by Steve Israel
“But don’t worry. The good news is that Congress is about to pass a law giving everyone a gun . . . The bad news is that they’re not giving out bulletproof vests.”
The congressman suddenly appeared as if his earlier breakfast was fermenting. He forced a grin, which seemed pretty grim, like the paintings overhead.
“I mean, wouldn’t that make sense? Bulletproof vests. In red, white, and blue. With little tags that say MADE IN AMERICA?
“And speaking of made in America, we’re the world’s leading manufacturer of gun violence. Countries and states with stronger gun laws have fewer gun deaths. But that’s just a statistic. Which our government isn’t allowed to study because Congress blocks important federal funding of gun violence research. They are, however, spending four hundred thousand analyzing the effects of Swedish massages on rabbits. So, at least someone feels safe . . . The rabbits, I mean. Right, Congressman?”
The congressman must have thought there was an urgent phone call from the White House or the Post Office Subcommittee, or anyone. He tried nudging his way out of camera range. Chief Ryan blocked him.
“Here’s the other thing,” Lois continued. “I get that law-abiding citizens have the right to own guns. No argument. But the deranged individuals in this very town, who methodically planned to kill their own neighbors, they shouldn’t have been able to get their hands on assault weapons. Period.”
The congressman silently planned the mass firing of his staff. He definitely didn’t recall reading on his schedule “Nine AM: Public excoriation on national TV. Followed by light refreshments.”
“The national media is here because Asabogue is today’s violent news story,” Lois said. “And everyone watching us? They’ll just shake their heads and shrug. Because they know that this story will end like all the others. Nothing will change. Nothing will get done. It’s just going to go on and on and on.
“Well, not this time.”
Lois seemed to hold her breath.
“Today I’m announcing my candidacy for United States Congress. Against you, Congressman. I can’t take another moment of silence. I’ve learned that silence never works. It’s time to get loud. Annoyingly, obnoxiously, uncompromisingly loud. Something, I’m told, I’m very good at.”
It was directly out of Jack Steele’s script: announcing a candidacy on national television, giving new meaning to the phrase “donor network.” At that moment, Patsy Hardameyer was opening a campaign account at the Bank of Southampton, proudly affixing to the forms her signature and title: campaign treasurer.
The congressman glared at Sunny. She smiled back. Each knew what the other was thinking: ambush.
Lois held up an index finger once more. “Oh, one more thing. To all the press and the protestors who came here in the past few weeks. Thank you for visiting Asabogue. Now, please go home. Leave us alone. We were fine without you.”
She looked at Sunny.
“We’ll be fine again.”
Sam Gergala’s funereal eyes jumped in amusement, and the first smile in weeks deepened the spidery lines across his face. Chief Ryan’s compact body seemed to expand in a threatening huff. The congressmen dried his pallid face with a hankie. Sunny thought, Looks like another Liebowitz is going to Washington. She watched Wayne Bright and the team of consultants she’d recently imported to Asabogue close ranks around Lois, and reporters swarm the hapless congressman.
Time to go, she thought. She pushed against a ravenous clamor of gaping mouths and rattling tongues starving for a deliciously dripping story. They bellowed questions. They bounced, bobbed, and waved frantically for attention. They shoved each other to scoop each other. She felt a painful smack against her face— a monstrous lens careening for a better angle. Her eyes watered as she rubbed her cheek. She zigzagged around tripods, ducked under outstretched microphones, wrestled against a tangle of bodies and equipment. She heaved her body against the front door. Slammed it behind her.
She felt the sting of autumn air, redolent with beach, ocean, and the first fallen leaves. She took a deep breath. Her nose tingled. She ran her fingers through tangled clumps of hair.
In the chilled gray morning, Veterans Park stretched desolately before her, more a trampled battlefield than town square. The Peace Pole leaned at a precarious angle; a clump of leaves tangled around its base. The lawn was brown and pocked and strewn with litter and leaves that tumbled in the wind. Dented blue ASABOGUE RECYCLES bins lay at odd angles. In the distance, she saw the first stirring of shopkeepers on Main Street. They swept the leaves in front of the Wick & Whim, and scrubbed the new plate-glass windows at Joan’s Bakery. They prepared for a new day.
Sunny wondered what that day would look like; whether Asa-bogue could return to what it used to be. She knew that after the crowds left, a still winter would grip the town. Then spring would come, the farmstands would reopen and the beaches would crowd (just not the private ones on the Bluff). By then, Asabogue would return to what it had always been: nowhere. Which seemed fine to Sunny.
She leaned against the rickety metal rack where Lois had propped her bicycle that morning, without a lock. Because, as dangerous as Asabogue had become, that was one thing Lois wouldn’t allow fear to change. Pedalling forward, into an uncertain future, unafraid.
Sunshine McCarthy got on the bike.
She rode home.
*
About thirty minutes from Asabogue was Southampton Hospital, an ordinary brick building well hidden from the unordinary sparkle of the Village of Southampton only blocks away. Here, the year-round Hampton residents were treated for the usual afflictions, accidents, and diseases. During the high season, however, the hospital did a brisk business treating humanity’s lowest frailties: detox, drug overdoses, drunkenness, and the occasional injury caused when one luxury car plowed into another in a fit of inebriated rage. This is where Ralph Kellogg regained consciousness just as Lois was making her announcement. He found himself wrapped snugly in gauze and plaster and tangled in cables and tubes. Every part of his body either hurt, burned, or both; even his eyes, as he struggled to blink away a thick haze. He was comforted to see concerned visitors at his bedside. He became less comfortable when he realized they were from the Southampton police, Suffolk County police, New York State Office of Counter-terrorism, and the FBI. To name a few.
No one brought get-well cards.
Ralph’s plan was to assume control of Asabogue as the surviving member of the Village Board after everyone else perished in an Islamex attack. He’d even rename Asabogue Bluff Lane as Steele Street, in memory of its dearly departed resident. Then declare martial law. Just like in that television show on the Reichstag.
He now concluded that his plan hadn’t worked.
41
A week later, President Henry Piper pounded his fists in the Oval Office and pronounced that he could not in good conscience sign the American Freedom from Fear Act. The legislation had passed Congress in an anticlimactic landslide. Now it was on the president’s desk, which dated back to his days as a Navy admiral. The desk was constructed of wooden beams from a nineteenth-century frigate.
His senior political advisors were wedged onto two couches facing one another, separated by a large oak coffee table. Their senior assistants stood behind them, lining the curved walls of the Oval Office. Everyone was bleary-eyed, frazzled. They awoke every morning to plunging poll numbers and an ever-expanding list of Republican primary opponents. Reelection looked bleak.
Still, the president had his principles. He was so hostile to signing AFFFA into law that when he banged his fists, the sculptures of his favorite naval heroes—Farragut, Jones, Dewey, and company— shuddered on the bookshelves.
His pollster winced at the heated veto threat. “Sir, you are losing the Republican primary in twelve must-win states. I’ve analyzed the crosstabs of undecided primary voters and applied a candidate support model. When we allocate predictive behavior to voters with high scores on gun rights, your head-to-head declines into single dig
its.”
“Tell me what it means. In English,” grumbled Piper.
“Sir, it means we’re on a sinking ship.”
The words hit the president hard, like a torpedo.
“Your only chance of winning this primary is to get to the right of everyone on guns. You must sign AFFFA. Enthusiastically.”
The president rubbed his forehead. That blotch above his eyes was now distinct enough to have become a campaign issue. One of his primary opponents charged that it was a Muslim prayer mark.
“Actually, Mr. President, I wouldn’t worry too much.” This came from the White House legal counsel. She was ravishing—in a hair-in-a-bun, “I’ll eat you alive in depositions” kind of way. The president liked having her around. She lifted his spirits and at least one other thing. To put it in presidential terms, the state of their union was strong (especially during the First Lady’s Five Continent Goodwill Tour).
“Not worry?” the president asked.
“OMMMAG has already announced a legal challenge to AFFFA.”
“OMMMAG?”
“One Million Mad Mothers Against Guns. They’re getting injunctions, then going all the way to the Supreme Court. Which, by the way, will never allow AFFFA to stand. It’s totally unconstitutional. So you can sign it.”
“I can sign it?”
“Only because it’s unconstitutional.”
“And if it were constitutional?”
“Then you’d have to veto it. To prevent it from becoming law.” “Uuuh-huuuuuh.”
“Bottom line, sir. You sign this unconstitutional act and let the court tear it up. We get the political upside. And no policy downside!” The president felt a stirring to full mast. “So there’s no way this law stands if I sign it?”
“I’ll bet my law degree on it.”
“It’s a win-win!” his pollster chimed.
A sense of relief settled across the Oval Office. Shoulders rose, chests expanded in a collective presidential pheeewww.
“Anyone got a pen?” joked the president.
“Not yet,” advised the pollster. “Let’s do this right!”
*
His funk over Sunny McCarthy dissipated, Congressman Roy Dirkey practically skipped through a slowly opening White House gate while whistling that old country song, “I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden.” Then giggled as he headed toward the Rose Garden.
The day was cool and bright. In the distance, beyond a lush expanse of rolling green lawn, a formless gaggle of tourists peered through a high wrought-iron fence. The Washington Monument soared against a cloudless blue sky. Roy could hear the soft rumble of planes departing Reagan National Airport. He lifted his eyes to the Truman Balcony, which curved gracefully around the White House second-story residence. He imagined luxuriating there one day, when he wasn’t saddled by the deprecating visitor’s pass now slung around his neck. He marveled at what a First Lady Sarah Backfury would make! Their pending nuptials—sentimentally announced in a joint media advisory—would certainly lock in Virginia when Roy ran for president. It was a match made in electoral college heaven.
The White House press corps had assembled on a temporary platform. Roy watched a presidential aide methodically arrange a dozen pens on a mahogany table. Several rows of folding chairs encircled the table, each bearing a calligraphied placard. Dirkey’s eyes scanned urgently for his name. There were reserved seats for Speaker Piermont, Senate Leader Binslap, William Overbay, the attorney general, Otis and Bruce Cogsworth, and others. There were a dozen seats for congressional chairpersons. Finally, near the back, Roy spotted the small white card that said HON. ROY DIRKEY.
No matter, he thought. Soon he’d be stretched on a chaise lounge—up on that balcony.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp whiff of tobacco. “Congratulations,” said Frank Piermont.
“Never thought the president of the United States would be signing a law that I introduced.”
The Speaker took a final draw of the cigarette, then blew a thick gust of smoke that was carried away on a gentle breeze. “Don’t get too worked up. Soon as the president’s signature is dry the Court’s gonna strike down your law. But I like your strategy. AFFFA passes. The Supreme Court ultimately nullifies it. Then you run for president, railing against the left-wing judiciary. Probably win, too.”
Roy stayed quiet, thinking, Never argue with a man giving you more credit than you deserve.
An officious voice boomed: “Ladies and gentlemen. The president of the United States.”
Piermont flicked his cigarette stub on the lawn. “Don’t forget your presidential pen, Roy. Make a nice souvenir one day. I’ve got a drawer full of ’em.”
Roy said, “Maybe the court will uphold—”
Piermont smiled, yellow-stained teeth peeking through his leathery lips. “Fogettaboutit, son. You got your law passed. Now the court’s gonna kill it. That’s the beauty of this town. At the end of the day, everyone gets what they want. Everyone lives happily ever after.”
42
Justice John A. Scallion was the swing vote on a badly divided Supreme Court. The swing he really cared about, however, wasn’t on the court, but on the course. Justice Scallion loved golf, immensely. So when his old friend Sid Schwartzman invited him to play Long Island’s venerable National Golf Links in Southampton, only a week after AFFFA was signed, Mr. Justice was swift. Off came the black robes and on went black pleated golf pants, a dotted burgundy golf shirt, and luxury Italian golf shoes. Scallion flew to Islip Airport, where he was met on the tarmac by a small convoy of Suffolk County police and U.S. marshals. He was whisked east, not far from Asabogue.
The National Golf Links was founded in 1911 for, among others, the Bacons, the Deerings, the Fricks, and the Vanderbilts. The O’Malleys, the DiNapolis, and the Epsteins were, well, underrepresented. The clubhouse was a brooding brown Tudor affair with gabled roofs and tall chimneys, surrounded by undulating lush greens edging to the sparkling Peconic Bay. A second security detail met Scallion at the entrance. This was unnecessary, since Supreme Court Justices were barely recognizable. It’s not like they were daytime television judges, who were better known and better paid.
The foursome that day included Justice Scallion, Otis Cogs-worth, Sid Schwartzman, and Mrs. Stormy Schwartzman. Mrs. Schwartzman instantly brought to Scallion’s finely honed legal mind a prior court’s decision in a well-known pornography case: “I know it when I see it.” In this particular case he saw ample cleavage and skimpy shorts that clung just above the smooth curvature of her buttocks. It was hard for him to maintain judicial restraint in a specific area of his anatomy.
They set out in a convoy of golf carts. It was a magnificent day. The sky was a brilliant blue, a salty bay breeze blew gently, and the greens were radiant. Scallion steered the first cart and Schwartzman sat beside him. In the cart behind, Otis drove and Mrs. Schwartzman jiggled. Trailing them were several carts loaded with sufficient firepower to repel an attack on Justice Scallion, or an invasion of the Eastern seaboard.
Sidney had planned to raise a few issues: the weather, the Mets, the Jets. Oh, and the recently enacted gun ownership law that might one day land on His Honor’s docket. The conversation would constitute a clear violation of judicial ethics and decorum. Scallion was cognizant of this. He was also cognizant of the fact that he had a lifetime term. Throughout American history, the total number of Supreme Court judges who’d been impeached was one. In 1805. He was acquitted. Scallion liked the odds.
They rode to the first hole. In the distance, the Links’ famous windmill twirled lazily in the soft breeze.
Sidney skipped over the Mets and Jets and got right to the topic of the day: “Have you been reading about this American Freedom from Fear Act?”
“Mmmmm-hmmm.”
“Looks like it’s going to be challenged.”
“Mmmmm-hmmm.”
“Those anti-gun nuts and the liberal trial lawyers will try to block it. In court.” Sid emphasized
“in court.” Just in case His Honor missed the point.
“Now Sidney,” Scallion warned softly, “you know we’re not supposed to discuss these matters.”
Schwartzman nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re just having a friendly conversation. As old friends. Very . . . old . . . friends.”
Once upon a time, John Scallion was an underpaid and very junior associate at a Miami law firm. One of the firm’s clients was a struggling new motel called Sid’s Stay & Play. The owner of the motel—one Sidney Schwartzman—took a liking to John, lured him away, and installed him as his in-house counsel. As the empire grew into Schwartzman Global Properties, so did Scallion’s prestige. During the Ford administration, Schwartzman called the White House chief of staff, Dick Cheney, and redeemed some campaign chits. Scallion was appointed to the U.S. District Court in Nevada, where he could, as Sid said, “watch over things for me.” Several years later, he ascended to the U.S. Supreme Court. Where he also watched over things for Sid.
Scallion stopped the cart, stepped out, and hoisted his golf bag. His clubs rattled inside. “I dunno, Sid. Mandating weapons for every American. It’s constitutionally challenging and unsafe.” They watched as Mrs. Schwartzman scurried toward them. Otis was far behind, leering at her.
Sid positioned himself between Scallion and the tee. “You know how much I pay for all those government regulations that supposedly keep people safe?”
“Actually, I do. I was your lawyer—”
“Labor regulations. Banking regulations. Environmental regulations. Hey, you know what a bog turtle is?”
“A . . . turtle?”
“Yeah. A few years ago I was developing an office complex in Hackensack. Schwartzman Plaza. Job was half-finished. Then some bureaucrat finds a bog turtle. Little baby bog turtle. They tell me it’s an endangered species. I tell them: all the construction jobs I created are an endangered species.”
“And?”
“One day I’ll take you to Bog Turtle Tower. It’s a masterpiece. My point is, where in the Constitution does it say the government must protect a bog turtle? And if we’re gonna do that, why shouldn’t we protect the American people?”