Day 59
My day has turned into one giant memorial service. I noticed my breathing is slow and shallow all day. I have to snap out of a trance just to speak to people. I received a phone call from the Prime Minister of Israel today extending his country’s condolences. I snapped back: I have consciousness now! Don’t worry, Mr. Prime Minister I’ll be bombing some more Arabs soon!”
Day 60
Today I announced my second choice for the nomination for the Court. It is Jose Rodriguez. He is a jurist’s jurist. He clerked for Justice Stevens. He’s been on the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals for fifteen years. He is left on most issues, and conservative on corporate law matters. I’m so pleased. More pleased than most will know. Senators from both parties were confident that he would be confirmed.
Interestingly, there were some rumblings about how Jose didn’t pay a housekeeper’s social security. Oh well, I guess that issue has already been done. It won’t hinder his nomination at all.
Bob Popalizio called the White House today. I took the call. He was pleased. He couldn’t believe our scheme worked. I thanked him for drawing the fire. Bob told me, so did Jose.
Picking a Supreme Court justice is a part of his legacy. A justice can serve for twenty to thirty years, long after a President is retired. This was a big opportunity to affect our nation’s ethic. I had to win it even if it appeared I lost my first choice.
The world still seems dark to me. I wish I could blow something else up. I’ve never felt so helpless and angry at the same time. I have all the power in the world to blow something up, to start a war, and yet I don’t know how to handle it. I’m supposed to feel strong, courageous, and self assured. With all the advice of the brightest foreign policy advisors, and between myself and this diary, I don’t know what to do. The whole focus of my administration has to change. The terrorists have won. Ironic, they hate me, and now I have to stay.
CHAPTER 21
The Backroom
At first, this Asian guy seemed perfect. Just what everyone wanted. Even the man with the silver glasses like him, and he didn’t like anyone. The Chinaman fit the profile. He spoke the right language. He was young and oddly handsome—even though that wouldn’t be needed.
The blond man with silver glasses and a feminine voice said, “Are you good in the field of open law?” Which seemed to mean would he be willing to kill someone. Not that he even cared, he already had something planned for this boy.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, who was almost a man, barely out of college. He spoke both English and Chinese. His furry mustache was hair alone and not thick enough to be considered whiskers. The boy grinned. He sat up confidently waiting for the next question.
The man had chalk dust on the back of his blue blazer. It reflected the strangeness of the man with silver glasses. How deep does someone have to be not to realize he’s leaning up against a chalkboard, and is getting the chalk all over him? What was even more strange was the board behind the man with silver glasses was a magic marker board, and there was no chalk anywhere.
“Tan, are you good with technical equipment and the likes?”
“Yes, sir.” Then a gun came from behind this young man’s head. The man with the silver glasses heard that chalk dust can disrupt the results of a paraffin that can determine whether someone has fired a gun or not in the past week or so. The man with the silver glasses blew some dust off his hands, and left the room.
The man wasn’t even given the chance to enjoy the coolness of the weapon. Tan, did however notice the tattoo across the forehand of the man holding the gun. The tip of the man’s pinky was missing. He put a bullet in his head. President Carlson read the entire transcript of this meeting, even though Peter didn’t want him to know. The Receptionist gave Daniel the whole story in the message room.
“All rise for the President,” someone said. The applause was loud. President Carlson bowed slightly, in jest, and exaggerated an indication for everyone to sit.
“Welcome to the White House, President Carlson.”
“Thank you.” President Carlson felt chills. “You all know the purpose of this meeting. I want to have these meetings to air out my feelings. But most importantly, to hear your feelings. After seven months in office and the terrible tragedy that has befallen this country, I need honest talk. You know the rules. No holds barred. Let it all come out. I’ll throw out the topic and you all should start talking about it. First, I want to announce that I will be restructuring as well as renaming the following cabinet departments.”
“Where’s Peter Spark?” Eliot Marksman asked.
“He won’t be joining us in these meetings,” the President responded. Marksman was delightfully surprised. The new President thought that Peter’s absence would send the knights of this round table a message that he truly was interested in what they had to say.
The President continued: “The Department of Labor will be renamed the Department of Employment and Labor. And the Department of the Interior now is the Department of the Environment. My Press Secretary will be releasing this information within the hour. Unless there are any strong objections from any of you.” The President doubted that there would be. But he wanted to get the “backroom” sessions started with criticisms of ideas that were already decided on.
President Carlson looked around the room. No one spoke. He stared at each one of them. Some were older than the President. All of them were smarter—intellectually. Yet, these men were in awe of the power of the Presidency and dared not to stick their necks out so early in the term. What if they said something that made the President mad? They would have to suffer the resentment of the President for the next four years, if they lasted that long.
Most people who ask for constructive criticisms don’t really want it. They want praise. Not with Daniel Carlson. He wasn’t like ordinary people. He wanted desperately to keep in touch with the outside world. The White House can be a vacuum. Sunlight cannot be seen inside. It can only be described in reports and polls. These men cared enough about a Carlson Presidency to tell him how a situation really is. And they were reluctant to do so.
President Carlson looked at liberal Lawrence Thompson. No response from this brilliant attorney. He then looked to Austin Hesse, conservative and acting Director of Central Intelligence. Clarence Terrell, a doctor, and the most pessimistic person in the room, likewise, had nothing to say. Daniel’s personal accountant, Eliot Marksman offered nothing but a blank stare. Even the realist psychologist, Frank Curley was without advice. These men would have to be trained. Never had any president used the technique of open dialogue without hierarchy or formality.
After a moment of silence President Carlson said, “I tricked you, my friends. I thought you were smarter than that. What good would renaming the cabinets do? Just a name. Not the kind of thing a progressive President starts his presidency off with. Certainly, not to waste his honeymoon on such frivolities.”
“Yes, what’s in a name? I believe Shakespeare said,” Marksman the accountant replied.
“Well, I think it’s kind of neat. Why don’t you name the Department of Justice to the Department of Law and Enforcement?” Thompson said. There was a murmur of laughter.
Again there was silence. They were waiting for the President’s reaction. Were they doing what he wanted? Is this what the President wanted to hear?
“Goddamn it!” President Carlson yelled out. “If I wanted to have tea with the Elks I would’ve worn a buffalo cap on my head. I want raw language. I want interaction. None of you except for Austin is on the government payroll. And within a month he’ll be off. I can’t fire you. You’re all my friends. Please let me know what you think. You don’t even have to say what you think. Say what you think each other are thinking. Conservatives be liberals. And vice-versa. There’s no media, no stenographers, and no one can speak of what we speak of in here under penalty of treason,” he said in a calm a
nd cool tone. A few eyebrows raised at the President.
“In all seriousness, I am changing the names of the Departments of Labor and Interior. As well as outlining some major changes that will occur within those agencies. I think it will psychologically prepare everyone in this country for the changes that are going to be made. So, on that note, I’m throwing out the topic of Drug Policy. Something juicy. Lawrence, what do you think Austin thinks about the American drug policy?”
Lawrence Thompson answered. “I think Mr. Hesse feels that we haven’t a war but a program. We need more of a program that brings in the military. About forty billion dollars to start. I think, however, that steps need to be taken to make peace with drugs. Drugs are not something that one can fight like a man or a government. Education on a grand scale should be where the resources should be going.”
“Everyone knows that smoking is bad for your health. They do it anyway. Tobacco is the largest cash crop in the U.S.,” Dr. Curley chimed in.
“You haven’t lived in an inner-city apartment complex. Where drugs are on every street corner. Violence is everywhere. You want to legalize it, you bleeder,” Austin Hesse responded.
“I’m not a bleeding heart!”
“You’re so left you busted an aorta when you graduated from Brandeis.”
“I suppose you’d have the CIA help in the drug war. That would work. Hell, why don’t we just have the CIA subsume the DEA.” Thompson replied.
Daniel Carlson loved this dialogue. The conversation was on. This was just what he wanted. Brainstorming. He was listening to the static of the most intelligent and politically savvy men in the country. And he was not the center of the attack. He was in the eye of the storm.
“I have decided to propose a bill to restructure the Intelligence community entirely. The way we do it is to put one director of intelligence, and he has total budget control over all agencies. Then he’s not just a figurehead, and no one can really get around this new director,” the President said.
There was silence for a moment.
“Total budget control would be key to putting a new man in charge,” Curley affirmed.
“He who has the gold makes the rules. Make sure the President approves the overall intelligence budget,” Hesse chimed in.
“And I liked what you said about the CIA, Lawrence,” the President said. “What do you think the role of the Agency should be in the future?”
“It should be strictly international in jurisdiction. If you give the agency overlapping jurisdiction in areas that might affect this country on a domestic level, you give the agency too much power.”
“Not if you have the right leaders within the Intelligence Community,” Hesse said.
“You need a long term policy that should set precedent for the country long after this administration’s second term.” A few of these knights of the round table snickered at the comment, which was a blatant attempt to suck up to the President.
“Now, now, Lawrence. Your flattery doesn’t earn you brownie points.” The other knights were relieved. They weren’t fighting for established power or maneuvering for a higher position. They were, however, grappling for the affection and respect of the President, like jealous children.
“You watch Mr. President, the CIA will ask you in due time for a finding that will allow them to spy legally in this country in the name of drugs, terrorism, or some other hot business issue.”
“I admit to you that I would like to see marijuana decriminalized—health inspected—and taxed. That way men like Steve Vann never would ever have crossed my path and it can reduce the federal deficit with the “grass tax,” the President said with a laugh. “We can sell it to the American people as, ‘make the deficit shrink—buy government weed’.” The laughter swelled. “Unfortunately, Congress wouldn’t go for it and I don’t think I should ruin my administration just so a few of us can get high. What will happen though is that monies confiscated on marijuana seizures will be funneled into programs to reduce cocaine abuse and other harsh stimulant drugs. I will send a finding to Drug Enforcement to de-emphasize marijuana enforcement.”
The end of that statement was followed by some hems and haws but no one really argued with it.
“Watch how that goes to the press,” Frank Curley warned.
“No pot amnesty, but definitely a new world order when it comes to intelligence,” the President concluded. “Let’s move on to domestic issues. And then, which country I need to bomb next.” This comment seemed flip, even under these special circumstances. Not many gave it much thought, as even these older distinguished gentlemen were flattered they were being taken into the inner sanctum by the President of the United States. Dr. Curley considered the real possibility the President was depressed, but didn’t dare suggest it. Perhaps another day he would. Curley knew Daniel Carlson for years. To the world Daniel seemed to be a simple do-gooder. The majority believes that the way things seem, are usually the way things are.
CHAPTER 22
China Doll’s Revenge
The alarm clock sounded early in the master bedroom of the residence. President Carlson turned off the alarm and looked over at the first lady. June appeared lifeless without any makeup on her face, but her hair remained flawlessly set from the night before. She sat up in bed tasting the emptiness in her stomach. She immersed herself in the joy her daily routine created. Daniel Carlson knew June well enough after these years. He knew she enjoyed the parades and the cocktail parties, and meeting foreign government officials; the necessary tours of mills, plants, and museum or library openings. She was looking forward to this morning’s event, some save the children of Cherry Hill event. June would never admit it—that she didn’t like children, but the President knew it and enjoyed the fact that he forged a better relationship with Connie and Alan than their own mother.
Carlson sat up with June. She grimaced at him. He groaned to communicate that he agreed it was too early in the morning to be awake.
“Every day, it seems to get earlier and earlier,” she mumbled with her hands over her face.
“Every day, it’s a new crowd of people that want to meet the First Lady for the first time. Today, it’s little children. Children that have not much to live for other than to meet a woman like you. Someone who they think is a success.”
Letting her husband’s comment sink in, June says, “It’s still the same thing to me every day. I own it! It’s exhausting but I love it.”
“What would you rather be doing?” the President asked.
“I would like to be younger. Just younger and have the ability to run for a third term.” June reflected and saw herself as she was.
“You were my push, remember?” he said. She agreed. “We’re doing good things. We’re teaching America good things, and they’re coming around to our way of thinking.” Daniel had difficulty saying our. June couldn’t help conceding to herself that it was Daniel’s way of thinking and not hers. He was too tolerant and progressive for her. She pushed him to get into office and skillfully he turned her desire to his benefit. Now she was working for Daniel Carlson and his progressive cause. That had always been Daniel Carlson’s gift—the ability to turn an enemy to his team. The stubborn enemies had a tendency to get ostracized by their resistance to DC’s charm and logic.
“You like influencing others, June. Why don’t you influence these children today? They’re handicapped without parents; why not tell them they still have a life?”
June smiled slightly. She kissed Daniel on the cheek and got out of bed. As she disrobed in the bathroom, she began to think about what Daniel said. Her thoughts put her back to the place she was when she was first hungry for the power she now had. The trophy of power wasn’t as good as the chase for it. Through his morning pep talks, she began to fantasize how she would influence the trade agreement with the Chinese government officials that would be dinner guests.
June slipped into a bathrobe and cracked the door to the bathroom. A billow of steam burst through the crack. The bedroom air-conditioner pushing the door open wider. The light coming from the bathroom forced Daniel to wake. He could smell the steam as it hit his nostrils. As he sat up, he could see the reflection of June in the steamy mirror that stood behind her. He’d seen the homely reflection many times before.
When June turned her back to the bathroom door, the back mirror showed her face. Under her nose, above her upper lip was a white cream. At a quick glance it looked thin enough to be a depilatory. At a closer scrutiny it was thick as shaving cream. As a ritual, once a week, June, with a thin pink-handled razor would remove the hair from her lip in three brisk masculine strokes. Even at this very moment, the sight of June in shaving cream made Daniel recoil in disgust. As liberal as he was, shaving was for men, and the sight of June doing this brawny task, tested the bounds of his framework of social equality.
It was if he had stared at the sun too long. Daniel squinted his eyes shut and laid his head back on the pillow slowly, waiting for the residual image to dissipate from the back of his eyelids. June saw Daniel do this and shut the door, protecting her privacy.
When June left the White House that morning, she was dressed to kill. She looked professional and stunning for the tour of a new children’s handicap facility. Most of the patients in the facility were stricken with muscular dystrophy, but were mentally functioning. The vast differences that June foresaw, between her and the children, made her uncomfortable.
Bored on the trip to Cherry Hill, June picked up the car phone in the back of her limousine. June didn’t like to fly when she didn’t absolutely have to. She dialed Melissa Spark’s number from memory. She felt calm and dull, not nervous to talk to her at all. Since the beginning of Daniel’s Presidency, June and Melissa had grown separately. In June’s attempt to overcome her success and feel accomplishment, and develop new reasons to have a zest for life, she became dependent on Melissa. To Melissa’s surprise, she received at least three phone calls a day from the First Lady. Melissa expected they would grow apart from the lack of contact if anything; however, Melissa was pushed to a point where she felt she was smothered by June’s need to have Melissa immersed in her life. Every thought June had she shared with Melissa.
By Silent Majority Page 24