Free Fall (31 page)

Mohamed just glared back at him. Checkmate. What was he going to do?

Tell the millions of people watching that there was a much higher percentage of blacks on welfare? Not exactly beneficial to his cause.

"Hold on there, Senator," Oprah said. He turned toward her with a calm that he didn't feel. Peck had been less efficient with their host's reactions. His philosophy and strategies centered on the weakness in people, which worked ninety percent of the time. Unfortunately, Peck was completely baffled by those rare individuals whose lives were not ruled by fear and jealousy. Oprah Winfrey seemed to be one of those people: perilously intelligent, dangerously popular, and with no identifiable agenda.

"This Eugenics Machine that the Reverend mentioned," Oprah continued.

"I think we'd all like to hear a little more about that. I know I would." The audience murmured their agreement.

Hallorin looked down at his feet for a moment and then back at his host.

"If you went to the worst elementary school in America, you would probably find a child in a classroom playing with a computer that is more sophisticated than any you'd find on the desk of your government officials. People are demanding a smaller, more efficient government.

People are demanding lower taxes. And in order to give them that, we are going to have to actually use the technology that's out there. The machine we're talking about and that's been the subject of so many half-truths and sensational sound bites relates to welfare reform. It actually exists. In fact, I personally used it in a recent test. It looks like an automatic teller machine. You put in your welfare card works like a credit card and then depress your finger on a pad. A laser gives it a tiny prick can't even feel it and in less than two minutes, this new technology analyzes your blood, confirming your identity and health status and screening for drug use. If all is clear, your card is funded with your welfare stipend. If not, you're referred to the appropriate counselor "

"Let's tell the truth, Senator," Mohamed said, cutting him off for the first time. It was a shame the program was nearing an end. A few more jabs and he'd completely lose that plastic composure of his.

"By health screening you mean pregnancy and AIDS tests. And as for the narcotics test, well, wouldn't you just be screening for the drugs that your administration would be providing these people through your legalization program? Isn't that right?"

Hallorin looked into the crowd.

"I know that Reverend Mohamed believes that this is all very sinister, and he's good at making it sound that way, but it really isn't all that interesting. I won't apologize for wanting to provide free counseling and clean needles to people with drug problems If you have AIDS, it is critical that you get to someone who can help. If you're pregnant, it's also critical that " Mohamed cut him off again, finishing his sentence for him. " you give up your baby to the white government so that it can be given to white couples to have its uniqueness and identity stripped from it. And there would be no choice under your administration, would there? Your government would provide no help to support that baby as long as it stays in the hands of the parent. The children will just starve. A problem that solves itself, yes, Senator?"

"I do not support additional money for welfare dependents who have additional children, if that's what you're referring to. I don't know any working Americans who get a raise if they have a child, and I'm not sure that welfare recipients should be given benefits that other American families don't have. They, like everyone else, need to carefully consider the demands that a child will place on them, both financially and emotionally. Welfare is a temporary helping hand, not a lifestyle."

"And if we don't quietly surrender our children? Is that when the tanks roll in?" Mohamed's voice was nearly at a shout now. Wonderful television.

"I've heard you talk about this tank issue before, Reverend, and I have to say I'm a bit confused. I had my best research person look into it, and the only reference she could find related to a former mayor of Washington, D. C." asking for the National Guard to help patrol the streets. I believe she was black, though, and that her request was rejected by Congress."

That pretty much finished it. The broadcast wound down into its final minutes with Oprah giving each man time for a short summation that couldn't hope to even scratch the surface of what had been said there that day.

Mohamed's was uncharacteristically disjointed and ineffective--the product of the endless blows he'd taken during the show. People would be talking about this for years, Hallorin knew.

The Secret Service came out immediately after the cameras cut off, but Hallorin brushed them off and walked over to Mohamed.

"I appreciate you meeting with me. Reverend," he said, offering his hand.

"I think we gave people something to think about, don't you?"

"PERFECT!" Hallorin shouted, leaning forward and slamming his fists against the Plexiglas that separated him from the men driving the van.

The barrier flexed dangerously and the state trooper and Secret Service agent up front jumped in their seats and turned to look at him. He drank in the intimidation in their eyes for a moment and then turned to Roland Peck, who was in his usual position crammed into the corner.

"Fucking PERFECT, Roland."

"We'll get heavy media time for at least four days," Peck said.

"I think some positives even from the liberals for opening up an honest dialogue on race. The focus groups we had watching the program were eating it up. Even the group made up of poor niggers was much less negative than we expected. Yes, much less. Our people will be working with all of them tonight and we'll be ready with spin tomorrow--though I don't think we'll need much. We'll see how far out of context the clips the media uses are." He turned and looked out the window, which was fogged from an early freeze.

"According to this morning's numbers, you're up--a twenty two now. The Democrats are holding at twenty-six and Taylor is down one at thirty-three. I predict you'll get two points out of tonight. The undecideds are slower than molasses this year, but they're going to have to start coming out of the woodwork soon. Another plus is that the for ward movement is going to do a lot for morale. Very much so. People have been drifting away from the campaign..."

Hallorin felt his elation darken. He'd remember them. Every fuck who had walked out on him. He'd remember.

"What about Mark Beamon?"

Peck tried to squeeze himself further into the corner.

"It's what we feared. What we feared. He isn't staying on track.

Looking hard into Newberry all of the sudden and not at all for the girl, it seems."

"You said you could control him, Roland. Is it possible that Beamon's beyond you? That a disgraced alcoholic could "

"No," Peck said, his voice too loud and too high pitched for the confines of the van.

Hallorin shrugged noncommittally. Peck, he knew, was insanely jealous.

Even the slightest hint that Hallorin might think some one else his intellectual equal sent the man into a complete frenzy.

"He is under control! He's nothing more than a stupid redneck from Texas. His investigative abilities are the math tricks of an idiot savant. He can't see anything but what's caught in his tunnel vision."

"Prove it to me, Roland. Get him back on track or stop him, I don't care. There must be something we can use against him."

Peck shook his head.

"There's plenty to be had, but he's never been smart enough to keep any of it secret. He doesn't seem to care. And now with him facing a possible prison term ..."

"What are you suggesting, Roland? Are you suggesting we do some thing overt to stop him?"

"I'll take care of it," Peck said simply. Hallorin could hear in his voice that he was testing. He wanted Hallorin to end the conversation there, to prove that he still had confidence in the man he had treated like a son.

Hallorin reached a hand out and gently stroked Peck's cheek.

"This is becoming a comedy of errors, Roland." Peck tried to pull away, but Hallorin grabbed him by the back of the neck.

"There's no room for that, is there? The election is in two weeks and you've given me nothing. I will be the president of the United States.

I won't let anything get in the way of that." Peck tried to pull away again and Hallorin closed his hand tighter, holding him immobile.

"Do you understand?"

I from Sherman dodged yet another dazed hooker and fell back into step behind the D. C. cop who was escorting him toward the station's holding pen.

"Let's pick it up," Sherman said, letting the irritation creep into his voice. The man looked back at him, about to say something smart-assed, but then wisely thought better of it and upped his pace a bit.

Sherman's anger and frustration at this situation was the first thing he'd felt in a long time--the first thing that had broken through the fog that descended on him after his daughter's death. He found himself having to struggle to maintain outward calm as they continued through the broken hallways and past the grimy people inhabiting them. If any harm had come to his friend, the cop responsible for putting a former FBI agent into the general population was going to take a serious fall.

They stopped at a steel door with a small grate set into it, and Sherman watched impatiently as the cop in front of him fumbled with his keys. It was dead silent on the other side of the door. Sherman leaned around his escort and tried to look through the window grate.

"Easy, now..."

The voice was Beamon's, hesitant, cutting through the eerie silence.

Sherman looked down at the cop, who seemed to have finally turned up the correct key.

"Get me through this goddamn door, now!" The lock clicked and Sherman pushed the man aside, rushing through the door and running down the corridor, hoping that there was still something left of his friend to bail out.

"... I'm not saying that there aren't some fine automatic weapons on the market, I'm just saying that they're never going to be as reliable as a wheel gun."

Sherman slowed his pace to a walk as the cell Beamon was occupying came into view. He was sitting cross-legged on the narrow bench along the back wall, casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. No less than ten dangerous-looking young black men took up the rest of the cramped space, with the bigger ones sitting next to Beamon on the bench and the weaker-looking ones on the floor. They seemed to be hanging on Beamon's every word.

"But I got motherfuckin' fourteen in my clip," a young man with a teardrop tattooed next to his eye said.

Beamon looked at him and took a calm drag from his cigarette.

"Son, if you need more than two to get the job done, you shouldn't be playing with guns."

Everyone in the cell erupted into laughter.

"Looks like my ride's here," Beamon said, standing and tossing what was left of his pack of cigarettes to the young man who had been the target of his joke.

"Good luck to you gentlemen. Hopefully, I won't see you in prison."

Beamon stopped as he and Sherman approached the glass double doors that led to the street.

"I, uh, think I probably have some papers to sign, Tommy."

Sherman grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him along behind.

"No, you don't."

"What about my stuff?" Beamon protested.

"They've still got my--"

"It's being delivered to my house." He gave Beamon's arm another tug.

"Do you mind? Let's get the hell out of here before they change their minds."

Sherman's Cadillac was illegally parked directly in front of the station, though no one had mustered the will to ticket it. By the time Beamon slipped into the soft leather passenger seat, Sherman had already started the engine and was pulling away from the curb. Beamon barely managed to get the door closed before it clipped a parked cruiser.

"What the hell are you doing, Mark? Practicing?" Sherman said, turning and staring at him over his glasses in that patented expression that had struck fear into the hearts of at least half of the FBI's workforce at one time or another.

"Don't do that, Tommy," Beamon said, pointing at his face.

"I hate that."

Sherman turned back and concentrated on the road.

"Do you have any idea how many markers I had to call in so you could just walk out of there?"

"Yeah, I do. And I appreciate it."

His friend didn't seem to hear.

"What do you think is going to happen if this little episode gets back to the Bureau? You don't think they're going to use it? Pull your head out of your ass, Mark."

"Look, it's "

"Shut up. Just shut up for once. Look, Mark, whatever happens, the next few years are going to be tough for you. There's probably nothing you can do about that now. But when that's all over, you're still going to have half your life ahead of you. What are you going to do with it?"

Beamon sunk a little further into the leather seat.

"It's not something I've spent a lot of time thinking about."