by Mark Spivak
“Kristin, do we know the identity of the temporary worker?”
“No we don’t. There are reports that he was an undocumented immigrant from El Salvador, but those reports have yet to be substantiated. The Secret Service has him in custody pending an investigation.”
“So how serious was this? Do we have any idea whether the Vice President was actually in any danger?”
“Not yet, and of course Vice President Bassen himself is playing the incident down. His normally sunny and upbeat nature wasn’t dampened . He refused to leave the restaurant after the man was apprehended, saying that he didn’t mind waiting for food when he was surrounded by friends. As you know, he prides himself in being a regular guy from a working-class background, so he was in his element here.”
“Was his visit announced in advance, Kristin?”
“It had been on his schedule for several days, which of course raises more concerns on the part of the Secret Service. At this point they’re not sure if the incident was part of a planned plot against the Vice President or simply a misunderstanding of some sort.”
“What does the thinking seem to be on the part of the Secret Service at this point?”
“They’re not commenting, Kurt, but of course it’s part of their job description to run down every possible facet of a situation like this. I’m sure they’ll do an intense investigation, but it may be a while before we have any official comment.”
“What’s all that commotion in the background?”
“The Hazmat truck has arrived to take possession of the trash can, Kurt. So very shortly, you’ll see the men in their protective suits enter the kitchen through the rear of the building and take possession of the evidence.”
“And the Vice President is still inside?”
“As far as we know, he’s enjoying some tacos, sipping iced tea and conversing with the locals. None of this seems to have fazed him in the least.”
“Well, this is an extraordinary development, and I’m sure you’ll keep us posted on the details as they emerge.”
“Of course. We anticipate that Vice President Bassen will emerge from the restaurant in about twenty minutes or so, and he may or may not have any comment on the situation at that time.”
“Thank you, Kristin.” The screen faded back to CNN headquarters in Atlanta. “That was Kristin Ward, our reporter on the ground in Southeast Washington, D.C., covering a breaking story about a security breach and possible attempt on the life of Vice President Curt Bassen.”
“You fucking idiot,” said Charles Gardiner. “Congratulations on botching the job of the century.”
“Cut me some slack, boss,” whined Butch Watson. “We had it all set up, which you know wasn’t easy. Things just misfired at the last minute.”
“I’d say so. Did it ever occur to anyone to tell this guy not to open the envelope in front of everybody in the kitchen? Why not just put a sign on him telling people he was there to poison the Vice President?”
“Next time, we’ll recruit a chemical engineer from M.I.T. who has CIA experience.”
“Very funny. Speaking of which, where the hell did you get this guy from?”
“He was a recently arrived illegal who had worked as a short order cook in Honduras.”
“I thought it was El Salvador. That’s what they said on CNN.”
“What’s the difference? He was poor and desperate, so he salivated when we offered him a bag of money for the job. We had to forge some papers to get him registered with the temp agency.”
“You think he’ll talk?”
“Not a chance. He never even knew our names. The most he could say is that two guys offered him a bundle of cash to dump the stuff in Bassen’s food.”
“He’ll give descriptions to a sketch artist, I’m sure.”
“We left D.C. that morning, so they can turn the town upside down looking for us if they want to.”
“Well, stay in touch with him. Make sure he gets the money, or at least some of it.”
“Seriously?”
“Do I sound like I’m joking? We want this guy to keep his mouth shut.”
“I’ll make sure that happens.”
“Please do,” said Gardiner. “Because if he starts talking, you’re the one who’ll get hung out to dry.”
Chapter 23
“Damn,” said ‘Bull’ Caldwell. “We’re supposed to be meetin’ once a month, and it hasn’t even been three weeks. This had better be good, Chet. I’m getting’ awfully tired of pizza.”
“Don’t start whining about Morton’s again,” said Bob Insfield, “or I’ll order a double porterhouse and club you over the head with it.”
“Thanks for coming, guys,” said Chet Wallko. “I know it was short notice, and I appreciate it. And yes, I can promise that this will be worth everybody’s time.”
“Let’s have it,” said Moscone.
“Well, we’ve been getting together like this for two or three years now, and it’s unusual when all of us are in agreement on an issue. But one thing we seem to be unanimous on is our opposition to the Democracy Unchained decision. I think we all believe it’s been a catastrophe for the electoral process, even though those consequences might have been unintended.”
“That’s only ‘cause none of us is on the mega donor list,” chuckled Caldwell. “If we were getting’ millions from people like the Hafts, we’d think the Supremes were a bunch of geniuses.”
“As a matter of fact,” continued Wallko, “one of the Justices doesn’t think he’s quite as much of a genius anymore. I can’t reveal who it is, but a member of the majority is having serious second thoughts about his vote in the case.”
“Well, let’s see,” mused Carlton Bridges. “It wouldn’t be any of the four conservatives, so who does that leave?”
“It doesn’t matter. But dissatisfaction with the decision has reached the point where they’re actually looking for a test case to raise the issue again, in the hope of getting it reversed.”
“Are they making any progress?” asked Bridges.
“Not really. There doesn’t seem to be a case in the appellate pipeline right at the moment that is substantial enough to stand up.”
“Probably doesn’t matter,” said Moscone. “I was a prosecutor, and I can tell you that it would take forever. Even if they had the right case, it would take years to work its way through the system. These things move at a glacial pace.”
“Here’s the point,” said Wallko. “I think we may have hit on an alternative method of getting the situation reversed.”
He passed out copies of the U.S. Constitution to his eight Senate colleagues.
“Here’s that pesky document again,” said Caldwell.
“I want to call your attention to the First Amendment: ”Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,” he read, “or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
There was nearly thirty seconds of silence.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Insfield asked finally.
“Yep,” smiled Wallko. “The text mentions nothing about the courts. Congress is the only body that has standing in these matters. Fellas, Democracy Unchained was unconstitutional.”
“Shitfire,” said Caldwell.
“Here you go.” He picked up the pile of manila envelopes on the coffee table. “Take one and pass them around. Inside these packets are a slew of opinions from some of the top legal scholars in the country. They all seem to agree that Congress has jurisdiction in this case. And these guys aren’t ambulance-chasers—the statements come from some of the top appellate lawyers around, not to mention the deans of the law schools at places like Harvard and Stanford.”
“Come on, Chet,” said Bridges. “You can’t be serious about this. What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that we grow some balls for once in our lives. Let’s pass legislation that overturns all the major provisions of Democracy Unchained. My office will draft it, and all of you can sign on as co-sponsors.”
“The conservatives on the Court will go nuts,” said Insfield. “Don’t you think those guys will try to concoct some way to rule on the bill?”
Wallko smiled. “You know, those same guys believe the Constitution should be taken literally—word for word, exactly as the founders wrote it. That’s what they’ve been saying for years, so we’d just be calling their bluff.”
“How the hell you think you’re gonna get this thing passed?” asked Caldwell.
“We can get it done if we lobby hard enough on it. And there aren’t more than a handful of Senators who have benefited from the mega donors, so we have a good start.”
“Just a second,” said Moscone. “You know very well this has to originate in the House.”
“They can take our bill as a model.”
“It’s a different scenario over there, Chet. As you know. You’ve got a few dozen Congressmen who received huge donations on one side or another, not to mention a Republican majority.”
“It’s not going to be easy, but it can be done. I’ll personally sound out the Speaker on this. But for once, why don’t we do what we’re supposed to do—represent the interests of the poor schmucks who sent us here, the people whose voices are being drowned out by billionaires like the Hafts.” He looked around his living room. “Well? Are you guys in?”
One by one, they all nodded assent.
“Mr. Smith?” asked the female voice. “I have a call from Kevin Lapham for you, sir.”
“Smith,” snorted Charles Gardiner. “Yeah, that’s me. Put him on, please.”
“Hello, John,” said Lapham.
“Can’t make your own phone calls now? What’s up with that?”
“I’m on the Gulfstream. And I need to give my assistant something to do, so she feels useful as well as beautiful.”
“So what can I do for you today?”
“I received a call from Sheldon Haft. It seems he’s quite perturbed.”
“About what?”
“He kept talking about Mexican food. I had the sense that maybe something upset his stomach.”
“Give me a break. I was just following orders.”
“Hold on a moment, Mr. Smith.” Gardiner listened to the crackling over the satellite phone connection. “Okay,” said Lapham. “I told her to go the bathroom and touch up her makeup.”
“Make sure she puts her diaphragm in.”
“Very funny. You know exactly why I’m calling. What the hell were you thinking?”
“You told me you wanted the guy removed from office.”
“And I explicitly told you not to try and take him out. Did we have a misfire in communication?”
“Not at all. It’s very simple: you give me the mission, and I figure out how to execute it. So to speak. I don’t tell you how to run your business, do I?”
“Have you lost your mind? You can’t kill a sitting Vice President.”
“Why the hell not? They killed Kennedy, and he was President at the time. And they got away with it, too.”
“Those were different times.”
“If everything had gone according to plan, it would have looked like he died from natural causes. The stuff we were using couldn’t be traced, unless you knew to look for it.”
“But everything didn’t go according to plan, did it? You hired some brainless illegal who screwed up the job and brought half the Secret Service down on him. You’d better hope he doesn’t talk.”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
“Here’s the point: we want the guy removed from the picture, but you’ll have to take a different approach.”
“I’m way ahead of you. Even as we speak, Plan B is being developed.”
“And no rough stuff this time. I don’t need Sheldon chewing my ass.”
“You’ve always told me he didn’t know I existed. Or my crew, for that matter.”
“He doesn’t. But believe it or not, he’s not stupid. He tells me he wants Bassen out of the way, and a month later some halfwit tries to poison the guy in front of a dozen witnesses. You don’t have to be a business mogul to figure that out.”
“Well, I’ll admit it wasn’t our finest hour. But don’t worry. Next time around, we’ll have it thought out much more carefully. And I can promise you that the VP himself won’t be threatened. I know what I’m doing.”
“Your first fuckup has already cost us a fortune.”
“No more than a few hours’ worth of jet time, I’m sure. And I doubt seriously that your bosses are eating out of dumpsters, either. But I’ll get it handled.”
“I hope so.” He paused. “She’s coming back from the restroom now, so I’m going to ring off.”
“Glad to hear it—stress is no good for a man in your situation. Go have some fun.”
Chapter 24
On April 9, the Angels of Democracy launched Operation Liberate America. The initial phase rolled out north and east of the San Diego-Tijuana line, where 212 agents were deployed to assist the U.S Border Patrol.
Progress was slow at first. During the training phase, Jasper Marshall and Joe Guthrie had continually stressed that the agents were not police and had no official powers of arrest and detention, although they were empowered as citizens to stop a crime in progress. As a result, the Angels of Democracy at first restricted themselves to alerting the Border Patrol to the presence of illegal crossings. By the time the law arrived, the immigrants had usually fled.
As time passed, the Angels of Democracy realized an interesting fact: to the immigrants crossing into the U.S., they were virtually indistinguishable from the Border Patrol. They drove official-looking vehicles, they wore uniforms, and they carried themselves with an air of power and assurance. If they asserted themselves, more often than not the immigrants would give themselves up. Even if they resisted or tried to escape, it frequently took no more than a harsh command to detain them until the authorities arrived.
At the end of the first month, more than 1,000 illegal immigrants were in custody. The initial success of the program was quickly followed by deployments in Nogales, El Paso, Laredo and Brownsville. By the end of May, nearly 12,000 offenders had been arrested. The immigrants were transferred to local county jails in their jurisdictions as they awaited deportation by the government.
Almost without exception, the county jails were already overcrowded before the immigrants arrived—largely because many non-violent offenders had been transferred there to alleviate the lack of space in federal prisons. In the areas where the Angels of Democracy operated, it was not unusual to find four or five inmates crammed into cells designed to hold a pair of prisoners. In many of the jails, immigrants awaiting deportation organized into gangs. Fights between Hispanic and White detainees became epidemic, and the jails lacked enough personnel to control them.
On June 12, the incident occurred that caused the entire problem to go viral on a national level: the Baloney Sandwich Murder.
Life And Death On White, Hold The Mayo
By Peter Schoenfeld
June 16: Special to the Washington Post
José Cortes, an immigrant from Baja, Mexico, has died at a hospital near the San Diego County Jail.
The unofficial cause of death was refusing to give up his baloney sandwich.
Cortes, 28, illegally crossed into the United States several weeks ago near Tijuana. He was arrested by the U.S. Border Patrol after being detained by agents of the Angels of Democracy, a shadowy group assisting the government in matters of border security. Cortes was booked and detained at the San Diego
County Jail, where he shared a cell designed to hold two prisoners. His cell actually housed five other inmates—two Hispanic immigrants, three African Americans and one Caucasian.
According to county officials, an argument broke out one day during lunch, when the inmates had each been given two baloney sandwiches. Several of his cellmates attempted to take the sandwiches from Cortes, who was hungry. When he refused, an argument ensued that quickly escalated into a fight, and Cortes was stabbed several times with a “shiv” (a homemade prison knife honed to a razor-sharp edge).
Cortes was taken to the jail’s infirmary where he received treatment for his wounds. His condition became worse, and an infection set in. After he slipped into a coma, he was transferred to a local hospital, where he died yesterday from septic shock. For their part, the people in charge simply claim to be overwhelmed.
“We just don’t have the facilities to deal with serious injuries,” said one jail official, speaking on condition of anonymity. “Yes, we have an infirmary, but it’s understaffed—we only have a doctor on call. We do our best to deal with situations as they come up, but we don’t have the funds to do the job we want to do and should do.”
His explanation is falling short in a number of places. The incident has already caused outrage among public watchdog groups; Rep. Peter Duncan (R-CA), who represents most of San Diego County in California’s 52nd Congressional District, has called for an investigation.
“This situation is unacceptable in the United States of America,” said Duncan, “and it raises some disturbing questions. Overcrowding in our jails and prisons has been an endemic problem for some time, but it’s a problem that has grown drastically worse in recent months. I’d like to know why large and unprecedented numbers of immigrants are suddenly flooding our correctional system. I’d also like to know more about the Angels of Democracy.”
Rep. Duncan is not alone. Local populations here in San Diego, as well as in four or five jurisdictions in Texas, have noticed the appearance of the Angels of Democracy. Little is known about the group beyond their official mission statement: “To function as Good Samaritans and assist law enforcement to reach a better state of safety and security for our families, neighbors and friends.”