Chapter I
“A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” – -Second Amendment
Gary Piers had a dream.
Like most dreams, it was fragmented; unlike most, the fragments spread themselves out over several nights.
At first, Piers found himself in a tunnel. He was walking. He seemed alone. In the dream, he could hear the click-clack of his black dress shoes on what must have been a surface of whited-out tiles or concrete.
A few nights later, he was walking down the tunnel again. He approached the curved archway of the exit. Floodlights were visible up ahead, then faces, grim, bloodless, both male and female, forming a corridor that led to a dais. He was on his way to the dais. He was about to make a speech. It was a speech before a crowded stadium, but no one was cheering.
Piers shook off the dream each morning, but it was unusually vivid; snatches of it would cloud his thoughts during the day. A few days later, it returned. This time, he mounted the dais. He started to speak. His grade-school granddaughter was at his side, then his daughter-in-law. A smile played on his daughter-in-law’s lips; it was not a smile of greeting; it was more like a snarl; it carried the weight of revenge; it was saying, “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen!”
Piers woke up in a sweat. He was unable to sleep again that night.
–
Mike Maloney had a nightmare. It was a living, speaking nightmare. He thought about it constantly. He ran scenarios about it through his head, bits of imaginary dialogue, happy and tragic endings. The nightmare had a name. Its name was Edna FitzGerald, Maloney’s New York editor and boss. What made it worse was they were best friends.
–
On Sunday, September 13, the first post-Labor Day polls in the presidential race came out. It was tight. Everybody said it was tight. The newspaper columnists, the television commentators, even Sean Hannity on the right and Rachel Maddow on the left, admitted it was tight. It was going to be like Bush versus Gore in 2000, they kept saying. Tight…so tight, anybody could win.
J.J. Haggerty turned the pages of his Sunday New York Times. He read every word of every political article, commentary and editorial. Then he called his new friend Mike Maloney.
As always, Haggerty dropped civilities. “I got two words for you,” he said.
Maloney groaned; he knew what was coming—a gold-plated truth of some kind. Gold-plated truths were inconvenient on Sunday mornings when Mike Maloney was trying to brew coffee while still in his pajamas. He tried to picture J.J. Haggerty at home in his tiny Brooklyn apartment. The apartment was dingy, but Haggerty would be dressed in a blue suit with a polka dot bowtie.
“Johnson-Roosevelt,” Haggerty said.
“The Johnson-Roosevelt ticket is going to win; is that it?” said Maloney. “Despite conventional wisdom?”
“Conventional wisdom is the hob-goblin of little minds,” said Haggerty. “Didn’t I teach you how to read a newspaper?”
“Yes, you did,” Maloney said; he was being generous, considering he was a professional journalist and Haggerty a lawyer; but Haggerty was an old man, over 70; he was also a source and deserved to be humored; Mike Maloney was young, only 61.
“It’s all there,” said Haggerty. “It’s just not on page one. It’s inside. The news is never on page one. Page one is what everybody knows already. The news is inside. It’s little wire service stories from Podunk and Peoria, and Podunk and Peoria say the Republican ticket is gonna win…again.”
These last words carried their share of bitterness. Haggerty was a self-described recovering politician. He was probably the last person in Manhattan to pronounce the words “Tammany Hall” with respect, even reverence. To Haggerty, the word “Republican” could be taken as a personal insult.
Mike Maloney signed off and put down the phone. “President Harry S. Johnson and Vice President Quentin Roosevelt,” he whispered to himself, just to get used to the sound. He inserted the “S” out of habit; as with President Truman, the “S” didn’t stand for anything. Maloney didn’t like the sound of “Johnson-Roosevelt.” It didn’t sound like a national ticket; it sounded like a PhD thesis on progressive presidents of the 20th Century. He didn’t like it any more than J.J. Haggerty did. But Haggerty was a lawyer. He was retired. He could think and say whatever he pleased. Maloney was a reporter, a working reporter, at least for now. He was supposed to be impartial; but he still didn’t like it, not the sound of it and not the substance, in particular the sound and substance of Vice President Quentin Roosevelt, a man he knew, a man he had interviewed, a man he had skewered in a long magazine piece, igniting a brief, ugly twitter feud.
The irony was that Mike Maloney admired the Roosevelts, at least most of them, both the Hyde Park Democrats and the Oyster Bay Republicans. Maloney was even, in a way, indebted to them. He had launched his career with an improbable scoop involving a Roosevelt.
Maloney went back to his coffee; its aroma filled the small apartment. In the next room, his new girlfriend was stirring.
–
At his home in Bedminster, New Jersey, Republican Congressman G. Bartlett Fleming was reading the same Sunday New York Times as Mike Maloney and J.J. Haggerty. He loved Sunday mornings. He could lounge in a silk robe and sip mimosa. No one phoned him. While professing, as a conservative congressman, to hate The New York Times, he actually loved it. Fleming read a newspaper the same way Haggerty did. Page one–Johnson-Roosevelt pulling even with Harrison-Carroll—was old news to Fleming. What interested him was on page eight, Republicans squeaking past Democrats in the generic ballot for seats in the House of Representatives. That was news. Even Republican National Committee polls showed the GOP down by one or two points.
Fleming decided to consult some of the inside-baseball political sites on the Internet. One or two of them broke down the House scorecard to individual races. Fleming followed a dozen or so of the races with keen interest. They were the ones that counted; they were the only ones that counted. Fleming read each little write-up with growing interest. He smiled; he gave a little chuckle, then a solitary high sign. His spirits were buoyed.
But Bart Fleming had been in politics a long time. He didn’t trust his spirits; he didn’t trust polls. He drilled down some more. This time, he accessed sites of local news services in each of the half dozen chanciest congressional districts. He read every word about every one of the races. He was encouraged. It wasn’t a sure thing, but it was encouraging. Republicans might regain control of the lower house of Congress after all. The economy was pretty good. The country was at peace, more or less. People were worried about healthcare and schools—issues that favored the Democrats–but they were also worried—at least some of them were—about Republican issues such as gun control, abortion and the onslaught of strange new practices like marriage between homosexuals. None of that really mattered to Bartlett Fleming. What mattered was that the people doing the worrying were in the right places, places like Podunk and Peoria where a few votes one way or the other could determine the outcome of a tight congressional race.
What most caught Fleming’s attention in the generic polling was the uptick in support for Second Amendment rights. The latest gun-control drive had faltered in the face of an aggressive gun lobby counterattack. That’s how Bart Fleming saw it. The election could turn on the gun control issue, the entire election—even the White House. In particular, it could give the Republicans a House of Representatives majority, a slim majority.
That’s when G. Bartlett Fleming got his idea. It was an idea brilliant in its simplicity. Better still, it required only a small band of like-minded politicians to execute. Fleming recalled the phrase once used by President Woodrow Wilson, angry over a Senate filibuster—“A little group of willful men, representing no opinion but their own, have rendered the great government of the United States helpless and contemptible.”
–
Gary Piers was a data and marketing guy, some would say genius. He came to the gun debate late. For years, one of the biggest clients of his Washington, D.C. marketing firm was the American Firearms Cooperative, or AFC, second in influence over gun laws only to the powerful National Rifle Association. In the face of rising violence in America, Piers devised a public relations blitz and fund-raising drive in defense of gun rights. It was a spectacular success. Money, membership and gun sales rose after every mass shooting. Piers managed the campaign in all of its phases; he mastered every argument and statistic. The AFC directors loved him. They offered him a fat salary to be their CEO plus a consulting contract for his company. He accepted.
The Piers family members were not particularly gun-minded. They didn’t own guns. There were no guns in the Piers manse, a Georgian country house on a quiet street in the Washington suburbs. Gary Piers’ adult children, a daughter who worked as a lawyer in California, and a son with a consulting job in Washington, evinced no special interest in the gun issue, one way or the other. They were educated, urban people. Guns were not common objects in their lives. In the leafy suburbs of Washington, gun violence seemed remote, a big city ghetto problem, something you saw on the news from Chicago, Palestine or Iraq. To Gary Piers, guns were just another product, an idea to be bought and sold like any other in the infinite marketplace of ideas that was modern America.
But Gary Piers, the gun lobbyist, had one problem. The problem was his daughter-in-law. She was as improbable as an adversary as she had been as a spouse for his son Jack. Jessie Mathers was a tall, attractive country girl, originally from Tupelo, Mississippi. When it came to most things, Gary and his wife Anne liked her. She was pretty, lively, engaged well with family and was dedicated to her two school-age daughters, Helen and Marie. Gary especially liked Jessie’s father Bud. He called Bud “Big Daddy.” Bud Mathers was red-faced and barrel chested. He sported a white mustache with a slight curl at each end like Colonel Sanders; his white hair sometimes brushed his forehead in a cowlick. He had an expansive, sympathetic personality and a rich southern drawl. He was a man who liked football, a cook-out and a few cold beers. He boasted about knowing the Presley family, about going to see Elvis perform in the Tupelo High School gym in 1954.
There was only one problem with Bud Mathers. He was an orthodox, and studious, liberal, something Gary Piers didn’t know existed in a place as remote, and he supposed backwards, as Tupelo, Mississippi. Gary was enthralled by Mathers’ stories of Elvis Presley and his bootstrap family but the same kind of stories, about brave black Congressman John Lewis and the heroic days of the Civil Rights Movement, were outside Gary Piers’ range of interest. He didn’t find reminisces about the Mississippi Freedom Summer of 1964 objectionable; they were just dull, something a hard-working numbers cruncher like Gary Piers didn’t find appealing or relevant.
But the matter did become objectionable when Bud, or his daughter Jessie, got onto the subject of gun control. That was Gary Piers’ interest; it was his daily bread; and it was all but taboo as a subject for conversation in the Piers household.
Sunday, September 13 was family cook-out day. Jack, Jessie and their two lovely daughters would be guests, along with some neighbors. They were due any minute.
–
Mike Maloney’s nightmare began on July 31 of the election year, just ahead of the major party nominating conventions. It started with a shock.
Edna FitzGerald, editor-in-chief of The New Epoch magazine, buzzed Maloney in his cubicle. She wanted to see him immediately.
Edna liked to say she worked in a fish bowl. Her midtown Manhattan office was fronted by an aquarium filled with tropical fish, pink plastic coral and a sunken treasure boat with a diver in old-fashioned faux metal gear, including a cage-helmet and tiny plastic rivets, hovering nearby and emitting a thin trail of bubbles. The display was an idea borrowed from Bloomberg. It was supposed to calm the nerves of frenzied reporters and overworked editors. In fact, most felt like the little plastic diver, struggling for breath in an unsettling environment. From outside, you could look through the aquarium and see Edna moving around inside her office like a great blue whale thrashing about in the South Seas.
Mike was cheerful as he sat down inside the fish bowl, but he quickly realized something was wrong. Edna sat behind her desk and folded her hands. The desk was specially adapted for her, gun-metal grey, like all the newsroom desks, but with the legs cut short. Edna was only five-feet-two-inches tall. Her body was rotund. She had drooping grey bags under her eyes and apples in her cheeks that made her look like a female version of Santa Clause with a hangover. She was dressed in a dark green, loose-fitting blouse. Maloney was casual; he wore an open collar, typical for magazine staff in summer.
“Mike, I think you know how things are,” she began.
“No, how are they?”
“Not good.”
“You mean there’s no money to send me to the conventions this year?”
“No, worse.”
“What could be worse than that?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what?”
“Profits,” Edna said. “Times are bad.”
Mike decided it was time to try humor; he didn’t miss a beat. “Times are always bad for prophets. People despise them. They bring bad news, but they tell the truth, like us.”
Edna didn’t miss a beat either. “I’m not talking about Old Testament ‘prophets’’” she said. “I’m talking about dollars and cents ‘profits’ and their effect on owners of publications such as The New Epoch.”
“Dollars and cents; now, you have my attention,” Mike said. “How about a raise?”
“Mike, Stop it!” Edna retorted.
“Stop what?”
“Stop trying to be funny!”
“I wouldn’t be a reporter if I didn’t try to be funny.”
That seemed to pull Edna up short. But it pulled Mike up short too. Suddenly, his cupboard full of jokes was bare.
“Here’s how things stand, Mike. We have to make cuts, but there’s no buy-out coming. Buy-outs are scary and expensive. Cuts are going to be like Chinese water torture, one drop at a time.”
“They use the same term for hangings,” Mike mused, “…also the guillotine…drop…as in drop dead.”
“Mike, I’ll be frank; you’re going to be 62 in a few months. You can retire. Your kids are through school. I can’t justify cutting someone younger.”
Maloney tried to look calm. He tried to think of something clever to say, but his mind went blank. He was beginning to feel the blow.
“How long have I got?” he said, as if his friend Edna FitzGerald had been suddenly transformed into an oncologist.
“August 31st,” she said. “One month.”
“But I’ll only be 62 in October?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
–
Congressman G. Bartlett Fleming’s home in Bedminster, New Jersey was a monument to his many careers. It showed off G. Bartlett Fleming the gothic art collector, Fleming as heir to the founding families of New Jersey, Fleming the trust fund manager but, most of all, G. Bartlett Fleming the Tory traditionalist. He proudly displayed, in the same room, a Thirteenth Century East Anglian psalter and a black and white photograph of himself with Margaret Thatcher.
The house itself was a jumble of architectural styles. It included white, pounded-clay out buildings and a stone great house with Tudor arches and barrel vault arcades like an Anglican cathedral.
Visitors were met in an expansive drawing room with oak wainscoting and rococo molding. Fleming worked from a Louis Seize table and displayed rare books in long rows of mahogany-and-glass cabinets. A bust of Edmund Burke met you at eye level when you sat in front of the congressman.
Fleming had spent 20 years managing trust funds for himself, his family and selected clients. He liked to say that trust management was the art of turning old money into new. He might have added that his home in the lush green hill country of Northwestern New Jersey, an area known for horse breeding, solitude and the special quiet that comes from the care and concern of the very wealthy, represented the art of making new money seem old. He even gave it a name, like one of the Great Houses of England he so admired—Liberty Haven.
Congressman G. Bartlett Fleming was chairman of a group known as the Freedom Caucus. The group consisted of 35 members of the House of Representatives, all of them Republicans and all of them espousing highly conservative views on the conduct of government and the morals of society.
Fleming was proud of his role as chairman. At 65, it represented the zenith of his political ambitions. Fellow members admired him, and for all the right reasons. They marveled at his wealth and erudition. He loved to entertain them at Liberty Haven. He would ply them with expensive wines. He would discourse on the art objects in his collections. He would display rare illuminated manuscripts for their edification. He would let them handle the objects and manuscripts but only after donning transparent museum gloves. Often, the gloves were ill fitting, plunging the wearer into a thankless struggle punctuated by the slip-slap of unruly rubber.
Fellow members were mostly hicks, lawyers trained at state colleges or businessmen who got lucky in farming or manufacturing and then went into politics. Their line was a combination of Baptist Bible and Chamber of Commerce brochure. They admired him. He was the only Freedom Caucus member from the Northeast; to them, he dwelt in the belly of the dragon. He went to Princeton. He spoke German and French.
Fleming loved the way they talked to him. He loved their southern accents dripping with honey-layered praise, their bad grammar, their lack of knowledge on parliamentary procedure; he used his mastery of that like a whip, both on them and on the whole House.
From his little nook, on Sunday, September 13, G. Bartlett Fleming decided to make some phone calls to his fellow Freedom Caucus members. He was feeling good, less like a member of the prosaic American Congress and more like an Oxford Don or an Anglican Archbishop.
His message to fellow members was simple—“We’re going to regain control of the House. And, incidentally, that will mean a new Speaker. I’m throwing my hat in the ring!”
In a half dozen phone calls, the message was received and appreciated. It represented part of Congressman G. Bartlett Fleming’s plan to render the great government of the United States helpless and contemptable.
The other parts would unfold starting on January 4.
–
Gary Piers’ Sunday cook-out was going well. It was Indian Summer in Greater Washington. He could wear shirtsleeves and shorts. The locusts sang. Guests could gaze at the far, smoky-blue horizon and the distant hills that stretched west toward the Cumberland Gap.
Gary’s two granddaughters were playing in the pool. You could hear a repeated cycle of scream-and-splash followed by a drippy, sloshy sound followed by another scream-and-splash. Three or four neighbors sat around a long pick-nick table drinking beer and nipping at samplers of olives, dried tomatoes and cheese. Gary’s wife Anne and his daughter-in-law Jessie took turns policing the pool.
So far, Jessie had behaved herself. That was their pact. You could discuss anything in the Piers household, any kind of politics you wanted, but not touch on the gun issue. Most of the Piers family friends and neighbors were white, wealthy and conservative, but they were also educated. Jessie had been part of many debates over taxes, healthcare, civil rights, abortion and other subjects. The debates were lively, with Jessie usually on one side and everyone else, except her carefully apolitical husband Jack, on the other, but Jessie could hold her own. The Piers friends and neighbors respected her. They liked her. One or two might occasionally side with her, depending on the issue.
The cook-out was going well but there were warning signs. Gary was surprised when he went in the kitchen for a beer and found Jessie and a Piers family friend, a law professor at George Mason University, discussing the Second Amendment. He tried not to listen. He steeled himself against the temptation to say something. Fortunately, the professor said it for him.
“Surely, the late Justice Scalia would admit, as a constitutional ‘originialist,’ that the Second Amendment applies only to the maintenance of state militias,” Jessie said.
The professor, of course, was an expert, not only on the Second Amendment but also on one of its original proponents, the great colonial-era lawyer and scholar George Mason. “Mason himself responds,” intoned the professor. “In a famous speech, he said, ‘I ask who are the militia? They consist now of the whole people.’”
Piers was satisfied. The debate was in good hands. He didn’t have to say anything after all. He had kept to his side of the pact, even if his daughter-in-law hadn’t.
But a few minutes later, they were at it again, this time sitting on the pick-nick bench, within earshot. It began to annoy Gary, as if Jessie were following him, as if she wanted to provoke him into a screed on guns or, to get down and personal, on their pact and her contempt for it.
“In District of Columbia versus Heller, the constitutional issue is pretty well disposed of,” the professor was saying. “The court, including Scalia, sides with the idea of an individual right to keep and bear arms.”
“Yes, but Scalia, remember, offers a caveat,” Jessie interjected. “He says there is also a power to regulate. He says the Second Amendment right is not an unlimited one.”
The professor nodded. He turned to his friend Gary Piers, who was tending the grill. “Pretty smart girl you’ve got here,” he said.
Gary offered a grudging nod.
What Gary Piers liked most about backyard cook-outs, aside from the smoky aroma of the grilled beef and the fresh shucking corn that came around only once a year, was the moment of silence around a table crowded with family and friends. He was not an especially religious man, but, presiding at table–a table that spoke of prosperity, friendship and handsome progeny–was solace. He asked for silence. He joined his hands in prayer. He offered a few words of grace.
He ended by saying, “May God bless.”
His wife Anne added, “God bless America.”
Jessie said, “God bless the 400 school children killed by guns in the last five years.”
–
In the middle of August, Mike Maloney got lucky. The charm came from an unlikely source—the Republican National Convention.
Americans had grown weary of the angry man in the White House, the protocol embarrassments with foreign leaders, the early-morning twitter rants, the insults flung against putative allies and former friends, the endless investigations. With even less ceremony than was shown by Democrats to Lyndon Johnson in 1968, Republican voters dumped the incumbent, starting with the early primaries. Unlike Johnson, however, the sitting president refused to withdraw. He refused to do anything. Abruptly, the tweets ceased, and appearances were reduced to a minimum; there were no more photo ops, no more interviews. The White House was rendered as silence as in the days of Calvin Coolidge.
The sitting Vice President was left helpless. As a member of the administration, he supported a president who was still nominally a candidate for reelection. His only strategy was to await an improbable convention draft.
The draft never came. Instead, primary voters gravitated to a candidate with a refreshingly conventional approach to campaigning and a typically Republican profile. Senator Harry Johnson of Washington state was a decorated Air Force veteran. He won a bronze star and a purple heart after helping rescue a helicopter crew in Iraq during Operation Desert Storm in 1991. Later, he set up an aircraft parts and servicing company in his home state. By 35, he was a millionaire. Next came a seat in the House of Representatives, then the Senate, where he served on the Armed Services Committee and the Intelligence Committee.
Johnson was 55, white-haired, hard-working, religious, a family man, and an authority on terrorism.
Edna FitzGerald, Mike Maloney and a few friends watched the Republican Convention on television at Edna’s midtown apartment.
Edna said, “Johnson looks like a president.”
“That’s what they said about Warren G. Harding,” Mike answered.
The next day, Mike hit the jackpot. Harry Johnson, conservative westerner, picked New York Senator Quentin Roosevelt, a comparative moderate, as his running mate. Roosevelt was just 40, a charismatic campaigner, bearer of a famous name, and a Republican able to win in a Democratic state.
And Mike Maloney was an expert on Quentin Roosevelt. He took that observation with him to another meeting in the fish bowl with his friend and editor Edna FitzGerald.
“What have you got for me, Mike?” said Edna.
“A proposal.”
“I’m already married,” she said.
“This is different,” Mike said.
“I’ve heard that one before,” she answered.
“No, it’s a pitch,” Mike said.
“Go ahead…pitch.”
“I’m an authority on Quentin Roosevelt, the man who, yesterday, was nothing, tomorrow could be something and, the day after that, everything.”
“It’s a good start.”
“There’s something phony about him.”
“What is he, a transsexual midget on stilts? Even that wouldn’t take away votes in today’s environment.”
“Good guess, Edna, but that’s not it. I’m not sure what it is. I need time. With a few more weeks, I think I can get something, something we can break, that will bring a lot of attention to The New Epoch.”
“You sound like a cub reporter.”
“I am a cub reporter,” Mike said. “We all are. You’re only as good as your last scoop.”
“Mike, your last big scoop was 20 years ago.”
“That long? It seems like yesterday, an exclusive interview with Linda Tripp, Monica Lewinsky’s ex-friend who revealed she had taped their conversations.”
“You almost destroyed Bill Clinton.”
“He hasn’t spoken a word to me since,” said Mike. “This scoop could be even bigger.”
“Okay, Mike. I’ll bring it to the board. No promises.”
Mike Maloney nodded. He tried to smile, but it was a pose and he knew it. Edna did too. Mike bowed his head. For a moment, he wanted to vomit. Losing his job still felt like a cancer diagnosis. He hadn’t gotten used to it yet.
“I’ll do my best, Mike,” Edna said.
“I know you will,” Mike answered. Now he wanted to cry. Edna was sincere. He loved her for it. He stood up. He rallied. Why not try a little more humor, he thought to himself.
“I could always follow in the footsteps of my friend Professor Parker,” he said.
“Who’s Professor Parker?” Edna asked.
“An art history teacher I know at NYU. He married a call girl and retired.”
“What’s he working on now, aside from self-improvement?”
“Horticulture.”
–
A few days after the cook-out incident, Gary Piers’ dream returned.
This time, his approach to the dais telescoped forward like a fast-motion movie clip. He was standing in front of a large crowd in a sports arena. He was ready to give his speech. He could pick out faces in the crowd. Most looked haggard, dreary; some displayed what seemed like ugly wounds.
Gary turned around. He was looking for someone to tell him where he was, what it was all about, what he was supposed to say. A man in a black suit approached. The man was hollow-eyed and pale.
“Remind me,” said Gary. “What’s the event?”
The man spoke; it was a hoarse stage whisper: “All those killed by guns last year in the United States, more than 38,000, standing room only; you should be pleased.”
–
For Mike Maloney, the clincher came at the end of August, when the Democrats met for their National Convention.
As expected, they anointed Doreen Harrison, Rhodes scholar, foreign policy expert and California Senator, for president. Harrison was partly black, partly Hispanic and partly white. She was 49, but the kind of stately looking 49-year-old woman who could look 35 or, alternately, 60, but always steely and reliable, depending on clothing, hair styling and makeup. In California, they called her the Meryl Streep of politics.
The clincher came the next day. Harrison was young, diverse, female and foreign-policy oriented. For Vice President, the Democrats needed a white-haired, male governor from the East Coast. They found him in the person of Albert Carroll, three-term governor of Maryland.
“Hey, I know that guy,” said Maloney, quite spontaneously. “He was in my graduating class at Georgetown!”
Edna FitzGerald raised her eyebrows. “Interesting,” she said.
The next day, she called Maloney into her office.
“The board says okay,” she barked. “You officially stay on staff to follow the vice presidential nominees, including profiles. If you need time for something more on Roosevelt, you’ll get it. You’ve got one last chance, Mike; your deadline is January 20.”
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