American Conspiracy

by M. J. Polelle

  “Just normal horse-trading.” A smirk spread across Senex’s face. “I admire that.”

  “What if General Andrew Jackson, the popular hero of the Battle of New Orleans, had refused to accept the election results and marched on the Capitol . . . like an American Napoleon?”

  “I don’t have time for what-ifs.” If the election were left to Congress, Senex would have a better chance of getting Brock Brewster elected president by the House with its razor-thin Republican majority. That was his Plan A after all. “Rocking the ship of state might shake the barnacles off.” He could rock the ship to the right just as much as Dallas Taylor was trying to rock it to the left.

  The electors owed him nothing. They vacated their offices as soon as they voted. He couldn’t control these strangers now in the public eye the way he could members of Congress bought with untraceable campaign contributions and backroom deals.

  He didn’t have to settle for Roscoe Corker as Plan B. He still had a chance of getting Brock Brewster, his Plan A, into the Oval Office through the House of Representatives.

  “Be careful what you wish for.” Bryan’s lips tightened. “The Constitution has stress points. It could sink the country if the stress is too great.”

  The droning on of the tellers as they called for election results from each state caused Senex to drowse until he awoke with a start to hear a teller announce:

  “The certificate of the electoral vote of the State of Illinois appears to be regular in form and authentic, and it appears therefrom that Roscoe Corker of the state of Illinois received fifteen votes for president and Dallas Taylor of the state of Texas fifteen votes for vice president, and it further appears that the aforesaid Dallas Taylor received five votes for president and the aforesaid Roscoe Corker five votes for vice president.”

  An Illinois congressman objected that the refusal of the five electoral delegates to vote in accordance with the wishes of party leaders required their votes to be rejected. Since the objection was in writing and endorsed by a senator, as required by federal statute, the vice president suspended further deliberation of the joint session until the House and the Senate met separately to debate and vote on the objection.

  “What are the chances they’ll uphold the objection?” Senex asked.

  “Not likely. Both chambers of Congress have to agree with the objection.” Bryan reviewed the Justice Department memorandum. “The closest precedent is the 1872 election. Horace Greeley died after the popular vote but before the Electoral College cast its votes for president. Most of Greeley’s electors then voted for different presidential and vice-presidential candidates. A joint session of Congress allowed those votes but not the three votes that remained loyal to the dead candidate.” Bryan laughed. “Loyalty is not owed the Grim Reaper.”

  “Illinois law doesn’t help Corker either,” Senex said. “Illinois doesn’t even require a pledge of loyalty. Electors can vote as they choose.”

  As they got up to leave, Senex arrived at two firm conclusions. One: Bryan Murphy had become one of his most useful political puppets. Two: the obsolete procedure for electing a president was a house of cards poised to plunge the United States into constitutional chaos.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At a table nearest the forty-five-foot Christmas tree in Macy’s Walnut Room, Jim Murphy waited for the overdue couple. Marco Leone had called to say he was running late, but could he bring a guest?

  “Who?”

  A surprise, his partner had replied. A crowd at the wine bar chattered holiday cheer along the west wall. That and the tree lights making the thousands of hanging ornaments sparkle softened his impatience at their delay.

  He groped in his overcoat pocket for what he hoped he had remembered to bring. Pleased, he pulled out a blank sheet of punched paper. He liked snatching tatters of free time to capture inspiration for his children’s book. He’d take the completed sheets home and add them to others in the three-ring binder his wife had once used for recipes. It reminded him of her and the creative encouragement she had given him. He put the pencil to his lips. He scrawled Sparky Squirrel forgot where he had buried the nuts for his family. Big brother squirrel teased Sparky. What is the matter with . . .

  Leone was walking toward him with a younger woman on his arm. To avoid questions, Murphy broke off writing and stuffed the sheet into a pocket. It was his secret.

  The bounce in the woman’s step and the flounce of her red hair stirred interest. His Latin-lover partner sure didn’t waste time in the City of Big Shoulders finding a girlfriend who looked like a daughter. Robbing the cradle is what his mother had called it. Commander Jack Cronin was notorious in their Bridgeport neighborhood for serially dating younger bubbleheads. His Italian partner and Cronin had something in common after all. The only difference was that Cronin would not have waited so long to show off his trophy girlfriends.

  “Jim, I present my American cousin, Nicole Garvey.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Have I mistaken the English word?”

  “Not at all, Marco.” She removed her arm from her cousin’s. “I’m a distant relative on the Italian side of the family. We discovered our blood relationship when I worked in Italy during the attempted Piso coup.”

  Of course. He now remembered her from the media reports about the coup and the history-shattering manuscripts she helped find in the Villa of the Papyri.

  “Nicole, I present Jim Murphy, my colleague from the Chicago police.”

  She looked surprised when Murphy pulled the chair out for her. Her visiting professorship in archaeology piqued his interest. She was different from the women he knew.

  “How did the Senex trial go?” Leone asked.

  “Acquitted.” Murphy shrugged. “Senex brought Dr. Angelo Mora to the trial. An Italian expert on human blood. Do you know him?”

  “Can it be?” Leone looked up as though he were praying to heaven for an answer. “The brother-in-law of Lucio Piso and a coup supporter. My government is about to seek his extradition from the United States.”

  “He’s in Chicago now,” Murphy said. “Here’s what I learned. Senex connived to expedite a special visa for Dr. Mora to work at Promethean Pharma. He’s a renowned hematologist.”

  “I’ve heard about him too.” Garvey folded her hands at the edge of the table. “Daisy, my colleague at the University of Chicago, is Sebastian Senex’s daughter. She mentioned he works for her father at Promethean Pharma. Daisy . . .” The server stopped by the table to take their order.

  After the waitress left, she continued. “Daisy said his secret project involves finding an artificial substitute for blood.”

  As a police officer, Murphy appreciated her discretion in preventing the waitress from listening in.

  “What did you learn about the Palios Kosmos vehicle?” Leone asked.

  “We don’t want to bore your cousin with shoptalk.”

  “Hardly.” She smiled. “I’d like to hear what my cousin does with his days.”

  “Well . . .” Murphy tugged at his ear.

  “Oh, I get it.” She started to rise from the chair. “On cue I’m off to the powder room so you boys can talk in private.”

  “You can stay . . . just keep it confidential.”

  “Mum’s the word,” she said, placing her forefinger over her lips and sitting back down. “I don’t want to risk handcuffs.”

  “Palios Kosmos is a likely Outfit front,” Murphy said, “but the company has the old stolen-car alibi.”

  “I think the Outfit, as you call it,” Leone said, “is involved with the dead bodies in the truck.”

  “So do I, partner.”

  “Does this Outfit perhaps own the steel mill nearby?” Leone asked.

  “Kinzie Steel?” Murphy laughed. “Guess again. Sebastian Senex bought the steel mill recently.”

  “Why?” asked Leone. “A drug co
mpany owning a steel mill?”

  “Our American tax laws, my dear commissario.” He paused to request a glass of water from the passing waitress. “Promethean probably wanted the operating steel mill losses to offset its pharmaceutical profits.”

  “Enough.” Leone held out his hands. “Much about this country is sufficiently confusing without its tax laws.” He broke apart a roll on his bread plate. “If I may change the subject, what is going on with the election? Can it be Congress will pick your next president?”

  Murphy explained that since no candidate had a majority of the electoral votes, the House of Representatives would pick the next president.

  “But was there not an objection to what you call . . . the faithless electors . . . the five from Illinois who changed their votes?”

  “There was,” Garvey said. “The Senate dominated by Democrats allowed the objection. But the House dominated by Republicans voted along party lines to deny the objection.” She sipped from her water glass. “The objection failed because both chambers of the legislature must allow the objection.”

  “I am confused,” Leone said to Murphy. “Your Congress is not supposed to be a parliament where the legislature picks and controls the prime minister.” He shook his head. “Congress will decide the next president and vice president. Not the people of the United States. Brock Brewster won the popular vote, did he not?”

  “Hey, Marco,” Murphy said, laughing. “I’m a cop. Not a constitutional law expert.”

  “Only fifteen percent of the public approves of Congress,” Garvey said. “Will a polarized public accept a House decision picking the next president?”

  Murphy received a call from police dispatch. He and Leone had to leave immediately. He threw down enough cash to cover the bill and a tip. Garvey trailed behind. Catching up to them at the elevator, she held the three-ringed sheet fallen from his coat pocket.

  Smiling, she handed him the sheet and whispered in his ear, “You forgot Sparky Squirrel’s nuts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Time’s running out.” Sebastian Senex paced alongside the sofa in the office of Clyde Pomeroy, Speaker of the House of Representatives. “You must get Brock Brewster elected president by the House before Inauguration Day on January twentieth.” His nostrils twitched. Tobacco fumes had soaked into the drapes and rugs and stunk like musty socks.

  “Our lame-duck president’s got the House panicked,” said the Speaker. “Because of the COVID flare-up over there, he’s considering a travel ban on China. House members are reluctant to meet until the situation’s cleared up.”

  “Don’t give me that.” Senex frowned. “The Chinese know how to do things. They got it under control.”

  “Patience, Sebastian.” Pomeroy shifted his bloated belly on the sofa. “We have until January twentieth, twelve o’clock noon.”

  “Don’t go Pollyanna on me.” He stopped pacing. “It takes a majority of twenty-six states in the House to elect a president. You don’t have twenty-six in the bag.” He wrung his hands. “It took thirty-six rounds of voting in the House to get Thomas Jefferson elected. And Brock Brewster is no Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Don’t worry.” The Speaker placed his hands on the sofa and hoisted himself up. “Republicans are the House majority. It’s in the bag for Brewster.”

  “Whataya smoking besides tobacco?” He jabbed his finger at Pomeroy. “States vote as a separate unit in this election. Individual representatives don’t vote. It doesn’t matter Republicans have a slight numerical edge in individual representatives.”

  “I’m the Speaker. I know that.” Pomeroy put his hands on his hips. “One more thing I know that you don’t is that Corker’s worse off. He has fewer states lined up for him.”

  “So what?” he said. “If neither Corker nor Brewster gets a majority of states, the House might compromise on my enemy. Dallas Taylor.”

  “The House is limited by the Constitution to picking a president from the top three candidates in the Electoral College. That’s Brewster, Corker, and Hammer in that order. With her pitiful five votes she came in fourth.”

  “You underestimate her.”

  “You’re overreacting, friend.” Pomeroy patted Senex’s shoulder. “I have a plan to push Brewster over the top.”

  “No need to patronize me.” He poked his finger into Pomeroy’s chest. “Now tell me your plan?”

  Senex had elevated Pomeroy from the position of part-time boxing coach at a small Illinois college they both attended into an ascending political heavyweight. He had bankrolled his rise in the Illinois legislature, election to the US House of Representatives, and then to Speaker of the House. He twisted arms to get Pomeroy where he was. The Speaker owed him.

  “Wait just a minute.” The Speaker’s face brightened. “We almost forgot. I won last time, and I want the pleasure of beating you again.”

  “Not now, for heaven’s sake.” With the nation sliding into a political abyss, the Speaker wanted to play their silly game. “You know you’re better at it.”

  “Now.” Pomeroy folded his arms. “We promised to do this whenever we met after college. I’ll tell you my plan . . . but first we have to do it.”

  Humoring Pomeroy cost nothing. Besides, he wondered whether his feeling of youth was just his mind playing tricks. He accompanied the Speaker to a table and took a chair opposite him. They joined right hands with elbows on the table in the opening movements of an arm wrestling match. Their muscles vibrated with tension. He held firm until Pomeroy’s arm trembled and was slammed down.

  “I’ll be damned.” Pomeroy rubbed his right forearm with his left hand. “I can’t remember when you last beat me. Are you taking drugs?”

  “Not on your life.” It was no mental illusion. Time was running backward for him.

  “You look great.” Pomeroy rolled down his shirtsleeve. “What’s your secret?”

  Senex resolved not to share the fountain of youth with the Speaker. He needed more information from Mora and more time to decide how best to use the lure of resurrected youth to his advantage.

  “I don’t smoke coffin nails.” He frowned. “You ought to get this place fumigated.”

  “That’s not it. You never smoked and I always beat you.” He put his hands on his hammy hips. “I wanna know . . . What’s going on?”

  “Get Brewster elected, Clyde, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  “Whaddya worried about? Even if the House were to reject Brewster, which it won’t, you’ve got Corker as a Plan B insurance policy. Harebrained Hammer doesn’t have a prayer.”

  “I like Brewster better. Besides, Corker’s having health problems and seeing a cardiologist in secret. The deadlocked House vote is stressing him out.”

  “Once the newshounds get wind of his womanizing, he’ll have real stress.” The Speaker’s heavy breathing settled down to normal. “Tell him to stop chasing skirts. Or he’ll have a problem with Bible Belt House members.”

  “Let’s get back to business.” Senex straightened his shirt and tie. “The House has voted four times so far without electing a president.” He stood up. “I want to know your plan . . . now.”

  “I have several.” Pomeroy directed Senex back to the sofa where they sat down.

  Senex could scarcely believe that the gold athletic trophies in a trophy case across the room belonged to this man gone to seed. At least Roscoe Corker looked trim and healthy on the outside, even with his bum ticker.

  “I’m trying real hard for Brewster.” Pomeroy held up his fingers, plump like breakfast sausages. “Since tradition says it takes a majority of state representatives to cast the vote of that state as a unit, it’s become a recipe for stalemate in states where Republicans and Democrats are about evenly divided. So I tried to persuade the Democrat leadership that a simple plurality of representatives from a state should determine the state vote.”

  �
��Did they buy it?”

  “No.” The Speaker’s shoulders slumped. “They wouldn’t back off the tradition.”

  “A mere plurality would swing more states to Brewster. They’re not stupid, Clyde.”

  “They might still agree.”

  “That’s your plan?” Senex threw his hands up in the air. “That’s your damn plan? Do you take me for an idiot?”

  “It’s not the only plan.” Pomeroy sank back into the sofa and radiated a cat-ate-the-mouse smile. “I have a trump card up my sleeve.”

  “What?”

  “Some Democrat representatives resent the Democratic National Committee chairman for steamrollering the selection of Roscoe Corker.” The Speaker stumbled up to his feet by grasping the sofa arm. “The main player is the House Democrat minority leader who’s been screwed over before by the DNC committeeman. We’re simpatico. But he needs a sweetener in exchange for bringing his boys over.”

  “What’s the sweetener? Money? If he does—”

  “Nothing so crude.” Pomeroy paused. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room or we’ll lose them.”

  “Of course.”

  “He wants to save a military base in his state and another one in Virginia for his party whip. My inside source is certain the Base Closure and Realignment Commission will put them on the chopping block in its report to Congress.” Pomeroy grabbed the lapels of his own suit jacket. “I suggested a deal. Know what it is?”

  “He swings his boys over to Brewster and the bases remain open.” Senex rubbed his chin. “I like it.”

  “Bingo.” The Speaker and Senex high-fived each other. “If the minority leader and his whip keep their side of the deal, our Republican majority in the House will make sure those bases stay open for our Democratic brethren.”