Impeachment

by Mark Spivak

  “Sometimes, these guys aren’t as smart as they think they are. And they’re riding high at the moment.”

  “That won’t last. Reality will catch up with them.”

  “The question is whether they’ll recognize it when they see it. But there’s nothing better than a person who telegraphs his future moves to someone who disagrees with him on just about everything. Any other scuttlebutt?”

  “Yes, in fact—I have something I need to raise with you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’d like to block out some time next week for a presentation by two consultants.”

  “Fabulous!” said Wallko. “You know how much I love consultants. Let’s set a time so I can find something else to do.”

  She smiled. “I think this is important. I met with them last week, along with a group of junior staff. They have some very intriguing information—stuff I think you should hear.”

  “Who are these guys?”

  “Their names are Lester Schmidt and Roger Dalborn. They’ve been doing some work for the Democratic National Committee.”

  “Well, that’s interesting in itself. I didn’t realize anyone over at the DNC was willing to give me the time of day.”

  “These two are freelancers. They have no formal connection to the Committee. They were hired to do a study, and they seem to have stumbled onto something.”

  “All right.” He yawned. “If you think it’s important, I’ll do it. Worst case scenario, I can always watch hockey on my iPhone.”

  “I’ll bet you won’t be disappointed.”

  George Bindleman was everything a judge would want in a law clerk: smart, energetic, aggressive, and visionary. He graduated at the top of his class at Stanford and served on the law review. After clerking for a U.S. Appeals Court Judge, he had snagged the most prestigious possible position for a young lawyer in America: a clerkship with Paul Gilliam, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.

  Today, however, his mentor wasn’t entirely happy with him. Gilliam thumbed through the pile of thick folders presented to him by Bindleman and shook his head.

  “These cases are garbage, George.”

  “That’s true, sir. I believe I told you that going in.”

  “Most of them have no legal basis beyond the plaintiff thinking that Democracy Unchained is unfair. There’s really nothing in any of them that’s actionable—they all read like little kids complaining because the schoolyard bully is pushing them around.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We have to do better than this.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we’ve looked at 75 or 100 thus far, and they’ve all been more or less the same.”

  Bindleman may have signed on with Gilliam as a steppingstone to an illustrious career, but he had grown to know him as a human being. He viewed the man with compassion. His close-up look at Gilliam caused him to reject the prevailing view within the profession: that the Chief possessed a brilliant legal mind that had come unglued after the death of his wife. Bindleman understood that his boss was just as tormented by voting in the majority in the Democracy Unchained case as he was by his personal grief.

  “It’s not enough to complain that the situation is unfair,” said Gilliam, “because we can stipulate that it’s inherently unfair. The First Amendment implies blanket protection of speech. While it doesn’t explicitly say so, most people read the guarantee as a freedom that applies to everyone. In Democracy, the Court equated money with political speech—I don’t think we can go back and revisit that principle, but we can most likely attack the fairness issue. Free speech shouldn’t be a contest to see who can yell the loudest.”

  “I follow your reasoning, sir.”

  “So we have to keep going until we find the right case.”

  “Any idea of what that might be?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it,” said the Chief. “It’s not going to be blatant, necessarily—let’s not hold out for a situation where a Neo-Nazi with a $5 million war chest is running against an Eagle Scout with no money. Just remember that the basic issue is fairness.”

  To an outsider, the process of a Supreme Court Justice searching for ideologically appropriate cases might have seemed bizarre, if not unethical. The Court received roughly 10,000 petitions each year and chose to hear fewer than 1 percent of those cases. Frequently, though, Justices felt strongly about points of law that they thought should be either reinforced or overturned, and it wasn’t unusual for them to shop for cases that fit their agenda. The process was then relatively simple. The Justices met regularly to sort through the volume of petitions that flooded their offices, and they relied on the Rule of Four: if four of them felt the case held enough potential merit or impact, it was put on the docket.

  “Sir,” said Bindleman, “maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. The First Amendment clearly states that Congress shall make no law abridging freedom of speech. It says nothing about the courts. There might be a legislative remedy to this.”

  “Maybe so.” Gilliam smirked. “But that remedy would come in a different era. I don’t know if you’ve looked at the ideological makeup of the House recently, but I wouldn’t count on a solution coming from that crew.”

  “Not right away, no.”

  “And in any case, we certainly couldn’t lobby for it. Remember that pesky separation of powers.”

  “True.” Bindleman grinned. “But it’s something to think about.”

  “You think about it.” Gilliam rose and shook his clerk’s hand. “I appreciate all your efforts. In the meantime, just keep looking.”

  Chapter 13

  Jasper Marshall and Joe Guthrie watched as the Gulfstream G650 landed at LAX. The plane taxied toward them and came to a stop in front of the Private Jet Terminal.

  “I guess that’s him,” said Jasper.

  “Nothing like making a statement.”

  “I expected it to be bigger, I guess.”

  “That’s just Lapham’s plane. I’m sure the Hafts ride around in something more appropriate, like the Goodyear blimp. Or maybe the space shuttle.” Guthrie yawned. “This is like the good old days, when the peasants waited for the King to stroll down the red carpet and give them an audience.”

  “I wonder what he wants.”

  “Who knows? He’ll probably look under our fingernails for traces of left-wing DNA.”

  The man who descended the stairs of the Gulfstream was shorter than they expected—no more than 5’6”, with thinning silver hair and a sharp, chiseled face. He was nattily attired in a dark blue business suit with a matching burgundy tie and handkerchief. He moved with the assurance of someone who owned the world—and he was obviously not in the habit of smiling without cause.

  “Jasper Marshall.” The leader of the Angels of Demo-cracy extended his hand.

  “A pleasure. And you must be Mr. Guthrie.”

  “Don’t hold that against me.” Joe grinned. “You want to go inside?”

  “No, we’ll stay out here. Machines don’t have ears.”

  He motioned them toward the shade of an overhang near the terminal.

  “Very nice job thus far, guys,” said Lapham. “We’re right on schedule. Training is proceeding nicely, except for a few blips—agents out joyriding in ATVs, that kind of thing. All in all, though, it looks like a good crew.”

  “Well, your people screened everybody before we hired them,” said Guthrie, “so we assume you filtered out the ax murderers.”

  Lapham ignored him.

  “We weren’t aware there was a schedule,” said Jasper.

  “There’s no need for the two of you to be worrying about details.” His manner was generous and affable, the attitude of a parent praising a child for a good report card. “We’re coordinating the big picture. Generally, though, I’d say we’re shooting for deployment in the spring. That’s the season
when public attention should be very high—people will be so bored after the monotony of the winter that they’ll actually watch the news.”

  “How’s that going to be handled?” asked Jasper.

  “We’ll start right here in Southern California, on your home turf. After a few weeks, when we see that things are going smoothly, we’ll transition to another venue. We’d like to see both of you present for each deployment so you can monitor and psych up the troops.”

  “I’d love to know how you got the Border Patrol to go for this,” said Joe.

  “They’re actually very pleased about it, Mr. Guthrie. They need all the help they can get, and they welcome the backup. But I can’t stress to you enough that it has to be solely backup—your men can’t engage in actual arrests or indulge in rough stuff of any sort. That’s why we need the two of you present at each deployment.” He smiled. “To intercept the occasional rogue agent wielding an ax.”

  “Got it.”

  “The other thing you have to remember, and this is crucially important, is that Sheldon and Richard Haft will not be associated with this publicly in any way. They will remain in the background. That’s one of the reasons that your contact is coming through me.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to pull that off,” said Jasper. “They invested a fortune in this operation. I’m sure that money can be traced.”

  “The funding has been handled in such a way that it would take an entire team of forensic accountants to track it. I’m sure those teams exist somewhere, on someone’s payroll, but it won’t be an easy job. To be honest, I’m not sure how much it matters if people realize where the money is coming from. But when the press asks you about it, which they will, please say that you received thousands of small donations from public-spirited citizens who were concerned about the immigration problem. You are simply here to help. You are the Angels of Democracy, after all. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a business card from his breast pocket and wrote something on the back.

  “Here you are, Mr. Marshall. I’m giving this to you in the strictest of confidence. This is the name and cell phone number of someone you can call in case of emergency—if it’s the middle of the night, say, and you can’t reach me. If you find yourself in a sticky or unpleasant situation, try to call me first.”

  “Charles Gardiner,” said Jasper, staring at the card. “Okay.”

  “I want this card to stay in your office safe. Do not carry it around with you, where others might see it and intercept the number.”

  “Who is he, may I ask?”

  “He’s someone you can rely on to fix any problem that might come up.” Kevin Lapham shook hands with the pair, displaying the faintest suggestion of warmth. “Thanks very much for coming out here to meet me. This was a pro forma get together, so we could at least encounter each other and put a face to the name. We’ll continue to communicate via phone and email, and we’ll meet again shortly after the first deployment. But I want to stress that the two of you are doing an excellent job, and we appreciate it.” He looked from one to the other. “Any questions?”

  “Off the subject,” said Joe, “but just something I’m curious about: what do the Hafts have against illegal immigration that would cause them to make this kind of investment?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” said Lapham. “Their real interests lie elsewhere.”

  Chapter 14

  Lester Schmidt and Roger Dalborn followed Linda Buckmeister into Senator Wallko’s inner office. The three men shook hands, and Wallko motioned them to a pair of chairs directly across from his desk.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  “Thanks for seeing us, sir,” said Schmidt. “We appreciate it.”

  “Well, let’s set the ground rules. Linda told me you had something interesting. If that turns out to be the case, I look forward to hearing it. But if you start feeding me a line of crap, I’m going to toss you out.”

  “Agreed.” Dalborn grinned. “We’ve been thrown out of worse places.”

  “We have a PowerPoint presentation for you,” said Schmidt. “Mind if we take just a moment and set up?”

  “Go for it.”

  Dalborn pulled down a portable projection screen while Schmidt fiddled with a laptop. They nodded at Linda, who dimmed the lights in the office. Schmidt clicked on the first slide.

  “This is a list of contributions made by Sheldon and Richard Haft during last year’s presidential campaign,” said Schmidt. “As you probably know, they use a complicated series of foundations and front groups to channel money to candidates, even though the Democracy Unchained decision made it legal for them to make those donations.”

  “I was aware of that, yes.”

  “You’ll also note that it’s quite a lengthy list. The Democratic National Committee hired a team of forensic accountants to track these donations. The total comes to somewhere between $400 and $500 million—$433 million thus far.”

  “That’s the figure that’s usually tossed around.”

  “After the reelection of President Atalas, the DNC wanted to continue to monitor the Hafts’ financial dealings in politics. They were curious to see whether the brothers would continue to remain active. So they kept the majority of those accountants on the payroll.” He clicked to the next slide. “What they discovered was very curious. The Hafts took a break of about three months after the election, and then the donations started up again. Here’s what they’ve found to date. You’ll see that the list is much shorter, since there are no political campaigns in place at the moment. But the amounts are significant: roughly $78 million thus far, and we think the real total may turn out to be twice as much.”

  “So where’s the money going, if there are no candidates?”

  “As far as we can tell, the main recipient is an organization called the Angels of Democracy.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Most people haven’t,” said Dalborn. “They’re headquartered in Pasadena and have about a thousand members. There are some branches in major cities around the country, but most of the manpower is centered in Southern California.”

  “Are they a militia group?”

  “Not as far as anyone can tell. They seem to focus primarily on doing good works. They do assist the police in patrolling neighborhoods and keeping order at public events, but they’ve been careful not to lay claim to any police powers. I don’t even believe they’re armed.” The next slide appeared on the screen. “This is their Supreme Commander, Jasper Marshall.”

  Wallko laughed out loud. The picture showed Marshall in the white robes of a Templar knight, emblazoned with a red cross on the breast of the tunic. Around his neck were numerous sashes, chains and medals, and he held the helmet of a Medieval warrior in his hand.

  “This guy had better hope he doesn’t fall into a swimming pool,” said Wallko. “He’d sink right down to the bottom with all that paraphernalia and drown.”

  “It’s admittedly funny,” said Dalborn. “But this is his ceremonial garb, worn maybe once or twice a year. The rest of the time, he dresses like a normal person.”

  “What’s the obsession with the Knights Templars?” asked Wallko.

  “The Angels of Democracy take them as an inspirational model,” said Schmidt. “They try to emulate their standards of piety, the fact that the Templars always stood up for the underdog.”

  “If memory serves, the Templars didn’t end up very well. I believe most of them were arrested, tortured and killed.”

  “I think you’re right. But remember, this is just a model to inspire good behavior among their membership. These guys are basically harmless.”

  “So you’re telling me that the Haft brothers may have funneled $150 million into this bunch of clowns running around in funny uniforms?” Wallko smiled. “That doesn’t make much sense, guys. I don’t agr
ee with the Hafts on everything, but they’re certainly not stupid.”

  “That’s the way it appears.”

  “Where’s the money going?”

  “Here’s a rough breakdown.” Schmidt advanced to the next slide. “The Angels of Democracy have started a huge membership drive. In recent months, they’ve opened a half-dozen recruitment centers. These places are located in the southern sectors of California, New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas. The only common denominator is that they’re all fairly close to the Mexican border. They seemed determined to enlist thousands of new members. A lot of the money is being put toward salaries, uniforms, training and equipment. They’re purchasing dozens of Jeeps and other four-wheel drive vehicles.”

  “So you think it has something to do with immigration?”

  “That’s the most likely conclusion,” said Dalborn, “but we’re not sure. It could be a false scent.”

  “You mentioned salaries. I had the impression that these guys were volunteers.”

  “The initial group was, yes,” said Schmidt. “But the new hires appear to be going on the payroll.”

  “And the Hafts are footing the bill for all this?” Wallko shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it still doesn’t sound right. Could this be a smokescreen—I mean, are these guys a front group for something or someone else?”

  “At this point, sir, we just don’t know. But I can tell you that there are people watching it very closely.”

  “You said something about equipment. What are they buying, other than vehicles?”

  “An assortment of stuff,” said Dalborn. “Mostly surveillance related: night vision goggles, infrared equipment, voice sensors.”

  “But no weapons?”

  “Not firearms, no,” said Schmidt. “But we believe these guys will be carrying tasers, which are legal for civilian use in most states.”

  “That’s just great.”

  “There’s one more thing, sir.”

  “There always is. Go ahead.”

  Schmidt clicked again, and a picture of what looked like a tent city appeared on the screen.