The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

  “Extraordinary,” said Peter. “Who made these notes?”

  “Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts. He refused to sign because he wanted a bill of rights, which they finally got in 1791. One of his descendants gave us these in 1832.”

  Peter read an article on the first draft. “ ‘The president shall be impeached for high crimes, treason, and bribery.’ “

  Evangeline said, “What about ‘misdemeanors’?”

  “That must be in the second draft,” said Peter.

  Fitzpatrick nodded. “If they’d adopted the first draft, Bill Clinton might not have been impeached. And George Bush would not have appointed two men to the Supreme Court, because in the first draft, that was the Senate’s job.”

  “Amazing that they gave that one to the president,” said Peter, “considering how fearful they were of the concentration of executive power.”

  “During the debate,” Fitzpatrick said, “Ben Franklin looked at Washington and remarked that the first chief executive would be a good one, but in time, the concentration of power would tend toward monarchy.”

  “I think Franklin was right,” said Evangeline.

  Fitzpatrick picked up a page from the first draft and held it out to Peter. “Go ahead. Wipe your hands, then you can hold it for a second. It helps to hold it.”

  Peter took it with his fingertips and felt the fine texture of the paper. It was almost soft, like a cushion to receive the type or a bed to receive the wisdom.

  “Read the last article,” said Fitzpatrick. “Article Nineteen.”

  “ ‘The members of the Legislatures and the Executives and the Judicial officers of the United States shall be bound by oath to support this Constitution.’ “

  Fitzpatrick leaned over his shoulder. “Now read Gerry’s addition.”

  Peter angled the sheet toward the window for better light because the handwriting was so small. “ ‘But no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the authority of the United States.’ “

  “Wow,” said Evangeline. “The separation of church and state. Right there.”

  “History in action,” said Fitzpatrick. “It reminds you of what Madison said: ‘Every word in this document decides a question between liberty and power.’ “

  “Where are the other copies of the first draft?” asked Evangeline.

  “Spread around the country. George Washington’s is at the National Archives. Nicholas Gilman’s is in Exeter, New Hampshire….”

  “What happened to the rest?” asked Peter.

  “You mean”—Fitzpatrick grinned—” ‘where do I look for one?’ “

  “You know me too well,” said Peter. “Any thoughts?”

  “If Gerry’s draft survived, others must have, too.”

  “What do you think a draft would be worth?” asked Evangeline.

  “Millions. More millions if it’s annotated, especially if it’s annotated by someone like Franklin or Washington.”

  “Has anybody else been nosing around these drafts recently?” asked Peter.

  “Let’s see.” Fitzgerald looked at the record attached to one of the folders. “Professor Conrad, when he was writing The Magnificent Dreamers … his assistant, Jennifer Segal … Martin Bloom, a bookseller from Maine …”

  “The usual suspects,” said Peter to Evangeline.

  Fitzpatrick kept reading. “A man named Don Cottle, who identified himself as an independent scholar.”

  “Ha!” said Evangeline. “I told you he was lying.”

  Fitzpatrick glanced up at Evangeline; then his eyes flicked back to the list. “About a week after Cottle, a man named Joshua Sutherland.”

  “Doing his research,” said Peter. “Anybody else? Morris Bindle, maybe?”

  “Hard to say, because we only keep records back two years, as you know.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Peter. “I wonder how many other people are stringing us along.”

  “Are you saying all these people know each other?” said Fitzpatrick.

  “I don’t know,” said Peter. “But I plan to find out.”

  THEY WALKED BACK to Peter’s office against the tide of Red Sox fans.

  Peter didn’t say anything until they crossed Mass Ave. He was thinking, and he was steaming. Evangeline could tell by the way he strode along, head down and heedless, as if there were no one in his path.

  Finally he said, “All those damn people asking me to look for something when they knew what it was all along—Sutherland … Cottle … Bloom … Jennifer Segal.”

  “Somebody is using you,” said Evangeline.

  “Time to make some phone calls.”

  “Time to figure out who’s protecting the Constitution and who’s for shredding it.”

  “I think any one of them would shred it if they thought it was in their interests.”

  “You mean, they’re all Republicans?” she cracked.

  “Not funny.”

  “But accurate.”

  Peter stopped in front of the Prudential Center, so that she had to stop, too, or lose him in the crowd of fans streaming up Boylston Street. “This isn’t about Republicans and Democrats. It’s about finding a document and protecting it, whatever it says.”

  “Does the government protect it? Or did they answer 9/11 by suspending the law of habeas corpus, which is right in the Constitution?”

  “They suspended it for enemy combatants,” he said, “not Americans.”

  “Well, we’re next. Just look how they’re trying to bend the Fourth Amendment with their invasions of privacy and their snooping and … to hell with it.” She pivoted on her heels and started down the street, throwing this over her shoulder: “We’re in a fight for the soul of the nation, Peter. The least we can do is fight back.”

  “By repealing the Second Amendment?” Peter went after her, sidestepping half a dozen baseball fans. “If you’re worried about the government, you should fight the repeal. The Framers knew that an armed citizenry guarantees our civil liberties against all tyrants, foreign and domestic.”

  “The Framers expected us to change the Constitution when circumstances demanded it.”

  “They expected us to be vigilant. Franklin said, ‘Any man who surrenders a little freedom for a little safety deserves neither the freedom nor the safety.’ “

  “You’re making my point,” she said. “You’re making mine.”

  “You don’t have a point. You have a cop-out.” She stopped in front of the library. “You have to take a stand, Peter.”

  “I am. You heard Martin say this wasn’t something to get myself killed over. But here I am, taking a stand, still looking, and endangering the both of us in the process.”

  “I can look out for myself.”

  “OH, BOY,” BERNICE said when they came in. “Looks like you two been fightin’.”

  “Five blocks of political disagreement,” said Evangeline.

  Peter pointed at Bernice. “Get me Don Cottle on the phone.”

  Evangeline went to her right, to the desk at the back of the showroom.

  Peter went to his left, into his office, and picked up the phone.

  “Cottle here,” said the voice on the other end. “What do you have for me?”

  “A question,” said Peter. “Two weeks ago, you were looking at the Gerry drafts of the United States Constitution—”

  “The Massachusetts Society Historical drafts?” said Cottle, who didn’t seem to like chitchat. “So what?”

  “So what were you looking for?”

  “It’s what I was looking at. A national treasure.”

  Peter let the silence hang, waiting for more.

  But Cottle gave up nothing. “Do you have one? If you have one, I’ll pay top dollar.”

  “Do you know about one?”

  Now there was a silence on Cottle’s end, a pause, and finally, “I’ve heard stories.”

  “I’ll bet you have.” But Peter couldn’t get any of them out of
Cottle, so his next call went to Jennifer Segal. No answer. Leave message.

  Third call: Josh Sutherland.

  “Do you have it?” asked Sutherland.

  “Have what?” said Peter.

  “Well … whatever the professor was looking for?”

  “No, but I have a photocopy of a call slip you filled out at the Massachusetts Historical Society less than a month ago. The Elbridge Gerry drafts of the Constitution. Are you holding out on me?”

  “Holding out?” Sutherland sounded indignant. “We hired you, didn’t we?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were after a first draft of the Constitution, with annotations?”

  “Because we didn’t know, but if that’s what it is … Wow.”

  Peter tried to gauge Sutherland’s tone against his words. Sincere? Or another operator?

  Sutherland said, “Just find it. Please. By Monday. Sunday night if you can.”

  “Sunday night?”

  “We’re getting air time on the World Series,” said Sutherland. “We’re fighting this battle on all fronts.”

  After a moment, Peter spat out a question: “Republican or Democrat?”

  “What?”

  “Are you a Republican or a Democrat? In private, I mean. Are you a true believer, or a professional doing a job?” Peter didn’t know which answer he would respect more.

  “I believe what the congresswoman believes. Thirty thousand Americans die in gun violence every year. We have to control guns. And the way to do it is to use all the political skills we have. Now … she’s being called to a hearing. I have to go.” Click.

  Peter’s mind spun until it stopped on “Not Enough Information.” True believer or political gun for hire? He still didn’t know. But either way, Sutherland was doing his job. And Peter would do his.

  So he logged on to his computer. An instant message popped up from E-Traveler, aka Evangeline. “Are we still arguing?”

  Rarebooks, aka Peter, typed: “Not arguing. Debating.”

  “Good, because we need to talk to Bindle again. Let me show you.”

  Evangeline was working at the two-sided partners desk that Antoine Scarborough and Peter’s mentor, Orson Lunt, used when they were in the office. The window at this end of the showroom looked out on the alley behind the building.

  Evangeline was at her laptop, reading the Web site for the Millbridge Historical Society. “Webmaster Bindle has posted a series of letters from a woman named Eve Corliss Danton to Will Pike.”

  Peter pulled up a chair and looked at the screen. “What are the letters about?”

  Evangeline pointed to the words just below a photo of one of the letters. “Ranging from 1789 to 1840, these letters describe a long relationship, which apparently had no ill effects on Pike’s marriage. They also describe the development of the mill and the town.”

  Evangeline clicked through them. “In the first one, Eve writes about the heat in Martinique, about her baby, about someone named Curly Bill, arrested and charged with murder before they sailed. ‘Later, Bill attacked the marshal who was bringing him back to Massachusetts. The marshal shot and killed him. So you needn’t worry about him in the future. And’— here’s the important part—’I assure you that Robert knows nothing of your visit here. Did you go back to Caldwell and ask about that document?’ “

  “ ‘That document,’ “ said Peter. “Interesting. What else?”

  “Letters congratulating Will on the births of his children. Letters about the growth of the gristmill to a yarn mill about 1805, then to a fully integrated cotton mill. Then … mmmh … Eve’s husband dies on a sea journey … family fortune wanes … bad investments … her only son dies of tuberculosis…. In the last letter, she sends Will Pike a copy of the Madison book we saw this morning.”

  “You’re right. We need to talk to Bindle again.”

  WHILE EVANGELINE DROVE, Peter made two more phone calls.

  First to Bindle, who said he’d be waiting with a few more letters.

  “Good,” said Peter. “And I’d like to know why you posted those letters on your Web site.”

  “The letters from Eve?” said Bindle. “I came across them when I decided to sell the Henry Knox letter. I thought they were pretty interesting, so I posted them. Maybe they’ll up the ante on the letters I hold. Why?”

  “One of them mentions a document. Do you know what it is?”

  Bindle’s answer: the sound of a cigarette lighter flicking open, a couple of fast puffs, then, “I’ve heard legends. Hell, I’ve read them. So have you, in that letter I sent you yesterday. But I never believed them. Buster didn’t either, even when people came sniffin’ around.”

  “People? What people?”

  “Well, that Dartmouth professor, and … somebody just came in. It’s Tuesday. So the Society’s open for visitors. I’ll talk to you when you get here.”

  After he clicked off, Peter said to Evangeline, “I don’t know if Bindle’s innocent, ignorant, or the biggest operator of the bunch.”

  Then he called his brother, Danny, at Fallon Salvage and Restoration, which occupied a warehouse in South Boston. Peter heard the echo of the ball game in the background. “Who’s winning?”

  “No score. Yanks just batted in the first. Commercial’s on. I wouldn’t have picked up otherwise.”

  From the time they were kids, the Fallon brothers had been opposites. Danny liked street hockey, the South Boston sport, so Peter played basketball. Danny liked beer, so Peter drank wine. Danny wore Sears worksuits. Peter went for Joseph Abboud. Danny looked like a power lifter who’d let his paunch pop out. Peter still had the long, stringy muscles of a rower. But they both liked baseball. And they were business partners.

  “What’s up?” asked Danny.

  “Ever heard of a rehab development called the Pike-Perkins Mill?”

  “I went through it before they auctioned it. Don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t remember everything. I’m supposed to be your silent partner.”

  “Silent until you get into trouble with some guy like Bingo Keegan. Then it’s, ‘Wah wah wah. I need backup. Come and save me.’ “

  “Hey, Dan”—Peter glanced at Evangeline—”I have enough smart-asses around here. I don’t need another one.”

  “Oh, you got your girlfriend with you?”

  “I heard that,” she said.

  Danny chuckled. He was a needler, always happy when the needle hit home. But all business, too. He said, “The last owner bought the mill at auction after it closed in the seventies. He got loans from the state to buy new equipment, worked awhile, went bankrupt. The place was empty for about twenty years, a big white elephant. Finally auctioned for back taxes. A developer from Rhode Island picked it up for a song, a guy by the name of Farrell.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “A small-timer thinkin’ big. All he’s done is fix the holes in the roof and upgrade the sprinkler system so the kids can’t set it on fire.”

  “Does he have a chance?” asked Peter.

  “I thought he was throwin’ his money away,” said Danny, “but even with a downturn, Boston real estate prices keep pushin’ people west. Millbridge is growin’. Median income’s goin’ up. And people like the idea of livin’ in an old mill with a nice view of a famous river, so … Sox are up. Anything else?”

  “Not now,” said Peter. “Maybe later.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  ALL WAS AS before at the Pike-Perkins Mill—the same sign, the same sugar maples, the same smell of decay.

  The door to the historical society was open, but Bindle wasn’t there.

  They called. No answer. Peter put his hand on the coffeepot behind the desk. Still warm.

  Evangeline looked out at the mill. “Maybe he’s—did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Breaking glass. A bottle or something.”

  “Where?”

  “In the mill.” She looked out one of the back windows. “I think
there’s someone up there. I saw a shadow. There.” It flicked past one of the windows in the staircase tower.

  Peter started for the door. “Wait here.”

  “Like hell.”

  As they went out, he grabbed an old blackthorn cane from an exhibit. It had a handle as thick as an Indian root club.

  “What’s that for?” asked Evangeline.

  “A conversation starter … or finisher.”

  They crossed the broken glass and cracking tarmac in the mill yard and approached the entrance in the stairwell steeple.

  The door was half off its hinge. The one-by-four boards that usually blocked it had been pulled away.

  As they stepped inside, cold air and the smell of dead pigeons hit them like fetid air-conditioning. To the left was the stairway, winding tight up the tower. Straight ahead was the door that led to the mill floor. On the wall to the right hung a rack for holding time cards and next to it was a punch clock, glass face broken, rust covering the works.

  Water was running somewhere, not a trickle but a steady flow.

  Evangeline took a few steps, listened, looked at Peter. “Do you hear that?”

  “The old millrace,” said Peter. “It must run into a pit under the building, where the millwheels would have been. Then it empties through a culvert and back to the river.”

  She took a few steps more.

  Peter raised his hand for her to stop, then shouted up the stairs. “Hello?”

  No answer. No sound except for the water and the twittering of a few birds caught inside the mill.

  “Maybe it was a ghost I saw before,” whispered Evangeline.

  “Ghosts come back to places where they were sad. How sad were all those clock punchers? Sad people walking through here for thousands of mornings. Hello!“

  No answer.

  Then, a creak, something moving in the stairwell above them.

  “Hello, Bindle!” shouted Peter.

  Another bit of movement. Then nothing.

  Peter whispered, “The breaking glass … first floor or higher? Could you tell?”

  “Higher,” said Evangeline.

  “Ghosts don’t break glass.”

  One full turn up the steep risers took them to the second floor. There were windows on either side of the tower, and a door in the middle that opened so that big things like bales and machinery could be hoisted up or down.