The Return of Elliott Eastman

by Ryan, Ignatius

  “Same old Steph, out in front of everybody and thinking outside the box. I think it’s terrific.”

  “Careful there Mr. Eastman. I’m reaching that point where using my name and old in the same sentence can get you in real trouble.”

  “Sorry, but I think considering the fact that I’m twenty years your senior should get me off the hook.”

  Stephanie laughed. “I’ll let it go this time, but you know it never felt that way.”

  “What never felt what way?”

  “It never felt like you were that much older than I am.”

  “I know. We were a perfect fit,” Elliott replied softly.

  “Do you know when you might be out to D.C. next?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’d really like to see you Elliott.”

  “I know.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d flown in twice to check on Eddie and James.

  They fell silent, each waiting for the other to speak. When the silence began to grow awkward Stephanie said, “Do you still have the same e-mail address? I’ll send you the contact information for both of these men just in case you need it.”

  “It’s still the same.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as he set the phone down it rang again.

  “Elliott? Archie here. Eddie and James have been released. They were able to save James’ eye, thank God. I suggested they head for your ranch to rest up, but they would have none of it. They’re worried they might be followed and they want a piece of the guys that jumped them. I was able to do some creative hacking and I got a clear shot of the vehicle that cut them off. The video shows them being manhandled into the back of a black Escalade. I got a clean read of the license plate off a traffic light video cam. It’s registered to one Reginald Soro who, get this, works as a private detective. We could talk with him and see who hired him.”

  Elliott was quiet, thinking for a moment. “Tell Eddie and James they are off duty for now. They will be followed. Get two new faces and see if they can track down Soro. I want to know who paid for the hit on Eddie and James. I want to know if there is a new player in the game.”

  “I’ll get Jim Buckner and Gordon Harrison on it. They’re good at the special ops stuff.”

  “Good.”

  Elliott stood on shaky legs and turned up the sound on C-SPAN so he could hear it in the bathroom. He went to shave and make himself presentable to the doctors administering the chemo today. As he entered the bathroom he glanced in the mirror and said, “Hello, craggy face.”

  He paused, shaving blade in shaky hand, and studied the dark circles under his eyes as the water in the sink heated up. His hair had thinned to the point where he could see areas of his scalp he’d never seen before.

  ‘Damn chemo. I can’t see Stephanie looking like a concentration camp escapee,’ he thought. But he owed her some kind of explanation. He could hear the hurt in her voice today, and she’d done such a beautiful job, but he didn’t want her to know his life was numbered in weeks, maybe days. It was true he did long to see her, more than she would ever know, but the last thing he wanted to do was resurrect their feelings for one another and then leave her grieving after he was gone. He supposed he was taking the easy way out, but nothing about it felt easy.

  Setting the blade down he turned the water off and moved back out to the den where he put C-SPAN on mute and called Stephanie back.

  “Hi Steph. Hey, I’m sorry. I’m just buried. I’ve got forty men in the field right now. I promise when I’m coming to D.C. I’ll give you plenty of notice.”

  “I’d like to see the ranch again. It’s been a long time,” Stephanie said softly.

  Elliott actually considered the idea for a moment. They’d enjoyed some marvelous times here. “It’s just not a good idea right now, I’m sorry.”

  “I understand. Do what you have to do. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  The call was supposed to make him feel better, but it didn’t.

  After showering and shaving he put on a Brooks Brother’s suit and drove the forty miles to Colorado State University where Dr. Yates had arranged for him to get treatment.

  Two days later after a double-dose of chemo, he was being helped to his car by an orderly when he heard his phone ringing from inside his briefcase.

  “Please, it might be important, and I can make it the rest of the way to my car myself.”

  “Are you sure sir?” the orderly asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Elliott said setting the brief case on the ground, opening it and quickly answering his cell phone.

  “Elliott here.”

  “Elliott. It’s Paul White. The Senate Banking Committee just sent SB 1190 back to the floor with no changes.”

  “They didn’t even try to amend it?”

  “No, the bastards didn’t want a repeat of the Discharge Motion maneuver so they made sure they got it out of committee within the 30 days, but essentially they’re saying it’s fine the way it is.”

  “That makes no sense. I assumed the banking lobby would hammer us,” Elliott commented.

  “I know. I thought the same thing. I don’t like it; I can’t figure out what they’re up to,” the President added.

  “I thought they’d attack the amount of the transaction fee, you know, cut it in half or something,” Elliott added.

  “I heard rumors the opposition was going to modify the bill to have the transaction fee apply to personal accounts.”

  “That would be dirty pool, but would effectively destroy the intent of the bill, if they could get it through,” speculated the former senator.

  “I think the Banking Committee moves are just a feint to lull us into complacency,” President White speculated.

  “They’re up to something.”

  “And we’ll see it out of Armed Services and Appropriations shortly. I can’t imagine they’ll leave it unchanged.”

  “We’ll see. Who can you line up in the Senate that we can count on?” Elliott asked.

  “We can count on …”

  “Listen Paul, I’m just getting in my car. Can you e-mail me the contact information for the senators you can trust? I’ve got some driving to do.”

  “You know you just interrupted the President of the United States?”

  “Yep, and I’m not even sorry about it.”

  As Elliott drove back to his ranch he had to stop twice because of the dry heaves. His stomach was as empty as a sun bleached gourd, but his body was telling him it had been through hell and something needed to be ejected from it. As weak as a kitten from his second roadside stop, he was climbing back into his car when his phone rang again.

  “Elliott?”

  “Yes.”

  “Archie, I’ve got a hell of an idea. Ouch, don’t hit me.”

  Elliott could hear a woman’s voice in the back ground, “Don’t you go taking credit for my idea.”

  “Hit me again and I’ll kiss you.”

  “Go on. You’re keeping the Senator waiting.”

  “Elliott?”

  “Yes, Archie, I take it you’re with Goldie?”

  “Yes, Goldie, my beautiful angel is right here.”

  Goldie put a finger down her throat and made a gagging sound.

  “Goldie, or one of her girlfriends on the cheerleading squad, met Bono before he was married and developed a close friendship. They still talk once or twice a year,” explained Archie, making sure to get the credits right.

  “I’ve met Bono as well, quite an impressive fellow,” Elliott mentioned.

  “Agreed, well we had an idea. Bono knows a lot of people. If we were to make him aware of the sweeping impact of the ‘War on the Deficit’ bill, we’re sure he would back it and he might bring in other famous friends and we could air a national TV ad. You know, kinda like the ones that Yul Bryner did about the dangers of cigarettes before he died of cancer? I’m excited about the idea
.”

  “It’s worth a shot. Run with it.”

  “I knew you’d like it. I’ll let you know how it goes. Later.”

  Elliott was pulling onto the long gravel drive that led to his sprawling ranch house when his phone rang again. It was Robert Dale, his attorney.

  “Hello Robert.”

  “Hi Elliott, here’s the monthly report, as you requested. The manager of the prison inmate project is reporting they have had over fifty thousand hits on their web site requesting information on how to apply, and another ten thousand have simply shown up at the gates. This thing is going wild. And this is just in Texas. It’s a whole new industry that’s grown up over night.”

  “Of course, free food, a roof over their heads and a chance to get a leg up in life. It’s simple human nature to want to improve their lot in life.”

  “We’re running into a little trouble with getting accredited, but we’re making progress. And our foundation has been approached by representatives from California, Georgia, New Jersey and Ohio inquiring how the costs are shaping up.”

  “And how are they shaping up?” Elliott asked as he climbed out of the car.

  “They’re coming in at about 66% of what it cost to run the former prison.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. I read somewhere the average cost to house, feed and clothe a prisoner for a year was around $71,000. 66% of that times fifty thousand ex-prisoners is one hell of a savings, while helping to make productive citizens out of serial prisoners. When word gets out, every state in the Union will be knocking on your door.”

  “And a lot of these teachers and other assistants were on unemployment. Some of the former prisoners were on welfare and soon they’ll be gainfully employed, imbued with self-esteem and a sense of worth. We’ll be seeing people dropping off the welfare rolls in very significant numbers very soon.”

  “We’ll see quite a few prison guards on the unemployment lines,” Elliott said softly.

  “They negotiated themselves a CEO style severance package. They won’t be hurting.”

  Roberts’s voice grew husky and he faltered to a stop.

  “Don’t question it. Not for a second. It is a good thing you are doing, Elliott.”

  “You’re the one who has made it happen, Robert.”

  “Me? I’m glad I was able to be part of it. I just had my paralegals move forward with the hiring process for unemployed teachers and managers and then let things run their natural course. You’re the one footing the bill.”

  “Well, keep up the good work and please keep me posted,” Elliott concluded.

  “I’ll be speaking with you soon,” Robert replied.

  Elliott’s phone rang the moment he set it down. Glancing at the number he noted it was the President’s private line and pressed the green answer button.

  “Yes, Paul.”

  “Appropriations just sent the bill back. Their sub-committee on economic policy believes the transaction fees are too high and will reduce liquidity and possibly push up interest rates. They recommend a flat ten cent tax on all transactions over one million dollars. They also recommend that JP Morgan hold the transaction tax funds in a Wall Street lock box account.”

  “Ten cents on transactions over one million dollars is nonsense. That’s nothing. It essentially guts the bill,” Elliott observed.

  “We were wondering why the banking committee wasn’t the one to carve the bill up, and now we know. It was a smart approach. They don’t want the bankers to be the ones who are against the bill, which might bring the wrath of the people down on the bankers who they despise already,” the President said thinking out loud.

  “So the banking committee sends it back to the floor unchanged knowing it would help mollify an angry public and at the same time instructing appropriations to decimate the bill,” Elliott said.

  “You got it,” The President replied and laughed bitterly.

  Elliott remained silent wondering if the growing nausea in his gut was from the news or the chemo.

  “And the Armed Services Committee, undoubtedly pushed by Cobbings’ close friend Larry Lanting, the senator who chairs the Emerging Threats subcommittee, has recommended closing eighty bases over the next seven years.”

  Elliott groaned and said, “I’ll call you right back.”

  He hobbled as quickly as he could to the kitchen sink and threw up. After leaning against the sink for a few minutes to make sure he was done, he rinsed his mouth out, returned to the den and dialed the President back.

  “Paul? Sorry about that. I think I have a case of food poisoning. The results don’t surprise me. When you have one-sided guest speakers addressing the sub-committees there are few conclusions that can be drawn other than what we are seeing here.”

  “I’m so angry I can’t see straight,” Paul said, sounding utterly demoralized. “Now it will go to conference committee hearings and you know what that means.”

  “Yes, there will be select members of the House and Senate committees who originally heard the bill and they will attempt to reconcile the differences between the two bodies. This just means the bill will be back in the hands of Cobbings, Bainer, Graham and Coryn,” Elliott concluded.

  “This does not bode well for the bill,” the President said in a dull monotone.

  “There are still things we can do. Let me think on things. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The non-descript light brown four door sedan eased up the street passing each address slowly.

  “There it is,” said Gordon. “235 Weaver Street.”

  After Jim Buckner pulled to the curb across the street and doused the headlights. The two men studied the small single story tract home for a few minutes. A waist high chain link fence ran around the perimeter of the front yard. Weeds grew along the fence and grew in the cracks of the concrete driveway and walkway.

  “Hmmm,” Jim said, “looks pretty run down, but there’s the black Escalade Backspace picked up on the traffic cam. This is the place, and there’s a light on in the front room so somebody is home.”

  Gordon pulled a file from between the car seats. “Soro lives with his mother. From the records we pulled Marilyn Soro is seventy eight and on oxygen. Maybe she likes late night TV?”

  “I’m going to take a quick look in the front window, see who’s home and if we have dogs to deal with,” Jim said as he climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door.

  Walking softly towards the front of the house, Jim moved up the driveway and almost tripped over a tangle of garden hose. It was just past midnight and most of the denizens of this unsavory neighborhood were already in bed. The chain link gate stood open. Jim crossed the dry front lawn and the grass crunched under his feet, but the TV inside the tiny house was so loud he was sure they heard nothing. He peered through the front window and spied a rotund man sitting on a worn couch in his skivvies drinking a beer. Jim retreated back to the vehicle.

  “He’s alone and there are no dogs.”

  “Let’s do it,” Gordon said, thinking of Eddie’s badly bruised face.

  “Okay, you stay with the car and keep a look out. Bring the car around when I’m ready. I’ll handle the perp.”

  Jim climbed from the car again, opened the trunk and pulled a half full gas can from it. Quietly he moved across the street. In the shadows beside the Escalade he poured gas over one tire, laid a trail of the highly flammable liquid to the second front tire and dropped a match. With a whoosh the tires immediately burst into flames. Buckner moved back into the deep shadows beside the garage. A moment later Soro leapt through the front door. With an oath he ran over and began grappling with the hose trying to untangle it. Jim stepped from the darkness and said, “Hey.”

  When Soro looked up Jim pressed the point of his Zap Mini Stun baton against Soro’s neck and pressed the trigger. A flash of electricity exploded from the end of the baton. With a grunt Soro fell to the ground and began shaking violently. Gordon pulled the car around whi
le Jim lifted the nearly 260 pounds of unconscious man, dragged him to the car and tossed him in the back seat.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Conference Committee hearing was held at the Dirksen building of the Senate. The tension in the room grew with the appearance of each new face as they entered the pale marble walled room of the ancient chamber. News people crowded the perimeter of the room recording every nuanced motion of the assembly.

  A standard Conference Committee combines the chairs of the original committees in both the House and Senate, sensibly assuming they were the most familiar with the bill, along with select members of both Houses as recommended by the Presiding Officer of the Senate and the House Speaker with input from the Majority Leaders and Minority Leaders. In this case other members of the Senate and the House, sensing this was an historical occasion, requested inclusion which generally was granted. Cobbings and Bainer were there as was Coryn, Larry Lanting, Senators Jim Johnson, Sam Whitback, Ray Haley Hutchinson, Wade Biggs, Brian Nelson and another dozen members of the House and Senate. Opposite, across the huge mahogany table, sat Representatives Bruce Bennett, Earl Bishop, Jay Stephens, Kathy Rogers Morris, Rosa Sparks and Senator Roger Portman.

  Senator Roger Portman had been in the Senate long enough to sense that this conference meeting had all the earmarks of a real bloodletting. He spoke at length with Senator Carl Carimendi from California, and Senator Bill Spitzer from New York. These were two experienced and savvy veterans. He met with them several times. They were already in favor of SB 1190, but by the time he was done informing them of the forces arrayed against the bill and what had gone on already in committee, the two men were poised to request being appointed to the Conference Committee. They were here as well.