CONDONE/CONDINE
Copyright © 1979 Duane R. Hurst
“Tired!
Another half mile and I head home.
I’ve got enough time for a shower before
work.”
Blair Pershing jogged in a ground‑eating lope,
dripping perspiration as he passed over the
14th
Street Bridge. The Jefferson Memorial,
brightly lit in a cold white light, was behind him. He
turned
left into a lane which wound around the eastern shore of the Tidal Basin. Japanese cherry
trees
lined both sides of the lane, which actually was an elongated parking area for
tourists visiting
Washington
D.C.
Blair regularly jogged around the Basin. Although it was a popular location, he often
en-
joyed
solitude on his pre‑dawn jogs. He
had not seen anyone else during his run on this particular
April
morning. Perhaps he was too early for
the Washington bureaucrats.
He had gone scarcely twenty yards when he noted a
white Toyota Celica parked ahead. Its
running
lights were on but no one sat inside.
Blair slowed down and scanned the vicinity. Stopping
beside
the vehicle, he glanced inside. The
driver’s window was down and a key was in the ignition.
An
expensive leather bag lay on the front seat.
Nothing was in the rear area.
“Of all the stupid things to do in Washington! Whoever left this has got to be from out of
town.”
Blair thought. Worried, he shone a
small jogging light to his right, into the cherry trees.
In
the dim light he saw a bundle near some bushes and two trees. Something dark protruded from
it.
Blair cautiously walked toward the object. It was a man. He lay on the ground as if asleep,
both
arms straight beside his body. Blair’s
light glistened off freshly‑shined shoes. The suit pants
were
of an expensive English material and lacked any sign of grass or briar
seed. The oddity stuck
in
Blair’s mind, as he saw a few burrs sticking to his own shoes and sweat pants.
“Hey, buddy, are you asleep or drunk?”
He bent over and touched the man’s shoulder. But in so doing, Blair directed his light on
the
face. A trickle of blood oozed from the
mouth as the head moved from his touch.
Some dried
blood
spatters also were on the man’s shirt collar and front. Just above the right ear was a fresh
bruise.
“Damn!” Blair said aloud while recoiling from the
body. He jumped up and looked around
again. Nothing.
Despite himself, he began trembling. He took a few deep breaths and squatted
beside the
body. “Maybe he’s not dead,” he thought as he
squeezed the man’s right‑hand forefinger. The tip
stayed
white. Neither could he detect a pulse.
Blair experienced another shock after checking for the
pulse. He noticed a small caliber
handgun
in the grass near the man’s right hand.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered. “I gotta get a cop. I
don’t know if this guy killed himself or not,
but
I’m not getting into this any deeper than I am already.”
He stood again, looking at his watch. The luminous face showed 5:18 a.m. Being careful
not
to disturb the body or gun, he hurried back to the lane. A short jog brought him to Independence
Avenue
near the Kutz Bridge. The Washington
Monument was ahead and off to his right.
It rose
as
a bright shaft of hope above the dank, dismal park.
Several pairs of headlights sped past Blair, the
drivers probably too afraid to stop as he
frantically
waved at them. One honked and swerved
to get farther from him.
“Come on!
Somebody stop!” he shouted in vain.
The few drivers he saw refused even to
slow
down. “Nobody will stop because they’re
afraid of a black man in the morning.
Wish I had
a
cellular phone,” he reflected in disgust.
Blair did look somewhat disheveled from his jog. He was a handsome, 27‑year‑old
six-
footer,
who diligently exercised to maintain a muscular 195 pounds. He preferred to be called black
rather
than African‑American, telling his friends and family that he was all
American. Hair was cut
short
and he was clean‑shaven, due in part to his employer’s rigid grooming
standards. Even so,
Blair
had chosen similar standards since his college years. He had graduated magna cum laude and
recently
gained his master’s degree in business administration.
Another seven cars passed before one finally pulled
over to the curb. It was a Park Police
cruiser. Two officers were inside. Both stepped out of the vehicle. The passenger, a white, took
his
flashlight and shone a beam directly into Blair’s face. His other hand hovered near a service
revolver.
The driver, a black, called out in a gravelly
voice. “Don’t move! Why were you waving at
us?”
The white officer continued shining the light in
Blair’s face while speaking in a gruff
tone.
“What’s
the matter, boy? If you’re looking for
trouble, you found it. You trying to
score some
drugs
in my park?”
Blair blinked in the harsh light. “Great!
A couple of losers. Probably too
stupid to tie their
shoes,”
he thought while grimacing to himself.
He kept his arms slightly out‑stretched to ensure that
the
two “Looney‑tuners” did not mistake his movements. Then he spoke clearly and slowly.
“Officer, I was almost through with my morning jog
when I saw a man on the ground. He
is
in the park behind me. He is dead and a
gun is in the grass near him. I don’t
know who he is or
how
he died. I have been trying to wave a
car down for the past eight minutes, so that I could report
this
to the police. Will you please follow
me to the body?”
The officers exchanged surprised looks. The white, a tall and rather thin fellow
named Rick,
opened
the back door and motioned to Blair.
“Get in. You
show us where the body is, boy. But
first, turn around and put your hands on
the
vehicle. And don’t move sudden
like. I wouldn’t like that.”
“Why should I do that?” Blair demanded hotly. “I haven’t committed a crime! You would-
n’t
know anything if I hadn’t waved you down.
I’m not carrying a weapon.”
“I don’t know that, and I ain’t taking a chance
neither. Do what you’re told, damn
you!”
Rick
put his hand on the revolver.
“Hold it, Rick.
Let me handle this,” the black officer interceded and stepped close to
Blair.
“Listen,
I’m just going to pat you down. We’re
not charging you with anything, OK? But
my part-
ner
is nervous. So, cooperate with me,
brother.”
The officer quickly frisked for weapons and stepped
back when he found nothing. Blair was
furious,
but controlled himself. “I’m lodging a
formal complaint against you both when this is over.
I
know you’re violating my rights and not following police procedure,” he stated.
“Go ahead and complain. This is our procedure.
Tough luck if you don’t like it!”
Looking
at
his partner, Rick ordered, “Get him in the cruiser, Bill.”
The black officer pointed to the open door and Blair
sat in the back. Before shutting the
door,
Bill said, “Please let us know when we get close to the body you claim to have
found.”
Bill drove with his lights flashing and parked beside
the Celica. They had Blair precede
them
until the trio neared the body. Both
officers used flashlights to view the dead man. Rick knelt
over
the body and began to probe and poke the face and chest. He took out a handkerchief and
wiped
his bloody fingers on it, then reached for the pistol.
“Better not
move the gun, Rick,” his partner warned.
“The lab guys will want to photograph
everything
as we found it. Maybe you should check
his pockets for I.D.”
Rick grunted and stood up without touching the
gun. “Huh? No, I guess we can call dis-
patch. Looks like a suicide to me. Pretty clear‑cut case.”
“Yeah. I think
you’re right,” Bill agreed.
Blair could not believe what he saw and heard. “Geez!
These two clowns are completely
incompetent!”
he thought. He could not resist saying
to the patrolmen, “Why don’t you check the
man’s
car license? It ought to give you his
name.”
Rick jerked around and glared. “Don’t tell us our job! We know what to do. What’s your
name,
anyway? You better give us a full
statement.”
“My name is Blair Pershing. I’m not saying anything more until your supervisor comes. I
want
it written down properly.”
“Don’t get smart with me!” Rick sputtered. “Bill, take a few pictures with the
Polaroid.
When
you’re done, bring him. I’ll call this
in.”
A few minutes later they joined Rick at the patrol car
and waited for the Park Police dis-
patcher
to relate the death to higher authority.
Rick also reported the Toyota’s tag number. In a few
moments
the dispatcher radioed for Rick, speaking in a tense voice. Blair overheard the entire con-
versation,
but felt a jolt as he learned the identity of the dead man. It was Macy Hamilton.
“I heard that name before,” Rick said to his
partner. “How ‘bout you? Sound familiar?”
“Yeah. Someone
big in the administration, I think,” Bill answered.
“He was Chief of Staff to President Albertson,” Blair
told them loudly. “Bobby‑Rae
Albert-
son
is President of the United States of America.
I suppose you both have heard of him.”
“I knew that name was familiar. Oh, hell!
We’ll be here all day on this one,” Rick grumb-
led. “Better not do anything more. The FBI and every agency in town will horn
in on this.”
Within 20 minutes a host of officials began arriving
to investigate the presumed suicide.
Among
the arriving vehicles were a city ambulance, two Park Police cruisers, three
metro squad
cars,
and several official vehicles from unknown federal agencies. A Park Police captain appeared
in
charge of the circus‑like congregation.
Surprisingly, no official FBI presence was on the scene.
Neither
had the media hounds swarmed in for the story.
That was sure to change, as the death of
a
ranking administration official was sure to draw them like vultures to a
carcass. Blair had given
his
statement several times to various police officers and signed each one.
He watched as an officer took numerous photos of the
corpse, both close‑ups and from dif-
ferent
angles. Later, the paramedics did a
professional job examining the body.
One of them ex-
claimed
in surprise, “This is strange. There’s
hardly any blood for a head wound, especially in a sui-
cide. And I’ve never seen a body laid out like this
before, except at a funeral. Looks as
if he lay
down
prior to being shot. Either that or
somebody placed him here.”
“Don’t look like suicide to me,” his colleague
stated. “Why was the gun so close to
his
hand? Not only that, there wasn’t any blood on
it. Did you see powder burns on the
face, Dan?”
“No,” the first man said with a shake of his
head. “Which doesn’t make sense. If the gun
had
been inside the mouth, there wouldn’t be powder burns on the skin but the gun
would be cov-
ered
with blood and tissue. We would have
seen plenty of burn on the skin if the gun had been held
outside
of the mouth when fired. Angle of
penetration is unusual, too. The
coroner ought to have
a
field day with this one.”
Whatever else they said escaped Blair, as he was
jostled by a man rushing past. The man
was
shouting for Captain Barstow, the Park Police commander on the scene. Barstow turned with
a
frown splitting his long, bony face and barked, “Over here.”
The man proffered a cellular phone. Barstow grabbed it and listened. During the brief con-
versation
he said “yes, sir” eight times. His
only other words were, “No, sir. The
media have not
come
yet. I believe we can release that as a
plausible cause of death. I’ll talk to
the two officers
who
first arrived on the scene. You need
not worry about that aspect, sir.”
Shortly following his conversation, several reporters
and a local TV news crew arrived. Po-
lice
prevented them from getting close enough for any pictures. Nor were they allowed to view the
body. As a sop to assuage the typically bloated
egos of the Washington media gurus, particularly
the
vapid TV types, Barstow consented to issue an official statement. He strode up to the waiting
press,
bathed in TV lights. His tall, lanky
form and aristocratic bearing made a favorable impression
for
the cameras. His well‑oiled voice
carried above background noise and he intoned pronounce-
ments
with a politician’s skill.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began as cameras and
reporters recorded the event. “I am
very
sad
to report that early this morning the body of Mr. Macy Hamilton, the Chief of
Staff to President
Albertson,
was discovered at the base of a cherry tree here in this historic and
picturesque park. It
appears
that Mr. Hamilton committed suicide by firing a single round from a .22 caliber
pistol,
which
entered the mouth and did extensive damage to the upper palate. Further damage has yet to
be
ascertained by a coroner. However, the
cause of death most definitely was a self‑inflicted gun-
shot
wound to the head.
“This is a tragedy, not only to Mr. Hamilton’s family,
but also to the country and President
Albertson. As you all know, he and the President were
close friends of many years. Truly this
is
a
sad day. A sad day, indeed, for this
great nation and the first family. I
trust that we all shall honor
the
memory of this dedicated servant of the people.
“In conclusion, I may add that Park Police officers
performed their duties in a professional
manner. Further details will be forthcoming, after
requisite officials proceed with their investiga-
tion
and analysis.
“I apologize for making this such a cursory forum, but
my responsibility for directing this
investigation
is quite demanding. I do have a few
minutes to take questions. Yes, Miss
Taylor?
Please
ask yours.”
Marjorie Taylor, a TV info‑babe and would‑be
evening news anchor, shaded her question
with
the proper amount of consumer‑directed sorrow. She was of the proper size and shape, with
the
appropriate hair style and power clothes which research marketers claimed most
appealed to
the
masses. She was highly polished and
self‑assured, having been fostered by years of liberal
coaching
and possessing an arrogant contentment for vacuity of thought. Heavy makeup highlight-
ed
her pleasing, plastic features.
“Mr. Hamilton was a dear friend of both the President
and First Lady Loralei Louise Albert-
son. Have they been informed of this terrible
tragedy?”
Barstow nodded and replied, “Yes. Proper authorities informed the President of
this mo-
ments
ago. I don’t know if they have reached
the first lady, as she is in San Francisco, participating
in
a gay rights convention. Rest assured
that White House personnel are informed and will follow
their
procedure for relating this doleful news to her.
“Next question, please. Yes, Sam?”
Samuel Pettigrew, a local newspaperman known for his
vitriolic attacks against conserva-
tives
in Congress, boomed his question. “Have
you found a suicide note or explanation as to why
Mr.
Hamilton would kill himself?”
“Not yet, as we still are in the investigative
process,” Barstow declared.
Before the captain could select the next questioner, a
voice shouted out. “Why is the Park
Police
investigating this? Where is the FBI?”
Barstow frowned and attempted to cut that line of
interrogation. “We have jurisdiction
here.
If
needed, they will be called.”
“That’s a load of BS and you know it! You’re talking about the death of a key
member of
the
president’s staff. The FBI must be
called,” the same voice countered.
“You’re covering up
something!”
A ground swell of murmuring grew, some against Barstow
but most against the questioner.
The captain spoke loudly and in a clipped tone. “That is an irresponsible and totally
unjusti-
fied
accusation which does not warrant a response!
I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that I have
no
more time for questions. My office will
keep you informed of developments.
Thank you.”
Reporters shouted questions to no avail. Barstow retreated to the safety of a police
cordon
and
routine, bureaucratic movements. With
their quarry gone, the media hounds turned on the vocal
questioner.
He was Earl Garfield, a 32‑year‑old, free‑lance
journalist who recently had written a few in-
vestigative
articles for the Washington Times, the only DC conservative
newspaper. Garfield was
a
shade under six feet tall, was somewhat overweight (due to his penchant for
fast food), and prone
to
cynicism. His face was unremarkable
except for gray eyes, which shone with an eagerness to fer-
ret
out truth. Brown hair was unkempt. He sported glasses since he hated to wear
contacts. Even
his
clothes were in disarray; pants and shirt needed a pressing.
Samuel Pettigrew pushed his way to Garfield.
“You big‑mouthed jerk! We could have gotten more information if you had acted like a
pro-
fessional. You haven’t been in Washington long, and you
won’t last with this kind of attitude.
I’ll
see
to it that you’re banned from any White House coverage.”
Garfield glared with contempt at the shorter man. He pointed a pen menacingly and spoke
loudly,
not caring how many other journalists heard him.
“Up yours, Pettigrew!
You’re no different from most of the clowns who cover the White
House. They get spoon‑fed whatever the
president decides is his belief of the day and report it as
gospel. You didn’t get any news tonight because you
don’t know how to investigate. You’re
not
a
reporter. You’re just a cantankerous
lickspittle.
“Now, if you want to do more than just toss words,
here’s your chance. Plenty of cops are
around
to help after I knock you on your fat butt.”
Pettigrew spluttered but backed away. Garfield was known to be a scrapper.
“I’ve got witnesses,” Pettigrew hissed.
“So, call a lawyer,” Garfield barked with a short
laugh. He turned and stalked off, drawn
by
the police lights and yellow, barricade tape.
He had a story to follow.
“And a FINE morning it is to all of you, my friends,
in Talk‑Radio Washington, DC
I’m
Alan
Colwyn, the voice of truth here at WTRU, on your AM dial. Give me a call at area code 202
434‑WTRU
here in the metro area, or call toll free at 1‑800‑421‑WTRU. Send me a fax, if that’s
your
thing. And for you cellular and car
phone users, hit star sign WTRU for a free call. Let us pay
those
exorbitant rates. Just give me a
call. Give me a piece of your
mind. Let’s get ROLLING!”
Alan Colwyn was the newest figure on talk radio in the
Baltimore‑Washington area. He
rap-
idly
was gaining listeners, despite his conservative message in a bastion of
liberalism. He was black
and
thoroughly enjoyed antagonizing pundits, politicos and mainstream media
hacks. One reason
for
his rising popularity with both liberal and conservative listeners was the
affable, yet biting way
he
demolished rigid‑thinking callers.
It was 9:05 a.m. on that same “suicide” day. Garfield had returned to his Georgetown
flat,
where
he always wrote his articles‑‑amidst a room cluttered with books,
files, discarded clothes
from
yesterday and last week, photographs, charts and his favorite autographed
picture of Ronald
Reagan. He usually listened to various talk radio
shows while he worked. Lately, he had
been lis-
tening
to Colwyn.
“Whoa, what’s this I see in the a.m. news?” the WTRU
host continued with his morning up-
date. “Macy Hamilton is dead! Police reports claim that he shot himself
not far from the Jefferson
Memorial. That’s Macy Hamilton, folks, the President’s
Chief of Staff, who was scheduled to ap-
pear
before a Congressional oversight committee later today. First, I offer condolences to his family.
No one seems to have any details yet. It’s all rather quiet.
“Speaking of quiet, the mainstream media have kept mum
about Hamilton’s subpoena to
testify. The Inside‑the‑Beltway crowd are
afraid the truth may come out. They
don’t want any in-
vestigation
into the sleaze of this administration.
“That’s right, you got it. I’m talking about the liberal Democrats again trying to throw
dust
in
the taxpayers eyes and protect their favorite duo in the White House. Well, you suckers who
voted
for Bobby‑Rae, how long will it take before you realize that you were
stiffed in the last pres-
idential
election? Remember the promise: Vote one, get two?
“So, now it looks like the Republican majority in the
House finally is sniffing at some rancid
doings
of our beloved First Couple. I tell
you, my head’s in a whirl. It’s hard to
keep track of every
morbid
morsel that comes out of our Alabama aristocrats, both the mister and the
little missus. It
reminds
me of something I saw in Yellowstone National Park. The mud pots. Those
nasty, smelly
things
boil and churn sulfurous bubbles into the clean air. Whew! Smells like rotten
eggs.
“You remember Hamlet?
Something was rotten in Denmark.
And we certainly have got it
over
that tiny country nowadays. Now, don’t
get the wrong idea. Washington long has
been home
to
scandal. It breeds here. So, it’s no surprise that political hustlers
bring their own home‑grown
baggage
when they get elected into the Big Time.
“On yesterday’s show a caller asked me to enumerate
what President and Co‑President Al-
bertson
had to hide. I didn’t have time to
answer, since he was the last caller and we only had two
minutes
left. As I promised him, here’s a short
list of what we know so far:
“1. Our illustrious Commander‑in‑Chief
avoided the draft by lying to his local board.
He
had
a family friend, a good‑ol’‑boy doctor, falsify his medical record
so that he was declared 4F.
That
saved him from Vietnam. Just
coincidence, of course.
“When that became an issue during the election,
Albertson again lied until confronted with
proof
from the Alabama draft board. Then the
spinmeisters dismissed it as immaterial, claiming
that
it happened a long time ago and was irrelevant today.
“2. Bobby‑Rae is a known womanizer. While governor of Alabama, he kept a
girlfriend on
the
state payroll as a consultant for the state liquor board. She certainly was qualified. Her name
was
Glynis ‘Knockers’ Savoy and she was a popular stripper in Elmore County, just
north of Mont-
gomery. Seems that the ex‑mistress is unhappy
with whatever settlement had been made prior to
the
governor’s leaving for Washington. She
is trying to bring a civil suit. Stay
tuned for details.
“3. Seems unclear what course the War to End Drugs
will take from week to week. No sur-
prise
here, folks. His governorship finally
admitted to using pot during his college days.
His earlier
denials
are behind him now. The newest
allegation surfaced when Knockers told newsmen that the
governor
experimented with cocaine. Who are we
to believe, eh?
“4. Now who understands the tangled mess with that
land deal in Randolph County? Con-
gress
is just beginning to look into it. For
those of you new to this, the CO‑couple were up to their
eyeballs
in a scheme to get the Army Corps of Engineers and the state of Alabama to
build a dam
on
the upper Tallapoosa River. With that
done, property they owned in the vicinity would be turned
into
a resort. Too bad the whole thing fell
apart. What a financial loss‑‑which
should have been
included
on tax returns. Oh, well, the taxpayers
bailed out the disappointed investors.
“5. Pork bellies and peanuts. Yep, I had to bring this up. Loralei, that walking paragon of
lawyerly
wisdom and virtue, who thoroughly denounced ‘The Rich’ during the election,
made a
bundle
in speculation. She just stumbled into
a 15,000 percent profit on her first‑ever delving into
the
hazardous world of commodities futures.
Well, now that she recalls, a friend he’ped her just a
tad. Who was the friend? Why, shucks, y’all, it was nobody important. It was only Rob Chilton,
financial
advisor to Mr. Monroe Knox.
“Knox, as any sausage and pork eater knows, is the
country’s biggest hog grower. He deals
in
almost as much pork as Congress. He
also helped bankroll Albertson’s political career from his
days
as Commissioner of Highways to becoming governor.
“6. My, this list keeps growing‑‑just like
Pinocchio’s nose. As President, the
darling duo
have
given us a slew of shady appointees, both in the cabinet and as judges or
federal prosecutors.
FBI
Director Reginald Sumner is a prime case.
Morale at the agency is at a new low.
But Loralei
sings
his praises.
“Oh, Loralei, sing your sweet siren’s song; so high
above us, up in those lofty rocks of La‑la
Land.
“Ah, babe!
Sing to me. It surely is time
for you to sing. But be careful of them
rocks, now,
honey. If you sing too loud and people investigate
too deep, you might slip off that perch.
“OK, it’s time I took some calls. Here’s Bob in Arlington....”
The doorbell rang. Garfield stopped writing and frowned. The bell rang again and someone
pounded
on the door.
“All right!” he yelled while striding over and jerking
the door open. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t ex-
pect
you so early,” he apologized.
A rather short, slim woman stood in front of him. Long auburn hair flowed over her shoul-
ders
and down a light blue sweater. Light
danced in matching blue eyes. Dimples
highlighted a
pleasant
smile on her oval face. She wore little
makeup but smelled of Chanel Number 5.
Small
hands
held a bulky package towards Garfield.
Her name was Ariella Phelps. She
was a 25‑year‑old
student.
“Good morning, Earl,” she mentioned while pushing the
package into his arms. “Take it.
Those are the books you wanted, along with a few files
I researched last night at
Georgetown. Well, are you glued down? I can’t come in unless you move.” Her laughter was soft
and
a bit throaty.
Garfield quickly stepped aside with a sheepish
look. Ariella entered and looked at the
room
in
disfavor.
“This is a mess!
You need a keeper. If I weren’t
so busy and determined to finish my grad-
uate
studies, I might marry you.”
“Sounds like a good offer to me,” he countered. “How about fixing me breakfast? I haven’t
eaten
since yesterday. I seem to remember
stopping for a Whopper at noon.”
“Forget it, you lazy bum! You owe me a dinner for all the work I did for you. What are you
writing
today?” she asked.
Garfield glanced at his cluttered desk. The radio droned in the background as a caller
spoke
to
WTRU and an unseen host of talk radio junkies.
“...that SOB and his harridan are a couple of
crooks! I don’t believe those Congressmen have the
guts to dig into what happened in Alabama.
Too
many of them are pettifogging shysters....”
Ariella grimaced and demanded, “Why do you listen to
that crap?”
"It’s not all crap," he replied while
turning off the radio. “At least it’s
one way to counter
the
heavy liberal bias pumped out by the media.
You ought to listen once in a while.
Then maybe
you
wouldn’t believe everything your professors teach.”
“Hah! What a
shallow argument. Besides, my left‑leaning
tendency is checked when I’m
near
you‑‑or read your articles.
So, what are you working on now?
You still haven’t answered that
question.”
Garfield surrendered the debate with a grin. He stepped over to the desk and plucked a
paper
from
the computer printer. Ariella took it,
tossed a rumpled shirt and smelly socks off an easy chair,
sat
down and began reading. He gave her a
wistful look, shrugged his shoulders and went into the
kitchenette
to scramble three eggs.
Shortly Ariella, with a distracted frown, turned from
the paper to follow a clatter of pans and
cupboard
noise. “Get me a large orange juice,”
she ordered. “I skipped breakfast,
too.”
Garfield stepped out of the kitchenette, holding a box
he had taken from the refrigerator.
“Want
an Eggo?” he asked.
Ariella’s frown deepened. “No! I don’t like frozen
waffles. Juice is fine.”
“How about an egg?
I’m scrambling a few for myself.
Or do you prefer them fried?”
“Earl,” she retorted, “you know that I don’t eat many
eggs. The cholesterol is terrible. So,
why
feed a heart attack?”
He pulled a face and declared, “I don’t care squat for
that brown rice and roots nonsense.
Some
left‑coast nut claims a staple food is unhealthy and tries to force his
damned opinion on the
rest
of us. Like that group of so‑called
scientists who rant about the evils of theater popcorn, Chi-
nese
food and Mexican burritos. Nitwits!
“Anyway, here’s your orange juice. Don’t look at it that way! The glass is clean. I washed
the
dishes last night.”
She peered closely at the glass a bit longer to
irritate him, took a sip and said thanks.
“This
article
of yours seems far‑fetched to me.
The news reports all say Hamilton committed suicide, but
you
don’t agree. Why? Do you have proof to the contrary? If so, why not include it in the article?”
Garfield put the Eggo box on a table and sat on a
chair opposite Ariella. He then took
the
paper
from her, pointing to a paragraph.
“Look, the Park Police are handling the investigation,
not the FBI. That’s ridiculous! They
aren’t
trained for that. Any competent
journalist knows that the FBI should have been called im-
mediately. The guy was the President’s Chief of Staff,
not some wino off the street!
“I tried getting details after Barstow’s misleading
press release this morning. No
soap. The
death
scene was sealed up tighter than any I have seen anywhere. I couldn’t interview the officers
on
the scene, medical personnel or positively learn if there had been
witnesses. Even though the FBI
wasn’t
there, some federal people made sure that the media didn’t learn too much.”
She was skeptical.
“Oh, come on. You make it sound
like some sort of conspiracy.”
“Ariella, I know how the cops operate in this city,
both local and federal. The Park Police
can’t
keep the FBI out, no matter what a clown like Barstow says. I dug up two different versions
out
there today. One, that two Park Police
officers found Hamilton’s body while on routine patrol.
Two,
that an unidentified black man discovered Hamilton.
“Barstow is dancing around the truth. The media believe the first version, but I
think some-
one
else found the body. The suicide story
is so convenient‑‑just hours before Hamilton was to tes-
tify
about the land deals in Alabama. Why
aren’t we seeing a real investigation into his death? I’m
convinced
that someone in the White House is behind this.”
“Do you mean that someone had Hamilton killed?” Ariella was shocked. “Earl, I can’t ac-
cept
that! We certainly don’t agree on
President and First Lady Albertson or many of their policies,
but
surely you don’t believe they would be involved in a murder.”
Garfield took her hand while looking directly into her
eyes. “I’m not saying that. I don’t
know
what happened or whether it was a suicide.
What I do mean is that there is a cover‑up, which
I
think is connected to someone in the administration.
“I intend to investigate this until I learn what
really is happening. It’s contrary to
police pro-
cedure
to announce a suicide before an investigation is concluded, and certainly not
while in the pre-
liminary
stage!”
Ariella squeezed his hand, returned the paper and
stood up. She finished the orange
juice,
then
took the glass into the kitchenette.
The speculation disturbed her more than she would admit.
Her
face appeared calm; however, Garfield’s claims screamed for consideration. She trusted his
analytical
skill, that being one of his strengths
which first attracted her to him nine months ago.
Despite
the sneering evaluation of pundits and many journalists, she knew that Garfield
was scrupu-
lous
and meticulous in all phases of his work.
He had an eerie, almost prescient, ability to detect
truth. He thrived on discovery.
Ariella found herself absently turning the glass in
her hands. She jerked back to the
present,
quickly
washed the juice glass, then walked purposefully over to Garfield and took his
face between
her
firm hands. Before he could say
anything, she pulled his head down a bit and kissed him gently.
He
started to embrace her, but she drew back while tousling his hair with her
right hand.
“Sorry,” she chided softly. “I have to go or I’ll be late for class. Earl, be careful. I don’t
want
you getting hurt out of an excess of indiscretion. I’ll see you later tonight,” she promised
while
turning towards the door. “Be sure to
let me see what you write.”
Garfield grinned.
“You can read it, but don’t expect me to change the text‑‑unless
you back
up opinion with fact. I won’t
compromise in order to be safe from others’ criticism or actions.
Freedom
is like love. It grows and is
maintained through daily nurturing; it dies from neglect.”
He suddenly frowned and grasped Ariella’s shoulders in
a strong, yet tender grip. As he
looked
deeply into her blue eyes, he declared, “Ariella, I fear for this country. There is too much
emphasis
on security‑‑too much clamoring for government action in our
lives. It’s as though we
have
surrendered free will in exchange for an oligarchic control over us, foolishly
belittling those
who
drafted the checks on government as ignorant and outdated. We already are following the
downward
spiral which virtually every empire and power in history experienced prior to
its demise.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. His baleful comments were out of character,
almost being
a
cry of impotence. She was uncertain of
her feelings, concomitantly wanting to console him but
also
to reject his assertions. Yet, she knew
there was truth in his view. The
country was at a crucial,
historic
crossroad.
Although she had voted for President Albertson, lately
the many allegations of fraud and ob-
vious
character flaws were like waves beating against her desire to keep faith in the
Democratic
choice. She truly disliked much of the change
introduced by the Albertsons. At first,
she had cheer-
Ed
First Lady Loralei’s sorties into the halls of power, thinking it provident for
a strong woman to
challenge
the male‑dominated arena. During
the past six months Ariella became disgusted and dis-
illusioned. The key stumbling block was the first lady’s
blatant attempt to usurp parental control
over
their children and relegate it to federal agencies through a series of sweeping
“reforms” couch-
Ed
in seemingly well‑intentioned phrases.
“Can we talk about these things later?” she
pleaded. “Earl, I am beginning to agree
with
you,
at least on some issues, but I just can’t think about it now.”
“Sure. I have
a deadline to meet, anyway. How about
me taking you to dinner tonight?”
Ariella smiled and nodded in agreement. “I prefer Italian pasta. I’ll come here at six.”
Garfield turned the radio on again. An unknown caller was speaking to Alan
Colwyn.
“...those
idiots on the Supreme Court are no better than accomplices to crooks! What consummate
arrogance
to legalize the theft of property by judicial fiat. Now we have cops grabbing cars because
some
men stupidly take a hooker for a ride.
How long before they confiscate homes because one
family
member commits a crime? These judges
are the same as in the third world....”
Ariella rolled her eyes and shook her head in
resignation. She reached out, squeezed
his left
arm
affectionately and said somewhat loudly, “See you later. I’ll let myself out.”
She hurried to the door, yanked it open and escaped to
the outside. Garfield, trailing her a
bit
tardily, shut the door while chuckling to himself. He understood the reason behind her quick
exit‑‑she
hated talk radio.
“Ariella,” he mused aloud, “you may not like the
comments on these programs, but they are
the
real voice of America. They are people
concerned about rampant crime, moral decay and all the
accumulated
inner rot generated by decades of feel‑good social programs. And they are pissed off
with
both the go‑along‑to‑get‑along wafflers and the
arrogant elitists in government. It’s
time to
clean
house.”
He went back to the desk and reread his article. The rough draft already hinted at an
official
cover‑up. Privately, it reflected preliminary steps
into an investigation which eventually would
prove
perilous and intriguing.
Spring sunshine filtered through dense bullet‑proof
glass of an upper‑level bedroom window
in
the White House. Curtains purposely had
been pulled wide open. Light and warmth
flowed into
the
room and caressed the lithe, budding feminine form seated in front of the
latest 80 MB hard‑
disk‑drive
personal computer system. The girl was
Melody Albertson, 15‑year‑old daughter of the
president
and first lady.
Melody was an only child. She often was careless in appearance‑‑long, ratty brown
hair;
occasional
smudges on the face, interspersed with new pimples; glasses perched on a thin
nose (of-
ten
in need of a tissue); designer jeans and white socks; an old, paint‑speckled
plaid shirt (never
tucked
inside); frayed tennis shoes. Her jaws
rhythmically chawed a large wad of gum with the con-
tentment
of a cow in new hay.
Her hobby and passion was embodied in the PC
world. She routinely spent hours daily
in
front
of a color monitor, skillfully pounding a keyboard to keep up with her self‑appointed
duty as
writer/editor
of Loralei Lore, a national newsletter “dedicated to the millions of
First Lady Loralei
fans.” Melody had a small staff to handle the mail,
but reserved the exclusive responsibility to
write/print/publish
each edition without adult interference.
Since the activity generated a steady fol-
lowing
of well‑wishers and was good publicity, the first lady encouraged her
daughter and ensured
that
she received not only the current system but a portable laptop (for those
occasional trips away
from
home), together with color laser printer and a quality, digital page
scanner. The equipment
was
first‑rate‑‑courtesy of the ubiquitous taxpayer dollars.
A large stereo/video system lined one wall to the
right of her computer. A selection of
Gold-
en
Oldies boomed whenever she typed. It
was the only music she enjoyed. Once,
her father asked
if
she would like a CD of Snoop Doggy Dogg or the latest rapper, Back‑Seat
Turkey. She answered
with
a you’ve‑gotta‑be‑kidding‑me sneer, “No thanks,
dad. I hate rap. It’s nothing but crap!”
Normally Melody would have been in class at a local,
very posh private school; however,
this
was a special three‑day break.
She took advantage of the time to prepare her latest issue. It was
nearly
complete.
Rrraaah. There
it was again, a stomach growl.
“Criminny,” she complained, “I can’t con-
centrate
on this when I’m starving.”
Melody stood up and headed for the door, leaving the
computer program running since she
intended
a quick return. Of course, she could
have called for whatever she felt like eating.
White
House
service was efficient, but she preferred getting her own snacks on occasion.
A minute later she saw Gerald Kingston, a young White
House aide, walking down the cor-
ridor. His back was to her. She considered him to be the best looking
young man who worked for
Macy
Hamilton. Since she already had a crush
on him and he had not seen her, Melody decided to
stalk
him and catch him off guard for a joke.
He usually was so engrossed in completing an assign-
ment
that she easily could surprise him and enjoy the cute way his eyebrows arched
upwards and
his
jaw dropped.
He rounded a corner.
She followed and poked her head around to see him not far from Ham-
ilton’s
office. But someone was coming out of
it, holding a rather large box filled to the top with
documents
and files. It was a portly woman whom
Melody had known for many years and never
liked,
Ms Kyla Richmond. Gerald bumped into
her because the woman had exited the office in such
a
hurry, pulling the door behind her quickly.
The top two files slipped to the floor and many papers
fell
out.
“Oh, excuse me, please!” he cried out. “Ms Richmond, I’m so sorry. This is totally my
fault. Let me help you.”
Gerald bent over and began gathering the papers before
the furious, fat woman could stop
him. Her mud‑brown eyes flashed and she
glared at the crown of his blond head.
Tight lips com-
pressed
into a razor‑thin line of fury.
Neck muscles corded. She wanted
to lash out, to kick his face,
to
grab his styled hair and jerk a handful out by the roots. Her chest heaved and air shot out of two
large
nostrils while she hyperventilated.
Fortunately for Gerald, he did not observe the ogre‑like
face as he deftly replaced papers and
closed
files. Ms Richmond gritted teeth so
hard that muscles shook her jowls like Jell‑O. Within
15
seconds, however, she had checked her anger and told him, “Never mind,
Gerald. Put them back
in
the box.”
He did so and met her slightly‑squinting eyes
with a cowed look. It pleased her.
“I am very sorry, Ms Richmond,” he pleaded. “I see that you are moving some of Mr. Ham-
ilton’s
files. That box looks heavy. May I carry it for you? It’s the least I can do to make amends.”
“No. I can do
it myself,” she told him stiffly. “The
first lady wants these right away. You
have
other duties.”
She began reaching for the box, but stopped short with
a twitching eyelid as she heard Ger-
ald’s
words. “Yes, ma’am. I guess she wants to look over these
Randolph County papers when she
returns
from California.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she
retorted. “These are just some old
records
which
never should have been in Mr. Hamilton’s office. You better watch your mouth, Mr. King-
ston. We don’t need more rumors around here.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Ms Richmond. I couldn’t help but notice that these papers
mentioned Ran-
dolph
County.”
Ms Richmond’s eyes shifted from him to the box several
times as her mind whirred into
high-gear. She uncharacteristically gave him a smile,
though it was lop‑sided.
“Jerry,” her voice added sugar to the Alabama drawl,
“I believe the box is a bit heavy. Why
don’t
you bring it along for me. And really,
these are just old files of no importance.
First Lady Lor-
alei
didn’t ask for them. I was supposed to
get them from Macy earlier and forgot.
There’s no need
to
mention this. We’ll leave them in her
office and afterwards, if you don’t mind, you can help me
work
on a very important matter for the first lady.”
“Certainly, Ms Richmond. I would be honored to help.”
She reached over and patted his right biceps. They walked down the hall together and took
another
turn, proceeding to the first lady’s private office. Melody followed discretely.
“I don’t be-
lieve
it!” she thought. “That old bag
actually smiled at Jerry. She only does
that for two reasons‑‑to
suck
up or to use someone. And she sure
wouldn’t suck up to an aide!”
Melody again poked her head around the corner. She saw Ms Richmond use a key to un-
lock
the door to her mother’s office. She
also noticed a Secret Service agent down the hall. He,
no
doubt, watched Gerald carrying the box.
Within minutes Ms Richmond and Gerald exited the
office
without the documents. Melody pulled
her head back before they could see her.
She hurried
back
to her room.
“I wonder what those documents were about,” she mused
while surrounded by the safety of
her
computer and personal goods. “I bet
they’re hot.”
Even as Melody sat ensconced in presumed security,
President Bobby‑Rae Albertson ner-
vously
paced alone in the Oval Office. He was
a large, big‑boned man. A powder‑puff
hairdo top-
ped
his box‑shaped head, emphasizing a lantern jaw. The superfluity of reddish hair largely hid
small
ears. Puffy dark eyebrows rode to
either side of a jutting, needle nose.
Lazy blue eyes lack-
Ed
sparkle. The normally affable smile on
his handsome lips was gone. In its
place was the pout
of
a spoiled brat, chin quivering and disfigured with numerous frown lines. He alternately clench-
Ed
and wrung big, effeminate hands.
A soft knock came at the door. “Enter,” the President rumbled in a strong
baritone. He stop-
ped
pacing and faced the door as it opened silently.
The man who entered was Edmund Renville, Special
Counsel to the President. His wispy
frame
starkly contrasted with Albertson’s.
Renville possessed large, flappy ears which he vainly
attempted
to hide under a mop of black hair.
Likewise, an abundance of facial creme could not
obscure
the ravages of previous acne attacks.
At 29 years old, he exuded the arrogance of an Ivy-
Leaguer
who boasted family connections and regal breeding, but had only a smattering of
real‑world
experience. He had never held a real job in his
life. Then again, neither had the
president.
“Mr. President,” Renville began in his strident, whiny
voice. “Sir, I am afraid the Hamil-
ton
death poses a problem for us. Several
in the press are urging a thorough investigation. A few
even
suggest that you are preventing the FBI from becoming involved.”
The President stopped pacing. His eyes took in Renville, shifted to a
plush chair behind the
presidential
desk, skittered across window panes, briefly rested on the American flag and
went back
to
Renville’s homely face. Albertson
appeared lost for a minute. Then,
taking a deep breath, con-
fidence
returned and the trademark smile beamed at his advisor. The confidence seemed to flow
from
his frame through the right arm he draped around Renville’s shoulders, filling
the small man
with
hope and trust.
“Edmund,” the President stated, “Y’all know that I
appreciate all your help in this terrible,
troubling
time. Don’t fret none. I had nothing to do with that decision. I believe someone already
talked
about it with my old friend, Reginald.
Things will work out.”
Renville’s eyes widened in alarm. “Reginald Sumner, head of the FBI?”
“Ain’t no other Reginald I know,” the President
chuckled.
“But, sir, that would confirm media suspicions! We’ve got to keep you out of this. Who was
it
that saw Mr. Sumner?”
The President frowned a bit in irritation and
declared, “Ralston. He came to see me
and said
he’d
take care of things. Let it go,
Edmund. Everything will be fine.”
“Yes, sir. If
you believe Mr. Hewitt can defuse this mess, I’ll certainly support him. I on-
ly
have your interest in view, Mr. President.
After all, I am your counsel.”
Renville said no more, but inwardly he felt contempt
for Ralston Fitzhugh Hewitt. A more
accurate
feeling would be jealousy, mingled with a touch of fear and a liberal
sprinkling of envy.
Hewitt
was the President’s National Security Advisor.
He came from eastern Massachusetts, being
part
of the formidable Kennedy claque, and flouted his ultra‑liberal
bias. He was a delight to the
media,
particularly the New York Times and Washington Post. Airheads in Hollywood adored him,
vying
for his attention as if he could fill their cerebral void. He was short, thin, flamboyant and had
well‑groomed
blond hair. Like Renville, Hewitt was
young. Both had been hand‑picked
by Lora-
lei
during the hectic presidential race.
The President nodded at Renville, then sat behind the
desk. He picked up a paper and thrust
it
at the lawyer.
“This is something I want you to take care of
today. We can’t have those radical,
right‑wing
Republicans
threaten my program for the country just because some of them keep harping
about old
history. That Alabama land deal is a dead issue and I
want it kept that way. Loralei drafted
this
statement
for the press. Go over it and let me
know what you think.”
Renville took the draft, skimmed it with a practiced
eye and raised his eyebrows half‑way
through. Once finished, he slowly read a particular
passage. He cocked his head and
confronted
Albertson’s
placid look.
“Sir, are you sure that the first lady wants this
released? It states unequivocally that
she had
no
involvement with Alabama state authorities regarding the land development in
Randolph County,
specifically
either as the lawyer of record or as a consultant. I, uh, believe there have been allega-
tions
to the contrary which Congress may decide to investigate. Perhaps we should add ‘to the best
of
my knowledge’ or some such qualifier.
Or better yet, just ignore the issue.”
“No!” the President shot back. His eyes had widened at the thought of
changing Loralei’s
words. “Don’t change anything unless you talk to
her. Personally, I would rather just
ignore this.
Loralei
insisted that her name be cleared in a hard‑hitting statement so as to
thwart any yellow jour-
nalism.
“But, Edmund, I think you have a good idea. Sure.
Talk to Loralei when she gets back from
California
today. She left a couple of hours ago,
soon as she heard about Macy.”
“Yes, sir. I
prefer waiting for her rather than release this statement now. Besides, it
might
be
better to keep this on the back burner and target our attention on the death of
Mr. Hamilton. I
don’t
mean any disrespect to his memory, sir.
It’s just that....”
“Hey, that’s a great idea!” the President declared
with enthusiasm. “We can sidetrack
public
opinion
and use this to keep the lid on some of these nuisances. Yeah, I like that. Go with it.
Thanks,
Edmund. That’s all for now.”
“Yes, sir. Uh,
just one other question. Do you know
who told the first lady about Mr. Ham-
ilton’s
death?”
President Albertson became defensive and vague. “No, I have no idea. I was too busy and
delegated
that to someone. I’m not sure who it
was, maybe Ralston or one of Kyla’s aides.
Why?
What
difference does that make?”
“Well, it’s my duty to protect you. I understand that a reporter is asking many
questions
about
Mr. Hamilton’s death and White House reaction to it. I heard that he’s a troublemaker.”
“Find out who he is and keep me informed. Damned nosy bastards! I love public life, but
some
newsmen ruin the joy of it. Cut his
access. Just keep it quiet.”
“Yes, sir.” Renville promised. “I’ll get on it right away. Thank you for seeing me. I hope
Mr.
Hewitt doesn’t forget that I am here to help you.”
The President dismissed the statement without
comment. He turned his back on
Renville,
lost
in thought as he gazed over the White House lawn. Renville frowned but left the room, closing
the
door silently behind him. He was
convinced that more trouble lay ahead.
President Albertson continued to stare across the
lawn, neither seeing it nor caring what his
counsel
thought. He was reliving the excitement
of his campaign for the presidency, memories
which
often filled his mind whenever troubles loomed. It was an escape from reality‑‑a narcotic to
dull
his fear of inadequacy to positions of responsibility. Such a crutch ever had been one of his
weaknesses. Loralei had recognized and exploited it
since the first time they met. He
emitted a long
sigh
as remembrance of their first encounter erupted into his consciousness, pushing
aside pleasant
campaign
memories.
It was during his anti‑Vietnam War college days
when Bobby‑Rae met Loralei. He
was an
imposing
peacenik, garbed in a quasi‑hippie style complete with bell‑bottoms,
peace symbol and
sandals. Unfortunately, he never could let his red
hair grow long‑‑it would not cooperate, thus he
had
to be content with a reddish Afro. On
formal occasions he traded the sandals for two‑inch plat-
form
shoes.
While dressed in his regalia and leading an anti‑war
rally on Harvard campus in June 1969,
Bobby‑Rae
felt the world was his. Hundreds of
fellow students whined and squalled against social
injustice,
gesticulating or yelling to his orchestrated cues. He misinterpreted senseless mob action
for
personal acclaim. His need to feel
important fueled the misinterpretation.
Hence, Bobby‑Rae
beamed
with an egotistical joy born of naivete.
A long‑haired, love‑beaded Loralei stood
near the speaker’s platform. Her hair
was the color
of
mustard tinged with rust. Even as a
young woman, she suffered from chunky thighs, over‑sized
calves
and small boobs. Her college nickname
was “turkey legs.” But the “turkey” was
cute, just
missing
the “pretty” mark of male admirers.
Loralei, he was pleased to learn from her, had
shadowed Bobby‑Rae after the rally.
Despite
the
presence of eight “Bobcats” (official friends of Bobby‑Rae), Loralei
boldly confronted the
young
man and declared her admiration with such controlled fervor that he agreed to
follow her
home.
Actually, Bobby‑Rae fully expected his newest
admirer to capitulate to the sexual charms
he
had nurtured since high school. Loralei
shattered that expectation, keeping him in the living
room
of her private apartment. She avoided
sex by playing on his key passion‑‑his ambition. They
discussed
Bobby‑Rae, politics, the odious “establishment” and Bobby‑Rae. She revealed little about
herself,
only admitting that she was a second‑year law student at Harvard.
Loralei assiduously pursued Bobby‑Rae during the
next six months. She scheduled time to-
gether,
arranged his “spontaneous” protest appearances, cooed and chided as needed,
prodded him
into
a business major, and generally manipulated his future. He fell into line without much com-
plaining;
he subconsciously welcomed her discipline.
There were two occasions, however, when Bobby‑Rae
balked and their relationship teetered
towards
a breakup. Both involved his insatiable
requirement for sexual exercise.
Loralei learned
that
a cheerleader had intruded into her plans, and Bobby‑boy had intruded
into the cheerleader.
Recognizing
the imperative to keep his attention on her, Loralei condescended to humping
and
thumping
enough to win Bobby‑Rae’s eventual request for marriage. The ceremony occurred during
their
third year at Harvard. A subsequent
consummation was short‑lived that night, as Loralei had
a
headache.
The ambitious couple gained their degrees and moved
along the path Loralei staked out for
Bobby‑Rae. She agreed to one major concession‑‑a
career move to Montgomery, Alabama, where
he
eagerly sought out a few buddies. Bobby‑Rae
proved quite skillful as a shill to the local In-the-
Know
crowd, which included the owner of Heavenly Hogs, Mr. Monroe Knox.
Knox, a fat bald man with steely eyes and jellied
jowls, offered to front Bobby‑Rae’s rise
in
local politics. The two men met at a
fund raising barbecue, which Loralei had organized in her
husband’s
bid to become a county commissioner.
Despite her being a “damn Yankee” from upstate
New
York, Knox recognized her ability and allowed her to charm him. A rush of campaign money
suddenly
appeared and helped sweep the young Harvard grad into elected office.
Throughout the rest of Bobby‑Rae’s political
career and in every campaign, Knox money
was
a sure support. Few local reporters
dared criticize the source of Albertson’s funding. Those
who
did either found a new job out of state or received threats of assorted
types. One persistent
fellow
died under suspicious circumstances‑‑thought to have committed
suicide by jumping in front
of
a speeding freight train, conveniently having tied both hands and feet to
ensure that he would not
hop
off the tracks before the train could finish him.
Loralei and Knox regularly urged the pliant Bobby‑Rae
into ever more ambitious positions
in
Alabama. Eventually he became
governor. The rapid ascent to power
honed his campaign skills.
He
became the consummate politician. Back
room deals, golf course negotiations, barbecue bids,
fund
raising dinners, campus rallies‑‑all fed Albertson’s desire to be
liked, his need for praise. And,
as
a fringe benefit, the high‑profile life provided him with ample
opportunities to sample a titillating
quantity
and variety of southern women.
For her part, Loralei flourished as a lawyer of
repute. One of the state’s most
influential law
firms
offered her a lucrative position. She
became quite proficient in corporate law and in attracting
clients
for the firm. Of course, Loralei could
not claim credit for bringing in Heavenly Hogs; it had
been
a prime account with the law firm for many years.
During Bobby‑Rae’s term as governor, Loralei
decided to shoulder a “key social burden of
our
time.” She proclaimed herself to be a
champion for children’s rights, even writing numerous
treatises
and articles on the subject. Critics
labeled them in such terms as “convoluted claptrap,”
“miasmic,
Marxist doggerel” and “a load of horse hockey.”
Both Bobby‑Rae and Loralei raked in the bucks.
President Albertson sighed and turned from the Oval
Office window, letting memories re-
cede. He wanted to forget Hamilton’s death. It was a problem for an aide to worry about
now. He
had
more important national and global issues to consider, even though it was not
yet time to begin
his
reelection campaign.
The North Koreans again were caterwauling; Japan
recently issued a demarche, demanding
that
Russia return the Kurile Islands; China was selling nuclear material to
Pakistan, Iran, Iraq and
Libya
on the sly; South Africa threatened to explode now that Nelson Candela had died
of a heart
attack;
Vietnamese and Philippine naval forces unexpectedly had coordinated a joint
attack against
two
Chinese patrol ships in the disputed Spratly Islands; the Mideast was close to
conflict, despite
previous
peace efforts; fighting had erupted in Bosnia again; and most ominous of all‑‑the
Commu-
nist
Party had regained ascendancy in Russia and was pressuring for dissolution of
the Common-
wealth
of Independent States.
Just thinking about those problems gave him a
headache. He never doubted that he
could
resolve
them, if given enough time to hold meetings with other world leaders. Bobby‑Rae, the
charmer,
was at home in such venues.
Nevertheless, he preferred to concentrate on domestic is-
sues. Foreign affairs never had interested him
much. His head began to pound.
“Damn!” he spoke under his breath. “Too many things happening at once. Loralei, you
bitch,
what are you doing now? When do you get
back? What should we do about
Russia? How
about
Japan or Israel?”
He pressed palms to both temples and massaged slowly
with increased pressure. “I need an-
swers
fast. Why did Macy have to kill
himself? I always relied on you,
buddy. What will happen
next?”
Bobby‑Rae sat down and cried.
The first lady’s jet was rushing back to Washington
even as Bobby-Rae bemoaned his de-
cision-making
burdens. Upon learning of Macy
Hamilton’s death, Loralei immediately had order-
Ed
the air crew and her staff to prepare for the return flight. During the previous evening she had
roused
the pro-gay marriage conference into a standing ovation, following her
blistering denuncia-
tion
of tradition-minded views.
Now she sat alone in a plush, private cabin--one
recently configured to her demanding spec-
ifications. It provided the privacy, which Loralei
required and claimed was her due. It
also served
as
an audience chamber whenever she deigned to instruct staff members or admit
fellow travelers.
Loralei wore a severe, dark Burgundy-colored
suit. It held no more trace of
femininity than
did
her true character. As many astute
observers had noted throughout her behind-the-coattails ca-
reer,
Loralei was a clothed harpy.
Her hair currently favored a San Francisco style
popular with the horde of man-hating fem-
inists
and lesbians who had fawned over Loralei at the conference. Back in Washington the first
lady
would change her hairdo, something which happened at least weekly--in direct
contrast with
her
unchanging support to long-held liberal causes.
A vicious frown quickly spread over her somewhat
puffy, pasty face as she read a priority
message
from Bobby-Rae. The message requested
her to prepare appropriate remarks for the press
about
Macy’s death. In a footnote he
mentioned concern over unspecified foreign ventures and
wanted
her insight. Loralei’s face reddened
with a practiced fury.
“Damn bastard!” Loralei reflected on the President’s
ability, while she sat stiffly like an old
Prussian
drill master. “Butthead! Can’t do anything right without me coaching
him. Always the
same
yellow cry-baby, cringing and carping!
Asshole!” The first lady crushed
the message in both
fists,
threw it against the nearest bulkhead and jumped to her feet. She shouted further impreca-
tions,
foaming and frothing while her spittle sprayed the room. Purple veins in her forehead bulged.
She
grabbed a presidential ashtray and hurled it at a cabin window. Fortunately for her, the ashtray
merely
shattered without affecting the plexiglass.
Not content with such minor damage, Loralei
reached
for a half-filled glass of bourbon.
Before she could throw the glass, a uniformed Air
Force attendant opened the cabin door.
The
young man showed a worried face, wondering if the first lady had met with an
accident. Lora-
lei,
however, became livid with the sudden intrusion and splashed bourbon in his
face.
“Get the hell out of here!” she screeched. “Damned baby-killer! Get out!
OUT!”
She flung the glass at the young man, hitting his back
as he hurried out of Loralei’s pres-
sence. Further insults and obscenities chased the
fellow as he shut the door.
Loralei eventually calmed down. No one dared communicate with her in any
manner while
she
was in a rage. Even the Secret Service
kept their distance, particularly as she regularly order-
Ed
them to stay back. Some thought it was
due to her desire for privacy; others believed that she
just
hated any uniformed officer, especially men.
“To hell with them all!” Loralei condemned any and all
who stood in the way of her self-
imposed
destiny. She abruptly stopped pacing
and flopped into a seat. A glance
toward the bulk-
head
revealed the crumpled message. Again
she grimaced, thinking back on the day that she had
selected
Bobby-Rae as the means to attain her goal.
Love had nothing to do with Loralei hitching herself
to the man whom she quickly identi-
fied
as an egotistical jerk. Likewise, she
correctly determined that he was a spineless blatherskite;
however,
she noted a few promising traits. Young
Bobby-Rae could excite people. He
passionate-
ly
believed whatever cause any group wanted to hear, at least for as long as he
talked to them. Truth
was
relative to his feelings. He was always
right--in his own mind.
Loralei knew that she could manipulate such a
person. He would be a stepping-stone
for her
eventual
opportunity to wield power. In
actuality, the young Loralei had learned to be an elitist from
her
arrogant parents. Others who
contributed to her conceit were teachers at private schools she had
attended
and pompous political hacks who hung about her parents home, groveling for
campaign
contributions
and pretending to advance social welfare.
To complete Loralei’s descent into the hell
of
liberalism, she chose to study law at Harvard.
A sly smirk played over the first lady’s lips. She pictured her first meeting with
Bobby-Rae.
He
bleated against drafting men to fight in Vietnam, an undeclared war which Loralei
loathed. He
ranted
against the U.S. government and advocated defiance, all in accord with
Loralei’s deep-seated
beliefs. She concluded that the blustering Bobby-Rae
would be her husband, even though the de-
cision
to hook him was not entirely her own.
Another person had encouraged her to seek him out.
Getting Bobby-Rae’s attention had been easy. Only two hindrances came up--those idiotic
fools
who hung around him, the Bobcats, and a flock of bimbos who offered free
sex. Of course,
Bobby-Rae
grabbed as many starry-eyed girls as he could.
As with Loralei, he dropped anyone once
their
usefulness was over; neither was he burdened with a conscience.
As for Loralei’s sex life, she smirked a bit as she
remembered a few previous lovers enjoy-
Ed
since her marriage. Several merely were
had in silent protest of Bobby-Rae’s multitude of slinky
sluts,
whom he lured while governor.
She truly had enjoyed several years of frequent trysts
with Macy Hamilton. They had met
through
her work in Alabama as a new lawyer.
Although not an attorney himself, Macy steered
much
business to the firm in Montgomery. He
was attached to the Knox business empire in a back-
room
sort of way--likewise being connected to several other local big shots who did
business with
state
government agencies. Loralei, of
course, later rooted through records and grilled associates
to
learn what Macy’s relationship to Knox actually was. Once known, she developed a plan to sub-
orn
and manipulate him.
To her surprise, Loralei grew quite fond of Macy,
almost to the point of love. Her
original
plan
had included the usual ploy of humping/thumping, as had been successful in
latching onto
young
Bobby-Rae. Well, it did keep Macy’s
attention on her, but she experienced a minor shock.
Sex
was an enjoyable experience--an excursion into unfamiliar territory. With Bobby-Rae, it was
a
nasty bit of spasmodic copulation.
Quick start, jump action, with a lot of noise but about as sat-
isfying
as smelling sweaty gym socks.
A pained sigh wheezed from her throat as Loralei
purposely closed the door on Macy mem-
ories. It was over. He had been useful and a pleasant diversion, but she had more
important mat-
ters
to consider. She had a destiny to
fulfill. Besides, another lover awaited
her return to Washing-
ton.