If He Loses
Copyright © 2020 by David Vigoda
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a setting in historic reality. Other names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
BELOW ARE THE FIRST 9 EPISODES. IF YOU WISH TO SEE MORE (AT NO CHARGE), PLEASE CONTACT THE AUTHOR.
PART ONE
Episode 1
Half the country was glued to Fox News, the other half to CNN, because everyone knew it would be close. They had hung on the latest poll numbers, but no one believed them, not really, not deep down. Too much was at stake.
“Brian,” said Dick Clafferty on Fox, “I wonder if even the pollsters really believed the polls.”
“Susan,” said Ryan Sickel on CNN, “I’d be willing to bet that not even the pollsters really believed the polls.”
At campaign headquarters across the country, in bars and in living rooms, everyone grew even more tense at the approach to midnight, eastern time. The banter and the bragging and the meaningless commentary all dropped away. When at last voting ended on the west coast, all the networks, even Fox, called it for the Democrat, even though the margins were tight in some battleground states. Republicans were outraged by voting irregularities, Democrats held their breath, waiting for the now-outgoing president to concede.
He didn’t concede. His first announcement, on live television at campaign headquarters, came only minutes later, in tone roughly neutral, like a lion trying not to growl. “We’re waiting for all the results to come in, all the results are not in yet, they will be soon and we’ll see what they say, but a lot of people are telling me I won.”
Everyone muttered the same thing: “Sonofabitch.” They didn’t all mean the same thing.
Some went to bed, others couldn’t tear themselves away, though they had to be at work in eight hours. Many were still listening to their emotional support people, watching bleary-eyed as numbers in red and blue crawled across their screens, when the president returned. It was a little after 2 am, and he was still at Trump International in DC. He began by reading from a paper, but was soon improvising on the theme that the election had been rigged and he would be challenging the “so-called results.”
“Darn right,” muttered Bob. Then, forgetting that Jillian had gone to bed at midnight, he hit the table, shouting, “Yeah!”
“What happened?” came a groggy, scared voice from upstairs. “Bob, are you okay?”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Jill,” then, “We’re fighting it.”
“Fighting what?”
“The so-called results.”
“What so-called results?”
“The rigged election, Jillian, the whole thing was rigged and the president says we’re going to turn it around.”
“That’s great, hon, but don’t you want to get a few hours sleep? What time is it?”
“I’ll be right up, go back to bed. I didn’t mean to...”
He turned the volume down on the TV and turned it up on his phone for Twitter notifications. Sure enough, the president tweeted not an hour later, and the ring almost blew him off the sofa. After that, he was out cold. He was still out cold when Fox reported at dawn that a young Democratic Party campaign volunteer was shot and killed as she left the local headquarters in Terre Haute, Indiana.
“This just in...” She’d been rushed to Union Hospital, where she was pronounced dead. “Her name is being withheld, pending notification of family. We do not yet know the cause of death, but there are reports of multiple gunshots. We will bring you information when and as it becomes available. The president has been notified and a statement is expected shortly. At this time, thoughts and prayers go out to the victim’s family.” They then went live to Democratic headquarters, where a spokesperson expressed shock and outrage, promised justice, and called for thoughts and prayers.
When Bob was awakened by the smell of coffee, Jillian turned up the volume in time to hear, “This is what we know so far...” It was revealed that the victim’s name was Joanne Maybridge, that she was attending her first year at Indiana State University, had been a campaign volunteer, and was walking back to her dormitory in the early hours of the morning when she was shot.
“Oh, Lord. You know, Kaylee’s roommate is named Joanne. I know ISU’s a big place... Could she have a roommate who’d be a volunteer for the Democrat?”
“I didn’t know there were any Democrats at ISU.”
Jillian shrugged. “Terre Haute. You have to expect some.”
“I was joking, Jill. Say, what time is it? Wow, I’ve got to...”
“Get going, buster. I think I’ll call Kaylee, just to... That’s really awful, what happened to that girl. You have to feel for the parents. I’d hate to think that one of ours did it.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I’ll bet you anything it was some nutcase. No one I know is going to murder a girl because she’s a Democrat.”
* * *
After Bob had gone to work, Jillian was putting on her waitress outfit when the girl’s parents came on the small television in the bedroom. They both looked as though they had aged ten years in a few hours. Yet at the same time they looked like they couldn’t comprehend what had happened. With her husband beside her, masked behind a fixed grim expression, the girl’s mother tried heroically to smile. She got as far as to say how excited Joanne was about the election, and how hard she had worked, when she began to sob uncontrollably. Her husband caught her as she collapsed in agony.
The camera didn’t turn away at first, but then suddenly cut to the murder site, where a shrine just outside the yellow police tape was well under way. The commentator noted that thoughts and prayers were coming in from all over the country and even overseas. They cut to the mayor of Terre Haute standing beside the police chief, who added their own statements of condolence.
Jillian glanced at her watch and reluctantly turned off the TV, but quickly changed her mind and turned it back on.
* * *
When Kaylee was awake enough, she glanced across the room to find Joanne’s bed empty. “Oh my gosh, the election.” She grabbed her phone. “Well I’ll be! We lost. She must have partied all night.” Again she looked at Joanne’s bed. “Joanne, where are you?” she said playfully. “Have we been a good girl?”
While brushing her teeth, the young woman at the next sink asked if she knew who had won the election. “You slept through it too? I don’t know how everyone else is managing, but I’ve got an 8:30 poli sci lecture. I told myself, ‘Staying up won’t help anything.’”
“But do you know who won?”
“Oh, yeah. The other guy.”
“You’re saying the Democrats won? You don’t say.”
Kaylee stared at her briefly to try—unsuccessfully—to figure out whether she was pleased or displeased.
As she entered the lecture hall, there were knots of students engaged in earnest conversation. She shrugged, assuming they were talking about the election upset. But when she was sitting down, the boy who took the seat next to her asked if she had heard anything about a girl being shot. She shrugged reflexively, then asked, “Was that your idea of a pick-up line?”
“What? Of course not.” He too shrugged and they busied themselves opening notebooks.
She noticed that everyone was glued to their phone. “Why are we always glued to our phones right before class?” she said to no one in particular.
The boy turned. “Was that your idea of a pick-up line?”
“Sorry.” Sheepishly she pulled out her phone and was checking social media when the lecturer appeared.
“For the benefit of anyone who hasn’t heard,” he began with a solemn face, “I have a sad announcement. I’ve been asked to inform you that a student was shot and killed last night—this morning, really. Bereavement counselors are available at the Health Center for anyone who feels the need...”
“You knew about this?” Kaylee asked the boy. He stared briefly and shrugged. She was going to ask if he knew her name when a student called out that question to the professor.
“I believe her name is being withheld for the time being. To protect the family.”
“I hope not,” said another student, pointing to his phone, “because it says here it was someone named Joanne Maybridge.”
That was when Kaylee screamed.
* * *
One after another, people entered the conference room, some at the table, more behind them against the wall. Everyone took out papers. Everyone looked taut, as if they were being stretched. There was little conversation, few smiles. Table sitters reviewed documents and turned to wall sitters to confer or ask a question or send them on an errand. The wall sitters were younger, very earnest. There was only one woman at the table. There were a few women against the wall, all with good legs. Eventually the man in charge said, “Let’s get started,” and everyone hunkered down as if expecting incoming artillery.
* * *
“Is this the way to the Health Center?” Startled, someone shrugged and she continued, then asked another.
“I think so.” She nodded thanks and continued, but she slowed when she came to a bench, and then she sat and stared.
She looked around, as if there might be someone approaching who could help.
She took out her phone and sent her boyfriend a text message. “Murderd grl my rm. Was going stu hlth but feel...” Here she hesitated. She added ‘weird,’ and paused again. Then she deleted ‘weird’ and replaced it with ‘scared.’ Her thumbs hovered over the keypad. Eventually she added ‘to talk.’ Why was she afraid to talk? What was she afraid to talk about? Finally she concluded the message with the words, ‘scared to talk abt bro Chip.’
* * *
“What the hell, Kaylee!”
“Don’t talk like that, Chip.”
“Don’t talk like that, Chip,” he mocked. “Why, you think God’s listening?”
“Yes, I do. Why are you so angry?”
“Why aren’t you so angry? How do you stomach all the bullshit?”
“Excuse me, whoever you are. Could I please have my little brother back?”
“That’s the point, I’m not your frigging little brother anymore.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll never... Then can I have my big brother back?” They each took a breath. They were in his bedroom and, when they stopped talking, each caught the silence in the house. “I know you don’t talk this way to dad. I hope you don’t talk this way to mom.” He didn’t reply. “What happened?”
“When?”
“When I went away to college?”
“Maybe you just never noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“How fucked up everything is around here. Which pisses me off. And don’t give me that evangelical pity look. Me and God are not on speaking terms these days, okay? Why are you smiling?”
“You’re trying to provoke me, aren’t you?” Her expression quickly changed. “Like you’ve been provoking mom and dad, your teachers, Pastor Whitcomb...”
“You think I’m playing?”
“Mostly you’ve provoked mom. Unfortunately she’s an easy target. Also there’s probably some guy thing between dad and you. Also he wouldn’t stand for it.” Chip didn’t answer. “The problem is it worked, you’ve got her pretty upset. I refuse to believe that makes you happy, so...” He still didn’t answer and she said he could say something if he wanted.
“You left out the part where she provokes me.”
“How does she do that?”
“Come on, you know how mom is.”
“You mean how she loves us? How she’s worried about you, because suddenly you’re failing high school?”
“School,” he sneered.
“Dear Lord, you are so sixteen.”
“And you’re so little miss college girl.”
She abruptly left his room, but ended up sitting on the edge of her bed, stewing. She returned. “We used to have a special bond—at least I thought we did. Brother and sister against the world. Then somehow it became you against the world, and I became part of the world.”
“Were you practicing that line in your room? It wasn’t bad.”
She returned to the edge of her bed.
* * *
“I figure... I was anxious about college, he could be anxious about high school.”
“You were anxious about college?” asked Joanne. They were sitting on the edges of their beds, talking across the dormitory room’s narrow space.
“You weren’t?”
“I guess, in a way. About certain things.”
“Certain things like guys?”
Joanne shrugged. “You sure you want to talk about that now? Not Chip?”
Kaylee nodded. “Things haven’t been going well for my brother. Not in school, not in church. My parents hoped his grades would stop sliding, that he’d make new friends. Then he did, and it wasn’t what they’d hoped.”
“Meaning?”
“Not the kind who went to church. Any church, never mind our church. These are kids who yell about white power and hang out in scary chatrooms. One of them even showed up with a swastika tattooed on his arm.”
Joanne was shocked. “Your parents must be...”
“They are. Me too. This is my brother we’re talking about. I’m like... They must be too. Where did this come from? He was never like this. It’s like the devil got him.”
* * *
“The point is, sis, is that I’m not coming back. Forget about ‘cute little Chip.’” He spoke the last three words with a mocking tone, then returned to anger to add, “There’s too much at stake.”
“I don’t get it. What do you mean, ‘too much at stake?’”
“What I mean is that...” he shouted, then only slightly lowering his voice, added, “Pastor Fuckface is full of shit, they’re all full of shit. And if you can’t see that...” When Kaylee started crying, it only angered him more. “Don’t you get it? The way things are going, we’ll be a minority in our own country. Taken over by niggers and kikes and fags.” Now he saw real fear in her eyes. “It’s about time we did something about it—especially if the president isn’t re-elected.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
He hesitated, but then said, “Let me show you something,” and took her to his computer.
* * *
Kaylee was still sitting on the bench when she realized she hadn’t even checked her messages. It turned out there were lots of them, including several from her mother. She started to call, but disconnected on the first ring. She didn’t know why. She started to call again, but stopped. Instead she looked around with a confused, disturbed expression. That’s how a friend, who happened to be passing, noticed her.
“Oh my gosh, Kaylee, what are you doing, you didn’t answer my message.” Kaylee looked up, but didn’t say anything, and the young woman sat beside her and hugged her, and only then did Kaylee start sobbing.
When she could speak, she explained that she’d been on her way to the Health Center, but had had second thoughts.
“Second thoughts?”
“I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do.”
The friend didn’t know how to reply, so she said, “It’s so horrible. I can’t believe it.”
“They sent me to the Health Center, so I just started going there. But then I thought, don’t I really want to go to Campus Ministry? I mean they have counseling services too. But do I need a counselor? What’s there to say?” She turned to stare at her friend. “What do you say?”
“Come here,” she said, and hugged her again, then asked, “Are you sure Campus Ministry has counselors?”
“Evangelicals always have counselors. Don’t they? Maybe they don’t.”
“I could go there with you.” When Kaylee didn’t move, she offered again.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought...”
“I mean not now.”
“Okay. I mean that’s okay. It’s just... I hate to leave you, but I’m missing a class.”
“Oh. Sure. Go to class, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I should call Joanne’s parents, let them know I’ll pray for them. I only met them once, when they brought Joanne to campus, but they seemed nice—different, but nice. I should talk to my brother, too, find out how he’s taking the news. It’s on the news, right? He’s a sophomore in high school, and you know how they can be. Pretty immature. Which I don’t really take seriously, but... I should just talk to him first.” She tried to look reassuring, and the friend, not much reassured but anxious to get to class, left with the proviso that they would meet for lunch. When she was out of sight, Kaylee headed back to her dormitory.
* * *
When she reached her dorm, there was a cop there, not a campus cop, a city cop. He checked her photo ID and stared at her before letting her pass. When she reached her floor, though, there were more cops, and one of them walked her to her room, but when he saw which room it was, he wouldn’t let her in. She couldn’t have gotten in anyway, because the door was guarded and the small room was full of cops.
“Lieutenant,” called the guard at the door.
A man came out, dressed in plain clothes. “You the roommate?” She nodded. “What’s your name?” She told him, but it caught in her throat because he scared her. She wanted to ask what was going on, but he asked if she would talk to an officer.
“About what? Joanne’s my roommate. This is my room.”
“Hudson,” he called over his shoulder.
A woman emerged, in uniform, also with a stare on her face where there should have been some kind of hello smile or at least something reassuring. “Would you mind if we talked somewhere?”
“About what? I... I heard the news.”
The woman nodded and asked if they were friends. Kaylee nodded. “Good friends?”
“Of course. What does that question mean?”
For the first time the officer softened her voice, if only slightly. “We’re collecting information. You might be able to help. Would you...?” Kaylee nodded mechanically and she led her down the hall and took out her pad. “When did you last talk to Joanne?”
* * *
When she did call her mother, she could barely speak through her tears. She didn’t ask about Chip. She was too distracted to notice that her mother wasn’t taking the news well either.
* * *
When Jillian put down the phone, she automatically started to dry the breakfast dishes and discovered that her hands were trembling. Reflexively she went for a cigarette (which she had put at the back of the shelf in her bedroom closet), before she remembered she was quitting. Next she headed for a bottle she had put under the sink behind the detergent, but stopped herself. “Don’t you do that, Jillian, it’s barely 11 am and you have to go to work.” She visualized the minister’s reassuring smile and asked Jesus to help her and felt better.
Actually she didn’t feel better, just strong enough not to open a bottle before noon. “Do something, Jillian, don’t just stand here and wait for it to get worse.” She went outside, walked to the corner and back in the November chill, but that didn’t help, so she called Mary Beth to tell her that that poor girl who was killed was none other than Kaylee’s roommate.
“You don’t say! Oh, my. Really, Kaylee’s roommate was working for the Dems? How’s... Is she all right?”
“She’s pretty shaken up.”
“I can imagine.”
“I am too.”
“You poor dear. I wish I could come over...”
“Don’t bother, I’ve got to leave for work, like now.” She didn’t leave for work, though, she talked about how the election seemed to have driven Chip off the rails. “He’s scaring me, Mary Beth. I’m not sure I know who he is anymore.”
“Did something...”
Jillian told her about his breakfast rant. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve got serious doubts about what the president’s doing. I mean is he saving the country or... Would my daughter’s roommate still be alive if...”
“Oh, Jillian, surely you don’t think...”
“I’m trying to console my daughter. I’m trying to keep my son from abandoning his faith. Meanwhile I’ve got my own doubts—as you well know, and I am so sorry for burdening you with it.”
“Bob’s home, right? I mean, I haven’t heard about any storms.”
“Yeah, no, he’s home. Doing a local job.”
“Can you talk to him?”
“I prefer not to, when he’s forty feet up in a tree with a chainsaw. But, yeah, I can talk to him. Bob’s real good about that.”
Before the silence got embarrassing, she asked, “Have you tried grounding him, Chip I mean?”
“He climbs out the window. But we’re... He threatened me, threatened his mother, and I am like scared—and, yes, I will talk with the minister, but I already know what he’ll say. I mean, what can he say? Besides,” she added illogically, “everything is online with these kids.”
“You could take away his computer, his phone.”
“Oh, really?”
“What does Bob say?”
“He reads the riot act when he’s home. But then he leaves, he’s always leaving, and Chip knows it.”
“And he has to go, right? There’s not enough local work?”
“Not to make that kind of money. We’re barely making ends meet as it is. Now we’ve got Kaylee’s college...”
Mary Beth asked what happened at breakfast.
“He waited for Bob to leave to say, ‘We’re gonna take it back.’” (She mimicked a version of his voice.)
“Well, isn’t that what we’ve all been saying for the last four years?”
“Not the way he said it.”
“He’s sixteen, Jillian, that’s what sixteen-year-olds do. He’ll find his way back to Jesus, hon, don’t you fret so, okay?”
“He was almost exultant. What’s there to be exultant about? For heaven’s sake, a girl’s been killed over this. Not just any girl, his sister’s roommate. And now the president’s saying there was widespread fraud and he’s demanding... I don’t know what he’s demanding.”
“You said he threatened you?”
“He said certain things needed to be done, and anyone who got in the way needed to be gotten out of the way, and he was looking at me. You should have seen his eyes, they were not the eyes of my son, my little boy who...”
“Oh, Jillian, please don’t cry. We’ll figure this out, you’ll see. It’s probably just... The whole country’s a little crazy right now, don’t you think?”
“That’s what the minister says. The path of faith is a rocky path. Faith, patience, and prayer.”
* * *
“At noon the president tweeted that he will hold a televised press conference later in the afternoon. Corinne, what do you think he will announce?”
Every news outlet, left, right, center, and edges, launched into speculation hyper-space about what he would announce. His campaign officials were chased for comments, explanations, predictions, but they evaded all questions. When the press conference began, someone turned up the volume on the television in the luncheonette where Jillian worked—it was already tuned to Fox News—and conversation stopped.
When the president’s press secretary appeared instead of the president, there was a visible sense of disappointment and some confusion, but after the usual brief opening statement, the obvious questions crackled like popcorn and the answers were as provocative as half the nation hoped and the other half feared.
The press secretary had announced that the elections would be contested in several states. “Which states?” was the immediate question.
“We’ll be announcing that shortly.”
“How were the states determined?”
“They are states where there were serious voting irregularities.”
“What irregularities? Who determined that there were irregularities? Has the president consulted with legal advisers? Was this anticipated? If this was anticipated, were there plans already in place? How long ago did planning begin, and who conducted it?”
Suddenly the president appeared. Rather than wait for him to speak, questions were shouted from all over the room. He gestured with his arms for everyone to quiet down, then spoke with his unctuous voice. Though there had obviously been widespread fraud and other irregularities across the country, he was only challenging the vote in certain states, because he didn’t want to put the country through the ordeal of having a whole new election.
Again the shouted questions, starting with ‘Which states?’ In reply, he made sweeping claims, denounced his critics as ‘pencil-necks, boneheads, fat slobs, and dwarfs,’ and invoked with obvious pleasure the various derogatory nicknames he’d been using throughout the campaign.
In the instant between sentences, someone repeated forcefully, “Which states, Mister President? Surely the voters have a right to know.”
“The states where I lost,” he retorted instantly, loudly. “Where the vote was close. Because frankly I won those states. Okay? I won those states. So we’ll be challenging the rigged voting. The voting was rigged. I won, everybody knows it. And we’ll see what happens. Okay?”
Episode 2
After the press conference, the speculation by media pundits continued where it had been interrupted. The president had said that the election was rigged, but rather than contest the whole thing or even demand that the entire election be held again, he was just going to challenge the results in selected states. These were states where he had lost the vote by a small margin. Question number one was then: Which states?
“We’ll be coming out with that.”
“How big a margin is small? What does ‘rigged’ mean? Does it just mean you lost your re-election bid?”
“That’s a terrible question to ask me.”
“There were serious incidents suggesting systematic voter suppression in inner-city districts in a couple of states. Are those places you’re looking at?” The president glared. “I take that as a ‘no.’ Is that because it would skew the results toward Republicans?”
Another reporter noted that in Florida the votes had not yet been completely tallied, due to problems arising from aging equipment in certain districts, and asked if he was looking at that. When the president turned for another question, she asked if he wasn’t investigating because most if not all the affected districts were Democratic strongholds.
In studios and online, a consensus emerged that it was likely to be the usual ‘battleground’ states: Michigan, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, plus New Hampshire, though it had only four Electoral College votes—and yes, Florida, which the president kept mentioning, despite how the vote tallies seemed likely to skew.
But would he stop there? “In Minnesota, the margin was not much wider than in Florida—and once the vote tally is completed there, probably not wider at all.”
Florida seemed to really rankle the president. “In 2016 he won there by 113,000 votes. Now, with 98% of votes tallied, he’s trailing by all of 5,000 votes. The fact that the remaining 2% would almost certainly favor the Democrats doesn’t seem to affect him.”
“I agree, he seems focused on the narrow margin. He’s also upset about Pennsylvania, where his narrow win in 2016 has slipped to a narrow loss. Both times, a margin of less than 1%.”
“In Minnesota, he cut his 2016 loss of 45,000 votes by more than half. It seems out of reach, but who knows how far the president will go?”
On the other hand, all the news outlets were repeatedly noting, with their red and blue maps of America, that theoretically—theoretically—it was definitely possible to swing the election the other way.
“Currently the president has 229 Electoral College votes. He needs 270 to win. There are a bunch of scenarios to find 41 more—theoretically.”
“How?”
“Well, in the simplest case, he has to reverse the results in two states, Florida and Pennsylvania. That sweeps him past 270 to 278. But if he fails to turn one of those, he needs at least three states, and the possibilities multiply. And if he fails to win both of them, then winning Michigan, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, and Minnesota would get him to 269—one tantalizing vote shy.”
“But, as you say, this is all theoretical.”
“Absolutely. Meanwhile the president has lost the popular vote nationally by some four million votes.”
Everyone was asking: How was he going to accomplish the seemingly impossible? Florida, with its razor-thin margin and Republican control—and its controversial history in the 2000 presidential election—was conceivable. After that... Everyone displayed two Electoral College maps, one claimed by the Democrats, based on the reported vote tallies, one by the Republicans, based on the president’s claim that the vote was rigged.
* * *
Since their appearance on national television, when they appealed to the authorities to capture their daughter’s killer, Joanne’s mother had been in a state of collapse. Her father responded differently to all the media companies that had installed themselves on his front lawn. After failing to persuade her to eat some breakfast, he silently ate hers in the kitchen, cleaned up, and returned upstairs.
“I’m going to go outside, Ellen.” She shook her head in despair. “That’s why I have to go. We can’t give in to despair. But I want your approval.” He waited as her face worked, and eventually there was a slight nod. “That’s my girl. Do you want to stand beside me? You don’t have to speak.” When her face showed terror, he told her not to worry and kissed her hand. “You rest.”
On the stairs he collected his thoughts, then opened the front door and strode outside and waited for the startled reporters to stick their microphones in his face. After answering invasive questions as patiently as he could, he said that whoever had murdered their daughter was a coward and a maniac. There he paused to retain control of himself, breathing deeply. When he continued, he spoke directly to the murderer. “You are either insane or stupid. We’ll know which when you’re caught, which I hope and trust will be soon, before another family is destroyed.” Suddenly he stopped to take another slow breath, and when he started again he again addressed those standing before him. “These people are vicious and pathetic. My wife and I have received death threats. Social media posts, emails...” He shook his head. “No, I will not repeat them.”
There was a flurry of shouted questions; he ignored them. He seemed to be gathering himself again. “You know where I am, you pathetic cowards. You like to strut around in your camo, with guns and knives strapped to your body. You think that makes you tough? You think that makes you a patriot? You don’t love this country, you hate it. You hate it. You killed my daughter. For what? Was she that much of a threat?” He fought back tears. His chest was heaving.
He managed to impose a very brief silence on the reporters, before one asked, “Do you believe the president when he sends his condolences?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Do you blame him for your daughter’s death?”
“You’re damn right I do. But of course nothing will happen to him.”
* * *
Chip was bragging in school that the murdered girl was his sister’s college roommate. It didn’t boost his popularity. No one was impressed; most were grossed out. One guy—too big to fight—said, “If I believed that, I’d figure you for the killer.”
“Matter of fact, if I’d had the chance, I would have cooled her. The bitch deserved to go down. It’s time we took this country back.”
“Dude, you are such a freak.” Then, to no one in particular: “What a loser.”
Chip was used to this and had a face prepared to meet scorn with scorn.
“She really your sister’s roommate?” asked Dirk. Dirk was his friend. Dirk was about his only friend. “Sweet.”
“We need to do something about the election.”
“The one that just ended, you mean?”
“I mean to help the president overturn the rigged vote.”
“You’re going to help the president.”
“No, we are.”
“Really? How?”
“That’s what I just asked you.”
“Okay, let me think. I got it! First we steal an atom bomb. Not a big one, one of those little dirty ones, you know, that you can wear in a backpack. Then we go down to the mall...”
“You don’t think I’m serious, do you? Just because you’re a year older?”
As Dirk told his brother, none of his friends could understand why he let Chip hang around. That, he said, was because none of them had discovered the pleasure of having someone follow you around who thought whatever you said or did was super-cool. “Besides, I kind of like him. He’s a tough little shit. He’s not like us. You should see, his whole house would fit in our living room. The evangelical thing is kind of interesting, too. They’ve got a word for it, I forget what it is, but basically he’s on the shit list.”
Dirk confided to Chip that he’d been contacted online. “Wait till you see, this is some serious shit, I mean these dudes don’t fuck around.”
“Let’s go.”
“It’s sixth period.”
“Why wait?”
“My mom’s home?”
“Mine isn’t,” said Chip. “Even if she was, who gives a shit? ‘Sorry, I missed the Day of the Rope because my mom was home?’ I don’t think so.”
They ducked out of school and went to the mall in Dirk’s vintage Jeep Wrangler, where they shoplifted electronics and outran the security guard, then went to Dirk’s house to go online. He logged in to the same secure chatroom he had shown Chip, and on which Chip had been active, and they both posted the most inflammatory comments they could think of about the election. Then Dirk asked how serious he was about ‘doing something.’
He said he was ‘fucking dead serious.’
“Really? Because I can put you into something, but not if you’re all talk. Are you willing to put it on the line?” Chip was briefly scared, looking at Dirk’s eyes, but he nodded. “Sure? Because if you nod again, there’s no going back.” Chip was scared again and hesitated, but nodded. Dirk then went to a room he didn’t know about and introduced him to the conspirators.
* * *
In view of recent developments, the Democratic president-elect decided to make a brief statement. He said the American people would not allow a disgruntled incumbent to steal a second term by subverting the most highly cherished expression of democracy, which was to vote. “No one,” he piously intoned, “is above the law.”
“I wouldn’t have gone with that,” said a campaign aide. “It hasn’t worked before. Why would it work now?”
“How about it’s the truth?”
“That’s cute. Have another drink.”
She caught the bartender’s eye and pointed to her glass. When she’d had a sip, she said, “It won’t go anywhere.”
“What won’t?”
“The president’s bullshit.”
“You’ve been telling me that ever since we first had sex.”
“This is too big. Even for him. Steal a presidential election?”
“‘George Bush, 2000, Florida, Supreme Court hands him the election five to four’ mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “Even if he can overturn Florida, there’s too much more. Trust me, never happen. You know what? I think you need another drink.”
“We’ve been saying that for four years.”
“Come on. Overturn a hundred or two hundred thousand votes in multiple states? Even the president can’t do that.”
“What if he does?”
* * *
“If you could see your way to the amount previously discussed... Yes, sir... Yes, sir... The PAC was set up several months ago... The Campaign for Election Integrity, that’s correct... Thanks, Terry, that would be excellent, the president will express his gratitude personally.”
As soon as he hung up he shouted for his secretary to tell her he’d just bagged ‘ten mil’ and she should put him through to the president. He managed to keep a straight face until she left, before his smile broke out and his fist shot up. Then he composed himself to pick up the phone. It was a brief call and his secretary reappeared when it was over. “Yes? You seem to want to ask me something.”
“It’s not really my business.”
“But you’d like to ask it anyway,” he said with a smile. What his face showed was, ‘But you’re going to ask it anyway, and since you have such a great ass, I’ll answer it.’
“Sir, if I may ask, were you surprised by the president’s announcement? That he was contesting the vote?”
“Do you want to know who was surprised? There’s a guy in Topeka who just came out of a four-year coma and he’s shocked. Come on, the president’s been talking about how the whole election system is rigged since the last election. He was seriously pissed that he lost the popular vote, to a major bitch, by three million votes, and now he’s lost to this joker by four million.”
She nodded seriously.
“You’re allowed to smile. Especially since we both know you’re not surprised either. Don’t give me that ‘I didn’t know a thing’ look, you work in the West Wing for the president’s campaign manager. Plus, you know damn well I’ve been positioning donors for just this purpose for weeks. The PAC was created for just this purpose. And you know we went into high gear first thing the morning after, soon as the president woke up and gave the go-ahead. We’re talking major ad buys. Legal is lining up key law firms as we speak. I handle the largest potential donors so we can pay the bastards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But what?”
“It’s just... The scale of it.”
“You think he gives a shit about the scale? One state, ten states, the whole friggin’ country, what difference does it make? The man who couldn’t lose lost. Not gonna happen. End of story.”
* * *
Chip didn’t show up for supper. While Jillian washed the supper dishes, Bob went upstairs to check the national weather maps. He checked for storms and extreme weather events anywhere in the country, a daily routine he performed almost automatically. Again, nothing interesting turned up. He called his partner. “See anything? I got nothing.”
“I guess the big storm this week isn’t the weather.”
“You can say that again. All right, buddy, see you in the morning.”
He returned to the kitchen, where Jillian was almost done cleaning up. “Nothing, can you believe it?”
“It’s just a matter of time, you know that. Be happy there wasn’t some major storm on election day.”
“Might have been better if there was. Watch TV?”
“Go ahead. I’ll be in in a few.”
“Still, we could use the money.”
Jillian nodded. “Bob? You know you’re gonna have to do something about Chip.”
“I know.” He heaved a big sigh. “The question is what. How many times have I talked to him already? You’ve talked to him. The minister’s talked to him, the vice principal, the guidance counselor... We’ve grounded him... We’ve lost patience and yelled—at least I have. I’ll admit it, Jill, I’m not sure I know what to do. We pray for him... You just hope he finds his way back to his faith.”
“I’m not sure we can just hope anymore.”
“If you have any ideas, be sure to let me know.”
She nodded again.
“What?”
“You know what. You’re gonna have to do something. I can’t... Never mind, we’ll talk about it some other time. You’ve had a long day. Go, I’ll be right in.”
He turned on the TV and Fox came up as he settled into his chair. They were discussing a statement released earlier by a self-described ‘patriot’ group that took credit for Joanne’s murder.
There was a clip of an FBI spokesperson saying that they were taking it seriously and had opened an investigation, though they had reason to doubt its authenticity.
There was a clip of the president talking to reporters on the south lawn. “We don’t know who did it. It could have been anybody. There’s plenty of blame to go around. Look, the Democrats have been whipping up hatred against me since the day I got elected—the first time, I mean, not this time. The so-called impeachment, what the hell was that? Give me a break. It was a witch-hunt, and people are angry. They’re right to be angry.”
Jillian quietly joined him.
“He’s right, you know. I hate to say it, but they brought it on themselves. ‘Can a man take fire in his breast and not be burned?’ What, you don’t agree?”
“They killed someone, Bob. They murdered an innocent girl.”
“Who’s ‘they?’”
“Well, we don’t know, do we? Maybe you’re right, it was just some nutcase. But until we find out...”
“Well, that’s where the FBI comes in, right?”
“That’s why I’m saying, let’s not... Let’s not dismiss this till we know...”
“You don’t think the president ordered a hit, do you?”
“Of course not, Bob. But suppose it was that patriot group?”
He kept talking, she stopped. Eventually they returned to the TV.
When her phone rang, she glanced at the caller ID and hastily left the room. In fact, she went up to the bathroom and closed the door before answering. “Hello?” she said feebly.
“Hello. It’s Richard, Jillian.”
“I know who it is.”
“How are you?” he asked sheepishly.
“I’m fine, how are you?” She didn’t know what else to say.
There was a pause. “I was thinking you’re probably following the news just like I am. I... I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I...”
“Stop right there. Don’t say another word.” He stopped and she stopped and there was a long awkward pause. “Are you still there?”
“You told me to stop.” He added a little chuckle to try to lighten the mood.
“How did you get my number?”
“Well, let me think. Could it be because you gave it to me?”
Suddenly she remembered. It shook her. “I should not have done that.”
“I’m glad you did, Jillian.”
“You should not be calling me. Do you hear? My husband’s downstairs.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to call you so many times. Hear your voice.”
“No. No. You don’t get to say that.”
“It’s how I feel.”
“You’re lonely, I get that. Lots of people are lonely.”
“Are you lonely, Jillian?”
“And you don’t get to ask me that. Just because... That was wrong. We sinned. I’ve asked for forgiveness. Have you?”
“I know it was wrong, you being married. Me being married. But I still can’t accept that it was a sin.”
“What?”
“Wait, I said that backwards. I know it was a sin, of course it was a sin. But somehow it didn’t feel wrong.”
“It was a terrible moment of weakness is what it was. Best to let it be and move on. You hear me? Let it be.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Jillian. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Don’t call this number again, you hear?” She disconnected before giving him a chance to reply.
* * *
“Connor, I think we’ve got our last man. I just found him, a kid in Indiana. He’s young—only eighteen—but he sounds good.”
“Eighteen works, so long as he takes orders.”
“He sounded to me like he’s desperate to take orders, you know what I mean? One of those ‘nobody gets me’ type of kid. Desperate to belong. I think we can use him.”
“You think?”
“We can use him. You want to bust my balls? I’m telling you the kid’s for real.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s a friend of Dirk’s.”
“Dirk’s our youngest recruit. You sure about this?”
Tim didn’t hesitate. “He’s got a presence online, I checked him out. He’s making the right noises. Actually I’d have to say I’m kind of impressed. He’s got his head straight when it comes to defending freedom.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Naturally. I pushed him some, he answered good.”
“Knows weaponry?”
Tim nodded energetically. “I’ll say. Of course he was showing off, wants to tell me everything he knows—but he knows. Handguns, rifles, ammo... Seems his father’s big on self-defense, he grew up around firearms.”
“He knows semi-auto?”
He nodded again. They were walking along the fence and would pause to gaze across their land, checking the herd. In the distance were three men on horses, and it was easy to tell which were the hired hands, which was their father. “He’s something, huh?”
“Dad? You betcha. Don’t make them like that anymore.”
It was a large ranch, the fence-line receding in the distance till it disappeared.
“Any hint he’s an FBI plant?”
“I doubt it, seeing as how young he is. But of course we test him before we show him anything.” Suddenly Tim sensed the hesitation. “What the fuck, have I let you down before? So back off.”
Connor didn’t react. There’d always been this tension between them. But now it wasn’t just two brothers squabbling, he had a mission to complete, and he couldn’t afford to go easy on his brother, just because he was his brother. “Did you set up a meet?”
He shook his head with some pique. “Of course not. Got more online shit to get through. First I work him online, flush him out if he’s running some game. But I’m telling you, I got a good feeling about the little prick.”
They continued in silence. The school-bus arrived and they waved to their kids as they got off and headed for their respective houses. Suddenly Connor turned. “Damn, brother, we’re gonna do this. Good on you for assembling the team.”
“None too soon, neither.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to hustle. How soon can you...?”
“This evening, after work.”
“Good. Assuming it goes like you think, we’ll report tonight, okay? What?”
“I think you might have just smiled. Just a little.”
Connor threw his head back and snorted, which was as close to laughing as he got. “This election cannot stand, and someone’s got to do something about it. If we don’t fight now, we’re finished.”
Tim nodded. Connor was always the talker, which was why he was team leader. He could say what they all felt about federal abuse of power, government oppression. When he got going, he could rile up a crowd. He’d seen it. His brother up there, railing against federalism, about how all three branches of power had been combined into one, with no one accountable to the citizens. “They are not under the power of recall,” he’d said. “They have violated the letter and intent of the Constitution. We’re not the terrorists, we’re the ones who’ve been terrorized, who’ve been threatened with their livelihoods lost.” He remembered how he said, “Are you prepared to put a stop to a faraway government telling law-abiding citizens what they can and cannot do with what’s rightfully theirs?” “Now you’re smiling,” said Connor. Tim nodded, but remained silent. “It’s okay to say it,” he urged.
“We’re really gonna do it. How long have we been working this thing? Now, finally...”
“Thanks to Russky. Without him, we’re just a couple of ranchers. Farm boys,” he added with a touch of false self-deprecation.
“Yeah, right. Be funny if he was a Russian agent, right?”
“Well, I don’t feature calling him that to his face anytime soon.”
That evening, Tim said Chip had checked out, and Connor immediately reported to Russell via secure email on the dark web. “Base 1 has ID-ed final member. Young but eager. T reports online & verbal check out. Request auth for direct meet, initiation. PS. Meet Midwest. Funds req’d.”
“Good work, base 1. Time short, must move. $$ arriving overnight, initiate ASAP & report.”
“Roger that. Will leave tomorrow. Instructions?”
“As per usual. Good to go?”
“Good to go.”
“Fly the flag.”
“Fly the flag.”
Connor turned to Tim. “That’s it, we’re on. Set it up with our boy—and make sure Dirk’s there, I want to see them together. By the way, make sure he didn’t lie about his age.”
“I’m on it. When do you wanna meet?”
“Soon as I get there. Hot damn, I’m going to Indiana.”
Episode 3
“My campaign to legitimize the election and right the result is in full swing,” the president told reporters in front of TV cameras. “You don’t have to take my word for it, everybody’s saying it. My lawyers tell me we have an excellent case. So we’ll see. We’ll see what happens. But we have an excellent case.”
“Mister President, do you have any evidence, any facts you can cite, to support your claims?”
“I just said.”
He was tweeting dozens of times a day. One said: “Hostile power maybe Iran could have hacked election system, changed vote to favor Dem. DNC collusion? Needs investigation. All Corrupt Dems say is Russia Russia Russia. All a cover. Clearly I won and will protect our Great Country. Iran treachery, phony result, must not stand!”
Republicans formed a chorus to sing the presidential refrain. It began in lower registers with, “Clearly there were serious irregularities in multiple states,” and “The American people deserve a free and fair and transparent election.” Soon it rose to falsetto soprano with, “We need to get to the bottom of this. Who was involved, what did DNC officials know and when did they know it, and what is the extent of what some are calling fraud?”
Americans saw and heard it on their big and little screens all day long, wherever they turned. Pundits everywhere said, “Pundits everywhere are in overdrive, across the political map.”
One said, “Democrats are trying to change the narrative, but of course the line has been drawn and no one is crossing it.”
Another said, “There are few arguments because people have stopped talking to each other.”
A third solemnly summarized, “The topic is taboo among those who have to work together, or live together. But in safe circles, no one talks of anything else. Many are scared, everyone is angry.”
Recounts were reported to be already underway in Florida and Michigan, where the margins were narrow enough to trigger a recount of machine (but not paper) votes. Also reported were that the president’s legal teams were on the ground in the other contested states, and the president-elect was scrambling to meet the challenge. Also, the court battles had begun.
“I can tell you that immediate investigations were demanded into allegations of voter registration fraud, also vote tampering by ‘certain partisan’ county and state Boards of Election. Objections were raised about the design of certain ballots. Questions were raised about the integrity of voting machines, the software used, the counting of paper ballots, the chain of custody of those ballots...”
“Wow, that’s...”
“...Questions were raised about the locations and hours of certain polling stations, the behavior of certain election monitors, ‘unexplained’ delays, ‘false or incorrect’ information given to voters, ‘slow’ processing, ‘unwarranted’ contesting of credentials, ‘improper’ use of provisional ballots, ‘harassment’ of voters by Democratic Party ‘operatives’ crossing inside the exclusion area...”
“Is that all?” joked the anchor.
“Actually, no,” replied a straight-faced reporter. “A suddenly important issue is the, quote, ‘egregious’ gerrymandering in certain states, namely those where the legislature is controlled by Democrats.”
The president tweeted: “Voting machines hacked, millions of Fraudulent votes, Republican voters intimidated, harassed, turned away. Election officials skewed rules to favor Democrats. Disgusting!!! Will not stand!”
Commentators at Fox and CNN agreed that reporters were straining to remain current with developments. Said one, “The news cycle has become a continuous barrage of claims and counter-claims.” Said the other, “The news cycle has become a ceaseless effort to separate fact from fiction.”
Commentators at Fox and CNN disagreed about the role journalists had played during the campaigns. CNN said rightwing journalists had systematically defended efforts to suppress voter turnout among likely Democratic voters. Fox said leftwing journalists had systematically conspired to depress voter turnout by those who favored the president’s re-election.
A new term suddenly took center stage among Republicans, both in the media and among politicians: ‘selective reporting.’ Usually this was followed closely by ‘voter depression,’ a phenomenon disproportionately, even uniquely affecting would-be Republican voters.
Everyone knew the courts were expediting hearings. Decisions were issued rapidly. When an important challenge was decided against the president, he immediately fired his lawyers. The country learned of this from a process that immediately created another new term: ‘tweet firing.’
* * *
Kaylee had no memory of the lieutenant who had been in her room when she returned the morning Joanne had been killed, that was why she looked at him blankly when he met her at the police station. That, plus the fact that she was terrified. With a brief thanks for ‘coming in,’ he led her to an interrogation room. With her was a lawyer from the university, who introduced herself.
“You her lawyer?”
“Does she need a lawyer?”
“We’d just like to ask her some questions. She’s not a suspect.”
“Then I’m just here as an observer. The university has an obvious interest in your investigation.”
He nodded. “In that case I may ask you to leave the room.”
“In that case I may ask Kaylee if she would like legal representation.”
He nodded again. Everyone sat and he explained to Kaylee that he was just going to ask her some questions in connection with the investigation. “We’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on the situation. Okay?” When she barely nodded, he asked if she would like something to drink. When she barely shook her head, he explained he was just looking for information. “You’re not in trouble, we’re not suspecting you of anything, okay? We’re just looking for information. You’re here voluntarily, and we appreciate that. I know how hard this must be for you.” He tried to smile, and she tried to smile, and he turned on the video camera. After going through the obligatory preliminaries, noting the time and who was present and asking Kaylee to state her full legal name, he asked her how long she had known the deceased—Joanne.
He asked her if she could name others who had known Joanne. When she started to name some, he asked her to write down their names. When she was done, she pushed the paper across the table, where he glanced at it and pushed it back. “Keep it for now. If you think of any more, just write them down, okay? That’s very helpful.”
He asked whether Joanne had had a boyfriend and whether Kaylee knew him. The question bothered her, because he kept talking about her in the past tense. She did have a boyfriend and she did know him. They had gone on some dates together.
“Joanne and you and her boyfriend?”
“And my boyfriend.”
“Is he on the list? Could you write his name down too?” He asked her to indicate that he was her boyfriend, and to note which one was Joanne’s boyfriend.
He asked if Joanne had had many boyfriends. He asked if she was ‘intimate’ with boys.
“What does ‘intimate’ mean?”
“For example, you’re her roommate, did she come home every night?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m certain. She came home every night.”
“And you would know, right? Because you came home every night?”
Kaylee looked really scared. “Yes.”
“Was that a ‘yes?’ I’m sorry, I could hardly hear you.” Kaylee nodded. “I’m sorry, could you say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ for the record?” Kaylee said ‘yes.’
He asked if Joanne had ever talked to Kaylee about her relationships with boys, and the lawyer said, “Excuse me, lieutenant, but is this line of questioning somehow relevant to your investigation?” He ignored her and repeated the question. “Lieutenant?”
“We’re trying to get a picture of the situation.”
“And you believe...”
“We’re just looking for information. We need to know who knew the victim, who might have had a motive...”
“And you think that, just because the victim in this case was a young woman...”
“We need to look at everything.”
“But this is where you chose to begin.”
The lieutenant looked directly at Kaylee and repeated the question again. She stared at him, plainly trying to figure out how to respond, and started sobbing.
“Okay, that’s it,” said the lawyer. “If these are your questions, we don’t need to be here.”
“Would you prefer we get a subpoena to compel her? We could get a two-for-one and subpoena the university to release all records.”
“To what end? Maybe if you could explain the relevance of a dead student’s sex life to a murder investigation.”
The unflappable detective replied, “I think I’ve explained that we’re trying to get the full picture...”
“I don’t see it,” she interrupted, “I see a prurient interest in a girl’s private life.”
“What does ‘prurient’ mean?” he asked, with the closest thing to a smile exhibited so far.
“Do you suspect Joanne Maybridge may have been murdered by a jilted lover—or that her boyfriend turned out to be a homicidal maniac? Or a boy she rejected was stalking her and killed her in a jealous rage?”
“Thank you, counselor, those are helpful theories. Now we have an investigation to conduct. So, if you’ll allow me...”
“I think we’re done here, Kaylee.”
“Are... Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. You’ve done your part. Now we’ll see if the police do theirs.”
“Kaylee,” said the lieutenant, “all we want to do is find the person who murdered your friend. If she was a flirt, with lots of boyfriends, and a reputation on campus, we’re going to find out. Wouldn’t it be better if you told us in your own words? For the sake of your friend’s reputation?”
Kaylee wavered and eventually said, “As far as I know, she has never slept with a guy.”
“Did she ever mention birth control?”
“You don’t have to answer that.”
Kaylee, lying, shook her head.
* * *
The fact was that Joanne and Kaylee had spent countless hours talking about ‘guys.’ And the facts were a lot more complicated than ‘had she or hadn’t she.’ At first they didn’t know what to make of each other, because they felt so different. They kept reminding themselves that they came from different worlds. But friendship melted that barrier, and they discovered that they liked each other, and before long they were close friends. Close friends confide in each other, and they had done so, often after they turned out the lights, often late into the night, though they both had early classes.
Their first confession was just that fact, that at first they hadn’t known what to make of each other. “I just assumed you would be so different.”
“You did? Me too. I kept thinking like, ‘Evangelical, wow, that is like...’”
Kaylee replied, “Sometimes I feel like that myself,” and laughed.
There was a difference between them, though, one that weighed on her. It was only late at night in the dark, and not the first such conversation, that she confessed to one unbridgeable difference between them: “Between you and me, when it comes to guys, the urges and the opportunities might be the same, but the guilt is different.”
“Yeah, I wondered about that.”
“And when you’re wrestling with all that, having a roommate who’s free to, you know, do things—things ‘good girls’ in my world don’t do—well, that sure doesn’t help.”
After an awkward silence, Joanne said she didn’t know what to say.
“You don’t need to say anything. That’s just the way it is.”
Joanne asked sheepishly, “Do we still like each other?”
“Of course. Actually, there is something you could do.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t stop telling me!” At one o’clock in the morning that seemed hilarious. When the laughter died down, Kaylee said, “We both know you’re ahead of me. It’s helpful to, you know, hear things. Actually, I don’t know if it’s helpful. It’s just...”
“Second best?”
“Something like that,” snorted Kaylee, and they both cracked up again.
That was what had troubled her so much in the interrogation room.
The lieutenant had gotten her to confess that when she had awoken to find Joanne’s bed empty, she wasn’t especially concerned. She knew she’d be staying up late, either to celebrate or commiserate, and assumed she was sleeping it off somewhere.
“Somewhere? Could ‘somewhere’ include her boyfriend’s bedroom?”
She had shrugged. That would have been a first, but hey, it was election night.
She told him that they had met at the campaign office, which was close to campus, so a bunch of students volunteered there. She reported that Joanne had said he was nice. She didn’t report that later she had said he was very nice. Or that that was when they had started talking about sex.
She kept trying to explain to the lieutenant that Joanne’s boyfriend was a nice guy who really liked her, not a jilted lover, much less a homicidal maniac. But he kept asking questions that made her blush, that were downright disgusting, that angered her. So, despite her desire to help, there was no way she was going to talk about Joanne’s sex life to this guy.
* * *
“Not too much. Two drops means two drops.” Chip was oiling the recoil spring on one of his father’s handguns. Actually it was his favorite auto pistol, the one he kept with him for personal protection. Chip wiped it off and started over. Bob was relieved that he had merely nodded. He never knew when Chip might react in anger. “That’s good. Good work.”
He nodded as Chip cleaned the gun, putting solvent on the cloth instead of squirting it directly on the gun. He was relieved to see that he wasn’t cutting corners, or screwing up just to make him mad. “That’s good, Chip, real good.”
“I’m not going to oil the magazine, unless you want me to.”
“Nope, that’s good, just leave her.” He watched with growing satisfaction and relief as Chip put two cleaning patches through the barrel and inspected the chamber.
He picked up the oil again.
“That’s okay. I would have cleaned the gun first with solvent, before starting with the lube, but I’m not about to nitpick. So long as you’re doing a good job, which you are. You’re being really careful, I’m impressed.”
Chip put oil on a Q-tip and lubed the slide rails, then dabbed at a few shiny areas. “Down inside you can see where the barrel rides and locks up a little bit.”
“Yeah, but I like how you’re not over-oiling. Everybody over-oils. Then, when you shoot, it splatters your face and you look like a goofball.”
Chip didn’t respond.
“Good job, son, real good job. I like how you didn’t squirt a bunch of lube down in the action.”
“No, definitely don’t want to do that.”
“I agree, you definitely do not. Good job.” Suddenly, the gun cleaned, there was an awkward silence, as if each of them thought something should be said that wasn’t being said. “All right, reassemble the little lady.”
He watched as Chip checked the slider action, fired away from them, and popped the magazine in and out. Then that silence returned.
“Which one you want to do next?” asked Chip.
Bob shook his head to say it was up to Chip, then said, “So listen, do you think maybe we should talk about what’s going on, what do you think?”
“What’s going on?”
“Something’s going on, right? Church, school. Home... Mom says you’ve been talking to her in a way that maybe you know better.”
“She rides me sometimes, you know. I don’t like it when she rides me.”
“Maybe you need a little ‘riding.’” He said ‘riding,’ like it was Chip’s word, not his.
“Now you’re going to ride me, right? That’s what this is all about.”
Bob chose his words, nodding slightly as he did so, then pursed his lips. “In this family we look out for each other.”
Before he could continue, Chip blurted, “I don’t need looking out for. Maybe in this family someone should have the right to be left the hell alone.”
Bob caught his breath, heaved and replied quietly, “In this family we don’t swear. Can we just... talk?”
“Okay,” announced Chip, heading for the door, “fun’s over. It’s been great, dad. Thanks for the ambush.”
Bob hadn’t moved before Chip suddenly reappeared, and they briefly stared at each other before he asked, “Would you really shoot someone?”
“If I had to protect myself. Or my family.”
“What do you think it’s like to kill someone?”
Bob stared, trying again to choose his words, but unable to find them.
* * *
The particular clientele attracted to a certain trendy bar in DC was young affluent professionals on the make, especially those looking for some action after a long day—action, explained a regular to a newbie, that was temporary, heterosexual, and (presumably) hygienic. “...And I believe it’s time to fish, because these eyes have spotted a good catch at the bar. Time to bait the hook and cast the line.”
He leaned in close to shout his drink order at the bartender. When he got it, he didn’t withdraw. He dangled his line to see if the fish would take the bait.
She did. Her friend freed her seat so he could take her place. Jerking his line, he let her know he would soon make partner at a highly prestigious law-firm ‘in town,’ and that he was on the president’s legal team contesting the election. She was either really intrigued or knew how to fake it better than he did.
He said that, due to a brilliant and very aggressive legal strategy, combined with the president’s ability to frame the public debate, there was a very good chance they would win.
She didn’t respond. He was suddenly terrified. “Oh God, you’re not a Democrat, are you? Thank you for not throwing your drink in my face.”
“Your lucky day.”
He said that ‘we’ had quickly hired partners from many of the major law firms in the contested states. She shrugged. “Oh God, you’re not a lawyer, are you? Thank you for not looking bored.”
“I’ll let you live.”
He said that this prevented anyone else at those firms from representing the Democrats. She wasn’t as impressed as she should have been, so he explained. This not only denied expertise to the other side, because these would be the lawyers most knowledgeable about state law and practices, it also captured the firms likely to have the closest contacts with state power brokers.
She nodded.
He said that, ‘furthermore,’ it helped create the impression that ‘everyone’ sided with the president’s claim.
She raised her eyebrows.
He said that, ‘furthermore,’ it denied local facilities to the other side—office space, secretaries, phones, copiers—which they then had to waste time and money to create.
She smiled somewhat.
He said—the look on his face implied brilliance—that ‘we’ had placed ‘high-level insiders’ in the offices of the state officials responsible for the application of election law. The two who were Republican could be ‘advised on legal technicalities.’ The four who were Democrat could be ‘closely watched.’
He eased up and sipped his drink. Who could resist bait like that?
* * *
The luncheonette where Jillian worked served breakfast and lunch, so she was done by 3:30 or 4:00, which gave her a bit of free time before she had to get home to make supper. On this day she was at a local watering hole with Mary Beth, sipping on a club soda with lime and wishing there was something more in it. It was an ‘emergency meeting,’ triggered by that phone call she had gotten. The place was nearly empty. They were in a corner booth.
“You know I married right out of high school.” She did know. Jillian had told her more than once—a lot more. “Before I knew it, Kaylee came along. We thought we were ready, but we were so young. I look at the pictures now...” Mary Beth, a very good listener, knew how to keep nodding. This was their relationship: Jillian confessed and complained, she consoled and commiserated. “Let’s face it, we were practically kids. We had to grow up together, in the marriage.”
“Which could not have been easy.”
“Right, it was no piece of cake. We had money problems right from the get-go.”
Jillian tended to not ask about Mary Beth’s life, and Mary Beth tended to not talk about it.
“And Bob’s away so much.” Jillian’s face took a turn for the worse. “And now I just feel so... middle-aged.”
“Well, that’s just silly. Have you looked in the mirror? You’ve still got your figure... I wish I looked like you do.”
“What are you saying? You look lovely.”
“Men don’t look at me. But they look at you.”
“They do not.”
“Trust me, hon. They do.”
Jillian fell silent and Mary Beth nodded for emphasis.
“I just get overwhelmed sometimes. You know?”
“Well, look at how much you’ve got on your plate. No sooner do you get Kaylee through high school, without getting herself in trouble, than Chip decides to... do whatever he’s doing. And you’re pretty much holding down the fort by yourself. And now this election business seems to have given you a case of the blues...”
“I’ll be honest, Mary Beth, he’s shaking my faith. Not Bob. But me for sure.”
“We’re all trying to figure it out.”
“Well that sort of explains it, I guess.”
“Explains what?”
That was when she told Mary Beth about Richard’s phone call.
“Remember that ministries retreat a while back? I went there to surrender to Christ. Bob said, ‘Go, Jillian, you deserve a break. I’ll figure out the money, you go have a good time.’ The trouble is I wanted so bad to have a good time...”
“What does that mean?” She could tell that some kind of bomb was about to explode.
“I met a man there.” Mary Beth held her breath and tried to look as calm as before. “It just happened, you know?” For once, Mary Beth didn’t know whether to wait till Jillian spilled the beans or prod her a little bit. When nothing happened, she tried the latter.
Jillian looked like she was getting ready to tell the story when this came out: “It’s just... I’m so worried about Chip, leaving the church, acting out. And now this election seems to have struck him right between the eyes. Kaylee too, obviously.” She paused, Mary Beth waited. “I know Bob has to travel for work, I know that. It’s not fair to blame him, he’s doing it for us, right? I know he wishes he could be home more. But still, there’s this tension. We can’t seem to get rid of it.”
Mary Beth couldn’t help herself: “But what happened at the retreat?”
“Oh...” She looked at her watch. She looked at Mary Beth and sighed, glanced quickly around the bar, but didn’t say anything. “A story for another time. I’ve really got to go.”
They stared at each other.
* * *
After the captain announced that they were descending for Indianapolis International Airport and requested that all passengers put up their tray tables and stow any loose items, Connor and the guy next to him stopped conversing. It hadn’t been much, the usual, ‘business or pleasure, what kind of work do you do, I have a friend whose cousin’s neighbor...’ When the warning lights went off and everyone undid their seat-belts, Connor said, “You have a nice day, you hear?” and the guy nodded, and they returned to being total strangers.
It was a short walk to the car rental.
“Welcome to Indianapolis. Your name, please?”
“Avery Hissom, H, I, S, S, O, M.”
“And your address.”
“Three-one-five Archer Lane, Sacramento California.”
He gave her his drivers license and credit card with a casual smile. “This will only take a moment,” she said, and in that moment asked, “First time in Indianapolis?”
“First time in Indiana.”
“Really.” She seemed genuinely surprised. “Well, enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you kindly. Seems like a nice place. Awfully flat, compared to what I’m used to.”
“Where you from? Oh, of course, California. I guess it’s pretty hilly there.”
“That it is. Downright mountainous in places.”
She nodded. Then the printer started spitting out a pile of forms for him to sign.
Episode 4
“Do you believe it?” shouted Bob. “And they have the nerve to claim it don’t make any difference! How do we know they didn’t make this little, quote, ‘tabulation error,’ in a hundred other precincts—or a thousand? Man oh man.”
“I hear you,” said Eric.
“Tabulation error, my foot! If that district was really won by us, then who’s to say we didn’t win the whole state? And the other states where we know fraud was committed.”
Eric was nodding. “Take a breath, Bob. Better yet, let’s get one more and call it a night. I don’t know about you, but some of us have to work in the morning.”
“Very funny.” Bob made a ‘V’ at the bartender, indicating their glasses, and waited for fresh ones to arrive before he said, “Come on, tell me this doesn’t tee you off.”
“Of course it does.” Eric shrugged in disgust. “It proves the president’s right about fraud. I mean what else do you call it when the Democrats claim a win that turns out went Republican? Honest mistake? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Did you hear What’s-his-name from the House? I forget his name, you know who I mean. He’s calling for a whole new election. And I think he’s right. No more Mister Nice Guy. Only six states, my ass. Let’s do this thing right and find out who really won. Otherwise... What?”
Eric was smiling. “I know who you mean. From upstate New York? The one who said, ‘This thing is rigged, it’s a joke on our democracy?’”
“That’s the one. I love that guy.” They concentrated on their beers. It really was getting late, at least for them. “Look at these people, like the night is young. Tomorrow’s a workday, ain’t it? Man, wouldn’t it be great to sleep in and get to the office at 8:30?”
“And push paper all day? And breathe canned air? And report to some you-know-what who doesn’t know one end from the other?”
“I hear you, partner. I was just...”
“Sure. Cushy job, who wouldn’t? Look, this government makes it harder than you know what to be in business for yourself, but I’ll still take it any day.”
Now Bob was nodding. “Let’s drink up and get some sleep.” He was suddenly feeling it.
They lowered their beer levels. “You know,” said Eric, “I wouldn’t mind going down there. I heard all kinds of people have gone to these places to make sure they do the recounts right. That’s how they turned this so-called error up.” He chuckled. “They’re banging on windows—cause, you know, these officials lock themselves in a room. ‘Stop the fraud, stop the fraud,’ bang bang bang. Man, I’d love to go down.”
Bob nodded. “I heard they’ve got housing arranged, transportation... If only we were as good before the election as after.”
“We?”
“Us. The Republicans.”
Eric nodded. “You know they brought in SWAT teams. No kidding, on the news. To ‘escort’ officials. How’s that for democracy, when people can’t even talk to their own officials?”
“Yeah, I saw that. Come on, I’m not a youngster like you.”
“All right, old man, give me one second.” Eric gulped down the rest of his beer. As they headed for their pick-ups, he said, “See you dark and early.”
* * *
The alarm went off on Bob’s side of the bed. When Jillian stretched to wake herself up, he said, “Sleep, you had a rough night. I can fix my own breakfast.”
She settled back, but then stretched again. “It’s okay. Once I’m up, I’m up.” On her way downstairs, she called into Chip’s room, “Good morning, Chip. School day.”
They were well into breakfast before he appeared. Without a word he filled a plate for himself and sat down. “Good morning to you too,” said Jillian. Chip nodded and Jillian threw Bob a look.
“So, Chip, what’s on for today?”
“What’s on for today? Well, I’m going to go to school like a good little boy, and I’m going to learn lots of interesting and useful things.”
“Can’t do much without a high school diploma, son. Besides, you’re way too smart to...” His voice trailed off and Chip didn’t reply. He avoided Jillian’s look.
* * *
Dirk screeched to a halt in front of the gun shop and lurched backwards into a vacant spot. Inside they gravitated to the wall of semi-automatic rifles behind the main counter. “Morning, gentlemen,” said the proprietor. The boys stared at the rifles.
“Dude,” said Dirk, nodding.
“You got the Rock River 1410?” asked Chip.
“That we do. Know something about it, do you?”
“Thirty in the clip, 223 Remington caliber, 16-inch barrel...”
“What’d you do, memorize that on your way here?”
“Ask me about any gun on that wall.”
The man stared at him. “All right. How about that one there?”
“Which one?” The man touched it. “The Smith and Wesson 308? Well, of course it’s 308 caliber, that’s seven sixty-two NATO, slightly longer barrel, 18 inches, but it’s 10 shots. I prefer a larger clip. Plus—I mean it’s a good piece, don’t get me wrong—but it’s, what, 400 bucks more?”
“About that, yeah.”
“Want to ask me another one, or do I get to look at your guns?”
“No need to take it like that. We get all kinds in here.”
“Come on,” said Chip to Dirk, and they moved away to look at a case of handguns.
Another customer had entered the store right after them and was inspecting a rack of gun accessories. “Anything I can help you with, mister,” called the proprietor, “just holler, okay?” The man raised a finger in acknowledgment.
Dirk said, “Shit, you know your guns, little man.”
“Don’t call me ‘little man.’ I told you I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, but I like it.” He softened. “Would you like me to call you ‘Big Dick?’”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Chip with a smile, poking him.
“Hey, how about ‘Pussy Hunter?’”
“How about I call you ‘Dirkwad?’”
They tussled in fun, but slammed against the counter. “Easy there, fellas. There’s no rough stuff in here, got it?” When neither replied, he added, “Shouldn’t you two be in school?”
“College is over for the day,” said Dirk.
“You both in college?”
“Yeah. I’m a Phys. Ed. major, he’s majoring in Communications. That’s why he’s such a great communicator.”
“Shut up,” said Chip, poking him. He returned to the counter. “Can I try that Smith and Wesson?”
“Thought you said you didn’t like it.”
“Can I try it?”
“Maybe you should show a little respect,” said the customer.
Chip turned with his ‘scorn’ face, but it quickly fell away when he saw how the man was looking at him. “Sorry,” he said.
“Not me. Him.”
Chip turned to the proprietor and silently apologized.
“Look at me,” said the customer. Reflexively, Chip turned back and submitted to his harsh stare. “Guns ain’t toys. You treat them like they are, you’re going to hurt somebody, probably yourself. Whoever taught you what you know should have taught you that.”
“He did. It’s my dad. He did... sir.”
“All right then. Act like you’ve been taught to act. We good?”
“Yes, sir.”
The customer nodded and went back to browsing. Chip sheepishly turned back to the proprietor. “You think I could look at it now?”
The man hesitated, but took it off the wall and handed it to him. Chip immediately checked it to let him know he knew how to handle an assault rifle, then he aimed and pulled the trigger. “She’s kind of sweet. Fifteen hundred bucks, though. Wish I had that kind of money.”
“Well, since you don’t,” said the man, removing the gun from his hands, “why don’t we put her back.”
“How about the Rock River?”
“You got eleven hundred bucks?”
“Don’t you worry about it, okay?”
“All right, I won’t. But I’ll need to see ID.” He didn’t deliver the weapon and Chip didn’t show any identification. Instead he returned to the pistols. He was out of sight of the proprietor, except that the man was watching him in the overhead mirror.
Chip identified a number of pistols and told Dirk about their specifications.
“So which one do we want to take home?” he asked finally, with a touch of frustration or boredom.
“Depends on the job, obviously.”
“Okay, say we want to rob a bank.”
“Well,” said Chip, “that depends on whether we rob a bank like the bullshit stuff they put in movies or in real life. In real life, I’d rob a bank without any weapon at all. Just make them think you’re carrying.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Good luck with doing 15 to 25 for armed robbery. Without a weapon, it’s not armed robbery, is it?”
“You know, you’re pretty smart for a stupid shit. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
A few seconds behind them, the other customer left and turned in the opposite direction. Hearing the door, the proprietor called out, “Thanks for stopping by,” but he was already gone.
When Dirk pulled out, he pulled out.
He called Tim and told him he had made contact and that he was going to set up a meeting.
“Then he checks out.”
“Yeah. In some ways he’s better than Dirk. Dirk’s the leader, though, so we need them both. But Dirk’s really green, and Chip’s... He’s a wise-ass, but there’s no question the kid’s good with guns. AR’s, pistols... He thinks, too, he’s got a brain, you know? I’m not sure Dirk’s got a brain. The only real problem is he’s under-age.”
“Which one?”
“Well, both of them. Chip for sure. Dirk most likely. He’s definitely still in high school.”
“Sure they can handle this thing?”
“Chip can. I like his online posts too. We’ll see about Dirk. But, like I say, for now we need him.”
* * *
Some 75 million followers read this tweet from the president: “3-5 Million voted illegally in droves! Proven fact! Dead people voted! Now we know why cheating so-called president-elect falsely claims victory. I won! Courts siding with us, throwing out phony Dem cases. Victory at hand. We will take our country back BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!”
When a journalist read this to Joanne’s father, Greg Maybridge, he contained his rage to say, “This kind of inflammatory nonsense is contributing to the toxic atmosphere that has settled over our country. It is precisely the kind of incendiary language that encouraged some deranged person—or group—to murder my daughter.”
He had gone to the local CNN affiliate station to go on camera. When he got home he found Ellen subdued. “I know,” he said, trying to suppress frustration, “you’re not happy with what I’m doing.”
“This is our private grief, Greg. Do we have to grieve in front of the whole country?”
“It’s my way. It’s how I honor our daughter’s passing. That she didn’t die for nothing.”
“But what about me? It’s not just you. I’m dragged into it.”
He sighed heavily. “Okay, if you want me to stop...”
They stared at each other silently, then she said quietly, “I don’t know how you do it. Just the thought of facing those cameras again...”
“You think I enjoy it? It takes a piece out of me too, Ellen. But I have to do something... for our baby. We can’t let this just...”
Later he told her that he had called the lieutenant again and was still getting the same answers—or non-answers.
* * *
Jillian picked up Kaylee at the bus station late Friday afternoon, and they hugged and asked each other how they were doing. “I’m fine,” lied Jillian. So did Kaylee.
They made small talk on the way home.
“Help me with supper?” They worked side by side. Jillian had the TV on, but ignored it. Kaylee talked about school. “Did you ever go the Health Center?”
“No. But I’m spending more time with this group called Christian Student Alliance. It’s good. It’s... helping.” Jillian looked at her, but there was nothing to see. She said it was a good bunch of people. She had not sat with a counselor—she chuckled nervously when she said it—but was participating in more activities. “What about you, mom?”
“What about me?”
“I don’t know, you seem kind of...”
“I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t you worry about me.”
Kaylee looked at her, but there was nothing to see.
* * *
Bob and Jillian both worked on Saturdays and Chip didn’t appear till lunch. Kaylee and he made chitchat while it lasted, but he quickly left for parts unknown. She went to her room to do schoolwork, but couldn’t concentrate and walked aimlessly around the house. She stood in the doorway of his room, staring at the mess, then went to his computer. It was open and she tapped a key to restore the screen.
Staring at her was a website so extreme that at first she thought it was a joke. It wasn’t. At least, if it was, somebody had done a great job of faking the most offensive, frightening hatred she had ever seen—and, in that case, it didn’t make any difference.
She clicked on the other tabs. More of the same. She clicked on the links in his search history. More of the same.
She was still sitting at his computer in front of a dark screen, lost in thought—troubled, unfocused—when she heard him come through the front door downstairs. She left his room hurriedly, hoping he wouldn’t remember which tab had been open, and tiptoed into her own room. “That you, Chip?”
“If it’s not,” he called, “you better call the cops.”
She went downstairs and said, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. What’s up, you look weird.”
“Can’t study is all.”
“Ditch it, it’s all a waste anyway.”
“Let’s not start, okay, Chip?” Surprisingly, he nodded. “You’re still my brother, you know.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not sure what it means. I guess it means that... Don’t disappear on me, okay? We’re all going through stuff right now. The whole country’s going through stuff. I just...”
“You need to chill, sis. Is it, you know, because of your roommate?” First she hesitated, then shrugged, then nodded. “I get that.” After an awkward silence he said he was just back to get some stuff and was leaving again.
“Back for supper?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Be nice to have a family dinner. You know?” He nodded—or was it a shrug? “Be nice if we could all go to church together tomorrow, too.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Think about it, okay?”
“Okay, I will. I just did. The answer is ‘forget it.’”
She returned to the edge of her bed and stared into space. She heard the front door close. She couldn’t understand how he could be so sloppy as to leave everything on his computer, right out in the open. She called her boyfriend, told him she was home for the weekend, asked him what he was doing, then got to the point. “Denny, I need to ask you something. About Chip.” She described what she’d found and asked, “Why would he just leave all that where anyone can see it?”
“Because he forgot to delete it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You think he left it there on purpose?”
She shook her head in dismay. “Yeah. I think he did. And I think I knew that. I think I’ve been sitting here hoping...”
“Does it matter? Either way he’s looking at this stuff.”
“No, this is worse. It means he doesn’t care if we find out. Oh, golly.”
“What?”
“It might mean he wants us to find out. He’s doing it on purpose. He left that awful website right on his screen.” Denny didn’t say anything. She asked if this could just be some 16-year-old thing.
“Well, it’s not anything I did, we both know that, right? I don’t know anyone...”
“We didn’t know everyone in high school. Maybe...”
“Maybe,” he agreed. But he wasn’t really agreeing.
* * *
When Jillian and Mary Beth had gotten off the bus at the evangelical retreat center, they were both excited and nervous. It was the first time for both of them. But everyone was all smiles, with a lot of chatter and camaraderie, and the staff could not have been friendlier or more helpful. After checking into their room, they went to the dining room for supper. In all there were several hundred people there, from a number of area churches. Everyone had a name tag displaying their first name in large letters and strangers casually introduced themselves.
During the meal it was announced that the number in front of each person assigned them to their ‘exploration’ group for the weekend. In the flurry that followed immediately, everyone learned that everyone at their table had received a different number. Mary Beth turned to Jillian with a big smile to say goodbye for the weekend.
“Well, we’re still roommates,” replied Jillian, secretly a bit anxious.
At the first meeting of her group, she introduced herself when her turn came, said this was her first retreat, and—more haltingly—indicated why she had come. Then the group leader expertly introduced the work of the session. Step one was to ask each participant to come forward to say what they hoped to take home.
When the session ended, one of the other participants told Jillian he’d been moved by her ‘testimony.’
“Thank you.”
“What was it you said? ‘Learning how to yield to the power of the Holy Spirit in my heart.’ I really like that.”
“Thank you,” she repeated.
They naturally walked together back to the dining room, now set up for the evening ‘social.’ And even as people linked up with friends from home assigned to other groups, it seemed natural for this man to stay with Jillian.
He was friendly and personable and relaxed. Totally non-threatening. Not for a split second did she look at him or think of him in ‘that way.’ Later in bed, though, he occupied her thoughts.
Starting with breakfast, the tables were marked with group numbers. Naturally, then, Richard sat beside Jillian. He was a good listener and laughed easily. She was completely comfortable with him, he even got her to laugh. He raised no alarm bells.
During the morning session, he said, “The Lord will do amazing things, in your heart, in your soul.”
Afterwards they walked around the spacious grounds together, and never stopped talking all through lunch. He confessed that he was struggling to heal a marriage that had become loveless, and she confessed that hers had become tense. “My son has become a problem. Bad case of being sixteen.”
“How can you have a sixteen year old? You’re not old enough.”
She smiled appreciatively.
Mary Beth was sitting a few tables away, and every so often she would watch the two of them. She saw that smile.
In the next session, Jillian said, “In terms of spiritual healing, what God desires is to be in a healing relationship with us, of course ultimately leading us to heaven. So when we have blockages to fulfilling that fullness of life that Jesus desires for us, then we’re in need of healing.”
Richard said, “When I first got here, I had all kinds of wounds. I didn’t realize how much that was affecting my relationship with Christ and my relationship with others as well. I’m reminded of how much He wants me to open up my heart to Him and give Him my whole being.”
Afterward, Richard told Jillian, “I know how inappropriate this is, but we are here to confess, and I have to confess that I have feelings for you.”
“What kind of feelings?”
“Jillian, I think you know what kind of feelings.”
At supper he reached under the table to squeeze her hand.
At the evening session, she was talking about how the retreat was helping her to acknowledge areas where she needed to grow and needed to be healed, when she started weeping. Afterward she told Richard that she needed to ‘freshen up’ in her room and would meet him at the ‘social.’
He said he needed to freshen up too, so they got on the elevator together. She pressed ‘2,’ he pressed ‘3.’ When the door opened for the second floor, she didn’t move a muscle. The door closed. When it opened for the third floor, Richard got out and she did too. He walked down the hall to his room and entered, leaving it slightly ajar. Moments later she entered and locked it.
The next morning was church service for everyone. Jillian and Richard were tormented.
At lunch she wanted to sit apart from him, but could not resist the need in his gaze, as he could not resist the need in hers.
Later, calmer, she said, “No one talks about the president. Since when do we endorse people who talk and act like him? I am so confused by this. It’s challenging my faith.”
“Have you sought counsel about it?”
“I’m afraid to say anything. Especially now, during the campaign. I mean, this whole weekend, 250 people, supposedly confessing their deepest feelings. Not a peep. Is everyone 100% committed to him, no matter what?”
During the drive home, she tried desperately not to seem miserable.
* * *
What Ellen and Greg Maybridge wanted more than anything for Joanne’s memorial service was a quiet, intimate gathering where they could mourn in some semblance of peace. That wasn’t what they got. A single deacon at the church door was sufficient to keep the media outside, but not even an infantry battalion could have kept them away from the cemetery. The high metal fence, it was discovered, extended only along the road. In the back, at the thick woods, there was nothing, so it was a simple matter to carry in equipment.
Not that they became intrusive. No, they remained at a discreet distance, but with zoom lenses it made no difference. They could show the world the tears streaming down Ellen’s face and the empty heaves of Greg’s chest.
Police were also there. Not a large number, just a couple from the lieutenant’s squad, to look for the murderer.
“Seriously, lieutenant? That’s four hours, there and back. You really think the shooter will show up?”
“Until we have a motive, we can’t rule out a nutcase. If he killed for pleasure, he might like to watch her parents’ grief.”
So there were two of them, a man and a woman, in plain clothes, but it was pretty obvious they weren’t friends or family. Friends and family didn’t scan faces and surroundings like they did.
And there were politicians who had been told—though they already knew—that if they were not there, it would look terrible. “Think of the optics, governor, senator, sir, madam, if you were not there. Why hand the other side an opportunity?” So they came, from both parties, surrounded by their handlers and flunkies. And because the media was there, it would have been rude not to make brief statements of sympathy for the family.
Ellen and Greg avoided these distractions with determination, as did most of the hundreds of mourners who had joined them. They also refused to acknowledge the hecklers, who tried to disrupt the occasion. The private security detail, hired for the occasion, called the local police right away, and they were escorted off the grounds. Even from the road, though, their epithets and denunciations could be clearly heard.
Among the mourners were dozens of Joanne’s friends, including fellow students (Kaylee among them) and co-workers from the campaign office, the latter identified by campaign buttons they wore in recognition of her contribution.
Because groups at such events tend to pay no attention to anyone outside their groups, and also because of everyone’s determination to pay no attention to the distractions, no one paid attention to the one person who wasn’t part of any group. There was no particular reason they would have. He was dressed like everyone else and looked like everyone else. But he wasn’t really like anyone else, because he was Joanne’s killer.
Episode 5
“Twelve days after the election, the president addresses the nation this evening from the Oval Office.”
Reading from a teleprompter with his ‘presidential’ voice, he charged that the election had been marred by ‘gross irregularities and frauds,’ and claimed that ‘a foreign power sympathetic to the Democrats’ may have conspired to affect the election. Here he clearly left the teleprompter to add that many people believed this was exactly what happened. “Top experts are telling me this. Smart people. Good people.”
Returning to the teleprompter, he itemized the various defects and frauds, without distinguishing between them. This way, even a slight, inadvertent defect became evidence of massive fraud. He began with the design of certain ballots.
He said there were numerous, widespread problems with polling stations. With defective voting machines. With biased monitors. With unexplained delays. With false information about locations and hours. With unexplained delays in processing. With unwarranted contesting of ‘certain voters’—Republican voters’ credentials.’ With improper use of provisional ballots. With the rejection of valid absentee votes.
He said there were vote tabulation errors.
He said there had been vote tampering by ‘certain partisan’ county and state Boards of Election.
He claimed massive voter registration fraud, and demanded that all voting records be immediately turned over to the Justice Department.
He said there might have been hacking into computer systems in favor of the ‘Democrat nominee.’ He said his Attorney General would open an investigation.
He said that, while a lot of Democratic votes were fraudulent, a lot of Republican votes were not counted. He said his Attorney General would be looking into that too.
He said, “There are lots more ways the vote was rigged,” so many he couldn’t even list them all.
Here he paused briefly, then slowly read the following in his most presidential voice: “Two hundred years from now, when future Americans study this presidential election, let them learn that Americans did everything they could to ensure that all citizens who voted had their votes counted. Let them learn that democracy was ultimately placed ahead of partisan politics in resolving a contested election. Let them learn that we were indeed a country of laws.”
Returning to his more typical manner, he claimed that he was ‘winning in the courts.’ He repeated his claim of foreign interference. Then he declared himself the winner and demanded that the ‘Democrat nominee’ concede the election.
“Since the results clearly show that I won—me, I won—it’s time for the Democrats to stop all the political wrangling and drop the legal challenges.” He demanded this ‘for the sake of the country.’
That might have been the end, but it wasn’t. Leaving the teleprompter again, he praised the patriotism of ‘ordinary people’ from all over the country, who were ‘flooding in droves’ into the various ‘crime zones’ to defend ‘our precious democracy.’ Despite his claim of victory, he said, “This might not be over yet, folks.” He said, “Dedicated Americans should swamp the crime zones and make your voices heard.”
Then he took a breath and piously uttered, “Thank you, and God bless America.”
Other Republicans quickly weighed in. A governor who had gone to watch the recount told an interviewer, “Enough is enough. We’ve had a count, a recount, a recount of the recount. The president has won all three. I think it’s time for him to be recognized by the Democrat nominee as our president-elect.”
A Republican Senator said on Fox News, “It’s time for the Democrat nominee to end his campaign and concede this election with the honor and dignity the American people expect.”
Another Republican governor hastily convened a Monday morning press conference to support the president. “Last night we learned how far the Democrats will go to defeat this president. And I am very sorry to say it, but the Democrat nominee’s lawyers have gone to war, in my judgment, against the men and women who serve in our armed forces. I refer to the exclusion of overseas ballots just because they were not witnessed or postmarked by election day. This is no time to rely on meaningless technicalities.”
After hearing the president, a middle-aged man from the Midwest hastily packed a bag and drove all night to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where he joined protesters in front of the state capitol. Attracting a television crew, he appeared on screens across the country, saying, “I had to be with people that are on the front lines of preventing this election from being stolen. Everyone knows we won now. The Democrat nominee’s unemployed. He’s going to have to get a job!”
The sign he had scrawled before leaving home and proudly held aloft read, “God bless our president!”
* * *
Bob was driving. Anyone could see he felt good, felt good to feel good. He told Eric there were three ways to feel when a storm came, and he had felt them all.
“Three ways?”
“Sometimes I’m bummed out about living away from home, cheap motels, eating in diners and truck stops.” Eric nodded hesitantly. “Sometimes I’m like, hey, this is my job and I’m good at it, darn good, and the pay is even better.”
“There you go.”
“Sometimes, I don’t know, I’m almost excited to get back on the road. There’s a camaraderie of the road, you know? We share the danger. We don’t even see it as danger, it’s what we do.”
“How about relief? After a dry spell, putting some money in the bank account.”
Bob nodded vigorously. “We aren’t exactly scraping bottom, but I could see it coming.”
“I hear you, brother.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“I hear you, brother,” repeated Eric with a laugh. “I generally let you do the summing up for both of us.”
“That’s me,” replied Bob with his own chuckle, “I guess I’m just a summing-up kind of guy.” He could feel it already. He was meeting it.
Jillian had said, “I still can’t believe you can just sit and watch this stuff. After how many years of marriage?”
“What can I tell you, it’s how the bread gets buttered, Jill.”
“No, it’s more than that. You should look in the mirror.”
“I didn’t have to,” he told Eric. “We both knew I’ve been frustrated. Not just the money. This you-know-what election. I mean, tell me you’re not mad as...”
“I mean,” continued Jillian, “you’re sitting quietly with a beer when the TV’s blaring about 140 mile-an-hour winds throwing pick-up trucks around like trash-paper, storm surges flooding some city, rescue crews stretched to the limit...”
He’d shrugged.
“Everyone else is scared white about how long it’s going to take to rebuild, to get back to work, to find their dog...”
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s it right there. That’s the part that’s not just the money.”
“You’re a good man, Robert.”
He shook his head. “I’m a danger freak is what I am.”
“No. You just said it. You like to help people.”
He shrugged. “Also, by the time it’s on TV, I’ve been following it online. That’s the work part. This is relaxation.”
He had a daily routine at the computer after work, starting with the National Weather Service and then clicking through a series of websites, to check for storm warnings, extreme weather events, emergency announcements... In the winter it was mainly ice storms and monster snow storms, events that brought down trees. Eric did it too, in case he missed something.
This time it was an ice storm in New Jersey. Not a monster storm, but there would be work for two guys if they got there quickly. When he finished his beer, he went upstairs to pack. Of course he was mostly packed already. It was more a question of working through his checklist to make sure he had everything.
“New Jersey’s not so bad. 800 miles. We’ve done twice that. Leave early, we’ll be there in time for a decent night’s sleep, so we can hit it the next morning. What?”
“Nothing,” said Jillian, who was watching him get ready.
“Seems like something.”
“Nothing. It’s just... It seems a long way to go for a couple of days’ work.”
“Could be more. You really don’t know till you get there.”
“Still.”
“Come on. What’s on your mind?”
She shrugged. “Do you have to go?”
“Now where is this coming from?” Again she shrugged. “Hey, Jill, this is what I do, remember? It’s how we put Kaylee through college. It’s how we put Chip through, if he goes to college.” He stared at her blank expression. “I don’t get to pick, I go where the storms are. Where haven’t I gone? And when something hits, I go. There’s no advance notice. And you know it’s not about how far away it is, it’s about how bad it is, because the more damage the more work. But you know all this. So what...?”
She forced a smile. “Of course.” She shook her head as if to shake off some annoying bug. “So, got your toothbrush?” He smiled, nodded. “Cell phone?” Nodded. “Condoms?”
“Very funny.”
“Spare ammo?”
“You know me better than that. Spare ammo, spare gun...” He made a face, as if suddenly he was defending his right to bear arms. “Indiana’s an ‘open carry’ state. When I travel, I can’t worry about what local law says, I have a God-given right to protect myself. Especially when I go places where law enforcement is on its back heels from a disaster.” His manner changed, and he shrugged. “You think I don’t wish I didn’t have to be away so much? I know what you’re dealing with here.”
“We’ll be fine, don’t you worry. I don’t want you distracted up in a tree...”
He looked at her closely. “Is there something we need to talk about? Because if you have any doubts...”
“Of course I don’t. Bad joke, that’s all.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
He paused and seemed to sag. “I know I haven’t been as... I haven’t been as attentive as I should be. I’m going to try to do better when I get back.” When she started to reply, he continued, “And I know it’s up to me to deal with Chip. But we both know it’s not just Chip. I need to do better, I know that.”
Jillian started to cry.
* * *
Usually when Chip and Dirk drove somewhere, rap music was blasting away and they were jabbering inanities or bragging about what they’d like to do to every girl they passed. They had started that way, but not for long. “Is this where it is?”
“I’m not sure. Go there.”
Dirk was driving slowly, looking around. “Arriving at destination,” said the robotic voice of the GPS navigator, but where they were was a warren of alleys in the part of Terre Haute that featured junkyards and broken-down warehouses.
“Think I should honk?”
“No, stupid. Just... Try there.”
They were inching down a long alley between buildings when a guy stepped out from an inset doorway and blocked the way. Dirk hit the brake like he’d been careening down a highway. “What should we do?”
“Maybe you should turn off the fucking engine?” They waited, but the man just stood there. Chip got out, followed by Dirk. Again they waited. Eventually, when no instruction was given, they approached slowly.
“Which one of you assholes is Dirk?” barked the man suddenly, and they froze as if on command. Gingerly, Dirk raised a finger. “That makes you Chip?” Chip nodded. “What’s that? Couldn’t hear you.”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
The man continued to stare at both of them, like he was adding them up. He approached, as if to get a closer look, and neither dared move. The man was both impressive and ordinary. He looked tough, like he’d been in the military, like he knew how to fight, like he didn’t take shit. Like no one his enemies would want to meet, but a great guy with his buddies. He was also a guy who liked to look good: His clothes were clean and crisp, as if they were brand-new, his hair nicely cut, his shoes polished to a shine, but nothing up-scale. The kind of guy who was handy with the ladies. “All right, shit-heads,” he said, “listen up and listen up good, or I’ll kick your asses out of here so far, it’ll take a week to find them.”
But then, instead of talking, he barked questions at them. He approached Dirk until Dirk was hard pressed not to step back, and asked why he was here.
“Why am I here?” ventured Dirk.
“I asked you a question, son!” It wasn’t loud, yet it threatened like thunder.
Dirk cleared his throat and said, “I’m here because I’m sick of all the bullshit.”
“You?” he snapped at Chip, without shifting his stare at Dirk.
“I’m here to fight for freedom, sir,” said Chip. He faced straight ahead, not looking at anyone.
Slowly the man moved until he was confronting him as he had Dirk, with a look to suggest that what Chip had said was the stupidest drivel he had ever heard. “What do you know about freedom, little shit?”
“I know that the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots—sir.”
“Who said that?”
“Thomas Jefferson, sir.”
“You ready to bleed for freedom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You?” he barked.
“Yes, sir!” snapped Dirk.
The man returned to press in front of him. “Are you ready to spill others’ blood for freedom?”
“Yes, sir!” he said again.
“Don’t bullshit me, little shit. You think this is some fucking game? I asked you, are you ready to kill a man for your country? Don’t look down!” Dirk snapped his eyes back to meet the man’s gaze. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir, I am.” He held his eyes steady. “I am a patriot, and I will give my life for my country.”
“Will you kill for your country?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chip.
The man stepped back, and after another long stare at the two boys, he told them they were about to become part of a group of patriots who were going to take back their country from mongrels and faggots. “You were chosen. Not everyone was. You are about to be asked to take a step forward. You do not have to take that step. It’s not too late to run home to your mommies. But if you take that step, know this: We know all about you. Not just where you live, but how you jerk off and when you shit. We have no patience for cowards, or for those who hesitate or change their mind. Once you step forward, there is no stepping back. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will not take that step to impress girls, or to show the jocks. That is because you will not breathe a word of any of this to anyone. If you do, you will be terminated. Please do not ask me what ‘terminated’ means. You will take that step for one reason and one reason only: to strike a blow for freedom. Any questions?” Both boys had lots of questions, but were afraid to speak. “I repeat: Are there any questions? No? All right. You will now either take a step forward or turn around and haul your asses out of here, no hard feelings, no questions asked.”
Both boys wanted desperately to look at each other, but were afraid. Chip stepped forward and then Dirk.
“Congratulations, gentlemen, in a little while you are going to be national heroes.” He stepped forward to shake their hands, and gave each a big friendly smile.
He then gave them some operational details. One, they must assume that they are under surveillance every waking moment. “You will be. If not by the government, then by us.” Two, they would be given instructions from time to time through the same channel that had gotten them to this point. Three, they were never to send a communication except in an emergency. They were given the code word to use for ‘emergency.’ Four, they would soon be furnished with weapons. Five, they were to follow all instructions to the letter. “To the letter, do not mistake me, gentlemen. You’re with the big boys now. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smiling again, he chatted with them for a while and said, “All right, get the hell out of here. Try not to act like fucking idiots, and make your country proud.”
They tried to return to the jeep with a military gait and climb in without grinning. Only when they were around the corner did they let go.
At the same time, Connor emerged from the covert entryway.
“How’d I do?” asked the man. In reply, he counted out money. “I thank you kindly, good sir. And you don’t have to tell me that if there’s a leak that gets traced to me, there’ll be two in the head. Now, unless there’s something else, I’ll bid you ‘good day’ and be on my way.”
“There is something else. You were pretty good back there. You look good, now we’ve got you cleaned up and into some new clothes. Why not take the opportunity? A guy like you doesn’t belong on the street. You’ve served your country.”
“Indeed I have. But has my country served me?”
“That’s what we’re going to fix.”
“And I wish you Godspeed. But my killing days are over.”
* * *
Everyone in the campaign office where Joanne was volunteering stayed after the result was announced, despite exhaustion, to celebrate a victory that seemed personal. So it was far later than she was used to leaving for her dorm when she set out, first in a group, but eventually alone. It felt a little weird, but the elation of victory, the joy of celebrating were dominant—until they weren’t. There came a time when she believed that someone might be following her. It didn’t take long for the thought that it might be so to turn into near certainty that it was.
Terrified, she increased her pace and then started running.
When she had to stop, gasping for breath, then breathing more quietly, she listened for the sounds of footsteps behind her, listened and heard nothing. Relieved, but not really relaxed, she started walking again, quickly. When she turned a corner, a man confronted her, and before she had time to react, he shot her in the face.
* * *
The president’s address to the nation was a political bomb that exploded all over the country. The rally he held the very next day in Orlando, Florida was massively picketed. The day after that, the Democrats demonstrated in all six contested states, and wherever they demonstrated, there were large numbers of counter-demonstrators. Each side vilified the other for trying to steal the election, with signage, with public statements, and at the peripheries of many gatherings, with direct confrontations that began with verbal assaults and escalated in the predictable way.
* * *
Jillian stared at Chip’s room from the doorway, shaking her head at the mess. Then she went into her bedroom, to the closet, where Bob stored the guns and extra ammunition. They were in two safes, one for each, but only the second was locked. The one with loaded guns he insisted on keeping unlocked. “Lose precious seconds, just when some doped-up wacko with a gun is coming up the stairs?”
She sat on the bed and stared at it. Bob had taken his two pistols with him, his Glock-19, which he kept in the truck, and his Beretta-M9A1, which he wore in a concealed holster when he was working. The Glock, he’d told her, was a great pistol, not expensive. The Beretta had been a bit of a splurge, but the military had been issuing it for years as a carry weapon. Those were all he had, and he was proud of the fact that he didn’t accumulate weapons like some did. “It’s not that I love to look at guns, these are for self-defense. One on me, one in the vehicle, what else, scatter them around the house? I know some guys do that, but to me that’s overkill—pardon the expression.” He wasn’t a sport hunter either. It was just about self-defense. So no rifles, no fancy gadgets.
Her pistol, though, was facing her in the safe. He had bought it for her as a birthday present, one of the Sig Sauer P365’s. “Small and light enough to carry in a pocketbook, but a great weapon for self-defense.” He added, “You hear about 9 mil being too small for home defense, but I say what you might lose in stopping power, you gain in accuracy.” She knew all three pistols chambered 9 mm rounds, because he loved to defend that decision.
She locked the safe, then sat back on the bed, staring at it. The kids they had decided to keep out of it. Chip was obviously too young to be trusted with a weapon, and Kaylee had declined. In any case, her college was gun-free, though that was expected to change, or at least people were demanding it change (on the grounds that the policy violated the state’s concealed carry law—not to mention the Constitution). She re-opened the safe and removed the pistol, then looked for a place to hide it. Wherever she put it suddenly seemed like just the place where someone—Chip—would find it.
She returned it to the safe, which she re-locked, and wrestled the whole thing to the basement. There she tried to find a place to hide it. With no place where it could never be discovered, she finally put it behind a pile of stuff that hadn’t been touched in years, but was too good to throw away.
She stepped back, hesitated, but finally went upstairs. As she went, she said out loud, “Jillian, don’t forget to put it back before Bob gets home.”
* * *
Even though Memorial Park is inside the rim-road around central Houston, it’s far enough away from downtown to be in an upscale residential zone. And because it’s so large (and partly wooded), one can escape from the city’s noise and bustle. At noon a man was sitting on one of the benches, eating lunch, when a woman, taking a break from walking her dog, sat at the other end. They didn’t even seem to notice each other at first, she talking to her dog, he focused on his sandwich. When he finished it and sat back, he noticed her. “Not too bad, right? The weather?”
“Not too bad.”
After a pause, he asked, “Come here often?”
“Not really.”
After another pause, he said, “If you don’t mind me asking, do you always walk your dog in high heels?”
“I believe you have expression, ‘a girl likes to look her best.’” She had a Russian accent.
He nodded. “Been here long?”
“Not long.”
“So how do you like ‘the lone star state?’”
“Is big.”
They appeared to ignore each other after that, until he said, a propos of nothing, “I needed this. Take a break, I mean.” He stretched his arms to make the point. “Yup, been working pretty hard.”
“You work near to here?”
“Just down the street. DEA. Sorry, that’s Drug Enforcement Agency. And I’m going to guess—wait, don’t tell me—that you work at the Russian consulate.”
“This is correct.”
“Well, I guess we’re neighbors, then. Yup, we’ve been trying to put together this group. Just got it done. Now all we need is the okay from upstairs, and we’re good to go.”
“Is good then, yes?”
“Is very good. No problem.”
They fell silent again, until she rose suddenly and said, “You have nice day.”
He looked at her and replied, “You have nice legs.”
Episode 6
“Earlier today, the FBI announced that it is taking over the investigation of the Joanne Maybridge case, that’s the young woman murdered—Democratic campaign volunteer—on election night. They say there is evidence to suggest this may have been an act of domestic terrorism. Do you have a comment, Mister President?”
“We don’t know what it was. Maybe it was this, maybe it was that. I don’t know any more than the FBI, and neither do you. Let’s let them do their job for a change. See what they come up with. But personally I doubt it. I mean, come on. And I think I would know. I think I would know. And, by the way, let’s face it, what was she doing out on the street at, what, 5 am, a young woman by herself? Stayed up all night partying—a party they should never have had, since they didn’t win. Right? Now we’re finding out about all the fraud. All the shenanigans, and cutting corners, and looking the other way. Do I feel sorry for the family? Sure. Tough to lose a kid that way. But that doesn’t make it terrorism.”
When he was asked whether he took any responsibility for the climate of hate that has consumed the nation, he made a face and replied, “Next question. You.”
When the next question was asked, he ignored it and returned to the prior question. He claimed that the real danger to America was not terrorism, it was the Democrats trying to steal the election. “If you ask me, that’s the real terrorism. I think my... very able... vice president can elaborate on that.”
When he reached the podium, he thanked the president for his great leadership at a difficult moment for the nation, and said that what was at stake. the contest of the vote, was more important than who won the presidency. “What is at stake,” he continued in his serious, resonating voice, “is the integrity of our democracy, making sure that the will of the American people is expressed and accurately received. Time is important, but it is even more important that every vote is counted and counted accurately. Because there’s something very special about our process that depends totally on the American people having a chance to express their will without any intervening interference. That’s really what is at stake here.”
* * *
With heavy wet snow and ice clinging to everything, New Jersey had downed trees all over the place, with widespread power outages. On one hand, that meant it would be worth the trip. On the other hand, it meant checking into a cold, dark motel. It had been a long day’s drive, more or less non-stop, taking turns at the wheel. “Sorry I can’t offer you better,” said the tired, overweight guy who checked them in.
“Not your fault,” said Bob.
“We’ve thought about a generator. It’s hard enough to keep the place going as it is, though—what with the chains forcing your prices down.”
They would have gone to one of the chains, but the pricey ones cut into profits, and the inexpensive ones were booked up by the power companies for their emergency crews. There would be guys all the way from Florida.
“How’d you know we even had a vacancy? With the sign being out, I mean.”
“We didn’t. Just took a chance and got lucky. We should have you back up this time tomorrow.”
The guy shrugged like he was doubtful. “Remember Sandy? Took a good five days. You miss the TV, you know? Say, the vending machine don’t work, but I can get you some...”
“We’re fine, thanks,” said Eric.
“Or extra blankets.”
“We come prepared.”
They set up in the room without saying a word and crawled into sleeping bags to unwind. “I don’t care what you say,” said Eric, “I think the president will stay president if the election isn’t decided by the inauguration.”
“No, you’re saying the vice president becomes the president, but the president will still be able to stay in charge. Right? Isn’t that what you were yapping about all the way across Pennsylvania?”
“Well,” said Eric, “the Twelfth Amendment says the vice president becomes the president.”
“But, see, right there, that doesn’t make any sense. The president should stay the president. Why the vice president?”
“They say that’s what the Constitution says.”
“I don’t believe it, it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, that’s what they’re saying.”
“You’re telling me that Fox is saying that.” Eric nodded. “Well, okay, assuming you heard it right... But I still say it doesn’t make any sense, and I think the president knows that—so what needs to happen is for the Supreme Court to rule on it.”
“How does the Supreme Court get to change the Constitution?”
“They don’t. They just say that, if the vice president is technically the new president, because the election didn’t decide who won... And if the president is, like, the real president, because he’s telling the vice president what to do... Then isn’t it just common sense to let the president do his job?”
“I hear you. But who the... Last time I checked, neither of us is a lawyer.”
“Well, I think they’ll work it out. It’s the only thing that makes sense—especially since the Democrats obviously tried to steal the election. And it’s what the country needs, obviously.”
* * *
“That’s not his real name,” pronounced Chip, as they were speeding away from the meeting.
“Oh, like you know,” challenged Dirk.
“Think about it, Shit-for-brains, of course he wouldn’t use his real name.”
Butch, the homeless vet hired by Connor to impersonate him, had warned the two young recruits—threatened them, in fact—not to tell anyone anything. “You will not breathe a word of any of this to anyone. If you do, you will be terminated. Please do not ask me what ‘terminated’ means.” But of course neither of them could keep it in. Within minutes they were fantasizing about how kids in school would react when they told them.
The mood passed. The warning stayed.
Chip’s generally low mood persisted. Kaylee, fighting more or less the same mood, called from college. That was something she rarely did, and she had done it because, as she explained, she was ‘terrified’ by what she had discovered on his computer.
“Wait a minute, how do you...? You spied on me?”
“Oh, come off it! I think you wanted... I think you wanted mom to find it. But it was me who found it. And I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. You should be worrying about yourself.”
“I’m worried about that, too. But... What are you doing, Chip? What are you getting into?”
“You don’t know a thing about what I’m getting into.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m calling.”
“It’s none of your God-damn business what I’m getting into.”
She was practically sobbing when she begged him not to use such ‘vile language.’
Despite his best efforts, he was stricken. He said quietly, “It’s none of your business what I’m getting into.”
There was a pause. “You sound sad, Chip. You sound... like depressed.”
“So do you.”
Faltering, she finally said, “With everything going on... Joanne, the country, other things...”
“What other things?”
“Well, you, for one.”
“You’re worried about your own faith, aren’t you?” She had to admit that that was true. “So you want to put it on me.”
“No,” she said forcefully. “No. I’m worried about you. Those... horrid things on your computer...”
He tried to explain that there were people—true patriots—prepared to act to protect liberty. To make sure that America was for real Americans. But he wasn’t excited, agitated, belligerent, like he had been. She tried to argue with him, to make him see that white supremacy was not the answer to America’s problems, that all that angry talk about starting a race war, overthrowing the government...
“It’s not just talk,” he interrupted.
After a frightened pause, she whispered, “How do you know?”
He didn’t hesitate long before he replied, “I know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t give a... I don’t care whether you believe me or not.” He said he knew for a fact that it wasn’t just talk. She was going to ask how, when he said that he was ‘into something big.’ He said it in an odd voice, at once exultant and depressed.
She started to cry. “What have you done, Chip? What have you got yourself into? I’m begging you to get out before it’s too late.”
His belligerent defiance returned. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, sis. I’m a patriot. God only knows what you are.”
“Chip, please.” She was sobbing.
“‘Chip, please,’” he mocked. “I’m going to be a hero. And in a few weeks, everybody will know it.”
* * *
The alarm went off well before dawn, and Bob and Eric got up and out as efficiently and silently as they had gotten in. Bob drove while Eric navigated, seeking, rather than avoiding, roads that were closed due to fallen trees, because that was where they would find their first job. And they wanted main roads, thoroughfares, because that was where the restoration work would begin. Eric was well practiced at this, and it was still dark when they picked up a convoy of utility trucks. “Great,” he said, “we’ll be climbing the first tree at sun-up.”
* * *
“This just in: The Circuit Court of Appeals for Washington DC has ruled that the president’s request for new votes to be held in 6 contested states is denied. The court, sitting ‘en banc,’ meaning with all justices sitting for the appeal, issued a split 5 to 4 decision. And note, Ryan, this reverses a 2 to 1 decision of a panel of the same court, which was issued only last week. So this is certainly an unusual, not to say extraordinary, turn of events. The White House has not yet released a statement, but one is expected.”
“Susan, what does this mean for the president’s legal strategy?”
“The decision set aside the question of whether the recount processes should be terminated. But by denying the president a new vote, the court has effectively dealt a major blow to his legal challenge.”
“And that’s because...”
“That’s because no recount has so far changed the original results, though vote totals have modestly changed.”
“So, given that, what do you think is next for the president?”
“Well, an appeal to the Supreme Court is all but certain. That is what we expect for sure, and we further expect that the court will almost certainly take the case, given its historic importance.”
Only a few hours later, the president held a rally in Grand Rapids, Michigan. On the one hand he minimized the loss, talking about how he would be redeemed by the Supreme Court, and bragging about how many justices he had appointed. He also accused the five judges, those who had ruled against him in the circuit court, of bias. “They should have recused themselves, they’re all Democrats, all Democrats. They should have recused themselves.”
The crowd booed loudly. He then returned to how great the Supreme Court had been, and how great they would be when they handed him another great victory. The crowd cheered loudly.
On the other hand, he launched into a lengthy tirade of personal attacks against the Democratic president-elect, whom he repeatedly called ‘the loser.’ The crowd booed loudly. He extended his attacks to all Democrats, to anyone who voted against him, whom he accused of defrauding the election. “They’re stealing your election. Plain and simple, that’s what it is. It’s theft. It’s robbery. What else can you call it? If a guy robs a bank, do we say he won the money in a free and fair... No, he robbed the bank. What do you do to a guy who robs a bank? Make him the president?”
Waves of outraged cries of ‘no’ swept the crowd. “You take back the money he stole and you put him in jail. Maybe you do more than put him in jail. This is our democracy we’re talking about. This is our country.”
* * *
“May I ask... ‘Kaylee’ is it? I don’t think we’ve seen you here before, so welcome.” Sheepishly, Kaylee explained that she had been frequenting the other evangelical ministries on campus, but they didn’t offer counseling services. “Well that’s just fine, Kaylee, I’m happy that you found your way to us.” He took a few minutes to try to reduce her obvious anxiety, before working around to asking how he might help.
She chose her words carefully—or tried to. Confused, he backed up and asked her questions about where she came from, how she was finding college life, whether she attended services regularly... “Then your family belongs to a church.”
“Oh yes,” she replied, and told him how much she liked Pastor Whitcomb, with whom she had practically grown up. But then he asked if she had approached Pastor Whitcomb about whatever was troubling her. Again her reply was not clear, but the gist of it was that she had thought it better to talk to someone on campus, since her concern was about someone on campus, not back home.
“So,” he ventured, “you’re here out of concern for someone else.”
“Right, yeah. Well, sort of... I do have a concern about someone else... and I don’t know what to do about that—about that concern.”
“Maybe you could tell me a little bit about the nature of that concern. Well, for example, is this a friend of yours? Okay. A close friend? All right, good. And... would you say the concern is spiritual in nature, or perhaps has more to do with a moral issue? Personal conduct, for example.”
“I’m not sure how to describe it, you know? It’s kind of both.”
The minister explained that it was not unusual for new students to face questions about social life that they hadn’t had to confront before. “This is a big campus, after all, and students come here from a wide variety of faiths and backgrounds.”
Kaylee started to see where he was going and tried to redirect him. “It’s not personal conduct, reverend. Well, it is, but not what you...” She took a breath and started over. “I have a friend who... I’ve discovered that a friend—someone I care about—may be involved with... I guess you’d call it illegal political activity.”
Now the minister, expecting a concern about sex or drugs or a challenge to faith, was totally confused. “Political activity. I’m not sure there is anything on campus that’s illegal.”
“Well, it would be if it involved violence.”
“Yes, I would agree with you there.” He waited.
“You know about Joanne Maybridge. Well, she was my roommate.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” he exclaimed, believing he suddenly understood her distress. Immediately he began to speak in soothing terms about loss and grief.
Increasingly frustrated, Kaylee finally interrupted him. “Excuse me, reverend, but that’s not why I came.” Seeing his expression, she resolved to speak plainly at last—without being specific.
“Let me see if I understand you. You are concerned that a friend of yours—here on campus, another student—may be involved in some sort of plot—involving violence—that has something to do with the election.”
“With overturning the result, yes,” she said, relieved that it was finally out.
“May I ask how you came to have knowledge of a plot?”
“They pretty much told me.”
“Your friend told you.”
“Yes. I saw websites and I confronted him. And he said things... that scared me.” She repeated what Chip had told her, about patriotism, being part of something big, about to become a hero. Now concerned himself, he asked if she had reported this to the authorities. “You mean like the FBI?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid of getting this person in trouble.”
“Well, I should think, under the circumstances...”
“It’s possible he’s just bragging. He does that.”
“How well do you know this person?”
“Very well,” she blurted out.
“Is this person a person of faith?”
“He used to be. That’s part of the problem. No, wait.” She took a breath. “Whoever killed Joanne... The police think she was promiscuous and brought it on herself. Yeah, they do, they questioned me for like an hour, and that’s all they wanted to talk about.”
“But the FBI... Sorry to interrupt, but the FBI thinks it was terrorism.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“That’s why they took over the case.”
“I didn’t know that. See, I knew the police were wrong. Joanne wasn’t like that. Okay, she experimented a bit... Like you said, you come to college... But I think she was killed because she worked for the opposition. The violence is real. And now my... my friend.”
The minister did not fail to catch that near slip of the tongue. “I’m curious, then... Don’t misunderstand me, I’m glad you’re here, I really am. On the other hand, you’ve indicated that you’ve known Pastor Whitcomb for a good part of your life. A matter as... as charged as this seems to be... Yet you come to see me, a stranger after all.”
She repeated that since this was a campus matter and had nothing whatsoever to do with anybody back home...
He nodded, but only so as not to betray his distress, and recommended that she call the FBI. “Granted it’s no longer what it was, what with its assaults on the president. Still, it is the relevant authority for matters like what you’re...”
Shaking her head, Kaylee said she was afraid to do that, in case her concern was overblown. “Like I said, he brags. It might just be a sick joke.”
“But you’re here because you fear it might not.”
She nodded. “I don’t know what to do, reverend. I think I have to take it seriously. Before I came here, I confided in a friend... and he said, ‘What if it’s real and you didn’t report it?’”
“Sometimes the right path is broad and straight, and lies right before us, well paved and brightly lit. Other times it’s not like that, is it? It’s narrow and out of the way and the light is dim. I believe you know what to do in a case like that, don’t you?”
“You mean ask Jesus?”
“Shall we pray together?”
When she nodded, he took her hand, they closed their eyes, and he began, “Jesus, we come to you to seek guidance. We are confused and our souls are perturbed. We beseech you in our humility to help us find the right path.”
Afterward she thanked him and he invited her to return after she had had time to reflect.
* * *
The next time Chip and Dirk met Butch, he took them inside the warehouse to show them a shipping box on a makeshift table. He said it contained the components for two military-class assault rifles with telescopic sights, and asked if they could assemble them. Chip said yes, Dirk shook his head. “You’re in charge,” said Butch to Chip. “Teach him to do it.”
When that was done, Butch told Chip to teach Dirk how to load, aim, and fire. “Shit, I can do that,” he said.
“No you can’t, so shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, I can,” he insisted and grabbed the rifle. When he was done, Butch nodded, and he said he’d been sport shooting since he was nine.
He showed them where to hide the rifles. There was a large supply of bullets there. Chip asked if they were 77-grain hollow point. He nodded and explained to Dirk that they were designed for penetration at long range.
He asked if they knew how to zero the scopes. When they both nodded, he asked Dirk to explain how it was done.
He told them they needed to find a place where they could practice on a target at 700 yards. “That’s kind of long for this rifle, isn’t it?” asked Chip.
“You will practice every day. You will start at 100 yards and increase to 700 yards. Yes, that is long for this rifle. Especially if you’re dealing with elevation or wind conditions. But if you place on a target at 700—better, if you can group at 700—you can count on making your shot at proper range, say 500, 600 max.”
He told them that, since they would be coming to the warehouse every day, it was important that they vary their pattern. “Don’t drive straight here every day after school. Okay? Try not to act like knuckleheads.” He told them how to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Obviously, if you are followed, you don’t come here. Take them to one of your usual spots, the mall or whatever.” He told them how to lose a tail, but said that took some practice.
He shook their hands, like he had the first time, and told them to beat it, then waited for Connor to appear. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“These are sweet pieces. Where the hell did you...?” He looked on the box for the return address. There was no name, just an address in Houston.
* * *
When the woman the DEA agent knew as Natasha returned to the Russian consulate, she reported to her boss (in Russian, obviously) on the progress she had made. When he was satisfied, he said he would authorize the next payment. “You’ll deliver it as usual, in person?”
She caught the look in his eye, the one he thought she couldn’t see. “Yes, he still enjoys his payments.” She stared at him till he was forced to look away, pretending to study a document on his desk.
When he looked up, he was all business—at least he thought he was. “The payments are still sufficient to keep him in line?”
“Yes, commander. I would remind you that our agent is not only motivated by desire—nor fear of exposure, should he try to bolt. He thinks of himself as a patriot, not a traitor. Today he told me that he is simply following the man he calls ‘my president and commander-in-chief,’ who, he says, has repeatedly affirmed that Russia is America’s close friend.”
“This was not a joke?”
“No, commander, I am certain that he was serious. I believe he was joking when he asked if the American president has closer dealings with our government than he himself does.”
He smiled. “Perhaps the American president is the joke.”
“Yes, commander.” She did not smile.
When she turned and walked to the door, she knew he was staring at her ass. It didn’t please her—he was a pig—but she didn’t mind. She counted on it.
* * *
Throughout their brief meeting, the president repeatedly told his lawyers how confident he was that he would ultimately win in the Supreme Court. “The lower courts don’t matter. They don’t matter. All that matters is the Supreme Court. You guys should know that, you all went to law school, I didn’t. All that studying, memorizing... And they owe me. I put half of them there, for Christ sake.”
“What he means is,” said the first one who dared to speak after they left the Oval Office, “‘Don’t fuck up at the SCOTUS.’”
“After his DEFCON-1 tantrum when the DC Circuit decided against us, I’d say we just missed the mother of all shit-storms.”
They huddled around their conference table, told any assistant who tried to say anything to ‘shut the fuck up,’ and assigned the remaining tasks for the short time before oral arguments were set to begin.
“Cross your frigging fingers, people,” said one of the senior partners as they were breaking up.
“Cross your fingers?” said another. “If there weren’t ladies present, I’d advise everyone to tie their dicks in a knot.”
Episode 7
The nation went wild.
For supporters of the Democratic president-elect, there was delirium. All across the country, there were spontaneous demonstrations that crowded out traffic on main streets for blocks. There were hastily arranged demonstrations that, in the aggregate, totaled at least 10 million people, with speakers and music and chanting and wild costumes and gigantic puppets. Everyone was giddy with joy, everyone became instant friends.
For supporters of the Republican outgoing president, there was a gnashing of teeth the likes of which they had never before experienced. They too massed in the streets, but their numbers were smaller as so many preferred to mourn at home or in church, and the mood was angry and forlorn. There was no music, just speeches that passed through anger to calls for action, to re-dedication, to keeping the faith. In the crowds everyone looked at everyone else and shook their heads. Everyone was livid with rage that the Supreme Court, this Supreme Court, the one they had built, justice by justice, could have upheld an election clearly, plainly, obviously shot through with corruption, malfeasance, and mismanagement.
Yet in fact the court had handed the president an astonishing victory, one even the most cynical Democrats had had trouble imagining, even for this court. The president had won at the Supreme Court. Yet the perverse result was that he had lost the election.
The commentary that followed at every media outlet, in every channel of communication, every conversation was incessant, all-consuming, reflecting ad nauseam on every particle of information, on theories, on speculations about what might have happened. For all of it, though, the result was no increase whatsoever in understanding what had happened. Nowhere was there a coherent account of the facts that explained why the Supreme Court had decided as it had. Had the five majority justices intended to endorse the president’s extreme legal theories or rebuke him? They seemed to have done both.
What came from the White House generally and of course above all from the president, that was the one element of the entire bizarre episode that was predictable. Words like ‘rage, vilification, tirade, denunciations, wild claims, lies, and contradictions’ were certainly accurate as descriptors, but failed to capture a unique experience: For the first time in the history of the nation, there was not an orderly transition of power.
The president at his wildest refused to accept the decision of the court, said there would be blood in the streets, insisted he would not vacate his office, demanded a new national election, threatened to declare a state of emergency that he claimed would allow him to remain president until he lifted it.
He fired all his lawyers, fired every adviser who had supported his legal strategy—which he insisted had never been his—and fired everyone else around him who didn’t immediately swear an oath of allegiance.
He tweeted, he talked to Fox, he screamed at journalists. He made another address to the nation, without any prepared statement, that said this was the worst political crisis the country had ever experienced. He charged unspecified elected and public officials with treason, suggested he would mobilize the military, ‘if necessary to keep the peace.’ He looked like he was hardly sleeping.
The path that led from the election to the Supreme Court was endlessly rehearsed, in case there was a breathing American above the age of five who didn’t know: One, the president had lost the popular vote. Two, in six states the vote was more or less close, depending on how flexible was the definition of ‘close.’ Three, the president contested the vote counts in those six states. Four, if the election results could be reversed, the vote in the Electoral College could swing from a large majority for the president-elect to a majority for the president. Five, how large that majority would be depended on how many states and which states had their popular election results switched.
The president had demanded recounts and challenged recount procedures using a variety of legal theories, tactics, and strategies. These varied from triggering automatic recounts to novel legal theories. They also varied from legal maneuvers to political maneuvers to intimidation. Much of this five justices of the court accepted, the five who happened to have been nominated by Republican presidents and confirmed by Republican-controlled Senates. Indeed, one could plausibly argue that the five had accepted everything the president proposed—with a single exception.
There were two states where the president had finally demanded that a new election be held. These of course were the states where the vote contests had not succeeded in changing the result. One was Florida, the other was Pennsylvania, and both losses infuriated the president. In Florida, nothing he did changed his original razor-thin loss. This seemed a betrayal after his substantial win in the prior election. In Pennsylvania the swing from narrow win to narrow loss was less dramatic, but the president still took it as a betrayal—or a conspiracy.
Four of the five justices, in their dissenting opinion, decided in favor of new elections in the two states. One of them, joining the four justices who happened to have been nominated by Democratic presidents and confirmed by Democratic-controlled Senates, decided against it.
The result was that the president picked up a substantial number of Electoral College votes. These were from Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and New Hampshire. They raised his total from 229 to 269. This was an impressive gain, an unprecedented gain. The problem was that he needed 270. He was one vote shy.
That this had been one of the scenarios predicted at the outset, when the president announced that he would be contesting votes, did not lighten his mood. Nor was he consoled by the fact that he had lost nationally by four million votes.
* * *
“Forgive me, Lord, but I just have to say this: God damn the Supreme Court. I mean what the...”
“I feel the same way,” said Bob, shaking his head. “Hell—forgive me, Lord—half the country feels that way.”
“You ask yourself, how could they have done this, did the liberals get to them somehow?”
“It’s just one of them. One guy who threw the election. What was that? Are they blackmailing him, threatening his family?”
“I know. You don’t want to turn into a conspiracy nut, but I hear you, there has to be some explanation.”
“And yet it’s inexplicable. So in come the conspiracy theories.” Bob made a head gesture that said it was inexplicable and took a slug of beer.
“What’s before us now is almost too terrible to contemplate,” said Eric bitterly. “A liberal takeover, murdered babies, hordes of illegal immigrants...”
“Denigrating marriage,” added Bob.
“Denigrating family, what it means to be a man or woman. And don’t get me started on government.”
“Crushing taxes...”
“Astronomic deficits, handouts to deadbeats, socialized medicine...”
They were in a bar adjacent to a hotel where many utility linemen were staying. Located on a strip outside of town, it had a parking lot large enough for all the rigs. They had been told about it by one of the guys the first day and moved from the dump where they’d spent the first night.
“I am for this president 100%. I trust him 100%,” said Bob. “I know he’s far from perfect—far from perfect—but it’s his very imperfection that makes you believe he’s sent by God. Look, admit it, when you hear about someone who’s supposed to be so good... You know, never sins, always forgives, never loses his temper... You’re just waiting for the veil to fall away, right? For the truth to come out. He’s got an illegitimate child or something. But when a sinner comes along... He’s a sinner like the rest of us, and he doesn’t hide it, he lets it all hang out... Somehow he’s on the right path, though the Lord only knows how he got there... That’s the one you trust, the one you believe in, the one you follow.”
“I hear you, brother,” said Eric, who took a large swallow.
The place was packed with guys, tired, exhausted even, but anxious to unwind, have a bit of fun. The last thing anyone would normally bring up was politics. This time, though, nobody wanted to talk about anything else. The TVs were tuned as always to the obligatory games, but no one was watching.
They overheard a nearby conversation that had gotten louder and louder. “I’m telling you it’s crap, us conservatives can’t do a damn thing, meanwhile you liberals are out there every day, with your protests and your drive-by media. It’s sickening to watch you hijack the election.”
“Except we didn’t. It was one of yours, a conservative justice who defected.”
“Yeah, and I’d like to know why.”
The ‘liberal’ shrugged and grinned.
The grin set off Bob. He jumped to his feet and confronted the man. “Say, bud, question for you. Don’t you get that hijacking a presidential election threatens our democracy?”
“I do, that’s why I’m so relieved. It was hanging by a thread, and one justice... Ironic, don’t you think, that it was one of yours?”
“Know this, buddy...”
“The name is Jim.”
“Got it. Know this, buddy, we’re going to see to it that your guy is out in four years. And between now and then, he gets nothing done, nothing. You can try to rule by decree, tell us what bathrooms we have to use, but we will fight you every step of the way.”
“I think what my friend is trying to say,” said Eric arriving, “is ‘eat shit and die.’”
Jim’s adjusting posture indicated that he knew where this was headed, and that he was ready for it. Others stepped in, as Eric put a restraining hand on Bob’s shoulder. He threw it off, saying, “Don’t you get it, Eric, these people are bent on destroying everything we believe in.”
“I hear you, but what is this going to get us?” He saw the moment pass in Bob’s shoulders. “We just took a major blow. That doesn’t mean it’s over. But we’re here to support our families. What’s a bar fight gonna do?”
They parted without looking at each other.
When there was nothing more to say about the election, the guys could get to sports. And when they were done with that, they would talk about the storm: How much damage it had caused, how much work was left... That done, they drained their last glass and crawled off to bed. Eight hours later, they would be back on the job.
* * *
“Jillian, please don’t hang up.”
She did hang up.
He called again. “Jillian, please!” She heard the torment in his voice and couldn’t bring herself to disconnect. Then there was silence. She couldn’t speak, and he was stunned that she hadn’t hung up. “Thank you,” he said finally.
“What do you want?” she asked meaninglessly.
“Just to talk? If you don’t mind. I could use a sympathetic ear.”
“Is something wrong, Richard?” She struggled to sound more sympathetic than angry.
“I can’t blame you for being angry with me.”
“I’m not angry with you. At least I shouldn’t be. I should be angry with myself.”
“For feeling lonely?”
“For betraying my husband. Is something wrong?” she repeated.
“Aside from my world collapsing? Your world too, I presume.”
“Richard, what are you talking about?”
“The election. I’m sorry, I thought... I guess I just assumed...”
After another pause she said, “You called to discuss politics? I have to say, Richard, I can’t believe I’m your go-to person when it comes to politics. Especially when you know I’ve been questioning my allegiance to this president.”
“Still, it’s good to hear your voice.” She sighed, loud enough for him to hear it. He was trying desperately to figure out what to say next. “May I ask how your family is?”
She admitted to having unloaded her concerns on him and apologized.
“Jillian, you don’t owe me an apology. For this or anything else. It’s just, you did express some... anxieties. I realize that in some ways we’re practically strangers... but we did share some very private thoughts.”
“You’re saying it wasn’t just sex.”
“Lord, of course it wasn’t just sex.”
“Okay, tell me this. Is this what you do? Go to retreats without your wife and see whose pants you can get into?”
“Do I sound to you like that’s all you mean to me, Jillian? Unless I am completely mistaken about you—and I don’t believe I am—I think you know that what happened was not just sport. I think you know it wasn’t for me, and I don’t believe it was for you.”
“Okay, let me ask you this.” She hesitated. “Did you pick me because you saw...?”
“What? Please say it.”
“...How needy I was. That I felt lost.”
“Okay, I’m just going to say it. And you can do with it whatever you want. What I saw was a beautiful woman who was seeking what I was seeking—a true companion.”
“A female companion. One who would jump in the sack with you.”
“I’ve confessed my sin, Jillian. I’m not going to deny it to you.”
“You confessed?”
“Yes. I confessed to Jesus, and then I found the strength to confess to my wife.”
“What did she...?”
“She confessed to me.” Jillian was silent until she started laughing. Richard laughed too.
* * *
The women in the typing pool of the West Wing resigned en masse, citing an unsafe working environment. Those willing to talk to reporters said the screaming by the president and his aides had become unbearable. Men were storming up and down the corridors, barking orders, contesting orders, getting into loud, angry arguments. There were even physical scuffles.
Papers were thrust before them with demands for instant re-typing. One employee had been fired for insubordination. The woman who worked next to her said, “All she did was say, ‘I’ll get to it as soon as I can.’”
“That’s all she said?”
“Well, she said, ‘You can see we’re a little busy here.’ Which we were, to say the least. He went ballistic.”
* * *
“Damn it, Jesse, I mean, with respect, Jesse, you’re wrong. I don’t care whether you think the president is a genius or an idiot, the point I’m trying to make is this: He realizes that, even as his legal strategy has failed, his political strategy has won.”
“What do you mean, ‘It’s won?’ How can you say that?”
“I can say it because every official and every reporter feels compelled to comment on the merits of his claims.”
“That’s just what they have to do. It doesn’t mean...”
“If it’s what they have to do, then it does mean. It means he is framing the debate, he is setting the agenda. We are playing defense—even though we won the election!”
The sign on the conference-room door said that inside was the Democratic National Committee. The angry, frustrated conversation that could be overheard by hotel employees even in the corridor indicated that inside was the president-elect’s inner circle of advisers.
“I’m sorry, I don’t buy it.”
“Neither do I,” said a third.
“You should,” said a fourth, “because roughly half the country believes him.”
“Seth is right,” said a fifth. “Depending on how we phrase poll questions, we find that a large majority believes the election was deeply flawed.”
“Well that doesn’t...”
“So deeply flawed that the reported results were not always trustworthy.”
“That’s because our side distrusts election procedures as much as the other side—precisely because of what the other side does.”
“That’s true,” persevered the pollster, “but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they doubt the result. Think about that: Even our side isn’t totally convinced that we won.”
After considerably more wrangling, it was decided that the president-elect had no choice but to respond to the president.
After more wrangling, it was decided that this should take the form of a national press conference.
After yet more wrangling, it was decided that the call should be for national reconciliation. The rejected call was for national unity. That was considered by many to be unwise, because supporters of the current president, and even many ‘independents,’ might consider it a provocation. As if the president-elect were saying, “You lost, get over it.”
Democratic Party insiders praised the address. “Just what the country needs right now,” “Perfectly pitched for a time of trouble,” “Holding out the hand of friendship,” were the usual fare.
Call-in shows delivered the people’s verdict. Supporters of the president took away, “You lost, get over it... loser.” For many of the rest, it was a weak attempt to appeal to those who supported the president no matter what he said or did, and who now supported his wildest demands and threats and claims. Those people, it was felt, should have been told, “You lost, we don’t care whether you get over it or not, because what you tried to do was exactly what you accused us of trying to do.”
* * *
At the trendy DC bar where the young man who called himself the ‘fisherman’ went to pick up women, he was at it again, bragging about how ‘his’ legal team had driven the president’s Supreme Court ‘victory.’
“You won by losing?”
He shook his head slightly with a contented smile. “We never expected to take the whole thing in one round. We won that round, and now we’re on to round two, which we will also win. We’ve already worked it out.”
“And you’re going to tell me all about it.”
“Indeed I am.” He was smiling triumphantly at the woman he found so sexy, because she was in this trendy bar showing a lot of leg, a cocktail or two ahead of him, and obviously there for the same reason he was. She was smiling triumphantly too, because she knew the fish controlled the fisherman. “It started today, with a call to the Florida statehouse.”
“Yet I seem to recall that the president fired his legal team.”
“Yeah, he didn’t really. With him it’s all theater. Trust me, we didn’t miss a beat. Let me buy the next round. Barkeep?” She was seated, he was standing, leaning far enough so he could see down the front of her dress. After the first swallow, he continued. “Yeah, after, quote, firing everyone, he screamed at his people to find another strategy. And what was the first thing they did? They called us.”
“And you called the Florida statehouse.”
“Yeah, it was quickly arranged without burdening the president, and all it took was one meeting to work up the strategy.”
“Were you there?”
He gestured as if to indicate he’d been as good as there. “Does it matter?”
“I like to know who’s staring at my breasts.”
“Sometimes I hand the brief to the one who sits at the table, sometimes I sit behind the one at the table, sometimes I sit at the table. So let me ask you a question. After the popular vote, where does the election go?”
“Where does it go?” He nodded expectantly. “Like what happens next?” Nods again. “You mean the Electoral College?”
“Bingo. So one strategic phone call from us and the state GOP leadership announces that they’re calling the legislature into special session to, quote, ‘consider the need to pick electors.’ Electors are the voters in the Electoral College. They’re appointed by the legislatures. So what does that mean, ‘consider the need to pick electors?’”
“Well, gee, Mister Lawyer, I do not know. And I cannot wait to find out.”
“Humor. Cute. So right now, Florida law says the electors have to vote for the Democrat, because that’s the one the Supreme Court left as the winner of the popular vote. But that’s statutory law, not constitutional law. Our team asserts that, under the Constitution, a legislature retains the authority to change state law.”
“Even after the election?”
“Even after the election. Sweet, right? So here’s what’s going to happen...”
“I’ll tell you what. This is getting kind of long. Why don’t you tell me what’s going to happen in the taxi? Hopefully you’ll be done by the time we get to your place.”
“Why my place?” he asked after missing only a beat.
“So I can leave as soon as I’m done with you.” She gathered up her things and they were heading out when she asked his name.
“Barry.”
“Is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not. Why would I hide my name? It’s Barry. What’s yours?”
“Martha.”
“Is that your real name?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. Why would I give you my real name?”
Despite a certain amount of groping and petting in the car, Barry kept talking. He told Martha that in Florida the Republicans had complete control of state government, and since the president’s loss there was razor thin, it was the perfect place to challenge the Electoral College vote. Also, a special session had been called there before, in 2000, when there was a risk that the state would go to the Democrat. Pennsylvania, on the other hand, had a Democratic governor.
Martha was curious. “So the Republicans’ grand plan is to have Florida pass a law—after the election—that allows it to repudiate the popular vote.”
“Yeah,” he said excitedly, “and they have to do it ASAP, because there’s a time constraint. The Electoral College votes on December 14.”
“That’s less than two weeks from now.”
“Hey, you’re good at math. Yeah, and under rules pursuant to the Twelfth Amendment, controversies over appointment of electors must be decided at least six days prior, which means December 8. Do the math on that.”
“But that’s... Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“If by ‘ridiculous’ you mean ‘bold’ and ‘brilliant,’ then yes. We’re flying down first thing in the morning.”
“Really. After I keep you up half the night screwing your brains out?”
“It’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.”
She thought about this while they tongued. “I’m still not sure I get the point of this. Say the legislature does this and its electors vote Republican. Don’t you think this would be immediately challenged in court?”
“Probably. But obviously it wouldn’t be decided till after inauguration, probably long after, so the...”
“But surely the court would issue a stay.”
“Right. So the real issue is not the ultimate decision of the court, but whether it would issue a stay of execution, pending a trial on the merits.”
“Which it obviously would.”
“Which we think is actually unlikely. Why?” he added quickly. “Because the court in question is the District Court for the Northern District of Florida, where seven of the ten sitting judges were appointed by Republican presidents—two by this president.”
Martha was still working this out. She even pulled away briefly. “So the Florida vote goes forward—provisionally in some sense. Then what?”
“Then, my dear, there are any number of scenarios, all of which favor us. We like to think of the EC as a target-rich environment.”
“Meaning?”
“There are lots of steps in the EC process. Every one of them presents an opportunity. Then each state submits its EC vote to Congress. There the political wrangling gets so fierce, the roof gets blown off.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s just say that when you get a situation like what’s about to happen, a two-way race where both candidates claim an Electoral College majority, it’s not clear under the Twelfth Amendment which chamber has final authority to decide. We’re betting on the Senate. Republicans control the Senate. But if it’s not the Senate, we can still win.”
“I don’t buy it. Talk about far-fetched.”
“About as far-fetched as the Supreme Court buying the legal theories we argued, and reversing the popular vote in no less than four states. Not to mention four of nine justices calling for new elections in the other two.” Martha was dumbfounded. Barry was very pleased with himself, as they arrived at his apartment. “Don’t you get it?” he continued, as they headed inside. “All we need is one state to submit a second slate of electors. Once all hell breaks loose in Congress, we like the odds.”
“That’s pretty cynical.”
“It is, if by ‘cynical’ you mean a willingness to aggressively challenge rules, norms, and laws, and accept that in politics the ends justify the means.”
A few hours later, Barry awoke to find Martha getting ready to leave. “Do you have to leave now?”
“Actually I don’t.”
“Then why...”
“Because, asshole, I work for the Democratic National Committee.”
PART TWO
Episode 8
The president seemed to really like the phrase ‘target-rich environment.’ He repeated it in tweets and public statements. “My lawyers tell me the Electoral College is a mess, it’s broken. They say it’s a target-rich environment.”
When Greg brought Ellen her breakfast, he found her as he had left her, still in bed, turned away, staring into space. He put down the tray and kissed her. “I know, it’s terribly depressing to hear a US president trash an American institution—especially one created by the founders in the Constitution. But it’s going to be all right, Ellen,” he said quietly. “You’ll see.” He caressed her. “Maybe if you had some coffee, it might pick you up a little? Hm? If you could just...” He tried to help her sit up, but she was limp.
He returned the tray to the kitchen and made a call. “Yeah, hi. Listen, I’m going to be in late. Yeah, she’s not doing great this morning... Yeah, I know, I am too. She was starting to come back, you know? But the news is just too... It just really gets to her... Yeah, if you could do that, that would be great. Tell him I’ll be in touch real soon, maybe this afternoon. Tell him, you know, reassure him, now that I’m back, we’ll get it done real soon. And you’ll let the others know too, okay? Let them know I’ll be working from here. If anyone needs to reach me, don’t hesitate... Yeah, you know the drill. I guess we’re getting practiced at it, huh. But, you know, I was so hopeful that we had turned the corner. Now... Yeah, thanks, I appreciate that. You’re the best... All right, talk to you later.”
He sighed, put her breakfast in the microwave, and opened his laptop. But when the microwave buzzed, he didn’t hear it. His face showed someone desperately struggling to manage their anger.
To Joanne’s killer, it was exhilarating. He was listening to the president while looking at the wall in his small, shabby living room that held all the pictures of Joanne. Some were pictures he had downloaded and printed, some he had taken himself. A photo of her in the campaign office, taken through the store window. A photo of her walking along the sidewalk. Some he had enlarged and cut away everything but her.
On the opposite wall was a picture of another woman. This one was smiling at the camera. The way he looked at her photo, it was clear he found her attractive. It was clear he was pondering something.
After the shocking Supreme Court announcement, there had been a small demonstration on the Indiana State U. campus, no more than a few dozen students. He had seen the poster on one of the outside bulletin boards and had gone. A couple of students spoke. One was the young woman. She was animated and articulate. She was pretty.
When the gathering was dispersing, he asked if he could get a photo of her for ‘the paper.’ She was flattered. She gave him her name and contact information.
When she left, he followed her.
* * *
“Well, it didn’t take long for Florida Republicans to pass the new law,” said one of the Fox commentators, clearly relishing the news.
“Only a few days,” said the expert brought in to discuss the new law. “Thanks to large Republican majorities in both houses of the legislature, plus a Republican governor. Thanks, also, it should be said, to the president’s expert legal team. They’ve been down there working around the clock.”
“And I believe it’s called the ‘Electoral College Freedom of Conscience Restoration Act,’ is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Could you help us understand what it does?”
“Certainly. So, what this law does—primarily, it has a number of provisions, but this is the big one—is eliminate the requirement that ‘electors’ appointed to the state’s Electoral College...”
“Whoa. ‘Electors,’ ‘Electoral College...’”
“Okay. The Electoral College was created by Article Two of the Constitution to provide for what we call the ‘indirect’ election of presidents. The people vote in the popular election, but then the electors of the Electoral College vote separately—I know, I’m getting there—to actually elect the president. Okay, what’s the Electoral College? Well, it’s not a college. It’s an electoral body, created for each presidential election, for the sole purpose of casting votes. How is this body formed? However each state’s legislature determines. Who becomes an elector in this body? Again, the legislature decides. The Constitution doesn’t prescribe a method, it leaves it up to the states, to each state, to work out its own method.”
“Well, could the legislature just name the electors, or do you need some kind of vote?”
“Good question. The Constitution doesn’t say, it’s silent on the issue—deliberately, I would say. This is what it says: ‘Each state shall appoint, in such manner as the legislature thereof may direct...’ That’s it.”
“Wow. Can I say ‘wow?’”
“You can say ‘wow.’ Now, Article Two didn’t work out so well. It was okay so long as George Washington was running for president, but as soon as he left, the Electoral College system broke down. Big time. The election of 1800, which pitted Thomas Jefferson against John Adams, former Secretary of State against former Vice President, both signers of the Declaration of Independence... And I do mean ‘pitted.’ The Electoral College produced no winner—neither had a majority—and so, under the rule laid out in the Constitution—same Article Two—the House of Representatives voted to determine the winner. Thirty-six ballots later—thirty-six—Jefferson was elected.”
“Did you say thirty-six...?”
The expert nodded. “Adams was seriously... let’s say ‘put out.’ He claimed Jefferson had stolen the election, they had a falling out—they had been close friends in the past—and didn’t speak to each other for 25 years.”
“Wow, that’s...”
“More importantly for our story, no one was happy with the way things had worked. So along comes the 12th Amendment, drafted soon afterward and ratified a few years later, which improved the rules. But—big ‘but’—it doesn’t say anything about how electors are selected and how they can vote. You still with me? Okay, there’s one more chapter, before we jump to today.”
“Whatever you say, professor, you’re the expert.”
“Okay, to make a long story short, the idea of the Electoral College being independent of the popular vote didn’t sit well. So by, say, 30 years later, almost every state had passed a law requiring that the Electoral College vote in accordance with the popular vote. In effect it was more or less reduced to a rubber stamp. And so, roughly speaking, the matter stood until today—except a few days ago, Florida made history by returning us—well, returning Florida—to the original Constitutional system.”
“All right. So, thank you for the history lesson. So, just to be clear, where are we, in Florida I mean?”
“Again, the law eliminates the requirement that electors vote unanimously in favor of whoever won the popular vote in their state. Now they are free to vote their conscience, as the Constitution provides.”
“So, a question, professor. Given that this is what the Constitution provides, an independent Electoral College, how did the states—including Florida, I believe... I mean, how were all those state laws constitutional?”
“Good question. Excellent question, because that is precisely where we expect the Democrats to go.”
“You mean...”
“Challenge the constitutionality of the new law in court.”
“And... do they have a case?”
The expert smiled again. “Depends who you ask.”
“All right, how about if we ask you.” The moderator laughed.
“My answer would be that they have a case, but not one that’s good enough to win.”
“And that’s because...”
“Well, here’s where it gets really wonky.”
“All right, that sounds like a good place to take a break. You heard it, folks. We’ll be right back, after this.”
“Did you hear that?” shouted Bob excitedly. “Did you hear that? Holy smokes, we’re gonna win this thing.”
“Bob!”
“Sorry, I meant to say, ‘Well, I’ll be...’ We’re gonna win it. Just like the president said, you know?”
“How can you be so sure? ‘Vote their conscience.’ Well, a lot of people in Florida voted Democrat.”
“Because, hon, you heard what he said. They’re appointed by the legislature. That means the Republicans.”
“There are Democrats in the legislature, right?”
“Not a majority. These are going to be staunch Republicans, I’d bet my life on it. No, it’s in the bag. It’s as good as done.”
“Unless, when it goes to court...”
“You heard yourself, they’ll lose.”
Jillian looked doubtful. “Well, for your sake I hope you’re right.”
“Whoa. For my sake? Where’s this coming from? Jill?”
* * *
When they retrieved their targets, Chip was pissed. Dirk said, “Hey, dude, look on the bright side. If we both fire, you know one of us will hit the target.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you back. You liked showing off how much you knew about firearms, but you can’t stand that I’m the better shot. Well, get over it, dipshit.”
“What I can’t stand is you riding me all the time, just because you’re a year ahead in school. In case you don’t realize, asshole, that’s not an accomplishment.”
Dirk could see Chip was really upset and pulled back. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve been doing real well. They don’t call these ‘long shots’ for nothing. You said yourself, we’re nearing the accuracy range limit for these babies.” Chip was still sulking. “Come on, bro. Don’t forget I had three summers at NRA camp as a kid. That’s a lot of target practice.” They put up new targets and walked back. “You know what you’re doing. You’re torquing when you pull. Relax your mind and let the trigger surprise you.”
“I know how to pull a trigger.”
“Hey, suit yourself, I’m just trying to help. We don’t have a lot of time, you know.”
“I’ll give you that. I just need more time.” He proposed taking the rifles with them.
Dirk looked doubtful. “I don’t know about that, bro. Butch wouldn’t...”
“Butch wants us to be ready when the time comes. I want to be ready. And, by the way, it’s not like you’re grouping in the bull’s-eye.”
The conversation quickly centered on where they could hide them. Chip thought of a spot outside of town, a place he could reach quickly on his bike. “Nobody’ll find them, and then we don’t have to drive into Haute to get them, drive out here to shoot, then back to the warehouse, then back home...”
They drove toward home but turned onto a side road where there was an abandoned silo. “We can stash them in there.”
“There’s room for both?”
“Easily. And nobody would ever go in there.”
“Not even to screw?”
“Not unless you want rats running over you.” Adjacent to the silo was a large corn field, all in stubble this time of year, flat and open. “We can put up targets at any distance we want. And we can set up there,” he added, indicating a blind of trees along the edge of the field.
“No one comes around here?”
“Hardly anyone. This time of year? A few hunters, maybe. Small game, no big deal.”
Dirk looked doubtful. “Two teens with assault rifles? Not to mention suppressors, which we don’t have permits for.”
“That’s what the blind is for, to stay out of sight. With suppressors, no one will hear us. And if they do, it’s just muffled rifle-fire, so what? We’re just two kids, target practicing.”
“I like it,” pronounced Dirk.
“Yeah?” Chip was pleased.
“Hell yeah.” He nodded for emphasis. “In fact, let’s try it out.”
When they were driving home, an unexpected silence overtook them, which made both of them uncomfortable. Finally Dirk said, “I guess we’re really gonna do this.”
Chip didn’t reply at first, then just said, “When the call comes,” and shrugged.
There was another long silence before Dirk asked, “I’m just asking, okay? You really see yourself doing this?”
“You mean taking a head shot at 500 yards? That’s what we signed up for, right?”
“Oh, for sure. I was just...”
“You’re getting cold feet, aren’t you? You’re scared. Mister Bigshot.”
“Hey, I’m not scared. Fuck you if you think that. I’m just saying.”
“Exactly what are you saying, bro?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Think about it. We have to get in—let’s say the rifles have been planted already, I’m pretty sure that’s how they do it—but we have to evade security, get in, set up...”
“Separate locations, don’t forget.”
“Right, of course. So we take the shot, then we’ve got probably less than a minute to shut down, stow the weapon, and get the hell out of there.”
“While looking calm, so as not to alert security.” Dirk nodded. “Don’t forget, when you’re in combat, you discover skills you didn’t know you had.”
“Oh, Mister Experience talking. Yeah, I heard Butch say that too.”
“Admit it, you’re scared.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re choking. Relax your mind and let the trigger surprise you.”
“I intend to. At least I have the guts to admit...”
“Admit you’re scared?”
“Admit we’re into some serious shit.”
“That’s what I love about it. It’s real, man. School is like so far away. If we pull this off, we’ll be in history books.”
* * *
“You want to know the weird part?” Kaylee had said to Joanne, late one night. “You’re the only person I can confide in. And a couple of months ago, I didn’t even know you.” Joanne didn’t reply. “That’s weird, right?”
“You mean that you have no one else? I don’t know.” After a pause, she continued. “I should say I’m honored. It’s kind of an awful responsibility though.”
“I guess... I never thought of it that way. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s kind of cool. I mean we’re so different. And yet...”
“You really think we’re different?”
“I guess I meant we come from such different backgrounds.”
“Different worlds. Yeah, I get that.” They both fell silent.
With Joanne gone, Kaylee was pretending she was still there. She even talked out loud—in her room, late at night, quietly—as if she was still there with that honest face, that compassion. “I felt better after praying with the minister, but it didn’t last long. Wow, you are weird, Kaylee. Do you realize you’re talking to yourself out loud? That’s like...” But she returned to Joanne. “It didn’t last long because I realized how scared I was, and how I couldn’t confide in him, in a minister of all people. And I went there on purpose because he didn’t know me. And then to see that he couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind...”
Her chest started to heave. “He couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around what I was implying! Oh, Jesus. Jesus, help me.” She pulled herself together. “This is crazy. I should talk to Dennis. But I can’t, because whatever I tell him is sure to get back home. Also, if I’m honest, the fact is we’re drifting apart. Did I tell you we took oaths in high school to stay true in college? But we had no idea what ISU would be like. It’s not temptation. Okay, it’s not only temptation. You see new things. You change. Maybe you question.”
She sighed deeply. She stayed silent for a long time, walking aimlessly around the room. Eventually, though, something compelled her to speak the thought out loud. “Maybe it’s so you can hear it. You can hear it, right, Joanne? The fact is that I know what I should do. ‘If you see something, say something,’ right? But what if what you see is your brother? Do you still call the FBI?”
She picked up her phone and found the number for the local office. “Wow, it’s practically on campus. Does that not seem like someone is sending me a message? Okay, I’ll call in the morning. And they’ll find out that my dear brother is just blustering, and I can breathe again.” Her face added what she couldn’t say, even silently: What if it wasn’t just bluster?
She wrote on a scrap of paper, “What might happen to him.” Beneath it she wrote, “The idea that he would hurt someone.”
In the morning she called Chip instead. It went to voicemail. So did the next ten calls. When he finally picked up, he snapped, “Howdy doo, sis, what can I do for you?” When she pressed him to tell her what was happening, he disconnected angrily and again didn’t take her calls.
She went straight to the bus station. An hour and a half later she was in his room, but he wouldn’t even look at her. She said he left her no choice but to tell mom and dad that he had gotten caught up in something... something bad. He looked at her then, looked right at her and said, “If you tell them, and they tell someone else... If the people I’m involved with find out, and they find out I was the leak, they will come for me.”
“When you say ‘come for you...’”
“These people don’t fuck around.”
“My God, Chip, how could you...”
“You don’t get it. I’m a patriot. I’m proud to serve my country and my race.”
She left quickly, before her mother got home. On the bus, to keep herself from crying, she took out a sheet of paper and wrote, “Tell parents?” From there she drew an arrow and wrote, “Puts them in impossible position.” Two more arrows, one to, “Turn him in,” the other to, “Consequences for not turning him in.”
* * *
“Ellen,” whispered Greg, Joanne’s father, “I have some good news for you. The president-elect’s lawyers are suing.” She didn’t respond. “Of course it doesn’t mean they’ll win, and there’s very little time, but still it’s good news, Ellen. You could take heart from it, maybe. Maybe it would help you get up.” She didn’t respond.
“I’m talking about Florida, about the law the Republicans just passed. The Democrats are seeking an injunction to stop it. Isn’t that good news, Ellen?” She didn’t respond. “If we get it, that’s the end of the president. Ellen, please. I know it’s not certain, but we have to take whatever good news there is. Don’t you agree?”
* * *
“Hey,” said Eric, Bob’s business partner. “listen to what I just got. ‘I will be holding my BIGGEST RALLY EVER in Tallahassee in two days, to celebrate great victory in Florida. Great new law, freedom returns to America! Lying, fake news Democrats tried to steal the election but failed like always. Pathetic. 100,000 true Americans will be there!’ Man, I love that guy.”
They were on the Interstate and were just passing a sign that put them an hour away from their next destination in upstate New York.
“Oh, man,” said Bob, “I wish I could go. You think...”
“Well, we could ditch work.”
“Yeah, no way. Funny thing about bills, they never stop.”
“I hear you. Plus, I don’t know about you, but my clothes could stand up by themselves.”
“Can I confess something? I don’t love the guy. I just think he’s what the country needs right now. Still... I mean you can just imagine it, right? The energy? Just once, you know, I wish I could get away.”
Eric nodded. “Day after tomorrow. No way we’ll be out of here by then. Not to mention Florida’s
a bit of a detour.”
“You think? What is it, thousand miles?”
“More. What can you do?”
Bob shook his head. “Still, just once, you know?”
* * *
“Jillian?”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, if I am, it’s a happy surprise. It’s good to hear from you, Jillian. It’s more than good.”
“How are you, Richard?”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“I’m...” Hearing how ridiculous this was, she laughed.
He laughed too. “I guess that was kind of...”
They started talking, and a half hour later were still talking. She asked him what he thought about the Republicans in Florida changing the vote. He laughed. “Ah. After a half hour, I find out why you called.”
There was a time when that might have angered her, but this time she laughed. “Seriously, though.”
“Seriously, well, I’m not sure you’ll want to hear this, but what choice did they have, after the way the recount was messed up?”
“Ahuh.”
“‘Ahuh’ means you don’t agree, right?”
“I don’t know if I agree. I don’t know what I know anymore. I think that’s why I called. You know, you can’t talk to anyone about this. It’s like, they look at you like you’re some kind of...”
“Traitor?”
“Thank you. I don’t feel like a traitor.”
“I don’t think you are. I admire you for... You know, for thinking for yourself.”
“Trying, anyway.”
* * *
It was again lunchtime when a certain agent from the Drug Enforcement Agency was having lunch on a bench in Memorial Park, Houston. Again, a Russian he had come to know as Natasha happened to stroll by walking her dog and sat at the same bench. “Hello again,” he said jovially.
“Hello, Russ,” she replied with a friendly smile.
“Not ‘Roose.’ ‘Russ.’ That accent of yours makes me sound like a Russky.”
“‘Russky.’ I like this. I must call you ‘Russky.’”
“If you must, but don’t say it too loud, okay?”
She put a finger across her lips. “How is every thing?”
“Could not be better. At least for those of us who support the president.”
“Ah. You refer to new law from Florida, yes?”
“I refer to new law from Florida, yes. Good law, very good,” he added in a fake Russian accent, “for follower of president.” Then back to normal: “How much do you know about our Electoral College?”
“Before, I know nothing. Now...”
He chuckled. “Every American could say the same.” He sat back with a smile and scanned the park, breathing the fresh air. “So now, every American is wondering what’s going to happen next week in Florida when the Electoral College votes. No matter what, though, it looks a whole lot better for us than for them.”
“You believe Democrats lose in court?”
“No question. Just look at the courts in Florida. Even if they win in the lower courts—which is doubtful—they can’t win in state Supreme Court.”
“This is because...”
“This is because all of the judges—let me repeat, all of the judges—are Republicans. Plus, like I said, it’s less than a week till the vote. They don’t have to litigate the whole thing by then, but they need an injunction to stop it, and I don’t see them getting it. Either the courts will schedule hearings—and potentially they have to go to three courts, if they don’t get it—and it eats up the time... Or, they just say no. Either way, I don’t see the vote being stopped. Whether the law is ultimately struck down—which I doubt—but if it is, that would affect future votes, not this one.”
“Yes, we think this too.”
“We do?”
“Yes, we do. But,” she added emphatically, “we cannot be certain.”
He thought briefly. “Well, that’s interesting, because... You see, it just so happens that I am up for a big promotion... You know what a ‘promotion’ is?” She nodded and he continued. “But there’s a problem. I don’t want to fuck it up. You know what ‘fuck it up’ means?” She gave him a fake smile. “So here’s the thing. Depending on what happens next week, things are either going to be the same or I’m going to see a changing of the guard. You know what ‘changing of the guard’ means?”
“Shut up,” she said politely.
“So, question to self, do I keep my plans in place—because, you know, there are things I have to do, to keep myself in the running—or do I rest easy, because nothing will change and I’ve got it in the bag. Do you know what...”
“Shut up,” she said insistently, but still smiling. “You want my advice?”
“You’re the boss.”
“You keep all options on table. Yes? Americans love this expression. Then you are ready, either way.”
“Roger that. Do you know what...”
“Stop that! Stop,” she added quietly, “this is not way to get in my pants. Do you know what ‘get in my pants’ means?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Then listen to me. To get promotion, certain steps must be taken. However, at same time, you must not take any step that is... Oh!”
“Irreversible?”
“Yes, irreversible. Do you understand?”
“A hundred percent.”
Episode 9
“They didn’t cover the president’s huge rally yesterday, and now they show this... piddly thing?” Bob and Eric were in a small-town bar in Minnesota, where a freak storm had downed large numbers of trees. Bob continued, “He had, what, 20,000 people there yesterday? They don’t have 2,000.”
“That’s why they call it the ‘lame-stream’ media,” said Eric.
The television showed a march along a highway that looked like it might in fact be a couple of thousand people—the reporters described it as ‘hundreds.’ It was the usual TV format, reporter on the scene talking live to anchor in the studio, explaining that this was the first day of a four-day trek to the Florida state capital of Tallahassee.
It was a hastily-organized protest of the new Electoral College law, passed three days earlier on a strict party-line vote and immediately signed by a Republican governor, which allowed Electoral College ‘electors’ to ‘vote their conscience rather than rubber-stamp the popular vote.’ Everyone understood that in practice this meant that the win by the Democrat would be replaced by a win for the Republican. And with that reversal of the popular vote, the president would be re-elected, a feat considered impossible five weeks earlier, when the election results were announced.
“You know,” added Eric, “screw all those hair-balls. What difference does it make, they lost. You want to walk to the capital, knock yourselves out. A lot of good it’ll do you.”
The next evening, when they ‘reconvened’ over their beer, the number of marchers had swelled by a very large amount. Said the reporter, “People I’ve interviewed make clear that they’ve come from all over Florida, and a good number have come from neighboring states.” The march had been dubbed—no one knew for sure by whom—the ‘Tallahassee Trek.’ Helicopters showed a queue of people two, three, four abreast and miles long, which supported the ecstatic claims of organizers that they were now ‘at least 20,000 strong.’ Much was also made of the fact that they came ‘from all walks of life,’ made evident from the close-ups and interviews.
Bob and Eric watched sullenly.
By the third evening the Tallahassee Trek had become a national event. At least 50,000-strong by all accounts, with people continuing to arrive from all over the country, it was being compared to the famous Selma-to-Montgomery civil rights march of 1965. People were starting to call it a ‘political rights’ march.
There were reports of ‘near frantic’ efforts by march organizers and public safety officials to accommodate the huge mass of people expected to arrive in Tallahassee the next day. It was not impossible that the number would match the 250,000 who came to the Lincoln Memorial in 1963 to call for ‘jobs and freedom’ and listen to a man who had a dream.
Also the next day, at the same time as the rally, the Florida electors of the Electoral College would be voting in the Capitol. Actually, they would be voting in both capitols. “Tania, the Republicans decided that for the event they would move to the Old Capital, so they can drape themselves with what they have come to call ‘the mantle of history.’”
“It’s an historic building?”
“Let’s call it an elegant building, at least for 1845.”
“And the Democrats?”
“They are determined to convene their own electors, in defiance of the new law—in the current capitol, a faceless tower I doubt anyone would call elegant.”
Later reports indicated that the Democrats would be operating with questionable legality, for late in the afternoon, before the vote, the Florida Supreme Court had ruled against their challenge to the new law. The president-elect’s lawyers had requested an emergency injunction to prevent the Republicans from creating a Republican slate of electors. They made two claims, either of which, they said, demanded a stay of execution. The first was that the law was unconstitutional. The second was that, even if the court later found it not to be unconstitutional, it could not be applied retroactively.
As to the first, the court’s all-Republican bench unanimously found no ‘first impression’ evidence that the law was unconstitutional. As to the second, the court disagreed that the law would be applied retroactively, because though it had been introduced and enacted after the election, it was before the convening of the Electoral College.
The court noted that the law had been enacted “no later than the date prescribed in 3 USC Section 5 rules pursuant to the 12th Amendment.” This provided that a state’s electoral vote “shall be conclusive” if “its final determination of any controversy or contest concerning the appointment of electors... shall have been made at least six days before the time fixed for the meeting of the electors.” The electors were to meet on December 14, and the law was enacted December 8.
The court passed silently over the other requirement in the rule, that this “final determination” shall be “by laws enacted prior to the day fixed for the appointment of the electors.” The president-elect argued that “the day fixed” was election day, and further that the phrase “by laws enacted” meant ‘shall be,’ that is ‘must be’ based on then-current law. The court did not reply on the substance.
“The decision of the court, which closely followed the defeats in the two lower courts, has hit the marchers like a cold downpour on a parade. The singing and chanting and exhilarated banter have stopped. Smiles have disappeared.” The same reporter said later, “Efforts have been made to revive the mood. A semblance of it has returned, but in the main cheery optimism has yielded to grim determination.”
The mood in the bar was tense. It wasn’t just Bob and Eric, it was everybody, at least everybody except the bartender, who was working too hard to pay attention, even though by request he had turned up the volume. There were only two small TVs, one at each end of the bar, and gradually the clientele separated into two groups. Two groups that turned to face each other. Two groups that bantered with each other, then traded barbs, then began chanting. When it started to go beyond chanting, the bartender called the police.
* * *
After the terrifying confrontation with her brother, Kaylee was tormented with indecision, not just during the bus-ride back to school, but that evening and most of the night. The panic she took to bed awaited her the moment she awoke from a few hours of disturbed sleep. “If he’s even half telling the truth,” she told Joanne, “his life’s in danger. So my first duty is to try to save my brother’s life, right? Or is it to prevent him from doing harm?”
But even a few hours of disturbed sleep sometimes has a way to reset fears, and so it was that while she was brushing her teeth, it came to her what she should do.
When Chip wasn’t angry, he bragged. Before she had left, he had bragged that he communicated with the person or people he was communicating with through a secure chatroom embedded in a public site. “I know his search history. I know he mostly visits a few sites.” It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let her breathe. She heaved a big sigh.
There was a Libertarian Society on campus. She quickly reached the contact person and asked if he knew “a privacy fanatic who’s also a computer geek.”
“What do you need him for, is it illegal?”
“Of course not. I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure... No, how could it be illegal to search the Internet?”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said, sounding truly disappointed.
“Wow, you people really are as weird as they say.”
“Thank you!” he exclaimed, sounding truly happy. “So, come on, tell me what you need. Or do you think we should pass coded messages through a dead drop?”
“Are you...?”
“Of course not. I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure. Come on, are you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”
She sighed again. “I need somebody to help me get into a secure chatroom.”
“Seriously? You’re not just trying to make my day, are you?”
“What? No. Yes, I’m serious.”
“Cool!” he said and then said no more.
“Well, do you know someone who could help me?”
“I do!”
“Could you give me his contact info?”
“You already have it.”
“No, I... Oh,” she said in a suddenly less strained voice, “I get it. You’re saying you can help me, right?”
“Wow, you’re fast. I think I like you. So when do you want to meet? Because I was mostly kidding about the safe drop, but I’m not when I say, ‘Don’t say another word on the phone, and don’t send me an email.’ So when do you want to meet?”
She went straight to his dorm. He came down to meet her and told her to come with him.
“I thought we could just do it here.”
“Are you crazy? No way. Come on.”
She followed him—neither said a word—to a noisy student hang-out on the edge of campus. It was loud, but it wasn’t busy, so they found seats at a table where they could sit beside each other with their backs to the wall. “Are you serious about this, or are you just trying to scare me or impress me or something?”
“Um... I don’t really want to scare you. Just a little, maybe. I’d really like to impress you. Mostly, though, it’s something. I’m a privacy nut, remember? So, tell me why we’re here.” She said that first she needed to swear him to secrecy. “Oh, wow, this is so cool!”
“I’m serious.”
“Even better! No, really,” he added, suddenly serious, “nothing you tell me or show me will ever get past me, I promise. That’s the whole idea of privacy rights, right?” He looked at her to let her know he was done kidding. She sighed again. “It’s okay, really.”
“Yeah?”
“Promise. You are getting me pretty excited, though.”
“We’ll need his password.”
“Whose?”
“My brother’s.”
“And we need it why?”
She had no choice but to tell him. She shrugged. “I guess you’re gonna find out anyhow.” He nodded, still staring at her. She told him that her brother seemed to have somehow gotten involved with white supremacists and that they seemed to be planning some act of terrorism. She expected an extreme reaction of some sort, but he only nodded. “And you don’t even...” She was almost disturbed. He asked for the website URL and she considered leaving.
“Up to you,” he said calmly. “You want to leave, no hard feelings. I might try to kill myself, though, because you’re kind of hot.” She gave him her computer and told him the address and he quickly typed it in. “And here’s the chatroom. Username.”
“Chipper.”
“Chipper?”
“My dad’s a tree guy.”
He typed it in. “Okay,” he said decisively, “it’s time to play, ‘Guess the password!’ How old is your brother?”
“Sixteen. Why?”
“Great. Sixteen-year-old guys never make robust passwords. Upper case, lower case... They’re in too much of a rush to get to their porn. Sorry. But you knew that, right? Okay, what does he call the operation? It has to have a name. Did he ever...?”
She tried to recall and suddenly nodded. “The name he uses for... for whatever they’re planning, it’s ‘swan-dive.’”
“And they’re off! ‘Swandive,’ all lower case. Now, numbers and symbols. ‘2020!’” He was in. “Fantastic, has to be a record! Damn, I wish I’d timed it.” He found her staring at him. “I made it on the first try,” he said, like he was talking to a child. “Do you have any idea... No, you don’t, of course you don’t.”
“I’m impressed,” she said to make him feel good.
“Yeah, you look impressed,” he said facetiously. “On the other hand, I’d be the first to admit... You might think a conspiracy to overthrow the United States government deserves a robust password, not to mention robust encryption, but not if you’ve met these people. They’re not smart scary, they’re crazy scary. And crazy makes for dumb, even when you’re smart. I don’t know which is scarier. Trust me, I know, I used to be something of a patriot militia fanatic in high school.”
“You’ve met these people?”
“‘Met’ is too... Let’s say I’ve been in the same room with them. Got the hell out of there, I can tell you, but don’t get me started.”
He showed her what to do so her computer couldn’t be traced, and how to create an avatar so she couldn’t be identified. “You know what to do now, right?” She nodded, and he closed the computer and pushed it over to her.
“That’s it?”
“Is there any other way I can make your day?”
“You didn’t even read anything. You don’t even seem shocked.”
“Did you want me to, do you want me to? Just kidding. Seriously, we’re done. All I did was help you guess the password. You’re on your own now—unless of course you’d like me to help you with it. Which I’m willing to do, okay, I’d really like to do it, given certain facts expressed earlier.”
* * *
The judgment of the media was that, though there was a ‘very large’ crowd in Tallahassee, it was far short of the hoped-for 250,000. Therefore the ‘story’ became, not why some 100,000 people had come to Tallahassee—on the spur of the moment—from all over the country, but why more of them had not come. That, plus the desperate effort of the president-elect to claim the state’s electoral vote, a process occurring at the same time, a stone’s throw away from the demonstrators, made it hard to sustain optimism, much less a feeling of triumph.
Jillian and her friend Mary Beth were aware of what was happening—it was hard not to be aware, with news outlets talking about little else—as they nursed coffees after Jillian’s shift. Mary Beth said, “The Democrats have made no secret of their intention to turn the whole thing into a circus.”
“It’s a difficult situation,” replied Jillian, “I’ll give you that.”
“‘Shameful’ is the word I would use. First they lose in court. Then they lose again. Then they lose a third time. And now they’re going ahead with their Electoral College vote anyway—and then they have the gall to call on the governor to ‘do the right thing?’ I don’t think so.”
Jillian just nodded, sipped her cold coffee.
“If that don’t beat all! I mean come on! They’ve been out in front of the cameras for days.” She noticed Jillian. “I guess you don’t agree. You think, when they invited the Republican legislators to join their session, they should have come? Don’t you think they should have joined the Republicans?”
“I know,” said Jillian slowly. “The thing of it is, is that the whole thing hinges on that law. If it’s wrong...”
“Hon, three courts have just said it’s not wrong. What’s come over you? You turning into a liberal?”
“To tell you the truth, Mary Beth, I don’t know what’s come over me. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t turned into a liberal.”
“Something’s sure eating at you though.” Jillian nodded and sighed.
The Democrats were in fact not far from the cameras, and when cameras couldn’t be admitted to the chamber, legislators came out to the hall constantly to address them. The mood was serious. They made it clear, in word and manner, that they, not the Republicans, had properly convened the legislature, and that it was their electors, not the Republicans’, who had properly voted.
Next, the ‘certificates’ of the votes, prescribed by the federal rules of procedure, were created. At that point, the work of the chamber having been completed, everyone solemnly filed out and proceeded to the final order of business. “That,” explained their spokeswoman, “is to submit the certificates to the governor, so that he may, pursuant to the rules, attach his ‘certificate of ascertainment’ and apply the seal of the great State of Florida.”
Then, accompanied by the media—though the TV crews took the elevators—the crowd descended three flights of stairs to the ground floor, where the governor’s office was located.
No one seemed surprised that he was not in his office, nor was anyone shocked when a staffer professed ignorance of his current location, saying only that he was ‘suddenly called away on an urgent matter.’ They went next to the Old Capitol, where there was also an office for the governor, but it was locked and dark. Finally, they went to the Governor’s Mansion, a fleet of buses having magically appeared to transport the entire Democratic caucus, not just the electors, as well as any media people who didn’t have their own transportation.
They were met at the gate by a large squadron of state police, arrayed just inside, whose commander politely announced that the mansion was ‘currently closed to all visitors.’
“We are here on official business,” said the spokesperson. “Kindly call the governor and inform him that the duly appointed electors of the Florida Electoral College are here on official business.”
“I am instructed to tell you that the governor is already aware of the purpose of your visit, but is currently unavailable.”
“Please be so kind as to make the call. I’d be more than happy to speak to him myself.”
The governor was called, a few words were exchanged, and the phone was passed through the grill. “Thank you for you taking my call, governor,” she began.
That was all she got to say. The governor thanked her for her service, but noted that the work of the Electoral College had already been completed, ‘pursuant to the letter of the law,’ and therefore nothing further was required. Before she could reply, the call was terminated.
She announced to the media people what had just occurred, then added that the rules pertaining to ‘ascertainment’ referred to a state’s ‘executive,’ not its governor. “Therefore, this state’s governor, having just declared himself unavailable, calls will now be made on the state’s executives next in line.” These, she explained, were the lieutenant governor, the attorney general, and the secretary of state. “We shall see if one of them will ascertain the certificates of Florida’s electors.”
“But they are all Republicans,” immediately shouted one of the reporters.
“No, sir. They may be Republicans, but they are also officers of the state, elected by the people—all the people, not just Republicans.”
“Do you really think...”
The speaker ostentatiously turned to a phone offered by an aide, who had just inputted the number. “With whom am I speaking?” she began. And so went the spectacle all the way to the predictable conclusion. At that point, she made a patriotic speech about the sanctity of elections and indicated that ‘the electors duly appointed by the legislature would appeal to the courts for the proper enforcement of the constitutional rules.’
“I’m troubled, Mary Beth. I’m troubled by what’s happening in Florida.”
“So am I. But I get the feeling we’re not troubled by the same thing.”
Jillian thought about what she was going to say. “Let me ask you something. It doesn’t trouble you...? I’m not talking about legality now, because what do I know about that? But it doesn’t trouble you that we passed a law—after the election—to change the election? If the Democrats had done that, would we be okay with it?” Mary Beth didn’t answer. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Mary Beth thought hard. “Except... Well... That assumes the Democrats really won in Florida.”
“Well, the Supreme Court said they did. They gave the president a bunch of states, but that one they didn’t.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. The president said he won.”
“And we believe whatever he says. Even when the Supreme Court disagrees.”
“Well, gee, Jillian, are we just supposed to sit back and let the liberals take over the country?” She stared at Jillian as if it might help her figure out what was wrong with her. “Jillian, you’re my best friend in the whole world, I just love you to death, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you—but I got to say I don’t know what’s come over you.”
“I don’t either, and that’s the truth. I’ve asked Jesus... I’ve prayed for guidance...”
“Have you talked to the minister?”
“I don’t need to. I can tell you right now what he’ll say. He’ll tell me the president is God’s man, and we can’t let some of his wayward comments blind us to that fact.”
“Well, isn’t that the truth?”
“Is it the truth?” Mary Beth fell silent and Jillian pressed forward. “Mary Beth, tell me the truth. If that man was just some stranger and he came to your house, behaving the way he does, would you let him come in? I wouldn’t. I don’t want him near me, I don’t want him near my daughter. Does that sound like he’s God’s man?”
“You know the answer to that, hon. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Who are we to second-guess God?”
“I can’t say I know the answer to that. But I do know God gave us a brain. He must have done it for a reason.”
After a long pause, Mary Beth asked if Jillian had voted for the president. She nodded. “So you believed in him then.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I was just afraid to leave the fold. But even if I did... What he’s doing, trying to change the election, even when the Supreme Court said he lost... I don’t know if I can live with that.”
“You’d rather see America turn into a Godless country.”
“No, that scares the heck out of me.”
“Well then?”
“But there’s also this: If the will of the people is subverted—by the president, no less—then what is left of our democracy?”
* * *
When Kaylee got back to her room, she immediately logged into the chatroom and started reading. Nicky had told her how to decrypt it. “You see this,” he’d said, pointing to the gibberish on the screen. “Oh, dear me, how are we ever going to decrypt this?” he said with fake alarm. “Well, I’ll show you how, you dipshits,” he said yelling at the computer, “like this. Boop boop boop, and there it is, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Can you show me how you did that?” asked Kaylee. “It went by kind of fast.”
He showed her, then she tried it. “Easy, right? So what are the possibilities? (A), they’re dumb,
by which I mean computer illiterate. (2), they’re stupid, meaning they don’t care.” He weighed the alternatives with open palms. “Dumb, stupid, dumb, stupid. Hard to tell.”
After reading for what seemed a long time, she considered another possibility: That after all they really weren’t serious. In fact, maybe the whole thing was a sick game, a bunch of teenage boys acting like... teenage boys.
She reviewed a bunch of posts she had read, and the tension and fear in her face turned to scorn. She was making faces at the computer, shaking her head with disdain. “RAHOWA!” she saw in caps and bold and underlined. It was a word she’d learned from Chip.
“‘Racial holy war,’” he’d said, staring at her in hopes of a reaction. When he didn’t get it, he added, “The war to end degeneracy, race-mixing, atheism, and communism. Return America to white people.”
“You don’t even mean that. You mean Anglo-Saxon Protestant men.”
He still stared at her.
She snorted at her computer. “I’m sorry,” she told it, “but serious people don’t take ridiculous ideas like this seriously. ‘Racial holy war,’” she said in a mocking voice. “Give me a break.”
She reviewed other posts that had so upset her earlier. Posts that praised the young man who burst into a church during a service in Charleston, South Carolina in 2015 and murdered nine people, all African-Americans. Posts that praised the young man who drove his car into a crowd of peaceful counter-protesters at an ‘Alt-right’ rally in Charlottesville, Virginia in 2017, injuring dozens and killing a woman. Posts that praised the young man who entered a Walmart Supercenter frequented by Hispanics in El Paso, Texas in 2019, killing 23 and wounding 23 more. Her conclusion: “This is disgusting, and shame on my brother, but it isn’t a reason to ruin his life by telling the FBI he’s a terrorist.”
She felt better. Much better.
She heaved a huge sigh of relief and walked around the room. Suddenly she laughed. She shook her head. She sighed again.
“Okay, Kaylee,” she said to herself, “how about you do a little schoolwork.” She shook her head again. “To think what dad and mom are going through to keep me here.”
She logged out of the chatroom and opened an assignment. Later, for no apparent reason, she laughed again, shook her head again, sighed again.