Mistress

Chapter 106

The Mellon Auditorium, part of the Federal Triangle on Constitution Avenue, is a magnificent neoclassical structure built in the 1930s that served as the site for FDR’s reinstatement of the draft, the signing of the NATO treaty in the 1940s, and the signing of the NAFTA treaty in the mid-’90s. This afternoon, it’s the location for an awards ceremony hosted by the Boy Scouts of America.

I cross Constitution on foot and rush up the stairs, brandishing-yes, brandishing-my press credentials to the dark-suited man at the gate. He waves me past and I walk through a metal detector unscathed. I jog through the lobby and head toward the auditorium as I hear a ruckus behind me, shouting from outside. Cops, I assume, having spotted me entering the building. The man who just let me pass-a member of the Secret Service-is probably just beginning to realize that the cops might be talking about me.

I slow my pace as I approach the two Secret Service agents manning the door, keeping those press credentials out for them to see.

“Hi, Ben Casper, Capital Beat,” I say. “I’m running late.”

The agent looks over the list to find my name. He won’t find it.

I turn back to look at the commotion as the cops reach the door.

“Oh, my God-does that guy have a gun?” I say to the agents, motioning back behind me to the front door.

The Secret Service agent blocking the auditorium door reaches into his jacket and takes a single step forward. I quickly push him aside and burst through the door into the huge, gilded auditorium.

“Alabama! Alabama!” the agent behind me cries out, which must be the current code word for “emergency.”

Inside, it’s all blue and red-the American flag, the Boy Scouts’ crest, the series of tables set up for a crowd of thousands, and the president and other dignitaries on the stage at the far end. The president’s authoritative voice echoes throughout the chamber.

I’m in full sprint mode. Secret Service agents from every corner of the room descend upon me. The president stops his address as agents to each side of him grab him and pull him down. I run down the center aisle as far as I think I can get and start shouting.

“Mr. President!” I yell out. “The Russian government is blackmailing you into letting them invade Georgia! The Russians are blackmailing you and the American people deserve to know!” The first agent to reach me tries to bulldoze me, but I juke him and miss the brunt of his tackle. I fall to the floor but keep my head up and shout, “I’m Ben Casper of Capital Beat! I have proof the Russians are blackmailing the president! I have proof and the government knows it!”

And then they pile on, one black-suited G-man after another, and I’m at the bottom of a rugby scrum. The entire room is in chaos, people jumping from their seats, somebody from the government taking the mike and appealing for calm. I can’t even see the stage in the front of the auditorium now, though I assume the president is no longer there. He’s probably not in the room at all.

“I have proof!” I shout. “I have proof and the president knows it!”

And then, before you can say My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over, the agents lift me off the ground and carry me horizontally out of the room. I keep shouting out the same phrases, “I’m Ben Casper” and “I have proof,” not so much for the scoutmasters in the room but for the reporters, most of whom know me and presumably have some level of respect for me-at least enough to allow me to dominate the headlines on this event. At least enough to make them ask questions. At least enough to make it difficult for the US government to sweep this all under the rug.

And that, in the end, is the best I can do. I don’t have the video, but I can accuse the administration publicly and hope it’s enough to stop what’s going on. It’s too late to stop what’s going to happen to me.

My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over.