Of course I do have an idea why our assets are under lock and key, although it’s not based on any legal analysis that I’d been trained for. It seems that Dee and I had gotten a reputation as a couple of troublemakers, a couple of people who weren’t willing to sit by and watch what was happening with our mouths shut. Rick Bellamy confirmed that when he told us we had targets on our backs. We weren’t looked as people who were dedicated to the “Betterment of the Country.” My run for president nailed us as potential targets, targets for God knows what. Any wonder why I was scared shitless?
Not only was our condominium overlooking Lake Michigan placed under a lien, but our summer home in Kenilworth, also on the lake, had a lien slapped on it too.
I saw my share of combat when I was a Marine captain in Iraq, almost getting killed on a couple of occasions. Combat is horrible, make no mistake about it. But at least in combat, when you’re fired upon you can return the fire, and you know who to shoot. But how the fuck do you shoot at an executive order from the White House, an order that’s not reviewable by a legislature or court?
Money suddenly became an issue in our lives—a major issue. On the advice of our financial advisor, we had taken out large mortgages on both our apartment and on our vacation home in Kenilworth. We owed just under a million dollars on each, with monthly payments of principle and interest of just shy of $12,000. And our income has just been drastically reduced. My personal injury cases now have a three-month waiting period before—and if—they get paid. Dee’s lucrative writing career in major magazines and newspapers has essentially been shut down. So, although we’re blessed to be multi-millionaires, we may be an unemployed couple with no income beyond Dee’s teaching salary.
Dee and I huddled to discuss our sudden financial challenge.
I contacted a number of agents who represent politicians for paid speaking engagements. Jay Boynton, a guy who’d been soliciting me as a client, returned my call. He explained that, as a former presidential nominee, with emphasis on the word ‘former,’ he would be able to land me a few speaking gigs. He told me that I could expect between five and nine thousand per speech. Not bad, and almost enough to keep the wolves away from our mortgages. He did emphasize that my speeches would have to be non-controversial, and strictly non-political.
Dee had a bigger problem. Because Martin’s acquisition of Witherspoon Publishing Company had cut off her main sources of writing assignments, not to mention her loss of her long-time agent, Dee almost had to start over again as a freelance writer, although she did have a fabulous portfolio of work. From her book royalties alone, Dee normally saw about $10,000 per month in passive income. The Witherspoon acquisition stopped that, because her royalties were part of the lien against our liquid assets. She approached a few magazines and newspapers that were not part of Martin’s Witherspoon empire, and within a week had landed five paid writing assignments for feature articles.
Our financial crisis appeared manageable, but for how long remained to be seen. We opened new checking accounts—at a credit union—and made sure that the accounts didn’t grow too large because we weren’t sure if a lien would soon be placed against them. Each week, one of us would withdraw cash and put it in a safety deposit box. To avoid complications we would pay our mortgages and other fixed payments with postal money orders.
We felt like fugitives. Because of my presidential run against Martin, that’s exactly what we were.
***
“Hey, hon, let’s watch TV,” I said. I had just noticed something under the TV stand that caught my eye.
“I don’t want to watch TV. I want to talk.”
I walked over to the TV stand and looked down on the object I saw. It was a bug, a listening device. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television, putting the sound on loud. I walked back to Dee and put my arms around her again, my face pressed next to her ear.
“Our apartment is bugged, honey,” I whispered. “There’s a listening and viewing device just under the TV stand.”
“My God,” she whispered. “How the hell could that have happened? We only gave that guy our key a half hour ago.”
“My guess is that one of the doormen let somebody in.”
My days as a provisional FBI agent came back to me. I whispered to Dee that I’d be right back, and walked into our home office. I reached into my desk and took out a device that was given to me while I was on FBI duty—a bug detector. I casually walked around the apartment with the scanner turned on high. The thing even came with a setting that enabled me to disable a bug by pressing a button. I found four bugs in the apartment and zapped each of them. I’m sure somebody from the Asset Protection Agency would eventually notice, but for the time being we had privacy. I told Dee that it was okay to talk.
“That should work,” Dee said. “until the next knock on the door.”
The last election was only a year or so ago, and 10 months since the new president took office in January. I would have had an easier time believing that I was a time traveler, because we so suddenly found ourselves in a different world from the one we knew.
Chapter 74
Three months after the imposition of the mandatory 90-day hold on personal injury settlements, Blake & Randolph finally received a release on seven of our files, resulting in a much needed $4,000,000 relief from our cash flow issues. Not one of the awards was reduced, something we were worried about. But the release came with a surprise. Attached to the release was a Notice of Tax. The Committee on Justice advised us that there was a new tax on all personal injury settlements or judgments—a flat tax of 10 percent of the attorney’s fee.
***
I sat in my father’s office with him and Bill Randolph.
“There’s no other way to say it, guys,” said my father, “but our income has just been reduced, by government fiat, by 10 percent. To make matters worse, it’s 10 percent of the gross fee, with no allowance for deductions. It appears that Bartholomew Martin has it in for the personal injury profession.”
“It makes sense, from a PR point of view,” Bill Randolph said. “Do you think the public will raise a hue and cry over trial lawyers getting hit?”
“How the hell can this be constitutional?” my dad said. “Without a hearing, without it even going through the Ways and Means Committee, we suddenly see a tax, by order of the president, of course. This country gets stranger by the minute. Just to think, my son Matt could have been our president. Matt. Please tell me that you haven’t abandoned plans to run again.”
“Dad, the last time I ran we all looked at it like a long shot. Well, I came close, until those amusement park bombings caused the uninformed voter to demand Martin as president. To begin a campaign now would require a gigantic effort. Even if I lived through it, and yes, I mean that literally, we would have to wage the campaign in the shadows.”
“Matt, there’s somebody I want you to meet, somebody very important. Don’t think that there hasn’t been a lot of talk about you running for president again.”
As he said that he lowered his voice. I’ve noticed over the past year that lowering one’s voice is a common way of announcing anything that the government may consider controversial.
“Dad, I would be happy to meet with whoever this guy is, but I want you to recognize something. When you talk about me, or anybody for that matter, running for office, you’re talking the words of democracy. Sure, you put together a platform and launch a political campaign. You go out, raise money, give speeches, and get booked on TV and radio shows. You then try to convince voters that you’re the man for the job. I know, I’ve done it. But the simple truth is that the United States is no longer a republican democracy, or any kind of a democracy. It’s a dictatorship, and dictators don’t take kindly to opposition. We saw that happen in the days before the election. It looked like I’d win easily, but then the attacks on the amusement parks happened. Coincidence? I don’t think so. I think those attacks were part of Martin’s campaign, not that I can prove it. But the
fact remains that the attacks happened, and the voters ran to the polls to yell ‘save us from terror, Bartholomew.’ That’s what happened, and that’s why we’re now living under a fucking dictatorship.”
“Bullshit, Matt. You’re the gutsiest guy I ever met, and I’m proud that you’re my son. It’s no time to roll over and accept our fate. This crap has got to change, and you’re the man to make it happen. Here’s the guy’s name and phone number. Call him Matt—from an untraceable cell phone. I know that he’s traveling in Europe, but he’ll be back next week.”
Chapter 75
On a bright Saturday morning in late October, Dee and I prepared to take a road trip to South Bend, Indiana, to visit her folks. Her parents were great people. Her father, Stu Turner, a retired assistant football coach for Notre Dame, had gotten himself appointed as chairman of the Indiana chapter of the Blake for President Committee. He was a big fan of mine, and I was a fan of his. It would be good to see him and Maria again.
We heard a knock on the door. A knock on the door. That phrase had become a writer’s shorthand for the word dictatorship in countless novels. But we weren’t living in a novel; this was real life. So was the knock on the door.
“Good morning folks, my name is Jesse Altgeld,” he said with a broad toothy smile. “I’m with the Committee on Public Safety, and this is my colleague, Sam Blashton.”
Altgeld was a short man, about 5’6” with wavy brown hair and smallish blue eyes. He was dressed tastefully in a gray business suit. Blashton was huge, about 6’6” with shoulders that took up the entire doorway. He wore jeans and a lumber jacket. He had the face of an MMA fighter, with bruises, cuts, and a few scars.
“And what may I help you with, Mr. Altgeld?” I said.
A bit over a year ago my response would have been, “Get out of here and don’t come back without an appointment.” But that was over a year ago, a different time, a different era, a different universe. Mr. Altgeld and his colleague presented themselves to us in the era of the knock on the door.
Altgeld took a clipboard from his briefcase and said, “As you may know, the Committee on Public Safety is empowered by President Martin to enforce the new Gun Safety Law.”
I had never heard of the Committee on Public Safety or the Gun Safety Law. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep up with new changes to our legal system.
“According to our records,” Altgeld said, looking down at his clipboard, “You and Mrs. Blake are the registered owners of two Glock 9mm pistols and two Sig Sauer P226s. May I trouble you to bring them to me?”
“Do you just want to see them?” I asked, although I could figure out the answer.
“Mr. Blashton and I have been ordered to confiscate the weapons, for public safety pursuant to the statute. Please don’t worry. You’ll be given a receipt for all four pistols.”
He handed me a government document, which was starting to look familiar because it began with the word, “Notice—Warrant.”
The document bore the signature of Altgeld, followed by some guy who was the Commissioner of Public safety, followed by guess who, Bartholomew Martin. The “warrant” appeared to be valid, if there’s any meaning left to the word “valid.” I gathered the weapons and handed them to the giant Mr. Blashton, who carried a canvas bag for the purpose of collecting guns.
“Here’s your receipt for the guns. Thank you so much, folks, and please have a wonderful day.”
Chapter 76
“Good morning, this is Matt Blake, calling for General Cummings.”
“Matt Blake, Will Cummings here. Thank you so much for your call. This is an untraceable cell phone, right?”
“Yes, it is, General, My Father suggested that I call you. Actually he insisted.”
“The name’s Will, if you don’t mind me calling you Matt. I’d prefer to call you Mr. President, but we all know how that worked out. Please take down this address. It’s a house near the University of Chicago. How’s tomorrow at 11 a.m.? Please bring Mrs. Blake with you. She will have a lot of input into our conversation.”
“Thank you, General, I mean Will. I’ll be there along with Diana, but may I ask you a question? What will be the subject of our meeting?”
“Blake for President, Round Two.”
I scoured the Internet for anything I could find about General Wilcox Cummings. Wow, this guy’s no slouch. He was awarded the Army Distinguished Service Cross for “extraordinary heroism” as well as a bunch of other decorations for his service in the First Gulf War. He’s 49 years old and retired from the Army four years ago. He ran for Governor of Wisconsin and lost. Then he went to law school and is admitted to the bar in three states. In addition to his legal practice, he teaches a course on American Foreign Policy at the University of Chicago.
***
Dee knows General Cummings. They took courses together at the University of Chicago where Dee got her PhD. “All I remember about this guy, Matt, is that he’s a solid character. Having retired as an Army general, he was a bit older than most students in the class. I definitely remember him being a patriot and a gentleman. So he wants you to run for president again? Let’s withhold judgment until we meet him. He actually said that? Blake for President Round Two?”
Dee and I walked up to his house, which could best be described as “upscale faculty housing.” It was a bit on the small side, but had that U of C charm about it, right down to the ivy growing up the front.
He greeted us at the door with a warm handshake. General Wilcox Cummings, or Will as he preferred to be called, was a sturdily-built man, about six feet tall, with dark brown hair. He was a handsome guy, and obviously kept in good physical condition. His dog, a Golden Retriever named Hamilton, helped to greet us at the door, his wagging tail announcing that he just met two new friends. Will lost his wife to cancer two years ago, and he lived alone—with Hamilton.
“Diana, I remember you from a few of my classes. Your career has taken off like a rocket since you got your doctorate here. You’re an incredibly prolific writer. I asked that you come with Matt, because I know how closely you two work together.”
“Matt and I are dying to know what you want to talk about,” said Dee. “Matt said it has something to do with ‘Blake for President—Round Two’ as I believe you put it.”
“Yes, to get right to the point, I’m suggesting that Matt run again for President of the United States. To say that Matt almost won the last time is an understatement. If it weren’t for the terror attacks on the amusement parks you would have walked into office.”
“But those attacks did happen, did they not?” I said.
“Not to play mystery novelist with you, Matt,” said Will, “but did it not occur to you that the attacks almost looked like they were planned to impact the election?”
“Of course it occurred to me. It occurred to everybody. The bombings pushed Martin’s argument to the front of the line. Remember the non-stop ads: ‘Are your children safe—are you safe?’ ”
“Of course I remember, Matt, but did you ever question why a radical Islamic group would cause those bombings? Wouldn’t it backfire and cause the American voters to reach out for Martin, the last thing the radicals would want? That’s what happened, of course.”
“Will, everybody in my campaign, including Diana and I, just assumed it was the stupidity of the jihadis. They may be clever, but they never seem to get the knack for long range thinking. Sure we speculated about the NFL itself pulling off something like that, but we couldn’t wrap our heads around the idea of Martin and his group committing brutal mass murder of innocent people.”
I thought about my last meeting with Imam Mike, and his thinking that the attacks were pulled off by the NFL. Of course, I wouldn’t mention Mike to Will Cummings.
“Are you getting at something, Will?” Diana asked.
“Let me tell you a bit more about myself than you may already know,” Will said. “Although I retired as a three-star general, I’m still a paid consultant to the Pentagon,
and my specialty is explosives and explosive device tactics. I have contacts deep within the CIA who I talk to regularly. Bottom line, folks, we have some strong evidence that those attacks were pulled off by the NFL, not by radical Islamists. The type of explosives used, the symmetrical bomb blasts, the fact that they were not suicide bombings, all point to a conclusion that it was probably the NFL that did it. The evidence isn’t good enough for a conviction in a court of law, but it’s good enough to draw intelligence-gathering conclusions.”
“At the risk of asking the same question that Diana just asked,” I said, “where does this lead?”
“I’m a key player in a large group of people, Matt, a very large group of people, people who still remember that ‘the land of the free’ isn’t just a slogan from elementary school. The group is actually a newly formed political party, The Heritage Party. I’ve been elected as the Chairman of the party. Yes, we have elections, somewhat old-fashioned. It numbers close to a million people, and we’re growing at about 20,000 a week. Democrats, Republicans, and Independents are swarming to join us. Among our ranks are none other than Sam Baxter, former Chairman of the Democratic Party National Committee and Max Fleming, former head of the Republican National Committee. Max asked me to say hello, by the way. All of us in the party are fed up to our eyeballs with that crazy dictator we elected as president. It’s starting to dawn on people, especially us, that the freedoms we once enjoyed are quickly slipping away. People are looking for relief. If the knowledge we have about the bombings is made widely public, Martin’s acolytes will flee him like rats abandoning a sinking ship. And that’s what brings us back to you, Matt. You’re a leader, a mesmerizing public speaker, and people just plain love you. I’m a hardnosed military grunt, and I keep my emotions in tow. But I gotta tell you this, Matt. When I saw videos of a few of your speeches, I actually cried. You connected with my brain, but more importantly, you touched my heart. That’s what you do. You’re amazing.”
The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) Page 29