Copyright © 1979 Duane R. Hurst

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“Tired!  Another half mile and I head home.  I’ve got enough time for a shower before




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




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 




“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




The driver, a black, called out in a gravelly voice.  “Don’t move!  Why were you waving at




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   




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




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




“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




“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



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-





“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   




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




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-