Decency

by Rex Fuller

  “No.”

  Hoff slid a copy of the report across the table.

  “Remember it now?”

  Yancey scanned it.

  …female…Odenton… …lived alone… …no apparent trauma… …no witnesses… …signed, Captain George Yancey… …I should remember…

  “No…”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah… …I mean… …I should remember… …an Odenton case…looks like my signature…”

  “Captain, there are no evidence receipts to speak of and no evidence samples reported as collected.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s what we’re asking you.”

  “I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “Uh…Captain, the lawyer for the decedent’s parent’s asked for the report. The file clerk noticed no receipts and forwarded it. The repository found no forensics.”

  “All I can tell you is I don’t know anything about it.”

  “The evidence technician at the scene says he gave you the samples collected.”

  “Not to me, I’d remember that.”

  “Are you telling us he’s lying? Why would he falsify that if he thinks the report is going to mention the evidence?”

  “No. I’m not telling you he’s lying. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Captain, have you been drinking lately?”

  …here it comes.. drinking? Gambling? Women? Drugs…?

  “No.”

  “You have a heavy child support obligation…”

  “So does half the department, you guys know that better than anyone.”

  “Are you in financial trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Captain, is that your signature on the report?”

  “It looks like it but I don’t think I signed it. That one receipt doesn’t look like my signature though. I just don’t remember anything about this case and I would.”

  “Is there anything at all you want to tell us?”

  …Damn…they think…that’s why they sent a captain…equal or higher seniority to the suspect…

  “How was your day, Hon?”

  “Not good. Internal Investigations thinks I may have killed a woman.”

  “You’re kid…you’re not kidding?”

  “I wish I was.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides, her eyes wide, mouth half open. She wanted words but they hid on the back of her tongue. She felt instantly transported to a planet with no air. Struggling, concentrating, she caught the words and dragged them out.

  “That’s… that’s just… that’s the most…ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

  “Thank you. I’ll always remember you said that.”

  She hugged him. Then kissed him. There was not even a whisper of difference between them.

  Then a new thought. She pushed back to arm’s length and said, “Shouldn’t we get a lawyer?”

  “I don’t think we can afford it.”

  “Baby, we can’t afford not to.”

  He knew, deep inside, where words were not even born yet, if he made it through this, she would be the reason.

  8

  TWO YEARS AFTER THE ACT.

  “Director Jiang, will you walk with me in the garden?”

  “It is particularly cold today. Must we, General Zhou?”

  “You will not be disappointed.”

  Bundled against 20 degree temperature and biting wind, the Director and the General walked together, blowing clouds of vapor.

  “Well, General have the engineers emerged from their slumber these many months?”

  “Indeed, they did. I am pleased to report that real results have been obtained.”

  “And those might be what, that they have a working model at long last?”

  It was the General’s turn to jibe.

  “Director, we have real results. The device has been installed and is monitoring communications in the NSA security office at Fort Meade.”

  “Indeed, I am impressed…”

  “I will keep you informed as often as you wish of the activities of the very personnel in NSA who are charged with responsibility of preventing any such information about NSA being known by anyone.”

  “I would like to know that on a daily basis.”

  “Director, forgive me. You do not understand. The daily volume of information we are receiving would require that you read nothing but that material alone.”

  The Director stopped and looked at the General.

  General Zhou did not ever remember such a look on the Director’s face.

  Then Director Jiang smiled.

  “Report to me as often as you perceive it is wise.”

  “I will be happy to.”

  Dr. James Cochran reported to the NSA Security office. He believed he knew what was coming.

  “Come in, Doctor Cochran.”

  “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Did you know the hearing board voted to retain Mr. Richardson in service?”

  He was correct, it was coming. “I am aware.”

  “You do realize that from a security point of view that result can present problems, don’t you?”

  “That is not necessarily correct in all cases, as the Board determined.”

  “Oy…Doctor, the Board vote is irrelevant once it is taken one way or another. The security concerns in these cases were clearly stated to you, weren’t they?”

  “They were.”

  “Then you must insure that your evaluations properly reflect those concerns.”

  “I cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  “Who are you kidding? I believe you would agree you have done precisely that in the past.”

  The psychologist did not want to concede. “I would not agree.”

  “Please be more careful. Your evaluations must adequately reflect the gravity of the security risks. Are we clear?”

  “It was never unclear.”

  “Fine. Then that’s all. Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Wait a minute. I do your bidding. What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Just so we’re on the same page. Thank you, Doctor.”

  9

  TWO YEARS ONE MONTH AFTER THE ACT.

  The Intelligence Briefing to the President was usually a cut and dried affair. It was a laconic report, normally delivered daily, of specific potential or actual trouble spots. Normally, it had little to do with actual intelligence operations or problems.

  Today was different. NSA’s Echelon system picked up indications of a specific breach of NSA security. CIA had evaluated the indications and concurred with NSA’s initial review. Craig Horton, the President’s Chief of Staff, added the problem to the agenda because of its potential significance.

  The President, Horton, Garling Hardesty, the DCI, and Lieutenant General Chester O. McKenna, NSA Director, personally attended the briefing today, because Horton wanted them to describe the possible breach and its consequences. At the conclusion of the regular briefing, Horton interjected.

  “Mr. President, NSA has a matter that deserves your attention.”

  General McKenna had the floor.

  “Mr. President, we found indications through Echelon intercepts that NSA’s own security may be breached. We do not have a conclusion one way or another. However, the matter is so serious we wanted to let you know. CIA has evaluated the indications the same way.”

  “Physical security or information security?”

  “We have indications that information from inside our security office has been obtained. Consequently, the answer has to be that it could be both.”

  “Chet, the whole government relies on you for making and breaking codes for one reason, information security. If we can’t rely, we have a colossal problem.”

  “No one is more aware of that than I am, sir.

  “Run it down, Chet. We can’t afford that. We’re adjourned.”

  No one in the room assumed for a second
that NSA was not already running it down.

  Returning from the President’s briefing, General McKenna hit his office with an agenda on his mind. He keyed the intercom for Chief of Security, Cindy Overstreet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cindy, come on up. Bring your technical branch chief and Ted Fitzgerald.”

  “Be right there.”

  Five minutes later those summoned were waiting in the outer office. Alerted, the General finished a phone call and directed them to come in. They remained standing. Somewhat unusually, the General did not invite them to sit, but stood himself.

  “Folks…we are losing the President’s confidence…if we haven’t already lost it.”

  He might as well have said they were all to be hanged in the morning. Each of them visibly stiffened.

  “As the President sees it…correctly…our problem is not just a leak. After he reminded me that he relies on us, and the whole government does, to keep information secure, he said to ‘run it down’ because we can’t afford it. So, from now until we have it nailed down, brief me on the status at least every twelve hours. Got it?”

  Of course they did.

  Fitzgerald, the FBI agent detailed to the agency, tried to take the blame.

  “Sir, this is my fault. I should have been more vigilant.”

  The General raised his palm. He didn’t need to hear it.

  “Ted, let’s figure that out when we have the cause identified.”

  The General looked each of them in the eye.

  “Don’t let us down, folks. That’s all.”

  Harlan and Kathy flew into Washington early, hoping to avoid a hotel expense and to minimize their absence from responsibilities at home. They were shown into Cordell Anderson’s K Street office, a space nick-named the “Gallery” for the many photographs of Anderson and political figures from the United States and other countries.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, it was good of you to come.”

  “Thanks for seeing us Mr. Anderson. We can sure use some help.”

  “Please, sit down.”

  Anderson came by his stiff New England manners honestly. He made a stately show of gathering around the conference table as if he was Chief of Protocol at a state dinner.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, I have read the memoranda that the lawyers you previously consulted have prepared. Based upon them, I made certain inquiries that revealed information I will discuss in a moment.

  “First, let’s be absolutely clear. A deliberately false psychological evaluation performed for the purpose of controlling or punishing someone is clearly wrong. It is so wrong that I would readily compare it to the kind of arbitrary power that Hitler used to label Jews mentally deficient, that Stalin used to incarcerate political enemies, and that the Chinese used in the North Korean prisoner of war camps.”

  The Pierces drew up their shoulders with a sense of hope.

  “However, in regard to the legal issues presented in the memoranda, I must tell you that I agree with the conclusions reached. To put it as simply as possible, even assuming that you could satisfy the burden of proof, or prove your case, there is a less than twenty percent chance that you could stay in court beyond initial motions to dismiss. The reason is this. The decisions on security clearances were so bound up in the circumstances of your daughter’s case, that the courts would be forced to stand aside and not disturb the NSA’s decisions. I must underscore that I said ‘assuming’ you could prove the case. There is no information contained in the memoranda leading me to believe that you have the necessary proof now and there is some indication that you may never be able to obtain it.”

  The Pierces deflated again.

  “Now, with regard to the results of my inquiries. The election changed the Senate in ways that are beneficial to you. If you are able to obtain the necessary proof, it may be feasible to persuade the Congress, both the House and the Senate, to compensate you by private bill. I am not predicting that outcome. I would give it about a forty percent chance of success, and I emphasize only if you obtain the necessary proof. I am well acquainted with Senator Charboneaux, the ranking minority member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, as well as others. He may be amenable to introducing such a bill. If he is, you can be sure it would pass the Senate and reasonably confident it would pass in the House.

  “I think that is about all that I can tell you for now, unless you have questions that I might answer.”

  Harlan spoke up quickly.

  “Mr. Anderson, I hope we don’t go the private bill route. It isn’t the money. We want our daughter’s name cleared.”

  Anderson thought, …quaint notion…

  “I understand completely. I only wish that I could be of more help to you.”

  “You’ve been quite a lot of help.”

  Kathy would not resist.

  “Mr. Anderson, there is one thing that perhaps you can clear up.”

  “I’ll be happy to do so if I can.”

  “It’s just this. You said there is no indication that we have the necessary proof or that we will be able to obtain it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if the lawyer doesn’t go find the necessary evidence, what is it he does do?”.

  …lady, you are too smart for your own good…

  “I believe I’ve indicated that the proof is not necessarily the issue. The law is stacked against you.”

  “Won’t the Congress want to see some of the same evidence to justify passing a private bill that you want us to hire you to prepare?”

  “I believe I also alluded to that as well, yes.”

  “Then I don’t see how we can make much progress with you, sir.”

  Anderson’s long years of political tactics inured him to its shortcomings. But they were painfully clear to his straightforward guests. To him his maneuver was balletic. To them, he was having trouble putting on his toe shoes.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Thank you, sir, and good day.”

  Outside the “Gallery” Harlan said, “I’m glad Gabe made him promise not to charge.”

  “Harlan, it seems to me, and I hate to say it, but the direction from Lincoln to Washington has been down hill, and we’re running out of time.”

  PART II

  THE LAWYER

  10

  ALMOST THREE YEARS AFTER THE ACT.

  Just two lanes of old-fashioned asphalt. Black tar patches on the road snaked crazily toward the car and disappeared. Mesmerizing, if you watched. Corn crops, dry, near harvest ready stalks, the color of sugar cookies, wallpapered both sides of the road. Tom, they look pretty good. Why shouldn’t they? This rich flood plain soil tucked into the Platte and Missouri has always fed innumerable creatures. When Lewis and Clark churned up the Missouri two hundred years ago, just twenty miles east of here they saw herds of elk, bison, deer, and antelope, and waterfowl in numbers that they described as uncountable. Now this land feeds people all over the world in uncountable numbers.

  The sun lumbered lower, telling its late afternoon color story. Yellow turned to orange-red. Too soon it shaded to pink-violet.

  October was the best month of the year here. Normally warm, clear, and mild, like today. Just like it was in the days she visited her Grandfather’s farm south of Lincoln. She was here to… what… connect? Identify? Just remember?

  It’s a good time to be going. Why, or where, doesn’t matter. Just to be going. That’s the thing. Being alone. Terrorism. War. “Relief ” is impossible, but not escape.

  The CD of Roy Orbison, started the “In Dreams” track.

  Sweet Roy, as Paul McCartney called him, was one of the few voices that go so deep inside you, that it’s you singing, more than hearing him. God made the world for moments like this. Perfect sunlight, perfect song, and on the road. Have to remember this, just this way.

  A kestrel hovered, pin-point intent on its target off the road on the right. It knew where to hover, above the tell-tale blotches of urine it saw in ultraviole
t light. When the grass twitched from the vole’s movement, the kestrel dived.

  What would the world look like if we could see in ultraviolet, and in zoom, like the kestrel does? Would we have bothered learning agriculture, if we had known where to hunt and exactly when to pounce? Today we use machines to see in ultraviolet for body fluids. Would we, could we, have invented them?

  The violin burst passage came and went just as quickly as the Kestrel.

  How did Roy think of that? It’s really a country song. Yet, he put in classical violins that are so much a signature of the song that they are all you have to hear to know it’s Roy. Pure art. Thank you, Lord, for giving us that. Tom and I…and all of this, too.

  Tears clouded her view. She blinked and wiped them away.

  Come on. This is great. Don’t burden it with too much. Tom, you would have loved this. I know you don’t mind if I talk to you as though you’re here. You know it’s been so long getting to this point that I can talk to you without…losing it. Almost two years since the…beasts…the newspaper actually called them “ juveniles”… pitched the rock off the overpass…no apparent reason…and you were gone.

  Remember how we used to tell each other how lucky we were to have found each other? How we would relish the secret between us just how crazy happy we were…how it was to be “your woman” and “your man”…?

  The final soaring phrase from Roy, “In-n-n Dre-e-e-eeeams,” filled the car. She turned off the CD player just to let that sound linger in her memory.

  The sign for the next town said, “Weeping Water, 8 miles.”

  Is it still big enough to support a place to eat? With family farms thinning out for decades, these towns that used to hold a few essential businesses might not even muster a café any more.

  As the sky hit pink-violet, Weeping Water rose up into view.

  Looks like there might still be home-style cooking on main street.

  Pickup trucks, nosed to the curb in front of the “Bar and Grill,” identified the place to stop. It was quiet inside. The old boys in their ball caps, coveralls, flannel shirts and mud spattered boots sipped longnecks, said little, and kept their voices low. Nodding to them, one or two, expressionless, nodded back to the lanky, middle aged blonde with shadows in her eyes.