Children of Hope

by Michael Fine

  “He asked me to intimidate you. That was the original plan. I was just going to come to the restaurant and make you uncomfortable, stare at you, grab your butt, that kind of thing. Creep you out for a few days and then let you know that Derek knows you’re looking for him and that you need to stop. But then you cracked me in the nose. I told Derek that I was out, but he agreed to pay me more if I escalated things.”

  “You tell Derek if he wants to scare me off, he better come do it himself.” Hope was now more committed to confronting the bastard than ever. And she wasn’t just going to yell at him, either. Adrenaline surged through her body.

  “And if you ever—and I mean ever—come near me again, I will take my scalpel and cut these off,” Hope said, squeezing the man’s privates harder still. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Uh, uh…”

  “Uh, uh, what?”

  “Uh, yes. Yes. Clear. Clear. Totally clear. Yes, yes, yes. Just please, please let go.”

  “We understand each other, right?” Hope asked.

  “I won’t bother you again. I swear.”

  “And you won’t bother any other woman either, right?”

  “Right. Yes. Right. I promise.”

  Hope unclenched her fist. Norman Underhill dropped to the ground and crawled into the fetal position, with his hands holding his crotch. His red hat fell off and rolled to a stop a few inches away from where Hope stood. Hope finally noticed the hat had the word RESISTANCE printed on it. Republican zealots had been using the term for the past eight years while out of power, stealing the term from liberal zealots who’d used it the previous four years. As Hope made her way to her car, she thought, Of course he’s a maggot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, January 21 (the same evening)

  International Center for Social Change

  Miami, Florida

  Charlie stood at the back door of the International Center for Social Change in downtown Miami, enjoying the warm evening breeze and a few minutes of quiet. He’d been to the city many times, and always enjoyed the vibrant colors, Cuban-influenced food, and balmy weather. At 7:45 p.m., a limousine pulled up and a tiny woman with sepia-colored skin, a broad nose, short-cropped hair, and dancing eyes stepped out.

  “Welcome to the United States,” Charlie said warmly, giving her a hug.

  “Not so welcome, actually, huh?” the woman replied wryly.

  Nearly forty-two hours after leaving Lilongwe, Malawi, and flights that took her through Nairobi, Paris, and London, Roshin Dausi touched down in Miami, Florida a half an hour earlier. Despite the distance and difficult logistics, Dausi was upbeat and bursting with energy, partly because she’d taken the last leg of the journey aboard a patron’s luxurious Gulfstream G550 and partly because she was in the United States against the U.S. Government’s wishes.

  Dausi, just twenty-two years old, ran an up-and-coming Malawan social and economic justice organization, Rise and Thrive, which promoted birth control and women’s reproductive choice across Africa. She wanted to spread her message in the United States, which in her mind was now a third-world country when it came to women’s issues. Gabriella Davenport had been a liberal president, but President Fred Spencer packed three extreme right-wing justices on the Supreme Court, including Julian Kingsley. For years now, the court regularly ruled 6-3 to slowly but surely reduce the rights of women, LGBTQ people, and immigrants.

  Administrations since the 2001 Patriot Act have been using provisions in the law to engage in a kind of “censorship at the border.” The idea is simple: keep scholars with undesirable political views out of the country. President Gabriella Davenport had not abused the law in this way, but President Brock Owens, in office for just one day, had, while on the campaign trail, publicly stated his intentions to renew the practice. In the months since the man was elected, his incoming administration had made it clear that Dausi was not welcome in the United States.

  Dausi was unwilling to take “no” for an answer, even when that answer came from the great and powerful United States. Through her robust network of contacts, she reached out to the almost-mythical trio of Diamond, Lancaster, and Patel.

  To avoid the normal scrutiny of U.S. Customs, Charlie arranged for Dausi to fly into Opa-Locka Executive Airport, ten miles north of Miami International Airport. The man had somehow arranged for the Gulfstream, too. If things went according to plan, she would have more to thank him for than just a ride in a nicely appointed airplane.

  Charlie said, “Yeah, that’s true. Uncle Sam would be pissed if he knew you were here. That’s why we’ve arranged things the way we have.”

  “I understand,” Dausi said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Oh, and thanks for the ride; that’s one amazing plane.”

  “Don’t thank me for that. That was all Sanam’s doing. His parents are big fans of your work and are apparently richer than God.” After a beat, Charlie asked, “You feeling okay?”

  “I’m good. Slept a solid four hours on the plane from London.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do this. Follow me.”

  Charlie led Roshin Dausi to a comfortable “green room” in the back of the Center’s offices. It was really just a well-appointed room with a comfortable couch, a makeup station, and a table full of fresh fruits and vegetables. A makeshift desk with a camera was set up in the corner. A green screen hung behind the chair.

  A few minutes before 8:00 p.m., Dausi took her seat at the desk. A volunteer who worked at the Center brought her a pitcher of water and a glass. He poured some water into the glass and whispered, “Thank you for all you do.” His twelve-year-old sister, still in Zambia, was still a virgin, and still healthy, in large part due to the efforts of this incredible woman and her organization.

  “You’re all set,” another volunteer holding a clipboard said. “You’ll have video calls for two hours tonight, until ten, then again from eight to eight Monday through Friday. You’re booked on a nine o’clock flight immediately after your wrap on Friday. Given how close the airport is, and how well they handle their private clients, you should be good on timing.”

  “Will you and your men be here the whole week?” Dausi asked Charlie.

  “Not me. I’m leaving once you get started. Gotta get back to my day job.” He’d never told anyone in this life what he did in his real life. Or vice versa. “But Quinn and Sanam will stick around all week, providing security. I don’t think anything will happen, but keep your bag packed just in case. They’ll have a car ready to take you to the airport at a moment’s notice in case Uncle Sam decides to poke his nose in.”

  Dausi rose and gave Charlie a surprisingly solid hug for such a small woman, and kissed him on each cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. This country needs your wisdom and leadership, even if it is too stupid to realize it.”

  Charlie excused himself to confirm that everything was ready with the video link. He was out the door, heading back to Opa-Locka for his late-night flight back to the Bay Area, before Roshin Dausi began her first video conference.

  All week, leaders in America from various social justice organizations focused on empowering women and girls had video conferences with Dausi. A few federal and state legislators were also on her schedule. To a person, they were impressed and stirred by this passionate, powerful young woman. To a person, they thanked her for “staying up late” or “getting up early” and for “arranging the calls for their convenience.” And to a person, they were impressed with the speed and quality of the video conference to what they thought was Malawi.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday, January 27 (one week later)

  Senator Royce Carrington’s Home

  Village of Oyster Bay Cove, Nassau County, New York

  Senator Royce Carrington liked ceremony as much as he liked order. He started the meeting, as he always did, at exactly 8:00 p.m. and by following the rituals set forth almost two hundred years earlier. After leading
the gathering in the opening prayer and burning the old card, he wrote 2149 on a new one and saved it in his desk drawer.

  Reverend Porter Brooks was standing near the bar, pouring himself a brandy and Julian Kingsley was sitting and reading the front page of the Wall Street Journal. He’d already polished off three beers and had another resting on the side table near his chair.

  “All right gentlemen, let’s get to work. We have a great deal to do. After eight long years, we finally have control over the White House. Even better, we have firm control over the Senate and are still up a few seats in the House. In short, after an eternity in the wilderness, we are once again in a position to affect the kinds of changes we want in this world.”

  Carrington spoke directly to Kingsley. “Julian, you haven’t been with us for very long, and most of the time you’ve been a part of our endeavor it’s been quiet given our lackluster performance the last two election cycles. Porter can tell you, things heat up considerably when we’re in power.”

  Reverend Brooks, who had been working with Senator Carrington for over thirty years, added, “Royce is telling it like it is, Julian. It’s showtime.”

  Kingsley asked, “So what happens now?”

  Carrington got up and walked over to the bar to pour himself a glass of delectable CHASE Vineyards Cabernet. He swirled it around in his glass to let it breathe, took a sip, and let out an audible moan. The Senator loved the company’s bounding rabbit logo, the perfect representation of youthful exuberance. He knew that the delectable Zin grapes, grown at the Hayne Vineyard in Saint Helena, grew on vines over a century old and were hand-tended with no chemical intervention. He loved their mouthwatering acidity and complex flavors. He took another sip as he sat on the edge of his desk.

  “It is tradition that we spend this meeting deciding on our short-term legislative, judicial, and cultural priorities. We will discuss our options and I’ll decide our gameplan.”

  Kingsley said, “You mean, ‘we,’ right?” He was used to being in charge, taking the lead, being the voice in the room to which people listened.

  Carrington said, simply, “I don’t misspeak, Judge.”

  Kingsley, by this time, had once again had too much to drink. He rubbed his nose vigorously and said, “Wait just a second. I’ve been carrying your water for the past eight years. While Democrats have held the Presidency and both houses of Congress, I’ve been leading the charge in the Supreme Court. I was the swing vote that got Roe overturned. I did that, not you.”

  Carrington got up and walked to where Kingsley was sitting. He stood directly in front of the man, looking down on him. He spoke in an eerily calm voice.

  “This is not a negotiation. You’re a valuable member of our effort here, but, simply put, your membership is at my discretion. You understand, don’t you?”

  Even during his years as an assistant to the Solicitor General in the Justice Department, Kingsley had never experienced the kind of hardball Carrington appeared to play. He felt the chill of Carrington’s words and demeanor. By “membership,” Kingsley seriously wondered if Carrington meant “life.” The man could be downright scary. He nodded weakly.

  “Good. I’m happy we got that settled,” Carrington said, his voice dripping with condescension. “As I was saying, let’s talk about our priorities.” He looked at Reverend Brooks. “Want to start us off, Porter?”

  Porter Brooks spoke passionately for ten minutes on the evils of homosexuality. As a professional preacher, his presentation was more sermon than well-reasoned argument. It was also a screed he gave at every opportunity.

  Brooks switched gears. “Or, what do you both think about going back to the issue of immigration? We were making great strides during the Spencer administration, nine or ten years ago. In the past eight years, the liberals have rolled back much of our progress. Immigration is back up. Illegal immigration is still low, but people are still fearful of these people invading our country. What is wrong with these Tacohead-loving liberals…”

  Carrington, irritated, said, “Porter! Do you really have to use that kind of language? It’s unbecoming for a man of God.”

  Kingsley, who was cracking open another beer, ignored Brooks’ indelicacy and Carrington’s rebuke and said, “I’d rather focus on birth control or something like that. My name was ruined by the accusations made against me years ago. ‘Me Too’ my ass. There are several cases that need to be overturned… There’s—”

  “Porter?” Carrington prompted, ignoring the legal weeds through which Kingsley was about to wade.

  “I still want to tamp down on the queers or the hordes of immigrants attacking us.”

  Carrington bristled but ignored Brooks’ rhetoric. “What about abortion?” he asked.

  “What about abortion?” Kingsley said defensively.

  Carrington shared what was on his mind. “Overturning Roe was a good first step, to be sure. But abortion is still legal in over twenty states. It’s legal without significant limitations in eight.” He sighed. “We can and should do more here.”

  Reverend Brooks said, “I think what Royce is suggesting is that we work to outlaw abortion everywhere.”

  “Yes, I understand, thank you,” Kingsley said. “You’re talking about a federal law that bans abortion.”

  “That’s right,” Carrington said. “A ‘sanctity of life’ bill. Yes, that’s the ticket. That’s what we need to push.”

  Kingsley asked, “What about doing something to prevent the use of birth control?”

  Brooks asked, “What are we going to do about the damn wetbacks?”

  “Enough,” Carrington said. “I’ve decided. First order of business this year is to get a “Sanctity of Life” bill passed.

  “But, but” Kingsley stammered, “our five-four majority was based on the argument that abortion should be a state-by-state policy decision. I was able to get the chief to sign onto my opinion only because we agreed that it’s a states’ rights issue.”

  “Well, lucky for us, you’re a clever man. You’ll find a way.” Carrington was not asking or suggesting. Kingsley thought back to his years as a political operative in the Justice Department. Once a partisan, always a partisan, he supposed.

  Carrington stood up and paced the room. “Let’s spend the rest of the evening working through the kind of language we want in the legislation, and who we can work with in the Senate and House. Julian, you can spend some time thinking about how you can defend the law when we can get the right case in front of you. Figure a year or two at least.”

  The men strategized until midnight. When the meeting finally adjourned, Carrington pointed at the Reverend and said, “We’ll make the rounds next Sunday morning. Get someone to cover your sermon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to call the President.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sunday, February 4 (one week later)

  CNN Studios

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The hair and makeup woman touched up Oscar Alvarez’s makeup with a few minutes to spare before airtime. She’d already finished with Senator Carrington and Reverend Brooks. Damn, she thought, Carrington was still sexy despite being in his seventies.

  “All set, boss,” she said to Alvarez, who was checking his social media feeds on his cell phone.

  Alvarez thanked the woman and walked out onto the set. The production crew had brought his two guests out a few minutes earlier in order to get them wired up and comfortably situated. They were sitting at the glass table that was at the center of his set, and he walked up to each man and shook hands.

  Alvarez took his seat and allowed the tech to affix his microphone and battery pack. The man did the work quickly and wordlessly, and was off set as the director counted silently down from five.

  As the clock showed 8:00:00, Alvarez stared into the camera and started his show.

  “Good morning. I’m Oscar Alvarez. Welcome to ‘Tough Talk.’ I’m delighted to have two distinguished guests with me this morning, Senator Royce Carrington, the sen
ior Senator from Mississippi, and Reverend Porter Brooks, pastor of megachurch Christ’s Fellowship Church outside of Nashville, Tennessee. “Welcome gentlemen.”

  “Good morning,” Carrington said in his rich baritone.

  “Thanks for having us on,” Brooks added.

  “Let’s get right to the tough talk, shall we?” This was Alvarez’s trademark phrase. “I understand you have an announcement regarding important legislation you want to introduce. Is that right, Senator?”

  “That’s right, Oscar. President Owens and I have met several times to discuss this, and we agree that now is the time for Congress to pass a ‘Sanctity of Life’ bill for the President to sign.”

  He could guess from the name of the bill, but Oscar Alvarez, a seasoned pro, calmly asked, “What would the legislation provide for?”

  “Our Sanctity of Life bill will defend the lives of unborn babies across the country. Right now, abortion is far too available in various states and is still far too common. We must protect these children.” Carrington’s passion infused intensity into his every word.

  “Fetuses, you mean?” Alvarez asked.

  “Children,” Carrington said. “I mean children.”

  “You’re talking about a national anti-abortion law?”

  “That’s correct,” Reverend Brooks said. “It would outlaw abortion in all fifty states.”

  Carrington added, “It would make abortion a federal crime. Both for the mother and anyone providing medical treatment.”

  Oscar Alvarez listened to his producer’s voice in his earpiece. “And you’re saying that President Owens would be supportive of this legislation?”

  “Yes. He’s been involved since day one, and his people are helping us craft the bill.”

  Alvarez faced the camera and said, “Here’s a clip of President Owens from the campaign trail, just a few months ago. I’ll show it and then I’d like to get your comments on the other side.”