Star Chamber Brotherhood

by Preston Fleming

  "If you don't mind my asking," Werner asked, returning to his initial question about gardening, "why are you tending the garden here if you garden professionally at home?"

  "It's a long story, but it's mainly because I'm on a committee to protect the Old Manse. After Emerson's house and the First Parish Church and Orchard House burned in suspicious fires, a few of us decided to keep watch over the Old Manse so that there would be truthful witnesses if it happened again. The Unionists may remove all the signs and fence it off and even torch it, but we'll bear witness to whatever happens. They can't be allowed to erase the memory of who lived here or the ideas that Emerson, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and the Alcotts gave the world from this special place."

  Werner looked at his watch. It was much later than he had planned to stay.

  "Say, it's been great seeing you again, Parker," he remarked, reaching out to shake Motley's hand. "How would I find you if I wanted to get in touch."

  "We're about a mile further down the road, right past the apple orchard."

  "Say, have you ever thought of doing some distilling with your surplus apples?" Werner asked as an afterthought. "There might be a good market for local applejack if some skill went into it."

  Motley chuckled.

  "It's occurred to me more than once, Frank, but I think the project may have to wait. At the moment, we're still testing the authorities' reaction to our hard cider."

  "Well, if you ever decide to go forward with it, let me know. Here, I'll give you my business card. I might be able to help you find a market. Anyway, it was a pleasure to see you, Parker, and I hope we cross paths again."

  CHAPTER 5

  Friday, April 13,

  2029 Concord, Massachusetts

  For the second consecutive day, Werner sipped coffee as he watched cars enter the parking garage behind the offices of the Federal Emergency Management Agency at 99 High Street. On the previous day, he had surveyed the building on foot and taken up a position just after eight o'clock outside the front entrance on High Street. From there he watched people enter the building for fifteen minutes before concluding that Regional Administrator Fred Rocco was far more likely to enter the building by car via the underground parking entrance in the rear than he was to walk in the front door. Then he had moved to the sandwich shop adjacent to the rear parking entrance for another cup of coffee. But after a few minutes on a stool at the window, he realized that it was far too exposed a place for him to visit often without being noticed.

  This morning Werner bought a tabloid newspaper and took his coffee at 8:15 to a window stool in a deli overlooking Congress Street just north of Purchase. By now he had spotted clear patterns in vehicular traffic entering the parking garage. Those tenants of the commercial floors who drove to work tended to own vintage luxury cars, mainly of European and Japanese origin, though some used electric minicars. Most government employees arrived on bicycles or on foot from nearby South Station. Senior government officials, however, nearly all drove to work in government-owned automobiles, most of which were Government Motors models. Agency heads and their most senior deputies arrived in chauffeured Fords and Nissans from a special motor pool. And these officials could be counted on not to arrive until a few minutes before office hours commenced at eight thirty a.m.

  It was just after 8:25 when Werner noticed a polished maroon Ford Galaxy sedan approach from the north on Congress Street and reduce speed to make the turn onto Purchase Street. Deciding to take a chance, he finished his coffee and set out toward the side entrance to 99 High Street and made a beeline for the lobby.

  He knew that the parking elevators were programmed to stop in the lobby, which required passengers to transfer to a second bank of elevators to reach their offices. Regardless of where someone parked under the building, he would emerge near the newsstand and switch elevators. So Werner took up position among the magazine racks and watched as the parking elevators arrived one by one to disgorge their passengers. If the maroon Ford belonged to Fred Rocco, Werner would spot him.

  At 8:36 the door opened and Werner's heart stopped. He had seen Rocco at close range on at least three or four occasions at Kamas and knew the face well. But he had underestimated the effect of seeing him outside the camp setting. Inside the wire, it was natural for a nameless political prisoner to view the warden, the most powerful person in camp, as someone extraordinary, holding the awesome power of life and death. But in his eagerness to identify Rocco beyond any shadow of a doubt, Werner had underestimated the effect of viewing this man again at such close range. He felt a sudden vulnerability. Would Rocco recognize him? Or perhaps sense that he was being watched?

  Werner averted his gaze and pulled another magazine from the rack as Rocco walked past. At close range, the warden remained an imposing figure in his freshly pressed blue wool blend suit. He stood several inches above six feet in height and remained fit for his fifty-three years, with broad shoulders and a trim waist and hips. Though he had grown jowls and his wavy black hair now had turned mostly gray, his blue eyes still darted from left to right like a reptile.

  At the same time, Werner sensed a strange vacancy in those shifting eyes and a sallow slackness in Rocco's face that matched his languid gait. Though this was certainly Fred Rocco, ex-warden of the Corrective Labor Camp at Kamas, he seemed a lesser man than the godlike creature that Werner remembered from years ago. Seeing this man's vacant expression as he passed the newsstand, Werner recalled Hannah Arendt's famous observation about the banality of evil that she applied to Adolph Eichmann and the authors of the Nazi Holocaust. Rocco appeared to be cut from the same nondescript cloth.

  Having accomplished his surveillance mission for the morning, Werner entered a parking elevator and descended to level P1. There he found, only fifteen meters from the elevator, a gleaming maroon Ford Galaxy parked in a numbered FEMA parking spot. He took a mental note of the license number and parking space as he walked past, then exited the building onto Congress Street from the same stairwell where he had entered.

  ****

  Boston's Central Library in Copley Square was only two stops along the Green Line from the Boylston Street station where Werner boarded after a short walk from the FEMA Building. It was located conveniently on his way back to Carol's apartment in Brookline.

  Werner entered the building and settled into the first-floor newspaper room for fifteen minutes before browsing the new fiction titles and then the travel section. When he was confident that no one had followed him or took the least interest in his presence, he ascended the stairs to the second floor government documents department.

  Though one could not expect to find the Department of State Security's deepest secrets at a public library, Werner was surprised what he was able to learn about Frederick Rocco and his government career with the help of the library's reference librarians. Without mentioning his own name or leaving any trail to connect himself to Rocco, Werner was able to collect a sheaf of notes from unclassified sources that documented Rocco's early career in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the political intrigues that drove him to join the DSS, as well as background on the formation of the Corrective Labor Administration that shed light on Rocco's later, more secretive assignments within the camp system.

  His trail picked up again in the government record shortly after Rocco's return to Washington and became more robust with his reassignment from the DSS to FEMA. Though much of his career advancement had occurred during his years in State Security, Rocco was now a public figure, a member of the Senior Executive Service eligible for high-level management positions carrying substantial compensation and perquisites. Should he distinguish himself in a position as politically sensitive as FEMA Regional Director, he might even catch the eye of the White House in a few years and land an appointment that could serve as a stepping stone to the really big money as a government contractor.

  From the official record, it appeared that, despite any reversals Fred Rocco's career may have suffered along the way, he was now fully
rehabilitated. And it also appeared beyond dispute that Rocco's greatest career recognition had come shortly after he had quelled the Kamas Revolt. Werner wondered whether Dave Lewis and the other members of the Star Committee had known this when they issued the death sentence against Fred Rocco.

  Werner's last task at the library was the most important but also turned out to be the easiest. Within minutes he had Rocco's residential address, phone number and the names of his wife and children. It seemed that Rocco, having left the strict secrecy of the FBI, DSS, and Corrective Labor Administration, had done a total reversal and permitted his name to be listed in the Boston telephone directory.

  ****

  After another seven stops along the Green Line, Werner stepped off the subway at Coolidge Corner in nearby Brookline and made his way south along Harvard Street to Carol Dodge's apartment. It was shortly after eleven o'clock, a time when nearly all the neighbors were away at work, and he looked forward to having some time alone. Yet no sooner had he unlocked the front door and stepped into the lobby than he noticed the door opening to Harriet Waterman's ground-floor apartment. Instantly Werner quickened his step toward the stairway.

  "Oh, Frank, do you have a moment?" she pressed.

  "Certainly, Harriet," he answered, caught in her snare. "What is it?"

  "Carol came home fifteen minutes ago and she seemed really upset. She never comes home for lunch. Is everything all right?"

  "If it were, that would be a first," he responded. "But don't worry, Harriet, it'll work out."

  "I hope so. Like I said, she didn't look well at all."

  When Werner entered the apartment, he found Carol sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked under her and a yellow pad and pen in her lap. She appeared lost in thought.

  "It's a bit early for lunch, eh?" he observed en route to the kitchen. "I'm going to brew some tea. Would you like some?"

  "No, thank you," she answered dully.

  "Coffee?"

  "Not that either. And I'm not home for lunch, Frank. I lost my job."

  "Why, that's terrific!" he exclaimed, stopping in his tracks and turning to face her. "Now you're free to do whatever you want! I think that calls for a celebration, don't you?"

  "No, Frank, I'm serious. I lost my job this morning. They fired me."

  I heard you the first time," he continued with a grin. "Now there's nothing standing in the way of your doing something different with your life. You're a board-certified oncologist, for heaven's sake. You could work anywhere you want."

  "It's not the way you think it is, Frank. It's not like they outsourced my position or eliminated my department. They fired me for cause. For violating regulations. I could lose my license over this."

  The news startled Werner. He took a seat on the sofa next to her and gave her a puzzled look.

  "Just like that? No warning? No probation? What sort of regulations are we talking about here?"

  Carol returned his gaze and spoke without emotion.

  "The rules against treating patients off the grid. They're also written into my contract. I went back and read the regulations. What I've been doing is clearly prohibited. It's just that those rules were never intended to apply to my situation."

  "And what sort of situation would that be? What exactly did you do?"

  "I treated patients outside the hospital," Carol Dodge replied irritably. "At the free clinic. Just as I've done nearly every week for the past six years."

  "So why hasn't anyone complained about it before?" Werner questioned. "Since when is it a hanging offense to treat indigent patients pro bono? And what about the other doctors at the free clinic? Have they lost their day jobs, too?"

  "It seems that I'm the only one who's been caught, Frank. Look, the rule was obviously intended to block the creation of a black market system of private clinics for the rich. None of us ever expected it to be enforced in a way that would prohibit helping the poor."

  "But it doesn't make any sense, Carol. You're a key member of the pediatric oncology team, one of the best they have. Could this be some kind of mistake?"

  Carol Dodge put aside her yellow pad, lowered both feet to the floor and leaned forward.

  "That's what I thought at first," she replied. "But if it were a mistake, it would never have come this far. The more I think of it, the less it appears related to my performance or even breaking the rules. No, it seems more about power and control and conformity and the sheer volume of senseless government directives that we doctors are ordered to follow all the time.

  "You know, Frank, maybe I'm finally paying the price for having spoken out so often over the years. I'm just grateful that the offense I'm being accused of is so preposterous that no sane person would think worse of me for it."

  She forced a smile.

  "So now what are you going to do?" Werner asked.

  "I don't have the faintest idea. That's what the yellow pad is for. Any ideas?"

  "Is there a chance they'd take you back? For example, did they make any demands or set a probationary period or a hearing date?"

  "Nope. No hearing, no probation," Carol replied. "Maybe you missed it while you were away, but due process went out of fashion a long time ago around here. So what else have you got for me?"

  "You could run away with me to Utah," he offered.

  "That one's not on the table," she snapped. "At least not yet. Okay, here's your last chance. Any other big ideas, genius?"

  "No," he answered. "Just a question."

  "Go for it."

  "Do you have any enemies at the hospital, Carol? Or, putting it another way, could you have offended someone at the top? You see, the reason for creating such a bewildering array of overlapping rules and regulations is to ensure that everybody becomes a lawbreaker. Then whoever is in charge can apply the rules selectively to punish anyone they want, anyone who refuses to toe the line or gets in the way of progress."

  "If I've made enemies, I have absolutely no idea who they are," Carol replied indignantly. "Believe me, Frank, I don't think I've ever knowingly made trouble for anyone at the hospital. And I'm probably the last person anyone there could describe as overly competitive or ambitious."

  "Might someone be jealous of you?"

  "Jealous!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Why on earth be jealous of me? In the past three years I've lost my husband, my stepson, my house, and what little money I ever had. My humble life consists of shuttling back and forth between the hospital, the free clinic, and my apartment. What would anyone possibly want from me that they could have only by getting rid of me?"

  "I can think of one thing, perhaps. And it's not my ruggedly handsome body, by the way."

  Carol Dodge smiled.

  "I wouldn't rule that out quite so quickly," she replied with an amorous look. "But do go on."

  "What about your apartment?"

  "This place? You must be joking."

  "No, bear with me for a moment," Werner requested. "In Soviet Russia, many people denounced their neighbors to the KGB and had them sent to the camps just for a few more square meters of living space. And like the Soviets and every other dictatorship, the Unionist regime's very existence depends on the networks of informants it employs to root out dissidents.

  "Well, those informants and their handlers learn very quickly that their rewards come only when they supply derogatory information. From there, it's only short leap to fabrication. So, once the informants realize that they can get nearly anything they want by throwing inconvenient people under the bus, false denunciations become the currency of the day. And, in that case, why not tattle on the uppity doctor on the sixth floor whose apartment is far too large and could be used far better by your needy and deserving relatives?"

  "Frank, shame on you!" Carol scolded. "You're not really accusing Harriet of denouncing me to the security police, are you? I know you can be cynical sometimes, but this is beyond cynicism; it's paranoia."

  "All right, Carol. I plead guilty to all of the above," Werner admitted. "But
that doesn't make it inaccurate. I realize that you're loyal to Harriet. But think about it. Squatters suddenly target your building. Then, out of the blue, the Housing Authority gives notice that they want to measure your apartment. So you tell your admin people at the hospital to get you a waiver. But, before the waiver can go through, you lose your job. Now who knew about the squatters and the notice from the BHA and your waiver request? Who had the motive and opportunity to tell the BHA that a certain waivered tenant was illegally treating patients in an underground clinic and had taken in a lodger who doesn't have a Boston residence permit? Who other than Harriet?

  "That's a truly horrible thing to say, Frank," she replied coldly.

  "Whether it's horrible or not is irrelevant. The question is whether or not it's true. Anyway, I think I've said enough. Would you prefer that I leave you for a while to sort out your thoughts in peace?"

  "Yes, perhaps that would be best. I'm upset and very tired, but I'll be okay," Carol replied. "I just need some time by myself to work things out."

  "I'm very sorry this has happened to you, Carol. I'll be at the Club if you need me. Let's talk when I get home, okay?"

  ****

  The patron seated at the far end of the bar was on his second Old Fashioned before Werner paid much attention to him. He was a short, slightly built man in a British-cut green tweed jacket, polka-dot bow tie and rounded horn-rimmed eyeglasses that gave him an owlish look. Though past normal retirement age, he projected a vitality that made Werner think of him as still active in a profession like law, finance, or medicine. The man's inquisitive eyes swept the room continuously as if he were waiting for others to join him.

  Werner could not shake the feeling that he knew the man from an earlier time in Boston before his arrest. He decided to strike up a conversation.

  "Would you like a fresh one, Sir?" he inquired.