Off Message

by A. C. Fuller

  "You got any tips for us?" Alex asks, changing the subject abruptly, as he often does.

  "About what?"

  "About you, your candidates. It's a hot story. Pieces we run about Ameritocracy get an average of twenty percent more traffic than our coverage of the Democratic and Republican primaries. And that thing we ran last week…what was it, Bird?"

  "You mean the follow-up on Gottlieb?" Bird asks.

  "No."

  "The David Benson thing?"

  "Yeah, that was it. Didn't that get like double the traffic we expected?"

  Bird looks at me apologetically. "It did, Alex, but…"

  "Right, sorry," Alex says. "Tips, though. You're a mover and a shaker now. I bet you hear all sorts of stuff."

  "Did you hear the one about Charles Blass being a Nazi?"

  Bird stares at me, trying to figure out if I'm serious. "I thought he was a communist."

  "He is a communist," I say, standing and walking a lap around Alex's desk. He and Bird follow me with their eyes. Six months ago I spent my days doing everything I could to keep problems off their desks. It feels good to have them hanging on my every word. "Are you familiar with the Blass Meme Repository?"

  At the same time Alex says, "No," and Bird says, "Yes."

  "It's a huge Facebook group," I say. "Four hundred thousand members, mostly in their twenties. They create memes and share them around Facebook, on Twitter, Reddit, everywhere. Basically, they sum up his positions, sometimes comparing him to other candidates in humorous ways. Universal healthcare. Eliminating student loan debt. Reducing the prison population. Radical moves to promote racial and gender equality. The memes have helped put his ultimate communist vision in the context of a more immediately doable democratic socialism."

  "Okay, you lost me at the end there," Alex asks. "But where does the Nazi thing come in?"

  "There's now a rival Facebook Group called Blass(t) the Truth. At first, it seemed like a pro-Blass group. But if you actually hang out there, you start seeing memes about Blass that are totally fake. Images of Blass at white power events. Photos of Blass with quotes condemning affirmative action and praising America's white Christian heritage. Even a video of him doing the Seig Heil salute at a huge rally. Thing is, they're all fake."

  "Whoa!" Bird exclaims.

  "I'm confused," Alex says.

  I sit across from him. "It's an attempt to smear him and confuse people. Whatever you think of Blass's politics, he's been consistent for over fifty years. Now, a good twenty percent of people think he's a right-wing nutjob."

  Alex looks dazed, but Bird jumps in to explain it. "You're falling behind, Alex. It's memetic warfare. Blass's meme group has taken an old communist professor from San Francisco and made him into one of the hottest political figures among millennials. They've successfully branded him as the only authentic candidate because, and Mia's right about this, dude has been one hundred percent consistent for fifty years. To combat this, some other group created all these fake memes to spread false ideas about him—"

  "Or just to confuse people," I say. "If enough conflicting memes about Blass spread, no one will know what he stands for anymore."

  "Who's behind it?" Alex asks.

  "Some think it's Tanner Futch supporters," I say. "But it could be anyone. Hell, if an ambitious group of Marlon Dixon supporters were behind it, I wouldn't be shocked. Dixon is competing with Blass for left-leaning voters, after all. Could also be random trolls. Could be all those ATMs and coffee machines that voted for Morton. Anyway, it's something your readers might like to hear about."

  "Anything else?" Bird asks.

  I think for a moment. "There are rumors Wendy Kahananui is gonna leave Ameritocracy for her own TV show with Ellen and Eckhart Tolle."

  "Wait, what?" Bird says.

  "Pretty sure those are just rumors. There's Mast, too. He's got some odd financial things goings on that I haven't looked into. Probably a story there, and I would love it if you could make some progress on it."

  Bird takes a few notes, but I'm beginning to feel done with the conversation. It's nice to be back in Seattle, nice to see Alex and Bird, but every moment here makes it clearer that I belong in Santa Clarissa. At least for now.

  10

  After a late flight into SFO, I grabbed a few hours of sleep at Peter's, then drove to the office. At nine in the morning, I hop out of Bluebird, planning to grab breakfast and coffee at Baker's Dozen and lock myself away to continue working on the big debate.

  I stop suddenly when I step out of the car. In front of the restaurant, a tall and lanky man leans on the window, staring at me. He's around thirty and dressed in a cheap brown suit with no tie. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I get my overnight bag from the trunk. There's a medium-sized cardboard box next to him on the ground and, because I'm sometimes paranoid about terrorism, I wonder whether it's a bomb.

  Deciding to skip the food, I walk toward the door that leads to the office stairwell. He steps in front of it, blocking my path. In my mind, I've switched from thinking he's a terrorist to thinking he's a stalker. He looks sketchy, and he's wearing a slimy grin, like he knows something about me.

  I stop three feet from him. "Excuse me! I need to get upstairs."

  "Are you Mia Rhodes?"

  "I am. Who's asking?"

  My heart pounds and I glance through the window of Baker's Dozen, where a waitress refills someone's orange juice out of a glass pitcher. Again, I wonder whether it's a bomb, whether this guy has been sent by shadowy forces to end me, to end Ameritocracy.

  Slowly, he bends his long body down and picks up the box. "Mia Rhodes, founder of Ameritocracy?"

  "I am," I say softly.

  He thrusts the box at my chest, forcing me to drop my overnight bag on the sidewalk. "Mia Rhodes, you've been served."

  Without another word, he strolls down the street. I wait until he disappears around the corner, then rush up the stairs, balancing my overnight bag on the box. Finding Steph at her desk, I say, "My office. It's urgent."

  She follows me and asks, "What is it?" as she shuts the door behind her.

  I tear open the box and hand her the document on top. It's seven or eight pages, stapled at the top left and marked with an official-looking stamp from the Superior Court of San Francisco. "You read that one, I'll read the next one."

  "What are these?"

  "Subpoenas, I'm guessing. Did you see that creepy-looking scumbag? He just shoved this box at me in front of the door."

  "Tall dude in a brown suit came by looking for you earlier."

  I pull the next document out of the box. "Why didn't you text me?"

  Steph shrugs. "Didn't seem like a big deal."

  I read the document, which is from the U.S. District Court in San Jose. I don't speak legalese, but, best I can tell, Ameritocracy is being sued by the Democratic National Committee for violating an election law I've never heard of and can't understand even after reading the document twice. I'm required to appear in court a week from today.

  I slam the document on the table and look up at Steph, who's frowning at the paper. "What's yours say?" I ask.

  "We've been accused of making illegal campaign contributions in violation of California election laws."

  "By whom?"

  "By the state of California."

  "Mine says the suit was brought by the DNC." I thumb through the documents. "Here's one brought by the Republican National Committee." I throw it toward Steph, who nabs it out of the air. "And this one is a lawsuit brought by Americans for Fair Elections. Who the hell is that?"

  "No idea."

  "Steph, what's going on?"

  Post-it, who'd been pacing in figure eights, rubbing his face and belly against a wall in the corner, jumps onto the desk. He paws at one of the flaps on the box, then climbs into it. When Steph and I meet in my office, he usually picks a lap to sit on. Given the tension level in the room, and the fact that we're standing, I guess he figures the box is the safest place to be.r />
  Steph flops into a chair. "We need a lawyer. Fast."

  "I know, but what do you think is going on?"

  Steph reaches under Post-it carefully and slides another document out of the box. "Best guess? We've scared the hell out of the DNC and the RNC, scared the hell out of establishment Democrats and Republicans, and they're fighting back."

  I reach for the phone. "I'm calling Annie."

  Though Ameritocracy doesn't have a full-time lawyer, a month back we worked with a local attorney named Annie Crow on some minor tax issues. She was a smart woman who reeked of menthol cigarettes and occasionally wheezed like a seventy-year-old who smokes two packs a day, which is what she is. But she was effective and, right now, she comes with the added benefit of being the only local attorney I know.

  By lunchtime, I'm in panic mode.

  After explaining multiple times that election law isn't her specialty, Annie agreed to let us fax her the documents, promising to study them and get back to us by late afternoon.

  For Steph and me, lunch is usually a salad or sandwich chomped down while staring at a computer screen, but today she insists we go down to Baker's Dozen and sit at a table like proper human beings. It's not the first time she's done this. As a head-first pool diver, I'm sometimes surprised and overwhelmed by the situations I land in, and Steph is often the only person who can make me feel sane.

  We take our seats at a table in the corner and Steph orders two glasses of wine as soon as Walter hands us menus.

  I give her a look. "I don't drink at lunch."

  "You do today. Just one glass. You need to relax, Mia." Her tone is final, and I actually feel a bit relieved. It's comforting when Steph takes control.

  I tap my knuckles on the table. "I'm freaking out."

  "Okay, breathe." She places her hand gently over mine. "Tell me what it is."

  "I don't know, I—"

  "Yes, you do. What are the first three things that pop into your mind? Don't think. Just answer."

  "Lawsuits, Mast, and, well, lawsuits."

  "What about Mast?"

  As calmly as possible, I tell her what Gadschmidt said about FMH sharing their discounted ad rates with Mast. Next, I tell her about what Peter said. "Am I overthinking this? Could he be violating the financial terms of the contest?"

  "As much as I don't want that to be true, because he'd be a decent candidate, it feels...possible. It would explain some things."

  "A decent candidate? You hate everything he stands for."

  "I do, but he's got real experience and coherent policy positions, which is more than ninety percent of our registered candidates. He's not an empty suit like Thomas Morton. And he's electable. First and foremost we need someone credible to win this thing. Call me crazy, but even if someone I hate—and I hate Mast—wins Ameritocracy, I want to see our candidate do well in the general." She pauses. "Assuming we make it to November."

  The wine arrives and I take a sip. It's a white burgundy, rich and fruity. "Thanks for making me order this, but should I be worried about how much better it makes me feel?"

  "Nah. Enjoy it. If you start drinking too much, I'll be the first to let you know." She smiles. "Let's do an experiment. Let's not talk about the competition or the site for a full thirty minutes, okay?"

  I take another sip. If we're not going to talk about the site, the next subject is boyfriends.

  Steph is right on cue. "How are things with Peter?"

  I roll my eyes. 'Welp, this lunch date would no longer pass the Bechdel test."

  'Just trying to make some Ameritocracy-free conversation."

  'Peter and I are good, I guess. Gah, let's not talk relationships either. I haven't heard from Malcolm in a minute. What's he up to?"

  "You hear about the gig he got at Hello Dolly?"

  "What's that?"

  "Dolly Parton tribute club in the East Bay. It's a big deal."

  "Cool. I'm glad he's DJing again. I mean outside of Colton Industries parties. Did he mention anything about Peter? They had an argument that has me concerned."

  "Wait, what kind of argument?"

  I tell her the short version, which is really the only version.

  "So that's why you seemed so off when I pulled you from the window at the end of the party?"

  I nod. "Am I a terrible person? I mean, I heard the conversation from the bench..."

  "But you decided to get a little closer. No, that doesn't make you a terrible person, you were worried about your friends. Did you ask Peter?"

  "He blew me off."

  My phone chirps with a text. I'm happy for the interruption, but Steph grabs it off the table before I see it.

  "No work stuff," she says. "The fight's probably nothing. Malcolm was working at the party. Not like he's the first guy to get chewed out by his boss."

  "But it wasn't like he was getting chewed out exactly. I don't know. It was more like they were arguing about something."

  "Weird," Steph says, tapping at her phone with a mischievous look on her face.

  "I thought you said no work."

  "This isn't work, Mia. I'm going full-on Degrassi High with this shit."

  "You're texting Malcolm?"

  "We need a diversion."

  She hits Send then holds up the phone to show me the message.

  Steph: Were you fighting with Peter at the party?

  Our food arrives, and we eat in silence until Steph's phone dings. She reads, then holds it up. It's a shrug emoji. I slide my chair around to follow along with her text exchange.

  Steph: Mia overheard.

  Malcolm: What'd she hear?

  Steph: Argument.

  Malcolm: About what?

  Steph: That's why we're writing.

  Malcolm: We're?

  Steph: Mia and I are at Baker's Dozen.

  Malcolm: Tell her it was nothing. Work stuff. No big deal.

  Steph raises an eyebrow. "He's lying."

  "How can you tell?"

  "That brother-sister thing. We just vibed right away."

  Steph: Seriously?

  Malcolm: Forget it, really.

  Steph ends the chat with a shrug emoji of her own, then sets her phone facedown on the table. "Malcolm is the kinda guy who likes to keep business separate."

  "Makes sense. And he's loyal. The first day I met him I tried to get him to tell me about Peter, and he stonewalled, as he should have."

  "He was too busy flirting with you."

  "Shut up."

  "I'm just saying."

  "Saying what?"

  Steph reaches across the table and nabs a piece of bacon off my Cobb Salad. "Just sayin'."

  "Even as we await news from our lawyer on a stack of subpoenas, you have time to meddle in my love life."

  "You told me he was flirty. Then there was the playlist he sent you. Maybe at the party he was fighting Peter for your love." She says the last part in a dramatic English accent, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead like a swooning damsel in a bad movie.

  "Yeah, we're definitely not passing the Bechdel test."

  An hour later, I've had two cups of coffee to clear the wine haze and done twenty laps around the office, accomplishing nothing except freaking out half our staff, who can tell I'm distressed. Even Steph is visibly upset.

  When Annie calls back, we huddle around the speakerphone in my office as Post-it lurks happily inside the now-empty cardboard box, peeking his head out as the call begins.

  Annie sounds concerned, her voice even more gravelly than usual. "I should tell you again, this is not my area of expertise."

  "We get it," I say. "And we appreciate you taking a look."

  "I'm doing this as a favor because I respect what you're doing. Please don't take this as legal advice."

  "Got it," Steph says.

  "Altogether, there are ten subpoenas and four lawsuits, and a quick search of court filings revealed six more lawsuits filed against Ameritocracy in the last two days. All were filed by the DNC, the RNC, or n
on-profits and PACs directly related to the established political parties. In some cases, they try to hide their political affiliations, but they don't do a good job of it. As I said, I'm not overly familiar with these laws, but as far as I can tell, you're being sued based on some of the most arcane election and campaign finance law on the books. We're talking about statutes thirty years old, a hundred years old in one case, many of which have never been used in court. Some of the subpoenas relate to your non-profit status and the proper disbursement of funds raised by non-profits."

  "You're losing me," I say. "Big picture, what's going on here, and can we lose any of these cases?"

  "I'll answer that, but let me finish the summary first. Of the ten subpoenas, three are subpoenas duces tecum, which are subpoenas related to the turning over of documents. They require you to turn over documents related to the founding of Ameritocracy and your financial dealings."

  Steph stomps, causing the floor to shake and Post-it to duck down in the box. "That's such BS!"

  "It may or may not be," Annie says. "Essentially, these are cases where you're not the named party, but documents in your possession have been deemed essential to the investigation."

  "Who are the named parties?" I ask.

  "Let's see. Hold on. Here it is. One is Robert Mast. Another is Maria Ortiz Morales. And the third subpoena in which you're required to turn over documents is Tanner Futch."

  My heart sinks. "They're not just going after us. They're going after our top three candidates."

  There's a long silence. Steph and I exchange glances, hoping Annie will say something reassuring. Instead, she coughs into the phone, startling Post-it, who leaps onto the floor and hides behind a potted plant. "Again," she says, "and I can't stress this enough, this is not my area of expertise. You will need an army of lawyers to deal with these cases. It's unlikely that you are in any personal legal trouble, but these cases will take months, possibly years to resolve."

  "Years?" I say weakly.