Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (6 page)

“Speaker Jackson,” asked the man as he poked his head above the row of cameras in front of him. “Please comment on Secretary Blackmon’s court filing that prevents you from taking the oath of office. And please tell us if you have plans on resigning your congressional seat to become president.”

“Well—” she smiled falsely “—I think the suit is better addressed by Secretary Blackmon. But I will suggest it is better for our nation to move forward as quickly as possible. A prolonged fight predicated on personal gain is not what’s best for our democracy.

“As for the second question,” she continued, “there is some issue, my attorney advises me, as to whether or not I need resign my seat to assume the presidency. The constitution may not require that. For me to resign that position right now would leave the nation in an even more precarious position. Should the court take a prolonged time to determine the proper succession in this most serious matter, it would be better that I continue to serve as Speaker of the House. Given that there is currently no president and no vice president, I am the highest-ranking officer in the line of presidential succession according to the 1947 Act. That act requires eligible successors must have taken their sworn oaths of office. I have done so.”

“So you are suggesting the current situation is precarious?” the
Post
reporter chirped in an unapproved follow-up.

“Only in that we are mourning. We are distracted as a nation, and rightfully so. President Foreman was a good man and a good leader. We miss him.” She felt a gentle hand on the small of her back. She turned her head to her left and saw Blackmon was moving in toward the microphone and was physically suggesting she move aside. Felicia stiffened against his touch and only moved when he began speaking without the microphone directly in front of him.

“I think, as Representative Jackson recommended, I should address the reporter’s first question.” He moved squarely behind the lectern as the Speaker finally ceded her position. “It relates to my request that we take a moment before rushing into a presidency which may, indeed, violate the terms of the document upon which our freedoms are based. There has long been concern about the constitutionality of the current line of succession. While I’ll refrain from making a legal argument here tonight, I will suggest to you the public interest is best served by reflection and a thorough examination of our laws.”

He was a lawyer. The Speaker knew she hated him for a reason.

Felicia stood slightly behind him, looking at his profile as he spoke. She was convinced he could have defined “is” for Bill Clinton and the former president couldn’t have argued with him. It was killing her. She despised lawyers in a town filled with them.

“We have nothing to lose here,” he continued. “Our nation and your neighborhoods are in capable hands. We have strong leadership in all three branches of government. I am certain—” he raised his index finger and looked back over his shoulder into Felicia’s eyes “—I am certain,” he repeated, looking back into the cameras in front of him, “our good servant, Felicia Jackson, feels as I do that the presidency is too awesome a responsibility to treat without such pause and regard.”

She raised her hand and began speaking as she moved back to the lectern, forcing Blackmon to step aside.

“My colleague is so right,” she began, looking directly at
The
Washington Post
reporter. “It is the constitution that I swore to uphold and protect when I took my oath of office as Speaker of the House.” There was silence in the rotunda. By the time the assembled reporters had refocused and were jumping to ask questions, Felicia had turned to Blackmon, put her hand on his back and began to lead him away from the lectern. She was ending the press conference. She was taking control. He may have had the first word, and a few pointed ones in the middle, but she’d had the final word. Reporters continued to call after the two politicians as they made their way out of the rotunda and toward Statuary Hall. Her office was nearby. A pair of security guards followed them. As a member of House leadership, Felicia always had a security detail with her.

Once they’d cleared the sight of the reporters gathered in the rotunda, she stopped and turned to face Blackmon.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” she lectured as she stuck the manicured, polished nail of her index finger into the secretary’s chest. “That was the biggest piece of self-serving crap I have ever seen.”

Blackmon stood still. He took the abuse and smiled.

“You were never sworn in,” she reminded him. “We’ve been without a vice president for months. Even though the Senate confirmed you, you are not first in line to succeed Foreman. As the secretary of an insignificant department, you are second to last on the list. You know this. Hell, three weeks ago nobody south of Newport, Rhode Island, even knew who you were.”

“Are you finished?” Blackmon said smugly.

She folded her arms. “Yes.”

“You know as well as I do that there is a constitutional question about the legitimacy of your claim. Everyone who was here post 9/11 knows this. I was twenty-four hours away from being sworn in. I have a case.” He took a breath.

“And for the record, Madam Speaker”—he started to turn and walk away from her as he finished his thought—“insignificant secretary or not, Foreman picked me. He could have picked you. He didn’t.”

She called after him. “You are making a mistake, John. The country will not forgive you for this.”

Felicia tugged on the bottom of her jacket and turned to her security. They followed her heel clicks out of the hall without acknowledging any of what they’d just seen and heard. They were headed to office H-232.

Chapter 9

George Edwards was walking out of the Washington Sports Club on Wisconsin Avenue NW, when his cell rang. He was turning left onto Calvert when he looked at the number displayed on the phone. It was a restricted number. Edwards knew who it likely was and pushed the screen to answer.

“Hello?” The phone felt heavy as he lifted it to his ear. His bicep reacted as though he was beginning another set of curls.

“Hello, my friend!” The accent was what the British called “the Received Pronunciation”. The dialect was formal, almost pretentious, and socially helpful to a man or woman with ambition. It carried a certain historical prestige in England and Wales and was most often the voice of the aristocracy.

Edwards was careful not to use the caller’s name. “How are you?”

“Well, I was wondering about your thoughts,” said Sir Spencer. “It might be good to gather an idea or two together before we decide on anything.”

“I have some thoughts.” Edwards arrived at the front door to his building. He lived in the Archstone Glover Park Apartments, just north of Georgetown and west of the park. It was a seven-story red brick building that resembled a warehouse conversion. His one-bedroom provided plenty of room for his work, a futon, and a fifty-two-inch wall-mounted LCD television.

Edwards walked into the lobby of his building through the double glass doors. To either side of the unoccupied security desk were sitting areas with identical modern green chenille sofas, sand-colored chairs, and mailboxes that resembled the kind found in a post office.

He moved to the left as the door closed quickly behind him, and he sat on the green couch. The cushion sank beneath his weight.

“My ideas involve something with Czechoslovakian flavor.” He was being intentionally vague. “The dish would be served to a large gathering. It’s a messy recipe.”

“I see,” said Sir Spencer, sounding surprised but pleased.

“It’s the only way to feed the people.” Edwards wasn’t giving up on the metaphor. “But we’ll need to acquire the ingredients.”

“I think I can help there.”

Edwards chuckled. “Good,” he said. “We will talk later.” He hung up the phone, stood from the sofa, and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Edwards walked into the apartment, through the kitchen, and into the dining area. There was a small round glass table onto which he tossed his gym bag and keys. He then dropped himself onto a large wooden-framed futon and picked up the television remote, pushing the “On” button.

The television was already set to a cable news channel. On the left side of the screen was the ever-present Vickie Lupo, and on the right side was Bill Davidson, the former attorney general. He smiled and turned up the volume.

“…not at all surprising to see the two of them staking their claim.”
Davidson was referring to the somewhat awkward joint address from Secretary Blackmon and Speaker Jackson.

“The big deal here is that our line of succession is now in the hands of the court. This is a sheer cliff on which we are now perched. Washington has become a place where, far too often, the politics of the individual are placed ahead of the country’s best interest. Judges legislate from the bench. We spend trillions of taxpayer dollars putting Band-Aids on the gushing arterial wounds of banks and automakers. Am I the only one who sees the irony here?

“We bypass the courts that are intended to help failing corporations and choose to spend our grandchildren’s money to help them. We are essentially throwing good money after bad.”

“Bill…”
Vickie Lupo was trying to interrupt, apparently sensing the digression. She was unsuccessful.

“Let me finish, Vickie!”
Davidson pointed his finger at the camera and kept talking.
“Yet we choose to use the courts here, where they are only a hindrance to good government. This is no different than the election in November 2000 when lawyers and courts helped determine the outcome. A court is going to decide our next president.”
Davidson released the rest of the air from his lungs.

“So, Bill,”
Vickie started,
“are you siding with the Speaker on this? Are you contending that the line of succession, as was written in 1947, is constitutional?”

“No.”
Davidson shook his head. “
I am not siding with the Speaker. I am merely lamenting our use of the courts. It seems we use them now for political and legislative purposes far more than we do for legitimate legal issues. I don’t know how the district court will rule. I imagine whichever way it goes, there will be an appeal. It’s headed for the Supreme Court.”

Vickie was taking notes on the left side of the screen.
“So this is not a quick fix?”

“No.”
Davidson was calm again.
“It will be several days. There is a good chance that President Foreman will be buried before we know his successor.”

“And to that end”
—Vickie was now the only one on the screen—
“we have just received some limited information about President Foreman’s funeral and memorial.”

Edwards sat back as he watched the screen fill with blue and the words “Breaking Developments” fly from right to left across his television. Vickie Lupo was still talking.

“We have confirmed from the White House the information that we reported earlier today. President Foreman will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. And we know that in two days his body will lie in state at the Capitol Rotunda. We do not yet know the exact timing or the logistics. Our sources cautioned us that this is dependent on the speed of the autopsy and the return of his remains to his family. But that is the latest news there. Also we know that…”

Edwards turned off the television and set the remote on the futon cushion. He leaned his head back against the black cotton that covered the futon mattress, chewing on the inside of his cheek. A conspiracy to change the course of the nation’s geopolitical future
and
a gallery opening in the same week were enough to test the nerves of any self-proclaimed patriot.

*

Jimmy Ings was in a foul mood when
Jeopardy!
was preempted for network television coverage of the president’s death. He understood it, but he didn’t like it.

He watched the embarrassing rotunda performance of the two would-be presidents. Ings was on the verge of feeling sorry for them as they bowed and curtsied their way in and out of undeniable truths.

Our country,
Ings thought as he watched,
is in need of serious change. At least when there’s an election, I get a
choice
between the lesser of two evils.

For years Ings felt as though he was living in the final days of Rome. He saw gladiators prepared to fight, only to have oppressors chain them to the coliseum floor so that lions could devour them. He believed 9/11 hadn’t been a big enough wake-up call.

The attacks had forced little more than privacy invasion, religious intolerance, and debt-inducing war. Ings wholeheartedly believed the empire was burning. It was on fire and in need of a suffocating, oxygen-depleting blow. He knew, as he believed the others did, that a single act, with purpose, could galvanize the country, and all of western Europe, in a way not seen since World War II.

He wondered what Sir Spencer was devising. Would it be full-page ads in every major newspaper and magazine, as they’d once discussed? Might they purchase television time to produce a slick message? Maybe they would storm a television studio and take over the airwaves. Or perhaps they could stage a disruptive protest with sympathizers outside of the Capitol. Whatever it was, he knew it would be big. He knew it would be good.

*

Professor Thistlewood lived in a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment along Embassy Row. It was ridiculously expensive, but its character was attractive to him and to the women who frequently slept over.

In fact, his addiction to women and wine had disabled his ability to cancel his date that night. And so there she was in the apartment, Oregon Pinot cupped in her hand, while Art admired the breasts cupped underneath the sheer cashmere of her light sweater.

They were in the main living area, a warm environment with large overstuffed chairs and a single love seat. Throughout the space there were books and artwork. On the wrought-iron and glass coffee table there was a large book about art.