by Jake Aaron
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The $105 billion electric bus bill suffered Mort’s fate and became a footnote in his obituary. It died with Mort as the House’s factions backing the bill spun apart. The precarious majority in favor had been tentatively put together like a high-rise house of cards by clever logrolling of the ambitious Congressman. And, like a house of cards, it collapsed with its sponsor. If a different bill sponsor had died, an otherwise-alive Mort might have rallied others to pass the bill for the sake of the departed. No other congressman, however, had the unique motivators that propelled Mort.
Though Mort lived to change life for his district, his death was the beginning of a sequence that would have earth-shaking implications for the future of the United States. Immediate questions lingered. How did Mort really die? What of the noise over the CPAP sound that Rachel thought she heard in the wee hours of the morning? Who could gain from the Congressman’s death?
Chapter 2
September 14
CIA Safe House
The Friday night poker game was a stag fest of Washington insiders: Supreme Court Justice Jesus Martinez, Congressman John McClain, Director of the CIA Beau Collins, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Nathaniel Brown, and Director of the FBI Sam Vincent. Everyone sported an unlit Cuban cigar. Jesus (pronounced “HAYsoos”) had banned smoking — honoring his congenital allergies and occasional green proclivities. John and Beau sipped smokey Laphroaig scotch. Nate sipped 12-year-old Redbreast Irish whiskey. Jesus savored 25-year-old Yamazaki. Sam periodically swallowed Coppola Malbec. Several hours of casual card playing was descending into alcoholic clarity.
“So you’ve given up your Glenfarclas scotch for that red wine swill?” Nate shot with locker room humor.
“Best wine I’ve ever had. Strictly medicinal, though, you know. Doctor’s orders, something about red wine’s resveratrol being good for my Scotch-Irish skin,” ruddy-complected Sam answered. The second wide excision of a basal-cell carcinoma, this one around his nose, had grabbed his full attention. “Grape ingredient’s warding off skin cancer… a pretty good deal!”
“I don’t exactly have that problem,” laughed Nate, an African-American, who had quarterbacked for Ohio State ‘in the day.’ “The only Irish in me is whiskey. Karma is a bitch, a curse from your slave-owning ancestors,” Nate belly-laughed.
Sam smiled. “Would that be my tenant potato-farmer forbears?… By the way, how’s your dad doing as Chairman Emeritus of Brown Excelsior Shipping?”
“Watch it, Sam. I’ll have brothers Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton picketing outside your plantation mansion tomorrow at dawn.” Everyone laughed at Nate’s humor.
“You can’t play the race card in a card game. That’s reserved for good, clean politics, eh, guys?” John, ever the politician, waded in.
“Another white guy ganging up on the brother!” Nate pulled out a stock refrain in mock indignation. That, too, brought laughter.
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“I appreciate your inviting me to join this august assemblage,” newcomer John interjected. “How did this group begin — I mean the card game klatch?”
Jesus scratched his head, “I’m the only one left of the original members. We started out playing poker about five years ago. Originally, everyone was a judge or former judge. When the first original member left DC, we decided to spice up the mix with a different background addition. Everyone noticed it was more fun, so we continued the process. Result: the group of scofflaws in front of you — you being the exception.”
Over the roar of laughter John thanked Jesus, “Thanks for the rundown. I hope I can live up to your high standards… I guess I’m the token liberal.”
Nate could not resist, “Token?… There you go insulting the brother!” Nate was pleased at the grins around the table.
Beau smiled, “What my colleague means to say is that you’ll fit right in. We’re glad to have you join us and hope you’ll choose to come back. We like a lively interchange of ideas and opinions — all, of course, for non-attribution. The safe house is exactly that. You can say what’s on your mind here and not have it come back to bite you.
“By the way, I hope you didn’t get any feedback about our checking you out. We have done a pretty thorough informal vetting of you. When you consider the government resources represented at this table, you can bet that can bet that it was comprehensive. You see, we take our fun here pretty seriously. We like to know we can trust the folks in this room. Again, welcome, John.”
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Like most of their card nights, more time was spent exchanging jabs and pith than actually playing cards.
“Come on, ante up, John,” task-oriented Beau commanded. “You and your congressional buddies don’t seem to have any hesitation anteing taxpayers’ dollars.” Beau mustered up extra faux gruffness.
John was unfazed and answered in his mellifluous press-interview tone, “The gloves come of pretty quickly don’t they?… Beau, I’ve got to spend to be re-elected. You know that. My constituents demand government spending. It’s how the game is played… You mean to tell me you don’t slant your story a little when you testify before us? We all play the game, Beau. Where you stand depends on where you sit.”
Before Beau could answer, Jesus joined in, “We’re pushing it, though, aren’t we? Our continued overspending is a serious matter. What happens when China will no longer fund our debt? You know that old expression — ‘writing checks no one will cash.’ Bankrupting future generations is no joke. Leaving our kids and grandkids with onerous debt is reprehensible.”
Sam interjected, “Keynes said something like ‘In the long run, we’re all dead.’ Aren’t we approaching the long run? Look at Greece and Spain.”
“Who’s going to bail out the good ole US of A when we have runs on our banks?” Beau went along. “Russia?” he added for a twist. “It ain’t gonna be Greece or Spain!”
“It’ll never happen,” John shot back. “The United States will never go broke. This is the greatest nation on earth. Our biggest problem is the growing inequality, the gap between rich and poor, the shrinking of the middle class. We’ll emerge from this recession like the mythical phoenix. Tax receipts will go up. Problem solved, ye of little faith. Now if we slow spending, that could be a problem. We need to get the consumer back to spending!”
Sam challenged: “You guys in Congress! You want to increase taxes AND you want the consumers to spend. Don’t you think taking away the people’s money with taxes will slow spending? I know you want higher taxes.”
Nate couldn’t help himself. “I know we have the answers to all the problems of the world, but riddle me this: Where’s the con queso?”
Jesus: “Hey, amigo, that’s my line.”
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“Let me have a shot of that Redbreast.” Beau had finished his Laphroaig scotch.
“Beau, I thought you were addicted to the ‘hyper-smokiness of Laphroaig,’ as you put it.” Nate challenged. “‘Laphroaig is a gift from God,’ you said.”
“I like a taste now and then of something without a bite to remember what I hate. Besides it slows down my intake and keeps the warmth alive longer.”
“You mean the buzz, Oxford man,” John chimed in.
“Give me a break, old chum, my Rhodes scholarship taught me to disdain the banal and embrace the complex palette,” Beau intoned with a mock upperclass British accent.
“Speaking of the limeys,” Jesus opined, “maybe we can manage the decline of the American Empire the way the Brits managed theirs. Pay off potential looters with the dole and slowly, very slowly, slip into oblivion…Cup of tea, anyone?”
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Nate shook his head. “Not to be an ethnocentric son-of-a-bitch, but there’s no benevolent big-daddy protector for a declining United States. We’ve defended all of Western civilization with a nuclear umbrella as long as I’ve been on earth. We’ve been a unique last bastion, a protector of the world. We’ve bailed out ever
y other country in the world, but the bucket now has a gaping hole in the bottom. We can’t expect a backstop; we are the only backstop. We better get our economic house in order, or everyone’s SOL. Our military superiority hinges on economic might. As I see it, that economic engine is sputtering and leaking gasoline.”
“There we are. Back to what Sam was saying about the long run,” Beau advanced the theme. “My history-major son tells me democracies or republics, whichever, don’t last much longer than 200 years. Time is not on our side. Our parents and grandparents handed us this nation in damn good shape — rich and free. Now, when we’re the caretakers, we’re screwing it up royally.
“Consider that ancient Egypt, a benchmark in civilized government, dates back to 3000 B.C. The United States Constitution was ratified in 1789. Our form of government has existed less than 5% of the time since the beginning of Egyptian government. I’d like to think mankind is evolving to a higher state, but I think human nature is probably much the same as back in Egypt five millennia ago. Whether Thomas Jefferson said it or not, I agree that eternal vigilance is the the price we pay for liberty. Eternal vigilance, unfortunately, is not part of human nature.”
“That does take me back to think about what my dad learned at Wharton,” Nate added. “He said for decades the US dollar was the world standard in security. The world standard! Most doubt its future today. Like fish not noticing water, he had always taken the dollar’s preeminence for granted, as most of us had, until the downgrade by S&P in 2011. Some kind of legacy our generation is leaving! What hubris to think you can spend more than you can afford. ‘This time it’s different.’ — hah! We are exempt from natural laws, I suppose. Such arrogance! Frankly, the Beltway’s out-of-control spending is nothing short of treachery. Congress must stop overspending. Scandalous!… No offense, John.”
“Thank you for that, I think,” John came back. “I’m no hyper-partisan hack, but you folks who don’t run for office are sure hard on those of us who do. You know, politics is the art of the possible. Americans have no appetite for austerity. With generations that have never faced hard times, it’s a tough sell to curtail spending. It’s just not in the cards, excuse the pun. Speaking of which, let’s play cards!”
“Wait a minute, John,” Jesus challenged, “you’re not falling back on the Nuremberg defense: ‘I was just following orders,’ are you? You know historically that argument has usually at best lessened punishment, but seldom absolved the doer of guilt. I think there’s an issue of statesmanship. Each of us is called upon for leadership for the long-term general good of the Republic.” There was prolonged total silence.
John eventually spoke, “Where are the chips — the potato chips?” He sought to deflect again.
“Yeah, John. It’s not personal. If I’d been popular in school, I would probably have wound up being a politician like you. Instead, I was shooting spitballs.” Nate beamed breaking the silence.
“Hence, today commanding an arsenal of nuclear missiles, eh, Nate? The child is father of the man.” Beau brought waves of guffaws. “And I guess that’s why I stood lookout in the hall during grade school to warn when the teacher was coming back. Great start for a spy!”
“Everyone is f—— up, except me,” laughed Jesus. “Every one of us knows others should get less from the government, and every one of us wants mo’ for moi.”
“Yeah, clearly we were in a damning death spiral with Carter,” Nate said. “Then Reagan at least gave us a few more decades, a little breathing room. It has been a good run, but you’d think somewhere here in Fat City there’d be a skosh of discipline. We’re descending into a pathetic vortex of self-indulgence, entitlement, and dependence.”
“Reminds me of one of the laws of thermodynamics I learned at Hudson High, aka West Point: Entropy holds that all systems eventually spin off into chaos, to grossly generalize,” Sam said off-handedly.
“Your engineering degree from West Point may finally pay off, Sam,” Nate laughed. “You’ll be able to understand why the country is going to hell while we civilian-trained boobs only wonder,” the four-star general grinned in irony. “At Ohio State, we worried mostly about Michigan.”
“So all systems from the git-go have the seeds of their own destruction built in?” the thoughtful Jesus queried. “A history of the law goes along with your thesis. The Founding Fathers knew we needed checks and balances against the nature of mankind. Senators, for example, were originally to be chosen by the state legislatures. For one reason or the other, we destroyed that baffle with the direct election of senators under the Seventeenth Amendment to the Constitution. Bottom line, that reduced the life expectancy of the Republic by shortening the distance between legislator and the voting entitled.”
“If I might, Your Honor,” Beau shot, “you allude to de Tocqueville’s ominous pronouncement: “‘The American Republic will endure until the day Congress discovers that it can bribe the public with the public's money.’”
“Brother Collins, you saved me. I was on a Yamazaki mission — somewhat slow in retrieving my words. I wasn’t 100% — more like 86 proof, but you get the idea.”
“Jesus, we get the idea, and pray for our future!” Beau answered.
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Someone inevitably has to say it. This time it was gregarious John. “It’s getting a little deep in here. I think I’ll sample that Redbreast, too. Need a little cherry and oak to quench my smoke-weary taste buds. Just a little taste, though. I’m a good Baptist, you know.”
“John, you are indeed a Baptist,” Sam retorted. The whole table laughed, John more exuberantly than the others.
“Anyway, Beau, good of you to find this secluded location for our poker summit,” Jesus thanked matter-of-factly. “I always wanted to see a safe house.”
“Safe house? I’m not so sure this place is safe for us politicians,” John tried to recover some respect in light of the conversation’s drift. Next time, let me share a different perspective of history.”
Overlooking John’s remark, Beau answered Jesus. “No big deal. This location has been overused by the Agency, so we’re phasing it out as a safe house.”
“Just stewarding the taxpayers’ dollars here, eh, Beau?” John skeptically questioned.
“Now that it’s blown, I guess you could use it as a mousetrap,” Sam overrode the detractor.
“Fellow rodents, if I may have your attention: Your Honor,” John puffed up focusing on the Supreme Court Justice, “I can defend Beau for his kindness in saving the taxpayers thousands of dollars using this facility for our brain trust — to solve the world’s problems. But how do I defend him for smuggling in these fine embargoed Cuban cigars?” There was a running inside joke at the Central Intelligence Agency over the periodic sub rosa gifts of a box of the prohibited Cohibas to the Director. The cigars would mysteriously appear somewhere in the vicinity of Beau’s reach with a typed card, Por Senor Collins. “I ask, Your Honor, what would Jesus do?” He pronounced “HAYsoos.” “I don’t know what Jesus would do,” Jesus smiled. He pronounced, “GEE-sus.” “I bet he would divide the Cohibas among the Apostles, if I may mangle history and religion.” Given everyone’s intoxication, it actually seemed to make sense.
Then all five looked down at their cards in euphoric silence, shaking their heads in their dissonance: How could life be so good when the country’s situation seemed so bad?
Chapter 3
September 15
District of Columbia
Ralph Betzold was about to get some real work done at the Washington Log as most of the paper’s staff headed home. New to the paper, he arrived from his previous job at the Albuquerque Journal. Before that he had been the editor of the University of New Mexico’s Daily Lobo. He was eager to make a name for himself in his chosen career.
This drove Ralph to work late and on weekends, always more than his coworkers. He nominally set out to work at least ten percent longer than his fellow workers every day. That simple formula for success was his
dad’s greatest gift to him. His dad had started in the mailroom at Sandia Laboratories in Albuquerque, NM, just out of high school. Two decades later his dad, then with a PhD in nuclear physics, headed up that prestigious top secret organization. Ralph had faith that the same formula would work for him. He was currently indulging in his daydream of owning a top-tier newspaper. He rationalized the break from work as “self-motivation.”
Ralph’s focus was broken by his summoning iPhone. He opened the text:
TELL CONGRESS/SENATE: NO MORE BIG SPENDING. SPONSORS/FAMILIES OF UNFUNDED BILLS WILL JOIN ZIMMER. — CUST0S
The text was a hot potato. Someone was apparently threatening national lawmakers — someone implying responsibility for Congressman Mortimer Zimmer’s death. Ralph had a potential windfall in his lap — “…a tide in the affairs of men. Which taken at the flood leads onto fortune…,” as Shakespeare said.
Growing up in the Southwest around jokesters made Ralph skeptical about dealing with this situation. His fellow reporters just might be pulling a prank. He would never forget his less serious schoolmates at the Albuquerque Academy getting to him when he was an intense high school sophomore.
The letter in the mail on Albuquerque Journal letterhead had concluded, “Meet the photographer and me outside the Academy library at 9:00 A.M. Saturday with your complete science fair project.” He had dutifully brought all the laboratory equipment for his elaborate fuel-cell project, as well as three large poster-sized storyboards. He set up the impressive exhibit on a long folding table, all brought from home on a Radio Flyer wagon. His dad would have driven him, but this was his project. After waiting alone two hours in the blazing high-desert sun, he advanced a step into the jadedness of adulthood: No one was coming.
Funny thing about being hoaxed, you can never really shake the original false belief. All the way home, Ralph felt in the recesses of his mind that a Journal reporter might run up to him to apologize for being late to the appointment. Of course, that did not happen, and Ralph’s frontal lobe knew it would not.