“What a fascinatin’ class,” he said, breaking the silence. “I could tell the students were really excited, … ya know, about the idea to do a theme issue of the newspaper.” His words weren’t as glib as normal and I suspected something was up. “I hope I was helpful,” he said, his eyes looking at the floor.
“Are you kidding?”
“Well, I could tell they were really excited ‘bout the assignment and I didn’t want to discourage ‘em.”
“You just told a bunch of naïve teenagers that you think it’d be a good idea if they strutted into the prison and conduct interviews with death row inmates.” I deigned to look at him for the first time. “For God’s sake, are you out of your correctional officer mind?”
“No sweat,” he said. “I figgered the principal wouldn’t allow ‘em to go anyway.” He flashed that damn pretty boy smile at me again. “Besides, we want the kids to think we take them seriously, don’t we?”
“Well, Mr. Mentor! The problem with your flawless logic is that you can never tell what an administrator’s going to do. They can be downright unpredictable at times. What happens if Mr. Thompson and the Super decide it’s good for the school image and they say yes? What do you suggest then?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, still grinning. “Perhaps, I could suggest that we discuss it further over dinner. That is, if you’re free tonight?”
After the 47 minutes I had just endured, I was only too happy to respond. I finished assembling all my student papers and other junk and stuffing them fiercely into my Hilton Head tote bag. As I slung it over my shoulder, I called, “Thanks anyway. I’m busy,” and flashed him my own version of that “pretty boy” smile. I gave a quick nod to Christie and headed out the door, leaving them both behind.
Chapter 14
“Mr. Samson, they are ready for you now,” said the Secret Service agent in a tone that managed to convey both service and authority. Harold Samson, Director of Homeland Security, nodded at the young man in the nondescript black suit and, glancing down through his bifocals, gathered up the folder of papers for his report. Samson’s right hand moved to his bow tie, his fingers doing a final tactile inspection and, satisfied, made a brief pass across his crew cut. He took up alongside the young agent as they proceeded down the hallway.
“Son, how old are you?” Samson asked, partly out of interest and partly to fill the awkward moments of silence as they made the brief trip to the Oval Office.
“Twenty-eight, sir.”
“Jeez!”
“Something wrong, sir?” The agent paused and looked at the director for the first time, as he held open the door into the office.
“Oh, nothing much, son,” said Samson. “I was just pondering the fruits of my ill-spent youth.”
“Sir?”
Standing in the doorway, Samson placed a small hand on the agent’s large arm. “Son, I was just wondering where the time has gone. When I was twenty-eight, I was a maverick cop, chasing perps and the ladies, not necessarily in that order. Here you are at the same age guarding the President.”
The agent smiled. “That doesn’t mean I’m not chasing the ladies.”
The Director chuckled. “Anyway, now I’m 55 and I’m wondering what I did with all that time. I guess it’s true that the young will inherit the earth. I just hope it’s our young.”
Samson stepped through the doorway into the President’s office. Even though he had been in this office numerous times, he was again struck by the impressive appearance of the room. Glancing around, he recalled his first visit to the Oval Office. That was more than ten years ago, he mused, when President Clinton recognized him for his conviction rate as the District Attorney for Seattle as one of America’s “Law Enforcement Heroes.” Samson kept that certificate and a photo of him shaking hands with the President, both preserved in fine cherry wood frames, on his wall to this day. Those mementos had not escaped the notice of his new boss, he had been told once at a briefing. But he had not removed them.
Though he had had considerable success in another political world--not much was more political than the public work of the district attorney--he had only tolerated the politics, not relished it like so many of his colleagues. He had been good enough to succeed, in spite of the politics, not because of it, at least that’s what he told himself. Now that he was in DC, the maelstrom of political fury, he often questioned his decision to come to Washington. He had attended enough of these security “team” meetings with this president to know the landscape. Yet, it still bothered him that his knowledge of the law and the criminal mind counted for so little. He had learned the hard way that at these meetings any argument not seen as politically expedient was often dismissed. He had to come to each session over-prepared, or his advice to the President was likely to be drowned out by a chorus of concerns from the latest poll results.
But he had to admit he loved the Oval Office. The unusual rounded room, he knew, had been designed by William Howard Taft a century earlier. Legend gave two explanations for the special design. According to historical myth, it was either a metaphor for the democratic concept of equality by making sure no one was at the foot or head of the room, or the design was created to indicate the President as the center of the government with his aides encircling him.
Samson strolled across to the chair indicated by Dean Settler, the President’s Chief of Staff. Settler was a tall rail of a man, standing a full ten inches above Samson, but weighing no more than 175. His bony hands hung at the end of his sleeves as if they were attached to his skinny arms by Velcro. His long, gaunt, fiercely pockmarked face reminded Samson of the photos of the moon surface.
Taking his seat, Samson noticed his two colleagues were already there. Tommy Dickson, Director of the FBI, sat on the couch nearest to his chair. Still possessing the physique of his youth when he played for the NFL, his huge frame flattened the tan cushion into an oversized pancake. He nodded, “Hey, Harold,” and a smile creased his ruggedly handsome features. Even at 48, Dickson looked like he should be out on the street, crushing perps, which of course was how he made his bones at the FBI.
In an opposite chair, CIA Director Jerry Garcia (who, Harry had quickly learned, didn’t like being kidded about his name’s connection to the Grateful Dead) sat quietly, his eyes closed. The first time they had been introduced, Samson thought he had never met a man more “average.” Average height, average build, average hair, and average, almost forgettable features. Samson thought whimsically that Garcia, despite his name, could be a poster child for WASP success. Hearing Dickson’s greeting, he abruptly opened his eyes and nodded at Samson.
President Ryan Gregory came from behind his desk and collapsed onto the couch next to Garcia, facing Samson. When he wanted to, Gregory was one of the most photogenic men Samson had ever met, an attribute that had no doubt boosted his elect-ability, or perhaps even made it possible. Partly because of his own “idiosyncratic” looks--Samson had read this description of him in a favorable column and held onto it ever since--Samson did not put much stock in appearances, but clearly the voting American public did.
In the media-crazed world politics had become, the only viable national candidates were those with great teeth and a sharp profile, Samson realized. Gregory met all those qualifications and then some. With his slightly graying blonde hair and patrician features, he looked like the consummate American leader of the 21st century. Any time there was a camera on, President Gregory had the ability to instantly project, with his trademark smile, intense blue eyes and long straight nose, a complete sense of affable competence. Without a word, his thoughtful gaze into the lens seemed to convey, “Everything was okay. The nation is in good hands.”
At least that’s how it had been when he was elected several years before. But now the honeymoon was long over and President Gregory, having had to make some tough decisions, had seen his approval rating decline recently. And off-camera, the stress showed.
Samson had never quite understood why he had been tap
ped by President Gregory as the Director of Homeland Security. Although he had garnered national attention for himself and his department for a startlingly high percentage of convictions, he had not met President Gregory or donated to his campaign before he had been asked to take the cabinet spot. In the interview, the President had said that he expected Samson to replicate the kind of successful work he had engineered in the office of District Attorney. Honored, Samson had accepted on the spot and moved his family across the country. So far though, he had found the federal bureaucracy much more resistant to his “engineering” and had had to fight constantly against competing special interests to keep from being sucked into the political vortex.
“Well Czar Samson, how was your trip to Ohio?” asked the President, settling back against the rich cushions of the sofa. The fingers of his right hand wrapped around a ballpoint pen as if he were about to trigger a detonator.
“Very well, Mr. President,” answered Harold Samson. “I was truly impressed with all the security arrangements of the HBE prison. No prison is impregnable but HBE has built redundancy on top of redundancy into its security system. They are prepared to handle pretty much any eventuality.“
“Pretty much any eventuality?” President Gregory clicked the pen twice.
“No place is 100 percent secure and there is no way to prepare for everything.”
Garcia spoke up. “Not the impression I got from your comments at the press conference.”
“Jerry, I think you know better than to confuse media hype with reality,” said Samson.
“Personally, I liked the part where you called the terrorists murdering lunatics,” commented Settler. “The phrase played well with the media too.”
“You certainly have the ability to cut to the chase, Harold,” commented the President. “That’s one of the reasons I placed you in that spot.” He paused briefly. “Seriously, what is your assessment of the threats by Al Quaida to rescue him? Not what you fed the media. The real deal.”
Samson opened his folder and pulled a few sheets of paper and handed a copy to each of the men. “Mr. President, I meant what I said about the security of the Hammerville prison. It is about as close as you can get to an impenetrable fortress in the middle of Ohio.”
“But--“ interrupted the President.
“But, I don’t expect Akadi’s old pals to just sit and take it. I expect them to do something. That’s why I was goading them at the press conference to attack the prison. I believe we would stop them cold there.”
The President pointed impatiently to the paper in his hand, the pen clicked once in the silence.
Samson continued, “This is a translation of a ‘letter to the American people’ on an underground Syrian website, titled roughly ‘Allah’s Voice.’ From what we can tell, it was released yesterday and Jerry’s people at Langley uncovered it.” Samson had learned the importance of sharing the credit with other agencies.
“If the Leaders of the Great Satan...” intoned President Gregory, examining the small print on the paper with the black reading glasses he had pulled from his pocket. “If the Leaders of the Great Satan choose to execute the freedom fighter, Asad Akadi, it will only hasten his journey to martyrdom and Allah will welcome him to paradise.” The President didn’t attempt to hide his disdain. “But Allah will release his full wrath upon the children of America and families will weep when they are taken from them. Blah-blah-blah. Is this legit?” he asked, pointing with the glasses removed from his head.
“I don’t believe we can dismiss this,” Samson said.
“Jerry, have your people detected any unusual activity, anything that might be construed as a specific threat?” the President asked, glancing over at the CIA Director.
“Pretty much the usual, Mr. President,” answered Garcia. “Since Afghanistan and Iraq have been partially stabilized, the terrorists have had to go further underground, but you know that, Mr. President. Our people are watching all the major players in their organization, but nothing yet.”
“Tommy, anything unusual within our borders?” President Gregory asked.
“Depends on what you mean by unusual. There are several cases that are out of the ordinary we’re working on,” the Director of the FBI said, ticking items off on the massive fingers of his right hand. “The disappearance of a freighter from the harbor in New Orleans, a nuclear engineer at the Ozark Power Plant caught trying to sell some enriched uranium and an undercover DEA agent found slain in a lake in Louisiana--nothing too much out of the ordinary.” The President nodded. “Oh, and I have sent additional agents to Hammerville. If anyone so much as blows his nose there, we’ll know it.”
“So, you three gentlemen,” said the President, looking at all three directors, ”are telling me you know of no reason to change Akadi’s execution?”
“None that I can see,” answered Garcia first.
“I concur,” added Dickson.
“And Mr. Samson, what about the crystal ball at Homeland Security?”
“We clearly don’t have a crystal ball. If we did, I’d bet a bundle at the Preakness and pack it in.” The other men chuckled briefly. “I’m still concerned about their threats, but no, sir, I can give no specific reason to advise you otherwise.”
“And we should not forget, Mr. President,” put in the chief of staff in a hollow voice that matched his gaunt frame, “that the pollsters predict that Akadi’s execution five days before the election will cause your rating to jump several points. According to their argument, the American people will sleep better at night with Akadi dead. To them, it will be a tangible sign that we are winning the war on terrorism.”
When none of the directors felt the need to respond, or perhaps didn’t know how to, President Gregory broke the silence. “Let’s go ahead with it then. Keep me informed if anything changes.”
Chapter 15
Christie Ferguson caught up with me in the hall a few minutes after my unceremonious departure from my classroom. Grabbing my arm, she dragged me two doors down into the teachers’ restroom and then closed and locked the door. Within a few seconds, I was grateful for the privacy.
“Are you crazy, girl?” were the first words out of her mouth.
The two of us stood there by the sink, in front of the half-length mirror. I glanced at the reflection of my side profile. My brunette hair, though not exactly disheveled, was no longer in the neat tresses I had styled that morning. My right hand brushed it distractedly. One hazel eye, watching me from the glass, sat atop a sloping nose that was slightly too large and a small half mouth. A hint of red bloomed on my curved cheek and I fought to contain it. “Look, I’m sorry. I just had to get out of that room.”
Nonplussed, Christie repeated, her eyes like two blue lasers, “Are you out-of-your-mind crazy, girl?”
“Maybe,” I said shaking my head.
Christie’s perfectly trimmed eyebrows did a quick up-and-down dance on her forehead, but she said nothing.
“Well, that’s not how I planned the class,” I said. “I figured they’d come up with the idea of doing more research on capital punishment or maybe think about interviewing a victim or collecting some statistics on the death penalty. I never dreamt they’d want to interview the inmates at the prison. Things just got out of control. I know I should’ve cut them off, but I didn’t want to stifle their discussion...”
“Whoa, slow down, girl,” Christie broke in, chuckling.
“It’s not funny,” I protested, but her delight was too contagious and I couldn’t help myself. In seconds, I found myself laughing too. “I guess I can really get myself into it when I want to. I can’t wait to see Thompson’s face when I ask him. He’s going to say, ‘You’ve really lost it this time, Ms. Sterber.’”
The grin departed from Christie’s face as if yanked by an unseen hand. “Dee Dee, sometimes you are just clueless, you know that. Look, from a coaching perspective, I thought the class went fine. In fact, I thought it was the best class I’ve observed so far. You created an
authentic learning assignment and, from what I could tell, every single one of your students was on board. Hell, I wish half my classes were anywhere near that engaging.”
“But...”
She cut me off. “Oh, the conversation with Hard-Ass Thompson’s going to be a little interesting, but nothing you can’t handle, girl. He’ll probably say no and you can tell your students how much you advocated for them. Besides, it sounds like whichever way it goes, it’s going to be a really good edition of the paper, one people might actually read, and probably a great learning experience for the students. I don’t have enough time now, but we can go over all my notes later.”
“But you just said I was crazy.”
She shook her head at me, the styled blond waves doing that slow, delayed dance.
I said, “Oh, I apologize, I didn’t mean to walk out on you and just leave you there in the classroom.”
“Hey, that’s all right. I didn’t mind,” she said.
“Okay, I give up,” I responded, throwing my hands in the air. “Why am I so crazy then?” Her only answer was that devilish smile. “What?”
“Well, let me put it to you this way,” Christie began, tilting her head. “You haven’t had a date in, what, four months and you haven’t had hot steamy sex in God knows how long?”
“I don’t really want to get into that---“
“...and you turn down that great invitation.”
“Do you mean…Jerod?” I asked, incredulous.
“Girl,” she took up, “I just don’t understand you. You tore out of your room like Satan was chasing you. I hung around and talked with Jerod for a while, you know, about his volunteering as a mentor and some of the kids he’s working with. He seems like a really nice guy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Then he wanted to know about you … all about you.”
“What did he want to know?” I demanded.
She grinned at me.
“What did you tell him?” I asked, slapping her arm.
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