by Roger Herst
"So there you are, Rabbi Gabby," a voice accosted them from the rear. Doc and Kye turned to see who it was, but Gabby did not. The voice she knew belonged to Chuck Browner. Untangling her arms from those beside her, she stood to raise both in greeting. "I thought you were hanging out with your friends. I know you guys throw some awesome parties."
"I was," he said closing the distance. "But I became quite emotional about what was going to happen. What time is it?"
"Fifty minutes until the witching hour," Kye offered.
"Good, I'm in time. When I thought about this moment I knew I wanted to spend it with a close friend, not a group of debauching men on the make or bunch of will-of-the-wisp lovers. But with my friend, the one who has stood by me all these years. So I asked myself, where would Gabby be at this moment. It was gamble. Lucky me."
She planted a heartfelt kiss upon his check and drew him into an embrace. "Thanks, Chuck. That makes me feel very good. You're welcome to sit with us. You know Doc. Meet my new friend, Kye Naah."
And so it happened. That is until they heard the faint pounding of fireworks in the distance. Chuck was the first to offer a kiss on Gabby's cheek and she, in turn planted kisses upon Doc ad Kye. They passed over the divide into a new calendar with their hands entwined. Another round of hugs sealed their closeness.
At 12:12 a.m. they acknowledged that it was time to break up and go their own ways. Chuck offered to drive Doc to his apartment in Adams Morgan district and Gabby, to take Kye to his van.
"Please don't bother," Kye said to Gabby. "I'm parked only a few blocks away."
"I'm not going anywhere but home tonight."
"You've already done enough for me. This has been a special privilege."
The engine to Gabby's Volvo was idling near Kye's Ford van. He was relaxed in the passenger seat, studying her features as though inspecting computer code. Before alighting onto the street, he reached across the seat to take her hand in a farewell shake. When she accepted, he said, "There were tears in your eyes this evening. You must be carrying some heavy baggage into the New Year."
She was flattered he noticed. "For me, every new year is special. I had a close friend who sacrificed his life so I could live. Were it not for him, I wouldn't be here at this moment. I try to carry his memory with me forward. I owe it to him."
Such a confession was more than Kye anticipated. "I hope I'm not being rude if I ask, was this a romantic friend?" Her dimples deepened in a coquettish manner. "I guess so. Why yes, in a manner of speaking. We were extremely close. Though it might have been different had he lived."
"That's a heavy load to bear. But then I can't think of a better life to save than yours." He sighed aloud before opening the passenger door to step out. "May I call you later this afternoon? Our Internet party at Politicstoday will go on through the day until about midnight. Perhaps I can persuade you to come and see what technology promises for the future. We're located at the New Carrollton Metro station on the Orange line. You could drive or take the Metro."
"An intriguing offer. Can I email you after some rest?" "Absolutely."
CHAPTER FIVE
NEW YEAR, NEW WORLD
"The guillotine blade has fallen," were Harold Farb's words as he reached Gabby by phone at 10:30 a.m. on New Year's Day. "I promised Stan not to ruin your holiday, but felt it wrong to delay any longer."
This is not what she wanted to hear, but immediately understood the reference. "Has the Morgenstern family filed suit against us? "In the District Court, the morning of the thirty-first. Stan Melkin phoned on Thursday night to say he received a call from Marc Sutterfeld of Morrison and Grant to alert him, as a courtesy between colleagues, you understand. I’m told lawyers do things like that. They protect their client's interest with ferocious partisanship yet behind the scenes maintain friendly contact. In a city like Washington you never know when you will need a favor or a referral from your collegial adversary. The details you don't want to hear."
"Wrong, Harold. I need to see my attackers before they swarm over me. What's the charge against us?" "Dereliction of duty. Gross negligence leading to bodily harm and death."
"How much?" Figures don't mean anything at this stage. In a personal injury suit, there's little rhyme or reason to the numbers. They're manufactured by thieves in the legal profession to justify fees. Personal injury lawyers usually ask for the equivalent of the national debt, then double it. Figures are pulled from thin air. We all know that the death of a young girl and the injury of another have no price tag."
"Stop beating around the bush. How much?"
"Forty-six million."
The number made her grunt. "If I lost a child and had another injured for life, I'd probably think that a paltry sum. There's no way I can ever afford that kind of bread. I'll probably have to sell myself as a galley slave on the next man-o-war sailing from Baltimore Harbor."
"This isn't your worry. It belongs to our insurance carrier. If we lose, Dominion Mutual is going to have to fork up the mulla."
"Will Dominion Mutual cover the synagogue, too?" "The first ten million. So that should give you a clue about the settlement sum."
"Did you speak with Asa about this before he left for his vacation?" "No, I wanted to talk with you first." "I'm glad he's not here. Trying to contain secrets around Ohav is like plugging a hemorrhaging dike with your toes. It's hopeless. Trust me, I've tried."
"I could call his cell phone, but it can wait."
The way rumors circulate in this city, Asa's likely to get the wrong information. We're all going to have to trust each other and face reality."
She didn't like the sound of that, but then she didn't like the sound of anything relating to the situation. If there is a redeeming feature in this tragedy, she hasn't discovered it.
When Harold rang off, Gabby sat in her kitchen staring out the window onto neighboring rooftops. So this was her New Year's present. Does one tragedy necessarily lead to another? Her gloom was pervaded by a yearning to escape. She had survived one calamity after another, somehow landing on her feet. A premonition haunted her that this time she would not be so lucky.
Her phone rang again, but she did not rush to answer. The caller was patient, waiting for her to relent, which she eventually did.
"Hey, partner," the up-beat voice belonged to Kye Naah. "You promised to read your email. We've worked up a special presentation for you at Politicstoday. I hope you can come see it. No wimpy cocktail parties for us. Come and be part of the new century."
She wasn't in the mood for celebrating, yet the idea of brooding for the remainder of the holiday had even less appeal. Friends had invited her to several New Year's receptions which she had Chuck delicately decline. To explain her feelings, even to old friends with refined sensitivities, was to reveal more than she wanted. Kye's invitation sounded appealing.
"Okay, pal," she responded. "You've got yourself a deal. I'll drive over. As usual, we've got another crisis brewing and I may have to leave."
"Sure you know where we are?" "You said at the New Carrollton Metro. I've got your street address on your brochure from the Greenbrier. In the Girl Scouts they taught me to read a map."
"Come as soon as possible. There's no receptionist, so just wander in and ask anybody for me. I'll be on the lookout for you."
By noon, she had driven Capitol Hill onto the Capital Beltway. The unsightly industrial zone around New Carrollton was cluttered with large delivery vehicles and tractor-trailers parked for the holiday and provided a venue for morose thoughts. On the one hand, she was furious with the Morgensterns. How could reasonable people blame the synagogue and its dedicated rabbis for what was obviously not their fault? But concurrently, she empathized with their pain. Allocating fault was not only human, but, with such an overwhelming tragedy, understandable. She pondered the best way to break the news to Asa. The possibility of returning home to call Kye and beg out of his party crossed her mind. Then place the fateful phone call to Asa. But she also knew how slowly the whe
els of Chancery would grind. There was no reason to ruin Asa's holiday in order to wait for the lawyers.
Metro East Business Park, a 700,000 square foot corporate campus, was home to Politicstoday. Kye had selected the location in order to be distant from what he considered the corrupting influences of the capital and yet be near enough to keep close tabs on its pulse. A dedicated advocate for public transport, he wanted his associates to be within walking distance of a Metro station. But since the majority of Politicstoday staff lived in an adjacent office building, proximity to Metro was only a secondary benefit.
When Gabby entered the building, she found Kye's young associates lounging around after a marathon celebration that had begun well before the New Year and had continued through the morning for some fifteen hours. Rock music blasted from an array of hidden speakers. Theatrical lights flashed in multiple colors. Once past the foyer, she observed banks of computer monitors hanging from the ceiling and flickering a potpourri of abstract images. Clusters of young people were gathered under these monitors with a designated individual operating a keyboard.
She corralled a dusty-blond woman in baggy chino pants and a cowboy vest to ask about Kye, expecting her to lift a phone and ask for his whereabouts. But instead she veered left to the first unoccupied keyboard. An instant later Gabby read a message scroll across the screen. "KyeN – visitor at station 23-1. LoraineY."
A few minutes later, Kye emerged from an elevator, both hands extended to Gabby in welcome. "You made it just in time for our linkup with Hawaii – the last outpost before the International Date Line. Like us, all other locals have already passed into the New Year.
In jeans, boots, and a cowboy shirt with patch pockets, Kye blended into this workforce, calling little attention to himself as he guided Gabby from department to department, explaining how his "web community," operated.
"We're not millionaires like employees of Google, at least not yet," Kye said. "Someday perhaps, when we finally divide up the equity. But as of today, we're deep in red ink. Technology is expensive. Fortunately, we have a dedicated group of people working here, motivated largely by their dreams, not their pocketbooks. Nobody can go to the grocery store with stock warrants we've issued. We're forced to economize and share our living expenses. Most of us live in the building next door. No private rooms, just an open space and sleeping bags. Our only luxury is membership in the P.G. Sport Club down the street. We exercise and shower there. You can imagine Prince George's County isn't wild about the idea. Our legal department, such that it is, has managed to evade eviction several times."
A neophyte to the world of technology, Gabby was awed by equipment and the expertise required to operate it. As Kye explained, Politicstoday pushed the election locomotive along an information highway. The frontispiece motto for E M Foster's novel Howard's End adorned the elevator landings on each floor, "Only connect."
"That's what we're about," Kye explained while squiring her through a corridor toward a large bank of servers processing and distributing text, voice and video. An elevator descended to the South Pole, where mammoth air conditioners pumped cool air over the machinery. Gabby was impressed with the energy of technical staff, most of whom had been up more than 24 hours. She couldn't imagine a better place to escape from the brooding atmosphere of the synagogue.
Temperature in the basement was twenty-five degrees cooler than on the ground floor. A swish of cold air circulated from a raised floor. Monitors suspended from the ceiling flashed portions of a New Year's celebration occurring virtually in Honolulu. With Diamond Head Mountain as a background, fireworks illuminated Waikiki Beach while crowds paraded along the sand, scantily clothed. A band of electric guitarists pelted out island-rock. A barefoot representative of Politicstoday was milling among others on the beach. "I feel like I've been up for three days," the representative said. "Got your transmission from the Washington Mall which we shared with affiliates on outlying islands. Our people in Sydney started nearly twenty-four hours ago and are still going strong. They said there were so many boats on the water you could get from the Opera House to North Sydney by jumping from one vessel to another."
At Politicstoday in Washington, volunteers began passing out pineapple and rum cocktails, followed with bacon and poi finger foods.
"We've saved clips from celebrations throughout the world," Kye said, whiling offering her a rum drink at the same time as another associate pressed a paper plate with Hawaiian finger foods under her nose. She sipped the drink, but rejected the food. Orchid leis suddenly appeared. Kye draped one over her head and adjusted it upon her shoulders. "Interested to welcome the New Year in another country?" "I'm curious about Jerusalem," she responded. "You know, there's always the threat that some nut case will arise on the New Year to save the world by proclaiming himself the messiah. As I recall, five such individuals appeared during the millennium celebration."
Kye gently nudged a keyboard operator aside. She remembered that he typed only with his index fingers, yet was surprised how rapidly he moved over the keyboard. "Up there to your left," he pointed with his hand, designating a monitor for footage of the Israeli celebration. The screen opened with a scene of the Western Wall of the ancient Herodian Temple. Hassidim and Orthodox men were reciting their prayers as they did every day of the year.
"Doesn't look like those fellows have gotten into the spirit of the New Year," Kye commented.
"I don't understand those men in funny hats and dark coats. I find it hard to believe that people still dress like that."
"Orthodox and Hassidic Jews revere the past more than the present. When forced to make a choice between tradition and change, they opt for tradition. Their view of the future is the past. Who's to say they're wrong? We have an expression for the diversity of style and opinion in Hebrew. Elu v'elu divray Elohim, which means God reveals himself to different people in different ways and they, consequently, end up as different people, with different points of view."
Kye thought about that for a long minute before responding. "Here, we abandon history as fast as we manufacture it. Maybe that's why I find what you do so refreshing." He placed his hand upon her shoulder for an instant. "That's what I admire about you, Gabby. I expected to find you rigidly doctrinaire. But you don't fit that mold. And that's wonderful because you're going to be elected to the Eighth District. Voters will recognize this trait. My friends tell me you're already a folk hero among gays and lesbians. Blacks look at you as a kind of saint for your accomplishments in Anacostia. And a companion of a friend who loves to hunt says that your name is gold among members of the National Rifle Association. You probably won't get votes from conventional party voters loyal to Toby Ryles, but you'll pick up all the fringe voters."
"I don't think one can get elected by gays, blacks, and gun lovers alone."
"Come with me to our studio. I'll show you how it's done. I never wanted Politicstoday be just another high-tech company churning out money. We're trying to translate this technology into a process to help good people get elected, not just wealthy and powerful people."
She was dubious. "I can't see how you can reach enough voters to win. It might work for those fluent at surfing the net, but the majority of people don't surf. Many older people in my electoral district don't feel comfortable before a computer."
Kye's smile was patient. "We've arranged a little dog and pony show for you in our studio. If you're in the mood, we can run it for you now. If not, it can wait for a better time."
Her curiosity drove her to accept his invitation. In the elevator, crowded with celebrants, he spoke close to her ear. "We start with the Internet, Facebook and Twitter stuff, but immediately branch into conventional radio, television and print media – placards, town meetings, church and synagogue convocations where permitted. Wherever people get together to talk politics, we go. Our database for reaching voters is a massive library of images, speeches, statements, photo-clips. What makes us special is that we're constantly up-dating our material so it's fresh an
d accurate. If our competition gets the news first, heads roll around this place."
From South Pole, they ascended to the third floor whose corridors threaded though banks of laboratories filled with work benches packed with electronic equipment operated by a bewildering array of dials and buttons. Computer monitors were ubiquitous, all alive with images. Music blasted from an open door as young, unshaven hackers moved in and out to the corridor.
"We may be celebrating New Years, but Politicstoday can't shut down. While we play we work," Kye explained. "Work is really play here and play, true work. Since most of us eat and live in the neighboring building, it's easier to stay put and not leave the campus. By the same token, hours are flexible, as are vacations. Everybody's got an assigned job, but we shy away from titles. Everybody is on a first-name basis, including me."
In front of Studio C, two young women and two men were waiting. After introductions, they escorted Gabby into a cavernous room with a battery of monitors arranged in a semi-circle before a swivel chair. Electronic panels, looking to Gabby like an aircraft's flight deck, were perpendicular to this seat. A heavyset brunette with leathery, sun-tanned skin settled Gabby into the center chair and attached a lapel microphone to the collar of her blouse. "This mic simultaneously translates everything you say into text." She pointed to a monitor high above Gabby's left shoulder. "You can read your own words a they scroll across the monitor."
"I hope it spells better than I think" Gabby quipped.
"But the second mic, attached to it is a regular voice microphone. We can send your voice wherever we want – to cell phones, radio, television, any kind of meeting. It's all digital and moves faster than sound, but of course slower than light."
"What makes this special," Kye added over her shoulder, "is that television is a one-way street, sending out images and sound returning nothing. Here, we're on a highway, with all kinds of traffic coming and going. We can even connect with men in space."