by Gordon Ryan
Precisely twenty minutes later, General Rodrigo Cordoba, dressed in a double-breasted Armani suit, silk shirt with French cuffs, gold cuff links, and Italian shoes, was met on the circular driveway outside the San Diego Marriott Hotel by two uniformed agents of the U.S. Border Patrol. Leaving the hotel, Agent Presley, seated on the passenger side, turned to face Cordoba in the backseat and advised him that they had about a forty-five-minute drive. Then he turned again to face forward. Nothing else was said during the ensuing drive into the Southern California desert. General Cordoba gave no further thought to the conference that was to be held that morning, at which he was to have participated in a round-table discussion on the need for joint U.S. / Mexican police action in controlling the increasing tide of illegal Mexican immigration.
Chapter 20
Governor’s Office, California Capitol Building
Sacramento, California
The most incongruous thing about Robert Del Valle’s size, apart from his soft-spoken and caring demeanor, was his ability to fold his six-foot five-inch frame into a Porsche 911. That fact was ironic, since the same physical attribute that made him a stand-out, quite literally, in any crowd except an NBA convention, had, over thirty years earlier as he graduated from West Point, precluded his first choice of service.
“You can’t fit in the damned tank,” his assignment officer at West Point had told him when he tried to choose armor. Assigned instead to infantry, he had excelled at his chosen profession, reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel and eventually becoming a battalion commander. A family crisis involving his parents had required his resignation after thirteen years of service, and he had returned to the family homestead in Utah. Subsequent events led to a move to California, where he had established a now-successful insurance brokerage firm and affiliated himself with the army through the California National Guard. After fifteen years in the guard and twenty-eight years of total military service, he now commanded, holding the rank of major general.
Del Valle lived in El Dorado Hills, in a home that afforded him a commanding view of the Sacramento Valley. Leaving there in his sports car, General Del Valle began the pre-briefing in his mind, unsure exactly how he would approach the governor, with whom he had requested this meeting. The brutal murders of four ATF agents in November still had everyone in an uproar, and the guard’s intelligence section, working together with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, had thus far been unable to confirm the identity of perpetrators, although speculation had been that one or more of the newly amalgamated militia groups was involved.
Del Valle rode the elevator up from the underground parking facility in the capitol building, reflecting momentarily on a tour of schoolchildren giggling, pushing, and teasing each other. What does the future hold for them in the newly rebellious state? Had the children in South Carolina and Virginia known what was happening to their country so long ago? he wondered.
Walking toward the governor’s suite of offices, he passed by several glass-enclosed displays, one for each county in California, each displaying the primary products or industry to be found in that county. Taking a tour of the capitol was almost like attending a mini state fair.
“Good morning, General,” the governor’s secretary said. Wearing civilian clothes to reduce the formality of the visit and to allay the suspicions of any reporters who might be in the building, Del Valle had arranged this meeting to coincide with his routine appearance before the governor.
“The governor will be right with you, sir. He’s just concluding his morning staff review.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hansen. I’ll just have a cup of coffee and sit over here,” he said. Three minutes later, several fresh, young faces filed out of the governor’s office, papers and briefcases in hand. Mrs. Hansen stood and moved to the governor’s door, smiling at General Del Valle. “General, you may see the governor now.”
Del Valle stood, picked up his briefcase, and started for the office, commenting as he passed, “Were we ever that young, Mrs. Hansen?” gesturing toward the departing staff.
She looked toward them as they disappeared down the hall. “Not that I can recall, General, but if memory serves, we, too, once thought we could change the world.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Del Valle allowed. Entering the office suite, Del Valle turned his attention to the governor, who was moving from a conference table toward his desk and who paused to greet Del Valle.
“Good morning, Bob. I see you’re climbing the ladder on Rancho Murietta’s match play golf tournament,” Governor Dewhirst said.
Del Valle smiled and shook the governor’s hand, both men beginning the ritual golf banter.
“Just luck, Governor, and an occasional ‘membership bounce.’ Your side of the ladder seems full of serious players, though. Tough competition, eh?”
California Governor Walter Dewhirst, in his second term, motioned for Del Valle to take a seat and moved to pour fresh coffee before taking a seat opposite. “Some good players, I’ll admit, but we won’t see any real competition until our ladders cross, Bob,” he said with a smile. “I did take the time to check your current handicap. There’s a discrepancy, I think,” he said with a straight face.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Someone seems to have left off the plus sign in front of your three.”
A big grin lit up Del Valle’s face. “I’ll check into it right away, Governor. Actually, I agree with you that it’s an erroneous posting. By the time our ladders cross, I’ll see what I can do to change it to a six. A minus six, that is.”
“You do that,” Dewhirst smiled in return, “and I’ll keep my eight and cross your name off the list anyway.”
Del Valle laughed out loud and picked up his briefcase, retrieving a folder and replacing the case on the floor. “You probably will, Walt. You probably will.”
“So,” the governor began, “got some good news for me, I hope. My peers in nearly every other state have been pressing to know what’s going to happen and how serious we are about this secession nonsense. They know, of course, that citizen support for referendum issues comes and goes in California, but this one doesn’t seem to want to go away.”
“Precisely,” Del Valle responded. “Still, the legislature is going to have to address it more seriously. Since the last election, nearly every legislator has avoided the subject like the plague, speaking in generalities, claiming they’re only doing ‘what the people want.’”
“Well, it’s gonna come back and bite ’em. There’s no escape. We’re gonna have to address it on the floor in open session.”
“And the Speaker?”
“Sheesh, if I only knew. He’s a very private man.”
“Maybe a direct approach, Governor.”
“Our erstwhile Speaker has kept all comers at bay since you were a shave-tail lieutenant. I don’t think this issue, despite the severity, will cause him to change his habits.”
“Can’t you just call him in and see how he stands?”
“He usually doesn’t work that way, but this secession mania is certainly out of the norm.”
“That’s putting it mildly. How about the direct approach: ‘Yea or nay, speaker? Time to ante up.’ Surely this issue’s too big to wait and see where the masses stand, and then get out front and pretend to lead. You know, politics as usual,” Del Valle said.
Governor Dewhirst looked at Del Valle for a moment, a smile forming on his face. Del Valle realized he had inadvertently lumped the governor in with the charge. “Governor, I-”
“No, you’re right. We’ve got to approach this differently. In fact, you’re dead right. It’s time I quit tap-dancing. What’s the thrust of your main subject today?”
Assuming a formal tone, Del Valle opened his folder. “I have some intelligence on the attack on the ATF and we need to discuss how to handle some of the spin-off. If we don’t take a stand and establish some policy on the issue, the Feds will. They’re already moving on several fronts, and we’re not getting much coo
peration from the FBI.”
“Anything the Speaker couldn’t hear?”
Del Valle thought momentarily. “I suppose not, Governor. I could shield my sources.”
Governor Dewhirst stood, walked to his desk, and pushed his intercom. “Mrs. Hansen, would you see if the Speaker might have a few moments to join us, please?”
“Certainly, Governor,” she replied.
Dewhirst resumed his seat. “Bob, when he arrives, just shoot straight. It’s time we formed an alliance on this one. My gut tells me he’s as much opposed to this foolish idea of secession as we are. It’s time to get his brain on our team and develop a strategy to keep this state on keel.”
“Governor,” General Del Valle said, continuing his formal tone, “my sources within military circles tell me that the joint chiefs have instructed certain California military units to prepare a contingency plan for federal intervention, should the legislature formalize the secession movement. There’s no equivocation out there. If we march down this path, you’ll find yourself as unpopular in Washington as Jefferson Davis was the last time this was tried.”
Dewhirst reflected on that for a moment then stood as Mrs. Hansen buzzed to announce the arrival of the Speaker.
“Let’s do all we can, General Del Valle,” he responded, “to assure you don’t have to assume Lee’s role. Put it straight to Speaker Huntington, and let’s see where this crafty fox stands.”
Del Valle stood, prepared to greet the Speaker, and replied to the governor, “Yes, sir.”
Speaker of the California Assembly, James Huntington, a tall, silver-haired, distinguished black man who had been the mayor of Fresno thirty-eight years earlier before entering the California legislature, entered the room. Mrs. Hansen closed the door behind him.
“Ah, Mr. Speaker. Thank you for joining us this morning. General Del Valle wanted to brief me on matters of import. I felt it appropriate that you participate. Some coffee, James?”
“If the ladies would please come to order.”
Matilda Westegaard lightly rapped her gavel, the banter throughout the room slowly faded, and attention was turned toward the rostrum.
“Thank you, thank you, ladies. As you all know, today we are privileged to hear from Mr. Daniel Rawlings, republican candidate for Yolo County’s Eighth Legislative District. Until recently, Mr. Rawlings was our county administrator. He has now announced his candidacy for the seat vacated by the tragic and unfortunate death of our most able representative, Arnold Fister. Only last year, Mr. Fister spoke from this very lectern, and we all miss him dearly.”
Murmurs of assent rippled through the room. Arnold Fister had been a handsome and charismatic man. Many of the ladies in the room had voted for him for no other reason than his perfectly coifed silver hair.
“It was my pleasure to have instructed Mr. Rawlings as a student,” she began, only to be interrupted by one of the ladies in the back, “For hell’s sake, Matilda, you had everybody here as a student. That’s no surprise!” At this, the room burst into spontaneous laughter, and Matilda blushed slightly.
“That’s true, Jackie Healy, and you haven’t changed one bit since those days. You’re still interrupting the class.” This was followed by more laughter from the room. “Now, if I could please get on with the introduction-as I was saying, Mr. Rawlings, having served as our county administrator until two weeks ago, is familiar with local issues, and it appears, having picked up some of his grandfather’s traits, is not afraid to go against the tide when he feels it necessary. I, for one, support him in his opposition to this secession nonsense.”
She glanced down at her notes again, and added, “In addition to being Yolo County’s newest author with his first novel, Voices in My Blood, a story that is largely set in Rumsey Valley, Mr. Rawlings, is. . well, shall we just let him tell us himself? May I present Daniel Rumsey Rawlings, fifth-generation Rumsey Valley resident and candidate for the Eighth District.”
Dan stood to take the podium, acknowledging Matilda’s introduction with a “thank you” amid a smattering of light applause, which died quickly as he surveyed the room and began to address the assembled ladies.
“It’s funny what crosses your mind when preparing to speak. As Mrs. Westegaard was mentioning my forthcoming novel, Voices in My Blood, I flashed back to my senior year English class, taught, of course, by none other than Mrs. Westegaard,” he said, smiling toward Jackie Healy, who had made the earlier comment. “Most of us will remember Mrs. Westegaard as a teacher who cared, who pushed hard, and perhaps most of all, for me at least, who molded the raw clay she was given and tried to form the best possible crucible from the limited elements available.
“Many of us,” he said, turning to look at Matilda, “owe a great deal to Mrs. Westegaard, and likely, as in my case, we have taken it for granted. The lessons learned in her class while we prayed for the bell to ring have come to mind more than once over the years. Perhaps, only on occasion, mind you, I didn’t always pay as much attention as I should have, but somehow, somewhere, the lessons seeped in.” Dan pointed to his head. “Later in life, certainly in law school, the lessons resurfaced, having been retained as a result of the caliber of the teacher.” He looked toward her again with a bright smile. “It seems, Mrs. Westegaard, that you taught us in spite of ourselves. I, for one, would like to take this occasion to thank you publicly.”
Dan began the applause, prompting most of the women in the room to stand and join him in his spontaneous tribute. Matilda Westegaard remained seated, a hint of moisture in her eyes, but with her composure intact and a smile fixed on her face as she glanced about the room. As the applause died down, the ladies resumed their seats.
One of the women in the back of the room spoke up. “Mr. Rawlings, I want you to tell us why we should elect someone who still believes the bullshit being put out by Washington.”
Instantly, Matilda Westegaard was on her feet again, standing behind the podium. “We’ll have none of that in this room. Do you hear me?” she said, her voice tinged with anger. “This is America. . at least for the present. And we will honor our traditions of respecting and listening to other points of view, at least while I’m president of this club.” She then took her seat again, and the room was quiet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Westegaard, but the questioner has raised a valid point. Why should you elect someone who believes we should remain a part of the United States of America? And who is right? Who’s wrong? In fact is there a right or wrong in this question of states’ rights? Perhaps,” Dan continued, “the lessons from our school days gave us the ability to tell right from wrong, good from evil, and to discern the essence of a situation in black-and-white terms. But over the ensuing decades, the lines seem to have blurred. The ‘anything goes’ philosophy now seems acceptable, and in some cases preferred. How do we respond when we disagree with something that will affect our lives, but because of political correctness, we’re not allowed to express our disagreement? How do we apply those lessons we learned from the previous generation to life today, when the variations between two or more issues do not contain merely right or wrong. .”
And so Dan Rawlings continued the basic format that he had developed into his formal presentation, which he had given at least twice daily for the previous three weeks. A Republican by party affiliation, Dan had firmly established himself a Unionist-a label from Civil War days-which the press had pinned on him. Each group to which he spoke, even those that supported his campaign to keep California in the Union, bombarded him with examples of oppressive federal intrusion and Washington’s increasing intervention into state’s rights. Dan did not deny any of these allegations. Indeed, he agreed with most of them while maintaining that the way to correct them was not to leave the fold, but to continue to push for change from the inside. Unfortunately, his was a platform that had been preached by legislative candidates for nearly two centuries, and one from which a tired electorate sought refuge.
The field crew lay in the shade of the few tr
ees remaining around the barley fields south of Twin Falls, Idaho. The tired laborers were resting after lunch, trying not to think about the even hotter afternoon session ahead as they prepared for Spring planting. In an attempt to keep the buzzing and biting insects at bay, Carlos Domingo had shielded his face with a magazine as he tried to take a brief nap. Not to be outdone, a co-worker reached over and grabbed the magazine, tearing several pages out of the middle to place over his own face.
Not wishing to cause any more trouble than his limited remaining energy could handle, Carlos ignored the theft and sat up, beginning to flip through the tattered pages. Unable to read most of the English, he concentrated on the pictures, casually turning pages, waiting for the field boss to blow the whistle that would signal another five backbreaking hours of stooped labor. When his eyes landed on the picture of an open truck, with dozens of uniformed police and several suit-and-tie men standing around looking in, he froze. Turning the page sideways to get a better look, Carlos felt the instant urge to vomit, his stomach curling within him as he came to a recognition of the face before him. He quickly looked around, jumped up to find the field boss, showed him the picture, and asked him to read the caption underneath.
“Hey, Carlos, you better get some more rest. It’s hotter than Hades out here, and it’s gonna be sweat city this afternoon.”
“Por favor,” he persisted. “What say these words?”
“Well, it says ‘Gruesome remains discovered in southern California desert.’” Summarizing, he continued, “Mostly, it tells of a truckload of illegal Mexican immigrants who were locked in a truck and died of heat exposure. Sixteen people died.”
“Who is this?” Carlos asked, pointing to a well-dressed Mexican man, standing next to a gringo wearing khaki pants and an open-neck shirt.