Soon, the buzz on the Street was about a larger-than-life fall guy, but none were wiser about who it was.
Jack Robson was delighted. He had found out in one of those lawyer-to-lawyer exchanges that his client would go free if the marlin was nailed. Jack Robson knew it was all a game, and he was terribly good at it. Good for Roscoe that Jack was on his side—Jack was a grandmaster, and Roscoe was the king he could castle if he moved swiftly.
47
The First Presidential Debate
Warren Medley, Justin Flannery’s boss at NBN, was delighted to be appointed as the moderator of the first of the three presidential debates. After a long media career working with CBS, ABC, and NBC, Warren had been promoted to head programming at NBN. The moderator’s role fitted him perfectly. What was mainly required of the moderator was to not ruffle any feathers. Warren had spent the better part of thirty years navigating precisely this territory.
The coin toss let John Logan have the first crack at the opening address, with Ganon second and Stein third. Olivia sat in one corner of the back row, an eerie calmness about her.
John Logan cleared his throat. “Mr. Chairman, twelve months ago, when I announced my candidacy for the presidency of the United States, I said this campaign would be ugly, and ugly it has been. Never before has a candidate been assassinated, and never before have three thousand people died in civil riots without an apparent cause. So everywhere I go, people yearn for strong leadership, for a voice of calm, a voice of reason, a voice of inspiration amidst the chaos and wilderness that we see today.”
John Logan stood tall and stretched to his entire six feet, three inches and some. His shoulders were wide, his chest was out, and his voice was deep. People needed authority, presidential authority, he had been told by his PR experts—they needed a strong leader.
“We have a weakening currency, weakening manufacturing base, rising prices, and very high unemployment. People who can find work have to work two or three jobs to make ends meet.
“Such desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s time to end the political correctness that has brought this once mighty nation down. It’s time to call the Chinese bluff. It is time to slap a tariff of 50 percent on all Chinese goods exported to the U.S. because they cheat, my friends, they cheat. They have little by way of environmental laws, their currency has been artificially cheap for a long time, and they exploit their labor. Well, we have to equate the field. With all the tariff revenue we will earn, we will ease gas prices for the ordinary moms and dads. I’ll do it just for the first ten gallons on any one purchase. So folks can go to work, go look for work, and not spend their entire day’s earnings on gas.
“We have to make sure that American jobs stay in America. Starting in the first week of my presidency, I will reduce all immigration to zero for two years and then only allow very necessary family reunions at the rate no more than 2 percent of the population per year.
Logan ended with the remark, “Under my leadership, you will see Wall Street reined in, jobs created, defense enhanced, and family values restored. Let me be your voice for calm, reason, and inspiration.”
The faithful clapped. Some people wondered if such a motley mix of populist measures was workable, but they clapped anyway.
Sidney Ganon was next. He was clearly thrilled to be there. He was well prepared, poised, and dressed as his entourage told him to—in smart, casual gear. He needed to look like and sound like the guy next door, they said.
“My fellow Americans,” said Ganon, a minute into his talk, “ninety years ago, our country suffered a Great Depression caused by greedy bankers and the malfeasance of the rich. Our forefathers learned their lessons, but over time, the Grand Old Party has restored their free market traditions, accentuating the difference between the haves and the have-nots. For the past four years, yet again we let the cowboys in business suits play wild with our future, turning our markets into casinos and our lives into inconsequential numbers. No more, I say, no more, ladies and gentlemen… no more. Eighty-eight years ago, it was Franklin Roosevelt who said, ‘Let it be from now on the task of our party to break foolish traditions. We will break foolish traditions and leave it to the Republican leadership, far more skilled in that art, to break promises’.”
The smile left Sidney’s face. He became solemn, about to deliver his key message.
“Let us not forget the words that galvanized the New Deal, for a whole New Deal is what we need today. Let us now and here firmly resolve to resume the country’s interrupted march along the path of real progress, of real justice, of real equality for all of our citizens, big and small. My great friend in that interrupted march, Casey Rogers, is no longer with us, but there still survives today his spirit. Many of his lieutenants, thank God, are still with us, to give us wise counsel. God bless Casey.”
Ganon stopped, clearing his throat. It was the perfect moment to shed a tear.
A handkerchief to wipe the tear was not retrieved until the cameras had it all: the watery eyes, the fingers shaking with disbelief, the mild tremor in his body.
Then his voice was raised and shivers, seemingly of frustration and anger, began to coarse through his body.
“Logan and Stein are but two of the wild radicals who have surfaced in these desperate times. Much like the pastor in Virginia who wishes to send all Muslims, even those born here, to Islamic countries. Like libertarian anarchists who think we could do just fine with no government at all. Think Gerry Maastricht, the populist blogger who contends that we should physically divide America between the liberal coastlines and the conservative middle. Gerry did not get to stand for president, but his closet followers have…Logan and Stein are separatists, wishing to divide America between the haves and the have nots – for never the twain to meet.”
As Ganon began his conclusion, he took his time sipping from a glass of water, wiping the last nonexistent tear from his eye.
“But now is not the time for radicalism. It’s time for cold, dispassionate thinking. It’s time we took control of the commanding heights of the economy: natural resources like oil and gold that belong to the people, communications, petroleum refining, and above all, banks. We must control the banks and separate money from greed. Money is the essential grease that keeps our economy moving. But greed has corrupted money. Let me separate money from greed. Yes, I can do it. You can do it. I pledge you, I pledge myself to a new deal for us Americans. God bless you all, and God bless America.”
The convention hall erupted into applause. Invoking the memory of FDR, it was the performance du jour, one that could have eclipsed the late Marlon Brando at his best.
Frank Stein was up next for his opening address. Frank had to wait for several minutes for the applause to die down. When it finally wavered, someone even started a second round of orgiastic fervor before the moderator becalmed the flock. Frank took it all in stride. When his turn came, he spoke in unhurried earnest. A minute into his address, he said, “The men and women who were to be the guardians of our freedom have incurred a twenty-five trillion dollar debt on our behalf. Half of it has been wasted in ill-conceived projects: high-speed rail, feeding an army of bureaucrats, building large aircraft carriers when we have not faced a naval attack since World War II, and so on. Half of it has been given to charity.
“It is not possible to repay this debt. So these civil servants have chosen to print money and repay the debt with printed money that dilutes the old money. Perhaps they think we can fool the moneylenders by giving them useless paper money. But the joke is on us, my friends. The people who lent our government that money realized this in time and sold off all our debt. An unconstitutionally conceived institution, the Federal Reserve, along with its crony banks, holds all of this debt now. Even if they demand the debt be repaid, Treasury is not able to do so, other by issuing more of this unrepayable debt. Together, these two outfits have run the world’s largest Ponzi scheme, and they will get away with it because they have been given the legal ability to coun
terfeit trillions of dollars.
“Meanwhile, the printed cash is out there and making things very expensive indeed.
“Regulation upon regulation has been enforced upon people who wanted to create goods and services, some of it ostensibly to save us from chicanery. My good friend Mardi has already told you about the greatest scientific fraud perpetrated on mankind. You the people have been swindled by this climate delusion.
“If we continue to believe the economic witch doctors and the do-gooders and the orators, then we are doomed to keep repeating this cycle.
“There are many snouts in the trough: consultants, cronies, Wall Street bankers, and bureaucrats, and they have many friends in the media who are on the gravy train as well.
“This country will now go into a great depression. It could be bigger and longer than the famous one that started almost a century ago today. It could go on for at least ten years, and then we would set the stage for having yet another one two decades down the road. Alternatively, it could last just a few years, say two, three at worst, and we could come out in complete remission from this murderous cancer and the cycle of ever-increasing debt, paper money, and debt-fuelled spending that is made to look like economic growth.
“Those are the only two choices: perpetual exploitation of Peter by Paul or short-term, intense pain. A large government that feeds itself and its cronies, an institutionalized mafia if you will, or a government that does nothing more than protect its citizens from force and fraud and from the threat of force and deception, nothing more.
“Now choose. Choose carefully, for such an opportunity may only be an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Thank you.”
You could just sense it. It wasn’t just the entire convention hall that went into a protracted silence. By all accounts, it was all those television viewers around the country and the world as well, too dumbstruck to even offer a mild applause. Politicians weren’t supposed to actually say these things. But someone had. He was repeating them, in fact, getting ever more impatient that he was not being fully acknowledged.
Afterward, curled up in the privacy of her home, and refusing every call for an interview, Olivia was carefully analyzing everything that each of the candidates spoke about. Going over the history of both the major parties, she pored over hundreds of campaign speeches, promises, and interviews, noting how Logan and Ganon had merely rehashed old phrases. She made a cutting of the Salt Lake City Daily Express online article that summed up the first debate: “Parents home early from their night out surprised their kid, and stumbled upon a crowd of revelers buried in an orgy of street racing, sex, drugs, and drunken fighting; the parents turned on the house alarm. Everyone froze. The party ended.”
She pinned the article on the bulletin board in her study under the heading Frank Stein.
48
The Ghost of Weimar
“Men and women of the fourth estate, become completely intransigent. It’s a good thing.”
Frank Stein was addressing the graduating class of Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism in New York on the Saturday after the first debate. It was a rare opportunity to hear a presidential candidate in the final weeks of an election campaign. A lot more than just the graduating class filtered in to the room, including journalists, lecturers, administrative staff—basically anyone who could get past security. The lecture theater was crammed.
“Why intransigent?” a cute co-ed asked.
“That’s what makes a good journalist. Unless a media professional really owns up to that responsibility, she will end up becoming the fourth branch, which is where we are with most media organizations today. Investigative truth could improve your ratings even more than scandal would. Scandal is old hat.”
“Mr. Stein,” another young woman asked, “yesterday I heard you speak up against Wall Street. Yet you are or were part of it. It made you rich, didn’t it?”
“No, I wasn’t really part of Wall Street,” Frank said, “and there is actually a noble function within finance. That is to continually redirect capital toward its most productive uses.
“I did not speak up specifically against Wall Street per se but against the very idea of banks having the support of a federal agency. When things go wrong, they get bailed out. When things go right, the chiefs pay themselves spectacular bonuses. It is all done under the nonsensical assumption that banks have a special place in the economy.”
“So who killed Chip Ramsey?” a nondescript male voice from the back asked.
“I’m sure the police are looking into it. A disgruntled guy on Main Street, perhaps?”
“Can’t blame him,” the voice from the back said, reflecting the general mood.
Ralph Prescott was watching the show from the back. A long-time reporter with the Boston Monitor, Ralph was a guest lecturer at master’s level journalism classes at Columbia and loved the commute to New York, where he could always find stories to pursue. Ralph had been present at the very first talk that Frank Stein had given at the Ford Hall Forum after declaring his presidential bid, at the Rabb Lecture Hall in the Boston Public Library in the winter.
Ralph still vividly remembered what Frank had asked of him then: “So are you going to spend the rest of your life writing what pleases your masters?”
As Frank Stein mingled with the students afterward, Ralph had neither the courage nor the courtesy to come face to face with Frank Stein, even so much as to thank him. Frank’s question was still droning in his head like a bumblebee stuck inside a helmet. Ralph Prescott had never forgotten the date: January 5. Today was September 19. The bee had been droning the whole time.
Ralph Prescott left quietly, the old bee still in his head. He was turning thirty-nine in a few weeks. That was half-time, they said, for an American man’s average life span was seventy-eight years. But you couldn’t go sit on the bench and reflect a bit…life just went on. Ralph went to his favorite café near the Columbia campus. He ordered his usual: a cappuccino with cinnamon toast. He loved their Brazilian-sourced coffee.
Ralph pulled a wad of paper from his jacket pocket. It was an article he had written. It was titled “Ganon paints Logan into the Stein corner.” It was meant to be the incisive analysis that followed the first debate. It said that Ganon had succeeded in making Logan look like an extremist. For decades, the media had changed the English language to make “extremist” sound like a dirty word, like terrorist or isolationist…anything with an “ist” sound to it sounded murderous. The editor-in-chief of the Boston Monitor absolutely loved his draft. He wanted it for the Sunday special edition with the election pullout.
As the coffee and toast arrived, Ralph reached into the other pocket of his jacket. It was another wad of paper. This was what he had written the previous night on the plane to New York. It was titled “The Ghost of Weimar” and spoke about the dangers of hyperinflation in the United States. It praised Frank Stein for bringing intelligent debate into American politics. It was highly critical of Sidney Ganon, John Logan, and of their rhetorical speeches and their parties. Ralph never dared to show this piece to the editor-in-chief; Ralph knew he would hate it, but Ralph loved reading what he himself had written over and over again, particularly this piece. The editor-at-large hated the very idea of writing a feature about hyperinflation when Ralph tried to broach the idea with her.
“The Ghost of Weimar” opened with a brief history lesson about the Weimar Republic, the period of 1919 to 1933 in Germany, including a period of intense hyperinflation from 1921 to 1923. Eventually, you needed a trillion marks of the old currency to get one mark of the new currency. Prices rose not just by the day, but by the hour—or even by the minute. If you had your morning coffee in a café, and you preferred drinking two cups rather than one, it was cheaper to order both cups at the same time. The law-abiding country crumbled into petty thievery. Gasoline was siphoned from cars. People bought things they didn’t need and used them to barter—a pair of shoes for a shirt, some cutlery for coffee.
Ralph
’s piece then spoke about twentieth century hyperinflation in Hungary, Argentina, Bosnia, Russia, and Zimbabwe. Then it shed light on the situation in the United States and the Stein campaign.
He needed another cup of coffee, which he ordered. He needed to edit his piece, even though he knew he didn’t have the courage to show it even to a colleague or an associate editor, let alone the chief. But Ralph always liked to tidy his writing.
The waiter came and went, and the beautiful aroma of the second cup of coffee lifted his mood. God, he loved it. Ralph never noticed the waiter who had come and gone, as he was busy staring out the café window at the gas station across the street. Ralph had discerned that the sign had changed from $8.14 per gallon to $14.8 per gallon, right in front of his eyes. If it wasn’t for his good eyesight, he could have missed the trick on a cloudy day like this. His commodity trader friend had told him to expect this—WTI futures are above $330 a barrel, he had said. Ralph finished correcting the article on his laptop and picked up the tab to look at it.
He fumbled for the change in his pocket as he read the little invoice on his table. The first cappuccino was $6, and the second was $9. The waiter was back and smiling at him, obviously expecting him to be a good tipper.
“Sorry, the new menu just arrived…four minutes ago,” the waiter said.
Ralph was on his cell as he left the café. He called the online news editor at the Net Station. Things were a blur after that—he was sweating under the cap he wore.
Ralph went online with the “The Ghost of Weimar” piece without a pseudonym. He then typed in a letter of resignation by e-mail and clicked “send” with a one-hour delay.
The Frankenstein Candidate Page 26
