by J. L. Brown
Whitney glanced up at the bleachers, a quarter of them still empty. They were both right. The senior Democratic senator from Ohio was not in attendance, which was bad form and showed a lack of respect for a sitting president. And he was an asshole.
This was the first stop on a road trip through the Midwest to get her message out about the New New Deal. In the wings of a makeshift stage at Ohio State University’s St. John Arena, she waited for the governor to wrap up his introduction. She took deep, relaxing breaths until her name was announced.
“Let’s do this.” Handing the bottle back to Sarah, she adjusted the specially-made Kevlar vest under her suit and walked into the basketball arena.
She smiled and waved at the crowd. At the podium, she shook hands with the governor. “Thanks, Bill.” She turned back toward the crowd. “How are you, Columbus?”
A lukewarm response greeted her. She didn’t take it personally. She was a politician, after all.
“I’m here today to talk to you about the New New Deal Coalition legislation. Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, ‘Throughout the nation men and women . . . look to us here for guidance and for more equitable opportunity to share in the distribution of national wealth . . . I pledge myself to a new deal for the American people. This is more than a political campaign. It is a call to arms.’
“No words are more true today.
“The New Deal reduced income inequality by putting eight point five million people to work, built six hundred and fifty thousand miles of highways, and one hundred and twenty-five thousand buildings. The Lincoln Tunnel, LaGuardia Airport, and the San Francisco Bay Bridge were all built during this glorious period of American achievement.
“But the legislation wasn’t only about what it built. The New Deal represented what was best about our country. It was about coming together, making real change, caring about the American worker, and providing security and a sense of purpose.
“Income inequality is the defining issue of our time. Five years ago, the three hundred and eighty-eight richest people in the world were more wealthy than the poorest three-point-five billion combined. Three years ago, it was the top eighty-five people. Now, it’s eight people. Eight.”
She paused, allowing that number to hang in the air.
“The concentration of wealth is accelerating. No other economic system in the history of the world has ever had the concentration of untaxed wealth that we do now. This deprives the government of much-needed resources for public services and erodes trust that there is a level playing field of equal opportunity. For everyone.
“In the nineteen forties and fifties, the gap between the rich and everyone else was small. In the eighties, with technological advances, deregulation, and tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans, fortunes began to diverge; the rich got richer, but everyone else stayed about the same. I call this time the ‘Great Divide.’
“Although we saw some improvement in the nineties during the economic boom and with the increasing of the highest marginal tax rate, it got dramatically worse during the first decade of this century when that administration slashed taxes, cut social services, and deregulated industries. And it has worsened ever since.
“In 1980, a CEO made about forty-two times the average worker. With the decreasing influence of unions and changing societal norms, CEO pay has climbed to over three hundred and eighty times worker pay.” Whitney spread her arms wide. “Has the productivity of CEOs increased that much compared with yours?”
She waited for the shouts of “No!”
Instead, she received a low grumble of disagreement.
She’d take it.
“A CEO of a software company has a net worth of twenty-seven billion dollars and could spend three hundred thousand dollars an hour every hour until he died, and still not make a dent in his net worth.
“On the other side of the Great Divide, there are two-income families who still need government assistance to make ends meet. Who’s fighting for these families?
“We even have some teenagers who must work to feed their families. Who’s fighting for these teenagers?
“Twenty-five percent of the children in the United States live in poverty. That is one out of every four. In the United States! Who’s fighting for our children?
“Our middle class is shrinking. Historically, the prosperity of this country flowed from the middle class. Who’s fighting for our middle class?”
Whitney scanned the arena, letting the last statement sink in, gauging their response. This audience, predominately middle-class and white, must identify with this statement or her message was dead. Her historic legislation was dead.
“And everyone knows that women make only seventy-seven percent of what a man makes for the same work. Everyone knows this. Who’s fighting for our women?
“If we do not act now, our country will continue to grow evermore divided. We can do better. The Great Divide does not need to be the status quo. My New New Deal Coalition legislation will not eliminate income inequality—a problem that has been over three decades in the making—but it will put us in a position to start closing that gap and realize our true wealth by making a significant investment in the American people.
“And I’ll make that investment any day.”
Whitney outlined the plan. She did not mention the changes that Hampton sent to her after their meeting. She would allow him to take credit for them with his constituents.
She wrapped up her speech, surprised at the tepid applause. Surprised because this audience would benefit the most from her plan. Pasting on a smile, she waved and met Sasha and Sarah backstage.
“You wrote an incredible speech,” Sasha said.
Whitney accepted a fresh bottle of water from Sarah. “Doesn’t matter if no one listens.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Washington, DC
“Boy, have times changed. Remember when her acolytes treated her like Jesus? And the crowds gathered forth? Like some young, talentless pop star. Now, you can’t pay people to attend her speeches. And, yes, I’m talking about the president of the United States.
“This morning a paltry one thousand people showed up to hear Whitney peddling her liberal snake oil message at Ohio State University, one of several stops in the Midwest. And a waste of taxpayers’ money, if you ask me.
“Let’s talk about this New Old Deal, shall we?
“Are we really going back to the nineteen thirties to help solve today’s problems? Can’t you be more original, Ma-DAMN President?
“The New Deal built miles of highways—Cha-ching!—thousands of buildings—Cha-ching!—airports, tunnels, bridges—Cha-ching, Cha-ching, Chaaa-ching. All I hear is cash registers, folks!”
Cole was on a roll. He leaned into the studio microphone. “Income inequality is not the defining issue of our time. What is the defining issue of our time, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the disappearance of manufacturing jobs. Back in the day, people didn’t need to go to college and earn fancy degrees to carve out a decent living for themselves and their families. The ‘Great Divide,’ my ass. It’s the ‘Trade Divide,’ people! Eliminate those trade deals and bring those jobs back home to the good ol’ US of A. Who’s fighting for these workers? I am.
“And regarding CEOs, they make the big money because they make the tough decisions. Like in Atlas Shrugged. Anyone can dig, but we need someone to tell us where. That’s what CEOs do.
“By the way, that’s one book I did read. If you’ve never read it, I suggest you do. Along with my book, Communism in Russia is Dead, but Alive and Well in the USA. I wrote it almost a year ago, but it’s still true today. Maybe more so. Can I get an amen?
“We have the greatest economic system in the world. Capitalism worked just fine until our federal government started tinkering with it.”
Cole grabbed a hand towel to dab his forehead. “We have to take a break here to pay the bills. After the break, a special guest will be joining us. Don’t go away.”
CHAP
TER THIRTY-TWO
Seattle, Washington
Noah Blakeley bit into the sesame-seed ciabatta smothered with cream cheese that he’d picked up at the Specialty’s bakery on the way to the office. This was his favorite part of the day: sitting at his desk, eating breakfast, drinking his first cup of coffee, and reading the Seattle Times.
He opened the paper. President Whitney Fairchild had just completed a tour of Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri. Noah always read the editorial section of the paper first. Today’s editorial was supportive of her latest speech, describing it as one of the most important presidential speeches of the twenty-first century so far. The editorialist believed it was a moral imperative for the country to address income inequality and its dire consequences before it was too late.
He agreed.
The Associated Press news article on the first page covering her speeches wasn’t as positive. The correspondent reported on the unreceptive audiences, even in the president’s home state of Missouri. Noah couldn’t understand why. Her legislation would create jobs. Employment cured many ills.
He finished the ciabatta and sipped his coffee, wondering how he could help the president.
He turned to the business section of the paper. He slowly placed the to-go cup on his desk.
The rumors he’d heard at the Grand Hyatt fundraiser were now fact.
Several major corporations in the Seattle area had fallen victim to cybertheft. Hackers, using dummy bank sites, had siphoned off millions of dollars. One controller, acting on an email from his CEO about a secret acquisition, transferred a million dollars to a bank account via a link in the email. The email turned out to be fake. The CEO hadn’t sent it. The police had not located the money.
He let the paper drop and speed-dialed his chief financial officer whose office was on the other side of the building.
“Check our bank account.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He listened as the CFO tapped on his keyboard.
“Hurry up,” Noah said.
After a moment, the CFO said, “This can’t be.”
Noah felt the first stirrings of fear developing in his stomach. “What is it?”
“The balance in the account is about a million dollars lower than it should be.”
“Call the bank. I’ll wait.”
The CFO did as instructed. Through the CFO’s speakerphone, Noah heard the message: “Thank you for calling Pacific Coast Bank. All customer-service agents are busy now. Please leave a message or try your call again later.”
He slowly replaced the handset.
His father was going to have a fit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The White House, Washington, DC
Back in the Oval Office the day after returning from her trip to the Midwest, Whitney reviewed the daily presidential briefing books. Although available in electronic tablet form, she still preferred to read the print version. The weight of the document in her hand reinforced the weight of the issues it represented.
Included in today’s report—along with scores of terrorist threats, terrorist cell movements, a potential terrorist attack on a Planned Parenthood building in Idaho, and US and euro currency manipulations by the Chinese government—was an item about network security breaches involving substantial sums of money at several companies in Seattle. The report speculated Chinese government involvement.
The Chinese had been suspected of various attacks on US corporate and military computer networks for years, including theft of medical data, Social Security numbers, and classified information. Whitney’s national security team believed that most of the attacks were government-sanctioned. What they didn’t have was proof.
She called Sasha into the Oval Office. Within a minute, Sasha stood in front of her desk.
She held up the briefing book. “The Chinese?”
Sasha shrugged. “Why not? We blame them for everything else.”
Whitney smiled. “Like the Japanese in the Eighties? Call ODNI”—the Office of the Director of National Intelligence—“and find out who’s handling this.”
Sasha made a note.
“And can you turn on the radio? Cole’s on.”
Sasha’s neck twitched, the way it did every time she thought Whitney was doing something foolish. “Why do you want to listen to him?”
Whitney thought of Ashley Brennan. “I have my reasons.”
Sasha moved to a table against the wall and turned on the radio. She settled into the chair across from Whitney.
At the end of a commercial, Cole said, “Welcome back. I’d like to introduce my special guest, Paul Sampson, the Democratic senator from Nebraska. Welcome, Senator.” Whitney and Sasha shared a glance. Foreboding pressed against Whitney’s chest. “What’s all this I’ve been hearing about income inequality?”
“Income inequality isn’t a bad thing,” Sampson said. “It creates an incentive for people to be productive, innovate, and create wealth. Besides, the quality of life for everyone is improving. Even if you’re poor today, you’re likely to own a smartphone, the latest Nikes, a flat-screen TV—”
“Sounds familiar,” Whitney murmured.
“Bunch of BS,” Sasha said.
“But don’t you think this legislation will pit Americans against each other?” Cole asked. “Don’t you think it’s just another attempt by you and your Commiecrat comrades to engage in class warfare?”
“The president mentioned you in a meeting recently,” Sampson said. “We were discussing increasing taxes on the rich and distributing the wealth.”
Whitney burned, listening. How dare he talk publicly about a private meeting.
Cole laughed. “At least she’s thinking about me.” He sobered. “No more taxes, Senator. Please! Americans are taxed enough.”
“I agree, Cole,” Sampson said. “We need to streamline regulations and reduce taxes for everyone.”
Sasha’s mouth opened. “What is he saying?”
Whitney held her hand up for silence.
“Switching gears,” Cole said. “What are your thoughts about these protests?”
“I don’t think they’re helpful.”
“Me neither. Instead of protesting, I think they all should be working. Don’t you? Put that energy to good use. Well, I’d like to thank you for coming on the show today. Is there anything else you want to say?”
“Well, I have a lot to say, Cole, but first I want to tell you that today I burned my Democratic voter-registration card. And I registered as a Republican. I am now a proud member of the GOP, and I’m ready to take my country back.”
Cole’s high-pitched giggle filled the airwaves. “God Almighty, you’ve seen the light!”
Whitney visualized Cole with his hands raised in a televangelist pose.
“Yes, I have, Cole,” Sampson said. “And my first order of business will be immigration. We’re going to build that wall that Ellison was too scared to start, and we’re going to place a moratorium on all non-Christian immigration to this country.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Sasha said.
“I’m not sure even He can help us,” Whitney said. She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Turn that off.”
Sasha complied. “Without him, it will be harder to get our agenda through.”
Whitney willed herself to calm down. She couldn’t do anything about Sampson now. “I didn’t call you in here for that. Set up a meeting with Jade Harrington.”
Sasha didn’t hide her surprise. “The FBI agent from the TSK case?”
“One and the same.”
“What has that got to do with Sampson?”
“Nothing.”
Sasha hesitated, waiting for Whitney to elaborate further on the purpose of the meeting. She didn’t.
“Yes, Madam President.” She turned to go, but then stopped. “This may be a little unprofessional . . . but can you introduce me to her? I’m a huge fan.”
“You don’t strike me as a p
erson who gets star-struck.”
“I’m not,” Sasha said. “It’s the magic.”
“Magic?”
She winked. “Black-girl magic.”
*
Later that afternoon, Sarah escorted FBI Special Agent Jade Harrington into the Oval Office. The agent strode toward Whitney with the confidence evident in current and former athletes. Whitney had forgotten how tall Jade was. And striking. The most intriguing part was that Jade didn’t seem to realize it.
Whitney rose to greet her in the middle of the room. She covered the agent’s proffered hand in both of hers. “Agent Harrington. I hope you’ve been well.”
“Yes, Madam President. It’s been quite a year.”
“Yes, it has. Please have a seat.”
Jade sat on the sofa, as if she were invited to the Oval Office every day. Not in a disrespectful manner, but as someone comfortable in her own skin. Whitney moved to her favorite chair. She hadn’t spoken to the agent since they had met in her Senate office. “I never thanked you for solving the TSK case.”
The agent hesitated. “I’m sure its resolution was bittersweet for you.”
Whitney gasped, but recovered quickly. She had not told anyone about Landon’s letter. And the devastating secret it contained.
“Bittersweet?”
“He’d created a shrine.”
“Pardon me?”
“In his apartment. We didn’t disclose this to the press. He had this wall covered with pictures of you. Articles about you. From your campaigns, your marriage announcement, the births of your children.”
Whitney breathed, realizing she had overreacted. “How disturbing.”
“He drew this picture of you,” the agent said, shaking her head. “It was amazing. The likeness, uncanny.”
