The Washington Decree_A Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “We for sure won’t get eight years to carry out this program, no matter what we do,” said Wesley. He stood up and stepped over to the mahogany sideboard, under a portrait of John F. Kennedy that Jansen had hung up next to the American flag, and poured himself yet another cup of coffee—the fifth since he’d gotten up that morning. His hands had begun trembling slightly. “Jesus Fucking Christ!” he exploded, regretting the outburst the moment it passed his lips. “Politics is about pursuing your goal with cunning. This proposal is like pulling everyone’s pants down in broad daylight. It’s shabby and it’s devoid of political flair, which doesn’t resemble the president as I know him. What the hell has happened? The right wing of our own party will feel they’d been grossly maltreated, not to mention all the Republicans in the Senate and the House who are our real opponents. We won’t last a month after publicizing this paper, if you ask me. The Republicans won’t believe their luck.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” Now it was the government’s oldest member who spoke up. Secretary of Defense Wayne Henderson frowned. When Henderson said something, one could be sure that millions of Americans thought the same way, and this was priceless knowledge. “The president has gone way too far. If the government tries to put this plan into practice it’ll cost the taxpayers billions of dollars. It’ll put the country back thirty years economically,” he rumbled. “These are practically dictatorial methods we’re talking about that entail spending more money than the country can ever afford. And people will be sore as hell. This is America, not some goddamn oil sheikdom. Whatever is put forth must be approved by Congress, dammit, and ultimately by the American public, too!”

  “Thinking about your defense budget now, Wayne?”

  “What nonsense! Not at all. I’m thinking about what it will cost in lost earnings for industry and additional expenditure for the correctional system and social services. And I’m thinking about all the lobbies that fight with tooth and nail for more freedoms for the individual and how damn nasty they can get if you rub them the wrong way. But this isn’t a case of rubbing, Thomas, it’s mauling them to bits and then tossing them on the bonfire, for Christ’s sake. I can’t go along with it. Shall we take a vote?”

  “Okay, Wayne, okay!” Sunderland said it calmly, Wesley had to admit, but his face was white with rage. This wasn’t the chief of staff speaking, but the petty bureaucrat lurking in the wings. The one waiting to kiss Jansen’s ass every chance he got, so long as it served his own ends. “I think you ought to read the proposal a little more thoroughly until next time, because your assessment of the costs is the exact opposite of mine. As far as putting it to a vote, I think it’s more than a bit early for that, but, okay, everyone’s free to express an opinion. Just as long as you remember that, regardless of the result, we’re meeting again tomorrow and discussing the proposal with the president.”

  Then Attorney General Lovell broke in. “Why are these propositions being put forth right now? How can it be so important that all our other work must be put aside? Could the Bud Curtis trial have anything to do with it? Could it be the president wants to launch this before Curtis begins his appeal and there’s a lot of media focus on him again?”

  Sunderland took a deep breath. “Stephen, people will see a connection no matter what. That fucking murderer will be hovering there like a ghost even if we wait three years to present our proposal.”

  Lovell shook his head. “Of course people will see a connection between the murder trial and Jansen’s plan. But maybe the president thinks they won’t, if he just submits his proposal openly like this. Perhaps he’s lost both his sense of occasion and his powers of judgment.”

  “People will start thinking he’s completely lost his mind!” put in Donald Beglaubter.

  Wesley would never have been so direct, but that was the deputy communications chief’s role. All issues had to be pushed to the limit.

  “Like the secretary of defense says, we ought to put this to a vote, whether the president has lost his mind or not,” said Lance Burton, and looked around at the others. Everyone except Sunderland nodded his agreement. “Who is against proceeding with the president’s proposal?”

  Thomas Sunderland was the only one who didn’t raise his arm. He turned towards Billy Johnson. “You’ve got your arm raised, too, Billy, and we still haven’t heard what you have to say.”

  The secretary of the Department of Homeland Security thought for a moment. He was a big and foreboding man who’d seen plenty of unpleasant things in his time, yet he was probably the most sober-minded member of Jansen’s Cabinet. Wesley had the greatest respect for him.

  Finally he spoke quietly. “I think we have to face the fact that the time will come when we must do something that resembles these proposals. But at the same time, I must say with all my heart that I hope never to have to live in the kind of society the president envisions. My department was created in the wake of 9/11 as a safeguard against totalitarian regimes, and therefore I can’t imagine allowing my department to use the same uncompromising methods as our enemies.”

  “Pardon me for saying it,” said Sunderland, “but you yourself have lost close family members as a result of mindless violence. If we’d had these laws, your son might be alive today.”

  The big man sat for a long time, looking at the floor. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about that, Thomas? Don’t you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  When Wesley Barefoot reached his office the next morning, there was a message on his computer that their meeting would be held in the Cabinet Room again. He glanced through his mail, sorted the day’s newspaper clippings, dictated two short press releases to his secretary, and adjusted his tie. Then he forced himself to walk down to the Cabinet Room, ready to resign if it became necessary.

  The president rose from his seat and patted him on the shoulder when Wesley came in. Even though Jansen gave him a friendly smile, it was pretty clear he was reading Wesley’s thoughts like an open book. Barefoot lowered his eyes.

  “It’s going to be all right, pal,” the president said, and squeezed his arm. Then he went to greet the next arrival in the same fashion.

  Five minutes later the men in black closed the door. The only person missing was Attorney General Stephen Lovell. In a minute we’re going to find out he’s resigned, thought Wesley. He probably wouldn’t be the only one by the time this meeting was over.

  Wesley looked around. Everyone was dead serious but also calm, as though they were privy to a hidden agenda. Could it be a threatened mass resignation? Would they do something like this without having consulted him? Didn’t they trust him?

  He looked around again. They were being forced to choose between two impossible alternatives. If they voted against the president, they were out of a job, and if they’d changed their minds during the night, they’d have the entire nation against them. Either way, they had reason to fear for their future.

  The president stood up and leaned over the enormous conference table. He seemed quite serene, actually looking better than he had in a long time. Like a man who had things under control.

  “We’ve been informed that the attorney general has been delayed,” he began. “We don’t know why yet, but it was his wife who called in and she seemed very upset, according to my secretary. We expect to hear more a bit later, but in the meantime I think we ought to get started.”

  He smiled and straightened up. “Well, I can tell you’re not your normal selves today. You haven’t even partaken of the canteen’s bakery delicacies. Look, Danish pastry. What could be better?” He took a bite. “Okay, I guess we better get down to it,” he said through the flaky crumbs, and brushed some sugar out of the corner of his mouth.

  “It is my deepest conviction that, as guardians of this land, we don’t use the funds that are entrusted to us properly. You know the statistics yourselves. Never before have there been so many inmates in our prisons, never have our schools
been so run-down, never have we been so overweight or gotten so little exercise. We misuse money and resources, which has a great deal to do with why this country is languishing today. And indirectly, my proposal will put an end to this misuse.” He walked around the table, grazing the back of each chair as he went. Wesley could identify his aftershave.

  “You are the ones who are going to help me bring this land’s true ideals back in focus,” he continued. “Before I ask each of you where you stand, I’m going to tell you what I believe these ideals do not include.” He paused by the fireplace at the end of the table. “You know this, but it must be mentioned anyway: In the United States, the likelihood of a child being murdered on the day it is born is higher than at any other point in the child’s life. I’m not talking about abortion or things like what happened to my own unborn son, but about children born to people who ought to love and protect them but who take their life instead. Does this indicate our country has succeeded in teaching these innocent children’s mothers and fathers to love life above all else? No, it doesn’t.” He looked at Billy Johnson, whose dark circles under his eyes told of a sleepless night.

  “Billy! Naturally, at the time our communications chief, Lance Burton, recommended you to me as head of Homeland Security, I was informed that you—just as I—have experienced great sorrow, in that your only son was killed on the street in broad daylight. I remember hearing what a heavy cross you and your wife had to bear.”

  Billy Johnson sent Burton an appreciative glance and nodded silently.

  “As I recall, all your son Andrew did was to put on a popular brand-name jacket. He was walking into town, and some young hoodlums killed him because he wouldn’t give it to them. He was murdered for a jacket.”

  Johnson and Jansen made eye contact again while Billy Johnson heaved a sigh that no one could avoid hearing.

  “Billy, in spite of the psychological effect of this terrible deed, I had no reservations in entrusting you with one of the most important and difficult jobs in our federal government. After a tragedy of the magnitude you’ve endured, it’s essential to get back on one’s feet again if anything is ever going to change. Because I’m convinced that you—like myself—would say your son was the victim of dark developments in this country, and that they must cease.” Billy Johnson nodded again. “We’re not going to stand by passively and watch material goods become more important than honor or another person’s life, are we? In a country where we no longer fear God and look out for our neighbor, but fear our neighbor instead, and have the weapons to kill him? We chose you for this job because we know you have higher ideals than most, and now we have to put these ideals to the test. You must promise me to be loyal to them, and—in spite of your great sorrow—that you are capable of differentiating the past from the present, and of fighting for those who are still alive, like those boys and girls who’d like to go outdoors in their new jackets tomorrow and the day after.”

  This time it was Johnson and the president who gave each other an intense, portentous look.

  “For years now Congress has been demanding stronger and stronger punishment for criminals. And it grants huge sums to the enforcement of this punishment, as you know. You also know that state aid is often granted on the condition that the states enforce federal laws and carry out this heavier punishment. But I ask you: Does this practice actually work?” He shook his head along with most of the others. That’s how Jansen was. One not only listened, one participated with every fiber in one’s body.

  “No, crime and punishment are not entities which are easy to deal with properly. For example, is it wise and proper to incarcerate people for misdemeanors like prostitution, possession of pot, and petty larceny? Ought we chain people up for that? No, I say. No, no, no! Better to remove the chains, the prostitution, the narcotics, and the thievery. Okay, this may be easier said than done and it will take a robust effort to accomplish, but it should be our goal, do you understand?”

  Jansen looked around. A few nodded, but most of those present seemed to be studying the beautiful grain in the tabletop. Wesley managed a brief nod.

  The president swallowed and took a deep breath. “There are grotesque examples of how law and order are carried out in this land. Like, in some states today you can end up in jail for not having your dog on a leash or for driving without your license. That’s sick, I say.” He paused and took a drink of water.

  Wesley had heard it all before—they all had. But no one said anything.

  Bruce Jansen dried his lips. “I can easily mention many crimes that are much worse, that plenty of average citizens commit and go unpunished for every single day. Crimes you’d be beheaded for in Saudi Arabia.” He permitted himself a smile, then his expression darkened.

  “It costs us fifty-five dollars per day to feed a death-row prisoner, while the chemicals to execute him are a one-time expense of less than a hundred dollars. In the past twenty-five years we’ve spent almost two billion dollars on sending people to death row and keeping them there for years until maybe they’re executed. Our prison population has just passed the three million mark; back in 1970 that figure was a mere two hundred thousand. The United States accounts for five percent of the world’s population but has over twenty-five percent of the world’s prison population. Makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?

  “We also know that in California more money is spent on the prison system than on education, so funds are lacking to give children a good start in life—exactly the kind of start that would minimize the risk of them landing in jail! It’s gotten to the point where we don’t even find it disturbing that children are body-searched on their way into school.”

  He turned abruptly to Donald Beglaubter, who was busy counting the arms on the chandeliers. “Hello? Donald? Don’t worry, you’ll have your chance in a minute, but first tell me what Paducah, Kentucky, means to you. Can you do that?”

  Beglaubter apparently thought the question was irrelevant. The assistant communications chief’s brain was sharp enough; he just didn’t enjoy getting personally involved. “What Paducah means to me . . . ?” he echoed. “It’s a pretty little town on the Ohio River. I’m not ashamed to say it’s the town where I grew up.”

  The president took over from him. “Yes, Paducah is a beautiful town. A cozy little community where practically everybody knows each other. So therefore I’m sure you know at least one parent of one of the children who was killed a few years ago by their classmate.”

  Donald Beglaubter nodded. “Yes, I know one.”

  “And do you know how old the killer was?”

  Beglaubter looked straight at the president. “I think he was fourteen, Mr. President, but excuse me for saying that I don’t consider this unfortunate incident as being typical. Of course monstrous crimes are committed in a land the size of the United States, but these are only examples. If you ask me, the measures you’re proposing are much worse than isolated tragedies like Paducah.”

  Everyone’s attention was trained on Jansen.

  “Thank you for being so candid, Donald, but for me the Paducah massacre is not an example—it’s a symptom. It’s only two weeks ago that Congressman Peter Halliwell had to bury his son. Apparently, he wasn’t killed by a fellow student, but there are plenty of cases of kids killing their schoolmates. Fort Gibson, Oklahoma; Littleton, Colorado; Springfield, Oregon; Jonesboro, Arkansas—to name a few. How about Jeff Weise at Red Lake Senior High School up in Minnesota, or Seung-Hui Cho at Virginia Tech, just two years ago? How many times has it happened? Or things similar? Like the Washington sniper seven or eight years ago, and the one terrorizing New York now. How many victims is he up to, Donald? If anyone here would know, you would.”

  Jansen looked as Donald Beglaubter held up nine fingers. “Yes,” Jansen said. “Nine, that’s right. Can we Americans say we feel safe? Do we feel like taking a stroll down 42nd Street or Madison Avenue right now with that monster around? Then w
hy don’t we do something about it?! Aren’t we the ones who can—and must—do something? Who on earth else should it be?”

  He looked around at the somber faces, nodding to the Cabinet members, one by one, as they returned his gaze.

  “Yes, of course you get my point. Only we who are assembled in this room are able to. We, and no one else.”

  A few of them sighed profoundly while others kept studying the tabletop. Strangely enough, Thomas Sunderland hadn’t spoken up once; he just stared blankly out the window. Apparently, Jansen’s tactic was to bombard them with brutal facts and figures until they were softened up.

  Then the president’s secretary came gliding into the room, placed a message in front of her boss, and glided out again.

  Jansen took a long look at the piece of paper.

  Wesley was willing to bet it was the attorney general’s letter of resignation. He looked at Donald Beglaubter, who was obviously thinking the same thing.

  Finally the president put down his reading glasses. “It’s a message from the attorney general. He informs the Cabinet that he couldn’t be present today but that he gives the proposal his full support.”

  Good God! Wesley sat up straight in his chair like everyone else. He stole a glance at the paper as though it possessed some supernatural power. He could see the message was considerably longer than what they’d just been told.

  Apparently, Secretary of Defense Henderson saw it, too. “Does Stephen give any reason for his absence or for this odd method of expressing his support?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The president nodded. “Yes, he does—both at once, in a way. He says that last night his poor old mother and sixteen-year-old daughter were attacked in his mother’s home. They’re both in a hospital in Baltimore, and the secretary is with them.”