QUOTE:
We Need the Renegades...!: A Fictional Blog
Scene Thirteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to
contrary points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive
language, political correctness, sex, or anything else
that may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's not
for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described
here are imaginary: the settings, events and characters
are fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons (living or dead)
is entirely coincidental.
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President Adolph S. Steinhart had his holey socks dangling
over the edge of his oak desk at the other Oval Office at Camp
David. He always felt more at home in rural areas. As he
admired the lack of a suntan on his bald white ankles, he heard
a knock at the door. “Yeah, who is it?”
You could hear a bobby pin fall at the deafness that followed.
Adolph watched with intrigue as the brass doorknob twisted
counterclockwise, and said, “Don’t be shy, the doors open.”
Just then, his National Security Advisor Jennifer Berg, pushed
the door open, and says, “I don’t mean to bother you, but
something important has come up.”
After nearly two hours of solitary confinement, President
Steinhart replies, “What makes you think you were interrupting
anything? Do I look like President Harding?”
Astonished by the insult, Jennifer says, “I'll overlook that remark...”
With a smirk of a smile on his mug, he quips, “What does
that mean? That I’m incapable of being a man, and unable to
do manly things?”
Seeing his furrowed brow, she tiptoed to the black leather
couch. After taking a deep breath, her red lips quivered, and
she said, “Let’s let bygones be bygones, how does that sound?”
Leaning upon the surface of the blotter on the desk, Adolph
says, “Okay, enough sexual posturing for the day. It’s not
good for my well cultivated image, is it?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Adolph said, “When you leave,
tell the help to kick the air conditioning down a couple of notches.”
“Will do... But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Did I ever tell you that you had a real cute pug nose?”
Adolph said, trying to avoid the unavoidable.
Taking another deep breath, Jennifer says pointedly, “Don’t
make this task I’ve been sent to do, any harder than it’s
got to be. Okay...?”
“Okay. What’s on your pretty mind?”
Ignoring the comment, she plodded forward and says,
“It appears the task you assigned me is going to be more
difficult to deal with than I first thought.”
“And what task is that, my dear?”
With an exacerbated expression with feminist overtones,
his NSA advisor says, “I can't do what you’ve asked. I don’t
have enough power or resources to deal with our common
enemy, former Senator Lester Hampton. The Secret Service
has been assigned the task of protecting him around the clock.”
Bolting from his high-backed office chair, the president stood
upright like a flagpole, and said, “Christ Almighty! Isn’t there
some way to recall the detail?”
Shifting uneasily on the left corner of the couch, she responded
as coolly as she could manage under the circumstances, and said,
“There’s only one way to handle this, and its perfectly legal.”
Puzzled, Adolph waited with baited breath, nodding for
Jennifer to continue.
“After you signed the Military Commissions Act of 2006,
you have all the authority you need to apprehend and detain
any person who is giving material aid and comfort to the enemy.
Of course, since our friend is a former senator and a current
candidate for the presidency, it would be a little difficult
to confront him directly.”
“That’s true... What do you have in mind?”
“Remember those law enforcement renegades who were
rounded up and incarcerated?”
“Vividly,” he said, tapping his 2B pencil rhythmically on
the edge of the desk.
Almost shyly, “I’d suggest pardoning them. Especially
Commander Fredericks, but you’d better do it as clandestinely
as possible, I might add.”
“Are you suggesting, a little extraordinary rendition might
be appropriate under the circumstances?”
Looking down, and then raising her head to eye-level,
she almost whispered, “Precisely...”
Adolph rubbed his chin in an act of contemplation. As
the sun draped over his silhouette, and the shadows of
his rugged contour were being accentuated as he stood
in front of the window, he finally turned and said intuitively,
“Gotcha... Brilliant, that it is. Will the U.S. Marshal’s office
go along with this scheme?”
With a hint of a smile, she says, “It was their idea.”
“What...?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a couple of friends stragetically
located in the Witness Protection Program. It’s a
perfect cover, they said.”
Astonished, Adolph queried, “How so...?”
After admiring the head of a deer mounted above
the mantel of the fireplace, Jennifer says, “Well, in the
Witness Protection Program, they’ll be immune from
prosecution and beyond the laws reach. Wherever they
go, they’ll be given false I.D. Or if they’re captured
for some reason, they’ll use their right to make one
phone call to contact the U.S. Marshal’s office. Then
they’re free...!”
“There’s one little detail you've forgotten, or overlooked.”
“And what’s that...?” she asked.
“After I signed the Military Commissions Act,
nobody—including you—have any friggin’ rights to make
a phone call, receive the Miranda warning, and the former
right of habeas corpus has been abolished. And for that
manner, any other rights spelled out in that Goddamn piece
of paper--the Constitution--unless I say so. So, you’d
better find another way to keep track of my private army.
Why? Because that’s exactly what they are: my private army.
And I'm goin’ to take every opportunity to use them
and the secret detainee camps I'm having built in order to
silence my critics, is that understood?” Adolph said,
breaking the 2B pencil in two, tossing both halves
into the trash can.
“That means you concur with the plan?” Jennifer said,
with a whimsical expression—almost magically innocent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jennifer. Do
you understand what I’m telling you? I won’t authorize
any such thing: you will...! That's what you're getting the
big bucks for. Is that understood?”
Startled, yet remembering her first conversation with
the president about the best way to dispose of their
foe—former Senator Lester Hampton—she could only
concur by nodding affirmatively.
With an upbeat aspect and sly grin, he says, “Now that
that’s settled, care for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
'“Yes, lunch... Have you forgotten about lunch, or are
you so busy, it skipped your mind?”
“Oh no, Mr. President. Not at all... That sounds delightful,
and I’ll take care of things right after lunch.”
“Take care of what?”
“It’s nothing...”
With mischief in his eyes, he says, “That’s what I thought
you said. Remember, I’m sixty years old now. I’m entitled
to forget a thing or two, now and then.”
She wanted to respond by saying, "Yeah, like Ronald Reagon,
huh?" But she thought twice about it and decided to stand up
and change the subject while she was at it, and said, “Where
did you have in mind?”
“For lunch?” he asked dumbfounded.
“Yes, lunch...”
“See... I can’t remember what I’ve said only a few
seconds ago. Getting old, I guess.”
“Right,” Jennifer answered somewhat skeptical.
"Anyway, to answer your question: we'll just have a
quiet business lunch here in the my frontier Oval
Office--as I like to call it--if that's all right with you?"
"Yes, that would be nice."
Moments later, the president’s secretary allowed the
servants to bring them two aromatic dishes of lobster,
shrimp and other exotic seafood. They delved into
the pleasant array of cuisine, letting the future of
the president’s hit list remain on the backburner for
a couple of hours.
One needs to restore their energy, especially when
you’re fighting terrorists both at home and abroad.
And the president decides who’s a terrorist. Now isn’t
that peachy, Jennifer thought.
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QUOTE:
Comment: Installments seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen are now
posted of the serialization of F. Scott Sinclair's novel: Pancho Villa Avenged
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
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