Take the Fourth (6 page)
Authors: Jeffrey Walton
“
. . . . but the people at the top are controlling this world.
A
nd to top it off, they get taxed less than you… . oh it may seem like a lot, thirty-five percent, but take that from an annual salary of ten million dollars. That’s three and a half million dollars. Chump change I’m telling you. Are they telling us they can’t live on the six-point-five million dollars per year? Boy I sure hope they can pay their minimum wage housemaids in a timely manner. Now take the average American earning thirty-five thousand dollars a year, take twenty percent of their salary for taxes. That leaves them with twenty-eight thousand—the average American car cost more than that. Twenty-eight thousand dollars, twenty-eight thousand dollars left to feed a family, pay rent and utilities, insurance, healthcare, and any other living expenses. Barely getting by.
Then we have the middle class—a middle class that is declining at an unprecedented rate. We once had the biggest in the world. Not anymore, not today. The middle class is shrinking, and they are not moving up my friends. We are heading for a two class system. Lower and upper. The upper class is controlling this country. They streamline, they merge, and in turn, they cut jobs. Cut jobs of good people, hardworking people. They never reinvest in the people, they never reinvest in the people that made them rich. They just take and take all while distancing themselves from the common folks—see the limos in their driveways, see the gates at the end of their driveways? They see it coming. We are heading for trouble. Don’t believe me? Just ask France or the Bolshevik’s. You say an uprising, a revolution cannot happen in this day and age… think again… . who’s going to stop it?
Who is going to stop it?
I am… . I am… . I can help. Help Now! My solution—tax the people who can afford to be taxed not the ones who can’t. They don’t want to reinvest in the people who made this country great… we’ll reinvest for you. Reinvest in America, in its people, the American people. Believe me, the money makers of this world can live on what they’ve got… it’s the people who don’t got, that can’t live. I’m telling you now this has got to be done, done now!!! Or we’re heading for trouble”
Click.
“Stacy, get Scott in here now!”
Scott Norwood, or as some call him Wide Right after the famed Buffalo Bills’ place kicker, forty-six, stands an inch just shy of two yards (six feet for those following at home), pepper gray hair that has been that way for the past six years, Brown Alumni, Georgetown Law—top of his class in both. Arrogantly intelligent, so much so, he always brags about getting eighteen hundred on the SAT’s, “I’ve even did the extra credit on the back,” he proclaims. Truth is, he can back up his smarts and is always two to three steps ahead of the competition. He was a member of the Senate Committee on Intelligence for four years and on the Nation Security Council for one, then stepped into the job of deputy director of the CIA, and now, Chief of Staff.
It takes a special person to be his friend. He doesn’t have many and those who are, are friends for life. The President is one of those people, a friend, a friend for life. Met in all places, a corner bar on one of those lettered streets in D.C., the kind of bar that has been around since the turn of the last century. Not many people his age walked up to a bar and ordered Lagavulin, in a snifter, one ice cube, especially at eleven in the morning. He wasn’t young, in his mid to late twenties, but he wasn’t a man, not in this town, not yet and Lagavulin was a man’s scotch—like drinking a cigar. It just so happened to be the only scotch Jonathan Whitaker drank as well. In fact, it was his personal bottle behind the bar. Before reaching for the bottle, the bartender glanced at Mr. Whitaker for permission to pour and a nod was given, all without Mr. Norwood knowing.
“Scotch is best sipped at night,” Mr. Whitaker jested.
“I wholeheartedly agree, unless it is celebratory in nature,” Mr. Norwood replied
“So what are we celebrating this early in the morning Mr.?”
“Mr. Scott Norwood, Scott I prefer. Passing the Washington Bar Exam.”
“So you received your letter today. Congratulations are in order.”
“No sir, Mr.?”
“No?”
“No, I just finished the last two and a quarter hour session today, hence the celebration.”
“But official letters don’t go out in the mail for another seventy-one days.”
“I don’t need a letter, I know I passed. Aced it is more like it.”
“So, you are that sure of yourself?”
“Yes, always am.”
“Mr. Jonathan Whitaker, Jonathan I prefer.”
“Not Jon?”
“No, far too many in this world I’m afraid, I like to stand out and be seen. So, why my scotch?”
“Your scotch? It’s like smoke in a bottle. Never much acquired the need for cigarettes but I do get a craving for this gem of a drink from Islay but I save myself for special occasions.”
That was a special occasion over twenty years ago and Jonathan Whitaker knew it; unbeknownst to Scott.
. . .
S
he did as she was told; Stacy summoned Scott Norwood to the President’s study just off the Oval Office. Scott’s office, though tucked in the corner of the West Wing, was in earshot range of the President if he was truly pissed but in this case he was just annoyed at the donkey named Blair Anderson he saw on TV. Although still a few months away from the primaries, everyone knew Anderson was going to get the democratic nod for the ticket, the democrats knew it as did the republicans, and Jonathan Whitaker knew he wanted him lined up in his sights. In order to put him in focus within the crosshairs, he needed Scott.
“Good you have the game on I see, my Hoyas had control at the half,” as Scott walked into the President’s study.
“Well now it’s a different story, they’re down by six with under a minute to go.” They watched the last minute of the game which took about ten minutes with commercials and time outs. Georgetown ended up losing by two against Villanova as they never regained the lead. “So did you catch Blair on Primetime?” Jonathan asked.
“All of it, he certainly can talk the talk.”
“And that’s all he can do and that’s all I want him to do, is talk. He’s going to give us trouble in a few months.”
“Are you saying he’s going to be a contender?”
“Scott don’t go blowing shit up my ass again, I know you know the facts so what are they?”
“Unless he’s doing his intern, strike that, he’d probably be more popular, the only other person the democrats can throw at us is Parker but I bet the only state he would take is Wisconsin, then there are always third parties and not since Perot has there been anybody close. So Blair doesn’t have a chance against us, you,” knowing of his mistake that it is always about Jonathan.
“I know that and you know that… . it’s the American people I’m worried about, numbers don’t mean a goddamn thing when it comes to November… and dammit Scott I want another term, you got that!”
“We all want another term.”
“Well I need you to see to that.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t give me this meaning shit, you know damn well what I’m talking about, open some doors, rattle some cages, look under the bed if you have to.”
“We’ve been down this road before with Blair.”
“Listen you don’t have to concentrate on Anderson, look elsewhere, the reason I have you on my team is that you’re always one step ahead of the game, so…”
“Actually,” interrupted Scott, “I’ve been looking at his potential running mate, Floyd Carson, seems to be of the same caliber as Blair. I know it’s way too early to choose his partner for the big dance but all signs point to him, he’d be crazy not to, they are best of friends. The only other contender in my book would be Bowen out of North Carolina but they don’t see eye to eye on everything.”
“What’s your confidence level that it will be Floyd?”
“One hundred percent.”
“You cocky son-of-a-bitch, you can never be gray about anything can you?”
“I’m only one hundred percent sure since I saw an email to Carson from Anderson asking him if he would consider the vice presidency. Carson never hid the fact that the White House was his primary goal and this would get him one step closer to that door.”
“I’m not even going to ask how that email crossed your path.”
“And you shouldn’t.”
“But I want the White House door closed and locked for this duo, you got that?”
“Understood.”
“By the way, I think Georgetown will lose their third straight come Saturday against my boys.”
“I don’t see it, I think Providence will lose by at least five.”
“Don’t give me that goddamn one hundred percent crap again.”
“Then how about odds?”
“Just get the hell out of here and get back to work,” Jonathan said with a slight smile.
No skeletons, no snakes, not even a parking ticket, nothing, Floyd Carson was clean, squeaky clean. Floyd took his life seriously, never venturing outside the lines, a straight shooter as they say. His opinions and views are formulated from his facts and thoughts and no one else’s. If he felt it, he believed it no matter what other people thought. That’s what made him tall, strong, and almost unstoppable. When debating Floyd, if he didn’t have all the facts, he never offered a word on the subject at hand, he simply stated “I’ll have to get back to you on that when I have more information, I apologize for being unprepared.” Few people saw this as being weak, most saw it as having the balls to say “I do not know”—politicians do not need to have all the answers. Floyd Carson fought his whole life against this stereotype and he also fought his whole life to get where he is today but he wanted more and he was going to fight even more. He knew Anderson was going for top dog and he also knew Anderson was going to ask him to be his running mate. It was just the fact that vice president was a vice more than his ultimate goal. Yeah every kid growing up uttered the words “I want to be president,” few kids actually knew the true meaning of this statement—Floyd was not one of them. He grew up and saw the power of the presidency, saw a president bring down the wall and really change the world—he wanted to do the same. “Start out small,” he thought, “don’t bite off more than you can chew.” And when he became class president he took those thoughts in stride. Floyd knew all too well the class president was elected on popularity and not leadership, so he became popular, a well liked individual by every clique from the geeks, to the motorheads, the potheads, the cheerleaders, and the football players. Everyone knew Floyd Carson but most important, everyone liked Floyd Carson. He won hands down, wasn’t even close, a landslide as they say, no one even knew who ran against him. Once elected, Floyd immediately took into action, stepped up to the plate of leadership and challenged school policy and kept a promise to his fellow students. He had many changes he wanted to make but he remembered “start out small, don’t bite off more than you can chew”—he did just that. His first successful challenge was the school’s dress code, one line in particular—it simply stated no shorts for boys. Put it this way, when spring was in bloom, so was a new dress code, along with sexy legs everywhere. He was successful in removing a dead-beat teacher and creating more parking spaces for the students and a senior lounge. He didn’t win every battle but he learned from his mistakes, and learned well. He moved into college where he honed in on his skills, the college presidency could have been handed to him on a silver platter if he wanted it but elected not to run. He wanted more, to learn more, and not be bogged down with school policy… . he had already done that, instead Floyd took to his studies. History, critical thinking, statistics, public speaking, and yes he even took political science and was entrenched in the ROTC program. He graduated with a three point eight. He then went to law school to hone his skills even more, never once did the thought of becoming a lawyer ever cross his mind—just wanted to learn how they think was all. He wanted to know how to lie, manipulate words and statistics in order to combat them we he needed. Two years of his life were spent there, in the bowels of deceit, the pit of hell with the scum of the earth, the future ambulance chasers, future rape and murder defenders, future law makers—worth every penny. Fresh out of law school, he took the bar in his home state of Virginia and passed—would have been a shame to have spent all that money and not prove yourself. From there his stepping stones took him to an internship at his state’s congressmen’s office where he honed his political skills. The stones grew bigger as he became a congressman, then the senator of Virginia for four consecutive terms. The only thing missing from his repertoire that might hinder his ultimate goal would be a tour of duty in the armed forces; after all, it is hard to be the Commander in Chief without an ounce of actual field experience running through the course of your veins but it has been done before.
At age fifty-five, Floyd Carson has been around the block a few times and knew Washington like the back of his hand. It was a given that when Blair Anderson would ask Floyd Carson to be his running mate the answer would be a resounding “YES”. In fact Senator Carson already had his letter of intent drafted and waiting. He and Blair were great friends and most important, great allies. It was hard sometimes to tell their views apart—they believed in the greater good and that there was still hope that the trust was not betrayed in the American public. The past few years it was particularly hard for the American public to trust anyone again, from lying under oath about sex and taxes, to too close to call elections where you needed your brother’s help to recount votes in his governed state in order to win. Really who knows what terrible secrets are still hidden beneath the stories of 911 or on the oil fields of the Middle East. The trust is almost gone; hence the duo’s campaign slogan would simply read “Trust.” Just try to unearth any skeletons or snakes, as said before—squeaky clean.
Most of the past year of Floyd’s life was spent at twenty-five hundred dollar per plate dinners with Anderson and businessmen wanting to gain an ear of a possible future president. He hated it but was a necessary evil—they needed the campaign funds—millions of them. Because of this, time with his family was nearly nonexistent. Even this past Christmas was cut short and the last time he made love to his wife was almost a year and a half ago. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for his family and his political career to coexist. He had to prioritize and it wasn’t ever easy. He too missed that special bond with his wife of twenty-seven years—the wife that stood by his side in every decision he has ever made, even guiding him when morality seemed to dissipate in the wind of political lies. It was his wife Grace that he loved dearly and he too could see the tension forming between them. Wining and dining, debates, conference calls with god who knows who, little sleep, meetings and more meetings took their toll on their marriage. There was just no time for even himself yet alone Grace. She stood by her man though, with big smiles through thick and thin. She just might one day be the first lady; little did Floyd realize that was the last thing Grace ever wanted. Scott Norwood came to this conclusion as well after he read a personal email from Grace
. . .
