The Unfolding Investigation
Published by David Holladay at Amazon Kindle
Copyright 2018 David Holladay
All Rights Reserved.
Credits: Editing by Caryn Navy
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This book describes the unfolding mysteries and crimes of the fall of 2077. It has been four years since the publication of my first book. I find it fascinating that so many of the keys to this story are not mentioned in my first book at all. Rose (Jane's daughter) told me, “If I had been in a long coma and woke up, and someone gave me the Jane Foreman book, I would be entirely ignorant of today's society.”
This book has three authors, Jane Foreman, her daughter Rose Hassan-Foreman and I. Together; the three of us have been solving crimes and keeping good notes. Almost immediately, our investigation turned towards intricate details of the past struggles of our nation. I hope that a reader can learn more about our recent history than they ever learned from what Rose calls “Deb's fairy tale.” It has been a whirlwind of events this fall. Besides telling our story, I want to redeem myself and try to do a better job describing The New America.
As you will see, each one of us writes one portion of each chapter of this book. All three of us have different life experiences. Rose is only 15 years old. Jane and I are 42 years old. Jane was a slave for years and took incredible risks to change our society. I reaped many rewards without experiencing slavery or personal jeopardy.
We have not edited each other's writings. We have not had the time to blend these writings into a single voice. The first person means the author of each part. Rose also wants readers to know that there are two people she calls “Mom,” so she uses the more formal “Jane” and “Mary” when she wants to refer to these individuals. We have all worked with some amazing editors who have taken these three stories and combined them into a single narrative.
Together, we are hoping the year 2078 is a better year than 2077.
-- Deb Coulter-Jackson
Yes, I do hate Deb's book about my mother, Jane. I am going to call it what it is for me: A Fairy Tale. Why do I hate it? Do I have an entire chapter? I will give three reasons: Her book skips over the social divisions which are tearing our country apart. It makes people think that I live in total luxury because Jane is quite wealthy. Finally, it skips over the unpleasant fact that the economic earthquake unleashed by Jane and her gang tore America apart. Let me devote one paragraph each to these issues, and then I will move on.
The Fairy Tale is the reason the unsatisfied ex-slaves (called the X-minuses) want to kill us. Somehow they forget the part where Jane was enslaved at age 15 (admittedly under favorable circumstances). All they remember is how rich Jane Foreman got. They act like there is no money around since Jane slurped up every dollar in the country. The truth is that she donated two-thirds of her wealth specifically to free slaves and assist with their integration into a unified market economy. She is not the enemy. Deb did no one any favors by revealing so much of the financial details of Jane's rise to power.
The second reason that I do not like the book is that it leaves so much out. There is nothing about how the ex-slaves are divided into three factions. Seriously, the nation is breaking apart, and there is not a single mention of any of the hundreds of clues of the evolving social crisis. Two of the factions of ex-slaves are not that interesting. The XX try to pretend they were never slaves, and the X-plus are ever so proud of how well their lives turned out. My mother is the queen on the X-pluses. Heck, Jane still wears her gold collar everywhere; what is with that? But it is the X-minus that drives me crazy. I am drawn to angry non-conformists, but it is hard to befriend those who hate my family. I do like to put on a disguise and hang out with them. I am a bit of a rebel, and they are fellow rebels. When I travel to a new town, I like to get dressed up like an X-minus and try to blend in at a bar or a music event. They are a strange and fascinating bunch. None of them ever imagined that Jane Foreman's daughter was the one who bought a few extra beers for those without any money at all.
The third reason I dislike Deb's book is that it irresponsibly avoids describing the countless lives that were torn apart by the searing events that are described blandly as “Jane's product rollout.” I have met people who were made wealthy by all the changes. I have met people who lost everything when the company they worked for collapsed in the massive economic cataclysm. I very much want to put it on the record that so many lives were transformed in such a short time period. I know it was for the greater good. We have democracy now. We have a constitution. Slavery was abolished. I know that is all true. But many people have an attitude about Jane based on what happened to them over a few short weeks before I was even born. My mother runs around the country trying to fix everything. On some level, I think she feels guilty for all the eggs that were broken to make that nice omelet.
On September 4th, I was traveling with my mother on one of her so-called Plain Speaking Tours. I was there as her assistant. I would make hotel reservations, arrange for large dinners, set up transportation, and make sure we had a good schedule. The trickiest part was finding a good speaking venue remotely and making sure it was properly prepared ahead of time. Sometimes I would call the people organizing the event to help them prepare the hall where people would be speaking. The work was repetitive, but I had to pay attention to countless details. And yes, despite my best efforts, things often got fouled up. At first, I turned to mom to fix the mix-ups, but then she told me that working out solutions was the best part of my job. Jane was right; the job got much more interesting when I worked things out without involving anyone else. I got to say things on the phone like, “You lost Jane Foreman's hotel reservation?” In a tone that would make anyone feel like an idiot. In the end, those who helped us, even in tiny ways, got an autograph from Jane Foreman. I found out that sometimes it was fun staying in junky hotels when the good ones lost our reservations. Eventually, I learned that a lot of people hated Jane, and that was why there were so many lost reservations. I think Jane was trying to teach me that by having me act on her behalf.
Anyway, most of you know the story. We were in Des Moines, Iowa, at a new theater called The Des Moines Dinosaur (weird name, but nice place). They had a pretty modern lighting and sound system that actually worked. As usual, the place was packed. Every seat was taken, and there were many people standing in the back and along the walls. The one thing I can say is that the two aisles in the theater were completely clear. That was one of my jobs.
The presentation was pretty standard. There was a panel of five people who were unhappy about the way things had changed over the last twenty years or so. Each panelist introduced themselves and got to speak for about five minutes. Then Jane came out and had a ten-minute conversation with each of the panelists. When that was over, Jane walked over to a podium to give a speech for about an hour. Finally, we had about twenty-five minutes of questions from the audience. The format was long, but it allowed Jane to directly address individual concerns, learn about local conditions, and also give her standard stump speech. Jane has not and is not running for office. She was trying to galvanize each community to work harder to heal social divisions. She told me privately, “Social divisions lead to the Civil War and the abandonment of our First Constitution. I want to persuade people to avoid a similar disaster.” Some mothers try to fix a broken vase. One of my mothers tries to fix an entire nation.
Just as Jane was walking over to the podium, there was this awful noise. To me, it sounded like all the lighting and sound equipment fell down at once. I ran down the right aisle to get closer to the stage, to see what had gone wrong. At about the same time, someone ran down the left aisle firing a gun. He was later identified as Brian Johnson. I was so focused on looking for malfunctions that it took me extra seconds to figure out that someone was running down the other aisle shooting a gun at Jane. No matter how I disagreed with Jane, I did not want to see her get shot. I screamed, “Mom, drop, drop! Someone is shooting at you!”
The fastest reaction was from Maria Santos, who pushed her crutch into the aisle just in time to trip Brian. At that point, everyone jumped on Brian and took his gun away. In all the confusion, the person who made the initial noise escaped. Someone tackled me and knocked me down. I ended up with a dislocated shoulder and a broken nose.
The cops somehow thought that I was an assassin. It had taken over two hours before people believed that I was Jane Foreman's daughter, and Jane could find me in the hospital. The Public Protectors (PPs) seemed to be very stupid about doing much of anything. In my mind, the renaming of police to PPs did not change anything. Theoretically, it is a good idea to have a reminder that they are there to protect the public.
Jane was totally confused by what had happened. It took her some time to understand that someone got three shots off and that they were aimed at her. No bullet hit anyone that day. Brian, the shooter, was beaten up pretty bad by some members of the audience. Sometimes these events can get pretty hostile to Jane. I was glad that this was a more neutral group.
A lot of people present were certain that they saw two gunmen attacking Jane. Of course, they were seeing Brian and me. The PPs looked at my ID card as if it were proof that I was faking credentials to gain access to my victim. When Jane finally figured out where I was, she found me in the PP section of the hospital, heavily chained to my bed and the wall. Jane came in and started laughing, “You look like someone in a bad documentary about slavery.” I took it all the wrong way. I thought she was making fun of me and making a speech about the evils of slavery. All the while the PP's were about to convict me of attempted murder, so I was still in jeopardy.
Now I know that she was shocked to see her own daughter, at age 15, locked in chains. I think it shook her to her core. I keep forgetting that Jane became a slave at age 15. Jane has been very weird this year. She is so proud of how she handled herself at age 15 under such difficult circumstances. But she does not want me to experience much of life for myself. I think being her travel assistant has been one way to travel and relax with Jane. Jane is telling me, “You could not cope with what I had to cope with, and I forbid you to try to learn for yourself if I am right or not.”
The one thing that Jane and I agreed on was that the PP's were making a mess of the investigation. Jane called up Deb, who was available to travel to Des Moines and help get to the bottom of this affair.
It was a relief when Jane got me sprung from the prison section of the hospital to the regular section. I was not interested in first-class treatment. I just wanted to have the shoulder popped back. I was so glad that I could start to use my arm to use my phone and computer. I needed a sling for the first day or so. I was so glad that I did not end up with a broken arm.
My nose hurt a lot as well. Once out of the prison section, I started to get some pain medication. They put some cotton bandages up my nose and put so much tape on me that all the little kids who saw me thought that I was some sort of monster, especially if they just saw me lying on a bed. I had to stand up and say something friendly so that they would know I was a nice person. I did not mind having to do that a few times, but you would think that doctors could fix a broken nose without scaring the snot out of every child in the hospital ward.
It was kind of funny that the TV news announced to the nation that there had been an attempted assassination of Jane Foreman by two assassins, who had both been caught. I have had some big arguments with Jane, but it was a bit upsetting to be identified as someone who tried to kill your own mother. Jane called me “her sweet, unwitting assassin.” She explained that unwitting meant that I did not know at the time that I was an assassin. I joked that I have two jobs that start with “ass,” assistant and assassin. Anyway, I should keep talking about the investigation.
Even before Deb made it into town, Jane started investigating. I will let her tell that part of the story.
My daughter, Rose is correct that Deb's book opened some wounds. I am doing my best to heal them. The Plain Speaking Tour has been my effort to bring people together and show how we can all work together to build a better world. I am not a dictator. I would love to see my financial fortune diminish as others see their fortunes rise. I have seen enough of this world not to want to be protected by something. I do not mind giving away most of my money, but I do not want to be left with not enough to protect myself and my family. I know that Amir feels the same way.
As Rose said, I like to hold real conversations with people, to help them understand that they hold most of the keys to their own future. Sometimes we discover real needs that are not being met. I do my best to fill these needs. The point is that you learn a lot from talking heart-to-heart with others who may well hold a grudge against you. I do give a speech at these events. I try to capture many of the points that were made, and try to reframe them in ways we can all work together towards a solution.
I cannot say too much more about the actual events. I was walking to the podium when I heard some noises. Rose yelled out. I flattened to the ground and crawled to get closer to the podium. I was not aware that Rose and Brian were knocked down. People took me backstage. Eventually, I was taken to a PP station. I was asked the same questions for over an hour. Eventually, I called Rose's phone number and got no answer. I kept asking the PP officers where my daughter was. They said that their primary concern was to get my story so that they could press charges against the assassins. Someone showed me two faces on their phone. I screamed that one of the people was my daughter. I demanded that I be allowed to see her at once. The shooting happened around 3:30 in the afternoon. It was close to 6 before I eventually found Rose in a situation that reminded me of my experiences at age 15.
Poor Rose! They were not treating her at all. No one had done anything about her arm and shoulder pain, and no one had fixed her nose. I got her out of the prison section of the hospital so she could be patched up. It only took a few minutes to get her shoulder popped back and to bandage up her nose. The longest part was getting all of Rose's things that were taken from her purse back. It so reminded me of my days as a guest of the Supreme Council and the Police. Her ID card said Rose Cynthia Foreman-Hassan, and it was coded to indicate that she was from a wealthy family. I was furious that they had identified her as an assassin based on the fact that she was seen running toward the podium at the same time the shooting happened. I asked, “How many bullets were fired at me?” They said, “Three.” I asked, “How many bullets did Brian fire at me?” They said, “Three.” So I asked, “How did this make my daughter an assassin?” All the PP officers I spoke to said their superior officer told them to treat them both as suspects.
In the middle of this, we saw a news report about the assassination attempt. As usual, it was quite garbled. The reporter was unsure about whether I was okay or hurt or worse. The news report said two assassins had been arrested. I started yelling about getting out a press release to establish that Rose was innocent. Rose said, “Hold on Jane, it may be useful to confuse things a bit. If someone gets curious as to who I am, we might find someone who is involved. Would it hurt anything to let the bad news report stay uncorrected?” I figured that this would connect Rose with the investigation. We were sort of flippant about this, but it turned out to be incredibly important. At that moment, I knew that the police would not help at all. We needed to investigate this together without the PP's. Each of us made contributions. My anger at the identification of my daughter as one of my attempted killers was enough to get our investigation started.
By nightfall, I had retained Campbell and Hamilton, the most important law firm in Des Moines. I asked the staff to view all of the videos that had been captured that day. The PP officers said they had no video. I had my lawyers make a public appeal to the citizens who had recorded events in the theater that day. They were asked to send the video both to the legal team and to the PP station.
By the following day, they had nine different recordings that covered the sequence. One of them showed that a man standing to the side of the theater dropped a metal container of something which made a large sound when it hit the floor. The video showed the man picked up his metal can and quickly moved away, and slipped out an exit before the police arrived. Once again, there were two suspects, but neither of them was Rose.
My schedule was very complicated. I talked with Rose about our options. She pointed out, “we have a few things scheduled for the next two days in Des Moines that we can cancel. For the next six days after that, we have events that we cannot cancel or re-schedule.” Rose pointed out that we could re-schedule the next two weeks after that six-day period. So that meant that we could spend September 13-26 in Des Moines, trying to figure out what was going on.
I called Amir and talked through everything. He decided to travel with our wife and our sons to Des Moines, so we would all be here for the two-week period. I knew that I was taking Phillip (age 11) and Amir Jr. (age 9) out of school, but it was better for the family to be staying together. Rose arranged for a large double suite at The Taft, a very nice hotel for our unique family unit. Rose also arranged for a small office in the law firm for Rose, Mary and I so we could concentrate on the investigation away from the boys.
The last thing I remembered about the investigation was that some old, rusty bolts, screws, and nuts were located in the theater in roughly the same place where the video showed someone dropping a can. Someone got a can full of junk and dropped it in the theater. That was the noise that Rose had heard. We ran some tests. Several people who were there said it sounded exactly like what they heard that day. Comparisons with the audio recordings seemed to indicate a match as well. We had all kinds of theories. We wondered if Brian had been hypnotized to shoot once he heard a loud noise. Perhaps he thought it meant that someone else was doing some shooting, and he was there to assist. We also thought by having everyone look at one side of the room; it allowed Brian to get a few shots off before anyone could react.
I arrived in Des Moines on the morning of September 9, which was a Thursday. I had phone messages from Jane about my hotel room and which law firm to visit. At the offices of Campbell and Hamilton, I found notes from Rose and Jane about what happened. What I read was very similar to what you have read so far in this chapter. They also urged me to write down what happened on a day-to-day basis so we could remember all the details, especially for times when someone else needs to be brought up to speed. All of these notes became the basis of this book.
I was shocked at what I found at the law office. It was clear that the video evidence showed that there were at least two people in the theater who were perpetrators, and only one was identified. The shooter, Brian Johnson, was not talking to the PP's. The investigation was going nowhere. I quickly decided to use my role as a US Senator. I called up several fellow Senators, and they agreed to allow me to make this an official/private Senate investigation. This meant that I could swear in witnesses and that I could threaten witnesses with jail for failure to co-operate. I had to pay for all the expenses of the investigation myself. I was lucky because, over the last six months, I had contributed to the funds for several private investigations for Senators who had lesser means than me. They were all pleased to vote to make my investigation official.
So on September 9, 2077, I started the Debra Coulter-Jackson Official/Private Senate Investigation #27 as authorized by various committee votes. That afternoon, I got a list of many of Brian's friends, relatives, and phone contacts. I issued subpoenas to everyone on the list. They were asked to testify the next day.
On Friday morning, I brought each person, one-by-one into a room with recording equipment. I swore them in and explained they could get a five-year jail sentence for not co-operating with the investigation. I got some background information fairly easily. Not surprisingly, Brian was an X-minus. He was a small child when his parents were freed from slavery, but he resented his family's deep poverty. I learned from many sources, and from Brian's parents themselves that they were grateful to be freed from slavery, and they were not bitter about the experience.
The most interesting witness was Robin Valcourt, the sister of Brian. Before we could swear her in, she insisted that we swear in her husband, Houston, so they could both testify together. I did not like this one bit. But she promised that she had plenty to say when they were together. Against my better judgment, I swore them in together. I knew that it was quite improper. I emphasized that I would hold them both responsible for a falsehood from one of them. Robin and Houston both agreed.
We barely got the recording equipment on when they opened their backpacks and pulled out a large dataset. Robin explained that “I was suspicious about the attitude and activities of Brian for years. I have asked Houston to keep him under surveillance. My husband knows what Brian has been doing lately. Of course, I have much more day-to-day contact with Brian. So together we have a lot of information about what Brian has been doing”.
I had assumed that these two were hostile witnesses, who were scared about their own involvement. I could not have been more wrong! Instead, they had so much information that they were afraid that we would not get the full picture unless they testified together. They were concerned that since each one held half the story, we might end up charging them with obstruction if some tiny details did not match between their two accounts. They were committed to testifying together so there would not be any conflict in their testimony.
Robin was able to explain that Brian was quite intelligent, but always seemed to run around with “the wrong crowd.” As a kid, he was always getting into trouble. Robin grew increasingly concerned when none of these patterns straightened out as Brian became a young adult.
At one point, Houston realized that his best friend from high school lived very close to Brian. Houston and Robin asked Edward Collazo to befriend Brian and to record his friends and activities. At no point was Edward ever to reveal his connection to Robin and Houston. They brought in a massive electronic notebook with dates, names, photos, and audio recordings. I was able to make a copy. It was overwhelming. Sometimes too much information is worse than too little information.
I showed them the blurry photo of the mystery person who dropped the noisemaker. Houston Valcourt said, “This is an X-minus named Mikey.” That was not much to go on. He was able to say that, “I think he works at a dismantling center on Army Post Road in Des Moines. Edward Collazo was in a bar near the dismantling center with Brian when Brian greeted someone named Mikey. I think I can pull up his picture. Edward was so careful and thorough. I am sorry that I do not have any other contact information, except they both had a similar negative attitude about social issues.”
I took a break and had a lawyer go to the dismantling center with the photo to get a full name. That part was easy. His name is Mike Sarno. Finding Mike Sarno was hard. He had fled Des Moines, and someone else was paying all of his expenses. I put a flag on his financial accounts. If he bought anything or got any money added to his accounts, I would know about it.
Jane and I drove into town late Sunday night on the 12th. We were both exhausted. I did most of the driving. Because of the assassination plot, ten times as many people had tried to attend Jane's events. We managed to move two of the events into larger venues. All of her events were televised. For me, it was nice to see so many people coming out to see and listen to Jane. I have to say that she is a very impressive speaker. She reminded people that this was the second attempt to kill her. At each event, she took off her gold collar and passed it to her panel. She showed where the bullet which killed Cynthia (her double) had nicked the inside of the collar. It was very emotional. I was very proud that my middle name is Cynthia.
My mother reminded everyone that “I was enslaved at age 15 because of the debts of my parents.” She used that as a way of saying that “A society that offers no lifeline to the poor and innocent is a cruel and wicked society.” She went on to say that “At various historical moments, societies both left and right have been very cruel to ordinary people. Given a choice, I would rather be ruled by an open society dominated by the wealthy than a closed society run by an extremist political party. Why? A rich daughter can marry a poor man and the poor man ends up running and expanding the family business. In a society run by a political party, the only way to power is to assassinate, blackmail, or buy your way to the top. I prefer to be ruled by smart people who know that they need to stay on their toes since they could be replaced by those who are smarter. One of my favorite jokes is that the wealthy want 45% of the economy of a vibrant society, while the communist party wants 100% of a stagnant economy. I want to point out the dangers of allowing a narrow band of extremists whether ex-slaves or not take control of our nation.”
Jane pointed out that “The expression, ‘We all should work together.’ was meaningless. If there is a job opening, and you need a job, you want to get that job. You will not step aside for anyone else. At that point, you are not helping your fellow citizen. You are in it for yourself. But in that struggle for the job, we can as a society find ways to learn about people's needs.” Jane pointed out, “Every company should report to a local government office each job listing, and how many people apply. The local government can alert the business community of the untapped skills that are available. In that way, we can organically grow the economy to fulfill the needs of the people in each community.”
Anyway, we came to Des Moines late, found our room, and collapsed asleep. In the morning, the whole family got together to catch up and plan. When I say, “the whole family,” I also include Mary Davis, who is a part of the family now. I should be clear that I address both Mary and Jane as “Mom” when I am talking just one-on-one. Mary was the person who recognized Jane at a restaurant on product launch day sixteen years ago. They had kept in touch all these years. Jane hired her to help keep her household running. Mary did not do child care, but she acted like another parent in a house with two busy parents. Dad runs the New York Constitutional Bank, and Jane has her social programs to run in her effort to avoid yet another civil war in America. I always joke that Jane has a much more difficult job than dad has.
I read Deb's notes on her investigation. I was amazed that she had a name for the guy who made the loud noise that preceded the shooting at the theater. Deb can be very intense when she wants to. I think everyone recognizes that she would have been happy if she had married Jane instead of Cathy. But that was not what happened. I always find it amusing that Deb wrote in her Fairy Tale that she was secretly in love with Jane, but never mentioned that her own wife is black. I also find it amusing to think of what people one or two centuries ago would have thought of a mixed-race lesbian couple sharing a seat in the US Senate representing the interests of the billionaires of America. And they are doing a superior job of that as well. The whole Rockefeller family must be twisting up their underwear in their graves over that one.
I was glad that all three of my parents had rented cars. I asked Mary to drive me to a local clinic since it was time to take off the bandages off my face. My brothers came along. At the clinic, I got an idea. After the bandages had been taken off, I asked the nurse for instructions and extra bandages so it would look like I still had my nose all packed up. Mary learned how to fake bandage me up. I paid a fair amount for all the extra supplies. On the way back to the hotel, I had Mary stop the car at a hair salon. I got a short haircut and dyed my hair blond. I bought a wig that looked like my current appearance. When I had to make official appearances, I would use the wig plus add the nose bandages and the sling. When I wanted to go undercover, I would go without the medical appliances, with grungy clothes, and with dirty, unkempt short blond hair. I told Mary, “Mom, I am planning to go undercover.” She just shook her head and said, “Baby, be careful. These people tried to kill Jane.”
Since I got mad at Deb for not writing down people's racial makeup, I should mention that Jane is white with some black heritage, my dad is mostly Arab, and my other mom (Mary) is black. I am the daughter of Jane and Amir; my brothers are the sons of Mary and Amir. What really counts is how well we all work together as a family unit. I don't want to get into personal details, but I will say that my parents get along very well. If they argue about petty things, I have never seen it.
Jane tries to keep the ex-slaves from unraveling our society. Meanwhile, I liked to dress and hang out with X-minus kids (as long as they never knew who my parents were). I never understood why people got so hung up on racial identities. It is the social identities that are tearing us apart.
Jane always told us these stories about keeping two identities, her normal identity, and her cover identity while she spent five years on her big project. I told her that “Now I can play two identities: Rose with my black hair and a face bandage and a sling, and an anonymous worker with short messy blond hair with no face bandage or arm sling. I know how to look like a typical X-minus teenage girl: black clothes, a white stripe on my forehead, old work boots, an old T-shirt, some ripped pants, and no underwear.” Jane was not happy. She just said, “Stay safe.” From her expression, I knew she was scared out of her mind that I would get into deep trouble. She sighed and slowly walked away. I was hoping that I could do something that she could not do.
Mary dropped me off near the entrance to the Hopkins Machinery Center. I walked in and asked for the employment office. I told them who I was and that I just wanted to work for a week or so. I said I did not need to be paid, but I just wanted to look like I was working there. They told me that I might as well do some of Mike's work, seeing that he was not at work anymore. They gave me a work ID card under the name Cynthia Hassan to wear around my neck and told me to find “Sarah” in the back of the building near the dismantling center.
I found Sarah and told her that I was assigned a temporary one-week position. She showed me the dismantling area and taught me how to unbolt bits of equipment, locate odd parts that were left on the floor, how to tell the good parts, from the bad, and let me work. I did not mind doing repetitive work. It was different than any job my mother had ever assigned me. My fellow workers were pretty nice to me and helped me when I made obvious beginner mistakes.
For lunch, I walked to Lucy's Liquid Lunch, the bar that Brian and Mike met. I was glad that they did serve food, but I did order one beer so that I could fit in. I told a few people that I was new to this area and asked for advice on lunch and dinner places. One guy wanted to take me to his apartment after work. Thankfully, I just told him “No thanks, I already have a place where I can stay,” and he left me alone. I did not want to do anything obvious on the first day.
I found a hidden loading dock where Mary could pick me up. She was a bit alarmed at how grimy I was. She called Jane and Amir to discuss things. They decided that it was better for me to rent a room at a cheap hotel so I could either sleep there or wash up and then join the rest of the family. Mary rented a room for me on the fringes of town. I washed up and changed into good clothes (and dark wig plus face bandages), so I could join the rest of the family at the nice hotel. As Jane taught me, playing a role can be tricky. Jane made sure that she was interviewed on TV with me looking very different than I looked while dismantling very old and greasy machinery.
The next day, I hit the jackpot. I was at Lucy's for lunch and in walk these three guys from work. They were all dressed like X-minus's, and one asked if I wanted to join them. It was not long before they started talking about how they tried to kill that bitch, Jane Foreman. My heart started pounding. I had a camera recording with the camera eyeball hidden in my ripped shirt. I decided to switch the mood by asking angrily, “Can you talk about something else?” My contempt in my voice for their project got them pissed off, asking why I didn't want to talk about it. So I said, “Fine, tell me what you did and why.” I could not believe they opened the door that I tried to close on them.
They told me that they all came from red families. I could not believe it. They were describing the factions in the wars of the 2020s. Of course, it all started with the fighting between the Trumpers and the anti-Trumpers. Soon it devolved into combat based on your home, your social standing, and to some degree, your race. It was all a jumble in my head. I knew that there were the grays, the whites, the blues, the reds, the burbs, and the techies. I only had direct experience with the various factions of ex-slaves. I only knew that the terms “whites” and “reds” were a reference to the chaos after the Russian Revolution during and after World War I. I knew that Jane and Deb could fill me in on the militia wars of the 2020's. I could not believe that I was sitting down with actual communists. I thought they had all been wiped out. I tried to say a few things so I would appear to be friendly.
I decided to stick to my identity as an X-minus. I behaved exactly like I always did when I wanted to blend into a new group of X-minus's. I told my fake family story about my parents being forced into slavery, and how I was six when slavery was abolished. I tried to say how much I resented slavery for not giving my mother and father to have a chance to do anything but farm, hunt, or look for garbage at the edge of civilization.
I got a lecture about how it was the rich who exploited everyone, and the rich need to be killed. These guys, who never identified themselves to me, recommended a book written during the second civil war that was a manifesto to eliminate the rich from society. I asked where I could get a copy, and one just pointed to the bartender and said, “Ask her for a copy.” I said, “Right now?” He said, “Sure.” So I got up walked to the bartender and asked for a copy of the book. She went to the back room and gave me a copy of the book wrapped in a paper bag. I asked if I needed to return it, and the bartender just said, “Of course, comrade, of course.” I had a few beers at that lunch. My head was spinning when Mary picked me up and dropped me off at the cheap hotel. She told me that Jane was giving a major presentation tomorrow night, so I had to leave work early, and switch into my real identity, and show up as the stage manager.
On Monday morning, I tried to get oriented with my family and the investigation. Deb had done some fantastic work with the videotapes and convincing witnesses to co-operate. In mid-morning, I learned about Rose's intention of going undercover at Mike's job site. I was not happy, but I insisted that Rose use an app that streamed signals. I listened and watched carefully. I nearly fell on the floor when I observed the Tuesday lunch with the three co-workers.
I collected my wits and ran into the adjacent office and asked the three lawyers in the room knew about people in Des Moines who identified as reds 50 years after the civil war was over. One woman said, “In Des Moines, most people who had families that lived through the civil war have kept their old affiliations.” One by one, the lawyers said how much of their families were white, blue, burbs, or gray. There were no reds or Inners in the group. I wanted to know more. They said that a lot of the civil war, the factions held different parts of Des Moines, and peace came as an announcement from outside. It took a long time to take down the barricades from the streets and from people's hearts.
The lawyers all wanted to see the video. They wondered who the three men were, and what they had done to plan the attempt on my life. I did not want these guys to roam free. Don Hamilton (one of the lawyers) made the obvious point, “The first step is to identify them. Then we can chase them down.”
Once the viewing party was over, I started asking why the militia factions seemed to be so important in Des Moines. Don said, “In Des Moines, there was a final battle between an army made up of the Red, the Whites, and the Reds against the Grays, the Burbs, various factions of farmers, and the Inners. When the fighting stopped, there was a lot of vicious infighting as different factions accused others of betrayal. Some really ugly things happened.” I was so confused by this. I asked, “Why would there be an alliance between the rich and the communists. Why would the police and military join them?” Don answered, “There was a union of convenience between the rich and the communists. They have been working together for a long time. The other factions were defending their territory, their homes.”
I got an idea to find people in Des Moines who strongly identified with the old factions. I asked the lawyers to find me someone who identified as a gray, a red, and a burb to add to the panel for the presentation the next day. In one hour, they had those, plus a blue. I added one additional citizen and expanded the panel from five to ten.
I did remember some of the factions. I knew the blues were military and police, the reds were socialists and communists, and the whites were the rich folks and their hired armies. I had to ask for more information about the territorial factions. I learned that the Grays were rural people who did not want city people invading their lands; Burbs were suburban people who did not want anyone invading their lands; and the Inners (as in “Inner City”) were the people most endangered by racism and were also the people who took racism to new levels.
Of course, the nationwide picture was very murky. No one at the time was sure who won. There were so many regional alliances, and so many times units changed sides, that it was unclear what the point of it all was. One day, there was an announcement from most of the factional leadership that the war was over, and it was time to rebuild the country. Organized groups that wanted to keep up the fighting found that they were being starved as well as being under attack. Eventually, all armed conflict stopped. When the truce was announced, the whites used their advantage to squeeze or destroy their comrades in arms. But that is all ancient history. With the end of the factional fighting, the billionaires took over with their Supreme Councils and their fortified cities. All I could think of was what could have caused America to lose itself in factional fighting. There had to be more to the story than “America lost its mind after the military coup that took down Trump.”
Turning my attention to the investigation, I was intently focused on keeping Rose safe. We instructed Rose to avoid these self-described communists. For the rest of the week, Rose packed a lunch and ate it at her job. We made sure that Rose used a bicycle to get to and from work, to lower any suspicion on her connections. Before she arrived or left her workplace, we had several people scan through the area by car, bike, and walking to make sure no one was ready to ambush her. We even used a silent drone to monitor Rose's progress on her bicycle. I was so relieved when her work week was over.
The communist book that Rose borrowed was a revelation. It was unknown outside of Red faction circles. Our investigators searched the book for fingerprints. After that was done, I scanned the book to record the contents. Of course, I wore gloves while handling it. After Rose had finished her work week, we mailed the book back to the bar, with a note of thanks for lending such an insightful book. I alerted a few anti-subversive organizations with electronic copies.
Also on Friday, I announced the new forum to discuss the factional fighting in Des Moines over 50 years ago. The city leaders lost their minds when I said each faction would be represented someone from a Des Moines family that still identified them. I was accused of attempting to cause an insurrection in town. I was totally blindsided. Every single person who agreed to the panel called up and withdrew. Of course, I changed the format of the meeting. I did take a few minutes from my speech to ask the audience if they identified with a faction or knew someone who identified with a faction. As far as I can tell, about 80% audience raised their hand. At least that put an end to all the talk about me making things up. I also asked the audience to raise their hands if they thought that easing tensions over lingering factional identifications would be helpful. This time a handful of people did not raise their hands. I just had to figure out how to raise this issue without angering town leaders.
While Jane was dancing a jig over finding a rare book, gnashing her teeth over Rose working in a nest of X-minus, and worrying about the backlash against her precious publicity tours, I had an investigation to run. And that investigation hit a brick wall very quickly.
We did have Brian in custody. He refused to talk. We threatened him with the death penalty. It turned out to be so unnecessary. We had Robin and Houston who did a better job of testifying than if Brian had confessed. Brian did not keep detailed records. He did not have videos, audios, transcripts, and diaries. The investigation had almost all the data we needed about Brian. We did not tell Brian about this since we still wanted him to talk.
The video that Rose recorded in the bar was amazing. As expected, Robin and Houston were able to identify them. They were all members of an extended family with Ukrainian origin. There were only a few ex-slaves in the family, so the identification with ex-slaves was a mystery. I concluded that they were part of an organization that was exploiting ex-slaves.
On Monday, the 20th of September, there was no trace of my Ukrainian friends at all. They all disappeared from their houses, lives, jobs without anyone any trace whatsoever. No one noticed them packing. No one got a goodbye message. It was as if they had each vanished into thin air while alone in a bathroom. But in that case, each one would leave a smelly mess in a locked room as a clue. I seriously thought that someone had murdered all three. After a few more days, I knew that was unlikely. Murder always leaves a clue. Besides, Mike Sarno also disappeared without a trace.
This disappearing act was astonishing. Vanishing like this takes lots of money, political connections, false identities, and a seamless organization. No X-minus organization I ever heard of had this kind of money or organization. Eventually, I got a clue from Robin and Houston. Sometimes while recording Mike and his friends, there was talk about “going to the woods” or “staying in the woods.”
These phrases were a mystery to Robin and Houston, but I figured that they were hiding in the white zones, the wild places inhabited by escaped slaves, non-conformists, and various malcontents. As I explained in a phone call to my spouse, “Some people live on the fringes of civilization, living in the white zone and preying on normal society. Some people live deep in the white zone, growing their own food and making their own clothes and implements. Since food was scarce in the white zones, it was a very poor hideout. Perhaps someone found a truly remote place and packed a cabin with food and supplies; they could hang out for a year or two.” Cathy answered, “Yes, but who has the resources to find a spot in the white zone that has no neighbors within three miles that would be hidden enough. How could you bring up countless supplies into the white zone without one of the road pirates noticing? This is still an implausible scenario.”
Cathy also reminded me, “We took advantage of the existence of the white zones. Much of our ‘funny business’ with ID cards we did back during our project took place in rooming houses at the edge of the white zones. These were often places where illicit goods were traded into and out of these forbidden areas. We had official mail, such as ID cards, mailed to some of these rooming houses. We had someone who would check the mail and pick up items mailed to phony names. No one paid much attention. So we all got to be billionaires by taking advantage of the white zones. If I accept your theory, the attempted killers of Jane are using the white zones as their hideout.”
So I had people telling me these four men (Mike and three Ukrainians) were dead. I thought they were hiding in a cabin or cabins deep in the white zone. Others thought these men had multiple ID cards and were able to slip into a new area under a new identity. I knew that government computers were always scanning people's accounts for gaps of no activity. Eventually, there would be a police investigation to see why these gaps existed. Even I was convinced that these four men would eventually reappear with new ID cards.
I also wondered if some of the hideouts for some of the factions might exist in places now known as the white zones. Of course, this was another guess. But I was wondering if there was some connection between the old factions and the hideouts. There are many mysteries and dead-ends. I decided it was about time to wind up the investigation. I wrote an official report and archived all of our data. I made sure that anyone who used the identities or accounts of our targets, the law firm would get the alerts. There were countless details, but I knew it was time for me to end this and to head back to Washington DC.
On Monday, September 28th, I was looking through my luggage at a hotel near Chicago. I was looking at my official ID card and my work ID from the dismantling center. I was staring at the ID cards. There was some thought that was hanging around my brain, but it had not burst to the surface yet. Finally, I lured out the thought. “Perhaps there was a real reason why the Police (PP's) in Des Moines were ignoring my identification. What if they knew about a weakness in the process of identity and identification? I think we rushed to judgment when we dismissed the Police as being totally incompetent.”
I confided in Mary. We decided to go back to Des Moines and try to get some of the Police we had met to talk about their thinking process. We consulted with Jane. Jane said, “There is a gap in the schedule this week. You can go by fast train from Chicago to Des Moines on Wednesday afternoon. You can have a full day there, and then take the night train back to Chicago.” My mothers agreed that I should travel with Mary and a security worker they had recently hired.
I made an appointment have a long lunch with the five Police Officers that were the primary investigators of the assassination attempt. It was a fun session; some alcohol was involved. I went through the timeline several times. Then I threw in my big question, “Why didn't you trust my identification card? Why did you think it was faked?” The officers looked at each other and then turned to an officer named Perry. Perry said quietly, “My uncle is in the military. He warned me that some military operations used faked identification. I learned from him not to make any big decisions based on a single ID card. So I found the alleged assassin of Jane fucking Foreman carrying the identification of her own daughter. I just said, arrest her. If I am wrong, I get reprimanded. If I am right, I don't get fired. I had no idea that I would get a free lunch from you for locking you up and throwing away the key.” All the officers laughed, as did I. I quickly switched topics to avoid showing my hand. I did say, “Better safe than sorry. I hope my family did not give you too much shit for how I was treated.” I knew that my family had decided to pretend that two assassins had been arrested that day. At no point did anyone give any negative feedback to the Police.
I left the meeting with a better appreciation of the Police. I could tell that they did not want rich people pushing their way around in an investigation. I could tell that there were ruffled feathers. They did not like it that our family had started our own investigation without coordinating with the Police. I told them we had identified the friend of Mike who dropped the noisemaker. Of course, they were aware that Mike was refusing to talk. I told them that we had a detailed file on Mike's life and his associates. I didn't say anything about the disappearing Ukrainians. I made arrangements to send an electronic file about Mike Sarno to the PP's.
I met up with Mary and Jian (our bodyguard) and walked to the train station. Mary was skeptical that there was a military link to our disappearing men. Jian was more positive than Mary. He said, “I have heard there is a new unit that is gearing up to spy on other people. It is called Unit 17, and I heard they were messing around with banking, computer, and identification networks. There were trying to recruit some of my co-workers. If you are interested, I can get some more details for you.” Mary looked surprised. I just replied, “And additional details would be valuable. I would love to learn their command structure, where they are located, and what they are actually doing. My mother always talks about how the spy agencies messed up America a hundred years ago. She would be furious that this kind of shit is starting up again.”
Our trip back to Chicago was unusual. Once we settled down in our car, we headed down to the dining car. We noticed that the prices were higher than on our trip to Iowa yesterday. We found out that the rail company had increased prices of tickets and food by 20% while I was in the meeting with the Police Officers. Of course, we ordered a meal anyway; we were all hungry. Two young women came in who were shocked by the new signboard. Mom called them over and asked if they were having any problems. They said, “We are going to Chicago for our mother's funeral. Our church paid our train tickets, but we have no way of paying these prices for food.” At this, a man yelled out, “Hey, you can work for us!” By his voice tone, his dress, and his expression, I could tell that he and his companion were clearly in the business of recruiting prostitutes.
Mary exclaimed, to the women “Show me your ID cards so I can move $100 into your accounts. All I ask in return is that you never listen to these men or anyone else in the same line of work. I am very sorry for your loss.” I should mention that our party of three was not dressed fancy in any way. We did not look like the kind of group who could be offering that kind of money (remember that in those days, $100 was two weeks of salary). I did not help the situation when I said, “Mom, be careful. This can all go south in a second” in a sharp tone of voice.
Sure enough, one of the men walked over and said, “Did I hear you call this fine black woman ‘Mom,’ you white bitch.” I answered, “You heard what I said. You have no idea of who I am or who my mother is. She is the wife of the head of the Constitutional Bank of New York. She is traveling with her daughter and her bodyguard. If you do not behave yourself, you might be politely asked to step off a moving train.” Mary said soothingly, “There is no need to sound angry. We have a bit of a misunderstanding. I see seven people eating in this dining car. Why don't we all share one table and enjoy our trip to Chicago? I know these nice ladies are going to a funeral for their mother. Let's help them have a good memory of how decent people can help them in their time of need.”
I realized that I was the only white person in the room. I told them stories of being a wealthy girl who had a hobby of dressing up like an X-minus and hanging out with them. Mom told the story of how she was at a restaurant with Jane and Amir when I was two years old. In a total surprise, they both got down on their knee, presented her with a large, beautiful emerald ring, and asked her to be their wife. She showed a picture from a business magazine that showed the entire family: Amir with two wives, plus three children. Mom made a point of saying that “I have a full say on the decisions that concern the single largest personal fortune in America. No black person in American history has had that much wealth. And yes, this is my daughter Rose. If you feel disappointed in me and who I am, and want to find someone else in this country that has more money than I have, well you are shit out of luck.” Mom was very accommodating people when she was in unusual situations. She did have her humorous ways of saying, “Do not imagine you can take advantage of me other than accepting my hospitality.”
Mary did try to draw out the two young men at our table. They said their names were Mike and Joe. Mary asked what skills they used in their job. Mike said, “It is persuasion. I need to persuade women to join the industry, to persuade them to join my group of workers, and to persuade people to part with their money.” Mary paused, and said, “That seems like a lot of work. Do you realize that bond sellers and stock market staff use persuasion as well, but they earn over a hundred thousand dollars a year in a totally legal occupation?” Joe was shocked, “I have never heard of someone earning that much money. Are you shitting me?” Mary laughed and said, “No, I am not. I know it took you years to learn your job. You would need to spend additional years learning this new profession. Based on your sales experience, I would expect you to near the top of the income distribution if you work hard enough. Let's exchange contact information so you can get the training you need to improve your standing in life.”
We talked and drank for several hours. Mom paid the bill and left a massive tip to the staff. We knew we would be in Chicago soon, so we had a quick nap. The train stopped short of Chicago. We were told, “There is rioting in downtown Chicago. This is as far as we can take you.” Mom gathered about 30 people from the train and hired a bus to get us to a safe location in Chicago. She made sure to include all of our dining companions. Mom made sure that the first stop was at the funeral parlor so the two sisters could attend the funeral. We arranged a few more stops that met everyone's needs. The final stop was at the hotel where we were staying until our little side trip.
I was overjoyed to see them come into the hotel room in the early morning of Friday, The first of October. We quickly exchanged stories. I have to say that my mind was so focused on the incredible events in Chicago yesterday, that I was not able to hear what Rose and Mary were trying to tell me.
Around 1 pm, while Rose was meeting with the Police Officers, there was the first hint of trouble. There was an Octoberfest beer event in a large Chicago park. At one moment, about 200 people in a beer tent threw their beer mugs at to the other side of the tent. They slipped away as fast as they could. As the Police and Emergency Workers converged on the scene, all of the perpetrators had quietly melted away. Meanwhile, thousands of X-minus men and women started vicious riots near the famous Chicago Loop. There was no attempt to issue a list of demands. There were hardly any flyers or signs. The riot consisted of thousands of people who showed up without warning doing violent actions. I was shocked that this was happening so close to where I was staying. I was worried sick about my beloved Mary and Rose. I wished I had set them off with a dozen bodyguards.
As everyone knows by now, the body count was high. Five people died in the hail of beer steins. One hundred and eighty-three more died in the street fighting. The rioters killed just about anyone they could get their hands on. The Public Authorities responded by shooting the rioters on sight. Late at night, about the same time that the train from Des Moines was expected, the last of the rioters were disbursed.
My usual approach to civic issues is to try to start a constructive dialogue. Whatever happened on the streets of Chicago was not civic engagement. There were no organizations, no leaders, no announcements, no agenda, no anything. It was just open insurrection. I have to admit that I wanted to pick up a phone and talk to someone, anyone, who might give me a clue.
At one point, I organized a breakfast. I sat down with my family and a few staff members for breakfast. I was still entirely focused on the bloodbath in Chicago. Rose had enough. She raised her voice, “Mom, listen to me. Do you remember what I said about the military unit called, Unit 17 that is now operational? You give long lectures about the evils of the old spy agencies. They are being formed again, like Sauron in the Lord of the Rings. This is an entity of pure evil. You cannot fight it with women's teas and civic organizations.” Rose turned to our bodyguard and said, “Jian, tell Jane what we know so far.” Jian was very convincing since he had additional information from his co-workers at his security firm.
I said, “My dear daughter, you have my full attention. What do you suggest we do?” Rose made me proud for thinking ahead. She said, “This is going to be a long struggle. I recommend we cancel the rest of the tour. Perhaps we keep a few dates, but we bring this to an end. We need information. Have Deb and Cathy call Senate hearings and investigate Unit 17. We need to learn as much as we can about this organization. At minimum find out if Unit 17 provided the false identities of the people known and unknown who were part of the assassination plot. Mom, you are part of a generation that used technical subversion to overthrow an evil regime. Call a meeting of the clans. Bring the five couples. Bring the entire Chris Ritter extended family. Bring the historians from the Liberation University; bring the crazy ladies from Blue Flame. Just make sure that all the people we invite are loyal and not about to rat us out. From watching a bit of TV, I found out that close to 200 people were killed yesterday. I fear that they can keep doing that as long as none of us have any idea of what is going on. We need to be on a war footing, just like you did in 2055 when you got your big project rolling.”
I nodded and told Rose, “OK, I am with you on this.” I looked right at Mary and said, “You have an amazing daughter. I like the idea of the Senate hearings. I think Deb will love digging through all of this. Well done. Let's be careful with a general meeting of the clans. Why don't we start out with a subcommittee of the cleverest? I can think of about five or six people that I would like to sit down with. I think Deb and Zach Perez from our gang; Samantha, Bobbie, and Mary from Chris' family, and two historians from the University. Ok, that is seven. I was close. We can meet in Portland Oregon without attracting too much attention. Rose, you are right about a lot of things. As of now, we are all on a war footing. I just wish we knew who the enemy is.”
I did call up Mary Ritter-Lo on the phone. She suggested that I ask her mother, Faith Ritter, about the use of food service to motivate the poor of Portland Oregon. I had only met Faith Ritter in some formal settings. Mary gave me her mother's private phone number. Faith was very helpful. She did say, “Most of what you are asking me is discussed in my husband's book. Please read it carefully.”
I promised to read the book as soon as possible. She came to her main insight, “I suspect that this is an entity build on supplies, not money. If you investigate money, you find it goes into a single corporate entity. The money is spent on supplies, especially hot, nutritious food. We focused on how to cut our costs on food preparation to the bone. We paid for most of the labor with food. Since a lot of the costs were labor, paying for labor with food doubled our advantage. If you have a population close to starvation, access to one massive meal every four days is powerfully motivating. In our situation, we made sure that our workers and their families were well fed all the time. But if you wanted an army of fanatics, just offer free food every four days and threaten to cut back to every ten days or be cut off altogether. I would say that some organization that offers cafeteria food for schools, hotels, or institutions might be operating additional eating locations to motivate a hidden army. Technically, what we did was a violation of labor laws. Look for a similar pattern of cut-rate food operations in Chicago.”
I thanked Faith for her observation. I shuddered with the thought that the best way to learn who was feeding the army of X-minus rioters was to send Rose into the most dangerous neighborhoods of Chicago.
My investigation into Unit 17 became unglued almost immediately. I gathered the basic information that I could. The official name of this organization was the Threat Evaluation and Assessment or TEA. This struck me as odd since evaluation and assessment seemed to be the same thing. This unit was located at the Carlisle Barracks, next to the Army War College near Harrisburg PA. It was headed by Lloyd Warren, an eccentric general with quite a reputation. I was unable to learn anything about this military unit from official sources. That immediately aroused my suspicion. Why work so hard to cloak a benign entity. It had to be up to no good.
I decided against gathering additional bits of information that would prove that this entity was up to no good. Instead, I chose the “good government” route. I wrote a memo saying that I had learned of a military unit which appeared to hide its existence. My memo barely had more than the name of the entity, where it was located, and which branch of the military it was part of (The Domestic Army). I made sure not to call this Unit 17.
I sent my memo by e-mail to my fellow Senators. To my amazement, I got five vetoes within minutes. I had never had such a negative reaction to an investigation. You would have thought I was trying to bring back starvation, slavery, and mass death. I was stumped as to what was going on. Of course, it was clear that this mysterious Unit 17 was well protected.
It was against Senate Protocol to ask directly what the issues were. I did send some staffers over to other Senate offices to pick up gossip. This was easy to do. They brought over large baskets with wine, baked goods, and cheese. My staffers then asked other staffers about a long list of pending legislation. We had a military officer show up in uniform during the visit to ask a routine question. My staff would ask, “Have you noticed a lot of military officers visiting your Senator?”
My staff was able to find three Senators who were visited by a trio of military officers who seemed to be offering a route to guarantee re-election. In each instance, campaign staffers were called into the meeting. Not surprisingly, all three Senators we identified were on the list of five Senators who vetoed the investigation. I had to assume that my cover was blown. Someone knew I wanted an investigation. But they did not know why or what I knew.
I called an all hands on deck with the whole staff. I brought in my wife, which I rarely do. We discussed the bare facts: I had asked for an investigation. It was vetoed. We suspected that outsiders would ask questions about what we knew. I asked that everyone stick to the same script and that everyone record all information about anyone asking questions.
The first and only inquiry came from another Senator. A Senator that I will not identify asked me about the investigation. He or she had been on vacation when other Senators were approached by the mystery military officers. My caller said, “I did overhear some conversations at the Senate dining hall that did not sound Kosher. I wish you well. What are you going to do?”
I was a taken aback a bit. I was so much in a defensive mode; I was not sure how to react. Was I talking to a friend or a foe? At a certain point, it did not matter. I replied, “I am not sure what is going on. I cannot tell if this issue is worth pursuing. I have so many other issues to pursue. I am going to sit on my rear end until such time I learn something new. What do you think?” The caller quickly changed the subject.
My mother Mary called Jane and me into a discussion. She just had a phone call from Deb. It was very brief. Mary told us that, “Deb has made no progress on the investigation. It has been vetoed by her fellow Senators. She said very little, but the hints I got were that she expects us to go down to Harrisburg and do some more digging around. There is a part of me that is pissed that she has not added a single bit to the investigation, even though Washington DC is loaded with information. And she expects us to pull a rabbit out of the hat. But, I do know Deb. If she could get anything, she would. It sounded like she was totally shut down. The thing that was scariest to me was that she was talking in code. She did not trust anyone. Perhaps she did not even trust her own staff. Does anyone have any ideas?”
Jane muttered, “That is scary. It reminds me of all the secrecy during our product launch.” She suggested that we all travel down to Harrisburg and figure out what is going on. I spoke up, “I do not think the three of us can travel to Harrisburg. We would stick out and be recognized instantly. Mary, why don't you stay here and act as our command post. Jane and I will travel in disguise and use false names.
My mom Jane threw a fit, but I explained that Jane Foreman could not just march down to a nest of vipers and come out alive. My mom said, “If I am not traveling as Jane Foreman, who am I traveling as? It is totally illegal and impossible to have a fake ID. How do I switch identities? Without my ID, I have no access to money. I cannot buy a cup of coffee without my ID. I am Jane Foreman; I cannot be anyone else.”
I opened my purse. I pulled out a small cloth bag. “These are some of my trade goods. Most of these are in small plastic bags marked with their value.” I showed that these were a collection of old USA coins, tiny diamonds mounted on rings and bits of costume jewelry. One red plastic bag had three old silver dimes. “These are the most valuable trade goods that I carry with me. Each of these is worth 350.” My mom Jane asked, “Each of these is worth $350 dollars?”
I sighed. I had no idea that I had to start at the beginning. “Mom, trade goods are not measured in dollars. They are measured in bots. A bot is a bottle of beer when you buy beer in wholesale. It costs from 2 to 6 bots to buy a bottle of beer at a bar. The variation depends on how classy your bar is. I do not want to ever bring you into a place that charges only 2 or 3 bots for a bottle of beer. You might die of shock. Right now a bot is worth about 4 tenths of a dollar. I think that is called 40 cents. It all works out. The old silver coins had .72 ounces of silver per dollar of face value. So with silver having a rough value of two thousand dollars an ounce, work out the numbers, and each of the dimes is 350 bots.”
Jane turned to Mary and asked, “Did you know there was an underground economy based on the exchange of various shiny things and tokens? Do you have any of these bots?” Mary responded, “I knew that there were people outside of the money economy, but I never got an introduction. Rose, where did you get your money tokens?” I replied, “I buy them from various hotels and restaurants that need to convert their tokens as you call them, into the electronic money used by the rest of the economy. I usually pay a 5% premium; thus, my offers are always approved. I thought my parents were reviewing my accounts. Haven't you seen the large amounts I spend on restaurants and hotels?” Mary said, “I thought you were helping a lot of your friends. I had no idea.” Mary started to look disapproving of me. I said, “I do help my friends. I buy all sorts of food and lodging for them. I just use bots or electronic money. You know I do not spend money on myself. I don't buy many clothes or food for myself.” Mary said, “We know you are not spending money on yourself. But Rose, you seem to have some sort of plan. What do you have in mind?”
I sucked in some air. I said, “Well, I have had this idea for some time. I have been lucky so far. Each of the secret missions I have gone on, I could go alone. My age was not a handicap. But I cannot see myself doing this by myself. I think it would be fun to travel with Jane with both of us in disguise. My actual plan is to have Mary buy us train tickets, first to Pittsburg, and then on to Harrisburg. In Pittsburg, we can spend a day on our disguises. We choose a hotel right by the train station. We find a place to stash our suitcases at the hotel for a week and take the train to Harrisburg anonymously. We find a house to host us for 3-5 days. I think we could do that with just one of the silver dimes. We hang around the bars near the military unit we are interested in. No one knows who we are. If we keep our wits together, no one would ever guess who we are. Hopefully, we learn something important, and we start our return trip. Once we get back to the hotel in Pittsburg, you can get back to being the richest woman in the world.”
For once, I was in Rose's hand. We were a party of three: me, Rose, and Rashid (our bodyguard). We took a train to Pittsburg, following Rose's instructions. We checked into a hotel in our own names. Rose took us to an area of town where we obtained some clothes. We used her trade goods, so there would not be a trace of our presence. The clothes were worn, shabby, but fairly sturdy. Rose instructed us not to launder them, and to wear them day or night until our mission was over. To pay for complete outfits for all three of us, Rose paid with one of her silver dimes. As change, she got another small diamond ring. I was astonished at how quickly buyer and seller looked at their new items. Rose was right; it was easy to verify the trade goods were legit.
Our next stop was at a spray tanning salon. All three of us stripped and got sprayed with a medium darkening treatment. According to Rose and the management, the darkening would last about 5 to 10 days. Rose carefully supervised the degree of darkness for our faces and our hands. She told me that we could not get so dark that our facial features clashed with our skin tone. Rose was careful to make sure there were no light patches on our face or hands. I was not watching how Rose paid for the treatments. But the transaction was swift. There was no sign or indication that these trade goods would be accepted. I have to admit that I felt like a child being treated by an adult. I was very impressed.
Our final stop was a hairdresser. Rose and I had relatively short haircuts. I purchased a blond wig that was a bit tacky. Rose had her own blond wig, which she had with her in a bag she was carrying. She put on her new wig and then paid for everything with the small diamond ring she got as change for her dime at the clothing store. I glanced at the three of us in the big mirror. I have to say that Rose had been clever. I looked like so many of the poor people in our nation. There was nothing about me that indicated that I was in disguise. The blond wig seemed to be a way of indicating what our jobs were. Rose must have had a lot of fun dressing her mom as a whore.
We went back to our hotel through a side door and slipped into our room unnoticed. We ate the food that we had gathered during our shopping trip. Rose and Rashid shared a bed. I was not pleased, but Rose argued, “I may need to sleep with Rashid while we are undercover. We need to be comfortable with each other. Don't worry; I will set some sensible boundaries.”
In the morning of October 5th, we had a quick snack in our room and then packed our suitcases. We checked out under our correct names. I just said, “We are going to a costume party.” As we settled the bill, I left a large tip. We stored our suitcases under my name. Rashid took all our ID cards and put them in a wallet. He stored the wallet and his gun in a safe under a ten-digit code number. As soon as we walked out of the hotel, we did not carry anything to associate us with our old identities. I felt as rootless as I was when I was first enslaved so many years ago when I was fifteen years old. Rashid no longer carried a gun. He had a few knives hidden in his clothing. As we eased ourselves into the train seats on the way to Harrisburg, I felt very safe.
Once we arrived in Harrisburg, Rose told us that we needed to walk for almost 6 hours to get to the Army barracks near Carlie. Rashid and I started to yell at her, and she added, “Unless we get to hitch a ride.” We did get one ride in the back of a truck that took us far enough, so the whole trip took only two hours. Rose paid with five copper tokens. The truck driver looked very pleased.
Rose had us walk to a bar close to the military base. By now it was 4:30 in the afternoon. She used her trading tokens to buy us all a fine steak and potatoes dinner. She made sure that Rashid paid. Rose told us, “He is playing the role of the client. You and I are providing our services. It would be disrespectful for one of his ladies to pay for the bill.” Once again, I was regretting not supervising Rose enough, and proud that she was able to handle herself so well in these dives.
As we were enjoying our first solid food in two days, we became aware of a commotion in another part of the room. There was another table with one man and two ladies. Another woman came in who acted as if she was the main girlfriend. She was saying nice words, “I love you. You love me. I do not care if you sleep around since you are such a good provider.” But her tone was sharp. An argument ensued. The entire group was as asked to leave by one of the staff. As they started to open the door to leave, the arguing got much louder. I really wanted to go outside to watch. Both Rose and I told Rashid that he also was a great provider. We all had a good laugh.
When we were about half-way finished with our meal, an officer approached us. He asked Rashid, “Are you in Evaluation or Assessment?” Rashid laughed and replied, “You tell me. Someone told me to check out this group. I am here with my associates. This is Roseanna, and her daughter Debra. I have discovered that if I cannot learn something, these two firecrackers will get the story.” I smiled, and muttered, “Pleased to meet you while averting my eyes.” I did not want him to think I was curious about him.
The gentleman gave us invaluable information. He said, “Our organization is known as ‘Threat Evaluation and Assessment.’ Evaluation means doing research. We spy on all kinds of organizations. Assessment is an inside joke. It means doing an operation to render an organization less effective. The joke is that we are assessing the organization's response to our interference. I personally prefer Assessment.”
I was holding my breath. Everything depended on how Rashid reacted to this very provocative statement. Rashid just said, “My sources say they have seen a lot of these agents in the halls of Congress. Are they evaluating our government or assessing our government?” The gentleman just said, “I have no idea what you are talking about!” He gave a smirk and a laugh that showed he did know something. Rose quietly took his picture with a hidden camera. Our questioner quickly moved away from the table. We finished our dinner.
I knew that Rashid was playing the role of big cheese for our little group. I whispered, “We know this group is up to no good. We just have this guy's picture. How are we going to learn more without giving ourselves away?” Rose asked me what we still needed to know. I answered, “We need to assess the size of the agency. How can we figure out how big it is? Do we count food trucks going in? Do we count garbage going out of the complex? Anyone have any ideas?”
Rose got up and walked over to the bartender. She said, “I have a math problem for you. Let's say I can service three men a night from the military base. How many months would go by before I would be repeating myself? The bartender replied, “There are a lot of women at that base. Are you willing to fuck men and women in this math problem?” Rose glanced over to me and said, “Of course, they don't get as tired as the men.” The bartender asked, “Seven days a week?” Rose answered, “Uh-huh.” He asked, “Officers too?” Rose said, “Of course.” He then asked about civilian contractors. Rose said, “I worded my problem poorly. I should have asked how many military staff members. I am not interested in the civilian head-count.” The bartender thought for a few moments and said, “I would say a little over seven months. That's based on the latest information I have. This bar has been a gold mine.” Rose called to Rashid and me, “I told you this is a great town. I say we move in now!”
I was taken aback, both by Rose's amazing boldness and by the scale of the complex. It was more than twice the size that I would have imagined. I said, “OK, we seem to have learned the size of this military base without counting garbage trucks.” We did stay in town for an extra day to try to learn more. We got a few scraps of information. At no point did we learn as much as we learned when Rose asked her rude math problem. All in all, the food and lodging for those two days cost us another of Rose's magic silver dimes. I had to admit that it had been largely wasted. On the train back to Pittsburg, I reminded Rose how she hated word problems in school. I told her, “Look how much you have grown up. You are writing them now. I think you are a natural teacher.” We made our way back to Chicago without doing anything to show that we had made a side trip to the Harrisburg/Carlie area. Rose was right; we could travel for a few days without needing our ID cards and our bank accounts. It had been an astonishing adventure.
The bonus adventure was that Mary had a fit when she found that Rose and I had modified our skin tone. She insisted that we visit a dermatologist to restore our natural appearance. Until we had our appointments, I did notice that when Mary, the kids, and I walked around the streets of Chicago, we got less attention because none of us were white. I made a last plea to Mary that people stared at us less when we looked more alike. Mary said, “Fine. Figure out a way to do it permanently. Let’s decide as a family. I think Amir should have a say in all of this. Do interviews before you do this, and explain the decision. Take plenty of 'before and after’ pictures so no one is surprised. Before you dip yourself in the dye tub, remember that there is more to being black than avoiding attention when walking with your black wife. It's no skin off my back.” Then she could not stop laughing for several minutes.
I was astonished when I got the report from Jane (and Rose). The scale of the operation, the arrogance, and the illegality of it took my breath away. We were able to identify the man who talked to Rahid, Jane, and Rose. Through that identification, I was able to learn enough that the head of the “Assessment” branch of Unit 17 was a military officer named Luciana Lopez. Ms. Lopez seemed to be a frequent visitor to congress. I knew that she was a key figure who had been tampering with the constitutional process of a properly elected congress.
In total secrecy, we moved Senate staff into the Carlisle and served Luciana Lopez with a subpoena on October 14th (Thursday). We just came into her house with our staff and cameras and started interrogating her right on the spot. We did not want to tip anyone off that we were in town investigating things. We made sure that Luciana knew that I was a US Senator, and I was conducting an official investigation; she was required to answer our questions. Any and all military orders she had ever received asking for secrecy were now rescinded.
But Luciana threw a curveball. She said, “I understand who you are. I accept your credentials as authentic. My military supervisors have explained that they take their orders from the banking elite who have credentials above and beyond the constitutional authority of the United States of America.” I yelled, “What? Which bankers give you such advanced credentials? Do you mean the Constitutional Bank of the United States? Why don't we have a break now, so that I can arrange a video hookup?”
I called up Jane and Amir. As expected, it took about ten minutes to set up a video and voice connection. I asked Lucina to pay close attention. I introduced Luciana to Amir Hassan, the head of the Constitutional Bank of New York. He is, of course, the highest-rank banker in the country. I asked, “Luciana, do you recognize this man?” She answered, “Yes, I recognize his face and his voice from countless news reports that I have watched.” I was relieved that I did not have to fight that battle. I asked Amir the key question that I had never asked him or anyone else, “Are you able to exert control over others via channels outside of constitutional mandates? Do you have any access to a military unit which can evade constitutional controls? Have you ever heard of a military unit called Unit 17?” Amir had a surprised expression. He responded, “I only work through constitutional means. I never work with the military. I have never heard of Unit 17. Is that the secret military unit in the book Seven Days in May?” I had to look it up, that was the fictional ECONCOM. I think Amir was trying to get more clues about what the context was for my questions.
My next move was a total shot in the dark. I showed a three-minute video that my staff had produced about the attempt on Jane's life using the data from our joint investigation. Each person was carefully identified on screen. When there was a segment showing the lunch with the Ukrainian suspects (who cannot be identified in this book due to legal issues), Luciana exclaimed, “Oh my God.” We had hit the jackpot. I knew that her unit had provided fake identification to the key people on the assassination team. Luciana said, “Put me in protective custody. Once you have arrested my superiors, I will testify at the trial. I had no idea that I was participating in an attempt on the life of my personal hero, Jane Foreman.”
At dawn the next day, we arrested Lloyd Warren. He defended his actions by saying he was ordered to do what he did by his superiors. We marched in three levels of the military hierarchy. They gave testimony as to the actual role of Unit 17 and the limitations of the power of General Warren. He then said that he derived his authority from the bankers of America. We had video hookups with 40 members of the boards of the ten separate Constitutional Banks of America. We also had hookups with 20 other top bankers in America who worked outside the framework of the Constitutional Bank. Every single one denounced any effort by Police or Military to subvert the Constitutional Authority of America.
It was all fairly dramatic. I officially asked that General Warren be arrested for treason and for suspicion for directing the attempt on the life of Jane Foreman. I will spare readers with the details of all the ways the Military healed the wound and opened up their processes to Congressional oversight. I have full confidence in this process. My office was given a complete database of all the phony Identification Cards issued by this rogue military unit. We all had to sign agreements that when we found evidence of criminal behavior by those listed in the database, we would turn the names over to the Police, and not use the list to launch additional investigations. We have stayed true to our agreement.
We did get the alternative identities of our four suspects. We were able to put computer alerts when their names or ID's ever surfaced. I finally felt that all of the work I have done as a US Senator to pierce the veil of secrecy around what really happened on September 4th in Des Moines Iowa was worth it. What a whirlwind, starting with a dropped can of nuts and bolts leading to the arrest of a prominent general, who, in my opinion, was nuts.
I need to backtrack a year or so. When I first wanted to hang out with the X-minus teenagers, I quickly learned that I needed to be careful about my name and my diet. There are so many ways I could be discovered as a faux X-minus. Someone might see my Identification Card coded to say that I am part of a wealthy family. My clothes, appearance, speech, or mannerisms might give me away. Finally, I might be too well-fed. To an alarming degree, the X-minus almost idealizes the “famine look.” Even if someone could afford to eat better, they all want to look like their peers. To me, it all showed that they worshiped victimhood. I wish I could tell them all to figure out a better system for gathering/growing food so that all could have an adequate diet.
My problem is that if I look too well-fed, I am not welcome in their company. The name part is easy. I tell people that I left my ID at home (which was true). To truly look like an X-minus teenager, I needed to eat fewer calories to lose a sixth of my natural body weight. My mothers were distraught by this goal. We compromised: I would aim for a drop of a tenth of my natural body weight. I would complete the effect with makeup. No matter what, my parents were always taking me to the doctor to make sure that I was not doing any permanent damage.
After I left my one-week job at the dismantling center, I realized that I needed to up my game. I have reverted to my original weight goal. My mothers are going crazy again, but they know how important this is right now. I am determined to be a credible X-minus. The equations linking dramatic calorie reduction with weekly weight loss are well known. I carefully count my calories. If my weight is not changing by the expectation curves, I make adjustments to my calorie intake.
Being hungry all the time has been tough. I read books written by people who had gone on long fasts for spiritual purposes. I spent a lot of time thinking about my role in exaggerated ways. I envisioned myself as the young Joan of Arc, the one person anointed by God to make significant changes in this mortal world. Joan of Arc played a pivotal role in the Hundred Years War, which actually lasted 116 years (from 1337 to 1453). If you count back 116 years, you get to 1961, which is just two years away from the Assassination of President John Kennedy. If you listen to my mother's speeches, all of our problems (our war in this metaphor) started with the assassination of JFK. So why not envision me as Joan of Arc with the Sword of Hunger, putting an end to this new Hundred Years War?
The biggest problem has been my Identification Card. My mothers worked out a plan for me. I ended up going to court after Jane paid an enormous fee for “instant service.” This all went down on the same day as the interrogation of General Warren, so my father could not come with us. Mary was tied down monitoring my brothers. So it was just Jane and me. I asked Jane, “Don't you need to hire a lawyer for this?” Mom just answered, “No, they might get in the way. Besides, it would be hard to find a lawyer on short notice that agreed that this was a wise course of action.”
At 11 o'clock on October 15th, we were ushered into the courtroom of Joseph Dunaway. Mom told me that I had to speak up for myself. I looked the judge in the eye and said, “We are here on two related pleas. Both pleas relate to my Identification Card. First I want to change my name. I do not think that is controversial. I am sure you can imagine times when I do not want people to know who I am. The second plea is that I wish to be legally emancipated from my parents. Once that is done, my Identification Card will show me as poor, not as rich.”
Judge Dunaway looked startled. He said, “You wish to have an Identification Card that makes you look like a poor orphan, rather than as a member of the wealthiest family in America. By the way, it is a great honor to be in this court with you two; I have much respect for both of you. Before we change your name, Rose Foreman, I have some questions for you. If I recall the newspaper stories, in the aftermath of the attempt on your mother's life, you were clapped in chains by the Police. Only when your mother came to rescue you were you released. You do know that this is a cruel society. Thus you may be putting yourself into difficult positions from which it will be difficult to extract you?”
I nodded and said, “I understand, your honor. I still want to go through with this.” The judge frowned and said, “I need to make sure that everyone is of sound mind. Rose, do you have a source of income?” Mom said, “Do not worry; we will make sure that Rose has the funds she needs to accomplish her goals.” Judge Dunaway asked, “OK, I need to hear this right. There seems to be some sort of project for this young lady. Might I inquire what that is?”
Mom stood up and said, “Your honor, do you want to hear the real reason or our cover story?” The judge responded slowly, “I want to hear both.” Jane answered, “OK. Here is the fake story. In a few years, Rose will be in college. She wants to meet people without a single person at her school knowing who she really is. Rose wants the world to know who she is as a person, not who her money is. The real reason is that she will be infiltrating the leadership of the X-minus. She needs to fit into their ranks.” At that point, I let my cloak flop down, revealing my X-minus clothing, with my gaunt figure. I walked closer to the judge and exclaimed, “Justice be damned, for justice we be fucked!” in my best X-minus accent. I laughed and apologized for my lack of face paint. I added, “I do not think they would have allowed me into this building dressed this way!”
Judge Dunaway just said, “You are the bravest young one I have ever met. Isn't this a matter for the Police?” Mom pointed out that the Police were too well-fed to be able to go into an X-Minus gathering. His honor said, “I presided over the trial of one woman who killed four rivals so that she had a chance to marry into wealth. You want to be divorced from the largest single fortune in this country. I see mother and daughter here in my courtroom laughing together. I find that there is no malice or family cruelty. I find for the petitioner on all counts. I will be sealing these records within minutes. I need to know Rose's new name, the initial balance of her account in her name, and the address to send any final paperwork.” I said, “My new name is Cynthia Hussein.” Mom said, “Her initial account will have $50 in it. Please send any letters to the Omni-Hancock Hotel, care of Jane Foreman.” Within a few minutes, I put on my heavy cloak, and we were on our way. The Judge came from behind his desk to shake my hand and wished me well. His parting words were, “Godspeed. May you have as many Guardian Angels as you require to keep you safe from any harm.”
After waiting a few minutes, we went into an office where they took my picture, and I could exchange my old card for a new card. What I found particularly interesting was that the workers did not examine the cards. They did not notice that “America's richest teenager” just became an impoverished orphan (at least legally).
After being in the courthouse for several hours, we went back to the hotel and learned what had happened to General Warren. I knew that my magic Sword of Hunger had taken down a rogue general. I knew that his downfall was significant, but it was not the end of the battle. I knew that whoever was directing the X-minus needed a huge budget. I knew that hardly any of these projects could be paid for by a modest military unit. Jane, by contrast, thought that the dragon of subversion and evil had been slain by Deb.
I did learn the source of food for the X-minus in Chicago. I was told to report to an abandoned school building in the early evening of the same day I got my new Identification Card. I got there early and watched from a distance. During the next hour, hundreds of people went into the old school. I got up my courage and went into the only entrance. Almost immediately, I was looked over carefully, and someone demanded and scanned my ID card. The machine said, “Unknown to the Network.”
Two men marched me into a room where they check out new people “Unknown to the Network.” We all had to take off our clothing down to our waist. My protruding ribs, my hair, my skin, and my fingernails were carefully inspected. A woman came to me and asked me to hit a punching bag. I slammed the thing with all of my might. Someone else took me aside and asked me dozens of questions rapid-fire in a very thick X-minus dialect. I was scared that I would pause or give myself away. I imagined that Joan of Arc was guiding my tongue. She helped me to answer quickly. I knew that I was more gaunt and starved than several of the people in the room. I was asked about my sexual history. The translation of my answer is “I arrange my life so that no predator can touch me.” I was asked about my mother's sexual history. I answered in terms that no daughter should ever utter. The polite version of my answer was “My mother sleeps with both men and women as needed to support herself.”
I passed all of the examinations of my body, my speech, my clothing, and my demeanor. They rescanned my Identification Card and added me to the “approved list.” The courtyard of the school was covered by a temporary roof. There were about 50 tables set up full of people eating. I got into the line and got a plate of food. I tried to guess the calories on the plate so I could adjust the equations to keep my weight steady. I kept my eyes and ears open. At one point, I saw a group of workers taking some items back to the kitchen. I joined them. I saw many boxes and items addressed to a company called Three Eagles Catering. I want this on the record. I yelled out, “I see hundreds of boxed addressed to Three Eagles Catering but shouldn't there be a stack of boxes in this corner.” A kitchen worker yelled at me, “What the fuck. Every box coming into this room is scanned; every box leaving or emptied is scanned. Nothing is out of place. Get the fuck out of here!”
Everyone stayed in their seats after they finished eating. At one moment, twenty people on one side held up their hands above their heads. The whole group got quiet. A recording started playing. I was glad that I had an audio recorder hidden in one of my boot heels. It was a glossary. The recording would say, “Starvation means capitalism.” The group would repeat those words three times. The ones I remember are “our starvation means the struggle against the wealthy; destiny means the struggle to seize control; midnight means slavery; twilight means our present life, and daylight means success in our mission to seize control.” After the call and response glossary, they played an audio which sounded very different (different speaker, different audio quality). It was filled with phrases like “We must defeat starvation and come from twilight into daylight.” My mind was blown by how bloodthirsty the speech was, and how innocent the words were without the glossary. I had no idea how many locations besides this school were feeding this army of the dissatisfied.
At the end of the speech, the organizers passed out train tickets to Pittsburgh. As we left the meeting, we each had to hold up our ticket to show an organizer. I suspected that they had cameras to match the ticket with a face.
I know that I needed to pay close attention to my daughter. The morning after General Warren was getting thrashed by Deb on national TV; Rose came to me with an alarming story. She played the tapes of her examination and the two recorded speeches. I learned of the role of Three Eagles Catering and the train tickets to Pittsburgh. In an evening's work, she had significant clues in all directions. I directed my lawyers to start researching the financial transactions and the supply chain of Three Eagles Catering (even though it was the start of the weekend).
I asked Rose if she wanted to go to Pittsburgh. She said, “I think they may be meeting all the X-Minus people who come off the trains to tell them where to go next. I suspect that these quick meetings will be photographed. I suspect that if I do not show up, they will notice and flag me the next time I show up at one of their closed meetings. I will go, but with a small bag of clothing, so I come back disguised as a middle-class person. As soon as possible, I will slip away and change into my disguise, and slip back to Chicago without being noticed. (At this point, I forget if I am in disguise as an X-minus or when I am a so-called normal person.) Once they meet up, it will be just like the beer tent, all chaos and murder. No one will take attendance. They will assume that I am dead, badly wounded, or captured if I do not go to the next meeting in Pittsburgh.”
I asked Rose, “Do you think that the crazy violence will stop now that General Warren has been arrested?” She said, “No. These are dedicated communists. Somehow these communists played around with General Warren. He gave them plenty of false ID cards. Perhaps he gave them cover from Police investigations. But he is not financing this. General Warren was reckless, and they played him for a fool. Someone else is pouring tens of millions of dollars into this operation. We need to cut off the money supply.”
I asked Rose to put all of her memories, photos, recordings, and insights into our joint investigative file. I told her “I will give her whatever budget you need to work out a kit to switch from X-minus girl of terror into middle-income high school student. Make your kit light and practical. Have others observe your change to make sure that nothing is left to chance. No matter how attractive the bait is, do not investigate anything in Pittsburgh. Work out a good train schedule. Perhaps you should have three different tickets away from Pittsburgh in case you have difficulty slipping away immediately. Remember, you are my precious little girl and not my avenging angel.” Rose agreed. She replied “I do not want anyone to be suspicious of me. I can see that I have plenty to do here in Chicago. I bet Deb will freak out once she gets my full report.” I guessed that Rose had left out a few choice details. I figured that I would “freak out” at the full report as well.
I sort of felt helpless. Usually, I was the one in charge. I was shutting down my speech tour. I could not investigate like Rose. Her instincts for what she could do and what she should avoid were on the money. Deb could investigate with the power of the federal legislative branch. All I have is money and a name which opened doors.
I did call the mayor of Pittsburgh. I warned that there was going to be a violent episode like what happened in Chicago sometime next week. I suggested bringing in Police from as many towns as possible and having them hid in building downtown until it was clear where the violence would strike. I was relieved when she took me seriously.
I also called up the two most prominent Chicago newspapers and made them an offer. I would fully fund an investigation into the recent massacre in the streets of Chicago if they agreed to cooperate in all aspects of the investigation and kept my name confidential. The first meeting went badly. The reporters and editors swore that they could not cooperate at all.
My response was to call a second meeting. I told the newspaper people, “If this investigation actually costs one million dollars, then that is what I will pay you. Once you start working together, each team can attempt to bring in the biggest scoops. So you will cooperate broadly but also compete in subtle ways that your readers will notice. Treat me like an editor, and keep me in the loop. If you do, I might be able to add some additional scoops for your reporting. This project will make your careers and make your reputations. I will pick up the bar tab when you win your first major journalism award based on your joint work.”
The next day, both newspapers had coordinated headlines announcing the joint journalism project undertaken “For the sake of Chicago.” I started to feel like I had a role again.
As a member of the Senate, I can get pretty instant access to the banking system's computer network as long as I ask all members of the Senate, and the first seven responses all agree. A single no vote in the first seven responses is a veto.
I had the key pieces of information from Rose's report on the dinner and political speech that Rose had experienced last night. I identified the informant as Cynthia Hussein. I identified this center as the likely source of the attacks on the streets of Chicago, and from this report, it appears they are planning an attack on Pittsburgh. I included all of the key audio clips from Rose's secret recorder. I got my seven positive votes.
Using the computer keys given to me by my fellow Senators, I was able to launch a full financial investigation into Three Eagles Catering. The balance sheets showed substantial losses in operations. There were continuing money flows from some sort of financial trust from Cleveland. The computer files just listed the name of the account “LXXXIX denarios.”
It did not take a scholar to work out that this referred to 89 denarios, which were small Roman silver coins originally intended to be a soldier's pay for a day. This coin was famous for being debased over the centuries until it was almost entirely made of base metal. It was frustrating to stare at a number and the name of a coin from ancient Rome for the entire weekend. There was no name or address associated with this account. I would have to wait until Monday to make further inquiries. I figured that there was someone who was obsessed with monetary inflation or some sort of crank on historical issues who was financing all of this chaos. I could see transactions of $30,000 to $40,000 every few months to Three Eagles Catering. I knew we were close to finding the persons behind this whole series of awful events that were unfolding across the mid-section of America.
On Monday, October 18th, I could finally get access to regular banking channels. Theoretically, this was Columbus Day, but that holiday had been abandoned years ago. I was able to call the Cleveland Bank and ask for the names and addresses associated with the bank account only identified as named “LXXXIX denarios.” I was shocked beyond all telling when I was informed that the entity controlling the account was Mitchell Holdings. I knew that was the name of the central holding company for Charles Mitchell, the man who had rescued Jane Foreman from an early death and the benefactor of Warren Ohio.
I had not been in touch with Charles for several years. He always seemed such a kind person who wanted to make things better for the town of Warren. Through his efforts, Warren had more industry, better education, and better infrastructure than any other large town in the region. What had he to do with these dangerous characters that were laying waste to everything in its path?
I activated a secret communications channel set up by The Five Couples to discuss having an emergency meeting in Cleveland Ohio as soon as possible. I did not use the word Mitchell in my message. Two days later, I learned of new outbreaks of violence in Pittsburg, Toledo, St. Louis, and Knoxville. For the first time, I was terrified of what was happening to the cities of America and what we would learn from our investigation.
It took until Saturday, Oct. 23 that the group that used to be known as The Five Couples met at a small conference room in a major hotel in Cleveland. Since Amir now had two wives, it was no longer a collection of couples. There was some staff there to take notes and search for data. I was present because I had so much to tell.
The hotel was told that it was a meeting was called Channeling Better Corporate Governance and Government Regulation to Enhance Profits: Year 4. The only clue that something was not on the level was the number of security officers present to protect the participants. I certainly did not want to do anything to attract attention. I was the star infiltrator into the enemy camp. I did not want my picture in the newspaper for any reason at all. I wore a uniform of junior level staff person. When I was not in a meeting room, I ran around bringing coffee and doing errands for the “big shots.” Of course, I loved playing the role of a minor player.
Deb and I primarily walked through what happened in the last four chapters. I did notice that my mom Jane was listening to me a lot closer to me more than she had done over the previous six weeks. My mom Mary was beaming with pride, and my dad Amir was showing grave concern. In retrospect, we had kept him in the dark on some of the things I had been through during that period.
I did throw in a dramatic re-enactment of what happened in judge Dunaway's courtroom. I had Amir play the judge, I just gave Jane and Amir the script. I had my X-minus clothing under my cloak, so when I flipped it to the ground and aggressively yelled “Justice be damned, for justice we be fucked!” I caught my audience by surprise. I also played the tape of me being inspected before I could get into the Three Eagles feeding center. My mother Mary played the interrogator. It was clear that these great billionaires had no idea what was being said in the X-minus dialect. I had to translate each sentence into standard English. My fluency and ability to respond naturally to the rapid fire interrogation surprised everyone. My mother Jane smiled and exclaimed, “You don't have to reveal all my secrets!” when I explained that I had described her as the lowest kind of street prostitute.
The key parts of my evidence showed how the staff of the Three Eagles feeding center was sponsoring and directing the violence that was tearing about the great cities of the middle of the revived United States. It was essential that everyone present knew what we knew and why we knew it.
The crux of the discussion concerned how to respond to the information that Charles Mitchell, who facilitated Jane's education, and provided management support services to “the product launch,” seemed like the last person we would ever expect to be disrupting the existing social order. Everyone present said how proud he was to help the project and help end slavery. What was his deal?
There was a long, winding and somewhat repetitive argument about motives. When Charles Mitchell gave money to support Three Eagles Catering, did he think it was a charity? Did he know what he was doing? Could a lower level staff person have made the financial transfers? Is he going senile? How can we arrange for him to reveal his true motivations?
At a certain point, I was getting tired of the endless discussions about motivations and what to do. I asked for the floor. I said, “When you knew General Lloyd Warren was up to no good, you had no worries about motivation. In 36 hours you had him nailed. I have not worked with Mr. Mitchell like the rest of you. Why not blitz him like you did General Warren? In my opinion, the one thing you want to do is to take over Three Eagles Catering. Don't you want to take over the X-minus food sources and unplug all the propaganda? Let's put a stop to the death trains bringing rioters from city to city. I say, ‘To heck with Mr. Mitchell's feelings.’ Let's go in like gangbusters and use him willingly or unwillingly to take over the management of the evil catering company that is the source of all our troubles.”
My reference to an “evil catering company” had this collection of billionaires laughing, but they certainly got my point. It is all way too late to worry about which crimes have been committed by whom. It was time to put an end to the violence.
I decided to tune out the discussions for a bit. I think they finally decided to summon Charles Mitchell to our meeting. Warren Ohio was only 60 miles away. By special train or by car it was less than two hours away. If he declined, then everyone would go treat him like the rogue general and after him with everything they could muster.
Deb got the honors of calling Charles on the phone. Deb just said, “He is delighted to be invited. He will be here as soon as he can. There was not any hint of nervousness when I asked him to come.” I was glad I could move the group to a more productive point of view.
This whole thing was quite a circus. I have to say that Deb and I had kept the rest of our group in the dark about this investigation. The whole sweep of the previous six weeks was breathtaking. I was proud of Rose for her willingness to change her identity, to starve herself, and plunge in headfirst to swim with the vilest portions of the X-minus manipulators.