Executive Treason (7 page)

“That, my friends, is what you need to do. You. Each and every one of you who feels you’ve had enough. From the grassroots. From your telephone, your computer, your fax machines. Call and write your representatives. Tell them it’s time for real change. If you don’t, this injustice will continue. By the way, they think you won’t do anything. The liberals are counting on it. Roosevelt said it, but he was just adding to what Thomas Jefferson had argued a hundred years earlier. He said, ‘When the government fears the people, there is liberty. When the people fear the government, there is tyranny.’

“This government doesn’t fear you. You fear the government. You fear a president you didn’t elect and a vice president you defeated. When are you going to get that? They’ve taken over the country. It’s executive treason!”

Elliott Strong could feel it. He knew his audience. By now they were leaning closer to their radios at home, or pulling out their pillow speakers and turning up the sound. For those driving, he had a fleeting thought about their safety. He didn’t want to lose a trucker. They were a great audience, even if they didn’t count in the ratings.

He’d absolutely make certain that his calls would remain on topic for the rest of the night. As momentum grew, the idea would spill over to other talk radio shows. More would listen in the West Coast repeats later in the morning. By 9 A.M., at least 100 congressmen, mostly from the heartland, should be inundated with a first wave of e-mails and faxes. Of course, all of their addresses and phone numbers were conveniently posted on the Strong Nation Radio website.

He took a breath and smiled at his image in the mirror before him. “Now are you ready to talk?” He laughed. “I bet you are.” He cued his engineer. “Let’s go to the phones.” The first caller came up. There were fifteen more holding and thousands redialing, trying to get through the busy signal.

“Hello, you’re on Strong Nation.”

Washington, D.C.
12:25 A.M. EDT

The radio was on in the background: a cool jazz FM station playing saxophonist Dave Koz. Roarke was only aware of the soft voice of the woman on the phone. He was in the middle of his goodnight call to Katie Kessler in Boston. A glass of his favorite scotch, a 12-year-old Macallan, was in his hand.

Roarke phoned from his two-bedroom brick apartment in Georgetown, on the 2500 block of Q Street, NW. Katie lived on Grove Street on the north side of Beacon Hill, also in a brick apartment building.

“Come on down,” he begged.

Almost immediately after meeting, Roarke and the sassy brunette had begun a coy dance, which ultimately led to her bedroom. The fact that their relationship was more about romance than sex amazed them both. No matter where Roarke went—whether it was cross-country or aboard an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean, or moments before a late-night assault on a building owned by the dictator of Libya—Roarke thought about Katie.

“No, you move up here,” the 5’6”, 28-year-old answered. Her voice was as playful and as sexy as her look, but the lawyer gave no hint of negotiating.

“I can’t.”

“And what makes you think I can?”

“You can. Besides,” Roarke heard himself saying things he had never admitted to a woman before, “I want you here.”

“Only in Washington?”

“That’s not fair. I want you. But it needs to be here.”

“And my job isn’t important?”

“Of course it is. But you could practice on the Hill. How many job offers did you get after the inauguration?”

“Look, Mr. Roarke, I got a very nice promotion, which I deserved. You’ve got flex hours, and you generally get to fly for free. So from my vantage point, it’s win-win for me. All things considered, why don’t you pop up here and make a girl happy?” Katie said seductively. She examined the rich color of her Kendall Jackson Merlot in the light of her bedroom lamp and took a slow, sensual sip.

The combination of the words, the sound of his voice, and the intent had an immediate effect. She wore only a purple cotton camisole and plaid, drawstring pajama bottoms. Suddenly, the fabric was tickling her nipples, which had become erect. She caught herself squeezing her thighs together to contain her increasing arousal. She bet he was having an equally hard time.

This is how it went almost every night—the conversation and the excitement. She knew he wasn’t going to leave D.C. Eventually, she might move to Washington and pick up one of the jobs that had been offered. But not yet.

“Counselor, you’re taking advantage of me and America’s taxpayers. Hell, I could be the subject of a congressional investigation.”

“Don’t worry. I have friends in high places,” Katie giggled. She was referring to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. But of course, Roarke worked for the new vice president, with special consent that was well beyond the reach of Congress.

Katie and Roarke had met during his investigation into what appeared to be an assassination attempt on Teddy Lodge. Lodge’s wife was killed, and Roarke’s inquiry led him to the law firm where Katie worked. Ultimately, the Secret Service agent determined that one of the senior partners in the prestigious Boston firm might be involved. However, like many of the people connected to Lodge’s early life, he was killed.

Roarke was instantly taken by Katie in every way: her quick wit, her mischievous attitude, her beauty, and ultimately, the other charms she revealed to him. She had the means to tame the former Special Forces soldier and bring out a sensitivity in Roarke he hadn’t known since childhood.

When he said he wanted Katie to move to D.C., he meant it. But his first impression of her never diminished. Katie Kessler came to her own decisions in her own time.

“Case closed,” she added. “Now, did you have a nice day, dear?” she cooed over the phone.

“Interesting,” he added in the way that interesting said much more than one word.

“Interesting good or interesting bad?”

“I worked with my buddy, Touch. Trying to come up with an FRT match for an acquaintance of mine.”

Roarke was always careful what he said on an open line. Katie was still learning.

“FRT? As in Facial Recognition Technology? If so, big problem with privacy issues.”

He was somewhat surprised she was conversant on the subject. Maybe he had said too much already. “Hey, I’m just trying to connect the dots,” he added, probably too late.

“Don’t you have any boy toys that are more reliable?”

“It’s getting there.” Why’s she doing this? He noticed the sexual tension was turning cold.

“Yeah, then why is the ACLU all over it?”

“Katie,” he chided.

“The guys using the technology surreptitiously take pictures of innocent people. They file them or they mistakenly ID perfectly honest citizens as illegals or criminals.”

“Katie!”

She ran right through his objection. “We litigated a case right here; a detention at Logan. We won a nice settlement. And you know the Tampa tests failed to ID a single suspect. Michigan? There were reports that police used FRT to ID women for sexual reasons and even intimidate political opponents.”

“You’re lecturing me.”

“I’m educating you about the abuses.” She was quite familiar and disturbed with the use of the technology at airports, including the system installed at Boston’s Logan after 9/11. “It submits innocent people to real-time lineups without probable cause, and often without a compelling security threat. Sounds Orwellian to me, and a violation of privacy.”

“Like a fingerprint is a violation?”

“Fingerprints aren’t secretly and automatically taken and instantly compared with others while you’re walking through a line to get a hot dog. Did you know that every time you go to an ATM you’re getting your picture taken? How far away are we from having those images instantly compared with criminals? Do you have any idea of the false arrests that would be made?”

“Sounds like a boon for attorneys, counselor.”

Silence. Roarke wished he could have recalled the comment as soon as he said it.

“Look, maybe I just shouldn’t get into my day,” he said, trying to drop the subject. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I’m only raising some of the legal questions. You might as well use a coin toss, it’s about as accurate.”

Roarke thought about the percentages Touch had told him. He was faced with far less than a fifty-fifty coin toss when it came to Depp.

He closed his eyes and softly said, “We’re living in a different world, Katie. The bad guys look just like us.”

The reference to Congressman Lodge wasn’t lost on her. She knew that Roarke wanted to get the man who had helped conspire to subvert the American political process. FRT was a tool, and despite the debate, if it looked like it would help, she had no doubt he’d use it.

Maybe she could do something herself.

Cheviot Hills Recreation Park
Los Angeles, California
the same time

LAPD homicide investigator Roger Ellsworth walked around the body of the attractive, now-dead Jane Doe. Under high-beam police lights, he had made his first pass over the crime scene. Now he was prepared to note his observations into a mini-recorder.

“Age—approximately mid-twenties. Height—approximately 5’7”. Caucasian. Light-blue tank top, khaki running shorts.” He stooped over the wound. “Cause of death, apparent knife-thrust, horizontal, left-side, heart puncture wound.” The details would come from the autopsy. “Subject possible victim of attempted rape.” The young girl’s jogging pants were pulled down to her knees, but not all the way off. Ellsworth looked at the path that cut above, about twenty yards away. Another jogger spotted the woman when he took a cigarette break, which always made him laugh. Jogging for your health, and then you smoke.

Ellsworth looked back to the victim. Her eyes stared up at him as if asking a question.

The veteran officer had seen the look dozens of times before. Too many times.

His forensics team would analyze her clothing for any residual evidence—hair, saliva, fabric particles, semen. On the surface, nothing was visible, except for some footprints a few feet away in the dirt near the closest tree.

The detective had long ago hardened himself against emotion. He was a 33-year veteran, only eighteen months from retirement. Still, he found himself slightly perplexed. Although he didn’t record his next thoughts, he did question why the woman’s pants were not all the way down. He’d have a hell of a time fucking her. Scared off? Although he didn’t think there was any penetration, he stated the obvious, “Internal examination required. Check for possible DNA match on record.”

Ellsworth walked around the body. He surmised she was on a regular run. Probably no ID. He checked her back hip pocket, using a pen to open the fold. Something here. It rolled out. “Right rear pocket contains a lipstick container, and…” He fished out more. “A small sheet of wafer-thin blank paper with some words typed on it, a pen, and more crumpled paper.” The first sheet had an odd quality to it. He’d seen it before, but he couldn’t quite place it.

The detective removed an envelope from his jacket and carefully guided the items in with his own pen. He wrote on the outside, recording his words at the same time. “Marking contents of plastic bag taken from Jane Doe. Items A, B, C.: lipstick container—Estée Lauder Sumptuous—small folder paper inside, crumpled dollar bills.” He added the date, time, and location, and made certain that another officer confirmed the procedure with his signature and a verbal description for his recording.

Ellsworth continued to survey the scene. Someone would know her, he said to himself. He figured it would just take a few hours or less to make the identification.

“Photograph and cast the footprints,” he told a young lieutenant. They’d take a mold, though he’d never known it to lead to a conviction.

Ellsworth studied the crime scene again. It seemed odd that there was no sign of a struggle. She was big enough to put up a fight, he thought. At least until he warned her. But the dirt wasn’t even dug up by her heels. Wouldn’t she have resisted? The thought really nagged at him. Her pants are down, yet there’s no sign of resisting? He knelt down to look for some evidence that she had. He shined his flashlight near her feet and where her hands would have grabbed for grass. She would have resisted, he said to himself again. Somehow. There’s always a moment…. But Ellsworth couldn’t find any sign. Unless…unless she was killed very quickly.

The White House
Tuesday, 19 June
7:15 A.M. EDT

President Lamden had taken extraordinary heat for selecting Morgan Taylor as his vice president. Not at first, but soon after. His own party leadership, though caught off-guard, publicly called him “bold and decisive.” Privately, however, Democrats were astonished at the choice. The opposition quietly embraced the spirit of bipartisanship, yet word on the street said it would not last.

Still, the Senate confirmed the president’s man—the former president. But what and whom did he represent? The American people who voted him out? Certainly not the Democratic majority. Even Vice President Morgan Taylor couldn’t say.

“You know, Billy, some days I wish I never left Billings,” he confessed to his chief of staff, Billy Gilmore. The president’s appointee was definitely a Billy, a don’t-call-me-Bill kind of Tennessean lawyer. He tried to keep the new president aware, alert, and proactive. But it was usually the other way around.

“Mr. President—what’s the expression—if it were easy, everyone would be doing it?” Gilmore got the desired response from his boss. He slid into a seat opposite the president’s austere desk and shuffled his papers—a handpicked collection of overnight press reports and MDBs (Morning Daily Briefings). Knowing what the public thought and what the press was telling them was just as important to the president as the facts.

“Australia SASR disarmed the bomb. They’re going over it now. Could be Abu Sayyaf, al-Qaeda. Don’t know yet. Both scary possibilities. The thing was just waiting for a signal to detonate.”

“Like having a sleeper spy running for president,” Lamden added. “Tell Evans and Mulligan that from now on all announced travel plans are on hold.”

“Got that.”

“What else?”

“Alerts in Indonesia. Terrorist activity. Police disarmed a bomb in a nightclub. No real interest from the news nets here. About a graph or two in the papers.” The chief of staff spoke in short bites. If the president wanted more, he’d ask for it. “Three dead in a suicide bombing in Baghdad. No Americans. Over in Israel, looks like Blanca is digging in. But she’s all but lost the Knesset. I say Israel gets a new leader by next winter.” Was the president listening? “And my Titans are going to kick butt this year.”

This brought the first response from the president. “No way. The Seahawks all the way.”

“Willing to put money on that, Mr. President?”

“So you add it to your memoirs that Henry Lamden bet in the White House?” he joked.

“I have to have something to sell my book.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you decided to work for a boring old president.”

Billy Gilmore shook off the comment. Lamden’s presidency was anything but boring. But the president was looking more exhausted by the week. His doctors had adjusted his blood pressure medication just days before the last trip. Though not widely known, the stress associated with the office necessitated constant medical monitoring. Leveling it out through treatments and medications was on the minds of presidents’ doctors since the formation of the Union.

George Washington’s physicians determined he was inclined to have “gloomy apprehensions.” John Adams and Andrew Jackson suffered recurring attacks of depression. President William Harrison was said to use stimulants to deal with the illnesses that ultimately killed him during his term.

Two months before Franklin Pierce’s inauguration in 1855, Pierce and his wife were in a terrible train accident. Although they only suffered minor injuries, their son was killed—practically decapitated in front of them. The president’s wife believed that God had taken their boy so that her husband would serve without distraction. Pierce maintained it was punishment for his sins. He buried his sorrows in alcohol.

Abraham Lincoln’s “melancholia” has been copiously documented, specifically his bouts of depression following the Union loss at Chancellorsville. Some historians noted that Lincoln even considered suicide.

Calvin Coolidge’s despondency went unchecked largely because he wouldn’t let anyone treat him. And Senator Joseph McCarthy’s vitriolic attacks on Harry Truman sent Truman and his wife to a retreat in Florida. Truman noted that the stress was so intense that he yearned for a simple life running a gas station and waiting for his “quiet grave.” And following a March 1992 physical examination, George Bush’s White House physicians prescribed a more relaxing schedule to combat the stress the president had been under.

For Lamden, pressure came with the political mayhem he brought on himself. After all, he chose to lead a coalition government. Some pundits mused that the nation had its strongest leadership ever. The one-two punch from a pair of decorated Navy warriors made the United States a more formidable force in the world. The administration was experienced, bold, and obviously decisive. Others, like much of the broadcast media, disagreed.

“Now what’s the great vox populi report today?” Lamden asked wanting to get beyond the MDB and into more fundamental “conventional wisdom.”

“Well,” Gilmore continued, almost as an afterthought, “no change from CNN, and about the same everywhere else.”

“It’s not CNN I’m concerned about, Billy. Not the big guys. What about the ducks?”

“The ducks?”

“Yeah, the ducks that are nibbling me to death.”

Gilmore knew exactly what the president meant, but dismissed it.

“They’re not important.”

“Then why do we pay attention to them?”

Gilmore couldn’t answer the question. Presidents did pay attention to polls, e-mails, write-in campaigns, editorials, and what was being said on the street.

“Billy, tell me who’s creating policy in America today?”

“We are,” he quickly offered.

“No. Try again.”

“Okay, officially, the House and Senate—”

“Wrong again,” Lamden interrupted.

“I don’t know. You are.”

Lamden laughed. “If only that were the case.”

Gilmore, Lamden’s strategist through the primaries, didn’t know where this was going, but it was obvious the president was intent on making his point.

“Look, my life’s an open book. CNN, Fox—they’ve all run specials. I’ve been on the cover of Newsweek or Time—what, six times since the inauguration?”

“Seven.”

“Sixty days after the election there was a pretty fair instant book out on me. O’Connell included a chapter in his book. Hell, A&E even did a Biography.”

“That’s all normal.”

“Yes it is, Billy. Taylor had the same.”

“Yeah, so have some key members of Congress, particularly those with over-the-top personalities like Newt and Tip.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“Our lives are open books.” The president paused to consider another thought. “Not a book. A fucking tabloid rag. We can’t take a piss without it showing up at the checkout stand or some cable news show that has thirty minutes to fill. Hell, they’ll spend one segment just trying to figure out if I’ve got a good stream or if I’m down to a trickle. Then the next segment is devoted to what that will mean to the market or a defense appropriations bill. The third segment is an instant Internet poll. And they wrap it up with an analysis of my declining numbers. And you think we make policy? Not on your life, Billy. We react to what’s being said. To polls in the news magazines,
USA Today
, the networks, and to people tuned in to the Elliott Strongs of the world.

“You’re overreacting, sir.”

“The opposite, Billy,” the president declared, working himself up more. “My acid reflux makes news. But what do we know about the people who write or broadcast the crap? Where’s the Biography of these hate mongers? What about a
20/20
or
60 Minutes
expose? Give me just one investigative book about Strong and the others who fall in lockstep behind him. Where are they?” He answered his own question. “Nowhere. And why? The mainstream press is afraid of becoming a target themselves. So these clowns set the national debate every single day and night. They do it pretty much unchecked. You know what’s even scarier?” Gilmore didn’t interrupt the president’s train of thought. “They’re becoming the real voice!”

“Nobody cares, Mr. President.” The chief of staff was trying to calm down the president.

“You are so wrong, Billy. So deadly wrong.” Lamden’s nostrils flared. “Everybody cares! You tell me Limbaugh had no influence on Clinton’s ability to govern? And when some conservative commentators turned on Bush after Iraq, that didn’t affect his presidency?”

Lamden picked up a picture of his grandchildren. He sensed he’d gotten far too agitated. He rubbed his arm for a moment, took a deep breath, and walked the length of the Oval Office before talking again.

“It’s getting so we have elections 365 days a year. Hell, I got voted out of office again last night on Strong’s show.”

“He’s a wacko,” Gilmore quietly said.

“With a huge audience.”

“All sharing one brain.”

“Yes, his,” the president emphasized. “That’s the problem.”

“So you were up last night.”

“I was. On the flight back. And I recommend that we start tracking his broadcasts for our morning news briefings.”

“Come on, it only legitimizes him.”

“Legitimize him? Billy, he’s already legitimate, with a legion out there. I don’t know what his endgame is. Ego? Ratings? Bigger salary? I can’t tell you that any more than I can tell you anything else about him. But somebody should. That man and his cronies are setting a new national agenda.”

“Which is?” Gilmore asked skeptically.

“A constitutional amendment.”

“Come on. No way.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Mr. President, you know the funny thing about nighttime?” Gilmore said trying to take the edge off the conversation. “No, you tell me.”

“That’s when you’re supposed to sleep. It helps. Rejuvenates you. I recommend you pick up the habit.”

“You better hope I don’t, Billy. Because there’s a lot going on then that we have to pay attention to.”