The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  “He’s magical,” said Dee, as she reached for my hand.

  “Diana put it perfectly, my friend. You do have a magical way of communicating with people. Matt, the ball has managed to bounce back into your court, and the Heritage Party is on your side.”

  “But why now?” I said. “Yes, people are getting fed up with Martin the dictator, but if you wait for the next election cycle to come around, people will be fed up that much more.”

  Will looked at Diana.

  “Professor, I’m going to ask for your input. Here’s the way I and a bunch of other people look at it—and yes, you’d recognize their names immediately. Every day that goes by, people learn to adjust to the differences in the way they’re governed. The thinking right now, among a large part of the electorate, is that things aren’t really so bad, as long as you keep your head down. Ronald Reagan, my favorite president, once said, ‘Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction.’ Matt, we’re well into that generation that is seeing freedom die away. Professor Diana, any thoughts?”

  “I completely agree with Will’s analysis. As long as people feel safe, they can overlook a lot of little things. That’s the way Stalin governed, and that’s what Martin’s banking on. People will overlook the small pieces missing from their lives if they can count on freedom from terrorist attacks.”

  “I have to visit the men’s room,” I said.

  It was a lie. What I needed was some time to think, because I knew that Will’s argument was all aimed at me running for president, and starting soon. As any honest person would have to admit, it all begins in a candidate’s head. The last time I ran for president, not so long ago, it was a wonderful experience. Yes, it meant working day and night, wearing a smile even when I didn’t feel like it. But it was a thrill. To stand in front of large crowds of people chanting your name does something for your ego—it inflates. I got to like the crowds, I got to like the nice things people said about me, and I got to like the way I could persuade an audience. I got bitten by the proverbial bug. But this is different. If General Will is correct about the NFL doing the bombings, what would that mean for me? Wouldn’t they simply assassinate me after the first positive opinion poll? When I returned from the bathroom I figured I’d put the question right to Will.

  “So let me get this straight, Will. You and the Heritage Party are looking to wage a political campaign with me running for president again, hoping that I’ll win this time. Here’s my question—Why wouldn’t Martin and his people simply kill me the first chance they get?”

  I saw Dee put her face into her hands. Then she looked at General Will with an expression that said, “Answer the man’s question.”

  “You two may not find this answer completely satisfying, but here it is. We have a vast army of people willing to tell the truth, willing to put out the word that Martin and his NFL were the likely bombers of the amusement parks. Say something often enough it becomes the truth. And our little message also has a side benefit—it is the truth. Even a dictator, especially in the early part of a dictatorship, governs by the consent of the governed. Take away the consent, and the dictator’s power deflates. The stupidest thing would be for Martin to harm you. It would be the last straw. Matt, you’re protected by the power of knowledge, and that power is slipping away. After a few more years of Martin there will be no more free press, no more social media, no more Internet as we know it. But now, all of that still exists, although it’s shrinking. Martin may own a few newspapers and magazines after his acquisition of Witherspoon, but he doesn’t have the media market covered. I’ve gotten reports that journalists and editorial people are abandoning Witherspoon in droves, some even taking pay cuts to go with a Witherspoon competitor. There are still media outlets and publishing companies that are more than willing to print and talk about the truth. That is your protection. If a hair on your head gets mussed up, the American people will all assume it was Martin, il Duce.”

  “You’re aware, General Will,” I said, “that the citizenry is being systematically disarmed at this very moment. It’s already happened to the Blake family. All registered guns are being confiscated.”

  “Matt, you’re assuming that I’m talking about an armed insurrection. No, I’m not. Maybe it would have a place in a thriller novel, but not in reality. Even if they weren’t rounding up privately owned guns, the idea of an armed battle with the government is out of the question. However, there is another consideration concerning guns. My group has studied the loyalty of the armed forces and the law enforcement community to Martin and his gang. Their fidelity is very thin. If the matter became an armed fight, we can count on a huge amount of people in law enforcement and the armed forces to side against the dictator. But what I just said becomes less true every day. The time to act is now.”

  “So,” I said, “you’re talking about a democratic political campaign in the waning days of a democracy.”

  “That’s exactly right, Matt. And the more we let the days wane, the less chance that we’ll ever see a democracy again. Time is wasting, Matt. The hour is here, my friend, and you’re the man of the hour.”

  Chapter 77

  “Good morning, Ronald, please have a seat.”

  President Bartholomew Martin met with Ronald Fleischman, his Deputy Chief of Staff. Fleishman was one of his colleagues from Amazon, and had been with Martin since he began Midtown Metrics. Like all of Bartholomew’s associates, Fleischman was a man who was guided by data.

  “Good morning, Mr. President. I have the numbers that you requested. This data includes all of the members of the new organization known as the Heritage Party. Because of the constantly changing size of the organization, these numbers are not up to the minute but are close within a week. The total membership is 973,450. It includes 723 former congressman, 579 former senators, 387 retired judges, 925 retired generals, 838 retired admirals,1,103 former cabinet members, and 3,399 former or current law enforcement personnel. The remaining rank and file are former and even some current members of the military as well as civilians from various occupations.”

  “How many lawyers, not counting judges, are included in the ‘various occupations?’ ”

  “No fewer than 650,000 are lawyers, Mr. President. There is no doubt about it, sir, the Heritage Party is a formidable organization. I know you see the word ‘formidable’ as an opinion, but I believe it is backed up by the numbers I just gave you.”

  “And does all of this data lead you to a conclusion, Ronald?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. The Heritage Party will soon begin to choose candidates for the next election, which is only three years away.”

  “And who do you expect to be their standard bearer, Ronald?”

  “Although I have no data to back this up, Mr. President, my prediction is that the presidential candidate will be none other than Matthew Blake himself. As you know, he was out-polling you substantially right up until the unfortunate attacks on the amusement parks.”

  “Yes, those attacks were indeed unfortunate, as you put it, Ronald. Please give me an outline of our plan of action going forward from this point.”

  “I will have a complete outline for you in two days, Mr. President, but for now I can inform you that your election committee members from last year’s election are being contacted, and we’ll soon have in place a national campaign just like the last one. And we will have a lot of work to do. From the profiles we have on the current membership in the Heritage Party, their fundraising capabilities are awesome.”

  “Awesome? Thank you for your opinion, Ronald, data-free as it may be. When you give me your next report, please show me how our Freedom from Terror campaign will be ‘awesome’ as well.”

  Chapter 78

  Matt and I have grown accustomed to taking life as it comes. As a couple of former drunks and drug addicts, we’ve learned that you have to take life one day at a time. Shit happens, but that doesn’t mean you have to let yourself down, to crumble, to give up. Our marriage is the t
hing in our lives that sustains us. We’ve long since learned that when you love someone, you have to give an inch to gain a foot. Matt and I have been married for over four years now, but it seems like it was yesterday when we took our vows.

  The biggest event that ever hit our marriage was Matt’s run for the presidency. Yes, it was me who convinced him to go for it, and I don’t regret it. Matt’s campaign was the most exciting time of our lives.

  And now, a group of powerful people want him to do it again.

  I think General Will’s assessment of the current state of our country is spot-on. We now live in a dictatorship, and like any totalitarian regime, it grows daily in its control over people’s lives. Will is right. Between now and the next presidential election is a small open window to get our old country back. One more election cycle with Bartholomew Martin at the controls, and the window will close. We’ll probably never see another election cycle. That’s the way Mussolini did it—win an election and then declare yourself the law. Right now we still have some solid remnants of our old democratic institutions. The government, although infested with Martin’s thugs, still houses a lot of people who believe in a republican democracy. The press, although heavily influenced by Martin’s publishing and media buy-outs, still has a voice. But that voice will get softer and will eventually disappear the longer Martin is in control.

  After our meeting with Will Cummings, Matt and I needed to be alone. Although Matt’s bug-detecting and disabling device seems to have worked, we no longer feel that our apartment is entirely private. We sat and sipped coffee in a corner of the noisy cafeteria at the University of Chicago, a couple of blocks from Will Cummings’ house, a good venue for a private chat. The noise of the room masked our words. We leaned in to hear each other.

  “So what do you think, Dee? Should we give it another shot?”

  “Matt, I think you know my feelings. You’d make the best president this country has ever seen. You’re the man the country needs right now. Will Cummings is right—the window is closing. A few more years of those thugs and people will adjust to living under a dictator. The three years leading up to the next election may be the last shot at preserving, or I should say recovering, our democracy. I have one concern, and only one.”

  “What’s your concern honey?” Matt said.

  I started to cry. Shit, I hate to do that. I have nothing against emotions and even letting them show, but sometimes it’s best to keep your feelings to yourself, especially in a crowded cafeteria. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and apologized to Matt.

  “No need for an apology, Dee. Just tell me about your big concern.”

  I took a deep breath. “My concern is that you’ll be killed, Matt, assassinated by a pack of sociopathic pricks. I care about our country, babe, but I don’t want to live my life without the most important person in the world in that life. I love you, honey, preferably alive and breathing.”

  A loud crash about 25 feet from our table interrupted our chat. A student busboy sheepishly smiled at us as he picked up the contents of the tray he dropped.

  “I won’t be assassinated, Dee. I think Will Cummings is on target when he said that being out in the public insulates me—and you—from danger. I think Martin is starting to realize he’s overplayed his hand. A lot of people have been ‘repurposed,’ as Al Yamani put it. But if he whacked me that would probably spark a rebellion. I know that a rebellion wouldn’t be armed because of the gun confiscations, but according to Will Cummings, a lot—an overwhelming majority—of law enforcement and military people are still on the side of freedom. No, I don’t see Martin being so dumb as to kill me, even though he may want to. Look at it the other way. If I retreat to private life and remain out of the public sight, I can be quietly ‘repurposed.’ Will’s right. Safety, mine and yours, is in the public eye.”

  Matt can be annoyingly logical at times. It’s annoying because it’s hard to dispute him when he explains things. But I have to agree with him. For both Matt and me to stay out there in front of the cameras and reporters actually provides safety in this strange new world.

  ***

  We finally went to our apartment at 5:45 p.m. Even though Matt had disabled the bugs with his magic FBI thingy, we both felt a bit on edge. Suddenly our edginess proved called-for. There was a knock on the door.

  “Good evening folks, Wayne Tomlinson from the Asset Protection Agency.”

  Mr. Tomlinson was a wiry little snit wearing a bad off-the-rack suit. His hair was greasy and spiked, an apparent attempt to look cool.

  “We’ve noticed that your security devices appear to be malfunctioning, and I’m just here to replace them. It will only take a minute.”

  He walked around the apartment and replaced each of the four bugs that Matt had disabled.

  “Is it really necessary to have a device in our bedroom?” I inquired.

  “Whoops, sorry, of course not. I’ll move it to the kitchen area.” The Asset Protection Agency aims to please.

  “Okay folks, all done,” said Tomlinson. “You’ll find these devices are a big improvement over the previous ones. You don’t have to worry about an intruder disabling them because they’re tamper proof. You’ll feel a lot safer with these new devices.”

  “I feel safer already,” I assured the skinny little prick.

  “Have a pleasant evening, folks.”

  Matt and I have a healthy love life. You may even describe it as frisky. Sometimes we’d begin an evening of love making by taking our clothes off in the kitchen, or the hallway entrance, or the dining area. Now, all sex would begin and end in the bedroom, or one of the bathrooms. The Asset Protection Agency was kind enough not to bug the bathrooms as well as the master bedroom. I grabbed Matt by the hand and led him into the bedroom, not that I felt particularly amorous, but I wanted to talk to him. I put my face next to his ear and whispered.

  “How strong are these devices?” I asked. “Can the one in the hallway pick up sounds from here in the bedroom?”

  “Feeling in the mood, honey?” Matt whispered.

  “That isn’t why I asked, wise guy” I whispered. “I want to talk to you about something sensitive. Let’s take a shower.”

  I remember reading a terrific book, Gone Girl, in which a paranoid woman insisted on talking about sensitive matters to her husband by whispering in his ear while they showered. But in the novel, the woman was genuinely crazy. Now, Matt and I, two sane people, are talking about having a private conversation in the shower. We took off our clothes and entered the shower. The shower stall was large, about five by eight feet with a bench at both ends and all kinds of wall-mounted bars to hold onto. Definitely a great place for sex—and for private conversations.

  “Hey, honey,” I said, “slow down. I don’t mean stop, I just mean that I want to tell you something first. I want you to run, Matt. You and Will Cummings have convinced me that it’s safer to be in public than in private. The country needs you honey, now more than ever. So let’s get ahold of Cummings and tell him we’re ready for Round Two of Blake for President.”

  “Agreed, babe,” Matt said, “Let’s do it. But for now, let’s do some other stuff.”

  I think of Matt as a magical communicator. Sometimes his magic goes far beyond speech-making. Far beyond. He began to run his sudsy hands all over my body.

  “Right there,” I advised, “oh, my God, right there. Yes, yes, yes!” I didn’t bother whispering. We dried off and continued our happy journey into the bedroom. I still felt uncomfortable about the strength of the listening devices, and whether the one in the hallway could pick up sounds from the bedroom. Fuck it (literally). If the people monitoring our bugs haven’t heard a woman scream happily in ecstasy I’d give them an earful. Maybe, as I climaxed, I should shout out: “Long live Bartholomew Martin.”

  Maybe not.

  Chapter 79

  Blake for President–Round Two began exactly three years before the next election. That was almost three years ago. The election is now two weeks out
. I ran under the banner of the Heritage Party. Will Cummings, the party leader turned out to be one sharp guy, although his political experience was thin. He had some great advisors in the party including the former heads of the DNC and the RNC. On my recommendation we hired my old friend Don Cooper, the political war horse who ran my last campaign. Don ran an impeccable campaign, and were it not for the amusement park bombings, he would be running my re-election campaign.

  In the beginning of the race, the polls were close, although I held a consistent lead. But in the past year my ticket pulled way out ahead. My running mate, Roland Benton, was a retired Navy admiral who once commanded SEAL Team Six in Virginia Beach. Don Cooper and my other advisors suggested a running mate who had strong national defense credentials. Rolly Benton and I were named the Heritage Party nominees on the first ballot at the party convention in Miami. Exactly two weeks before the election my ticket was in the lead by 20 points. Twenty points. A lot of pundits said that my lead was insurmountable, but they also said that the last time around. Then came the bombings of the amusement parks.

  Dee, no surprise, kept detailed notes of the campaign for her upcoming book. Running for President—The Second Time Around. Dee’s new agent, Harry Feingold, had already lined up a publisher. The details of a book deal awaited an event—my winning.

  Former President William Reynolds was released from custody two years ago. It’s still a mystery why he was arrested. Martin and his people had no comment nor, oddly, did President Reynolds himself. He did call me once and said that he’d divulge the full story—once I got elected.