America Rising (40 page)

“I have directed the FBI to begin an investigation into these incidents, and I can assure you that the perpetrators will be apprehended and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

The cover-up is already in progress.

“Now, about that proposition.”

Now bend over.

“You’ve come out of nowhere to capture the imagination of the American people, Mr. Doe. Yet they—and myself, for that matter—know almost nothing about you.”

There’s got to be dirt on you somewhere.

“These are perilous times for our country. Extremely perilous times.”

The natives are getting restless.

“I and everyone in this administration, in the business community as well, are working day and night to solve the problems that beset us. But they are many and complicated and, despite our best efforts, will take time to solve.”

It’s damn hard putting lipstick on this pig.

“The American people are impatient, I know. They’re angry and frustrated, and justly so. They want results, but results are in short supply right now.”

They’re tired of being fed bullshit and told that it’s foie gras.

“That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

Look out, here it comes.

“I would like to invite you to the White House, as my guest. You are obviously a man of the people, have traveled to many places in this great nation, have seen and heard much. I would like the benefit of that knowledge. Your insights, your advice. As president, it can be difficult to get outside the Washington bubble. A voice such as yours, a voice from the heartland, as it were, would give me great perspective.”

Just step right into this nice, cushy bear trap. It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.

“You have the ear of the American people, Mr. Doe. Together we can help defuse this crisis, ratchet down the anger and frustration, bring people together to solve our common problems without resorting to violence and demonstrations and threats against the businesses that make our prosperity possible.”

Maybe you can convince the suckers it really
is
foie gras.

“What do you say to my proposition, Mr. Doe?”

Say yes, you idiot.

“I’m flattered, Madam President. I really am. But I hardly have the kind of knowledge and influence, let alone insight, that you seek. Besides, I have much work yet to do here; we leave for Washington tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“Very well then. I’m disappointed but I accept your decision.”

Damn! He almost fell for it.

“Good day, Mr. Doe.”

Fuck you, you little twerp.

“Good day, Madam President.”

John Doe hung up and realized his hands were shaking. The entire staff of SayNo was clustered around him, listening intently, peering down at him as if he was on a slide under a microscope.

“What did she say?”

“What did she want?”

“What was she like?”

“Why did she call?”

“What are you going to do?”

The questions came at him like fastballs.

He stood and flailed his arms as if shooing away a flock of geese.

“It was nothing,” he said. “Really. Now can I please get back to work?”

* * *

On Thursday, July 1, the SayNo caravan left downtown New Orleans and headed north on I-55 for Memphis and Washington, D.C. It was composed of more than one hundred vehicles, from motorcycles and RVs to dented, wheezing beaters and expensive European sports cars. The caravan would stop overnight in Memphis, where it would be joined by similar convoys from points west, and from there travel on to Atlanta for another overnight stay and a brief visit to the Martin Luther King, Jr., National Historic Site. The next day the procession would travel to just outside Raleigh, North Carolina, where it would again stop for the night and move out early the next morning. The plan was to reach the National Mall around 9 a.m., three hours before the scheduled start of the New American Independence Day rally.

I brought up the tail end of the procession in a hastily rented sedan. After my interview and night out with John Doe there wasn’t much point in my flying back to Miami, and I wanted to stick around to see how a game-changing few weeks would play out. I’d also decided that it would be my last assignment for Public Interest. It was something that had been building in me for awhile; I no longer hungered for a ringside seat to what the news biz grandly calls “the events of the day.” I wanted to sit on the beach, to cook and fish and paint, to learn to play slide guitar, to see where things would go with AnnaLynn Conté, to retreat to my little castle in the Keys and let the world go to hell—or not—without me.

AnnaLynn and the rest of the staff of SayNo were already in D.C., making last-minute preparations and untangling the usual assortment of last-minute knots. John Doe and Sheila were in the convoy, his protectors too, I suppose, though I didn’t notice them and I’m sure nobody else did either. John, however, was treated like a rock star, mobbed at every stop, surrounded by adoring crowds that increased day by day.

My job was to observe and circulate, to chat up everyone who was willing, to file daily bits of “color”—anecdotes, observations, personal stories—and leave the heavy political lifting to PI’s New Orleans-based reporter. I wasn’t the only one who was busy. Nancy Elias’s minions had been hard at work too, rolling out a campaign to divert public attention from the journey and demonstration that had obviously been planned well in advance.

On July 1, just as the caravan was rolling out of New Orleans, the president held a press conference to announce the arrest of more than a dozen bankers and Wall Street executives on fraud, tax evasion and perjury charges, also the imposition of millions of dollars of fines and the introduction of a bill to allow judges to roll back underwater mortgages. It was left to a handful of independent news organizations and bloggers to point out that the executives were all mid-level types who wouldn’t wipe their asses without permission from their superiors, that the fines would eventually be dismissed or settled for pennies on the dollar, and that the bill had neither meaningful White House support nor a snowball’s chance in hell of passing.

On July 2 they went after John Doe. Not with a broadside of outrageous allegations but with the quiet planting of rumors that could destroy a person’s reputation and give the corporate media and right-wing noise machine the fuel to run amok for weeks. There were accusations of child abuse and drug addiction and of violence against women, assertions that Doe was both a terrorist sympathizer and an FBI informant, a rich brat taking the gullible for a ride and white-trash hustler conning his way to glory. The stories multiplied like rabbits. They offered no names, no facts, no proof. But it didn’t matter.

By the time the caravan, now approaching two hundred vehicles, pulled into Atlanta the rumors were all over the airwaves and Internet. Ed Bane cancelled his commercial break and harangued his listeners for six solid hours. President Elias offered a smarmy no comment. John Doe, looking pale but composed, denied every one. Sheila Boniface looked like she was chewing nails. But the crowds around them only got bigger and more adoring. They chased off one network reporter and her camera crew and chanted, “Lies, lies, lies!” during another TV airhead’s standup.

The attack on the third day, though, was born of such pure, unbridled cynicism it surprised even me.

* * *

“It didn’t work, Frank,” Nancy Elias said sourly, half-watching the computer monitor on her desk play an Internet feed of the SayNo caravan rolling out of New Orleans.

“I know,” said Frank Bernabe. “But it was worth a shot.”

The president sat up straight. “What do you mean, ‘I know’? Godammit, Frank, did
you
have the SayNo office bugged? I gave express orders that our taps be turned off before I called. So now you’ve got a tape of me begging that little shit Doe to please come to the White House and save my bacon? Goddam you, Frank.”

Frank Bernabe’s answer was a verbal shrug. “Come off it, Nancy. Did you really think I wouldn’t be keeping tabs on those assholes? When things are as bad as this? Don’t worry, there is no tape. I’m the only one who heard and, trust me, it won’t go any further.

“But this is bigger than your hurt feelings. The people I represent are out of patience. They think you’ve been too soft, that you’re afraid to make the hard decisions, that you’ve let things get out of control. Bill Bigby’s been breathing down my neck. He wants to bring the hammer down, bring it down hard. Declare martial law, round up these traitors, cancel that damn rally and march. I’ve always supported you, you know, trusted you to be able to defuse this situation without jeopardizing our interests.”

That was bullshit, of course. But he had to keep her on the hook, still believing she was in control. It wasn’t time to reel her in yet.

“I may be able to give you one last chance to handle it your way,” Frank Bernabe said. “But time is very short. Very short. Do we understand each other?”

Nancy Elias wanted to scream.

Too soft? Hard decisions? I just had a former Vice President of the United States murdered to keep him from spilling his guts! I’ve ignored god knows how many other murders, years of violence, intimidation, corruption up the yin-yang. Bent the law, the Constitution, morality like a pretzel, all for the greater glory and benefit of you and your “interests.” What the hell else do you want from me?

Nancy Elias wanted to say to say all this, to rage at Frank Bernabe, at his “people,” at the unfairness and injustice of it all. But she could only manage a choked, “Fine, Frank,” before quietly setting down the phone.

* * *

Frank Bernabe hung up and allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. So far, everything had gone according to plan. Nancy Elias had been maneuvered into position to take the inevitable fall. He’d worked his colleagues behind Bill Bigby’s back; now they saw him as a man betrayed by a weak and conniving politician. When he played the recording of the president’s humiliating conversation with John Doe, their opinion solidified. All that was left was for him to finish the undermining of Bill Bigby so when it came time for the iron fist, it would be at the behest of, and under the control of, Frank Bernabe.

There was still one thing that bothered him, though. John Doe’s guardians. Who possessed that kind of expertise with weapons, tactics, intelligence? Who could operate with such impunity right under the nose of the modern American surveillance state? Who could take out not only Leland Elliott’s goons but an eleven-man black ops team skilled in urban warfare?

There could be only one answer. The people who kidnapped Joe Josephson, who took John Hammer and ran off half of K Street. Who brought fear to the previously inviolable world of power and privilege, who executed their mission to bring down the system Frank Bernabe spent his life building with the same cunning and ruthlessness he exercised in protecting it. It was more important than ever for these people to be found and terminated. Once he had the country locked down he would redouble his efforts to see that happen.

But first things first. He picked up the phone and rang Edward Foster. “This is Mr. Flowers,” he said. “That black site of yours in West Virginia—I want you to get it ready. I’ll be sending you a list of names. . .”

* * *

As “Mr. Flowers” was hanging up the phone, Nancy Elias was contemplating her future. It was bleak. Without Frank Bernabe’s support, her presidency was just as good as over. She wished Ray Carmody was still here. He was the only one she really trusted, whose advice she trusted, who had her own best interest at heart. She felt awful, forcing him to resign. But he’d lost his nerve, was deteriorating before her eyes. It was all so very, very sad. She lingered on her regrets for a moment, then punched up the White House intercom and said, “Tory, come see me, please.”

Tory Brewer was her new chief of staff. She was Ray Carmody’s former deputy, also his protégé, friend and one-time mistress. Nancy Elias waited for an answer. When none came she said again, irritation showing, “Tory, come see me.”

“I’m. . . I’m here, Madam President.”

That wasn’t what she expected. Tory Brewer could barely speak. Her voice was broken, halting. She sounded like she’d been crying. “He’s dead!” she finally sobbed, the dam breaking. “Ray’s dead!”

Nancy Elias froze, her hand still half-reaching for the intercom. It took awhile—she wasn’t sure how long—before she could will her hand to move. To ask in a voice that hovered on the edge of cracking, “How did he die?” But she already knew.

“He. . . He killed himself, Madam President. A pistol. The D.C. police found his body this morning in Rock Creek Park. I knew he was depress—”

“Goddam them,” the president said softly, her eyes moistening. “Goddam them all to hell!” She reached for a yellow legal pad and began writing.

* * *

I was in Atlanta, bored shitless, lounging in my hotel room, half-ignoring a generic police procedural plodding relentlessly across the TV screen. There was nothing in it to complete the thought that firsts fired my synapses during my interview with John Doe but it was there nonetheless. I flicked on my computer and began trolling. YouTube, mostly. News sites, city blogs, personal blogs. It was just a hunch, a wild hair. But what the hell, I told myself. You never know.