CHAPTER SEVEN

“I don’t claim to be a well educated man. I’m no lawyer or doctor. But I do

think I’ve got a fair amount of common sense. I don’t wrestle with big

equations and mounds of papers in making up my mind on issues. I get

my answers the same way my grand-daddy did, with a little bit of

thought and a lot of heart. And when those men in their three-piece

suits and their PhD’s do all their thinking, all their examinations

and computer simulations and then come up with the same idea I’ve

already got—well, I feel really proud.

Samuel Parsons, A Rogue At Zero Hour

“Those of us in the American West understand fully that the days of shooting

from the hip are over. The attitude that gave us such things as the

Lincoln County War and gunfights at high noon has been

supplanted by the law of civilization. We have learned to

amicably air our differences in a peaceful and legal manner.”

Hal Simpson, Editorial in The Carlsbad Current Argus

Hal was in his office even earlier than usual the morning following General LaMonde’s speech. He had made his obligatory good-byes and left the building as quickly as he could. When he said under his breath that the man was a lunatic, he was talking to himself more than to Ruthie, but she heard him and thought he was making an attempt at some kind of conversation. He’s no lunatic, he’s a committed American, she had said. An American who should be committed, he thought to himself. To an asylum. He had a few more words with Ruth on the way home. She went to bed and he retired to his recliner. He slept fitfully, his slumber punctuated by bad dreams.

LaMonde in storm trooper uniform followed by the faces he knew from Fox News, all goose stepping to a melody he couldn’t identify. Behind them marched hundreds of young children, all in school uniforms, all with closely cropped hair. All marching forward, forward. They didn’t seem to be going anywhere but they marched ever forward.

Hillary gesticulating wildly on his television screen, but there was no sound. He kept punching his remote. A red danger light went off every time he pressed the damned button. But no sound. She seemed to be calling, pleading, cajoling. What was she saying? He moved to the television and placed his right ear to the screen. Nothing. He looked at the screen again. Hillary’s eyes closed and there was suddenly static. But still no sound.

Susan telling him they must move. Where, he had asked, but he couldn’t hear her reply. There was an immediacy in her demand, like she knew something awful was about to happen. Sounds far away, he could just barely make them out. What were they? Footsteps? They seemed to grow louder. And louder. Thousands of footsteps. He looked out the window. Children marching. Banners unfurled and blowing in the wind. He couldn’t make out what they said. Three-legged dogs chasing the marchers.

Christ, I’m lucky I slept at all, he thought to himself.

He signed off on the article about LaMonde’s speech. He didn’t agree with his reporter at all, but what the hell, he’d say what he had to say in his editorial. Advertising was a little off, nothing to worry about. Another rabbi attacked in Princeton; one witness, a homeless man, said he saw a man in black running away, that someone dressed like that had hassled him earlier in the day. Twelve more people murdered in Juarez. A few dozen people arrested in riots in Beijing. Another cop shot in a Seattle coffee shop. A man sentenced to the electric chair for the rape and brutal murder of his best friend’s grandmother; the lawyer who represented him was pinned down outside the courtroom by a crowd that then covered him with feces. Apparently, a couple cops watched from down the block and made no effort to interfere.

Another typical day at the races.

By the time Frank and Allen sauntered into his office at 4:30, he’d already finished the better part of a six pack.

“And the flavor of the week is . . .?” Allen asked.

“Tsing Tsao.”

“Good Lord,” Frank said. “Now even the beer is made in China? What the hell?”

“Hey, a little respect for your future masters,” Allen barked. Hal smiled.

Hal pulled two green bottles out of the fridge and removed the tops. Frank and Allen took their bottles and the three of them clinked the bottles together. “To better days,” Hal toasted. “To General LaMonde,” replied Frank. “May you live long and kiss my ass every morning,” Allen retorted. They each took a swig from their bottle. “Not bad,” said Frank. Out of the corner of his eye, Hal saw a blonde figure approaching his door.

“Gentlemen,” she said as she tapped her knuckles on the open door. “Is this a private party or is the bar open?” Susan paused to gauge Hal’s reaction. “I had to put an ad in about a change in clinic hours, so I thought I’d pop in and say ‘hi’,” she explained.

“C’mon in, Doc,” said Frank. “Grab a beer from Hal and you can sit by me.” Frank pulled the only other chair in the room next to his. Susan took the beer from Hal, smiled demurely and sat next to Frank. “You know, Sue,” Frank said slowly once Susan had wiggled comfortably into her chair, “they say behind every great man is a great woman.”
“Yeah, and they say behind every great woman is a great behind. Frank, you’re not still coming on to me, are you?” Susan fluttered her eyelashes as she finished her admonition.

“Would it get me anywhere?”

“Absolutely nowhere. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Oh, she went to some kinda meeting the church was having to raise money for the Parsons campaign. Guess I’m on my own for dinner. Hey, did you see the General’s speech last night?”

Susan smiled. “Me go to that fascist lovefest? No, I had more important things to do. I spent the night watching Dick Van Dyke reruns.”

Allen smiled. He knew Frank thought Susan was a lesbian. “So’d you guys see Pat Robertson called Obama the antichrist yesterday?” he asked while handing Hal his empty bottle in exchange for a fresh one.

“Well, heck, he’s already damned the gays and everybody in New Orleans, Haiti, and the entire Moslem world,” Hal said. “Who else was left to damn?”

“How old is that guy now?” asked Frank. “He must be at least 90.”

“You know,” Susan said in a soft voice as if she was sharing a secret, “the only reason he’s even still alive is that God doesn’t want him in his neighborhood any more than we want him in ours.” Frank looked at her. She grinned. Hal and Allen snickered. Frank groaned. “I don’t know that it matters what Robertson says,” Allen said, suddenly serious. “We all know the election already belongs to Parsons.”

“The only question is who he’s going to pick for his running mate,” Susan said. She was examining her beer bottle, seemingly deep in thought.

“He’s got a big speech scheduled in two days,” Hal said. “Maybe he’ll give some indication which way he’s leaning, but it’s a little early for that. You know, guys, my money’s on LaMonde. With all the brouhaha about how dangerous the world is, what better way to make your point than to put a military man on the ticket? He doesn’t bring onboard any particular state, but there’s a lot of support for LaMonde’s stand on nuking the Taliban. He could be a swing factor across the board. As if the swing was even necessary.”

“It’s like Parsons is the illegitimate love child of Nixon and Rove,” Allen said. “He’s full of spit and fire and in-your-face with the what-the-hell you’re doing wrong. But he’s put forth no alternative suggestions.”

“I dunno. Nuking the diaper heads sounds good to me,” Frank said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Hal.

“Well, yeah, a little. But there are a helluva lot of people out there who like that idea and besides, Holder said a few years ago we’d never take bin Laden alive. LaMonde’s a real force in the boonies.”

“You know,” Hal was speaking again, “I’m no Hillary fan.” He turned to Susan. “And she doesn’t have a great behind, either. And I’m definitely no Parsons fan. But I’ve followed every election since Johnson in ’64, and I think each one is a little seedier than the one before. But even so, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the grass roots . . . I don’t know. It’s more than discontent and unhappiness. Disgust? Hate? You know, as recently as when Bush Junior was in office, people would say whether or not you voted for him, he’s your President and he deserves your respect. They don’t say that with Obama in the Oval Office. Suddenly he’s your President, not mine. He’s not deserving of praise or respect or even the time of day. He’s different. He’s . . .”

“Black?” Susan offered.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Liberal used to mean pinheaded or naïve or Communist. Now it’s used to mean something sinister, something evil. Ask Rush whether he’d want to be known as a mother humper or a liberal, and he’ll pick mother humper every time. I don’t know. It’s like a scarlet ‘L’ they want to burn on your forehead. There’s just no civility.”

“I think I’m more scared than most people around here,” Susan said after a few moments silence. “I’ve been thinking about selling some property, becoming a bit more fluid. I’m truly worried about what Sam Parsons will do to this country.”

Hal sat upright. Canada. Anywhere but here. That’s what she’d said in his dream last night when she pleaded with him to move. Could she really be thinking that? Had she said something to him about this before and he missed it? No, he was sure she hadn’t. When the hell were Allen and Frank leaving so he could ask her?

One beer and two Hillary jokes later, Allen stood up to leave. Frank grabbed his jacket and gave Susan his best you-don’t-know-what-you’re-missing look and followed Allen out the door. Susan said her good-byes and left Hal’s office with them, though not before she nodded to Hal without being noticed, a sign that she would be home later that evening if he wanted to come by. Hal had stood up as they were all leaving, then he fell back into his chair and stared blankly at the wall, not focusing on anything in particular. When was the last time they’d discussed anything besides politics? He sighed, thought he’d have another beer and then thought better of it, wondered whether Ruth would even really notice when he’d say he’d have to come back to the office after dinner, and sighed again. He got up, pulled his windbreaker off the back of his chair and hit the light switch as he walked through the door.

The phone rang. He pivoted, turned the light back on and returned to his desk.

“Hey, Fuckwad, how ya doin’?” asked the voice at the other end. Fuckwad always sounded like the name of a jihadist when pronounced by his brother.

“Uh-oh, it’s the Feds,” Hal said smiling.

David was two years younger than Hal and had become the attorney Hal and his father always wanted to be themselves. For awhile, he had gone back and forth between private law and various district attorney positions, but he had been tapped to be a federal prosecutor in 2009 when the Democrats returned to the White House. He lived in Aurora, a suburb of Denver, and seemed quite happy with his single life and the freedom it held. Denver was close enough to visit on major holidays, but far enough away that weekend trips were impractical. The two brothers were close, but most of their contact these days consisted of tasteless jokes they forwarded to each other on the Internet. Phone calls weren’t frequent, but when they did happen, Hal always felt a warmth that he missed with his current family situation.

“Yeah, the Fed. Fed up, more likely.” Hal reached around, opened the refrigerator door, and popped open another beer. He could tell David wanted to talk. He got the obligatory small stuff out of the way. David was dating a cute brunette, her three kids were royal pains in the ass, an opposing attorney had come on to him, he wasn’t making enough money for the headaches he had. Then, cut to the chase.

“Look, Big Brother, I know this sounds dopey, but I’ve got to tell you, off the record, that I’m seeing a crapload of stuff that scares the shit out of me.” There was a pause; like in those movies, Hal thought, where the character everyone wrongly thinks is crazy pauses before telling the psychiatrist some deep dark secret. “The Parsons people have been here in force. The sonofabitch isn’t even nominated yet, let alone elected, and he’s got his people on the ground in our office wanting records, telephone conversations, all sorts of stuff. And not on the bad guys. On us. It’s happening in all sorts of federal offices all over the country.

“They’re sounding us out—what would we do if this law or that one was overturned or ignored. Do we feel guilty prisoners are entitled to all their rights? It’s like if they’re charged, they’re guilty. No mistakes. No trials. Slam, bam, you’re in prison, man. They’re like fucking Nazis or something.

“We’ve sent them packing every time they’ve shown up. But I hear some federal marshals and prosecutors and cooperating fully. I’ve heard even county and city attorneys have been visited. Mind you, none of this is sanctioned by the powers that still be.

“I’ve never seen organizing on a scale like this. I know these guys are the presumptive movers and shakers after January, but they’re not even waiting until November to hog in.”

Hal was quiet. Canada. He wasn’t sure where this was going. Away. Far away.

“Bro, these guys are going to win in November and they’re going to turn our world upside down. I’m just giving you a thumbs up. You might tone down that liberal rhetoric of yours and start saying nice things about King Samuel. These guys are likely to have a long memory. You don’t need to get in their way. After all, I may have to come to you for a job. You need to be there.”

“Surely it’s not that bad. We go through this pendulum swing every election. We bounce back every time.”

“Hal, I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s different this time. Listen, did you see that some rabbi got smacked royally a few blocks from my place in Aurora? We had the son of a bitch who nailed him. The fucking prick is the son of a Republican state congressman. The Parsons people told us hands off, leave him alone, anyone who fucks with him gets fucked by Washington after the inauguration. I’m going to bust him anyway, but I feel like I’m taking my career and flushing it down the toilet. One of us needs to stay above the toilet water line. It should be you. Parsons’ people will make Ashcroft look like Alan Dershowitz.”

Hal wasn’t sure what to say. It was one thing for him to tell Frank and Allen how dangerous Samuel Parsons was, but it was another to hear it himself, from someone he considered “in the know.” He swung his chair around and stared out the window. Odd. No one was left in the office but him, and the other buildings on the street would have emptied out two hours ago. What was that guy doing in the car parked across from his office? He was just sitting there, in the driver’s seat, dome light off, smoking a cigarette, looking at the newspaper building. Hal lowered the light in his office and looked at the man who seemed to be looking at him. He was just sitting there. Waiting.