by Anna Dove
“I’m on your side,” said the Senator, folding his hands in front of him. “I truly am. I was down in that bunker and I know that this was an inside job. I’m trying to bring the guilty parties out here. Get them to pay up.”
“This isn’t just a political hit job on your presidential opponent?”
“I haven’t yet mentioned her. You bring her up, not me.”
Jack was quiet.
“Besides,” said the Senator, leaning forward, “I’m not that cruel. A political hit job is a scandal, sexual or financial. I wouldn’t have her killed, which is what will happen to every person who is convicted in this.”
“Well, I don’t know you,” said Jack.
“Alright,” said the Senator, leaning back again. “Let’s get to know each other. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know how I can trust you.”
“Jack, I can’t persuade you to trust me in five minutes. I can tell you about all the honorable things I’ve done and people I’ve helped but it won’t matter. However, if you trust Haley, you can trust me, because Haley trusts me and knows me. I was the person she called after she found out about this attack.”
“And what do you want out of all of this? The presidency?”
“I want retribution for all of this. I want the guilty parties to rot in hell. But I will do this the right way. I won’t stoop to the level of abusing the law or manipulating the system to form a revolution against Adela Gilman. Although I could. But I won’t. This is a democracy and I believe that now that everything else has been ripped apart, we must hold tight to the system that was developed three hundred years ago. I believe it is so important that I would willingly risk my own life in order to try to preserve it. Adela Gilman, Snyder Reed, and everyone else involved--members of the NSA, military officials--they have tried to destroy this country. I am trying to save it, and I am asking for you to help me.”
A few moments passed. The Senator’s brow was furrowed in deep earnesty.
Jack slowly raised his chin and took a breath.
“I don’t know how it’ll help you, but yes it’s true. I was on Baker Island.”
“You saw them building the bomb, you saw the Chief of Staff come inspect operations, and you were paid fifteen thousand dollars per month by someone in the Chief of Staff’s office, when you returned to the mainland, which you used to drink?”
“Yes,” said Jack.
“Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot to spend on alcohol.”
“Not when you’re drinking a bottle every day of the good stuff. I bought some food too, occasionally some clothes, or hotel nights if it was freezing.”
“Do you have records of this spending?”
“No. Online banking, records are gone.”
The Senator nodded.
“How detailed of a memory do you have?”
“Extremely detailed.”
“And none of this is false? You aren’t lying about any of it?”
Jack shook his head. “What would be my motivation to tell you this if it weren’t true,” he asked. “I’m somewhat incriminating myself here. I’m no legal expert, but I have a feeling that I’m somewhat culpable.”
“You are culpable to a point,” agreed the Senator. “Or rather, it could be argued that you are. Which makes what I’m about to ask you so very difficult.”
“What is it?”
“Well,” said the Senator, “I’d like you to turn yourself in as a defense witness to Mr. Gilman’s trial on the twelfth.”
Jack said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on the Senator’s. A few long seconds passed; a candle flickered.
“I...can’t do that,” said Jack.
The Senator stood up slowly, and walked to the back of his chair, leaning forward on it to face Jack again.
“My friend, an innocent man is accused of orchestrating the murder of two hundred million individuals, an unprecedented event and an equally unprecedented accusation.” he said.
“I am aware.”
“And you have testimony that will save him and that will help incriminate the guilty party.”
“I am also aware.”
The Senator nodded. “You’re afraid they’ll get back at you, then.”
Jack smiled.
“I have never done what is right simply for the sake of it being right, and I’ve never done what is good simply for the sake of it being good. I don’t believe morality to be compelling. There is neither true right nor true wrong. Morality is relative--who’s to say what is right, or wrong? I don’t believe in justice, I don’t believe in it at all. A person must do what is necessary to take care of themselves. It would not be in my best interests to testify. They’ll find me, and they’ll kill me,” he answered very matter-of-fact.
“I am sure, when you were in the Marines, that you did heroic things that were not in your own interest of self-preservation.”
“It was my job.”
“Yes, serving your country was your job - and this is no different. Each of us has the responsibility to do what we can for the greater good.”
“I don’t believe in the greater good. The hell does that even mean. What does good even mean. Everyone has a different idea of what good is.”
“So you don’t believe in absolute morality, and that’s your justification?”
“Sure, that and a dash of real cowardice,” said Jack, leaning back comfortably, a man at ease with his own reason. “I could talk in circles about why I don’t believe in morality and all that high minded stuff, but when it comes down to it I’m also aware that I’m not a perfect person and as such, I’m susceptible to my own fears and flaws.”
“None of us are perfect, Jack,” said the Senator. “That’s irrelevant. You make an absolute statement when you declare ‘there is neither true right nor true wrong’; the very nature of your statement contradicts itself. If nothing is right or wrong, then how do you know your claim of moral relativity is right?”
Jack pondered this.
“I guess that’s a fair point,” he conceded after a minute, his eyes on the empty fireplace. “But, Senator, you can argue most compellingly and rationally, and I’d probably end up being persuaded by you, but still, I can’t testify. You’re asking me to give up everything I have left, my whole life. I’ve never had much before now. I’ve lived all over the earth like a wandering gypsy, I’ve killed men and women and children, I’ve had my brushes with Death himself, and now I’ve finally got the one thing that makes my life worth living. Prior to now, I just felt like I was a clump of cells, introduced into this world for no particular reason, hurtling towards the end of my life--and now, for the first time, I’ve found a reason. Why would I give it up now?”
“And what are you referring to, this thing that makes life worth living?”
“Well, I can’t tell you or I might lose it. It’s too secret and too personal. I’ve already lost it once. I won’t lose it again.”
The Senator nodded, and his gaze dropped to his clasped hands. He cleared his throat.
“I’m not trying to discredit you or your life, or use you,” he said, raising his eyes to Jack. “Your testimony has to come uncoerced--I will not force your hand to anything. At all. But,” continued the Senator, “I believe that you are better than what you think. True peace, true hope, true satisfaction does not come from self-preservation but rather from a life lived in willing service to others. Do I know, now that I have announced my candidacy for president, that I might be assassinated along the way? Of course. I thought about it, I understand that it is a real possibility. But, there is something greater than that fear, which is the will to rescue this country from the clutches of the monster that has somehow caught it so tightly. I want to live in service to this country and this people. These are the stakes, my friend. Would I rather live safely with my wife and children, keep my comfortable government seat, live out the rest of my years like I have lived the past ones? Of course. But, I cannot do that. I cannot stand down while everythi
ng that I believe in crumbles around me. And you, Jack, you can stand with me. I believe that you can, that you are much better and braver than you believe.”
“I’m glad you think that,” said Jack after a moment, “but the problem is, I don’t.”
25. The Trial
“A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.”
― Mark Twain
On 333 Constitution Avenue, NW, sat the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. The case of Gilman vs. United States was scheduled to be heard before the Honorable Larry Hammond, a wizened, wiry old man whose face bore an uncanny resemblance to a prune.
The morning of the 12th, Mr. Gilman was transported to the courthouse in an armored, battery-powered vehicle borrowed by the prison from the Department of Defense. Arriving before dawn, they found a large crowd already waiting, and it took three hours before the police had cleared a quarter-mile radius to be able to bring in the prisoner safely to the courthouse.
Due to the nature of the case, there was to be no jury and no public attendance, by order of the Attorney General. As Mr. Gilman walked into the courtroom surrounded by a bevy of officers, he found it to be quite empty save for the clerk in the corner. He was directed to his seat and sat down without a word.
Thirty-five charges against him, seventeen of these capital crimes. Using a weapon of mass destruction resulting in death. Destruction of aircraft, motor vehicles, or related facilities resulting in death. Murder of a member of Congress, an important executive official, or a Supreme Court Justice. Death resulting from offenses involving transportation of explosives, destruction of government property, or destruction of property related to foreign or interstate commerce. Genocide. First degree murder. Treason. The list continued.
As Mr. Gilman sat there, he felt no emotion. It was as if he was only there in body; his spirit had long since decided to abandon him. He sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes fixed on the steel bands around his wrists. His hair had grown longer than normal, and a scruffy beard covered his upper neck and jaw.
Presently others began to file into the room; the Attorney General, who seated himself a few rows back, the prosecuting attorney, who began to organize his paperwork, and the only federal public defender who would agree to take the case, Martin Stone, representing Mr. Gilman. Mr. Stone was a short, fat, doggedly constitutional man who believed in due process no matter the case. Mr. Stone tended to take the impossible cases; his record was poor because he always picked the losing cases, favoring the obvious criminals, the despised deplorables, in a concerted attempt to provide due process to those who everyone else hated.
Mr. Stone greeted Mr. Gilman brusquely and sat down beside him while the jacket buttons struggled to contain his corpulence. His forehead was sweaty and red.
“This city is a nightmare,” said Mr. Stone, with an expletive. “Can’t move or breathe without someone asking questions.”
Mr. Gilman said nothing but kept his eyes on his hands.
The witnesses filed in, Snyder Reed leading the way, followed by Adela and a variety of other individuals. Mr. Gilman sensed their presence but did not look up. He sat there, more dead than alive, as the Honorable Larry M. Hammond entered, and Mr. Gilman felt Mr. Stone jerking on his elbow until he stood, and then Judge Hammond waved them all to sit, which they did.
“The United States District Court for the District of Columbia is now in session, with the Honorable Larry M. Hammond presiding” droned the clerk, an old woman with angular glasses. “The date is October the twelfth, two thousand and thirty three. The case of United States vs Gilman, magistrate number 33-1892, will now be heard. Will counsel please identify themselves for the record.”
Counsel did so amongst a rustling of papers.
“Mr. Gilman, I am Magistrate Larry Hammond,” began the latter in a nasally tone, after Counsel was finished. “This hearing is your initial appearance before the Court. We are here today because you have been charged in a federal criminal complaint. Now, at this hearing I will advise you of your constitutional and legal rights. I will tell you about the charges against you and the penalties that the Court could impose if you are found guilty.” The judge then proceeded to detail the charges, and Mr. Gilman sat quietly. He knew that all eyes rested on him, and he did not care.
“...You have the right under the Constitution of the United States to remain silent. Any statement made by you may be used against you in court, and you have the right not to have your own words used against you. You may consult with your attorney prior to any questioning, and you may have the attorney present during questioning...”
The words coming from the mouth of the Honorable Larry M. Hammond faded into a blur of noises for Mr. Gilman. He heard his heartbeat in his own ears, a slow rhythm. He wondered how many more heartbeats he would have to himself before they were taken from him.
Counsel gave their respective opening arguments, while the papers fluttered and rustled.
“...The defendant will now call forward any witnesses.”
Mr. Stone stood.
“Your honor, the defense moves to dismiss the case, given that the burden of proof has not been met.”
“I understand that you had to do that, but in no way will I consider that request,” said the judge. “Proceed with your witnesses, if there are any, although you have indicated to the court that there are none.”
Mr. Stone then confirmed that there were no witnesses for the defendant. Although Elizabeth had spoken to Mr. Stone in advance and offered to witness to the phone conversation she overheard, Mr. Stone had decided that her testimony would not be credible due to Elizabeth’s intoxicated state at the time of the gala.
The judge nodded, sighed, and asked for the prosecutor’s witnesses. There were five: Snyder Reed, Adela Gilman, and three DOD representatives.
“First, I would like to call forward Mrs. Adela Gilman,” stated the prosecuting attorney, a man by the name of Norman Rashid.
Adela stood and stepped to the witness box, her dress flattering her tall figure. She sat down and looked at the attorney with calm poise, and was sworn in. The truth, the whole truth and (she raised her eyes reverently to heaven) nothing but the truth.
“Mrs. Gilman, for the record, how do you know this man?” (pointing at Mr. Gilman).
“We were married.” Her voice was as calm as her disposition.
“And when he became president, was your marriage a happy one?”
“No.”
“And why was that?”
“He had one focus--power.”
“Did he treat you well?”
“No.”
There were no ‘objections, your Honor, irrelevant’, and so Rashid continued in his line of questioning.
“What do you mean by that?”
“All he cared about was winning. During the re-election, he didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep, all he did was watch the polls. He paid no attention to me. He told me many times that he wanted to rule the country, not represent it, that the Americans were a pathetic people. His statements led me to believe that he was very un-American, and I couldn’t understand why he would want to be president, until I realized that he just wanted the power.”
“Did this make you worried for the American people?”
“Sure, yes it did. But I was in no position to do anything.”
“So you believe that he orchestrated this attack?”
“Yes, I do,” said Adela, without looking at her ex-husband.
“And why is that?”
“He knew that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his agenda--there were too many people in the way. The Senate was against him, and half of the House hated him too. He had no other choice. I also overheard him, in late March, talking to someone about ‘enacting the plan of last resort’ and he mentioned Chimaugua Bunker too.”
“Where were you when you heard this?”
“I was in my bedroom, and he was talking on the phone one room over. I got up and
listened because I thought it sounded suspicious.”
“Is Chimaugua Bunker where top personnel are evacuated to in case of nuclear emergency?”
“Yes.”
“And were you both evacuated there?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gilman,” said Rashid, and Adela returned to her seat with every eye on her.
“Next, I would like to call forward Mr. Reed,” said Rashid, and the former chief of staff took the witness’ seat and was sworn in, adding a heartfelt ‘so help me God’ to humbly broadcast his moral superiority.
“Mr. Reed, you were the president’s chief of staff while he was in office?”
“Yes.”
“And you also believe the president was responsible for the attack?”
“Yes, I know that he was.”
“How so?”
“I found the blueprints for the plan.”
“Where?”
“In the Resolute desk, the Oval Office.”
“Well that sounds pretty preposterous, sir. And obviously there is no video footage to back your claim, since all the electricity has been so conveniently zapped into space. Can you describe this finding of the blueprints, how and when you found them?”
“Of course, your honor,” said Reed, squirming a little. “The president was gone on a visit to China, and I had to get one of the pens that he kept in the desk, to give to a visitor. I opened the desk--this would have been in late March--and I saw a folder underneath the box of pens, halfway hidden. I felt something telling me to take it out, and I did, because I hadn’t seen it before, and everything that the President lays eyes on, so do I. I opened it and saw unintelligible data, so I made copies and took the duplicates and replaced the originals. Thank god I did. In a few days I had figured out --they are all included in your brief--what the data meant. It was the layout of the EMP plan. The bomb was constructed on Baker Island.”
“What did you do once you figured this out?”
“Nothing. I didn’t know who the president had on his side, and so I couldn’t trust the intelligence agencies or governmental departments. I just kept it to myself.”