The Second Declaration

by T Emerson May

  "If you don't mind. It certainly isn't because of my being seen with you, Patricia. I hope you know that."

  "Of course I understand. I've been around Washington long enough to know when someone wants to avoid the press. I know what happened in Denver last week. Give me credit for a little sense, Bobby." Patricia Wellingsly was probably the only person in Washington who could get away with calling Robert Winston 'Bobby'. She used it only when they were out of hearing of others and used it as a term of endearment, not out of disrespect. "Bob, are you going to tell me what happened out there last week and what your plans are? If not you'll have to eat alone tonight. No. No, I'm not serious, but I hope you can tell me if you feel up to it. Pick me up around seven. I know a lovely little place up in Maryland where the head waiter will just think we're a banker and his date."

  "Great, see you at seven," said Bob. Bob looked out the window of his den and thought about Patricia Wellingsly. Fifteen years ago, before Pat had married Henry Wellingsly, Bob had an affair with her. It lasted several years, and it supplied him since with some of his most poignant memories. While he was devoted to Theresa, his wife of thirty years and the mother of his children, there was one great need missing in his life with her. Theresa was not a passionate woman, not with him at any rate. Patricia Wellingsly gave him what Theresa could not, the passion that came with illicit, adventurous sex. He had succumbed to the same temptation that had afflicted so many politicians, the fawning over by beautiful woman that inevitably led to sexual games. Bob Winston and Pat Wellingsly had enjoyed sexual adventures at every opportunity, at embassy bashes, at resorts on weekends, in her kitchen, bedroom, and his car. Until Theresa found them together one weekend, when she had made an unannounced visit to the hotel where he was staying in New York. Though he broke off the affair with Pat then and there, the relationship with Theresa was never the same. She forgave him, honestly forgave his philandering and weakness, but it was just never the same between them.

  Bob Winston was beginning to look forward to the evening with Pat. It was the first time since the convention ended that he was thoroughly excited about anything. The depression that set in after the failure of Resolution 5 had certainly not been allayed when he returned to Washington. He had even considered conducting all the necessary business by phone from the ranch in Idaho. But his sense of duty and obligation to his office staff had finally convinced him that he needed to see them in person. He had not really thought about Patricia at all until just before he called her.

  But now, with most of the personal business taken care of, he could at last unwind for the evening with the lovely Patricia Wellingsly. She had married Henry Wellingsly only a few months after she and Bob ended their affair. She had met Henry at an embassy party and, partly because she was on the rebound, agreed to Henry's proposal. Henry was several years her senior and was himself a widower. Their life together had been full of contentment, if without passion. When he died of a heart attack three years earlier, he had left Patricia a wealthy 45 year old widow.

  Bob called the Senate Vehicle Pool and asked for a car and a driver to pick him up at six-thirty. He was still a member of that prestigious body and decided to use one of the perks still available to him. He wanted to use the drive to Maryland as a time to talk to Patricia about the events in Denver and his future plans. The car arrived on time and Bob, dressed very nattily in a dark suit, entered the back seat as the driver opened the door for him. The vehicle was a limousine type with a separating glass panel between the driver compartment and the back seat. It afforded the ultimate in privacy and accommodation. He communicated with the driver through an intercom. He knew the driver and called him by name. "George, do you know where the Wellingsly house is in Rockville?"

  "Yes sir, I sure do. Is that where we're going?"

  "Yes, we may be running a little late. Do you know any good

  shortcuts. I've got to stop at a flower shop and pick up some roses for Mrs. Wellingsly," said Bob.

  "I'll get you there on time, sir. I know a little flower shop over on Sherwood street. We can stop there on the way. There's been some trouble over in the district the past few weeks, but I think it's settled down now. The police been patrolling over there since last Saturday night."

  "More drug dealers, George?" asked Winston.

  "I think so, sir," answered the chauffeur. "There was at least two shootings this past week. Three people killed all told. I don't know what this thing is comin' to."

  "I don't know either. If you see any trouble, let's forget the flowers. We'll just go on to the Wellingsly place." said Bob. The driver, fifty-eight year-old George Mason, was a large black man whom Winston had known since his days in the House. He had a relatively good job as a chauffeur for the Senate. He was a dedicated family man and could proudly point to his three sons who had graduated from college in the past seven years. George rounded the corner to enter the street where the little flower shop was located. The street was 'S' shaped and so he was unable to see the crowd of angry Blacks who had congregated ahead of him on the straightaway at the end of the S curve. Once he was in the curve, he was unable to see that a smaller crowd of men had infiltrated behind the car. By the time George saw what was ahead of him, the large milling angry crowd, it was too late. He slammed the car in reverse and gunned the car back down the street they had just traversed. Suddenly he saw the crowd behind him, what looked like over seventy-five young men carrying guns, clubs, bottles filled with gasoline, 'Molotov cocktails'.

  George stopped the car. Still not panicky, he surveyed the situation and decided on a course of action. He would try for an alley that he knew was just behind him. If he could make that alley, he had a straight path to a much more traveled freeway that would be safe. He almost made it. As he turned to gain access to the alley, two men approached from either side of the car and smashed the windshield with clubs. Blinded by flying glass and the now opaque windshield, George rammed the car into the corner of the building on the right side of the alley, bringing the car to an abrupt halt. Bob Winston was thrown sharply into the back of the front seat compartment. Until then, he was not even aware of their imminent danger. He smashed his face into the smoked glass separating him from the driver, bloodying his nose and clouding his senses.

  The first man to reach the car took a crow bar and smashed the rest of the glass in the limousine. Another forced open the back door and pulled Bob Winston out by his feet. Bob was still stunned from the collision, but he was aware that he was in very great danger. The dreamlike scene was unfolding before him and he was at once a participant and a spectator. He watched helplessly as the angry men pulled George from the car and beat him senseless with baseball bats and crowbars. He was dead after the first blow. Bob Winston was still lying on the pavement where he had been unceremoniously dumped. Bob's acuity returned to him as he shook his head.

  "Well what we got here? Some kind of motherfuckin' bigshot? Who the hell are you, Whitey? Let's see your billfold. See who you are, anyway," said the man who was leading this pack of pillagers. "Hey man, we got us a real live motherfuckin' Senator. What the hell you doin' in this neighborhood, man? You after a little dark meat tonight? Maybe you want some of that black pussy, uh?"

  By now Bob Winston was terrified. He knew that unless a miracle happened, he was a dead man. They had already killed George and God only knew what fate awaited him. His mouth was so dry and his throat so constricted with panic that he was unable to speak. He attempted to say something to the one doing all the talking, but the words just would not pass out from his mouth. Then, in that millisecond before he died, he heard the crack of a pistol held behind his head.

  The sirens on the police cars roaring down the street at last scared the angry men away. They had killed a United States Senator and a kind old Black man. They had no more remorse than if they had only stolen a sixpack of beer from a liquor store. The killers were never found.

  The riot and predation that had resulted in Bob Winston's murder had started
earlier that evening. A Black man had been arrested by a Hispanic cop. When the arrested man resisted and tried to escape, with some help from his drug peddling friends, the policeman had shot him. Several Blacks had witnessed the event and had spread out through the six block square neighborhood inciting its residents to riot. Relations between Blacks and Hispanics were none too good anyway and this killing was all that was needed to start a riot that would cripple Washington. Winston's driver had unwittingly driven squarely into the riot area in search of a flower shop run by his cousin. It was altogether a sad, random act of violence which, except for Bob Winston's momentary lapse into romanticism, could have been avoided.

  The police cars approached the limousine and could see from a distance that a horrible crime had occurred. They could see the body of one man draped over the body of a much larger man. As they pulled to a stop, their sirens wailing and top lights flashing, a rookie cop jumped from his car and ran over to the lifeless men. What he saw so revulsed him that he turned and threw up on the hood of the wrecked limousine. The top of Winston's head had been lifted off by the explosive force of the bullet entering and exiting his head. The head of the other man was so pulverized and bloody that it was not possible to determine any of the facial features.

  "Jesus Christ, this man is a Senator. He's Robert Winston. This is a Senate car," exclaimed the police sergeant. He had found Winston's billfold lying on the sidewalk, dropped there by the man who had interrogated Winston. The sergeant had also seen the plates on the front and back of the wrecked vehicle. "You better call the Chief," directed the sergeant to the officer closest to the police car radio. "We got a helluva problem."

  This act of senseless violence would mark the beginning of a riot that would spread to every corner of the DC area and would last for seven days and nights.

  From that beginning act of hate and violence, the looting and pillaging spread out like a swarm of locusts descending on a ripe grain field. By the end of the first night, over one hundred people were killed, five hundred stores looted or destroyed, cars burned, anything of value uprooted or smashed. The police regained a measure of control the following day, but by the second night the mayor requested a National Guard unit be positioned to control the city in the night hours. A full division of troops was brought in from nearby Guard units and Army installations. Helicopters, relatively unused since victory in the Gulf War, buzzed about the city both day and night in a desperate attempt to regain the upper hand.

  But they were not fighting Iraqis this time. They were fighting American citizens in an American city, the capital itself. There was no way to pulverize an area with saturation bombing nor use laser guided smart bombs on suspected control centers. There were no control centers; each group of rioters was a random collection of men and women who had been whipped into violence by the killing of one of its own.

  By the end of the third day the mayor, now in direct contact with the President and his cabinet, admitted that he had lost control of the situation.

  "Mister President," started the Mayor, "It's out of control. We're going to need as much as three divisions of infantry and an armored division to regain control."

  "Mister Mayor, I am going to have to preempt your authority and declare martial law in the city. I know technically you're legally responsible for the District of Columbia. Is there any need for us to debate this right now?"

  "No, Mister President. Not at all. Do you want me to prepare any type of document conveying authority to you?"

  "No, we don't have time, Richard. I am directing the Pentagon to move whatever troops necessary into the city as rapidly as possible. I think your estimate of manpower is pretty accurate. Thanks for your cooperation, Richard. Say a prayer for all of us. Is your family safe?"

  "Yes, I moved them over to Virginia until this thing cools off. And yours?"

  "In Ohio at our farm. Good night, Mister Mayor."

  "Good night, Mister President."

  But as the military discovered in the Gulf War, it is not possible to move men and materiél on a moment's notice. It required another two days to move the second division of infantry from Fort Bragg, the next day to move only a regiment of an armored division and the next to move another infantry brigade. The riot was now seven days old and was dying of its own ferocity. There is a cycle to riots and violence. After the initial violence and looting, the setting of fires and destruction of property, the rioters have vented their anger and frustration. Anger and frustration are replaced by guilt and simple fatigue. Men and women had been on the loose for seven full days and nights. They were as tired of the violence as the nation who witnessed it on TV.

  But the presence of the newly arrived troops removed all doubt in the minds of the remaining looters as to the wisdom of continuing. After twenty-five looters were shot by an Airborne unit on the sixth day, the message was very clear: This riot will end at whatever cost to the rioters.

  Washington looked like a war zone. Whole neighborhoods just disappeared, their homes and shops destroyed by fire and destruction. The capital was paralyzed. No public services were available, no buses, telephones. Even the water supply system was damaged. Electrical service was spotty, working best where underground lines had replaced the older pole lines. All the Congressmen fled the capital by the end of the second day, as had many of the thousands of government workers and their families. Washington was a ghost town. The tourist population had disappeared the first day of the riot.

  The final tally was staggering, beyond comprehension. Over three thousand people had been killed, including fifty five policemen. Fifteen army or Guard soldiers were dead. And one Senator and his Black driver. Two thousand homes or apartments were completely destroyed by fire alone. Another three thousand had been ransacked, looted or partially damaged. Two hundred public buildings were destroyed or so extensively damaged as to be unusable. The looting and destruction were not confined to the Black neighborhoods or the other ghettoes. The looters found that houses burned just as readily in Arlington and other wealthy suburbs as they did in Washington proper. Homes of congressmen and high government officials in Alexandria, Rockville and Chevy Chase were set ablaze by marauding bands of rioters.

  They took Robert Winston back to Idaho in a military transport plane. The Vice President and 40 senators accompanied the plane carrying his body on Air Force One. At his funeral in the rotunda of the Capitol in Boise, dignitaries from the US, Canada, Europe and Asia extolled the virtues of the man, for the moment choosing to forget that he had attempted to lead the west out of the Union. They forgot for the sake of political expediency. No one was about to cast a shadow of shame on this beloved man. His old friend Tom Adams spoke in eulogy of Robert Winston and his contribution to American history. In his eulogy he said, "How do you replace a man like Robert Winston? In a nation's history, how many Robert Winstons are there? Rest now, old friend. Your struggle for peace, equality, right and fairness is finished. We will now pick up the fallen banner and continue your work. Your senseless death will not deter us from the struggle ahead." Tom Adams prayed as he spoke those words that Bob Winston had not died in vain.

  Theresa Winston was extremely distraught over the horrid manner of her husband's death. She entered into a deep depression that would not end for several months, and only with the support and love of her friends and children. Tom Adams came to her side after the ceremony, placed his arm around her shoulder and pressed her against his side.

  "Oh Tom. It's so sad. So terribly sad. The children have to see Bob's casket lying there without even being able to see his face."

  "Theresa, I know, I know. Just let it go, Theresa. I'm going to miss that man, Theresa. God, I already miss him. It just won't be the same." Tom realized that he wasn't really helping to allay Theresa's grief with words such as that and just held to her while pressing his face against her head. Then he relaxed his hold on her and said, "Theresa, if there is anything I can do in the future, anything at any time, you call me. You promise? Day or night
, summer or winter, it doesn't matter. I want you to call me."

  "I will, Tom. Thanks for everything. I know how much you and Bob liked each other. I know you'll miss him too. Don't be a stranger up at our ranch. Come up anytime and visit us."

  Tom stood there as Theresa walked away to her family and to receive condolences from all the gathered officials and dignitaries. Theresa returned to the ranch that evening with her family.

  Tom sought Bill McKay out of the crowd and said, "The black bastards killed him, Bill. They shot him like a common dog. He didn't deserve to die that way. Bob Winston deserved a better death than that. That trash out in Washington killed a good man, and I don't intend to forget it." It was the only time that Bill McKay had heard Tom Adams speak so disparagingly of black people, or exhibit such outrage at any act. But he agreed silently with every word that Adams had uttered.

  The nation watched it all unfold before them on television, each day by revolting day. One reporter who was assigned to cover the dreadful story was Tim Mullenski. When the riot was finally quelled on the seventh day, he tried again to call Angie Brett and was this time successful in finding her at her apartment in Rockville.

  "Angie, thank God you're OK. It's Tim. I've been in the area covering the riot for a week. I've been trying to call you every day. Did you leave town?"

  "You bet your ass I did, Tim. I wasn't about to stick around this place. I bailed out the first day and drove up to Pennsylvania to stay with an aunt. I don't even know whether I should try to go back to work tomorrow. Is the computer center building still there?" asked Angie, hoping Tim would have information more reliable than others had given her.

  "I don't know, Angie. I haven't been in that part of the city since three days ago. In fact, the military won't even let us drive around yet without escort. Angie, were you able to find out anything before you left town?" Tim asked, hoping she had. He was still tracking the other story in spite of the events in Washington. "You know that Senator Winston was killed the first night, don't you?"