and Asher is loved; experts are gonna parrot the same thing and we’re going to continue to tell the old, old story, until people either believe it, or they tune us out. However, there is one thing that will not happen and that is, we will not publish pieces that directly contradict the line we’re pushing, which is that Elias is not competent.”

“Well, Don, I can see you’ve thought this through.”

“Jerry, from now on, I see everything, everything, before it gets published. This isn’t your blog. You write what I tell you. Can you do that?”

Chapter 4

He watched Darlene as she sat down, all at once, in her chair. She was a good secretary: competent; caring; trustworthy – at least, as far as Ray knew, she kept secrets. She was dowdy, and a true believer, but that just made his wife happy. Sandy never understood him. She never understood his needs. She never even tried. But she did, really, truly, with all her heart, believe in Ray. She believed his campaign ads, she believed his speeches on the floor, she believed the lies he told her about the other women.

Well, Ray thought that her conscious mind believed him. What thoughts went on in the deeper recesses of Sandra Marie Mullins Asher was far, far, beyond Ray’s ken. Early on he had tried, with all the earnestness that a pathological liar and borderline narcissist can muster, to get to know Sandy. He tried to understand her. However, it seemed like the more he tried to get to know who she was at a deeper level, the more she retreated.

Sandra hadn’t been born to be a Senator’s wife. The Mullinses were far too ambitious for that. Sandra was always supposed to take over the family empire. She had a Masters in Journalism from Northwestern, and had big career ambitions. But then she met Ray, and the rest was history. She sunk her personality into his until she was an extension of himself.

She wasn’t a coward, or weak, per se, but her whole life she had viewed herself, not as an autonomous person with her own dreams and goals, but as an appendage to the Mullins family. Sandra didn’t exist as her own personality; she was a Mullins. And now she was Ray’s wife and Steven, Caitlin, Zoe, and Meaghan’s mom. Her life was Ray and the kids. She didn’t like anything that challenged that life.

But Darlene, Darlene made Sandy calm. And so, even though Ray often fantasized about replacing her with Kendra, the receptionist, Darlene stayed firmly ensconced, 35 feet away, at a spacious cherry corner desk.

“It’s funny how life works.” Ray said as he climbed off Kendra and walked to the bathroom to clean off.

“What is?”

“Nothing…”

“Well, aren’t you articulate, this morning, Mr. Senator! Whatsamatter? Amnesia?” she asked as she came up from behind and started rubbing his crotch.

“No, no, none of that, I’ve got Prince Ramalamadingdong coming in 45 and I can’t smell like jerky.”

“Ugh, the Saudi’s again.”

“Yeah, I know, Ken, but they want to renegotiate the terms of Prince Sultan, so what are you gonna do?”

“You could tell ‘em where to get off; we’ve had oil cheaper than ever, since Elias negotiated Boxer II.”

She knew she shouldn’t have mentioned the President, but it was true. After the Second Boxer War Joe Elias had created a Bismarkian set of treaties and trade deals which, ultimately, opened up Russia, Mexico, and Canada as major oil suppliers to the US, while making the Saudi’s little more than a regional energy concern. Israel was elated that her richest enemy was now poorer, until she realized that a poor Riyadh might follow her Wahabist tendencies and issue Fatwas and declare Jihads now that she had no prosperity to secure. But, in the end, everyone agreed that weakening OPEC could only be a stronger long-term move. Sure, Russia was aggressive and expansionist, but Mexico and Canada were essentially Territories and America still had plenty of oil reserves should the worst happen.

Despite all this, bringing up the fact that Elias has humbled China and OPEC and made an ally of Russia with his network of treaties made Ray feel all the more humiliated.

Ray’s face darkened. He wanted to think of a deeply cutting remark that would make Elias look like an ass and remind Kendra that Ray was the man people ought to be thanking for peace.

The reality was, however, that Senator Asher had had very little to say that had any influence on the negotiations. He had vaguely agreed with what little he knew of Elias’ plans going into the treaty talks, but, truthfully, he didn’t understand even what he did know. He was a master of domestic politics, but foreign affairs were not his strongest suit. He knew that that hurt him in the formal debates. The foreign policy questions, even if Ray made a decent showing, made Joe look like a shining genius.

He didn’t say anything for some time, then he grunted a noise that started off sounding derisive, but in the end was half-hearted and defeated.

“Oh, Ray, I’m sorry, baby,” Kendra said, kissing him full on the mouth. “Please, look, I didn’t mean to rub salt in any wounds, I was just saying you don’t need to be pushed around by a bunch of desert thugs.” She tilted her head and smiled, hoping to pacify him.

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m just still raw and I feel like I missed my chance! You know back when I was a kid there was a famous Tour De France bicyclist, Lance Armstrong. Have you heard of him?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. People hated him after they found out he was, like, the biggest fraud ever.”

“Sure, yeah, but here’s the thing, there was a guy, he was German, or maybe Swiss, I don’t remember, named Ulrich, or Ulrisch, but I think Ulrich.”

Kendra began opening her eyes wider and wider in mock interest.

“Anyways,” Ray exasperated, “this guy was like the next up an’ coming star who was waiting for an old champion to retire, then right when it was his turn in the limelight, Armstrong is cured of cancer and goes on to win the Tour De France 7 times in a row!”

“Sucks to be that guy.”

“I AM THAT GUY!”

Kendra jumped a little at Ray’s shouting; he wasn’t a man given to outbursts.

“Don’t you get it, Ken, I AM Ulrich. I’m doomed to be second best my whole life. First, I lose to Joe Senior for the Republican nomination and then after 8 years of that pompous, populist bag, when it should be my turn, wonder of wonders, his son decides that he’s gonna run. And he’s not even gonna risk losing a primary, or wasting money on one, he’s just gonna run as a Centrist Independent! He’s pro healthcare, and so Perez has nothing to say, because that clown can’t say anything other than ‘single payer’ without a frickin’ teleprompter, and me, what was my whole platform? Eliminating national debt. Oh, of course, Elias is fiscally conservative, too, so, ‘sorry Ray, but maybe in 8 more years.’”

“So, you were the pretender, but it was all pretend?” Kendra gave her best commiserating smile.

“Yeah, I guess so. I just never saw Joe Junior running. He told me, I’ll bet 50 times, how he didn’t want to do government work where there were term limits. He said that’s the reason he ran for US Senate instead of a guaranteed second term as Ohio governor; he used Columbus to mark time, while he waited for Philips to die.”

“Look, Ray, you’ve got good ideas, and we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. But you’re young. Even if you have to wait 8 years, you can still be president, and besides, it’s not like Senator’s a bad gig.”

“It has it’s perks.” He smiled, and kissed her forehead.

“Anyways, I know how to make you feel better.” She smiled coyly and began to kneel down.

“It’s funny,” Ray thought to himself, “Sandra thinks I’m faithful because I’ve got an ugly secretary.”

Chapter 5

As Joe Elias Senior walked into the Oval Office, he was struck with an overwhelming sense of pride. He had been beaming for months. It was hard for him to imagine how life could be more complete. He had achieved all his goals, personal and professional. And not only did his son follow him in becoming the most powerful man in the world, but he had succeeded as a father and as a man. His son wanted him around. He wasn’t just some tagalong used to get votes. He had always been his son’s closest advisor and confidante.

It made him especially proud and happy to know that he had won. He had gotten it all. He lived the life that very few people in history have gotten to live. He ruled and was loved and lived to see his son rule after him. And all this had come at zero personal cost. He had never stepped out on his wife. He had a genuinely good and happy marriage. They only had one son, but he had three granddaughters whom he doted on, and all three showed unbelievable promise. Indeed, both he and Joe Junior had begun plans for Mim’s political career, and she was only 14.

And as good as it was, they had plans to make things better. Because unlike so many in the past, the Elias’ intended to secure power, long term.

“Joey, how’s your day?” the senior Elias asked as he hugged his son and accepted a kiss on his furry cheek.

“Great, dad. Brad just left, he’s going to head over to the Chinese Mission this afternoon and see if they’ll talk.”

“That’s good, son.”

“Dale,” Joe Junior called out to his secretary, “bring in Monsieur Desjardins, the opposition research specialist.”

“Sure thing, Mr. President.” Said Dale Glenwood as he rushed to usher him in.

“Please have a seat, sir. Would you like coffee, tea, juice?” asked Dale almost plaintively.

“Coffee would be great, black, wiss an ice cube, as well, s’il vous plait.” A tall, thin, extremely handsome man with aquiline features so characteristically French that even if the name or the thick Gascon accent didn’t give his Frankish heritage away, his face would.

“Excellent.” Dale said in the manner all aides-de-camp have said “excellent” since there were people who got guests drinks.

“Well, Presidents Elias, ‘ow can Hegemon Research ‘elp you?” The Frenchman asked, spreading his hands out in a languid and comfortable way.

“Tell us, Monsieur, what exactly does Hegemon do?”

“Well, zat’s a difficult question to answer, because Hegemon does so many sings, but allow me to lay out ze basics, and if I’m speaking too simply, please tell me; I do not wish to insult you, but very few politicians know ze least sings about technology.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Monsieur, ‘a fool shows his annoyance at once, but a wise man overlooks an insult.’” The elder statesman quoted.

“Oh, but sir, I do not wish to insult, I merely am saying zat I never know how much people understand about technology, and I would razzer speak to sings one already knows, razzer zan speak above someone an’ zen lose-zem.” Desjardins was speaking quickly, even for a Frenchman; he was clearly upset at the notion of having insulted the President. France had been so secular for so long, even obvious Biblical Proverbs weren’t recognized as such.

“Mais non, Monsiuer, mon père plaisante; continuez et parlez librement, vous ne nous insulterez pas.” Said Joe Junior in a soothing tone.

“D’accord. Alors, Hegemon is a system of systems. You see, when artificial intelligence began to be available to ze public, zere was much debate on how to utilize it. Should everyone have zeir own AI generator, or should zey access AI? Should it be an electric stove or ze electricity. You are knowing all zis?”

“Yes, we’re familiar with these basics, anyways.”

“Bien, so, ze question became, what is ze cheapest way, and what is ze most profitable way, and of course ze best way for everyone is to pay to use AI when you need it for certain functions. Now, here is where the story gets très intéressant. You see, ze normal internet service providers were not ze ones who had ze patents on the AI tech. What’s more, since several companies were developing it simultaneously, and wiss corporate espionage being what it is, it was only natural zat wissin a few years zere were a multitude of companies who were willing to rent AI. Zis is known to you?”

“In broad outlines, yes.”

“Bien, so…”

“Coffee, sir, with one ice cube.”

“Sank you.”

“You may continue, M. Desjardins, Mr. Glenwood is entirely trustworthy. He’s my great-nephew.” Said the elder Joe.

“So, as I was saying, zere were, all at once, perhaps 15 or 20 AI providers, ‘ere in ze US, not to mention ze rest of ze world. Now, ‘ere was where ze story got very interesting. You see, businesses needed to use AI, it streamlined work so much zat it became a utility. ‘Owever, companies like Intellect, Groupthink, and Cerebrum were producing ze best AI, but zey didn’t know ‘ow to sharge because zey didn’t know whezzer to sharge by ze day or by ze process, zey really had no idea how to get paid.”

“Don’t companies charge based upon how many functions the Brain has to compute?”

“Mais, oui, NOW. But in ze early days zey really didn’t know ‘ow it would go, because zey didn’t know if people would trust plugging zeir entire networks into ze system. Do zey only plug a non-network computer in? Do zey only access ze brain when zey need a task completed? Well, per’aps, but zat defeats ze purpose of AI. Ze brain is useful ONLY IF, it ‘as access to all your computers and tools. It makes sings work better because it is intuitive and does sings at light speed, while yumans can do sings intuitively, but at yuman speed.

Sings we don’t even realize ‘appen all ze time; every day your AI will check to see if your computer is organized. It puts sings in files – files zat make sense to you and where you can find sings because tze “Brain” learns ‘oo you are and does sings ze way you would want zem done. When is ze last time you saw anyone using a mouse? Of course, eye tracking tech was natural, and it makes sense, but zese sings weren’t foreseen. People truly didn’t know ‘ow much zey would come to rely on ze Brain.”

“No, we certainly did not. I’ll tell you Max, this tech has changed the way I do everything.”

“Absolument, but again, ze question is ‘ow to make money. Like I said, people weren’t sure ‘ow to charge. But one man had an idea. Richard Manheim, was an engineer at Intellect, and ‘e realized zat zis would be a problem. Now, ‘e ‘ad a brozer-in-law, ‘oo worked for ze credit industry and ‘e realized zat somesing similar could work ‘ere. You see, AI people don’t sink about ‘ow to make money, zey sink about engineering a product, generally. But someone ‘as to sink of zese sings. And as far as Manheim could reckon, ze AI giants weren’t going to use zeir own ISPs, Satellites, Cables or any of ze fixed infrastructure, why should zey use zeir own billing service? Manheim figured zat ze AI companies would just as soon not ‘ave to worry about billing and allow a sird party to take care of zat for zem.”

“Intriguing.” Said Joe Junior. Now literally sitting on the edge of his seat.

“Yes, you see, ze Brainbot makers didn’t really care what solution ze moneymen came up wiss, as long as zey got filssy rish in ze IPO and controlled majority shares. So, when Manheim said zat ‘e ‘ad written code zat would allow zem to track ze amount of time used by ze Brains for every transaction, and bill for each use, while allowing people to be hooked into ze Brain at all times, ze big-wigs loved it. Because zis was the problem: ‘ow to differentiate monitoring time wiss active problem-solving time. Everyone ‘ad always assumed zat people would eizer pay a nominal service fee, or only plug in when zey needed to use ze Brain. But Manheim found a way so zat people could always be connected and constantly using the AI, but only paying for functions actually executed.”

“Well, that’s pretty brilliant.” Added the older Elias, who was now unable to hide his interest.

“Yes, it was. And Manheim was brilliant for ozer sings. ‘E went out on ‘is own and started RAIAS, Reliable Artificial Intelligence Accounting Solutions.”

“It’s a catchy name.” quipped Glenwood, and they all laughed.

“It’s a shit name and it’s supposed to be one. Manheim wanted it to be boring and cheap – a line item – one so small zat no one would mind paying it. Manheim took one percent of one percent of every transaction processed, and what’s more, because ‘e was the only one who had the code to reliably charge, ‘e got contracts, in perpetuity, with all but 37 of ze 165 licensed AI providers worldwide.”

“So, this Manheim guy has a monopoly on some code, which means he has a monopoly on the billing for a now essential utility, why haven’t we heard of him?”

“Several reasons. One, Manheim conducted all ‘is business in secret. You never get a bill from RAIAS. You get a bill from Intellect, or Cerebrum, or whatever Brain you use, because RAIAS gives a summary of service times to ze billing departments at all zese companies, wiss everything down to ze nanosecond timestamped and accounted for. However, these lists are unreadably long, so zey get sent in two parts, ze first is ze summary of services, just an abstract zat adds up all zose nanoseconds and zen ze money owed and name and billing address of ze user, or it details whezer ze user is on auto-withdrawal, which all but 1.6% or users are.”

“What are the other reasons?”

“Ze second, and more important reason is zat Manheim, brilliant as ‘e was, could not do zis all on his own. ‘E had a team of about 80 in ze States, plus at least 40 or 50 people per country to deal wiss AI companies, troubleshoot, continue engineering, working on patents and navigating local laws et cetera. ‘E also needed lawyers and accountants, janitors, secretaries, and on and on and it became a pretty big company. And, since Manheim was an engineer, ‘e never stopped doing research.

RAIAS itself developed quite a bit of code zat improved AI as we know it.

Now, zis means zat even zough ‘e could have been anozer Croesus, zere were at least 15 ozer people ‘oo owned a sizable amount of the stock in RAIAS.

Sird, and more importantly, zough I’ve already alluded to it, is zat Manheim did not love ze spotlight. ‘E did not want people knowing zat ‘is company existed. You two are two well educated men and you knew nossing about RAIAS or Manheim.

Fourss, and most importantly, Manheim died, and after ‘e died, RAIAS became very interested in some of ze code Manheim had been working on before ‘e died – code zat could be vastly more profitable zan ze fractions zey made on billing.”

“I have a feeling that this is where we come in? Eh Monsieur?”

“Indeed, Mr. President. You see, people use AI, zey never turn it off, ever, and yet zey feel perfectly safe and secure, because people realize zat zere is simply no way zat anyone could monitor zat much information, let alone record it. Even if zey compressed everysing down to ze tiniest fraction, it’s still just too much to record and, even if you could, combing srough zat data would be nearly impossible.

So, people accept zat if zey ‘ave zeir phone on zem when zey murder someone, zey might be in trouble if somesing happens wissin 24 hours – but zey know zat it’s zeir computers zat save data, ze AI is just a utility, it doesn’t record, it simply computes and serves srough ze devices you ‘ave.”

“Sure, we never turn it off – I mean, there are so many anti-spying laws on the books…Hell, I remember when this stuff first came out, my God, the ACLU, the Right-wingers, they all were up in arms, they were demanding all these safety measures! We thought we were gonna scare the industry!”

“And zose safety measures work. Bien sur, I guarantee zat no AI company records your data.”

“Continue…” added Joe Junior.

“But, let me propose somesing.”

“Propose away,” said Joe Senior.

“Imagine if Paul Manheim’s true genius was zat ‘e was never billed for using AI.”

“Well, that’s just business sense.” Glenwood stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, and it also means zat RAIAS can use AI as much as it wants wissout anyone knowing what zey’re doing.

And zis means zat an enterprising and ingenious person could find a way to use zeir access to ze Brains. You see, RAIAS’s code does not ask ze AI for a report of ‘ow much time each person ‘as used its tech. RAIAS uses ze Brains to monitor zemselves. What Manheim did was ‘e forced ze Brains to watch zemselves and zen report on what zey were doing.”

“Wait, you said that the Brains didn’t report to Manheim?” Said Junior, clearly confused.

“No, zey didn’t. But ze Brains were used by RAIAS to monitor ze Brains and zen give RAIAS ze data it requested.”

“But that would use a tremendous amount of computing power!” The elder Elias nearly shouted, in his shock. “Why that would use half the intelligence of every brain out there.”

“No, it wouldn’t, sir, it would use ze same amount zat was actually in use, give or take. Ze Brains are never taxed at more zan 15 percent of zeir computing strength. Zey are so powerful and ‘ave so many backups zat even New York ‘as never used more zan 36% of ze available AI!”

“But how? They monitor everything all the time?” Glenwood was incredulous.

“Because the AI companies realized zat monitoring is passive. It uses very little AI, we ‘ave to remember gentlemen, ze AI isn’t a person, but it’s as close as we can get. Ze AI will reroute computing functions to your computer as often as it can, because ze mainframes, generally, simply use your own ‘ardware wiss ‘yper efficiency. Besides, most tasks zat ze Brains are using are pedestrian and use very little Brainpower. What’s more, places like MIT and NASA have zeir own Brains.

So, even though RAIAS is constantly running a mirror Brain, it really has no effect on Brainpower.”

“So, where’s the hypothetical proposition?” queried Junior.

“Well, let’s suppose zat someone at RAIAS wanted information on an individual. But it was from the past. Well, zere are no records, so zis person would need to use ze Brains to access zat person’s devices and ‘ope to find what zey were looking for.

But zis is a problem, because if zat information was deleted, or more concretely, if ze device were soroughly destroyed, zen zere would be no way to access ze desired information.”

“That would be frustrating,” said the older Elias with a hungry smile playing on his lips. He seemed to have already figured out what Desjardins was going to propose, hypothetically.

“Well, ‘ypothetically, zen, ze only way to ensure you get ze desired information you want is to record it as it ‘appens, and zen access it when you need it.

But, oh no, zere is simply no way to record everything about everyone!”

“Quel dommage!” exclaimed Junior. Who now, like his father, was so excited he could barely restrain himself.

“So, what if, ‘ypothetically, a person decided zat instead of trying to record everysing and search for specific sings zey would only record when specific sings have turned on ze recorder?”

“Say…if the Brain were to record conversations between a man and a woman who wasn’t his wife.” Proposed Glenwood.

“Well, zat would be a pretty common occurrence. But what if, purely as a random, non-specific example, if the Brain were taught to look for signs of infidelity? What if it were trained to watch and listen for clues as to physical intimacy and record whatever data was possible in such a salacious situation? What if it were taught to look for and record other improprieties – drug use, underage drinking, child pornography, malfeasance, fraud, lies, fears? ‘Ypothetically?”

“Well, M. Desjardins, I would say that this enterprising man would become the most powerful and dangerous man in the world overnight.” Mused the sitting President, “why he would be Chucky Milverton.”

“But Monsieur President, Milverton is murdered, as is ze man on ‘om ‘e was based.”

“True, that kind of security information would need to be handled delicately. If it existed at all, then it would be incredibly important that only certain eyes were ever able to get hold of that information. As President, I think that this kind of data would be for my eyes only. Perhaps a few other members of my cabinet, and of course my advisors.”

“But how does Hegemon work, Maximilien?” pondered the ex-president.

“Well, Hegemon is ze wing of RAIAS zat actually monitors ze monitoring. Hegemon, as I said earlier, is a system of systems. Every system ‘as its own name. Ze system zat monitors Intellect is called Intelspiegel, ze system that monitors Cerebrum is Cerebspiegel, and so on and so forss. ‘Owever, zese systems do not act wissout oversight. All systems all over ze world report back to our own AI Brain zat does nothing but run the Hegemon program.

Now, on paper, Hegemon provides quality assurance, runs regular and random tests to ensure zat billing is accurate, it operates safety checks to ensure zat none of the systems are compromised, and so on. And, indeed, it does do all zese sings.

‘Owever, Hegemon also, every few seconds, does a data dump to our memory systems where certain information we find useful is stored, indefinitely.

Now, typically, no one ever accesses Hegemon. It runs itself, when somesing is broken, Hegemon fixes it, and sends our technicians an alert, and zey log ze error and its solution and our codewriters add zat to zeir list of things to fix in ze next versions.

Hegemon is, essentially, a governess for ze whole operation.”

“And who has access to Hegemon?” Glenwood asked, drawing everyone’s eyes to Desjardins’ lips.

“Several people. Technicians, a few executives, and I. Fewer zan 8.”

“What would the US Government need to pay to have access to this vital national security information?”

Desjardins simply smiled.

Chapter 6

“I want a number 6 with extra mustard, no ketchup, no pickles, no onions.”

“Fries, Curly Fries, Fried Pickles, Tots, or Cheese Curds?”

“Fries.”

“Make it an extra large for another dollar?”

“No.”

“Pull around to the second drive-thru; I’ll have your total there.”

Ralph McEwan pulled up to the second drive-thru, payed his money and got his supper. Burger King was Tuesday nights. He saved Arby’s for Fridays, since Arby’s was his favorite. Plus, since he always had to go into work on Saturdays it was nice to have a treat on Fridays to keep from getting too depressed.

As Ralph wolfed his burger and fries, he began to think about his paperwork. He always had paperwork to do when he got home, and on one hand he wished he could leave it at the office, but on the other hand, it gave him something to do.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, he had no paperwork. Tonight, he could do whatever he wanted to do. Ralph sat down at his computer and without hesitating began skimming his favorite porn sites. He was planning a marathon evening. He wasn’t tired and since, by some miracle, he had gotten done early and not hit traffic on 66, he was home before 6. That meant, even if he went to be early – 11 – he would get a good 5 hours in.

His porn addiction was getting worse. He knew that.

He would view some soft-core stuff a few times a day back when he was still married to Kayla. But since she left, he went from steady viewer to compulsive addict. It was all he could do to not watch anything at work.

But tonight, he didn’t know what struck him. He wasn’t in the mood to just watch. He wanted something interactive. So, he went to a chatroom. The fact that there still were chatrooms was the amazing thing! He scanned the avatar’s and screennames looking for something promising. He sent a PM.

“Hi, I’m Rory. What’s your name?”

“sweetguhl69”

“lol, no, what’s your real name?”

“kt”

“K. T. like the initials, or katie?”

“k8-e”

“lol, you’re cool, where you from”

“earth”

“wow, me too! :)”

“its like we were meant for eo”

“ikr…pics”

K8-e sent a silly pic, sticking out her tongue in a goofy-smile, the kind only middle school girls can make, that serendipitous combination of carefree and self-aware.

“nudes?”

Ralph received more pics. After a few hours talking to K8-e, Ralph needed to go to bed. But he friended K8-e on the server and promised to talk to her tomorrow. As his head hit the pillow, he thought to himself that K8-e smiled a lot like his Carly.

Chapter 7

The steps at Karen Jennings’ house were plastered brick. They were broad and smooth and their white contrasted so well with the hydrangeas that consumed the front-view of the house that one’s eyes were always drawn to the steps, and then, naturally, to the red door on the blue, wood-sided house.

Hanna knew nothing about design, but she knew enough to know that whoever had designed those steps did their best work there. They controlled the eyes – which isn’t a bad thing for stairs to do, all things considered. Over the past two and a half years, Hanna had come to this quaint little cottage hundreds of times. Dr. J always had students over. She loved teaching and she loved spending time with students.

And because there was always at least a half dozen kids piled into her living room it came as a shock to Hanna when she saw that the house was empty, except for some candles and place-settings on the dinner table.

“Dr. J?”

“Just in here, finishing up dinner. You know the drill, make yourself at home.”

“Great…wow, it smells great in here, what are you makin’?

“Poulet A La Provence”

“Sounds good.”

Hanna sat down heavily in one of the cushioned dining room chairs and immediately took off her heels and put her feet up on the chair catty-corner to hers. As she sat rubbing her feet together, she saw that Karen was dressed in a slinky cocktail dress and had her hair up. Hanna thought that Dr. J looked best with her hair up and had complimented her a few times on it.

Karen banged a wooden spatula on a cast-iron pan and turned the flame down to its lowest setting. With long movements, almost loping steps. Hanna had never seen anyone else move like that, when Karen moved her whole body seemed to bounce ever so slightly at every step. It was almost mesmerizing when they ran together to watch – though Hanna often suspected that all the extra stabilization that her eyes would have to do must cause a terrific headache.

In one unbroken chain of movements, Karen, picked up an unopened beer, and the opener, opened the bottle, while turning from the counter, then she turned and picked up Hanna’s feet, sat down, and rested her student’s feet on her lap.

“The chicken needs another few minutes to simmer and then a few to cool.”

“No prob.”

They sat and made idle chit-chat about the rest of their days, and they continued their review of personal minutiae while they ate and drank a bottle of demi-sec champagne. After supper, Hanna got up to clear the dishes, but Dr. J told her not to worry, that it was Hanna’s evening and she certainly wouldn’t celebrate her last day of classes and her first day as a GA by doing dishes.

“Besides I’ve got a present for you.” Karen said with a wry smile on her face.

“Really, thanks, that’s so sweet, thanks Dr. J.”

“Come on over to the couch and you can open it.”

They sat down and Karen handed Hanna a beautifully wrapped box.

“Is this cloth wrapping?”

“Yes, it’s called…”

“Furoshiki! That is so cool. And this fabric is gorgeous!”

“Well, there’s enough of it that you can were it as a head scarf…or a regular scarf I suppose.”

“Or a neckerchief, or a cravat, or an ascot.” Hanna added laughing.

“You’re an ascot.” And Karen mock-pushed her, but then let her hand rest on Hanna’s back, between her shoulder blades.

“Anyways, look in the box.”

Hanna opened and saw a digital picture frame. As she scrolled through the pictures there were shots of Hanna in class, with her friends, in the library, in her dorm, in a bull session at Karen’s. There were a good 7 minutes of photos, at the rate the frame displayed them. Hanna was laughing and crying and smiling. And when she got back to the first picture, she turned and hugged Dr. Jennings who had been such a great encouragement to her.

Sitting side by side, with Dr. J’s arm behind her, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Then Karen kissed her.

At first Hanna didn’t know what to do. Then she began to kiss her back. Karen began to run her hands through Hanna’s hair and Hanna felt a thrill of warmth and desire rush through her body. She began to kiss Karen back desperately, letting her fingers explore her mentor’s body.

Karen began to lay Hanna down on her couch and reached down to unbutton her jeans when Hanna began to panic.

“No, no, no, stop” she muttered, half-heartedly, at first, and then more forcefully. “No, Karen, Stop.”

Karen looked in Hanna’s eyes, confused, and already slightly disheveled from the few minutes of heavy petting they had engaged in.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“I don’t know…I” And Karen kissed her mouth. “No. Seriously, stop. I don’t want to do this.”

“What’s the matter Hanna?”

“It’s just, I, I don’t know, I’m just, I’m not comfortable doing this.”

“You seemed pretty passionate just a minute ago.”

“Yeah, I guess, I…I don’t know; I am so confused. I’m sorry.” And Hanna began to sob. She cried heavy, heaving, breathless, gasping sobs. She tried several times to put words to her feelings, but she couldn’t. Karen just grabbed her with both arms and held her close, rocking her slightly. After a few minutes Hanna looked up at the woman holding and consoling her, looked at her soft bosom which had been thoroughly soggied by her tears, and smiled. Then Karen tilted her head slightly to the left and kissed Hanna again.

Hanna pushed her away. She was now indignant. “Dr. J, I said no. This isn’t what I want.”

“But, honey, it IS what you want. I felt it, you felt it. You experienced it.” Hanna looked less sure of herself. “Think of the men in your life: your dad; your high school boyfriends; Sean, all of them have used you and ignored you and mistreated you – they didn’t care for you for who you are. But I love you.”

Hanna was nonplussed. And Karen tried for the last time, she kissed her gently and Hanna didn’t move ---- not until Karen attempted to, not only kiss her, but to fondle her breast as well.

Hanna slapped her. Hard. And walked out the door.

Karen slumped over and began to cry as the bright and shiny digital photos of a bright and shiny Hanna played on in interminable succession.

Chapter 8

“My fellow Americans,” Joe began, sitting behind the Resolute Desk with his hair perfectly coiffed and his tie perfectly tied. “I have chosen to give this State of the Union address from the Oval Office. I am fully aware of the various traditions involved in this speech and I am fully aware that this is not the normal time for giving it, nor the traditional location for holding it. I have chosen to give this speech, only a few months into my Presidency so that I can give you, the American people, my view, as President, of the state of our Union. My constitutional duty is to periodically inform congress of our nation’s status, and it seems best for me to give Congress, and you the citizens of this great country, an exposition on the status quo, as well as some suggestions for Congress on how to improve our nation, and to inform everyone of plans that I, as President, am going to put into action to help streamline and improve the Executive Branch.

I have chosen to give this speech, here, in my office, and not in the Capitol Building for several reasons, the most important of which being this: most State of the Union Addresses are composed almost entirely of pomp, circumstance, formality, grandstanding, pleasantries, vacuities, and, worst of all, prolonged and purposeless applause.

Given the state of technology, there is no reason for me to not give the speech here in my office and save the taxpayers the cost of the police and janitors to protect and clean up congress.

When I was sworn in, I had the unique privilege of taking over for the only man I felt was better qualified to lead this nation than I. My father is a wonderful statesman, leader, and man. He has left this nation in a much better state than when he came into the Oval Office.

Across the board, America is doing well. The economy is recovering. Crime is down. Our infrastructure is being improved. And public confidence in public institutions is higher than it has been in 25 years.

My father and congress and the states have done a good job making changes that need to be made.

However, there are serious problems that this nation has been facing for many years that politician after politician, congress after congress, president after president have refused to take seriously. Our nation’s leaders have played kick-the-can with catastrophe, and it is largely by sheer-dumb-luck that our citizens have not been overwhelmed with a major depression or social breakdown as a consequence.

I propose that this perennial passing of the buck stops now, with this congress.

As many of you know, I have been speaking with congressional leaders from both parties from both the house and the senate, as well as with clerks from the supreme court and representatives from the governors’ offices of the sundry states. We have met, as a group, 3 times a week since I took office, and we are now prepared to lay out a real-time plan to eradicate the national debt.

Debt is the curse of selfish and short-sighted thinking. And a national debt is a cruel and grotesque way of one generation forcing their children and grandchildren to pay for their own political luxuries.

We have a plan.

If the house and senate enact this plan we will be able to eliminate the totality of the actual debt, and not unfunded liabilities within 20 years.

Let me be plain. This is going to be a painful process. This is not going to be easy. We are going to increase taxes – my friends on the left insisted on this. We are going to cut social programs and foreign aid – my friends on the right insisted on it. Every fiscal year we will have a budget surplus – I will veto any and every budget that comes to this desk that does not promise a minimum 15 percent budget surplus. At the end of every fiscal year, that budget surplus will not be given back to the taxpayers as it should be, neither to the fatcats on Wall Street nor to the streetrats on main street. The budget surpluses are going directly to paying off the national debt.

How are we going to do this?

Congress, the States and I have come up with a plan, the details can be downloaded at a new website: debtfreeamerica.gov. But in short, military spending is going to be cut in half. Federal aid is going to be cut in half. Our plan is to cut our budget. We are going to cut ruthlessly. My own executive branch is going to be cut heavily.

We are not simply going to leave our nation unprotected and our hospitals unstaffed. Much of the Medicare and Medicaid monies will simply be managed by the states. This means that states will no longer be sending their money to be rearranged by congress, only to get less of it back to manage their social service networks.

‘But,’ some are thinking, ‘but our state needs those federal monies.’ To states with unsustainable and irresponsible social service structures I say this publicly, though all the governors have signed off on this: the time for robbing other states to fund your states is over. The Federal government will not rob Peter to pay Paul.

If states wish, they can pass bond issues, they can receive loans, they have a plethora of devices wherein they can receive the monies they need to fund their services. However, the days of taking the budget surplus of one state to fund the budget deficit of another are over. The sun has set on fiscal irresponsibility.

As stated earlier, the military is going to be cut drastically. Modern warfare is complex, and largely technological. We will direct monies to places where they will be force multipliers. Moreover, while America will continue to have foreign bases to project power throughout the world, we will be leaning heavily on partner nations in NATO, the EU, the UN and others to do their share of the heavy lifting in securing peace.

We are going to cut all nonessential military personnel. Officers and NCOs who do not serve mission critical functions and who show no signs of advancing to higher rank will be given early partial retirements. The same will go for enlisted men. Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines are going to be fewer and vastly more specialized. The days of large conventional armies are over. The days of enormous air forces are over. We can do with unmanned and AI flown planes things that no human pilot ever could – and we can do it cheaper. The Navy will see an overall reduction of tonnage by approximately a half. Smaller vessels like destroyers and cruisers are not needed in anywhere near the numbers we currently have them.

The Marines will be least affected.

The Coast Guard, however, will be increased and will be given expanded roles.

Moreover, while the CIA is going to be reduced by about 15 percent, that will not affect human intelligence – we are going to broadly expand our human intelligence sector.

Also, the Intelligence Agencies are going to be merged together and the Law Enforcement Agencies are going to be merged. There will no longer be an FBI, Homeland Security Agency, DEA, ATF, ICE, US Marshalls and so on and so forth. All these various Agencies are going to be united as the FJA, or Federal Justice Agency.

The days of each agency being a little fiefdom with no accountability and no information sharing are over. Redundant personnel are going to be given early or early partial retirement and their positions will not be refilled. However, while there will be approximately a 30 percent overall decrease in these agencies’ manpower, there will be an 18 percent increase in actual law enforcement agents.

 As you can see, we are trimming the fat and making the government work.

Across the board various Federal Agencies are going to face cuts. All Federal Agencies in the non-law-enforcement and non-intelligence branches are going to be merged and the logistical staffs will have all redundant personnel given early or early partial retirement.

America is also going to cut out the handouts.

While we are and should be a generous and gracious nation, we cannot continue to simply hand over the taxpayers’ wealth with no hope of ever being repaid. Nation-building has failed where there were no nations before.

The Marshall Plan halted Communism and won European goodwill for many years. But the Marshall Plan allowed Europe to rebuild – not to build from scratch. Struggling societies in the third world are not trying to rebuild, but to build. And despite the best intentions of generations of Americans, trillions of dollars have been spent and no nations have been built.

Many of my own advisors cautioned me to not cut foreign aid. However, I’m convinced that if Americans are truly as generous and compassionate as I believe they are, they will continue to give generously to charities and organizations that will meet the needs of real people and real communities and not just throw money away, like so much dust in the wind, trying to buy political good will from tyrants, bullies, and dictators. Admittedly, this is a small portion of the Federal Budget, only one percent. But that is one percent that will immediately be put to paying off the National Debt.”

Here for the first time Joe paused, took a sip of water, and hesitated, for only a split second, but to those who were watching, it seemed her was unsure of whether to go on. But it lasted only a fraction of a moment, not long enough for conscious thought to read his face but enough for viewers to suddenly feel confused. So far, their President had seemed to be making a tough sell – everyone was getting what they wanted and giving up something as well. Careful and thoughtful citizens realized that the Left and the Right were compromising. They also realized this meant that the nation could go into recession as nothing had been said about finance and banking or trade relations.

“While I have much more to say about how we’re going to eliminate debt and get this country on solid fiduciary ground, I want to ensure the American People that this isn’t just taxes and cuts. Like I said before, there are going to be more Law Enforcement Agents working more efficiently than ever before. There is going to be a large number of hard-working servicemen from the military and the Federal government who can fill the worker-deficit.

But that leads me to my next point. Income inequality is the bane of capitalism. While I firmly believe in the philosophical basis of free-market capitalism, the realities are that we have not lived in that kind of economy for a very long time – if we ever did. No nation is purely capitalistic, if for no other reason than that there are taxes.

Moreover, capitalism sorts winners from losers. And I do not propose to tell you, tonight, whether Keynesian or Austrian economics are superior. I’m going to tell you that there are people in our society who need meaningful work. They need meaningful work so that they can experience the dignity that comes from earning your bread and feeding your family.

Comprehensive welfare reform is coming – at the Federal level, and then, eventually to the states. The Departments of the Interior, Transportation, Education, and Health and Human Services are all collaborating to create a modern day WPA.

As in the days of FDR, we have men and women who need work. We will give them the work they need. Here’s how it will work. Men and women who currently receive welfare are going to be put on a list. Those who receive it and are unemployed are going to be given a job. Those who receive aid because they have special needs will be given the option, but will not be compelled. However, for ANY state welfare to be granted to an individual, he or she, must enroll in the National Employment Agency.

That individual will be given a battery of aptitude tests and will then be placed in a career where he or she can excel and earn money for his family. Many of these jobs will be infrastructure maintenance – painting bridges, clearing trails in our national parks, custodial services in Federal and State buildings and properties. People will receive training in trades like carpentry, masonry, electrical, HVAC, plumbing, welding, pipefitting, and so on. Others will receive training in managing these workers, paying them on time and other logistical services.

We promise work to those who want it – work that will pay a true living wage and give people the dignity they deserve.

However, to those who will not work, you will not eat. And moreover, those who will not work and have children will have their children placed in foster or adoptive care.

We at the Federal level and the states are serious. We can end unemployment.

Which brings us to another problem – homelessness.

Homelessness has manifold causes, some of which we cannot fix. Some of which we can. The social cost of people begging and starving and freezing is too high for any nation. Americans are compassionate. And letting people live on the streets is not compassionate.

Some estimate that up to one third of all homeless people suffer from untreated mental illness. These people will now receive treatment, compulsorily if necessary.

The other two thirds are homeless for, as I said, a broad set of reasons: drug abuse; economic crises; divorce; children who have run away; and so on.

People cannot live on the streets. While rescue missions have filled a gap that the government should have been filling, this cannot continue. The mentally ill are going to be treated – so are drug addicts. They are going to receive detox treatment. After detox they will immediately be enrolled in the National Employment Agency. If they cannot stay clean they will again receive detox and be given meaningful work. If they cannot stay clean this time, they will be remanded to a Federal Prison.

Which brings me to the next issue: drugs. Many drugs have been legalized over the past years, and that is a good thing. Decriminalization has weakened drug cartels and reduced crime. However, there are still far too many deadly narcotics available.

I say deadly for a reason; synthetic opioids, various amphetamines, and other chemicals are deadly, poisonous, and destroy life. I am instructing all judges, that anyone arrested and convicted of dealing, distributing, making, storing, or knowingly financing illegal and deadly drugs will face the death penalty. Drugs kill. We have made accommodations with Marijuana, as well as other substances. But if you deal Meth, you face death. If you’re the accountant for a Heroin dealer, you will receive the death penalty.

The old argument that people only deal drugs or prostitute themselves because they can’t find good work will no longer hold water. The National Employment Agency will ensure that every American will have food, clothing, shelter, access to medical care and a self-funded retirement plan.

Moreover, there is another problem that has not been addressed by previous governments and that is the ludicrous problem of the cost of college tuition. From here on in, every American is now eligible for four years of tuition at any state, or many private schools, in exchange for 6 years of service to your country.

In conjunction with the National Employment Agency, I, with the approval of Congress and the State Governors, am now pronouncing the formation of the National Service Agency. American Citizens between the ages of 17 and 29 are now invited to serve their nation and earn free college. This might be done by building roads, or managing libraries, or working in the post-office. This is not a place to get rich. There will be significant opportunities for foreign service. While we’re cutting foreign aid, completely, we are going to expand foreign service. Our young people will help bring irrigation to thirsty people, will do their part in planting trees in Africa to halt the advance of the Sahara, will teach English in China and Mongolia and many other exciting opportunities.

Again, in America, there will be tremendous opportunities. The National Forest Service, and well as the National Parks have been given an extra project. We are going to reclaim enormous tracts of land devastated by deforestation and drought. We are going to plant trees and irrigate them all throughout the American West and Southwest.

Moreover, many western states have had their groundwater pumped dry. The National Employment Agency, as well as the National Service Agency are going to be engaged in, perhaps, the biggest public works task America has ever engaged in.

All across the California coast, we are going to build over 5,000 large scale desalinization plants. These will be powered by garbage incinerator generators, as well as solar, wind, and tidewater generators. These plants will produce 125 billion gallons of water, per day, when running at full capacity. This water will be pumped all across the West and Southwest to irrigate and restore regions devastated by poor water management. Little by little we are going to improve the environment and provide our citizens with reliable sources of drinking water, as well as halting desertification.

Unlike other desalination plants, these new plants will not simply pump the salt back in the sea to toxify the water. The salt and copper will be harvested and sent to northern states for road deicing and sold as cooking salt and salt for other industrial and commercial purposes.

We have big plans for this country. And for the first time in a very long time, Congress has decided to put party politics behind them and work together for what’s best for this country.

My Fellow Americans, I have spoken briefly to you tonight about the state of our nation. It is strong – but it must be strengthened. We have a plan to fix the problems handed to us by generations past. It is our duty, our moral responsibility to solve these problems. If not us, then who?

This State of the Union address was brief, and much of it was my telling you what plans have already been made. I want to keep you informed. Therefore, every Thursday night, you can tune in on your radio, or turn on the tv, or go online and you will find me, sitting in this chair, to talk to you about how our nation is going to solve its problems, how we’re going to make this country big and strong. America is a wonderful country, and I want to help you to help her reach her full potential.

America has the opportunity to truly live up to its calling, a nation with Equal Justice Under Law; A Nation where all Men are Created Equal; a nation where freedom not only means freedom from, but freedom to. Americans will have freedom from fear and freedom to flourish.

Will you help me build that country?

I hope and pray you will.

Thank you, and may God continue to bless America.”

Chapter 9

“What the Hell did I just watch?”

Jeremiah Sereno sat in a stool watching the end of the President’s address. Others in the bar had also watched the speech. Within moments of the camera fading, the barroom erupted in loud discussion. It was a bombshell.

“Jamal, can you put it on my tab; I gotta get back to the office.”

…

He heard the buzz in the newsroom from the elevator. It was hard to image that any President would be able to do any of these things, individually, let alone all of them. And how did he get both parties in both houses and the state governors to agree?

“OK, people, we are officially in “no one’s going home mode.” 

Don Hrupek was shouting to be heard, and he hardly was. But he repeated himself, three more times, each time with slightly less volume until the din became just the mouse-scratching of whispers.

“I just got off the horn with the other Division heads and here’s how it’s gonna break down. The Mail Online is gonna just pump the blogosphere and their editorial page full of as many negative pages as possible. They need ALL the search engines to immediately bring up negative reports. NNN on TV is gonna try to get interviews with dissenting congressmen and as many “man-on-the-street”s as they can. Our job is to coordinate a response here that we can stick with for the duration. We don’t want a critique that we’re going to have to change every month. We’re looking long term arguments against these proposals. We need to take this thing apart piece by piece, and also attack it as a whole unit.”

“What’s our keywords?” a copy-editor asked from the back of the crowd.

“Frankly, we’re not sure yet. We want to get our best writers to collaborate and come up with a narrative that we can use on all our platforms.”

“What kinds of pieces are we writing?” Asked a junior reporter.

Don hadn’t really finished speaking, so he was annoyed with being interrupted with questions, but they were good questions from people who wanted to do a god job, so he answered brusquely, but sincerely. “We’re gonna do everything: short pieces, long-pieces, in-depth, superficial, human interest, everything. So we need everybody doing what they do best. I want my op-ed writers writing op-eds, reporters: find government workers who are going to lose their jobs. Investigators, look into the budget itself – fill it with holes, find economists and have them attack it. But right now, I want Sandy, Kalil, Leo, Kendra, Tomas, and Jerry in my office with ideas.”

…

The meeting went on for about 3 hours, long enough to get take-out and drinks, but not long enough for anyone to fall asleep.

Jeremiah was shocked that he’d even been invited in. All the other writers wrote long-form pieces, that typically got printed in sections over a week. Jerry was only hired to push content. He wrote under about 11 names and used a slightly different style for each of them. He wrote his favorite and least propagandistic stuff under his own name. That was part of the problem with journalism. None of the newsrooms had the money or clout they used to. Not only did they not have Investigative Reporters, they didn’t really have Beat-Reporters. The D.C. Mail was just an op-ed machine – part of the National News Network, a vanity network started by Paul Mullins and a dozen or so of his Trillionaire cronies. Sure, they had a few people that actually went and interviewed people, and they had an “Investigative Team”, but it was hardly “Spotlight”.

Jeremiah knew what the D.C. Mail was – it was hack-journalism with enough money behind it to have a TV Network and a Print Division, and which was looking, currently to get into a Monthly Magazine. It was supposed to rival the Atlantic, and, purportedly, had an A-list of contributing writers who were under contract to write columns every month. But there would be no freedom there, just like there was no freedom at the Mail.

And that was what was killing them. They had good writers. In fact, they had great writers. The policy was brilliant. Find internet bloggers with the most followers and then contract them to write, full time, only for their paid service. It was genius, and it worked. Within the first 9 months, the D.C. Mail became the most widely read print periodical in America. USA Today, the Wall Street Journal, Forbes – none of them could hold a light to the Mail. It was cool, it was print (which the Millennials loved), and it had, arguably, the most writing talent of any newsroom in the world.

But, there was a fly in the ointment. It wasn’t a newsroom. It was a propaganda mill. And the appeal they initially had won by having writers from all political backgrounds was ruined by forcing the writers to toe-the-line that was set by the various Division Heads, which, incidentally, was the line set by Paul Mullins. It wasn’t conservative or liberal, it was personal. People and policies that threatened the wealth and influence of the owners were demonized, as was anyone who stood in the way of Ray Asher or the handful of other cousins, nephews, and in-laws, who were politicians great and small.

To be sure, the Mail had found its equilibrium and was having real influence with its devotees. But since reaching homeostasis, their readership hadn’t increased significantly. The same was true with the online, radio, and tv platforms.

But they were profitable. They weren’t aligned with any ideology, they were simply a mouthpiece for their controlling interests, and since these interests were very wealthy, the Newspaper was considered valuable enough to lose money till kingdom come as long as they influenced voters (which was hard to prove or disprove, but which Don and the internal auditing team insisted they did.) But they didn’t even need to be bankrolled because their subscriptions made them profitable, which was a rarity, and the advertising was icing on the cake.

But these were different times. A very profitable newspaper, these days, simply meant that it was financially solvent and looked to remain that way for the next 18 months. The money just wasn’t there to employ endless journalists. So, most writers wrote under at least 3 pseudonyms. Some of them hated it, but Jeremiah loved it.

He used his noms des plumes as therapy, and as test-bunnies to see what his readers would respond to. Most of his pseudonyms were used for the online-side, but 2 were used in print, as well as his actual name. Jeremiah thought that the pseudonyms were brilliant. They made the Network seem like it had a gargantuan staff, and, moreover, for writers like Jeremiah, it allowed them to appear to be politically even handed, whilst undermining the opposition arguments.

Once, Don insisted that the official line was that legalization of cocaine was going to ruin America. Jeremiah wrote well-thought-out, orthodox pieces that agreed with the official paper policy, under his own name, and several of his serious pseudonyms.

But under his “opposition names” he wrote straw-man positions defending the legalization of cocaine. They were poorly framed and easily refuted. But the paper seemed to be “fair and balanced” because they, as always, had all sides represented in print. But only one side was convincing.

A few times he’d forgotten who some of his “Mark Twain”s were and had even had to get rid of a few over the years when he went too far and had “Tom Gordon” call Mexican immigrants “wetbacks”. The furor over that little stunt made everyone hysterical. From then on some of the old-hats called him “Señor Gordon” giving homage to his Hispanic heritage and the fact that he had created a 14 day news cycle centered on a fictional reporter. The New York Times threatened to go public with the fact that there was no real “Tom Gordon” but Don had a list of fake-names that the Times used, so the Mexican-Stand-Off ended with the Mail reporting that they had fired “Tom Gordon” for cause and that he would therefore be ineligible for unemployment.

To keep track he had created elaborate backstories on all his golems, as well as excerpts of their writing style. As the meeting was drawing to a close, Jeremiah had created basic outlines for editorials and blogs for all 12 writers. The paper had chosen a path. But now, they needed that key phrase that would allow all their platforms to use the same expression and really hammer it into people’s heads.

“I think we’re circling it.” Don said looking exhausted and rubbing his forehead.

“Like a turd in the toilet.” Kalil was always crass if he could find an excuse – or if he couldn’t.

“The problem is that almost all this stuff sounds good, at least on the surface.” Kenda almost whined, as they had already gone over the whole speech several times.

“Well, that’s it isn’t it.” Everyone looked at Jeremiah. “It seems good. But nobody knows how it’ll turn out. So, we just predict a bunch of stuff and if it doesn’t come true we can claim that we scared the government away from the worst stuff and if it does happen, then we look like geniuses.” There was a flicker of interest, so he pushed on. “Let’s say that the National Employment Agency is going to turn into concentration camps – not at first, we build up to it over a few weeks, but we get there slowly so it seems reasonable and not reactionary. If people really do end up held against their will, we’re the whistleblowers of the century, and if not, then we’ve let the public know what could have happened if they didn’t speak out. We can even use our grassroots connections to start protests against incarcerating the poor – ‘cause poverty isn’t a crime.” His eyes got wide as saucers, and everyone looked at him and they all knew it.

“I think we got our tagline, Jerry: poverty isn’t a crime.”

Chapter 10

Walking to the front door of 214 West Main Street in Dove Bluff, Indiana, Michelle couldn’t help but notice how badly the house needed paint – and the lawn to be mown, and the roof to be roofed, and the windows replaced, and the myriad other issues, major and minor that plagued not only this home, but almost every home on Main Street.

Dove Bluff was a nice town, once. In the 1800s it was a whistle-stop for the Lakeshore Limited, and for decades it was a small, but prosperous little town with no pretensions at grandiosity, which was made up for by a certain certitude that its agricultural and economic wealth was permanent. As a small dairy community just west of South Bend, with some automotive industry to round it out, Dove Bluff was the kind of town that people took pride in, and the Main Street showed it. Six furlongs of big, white, slate roofed, mansions, with a town square, and the Civil War Veterans Memorial Park dominated the town and said, in staid tones: we’re very pleased to be here.

But, the years were hard. The industry that came from making extra parts for Auburn and Duesenberg went away when they did. And while the factories never went out of business, they became less prosperous every time they found a new buyer for their innertubes, rubber bushings, and radiator belts. The factories employed fewer and fewer workers every year until eventually they all shuttered. The wealthy dairymen, so secure because thirsty South Bend was just a little ways east thought they were untouchable. And for a while they were. But tractors kept getting bigger, and it kept getting harder to make a go with 80 acres and 40 cows. Most older dairymen stuck with it, bitterly, but their sons and daughters could see the writing on the wall and they left. Those who decided to stay and live a stoic life of sustenance poverty were rewarded with the invention of the Dutch Dairy. Milking wasn’t simply cheap – they were selling milk at a loss.

All but a few hobby farmers sold their herds, as well as those old men who were too angry to sell their cows. But, with the exception of the beer store and the pizza place, the town was ruined. It was the county seat of Dove Bluff County, which entitled it to a Walmart – but it was a baby Walmart.

Over the years, like everywhere in the Rust Belt, any boy with half a brain went to Notre Dame or Valparaiso and eventually moved to Chicago, just like so many Ohioans had left their dying Hamlets and moved to Columbus, and Michiganders had simply left Michigan, or moved to Detroit after the First Detroit Revival.

Worse still was that there were a few jobs for able bodied men. The innertube factory reopened in the late 80s and employed most of the county – but it was men’s work. If a woman had no interest in being a teacher, nurse, or stay-at-home mom, then she had no interest in staying in Dove Bluff.

Thus, there was a Brain Drain, followed by a Uterus Exodus, followed by another Brain Drain…like everywhere else in the Midwest, these happy little villages became ghettoes of white trash. Heroin and Meth killed those who stayed quickly; porn and video games took longer to destroy what ambition and courage remained – but they killed it all the same.

Michelle mused on these truths, but not consciously. She drank it all in, just like she did the smells of a dying town. It smelled like punky wood and cat piss. Poverty smelled like rank shoes and cheap cigarettes. Bad families had the ripe, fruity smell of day-drunk.

Today was different, though. Today Michelle got to actually help someone. Her career in Job and Family Services had not been the rewarding, valorous, chivalry she had envisioned when she moved from Dove Bluff all the way to Bluffton, Ohio to get a Bachelors, and eventually a Masters in Social Work. Instead, it was depressing, thankless, and deeply embittering.

Today was different though.

Today she was going to fix a problem.

Today, she was going to tell Larry Kreuger that he had 7 days to enroll with the National Employment Agency or face eviction. She knew that this could get ugly. She knew that Larry, jackass that he was, might even take a swing at her – or Deeanne – that he would be combative and irrational wasn’t even a question; the question was how combative and irrational.

Today was different, though.

Today she was going to fix a problem.

Today, Deputy Heller was waiting in his cruiser, behind her sub-compact with the Indiana Seal on it.

She looked around, Deeanne wasn’t here. Good. It was just Larry. As she walked up onto the decaying porch and knocked – of course the doorbell was disconnected, they always are – she heard the unmistakable sound of hardcore porn, very loudly.

“Of course, he would be home alone jacking-off at 1:10 in the afternoon,” Michelle thought as she banged the door, harder and harder, looking at her watch to confirm that it was, indeed 1:10, only further angering her; the later in the day it was the more intolerant she became of laziness and irresponsibility. She looked at her watch, again, simply to fuel her own despite for Larry Kreuger.

She looked back at Tim, who had gotten out of his cruiser and was leaning against the door, with his palms supinated in a gesture of “where is he?” Michelle made a gesture, explaining why the homeowner-slash-current resident was indisposed.  Tim mouthed, “what an asshole”, and walked to the door, banged loud enough that it had to be heard and shouted, “Sheriff’s Department.”

After that there was a long pause. Then, with no change in the mood-music, the door cracked slightly, and Larry’s voice could be heard asking, “whadda ya wan’?”

Chapter 11

Larry Kreuger didn’t have many pleasures in life. Vodka, a little meth, every now and then, Little Caesars, and internet porn – though not necessarily in that order. Today, Larry got to enjoy all of them. Deeanne, his paramour (though Larry wouldn’t have known what that meant), was visiting her sister, Rita, to nurse her black eye. In fairness, Larry also had a black eye, and, while he wasn’t sure, he thought he had chipped a tooth.

But all those problems had faded into sweet oblivion. He finished the meth he and Deeanne had been smoking the night before, and had been chasing it with a third of a fifth of Kamchatka. He didn’t have money for cigarettes, but the few pieces of pepperoni and the “barely legal” gangbang had put those petty problems to bed, as it were.

But “Sheriff’s Department” is never an expression a junkie wants to hear. No, Larry wasn’t a junkie, according to himself, but he still was extremely intoxicated and had no interest in going to jail.

In his panic, he threw a blanket around himself and walked to the door, not knowing what else he could do.

He looked out and saw Michelle Gerhardt, the know-it-all, goodie-goodie, who worked for the county. She had been to their house often, especially after he and Deeanne had fought. She’d taken the kids away a few times, too. Larry couldn’t have cared less about the kids, but it upset Deeanne, so he always made a big fuss.

His, “What do you want?” was spoken with a heavy Great Lakes accent, so that the non-initial “t”s, which normally become “d”s were eliminated, altogether, “you” became “yuh”, and the “nt” of “want” became a nasal “ah” sound, not even the glottal stop that Great Lakers usually use to replace a final “nt”. Thus, what Larry actually said was “Whuyuhwah?” with rising intonation throughout the word.

Larry was trying to come up with some kind of explanation for why the paraphernalia was in the house when the Gerhardt woman began talking about some government thing.

“Whuyu takin’ bow?” Larry asked, confused, which he masked with indignance.

“Larry, what I’m telling you is that since you receive funds from the State of Indiana which cover your rent, and because you are unemployed, you have 7 days to either find gainful employment or be enrolled in the National Employment Agency.”

This was confusing. Larry had never heard of such an agency – even though Congress had approved it and the Governors had agreed to participate 6 months ago.

“So what? You’re not givin’ us our checks no more?”

“No, Larry, the Federal and State governments have all agreed to stop giving money to able-bodied people who are unemployed. If you cannot find work, the State of Indiana, or the Federal Government will find work for you to do.”

“Wha’ff I don’ wanna work fer ‘em?”

“Then you will not receive any more money and you will eventually be evicted from this home.”

“That’s bullshit! I got a bad back!” Larry exploded with rage.

“If you wish to dispute your status as an able-bodied man, you are welcome to do so within 7 days.”

“You caint jus’ spring this on me!”

“Larry, no one has sprung anything on you, you have received letters, even certified letters, letters someone in your home had to sign for, every week for the past four months – you’ve received at least 16 certified notices. Several of them said ‘Final Notice’ in red ink.”

“I caint jus’ leave muh fam’ly, Shelly.” Larry was a grade ahead of Michelle all through school, and since they were both born and raised in Dove Bluff, his animal cunning was trying to appeal to her native kindness. This wasn’t thought-out, it was a natural response. Larry’s fight-or-flight was in full swing.

“Larry, you’ve been given 4 months. If you cannot find and certify that you have gainful employment within 7 days, then you will either have to enroll in the National Employment Agency or you will have all assistance terminated. Then it is very likely that you will be evicted.”

“So what, you jus’ gonna let the kids starve?!” He tried sympathetic, now he added indignance.

“No, if you are evicted, the kids will be placed in permanent protective custody.”

“Permanent? Like wha’? an orphanage?”

“No, they will be fostered or adopted.”

“You can’t do that!”

“If you become homeless, then, yes, Larry, the State of Indiana will do that; just like Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and every other state will.”

This was not going at all how Larry had expected. His cognitive abilities had never been great to start with, but now, with the drugs and liquor, Shelly telling him he was going to lose their welfare, and that if they lost their house they would lose the kids forever, he was incapable of truly grasping the gravity of the situation.

“So whut the kids go stay with Rita and I end up homeless? What happens when I ain’t go no place to live – Rita hates muh guts, she ain’ gon lemme live there.”

“Then you will be taken to the county jail, since Indiana, like every other state, has enacted the Public Dignity Act. You will be processed as either: mentally ill, in which case you will receive treatment; a drug addict, in which case you will receive treatment; or derelict, in which case you will compulsorily be enrolled in a residential worksite for the National Employment Agency.”

Not comprehending any of what had been said, Larry cursed Michelle and shouted, “In English!”

Now, Deputy Tim Heller reasserted his presence. “Speak civilly, Larry.” To which Larry gave Tim the nastiest look he could muster. He had slowly been opening the entry door and was now standing face to face with Michelle and Tim, with just the screen door and the cotton Dove Bluff football blanket between them.

Michelle composed herself.

“Larry, if you become homeless you will be either placed in a home that will treat you for being crazy, or a drug addict, or you’ll just be put right to work until you have saved enough money to rent your own place.”

“What if I refuse to go?”

“Then you’ll be incarcerated and you will work for the National Employment Agency until you finish your term, but you won’t be compensated for it and you’ll then be employed, immediately upon your release at a residential National Employment Agency worksite.”

“So…what, you gonna ship me off to South Bend to make license plates?”

“No, likely either California to aqueducts or Alaska to work in a mining colony.”

“Alaska!” Larry shouted as he flung the screen door open. Insodoing, he struck Michelle on the upper part of her forehead, which immediately began gushing blood.

It had been an accident. Larry, upset, and inebriated as he was had meant to come out of the house and state his case. But he hadn’t considered how close Michelle and Tim were standing. Larry came out, cussing and asking, “Shells, you OK?”

Then his left wrist hurt, his elbow went straight and he felt Tim’s strong left hand pushing on his emaciated triceps, forcing him, irresistibly, inexorably to the ground. However, Larry was a wrestler from biddy all the way up – he’d been close to making state, even. So, instinctively, as in all things, Larry resisted. He ducked and bent his elbow and wrenched his wrist as hard as he could, and was face to face with Tim, and he tried to back away as quickly as he could. But he was backing towards the stairs. However, before he got to the stairs he tripped on the back of the blanket, which was still over his right arm and shoulder. He fell backwards, onto the steps, and he almost rolled smoothly onto the grass – but it’d been 8 years since he’d last wrestled and his tumbling skills weren’t what they once were. So, instead he hit his left shoulder blade hard on the bottom concrete step and slid-rolled onto the back of his head.

He saw stars and rolled, by sheer momentum onto his side and tried to slither away, by army crawling. Then he got tazed. Lying there, being electrocuted, drunk, high, concussed, and confused Larry thought of nothing but how bad he hurt.

After the tazing was done he realized that everyone had come outside to see him. They saw a scrawny, bloody man, naked from the waist down, except for socks, being handcuffed while porn loudly blared from the house. Larry began to weep.

Chapter 12

Aides and staffers were hustling at an almost feverish pace to ensure that Ray Asher not only looked his best but was fully crammed and prepped. For the past 8 hours they had been peppering him with policy questions, hot-topics, as well as asking him to regurgitate statistics, factoids, poll results, and various and sundry other minutiae and memoranda. He was as prepared for this interview as any speech he had ever given. He had been prepping for months, indeed, ever since the National Employment Agency Act had passed the Senate, he had been preparing his scathing rebuke to this abomination which had the force of law.

Unfortunately for the Senator, despite all the bad press, it was a largely popular move. All the states had enacted their versions and played ball so there was no coalition of dissenters that could be formed. Indeed, in both houses, combined, there were only 50 “nay”s – and only 6 of those were Senators.

Ray’s only hope was to create a groundswell of popular hatred for the policies. For months he had been writing op-eds, posting videos on all his platforms and doing every interview he could. He had wanted to get this interview, badly, but Shana had a weekly long form program, so it was hard to get booked. Sure, she did shorter interviews during the week which she posted in print, but Ray wanted the full interview, live and in-person.

Unfortunately, not only was Shana limited in both air-time and availability, but because her research staff was one of the last true investigative journalism teams, it was hard to get them off their current slate of research and show-prep and get them onto something new.

It also hurt that there were so few dissenters.

If Congress had had a nasty split or a filibuster or if a third of the states had refused to cooperate he might have had a chance. But, the NEAA was a juggernaut. Ray, in a particularly sulky, self-pitying, and, at least half, drunk state had ruefully mused on the ease with which Elias had cowed all dissent in his little secret meetings with the congressional and state leaders, “I now of force believe him Almighty, since no less Then such could hav orepow’rd such force as ours”.

Ray’s Miltonian musings, sadly, had not been private, half-drunk as he was, his wife overheard and asked, naturally, “who’re you talkin’ about, Ray?” Ray sullenly responded, “God, Satan, and Joe Elias.” Sandra just rolled over and muttered something about sobering-up and going to bed.

But that feeling had stuck with him and now, Senator Asher saw himself as a tragic hero fighting for democracy against an irresistible force of fascism. Though, Ray had neither the courage nor the inclination to be either Canute or the Little Dutch Boy. At his core he was a politician, not an ideologue. He would never be anything but second fiddle if he went along with Elias’ policies – it was ludicrous that Elias was still pretending to simply be an executive and not a legislator! He drafted every damn word of that Act and pushed it on congress.

And, since Ray had no intention of being second fiddle, he would have to be a great dissenter. This was, he later considered, much to his liking. Everyone seems wise and circumspect if they pick apart what’s popular. Ray would play Cato; but hopefully the role came with a different ending.

So, it was all or nothing for Ray Asher. He would pick apart Joe Elias and his policies piece by piece and, with luck, enough of them would fail so that when they did, people would come rushing to him, begging that the wise old dissenter – the man who had seen clearly, from the start, what a disaster these policies would be – to save the nation.

He had laid the groundwork. He had been attacking from every front, and the National News Network his father-in-law owned was bashing the Newer Deal (as many had dubbed it) as a morass of idiotic do-goodery, economic illiteracy, fascistic totalitarianism, and irresponsible populism…as well as being cruel to the poor.

But Shana McGuff could give his campaign the intellectual legitimacy it desperately needed. People took Shana seriously. If he could impress her and her highly intelligent and influential audience, he would be a good ways towards a real resistance movement.

To that end his aides had been doing everything they reasonably could to make sure that Ray stayed on point, and delivered a message that could sway the influential.

Most important, however, was not that he convinced anyone. Ray only wanted to come out looking like he saw above the fray and knew something that no one else knew. He wanted to look like the grown-up in DC. Being smug wouldn’t work – not with Shana; she was far too well-informed and well-prepared to be caught off guard, and she was too bold, being beautiful, tall, intelligent, and likeable, to be overawed by smuggery. He could put on a knowing smile and brow-beat the rubes and hicks, but to have a good showing here, he was going to need reasonable answers that could be defended.

He was running over his talking points with some nameless assistant as he sat down in the luxurious green leather armchair opposite the statuesque Nubian princess of DC journalism. He sipped his coffee – only slightly Irished – and waited for the cue to begin.

“For a half a year, President Joseph Elias Junior has been changing the way the nation thinks about almost every major issue, from spending to employment, from national defense to judicial reform, and he has only gotten more popular as his policies have been enacted. At every level, government leaders and voters are embracing the President’s vision for a new America. But there’s one man that wants us to slow down and contemplate what we’re doing, one man who wants us to consider carefully if Joe Elias’ vision for America is a dream come true, or a nightmare that’s just beginning. Tonight, you’ll get to hear Senator Ray Asher, give us some Real Talk…”

Ray composed himself and prepared for the first question, which Shana, being the provocateur that she was, at least at heart, refused to pass along. He assumed it would just be a softball to get the conversation rolling. The opening montage finished, and he made sure he had the well-practiced look on his face. He had practiced for 2 hours a day every day for 4 weeks. He wanted to look serious but not pompous, knowing but not smug, thoughtful but not confused; Dear God it was easy to get that look wrong. He had even worked out signals with his aides to know what needed adjusting on his face.

“Senator Asher, you’re really the only significant voice of dissent in any major branch of government; why do you think that is?”

“Well, Shana, that’s a simple question with a complex answer. There are a lot of reasons why there is not significant dissent. First, let me lay out the major problem with the National Employment Agency Act.”

“Please do.”

“Its biggest problem is that it’s just too big, it does too many things. The Act is essentially a Trojan Horse.

I mean, everyone and their brother wants to eliminate the national debt – now I think that the President’s timeline is too fast and the increase in taxation is going to retard the economy, which will, in turn, lead to smaller tax revenues. The evidence is conclusive that tax-cuts lead to greater tax receipts, and that is indisputable. If you want more tax money you lower taxes; it’s counter-intuitive, but basic economics.

So (he could see that Shana wanted to get off on that rabbit trail, but she’d had to wait and he’d prevaricate, or obfuscate, whichever came more ready to hand if she brought up tax revenues again) while I am for eliminating the National Debt, I think a balanced budget, with a smaller surplus to pay off the debt over a longer period would bet better because it will lead to better, overall economic growth and it won’t stagnate the economy, as the President’s tax increases are likely to do.

But since nobody is going to vote against eliminating the National Debt the President was able to throw in whatever he wanted. And he was smart – he gave just enough to my Republicans and the Democrats to ensure that both parties would get a mixed bag that would enrage their base if they voted against.

It’s brilliant politicking, but that’s all it is, and because of that, very few will speak out against the bill. If Elias had proposed these various ideas, one at a time, none of them would have passed, since congress is split pretty evenly right now, with Blue Dog democrats and RINOs added into the tally neither party could really force any issues. But Elias sends forth this massive bill and it passes because there is too much partisan pork to pass up.”

“So, Ray, no one else is against the bill because they’ve all been duped?”

“Now, Shana, don’t put words in my mouth, that’s not what I said and not what I meant. What I’m saying is that this bill was like cheap pizza – everybody will eat it, but nobody really likes it, and everybody would rather have something else.”

“So, you’re just the guy who says, I don’t want cheap pizza, because it’s fascist pizza!”

“I think that there are fascistic elements, yes. Let’s not forget that Hitler had guaranteed universal employment – as did East Germany. Hitler also solved the homelessness problem.”

“So, Ray Asher is sending the homeless to concentration camps?”

“We don’t have evidence of that.”

This was going so well, she was setting him up for slap shots, and his aides were ecstatic looking at the real-time reviews.

“When do you think you’ll have any?”

“Pardon me?”

“When do you think you’ll have evidence that the President is sending the homeless to concentration camps?” Shana looked challenging, and far less affable than she had.

“Well, I hope never.” Ray answered, with disapproval, hoping that he would come off with a sense of authority, as though he hoped that such a thing would never happen, even if it would give him the presidency – which it would.

“Then isn’t it a bit irresponsible to make allusions to Hitler and Nazism?”

“All I’m saying is that Joe Elias is proposing many things that were key policies of the Nazis.”

“So, you’re against universal employment?”

“Shana, I didn’t say that.”

“Well then anyone who is for universal employment is a Nazi?”

“Again, that’s not what I said.”

“But you’re criticizing Joe Elias calling his policies fascistic. Does that mean that you are against Universal Employment?”

“I’m not against universal employment; I’m just not sure that enforced enrollment is the proper route to achieve that end.”

“What is the proper route?”

These kinds of questions continued for the next 40 minutes. Most of them were just tough policy questions – real challenges to his critiques. With about 10 minutes left Shana went for the kill:

“Senator Asher, what do you say to critics who claim you’re only against this bill because attacking it is your only chance at the White House?”

“I’d say that they haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. I’m against this bill because of the unscrupulous way it was brought to the congress; I’m against its economic lever-pulling; I’m against the trillions of dollars in infrastructure and nationalized industry costs. I’m against work camps in California and Alaska; I’m against criminalizing poverty. I’m standing against the President because of the issues – if that leads to the White House, great; if not, I don’t care! I’m a civil servant attempting to serve my State and my country.”

There were a few more questions, but that one took the wind out of his sails, because he knew it was a lie. And he was sure that others would know it too!

 As soon as the camera’s stopped rolling, Ray slumped in his chair and sighed a long sigh. Shana leaned over and shook his hand.

“Buck up, Ray, you did really well.”

“You went for blood Shana, I was expecting a forum and you went for my throat.”

“Ray, I asked good questions. If you want an unchallenging mouthpiece, talk to your in-laws. People watch my show because I don’t do puff pieces; you knew that. But, seriously, you answered well, I think you resonated with a lot of people, plus you never got angry or visibly frustrated.”

“Oh, so I just look stupid and not like an ass.”

“Ray, you’re the only person against an unbelievably popular bill – you think I’m gonna throw you softballs? But you quitted yourself well.”

“I need a drink.”

“Let’s go get one; I’ll buy so you know there are no hard feelings. Besides, I want you back on in a few months.”

Ray sat staring into blank space, and suddenly, he quit rubbing his chin and uttered, “great, let’s go!”

Chapter 13

Paul Glenwood was in a hurry; while he was the personal assistant of his uncle, President Elias Junior, that title did very little to convey what he actually did and how important he really was. Paul was Joe’s factotum, amanuensis, secretary, diary keeper, secret keeper, and personal adviser all wrapped into one convenient package.

He was a short, lithe, well groomed man, 43 years old who had lived a bachelor’s life and had no interest in settling down. He had been Joe Senior’s personal assistant through all 8 years of his presidency and now he was serving the son just as he’d served the father.

While he was physically unimposing and spoke with a slight lisp, everyone in the know in Washington had come to learn that Paul Glenwood had been the third most powerful man in America, and arguably in the world for nearly a decade. His political savvy was second to none and he had an uncanny ability to read people.

He instinctively knew whether someone was trustworthy or not. He also loved being a personal aid and wielding the influence that he did. There was something incredibly appealing to Paul about being ignored and slighted by people who didn’t know better, while he himself held the power to make or break them. He’d even written in his own diary once, “they look at me and scoff, but I have the last laugh. Sure, think of me as just the little homo who brings you coffee…and then wonder why your bill got no support.”

He liked being the man behind the curtain – but anyone truly understood how Washington worked had come to see Paul as the de facto Vice President.

Paul was hurrying because he had only about 5 minutes of fudge room in the President’s diary to look over an overview of a plan. A plan that Paul himself had typed up based on information he’d received from Desjardins at Hegemon. As Joe Junior leaned back in his chair Paul hustled over and handed him the small green folder with the simple title on the front: Operation Astrology.

Joe speed read the bullets and looked at Paul.

“So, everything is ready?”

“Yes, Uncle Joe, all they need is to know who will be responsible for reviewing the data. Obviously there will be several tiers of data and several grades of ‘Astrologers’, but we’re thinking that we can keep this eyes only forever.”

“Where are you thinking about sourcing these ‘Astrologers’ from?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part. The NEAA bill created some space for us to not reveal the project to congress. So, what we need is to secretly recruit people who are going to act on the terror info and the special organized crime info and then we need some folks who are going to work specially on our political issues department.”

“How many do we need there?” Joe asked, seeing that too high a number might put the whole program in jeopardy.

“Well, honestly, we don’t need any analysts in the political side, because we can simply ask the Hegemon program for dirt on whomever we choose. Desjardins has created a special laptop for you that has been specially created to be linked to Hegemon. All you have to do is ask it a question and it will give you an answer.”

“So…what? We don’t need anybody on the political side?”

“No, we do, but they are just gonna be goons. They won’t need to know anything, we can tell them the info came from tip-offs or the FBI, or wherever.”

“How will we keep goons in line?”

“I’ve been wondering that, myself. But I think the answer is simple, in fact, it’s so obvious that I’m surprised no one has thought of it before.”

“Ok, Pauly, now I’m intrigued.”

“I’ll tell you later, we’re gonna be late for the meeting with Miss Tompkins from the Drug Free Missouri delegation.” Paul said, hoping he wouldn’t need to wait for his big reveal.

“How long till that joy of joys?”

“I’m supposed to let her in in 3 minutes.”

“Whatever, she can wait. So, Paul, my lad, tell me, how do we secretly police our secret police?”

“Ok, so, bear with me, ok, back in the ancient world, what kinds of people did kings and princes surround themselves with as bodyguards and so on?”

“Eunuchs?” Joe looked thoroughly confused.

“Exactly! If they can’t father children, then they can’t think on starting their own dynasty!”

“So, you want me to get a bunch of guys not taking their Viagra? Is this the army of the impotent?”

“Very funny, Your Excellency, no. Think about it, who is someone that can never have a life of their own, someone we can completely control? What kind of person could we utterly ruin and completely delegitimize if we needed to?”

“I really have no idea.” Joe said, with mounting interest.

“Pedophiles.” Paul said with a clever grin.

“Pedophiles?” Joe spat the word out.

“Pedophiles.” Paul confirmed. “We get guys who we’ve caught looking at kiddie porn, maybe even lure them into a meet and greet and then say, hey, we’ve got an offer for you. We keep ‘em on a tight leash and only a handful of really trusted guys pass on the information and then they go do their goon-stuff and we have total deniability, and if Mr. Teenybopper either gets too smart or gets caught and wants to expose whatever he knows about “Astrology” then we release the proof of their shame. It’s perfect! I’ve even got a few guys picked out, we just need to bait the trap.”

“Eunuchs, huh…I like it,” Joe mused, “eunuchs.”

Chapter 14

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I really don’t know.”

Hanna Pocratsky was not hating being home as much as she’d anticipated – in fact, in many ways she was enjoying being home. She was even getting to spend some quality time with her father, which was a rare occurrence, indeed. Hanna had decided that she would come right out and tell her parents why she was declining to be a grad student for Dr. Jennings. She had no clue what to expect. Was her dad gonna hit the roof? Demand to sue? Go throw his not inconsiderable political clout around?

And what about mom? She was the classic helicopter parent and Hanna had seriously considered keeping her in the dark and coming up with a plausible lie with her dad, just to keep her mom from doing the whole “Tiger-Mom” thing and calling the University and so on and so forth. But, to everyone’s shock, Staci was calm, angry, but said that they would simply have to decide how to move forwards.

They had just finished brunch and Matthew asked Hanna to join him in his study, while they finished their coffee and cinnamon rolls.

The family had lived in the DC area, consistently moving closer and closer to the capital as, every few years, Matthew moved higher and higher up the bureaucratic ladder. Now they lived in Georgetown, which perhaps wasn’t as hip as Kalorama, or some of the other sections of DC, but it was in the city, which was what mattered most to Matthew – close proximity to work, and as little traffic as possible.

At their new rowhouse, there was a beautiful third story study, with bright turret windows giving a pleasant view of the neighborhood and letting copious amounts of natural light into the miniature library. There were built-in bookshelves, which were full to overflowing, with bankers’ boxes and files stacked in heaps behind couches where they would be out of view. And, as always, the large executive desk was completely cleared of any item, and had earlier that morning been cleaned with a wet-wipe after Matthew had finished checking over files and proofing documents.

As was his wont, his library-cum-office was always as orderly as it could be, but that was difficult to maintain, as the sheer volume of material he had to personally read and check was…voluminous. So, despite the best laid plans of mice and men, his study was always cluttered with overstuffed manila envelopes and the like.

He was the Undersecretary in the DOJ, when Joe Jr. became president. But, with the restructuring of the executive branch, he had become the Undersecretary of the FJA (Federal Justice Agency). And, what’s more, the story around the watercooler was the Joe Sr. had been pushing Joe Jr. to replace the aging, and cantankerous, Gerry Newcomb to step down as the Secretary and promote Matthew. In fact, it was a rumor, but it was a rumor because it was a fait accompli.

“Hanna, this is a difficult time in your life, right now. Now, I know that I haven’t always been the best father, so you don’t have to take my advice, but do me a favor and at least hear me out, because what I’m suggesting may offer you what I think you’re looking for.”

“OK, dad.” Hanna replied with a bit of confusion and awe; her father rarely spoke directly like this, and he was certainly more assertive than usual. There was something different about his tone.

“Great,” Matthew smiled broadly, steepling his fingers, “as you know I’ve become rather close to the president and the former president over the past decade. And as such, I’m privy to special information, and I can pass on special recommendations. Now, when I say this, I don’t mean anything corrupt, or untoward, but, rather that I have influence.”

He was certainly talking in his most careful and precise, pedantic manner, but still, Hanna could not make out what was different.

“And, as a man with influence, I can make recommendations that affect my family, if I do it in good conscience and if I can assure myself and others that my recommendation will not be construed as nepotism or cronyism.”

“Dad, what are you talking about? You sound like you want me to join you in an embezzlement scheme.”

“Very funny, kiddo, but here’s the point. I’ve dropped your name to Bob Chevalnez, he reviewed your education and your CV and he says that if you want, you have an appointment to the National Service Academy.”

“What? How, I didn’t even apply, how does that work?”

“It works like this; I gave him your name, and said, why don’t you see if my daughter would make it in, she knows DC, she understand politics, she has a Bachelor’s in History, she’s supposed to be a GA while she does her Master’s and so on and so forth. He ran your name and knows that you, in fact, are well connected and that you would be a great addition to the Academy.”

“But I hate politics.”

“No you don’t; you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you dad, I just,” she began to tear up, “I don’t know, I just wanted a normal childhood. Yes, I resent your choices, but you’re not a bad man, or even a bad father – you’re just not a…” she couldn’t find the words.

“…good one?” Matthew proposed.

“You just were a busy uncle, not a father.”

They both sat in silence, looking at books and shoes for several minutes. Finally, Matthew took a deep breath and continued. “Look, you can do what you like; you’re sharp and capable, heck you’re my daughter; but this could be a real chance for you – besides it’s only 4 years; and there’s no commitment like at the military academies. If you like it, stay and earn your master’s and meet influential and well-connected people. If you hate it, quit. You have nothing to lose except a free education.”

And to both her and her dad’s surprise she realized, at that moment, that her dad was right: there was no better option and she had nothing to lose. So, she said, “OK, who do I have to call?”

Chapter 15

“California sucks,” Larry said with a mouthful of cigarette, lighting it, and explaining to a new enrollee in the National Employment Agency’s California Desert Reclamation Residential Field Facility CDR-5801-RFF.

“I thought it would be beaches and hotties and smokin’ weed and gettin’ laid, but it’s just this desert.”

“How long you been here?”

“Three months, got sent up here as diversion from prison after I ‘saulted a government worker and a Sheriff.” Although he was angry and felt the massive weight of injustice on his slightly stronger shoulders, Larry always noticed that when he said he’d assaulted a deputy he got more respect.

“Man that sucks, I’m supposed to be here for 9 months and then I’ll have enough money saved up to have a year’s worth of rent and I can try to get a job at one of the water plants, at least that’s what my case worker told me…how long’re you here for?”

“I got four years.” The words rolled slowly and ponderously out of Larry’s half-opened mouth. Even though Michelle Gerhardt had told the judge that the blow to her head had been an accident and that Larry hadn’t meant to hit her, his drug and domestic abuse record meant he got a long “diversion”.

“Though,” Larry added, now toughening up, “it ain’t that bad. Food’s OK, we can get smokes; but no beer and the guards won’t sell you any drugs, nomatter what you offer to give ‘em.” Larry had offered to “give” some truly repulsive things in order to score something – anything. But, nobody would play ball. “At least the trailers have AC and a TV.”

“So, what’re we even doin’ out here?”

“You don’ know?!” Larry looked incredulous and so, in slow, condescending terms Larry explained that they were building an enormous pipeline that would pump water to some dried up lake. The “aquaducks”, as Larry called them, were one of the centerpiece projects in the NEA’s plan to put otherwise unemployable men to useful and meaningful service to their country. They were currently running pipe to the devastated Owens Lake dust bowl.

Larry, like all enrollees had been given a brief history lesson on how the greedy and unscrupulous leaders of LA had destroyed the ecology of California in their insatiable need for water. The plan was, over the next 20 years to pump the lake back to full, and plant thousands of acres of trees and grasses and then irrigate them from the lake until a viable and stable ecosystem could be reestablished, that “meets or exceeds the original habitability and biodiversity of the project area in question.”

This meant, in short, that for the next few months Larry would be working towards the lake, in tandem with other teams around the area, and then, once the pipes were in place and the water pumping, they would work in nurseries, fishfarms, and irrigation stations to reclaim the once glorious lakeland.

“Man, that sounds like a lotta work. But I bet it’ll be nice when everything’s done.”

“Yeah, they say they gonna rebuild the little towns around the lake and the river. Gonna put in fish farms and wineries and stuff.”

“You gonna stay when it’s all done?”

Larry thought for a moment. “I ‘ohno. Maybe. I mean, I hate California, but if they ain’t gonna let me collect unemployment and I’m gonna hafta work, it might be ok to stay here a while and see what happens. ‘Parenly it’s gon be a li’l paradise. What the Hell, sometimes I think I’ll just set up a li’l weed farm and live by the lake. I guess the govermen’ll give us up to 10 acres of land, right on the shore as long as we keep it for 10 years, or suh’um like that.”

“So, if we live here for ten years they’ll give us 10 acres of lakefront property? Man, if this place becomes as pretty as they say that land’ll be worth a fortune.”

“Tha’s what they keep sayin’. Bill, the foreman keeps tellin’ me, ‘Larry, gecher head on straight and take the land – you know how to grow good weed; build a little house, set up a weed farm and live the good life for a while.’”

“He’s got a point; Hell, free land’s a pretty good deal.”

“Maybe,” Larry muttered as he tossed his butt on the hard desert floor. He slowly got up out of his chair and after a long pull on his canteen, looked at his coffee tin and tossed the lukewarm liquid on the ground, too. They had been sitting under the awning of their trailer, waiting for the return to work whistle.

Because of the desert heat the men got up at 3am, got a first breakfast of toast and coffee and then went to work till dawn, which was mostly setting up scaffolding and tools, as well as checking oil on the heavy equipment, fueling up, greasing zerts and so on. At dawn they had second breakfast which was normally rice and beans with eggs and bacon, coffee, orange juice and some kind of pastry. They then worked until 10:30 when they took a siesta, got up about 3, then they got their dinner, which was usually very good and had a varied menu. At 4 they had to have tools in hands when the whistle blew. They would then work till sunset or 8, whichever came sooner, then once a week, or every few days, they would hitch their trailers up to trucks and tow them ahead a few furlongs or miles depending on their progress and then get their supper, which was almost always fruit and pastries. Then it was lights out at 10.

This left the men with very little free time; but Larry found that he was normally too tired to worry about TV. There were about 100 men in his unit. There were skilled laborers and heavy equipment operators; there were truckers galore bringing in pre-fab concrete supports for the pipeline, the pipes, the fasteners, the other various anti-earthquake shock absorbers, the prefab roofing to cover the already heavily insulated pipeline, the water buffaloes, the food supply, the gas for the generators, the diesel for the equipment and all the other sundry needs of the camp.

Amazingly; most of the men were here by choice: out of work union men; truckers who wanted reliable day routes; men who were in jail for non-violent offenses became cooks and laborers. They were men who needed work or were running from something.

Yet, about 20 of the hundred were there by compulsion – even among these, most of the men were willing to do what it took to get back on their feet, financially, and get out of the camp.

But there was a hard-core, maybe 5 men, men like Larry were forced to be here and would escape if at all possible. They were the diversion men. They were here instead of prison – but this was a kind of prison, with armed guards and everything.

Most of the men were unemployed because life had been hard; Larry was unemployed because he was lazy and selfish and a drug addict. 95 men were happy that their wives or girlfriends didn’t have to work and that their kids were getting good groceries and new clothes and that they were doing something worth doing. Larry and the other hard-cores were bitter; he missed getting drunk and getting high and getting laid.

He had considered trying to escape, but that wouldn’t work; he had a tracker on him at all times and, even if he could escape, where would he go? He was slowly trying to come to terms with the fact that this was his life for the foreseeable future, or as much of the future as Larry’s mind would ever allow him to contemplate.

He wasn’t contemplating anything as he stared off towards the Lake. Of the approximately 200 miles of pipe they were laying (mostly along LA Aqueduct) their unit was responsible for 50. They worked 6 days a week and normally completed a furlong to a quarter of a mile per day; they were scheduled to be done in another 11 months, since the engineers were predicting more geological issues coming up. They were getting closer. They were near in a lush oasis called Little Lake.

Larry refilled his canteen and without saying anything to his new trailermate began walking to the evening jobsite.

Chapter 16

Don Hrupek was sitting in his cramped office, which looked like a caricature of an editors’ workplace: papers strewn haphazardly; stacks of old editions on his desk; cigarette butts and empty Styrofoam cups littering the desk, couch, and floor. He was a pig, and it worked for him. Whenever people came to his office he always looked one missed smoke away from a nervous breakdown – which he wasn’t – and 2 nights short on sleep – which he was.

He was unkempt and slovenly. If he were a women, he’d be called frumpy. But he was also, in reality, a reasonably good editor, in his own right. However, he was excellent as a propogandist, and he knew how to use his staff. Which is why the 56-year-old, balding, overweight, poorly dressed, mustard-stain of a man ran the youngest, hippest, coolest “newsroom” in the world.

Tonight, in honor of his austere and very important guests, he went to extreme lengths to push much of the clutter off to one side of his couch and have an intern move a broken and obsolete printer/ scanner off one of the guest chairs.

“Hey Don, I hear you got somethin’ special for us?” Ray Asher said.

“Oh, have we ever!”

“Tell Ray what you’ve got cooking, Don; I know all of us on the board are thrilled with the initiative your staff has demonstrated.” Paul Mullins always spoke as though he were chairing a meeting set in a 1950s TV show about board meetings.

“Sure; well, Ray, we know you’ve been looking for ways to undermine Elias. We’ve been in max output mode for about 8 months, now, and we’re starting to see some real responses.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it, Ray.” Paul patronized.

“What kind of good news, Don?” Ray asked, seeming to not believe there was any.

“Well, a couple things. First, there are now a lot of lawyers who are concerned about due process and are willing to go on record about the constitutionality of some of the NEA’s practices.”

There were unexcited nods from the other two men.

“Also, there has been a very unintended consequence of the new viable death-penalty for those involved in deadly narcotics, and that is that nobody wants to be taken alive, so collateral casualties are everywhere.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but the real data that the Senate is getting is saying that the DEA and local PDs are already over the hump and that the back has been broken on the major cartel’s US operations.” Ray interrupted.

“Sure, and domestic organized crime has taken a major hit: the Italians and Japanese especially are struggling without the narcotics side to even out prostitution and gambling; however, the blacks and Mexicans are all but ruined.” Don added, knowingly.

“How is that good news?” Ray prodded.

“Well, quite simply” Don spread his hands “the public doesn’t care about being over the hump when we plaster the TV the newspapers and magazines with innocent bystanders’ bodies. Corpses are hard on policy. It doesn’t matter how many gangsters are brought in or killed, if the right person gets caught in the crossfire, it can be a PR fiasco. I’ve got my staff desperate to find a young, single, white, female – we get a Jane Doe and this could really put the pressure on judges to ease up on narco-sentencing, which will in turn be a way to repudiate Elias.”

“I like it, Don!” Ray was genuinely excited, now.

“I told you, Ray, how many times have I told you? Don is the best in the business. That’s why we hired him; he’s the very best.” The only thing that could have made Paul more of a cliché is if he’d been doing the self-clasping handshake.

“But there’s another, very exciting piece of information, that I hope I can trust you gentlemen to not let leave this room.”

Now both men were intrigued.

“One of our writers has gone undercover to an NEA work-camp.”

“Really?” Ray was genuinely surprised; he didn’t know anybody in this building actually did any reporting, let alone undercover assignments. He was beginning to think that maybe Don wasn’t such an ass and his staff weren’t all hacks.

“Jerry Serano, we officially canned him, said he was a drunk and was stealing office supplies, but that we weren’t gonna press charges. He got sent to California, somewhere – he’s there freely and can leave when he wants. His hope is to get video of abuse and interview some of the guys and make the place out to be Auschwitz.”

“So when will we get his stuff?” Ray was now in bloodhound mode.

“Not sure, he’s gonna stay on till he gets some really good stuff and as soon as he’s got something worth sayin’ he’s gonna start sending us intel. Right now, we’re just getting reports on how the camps run, and a lot of ancillary details.”

They continued their discussion for a while and broke up for dinner; Ray saying he had to go back to his office to meet with his chief of staff over some donor issues. He shook his father-in-law’s hand and got in his limo and back to his office.

His office was really a townhouse, like many Senatorial offices were; as a townhouse it had rooms for staffers’ offices, a kitchen, a dining room, all the things that would normally be in a house – except that this house had nobody living in it. The 4th floor was a suite of rooms that was Ray’s. He had a master-bath with a jacuzzi tub, a spacious office, a bedroom, and a small sitting room/ landing.

His DC office was comfortable, and because of his inherited and married-into wealth he had all the amenities one could want. It was always strange because the first floor had a reception desk and a board room and a business office, but the top floor was like a nicely appointed house. The juxtaposition of the top and bottom always made Ray feel like some Jewish shopkeep in old-time New York, moreover, there was a psychological effect, unconscious but noticeable, that Ray lived above the work of politics. His id perceived being higher in his personal life than his public life meant that he belonged in a position of power by native right. Again, this thought was never consciously iterated, but it was there and it did influence his behavior and worldview – or vice-verse as the case may be.

“Howdy stranger,” Kendra said in a playful tone, laying completely nude on top of Ray’s sumptuous Walnut desk.

“Oh baby, have I got some good news!” Ray said as he began taking his coat and tie off. Eagerly taking in the sight of Kendra’s sleek, taut form.

“Tell me all about it, baby.” Kendra said in a ditzy, damsel voice – the kind of voice a “broad” would use.

“I think we’re finally gonna get something to hit Elias with.”

“Politics is boring, Ray, come here and have fun or your gonna turn into a boring old man.”

Ray did come over to her and have fun. Little did he know that his celebratory…act…was going to begin a chain of events which would, in the end, drive him to the very edge of sanity.

Chapter 17

“Hi, I’m Michelle!”

“Hanna,” she said smiling and reaching for a firm handshake.

“Wow, well it’s nice to meet another person over 18!” Michelle said, looking out at the vast sea of new suits and new pantsuits. She had the suspicion that she’d made a mistake; although she was 29 – the cutoff age for entry-level cadets – she was certainly much older than the majority of her coeval matriculates.

“Yeah, lotta young’uns.” Hanna observed, herself wondering if she’d joined the party late. “What did you do before…this?” She spread hear hands in a gesture that implied the whole campus – the campus that they were taking in and trying to orient themselves to.

“I was a social worker in Indiana.” She replied after a brief pause.

“Oh, where in Indiana?” Hanna asked, though she only had a general idea of the geography of the Hoosier State.

“A town you’ve never heard of called Dove Bluff.”

“You’re right; I’ve never heard of it – where is it?”

“It’s a suburb of South Bend, if you know where that is.”

“Vaguely…so, why did you decide to come here?”

“Me? I don’t even know; I think I was sick of my old life and thought this would be fun.”

They shared a look; Michelle was afraid she was going to sound stupid. Why did she do that? Why did she always say too much? She was too quick to be honest and let people in on her vulnerabilities. Especially here! It had to be cutthroat, here. Why couldn’t she just say some blithe cliché, like “I’m here to serve my country”. It’d be a lie, but it’d be the same lie everyone else was telling, and that made it a kind of truth, right?

But Hanna wasn’t put off, and, intuitively she knew that Michelle was recriminating herself for being so honest and put in: “Me too. So, do you go by Michelle, or Shelly, or…?”

“Oh, gosh, please not Shelly.” She laughed and they both walked towards the central administrative building where the lecture hall, cleverly titled ‘The Briefing Room’, was located where they would begin the in-processing and orientation.

…

The two sat next to eachother in orientation and shortly after they sat down a nondescript man of a nondescript age in a nondescript suit with a nondescript voice intoned: “Welcome, Cadets!” The exclamation was in his V-8 piston-like arm…spasms…but not in his voice or in his facial affect.

The incongruity of what was clearly a pre-planned gesticulation married to the deadpan everything else made Hanna and Michelle both snicker. While there were a few chuckles, chortles, and even a few sniggers, they were scattered broadly enough that each violator of decorum got heads-turned and eyes rolled in their general directions.

One person, towards the North of the Briefing Room, opposite the girls, since the hall was built in the round, even let out a “Harrumph”. The sound, as well as the relative silence in the hall when it was uttered was almost enough to send Michelle into peals of laughter – but she bit her lip until it almost bled and thought about anything other than the pomposity of the whole affair…while she did stifle her humor, the sound of the jackass harrumphing kept coming back into her mind throughout the entire lecture and she had to fight from becoming hilarious, a few times in tears trying to keep it together.

The nondescript man began explaining things in a long and tedious tone and tenor, so most of the Cadets felt justified in opening up the binders they’d received and scanning the info whilst still paying some attention to the man up front.

Hanna, always a good multitasker, was able to garner quite a lot of information and took copious notes, and in the end sent her father an email explaining the functions and structures of the Academy and how it was similar to and different from West Point, Annapolis, C-Springs, New Haven, and Kings Point. This was now, officially the sixth service academy, but it was going to be very different. Hanna freely copied and pasted from the Online Materials she’d received so her email read a bit clumsily, but her dad wanted info from the front lines, and, frankly, the designers of the Academy had been fairly secretive about policies and procedures.

From: hpocratsky@usesa.edu

To: mpocratsky@doj.gov

Subject: Orientation Day

Hi dad,

Since you said you wanted to know all about this place, im gonna fill you in. so basically this is supposed to be like army, but for bureaucrats.

The campus is beautiful, although, I know that commuting when we work in dc is gonna be an absolute nitemare. The buildings are all laid out intelligently and they were obviously designed with a very clear idea of how the school is going to function. It’s certainly different from any school I’ve ever heard of. There’s nothing really like it, anywhere. It’s like they tried to combine every pedagogical theory into one new superschool.

I made a friend, named Michelle, she’s older, and this is a second career for her, but she’s also going for her MA so we’re in the same Cohort and Office…but I promised some data so heres some stuff I copied and pasted from the orientation materials.

“Whereas the other service academies are separated into regiments with their service-specific titles: Squadron; Brigade; et cetera; the ESA is divided into “Cohorts”. These Cohorts will take all the same classes together, live in the same dormitories, and go through their internships at the several agencies and bureaus simultaneously. This would allow you to get to know and trust eachother, since you have projects that would be specific to their Cohort.

Our philosophy is that students need to learn to work in a long term team and manage long term personality disputes. However, you will also go through rotations where you have classes, meals, and projects with cadets from other Cohorts, which, theoretically, will also serve as an introduction to inter-agency cooperation, as well as giving you the broadest possible base of contacts, since, upon graduation, you will all be sent to different agencies based upon your aptitudes and the agencies’ needs.”

That part above was all pretty straightforward, and I think the kind of stud you’re interested in, but maybe after you read this you can ask more specific questions, and I’m sure that in time I’ll have more to tell you and mom.

The cohorts we’re in are made up of 24 cadets, all of them 12 men and 12 women and there are 24 Cohorts, you do the math. The cohorts are all assigned ordinal numbers. The campus, as you know is on the Maryland side of DC and is in a forested plot south of 197, including Cash Lake, what I didn’t know is that everything around the campus is state land. Anyways, the buildings are all really nice and were designed with their educational format in mind. The classes aren’t gonna be in the lecture hall – which they call the briefing room, but are gonna be in the common rooms. Every cohort has a common room but sometimes well have to go to another cohort for the combined classes. So, at least we don’t have to walk or find our rooms!

It doesn’t sound like our days are gona be schoolwork, tho. Basically, we have class, or internships from 9 to 12. But if we’re doing an internship then its 9-5. After that we’re free to do whatever we wanna do.

But, the classes are not mostly gonna be lectures, apparently every quarter we’ll all be given a reading list, and then the courses will involve daily discussion and a paper due at the end of the week. The reading is gonna be fairly intense. Here’s a few excerpts from the manual.

“The Academy, like all service academies is accredited. Most students will earn a bachelor’s degree, however, those who were eligible will take on advanced coursework and earn a master’s. The master’s students will all in the same Cohort.”

“Every cadet will need to gain “reasonable fluency” in two of ten modern languages: Mandarin; Spanish; Hindi; Arabic; Portuguese; Bengali; Russian; French; Punjab; and German. These will be learned over the whole three-year course of study. A standard assessment at the end of your second year will ensure Cadets are on track – if a student is falling behind he/she will spend his/her summer break in language school – though students desiring to join the diplomatic corps are encouraged to go to language schools every summer and winter break.”

“Each academic year will have its own focus: GS-1s (first year) will study theories of governance, with a heavy focus on ethics and law; GS-2s (second year) will primarily study the history and functions of bureaucracy, in a broad sense, and the American executive agencies. They will come to understand the rudiments of Chinese, Russian, and EU governance, as well; GS-3s (final year) will study management, diplomacy, receive and intro into forensic accounting and work on final projects [footnote: every Office will present a fully developed policy to improve the function of the federal government; this cumulative assessment will demonstrate all the skills and knowledge gained over the student’s enrollment.]”

I hafta say, dad, im glad you encouraged me to come – like you said, if nothing else it’s a free masters!

Anyways, I’ll fill you in when I know more!

Hanna

What Hanna hadn’t told her father, because she hadn’t really wrapped her head around was the way the school actually taught students. The structure of the academics was the most unique aspect of the school. Along with the cohortative structure, the cadets were also going to be placed in “Offices” of four students each. The Offices resembled the chavrusim that a yeshiva school would have, which seemed fitting as the entire academy seemed to be as much a grand experiment in pedagogy as it was an attempt to prepare able bureaucrats. One student would later remark that “if a military school and a seminary loved eachother very much and gave birth to a community college who hooked up with a teaching hospital and they had a bastard law school, they would name that bastard law school the US Executive Service Academy!”

Indeed, he wasn’t far off – those who designed the Academy tried to incorporate all the exceptional and successful distinctives of all those different types of schools. Why the ultimate baby was a law school and not a military academy, was because of the three-year format, at least according to the student.

…

After the briefing, Hanna and Michelle went to their dorms: building 3, hall J. Each of the 6 residential buildings receive a number and since each building had 4 halls every Cohort got the letter that corresponded to their Cohort’s number. It was a subtle sign, that, although everything about the Academy seemed so well thought out, this was still run by the government. Why hadn’t they given the buildings letters and numbered the halls? Why was the master’s cohort not 1/A or 24/X…or even 13/M for master’s? It was obvious that there was some unresolved dispute over numbering or alphabetizing the Cohorts and this was the compromise!

But, what was even more wonderful, to the women, was that their rooms, on the right side of the hallway (walking in) were next to eachother. All the women’s rooms were on the right and all the men’s on the left. There was quickly a joke that “women are always right coming in, but men are always right when you’re leaving.” It wasn’t a funny joke.

Since Hanna and Michelle were right next to eachother and their room numbers were W2 and W4; the other side was M1 and M3, another catastrophe of a compromise in taxonomy, they rightly deduced they would be in the same Office as well as the same Cohort, which delighted them as they’ve found that they truly enjoyed eachother’s company and both had a gut feeling that they would work well together.

Michelle pushed her luggage on one of the huge luggage dollies the Academy provided and made the turn into her room without tipping over a single box.

She had expected metal-tube furniture and institutional décor. What she found was delightful: wooden furniture (yes, it was pine, but it was solid-wood, as far as Michelle could tell, not laminate, but it was nice, all the same) that was comfortable and tasteful. The desk was spacious, and she had one entire wall of closet space, minus the door, as well as drawers under her bed. The one side wall was entirely taken up with the bed and desk; while the other was floor to ceiling built in bookshelves and filing cabinets. On the back wall was a large picture window with a couch, and a coffee table, as well as a small table with four office chairs. The rooms also, on the bed-side had a closet bathroom with a sink, shower and toilet. What’s more, the rooms also had a small cooking island with an oven and stove, a two-bottom sink, a dorm-sized fridge and freezer and enough cabinet space to hold a few pots and pans and dry goods.

Every room was individually climate controlled and also had a ceiling fan. But that was nothing compared to the common room-cum-classroom. Each common room had a dining area, with fridges and freezers and coffee, espresso, and cappuccino machines. There was also a large movie screen and projector. The couches and chairs were all overstuffed leather and deliciously comfortable. Moreover, there were real woodburning hearths big enough to actually cook in – there were even hooks to roast meat and to hang a cauldron from.

Despite its coziness, it was clearly designed more for quiet relaxation and school and project work and not for rowdy college fun – evidenced by the lack of pool, foosball, ping pong, or air hockey tables.

And while she was excited to explore the rest of the campus – the first rate library; pool; workout center; lecture hall; dining hall; and rec hall – she really wanted to just get unpacked and lie down.

Chapter 18

Daniel Davidson was lying on his couch, when he was wakened by a knock on his door. He had only just fallen asleep and had that hot-faced, sticky-mouthed feeling that he always got when he took a nap during the daytime. He groggily got up and walked to the door and opened up to find two attractive women smiling, almost stacked on top of eachother looking in, waving and saying “Hi.”

“um, hey, uh, sorry, I took a nap, uh, come in.” He mumbled as he began looking around at the floor spinning in circles as though he were trying to find something but he didn’t know what. He was clearly still partially asleep and so the girls went around him and sat on the warm couch in the afternoon sun and began.

“I’m Hanna.”

“And I’m Michelle.”

“And we’re all in the same “Office”,” Hanna said slowly while making air-quotes.

“Oh, ok, cool, just a sec, I’m gonna get a cuppa water.”

“Anyways, we just came by and wanted to say ‘hey’.” Michelle added, feeling a little uncomfortable that they’d woken up their new teammate and hoped it wouldn’t offend him.

“No, it’s OK; I’m glad you came by, sorry I just am so stinkin’ tired. I haven’t slept well the last few nights, and then the moving in…I’m whooped.”

“Well, good, we just wanted to make fast friends, and if you want to go back to sleep, that’s OK, but we were gonna go to the Dining Hall after we met with out new Officemate. But if you want we can bring you something back.” Michelle said in a caring tone, as was her wont.

“No, that’s OK; I’ll go – that’s a really good idea. Can you just wait a few minutes for me to wash my face and put on some deodorant?” He said, truly asking, as though he wanted their permission. While not effusive, it was clear that he cared about being polite and considering other people.

“How gallant, Shelly, deodorant!” Hanna said, laughing. She was laughing more at needling Michelle than teasing Daniel about his hygiene.

“You know what, Hanna, I’ve been in social work for 7 years, and I am always happy when a man doesn’t need to be told to put on some D.O.”

As Daniel washed his face, the ladies could hear he was brushing his teeth as well. They both were inspecting his dorm, while staying seated so that if he came out early they wouldn’t be caught out snooping – which they were.

His room was neat and orderly; he’d already hung up all his clothes and his bed was made. Not “made” in the sense that there were blankets and sheets on it, but actually made, it even had hospital corners (though neither Hanna nor Michelle knew that they were called hospital corners.)

His desk area already was personalized with a few photographs, the open orientation binder with a leather journal and a nice pen spread out, showed he was thorough, while the books on his desk’s bookshelf were mostly fiction.

Somehow Hanna had pegged him for being a very technical guy, but the books on Daniel’s shelf were, at least the one’s big enough to read: Lord of the Rings; Complete Works of William Shakespeare; a few works by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky; a bible; several works by Steinbeck; and a few poetry books, T.S. Eliot, WB Yeats, and one other that looked like Frost, or Freud, she was too far away. His desk’s bookshelf, which was the width of the large desk, and was 2 tiered with a flat top was full – which meant that he had brought about 18 feet of pleasure reading. That was on top of the massive pre-filled library that every room came furnished with.

Hanna, again, wondered if this was all a big reading camp, as she’d discovered after reading her syllabi, that the Academic weeks would mean reading at least 100 pages per night, sometimes 200. Of course most of that would be skimming, and not real reading, but, she had to skim well enough to discuss it intelligently in class and write about it Thursday Night.

Michelle had been drinking-in the room, as well, and had noticed the neatness of the whole place, but mostly she was thinking about Daniel, himself. Using her training she was assessing who he was. And she was having trouble coming to concrete conclusions. While this wouldn’t perturb most people, as most people would think that 45 seconds is hardly sufficient time to begin drawing conclusions about a man’s personality, Michelle was an excellent judge of character and her instincts about first impressions were never wrong.

But, occasionally, she would meet a person like Daniel, whom she had a hard time getting a rapid overall feeling about. She liked to think that most people fit into basic categories. And while she certainly had training in assessing personalities, her intuition normally bypassed the training – or maybe she’d integrated her training into her unconscious processes, so she DID utilize them, but unconsciously. However it worked, she thought of it as coming up with a description of the kinds of things that person would do.

For instance, when she met one client, she thought she looked like a woman who would prostitute her child for smack. And as it turned out, she was right. The mother was, indeed, prostituting her daughter, who was 11 at the time. Mostly she was selling her to the girl’s uncle. Both of them were probably still in prison. Michelle hoped.

She had those gut feelings. She didn’t try to make them happen; she just met someone, talked with them, and sooner or later she would just say to herself: This guy probably does this; that lady definitely wants that.

But sometimes, mostly with men, she would struggle. She couldn’t get a line on them. And that bothered Michelle – it was like an itch that needed to be scratched; she wouldn’t be comfortable with him, despite his being, as far as she could tell, a very nice young man, until she had a feeling on him.

The girls soon began small talk and shortly after that Daniel came out and they walked out and to the next room to meet the final member of their Office.

The nameplate on the door said “A. Thomas Coplin”. After they’d exchanged some pleasantries and were on their way to the dining hall, Hanna asked if he were just “a” Thomas Coplin, or it the “A” stood for something. Thomas smiled and said, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

At that point, Michelle was very happy with the people she’d been assigned to work with. They all seemed like they were content. They sat down at a table close, but not too close to the buffet tables and began to talk in earnest.

“So, where are you guys from? I already know a little bit about Michelle, but maybe she can just fill you in in her own words.” Hanna said, speaking excitedly and clearly hoping to be asked about herself rather than volunteering that information.

“Sure, OK, well, as Hanna said, she and I have already gotten to know eachother a little bit, but, anyways, umm, well, I’m Michelle Gerhardt; I was born and raised in a little town in Indiana, near South Bend, and… went to college at Bluffton, in Ohio, and got my bachelor’s in social work, I moved back to Indiana, and was a social worker in my hometown. I did that for seven years or so, and when I heard about this place, I dunno, I thought that if I kept doing social work I would probably burn out sooner or later, so I thought, well, here’s a chance to do something different and so, I guess I applied, took my GRE and they accepted me – which was kinda amazing, cause I didn’t really think I had much of a chance. But I got my local representative’s nomination, so that helped, cause it seems like they just gave the slots to whoever got the congressional or senatorial nominations.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the feeling I’m getting,” Thomas put in, almost apologetically, “I mean, it isn’t like the people here aren’t qualified, but it doesn’t seem like there was an enormous pool to draw from – this place has a really low enrollment, but, it seems like they just took all 435 congressional nominations, all 100 senatorial nominations and then used the extra 41 to make sure they had even numbers of men and women, and called them the at-large Cadets.”

“Is that the term they used? At-large cadets?” Daniel asked, seeming very interested in the turn of phrase.

“No, I made that up, but it certainly seems to be the case – I was looking up the summary profile of the other cadets and I thought the number 576 seemed really close to 535, so I checked to see what portion of them had the congressional and senatorial nominations and found that exactly 41 did not have a nomination. So, my working hypothesis is that they must have just told every representative that they got one nomination and then they took 41 applicants who didn’t have a nomination, maybe people who were in the military or something.”

“That makes sense, but it seems like such an odd way to do it – if they were worried about having equal numbers of men and women why didn’t every rep get two nominees: one male and one female and then draw only from that pool?” Daniel asked, as though this obvious logical working must have been the only one that anyone would have ever considered, and therefore any system that didn’t match his perfectly logical plan would therefore be impossible – as though people were always logical.

“Well, because all the service academies are, to some degree, anachronistic and illogical in their commissioning processes.” Hanna added.

“Sure, but why not just have 1,070 cadets and then there’s no fuss nor muss about having the sexes be equal.”

“Because 1,070 doesn’t have in integer for a square root?” Michelle posited. “I mean, I know it’s stupid, but the 24 by 24 thing is kinda funny, right?”

“That’s a helluva way to run a railroad.” Hanna said, smiling – until she saw the confused looks on her teammates’ faces. “What, you’ve never heard that expression?”

“Mmmmmno,” Tom said, shaking his head and pulling his lips between his teeth.

“What, seriously, it’s a common expression.” Hanna was in disbelief.

“’Parently not.” Michelle laughed.

“Seriously, are you guys gaslighting me?”

“I’ve heard it, Hanna,” Daniel admitted, “but only from very old men.”

They all laughed.

The conversation went on in the Dining Hall for another hour and then they returned to Hanna’s room for coffee and to talk about their upcoming first day. They’d learned that Tom was a Poli-sci major from Hillsdale College in Michigan – and they joked that he must be the token conservative at the school, after he got his degree he went to work on Ray Asher’s campaign when he ran the first time against Joe Elias Senior. The higher-ups were so impressed with his work and his thinking they asked him to be a permanent member of Asher’s staff – one of his strategists. He said “being a staffer is nice if you’re young and a true believer, but if you really want to make a difference, you have to change policy, and politicians don’t change policy – bureaucrats do.”

This elicited peals of laughter from the group and finally Hanna couldn’t resist. “You’re right, you’re right, Ray Asher doesn’t change policy – you should have been a staffer for Joe Junior!”

Tom laughed at himself, “well, I quit working for Asher before Joe Jr started changing the world, so, to be fair, you can’t fault me too much.”

Dan didn’t say much about his past other than that his dad had been in politics, but then got out to be an exec at a charity. He went to Wheaton where he got a degree in Anthropology, and he had graduated just the summer before. He was considering philosophy at Notre Dame, but when he saw a chance to get in at the Academy he applied and got in.

The group realized that the reason they were on a team was because they were all Midwesterners. But they only realized this when they learned that although Hanna went to some school in Oregon nobody had ever heard of, and that her dad had lived in DC for years, they still had property in northwest Ohio, and that she had been nominated out of Ohio, even though she hadn’t actually lived there since middle school. Then it made sense: Hanna was from Ohio; Michelle from Indiana; Tom – whose first name they’d not discovered – was from Michigan; and Daniel, who’d spoken last, was also from Ohio; in fact, he only grew up about 50 miles from where Hanna’s family property was, since he, like Elias, was from Toledo, and Hanna was from Defiance.

When they finally got comfortable in Hanna’s room it was about 9 and Tom wandered out and came back a few seconds later with a bottle of scotch.

“I’m not touching that unless you’ve got something really sweet to chase it; ugh, I hate scotch.” Michelle said.

“Are you drunk? This is a 30-year-old Laphroig! You’re not chasing this!” Tom was utterly indignant and not, in any way, kidding.

“I’m not drinking it if I can’t chase it, I hate whiskey.”

Everyone was now laughing and Dan and Hanna were keen to see how things would play out.

“Look, Shelly,” she was now close to being pissed, but was clearly enjoying being part of a group that was having fun, so her anger looked real and fake, all at once, “this isn’t girls gone wild – you sip this! This stuff costs a lot of money!”

“I’ll sip it with you, Tommy,” Hanna exclaimed in a mock-adventurous tone, that was supposed to also have a Scottish brogue, but only sounded loud.

“Ugh, fine,” Michelle gave in, without a fight, “if everyone is.”

Everyone looked at Daniel.

“I don’t drink, guys.”

“I don’t drink guys, either,” Tom said. “Look, just try a finger of this stuff. Here’s what I propose.” He suddenly got serious and everyone else did, too. We’re going to have to spend a lot of time together over the next three years, and from what I’ve read from the syllabi and the philosophy of pedagogy stuff, this is gonna be a lot of hard work and late nights. So, I say at the beginning and end of every quarter we all celebrate with a little tipple of this fine aqua vitae.”

“Why not pizza and pop?” Michelle said, and everyone suppressed snickers.

“What is this, the 8th grade lock-in? No, we’re not celebrating with pizza and pop. I’m pouring four drinks – if you believe in friendship, and America, you’ll enjoy this drink with me.”

“Well, golly, if it’s about patriotism, I guess I have no choice.” Dan said, and Hanna and Michelle let out a little cheer.

The all took their glasses, not ideal glasses for scotch, and not all matching, but they were clean. Tom said simply: “To friendship.”

They all took tiny sips, since they’d been berated into slowly savoring the liquor.

Michelle swallowed and started wheezing and after a moment choked out: “Good God, that’s awful!”

Chapter 19

The car smelled like a stake-out – the sickly sweet smell of spilled coffee on synthetic fabric overpowered the aroma of fast food detritus, but only just.

The car smelled like a stake-out but this wasn’t a stake-out, per se. This was a marathon. They had “visited” 8 subjects in the past 24 hours. For every subject they had had excellent advanced intel on the perps whereabouts and habits so the waiting was minimal. What they were really doing was watching and waiting for their targets to come back to their homes or to leave their apartments or get to their places of work or to meet a specific informant.

Ralph McEwan and his new partner, Steve Cantu, had been involved in what once would have been considered an interagency task force, but now since the consolidation, they were simply partners on a very special team of agents who were involved in surprise arrests of organized crime soldiers and capos, as well as dealers and higher-ups in various drug cartels, as well as low-level dealers.

For most of the past four months they had been working together five days a week, doing little else but making arrests. The new laws that congress had passed under Elias’ request had opened the floodgate on rats and state’s witnesses. To avoid the death penalty for trafficking in narcotics, they were willing to flip on just about everybody in their organizations.

This led to a lot of violence.

Cartel men were unwilling to be taken alive because they knew that if they got the wrong judge, and prosecutors were getting extremely likely on their judging appointments, then they would likely face the death penalty. So, it wasn’t simply a desire to not go to prison – it was a desire to live.

This meant that the new law-enforcement superagency had two competing issues: a mountain of actionable names for arrest; and a hyper-vigilant, hyper-violent class of criminal to take down.

Men like McEwan and Cantu were chosen to work in two-man teams to make rapid arrest/ extractions. They always caught people unawares and alone. A lot of people were openly marveling at the quality of the intel they were getting, but very few people cared since the drug business was in serious danger of being broken in many places.

Men like McEwan and Cantu were especially good at their work. They were in good shape, they were quick thinkers, they could smell traps, and most importantly, they had no compunction about using their weapons at the slightest threat.

Today was perhaps their busiest day yet. When they got to their desk-clump they saw a stack of warrants 20 names high in Cantu’s inbox, with detailed information on their habits and a list of likely places for takedowns that would be good for the next 72 hours.

Just 15 years ago, before AI, this would have meant carefully scanning the dossiers in relationship to a map and planning the best order in which to serve the warrants. But the computers did that for them – it calculated and order, based upon known times for assisting officers to arrive, travel time between proposed arrest sites and the ideal times for arrest.

Thus, they were given a master-list which told them where they should be and when – based upon what informants and snitches had said.

The “lists” as the agents were calling them were proving to be incredibly accurate, when the agents went “shopping”. So accurate, that sometimes Ralph and Steve only had to wait ten or fifteen minutes for their targets to exit the building.

That was the best time for a take-down, they’d learned. Coming and making a no-knock arrest was fine if you have a SWAT team, but not for just two men. They wanted to make their arrest when a person was in public – ideally when they turned to lock their door, because then they’d have their dominant hand on their keys and off their gun.

It wouldn’t be long before this wouldn’t work because perps would catch-on: as Steve and Ralph often discussed, but they were happy to keep using it as long as people kept leaving their homes alone, without gun-in-hand, and locked their doors.

The alone part was the key.

They only worked in two-man teams for low-level guys: dealers, soldiers, enforcers. But if a guy was going to have a bodyguard, or was an especially dangerous subject, then they would work in teams of four or 6 or eight, or even more, depending on the likelihood of “effective violence”.

To be sure, it was exhausting. But it was also deeply satisfying. They sat in their new car, with its new bullet-proof windows and body, it’s new powerful motor, it’s new state-of the art AI-linked computer console, and looked out, four doors ahead, waiting for DeQuan Marshall to come home.

Ralph was licking his fingertips and dipping them im the bottom corner of a bag of barbeque kettle chips when Steve broke the silence. “I dunno if he’s comin’ man. We’ve been waitin’ here for 4 hours. Our intel is almost always better than this.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Ralph mumbled, as he used his fingernail to chisel the chipdust that had hardened on his molars.

“But, I guess you prolly had to wait a lot longer than this on your old stake-outs? Huh?” Steve asked, trying to get into some small-talk.

“Hah, no,” Ralph then swallowed and took his finger out of his mouth. “I didn’t really do any fieldwork before the consolidation.

“Really?” Steve seemed surprised.

“What, does that su’prise you? You not wanna work with me, now?” Ralph asked testily.

“No man, it’s just…I was justa pencil-pusher before the consolidation. I mean, I was DEA, and I had been on a couple raids, but always in the back and I never even pointed a gun at anybody.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. I mean, I thought you were the experienced field guy and since I knew about narcotics we were supposed to balance eachother out.”

“Hah, I thought the same thing, only I thought because of my expertise in organized crime I was gonna be your intel man.”

“Wow, what a couple chumps we are!”

There was silence and smiles for a few seconds when Steve then asked, “So what did you do?”

“I was originally in the Boston PD as a financial analyst. But after the divorce I moved to Baltimore and worked as an analyst on their organized crime squad. After a few months, I was officially on the FBI joint task force.”

“What’d you do for ‘em?”

“Looked at financials and tried to find evidence of money laundering or other RICO violations.” There was a long pause and finally, just before Steve began another question Ralph continued, “I guess that’s why I got dragged into all this, because suddenly they said, ‘Hey Ralph, we want you to keep doin’ the money stuff, but we think you’re capable of more, how’d you like to train to be on a special team to take down gangsters?’ I mean, what else can you say?...But what about you?”

“Me? Man, I mean, my story’s a lot like yours. I was DEA, but I was a surveillance guy my whole career, and then after the restructure, you know, what you said, they came and said they had a special project. It was great, cause, like, I was thinkin’ about quitin’ the DEA.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny, cause I was thinkin’ about leavin’ for the private sector, too. You know, I was sick’a seein’ crooks get rich and me be poor. I got a pretty good background in forensic accounting and tons of experience; I could go work for just about any firm and make double.”

“I know the feeling, Ralphy-boy, I decided not to go into the tech field because I wanted to serve my country!”

“Wow, Cantu, what a couple’a chumps, we are!” He said, as he raised his Styrofoam coffee cup in a mock toast. Just as he began to sip the lukewarm liquid, he spilled some as he stopped drinking and said, “Steve, there he is!”

They saw him coming from two blocks away. They both got out, straightened their suits and picked up briefcases.

They’d been facing their car away from the front door and looking in the rearview mirror. The idea was it’s less suspicious than an unfamiliar car with two men looking at your door. They turned and headed towards DeQuan, hoping to meet him at the door, right as he was taking out his keys.

Except something was wrong.

Ralph and DeQuan made eye contact, and DeQuan, instinctively, knew it was a take-down. Without pausing or hesitating, he began to move his hand towards the small of his back.

Ralph and Steve both immediately began drawing their own weapons, Steve dropping his briefcase, and Ralph holding his, though he could never, later, explain why. They were both in the process of turning their bodies into a shooting position while leveling their barrel when the first bullet left DeQaun’s Glock and by the time the trigger was pulled a second time, DQ was already pointing far too high, and Ralph was already crumpling on the ground.

But, while Ralph was wearing a vest, DQ wasn’t and Steve’s first shot went through his bladder and into his spine, and the rest of the eight bullets went into his body at slightly higher points with every shot, with the last bullet entering through the sternum just below the collarbone.

Steve was wearing a side holster and was using classic law enforcement training: shoot from the hip and empty the clip.

It all took less than 5 seconds, but the carnage was unbelievable. Steve immediately called for backup and an ambulance.

Though the backup and ambulance did come, in the end Ralph was fine, apart from some bruises and DeQuan Marshall was dead.

…

As a matter of procedure, Ralph was taken to Johns Hopkins, via ambulance, and was given a private room and received all the standard tests to ensure that the vest did its work – which it did. However, Agent McEwan was in a state of emotional shock and, on top of being run ragged for the past several weeks making arrests around the clock (not to mention their last 24 hour stint), just lying abed was just what the doctor ordered. The had attempted to apprehend DeQuan Marshall around 10:30 in the morning and it was now almost 9 pm.

There had been all the usual visitors: their commanding agent; a few other agents from their Baltimore office; and Steve came after filing all the standard paperwork.

And just as Ralph was beginning to drowse and doze another visitor came.

“Hey, Agent McEwan, how’re you feeling?” A soft, but confident voice asked through the gloom of painkillers and overtired half-sleep.

“Huh, oh, hi, uh, I’m…OK?”

“You should see the other guy, right.” The voice said in a light airy tone.

Ralph managed a half-chuckle and said, “yeah.”

“Well, agent, I just want you to know that the President is very proud of the tireless work you and the agents in the Baltimore office are doing. It’s work like this that proves that the new consolidated FJA is working. A grateful president and a grateful nation thank you for your service.”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s all part of the job.”

“And modest…” the voice intoned.

Finally, Ralph was able to open his eyes and what met them was surprising. A slender, well groomed, “pretty” man of about 35. In fact, well groomed was an understatement – meticulous was the word. In his dress, hygiene, and even the smile on his face, all of it was meticulous.

“If you don’t mind me askin’” Ralph slurred, “who are you?”

“I’m one of the president’s aides. I work closely with him on a wide range of projects and I also convey special requests and make special pronouncements in his stead.” The meticulously groomed man said in not quite a sing-song, but certainly a lyrical cadence.

“Oh…ok.” Ralph said, clearly inviting the meticulously groomed man to elaborate: which he did not.

“Agent McEwan, like I said, we’re very proud and we’ve seen the work you did for BPD…well,” he laughed, “both BPDs, as well as what you’ve done for FJA, after you were assigned there after the merger. You’re a real swashbuckler, agent, despite your record seeming to show you to be a paper-pusher for most of your career.”

Ralph was too groggy to figure out if he was being insulted or just very oddly complemented. And he was beginning to feel like this wasn’t merely a congratulatory visit. “Can I help you with something?” He asked slowly and confusedly.

“Why, as a matter of fact, I think you can.”

“OK.” Ralph again invited the man to continue, which, this time he did.

“Well, agent, like I said, you’re work has been superlative and the President is very proud. However, busting drug-dealers and sicarios is dangerous work and you’re a man with a daughter and clearly being shot doesn’t agree with you.”

Ralph laughed at this, deciding, rightly or wrongly, that the man just had a wry, even flippant sense of humor.

“But, like I said, we are all impressed – why, a man of your intelligence and researching skills is still in such great shape with such good field presence is simply amazing. You must take pains to stay in very good shape despite all the fast food you eat.”

Now Ralph was very confused. How did this guy know that he lived on burgers? He decided that he would, indeed get confrontational, “how do you know what I eat?”

The well groomed man just smiled.

“As I was saying, we’re very impressed and there’s more important work to be done by people with your skills and knowledge of criminal finance.”

“Yeah, great, wonderful, but how do you know anything about my diet?!” Ralph wasn’t shouting, but he was getting close.

“Oh, Ralph, you’d be amazed what I know.” He said knowingly.

“What do you want?” Ralph replied, matter-of-factly.

“I want you to excel and our country to reap the benefits of your excellence.”

“And how’m I gonna excel?”

“By going after corruption.” Ralph was immediately interested, despite his decision to be confrontational. “You see, agent, American politics and corporate life are full of corruption, and we need good men to take a stand against that. Does that interest you?”

“It does.”

“Good. So, let me ask you a question, Agent McEwan, and then, based upon your answer I may or may not ask you a second question.”

“OK,” Ralph thought this must be how double-agents feel as their being recruited.

“Have you ever wondered where all that wonderful intel came from that allowed you and your teams to make such a blitzkrieg of busts?”

“Yeah, from snitches turning state’s.”

“Oh sure,” the well manicured man said in a slightly condescending tone, “to be sure, a lot of actionable intel came from witnesses. But even snitches make mistakes…so have you wondered?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s just say that we have some very good analysts that are working in a very secret department in the FJA who are using state-of-the-art surveillance in conjunction with the testimony given which, with the help of AI has allowed us to come up with unbelievably good intel.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, Ralph, here’s the first big question, and I need you to answer honestly and not prevaricate or try to lie – I need you to be completely honest.”

“OK,” Ralph said slowly, assuming it would be a question about how he felt about legal-grey areas with regard to wiretaps and things of that nature.

“Your little indiscretion, that was a one-time thing, right?” The man droned out the word “right” with rising intonation in a way that seemed strangely threatening. And Ralph felt threatened. But he wasn’t sure what the man was referring to. He waited for as long as he could for the well-manicured man to explain what he meant, but eventually he gave in and asked: “What indiscretion?” His voice cracked.

The well-manicured man said in a whisper, “why your little dalliance with sweetguhl69.”

Ralph felt like he’d been shot all over again.

“My oh my, the pictures this girl sent you.” The man said as he flipped through a manilla file folder with Ralph’s name on the tab. “Close your mouth Ralph, or you’re gonna catch flies.”

But Ralph didn’t – couldn’t close his mouth.

“Ralphy, this was a one-time thing, right? Born out of stress and loneliness, perhaps someone else was using your computer?”

“Yes, that must be it, someone hacked into my computer and used it as a golum.” Ralph uttered these words in quick bursts.

“Indeed, it has to be that way, a man like you would never enter into a transfer of child pornography and then try to set up a meeting with a twelve year old girl at 8347 N Coverdale Blvd, Fairfax Green, Virginia at 11:30 in the afternoon on Saturday the 15th outside Bacon Park near her home, would you?”

Ralph coughed and took a sip of water, “no…no…I’d…no…somebody hacked my computer.”

The well-manicured man smiled and cocked his head to the side, flopping the folder shut, “I knew it, Ralph, I knew an American hero like you would never do anything like that – because a man like you would know that that would mean some very hard prison time in a very hard prison – the kind of prison where your enemies can have you brutally raped and murdered for less than a thousand dollars.”

“It wasn’t me – I would never do anything like that.”

“So good to hear – and I would assume that you’re the kind of man who values security, and so you’re going to take care of that nasty old hard drive of yours and get a new one that hackers can never get to, because you’ll take security protocols much more seriously in the future and never go to any sites that might endanger or weaken your firewall.”

“Absolutely, that hard drive will be destroyed tonight.” Ralph began to frantically look at the monitors and make an effort to get out of bed.

The well-manicured man, still sitting, but somehow he’d been inching closer, put his hand on Ralph’s chest and gently eased him supine again. “Don’t worry Ralph, you have friends who already removed your hard drive and took it somewhere where it will almost certainly never be found.”

Ralph was now a thoroughly defeated man, but a defeated man clinging to any chance he had at not being a dead man. “What do you want me to do?”

“Exactly what I said, Ralph, I want you to fight corruption. I want you to excel. I want you to make America a better place.”

“I want to do that.”

Ralph was truly desperate, and the man was just staring at him and looking a bit doubtful. Feeling like he might vomit, the man was still giving him a penetrating stare, and then after a few moments of silence, he did vomit.

“Oh dear, Ralph, I see you’re still not feeling very well, maybe this program isn’t for you.”

“No,” he croaked, the acrid burn of donuts and potato chips and bile was filling his mouth and his nasal sinus had little chunks stuck, but he was not letting this man leave until he was certain that he was safe.

The well-manicured man looked him over again, “Well, I see you’re motivated.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Ralph, I want to tell you about Operation Astrology.”

Chapter 20

Tom Brimly was a devoted prison guard. He’d worked in corrections since he got out of the Army, where he’d been an MP and spent most of his career at Leavenworth. He’d learned the ins and outs of prison life and with that knowledge came despair.

Guards were an endless supply of drugs and pretty much anything else inmates had wanted. All a man had to do was grease the right palm. Corruption within the cadre of guards was bad in the Army and it was worse in the Federal system. He shuddered to think of what women did to get their drugs and cash at their prisons.

The despair came only after denial and shock – as it so often does. And when he heard about the new laws and policies that the Elias congress had passed and was, believe it or not, enforcing, he was overjoyed. He was a believer in the prison system as a means of reform, but it was so rotten that any salutary effect incarceration might have on the mind, body, or spirit of a criminal was wasted away.

Inmates, being fairly ineffectual criminals, were, nevertheless, all masterful manipulators. They lied – constantly. More than that, they lied convincingly. As it so often happens to idealists faced with the ugliness of human nature Tom became bitter and resentful. He wanted to find a way to end the corruption so that the reformatories might actually reform men. He left the army sadder and wiser and that wisdom allowed him to rise to being a captain in the Federal system. He rooted out corrupt guards with religious zeal and became utterly untrusting of anything anyone told him.

He pushed for cameras everywhere, because words were always lies in prison. Cameras don’t lie, however. Things came to a head when he was almost killed; murdered is the correct word. He was making his inspection rounds, when a group of inmates, all of whom were lifers, were released when they weren’t expected. In a blind corridor he was attacked. He would have been killed, quickly and brutally, had he not happened to notice he had a shoelace untied. He stopped and knelt down to fix the recalcitrant cord when he saw the cap of a shoe from around the corner and heard a muffled voice and the foot quickly slide back.

The foot was about 15 feet away, and his instincts told him something was very wrong. He immediately pushed his panic alarm. In his left hand he pulled out his pepper spray and in his right he grabbed his taser.

From the time he noticed something was amiss to when he’d armed himself it’d only taken maybe 3 seconds. But the offenders knew that something was wrong too, when they heard the footsteps stop and his buttons unclasp. They came at him in a rush.

As soon as Tom saw the first man come around the corner, he, with the intense acuity that adrenaline brings, saw he had a knife. He fired his taser into the man’s chest and held the trigger while backpedaling as fast as he could. The next two men stumbled over the first, one man, a man Tom would recognize later, Jorge Gonzalvo, was carrying a shiv and fell on it, puncturing a lung. But the first man who stumbled got back up and was followed by two more men, all of whom were carrying make-shift knives.

As he backpedaled and they ran at him he dropped the taser and sprayed a cloud of pepper spray in their direction, while he drew his baton. Forsaking all the “less lethal” training, when the first man staggered through the pepper spray cloud, Tom struck his jaw with his truncheon, shattering it. However, the assailant continued his wild career and it was all Tom could do to not be bowled over. A keen wrestler in high school, he slipped the falling man only to have the other two right on him. His hand was now at his left side from the follow-through of his strike and he brought it back up as quickly as he could, hoping to strike one of the two oncomers with his backhand. He missed and was ploughed into. By sheer luck when he was hit, it was against the wall, and so he didn’t lose his feet. He swiftly brought his baton back down, hoping to hit the tackler with enough force to incapacitate him.

He didn’t. Instead he hit the second man bullrushing him on the crown of the head. He was knocked unconscious, but he still fell into them and with enough force to knock all three of them to the ground.

Tom now had one man on top of him, trying to stab him in the ribs as rapidly as he could with lightning fast rabbit strokes, but Tom was wearing a “stab-proof-vest”. He was severely disoriented, but had enough presence of mind, still to drop the pepper spray and try to grab the stabbing arm.

He got his hands on the man’s wrist, but quickly lost it, and tried again. However, the inmate realized that his efforts were to no avail, and decided to go for the throat. Feeling his arm move up, again, Tom was lucky enough that when he lost wrist-control, his arm was on top of the prisoner’s. So he squeezed him in a bear hug and tried with all his might to roll over and get on top. He put on foot on the wall and pushed and was able to roll over, keeping his arms wrapped tightly to prevent from being stabbed.

The stabbing man fought like mad punching and writhing, but Tom leaned back and headbutted the man with every ounce of strength he had. As it would happen, the stabber, who was not a boxer or fistfighter, saw the headbutt and instead of trying to put his head back into Tom’s to protect his nose, he leaned back to evade the blow and was struck square in the face – his nose exploded in red fountain and he was blinded and dizzied long enough for Tom to get a hand wrapped around the man’s throat. He squeezed and throttled the man, while lying on top of him.

He had no presence or awareness beyond what was happening in this eternally long fight for his life. The world to Tom was a knife, a throat, and a sweaty man with fetid breath who stank of unwashed clothes and masturbation. His face was inches away from his enemy’s and he clamped his hand around his neck with a hate and a desire to kill that went far beyond self-defense. In those seconds he wanted this pathetic writhing worm to die, painfully.

In the last seconds of the fight, the stabber, who (Tom would later learn) was called Freddy Van Kessel, tried to knee Tom and writhe away. But what Tom would never forget was the panic in his eyes as he realized he was going to die.

He didn’t die – that day. Other guards came and pulled Tom off and took him to the infirmary.

Tom had an inkling that dirty guards had helped with the set-up and he was certain after Freddy was brutally stabbed to death in a blind corner during a mass inmate move – an inmate move that was off schedule by just 2 minutes. Freddy received over 40 stab wounds in less than 6 seconds. Tom thought that it was bittersweet. He was inwardly rejoicing that Freddy was dead – in fact he wanted all of his attempted murderers to hang that day. But justice doesn’t work that way. The bitter part was that someone was afraid Freddy would rat out the corrupt corrections officers. And now he would never talk.

Tom went on leave then. Extended leave and he meant not to return. However, his attack came just weeks before the new “super-bills” were passed and he immediately signed up to guard inmates on the work projects.

A man of his considerable experience would be a great boon to the projects. He knew how to stop smuggling and how to catch crooked cops. And now the guards were utterly terrified of the death penalty for narcotics trafficking, so they ALL enforced the law.

It was because of his considerable experience in smuggling that Jeremiah Sereno’s life would make a very drastic change.

…

Jaime was getting along surprisingly well with his roommate Larry Kreuger. Larry was vulgar and racist, but his racism was the ignorant kind that came from a sense of White-Trash Duty and not any real animus towards individual people of color. Larry joked with Jaime and invited him to play cards with him and some of the other hard-cores, whom Larry identified within hours of coming to the site.

Larry talked about his life and his ambitions, limited though they were, and was genuinely interested in Jaime’s life and family – and he went out of his way to do nice things for Jaime. Larry was an enigma to Jaime. He was everything a man ought to look down on: lazy; selfish; ignorant; arrogant; crude; and destructive. But Jaime liked him.

He often pondered that. He wondered how he could spend so much time with a person who was such a despicable human being and actually like him. But he did like him, and came to admire him, after a fashion. Larry’s upbringing had been everything a sophisticated liberal like Jaime had been trained to use as an explanation and excuse for his antisocial behavior. But, being up close with Larry proved that while Larry certainly wasn’t helped by his drunken mother and abusive father, Larry had his eyes wide open to the damage his actions had.

Larry wasn’t an automaton, simply living out the preprogrammed pattern set by his parentage and parenting. Sure, he would never be a Rhode’s scholar, but he had the opportunity to choose to be a responsible, productive member of society and he chose not to. He once told Jaime, “I mean, sure, I could get a job and stop usin’, but why? ‘til now I could do what I wann’it and get whad’I wann’it.” While not elegant, it was profound.

It was just before their second breakfast, when the mail came. Jaime never got mail so it came as a shock when he was told to come pick up a package. Larry said he’d go with him and the two went to the crowd of men, pressing in on the van with the mail and other sundries gotten in town.

Tom Brimly liked doing the mail call, and was surprised to see Jaime’s name on a package, when he’d never seen him get even a letter. And it was a big package, too. He handed it to him, and Jaime took it over to a bench and began opening.

Before it was open, Larry said, “If you got any peanut butter, I call dibs, man, I love peanut butter.”

At that point, Tom walked over and confiscated the package. Larry cursed and Jaime was confused.

Tom called for the other guards to come over and they witnessed while Tom opened the can of peanut butter, whose seal was broken and then proceeded to take out several baggies of white powder heroin.

Tom placed Jaime and Larry under arrest.

…

Jeremiah had a transmitter installed in a tooth he’d lost when he was 14 and took a line drive to the face while pitching against the “orange” team. The transmitter used body movement to charge the tiny batteries and all transmissions were sent to the office in D.C. So, all he had to do was press a hard to reach button with a toothpick and every word he said was sent and transcribed. He had been transmitting everything from the moment he was arrested, having moved the toothpick with his tongue, so everything anyone said within 8 feet of him (if it were at a reasonable volume) was picked up.

Tom looked at him and said pointedly, “So, are you gonna confess?”

“To what?”

“Conspiracy to traffic narcotics,” the old cop said in an even tone.

“I have no intention to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. I didn’t conspire to traffic anything.”

“Hmm.” Tom nodded and walked out of the small cell that was now being used as an interrogation room.

Tom looked at Steve Kerry and Jamal McVickers, two of the guards who were both former Marines.

“What do you guys think?” He asked with a sigh.

“I think you should let him stew for a few hours, then we all come at him hard.” Steve put in.

“I think we need to Mirandize him and call Sacremento or DC for advice on how to proceed, but we should begin a serious interrogation soon.” Jamal said, thoughtfully.

Tom liked Jamal. He was sharp and always thought things through to a degree that Steve never did. Steve as a born cop – Jamal was a detective, maybe a lawyer in another life. Any time there was a question on how to proceed, Jamal wanted to make sure everything was done by the books and documented, carefully and fully. He was a true adherent to procedure. Tom like procedures. And he liked having men like Jamal under his command because he knew that procedures would be followed.

Sure, following protocol was no guarantee that nothing bad would happen, but in the world of law enforcement, following protocols and doing things by the book saved careers and saved lives.

“Yeah, you’re right Jamal; call DC now and find out how they want us to proceed; but I don’t think Jaime’s gonna say a thing until he has a lawyer – he’s got a cagey look to ‘im.” Then turning to Steve, “and you’re right, too Steve, a confession is the best thing we can get right now, so, let’s let ‘im sit fer till after supper then we’ll go at ‘im, but not hard. We’ll go hard at Larry, and he’ll roll over, but his testimony I’nt worth a thing.”

Then both nodded, and Steve put in, “You want me to start on Larry, now?”

Tom rubbed his shaven, but now bristly chin, “Yeah, threaten him with the rope, and I’ll have Jamal come in after he sits on that for an hour or three and offer him salvation.”

…

Hanging had proved to be the one form of execution that didn’t require special drugs and no one could argue that it was cruel or unusual, since the neck broke instantaneously. While Texas did have problems with death by hanging decades ago, there had since been several Federal cases and stare decisis was definitely in favor of stringing up the crooks. There was some lingering debate, since, to some, it hearkened to KKK lynchings, but that was mainly academic. Since the new laws had been passed, traffickers caught in the act faced death within months of conviction, and those who fired at officers received execution immediately post trial.

Again, this had displeased civil rights groups, but judges, on the whole, had overturned their “rights to appeal” arguments. One case, in particular, had sealed the fate of traffickers.

A man named Ronaldo Garza was caught in a drug house, with meth on his person, and police body cams videotaped him firing at officers while they executed a warrant. The judge, the Honorable Maxine Brown, simply asked what basis for appeal there would be, since there were fingerprints, DNA, financial, and physical proofs tying Garza to the crime, as well as his being caught on video firing at officers. Donald Bayliss, an ACLU lawyer was basing his appeal on question of the legitimacy of the warrant. And that immediate post-trial executions deprived persons of their right to due process.

This proved to be a fatal argument for anti-death penalty activists. Judge Brown, in a very short decision, said that a fair trial was sufficient due process. She said that the death penalty, being legal in all 50 states (which only happened after Elias came into office) was a penalty, not legally different from incarceration. It was her opinion that when there is irrefutable evidence of a capital crime, summary execution could reasonably be carried out immediately if no motion for appeal were made. Moreover, if an appeal were to be made, in an “irrefutable evidence” case, the appeal would need to be on a basis other than the guilt for the actual crime, since the evidence presented was, indeed, irrefutable.

This effectively meant that there was no legal recourse. Lawyers had to prove that there was some kind of procedural error that violated the constitutional rights of the guilty. “It is the opinion of this court that in cases where irrefutable evidence is presented, then it cannot be argued that the convicted is innocent. Thus, the only legal means of overturning the death penalty would need to demonstrate that there was a failure, on the part of law enforcement to secure a legal warrant, or that there was not sufficient probable cause to begin an arrest.

However, these issues must be presented at trial. One cannot simply frustrate the decisions of the court and the people forever, by parading appeals on the basis of procedural errors. It is, therefore, this court’s opinion that the state may carry out the execution of Ronaldo Garza at any point.”

This effectively meant that there was no appeal process in cases where a judge said there was
“irrefutable evidence”.

However, the “irrefutable evidence” clause seemed like the Devil in the details to anti-capital punishment lawyers. They instructed all their lawyers to insist, pretrial, that if the DA would need to state, in pretrial, whether “irrefutable evidence” would be presented. It was a stroke of genius. It took power away from judges, who could determine, on their whim, whether prosecutor presented irrefutable evidence. Moreover, it gave lawyers an extra bargaining chip when looking for plea-deals. Now DAs who would push for immediately carrying out the death penalty would have to play an all or nothing gamble from the start, since the term “irrefutable evidence” sounded very similar to “beyond a reasonable doubt”.

The idea was brilliant, because if the State argued that they would present “irrefutable evidence” then the defense attorneys would insist that juries hold them to that. It was a way, the ACLU, thought, to heighten the standard of conviction!

Alas, they were hoisted by their own petards. Since juries couldn’t distinguish between irrefutable evidence and evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, prosecutors made every effort to conflate the two terms, there was no drop in conviction and now there was nothing to stop executions from being carried immediately. Indeed in West Virginia it became common for the guilty to be remanded, literally from the courtroom, to the gallows.

Civil Rights groups were apoplectic, but it changed nothing. The move was popular. It was extremely popular. As one Idaho state senator said, “trials and beds and guards and walls and food and medicine are all very expensive; rope’s cheap.”

Of course, it meant that narcos had a policy of never being taken alive. And, for a while, this made the New War on Drugs a very bloody and costly prospect. Indeed, there was a huge movement to have congress do something to stanch the bleeding. Politicians were saying that the risks outweighed the rewards. Jeremiah had written several articles, all via his tooth-implant, and all under his real name, about the need to back down from the death penalty. But within months, the camel’s back was broken and the cartels and crime families were all in hiding, or operating at only a fraction of their former strength.

Those who had naysaid the new policies were in serious danger of being unseated in the next elections. Crime-ridden areas were becoming safe again. Of course, there was much ado made about the policies being racist. But as Will Braithewaite, a congressman from Utah said, “Race has nothing to do with crime, these laws target death-merchants, and we’re beating them at their own game. The wanted to sell death – now they can have a taste of their own medicine.” He spoke at length about how, minority communities were disproportionately harmed by drugs and gang violence, so they, in fact, were in a position to disproportionately benefit from laws that eradicated narcotics. Nobody cared, “taste of their own medicine” became the social media conversation-ender (much to the chagrin of the somewhat pompous Braithewaite who was disillusioned that his fine rhetoric and discreet logic were passed over for a cliché.)

…

“Do you understand what I’m telling you Larry?” Steve said in loud, halting, monosyllables. After seeing the vacant look on his interviewees never far-from-vacant countenance he recapitulated his argument. “Larry, if you go to trial, you will be convicted and you will get the death penalty. You will be hung as soon as you leave the courthouse.” He paused, waiting for some look of comprehension. “D’you wanna die Larry?”

Finally, at that Larry began to sob. Long, howling sobs filled the tiny room and Steve walked out, disgusted by the lack our courage and manliness on display.

Jamal gently walked in and put his arm around Larry’s shoulder, hugging him tight, he just held him for the better part of 10 minutes. Finally, snotfaced and ruddy, Larry looked up at Jamal and Jamal knew it was all over but the snitchin’.

“Look Larry, you probably don’t know it, but I’m your very best friend in the world.”

“I ‘on’ wanna die,” was all he could muster between sniffles.

“And you know what, Lare, you don’t hafta.” The sudden look of wide-eyed hope was there, Jamal knew that look. “Look, Larry, I don’t like drugs. I don’t like drug dealers. But I understand drug users. I understand how addiction feels. I know how bad you need a hit. I know. I know why you wanted those drugs. But I need to know where they came from Larry. If you help me to find out where they came from, and we’ll just assume that you were only gonna use and not distribute, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, definitely, I would never, never in a million years deal. Man, I made a lot a mistakes, sir, a whole lot, but I’d never, totally, never, deal.”

“So, you confess, under oath, while being recorded, that you only intended to use and not deal the heroin we found in a peanut butter jar addressed to your roommate Jaime De La Cruz?”

“Yes, absolutely, I do. It was all Jaime’s idea, he wan’ed the drugs, they was sent to him. I ohno if he’uz gonna deal ‘em, but he wan’ed ‘em and that’s the truth, I swear to God it is.”

“There’ll be no need to swear to God, Larry, but what I need is to know who sent the drugs?”

“Man, I ohno, I swear.” Larry was cunning enough to know that since the package was sent to him from his friends in his roommate’s name, any direct connection to him would spoil his chances of not swinging on the scaffold.

“Well, that’s a shame Lare, it really is, because I can’t protect you if you don’t help us. If you can’t help us secure any actionable intel,” Jamal corrected himself, “if you can’t let us catch the REAL criminals, the judge is gonna think you’re in on it.”

Larry looked thoroughly confused. The inner battle was being waged and Jamal decided that Larry was too selfish to not rat.

“Larry, I’m gonna let you give this a think and come back after I talk to Jaime, and see what he thinks about this whole thing.”

“No, no, I don’ need t’think. Jaime wan’ed some names of some frens-a-mine, who could help him score. I give him some names and he made the deal.”

“What are their names, Larry, give us the names and I promise you won’t be put to death.”

Larry produced names of every dealer he could think of in north-central Indiana, he figured if he gave a laundry list it would turn out to be a huge operation and nobody could link him to the case. What’s more, he didn’t give the name of the actual guys who sent the drugs. His contact with Brian Roth had been through Deeanne, whom he called three nights a week. His dad told him that if he ever had to snitch, it was better to give far more information than the cops could handle than too little. His dad also died when he was stabbed in the face, hands and throat with a shattered Miller Light bottle in a seedy biker bar in Indianapolis.

Larry spent the next 4 hours confessing and then writing it out.

While he was concocting his fable, Tom came to interview Jeremiah.

“OK, Jaime,” Tom said as he sat down heavily, having been at this process since early morning, and it was past supper, “what do you want to say?”

“About?”

“About why you contacted associates of Larry Kreuger to procure narcotics?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, well, then, why didn’t you say so? I guess we’d best just call it a day, then, ey?”

Jeremiah considered walking out, right then, making Tom look like an ass. Jeremiah loved taking people very literally when they were trying to exert power over him. It was petulant but it gave him a grotesque pleasure. The same pleasure he got from needling people who took themselves too seriously. But, with a surprising amount of effort, he resisted.

“I didn’t buy any drugs. I never bought drugs. Larry Kreuger is a liar.”

“Well, he’s a pretty convincing liar.” That was a lie. Tom had never met someone who set of as many red-flags for lies in all his years in law enforcement.

“I sincerely doubt that.” Jeremiah said flatly.

“Well, Jaime, that’s for a jury to decide, now isn’t it? And I don’t know if I’d want to stand before a jury.”

“Well, Tom, I don’t think that my lawyer would allow this to go to court. I cannot imagine that there is any physical evidence that actually links me to any crime. All you have is the word of Larry Kreuger, and nomatter how much lipstick you put on that pig, even a public defender would make his testimony inadmissible after 5 minutes. He’d perjure himself and then it’d be a mistrial and then I’d sue you.”

“You’re pretty confident about how this’ll play out, huh?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“One’s on his way, but we don’t have to be uncivil, Jaime. And, frankly, you must understand why I’m not simply gonna take your word for it, right.”

“In this case, I think I would take my word for it. Larry has a record as long as the Magna Carta and has been scratching his forearms since I’ve met him. I’m sure you noticed.”

“Oh yes, your friend…”

“He’s not my friend. He’s framing me for a capital crime; he’s a piece of shit, and I hope he’s hanged by dawn.”

“Well, let’s call him your frenemy. He admits he was going to use. But that you were the one who wanted the drugs, says you were gonna run a little peanut-butter empire.”

“Captain Brimly, I know you’re not a stupid man. And I know that you can tell, simply by the way I talk that I’m not stupid. Why would a man like me do something that stupid?”

“You don’t seem the type, I admit, but a lot of the best crooks don’t seem the type. But, I’ll be honest, Mr. De La Cruz, nothing about you makes sense. You’re educated, you’re hardworking, conscientious, and you’re never in trouble. I can’t really understand why you’re here at all. So, if things don’t seem rational, I’m taking that as par for the course in your case.”

“So, what, you’re going to presume guilt? That’s not how American Justice works!” Jeremiah’s voice was now louder and shriller than before. He realized with horror that Tom Brimly was a sharp man, and he wasn’t dismissing his involvement out-of-hand. This was troubling. If a smart man like Tom might think that Jeremiah was a crook who was too clever by half, a jury could be convinced of it, too.

“I’m just pointing out that Larry Kreuger named you as the person who was buying drugs. A package sent to you arrived with narcotics. And you’re refusing to co-operate.”

“How am I supposed to cooperate when I’m being framed?! What am I s’posed to do? Make shit up? I cannot, reasonably be expected to give you any evidence when I’m being framed.”

“Well, if that’s the story you want to tell a jury, then I guess that’s your choice. But it doesn’t have to be like that, Jaime.”

“Oh? What wonderful options have I got?” Jeremiah asked incredulously.

“You could confess, on condition of a 5 year sentence to a special camp in Alaska. They need men, up there, and if you were only getting the drugs to use and not distribute, there would be no federal issues. You could go there as a diversion and the state would not file any charges. You’d have a clean record, and as far as any future employers would know, you volunteered to stay on.”

“That sounds dishonest, and maybe illegal.” Jeremiah said, though he knew that these kinds of deals were made all the time, even before Elias.

“Not according to judges in all 50 states and Puerto Rico.

“So,” Jeremiah said, ticking off statements on his fingers, ‘I confess to buying; I go to Alaska for a five-year reeducation; I get no criminal record; and this is instead of what?”

“A trial for trafficking narcotics.”

“But I never sold anything,” Jeremiah said in a condescending voice.

“DC says that the new laws state that buying narcotics with the intent to distribute does constitute trafficking.” Tom said flatly.

Jeremiah now felt very ill. He was shocked that this conversation was still happening. Why wasn’t it obvious that he was being framed? Nobody could believe that he was a dealer and that Larry Kreuger was just a user! But people did…did this mean that other people would? That a jury would?

“I…I don’t think I should say anything until I speak to a lawyer.”

Tom sighed a sigh that seemed to say, “golly, this kid’s signing his own death warrant; he can’t see that I’m trying to save him,” and got up out of his seat.

“Ok, Jaime; we’ll send for a public defender, unless there is a specific counsellor you would like us to contact?” The last clause was a question, more than a dependent clause.

“You…wait…what? You haven’t even sent for a lawyer?!” Jeremiah was indignant.

“You didn’t request one, Jaime.” And with that Tom walked out.

Chapter 21

President Joseph Elias Junior looked like a man at the pinnacle of his ambitions, standing before the podium in the Rose Garden. He looked calm, confident, and in control – all of which he was. He sounded commanding and yet gracious, simultaneously. He was secure in his position, politically, and more than that, his policies were scoring big in the polls and in the real world.

The pundits, with the exception of the National News Network, which was still extremely popular, despite being the unofficial mouthpiece of Ray Asher, were, by and large, singing his praises. He had done, in less than one year, what everyone else had failed to do in decades. Under his watch, the drug trade was being strangled into submission, the back of organized crime was broken, generational poverty was being dealt with in a way that looked to be effective, the government was on its way out of debt, states were dealing with their own budgetary issues, and the economy was humming along – not the strongest economy, certainly, but it was healthy and there were no storms being predicted.

The Rose Garden press conference was more than it seemed, however. To everyone there, and the viewers at home, it appeared that the President was giving a short recap of how policies were working while he announced a handful of new objectives.

Truthfully, it was a rather dull affair. And that was exactly what it was supposed to be. Joe wanted this conference to be ho-hum and he wanted to state his objectives in a subtle, and easily forgettable format and message. He wanted the first half to be boring so that it would contrast with the second half.

He was through this opening valedictory, when he made a comment that was hard to ignore – that woke up the press corps and said, “better not daydream through this one!”

“Let all Americans know that this government, both parties, and I your unpartisan president, are committed to eradicating organized crime. Drugs, illegal gambling, racketeering, theft, extortion, and prostitution are going away.

Yes, it has, as many critics have pointed out, been a violent affair. I won’t pretend that it hasn’t been.  

Yes, there has been a high cost. I wouldn’t want you to think otherwise.

But the violence and expense are evidence, not of the folly of going after organized crime – but evidence of the necessity of eliminating it. Drug cartels and mafia families are running scared because finally, I and your congress, have given Law Enforcement the resources and legal tools they need to do serious work.

We shouldn’t be surprised that this has come at a cost. Truly, if these new policies DIDN’T elicit a major response from the underworld, then I’d wager we aren’t being tough enough on them.

Organized crime sucks the life out of communities and makes otherwise safe and industrious streets and neighborhoods into miniature war zones. This is ending, and it will end. But it’s not going to end with Law Enforcement giving up because politicians don’t have the will to carry out what needs doing. This is going to end when every thug, hood, sicario, capo, boss, don, button man, consiglieri, gangster, numbers man, loan shark, and hitman are all either in prison or in the ground.

This doesn’t end any other way. This doesn’t end with your government giving up.

However, I want it known, that while we’ve gone after underworld crime in a way that has never been seen before, we’re not stopping there. Today, I will present to a select congressional committee, as well as heads of various executive agencies a plan to go after White Collar crime and political corruption.

For too long, hardworking Americans have had their nest-eggs ravaged by greedy and unscrupulous criminal fat cats who would rather rob real working men and women than to do the work themselves.

For too long, hardworking Americans have gone to work, paid their taxes and tried to play by the rules, all the while criminals are greasing palms to get to the head of the line and illegally buying influence in city halls and congressional offices.

For too long, hardworking Americans have had to put up with corruption because nobody had the will to stop it.

I have the will to stop it.

I intend to seek new guidelines in how we prosecute corruption. I intend to initiate new programs within what used to be the SEC, now part of the FJA, the Federal Justice Agency. With the new cooperation that exists between what used to be competitive and secretive agencies we are going to change the goals and objectives in dealing with Wall Street Crime.

Corruption has no place in America. I will be seeking stiffer sentencing guidelines, as well as making internal changes in operational guidelines for the FJA.

On top of all that, I want to request that the FJA be given the freedom to set up tasks forces that report directly to the president, and a select congressional committee, and be given a guaranteed budget that is protected from tampering. I want agents placed on this task force to be free from political pressure. I don’t want the worms eating at the soul of our government to use “accountability” as a stalking horse to hide their own illegal activities.

These new task forces will operate autonomously within the FJA and will be made up of agents from all divisions who have proved themselves as capable, and incorruptible – women and men above the glittering, shimmering, allure of politics.

It is critical that we ruthlessly root out corruption at all levels. We will no longer accept this cancerous rot to damage our institutions. It is not “just the way things are”; it isn’t “just playing ball” or “getting along to get along”. Corruption is a crime, and I intend to treat it as such.

So, I have a message for all those watching. If you’re a corrupt official, beware. If you’re a crook in a three-piece suit, beware. If you’re part of the tumor sapping strength from this country, beware. Because we will find you and we will prosecute you.”

The journalists sensed that this was, indeed the end of the speech and there was an explosion of voices as they all stood up to begin their questions. The President answered questions for 25 minutes, Kelly, his wife, standing next to him, smiling, all the while.

It was amazing, people commented, that Elias was never seen anywhere without his wife. She had her own agendas, as all First Ladies do. And like most First Ladies, hers were mainly humanitarian. Her signature issue was a resurgence in the humanities. She had studied Latin throughout her youth and college years, going to an extremely good Catholic school, and then a Catholic university. She fell in love with Latin and ancient texts, and held an MA in Classical Literature.

She did a lot of work with the National Endowments for the Arts and Humanities and often spoke publicly about how STEM and STEAM and all the other initiatives to advance technology were wonderful, but that the nation still needed well-rounded humans, not robots.

She was a beautiful, articulate woman, and people respected her. However, she unlike most First Ladies was very vocal about politics – but only when asked. She never went out of her way to weigh in on an issue, but when issues came up, she spoke her mind.

Kelly always supported, Joe, of course, but she often put her own spin on things, and at times she was willing to say that she and her husband differed on exactly how to implement policies, though she never doubted the rightness and righteousness of her husband’s policies, themselves.

After about 25 minutes, Kelly kissed Joe on the cheek and whispered something in his ear and walked off. He looked at his watch and then quickly ended the conference to attend an important meeting.

“Thanks, Kel, I really lost track a time.” Elias said, slipping out of his more careful English and allowing the Great Lakes accent to come through.

“It’s OK, that’s what a good First Lady does.” She said as she smiled, a bit coquettishly.

She’d been one of the few people who never saw Joe as an “important” man. She didn’t hero worship him. Nor did she despise him for being in the spotlight. She truly loved him, and he truly loved her. Their marriage was a genuine partnership and it worked because they planned together every step of their lives.

Joe had ambition from the beginning, and he knew that he could and would go far. But he was extremely careful to make sure that any potential spouse wouldn’t be a social-climber. He didn’t want a political partnership. He wanted a marriage. His parents had that. His mother was a good woman, who was bright and capable and wanted what was best for Joe Sr. and Joe Sr. wanted what was best for his Rachel.

It never bothered Kelly that Joe was the one in the spotlight – not because she was a demure shadow, but because she never cared about or for those things. She was a bookworm, she called herself a library rat, and would have happily lived out her life sitting at a carrel, comparing illuminated manuscripts and other ancient texts.

She was extremely medieval in her understanding of the world – not that she was a luddite, or uncultured – but the good kind of medieval. She loved beauty and order. She saw purpose and design in all things. She believed in an ordered harmony, and was enamored with the mysterious and sacramental. She was a very good Catholic. She loved the careful and exacting thinking of Evangelicalism; she’d studied under a Dallas Seminary trained Greek scholar for her Masters at Harvard, and although she thought that no Catholic could match a great Evangelical at exegesis – the careful and logical explanation of the text, she thought that for all their knowledge, Evangelicals had a very sad faith.

She couldn’t imagine not having the statues, and the incense, and the architecture – the megachurches and the rock music and the unartistic nature of most Evangelical churches just seemed paltry and anemic. But aside from the artistry, she could not imagine not having a pope. She joked that she was a Hypermontanist, she believed so strongly in the need for a vicar of Christ on earth.

Joe was an agnostic, and not a very firm agnostic.

In fact, his agnosticism was the spark that lit the fire of their marriage.

Joe had been in the library, and had seen this beautiful woman hunched over a table with a magnifying glass in her right hand and a pen in her left whispering to herself as she painstakingly translated a copy of something Joe couldn’t read. She looked a picture of the young woman scholar she was and Joe decided to try his luck.

“You’re gonna hurt your neck, doin’ that.” He said with a concerned half-smile. “By the way what language is that?”

She looked up, somewhat annoyed at being hit on, but he was handsome enough that she almost forgave him and said, simply, “Latin.”

“No, I know THAT’S Latin,” he said pointing to the tome to her right, “I mean that indecipherable stuff you’re jotting down.”

She laughed, “it’s English.”

“Wow, so THAT’S English. I guess I been doin’ it wrong.”

“OK, smart-guy, I can read it and that’s all that matters.” Her tone was definitely warming, so Joe kept going.

“What are you doin’ if you don’t mind me askin’; you takin’ notes or translating?”

“I’m translating.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a copy of The History of the Council of Nicea by Gelasius of Cyzicus.”

“Sounds riveting. A book like that, you’d think it’d already be in every home.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, despite herself. “It’s a really important document that has never really been given a fair treatment. There are only a few attempts at translating it into English, so I’m trying my hand at it.”

“How is it important?”

“It’s a Church history written within a century of the Council of Nicea, so, yeah, it’s pretty important.”

“I don’t see how that makes it important,” Joe shook his head slowly, “is there, like a treasure map in there – OOOH. Is this gonna help us find the real copy of the Constitution. Will Nicholas Cage help us get it?”

“Shut up!” she laughed, “this really is an important document and good translations of these documents could really advance scholarship.”

“OK, I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal – we’ll go out for dinner and if you can convince me that this thing really could affect scholarship, I’ll pay for whatever you’ve ordered.”

“Well, what if I can’t convince you?”

“Then you pay for my meal. Obviously.” He shrugged, speaking matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s not fair, all you have to do is say you’re unconvinced. You have all the power in this deal.”

“What, are you afraid you can’t convince me, or do you think I’m really that unscrupulous?”

She lowered and cocked her head and looked up at him under doubtfully heavy lids.

“I’ll tell you what, miss…”

“Kelly Menzies.” She smiled and stuck out her hand, palm pronated in an affected air.

“I’ll tell you what, Kelly Menzies,” he took her hand which formerly held her pen and kissed it, while doing a half bow, “I’ll make you the same deal. I’ll make my case for why democracy doesn’t work. If I convince you, you buy my dinner, if not, then I’ll buy yours.”

Kelly paused, “that’s gonna be one long dinner.”

“No, it’ll be two separate dinners.”

Kelly smiled.

Joe had been making her smile since that day. Sure, they’d fought. She’d even thought of leaving him – even though she knew she never would. She was sad that Joe didn’t have the same passion for religion that she had. But he went to Mass with her and their daughters faithfully.

Joe and Kelly wanted different things out of life, but they both respected what the other wanted and helped to achieve it. Kelly knew Joe wanted to be President from the time she met him. And she knew that if they got married she would help him. Joe knew that Kelly loved the Church and her ancient books and did everything in his power to help her pursue her passions. He spent a significant portion of his family’s not insignificant wealth to help Kelly buy rare untranslated documents and allow her to continue her work in what was rapidly being recognized as one of the better private libraries of Neo-Latin literature in America. As a result, she’d, despite only holding an MA and not a PhD, published dozens of translations and had written slews of articles on Neo-Latin issues. Joe helped her to become a renowned scholar, albeit in a tiny and oft overlooked field.

But he made sure she took time in her library, and she treated her research like a full time job. Even while doing her duties as First Lady, Joe insisted she spend at least 2 hours a day in her reading room. She’d even been commissioned by the Pope to translate a few works that had recently been discovered in the Vatican’s massive archives.

They cared about eachother. And while there were things Joe couldn’t and didn’t tell her about his work as President, she was never threatened by that secrecy. She knew that as President he had to know things that she couldn’t – that he had to make choices that she couldn’t know about and maybe wouldn’t understand. Such was life.

But she was no fool. She knew that whatever was going on with this “Research Expert” M. Desjardins, it was almost certainly related to espionage. It had taken her a while to unravel the whole thing, but once she put her mind to it, it became clear.

She didn’t care.

If there was some kind of domestic spying going on, as far as she was concerned, her husband had every right to do it. People needed strong leadership. Leaders had the right to use the tools available to them to secure the good of their nation.

She was concerned that he might use that information in the commission of a mortal sin; but she had no ethical qualms about domestic espionage. And, she was certain that the crackdown on crime, and now the new anti-corruption talk, in conjunction with another 5-minute meeting with the Frenchman convinced her that whatever Desjardins was involved in, it procured very important information for Law Enforcement.

However, whatever her own ethical rationale, she did understand how Constitution nuts thought. She called her husband aside, shortly before he walked into the Oval Office, and asked him for a brief chat. He gladly agreed, and sat down with her in a little silent sitting room.

“Listen, Joey, I know I’m not a politician; but you know I’m not stupid.”

Joe was taken aback and started to speak when she quieted him with a look.

“Don’t speak, you don’t have time. Listen. I know that Monsieur D helps you…procure information. I know you do everything for this country. I’m not questioning your motives. I just want you to remember that you need to make sure nothing you do can be perceived as a crime, or unconstitutional, or it could destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

“Kelly, listen.”

“No, Joe, you have a meeting, we can talk later.”

“Kelly, come to the meeting.”

She did.

…

If Desjardins was disquieted by Kelly’s presence, he gave no indication. He was instructed to give a report on Hegemon’s side of Operation Astrology to the Joes, Paul Glenwood, and Kelly – and he did so. Joe had created these unscheduled meetings in his calendar. And, technically, if Paul and Joe Sr. were meeting with Desjardins and Joe happened to walk in, then it was not his meeting and it did not need to go into his calendar. Since he had a meeting at 1 with the Mexican Ambassador, he had to massage the time in his press conference, so he’d be back in time to walk into the Oval Office with 5 minutes to hear a briefing from Desjardins. 3 minutes were Desjardins speaking at breakneck speed and 2 minutes were for questions.

Kelly drank it all in. She noticed how precise and keen the Frenchman was. His mastery of his subject was impressive and he spoke in such unconcerned verbiage about committing what was perhaps the largest and most effective spying operation in the history of the world. The critical piece of data was when the executive said that they’d found another 40 men who would round out the Eunuchs – Paul Glenwood’s term that had caught on immediately.

“Zis brings us to 200. I understand you already have around 30 who are operational. We can start feeding zem information as soon as Mr. Glenwood confirms.”

“Well, that’s the tricky part, Maximilien, because the information they get has to be gotten through legal means, or it least it has to look like it. We’re going to have to account for where we got our information – it won’t be like the drug trade where we just killed everybody.”

“Bien sur, perhaps you can create a team of Eunuchs who are most capable for zis task and have zem launder ze intel, non?

“I like that, Max.” Elias Senior put in, “and good thinking Paul, it’s gonna be crucial that we can account for the sources of information – anonymous tips won’t work with this next bunch.”

“Well, it’s a problem to solve and Max, I have no doubt that between your technical genius and Paul’s ingenuity you’ll come up with something…merveilleux! ...Thank you gentlemen for your time, but I do have another engagement.” Joe Junior stood up and Paul left with Desjardins and they continued discussing issues in their quasi-code. Joe didn’t bother sitting down, because as soon as Paul and Max left the Ambassador was ushered in.

…

Lying in bed Kelly had a more questions than she could even begin to wrap her head around. So she simply rolled on her side, looked at Joe and asked him to explain everything. Not in a demanding, scolding tone. She just wanted to understand.

Joe explained how they were using the secret and unknown power of the Artificial Intelligence Industry’s only billing company RAIAS to spy on targeted individuals to either arrest them or gain leverage against them. He explained how they were using pedophiles to carry out the dirty work. Since they would fear exposure if they let slip what was going on, they, effectively, had their balls cut off – hence they were Eunuchs.

“So, you’re creating an empire of blackmail?” Kelly asked, more concerned than she’s thought she would be.

“I don’t think of it as blackmail. We warn them that such things should not be done and if they do such things then things will go badly for them. So, we get them to quit looking at kids, or attempting to touch them, and we get them to do something worthwhile with their law enforcement career – they get to enforce the law and end corruption.” Joe felt more desperation in his voice than he’d ever realized. He needed Kelly to be on board. When she didn’t know about the whole scheme, he could lie to himself and be convinced that she’d support him. But now that she knew he was afraid she’d reject him.

“I don’t know, Joey. Do two wrongs make a right?”

“Think of it this way. Murder and torture is wrong, right.”

“Yeeeeeeees…” Kelly agreed.

“But under the Inquisition, people converted under torture. Did that justify the torture – lots of Catholic scholars in the day defended torturing and executing heretics. Are you saying that that can never be justified?”

“I’m not sure these are the same, Joe, and I honestly have really struggled with the Inquisition and other forms of force within religion. I don’t know how I feel.” She was conflicted.

“Look, Kells, we both know that the whole “two wrongs don’t make a right” thing is simplistic and unnuanced. If I’m going to make America a better country, I need to end corruption. To do so, I need tools at my disposal that are extraconstitutional. To utilize these tools I need people I know won’t turn on me.” He felt his confidence grow – he was convincing himself again. Kelly just lay there thinking.

“Listen, my dear, my darlin’, you know I don’t believe like you – but you always tell me that God uses the Devil and evil men to accomplish His purposes. I’m trying to do the same thing. I’m trying to use evil to bring about good.” He was warming to his argument, and, truly, he believed what he said; this wasn’t an act.

“I’m afraid, Joe.” She finally said after about 20 minutes of them listening to eachother breathe.

“Of what, that I’ll get caught.”

“No…I’m not – I think you’d kill everyone involved before you got caught.” She said it so plainly that Joe was amazed that that wasn’t what concerned her. “I’m afraid of what you’ll become when you have this kind of power.”

They didn’t speak again until the next day.

Chapter 22

Hanna Pocratsky was settling down in her overstuffed leather chair with a hot cup of espresso and a scone as she prepared for their reading-response time. Their professor, Dr. Hasim, was an exciting teacher. He’d taught at great schools all over the world and it was a pleasure that they got to discuss literature and theory with him. He’d told them he came to the Academy because he thought their pedagogic model was exciting and the future of high-level scholarship. “In 30 years,” he said confidently, “all the top universities are going to have programs like this.”

They’d been assigned Pantagruel and Gargantua by Rabelais. They didn’t read the other 3 books in the series, for the sake of time, and they were writing their “Friday Paper” on Gargantua. Thus, Dr. Hasim intended their conversation to focus on that book.

The conversation began as it always did with Hasim simply looking at the 4 students, who had all arrived and gotten comfortable with drinks and notes, “So, what do we make of this?”

Tom, as usual, was the first to speak, “It’s an attack on the upper classes and is out to make Monarchy look like an all-consuming, lewd, destructive giant.”

“Is it?” Again, one of Hasim’s stock responses.

“I agree with Tom,” Hanna said, decisively, “the main characters are nothing except a satire of the French monarchy and nobility. They are gluttonous oafs and stand in as examples of what Absolutism is.”

“Is it too early in French History to even have Absolutism? Had autocratic doctrines been advanced, yet?” Hasim asked. He was wonderful at asking these questions that force his students to evaluate whether they were imposing their Modernism, anachronistically.

“It depends on how fully he doctrine needs to be articulated, right,” Daniel said plainly, “sure, we all know about Luis XIV, but there was Divine Right before him, and there had been very strong monarchs before Luis, Henry of Navarre stands out, and there were strong ministers like Cardinal Richelieu. If we want full blown Absolutism, we probably have to wait for Luis XIV, but the groundwork had already been lain long before him. So, even if Rabelais may not have used ‘Absolutism’ as a technical term – or at all – what he feared was a too powerful monarch, and that is the logical conclusion of French Monarchy, since it never had the constitutional safeguards that England had with the Magna Carta and the various Parliaments.”

“Is Absolutism a logical conclusion, or a Historical fact?” Michelle said, with more confidence than she usually demonstrated. “I mean, you can look at any event in history and claim it was a ‘logical conclusion’, but that doesn’t make it so. You’re trying to claim that what might have been an accident of history was an inevitability; maybe it wasn’t. You cannot use an existential argument as a logical one.”

Dr. Hasim, just sat back and watched the debate unfold, smiling behind his mug of chai.

“I’m not trying to,” Daniel was almost exasperated. “And I certainly can’t claim that something is a logical conclusion if it DIDN’T actually happen in history. Sure, a historical phenomenon needs to be evaluated in all its causes before one can say WHY it happened. I’m simply suggesting that without some outside agent stopping the centralization of power, France was always going to end up as an Autocracy. That’s what happened in Russia, and later in Germany. And it happened over and over again in France and Russia.”

“Does that mean it was inevitable?” Hanna asked challengingly.

“I didn’t say it was inevitable, but it is what happened and the phenomena we can observe seem to have a logical sequence. French monarchs centralized power for centuries, as did all the Great Powers. England is the exception, not the rule. But we try to understand history through a Constitutional and Common Law framework, native to England. So, we’re the historical outliers.”

“I think we’re missing the point,” Tom said, somewhat frustrated from not being the driver of the conversation, “my point was that Rabelais was decrying the end result of Absolutism (to whatever degree he could predict it). That’s the question – was Rabelais satirizing a system where unfit rulers centralize power in their persons?”

“Indeed, that is the question, Mr. Coplin.” Hasim was very much enjoying this class session. “So, is it possible, that this satire was putting the question to the French people, saying, in effect, ‘how will you ensure that these powerful monarchs are actually worthy of that power?”

“Sure, anything’s possible,” Michelle said, somewhat sarcastically, “it’s also possible that Rabelais just wrote about what he knew and liked to tell dirty jokes. Maybe that’s all it was – a comic funhouse mirror with no political or revolutionary undertones. Maybe we’re trying to be too clever.”

“Seems like a lot of writing to just have a crude comic opera.” Hanna said, as though that defeated Michelle’s whole point.

They went on for the rest of the hour debating the implications of the book. In the end they were all convinced that they were the only ones who really understood it, and they weren’t too sure they even understood it. When class was over, it was lunch, and they invited Dr. Hasim, but he had to be back in DC early, and couldn’t stay, so they all went to the cafeteria together, intending to continue their debate without the moderating power of the great scholar forcing them to make their arguments with surgical precision. The debate was not to continue, however, as the 4 found something unexpected on all the tables in the hall.

It was a flyer, small, but clear with an invitation to a party for cadets, to be hosted at one of the nicer halls in the capital.

But what was strange about it was that President Elias was going to give the keynote speech at the dinner.

“J’you guys see this?” Michelle asked, holding up the flyer.

“Yeah, sounds pretty cool, huh. I figured we’d go to a whole bunch of fancy galas and stuff at this school, so I’m kinda surprised it took us this long to have our first one.” Tom said.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun.” Hanna piped it. “At college we never really had formal dances, my school was so liberal that the thought of spending money on a tuxedo and wine spritzers and canapes and all that stuff would be so Boogie that you’d get run off campus.”

“I know!” Tom said in a voice that made his loafers sound lighter “Just the thought of all those poor little libtards being forced to endure hours of upper-middle class socializing makes me wanna call Amnesty International – it’d be torture…God, how could you ever go to that school?”

Hanna, who had been enjoying her new, blunt, say things for shock-value self with surprising ease said, “because I hated my absentee middle-class parents. And I wanted to go to a school that would be a subtle slap in the face to them because just matriculating would be a defiant rejection of everything they held dear. But it would also allow me to lie to myself and pretend that I was actually rebelling for once in my life.”

Everyone was looking slightly uncomfortable. Tom’s joke had been a Tom-joke – pointed, crude, and not very polite. But nobody expected Hanna to just evacuate this bile all over the conversation. She continued, “…but the truth is I wasn’t really rebelling. I just wanted them to notice me. It was just one more bid for attention. I thought, if I go to this crazy school they have to say something; for God’s sake I told them that I was going to major in Feminist Literary Criticism! They just smiled and said, ‘that’s nice honey’. Well, that’s not true; I didn’t think that consciously…”

Now everyone was very uncomfortable and Michelle at some point had begun holding Hanna’s hand. Dan noticed that Hanna’s right leg was shaking like a proverbial leaf on a proverbial tree.

“But I did take too many pills after I caught douchebag Sean screwing some townie trash.” Her eyes glistened. “But even then, I was too chicken-shit and forced myself to vomit – it’s not hard to force yourself to vomit. I’ve been doing it after every big meal since I was 14.”

Michelle was openly crying. Dan sat with his face in his hands, and Tom was looking away and had no idea how to respond.

“I remember kneeling at the toilet puking my life back into myself, and I thought, I can’t even kill myself right – this is why my parents never paid any attention to me – I never had the commitment. I don’t deserve for people to pay attention to me. I stopped blaming my parents that day.”

Hanna started to say something else, but she just trailed off and sighed a sigh that sounded like her heart had broken. She looked at the 3 sullen faces around that table and began to sob. Michelle stood and tried to lead her back to her room, but Hanna brushed her off. She didn’t care. She just sat there and cried with her head on the table.

No one knew what to do. They all sat there for at least 5 minutes. They gave eachother glances and mouthed words and gesticulated, but no one knew how to proceed. Then after a few sniffles Hanna stopped crying and wiping here eyes with the bottoms of her palms, as only women do, she said, “well, I’m going to get ice cream…you guys?”

…

Later in Michelle’s room, Hanna was lying on the bed as Michelle was showering. She shampooed since they didn’t have class tomorrow and she could just put her hair in a towel-turban and relax in her robe. Michelle was fanatical about being as dry as possible before she put her robe or pajamas on. She couldn’t tolerate wetting her clothes. So, she always used at least 3 towels when she showered. One on the floor for drippings, one for her body and one for her head, even if she didn’t get her hair wet.

Her hair was damp, but not very, since her hair was fairly short and it wasn’t particularly thick to begin with, so it dried relatively quickly. She walked out of the steamy bathroom and climbed in bed with Hanna.

“How ya doin’ sweetie?” She asked, putting her arm around her fellow-Cadet.

“I don’t know, Shels, I really don’t.”

“Why not, what are you feeling?”

“I feel better, and worse – does that make sense?”

“Sure, it does. You always feel better and worse when you vomit.”

“O God, is that what I did?”

“No, Hanna…shhhhhh…that’s not what I mean.” She cooed as she stroked Hanna’s lush tendrils of blondeness. “No, I just meant that that crap had obviously been eating at you for a long time. So, you feel better that it’s out, but you feel worse because now you have to deal with it.”

“You’re right,” Hanna said, resignedly, “I guess I feel bad because I don’t feel bad. I feel like I should feel sad and bitter and feel all this self-pity and recrimination, but I don’t.”

“Whadda ya mean?” Michelle was truly curious, and Hanna rolled over so she could look Michelle straight in the face.

“I mean that I should feel bad that I tried to kill myself. I should feel bad that my parents didn’t give a shit about me. I should have all this angst, but now that I’ve said it out loud, I realize that I’m not even mad or said about it. I mean, I know my parents were crap, but they weren’t malicious, they were just oblivious.”

Michelle cut her off, “oblivious can do just as much damage as malicious, though.”

“Sure, I get that,” Hanna continued. “But I mean, what do I have to really feel all that bad about. My parents gave me a great home, a world class education, I was never abused, or mistreated…no, no, don’t start about neglect being mistreatment. They weren’t even neglectful in a legal-sense, it’s just that I wasn’t that important to them.”

“OK,” Michelle said, “and you have a right to be upset about that.”

“DO I?” Hanna asked, sincerely. “I mean, really, do I have a right to expect that my parent’s world revolve around me? I mean, yeah, Mom was a helicopter, but that was all about her, and I resented it since I was 4. And, what’s more, the helicoptering was so sporadic. She only invaded my space when it involved something public that might reflect on her. Apart from homework and clothes and when we were out in public, I never saw Debbie – she was always doing yoga or drinking pinot or at one of Dad’s functions.”

“Maybe the inconsistency of her overbearing habits was confusing?” Michelle mused.

“Maybe,” Hanna admitted, “but that’s not my point, I mean, my point is that I really don’t know that I have a right to expect my parents should always pay attention to me. I mean we get fed all this bullshit from the time we’re old enough to be put in front of a screen, being told how we’re special and wonderful and how we’re just the best thing to ever grace a diaper with a greasy turd. And so maybe we get fed this false expectation about how the world should constantly focus on us and when it doesn’t, we go through this existential crisis.”

“Well, I’m not a clinician, but my psychological training would say that’s probably accurate.” Michelle said. Even though Michelle was agreeing with Hanna, Hanna looked a little annoyed, that Michelle was interjecting. She didn’t need affirmation right now, for the first time in her life she didn’t need affirmation; she was going to say what she wanted to say and if Michelle didn’t agree then, well, oh well. Michelle, being perceptive, picked up the hint that this was a one-way conversation, and she took it with good grace.

“I guess,” Hanna continued, looking through Michelle, now, “I guess that some people can’t handle not being the center of attention and decide that the world is a fraud and is committing deliberate acts of injustice against them by not treating them like the wonderful little gifts to humanity that they think they are – I think those are the people that we normally call narcissists. Some people, people like I used to be” Hanna was certain that she’d moved certainly, definitely, and conclusively out of this phase, “they hate themselves because they think – Gosh, everybody else is special. Just look at how much their smiling and how happy they are. I must be garbage. I deserve to be ignored. Those are the girls like me who need to get their stomachs pumped ‘cause they blew every guy on the football team on the bus on the way home.” Michelle winced at that graphic illustration. But Hanna didn’t pause for a moment.

“Some people, they, they…I don’t know, they just accept that the world is crap and that we’re not special and they get on with it.”

Chapter 23

Ralph McEwan didn’t sleep well. In fact, he slept poorly, if at all. As the well-manicured man had said, when he came home, he found that his computer had a brand new solid-state hard drive, and that he had a brand new router, and that his computer had many, but not all his previous files.

Ralph had wondered for some time what this all meant – what he actually was going to have to do. The well-manicured man, whom he had finally learned was Paul Glenwood, had said that his talents were needed. He was also told that his talents weren’t going to be especially needed until Operation Astrology became fully operational in about 3 months. He would receive a phone call and would receive a name and from there on out it was up to him to secure evidence that would lead to a conviction.

Then, after he got the name, it was his job to do two things.

First, he needed to use his quite extensive training in financial crime to scour every scrap of data available to look for actionable intel.

Second, he would need to ensure that he gathered information legally. So that any conviction would hold up in court and that nobody would ever have any reason to ask what the genesis was of the investigation.

What Ralph didn’t know was that Operation Astrology was the most perfect espionage system ever developed. Elias and his small team had unlimited access to Hegemon, which was constantly monitoring every AI-linked device in its network for signs of corruption. Granted, there was so much graft in the world, these days, that they had to limit themselves to only major cases that offered connections to other suspicious criminal behavior. But, the simple fact of the matter was that Elias had gained access to the private words and actions and habits of 89% of all human beings on planet earth and 100% of Americans – except for that handful that were completely, really truly completely off the grid. Of course, the public couldn’t know this. And, Ralph couldn’t know this.

Of course, Ralph knew some of this – he was not a stupid man. And Paul had told him that there was a very good secret intel source. But he didn’t tell him the size or scope – it just sounded like run-of-the-mill overburden from other anti-terror surveillance.

Thus, Ralph would know that someone was guilty of corruption, but he had to find a way to find out that he was guilty without letting on that he had obtained the knowledge illegally. Of course, the well-manicured man had never used a word as uncouth as “illegal”. He simply said that there was “intelligence gathered in such a manner as to make it inadmissible in court.” Illegally.

Ralph hadn’t been sleeping. He was terrified that that hard-drive would make its way to a Federal Prosecutor. And what leverage did he have? He was told he would be given a name and that was it. Just a name. He would know that he was guilty of some form of corruption on a scale big enough for this kind of special project, but he was given no more information than that. So, it wasn’t as though he could go to a DA and say he was being blackmailed. Because he wasn’t. Glenwood had never said that the hard drive was his. And he had no way of proving anything anyways.

What the Hell was he supposed to do? Go to the AG and say, well, sir, I did try to bang a tween, and I have quite a bit of kiddie porn on my old hard-drive, but I don’t’ have it anymore, because the President’s queer factotum stole it from me and is trying make me play detective against some crims – and the intel is too good, I know there must be some domestic spying going on.

Yeah, he could do that. He could also just as easily sodomize and mutilate himself and save everybody the time and trouble.

The fear never left him from that first wretched visit. The constant acid fear of being revealed, the weight of doom was unbearable.

Fortunately, there was whiskey. Good old whiskey. And it came in so many varieties. Scotch, for when he was at work and wanted to look like a hard-bitten, but reliable agent – a man of discerning taste. Irish, for a quick shot or to correct his coffee on stake-outs. Kentucky for long hours staring at the 4 walls of his dumpy apartment. Canadian for a big tumbler to finally go to sleep at 3 AM.

Yes, whiskey was now his coffee and his coffee was now his water. But after a few months of this, he’d slowly come to accept that this was his fate. And with the numbness came freedom. He decided that the best way to not go to prison was to do as he was told. He’d be a good boy and prove his value.

No. He would do what his middle-management father had told him countless times: make yourself irreplaceable. It was sound advice. This relationship was all too one-sided. Surely, he would never hold the whip-hand. No. To even think such things was to court disaster – no, one mustn’t try to get one over on one’s betters. One must know one’s place. One must not be convicted of conspiracy to commit statutory rape and for possession of child pornography. No, one must never do that. One must know when one is beaten. But one must also make the best of one’s situation. One must recognize that some slaves are happy slaves because they are good slaves.

Ralph would be a good slave. Yes, he was a slave – he’d come to terms with that. But he was a slave who could do well for himself. And the fact of the matter was, that in this world that he had gotten himself into, it was kill or be killed. So, as he looked at the name he’d been hastily scribbled as a man with a disguised voice called him from an untraceable number, “Chad Van Til/ CFO/ Cybertooth Analytics” he mused, “Welp, Chad, ole buddy ole pal, it’s either you or me, and it ain’t a-gonna be me.”

Chapter 24

Ray Asher was a man who was thoroughly beaten. At least that’s how he looked to any casual observer – and even to some rather in-depth observers. And in the dark nights of his soul (through which he seemed to be passing often, or maybe stuck in…who the hell knows, Ray had only heard the term in a Philosophy 101 course that he was hung-over for most of) he pondered whether this was the end.

As he sat in the Capital waiting for order to be called he mused to himself that this was his life. He had peaked. Frankly, peaking at Senator wasn’t a bad place to peak. But he wasn’t a lawyer, so he had no hopes of a judgeship. And, really, he was never going to pass or even propose any kind of legislation that could ever be as monumental as the omnibus act that had passed under Elias’ sheer force of will!

The Elias bills, that’s what they were called. What a crock. Elias campaigned on separation of powers and the sacrosanct independence of the Legislature from Executive overreach and what does he do? proposes the most all-encompassing legislation ever! that’s all! no, nothing to see here folks, just some every day, normal, powers-separating. No executive overreach here. Move along, sir…move along.

He lacked purpose. That’s what he realized. It was hard for him even to become aroused, and heavens knows Kenny had been trying! – and succeeding – who was Ray kidding? Ok, so maybe it wasn’t hard for him to get hard, but the idea of sex was just exhausting to him. He was just…liquified. His whole career he had had drive and that drive to achieve had given him stamina and verve (boy there’s a word that you don’t hear too often) and he had never yet been let down. He was always able to push harder. He was always able to do more. He never gave up. He could campaign more, make more calls, call in more favors, make more promises, make more deals, trade more horses. That joi de vivre came from his ambition. Ambition was the key! Ambition gave him verve and vim and vigor – do you ever just have vim? do you always have vigor with your vim? Can you order a tall glass of vim “hold the vigor, barkeep, I’m taking my vim straight…good morrow, sirrah!” Is vigor like vermouth you can take it or leave it or is it like the glass? It’s not really a martini if you don’t have a glass, then it’s just taking gin or vodka shots from a bottle. Or body shots. Had he ever taken body shots off Kenny? He should start.

By “start” he didn’t mean start taking shots. He’d been doing quite a bit of day-drinking lately. That was no big deal in the Senate, of course, but it was a big deal to Ray because he had always tried to keep his debauchery private.  But, as of late his debauchery had debouched from the comfy confines of home and office and he was clearly intoxicated to anyone who was A) not also intoxicated and B) Could smell, see, or hear him.

Frankly there weren’t a whole lot of “A”s in his section of the Senate at that current time of day. And since he had no plans to say a single word or do anything that in any way would draw attention to himself, he felt fine that nobody would comment. CSPAN wasn’t going to zoom in on his slightly too red cheeks. And it’s not like A) anybody watched CSPAN or B) had a smell-o-vision.

But was Ray really, truly, for good and for all “beaten”? Is that why there are so many lushes in DC? “Are we all trying to suffocate that frustrated part of us that doesn’t want to be peaked? Is our insatiable Ambition so all-consuming that we have to narcotize it? Is it a yappy dog to be put in a purse and given a treat or a tiger on a gold-leash and given significant sedation?”

All Ray knew was that he was feeling bad. In fact, in his weakness he’d flown back to Bloomington and spent nearly the entire summer break with Sandra. Stevey and Cait were off on some sibling adventure together in Hong Kong, but Zoe and Meaghan were at home for a few weeks anyways.

It was strange for Ray to be spending so much time with his family. He’d essentially been living an entirely separate life in DC for the past 2 years. Sandra was torn because her mother and father were in DC as was Ray, but she hated the Capital and besides, Steve was living now practicing Law in Bloomington, Caitlin was in her Senior year at IU, and Zoe and Meaghan were Sophomores in High School, so her family was in two cities.

She loved Ray, and wanted to be with him, but she also had built a life in Indiana – though neither of them were originally from there. She was from Connecticut and Ray was part of that newer generation of Carolinians, so overwhelmed by the Northern tourism industry and their desire to not be considered uncouth or racist, depending on how severe the prejudice against white southerners was held by each individual Yankee, Ray dropped the drawl. So, if you asked him whence he came, he wouldn’t reply with the standard “Norcara-Lanna” but would say “North Care-a-Lina”.

But with Ray it was a very deliberate act. His family were old money and were proud of being Southern. Ray couldn’t care less. He very carefully, and with malice aforethought, killed his accent. He did it in drips and drabs. Slowly, luxuriating in the nasal “a”s and the more staid stress patterns. The Midwest accents were born out of the cold weather, Germanic and Nordic and Polish and Yankee heritages, it was a serious accent for serious people who cared about being on time and being correct. It was none of the lackadaisical Scots-Irish malarkey of Appalachia, or the Ante-Bellum decadence of the Tidewaters and Deep South.

Nobody took a man with a Tennessee accent seriously unless he had a fiddle in his hands.  Ray wanted to be taken seriously. He didn’t need to sound like he had his cheeks stuffed with grits all the time. He didn’t want to have to prove to somebody that he wasn’t an idiot simply because they heard him talk.

So, he went to school up north and opened a new branch of his family’s investment firm in Indianapolis. He worked there for a few years, mainly to make connections, which he did, and to make money, which he did, and to marry a nice northern girl who would be loyal and give him a picture perfect political patriarchy…which he did.

Life was going swimmingly for Ray Asher.  He was barely 25 when he ran for, and won, an Indiana State Senate seat. And from then on, he moved up like a rocketship. When he won his first term in the US Senate, and just 34 – this is after a real career in finance, with no political family history, and as a transplant to another state, mind you, The Atlantic called him the new face of the Republican Party. He was the golden boy; the fair-haired child; all the preferred pre-pubescent male analogies.

At 54, into his 4th term, he was noticing that his skin was sallow and his hair was more silver than gold. He made the desperate and self-indulgent move of sharing his feelings of failure with Sandra – why did he always allow himself to be weak around her – and he, more fool him, almost came clean about Kenny. As luck would have it he was sober and sad, but not psychotic and he pumped the breaks on that little hot-rodding bit of conscience right now.

Sandra was, as he expected, completely supportive and caring. She offered good advice that came from a place of genuine love and care. And all her kindness and reasonableness and her physical attractiveness made him hate himself for cheating on her. Which made him resent her. Which made him hate himself all the more. Which made him resent her even more. If she could just be a distant bitch like all the other politico-wives, he could move on. But NOOOOOO! She had to actually give a shit. What’s worse, she couldn’t just get a hair-cut and become a Karen and let him live his double-life in peace and quiet. No. Not Sandra. She had to just keep pouring her identity into him. She had to keep trusting him. She had to keep loving their kids and making great choices and filling his war-chest and managing his businesses. She had to just keep on being a great wife.

Her only flaw – her chief flaw – her greatest sin, was that she would not, ever, never, never-ever let him live like a Frenchman. To what degree she allowed herself to be deceived was one thing. But to openly humiliate her, μή γένοιτο! Thus, his dream or having his wife and girl-on-the-side all living in happy-land was a no go. He hated her for that. He hated her that she gave him everything but one thing. It was Eden. You can have every tree except one. Ray wanted the one he couldn’t have.

And that’s when he had his epiphany. Sitting there, pondering his life, thinking about how all his life he’s always wanted things he couldn’t have, he realized that he always got those things. Always. Ray couldn’t be accepted in the north as a southern beau – except he was. He couldn’t have a big southern investment firm in Indianapolis – except he got one. He couldn’t have an Indiana Republican State Senator seat when he’d been a lifelong Southern Democrat from a long line of lifelong Southern Democrats – except he got one. He couldn’t as a 34-year-old have the seat of one of the longest running and most loved Senators in Indiana history – except he got it. He couldn’t have a girlfriend and a wife – except he got them both.

Right now, everyone was saying he couldn’t get the material to wreck Joe Elias’s world. He was going to upset all Joe’s apple-carts. He was going to ruin all the best plans that Junior and Senior and their whole colony of mice had laid. Ray had it. He had that fire again. He began sitting up a little straighter. He began to smile a somewhat predatory smile. All the stress and frustration began to slough off of him like sheets of ice on a too-southerly berg. He just had to work. He just had to put that ambition to work. This whole time, ever since Elias announced he was going to run he’d been feeling sorry for himself and making excuses. No more. It was time to get rid of the whole hang-dog act and take control. It was time to stop doping the tiger and let that kitty off the leash. Antony can have the dogs of war, Ray was gonna bungle in the jungle.

He was Ray-frickin’-Asher. He got…it…done…son. Starting tomorrow, no more booze. Work out every day and create an anti-Elias coalition.

Ray was never very good at introspection for the purpose of actually assessing his own emotional-ethical health. He critiqued himself based up on performance towards his self-chosen goals. So, this rush of energy, though greater than anything he’d felt in years was somewhat foreign to him, and he took it, as a matter of course, to simply be a nitro-boost of ambition. But a good psychologist, or even a fair to middling clergyman of any stripe could have told him that he wasn’t feeling ambition. No, for the first time in his life was beginning to feel the intoxicating and all-consuming power of hate.

Chapter 25

Jeremiah Serano, AKA Jaime De La Cruz, was nonplussed. No, that’s the wrong word. He was a combination of furious, frightened, vengeful, and ready to lash out. But more than anything he was amazed at how ludicrous the whole situation was! Nonplussed works, but only because this loquacious and grandiloquent man was so used to varying between logorrhea and lexifanicism on the one hand and exacting and elegant on the other for so much of his professional career that he had really come to define himself, not consciously, of course, but in a very marked way, as a man who always had the right words. For Jeremiah Serano to be nonplussed was like talking about the Niagara being dry. Jeremiah always had the opinions of 20 men…and women…working in his fecund mind, positions and counter positions. He navigated the world through words as a wordsmith. Granted, he was a long ways from his wordsmithy, but he had still been sending some opinion pieces under his own name for the NNN – one or two a week, when he had time.

But now he had no words. It wasn’t the injustice of the whole thing that upset him, though upset him it did. It was the sheer idiocy of the whole thing. It was obvious that his white dry hairy dog turd of a roommate had set him up. Not that Larry had intentionally wanted him to get caught, but he made a pretty good fall guy. In some sense, Jeremiah recognized and applauded the cunning of a man like Larry Kreuger. He could never have had an IQ much about 85 to begin with and the drugs certainly had let him slip down the wrong side of that bell curve, but my goodness – the way he went about criminality was brilliant. In a stupid way.

For some reason he was very impressed with the fact that a man who could barely read at a 2nd grade level and couldn’t do arithmetic could also come up with ways to sneak drugs through the US Postal service under someone else’s name in a way that would be nearly impossible to trace back to himself – unless he was either caught with the product, or unless there was somebody watching who thought Larry Kreuger calling dibs on someone else’s peanut butter was about as obvious a smuggling giveaway as anything he’d seen in his life.

Actually, both things happened.

Jeremiah had to think. But he couldn’t think.

He kept thinking about whether the batteries in his head lamp needed to be replaced. It had been dim, for a few nights, but was it just dusty? Was the bulb going bad? Did LEDs go bad? Well, of course they go bad, but the diodes don’t slowly perish, they die all at once, right?

Oh, and he thought about Larry and how much he hated him. And how he admired him. As a crook Larry was like a Rube Goldberg Machine – stupid and clever, simultaneously – simul insipiens et ingeniosi. But, Rube Goldberg machines aren’t assholes. And Larry Kreuger was most certainly an asshole.

No, he had to think.

“What am I going to do?” Jeremiah mumbled to himself. He didn’t have much of an internal monologue – he’d always just talked to himself quietly, but out loud. Also, he’d been transmitting as soon as he realized he was being arrested, so he knew there would be people listening in, pretty much non-stop at this point. It was kinda cool to imagine one’s life being lived out as a radio drama. Coworkers hunched over the transmitter, as if it were an old wooden Zenith.

“OK, I could come clean about who I am – that I’m a reporter, that I’m a plant. That I’m here reporting on the conditions. That I’m personal friends with Ray Asher – no, that’s a lie, lies will only cause problems later. Whatever I say it has to be the truth.”

He pondered his options for some time. Not even talking, slowly weighing his options – come clean and explain how ludicrous this is. Or go to trial and prolong the charade. But a trial would expose his identity. Might as well clarify who he is, right now and not chance it during trial. Or is that wrong? Should he make it a surprise and make the National Employment Agency look like a bunch of chumps?

You see, Jeremiah’s problem wasn’t that he wasn’t able to rationally weigh the options. He did that, with aplomb. But it was the making of the decision. He’d never really had to make hard decisions in his life. And that was all fine and well, as far as it went. Who doesn’t want to live a life free of hard decisions? The problem was that he was unpracticed.

How do you make a truly life or death decision? What can prepare you for that – other than making a life or death decision. That’s like saying asking what can prepare a blind man to see? Sure, he understands the concept – and he might even be able to see images in his dreams – even if he were born blind. But is that really preparation for seeing in the real world? Nothing but being kicked in the crotch can prepare you for being kicked in the crotch and nothing like a real life or death dilemma can prepare you for being in one.

However. It would be nice if he’d had some practice at making hard choices. And so, he sat there struggling to keep his thought-train on the tracks. Choo-choo, here comes the death-penal…I wonder why deodorant is still in stick form when actu…all aboard, next stop summary execu…California really is dry.

The door opened and in came a man with a briefcase. Finally, someone to shoulder the burden of decision-making. It was nice to see a man in a suit with a briefcase. A man with a cell phone in his hand. A man holding the cell-phone out to him. A man encouraging him to take the cell-phone and talk on it.

“Jerry, how’re you holdin’ up, kid?” It was Don Hrupek, his chief editor.

“Good, Don, I’m ok…” why did he lie? obviously he wasn’t OK! This whole farse was anything but OK. Oh, hello, Jeremiah, how goes it? Why quite well, Donald; I’m being framed for possession with intent to distribute a schedule 1 narcotic and be put to death! Capital! Smashing! Quite so, quite so. Though, it may keep me from the polo match. Dreadful, simply dreadful. Well, we mustn’t let these little trifles hinder us, eh, Donald? Couldn’t have said it bettah myself; chin-up old cock!

“Listen, Jerry, I know you’re stressed – you’re obviously NOT ok.” Then why’d you ask, you cretin? “But I have to say, you’re really taking this well…nobody here at the office knows how we’d have held up.”

Something was rather unsettling in the direction of this conversation. It didn’t feel comforting as much as up-buttering.

“Listen, Jer, how would you like to go to Alaska?”

Chapter 27

“Ok, tonight we’re going to give a little speech and meet some of the swells and hobnob and all that jazz.” Paul Glenwood said, as he glanced down at his “device” going over the exact timetable for the president, reminding him of important people to schmooze and important people to snub. Paul was an extremely detailed note-taker and was fanatical about prep. He’d done all the prep with Joe Senior and he had never dropped a ball.

“Thanks, Paul,” Joe said, as Paul finished, then suddenly realizing the time, “Paul you have to change! We have to leave in what, 4 minutes?”

“I’m fine, Uncle Joe, I have my monkey suit right here, I can change in a jiff and tie my tie in the limo and I’m already wearing my shirt.”

Joe looked, a little more carefully and saw that Paul was, indeed wearing a tuxedo shirt under his coat and vest. True to his word, Paul was changed in a jiff and they were strolling towards the motorcade at a quite leisurely pace. They stopped a few times to take photos with the last tours going through the White House and more than once Secret Service made them pause for no apparent reason. But, in shorter than normal order they were in the ambrosially climate controlled presidential limousine.

He and Paul began going over notes again – the first class of the newly created National Service Academy was about to finish its first year. This party was going to be one of the traditions that this particular Academy would have. All the Academies do, but this one needed one, more to form with its particular function within the broader body of the federal government. Thus, a black-tie gala. Some wanted white-tie, but Paul forced Joe Junior to nix that particularly heinous notion. Paul hated tails. In many ways he was a terrible gay guy.

But, the show must go on – or gala – and go on it did as a black tie event. And since the NSA did have a uniform – after a fashion (grey worsted wool 2 button suits with a school tie for men and grey worsted wool 2 button pantsuits or skirtsuits for women with the optional school neckerchief. Or ascot. Or scarf. Whatever nomenclature is least…or most offensive). Thus, it only made sense that the cadets would have a uniform for formalwear. So, for men it was a black single-breasted with peak lapels, with a peaked collared frill-less white shirt and pants WITH the racing stripe. Women got to wear pretty much whatever they wanted. There were regs, but nobody could ever have imagined enforcing them.

As the car slowly wended its way North in a line-of-best-fit, Paul and Joe went over notes and plans. They wanted to make sure that the details of the evening were nailed down, because much rested on tonight, as far as long term plans went. Indeed, tonight was a crucial night, not tactically, or even strategically, but operationally. The actions that would occur tonight would have long-lasting implications for the newest Service Academy and its cadets. And for America. And for the world.

Chapter 28

Daniel was taking his time trying to tie his bowtie. Of course, at a school as prestigious – read snobby – as the United States National Service Academy nobody would ever have dreamt of using clip-on bow-ties. And as Daniel had never tied a bow-tie before this was proving to be just as comical as all the cliched scenes of a man trying to tie a bowtie on screen big and small.

“This is really frustrating.” Daniel moaned to A. Thomas. Everyone had begun calling him “A. Thomas” in honor of his refusal to divulge his Christian name.

“Quit whining; I told you I’d tie it for you.”

“That’s so emasculating.”

“I’d think you’d be used to emasculation, after all this time with me.”

“Yeah, it’s a mystery how I maintain my sexual identity!” Dan shot back, with slightly more edge to his words than he’d anticipated.

“Ok, ok, don’t get your panties in a twist. You’re fine, bro. If you don’t want me to tie it I won’t tie it. You happy?”

“Elated”

“Wunderbar!”

“So, how long’s this thing gonna last, you think?” Daniel said in the unmistakable and completely non-sensical half-whisper of a man leaning forwards towards a mirror with his chin stick out.

“Ptsh, who knows – open bar.” A. Thomas said with similar nonchalance as he looked down his sleeves for fuzzballs or stray hairs.

“Really?”

“What?”
“Dude, the President is going to be hear and you’re planning on gettin’ lit? I thought you were a career-man, in it for the long-haul, gonna be an ambassador or senator?”

“And?”

“You can’t do that if you’re drunk in front of the president.”

A. Thomas laughed a hearty and mirthful laugh. “Boy, where’ve you been? Have you ever spent any time around this Senate? What did Dickens say in Tale of Two Cities? The English drank enough in those days to float a battleship on the Thames? Well, we’ve got more than our fair share of Sydney Cartons keeping the benches warm in the capitol.”

“You know what I mean,” Daniel continued, not perturbed by his friend’s insouciance.

“Well, tut-tut mother,” A. Thomas replied derisively and friendlily simultaneously. The kind of comment only actual friends can make. They had become real friends. That was unique at the Academy. Well, not unique in the try sense of the word – but it was abnormal?…non-normative?...atypical?

It probably helped that they were grad students and they were all Midwesterners and they all, generally, agreed, at least on the overall ends and purposes of government. Their age and experience had given them the perspective that they needed to realize that cutthroat games are just suicide pacts. More than that, and possibly the strangest of all the factors, or at least the least predictable was that all four of them were genuinely likeable and considerate. Whatever other factors coalesced to create their peculiar Gestalt, the fact that none of them were tools was substantial.

Other “Offices” had quickly degenerated into sad tropes of political brinksmanship. What was the saddest of all this was that there weren’t grades, at least not in the traditional-sense. The students were evaluated for their competence, but this was based upon a variety of factors, not simply test taking and point tabulation. The only place where the pedagogy was “traditional” was in the foreign language departments where there needed to be an objective measurement of language acquisition to ensure that the students were learning the things they needed to learn and not just picking up nonsense and sounding like Ugly Americans.

No, there work was evaluated by their teachers on a pass-fail basis and their collective projects were treated the same. The professors were far more concerned with whether the students were interacting in meaningful ways with the material and producing high-level research and creating solid pieces of government paper. All the vying and strife was really silly. And students who had toxified their Offices were told that there were no grades and that there performance relative to other cadets would have LITERALLY zero bearing on what kind of placement they were offered.

Of course, you’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on an idiot who can’t understand the basic principles of the institution. After a while the more (cruel is accurate, but seems nasty), the more amused teachers and administrators decided to let them battle it out. Just grab that popcorn and watch the show.

But not with Daniel, Hanna, A. Thomas, and Michelle. They actually cared about each other and were actually friends and chose to spend time with eachother – most nights they would spend at least a few hours together in one of their rooms strewn about the couches and the bed and the floor, sipping beer and eating nachos. They took turns reading their assigned work out loud. Though Daniel was by far the fastest reader and this slowed him down considerably, he didn’t mind, because the slower pace allowed him to think in parallel and perpendicular lines to the material and not simply acquire words.  

They helped eachother on their papers, often working together (with permission) to write Office essays – much to the delight of the administration who were very committed to a team approach to document drafting and government administration in general. Most of the staff had already had serious careers in the bureaucracy and had seen the good and bad and had determined that there were too many mavericks. There were too many people trying to make policy all by themselves and create miniature fiefdoms. Of course, both Eliases hated this kind of foolishness. They hammered in debates and on the campaign trail about how government information silos were the bane of the Executive. There needed to be resource sharing – in every sense. Not simply information, but manpower and materiel. So, after Joe Senior had convinced Congress that a National Service Academy was a good idea, he hand-picked people to run the show who would promote Elias’ vision of government.

And so, the four of them were quickly gaining a reputation as the top of the class. Again, they were older and they weren’t tools – it would probably indicate a failure of some kind if they weren’t at the top. But, at the top they were and that seemed to irk a lot of the more ambitious young Cassiuses in the crowd. Granted they weren’t bestride the narrow world, but they were well liked and their papers were often published for the whole Academy to read to understand how to write good policy at their experience level.

Daniel and A. Thomas finished getting dressed and walked across the hall and knocked on the girls’ room.

“Yeah, ‘tsopen.” Michelle called out in her mature woman’s alto. The guys walked in. They all eyed each-other up and down. A. Thomas wolf whistled and Hanna mock-blushed. They decided to go together for several reasons.

First, the girls had practically begged them when they realized that their options were to go to essentially a wedding reception with 2 men whom they respected and truly liked and cared about, who were 23 and 26 respectively. OR, they could get felt-up by some 18 year old Mayor’s kidand spend the night rolling their shoulders and moving hands off their hips and thighs. Hmmmm, one the one hand…

Second, the guys both actually wanted to go with the girls. A. Thomas and Hanna fed off of eachother and were constantly cracking eachother up. And Daniel and Michelle were both nurturers at heart. Daniel was an old soul and Michelle was a mother from the time she was 2. They shared values and got eachother. It was nice. While things hadn’t gotten physical between either couple, the guys had talked about it, as had the girls.

It seems they had all realized, as one would expect from kids a little older and wiser, that the risks of a romantic relationship were too high. After graduation – sure, roll the dice. But until then, it was a bad idea. Yeah, the payoff was huge – soul-mate huge. But the risk was poisoning a really good thing.

They chatted a for a while and the girls felt the material on the guys’ tuxes and the guys admired the girls’ dresses – they really were fantastic. Hanna and Michelle had gone shopping together with Matthew’s credit card. Matthew played squired them about town and got them both dresses that were perfect. Not because they turned the erstwhile bookworms into sexpots, but because the dresses did everything a great gala dress should. It should make a woman look beautiful and in control. It’s not about showing cleavage – it’s about finding a dress that works with your body and also presents and image to the world that “I’m in control of my life and my world as I’m in control of this dress – everything fits for me”. At least those were Matthew’s words.

Hanna was genuinely amazed at how insightful her father was about women’s eveningwear. It made her sad for her parents. They really weren’t bad people. They were just so focused on all the wrong things. And it was very nice to have her father’s opinion since he’d been to about a million of these events and knew exactly how Hanna and Michelle could have gravitas and beauty and not just cheap-out with side-boob or upper-thigh. He’d seen hundreds of women do that over the years. A few did it for shock appeal. Those who did it because they thought it would help them get ahead – that they could capture power between their knees – realized, only later, sadly often much later, to their sorrow that sexy bureaucrats end up running the committee to reinstate fishing licenses on Indian Reservations. Or they married some schlub and ended up disappointed and sad. Because the dirty little not-at-all-a-secret-everyone-with-half-a-brain-realizes-this was that men who marry loud women don’t rise with the cream. So the skim-milk men marry a hottie and they both think they’re going to ride eachother’s connections to a cabinet position and they both end up reviewing Department of Transportation safety awareness campaign radio copy.

Matthew was not about to let this happen to his daughter. Also, he was invited to the Gala so it was extra incentive to make the evening special. He’d regretted how bad their relationship had gotten, but he was hopeful that he could amend his negligence and take a full role in his daughter’s life.

But that would take time and effort, and so far, he was making it. It concerned Hanna that perhaps he only cared about her now because she was in politics – but that was unfair, and in her better moments she realized it and said as much to Michelle. Multiple times. Often after not inconsequential volumes of Shiraz had been consumed. No, when her better angels were being listened to she realized her dad really was sorry for what their relationship had become and her taking his advice and following in his footsteps was a sign to him that they could be repaired. And they were. Slowly.

As it got closer to departure time, they started looking around. According to Matthew little coach purses were cute but impractical. The girls should get decent sized handbags – big enough for their and their dates’ phones and wallets and snacks. He was very clear that it had to be big enough for snacks.

When Hanna asked why it had to be big enough for hers and A. Thomas’ phones and wallets her dad just smiled and said, “trust me, baby”. So the girls put as many calorie-dense granola bars in their bags as would fit and they all headed off to their limo.

Chapter 29

Joseph Elias Junior was not a malevolent man. He was not vindictive. He was calculating. He was precise. And most importantly, he was disciplined. He was a man who had sacrificed wants and desires for long term goals. Tonight, some of those goals would be achieved.

Whether history – if history ever recorded these evens would interpret them as malevolent, evil perhaps, was something for which the sitting president was entirely unconcerned.

He had reached the point in his life where after decades of saying no to himself, of saying no to his impulses, of needing to delay gratification, he was now in the position to begin saying yes. He was now ready to begin letting everything happen.

As he sat in silence with Paul, he began to daydream. He was a deeply introspective man – most people without friends are – and he imagined what was about to happen. All the pieces were set up; everything was in its place. Now he had reached the crucial moment. It was critical mass. It was the point of immanence. What happened tonight would begin to move him irresistibly towards the end goal of his entire life.

He imagined that his entire life he had been slowly, carefully, often under hostile opposition, building an incredibly intricate machine that accomplished a very simple purpose. He imagined shiny brassy and brazen gears being manipulated with consummate skill. He viewed this present hour as the time when the last high clicks of the spring sprockets had sounded and there was that reliable resistance the everything was fully wound and ready. What was this intricate machine with a simple purpose?

A steamroller. And he was about to send it on a headlong career that would crush anyone or anything in its wake. Steamroller. The inevitability, the finality, the eschatology of this enormous political steamroller which was this lifelong endeavor was about to be loosed upon the United States.

Only it wasn’t a steamroller. No. That was wrong. No. It wasn’t like that at all. Steamrollers are obtrusive and noisy and noisome. They’re obvious. He wasn’t obvious. This was far too subtle for that. No, this machine wasn’t really a machine at all.

No. What he had constructed was a virus. Every day of his adult life he had been writing code. And now this code was going to give him admin status over America and everyone, well not everyone, but almost everyone would think he was just another end-user. They would think that he, like they, were all just ordinary consumer’s who’d purchased and installed US Government 1.0. But he wasn’t. He had root level access. He was a gatekeeper. He was the superuser.

…

“Whoa, this place is sweet.” A. Thomas half-whispered to the other three as they entered the ballroom in Trump International Hotel in Washington DC. Formerly a government building itself, the architecture was decidedly premodern and therefore not the affront to taste and decency that so many DC buildings constructed after 1960 were.

They all gawked as they slowly moved through the room, they were offered canapes and amuse-gueule which they accepted. And champagne, which they accepted, and they just wandered, talking to the swells and the greats and the high-flyers.

“I can’t believe how many major players are here,” Hanna remarked, little pieces of pastry crumbling out of the corners of her mouth, holding he forearm uselessly under her chin. “There’s 3 Justices; I’ve seen quite a few Cabinet Secs, a few Undersecs, and a whole laundry list of Generals and a few people from the Pentagon.”

“Is your dad here?” Michelle asked.

“I ‘ohno, I haven’t seen him, yet, anyways.”

“Is that him?” Daniel pointed over towards the corner where it looks like the DOJ…correction…FJA was having an informal pow-wow.

Hanna got on her toes and bobbed side-to side, “yeah, looks like it.”

“Let’s go over!” A. Thomas was quite excited to meet Hanna’s dad, he wasn’t sure why, but he did want to meet him.

So, without anyone verbally acceding, they all began to mosey over to the corner where the justiciers of the land were in congress. They were nearly there before one of the men in the crew commented that they ought to stop their current conversation. None of the four could read lips, but it was clear that the conversation was not for outside ears. Daniel noted to himself that they were in a corner and several of them were physically pointed away from the center of the conversational circle…well ellipse. It was obvious that Matthew was the singular focus of that particular ellipse, and as all foci, all came through him. He stopped and turned, and smiled a broad smile and hugged Hanna and warmly shoot hands with Daniel and A. Thomas. Michelle insisted on a hug.

It was a nice moment. Except Michelle couldn’t help but notice that Matthew had a slightly concerned look on his face. She quickly dismissed it as him being upset to have to stop what probably was very interesting and important shop talk to play host to a bunch of noobs. And she quickly put it out of her mind.

As they began to move away from the little cloister of Feds they moved towards their table. Matthew was going to join them, as was prearranged. But there were to 8 seats at the table. They presumed that they would simply be seated with another Office with Secretary Pocratsky being the 9th wheel? How was this going to work.

They soon received another clue as Daniel jaw fairly hit the floor. He quickly stood to his feet and gave a very tall and very serious looking man a very affectionate hug.

The tall, serious man looked at the table and began to shake hands with all in turn.

“Jack Davidson.”

“Michelle Gerhardt.”

“Jack…”

After greeting the crowd the tall man sat down and Daniel officially began ignoring his “date”. This didn’t annoy Michelle in the slightest for two reasons. Firstly, it wasn’t’ actually a date. Secondly, it was good to see a man now-a-days who had such a warm and meaningful relationship with his father.

The lights had begun to blink telling everyone to take their seats and soon they received an even bigger surprise.

First, a rather fussy man came and tipped a chair forwards against the table to ensure no one sat down, then he sat down at the table.

Second, a couple secret service agents passed by and checked the table and walked away.

The fussy man didn’t deign to introduce himself. He simply looked at his watch – a beautiful piece – and then nodded towards a curtain in the front and up walked, without introduction or ceremony, the President of the United States. The room roared.

…

“This night. Tonight. This night will set it all in motion. The spring will be released. The virus uploaded. The steamroller starts rolling tonight.”

…

The President walked up to the pulpit and smiled at the crowd. The room was almost too well lit, so everyone could see the President’s eyes and he could see everyone’s. He grinned a real, hearty, toothy grin and began to speak without notes or teleprompter.

…

“This speech is important, Joe. Yes, they’re all important. But this one is crucial. I need to set the tone.”

…

“Friends, fellow public servants, cadets, I want to welcome you to the first annual Spring Gala of the United States National Service Academy. Now, next year this room will be a lot more crowded.” Applause throughout the room. “But you, class, are the first class – the maiden class. And as such it is incumbent upon you not only to be the audacious pioneers of a new and adventurous cadre of government leaders, but a group of people who are going to change the face of Federal Bureaucracy. You, young ladies and gentlemen, are going to change everything.” More applause.

“You see, friends, for too long people have simply fallen into government service. They weren’t truly trained for it in any kind of classical sense. There are pedagogies for the professions. Lawyers, Doctors, Pastors, of course being the original professions, but now the list of professions exceeds imagination. Yet, our great ship of state has people serving who have never received formal training – not in any serious way – as to how to handle that ship. Too often people serve as political appointees, standing in their positions as a favor to some donor. Or they just seem to get into the work somehow and there doesn’t seem to be any way to get them out!” Laughs throughout the room.

“The problem is NOT that these people aren’t trained in some discipline, it’s that the discipline was always more important than the government work itself. People study public policy – of course. But we have a whole profession of cross-disciplinarians, and I assure you, they’re not all polymaths.” Those who got it and weren’t offended by it laughed.

“What we need is a group of leaders of our Bureaucracy who have actually been trained to serve in Government as their primary discipline. No more will people serve in Government just because they have a law degree. Being a Doctor Jurisprudence does not make you a fit official in officialdom.” All but the lawyers cheered – and many of them did.

“This is why my father insisted that congress begin this great Academy. We want to create a continual flow of excellent men and women who can serve at the highest levels of government and bring a heretofore unseen level of competence, professionalism, objectivity, and accountability.” Loud cheers.

“For too long government has been unwieldy and wasteful. It was full of career ciphers. Well, the non-entities no longer have a position in my Executive branch.” Cheers erupted.

“This work will continue for a long time. But, with the advances of technology, and a return to State-driven policies, I believe that in 20 years the Federal Government need not even be half its current size, administratively. Yes, I want to, and plan to increase the number of personnel who actively do things. I want more Federal crimefighters. I want more Assistant Attorneys General prosecuting fraud and corruption and federal crimes. I want more human resources in foreign fields. I want more and better ambassadors giving our overseas missions a meaningful and productive presence overseas. I want Federal Employees to be people who do things and not simply managers of managers.”

“This begins with you – ladies and Gentlemen. Which is why, tonight, I am announcing that I am officially changing the mission you all have signed on for.” Quiet in the room.

“Starting now, you are no longer preparing to join one of the sundry Executive branch agencies – but you will be placed in the National Service Agency serving at the pleasure of the President as an adjunct to whichever agency you serve in.”

…

“This is where it gets risky. Sell it Elias, sell it.”

…

“The Executive is famous for being politicized. It happens. But by creating a professional corps which will be the core of all Federal Agencies, we can ensure long term stability. In time, I hope that all administrative duties will be handled by graduates of the Academy. You and those who come after you will bring continuity to governments which change every so many years. You will work together to continue to cohere the disparate agencies. You will work together to ensure that siloing never happens again. You will work together to make sure that turf wars never happen again. You will work together to ensure an end to mediocrity and political hackery. As a united agency supervising the other agencies you will have the power to unite the Executive and give it the professional guidance and unity and long term stability that our nation needs.” Total attention.

“I can only do this with your help. Are you willing to help me change history?”

Thunderous applause.

Chapter 30

The thing about screaming is that you never really get used to it. Well, that’s not entirely true. You get used to it the way Polar explorers get used to the cold, or Scottish missionaries got used to the African climate. You just got over the fact that it existed. If you’re going to torture people for the CIA it’s rather important that you gain the ability to get “used” to screaming. Well, used to hearing other people scream.

Jack (his actual first name) Smith (not his actual first name) had been torturing people for a long time. Typically, he did it somewhere off-site, that is, not on US Soil. Jack didn’t like to think of it as “torture”. “Enhanced Interrogation” was a much more expressive moniker. Not that Jack was the kind of guy to get hung up on nomenclature, but he did firmly believe – and insist – that there was a significant difference.

When he was training new interrogators, especially those from foreign fields who worked for governments that may not have had a moral issue with torture for torture’s sake, he worked especially hard to clarify this distinction.

“Torture is just grotesque sadism – it serves no purpose. If you give me long enough, I can get almost anyone to admit to anything. What I am teaching you is “Enhanced Interrogation”.” He would explain in the same kind of passionate pedagogic zeal that a Classicist would explain the subtle rhythm of Homeric poetry. “You’re not trying to ‘get him to talk…” he always made air-quotes here, “you’re trying to get reliable, actionable intel.”

He would wax philosophical for quite a long time and then he would begin to explain the difference in techniques. Jack, personally, believed that the longer he delayed the actual physical pain infliction, the more potent it became. The more fear and dread he could instill in his “case” the more power his actions actually had. Jack had little maxims that he had come up with over the years – and now, after 20 years in the game, he often never had to do anything that wouldn’t hold up I a court of law. That was always his goal – to not have to use physical force. He wasn’t batting too well on that score. However, he was very good at what he did and that’s why he got the private jet flight to a safehouse outside San Francisco.

He had been in the safehouse for less than 10 minutes. He had read the dossier on the flight and was preparing himself mentally and physically for what could be an extremely serious encounter. Lives were at stake. He had to make sure that the stress of what MIGHT happen wouldn’t cloud his judgment and prevent him from doing his best.

He put on his balaclava and walked into a small room where a pudgy, sallow man with a black bag over his head sat zip tied to a tubular metal chair. Except the chair was special – it was too narrow and too shallow, as well as being slightly too tall so that the occupant had the bloodflow cut off from his things and without being able to stand up to begin recirculating blood he had been going almost insane for the past 3 hours. He had been in the chair all night. As well, he was given shoes to wear which were too tight in the toes and were causing no end of discomfort to his feet. Also, the chair had a metal canopy that was set so low that anyone sitting would have to hunch over and kink his neck.

He had been in the chair for 4 hours and he was beginning to be very, very soft. Jack had been watching him squirm for a few minutes. The chair was his invention. It was a way to inflict an enormous amount of discomfort on a person. Moreover, it wasn’t technically torture. It was wildly uncomfortable. But that’s different.

“Lin Yao,” Jack began “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Where am I? Who are you? What are you going to do with me?” a panicky voice asked.

“Lin Yao. You know where you are. And you know why you’re here.”

The man started to cry.

“Lin Yao. I’m going to offer you a deal.”

The man sniffled.

“Tell me everything you know about the Chin Woo Club.”

“The Chin…Woo…I don’t…” The man stuttered. Jack placed a hand firmly on Yao’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Yao, we know. This is not for our benefit. This is for you to prove that you can be honest. Once you prove you can be honest them maybe you can get out of this chair.”

“OK, OK, Chin Woo is a group of Asians who want revenge after the Second Boxer War.” Jack interrupted him in the languorous, bored tone he always used when trying to remind the interrogated that he didn’t know what Jack did or didn’t know so he’d better just be completely honest, “named after the legendary Chin Woo Athletic Club of Shanghai led by the mythical martial arts master Huo Yaunjia. Get on with it or I’m gonna go get lunch and dinner and maybe see you in 3 days. Have you ever spent the night sitting in your own feces Lin? It’s unpleasant.”

“Ummm…Chin Woo is centered in San Francisco.” He continued slightly more quickly.

“OK, well I’m off for lunch, when’s the last time you had water, Lin? You can make it a day or 2 right?”

“No! Please!” the man screamed. “Please tell me what you want to know! I tell you everting” His English was getting progressively more Sinese.

“That’s not how this works, Lin. You tell me everything. Prove that I can trust you. I think I’ll see you in a few hours.” Jack walked out and slammed the door and made a show of racking and slamming the locks to really seal in the sense of doom.

“Well, I see that an imminent attack on US soil isn’t enough to spoil your dinner plans, ey Jacky?” Asked a man that Jack had known for years. His codename was Polka but Jack had basically done all his work with, through, or for him for nearly 15 years. Polka was a liaison officer from the Justice Department. He was the go-between for the CIA and FBI. Polka ensured that never the twain should meet. He also worked to smooth over the paperwork when someone needed to disappear to somewhere or someone needed to be exiled or deported or whatever.

“I don’t trust him, Pokey,” Polka had early-on become Polka-hontas. Jack respected him enough to just call him Pokey. There were 4 men in this safe-house being interrogated at this moment. 2 were screaming and spilling. But the intel was solid that while Lin Yao was the softest and weakest he was also the one with the most intel. The other guys were foot-soldiers. They had all three already implicated eachother and Lin Yao, as well as about 40 other foot-soldiers, and a lieutenant or two, but nobody went higher than Lin Yao. Not yet.

“You think Yao’s gonna spill the beans?” Polka asked, sitting down in the monitoring room outside the cell where Yao sat in his increasingly miserable stool. He was gingerly sipping tea. Earl Grey. 2 sugars.

“Oh, he wants to, but he doesn’t know how little he can give up. Right now, I’m trying to decide if he’s a true-believer or just a putz who wants to matter.” Jack said as he chewed his croissant and sipped his coffee with the bread still in his mouth. He loved that. He loved the hot, flaky, buttery bread to mix with the bitter hot coffee. It was one of life’s cheapest and most consistently satisfying pleasures.

“Feds are worried the attack is immanent.” Polka said, nonchalantly.

“I know, Pokes, but I can’t rush this. If he’s a true-believer and this thing is on, he’ll give me a false lead to make sure the thing goes down. Bad intel is worse than no intel in a crisis situation. Besides, I need him to get in the habit of wanting to tell me the truth.” Jack was getting academic. “He has to associate lying with pain and terror and truth with comfort and rehumanization.”

“We are on a time crunch, do you think that operant conditioning can work that quickly?” Polka asked. But he asked sincerely and not contradictorily.

“Pavlov ain’t got nothin’ on me, buddy boy.”

“What if you can’t ‘condition him in time?” Again, Polka was asking in a straightforward, almost academic way.

“I can’t think about that. I’m going as fast as I can go and still have reasonable confidence that the intel is good. If I rush things that’s the most likely scenario to bring a disaster.”

They sat in the room chatting lightly about politics for the next 10 minutes or so. Since the room was completely dark and Lin Yao had a blackout bag over his head and since he hadn’t slept or eaten in a long while, he really had no reliable concept of time.

After making a big show of the locks Jack reentered and calmly sat down with his face very close to Lin’s so that he whispered a lover’s whisper in his ear. “Lin Yao…tell me everything.”

“Chin Woo is a terrorist organization. I’m only an advisor to some people who are in it, but I’m not really involved. I just give them hypothetical advice about logistical stuff, I’m a logistics g-u-gu-guy- guy -oww, OW, what the Hell.”

From the moment he began lying Jack was turning the screws to lower the canopy over Lin Yao’s head, so he became even more hunched over and then he started tightening his shoes. Again, Jack whispered in his ear, “tell me the truth Lin Yao.”

“OK, so I’m involved, but I don’t actually do any of the stuff, I just help them plan.” Jack continued to tighten him up so that he was so hunched over his hands were turning purple from the tension placed on the zipties.

Yao started crying, “listen, there’s an attack coming soon, tomorrow, I think, I don’t know what day it is. If you promise not to hurt me, I’ll tell you everything.” Jack tightened everything just the tiniest bit more.

Lin Yao screamed for the first time. After he eventually caught his breath, through his panting he got out, “May 15! 8 Am! Blow up the Golden Gate Bridge! Divers! They set bombs tonight! Blow the Pilings! Blow bridge when traffic is heaviest!”

In less than 5 seconds, Jack cut the zipties and took off the shoes and let Lin Yao sprawl out on the floor where he sobbed and writhed, on his slide, occasionally punching his thighs with a strange reverse hammer punch, to get the blood back into them. Jack turned off the lights and took the bag off Yao’s head.

He locked Yao in again and over a loudspeaker said.

“Lin Yao. We’re going to investigate what you’re saying. If I find out there is anything untrue about what you said, then I’m going to put you back in that chair and let you sit in it until you starve to death.”

“I’ll let the FBI know – they were already thinking something about the Golden Gate, but my goodness, to blow the whole thing up?”

“It’ll have to be a huge operation,” Jack agreed “That means a lot of men and probably boats, the current is too strong for divers to move that much equipment from shore without having boats to haul the explosives.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured…you gonna take ‘nother run at ‘im?”

“Yeah, I’d like to be able to take down the whole operation tonight in a coordinated arrest. I don’t want word to get out that the mining gets busted and all the upper-ups go to ground.”

“Our buddies in the Bureau wouldn’t like that too much.”

“No, sir, no they would not,” Jack agreed with a shaking head.

“I’ll give him a few minutes then come back with a bowl of rice and a coke and offer him immunity for the whole operation – can I get this guy into WITSEC? Pokey?”

“No prob, I got the papers here – but I won’t sign off on them until I get names on every one of the leaders – all links to China as well, I know that the Reds are funding this, at least partially.”

“Well, that’s easy – I’ll just tell him he better not leave any names off any lists that I get from any of the other guys we’re interrogating…speaking of…” Jack tapped a looked at the camera over the main room and said, “microphone”. A little microphone icon blinked in the screen immediately and he said, “Jim, any of the other guys say anything about the Golden Gate?” After a few seconds, “Yeah 1 guy.” Ask the other two about the plan to hit the Giant’s game.” A few more seconds, “Why did Yao say anything?”

“No, I just want to see who’s telling the truth.”

Chapter 31

“Mr. President.” Paul Glenwood said as he stood, taking both Joe’s hands in his in a congratulatory handshake. His manner clearly indicated that everyone else at the table ought to stand up, too. Paul’s smile was large and he looked exceedingly pleased. He looked like having the President sit next to him at a Gala dinner was the most wonderful condescension any mortal had ever received.

Joe sat down and took a quick survey of the room as he picked up his napkin and placed it on his lap and arranged the silverware – wares of actual silver – to begin eating the small salad. Everyone sat dumbfounded. Everyone, except Paul and Joe, that is. Before Joe took his first bite, he looked at A. Thomas and said, “Good evening, sir, how are you?”

“I’m doing good, Mr. President…” Tom said, more unsurely than he intended, “how’re you?”

“Do you really wanna know?” Joe asked, leaning slightly in towards Tom who was seated on his left.

“Yeah, sure, I mean, yes…sir.”

“Well, to be honest, Tom, my feet are killing me, and I haven’t eaten since my first breakfast today and I haven’t seen my wife in 3 days.” Joe said and then took a big single bite of salad, with about half the bowl speared onto his fork, and pushed it away with a grimace and grabbed a rye roll and tore a piece off, dipping it into the oil and vinegar.

“Oh, I, ummmm, I’m sorry.” Tom’s perplexion seemed to be hilarious to Paul who laughed and slapped Joe on the back and Joe chuckled and said, broadly to Tom, “Son, what on earth do you have to be sorry for me for? I’m the President of the United States. I have a beautiful wife, wonderful daughters; I’m popular; we’re ending crime, corruption and poverty, as well as eliminating the national debt. Besides – who cares if my feet hurt?!” And then he laughed, shaking his head side to side and ate the rest of the roll in one bite.

“Sorry, folks, I’m a whiner, but my dear wife always hears my complaints and then tells me, ‘Joey, now what do you really have to complain about’!” He chuckled. “I love that woman – but when she’s not around I have to keep myself from whining.”

“Why isn’t she here tonight?” Asked Michelle.

“She’s presenting a paper at a conference in Rome – a translation she just finished of an ancient Latin work. D’you guys know about my wife’s passion?” He looked around, and seeing the confused expressions, he went on.

“Well, if you didn’t know, my wife is a wonderful Latin scholar. I met her at Harvard. Well, over the years I have encouraged her…”

“INSISTED!” Paul corrected.

“Ok, ok, insisted that she continue her humanities work. Her passion is the translation of ancient manuscripts that haven’t yet been translated into English. Libraries all over the world are filled with these works – and they aren’t all manuscripts either – you know when we were in school the vast majority of Luther’s works still hadn’t been translated out of German! Well, because of her diligence she has become quite well known as a neo-Latin authority, even though she only has earned a Masters. Now, to be fair she’s been granted several honorary PhDs, but she won’t even have them in her study.”

All those at the table were following his words with sincere interest. Later, the four of them would try to explain how he held their attention:

“He was folksy. But…not?” Hanna offered.

“Yeah, I get what you mean, it’s like, he…like, he…” Tom struggled, “I dunno, it’s like he made you feel like he was totally interested in you – like you were the most fascinating person in the world.”

“Yeah!” Michelle snorted, “but he did all the talking!”

They all looked at Michelle, Daniel cocked his head to the side, as he realized that her point was well taken. He did feel like Elias made him feel interesting, but nobody hardly got a word in edgewise.

“You’re right, Shelly,” Daniel put in, smiling at her death-glare. “He’s just…winsome. That’s the old-timey word right. Not charismatic. Charismatic feels like you’ve been sold som’m. He’s just likeable. Like, he made me feel like I always wanted to be around him.”

“Yeah, but not in like a douchey cap’mn ‘a-football team way,” Tom commented. They all nodded in agreement.

“Well, anyways, long story short,” Joe pulled off self-effacing humor so well. It’s a lot harder than people think for a public speaker to pull off self-effacing. It either comes off as a pity-party, or false, or self-loathing. With Joe, it just made him seem like he was self-aware. Yet, nobody really was bored by his story. His voice, his tone, his timbre, his tempo, his gesticulations, they were all eminently listen-to-able.

“…His Holiness asked her to work on a very ancient notebook found in the Vatican Archives and she’s presenting her published work tonight, at a Classics Conference.”

They all were thoroughly unsure of what to say, but that wasn’t a problem. Joe turned to Hanna, who was sitting next to Matthew.

“Now, you, young lady, I do know,” and Joe stood up and took and kissed her hand. “I’ve seen pictures of you for many years on your dad’s desk.” Hanna blushed. She couldn’t believe she blushed. “Ms. Pocratsky it’s nice to meet you.

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. President.” He smiled a smile more paternal than anything she’d ever gotten from her actual pater, who was sitting beside her.

“And you are, misssssss…?”

“Michelle Gerhardt, from Dove Bluff Indiana, sir.”

“Dove Bluff…Dove Bluff…” Joe looked off in the distance.

“It’s ok, Mr. President, nobuh…”

“That’s between Gary and Chicago, right? On the Lakeshore Limited?”

“Wow, ummm, yes, how did…how dj’ou?”

“His Excellency has a truly presidential memory for places and people – all the great politicians can do it. You’d be amazed at how good the geography of a lifelong politician is.”

“Really…” All four of them commented in true Midwestern style – giving a clear indication that they wanted to hear an anecdote.

“Why yes,” Paul shook his head side to side, once, while leaning in and putting his forearms on the table. “You know, Joe Senior…we quizzed him once…knew how to put a pin in a map within 30 miles of every city in America with over 10,000 people and every single county seat. It took him 8 years to do it – but I think he still knows most of them.”

“Really…”

“Oh, yes,” Joe stepped in, “my father really is a remarkable man.”

“And,” he said looking to Daniel, “who are you, young man?”

“Daniel Davidson, sir.”

“Davidson…Davidson…why, I know your father, Daniel, isn’t he here, tonight?”

“Yes, sir, I spoke with him earlier, he’s at another table.”

“Nonsense!” Joe chortled and he got up walked over and grabbed Daniel’s father by the arm and picked up his chair in his left arm and sat him down with the group.

“Well, this is nice.” Joe smiled. “I never get to spend enough time with my kids – Pocratsky, Davidson, enjoy this supper and forgive me for sitting here and interrupting your dinner with your children.”

“JOE! No apologies needed, sir,” insert ingratiating laugh here, “these kids are at the Academy, this is the thrill of a lifetime for young cadets.”

“Oh, bullshit, Matty,” Joe laughed; they all laughed. “You get to see me every day, you know it id’n any ‘thrill of a lifetime’.”

“Well, I’m thrilled.” Michelle said and raised her glass to the President. They all did so, as well. “To being thrilled!” She toasted and they all drank – even Daniel.

“So, Danny, wha’dja think?” Joe’s precise clean English was slowly giving in, more and more, to the nasal, slurred Great Lakes lingo of Toledo.

“Sir?”

“About the proposal?”

“I find it disconcerting, sir.” They all stared at him as if he just told the pope he had a silly hat. But not Joe. Joe leaned in, but spoke loudly enough that they could all hear, “Why’s that?”

“Well, sir, what’s to stop the National Service Administration from becoming a buncha Kommissars?”

“Oh, come on Dani…” Tom objected. But Joe cut him off with one upraised hand.

“Nothing.”

Their jaws all collectively dropped.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why do it?”

“It’s necessary, Daniel.” Joe put his hands up to quell the voices and began to explain. “Now, listen, my father was the inventor of this Academy. It was never his plan to have the National Service Agency begin to act as an internal superstructure within the Executive. But that’s what it’s going to be….

You see,” he was clearly talking to everyone, and he occasionally glanced at the table, but he was directing most of his words to Daniel, “the government is incompetent. The executive branch is 10 times too big…yes, I know, yes, and I’ve expanded it…but this is a temporary move. In time, you guys, the grads of the Academy, are going to weed out all the career redundancies. We’ve created too many Federal Agencies and they all operate as standalone entities?! Why? Why does the FBI AND the US Marshals AND the ATF AND Border Patrol AND the NSA AND the CIA AND Secret Service AND…well, you get the point, why do they all need their own accountants and lawyers and blah, blah, blah? They don’t!

No, these little silos of incompetence have become playgrounds of indolence and waste. When I consolidated those agencies I mentioned we eliminated an enormous amount of redundant workers. But the people who are left are still, in general, bad at their jobs. They’re either politicians trying to be administrators or administrators trying to be politicians.

But here’s the thing – to have able administrators who can administer a variety of different kinds of government work you need to professionally train people to do this. Now, my Dad wanted this school to be a training ground for ambassadors and Congressional Chiefs of Staff and Executive officers and future Cabinet members.

But that’s not enough. We need to overhaul the system and create a corps whose sole mission is the effective administration of government.”

“Who happen to be answerable only to the President. That’s a recipe for corruption if I ever heard one!” Daniel said.

“Of course, it is, Dan, but so is everything!” Joe said, with real passion. “I mean, what are you reading in your classes? Show me a system that can’t be abused – that hasn’t – systems are only as good as the men in them…and women.”

“Sure,” Dan granted, to everyone’s relief, but then kept on, “but some systems are designed to defray the costs of human frailty and this one exacerbates it.”

“No, it makes it a risk that’s no greater than that which already exists. Everyone in the Executive is already answerable to the President.”

“But not the President, alone!” Daniel was getting much more passionate than anyone but he and Joe were comfortable with.

“Of course, they are, Dan!” Joe nearly shouted. “Why, son, if I want someone corrupt to stay, they’ll stay and if I want an honest man out – they’re out. The President has extremely broad powers over the executive.” He took a breath, “No, Daniel, don’t think I’m just blind. I see your point and I understand your argument. You’re saying that I’m increasing the risk – I’m making corruption more accessible. But here’s the thing, Dan – it’s not more accessible, it’s only more apparently accessible. What upsets you is not that I’m proposing that your college be a potential breeding ground for inter-agency spies and wetworkers. What bothers you is that there’s now no denying that such things exist.

These are the things I’ve spent my political life fighting. Sometimes to deal with problems you have to take risks – at a certain point you either trust your politicians or you don’t. Fortunately – or unfortunately – in this country there’re 2 remedies for a corrupt President that the law provides. 1 is impeachment and conviction; the other comes every four years.”

“So what, we just have to accept that the whole system is potentially rife with mismanagement, malfeasance, and corruption? And the only way to fight that is to create a superagency that could potentially be even worse?”

“Yes…to slay the Dragon you have to give a powerful man armor and a sword.”

“He who fights monsters…” Daniel said, almost under his breath – but not entirely. And now, everyone was officially cringing.

Joe laughed, and smiled. “You bet your ass, kiddo. Nietzsche was right – we’d better beware. But he didn’t say ‘don’t fight monsters,’ either, did he?” Daniel began to think on this.

“No, Dan, the truth is that to end corruption you need a powerful apparatus to do it – one more powerful than the one which already exists. But this, of course, will risk even worse abuses. So, what do you do? Continue to simply accept that the government will be a bloated, indolent, mass of debt-creating, regulation-producing, citizen oppressing, scoundrels because the risks of ending the abuse are too high?”

“I dunno…” Daniel said.

“I don’ either,” Joe said, “But I do know our steaks are here.

Chapter 32

“Pokey, what’re you doin’ here? I thought you’d be back in DC?” Jack asked, with genuine surprise. So, the spooks don’t know everything, Polka thought.

“Big news! I was almost on my flight and they sent me back: the Feds took down almost all the Chin Woo leaders, but one of them got away – Xiao Cheng Hue. They sent me back to sign some more WITSEC on anybody who’ll rat out Xiao.”

“OK, that’s not good; word was Xiao was the real power player in the group and he had connections to bigger and better stuff than high-explosives.” Jack was seriously concerned. His normally unflappable demeanor was giving way to worry. He needed to think. He needed time. “The FBI were supposed to take them all down simultaneously so that there would be no escapees to take precipitate action.”

“Right, I was sent here with instructions that anyone who can lead us to his arrest and securance of his munitions will get full pardons and WITSEC placement – even if they only contribute in part – it will be totally up to you guys how you want to trade and deal; but you can give them a deal we can honor.”

“To Hell, with that.” Jack said as he stormed away. He fairly threw the door off its hinges as he barged into the room where Lin Yao was asleep on a mattress with a clean white sheet and a faux wool army issue blanket. Jack put his index finger up Lin’s nostril and pinched it with all his strength between his finger and thumb, and lifted like he was trying to hoist him off the ground by his nose. Lin immediately began shouting and Jack waited until he let out a loud cry for succor and immediately pounded his solar plexus (the scientific term is “sucker punch”) and the wind went out of Lin Yao faster than a clichéd analogy.

Jack got his finger out of Lin’s nostril and then went to grab him by the neck like a puppy or kitten. Said puppy-kitten tried curling under the blankets and kicking out at him, all the while struggling to get adequate air into his lungs.

This was an unwise move.

The kicking and fighting just pissed Jack off.

Jack was angry, genuinely angry when he came in, now he was furious. How stupid do you have to be to fight back? Why would you anger your torturer?  Lin Yao was not a trained fighter – he was a coward. Why was he resisting now? Jack later wondered if his total change in aspect triggered a fight-or-flight response in Lin. Up until now, Jack had been cool as a cucumber – now he was a hot tamale. If he’d come in from the beginning raging and striking and spitting, he would have broken Lin’s resistance to immediate physical violence. But he’d only broken him on the chair, which meant that this was a new form of conflict for Lin Yao – and he took him out of his sleep with significant pain. Later he would muse that he really should have expected new resistance. But this was part of the response he wanted. He wanted the game to have completely changed. Lin Yao had gotten a WITSEC placement out of this whole fiasco. He was going to serve zero time and so far, he looked like he was a pretty clever guy. Foxy. He was sleeping soundly in his cell thinking that he was in the cat-bird seat. Jack afterwards realized he was right to change tactics, but he should have expected more resistance from Lin. The fact he didn’t was something he would have to correct. He would go over it with his underlings later – make a case study of it: watch the video; talk about responses; see how others can do better in the future. Anyways, back to the action.

Jack decided that it was time for some demoralizing personal violence. So, Jack would use the blankets against Lin. He pulled the poly-fleece off and threw it at Lin and as the Boxer-Nouveau tried to catch it (people just can’t help catching things thrown at them, just so you know, if you’re ever in such a circumstance) and as his hands were under the wool, Jack was already climbing on top, MMA style and began punching Lin in the chest and arms – aiming for pressure points, the biceps, the brachial plexus (the spot between  your pecs and your biceps), the solar plexus. Jack fought like a wild man for 12 to 20 seconds and in that brief period Lin took such a beating that it was astonishing that he was still struggling. But struggle he did. Jack hadn’t struck his face for a few reasons. 1) should he have to stand trial, there wouldn’t be noticeable bruises. 2) Jack didn’t want to break his hand on a forehead of get a tooth stuck in a finger. Too many things can go wrong when you aim for the face – and in a dimly lit room punching down, it was always a bad idea.

The fight was going out of Lin, but it wasn’t all gone. So Jack decided to continue his reign of terror by dragging him off the bed by his feet and once he got him to the corner of the room, he stomped on Lin’s thighs, one at a time, then sat on them and wrapped a chain with a grapple-hook around his ankles then, holding the Chinese-American’s feet down with first his hands, then his switching to his left foot, he began hoisting him up with the chain-winch, till Lin was high enough up that he couldn’t touch the ground with his hands and then walked out.

“Well, that was interesting,” Polka commented as Jack came in and sat down heavily in the monitoring chair.

“He thinks he outsmarted us. He still thought he could control the situation. It’s kinda good that he fought back – it pissed me off at first – but when he fought back it allowed me to dominate him physically and psychologically. I’m going to go in and burn his WITSEC papers and piss on the ashes – maybe on him, too. I’m not sure if he’s demoralized enough yet.”

“Well, that would certainly go a long way in that direction.” Polka said, like the true straight-man he always saw himself as. “So dj’ou wanna tell me what that was all about?”

“He was the one who gave us the location on Xiao. That was the only location he gave. His other intel was good. He gave us names, but no names that weren’t corroborated by anyone else. He said Xiao was the head of his cell, so that’s how he knew where he would be.”

“How do you know he gave bad intel on purpose?”

“I don’t, not entirely, but I’m pretty sure. Som’ns not addin’ up with this guy.”

“So what? You gonna beat it out of him?”

Jack let out a long nasal sigh. “Yeah.” And he heavily got to his feet, stretched, cracked as many joints as he could and walked into the cell. He was whistling…Polka caught the tune: “Whistle While You Work.”

Chapter 33

Men’s restroom hand dryers are, frankly, completely useless. Here were men in tuxedoes at a presidential gala, wiping their soggy hands on their racing-striped pants. Dinner suits need paper-towels at a minimum…for decorum. Daniel found this a curious thing. He focused on the blow-dryer and the idiosyncrasy of the men in fancy clothes wiping their wet hands and walking out.

Although, if you wear any suit often enough, it just becomes a piece of clothing. A lot of these people here probably have 30 or 40 functions like this a year, so they probably don’t care too much about getting their tux a little wet.

Tom came up and slapped him on the hip to get him to move over so they could share the dryer.

“What the world did I just slap?”

“My phone, I think.” Dan said as he shuffled over.

“In your pocket?” Tom said, not aghast, but moving in that direction.

“Yeah?”

“So, you cut your pocket open?”

“Yeah, I cut every pocket open on every suit I ever wear.”

“Why?”

“Why have a pocket you can’t put anything in?”

“Why buy a tux and look like a slob?”

“Darn, Tommy,” Dan intoned with mock sadness, “I guess I’ll never be like you Incroyables.”

Tomas laughed. “Yeah, I always figured you for a Merveilleuse!”

“You know, it’s jokes like that that explain why you guys are both here at the party in the friend-zone with your gal-pals.” A voice called from the toilet stall. “Seriously, what is that? Obscure 18th century French fashion humor.”

“Yes,” Daniel turned towards the stall speaking in a voice one would use if he were speaking to a talking dog trying to comprehend the functions of a microwave, “Todd, yes that was obscure 18th century French fashion humor.”

“Yeah, I know what it was.” Todd sounded a little like a Valley-Girl, but he wasn’t from SoCal. He came from that little pocket of Central Pennsylvania that inexplicably sounds like the “Valley”.

“Good for you, Todd.” Dan smiled as Todd came out of the stall.

“Listen, while you two are punking out, coming up with Victor Hugo puns, I’m going to be bumpin’ uglies with my date.” Todd seemed thoroughly convinced that he was eviscerating his adversaries with his burns. Todd probably had undiagnosed Asperger’s. At least that’s what Michelle said. He certainly had well-diagnosed toolery.

“You can’t call it a date if you paid for it,” Thomas said as he gave up on the cool-air-blowing dryer and flicked his hands to get the last few drops off his hands.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Coplin. For your information I’ve known her all my life – she’s an heiress.” Todd clearly thought that this piece of information would put these plebs in their places.

“Dude, you brought your cousin’; that’s so weak.” Thomas said, in a droning trail-off.

“She’s not my cousin!”

“So, your sister was able to make it, huh?”

“Whatever,” Todd said, and he began walking to the door.

“Dude,” Daniel exclaimed. “Wash your hands.”

“Why?” Todd asked in a voice so snotty it immediately conjured images of small girls.

“Because nobody wants you slathering your poop-germs all over the hall.” Daniel said in mild disgust.

“Yeah, man, didn’t your nanny teach you better?”

Todd just stared at them – his mind was eagerly working on the most devastating response. He was about to go into one of his all-too-common King Lear-ian threatenings, when Tom said, “Dude, just wash your hands, you were in the stall.”

“Look, not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t using the toilet, so you don’t need to worry.” Todd said. This was weird. He almost never said anything that wasn’t laced with ironically bad irony, or arrogance, or petty nastiness. Todd seemed to want a follow up question.

“Dude, are you spying on people? that’s not really cool!” Daniel was clearly perturbed by whatever Todd was doing in the stall.

“Spying on who?!” Todd laughed “You two homos? No.”

“A: it’s “whom”. And B: we’re not gay – sorry to disappoint you.” Tom continued, “So, if you weren’t poopin’ and you weren’t eavesdroppin’ – what were you doing in there?”

“You guys really wanna know?” He was clearly enjoying having Dan and Tom pay attention to him. They had built up a reputation as solid students who had real careers in politics. In fact, the four of them had somehow become the golden-children of the whole Academy. In many (read: all) that had lead to jealousy and bitterness. In some that jealousy had led people to admire their work ethic, their thinking, their maturity, and their sincere devotion to the principles of Federalism. Todd was not one of these. No, he was the kind of guy who with native cunning, quite appropriate to his vulpine countenance, he tried to both cut them down and also fawn on them – as though he were hoping that he could either take them down a peg or endear himself to them as a kid-brother. Todd knew that they would make their ways towards the levers of real power, and he came from old money. His father had taught him many, many, many times that it’s all about who you know and who you can do favors for. And he now saw a golden opportunity to do a favor and ingratiate himself to the two high-fliers.

“Look at this,” Todd opened pulled out a small plastic baggie with a decent amount of cocaine. “You guys want a bump?”

Chapter 34

In a corner of the hall, Paul and Joe leaned against the wall sipping whiskey sours as the music had come up and the dancing had begun.

“Were the eunuchs in place?”

“Yes, sir, they have been moving around. But they’ve made pretty good contact – I just got an update a moment ago – the southwest bathroom just landed us a big fish.”

“How big?”

“The Messerschmidt kid.”

Chapter 35

“Lin Yao-ooooooooo” Jack said in a singing-voice as he threw a bucket of ice water on his body which sent the china-man shivering and convulsing.

“Why?” Lin pleaded, “Why you do this? I have deal.”

“No, Lin, you HAD “deal”. I never signed “deal”. The AGA never signed “deal”. You signed “deal”.”

“But you must honor it – it was a promise.”

“Lin, Lin, Lin, promises only matter if you’re acting in good faith.”

“But I did!” He caterwauled and began to sob. Big, shaking, self-pitying sobs. “I did everything you ask.”

“No, Lin.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I did.”

“No.”

“Ye…” Slap.

“Don’t lie to me Lin!” Jack shouted. “You need to learn a lesson, Lin Yao – when you lie to me you feel pain. Now this game isn’t really a game because I always win and you always lose – but I have fun, so to me it’s a game.” Jack walked slowly out of the room to bring something in on a small cart. It was at that point that Lin Yao realized how salty the water was.

Jack began to wrap a metal chain around Lin’s waist and let it dangle on the floor. It was very heavy and with Lin’s leg’s being suspended by a very uncomfortable chain, the added weight was making his position nearly unbearable. Then he felt the harsh pinch of something sharp.

“You see, Lin, in this game, you can end the pain, as soon as you’re willing to be honest with me. Every time you give me a truthful answer, I will reduce your pain. Every time you lie – I will increase it, and just in case you’re keeping score in your head – I don’t care if you die in this cell tonight. I don’t care about your pain. You’re the only one who cares about how much pain you’re in. No one is coming to the rescue. You and you alone determine how much pain you experience – do you understand Lin?”

Lin was silent, looking bitterly at Jack.

“Noncompliance will be treated as a lie,” Jack said calmly as he hit Lin with the car charger. Surprisingly Lin didn’t scream. “Let’s try this again, Lin. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

For the next 10 minutes Jack asked questions to which he knew the answers – most of which Lin couldn’t reasonably have known whether Jack would know them. Every time he told the truth he was lowered a few inches until he was completely laying flat. He was slowly allowed to get more comfortable with every true response. He was handcuffed and had shackles on his ankles, and he wasn’t hooked up to the battery anymore. Lin was getting confident that the more questions that kept coming eventually they’d get to questions where the man didn’t know the answer and it would be safe to life. He decided he’d tried to float a lie when the questions seemed impossible for the man to know the answer and see what happened.

“You lied to me Lin. When you got your WITSEC deal, you lied. That invalidates your deal.” Jack then did burn the paper and piss on the ashes.

“I want the truth, Lin. I want all of it – I want everything. Why wasn’t Xiao where you said?”

“Look, Sheng Chow was with me when I was brought in – he must have warned Xiao.”

Without pausing Jack quickly walked to the battery charger and hooked the cables to the chain between the shackles and gave Lin a very long shock. Sheng Chow had been arrested 40 miles away slightly before Lin was. Fun Fact: he was in the next cell eating pistachio ice cream for his honesty and the fact he had turned in literally every single person above him with accurate locations. He understood the torture game very well – and he wasn’t winning – but he wasn’t losing either.

Lin broke. He realized it was pointless trying to lie and so he came clean. He gave up Xiao. And he gave up the even bigger plot that Xiao was involved in. It rhymes with schmiological-schmorefare. It also, according to Lin, would take another 36 hours to culture enough bacteria to infect a large number of people.

“OK, Lin. We’re gonna try to catch Xiao. Any chance he might be somewhere else – ‘cause you really don’t want me to come back in this room after you’ve sent us on another wild goose chase.”

Lin thought, “No, he’ll be there.”

“OK.” Jack said, “and the lab equipment?”

“They’ll all be at that Oakland warehouse.”

“OK.”

“Look can I take a shower? And get some dry clothes?”

Jack smiled and as he walked out said, “I’ll talk to your father about it.”

Chapter 36

“Oh my,” Tom said, shaking his head, “no. No. No. No, Todd we don’t want any cocaine – are you insane?”

“What’s the big deal? It’s just a little yayo.”

Dan was clearly uncomfortable. “One, don’t call it that you’re not a cartel soldier. Two, put it the Hell away, do you know how many Secret Service agents are here?”

“Where do you think I got it, genius? Nobody parties like bodyguards.”

“I’m leaving,” Tom said and walked out.

Daniel stayed. “Todd – this is a bad idea. You should not be doing drugs at a party where the president who instituted the death penalty for drug dealers is sitting in the middle of the room – that’s a bad plan!”

“Whatevs, look if you two have girl-club in the morning and don’t have time to party that’s fine, but me and a bunch of the other guys got invited to a party here in one of the rooms by the guys selling the goods.”

“Listen, Todd, I know you hate me – but please, for the love of God, don’t go to that party. There will be nothing good at that party – it is a very bad idea.”

“Don’t be lame, Davidson, I’ve been to a thousand parties like this. Nobody cares. When you’re rich you can just do stuff. It’s cool. The worst thing I’m gonna have is a hangover – and maybe crabs.” He laughed and walked out.

Daniel stood in the restroom silently pondering how someone with a documented IQ of 130 – he’d shown many people the documents – would be so incredibly foolish.

Chapter 37

This was not the highest high of Ralph McEwan’s career. Posing as a Secret Service agent in a massive suite full of drugs and prostitutes was not why he got into law enforcement. Though, come to think of it, why did he?

But it was very clear why he was in this room. His own stupidity. He was out of control – he knew that NOW. But NOW didn’t really help THEN. And what happened THEN is why he was where he was NOW. And where he was NOW was not a good place. Not a good place at all.

But, Ralph was a pragmatist. And he’d already made up his mind that since he had to play along, he might as well do it with gusto. Sure, he was being blackmailed. But, hey, no helping that now. Agent McEwan had this conversation with himself several times a day, lately. If Ralph had been religious, he might have found some kind of higher purpose in his suffering. Christ could have sanctified it – or perhaps it might have given him greater insight, like Job.

Or, perhaps if he’d been a more philosophical man he could have turned to the stoics. But he wasn’t Zeno – heck, he wasn’t even Charlie Croker! But he was finding that when he resigned himself to his situation it made it tolerable.

“Besides, how am I hurt? I’ll never face jailtime as long as I do as I’m told. I’m getting paid. And I’m catching corrupt politicians.”

The thought had occurred to him that what they were now doing was entrapment by any reasonable interpretation of the law. But that didn’t really bother him. Not because he had an alternate system of jurisprudential interpretation. He just didn’t care. Why shouldn’t other people be blackmailed? If he had his proverbial parts on the proverbial flat cookery surface, why shouldn’t they?

So, it was with the most perverse philosophical resignation imaginable that Ralph began setting up cameras and putting out dishes of cocaine and pills and heroin.

“Rochelle, I need you to get out of the bathroom and get into your outfit.” He told one of the girls who he was pretty sure was getting high, again. “Ok, ladies, remember, you keep 100 percent of tonight’s take. No fighting over John’s. No violence is allowed, somebody starts getting rough you just shout for Ted.”

“Thanks, Teddy Bear,” Cinnamon said. Yes, she actually called herself Cinnamon. Ralph wondered if her parents named her that because they knew she’d become a whore. He guessed it didn’t matter. She looked like some kid from Kansas who moved east in hopes of scoring better dope. He’d seen a lot of girls like her in his years in the Boston and Baltimore PDs. She’d certainly been molested, and probably prostituted from a very early age by her addict-mom. She had runaway written all over her.

“Now, girls, a lotta these guys are high rollers so, don’t expect repeat business. This is a one-night-only show. So have some fun, but don’t get reckless. You got about another hour before they start to make their way up. Anybody high or drunk before that is goin’ home with nothin’ – got it?”

They all got it. Ralph decided that contrary to popular opinion – pimpin’ is easy.

Chapter 38

Michelle and Hanna were enjoying the Gala – as much as any two girls on pretend dates, sitting next to the head of state and one of their fathers can have fun at a gala. But they were having fun. They had been chatting about the President’s speech and Dan’s argument with the President when they were interrupted by an above-the-elbow-grab, almost simultaneously, from Dan and Tom.

“I think we oughta go.” Tom said, in a very un-Tom-like way.

“What?! Why? This party’s just gettin’ started!” Hanna said and gave a split-second dance for good measure.

“No, seriously, we should leave.” Dan added. Dan being serious was no big deal, Michelle thought, he tended to be a bit intense. But Tom taking things seriously was off-putting and Dan and Tom both being put-out seemed like a bad omen.

“Okay, guys, lemme grab my purse’n we’ll get outa here.” Michelle said, adding, “C’mon Hanna.” In a more motherly tone that was perhaps appropriate. Michelle didn’t mean it to come out motherly, it just did. The guys were acting weird.

“Just a sec,” Hanna said, and literally buttonholed Tom. “Dude, what the Hell is going on – you guys are acting like crazies.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said, slowly shaking his head. He was genuinely confused. “Something weird. I…I jus’…I…” and with a nasal sigh he trailed off.

“There’s gonna be a major blow-out party upstairs with drugs and hookers and I don’t know that we should be in the hotel or anywhere near it.” Dan said.

“Wait, WHAT!” Michelle nearly shouted. She realized how odd her outburst must’ve looked, but she composed herself – pronating her palms at breast level and breathing. Tom wondered why people do that. Why do people make that motion – that’s how you signal to others that THEY need to calm down. He probably would have continued on that rabbit trail, but he was interrupted by Hanna asking him, “Tom, is that what really happened?”

“What! You don’t believe me?” Dan looked offended. “We both came out and said we need to go – obviously I’m telling you what happened – why would Tom disagree about the events?”

“OK, Dan,” Michelle jumped in, “I don’t think she was actually doubting your story – I think she meant that she wanted more details from Tom and to hear his thoughts…not to doubt you.”

“Well, she picked a stupid way to say it,” Tom sulked. This wasn’t like him.

“Ok, guys, can we not start-in on eachother. Hanna say you’re sorry.”

“Why?!” Hanna said, defiantly. Michelle gave the angry, pleading, head cocked to the left look that says, “seriously, you’re doing this to me?!”

“OK, Danny, Shelly’s right, I’m sorry for how I said that.”

Dan let out a long breath, “I’m sorry Hanna – I’m just freaking out.” He took another breath. “Tom can you explain it from your perspective?”

Tom did and after the girls knew that there was going to be the kind of orgy upstairs that Caligula would not think dull, they decided to make tracks.

“Ok, yeah, you guys are right, we shouldn’t be anywhere near this place.” Hanna agreed, with alacrity; adding, “I just gotta say ‘bye’ to my Dad.”

“Sure,” Tom nodded “Maybe Dan should say ‘bye’ to his dad, too.”

“Yeah, good idea…” and Dan walked over to where he saw his dad.

They quickly met back up and they all prepared to leave. They were walking past the bar nearest the door when someone grabbed Dan by the arm.

“Leaving so soon?” The President asked. His tone was warm and slightly scoldy, but in a playful way.

Tom was the first to compose himself. “Yes, sir, we’re beat and we all got things to do, and nunuvus are exactly party animals!” He tried to laugh it off. Being here was extremely uncomfortable. They did not want to be in the hotel when that party happened and people found out – because people would find out. It was Washington! They didn’t want to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions…like in a deposition.

“Oh, to Hell with that!” Joe said, looking as jolly as Old King Cole – though not morbidly obese. He slapped Tom on the back and told them, “look, you guys are older, forget the dancing – let’s really talk politics.”

Hanna actually was looking forwards to the dancing, she thought.

They walked back to their table and took their old seats and the President began pushing again on his plan – but now it wasn’t he and Dan having a tete-a-tete, Joe was asking everybody. Eventually Michelle was pushed into a corner and she couldn’t be politic anymore.

“I think it’s a bad idea. Look, you and your dad have wanted to reform our bureaucracy – I love that idea. All the greats have done it. Frederick, Catherine, Peter. But to make it actually work you need a Colbert – and I don’t see a Colbert. Frederick’s reforms failed because he couldn’t pry political power away from the Junkers. The Russians never cared about anything but Westernizing and increasing the power of the autocracy. France made bureaucracy work because they had a genius and a good inter-play between the Estates-General. But that didn’t last. A bureaucracy can only be successful if it has a clear vision and if the political classes will give up power to the bureaucracy and not try to wield the bureaucracy for their own power – otherwise you do what Russia did and just make a giant secret police state.” She was nearly out of breath when she finished. She was in rare form tonight. Maybe it was the 2 gin and tonics or maybe the whole thing got her dander up, but Dan looked at her in admiration. She truly was brilliant. How she ended up in social work he’d never understand!

“That’s all very well, and true, Ms. Gerhardt, but you’re presuming an awful lot there, aren’t you?” Joe asked, leaning in and having a real conversation. Man, he was impressive – he just sucked you in. His charisma was magnetic, and it was real. He didn’t pander, he was genuinely interested in other people. Joe didn’t want to just talk…though he did most of the talking. He wanted to have a conversation. He just had a lot more to say in the conversation. Afterall he was the President.  

“I don’t think I’m presuming anything.” She shot back. “What am I presuming?”

“Well, a few things. First, that there’s not a Colbert level genius in this whole operation. From all I can tell you are a perfect example of why…Tom what did you call your alma mater… my ‘project’?...you’re a perfect example of why my project is gonna work! You’re a genius! And you’re applying the lessons a’ history d’today!” He was slipping back into his unpolished accent.

“OK, well that’s an awful convenient argument, donchya think. If you produced your Colbert I might accept your point.” Michelle joked. She clearly was not being overawed by Joe’s position.

“Fair enough, I can’t argue tha’cher ignorant and not produce evidence – I retract the point.” Dan marveled at this woman. “Point 2.”

“Shouldn’t it be point 1?” Michelle asked slowly. Tom winced. She was going too far. “Since, point 1 didn’t count?”

“No.” Joe said. “I know something you don’t’ know doesn’t hold up in a debate – thass true. But it doesn’t mean I don’t know something you don’t know!” He laughed. So did Michelle.

“Fair enough.” She said. “What’s point 2?”

“Secondly, and most crucially, you’re presuming that the holders of political power are likely to use the bureaucracy to increase their own power rather than the other way around.” Joe ended. Full stop. He was just waiting for someone to bite. Tom couldn’t help it. He hated silence.

“Well, can the powerful be made to not abuse their power?”

“Tom, you guys, you know my wife and I are both big fans of history,” nods, even though they didn’t actually know that. “I have a theory of history. You see, one of the ways – if not the biggest way – history can be understood is as cycles of the centralization and decentralization of power.” They were all tracking with him; at least no one openly objected. “Look at every society – Egypt, Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome, Feudal Europe, the Great Powers...all of them went through cycles of centralization and decentralization of power. Sometimes it happens peacefully; sometimes violently, but it does happen.” None of them were really sure where he was going. But it seemed interesting. “Look at Nebuchadnezzar, ok. Mighty autocrat, but he centralized power in his person – he was an absolutist autocrat before Louis ever thought il était l'état! But after him the Medo-Persians have a system where the nobles and the aristocracy hold tremendous influence. The Greeks, Hell look at the Peloponnesian war! Athens is a democracy, now it’s an oligarchy, then it’s a democracy; it’s a city state and an empire! And on and on history goes. The French Revolution and the Russian Revolution are prime examples. The French Revolution happened because the aristocracy wanted to usurp the monarchy and wouldn’t allow for reforms – they wouldn’t give up power, they tried to each centralize their own power and turn France, essentially, into a pre-Joan of Arc state and into a collection of provinces. But this comes on the heels of a major decentralization effort from the peasantry and merchant classes. And, of course, the King is trying to centralize and so you have the majority of the population trying to decentralize and those holding power are doing, really, a little of both, and you’ve got a tragic chump of a king, with a broken penis and a wife who has the unique gift to make everyone hate her. It’s a recipe for disaster!

Well, then what happens? Mass decentralization, followed by centralization with the Committee for Public Safety – they cut off a buncha heads, do their thing, Marat dies in a bath and Maxy Robespierre makes out with the sharpest lady in gay-Paris. Nightmare follows nightmare until Napoleon comes along and the people are basically begging for an emperor, now. Republics are for people disinterested in glory. Republicans, in the classic sense, are inherently anti-glory. It’s hard to achieve glory when people have to vote on every single thing. It’s too slow. Power, it’s all about which direction power is flowing! Is it centralizing or decentralizing. I mean look at Russia. The exact opposite happened with the same results. Lesser nobles and business leaders are trying to not seize power, but serve the state – but the Romanovs – who have to be about the dumbest rulers ever – are stuck, like Kaiser Wilhelm, in a position they can’t extract themselves from. The nobles need the autocracy to legitimate their authority and the Czar needs the aristocracy to give him power! He can’t rob them of power because the autocracy is a house of cards; he can’t give them more power because then he becomes a figurehead and the whole system collapses. Everything in Russia is up for grabs – Religion, Morality, the culture – they’re so backwards they’re still getting harvest to planting ratios of 2 to 1! The peasant is miserable, corrupt, superstitious, bitter, and growing violent – as well as moving to factory cities to be treated just as contemptibly. But does Nicky do anything to alleviate any of the misery? No. He continues to act like an oriental monarch – ‘cause he is one – but forgets that since the days of Peter, the Russians have been becoming Occidental and not Oriental. He’ll live to regret that mistake. Sure, the other Russias are loyal, or at least Byelorus is – you can always trust a White Russian! – more than a gin and tonic anyways – but look. Here’s the deal. The tsar is underminding people who want to improve the government at every step because every bit of enfranchisement weakens his own position. If Russia had an efficient…anything…then crisis might have been averted, but the Romanovs had shut down every bit of useful reform – so in the end liberating the serfs was the biggest mistake of all.”

Everyone stared at him. They couldn’t believe that the President of the United States just said that ending a form of slavery was bad.

“You never take your boot off someone’s neck until you know they’re gonna keep callin’ you master. It’s safer to never do it at all – but you know, it’s hard to get anything done when you got a boot on someone’s neck. But that’s the classic problem of ridin’ the tiger, kiddos, it’s a helluva ride, ‘til you get off.” He laughed to himself.

“Sir, that’s fascinating, but I don’t see what it has to do with what you said to Michelle,” Hanna said, a bit confrontationally, as if he tried to dazzle ‘em with bullshit.

“Oh, sure, right; I’m getting’ to that. Look, I say all that to say that you have to know howda strike when the iron’s hot! You gotta know whether the trend is centralization or decentralization. Those forces are too big to control, or at least to control for much longer than a few generations. And the more you force down the spring the bigger the burst when you let it go.” He took a long draught of whiskey. “Anyways, where was I?...ah yes, ok, so, you’ve godda know how to follow the trends. THEN, once you know, you have to act and act fast.”

“SO, we’re in a what, a centralization period or decentralization?” Dan asked.

“Centralization.”

“So, this Academy is how you’re gonna make reforms? Seems like even a government within’ a government won’t be enough to pry the fingers of the elites off the bureaucracy and the levers of power.” Michelle said, seriously considering what he was saying.

“Well, you’re right Miss Gerhardt, the Academy and the future of the Executive Service will be heavily reformatory, and, you’re right, taken by itself this isn’t enough to effect real long-term institutional change. You need internal and external powers working on the powerful to end corruption and cease malfeasance. You know America is like Prussia, we’re not a bureaucratic state, by nature – we fell into it, and we never knew what to do with it – so it became what it wanted to be. Real change is going to require a major overhaul and those who wield power corruptly to increase their own power are going to have to be confronted and defeated. They will need to be forced, by power, to surrender their power.”

“Ha!” Hanna laughed, “good luck with that! I’ve been around those families and people my whole life – they’re never gonna give up their power. It can’t be done.”

“Can’t never could do nothin’.” The President said and smiled a smile and drank a drink.

Chapter 39

Upstairs, the first of the cadets began to meander their way in. Ralph smilingly led them in and told them that since they were the future influencers, some of the old-hats wanted to make sure they all knew that they could be friends and work together. “Just ‘cuz ol’ Joey wants to shake things up don’t mean we can’t make sure that one hand keeps washin’ the other, if you catch my drift.” He laughed. Messerschmidt laughed too. He saw a pretty blonde in a pleather police uniform. They chatted for a bit and Todd grabbed some goodies out of the candy-jar and they went into one of the several rooms in the suite.

There weren’t many people involved in this operation. Ralph and maybe 3 or 4 of the other eunuchs. There were cameras in every room and extremely detailed and extremely secret records were being taken tonight. There were big plans for the data gathered tonight – very big plans.

In they came – onesie, twosie, young men and women who were interested in partying. These were the up-and-comers, the next generation of the elite of this nation. As each scion made his or her way into the room, their every action was recorded and detailed and placed in a brand-new dossier that was eyes-only.

It was made painfully clear to Ralph and everyone else that no matter what happened tonight there was to be no intervention.

Ralph was told, directly, verbatim that, “I don’t care if some whore gets her throat slit, you don’t intervene – you keep recording and you keep filing records. All these guys are gonna have their day – don’t worry. But that day is not to-day.”

Ralph wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable letting a whore get her throat slit. But, then again, there were an awful lot of things in his life he wasn’t comfortable with. He wasn’t comfortable being blackmailed. But, Ralph remembered when the moaning began to grow loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, that it was better them than him. He’d had his brush with death and he was happy to avoid another one for as long as humanly possible. He was uncomfortable with entrapment – he was more uncomfortable with prison.

Chapter 40

As the evening wore on the hall slowly went from no-longer-full to half-hour-before-the-wedding-reception-ends. But the President and Paul and the four cadets continued to converse, Matthew Pocratsky and Jack Davidson had joined their children and were in that quiet state of enjoyment that people at their life peaks get into at the end of a fancy dress party that they don’t have to clean up. They talked about a wide range of subjects, but mostly, quite disappointingly to Hanna, about public policy. She loved politics, but she was ready for literally anything else. And she finally simply said so.

“Mr. President, everybody, look – I hate to be that girl, but I’m at a dance and we haven’t done anything except talk about policy. Now, either we change the subject or I’m going to insist my date either dance with me or I’m just going to lay my head down at the table and go to sleep.” Which she did. Right there, in front of the president she just laid her head down. Michelle wondered if she played l’enfant terrible, or if that’s just how she was. But, it seemed to work, because Joe laughed and said, “how’s about I tell you guys a story about the Boxer War – a real spy thriller?”

Everyone perked up and Michelle managed to lay her chin on her forearms and look up.

“Ok, so how much do you know about the Boxer War?” Joe asked trying to get a baseline of their knowledge, so he knew where to start the story.

“I know it was between us and China over…trade…” Michelle offered.

“Yeah, China was angry about sanctions and kicked out US diplomats or something…” Tom added on.

“Well, you’re both right, in a way. Well, what time is it, it’s…”Joe looked at Paul; “It’s 11:15 Mr. President,” Paul replied in his chipper staccato factotum’s voice.

“OK, so let me fill you guys in. And you’ll forgive an old man like me for glorying in my war stories, since this was basically the event that solidified my career. And if I start boring you, just say, ‘Joe, you’re being boring, let’s get to the meat of the story, OK?’”

They all laughed and nodded and gave the appropriate smiles that said, ‘please continue’ and we’re genuinely interested and not the smiles that say, ‘we’re indulging you because you’re our boss; so return the favor and get on the hop, old man.’

Joe leaned forwards on his elbows and began.

“So, about 20 years about China began to become extremely aggressive in the Pacific and countries had to choose whether they would ally with America and the West or if they’d come under China’s orbit. This wasn’t an easy decision, because, you know, America’s an ocean away and hasn’t always been the best friend of East Asia, after all.” He added some grim laughter, but everyone stared, intent, eager for the story. “Well, maudlin humor aside, all the important international guys were trying desperately to win nations out of Chinese orbit and one very enterprising State Department secretary has an idea. She suggests that all nations that reduce their trade with China will get preferred nation status. Now this was really appealing because American tariffs had both cut off Asian markets and reduced American investment in Asian business. Now. This girl’s plan was to keep the tariffs – BUT, all nations that cut out China get to be preferred and, to sweeten the pot, she had lined up pretty much the whole Fortune 500 ready to put 4 Trillion – with a T – dollars of investment into Asia.

Well, you can guess what happened. American business had been wanting to rebuild factories in Asia for 16 years, but tax restructures made it impractical, so for – gosh, 20 years there really was no American economic influence in Asia – at least nothing new.”

Joe searched the table and saw that he still had their actual attention and not feigned attention. It was a skill he’d mastered, and which served him well.

“Well, some countries go halvsies. They reduce their business with China and accept new American investment. Countries that traditionally were American allies like Korea and Japan and Singapore, they dropped China like a hot potato.

That hurt China, but really, not that badly.

What she did that really put the screws to ‘em is she convinced all of Europe and Africa to not buy from any company that has been accused in a formal complaint about stolen tech or copyright or trademark infringement – which was basically every Chinese business there was. And this would be enforceable by international consumer blocs. She called them Consumer Protection Leagues, and they were basically geographic groups who promised to put sanctions on countries that were doing business with China. So, if Nigeria buys phones that have stolen tech in them, All the countries in western Africa would begin to impose progressively bigger sanctions on Nigeria.

And it worked. Countries were all too happy to engage in a way to stop having their products stolen without being openly aggressive to China. In fact, it was one of the few times Russia and the US and Japan were on the same side of anything. Maybe the only time…except for Portsmouth.

But you guys know all this? I mean, forgive me if I’m boring you, but a lot of people only knew the headlines they didn’t know the gory details.”

“I knew some, but not all this stuff, sir,” Daniel said. Clearly, he was eager to hear more.

“Ok, so, I’ll hurry up, but I think it’s important to tell this story right.” He took a long drink of his Manhattan, now well-watered, “anyways, this had exactly the effect you would think. China is screwed. Over the next decade China grows weaker and weaker as the old Western powers reassert their financial might. She doesn’t know what to do – she gets backlogged with consumer goods she can’t sell – her planned economy begins to stop overnight. And this isn’t good. Repressive states start to fail when they let the boots off the necks.” Another pull from the whiskey, his voice was getting noticeably horse.

“So, China needs to do something. This wasn’t 2005 – they weren’t just sellin’ tchotchkes anymore. Chinese banking was a serious thing. So, what does she do – what she had planned to do for a long time. She starts to call in US Bond debt. But this only works if China has a secure position worldwide because she holds a lot of US Debt – but not a truly crippling amount. And if she calls in all that debt – sure there’s a big influx of cash and the dollar is seriously hurt, but she’s doing it in response to the Yuan being hurt. So, what happens? Nothing. The dollar is still the reserve currency and the debt call was a poorly timed leverage. Calling in debt to hurt the USA doesn’t make sense if you can’t come out stronger.”

It was pretty clear to Paul that these cadets were at exactly the wrong age for this stuff to matter – it was so recent that it hadn’t become part of a school curriculum, and it was too complex for grade-schoolers to understand. So, while to Paul and Joe this was all well-known, to these kids it was a history lesson from their own lifetimes.

“So, anyways, the US is hurt, badly. The dollar drops, the market tanks, but the yuan is only slightly less hurt and the dollar is still safe in its current volumes. So, the secretary of state at the time,” Paul slapped Joe on the back, “he says, nobody’s going to buy debt to pay off debt – but, I’ve got an idea. So this enterprising, and may I say devilishly handsome new Secretary of State goes to some of the biggest bankers in the US and calls them into a room, JP Morgan style, and says, how’d you guys like to be the world’s biggest pawn shops?” Joe and Paul laughed, an inkling of understanding showed up on Tom’s face as he realized what was happening. “So, he sells off the entire Chinese debt to these bankers in gold and silver holdings from Fort Knox and elsewhere with a promise to buy them back within 50 years, at 2 per cent per year at contemporary spot prices, or at 10% above the original sale price, whichever is higher. Anything not bought back within 50 years belongs to the bank, forever.”

“Now China is quite annoyed – it sacrificed its leverage and it hurt the US, but not as much as it could have – and besides, now it has all these dollars, but nothing to do with them. China is forced to restructure and stop stealing secrets and infringing on copyrights and trademarks, but it’s too little too late. She’s cornered herself and now she’s where Russia was at the end of the Cold War, a military giant with no economy to fuel it. So, she goes to war, hoping to create a pan-Asian bloc. Of course, it was all very Hitlerian, false-flag operations, deep-fakes, the whole nine yards. Nobody buys it. We go to war. Very low-key, not big engagements, a lot of submarine stuff, and some aerial combat, but with ground troops there are really only special ops activities.”

“China has a problem – effectively the same problem Turkey had in the First World War – she was a great power, but the weakest of the Great Powers and her whole system was rotten – yeah the Turks were great at murdering Armenians, but could she hold her own against the Brits? Hell, against Arabs and Jews? No. China has the same problem, her whole structure is rotten to the core – whitewashed tombs – the whole lot. But you can’t count ‘em out – lotta smart people in China.”

“So, what do they do – they rally their people, tell ‘em the West is trying to rape China again and they rile everybody up and they get agents provocateurs to go to the US and prepare for major terrorist action. They don’t want a conventional war, because Russia’s been waiting for a land-grab since the Sino-Soviet Border War – well, shit, from before that, from the Russo-Japanese War! Russia masses nearly half a million troops in Vladivostok. China sees the handwriting on the wall, because the Aussies and, Jeesh, half of NATO show up in Luzon, mostly in the port of Manilla – to the tune of about 1 million men – plus India is wants to flex its arms and prove to Pakistan that it’s buddy-buddy with the white nations and it’d better know its place and she masses a million troops on the border. China can’t win.

Then, in the biggest idiot move imaginable China terrorizes. All over the world, all on the same day, at the same Zulu time. All over the world bombs go off, bridges fall, buildings fall, planes fall. China has used her diaspora to strike a nasty blow. Unfortunately, it’s not nearly as effective as hoped, since this wasn’t entirely unexpected.”

Joe took another drink and shook the glass for another of his weak manhattans. Joe was never drunk or even buzzed in public but he liked to always have a drink in his hands because it meant others did too – others who had neither his self-discipline or the wherewithal to get very weak drinks and sip them slowly. He’d learned a lot of secrets sipping watered whiskey.

He saw they were all waiting for him to continue. So, he continued.

“Now, here’s the deal. One of these Chinese agents…this is the really interesting story…one of the Chinese agents was born in the USA – he was in the Chinese version of Hitler’s Volksdeutsche. Well, he’s part of a group that wanted to bring down the Golden Gate Bridge. Some CIA guys stopped ‘em. Caught ‘em in the nick ‘a time. But here’s the deal – the guy who gave all the intel – he was tortured pretty brutally. And a US DOJ rep was there and watched the whole thing. This is after the guy was granted immunity.”

“Wow” Michelle said, that’s all she could get out.

“Wow is right, Miss Gerhardt, because the story doesn’t end there.”

“You see, the Chinese were committed. And they knew that the Feds were watching them. The Golden Gate Bridge Bombing was a red herring. While everybody was out chasing down leads and catching bad guys the real big plot went down. That night over 100 trains, both freight and commuter were derailed, the LA Colosseum was bombed as well as the US Mint, the California Statehouse, and over a dozen hospitals, plus countless mega-appartments. 100,000 people died in California that night. The Port of LA was down for 2 weeks. It took a month to get all the rails and hospitals back up and running.”

“But the Chinese agent, well things started to go very badly for him. He got the beating of a lifetime – but he’d played things out long enough that the attacks went forwards. But he was not a healthy man, and something about significant electrical shocks while being suspended upside-down can place quite a strain on one’s cardiovascular system.”

“Long story short, the Chinese agent died of a massive heart attack while being tortured that night. But here’s where the story becomes a thriller – apparently the CIA recorded all this stuff.” Joe paused for effect, “and the Chinese hacked the server and copied this material and threatened to blackmail the agent involved. The amazing thing is that the busted agent refused to give in – he told his handler and a spy war took off. Just ‘bout every week we’d hear of a US agent being killed or a caught or a Chinese agent being killed or captured. It was global. But, eventually, the US captured enough damning stuff against the Chinese acting badly in…well, not China, that both countries agreed to put aside the spy stuff and nobody would out anybody. Even in the middle of the war, both countries knew that once you expose spies, that’s a nuclear option. China wanted to know if there was mutually assured destruction. There was and so neither country ever made their most terrible stuff public. Believe it or not.”

“Now, here’s where it gets really interesting – the part nobody knew about for years. The Chinese man who was arrested and tortured had a tiny transmitter implanted in his skull near his left ear. And all the audio was sent to a private server. Well, a few years ago that server was discovered by an investigative journalist from the Sacramento Bee who was doing a piece of the former “Boxers”. The server was at some dilapidated laundry – I know, as if the clichés aren’t ready to kill us all already. She listened to everything. But she doesn’t know the names of the agents, and she can’t PROVE that it was actually a US operation. But she’s been putting out feelers and trying desperately for a name.”

“What would happen if she got one,” Tom asked?

“She’d give the CIA the biggest black eye it’s had since the Bay of Pigs.”

They all looked at Joe waiting for him to elaborate.

“You see, the CIA committed torture and murder on US soil against a US citizen, with a representative from the DOJ watching the whole thing. This doesn’t go away. There are dozens of men who would face murder trials for this.”

“Well, what’s gonna happen? Are there gonna be trials?” Dan asked.

“I dunno…it’s just a rumor, or, rather, a rumor of a rumor.” Joe said.

“So, it’s just a story?” Hanna asked, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Miss Pocratsky, that I cannot tell you because I honestly don’t know. Most of what happens in the spy world is all rumors and stories, and most people would prefer it stays that way.”

“I don’t believe that,” Hanna said, “I think people would rather know the ugly truth than believe a beautiful lie.”

“I admire your sentiment, Hanna,” Joe said sincerely, and sadly, “but in my experience, people believe what they want to believe. And things that threaten the…how did you say it…the beautiful lie…those things, I guess the ugly truth – gets ignored, or spun, or killed.”

“That sounds cynical,” Dan said.

“Spoken like a man with a moral compass!” Joe laughed and Dan looked a bit put out. “Oh, I admire moral people, don’t get me wrong. But moral people tend to think all people are equally virtuous…they often live to regret their error.”

“That sounds cynical, too” Tom said.

“Steinbeck said once, “You are in danger of becoming what is called ‘cynical’ by those who fear reality.’” Joe said, looking up at the chandeliers. “Can I tell you guys a story?” He didn’t’ wait, “when I was a kid, I was helping my family put in a pool-house. Now they lived by the river and they wanted to dig a trench down to the river for excess water from the pool area to flow down to. Well, being 5 years old, I wasn’t gonna swing a hammer, so they thought that digging was a good job. So, I grabbed a shovel an’ dug. And I dug up a hive of, what I thought were bees.”

“Probably ground hornets, we got ‘em all over in Dove Bluff,” Michelle put in.

“Exactly so, Miss Gerhardt. Well,” Joe continued, “I covered up the hive and ran and told my dad and grampa and great-uncle and they didn’t believe me and told me to go back and dig. So, I did. Well,” Joe laughed out loud, “I turned over one spade of dirt and I got stung about 3 times and that hive went crazy! There were hornets everywhere.”

“Whoa, I’ll bet they felt bad for telling you to keep digging.” Hanna said, with a laugh.

“You want to know what’s strange about this story? It’s not that grow-ups didn’t believe a kid – though, if you guys ever have kids and they tell you they dug up a bees nest, at least check it out. But the funny thing is – why did I keep digging? I had dug up the ugly truth and everyone insisted on a beautiful lie. I didn’t have to keep digging!”

“You were just a kid,” Tom said, “kids do as they’re told.”

“But it didn’t make the hornets any less real did it?” Joe said with a small smirk.

They all were pondering the story when Paul whispered something in the President’s ear and he said to the table, “thank you all for indulging an old politician. I had a lovely evening and I’m sure that you all and I are going to have some very pleasant conversations…and debates, Dan…in the future. I hope you all have a very pleasant evening.”

And with that he shook each of their hands and said an official goodbye. After saying good bye to the cadets, he walked over and shook hands with Matthew Pocratsky who’d joined Hanna and Jack Davidson who’d joined Daniel. He smiled as he shook their hands and said, “You two both raised wonderful kids! Enjoy this while it lasts!’ He smiled an even bigger smile and said, nodding to each in turn, “Night, Jack. Night Polka.”

Chapter 41

Ray Asher was a new man. Well, at least he was a newer man. Some men are reborn through religious conversion. Some through the baptism of a woman. Some through some fascination or fixation like marathon running or classic car repair. Many high achieving men like Ray experienced this kind of transformation. It would be both crass and crude to call it a mid-life crisis. Mid-life crises, at least in the popular conception, involve getting a convertible and divorcing one’s wife for one’s secretary – possibly crying during or after sex. Long story short, mid-life crises are fueled by self-loathing, low-testosterone, and the realization that most very mediocre men finally come to, if they have just enough philosophy to discover problems but not enough faith or fortitude to find solutions, which is that they are going to die and be forgotten because they have accomplished nothing. They have lived and died and their living and dying were not only inconsequential, but were positively destructive to those around them because they lived solely for personal gain, or to fit in, or to make ends meet or whatever other narcissistic pabulum the weak-willed spoon-feed themselves between bouts of porn and racking up credit card debt to buy a boat.

No. Ray Asher was not having a mid-life crisis. Nor was he having the kind of dramatic revitalization that comes after a near-death experience – or the knowledge of impending death. The word “cancer” has the mysterious power to force some people out of their work-a-day lethargy and impels and sometimes compels them to stop and smell the roses. Men such as these make peace with their mortality and don’t try to solve the problem of being a self-indulgent, meaningless, parasite by engaging in more self-indulgence, meaninglessness, or parasitism. Instead they gain a real appreciation for what a wonderful gift life can, indeed, be. They determine to spend what time they have left as better men who are actually worth a shit and who won’t hate themselves for eternity – if there is an eternity – for having squandered so much.

But Ray wasn’t like one of these men, either. He was fueled not by self-pity, nor by a renewed sense of the beauty of existence. No. Ray was fueled by hatred and ambition. He hated Joseph Elias Junior – it was his raison d’etre. He hated him with a hate that warmed his bones. It wasn’t the bitter, poisonous, self-destructive hate (at least not primarily these things) that is the paradoxical undoing of so many hateful men. His hate was a pure hate. A hate born out of avarice and greed and jealousy. A hate born out of pride, and wounded pride, at that; a hate that would make yon lean Cassius eat his heart out. No, Ray Asher was not about to dig himself a dishonorable grave – even if Joe Elias bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus! Asher is just as good a name as Elias!

Ray had never been an introspective man. He’d never had philosophy. That was part of the reason that despite his outstanding education he never cared for Shakespeare or Milton or Dostoevsky or Tolstoy. Sure, he read them and understood them (after a fashion) – but they didn’t actually help him to be a man. A proverb in the mouth of a fool is like the stone tied to the sling…so the proverb goes.

Ray, if he had been an introspective man, would have realized that his hatred would make him either a Cassius or an Iago…he was not self-destructive enough to be Volumnia, nor did he have enough of a conscience to be MacBeth. He was no Raskolnikov, for he wasn’t so pathetic. Nor was he Dmitri, because he would actually be guilty. Perhaps Satan, but Satan loses, and Ray had no intention of losing.

Besides, Ray would have said that literature always shows the usurper brought down, which is preposterous. In real life, the usurper isn’t brought down. In real life, the jealous and ambitious get what they want and everyone else has to choke on it. Isn’t that what Hostile Takeovers have taught us? Isn’t that what Colonialism taught us? Slavery? The history of Poland? No, in Ray Asher’s survey of history the rich get richer and the strong take from the weak – law ‘a the jungle, baby.  

Ray was a man of instinct, but he wasn’t just animal cunning. He was a man with a superior intellect, and the formal and professional training to make a plan and carry it out. He’d run a Fortune 500 company, for God’s sake. He knew how to create a 12-point plan to oust the president!

But to do so, he needed allies, and not just his father-in-law and his cronies. Having a private news network helps, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be – what with people being able to change the channel, and click somewhere else and all. That’s why Ray had been putting out feelers for a few weeks, trying to find other disillusioned people, other ambitious people.

Turns out, believe it or not, that Washington is FULL, literally to the brim, bursting at the seams, stuffed to the gills with people who believe that the world owes them more power, money, authority, influence, sex, pleasure, you name it, than what they’ve received heretofore. The problem is most of these tools would either just sit around chumdithering and wreck all his plans or they’d kibosh it with their vain jackassery and dicketry. The reason most of the violently ambitious people in the world were failures was because they were, in Ray’s opinion, either jackasses who were never spanked as children, or incompetent’s who were praised to much as children to realize, in fact, how massively incompetent they were. He needed wolves and hyenas not shih-tzus and chihuahuas. He needed men and women who were ambitious because they WERE excellent and passed-over unappreciated.

He wanted the bitter. He wanted the angry. He was going to scour the grody bath-tub drain of DC politics and find every genius level back-bencher, ever frustrated undersecretary, every overworked chief of staff and make them into his Valkyries. The would be the Avenging Angels. They would make Washington work for them. No longer would the natural rulers of the nation have to sit idly by while the handsome college QB turned square jawed lawyer and the CEO’s idiot daughter get to have all the power while the truly clever and insightful – the people who actually did the dirty work – had to get by being passed over and ignored.

Not anymore. No. Not on Ray’s watch. The days of the old fat-cats was over. Today began the days of the new fat-cats! And it would start with getting Elias out of the White House and getting Ray into it. When he was there, he would see to it that his whole cabal (though he knew better than to call it a cabal) would reap the rewards.

Now, all he needed was a coalition…coalition sounds so much less…culty…a coalition of Elias-hating desperadoes.

Ray new just where to start. He picked up the phone and called a number he hadn’t called in a long while.

“Kareem, how are you this evening, sir?...well, that’s nice. Listen, I’m wondering if you still have any interest in election work…wonderful, listen, why don’t you swing by the office and we’ll have ourselves a little talk…great. See you tomorrow at 3?...outstanding…no thank you.”

Ray turned on the TV and saw Elias giving a speech at the new government school. He began to listen to highlights from the Gala speech and realized it wouldn’t be important, as Gala speeches never were. So, he clicked it off and went to bed. Tomorrow was gonna be a big day.

Chapter 42

The man who sat across from Ray in the very comfortable oaken and leathern chair was a towering, muscular, slightly overweight, heavy jawed, intelligent looking and shockingly ugly black man. The look on his face was the unhappiest looking smile most people are like to come across. He smiled like everyone he met was the butt of some inside joke. Kareem Washington was not likable. But Kareem Washington was a genius.

He had built a career building careers. He took up-and-coming politicians and helped them create real grass-roots constituencies. He wasn’t an organizer. He was THE organizer – par excellence. He found ways to excite or incite, as the need arose. He was clever and persuasive, but not charming. Years ago Sandra had told Ray that she thought Kareem just browbeat people into listening, as though he accomplished everything he did through sheer force of personality (and not a little physical intimidation).

She wasn’t wrong.

Kareem had spent his life studying Lenin. He liked Lenin. He liked dictators in general – they were relatable to Kareem. I mean, if you’re right, then why suffer fools. “Democracy’s for fools, so let’s put the useful idiots to work!” was something that Kareem liked to say. Nobody had ever told him how gauche a thing that was to say for a campaign manager. Nobody ever would.

Kareem and Ray became friends because they both liked Cognac and Cubans (the cigars not the people, though Ray was a Republican and therefore liked the Cuban voting base, and Kareem did have a thing for Latinas, but that thing cost him 2 missing bottles of Shackleton Whiskey, 36 stitches, 4 skin grafts, and 1 wrecked Ducati…but that’s another novel). They saw eachother a few times at the same cigar bars and noticed they liked the same smokes and they began talking. They found they liked eachother, in a genuine way. They didn’t ignore eachother’s flaws; they just didn’t care. They had enough shared interest and they both found the other to be an interesting conversation partner.

Nobody could say, exactly why they liked eachother, as both of them had a tendency to be somewhat disagreeable. But they both were vain men and they both were ambitious, and they were trying to accomplish different things. So, they saw a non-threatening version of themselves in the other. And that’s sometimes nice to see.

It was nice to sit across from Kareem. He reminded Ray of how fluid and possible everything in politics was. Politics truly was the art of the possible and Kareem was a Dutch Master, a Pre-Raphaelite, a Da Vinci. Kareem reminded him that just because something seems certain in politics, it never really is!

Well, right now Joe Elias was the surest thing in American politics. He’s taken a few shots, so far, but they were all glancing blows – he hadn’t been punched in the face, and so his plan was still in place. Also, Ray didn’t want to punch him in the face; he wanted to kick him in the balls and then kick him out of his house.

“Alright, alright, alright, Ray Asher, my man, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Kareem asked in his room-rattling basso profundo. His voice was the kind that cigars and liquor had mellowed and perfected, rather than eroding. Also, he was like 6’9’’ 340 pounds, so that helps, too.

“I want your opinion on somethin’ and I want it to stay between us for a while.”

“OK.”

“I want to…how should I put this…I want to create a…”

“Look, Ray, just tell me in plain words what you want an I’ll come up with the right way to say it.”

“I want to get rid of Elias; I want to be president; I want to find everybody Elias has every pissed off or pass-up on his rise to the top and I want to use them to bring him down!” the words exploded out of his mouth – like pop out of a shook-up can.

Kareem smiled his big, ugly, frog-like smile. “Ray, baby, I was wonderin’ when you were gonna call me about this.”

“Oh yeah,” he was slightly out of breath. Why the Hell was he out of breath?

“Yeah. I was wonderin’ why you never called me in the last election.”

“You were workin’ on…uhh…what’s ‘is face…Tomassino from Jersey.”

“And?”

“You were busy.” Ray said, more defensively than he’d intended.

“BULLSHIT!” Kareem thundered! “You didn’t want some nigga thug runnin’ yo campaign!” The words spilled out like strychnine!

“What?!” Ray looked disgusted. As a rich, white southerner (which he still was at heart) he became violent at the very intimation of his being a racist. “Oh whatever that had nothin’ to do with it; you were busy, and you never switch clients in a campaign.”

Kareem laughed an ugly, and yet strangely childish laugh, “I know, but I love messin’ witcha.” Kareem eased back and pulled a Spanish cedar cigar-case out of his coat pocket, and paused to see if smoking was acceptable.

“Pfft, like I don’t smoke in here, gimme one-a those.”

The both lit up and smoked a surprisingly light and yet peppery Cuban. Cubans had been getting better for decades since the Castros had died. There was more entrepreneurial spirit on the island. Ray liked to say you could taste the freedom.

Ray got up and poured each of them a very tall glass of Hennesy VS and they set to talking. They talked for a long time. And in the end they had the makings of a plan. Not a very detailed plan, but not a hare-brained one, either. Kareem, being a genius, was very good at critically analyzing his own ideas and proposals. And they ruthlessly eliminating any weakness. He had “killed his darlings” so many times that he began to enjoy it – the way people love to poke their gums with a toothpick till it bleeds or to foam-roll their quads. There’s something intoxicating about that kind of pain.

It was suppertime when Kareem got up to go and Ray said, “why leave, I’ll have dinner brought in?”

Kareem smiled and nodded and said, “How ‘bout Thai?”

Chapter 43

Alaska sucks. The thing they don’t tell you about Alaska is that it’s cold. Oh wait, they do tell you that. But when you’re there and you’re in the cold, you feel like nobody ever told you it was cold because how can anywhere be this cold?

Jaime De La Cruz, aka Jeremiah Sereno, or is that the other way-round. It was hard to tell anymore. He had come up to Alaska, with Larry and they, Jeremiah was sure it was an act of deliberate cruelty, had been made bunk-mates at their work-station in Alaska.

Unlike the California Reclamation, which was mostly just down-and-outers and actual workers, Alaska was all hard-cores. The only guys up here by choice we native Alaskans who were making bank running trucks and saws and skidders and all kinds of heavy equipment.

You see, there were a lot of mines in Alaska – productive mines. Mines that had gold in them. And silver. And Platinum. And Palladium. And Copper. And a whole bunch of other metals that men pay money for. The problem is that a lot of them are not feasible to mine because they cost too much. It’s inefficient to mine.

But imagine if you could get the metals for the low-low price of slavery? Well, then marginal mines seem quite profitable. And, what if, wonder-of-wonders the Treasury, will just keep ALL that gold, so it doesn’t go on the market and disrupt the cost of metals so that the existing miners don’t get angry.

And imagine further if by the US treasury securing enormous amounts of gold if it solidifies the dollar’s position, because the US has vaults full of hard assets to pay off its bonds and not enter hyperinflation should the need arise. Imagine such a world where the Federal government, instead of spending Trillions on penal institutions is now turning a profit and shoring-up the dollar.

That seems like a win right.

Except slavery.

But what if the slaves are all druggies and nobodies and the chronically jobless? What if the slaves are all meth-heads and opiod users and home-invaders? Well – I mean is it really slavery? These guys are learning the value of a dollar! Hell, they’re getting fed and housed on the tax-payer’s dime…least they can do is do some work and not sit on their asses watching TV all day and lifting weights so they can come up bigger, faster, stronger criminals.

Jeremiah had decided to call this series “Notes from the Underground”. Sure he was no Fyodor, but he was no chump either. Also, Don had been on the horn with the Mullins’ who offered him $10 Million dollars and a book deal to do it.

Slavery has its perks.

The only downside was that he was still bunking with Larry Kreuger. $10 Million wouldn’t do him any good if he were hanged for beating that scrawny scum to death with his lunch pail.

But, to his surprise, he actually was enjoying the work. He had quickly risen to be a foreman and was working with the mine supervisor, a civilian who graduated from the Colorado School of Mines 20 years ago and had been all over, from Nigeria, to South Africa, to China and beyond. He’d mainly mined diamonds, but he understood the principles of ore extraction well enough. He’d been to plenty of ore-mines. Jeremiah like Steve the mine supervisor, and he spent almost all his time with him, when he wasn’t foremaning. Steve noticed right away that Jeremiah, correction, Jaime, didn’t belong. And he was teaching him a lot of the theory of what they were doing. Jaime, correction, Jeremiah, had never really studied geology, but he was sharp enough to get the principles. And, to his surprise, Steve brought him a huge stack of mining and geology books, one day. About 6,000 pages worth. He finished them in 3 weeks. He was devouring the literature. Being a foreman was perfect. He could see all the safety violations. All the abuses (admittedly it was almost all inmate v inmate). He could see, hear, taste, smell, and feel the desperation and exploitation. And week after week he ground out 2,500 words for an exclusive.

“Notes from the Underground,” most people who got the Dostoyevsky reference didn’t get the mining pun until you explained it, was fast becoming “absolutely necessary reading” for the kind of self-important people get and don’t read The New-Yorker – or who actually read it. It portrayed the plight of “Inmate” a man of non-descript race, age, etc. The only thing people knew was that he was coerced into a confession and was now a slave of the US Treasury. Technically, he was an inmate in a criminal diversion within the National Employment Agency. But that’s less poetic.

It wasn’t Gulag Archipelago, but it wasn’t crap either. And it pressed all the right buttons among liberals and libertarians.

But Jeremiah had to be sure that he only said true things. Because he didn’t want to someday be exposed as a liar. His little samizdat would only be meaningful if the government couldn’t refute allegations. Thus, he tried to speak as little about facts as possible and focus on the humanity of it all. The despair. The cold. The bestial nature of the inmates.

He found this both easy and difficult. It was easy because there was no lack of misery. But it was largely self-pitying misery. Honestly, Jerry realized, most of these guys deserved to be here, or somewhere worse. But what was really difficult was that he actually enjoyed what he did. He’d never worked with his hands. Neither had his father. Or his grandfather. His great grandfather had been a fruit-picker and day laborer. But, you go back far enough and everybody’s grampa was a farmer.

He liked mining. He liked the science. He really liked Steve and several of the other civilian miners – the “free-loaders” as they inmates called them, because mainly they hauled the loads to the refinery which was run by mainly inmates. The inmates thought it was funny. It wasn’t.

So, on a personal level he often felt dishonest. It was strange. He’d never felt dishonest even when he was publishing straight-up lies. But now he was telling the truth, or at least a version of the truth…a facsimile…and he felt dirty.

But, it was time to get back to work. Today, Steve was taking him out of the mine and they were going up top to look at a place for a potential strip mine. The mine they were in was an old deep shaft. This new strip mine would require a lot of labor. A lot of inmates managing a lot of equipment. But it would potentially be very profitable. They were going to survey the ground and get an idea of what exactly would be required to mine the region, where there was a prehistoric lake, coming from a prehistoric river.

“Well, there will be some good timbering here before we mine. We can use this wood to build bunkhouses and store-up firewood, anyways.” Steve said smiling at the enormous pines.

“We’re actually gonna build cabins?” Jaime asked, surprised.

“Sure, why not?”

“How will they be safe?”

“Wadda ya mean, cabins are well insulated and with all the bodies and the woodstove they’ll be cozy in the winter, even if they’re a tad stuffy in the summer.” Steve said as he continued to look at his laptop and get his bearings.

“No, I mean, how will the inmates…us…how will you keep us from escaping?”

Steve laughed. “Where to?” he looked at Jaime like one looks at a someone being hazed asking where to get and ID10-T form. “Jaime, we’re 100 miles from the nearest town. Besides, they’ll put fences and machine-gun nests around the encampment.”

Oh yeah. He always forgot about the armed guards. They really are something that has to enter into your calculus.

“How long’ll we be here, ja think?”

“Tough to say,” Steve spat for the first time in hours. He normally gutted his dip. He sometimes spat when he was thinking. “It’ll depend on how it produces, but satellite spectrometry is promising. The AI is saying this could yield a few tons before it’s mined out.”

“Wait, Troy tons, or…avwar…av-oir..”

“Avoirdupois…you can just say English, most people do, even though that’s technically incorrect. And to be honest… AI,” He was addressing the Artificial Intelligence Brain his laptop was linked into, “I always assumed you meant Troy tons, since the Mint uses Troy, but do you mean avoirdupois?”

“I mean Troy since that is the standard measuring system for metals. If you would like…”

“Nope.” Steve cut the machine off. “Well, there you have it, Jaime.”

“How much is that worth?”

“Nothing”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, man, it isn’t worth a dime because it’ll never go on the market. All the metals we mine go to the US Mint’s strategic reserves. Elias is big on this – there’s rumors he wants to bring back the gold standard, but only after he buys up the world’s gold. Nope, none of this will ever go on the market.”

“Well, theoretically…”

“Theoretically it all depends on the value of the dollar and oil and a lot of other factors – basically, metal’s values are an inverse of the strength of the world reserve currency. If the dollar is strong, then nobody’s panicking and gold is, relatively, cheap.”

Jaime knew all this – sometimes it was hard to play dumb, but Steve was kind and never was pedantic – he’d just lived his life thinking about mining and metal and he was polite enough to realize few others did. It did come off as a bit know-it-all-y. But if you knew Steve, which Jaime was beginning to, you knew it wasn’t like that. He just assumed everyone would want to know what he knew.

“OK, right, but how much – in pure purchasing power?” Steve didn’t know I know about Purchasing Power Parity, Jaime thought with pride when he saw the surprise on Steve’s face.

He quickly did some mental calculations, looking up to the left and right and bobbing his head side-to-side, “eh, at today’s prices, you’d need about 200 tons of gold to buy an aircraft carrier – give or take.”

Jaime realized that Steve could have asked the AI on his laptop to tell him any of that data at any time and yet he chose to reckon it up himself. He liked that about Steve. He liked Steve’s battered Carhartt’s and heavy fur hat. He like his honest smile. He liked him as a man.

But, most of all, Jaime liked the way he looked in boots and Carhartt’s (now made in America again). He liked how he smelled like Diesel fuel and had grease stains on his hands that wouldn’t come out. He liked how he and Steve had gotten out the blow torch and built a small campfire with some broken pallets in a barrel they brought while they looked and envisioned.

Jaime realized that for the first time in a long time, he actually liked himself.

Chapter 44

Maxemillien Desjardins was not seen often at the White House – but he was seen often enough that some of the full-time staffers began to realize that he was a personage of some importance. Lots of people see the president once – or twice. But someone who sees him regularly and for very short meetings in between other meetings carries the aura of importance. Important people are important to know – at least that’s what Peter Lombard’s father told him. Peter’s father was also named Peter, his grandfather was called Piero, and incidentally, he did come from Lombardy. Peter’s actual name was Piero, as was his father’s actual name. But, as Peter’s father told him, to be an American you have to be American. His father had a seemingly endless supply of tautologies. Which, if you’re looking for an endless supply of something, tautologies aren’t a bad angle (especially if you’re just clever enough to make people think you’re wise).

Peter was not wise.

His father was.

His grandfather was.

Apparently, his whole family was wise, even going back to the days of his ancestor Piero Lombardo, who was an advisor to one of the Sforza Dukes of Milan; and a lotta good it did il Duce.

Peter was not wise – he was shrewd and clever. Vulpine in countenance and cogitation, he was always scheming and plotting, thinking. He was a great noticer of things. Indeed, that was something he prided himself on. He worked on it too! He made it a point to notice something different or unique every day. Yesterday he told Jamille that he’d never seen her wearing her coral scarf before, and asked if it was new. It was. He noticed things like that. He noticed things like that because he put the effort into noticing things like that. Most people didn’t. He wasn’t most people. He’d never wanted to be most people. And he certainly didn’t believe that he was like most people. He really, truly, without shame or compunction was an elitist. Piero’s family was relatively new in the US, but they were wealthy, and the New Jersey/ Philadelphia Italian community was good to them when they came. Sure, there wasn’t real paisano pride, like there was back in the days of black and white tvs, suits, and restrooms. But there was still a way to get connections, legitimate and otherwise, by being from the old country. And Piero’s grandfather took every advantage of them. It wasn’t Tammany Hall, but then again, they weren’t Irish; they were Italian. They were better.

And, of course, the Lombardos weren’t nobodies in Milan. Sure, they moved here to the states, but not with their hats in their hands. No, Piero came not from a cadet branch, but the firstborn son. He wanted to expand the family’s wine business. Like many vintners in Lombardy they produced sparkling wine. Unlike many vintners in Lombardy, or France, or Germany, or Hungary, they weren’t slaves to tradition. Piero (Peter’s grandfather) realized that Italy was played-out. It was maximally agronomized. But Australia, the US, and China were all the rising stars of wine – they had the land, they had the know-how, and most importantly they had the ingenuity to do new things, to experiment, to make better wine. Piero figured that if he was going to live somewhere it may as well be in the USA. So, he moved to Chestnut Hill, opened a wine shop/ bistro where they sold Lobardo wines, exclusively, and also acted as an importer/ distributer. Americans had never really been fans of sparkling red. But, Lombardo sold well, and soon enough, the family found the ideal little plot of ground near the Wharton State Forest in New Jersey. They bought a hobby-farm winery that had tons of land, good water, and exquisite cellars. The problem was that the hobbyist didn’t know what he was doing and it was a money pit. Piero (Peter’s father) always told Peter that the previous owner of the family winery must have been a grade-A stronzo if he couldn’t turn a profit with this ground and the quality vines he put in. There were acres of really good Chardonnay, which was ideal in that climate, and there were some good varietals of reds in smaller quantities.

The first thing that Piero (Peter’s grandfather) did was get rid of all the non-wine related stuff. No more horse stables. No more acreage for wildflowers. No more patios. The large number of guest homes, with their “bespoke gazebos” (whatever the hell that means) became employee homes. The restaurant became a ristorante. Every arable inch was transformed into vineyard. They brought in a cooper from Italy and within 6 years they were turning a significant profit. Piero realized that there were tons of these little hobby wineries, all these money pits, all of them fitted out with “the best” money could buy, but nobody who actually had the will or wherewithal to profit. Hobby wineries were hobbies. A farm you can afford to not turn a profit on won’t see a profit.

Over the rest of Piero Lombardo’s life and into the life of his son Peter Lombard they bought every piece of viticulture they could find and made their high-quality wines. The weren’t Romani Conti, but they weren’t Boon’s Farm. The family was generationally wealthy.

Peter, about whom we’re currently speaking, hated wine. Well, he hated making wine. He liked drinking it (quaffing might be a more descriptive descriptor). But making wine is hard. It’s a never-ending war with nature, with pests, with the grapes themselves, and at the scale they operated in in their US, Italian, and now Australian holdings, the world wine market. Wine wasn’t just a beverage – it was a status symbol, it was a commodity, but one of rather ethereal value – like art.

How does one value a bottle of wine? Is a $10,000 bottle one thousand times better than the $10? It certainly won’t get you a thousand times as drunk – or get you drunk a thousand more times! You think you’re just as charming under the effects of cheap wine as expensive wine. And, the part that Peter loved and hated, simultaneously: so many wine-snobs couldn’t actually tell wine apart – indeed, over and over again they gave blind taste tests to their wealthy customers and these culture-vultures almost always preferred the cheapest wine with a cork the family could buy over the really deep cellar stuff.

Wine was a constant battle against elements outside one’s control and often quite stupid and arbitrary elements. Was Ruinite better than Lombardo? No. But anyone with the temerity to call themselves a wine fan has had the screw-cap Lambrusco. How many knew Lombardo? Why?

No, this wasn’t a business for Peter. He wanted to be where he could control things. He wanted to move the family out of commodities (of course they didn’t only deal in wine!) and into government. His brothers Marco and Giacomo (Mark and Jim) wanted to keep expanding the wineries – so let ‘em! Peter was going to make his mark in Washington.

He went to Bucknell and got a job through connections, working at the White House in the Public Relations Department. He started under Joe Elias Senior and had moved up a little, but he was not well liked. He was efficient and his work was good, but not remarkable. He was always passed over. Mainly because he was unlikeable. Not that he did anything overtly rude or gauche. But his incipient arrogance just made people not like him. He tried, for a while, at Bucknell, to hide the external markers of his sense of superiority. But, alas, he couldn’t mask all the denotata all the time. And instead of becoming more likeable, he somehow came off as even more smug. So, about midway through his sophomore year, he realized that he was rich, handsome, and smart and why should he pretend to be just like all the plebs and uggos? Why should he want their affection? He even wrote a paper about it. He quoted heavily from Ayn Rand books he’d never read, and from assumptions he made about Murray’s Bell Curve (which he also never read). In sum, why should he seek the favor of his inferiors? They should hunger for HIS affection. The other way round was some poisonous and self-destructive side-effect of democracy (in the Ludovician sense).

His native superiority, and his knowledge thereof, made his missed promotions all the more painful. Even more painful was his own inner knowledge that at any point he could throw in the towel and go and be a rich playboy. It was painful because he kept hoping that people would recognize this about him and realize how badly he wanted to be in government if he was willingly passing up all the wealth and luxury to be in a 9 by 9 shared office.

They never did.

Well, they did, but they didn’t care.

Because they didn’t like him.

In fact, unbeknownst to Peter, his boss, Rylie Brian, said that she would “never give that man authority to tell anyone to do anything under any circumstances”. She not only didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t fire him, mainly because there was no cause and the family were donor to the Elias’. So she threw him important work and occasionally gave him added responsibilities. But she never promoted him and never gave him authority. And she made extra special sure that everyone promoted around him had more experience.

He was stuck. He couldn’t say he was ignored, because he did get important work; and those who passed him by did have more experience. But he was better and smarter and more driven. He knew he was getting black-balled, but when he once tried to tell his father, his dad simply said, “Piero, all politicians know that politics are dirty, even when they’re clean. There’s no rhyme or reason to who is successful in politics and who isn’t. None. But you knew that going in. If you want to run for elected office, we’ll support you, but you know you’ll have to start at the Pennsylvania level and not Federal off the bat.”

Peter knew that and he was often tempted, but he didn’t have anything that he could hang his hat on. He needed a break. Just one connection. Just one friend who could help get the meteor moving across the firmament.

Peter noticed Desjardins.

Peter noticed a lot of things.

Peter had been noticed, too. He’d been noticed by Ray Asher. Ray was looking for people that the Elias administrations were preventing from realizing their fullest potentials. Peter had been described by one of Ray’s friends who worked in the PR department as “perhaps the most spidery tarantula” he’d ever met in 37 years of government work. Indeed, around the office, his winemaking heritage was often used, ironically, in describing his face every time he went to a party for some staffer who got a raise or a promotion. His talk on those evenings dripped and even ran with the juice from those sour grapes.

Peter noticed things.

He noticed that Desjardins was never on the president’s calendar.

He decided that Ray needed to know about this foreign man whom no one seemed to know anything about. Ray was ecstatic. There were a small number of reasons to have not infrequent meetings off the record – none of them played well in the media. Ray texted Kareem and told him to look into it.

Things were going to start moving. Ray could feel it!

Chapter 45

Matthew Pocratsky hadn’t been sleeping well. In fact, he hadn’t been sleeping. Since the Gala event months ago, Hanna had spent the summer at home in their DC residence and he and she had grown somewhat closer. Hanna was bright and cheery, and her friends had occasionally come to visit her. The Davidson boy came most often since Jack had a house in the Langley area. This was of course recent, Daniel explained to the Pocratskys. They grew up in Toledo: he had 4 brothers.

“Yeah,” Matthew overheard Daniel talking casually with Hanna, who was interested in Daniels background, which he didn’t talk about often, but more and more was opening up, “we never exactly knew what Dad did for a living. I mean, we knew it was in tech and he worked with a lot of Arabs – Dad is extremely fluent.”

“So did he have to go to Dearborne a lot?” Hanna asked, surprised by this uncommonly precise detail about Daniel’s provenance.

“No, not really; he worked in Toledo. He did a lot of his work with the Lebanese – apparently the tech company he and his buddies founded sold a lot of tech to the Government in Beirut, so it was fortunate that Dad spoke Arabic and French.”

“Are there a lot of Lebanese in Toledo?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s a regular Phoenician Diaspora!” They laughed. “But the first waves who came over to Toledo were Christians and the later immigrants were mostly Muslims.” Again, Hanna was confused about this specific detail. Matthew was also concerned about hearing these very specific – borderline non-sequitur – details.

“So, do you speak Arabic?” Hanna asked, not picking up on the threads of conversation Daniel was unraveling.

“No,” he laughed, “though my mom was raised Jewish, she was from Sylvania. She got converted at a Campus Crusade rally at Miami University and became a Methodist. But she is pretty hard core about her Jewish heritage, so my brothers and I all learned Biblical and conversational Hebrew.”

“That’s really cool,” she smiled, it was so exciting to finally learn so many details about her friend. They had spoken together about deep political and religious and philosophical topics for thousands of hours – they’d spent nearly every waking minute together for a year, and yet, this man, this quiet but confident man was a stranger to her. She said, deliberately trying to be overheard, “Dad’s family tried to teach him to speak Polish, but he said it was a waste a time so that boat sailed!” They both smiled, Daniel was becoming more comfortable in the Pocratsky home, not like a houseguest, but as a family friend – and yes, for Midwesterners there is a very, very, very distinct difference between the two.

Family Friends, are essentially family (oftentimes PREFERRED over family.) Yet, Midwestern culture dictates that no matter how many times you’ve slept on the couch, or how many beers you’ve drank, or how many hours of football you’ve watched or baseball you’ve listened to, you cannot, cannot let yourself into the house unannounced. But, apart from that you’re free to do anything you ask first about – but you have to ask. It’s the unwritten rule of the Family Friend. The position as Family Friend can never be presumed, you must always ask to get anything out of the fridge (coolers don’t apply) or to turn on the TV, or to borrow anything. On the other hand, Houseguests are welcome to beer and snacks and all the rest, but they must first be offered. Houseguests who “ask” are considered rude and presumptuous – though no one would ever say so out loud. They just don’t get invited back. Houseguests who “take” without being offered or even asking, quickly become persona non grata. Of course, for Midwesterners, this doesn’t mean overt rudeness or SAYING that someone is unwelcome – that would be an equal and opposite faux pas. No, instead, there is a certain mode of social slighting that one is expected to pick up on and either show some level of social humiliation or contrition by beginning to wait to be offered things, or experience greater and greater coldness and alienation. It’s like if passive-aggression were turned into a Tango, except instead of representing lurid sexual passion, the choreography expressed ignored but increasingly explicit, frustrated cultural expectations.

Daniel had passed from Houseguest to Family Friend, which meant he could ask for things. Of course, this never occurred to him at a conscious level. Being a Family Friend, also gave him the freedom to laugh at jokes made about other members of the domicile without being considered gauche.

So, Daniel laughed. And Matthew ignored the comment, and the invitation to join the conversation which, of course, is Midwestern for saying, yes, the joke was funny, and I’m not offended, but I’m not interested in the conversation so instead of saying something that would obligate you to change the subject and involve me, I’ll be silent and allow you to continue talking.

Daniel picked it up again, “Yeah, the weird thing is a lot of the names I would hear Dad mention on the phone with his coworkers would end up on the news, eventually as suspects in some NSA or Homeland Security investigation.”

“Uh-uuh-ohhhhh” Hanna staccatoed out the first two uhs and lengthened the oh. Ding, ding, ding, the last horse has finally crossed the finish line! Matthew was now extremely concerned, but he needed to hear where this was going.

“So you think your dad was in intelligence?” Hanna asked, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, noooooooo!” Daniel nodded his head yes -- emphatically. “I think it just speaks to how dangerous the world is for someone who works in the Arab world.”

“Ah, I see,” Hanna intoned in the same overly slow voice.

“It’s funny, you know, my Dad used to occasionally talk about a guy he took business trips with.”

“Really?” Hanna asked, somewhat afraid of where this would lead, but powerless to not ask leading questions.

“Yeah, he said he was big into Polka music, and that he was from Defiance, Ohio originally, but that they’d never met, until they met on a business trip. I mean what are the odds that my dad makes a friend from Defiance who likes Polka and you and your family are from Defiance and you guys are Polish!? I mean, it’s a small world huh?!” And then he laughed the most sardonic laugh Hanna had ever heard, or would ever hear in her entire life. In fact, she wasn’t sure she could define sardonic, but she knew that it meant the kind of laugh that Daniel just uttered.

Their conversation continued in hushed tones that Matthew couldn’t make out, and though Daniel came over many more times over that summer break, he never heard them speak conspiratorially, or ever even broach the subject of Matthew and Jack’s connection again.

But, maybe that was worse. Elias knew and was saying nothing. Indeed, Matthew had been shown more respect and given greater responsibility than heretofore and both Eliases were treating him not only with the respect they’d always treated him with, but with a certain bonhomie that was both comforting and unnerving – the kind of too familiar connection that someone has with an uncle or older cousin who gives you a porno mag or tells you a dirty joke. Not that there was anything inappropriate or untoward. Indeed there was nothing other than complete professionalism, as always, with the Eliases, but the Joes both treated him, little by little, differently. He felt the same way around them as he did around his 6th grade teacher, Miss. Hauenstadt when he wrote her a love note. That she found. She didn’t humiliate him by having “a talk” with him, or telling his parents. But there was a way she looked at him, a knowing smile that was intimate and emasculating. It broke his 6th grade heart to know that no, she didn’t love him back and no, she wouldn’t comment on it, but yes, she would acknowledge it through imperceptible little signs and smiles and head tilts. It wasn’t patronizing, it was shared embarrassment, but not mutual embarrassment and that is unendurable. He cried a lot that year. But to be a Middle Schooler is to exist in the unendurable tension of sexuality and innocence, maturation and infancy, courage and cowardice, social acceptance and obnoxiousness, promise and patience. Being 13 is unendurable.

Matthew Pocratsky, husband, father, the Secretary of the Federal Justice Agency, was 13 again – and it was unendurable.

Part 2

Chapter 1

Joe Elias woke up in a cold sweat. The dull, otherworldly green glow indicated that it was 3:23. He had never been a bad sleeper in his life. In fact, he had lived a charmed life, being one of the lucky ones who put his head on the pillow and he was asleep – waking up exactly when the alarm went off – never hitting snooze. It was something that he was a bit vain about, though he knew that he had no reason to be vain about it. But, all the same, he was vain about his ability to sleep exactly when he wanted and no less and no more.

But he hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for several months. Kelly woke up. She was not a good sleeper. Having kids ruined her for good, but she was a bad sleeper before. She would stay up too late and sleep too late and before she married Joe she would hit the snooze dozens of time – which meant she had to set her alarm hours before she had to get up, because, she explained to Joe, her body needed time to wake up. Also she had lost a couple jobs in high school because she’d slept in too many times.

Not anymore. She woke up to everything now. She went to bed early and woke up when Secret Service walked too loudly in the hall.

So, when she felt Joe wake up, she was up and she knew that they were both up for good. She put on her housecoat (at least that’s what her mother called it…are they called housecoats anymore? Women’s fashion never really changed it just reduced textile consumption and got less frumpy names). She called at the door for coffee and cakes. She had started having little cakes brought to her for an early breakfast since getting to the White House, and she liked it. She felt her hips underneath the housecoat. Definitely more there than there was. But she was a mother and she was working all the time. She had been commissioned with another translation by the Vatican itself, AND they asked her to help write a commentary. So her days were spent with Joe and the kids and then when Joe went back to the Oval Office to read and debrief she went to her reading room and buried her nose in the vellum and Latin for 4 or 5 hours. She had coffee and cakes delivered to her there, as well.

Who cares? Joe’d never had a wondering eye and she had birthed and raised 3 daughters. She had the right to put on a little pudge. She told herself that she would keep an eye on it – a little extra fat on a woman her age who works as much as she does and sleeps as little as she does is almost impossible to avoid.

But she knew what Father O’Hair would say. He would say that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit and that she had a responsibility to steward he body; he would say that self-indulgence was a sin; he would say that she needed to deny the flesh and focus on the crucially important work that God had for her. She was blessed. She was able to work with documents, important documents that Mother Church hadn’t seen in hundreds, sometimes more than a thousand years. God needed her mind sharp to serve His church. Our Lady wouldn’t want her to give in to self-indulgence. Our Lady would want her to reject the notion that we have to answer every impulse of the body. No. We must subdue our bodies and make them our slaves – that’s what Paul said. Our bodies are a gift to be stewarded – but a gift concomitant with temptations and snares. She had never actually talked to Father O’Hair, but she knew what he would say. Father O’Hair was going to be canonized some day. He had been tortured in Pakistan for years. He was released and said Mass within the hour. He was beaten and deported. If he weren’t American he would have been murdered.

Father O’Hair never broke under torture, or beatings. His devotion to the Church was unwavering. Unfortunately, because Father O’Hair was a man of such monumental conviction and self-discipline it was hard to be completely honest with him. Oh, sure, Kelly knew that he SAID the right things. He SAID that he understood temptation. He knew its power. He knew what it was to loathe oneself after giving in and the endless recriminations and promises to do better that end in more shame and guilt and self-loathing. But Kelly didn’t believe him. Not that she thought he was lying, but she thought that his sympathy included harshness. As harsh as he was on himself was exactly as harsh as he would be on others. He never budged. He was a moral, theological, and practical bulwark. He expected others to be so as well. His words were full of compassion and absolution, but in his eyes, she saw, or thought she saw, the faintest glimmer of an inkling. She thought she saw how deeply he despised cowardice and self-indulgence and weakness. Not because he was cruel – but because he was so good. He was a man of iron trying to sympathize with a woman of clay – and increasingly blubber. Good Lord, it must be 10 pounds in as many months.

As she pondered these things, she also thought, with that ability inexplicable to men, but so natural to woman, that Joe, her oaken Joe was maybe not as hard as he’d once been. What was going on?! They hadn’t talked for months about the program he’d created to gain political control. She knew it was illegal. She knew it was immoral. She learned that her husband would go to frightening lengths to gain to power necessary to fix the country. She truly believed that he didn’t want power for power’s sake, but to right the wrong. She didn’t know which was better! A fanatic or a narcissist? Or, rather, which was worse!

But she didn’t know if she would have much choice; she had to talk to him about what was going on. Joe was not sleeping at all and she was afraid of him cracking up. He was so out of character. He had been President for 3 years and the preparation for the upcoming election was getting to be all consuming. Of course, because Joe was an Independent, the Republicans and the Democrats were holding Primaries. Asher and Perez, respectively, had taken enough delegates to avoid open conventions. The polls were good – polls were also useless.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, finally getting back in bed and rubbing Joes hair.

“I’m sorry, honey.” He sighed, “I really need to get another room. This is no good for you, you got work to do.”

“I think your work’s pretty important too!” she laughed. “Maybe I should get my own room.” She didn’t know how to continue, but she needed to. How could she have befriended, dated, married, lost her virginity, had 3 children, raised 3 children, lived together, shared hopes and dreams and bodies with this man for so long to have him remain such a mystery. Was she as much of a mystery to him? Were they both just strangers who got used to being around eachother? Is that all marriage is?

No, that’s ridiculous, she realized. That’s defeatist sophistry. All people are mysterious, but a failure to have comprehensive knowledge does not negate the presence of sufficient knowledge. Father O’Hair said so, and it was one of those things that immediately rang true and became axiomatic.

All the same, she had to talk to this Mystery if there were to be any apocalypse, she mused.

“Joe.” She said it in her firm voice. “You’re not yourself and I think it has to do with your…special program.” He just sighed. “I want it known that I don’t approve. I’ve never really approved of the program, but I approve of you. And I believe that you do everything for the good of this country and so I accept that you’re breaking eggs to make an omelet. At least that’s how you see it. But, Joey, is it possible that this is your conscience telling you to stop?”

“You mean God?” He asked, knowing full well that she did.

“I mean God”, emphasis on “I”, “but you have a conscience and whether it is God or just your inner monologue, if you go against your conscience, you’re going against yourself. No house divided against itself can stand.”

“So I need to go in, all the way, or not at all?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, but maybe, I don’t know,” for Heavensakes it was 3 in the morning how could he be so precise with his comments! “I mean you’re gonna pull yourself apart…wadda they call it, disintegration of personality? You cannot be a man of two minds. Something’s eating you. I think you’re having a moral crisis.”

They sat there in the silence until the coffee and cakes came. They lay in bed and munched the cinnamonny, sugary, crumbly, coffee cake, as well as a magnificent ciambella. She had a standing order of one VERY lemony ciambella (sometimes with a lemon icing, even though it isn’t authentic) and one cake of any other kind, as well as a large foaming dallah full of Kahwe Arabiyye. She insisted on the ciambella, because it reminded her of her time in Italy working on manuscripts in Rome. Joe, being from Toledo, adored Lebanese food and loved nothing better than black cardamom coffee – not lattes or cappuccinos or espressos, he thought the “fancy coffees” as he called them were pretentious and for show, although he did like café Guillermo and would happily drink that when having Mexican, or anything spicy. Kelly preferred a fancy coffee, but she liked cardamom well enough and it paired well with the citrusy ciambella. As they ate neither spoke until they were both a small slice and a half-cup into their fast being broken when Joe said, “you might be right.”

“About?” she asked, trying to read his mind.

“I feel like I’m comin’ apart, Kel.” He took a deep breath – but I don’t feel stressed when I’m awake, only when I sleep. I’m having a dream and I have it every night and I don’t know what it means but it’s terrifying.” He had just shot all that out in one long breath, gasped, and concluded, “I’m afraid to go to sleep.”

“Oy my gosh, Joey, how long has this been happening?”

“7 months, maybe 8? I really can’t remember.”

“You’ve been having the same nightmare for 8 months? Every single night!”

“Yeah, at least when I can remember my dreams.”

“You didn’t think you needed to talk about this with someone – for cryin’ out loud Joe, that’s not normal!” She scolded out of love.

“You think I don’t know that!” He shouted under his breath, “who the ff…who’m I s’poseda tell? Huh? Nobody but you can be trusted with this and I didn’t want you to worry…” he lied.

“Bullshit!” Kelly NEVER swore. “That is such complete and utter bullshit, Joe, you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to know, because if I did know I would tell you that this was God or at least your subconscious telling you you’re doing something that there’s no coming back from.”

He hung his head.

“Now look, I have never asked any follow up questions about what you’re doing with the French connection, but for…” she stifled a blasphemy…Father O’Hair was completely inflexible on blasphemy, “for your own sake, you have to see that what you’re doing is splitting you in two!”

“I know – I know – but…”

“But nothing, Joe, you’re doing something wrong and you won’t let yourself live with it! You’re a man of principles and you can’t go against your own principles. You’re too strong a man to do that.”

“I have to!” He hissed.

“Why? Why do you have to?” she was not as fully defiant as she’d ever been – couldn’t he see this was all out of love for him, for his soul, for his eternal salvation?! Couldn’t he see this was about weighty things, eternal things, things of the soul and spirit?

“Because, if you had seen what I’ve seen, how deep the corruption and malfeasance truly runs, then you’d know that this country cannot simply survive without me doing what I’m doing?”

“I don’t believe that. You’re telling me that the American people can’t be trusted with their own democracy?”

“It’s not a democracy, it’s a republic and NO. No they can’t. This country has elected paedophiles and tv stars and demagogues and fraudsters and imbeciles and they find out about their improprieties and their incompetency and their corruption and they reelect them!”

She saw for the first time in decades his contempt for the American voter. Joe had always been an anti-democrat elitist, but over the years he had only grown more and more certain that democracy was a cancer.

“Joe, the republic survived a civil war, I don’t know that it needs you to save it. I think that sounds rather narcissistic.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“You know what I think is narcissistic – generations of Americans who racked up trillions in debt to pay for election-campaign programs. I think congressmen and bureaucrats using their position to get rich and enrich their friends is narcissistic. I think the race-baiting and the pandering and the coddling and the special interests and the minority massaging I think all that garbage is narcissistic. You know how many senators I have hard evidence on, provable beyond a reasonable doubt evidence that they are engaged in insider trading? You wanna know?”

“Sure, tell me Joe…” She was feeling the weight of his argument and his passion, but she wouldn’t be cowed.

“83.”

The shock on her face was almost impossible to contain.

“83 for sure engaged in insider trading. I also have found over 40 engaging with prostitutes, and 12 who are provable child molesters. Congress is just as bad…” he seemed exhausted, “Jeesh Kel, there was an actual murder coverup that I found.”

“Joe…” she said it as though he were exaggerating. But she knew Joe never exaggerated in a serious argument. She said it because she knew I she said it that way he would give her the details.

“Marchionetti from Nevada – had a prostitute killed with whom he’d fathered a child. They made it look like an accident, they kidnapped her forced her to get drunk and remote controlled her car into a bridge piling. I have the orders and everything. Dumbass actually used his dot congress dot gov email!”

Her jaw was holding on by a thread. “Then have him prosecuted!”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’? he murdered that girl.”

“So?”

“So?! So, you’re the chief law enforcement officer of the United States!”

“And then what happens?”

“He goes to jail…” she said, dripping venom and contempt.

“Then the good people of Reno will elect some other schmuck and the circle’ll be unbroken – Kelly, you have to see this. The people of this country are all addicted to Panem et Circenses. The Republic has failed.”

“it’s failed because it has been insufficiently republican! Isn’t that what you’ve said. People need facts before they can act and fix things.”

“No, Kelly, people don’t want to fix things. They want goodies and gossip. And government give it to ‘em!”

“So you’re mind’s made up, you’re just gonna get your way through blackmail.”

“I can’t blackmail the innocent.”

“That’s beside the point, and I wasn’t finished…you’re just gonna blackmail your way to fixing America – you seem so sure, why then are you having the nightmares?”

“I don’t know. But I do know one thing…there’s a fly in the ointment.”

She looked at him long and hard over her coffee mug. She wanted him to offer information. She had been working so hard for him to be fully honest that now that he was, she was afraid and elated. He trusted her. He trusted her fully and completely and treated her as an equal – for that reason she could neve betray him. Joe could have kept her in the dark, but he chose to explain everything to her, down to his motivations. She would never tell anyone what he was doing, she knew that, because she was devoted to him and, in some way, she still believed in him. She hated blackmail, but was blackmailing a pederast so bad – if it served the greater good? Ugh, if only she could talk to Father about this. But he would be as inflexible about this whole thing as Joe was certain it was right. Father O’Hair was all about the letter of the law; Joe was all about the spirit. If Joe felt unburdened, and he looked like he did, then her shoulders had taken all the weight and then some. After several minutes Joe looked at her and said simply, “Someone knows…I don’t know how much, but too much.”

Chapter 2

Graduation was drawing nearer and nearer and for Daniel; it was certainly melancholy. He was sickened by the displays of debauchery he had seen at occasional cadet events, the drug use was completely in the open, now. How they continued to get narcotics when the drug trade had been all but eliminated was beyond him. People somehow still got drugs – but whence?!

Not only the drugs and drinking but the whoring – the whoring was probably the worst thing, to Daniel. Many of the cadets openly boasted of their conquests of the prostitutes – if that can be called a conquest. They would howl and shout and laugh as they regaled each other with their crass talk.

Daniel and his friends had avoided these benders and orgies, and had become very much the talk of the academy, since they, and seemingly they alone, refused to join in on the bacchanals. The boys were just as perverse and the girls just as loose as at any state-school…except here it seemed worse. It seemed like there never any supervision when one would expect it.

It seemed like 2 separate schools. By day it was a world class University, dedicated to creating world class bureaucrats, full of snappily dressed and snappily-witted young professionals drawn from Americas economic and political aristocracy. But several nights a week these little lordlings became as gross and gauche as any group of college kids one could imagine – it was as though they were werewolves, except instead of becoming wolves by night they became hound-dogs and basic-bitches. Werehounds and werebitches. Like the Model UN Club, inexplicably became a lacrosse frat party.

How nobody was caught was astounding. And although they had seen their classmates at formal functions that seemed to always devolve into scenes from a straight-to-video lampooning of collegiate life, they left as soon as possible after the “formal” part of the gala or celebration or whatever was over.

Many of their classmates being very wealthy rented studio apartments in the area where they came up with unofficial fraternities. At these getaways the boys and girls would drink and get high and screw and whore. They would be gone from end of class Friday to 3 or 4 in the morning Sunday night.

For a long while the candle-burning lifestyle didn’t really affect those living it. But over the course of 4 years it takes its toll. Daniel and his friends were clearly healthier and had aged less and matured more than their classmates. The partying was hard on body and mind and many students came very close to expulsion, Michelle even heard that there was a girl expelled, but it was just a rumor that was unconfirmed.

But, all that aside, the education was outstanding. Daniel had learned more than he’d ever dreamed. The professors teaching 4 students at a time gave those who wanted to learn an invaluable asset – the ability to truly engage in conversation with some of the best historians, economists, and political theorists alive. And they took you seriously, at least if you were a serious person, and they asked you serious questions and gave serious criticism to your work.

Indeed, the academics more than made up for having to be surrounded by all the fools. But the melancholy came with the knowledge that soon and very soon he was going to leave and enter into the President’s own little Commissariat. More than that, he had deep suspicions about the make-up of their group and thought that there was more simple coincidence behind he and Hanna being paired together.

That suspicion was only to grow.

Chapter 3

Ray was idly massaging Kenny’s calves as he sat in the corner of a large overstuffed couch in his office and she lay over the whole thing. Kenny, she was so wonderful, they’d been together for 8 years and she hadn’t gained an ounce of fat and hadn’t lost an ounce of sex-drive. Her libido was just as strong as it was at their rendezvous. Her wit was sharp and she was passionately loyal to Ray. But what could he do – he couldn’t leave Sarah, that would lose all that beautiful Mullins money and Mullins media. And the kids would never speak to him again. Not that they spoke much now, but it was something.

He knew that living like a Frenchman would eventually end. Sooner or later he’d slip up. Sooner or later someone would see something – some vindictive or blackmailing someone – and the jig would be up.

But was it fair to Kenny? He’d never asked himself that before – but as he sat rubbing her taut calves he noticed a varicose vein. She wasn’t even 30! But she was getting older. Everyone does. Was it fair for her to give up a husband and children to be some old man’s paramour?

Ray was not a fundamentally introspective person. Nor was he a person who was particularly interested in other people’s interests, except insofar as they converged with his own interests. He was a pure pragmatist, in that sense. He liked capitalism, not for any moral or historical or theoretical reason – though he made a good show of using those arguments in public – but because it had made him wealthy. His family made money on other people making money. A high volume stock-market, or at least a high trading market, was good. For Ray. Ergo Free-Markets were good. For Ray. And Everyone else. Because what was good for a Senator is good for everyone. Why the Hell else would anyone become a Senator?!

But with Kenny he was actually interested in her and what she wanted. He had nothing but bitter resentment towards Sarah for being so perfect and obsequious. But Kenny was with him and had gotten nothing out of it and demanded nothing from him. She just liked screwing and liked screwing him. Or at least he thought she did. Or at least he told himself she did. She was here wasn’t she? A knockout like her, 29 years old, with a mind like hers, she could run DC. Instead she was the receptionist and PA for an aging Indiana Republican who came in second in the primaries twice and won the primaries once to come in second in the general. He hadn’t sponsored any serious legislation in a decade…more? Good Heavens how long had it been?

What was he to do about Kenny? If you love something let it free? No. That’s stupid. If she wanted to be free she would be. But what did she want from him? It’s about time he asked that. He’d been sober for years and the decluttering of his brain had been like a bolt out of the blue when he first put away the bottle, but over the last few years as he had stayed clean and started working out again and began speaking and stumping and proposing actual changes, and of course attacking Elias at every possible turn, he had become more determined. Sarah had noticed and appreciated it. She told him it was nice to have the old Ray back. She said that over the phone. Kenny was giving him oral at the time. The irony was not lost on Ray.

The decluttering, that’s what he called it, had given him a new precision, and joie de vivre. It was, to an extent, true that the sobriety had helped him, performatively, but in reality, it was hatred. Hate and hate alone fueled Ray Asher. He of course was only partially aware of this. But other people were very aware.

His phone went off and he answered without looking, a habit he’d regained as he regained his confidence. It was the basso profundo of Kareem Washington, a voice that Ray had been longing to hear for days. His manager had been eerily silent and now he sounded excited.

“Ray, I think I got some new you defin’ly gon’ wanna hear.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Is there a place that’s good to meet, I think that you, me and our Italian friend have some ideas to discuss.”

“Yeah, my office or…”

“No.” He cut him off. “No, I wanna be out the city. We gon’ go to Lombardo’s newest place, they got a little wine shop and eatery in Chevy Chase. Let’s all meet there ‘bout 9.”

“Outstanding Kareem.”

“Tswha’ you pay me for.”

“All the same, thanks, and I’ll see ya then.”

“Oh, and Ray” Kareem added as a last minute thought, “don’t bring ya Gal Friday.”

…

“This place is nice” Ray said looking at the warm floor to ceiling raised and traced wooden panels. The woodwork was all made by some obscure Mennonite cabinetmaker in Nowhere, Ohio, Peter informed them with the same derision he held for everything other than his own private ambitions.

“Yeah, my cousin Jordan opened it up as his little slice of the Lombardo empire. The food’s good and he’s been beggin’ me to bring fancy government types in here – not that they need the business, I mean look at it, it’s been open 3 months and it’s already a goldmine.”

Ray thought he detected more than the usual bitterness from Peter at his telling of Giordano’s success. Of course, his real name WAS Giordano. And, here at this restaurant, you’d better believe he was Giordano. But to Peter he was Jordan.

Kareem looked it over in a heartbeat and never looked even once at the art, all real art on canvas, all depicting great scenes from Roman and Italian History and Mythology. They sat under a reproduction of the Oath of the Horatii. Something was off though, and Ray kept glancing at it, in fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. But Kareem, he took in the whole scene and dismissed it as so much decoration without a moment’s hesitation.

They sat down in a corner booth and Giordano, himself came over, expressed the usual pleasantries – all standard fare. He brought out a bottle of Lombardo and some bread and oil and said the antipasto would be out soon.

Of course, as tout le monde knew, Lombardo’s was plat du jour. Tonight it was their standard charcuterie – a lot of the meats were actually aged and sausaged by the Lombardo family themselves. Or so said Giordano. Kareem was completely uninterested in anything Jordan had to say, and made no effort to hide it. Peter just gave Jordan a look saying, “just get on with it so I can get out of this mook’s company.” Jordan got the hint, asked if there was anything special he could do to make their dining experience more pleasurable. To this, Kareem just chuckled. Well, not chuckled. He snickered. It was grossly inappropriate and so out of place from this imposing and self-possessed man, that the snickering was more off-putting than any blue remark or crass comment ever could have been.

Peter realized that this had to be tucked away. Kareem was a brilliant political tactician and strategist. He was an organizer par excellence. He knew everyone and could demand, or at least wheedle, favors from everyone in Washington. Yet, underneath it all he was a Philistine. His aloofness was really a stilted way of hiding how entirely uncultured he was. For people who weren’t in the know he came off as someone beyond the little things. He had the aura of the pseudo-religious cynic. Worldly-wise and wary. To those who didn’t know the truth he came off as a political ascetic. Money, art, music, food, none of them meant anything to the prophet in the wilderness.

Until you heard him titter like an 11 year old at a comment that could only marginally be construed as homoerotic. He was no different than a frat bro. Peter wondered if he’d fart in his hand and throw it in someone’s face.

But, of course, in no time at all he was back in control of his face and voice, so quickly in fact, that Giordano thought that he must be wrong. No. That man didn’t snicker. Look how stern and austere he looks. He couldn’t have laughed. Ray pretended nothing happened and so Jordan simply bowed out of the conversation and they huddled together like conspirators and Peter said, “OK, this is big.” He explained how he had me the Frenchman and noticed him and he spent much longer and embellished much more than was warranted. But he told the truth. Or an acceptable facsimile thereof, and Kareem was about to take over when their next course arrived.

Peter hated minestrone. But light and old-fashioned soups were all the rage, nowadays. He’d recently dined with his father at one of the family restaurants and he saw they were charging blue-plate prices for a bowl of tomato soup. It astonished him. He looked at his father and said, “Zuppa di Pomodoro e Bruschetta?! Papa, you’re charging this for grilled cheese and tomato soup?!” His dad said, literally tapping his nose, “they call it homely chic” he laughed the hearty laugh of a shrewd man who found a sucker, “I’ll be honest, Piero, I never woulda had the balls to try something like this on my own – but your mama, she hears about this homely chic bullshit and I says, so let’s try it. I make more profit off this than the wine, right now! It’s like I always say, put it in italics and the best people’ll think it’s fancy.”

Peter laughed, and said, “to be fair, it’s sugar, salt, and fat, smooth texture crunchy texture. It’s got everything…whadda pair it with?”

“Whatever’s expensive and not moving!” His father laughed his hearty cunning laugh again. Peter asked the waiter if there was any soup other than minestrone. And if not to take it back and bring out some Bruschetta. The waiter looked slightly unsure of whether to follow this order and without hesitation, Peter raised his voice and said in a very smooth and very confident accent, “Ehi stupido, sai chi sono io? Fai solo quello che dico e tira fuori il piatto.”

At that several things happened. First, Piero realized that the waiter didn’t speak a word of Italian, but got the gist and made like a ghost. Second, Ray began to wonder, just exactly who the hell was this young Tarantula. Third Kareem remembered that 2 glasses in was about as far as he could go without breaking the seal and he excused himself. Peter and Ray had lost the train of conversation and didn’t want to talk business without Kareem giving his big reveal. But they were not to be doomed to idle and awkward silence.

“Ray, you seemed really interested in that painting.”

“Yeah, I know something’s wrong about it, but I can’t figure it out. I mean I’ve seen that painting a thousand times, my parents have a reprint in my father’s library.”

“Yeah, that’s my cousin Lucy for ya.” Her name was Lucrezia.

“Oh yeah, yeah, she likes to do reprints of these works but she makes one tiny change. The tiny change is significant enough that it’s not a forgery because the change is obvious. She’s actually got quite a following and has made a fair bit of money. I know for a fact…”

“For a man who seems to hate his family, this guy brags about ‘em and aful lot” Ray thought.

“…a fact that Jordy had to beg Lucy for this piece. He said it was her masterwork and that’s why we got sat under it.”

“Her masterwork?”

“Well, technically not, since ‘masterwork’ was the piece an apprentice presented to achieve the rank of master, not how we normally mean it as in an artist’s magnum opus.”

“I know the history of the term, Pete, I mean why is it her masterwork?” The little shit loved to be obtuse. He got off on it – gave him a chance to be petulant AND pedantic.

“You still don’t see it?”

“No, I still don’t see it.”

“You know the legend right?” Oh, he was so eager to explain – time to put him in his place. All that Latin his father made him take was going to finally pay off.

“Sure,” he began nonchalantly, so languidly that he let Peter take a deep breath to explain and then began speaking…Got him… “there was war between two Italian cities and they chose representative combat and the Horatii were the Roman warriors, who won.”

“Yeah, and how many survived?”

“Just one.” He said it with confidence but he wasn’t really sure…God let me be right.

“Yeah, just one.” Peter decided to stop playing the game and just get it out since he saw Kareem returning from the bathroom, “Look in the middle brother’s hand.”

“What the…” Ray saw what made this piece a masterwork. Where the fraternal hand once clenched his brother in duty, honor, and courage, now it held a dagger.

Ray was thrown by this. If he had been a man who thought about destiny or God, he might have considered this auspicious, or portentous, that it augured some frightful atrocity. But he thought none of those things. He defied augury.

“Ok, Kareem,” Ray intoned, “Tell us who the Frenchman is.”

Chapter 4

Impossible. That’s the one word that kept imposing itself upon Ray Asher’s conscious mind. It was the one word that he kept repeating in nonsensical ejaculations every few lines of conversation. Kareem had cracked the secret. Well, he’d cracked it, after a fashion and to a degree. He had figured out based upon Peter’s hat-tip that there was a mysterious Frenchman who visited the President, on and off, for the past several years.

Now, seeing as how a mysterious foreigner keeps visiting the President, Kareem had half-a-mind, to ensure that whatever contacts he used wouldn’t be US connections. He didn’t want to run the risk of exposure during his intel-gathering phase. As a world-class politico, he had made connections and knew how to use them. As a man of the streets he knew how to offer a bribe. And for the neat-sum of a few hundred Francs, Kareem had a name and an outline of a dossier.

He learned that Maximilien Desjardins was a French National, living in the US for 30 years, and that he worked for a company called RAIAS.

“What the Hell is Ray-iss?” Ray asked, before everything became impossible.

“That’s the funny thing; I’d never heard of ‘em either. So, I tried the standard searches – nothing. They have no internet presence at all. Well, almost none. But that took a few grand to figure out. Basically because I had to ask a finder and, of course his fees got, well, don’t worry about it, Ray. Here’s the point.” Kareem leaned in, to draw in Ray and Peter’s attention.

“This is weird,” Ray thought, “he’s agitated and excited. He’s not normally like this – it’s schoolboy behavior.” And Ray was right. Kareem was not his normal unsmiling, aloof, intimidating, from-the-ghetto-black-man-who-made-it-in-DC. The kind of man who doesn’t deign to care about anything not directly touching upon his own person, as though caring about anything were an indignity. Now he was positively ebullient. Well, Ray thought he was ebullient. Peter, who didn’t know him, thought he was just dragging the story out for attention. The truth is that Kareem was thrilled beyond words, at the magnitude of the scandal that he himself was exposing.

“RAIAS is an acronym, R-A-I-A-S; it stands for “Reliable Artificial Intelligence Accounting Solutions.”

“O…K,” Ray chimed in, not sure why this was important.

“Listen, it took a lot of diggin’, but I found out that the Brains don’t do their own billin’. I guess pretty much every AI company on earth, except for a few in Asia get their billin’ done by this company based in Lisbon Falls, Maine.” Kareem stifled Ray’s attempts to express his ignorance. “Yeah, it’s a nowhere town. But it’s got a lot of people living pretty rich in a pretty poor part of a pretty poor state, because about half the town work at this company called RAIAS. ‘Parently, they have satellite offices everywhere, but the main office is the one in Maine.” Peter thought about commenting on the pun but decided better of it. He was now in a position to have nothing new to offer. But he wanted to keep sitting at the big-kids table. It was time to put on yes-man shoes and try to stay in a few more innings.

“OK, so what does this mean?” Ray asked, putting on his best “let’s get down to brass tacks” basso profundo.

“I’m not a hunne’ puhcen’ sure. But once I found out it was big tech, the biggest of big tech, I talked to some friends, who…well, let’s call ‘em keyboard vigilantes.” Ray snorted at this designation for hackers. “They all told me that nobody knew much about RAIAS. Nobody knows how they operate. It’s all mysterious as hell. And of course, that’s made it the White Whale of hacking.”

“And nobody knows anything useful?” Ray said, expecting that it cost even more bribe money to get more scraps. He was pretending to be frustrated by this game of pay-for-talk, but in truth, he was loving this. Information you have to pay for is always good. And if it’s not good, it’s always salacious. What’d Beaumarchais say, “Calomniez, calomniez; il en reste toujours quelque chose.”

“No, nobody knows nothing. Nobody has ever been able to get anywhere even close to breaching their firewall?”

“Why?” Ray asked, despite the fact that he had only a passing understanding of computers. Kareem, however had more than a passing knowledge and his gaiety and enthusiasm at letting his yarn unravel was becoming almost comical.

“OK, so there are basically only a few ways to hack into a company that’s serious about its cyber-security. Now, the EASIEST is to steal someone’s login info, someone with decent credentials and go from there. Not the most elegant solution, but it works. That’s like spearfishing – one high level target with credentials to get all you want – and maybe some blackmail to boot. Another way is malware. You create a program and hide it online, and hope that somebody downloads the malicious program. This is dragnet fishing in the ocean. Eventually you’ll get something, but there’s no guarantee you’ll get what you’re after. Another way is to use brute-force to try to get a username and password that will give you superuser status, but normally most systems are intelligent enough that after a few failed attempts you’ll get blocked. Another way is to try to hack the web server and work in that way. None of these is easy, if you’re trying to get into a secure place. It’s even harder if you’re trying to get into a place that’s as secure as RAIAS – and what’s worse is they have active-countermeasures.”

Kareem could tell that Ray knew even less about countermeasures than he did anything else. And since he was enjoying displaying his knowledge of a subject few would have pegged him of being knowledgeable in, given his demeanor, he was reveling. “So, decades ago these were illegal. Congress tried a couple times to give companies the right to “hack back”. But there were major issues. Attribution, being the worst. How do you know you’re hacking back against the hacker and not some innocent third party? But after things started getting really bad with China, the gloves came off and every major company in America was vying to buy the hottest white-hats in the game.” Kareem paused to explain the difference between, black, white, and grey hats. Peter was bored with this. It was so cliché, this old white aristocrat who was so oblivious to what seemingly everyone else in the world knew.

“Alright, so countermeasures allow you to attack a hacker. Now some are passive countermeasures. Like poisoned files. If the hacker downloads it, the file will alert the FBI to the location begin to download all files to a secure destination where nothing can be corrupted and access cameras mics and whatever else to provide evidence to prosecute. It was actually a poisoned file that caught Chinese soldiers, in uniform, in a base, trying to break into General Electric. Caught 9 hours of video and audio downloaded half the Politburo’s files and they never knew it, till somebody’s computer restarted and ran a random check and caught the malware, then they shut everything down. Some people say this was a big part of the lead-up to Boxer II.” Don’t mention Boxer II. It’s just another reminder of how great Elias is! Ray turned bitter just at the word.

“However, to those who can afford it, there are active countermeasures. These really came along with Artificial Intelligence. AI is smart enough and designed ethically enough that it cannot be used to hack. But it CAN be and is used for cyber-security. But it’s ludicrously expensive to use it actively. And from what I’ve heard, RAIAS uses it very actively.”

“What’ve you heard?” Peter couldn’t help himself, he had to say something, or be ignored altogether.

At this, Kareem just laughed, he took a huge forkful of delicious pasta and a quaff of wine, napkinned his mouth, laughed, and continued, “All I know is that there are rumors.” They were listening. “And the rumor is that a group of young blackhats tried to hack in. Very sophisticated attack. They’d worked at it for years, literally years. They finally thought they had a way into the system. They got a way into a catering company, which got them into a tech company, which got them into an AI company, which got them into email between RAIAS and this Brain. They were “in” but not really, and on the day they finally thought they’d bread RAIAS, something strange happened.”

1-2-3, all eyes on me! Kareem had ‘em.

“First, they heard a knock on the door. They ignored it, and kept going and then the door burst open and in came about 30 Feds with a no-knock warrant. One of the hackers, tried to turn off his computer, and it looked like he was reaching for something and so he was shot dead. And then, the strangest thing of all – all the computers in the room burst into flames all at once.”

“What the Hell?!” Ray was amazed, “You mean, RAIAS got the FBI to catch these guys and then they blew up their computers?”

“Nobody knows, but that’s the story. The hackers, ovviously, never told the feds they were tryna get into RAIAS. The feds got ‘em on some other pretty serious stuff, but they never linked ‘em to RAIAS. But the message was simple, and every hacker out there got it – you don’t mess with RAIAS.”

“And it worked?” Ray was incredulous, “I thought all these hackers were idealists who wanna fight the man!”

“Nah, man, most of ‘em are just pirates and highwaymen with a different way of robbin’ people. They ain’t tryna do nothin’ good – oh sure, some do. But they also like breathin’ air. And as much as people might wanna go after RAIAS, hackin’ ain’t the way to do it.”

Ray was now disappointed. “Well, for cryin’ out loud Kareem, what good is this all?”

“Well, here’s the fun part. I talked to a lot of people, and I spent a good deal of our war-chest, and finally I was able to get a guy, Roger Dunleavy. Divorced, alky, lost his job, got fired in an ugly way, and he was pretty senior. I find this guy, and he tells me that RAIAS has a big secret. All they do is own proprietary code that allows the Brains to give them a report of all usage that they then translate from time used to dollars based upon every company’s rate. So, if you have Cerebrum, and you’re paying $500 an hour for active problem solving, somehow Cerebrum tells RAIAS how much time each and every user has used RAIAS calculates it and sends the bill to Cerebrum who sends it to the customer on Cerebrum letterhead. OK, that’s clever, but that’s not the best part. I got him good and drunk for the next part…” Kareem snickered.

“You met with this schmuck?” Ray was aghast.

“Of course!” Kareem smiled “And what he told me was pretty interesting. RAIAS doesn’t monitor. It forces the brains to monitor themselves and give RAIAS a report. But, to ensure quality control, RAIAS has access to the data that the Brains have to ensure that the reports are correct.”

Ray thought he was beginning to understand.

“That means that RAIAS has access to anyone’s computer at any time in like 90% of the world.”

“Yes, it does.”

“That means that RAIAS could effectuate the greatest spying coup in history.”

“Yes, it does.”

“That means that Joe Junior might be involved in the greatest spying scandal in history.”

“Yes, it does.”

Chapter 5

Daniel walked into the White House with his friends and they were quickly ushered through a series of nondescript passageways until they came to a little anteroom, where a well-dressed, slightly effeminate man, offered them beverages. Which they accepted. Then, they were made to wait.

They waited longer than seemed possible given the circumstances, but when they were finally done waiting, they walked into the Oval Office and were seated on some cool leathern couches, with the table set with coffee and cakes, just the way Mrs. Elias liked it.

Joe smiled a big smile and shook each of their hands in turn.

“Alright,” he said, broadly, “let’s get down to business. You four and I need to have a little chat about what I’m trying to build here.”

They sat in silence. They had graduated not that long ago and all of them had, thus far, not received a placement in any Federal Department. That was strange, but not entirely unique. There were quite a few former students who were waiting to be sent somewhere. It didn’t allay their unease, and certainly there were still concerns about how this new system within a system would operate. But, the fact that they were being interviewed by the President was either a really good thing or a really bad thing. They decided to let Joe Junior make the first move.

“Well, don’t just stare at the cake, eat some,” he said warmly. And he reached out and cut himself a respectable, but self-controlled slice and took a rapid sip of his very hot, very black coffee. Elias insisted on clear coffee mugs.

Everyone followed suit and took a piece of cake and a cup and began to relax a little. Elias caught on that they were waiting for him so he did what was most natural: he took control.

“So, you guys may ‘a forgo’en, but I’aven’ forgo’en. We had a li’l conversation a while back and i’ss stuck with me. Dj’ou remember?” Joe was in full Midwest mode, contracting and dropping “g”s and “h”s – turning “t”s into “d”s and glottal stops.

“Yes sir, I remember,” Daniel put in plainly.

“Excellent. Djou guys wanna know why it stuck with me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but hurriedly took a sip of coffee for dramatic effect and raced on. “It stuck with me because I realized that the four of you were head and shoulders above your classmates. You four had actually embraced what the Academy had to offer – which was a world class education where you could get a full orbed understanding of the philosophies of governance.”

“I don’t know if we were truly that far above our classmates,” Thomas said with sincere modesty, “we were all Masters students and most of the others were teenagers.”

“Sure, tha’ss true,” Joe admitted. “But tha’ss only part-a-the story. You guys really got it. Because we expected you to.”

Confused looks abounded.

“Yes, you guys, I knew you before I sat down, and you guys were not randomly put in the same Office. You guys were an experiment. And, I know, I know, it ruins the experiment to tell the subjects that they were part of an experiment. But at this point the secrecy has outlived whatever usefulness it once had.”

“Why us? Why any experiment? Isn’t the whole Academy an experiment?” Michelle asked, not angry, but just confused and sounding perturbed.

“Sure it was,” Elias said, beaming. “But not all aspects of a social experiment are the same. We had a special purpose for you kids that I’d like to share now.”

They were now literally on the edge of their seat, because, hey, who doesn’t love to hear a story about themselves.

“I’d like to tell you guys a story.” He waited until he had all eyes on him. “A long time ago there was a mighty king. And this mighty king had gained power, so much power that there had never been a king like him ever before. He held all power and his word was law.” The kids were tracking and clearly enjoying just listening to Joe’s soothing and confident voice. “But this king had a problem – the problem all kings eventually come to realize, unless they are very foolish. He realized that nomatter how powerful a king is, there are other powerful men in his kingdom. And the most powerful and the most clever make themselves advisors to the king. Now, the advisors of this king were very clever, because they didn’t give actual advise. They were wizards and always spoke in riddles.” Dan and Michelle looked like they thought they might know where he was going but Hanna and Tom were clueless.

“And the king hated them because not only were they a threat to his power, but they were hiding behind the gods, and so it was impossible to attack them directly. But then, the king had an idea. He’d give them a test. And it would be an impossible test. If they succeeded, fine, then for once they’d do something useful. But if they failed, then he could finally kill them with cause and have all the power to himself.” He took a long drought of coffee and continued, “But at the last minute, some young acolyte came in and passed the test and saved the wizard’s lives. And so, the king deposed the wizards and made the acolyte and his novitiate friends the rulers of the wizards and his own personal advisors.”

“Do you know what the moral of this story is?” Joe asked, clearly expecting an answer.

“That help can come from unexpected places?” Hanna offered.

“The lesson, Ms.Pocratsky, is that sometimes a king has to clean house if he wants to actually wield power.” They all looked rather stunned. Joe continued, “I and a team deliberately selected you four to work together because, from the very beginning we were searching for a group of people like you – a group of acolytes to rule the wizards. The wizards are power-hungry obstructionist. They oppose and undermine the king. We need someone to step in and take charge. We think you four could do it.”

The looks of confusion turned into something bordering on shock. “Us?” Michelle asked? “Why us?”

The others asked the same things.

“I’ll explain why you later. But first I need to tell you about Operation Astrology.”

Chapter 6

“I can’t be involved in this.” Daniel said, beginning to stand up.

“Why not?” Joe Junior asked, matter-of-factly.

Daniel just stared at him incredulously, “Are you being obtuse? Because this is blackmail and corruption on a national scale. And you want the four of us to be in charge of your spying and blackmailing shadow government? The answer is obviously ‘No!’. If you knew anything about us at all, you’d know that the four of us are people with values and convictions.”

“Oh, I know that,” Elias said, with painful earnestness. “That’s exactly why I want, why I need you. Washington is rotten. It’s corrupt – completely, totally, and irredeemably. The only way to put it right is if it’s forced to correct itself. And I want people of integrity to be in charge of the forcing.”

Michelle couldn’t stop herself, but burst in, “Do you even know what integrity means? By becoming a party to blackmail and extortion and espionage we would no longer be people of integrity.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient!” They had never hear Elias use sarcasm before, but now they did. It seemed that as the argument wore on they were seeing more and more of his real persona. “What good is your integrity if it won’t allow you to do good?” They tried to answer, but he spoke over them, clearly warming to his subject, “you sit here and you tell me in haughty terms how you’re against corruption and yet, you refuse to take steps that will cleanse this nation’s government of corruption. You like to talk about ethics and morals and all your religious Judeo-Christian garble, but in the end it’s just a stalking horse for cowardice and the refusal to do what’s necessary.”

“You’re not eradicating corruption you’re just replacing iterated acts of minor corruption for one grandiose meta-corruption,” Hanna said, speaking for the first time. She’d had a premonition that this would not be a pleasant meeting and she finding that prophets often wish they were wrong.

“So you four know that Washington is corrupt and you have an opportunity to do something and you do nothing. You lament the corruption but you reject any participation in ending it. Sounds to me like you’re just afraid of getting your hands in the dirt. But I’m telling you there is no other way.”

“Of course there’s another way!” Daniel nearly shouted. “We expose it; we vote for new leaders; we let the process work.”

The room went silent except for the subtle, condescending chuckles emitted from the leader of the free world’s mouth. The stifled laughter was even more insulting than open mockery.

“For a democratic republic to work like that the people have to be, what did Adams say? ‘a moral and religious people’! Ha, you think this country has the ethical wherewithal to drag itself out of this sewer we’re in? Congress is the cloaca of human achievement. The Judiciary is just an extension of the corruption, but they can’t get voted out. The executive just keeps getting power given to it by Congress, and th states sit there with their thumbs up their asses because they’re all beholden to the power of money the government can print and give to ‘em! The country is full of moral midgets, scumbags, self-centered takers, and short-sighted hacks. Where are these moral paragons you’re talking about? Who’s gonna fix the problem? What are they gonna do, lower the national debt? Stop spending money we don’t have?”

“You did!” Thomas said, “what do you mean it’s impossible, you did all that?”

“Because I have dirt of every important governor and congressman and senator and mayor at every level in every city. I did all that because most people were either already for it or when they saw that the party leaders were advocating it, they went for it. You’d be amazed how few people you have to blackmail to make a thing happen in this country. Strike the shepherd and the sheep will follow.”

“That’s not how that saying goes; it’s ‘strike the shepherd and the sheep will be scattered’.” Daniel said dryly.

“Touche, Mr. Danielson, touche. But the point is that I got the party leaders by the balls and their little toadies and underlings followed right along. You don’t need univocality – just enough.” Elias laughed, took a sip of coffee, and began to feel jovial and avuncular again. “Ya know, chess taught me how to amass and project and concentrate and coordinate power. As a young chess player you learn how to try to gain overwhelming advantages. But when you get better, you learn that the easiest game to win is a winning king and pawn endgame. You don’t need overwhelming superiority in material to win, you just need sufficient superiority. All you need is to be able to see your way to a winning endgame and then simplify. You don’t need to be up 3 Queens and both Rooks if you’re about to be up King/ Queen versus King. I didn’t need to get everyone on board – just enough – in fact just enough looks better – it looks like there are options. It’s foolish to show your strength when you can keep it secret. Sun Tzu taught me that. And let’s also never forget that politics is the art of the possible. Once a thing becomes possible the key is making it certain – and once you make it certain, now it’s a question of the appropriate application of force. What message do I want to send? But anyways, we’ll have time to talk about this and many things after you’re all on board.”

“Are you deaf,” said Michelle, “we’re not coming on board.”

“Oh, but I think you are, and I think you ALL are. And if not there will be consequences for you all.”

Every face sank, but Elias got a smile.

“What’s he talking about?” Michelle asked.

“Yes, what am I talking about? Daniel, Hanna, would you like to explain that your fathers are the key parties in the most tantalizingly explosive scoop about Intelligence Agency corruption since Hoover’s Do Not File files? I can assure you all that were you not to serve under me that Mr. Danielson, codename: Jack, as well as his collaborator…no…coconspirator Secretary Pocratsky, codename: Polka, would find Leavenworth a very unpleasant and unforgiving place – why, what am I thinking. They’ll be tried for murder. That’s a hanging offense.”

No one could speak. Daniel and Hanna had figured it out some time before. They’d lived under the Sword of Damacles for years, but now it fell. They were struggling to find words when Elias spoke again.

“And Ms. Gerhardt, we all have secrets don’t we. Especially in social work. It’s so easy to get yourself in trouble trying to keep others out. Sometimes you bend the rules and sometimes you break them. Sometimes people get hurt.”
“What’s he talkin’ about Shells?” Daniel asked.

“Go on, Ms. Gerhardt, tell them. Tell them about Deeanne.”

Chapter 7

A few days after the incident when Larry Kreuger was arrested for assault, Shelly was called out to the Steinberger residence – where Deeanne lived with her kids. Two of them, Tommy and Bekka were at their aunt Rita’s but the youngest, Jaycee, was at home.

Shelly was called because neighbors had heard screaming and were very worried. Apparently, there had been a lot of cussing and since the only people there were Deeanne and the baby, people were worried. A few had even tried to talk to her, but they had gotten no answer. There were no available deputies, so Shelly went alone. She wasn’t afraid of Deeanne – she saw her as pathetic, not dangerous.

And so she stood on the porch, knocking, of course the doorbell was disconnected! She knocked and waited for 15 minutes, solidly knocking every few seconds to song she’d heard at a her Nephew’s birthday party the day before. The magician, how low must you sink to be a birthday party magician in Dove Bluff, had made his own cover song. Some classic rock by the Chili Peppers, called Californication, but it was all about magic. The main line was “dream of prestidigitation”. It was a shockingly clever parody for someone, again, doing birthday magic in Dove Bluff. Well, of course she could only remember the little earworm, “dream of prestidigitation” and she was a few decades too young to know the Chili Peppers, but the melody was easy enough and she’d listened to it a few times on her devices, so she stood there knocking to the beat of those old funky white boys, while waiting for Deanne to open the door, all the while, humming “dream of prestidigitation” every time it fit, or seemed moderately appropriate to the melody or meter.

When the door opened, she wasn’t ready. Deeanne screamed a few expletives at her and tried to slam the door, but Shelly wouldn’t let her. She came in and pushed Deeanne onto a couch and began to try to talk some sense into her. She was clearly using and she’s done a half-assed job of hiding it. There was paraphernalia all over the place.

They sat in silence for a bit, and after Deeanne seemed mostly composed, Michelle said, “I need to see Jaycee.”

“Fine, whatever…in there.” She didn’t even point, just hung her head. Jaycee was in a bedroom, if you could call it that, by herself, wearing clothes that reeked of piss, and who was so hungry that she wasn’t even crying. Michelle’s heart sank. The room was disgusting. The foul, fetid air was enough to turn her stomach, as she saw unwashed sheets and old diapers and soiled toddler clothing piled up as well as strewn about the room. There were several piles of vomit. The weather had been so hot that not only was the stench terrific, but it was amplified by the stifling air which stank of hot, dry rotted wood, around the unimproved windows, which were so grimy that they let in something that was an approximation of light. Amazingly, there was some light coming in, all the other windows in the house had cheap blankets nailed and duck-taped over them.

Shelly didn’t hesitate, she picked up Jaycee and began to carry her out, reaching for her phone. This was clearly a dangerous environment.

She began to explain to Deeanne that she had to take Jaycee. Deeanne began to wail, “No, please, please no, you can’t; she’s my whole life.”

“Deeanne, I can’t let her stay, this house is not safe for a child, you’re not safe for her right now. I don’t know what happened, I thought things would get better when Larry left, but I’m starting to wonder if you were the bad influence on him and not the other way around.”

“I know, I know it, I know Shells, but please, please don’t; please don’t take my baby, she’s all I got left. I love her, I don’t love anything in the world but my kids, please, Shells, I need ‘er.”

“Dee, you’re not safe. I don’t doubt that you love her, but right now that isn’t enough. Do you think anybody in their right mind would let this baby stay here? If you can’t take care of yourself, how’re you gonna take care of her?”

“You’re right…” she broke down in sobs “you’re right, Shells.” Sobs “Larry really wa’n all that bad. I always pushed ‘im an’ made it worse. Yaright. And when he was gone, I realized how shitty my life is, how shitty I am. And I hate myself. I hate it. I hate this house. I hate my life. I just want it to be over. I just want it to be over.”

“Ok, Dee, that’s clearly suicidal talk, OK. You need help. And we can get you help. You want to get better don’t you?”

“A course I do! You think I like livin’ like this? You think I like bein’ a pig livin’ in my own filth. I hate it.” More sobs. “Shells, help me, please, ‘cause I can’ go on like this.”

“OK, Dee, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get you guys cleaned up. I’m gonna take you to the shelter, I’m gonna take Jaycee to the hospital. And we’re gonna start makin’ a plan to get your life together. But that starts right now. OK?”

“OK, Shelly, but you can’t take my baby away.” She began to roll herself up in to a sobbing ball again. He back heaved, her scrawny, spiny back, so easy to see through the nightgown, it was bruised and sallow and it heaved and arched with this pathetic woman’s wailing.

“Dee, we’re gonna come up with a plan and if you follow the plan and get clean you and the baby will be together at the shelter in 2 weeks. But you gotta give us 2 clean weeks and then you can be with her, full time, except for your sessions, but we’ll talk about all this later.”

“2 weeks? I only have to lose her for 2 weeks,” there was hope again.

“Yes, just for two weeks. IF you get clean. If you obey the house rules. If you show progress in your sessions, but Dee, if you really love Jaycee and the other kids, you’re gonna get clean for yourself and for them. You don’t want this life.”

“No Shells,” she said, shaking her face, and flashing a brown, corrupted smile.

“OK. Let’s get cleaned up, you won’t need clothes for either of you, so maybe just wash your face and put on something a little more appropriate and we’ll head out. I already got carseats in my car.”

“OK, Shells. But, please, can I take a shower and give Jaycee a bath?”

“Dee, I’m not supposed to. I’ve take custody and I’m not supposed to relinquish it.”

“Goddamit, Shelly, she’s my kid and I don’t want her showin’ up smellin’ like week old shit and everybody thinkin’ less a me than they already do,” she broke down again, sobbing, “for godsake gimme some dignity and let me wash my own child.”

Michelle started to cry. She looked at this wretched woman. She was everything wrong with this country. A drug abusing prostitute who was letting her children starve and live in filth. But for a split second, Michelle didn’t see her as a social failure. For a moment, it seemed, she saw Deeanne through Deeanne’s eyes, and yet, not through Deeanne’s, but some better version of Deeanne. She said, later, that it was as if she could see through Deeanne’s eyes but looking in a mirror that is both cruelly honest, and yet entirely compassionate. For a split second she not only saw how wretched Deeanne was but she felt how wretched Deeanne felt. For a moment in time, not even long enough to call a moment, she understood how terrible and hopeless it must be to be this woman. To sell herself for money and meth. The become just a gigantic drug using vagina. Because that’s how she was seen in the user community. She saw that Larry, scumbag though he was, never wanted Deeanne to whore herself out. Larry, for all his manifold faults, cared about her – it was an imperfect and corrupted love, to be sure, but he did love her. He did want her to be happy. And he knew that how she was living didn’t make her happy. That’s why he dealt, to keep her from hooking. That’s why he committed the petty thefts. And all at once all these truths came with the certainty of intuition and the power of a tidal wave and Michelle knew, completely and fully, what it meant to live in constant shame. And in seeing Deeanne’s shame and in feeling it, she felt boundless pity.

“OK, Dee; give Jaycee a bath. Take a shower. I’ll make some calls and I’ll be waiting.”

Chapter 8

Michelle now broke down and sobbed. Everyone looked at her. She wanted to continue but couldn’t. Elias did.

“So, in her compassion, real and right, I would add, Ms. Gerhardt DID go and begin to make calls for placement. She called her boss at Dove Bluff County Job and Family Services. Then she noticed something. She noticed that the water was still running.”

Everyone’s face turned to Shelly, she burst out in spurts through her heaving, gasping sobs, “Dee..anne..was...dead…with…a…needle…in…her arm an, and…the baby was dead.” And at this she completely lost control.

Elias continued. “Ms. Steinberger decided to shoot up one last time, with some heroin she had stashed in the bathroom. Apparently, she didn’t know that it was unstopped stuff Larry had scored and was going to sell in tiny amounts. At least that’s the going theory. She ran the bath, but the baby in and she O.D.ed and the baby drowned.”

Everyone stared at Michelle. This story was so horrible. It was so painful. How did Elias know and why did it matter?

“But the problem, of course, was that Ms. Gerhardt had no business giving the child back. She was clearly negligent. Her negligence led to the very predictable death of two people. And worse, she covered it up.”

Michelle at this composed herself, her face bleary, and distraught. “Yes. We did. And it was selfish and dishonorable and weak. But I did it.”

“And insodoing, you not only implicated yourself, but your supervisor. A crime for which he could face serious prison time for.”

Everyone began to see what was happening. But Michelle had apparently wept her last tear. She just stared at Elias.

Everyone stared at Elias, and then the realization dawned on them all…they all looked at Thomas.

“OK, so you guys know how, when you’re young you do stupid things?” Silence. “Ok, well, I did a very stupid thing.”

“Let it out, Azariah, you’ll feel better.” They all stared from Elias to Thomas…so that’s what the A in A. Thomas stood for.

Chapter 9

Azariah Coplin was Jewish, hence Azariah, but grew up in a Messianic home. And his whole life he’d dreamed of going to Israel and making his life there. And because of his very Pro-Israel stance he’d made some friends at college and got turned on to an anonymous internet group in Michigan that said its purpose was to stop the advance of Islamism in Michigan. He’d gotten involved. Heavily involved.

Being both a Jew and a Christian and a very conservative one, Azzy, as his friends called him, had found his home in עברי אנכי or Ivri Anochi, among the real insiders it was known simply as Ayin Aleph, a very underground group that seemed, at first glance, to be a lot of young Jews, who lived in Michigan who were saying a lot of politically incorrect things about Islam and Muslims in America. But that wasn’t all that it was. While, on the surface, it really was just a place where young Jews would act tough and say things they’d be excoriated for, if they said them publicly, there was something else going on. The more threads you followed the higher your credentials became. And other members could also vote to give you “Heeb Stats”. The more Heeb Stats you had the more conversations you could start and the more your material got prominence in the group. Eventually, if you lived on their forum, you’d eventually get a pm from a “Certified Kosher Heeby”. They would talk for a while and eventually ask if you wanted to get involved in a “prank”.

Now, for Azzy, his first “prank” was to hack the website of a Deerborne Mosque and make it make fart noises and pig squeals and other stupid things when you moved the cursor over the screen. And they did this to a lot of Mosques, especially Mosques that were putting out BDS literature or criticizing Israel. Any Imam that called for sanctions against Israel became a target for pranks. They would disrupt their internet presence constantly.

It was hilarious fun. It was also very satisfying to make these “unibrows” (as Muslims were called on the site) “furrow their brow” trying to fix the stuff Ivri Anochi was always breaking. אע became Azzy’s life. Every minute he wasn’t in class or studying he was hacking some Imam or Mosque or Islamic group. They were not only disrupting but they were scouring – looking for any usable data. They’d found a few email chains proving embezzlement which they made public on the Mosque’s own sites. They even saw links to terror that they found ways to ensure the FBI got the info without letting on how they got the info. It was a dangerous game. What they were doing may have been a prank, but it was a felony.

And one day, “Kosher Pareve” pm’ed him and said they had a special task. KP sent him a link to a video showing the Imam of a major Detroit Mosque calling for Jihad, bloody Jihad, against Israel. They had to do something. So, they came up with a plan. They were going to shut off their furnace. “Let ‘em cool off” is how KP put it. Well, Azzy did all the research, wrote all the code, and got them in, then handed control over to KP. And KP did shut off the furnace.

And then, unbeknownst to Azzy, he started it up again. Except part of Azzy’s plan had been to disable the pilot light. But he didn’t disable the gas. And so the basement filled with gas. And it filled more and more until, also unbeknownst to Azzy, KP used his superuser status to override the pilot light shutoff.

Boom.

As soon as Azzy saw what happened, he ripped his computer our of the wall. Smashed it against his table, ripped out the hard drive, cutting his hands horribly on the plastic shards, ran to the dorm fridge and covered it with magnets. He was going to put it in the microwave but his roommate put him in a bearhug asking him what in intercourse he was doing.

Azzy walked away and took the hard drive and threw it in a creek.

He knew the FBI had been looking into the case. They had suspected foul play from the beginning. But if there was a hack it had been so careful and so well executed that there wasn’t enough to follow. They had a suspicion because there had been a rising number of hacks perpetrated against Muslims and Islamic organizations, and they had been growing aggressive and even violent. But they had no clue. Ivri Anochi continued to be an organization as Azzy sat in the room. In fact, Azzy was almost positive they were up to even bigger attacks given some of the unseemly releases coming from the Iranian, Saudi, and Egyptian state websites.

…

“So wha’ja do?” Hanna asked, calmly.

“Nothing. I told my roommate I’d been working on code for a company and I found out they’d been stealing my software by hacking me so I destroyed my harddrive before they could get anything else. He wasn’t stupid but he didn’t know computers and I’d never been in trouble or anything like that, so I think he bought it.”

“No.” Hanna added softly, “I mean how did you go on…living.”

“He just did, OK.” Michelle’s voice was ice. “He just went on with his life, because sometimes bad things happen and sometimes it’s your fault even if you didn’t’ mean it, so you get over it.”

“Well, that’s very philosophical, Ms. Gerhardt, but about 400 people won’t get over it, since they died in that explosion.” Elias added, sternly.

“I just…I just lived my life. I thought I could leave it behind me, so I buried it. I…I don’t know…I guess” Tom trailed off.

“Well, Azariah, you stopped going by Azzy. And as you know, if the FBI or the CIA to say NOTHING of any of our Mideast Allies…or enemies…ever found out about Ayin Aleph, let’s just say…there would be consequences.”

Daniel spoke up, and spoke for the group whether they wanted him to or not. “So you’re going to blackmail us, too?”

“I had hoped to not, Mr. Davidson. I had hoped you would see the light, as it were, and join me, willingly. I’d hoped you could see that to make an omlet you have to break a few eggs. I’d hoped that you would recognize that America is beyond reform in the classical sense and it needs a strong hand to guide it. The age of the Republic is over. It’s time for the Empire.”

“So, what if we don’t do what you want you’ll hurt us and all these other people? How is that fair?” Hanna asked, clearly shaken and unsure.

“What’s unfair? You keep calling it blackmail. I’m calling it alternative justice. I could just send everyone to prison and the gallows, but why? Why die, when you can be of service to this country. You call it blackmail, I’m saying that I’m giving you and others a new lease on life. All of you committed your crimes. Well, for you Mr. Davidson and you Ms. Pocratsky, it was your fathers. But a lot of people will suffer if you choose to not help me.”

“So you’ll hurt other to get what you want?” Tom asked, miserably.

“Won’t you? You’ll knowingly let America get handed over to corrupt degenerates like Todd Messerschmidt and his ilk. Do you know I’ve got 6 hours of him banging hookers and snorting coke. He’s quite the coke-fiend, that one. You think that you refusing to fight corruption because of your “morals” isn’t going to hurt people?! Spare me the indignant routine, terrorist.” They all looked up at him, the shock of the word hit home, “Oh yeah, that’s what they’ll call your friend – terrorist. And that’s what he is. And I’m here offering you freedom.”

“You’re offering us the opportunity to be the last one the alligator eats.” Michelle seethed through her clenched teeth.

“Not at all, Ms. Gerhardt.” Elias said, reassuringly, “call it a gilded cage, if you must give it a negative metaphor, but I’m seeing this as a positive. I’m giving you the chance to truly serve this country, to protect yourselves and those you love. I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime.”

They could see talking would get them nowhere. They sat in silence.

“I have a dream of making this country the best it can be. But to do that I need extraordinary powers. You all hate blackmail, but you can’t blackmail the innocent and while I AM breaking some laws, I’m not harming anyone who hasn’t deserved it and I’m not hurting the country, I’m making it better.

I have a dream. Can you understand my dream. Can you make sense of it in your heads, because to me it’s clear as day. But I need people like you, people who will always try to walk that ethical line who can run Project Astrology. I know you don’t believe me, but I am glad you all are so ethical. I want you to be. But I want you to use your ethics in service of a greater good. There is nobody in your school better suited to serving at the top of my government than you four. I’ve hand selected you and watched you grow and set this whole thing up because I knew you four could do it. I need honest people, even in a corrupt government. We have to exploit the corrupt and replace them with honest people – but this will take decades.

Please, join me in my dream. Help me save America.”

“Let me ask you something, Mr. President,” Michelle put in, calmly. “What would you do of the roles were reversed? What would you do if someone were blackmailing you?”

“Me? Oh that’s easy” Elias laughed, “I’d slit their throat in their sleep and put the knife in their spouses hand.”

No one could believe what they were hearing. And then, as though they’d been talking about the weather, Elias, in true Midwest fashion, slapped his knees and said, “Well, I s’pose” and stood up. Everyone else stood up, too, as if in a daze.

“Listen, kiddos, I can’t tell you how badly I want this to work. But I need an answer. There’s a very important task that needs oversight.”

Daniel swallowed, “Can you give us until morning?”

“Deal”.

Chapter 10

Jeremiah Serano who had been undercover for over three years was now going home. He had written hundreds of thousands of words, via a transmitter implanted under his molars. He was a national hero, the writer of “Notes from the Underground.” Even people who were pro-Elias and pro-National Employment Agency were interested in Jeremiah’s writings.

But he was going home.

And that was OK.

As it turns out, Jeremiah hadn’t been quite as secretive and furtive as he’d thought. Steve came to him one afternoon after they’d done some surveying.

“I think it’s time for you to go home.” He said, sadly, but not quite sadly.

“Wadda ya mean?” Jermiah asked, trying to seem incredulous.

“I know who you are, and while I don’t have a problem with undercover work, and while I do like you personally, I don’t want people undermining our operations. I’ve spoken with Agent Brimly. We’re going to release you and ask that you don’t argue or lie or try to make a fuss. It all makes sense, now that we know the details.”

“But my 5 years aren’t up…” why the Hell did he say that? This was tit-freezing, ball-shriveling , snot-hardening miserable Alaska!

“Jeremiah…oh don’t look so surprised, like it’s so hard to figure out…look, I can’t have you hear. Now that I know who you are it would be illegal, and even if you volunteered, it could be presumed to be under duress, and, frankly, I can’t trust you.”

“What the hell do you mean, you can’t trust me!” Jerry wasn’t just putting on a show, he was legitimately incensed. Which never would have happened before. Maybe a sense of honor comes with masculine work – he’d have to decipher that later, but the fact was he’d been called untrustworthy and he needed to rebuke that claim.

“You lied, Jerry, I can’t trust a liar.”

“I was undercover, Steve.”

“Is that just a fancy way of saying ‘lie’?” Steve looked more serious than he’d ever seen him, “You said things that weren’t true. And I read what you wrote about this place. I don’t think it reflects well on anyone. I don’t think it reflects well on me.”

“Obviously, I wasn’t talking about you, man, you gotta believe me.” Jeremiah pleaded.

“No. No I don’t. I don’t make it a habit o believing liars.”

“It was a little lie to get in, man, that’s all it was, and I did the work when I was here.”

“Jeremiah, if you’ll lie about something big, you’ll lie about something small and I won’t have a liar on my crew. You need to pack your things, say goodbye to your roommate and get out of here.”

“Why the Hell would I say goodbye to him?” Jeremiah tried to get as much poison in those words as he could muster…he got close.

“Why? Because he’s the one who got you the story of a lifetime, even if he did it unwittingly. Also because you’ve lived with him for years and basic human decency would say you ought to at least say goodbye. Also, because I don’t think he’s safe. He’s gotten into debt to some serious people and accidents happen in the mines.”

Jeremiah tried a few times to restart the conversation, but it was clear that Steve the mine supervisor had nothing more to say to him. So, with a very hangdog walk, he packed his belongings and got into a semi headed south.

Chapter 11

Peter Lombardo showed his illustrious fellow diners out of his family’s establishment and to their cars. He said he had to go back to the city so he would just follow them, and maybe they could all meet back at Ray’s offices to go over further plans.

Everyone agreed that considering the sensitive nature of their plans, it would be important to tread lightly. They decided that they, indeed, would go back to Ray’s townhouse.

They piled into their vehicles and made their way south through Maryland. Moving fairly quickly, as they entered DC, they were pleasantly surprised to see very little traffic on Connecticut Ave. When they approached Florida Avenue, Kareem, in the lead car, began to slow down for the yellow that was son to turn red.

As he slowly came to a stop, all three cars could see a group of pedestrians getting ready to cross the street. They walked slowly and arrogantly, with a swagger that said that they owned the streets and even if they did, in fact, have somewhere better to be they were in no hurry. They walked on both sides of Kareem’s car. Ray noticed a few of them hunched over. He remembered forever afterwards that he thought they looked like they’d thrown their backs out.

He was pondering their odd posture and how it was strange that these guys, and some gals, in fact about 15-20 dark skinned, bright eyed, brilliant teethed teens and 20 somethings were surrounding the car. If he didn’t know any better, it would look like rush hour pedestrian traffic. But it wasn’t rush hour. There was nobody hoofin’ it at this hour. Ray was trying to figure out if it was a pub crawl or what. He was planning to ask Kareem what the hell it was all about, over some scotch. And then it happened. On of the walkers walked up to the driver’s door of Kareem’s car and pulled a gun. He tapped on the window, showing off the mighty 9 mil in all its glory. He screamed for Kareem to get out of the car.

Kareem, however, was not about to be jacked. He slammed his foot on the gas, but he just revved the engine and didn’t go anywhere! In a few microseconds, Kareem’s already fertile and active brain went into overdrive. While his foot was still pressed down with all his might, his brain was calculating. He realized that when the cornerboys had been lurching around his car they must have done something to it. Could they have taken it out of gear? No of course not. Were they lifting it off the ground. No. He realized they must be using chocks! He’d heard about that. Yeah, it was just 2 weeks ago he’d heard about thugs using blocks of wood and chocking tires in carjackings. He tried to put the car in reverse. All this took only a matter of 5 seconds at the most.

He got the car in rever…the explosion was something Kareem never saw. To Ray it was just a sound, and a few muffled screams, and then his friend’s car rolled into his.

The thugs, faster than you would have believed possible, took out a crowbar, swept the glass out of the side, opened the door, dragged Kareem’s immense bulk out and one of them, not the shooter, but a different man, got in and drove off as past as possible, skidding through the intersection, as though he were slaloming. He quickly got it under control and was out of sight.

In a blind panic, Ray looked at the crowd. He tried to use his phone – what the Hell, no service? No service in DC?! He waited and watched in terror as the group began to walk away, slowly, confidently, as though nothing had happened.

No, no, no. Nothing to see here folks, just some murder and grand theft. Just a band of highwaymen (and highwayladies) plying their trade.

Ray couldn’t decide what to do? Drive off for his own safety, or stay put and not flee the scene. He literally didn’t know what to do. In all his life he’d never been in anything like an actual physical confrontation – and never one with guns. He froze. Afraid to stay and afraid to leave. Eventually his concern for his friend won out. He got out and stumbled to his friend.

He didn’t look dead. The bullet went in cleanly. It just looked like a dot. It almost blended into his hairline. Ray was half bent, stepping from side-to-side and walking around the corpse, not knowing what to do. He was muttering to himself and couldn’t believe that what was happening was happening. Normally people call this “shock”. He began hyperventilating and threw up. He threw up on Kareem. Then he started crying and hyperventilating more.

Shortly after this he slowly but stiffly sat down on his butt – a plop more like – and hyperventilated. He couldn’t move. He just sat there, breathing and panicking.

“EN-A-OR!!”

“ENN-ORRR!!!”

“SENATOR!”

“Someone wants me” Ray thought to himself. He looked up at Peter, dumbly, and waited for whatever inconsequential and meaningless thing he wanted. Lombard was talking. What did he want. Pete came and said he didn’t see much but he heard the gunshot and called 911. They were dispatching police and EMS. Asher noticed Pete’s extended hand, and he just slapped it away. He pointed to Kareem.

“I threw up on him…I didn’t mean to…to…I didn’t mean to do that.”

Chapter 12

Ralph McEwan watched from a distance as Jamal Francois and 5 members of his crew sauntered towards him. They had stopped sprinting shortly after the accident. Jamal was the main man; he was supposed to be the one who pulled his gun. Him. Nobody else. They were told that they needed to be on the corner of Connecticut and Florida and they needed to wait. Wait until they heard from Ralph. As soon as Ralph said go, they were to go. It was supposed to look casual.

Jamal’s crew had been pulling the car-chock carjackings for a few months. Jackings were low pay. Vin numbers were so carefully monitored, and people had such great recovery tech on their vehicles that unless you were intimately connected with organized crime, you, likely, didn’t have the anti-countermeasures to make auto theft profitable.

Jamal DID have such connections. In fact, Jamal, WAS the connection. Several years ago he was an up and coming corner boy. But then Elias came with his literal war on drugs – none of the pussyfooting war like before – this was shoot-on-site war. All the crews were going under. The Haitians were tough. They came from Miami decades ago and had made their way by pushing everybody but the cartel gangs out corner by corner, spot by spot.

But the Haitians were an unstable gang. The boss was a far too young son of the previous boss. Sonny, as everyone called him, was not his father. His father had won these streets and Sonny had just inherited everything. Worse and worse, he played favorites. He promoted a lot of young sicarios, who were his personal bodyguard, to run crews that they had no business running. Older capos were disgusted, and those who weren’t pushed out were allying. Thierry du Plessy was not his father – and he was not going to outlive him.

Ironically, it was one of his own overpromoted sicarios who killed him. He just went into his bedroom while he was asleep and shit him in the face. Then he cut his head off and brought it to a major meeting of all the capos. Little did he know, Jamal, his lieutenant, had already been talking to the other crews and they all agreed that the new sicarios, asasen yo, needed to go. Jamal had planned it all. In the middle of the meeting, Jamal would send a group text to, and only to the asasen yo. When they all looked down (or a good number did) select men – the men who were gonna take over, were going to garotte them. It went off without a hitch.

But sadly, the streets didn’t go so well. Within Elias’ first year they had been devastated. 80 percent of their business was cut off and more than half their crews were dead. Most of the more established gangs thought that if they made it bloody enough people would give up. It worked in Mexico. Indeed, the cartel gangs were all about this. The Russians too. The Jews and Italians decided to play it slow, but they were still pretty ready to shoot it out. The Cambodians were out of control.

Only the Haitians. Only the Haitians decided to stay completely out of it. Jamal got them out of drugs. They did robberies and prostitution, but no more narcotics. They weren’t getting rich, but they weren’t starving. And while they had a lot less income, they had a lot fewer mouths to feed. It was mainly stables of whores and home invasions, petty theft and smash and grab were fine too. Of course, muggings are always fast and safe. Protection was still a pretty good racket, but even there they were getting squeezed by the Feds.

It was in Elias’ third year that a haggard looking, but very muscular man came to meet Jamal – at Jamal’s apartment. The man said plainly that he was a Fed. He said that he would offer Jamal a deal. The government would give him free rein to not target Jamal, in particular, or any of his capos, though soldiers were fair game, for the next 5 years if they would do jobs for the government.

Jamal thought it was a hoax. He told McEwan to leave. He said the government would never arrange such a deal. It was then that McEwan said, barely audibly, red lights, and all the men could see the distinctive red laser dots of snipers. There must have been 20 beams of light in the room!

After some time for Jamal to realize that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and that there would never be anything on paper and that if he tried to renege or go public he and his whole family would be tortured to death in Port-Au-Prince, he decided that playing ball was a good deal.

Mainly, in fact, almost entirely, Jamal and his boys were given extremely precise information about the location and strength of criminal gangs. They were to hit them, keep the money form themselves and leave nobody alive.

In this way, Organized crime in DC was down, basically, to the Russians, who were barely still in the fight, a few Jews and Italians, who were significantly stronger, and one or two cartel capos. The Haitians were getting very rich. But Jamal knew that it came with strings. And he knew it wouldn’t last forever.

Little to his crew’s knowledge he’d spoken with Ralph. He said he wanted out. He knew a dead-end when he saw it. He wanted papers to go to West Africa with all his money and to be left alone. Ralph agreed. He told him that there was one more major job and after that, it would be all over.

Jamal walked over to Ralph.

“Get in”.

Jamal got in.

They drove back to his apartment. Him and his mom and his girlfriend were all packed and ready to go. Ralph laid some envelopes on the couch and told them to get to know their new identities. They reached down to pick them up and, faster than you would have believed a man his size could move, Ralph drew and shot all three of them in the head. 3 shots in quick succession. Then one more for good measure. He picked up the envelopes. He reached into his rather big briefcase – Jamal had noticed it was big. He started pouring gasoline on the bodies. He then set the room on fire, walked out, and got into his car.

He stopped and got 2 burger meals and 2 pops. He felt guilty. He knew he should eat like this. But he was hungry and stressed. He wolfed his food down long before he got home. He didn’t even bother taking his suit off. He just let himself fall into bed and he slept. Soundly. Like a baby.

Chapter 13

They had sat, mostly in silence, at Hanna’s family’s house in DC for a few hours. They couldn’t pretend nothing had happened – that would be too absurd. But they were doing everything possible to avoid talking about it. They had ordered in Chinese and, surprisingly, they all ate so much they ordered some more.

As it was getting darker, Tom walked to the fireplace and began to build a fire. Matthew’s library had a beautiful fireplace. It was a beautiful library. The whole home was lovely, in fact. It seemed so strange to be contemplating the end of their lives in such a pleasant place.

Michelle broke, what had to have been, a 45 minute silence. “I think we should talk about it.”

“I don’ wanna talk aboudit,” Hanna said, in an almost sing-song.

“No, Shells is right,” Daniel said, solemnly, “we have to decide.”

“What is there to talk about?” Tom asked.

“Well, for one thing, whether to say yes or no?” Daniel replied, in all seriousness, without a tinge of irony.

“Of course, we’re gonna say ‘yes’.” Tom said.

“I think you mean, of course we’re gonna say, ‘no’!” Michelle retorted.

Hanna looked in shock at the both of them. Daniel stayed silent.

“Fine,” Michelle said, in exasperation. “It’s wrong. The whole thing is wrong. Being a party to it is wrong. I’ve done wrong things for the right reasons and I have to live with that, but this is doing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons…” she began to choke up, “and…and I…I don’t think I could live…live with that.” Hanna reached over and pulled her onto her lap and began to stroke her hair, making a “shhhh” sound.

“Look,” Tom said, in his normal Tom way, “we’re in a bad situation. But Elias is right. Is our ethical purity worth other people’s lives? We might be doing some bad, but it will accomplish an awful lot of good. It’s not like we have a choice, here.”

“There’s always a choice,” Michelle retorted with what was growing closer to real venom.

“Sure, there’s always a choice – but it’s a bad choice. And a bad choice isn’t a real choice.”

“It’s still a choice.”

The continued to sit silently. For hours and hours they sat. Nobody spoke. Tom got up several times to add wood to the fire. Matthew’s library was well provisioned with oak, maple, hickory, and even a few very knotty pieces of cherry. Tom put a piece of cherry on and started to get a drink from the little drinks cart.

“Don’t do that.” Daniel said.

“Why not?” Tom scoffed.

“Because I think we should pray. Either way our lives are over. For some of us it’ll mean prison, or death, or the death of loved ones. Or it’ll mean working in the most powerful secret police organization ever conceived. Our lives are over. Whatever dreams you had of a life before, are over. That version of you is dead. You are dead. The question is what will the living you do?”

“What do you propose?” Tom asked, mirroring Daniel’s serious and thoughtful demeanor.

“We pray.”

“For how long?” Tom asked.

“Until we get an answer.” Michelle sniffled.

And quietly, awkwardly, they all began to get in different positions, and they started to settle in when suddenly Hanna spoke up, “shouldn’t we be kneeling?”

“Yeah,” Daniel said, “we should.”

“Yeah. Nnn huh” came from Tom and Michelle.

There was silence for a long time and finally Hanna said, “Daniel, I think you should say something.”

He paused…and after a few moments said, “Praise be to the name of God for ever and ever; wisdom and power are yours. You change times and seasons; You depose kings and raises up others. You give wisdom to the wise and knowledge to the discerning. You reveal deep and hidden things; You know what lies in darkness, and light dwells with you. I thank and praise you, God of my ancestors: give me and my friends wisdom and power, make known to us what we ask of you, tell us how to answer this man.”

Nobody else said anything. Not for a long time. Nobody knew exactly what time it was when they knelt. Nor did they know how many times they drifted off. But none of them had ever prayed so fervently – one had never really prayed. But when the rosy hues of dawn began to break through the windows, Daniel stood up and spoke.

“Hanna, I know you have struggled to find your place and to feel accepted. I know that you’ve been misused and deep down you hate yourself and think you deserve it. But you don’t you don’t deserve what’s happened to you. But know this – nobody deserves it, and everybody deserves it. You longed to be a woman who was completely different from the girl you became. But now you must become a different woman again. You must die to that woman you wanted to be and live as the woman you were created to be. And I know that by and by, you’ll come to believe as I believe. Because He’s not against you.”

Hanna didn’t turn from Daniel. She wasn’t abashed at this strange intimacy. She just stared at him and smiled while the water stood in her eyes.

“Michelle, you’ve always sought to help. And you’ve sought to do the right thing for the right reasons. But your knowledge of what is right is limited. You know only so far as you can see and your sight is shortened and blinded by your fears and your shame. You cannot take away your guilt. It’s been taken away. But now you have a different service. Now you must what you think is the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. But He who made light and darkness, He alone discerns these things. And he says be at peace.”

Michelle didn’t cry, but she fell over on the floor, facing the window and closed her eyes – dry for the first time all night.

“Tom. Your sin has found you out. And this is your penance. Be ashamed and bear your disgrace for you have made your enemies appear righteous. But I will not leave you nor forsake you, and know that even now, God has taken your guilt away.”

Tom looked stunned and just hung his head.

Then Daniel fell silent. And Hanna looked up at him, and in a whisper asked, “Did God have anything to say to you?”

Daniel looked away, like he was looking at something very far away. “I’m not sure it was God; I believe it was, but either way, I don’t think I’m supposed to say what I heard about myself. At least…at least not yet. I want to, but I feel, I know it would be wrong.”

Michelle got off the floor, and looked at Tom and said, “I think you’re right Tom; we have no choice.”

Hanna nodded. Soon, they were getting into Michelle’s car – headed to the White House.

Epilogue

“Well, Shana, I knew my undercover work was going to be important, but I never knew how much I would expose.”

“So, it really is an amazing, and harrowing tale. The book is fantastic and really, for a work that’s a lot of wonkery, it reads like a thriller, I’ve got to say you pulled this off with aplomb.”

“Thanks, again, look my whole goal was to understand what the men and women in the National Employment Agency live like, and I found out all the good the bad and the ugly and that’s why I’m fighting for its abolition. It’s nothing more nor less than modern day slavery. And that’s what we want to expose. I’m calling for a Senate investigation into the work camps and how they operate, because we don’t need more slavery and inequality in America, we need an America that works for its citizens, not the other way around. And you know…”

“I’m sorry, hold on…yes, my producer is in my ear, there is literally breaking news…yeah, bring it up. Yes, this just in at the National News Network, your network where you work, Jeremiah, they say this, and I’m reading directly from the headline, “Notes From Underground Author Implicated in Murder of Cellmate, Witnesses say”…oh…oh my…so, well…Jeremiah Sereno, do you have any comment about the murder of…Larry Kreuger?”