Capitol Punishment

THIRTY Setup

Article II, Section 3, of the Constitution of the United States of America charges the President with the responsibility of, from time to time, reporting to the Congress on the state of the union. That seemingly simple obligation had developed over the years into a pivotal time for many presidents, an occasion when their legislative agendas and special programs for the coming year were to be presented to both houses of Congress. With the coming of television coverage of the State of the Union message, image was thrown into the mix of factors deemed important. Combining that with the general seriousness of a constitutionally required address, there was a choreographed quality to the event.

After the vast majority of legislators had entered and located their seats — committee chairpersons and members of great seniority always had the choicest seats near the front of the chamber — the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Joint Chiefs came forward up the center aisle and took their seats in the second row on the left, as one looked toward the podium. On the riser behind the podium the vice president stood on the left, acting in his capacity as president of the Senate, with Speaker of the House Jack Murphy on the right. An American flag hung vertically behind them. They had the best view up the center aisle — which is slightly off-center to the Republican side of the chamber — and were the first to see the House doorkeeper make his first trek a third of the way in.

“Mr. Speaker, the Chief Justice of the United States and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court!”

The bellowed announcement was followed by a procession of the nine men and women who formed the judicial branch of the United States government. They walked up the aisle to unrestrained applause and turned right to take their front-row seats on the GOP side of the chamber. The applause subsided after a moment and then the doorkeeper made his second of three appearances that night.

“Mr. Speaker, the President’s Cabinet!”

Again the clapping began, with some cheers this time, as the long line of Cabinet secretaries moved forward, accepting greetings and shaking hands as they did. At the front of the chamber the senior and most important Cabinet positions turned left, taking the front row on the Democratic side. The remainder of the Cabinet turned right into the row behind the justices of the Supreme Court. Smiles were the expression of choice.

But the revelry eased as the speaker tapped the gavel, drawing all attention to the center aisle for a final time. The House doorkeeper again came forward.

“Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States!”

The chamber erupted in applause and cheers as the president entered, followed by a beaming Senate Majority Leader Curtis Parsons. The president progressed slowly toward the front, taking some hands pressed toward him, ignoring others out of sheer necessity. He greeted the chief justice at the head of the aisle, then walked to the left past half of his cabinet, stopping at each. He ascended the raised platform next and stepped up to the podium, taking a quick glance at the Tele-Prompter to confirm that his speech was scrolled to the beginning. The raucous welcome continued as was customary, one of the few times the United States Congress outdid its counterpart across the Atlantic in London in the area of enthusiasm expressed. He looked up to his left, seeking out his wife, and smiled at her, thinking how strange it was to see her without their son. But this was not the place for him, nor the time. He was, hopefully, fast asleep by now.

The barrel-chested speaker pounded his gavel repeatedly, bringing the exuberant members of Congress to a very temporary simmer. Murphy smiled over the chamber that was his domain before speaking. “Members of Congress, I have the high privilege, and the distinct honor, of presenting to you the President of the United States.”

Once again the assembled legislators rose to their feet and demonstrated their respect with continuous, if somewhat superfluous, clapping. After a minute the gavel began to strike again, the sharp wood-on-wood crack slowly overcoming the enthusiasm. The applause began to fade, those on the right side of the aisle taking their seats first, then those of the president’s party. When it was quiet the president found his place on the teleprompter, glanced upward again, though this time to the row just behind his wife, then looked out to the men and women to whom he was here to report on the State of the Union. He wondered if they would want to hear what he had to say.

“Thank you. Thank you very much. Mr. Speaker, Mr. President, members of Congress, my fellow Americans…” He paused, thinking of the words he was about to speak, wanting to do that instead of simply reading them. “… I stand before you tonight as leader of the greatest nation on earth, a nation that has triumphed over tyranny abroad, and tyranny at home. A nation that has seen the good, the bad, the indifferent in the rest of the world, and has seen the same at home. A nation whose future is limitless, and whose past has challenged it to do better. I stand before you to say that there is much that is good about this nation, but good is not better, and we live today in the shadow of the darkest part of our past, the remnants of a tyranny that infects us all and makes any progress we achieve on other fronts as tenuous as the proverbial straw man. I speak of that which separates us, and makes us all victims.

“But I stand before you not only as your president to tell you this. I stand before you as the great-great-grandson of slave owners to say that the divisive hate which grew from the actions of my ancestors is here, my fellow Americans, and we have seen with tragic clarity in recent months that it is alive. I stand before you to say that before anything else can truly be accomplished with an eye toward perpetuity, that hate must be confronted, and rejected.”

The action outside had subsided considerably. No more legislators rushing up the steps of the Capitol’s east front. No reporters scurrying about looking for the last tidbit before the show. It was quiet where Frankie Aguirre stood. Disquietingly so.

“Let’s hope this is the dullest spot in town tonight.”

Frankie looked left with a start. David Rogers had come out from the Rotunda and now stood next to her. “So far, so good.”

Rogers glanced at his watch. “He’s a windy one. How much you want to bet the next hour seems like twelve?”

Frankie surveyed the mostly deserted landscape out to the Supreme Court building across First Street. No one wanting to do harm could even get that close. The outer perimeter this night began a quarter-mile farther out at Fourth Street, and ringed the Capitol for a similar distance in all directions. Secret Service. FBI. Park Police. D.C. Police. DEA. ATF. They were all out there somewhere, manning the barricades that blocked streets leading to the Capitol. Marines were atop several buildings in the vicinity with shoulder-fired Stinger antiaircraft missiles at the ready just in case a threat materialized from the air. Sewers sealed. The Senate subway closed. Every precaution had been taken. Frankie knew she was standing at the most heavily guarded spot in the country at the moment. No one was getting in.

“This is too clean,” Frankie said, puffs of white breath billowing with each word.

“Huh?”

She gestured to her front. “Wouldn’t you think that someone wanting to hit this place tonight would know there’d be security like this?”

“Sure, but that does not mean they could find a way through it.”

Frankie thought on Rogers’s statement for a moment. It didn’t settle her. “We missed something, David.”

“Or our chain is being royally yanked.”

“Maybe,” Frankie said, though the rising sensation in her stomach allowed no more surety in that response. “Or maybe not.”

Think, Frankie. Think through it again. From square one, and fast.

The president waited for the applause to subside before continuing once again. “But the hate I speak of has no boundary. No one person, or group, or ideology holds domain over it. But all people hold domain over the power to reject it, to look away when the opportunity to hate presents itself, or to stand up and confront it when hate challenges us.” He looked up again, seizing immediately on the strong eyes that bore down on him. “Some of us have been hate’s victim more than others. I want to introduce to you three very special people. Darren and Felicia, would you please stand. And Dr. Preston.”

The three guests of the president stood, receiving a dose of welcoming applause from the members below.

“Members of Congress, these three wonderful people have experienced the depths of despair, and the heights of renewal. They have seen the result of hate. Darren and Felicia Griggs have experienced it more personally than most of us ever will with the loss of their daughter to an act of hatred at Saint Anthony’s Church in Los Angeles along with three of her friends. And Dr. Anne Preston has worked with them to see that their lives are not also destroyed by this senseless act. The weak use hate as their ally, the strong reject it. But the sting is painful all the same. Darren, Felicia… our sympathy is for your loss, our admiration is for your strength.” The president was the first this time to lift his hands in applause.

The front door to the secretary of state’s house opened after a quick knock. One of the two Secret Service agents guarding the front entered and came straight to the study. Coventry lowered the volume and stood to meet him. “Yes?”

“Mr. Secretary, Fauquier County Emergency Communications just got a nine-eleven call saying that four black males are planning to kill you tonight.”

Art and Jones both stood upon hearing that, followed quickly by Bud.

“The caller apparently overheard these guys talking,” the Secret Service agent explained briefly.

Coventry looked back to Jones. “The militants?”

“It would fit,” Jones said. “I think.”

“But why would they let themselves be overheard?” Bud asked.

Blame the monkeys. Art recalled that statement from Chester Hart. “Is someone running down where the call came from?”

“State Police have a unit on the way to the call site.”

The gathering was quiet for a moment before Coventry spoke. “Is there anything…”

“It could be a crank, sir,” the agent theorized. “Or, who knows? But our team out back got the same word, and the State Police is sending two cruisers by just in case. Just relax, sir. We’ll take care of everything.”

The four men watched the agent exit to the front.

“Interesting,” Coventry said as he turned. He saw Jones staring at Art. “What?”

“Jefferson?”

Art didn’t hear the director’s one-word inquiry. His mind was racing through the possibilities that this new piece of a very interesting puzzle might present. Blame the monkeys… Have to get them to do it for you… But why the call? A setup? “A setup.”

“A setup what?” Bud asked.

Art looked left toward the rear of the house, then to the windows on his right. Whiteness swept across the curtains covering them. Headlights. Then a brighter flash, and a sound familiar from so long ago. Familiar and frightful. “GET DOWN!”

The front door blew in just as Art’s warning was heeded.