“Jesus, these ads have inundated your news feed,” Andrea said. “Every other post is sponsored content trashing the emergency budget.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Rachel said. “This has to be a coordinated effort.”
Andrea got up and paced around the office, eyeing all the awards Rachel had received in her time in politics. Woman of the Year from the local Special Olympics for protecting their budget. A special commendation from the local food bank for securing an earmark they used to purchase a new warehouse.
“You like my awards?” asked Rachel.
“It’s an impressive collection,” Andrea said.
“Oh, please, sweetie,” said Rachel. “It’s all bullshit. These people gave me these awards for helping them get government money for whatever it was they wanted. You think these people really thought I was the top staffer on the Hill? Please.”
It looked impressive all the same. Andrea had never won so much as a raffle at her local Rotary club.
“You were saying,” Andrea said, returning to the original topic. “You wanted to go over the plan for today?”
“The Secret Service said these ads have been running all night on social media,” Rachel replied. “People are riled up. They’re expecting over ten thousand protesters to be on the Hill when we go up to testify. They’re worried about your safety and want to send an agent with us.”
“It’s bad enough I have to go on national television to explain to Congress and three hundred million Americans why their Social Security and Medicare benefits are about to disappear. And one million federal workers are about to be laid off. You’re saying my life is in danger?”
“Ah, don’t worry,” responded Rachel with a knowing smile. “Same thing happened to my old boss. You’re not a real politico until you’ve pissed off enough people that they take a vacation day to come spew venom at you. Welcome to the club, sweetie.” Rachel glanced at her watch. “Looks like it’s about time to go up to the hearing. You ready?”
“I think,” Andrea said, but she would have leaped at any excuse to postpone the hearing. I’m not cut out for public debate. The committee is going to eat me alive, the same way the Debt Rebel Gang did. And it’s all going to be on national television. They’re going to expose me to the world for the weakling I am.
“You’ll be fine.” Rachel offered an encouraging smile.
“I suppose. But my stomach’s a mess. I feel like I chased some Taco Bell with spoiled milk.”
Rachel was famous for finding humor in any situation. “When you get scared just try to imagine Mason in his underwear.”
Andrea chuckled at the way Rachel said “underwear” in her sweet southern drawl. “Geez, thanks for that,” Andrea said. “Just because my husband is a psychologist doesn’t mean I get therapy for free.”
They walked out of the EEOB to the parking spaces along West Executive Avenue. Rachel pointed toward a large, thick man in a dark business suit with a star-shaped lapel pin and sunglasses approaching them from the south end of West Executive Avenue.
“Here comes Jimmy now,” said Rachel.
“I take it Jimmy’s the Secret Service agent they’re sending? I see the little cord in his ear.”
Jimmy joined Andrea and Rachel on the sidewalk.
“Ms. Gartner, Ms. Samuels, I’m Agent Humphrey. You can call me Jimmy. I’ll be protecting you today.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Definitely feel better having you along. My car is over there.” Andrea pointed to her battered Toyota Camry.
“Jesus, Andrea, is that your car?” Rachel asked.
“Damn right it is. Just because the country can’t manage a budget doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“So we’re taking this relic up to the Hill?” Rachel said.
“I’m not going up there in a motorcade. We’re about to cut the medical benefits and Social Security benefits of millions of people and fire a million government employees. You think I’m going to take a limo up to the Hill? I may not be a politician, but even I’m not that tone deaf. Hop in.”
Andrea got behind the wheel. Jimmy took the passenger seat, and Rachel sat in the back.
As they made their way up Independence Avenue to the House side of the Capitol, Andrea could see a crowd blocking the street between the Capitol and the House office buildings in the distance. The shouting and chanting and drumming got louder as they approached.
By the time they reached the foot of Capitol Hill, Andrea realized the Capitol complex was swarming with angry protesters. It had to be at least double or triple the predicted ten thousand protesters. She could hear the cacophony of the protesters’ chants and shouts over the car’s engine. Jimmy’s head swiveled like a turret, clearly assessing the situation.
Andrea saw signs that called for her and President Murray to be hanged, shot, starved, denied food and medicine, and worse. Other signs read “Down with the Emergency Budget” and “Fire Andrea Gartner.” Twenty-four hours ago, no one even knew any of this was happening. The signs were too professional and there were too many of them. Something was up. The social media blitz. The preprinted signs. The Pripyat Consortium. It couldn’t be happenstance. Someone had to be orchestrating this whole show.
But she couldn’t focus on that now. Protesters were banging at her car. They were nearly surrounded when Jimmy grabbed the steering wheel, shoved Andrea into the back seat, and jumped into the driver’s seat. He quickly shifted the car into reverse and pulled out of the crowd.
“Put your heads down!” Jimmy shouted.
Andrea and Rachel wasted no time complying. Cracks and pops that sounded like gunfire filled the air. Clouds of tear gas enveloped the car. Thumps against the side of the car echoed through the passenger compartment.
“Rubber bullets,” said Jimmy. “It’s the Capitol Police. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, why would anyone be worried about flying rubber bullets?” Rachel muttered with her head buried on the floor.
Jimmy pulled the car out of the frothing mob, sped toward the waterfront on Maine Avenue, and pulled into a hidden underground tunnel.
“A secret entrance to the Capitol complex,” Jimmy said. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Andrea said.
“Of course, it is. We’re flat on the floor and can’t see a damned thing,” replied Rachel.
A quiet came over the car as it entered a dark tunnel. It provided a respite from the braying mob. Soon the car came to a stop and Jimmy helped Andrea and Rachel out.
“The Capitol’s secret underground garage,” said Jimmy. “There’s a special elevator we can use to get to the hearing room without facing any more crowds.”
“You okay, sweetie?” Rachel asked.
“I’m a little shaken,” Andrea said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“The mob can heckle all it wants, but it doesn’t matter.” Rachel put her arm around Andrea. “You’ve got mathematics on your side.”
“And the math always wins,” Andrea said. “Cold, remorseless, unrelenting math.”
“Exactly,” said Rachel. “Get in there and let those bastards know that if they don’t pass your budget, they’ll find out just how remorseless and unrelenting the math will be.”
Sitting at the witness table in the hearing room, finally free of the angry mob demanding her hide, Andrea felt a sense of déjà vu punch her in the gut.
It was the same room where she’d met the Debt Rebel Gang over a year ago. How much had happened in the year since! Her congressional campaign ending in failure. Her campaign work for Murray and his surprise election. Her improbable, nearly unfathomable rise to OMB director. And now the potentially catastrophic bond boycott.
Yet here she was, sitting in the very same chair at the very same table she’d sat at when she first met Mason and his Debt Rebel Gang. This time Rachel, now her deputy, sat behind her.
The members of the Appropriations Committee had already taken their seats on the dais. Mason, the chairman, wa
s in the middle, with Frank Palmer behind him and Congressman Stokely to his right.
Andrea sank further into her chair, shaken by the outside protesters and cowed by the angry gaze of the audience. She surveyed the members of the committee. Her Debt Rebel Gang nemeses were arrayed before her. There were Democrats, too, looking ready to tear her apart for her proposed spending cuts. Her nervousness began to give way to anger at the sight of the men responsible for bringing her into this harrowing scene.
Mason banged the gavel to start the hearing.
“Members of the committee, we’re here to deal with what the administration is claiming is an American debt crisis. President Murray now says, all of a sudden, a month into his presidency, he has to slash the budget. He’s killing defense, he’s violating our promises not to touch Social Security and Medicare, and he’s firing our public servants. He is destroying the American economy and national security over a crisis he manufactured. Director Gartner, you had better explain why you are doing this without so much as giving this committee a courtesy call.”
Andrea took a sip of water from the custom-made, private label “United States Congress” bottle. It annoyed her as much today as it had over a year ago. She thought back to Rachel’s pep talk after that miserable encounter. About how someone needed to bang a gong about the debt. But this time, the gallery was full and the klieg lights were blazing down on her.
“Mr. Chairman, as you know, I may be the OMB director now, but more than a year ago I sat before your Debt Rebel Gang pleading for your support. I sat at this very table and told you we faced a debt crisis. Unfortunately, the debt crisis I warned you about is here. Investors won’t buy our bonds. We can’t borrow money. We have to cut the budget whether we like it or not. In fact, we—”
“You are going to kill seniors, hollow out the military, and ruin the economy with your thoughtless, blunderbuss cuts,” Mason roared. “This so-called ‘emergency budget’ is heartless and cruel. If anyone had listened to me and my colleagues, we would have solved the debt problem a long time ago.”
Rachel’s hand gently landed on Andrea’s shoulder and she whispered something in her ear, but whatever Rachel said barely registered. Andrea loved Rachel, but people like her just didn’t understand. Rachel had gotten to be part of the game, tasted the power, enjoyed the spoils. People like Andrea weren’t like Mason or even Rachel. They were the little people, the people who played by the rules. Nothing pained Andrea more than to live in the shadow of power, to be in Washington but not of Washington.
Except, perhaps, when one of these Washington power brokers looked her in the eye and treated her like a rube. Mason had just made that mistake.
“Now, Congressman,” Andrea said, curling her mouth in a slight smirk. “Don’t insult my intelligence. Over a year ago, I sat in this very room and told you we had a debt problem and demanded you end our trillion-dollar deficits. You told me to get lost because I was ‘the Establishment.’”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Mason.
“Then you are a liar in addition to a Debt Rebel fraud,” Andrea spat in disgust.
“How dare you,” Mason bellowed. “I’m of a mind to hold you in contempt.”
“That would make it a two-way street, Congressman.” Andrea was feeling her oats. “I told you the day of reckoning would come, and I promised to point the bony finger of blame at you. Well, here we are and here it is.” She glowered and pointed at Mason. “Just be thankful the finger I’m pointing is my index finger and not a different finger.”
Murmurs from the audience filled the room. Andrea felt the gratification of revenge as she confronted the committee with its members’ own words. She’d seized the scepter of control from Mason’s grasp and was beating him with it.
“For once, I agree with my Republican colleagues,” Democrat Congressman Brad Powers said. “Your budget will kill the elderly and destroy the social safety net.”
“You should have thought of that when you spent trillions on infrastructure, expanded Medicaid, and gave away money for all sorts of green energy schemes,” Andrea replied firmly. “You Democrats have been no better than the Debt Rebels. Do you even know what money is? Money doesn’t just exist. The government and corporations and rich people aren’t bottomless pits of cash for your ideological hobbyhorses. There’s a limit to everything. You can hit the wall gently or drive into it at one hundred miles an hour. Whatever you do, the wall is there, and it’s not going to move.”
Frank Palmer, seated behind Mason, leaned over his shoulder and passed a note to him. Mason nodded and resumed his questioning.
“How come you had no warning that bond buyers might stop buying American bonds?” Mason asked. “It’s your job to know the market-borrowing conditions.”
Andrea couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How was anyone in the administration supposed to know the precise limit of the world’s tolerance for endless American borrowing? We’re not mind readers, Congressman.”
“President Murray is at the controls,” Congressman Stokely interrupted, as if trying to run interference for the clearly flummoxed Mason. “This is happening on his watch.”
“With all due respect, Congressman, he’s been in office for a month,” Andrea said, going in for the kill. “Look around you. Oil paintings. Custom water bottles with the logo of the United States Congress. Flat-panel television screens. Why are we buying all this stuff? There must be at least thirty staff members seated behind you. Why do you all need so many staff?”
The audience tittered, aghast. Andrea gathered herself, took a breath, and continued. “But Congressman Mason, you’re correct. President Murray is at the controls. That’s why we’re going to pass our emergency budget to cut the deficit and reduce the debt. If you don’t like it, I’m sorry. But you have only two options: pass this emergency budget or default on the debt.”
Mason glanced around at the other members of the committee, as if hoping for a lifeline. His palpable frustration fed Andrea’s confidence. She had the committee on its heels.
“If we pass this heartless emergency budget, people are going to die,” said Mason.
“You think I don’t know that?” Andrea shouted. “I know I’m taking away peoples’ jobs and health care. Every night I can feel the ulcer developing in my stomach. But we don’t have the money to pay for all the benefits we promised people. There’s nothing I can do about that. Either you do it my way or you figure out some other way to spend money we don’t have and no one will lend to us.”
“If we don’t pass your budget, Ms. Gartner, you’ll have to come up with something else,” Congressman Stokely said.
“No, if you don’t pass our budget, you will have to come up with something else or we default,” Andrea said, now in full command of the room. “If you don’t pass my emergency budget, you can come up with your own balanced budget, just like you said you always wanted to. Revenue bills are supposed to start in the House under the Constitution, and I know you are the truest constitutional conservatives in America.”
Suppressed guffaws rose from the audience at Andrea’s sarcastic jibe.
Mason and the rest of the committee looked dumbfounded.
“Any more questions? Because I have work to do.” Andrea shoved the microphone away with authority.
Mason shot a look of confusion to Frank Palmer, who shrugged his shoulders. Mason scratched his head and then turned back to his microphone. “Unless anyone objects, this hearing is adjourned.”
No one objected. The committee members sat in stunned silence.
Andrea shoved herself away from the table and strutted out of the room, daring the gallery to touch her.
Jimmy and Rachel hurried behind her as they left the hearing room. The people in the gallery had come ready to destroy Andrea but were left looking at one another in silent bewilderment as she departed.
It seemed that everyone on the Hill had been watching the hearing. Mason had tried to kill the emergency budget, bu
t after Andrea kicked his ass publicly, no one was listening to him. One day after the hearing, the emergency budget passed by huge margins, and an hour later it was on President Murray’s desk to sign into law.
Default averted. Mission accomplished.
But it only took a day for the bushels of angry correspondence to arrive at OMB after the emergency budget’s passage. Not long after, Andrea stopped reading opinion polls about how Americans felt about the emergency budget. Their letters were telling her directly.
One of the messages in the first batch had been comprised entirely of letters cut from magazines, serial killer-style, that read, “Your budget is killing us, but there are millions of us and only one of you.” After reading it, Andrea asked Rachel to screen the incoming mail. Even without death threats, the letters told a frightening tale.
My son doesn’t have his school lunch anymore.
I lost my job and my house because of your budget.
I’m eighty years old and can’t even buy groceries without my Social Security check.
Your budget took away my mother’s cancer drugs. You killed her.
This morning—a full month after the emergency budget went into effect and two months after her hearing with the House Appropriations Committee—was no different. Andrea’s shoulders slumped when she entered her office and saw the latest pile of mail on her desk. She shoved it off her desk, put her elbows on the table, and rested her head in her hands.
Just then Andrea’s personal cell phone rang. A photo of Andrea’s mother appeared on the phone’s display.
“Andrea?” said the voice on the other end.
“Mamie, is that you?” Andrea asked. As a toddler, Andrea couldn’t pronounce “mommy”; it came out “Mamie” and the name stuck.
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