The Latina President...and the Conspiracy to Destroy Her

by Joe Rothstein

“Madam President, please understand, Federico was incredibly brave to do all of this while ministering inside the climate of death and torture that raged all around him. It’s to Federico’s lasting credit and the bravery of many others that all of this testimony was collected and recorded for you. You must continue this fight or else Federico’s death and the probable death and torture of others will be for nothing.”

  She stared at Reynolds for a moment, sat back down and closed her eyes.

  “He didn’t commit suicide. I know that,” she said quietly.

  “It is a sin against God to take a life, even one’s own,” said Reynolds. “He didn’t commit suicide and he didn’t write that note. How could he, when his life for the past year has been dedicated to saving yours.”

  “Our counterparts in Mexican intelligence also don’t believe it was suicide.”

  She rose from behind her desk and walked to the curved bay window looking out on the National Ellipse. Her back was to everyone else in the room.

  “I’ve prepared my letter of resignation. Even if everything you say is true, after today my reputation is ruined. People will always doubt. Even if I survive the Senate vote, how effective can I be?”

  The gravity of the moment pressed down on everyone in the Oval Office. It became harder to breath, to think, to talk. Ben broke the silence.

  “You can’t resign. You simply can’t.”

  He moved around the desk to face her.

  “Federico spoke of a conspiracy, and when I asked him who was behind it, who were the “they,” he said the rich and powerful. You’re their target because you were once one of them. You know what they do and you know who they are. That makes you dangerous, really dangerous to them. And indispensable to everyone else. If you go now the rest of us are their victims. It’s not just your fight.”

  “He loved you,” said Ben. “But he also saw you as a vehicle to bring justice to the very people and causes he’d devoted his life to. He enlisted a small, dedicated, heroic army to protect you. It’s their fight, too. Theirs, mine, everyone’s. Everyone who trusted you. Who still trust you.”

  Reynolds had been present to comfort the afflicted in countless moments of grief. Now he did what his life’s instincts trained him to do. He stepped toward Tenny and grasped her hand. Her head bowed from the weight of her sorrow. Her hand tightened in his. The room remained quiet while they appeared to silently pray together.

  Deacon burst through the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Madam President, but you’ve just had an urgent message. I felt you should see it immediately.”

  He handed it to her.

  She read the note and closed her eyes as if to shut out everything she had heard and seen this ghastly Sunday morning.

  The note read “May God be with you and guide you in your hour of sorrow. Father Aragon was our brother, too, and we, as all who knew him, grieve. We pray for him and for your continued stewardship of your great nation.”

  It was signed, Monsignor Alfredo Moretti

  Without disclosing the contents of the note, Tenny turned to Father Reynolds.

  “Who is Alfredo Moretti?”

  “The Holy Father’s personal secretary,” said Reynolds.

  Apparently Reynolds had been in contact with a higher power before getting into Ben’s taxi.

  37

  The camera crews began gathering on the White House lawn shortly after sunrise. Overnight desks picked up the story of Federico’s death from Mexican news sources. The initial stories featured the damning suicide note with little questioning of authenticity. The note was universally seen by the media as the death knell for the Tennyson administration.

  Network anchors and their A reporting teams were roused from their Sunday morning beds to handle what clearly would be one of the biggest news events in years. Throughout the morning hours, news editors scrambled to fill time until hard news came from the White House. Members of Congress who had been on the front lines of the impeachment effort were like hounds unleashed, recapping the worst of the accusations with glowing self-actuated auras of righteousness as early diviners of corruption. Tenny’s most devoted supporters were cautious in their defense, this morning’s high watermark being to urge everyone to forgo judgment until the facts were known—responses dredged from a well of sadness rather than spirited conviction.

  In the absence of news, there was rumor. A White House staffer seen carrying a box to her car. That set off a pack chasing the idea that staffers were told to empty their desks. Someone said they thought they recognized a doctor entering the White House through the adjacent executive office building. That could only mean that the president was physically or emotionally in distress. A standard 8:00 a.m. changing of the security team at the vice president’s residence sent cameras racing there on the presumption that the Secret Service had been alerted about a change in command.

  The media anticipated a resignation and wasn’t shy about passing on that expectation to the public. Sunday morning talk shows cancelled their planned guests so that their crews and anchors and all their resources could stay focused on what was happening at the White House. That presumption was justified by two events. White House press secretary Carlton Bliss had confirmed that the president was with top members of the White House counsel staff and also with leaders of her national security team. These meetings certainly would be needed prior to any formal resignation. Then, at 11:00 a.m., the leadership of Congress appeared on the front lawn, in full view of the cameras. Their unity made its own statement. They walked silently, faces grim. None would answer questions.

  When they filed into the Oval Room, Tenny rose, greeted each of them with hugs, and with tears in her eyes.

  “Madam President,” began Senator Pro Tem Stuart Alcantra, “please accept our deepest sympathy for the loss of your brother.”

  Still standing, she hushed Alcantra with a wave of her hand.

  “Thank you, Stuart. Thank you all. I know why you’re here, and I’m willing to abide by your judgment. But before you make that call, I’m going to leave you to talk privately with George McKitrick and his intelligence team about what they’ve learned from Mexico. They are in the cabinet room waiting for you. Let me introduce Father Bob Reynolds, who I imagine you don’t know. He has information you should be aware of. Please use my office. I’ll be in my residence. Call me when you’re ready to talk.” With that, she, Carmie, and Fish, who had arrived to comfort her, were gone. The others remained.

  It was a cloudless November day in Washington. The lack of cloud cover sent temperatures into the mid-20s. Despite the cold, thousands of people had gathered in Lafayette Park, around the Ellipse, along Pennsylvania Avenue, waiting, sharing what appeared to be a memorable moment in history. No waving signs in support or to protest. In fact, there was the silence of mourning. Mourning for what? Promises either not kept or unfulfilled? Hopes dashed, again, with the pain of disappointment? A mourning for a country, a process, a friend gone bad? At 1:18 p.m., the congressional delegation reappeared on the White House lawn, this time ready to speak to the cameras, and through them to the by now tens of millions of Americans drawn to the drama unfolding at the White House.

  Senator Pro Tem Stuart Alcantra, Democrat from Wisconsin, the longest serving member of the Senate, was the lead spokesperson for the group. He had no prepared speech, but from long experience before cameras and crowds he needed none.

  “This is a time for honesty, for total candor, for the absence of partisan politics and pettiness. That’s the spirit that motivated all of us to come here today. We came to suggest that in light of the tragic death of the president’s brother, and the circumstances of it, the president should consider resigning her office in the best interest of the people of the United States. That was our assessment of what we knew then. But during the past two hours we have been made aware of new circumstances, new evidence, all of which raises serious questions as to whether the death of Father Federico Aragon was in fact a suicide and whether
the note left at his side was authentic. We have seen written documents and spoken with Mexican authorities that place the matter in much doubt. The president was as frank with us as we were with her. In fact, she offered to abide by our judgment on whether she should resign the presidency.

  “After discussing this among ourselves we advised President Tennyson to remain on the job she was elected to do. The evidence and whatever information may yet be revealed should be presented through the Senate’s consideration of the articles of impeachment now before it. The full Senate should be given an opportunity to resolve this question in the constitutionally proscribed way.

  “We all extend to the president and her family our deepest sympathy for her loss. Given the fact that the future of her presidency is being litigated in the Senate, and that the Senate is the forum for the presentation of facts and evidence, we will take no questions. Thank you.”

  The members quickly retreated to the White House door where two black SUVs waited to spirit them away.

  The media crews, the anchors, the thousands on the streets and the tens of millions connected electronically had been waiting all day for a final chapter of the Tennyson presidency. Instead, as the day ended, they were left with nothing but the expectation of more to come.

  38

  There was no precedent for all of this. No rule book. The House had made its case for impeachment, published its report, cast its vote. That record now had to be considered against the evidence supplied by the late Reverend Federico Aragon. Much of it was authenticated in the days following its release to the Senate leadership. The Mexican government was cooperating fully. President Isabel Aragon Tennyson was hugely popular in Mexico. She was, after all, a native daughter, the strongest and most successful advocate for immigrant rights, a woman who had been generous supporting Mexican art and scholarship and those in need. If she were to run for president of Mexico she would be a landslide winner. Mexico’s leaders understood all of this. Their popular support now was tied to hers. Federico’s death and a suicide note that at first seemed to be a smoking gun in the case against President Tennyson now increasingly appeared to be the strongest evidence on behalf of her innocence. Indeed, her victimization.

  In the two weeks since that dramatic Sunday, public opinion polls had shifted wildly. From narrow approval of her on the eve of the Federico’s death, to free fall in the days following the original reporting. With the new evidence the polls showed a recovery for her of sorts. That recovery would have been more robust but for a massive right-wing campaign to stunt it.

  Opponents were everywhere with suspicions of CIA complicity, cover-up, corrupt Mexicans coming to her defense, forged documents. Conspiracy theories were rich Internet currency. All of this fed into the now riveting debate on the floor of the Senate, where managers for and against her continued to argue the impeachment indictment, all being telecast for an audience of hundreds of millions, in the United States and around the world. Tensions and audiences were building. A final vote deadline was scheduled within a week.

  When Ben rushed Father Reynolds to the White House, he hadn’t seen the evidence Federico had left behind. His only information had come from the conversation with Federico. In the days since the drama at the White House he had time to review that evidence thoroughly. Aside from the details, a number of questions continued to puzzle him.

  How, for instance, did Federico, a single, penniless priest, traveling alone in the poorest byways of Mexico, manage to recruit and organize so many others to his cause? What he presented was a significant portfolio, collected over many months, obviously requiring more travel and money than Federico had time for and possessed. Ben kept thinking of that wink Father Reynolds had given him at the end of his meeting with Federico, when he asked whether the Vatican knew about this. The timing of the message that arrived at the White House after Federico’s murder was exquisitely perfect to influence Tenny’s decision. Was there a war room in the Vatican mirroring their own? Was the Pope himself aware, or even directing it?

  And that led to the second question. The campaign to remove the president was too clever and on too grand a scale for it to be a creature of domestic politics. Certainly the Republicans knew opportunity when they saw it and jumped aboard with glee and relish. At this very moment, they were fighting hard in the media and on the floor of the Senate to finish the job. But those were not the guys who recruited Gabe and the others to testify against Tenny, or who created bogus written evidence that backed up lying testimony. Republicans certainly did not kill Federico. This was the stuff of intelligence professionals. Working at whose bidding? Was it so crazy an idea that there existed a sort of super-wealthy Spectre as in the James Bond books and movies?

  Tenny quickly recovered from her bout with doubt and her flirtation with resignation. Once she had decided to remain in office and fight efforts to remove her, she went into full campaign mode. She regrouped, composed herself and asked the networks for five minutes the following night to deliver a message. It was a message that expressed her love for Federico, her pain at his loss, assurance to other nations of U.S. leadership continuity, and a willingness to abide by the Senate’s decision, whatever it might be. That was a lot to pack into five minutes, but she did it reverentially, and forcefully.

  Then she hit the road and the phones to shore up public support and to put pressure on senators who her team believed still could be persuaded to vote against the impeachment resolutions. Ben and Lee had mapped out a full schedule, and she agreed. She was theirs, just as she was during the campaign that elected her. But she insisted on one detour. The leaders of the immigration reform movement had scheduled a long-delayed victory party, shelved until the Supreme Court made its final judgement on the act’s legality. That judgement was in, the act was preserved, and now it was time to party. Tenny was not going to miss it.

  Henry Deacon, her chief of staff, was scheduled to accompany her that night, but a crisis in the South China Sea kept him chained to his desk. Rita Gonzales, Tenny’s long-time top aide on immigration policy went to the hotel early to help the advance team with arrangements. It was unusual for Tenny to travel alone, but everything about the last few weeks had been unusual. She headed to the Washingtonia Grand hotel with just her security escort and the knowledge that tonight would be tonic after all she had endured in recent weeks.

  39

  She arrived at the hotel later than scheduled. The president had hoped to be there for the earlier cocktail party, to shake hands, stand for photos, share the evening personally with those who meant so much to her and her campaign to win immigration reform. No matter, she would stay later. This was a festive evening. Pleasure does not keep time as rigorously as pain.

  A two-story elevator ride lifted the president and her security team to the ballroom floor. Hotel manager Glen Freiberg greeted her as the elevator doors opened into the hotel’s enormous kitchen, alive with staff in the final stages of preparing the largest sit down dinner the new hotel had ever served. As was her custom before making any public appearance, the president asked to take one last look at herself before becoming the center of attraction. Freiberg escorted her to a bathroom to the left of the elevator doors. Check your hair, your lipstick, assess your appearance and how you will look close up on television. Take a few deep breaths to calm yourself. It was a ritual she followed through her political career.

  Four minutes later, a brisk walk through the kitchen with frequent handshakes—cooks, waiters and other staff, many of whom themselves secured by the new immigration law. Now she was behind a curtain veiling her from the banquet floor, greeted by long-time friend and ally Leon Rivas, chairman of the Immigration Reform Coordinating Committee. They embraced warmly and exchanged whispered words.

  “Ready?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Great night,” he added.

  She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.

  Rivas cued the evening’s master of ceremonies, Florida Senator Carson Coulter. Coulter had been filli
ng time on stage, introducing notables, raising the emotional temperature of the crowd for the president’s arrival. With the signal from Rivas, Coulter lifted his arms dramatically as if to levitate everyone in the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” his rich baritone boomed, “the president of the United States.”

  A brassy “Hail to The Chief” bounced off the ballroom’s hard surfaces, amplifying both the sound and the excitement. President Tennyson strode quickly onto the stage, an energetic, hands-waving entrance, the image of victory.

  The moment she stepped onto the stage was a rush back in time. Time when her presence ignited spontaneous crowd combustion. Her first campaign for Congress in Los Angeles, the victory march through California for the Senate, the amazing Alamo presidential campaign launch and the tens of thousands who would come to see her, touch her, hear her words as she went from city to city running for president. Tonight, for the first time since descent into the ugly world of impeachment, she could feel the love, and the trust, and the expectation. Worn thin lately, but not tonight. Tonight was hers. These were her people.

  The ovation was deafening, sustained, overriding the orchestra. Many in the room had lived their adult lives with the uncertainty of place and belonging. For so many, the war now was over. Victory achieved. This was V-J Day and for tonight, this ballroom was Times Square.

  Television cameras were live, as they were at most of the president’s events these days, recording what could be the last moments of her historic presidency. The images shown now were caviar to cable television directors, a rich visual feast of expressive faces, tears, embraces. The president, triumphant, love enveloping her, love she requited with each air blown kiss.

  Then the cameras went dark. Black. Suddenly and ominously. All of them at once. Those watching on television could no longer see anything.

  Those in the ballroom saw hell.

  The explosion shattered the south wall of the ballroom. Through that opening rocketed a fireball so intense it incinerated those directly in its path. Lethal black smoke roared through the wall’s splintered openings. The ballroom’s thunderous cheers dissolved abruptly into total silence. It happened so quickly. Too quickly for screams. Now, only occasional shattering of falling glass. A throat, gagging. Little else. Table salads dressed a sea of bodies. Exit signs blinked red, too late for warning.