Decency (11 page)
“Run it down, Chet. We can’t afford that. We’re adjourned.”
No one in the room assumed for a second that NSA was not already running it down.
Returning from the President’s briefing, General McKenna hit his office with an agenda on his mind. He keyed the intercom for Chief of Security, Cindy Overstreet.
“Yes, sir.”
“Cindy, come on up. Bring your technical branch chief and Ted Fitzgerald.”
“Be right there.”
Five minutes later those summoned were waiting in the outer office. Alerted, the General finished a phone call and directed them to come in. They remained standing. Somewhat unusually, the General did not invite them to sit, but stood himself.
“Folks…we are losing the President’s confidence…if we haven’t already lost it.”
He might as well have said they were all to be hanged in the morning. Each of them visibly stiffened.
“As the President sees it…correctly…our problem is not just a leak. After he reminded me that he relies on us, and the whole government does, to keep information secure, he said to ‘run it down’ because we can’t afford it. So, from now until we have it nailed down, brief me on the status
at least
every twelve hours. Got it?”
Of course they did.
Fitzgerald, the FBI agent detailed to the agency, tried to take the blame.
“Sir, this is my fault. I should have been more vigilant.”
The General raised his palm. He didn’t need to hear it.
“Ted, let’s figure that out when we have the cause identified.”
The General looked each of them in the eye.
“Don’t let us down, folks. That’s all.”
Harlan and Kathy flew into Washington early, hoping to avoid a hotel expense and to minimize their absence from responsibilities at home. They were shown into Cordell Anderson’s K Street office, a space nick-named the “Gallery” for the many photographs of Anderson and political figures from the United States and other countries.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, it was good of you to come.”
“Thanks for seeing us Mr. Anderson. We can sure use some help.”
“Please, sit down.”
Anderson came by his stiff New England manners honestly. He made a stately show of gathering around the conference table as if he was Chief of Protocol at a state dinner.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, I have read the memoranda that the lawyers you previously consulted have prepared. Based upon them, I made certain inquiries that revealed information I will discuss in a moment.
“First, let’s be absolutely clear. A deliberately false psychological evaluation performed for the purpose of controlling or punishing someone is clearly wrong. It is so wrong that I would readily compare it to the kind of arbitrary power that Hitler used to label Jews mentally deficient, that Stalin used to incarcerate political enemies, and that the Chinese used in the North Korean prisoner of war camps.”
The Pierces drew up their shoulders with a sense of hope.
“However, in regard to the legal issues presented in the memoranda, I must tell you that I agree with the conclusions reached. To put it as simply as possible, even assuming that you could satisfy the burden of proof, or prove your case, there is a less than twenty percent chance that you could stay in court beyond initial motions to dismiss. The reason is this. The decisions on security clearances were so bound up in the circumstances of your daughter’s case, that the courts would be forced to stand aside and not disturb the NSA’s decisions. I must underscore that I said ‘assuming’ you could prove the case. There is no information contained in the memoranda leading me to believe that you have the necessary proof now and there is some indication that you may never be able to obtain it.”
The Pierces deflated again.
“Now, with regard to the results of my inquiries. The election changed the Senate in ways that are beneficial to you. If you are able to obtain the necessary proof, it may be feasible to persuade the Congress, both the House and the Senate, to compensate you by private bill. I am not predicting that outcome. I would give it about a forty percent chance of success, and I emphasize only if you obtain the necessary proof. I am well acquainted with Senator Charboneaux, the ranking minority member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, as well as others. He may be amenable to introducing such a bill. If he is, you can be sure it would pass the Senate and reasonably confident it would pass in the House.
“I think that is about all that I can tell you for now, unless you have questions that I might answer.”
Harlan spoke up quickly.
“Mr. Anderson, I hope we don’t go the private bill route. It isn’t the money. We want our daughter’s name cleared.”
Anderson thought,
…quaint notion…
“I understand completely. I only wish that I could be of more help to you.”
“You’ve been quite a lot of help.”
Kathy would not resist.
“Mr. Anderson, there is one thing that perhaps you can clear up.”
“I’ll be happy to do so if I can.”
“It’s just this. You said there is no indication that we have the necessary proof or that we will be able to obtain it.”
“Yes.”
“Well, if the lawyer doesn’t go find the necessary evidence, what is it he does do?”.
…lady, you are too smart for your own good…
“I believe I’ve indicated that the proof is not necessarily the issue. The law is stacked against you.”
“Won’t the Congress want to see some of the same evidence to justify passing a private bill that you want us to hire you to prepare?”
“I believe I also alluded to that as well, yes.”
“Then I don’t see how we can make much progress with you, sir.”
Anderson’s long years of political tactics inured him to its shortcomings. But they were painfully clear to his straightforward guests. To him his maneuver was balletic. To them, he was having trouble putting on his toe shoes.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Thank you, sir, and good day.”
Outside the “Gallery” Harlan said, “I’m glad Gabe made him promise not to charge.”
“Harlan, it seems to me, and I hate to say it, but the direction from Lincoln to Washington has been down hill, and we’re running out of time.”
A
LMOST THREE YEARS AFTER THE ACT.
Just two lanes of old-fashioned asphalt. Black tar patches on the road snaked crazily toward the car and disappeared. Mesmerizing, if you watched. Corn crops, dry, near harvest ready stalks, the color of sugar cookies, wallpapered both sides of the road. T
om, they look pretty good. Why shouldn’t they? This rich flood plain soil tucked into the Platte and Missouri has always fed innumerable creatures. When Lewis and Clark churned up the Missouri two hundred years ago, just twenty miles east of here they saw herds of elk, bison, deer, and antelope, and waterfowl in numbers that they described as uncountable. Now this land feeds people all over the world in uncountable numbers.
The sun lumbered lower, telling its late afternoon color story. Yellow turned to orange-red. Too soon it shaded to pink-violet.
October was the best month of the year here. Normally warm, clear, and mild, like today. Just like it was in the days she visited her Grandfather’s farm south of Lincoln. She was here to… what… connect? Identify? Just remember?
It’s a good time to be going. Why, or where, doesn’t matter. Just to be going. That’s the thing. Being alone. Terrorism. War. “Relief ” is impossible, but not escape.
The CD of Roy Orbison, started the “
In Dreams
” track.
Sweet Roy,
as
Paul McCartney called him, was one of the few voices that go so deep inside you, that it’s you singing, more than hearing him. God made the world for moments like this. Perfect sunlight, perfect song, and on the road. Have to remember this, just this way.
A kestrel hovered, pin-point intent on its target off the road on the right. It knew where to hover, above the tell-tale blotches of urine it saw in ultraviolet light. When the grass twitched from the vole’s movement, the kestrel dived.
What would the world look like if we could see in ultraviolet, and in zoom, like the kestrel does? Would we have bothered learning agriculture, if we had known where to hunt and exactly when to pounce? Today we use machines to see in ultraviolet for body fluids. Would we, could we, have invented them?
The violin burst passage came and went just as quickly as the Kestrel.
How did Roy think of that? It’s really a country song. Yet, he put in classical violins that are so much a signature of the song that they are all you have to hear to know it’s Roy. Pure art. Thank you, Lord, for giving us that. Tom and I…and all of this, too.
Tears clouded her view. She blinked and wiped them away.
Come on. This is great. Don’t burden it with too much. Tom, you would have loved this. I know you don’t mind if I talk to you as though you’re here. You know it’s been so long getting to this point that I can talk to you without…losing it. Almost two years since the…beasts…the newspaper actually called them “ juveniles”… pitched the rock off the overpass…no apparent reason…and you were gone.
Remember how we used to tell each other how lucky we were to have found each other? How we would relish the secret between us just how crazy happy we were…how it was to be “your woman” and “your man”…?
The final soaring phrase from Roy, “In-n-n Dre-e-e-eeeams,” filled the car. She turned off the CD player just to let that sound linger in her memory.
The sign for the next town said, “Weeping Water, 8 miles.”
Is it still big enough to support a place to eat? With family farms thinning out for decades, these towns that used to hold a few essential businesses might not even muster a café any more.
As the sky hit pink-violet, Weeping Water rose up into view.
Looks like there might still be home-style cooking on main street.
