Wesley Barefoot looked at his president. Jansen’s expression was calm and attentive, but the old glint in his eye was gone, the fervor extinguished.
“Then we’ll let that matter rest a while.” Jansen pressed a button to call in his secretary. “As I oriented you on a week ago, for quite some time I’ve been working on a draft to revise case law in this country, and now it’s ready.” He nodded towards the door where his secretary had appeared with copies of his draft. “Read this through very carefully, then we’ll meet here again in two hours.”
They watched as the secretary handed out the material.
“Then we’re waiting on school reform and the tax debate?” asked communications assistant Beglaubter as he accepted the few sheets of paper with CONFIDENTIAL stamped diagonally in red across each page.
Bruce Jansen nodded. “Yes, this matter takes precedence.”
* * *
—
After reading five minutes of the president’s draft, Wesley got up and locked the door to his office. He felt himself permeated by a strange unpleasantness and noticed how his pulse and body temperature were rising. He loosened his collar and took off his jacket. Then he sat down at his desk again.
Before him lay a proposal for implementing a new form of law and order in American society. He’d never seen anything like it. Was Attorney General Lovell really involved in this? he wondered. It was very hard to imagine.
He took a couple of deep breaths. When the president had promised “radical changes” in his New Year’s toast, Wesley had noticed the reaction these words caused in some of the guests. Now the words seemed like an understatement.
Like everything else from his hand, Jansen’s proposal was both direct and well formulated, written in the classic, intelligent Jansen style. The first sentence was devoted to a short, precise description of how American society was degenerating. It highlighted the increasingly violent, anarchistic behavior displayed by criminal gangs and paramilitary organizations. Next he focused on the weapon lobbyists, the courts, and elected politicians. At first glance they appeared to be quite normal, sober observations, but then came the conclusion that filled four of the five pages, and this is where it got scary. Here was a frontal attack on practically the entire Bill of Rights, with suggested changes that were capable of precipitating the downfall of both the president and his entire administration if they ever slipped out to the general public.
This was hair-raising stuff. The proposed doctrine would restrict citizens’ freedoms in a way that lawmakers had fought vigorously to avoid for the past couple of centuries. There would be quicker executions of condemned criminals, huge restrictions on the sale of ammunition, and a radical revision of voting laws—just for starters. It was a redistribution of power that strengthened the executive branch so much as to be in direct conflict with the Constitution, so much so that it was bound to cause a massive, angry reaction.
It also contained a step-by-step timetable for implementing the drastic plan, kept just within the bounds of the country’s legislative system.
He glanced at his wastebasket. That’s where shit like this belonged. The proposal was undemocratic, un-American, and truly harrowing. How the hell could the country’s president publicize something like that? Before the murder of his second wife, Jansen had always been an extremely sensitive politician and tactician who almost never surrendered to the temptation of responding impulsively or emotionally to political questions. But his wife’s murder had really done a number on the man’s head. Did Jansen really believe he could transform the United States so totally, just like that?
Wesley put both hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair, and thought hard. How should the staff respond? There was no way they could recommend that Jansen present his plan to the attorney general, let alone Congress.
My God, he thought. If Vice President Lerner has got wind of this, there’s already a power struggle in the White House. No American president could ever get away with this kind of thing—that’s what they’d have to tell Jansen—no matter how grieved he was over his loss and no matter how justified many of his worries were.
Then the phone rang and the president’s secretary informed him that the meeting had been postponed. Some guy had gone on a rampage at a school just outside DC. Four children had been killed and several wounded, and the president had decided to address the nation in person from the schoolyard. The perpetrator had gotten away without leaving a clue as to his identity.
The president’s proposal was turning into reality even as it sat on his desk. Now there’d really be hell to pay.
CHAPTER 5
It was as Wesley thought. There was hell to pay.
One of the children killed in the schoolyard was the son of the House majority whip, Peter Halliwell. Two of the others were from the city’s wealthiest families. Even Wesley knew someone who knew someone who knew these kids. Spontaneous processions of mourners appeared around Washington, DC, and the nation’s flags were at half-mast. Even New York’s “killer on the roof” took a couple of days’ break.
It was the number one topic of conversation, a case upon which everyone had an opinion.
* * *
—
For a few weeks after the attack, Jansen’s staff didn’t discuss the president’s law-and-order program. Everyone had plenty to see to, especially in the Oval Office. Not a day went by without the pro- and anti-weapon lobbyists trying to present their case, but discussions with these people were not brought up at the daily morning meetings.
Bud Curtis’s trial was progressing without new, gruesome revelations, and Wesley began breathing easier. Jansen must be having second thoughts, thank God, he said to himself. He’s chosen to take the legislative path. This was as it should be.
But Donald Beglaubter’s grave expression didn’t disappear upon hearing Wesley’s thoughts on the matter. “I’m afraid I don’t believe it,” he said. “Just wait!”
The wait wasn’t long. A couple of days after the Curtis trial had been completed in record time and the man had been transferred to the state prison in Waverly, Virginia, President Jansen’s secretary asked the staff to meet in the Cabinet Room with their memorandums regarding the law-and-order proposals. It was precisely a month since the subject had last been discussed. Jesus, thought Wesley, have members of the government been oriented without the staff’s knowledge? Were they really supposed to begin implementing Jansen’s plan?
This was a frightening thought.
The light beaming through the windows of the Cabinet Room signaled the coming of spring, but the mood was more like that at a funeral. Secretary of Defense Henderson, Attorney General Lovell, and Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security Billy Johnson were sitting at their assigned positions around the long boardroom table, each with a copy of Jansen’s program in front of him. None of them looked well.
Wesley nodded to each of them and found his seat by the window, next to Communications Chief Burton and his assistant, Beglaubter. He looked around. The vice president’s chair stood empty, of course. This was nothing new, but where were the rest of the Cabinet members, and where was the president? Had he been delayed?
Thomas Sunderland stood up. “Welcome to this informal meeting, gentlemen,” he began, nodding at the faces around the table and attempting a smile, his eyes cold as ever. “Now we’ve all read the president’s proposal, and in a moment it will be open for discussion. Since we’ll be dealing with extremely sensitive issues, normal etiquette and procedure will be suspended, and you’ll be able to speak freely, without fear of the consequences. Having said that, I would naturally like to impress on you that nothing said here—absolutely nothing—is to leave this room.” He put up his hand to ward off any reactions. “I would like to begin by adding my own comments to the president’s proposal, as he has asked me to do. When I read this paper a couple of weeks ago—and I read it several times—I ha
d the night to think it through before presenting it to the staff. You, on the other hand—honored Cabinet members—have not seen this proposal until now. Therefore I can imagine you’ll react pretty much as I did. It is not what one would call easy reading.”
At this point Secretary of Defense Wayne Henderson muttered something, but otherwise there was total silence. Attorney General Lovell especially seemed to have withdrawn completely into himself. Wesley had no trouble understanding why. It had to be a terrible blow—in his capacity as the supreme law officer of the land—to first hear about all this now, and in front of this group of people besides.
“I can tell you are all reacting just as I did,” Sunderland continued, “which is what I expected. Therefore I have advised the president that we meet again tomorrow morning so you can have time to consolidate your impressions after this discussion, just as I’ve had a chance to.” He tried in particular to make eye contact with Communications Chief Lance Burton, but the hefty black man refused to oblige. “Naturally, there are many details that need polishing, and of course we must discuss how best to move forward legislatively, but most of all we ought to regard this proposal as highly courageous and brilliantly visionary.”
Wesley glanced over at the coffee table. In a minute he’d get up, find the biggest cup he could, and fill it to the brim. Then he’d down the brew in one gulp and fill the cup again. Damn, damn, damn! What wouldn’t he give to be anywhere else right now?
Sunderland paused again until he caught Wesley’s attention. The look he gave Barefoot made his skin crawl. It was the look of a reptile that ate only once a year but never took its eyes off potential prey. No matter how well respected he was or good at his job, Thomas Sunderland made a point of being sure that absolutely no one could ever be certain what kind of mood he’d be in or when he’d suddenly lash out.
“The United States of America is a mighty nation, and our laws and Constitution are the best in the world,” he proclaimed, “yet this country isn’t as healthy a place to live in as we would like. This much, I believe, we all can agree on.”
Wesley looked at Lance Burton and Donald Beglaubter. They never commented on anything unless asked, and their present grave expressions told him that doing so now would be a bad idea. He felt his face tightening into a mask.
“I propose that this be the moment when you tell us this is all a joke, Thomas!” It was Attorney General Lovell who finally broke the ice. His facial expression could best be described as that of someone who was getting over the initial shock of having just been kicked in the balls. It was pain personified. At his fifty-fifth birthday party the week before, he’d been cavorting about, frisky as a colt. Now he looked like someone headed for the grave.
“A joke? No, Stephen, I wouldn’t say so.” Sunderland looked at him. “When our president presents such a controversial plan, I think all of us realize that it emanates from his own personal suffering. But we mustn’t forget that this is also a president who won an overwhelming victory by always going straight to the heart of every problem. Let’s stop and ask ourselves if anything has been accomplished the last hundred years that has really made our streets safe. We all know the answer: No, there hasn’t!”
“Hasn’t there, if you look closely?” There was no mistaking the shock and bitterness in Lance Burton’s voice. It was as though the communications chief had stopped just short of crying out: “The president has really lost it!”
Sunderland ignored the comment. “Well, who wants to start? How about you, Wesley? You’re the youngest one here. You’re the one who represents the future as well as the majority of the voters, so the rest of us old warriors ought to hear what you have to say.” Once more Sunderland’s attempt at a smile came off like a pained grimace.
Wesley clenched his fists in his lap. He’d strayed into a trap: Now he’d have to pay for not having spoken up on the issue during the past four weeks. He had an overwhelming urge to take the papers, crumple them into a ball in front of everyone, throw them on the floor, and stamp on them, then haul ass for good. Better to leave a sinking ship before it was too late. He unclenched his fists and studied the faces around the table. With the exception of Sunderland, they all looked like family men, honorable fellows who had worked hard their whole lives to support the wife and kids. Suddenly their loyalty was being put to the supreme test, and their bright futures hung in the balance. It was now they had to choose: Either agree to initiate a chain of events that would probably end with the impeachment of the president and the firing of his administration, or create a basis for speculation, insecurity, and scandal by resigning. No wonder they all looked depressed.
Finally, Wesley shook his head. “Honestly, when it comes to this proposal, it’s impossible for me to imagine seeing things differently tomorrow or ever, for that matter. I’ve had weeks to think it over, and although I can see the good intentions, I still haven’t changed my mind. Even if I liked the plan, too much of it would be impossible to implement. It would be political suicide. There would be too many hopeless battles to fight and unjustifiable standpoints to defend, and too much dirty backroom wheeling and dealing. As the president’s press secretary, I would never be able to justify presenting this proposal to the American public.”
“Then you probably ought to start looking for another job, Wesley!” snapped Sunderland.
So this is what Sunderland had meant when he said they’d “be able to speak freely, without fear of the consequences.”
Sunderland caught his slip of the tongue and immediately began rummaging around in the pile of papers before him. It was a trick he’d learned from Jansen, only Jansen was much better at it. In Sunderland’s case, even the slightest smoothing-over caused more suspicion than the Watergate break-in.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Wesley,” he finally said. “True, it’s difficult presenting a manifesto like this, but try and see it as a challenge. What other press secretary in history has had such an important case to present—and present properly, mind you? You tell me that.”
Wesley didn’t go for the bait. “Goebbels was given the job of making the Germans love Nazism, long for war, and exterminate the Jews. That must have been quite a challenge, too.”
Thomas Sunderland shook his head. He was enraged by the comparison, but he didn’t show it. “We’re not talking about using propaganda. We’re not out to make life a living hell for our country’s citizens, you know that. Everyone who knows the president knows that. He just wants to do what’s best for his nation and his people.”
“Just like Goebbels?” This time it was Donald Beglaubter who spoke up, his usual fearless self. “I agree with Wesley. We can’t justify this program before Congress or to ourselves. It’s undemocratic and impossible to implement from end to end. It would give us so many enemies, we’d always have to be watching our backs. People get killed for stuff like this, which I suppose the president realizes.”
Sunderland was busy with his papers again. If he didn’t stop soon, Wesley would have a hard time restraining himself from walking over and flinging them out of the room.
“It’s possible,” Sunderland finally answered. “It’s possible there are security risks involved, but I’m not so sure. What does our attorney general have to say? Stephen?”
Lovell scratched the dark blue stubble that was forming on his chin. It was getting to be time for the second shave of the day. “I must ask whether the vice president has been informed about all this,” he stated.
“God help us, no!” This time Sunderland’s smile looked almost real. “You know the man, Stephen. He wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself for five minutes!”
“Isn’t it more likely you haven’t told him because he’d be opposed to this garbage?” Lovell patted his pile of paper. “He’d fight it so hard, it would be too big a mouthful for you and the president.”
Sunderland’s smile was gone again. “That, too, yes. But right now we’re
talking about what you think, Stephen, not the vice president. You’re not prepared to reread the proposal with an open mind, either, are you?”
“Pardon me, but what in the world would make me want to do that?” The attorney general stood up, threw his suit jacket over the head of a bust of George Washington, and leaned over the table. “You listen to me! These are unlawful methods we’re talking about here. Strict restrictions for lawfully operated weapon factories, compulsory surrendering of ammunition, compulsory conscription of the workforce, curfew for those not bearing ID, strict censorship of the media, the banning of gun clubs, and the criminalization of militia groups allowed by the Constitution. We’re talking about surveillance, encouraging informants, and wiretapping on such a scale as to make the good old Soviet Union look like a kindergarten. We’re talking about harder punishment for misdemeanors . . .” He paused and shook his head. “I can just see it: A perfectly normal schoolkid who finds a couple of joints in his big brother’s drawer and takes them along to a party would risk having his life completely ruined.”
“He’d be ruining his life just by smoking that crap. Don’t be so naive, Stephen. You’d do better to notice there’s no talk about punishment in the proposal, only criminalization. You’ll find many interesting suggestions dealing with criminality that don’t have to do with imprisonment.” It was impossible to see whether Sunderland’s eyes reflected anger as he continued. “Of course both you and Jansen realize all this can’t happen at once. The president is quite familiar with the realities of your Justice Department and Congress. We’re talking about a goal that can take years to reach. We’ve only just begun, haven’t we? Who knows? Maybe we’ll have eight years to implement it, or at least pave the way. Why don’t we stick to the text of the document and see which elements we can use here and now, and which ones we can’t?”
“What goal? Not mine! I know the president has a heavy burden to deal with. I was present when Mimi was murdered. But this proposition is a mess; it doesn’t come anywhere near my own personal goal, as the president would have known if he’d bothered to consult me first!” It sounded like an ultimatum, an ominous one.
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