The Loyal Nine (33 page)

“Listen, John, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for my nephew,” said Samuel. “He’s thoroughly enjoyed his tour as 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marine Regiment’s commander, but the Marine Corps has a tendency to move its personnel around—and Brad is due for a reassignment. My brother likes having him close by, and I think you will agree his position could be advantageous at some point.”
I know, Samuel, who do you think put him there in the first place?

“Do not concern yourself with this, Samuel,” said Morgan, patting his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’d make a fine commanding officer for the 25
^th
Marine Regiment, located right at Fort Devens. Brad will have a long tenure at Fort Devens.”

“John, it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank you,” said Bradlee.

The catering manager approached and stood inconspicuously to the side, waiting courteously for them to finish their conversation.

“Give me a moment, Samuel,” said Morgan, acknowledging the manager’s presence.

“Sir, is there a particular time you would like lunch to be served?” asked the manager.

Morgan looked at his watch, noting that it was 11:40.

“Begin your preparations now, and have all courses except dessert delivered before noon,” said Morgan.

“Very well, sir. We will commence immediately,” said the manager.

Morgan wanted to speak with one more guest before lunch was served. He found Paul Winthrop stuck in a conversation with Lawrence Lowell.

“Lawrence, may I borrow Paul for just a moment?” asked Morgan. “Lunch will be served shortly.”

“Yes, absolutely, John. It is so good to see you again, Paul,” said Lowell before he flagged down the waiter for another cocktail.

Morgan turned his attention to the descendant of one of Massachusetts Bay Colony’s earliest settlers, and its first acting governor.

“Paul, thank you for coming,” said Morgan.

Winthrop’s cousin, Henry Winthrop Sargent III, was Morgan’s best friend, and father to Morgan’s godsons, Sarge and Steven. Morgan felt a special kinship with the Winthrops and Sargents.

“I want to apologize for not keeping you in the loop regarding the matter in Switzerland last month. You do understand why the course of action was necessary?” Morgan examined Winthrop carefully while he answered.

“Of course I do, John,” said Winthrop. “I would prefer to keep abreast of these matters, but I understand the need for secrecy.”

“The direction of the talks had taken an unexpected turn, and I needed to take immediate action,” said Morgan. “This will benefit us all, despite the ruffled feathers.”

“Absolutely, John,” said Winthrop. “Ah, it appears our lunch is on its way.”

In a room full of men accustomed to occupying the power seat in board meetings, diplomatic talks and other high-level functions, John Morgan strode unopposed to the head of the table as their de facto leader—a title none of them had ever disputed. He waited patiently for everyone to gather around the table.

The business ahead of them was nothing short of monumental. By the time they emerged from the room, the next President of the United States would be decided. These nine men, representing the wealthiest and most powerful families since the country’s founding, would once again shape the nation for years to come.

In reality, Morgan knew today’s luncheon was a mere formality. Their course of action had already been decided, but tradition demanded the formal meeting, which had taken place since 1860. The group’s presidential nominee had won every election for the last 156 years, except for one. 1992. Ross Perot represented the one case in history where no amount of money or promise of power could sway the result. They had briefly considered other methods, but the group decided that either incumbent would favor their interests. As it turned out, the Clinton years represented one of the group’s most prosperous eras—money and power held great sway in that administration.

A small cadre of waiters simultaneously placed their lunches on the table, making final adjustments before withdrawing from the room. Morgan looked to Malcolm Lowe and nodded for him to secure the doors. They were ready to begin.

“Gentlemen, as is customary—a toast,” said Morgan.

Everyone stood, raising their glasses.

“To Boston,” said Morgan. The room echoed his words—
To Boston
.

“To our forefathers,” said Morgan.
To our forefathers.

“To God and Country,” said Morgan.
To God and Country.

“To the Boston Brahmin,” said Morgan, raising his glass high.
To the Boston Brahmin
came the reply.

“Now, let’s get down to business,” said Morgan.

For the next forty-five minutes, the executive committee of the Boston Brahmin discussed the fate of the presumed nominees for President. Hillary Clinton was the front-runner for the Democratic nomination, and it was widely anticipated Mrs. Clinton would effectively secure the nomination next week during the “winner-takes-all” primaries in her adopted home state of New York, and in Pennsylvania, Connecticut and Rhode Island. Morgan had to reassure them that she could be controlled. She’d focus on domestic issues and allow them to advance their geopolitical goals when the need arose.

On the Republican side, the nomination was undecided based on early opinion polls. Primaries in the northeast favored the underdog, Senator Rand Paul, while most of the contested states favored Jeb Bush. None of the executive committee members favored these two candidates. While their politics favored Jeb Bush, the committee did not see him as a viable candidate against the powerful Clinton campaign. Senator Paul was a candidate the average American could understand, but his position on auditing the Federal Reserve, combined with his dove-like approach to the military, excluded him from consideration—
immediately
.

So it was settled, Hillary Clinton was the choice of the Boston Brahmin for President.
Status quo
—effectively a third term for the present occupant.

Once they agreed and everyone pushed away from the table, the waiters were allowed back in to refresh drinks. Bradlee pressed his face against the window and recoiled, pointing toward the streets below.

“My God, what’s happening down there?” exclaimed Bradlee.

Morgan checked his watch—12:45 p.m.

“It’s a riot or something. Look below,” said Winthrop.

From the Skywalk Observatory, fifty-two floors above Boylston Street, they saw throngs of people scattered in all directions in Copley Square.

This is what mayhem looks like
.

Chapter 54

April 18, 2016

Copley Square

Boston, Massachusetts

“Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” shouted the group marching westbound on Beacon Street.

Jarvis Rockwell—J-Rock to his boys—held his hands high over his head. He knew this was a waste of time, but when the good Reverend Al asked folks to come out and make their voices heard, he felt obligated to stand with his brothers from Mattapan, Roxbury and Dorchester. Protesting was not his thing, but he agreed to lend his support. The time for talk was over.

The crowd marched arm-in-arm past the fancy clothing stores on Boylston Street. More than a thousand men, women and children approached the Clarendon Street interchange, where they collided with the orange and white barriers blocking the entrance to Copley Square. J-Rock’s instructions were clear—
march through and do not stop; let your voices be heard
.

J-Rock was the leader of the Academy Homes gang located in Roxbury, one of several Boston gangs heavily invested in drug dealing, gunrunning and human trafficking. The gangs of Boston were divided by ethnicity—Asian, Hispanic and black. The Asian gangs were united by their leader, the White Devil, and ruled the area south of downtown Boston—Chinatown. The Hispanic gangs were controlled by the Central American cartel widely known as Mara Salvatrucha—MS-13. They predominantly operated in the East Boston ghettos, though they had recently started to spread wings and appear all over the city. The black gangs of Boston outnumbered both of these rival ethnicities, but they lacked unity.

They were divided along geographic “turf” lines. The Academy Homes gang, representing a large territory in central Roxbury near Martin Luther King Boulevard, boasted five hundred members. J-Rock rose up the ranks starting as a runner, and graduated to enforcer by age sixteen, when he committed a double murder against an encroaching gang. At age twenty-three, he was the undisputed leader of the Academy Homes gang. Of course, anyone in Roxbury that disputed his reign didn’t last very long.

“Baby, are you ready for this?” asked J-Rock, squeezing his pregnant girlfriend’s hand. Monique Perez had been his girl for almost a year and had become known as the
first lady
. With Perez six months pregnant, the two were considered Academy Homes royalty.

“I am, Jarvis,” said Perez, holding her stomach. “We need to stand up for ourselves. This is our time.”

J-Rock looked back and forth along the front line of the marchers. The gangs of South Boston stood together in solidarity—for the first time ever. He nodded to the two brothers who led the Castlegate Road Gang, grinning when they both flashed their gang sign and nodded back. Turning his head left, J-Rock gave a quick nod to the Franklin Field Boyz.
We may be shooting at each other next week, but today we’re brothers.

“Move those mutherfuckers,” said J-Rock. Two of his enforcers jogged ahead of the protest line, kicking down the barricades. Other members of the procession followed suit, quickly clearing the road of any obstructions. People within the barricades scattered to make room for the protesters, who picked up speed as they crossed St. James Avenue.

“Black lives matter! Black lives matter!” chanted the crowd.

The bodies pressed forward, and J-Rock started to feel the sheer power the group possessed.
They were getting the attention they deserved. The reverend was right!

Loud, shrill whistles filled the air, followed by a dozen or so Boston Police officers dressed in full riot gear with shields. They poured out of Copley Park, forming a tight skirmish line that blocked the protestors’ access to the Boston Marathon finish line. J-Rock hesitated, slowing just enough to be pushed forward by the crowd surging behind him. The two groups would collide if he didn’t slow down the procession, and he hated to think what might happen to Monique in the chaos that would unfold.

“We’ve got to slow down, baby,” said J-Rock. “Everybody slow down!”

J-Rock turned toward the advancing protestors with both hands raised high in the air. The group responded by raising their hands over their heads and shouting, “
Hands up, don’t shoot!”

“No, no, stop! Everybody stop!” screamed J-Rock, his desperate plea cancelled by the frenzy pushing against him.

The incensed mob pushed into the stiff line of police shields, which retreated several feet to give the protesters a chance to slow down. Bullhorns ordered the crowd to stop as dozens of additional police officers joined the newly formed line. J-Rock ran ahead of the group and turned to address the crowd. He was knocked into the advancing mob by one of the riot shields, where he was swallowed by the masses. No longer in control of the protesters, he furiously pushed his way toward Monique, who had been shoved into the police line.

Before J-Rock reached her, he was struck in the face with an expandable baton, which dropped him to his knees. He watched helplessly as a police officer slammed his shield into Perez, knocking her to the pavement, where another officer hit her over the head with his baton. J-Rock tried to crawl to her, but was swept to his feet by the people rushing toward the police.

When the police line broke moments later, several hundred infuriated protesters charged into Copley Park, hell-bent on tearing the finish line apart. In the process, they killed Monique’s baby and injured several protesters caught on the ground during the stampede. J-Rock never saw it happen. He was too busy fighting for his life by the time the crowd stopped.

Chapter 55

April 18, 2016

100 Beacon

Boston, Massachusetts

“Mommy, the protestors are back,” said Penny, poking her head into the room.

Susan left ahead of everyone to see what Penny was talking about. She and Donald had spent days trying to calm their daughters following the incident at the Chestnut Hill Mall. She found the girls standing in front of the bank of television screens, as “breaking news from Boston” filled her vision. Within moments, the rest of the room had joined them. Sarge raised the volume on the CNN-designated monitor.

“
Moments ago, we received reports that several dozen people were hurt in a melee near the finish line of this year’s Boston Marathon. The information we received from our reporters on the ground in Boston indicate a peaceful protest of the Black Lives Matter group was in the vicinity of Copley Square when fighting broke out with Boston police
.

“
To provide our viewers some context, the Boston Marathon is a twenty-six-mile race that stretches through Boston to its finish line on Boylston Street in front of the Boston Public Library. Race contestants finish the race throughout the afternoon from noon until 3:00 p.m. Today at approximately 12:45, a large group of activists with the Black Lives Matter movement were raising awareness of the senseless killing of former Boston Transit worker Pumpsie Jones. Reports indicate the march was proceeding peacefully from Boston Commons for several blocks until the group approached Copley Square. We have video provided by our CNN affiliate in Boston—WCVB
.”

Donald looked to Susan, who nodded her head.

“Girls, why don’t you come with me to see the beautiful paintings that Uncle Sarge received today,” said Susan.