Sweat (19 page)

Chow Ying kept his eyes straight ahead and followed the edge of the road until the sidewalk gave way to a small path that led into Dolly Madison Park. Marching forward according to the map in his head, Chow Ying passed an elderly man walking a small dog and a blonde trophy housewife at the end of her evening jog. Chow Ying stopped for a moment on a footbridge spanning a small stream, looked at the water rushing through two large rocks, and continued over the bridge before turning left. He checked the direction of the road over his shoulder as the streetlights came on, the sun now beyond the horizon. He walked casually down the increasingly dark path, heading north, following the sound of the stream as it made its way toward the Potomac, still several miles away.

An hour later, Chow Ying stepped off the path and into the woods. It wasn't his first time off the path, but it was the first time with intention. Looking around, he pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. Power lines hidden in the darkness nearby provided a steady hum to the air. A dog barked in the distance as Chow Ying popped the end of the light into his mouth and held it between his teeth.

He reached into his back pocket and unfolded the map he had printed out from the computer terminal at the MLK Public Library between Chinatown and the old D.C. Civic Center. The printout was a hybrid map from an application a twelve-year-old boy in the library had referred to as Google Maps. The Asian kid with the bright backpack and skateboard had shown Chow Ying a thing or two, just to get the Mountain of Shanghai out of the way for the real computer users. Whatever magic the kid had performed, Chow Ying now had a satellite photo of his target blended together with a roadmap and local geographical features.

Chow Ying's eyes settled on the paper and he flipped the map ninety degrees in the ray of illumination. He checked the streets, the contour lines of the land, and the boundaries of the park. Feeling confident, he twisted the light until it went off. He rested in the dark for a moment, letting his eyes readjust to the night. The streetlights from a cul-de-sac on the hill in the distance, combined with his uncanny sense of direction, told him he was close.

The last mile was uphill and the progress through the pathless woods was slow. Trying to remain silent and move forward on uneven terrain in unknown territory was something for trained military and backwoods hunters. Chow Ying, born and raised on the streets of Beijing, was neither. With each stumble in the darkness he fought the urge to use his light. But he knew there would be nothing more suspicious than a lone beam of light in the woods behind ten million dollar homes.

At the top of the hill, Chow Ying stopped for a rest. He first put his hands on his knees and then succumbed to the urge to take a seat on a large rock protruding from the earth near the crest of the slope. He did his best to remove the twigs and leaves that had hitched a ride on his clothes and in his hair. He swiped at his body, having no idea if he was successful in his attempt to clean himself. He ran his fingers through his ponytail in a final effort to look civilized, to look like anything but a criminal.

Chow Ying checked the printout again and looked at the neighborhood. From the woods he saw the side view of a house with a massive fountain in the middle of the circular driveway and a small fishing pond complete with a tiny pier. It was the same house as in the satellite photo, the same house three doors down from the red circle on his map. Ten miles by subway, a twenty-minute bus ride, a dark hike through the woods, and Chow Ying found himself three houses away from his goal. Not bad for a guy from the city, he thought to himself.

He kept to the back of the property lines as he moved toward his target, his shape melting into the darkness, his feet bouncing slightly on the edge of perfectly manicured lawns. A direct view and bright lights from another neighbor forced him into the woods again and he snapped his way through fallen brush as he walked up another lot. Arriving, he stopped on the backside of a massive fence and ran his hands along the boards, looking up at the top of the eight-foot wooden structure that enclosed the yard.

He looked around at the shapes and shadows in the woods, and jumped once in an attempt to see over the top of the fence. He put his hands on the top of the wood and tugged, testing the structure for strength. Satisfied, he pulled himself up for a better look into the yard. Feet hanging, his frame suspended, Chow Ying peered over the fence. He looked left and right, and without returning his feet to the ground, flung his leg to the top of the fence and flipped his body over. The Mountain of Shanghai landed with a resounding thud that came with two hundred thirty pounds of muscle hitting the earth according to Newton's magic formula.

The Mountain of Shanghai crouched in the corner of the yard, looking out past a Japanese garden, a gazebo, and a swimming pool with its soft blue water gently circulating on the surface. The large glass windows on the back of the home offered a dollhouse view into the life of the super rich and he felt a pang of envy.

He let the atmosphere of the yard surround him and realized the fence was a blessing in disguise. It eliminated the chance of being spotted by a nosey neighbor, or worse yet, a nosey neighbor with an itchy trigger finger. With the fence and the size of the yard, Chow Ying only had one thing to worry about: the eighteen-thousand-square-foot mansion directly in front of him. He fought the urge to sit, have a smoke, and enjoy the evening.

Standing from his crouch, he moved slowly toward the house for a better look, trying to blend into the night and the large Japanese garden. A light in the house stretched from the kitchen into a family room that had never held a family, the plasma TV on the wall large enough to watch from the pool. A faint light peeked through closed blinds in a window on the second floor.

Chow Ying wiped the sweat from his forehead and swiped at a mosquito buzzing in his ear. When his forward path was cut off by the screened gazebo, he veered left and paused at the small walkway that meandered through the garden. He crouched again, and scanned the house for details. His eyes caught a small open kitchen window, the curtains swaying gently in the breeze. He measured the size of the window with his eyes and quickly decided his large frame wouldn't fit without a crash course in contortion. He considered his options. He was starting to favor plan B: showing up during the day, posing as a delivery man, forcing his way into the house, and overpowering the hired help. Then he could wait for Peter to come home, do him quick and dirty in the foyer, and leave the neighborhood in one of the finest cars Winthrop money had bought.

Chow Ying wanted a little closer look. Just a glance into the house to see the floor layout, to make things easier. He stared at the path leading through the garden to the swimming pool and paused to listen to the chirp of summer crickets. Slowly he put his foot on the path, breathing heavily. He took five consecutive steps on the large white stones, and when he passed a pair of traditional Asian lanterns standing on posts, the garden illuminated and the spotlights attached to the corner of the house came to high-wattage life.

Chow Ying froze for a moment, not sure what had happened, and then dove to his left for cover. He scampered forward on all fours through the rocks to the edge of a small bridge overlooking a pool of carp. He tried to hug the ground, to become invisible.

Inside, Camille was putting the finishing touches on her toenails while watching the broadcast of a Mexican game show. The bright lights on the motion detectors forced Camille from the bed in her maid quarters on the second floor. She shuffled slowly to the window, trying to keep her toes extended upward, and looked out into the backyard through the blinds. Crouched underneath the edge of the bridge, Chow Ying held his breath. Minutes passed and the motion-activated lights finally switched off, casting the yard back into darkness. Chow Ying waited before slowly crawling back to the edge of the path. He had choices. Continue toward the house, go through the small fish pool stocked with carp, or go back the way he came and endure a second trip past the hidden laser eye that had illuminated the yard. It was an easy decision. The next move he made would bring the lights on again. He checked his watch and waited another twenty minutes before making a break for it. Five seconds after breaking into a run, his huge frame was lunging toward the top of the fence.

The second blast of lights sent Camille to the window again, this time with the phone in her hand and her finger on the speed dial for 911. Peter Winthrop had given her strict orders. When in doubt, call the police. Words of wisdom from a man with as many enemies as friends. Peter had built the fence and installed high-tech security for a reason. Camille scanned the yard carefully before putting the phone on the bed.

Just beyond the wall to the Winthrop fortress, Chow Ying writhed in agony. Between whispered curses he bit his forearm to distract himself from the pain emanating from his ankle. He tried to stand and cursed in Chinese. It was going to be a long night.

Senate committees do not create legislation, but they do influence the law-making process. Their history was the history of the country itself. Sometime between the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Louisiana Purchase, a group of U.S. Senators in a meeting room in Philadelphia realized they were being asked to craft law on every subject known to man; a rapidly growing list of possibilities in a rapidly growing country. Even the predecessors to the modern politician were apprehensive about spending time on issues that impacted something as impersonal as the general well-being of the country. “Self before voters before country” has long been the unofficial motto of the one hundred elected officials in the Senate and their four hundred thirty-five counterparts in the House. There was no sense in being an elected official if you couldn't give yourself a fighting chance at continuing life as one. And the only way to remain in office was to cater to your constituents. Or at the very least, give the impression you were. A thoughtful, patriotic senator with their eye on the national picture could work themselves right out of a job if they weren't careful. Faced with that possibility, committees were born.

Committees are part investigative, part research, part dog and pony show. They look at the issues, listen to the testimony of so-called experts, create experts where they don't exist, and discuss pending legislation ad nauseam. They have investigative powers, empowered by the executive branch and based on fear and manipulation. Armed with their rendition of the facts, they present their findings to the rest of the Senate for legislative consideration. As faulty as the process is, in two hundred years, no one has come up with anything better.

For a final time, Senator Day read the letter delivered to his office days before by an anonymous Asian figure. He needed the support of three specific senators on one hotly contested topic. He had a plan, and he straightened himself in the mirror before he left his office and walked down the hall. It was time for the marionette show to begin. Senator Day on stage, dancing and twirling under wires that, unbeknownst to the actor, were controlled by C.F. Chang. They were wires Senator Day was trying to cut. But until he knew the seamstress with his child was no longer a threat to his career, he was going to perform like a star in an off-Broadway dance musical. Costume, high kicks, and all.

Senator Grumman's voice was still rattling the crystal glass on his desk, small circular waves rippling across his morning orange juice. Grumman, the self-proclaimed great senator from the even greater state of Mississippi, thumped his Bible as hard as anyone on The Hill. His flock of staunch Republicans, from generations of staunch Republicans, followed the senator with blind faith. He got the votes because he ran with God as his running mate, and there are fewer things more important than that in Oxford or Jackson or Biloxi, and the hundreds of small towns in between.

And Grumman had charm. The kind of personal charm that God-fearing southern preachers had. Southern preachers, charlatans, and the occasional trial lawyer. Grumman was born in the most poverty-stricken county in Mississippi, appropriately named Quitman, a name which most of the male population mistook as a directive when it came to employment. For Senator Grumman, it was a fortunately unfortunate birthplace, and one he touted every chance he got. The fact that he wasn't really
from
Quitman was a tidbit of info Senator Grumman left out of the story. He didn't announce, especially during an election year, that his parents were only in Quitman for a spell to help raise funds and rebuild a church that had been wiped out by a tornado. A convincing politician from poor Quitman County was more appealing to the southern constituents than the truth—a former cotton plantation owner's grandchild. Grumman, graying hair, ever-present red suspenders, and adorner of an ostentatious set of gold cufflinks in the shape of a crucifix with Jesus on them, was a growing figure on the Hill. And he believed that the Good Lord had blessed him with a position to bless himself.

“Senator Grumman,” Senator Day said, entering Grumman's office with his hand extended.

“Senator Day. How is the wife?”

“She is fine. Just fine.”

“And the soon-to-be-baby?”

“Both are well. Thank you for asking.”

“Have a seat, please,” Grumman said, slowly finding his. “How can I help you, Senator?”

“I wanted to talk politics for a minute.”

“Hell, asking me to talk politics is like asking a fat man to talk about food. Shoot,” Grumman said with a heavy Southern drawl, his bushy eyebrows moving as much as his mouth.

“As you know, the Special Committee is due to give its recommendation to the Senate on overseas job flight and an international minimum wage.”

“Yes, Senator, I am aware of the upcoming need for a decision.”

Senator Day laid his best idea on the table with confidence. “Well as Chairman of the Special Committee, I can propose that the recommendation be made in a variety of formats.”

“Yes, Senator Day, as Chairman, that is within your rights. But you know senators don't like venturing too far from the standard mark-up process.”

“Yes, of course. Everyone likes the mark-up process. Everyone gets to have their say, common language is agreed upon in a document that is incomprehensible to the average person, and no one can be held accountable for their opinion because one is never individually voiced. Together, we all write up a nice bill-recommendation to the Senate, and there is no ill-will.”

“That's just the way things are done.”

“Most of the time. But for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor we are going to have a vote. Twelve committee members. Everyone on record.”

“Fine with me, Senator. It's only a committee vote. It's only a recommendation. Any proposal we agree to will have to pass the Senate as a whole no matter how the vote goes.”

“Yes, Senator Grumman it does. And with that in mind, I would like to discuss your view on the direction of the committee.”

“No offense Senator. I know you are the Chair, but Overseas Labor is one of the ugliest topics to rear its head on the Hill this session.”

“There are a lot of committees vying for that title,” Senator Day answered. Both senators laughed at the inside joke, a joke that would have cost them ten thousand votes apiece if anyone were listening.

“So what about it?”

“I understand, to the best of my knowledge, the committee is leaning toward blocking an international minimum wage system for multinational companies doing business in certain foreign countries. I certainly know how I'm going to vote, and I have a pretty good idea how the rest of the group will fall out.”

“A minimum wage is about the only move we have to stop American companies from sending every damn job we have to China and India. We are heading down a slippery slope here in the U.S. We are eliminating jobs Americans need. Good Americans. Let me pose a question, Senator.”

“Please.”

“What percent of Americans go to college?”

“Nearly twenty-five percent.”

“So some seventy-five percent do not have college degrees.”

“That's the math.”

“This seventy-five percent is the working class. The garbage men, the security guards at the mall, the factory workers.”

“Yes, sir. They are.”

“There are over three hundred factories in the state of Mississippi, making everything from ladders to furniture to rebuilt diesel engines. Three hundred factories, ten thousand jobs, supporting fifty thousand men, women, and children. That is a lot of mouths to feed, Senator Day.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“With that in mind, what did you come here to discuss?”

“A vote in favor of support for overseas labor. A vote against an international minimum wage would be, to put it as plainly as I can, in my best interest.”

“Senator, I know you support overseas labor. I know you have manufacturing constituents with overseas interests. But things in the Northeast aren't the same as the concerns of the Deep South. Mississippi is not sitting on Harvard or M.I.T. Mississippi doesn't have a major U.S. city within its borders. It does not have one of the largest ports in the U.S. It does not have a thriving financial district. Manufacturing is all Mississippi has left. Hell, it's all we ever had. Except for cotton.”

Senator Day waited for the initial storm clouds to blow over. On Capitol Hill, waiting was a profession in itself. In a world of talkers, a conversation was never dead.

“You're also on the Education Reform Committee aren't you?” Senator Grumman asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You believe in the ‘No Child Left Behind' movement, don't you?”

“Yes, actually I do.”

“How about the ‘No State Left Behind' movement?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Mississippi ranks forty-seventh in education. We have been asking for additional education funding for years and we haven't received one Indian Head nickel. Did you know there are only six public schools in the whole state of Mississippi where students can access the internet? Six schools.”

“I was not aware of that.”

“How many schools in Massachusetts have internet-access?

“I'm not sure of the exact number.”

“More than six?”

“Yes, I'm sure it is more than six.” Senator Day gave his first offer in the negotiation. “I will see to it that you get approval for the education funds your state is requesting.”

“That's good…for starters,” Senator Grumman said, looking out the window, hiding his smile. Sensing a fish on the line, the senator from Mississippi set the hook and started reeling. He spilled his tears over state roads, and the need for a larger chunk of federal funds for Mississippi asphalt.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Well then, I guess there is only one thing left.”

“What's that, Senator Grumman?”

“What are you going to do for
me
?”

Senator Day read between the thick dark lines. Another check, another payoff. A personal endorsement to the re-elect Senator Grumman fund, available for immediate withdrawal. Senator Grumman pulled out a cigar as Senator Day left his office. Orange juice and a Cuban, the breakfast of champions. He had reason to celebrate. Senator Day had just guaranteed the great senator his re-election.

One vote down, two to go.

The Rupp Building was the oldest office facility still in use by members of the U.S. Senate, standing two doors down from the U.S. Supreme Court with its impressive staircase and soaring Roman columns. The Supreme Court blocked the morning sun, casting an a.m. shadow of righteousness that appropriately stopped at the foot of the Rupp Building and Senator Al Wooten's office on its east side.

Senator Al Wooten, ex-college basketball player and Oxford scholar, was the tallest official in the Senate. He was also on a permanent vacation and wasn't afraid to let everyone outside of his constituents know it. He was in his first term, planned on a second one, and as long as he played it cool, he figured he would set a record for Senate tenure. He had reached the apex of his career. He had no ambition to go further. Why should he? He knew life couldn't get any better, and he was willing to do anything to remain where he was. Six years was a long time between elections. He had four more years of R&R ahead of him. With good health, good luck, and good weather, he would be shooting par at Congressional by the start of his next term.

Senator Wooten was a man of many words, and not afraid to use each and every one of them. The gregarious senator showed up for votes on the Senate floor without fail. He made sure to give his two cents on whatever the issue was, just to be on record, proof to his constituents that he was hard at work. What no one knew was that Senator Wooten pushed the electronic vote button at his assigned seat in the capitol with the randomness of a roulette wheel. Less for the really important issues, the ones that affected him directly, he let lady luck form public policy.

He had developed numerous voting systems, all equally lacking in political acumen. Who cared how he voted? How many constituents actually follow the votes of their senators and congressman on a daily basis?

Exactly.

Senator Wooten's favorite vote-deciding factor was the number of guests in the far section of the visitor's balcony. An even number of visitors earned a “no” vote. An odd number ensured a “yes.” The Anti-Deforestation Bill, and millions of century-old hardwoods, had passed by a single vote, thanks to the elderly gentleman with the cane who returned from the bathroom just as the senator was ready to lower his thumb.

The fact that Senator Wooten didn't care how he voted didn't mean he underestimated the value of a vote. Senator Day came to find out how much it would cost for the senator to put down the flip of the coin for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor.

Senator Day walked into Senator Wooten's office and announced himself. “He is waiting for you,” Senator Wooten's middle-aged secretary answered, her wire-frame glasses hanging around her neck by a silver chain.

The opening conversation was a rerun of the one he had just had with Senator Grumman. Senator Day forced his way through the niceties with a smile, as if it had been years since anyone had asked him about his life, his wife, or his upcoming child. He explained the vote at the upcoming Senate committee, and Senator Wooten understood.

“So you want me to change my opinion and vote against an international minimum wage,” Senator Wooten asked, cutting to the chase after five minutes of heavy hints and innuendo.

“Well Senator, I'm never sure what anyone's opinion really is until I see how they vote, so I can't say whether I'm trying to change yours.”

“Senator Day, it wouldn't get me very far if I told you I was ready to go along with a vote in favor of a bill that would lead to more overseas job flight. You're here for a reason. If I tell you I was ready to vote in favor of overseas labor, what would that get me? Votes aren't free, Senator. So for the sake of progressing this conversation to a mutually beneficial conclusion, let's assume I am voting against overseas labor. Let's assume I am in favor of an international minimum wage for U.S. firms doing business overseas. Let's assume I believe legislation is the only thing that will drive jobs back to the U.S.”