Republic: Chapter Eleven
Republic
Charles Sheehan-Miles
Chapter Eleven
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
JUNE 20
Valerie opened the door a few inches and knocked. Clark was on the phone.
“Hold on please,” he said to his caller, then covered the handset with his left hand.
“Al, I’ve got good news. Your appointment with the President is at three.”
“Great. Can you pull together a quick briefing packet?”
“It’s already done.”
“Thanks.”
He smiled, went back to the phone.
Valerie hurried back to her desk. She had prepared an information packet targeted at the media, but had hoped they would be called on to meet with the President. The information in the packet was targeted to put as much pressure on Saturn as possible. First, a brief on the workers of the Highview plant and quotes from past Saturn press releases that highlighted the engineering and technical advances made by the employees of the plant. Economic data: out of a population of less than five thousand, Saturn had provided eight hundred jobs. With the plant closed, the town would be devastated. Next, a list of those killed in the violence. Not extremists or anti-government activists, as the Secretary of Homeland Security claimed, but good, hardworking people.
“Hey, Valerie,” one of the other aides called. “Did you see this?” It was Megan McClain, one of the interns, annoyingly cute and incompetent. She held a magazine up in the air.
Valerie did a double take. Standing up, she marched over and snatched the magazine out of the intern’s hand.
The dramatic photograph of her father was splashed on the cover of Newsweek, tear gas roiling around him, giving CPR to Shannon Firkus. It put Ken Murphy in an almost heroic light—something he would not appreciate. Across the bottom of the page were the words, “Violence in West Virginia.”
Opening the magazine, she saw another large photo of him, this time in uniform, testifying before the House. Dad is going to be so pissed when he sees this, she thought. She read through the article, which described the events of the last two weeks in Highview in significant detail. Photos of David and Shannon Firkus, when David was a baby. A sideline article on Nelson Barclay highlighting the fact that the plant was profitable, just not profitable enough for one of the richest men in America. The article also pointed out that due to an accounting anomaly, Saturn had not paid a dime in federal taxes in the last three years, despite how profitable it was. Saturn issued a brief statement expressing “regret” for the deaths, but of course denying any responsibility for the chain of events that led up to them.
The County Prosecutor in Harpers Ferry had called a grand jury to investigate a charge of excessive force in the raid, indicating that homicide charges against the federal officers might result. She would have to check into that. If charges were brought against the DHS by the local jurisdiction, it would bolster their argument.
She thought about copying the article and placing it in the packet for the President. It painted a far different picture of the situation than the DHS did. Why not? She made a copy of the article, then returned the magazine to Megan, thanking her. The article, with its dramatic cover photo, should help set the impression.
She checked her watch. Noon. Two hours before they would leave for the White House. She paced across the room, then back, and looked out the window. The sky over the bare courtyard was tinged brown with pollution. Another code red day. They were becoming more and more common every summer. Last summer half a dozen deaths in DC were attributed to heat and pollution.
She looked across the room. Megan sat at her desk painting her nails. For God’s sake, couldn’t she find a better place to do that, or something more productive to do at work? Valerie started in her direction, scowling.
Ambrose Hall stepped in front of her. “Hey, Valerie, no point in sitting around here getting nervous. Let’s grab some lunch.”
Valerie stopped and demanded, “Who’s nervous?”
Ambrose gave her a wicked grin. “Maybe not nervous, but you were about to bite someone’s head off.”
Valerie closed her eyes. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
“It’s on me.”
“No way. You bought last time.”
As they walked toward to the door, Ambrose leaned over the intern’s desk and said in a stage whisper, “Honey, you better put the nail polish away. You don’t want to cross Valerie. She’ll be writing your recommendation letter at the end of the summer. Maybe.”
Valerie waited until they were outside, then punched Ambrose in the shoulder. “You jerk! I’m not that bad.”
“Don’t you remember Mike Wilson? He used to look like a deer caught in the headlights when you got to work.”
“That wasn’t my fault. He was just horny and afraid of girls. Kid needed to get laid is all.”
Ambrose laughed.
In a few minutes, they reached the cafeteria in the basement of the Rayburn Building. After retrieving their food, they sat and talked about Hall’s partner, who had been offered a spectacular job with a prestigious law firm in Los Angeles. A benefit of moving there, of course, was that California recognized same-sex marriages. Of course, the DC government had voted to recognize them years before as well, but Congress had intervened and reversed the decision. Either way, Hall wasn’t ready to quit his job. He loved working on the Hill and didn’t want to consider giving it up. But the two of them been together nearly ten years, and were struggling over what to do.
Valerie was grateful and somewhat distracted when they returned to the office. She sat down at her desk, tinkered with the briefing packet and fidgeted nervously. Half an hour. She spent the last few minutes checking the latest news, scanning for information about DHS, then got up and knocked on Clark’s door.
“Time for us to get going, sir.”
“Great. You have the briefing packet ready?”
“We’re all set.”
They walked out the sizeable entrance to the office into the hall. With wide marble floors and high ceilings, ornate stonework and graceful columns, the buildings on Capitol Hill always made her think of the ancient Roman republic and its timeless institutions—timeless until, after hundreds of years, it lost its checks and balances and the republic became a sham.
On to the front entrance, they walked down the steps at the Independence Avenue entrance and Valerie stood on the curb and stuck out a hand. Three minutes later they were in the back seat of a cab on their way to the White House. When it stopped at 15th and New York Avenue they climbed out at the corner, next to the Treasury building. From there, they walked to the west wing entrance and showed their identification to the guards. After fifteen minutes of security checks, they were led upstairs by one of the President’s aides and into the Oval Office.
“You sit here,” the aide said. “The President will be back shortly.”
They sat on the uncomfortable antique couch. A matching one faced them across the coffee table, both couches sitting near the Seal of the President emblazoned across the floor. Against the wall, halfway between the desk and the table and chairs where they sat, stood a gangly man in a black suit and tie. Secret service. He didn’t acknowledge them, but Valerie knew he was acutely aware of them.
Minutes later President Wendell Price walked into the room, his presence immediately filling the space. They both stood at the entry of the unusually tall man.
“Representative Clark? A pleasure to finally meet you in person. And this is your assistant?”
“Valerie Murphy, Mr. President,” she said. Valerie and Clark shook hands with the tall, florid faced man. Valerie thought his voice was even more engaging in person than on television. His meaty hands engulfed hers when they shook.
“Please have a seat,” he said. “I have to tell you up front, I’ve only got a few minutes before my next meeting, but we felt this was very important and we should meet. The situation over there is pretty grave, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Clark said. “We’re hoping to discuss two things with you today, sir. The first, as you may know, is that the County Prosecutor in Harpers Ferry is investigating charges of excessive force and homicide during the DHS raid. I wanted to make sure you were aware of this, and to ask you to ask the Justice Department to also investigate. The charges are quite serious, sir—a DHS agent shot and killed at least one unarmed bystander, and the team assaulted a number of others.”
The President arched his eyebrows. “I know the DHS has a bad reputation, but they are not bad people. I find these charges difficult to credit.”
“Sir, that’s why we are asking for an investigation. I know some of the people involved, Mr. President. These are not criminals; some of them are pillars of our community.”
The President tilted his head to the left. “Then why were they trespassing on private property?”
Valerie spoke up. “Sir, that’s the other issue we’d like to discuss with you. As you may know, the Saturn Microsystems manufacturing plant in Highview closed a month ago, laying off all the workers. The plant moved to Indonesia, where the company can exploit cheap labor. Again, the entire workforce was laid off without notice.”
“Well, I’m sorry to see jobs leave the United States, but I hardly see where the federal government comes in to this.”
Clark replied, visibly struggling to keep his tone level. “Sir, the federal government came into this when it started shooting the citizens of my district. The federal government is in this thing up to its neck, Mr. President. It was a simple labor dispute before the DHS stepped in, called my people terrorists and attacked them with a large combat force. Now, this was a profitable plant. Saturn shut the plant down and moved it not because they were losing money, but to increase their margins. This will economically devastate the town. The workers met with attorneys and banks, and then made an offer to Saturn to buy the plant and license the technology. Saturn would get pure profit. Unfortunately, they turned the workers down.”
Valerie watched the President as Clark spoke. Something about his expression just wasn’t clicking Maybe it was the makeup he wore; he must have been on TV this morning.
“What can we do about it?” President Price asked.
“Two things, sir. First, federal prosecutors are harassing the townspeople and hitting them with outrageous charges, accusing them of being anti-government conspirators and worse. Second, even though the federal government can’t do anything to fix the situation, you know Nelson Barclay and have some influence with him. Sir, you can ask him to allow the workers to buy the plant. Allow them to have their economic lives back.”
By this time, the President had leaned back in his chair and rested his chin in his hand. Valerie tensed. The President looked almost sympathetic as he stared at Clark, but it seemed disingenuous to Valerie. She didn’t trust him, and the sympathetic look turned on and off like a light switch whenever he wanted it to.
Abruptly Price narrowed his eyes, and then shook his head in the negative. “Mr. Clark, I’m surprised at you. If I were to interfere in an ongoing investigation being conducted by the Justice Department, you and your friends on the Hill would be all over me with ethics investigations. I most certainly will not do that, nor will I pressure a private company—private, mind you—to change its policies to suit your needs. Now, I will take what you have said into consideration, but I must say, Mr. Clark, I am disappointed.”
Clark’s face was wooden, and Valerie was stunned. She had not known what to expect—a noncommittal answer maybe. “I’ll think about it.” Something like that. Not this outright refusal.
“Now,” the President said, “if that is all, I have to go on to my next meeting.”
“Mr. President, please hear me out. This is a critical issue.”
President Price shrugged. “Mr. Clark, I don’t see anything further to discuss. I appreciate your concern for your constituents, but it just wouldn’t be ethical for me to intervene. You must understand. It was a pleasure meeting both of you.”
The President turned and walked out of the Oval Office. Clark and Valerie looked at each other, downcast. And then they were escorted out of the office by the silent Secret Service agent.
?
“All right,” Clark said. “What do we have today?”
Valerie handed out copies of the schedule to Clark, Ambrose and Dan Harris, Clark’s Press Secretary. The sun had not been up long, and the pale dawn shone in through the windows. The treeless courtyard looked desolate in this light. The air conditioning was broken again; it was going to be another hot day in the office. Ambrose, Clark, and Dan had already doffed their coats and ties and rolled up their sleeves.
“Meetings this morning,” Valerie said. “Plastics Association at nine o’clock, Veterans for Justice at nine forty-five, you get a break, then the Airline Pilots Association at ten thirty.”
Clark rolled his eyes.
She continued, “A tour group from Morgantown is coming through at eleven thirty. You’re scheduled to shake hands and take a group photo on the capitol steps with them.”
“And when do I get to do some real work?”
“Afternoon is a little better, sir; we’ve got a meeting with Senator Parkinson and his staff to talk strategy on the Skaggs Bill. We’re holding back a tidal wave on this bill; Skaggs has more than a hundred co-sponsors now.”
“We’ll keep trying. Anything in the news?”
“Three major items,” she said, and handed out another sheet. “Last night in Morgantown a white police officer shot and killed a twelve-year-old black boy—the kid was walking home from the grocery store, his mother was sick. Apparently the kid ran when the cops tried to stop him, so they opened fire. It looks pretty clear cut to me, based on the media coverage, but Mayor Scafella hasn’t taken any action on similar incidents in the past, and the all-white City Council hasn’t either. Expect demonstrations.”
Dan, the press secretary, spoke up. “Al, we should work out a statement on this right away.”
Clark assented. “Work out something this morning and let me see it. What else?”
“Second, the Grand Jury in Harpers Ferry has subpoenaed two DHS agents—a Lawrence Harris and a Ben Matley—in connection with the Highview shootings. DHS says they don’t have to honor the subpoena. They’re appealing. The attorney general was on Washington Talk this morning and announced that not only won’t the Justice Department investigate the shootings, but they consider any similar claims to be frivolous and unpatriotic.”
“What?” Clark cried. The others in the room gasped.
“I’m quoting him, sir. ‘Anyone who says Homeland Security overstepped its bounds is making a frivolous and unpatriotic gesture.’ He then suggested similar incidents would merit a stronger reaction.”
“Dan,” Clark said to his press secretary.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want something on this today.”
“Last item,” Valerie said. “Y’all remember Dale Whitt?”
“He’s kind of a crackpot, isn’t he?” Ambrose said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at the papers Valerie had handed him. Whitt was well known in the office from his almost weekly letters and phone calls offering his perspective on every issue.
“It all depends on your perspective,” Valerie answered. “Six weeks ago I would have said yes, but things have changed a great deal, and his perspective just became a lot more mainstream. He’s putting out a petition to get a referendum on the ballot to amend Article I of the state constitution, and make it possible for us to secede from the United States.”
“He’s crazy,” Dan said.
“Maybe,” Clark said, “But this article is sympathetic.”
“Exactly,” Valerie said. “The Sunday editions in six newspapers ran long, detailed and sympathetic articles on him. Six of them. Not one critical comment. Look at this one in the Charleston Gazette. Front page center. Good photo of him. It makes him out to be a folk hero.”
Dan smirked. “Valerie, that one’s not worth wasting your time on. It’s just a flash in the pan.”
“We’ll see,” she said. “I think it bears watching. He’s holding his first rally this weekend—in Highview, of course, because of the shootings. I would expect a huge turnout. Sentiment against the federal government runs pretty strong there now.”
“Can you blame them?” Clark asked.
No one replied.
?
Murphy wasn’t one for rallies, but he had to admit, his curiousity had gotten the better of him. It was Saturday morning, and there was nothing to keep him from having breakfast with his son at Sally’s. Nothing except the fact they were broke, a nagging voice kept telling him. All the same, they had arrived early enough to get a booth next to the front windows, where Murphy could see across the street to the town square. He came armed with his pocket computer for Kenny—he would get restless soon—and a newspaper for himself.
Across the grassy square, two black Ford SUVs sat, their windows tinted almost black. Not far away from the vehicles, two men in suits stood in the shade of a tree, one shooting photos of everyone walking through the square with a high quality camera. Interesting, and very disturbing.
A few minutes before nine, Paul Machen drove up in his deputy sheriff patrol car and parked directly across from the diner. That could be trouble; the Mayor was pretty pissed with Dale Whitt. Murphy had gotten word that Whitt had been unable to procure a permit for his rally this morning.
Machen stepped out of the car and ran across the street, straight toward the diner. When he got inside, he walked to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee, then looked around. Murphy nodded, and Machen approached.
“Morning, Colonel. How’s Valerie doing?”
“Morning, Paul. She’s okay… Very busy, up on the Hill.”
“Suppose so. You’re here early, ain’t you?”
Murphy shrugged and grinned. “Thought it might be interesting in the square today, Paul.”
Deputy Machen scowled. “Ain’t nothing happening in the square today, Colonel.”
Without a word, he turned away and paid for his coffee, then walked out the door.
Murphy took a sip of his coffee and kept watching the square, as Kenny played a video game on the handheld. Dale Whitt’s ancient brown pickup truck, loaded high with equipment, was pulling into the square. Voices in the restaurant dropped. Looked like Murphy wasn’t the only person who had positioned himself to see events unfold.
Machen sat on the trunk of his patrol car and waited for the ancient pickup, which came to stop right behind him. Whitt stepped out of the truck, nodded to Machen, climbed into the bed of the truck and began untying equipment. Murphy could tell the Deputy was saying something angry from the expression on his face. Whitt looked up from the speaker he was working on, and said something to Machen with a winning smile, which seemed to infuriate the Deputy. The spectators in the restaurant gasped when Machen pitched his coffee cup at Whitt, narrowly missing him and the equipment. The Deputy stomped to his vehicle, a scowl on his face, then got in and sped off.
Whitt shook his head and continued his work. After a few minutes, apparently finished, he spread a campaign banner across back of the truck: “Whitt for Senate. Give me Liberty or Give me Death.”
Murphy groaned. That was too much. Way too much.
Moments later Whitt made his way into the diner. He spotted Murphy on entering. “Morning, Colonel. Can I join you?”
“Only if you tell me what it was you said that sent Paul Machen off sulking like a two year old.”
Whitt chuckled and sat down, then said hello to Kenny. The boy nodded, not looking up from his game.
“I just asked him if the sheriff knew he was here, or was he visiting on behalf of his daddy. Sure pissed him off. What do you think that means?”
Murphy nodded. “Probably means you’re going to have some trouble with him before the day is out.”
“I expect so,” Whitt said.
The waitress approached.
“Can I get a cup of coffee?” Whitt asked.
“Only if you promise not to throw it at me,” she said, her voice low and sly.
Murphy and Whitt laughed, then talked for a bit about local politics. These were dangerous times, but there was still local business to worry about, crops to bring in, coal to bring out of the ground.
Every time someone entered the building, the little bell over the swinging door chimed, and Murphy glanced up. So he saw the federal agents before Whitt did. Whitt went on talking about the latest news from Charleston until Murphy held up his hand, palm forward, signaling him to stop.
Two men, both in black suits and dark ties entered the restaurant. Both had the seasoned look of long-time DHS agents: well muscled, a little bit menacing. Earpieces in their right ears were connected to barely visible wires that led under their shirts. Both had bulges under their coats. Dark sunglasses made it impossible to see where they were looking. Their overall appearance was so stereotypical it might have been funny if hadn’t been so menacing. Murphy reminded himself that just a few weeks before, he might not have thought of them as menacing at all. A lot had happened since then.
One of the agents went to the counter and ordered two cups of coffee. The other stood in the center of the room and scanned it, turning a full circle in the room, then stopped and seemed to fixate on the table where Murphy and Dale Whitt sat.
Everyone in the diner was silent as the two men stood there, one waiting for his order. Murphy’s skin crawled; the fear in the room was palpable, the only noise coming from the cook behind the counter, and from his son’s video game.
These are the men who are supposed to be protecting us, Murphy thought. They’ve twisted that beyond all recognition. Instead of protecting Americans, they watched them. Instead of guarding the nation’s liberties, they were steadily eliminating them.
It turned his mind back to the Esther Rosen case, a few years back. Rosen was a private attorney, and something of an eccentric. She had taken on Hamas as a client in a federal lawsuit challenging their designation by the DHS as a terrorist organization, arguing that their humanitarian activities were separate from their militant ones. Rosen disappeared in the middle of the lawsuit. Media speculation had been rife: had she been kidnapped or murdered? Had her terrorist clients gone crazy and done her in?
Then she turned up in Australia, of all places, and told a story that should have been instructive to all Americans. She had been arrested by the DHS, and in a secret tribunal stripped of her American citizenship in the absence of counsel or any contact with her family. After four years, she’d finally been released and put on a plane out of the country, stateless.
The citizenship provision, passed in the early part of the century, had rarely been used, but it allowed for the government to strip someone of their citizenship involuntarily if associated with terrorist groups. Had anyone imagined it would be turned against attorneys in the middle of a lawsuit?
What struck Murphy about the case was that there was a temporary splash in the media, a small scandal, but one that wasn’t that juicy—no sex, no murders, just a plodding beauracracy rolling over someone’s life. He didn’t know how it had turned out, what had happened to Rosen in the end. Was she still in Australia? Sitting here now, with this menacing federal agent staring at him in a public restaurant, he desperately needed to know. Murphy was no fan of anyone who dealt with terrorists like Hamas—he’d served in one too many combat zones dealing with car bombs and suicide bombers to have any sympathy for her. At the same time—secret tribunals and midnight arrests? That wasn’t the country he’d grown up believing in.
The moment passed, and the agents got their coffee and left the hostile restaurant. Conversation resumed, though hushed; as if some residue from the DHS remained.
“Dale,” the waitress called. “Isn’t that your truck over there?”
“Hmmm?” Whitt said and looked up. A bright red tow truck had parked in front of Whitt’s pickup, and the driver was jacking it up. Murphy shook his head. He’d known the thrown coffee cup wouldn’t be the end of it.
“Oh, damn,” Whitt said, and stood. “Heather, can I come back and settle up in a little while?”
“You go on.”
Whitt stepped outside and trotted across the street. Murphy stood and leaned down to his son. “You stay here,” he said. Kenny nodded, and Murphy stepped outside the front door.
Machen stood across the small street, writing in his citation book.
“Deputy, I suggest you stop this game right now,” Whitt said, his voice pitched just a little too high.
Machen grinned. “What game is that, Mr. Red Communist? Is this your truck?”
“You know it is.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m having it impounded. As you can see, it is not displaying license tags, and it is parked illegally. You can pick it up at the County impound lot on Monday morning.”
“God damn it, Machen,” Whitt shouted. “You know this truck is licensed. What’d you do with the plate? Is it in your goddamn car?”
“Mr. Machen, you are dangerously close to obstructing an officer. I’m not going to have to take you in, am I?”
“I’ll have your badge for this, you son of a bitch.”
“Mr. Whitt, I’m afraid I’m placing you under arrest. Please hold your hands out to your side.”
Whitt’s face flushed. “I’ll do no such thing,” he shouted, inches away from Machen’s face.
The younger man shoved Machen back, then reached for his belt and pulled out his baton.
“Sir, please place your hands behind your head, right now.”
That was enough. Murphy stepped into the street and approached the scene. “Paul Machen, you know as well as I do this is wrong.”
The deputy glanced over at him, his face red with anger. “I don’t know any such thing, Colonel.”
Whitt had stepped back from Machen, apparently realizing events had turned a dangerous corner.
“Deputy, you need to rethink this,” Whitt started. He did not finish, because Machen cracked the baton across his chest.
“Hands behind your head, now. Lace those fingers together.”
As Whitt complied, Murphy noticed a large crowd was gathering from around the square, watching the situation. They were folks early for the rally scheduled to start in a little over an hour. They did not look happy as Machen grabbed one of Whitt’s wrists and twisted it around behind his back, cuffed it, then pulled the other one down.
“Dale Whitt, I’m placing you under arrest for assaulting an officer, obstruction of an officer conducting official business, and for resisting arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”
“I also have the right to sue you for violating my civil rights. Do you understand that?”
“Personally,” Machen answered, “you can kiss my ass with your civil rights.”
Murphy spoke urgently. “Deputy Machen, you’re making a big mistake.”
“You want to shut the hell up, Colonel?”
Someone in the crowd hissed.
“Deputy’s gunning to be a DHS agent,” someone said.
“You gonna arrest us too?” a young woman shouted.
“Come on, Deputy. Why don’tcha arrest all of us. I’m sure you can make up something to charge us with.”
Machen flinched back from the menacing crowd and shoved Whitt ahead of him, toward the patrol car. His eyes cut over to the federal agents across the square taking pictures with a telescopic lens.
“What you looking at
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