Free Fall

by Kyle Mills

  Despite Newberry’s interest, though, the only thing Beamon had found that wouldn’t put a speed freak to sleep was some old FBI stuff. Even that, though, was only noteworthy because it was misfiled in a bunch of Ag Department droning. It consisted mostly of old Hoover-era stuff—endless memos on petty crimes and even pettier criminals, budgets, internal pissing contests, commies hiding under the sofa cushions, and what have you. Beamon flipped over an original memo signed by the Hoov himself, and started scribbling on it what he knew about this case from a Newberry-centric point of view.

  Tristan had been working alone in a warehouse full of classified documents for four months. He was working slowly, seemingly randomly. On his last day in the office, he breaks out of his pattern—finds something interesting enough in one of the boxes to come back here and rifle through the ones around it, not even bothering to take them back to his desk. Based on what Beamon knew about the epic dullness of everything and everyone involved with Agriculture, it seemed reasonable to assume that the misfiled FBI documents were what got him so fired up. Had he been looking for them? His work pattern and the fact that he was alone might suggest a search. Or was all this just a bunch of far-fetched mental masturbation? Beamon decided to assume that it wasn’t and resumed working on his timeline.

  Next, Newberry rushes out of there, standing the security guard up for a beer, calls in sick, does something unknown for a day, then goes on a climbing trip with Darby Moore. Then he turns up dead—tirelessly perforated with an ice axe. Darby takes off, detouring through Conrad, Maryland, then to get her stuff in Wyoming, then disappears again, obviously running. Who was she running from? The cops? Why didn’t she go straight to them if someone else killed Newberry? It would have been the natural reaction for anyone in her position.

  Then—and this was his favorite part—an impeccably dressed attorney comes to his house and offers him three hundred thousand dollars to find the girl on behalf of an anonymous client And by the looks of things, Beamon wasn’t the only one who had been hired for this particular job.

  There was a loud crash as the front door to the building was thrown open, breaking his concentration. Beamon carefully folded up the piece of paper he’d been doodling on and shoved it under the shelf behind him as two D.C. cops started closing quickly on his position.

  “Come out from there!” one of them shouted. “And, boy, I better be able to see your hands!”

  Beamon stood slowly and shuffled out into the open with his hands on his head. The larger of the two cops kept an automatic trained on his chest as the other rushed forward and pushed him roughly to his knees and then to his face.

  Beamon was read his rights and searched, wincing slightly when his arms were yanked behind his back and handcuffed. When he was safely bound, the cop covering him holstered his weapon and helped drag him to his feet. As soon as Beamon was standing under his own power, an imposing man in a gray business suit appeared through the door at the other side of the building and walked purposefully toward them. While he hadn’t taken part in the fireworks, his grave, supervisory expression said clearly that he was in charge.

  “I guess you’re the man I’ve been looking for,” Beamon said, being less than cooperative as the two cops tried to drag him from the warehouse. “Did Tristan Newberry work for you?” He craned his neck to keep the man in view as he was pulled past. “Where did all these files come from? Why aren’t they in the National Archives? Why is this place being closed down? And who the hell are you?”

  Carl flashed an apologetic smile just before the two cops used Beamon’s face to push the door open and marched him to the cruiser parked on the sidewalk. One of the cops opened the back door of the car and the other shoved him through it in a coordinated effort that suggested a significant amount of practice. Beamon struggled into a sitting position and leaned out the open door so they couldn’t close it. The man in the gray suit was just then walking though the door that Beamon’s head had been so instrumental in opening.

  “No answers for me today?” Beamon said as one of the cops lined up to slam the door on his leg.

  “Wait,” the man said, stopping and cocking his head slightly to the right. “All right, Mr. Beamon. Fine. My name is Price. This is one of many satellite warehouses used for overflow while we go through document declassification. Tristan Newberry worked here before he was killed. This facility is being closed down because we’ve cleared enough space in the central warehouses to consolidate these documents. I believe that was all your questions?”

  The cop holding the door wound up to slam it and Beamon pulled his leg back just in time to avoid a cracked shin. He immediately hooked a toe under the driver’s seat and pulled himself up to the metal screen separating the backseat from the front. “Hey, Price! How many government workers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

  If the man knew the answer, he wasn’t saying.

  The truth was, there was no punch line that Beamon was aware of. All he knew was that the answer wasn’t one. The U.S. government did not send a twenty-six-year-old kid alone into a warehouse full of classified government documents and tell him to knock himself out. Hell, there was probably a chain of command fifty people deep just to schedule the cleaning of the Pentagon’s toilets.

  Beamon leaned back into the seat and tried to move his hands into a more comfortable position as the two cops slid into the front and eased the cruiser back out onto the quiet street.

  “Come on, guys,” Beamon said. “I haven’t been arrested in years. How ’bout a little siren?”

  twenty-eight

  David Hallorin was focused almost completely on his peripheral vision. At the edge of it, he could see the studio audience lined up in rows that ascended into the darkness and Oprah Winfrey standing on the stairs near the stage.

  To the cameras and the millions watching the images they recorded, though, he was concentrating on Phillippe Mohamed, nodding thoughtfully as the bow-tied leader of the Nation of Islam spoke in precise, clipped sentences.

  The last fifty minutes had been the most difficult of Hallorin’s career. It was critical that he show enough respect for Mohamed to keep his message from being degraded by obvious personal animosity, but not so much that Mohamed’s many powerful white detractors would see Hallorin as weak. It was a nearly impossible balancing act that he had pulled off brilliantly. He already knew before seeing the tape that he had created one of the most riveting pieces of television ever broadcast.

  Hallorin was still only half listening as Mohamed continued the diatribe he’d started some three minutes before. They were all the same—the evil of white America, the clandestine conspiracies to keep blacks down, the popular fantasy of African-American history.

  “… pattern of slavery and degradation.”

  Mohamed folded his hands in his lap and let his final words hang, staring at Hallorin with the polite smile that seemed permanently etched into his face. Hallorin didn’t reply right away, making it look like he was giving the man’s words the deep thought that a very vocal minority of Americans thought they deserved.

  “I believe,” Hallorin started slowly, “that it’s critical for the African-American community to look forward to its future and not backward to its past. The slavery issue is always there, lurking in the background and creating an atmosphere of guilt and distrust. So let’s talk about that for a moment.” He took a sip from the glass of water next to him, mostly for the drama of the pause, but also because the television lights were close to making him break into a sweat—something no politician could afford.

  “Less than five percent of white Americans ever owned slaves—the rest of them were just working their fields and trying to raise their kids. Anyone from that small group who actually participated in the slave trade died generations ago—it’s unlikely that anyone in America has ever even met a person who owned a slave. On the other side of this story are the hundreds of thousands of white Americans who died freeing the slaves. But again, this is irrelevant—the peopl
e who participated at that time in American history have been dead for a century.”

  Hallorin crossed his legs and let an ironic smile cross his face. “Look at my situation. Right now, my opponents are glued to their TV sets waiting for me to say something they can use against me. Likewise the press.” He looked over at Oprah. “Present company excepted.” The light on the camera covering him flashed off for a moment so that another could pick up Oprah’s nodded acknowledgment.

  “Are they doing this because they hate me? Because they have some kind of prejudice against me? No, it’s because if I’m president they can’t be. And if, to gain the presidency, they have to climb over my carcass, they will.” He looked straight into the camera. “That’s not meant to be a slight against my opponents. Frankly, within certain bounds, I’d do the same to them.” He readjusted his gaze back to Mohamed, who had a wonderful tendency not to interrupt. “In a free society—and this is a free society, or Ms. Winfrey wouldn’t be one of the wealthiest entertainment moguls in the world—the person who gets the prize is the one who wants it the most My sense is that many African-Americans lack a clear focus as to exactly what it is they want”

  “But, Mr. Hallorin,” Mohamed said, taking advantage of a brief pause. “If I am not mistaken, you are last in this presidential race.”

  Hallorin smiled. Roland Peck was a true wonder. After watching probably five hundred hours of Mohamed on tape, Peck had anticipated nearly every statement Mohamed had made. He’d called that last one almost verbatim.

  “You prove my point. Reverend,” Hallorin responded smoothly. “I want the presidency, sure, but I want it on my terms. I promised myself that I would be completely honest with the American people—that I would say exactly what I believe—and that I would not personally attack my opponents. In the end, if that philosophy hurts me I have no one to blame but myself.”

  Mohamed’s frustration continued to build as Hallorin used Peck’s carefully crafted responses to subvert everything the man said. “Yes, Senator,” Mohamed said, the anger starting to show around the edges of his well-practiced serenity. “Your ideas on personal responsibility and social Darwinism are well documented. Anyone who does not fall into step with white society will be selected out. Victims of your horrifying ideas on welfare reform and your Eugenics Machine.”

  He’d actually given Mohamed too much credit The Reverend was apparently going to continue walking into Peck’s right crosses until the network felt sorry enough for him to turn the cameras off.

  Hallorin raised his eyebrows just the way he’d practiced and affected a little uncomfortable squirming in his chair. “I didn’t think it would be my responsibility to defend the African-American community tonight, but I feel obligated to point out that there are more whites on welfare than blacks.”

  Mohamed just glared back at him. Checkmate. What was he going to do? Tell the millions of people watching that there was a much higher percentage of blacks on welfare? Not exactly beneficial to his cause.

  “Hold on there, Senator,” Oprah said. He turned toward her with a calm that he didn’t feel. Peck had been less efficient with their host’s reactions. His philosophy and strategies centered on the weakness in people, which worked ninety percent of the time. Unfortunately, Peck was completely baffled by those rare individuals whose lives were not ruled by fear and jealousy. Oprah Winfrey seemed to be one of those people: perilously intelligent, dangerously popular, and with no identifiable agenda.

  “This Eugenics Machine that the Reverend mentioned,” Oprah continued. “I think we’d all like to hear a little more about that. I know I would.” The audience murmured their agreement.

  Hallorin looked down at his feet for a moment and then back at his host. “If you went to the worst elementary school in America, you would probably find a child in a classroom playing with a computer that is more sophisticated than any you’d find on the desk of your government officials. People are demanding a smaller, more efficient government. People are demanding lower taxes. And in order to give them that, we are going to have to actually use the technology that’s out there. The machine we’re talking about—and that’s been the subject of so many half-truths and sensational sound bites—relates to welfare reform. It actually exists. In fact, I personally used it in a recent test. It looks like an automatic teller machine. You put in your welfare card—works like a credit card—and then depress your finger on a pad. A laser gives it a tiny prick—can’t even feel it—and in less than two minutes, this new technology analyzes your blood, confirming your identity and health status and screening for drug use. If all is clear, your card is funded with your welfare stipend. If not, you’re referred to the appropriate counselor—”

  “Let’s tell the truth, Senator,” Mohamed said, cutting him off for the first time. It was a shame the program was nearing an end. A few more jabs and he’d completely lose that plastic composure of his.

  “By health screening you mean pregnancy and AIDS tests. And as for the narcotics test, well, wouldn’t you just be screening for the drugs that your administration would be providing these people through your legalization program? Isn’t that right?”

  Hallorin looked into the crowd. “I know that Reverend Mohamed believes that this is all very sinister, and he’s good at making it sound that way, but it really isn’t all that interesting. I won’t apologize for wanting to provide free counseling and clean needles to people with drug problems. If you have AIDS, it is critical that you get to someone who can help. If you’re pregnant, it’s also critical that—”

  Mohamed cut him off again, finishing his sentence for him.“—you give up your baby to the white government so that it can be given to white couples to have its uniqueness and identity stripped from it. And there would be no choice under your administration, would there? Your government would provide no help to support that baby as long as it stays in the hands of the parent. The children will just starve. A problem that solves itself, yes, Senator?”

  “I do not support additional money for welfare dependents who have additional children, if that’s what you’re referring to. I don’t know any working Americans who get a raise if they have a child, and I’m not sure that welfare recipients should be given benefits that other American families don’t have. They, like everyone else, need to carefully consider the demands that a child will place on them, both financially and emotionally. Welfare is a temporary helping hand, not a lifestyle.”

  “And if we don’t quietly surrender our children? Is that when the tanks roll in?” Mohamed’s voice was nearly at a shout now. Wonderful television.

  “I’ve beard you talk about this tank issue before. Reverend, and I have to say I’m a bit confused. I had my best research person look into it, and the only reference she could find related to a former mayor of Washington, D.C., asking for the National Guard to help patrol the streets. I believe she was black, though, and that her request was rejected by Congress.”

  That pretty much finished it The broadcast wound down into its final minutes with Oprah giving each man time for a short summation that couldn’t hope to even scratch the surface of what had been said there that day.

  Mohamed’s was uncharacteristically disjointed and ineffective—the product of the endless blows he’d taken during the show. People would be talking about this for years, Hallorin knew.

  The Secret Service came out immediately after the cameras cut off, but Hallorin brushed them off and walked over to Mohamed. “I appreciate you meeting with me, Reverend,” he said, offering his hand. “I think we gave people something to think about, don’t you?”

  “PERFECT!” Hallorin shouted, leaning forward and slamming his fists against the Plexiglas that separated him from the men driving the van. The barrier flexed dangerously and the state trooper and Secret Service agent up front jumped in their seats and turned to look at him. He drank in the intimidation in their eyes for a moment and then turned to Roland Peck, who was in his usual position crammed into the corner. “Fucking PE
RFECT, Roland.”

  “We’ll get heavy media time for at least four days,” Peck said. “I think some positives even from the liberals for opening up an honest dialogue on race. The focus groups we had watching the program were eating it up. Even the group made up of poor niggers was much less negative than we expected. Yes, much less. Our people will be working with all of them tonight and we’ll be ready with spin tomorrow—though I don’t think we’ll need much. We’ll see how far out of context the clips the media uses are.” He turned and looked out the window, which was fogged from an early freeze. “According to this morning’s numbers, you’re up—a twenty-two now. The Democrats are holding at twenty-six and Taylor is down one at thirty- three. I predict you’ll get two points out of tonight. The undecideds are slower than molasses this year, but they’re going to have to start coming out of the woodwork soon. Another plus is that the forward movement is going to do a lot for morale. Very much so. People have been drifting away from the campaign….”

  Hallorin felt his elation darken. He’d remember them. Every fuck who had walked out on him. He’d remember.

  “What about Mark Beamon?”

  Peck tried to squeeze himself further into the corner. “It’s what we feared. What we feared. He isn’t staying on track. Looking hard into Newberry all of the sudden and not at all for the girl, it seems.”

  “You said you could control him, Roland. Is it possible that Beamon’s beyond you? That a disgraced alcoholic could—”

  “No,” Peck said, his voice too loud and too high-pitched for the confines of the van. Hallorin shrugged noncommittally. Peck, he knew, was insanely jealous. Even the slightest hint that Hallorin might think someone else his intellectual equal sent the man into a complete frenzy.