True Allegiance

by Ben Shapiro

  Genius.

  It was the program that could save America. More than that, it was the program that could save Mark Prescott’s presidency, and put him in the pantheon of American greats.

  Prescott didn’t know what the WFP would entail, but it would have to be big. He had his advisors draw it up. It looked like a cross between FDR’s Works Progress Administration and the child tax credit. The government would raise taxes on certain corporations—those were indirect taxes that wouldn’t lose Prescott votes, particularly with anticorporate sentiment at fever pitch—and then offer tax incentives to other corporations that hired more employees. Meanwhile, for those who couldn’t get a job, the government would offer direct hiring in certain key industries: the automobile industry, the banking industry. All the industries the government had either nationalized or heavily regulated in the aftermath of the stock market crash. The program could be expanded by executive fiat, too, so if the economy stagnated, he could always move to correct market failures.

  It would be expensive. Massively expensive.

  And now his chief of staff, Tommy Bradley, was telling him they couldn’t afford it.

  “Don’t you tell me we can’t afford it!” insisted Prescott. “We can’t not afford it. Do you understand? This country rides on the ability of its people to work. And no one is hiring. No one. What am I supposed to do about it if we can’t put through this program?”

  Bradley stood silent. Then, after a pause, he noted softly, “Mr. President, the Treasury is empty.”

  “Don’t you see, goddamn it?” Prescott yelled. “That’s why we need it so bad. We have no money because we have no jobs. We need jobs in order to create wealth. A happy population, a working population, is a population that boosts our economy.”

  Bradley nodded curtly. Then he reiterated, more slowly for the three-year-old, “We don’t have the money.”

  “So we raise it.”

  Bradley let that sink in. Then he responded. “From whom?” The European Union had descended into chaos several years beforehand as a result of their debt problems. They weren’t lending—not after the Greek collapse, the Spanish collapse, the Italian collapse. Russia couldn’t be trusted. Nobody else had that kind of cash. Well, almost nobody.

  “China,” said Prescott.

  It was the right answer, and Bradley knew it. And he knew the president wouldn’t budge on this Work Freedom Program. It was his baby. Anyway, who was Bradley to question him? Maybe Prescott wasn’t the brightest guy in politics, but he was one of the cleverest. How else had he risen to the presidency from relative obscurity in a matter of a few years? How else had he beaten a well-established military hero despite a lightweight résumé?

  Prescott was Bradley’s man, and Bradley knew it.

  “I’ll set up the call for later today.”

  The president nodded. Then he smiled, rose from his desk, and clasped Bradley on the shoulder. “Tommy,” he said seriously, “tomorrow we’re going to make history. All we need is the money. Don’t let me down.”

  Bradley took a deep breath. “I won’t, Mr. President.”

  Prescott had always enjoyed this part of the process—the part where a pretty girl hovered over him with a makeup brush and her palette spread before her. He could finally relax. Everything would be on the teleprompter. And nobody knew how to read from a teleprompter like Mark Prescott.

  Prescott smiled wryly as Tommy hovered around the set like a mother hen. Tommy had done yeoman’s work. This morning, he had spent two hours on the phone with the Chinese government, trying to convince them to buy more US debt. He’d achieved his purpose. And it had been surprisingly easy. Shockingly easy, actually.

  All that was left was to ram through the legislation.

  Which is where the camera came in. Republicans in Congress, and some Democrats from red states, were skeptical of the plan. They’d cave eventually, Prescott knew—they always did. They just needed a push. A good, hard push.

  “Mr. President,” said Bradley, “you’re on in two.”

  Bradley shooed away the makeup artist, a hot number in her mid-twenties, exactly the kind of girl Prescott’s wife hated. As Bradley was about to push her out the door of the Oval Office, Prescott laughed. “Tommy, just calm down. We’ve done this a thousand times,” he said. “Let the young lady stay.” Then he winked at her. She fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Ten seconds,” said the cameraman. “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…” Then he motioned silently, three, two, one. He pointed at the president and the little red light went on. Prescott was now speaking to three hundred million Americans on every major network. That had been a tougher sell than the debt to China—a prime time slot on all the networks would have cost an advertiser millions. For the president, all he had to do was threaten a bit of FCC scrutiny, and promise a few cash payouts from advertisers who would quickly pay up when threatened by the executive branch.

  Prescott gazed into the camera and opened his eyes innocently. The wide-eyed look spelled sincerity. He’d learned that from a speechwriter a decade ago, and it worked wonders.

  “My fellow Americans,” Prescott intoned in his sonorous baritone. “Today we decide whether or not every American truly has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  “That was the promise of our founding fathers. And the key to realizing that promise lies in the right to work. Life cannot be sustained without work. Liberty cannot be attained without income. And happiness is a distant dream to those without a job.

  “Our country is too great, our economy too powerful, our mission on this planet too important, for us to continue to tolerate the growing gap between rich and poor, between those who are lucky and those who are less fortunate. For generations, our parents and grandparents have told us that this was the land of opportunity. Coming from the Soviet Union or from Nazi Germany, they were right—compared to those places, America was a land of opportunity.

  “But that did not mean that American opportunity was open to all. African Americans were denied work based on the color of their skin. Women were prevented from entering the workplace based on sexism. Minorities of all stripes were subject to discrimination at the hands of an unfeeling and uncaring majority.”

  Prescott’s lower lip trembled—his pain at such evil was palpable.

  “We still live with the vestiges of that system. A system that allowed some to exploit their privileged status to bully others, and to build their own wealth from the backs of those they could chain to low-paying jobs. A system that sucked workers dry, then tossed them to the ground in contempt. A system that assumed that some would prosper while others would succeed, that some people deserved to work while others did not. There are still those in Congress who advocate for such a system, who say that if we reject that system, we reject America.”

  Prescott shook his head in disappointment and disbelief. Then he stared into the camera, determination in his eyes. That meant not blinking, as he’d learned while playing the Henry Fonda role in 12 Angry Men in high school.

  “The critics and cynics are wrong. That old system’s time has passed. We are better than that system. We are stronger than that system. Together, we can fix the imbalances that plague our society. We can ensure that everyone in this country has equality of opportunity by ensuring that everyone has the right to work. Our corporations must no longer line their own pockets and pad their bank accounts at the expense of the workers they refuse to hire. Our companies must no longer tell us that the free hand of the market will solve everything, or that handing money over to the rich will allow it to trickle down to the less fortunate.

  “We have seen the results of that philosophy firsthand. We have seen the skyrocketing unemployment, the fiscal mismanagement, the utter irresponsibility and its fallout. We have seen what happens when the market is left to its own devices—we have seen the injustices and wrongs that ensue
.

  “There is no such thing as a magical system that punishes wrongdoers and rewards those who do right when it comes to economics. God granted us the power of free will and the power of free choice; God granted us the intellectual power to overcome inequality. All we have to do is use that power to be our brothers’ keepers.”

  Sympathetic face, he said to himself.

  “We already know the consequences of turning our backs on our brothers and sisters. We see it in our daily lives: the young single mother who struggles to make the rent because she can’t take care of her child and work a full-time job. The elderly man who can’t hold down a job because he suffers physical and mental ailments. The middle-aged couple trying hard to feed their kids, but failing because either mom or dad can’t get a job.

  “Maybe it’s your next-door neighbor, who has to ask you for a handout. Maybe it’s your mom or dad. Maybe it’s even you.”

  Then he grinned that famous Prescott grin.

  “That time is over. A new day has dawned. A day when everyone can live with security, without fear. A day when everyone can wake up in the morning without worrying about the next paycheck.”

  Prescott launched into an explanation of the Work Freedom Program. He brought out charts and laid it out, point by point. He gave personal examples. He added the emotional touch he knew the pitch needed. It was a brilliant exposition.

  Then he came to his coup de grace.

  “I know,” he said wearily, “that some of my political opponents would like to call this plan irresponsible. I know they sling around words like ‘socialism’ ”—he framed the word with his fingers—“and ‘Marxism’ and ‘redistributionism,’ and they hope to scare you with those words. I also know that you are too smart for that. Because the fact is this: the Work Freedom Program will pay for itself.

  “I promise you right now that you will not pay one additional dollar in taxes for this program. You will not lose your job. And if your employer should selfishly fire you, we are establishing a business trust fund to which all businesses will contribute, and which will pay your salary during rainy days. Businesses may try to scare you, but people are always frightened of what they do not understand. Selfishness must not be allowed to trump the vital liberties of the American people.

  “And this action will not contribute to our national debt. It will contribute to our collective wealth. With the entire American population working, producing, creating—not just 80 percent or 90 percent or even 93 percent—we will boost our gross domestic product exponentially. Our economy will be the envy of the world. And at the same time, we will level the playing field for every American.”

  Prescott spread his hands on his desk in a sign of generosity and openness—he’d been taught that one by a body language expert. “All I ask is for us to join together and make this country what it was meant to be: a land of freedom, liberty, and opportunity for all. The sun is rising on a new America, a better, kinder, gentler, and fairer America. And we can all be a part of it.”

  He shook his head, grimaced. “But as we all know, Washington is broken. For years, Congress has refused to act on my agenda proposals. And that’s why I’m using my authority to do what is necessary on behalf of the American people. All my predecessors have taken similar action in times of serious need. Today, it is time to stand together as one. If my opponents in Congress don’t like what I’m proposing, let them pass a bill and send it to me. If not, I will do what I need to do in order to achieve the vision of our founders and of our fathers and mothers. For together we will stand, or we will fall apart.

  “And we will stand. Stand with me, and together, we will stand for a brighter future.

  “God bless you all, and God bless America.”

  The red light blinked off.

  “How was that, Tommy?” asked Prescott, leaning back in his chair.

  Bradley was staring at him with the stunned expression that so often crossed his face when the president spoke. “It was magnificent, sir,” said Bradley.

  “Good,” said Prescott. “Now, miss”—he motioned to the makeup artist—“would you mind coming here and helping me scrape this shit off of my face?”

  Central Valley, California

  The SWAT team didn’t expect it the first time she brought them cookies.

  Nobody brings the SWAT team cookies.

  But Soledad Ramirez knew the value of good press, and she baked mean chocolate chip cookies. “No oatmeal raisin here,” she said good-naturedly, handing out the meltingly hot treats to the men wearing full military gear and carrying M4s set to burst. “Don’t worry, they aren’t poisoned.”

  At first they doubted her, so she took one herself and tried it. Then, one of the boys—and most of them were boys, Soledad knew—reached out, grabbed a cookie in his gloved hand, flipped up his fiberglass riot gear face shield, and took a bite. “Mmm,” he said, spilling crumbs down his chin. The crumbs were still there when his commanding officer stormed up, screaming, asking what the hell he thought he was doing.

  “Try one before you knock it,” Soledad said to him.

  The papers loved that one. The Los Angeles Times, as much as they hated her, still ran the page one headline: “Smelt Ramirez Melts Hearts With Cookies.”

  But they didn’t leave. And even though every night she sent a plate of cookies to the boys, and every night they cleaned it, they were still out there, at the corner of her property, gun sights trained on her home, on her workers. One of her workers told her they didn’t even have the safeties on.

  So it was no surprise when she got up this morning and her cattle were missing. They’d been warning about it for weeks, telling her they’d start by confiscating her property if she didn’t cease and desist watering them. She hadn’t abided by their orders, and they had taken the next step: they’d stolen hundreds of head of cattle. Poof, gone.

  The Environmental Protection Agency had ruled—and Congress hadn’t overruled them—that the smelt fish were threatened by water overuse from the river. She protested; she sued. It didn’t matter, according to the government, that her husband’s father had bought the farm, worked it up from nothing. It didn’t matter that her husband had worked his heart out, almost literally, on the farm, keeling over at the ripe old age of fifty-two while grazing those damn cattle. It didn’t matter that she had fifty-some employees and their families dependent on her.

  All that mattered was the smelt. That damn fish.

  They restricted her water supply. They told her that no amount of lobbying could change it; the rest of the state simply didn’t care about the Central Valley, and the environmental interests refused to compromise. They’d won a great victory for the smelt, and they were satisfied with it.

  For a while, she lived with the situation.

  Then the land began drying up. The cattle began dying. She tried to sell them before they died of thirst. She tried to sell the land. But like the river, the market had run dry. No one would buy it. The listing agency kept dropping the price, but the land was worthless, and the mortgage on the land made it a financial deadweight for investors. The land was the water; without the water, the land meant less than nothing.

  She joined a consortium of farmers working to overturn state and federal legislation protecting the smelt. She spent endless afternoons with her neighbors propping signs along the highway reading, “CONGRESS-MADE DUST BOWL.” She wrote letter after letter to the State Water Resources Control Board, begging them to reconsider. In return, she received form letter after form letter thanking her for her interest, but informing her that the law required the current water distribution scheme. After a while, she stopped meeting with the other farmers. She knew that made no difference to the regulators. And she didn’t have the money to give to the lobbyists to cut their backroom deals with the environmental protection agencies. All her money was gone.

  She began laying off her workers. O
ne by one, they left, taking their families with them. Her accountant told her that her best option was bankruptcy. She resisted it as long as she could; she bargained with her creditors, took out credit cards, begged for swing loans from friends. Then, when all of that failed, she told him to begin filing the paperwork.

  She was a week away from filing when she received the letter. It came from one of her former employees, Emilio. He’d immigrated from Mexico decades before, crossed the border illegally. She’d paid him well, sponsored his citizenship, and brought his family over to join him. “He’s a valuable employee,” she told her skeptical friends. “And if you were living on that side of the border, wouldn’t you jump it? He’s not taking money from anybody except me, and I’m paying him for work.”

  He was one of the last men to be laid off as the ranch died. She cried the night she told him the cash had run out. He thanked her, hugged her, and moved his family to Los Angeles.

  She clung harder to the land. It didn’t produce anything anymore, but it was everything to her. She gradually sold off whatever was left of her cattle. She doggedly paid down the mortgage. She dropped her health insurance and her life insurance. Every last dollar went into buying the worthless, barren stretch.

  Then, one day, she received her property tax bill. The state government, hard up for cash, had decided to raise the property tax—she owed a supplemental $15,000.

  The same day, she received a letter from Emilio.

  He and his family had been forced to take a small apartment in East Los Angeles. Emilio had gotten a job at a local factory. Their son, Juan, had enrolled at the public high school.

  That’s where he had been killed.

  One of his classmates, apparently, had tried to recruit him into a gang. When he refused, several of the gang members found him in the bathroom. They began punching him. When he fell, they kicked him. And when he didn’t get up, they fled.

  An hour later, the janitor found him. The doctors tried to relieve the bleeding in his brain by drilling, but it was no use. Now Emilio was begging for money to bury the boy. He was fifteen years old.