by P. G. Abeles
Harrison and Johnson had one final stop. The church accompanist was a quiet man in his seventies who lived with his sister. Carl Barnes had worked with Green at the church for years, although it soon became apparent that he didn’t altogether approve of gay men in general, and Antwone Green in particular. But Mr. Barnes was by nature a discreet man, and throughout the interview had remained closemouthed about any suspicions he may have harbored.
However, both Harrison and Johnson suspected that there was a story there, something that Barnes might not be willing to volunteer, but if pressed, might divulge. Just as they thought they were getting somewhere, the man’s sister returned from shopping and, learning of the subject of their inquiry, had unceremoniously shooed them out. Barnes courteously escorted them to the door. As they were leaving, Harrison gave it one more try.
“Mr. Barnes. I appreciate your time, sir. I know you don’t want to speculate about Antwone Green and Kevin DuShane…” Barnes nodded, solemnly. Harrison continued, “but you must have known Kevin DuShane was having a relationship with someone else in the church...?” Carl Barnes was an elderly man, but the gaze he directed at the detectives was sharp and unexpectedly defensive.
“I’m not saying anything against Congressman Okono,” he told them and slammed the door. Harrison and Johnson walked down the house’s crumbling cement stairs with carefully controlled expressions. Whatever the police detectives had expected from the interview, it wasn’t that.
Chapter Twenty
Chicago, Illinois
EVENTUALLY, THEY WOULD BE GIVEN the grandiose title of Office of Media Affairs, but to start with, everyone just called them “The Four Guys.” Appelbaum chuckled to himself as he recalled how the whole thing had started almost accidentally with four pimply, whey-faced guys right out of college. They’d all had low-level crappy jobs: filling computer ink cartridges at the local office superstore, delivering pizzas, working at an auto-parts store—when they’d volunteered for Okono. Everyone started, of course, with the training. Any serious volunteer was schooled in the tactics outlined in The Professor’s 280 page training manual. Those slated for leadership positions, either by dint of their eye-burning dedication or the accident of their geographic location (and its relative importance to the campaign apparatus), were sent to Okono Camp. Most new recruits for Okono returned completely indoctrinated, all but clicking their heels and snapping their elbows in salute.
First, Appelbaum had put The Four Guys to work simply monitoring the various media internet sites and astro-turfing for Okono. When they’d demonstrated a badger-like viciousness in going after McCracken’s mousey supporters online, Appelbaum had put them in charge of coordinating bloggers for Okono and decided to pay them. Why not? After all, there was plenty of money. When they’d recommended guys they knew who had network skills, and told Appelbaum they needed some techs and computer geeks who knew how to manipulate and work the system, he’d hired a few more. Appelbaum was amazed at how effective they were. McCracken websites claimed Okono had five hundred paid bloggers around the country. Appelbaum laughed to himself. What the penny-pinching McCracken campaign would be most appalled to learn was that he frankly had no idea how many of these guys were now working for the campaign.
They all looked alike, dressed alike, talked alike. Young, pasty, anonymous guys with brown hair, button-down shirts, khaki pants. They shlumped into the office throughout the morning wearing Chicago-weather-worthy parkas or thrift shop overcoats. Their features were indistinct, softly modeled, as if the clay hadn’t been fired long enough. They lived in their parents’ basements or low-rent walk-ups with one brick wall and intermittent heat. But it didn’t matter what they looked like, or even who they were. Appelbaum chuckled to himself: these everyday shlemiels focused all their real-world angst and frustration (too short, too awkward, too ugly) and transformed themselves online into strike-force warriors; venom pouring from their fingertips with every keystroke, every salvo. A veteran of political campaigns, Appelbaum was a little bewildered to realize how personally invested they were: they didn’t just want Okono to win, they wanted to punish McCracken for daring to run against him. They didn’t want to best McCracken supporters in an on-line dialogue, they wanted to annihilate them.
When the campaign organized the social networking sites, and the volunteers started pouring in, The Four Guys became the geeks in charge, by default. Pretty soon, they were arriving at the Okono campaign headquarters at 3:30 in the morning on weekdays and 5:30 on weekends to read the newspaper websites, political blogs, and monitor television and radio. Ted Mojasck was Appelbaum’s key point guy. An unprepossessing guy with dark shadowed eyes, a too-short nose, and too-long upper lip, his pallid expression reflected the long hours he devoted to the Okono internet turf wars. Mojasck had sent him an email: The Four Guys needed a few minutes of his time. So he was here. As he walked into the room for their appointment, Appelbaum noticed The Four Guys and another guy he didn’t recognize were already seated at the small conference table.
“Okay,” Appelbaum said, with a glance at his watch, “What you got?”
Mojasck licked his lips a little nervously and began.
“David, as you know, I’ve been working on a project with Ranjiv…” he gestured to the other guy in the room, who nodded.
“…to disrupt the opposition’s email chains, which has been pretty successful. But Ranjiv thinks we’re missing some opportunities to really dominate the web.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Mojasck motioned for Ranjiv to take over.
“Well, it’s pretty basic.” Ranjiv looked almost embarrassed to have to explain.
“Right now, you know, we are, like, primarily focused on rapid response using Google alerts and other mechanisms.”
Appelbaum nodded. He knew this.
Ranjiv continued. “But we haven’t done anything yet, like, to really harness the capabilities of the new system—to, you know, basically, like, use the code built into every part of the internet to, you know, really take control.”
Appelbaum was intrigued.
“Okay. So how do we do that?”
Mojasck interjected.
“We’ve already begun using spam filters against the opposition. But we could really take it to the next level. You know, like, flag their emails and websites and take them off-line.”
“For how long?”
Mojasck and Ranjiv exchanged a glance. It was Mojasck who spoke.
“It kinda depends on how savvy they are. Could be, like... forever.”
Appelbaum had a hard time concealing his glee.
“Anything else?”
The Four Guys looked at Ranjiv.
“Yes, well, like, it’s theoretically possible to insert metadata, you know, into some of the websites to create really powerful negative affiliations.”
The guys all nodded their heads enthusiastically.
“Meta-what?” asked Appelbaum.
“Metadata. Meta-tags. The embedded words or phrases in a web page that like, you know, help search engine bots index a page.”
Appelbaum rubbed his forehead. “Am I following this? You’re going to embed dirty words on their websites?”
Ranjiv chuckled goofily. “Unless the user opens up the html of the page, they’re not, like, ever gonna see it. And, like, no administrators of these types of sites really have the, you know, sophistication to look at the code. No, no one sees the meta-data except, you know, the search engine. The amateurs hosting these sites will never suspect a thing.”
Appelbaum paused. “I guess I’m missing something. So, what’s the point?”
Ranjiv continued. “By embedding words that have nothing to do with the site—we make the websites harder to find. That’s the first thing,” Ranjiv paused. The Four Guys motioned for him to continue.
“And the second?” Appelbaum prompted.
Ranjiv dropped the bomb. “Like I said, we use really negative words.”
“Like what?” Appelbau
m noticed the Four Guys shifting a little uneasily in their seats. So this is big, he thought. Out loud he said: “Give me an example.”
Ranjiv responded first. “Yes… well, so we were thinking... We might use the words: racist, white supremacist, KKK. So, like, when a user pulls up that page, all the other websites listed will be for those groups, so the supporter thinks the site is, like, insanely questionable. You know, like, guilt-by-association, big time.”
“I should think so.” Appelbaum looked at the young man over his glasses.
Ranjiv continued, obviously warming to their expanding options.
“Or…ummm… Like, perhaps something to do with child pornography and bondage and shit like that. Perhaps…even…ummm…we were thinking, you know…like kiddie snuff films?” he added, his voice crackling slightly with nervousness.
Appelbaum guffawed. This was even better than he’d imagined.
“You guys are going to link the McCracken supporters’ websites to kiddie porn? All those suburban moms? You guys are cold.”
The Four Guys laughed nervous geek laughter. Ranjiv snorted, then stopped abruptly when The Four Guys looked at him irritably.
Eyeing Ranjiv, Mojasck continued.
“And a reporter, who is, like, you know, looking for a credible person to interview is not going to consider profiling someone we affiliate with those websites.”
“Right,” Ranjiv added. “Also, if they go crying to the media, the media’s gonna pull up the website, they’re gonna see the same affiliations. And, man, they are like so discredited. You know, like, ‘stick a fork in them’…”
“They’re done!” the other four chorused to high fives.
Appelbaum forced himself to pause.
“What about us? Are we leaving any fingerprints when we do this?”
Again, The Four Guys deferred to Ranjiv. Ranjiv shook his head.
“No. You know, we run it over a large network using a masked IP address. There is, like, no evidence they can use against us.”
Applebaum needed to be sure. “Like no evidence? Or no evidence?”
Ranjiv chortled. “No evidence.”
The Four Guys looked expectantly at Appelbaum. His metal chair scraped the floor as he rose.
“Well, gentlemen? What are you waiting for?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Oglethorpe, Georgia
MIRIAM CARTER LOVED HER PARENTS in the careless way happy children do. Her mother was strict; conscientious about preparing Miriam for success in a broader world than Miz Tummy would ever know. But if Miz Tummy was demanding of her youngest child, she was endlessly giving, too. Miriam never questioned her absolute devotion to her brothers or herself. Childhood memories of her father were of him working—he and the older boys took scrupulous care of his twenty acres and managed Miss Amalia’s farms for extra money, as well. Everyone in the community knew Big John and Miz Tummy—and knew them for what they were —honorable, savvy, bright, and strong. Her parents’ reputation for sensible Christian neighborliness gave them real stature; and Miriam’s awareness of her own enhanced status, due to her connection to them, was her greatest source of confidence and pride.
But she loved Miss Amalia, too. When she was little, she’d been fascinated by Miss Amalia’s stylish store-bought clothes and soft hands. But as she grew, she began to appreciate Miss Amalia for her real quality; beyond the cultured voice and kind manner or her intelligent and thoughtful face. Her parents were the bass drum of her life: rhythmic, insistent, constant—the sound of her heart. Miss Amalia was the melody, high and sweet.
By common, if unspoken agreement, after Miriam finished her chores, she walked to the big house at Riverview. If Miss Amalia had some work for her, she’d sort correspondence or address envelopes to supplement her allowance. If there was nothing for her to do, Miriam was welcome to curl up in the library in the front of the elegant house and read until dinnertime. One night, Miss Amalia happened upon her, Cotton close on her heels as usual. She paused and looked at Miriam mischievously:
“Miriam, do you know what a ‘Cracker’ is?” Now, everybody in Georgia knew what a Cracker was: a Cracker was a low-down, no-account white person. By her nearest reckoning, she had called someone a Cracker that very morning. But Miriam wasn’t sure that was an appropriate thing to say to Miss Amalia, who was after all, herself white.
Miss Amalia could see Miriam’s native truthfulness struggle with her wish not to give offense. Unexpectedly, Miss Amalia laughed. She went to one of the high shelves, stepped on the little footstool kept handy for the purpose, and pulled out a leather- bound volume. Her eyes twinkled.
“Well, if you’re going to call someone one, you ought to at least know what it means.” Miss Amalia thumbed through the book quickly, coming to sit beside her. “Here it is: ‘What cracker is this same that deafs our ears/ with this abundance of superfluous breath?’ It’s Shakespeare. The Life and Death of King John. I’m not sure you’ve read it yet?” Miriam shook her head ‘no’. Miss Amalia continued:
“No? Well, you must read it. It’s about the son of Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
Miriam sat silently, knees pressed hard together.
“Do you know why I’m showing you this?” Miss Amalia asked kindly. Miriam was nervous.
“Because you don’t want me criticizing white folks?”
Miss Amalia laughed. “Heavens, no,” she said, “Criticize anyone you like.” She smiled at Miriam. “In this context…” Miss Amalia tapped the beautifully bound book, “it refers to a story-teller, a court fool. But later the English used it as a pejorative term for the Irish and it came closer to its present meaning—shiftless, no-good, lazy.” Miriam blurted out: “But you’re Irish!” Miss Amalia had told Miriam something about her own heritage.
Miss Amalia smiled a rueful smile.
“Well, Irish descent, surely. But the English treated the Irish, my ancestors, very badly—in some ways as badly as the colored people are treated today. They had almost no rights and they were entirely at the mercy of the English aristocrats who owned the land they farmed.” Miriam looked thoughtful.
“Sort of like croppers,” she said slowly. Miss Amalia smiled and nodded.
“Sort of. But I’m telling you this for two reasons. Technically, I’m a Cracker, too, you see?” This was almost impossible to absorb. Beautiful Miss Amalia, with her expensive clothes and perfectly coiffed soft hair, sitting in her exquisite wood-paneled library like a model in a magazine …a Cracker? But Miriam was starting to see her larger point, and nodded.
“So, first, I want to ask that when you criticize someone, you criticize them by describing their actions—not a group to which they belong.” Miriam was embarrassed; she had offended Miss Amalia after all. She looked away. Miss Amalia, touched her shoulder softly, and looked at her with a kind smile, “And why else am I telling you this?” Miriam shrugged and shook her head.
“Well, I hoped you might understand that how people see you, the names they call you, it’s not who you are. And, lastly, I suppose I wanted you to know…I want you to remember—” Miss Amalia seemed in a rush to get the words out, “…sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but things change. You have to believe they can change for you, too.”
Miriam had remembered. In late July 1952, when Miriam was seven, Miss Amalia had purchased one of the first televisions in the county, and with special permission, Miriam watched the first broadcast of the Democratic National Convention with Miss Amalia and Cotton. Georgia’s popular native son, Senator Richard “Dick” Russell was considered to have a chance against the favorite, Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee. No one wanted to miss it. A firm supporter of Roosevelt’s New Deal, rural electrification, and farm loans, Dick Russell had also sponsored the National School Lunch Act in 1946 that achieved the double goal of providing poor children with a healthy midday meal and subsidizing agriculture. Personable and courtly, Russell had a brilliant, encyclopedic mind and he was always thinking. As political mentor Bobby Baker woul
d later advise Lyndon Johnson, “All Senators are equal; but Russell is most equal.”
It would be hard to create more drama for a viewing audience. Miriam sat transfixed, staring at the small skittery picture as Miss Amalia absentmindedly fed almonds from a porcelain dish to an appreciative Cotton. As the delegates voted by state, the tension from the Chicago convention hall was palpable. On the first two ballots, Kefauver had a clear lead. But Kefauver—who had created a sensation in New Hampshire by campaigning via dogsled in a coonskin cap, and by roundly defeating an incumbent president—had made an enemy. Beating him in the primaries was one thing, but what President Harry Truman truly resented was Kefauver’s Senate investigations into senior Truman administration officials. The corruption was penny-ante, a few undeclared fur coats and similar political gifts. But it included the embarrassing revelation that Bess, the ever-practical First Lady, had received a coveted “deep freezer” from a political crony.
Kefauver was out. There was another possibility: Truman had great respect for Russell. But there was one problem. Russell would need to renounce segregation to have a chance in the North, Truman believed. Would Russell do it? As Senator from Georgia, could he do it? He would not. Accordingly, Truman manhandled a compliant Averell Harriman of New York to drop out and throw his support to the political flirt, Illinois Governor Adlai Stevenson. On the third ballot, Stevenson, the choice of the political bosses, trumped Kefauver to take the nomination. Kefauver had racked up an impressive 3,100,000 votes in the primary; Stevenson a modest 78,000. It didn’t matter. The people had spoken. Just not the people who voted.