by Anna Dove
“Well said,” remarked the president. “Now, I’ve got to run--they may want my remarks after this briefing, and I’m supposed to review with Reed.”
He kissed her cheek and then went back the way he had come. Adela watched, and then strolled past Martha Washington to stand in front of George Washington.
“Hm, I’ll bet you did tell lies, you old ignorant bastard,” she said under her breath.
+
The radio crackled, and for a few seconds there was silence. Then, the unmistakable voice of the Attorney General echoed from the device. Haley leaned forward, sitting at the dining room table with her three companions.
“Fellow Americans, I thank you for your attention and audience today. I will be brief. There will be a detailed report published in the newspaper tomorrow, but I feel that it is my obligation to make the announcement prior to the print being released. For the past four months we have found ourselves in a recovery and reconstruction period following the attack. The Department of Justice, along with intelligence agencies, have been working to identify the perpetrating party behind the attack. It came to our attention, through reliable sources, that the attack seemed not to be of foreign origin as we had originally assumed.”
Haley looked up and her eyes met Elizabeth’s.
“We began,” the radio continued, “an undercover investigation of all possible parties. We have come to our conclusion, through hours of detailed research, interviews, and analysis. We have already taken the suspect into custody. The suspect will be afforded due process, even given the monstrosity of the crime. This trial will be thorough and there will be opportunity for public witness, for any member to offer additional evidence. The suspect, I deeply and truly regret to inform you, is none other than the president, Mr. Gilman.”
Haley jumped to her feet. She grasped the edge of the table, and it shook so that the vase in the middle fell, spilling the water and bouquet that it held.
This wasn’t true! There was some mistake. The voice of the Attorney General went on, detailing how the president had been removed from office and how the Speaker of the House would fill the position until an election could be fairly held—the Attorney General was trying to reassure the public, to calm them.
Elizabeth sat, staring at the radio.
Haley raised her hands to her head, her heartbeat quickening.
“This is a nightmare,” said Jack dully.
Haley sat down.
“Now wait,” said Elizabeth. “It’s possible that they will realize their mistake. Let’s hope for the best here.”
“Screw hope,” said Jack. “Hope is irrelevant. I’ve been down that route before.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve tried hoping before and it never works. What’s hope got to do with anything? All that matters is the reality of the situation. The Attorney General will find the president guilty and the president will die.”
The radio crackled on, as the Attorney General laid out the charges against the president. They all sat in silence, listening to the words as if in a daze.
“What do we do?” finally offered Carlos quietly.
But no one responded, as the Attorney General rambled on, but then suddenly another radio voice shouted unintelligibly and the broadcast broke off into static.
+
The White House Press Briefing Room had burst into chaos. The Attorney General had made it halfway through his speech when a reporter yelled out,
“Is the president in the building?”
This caused a general stampede, and the wires and microphones all became jumbled and disconnected from the generator in a true web, as people jumped to their feet, half the crowd lunging at one door, half lunging at the other. Some wanted to be the first the photograph the president in handcuffs; others wanted to get the hell away from the White House. The Attorney General, a small man, ducked behind the podium as Secret Service ineffectively attempted to block the barrage of bodies and cameras and shouting voices from entering the West Wing.
Those who managed to burst through raced through the offices into the hall, just in time to see the president himself, handcuffed, being pushed forward by Secret Service who were armed to the teeth, with several military-grade rifles pointed at his head as he shouted,
“This is a lie! This is a lie! I am innocent! I have done nothing!”
They rounded the corner, and the press shuddered as they heard a sound escape from the president’s lips, a hellish cry, a man in absolute agony. Their cameras hanging useless by their sides, they stood still, gazing like deer in the headlights down the empty hall until Secret Service herded them back into the Briefing Room.
+
Business was booming for Mr. Granger. He had ordered himself a new pair of shoes, and was wearing them this afternoon to the office. He strode through the door sipping on his third cup of coffee, as the telephone rang on its hook.
“Hello, U.S. News,” he said.
“Granger, this is Washington. We have a headline, you need to publish an afternoon title. Ready?”
“Yes, yes,” sputtered Granger, scrambling for a pen and knocking down his mug of pens so that they spilled all over his desk.
“Justice Department arrests the President on Suspicions of Involvement in EMP Terror Plot. That’s the headline.”
“Sure, sure,” said Granger, scribbling, and then he sat up as if he had been shocked by a live wire. “WHAT'S THAT YOU SAID?”
“Granger, have you been the only person in this country not listening to the radio? It was just announced. Now include this--the president has been taken to the federal prison in Rockville, MD. He is being held securely as we await further information. The Justice Department is continuing to investigate the matter. A few other leads...etc., etc., fill it, you know, the usual. Get it on the streets within the hour, will you?”
“Yes,” said Granger blankly, and the line went dead. He slowly replaced the phone and looked down at his notepad.
+
One week passed, and with each day, new information came to light, new witnesses submitted testimonials. The security at the former president’s prison was tripled, not to keep the man in, but to keep out the masses who came to it ready to kill the prisoner inside.
On August 27th, the morning paper alerted the country of another White House announcement. At 3pm, all radios were tuned in, and millions of ears strained to hear the anticipated news coming from the White House.
Haley, Elizabeth, Carlos and Jack sat around the table, as well as Haley’s family who had returned. No one spoke as the radio sputtered in static and then cleared, as the seconds ticked down to the top of the hour.
Then, Adela’s musical voice came through the radio, clear and measured like a sonata.
“Thank you all so very much for listening today. I am truly honored and touched by your sacrifices. It has been the worst of times, truly there are no words to describe the horror and the hell of what our nation has gone through. Betrayed by its own president, who enacted the unthinkable, and I, who knew him best, am among the most devastated—”
For a moment there was silence as her voice trembled on the last word and the trembling was the vibrato of the violin drawing emphasis on the string.
“It goes without saying that this man is no longer my husband. He has betrayed me to the fullest and he has betrayed his countrymen—no, it is worse than betrayal. My fellow Americans, we have been the victims of an attack on the very essence of our beings. Our friends and families have died. We have struggled to find food. We lived in fear of foreign attack. We have worked tirelessly to restore a certain order to our way of life, to repeat the development that brought us from the late nineteenth century to the wealth and safety of those days prior to the attack. Every single one of you is working beyond what anyone could ask, in pursuit of this dream. And we will attain it, we will! We will rebuild our infrastructure, our defense, our wealth and stability. Our entire system has been wiped out and now we start
with a new foundation. We will now build from the ground up.”
She paused and took a deep breath, one beat, two, three.
“My fellow Americans,” she said calmly and resolutely, the sonata becoming an anthem, an inspiring orchestration. “In pursuit of the restoration of this country to its greatness, in order to make amends for what my husband has done, I am announcing officially that I will be running for President this fall. I choose not to associate with either party label, but I am running under my own party, which will be called the Party of Restoration. We have fallen; but we will not stay down. We are a nation of survivors. Of fighters. Of believers. I am running for President so that I may lead us all, that we may survive the terrors of yesterday, that we may fight the perils of today, and that we may believe in the greatness of tomorrow!”
The voice continued from the radio, but the words now blended together in Haley’s mind like a string of discords. Something snapped; she reached for the radio and hurled it violently against the wall. It shattered into pieces, and then the room was silent. No one moved.
Then, Haley turned calmly to Elizabeth, Jack and Carlos.
“Pack your bags,” she said.
PART 3
THE TRIAL
21. The Rally
“The measure of a man is what he does with power.”
― Plato
The trial of Gilman vs. United States was set for October 12, 2033 in the United States District Court for the District of Columbia. The week after Mr. Gilman’s arrest, he had been impeached unanimously by the House of Representatives and convicted unanimously by the Senate, after a variety of Reed and Adela’s cohorts from all government departments, as well as Reed and Adela themselves, willingly provided both chambers completely false but completely convincing testimony. Having predetermined his guilt, the entire country waited in anticipation for his trial like a soaring hawk circling until its prey appears.
+
For a moment now, we travel a decade backwards in time to a little town called Bridgehampton, New York. It is just east of Southampton, and if you keep going east, you will eventually arrive in Montauk, on the tip of Long Island. The year to which we return is 2023, and the month is July.
The Gilmans (at this point just known by their first names) were taking advantage of their summer house in Bridgehampton (or Bridge, as the locals call it). Their summer house was a mansion by all reasonable standards, for before he entered politics, Mr. Gilman was a relentless businessman on Wall Street, fearing neither man nor God in his dealings.
Their home was lovely, a glass front, ocean-facing sort of creation, with spiral staircases and white walls and high ceilings. Adela stood now in front of one of the tall glass panels, her bare feet on the cool marble floor, her eyes taking in the ocean waves crashing on the shore. The supple sand stretched out from the dunes to the waves, littered with shells and pieces of driftwood cast up out of the reach of the receding tide.
“It’s so hot outside,” she murmured, to herself.
Behind her, Gilman came down the stairs. He was clean shaven and strikingly handsome, his suit jacket was unbuttoned casually over his pale blue shirt. He held a glass half-full of whiskey.
“I’m taking you out tonight. Anywhere you want. We have to celebrate. I’ve decided to do it,” he said excitedly.
Adela turned and smiled.
“Do what?”
“Well, you see, last night I was talking to Franklin, down at the office. I told him I wanted to run for governor and he said he agreed. The man who owns most of Wall Street said he would back me. We talked until two in the morning—and he’s agreed to help me fund the campaign. He’s contributing three million.” He sipped his drink.
Adela blinked, and paused.
“I thought we said that you were not going to run.”
“Well, sure, but that’s before I got Franklin’s backing.”
“I suppose he’ll benefit, you know, since of course you’re very pro-business.”
“From the diamonds at your throat and the sapphires in your earlobes, I would venture to say that you are pro-business as well.”
“I am pro-diamond, and I am anti-politics.”
Gilman frowned.
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’m governor, you will be the governor’s wife! It will be such a good thing for you. You can pursue all of your philanthropic dreams, and all of New York will love you.”
“You will be the one that they love,” she replied angrily. “I will be the woman on your arm. You know me—how I hate to be seen as any sort of puppet. Look at the First Ladies—poor women—trapped inside pastel pantsuits, kissing babies and planting trees. There is nothing in that. If that is the greatest that I can aspire to, I would rather die.” She motioned passionately, her eyes burning. “I hate politics. The Americans simply elect whoever they think makes the best speeches and looks prettiest on television. They don’t even care that much. Politicians fight and play theatre just to cater to the crowds. It’s empty, it’s a charade. Better if a king were in power, if we could get rid of the theatre. Close the curtain already. Make laws, make them quickly, don’t let the people decide which laws they want. The people have no idea. They are uneducated, entitled, materialistic, selfishly pursuing their own interests, oblivious to that of their neighbors. They are godless, the Americans—lacking unity and moral code. And you want the people to rule? Such theatre. And now you want to be an actor, and you want me to support this ridiculous charade?”
Her husband looked at her coldly.
“You know, the twentieth century was ruined by dictators who made those same arguments. Yes—our country is not perfect—but democracy is a hell of a lot better than anything else. I can’t believe you would say this. I really can’t believe it. I can’t believe you actually think that. But then again, you do have a strain of the crazy in your blood.” He took a sip, watching her.
Adela’s eyes narrowed.
“My mother is not to be brought into the conversation.”
“Democracy is the fairest system, everyone knows it,” replied Gilman. “I hope that you will know enough to hold your tongue on the campaign trail. Otherwise there might be a leak to the media about how your mother died in a mental institution.” He turned to ascend the steps.
“I’ll accuse you of domestic abuse,” shot back Adela, her cheeks flushed.
She stood there, beautiful, angry, and her husband turned back to her, but did not notice the flashing of her eyes or the way her lips were pressed together, because he never really paid great attention to details, especially when he had something else on his mind, which was often.
Adela threw back her shoulders.
“I’ll accuse you of domestic abuse. Tell me, Mr. Gilman, just how you expect to win when I do that.”
“In the game of poker,” said Gilman, descending the stairs and stopping at the bottom, “there is one goal. To not reveal your tell. You do everything possible to keep your cards a secret, and not only that, but to conceal your reaction to those cards.”
“I hate poker.”
“Well that’s excellent, because you’re no good at it. You’ve just revealed your hand. You see, Adela,” continued Gilman, smiling. “You know nothing. Go ahead, leave me,” he mocked, fluttering his hand dismissively. “The minute you file those divorce papers, the minute you open your mouth to utter domestic abuse, I’ll paint you as the psychopath you really are, weak, childish, evil, unable to cope with the pressure of public life. Your mother--that story you buried about her death—that story may suddenly be found again--by accident, of course--oh, the journalists are foaming at the bit to capture stories like these. They’ll eat you up, chew you in the molars, and spit you out like an unsavory bite. Your little story about domestic abuse? Discredited, and on top of that, they will skewer you as the insane person you are. You stupid woman, I’ll tell you one last time--believe me when I say it--you will support me, and you will wear the dresses that your aides give you, and will put on your
mascara and your lipstick and your diamonds, and you will talk about me and say what a great governor I will be, and then, when I win, you will smile by my side.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Actually,” Adela continued in a cool tone, “it doesn’t surprise me that you want to insert yourself into political theater. You’ve always cared far too much about what people think of you, anyway. This is just the next popularity contest for you. You’ll never be happy enough, nothing is ever enough for you. And so you strive for power and you try to make everyone else miserable so you can feel better about yourself.”
“You are always so obsessed with your interpretation of my feelings. You embarrass yourself with such an idiotic statement.”
“You embarrass yourself by being an idiot,” she returned.
He smiled condescendingly and took a deep breath as if about to speak to a pestering child.
“Get it all out now, because once we hit the campaign trail, I will expect you to behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
She stood on the floor, her eyes flashing.
A new expression came onto the face of her husband, and a cold look crept into his eyes that Adela had never before seen. It was a chilling look, one that worked its way into Adela’s bones even as she stood there. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and a sudden apprehension filled her mind.
Gilman stepped quietly down the stair and approached her. Reaching out, he touched the soft spot of her temple, and ran his index finger down her cheek to her chin. Her heart quickened but she stood still as a stone. Her eyes took in the cruelty of his visage, and her throat tightened.
“Such a beautiful face,” he said softly.
There was something left unsaid in his words, and she knew it. His face was not six inches from hers, and near imperceptible beads of sweat began to form on her forehead.