GREED: The NeoConning of America

Introduction

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GREED: 2004: The NeoConning of America

This is the book that tells the insider's story of the NeoCons who have manipulated and directed America into its present clash with the world and its own destiny. It is a novel, combining the insights of reality with the gloss of fiction. All names of still living persons, with one exception, have been changed.

GREED is the story of the conversion of honor and truth to profit a few bad men. It is also the story of how a few good people fought back. It is a love story, a horror story, and an amazing adventure coming out of a personal quest for truth and justice too long denied.

Lindsey, Dave, and those they have gotten to know, are not only fighting for their own rights, they are fighting for their country, its vision, and for the future that will be the heritage of generations unborn.

When something is worth fighting for you must always remember that you could lose.

Preface

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Life is what happens when we were making other plans. I am a strong believer in recycling the substance and insights, and pain of life for better purposes. In that spirit, this book was written. Please forgive its imperfections, which are many. The author did the best she could.

Thanks to everyone who helped me with the research on GREED. Special thanks to Marian Replogle Walker, Jennifer MacLeod, Doug Greene, and my son Justin Foster.

Many of those who helped prefer not to be named for a variety of reasons. Thanks to them, too. Without these special people, named and unnamed, I would not have been able to do this.

For Liberty,
Melinda Pillsbury-Foster

Dedication

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“Trees breathe in light and breathe out life. Listen carefully and you will hear them.”

- James Dean

This book is dedicated to

James Byron Dean

Who first taught me to think for myself, question all authority, and see beyond the borders of convention to untapped worlds of ideas, hope, and peace. Thank you, Jimmy.

Chapter One - The Fabituso Society Meeting

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"Ignorance is preferable to error, and he is less remote from the truth who believes nothing than he who believes what is wrong."

-Thomas Jefferson (Notes on Virginia, 1782)

January, 2000

The slush had oozed into his rubber boot a block away from the Yale Club, sending a shock of cold into his foot through the growing crack on the bottom. The shoes looked fine from the top and had seen him through his graduation from high school in Shipslide, Connecticut, through four years of college at Moundville and into his first job here in New York. He ignored the smirk of the footman who took his coat and rubbers, pouring out the rest of the water. His socks were soggy. He tried to ignore the squishing sound it made; he grabbed the ticket from the man, already grudging the dollar it would cost to redeem his stuff.

“Upstairs, second floor” was the response to his question. A friend had told him about the monthly get-to-gethers at their mutual graduation the spring before. He had not needed to mention the lavish hors d’ourves served up with pointed discourse, the open bar where wine and liquor flowed unceasingly all evening. Dave had been sufficiently motivated by the mention of other freedom-oriented people who were in the know. The addition of a speaker on a subject of interest and the faint possibility he might meet someone of the opposite gender had made this a top priority as soon as he could manage to get here. He had relocated back to the East Coast on December 31, 1999, moving into a tiny box of an apartment, three flights up without an elevator for which he paid $1200 a month down near the Village. Partially unpacked boxes still lined one wall of the studio. He came to New York via Michigan, Texas, and California with brief stops at home in Connecticut. It had been a busy seven months.

He spent most of every week in New Hampshire, commuting back up to the City for coordinating meetings and to spend a few hours listening to the couple who lived next door alternate lovemaking and arguing. Both activities were noisy.

Dave looked around for Brian, his friend from Moundville. Brian had gone on from Moundville to law school at Columbia. The two had shared classes at Moundville since their first economics class together with Professor Barker. The Gnome, as his students called him behind his back, had made a religion of the work of Ludwig von Mises, the Nobel laureate whose papers were stored in a vaulted addition to the library at Moundville. The deceased economist had also been short and it became apparent that Professor Barker did not like men who stood taller than his own five feet six. Dave stood six feet four in his stocking feet but his courtesy and good manners meant he never answered disrespectfully. It had cut no slack with the Gnome that Dave was named for the economist, his full name being David von Mises Elder. Brian, himself two inches over six feet, had learned the previous year that a snappy comeback would end hostilities forever more.

Dave was just too good natured to fight back, thus eliciting the necessary respect. That and his shyness around women made some people speculate he was gay. He had never dated anyone while he was at Moundsville except for one blind date arranged by Brian. The relationship had lasted exactly the length of that one date. The girl was willing, but she was not asked out again, occasionally making wistful comments to Brian. Whatever kind of female attracted Dave it was not Darlene. Brian suspected there was a story there, wondered briefly himself if Dave was gay and then just accepted him as he was.

In fact, Dave was enormously attracted to girls. But his dreamy and romantically idealistic nature had collided with reality very early. He was scared, having been traumatized by an event in high school that still caused him to wake up in the middle of the night, shivering and sweating.

Dave had first seen Nannette Sacks when she entered his eighth grade homeroom class. Her family had just moved to town from Boston. Nann’s father was an attorney for the largest manufacturing concern in town, Paymax Petrol. Mr. Sacks had therefore been a very junior associate of the former senator from Connecticut, the Honorable Bristol S. Branch. Dave was been struck dumb by Nann’s golden beauty and twinkling smile. She had grinned right at him and then sat down in the very next chair. That it had been the only vacant chair in the room had not made this any less exciting for young Dave. The moment that marked his emotional trauma had followed many years of dog-like loyalty. Nann was not only beautiful she was intelligent, something Dave found immensely attractive.

The two became, not friends, but cordial acquaintances sharing discussions on economics, social policy, and the heroic nature of Barry Goldwater and the first throes of exaltation from the work of Ayn Rand. Dave still treasured the hard cover copy of “Atlas Shrugged” that Nann had given him when they were both juniors. And so it had continued until near their last year of high school.

In a moment of unguarded daring Dave had asked Nann to their prom.

Nann had consented. His small group of friends told him this was because she had been jilted by Ralph W. Branch, the great-grandson of Bristol Branch. Ralph did not spend a lot of time at the old family estate in town but he had been there for several summers so that his great aunt could exercise some control while his parents and grandparents were campaigning. Ralph had now moved on to Yale, a many times over legacy who promised to make at least as much trouble as the three previous generations of his family had done. He had left Nann clutching her hanky and waving at the limo that had fetched him. To Dave this had been the opportunity of a life time. He and Nann had avoided any really personal conversations about who Nann dated or about any part of their lives that was not intellectual. Perhaps it could have happened; but it didn’t.

So when Dave announced to his family that he would be attending the prom just two weeks before the scheduled event they had gaped at him in disbelief. His mother, however, soon entered into the spirit of the thing. The event was being held at the local country club, a rarified atmosphere into which Dave had not previously ventured except to sneak over the fence at night and scrounge for golf balls to sell. Grandpa was annoyed and expressed this by asking Dave what he thought he was doing wasting money needed for his college in such profligacy? But Dave was determined. Since that moment when Nann had smiled into his eyes he had hoped and waited for moment such as this. It must be perfect. It must be something out of a book. In fact, he wanted it to be like something out of Atlas Shrugged.

Asking her had been amazingly simple. He approached her at the Friday night football game and she, herself, had taken his arm and moved him away from her gang of friends. He had managed to get out the words, “Prom, date, please,” in some order and she had stunned him by saying, “Wow! Sure Dave. Sounds great!” Her face had lit up and he had momentarily realized how depressed she must be over Ralph. For the next two weeks his life had only one focus.

He had bought the tux at the thrift store for $5.00. It had hardly been used and his mother had been able to bring it in two sizes, leaving it just a tiny bit large for him and just a touch short in the sleeves. He had invested in the new shoes he was still wearing tonight. The corsage had been picked after agonizing comparisons and indecision from the most elegant florist in town in the color specified by Nann, a creamy mauve trio of roses with tulle and satin ribbons that fit snugly to the wrist. This set him back twenty-five dollars. His mom had ooed and ahhhed over the confection while it remained in the family refrigerator. The dropped receipt had sent Grandpa through the roof again with eruptions of German. Dave’s mom was delighted. While she had said nothing she also was worried that he might be gay.

Through the entire two weeks Dave hardly ate he was so nervous. He made up for this by gorging himself during the romantic dinner for two at the River Walk, a fashionable eatery in town, before taking her to the country club for the actual dance. That is why it was no real surprise that when he dropped her off after the uneventful dance; he had managed at least that without a problem; he had thrown up as he bent forward to kiss her as the two of them stood in the dim light of the entryway next to her family’s front door on the front porch. The vomit flowed like an eruption of lava from the tucked satin of her bodice on to the matching pink surface of her shoes.

Dave did not go to graduation. He told his parents he was sick and that the school would mail the diploma. He left for Michigan three days later; telling his parents he was going to get a job to augment the miserly scholarship afforded him by Moundville. His visits back home were brief. He refused to answer calls from his old friends. He had not seen Nann since she ran screaming into the front door of her family’s four car Colonial although he had gotten a letter from her that summer in Moundville he never opened. Three years later she married a classmate from her college in Massachusetts. His mother sent him the clipping from the local paper.

Dave still not been kissed except by his cat, Fuzz Ball. He was still hopelessly attracted to intelligent and blondly beautiful women.

Showing up here at the Fabituso Society could be good for Dave in a lot of ways. Dave had become interested in politics when he was very young, partially through his conversations with his grandfather. The organizations that make up the interconnected world of Republican politics in America are joined at the hip by individuals, their personal and professional interests, and the give and take of issues understood through their varying perspectives. But in places like this those viewpoints came together in one room. Here, deals were cut, jobs found, careers made. The White House might be problematical but these evenings were the home turf for Republicanism in America.

Brian’s insistence he come was not all disinterested friendship. Brian’s talent was finding young Republicans with promise and Brian always knew who to know. Brian had interned for the local congressman for Moundville, a real staunch Conservative, at his office in D. C. during their senior year and had, because of the outstanding recommendation of the Congressman, landed a part-time job with lots of Potential at the New York Institute, a think-tank that gleamed with moneyed promise located right here in the City. The New York Institute along with the Cicero Institute, located in D.C., had originally sponsored this monthly event and the website that touted it and its connection to the rising power of the NeoCon faction of the Republican Party.

Brian knew the value of young men such as Dave. The Movement had a use for them; they were the currency of networking.

Dave Elder looked around. Along with the food and open bars there were lavish arrangements of flowers, elaborate enough to make Martha Stewart twitch.

No one seemed to notice him. That did not bother him. Being tall had made him all too conspicuous before. His suit bagged a little in the pants and soon, maybe this week, he would need to have it cleaned again. It, too, had been with him far longer than was appropriate. He looked around for Brian but did not see him. It was mostly paunchy, power-suited men, younger and far thinner men, seasoned with a scattered selection of females who fell roughly into very limited categories. Republican events were always like that. Briefly, Dave again wondered about this odd fact. The largest women’s organization in the world was Republican; that was the Women’s Forum. Dave’s mom had been a member of the club in their home town. But few women went into real politics. Like here, for instance. Where were the women? There were two men for every woman in the room.

Like the one presently drinking and laughing right down into her gut just inches from him women who were active were either horsy, young and on the make, older, overdressed and on the make, or not made up at all, discernibly female only because they were wearing skirts and this was a Republican event. Dave hastily reformatted this assumption. He had gotten to know some Republicans from the Log Cabin Club. Not all Republicans were straight. He had learned that when a well-known figure had put a hand of his knee one evening after a Cicero conference.

This monthly meeting drew in regulars and also served as a meeting point for the larger, invisible structure of what he had heard called, The Movement.

Over in the corner Dave recognized a face. Carly Brown was a pundit who published frequently in various Conservative and Libertarian publications. She was definitely in the barely female category, he could see. He had noticed her by line the month before in Rationality and last year in American Retrospection. Once she was speaking her mind on motherhood and the next time on abortion.

He had liked what she had to say. She avoided the blusterings of intimidation and true believer exhortations that were usual in most of the articles that originated from Conservatives. All of these people were part of that larger motion of ideas that fascinated him. He started towards her brushing by a woman whose back was turned.

“Well hi there!” The blond turned around, lashing him slightly with her hair which was arranged like a pony tail sprouting from the top of her head. She looked him up and down. He felt briefly as if he had just failed Kindergarten. She was the older variety of female presence but still curvaceous and disturbingly attractive. Her eyes were a vivid green, nearly emerald.

“Oh, hi,” he stammered slightly, hating himself for sounding like an idiot as he shook her offered hand.

“Well you are new here. Let me introduce myself. My name is Babbs Bronson and this is Don Richardson.” Babbs paused looking archly at Dave. “Don writes Page Three and a Half.”

Even Dave, new in New York, knew what that meant. He had not expected to meet the most dangerous purveyor of gossip here.

“Wow. Nice to meet you. Ah, I have never had sex with an intern except for that time I was…no, really, nice to meet you. My name is Dave Elder. First time. Great, great……” he continued to babble as he shook hands all around.

Richardson face broke into a smile that briefly reached his eyes as they shook hands. He opened his mouth to say something.

“Where did you go to school?” Babbs in a glance had ascertained Dave’s approximate age and immediately launched into the meat of things.

“Moundville.” Dave ducked his head a little.

“Ohhhh……how nice.” She fluttered her eyelashes just slightly. “They have turned out some excellent people.” Babbs drew out her words, emphasizing every syllable.

“Working?” Babbs interrupted his recitation of his student history. “Well, I was just hired to work on the Jeff Lawrence campaign.” Jeff Lawrence was the Republican Governor from Tennessee who looked hot for the primary season. He was doing well in New Hampshire.

“We were just considering the presidential primaries. Let’s cut right to the chase. What do you think of your candidate’s chances?” She smiled coyly, glancing at Richardson. Her companion looked more interested now.

Richardson grimaced slightly, shifting his drink from his right hand. “What are you doing for Lawrence?” He asked Dave.

“Coordinating college volunteers for New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire is a killer state. Good luck to you. Here is my card if you hear any interesting rumors.”

“Thanks, I don’t have any; yet,” stammered Dave.

“Just e-mail me.” With that Richardson nodded and turned away.

Babbs was moving towards the bar.

“So, Babbs, tell me about this next….” Babbs, dressed in a low cut blackly form fitting dress that just barely avoided showing her nipples did not look up as he moved on.

Curiously enough, the Fabituso Society had been named for a highly placed flunky of the present liberal administration as a simultaneous insult and thanks for the many bloopers he had made that had created so many opportunities for political attack. Having the monthly event at the Yale Club was good political positioning.

The Yale Club had the feel of old money although Dave knew as he looked around that many of those gathered in the room were newly minted Americans no matter how politically prominent they might be now. His family had been around for a while. For three generations his family had been American instead of German and Polish although those generations had been spent mostly in blue-collar jobs like carpentry and retail. But he had done his homework; augmenting the clear-eyed viewpoint of his grandfather, who had taught at Salzburg in the 1930s, leaving his native Germany because he wanted his son and daughter to grow up in America. That choice meant he changed professions, becoming a contactor and finish carpenter for families like the Branches.

Many of those present here were also German rather than the WASPs they pretended to be.

Dave moved towards the buffet table. He felt less alone now. It was not so different from his first year at college.

Piling a plate with tiny sausages, cheese and carrots, the vegetable that least disgusted him, he gobbled down munchies in lieu of dinner, retreating again to the sidelines to watch the milling throng. He still felt invisible, but he didn’t mind that for now. He was here to meet people; the right people.

Although he had never met them he recognized the notables from their pictures posted along with articles from the various Internet sites. Pundits, those postulators of pervasive opinion, were thick upon the ground. Pundits were the savants of policy, forging public opinion and feeding whole sentences into the mouths of that other class of Conservative aristocracy, the Radio Personalities. From there those opinions radiated out through the speeches of the up and coming peerage of Republicanism, the candidates. These were among the most powerful of movers and shakers in the Movement, drawn from think-tanks, law firms, journalism, and from the ranks of those who forged the messages that won elections. Dave had never wanted to be a pundit. It was the excitement of the campaign that had made him decide to major jointly in law and political science with a minor in economics. He had not needed much formal study of economics. His German grandfather had made sure he understood the subject. It had proven to be useful. He was not the most incisive student but he frequently could provide insight more academically focused graduates lacked.

Elections were the futures market for power and money. He knew this was a variation on the original Mencken quotation but in this crowd this was the proper variation.

There over by that potted palm, holding forth to a cadre of respectful listeners was the member of the editorial Board of the Canal Street Journal who was marked for advancement in the Branch Campaign for President. He caught his breath. There was the editor of Federal Oversight, the preeminent conservative journal read like a Bible by everyone in the Movement. Dave felt a thrill of excitement shimmer through him like a wave of electricity. He was in the presence of real power. If a Republican could take this next election some of those present would be high up in that administration. A pang of unease ran through him as he again chewed over some of the unappetizing insights he had recently discovered. Time to think about that later. Now was the time to mix.

His palms were sweating just a little. He wiped them down his pants leg, flexing them. He thought about wandering over to listen and introduce himself.

“Dave Elder?” Mark Stanley had been two years ahead of him at Moundville. Dave remembered immediately that Mark had been hired straight out of college to work for the New York Institute. The New York Institute along with The Cicero Foundation jointly sponsored this monthly event as a meet, greet, and net for the upcoming and the arrived.

“Mark! Wow, I had no idea you would…”

“Oh, yeah, I never miss if I can help it. This is the place to be if you are in New York. Just like the Thursday Evening Club in D.C.”

Dave paused. He had not heard of the Thursday Evening Club.

“This is amazing.” Dave said as he looked out through the crowd.

“It can be.” Mark glanced at him. “I heard you are working for Lawrence.”

“Yes. Good offer and I need the experience.” Dave was cautious about showing the enthusiasm for his candidate he really felt. Lawrence was a moderate and had not been popular with the powers that be at Moundville.

“Are you still at New York? Dave rushed to ask, forestalling a question on ideology. Mark was not the person with whom to talk ideology. His opinion had always filled the entire room, leaving no space for other viewpoints.

“I took a leave of absence to work for the Branch Campaign. Randolph S. Branch was the present Governor of Texas, the scion of a short dynasty of political power that had actually begun in Dave’s own hometown in Connecticut. His grandfather had worked for the grandfather of the present generation of Branch’s back when they were just making it in the oil business. Gramps had often pointed out the cottage on the lavish estate he had built for the family. He never failed to point out that they were slow to pay and always wanted extras at no cost.

“Wow. What are you doing for the campaign?”

Mark rolled the wine around in his glass, examining the color. He sipped.

“I’m working directly with Humstead. He is supposed to drop by tonight.”

Dave was impressed. Humstead was possibly the most powerful political strategist now living. He was also ferocious, sneaky and entirely focused on winning. Dave’s source on Humstead was right from the horse’s mouth.

“Umm. That must be an experience.”

“Yes. Craig Humstead is a master of getting the job done. When your candidate loses give me a call. I may be able to find something for you.” Mark gave a quirk of a smile.

“Card.” Mark flipped out the small rectangle seemingly from thin air.

Ignoring Dave’s embarrassed explanation about his own cards Mark turned away. The interview was over.

Dave turned and began shouldering his way towards the bar, his mind seething with a conflict of ideas. So preoccupied was he that he failed to notice the man chatting with two women until he had knocked the older woman’s drink, spilling it onto the burgundy dress of the younger.

“Oh! Excuse me.” Dave restrained an impulse to wipe the liquid off of the garment, realizing immediately just how inappropriate that would be. The young woman with the huge dark eyes and blond hair exclaimed and then laughed.

“No problem. It won’t show when it dries.” She smiled. This smile reached her eyes. Both eyes and face were intelligent as well as beautiful, arresting Dave’s attention.

Putting his hand out he introduced himself, ignoring the others.

“Lindsey Smithson. This is my mother, Linden Smithson and this is Tom Dicks.”

Dave did not need to be told. Tom Dicks was the member of the Editorial staff from the largest national publication in the world he had noticed earlier. He even had an award named in his honor. Smiling woodenly he turned to shake hands. Tom Dicks smiled and extended his own hand more slowly.

Dave had seen Tom Dicks before when he spoke at Moundville but he had never noticed just how rumpled he was. There were white streaks down his suit. Dave found himself peering covertly at them, wondering how they got there.

“Ah, very good to meet you, sir. I heard you speak when you were at Moundville last spring. It was truly inspiring.”

“We are living in amazing times, confronting all of the evils imaginable in the most immediate and significant way.” As Dicks spoke the specifics of the speech he had given at Moundville came back to Dave. It had been a call for honesty and honor in the marketplace of ideas as well as an increased vigor in pursuing the policies of the free market for the good of the nation. He had been moved nearly to tears over the story of the young girl, an East German, trapped by Communism. Dicks had met her in a brief walk through in East Germany during an assignment and given her enough money to feed her family through a particularly harsh winter. Dicks, nearly in tears himself, had told the story as an example of the need to reach out with the truth only a real freedom can offer. The story had ended with her contacting Dick again after the Wall came down. Dicks’s columns always focused on his relentless pursuit of the wrong-doings of the present administration. He had said during the speech at Moundville that his life had been threatened by those near to President Quince.

Dicks went on smoothly, talking about the primary battle now being fought out in New Hampshire.

“So do you have a candidate, Dave?”

“I’m working on the Lawrence campaign; doing campus organizing for him down here and arranging transport to New Hampshire.

Dicks smiled kindly. “He can’t win, you know.”

Dave had been beginning to think that himself. Lawrence looked good, sounded good, and had good profile. He had started with the edge and was gaining a strong lead in New Hampshire but while New Hampshire was important it was not enough. Dave had taken the offer because he was much more comfortable with Lawrence’s positions than he was with the record of any of the other candidates. They struck him as too far to the right or even worse, ethically inconsistent. But Lawrence’s problems were now appearing. He was a veteran and a hero but there were all of the strange rumors about his personal life. Dave found this troubling; how could this happen to a straight arrow like Lawrence?

Lawrence connected well with the man and woman on the street. He got down and really went into issues while making emotional contact. In New Hampshire not being a real guy who could talk to voters was the kiss of death. In New Hampshire the average voter expected to have the candidates call on them personally. New Hampshire was often a shock to political wanna-bes newly working on a presidential campaign. That was no problem for Lawrence. He was a pleasure to work for.

Lawrence, however, did not have the same kind of connections in different circles possessed by Branch. He did not have multigenerational family money.

Dave suspected he would be out of a job in just a few months but that was how it was in politics. That was one of the reasons he was here.

While Tom Dicks talked Dave glanced at the young woman he had soaked with his drink. Something about Dicks’ body language made him wonder if they were an item, although the other woman seemed more Dicks’ age and type. Dave had heard that Dicks was involved with a younger woman while he was still at Moundsville. The rumor had come through someone whose girl friend was a sorority sister of the woman in question – or her sister. Suddenly Dave realized there were several Smithson sisters from what Lindsey had said earlier.

Moundsville was not just any small college. It was the premier Conservative educational institution in the world. The school made a point of not accepting government funds, substituting scholarships and grants from private sources. Its endowment was huge. Its reputation was unblemished until just a few years before when the daughter-in-law of the president had committed suicide, leaving a note admitting that for twenty years her father-in-law had been her lover and was in fact the father of her child. Gregory Bugsley had been the dynamo who had turned Moundsville from another struggling Midwest school with a history of long term integration beginning before the Civil War into a newly growing and dynamic institution. They had begun reaching out and speaking out on issues of academic freedom. His fundraising had put its endowment in the hundreds of millions of dollars, a real accomplishment for a college that yearly served only 1000 students. Its outreach newsletter, Prime Thoughts, sent to over a million households in America, carried articles on nearly every aspect of the issues and always included a fundraising envelope.

This girl, Lindsey, could be the one Jeff Le Strange mentioned. Neither of the women fit into the categories he normally found in Republican circles. Most of the younger ones looked like the tall horsy girl now edging into their grouping between the potted palm and the bar. But this was not the thing that most struck Dave. Dave realized he had seen Lindsey before and he knew where, it was at the Medieval Weekend last year in Colorado. It was a very connected world. Dave opened his mouth to mention this just as Lindsey turned away.

“Hey, Lindsey, how have you been?” A tall horsy girl gleamed briefly at Lindsey and then glanced towards Tom Dicks, ignoring everyone else.

During the introductory exchange, his monologue interrupted, Tom Dicks had been looking off towards the double door leading into the large and lavishly furnished room. His attention now recalled he murmured politely, excusing himself and heading towards the door. The man entering was Craig Humstead. Mark was already there, smiling and bobbing.

Dave glanced as the two met, shaking hands and chatting. Dave found himself thinking about the things he had learned about Humstead the previous summer. After graduation he had desperately needed work, so he had taken a job in Texas his grandfather had, almost magically, found for him through a buddy. So he had spent a full four months helping a transplanted Connecticut Yankee with his life’s dream. That dream was to sell Recreational Vehicles. Big ones.

Bert Sowers, the transplanted Connecticut native, had gotten an opportunity to buy a dealership in an upscale area outside of Dallas. To save money Dave slept in the unit they kept to demonstrate just how cool the rig could be kept through the long, slow simmer of summer. Bert was not at all political but one of his customers was. Dave had struck it off with George Weston when George had stuck his head into the brand new American Condor by Fleetwood. Dave was still sleeping in the Owners Suite, having fallen asleep testing the huge television set. This was more luxury than he had ever imagined. The vehicle was decorated in what the manufacturer called Cashmere Cream. It cost more than his father had made in ten years of employment in construction.

George had hollered and walked in, looking over the unit while Dave scrambled out of bed and ducked into the bathroom. George was a good ol’ boy but a genuinely nice guy. Over the two weeks it had taken George to decide he wanted this model but in Legacy Silver, they had become fast friends. And Dave had gotten to know some things about Craig Humstead, who was the reason George was liquidating his property in Texas and, as George put it, “getting his ass out of Texas.”

Dave’s attention was pulled back to Lindsey. She was smiling at him.

“I noticed you earlier talking to Babbs.” Her smile twinkled a little. “Babbs can be rather frightening but she is really very talented. You should see one of her films sometime.” Dave nodded.

“Sounds good. When are we going?”

Lindsey laughed and Roberta, the big gawky woman, interjected a comment about Don Richardson of Page 3 ½. Roberta was wearing what looked like a Gucci dress in a color between dun and mauve that sallowed her face to an unhealthy tint. They were talking about Roberta’s job at the FreeMarketPlace. The online book store actually predated the internet, opening its doors for business in the seventies when the Libertarian movement was well begun and Ayn Rand’s followers were still sprouting gold dollar signs from various parts of their anatomies.

Dave gathered from what he heard that Roberta was unhappy with the slightly glorified position of clerk and was convinced that Lindsey could help her do better.

“I would be happy to loan you one of the films Babb’s has made. I have the whole set.” She smiled, looking straight into his eyes. She threw her head back a touch and took a sip from her wineglass. Dave swallowed as his stomach rose towards his lungs.

The next few minutes always struck Dave, in retrospect, as having been lived out in some kind of a time warp. The noise level in the room had grown steadily all evening but now all he could hear was Lindsey. She filled him in, indicating as needed, the various personalities in the room, some public and some just important to know; some funny. Lindsey found a lot to laugh about and Dave noticed that her nose wrinkled a little across the top whenever she laughed out loud, which was often. From there their chat moved on to more personal things and Dave found himself telling her about the mouse Fuzz Ball had brought in the house, still alive, and dumped in his mother’s open sewing box. He had found Fuzz Ball there guarding it, the tiny rodent cowering next to the pin cushion. He had rescued it, to Fuzz Ball’s disgust and outrage. Lindsey laughed and told Dave about her cat, Cardamom. Cardamom had gone after lawyers. The cat always knew, digging in his claws as soon as one walked in the door and clinging like a limpet.

Dave appreciated the story and the verbal tour. He really wanted to know Lindsey better.

Chapter Two - Dave's Apartment

2007-04-15T12:30:00.001-07:00

“Few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder.”

- George Washington

Dave’s Apartment - January 2000

Dave woke Wednesday morning face down on his bed. The first thing he heard was the rising noise of traffic and commerce filtering up from the street three flights below. He did not immediately open his eyes. That seemed like too much of a commitment. Images wafted through his mind, drawn from the curious intersection of his entire life history and the new insights last night had left there like the ring in a bathtub. Not that he had a bathtub. The shower in the bathroom was the size of a coffin upended though not nearly so well built. The kitchen was an alcove in the back corner to the left of the door.

He had not started to drink until rather late in the evening, long after his memorable conversation with Lindsey and her mother. Dave did not usually drink at all, which accounted for his present state.

Lindsey. The name and just a nuance of her perfume lingered in his mind. They had talked for a few minutes, just the two of them. That had happened later in the evening, after his introduction and after having chatted with her mother. The knot of focus had disbanded with the entry of Humstead and the hasty departure of Ricks. He had fought off the nausea and pretended to a nonchalance he had not felt as they talked--first about Fuzz Ball and then the primary in New Hampshire and later about his time at Moundville.

When the subject had turned to Ayn Rand she had laughed and told him to talk to her mother, turning to her. The mother, Linden, had rolled her eyes. She had been chatting with Randy Castlethorp, the functionary employed in lowly degree at the New York Institute who was nominally in charge of the Fabituso Society. Randy was a short and roundish young man who tried very hard to ensure that everyone was enjoying themselves. He also made the rounds, ensuring that everyone was greeted, however briefly.

The following conversation had surprised him. Linden had read Atlas Shrugged when she was thirteen. She had named one of her numerous offspring for the heroine in the story. Dagny was also a graduate of Moundsville. The conversation had gone on with her recounting with amusement some of the stranger moments of political history she had personally witnessed over the last thirty years. Dave had learned a lot about personalities he knew only from their written work or from seeing them on television. He had mostly listened. He had shared an abbreviated history of his own, finding it easy to talk to Linden about his life. She had been sympathetic, clucking at the appropriate moments.

During the course of the conversation, he asked for and received Linden’s business card. He thought this was a clever move since he already knew that the two shared an apartment here in the city. Linden knew a lot and had provided him with some unsuspected leads for pursing a project that had begun as an idle amusement but was now becoming a central focus of his attention. He did not believe in the Illuminati, but since he had sat down to drink beer one late afternoon with George Weston his attitude about the world he thought he lived in had changed. Late afternoon had turned into evening and then into the first dusky glimmerings of morning before George had started to cry. George was not the kind of guy who cried. He had seen his wife die of cancer without tears and buried all of his three children one after another without breaking down. But now he was consumed with great, gasping racks of sobs. It had been frightening to see. It had made an impression on Dave that would never fade.

There were bad guys out there, and he needed to know who they really were. He was also fascinated by Lindsey and determined to overcome his stomach once and for all.

While Dave was talking to Linden the Major Domo of the event; the same Randy who had been chatting with Linden when Dave walked over, had clapped his hands and announced that they would now hear the speaker for the evening. The Major Domo, around five feet nine inches of him, possessed a roundish and bouncy form that perfectly matched his personality. Dave remembered that his face had struck him as permanently fixed into a smile of the cheesiest kind. At this point Dave could not even remember his name. Dave strained his brain briefly. Still no dice. It was about then that he had noticed Jan Morton come in. She was very noticeable. Jan definitely looked female, although rather flat chested. She had long, nearly white blond hair and huge hazel eyes. Jan was a pundit and therefore must be intelligent. Her most recent book, Barbarians, was sitting in the pile next to his bed. He had read the first three chapters and then put it down, curiously disappointed. He wanted to ask her some questions. He decided there was no time like the present and began edging his way around the perimeter of the room. Jan was standing just outside the doors, chatting with two lawyer-types. They could not be political. They were too well dressed.

The speaker droned on about something to do with deregulation. He had written a book on the subject, of course, and Dave knew that immediately following there would be a line forming to buy the latest tome and have it autographed. Most of the books written by political types did not hit the best seller list; but they were bought and read by that thin layer of devotees for whom this was the real world.

For the first three years of college he had read everything, either buying it outright or borrowing it from friends or the Library in Moundville. Then he had noticed something that began to bother him. It had happened when he read ten of them back to back over the summer. All of the books seemed to follow a formula and all of them, if you placed the content on the graph he had formulated, carefully ignored certain subjects or actually seemed to create justifications not adhering to market principles in certain areas of human action.

Odd. That had been the beginning. This event had coincided with other chance happenings. Dave had been seated in the Library at Moundville, a gorgeous edifice dedicated to freedom and intellectual inquiry, when the pristine silence of the nearly empty building had been punctured by two voices, speaking low but very clear to him on the other side of a tall bookcase as he sat hunkered down at a library table.

One of the voices was female and the other male. Dave recognized them. One was a professor and the other worked in administration. The woman, Claire Manning, was obviously distressed; the man was trying to calm her down. Dave slumped down further into his seat very, very quietly. He knew that the rules of good behavior mandated that at this point he make his presence known or leave silently, but the subject was the suicide of President Gregory Bugsley’s daughter-in-law. Dave’s curiosity on this tragic event had never been sated.

Claire had been a close friend of Loretta’s, Bugsley’s daughter-in-law. Bugsley had seduced Loretta soon after she married his son. The affair had gone ever since on and off Loretta had confessed to Claire that last day. It had been three years since the event. Why was Claire breaking down now? Dave strained to hear.

The story was illuminating.

Claire had talked to Loretta the day before she shot herself. The woman was upset because not only had Bugsley dumped her after divorcing his wife of many years, so had her other lover, a prominent pundit whom Dave had seen at the Fabituso Society for the first time. Claire had been shocked that Loretta had two lovers and told her so. Loretta has admitted that it was wrong, but pleaded for understanding. She had loved and admired them both; both had dumped her on almost the same day. That had been the last time Claire had seen Loretta alive.

The aftermath had been grisly. The president had resigned; the trustees had circled the covered wagons and refused to answer questions. The administration of the college had been radically changed. No word about the pundit’s relationship with Loretta and how this had also moved her to self destruction was ever mentioned.

Then, just today the pundit had called Claire and nonchalantly asked for a date, since, as he evidently said, he would be out there speaking next week and their mutual friend, Loretta, had said so many wonderful things about her. Claire had refused to see him. The call had taken place just a few minutes before.

Dave slid out of his seat, gathered up his books and backpack, and softly headed for the exit. Thinking about the incident still shocked him.

That incident had followed almost immediately on the expulsion of two students from Moundville for publishing an alternative newspaper. Evidently freedom of speech was something to be discussed and not actually done.

All of these incidents stood in stark contradiction to the stated goals and values of Moundville. The tiny college was over a hundred years old and had admitted its first black student before the Civil War. That had been a real act of courage. What had happened?

As the speaker continued, his monotone unchanging, Dave paused. Linden had given him a lot more to think about. Pieces were falling into place and he did not like the picture that was emerging. Now, hours later, he had decided that an open bar was an attractive nuisance.

The conversation with Jan had been brief. She had looked to see if he had one of her books in hand. Noticing that he didn’t, she had helpfully told him where he could order it. When he laughed she looked annoyed. She also helpfully provided him with the URL for her website. Just in case he had not yet had time to read her opinion pieces and look over the gallery of very attractive pictures. The card she handed him was printed on both sides; the first with the URL and a list of her books, the second side was a very attractive picture of herself leaning slightly forward. Having handed this to him, Jan went back to her conversation. The three continued to talk about a possible congressional race Jan seemed to be considering in Connecticut.

Eventually Dave wandered off, only later realizing that for the first time he had not become nauseated in the presence of a beautiful woman who was touted for her intelligence.

An hour after waking, Dave had managed to drink several glasses of water and swallow some aspirin. He was beginning to feel cheerful, although if he moved rapidly the elephants still trampled through his head.

He sat down at his computer, balancing a cup of coffee, extra strong, on the slim piece of desk that was not covered by piles of papers and hardware.

For a long time now Dave had been making notes on the movement in which he was such a small and insignificant cog. He had gotten the idea online while peering at a graph that showed the relationships between the various individuals and think tanks. Cool, he had thought. But what about…..and that had lead to this series of charts and notes, kept quite openly on a free website. The location of this astonishing nexus of information spanning a growing depth and breadth of networks and interests were hidden in plain sight. He had started to share it once or twice and then, somehow, for some reason, decided to keep it to himself.

He went to the URL, which he kept no place but in his own head and began typing, referring to the notes he had made every so often.

Dave let the water sluice across his body in the shower, lathering with the generic brand of soap that smelled faintly like someone had once waved the stopper of a very cheap perfume over the bar as it set. He could cover that up with the aftershave his mother gave him every Christmas.

Dave had kept the television on in the room while he was on the computer and had looked up when Tough Talk had begun to show. He half listened. Two of the pundits now trotting their stuff on the small screen had been at the Fabituso Society meeting the night before. The subject was the Democrat primacy, so Dave let the sound and feel of the water drown out their voices.

After spending hours at his computer he had finally gritted his teeth for a walk through the shards of snow that were whipping across the sidewalks. The grit and trash had been melting through the snow before the latest round of hard pebbled snow had begun coming down like tiny spikes. Hardly anyone else was on the street, but Dave started to feel claustrophobic if he did not get out sometime during the day. He walked up the Village, crossing through Washington Square, now pretty much abandoned by pedestrian traffic, even by the homeless. The corner where heads usually leaned over chessboards was, not surprisingly, vacant. Even the cars seemed to be huddling in on themselves. The doors of shops normally open to business were closed, though lights remained on inside.

As he walked Dave thought about the stories Linden had told him the night before. She had obviously told the stories many times and had assembled them from her memory as much to amuse as inform. It was difficult to see so many of the people he knew from their writing and life work as quite so crazy and frivolous when they were young. Linden had called it the Freedom Movement, using the term as if it were the accepted nomenclature. He had never heard it called that before, even while he was at Moundville. He wondered if the term was accurate; most of the Libertarian-types he had known at Moundville were more libertine than anything else. Hunching his shoulders, he turned west on 9th Street, beginning to circle back towards his apartment near Bleecker and Greene. It was the long way back, but he enjoyed the artificial solitude of the city streets.

In New York there were few Libertarians, though a few usually showed up at the Fabituso Society Meeting, he had been told. Briefly, he thought about the television and news coverage of the Libertarian State Convention where Harvey Storm, the shocking radio host, had been nominated briefly for governor. Several thousand crazed Storm fans, whipped into electoral frenzy by their maestro, had descended on the shocked nerds of the Libertarian Party like locusts. Dave smiled out into the real storm around him. Republicans were more mainstream. Dave wondered what would have happened if Storm had not dropped out as soon as he was nominated.

Moundville had given him a lot to think about; he just hadn’t known at the time what lines of inquiry he should be pursuing.

As Dave opened his door he suddenly heard the television. He had forgotten to turn it off when he was leaving. Clicking off the set he noticed that his phone was blinking. Calls. As he pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over a chair. No one would care if it stayed on the floor for a week, but it would be on his back again so he could leave for New Hampshire on the train from Penn Station this evening.

The first call was from his mother. He would call her back from the hotel in New Hampshire. The second call was a hang up. Dave glanced at the CID on his phone but the number was blocked.

Dave’s job was strictly part time; part of the time here in New York finding and organizing students for canvassing work, and part of the time overseeing their volunteer time in and around New Hampshire. The pay was not too bad – and Lawrence had a good reputation for paying his staff. This was not universally true in politics, especially when the candidate is losing.

Some of the students were in college and some were seniors in high school. In a few cases they were enthusiastic supporters of Lawrence and in most cases they were working for credit for school. Among them were a few who might make politics their careers, but for most this was a diversion into fantasyland. As with most Republican political work, nearly all of the volunteers were young, nerdy males with a tight little sprinkling of young, nerdy females.

And then there was Christopher.

Christopher Mershon had been up working for Lawrence for three weeks now, coming home just long enough to catch up on his class work. Christopher was home schooling and so could use his time to fulfill the course work he had put together for himself. He worked on reports and other school work on the laptop he took with him on the train, ignoring the other volunteers for the most part. He was not standoffish; he would joke and laugh when not occupied.

Christopher was a surprise. He was intelligent, informed, savvy, witty and even good looking. Dave had gotten into the habit of using him to orient new volunteers on the first day he had worked. Dave had been shocked to find out that Christopher was fifteen years old. This had also shocked the college-age blond volunteer who had marked him out as a possible romantic interest during his second week of volunteer work.

This week his crew was working in Derry; visiting every voter and focusing extra attention on those Republicans who had expressed a desire to vote for someone like Branch.

This week the whole crew was staying with an older couple in Derry. Dave had checked the place out and it was huge. This cut costs and there was a real babysitting aspect of organizing college and high school kids for political work. That worked in New Hampshire. Dave would be reluctant to try the same thing elsewhere.

Dave wondered about Christopher just like he wondered about the other political types he encountered in this work. He smiled thinly. There had been a time when Dave had considered himself a political type. What had that changed? When? Glancing back at Christopher, Dave realized that he might be assuming facts not in evidence. Some of the reasons for participating in political campaigns were educational more than political junkieism.

The four weeks remaining would be both exhilarating and demanding. New Hampshire had been the first to ballot since forever and it remained the state that demanded that candidates come clean. Lawrence might ultimately lose; it was even likely, but that was not because he was not cutting a real swath through New Hampshire. Lawrence played well where you got down and close to the voters. Part of the fascination with campaigns was being able to see candidates close up and so get a real idea what they were about.

Lawrence was a straight arrow from all that Dave has seen and heard. That was the thing that made the figures coming out of the other states so frustrating. Branch had a very different kind of reputation. And Branch had Humstead. As far as Dave was concerned, any candidate who used someone like Humstead was bad news for politics and for America.

It suddenly flashed on Dave that it was really getting to know George Weston that had started to change his feelings about politics; or getting to know about Craig Humstead, he added in his reverie. Not that he knew very much; Weston had been careful not to tell him all too much when you really considered how drunk he was. There had been lots of allusions, but few specifics.

There had been a time that he thought that politics was mostly good guys, at least his side. Dave knew that Lawrence was a good guy; if the world worked the way it should Lawrence would be the Republican candidate.

On the way back to New York from New Hampshire the next week Dave dozed, tuning out the volunteers who were laughing and clowning around; mostly seated in back of him. Trains provided plugs on the exterior wall and he had taken out his laptop, intending to get some work done.

“Dave?” Dave glanced up. Christopher was sitting next to him in the previously unoccupied seat. Slowly Dave stretched, sitting up.

“What can I do for you?” Dave had been meaning to get Christopher alone so he could compliment him on his exemplary performance as a volunteer. This would be a perfect opportunity.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for couple of days now…..I don’t think I can do this another week.” Christopher seemed apologetic.

“Well, you’ve already done a lot; that is no problem, really. I know that the campaign appreciates….” Looking at Christopher’s face Dave could see that this was not an issue of an unexpected conflict.

“Politics is a waste of time.” Christopher said sadly, without heat but also without hope. He seemed wistful.

This was not what Dave had expected. “What do you mean?”

Christopher seemed a little embarrassed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put it that way.”

“And maybe you should say what you mean. We can’t talk about it if you don’t--and I do want to know.” Dave leaned towards him, cocking his head slightly to one side. Talking to Christopher about politics, life, and philosophy had become a part of Dave’s day. He saw something of himself in this perhaps overly serious young man.

“My Dad told me that I would be disappointed. But I liked Lawrence. It’s just that the whole thing is a waste of time. It isn’t that I haven’t enjoyed it. I have. But, well,” Christopher’s face screwed up and he struggled to formulate his thoughts. “I listen to the candidates talk at the forums and to voters. I have read nearly everything they wrote, too. But it doesn’t match.”

“Match?” Now Dave was puzzled.

“Right, match. They talk, but their words do not match who they are and what they really do. I don’t like that. I think that what people do is more important than what they say. Before I volunteered, I studied all of the candidates. I gave that to myself as an assignment, correlating what they have done with what they say. That is why I decided to support Lawrence, actually. He is a good man who does not have a chance of winning.”

Dave blinked. This, he had not expected. “You are right. It looks like Lawrence will take New Hampshire where voters get a good look at the real man behind the words, but lose where money trumps. So what do you want to do about it?”

“That I don’t know. I want to do something, but I think I need to go back to square one and think about it.” Christopher smiled a little shamefacedly. “Sorry.”

“Hey, Lincoln freed the slaves. No problem.” The train had plunged into the cavernous tunnels that presaged their arrival at Penn Station. Dave extended his hand. “Please, keep in touch. Working with you has been a pleasure.”

Christopher looked at him; his face relaxed and he smiled. “Yeah. Me too. Well, great. Can I keep in touch?”

“Please, I would be disappointed if you didn’t. You are a mean chess player and I like your taste in books.”

Christopher nodded. Dave knew he would be hearing from him. And about him. Christopher was the kind of kid who would make his mark.

Back in his apartment, Dave thought about what Christopher had said. Politics is a waste of time. Not the most diplomatic thing to say to someone who has taken up politics as a profession, perhaps. Had he? Dave was no longer sure that was true. He had been on automatic since graduation in some ways. Slowly, over the past months, his focus had shifted from politics as profession to…what?

Dave sat down at his computer, an almost automatic action now. He booted up and began to download the files he had uploaded from his laptop in New Hampshire.

On election night Dave was at the victory party, cheering in Nashua. He had experienced that wonderful elation that always comes with the end of a campaign or phase of campaign; a combination of relief and celebration that is present even when you know darn well you are going to take a beating. It had been heady, and the message that Lawrence had delivered had moved him to tears. But what did it really mean? Lawrence had said, “We have sent a powerful message to Washington--change is coming.”

There was no question that the trend in American government, always larger, more costly, intrusive, grasping and less and less effective, had been steady over many years no matter who was in the White House or who controlled Congress. As much as Dave had admired President William Wallace, he was well aware that the government Wallace had left was larger than the one he inherited.

Christopher’s words about how words lie came back to Dave along with a comment his grandfather had made about reinventing square wheels. So much about their system simply did not work. Wallace and Lawrence were both men who lived their words. If even good men struggled what happened when the tendency was for bad men to win? Dave had never admired Wallace more than when he had taken full personal responsibility for the misdeeds of others in his administration. He knew where the buck stopped. But for how many in politics was that true at all? And Lawrence was not going to be occupying the White House.

The days afterwards brought more questions but no answers.

The Democratic Primary was also playing itself out. Vice President Armstrong Fore dropped the cordiality pose in November and began attacking his opponent, former Senator Wesley Bender. In January Bender, facing a dip in his slight lead in New Hampshire, responded in kind pumping up his numbers enough to make the New Hampshire ballot a near draw. Close enough at any rate to let him limp on into the next round.

Dave read everything on all of the candidates. You never knew what would prove to be useful. Bender and Lawrence had been positioned as the underdogs; both clean for Gene kind of guys. Both had opposed soft money in campaigning. Dave dropped the Times onto his lap, not even bothering to fold it neatly back into its original configuration, something he usually did as a matter of course.

What was going on here? Why did the good guys get mowed down like grass?

Florida, St. Petersburg - Veterans of Foreign Wars Post No. 39

Percy Grolick, “PG” as his friends called him, knew his suggestion was likely to be shot down. He never let that kind of thing stop him. His years as an Army Ranger had taught him not to ignore obstacles but to see them as mere tactical inconveniences that could eventually be removed. Sometimes it took time to do that but it could be done.

The last ten years of watching the veterans of America’s military sink further into poverty and need was motivation enough. The decision finally rendered by the Supreme Court that just this week had cleared the way for the government to ignore their obligations to those who had served. It had also jarred PG into more open action. Talking was all fine and good but what had ten years of talk accomplished?

PG raised his hand, asking for recognition.

“Grolick, speak your piece.” The Commander recognized him. It was better, Commander Hays had learned, to get Grolick out of the way early in the meeting. He had to yammer but otherwise he was a good guy, pretty much; worked on their programs and came out to help with clean up when necessary.

PG rose slowly, glancing around the room and then fixing his eyes on the Commander, standing behind the podium flanked by the American flag. They had put in new carpeting the year before but the wives were not happy with the color. It was a bright mustard that reminded them of French’s. They had gotten a great price on both the carpet and installation from a fellow member. The chairs were of the folding variety. A member had gotten them a real deal on these, too.

PG had been thinking about starting a Veterans Party for years now. He had been unhappy with the way servicemen were treated during Vietnam. He had doubled down that anger after the Gulf War. He had ruminated, read, and was now determined. It would be easier to start through another organization; one dedicated to the well-being of Veterans like himself.

“I move to start a committee to register us as a political party. I nominate myself as chairman.” PG sat down.

There was a long silence as the thirty men in the room looked at each other. Some of them shrugged.

“Fails for lack of a second.” The Commander went on briskly to the highway clean up planned for the next weekend.

PG sighed; Back to the drawing board yet again. It could be done; it needed to be done. It would be done. Eventually.

Chapter Three - Malaysian Fantasy

2007-04-15T12:29:00.002-07:00

“By gold all good faith has been banished; by gold our rights are abused; the law itself is influenced by gold, and soon there will be an end of every modest restraint.”

- Sextus Propertius

Malaysian Fantasy

February, 1992

His family loved living in Malaysia. Their villa was located in a lushly landscaped residential area convenient to every imaginable kind of shopping. Fran had initially been slightly intimidated with handling a staff of two, but she had rapidly grown used to not having to clean or cook. She and her endless cadre of friends, mostly wives of other Benron employees, spent time nearly every day wandering along the streets, looking into the windows, dashing in to buy, and then doing afternoon tea at one of the many charming shops dedicated to the purpose. The British Empire might have left in the flesh, but it still lingered in the quaint cottages of the Genting Highlands and in the day to day culture. Rule Britannia had become a part of the complex weavings of peoples and cultures that is Malaysia, joined in an amazing amalgamation with that of the French, Chinese, Indian, and native Malay.

When Bernard and Fran felt like it, which was often, they went out to one of the many restaurants that enjoyed their patronage; either just the family or, at least twice a week, with friends. Fran’s favorite was the Indonesian restaurant, ‘Special Delights’. The series of dining rooms hung out over the beach, backed on the land side by the verdant riot of greenery that made much of Malaysia look like a vivid jewel. Bernard preferred Chinese food.

After the monsoon season the family sometimes took the fifty-mile trip up nearly 2000 meters to the highlands to escape the sweltering heat that made walking even a short distance so uncomfortable. It was just fifty miles, but you were sure to bring along some cool weather clothing because when you arrived you would need it. There, they could stay in a bed and breakfast and the kids could go horseback riding and entertain themselves in the amusement park carved out of a hilltop. Bernard and Fran would rise late, having settled themselves back into the silky sheets piled with a down comforter to ward off the morning nip of chill. They made love slowly, like they never had time to do when he was still in college or when the kids were younger. Sometimes they even missed the lavish Western style breakfast laid out in the dining room and instead ate lunch at one of the series of small restaurants in the village. There were several, but their favorite, which they visited over and over again, was ‘The Wishing Bowl’. The small tables were set with linen at every meal and flowers were always freshly resting in vases made from English tea canisters. Dave’s favorite breakfast was the seafood soufflé; it was filled with the freshest of tiny shrimp and an always-changing medley of other ingredients.

Bernard’s thoughts touched briefly on the sensation of Fran snuggled up next to him afterwards, the two of them sunk in satisfaction as she stroked the small fine hairs on his chest. So much of their lives together had been wonderful.

When they first arrived in Malaysia it had been June 1st 1989, and the entire country was gearing up for a frenzy of celebration to mark the occasion of his Majesty, the Yang di-Pertuan Agong's official birthday. Malaysia still had a king, although entirely ceremonial.

The family had observed with amazement Their Majesties, the King and Queen, and Malaysians witness the "Trooping and the Colours" by the armed forces. The holiday flavor of the celebration had impressed all of them with the gentle dignity of the Malaysian people.

It seemed like something out of a dream.

Bernard’s job with Benron was not so much a job as a life style. When he had hired on he had not imagined what it would be like – then he just wanted to pay off his bills.

From the moment Bernard added up their debts, sitting at their tiny chrome and Formica kitchen table located in graduate student housing just off campus at Georgia Tech, Bernard had known that the right job for him was one that paid well. He had finished his schooling with highest honors while both of them worked part time. His degree was in engineering with a minor in geology and his job, this job several ranks lower, had found him almost immediately afterwards.

It had meant a lot of moving, of course. But Fran and the kids had seemed to enjoy that at first. Their cycle was normally five or seven years in a new location someplace around the world. Fran had never been out of the South before they married, so a lot had opened up to her.

Bernard and Fran had met when he was just starting his graduate degree and she was recovering from a nasty divorce. They had met at ‘Gumbo’s’, a local eatery near campus where Fran worked as a waitress. Bernard had liked her quick repartee and the tiny dimples that appeared at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. He had never seen creamier skin or eyes that had specks of gold on green before. They were married in just six months and then, after a two night honeymoon at a bed and breakfast in Roswell, Bernard moved them into the tiny apartment with help from Fran’s family.

Seth, Fran’s baby from her first marriage, slept in a tiny bassinet at the foot of their double bed until replaced by Lee, a wiggling and active bundle of joy who joined them exactly one year later just as Bernard was in the throes of finals and graduation.

When Bernard sat down to look at the piles of bills now hanging around his neck from the student loans, the kind of job he needed was very clear. It needed to pay very, very, well.

Benron paid in many different ways. The money had immediately allowed them to do things Bernard had never thought possible, but perhaps even better were the perks. Engineers got a company car and housing when they were stationed outside the United States. Their new friends were similarly well cared for. Bernard and Fran did not bother to put money away, caught up as they were in their new life style. They had participated in the generous stock option plan that Benron offered and knew that their futures were assured.

They had already moved three times in nineteen years when they moved into the villa near Kuala Lumpur. That was five years ago now.

It had taken Bernard eighteen years to even start to wonder at the underlying realities. Fran refused to look.

Bernard had never been able to blame her for that. As with most married couples like themselves, their spheres had been very different. Fran’s world intersected with his only in their home life. His life included long hours in the office combined with time on the road, out on locations and working with the bureaucracy of this country where manana was national policy.

But Bernard’s personal moment of epiphany had been the crystallization of many observations and insights over the years. At first he had been able to ignore the stark ugliness of it. That moment in time had taken place when, as senior engineer and liaison officer, he had been required to put together briefing sessions and an itinerary for the big man himself, Ronald Delmont.

Delmont, the CEO of Benron, was coming in to negotiate with the Prime Minister of Malaysia over the right to do the feasibility study and explorations that go on before any drilling can take place, and thus assure the steady stream of crude oil into their refineries, keeping the income stream flowing. The production of gas for America’s tanks has a long pipeline for development. That was Bernard’s job, to see that a steady supply of crude oil was always available. Therefore as chief engineer, getting Delmont information on every subject that potentially impacted negotiations was firmly within his purview.

As Bernard stared at his computer screen his mouth tightened. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unconsciously shrugging his shoulders. In Bernard’s previous assignments he had been faintly aware at times of the political machinations. Now he was confronting them full on.

The list and prioritized importance of the information demands from Delmont clarified the intentions of Benron’s CEO. But, ruminated Bernard, the man’s style was no-nonsense. Perhaps this wasn’t what it looked like. The tension drained out. Bernard would think about that later.

Malaysia is a collation of thirteen separate tiny provinces, each ‘ruled’ by a Sultan-king. In recent history the thrones were more ceremonial than invested with power. The panoply of excitement that accompanied their various holidays, like the one Bernard and his family had encountered when they first arrived, had a very positive impact on the bottom line for each provincial economy. Royalty is good public relations, a fact demonstrated by the enduring popularity of the British House of Windsor.

The ceremonial occasions and ethnic holidays were happily shared by all of the ethnic groups. This connectiveness had woven a core culture that allowed everyone to get along with minimal tension. It was not uncommon to watch an ethnic Chinese girl take Indian dance lessons with a troop of other giggling girls comprising every possible ethnic background.

The original native people lived on the islands for around 40,000 years. Now a minority, many still lived in dwellings they call longhouses, holding all property in common. Families occupied tiny rooms within the dwelling that might provide shelter for a dozen or more families.

Their culture provided great social benefits. Such modern ills as divorce, violence, and child abuse were practically unheard of, but so was the work ethic as practiced by the West.

More recent arrivals from India and China changed the culture, enriching it and also creating problems. These more recent immigrants were definitely filled with the desire to succeed and therefore out-competed the native people every time.

Originally the Chinese had been imported to do hard labor eschewed by the natives. Now they had moved on to owning businesses – and to professions. In many cases they had to be self-employed because of a book written by Dato’ Seri Abdullah Ahmad Badawi. The opinions therein expressed would have caused racial riots in the United States. Here in Malaysia such opinions were cheerfully accepted by the native Malaysians. Ahmad Badawi asserted in his copiously footnoted text that the native Malay were genetically predisposed to laziness.

Seri Abdullah had written a book on his theory and, whenever possible, saw that the theory was turned into law. He maintained that since the natives were genetically predisposed to be less able to perform, it was essential that government step in and force business to train and employ them, thus allowing them entry into jobs for which they were not prepared. This was fair, he said, because it is the job of government to equalize opportunity. This was a major sticking point for companies who needed technically competent employees.

One of the most critical points for success for Benron was to be able to employ Chinese engineers. Instead, the company would be forced to employ and educate native Malaysians. Given the work ethic, it was doubtful that even after being educated they could do the job like the Chinese engineers who were panting for the opportunity.

Delmont asked for exhaustive studies on every aspect of the Malaysian economy and also that he be provided with an analysis of the political dynamics active in the tiny nation.

Bernard provided everything on time and in exhaustive detail in neat bound volumes with black covers and gold embossing. This was standard operating procedure for Benron. Delmont was picky about the details. Bernard had the reports taken up to the suite in the five star hotel where the CEO was staying so that they would be there when he arrived, along with the bottle of his favorite champagne, a very nice French vintage, and a selection of local delicacies. The rules for dealing with Delmont were laid out to any upper management who might come in contact with his dynamic but caustic personality.

The suite possessed its own kitchen, but on this occasion Delmont was not traveling with his personal chef. He did have a personal assistant with him, a stunning blond who was taller that Delmont by a good five inches. Bernard had been told that she was an economist who would be providing insight into the feasibility of putting the proposed pipeline through a National forest, to travel from the west to the east coast of the country. Bernard had been shocked by the suggestion. There were no roads through the area and it was occupied entirely by native people.

Bernard had not known what to say when this gem of ingenuity had been dropped on him.

The native people had fascinated Bernard from the first time he encountered them. Their courtesy was natural and enduring. Of course, this was also Borneo and Bernard had seen the not so ancient skulls still hanging on longhouses. The older natives well remembered the taste of long pig, but were also aware of the penalties exacted for indulging their tastes. That made their courtesy none the less real.

His first conscious unrest had surfaced during the building of an oil field near the coast on the west side.

That had been a wrenching day. Bernard thought of it as the tipping point; where his doubts and uneasiness about the means employed by the company had begun to overwhelm his satisfaction. He had gotten a call from Fran on his cell phone. They had argued; an all-too-frequent occurrence now. Leaving the noise of the drilling and the sight of dozens of trees being ripped from the earth behind him, he walked off into the welcoming forest, enjoying the humming of the insects and the sounds of a billion leaves dancing in the wind. As he moved away from the ugly sight of the drilling and was enveloped in the natural world, he experienced a sense of peace. He calmed down.

Off in the distance he saw a longhouse. It stood on a slight rise girdled around with trees and gardens. On the far side of a brook that cut through the woods smoke still thinly rose from the cooking fires. Hesitating, he stepped across and wandered towards the long, low building. No skulls here, that was more common farther into the interior.

The native Malays might not have shared the same work ethic, but that did not mean they were lazy, just that they used their time differently and seemed to value very different things. Bernard wondered for a moment what it had been like here before the arrival of the ethnic Chinese, the Indians, and other people whose customs have been cheerfully adopted and merged into those of the native people. Probably some anthropologist could tell him if he ever had time to ask.

Those Malay who still lived in the forest instead of moving into the cities lived very simple lives. The idea of a simple life; of rising, making a simple meal and sitting down to carve or work with his hands suddenly seemed enormously attractive. Bernard could see himself dipping a twig of satay into a savory sauce or enjoying one of the puffy pancake things they made for breakfast. It was a Roti Canai, he suddenly remembered from one of the books Fran had bought soon after they arrived. The family had made a point of going out to restaurants where they could sample the native food, though they used Western utensils instead of eating with their hands curled up as was traditional.

Malays, the natives, were unlike Westerners or the majority of Muslin, Indian and Chinese who had settled here over the centuries. They were not in a hurry to get anyplace; they would spend time on making a piece of carving perfect. Their crafts were lovely and reminded Bernard of a summer he had spent carving an eagle, poised for flight. He wondered briefly what had ever happened to the thing.

Malays eagerly welcomed visitors and urged them to remain as their guests for as long as they liked. They meant it, too. Bernard knew of one American hippy that had moved in and stayed for twenty years. Living cheek and jowl together, they laughed a lot but exhibited what seemed to be infinite good cheer and patience with everyone around them. It was so different.

A tiny child dashed up to Bernard, dancing and laughing in the sun as Bernard came out of the forest near the dwelling. Bernard smiled back at the child. It felt nice to smile and feel the sun on his face.

Bernard’s first glimpse of Ronald Delmont and his advisor, Lily Carson, took place at the airport. Standard operating procedure for Westerners dictated that a driver and car be provided. In this case it was a Rolls Royce, a nod to the departed British Empire, accompanied by a trail of less luxurious vehicles. These provided a visual measure of the importance of Delmont’s visit. The itinerary Bernard had set up for the three days had them visiting sites of drilling, pipelines, and other facilities on both sides of the island.

The first two days were spent in the area round Kuala Lumpur. Then from there they moved the base to the home of one of the other executives on the west coast. That side of the island, three hours from Kuala Lumpur, had no suitable hotels.

On that first night Bernard had arranged through the staff in the office for a full on banquet, attended by the Sultan of each one of the thirteen provinces that made up Malay. The two tiny islands, divided along the center by a high ridge, had gestated through time an amazing variety of crafts and dances. Each Sultan or his underlings had made it a point of pride to present excellent performances of the dance and art of their own province. The evening went on long past midnight since it was important not to slight any of these hereditary leaders, even if they had little power today. Towards the end Delmont was having a hard time hiding his boredom. But Malay had its own rules and not even the CEO of one of the most powerful corporations in the world could change how they did things on their own turf. Although tired himself from the several weeks of preparations and anxiety, Bernard took cynical pleasure in watching Delmont’s frustration.

The next three days had moved Bernard from dissatisfaction and a sense of nagging guilt to outright rebellion, resulting eventually in his exit from the industry that had paid off his student loans twenty-three years before.

The three days with Delmont had been grueling. Delmont, an extremely short man with a baby like face, continued to be bored. The long-planned tour of potential pipelines, laid out by Lily, the economic advisor, proved to be not only disappointing but also embarrassing.

The geology of the islands made building pipelines east to west so potentially costly that even Lily could see it made no sense once she was there. Bernard had tried to convey this unappetizing fact months before. The sheer physical barrier of volcanic rock that rose to saw-like sharpness in ridges surrounded by dense forest would have dissuaded the Army Corps of Engineers, but for a corporation that has to show some semblance of a profit, it was a losing proposition in every possible way. On top of that, the Lily’s pipeline would have to have been pushed through the National Park that was the jewel of National pride and a prime tourist destination.

Three days with Delmont had opened Bernard’s eyes to the reality not only of the character and personality of Benron’s CEO, but to what the man was willing to do when inconvenient circumstances got in his way.

It had begun with the report on the politics of Malay. The black and gold cover had still been in Delmont’s hands when he got into the car that morning after the banquet put on by the Sultans. Bernard had noticed that it was folded back to the page that featured the picture of the Prime Minister. Delmont motioned him to ride in the car with him. This broke the usual practice; local managers went with their own car and driver.

Sliding across the leather upholstery Bernard sat up straight and waited as the car flowed off down the noisy street in front of the hotel. Lily was quiet, sitting against the window looking out.

“I read through this last night. Long report, Bernie, you could have cut out the crap for me. But the thing that threw me was how this guy,” Delmont pointed to the picture of the Prime Minister, “thinks he can withstand the wishes of the entire United States government and the economic survival of the entire world economy.”

Bernard was silent. He swallowed slowly.

Not seeming to notice, Delmont continued.

“If this guy thinks he can get in our way, we will just have to remove him. Now, which of these factions” Delmont flipped the report to the description of the opposition parties outlined by interests, philosophy and leadership, “is most likely to have enough clout to remove the guy?”

The rest of the conversation, played out in the short autocratic bursts that typified Delmont’s style, made it clear that no means for achieving his goals would go unconsidered up to and including assassination.

Shocked, Bernard started listening not only to Delmont but to himself as he responded to the conversational cues that he had ignored before. He had been vaguely aware that Delmont would ask questions parsed as contingencies. Now he realized that Delmont was ensuring that the right answer came readily to the lips of his subordinates, and the right answer was always the one that ensured that Benron won and won cheaply.

The next three days slowly ground in the ugliness of what was happening. Later that night, his mind reeling, Bernard replayed not just the scene in the Rolls with Delmont, but the scenes that had sandwiched his short walk through the forest in back of the oil platform.

That section of forest between the longhouse and the sea had been flattened. No trees had been left standing as the small legion of bulldozers had come off of their military-like transports and begun gouging out the earth. The process had been rapid. Housing had been thrown up. The drilling machinery had been positioned, and the sink for toxic waste had been established just south of them. It was the size of an Olympic swimming pool before they had finished. It oozed with waste and made the eyes water if you walked near it.

Later, when they were finished with the operation, the company had sealed it with neoprene and given it to the local community as an appropriate location for the school they wanted to build. The elders had come by, grateful for the favor.

Bernard shifted and turned, trying to sleep, as Fran slept on the other side of their California King sized bed. When he got up in the morning, before dawn, he felt like he had been dragged through hell.

The next two days were one long unwinding nightmare. On one level he heard himself doing all of the normal things, nodding, checking on the itinerary, arranging for the lavish meals and seeing to all of the details that were part of his duties. But now he, Bernard, was someplace else.

Bernard watched the corporate jet as it lifted off of the landing strip. Delmont had been entirely happy with the visit; at least as far as his own performance was concerned. He was not happy that the pipeline would not work, but if he said anything to Lily it did not show except to ignore her when she began talking about business. Lily had her uses, but Delmont would not again confuse those with competence in assessing the geological realities of a country she had never seen. Lily could focus on her core competencies. Bernard briefly wondered about their relationship, but flushed the thought. It was none of his business.

When he got home that day, several hours earlier than usual, Fran was not around. The maids were just finishing their daily rounds of the upstairs so the bedroom was clean and empty. He walked across the parquet floor and out onto the balcony that over looked the forest to the west. The villa, six bedrooms, a huge family room, perfectly appointed den, library, living room, and grounds, was built in a kind of faux Georgian style wed to the sahib Indian décor that gave an historical nod to the former governors of the islands, the British. Fran had chosen furniture that continued the theme. The living room set was upholstered in an airy floral with teakwood, carved to resemble bamboo. Planters, huge and small, were pounded from brass and gleamed like gold urns. The dining room table, where they often hosted a dozen or more of their most intimate friends, was as long as the conference table in a major corporate boardroom. In the center of its mahogany plateau he could see bright reflections of the riot of tropical flowers that rested in the crystal vase at the center.

It was all so clean and perfect.

At that moment Bernard knew he could not continue. What does a man do when being true to himself means he must ask others to give up what they have come to expect?

Bernard had flown back to Texas, back to Houston where the corporation was based, to provide a complete and exhaustive report on the status quo of the operation that had proven to be so disastrously unprofitable to Benron. There was not enough; it cost too much to extract; transportation issues and above all the political issues had forced the company to alter its policy. Bernard knew that he could move into another area. But he had been following the long arch of Benron’s activities around the world through his chain of fellow employees located on site in different locations. The coming collision of interests on the shores of India were shaping Benron for economic disaster if their political allies failed to help out at home.

So, he could take the family back to Houston and do another ‘tour’ at the home office and await events, or he could do something else.

Bernard wanted out. Later he felt as if he had sleepwalked through those months. He had not tried to discuss the matter with Fran again after that evening. There was no point.

She had come home just before dinner went on to the table. She was bubbly and delighted with the matched set of cabinets she had found to store his collection of porcelains. He had started collecting the skin thin china bowls when they were stationed in India. Now the sight of the light gleaming through the perfect objects, some of them ancient, made him wince. It reminded him of the skin of a child dying of toxic waste poisoning. The images from his research haunted his every waking moment.

Fran was thoughtful and loving as long as nothing really changed; but he had changed. There was no getting around it. It was not her fault; it had not been her choice to ignore the facts for so long.

During the three months he was back in Houston at Headquarters and Fran and the kids were still in Malaysia, he had driven by The Fortress, the headquarters of the Our History Foundation curiously located in back of the Houston Hilton, the place where former President Branch stayed while he was attending the frequent conferences held behind its huge doors. Suddenly this struck him as odd. Had he ever seen an arrangement like this elsewhere? The question hung in his mind, unanswered but throbbing.

After his return to Malaysia from Headquarters, he walked through the job like a zombie, doing what was necessary and saving up the facts that presented themselves. He had been raised to believe in God and that there was a divine truth, there and available to anyone who would listen.

Fran was shocked when he began going to the small Church of England service at the tiny sanctuary near their villa. She had fallen too far away from this aspect of her early life to join him. She tolerated his changing moods at first. She became annoyed when he refused to continue their social life; the long evenings with friends and the rounds of events like the opening of the Symphony. Then she discovered that it was really important that she and the kids return to the United States so that their youngest, Lee, could finish high school in her home town in North Carolina.

She left him at the airport with a peck on the cheek and the boys, too old now for public demonstrations of affection, shook his hand. He would not see any of them again for five years.

Six months later Bernard was sitting outside in the sun of that same tiny longhouse he had approached what seemed now like a million years before, carving a fine piece of native wood into the shape of a dragon. Sitting beside his blanket inside the longhouse was as exact a duplicate of his boyhood eagle as he had been able to make. He had worked at the fletching on the feathers until you could see every single mark. Now, when he rolled off of his blanket in the morning, stretching and yawning, life was just the moment; his only thought was what to make for breakfast. Life went on around him with its quiet comings and goings; children played around him sometimes. Adults sat with him, occasionally talking about nothing.

Then, one day he was ready to leave. Bernard searched out his host and hostess and gave them the dragon he had carved and a gold dollar he had kept for luck for ten years. Shoving his few belonging into the backpack he had brought with him, he set out. The nearest town was fifty miles away. He figured the walk would be good for him.

North Carolina, April 14, 1992

It wasn’t often that they could take the time for a special family day away from the house. John Mitchell was a self-employed contractor and worked every day he could; but today had been too inviting to resist the beckoning of warming weather after a long, cold winter. They had packed up the four kids and driven over to Freedom Park, a glorious series of smaller suburban play grounds, lawns, lake and trees that was set down like a jewel in the midst of Charlotte.

The older kids played on all of the equipment, pumping their short legs until it seemed as if they would circle all the way around the upper bar of the swing sets. The younger kids preferred the merry-go-round set in sand. Papa pushed it just fast enough to elicit squeals without worrying Mama.

Mama was moving slowly right now, her abdomen bulging with their soon to be born fifth child. She stroked the taut skin under her maternity blouse, feeling the mighty kicks and snuggling of the child she could not yet hold.

They had stopped on the way to buy some treats, fruit juice and snacks from one of the small grocery stores that lined the streets near the Park.

“Grape Juice!” shouted Ezekial. “G is for grape and for,” He looked around the playground and then glanced down at his belt, “and for gloves!” The family had brought warm clothes just in case it was too cool later in the afternoon. Starting out with jackets and gloves, the kids had shed these for just tee-shirts, jeans and tennis shoes.

The litany of letters and words was a constant; the family had decided to home school their kids before any of them were born, reading the work of Claude Less in preparation. Dr. Less was the grandfather of the home schooling movement and had advised parents to make teaching fun. It should be relaxing, healing, inexpensive and low-stress. Such American icons as Tom Edison, Abe Lincoln and Christ had all been home schooled, Less advised. Daily studies with their parents and time spent at church defined their lives. This did not make them rich, but it yielded rich returns in other satisfactions.

The kids did not often get store bought treats; large families, especially those whose parents are not wealthy, understand the need for thrift. But today it was almost spring. The buds were beginning to burst out of darkly stark branches, and the first greening of grasses had taken over the naked earth. Soon the Dogwoods would be erupting with glossy color and the petals would lie on the ground like confetti after a wedding. Little Manda, two and a half, had stopped to crouch down and smell one blossom, sticking her tiny nose into its depths and inhaling all the way down into her lungs.

“Flower,” she had said, smiling up into her Mama’s eyes before running on to the next exciting discovery.

The older kids, Charles and Ezekial, were running across the lawn, enjoying the feel of untrammeled space. Papa followed them at a trot, keeping them in sight. Charles had just turned nine and Ezekial seven. Sunny, nearly four and a half, kept pace with his Papa, laughing when he pretended Sunny was beating him.

Tiring of the first playground, the family picked up and walked along to the next, this one close to the lake. Mama and Papa stationed themselves between the kids and the water, ignoring the stares of the few other people who walked by. They were used to that. Manda began climbing the sign. Mama watched, her concern showing in the posture of her body. Suddenly, Manda tottered on the top of the sign and fell, landing heavily on her back, striking her head. Mama was there in an instant.

“Hey, Manda, does it hurt?” Manda looked up at her Mama, stretching out her arms for a hug. Rocked slowly and closely over the swollen belly of her mother, the tension drained out of her little body. Her mother gently touched the top of her head, feeling for any bump. There was none. Manda’s heavy braid seemed to have absorbed the fall. Mama would watch her anyway. Cautiously, Mama watched Manda as she shook off her fall and returned to play.

They were walking along the lake when Mama felt the first contraction. She slowed just a bit, wondering. All of their children but Charles had been born at home. Mama was very familiar with the rising intensity of contractions, growing ever longer, harder and closer together until the cervix was fully dilated. Both she and her husband had studied medical textbooks and taken training. But as yet she could not be sure if this was the real thing or her body’s practice.

Then, three contractions later, she was sure.

Heading to the car the kids were excited. There would be another baby! Papa insisted on carrying everything, letting the kids help him take care of Mama. His eyes were alight with excitement and concern. He kissed Mama gently while tucking her into the car.

The kids were settled into the living room with a brand new box of crayons and paper. A schedule for television had been negotiated. Usually their parents watched any permitted shows with them, although any television was rare and generally limited to educational specials. Today was a celebration. Today they would watch a Disney movie while their mother labored in her bedroom, the bed dressed in the special, soft old sheets that were used when she birthed. Papa would be too busy to read to them. Charles and Ezekial took turns carrying in slivers of ice and water, taking special care not to spill. Papa thanked them.

Grandma had been called as soon as they came home and began baking a birthday cake to be served when the new brother or sister was welcomed. She hoped that this time she would finish it in time.

Helen Mitchell’s labors were never very short, but Grandma would want to frost the cake with her special topping and decorate it. The kids started winding down soon after the Disney movie ended. Manda was rubbing her eyes when Charles tucked her in her little bed, just like Papa had told him to.

The kids went to sleep hearing their parent’s voices. They sounded soft and loving but tired.

It was close to dawn before the new baby made her appearance.

“I think we should call her Leah,” Mama was looking down into the tiny budlike face of her new daughter, umbilicus still attached but nursing heartily. Mother and baby cuddled in close, a circle of love that reprised the long history of humanity since before history began.

“Leah.” Mama pressed a kiss on the light brown forehead. “That is a perfect name for perfect little girl.”

Papa, hearing his own Mama arriving with the cake, leaned down, kissing Mama’s ear and cheek.

“You are the best. I love you.” His pale hand brushed the dark skin of her face.

It had been a long labor and watching his wife and new child from the door for just a moment, John Mitchell’s heart swelled with love and pride. They were everything and he was a very, very lucky man to have them.

Chapter Four Chapter Founr - The Fabituso Society Meeting, March

2007-04-15T12:29:00.001-07:00

“That they do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to distribute, willing to communicate; Laying up in store for themselves a good foundation against the time to come, that they may lay hold on eternal life.”

Bible: I Timothy (Chapters. VI, v. 18-19)

The Fabituso Society Meeting

March, 2000

It was now obvious that the Lawrence campaign was going south. Dave had no doubt his candidate deserved the nomination. Lawrence was honorable, courageous, intelligent and kind. But neither Lawrence nor his staff had been able to effectively respond to the ugly rumors that had come out of no where or the imbalance of money. It was not fair but it was the bottom line.

The New Hampshire election had confronted Dave with the necessity of picking up and moving if he wanted to stay with the campaign for even another month. This less than appetizing proposition was rendered moot by the death of his grandfather. Lawrence had been everything that was decent, calling him to express his sympathy even as Dave was packing his bag to leave.

The train of events that unfolded from that sad change broadened his choices, leaving him saddened and in a state of semi shock.

Sitting in the church where he had memorized Bible verses and colored in pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, sipped bright pink bug juice and munched on home-made cookies, it began to impact him. His grandfather was dead. He had hardly seen him since high school. Greeting the several hundred of Gramp’s friends had awakened him to just how beloved and respected the old man had been.

Memories of Gramps flooded back as if a dam had broken in his brain. Dave remembered sitting with him as he puzzled out the unfamiliar words in his first Science Fiction book. It had been by Robert Heinlein and Gramps had loved it, too. Gramps loved to think about the future and they had speculated together on how the world would be in that misty, unseen tomorrow generated through the imagination of dozens of authors.

Together, they had read their way through all of Heinlein and into the other authors who were still Dave’s favorites. At the same time Gramps had solemnly agreed with Heinlein on the world and the credulity and vices of humanity. Gramps had thought long and hard over Stranger in a Strange Land, deciding eventually that the book held interesting lessons.

People old and young took Dave aside, sharing their stories about how Gramps helped them through the years. Several clasped his hand fervently, telling him how Gramps had made a difference for them. Dave discovered his grandfather’s many unsuspected aspects. He also found to his shock the old man never gave up on him and had kept his acquaintances apprised of his honors and progress through college.

Gramps did not approve of politics as a career so this was no small commendation.

Right after the funeral Clarence Bingley, an old friend of Gramps and a semi retired local attorney, asked him to come by and see him the next day. Gramps had jousted over a chess board for fifty years with the man Dave thought of as Uncle Carl. Dave agreed, slightly bewildered.

In the old office located just around the corner from the beer joint where the two codgers played chess for drinks and blood and amidst shelf after shelf of law books Dave read the letter that Gramps left there for him just three months before. It was written after an all too brief visit home.

The letter read, “Dearest Grandson, You are also my only grandchild so perhaps calling you my dearest grandson is too obvious, but you are dear to me so I wanted to say it this once. I wish your parents had had more children. I wish your aunt had lived long enough to marry and have children herself. Life comes with no guarantees and although we may regret ultimately we all must accept the will of God.

I have spent the later years of my life studying the forces of human action that have created the world in which we live. You know what I mean; not the oceans of water or the grass that cover the hills but the human world that is a part of that larger reality. We talked about this once or twice. But you were still very much in the ‘box’ of assumptions so I never pushed you very hard to look on things differently; Hard enough to grow up sane without growing up so very different from those around you. But now I hope you are ready to hear me – and I can’t wait any longer to tell you. Ha. My little joke.

My years studying economics, first as a student of von Mises and later as a professor, impressed on me the ways of the world of finance. I tried diligently to pass those insights on to you and in some small degree believe that I succeeded. You know from listening to us argue that I never approved of your father’s refusal to make use of the good brain that God gave him. I love him too, but capital is not to be spent but invested. You know that he has received the trust fund I set up for him. The income from that will keep him comfortable even if he never works again. The residue will come to you when both of your parents are dead.

So I am investing the rest in you. You will soon learn that politics is a game that traps us into a sense of owning power that no man or woman should hold over another. You will see through the platitudes and grow uncomfortable in the box that has been so cozy and familiar. I saw the signs of unrest in you this last weekend during your visit. I know from experience just how you felt.

Governance is necessary, yes, but government destroys by removing the connections between liability and profits of all kinds, not just monetary. You do not remember your Grandma but she taught me many things about the difficulties of being a woman in a world controlled by men. She wanted to be a doctor, to do great things. She had the mind and will to accomplish much but was denied every opportunity although she had graduated from the best medical school in Germany. That had itself been a struggle. She could heal but research was closed to her. I saw her anger and pain; when she died, still so frustrated, something in me died, too.

Government has not been a friend to women any more than it has been to good men.

Together we had dreamed large but we were left with such small realities. We thought it would be better in America for our children. We thought we were leaving the ugliness behind, and for a long time that seemed to be true. But even when you were small I saw this changing.

Governance comes from the individual working with others to do right. Government, no matter how kindly and benevolent the intention, destroys the will and ability of individuals to do right things. I know you are learning this and that seeing people you trusted and admired as they really are is painful for you.

How can this work? You will ask yourself that, you must. I know not how but I know it can. The spirit in humanity is larger than all of the evil ever imagined. I have seen the simple choices of people using trade between themselves bring peace - although abused business becomes an extension of war. If you have not yet discovered him read the work of John Maynard Smith. He applied game theory to behavioral strategies in humans. You have focused on politics, history and economics. Now study the unspoken truths of the people who inhabit the world; study sociology and anthropology. Consider the lessons we are now learning from neurobiology.

It was actually you who took my mind in this direction with your reading of Heinlein. Before then I had not considered science as an opening window to the mind of Man. I had not considered subjects such as anthropology to be science at all, frankly. Reading with you opened my mind to new worlds.

All human institutions that we create can be abused. This is true of churches and governments as well as country clubs. Only allowing people to say no; walk away; enables a true freedom. You have seen this in history in institutions of religion especially when these are attachments of the State. The Revolution this country fought was a war against the asserted power of government, limiting the freedom and responsibility of individuals.

Remember when I made you read those books about the Civil War when you were studying Lincoln in school? You wanted to believe that Lincoln was a hero; that was what your teachers said so that must be true. Except that it is not true. Lincoln, as you came to see, is the father of the Federal Monarchy. You saw the discrepancy between image and reality. That is the difference between the acceptance of the popular mythology and truth.

That was a powerful lesson. Wisdom only begins when we question what we think we know. Question every thing, remembering that our knowledge is always incomplete. We are human.

That after the Revolution our country continued those abuses by failing to end slavery and admit women and all people to the rights of property ownership was both dishonest and tragic. That failure made the Civil War inevitable and is in large part responsible for the problems we face today.

Markets are freedom if the rights of each of us are protected. Mixed markets, those which try to blend dictating to the people with granting them the use of their rights as privileges owned and controlled by government always end in the most unscrupulous controlling the forms and power of that government.

I know you, David. I watched how you accepted what was true through the judgment of your own mind. I watched you question the flaws you found in books, turning to original sources so to better understand. Your mind is not lazy and your heart is willing. I know you will not give up and persistence is essential.

With this letter you receive two things. First, you get the notes and books I have assembled over the last fifty years as I studied how the world we live in today came to be. The books and other materials are here, waiting for you. Second, you get the money to do something about it. Not enough to do the whole job but I think enough to do much if you are the man I have come to believe you are.

I listened when you talked. I read what you wrote. You are not only my grandson; you are my hope that the world can be different. Each of us needs to leave hope behind us after we die. You are mine.

God bless you. All of the answers are not written because they are still to be discovered by those with new eyes. You have such eyes. You also have my confidence and love. Take the world and change it with love. Jacob Forman Elderhous “

The room had been quiet while Dave read. Tears had glazed his eyes when he finally looked up. Uncle Carl was looking at him, his expression a curious blend of compassion and curiosity.

Uncle Carl slowly opened the cupboard in back of him and removed an envelope. Dave reached out and took it, tearing the paper gently. Two small things fell out. One was a key folded into a paper with a number. The other was a second key with a wire and tag. On it there was a note in Gramp’s handwriting.

Not very much later that afternoon Dave was opening the steel door into the third small room of the three room apartment that Gramps had paid to have built on to their house. It was swept and clean. There was a light over a desk, bookshelves, filing cabinets, and a computer. This surprised him. It was not of the most recent generation but it had been just three months before. There was no dust on the surface of the table. He ran his finger along the surface, feeling a clean, recently used surface. Over the flat monitor dangled a picture of himself when he was still in grade school. Dave remembered the day it had been taken. It had been raining. Gramps has offered to take him to the movies and the two of them had gone off to the large theatre in Mossdale to see Braveheart. That movie, too, had brought them together. Dave had loved the naked heroism of Wallace. Gramps had said as they left the theatre that William Wallace had spent his life "wisely." Now, Dave understood exactly what he meant.

Slowly and gently Dave took the little picture down. Time had curled it a little and it bore the signs of having been bent back straight to occasionally. Dave eased himself into the seat and as he sat down he suddenly realized that his grandfather was someone he still had to get to know.

He noticed the post-it on the edge of the keyboard. It said, Hi Dave. Turn on the computer. He pressed the button.

Five hours later Dave had a better idea of just who his grandfather was. He had encountered the grandmother who had died so soon after the small family arrived in the United States in images and through words captured in a file marked, “Dearest.” Gramps had scanned in a picture of her when she was a young woman. Her eyes looked straight into the camera with laughter and intelligence. He had read the poetry they wrote to each other both in German and in English. It was filled with love and a passion which had shocked him.

These revelations raised questions Dave had not known existed.

Dave had always sensed that there was friction between his father and Gramps. The old man had moved in with them soon after Dave's aunt died and Dave had learned almost through the skin that Gramps had paid many of their household expenses. He had always assumed Gramps had a small retirement income. Certainly he spent very little.

The spread sheets of donations to charities he had never heard of told one part of the story. The stocks were held by a company based in Switzerland although as part of his the ‘eggs in the basket’ strategy Gramps had also placed caches of money in Panama and the Cayman Islands as well. His grandfather was canny about avoiding taxes. Gramps had started liquidating some of his holdings the year before and moved all of his capital off shore. It was a complex financial picture but not nearly as complex as the astonishing body of documentation that amazingly paralleled and supplemented his own work.

The picture was taking form. Dave had not a clue what to do about it.

This month canapés were making the rounds, carried by discreetly smiling waiters. Dave plucked one. The sizzled shrimp wrapped in salmon savored of just a touch of garlic. It was delicious; so was the tangy cheese mixture that filled the tiny creampuffs. Each one hit Dave’s mouth like a tiny kiss of ambrosia. Dave sighed as the lingering flavor suffused his tongue. He had just moved into a new apartment on the Upper East Side. He had managed to get admitted to Columbia Law School, through the influence of some of his professors from Moundville and some friends of his grandfather, including Uncle Carl. He would attend part time leaving plenty of time for what he now thought of as the Gramps Work.

The letter Gramps left for him typed into the computer had advised him to move cautiously. Gramps emphasized that he had been unable to get all of the information, G2; Gramps had called it, that he wanted. Gramps also had not known what to do. That is why he had begun studying previous reform movements. That had taken him into the area of sociology as well. On the computer he had left references to now forgotten movements that had been flattened, telling Dave to study what had not worked before. There was a list of present movements, obviously a work in progress. The world is sprinkled with flattened and shredded reformers as Gramps had put it.

First information, then action. Dave's life had become fieldwork.

The conversation this evening was unusual. Hushed murmurs were followed by outbreaks of laughter. Attendees looked around covertly to see if anyone was overhearing their remarks. Their glances focused on the group next to the potted palm tree near the bar where Tom Dicks was again holding forth.

Dave knew about what had happened. He had gotten an eye-witness account from the PR guy who had been bird-dogging Lawrence that day. Lawrence had read the article by Tom Dicks while on his way to a meeting in Manhattan and had told the driver to divert to the prestigious paper, located in the third building of the Twin Towers complex.

Tom Dicks, one of the premier pundits in the Conservative Movement, had needed to be hunted down like, “the mangy dog he is,” according to the PR guy, grinning. Dicks was standing in the foyer chatting with the editor, Ralph Babbitt, when Lawrence erupted into the space. Leaving no doubt as to his intentions Laurence announced in his famously loud tones that he was going to kick Dicks’ ass. Dicks bolted, leaving the editor to grapple with the Senator. Dicks ended up cowering under his huge mahogany desk, his prominent rear sticking out in plain sight.

Eventually Lawrence had been persuaded to leave the building. Dicks had become invisible for weeks although he was here tonight again. Normally he was all over Vixen and on BNN as a regular commentator. His online opinion page had said he was tracking the campaign on the West Coast and visiting family in the small town of Lost Gulch where he came from in Central Valley, just to the south of Sacramento. Given the rapidity with which he lunged for his desk that probably felt like that was just barely enough distance between him and the Senator.

Lawrence was a former POW from the Vietnam Conflict. He was feisty. He took shit from no one, even highly regarded pundits at the Canal Street Journal.

He and Lindsey had bumped into each other while she was out sneaking a cigarette and he was visiting the men’s room late in the evening at the January meeting. It had been late enough so that a few attendees were yawning and trickling out to taxis but not so late that picking up a bite to eat was out of the question. Dave had considered the state of his bank account and suggested they adjourn to the upscale café around the corner.

No dice. But Lindsey was not averse to conversation so as the gabble of voices remained a counterpoint in the background they talked, letting the conversation simply flow. He had learned some things. He learned to his surprise that Lindsey had been on site for many events of significance including events that took place at closed meetings of the Hamiltonian Society during the months and weeks leading up to the Mildred Stassenbaum Hearings that had so nearly succeeded in removing the president of the United States, Fillmore Quince, for perjury.

Lindsey’s former boy friend taught law at UCLA. He had previously clerked for Vanessa Page Ramirez, the first woman to be named to the Supreme Court. From there Vladimir VorMortag had moved on to his teaching assignment – and to Lindsey. Vlad’s first company had gone public when he was just 11 for two billion dollars. This shocked Dave right down to the bottoms of his shiny new shoes. He was polite but doubted the truth of this assertion until his research the next week proved it to be absolutely correct. His further research revealed that this same guy had single handedly solved the problem of computer conversion through the next millennium. That had also brought in huge amounts of money to the corporation his family still owned.

More disturbing, this same computer savant figured in discussions by Humstead on the inner workings of voting machines. VorMortag was a no bones Neocon. The word NeoCon was now gaining more significance to Dave.

When Dave had first encountered the writings of Leo Strauss he had not been able to take them seriously. Then, right after graduation from Moundville and before his hiatus in Texas, he had been invited to attend a conference for up and coming political professionals and realized just how pervasive this ugly little philosophy had become. The lecturer, who looked like he had just changed out of his brown uniform, had opined on the esoteric, stating with a straight face that there were classes of humanity meant to rule and those meant to follow. This assertion, standing in stark refutation of everything America was about, had gone unchallenged in that crowd. In fact, many of those present nodded in agreement to Dave’s shock and chagrin.

Tonight, listening to Lindsey, again standing here in the carefully appointed foyer of the Yale Club, Dave realized just how much she knew without even realizing it. Forgetting momentarily that Lindsey was even female he abruptly asked her to meet him for further talk.

Lindsey just smiled, opened her mouth and said.

“Hello, Babbs.” Dave felt a hand stroke his back and briefly fondle his neck. He jumped slightly as he turned to identify the source. Babbs Bronson, who he had met in January, was wearing red tonight but it was as revealing as usual. This time it was shorter, showing off her smooth and well formed legs.

“Hey, Lindsey,” Babbs glanced at Lindsey but kept the focus on Dave.

Annoyed, Dave tried to suppress the feeling, greeting Babbs with a wry smile.

“I’m not inconvenient, am I? “ Said Babbs archly.

“Babbs is working on a fascinating documentary right now, aren’t you, Babbs?” Lindsey stood up from her seat on the creamy velvet couch. Her hand stroked it with obvious pleasure. From the talk earlier Dave knew that Babbs was always working on a documentary that would be receiving an Oscar someday.

“How about going out for some real food now that this is dying?” Said Babbs.

Dave looked at Lindsey. If they went out with Babbs perhaps he could continue their discussion.

“I would really like that but I can’t tonight.” Lindsey looked disappointed, moving slowly towards the steps down to the lobby. “I need to go home and wash the cat.” The laughter that had been lingering behind her eyes erupted onto her face. “No, really, I would like to go – but tonight is just not good for me.”

Out of the corner of his eye Dave noticed Tom Dicks looking over at them. Dicks slowed his pace and then walked down the stairs.

“Gotta run. Give me a call if you want to talk.” Lindsey waved as she descended the steps. Dave could see her in the mirror catching up with Dicks. He took her arm, pressing it to his side as they retrieved their coats and walked out together.

Turning back to Babbs Dave asked the woman about her documentary. That was all she needed. Babbs might like to gossip about others but her favorite subject was doubtlessly herself.

It was two full hours later before Dave managed to extract himself from the mighty maw of Babbs. In the interim he had learned more about her personal disappointments, failed romances, unfinished projects and cunning than he had ever wanted to know about anyone. He was tired. He was also shocked although he had done everything possible not to let this show on his face while listening to Babbs roll on through her conversational monologue.

Lindsey was having an affair with Tom Dicks. He was old enough to be her father. It was disgusting. Also, he had hoped that perhaps something would develop between them because there was an instant connection he had only experienced before with Nann. And Nann was now completely unavailable; married to a man completely worthy of her love; a man Dave liked very much.

During the week Dave had spent at home in Connecticut he had delved into the unusual legacy left to him by his grandfather, carefully packing up the computer, boxing the books and going over the assets. He had also gotten back in touch with Nann. She had been in town from New York, visiting family from her apartment in Manhattan on the weekend after the funeral. He had nearly run her over with the shopping cart in the local market.

She had laughed. That was just like her. The last time he had seen her she was screaming and now she was laughing up at him again. His stomach rose weakly and then subsided. The week had brought with it some changes.

She had hugged him immediately, laughing over the prom and teasing him on his sudden departure for Moundville. Dave found himself laughing too. Nann’s laugh was infectious. There were so many things he had tried to forget about her. Now they came flooding back. He remembered his fascination with the tiny curls that escaped to dangle near her ears and the way she tugged on the same gold chain that encircled her neck, reaching up to touch her earring, as if to check and see if it was still there. Her eyes twinkled when she laughed. He had forgotten.

They stood talking for a longtime. The Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, Dave’s favorite excessive chocolate, had sat in the cart slowly turning to a milk shake while they caught up on old times and agreed to get together in the city during the week. That this get together would include her husband, Jim Garrity, was understood. Nann was anxious to introduce the two of them. Jim had a degree in anthropology and taught at New York University according to Nann. Actually, Dave had heard this first from his mother when the marriage announcement had appeared in the paper.

But it was fine. Dave knew he still loved her and this did not bother him unduly. Perhaps he loved her even more because she had grown into such a deliciously warm and understanding human being.

Afterwards he could barely remember what they had talked about. It was enough to have been close enough to smell her fresh, sweet scent again. He envied Jim more than anyone he had ever known.

The time spent with his Mom and Dad had been sad. Dave’s father had spent a life time revolting against Gramps; choosing a profession that displeased him; a life style that made him perpetually dependent; but he was still hurting. Now there was no one there to resent and no one to forgive him. Dave spent most of the time with his Mom. Her mother had gotten along with Gramps, enjoyed his company even.

Dave threw himself into compiling the mass of new material that his grandfather had left on the computer and in the systematically detailed and impeccably organized files. Gramps was like that.

The amount of raw data initially frustrated his attempts to even find a way to enter the new ranges of possibilities, much less to see the patterns. Now he was using cluster theory to identify sets and proximities. The patterns started to emerge but it was still not enough.

There were simply too many unknowns. Gramps had provided the background for two generations of wealth accumulation and had added the shifting patterns in the cultural memes internal to many organizations and for government. He had cautioned Dave in his notes to keep in mind that what he needed most was probably those very things the existence of which he was entirely ignorant. Dave was still amazed and wondered where some of Gramps raw data had been acquired.

This body of information brought some pretty subtle trends and probabilities into sharp relief suggesting others that had never even occurred to Dave.

Dave leaned back in his chair, feeling the creaking of the old wood. The new cache of information had stretched his storage to the breaking point and soon after he had returned to the City from the funeral Dave had moved into a larger apartment with a separate office. He wanted everything duplicated on the computer and then on his private website eventually, but for now he needed to store paper. He knew that Gramps wanted him to treat this as a job and he was going to do just that.

The new apartment was on 43rd, between 3rdand Lexington. It was in a nice building with elevators and a doorman. He even had his own washer and dryer; luxury. He had acquired the furniture along with the building and it was old but well cared for. The building had been part of an estate sale and this, the owner’s apartment, was the penthouse and included a terrace. He had bought the building since he knew perfectly well that Gramps hated the very idea of paying rent and would have appreciated that it was a great deal. He had calculated that the property would begin paying for itself in just three years. He wondered if by then Gramps would have the evidence that he, David, was a good investment. Information is all well and good but he still had not a clue what steps he could take to change the situation – or even how to slow the deterioration of conditions.

On Tough Talk the coronation of Governor Branch had begun. Issues were dead until after the conventions. And that’s the way it was.

Around a Dining Room Table in a mansion in New York

This week there were only two attorneys to answer the haunted and desperate questions of eighteen women and two men who had come up to Berryville seeking help. One of the women was living on the street with her two children; her estranged husband, a wealthy attorney who lives and works in New York, had refused to speak to her for years. She only tried calling when she most desperate. He had battered her into the hospital twice, the last time just before their youngest daughter was born. He had not paid the originally ordered support for four years. The judge was one of his golfing buddies.

Having exhausted all of her savings trying to get him to comply and now homeless this tiny woman with the deep circles under her eyes had come here. There was no place else to turn; her friends and family no longer answered her pleas for help. Three months ago she and her children were evicted from the brownstone where they had been living since their father and husband left. The utilities had been turned off for the previous four months but they had been burning furniture to get them through the coldest winter in many years.

Sonja Lavter, the founder of American Coalition for Family Justice, decided they could live here for the time being. The mother, Debra Taylor, broke down in tears of relief. Her two little girls, now twelve and nine, huddled close to her under the table. Debra used to manage a wholesale organic food business before her marriage.

Sonja understands how it is. She started the Coalition ten years before because while her own case did not leave her homeless, it destroyed her family. She was also battered, sending her children to the country club for tennis lessons so they would not see her brutalized.

The first member of Sonja’s Board of Directors killed herself and her child. This happened because the mother could not stop her sexually abusive ex-husband from taking her eight year old daughter. The corrupt judge just shrugged, continuing his professional relationship with her influential ex-husband.

Now, instead of forgetting and moving on, Sonja spends most of her time advocating for others who have suffered from the injustice of the family justice system.

Over the last ten years the Coalition has helped over 3,000 families. Sonja tries to remember that when she can’t sleep. Tonight, she goes to sleep hearing the soft voices of two little girls, delighted to be warm and clean.

Chapter Five - High up in the balcony, London, 1973

2007-04-15T12:28:00.001-07:00

“Every social institution which teaches human beings to cringe to those above and step on those below must be replaced by institutions which teach people to look each other straight in the face.”

--Margaret Mead

High up in the balcony, London, 1973

Sometimes life provides insights when least expected. Sometimes those unexpected insights prove to be worth their weight in diamonds no matter how long we have to wait for the clear, clean edges of thought to crystallize.

The performance that evening at the opera house in London included singing by Ramona Dewitt, but although a polite hoard of attendees from all over the world were in attendance and the performers were excellent, no one had come just to hear the singing. Tonight marked the pomp filled opening of the first Environmental Conference for the United Nations, held here in England and attended by everyone who was anyone. Her Majesty, the Queen of England, was also in attendance.

Gladys Elliot Ramsey had been looking forward to this event for a good long time; the environment had become her issue in the years following her divorce while still struggling to raise her children alone and without the support of her wealthy ex-husband, Lionel Ramsey. Ex-husbands who are attorneys rarely pay very much in support, Gladys had discovered. The law includes the means to avoid accountability for those who wield it.

Gladys had become expert in bartering for lessons in tennis and tutoring in literature in exchange for any and everything her two girls needed. She tried not to complain. Her girls starting working when they were fifteen; there would be no long, slow summers visiting with friends and vacationing for them. The terms of the divorce, however, did mandate that their father pay for the college of their choice. He complained bitterly that this forced him to cut back on the two-month vacation his second family spent in Europe every summer. How, he would complain to all in range of his voice, could that bitch do this to him and his innocent children?

Gladys tried not to make money an issue. That would not have been acceptable.

Tonight was a non-monetary compensation for her many years of efforts. So it had been a shock when Gladys and Valerie realized that no ticket had been provided for Gladys. Valerie, sensing the disappointment of her long term and unpaid assistant, insisted Gladys use the one ticket provided to her. The world famous psychiatrist was used to galas; she would stay at the hotel, comfortably ensconced with dinner served up in her room, a good book and bed her earnestly sought companions. Dr. Newcomb really preferred it that way, she said with a twinkle in her eye. She had discovered an Agatha Christie she had never read in the bookshop around the corner from the Savoy, where they were staying. That would keep her well entertained.

It had been Gladys, a volunteering divorced mother, who first introduced and familiarized Valerie with the workings of the UN from her previous work at the University of Chicago. It was right that Gladys should go.

Gladys had loved the pomp and spectacle of galas since she was an undergraduate at Windhammer College. Chatting and seeing and being seen had always been a part of her life. Dressing for the event, she checked her gold silk gown. It had been designed by de Moi for her cousin Felicia, who had passed it on her. Felicia did not wear her gowns twice, and this one had been purchased for her daughter’s début in Philadelphia last year. The cousins were nearly identical is size and had been born only thirteen months apart.

Gladys did not envy Felicia her life of ease. Her life, Gladys thought, had been more interesting, if rocky in spots.

Gladys had picked Windhammer for college for herself because it was close to her home as well as for its academic excellencies. College was an expense that did not trouble her parents; it would be paid for by the family trust.

From Windhammer, Gladys could go home to spend time with friends and her parents. Some girls her age avoided their families but Gladys had been an only child who had learned to read and think on the gentle laps of Rector Elliot and his loving wife, Eleanor. The couple had waited nearly twelve years before their one daughter entered their lives and became the focus of their home. Rector Elliot was the last son of a large family of wealthy entrepreneurs. His interests had diverged from his family’s into arenas of the personal and spiritual. The husband and wife started each morning with a reading from the Bible; Gladys heard the Bible at least as often as she heard the classic fairy tales.

In Philip Elliot’s wife he had found a soul mate; both of them were uninformed on the fine points of mergers, stock, and management that filled the time of their closest relatives; both were sensitive and nurturing to their small daughter and to the flock they served.

That community centered on Eastchester County, New York, and included some of the wealthiest families in the world. This was home to them. They had met at a debut for the daughters of members of the Yacht Club. Eleanor had been visiting Pooch (Sylvia) Smith, a friend from school. Eleanor was the youngest daughter of a Main Line Philadelphia family; her husband’s family had fought the Revolution from New York. Then they had lived near the Murray estate now a part of New York City. Their families were long accustomed to wealth.

Gladys had gone on to Windhammer from the very good and up scale prep school paid for by her grandparents. She had taken with her a cheerful ignorance of the world beyond the rarified circles in which she had been raised. College at Windhammer had opened up many avenues, but others had remained closed. If you don’t know the door is there you never think to look for the key that will open it.

Gladys’ years at school had been exciting and rewarding. She had entered school during the third year of the Second World War, 1943, and had accepted as natural the many changes that war brought. She knitted for the troops, carrying her yarn and needles into class with her. She was careful about what she ate; the family maid had been instructed to cut back on their consumption of meat and eggs. The whole family carefully saved tin foil for the war effort. Gladys read the papers every day, discussing events with her parents over the dining table. She admired the courage and perseverance of Eleanor Roosevelt. The First Lady was her Godmother and just what a woman should be. Unconsciously, she took her as a model.

Gladys‘s boy friend, Jason Mitford, was a student at Yale. The two had met at the Yacht Club in West Harbor. Gladys was spending the summer crewing for Emily Randolph, a friend from Thatcher School. It was just the two of them at first. They shared a love of the sea, horses and the poetry of Rudyard Kipling. Gladys would slip Kipling’s collected works into her pocket and read aloud when they were out past the shoals onto the open water, mixing the excitement of India and war with the currents of the sea and air. Sometimes they would read Emily Dickenson. Emily had been named for the Massachusetts poet and thrived on the intensely anguished cadences of her verse.

Gladys also brought Whinny, her chestnut riding horse, to stay in the vastly cool stables with Chester, Emily’s jumper, and the small legion of other horses that resided there. Days with Emily were spent in motion, either on horseback or on the water. After riding they would walk the horses cool and then slip off in the dark interior of the stables, rubbing the horses dry and clean with towels and curry combs. They always smelled like horse, even when they were on the water; Nanny lectured with little effect in the long free space of summer. So it had been just the two of them until they turned 14.

Then Jason had joined them.

Jason was a friend of Emily’s brother Jonathan; he was fifteen but instead of ignoring them, he agreed to come along when they went out early one morning on the Gaucho, Emily’s little sailing dingy.

He went once and then somehow it became a routine.

That one day had turned into many days when Jason appeared for an early breakfast on the long wraparound veranda, served by Nanny on the teak dining set that comprised part of the furnishings that extended the possibilities for conversation and contemplation into the outdoors. The table was always set with a linen tablecloth and perfectly folded napkins, although outside the stainless steel tableware was used. It was at the opposite end of the three-story mansion so as not to disturb Emily’s parents. They ate eggs and buttermilk pancakes still crisp from sizzling in butter and coated with fresh, hot maple syrup that stuck to the tongue it was so thick. They drank orange juice squeezed by Cook just for them that morning. If they had any in the kitchen, cream-dipped berries would accompany their meal.

Then they sailed. The long days and the cadence of Kipling’s poetry had forged a bond. Jason was fascinated by the war stories of the Englishman and had memorized the Last of the Light Brigade. Reciting it to the backdrop of waves crashing on rocks had moved all three to tears. The three talked, dreamed, and laughed; they had experienced shell pink mornings and the glossing and dimming of summer.

They inhaled the class-conscious heroism of Kipling, adding his characters to their growing understanding of honor and courage. Their world was a simple place. Right and wrong remained firmly engraved, defined by ideals forged from the lives of those they admired.

Summer with Emily and Jason threaded through Gladys’ life becoming a part of her forever.

After her quiet wartime debut, held in New York although her mother would have preferred Philadelphia, summers with Emily ended. Emily spent her next summer in California with her married sister who lived in San Francisco. They wrote, talked on the phone, and saw each other briefly from time to time. To Gladys, it was a long winter away.

Jason went on to Yale, another in a long line of Mitfords to study there. But Jason left before finishing. He refused to say why at the time. That had been shock enough. Then he joined the Army instead of waiting for a slot that would have guaranteed his safety in the OSS or one of the politically oriented corps that worked in and around Washington D.C. These units were populated with a cross section of everyone they knew. Most had finished college and gone to officer candidate school or directly into the OSS. That was how it was. The Regular Army was not for their kind.

He wrote back, sometimes.

Back at school at Windhammer, Gladys wrote to Jason every day while he went through basic training and was shipped out to the European Theatre. That year she had studied the War in class with her favorite professor, Dr. Sybil Gwynn. Dr. Gwynn had insights into the political events that astonished Gladys. Flipping through a list of OSS agents years later, Gladys discovered the name of her favorite professor, Dr. Gwynn, listed as a covert operative. As she slowly ran her finger over the list of OSS her shock grew.

She had not realized back in the 1940s that Yale was ground zero for the OSS. She had not known that the College Librarian at Yale had been in charge of information transfer from the OSS to the newly organized Central Intelligence Agency.

Windhammer was not the closest women’s college to Yale. But Gladys’ family, at least the men, had been going there for generations. Gladys met Yale men at nearly every party she attended; a good portion of the families who attended the church her father had had in his charge for so many years were Yale men. Over her years in college there she had dated at least ten young men who had gone on to the OSS or the CIA.

Evidently there was a lot she had not known. No one had told her.

For Jason, joining up was a decision that also changed his life. He found himself fighting his way up the Italian Peninsula in 1943 in a war that never seemed to end. The letters from Gladys had been the bright spots of sanity that sustained him, but when he came home he was a very different man. His body and soul had been wounded and in the wake of World War II only visible scars were real.

Her work with the American Field Service had been fun and involving. She had met interesting people, traveled, and done her best to help accomplish the inspiring goals of their charter. She had served for a time as their Treasurer. Those goals were to connect people through service throughout the world, helping to create a new world order. That had sounded necessary and good. Why, she had wondered occasionally, was there all of this emphasis on politics?

Gladys had attended a conference of the American Field Service as the representative from Windhammer. It had been something of a fluke. The appointed representative had eloped with a fiancé who would prove to be a very temporary husband. Careful of her obligations, however, the young heiress had sent on to Gladys the agenda, tickets, and paperwork. Gladys had gotten on the train and gone with only two days notice.

The Conference took place in Madison, Wisconsin, in the summer of 1947. It had been an inspiring occasion, filled with new friendships and some astonished looks from people with whom she was acquainted. Later, this too would return to call into question the world she thought she knew.

Gladys had just finished college and was working as a volunteer for the American Field Service when Jason returned. He demanded the letters he had written her and tore them up while she stood watching in shock. He left her standing there, alone. Emily had gone on to Mt. Holyoak and marriage to a stockbroker whose family had owned a seat on the New York Stock Exchange since it began. The company, Randolph, Bates, Farnum and Fineman, had offices in New York on Canal Street. They also had offices in San Francisco, Chicago, and London. Emily would be traveling extensively in the years to come. Her first child, a son, was born in London less than a year after her spectacular wedding.

Eighteen months later, Gladys married an up and coming attorney who had made partner in an old and established law firm in the City. The marriage would last long enough for her to give birth to two daughters.

After the break up of Gladys’ marriage brought on by a series of affaires on the part of her husband, Gladys found surcease in what was really a continuation of the work she had begun even before her graduation from Windhammer. That work and raising Emily and Lilith kept her too busy for needless introspection.

Gladys tucked the ticket neatly into her evening bag along with her compact. She glanced in the mirror, tossing back her head just a little and smiling. The event included a lavish buffet during the intermission, so she would not need more than a few dollars for incidentals.

Walking into the main room, Gladys could see the VIP section reserved for the people she and Valerie had worked with right up front in the first balcony and so was astonished when the usher, glancing at the ticket she presented, escorted her upstairs to the nether regions of the highest balcony. There, glaring at her, twisting his wrist and jerking his head in the odd manner that had become so familiar to Gladys, was Paul Roofer, obviously surprised and annoyed to see her. He asked abruptly where Dr. Newcomb was sitting.

Looking at his sunken eyes blazing with anger, Gladys felt a stab of insight into this man who had worked so hard to make himself an integral part of the world of the United Nations. It was an ugly view into his soul. She had a lot to think about.

Dr. Newcomb had made her mark in the world and on the world in so many ways. Her foundational work on the neurobiology of the human mind, its functions, and the connective threads that created cooperation between people were now studied nearly everywhere on Earth. Where most psychiatrists were uninvolved with the larger world, however, Dr. Newcomb was a passionate advocate for the personal integrity of people everywhere. Her gold eyes flashed at reports of injustice and the heat of anger easily ignited her voice in protest.

Gladys loved her clear vision.

Breakfast the next morning was taken in Dr. Newcomb’s suite. Dr. Newcomb was up when Gladys knocked and already having her one soft boiled egg – two and a half minutes – and her slice of unbuttered toast, washed down with tomato juice and coffee. For Gladys she had ordered a croissant and delicately sliced fruit. Dr. Newcomb’s unceasing energy kept her as thin as a rail, although she was a dedicated trencher woman.

“How did the opening ceremony go?” Valerie looked up at her, her old eyes twinkling slightly.

“The ceremony was just what you would expect but…” Gladys paused, considering carefully what to say. “the ticket was for a seat up in the rafters.” She looked at Valerie. Valerie’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Interesting. Now I wonder what…any ideas?” Valerie looked at her, head cocked slightly to one side, her expression all attention and inquiry.

“I, or you, were expected. The seat was right next to Paul Roofer.” Gladys smiled impishly. Valerie laughed. “He did not look very happy when I arrived.”

“If Paul Roofer is unhappy, then we must have done something right.” Valerie said, smiling at Gladys just before spooning up the last golden remnants of egg.

Both Valerie and Gladys had long since learned to be wary of Roofer.

Paul Roofer was a fixture at the United Nations. Roofer had been a classmate of Randolph S. Branch at Yale. Randolph S. Branch, who was himself the son of former Senator and oilman Bristol Branch, went on to become vice president and then president years later.

Roofer was forever around to be tripped over. Appointed through his connections, his presence had also over time correlated strongly with odd happenings that Valerie and Gladys could not fail to notice. For instance, previously unannounced changes in meetings, times, places and the wording of text that had been unanimously agreed on by committees operating out of the United Nations suddenly changed. The typists who prepared documents were sometimes seen chatting with Roofer. It had taken several years for them to notice this pattern. During those years, Gladys and Valerie had also become aware of the activities of Roofer’s more extended connections.

All of Roofer’s associates shared some common interests. Senator Branch, Roofer’s roommate at Yale in Fulbright College, was an oilman. He thought, breathed, and it was rumored, imbibed, oil. Certainly the family business consumed crude oil from all over the world. It was rumored that he had favored space flight until his staff of petroleum engineers had persuaded him that there could be no oil on the Moon.

Two of Senator Branch’s closest associates and business partners were Ralph ‘Musk’ McCallum, an oilman from Canada who ran a huge conglomerate of interests all over the world, and B.A. Shreveport, another individual whose massive oil empire included refineries and pipelines all over the world.

Oil, Gladys learned, was something that needed to be fed unceasingly into refineries for money to continue to flow.

Valerie had once said that all human action took place through human cooperation between individuals who shared common ideas. Sometimes cooperation was a good thing. Cooperation allied with innovation had created the cure for polio. Valerie had postulated some of the first theories on the neurobiology of cooperation, linking this field to economics, her second life interest.

But cooperation also founded the Nazi Party, she often reminded her students while lecturing at her classes at NYU. Motives and goals provide the direction for human action, but that direction could take you anyplace. In the case of Roofer, it seemed that his intentions were his own self-aggrandizement. Being seen with Valerie, sitting next to one of the most respected figures associated with the founding of the United Nations at this first meeting, must have been very important to him.

Neither Gladys of Valerie could see any other motivation for his odd behavior.

The United Nations had been founded in the wake of World War II to promote cooperation between nations and individuals. The focus of their activities was on governmental institutions. This was very much an artifact of the attitudes and preconceptions of their generation.

The world in the aftermath of the Second World War saw all human action as appropriately controlled through government. This had been the view of Marx, a reflection of the trend towards a larger and more centralized government that had become dominant in America with Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War. The succeeding decades of collusion with the Robber Barons of trade had brought its eventual reaction but little move towards reversing the trend.

At the beginning of the Twentieth Century, Business was seen as a necessary evil, an adjunct to human action to be tolerated but distrusted. Business viewed government as both enemy and potential ally. If influence was for sale, the grandsons of the Robber Barons knew where to buy.

A small cadre of the best and brightest, many of them from Yale, had experienced the Second World War through their activities in the OSS, drawing their life lessons and truths from the delicious games of convert action necessitated by wartime intelligence. R & A, Research and Analysis, had become the province of those who could hone their academic abilities to produce rapid response assessments of probabilities based on reams of material sent to them from OSS officers operating in remote locations.

Some in R & A and throughout the two theatres, as well as at home, had met first in the darkened crypt of the Skull and d’Bones, the secret society that had selected and funded the elect of Yale for generations. The war years had broadened their acquaintanceships into every conceivable part of the world.

Secrecy was a way of life for them. For members of the Skull and d’Bones, that was natural enough. Those who were not even supposed to acknowledge that they had been ‘tapped’ could withstand the temptation to discuss their secrets because secrecy brought with it many rewards. Members of the Society gained, along with cash grants, connections that guaranteed their financial and social futures. This was an enticing reality for those initiated into the mysteries of the OSS and later the CIA. Money and the privileges of power were a part of their rebirth rights as Members of the Skull.

The OSS and later the CIA breathed in the culture of secrecy from the esoteric traditions brought back to America from the Illuminati of Germany, assuming for themselves the patina of righteousness that the Knights Templar had worn as a badge of honor. Some of them referred to themselves as the Knights of Darkness.

For these, the anointed, the heady heights of power and respect had come early. Many were still undergraduates or had received their degrees through the accelerated program at Yale when their careers began. Many of them had inherited wealth and knew that their choices in life would never be dictated by monetary need.

When the games had threatened to end along with the hostilities of World War II, these soldiers of fortune still wanted to play. The Cold War provided the reason for the games to continue. Communism had replaced the Socialist Nazi regimes of Germany, Italy and the Imperialist monarchy of Japan as the focus of evil rampant in the world. How or why anyone in the CIA thought that a collectivist system could compete in the arts, literature, or consumer production was a question that went unanswered. But those books, artists and suspect writers on their list suddenly found their careers frozen, their books removed from the shelves of every book store in the nation, and their friends cooling.

The logic of secrecy had been mainstreamed from the windowless block of stone and gothic presence on campus and injected into policy at the highest levels of American government. It had happened as a natural transition, transfusing the power of old money and privilege into the innermost workings of intelligence within government, putting the covert tools of diplomacy and the crypt into the hands of men with very different rules for living.

The games of the Cold War would be played out using the rules practiced by the boys of Skull and d’Bones. They would be brought to maturity by men hungry for power.

News in Brief

Americans, rattled by continued threats of war, today heard the President of the United States urge them to pay close attention to directives from Nuclear Preparedness Authorities, keeping a sufficiency of supplies and water to tide them over in case of war. The Mayor of New York, moved to action by the ensuing crisis, announced at a press conference today that in the case of Nuclear War, the City will not ticket cars illegally parked on the left side of each street.

March 20 – 22 1970

The National Organization of Women meets in Chicago to organize. Among other motions, the delegates vote on a proposal to adopt the use of Ms. instead of the traditional Miss and Mrs. or simply dropping the use of an honorific altogether. The motion passed by one vote. The woman who cast the deciding vote, Ellen Selfridge, the founding president of the organization at Princeton where she taught, immediately began using the honorific herself. She had wanted to for a good long time.

It meant a lot to the slender young mother of two. Seated in the far back corner she had watched as the standing count worked its way through the rows of women, nearly 300 in number, representing a national membership that had just topped 2,000. It had been a close vote, a ballot decided by a majority of one. Without an honorific before her name, no woman could be published in a paper or seated in the faculty dining room at Princeton. But choosing between Mrs. And Miss defined every woman within the context of her relationship with a man. The women here were building the tools to make equality more than a dream, and it was a dream that had been Ellen’s own since her childhood in the nearly Victorian world of England of the 30’s.

Ellen did not notice that afterwards she sat just a little straighter. But she did.

December - 1971

This month a group in Denver Colorado founded a new political party. The Libertarian Party founded on the ideas of Barry Goldwater and Ayn Rand, elected officers and moved to adopt a platform. The newly elected National Chairman of the group, Dennis Neilson, a former member of the Republican Party and Young Americans for Freedom said their action came about because of Wage and Price Controls, a policy mandated by President Ricardo Dixon earlier this year.

December – 1972

When the Electoral College polled today making, official the election of the President of the United States, one Elector from Vermont, a Roy MacBrain, cast his vote for the Libertarian candidates for President and Vice-President. Those were Dr. Jonas Hopsmeyer, a professor of philosophy at USC and Teri North, a talk-show host from Oregon. This marks the first time a woman has gotten a vote from the Electoral College for either office.

October 1973 - Blandinger Tape: Dixon Too Drunk to Meet

COLLEGE PARK, Md. (AB) -- Five days into the 1973 Arab-Israeli war, with the superpowers on the brink of confrontation, President Dixon was too drunk to discuss the crisis with the British prime minister, according to newly released transcripts of tape recordings.

Horace Blandinger’s assessment of the president's condition on the night of Oct. 11, 1973, is contained in more than 20,000 pages of transcripts of Blandinger’s phone calls as the president's national security adviser and secretary of state -- records whose privacy he had guarded for three decades. The National Archives released them Wednesday.

GUARDIAN by Decon Gray - The USA breathed a huge collective sigh of relief when, in early 1973, the wretched Vietnam War came to an end - for the Americans, at any rate. Then the glow faded as a vast domestic scandal unfolded. Even before the dramatic events called Rivergate were played out, Vice-president Ricke Blintz was forced to resign after the revelation of his systematic income tax evasion, and grim allegations of other even more criminal frauds.

1975 - New Recruit to the Republican Party

The Republican Party has gained a surprising new, perhaps we should say neo recruit, in the person of Hyman Opal, a former neo-Marxist, a neo-Trotskyist, a neo-liberal, is now calling himself a neo-conservative.

1978 – The North Atlantic

Built in Aberdeen, the vessel that became the Rainbow Marine served the British Ministry for research before becoming a North Sea fishing vessel. It was bought by Green4Peace for around $70,000 in 1978. Used in campaigns against Icelandic, Spanish and Russian whaling activity, the harvesting of seal pups in Canada, and the dumping of nuclear waste by France and Britain, it was refitted for work in a new campaign in 1985.

Loyal Barrington, the President of Green4Peace, followed his conscience and authorized the use of the Rainbow Marine to patrol the oceans in defense of the whales. His action was a response to the death of thousands of whales killed in recent years and a rapidly dropping population of whales’ world wide.

Chapter Six Chapter Six - The Republican Convention, Philadelphia.

2007-04-15T12:27:00.002-07:00

“A government that is big enough to give you all you want is big enough to take it all away.”

- Barry Goldwater

July 29 - August 3rd, 2000

Dave stepped off the train into chaos. The station in Philadelphia was crammed with people leaving, being met, yelling and hauling baggage. The trip from New York had been pretty exciting, too. Dave’s car had also carried a contingent of Young Republicans who were obviously keyed up for the main event of the Republican world – The National Convention.

Delegates and media had begun arriving on Friday. Saturday was given over to pre-convention activities that included navigating a maze of credentialing procedures. That was not exactly fun, but it did give you an opportunity to mix and see people. For ‘just a visitor’, the Convention meant meeting old friends, cutting deals of several varieties and talking shop. At most conventions, being a delegate or an alternate meant being courted by the floor committees of the candidates. This convention was already decided. So while there would be some chasing, most of it was just a formality for the presidential nomination and the word had come down through channels that the VP slot was also decided.

For the big guys, these days meant lavish dinners, cocktail parties, intimate breakfasts of thirty or so, prayer breakfasts for those so inclined, and the perennial smoke filled room get-togethers away from the crowds. The candidate was decided but the real deals were still being cut. You would know better what had gone on in the hotel rooms and odd corners of the complex of hotels in the first 100 days of the administration – if Branch won in November.

For everyone but the anointed candidate and his coterie, this time also meant running down hotel assignments and negotiating through Secret Service checkpoints. America might have declared its independence from Britain while convened in Philadelphia, but this convocation was very much a Monarchial moment in the electoral process. The smells of coronation were in the air.

The Convention was to take place at the First Union center south of downtown Philadelphia, and this ground zero of activity was surrounded by a tent city serving as headquarters for some 15,000 journalists from across the world.

Dave’s friend from the Town Trumpet in New York had told him that the food was to be lavish in the extreme. Many of the best restaurants in Philadelphia were set to provide the food. Dave was not sure why reporters always became so excited over the prospect of being fed; after all, it happened pretty frequently, but this was certainly the case. The food had been followed by a guided tour around Independence Hall that featured a laser light show tracing the activities of Benjamin Franklin and the nation's founding fathers.

Dave had been there. He had arranged to share a room with Lloyd Jackson, his friend from the Trumpet, both because he liked the guy and because he was following a policy of getting information in the easiest way possible. In return, Lloyd had arranged for a press pass for Dave. Media didn’t always know what was really happening but they did often enough to make this a very good deal.

Of the 45,000 attendees, 2,065 delegates, 2,065 alternates and nearly 10,000 volunteers who were making transport and room nights in the City of Brotherly Love so impossible he, Dave, would not be the least well informed.

Dave had decided to come, despite not being a delegate. He had not missed a Republican National Convention since he was fourteen and he was a very junior member of the Young Republicans. His perspective had undergone a sea change, but his emotions and his intellect were not perfectly synchronized. Also, Dave had decided to look in on the Shadow Convention here in Philadelphia. He was curious to see what kind of impact an alternative event could elicit from both the public and the media. Lawrence, who Dave still thought of as his candidate, was pledged to speak there before appearing at the Convention proper.

Perhaps the most vocal organizer was the former wife of Jerrold Abbington, a former Congressman from California who had run unsuccessfully for the U. S. Senate before leaving his wife and three kids and coming out of the closet as gay.

Tricia Abbington, an author in her own right, had hungered to be First Lady before her divorce and was now writing opposition books on points of policy of little interest to anyone. Dave had read her newest book, Crafting and Coordinating Your Own Revolution and had found it mildly interesting.

The Shadow Conventions were aimed at providing a forum for the serious discussion of issues like drugs and abortion, all of the things that would be glossed over during the Coronating Convention. Dave doubted that there would be much interest. Even Lloyd, a fervent supporter of alternate causes, thought they were irrelevant. Briefly, Dave wondered why this was.

Dave was surprised to discover that Lloyd expected him to work, at least a little, for the privilege of having a press pass. At first this annoyed him a touch, but then he realized that Lloyd preferred covering the events that were usually lumped into the category of ‘color,’ meaning that Lloyd liked watching and reporting on the incredible waves of protests going on outside the event. Dave darted through the protesters whenever necessary but did not enjoy sitting down and talking to them. He found them slightly unnerving.

The Chief of Police in Philadelphia, Jerry Timtoni, had made it clear that protests were to be dealt with by the boys in blue with patience and understanding. Timtoni had also mandated refresher courses in the First Amendment; something that had shocked many of the more traditional cops and media. Dave agreed with the approach but he had never been a protesting kind of activist.

The protesters ranged from odd, like the woman dressed as a slightly obscene Statue of Liberty, to uptight and respectable but loud. They managed to hit about every variation in between; the issues they represented were pretty standard: they were pro-life, pro-choice, pro-environment, anti-war on drugs and advocates for citizenship for animals.

Dave saw Eileen Rockford on the street, speaking out for a change in the Republican platform. Eileen was pro-choice, which was actually the majority position for all Americans as well as for women in the Republican Party. It was a militant minority that managed to keep the pro-life position in the platform. Dave had met Eileen in D. C. where her consulting firm was located while visiting friends at the Cicero Institute. She had been around for a good long time and knew most of the players.

Dave dodged past Eileen--he did not want to interrupt her flow of sound bytes or look like he had an opinion on the issue of abortion. He did have an opinion, but as a male he was disinclined to express it.

Whenever Dave had to leave the Convention and work his way through the crowds of protestors, he tried to avoid any possible involvement. This had worked except for one older guy who had reminded him of George Weston. He stopped, not quite sure this was the cantankerous Texan, but unwilling to risk that it wasn’t.

George’s grizzled, lined, clean shaven face could have sprouted a beard shot with grey to match the raddled hair on Weston’s head. The eyes were the same, a striking harsh green.

Dave paused on the sidewalk, uncertain whether the good ‘ol boy had ventured this far north, perhaps to continue his inquiries into Humstead’s activities. The first words out of the protestor’s mouth had cancelled this momentary confusion. Those tones had never been anywhere near Texas.

It was after he heard the clipped accent of New England still carrying the rich flavor of Portugal, and glanced down at the flyer the man was thrusting into his hands that he realized that the man must be protesting something about fishing. The poorly reproduced flyer, obviously run off at a cut-rate copy shop, was cheap. It was on 20 Lb. stock then cut in half to provide more copies; the print was small, probably around 8 points. The man had spotted his press badge and seemed to believe that in Dave he had found salvation for his personal plight. Looking a second time Dave realized that this man had never possessed the cheerful optimism that had made George Weston such a unique character. This man was drowning in despair.

Dave ended up talking to Joe Sanfilippo for a long time. The old man had clutched at his arm, tears welling up in his eyes. So many things went through Dave’s mind in that moment. His first impulse was to jerk his arm away and walk on. But he couldn’t. The man’s eyes begged for someone to listen. If he could do nothing else, he could do that.

They ended up sitting in a tiny coffee shop two blocks off the main action. The man curled his hands around the cup, inhaling its warmth through his hands even though it was broiling outside. His fingers trembled slightly as he raised the cup to drink.

Dave perused the flyer, giving the man a moment to get a hold of himself. Amid the misspellings and outrage, the only thing that came through clearly was the deadening loss this guy had endured. There was a quote on the page in a different typeface. It looked like it had been clipped from something else and pasted on the master copy; it was just slightly crooked. It said, "When we lose our connection to the tides and the seasons, we lose a vital connection to ourselves and God"

That struck Dave. This man seemed disconnected from everything that had grounded him.

Dave learned that Joe Sanfilippo had been born into a fishing family. His great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father had all been fishermen; his great-grandfather had died at sea. It was a harsh life; the immediacy of death breathed down their darkly tanned necks every day they were on the water and was a constant companion to their families. All fishing families know that husbands, fathers, brothers and sons may never come home.

Waiting, watching for homecomings was the accepted fate their wives had chosen. When their men were on land, the men spent their time looking at the sea, waiting to take their small boats out into the world of deep waters and sky. When they were on land their larders were lean and times were tough.

This was life for them. They had chosen it and it had made them strong. The sea was their home and they did not want to give it up – no matter how harsh the reality it brought.

Dave had never heard of the Magnuson – Stevens Act before. He had always assumed that fishing was a little like living on the frontier; the men and boats did their thing and were ignored otherwise. Now he realized he had been naïve.

The story Joe told was complicated but boiled down it came to this: The Magnuson – Stevens Act defined a drop in the population of any kind of marine life as a problem in over fishing, even if that particular kind of marine life was not fished. If the number of shrimp plummeted because of pollution, the Act still mandated that over fishing was the problem. Based on this, the days a boat and crew could spend out fishing were severely cut. Right now Joe was allowed to spend only 100 days a year on the water trying to make a living. The kind of fish and how he brought them in was also strictly regulated. Joe was fine with that; he was anxious that the sea be preserved so that there would always be small fishermen like him, bringing in the catch, fresh to the tables of Gloucester, Massachusetts.

As a result of this legislative tinkering, he had lost his boat, the Shining Mermaid, to foreclosure and his son, unable to make a living, had left Massachusetts for a job in New York as a waiter. For Joe it was the end of his world. He still lived in the tiny house in Gloucester where his wife had died. That small house he owned as his father and grandfather had owned it before he was ever born.

Vaguely Dave remembered a story he had heard about the fish, cod he thought it was, of New England being so polluted as to be inedible. Joe vehemently denied this. He pulled out another piece of the literature and pointed with his broad, stubby finger to a name and phone number. “Talk to this man. He knows the whole story.”

Dave glanced at the name. “Bernard Hightower, Public Relations and Community Liaison, Peace for the Planet.” He glanced at his watch and agreed to look into the story, feeling faintly guilty. Joe still thought he was a journalist.

Getting Lloyd what he needed was easy. Dave listened to the speeches, wrote a synopsis of the content and any actual policy, and e-mailed it from his laptop to Lloyd. They shared a room but this saved any rekeying. Dave knew just how monumentally lazy journalists really were from dealing with them during political campaigns. It had been a shock to discover that few journalists even bothered to check the cited sources. Dave had caught himself a few times fudging facts because he knew, especially with the particular journalist, that no one would ever make a call.

Watching the action on the huge television monitors set up everywhere was overwhelming at times. The sound seemed to vibrate right down into his bones, more like a rock concert than a political convention. His Limbaugh style tie seemed far too tight in the heat. He paused to loosen it, just a little. There might be throngs of Republican Women dressed in baggy pants and gold frosted tee shirts, but the power people were always in suits. Dave wanted to fit in with them right now, no matter how uncomfortable the uniform might be.

Walking around the vendors’ hall, Dave saw and was briefly tempted by a VAST RIGHT-WING CONSPIRACY tee shirt. He compromised by buying a bumper sticker he could put up on his white board at home in his office, along with a smattering of buttons. Dave could almost forget his doubts and deep reservations in the bubbling flow of celebration.

Dave laughed and joined in with the Quince bashing and Fore gashing, laughing at the jokes, and buying his own Mildred--a cigar with a picture of the chubby intern wrapped around the outside. His own side might have their problems, but they were far better than the Democrats. It was good to be among friends. Among the throngs of attendees, Dave had met people from every part of his political past. The local Congressman from Shipslide was there and greeted him warmly, apologizing for having missed Gramp’s funeral.

After doing his journalistic duty, Dave spent time wandering around the vendor booths and attending some of the parties for which he had either paid or been given invitations. Having money brought opportunities for contact that amazed him.

Dave attended the dinner for Bret Phorplay, dressing for the occasion with care. Phorplay was someone who Dave admired. Invitees included lobbyists, congressmen, and corporate executives along with the money people. A lot of business was transacted all around him, and listening and watching politics as it played at this level was enlightening and disturbing.

The evening began and continued as a smooth wash of food and drink punctuated with special thanks, announcements and surprises.

Except for a little excitement when Rob Loper of XYZ News asked Bret Phorplay to name the corporate donors to ARM4PAC and the corporate underwriters of the convention, nothing controversial took place. ARM4PAC is the political action committee through which Phorplay funneled anonymous corporate and individual contributions to preselected Republican congressional races. Phorplay refused to comment. Dave jotted notes on the backs of business cards he collected; he would look into that himself. The bad guys needed to be rooted out of the Republican Party.

The food was fantastic, featuring Chef Mat Ransen’s seared filet mignon on croutons with baby arugula and caramelized shallots. Dave ate until he thought he was going to burst. He had to make himself chew slowly as he talked to the woman seated next to him. Her name was Debbs Pickett. Her husband had died and left her around 200 million dollars and she could think of nothing better to do with her time than attend Republican events like this one. She told Dave about her activities for Republicans in the Forum. This group, recognized by the Republican Party, was huge and held it s own national conventions as well. She was a little tipsy when Dave sat down next to her and the constant flow of wine, poured by the waiters, did nothing to keep her sober. Dave sipped slowly and then switched to coffee. Seated at his table were also two guys who apparently had also had much too much of a good thing. Two waiters carried them out and handed them over to the cortege of useful flunkies who always seemed to be ready to handle anything.

On the 2nd Dave had enjoyed what was later described as the "hottest and coolest" celebration at the Republican National Convention. Attendees had gotten salsa dance lessons, more cigars and martinis enough to float the U.S.S. Enterprise. It was a small party, just 1,500 attending.

At the next table Dave had seen Feather Lockley. Matthew R. F Vixen was across the way.

The party was given in honor of Folly, a Republican from West Palm Beach who was the Republican liaison between House Republicans and the Entertainment Industry. If it had been the equivalent Democrat event, the stars would have been much farther up the Industry pecking order, but no one in the Republican Party since William Wallace had had much traction in Hollywood.

Sponsors of the event included the Walt Disney Corp., Time Warner, Viacom, Seagram/Universal Studios, the Motion Picture Association of America and the Recording Industry Association of America. All of them wanted to be in good with whoever was elected in November, and appearing here and sprinkling soft money over the assembled was just another aspect of business as usual.

The most eye-opening event Dave attended was the Million Dollar Club Extravaganza. Although the entertainment would have made Heft Helfer blench, this stratospheric Republican event was attended by what seemed like all of the loudest Family Values Republicans in the known universe. It made Dave uncomfortable. He had made the donation with strong reservations about letting Republican higher-ups know he had that kind of money. In the end, he had made the donation through one of the off-shore corporations Gramps set up and named himself as their representative. It had worked. He could still claim to be not poverty stricken, but at least not super wealthy. Donors at the $50,000 level had received a limited-edition Philadelphia 2000 lapel pin and six commemorative golf shirts. For $100,000.00 donors took home a "VIP golf outing," and a reservation at a choice hotel and the right to host a reception for a state delegation, which typically included the state's governor and congressional members. But the $1-million donation took the prize. For one million dollars on the barrel head, the donor got exclusive dinners with Washington dignitaries and face to face time with the presidential nominee. It was the promise of this perk that had persuaded Dave to plunk down a million dollars. Gramps had made it clear that he had to know these people from the inside out.

The food was splendid but the company made Dave’s skin crawl. Naked greed was simply not attractive when viewed in any human being, and this event had been absolutely stag.

On Sunday Col. Jeffrey Lawrence, U.S. marine Corps, Retired, and now Senator from Tennessee, arrived in Philadelphia and went immediately to the Abbington Shadow Convention, much to the annoyance of the Branch people. Dave had kept in touch with the Senator and met him there. He had not seen the Senator since he had dropped out of the race after the South Carolina Primary. Shaking hands with the former POW, Dave felt a rush of admiration; the man had lost graciously and never deviated from his stated beliefs. The last few days had raised Dave’s consciousness on just how rare a character such as Lawrence’s really was in politics. He still did not agree with Lawrence on many issues but he knew he could take his honor to the bank and get gold in return.

Listening to Lawrence’s speech endorsing Branch left Dave feeling unaccountably sad and vulnerable. It was as if there was a gaping hole in his heart. It was later that Dave ran into two people he really had not expected to see.

The first was Lindsey Smithson. She was just leaving an open house, looking a little tired and unhappy. When she saw him a smile warmed her face.

“Hi there! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you on Tuesday night. What’s happening?”

Dave grinned. Lindsey wore well. “My grandfather died so I have been home quite a bit.” Lindsey’s face showed her concern. Dave listened to her words of condolence, an idea half forming in his mind. Lindsey went on. “I know just what you have been through. I went a little nuts when my Grandma died. I am so sorry.” Then she hugged him. Dave was not often hugged by an attractive woman. Thought vanished from his mind.

“So you came down early?” Lindsey, unperturbed by the hug, moved on in the conversation.

“Ah, then I decided to come down here early for the Shadow Convention. Have you read Mrs. Addington’s newest book?”

Lindsey laughed. This surprised Dave. His puzzlement must have showed on his face because Lindsey immediately told him a story that was too odd to be anything but true.

While Lindsey was still dating her former boy friend, Vladimir VorMortag, the two of them had been invited to the wedding of April and Frank Kravowitz. April was a tall, gorgeous blond who topped Frank, a dumpy gnome of a man, by several inches. April was also nice and the mother of a disabled son. She and her son had been dumped with no support by her rich and powerful ex-husband.

Frank, always tight-fisted with money, had persuaded Tricia Abbington to host, or hostess, the wedding at her lovely mansion in Beverly Hills. Given the cost of any hotel or even having the event set up in park, this had been a huge savings to Frank. Tricia had agreed to provide the decorations and tables. Frank was to provide the food and drinks. Lindsey and Vlad had rolled in a little early and Lindsey had wandered off to find the ladies’ room. On the way, she had also discovered Tricia’s two young daughters playing with their Breyer horses. Breyer Horses had been a hot item with girls around ages 4–13 for many years. Lindsey had collected them herself and built many a pasture and paddock in her bedroom when she was that age.

So that was why she was sitting on the floor with the girls galloping a plastic mare across the carpet when two people, arguing bitterly, went into the room next to them. Lindsey knew immediately who they were. Tricia and Frank each possessed very distinctive voices. Tricia and Frank were arguing over the menu, or the lack of a menu from Tricia’s viewpoint. Frank, thrifty to the end, had bought some bagels and cream cheese and fruit salad with which to satisfy the culinary desires of his invited guests. The beverage of choice was coffee, with cream or sugar, probably not both together. Tricia had just discovered how limited Frank’s ideas were on what kind of a menu could appropriately be offered to wedding guests in Beverly Hills. Tricia had gone hot to the phone to order up more victuals. No such limited banquet would greet guests received at her home, she told Frank in a voice ripe with shrill aggravation. Standing there she ordered up platters of savory tea sandwiches, rounds of cheese, and several assortments of fresh fruit to be accompanied by Russian pastries. Wine would be served.

Frank did not mind that. He just wanted to make sure he would not be expected to pay for them.

Dave could see why Lindsey laughed. Frank Kravowitz was one of the people on his list. This insight into his personal style was enlightening to the extreme.

Dave and Lindsey were still talking, standing in the hotel corridor, when Nann and her husband, Jim, had wandered by looking for a party. Surprised, Dave introduced the ladies. The two had eyed each other cautiously and then begun laughing. Dave could not figure out quite why and was not sure he wanted to know, really.

They had joined up for the evening and the girls had walked together while he and Jim had become better acquainted. It was a good evening, one that Dave would reflect on later.

The other unexpected meeting took place while Dave was listening to Priscilla Dare, the wife of Reginald Dare, and a prominent member of the power elite in Washington D. C.

Dave had listened to many speeches in his life. Suddenly it struck him how similar all the speeches he had heard really were. He heard the same rhetoric from the lips of Republicans he heard from those on the other side of the isle. All the words were the same. Freedom, Country, Honor, Truth, Character, together, vision…..the list went on. They emoted words – but what did the words mean? Suddenly he thought about Christopher, the young intern.

His attention shifted from the sounds that had so often incited his hopes and enflamed his fears to the simple realities that were, must be, so much more real than words.

For this entire Convention he had been awash in words. What had he actually seen? What was really true; who were these people, leaders, spokespeople, the media whose job it is to tell, again with words, the entire nation what was really happening.

While the rest of the room watched in rapt attention, Dave walked out. He had a lot to think about. Lloyd was annoyed with him for the missing synopsis; Dave fudged. He went on line, copied and pasted all the speeches. He was glad he had. After he excised the meaningless phrases, there was nothing there.

Dave had packed his bag and was walking out of the hotel room when he bumped into a friend from Moundville who was also a member of the Libertarian Futurist International, a group of science fiction fans with Libertarian Republican viewpoints. Darrin Youngblood, his friend, had gone on to Cal Tech in California. Dave was surprised to see him, but Darrin explained that he was just meeting his Mom; Darrin had attended Moundville to please his mother, a devotee of Gregory Bugsley. The former President of Moundville had always made it a point to send her an autographed copy of his latest book. In response Sylvia Youngblood, of the Ohio Youngbloods, had always sent Moundville a nice check for their endowment. Darrin came from money but his heart belonged to technology. Darrin was schlepping baggage and waiting for his Mom to finish one last luncheon put on for the Funders of the Forum; an elite group of women who each put at least $1,000 a year into the National Forum for Republican Women. Darrin had declined to attend with his mother. He and Dave adjourned to the hotel coffee shop.

Dave just listened. Darrin had always been a talker and that had not changed. His enthusiasms had hovered on computers and then moved into some esoteric forms of math that Dave could not understand. From there they had side tracked; it seemed to Dave, into free enterprise in space. Now, evidently, he had hooked up with some people out in California who were involved with Revolving Rocketry, a private enterprise in space venture based out in the Mojave Desert that went bust. Dave had read about the project. Darrin give him the URL for their website and Dave promised to have a look and keep in touch. Their master designer, Darrin reported with fervor, is Brenden Banks, a graduate of Cal Tech. As Darrin’s monologue flowed on, Dave’s mind wandered a bit. Darrin’s enthusiasms were always completely involving. Dave’s interest picked up again when Darrin began talking about the community that was being established in Northern California. This story ticked a memory but he could not put his finger on it. Yet.

On Tough Talk that night, the talk was about the next stage of the campaign. Dave was reminded of a space launch, with endless reminders of what was about to happen and no reference to what was not happening. But in the case of a space launch the vehicle was real. In politics it was just words.

Conversation taking place in an undisclosed location

“Refill this for me, will you?”

He liked his drinks sweet; no straight whiskey ever passed his lips and no puckery wine, either. He did not bother to rise from the couch, just handing the whisper-thin crystal glass to the butler for servicing. He had grown used to being waited on. He no longer thought about what his parents would think if they saw him here, enveloped in luxury and invested with more power than they could probably have imagined. His family hadn’t been much.

He had just succeeded in getting the nomination for a man who could never have gotten it for himself. This thought relaxed him even more. He sunk back into the ottoman. The smile did not need to reach his lips.

The room was located high up in a skyscraper that looked down on a vastness of lights. The room was furnished with dark wood furniture that had been turned and finished by a man long since dead. The man had made furniture for his King, Louis XIII. The man on the ottoman could not have told you what century Louis XIII had lived; nor did he care. He was a man of today; a man who knows, down into the fibers of his flesh, that it is money and power that matter.

He had proven his power and raw ability.

The election was a done deal, as the man he had grown up calling, “Father,” used to say. He twisted slightly in the seat. He did not like to think about his parentage.

“What we really need is a good war.” The speaker was standing next to the window, looking out.

Craig Humstead took the glass, now refilled from the butler and took a long sip. “You must be thinking about oil. You will get no disagreement from me. The right war could also make my job a hell of a lot easier the next time around.”

Charlotte, North Carolina - March 28, 1994

He walked into the living room of his doublewide mobile home, barely able to see. It was clean and well maintained. He always saw to that. Before he had been arrested for domestic violence, a crime he had not committed, he had washed the dishes, setting them to dry on the rack beside the sink. He and his wife had not lived together for months. He had not seen her since she left him and their new baby to go off with another man.

Now it was three-thirty in the morning and normally he would have been asleep for at least five hours by this time. When they had come to arrest him, he had asked for time to call someone to care for his daughter before they took him. She was just 13 months old and sleeping curled up on the couch where he could watch her. They had let him call and waited until his mother arrived, shocked and worried.

Slowly he sunk down onto his knees on the carpeting. His head bowed forward and slowly, as if coming from a place so deep inside he had not known it existed, great racking sobs were wrenched out of his guts. He was not a man who cried, but now the tears were drenching his face; he was not able to stop them.

The family in the picture carefully hung on the wall, kept dusted and cleaned, looked down. The eyes of the woman and three children were happy. The eyes of the man looked into a future he believed held unlimited promise because of the sacrifices of those who had come before them. The man was dressed crisply in the uniform of the United States Army. The woman was wearing a shirt waisted dress. She was smiling into the camera, enjoying a last brief outing with the husband and children she loved.

These were his parents. His father, Sergeant Earl Steigler had boarded the plane for Vietnam in 1965. The family portrait had been taken less than an hour before the moment of parting when he had been enfolded in a last firm hug. Sergeant Steigler had then just turned 24 years old. He died in November that year, before his twenty-fifth birthday. He had already served in Korea with distinction.

His wife had eventually remarried but always made sure that their three children, two daughters and one son, remembered him and loved their country even as he had loved it. Below the picture hung the medals a grateful nation had conferred on a man who had given his life so that country might continue to be free. Next to the portrait an American flag hung at attention.

In that long night the man confronted a terrible truth. The justice system of the country his father had died defending was not about justice. He had stood accused of a crime he did not commit and the law had not cared that the evidence of his innocence was already in their hands. Their amusement and indifference had burned like acid against his skin. They had shrugged; this was their routine. No one was innocent. They released him grudgingly and with no apology after three hours. He was not a man to them; he was just another body to be ground through their system, bringing money into their coffers. He had seen the indifference in their eyes and it had chilled him down past his bones and into his soul. He smoldered with rage even as he began to thaw.

His nickname was Coop, for the Cooper’s hawk, a smaller raptor that hunted by cutting its prey out of the air with unfailing aim and accuracy. Coop loved the outdoors, spending time away from human habitation, just inhaling the sounds and the scents of life all around him. His trajectory in life, purposeful and clear, had reminded his uncle of the hawk one day as they walked the Appalachian Trail and a Cooper’s hawk had taken its prey just a few feet from them. It was the right name.

The morning light coming on like a tide of returning life found the man still on his knees. But now his ravaged face was calm. Slowly he stood up, stiff with the hours spent on his knees confronting his God and all he held sacred. He had become a different man, one who knew he faced a battle. He nodded, imperceptibly to the picture of his father. Jack (Coop) Steigler, Junior, was the son of a hero and he was not afraid.

Medford, Massachusetts

Bernard started working for Green4Peace as soon as he arrived back in the United States. His first job was going door to door in depressed areas of New England, doing follow-up interviews for areas with suspected toxic dumps while selling the magazine the organization produced. Those first three years had been pretty good. The first year was all door to door work, but he had liked the sense of connection he had with people. The director had been suspicious of him at first. He had looked at his resume and leaned forward on the desk asking why they should trust him not to be a spy. He was, after all, a petroleum engineer.

He had replied that no one could prove their intentions. He had gotten the job. The first year had been tiring but rewarding. The second year he had been entrusted with more policy work. Then, the third year everything had changed and his enthusiasm faded like his tan had when he returned to the United States to live in New England. At first he felt like what he was doing mattered, that some how he was paying back for enabling the spoilage he had ignored while working for Benron. Now it was different. Now he wondered why he had given up so much.

It had not taken Fran long to get a divorce for desertion in North Carolina, the only state without no-fault divorce. He never had the time to get down there to see her or the kids and his new job left no extra money for luxuries like child support. For the oldest, that had meant dropping out of his long anticipated matriculation at Princeton and starting over from his mother’s house in Peak, North Carolina. Fran had found the tract house near her parents in the small town where she grew up south of Raleigh. Fran took on a mortgage to give Seth another year. Lee started at the local college.

Bernard knew Fran was struggling to keep the boys in school, but he felt that he had done everything that could be expected of him. He started calling them after his enthusiasm for the job at Green4Peace went south.

He knew the job was going to go away, the victim of a reorganization that had left the formerly grass roots organization only one office - and that in Washington D.C. Talking to politicians was not his idea of a solution to anything. He had moved on, but he was forgetting how to hope.

So here he was, living in a ratty little apartment in Medford, Massachusetts. When he came home in the evening it was far too quiet. When he called Fran’s house to talk to the kids, they were distant and tired themselves. Each of them had at least one job on top of going to school.

He hated it, so he was beginning to drink. The quiet was less oppressive when he could not think quite so clearly about the choices he had made. This had been going on for a year when late one evening the phone rang and the voice on the other end was his brother Dan.

Two days later Dan walked in to the tiny apartment and emptied the bottles into the sink. For the next two weeks Dan spent every day with him talking and reminding him of all that he had left. Their relationship had always been like that. From each other they could hear the truth.

Dan had not gone to college, instead following their father on to machine work. An accident ten years before that cost him his left hand forced him to retrain and his choice surprised everyone. He went into investment counseling with the money from the insurance. He had always been a smart guy. He and his wife, Sandy, had been happily married for twenty years. The family gave up their vacation together because they knew Bernard needed Dan to be there for him right now.

For the first time Bernard was able to cry over his losses and find the goodness in what he had left.

When his brother left, Bernard no longer felt alone.

Dan said when he was leaving that anyone could make mistakes. The mark of a man is not to keep doing it.

Two months later Bernard went to work for Peace for the Planet.

Chapter Seven - Dave Returns to Texas

2007-04-15T12:27:00.001-07:00

“Elections are futures markets in stolen property.”

- H. L. Mencken

Dave Returns to Texas

The conventions were both over and done with and the summer had burned itself into the crisp of almost autumn. It wasn’t here yet but you could smell it on the air when you walked through Central Park. Dave knew that his friends wondered why he was not returning to Columbia Law right away. They had accepted his burning desire, expressed just months ago, to change careers. Most of them had found this sea change commendable. Politics was a risky career. But why on God’s good name would anyone want to go to Texas?

Dave wondered that himself right now, another long grey highway stretching out ahead of him. But Texas was still a long ways away. He had other things to do first.

The call had come in from Bert Sowers to his home in Connecticut, a call delayed by the fact no one had called Bert to let him know that Gramps had died in February. Bert was shocked; he later told Dave he would have come up for the funeral if he had known.

Dave was sure that was true. Bert was that kind of guy, and he and Gramps had been good friends. That exchange had lead to Bert getting Dave’s new phone number from Dave’s Dad and calling him, leaving the message Dave found on his answering machine when he came in from the train following the Republican Convention. The conversation that took place when Dave called Bert back had lead, step by step, to Dave packing up a motor home in Indiana and heading out, Texas his final destination.

Dave picked up the sleek Fleetwood American Condor at the factory in Decatur, Indiana. He would hand it over it to Bert for sale at his dealership in Texas as direct from the factory. Which it was, sort of. This model had dark wood paneling and Debonair Plum interior. The bed was amazingly comfortable and all of the appliances worked perfectly.

Dave had flown into Ft. Wayne, rented a car, and headed out to the factory for a tour before signing for the vehicle and hitting the road.

It had taken some time for him to put this together but his reasons were compelling.

When he called Bert back he discovered that George Weston was dead. George had been found in the RV Bert had sold him, apparently a suicide by overdose of sedatives last January. This had not rung true for Bert, but he had done nothing for a few weeks after attending the funeral service at the local Elks Lodge, Garland Elks No.1984, where George had been a member. He had ruminated over the circumstances and considered who he might talk to about it. Bert told Dave he had called the distant cousins who had been contacted by the authorities. They hadn’t known anything but the probable date of death, January 7. There had been no note found in George’s papers. There was also no record of George having a prescription for the sedatives. As far as Dave knew, George’s sedative of choice was cognac and his preferred brand was Five Star Hennessy.

It just didn’t seem like George to kill himself like this. George had been gregarious, determined, and directed. He decided what he wanted to do and then did it.

It was actually the purchase of the Fleetwood that had moved George to join the Elks. From George Dave had learned that members of the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks could use the facilities of any lodge as they traveled across the country. This had struck George as a good thing; club facilities while fleeing the attentions of Craig Humstead. It was also very inexpensive. George, for all his lavish spending in some things, was thrifty at heart.

Dave decided that joining the Elks was the only way to find out what had been going through George’s mind during the five months he had been wandering around the United States. So Dave was now an Elk himself; having joined the slightly decrepit organization dedicated to patriotic brotherhood, now admitting women, just three days before at Lodge No. 2533 located in Islip, New York. This was not particularly convenient to Manhattan but they were a nice bunch of folks. He felt badly that he would become one of the phantom members who sent in their dues but never appeared at a meeting after being initiated. They had been so excited to have him and urged him to become active. The Exalted Ruler, the CEO of the Lodge, had asked hopefully if he might consider taking an office the coming year and had pressed into his hands a book on the history of Elkdom. Dave read it, amazed to discover that the Elks were actually the ones responsible for the first veteran’s hospital. At the end of World War I they had contributed the money that built the first one. They continued doing the same kind of thing today and still saw to it that otherwise forgotten veterans had a meal and health care.

Dave stayed with a friend from Columbia while he was going through the process of joining up. He told them he was thinking of relocating (true), that he was interested in recreational vehicles (true) and that he was a loyal and very patriotic American (also true). They were delighted to take his money and paid for his first drink in their paneled bar. He was the youngest person in the building and younger than the whiskey served up to him at the bar. His membership card in hand, he took a plane from La Guardia to Ft. Wayne, changing in Chicago.

The call from Bert had chilled Dave. As much as he disliked Craig Humstead he hated to believe that he would have killed to protect his secrets. Dave had thought of Humstead as faintly ridiculous no matter what George had said.

The evening that he and George had talked into the grayness of dawn had been shocking. He had learned that George kept a cache of guns, always loaded, and was prepared to use them. There had been no guns found in the motor home according to the reports of the police. He could see the palpable fear on George’s face when Humstead was mentioned. But really, all Dave knew was what George had told him. Just words. Dave reminded himself how easily words lie.

His own take was that George was not the kind of guy to kill himself, especially with drugs. If he had blown his head off Dave would have had no problem believing it was suicide. But Dave could not believe that the feisty George Weston he had gotten to know so well had pulled off the road far from an Elk’s Lodge in Northern California and taken a lethal dose of barbiturates. No. That just could not have happened to the man who had served in the Marines all through Korea with distinction. Or could it? Not knowing bothered him. Now he wanted badly to find out.

Dave had the mileage of George’s motor home, if that was accurate. And he had a list of Elk’s Lodges that roughly covered the area between Garland, Texas where George had begun his final journey and the truck stop where he had died between Lake Tahoe and Reno. No one had bothered much to inquire. George’s family was dead; his only relatives were the distant cousins who had arranged for the funeral and sale of the vehicle. Old widowers get depressed and kill themselves; it happens. George himself had said he didn’t have much to live for, but Dave had taken that for empty rhetoric. George had a goal; more information on Humstead - and George had enjoyed living. Dave had a hunch that the story of those five months would be interesting--if he could find it.

Dave had found in his research that Elks lodges had created for themselves something of a presence online. Therefore, finding places where George had passed a few days was not too difficult. The Good ‘ol Boy had passed up through Oklahoma, cut across Kansas, Colorado, Utah and Nevada, stopping for several days at each of several lodges. They remembered him – and he had carefully signed into their guest books. So did Dave when he passed through.

Dave had no problem with the motor home. He had learned to drive one and to service them the year before while still working for Bert. But he felt like he was chasing a phantom. It was clear that while George had used the RV parking and services provided by the Elks, he had not talked to them about much but which brand of liquor he preferred.

That changed when Dave drove into a lodge a few miles from Salt Lake. George had parked in their tiny motor home park and signed in at the office just before the office closed.

As he was signing in he immediately noticed George’s signature just at the top of the same page where he was now signing. The lady at the window noticed he was looking at the other names.

She smiled. “Anyone there you know?”

Dave had discovered that Elkdom was like a not very large town. People knew each other.

It turned out that George had been here for a while, leaving on January 2nd, just five days before he died. Dolly, the lady who ran the office and it seemed about everything else here, had known George pretty well.

His intentions regarding the widow had raised expectations and fostered gossip. Dolly was attractive in an older lady kind of way, just a touch plump with clear skin and short curly hair just turning to a very nice silver that was far more attractive than the original brown had been, he could see. Her eyes turned up into crescents when she smiled, which was often. She seemed anxious to learn more about George when she realized that Dave knew him. He had been careful to notice the signature and comment when he signed into the guest book late one afternoon in the last week of September. Dave did not mention George’s death. As far as the Elks knew George had gone on west, wandering through a long life furlough.

The next week became something of a contest. Dave doled out snippets of information on George, receiving some in return from Dolly, who obviously hoped George would be back one of these days. At first it was interesting, but did not seem to be immediately useful. George had spent time going over records in the local city hall, looked over deeds, shot the breeze with some of the boys and taken Dolly out to dinner at The Salty Miner, the fanciest place in town. He was a generous tipper when accompanying a lady, according to the waitress who worked there. Everyone in town seemed to know almost instantly who Dave was and that he knew George. George had become something of a personality around town.

Then, over their third drink sitting in the Elk bar just before closing one night, Dolly had asked a question.

“I wonder if George found the father of that boy? Do you know?” Her voice carried the slight tremble of someone asking a question that is phrased to sound casual. Darla Farnsworth, called Dolly around the Lodge, was sharp. The question was anything but casual. She looked inquiringly at him.

“Boy?” Dave mouthed the words, wondering what the hell that meant.

“You bet. The boy from Texas, the one George was so interested in finding out about.” Dolly pursed her lips slightly, wrinkling her nose. She looked slightly anxious, her inquiry perhaps long in formulating.

“Do you remember the boy’s name?” Dave asked hesitantly, wondering if he had chanced on some unexpected aspect of George’s last days.

“Name of Craig, Craig something or other. Had a hard on for that boy, he did.”

Dave’s mind reeled. “Craig Humstead?”

“That would be him.” Dolly nodded affirmingly. The name obviously meant nothing to her except as someone George had wanted to know about very badly.

“His daddy. Said he got a line on him just before he took off. I did wonder. Hasn’t called again and it had been months now since I heard from him.” Dolly was obviously considering some further thoughts and the pause in the conversation gave Dave time to confront his own lack of forthcoming.

He looked at Dolly again. Her eyes showed a real concern. Dave knew at that moment that there had been some real contact between her and George. George had stayed in the trailer park in back of the lodge here for three weeks, much longer than you would have expected. Dave moved restlessly in the bright red Naugahyde covered seat of the bar chair, glancing around the walls of the place, seeing as if for the first time the faded photos of Past Exalted Rulers, their Ladies, and the beaming clumps of Elks and citizens memorializing the ordinary events of life in a small and undistinguished town.

When his mind returned to the moment he found Dolly looking at him.

“George is dead, isn’t he?” The words slammed Dave across the face with an extraordinary wave of shame.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Dave choked slightly, not knowing what to say.

Dolly nodded her head just a little as if releasing some misspent but harbored hope.

“I thought it might be that.” She looked up at him, a glaze of tears now hovering as a mist over her eyes. She wiped her eyes carefully on the pressed, clean, white hanky that she drew out of the pocket of her carnation flowered shirtwaist dress. Dolly dressed differently, more formally than the other women who spent time around the Lodge. The undercurrent of tension that Dave now realized she had been carrying was gone. She looked sad and a little lost.

“What happened?” Dave knew as she asked the question he still had only part of the answer.

The package Dolly put into Dave’s hands that same night provided no direct answers to how or why George had died. It did fit in with the story George had told him the year before about the kind of man Craig Humstead really was though. Dave wondered how George had put his hands on so much of what appeared to be notes and documents that Humstead himself had generated during his checkered career. Any sensible man would have shredded them as soon as the need for notes was outlived.

Leafing through the two-inch thick swath of pages provided no particular surprises at first. They appeared to be notes prepared by Humstead on the dirty tricks he had perfected over the years. Gloating and smug comments on his original dirty election ploy staged while a member of Young Republicans was exhaustively laid out. There was not a nuance of shame reflected into the rather verbose prose to show that regret lingered in the mind of the writer, just pride at his cleverness.

The document covered every campaign, abruptly ending just eighteen months before.

There had been articles on just how Humstead had managed this earliest political triumph for years. It had taken place while he was still a Young Republican running for the chairmanship of that organization. The vicious and backbiting attack had ended in a dead tie. The tie had been broken by an appeal to the Chairman of the National Committee of the Republican Party, Randolph S. Branch. Now, of course, Branch was also a former president. Branch had never forgiven the loser for calling him on the outrageous decision; in fact, the senior Branch had made it his job to destroy any chance the guy had in politics. The Branches never forgot and never forgave. In some people you would think this was a personal quirk. For the Branches it was policy. Dave found this strangely at variance with their public reputations as good, family oriented Christians. But it accorded very well with what Gramps had told him and explained what they and Humstead saw in each other.

Many of the articles written on Humstead’s political history had been generated from interviews done by mainstream journalists who interviewed now repentant Humstead followers. The specifics were actually too well known to anyone who had studied the Branch’s political Svengali to be sensational.

This document read like a combination of ‘how to book’ on dirty tricks, and one long gloat over essentially petty triumphs. Then it struck Dave. This was just that: A copy of Humstead’s instruction manual on dirty tricks in rough draft form. Well, Machiavelli the man was not. The tricks were painfully obvious, sneaky but simple reformulations of strategies that would have better been left in the frat house. The book could well have been titled ‘how to lie, cheat and steal your way to success’. Given the Humstead propensity for optimizing the use of existing tactics like direct mail pieces to more and more specific special interest groups, it was only a matter of time before other political consultants caught on.

And when they did?

For a moment Dave was physically nauseated by the vision of the decent men and women who would be driven out of politics. That always happened, he realized. It was the untrammeled behavior of people like Humstead in government who had turned it into the lawless jungle it was today.

Before now Dave had concerned himself with avoiding Humstead. Now he realized he needed very much to understand him.

Dave had not come on this quest without being equipped for all contingencies; his computer connected directly to the internet via satellite, though he was also free to use the office phones at the lodges, he discovered. He preferred using the phone lines. It was both cheaper and friendly. Gramps hated wasting money.

While sitting in the office at a counter next to the heavy old wooden desk that had been Dolly’s seat of power for twenty-five years, Dave discovered to his astonishment just how little he could find out about Humstead. The available bios were obviously taken from the same very terse source. Normally, it was very possible to find out about siblings, mother, father, where the person had grown up. Not here. It was as if no Humstead had ever lived in the town where he was born, gone to school, worked, or died.

Dave paused, fingers still on the keys, thinking about what all of this meant. Dolly looked over at him from her desk, her attention drawn by the cessation of tapping. Dave smiled wanly. Suddenly he could almost hear his Grandfather talking to him when he was assembling a particularly complex model airplane. He had broken off all of the parts, sanded them down carefully over a period of two weeks, and managed to lose the instructions. He had thought about throwing it away but then his own thrift and the look of amusement on Gramp’s face had driven him back to the table of tiny parts. “Look at them from every angle,” Gramps had advised.

Dave looked down at the keys and up again at the screen. He had figured out the model by looking at the finished picture and seeing in his mind the parts that composed it. With Humstead, he could look at each known action and extrapolate backwards first. Then he would be able to see the trajectory of his life forward and understand just who Humstead is.

The memory the model and a dollop of cluster theory worked. About six the next morning the pieces started to make sense. He was now in the motor home. Dolly had locked up at two in the morning, her patience and sense of humor exhausted.

Humstead’s approach had been honed over the years but really, in the main, had not changed very often. When it had you could look around and find the strategy he had copied from someone else. Humstead optimized; he never really innovated. You could almost tell who he talked to and what he read if you knew the literature of politics at a given time.

The backbone of Humstead’s strategy was to approach a campaign using a ‘platform’ of promises. He made sure this included promises of personal preferment to those who supported him. That was the carrot. To this he added disinformation, some people call these lies. Lies were used as media events or to destroy the reputation of the opposition just like Dave had just seen done in the Lawrence campaign. This was routine and had caused some potential opponents to withdraw before the campaign really started. Dave’s thought process slowed and veered off to the image of Humstead and Dicks smiling together. Dicks, Dave had discovered, seemed to be at the center of the same kind of activity centering in media that Humstead used in politics. Dave had been working up profiles on every prominent figure in public life, trying to see patterns since he had read Gramp’s letter. Dicks had waged what looked like a similar war on Jeb Franks, the attorney for Quince who had shot himself to death in the Rose Garden. No, Dave shook his head. That was crazy. Dicks could not be like Humstead.

Dave noticed something else, too. While Branch was Governor in Texas, the use of actual policy to stroke money and allegiance out of donors and voters, pretty much absent in previous administrations, became standard operating procedure. Dave set up another line of inquiry, uploading the changes to the website.

It was amazing that the man had written it all down. Reproducing it would certainly embarrass him. But that was all it would do. Dave wondered again how George had come by the papers.

Then at the very back of Humstead’s over written paean to his cleverness there were a few pages of what appeared to be notes in George’s handwriting. Copies of notes, Dave then noticed. With dates. It appeared to be a running record of the Xeroxed copies George had run at the City Hall here and elsewhere along the road referring to two original pages produced by someone else.

The page numbers appeared to be for deeds. There were also copies of entries from old phone books with names Dave did not recognize. Then, looking further down the list, he noticed that one of the names was circled and referred to a birth certificate. The date this woman had given birth was the same date and location as given out in Humstead’s bio. There was a number and date for certificate of death and one for her birth. There was also some other dates and places noted.

What did it matter? What had George been doing?

The bartender, a fellow Elk, graciously changed the channel on the Lodge’s television so Dave could watch Saturday Night Live. Dave hated to miss what had become one of the most relevant pieces of political commentary available. The spoof on the presidential debates was funnier than he had imagined possible. Logan Hobbs, one of the regulars, watched solemnly, remarking later that he thought they made more sense than the last time. Dave realized that Logan thought this was the real debate. He did not disabuse him. There really had not been very much difference, all things considered.

Tough Talk that evening featured Brusk Crimshaw nattering on about the presidential race. It was less than a month now until Election Day.

The night sky was a blaze of stars as he walked out of the Lodge, heading for his bed in the decadent dark-wood interior of the motor home. Dolly had forgiven him for yesterday and tonight he had moved the computer into the bar to work when Dolly quit at closing time. Once again Dave had had too much to drink. It had seemed appropriate tonight.

Aspirin and water. Dave reached for them even before he crawled out of bed. It was late morning when the sounds of birds chirping and the distant hum from the highway that ran by the Lodge’s trailer court finally penetrated. It was pretty nice, all things considered. There was electricity, water, cable for the television and other niceties. Not all but some meals could be had very inexpensively at the Lodge. Dave was not going to bother with breakfast today. His stomach told him that would be a very bad idea.

Dave found Dolly working in the office when he finally walked into the Lodge just after noon. There was always a lot to do. Paperwork from members, bills to be processed, cubbyholes to be filled and phone calls from more members to be answered were all her responsibility. Dave had learned that on top of being the entire paid staff, except the barkeeper and a cleaning crew, Dolly was also Secretary. He had attended the Lodge meeting out of a sense of obligation. During that meeting he’d been impressed by her efficiency and quiet sense of humor when dealing with the cadre of old timers still unused to having a woman in a seat of power. Most meals and projects were all carried out by volunteers.

The repartee and comments told Dave there had been a little grumbling from the other members when she broke through the gender barrier and joined in her own right, but not much. Her father had been a founding member of this Lodge and her deceased husband was a Past Exalted Ruler.

Glancing up as he walked in, Dolly got out some more papers for him; these papers had been crumpled and pressed flat again. They were not more of Humstead’s political fantasies. These were letters; personal letters, hand written from Craig Humstead to the father he had not known.

After he finished reading the letters, Dave felt sick. Obviously Humstead had written these letters a long time ago when he was young and emotionally vulnerable. He might never have mailed them. All of the letters were from him to the man he had discovered was his biological father when he was 19. Now Dave vaguely remembered that there had been some story about this floating around. His parent’s marriage had ended on his birthday and soon afterwards some relative, an aunt or uncle, had casually mentioned that the man who walked out wasn’t his “real father” anyway.

It was an ugly thing to have been done to Humstead. Dave wondered about the kind of relative who would have dumped that on a young man, obviously already distressed. Then his mother had killed herself. Dave glanced down and looked at the date of death.

What kind of people were Humstead’s family? Dave did a search and found practically nothing on the family. No names of mother, father, siblings. A Google search brought up nothing that correlated for a date of birth or death for either legal parent. Nexis also bombed out. He tried the same procedures with another well-known personality. The bio had a full rundown, including smiling faces at a reunion.

When Humstead tried to get in touch with his biological father he was ignored. Dave leafed through the papers, looking for a name, anything about the biological father. Grimacing, he read through the painfully personal words that filled the letter to a man who obviously did not want fatherhood.

Humstead was very anxious that no one know about his background. Dave noticed that he had attended, but not graduated from, the University of Utah; he had been born in Denver, Colorado. He had gone on from there to enroll and presumably take classes at seven other colleges and eventually to teach at a prestigious college in Texas without having a degree himself.

Humstead’s early interest in politics had been all encompassing. Instead of collecting pictures of sports heroes, he had collected bios and photos of politicians. He had shared that in one early interview and though the tiny story had been picked up from time to time, it had never been enlarged on. Humstead never talked about his family.

At the time of his birth Humstead’s last name had not been Humstead. His biological father had been a prominent man having an affair with a woman whose family came from the Ozarks. She already had one illegitimate child. The man who became his father when he was less than a year old had some curious habits. He was now dead.

It was an ugly history. But it explained a lot about Humstead’s need to succeed no matter the cost. Sometimes what is absent is more important than what is present.

Dolly received a box from George through FedEx on January 5th. It had been dropped off in Reno. The package contained the Humstead notes in one folder and two other folders. The first was labeled Research, the second Storage File. Finally it had occurred to Dave to ask Dolly if she knew any more. It turned out she did. Those facts had, however, receded in importance when she confronted George’s death.

George had called and asked her to keep the ‘package’ for him. He did not want it on him where he was going. He did not tell Dolly any more except that he would be back if he lived. Before he had left, he had slipped a ring on her finger but told her not to tell anyone. It might not be safe, he said. She was not to wear it until he came back. If that happened he would be safe. Dolly showed Dave the gold ring with the five diamonds lined up across the top. It was engraved with the date they had first met.

As he and Dolly sat in the office she slipped it on her right ring finger and told Dave about those weeks. Dave did not quite cry but he wanted to. Somehow this unlikely romance reminded him of the poetry his grandmother and Gramps had exchanged. He had never imagined that passion could well up in the eyes of a woman who seemed old to him, but there was passion in Dolly’s eyes when she talked about George.

They had taken walks, holding hands under the one full moon they saw together. He had kissed her for the first time then; just a petal light touch on her lips. They had talked about everything but his research, covering his early life in Texas and as a young soldier. He had told her about his wife and kids. She had told him about her dead husband. Soon, she was spending nights in his motor home or driving him to her house nearby. There has been a lot of gossip at the lodge, of course.

Then, when he gave her the ring, he told her about the boy, Humstead. George had gotten the files from a cousin who had named him his executor. He had found the first file with the ‘how to’ manuscript and the letters while cleaning out his cousin’s filing cabinets, noticed the name with surprise, and started reading.

Everyone is related to someone. The cousin, Bobby Joe Meredith, who died leaving George with the duty of clearing out his office and home in Garland, had gotten the files via Xerox from the guy who cleaned Humstead’s office. They had been acquired for one of his clients, a former political opponent searching for information. Bobby Joe had made a copy for himself.

Bobby Joe was a private detective who sometimes fudged the lines of what was exactly ethical. His death, caused by cancer, had been swift but certainly natural enough.

Mostly, George had burned the contents of the files. These files had attracted his attention because of his own run-ins with Humstead.

George was worried because, Dolly said, corruption was rampant. George was sure that Humstead was the tool that enabled the Branches to continue behavior that had bothered him during his many years in Texas politics. She did not know who George was going to see.

“Had Humstead known George had the files?” Dave asked. Dolly had nodded yes. He knew; George had told him so when he saw him the last time. That is why George was scared. He hoped that making peace between father and son would save his skin. Evidently it had not worked.

The Houstonian - October 2000

The elder Branch had used the place as quarters while he was in transition. The group gathered here had flown in from various parts of the country to discuss the narrowing lead of the younger Branch and to consider the transition questions. They knew only part of the plan. Humstead never shared everything.

Not that they doubted that next January they would be part of the incoming administration heading to D.C. to occupy offices in the White House.

Humstead settled into the seat looking out onto the patio as others talked. The foliage was lush and perfectly manicured. Beyond the patio he could glimpse one corner of the golf course. Could life have been more perfect?

It was much nicer meeting here than in the Fortress down the hill. The facilities of the Our History Foundation looked more like a bunker than a think tank. These petroleum types were always thinking ahead. Humstead approved of that. Perfect security there, with no windows an inconvenient photojournalist or marksman would aim through. And this, a posh resort with everything he could want at his fingertips.

This was not just food. It was an experience in lavish excess served up with all of the extras. Humstead was used to perfection now. He glanced down at the buffet, well sampled, and smiled to himself.

He had spent the last four years laying out, in depth, the strategy for this election. He had revised the assumptions on their base of support, long, shaky and growing more so, and forged new alliances that continued and deepened Republican control of a voting block through evangelical churches. The voting blocs had been manicured as well as the lawn out there; seeded and curried to perfection with other safeguards in place.

Israel had been useful and would be more so. Issues, an annoyance for many political consultants, had proven to be more useful than gold to Craig Humstead. And with issues, you could promise forever and not have to come across. He would be disappointed if he was off by 2.5 percent.

Chapter Eight - The Chad Party

2007-04-15T12:26:00.001-07:00

“Associate with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation; for it is better to be alone than in bad company.”

- George Washington

The Chad Party

Dave’s plane touched down in La Guardia on November 9th from Dallas-Ft. Worth. For once he had thrown caution to the winds and flown first class, enjoying the service and pampering. The meal had come in three courses, served on linen. The first course consisted of an appetizer of salmon pate with French bread that smelled and felt so fresh he actually did take a moment to inhale as he let a pat of butter melt on it. That was followed by a salad of vegetables marinated in a savory basil dressing and a veal cutlet so thin and tender it literally melted in his mouth. The cutlet came with the thinnest, crispest asparagus he had ever tasted. A chocolate mouse topped with a piquant raspberry sauce followed along afterwards with a flow of full bodied coffee. As he ate he thought about the events of the last few days.

He had thought the election would be over and, along with the rest of the country, lived in hourly suspense. But now he was not sure if it mattered which of the two candidates won. Either way, it seemed to him that America would be the loser. He yearned fleetingly for a return to the respect and confidence he had felt when he knew that President William Wallace occupied the Oval Office. 1980 seemed like a million years in the past.

He had not been able to discover anything more about George’s death. He had spent one long night in the truck stop where George had been found dead, but the thin whisper of the trees that backed the parking area and the sounds of the highway were his only company. He called Dolly; she sounded sad and a little distant.

Dave was sure someone had killed George, but what had preceded the death evaded both his imagination and the ascertainable facts. He had now put inquiries into the hands of the most highly recommended private detective he could find. He knew the answers must be in the meeting with someone close to Humstead. He was not sorry to have spent the last six weeks rolling around America in a motor home. He had gotten to know some fine people he otherwise would never have met and learned things that provided invaluable insight.

Dave had been forwarding his phone messages to his cell phone so no one was really aware he was away--he had just been busy with the online business he had supposedly started. Most of his communications had been accomplished via the Internet, and he had at first tentatively and then routinely begun e-mailing Lindsey. She possessed a wicked sense of humor and with the first story about her friend Babbs, had begun keeping him apprised on the happenings in the circle of acquaintance they now shared through the Fabituso Society and Republican circles in New York. Lindsey had also fallen into e-mail communication with Nann, a development that struck him as a little frightening since nothing seemed to delight the two of them more than discussing him.

It was in this way that Dave was invited to what later came to be known as The Chad Party, an event that had drawn out a diverse group of people from Conservative to Liberal to politically inert. This last group included members of the New York Literati as well as the Show Business Bunch, a group held in both contempt and envy by all of the former.

Lindsey had invited all of her friends, a large number which now included himself, Nann, and Jim, to attend. Nann was busy with her new job in human resources for a very large company. She and Jim were living near Washington Park, not far from NYU’s dispersed campus. Soon after he got home, the four of them got together for dinner at a place Jim especially liked, a Tibetan restaurant on 3rd Avenue just shy of 32nd. Over drinks and a slow, smooth menu of oncoming courses, the four of them talked. Lindsey and Nann ran the conversation; he and Jim sat back and listened, injecting comments and defenses as necessary. They were men, what could they know?

Dave had started uploading new data and analysis from the road. That helped him keep up, but there was still a lot to do. Money has to be managed, he discovered. He was learning.

He and Lindsey had fallen into an odd not-dating but going out and talking relationship different than he had ever had with any woman. They were friends who ate and did movies together and occasionally spent a couple of hours on the phone, just talking. Dave kept a pad of paper at the ready when they talked by phone because, without even knowing it, Lindsey was supplying him with information he could have gotten no place else. Gossip carries with it information about any individual’s character and this gossip was never going to appear on Page 3.

Dave was not sure how she did it, but Lindsey met everyone. He had read about the theory of six degrees of separation but with Lindsey everyone seemed to be much closer than that. Lindsey also had a good memory for stories she had heard from her mother and shocked Dave down through his shoes with some of the stories she retold about prominent people her mother knew.

One that struck him as more odd, though it amused him, was about the prominent economist Drab Freeport, the son of Melvin Freeport the even more prominent economist who won the Nobel Prize a few years back and who, with his wife, wrote books the public actually read on free-market economics. Lindsey’s mother had taken her along to a Libertarian supper club she ran when Lindsey was a child. Linden thought this would be educational and sat her right next to Drab--so she could soak up some good insights on markets and such interesting issues as Laffer Curves. But that is not what Drab talked about. At first he just ate his dinner, not talking at all. Then they served dessert, vanilla ice cream. Drab proceeded to inform Lindsey that vanilla ice cream was made out of white rats. He was very graphic about the process by which fuzzy little white rodents were converted into this tasty dessert. Horrified, Lindsey let her ice cream start to melt. That was when Drab pounced and ate it, telling Lindsey it should not be permitted to go to waste. Too many little rats had died that it be made. Freeport’s talk had been on the regulatory interventions now subjecting their economy to distortive influences. That had put Lindsey to sleep, she confessed.

This amused Lindsey now; at the time it clearly had not.

Dave was left, again, to wonder about the people one met in politics and policy. It seemed an odd thing to do to a child. Evidently Linden had thought so, too.

It was all the way into December when the Chad Party took place, but Dave had been hearing about the plans for several weeks.

Babbs Bronson was hostessing the party, but some things were all Lindsey. Babbs was doing the greeting, taking coats and stowing them very conventionally in the first bedroom off the hallway. She was bubbly, carrying on an ongoing dialogue with her new boy friend (who had taken over servicing the bar), with Lindsey, and with arriving and arrived guests.

The food was laid out in the office area off of the living room. A Greek amphora, unusual because it was decorated, immediately struck Dave. It was sitting upright in a basin of sand on the shelf on the far wall. Dave walked over and looked at it closely. The painting on it was faded but amazingly it was unbroken. The study was an open, spacious place filled with other fascinating art work as well. Babbs had some discernment. No one else was paying attention to anything but the food.

In the center of the table were two cakes that no one but Lindsey would have made. One was a perfect representation of a butterfly ballot with tiny chads dangling and the other one, chocolate cake and vanilla frosting, was decorated with a chorus of dancing chads with tiny feet and shoes and cheesy grins. Dave was amazed at the detail; the shoes even had tiny laces.

Lindsey had been hard at work finishing up the tiny quiches when he walked in to Babbs apartment, located on the Upper West Side. It was a huge old apartment still under rent control located in a very upscale building with hot and cold running doormen.

Dave thought he would be early, but there were already a hoard of journalists from the Post clustered around the drinks table and grazing over the buffet. Lindsey had hardly placed the quiches when one paunchy journalist Dave recognized from the Republican Convention inhaled six or eight of them.

Nann and Jim had not arrived and Lindsey, rejecting any assistance, was involved in the kitchen with some simmering dumplings, so Dave sat down next to an older man who was sucking on an unlit pipe. The man sat up a bit. He had very grey hair, still bushy, and disordered eyebrows standing at attention over dancing brown eyes.

“Dave Elder,” Dave reached forward to grasp the man’s gnarled hand.

“Lancelot O’Hara” the man smiled. “I thought you must be Dave.”

Dave blushed down into his roots, recognizing the name of one of Lindsey’s friends he had not yet met. But he had heard about him.

Lancelot O’Hara was something of a legend in New York and in Sag Harbor. The genial septuagenarian had done everything there was to do and enjoyed himself largely, according to those who knew him. His exploits, as reported by Lindsey, nearly defied belief. No less than seven best sellers had been written at what he lovingly, if ironically, referred to as his compound in Sag Harbor. Of course, he had not written any of the books himself. In his apartment in Manhattan an owl that had figured prominently in the still ongoing TV filming of Saturday Night Alive perched in threatening if dusty splendor atop a book shelf. Lindsey had described it, along with the other bits of memorabilia that cluttered the comfortable abode at the corner that abutted the Washington Arch.

Lancelot had also worked in Army intelligence during the period after the Korean War and before Vietnam when the CIA was assembling itself as an institution within American government. As they settled down into conversation, Dave asked about Lance’s life in Hong Kong. Lance, always delighted to have an attentive audience, told him.

The CIA was still wet behind the ears when Lance experienced the depth and breadth of their little games in Hong Kong and other places where he served around the world. Lance’s words always came with a thread of dry sarcasm. Dave had been doing research on all of the intelligence arms of the U.S. and foreign governments as an adjunct of his larger inquiries, but was immediately fascinated by the stories and insight provided by the former professor and intelligence officer.

It was really all a game to them, Lance said, smiling a little as if seeing it all again.

“You could really imagine them leaping out of the covers of a James Bond novel,” Lance said, patting just the tips of his fingers together as they rested lightly on his lap, the pipe put aside for the moment. “That was how they saw themselves, cold warriors clutching cold steel, doing battle against great difficulties and danger; always victorious, naturally.” The old man sat up a little, leaning forward towards Dave, who was listening, his attention riveted.

“Of course, it was not true. They wanted there to be danger and drama but for the most part they created it themselves. More like Cowboys and Indians than anything else. Oh, excuse me. Now a days we should say the Bad Group of Misguided but ultimately repairable misanthropes against the Group who are resonate with the Force. Does that work better?” Lance smiled. It was a charming smile and Dave responded immediately, laughing.

“I am not addicted to political correctness,” Dave smiled. “What happened?”

Still smiling, Lance went on to explain that America had not had an intelligence arm before World War II and so when the CIA made its debut under Wild Bill Donovan, they were very much affected by the individuals who were on the scene. Most of these had been second or third stringers from three colleges, Harvard, Princeton and Yale.

Dave frowned. “What do you mean by second and third stringers?”

“My dear boy, it worked like this,” said Lance. “First the Corporations would swing through and do the cherry picking, taking the best and the brightest off to corporate-style careers. Then some went on to law school, of course, and we knew those would be showing up in politics. Then the residue would be sucked into the great machine of intelligence and into the inner workings of the CIA.” Lance looked at Dave.

“That really is how it was done, you know.”

Dave’s look of enlightenment made no further words necessary. Lance continued.

“To them it really was James Bond. I remember one time in Hong Kong. The word came down from on high that we had a need to do interviews with refugees then passing through Hong Kong from China. You might not know that the Chinese government; it did this kind of thing; decided that everyone who was not Chinese, meaning that they had lived there for only three generations, had to leave. Immediately. So in Hong Kong there was this steadily growing flood of people, families hauling everything they could carry, on their way to somewhere. Obviously, they were not going ‘home’ they hadn’t any home! But the United Nations Refugee Program helped them with resettlement. Many went to Australia but they ended up everywhere. So, Intelligence from on high mandated that we do exit interviews so that we could get a kind of eye into China, which was closed then. My idea was that we settle them down for a hot meal and just ask questions but you did have to find them. They went through the exit process pretty quickly. The CIA went into a huddle, comparing notes and difficulties. They issued estimates of time requirements, started several conspiracies and sent agents into Red China. I went down to the Counsel’s office and asked for the list and their addresses. The Counsel just gave it to me. No problem.

Lance went on to itemize similar approaches by the CIA to a variety of Intelligence inquiries. These included the amount of airplane fuel available at any given time, a fact the State Department decided it needed and asked the CIA to provide. The request was passed along to him while the CIA went through their usual drill. State really wanted the information quickly for some reason. Lance had gotten the figures by simply requesting it from each of the five airlines that then flew in to Hong Kong. Four airlines had given it to him over the phone. The fifth he had gotten by calling the airport authority and asking for the total amount held by all airlines and deducting the other four amounts. Simple.

Dave shook his head. It was hard to comprehend the kind of mind that would see complexities and conspiracies everywhere. Then he thought about the image of James Bond. He had seen some of the movies on late night TV. Now he realized why they seemed so fantastical and unreal. They were; but they were also founded on the author’s perception of the CIA.

From where Dave was sitting he could see the front door. Just as he was about to ask some more questions Nann and Jim appeared, shedding coats. Lindsey caromed out of the kitchen and hugged Nann. Their hair merged for just a moment in a long shining glaze of gold. Then they came over in a clump to fetch him. Shaking hands with Lance, he promised to come by some time for a visit. Lance looked from Lindsey to Dave and sighed deeply.

The cake was wonderful, rich, creamy and moist. Lindsey had made the frosting with real butter. Dave had three pieces, passing up the quiche.

Lindsey made a point of introducing Nann and Jim to most of her friends, but Dave was introduced as a friend of theirs. Lindsey was nervous when Nann and Jim arrived, he could feel that. Why, he wondered. Except for Babbs, she knew more people in the room than anyone else.

A solid fraction of those present were familiars from the Fabituso Society. Also present were liberals and a respectable selection of literati from the political opposition in New York. The two groups in some cases eyed each other as if staring over a vast divide; but some of them actually talked.

Dave took Nann and Jim over to meet Lance, who was delighted to flirt lightly with Nann; the old man had told Dave he had a strong preference for blonds, too. While the three of them were sitting there next to the long, low windows that let in the noise and sights from the City, Lance shared yet another astonishing story.

This was the story of Dixon’s Clock.

Vice President Dixon had made a trip to Taiwan to visit the U.S. recognized Republic of China presided over by Chiang Kai-shek. As was his usual practice, the Vice President sent along an appropriate memento of the event afterwards. In this case what he deemed appropriate was a rather ponderous table clock with a brass plate inscribed with the date of the visit and his name.

Lance might have lived on in complete ignorance of the clock’s existence but it was conveyed to the President of China from the Office of the Vice President by being entrusted to the care of an airline pilot who handed it off in turn to another pilot who presumably was to have delivered it to the embassy in Taiwan. But it never arrived.

Lance, as the Officer in charge of Intelligence, therefore received a call from the frantic Office of the Vice President. This launched him into action. He had his driver take him forthwith to the airport with his translator. There, the small contingent interrogated the staff and were pointed to the very elderly Chinese man who cleaned out the planes after they had emptied.

The Chinese man listened carefully to the inquiries of the translator and at some point in the dialogue a look of comprehension lighted his face. He then led the group to a packing crate correctly addressed to the Embassy. It was sitting on a shelf just inside the baggage claim area.

Lance took it straight to the Embassy for appropriate handling. Pausing at this point, Lance told the listeners that a CIA mission had been launched to find the package and had determined that it had been stolen as part of a covert mission to disrupt American Chinese relations. So officially the clock had never arrived. Lance hoped it actually worked.

Everyone laughed except Dave. His inquiries into the CIA had made him wonder if this last joke were actually true.

The television had been droning on in the background when Tough Talk, billed as The Cutting Edge of Political Commentary, came on. Someone turned up the volume amid a mixed reaction from the crowd. The subject was the Florida variety of chads.

Commentators proceeded to argue vociferously over the still unfolding drama. The pundits were in full cry, giving their opinions about everything under the sun as they continued to weave in opinion with a smattering of fact. Franklin Leadpart went on about the latest efforts by Vice President Armstrong Fore to have votes counted with or without chads. The Branch camp reacted vociferously to the speech by Vice President Fore, opining on with exactly the same well-honed phrases they had used the last time they were asked. All of the nuances of these various revelations were then discussed again by commentators Ralph Gibbons, a Democrat from Massachusetts, and Dale Sorenson, a Republican from South Carolina.

Dave watched. Some of those in the room glanced at the set and talked over the cacophony. Some of these began moving towards the back of the room, away from the set or disappearing into the hall ways and adjacent rooms. Others began glancing at the screen, their attention wandering from those around them. Soon there were two groups of people. Interesting.

Lindsey had told Dave over coffee the week before that Babbs had a new boy friend. She had rolled her eyes a little when she mentioned it. The long and involved adventures of Babbs had become a continuing saga that Dave followed with trepidation and interest.

Babbs new boyfriend, Gregory Linderheim, was up from his home in Florida to spend time on business in New York. Gregs, as Babbs called him, was a financial planner. From what Lindsey had said that brisk afternoon as she sat snugly smiling at him in the Starbucks at 45th & Park Avenue as curls of paper whipped by outside carried in the wind that was also penetrating good Republican cloth coats on the sidewalk, Gregs would most likely prove to be a serial murderer. Babbs track record was one long and continuous disaster, not just for her but for everyone to whom she became attached. In odd moments like this Lindsey filled him in on the History of Babbs. This proved to be an astonishing collation of stories, all of which contained elements of both the tragic and the absurd.

Two years ago Babbs had been engaged to a man, Darrel Larson, who seemed like just the right guy. He had given her a gorgeous diamond ring that had belonged to his mother. Then he had borrowed money from her after moving in and grazing through her other assets. Babbs, perhaps blown into indiscretion by the size of the diamond, had written him a check without accompanying the transaction with paperwork. Later that month he had demanded the ring back and gone his way, moving out with accomplished efficiency and taking some of Babb’s choice collector items with him.

To top it off, not a week after Babbs came home to find he had left the FBI called on her. They wanted to look over anything Darrel might have left behind. Then they demanded to see her phone bills. Darrel, warm and wonderful guy that he was, had been fingered by a friend of his caught up in the Chapman murder case. The friend had offered to finger some of his ‘associates’ in an extortion ring in return for leniency. Darrel was, of course, one of those friends.

Before Dave could even completely experience sympathy for Babbs, Lindsey went on to the next chapter in the story. That was Babbs and the nice guy who escaped. Babbs was still stalking him when he could be located. He moved frequently. This insight was followed by a series of other stories. After a while he lost count and Lindsey changed subjects.

He was very glad he had not become better acquainted with the woman, although he had been struck by the real excellence of her work in film when he viewed her short subject on the Rumanian victims of the Holocaust. This had also provided him with an amazing insight into the use of political pressure, disinformation and the overwhelming power of silence.

Dave had begun to look at the edges of the story on the Holocaust as a part of his background research. It was not his story and his grandfather had left Germany in large part because he disapproved of the German government and Adolph Hitler. He had been taught that the Rumanians had cooperated with Hitler. Now he is hearing that Rumanians were actually the first inhabitants of Auschwitz. Babbs, always out of the box and gutsy along with being slightly or very crazy, had snuck a photographer into the Holocaust Museum in Rumania to photograph the evidence, which was convincing.

Killing people was just wrong; lying about the facts was sick. Dave could not imagine why such evidence would have been suppressed by the same people who had so many reasons to understand the pain of persecution, especially when their own persecutions had been allowed to go unacknowledged for so long. He made a note to himself to look into it. He would find other avenues of inquiry that did not include Babbs. Looking across the table at Lindsey, chatting and sipping on her Latte Grande, Dave realized that she had a way of cutting to the point of a story, making it memorable and funny even when it was tragic if viewed in another light.

Walking home through the dimness of early evening, hedged around with the noise of the City he wondered about Babbs. He had been impressed by the tape she had showed at the Chad Party of Alexander Fore, now vice president. On the tape Babbs had sounded so sane and the vice president came off as a space nut. Dave had briefly wondered if it was faked but he had made some calls and the vice president had done the interview back in 1986.

The interview wandered a bit but that was not the fault of the interviewer. Alexander Fore had things to say and he worked hard at saying them. Babbs had designed the interview to get Fore’s reaction to a politically correct project launched by a group of Russian and Midwestern women who were knitting Caps for Peace. The group had been moved to do this because they felt that since all women knit, at least in Russia and the Midwest, it would bring them together and help them produce more caps.

Fore had grazed through the caps without showing much interest. Then he had taken the bit in his teeth and turned the monologue towards the existence of extraterrestrials (he believed), Area 51(there needed to be a Congressional inquiry), the secrecy of the government and American’s right to know. Babbs was well informed on issues of caps and knitting but woefully behind the times of Fore’s chosen interest of the moment.

The reaction of the watchers had been mixed. The Republicans had laughed and the staunch Democrats had groaned.

Babbs had finally turned the TV off when all possibilities for anything political had been exhausted. By then Lindsey was again in the kitchen cleaning up. Dave wandered in to see if he could help. He could tell she was upset but did not know what to say. Nann and Jim had left soon after the Fore tape. Nann had said she could only take so much excitement. Nann had hugged Lindsey tight and said something to her, too low for Dave to hear. Lindsey had looked as if she might cry.

Dave took a pile of platters out of Lindsey’s hands and put them into the suds. Taking off his coat he threw it over the kitchen chair and dug in. Lindsey went out to fetch more dirty dishes. The two of them worked together, not talking more than necessary to do the job. The party was finally winding down. Gregs was putting stoppers in the bottles. Babbs had thrown herself down on the couch, flinging her shoes in different directions and proclaiming her complete exhaustion. Lindsey had taken over the sink as he wiped dishes. When she turned around he could see she had been crying.

“Oh, my eyes. It must be the soap.” Lindsey wiped her hand across her face, leaving a trail of subs in its wake. “Thanks, Dave. I really, really appreciate you helping out. I think I should head home now. I’m really tired.” Her face tried really hard to smile but it did not work. She hugged him tight for just an instant.

Then Dave was looking at the closed door, himself inside with Babbs and Gregs; Lindsey gone. This was not how he had wanted the evening to end.

Saving the world and romance had not seemed like mutually exclusive activities when Dave started. After the Republican Convention, the idea of him and Lindsey as a couple had taken hold; he had fallen in love. Now he realized that although they talked frequently, there were many subjects that were never broached. Did he know this woman? He had thought he did. He knew what moved her to tears of admiration. He knew about her ideals. Was that enough? Who was Lindsey Smithson, really?

Dave felt slightly guilty. He had promised to visit Lance, but now he felt as if he were visiting under false pretenses. Yes, he was charmed by the old man; he wanted to explore Lance’s fascinating past and hear stories. But he also wanted to find out about Lindsey. Going to her friends seemed sneaky somehow.

He and Lance met at the Waverly, a rather well known old diner near Washington Square. The place had been around forever, going through several generations of regulars, among them James Dean, who had eaten in the very reasonable eatery while he was living in New York and attending the Actor’s Studio.

Dave saw Lance, already seated at a back booth, when he walked in. Sliding over the worn, mustard colored seat he greeted the old man. Dave was nervous. He hoped it did not show.

After they ordered (hamburgers all around; Dave had a milk shake, Lance coffee), talk turned to the Chad Party and the continuing drama in Florida. Lance had heard from Babbs about her adventures in the Orange State and, forgetting for a moment the real reason he had sought Lance out, Dave listened with growing amazement to yet another Babbs story.

It seems that Babbs had decided to avoid more annoying drama about the Chads by heading down to Florida in the wake of her new honey. Arriving in West Palm Beach airport, she headed to baggage claim to get her sturdy but unexceptionally large black roller bag. Bag in hand, she headed out and immediately saw Gregs waiting for her in his Black convertible Mercedes. Just before they got on the freeway Babbs told Gregs to pull over. She needed her make-up bag and it was in the suitcase. Gregs had tossed the bag into the back seat of the car. Babbs unzipped the case to find a voting machine. This was definitely not her bag.

Both Lance and Lindsey received calls from Babbs right then and there. What was she supposed to do with the voting machine? Was it legal to import the machines to Florida now? Babbs had gone through the bag and knew it was owned by a Democrat. Lindsey called Tom Dicks. He referred them to a Republican functionary in Florida and other authorities were drawn in.

Then Babbs started to think about getting her own bag back.

For the next two days Babbs yelled at the increasingly hostile people at Unity Airline. They told her she should have checked the tag; she told them she wanted her bag. Finally an exchange was arranged and Babbs had her stuff, including the make-up bag. Every person in Florida was being asked about their opinion on the chads and the election. They asked Babbs, too, in a restaurant where she and Gregs were taking a break from the Drama of the Black Bag. But no one asked her if she knew about a lost voting machine, so naturally she made no comment.

Every news show had featured coverage of the crowds of Young Republicans protesting and interviews of Jentry Collingsworth, suddenly vocal on the issue of the First Amendment and the right to protest. It was a circus. Constant barrages of charges from Republicans that the media was owned and controlled by the Left had become routine for Dave. He trusted no one completely; a fact checked three ways was a fact he could trust.

Dave and Lance lingered over dessert; Dave ordered coffee. Lance’s stories were all told with the same dry wit, but sometimes it was obvious that the story was a put on, served up for the sake of humor.

Certainly this was true with his story about his service in the European Theatre during the last days of the Third Reich. Sitting there sipping his coffee, Lance described the growing concern of the OSS that German civilians be informed about the hazards that they faced. Dave waited. Lance had slowed the narrative, drawing out each word. His assignment, he said, was to lead a detachment to parachute behind enemy lines and carefully place flyers on the proper procedures and protocols under the doormats of the citizens of Berlin. They had accomplished this feat in complete secrecy as ordered. And so the heroic mission remained secret to this day. They had made their way back through enemy lines to meet their own troops after an arduous couple of weeks of leafleting carried out in the dead of night. The special agent who had carried the printing press received a doubly special award from the President, but he had only received the singularly special award. He was very glad not to have had to carry the printing press.

Lance told this story without even a nuance of a smile. Dave did not have to check that story out. That one could not possibly be true.

Dave enjoyed his session on the continuing stories of Babbs. Hearing these from Lance provided a stereo viewpoint that was entirely consistent with what Lindsey told. He had now heard the stories from two separate parties and it did not appear that any exaggerations were being retailed. But he had not for a moment forgotten the real reason he had called Lance. Later, he realized he should have asked Lindsey directly but he had not been able to bring himself to do that.

The story also provided the opening he had been looking for. Lance confirmed that Lindsey had been in a relationship with Tom Dicks. It had been going on for some time but, as far as he knew, was now over. When Dave said goodbye to Lance on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, he felt as if someone had dug out his heart with a spoon. It was Lindsey who had loaned him the Robin Hood movies that provided the image. That seemed fitting somehow.

Chapter Nine - Promises of Peace

2007-04-15T12:25:00.002-07:00

“Hatred ever kills, love never dies; such is the vast difference between the two. What is obtained by love is retained for all time. What is obtained by hatred proves a burden in reality for it increases hatred.”

- Mohandas K. Gandhi

Promises of Peace

2001 – June

Darrin Youngblood was delighted to hear from Dave. Their brief visit at the Republican Convention the year before had bumped them back into occasional e-mail contact, exchanging articles and jokes, but neither had followed up with a phone call until Dave called Darrin at his place in Sabastapol, near Santa Rosa. Darrin was in the throes of working over the new business plan for Revolving Rocketry, the nominally dead company that had for a brief moment actually hoped to put a privately funded low orbit reentry vehicle in space. Several of the folks who had helped to build the initial vehicle, which had worked, rising several dozen feet off the ground before settling back to the thunderous applause of thousands of space devotees, were still working and living in the god-forsaken town of Mojave, hoping to resurrect the effort. This was their life’s dream and they were not going to give up easily.

But meanwhile, while they raised the 100 million deemed necessary to continue, they had other interests.

Darrin had gone on to join the group that, while still determined to make it into orbit, had shifted gears a touch. Since for now they were stuck on this god-forsaken ball of dirt they better make sure it would still be supporting human life when their grandchildren were born. This turn had surprised Dave, who knew from experience that Libertarians, the most intelligent and intellectually innovative end of the Republican Party, were inclined to be from the Earth First – We’ll pave the other planets later persuasion. They had been at Moundville, anyway.

Darrin had to explain in more depth what had happened. Then the outlines of this new direction started to make sense to Dave. These savvy technophiles had simply reapplied their views of individualism and turned Green with a market attitude; a trust but check viewpoint they hoped would help them avoid the problems that had bogged down the original Greens. After Darrin explained the issues it made perfect sense.

Living the principles of individualism means returning to the roots of the founding documents and understanding those principles as they apply to the 21st century, Darrin had told him. But the social model those Founders had known was based on very small towns for the most part. Their ways had depended on the misunderstood influences of knowing your neighbor well enough to identify his nasty ways. This underscoring of social governance, very present in America’s original context, broke down in the secrecy made possible in the anonymity of large towns and cities.

Knowing this, an edge group of the present younger generation of the Movement had shifted direction, identifying ways to keep control at the individual level. Darrin used the example of energy in California. He also knew that it was the uncoupling of profit from accountability that had given Californians such a different outcome than experienced by the residents of Pennsylvania.

Dave was well aware of the impact privatizing had had on the supply of energy; it had been bad, driving California towards bankruptcy. But he had not known that it was possible, using Green solutions, to disengage from the very idea of collectivizing the generation of energy. According to Darrin, few of their members actually used energy they did not generate themselves. Darrin got out a set of plans, even though they were on the phone, and started waxing on about the efficiencies of decollectivizing. He told Dave that if he could see his electric meter he would be astonished that it did not spin around like the pointer on a scale holding the 300 pound man. He had the meter because he and others actually planned to sell energy back to what he called “The Grid” at some point in the future. Darrin went on to detail an astonishing number of applications in every area of human life.

Most of these folks were now part of an incipient intentional community, living and working and planning up here in the Santa Rosa area. They intended to pick the members of their larger community so that they could be assured they could lower their transaction costs by correctly trusting those who were included.

Darrin went on to tell Dave, non-stop, about the community, its exciting innovations, and the car he was going to pick up that burned waste oil for fuel. The guy who built them was the engineer, a graduate of Cal Tech, who had designed and built the engine for Revolving Rocketry. A pause ensued. Dave suddenly realized he was supposed react, exclaiming in astonishment and delight. He did. In fact, Dave was amazed to hear that this had been accomplished. It just seemed kind of removed from space flight to his uninformed mind.

Discovering that Dave was actually in the area, Darrin asked him to come over and meet him. Then together, this being a Saturday, he could take him to see the genius who had built first the rocket engine and then the car engine. Dave agreed.

The set up was not what Dave had expected. But then he had long since learned that the Libertarian types, often brilliant in nearly every imaginable way, were disinclined to act very conventionally. Frequently they could not tell you what was conventional and this made it difficult for them to even simulate the behavior.

The shop where Brenden Banks installed his very much-altered engines in the very conventional chassis was next to flowing fields of berries, presently being harvested by hand. Dave, six feet four himself, found himself looking up into the face of Brenden Banks, who seeing them had stopped work, walked towards them from the field, wiping his hands on his overalls. Smiling he stuck out a huge paw, stained with juice. His eyes were bright blue, intelligent, and penetrating. Brenden then introduced his partner, Star. Star was also blond with beautiful eyes and features but a figure of what his Gramps would have called the well-fleshed variety. She worked as a reporter for a local paper and her hobby was belly dancing. She served up freshly baked pastries with the coffee. Their thin crust dissolved on his tongue almost before he could finish savoring the slight anise undertone. Star also turned a portion of their crop into a liquor, and she told them she was planning to market it on line.

Sitting around having freshly brewed coffee outside near the goat pen, the racks of machining tools visible inside the door of the workshop, they talked about world politics, Moundville, and philosophy. Brenden gave credit to a series of books he said had opened his eyes to the problematical relationship between the actions we choose and what outcomes we are really looking for. Evidently, making that transition had been difficult for him because he was raised by Objectivists.

Later, Dave wondered if this explained the ominous absence of intelligent young people, especially women, in the ranks of Republicanism. If the innovators had left, as he had learned from studying the dynamics of past movements, and these were the second generation of the movement that had started with Barry Goldwater, then what was going to happen to Republicanism even if it could be rescued from the plague of the NeoCons? Brenden was raised by Objectivists, that being the philosophy of Ayn Rand that had underscored the Goldwater Revolution in the 60s. Star’s mother had been a Libertarian. She claimed her mother was also her father. Dave found that confusing and so decided not to inquire further.

Even before he left the berry fields and the detailed explanation of the innards of the car that Brenden had delivered in a voice booming with enthusiasm behind him, Dave realized that he needed to rethink and recalibrate some of his assumptions. Smiling wanly, he listened as Darrin continued to enthuse over the possibilities of using waste oil to power cars and generators, living within a sustainable environment, and reunderstanding individualism. Dave did not need to ask for recommendations on books. Darrin handed him a list with the zeal of a convert and suggested he take their test on suitability for their intentional community. Dave took the questionnaire. Initially he had been skeptical and he was not sure he would want to join, but he was attracted to the clear idealism of their ideas, especially since they shared so many of those ideals with Gramps, astonishingly enough. Robert Heinlein was on the list of books.

His next meeting was not nearly as appetizing. He had arranged a face-to-face meeting with the private investigator he had hired to look into the death of George Weston.

Pulling into the small café in Walnut Creek where he had arranged to meet Diamond Tanner the next day, Dave wondered again about George and those last days of his life. Dolly had called to ask if he had found anything further. He hoped to have news for her soon.

What is a man named Diamond going to look like? Dave had been a little worried about recognizing the face behind the gruffly drawn out voice he knew from the phone, but as soon as he walked in he knew him. Diamond was reading the Canal Street Journal with a look of determination and wearing the biggest diamond ring Dave had ever seen on anyone.

Time had pouched Diamond’s face, pulling the flesh down so that he looked remarkably like a mastiff. His eyes were half closed except when he raised his eyebrows, raising the flesh enough so that at least more of the eyes became visible. His eyes were brownish grey.

Dave slid into the seat on the other side of the booth, taking just a moment to assess the man. Then he realized that Diamond was doing the same to him. Smiling wryly he stuck out his hand.

“Dave Elder, good to meet you. How is the investigation coming along?”

Diamond grabbed his hand, as if he had not expected this courtesy, rising a little from the seat.

“I have a report for you. It is not complete and it may mean more to you than it does to me.” Diamond slid a folder out of his briefcase, before invisible on the seat beside him, and opened it.

“The subject, George Weston, spent the nights of January 4th and 5th in the RV space next to the Elks Lodge in Fallon, Nevada. He sat in the bar some, groused a bit that they did not have his brand. The members remember him because he put a fifty-dollar donation in the kitty for the two-night stay. He rolled out of there in the early morning on the 5th, saying he was on his way west to California; had a meeting or something at a place in Sacramento. The members I.D.ed his photo, positive.” Diamond paused, looking up at Dave. He looked down again.

“His rig was pretty noticeable. A parking attendant saw his rig parked in a casino lot in Reno at around noon the next day. He was parked across two spaces in the back. The attendant knocked on the door and he hollered out the window that he was just leaving. Or someone hollered. I used the recording of his voice you provided to play to the attendant and he could not say that it was the same man. He did not actually see him. I did a thorough search of the casinos, looking for someone who could ID him and no one did. So there is no proof he was actually driving the rig by that point.”

Diamond looked down again and continued.

“He filled up his gas tank, or someone did, at an automated place about five miles from where the rig as found the next day. That transaction took place at 10:30PM, and the rig must have been nearly empty to have taken this much fuel.”

He slid the Xeroxed copy of a receipt across the table. Dave glanced at it.

“This is the full record of fuel bought from the time he left Texas. Receipts were in his trip notebook.”

Dave glanced at the receipts, recognizing George’s crabbed handwriting.

“The toxicology report, acquired covertly from my sources in the police department there, indicated under greater scrutiny that the specific drugs in his system were not prescription but acquired from an illicit off shore source. This source could have been located nearly anywhere but a cache of the same drugs, same exact chemical signature, turned up a few months ago in Washington D.C. They were taken off a mule also carrying a supply of cocaine coming in from Eastern Europe. Here are the specifics on that arrest.”

Another paper slid across the table.

“The mule is still in prison. I could not find the other end of the transaction, although the flight the mule was on originated in Munich. Here is a mug shot of the mule.”

Diamond slid a photo of a man in his early twenties across the surface. Dave looked at him. His arrest record was on the bottom part of the sheet and it seemed the ‘mule’ Jorge Estopalio, had been in this line of business for a good long time, probably since he was in his teens.

Diamond sat back, looking at Dave expectantly.

Dave opened his wallet and handed Diamond a check. “Keep looking.”

Diamond was reading the Journal again when Dave glanced back from the door.

1997 - North Carolina

Coop blew them out of the water. The year before he had written his first habeas corpus writ to extract himself from the wrongful jail time the judge in the case had arranged in response to his barrage of well written pro se briefs refuting the perjurous assaults of his estranged wife, Trudi, and her new live in lover. The issue was always custody, visitation and support for his daughter, Beatrice, or Bead. The issue was not the money. He always paid, on time or in advance; he had been Bead's primary caretaker since she was born, taking over the nightly feedings when Trudi found them too taxing before Bead was even two weeks old. When Bead visited her mommy her diapers remained unchanged, and diaper rash became a real problem. Trudi’s addictions to alcohol and various drugs took center front in her attention; motherhood was a simple means for acquiring money.

But the State, Coop had learned, made more money from mining Federal and State sources when support was not paid, or at least not acknowledged. So they would just forget to count payments.

As always his arguments in front of the court left the face of the judge red with anger and confusion, now accompanied by a growing touch of fear. Coop's body had a compact strength and energy that translated into flowing, decisive movement. When he spoke, his words cut to the point like the glass blades Eskimos use to cut through the bones and blubber of whales. Women’s eyes followed him, drawn by the strength he exuded.

When he had started his campaign against corruption in the court system, just four years before, he hadn't known much about the law; since then he had studied long into the nights while the blue grey wisps of smoke curled up past his head from the hot ember of his cigarette. He had started smoking when he was fourteen and living in Germany with his mother and stepfather on the Army Base near Stuttgart. He had been a boy-child on the edge of life, testing all of the limits. He had bought ration cards, trading the cigarettes, liquor, and coffee off base to German civilians for growing rolls of money. It had been illegal, of course, but pretty much ignored by the authorities.

Coop, still Jack then, was young but he had a reputation for being mean. He took no shit from anyone; never had. This had been brought home to the other kids at school when he had stood up to the school bully, daring him to take a swipe at him. The tall, lanky boy with the straight, dirty blond hair had backed down. Coop was younger and smaller but his attitude was deadly.

Then on the playground soon afterwards, the bully's cousin had stuck a foot out and tripped Coop's little brother, sending him face first into the gravel. Coop had picked up Jamie, then seven and in the first grade, picking the gravel out of his broken lip and soothing his tears before battering the curly haired sneering cousin up the hill and onto his knees. When they had pulled Coop off the boy was crying and shielding his battered face. But the playground supervisors had seen what happened. No one had complained. On an Army Base these things were understood.

He had been a rough kid in some ways. But he was also someone who was addicted to learning. He had been the one who persuaded the administration to set up a special curriculum for self-monitored lessons. Other students had taken advantage of the opportunities he created, traveling throughout Europe to study the depth of history offered from Italy to France. Coop aced every course. He had also begun taking courses at the high school while still in junior high. That is where he had met his first girl friend, Megan. She was two years older but they shared interests in rock climbing and nature. They had met when Coop was completing a sale of illicit cigarettes to the bus driver.

The first time they made love was on the baseball field, exploring each other under the glowing sphere of a billion lights. Coop never forgot how her skin felt under his fingers or the sweet taste of her lips on his. It ended when her parents caught them in bed together. He made it out the window just in time. They kept in touch until she returned with her family to Maine. Her skin stayed with him on nights that glowed with stars.

That was the same year he took the three weeks of survival training, learning to rappel and walk across structures suspended 45 feet up in the trees. A lot of teamwork was involved and learning to trust. It was a vivid experience, teaching on many levels. His team skied cross country, spending nights in the tiny huts tucked into the hill sides; cooking on the wood stoves around which the small cabins were built. The smell of burning wood permeated the structure and their clothing, staying with them into the cold, snow bound world of the next day.

It was because of Coop's bad behavior that Coop's interests took a direction that was to become a continuing theme throughout his life. He had landed in detention after causing a not very small explosion in chemistry class. Instead of letting him read, the teacher demanded he participate in a discussion on the Bible that spiraled into the question of who had created the Creator. Coop's take on this issue was not in accordance with the instructor's. After many heated debates, Coop found himself assigned a twenty page paper on just this question.

At first annoyed, Coop turned it into an opportunity to explore the libraries of abbeys, convents, seminaries and churches all over Europe.

One in particular had impressed him. The medium sized church was built with the nave extending out on each side, forming the shape of a cross. The church interior was ancient cedar, carved to represent the living, growing beauties of the world. The font was also wood, but a hard wood that was silk to the touch and carved with a riot of vines and leaves and flowers climbing up its sides to touch the graceful fluted edge. Coop had seen the shape of this church before, but he had not seen the books in this library anywhere else. He was not allowed to touch, but the monk in charge drew on gloves and opened the pages so he could read the words. This was the first time Coop read the Secret Gospel of Thomas. He could smell the ancient scent rising from the pages as he bent down to photograph them.

When the deadline approached, he asked the teacher for an extension, explaining the depth and breadth of the search which now included several other lines of research. The astonished man agreed. The final document was 128 pages of text with 30 pages of index and references. Coop had learned a lot about the history of theology and about the people who had lived it from 300 A.D. until present day. Researching and writing the paper raised questions in his mind it would take a life time to answer.

Then, in his senior year, the family returned to the United States. Bored with school in the US, Coop got his GED and began work as a mechanic.

Soon after his arrest for domestic violence, Coop started reading books from the local library finding that a lot of what he needed was on the Internet and easily available. His experience in Europe with the development of thought in theology had led him to a life long interest in the founding principles of freedom. Theology in Europe and Britain had eventually placed the issue of the human soul and the soul’s direct relationship with the Creator in the minds of the men who had formulated the theories of individual liberty on which America was founded. He had studied the works of Hobbs, Locke, Paine and Jefferson between bouts of excess in his early 20s. There had been more excess in his life than he liked to remember now.

He bought the law books anyway. He liked the weight and feel of books sliding through his hands and he liked the smell of the pages. Now, he indulged his taste for old texts, seeking out an original Black’s Law Dictionary, overlooked in a second hand store. Most attorneys did not have the quality of law library that Coop had assembled in his doublewide trailer.

It had not taken long before others were coming to him with haunting fear in their eyes to learn what he knew. He taught them and charged nothing. That was part of the plan that he had formulated in the aftermath of that long night on his knees. Things were going to change and he was the motive force that would make it happen.

You can accomplish a lot if you don't know how to take no for an answer.

Coop was leaving the court, walking away from the judge without a backward glance, when a woman confronted him. That she was upset was obvious, but that did not detract from the smooth glow of beauty that made her so arresting. The second thing he noticed was her eye lashes, which were long and thick, edging huge eyes the color of cobalt. Her face was heart shaped with high cheekbones. Glossy blond tresses flowed down over her shoulders. She wore her clothes tight so that they showed off contours that were well worth noticing. She did not need make-up and wore little.

"Coop Steigler?" Her voice held the cadence of rural North Carolina.

Coop nodded slowly, shifting slightly. Glancing behind her he noticed a man, looking embarrassed and uneasy.

"Mam?" Coop nodded again, putting a touch of inquiry into his voice. "That would be me."

Her name was Reba Monroe and her story was a lot like his own. They ended up talking, first there in the hallway outside the courtroom and then in the coffee shop around the corner. She drank iced tea, thick with sugar. Coop sipped coffee and her husband, the embarrassed figure in the background, had ginger ale.

It was a story Coop had heard all too often in the last four years. Reba had been married to another man, older than herself. He had promised a lot to get her when she was twenty and he was thirty-two, but after they married he had never been satisfied with the way she was. He wanted her to dress differently, less sexy he said. He wanted her to have dinner on the table precisely at 5:30, and he wanted her to drop out of school, where she was going part time while working. That had not been the deal. Reba had ambitions and they were not limited to the care and feeding of a used car salesman living outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. Reba had a voice like an angel that put tears in your eyes and a sinking sensation in your gut. She wanted to sing, and she wanted to do that where she could be heard. She had started out singing when she was fourteen at church and moved on from there to wherever she could get an audience. She had moved on to small clubs; picking up gigs wherever they offered.

When they had married, she had already signed a record deal and arranged to go to Nashville. He had told her he would help her achieve her dreams; along with the singing she was studying to be a nurse; that was nearly finished when they married. Then, even before they were back from the honeymoon everything changed. He started making fun of her ambitions, complaining when she was working or at school, and especially when she had a gig. He would always be there, watching from the front table, but he never looked happy and he insisted on handling her contracts and all of the money. He let her finish her nursing training and then that was it for outside work.

Pretty quick she had gotten pregnant and then he had insisted she stop everything; even quit her first nursing job. Three babies later she left, tired of the continual abuse that had begun while she was still pregnant with the first baby.

She had gotten a job as the receptionist in the office of a podiatrist in the small town outside of Charlotte where she found an apartment. It was small--she slept in the living room and the kids shared the tiny closet sized bedroom. But pretty quick she had married the podiatrist, Dr. Chester Winthrop, who was sitting here looking uncomfortable and worried. He nodded every so often in agreement, looking at his wife, still amazed she had married him. The couple had had three more kids. Things would have been all right but the first husband, who shared custody of the first three kids, had waged a war of revenge that had come close to destroying them financially. His weapons had been the filing of false reports of abuse and the lactose intolerance of his three children.

The kids had been diagnosed as lactose intolerant, something they had inherited from their father, when they were still babies. Reba had learned to cook for them without milk or its byproducts. That had been tough, but she got used to it, and used to keeping them away from many of the things they loved, like ice cream. At home they got the no lactose variety. But when the kids visited the father he made sure he packed them full of ice cream just before returning them. He then went into court and claimed their mother had Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy and was using their resulting serial illnesses to get emotional visibility for herself. On that basis he got the Department of Social Services to remove all of the kids and give him custody of his three. Then he went after her and her husband for support. The other three younger kids were now in foster care and Reba and her husband were terrified and desperate.

The phenomenon of Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy, a condition so rare that it occurred in only a handful of cases in a generation, had become a tool of destruction just like domestic violence had been in his own case. This nearly nonexistent ‘condition’ was being used by unscrupulous social workers, psychologists, parents and the courts to justify assaults on mothers and fathers. It was not the only tool, but it and Parental Alienation Syndrome were two of such tools that allowed sloppy and corrupt courts to justify outrageous verdicts. Coop had come across other cases in his exhaustive reading. This was the first use of the invented phenomenon he had heard of here in Charlotte. The State had held a briefing on the syndrome, passing out a 22-page paper detailing how to find it earlier that year. Suddenly, a disease no one had heard of assumed epidemic proportions in North Carolina. No one bothered to inform the Disease Center in Atlanta, however.

All of the ways people found to abuse and steal fascinated Coop. All of them were pretty much the same. To make them work you needed stupid, credulous, unscrupulous and corrupt local authorities. Munchausen's was the newest handy tool, but it was only one more in an ever growing list.

In this case the father was the bad guy. He had been clever, and he had used the same allies that Coop had just bested in court. Coop smiled the hard little smile that both his friends and enemies knew so well.

Sitting back, Coop scratched his ear then put his forearms down on the table. This was going to be fun.

Coop joined Reba's case under rules 17 - 23, allowing him to argue the issues as a party to the suit. His own case, just heard, had been fought over many of the same grounds and with the same judge and psychologist. Coop had gotten the first psychological study on himself thrown out by challenging its factual content. He had carried a small recorder into the sessions and played them back for the court, demonstrating the untruthfulness of the psychologist.

Over and over he had hammered the judge; the law was not open to interpretation at the whim of any judge. It stood on its own, word for word.

Reba soon learned that Coop did not expect to go in and win the case for her with no further effort on her part. He demanded that she crack the books he loaned her, reading through the Rules of Civil Procedure for both the State of North Carolina and the Federal Courts and the statues and rules that would be at issue in the case.

The first time Reba drove over to Coop's doublewide she was nervous. The echoing, empty rooms her children had occupied depressed her. She had found herself sitting on their beds, tidying their toys, pretending they were only away at school, listening for the slam of the door and the voices that would signal their return. Coop was the man who could help her. What would he want in exchange?

When she knocked at the metal door she heard his abrupt response, telling her to come on in.

The house she entered was cluttered with piles of papers and books. A line of computers sat under a long table with a monitor and keyboard. Coop was sitting at the makeshift desk leafing through a pile of papers. Glancing up he smiled.

"Coffee's over there in the kitchen, if you want. Or there is iced tea." He looked back down to the papers. Reba poured herself a cup, adding sugar. She spilled a little on the counter and nervously wiped it up.

"Here. Look." Coop loomed over her. "This is the motion we will be presenting to the court……"

The next three hours left Reba raw with exhaustion. It had been only three minutes before she had asked Coop to stop talking so she could get a note pad and pen. Later that night she found herself transcribing notes and returning over and over to the law dictionary Coop had told her to buy for herself. He showed her how to use the Internet to pull up the essential codes and statutes. Two weeks later he had given her a reconditioned computer with some special internal features for security.

There had been no hint of sexual interest. Reba had been worried when she walked in. Now she was just a little hurt. While she had not wanted him to try anything, it was insulting that he hadn't even seemed interested. Women, especially beautiful women, are not usually treated like that by straight men.

Over the next weeks Reba learned that the court, along with the Department of Social Services, had built an assembly line to separate parents from their children, their money, and from the dispassionate process of justice. This was what Coop aimed to change. In this case he succeeded. The kids were returned to their parents right in court, much against the wishes of the judge.

Chapter Ten - Gathering in D. C.: The Tome of Truth

2007-04-15T12:25:00.001-07:00

“You assist an evil system most effectively by obeying its orders and decrees. - An evil system never deserves such allegiance. Allegiance to it means partaking of the evil. - A good person will resist an evil system with his or her whole soul.”

- Mohandas K. Gandhi

Gathering in D. C.: The Tome of Truth

Camp David

He hated it when they assigned him to Rosebud, but the President thought that was funny, along with the rude nicknames that occasionally emerged during meetings. Along with the charisma, and it was the real thing there, the President had a nasty streak, especially when he was annoyed.

If he had been born looking different…….but he hadn’t. The problem was he looked soft and round no matter what he tried to do about it. Which, really, was pretty damn little; he had always been unathletic.

It had been a thrill to come up here for the first time after the inauguration. Reading about all of the Presidential privileges and perks had been his favorite form of fantasy when he was young. The other boys snuck Playboys and bought pornographic movies, but he liked to read about the men who had occupied the Oval Office, living the life of power. He had always known his entrée to power would have to be different. Along with having the charisma of a mud pack and the tubby form, complete with a baby face, he also knew perfectly well that he lacked the family ties you needed. The less said about his family in public, the better.

He would always be one of those people who exercised power in the background, though in his case he was a pretty foreground background person. He had kept track religiously of the articles and books written about him, following them, their sales and the related commentary on line. He had spent nights just googling his own name and reading the references. That still gave him a heady rush.

“Craig!” They are looking for you in the meeting room. Is everything ready? Have Pork and Fred arrived?”

Humstead pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I am sure they have, Mr. Vice President. This is an important meeting and we talked about the agenda last night.”

“You know what you are doing.” The Vice President looked Humstead over.

“Have you ever considered getting some exercise?”

The gathering here at Camp David was planned as a follow up to the series of meetings held at the beginning of the shake down period following the inauguration. Invited were highly placed members of the Branch administration, representatives from various think-tanks and Fredrick Barry, the well known and respected author of A Tome of Truths, as well as Pork Glibheart, the former Congressman from Georgia who served as Speaker of the House and was well known as the architect of the Contact with America.

As the attendees walked in, the Navy enlisted men assigned to this duty served them coffee along with the finely rolled small pastries made by the Navy chef.

Camp David had originally been called Shangri-la by FDR, who was the first to use the camp carved out of land acquired for a National Park. Changed to Camp David by President Eisenhower, the facility now included a pool, putting green, driving range, tennis courts and gymnasium, along with the scattering of small ‘cabins’, the Presidential ‘cabin’ and the main facility.

On the agenda for the day were a series of items that continued the theme that the President’s administration in Texas had begun, blending issues of presumably bipartisan interest for favors of various kinds. Running for office costs money.

A glance at the document told the informed reader that it had been produced by Craig Humstead. Humstead was famous for injecting the potential for profit into how issues became practice. It also showed the Humstead was, as always, thinking ahead both to the election now just eighteen months in the future and the election in ’04 that would ensure that this President Branch served the two terms allowed by law. The plan drew murmurs of admiration from those assembled; a fully articulated and well thought out plan with in depth contingencies demonstrated how this administration could maintain a grip on the political advantages they now enjoyed.

The first item on the agenda was the proposal to be rolled out first in California. The Home Schooling Movement was becoming a problem. It would have to be handled. Fredrick Barry was the man who the administration picked to do the job.

The President, always punctual, walked in on the dot, preceded by Secret Service. This was different from the last administration.

Fred Barry had been putting together his Pre through Graduate program for some time now. He had originally tried to sell it to the public directly, but they were not buying, noticing that it was both far more costly and less well written than they could get elsewhere, sometimes for free. But if parents who chose to home school were forced to use the Barry program, then suddenly the flow of funds into his pockets would help offset the drop off in income from his books, whose sales were now deteriorating. And while Barry’s income was diminished, his spending had not. This quid pro quo could produce benefits all the way around and would be exhaustively discussed.

The President let Humstead open the meeting.

“As you know, education was one of the cornerstones of our campaign,” Humstead glanced at the President, who was sipping his coffee. “And to carry through with the promises we made the American people, it is essential that we not permit children to slip through the cracks into a neglected education.”

Humstead looked around the room. Everyone was politely attentive. After some more introductory remarks he handed the floor over to Fredrick Barry, who went to the podium that had been set up at the end of the room. The assembled were treated to a twenty minute dissertation on how well the Berry school curriculum worked. Fred had always liked hearing himself talk. Finally the President thanked him and told him to sit down.

Now the business could begin. Humstead took remarks from around the table; all were favorable to seeing that the Barry School became the only school of choice for home schoolers in America. That phase having been handled, the next began.

All issues are really about more than one issue.

It had long been noticed that kids that were home schooled usually did better when they went on to college, but this trend had been growing in various parts of the country. More parents were pulling their kids out to home school while still paying the taxes that supported the pubic schools. One would think that this would actually mean the schools had more money to spend on fewer kids. But that is not how it worked. They had fewer funds since the money was allotted by the number of pupils; but worse than that when the home schooled kids started out performing kids from public schools, the trend accelerated. The home schooled kids moving through college were different in other ways. They asked a lot of questions. A few kids like that were not bad. But what if this trend further accelerated through the next ten years? It could be bad, feeding the crazy fringe edge. A stable society demanded conformity. It was their job to provide that, and Fredrick Barry had the right tools and reputation to make that stick.

There was an uneasy murmuring when this point was hit. Humstead always kept an eye on the crazy fringe; they broke out in ways that could cause problems at inconvenient times.

The fringe crazies had been some of the forces that powered Humstead’s campaigns to victory, used in combination with well placed disinformation of the opposition. They were useful, but they needed to stay under control. Everyone in the room knew who they were; the evangelicals waiting for the Rapture, gun lovers clutching their weapons, Libertarians, talking incessantly, writing obsessively, and in between times fondling their gold or smoking their pot. Some of the people here had been drawn from their ranks; but now their 401Ks were invested in the coming status quo. Some of them had made it to Congress and beyond.

The head of the FED, the man who provided what stability America still had, was once a gold dollar sign sprouting crazy himself.

This was the stuff of which the American political scene was composed.

Using such groups to actually help shape public opinion and so get the desired outcomes was what Humstead was about. He was a master in the fine art of drawing all of the threads together in ever and ever finer divisions to be reassembled as an electoral whole. When that looked like it was going to fail, he just cheated.

The morning session wound down as the blood sugar of the attendees dropped. Fredrick Barry made cordial Goodbyes to his particular cronies and headed back to D.C. He had other plans for tonight.

Lunch was served by the Navy. The Chef outdid himself.

The afternoon session was more thinly attended, which had been Humstead’s intention. The President was absent, off playing golf and goofing around. He could only take so much “meeting bullshit” and then was happy to leave the details to Humstead and the VP, Dagwood Chinsbaum. Vice President Chinsbaum had served in the Dixon Administration and garnered valuable skills there before spending time in the corporate world and returning to politics.

As the afternoon wound down, the gathering moved towards the main agenda. Rhetorical obfuscations were dropped; this group understood exactly what was really happening.

The Vice President especially was very conscious of the need to keep obvious paper trails from ever coming into existence. Humstead had not been in on the Dixon administration but had defined the same principles for himself. Therefore they had adopted direct lines of contact, using face to face communications for sensitive information and utilizing the same contacts over and over again to reduce the potential for leakage. For this reason, the tier of journalists and pundits who liaisoned with the administration was kept small; each had one or two sub linkages for the purpose of planting information into the media at large so that deniability was maintained.

Those who are ‘destined to rule’ have tools and the tools have names and receive compensation in many different forms.

One of the tools, Tom Dicks, had been promised a job in the administration writing speeches. He had already been working with the team for years. It had been Dicks that had gloated over having driven Jeb Franks, the small town attorney and friend of former President Quince, to suicide. His weapon had been his columns in the Canal Street Journal. That had not bothered President Branch, but the law suit for slander and libel just now ending and other rumors did bother him; those had a sexual component. Dicks had gotten a firm no on this appointment with promises of better things to come down the road. He knew he could rely on Humstead. They had so much in common and Dicks knew too much for it to be otherwise.

The NeoCon agenda was as focused as any campaign Humstead had ever run. Humstead knew he did not control this one; he was driving but others owned the roads and needed to be cut into the deal.

Over the course of the afternoon they put together a list of possible nominees for the Supreme Court, put out the word to the Hamiltonian Society again to hurry along the right kind of names for federal judgeships, and then considered the spin and shape they wanted to solidify their positions.

The campaign’s reliance on the Evangelical wing of the Republican Party created by politicizing those churches that believed in a Second Coming in the near future had always been a weak point. Not only was the list of issues that constituency could understand short, it was also nearly impossible to deliver. And while some constituencies were satisfied with rhetoric, this constituency became restless if they did not see action. In the absence of action they needed elaborate massages of ever more strident rhetoric. Fortunately, this President could do that believably.

The President had promised a renewed focus on the family and the introduction of pro-life legislation. President might even have believed the main stream of America would swallow the line; he had ended years of drunken irresponsibility by joining a prayer group. He was now very visible about his own evangelical faith. Humstead knew that the Evangelical Agenda could not happen in America. Now. But with changed circumstances many things were possible. As long as the rules continued to be applied to others, none of the NeoCons really cared very much.

The think tanks came in two varieties. First, there were those that actually had originated from libertarian free-market thinking; those were sources of ideas that had tremendous appeal both in legislatures and with the public. Branch had run for President on such an idea. The Cicero Institute had originated the idea of privatizing Social Security even before it actually existed as an entity. The original white paper had been written for a Libertarian Presidential campaign controlled by Cicero’s founder, Morton B. Casterol, Jr., in 1980. The present reincarnation of the idea was really no different, but it had been marketed to perfection. That was due to the smooth delivery of Casterol, aided by the large funding base for Cicero. Petroleum interests were well represented there.

The other kinds of nonprofits were actually tactical centers more directly controlled by their funders. Many of those did exhaustive reports where critical points could be massaged.

Each of these kinds of nonprofits had been invaluable tools to helping reshape the present flow of ideas into the mainstream. But the women’s movement itself had been especially helpful in this regard. Since they had flattened their noses on the failure of the ERA they had wandered off into irrelevancy, marginalized with barely a nudge from the opposition.

Humstead looked around the room. He had made an in depth study of where these individuals had originated. This administration was an amazing conglomeration of ideological sources largely reformatted by the through line justifications of Leo Strauss. Greed and a justification; that was really all any ruling class needed. Humstead had few illusions. Others might buy the notion that those long-winded, esoteric discourses held water; he only cared that they worked.

Many of the brightest people here, the most useful, had ironically originated in the Libertarian Movement. Others, the formal Neocons, had come in to the Republican Party in the late 70s with the Opals. Originally from the Red Left, they had made a smooth transition into the Republican Party bringing with them the internal strategies that had enabled the creation of this administration, weaving together the old line petroleum interests with these other unlikely bedmates.

Reconfiguring the expectations of the American public had come a long way. Those changes would continue under his leadership.

Listening to Pork talk on about the appointment of Federal judgeships and his take on how to use privatization and deregulation, Humstead idly wondered at the willingness these supposedly ideological types had shown in effectively selling out their precious ideals. He smiled. Under the skin, no matter where they came from, they were a lot alike.

The last presenter was Terrance Trotter, the former governor of Wisconsin now heading up Health and Human Services. He brought with him the good news that his bureau had smoothed out the number of placements and adoptions and that it was an upward trend. Several members of Congress had invested in ventures that made caring for kids removed from homes their business. Ron LeFay of Texas, the Majority Leader, owned four that ran at a brisk profit.

The meeting closed with the agreement that defunding the Civil Rights Commission and the agency for Public Integrity would be good cost cutting measures. After all, anyone with a complaint was probably a troublemaker anyway.

Before the meeting was adjourned a reading list was passed out, compiled by Humstead. These were the books to be read and pushed from on high to those whose duty it was to understand and follow. To the standard list of the works of Strauss had been added, The Mind of the Arab, the book purported to explain why the culture and mind of the Arab was essentially inferior and flawed. Humstead reiterated the expert brought in from the think tank that it was essential to understand just how different Muslims were from other people. This information would be disseminated throughout indicated agencies and bureaus. The right information guarantees the right outcome.

Dave had read the Tome of Truths while still at Moundville and sincerely admired it as a wealth of positive values. Fredrick Barry has struck him as a man who was sincerely dedicated to the values he espoused. Seeing him here at the Daughters Hotel in D.C. was a mild surprise. Dave turned around while checking into the ornate and prestigious hotel to find him next in line. They had chatted for a while at an exclusive cocktail party at the Republican Convention in Philadelphia the year before.

“Oh, hello sir!” Dave stuck out his hand. Barry smiled broadly and shook.

“Well, good to see you again. Elder, is that right? Getting old now,” Barry’s voice dropped a little to indicate the ridiculousness of this assertion and then rose slightly in inquiry.

Laughing and a little embarrassed Dave shook his head.

“I know how many people you meet. I am honored you remember. Are you here for something special?” Dave himself was here to follow up the inquiry on the mule who had brought in the drugs that killed George Weston, but his cover story was that he was making a visit to Cicero Institute and doing some sight seeing.

“Work. We have put together a great curriculum for home schoolers, preschool through graduation, and the administration wanted a presentation on the project.” He smiled engagingly. “So I was up at Camp David today.”

“Wow. I will be looking for news. Will you be speaking on the program anywhere soon? I’d like to find out more about it.”

Barry handed him a business card with the logo of the project and the website.

“Go take a look, and do keep in touch!”

“I will do that – and next time I see you I will make sure to have my book so you can autograph it, if you would?”

“My pleasure.” Barry grinned widely.

Just then the queue cleared in front of him, and with the good manners of a properly raised young man Dave asked Barry to precede him to the check in desk.

Thanking him, Barry moved up to the counter.

Dave had met Barry for first time at Moundville just outside the parent’s motel rooms on campus. Barry had left Dave with some inspiring words on the conduct of life. The words of wisdom had stayed with Dave, moving him almost to tears. Dave briefly considered confiding his concerns about the direction of the Administration to the elder statesman, but Barry nodded and walked away as soon as he was checked in.

Charlotte, North Carolina – January 30, 2001

Helen woke up late that morning. The kids were all still sleeping. There were ten of them now, all happy and doing well. Having ten children was a lot of work but it was truly its own reward. They were poor, especially now that John had suffered the reverses that had forced them to move to a smaller house. A year ago the skip loader he had rented to do a big job opening up a new tract of land for the building of houses had been stolen. He had left it there on a Thursday night and when he returned at dawn the next morning it was simply gone. He had hardly been able to believe it. Walking around, looking at the place it had stood, he had felt frozen in shock.

The aftermath had been ugly. He had finished the job on time and alone but he had hauled every single block for the foundation work on his own back. He had made a promise to the owner and would not renege. A real man lives his word. Helen had been worried. He came home at nearly midnight every night, having worked under the glare of lights he took out and placed so he could see. It had helped some.

The children had really felt it. For them the best time of the day was when Da-Da came home. One of them would look for him and as soon as his old truck drew into the long dirt driveway they were all out there, clamoring for a game. He rarely disappointed them. Sides were chosen and the teams took up their positions. Depending on the time of the year they played basketball, baseball or kick ball. It didn’t matter to any of them what game; it mattered that they were together.

The littlest ones would watch from the sidelines, looking forward to the time when they, too, could play.

Mama loved watching, if she had time. There was a lot to do around the house with ten kids, even though they all tried to help.

Meals were fun. Helen and John had decided early on that in accordance with the principles of home schooling they would try to make everything fun and interesting. While they had little money, they possessed enormous intelligence and imagination. They had been forced to move to a far smaller house when the skip loader was stolen. Living in part of it, they were fixing up the other half. The deal they had made with the owner would, hopefully, in a year or so, enable them to recover from the losses and continue to build towards their dream.

John was going to build them a house. They had been planning and hoping on this wish for years now. Having a big house in the country with a lot of land for the kids to roam and explore was a dream worth having. Every few days they would pile in the old car and go looking at houses, trying to decide what they all wanted their ‘house’ to look like. Marlow wanted a bay window in his room. Ezekial wanted it to be white with siding. And so it went down the line, with each child excited about something. House looking was enjoyed, discussed, leading on to other subjects. No matter where you start you can lead the learning on to many other things.

They talked about the House sometimes when Mama was making them their lunch; their very favorite was tuna fish salad sandwiches, lavishly supplemented with pickle relish and accompanied with chips and fresh squeezed lemonade. They all helped assemble the places and silverware and napkins for a picnic on the take outside in the back yard. They all helped with clean up, too.

No one touched their food until Mama had said the simple grace that began every meal. “Dear God, bless our family, keep us safe as we live with You. Amen.”

The back yard was an acre of places to play, hedged in with black berry bushes. The family had planted strawberries as well and when they were in season breakfast was frequently enlivened by the preproduction of the berry crew, lead by Mama out into the morning light to pick berries that still carried tiny droplets of mist on their shiny surfaces. The back yard also held the very minutely examined growth of cucumbers and tomatoes that were both supplement for the table and part of the ongoing educational process of the curriculum of the Mitchell School. Mama became used to the discussions of how red a tomato must be to be ripe. She found uses for those that really were too green but came in clutched in excited little hands anyway.

Mama loved that moment when they were all together eating and settled in, talking about everything under the sun.

School was serious fun. In the beginning it was Da-Da who was their main teacher with Mama doing the reviews each morning to ensure they remembered their lessons.

Every day had been hectic and amazing, full of lessons learned and work completed until the day the Department of Social Services walked in and took them.

Later Helen had felt as if her heart had been clipped out and frozen. But right then she had just frantically wanted to talk to someone, someone who would tell her that this couldn’t be happening, that it was a mistake.

The fat, bulging eyed agent from the DSS had pushed her way into the house, refusing to explain herself. A row of vehicles waited out there. Men in uniform stood at the women’s back like bodyguards. Helen had begged them not to take her children.

When it was clear that they would take them by force if necessary she pulled herself together and helped the children, bewildered and big eyes, crying and afraid, to dress.

The next to littlest Maggie, just two and a half, had clung to her while they dragged her from her arms and coldly strapped her into the car seat. The bulgy eyed woman had been terse and threatening.

Helen stood there watching after them until the last vestige of the cars carrying away her life disappeared in a distance muted with dust.

No one would help. No one could help.

New Zealand

Gladys did not go to the 1993 conference in Rio de Janeiro. She refused to dignify it with the attention. She often wondered what had gone wrong with the environmental movement that she and so many others had poured their lives into creating. Even Mother Earth Day had been stolen, changed in subtle ways that transformed its meaning.

Over the years she had noticed the percolation of individuals into the organizations. For a long time she just observed, then, alarmed she began discussing what she was seeing with Sam Symington. At first he had thought she was crazy. That had ended abruptly at some point during the Rio Conference in 1992.

Sam had first become active in the Environmental Movement in the late 60’s as a shiny new graduate from Georgetown School of Law in D.C. It was the sight of a whale breaking through the water off shore during a boat ride that had focused his attention on the amazing intelligence and beauty of these huge mammals.

There had been two of them; two whales of slightly different sizes, had circled the boat as he and the other small party gasped in amazement.

It was one of those perfect spring days that are all too rare off New England. On land it was black fly season. He and two buddies from college had come up from Georgetown for spring break and decided, instead of booze and over indulgence, to go whale watching on the Captain Ahab Tour Boat. Sam had no idea what to expect. Captain Ahab, at least that is what he called himself for the tourists, powered the boat out from the wharf as the small party of tourists stood peering into the water, hoping for a glimpse of a Humpback. They encountered the whales 45 minutes out. These two seemed at least as curious as the tourists. They circled the boat, coming up to spray and to peer at the gawking tourists over and over again. Then they would carve back into the sea, their bodies invisible as soon as they were beneath the surface. Sam had found himself staring right into the huge eye of the larger Humpback as he broke the surface and hung in the air not five feet from his face. He could hear the whale breath through its blow hole. He thought, just for an instant, that he could feel the air from the blowhole on his face.

As they returned to their motel room that night Sam could not stop thinking about the intelligence he had seen in those eyes. It was an epiphany. He began to include books first on whales and then mountain gorillas and other endangered species in the piles of books necessitated by this last year of classes. He had become a man with a mission.

He took his youth and enthusiasm into the movement, emerging only briefly to actually practice law for the next thirty years. A bisexual, he never married. In some sense he had married that day when he looked straight across into the eyes of a Humpback who had spoken to a place deep within his soul. His humanity had looked and found an echo that crossed the lines of species.

He met Gladys at the United Nations while serving on the Youth Council for the Environment. Gladys, always helpful, was their liaison to the office overseeing the activities of the non-governmental organizations. Perhaps it was his enthusiasm and lack of experience that kept him from seeing the things that were growing ever more obvious to Gladys.

For Sam it was the disappearance of the bicycles in Rio. He had begun to notice small indicators but dismissed them. The number of petroleum industry functionaries who were surfacing as liaisons or actual representatives from various countries had begun to disturb him. The stipends, frequently in the tens of thousands of dollars allotted to figures that were the titular heads of pivotal committees, became more and more obvious. Once such an appointee was in place, owing a huge portion of their income to the petroleum company that funded the research, it was all over.

The noble ideas that they were working to make an accepted world-wide policy somehow never made it past a vote that made everyone feel good but resulted in no substantial difference to the disappearing world of Nature. Sustainable development, such an innocent sounding couple of words, became a justification for anything a corporation wanted.

But the bicycles were tangible. At the Rio Conference the agenda was broken up by days with the issues of concern grouped, some pivotal meetings came off immediately, others were scheduled at the end. Looking over the schedule Sam had been perplexed. Conversations with Gladys seeped back into his mind. He had told her she was paranoid.

Then in the middle of the Conference the bicycles that had made the very spread out locations tolerable disappeared. With no transportation, delegates only went to those meetings closest to them; housing had been assigned and delegates were limited to those meetings closest to their hotel rooms. The meetings that needed broad representation to ensure fair outcomes slide through into the pockets of the petroleum industry.

Leaving Rio, Sam felt as if he had been pressed by a steamroller. As soon as he was home he called Gladys. Soon afterwards he reopened a law office in Wellington, New Zealand and began raising sheep. It kept his mind occupied. He and Gladys kept in touch. Someday, maybe, there would be something they could do.

Sam put the paper down slowly, folding it back into its original form. The paper would be carefully recycled; Sam over the years had become more and more aware of the need to live within the flow, as the growing Green Movement, put it. The eye of the Humpback had stayed with him over the years; every feature had been so distinct. The article he had just read had nothing to do with whales, but it was the eye of the whale that had still hung in his mind as the many inexplicable events of the last thirty years began to fall into place. He remembered his many conversations with Gladys. She had been right – and now he could see something that could be done.

Looking back over the past twenty-five years, no, really the past fifty years saddened her. She called her daughter in San Francisco and they talked about her newest grandson, just turned five, and Joyce passed on to her greetings from Bradley Montgomery, a former classmate at Stanford Business School who was now serving in the State legislature of New Mexico. They had never agreed politically--Bradley was an unregenerate Libertarian, but they had remained friends, sharing a common interest in the environment. Bradley was a real outdoorsman. Joyce and Gladys talked briefly on how odd Bradley was, a Libertarian who cared about the environment.

Everyone on the left knew that they were the only ones who cared about the environment.

Joyce mentioned that Sam Symington has passed through town, stopping by on his way to England. He had told Joyce, if she talked to her mother, to tell her he would be in touch on the way back. He wanted to sit down for a good long talk.

San Francisco, CA

Loyal Barrington had been the head of Green4Peace International when the Rainbow Marine was first dedicated to the protection of the planet in the 70s. That had been a lifetime ago now, and he was troubled by the way Green4Peace had changed over the years. Loyal found that disturbing, but did not know what to do about it. He had moved on in life, setting up a lucrative law practice in San Francisco. Most of the newbies, newly involved activists, did not even know that he had overseen the most exciting and significant period of Green4Peace history. But Loyal remembered. He could have been the kind of President who sat the office but he had insisted on staying in their faces himself, sailing with the Rainbow Marine as they challenged the whaling fleets. It had not been a risk free pastime, and he knew that.

He had been a cult hero for a short while. But it was still odd to get a letter like this, and in the snail mail, too. Now, most of his communications came in over the internet.

The guy, Bernard Hightower, has employed by Green4Peace in Massachusetts and was concerned about what he saw happening to the organization. Well, so was he. But now he had a mortgage and responsibilities. Loyal wrote the man a brief note, letting him know that while he shared his concerns there was nothing he could do now.

Three days later Bernard opened the letter. That was the night he had began drinking.

Tough Talk – summer 2001

The commentators continue to talk and be paid.

Dormer Bradshaw: "Is the VP going to help or hurt the gender gap?"

Ludmilla Fig: "Oh I don't, I don't think he could help bring any women along."

Dormer Bradshaw: "Too pro-life?"

Perk Story: "He's too pro-life and, more importantly, too pro-gun. I mean, gosh, you look back on his votes on guns and they are, they're incredible. He voted against every gun control imaginable. He voted against the cop killer bullets or against the plastic guns. I mean, just incredible. And this is an issue that's really resonating this time around. And he, it doesn't, it doesn't matter whether it's a message that's very strong. I think the message will be very strong to women."

Perk Story on abortion: "Still a hot issue,

Ludmilla Fig: "I think it's a hot issue but it's an issue that's not gonna make, it's not the deciding issue."

Perk Story: "Do you know any pro-life women reporters?"

Ludmilla Fig smiles

Perk Story: "I don't know any! I'm not gonna ask you. I have never come up with any. But anyway."

Canal Street Journal editorial writer Tom Dicks joked: "Let's have some affirmative action. We need some pro-choice women; or any women!"

Perk Story: "Yeah, affirmative action on that issue."

Chapter Eleven - September 11, 2001

2007-04-15T12:24:00.003-07:00

"Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws."

- Plato (427-347 B.C.)

September 11, 2001

New York had very few perfect days, but this looked like it was going to be one of them. Dave lingered in bed with Fuzz Ball curled up on his chest. Fuzz Ball was not sure he liked the change to City cat, but Dave’s Mom was not home very much and after Dave had gone off to college “The Fuzz” as they called him, had adopted Gramps. With Gramps gone, Fuzz Ball needed someone. So did Dave. Out his window he could just see the tip of the Empire State Building. He could see more of it from his balcony, which had been another selling point. Some mornings you didn’t want the windows open but today the air held the first nuance of autumn, not that it would be here for a while, but coming.

Dave glanced at the rosewood and brass clock sitting on his bedside table 8:30am. Most of the furniture had come with the apartment. It was old wood, coddled through generations with layerings of care. The bed was a four poster, also made of rosewood that was deeply etched, and looked as if it should be in a museum. That had initially made him nervous, but now he was used to it. His friends knew he had inherited some money from Gramps but not how much.

Stretching, he rolled out onto his feet, enjoying the softness of the Tibetan carpet. Its tones were muted reds and brown with roses edged in yellow tones. He had changed nothing about the room.

Fuzz Ball resettled himself into the pile of pillows and sighed.

The coffee maker was murmuring while he cut and sectioned a grapefruit for himself, placing the second half in a zip lock back in the refrigerator. Glancing at the paper briefly he poured himself a first cup of coffee. It smelled wonderful.

The phone rang just as he was taking his first sip.

“Hi there sleepy head; must be nice to be a man of leisure.” Nann’s voice always made him smile.

“Hey, I work hard. I was up until 3 last night working on the..”

“I know. Working on your business plan for the internet site.” Dave had never told Nann what he was really doing. He thought it was safer to keep that part of his life quiet. Anyway, there was a website and it was his business.

“Do you want to get together for lunch today? It is my last day in the Towers and Jim and I have some news for you.” Nann sounded excited.

“Sure. You are sounding mysterious.” He remembered that her company had moved now. She had been both happy to be further east, closer to her apartment and sad to be leaving the Towers, which held her favorite Godiva Chocolate store. Nann’s worst habit was those perfectly molded upscale candies.

“Not mysterious. Actually, we’re going to have a baby – and we are drafting you as godfather. What do you think?”

Dave was stunned. His mind erupted in thoughts all running around like ants colliding with each other.

“Nann. Of course, I would be delighted.” The ants were slowing down, just a little. “I am so happy for both of you.”

Mostly Dave meant it. One of those little ants carried the sad wish that he was the happy daddy to be, but those possibilities were now far away.

“I heard from Lindsey last night, late. Have you talked to her lately?”

Dave had never managed to discuss Lindsey with Nann. A couple of times he had wanted to, but not known exactly what to say. Talking about his emotions was not his strong suit.

“No, haven’t been in touch much. She called once to tell me she is back in New York.” Suddenly Dave felt the impulse to confide in Nann about his feelings. Maybe tonight, after he had some more time to think about it.

“Did she tell you that she and Dicks moved in together?”

“No. She didn’t mention that.” Dave felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He tried to keep his voice level and unaffected.

“Oops. There is something going on. I’ll see you at lunch. The restaurant in the hotel at twelve, right?” Their favorite eating-place around the Towers was the restaurant in the upscale hotel right in the complex.

“Sure. Noon. Take care of my godchild! Bye.”

Dave sat down at the dining room table; Lindsey living with Dicks. Suddenly the conversations they had had over the last several months came flooding back; things were falling into place. Lindsey had told him she was just coming out of a bad relationship. He had not mentioned knowing about Dicks. Obviously, neither of them had been entirely forthcoming. Did anyone really tell the truth about sexual relationships?

Bernard’s hotel, the Radisson Lexington at 48th & Lexington Avenue, reminded him of Malaysia in a curious kind of way. It was old, lavish and well appointed. Bernard had eschewed luxury since leaving Benron. He tried to eat, think, and live differently.

The Director, Evelyn Morton, had chosen the place. She said it was the right environment for entertaining potential donors and representatives from the countries who served on the UN committees they were meeting.

Before he had bottomed out and been rescued by Dan, spending this kind of money on luxuries would have bothered him. But now he was in wait and see mode.

The hotel was three blocks from the United Nations, which was convenient to both his brother’s apartment at the Watergate and the meetings that had been spread out through the entire week. The conference had come up rather suddenly, actually, arranged by some go-getters at the UN who had indicated they were willing to provide some real funding for research on the craziness of the legislation that had resulted in the Magnuson – Stevens Act. Bernard was tired. Even after emerging from the depression that had come so close to killing him, he still had moments when he wondered why the world made no sense.

So now he was with Peace for the Planet. Better to help the world’s fisherpeople than to pour his life into another large, corporate apologist. Green4Peace had seemed like such a perfect counterpoint to the first part of his life. He remembered, briefly, the letter from Loyal Barrington, smiling with a little grim irony. Loyal had gotten his idealism in early; was it too late for idealism? Bernard wanted to dedicate his skills not to the creation of wealth, which he had come to despise, but to making a difference to real people like the fishermen who were slowly but surely being snuffed out of business along the coast in New England. Bernard hoped this time the organization avoided being swallowed by the need for 401ks.

It had seemed perfect when he left Malaysia. At first it had been easy to justify himself. He had handed everything over to Fran, taking nothing for himself from the relationship. Dirty money, he thought, would only sully him. He knew that his abrupt about face had hurt Fran and the boys; the months he had spent carving and healing in the longhouse in the jungle had seemed to them like a midlife tantrum. They had not been able to see it as he did, and that difference in views had caused the alienation that had followed.

Fran had moved back to the small town where she was born in North Carolina and bought a house free and clear with part of the accumulated savings Bernard handed over to her. But that was it. No alimony or support had been forthcoming and Fran had run through the savings pretty quickly. Now, seven years later, she had finally remarried.

That was why, of course, they had not been excited about coming to the rescue when he had again flattened his nose, this time on the reality of the Environmental Movement. Through his work as Public Relations and Community Liaison for Green4Peace Bernard had gotten a clear view of what environmentalism was about - now. That different approaches were desperately needed to prevent events like the Love Canal was obvious; he knew that from his experiences with Benron in Malaysia and India. But the efforts to change things at home were heartbreaking. As you moved up within most of the organizations that were supposedly fighting for the environment, you found more and more people who worried more about their 401Ks than anything else.

Bernard knew that there had to be an answer. If he looked hard enough and long enough he would find it. The environmentalists were not perfect. But what else was there if you really cared about a better world? He enjoyed the challenges of working for the fisherpeople, and they sincerely appreciated what he could do. Perhaps that was all one person could ever do.

The night before Bernard had called Dan as soon as he got in and dropped his bags. Dan had wanted him to stay with them, but although Bernard was now back on his feet, head firmly screwed on straight, as Dan said, he was not ready for that. Instead, he promised to spend time with them the next afternoon. Dan said that if they had had more warning maybe he could have come with him to visit Charlie Howard the next morning. Charlie was another native of Clayton, North Carolina who had gone to school with Bernard and Daniel. Fran’s family and now Fran lived in Apex, to the south of them.

Dan and Charlie were working on a deal together at another investment house, this one in the Twin Towers. It would be fun to chew the fat over old times; that was what Dan had said just before hanging up.

Dave kept his television turned on low in the morning so he could monitor the news without having it intrude on the peace of the moment. He had finished dressing, still thinking about the revelation from Nann. He had eaten his grapefruit and scramble and was putting the dishes in the dishwasher when the tone of the announcer’s voice finally caught his attention. The time on the television was 8:46.

Dave turned slowly, unable to believe what he was seeing. Stopping only to tie his shoes, he ran out of the apartment and down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. The taxicabs along with other traffic were mostly stopped, watching. He began running south.

The scenes on the streets were unbelievable. It was as if a war had descended into that perfect day of late summer. He was looking right at the Towers when the second plane hit at 9:03. He screamed when it hit as if it were penetrating his body. He kept running. He ran south on Park until he reached Union Square, and from there went west on 14th. Everywhere people were stopped and looking, pointing at the skyline to the south. He turned south on 6th to Christopher and kept going. It was at the corner of Chambers and Hudson where he caromed off of another man who was also running, knocking him into a car.

It was from there that the two of them watched the first tower dissolve, melting into dust as it began falling. As they ran, the air was growing thick with dust; the piles of debris getting larger the closer they came to the complex that had just two hours before been the hub of the world. That was when he started seeing the bodies. They looked as if they had been exploded. Later, he heard other people who were there repeating the stories of burning victims hurdling themselves out of the windows at the top of the tower.

In the days that followed, those hours seemed to stretch in his mind until they took up years of his life. He found himself doing things he had not imagined. He staunched wounds, carried bodies, dug into twisted piles of glass, concrete and steel with his hands. Catching a glimpse of himself in a broken mirror, he was shocked to see that his skin was entirely covered with dust, matted on like the flour you roll chicken in before frying.

Looking back, Dave remembered the day in a series of vivid images. One of those was when he ran into Bernard, nearly throwing him into the parked car. Picking him up, they had run on together without word or plan.

He and Bernard had pulled a steel door off of a man dressed in a business suit. When they managed to lift it only half of him was there.

It was past midnight when they finally began walking uptown. It was comforting not to be alone, walking back towards a home that would never be the same again. Now Dave knew how that felt. He remembered what Gramps had said about the ground dropping out from under you and understanding just how fragile life could be. He had called Jim on his cell phone and finally gotten through. Jim was making the rounds of the hospitals but without much hope. Nann had been above the entry point of the plane in the first tower.

Dave went with Bernard to the Watergate; Bernard had been calling the apartment all day. Sandy and Erin had not seen Dan since he waved to them from the street, chatting on his cell phone. Dan and his family lived on the 28th floor. Sandy and Erin were obviously exhausted, too, but Sandy’s mother and sisters were sitting with them. Bernard invited Dave in and they went out into the kitchen and made something to eat for everyone. When they had finished putting together the simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast they could hardly eat.

That night they both slept on the living room floor. In the morning they headed back down to the Towers that were no longer there. Their absence on the skyline was haunting.

The next night they called Sandy and Erin to check in and went up to Dave’s place. Afterwards they could never remember why they just stuck together. They hardly talked those first two days. Perhaps it is the same kind of bonding that brings soldiers back together year after year to remember the most horrible moments of their lives; perhaps it was because they had been baptized in a new faith of reality by the time they had spent together the day before. It happened. It comforted each of them.

Dave was fixing some cold breakfast for himself and Bernard on Friday when he got a call from Lindsey. She had finally gotten through to Jim after trying for days, she said. Then the conversation just hung there. He could hear her crying softly over the phone.

“Look, Lindsey, I…” Dave had never been more at a loss for words.

“She was going to have a baby. She called the night before and asked me to be the godmother. We were going to have lunch together that day.” Lindsey’s breaths were coming very deeply and slowly. Dave could feel her trying to control herself as he digested her words with shock. He had known from what Nann had said that the two women had become close; for some reason this evoked a flare of anger. He took a deep breath and started to speak.

“How far along do unborn babies have to be to go to heaven? I’ve wondered about that….I’ll talk to you later.” Lindsey’s question shocked him into silence that continued long after he could hear the steady hum of the disconnect.

It wasn’t until Saturday morning that Dave and Bernard really started talking to each other about themselves. Later, Dave realized that Bernard, who seemed like the brother he had never had, was also the most politically liberal individual with whom he had had a long conversation.

It began when Bernard and he were having breakfast that Saturday. They were both tired down past the bone from the days of continuous lifting and carrying down at the Towers. They had agreed to spend some time recovering before heading back over there on Monday morning.

Dave had been almost out of coffee and about everything else. He walked down to the d’ Agostino’s down on 3rd Street as soon as he woke up. He noticed that they had fresh raspberries and recalled watching Nann eat raspberries the last time they had eaten together. Lindsey and she had shared a decedent chocolate and raspberry dessert.

Dave found out that mourning is not a singular experience but one that you take in small increments and at unexpected times.

Moving over to the coffee section helped.

Bernard was up and emptying the dishwasher when he walked in. Spying the food, Bernard smiled.

“Good man. Is it too much to hope for bacon?” Bernard had been spending his time at the apartment in the Watergate and here pretty equally. But there he felt like an outsider, and an unneeded outsider at that. He and Dave had become a team, helping where necessary. They had worked with the families of victims to put together flyers, done grocery shopping for everyone else, and worked in the local hospitals. That and working at the site of the disaster had consumed them.

Dan’s funeral was set for the next Friday. They had found him. They had still not found Nann. Dave accepted that given where she had been, they probably never would.

Dave put the bags down on the counter and Bernard began emptying them. When he pulled out the bacon, Bernard smiled. Some small normal things did remain.

They began really talking that morning. Dave had heard parts of Bernard’s story in dibs and dabs over the last days. Bernard had heard some slice of Dave’s. But there were many things that simply had not come up.

That morning, lingering over coffee, they finally did. Their immediate concern was not surprisingly why and how something like 9/11 could have happened at all. Why would a bunch of Arabs hate America enough to kill thousands of innocents and themselves as well? They hashed that over for a while. Dave favored the theory that the militancy of Islam was to blame; Bernard felt that American foreign policy was to blame. Arguing over the history of Israel and American involvement in the Middle East they had adjourned to Dave’s study for a reference book. That was where Bernard noticed the flyer from the National Convention the year before taped so that the quote showed on the board in Dave’s office.

Bernard touched the printing lightly with his fingers. Noticing what had attracted his attention Dave asked if Bernard knew Joe Sanfilippo. As it turned out, Bernard had known Joe.

Joe Sanfilippo had struggled to buy another boat. Failing that, one morning he had taken the small dingy he had bought in better days for his son and never come back. He had left a letter for the son that included the deed to the small house made over to him. The son had been put on the checking account; the saving account had been depleted and closed. He had been seen that morning heading out to sea. He old friend who had passed him, coming back from fishing, had waved. He said later that Joe had looked happier than he had seen him for a long while.

Dave remembered the minutes he had spent listening while the old man poured out his story into the ears of someone he thought could help him, his ears had heard but he had done nothing. Dave burned with shame.

When he and Bernard had found the book they had gone looking for, their dialogue had already moved on to other issues. Why the attack on the Towers had happened must be placed in the chains of causality that depend on knowing all of the facts and doing the right thing when the moment for action presents itself.

Bernard began with the story of how he became involved with the fisherpeople, moving on the sad changes he had seen in Peace for the Planet and before that Green4Peace.

They stopped for lunch in the mid-afternoon because they were too hungry to concentrate anymore. They hiked uptown to the Broadway Diner on Lexington for something solidly American. This was a place that Dave had never been to with Nann or Lindsey and that seemed like a good idea to him right now.

It was over the huge, juicy hamburgers slathered with mayonnaise and topped with real garden fresh tomatoes that Dave first heard the full story of Bernard’s life and Bernard heard the rather shorter story of Dave’s.

The two had ordered up malted milk shakes, Dave vanilla and Bernard chocolate. They were still talking when the straws were gurgling in the last vestiges of the creamy residue from the bottom of the long tall glasses. The straws were the nice wide kind that allows you to suck up even the thickest shake.

The waves of shock and sympathy from the world at large had eased their pain. These had been immense, coming from people of all kinds. They had cried and mourned for America. Bernard was hopeful that this event could be the beginning of a new understanding that would nurture world peace. Dave shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He hoped that would be the case, but he strongly doubted that would be the outcome.

Walking rather more slowly back towards the apartment, they continued to talk. They had both noticed the same patterns, coming at it from entirely different viewpoints. Bernard continued the story about his time in Malaysia working for Benron. Dave listened intently. The patterns of behavior could be charted as clear, understandable behavioral strategies if you ignored the rhetorical devices used. In other words, watch what they do, not what they say.

Benron had used its relationship with the US government to steal. They had done that by deceit, by putting pressure on foreign governments and by violence when nothing else worked. That was it in a nutshell. Corporations within the United States, at least some of them, did the same things.

They argued the issues, the people, the substance of the truth eventually getting down to the foundations. Bernard clung to a belief that government could be fixed. Dave, having abandoned this hopeful fantasy, had begun considering other means for the essentials of governance.

Most people, asserted Dave in the natal moments of that Sunday morning, just don’t understand what is happening. If they did it would be different.

It was the next afternoon, after they had both been unable to avoid sleep, that Dave finally told Bernard about the URL site. They do not agree about how to solve the problems; they did not agree exactly what underlies the problems, but they did agree on one thing. There is a war going on but it is being waged against the American people by the government.

The White House

Humstead could not believe his luck. After the initial scare it had been exhilarating, and it was kind of neat to be treated like a hero, which all of them had been. Sitting there, watching the towers come down, had been like watching a movie. There had been an intermission imposed by the evacuation. He had been hurried down to a secured location by grim faced Secret Service and uniformed servicemen.

Best of all, the War was now officially a go. They would have to put together a strike for Eben el Boraden, the Muslin leader known to be responsible for the actual strikes, but after that….Iraq had oil reserves that ached to be tapped. Iraq’s contracts with France and Russia brought no income into the pockets that mattered.

The Administration’s relations with Saudi Arabia had been under pressure because their own needs for money were outrunning the relatively low price on oil. Ironically enough, it was the ‘welfare programs’ offered as a birth right to all native Saudis that had sent their population through the roof and put pressure on what had once seemed like an unlimited source of wealth. The price of oil needed to rise. Sometimes the right set of actions can accomplish several goals. What had not happened during the Gulf War could now be accomplished. There must be evidence that Saddemun Hesistan had something to do with this. It only stood to reason. If they looked hard enough they would find it. Humstead planned every campaign in depth, leaving nothing to chance. The tools were in place, needing only to be activated with their subroutines.

He smiled. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

Jersey City

Tom had called her from his office in the Canal Street Journal, telling her to turn on the television. Seeing what was screaming from the screen, she ran outside and stared across the water at the Towers, clearly visible through the warm summer morning. She gasped when the first Tower came down, her hands pressing her mouth to keep from screaming. She had been getting ready to go over there to lunch with Nann. A small package she had just wrapped was sitting on the dining room table. Inside was a bib she had sewed by hand, embroidered the night before with “Lindsey’s Godchild.” Finishing it at two in the morning had been quick work. Lindsey had cut it from a piece of white flannel she had bought to make baby clothes for her own baby. She could not bear to get rid of the material after Tom talked her into the abortion. The baby still tied her to Tom when she remembered how he had held her and told her that they would have other babies, later when it was safe. Tom had told her about the threats against his life by the Quince Administration because he had the courage to tell the truth. Their relationship, and a family, would have to wait.

Her eyes could not believe what she had seen.

Slowly turning, she went back into the apartment. This apartment had a door leading directly into the parking area.

Once in, she ran to the phone and tried to call Nann. There was no answer. The next time she called there was no dial tone.

The day was a million years long.

Tom walked back to the apartment, covered with a thick layer of dust and bringing with him two security men from the Journal who were unable to reach their homes. They had walked across the bridge together. She grabbed Tom, crying; he hugged her hard. Then she dried her eyes, walking back towards the apartment and helped all of them clean up. It was nice to have something to do to keep her from thinking. She made a simple meal; cereal and milk. They were all starving. It was late after noon now.

Lindsey had answered the phone hearing the frantic voices of people she knew well who were also well known to the public. Tom had a lot of important friends. They were worried about her and Tom and were looking for reassurance.

Eventually, she got her mother on the phone, reassuring her that she was all right. But she wasn’t.

North Carolina

He had been up for several hours working on the computer and cleaning up before going to work. Right now he was employed running a crew answering inquiries for a cell phone company. It was not the kind of thing he had done before, but the massive burns he had suffered the year before on the job as a mechanic had made it impossible for him to continue the heavy work he had been doing. He would get back to it eventually, he hoped.

He was just buttoning his shirt over the still tender pinkish skin when the phone rang. It was Trudi. She had Bead right now and he could hear his daughter playing in the background.

“Turn on the news, right away!” Trudi was obviously excited. He could hear her television turned up loud. Trudi always woke up to the ‘This Morning Show’ even if she was not going to really get up for hours.

Coop turned on the set.

The first tower was dissolving before his eyes. He stood there staring at the screen and then slowly sat down. Russ, one of his Dad’s friends from Vietnam, had worked in the Tower. He had met Russ through Uncle Mike, his Dad’s best friend in ‘Nam. Uncle Mike and his Dad had agreed that last day that if anything happened to either of them, they would take care of each other’s family. Uncle Mike had been true to his word. Uncle Mike and Russ had been close.

Coop was not given to self-indulgence. He was at work only ten minutes late; he knew that cell phones were not as impacted by this kind of damage to their system as the land lines were with their dependence on hard wired centers and land strung phone lines would be. All phones would be in heavy use right now. When those you love could be in danger, you want to touch them with your voice. Coop briefly wondered how many Americans and people around the world were worried right now on the most personal level. From North Carolina he could not do much about that. He and his crew could not dig into the mountains of broken concrete, but they could do their part.

Later that day he went down and donated blood. Responsible people, good people, do the right thing automatically. No one has to tell them what the right thing is.

On the Road to Raleigh, North Carolina

John Mitchell had fired their attorney the week before. They had paid him every cent they could lay hands on over the last year, but still the Department of Social Services refused to even consider giving their kids back. Now John was determined to do it himself. He had written and rewritten the writ, painfully reading through the Black’s Law Dictionary and studying the rules of law.

He had found others who had managed to go into court Pro Se and defend their rights; he would do it too. This week he had prepared the writ that now rested in the neat manila folder in the back seat, three copies; one for the Judge and another for the court record; one for himself. None for the DSS; they could whistle for it.

They had not stayed for long in the house from which the kids were taken. It hurt too much to walk in hoping somehow to hear their voices. Now they were living closer into Charlotte where they could get to the courthouse and DSS faster. John had not worked in months, instead spending his time poring over law books.

He and Kathy had acquired an old Crown Victoria from friends. It worked; that it was less than beautiful did not matter.

Kathy leaned forward and snapped on the radio. It still worked, too. She smiled a little. They had spent so much time listening to music together and then with their children. She was looking for something relaxing, but all of the frequencies carried one message. Shocked, the couple listened.

John’s first reaction later shamed him. He felt like he had been hit in the gut with a stab of despair. He had called the media, asked them to come in and listen. Some had promised to show up. But the disaster at the Twin Towers would swamp the year long agony of his family, he knew that instantly. He had worked so hard to assemble these papers for the court. The folders in the back seat represented not just a painful assembling of evidence entirely refuting the DSS’s claims, they were his sweat and time and hope for the last six months.

When they pulled into the parking lot across from the courthouse, it was obvious that nothing was as usual. Grim faced military men were patrolling the outside. John reached over and squeezed Kathy’s hand.

No matter what, they would keep on keeping on.

Quentin in Quiet, New York

Gladys Elliot Ramsey and her daughter were headed to the train station. They had planned a day of shopping and late lunch with friends in the City. Since Emily had graduated from college and married, this kind of relaxed and fun day was a rare treat. The perfect weather made it even more special. Gladys smiled, looking at her daughter. They had both grown into wonderful women, women she was proud to have as daughters.

Emily had turned out despite what the family had been through. Gladys had struggled with the school where she was going nearby; they had not been sympathetic when mistakes in testing had misassigned the test scores of another student to Rachael. Emily, always at the top of her class, had found herself shuffled over to a nonacademic curriculum, taking her away from her friends in the college bound courses. It had taken two years to correct. At the last the principal had had the nerve to tell her that it didn’t matter because since Emily was so beautiful, she would never have to use her brains, anyway. Prejudice comes in all kinds, Gladys had learned.

Today all of the struggles were behind them.

The cell phone rang deep in Emily’s purse.

Looking at the phone Emily showed it to her mother. It was her brand spanking new husband. Gregory called frequently just to say hello.

“Hi there darling.” Gladys watched as the happy expression on Emily’s face dissolved in shock.

“Mom! Gregory is on the Western Highway. Traffic is absolutely stopped. Smoke is pouring out of the World Trade Center.”