American Fascist Read online

  The attorneys ended the meeting by saying they’d be in touch, and if anyone contacted him, he should refuse to speak without contacting them first. It was an exhausting and totally unnerving experience.

  Eli went home and recorded everything he told the lawyers. He hadn’t told them anything he thought might expose him, and he had been honest, but at the same time, he had to look at every interaction on the campaign in a new light.

  Had he done something that appeared benign at the time, but in retrospect may have been unethical, or in some way aided collusion with a foreign power? The possibility was frightening, especially given his involvement in the taping system, plus what he knew about the girl, and his clandestine contact with the former acting AG and the FBI agent Tate. Plus he had a pile of cash of unknown origin stored in a bus station locker.

  The whole situation felt like it was spiraling out of control, and he couldn’t tell anyone. Everyone in his life was becoming compartmentalized, out of necessity. There was David and the Paragon staff, who knew nothing of his exploits in the White House. There were his bosses in the White House, who may or may not know about what might have been done in the campaign, but definitely knew about the taping system, but didn’t know about the girl or any blackmail, as far as he knew. And then there was Special Agent Tate, who knew about the girl, but not the taping system. And then there were these attorneys, who seemingly knew nothing but asked about everything, and he hoped were there to protect him, but maybe were only there to protect the firm.

  Eli noticed Franks had been tweeting directly about Lonnegan’s Senate testimony. He called Lonnegan a “liar” and said he “better hope there aren’t ‘tapes’ of the conversations.” It was a direct attack on a witness against him, maybe even witness intimidation. Although the conversations between Franks and Lonnegan in the Oval Office had happened before Eli had set up the recording system, just the fact that the president was now publicly suggesting there “could” be tapes, and that Eli was the one who set up the system, only put him more on edge.

  ***

  Eli got an email from Martins asking him to come to his office in the West Wing at 5 p.m. He sat upright as his mind searched for a possible explanation. He had emailed Martins that he was seeing the lawyers representing Paragon, and Martins hadn’t replied; plus everyone was lawyering up; that was expected. And he doubted the chief strategist had somehow pulled the entire national security spying apparatus under his wing and intercepted his phone call to Davies, or his encrypted chats with Tate. It had to be about the taping system, especially after the president’s tweets.

  ***

  Shortly before 5 p.m. Eli walked across Executive Avenue, cleared West Wing security and went up to Mack Martin’s office. When he arrived, Ken Miller was standing in his office and Martins was behind his desk.

  “Have a seat, Eli,” Martins said, pointing towards a chair, and Eli sat as Ken shut the door and continued to stand menacingly in the corner. Martins swigged from a paper coffee cup, his face even more ruddy than usual, his eyes bloodshot. His office was a wreck, with stacks of papers everywhere, and a massive white board covered in colored marker bullet-points, listing out Franks’ campaign promises with check marks as they were implemented.

  “Listen Eli, it’s fucking chaos around here, and I don’t have time to play games, so let’s cut to the chase. Do you have a cell phone?” Martins asked.

  “Of course,” Eli said as he looked at it in his hands.

  “Do you have a phone at your desk across the street?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have fucking computers, and internet access here and on your phone, and in your apartment, and even on your goddamn wrist watch?” Martins asked louder.

  “Yes,” Eli said, looking down at his smart watch.

  “Then why the fuck would you need to call someone from a fucking payphone in a fucking bus station?” Martins screamed, his head nearly exploding. Eli froze for a moment, his mind rushing to find an answer.

  “My battery died, and I needed to call my dad. I was checking on a test result,” Eli answered.

  “Bullshit,” said Ken Miller, low and calm, an experienced interrogator. “You went out of your way to go to that phone. You had no other reason for being there,” Ken added.

  “You’re following me?” Eli asked, shocked.

  “Who did you call?” Ken asked, ignoring his question. Eli sucked in for air. He was stuck.

  “I told you, my dad,” he answered.

  “He’s lying,” Ken said to Martins.

  “I’m not lying, and why the hell are you following me? What is this?” Eli said with forced indignation.

  “Tell me who the fuck you called, or resign right now, and don’t think you’ll have any fucking protection in any of this,” Martins said.

  He couldn’t tell them it was Davies or it was all over, and they weren’t buying his cover story, and he didn’t want to resign. Jeremey was the only other safe person besides his father that he had communicated with recently. Jeremy.

  “I was trying to get some weed,” he said, and he looked down at his lap, ashamed. Ken’s face changed, and he stared at him harder.

  “What?” he asked out loud as he and Martins shared a glance.

  “I’ve been under pressure, can’t sleep, totally stressed about everything, the tapes, the FBI, Dearborn and Lonnegan. I’m drinking, but I still can’t sleep. I didn’t know what to do. It helped me in the past. I called my roommate in California, to see if he could send me some, or hook me up with someone in town. You could say he’s an expert. I was afraid to call from the office or my phone. I was afraid to get caught.” Eli had spurted it all out like confessional diarrhea of the mouth. There was a long silence as Ken Miller and Mack Martins studied him.

  “You know pot is legal in D.C., right?” Martins asked.

  “That’s why I’m not afraid of using it, but I work for you, in the White House. I can’t risk walking into a pot shop — can you imagine if a reporter or someone who knew me saw that? I don’t think Shelby Butler would approve.” Ken shrugged. Eli had a point.

  “Shelby’s a prude, everyone knows that. Why didn’t you ask someone you work with?” Ken wondered.

  “I was embarrassed. It seemed safer to get it from California, but my roommate didn’t think it was a good idea.” Another long silence.

  “Can you get me some?” Eli asked, and he stared straight into Ken like a kid asking for ice cream.

  “No,” Ken said. Eli just nodded like he understood.

  “I can’t believe we’re having this fucking conversation, get the fuck out of here, and don’t ever come in fucking stoned, understand?” Martins said.

  “Absolutely not, thank you, I’ll go now,” Eli said and he stood, and nodded to Ken, and slid by him and walked out.

  “Fucking millennials,” Martins said under his breath.

  Eli was walking down the hall, feeling he had just escaped from the principle’s office, when Ken called out from Martins’ doorway.

  “Hey Green,” Ken yelled. Eli spun around toward him. “That’s my new name for you. ‘Green.’ The president wants you to join him and a group for dinner tonight, 7:30 in the State Dining Room. Formal attire. He has important guests coming so play it cool, understand? Cool and sober.”

  12

  A Formal Affair

  Eli went home, re-showered, and put on his best suit and tie. He had no idea where this was going. He was one-part terrified, one-part excited. He told himself over and over that his role tonight would be “loyal staffer” and “charming guest” — a team player through and through, in the off-chance that he might get closer to the Franks inner circle. One step closer to the flame.

  He passed through security, and found himself grouped with several other guests, two of whom he recognized: Barry McMichaels, a big, bald cigar-chomping right-wing radio personality and die-hard Franks supporter, and Sarah Abrams, a skinny blond harpy of a woma
n, known for her outlandish books and racist Twitter rants, sometimes supporting the president, but often bashing him for not going far enough to the right. Both were dressed like they were going to a ball, McMichaels in a tuxedo and Abrams in a skin-tight gown with a glittery clutch purse.

  Eli felt like a nobody in his off-the-rack suit. But he was there, and unlike them, he had an orange and black West Wing ID badge that let him fly right through security.

  They were escorted into the State Dining Room, a large and formal dining space usually reserved for diplomats and world leaders, where Franks had taken to hosting regular dinners, with a rotating cast of characters from right wing media, politics, and business.

  The State Dining Room could seat up to one hundred and forty guests, but for these dinners the table was retracted to sixteen. The eighteenth century crystal chandelier over the table, and massive oil portrait of Abraham Lincoln over the mantel completed the stately feel, and naturally everything from the carpet and drapes to the chairs and china were trimmed in Franks’ signature gold.

  The president hadn’t arrived yet. Eli was surprised to find guests mingling and enjoying champagne, even though the president was a teetotaler. Eli grabbed a glass off a tray from a server and scanned the room, searching for a place to stand or anyone he knew.

  And then he spotted Natalie and her boss Michelle Banks, both looking gorgeous, Natalie in a black cocktail dress, Banks in a full-length spaghetti strap gown. Eli walked over. Natalie was surprised.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Eli,” she said with a genuine smile. “Have you met Michelle?”

  Eli hadn’t, and they shook hands. The energy in the room shifted as President Franks entered in his best power suit, looking even more tan than usual, with his beautiful third wife Anastasia Franks, the former model from Belarus and now first lady, who was down from New York.

  “Good evening everyone, so glad you could be here!” Franks called out, and then he and Anastasia worked their way across the room, Franks shaking hands and patting shoulders, Anastasia shaking hands and giving hugs and Euro-kisses in each small group, until they reached Eli and Natalie and Banks.

  “Eli The Kid!” the president bellowed and he shook Eli’s hand, and introduced him to the first lady, and they shook hands as well.

  “Eli is my resident tech genius working voter fraud, isn’t that right?” the president asked.

  “Yes sir,” Eli answered, ignoring the fact that he had dropped that altogether.

  “It’s a pleasure, Eli,” cooed the first lady.

  “I call him ‘The Kid’ because he’s a kid genius. Like War Games, remember the movie War Games? Unbelievable stuff,” he said as he patted Eli on the back and smiled at the ladies. Eli had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Let’s sit and eat, shall we?” the president called out, and everyone moved toward the table.

  “Tonight’s the night, Kid,” Franks whispered in Eli’s ear and patted him on the back, and when Eli looked at him, Franks winked.

  The seating was assigned, each place setting with a name, and Eli was right next to Natalie at the far end of the table, opposite the president and first lady, who were surrounded by McMichaels and Sarah Abrams and several other wealthy-looking men with trophy wives, none of whom Eli recognized.

  What unfolded over the next two hours would later feel like a bizarre dream. Everyone properly seated and introduced to their neighbors, the food came immediately. Apparently, when the president came to eat, he came to eat. New York strip steaks, mashed potatoes with prodigious amounts of gravy, and a fresh green salad drowning in Roquefort dressing masquerading as a vegetable; and for the president, at least three Diet Cokes, continually poured into a fresh glass with ice.

  Franks enjoyed eating and talking, and took his time, like he was in a shooting gallery, alternating between his plate and firing at each guest with questions, working in a straight line, starting at his left with the first lady: “Isn’t this special, love?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Why yes, Harry, the best,” she said in her calm, smokey accent. She was the only one who called him Harry in public, and it was oddly endearing, the way it reduced him to a common husband.

  But then it was on to Sarah Abrams: “Sarah, do you think my travel ban will get shot down in the Ninth Circuit?” he asked. She rambled on about the dated concept of justice in a system stacked with liberal activist judges. It was a politically-correct non-answer.

  And then it was Chief of Staff Rick Reemus by her side, because Sarah always came solo, and a question about the busy day tomorrow, and all the important people coming by the office.

  And then it was Barry McMichaels, and comparing the cabin sizes of Barry’s new Gulfstream G650 with what Franks showed him on Air Force One, and they both agreed the Gulfstream was more intimate and could land just about anywhere, but Barry pointed out that “it’s damn nice to fly with an escape pod and missile launchers!” and the dining room echoed with laughter.

  And so Franks went, around the table, each person playing their part, a marionette on a string, competing to do their best to entertain and stroke the ego of the mad king at the head of the table.

  Repealing that awful health care bill of his predecessor, immigrants, taxes, building up the military, each person got a single issue or social question that came like it was from a talking point memo. In all the chatter, never once did Eli hear the words “Russia” or “special counsel” or “FBI” or anything related to the Simpson investigation of the Franks campaign. It was all anyone in D.C. was talking about, and yet here they were in a bubble of Franks’ creation, and everything was humming along just fine. He kept moving down the line until he finally he got to Eli.

  “Everyone know ‘The Kid?’ Eli Green, the young hunk down at the end of the table?” the president asked loudly; and Eli tilted his wine glass toward them, in no particular order, doing his best version of a sheepish genius.

  “Eli is solving voter fraud for us, aren’t you, Eli?” Franks said, staring right at him.

  “Sir, I forgot to mention, we’re already done, we solved it this morning!” he said like an eager young recruit, and the absurdity of it was like a perfect foil for Franks, and everyone laughed, except the president, for one strange moment.

  Eli was hoping his humor had paid off, and then it struck him, in the frozen time of the moment: Franks never laughed. Ever. He told jokes, but that was to make other people laugh. Had anyone ever seen or heard him actually laughing? The kind of laugh that any happy person in the moment laughs, when they give in to humor, and let themselves go? He couldn’t recall it ever happening. He thought the answer had to be never. The sudden revelation of what darkness must be inside a man who never laughed struck him hard.

  “I love that kid, he’s got it all covered,” Franks bellowed, forced a smile, and raised his Diet Coke to him in a “cheers.” But he never laughed. And then his fire moved down the line.

  Natalie was dumbstruck by the whole thing. People didn’t attempt sarcasm with President Franks, and if they did, it usually ended badly. But Franks took it in stride. Why did Eli think he could do that? Why was he even here? She was suddenly fascinated by the odd connection Eli and Franks appeared to have, unable to guess what it was based on.

  And as the dinner progressed, and the fire of Franks attention faded back to his end of the table, Natalie took the chance to make small talk with Eli, and he played along; but he was oddly remote. He was following his plan. His direct frontal charm assault had failed, and he had chosen to pull back, and see if she came to him. Now the tide was shifting, and she was interested. The worst thing he could do was become interested, too.

  Besides, he had other things on his mind, and he was no longer feeling like his old self. Maybe it was the champagne mixing with the surreal nature of his surroundings, the cabaret act he now found himself part of. But it crystallized in a moment at dinner when dessert came out, and the lig
hts lowered, a mood being set. And yet there was one light in the ceiling that seemed slightly brighter, and it shone directly on the president’s gleaming hair, as if he planned that his seat would be in a spotlight, and it gave him a strange halo effect, and suddenly all Eli could see was the color of that hair, and it looked exactly like the light in an otherwise-dark hotel room, shining off the back of Franks’ head, in the grain of an old videotape, the president in a stark-white robe, and a very young girl sitting nervously on the edge of a bed.

  The image lasted only a moment, but it was enough to shock him back to reality. He was boiling with rage inside, but forced himself to stay calm and continue playing along.

  Dinner finally ended, and people said their goodbyes, and the president and first lady disappeared, but people lingered, and Barry McMichaels said he had some Cubans, and a balcony door opened to a patio, and guests took coffee, and some went outside and smoked facing the Rose Garden.

  Natalie asked if he had seen the view from there; Eli said he hadn’t. He said goodnight, and excused himself. Natalie watched him leave, a bit disappointed, but mostly curious. Something changed in him, but she couldn’t pinpoint it.

  Later that night, Eli wrote down his notes, but the truth was, other than another close-up look at Franks in his preferred element, surrounded by sycophants, there was nothing new to document.

  ***

  Eli was at his desk bright and early when he got another call from Mack Martins.

  “The president enjoyed your company last night. He mentioned he was trying to set you up with Natalie Roth. How did that go?”

  “Good, it was really great of him to do that, I’ve been trying to get some time with her, so I’m hoping to take advantage of that,” Eli said.

  “The president said voter fraud came up and you said we solved it,” Martins added.

  “Yeah, it was a joke, obviously.”

  “Well, it’s not a joke. I want you back on it. And we don’t need you identifying the trends, the president knows there was massive fraud, and he wants it stopped. First step is to finish a database where we can pull in all the data. We’re signing a contract with Paragon as a government supplier, and we’ll use the predictive models you guys built and layer it on the database. Walter’s team is writing an internal memo and they’ll send it over.”