Christopher Truscott

Coming Soon

2011-06-09T02:25:00.002-05:00

Picking a Fight (WiP): Chapters 1-2

2011-05-03T18:57:00.001-05:00

Picking a Fight will be published late summer/early fall. It's the third book in a series that started with Stumbling Forward and continued with A Referendum on Conscience.

We're still in draft form, but I'm ready to leak a little out. Will continue to do so over the course of the next few months.

(Updated on June 3, 2011.)

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Chapter 1

Friday, Nov. 17

Clarissa Jennings hated airports. She hated the noise, the smell, the commotion, the goodbyes and the travelling—unless she was with her family and they were heading off to a vacation destination of her choosing.

Today, however, she hated Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for another reason. It was the first stop in what promised to be an absolutely terrible day. Walking through the Lindbergh Terminal’s baggage claim area, looking for passengers inbound from Duluth, she was ready to go home, crawl into bed and skip Friday, Nov. 17 altogether.

As she passed through a group of high school students, returning from a trip to France, she thought she heard her name called. She paused for a moment, looked around and then continued for another couple seconds.

“Senator Jennings!”

She stopped again, saw nothing and continued, slowly looking around until she heard her name called one more time.

“Clarissa!”

Finally she spotted 92-year-old Andro Bebic sitting on an unused baggage carousel, holding his cane in one hand and a travel bag in the other.

“There you are, sir,” she said with a smile. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Only 10 minutes, but I never lost faith in you,” he said as he slowly made it to his feet. It was 11:06 a.m. and his flight had arrived early. “And don’t call me sir. Even if I have been chairing the Commerce Committee since before you were born, I’m not old.”

“Young at heart, I understand, senator.”

“The name’s Andro.”

“Yes, sir.”

Their alliance and friendship was unlikely. Bebic, a member of the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party, was a 64-year veteran of the Minnesota Senate. He had represented the Duluth area in the Legislature since before Clarissa’s parents were even born. He loved the Senate, its traditions and its process. Yes, he was fiercely liberal, but he was committed to getting things done the old-fashioned way—through personal relationships, calling in favors and deft legislative maneuvering.

Bebic regularly made the 150-mile drive south to St. Paul from Duluth up until a couple years ago. Now, with his night vision failing, he relied on the 50-minute Central Airlines flight to get from the biggest city in northeast Minnesota to the Twin Cities metro area. A widower for the past 20 years, he spent about half his time at home near Lake Superior and the other half in a tiny apartment near the state Capitol he had rented since his second decade serving in the Legislature.

Clarissa was nearing the end of her first year representing a downtown Minneapolis district in the Senate. The 33-year-old was just as liberal as Bebic, but didn’t share his patience for the legislative process. She wanted to get everything done 15 minutes ago and was willing to use any political tool available to advance her sweeping agenda. Most Capitol observers had her pegged as someone to watch—a woman whose ambitions went well beyond co-sponsoring resolutions congratulating a local high school for winning the state’s football championship.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bebic said as they walked back toward the parking garage. “I’m willing to help you in any way I can because I believe you’re right, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it.”

“If we can only make those people sweat a little, that’s fine with me. Someone should and if Washington won’t, we will.”

“Sure,” he said. “We can do that, but I am glad you’re willing to do this meeting.”

“Why do we have to? Remind me of that again.”

“Because the man could be the next governor, Clarissa, so you do this as a courtesy before you go making trouble.”

“The man’s an asshole,” she said as she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length, reddish-blonde hair. At 5-foot-2, she was still at least nine inches shorter than Bebic, despite the toll age had taken on his posture.

“I know he is.”

“And I’m not making trouble. I’m legislating, just like you told me to do when I got elected.”

“If I recall, I told you to keep your head down during the first year and not to make any trouble for anyone.”

“I did exactly that—”

“You ran radio ads shaming Republican senators for supporting the governor’s budget.”

“You told me to limit my speaking on the floor, Andro. If you had said, ‘Clarissa, don’t run radio ads against colleagues who screw over the poor,’ I would’ve reflected carefully on that advice, of course. But you didn’t say that.”

“You still would’ve run the ads, though.”

“Of course I would’ve. I was right to do it.”

The old man laughed. Despite her periodic contempt for the Senate he loved, Bebic adored Clarissa. He saw her as one of the few politicians under the age of 60 who was worth a damn. She was smart and brave—two qualities that had become increasingly rare in modern politics.

“Hold on for a second,” he said as he stopped at a newsstand near the elevator leading up to the garage. “There’s something I need to get.”

“Please, God, no,” she whispered while doing her best to smile.

“Here it is!” He held up the latest edition of the Twin Cities Monthly magazine. The feature story was on Minnesota’s rising stars under the age of 40. Clarissa was right there on the cover, standing alongside a physicist from the University of Minnesota, a vice president at MinnAg and a world-renowned painter who worked out of a studio in Minneapolis.

“Please, God, no,” she repeated to herself as Bebic paid for the magazine, pointed Clarissa out to the clerk and smiled.

*****

Alex Hogan had every reason to be confident as he spoke at a noontime fundraiser at Ingrid Martin’s stately mansion on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. The 48-year-old third-term member of the U.S. House of Representatives was unopposed for the DFL’s nomination for governor in next year’s election and he had the good fortune to be running against Republican Lt. Gov. Scott Benson.

“He’s been in this race for six months and he hasn’t done one thing to prove he’s not simply running for Phil Taylor’s third term. No thank you to that! I think unemployment’s high enough. I think property taxes are high enough. And I think our state’s been gutted enough. We don’t need four more years of the Taylor brand of mismanagement.”

The audience of about 75 wealthy retirees laughed and then applauded. Hogan was a dud and had been neglecting his job in Washington since entering this race in June, but he was also the DFL’s best chance at electing a governor for the first time in more than two decades. People were willing to overlook a lot as the overweight and balding candidate continued.

“I think the question Minnesotans have to ask themselves before voting next November is who has the best professional and political resume needed to be the leader of this state and move our state in a bold, new, inspirational direction. That’s what I’m offering. That’s why I’m in this race. I am that candidate.”

His marginal public speaking skills didn’t matter. Hogan was in this position because he served on the U.S. House Financial Services Committee and had no qualms about taking big checks from the industry he was supposed to regulate. His fundraising team helped him scare off several well-liked party rivals and had Democrats feeling optimistic about their chances of finally winning the state’s highest office.

“We’re going to win next November. We’re going to win. We’re going to stand up and do what’s right. And we’re going to put Minnesota back to work for all of us. That’s why I’m running and that’s why I need your support.”

*****

Andy Walsh, Alex Hogan’s top political aide, did his best to smile as Clarissa and Bebic finished their presentation in his office at Hogan campaign headquarters on University Avenue in St. Paul. This is the dumbest idea in the world, he thought, and he knew it was all Clarissa’s work.

“So you want to investigate North Star Global Security Services. Are you serious?”

“We are,” Bebic said. “We don’t have a lot of power over them, but they do take advantage of a bunch of tax breaks under my committee’s purview and—at the very least—we can make them come in and answer some questions.”

North Star Global Security Services was one of the most controversial companies in America. Based in Jefferson County, 45 minutes west of Minneapolis, the company did security work on contract for the U.S. military. It had made billions of dollars guarding diplomats and bases in the war zones of Azizistan and Iran.

“We’ve spent four years trying to prove Democrats aren’t weak on security and you guys want to do this?” Walsh was trying to keep his cool as he glanced at his watch. It was 4 p.m. and he had a 5 p.m. dinner meeting in Minneapolis. “Why don’t you just hold a press conference—”

“Because these people are war profiteers, Andy,” Clarissa snapped. “Almost 2,500 dead Americans in Azizistan and another 3,300 dead in Iran. These guys are making money off stupid policy and they’re making things worse because—”

A year earlier, North Star guards opened fire on a van in Aziz City that came too close to an American convoy. Eight people, including two children, were killed. Six months later, two North Star employees were accused in the rape and murder of an Iranian girl near a U.S. base on the outskirts of Tehran. Both incidents generated widespread public outrage abroad and increased the hostility toward American forces in Iran and Azizistan. The locals made no distinction between private contractors and actual military personnel. Americans were Americans, period.

“I understand it’s bad,” Walsh said. “I do. It’s just, you know, this isn’t—”

“If it’s so bad, why hasn’t your boss called for an investigation?” Clarissa hated Hogan, despite having managed his first campaign to an upset victory five years earlier. “I realize that would mean going to Washington and doing what the voters of the 7th Congressional District elected him to do—”

“Andy, we’re not looking to make national policy,” Andro said, calmly interrupting Clarissa. He had flown in from Duluth to be the cooler head in this meeting. “But we do have a forum we can use to ask tough questions that aren’t getting asked in Washington. I think when we’re talking about billions of dollars and actions that are making the situation more difficult for our troops—that’s something we shouldn’t back away from doing.”

The Republican-controlled Congress had no interest in investigating a company owned by Paul Nelson, one of the party’s biggest donors. Democratic President Bill Harrison wasn’t interested in rocking the boat, either. He had been elected a year earlier with a 301-237 majority in the Electoral College, but he lost the nationwide popular vote by more than a million and his job approval ratings hovered around 45 percent in most recent opinion polls.

“I understand that,” Walsh said. “I really do, but we’re all here in this room as state politicians and political people. We have a chance to win the governor’s race next year and the last thing we need to do is hand the Republicans an issue. They’ve screwed everything up and this gives them something they can use to change the subject.”

“The problem is that people don’t see any difference between Democrats and Republicans,” Clarissa said. “This doesn’t hurt us. It shows we aren’t cowards. I’m not asking Hogan to get on board. I actually don’t even know why we’re here.”

Walsh, a heavy-set 41-year-old, leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his Diet Dr. Pepper.

“Senator Bebic, would you mind if I talked to Senator Jennings alone for a few minutes?”

Bebic looked at Clarissa and she nodded her head that it was OK. The older man slowly rose from his chair and walked out. When the door shut behind him, Walsh grabbed a stack of papers from the shelf behind his desk.

“Interesting that you’re now an expert in winning elections,” he said as he thumbed through documents. “How many Republicans did you have to meet while knocking on doors in Minneapolis last year?”

After wrestling the DFL Party’s endorsement away from an incumbent Democrat, Clarissa cruised to victory in the general election with 84 percent of the vote in her liberal Minneapolis district.

“Talked to enough,” she said. “It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing—”

In addition to managing Hogan’s first campaign, Clarissa had led U.S. Sen. Rebecca McElroy to re-election three years ago. The improbable victory came despite the incumbent’s staunch opposition to invading Azizistan after deadly terrorist attacks in Washington a year before the election and her vote against going to war with Iran just a month before the election.

“Whatever,” Walsh said as he flung a couple sheets of paper at her. “Look at these numbers. We can win this race if we don’t go wasting time on Lunatic Lane and focus instead on the economy and jobs.”

Clarissa glanced over the polling data. Sure, Hogan was well-positioned, but even her 9-month-old daughter could get elected governor after the way everything fell apart under the Taylor administration.

“Where is Hogan anyway?”

“Meetings like this are beneath the congressman,” Walsh said.

“Talking about issues? I can see how he doesn’t like doing that since he has an IQ of 50.”

Walsh took another sip of soda and pondered his response.

“I show this to you for a reason,” he said as he leaned over and snatched the papers back. “You may stick your tits out at the old man, spread your legs for Carter and do whatever it is you do for McElroy, but you’re still a zero—a fringe-left zero. I know what I’m doing. We’re going to win, so stop trying to fuck that up and maybe Alex Hogan will make you a deputy commissioner of something nobody cares about.”

Clarissa stood, gathered her purse and turned to leave. She was about halfway to the door when she stopped and looked back at Walsh with a smile.

“We went on a date six years ago. Remember that?”

“Barely. I go on lots of dates.”

“Whatever,” she said, knowing the repulsive man went on very few dates. “This issue—North Star—won’t be like that date. This time you’re getting screwed. Your boss is a coward, you are pathetic and there’s no way I’m letting you guys stop me on this.”

Walsh was speechless as Clarissa made her way out the door and met Bebic in the lobby.

“Andro, would you let a lady take you to dinner?”

“It would be a distinct honor and privilege, senator.”

The two left headquarters as Walsh screamed at his secretary—demanding that she get Hogan on the phone immediately.

Chapter 2

Monday, Nov. 27

“That’s right! It is a cat. Can you say Tornado?”

Amelia Eleanor Jennings stared at her father, Carter, and then pointed again at the orange tabby sitting under her high chair. At 9 months old, her vocabulary was limited to “cat,” “dada” and “issa,” which everyone assumed was short for Clarissa. The pediatrician said the baby’s verbal skills were progressing well, but her parents didn’t care. The little girl, named for an aviator and a first lady, was adorable, healthy and happy. That’s all that mattered to them.

“That’s Tornado,” Carter said as he took a warm croissant out of the oven and set it on a plate alongside four strawberries and a sliced banana. “Say hi to Tornado. He’s a nice cat.”

He poured coffee from a French press and picked up the plate.

“You take care of Tornado and I’ll be right back.”

He walked quickly into the living room, where Clarissa was set up on the couch with two laptops, three daily newspapers and her BlackBerry. It was 6:12 a.m. on Monday, Nov. 27, and she was scheduled to appear at an 11 a.m. press conference at the state Capitol. She and Andro Bebic were ready to announce their plans regarding North Star Global Security Services.

Carter paused for a moment and watched his wife of three years work. He loved life. One of the most successful political operatives in the country, and a leading architect of President Bill Harrison’s surprising victory last year over an incumbent war-time president, Carter was more than content to be a stay-at-home parent now. He had spent the first two years of his marriage to Clarissa bouncing around the country with the circus that is a modern presidential campaign—each day eagerly awaiting his retirement. Now he had tens of millions of dollars in the bank, a Porsche in the garage and a 4,500-square-foot vacation house on a lake near the U.S.-Canada border. All of that, however, paled in comparison to daily life in his 12th-floor condo in downtown Minneapolis.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Clarissa said after Carter set breakfast on the coffee table, as he did almost every morning. “But I’m glad you did.”

He leaned down and kissed her and then went back to the kitchen. He returned a few seconds later carrying the baby.

“Carter, it’s my birthday,” Holly Schaffer announced as she walked through the unlocked front door and into the living room. “I’m a year away from being more-or-less dead and I need breakfast.”

“You’re a year away from being 30,” Clarissa said without looking up from an article on the Azizistan war. “If anyone should be worried about being old—”

“If anyone should be worried about being old, it’s not me,” Carter said as he handed Amelia to Holly and walked toward the kitchen. “40 is the new 30.”

“That makes you 33 then. Congratulations, you’re only as old as Clarissa—”

“Totally unfair,” Clarissa said as she set down the newspaper and turned toward Holly, who had managed her campaign for the state Senate and still handled a number of political duties the senator’s government-paid legislative assistant wasn’t allowed to touch because of state laws designed to separate campaigning from governing.

“I’m sorry,” Holly said as she sat down, still holding Amelia in her arms. “I just had a weird night. Peter loves me.”

“And do you know Peter’s last name?”

“Something that begins with a vowel, I think, but that’s not important. We’ve been out twice. Sure, last night I made him see Jesus—”

“Sweetie, you realize you’re still holding my impressionable little girl and she’s going to learn more words at some point, right?”

“Sorry,” Holly said, turning her attention to the baby. “When you’re 21, Amelia, I’ll be a cougar and we’ll go out together—just me and you. Can you say cougar?”

Carter returned and traded Holly a breakfast tray for the baby.

“She can say cat and that’s enough,” he said, laughing as he carried his daughter back to the kitchen.

“It was a weird night,” Holly finally continued. “I snuck out, went home, couldn’t sleep and came here.”

“Having someone love you isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“You did train Carter well.”

“I didn’t train him to do anything—”

“No, you broke him and domesticated him. Think about how many women tried to do that and failed miserably. You hit the lottery.”

“I’d rather not,” Clarissa said, laughing a bit. She wouldn’t admit it, and didn’t think of it often, but she knew there was some truth to what Holly said. Carter had been a legendary womanizer before meeting Clarissa. It took him a while to get comfortable with the idea of having a girlfriend, but it was all over once she got him fully hooked. “We have to talk about College Democrats—”

“Right. We’ll be at Hamline University tonight.”

“Any idea what they might want me to talk about?”

Since her election a year ago, Clarissa had stayed busy travelling across Minnesota and speaking to Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party groups, primarily on college campuses and in areas of the state where there weren’t any Democrats holding elected office. It was Holly’s job to keep the calendar full and handle logistics.

“My guess is North Star will come up,” Holly said. “I assume you’re going to make some news today.”

“Yeah,” Clarissa said, distracted for a moment by the enormity of the challenge in front of her. “Do you think it’s a good idea? Going after these people?”

“It’s a big fight, but it’s the right thing to do.”

“Suicide mission?”

“What do you care about that? You named your daughter after Amelia Earhart.”

*****

“This is really baseless bullshit, Paul. Let’s file a lawsuit once the hearing is scheduled and it won’t happen. The state of Minnesota doesn’t have any right to get into this kind of thing.”

Paul Nelson leaned forward in his chair at Mike’s Steakhouse in Minneapolis as he listened to Larry Chesney, the chairman of the state Republican Party, complain about the hearings Clarissa and Bebic were planning on holding as soon as the Legislature reconvenes in the first week of January.

“I believe you’re right, Larry, but I refuse to back away from this fight.” Nelson, a Marine combat veteran born and raised in Minnesota, was very proud of North Star Global Security Services. He had founded the company 20 years earlier and now had eight offices across the United States and clients all over the world.

“Paul—”

“I run a good company and if they want to fight me on this—that’s a fight I’m willing to have.”

“This won’t be about your company,” Chesney said firmly. “They’re going to use this to re-litigate the wars. Bebic is old as hell, but he’s not stupid and Jennings is very ambitious. This isn’t about your company. She’s looking for TV cameras and headlines, period. You’re getting suckered into a fight that even you can’t win. If you show up, she’ll destroy you.”

Nelson liked keeping a low profile. Aside from the big checks he wrote to Republican candidates all over the country, he was a mystery to most people, even Chesney. The divorced, 56-year-old father of four devoted almost every minute of every day to his company. He didn’t like North Star coming under attack in the national media, as it had recently, or from liberal politicians in his own home state.

“I’ve been in tough fights,” Nelson said. “I think I can handle this prom queen and her grandfather.”

“I know you can, Paul. I know it, but this isn’t just about you. The story will blow over if we let it. If we don’t, it turns into a field day for Democrats and that’s the last thing we need. We have enough problems as it is.”

Nelson took a sip of water and another bite of his steak before responding.

“So what do you advise I do?”

“Easier said than done, but I think you need to sit this one out,” Chesney said. “We’ll get an injunction in January and tie this thing up in the courts until the legislative session ends in April. Makes it a minor and boring story, as opposed to you giving Jennings what she wants—”

“Which is me?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Larry, you know I don’t like walking away from crap like this.”

Chesney hated this. He admired Nelson greatly and absolutely loathed what Clarissa and Bebic were cooking up, but it was his job to manage the Republican Party’s image. He simply couldn’t let the party’s biggest donor get into a fight like this one.

“I know, Paul, but let’s stay focused on the end game. We have elections to win next fall and we can’t let this get in the way.”

“OK,” Nelson said as he pushed his plate away. “OK, you’re right on this—I hope.”

*****

At 7:30 p.m., Clarissa finished her short speech before a crowd of about 50 young Democrats in a meeting room of the student center at Hamline University. “Get involved,” she had said. “Stand up for the things you believe in and never let anybody tell you great things can’t be done. The future belongs to those who show up and I like our chances with you on our team.”

The kids were captivated by the first guest speaker of the semester who wasn’t as old as their parents, but youth was only part of her appeal. She remembered names, recited stories, told jokes well, involved the audience in her examples and never failed to radiate warmth and confidence.

“You guys have been in class all day, so the last thing you need is another lecture,” she said as she reached for a bottle of water. “So ask me anything.”

“Will you go out with me Friday?” a sophomore called out from the back of the room, drawing a big laugh, especially from the other guys who liked the tan skirt and black sweater, but weren’t brash enough to say anything about it.

“I’m married,” she said. “But ask Holly over there. She’s single and not even 30—yet.”

“What’s the hardest part of your job?”

“The hardest part? I think it’s that the Legislature moves slowly. There are 201 people, thousands of different ideas and only a few months a year to get things done. That’s frustrating. I’d like things to move a lot quicker—a whole lot quicker. I guess I haven’t really settled into accepting incremental progress on important issues as a victory and I hope I never do, to be quite honest. There’s so much that must be done. We’re falling behind and incremental progress isn’t good enough. That’s the hardest part.”

“What’s the most important issue to you?”

“Jobs. We have to put people to work. Getting good jobs to our state solves lots of problems. If we don’t do that, we really can’t do anything else other than tread water and that’s what we’re doing now. I think we need to be much more aggressive as a state in recruiting employers, helping kids pay for college so we have the talent employers need—and, quite frankly, our governor doesn’t believe in the power of dreaming big. Conservative means playing it safe, defending the status quo. That’s what he’s done for eight years and it’s what Scott Benson is promising to do if he’s elected governor next year. I really do believe we can do so much better than that.”

“Would you be Alex Hogan’s running mate if he asked?”

“I don’t think I have the temperament to be running mate,” she said, laughing. “I’ll certainly work hard for him if he’s elected, but I don’t think I can really do what it takes to be lieutenant governor—to say nothing; to go unseen. If I have something on my mind, I just say it and let everything else take care of itself. Usually that means making trouble for Holly, but that was an assumed risk when she started working for me.”

She spent another 15 minutes taking questions like these before finally getting the one she really wanted to answer.

“Tell us about the press conference you did today—this thing about the security company.”

Clarissa briefly summarized North Star Global Security Services’ background, the problems in Iran and Azizistan and the billions of dollars in no-bid contracts. Then she smiled and waited for a follow-up question. It came quickly.

“What can the state of Minnesota do about that?”

“Well, not much, to be fully honest with you. There’s not much we can do, but I think we can drag people before the Commerce Committee and make them answer the tough questions that nobody in Washington wants to ask at all.”

“I read your husband got the president elected. Why doesn’t he just call the president?”

Clarissa glanced at the kid with the video camera before speaking. She hoped he’d get her answer and then post it on the Internet.

“The president is a big part of the problem,” she said. “He ran a really brave campaign, like he was this tough guy from Texas, but then he got elected and immediately wimped out. I voted for the cowboy, but instead we got this cowardly, Judas-like figure and I don’t like that at all.”

A few students at the Methodist university had to look up the Judas reference on their handhelds. After a couple seconds, though, Clarissa could see everyone got the message clearly.

“I think when you see these terrible things happening—these people getting killed and populations in Iran and Azizistan turning against our troops—it’s a sin to sit on your hands and do nothing. I may not have a lot of power here, but I’m going to use what I have to try and make things right. The odds are against me on this, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t try.”

The question-and-answer session continued for another 20 minutes and then Clarissa spent half an hour talking with students one-on-one before she and Holly walked out into the cold November night.

“Judas Iscariot?” Holly whispered as they passed by a couple of kids heading to the library. “A bit much, don’t you think?”

“True, don’t you think?”

“Actually, yes, it’s very true.”

“I just hope that kid with the camera gets the video loaded onto the Internet soon. Once it’s up, use your anonymous e-mail to send it to Red State Minnesota and they’ll take care of the rest.”

It took a few days, but on Friday afternoon the well-read Republican blog had the video posted under the headline: “EXTREME LEFT-WING SENATOR COMPARES PRESIDENT’S WAR POLICIES TO JESUS’ MURDER.”

Amazon.com Review: These Hellish Happenings

2011-04-24T15:30:00.001-05:00

These Hellish Happenings
By Jennifer Rainey
5 Stars

“Satan in Hell,” This Book is Great

I haven’t read a book featuring a vampire since Dracula in 10th grade. In fact, I only bought this one because the author’s biography page is funny—it really is.

I started reading this with no expectations, but found myself highly impressed very early on. In addition to putting together a fun story, author Jennifer Rainey tells a very smart story about the nature of a Hell that reflects some of the most banal, mean-spirited and bizarre aspects of life on earth in the 21st century.

I especially enjoyed the cast of characters—from Jack the vampire to Satan himself (“S.”). Rainey’s novel moves quickly, engages the reader and leaves me eagerly anticipating more.

These Hellish Happenings is classified as “fantasy,” but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in a good story—particularly one with plenty of humor and themes that’ll make you think.

Very well done from start to finish.

What I Read on Kindle

2011-04-23T15:44:00.001-05:00

Glad to Share: Kindle now allows us to lend things out for two weeks. If it's on this list and you'd like to borrow it, please e-mail me at chris.truscott(AT)gmail.com.

These Hellish Happenings (current)
Fast Forward into the Future
Takedown
Trojan Horse
Sleight Malice
Brittle Shadows
Jefferson's Road
Bloodstains on the Wall
The Object
To Faithfully Execute (pre-publication copy obtained from author friend)
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery
The Take (free copy obtained for an honest review)
Identity Crisis
Least Wanted
Impeding Justice
The Patriot Paradox
Tea Bagging America: A Memoir
Decisions
Four Years from Home
The Cemetery Vote
False Refuge
Fifth Avenue
Uncivil Liberties
State of Rebellion
Time and Again
Jobless Recovery
Besserwisser
The Losing Role
Incredible Dreams
Seven Days from Sunday
No Good Deed
Secondary Targets
Kill the Story
Crush
The 7th Victim
Boob Tube
When the Devil Whistles
Rag and Bone
Evil for Evil
Blood Alone
The First Wave
Billy Boyle
Last Exit in New Jersey
The Way Forward

Amazon.com Review: To Faithfully Execute

2011-04-23T15:28:00.002-05:00

To Faithfully Execute
By Gordon Ryan
5 Stars

Wonderfully Executed (no pun intended—well, actually, maybe a little)

I was lucky enough to have a chance to serve as a Beta reader for “To Faithfully Execute,” the third book in Gordon Ryan’s ongoing Pug Connor series. I expected it to be good, based on the successes of “State of Rebellion” and “Uncivil Liberties.” I must admit, however, to being a little surprised that “State of Rebellion” is my favorite story to date. The series keeps getting stronger, which is an impressive—and rarely achieved—feat in literature, film and television.

Without giving too much of the plot away, I will share a few things I really liked (or found interesting):

1.) The role of assassination (political and otherwise) is explored in this novel. While it certainly makes for some great action scenes, it also provokes thought about current U.S. policy with regard to assassination.

2.) Carlos Castro, Pug’s right-hand man, continues to grow as a character and has emerged as my favorite. I believe I mentioned in a previous review that it’s tough to keep characters interesting over a long period of time. Ryan has no such problems, however, and in this book did a wonderful job painting a vivid back story for Retired Marine Sgt. Major Carlos Castro.

3.) I also liked the continued development of the Western States of America secession storyline. It gets especially interesting in this book as the Western States are confronted with costly tragedies that require a strong central government to spend money it doesn’t have—two things that helped fuel secession-mania in the first place.

As usual, Ryan’s work makes the reader think about current affairs in the U.S. and abroad. I can’t say enough to recommend this book and the series—and I eagerly await the next installment!

Amazon.com Review: Sleight Malice

2011-04-08T16:42:00.002-05:00

Sleight Malice
By Vicki Tyley
Five Stars

Amazing--Again!

I stumbled across Vicki Tyley by accident when "Brittle Shadows" showed up on my Amazon page as something the computer gods thought I might like. They were right. I enjoyed it so much that I immediately bought "Sleight Malice," which I loved even more.

Tyley builds a quick-moving story with characters so real it's as though you know them personally. As was the case in "Brittle Shadows," the ending in this book is simply stunning.

Can't say enough good things about this author and these books. Highly recommended for anyone who enjoys suspense, police fiction or a good book in general!

Amazon.com Review: Takedown

2011-04-01T14:03:00.000-05:00

Takedown
Five Stars

I started reading Takedown the other night, after climbing into bed, with the intention of plowing through a couple chapters and picking it up later. Next thing I knew, it was 3 a.m. That's the only thing that kept me from finishing this in one sitting.

Anna Murray spins a great story here, with a superb heroine and a great hero. The plot moves fast and is almost impossible to put down.

Set in 1996, at the beginning of the historic stock market boom, the novel also paints a grim picture of unchecked greed that would ultimately lead to an epic collapse in the following decade.

I can't say enough good things about this story. Strongly recommended to anyone who enjoys romance, crime, suspense, 1990s culture...a great, great read on all counts!

Amazon.com Review: Jefferson's Road

2011-03-31T23:04:00.000-05:00

Jefferson's Road
Four Stars

Frightful

Reading this book reminded me of Nancy Pelosi’s comments in 2009:

“Well, I think we all have to take responsibility for our actions and our words. We are a free country, and this balance between freedom and safety is one that we have to carefully balance.

“I have concerns about some of the language that is being used because I saw this, myself, in the late ’70s in San Francisco. This kind of rhetoric was very frightening, and it created a climate in which violence took place.

“So I wish that we would all, again, curb our enthusiasm in some of the statements that are made, so that understanding that some of the people — the ears that it is falling on are not as balanced as the person making the statement might assume.”

****

Author Michael Scott takes a disturbing topic—a plan to assassinate the president—and spins a great story about a brother’s love and the tragic consequences of over-heated political rhetoric.

The four main characters—especially the narrator—are especially well done. The story moves quickly, right up to a dramatic conclusion that has me eagerly awaiting the sequel, which is due out later this year.

A Referendum on Conscience

2011-03-27T22:55:00.003-05:00

Links to preview chapters below.

A Referendum on Conscience

A terrorist attack. A vote against a popular war. A re-election campaign.

Rebecca McElroy is looking forward to retiring as she nears the end of her second term in the U.S. Senate.

Clarissa Rogers, the senator's young speechwriter, is glad to be out of the campaign business and has no intention of ever going back.

Then terrorists launch a devastating attack on Washington that drives the country into a bloody war and changes everything for the pacifist senator from Minnesota.

Clarissa's sent home and is tasked with managing a campaign the experts predict is doomed to fail. They're running against fear and anger—and public opinion. All they have to go on is the senator's conscience.

Purchase Information

Amazon Kindle
Barnes & Noble Nook
Paperback
Smashwords (for .PDF document and Nook, Kindle, Sony e-reader files)

Sample Chapters (from early draft)

Done!

2011-03-27T22:49:00.000-05:00

Just published A Referendum on Conscience this evening. Should be available on Amazon Kindle in a few days and on the other e-readers in a few weeks. Also looking to have a paperback option in the next week or so.

For now, here's the Smashwords link, where you can download a .PDF or the appropriate file for your e-reader.

Taking a few days off and then I'm going to do another reading of my third novel -- Picking a Fight -- which is due out this fall. (Should enter pre-publication reading process in August.)

In the coming weeks, I'll be finishing up a non-fiction project I'm co-writing with a colleague. Then this summer I'm going to write the fifth and final book for this political fiction series.

Also hope to do some more reading again!

Nearly Done!

2011-03-01T16:31:00.000-06:00

Sorry it's been so long since I've updated this blog. I've been working on a non-fiction project that should be published in a couple months (more on that later) and I've been getting A Referendum on Conscience ready, as well.

Just entered into Word the 383 pages of pen edits I've made over the last week.

The next step is to read this thing again on the laptop. Then I'll load it into my Kindle one more time before doing a final pass-through on the laptop.

Took a long time to reach this point. I wrote the first draft in the last few months of 2009, finishing on New Year's Eve. Then I read it a few times and did a bunch of edits over the course of 2010 before beginning the final edit process in January. I'll be glad to have it published, perhaps as soon as the end of this month -- depending on how much time I have to do readings.

And, yes, that is my door in the second picture. It's metal. The dry-erase marker wipes off.

Oh! I'm also really excited about my cover for this second book.

A Referendum on Conscience: Chapters 11-12 (work in progress)

2011-02-13T00:01:00.001-06:00

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded for half price at Smashwords by entering code ZN98U.

Chapter 11

Monday, Dec. 9

Clarissa Rogers had planned on leaving Washington the next morning, but after the movers took her television and all of her furniture to storage at 11 a.m. she decided there was no sense in waiting around any longer. She quickly loaded her clothes, laptop and two cats into her Saturn and set out for Minnesota a few minutes before noon. By 9 p.m. on Monday, Dec. 9, she was cruising west on Interstate 80, about 20 miles from Ohio’s border with Indiana.

There was so much that needed doing and the McElroy campaign was months behind Todd Owen and Tara Gunderson Hansen. She spent most of the drive through Pennsylvania worrying about how to get a field operation in place to compete with Owen for the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party’s endorsement, which would be awarded at the state convention in May. From Cleveland to Toledo her focus was money. Owen was spectacularly wealthy and would spend anything to win. Hansen, the Republican candidate, had raised about $7.1 million as of Sept. 30 and would probably have at least $11 million by the Dec. 31 reporting deadline. McElroy, meanwhile, hadn’t done any fundraising since her last election and had just $402,686 in her campaign account.

There were other logistical hurdles to worry about, as well. They would need to rent an office somewhere on University Avenue in St. Paul, where most statewide campaigns set up headquarters. There was staff that needed hiring. An announcement tour needed to be planned. To top things off, everything had to be fully up and running by Monday, Jan. 6.

While Clarissa’s Saturn clipped along at 80 miles per hour, and her mind raced much faster, her BlackBerry rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but the call was from the 651 area code—St. Paul.

“Hello?”

“Clarissa?”

“Yes, this is Clarissa.”

“It’s Matt Gibson with the Todd Owen campaign. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. I’m just in my car. No big deal.” She didn’t mention that by this time tomorrow she’d be in Minnesota and plotting his demise.

“Clarissa, I’ve been talking to people all over St. Paul as we look to fill out our team and everyone speaks really well of you.”

“Don’t believe any of it. I’ve been paying people to spread those rumors—”

“Right,” he said, laughing. “Anyway, I was calling to see what your plans are for the election.”

She wasn’t sure what to say and was trying to decide whether to drive all the way to Chicago tonight. It was another three hours to the west, but she wasn’t tired after four big cups of coffee since crossing into Pennsylvania from Maryland.

“Wow, Matt, I’m not sure how to answer that—”

“Well, if you’re available, I’d like to bring you on in a communications director-slash-deputy campaign manager role.”

“That’s very nice, but I can’t do that.”

“Really? We don’t even need to negotiate salary. I’m authorized to offer you up to ten-grand a month, so let’s just make that the offer.”

Clarissa almost laughed. She was only paying herself $6,500 a month to run McElroy’s campaign.

“That is a lot of money, but I can’t take it,” she said. “It’s just, well, it’s not something I want to do.”

“It’s Hogan, isn’t it? He’s just been helping a little, but you won’t have to deal with him.”

“No, Matt, it’s not Hogan. It really isn’t.”

“Why not then? We have a lot of good will from the activists and now we need to pull things together so we can catch fire. Come on board and help us get there.”

“You seem nice, so I’ll be honest because I don’t want to waste your time. My problem isn’t with Hogan. He’s just one guy out of 435 in the House, no big deal. My issue is that I don’t think your guy is good enough to be one of 100 people in the Senate.”

Matt was sick of listening to people tell him how crappy Owen was, but he managed to keep his cool.

“Then help him do better,” he said. “You’ve been there. Help make him a senator.”

“Honestly, some of being a good senator is learned and you get better over time. But at the end of the day you’re either born with the quality or you’re not and your guy just doesn’t have it. I watched that speech in Duluth and thought Tara Gunderson Hansen seemed more senatorial than Todd Owen.”

She hadn’t intended to snap at him, now realizing she probably crossed all kinds of lines with someone she had never met in person.

“I’m sorry, Matt. It’s just been one of those days.”

“Don’t worry about it. Think it over and if you’re interested in a few days, give me a call.”

“Thanks so much,” she said, eager to get off the phone. “I’ll do that.”

After hanging up with Gibson she had a phone call of her own to make. It was time to start getting her team in place.

*****

TransPacific Air Flight #2 landed in Los Angeles without incident, but after 29 hours of travel time from the west coast of Australia to the United States, Carter Jennings fully understood what it meant to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He didn’t have time to lose it, though. He had to clear customs and catch a Central Airlines flight to Memphis, where he’d finally connect on to Minneapolis. In the future, he told himself, no more booking at the last minute. Plan ahead like a grown-up.

He rummaged through his backpack, looking for his passport, as he stood in line with Americans and Australians and tried to keep his iPhone tucked between his shoulder and ear. There were countless messages and e-mails that needed to be dealt with, but the first order of business was a phone call to Hank Wright, his private detective friend back in Minnesota. Hank had dug up the dirt that helped propel Alex Hogan to a primary election victory over another Democrat 18 months ago. Now he wanted to see what there was to use on Owen.

“Hank, it’s Carter Jennings.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

Hank was a decorated fighter pilot during the Persian Gulf War, but after leaving the military he became a committed pacifist and was a huge fan of Sen. McElroy.

“Yep,” Carter said, still looking for his passport. “How are you?”

“I’m doing great. Better now that you’re calling.”

“When did you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” Hank said. “I just figured that after November 18 you’d start cooking up something.”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to come home and pick a fight. Just landed in L.A. from Australia about 30 minutes ago. You know why I’m calling.”

“I imagine you want some research on Mr. Owen so you know how best to help him.” Hank managed to get that line out with a straight face.

“You’re half right,” Carter said, laughing. “What’s the paper trail on this guy look like?”

“For the general election, he’s clean. Successful businessman, upstanding citizen, mainstream. No problems at all.”

“For the endorsement convention and the primary? The shit that will piss off Democrats—”

“Offices & More is a terrible place to work, especially if you want to unionize.”

“Touchdown.” Carter was thrilled. Labor unions are the backbone of Minnesota’s Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party and they were just tentatively onboard with the only DFL candidate in the field. That would change once Owen started catching heat in public over his record. The real stuff sounded bad enough, but that wouldn’t stop Carter from creating new details—just to make sure Owen’s campaign died and stayed dead.

“I’m working on a report for you,” Hank said. “I’ll send it your way first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t even know what morning is anymore,” Carter said as he yawned. It was 6 p.m. in California, 8 p.m. in Minneapolis and 9 a.m. tomorrow morning in Perth, Australia.

“Well, whenever you get your head straight in the next 12 hours, check your e-mail. It’s pretty good stuff.”

“Thanks.”

Carter hung up just as he found his passport in the bottom of his backpack, crushed under his laptop. He handed it over to the customs agent who shuffled through a few pages and stamped it without ever looking at the photo. So much for post-11/18 security measures.

*****

Holly Schaffer only agreed to go out with Wes Mattke to get her mother off her back. Her two older sisters, ages 28 and 31, were both married. Now mom viewed it as her personal mission to find a suitable husband for her final daughter. Mattke was perfect in Mrs. Schaffer’s eyes. He was a mildly handsome lawyer specializing in insurance defense, had no ex-wives or children to complicate things and was the son of friends from the country club in Minnetonka, a wealthy suburb southwest of Minneapolis.

After an hour at Mike’s Steakhouse in Minneapolis, Holly was quite ready to never see Mattke again.

“The guy was only making like 32-grand a year and now he thinks his life is worth a half-million. Go figure.”

The lawyer hadn’t stopped talking about his latest case, in which a school bus driver slipped and fell in a suburban department store and hit his head. He hadn’t been able to work for the past year and was now trying to save his home from foreclosure. His wife was doing her best to support their two children on her salary as a gas station attendant, but it didn’t go far and didn’t come with the medical benefits they desperately needed.

“Seriously,” Holly said. “Why don’t the poor just go away? They’re always so depressing—I need health care; I need a job; I need school.”

Mattke was three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk and missed the sarcasm as he continued.

“So we’re going to bleed this fuck and his ambulance-chasing lawyer dry. I just filed for another continuance this afternoon. They’ll end up settling, but not before I bill out a few more hours at $375 a pop.”

As Mattke blabbered on, Holly flagged down a waitress and ordered a $400 bottle of chardonnay. She preferred beer, but wanted to run up a big tab.

“Is it just me, or are we really connecting here?” Mattke said. “I’m getting the feeling this could really be something.”

Holly hadn’t noticed that Mattke was done talking about his job.

“Excuse me?”

“I think there’s a connection between us. Don’t you agree? This could really be something here.” He belched a little. The fifth martini was starting to hit him hard.

“Wow,” she said, stalling.

“You should come up to my cabin this weekend. I’ll probably have a couple conference calls to deal with, but it’s a nice place near Bemidji. It’s right by the Olsons’ place. Do you know the Olsons?”

“Who?”

“Arthur and Julie. I think your parents known them. They’re from Minnetonka, too. Art’s the CFO at Wakota Equipment. We play handball together a couple times a month.”

“Sure, good ol’ Art.” Holly had no idea what he was talking about and was glad to see the waitress return with the wine. Before she could reach for her glass, though, her cell phone rang. It was Clarissa, so she answered right away.

“Clarissa! How are you, girl?”

“Is it a good time to talk? I’m driving back there now. In Indiana now.”

“Sure. I’m on a date, but nothing’s going to come of it.”

“Are you still sitting at the table with him?” Clarissa was always amazed by how blunt Holly could be. For his part, Mattke didn’t seem to notice as he stared at a waitress’ ass.

“Hold on real quick.” Holly pretended to cover the mouthpiece as she prepared to infuriate her mother, who was certain to get a report on this disaster of a date within 24 hours. “Wes, it was great meeting you, but I have to take this call and I’ll get myself a cab. Good luck with your case. I hope the plaintiff dies, but not until you make some more money by increasing his suffering. I’m sure he deserves it.”

She got up, retrieved her coat and walked outside. Mattke had no idea what hit him.

“I take it you won’t be seeing him again,” Clarissa said. She wasn’t sure whether to be mortified or amused.

“My mom’s idea. Don’t ask. Why are you coming back here? It’s 10-below and windy. Makes D.C. seem like Fiji.”

“Senator McElroy is running again and I’m managing the campaign—”

“Really?” Holly was a big fan of the senator, one of the few politicians she still liked.

“Yes and I need you. We need to do an announcement and I’m thinking something at the state Capitol on the first Monday after the first of the year.”

“No, not there. Bloomington City Hall. That’s where her career started and it’s where we’ll launch her biggest campaign. And we’ll do a tour the same day, so we’ll have to figure out where we can get a plane and pilot cheap—”

“OK,” Clarissa could barely get a word in edgewise.

“I’m thinking Twin Cities, Rochester, Mankato, Moorhead, International Falls and Duluth.”

In a matter of seconds it was as though Holly had never left politics.

“This is going to be so fun,” she continued. “Who else do we have?”

Chapter 12

Tuesday, Dec. 10-Wednesday, Dec. 11

“You all are lucky. Next year you’ll be voting in one of the most important elections in American history and the choice is clear. One candidate will not hesitate to defend our country and the other candidate will go to almost any length to avoid stating a clear position on where he stands.”

Tara Gunderson Hansen was glad to be at the University of Minnesota’s Humphrey Institute on Tuesday, Dec. 10. In her last congressional campaign she turned down the invitation from her alma mater. Her Washington handlers said college kids were a bad audience for Republicans. She blamed herself for listening. This time around she was doing things 100-percent her way and the duck-and-cover strategy wasn’t in the Hansen playbook.

She wrapped up an abbreviated version of her stump speech and opened the floor to questions. Even though it was the middle of final exams week, nearly 90 students turned out to get a glimpse of the only Republican candidate in the field for next year’s election.

“Congresswoman, how do you come back from a loss? You were right last time, but voters said ‘no thanks.’ How can you put yourself out there again?” It was a sympathetic question from a preppy-looking freshman.

“Thank you for that question. I do think I was right last time, but I was the victim of circumstance and my own errors. My opponent, Congressman Hogan, ran commercials about me that were outright lies and I didn’t fight back hard enough and I listened to some bad advice. That won’t happen again. That’s what motivates me, but this isn’t about me at the end of the day. It’s about our country and that’s what keeps me going.”

In private, Hansen didn’t give Hogan any credit for his victory. She knew Carter Jennings made the commercials and believed there was a special place in hell for him. Despite the $2 million in negative ads thrown at her, she still came within 5 percentage points of winning. She was determined to never come up short again.

Another student raised her hand and Hansen quickly called on her even though she thought the girl looked like a hippie.

“Why is Senator McElroy wrong about Azizistan? I think she makes pretty good sense. We have to start doing things differently if we’re going to really defeat terrorism, right?”

About half the audience applauded, but Hansen never stopped smiling.

“Good question. I really like the senator because you know where she stands. We may disagree, but I can respect her courage. That said, I think she sees a world where evil people can be reasoned with and convinced to change their ways. That’s not the way things work. I hate war, but sometimes a great people must be moved to defend a great nation and this is one of those times.”

She could tell the student wasn’t buying it, but she continued anyway.

“I don’t think you can reason with people who believe you or I should be killed simply for being Americans. I’ll do almost anything to make peace, but I won’t surrender for it. That’s slavery, not peace.”

The night before, Hansen read her first polling report. She had a 2-to-1 name recognition advantage over Todd Owen and if the election were held now she’d get nearly 60 percent of the vote. Her favorability rating was 55 percent, an impressive number for a conservative Republican in a liberal state. Voters listed the war as the most important issue facing the country and most could correctly identify Hansen as a strong supporter of President Wayne Fisher’s popular policies.

She took a few more questions from students wanting her to discuss the war and then called on a young man in a wheelchair.

“In one sentence how would you sum up this race between you and Mr. Owen?”

“I believe America is a force for good and we shouldn’t hesitate to defend it. I don’t know what Mr. Owen believes.”

Hansen paused for a moment.

“I think that’s two sentences,” she said. “Throw a semicolon in there somewhere. That should do it.”

The students laughed and she thanked them for their time and left. She was thrilled as she walked to her car alone. In an hour, at the University of Minnesota of all places, the only thing people were talking about was the war. It was exactly what she wanted.

*****

Pre-Christmas dinner in Spotsylvania County had become a much-enjoyed tradition for the McElroys, Sam Jenkins and his wife, Ashley Rice. The senator hated the Washington party circuit and wasn’t a welcome face these days, anyway, making her even more grateful to have the company of her closest friends outside Minnesota.

Sam was still serving as a trusted and much-needed adviser on all things related to Azizistan during the morning train rides into D.C. He was a steady presence in a city that was coming apart from within. Each Christmas he always got Zach fishing tackle and then something related to the big issue of the day for the senator. This year he presented her with a copy of the Army field manual and inscribed it: “There will be a test on this. Trust me.”

Ashley, who at 37 was 20 years younger than her husband and 25 years younger than the McElroys, was always a breath of fresh air—a free spirit in an ultra-stuffy metro area. She taught kindergarten in nearby King George County, but was able to travel the world each summer with the money she had inherited from her father and grandfather. They had both invested profits from their North Carolina hog farm early and heavily in companies like Wal-Mart and Microsoft.

As they sat down to eat in the McElroy’s dining room, Rebecca tried to figure out how to say she was seeking another term. Giving a speech in Minnesota would be easy, but breaking the news to friends was always awkward. She didn’t want it to come off like she was trying to soak up all the attention. She hadn’t even told Alan Desmond, the Senate minority leader, but that was because she knew he was already strongly behind Owen’s self-funded campaign.

“Once again you’ve outdone yourself!” Zach was a great cook and Sam was always the most enthusiastic dinner guest. There was enough food—turkey, stuffing, blueberry muffins, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes and Yorkshire pudding—to feed a dozen.

“This is only the beginning,” Zach said. “We have some big news to report and wanted you all to be the first to know.”

“You’re getting a puppy!” Ashley had a habit of saying the first thing that came into her mind and for years had tried to sell the McElroys on the virtue of golden doodles—a cross between poodles and golden retrievers.

“Actually, I think I’d rather get the dog and leave it at that,” Rebecca said, laughing. “But, no, we’re doing something crazier.”

All eyes were on her. There was no avoiding it now. She was officially the center of attention.

“I have decided, and I may come to regret this, but I have decided to seek re-election.” She hoped Clarissa Rogers would write a far more eloquent announcement speech for the people of Minnesota.

Sam would’ve jumped for joy if it was in his nature. He thought the Senate needed at least one person with guts. Ashley sprung up from the table and rushed off to find her purse.

“Ultimately, we decided there was no way around it,” Rebecca said. “I’m going to make my opposition to this damn war the central issue and I’ll take anything they want to throw at me.”

“I can’t imagine what those people are going to do,” Sam said, “but I’m so glad you’re doing this. You know I’ll always help as I can.”

A few seconds later Ashley was back with her checkbook.

“I want to be the first contributor—”

“We have no shame,” Rebecca said, half serious. “The other Democrat in the race is worth about a quarter-of-a-billion dollars, so checks for our little effort can be written out to ‘McElroy for Senate.’”

*****

Despite the 1,000-mile drive, and just a few hours of sleep over the previous two nights, Clarissa was off and running early Wednesday morning, her first full day back in Minnesota. Her top priority was touching base with Ken Tolbert of the Minnesota Federation of Labor, the state’s biggest union and the only major Democrat-friendly organization that hadn’t already thrown at least tentative support to Todd Owen’s campaign.

“I don’t give a fuck about what your campaign staff says,” Tolbert grumbled into the phone as he noticed Clarissa standing in the lobby of the tiny MFL headquarters building in north Minneapolis. He waved her into his office and continued trying to help a freshman member of the state Legislature find his backbone. “Steve, you won by a lousy 206 votes in a Democratic district—in Mankato!—and we were there for you from the very first day. We carried you. Now it’s time for you to honor your end of the deal.”

Clarissa took a seat and watched Tolbert work. A quarter-century ago he was a star defensive lineman at the University of Minnesota and nearly made the NFL’s Houston Oilers. At 6-foot-4 and 250 pounds, he was still intimidating—even over the phone.

“Don’t give me that crap. You came into my office and made a pledge to my executive board. I was there. Don’t talk to me like I’m some idiot at a town hall meeting because I’m about to become your worst nightmare.”

Tolbert wheeled his leather chair around and grabbed two Diet Cokes from the tiny refrigerator in the corner. He turned back and slid one across his desk to Clarissa. She preferred coffee, but was glad for any form of caffeine and quickly opened the can.

“Fine, Steve. You cover your ass and I’m going to keep my options open. I really like that high school teacher on the City Council down there. She seems to have her priorities in order. Maybe I’ll call her.”

Tolbert slammed down the phone.

“Pussy! We have 126 Democrats in the Legislature and at least half are complete fucking neuters.”

Clarissa didn’t even cringe. She was one of maybe three people in Minnesota politics who didn’t fear the massive man. Meanwhile, Tolbert was one of her biggest fans. She was brilliant and tough as hell. That more than made up for the fact she got Alex Hogan, a traitor to the labor movement, elected to Congress.

“For the record,” Clarissa said, “I think 68 of your Democrats are women.”

“We’re having a tough run of it,” he said as leaned his chair back and stared at the ceiling. “Nobody wants to stand up to the governor with an election year coming up and don’t get me started on the Senate race—that fucking Senate race.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You want to run for the Legislature? Name your district. In fact, I think Mankato just opened up for you.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “Let’s talk about the Senate race. Excuse me, that fucking Senate race.”

He snapped to attention.

“She’s seeking a third term, isn’t she?” Tolbert loved McElroy. She never got squeamish and he appreciated that, even though he worried her position on Azizistan was way outside the mainstream.

“Yes and I’m here today as her campaign manager.”

“Close the door, Clarissa. Let’s talk business.”

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded for half price at Smashwords by entering code ZN98U.

Amazon.com Review: The Scavenger’s Daughter

2011-02-09T18:11:00.000-06:00

The Scavenger’s Daughter is a superb story about a journalist trying to rebuild his career and personal life while tracking San Diego’s newest serial killer—a man who uses medieval torture devices to do away with the rich and powerful.

Mike McIntyre has built a stunning plot, with perfect characters, and enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing. There’s nothing new about the serial killer/mystery genre, but McIntyre is an innovative writer who does a great job bringing this story to life (no pun intended).

Stumbling Forward: Chapters 37-39

2011-02-09T00:01:00.002-06:00

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded for half price at Smashwords by entering code ZN98U.

Chapter 37

Wednesday, April 11

“I think it’s time you all started asking him the tough questions, like where he got his money. If he can put out a press release saying he raised $1.1 million this quarter, there’s no reason he has to wait until next Monday to release the names of his big contributors.”

Clarissa Rogers enjoyed this part of her job. Sure, working with Alex Hogan on a daily basis was like a root canal procedure that never ended, but standing in front of reporters in the state Capitol Press Briefing Room was a rush that never got old. The idea for this press conference came to her the evening before, about 30 seconds after she saw that Patrick Trafton’s campaign had sent out a press release highlighting his breathtaking fundraising total.

It was Wednesday, April 11, just three days before the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party’s 7th Congressional District endorsement convention. The full fundraising reports didn’t have to be filed with the Federal Elections Commission until Monday and by then it would be too late. Everyone in Minnesota politics knew there was no way all of Trafton’s money came from liberals. Now it was time for him to own up to it.

“He’s trying to have it both ways,” Clarissa continued. “He wants to wow everyone with his fundraising prowess, but doesn’t want to disclose the fact that his campaign is rich because it has the support of people who have traditionally played both sides of the aisle. What kind of congressman will that make him? Someone who will stand up for public school students, consumers and the environment? Or someone who will stand up for the big-money folks on Lake Minnetonka?”

Carter Jennings looked on from the back of the room. He enjoyed watching her work and was especially pleased that she lost a contact lens that morning and was forced to wear her black-framed, librarian-style glasses. She thought they made her look old. He thought they made her look sexy.

“Clarissa,” asked Bruce Thomas from WCCO Radio. “This is all very interesting, but isn’t this just a way for the Hogan campaign to paper over the fact that it’s losing? Every delegate count I’ve seen shows Trafton could win this thing on the first ballot.”

“No. Democrats have a right to know who’s funding their candidates. It’s time for Patrick Trafton to show his hand, to lay down his cards—unless, of course, he has something to hide.”

Next Clarissa called on Abigail Swenson from Minnesota Public Radio.

“I talked with an official from the Trafton campaign just before this press conference started and they told me, and I quote, this is just another example of the Hogan campaign going negative. How do you all respond to that?”

“Abigail, isn’t it interesting that each time someone tries to point out Mayor Trafton’s record, he cries about negative politics? In this entire campaign, he has never once defended his record when pressed. Each time, it’s negative politics this, negative politics that. It’s his read-between-the-lines way of saying he has no intention of answering any tough questions about his judgment or his fitness for office.”

As she answered questions about the inside-baseball of political fundraising, Clarissa couldn’t help thinking about the photos of Trafton and Karen Abbott going at it on the coffee table in his living room. She wondered how the reporters who fawned all over him would react to that.

“Absolutely not,” she said in response to a question about whether Hogan was holding Trafton to a higher standard than he holds himself. “That’s why Brian Sorensen, with the video camera over there, will be passing out a complete list of everyone who’s given our campaign more than $200 as of March 30.”

She ended the question-and-answer session with remarks she hoped would goad Trafton into doing something stupid.

“The mayor’s talked a lot about his leadership ability over the last few months and that’s fine. That’s something candidates should do. Now it’s time for him to man up and prove it, unless he’s scared of the truth and terrified about how delegates might react when they get to see the real Patrick Trafton.”

*****

Back at the campaign headquarters Carter couldn’t contain himself as he read the Trafton campaign’s response on the Pioneer Press website.

“I can’t believe I let this girl seduce me,” he said to Brian Sorensen, not noticing that Clarissa had walked into the room.

“She seduced you?” She didn’t know who they were talking about, but loved the notion of Carter as the victim.

“Holly Schaffer,” Carter said. “She’s a lot more cunning than you’d think reading this crap. ‘The Hogan campaign is making unfair requests of the mayor, who’s far too busy to meet their demands because he’s campaigning.’”

“Yes,” Clarissa said. “She’s quite the deep thinker. But Trafton will be responding to us somehow.” She handed him her BlackBerry, which was open to a report on the Gopher State Observer blog. Trafton had a press conference at the Capitol starting in an hour.

“Brian,” Carter said. “We’re going to need some beers for this.”

*****

“Minnesotans have never backed away from a fight and that’s why I’m standing before you today. I love this state and I love my country too much to simply stand by and watch while Congresswoman Hansen and her allies on Capitol Hill try to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to build.”

Even Ron Gartner was impressed as he listened to Hogan rehearse the speech Clarissa wrote for him. For the first time in weeks the candidate seemed focused on the task at hand.

“We’re at a crossroads and it is a time for choosing. Do we go forward into the future stronger than ever or do we take comfort in the false promises offered by the other side—that we can somehow retreat and retract ourselves to greatness?”

Clarissa was happy as Hogan nailed every line—on education, the environment, infrastructure and veterans issues. She’d have some re-writes between now and Friday night, but was otherwise pleased with her writing and his delivery.

“What we say here today, Democrats, is important, but the people outside this convention hall will soon forget if our actions moving forward aren’t equal to the words we speak from this lectern.

“Our challenge today is to leave this convention prepared to do more than just beat Tara Gunderson Hansen. Yes, we have to win in November, don’t get me wrong, but more important than that, we must be equal to the task after Election Day. That’s what we’ll ultimately be judged on when our children and grandchildren look back on what we did here in the early years of the 21st century. Did we stand up? Or did we take the easy way out? I know how I want to answer that question.

“Every generation of Minnesotans and each generation of Americans has boldly and courageously met the challenges that defined this nation. Now it’s our turn. We are just as talented, just as smart and just as strong as our parents and our grandparents. There’s nothing we can’t do to build the next great era in American history. Now it’s our time to prove it.

“Thank you so much for being here today. Thank you so much for everything you’re doing for our party. And thank you so much for all your work to make our state America’s guiding star. Thank you very much. God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

As Hogan finished the 9-minute speech, Gartner was the first person standing.

“Bravo, Alex! Great job!”

Everyone else in the room was pumped up, as well. The candidate seemed ready for the convention. Clarissa was about to congratulate Hogan and talk about some changes she wanted to make, but Gartner wasn’t done talking.

“See, Clarissa! Those things I was telling you about—marketing and stuff—really work! The answer is Alex Hogan. Add that.” He was taking credit for a speech he didn’t even know Hogan had to give until this morning.

“Yep,” she said as she scribbled “asshole” on a notepad. “I don’t know what we’re going to do after you leave on Sunday.”

“You’ll get through. I’ve taught you well.”

*****

Clarissa and Carter hunched over the laptop in her office to watch the livestream of Trafton’s Capitol press conference on the KARE-11 television news website. They both knew nobody really cares about campaign contributors. By coming clean, Trafton could easily steal away a huge chunk of their momentum, but this was the only play they had and they ran it well. Now it was the mayor’s turn.

“Thank you for coming today,” the mayor said. “I’m here to respond to the baseless attacks leveled against my campaign earlier today and to say that these attacks are untrue and unfair.”

“Thank God,” Clarissa whispered as she lowered her head closer to the laptop’s speakers. Carter was recording this and hoped to have something to convert into an advertisement that could be e-mailed to Democrats across the district, including the 180 convention delegates.

“The people who give me money love America and love Minnesota and there’s no reason their character should come under attack. For that reason, I will not release their names one minute earlier than required by federal law.”

Carter threw his arms into the air. Victory. “I will not release their names one minute earlier than required by federal law” would be the refrain line in the Web ad he was already writing in his head. He blocked out the rest of the world while he imagined which of Clarissa’s comments could be spliced in with Trafton’s evasion.

“He’s not taking questions!” she screamed, jarring Carter back to the moment.

“Holy shit, he’s not. What an idiot.”

They watched Trafton and his team walk out of the Press Briefing Room and then started jumping up and down like they had just won the World Series, Super Bowl, NBA Finals and Stanley Cup all rolled into one. They hugged and he lifted her high off the ground as Gartner walked in.

“What’s going on in here?”

“He’s not taking any questions,” Clarissa shouted, still excited about their victory. Gartner had no idea what she meant. Three hours later, every Democrat in the 7th Congressional District with an e-mail address would know all about it.

“Well, keep it down,” Gartner said. “I’m strategizing out there. We’ve got a big day coming.”

Chapter 38

Friday, April 13-Saturday, April 14

The night before the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party’s 7th Congressional District endorsement convention, Winston Marshall read and re-read Brian Sorensen’s latest report on the delegates. The main room of campaign headquarters was bustling as staff and volunteers pulled together materials for the convention, but Winston was oblivious to all of it. He couldn’t believe the numbers he was seeing.

Those damn kids did it again, he thought, as he triple-checked Sorenson’s detailed memo. Patrick Trafton’s support was falling off. A week ago, he had 91 delegates at least leaning toward supporting him. Now it was just 77. Meanwhile, Alex Hogan’s support had increased from 40 to 61. With 108 delegates needed to declare victory, 42 remained undecided. With a little luck, Hogan could actually win this thing or at the very least block endorsement and neutralize the party’s power brokers heading into the primary.

He walked over to Clarissa’s office where she and Carter were re-working the entire speech. They had read the same report and knew now they had to go into full-court persuasion mode. Earlier, they were setting the stage for a primary election and writing a speech to springboard into a contest beyond 180 delegates. Now they had a real chance to actually win the endorsement. It was time to go for broke.

“Clarissa,” Winston said as he entered the room. “It’s time to re-write the speech. We can win this thing.”

She handed him an early draft without looking up from her laptop. She was working on the third draft. She hoped to have something Hogan could rehearse in two hours. She hated cutting it this close with him, but the changes were unavoidable.

Winston read as he stood in the doorway.

“The DFL Party is always at its best when it casts aside stale and cynical political calculations and takes the course self-professed experts call impassable,” Clarissa had written an hour earlier. “Rebecca McElroy, who’s here today, wasn’t the favorite of the elites in St. Paul, but now she’s the soul of the Senate. Congressman Duane Jackson wasn’t the so-called smart bet and today he’s making us proud in the House of Representatives.

“We can do that again. I realize I’m not perfect, but my heart is in the right place and I will work day and night to earn your full support beyond this convention and win in November because Tara Gunderson Hansen, right now, is plotting day and night to destroy everything we worked so hard to build.

“We will never match the Republicans if we play ‘politics as usual.’ It’s a tired phrase, I know, but there’s a lot of truth in it—including the fact that our party loses more often than not when we take that course. I don’t know about you, but the stakes are too high to let Tara Gunderson Hansen have two more years to dismantle public education. The stakes are too high to let her have another crack at privatizing Social Security, at gutting veterans’ programs, at denying civil rights to our friends in the GLBT community. We can beat her in November, but only if we play our game, not theirs.”

It was gutty, but Winston urged her to continue. Delegates, hard-core party activists, usually loved an opportunity to support the underdog, but they had to be given a good reason to do so.

“Our boy’s no Rebecca McElroy or Duane Jackson, but if he can carry this off, we might just win it.”

Clarissa was on her third cup of coffee in the last hour and didn’t look up as Winston spoke. Carter was reading over her shoulder and hadn’t done anything to acknowledge Winston was even in the room. The older man was impressed.

“Keep on slugging, kids,” he said as he left.

“Yep,” Clarissa mumbled.

“What?” Carter asked.

“I think Winston was in here talking.”

“Really? Wow.”

*****

At 10 p.m., Alex Hogan had his new speech in hand and was finishing up his second rehearsal in his back office.

“That’s why I’m a Democrat! That’s why Democrats must win! And that’s why when we come back here in two years for this convention, it won’t be to beat Tara Gunderson Hansen. We’re going to be re-electing a Democrat!

“Thank you very much for being here today. Thank you for your hard work. Thank you for everything you’re doing to change America. God bless you and may he continue to bless the United States of America!”

Everyone in the room clapped, even the cynical Carter.

“Nice job, sir,” he said.

“This is perfect, Clarissa,” Hogan said. “Let’s win this thing tomorrow, guys. I know we can do it.”

The candidate left to get some sleep. Winston was about to speak, but Ron Gartner was first to open his mouth.

“Guys, I just want to say it’s been an honor for me to teach you all a little about politics and marketing,” he said to a collective eye roll. “A month ago we were dead in the water, but those radio ads and the new slogan really seem to have turned things around for us. Tomorrow at the convention I’ll have my cell phone. Please don’t do anything to change the strategy without consulting with me first.”

It was a combination of the caffeine, the adrenaline rush from writing and pent up anger that compelled Clarissa to speak.

“So, Gartner, you’re leaving Sunday, right?”

“That’s the last day I’m paid for, yes. Unless the campaign decides to keep me on board, of course.”

Winston, Carter and Brian watched her intently. Everyone had a good idea about what was coming and nobody wanted to stop it.

“In the month that you’ve been here, you have messed up just about everything you touched,” she said. “We’re not in a position to win because of those stupid ads and that stupid slogan. We’re in a position to win because the people that were here long before you are very talented and have given everything they have to this campaign.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, young lady, but I think everyone else in this room won’t argue with the fact that I was brought in to deliver and I have.”

“Dude,” Carter said. “What she’s getting at is get the fuck out now. You’re no longer needed. You’ve been paid. There’s the door.”

“See ya,” Brian said, pointing at the door.

Gartner turned to appeal the ruling to Winston, but the real campaign manager was unmoved.

“Looks like you’ve been voted off the island, Ron,” Winston said, doing his best to conceal a smile. “I suggest you leave or I’ll have Mr. Jennings and Mr. Sorensen show you to the door.”

Gartner was stunned as he slowly walked out.

“It’s your funeral, losers. We’ll see how you people do without a leader.”

Nobody said anything for the first minute after he left. Carter finally broke the silence.

“This is the day we took our campaign back,” he said. “We own it now. There’s no turning back.”

“Since Carter stole my line,” Winston said, “I’ll take his. Clarissa, you are awesome.”

When they got back into the main room, Carter and Brian lifted her onto their shoulders as the volunteers and other staffers looked on. They didn’t know what happened behind closed doors, but saw Gartner storm off and loved it.

“All hail the conquering hero,” Winston announced as the guys carried Clarissa to the center of the room where she received a standing ovation.

“Well, thank you,” she said from her perch atop Brian’s left shoulder and Carter’s right. “Some people are born to greatness and others have it thrust upon them—”

“Yes,” Carter said. “We know—and then there’s you.”

“If it appears I’ve reached new heights,” she continued, “it’s because I sit on the shoulders of giants. Literally, either I’m freakishly short or you guys are too tall.”

They continued for a few more minutes before Winston brought them back to reality.

“Enjoy this tonight, kids,” he said. “Because starting tomorrow we have to earn it.”

*****

Nervous energy was driving the Hogan campaign as the team arrived at Faribault Senior High School early on Saturday, April 14. Winston had tossed and turned all night in St. Croix Heights. Clarissa didn’t fall asleep until 3 a.m. and Carter stayed up all night watching ESPN.

By 10 a.m., more than 500 people were crammed into the school’s auditorium. There were 180 delegates, 180 alternate delegates and at least 150 other party activists on hand, eager to get a look at their choices. If things held together, the convention could carry on well into the evening. Based on his conversations with delegates, Brian thought if Hogan showed strength early he would pick up support in each successive round of voting.

First up on the agenda was a question-and-answer session with the candidates. They had debated seven times before—short of the 15 once proposed—but there was still plenty of excitement as Hogan and Trafton were announced and bounded up to the stage.

“I’m holding my breath,” Clarissa whispered to Carter as the convention’s host explained the format. “We’ve spent an hour a day on this.”

“You’ve done your part. He’s up for this.”

“You really think so?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “But he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.”

For 20 minutes the candidates took shots at Congresswoman Hansen and pledged fidelity to the party platform as they outlined positions everyone had heard countless times. Then they were asked what makes them, specifically, the best candidate to beat Hansen.

“I’ve won three elections before,” Trafton said. “St. Croix Heights is a ‘purple’ town, split pretty even between DFLers and Republicans, but I’ve accomplished a lot by finding common ground to get things done. That’s what people in the 7th Congressional District, the voters who aren’t attending either party convention, are looking for. They share our values, but they need someone willing to reach out to them and talk about why our values really match up with theirs. We’re better on agriculture, education, transportation and everything. I’m going to work 24/7 selling that point door-by-door and person-by-person.”

It was another vanilla response, but the crowd applauded politely. Now it was Hogan’s turn.

“I think you should look at Patrick’s record as mayor. It’s not good, but for some reason lots of people are supporting him. I don’t get it.”

Clarissa gasped and about half the people on the convention floor started booing. Hogan was undeterred.

“I’ve been inspiring people since last July with my record as a businessman and the nobility of this cause. He hasn’t done anything worth supporting.”

The host tried to interject, repeating the rule about personal attacks, but Hogan kept talking.

“If you want to win in November,” he concluded, “don’t support Trafton.”

A half hour later, beloved Sen. McElroy gift-wrapped the endorsement for the mayor, volunteering to replace his wife as the person who would officially put his name up for the delegates’ consideration. Mr. and Mrs. Trafton readily agreed.

By 12:30 p.m. it was over. After McElroy’s glowing speech and Hogan’s angry and distracted rendition of what he had practiced the night before, Trafton won 131 delegates on the first ballot.

Chapter 39

Monday, April 30

“Jesus Christ,” Carter Jennings said as he looked at the initial polling data of likely Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party primary voters while sitting behind Winston Marshall’s desk at campaign headquarters. With a month and five days to go until the election, nearly 70 percent of the potential voters knew Alex Hogan and Patrick Trafton, a good sign. Of the likely participants in the intra-party contest, however, 54 percent favored Trafton to just 34 percent for Hogan.

Carter hated polls and was especially annoyed by the fact that even though 30 percent of respondents admitted to not knowing either candidate, only 12 percent of Democrats were undecided. He was reminded of the old Winston Churchill quote: “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.”

Things would’ve been much easier if Hogan hadn’t imploded at the convention 16 days ago. If he had won, he’d have all the party’s resources at his disposal. If he had forced a draw, a no endorsement, at least the institutional powers would be officially neutralized. Instead, DFL-funded radio ads on behalf of Trafton were already airing, a couple direct mail pieces had gone out and Trafton had yet to spend any of his own money.

“This isn’t good,” Winston said, thumbing through the report as he sat across from Carter in a chair usually reserved for visitors. “Can we afford to go on the air earlier?”

“No,” Carter said. “If we want to run ads in a critical mass, so they’ll stand out, we’re stuck waiting until we’re two weeks out. What we have can do pretty well over two or three weeks, but if we try to spend it over a month we’re going to get drowned out.”

The Hogan team actually had a little bit more to spend. In the first few days after the convention, nearly $75,000 mysteriously appeared through donations on the campaign website. Ian Gaffer’s research showed much of that came from Republicans. It was Tara Gunderson Hansen’s supporters having a little fun, trying to trip up Trafton—or at least make him spend more money to advance past Hogan. Winston decided to keep it in reserve. He didn’t like the idea of using Hansen’s people to beat Trafton.

“We’ll get on the radio on May 15, but we’ll have to use the Republican money,” Carter added. “We still have to wait on TV or else we’re just dripping ads out there with little effect.”

“Let’s do that then,” Winston said.

Carter still wasn’t sure what to do with the photos Hank Wright had delivered. Clarissa Rogers was leaning toward using them and Winston didn’t know they existed. They wanted him to have deniability for as long as possible.

“What’s the schedule look like?” Carter knew Winston was having trouble getting Hogan in front of DFL audiences since the party establishment was firmly behind Trafton, but he had to ask. Earned media, getting in newspapers and on TV because of local events, was important to lay the groundwork for paid media.

“We’ve got an American Legion thing tomorrow in Shakopee,” Clarissa said, standing with her back against the wall by the door. “Trafton’s schedule looks good, though. Big event tonight with the speaker of the House.”

Democrats in St. Paul and Washington were playing for keeps. Speaker Bridget McPherson, a liberal from Boston, was due to make three appearances in the coming weeks to rally the base on Trafton’s behalf. The Hogan campaign, meanwhile, had four volunteers left and just three paid staffers in addition to Carter and Winston, who were still working for nothing.

“Assholes,” Carter said as he left Winston’s office. He absolutely hated the Washington crowd and couldn’t stand the fact they were going to throw everything they had at his hapless candidate.

“It’s going to get worse,” Winston told Clarissa. “These people are going to crush us. Anything we can do to get Alex out there, do it. I don’t care. He can have press conferences on his own nobility, so long as we get his name out there.”

Clarissa was already doing some of this via e-mail to Democrats across the district, though since the convention about 25 percent of the people on their list opted-out, taking their e-mail addresses out of the campaign’s database.

“I wonder what song the band played when the Titanic was sinking,” she said.

“Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Winston was the master of historical trivia.

“That should be our anthem then,” Clarissa said as she stared at the polling data.

*****

“You all took a good look at the candidates in this race and settled on the best: Patrick Trafton!”

When Speaker McPherson became House minority leader 10 years ago, the Democrats were an almost irrelevant force. Today, under her leadership, they controlled 298 of 435 seats. She saw Trafton as someone who could get her to the 300-seat majority she always wanted.

“Patrick Trafton is a man of character,” McPherson continued as she stood before a crowd of nearly 500 people in the auditorium at Shakopee High School. “He’s a man of experience and talent. He’s the kind of leader I need in the House of Representatives so we can continue moving forward on protecting the environment, improving education and building the brighter, stronger future America deserves and needs.”

For 15 minutes, McPherson worked the crowd of die-hard Democrats into a frenzy, well aware they would be the ones to drag their friends and neighbors to the polls for the June 5 primary. By the time it was Trafton’s turn to speak, the crowd would’ve done anything to help him win.

“Thank you, Madam Speaker, for your leadership and, of course, that gracious introduction. I hope I prove myself worthy of it one day soon,” Trafton said, with his wife, Cathy, standing by his side and holding the hand of Max, their 4-year-old son.

The Trafton campaign had polling data that showed roughly the same information Hogan’s team had reviewed just a few hours ago. He was pumped up and couldn’t wait to get through the primary so he could turn his attention toward defeating Tara Gunderson Hansen.

“We’re in for a tough fight,” he said. “Tara Gunderson Hansen is a force to be reckoned with and we’re not going to beat her unless we all come together and go street-by-street and door-by-door to take our positive message directly to the people. But first we have to win the primary election and I know Alex Hogan—”

The crowd booed at the mention of Hogan, who they expected to concede the nomination battle to Trafton after the endorsement convention. Instead Hogan left without even congratulating the winner.

“No, no,” Trafton said, holding a hand in the air. “He’s a good man who just has a different vision than most of us on how to best build our party. Don’t get me wrong, I want to kick his back side for the next few weeks, but then we have to come together and get this thing done.”

*****

Carter questioned his sanity as he walked from his condo to the River View Bar & Grill. He was on his way to meet Susan Paxon from the Minnesota Values Coalition and was quite surprised she not only took his call, but agreed to meet immediately.

With Hogan taking on water each day, he was looking for a homerun play. Tonight’s goal was to gauge Susan’s interest in taking out Trafton. He had all the ammunition she’d need, but her group would have to do the work. It was the only way he could think of getting the mayor’s pictures into circulation without completely ruining the name of everyone involved with the Hogan campaign.

He got to the door and considered turning around and heading home. This is a stupid idea, he said to himself, but walked in anyway.

“Susan, how are you?” If he really cared he wouldn’t have disappeared on her the morning after their first meeting in this bar a year earlier.

“Carter Jennings, to what do I owe the honor?”

“I just thought it’d be fun to catch up.” Normally he was a good liar, but this one was as blatantly phony as could be.

“So you’re working for Alex Hogan? Why?”

“Long story. How are things with the, what is it, bring back the Old Testament—”

“The Minnesota Values Coalition. Defending traditional values, which someone has to do around here.”

“Right.”

They ordered drinks and he amused himself by thinking about how uncomplicated she was the first time they met. Traditional values my ass. This girl was a freak and he figured most of her self-professed morally superior friends were, too.

“So,” he asked. “What do you all think about the 7th?”

“Your guy is an idiot, but I’m sure you know he’s a tougher target than Trafton.”

“What do you mean?” It was the first time he heard someone else mention Trafton as vulnerable.

“Don’t play dumb, Carter.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You mean to tell me you don’t know about his screwing around? He’s not very discreet.”

“What are you all going to do about it? I imagine it’ll fire up your base when you hit him.”

“It will—sometime around Labor Day.” Paxon was smart. They weren’t going to kill off the guy who’d be easiest to beat. Let him win the primary, raise more money that would otherwise go to other DFL candidates and then blast him. It was a beautiful strategy.

“Yep,” Carter finally said. “That’s the play I’d run, too.”

“Do you all really have nothing on him?”

“Long story,” he said, playing his cards close to his chest.

They ordered another round of drinks and chit-chatted about the weather, the Minnesota Twins and Hansen’s winning streak. Carter was ready to leave about 20 minutes later.

“Carter, you didn’t really call to talk about politics, did you?”

“Just curious about your take on the 7th.”

“Really? I thought tonight would be more interesting,” she said, standing.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Well, you have my number. Don’t wait another year to use it.”

He watched her leave and then pulled out his iPhone and called Clarissa. Since the Minnesota Values Coalition knew about Trafton’s problems, Hogan would be justified in taking him out. Besides, he’d rather talk to Clarissa about anything—even Hogan—than spend another minute with Paxon.

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded for half price at Smashwords by entering code ZN98U.

Stumbling Forward: Sample Chapters and Purchase Information

2011-02-08T14:35:00.003-06:00

Clarissa Rogers is a young idealist who’s been given the opportunity of a lifetime.

Unfortunately, however, that means serving as communications director for a hopelessly egotistical, opportunistic and unqualified congressional candidate.

It isn’t too miserable at first. Alex Hogan has no chance of actually getting elected to represent Minnesota’s 7th District. Then he gets lucky—again and again and again.

As Election Day nears, Clarissa’s hit with the reality that winning may not be the best thing. Along the way, she captivates a womanizing political consultant, draws the attention of people who could change the world, and emerges as the one person who might actually be able to send Alex Hogan to Congress.

Purchase Information

Chapters

New Stumbling Forward Description

2011-02-08T14:20:00.000-06:00

I've changed the Stumbling Forward description. This should appear on Amazon.com and elsewhere soon.

*****

Clarissa Rogers is a young idealist who’s been given the opportunity of a lifetime.

Unfortunately, however, that means serving as communications director for a hopelessly egotistical, opportunistic and unqualified congressional candidate.

It isn’t too miserable at first. Alex Hogan has no chance of actually getting elected to represent Minnesota’s 7th District. Then he gets lucky—again and again and again.

As Election Day nears, Clarissa’s hit with the reality that winning may not be the best thing. Along the way, she captivates a womanizing political consultant, draws the attention of people who could change the world, and emerges as the one person who might actually be able to send Alex Hogan to Congress.

Amazon.com Review: Definitely Noir

2011-02-07T18:02:00.001-06:00

Mike Dennis’ The Take had been on my Amazon wish list for a few weeks now, so I was glad to jump at the opportunity to get a free copy for review. I wasn’t disappointed.

Dennis is a great storyteller who avoids gimmicks and cliché in a noir novel about the danger of greed. Through well-developed characters—specifically Eddie Ryan and Felina—Dennis takes the reader on a grim journey from Houston to New Orleans, detailing desperation and a get-rich-quick adventure gone dangerously off course.

From the beginning to the punch-in-the-gut end, The Take is a fast-paced read that will leave you guessing, thinking and wanting more.

A Referendum on Conscience: Chapters 9-10 (work in progress)

2011-02-06T00:01:00.008-06:00

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Chapter 9

Sunday, Dec. 1

It was just before midnight in Perth, Australia, on Sunday, Dec. 1, and Carter Jennings had spent a week reviewing the polling data from Minnesota. There was little in the way of good news. “What the fuck am I doing?” he whispered to himself as he labored through a memo he wanted to send to Clarissa Rogers shortly.

While Rebecca McElroy enjoyed a 65-percent favorability rating and a 57-percent job approval rating, 79 percent of registered voters polled disagreed with her opposition to the use-of-force resolution and 54 percent said they would be less likely to support her if she broke her pledge to retire after two terms. He wasn’t too worried about the term-limit pledge. It was the public’s huge support for the war that was problematic. Certainly it would decrease over time, especially if Azizistan becomes a protracted and costly conflict, but the election was just 11 months away. Under normal circumstances, this would be a fight he’d opt against waging. The better use of his time would be putting together a team for Texas Gov. Bill Harrison’s presidential campaign, which was scheduled to kick off in a year and a half, but these weren’t normal circumstances. It was time to stand up. It was time to stand for something other than simply winning and making money.

“There’s really no way to sugarcoat this,” Carter wrote in the conclusion section on page 14. “Despite success in two previous statewide elections, a third term is far from assured. Anecdotal evidence suggests that Tara Gunderson Hansen is strongly positioned to become Minnesota’s next U.S. senator and the polling data is clear on the fact that a McElroy for Senate campaign would require one of the most Herculean efforts in recent political history to even come close to victory.”

He spent the next half hour reviewing his work and then attached the document to an e-mail to Clarissa. She’d have to be the campaign manager. After Winston Marshall died last September, she was the one who stepped up from her press secretary job to carry Alex Hogan across the finish line. Their mentor had run both of Rebecca’s campaigns and would jump at this fight, too. Now it was Clarissa’s time. Yes, she liked her job in Washington, but she had to step up again. There was no way around it.

“If I thought there was a 1-percent chance Todd Owen could be a mildly courageous U.S. senator, I’d say ‘retire Rebecca, you’ve earned it,’” Carter wrote to Clarissa. “But Owen sucks. He’s a stuffed suit who can’t beat Hansen. And he’s not going to be the senator we need.”

Normally Carter didn’t even vote, but he was willing to put his 36-8 win-loss record on the line in the name of campaigning against a stupid war, a dangerous Republican candidate and a president he thought could destroy everything he loved about America. He doubted it would take much to get Clarissa on board, but he went with the hard sell just in case.

“This is going to be your campaign. You’re the heir to everything Winston taught us and everything he stood for. You have to get the senator on board, put the band back together and make this happen. Nobody else can. It’s a crappy burden to carry, but it’s your burden and you must carry it, Clarissa.”

Carter didn’t have much faith in anything and had the Nov. 18 attacks never happened, he would’ve been more than willing to cash Owen’s checks, no questions asked. But this was too important to him. He believed in Clarissa and Rebecca and would do anything to get them back into action.

He sent the e-mail and left his hotel room for the first time all day. He’d check his iPhone every five minutes, awaiting Clarissa’s response, during an hour-long walk on the beach.

*****

Clarissa stayed in Washington over the Thanksgiving holiday to get some work done and recover fully from her bout with the flu. By the time she got Carter’s e-mail, which she wasn’t ready to read, she had watched all the morning shows, read the papers and was now working her way through the conservative blogs—many of which were beginning to echo Ben Reynolds’ column on Iran being the biggest problem in the Middle East. As she scrolled through the mindless posts and idiotic ramblings in the comments section, she listened to the NFL pregame show the two guys next door were watching. Each Sunday they blared football-related programming on the big screen TV with surround-sound from mid-morning until the last game ended around 11 p.m.

This week the second-place Washington Redskins were set to take on the first-place Philadelphia Eagles at 1 p.m. Clarissa looked up from her laptop for a minute to hear the injury report. She didn’t really care too much about football—or any sports—but had a passing interest in the Redskins and her home state Minnesota Vikings. Her own TV was tuned to CNN with the volume muted.

She returned her attention to the blogs. There were a few more posts on McElroy being a traitor and many more on the non-existent link between Iran and Azizistan. She read every word, as always, and was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t notice the sound of President Wayne Fisher’s voice coming from through the wall.

“My fellow Americans, several minutes ago, on my orders, American fighter planes began striking targets in and around Aziz City in the first step of Operation Swift Justice. In these early stages of this conflict, we are targeting institutions and infrastructure that directly support terrorism and pose a grave threat to the free world and life as we know it.”

After a couple moments, Clarissa finally glanced at her own TV and saw the president speaking from the Oval Office and the CNN graphic reading “AMERICA AT WAR.” She unmuted her TV and now had two-apartment surround-sound as the president continued.

“Great effort has been taken, and will be taken always, to ensure that innocent Azizistanis are kept safe and secure and that legitimate civilian infrastructure is preserved for the reconstruction of their country and its assimilation into the peaceful community of nations—which we will proudly welcome in the coming weeks and months. This conflict will not be easy, but this administration, and the great military of the United States, will do what it takes to ensure freedom is defended. There’s no burden we won’t bear and no price we won’t pay to ensure a peaceful world for our children.”

Clarissa could hear the guys next door cheering and high-fiving. She wanted to vomit, but there wasn’t time. She immediately began work on a press statement the senator would issue within the hour. After that, she started working on language that would be needed for other press releases—for the first American casualty, for the first mass-civilian casualty and for the fall of the regime in Azizistan. She spent the rest of the afternoon typing away while the Redskins fell to the Eagles, 13-10. She didn’t get to Carter’s e-mail until after the 11 o’clock news.

*****

When her flight landed in Washington on Sunday evening, Rebecca knew her staff had everything under control. The appropriate press releases had been sent, interviews with Minnesota media arranged and meetings with officials from the Pentagon scheduled. As she got into her car to make the hour-long drive back to Spotsylvania County, she called Todd Owen back in Minnesota. They hadn’t spoken since before the Nov. 18 attacks.

“Todd, it’s Rebecca McElroy. How are you?”

“Senator! Good to hear from you.” He was surprised she called and he didn’t want to talk with her at all.

“We need to talk about Azizistan. Where are you on this?”

“To be honest, I think we need to make sure we’re doing this right, but now that we’re committed I fully support our troops.”

He was in over his head and she knew it.

“Todd, supporting the troops and opposing a war we shouldn’t wage aren’t incompatible,” she said as she merged onto Interstate 395 southbound. “If anything, supporting the troops means opposing a pointless war.”

“Senator, we have to get the people who did this.” He desperately wanted an excuse to end the phone call, but couldn’t think of one.

“The people who did this are dead.” She wasn’t surprised he was echoing the talking points out of Washington. She knew he was close with Alex Hogan and was taking most of his cues from the Democratic Senate Campaign Committee, which advises and supports candidates across the country.

“I’ve travelled around a state full of people who disagree with you.”

She didn’t want to argue and spent the next few minutes trying to get him to expand on his talking points. While he may know more about an initial public stock offering or building a strong corporate liability shield, he had no clue at all about global affairs.

“When this thing goes wrong, and it will, how are you going to distinguish yourself from Tara Hansen? Right now, Todd, I’m not seeing any difference between the two of you.”

The senator planned on introducing legislation over the next few days to increase veterans’ benefits and add staffing to Veterans Administration hospitals throughout the country. We’re going to be creating a lot of new veterans in the coming months and years, she knew, and many would require extensive medical care.

“I’m going to be far more willing than Hansen to ask tough questions of the administration as this war plays out. For now, we’re in a wait-and-see mode. Nobody can know how this is going to turn out.”

“The time to ask tough questions is before the war starts, not after it.”

“Respectfully, senator, people don’t agree with you. My consultants have been polling on this.”

“There’s a time for politics and this isn’t it,” the senator snapped. “This is a time to either lead or follow. Looks like you’re following.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion and I’m entitled to run a winning campaign as I see fit.”

He hung up before she could respond.

“Chicken-shit bastard,” she mumbled as she slammed her phone down on the passenger seat.

Chapter 10

Saturday, Dec. 7

Clarissa Rogers always hated leaving Washington. Among other things, getting out of town meant giving up her prized parking spot in the tiny lot behind her building. She hadn’t moved her red Saturn VUE sport utility vehicle in six weeks. Now she’d have to find a new place to park it when she got home.

Carter Jennings’ memo, which she perceived more as an emotional plea for Rebecca McElroy to seek a third term than an actual strategic document, had Clarissa thinking seriously about next year’s election. Then Todd Owen’s speech in Duluth a few nights later put her firmly in the re-elect McElroy camp. In a 26-minute address to the St. Louis County Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party, Owen completely avoided mentioning the war at all. She watched the speech live on the Internet on Thursday night and then read the text on a blog twice before heading into work Friday morning. It was the most cowardly thing she had ever seen, so now, on the morning of Saturday, Dec. 7, she was heading to Spotsylvania County to take a shot at convincing her boss to give up retirement plans she had long since earned.

As Clarissa drove south on Interstate 95 through Stafford County, she listened on XM Radio to CNN’s latest war reports. Over the previous six days, countless military and police buildings had been leveled in Aziz City and other major towns along the island’s coastline. Bombing raids had also been conducted over the Central Highlands, but their effect was unknown since no networks had reporters stationed outside the population centers. Pentagon spokespeople, however, assured the American people that the August 28 Revival terrorist organization was on the ropes.

“Damn.”

The gas light was flickering on her dashboard. The needle was just above the empty line. Clarissa could never remember whether the light meant there was a gallon or two left in the tank or if the engine was about to stall. She wished she had stopped for gas in D.C. It was more expensive at the full-service station by her apartment, but the 35-cent-a-gallon difference would’ve been a small price to pay to avoid getting off the highway before reaching Spotsylvania. For better or worse, she was a city girl—born and raised in south Minneapolis and educated in St. Paul. She liked to limit at all costs her exposure to suburbia and its shopping centers, golf courses and subdivisions.

A few decades earlier, Route 610 in Stafford County, 40 miles south of Washington, was a two-lane country road not dissimilar to the main thoroughfare near her grandparents’ farm in southern Minnesota. To Clarissa it now looked like a place corporate America came to vomit. As far as the eye could see, there were massive shopping centers with every national chain retailer and restaurant imaginable, a 7-Eleven convenience store at almost every intersection, and parking lots full of minivans and SUVs with bumper-stickers announcing the owners’ children were honor roll students at schools like Widewater, Drew, Brooke Point, Colonial Forge, Mountain View and Anne Moncure.

Clarissa pulled into an Exxon station near an Offices & More, the chain founded by Owen. She brought her Saturn to a stop behind a rusted-out pickup truck with a Confederate flag in the rear window and a “Fisher for President” sticker on the bumper. This kind of thing was still widespread in the outer-ring Virginia suburbs.

While she pumped gas, the skinny man outside the truck, wearing a jacket and hat displaying the number of his favorite NASCAR driver, glared back at her several times. She smiled the first time, but now it was getting creepy. Yes, she thought, it’s a Minnesota license plate. Get over it.

“What’s that thing on your coat?” he asked.

On the right lapel of her black wool coat was a small button promoting the Equal Rights Amendment, an oft-proposed constitutional amendment barring discrimination on the basis of gender. Rebecca had co-sponsored it six times. On the left lapel was a silver peace dove brooch she had bought a few days earlier at a jewelry store near her apartment building.

“A button for women’s rights and a peace dove,” she said while watching the numbers on the pump.

The man looked away for a moment and she finished pumping gas and went inside to pay. He was still there when she returned a few minutes later with a muffin and large cup of coffee.

“OK,” he said. “The women’s thing I understand, but why a peace dove now?”

“Because I don’t like war.”

“Maybe if those towel heads knew that they wouldn’t have declared war against us.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t want to talk politics with a guy who missed the day in history class in which the Battle of Appomattox and Robert E. Lee’s surrender to U.S. Grant were discussed.

She opened her door and placed the coffee in a drink holder before climbing in. The man was standing alongside her SUV now.

“So if you’re for peace, what do we do about the terrorists?”

“We go find the leaders, but we don’t try to own Azizistan,” she said, trying to keep things as simple as possible. “And we cut off terrorism at its source. Most people become terrorists because they don’t have anything else they can do—no jobs, no schools, no opportunities. Not all of them, but most of them. It really isn’t much different than why people join gangs.”

He stood there for a second considering a point of view that probably hadn’t been aired much on the talk radio stations he usually listened to.

“My little brother—he’s 19—he’s over there now. He’ll be in the invasion probably.”

Clarissa knew “over there” meant Kuwait, which the Army and Marine Corps were using as a staging area.

“I hope he comes back here safe and soon,” she said.

“My mom ain’t been sleeping much since he sent word about it. We’re for the troops and getting the terrorists, but you know—”

She got out of her Saturn and reached a hand out toward him. He grabbed it.

“My name’s Bobby Ray Shackelford and my brother—his name is Jimmy and he always wanted to be a Marine.”

“I’m Clarissa. You can tell your mom Jimmy’s in the best military in the world and they trained him well. Everything’s going to be OK.” She hoped that was true.

They chatted for another minute or so and then she climbed back into the Saturn and cut on the engine. He motioned for her to roll down the window, which she did.

“I hope you get your peace,” he said.

Clarissa smiled and pulled away from the pump and headed back toward Interstate 95.

*****

Holly Schaffer had avoided politics like the plague since Alex Hogan’s campaign ended 13 months ago. No meetings. No candidates. No rallies. No nothing. Aside from occasionally helping Carter with paperwork related to the New Jersey governor’s race, Holly was quite retired and had no problems with that.

When Matt Gibson, Owen’s campaign manager, called her a few days earlier she assumed he wanted advice on the 7th Congressional District. Holly agreed to meet him for lunch at the River View Bar & Grill in Minneapolis, but only because she was a bit curious to learn Owen’s position on the war.

“So, how did you all get Hogan elected to Congress?” Despite nine reasonably successful years in professional politics, Gibson couldn’t figure out how such an idiot managed to get 200,000 votes for any office.

“Honestly, I have no clue. That was really the work of Carter Jennings and Clarissa Rogers. I was just along for the ride.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Holly had a knack for planning and executing events, which helped make it look like there was a real grassroots uprising for Hogan. The tall, blonde 25-year-old had parlayed that skill into planning conferences, exhibitions and retreats for local businesses. She enjoyed the work and she was very good at it.

“Do you think they’d come work for Todd?”

“They both know Todd’s friends with Hogan and they both hate Hogan, so I don’t think they’ll help. You could ask them, but I don’t think they’ll be interested.”

“Carter already blew me off via e-mail. I haven’t called Clarissa.”

Gibson was in a tough spot. He genuinely believed Owen could be a good senator and the businessman had built a strong following with DFL activists across the state by donating large sums of money to party units from International Falls in the north to Albert Lea in the south. Now the war had thrown everything off track. Owen was scared of losing, so he chose to say nothing about Azizistan to avoid alienating anyone. Gibson was hoping to pump new life into the campaign with new staffers. This was his first race in Minnesota and he didn’t know where to start.

“Carter can work for anyone he wants and Clarissa’s really special,” Holly said. “My advice is to find your own team. There’s no rhyme or reason about how these come together. They just do.”

They picked at lunch for a few minutes without speaking before Gibson got his next idea.

“Why don’t you come work for me?”

She looked at him like he was crazy.

“I’ll make you deputy campaign manager,” he said, desperately.

“That’s very nice of you, Matt, but no thank you.”

“Seriously?”

“I really hope you all get things together because I don’t like Tara Gunderson Hansen, but I’m not getting back into politics. One election cycle was enough for a lifetime.”

*****

The senator flipped through Carter’s memo for the second time after lunch while Zach and Clarissa watched silently. After a couple minutes she stood up, tossed the papers down on the coffee table and walked over to the window.

“It doesn’t look very good,” she said as she watched a deer run through the backyard.

Zach thumbed through his copy again. He had looked forward to Rebecca’s retirement, selling the Spotsylvania County house and settling into permanent residence back in Bloomington for the first time in more than a decade. But Nov. 18 changed everything for him.

“Clarissa, would you run the campaign?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She always assumed her days of campaigning had ended after coming to Washington following last year’s election. The original plan was to stay with Rebecca until she retired and then go work for someone else on Capitol Hill, but she never thought twice after reading Carter’s e-mail. She knew right then and there that she’d go back to Minnesota and lead the campaign.

“And we’ll have Carter, too?” Zach was beginning to fill out the roster. “Who else?”

“We’ll have Carter for sure and there are a few other people I definitely want.”

“Clarissa, if I do this, what are the rules?” Rebecca didn’t want to be a slave to public opinion polls and didn’t want to take a lot of flak from the Democratic Senate Campaign Committee.

“Honestly, senator, I think we just go for it. We’re putting your record on the line and that’s what we campaign on. We’ll get the party’s endorsement over Owen, definitely. I don’t see any problems there. Then we’ll let it fly against Hansen. There’s no way to mask where you stand and we shouldn’t even try to.”

“What do you think, Zach?” Rebecca knew her husband wasn’t a big fan of politics and she wanted to make sure he was on board for another campaign and possibly another six years of splitting time between Minnesota and Washington.

“These campaigns have never been easy,” he said. “Why should this one be any different?”

When she first ran for the Senate, after serving two terms on the Bloomington City Council, Rebecca was considered an afterthought by the experts. Then she surprised everyone by winning the party’s endorsement over a heavily favored candidate and crushing a two-term incumbent Republican in the general election. In her re-election bid, all the same experts said she was too liberal, but she won her second term by a comfortable margin, as well.

“You know what the crazies are going to say, right?” Rebecca said. “This one is going to be tougher than anything else.”

“Can you take it?” He didn’t really need to ask.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

“Then let’s do it.”

Rebecca returned to her seat and picked up Carter’s memo, flipped through it again and then tossed it back onto the coffee table.

“Clarissa, can you come into the office and clean off your desk Monday morning?”

“No problem.” She was already thinking about what needed doing for the campaign and was glad to be spared having to put in two-weeks notice before heading back to Minnesota.

“Good,” Rebecca said, smiling for the first time during this conversation. “We’ve got a re-election campaign to start and there’s not a moment to lose.”

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Amazon.com Review: Identity Crisis

2011-02-05T22:20:00.000-06:00

I stumbled across Least Wanted, the second book in the Sam McRae series, by accident last week. I enjoyed it so much I had to buy and read Identity Crisis, the first book, immediately. As expected, Debbi Mack didn’t disappoint.

In both novels, Mack tells crisp, fast-moving stories. The plots are well conceived, the details are superb and attorney Sam McRae is the kind of main character you love to pull for.

I look forward to future installments in this series. The bar is set really high after the first two stories, but I have no doubt Mack will continue to impress.

Amazon.com Review: Least Wanted

2011-02-04T23:33:00.000-06:00

Just finished Least Wanted less than 24 hours after starting it. I simply couldn't stop reading.

Through attorney Sam McRae, her clients and a rich supporting cast, author Debbi Mack tells an amazing story about two seemingly unrelated criminal cases that end up being linked together with devastating consequences.

The writing is smooth, the character development is perfect and the plot moves at a quick pace. I enjoyed it so much I immediately purchased Identity Crisis, the first book in the Sam McRae series. Can't wait to start reading it.

Update: I'm 41 percent of the way into Identity Crisis and loving it!

From the Author: The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

2011-02-03T11:15:00.000-06:00

From author Mike McIntyre:
Available on Amazon Kindle.

A Southern California self-storage unit filled with medieval instruments of torture…

A modern-day Torquemada hell-bent on updating the Spanish Inquisition…

An investigative reporter racing to connect the lurid dots…

Deadline has a whole new meaning.

Tyler West, suspended Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter from the San Diego Sun, is desperate for a scoop that will save his career. Defying a spiteful publisher and a vindictive homicide detective, he investigates the baffling deaths of several of San Diego's powerful, rich and famous. Police call the murders unrelated, but Ty uncovers a common link: torture devices last used during the Dark Ages, including the Iron Maiden, the Pear of Anguish, and the most sinister of all—the Scavenger's Daughter. Ty is plunged into a mysterious world of medieval torture scholars, antiquities collectors, museum curators, and sadomasochists. Aided by photojournalist Melina "Mel" Koric, a former Bosnian War refugee, Ty must break the brilliantly conceived series of slayings that has cast a dark shadow over a city better known for its sun, sand and surf. The elusive killer goes by the name Friar Tom, in tribute to his hero, Tomás de Torquemada, the first Grand Inquisitor of the Spanish Inquisition. As Ty scrambles to unmask the monstrous zealot, he must juggle his investigation with his personal life: He pursues his lost love, Jordan Sinclair, an assistant district attorney, and continues to mentor inner-city kids at his youth golf clinics. With the city caught in an escalating nightmare of medieval mayhem, Ty is drawn into a lethal game of cat and mouse that could cost him everything.

Excerpt

The mound of dishes in my kitchen sink buried the faucet. If I didn't shake this slothful funk soon, I'd die of thirst. It had taken two weeks to reach the back of the cupboard as I dirtied the measuring cups, the Pyrex collection, the bundt pan and the clay Moroccan tajine pot. When the doorbell rang, I was eating Raisin Bran with a wooden spoon out of a colander lined with Saran Wrap.

It was the FedEx guy. He had bleached-blond hair and purple shorts. Wraparound Ray-Bans framed his tanned face.

He held a long, thin cardboard box under his arm.

"Tyler West?" he said.

"That's the rumor," I said.

"The newspaper reporter?"

"Occasionally."

"I always wondered who lived here."

My house snags a lot of stares. It's only one bedroom, but the view is huge. It's perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I built it myself.

Six years ago, when my reputation and bank account were still intact, I bought two acres from my neighbor to the south, Point Loma Nazarene University. Students had used the land to grow organic bananas, selling the fruit at farmers' markets. The college kept the farming rights and had final say over any new buildings. The trustees barely approved my unconventional design.

"Sweet place," the FedEx guy said, handing me the box. "What's it made of?"

"Cob."

I opened the box and pulled out a golf club, a Cleveland CG15 sand wedge. Maybe I could use it to dig my way out of the bunker called my life.

"Cob?" the FedEx guy said. "Like corn on the cob?"

"English cob," I said flatly. "Puddled adobe. I mixed clay, straw, sand and water, then sculpted a pot to live in. It's my pottery barn."

"Pottery barn," he said, "I like it."

I didn't feel like company, so I shut down his eager laugh with a blank expression.

The FedEx guy glanced over my shoulder. Maya the dog and Torpedo the cat dozed on the terra cotta tile floor amid spent Stone Pale Ale bottles and sandy flip-flops. Greasy pizza boxes and empty Peanut M&M bags covered my starfish and seashell coffee table. The leather sofa with the Mexican blankets was heaped with DVDs of the first four seasons of Breaking Bad. They were on loan from Jimmy Nettles, TV critic for the San Diego Sun, the newspaper where I may or may not still be employed.

"Catch many stories from your couch?" the FedEx guy said sarcastically.

"I was sent home from school," I said.

"Fighting on the playground?"

"Nope, got caught coloring outside the lines."

There are five W's in journalism: Who, What, When, Where and Why. You can screw up any of the last four and keep your job. But if you get Who wrong—or, in my case, get too close to the wrong Who—you'll be lucky if they give you a paper route.

Until two weeks ago, I was the investigative reporter for the Sun. The San Diego Times has a larger circulation, but the Sun has the Pulitzer Prize. I won it last year.

My series on local corruption—"Scam Diego"—exposed misconduct from City Hall to the courthouse. The bombshells included fixed court cases, kickbacks on public works projects and a drug market run out of the police property room. The stories led to forty-four indictments, a dozen resignations and one suicide. The guilty each got ten to twenty years; I got a gold medallion and a raise.

But gratitude has a short shelf life in the news business, especially in this era of plummeting profits. When I forgot Who matters most, advertisers pulled their ads—and Sun owner and publisher Elizabeth Rampling slapped me with an indefinite suspension.

It's not the first time I forgot Who matters most. Somewhere beneath the clutter behind me was a stack of letters, each stamped: "Refused, Return to Sender." Each was addressed to the same person—Jordan Sinclair—my onetime love, now my full-time regret.

I've spent the last fourteen years consumed by journalism. Now that it's been taken away, I see how little I have. I'm thirty-seven years old. I'm wifeless, childless and clueless. I need my job back, but I also need a life to go with it.

I took the electronic signature pad from the FedEx guy and scribbled my name.

He looked at my signature and smirked. "Hey, you're right. You do color outside the lines."

He turned around and slammed into two Jehovah's Witnesses. Armfuls of religious literature fell to the ground. A hot Santa Ana wind scattered the pamphlets across the yard. The Jehovah's Witnesses, the FedEx guy and I raced around retrieving the brochures before they blew over the cliff into the ocean. I plucked one from a giant banana leaf. I glanced at the cover. "Awake," it proclaimed.

Indeed.

Stumbling Forward: Chapters 34-36

2011-02-02T00:33:00.000-06:00

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Chapter 34

Sunday, April 1

Mark Hannigan, Tara Gunderson Hansen’s campaign manager, convened a rare Sunday morning meeting at campaign headquarters in Eagan to discuss the developing political situation. On April 1 it was increasingly clear to all but the dimmest political observers in the state that she’d be taking on Patrick Trafton in what could prove to be the toughest fight of her political career.

“Who’s funding him?” Hansen asked. She rarely participated in discussions during committee hearings on Capitol Hill, but when it came to campaigning she was always on point. “This can’t be all Democrat money. They’ve got our people on the hook. Let’s close that off right now.”

“George Epstein is running the show unofficially,” Hannigan said. “He’s scum. Plays both sides of the fence, but I think he’s probably pretty close to tapped out.”

“Pretty close isn’t good enough. I want him tapped out this week. Put the word out to our people that this isn’t fun and games anymore—it’s serious.”

She was worried about Trafton. He claimed more delegates than Alex Hogan at each of the 12 local Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party conventions and was heading toward the district-wide convention in 13 days with 87 of the 180 delegates firmly pledged to him. Just 40 were firmly pledged to Hogan and another 53 were undecided. It would take the support of 108 delegates to claim victory.

“The good news is Alex Hogan isn’t giving up and will take this thing to a primary with at least some money for Carter Jennings to burn,” Hannigan said, holding up a copy of that morning’s Minneapolis Star Tribune. He knew Carter from a Senate race in South Dakota a few years ago. “He did a good job here a couple years ago trashing the eventual Democrat candidate for governor—Smith—so he’s not squeamish about hitting.”

“Can Jennings hurt him?” Hansen had never run against one of Carter’s candidates.

“I’m familiar with Carter’s work and he’s a deal closer,” said Susan Paxon, the 29-year-old executive director for the Minnesota Values Coalition, a conservative Christian group that had supported Hansen in each campaign of her career. Given the company, she left out the part of the story about how she met Carter at the River View Bar & Grill a year ago and ended up inviting him back to her home in south Minneapolis.

“You’re sure?” Hansen asked.

“Yes and it’d be a good move to quietly encourage some of your big money people to steer some cash into Hogan’s campaign. If you want someone nailed hard, Carter’s the guy to do it. I promise you that.” Paxon hoped all Carter-related conversation would end soon. She knew from the beginning he wasn’t going to call her the next day, but went through with it anyway and now felt like one of the stupid sorority girls who shunned her during her days at North Dakota State University.

“And we’re talking about politics right?” The congresswoman usually found Paxon charming, but today thought her behavior was odd and unbecoming.

“Of course.” Paxon was embarrassed, but at least Carter was more fun than the married men she occasionally picked up at MVC events—including the congresswoman’s older brother.

A team of staffers then went through reports on field organization, Hansen’s campaign war chest, coming events and congressional issues that could be converted into political opportunities. Hannigan ran a tight meeting and this one was over in less than 45 minutes.

“We’re ready to proceed, congresswoman,” he said.

“OK. I want everything you can get me on Trafton and let’s see what we can do about having our people funnel some money into Hogan’s campaign. I don’t know if Alex Hogan is qualified to be a speed bump, but it’s worth a shot.”

“It’s done, ma’am.”

“Good. If this mayor thinks he can fuck with me he has another thing coming.” The congresswoman stood and collected her purse. “Make it happen. I’ll be at church if you need me.”

*****

DFL State Party Chairman Anthony Demmel was relieved as he met for lunch with George Epstein and Patrick Trafton. He wanted someone better than Hogan in the 7th Congressional District and he had his man in the mayor.

“Patrick,” Demmel said over lunch at the Minnesota Inn in St. Croix Heights. “What you’ve done is a thing of beauty. In a couple weeks we can drop the charade and I can really get behind you publicly.”

For Demmel, it was a moment to be cherished. His man, with the help of his brother-in-law, had thoroughly decimated Hogan and seemed poised to defeat Congresswoman Hansen in the November election.

“Here’s the deal,” Demmel continued. “The polling results show most voters don’t know who you are, which is to be expected and that will change, but you’re running even with Hansen when they learn about your record. You’re ahead when we throw in some negatives on Hansen.”

“What about Hogan?” Trafton remained convinced the Hogan campaign had a few more cards to play and wouldn’t just disappear without a fight.

“Don’t worry about him,” the chairman said. “Total loser. We didn’t even poll on him and we’re certainly not going to support him if he somehow pulls off a miracle and ends up as our nominee—a waste of time and money.”

Epstein was exhausted. For three months he had pulled every string available to ensure Trafton had the money and organization needed to reach this moment. It was one of his greatest successes, but he wasn’t quite ready to enjoy the moment. He never relaxed in business, or in politics, until his opponent was completely lifeless.

“Tony, as soon as we get the endorsement, we’re going to need some major players to come into town and put their arm around Patrick. I don’t want any confusion about him being the guy. It needs to be clear to everyone that this is the campaign to get behind in the primary.”

Demmel had already thought about that. He was beside himself when he heard that Hogan wasn’t going to honor the party’s endorsement and would continue on to the primary, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Team Hogan was an inconvenience that he could handle relatively easily.

“We’ll have the speaker of the House and the majority leader coming in during the first two weeks after the endorsement. Every elected federal official in the state’s going to campaign for you guys. And we’re ready to put out several direct-mail pieces on your behalf and another $100,000 in TV and radio before the primary.”

Trafton didn’t know what to say. The totality of his victory was stunning and every contingency appeared to have been thought of and handled long ago.

“Well,” the mayor said, trying to take control of the meeting about his campaign. “Looks like everything’s in place. Now it’s time to finish this guy off.”

*****

Winston Marshall and Clarissa Rogers knew the local conventions had been an unmitigated disaster for their candidate, but Hogan and his self-professed campaign guru, Ron Gartner, apparently missed the memo.

“It’s just as I predicted,” Gartner said, presiding over a meeting of Winston, Clarissa and the candidate at the campaign headquarters. “We’re in good shape. Yesterday was a tough fight, but we pulled it out thanks to my very strong strategy.”

Winston studied the detailed delegate counts Brian Sorenson had e-mailed him shortly after midnight. It was very clear that Hogan had been trounced yesterday in St. Croix Heights, Jordan, Faribault and Burnsville, just as he had been across the district over the previous two weekends. For the first time in the campaign, a first-ballot defeat at the district convention appeared highly probable. He didn’t say anything as he thought about the field organizers who would be laid off in a few weeks to save money for the TV ads needed to win the primary. Gartner and Hogan had other things on their mind—like celebrating victories that simply didn’t exist.

“I was telling Brian the other day about my business experience and turning things around,” Gartner continued. “That’s what we’ve done here. A total reclamation project and I think we can almost declare mission accomplished.”

Clarissa was staring at the embarrassing new signs Gartner had ordered after the first round of conventions. “THE ANSWER IS ALEX HOGAN!” She was thoroughly humiliated yesterday when reporters in Jordan started asking about the origins of the bizarre slogan, but she defended it like a good team player. She also knew the real problem wasn’t the slogan, which was idiotic, but the $34,000 Gartner spent putting it on signs, t-shirts, stickers, campaign fliers and several expensive billboards along major highways.

“Ron,” Hogan said. “You really saved the day!”

As Hogan droned on, Clarissa typed away on her laptop. She was thinking about ways to ding Trafton heading into the convention—anything to slow down his momentum.

“We must be aggressive to win this convention,” Gartner said. “I called Sam Kennison and he’s going to do some new radio ads for us and we’ll have them up in a few days.”

At this stage in the game, paid media—TV and radio—was a dumb idea. Before the precinct caucuses, it was a great way to raise awareness about the campaign, but now that the field had been reduced to just 180 people for the district convention there was no need for anything other than calling delegates and begging for their support. Paid media would resume for the primary election campaign.

“Where’s the money tree?” Clarissa didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Excuse me.” Hogan was offended.

“Allow me, Alex,” Gartner said, trying to further prove his worth as chief of staff. “Clarissa, we must be aggressive and prove to people that Alex is an inspirational leader they can trust.”

“Yes,” she said, becoming increasingly annoyed despite her best efforts to remain calm. She wished Carter was here to take the heat with her. “I wasn’t born yesterday. The problem is we’re trying to convince less than 200 people right now. That convention is in 13 days. We call those people and talk to them. We don’t piss away money on radio anymore.”

“Young lady, I happen to know a thing or two about marketing. Who do you think created the slogan that helped get us here?”

“‘The answer is Alex Hogan’ isn’t a slogan,” Clarissa said. “It’s an invitation for ridicule.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Gartner was going into meltdown mode. “I’ve spent my life in the business world. Sam Kennison and I have been making radio ads together for years. I know what I’m doing here.”

Hogan nodded along mindlessly as Winston tried to speak. Clarissa quickly cut him off, reading from papers she had pulled out of her bag.

“This is from Red State Minnesota—”

“From what?” Gartner wasn’t familiar with the conservative political blog.

“It’s a blog.”

“I don’t read blogs. Waste of time. Nobody does.”

“I don’t care what you read,” she snapped. “Political activists and reporters read blogs. Here’s a contest called ‘The answer is Alex Hogan, what’s the question?’”

“I don’t care what some blog says, young lady.”

“Who’s getting his ass kicked in the 7th Congressional District? Who lost the convention in his own hometown? Who’s not going to Congress?” Red State Minnesota readers submitted nastier questions. Clarissa showed considerable restraint by picking the least offensive.

“OK,” Winston said. “Everyone here has been working really hard the last few weeks. Let’s take the rest of the day to decompress and we’ll revisit everything first thing tomorrow.”

Clarissa glared at Gartner, who looked down at the floor to avoid eye contact with her as he walked back to the coffee machine.

“I think that makes good sense,” Hogan said, surprising Winston and Clarissa by accepting an idea that didn’t come from himself or Gartner. “And I think it wouldn’t hurt to review the slogan and get a second opinion on the ads.”

“We’re trying to do this right,” Clarissa said.

“So am I,” the candidate responded. “So we’ll take another look at everything just to make sure.”

Chapter 35

Monday, April 2

At 11 a.m., Caroline Hendrix, a Republican state senator from Eagan, walked into the Capitol Press Briefing Room alone. It was Monday and the Legislature was due to convene at noon, but Hendrix had been sitting in her tiny office in the State Office Building across the street for most of the morning, nervous about the first solo press conference of her political career.

An accountant by training, the 39-year-old lawmaker was an intensely private person. She was divorced and spent much of her time researching every semi-important bill coming before Legislature, teaching aerobics and raising her 7-year-old son, Glenn. She rarely attended party events, kept out of the spotlight and worked very hard on behalf of her suburban district, which helped her score two easy election wins over her six-year career.

“Good morning,” she said, as she stood behind the podium, looking out at a handful of reporters. “I asked you here this morning because I have an important announcement to make. About 15 minutes ago, I submitted a letter to the minority leader and party chairman resigning from the Senate Republican caucus and the Republican Party.

“This was not an easy decision. My political home has always been the Republican Party and I have many friends here at the Capitol and across my district who are proud of their affiliation with the party. After careful consideration, however, I have come to the conclusion that as an independent-minded leader, I cannot affect change from within a party that’s becoming increasingly narrow-minded and out-of-touch.”

Despite her experience in the Senate and the countless debates she had participated in over her career, Hendrix was clearly nervous speaking to reporters. She went on the best she could, secure in the knowledge she wouldn’t have to do this again anytime soon.

“I should make this clear,” she said, looking down at a list of bullet points she pulled together an hour earlier. “I am not joining the DFL Party or Independence Party, either. I will serve out my term, and likely stand for re-election this fall, as a small-i independent. Thank you.”

The first question came from Franny Marks, a reporter with a chain of suburban weekly newspapers based in Eagan.

“Senator, is there a particular moment at which you realized you needed to make this decision?”

“Honestly, it’s been years in the making. One small indignity after another. This party used to be about fiscal responsibility and personal freedom, but now we’re trying to pass tax cuts we can’t afford and also we’re trying to tell people how to live their lives. I’ve had a hard time with it, really, for my entire career, but it’s come to a head in recent months.”

Several reporters asked procedural questions about committee assignments, office space, constituent reaction and the like. Then the always-alert Abigail Swenson of Minnesota Public Radio put her extraordinary memory to work.

“Senator, two years ago at the 7th Congressional District convention in Faribault, you gave the nominating speech for Congresswoman Tara Gunderson Hansen. How do you reconcile strong support for one of the most conservative members of your party with the announcement you’re making today?”

Hendrix hated Hansen and had tried unsuccessfully to purge the last Republican convention from her mind.

“Good memory,” she said, laughing. “Honestly, Abigail, that was politics and it was a mistake. I sacrificed my personal honor to please people in this party and it’s one of the reasons I can make this announcement today with confidence and a sense of relief.”

“Senator, one more question,” Swenson said. “If that was a mistake and you knew it at the time, did you vote for the congresswoman?”

Hendrix paused, looked down at her notes and then smiled.

“I’m not sure how to say this without sounding bad—”

“Try your best,” joked Bruce Thomas of WCCO Radio.

“Thank you for the encouragement, Bruce.” The senator laughed again and felt relaxed for the first time. “To answer your question, Abigail, in both elections in which Congresswoman Hansen asked for my vote I wrote in the name of my ex-husband—and the first time we had just finished pretty tense divorce proceedings.”

The reporters laughed and were clearly excited to have an interesting story since the day’s legislative proceedings—where both chambers would discuss the upcoming bonding bill—promised to be quite dull.

Hendrix spent another 40 minutes talking freely about her status as a pariah within the Republican Party—she’s pro-choice, opposes no-new-taxes pledges and favors more funding so the state can impose year-round public school. She was about to take another question when she noticed the time. It was quarter to noon.

“I have to be going now,” she said. “Hopefully the Republicans haven’t moved my desk out of the Senate chamber.”

*****

Carter Jennings thought this whole exercise was a waste of time, but there he was anyway outlining for Alex Hogan and Ron Gartner the paid media strategy that would get the campaign through the primary election nearly two months away.

Winston Marshall had asked him to come down and put on a show to convince the two that spending thousands of dollars on radio ads to target 180 endorsement convention delegates was “a stupid idea of epic proportions.” For Carter that went without saying, but he kept things professional and treated Hogan and Gartner like they knew what they were doing. It helped that Clarissa Rogers was sitting in on the meeting, giving him someone intelligent to focus on.

After 20 minutes of PowerPoint slides detailing the campaign’s financials, the needs for a primary campaign and the audiences they were targeting for the convention first and then the primary election, he opened the floor to questions. He hoped against all previous evidence that his points would be well-received and questions would be both few and intelligent.

“Carter,” Gartner asked. “Without radio, how are we going to reach out to the delegates and win the convention?”

While Carter considered an answer, Brian Sorensen, Winston, another field organizer and seven volunteers were in front of the office calling the delegates and asking them to consider Hogan one more time.

“Well, I certainly love radio, don’t get me wrong, but I think we should employ the strategy Mr. Bell would advise.”

“Is Bell some kind of political strategist?” Carter couldn’t tell whether Gartner was being serious or incredibly sarcastic.

“He was an American inventor.”

There was a long pause as Hogan nodded at nothing and Gartner stared blankly at Carter.

“Fellas?” Carter was more-or-less speechless.

“Guys,” Clarissa finally said. “He’s talking about the telephone. Those things on the table the people are using to call delegates.”

“Sure, sure. I knew that,” Gartner said.

“Absolutely,” Hogan added.

“Any other questions?” Carter was ready to start practicing law again.

“Try this, Carter.” Gartner opened his laptop and played the audio file of the radio ad Sam Kennison made. It was set to generic and fast rhythm-and-blues music.

“The answer is Alex Hogan. Who’s the only candidate in the 7th Congressional District who knows how to reform the tax code to create jobs? The answer is Alex Hogan. Who’s the only candidate who knows how to implement existing alternative energy strategies? The answer is Alex Hogan. Who’s the only candidate with the experience and nobility needed to defeat Tara Gunderson Hansen? The answer is Alex Hogan. The answer is Alex Hogan. The answer is Alex Hogan.”

Carter wanted to say it was the worst ad he had ever heard in his entire life. He wanted to say that ad made him want to quit politics forever. He wanted to say that ad made him want to vote for Tara Gunderson Hansen. He tried moving his lips, but words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. Finally, he paused, took a deep breath and began to speak.

“It’s a very interesting method if you’re selling used cars, for instance, because people will certainly remember it. But with a political candidate, they need to make some kind of emotional connection; they need to trust that the guy is serious and this ad doesn’t convey that.”

“Really?” Gartner was stumped. “Because my furniture stores had a lot of success with this concept.”

“A lot of success,” Hogan added approvingly.

“OK, I understand the principle of ‘be really annoying so people remember me’ and that’s great for some stuff, but not when you want people to trust you and make a legitimate connection with you.”

Carter was doing his best to keep his cool, but Clarissa, again, was on the verge of losing hers.

“What part of this is confusing?” She avoided shouting. “We’re not selling furniture— we’re trying to persuade 180 delegates to support you. While we’re sitting in this idiotic meeting, Patrick Trafton is calling delegates and raising money. Do you want to lose on the first ballot?”

“Of course not,” Hogan said. “You know that, which is why I’ve been working so hard to inspire people for all these months.”

“Seriously? Because I can’t really tell right now.”

“I think Clarissa raises a good point, guys,” Carter said in a matter-of-fact tone. “We should be having this meeting after the convention. Right now, let’s call those people.”

He felt better as Hogan nodded along before Gartner spoke.

“Nope. I’ll have Kennison start running these ads ASAP. It’s time to quit screwing around and start saturating the airwaves. We’re losing the air war and that’s why we’re in trouble right now.”

Gartner went back to his office, followed quickly by Hogan. Carter just stood there. He’d seen stupid before, but nothing like this. Before he could say anything, Clarissa stood, picked up her laptop, headed out the front door and drove off.

“Holy shit,” Carter whispered to himself as he packed up his things. “That was a waste of time.”

*****

“How’s it going, man?” Carter asked Hank Wright as they met for a beer that night at the River View Bar & Grill.

“I had an amazing stroke of luck today, if you’re interested.”

“Always.”

“So, I told you about Trafton nailing the heiress or whatever you want to call her.”

“The gift? The miracle? The whore? Take your pick,” Carter said.

“Well, I tried and couldn’t get a photo of him going into her room at that hotel there. Nothing that showed what was happening or even proved it was this woman’s, Abbott’s, room in the first place.”

“That’s alright, man. I know you did your best.” Carter wasn’t even disappointed about this development after spending time with Hogan and Gartner.

“Oh, I’m not done. I stopped following him and started following her and there she was at lunch leaving the Minnesota Inn, so I followed right along through downtown and into Trafton’s neighborhood.”

“No—” Carter liked where this story was going.

“Long story short, I did a little bit of trespassing in the process, but I got this.” Wright placed a manila envelope on the table. Carter opened it and pulled out six pictures. He hunched over while flipping through them so nobody else could see and then slid them back into the envelope.

“Classy guy,” Carter said. “Holy shit—”

“Ain’t it something?”

“On the damn coffee table with the curtains open. Amazing.”

“While the wife and kid were helping over at the campaign office.”

“You certainly earned your bonus, Hank. I appreciate this.”

“There’s more to come. I’ve got another project in the works.”

As Wright left, Carter couldn’t possibly imagine what was better than the porn in the manila envelope. He finished his beer and contemplated the next move.

Chapter 36

Tuesday, April 3

It was nearly 3 o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, April 3, but Clarissa Rogers didn’t notice the time and probably wouldn’t have even noticed a fire. She was working on the speech Alex Hogan would deliver to convention delegates in 11 days and wanted to make sure it was perfect.

She was reading through old speeches he had delivered well, long before Trafton entered the race and provoked an implosion, and looking for the right language to go with the theme “working together.” Writing was therapeutic. Twelve hours ago she was storming out of the campaign headquarters, but now she was in crash mode—where the rest of the world fades into the background and the words on the page become the only thing that matter.

“That’s the beauty of the Minnesota experience,” she wrote. “For more than a century and a half now, we have answered generation-defining challenges with the courage, wisdom and compassion that—”

She was thinking it was time for a re-write but was saved by her BlackBerry beeping. It was a text message from Carter Jennings.

“I’m parked out front. Buzz me in.”

She went to her third-floor window, looked out and saw his Mustang parked on the street. He was already standing by the front door. She buzzed him in. A few seconds later he was walking through the door to her apartment.

“Everything OK?” She thought he looked rattled—a far cry from his usual confident-bordering-on-arrogant demeanor.

“Yes,” he said. “Or maybe. Do you have any alcohol?”

She went into the kitchen as he plopped himself down on the couch.

“I have a cheap zinfandel,” she called out. “A two-liter bottle. How classy am I?”

“Let’s do it.”

She came back into the living room, handed him a glass and took a seat on the couch.

“Are we toasting something?”

“Wow,” he said. “I guess. Let’s drink to the incredible news—one way or another—to very incredible news.”

They touched glasses. The wine was $8 a bottle and tasted more like a $6 variety, but it did the trick for Carter. He pulled a manila envelope out from his jacket.

“Clarissa, I’ve been thinking for six hours about this and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve never had to handle something like this before.”

For a second she was wondering whether he was talking about politics at all—and hoping he wasn’t. Then he handed her the envelope.

“It’s X-rated, but I want you to be the third person to know,” he said.

She pulled the first picture out, glanced at it and then put it face down on the footlocker that doubled as a coffee table.

“You could’ve just told me.”

“I wanted you to believe it.”

“I assume the rest of the pictures are the same—”

“Yep. They’re golden and they’re recent—15 hours ago.”

“What about that code of conduct you told me about? Making sure you’re not killing off the better candidate?” She didn’t care anymore about the code of conduct, but didn’t want him to think she was selling out principles.

“That’s something said by people who don’t have pictures like these at their disposal.”

“Do you think Hogan can win if he gets past Trafton?”

“Doubtful,” Carter said. “Unless Hansen is fucking Karen Abbott, too.”

“Disgusting!”

“I’m just saying it would help.”

Clarissa laughed for a moment and then got serious.

“Do we really want Alex Hogan to win? I mean who the hell digs up someone like Ron Gartner to come in and take charge?” She couldn’t decide which of the two men she hated more.

“We’ve got time to think about it.”

“The convention is coming up quickly, Carter.”

“Doesn’t matter. If we kill this guy more than two weeks before the primary the guys at party HQ will recruit someone else. We have to hold it until the end—”

“Which means Hogan can’t ever find out about it,” she said, finishing his thought.

“Can you imagine it?” Carter laughed. “Alex Hogan and Ron Gartner having access to these photos. Jesus—”

“The answer is Alex Hogan. The answer is Alex Hogan.”

“Oh, God, they’d be terrible. Whatever happens, these guys don’t get the photos.”

“No way,” she said. “If it comes down to it, we’ll leak them to a blogger and then pepper the link everywhere.”

“Do we even have a friendly blogger left?”

“There’s a 16-year-old kid in Burnsville who interviewed me at one of the conventions and wrote nice stuff about the campaign.”

“Holy crap,” Carter said. “The Hogan campaign leaks porn to a high school sophomore. I can see the headlines now.”

They were both laughing hysterically as Clarissa tried to steady herself to pour more wine.

*****

Winston Marshall was up at 4 a.m. crunching numbers. After two-and-a-half months of salary, direct mail, fliers, signs, t-shirts and pre-precinct caucus TV and radio they had $381,719 on hand, according to his figures. Nope, he remembered, now it’s $331,719. Gartner, in his infinite wisdom, had authorized a $50,000 expenditure on those terrible radio ads.

Hogan had raised little since the start of the year. The Trafton campaign’s sabotage effort worked brilliantly and the candidate’s focus decreased daily and was at an all-time low since his idiot friend became the titular head of the organization.

After the convention, Winston was going to layoff field organizers Tammy Meyer and Richard Brewer. Brian Sorensen, Clarissa Rogers and Ian Gaffer would take significant pay cuts. And, finally, Gartner would have to forgo the $10,000-a-month salary he had assigned himself. Assuming fundraising doesn’t improve, they’d have very little to wage a seven-week campaign over the airwaves. Trafton would have plenty, plus anything the state party and friendly liberal groups wanted to provide.

He’d been in fights like this before. Rebecca McElroy was outgunned, but won. Minneapolis Congressman Duane Jackson was a prohibitive underdog in his first campaign, but won. They were campaigns to learn from, but, of course, McElroy and Jackson had what Hogan lacked: good political sense, the ability to connect with people and unmatched work ethic.

With this in mind, Winston began typing a strategy memo entitled “HOGAN CAMPAIGN: APRIL 15 TO JUNE 5.”

“Based on up-to-date delegate counts, it is highly likely Patrick Trafton will secure the DFL Party endorsement at the April 14 convention on either the first or second ballot.

“Based on the best intelligence we have, it is also likely Trafton will have at least three times as much money to spend on advertising and other outreach efforts in the 51 days between the convention and primary election. He will also have all party resources at his disposal and the support of labor and other progressive groups.”

Jesus, he thought. This conversation will be fun.

*****

“Absolutely not, Winston.”

Gartner was fine with every recommendation in the strategy memo except for one. He wasn’t willing to give up his pay and made that crystal clear as he and Winston talked things over at the campaign headquarters. It was shortly before 7 a.m. and they were the only people in the office.

“Winston, without my expertise, this campaign would be lost. You’re getting a bargain at 10-grand a month. I could probably get more from another candidate. And I think your memo is too negative. I was at all the conventions and it’s clear to me that we have the lead right now.”

Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“Ron,” Winston said. “I’ve been involved in just about every big political fight in this state for the last 40 years. I’m not getting paid. Carter Jennings is working for free even though he typically pulls in six-figures for his work. These kids aren’t making much and we’re going to lose some of them.”

“The difference,” Gartner said, “is that I’m the key man on this team. What if I went to work for the other guy?”

“The answer is Patrick Trafton? I don’t think that works.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t, but you know damn well I’d come up with something else.”

As they argued over money, Hogan came in. He was early for once.

“What’s going on, guys?”

Winston handed him a copy of the memo, which Hogan read quickly.

“I don’t think we’re losing, in fact I’m sure we’re not,” Hogan said. “But the money stuff seems about right.”

“That’s what we’ve been talking about,” Winston said. “But Ron seems to be having problems accepting the nobility of this effort. We need that money to buy advertisements and inspire people with your depth as a candidate.”

“Is that true, Ron?” Hogan looked confused.

“Well, Alex, I was telling Winston that my expertise is worth well over $10,000 a month and as a good businessman, I can’t give that away.”

“Ron, I think it’s time we talk about the nobility I’m trying to convey, I think.”

Winston had heard this speech before and went back to his office, leaving Gartner to be inspired or whatever.

“That’ll teach the bastard,” he whispered under his breath as he sat down in his office to take care of some e-mails.

*****

At 10 a.m., Clarissa woke up on the couch and saw the half-empty bottle of wine on her footlocker-coffee table. Carter appeared to be asleep.

“So, this is what it’s like to wake up with Carter Jennings.”

“No,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’m usually long out the door by this time.”

“You’re here now, Carter.”

“For two reasons, a) nothing happened, and b) you passed out on me and I couldn’t move.”

“No, Carter,” she said, grabbing his arm. “And what’s this? You cuddled me.”

“No, I rested my arm on your shoulder. That’s not cuddling.”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself to feel better.”

“Actually, I was trying to grab a boob.”

“Cuddling, but whatever.”

They both got up and stretched. The couch wasn’t designed for one person to sleep on, let alone two. Clarissa went into the kitchen to make coffee and Carter checked his iPhone and read Winston’s memo.

“Just so you know,” she called out as she rinsed the coffee pot, “if something did happen, you wouldn’t want to leave.”

He knew she was probably right, but didn’t say anything. He was too stunned by Winston’s latest e-mail, sent just a few minutes ago.

“Clarissa, come in here really quick, please.”

She took a seat on the couch, soap-covered coffee pot in hand.

“What is it?”

“I have some news,” he said.

“Is everything OK?”

“No. Everything is awesome. Ron Gartner just quit a few minutes ago. His last day is April 15.”

“What?”

He handed her the iPhone.

“Yep,” Carter said. “Refused to take a penny less than $10,000 a month.”

“How pathetic is that?” she said as she scrolled through the message again. “His friends will only stay for money.”

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Amazon.com Review: Impeding Justice

2011-02-01T13:33:00.000-06:00

There’s a lot to love in Mel Comley’s Impeding Justice.

It’s a well-told story—with a great villain, a strong supporting cast at the police station, an awesome look at society gone bad in London and several thrilling plot twists.

Unfortunately, I had a tough time getting past the fact that I didn’t like the main character, Lorne Simpkins. I know I was supposed to, but there was just something missing. Such a well-told story, but not enough development of the lead as a human being.

It’s odd, because there were so many other great details in the book. I would’ve liked a few more on Lorne. Instead, I felt a lot was just thrown out there—about her love life and sexism, for instance—and I was being asked to simply accept it. (Show, don’t tell.) I mention this because I otherwise would’ve rated this 6 stars on a 1-5 scale.

The second half of the book is especially fast-moving and the ending is simply breath-taking. I’d easily recommend this to anyone interested in police/thriller stories.

A Referendum on Conscience: Chapters 7-8 (work in progress)

2011-01-30T00:01:00.003-06:00

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Chapter 7

Monday, Nov. 25

U.N. Secretary General Jens Duun’s op-ed in the New York Times calling for a global approach to combating terror groups like the August 28 Revival was thoughtful, balanced and necessary—and a day late. Before most people had a chance to look at the paper on the morning of Monday, Nov. 25, a bomb blast rattled Amman, Jordan. Four people were killed when a suicide bomber got nervous and blew himself up on the sidewalk before he could enter a crowded restaurant. Sheik Pervez Mohammed Akbar was quick to take credit for this attack in a pro-American Middle Eastern capital city.

“Damn,” chief of staff Mike Wells whispered to nobody in particular as he watched the CNN coverage in Rebecca McElroy’s private office shortly before 8 a.m. The senator’s much-anticipated speech was scheduled to begin in about two hours.

President Wayne Fisher promptly condemned the bombing as an “assault on freedom itself” and re-committed America “to the pursuit and elimination of evil on earth.”

“I added a few sentences to the final draft,” said Clarissa Rogers, still wearing her coat and hat. It wasn’t that cold outside and it was 74 degrees in the senator’s office, but she was still battling the flu and felt worse than she did yesterday. The speech was far from the concise and eloquent remarks Rebecca had delivered the morning after the attacks. Weighing in at 47 minutes, it was the fullest possible case against the war. The senator wanted to make sure everything was on the record so nobody could look back and say they weren’t forewarned.

While Clarissa and Wells stared at the TV, Rebecca continued on a conference call with reporters back in Minnesota. Normally these early morning chats attracted just a few diehard political writers at the state Capitol in St. Paul, but today 33 reporters and editors from across the state woke up early to dial-in and hear the senator’s thoughts before the biggest speech of her life. As Rebecca talked, press secretary Elaine Morris paced back and forth while listening to the call on her BlackBerry. There really wasn’t anything to be nervous about anymore, but old habits were hard to break.

“I heard the president’s remarks on the train this morning,” the senator said, with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she reviewed the final copy of her speech. “Obviously I join him in condemning what happened in Jordan today, but I’m still waiting for him to define evil. Where does his ‘crusade’ stop? Azizistan today. China? Russia? Saudi Arabia? There are lots of places just as repulsive for a number of reasons.”

For most of her 11 years in Washington, Rebecca was an anonymous figure who toiled away on things most reporters couldn’t care less about—constituent service, foreign aid, human rights. It suited her fine. She wasn’t a natural star like the vice president. She was plain in appearance, soft-spoken and had a tendency to lecture on details rather than deliver easily digestible sound bites. But to the left-wing of the Democratic Party, she was an example of everything a senator should be and now that was on display for the whole world to see.

“What do I pray for?” She was surprised by the question. “Wisdom and understanding. And I’ve spent a lot of time praying for the victims of this awful thing. One-hundred-sixty-five people left a lot of family and friends behind last week and their lives will never be the same.”

The number 165 caught Clarissa’s attention. The senator was including the family and friends of the three Metro bombers in the list of affected people. It was the first time she had heard anyone do so. A reporter on the conference call also noticed and asked about it.

“God will do as he pleases with those young men, but their friends and family still with us shouldn’t be forgotten,” Rebecca said while underlining a few sections in her speech. “There was a girlfriend, parents, classmates. Nobody saw this coming and they lost people they loved, too. Yes, these young men were terrorists, but the people who loved them aren’t any different than you and me.”

Clarissa turned back to the TV. It’s not like the right-wing attack machine could throw anything worse at the senator than it already had. A couple minutes later Rebecca hung up, leaving the rest of the call to Elaine, who would handle logistical details for reporters who wanted a copy of the speech or a video file after it was delivered. The senator then stood, tucked her speech under her arm and made her way to the door before stopping as she grabbed the knob.

“It occurred to me that I haven’t thanked you all for everything you’ve done this week,” she said. “I know this hasn’t been easy or popular and I really appreciate the sacrifices—you know, everything you’ve been doing.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Wells said as he shook his boss’ hand.

Elaine was listening to a reporter on the other end of the line and couldn’t speak, so she placed her hands over her heart and nodded to Rebecca.

“Senator,” Clarissa said. “When the history of this is written—”

Rebecca grabbed her hand.

“Let’s not close the book on us yet. There’s still so much we need to do.”

She left her brain trust behind and exited into the common work area of the office suite, stopping to chat with various secretaries, interns and support staffers before heading out for a long walk to clear her mind. She was at peace with her role in a course of events she never would’ve chosen for herself.

*****

A minute past 10 a.m., Rebecca McElroy rose to speak on the Senate floor. She had read through her remarks dozens of times and had spoken in this chamber on hundreds of occasions, but she was nevertheless a bit nervous as she placed her speech on the podium and grabbed the small microphone.

“It’s been my great privilege to have participated in countless debates on behalf of the people of our great country. Even in the many fights I lost, I always took great comfort in the fact that the positions my honorable colleagues reached were the result of careful consideration and sincerely held philosophical beliefs. That’s why I’ve been so concerned listening to the speeches on the issue now before us. Had we gathered here a week ago to discuss terrorism, I imagine many of my friends in this chamber would’ve been leery of the kind of bravado we’ve seen from this administration and would embrace some kind of comprehensive approach to combating the threats facing America and the free world. Certainly we’d disagree on some of the finer points, but I know for a fact the notion of a ‘crusade’ against an ill-defined evil would’ve been summarily and rightly rejected before the events of last Monday night.”

Back in her suite at the Hart Senate Office Building, Rebecca’s entire team gathered around the one big TV and watched in silence. From the interns to the senior staff, everyone knew they were witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime event as their boss explained in detail the complexity of Azizistan, the problems that would arise during an occupation and the prospect of prolonged military action turning moderate Muslims into anti-American extremists.

“Not one member of this body campaigned on a slogan of ‘send me to make the easy decisions.’ Each of us promised our constituents we’d do the difficult things. We promised we’d stand up for what’s right. We promised we would take risks to advance the principles of our founding. But here we are today helplessly following public opinion rather than leading it. I am sad, my friends, and fearful for our future when we allow a handful of terrorists, common thugs, to shake this institution to its very core and bring America’s leadership to its knees.”

CNN, Fox News and MSNBC were all carrying the speech live, as were two news radio stations back in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. All told, about 5 million people across the country were now listening to the senator from Minnesota.

“We learn in our churches, mosques and synagogues that violence begets violence and creates hate and fuels retaliation. We know from thousands of years of human history that the policy of retribution first and last solves nothing. And we know from just plain common-sense that we cannot possibly beat reason into a small number of extremists who see war with America as a glorious means to advance their murderous and fraudulent ideology. But here we are today, falling blindly into a conflict that will only perpetuate a cycle of violence that threatens every soul on this tiny planet more than 6.5 billion of us must share.”

While Rebecca continued, Majority Leader Anita Murphy and Minority Leader Alan Desmond huddled in the Senate cloakroom. The White House still hoped to have the bill passed by mid-afternoon so the president could make some remarks of his own in time for the evening news.

“Before we vote today, we should think about the cost of this war,” Rebecca said. “We’ll spend billions or more trying to bring democracy to a nation that has never known it. We’ll lose too many of our very best and bravest—soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines. And we run the risk of radicalizing the millions of Muslims who would otherwise love to work with America rather than against it.

“Finally, let’s also think about this from the perspective of the innocent people of Azizistan, for they, too, are children of God and they are our brothers and sisters. When the bombs start dropping in Aziz City and across that tiny island, what are they to think? Many in this chamber have said we’re bringing them freedom and democracy, but we all know that despite our best efforts this war will bring absolutely unspeakable tragedy to innocents. Like us, they’ll be hard-pressed to see members of a foreign military as liberators when they’re busy burying loved ones caught up in this tragic chain of events.

“For a week now, President Fisher has told the American people that time is of the essence and that we must strike back immediately and commit our nation to a war we’ve been told little about. I do not doubt his sincerity, but I know with every fiber of my being that he is wrong and that the consequences of his actions could have effects so far-reaching we cannot even begin to fully comprehend them today. If there was ever a time to slow down, this is it.

“Americans are not slaves to circumstance. There’s still time to get this right. There’s still time to take the long view. And there’s still time to pursue a policy worthy of this great body and the people who sent us here to lead.

“I respectfully urge you, my colleagues and friends, to join me in rejecting the use-of-force resolution before us today. It may be a thankless vote right now, but I remain convinced that in saying ‘no’ to this war today we will be able to look back months and years from now and know that we did the right thing for Americans and all mankind. Thank you very much for your time this morning.”

The staff back in the office felt a huge rush of relief as they watched Rebecca finish. Clarissa was sweating profusely—a combination of nerves, fever and the fact she was still wearing her coat inside nearly four hours after getting to work. Wells let out a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. Elaine sat down and placed her head in her hands while waiting for the first call from a reporter.

“Everyone,” Wells said, addressing the entire staff. “No matter what happens, we can be very proud of the woman we work for today.”

There was cheering, crying and lots of hugging after the finest 45 minutes and 21 seconds of Rebecca’s distinguished career. As expected, however, the celebration was short-lived.

Five hours later, the use-of-force resolution passed the Senate, 97-1.

*****

Clarissa went home after Rebecca spoke and watched the rest of the speeches and the heartbreaking vote from bed. There was nothing more they could do as President Fisher addressed the nation from the White House Press Briefing Room at 5 p.m.

“I’d like to thank the good members of the House and Senate for coming together in a strong bipartisan fashion to give me all the tools I need to keep the people of the United States safe from the terrorists who attacked us almost exactly one week ago.”

She cut off the television and pulled the covers over her head and tried to sleep while the rest of the staff watched the president from the senator’s office. Everybody wondered when exactly the war would start, when Fisher would declare victory and when it would actually be over.

McElroy missed the president’s message by design. She was on board Central Airlines Flight #399 as it taxied down the runway at Reagan National Airport before departing for Minneapolis. She knew she was going to lose today, but was crushed that after 11 years in the Senate she was unable to convince a single colleague to see things her way on a generation-defining issue. The Thanksgiving recess couldn’t have come soon enough.

Chapter 8

Saturday, Nov. 30

“I don’t know about you, but when I see a violent attack on American soil, my first concern isn’t about the people who did it!”

Former Congresswoman Tara Gunderson Hansen had a crowd of 200 Republicans at a gun club in Jefferson County, 45 minutes west of Minneapolis, on their feet as she eviscerated Rebecca McElroy’s vote against the use-of-force resolution. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving and there were still more than 11 months to go until the election, but the Republican Senate candidate was in post-Labor Day form. She had her issue and would use it to bludgeon any Democrats who got in her way.

“All we need to understand is that evil must be defeated, period. What Senator McElroy did is give direct aid and comfort to the enemy and while Democrats voted against her, they haven’t spoken out against what she did. Since they won’t lead, I will.”

Hansen had two terms in the state Legislature and another two in the U.S. House of Representatives under her belt before losing her re-election bid the previous November after Alex Hogan’s campaign branded her as an accomplice to espionage—even after the suspected spy, Israeli Knesset member Sofa Ronski, was killed in a terrorist attack.

“My opponent, Todd Owen, talks a really good game. Everyone seems to like him and why shouldn’t they? When he’s with the fringe left of his party all he does is say ‘yes.’ When he’s with the moderates he always says ‘yes.’ When he’s talking to independents, he always says ‘yes.’ Does anyone know where he stands on anything? All I know is that he’s afraid to stand up for anything or to anyone!”

After last year’s election, Ronski was completely exonerated by the FBI. For Republican activists across the state, Hansen, a conservative fire brand, was a martyr, a victim of a liberal attack machine that would stop at nothing. Republicans immediately coalesced around her Senate campaign and the field of potential GOP candidates quickly disappeared. Owen, the founder of Offices & More, the largest office supply chain in the country, had pledged $40 million of his personal fortune to his campaign, but Hansen was viewed by many experts as the favorite given her high name recognition, charisma and political network across Minnesota and the country.

The previous March, two months after the congressional session convened without her, Hansen announced her Senate candidacy and hadn’t stopped moving since. She had already visited each of Minnesota 87 counties at least once and attracted large crowds of supporters wherever she went. While she lacked great personal wealth, experts figured she could raise $20 million from supporters nationwide and that the national Republican Party and sympathetic groups would dump another $20 million into Minnesota on her behalf.

“You know, my friends, the other day I read a blog post where people accused me of trying to link Owen to McElroy.”

Her adoring audience laughed and cheered as Hansen, a 44-year-old former cheerleader at Worthington High School and the University of Minnesota, smiled and soaked it in for a few seconds. Last year’s loss still stung, but the eight months straight she spent campaigning helped cushion the blow. This is what she did best, after all.

“To them I say this: guilty as charged! She endorsed him. He called her his model for public service—an ‘inspiration.’ Yes, he really said that. He hasn’t condemned her actions. Does he even have a position on Azizistan?”

As Hansen finished her remarks a reporter from the daily St. Cloud Times put down his pen for the first time in 39 minutes and turned to a colleague from one of the Jefferson County weekly papers.

“We’re cruising toward the ugliest campaign in state history,” the St. Cloud reporter said.

The local writer scribbled down a few more notes and shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he said as he glanced up at the stage and then around the room at the cheering crowd. “Look at her. Owen’s going to be dead by Memorial Day. This thing’s over.”

*****

“Todd, don’t worry about those people. I’m for the war and if the president screws it up, I’ll be against it because it wasn’t done right. That’s what the people I represent want. They told me and I listened.”

Congressman Hogan didn’t blink before supporting the use-of-force resolution. It was a simple issue. His constituents flooded his office with messages calling for revenge and he obliged by voting with Republican President Wayne Fisher without asking a single question. No second thoughts at all for the first-term congressman who was now holding court in the living room of Owen’s mansion on Grand Avenue in St. Paul.

“Congressman, what if McElroy is right? About a third of the activists we’ve been hearing from strongly agree with her.” Matt Gibson, Owen’s 31-year-old campaign manager, was nervous. Even though his candidate was the only person in the hunt for the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party’s nomination, the war issue was proving extremely difficult to handle. Potential delegates to the party’s May endorsement convention seemed evenly divided between McElroy’s position, supporting the president and some kind of middle course between the two.

“Don’t worry about her,” Hogan said. “She’s done and the people across the state strongly support our president. You should read my e-mail. I’ve been thanked by Democrats, Republicans and Independents for leading on this issue.”

Owen had known Hogan since their freshman year at Winona State University 25 years earlier. He still couldn’t believe the backup fullback on the football team was now a member of the U.S. House of Representatives. It’s part of what inspired him to hand over control of his business empire to his younger brother and make a run for the Senate. If Hogan can do it, who can’t?

“Alex, what about what I’ve been saying? I’ve been telling people I respect the senator’s opinion, but believe we probably need to take some kind of military action to defeat terrorism. People kind of seem to be making of it what they will. It’s not perfect—”

“Exactly,” Hogan said. “Don’t get yourself nailed down on anything. You’re the man in this race and people know you’re the only person who can do what only I’ve done—beat Hansen.”

Gibson had spent nearly two weeks trying to convince his boss he needed to be decisively for or against the war. Hansen certainly wasn’t going to engage in any kind of hand-wringing. Even if people disagree with you, they can respect you for holding a strong opinion. Gibson knew this from experience. In Maryland and Pennsylvania he had worked for candidates who won elections, despite holding positions their constituents opposed. Now, after listening to Hogan talk for an hour, Owen was sliding further away from taking any position on what would likely be the biggest issue of the campaign.

“Congressman,” Gibson said, interrupting as Hogan rattled off all the details of his victory over Hansen. “Don’t people need to know where we stand? They know where Hansen stands, which is the same place you stand, apparently.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” Gibson had no clue what Hogan was talking about anymore.

“Exactly. People need to know you’re for the war and leading the charge against terrorism unless it goes poorly and then you’ll lead the charge against it. You have to watch how these things develop. It’s very complicated unless you’ve been there leading like me.”

Gibson’s younger brother was a sergeant in the 82nd Airborne. Any war against Azizistan would certainly include elements from the elite, North Carolina-based division. He wasn’t in the least bit reassured that Hogan was part of the decision-making process.

“So, congressman, people need to know you’re for something until you’re against it and then they need to know you’re against it unless you’re for it again?”

“Exactly.”

Hogan checked his watch and stood to leave.

“Gentlemen, I’m due in Two Rivers in an hour to meet with some businessmen about the issues in Washington. I’ll be glad to come talk this over with you some more, but I have to leave right now.”

A few minutes later, Owen and Gibson were alone. The candidate spoke first.

“I’m not happy with any of this,” he said. “The direction from Washington sucks. The consultants don’t know anything—”

“What do you want to do, sir?”

“Matt, I’m beginning to think you’re right, but I want to bring in someone else to help us.” He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Set up a meeting for you and me with Carter Jennings.”

It was the first good news Gibson had heard all day. Carter helped get Hogan elected—making him something of a miracle worker—and had won statewide races across the country. Perhaps he could make sense of all this.

“I’ll call him right away.”

Over the next few days Gibson left six messages for Carter, who finally responded by e-mail. “I think I’m going to sit this one out. Thanks for thinking of me. Good luck.”

*****

Rebecca McElroy never went Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving—“Black Friday,” as it’s known in the retail world. For reasons they had both long since forgotten, she and her husband, Zach, made their annual pilgrimage to Mall of America, 10 minutes from their Bloomington home, on the Saturday after the holiday. The mall was packed this afternoon, despite ominous and lame local TV reports that the mega mall was the biggest terror target in Minnesota. Less than two weeks after the attacks in Washington, apparently anything was fair game in the name of winning the network ratings war.

An hour into their trip, the McElroys had bought nothing. They had a daughter, son-in-law, grandson and numerous co-workers and employees to shop for. They took comfort in the fact there was still nearly a month to go until Christmas, so they decided to skip Sears and head to the amusement park on the first floor.

As they walked through the park, past the long lines of children waiting to get on kids’ show-themed rides, they were approached by a heavyset middle-age man with long, scraggly hair and a thick beard.

“Are you Rebecca McElroy?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir, I am. Can I help you with something?” It was the first time anyone had approached her since she arrived back in Minnesota on Monday night.

“Didn’t vote for you the first time.”

Zach stepped forward, ready to get in between his wife and her constituent.

“Nope, not the first time,” the man continued. “But I’m glad I did the second time. Heard your speech on the radio on the loading dock over at MinnAg and it seemed pretty reasonable to me—even if my buddies are ready for wars with anyone.”

She was surprised. She had been convinced her first interaction with a voter after the war debate was going to be unpleasant.

“Thank you very much, sir. That really means a lot.”

“You keep giving those guys hell. They need to hear it.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you so much.”

The man quickly left after noticing his smaller child getting ready to eat a cookie he had just dropped on the floor while standing in line to get on a nearby roller coaster.

“Wow,” Rebecca whispered to Zach. “At least my approval rating will register something.”

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

From the Author: Crime Beat

2011-01-27T00:01:00.000-06:00

From author Scott Nicholson:

99 cents for a limited time at Amazon
Or at Amazon UK
For Nook at BN.com
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Moretz started work on a Tuesday, but maybe his real work didn't begin until a few weeks later.

Moretz was the last guy to apply for the crime beat position. I wouldn't have hired him if I wasn't down to the bottom of the applicant pool and drowning in my own fatigue. As editor of the Sycamore Shade Picayune, if one of my writers didn't come through, it would be my cheeks in the sling when the corporate bosses swooped down in their BMW's.

The overlords had kept me on a tight budget for the past year, and the two slackers already on payroll when I started this job were killing time until they figured out what they wanted to do when they grew up. I had already nailed my career track: I was going to win the Pulitzer and move on to the New York Times. Except the step from a Blue Ridge Mountain tri-weekly with a circulation of 5,000 to the big time was going to be murder.

Which is where Moretz comes in.

I didn't figure him for much. He had decent clips as a feature writer for some weekly shopper on the West Coast, one of those rags that whined about the decline of the redwoods and how Big Sur had been taken over by old acid heads that cut their hair and became developers.

But Moretz had taken a few detours along the career path, according to his resume. A stint as a short order cook in Des Moines, a gap where he claimed to be taking community-college classes, and a year running the political campaign of a state senatorial loser in Orange County—Republican, for the record, though like most true journalists, Moretz could switch-hit in a heartbeat if the money was better.

At the time Moretz came in for the interview, I already had my mind set on another candidate, a girl with long legs whose ink on her journalism degree was still sopping wet. I had delusions of offering her the benefit of my experience.

Moretz interviewed on a Friday, the press day for our weekend edition, the busiest time for the Picayune. I'd just put the paper to bed, which is a lousy industry term for it since our paper went out mid-day. My eyes were dry and burning, the victims of a 4 a.m. date with the computer screen. I blinked twice when Moretz walked in, and then checked my PDA to make sure I'd scheduled the appointment.

I had. Damn it.

"Hi, Johannes," I said, reading from the resume. I pronounced it "Yo-hann," not sure if that was some sort of Austrian pronunciation. I figured somebody with a name like that got beat up a lot as a kid.

"John," he said. He was tall, dark, and, if you like that sort of thing, I guess he was handsome. Solid jaw, a little twinkle in his black eyes, built like he'd played football in high school but had turned in his jock for a Sunday afternoon armchair. He looked about 30, not so threatening, since I had a few years of longevity on him.

After all, he was the one looking for a job. I had one. Not a great one, but a job nonetheless.

I browsed his clips. He'd won third in a press association feature writing contest with a piece about an old lady with 30 cats. The Picayune's audience, like that of most local newspapers, is old, slightly educated, and fairly conservative. I browsed the article and noticed John Moretz (bylined as John J. Moretz) had not once given in to sarcasm or ridicule. An unbiased treatment, journalistically solid, fair and balanced.

Big deal. Could it swing advertisers?

"So, John, this position is for the crime beat. We haven't had a real crime reporter since I've been here. I like the writers we have now, but they don't know how to go for the throat."

That was an understatement. Westmoreland was an aspiring actor whose last big role was playing the narrator in the local community theater performance of "Our Town." Baker had served with the Picayune as an intern before my tenure, dropped out to tour with a bluegrass band, then got his girlfriend pregnant and needed health insurance so he'd crawled back on his hands and knees, bloody mandolin strings trailing out behind.

Of course I rehired him. I do have a heart, despite all other evidence to the contrary.

"I can do the job, sir," John said.

Stumbling Forward: Chapters 31-33

2011-01-26T00:01:00.019-06:00

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Chapter 31

Monday, Feb. 27-Tuesday, Feb. 28

Maggie Sanderson’s campaign RV rumbled west on Interstate 90 toward Rapid City. It was the day before the South Dakota Democratic Primary and despite every disadvantage, polls showed her within striking distance of her well-funded opponent, Sam Isaacson.

It was just a few minutes after 10 a.m. and Clarissa Rogers was enjoying the trip through the Badlands. It was beautiful and, most importantly, cell phone reception ranged from poor to non-existent. She had spent the better part of the trip from Sioux Falls working to clarify remarks Alex Hogan made in an interview with the liberal blog, Deep Blue Minnesota, and needed a break. After a week staffing Sanderson and helping the candidate’s team with press releases and speeches, Clarissa really didn’t care that Hogan told Jack Bergson “any idiot can be the mayor of a small town.”

Carter Jennings was sound asleep, with his head resting on a pillow pressed up against the window. He returned from a couple days in Texas earlier in the month and spent barely 12 hours in Minneapolis before packing up his Mustang and making the trip to South Dakota. In the nearly three weeks since, he’d been to every corner of the state with Maggie and her team and even helped on a get-out-the-vote phone bank for a few hours, something he hadn’t done since law school.

As Clarissa made a few edits on the speech Maggie was due to give at noon at South Dakota School of Mines and Technology in Rapid City, the candidate sat down next to her.

“You know, I just want to thank you for all your help this past week,” Maggie said. “It really means a lot to everyone here to have an extra set of hands.”

The younger woman was taken aback. Alex Hogan almost never thanked anybody for anything—and never ever acknowledged that someone was a truly valuable member of the team.

“I don’t want to jinx things,” Maggie continued, “but if we get through this thing tomorrow I’d like you to stay on board with us if that’s something you’d be interested in doing. I know you’re busy and probably pretty sought after, but we’d love to have you if we can.”

Clarissa didn’t know how to respond to such kindness from a candidate. She was embarrassed as she stumbled for words. Not exactly the image a communications professional wants to project to a potential employer.

“You don’t have to answer now, dear. Just think about it.”

Maggie went to talk with other staffers, leaving Clarissa to the speech. After a minute she put down the papers and shook Carter’s shoulder.

“Are we there yet?” He had been out for two hours.

“We just passed through Wall.”

“Then I’m going back to sleep, Clarissa.” In law school he regularly drove across the state to clear his mind of everything that had happened in South Carolina. He had driven past all the landmarks along Interstate 90 many times and knew Wall meant they had an hour or so before reaching Rapid City.

“No, don’t.”

“You can’t fix every idiot thing that comes out of Hogan’s mouth. Don’t worry about it.” He spent the first two hours of the trip, from Sioux Falls to Chamberlain, helping with Hogan. He didn’t want to think about Minnesota’s 7th Congressional District again.

“It’s not that. Maggie just offered me a job.”

“Of course she did, I told her you’re awesome, but I’ll take it back if you don’t let me rest.”

She let his back-handed compliment hang out there for a while and was touched he had thrown her a lifeline to get off the Hogan campaign. Then she was excited about the opportunity. Carter went back to sleep and she watched him for five minutes hoping he’d wake up. Finally, she shook his shoulder again.

“So you have to tell me everything about South Dakota.”

He called out to an intern to bring him anything caffeinated and then started with a refresher on the difference between the state’s two distinct geographic and political regions, “East River” and “West River.”

*****

Winston Marshall hadn’t taken a sick day in decades, but today was stricken with a nasty bout of the flu and couldn’t even bring himself to get out of bed when he woke up, as usual, at 4 a.m. He returned a few phone calls later, but by noon barely had enough energy to sit up. Marcia took his cell phone and laptop out of the room.

In nearly 40 years of law and politics, Winston had never accepted defeat. He could never bring himself to quit anything and refused to believe that something was impossible. He still held out hope that Hogan could get his act in gear and overcome Patrick Trafton. After that everything would change and they’d give Tara Gunderson Hansen a serious run for her money in the general election. Maybe he was crazy, he freely admitted, but nothing could stop him from going after the biggest companies as a lawyer or the biggest players in the political establishment.

At his insistence, Marcia kept a lunch appointment with an old friend. When he finally heard the garage door open and close, he willed himself out of bed and made his way to the study. There was work to do, flu or not.

As he lowered himself into his office chair, the phone rang. It was Carter, calling from Rapid City, to check in for the first time since he left for South Dakota.

“How’s it going, Winston?”

“I’m doing great. We might be able to pick up enough delegates to block an endorsement at the convention.”

“You sound like shit, man. What are you doing?” Carter was standing outside the auditorium at South Dakota School of Mines and Technology, where Maggie was giving basically the same speech he had heard dozens of times.

“Same thing you’ve been doing for the last 15 years—forcing myself to go on. We’re going to win this thing and then I’m going to make a big list of everyone who tried to screw us on this one—”

“Go back to bed.”

“I’m fine. How’s the kid?” The former trial lawyer was an expert at changing the subject and he knew Carter’s favorite subject was Clarissa, whether the younger man would admit it or not.

“Clarissa’s doing great. Maggie absolutely loves her and wants to keep her if we win tomorrow.”

“Our loss, but she should be doing something better than this—”

“So should you,” Carter said, displaying his own skill at the change-the-subject game.

“Don’t start that crap with me. Already took plenty of it from Rebecca, Lawrence and Allison.”

“Maybe there’s something to it. Did you consider that?” Clarissa wasn’t supposed to say anything, but had told Carter everything she knew about the meeting in St. Paul.

“I don’t want to put you on my list, but I will—”

“Fine, but think about it,” Carter said. “You’re wearing yourself out for a lightweight not worth a minute of your time.”

“Is the stuff you said about Trafton’s women true?”

“Yes. When I get back we’ll prove it.”

“Then it’s worth my time,” Winston said. “We have to beat that bastard somehow.”

“What’s Hogan doing? Other than shooting himself in the dick. Nice story on the blog this morning, by the way.”

“I saw that. He’s calling delegates—persuasion calls.”

“I’ll meet with Hank when I get back and we’ll look and see about killing Trafton then because putting Hogan on the phone with delegates isn’t going to get us across the finish line.”

“We could send him to Peru and make Clarissa the face of the campaign,” Winston said, coughing as he laughed. “Putting her out front usually turns out well for us—”

“Yep,” Carter said. “We’ll tell people Alex Hogan had a sex change, lost a bunch of weight, got a brain and is now Alexandra Hogan.”

“Could work.” Winston was feeling a bit better, finally.

*****

By 3 a.m. the Sanderson team had made it back to Sioux Falls for the last time of the primary campaign. After the morning trip across the state, they made stops in Pierre, Mitchell, Brookings and Sioux Falls before rolling into Vermillion for a midnight rally in the candidate’s hometown. Maggie stayed home while the rest of the staff returned to headquarters for a short meeting to review their final Primary Day plans.

“If this was New Orleans we could hit a bar,” Carter said as he and Clarissa drove from headquarters back to the Sheraton.

“A drink would be perfect right now.”

They were both excited about the day. Maggie was met by enthusiastic crowds everywhere and TV cameras were on hand to record the 500 people greeting the RV as it pulled into Vermillion. It was going to look great on the morning news in a few hours, just before people head out to vote. With a little luck, they could pull off one of the most improbable upsets in recent South Dakota political history.

“So it’s drive to New Orleans or the minibar in my room,” Carter said.

“Your room.”

“Are you coming on to me, Clarissa Rogers? I’m not that kind of boy, just so you know.”

“Oh, shut up. Your room has booze and mine doesn’t.”

Back at the Sheraton they made their way up to Carter’s room. He grabbed two beers and two small bottles of Jack Daniels from the refrigerator.

“Thank you for everything, Carter. I mean it.”

“It’s nothing,” he said and then noticed the price list on top of the television. “Actually, it’s $6 for a Bud Light. What the hell?”

“No,” she laughed. “For this trip, bringing me on board, helping me with Hogan, everything.”

“It’s been an absolute privilege. I mean that,” he said, taking a seat at the office table by the window as she sat on the corner of the bed. “You’re very special and working with you has been a real—an honor or something like that. I’m really bad at this, but you know what I mean.”

“You know, before I met you, I hated you.”

“How on earth could you hate me? I’m so wonderful.” He knew she probably wasn’t the only person who disliked him based on his reputation.

“The Janet Smith campaign ads—”

“She was so terrible.”

“I know, but let’s not relive that,” she said. “Point is, I was wrong about you and I’m admitting it.”

“No need to do that. There’s always a chance I’ll screw up later somehow.”

They spent the next half hour talking about the past week in South Dakota and the Hogan campaign. Carter finished off his third beer and the little bottle of Jack Daniels and went to the refrigerator to grab more.

“Want another?” he asked. This was turning into a party.

No answer. He turned around and saw Clarissa asleep across the foot of the bed. It was 4:09 a.m.—more than 21 hours after they first left Sioux Falls for Rapid City.

“Lucky girl,” he whispered.

He covered her with a fleece blanket he always took with him on trips, grabbed another drink and took his seat at the window, kicking his feet up on the table. Carter had never admitted it to anyone before, but he couldn’t sleep the night before an election.

Chapter 32

Wednesday, Feb. 29

For once in his life, Carter Jennings was obeying the posted speed limit with room to spare. He was in no hurry to get back to Minnesota, so the Mustang crawled along Interstate 90 at 65 miles per hour in a 75 zone just east of Sioux Falls.

It was noon on Feb. 29, a little more than 10 hours after Maggie Sanderson conceded defeat in the South Dakota primary. She had been winning most of the night, but fell behind when results started pouring in from the more conservative western part of the state. After all the ballots were counted, she had lost: 50,789 to 49,211.

Carter and Clarissa Rogers didn’t say much after checking out of the Sheraton. He knew with a little bit of money for a week’s worth of TV ads, Sanderson could’ve won. Sam Isaacson dominated every TV and radio station in the state, while Maggie gamely stretched every dollar she had and even cashed out $25,000 from her retirement account to ensure all her staff got paid for their work and left with two weeks of severance pay. Carter loved Maggie, but his main focus on the drive back to Minnesota and the 7th Congressional District was his win-loss record, which had fallen to 32-8.

For Clarissa, it was heartbreaking. In just a week she grew to admire Maggie and her courage and determination against all the odds. She cried during the graceful concession speech in which the candidate pledged to “work day and night to ensure Sam Isaacson is the next governor of the great state of South Dakota.” Maggie had every reason to be bitter, but instead spent her time thanking everyone who helped and trying to rally them to Isaacson’s cause. Clarissa couldn’t even envision Alex Hogan doing that with a gun at his head. This wasn’t how she wanted to spend her 28th birthday.

As they neared the Minnesota state line, Carter glanced over at her. She was staring out the window as light snow began to fall. A single tear rolled down her cheek. He didn’t say anything, but a few minutes later, after crossing out of South Dakota, he pulled into the first rest area.

“Come on,” he said, getting out of the car.

They walked along the rest area’s grounds, toward the lot where the tractor trailers park. He made a snowball with his bare hands and threw it off the sign for the dog walk area.

“Do you know Bill Arthur?”

“No,” she answered. “Who is he?”

“Bill Arthur, about 12 years ago, was the congressional candidate down in this part of the state. I was his communications director and he was a complete and total prick.”

“Why’d you work for him?”

“I was young and needed a job.”

“I know the feeling.” Before signing on with Hogan she was making $11 an hour doing community organizing for an environmental group.

“Anyway, he was such a prick, and I’ve never told anyone this, but a month before the election I actually put a $100 bill in an envelope and mailed it to his opponent.”

She laughed.

“I was miserable for the entire year and four months I worked for the guy. The summer before the election, I called Winston and asked him to take me back at the law firm. That’s how bad it sucked.”

He threw another snowball off the sign.

“He wouldn’t do it,” Carter continued. “He told me that when the election’s over, he’d toss me a lifeline and he did. He got me some communications work for the trial lawyers’ group right after Election Day and then a few months later he linked me up with a Bloomington City Council member nobody ever heard of.”

“Who was it?”

“Rebecca McElroy. She was running for Senate, everyone in the DFL was lining up behind the other guy, but we kicked his ass, then beat the incumbent and the rest is history.”

He threw another snowball toward the sign, but missed high and away.

“The point is, you get through these things. I know Alex Hogan is an asshole and not worth your time, but you’re a pro and you’ll make it. Then, whenever this thing ends, I’ll throw you a lifeline and everything will be OK.”

She smiled, but didn’t know what to say. She made a snowball and threw it toward the sign, missing it low and to the right. She really was left-handed, but Carter was still pretty sure she was throwing with the wrong arm.

“Are you with me on this?” He hated seeing her down.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you—”

“Don’t. Just pay it back to someone else someday.”

He drilled the sign with another snowball.

“Come on,” he said, blowing into his hands, which were now freezing cold. “Pick your head up, we’ll get lunch somewhere along the highway. Then we’ll go back to Burnsville and this thing will end eventually and we’ll be fine.”

“It can’t end soon enough,” she said, laughing.

“No, it really can’t.”

*****

For the third time in the last nine days Hank Wright met Melonie Kline for lunch. In their previous meetings she just blew off steam about her failed relationship with Patrick Trafton and Hank had assumed they’d have more of that today.

“For a month, I couldn’t get out of bed,” Melonie said in between bites of her hamburger at a little hole-in-the-wall place in Forest Lake, north of St. Croix Heights. “I was so stupid. Believed all of his crap about leaving his wife, getting married, living happily ever after.”

He had heard this story before, but it was part of the game. Just as he did with her brother-in-law, he’d listen, earn her trust and then learn something he could pass along to Carter.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You fell in love. It happens. He took advantage of you and exploited your trust. He’s the bad guy in the story.”

“I know and you’re so nice to say that. It just still gets me. And I feel bad for his wife. I don’t think she knew about me and I doubt she knows about Karen Abbott.”

“Some guys are just slime.” Hank’s profession forced him to dabble in slime, but in his private life he was a stand-up guy and devoted husband. “One day it’ll all come crumbling down on him. You wait and see.”

Hank didn’t want to press too hard. He believed her and knew she’d produce material for him on her own schedule. The endorsement convention was meaningless. He was willing to spend the next couple months earning her trust, so long as he got information to use before the June primary.

In the meantime, he was still lurking around the Minnesota Inn, hoping to catch Trafton making another visit to Karen Abbott. Just a few days ago he scouted out a spot in the stairwell where he’d be able to see Trafton coming without being noticed. He’d then follow behind the mayor and get a photo of him entering Abbott’s eighth-floor suite.

“Why do you guys want to beat him?” Melonie had no interest in politics.

“Honestly? I work for a guy who’s trying to win an election and my job is to help him win. Sure, I think Trafton’s a bad guy, even more so now, but I went looking for you to win. Nothing noble about it.”

“I can understand that. Thanks for being honest about it.”

“My word is all I have, Melonie.”

“Bear with me,” she said. “Once I’m sure I can trust you, I’ll be more helpful. This is an awful big thing for me to get involved with.”

“I have time. Want to come down to my house next week for dinner? My wife is a good cook.” He tossed out the line about his wife just to make sure Melonie wasn’t getting any ideas about him. He also hoped inviting her to his home would help move their relationship along.

“I’d love that. You can call me whenever it’s OK with your family.”

*****

“This is Alex Hogan, the DFL candidate in the 7th Congressional District.”

Hogan was making delegate persuasion calls. The system was simple. His field staff and volunteers called everyone selected at the precinct caucuses to be a local convention delegate and then rated them as “strong Trafton,” “leaning Trafton,” “neutral,” “leaning Hogan,” or “strong Hogan.” Then Hogan called everyone who wasn’t strongly supporting him or Trafton.

In the three weeks since the caucuses, the Hogan campaign contacted 1,704 of the 1,985 delegates. More than 1,000 were at least leaning toward Trafton. Only 450 felt the same way about Hogan, so the hapless underdog had a lot of work to do. The local conventions were set to begin in just 10 days.

Brian Sorensen drew the short straw. It was his job to staff Hogan during these calls and it was excruciating. Clarissa had written several good scripts, but the candidate developed his own less-effective system.

“It’s my understanding,” Hogan said into the phone, “that you’re looking for a candidate who can beat Tara Gunderson Hansen.”

There was a long pause while the person on the other end of the line tried to either humor Hogan or get off the phone altogether.

“Good! Well, I wanted to let you know that I’m the only candidate in this race with the kind of experience needed to do this. Perhaps you’ve seen me debate Hansen on Fox News.”

Another pause.

“I understand. I don’t watch it, either, but I’ll go anywhere to debate her. If you enter ‘Hogan’ and ‘Tara Gunderson Hansen’ into Google, you’ll find it. It’s right there.”

Another pause as Brian reached for a new call sheet and script for Hogan to ignore. He couldn’t believe he was still talking about the Fox News appearance. The reason it wasn’t on the campaign website is because it was a total embarrassment to everyone except the candidate.

“Great! Thanks so much for everything!”

Hogan hung up and pounded his right fist into his left hand.

“Another new supporter, Brian. We’re winning.”

“Awesome, sir.”

Chapter 33

Friday, March 10

“What the hell is this supposed to be about?”

Carter Jennings was annoyed. It was 7:15 a.m. on Friday, March 10. Less than eight hours ago, Alex Hogan had summoned his team—paid staff and nine high-energy volunteers—to the headquarters for a 7 a.m. meeting. Everyone was there now except for the candidate.

“I have no clue, Carter.” Winston Marshall wasn’t happy, either. The first four local conventions were scheduled for Saturday and the staff had been working double-time to prepare. The last thing they needed to be doing was wasting time with Hogan’s bizarre motivational techniques.

A few more minutes went by before Brian Sorensen noticed Hogan’s Mercedes pulling into the parking lot. The candidate and another man got out and made their way to the front door.

“Who the fuck is that?” Brian whispered to Carter.

“No clue. Never seen him before in my life.”

Hogan and the man walked in and went straight back to the coffee machine without saying hello to anyone.

“Do you think we can get to work now?” Clarissa Rogers covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh at Carter’s question.

“In a minute, Carter,” Hogan responded. “This is very important. Very important.”

“So are those conventions tomorrow that everyone’s been working on,” Clarissa whispered, hoping Hogan wouldn’t hear.

“I know,” the candidate said, walking to the front of the room with the other man. He always heard everything. “That’s why I called this meeting.”

Carter started typing on his iPhone. It was just a grocery list—Diet Coke, bananas, paper towels and soap. He refused to give this candidate his undivided attention.

“Good morning. The reason I called this meeting is to announce a very important addition to our team. Ron Gartner is a business associate of mine and he’ll be my chief of staff. Everyone goes through him to get to me. Ron’s experience in business should help shape this campaign up and get us in a position to win the election.”

Winston had no clue this was coming, but tried to hide his surprise and embarrassment.

“So, Don,” Carter said, intentionally getting his name wrong. “What experience do you have running major political campaigns?”

“And your name is?”

“Carter Jennings.”

“Tell me about your experience, Mr. Jennings.”

“Mr. Jennings was my dad. I’m Carter and I’ve worked for senators, governors, mayors, congressmen. I’ve won elections in seven states and from a staff standpoint, we’re doing pretty well here. First-rate people are already in place. Why the hell are you here?”

“Well, Carter, I’m Ron,” he said, stressing his name and trying to assert himself in front of the group. “And I recently sold my furniture company, which operates in three states. I’m here because Mr. Hogan tells me things aren’t going well, so consider me an efficiency expert. I’m here to make sure everyone’s working up to their full potential.”

The room fell completely silent for a moment, but Carter wasn’t done.

“Tell me about your qualifications. What elections have you won? What governors and senators owe you favors? What qualifies you to pass judgment on the people in this room?”

“That’s enough, Carter,” Winston snapped.

“And what’s your name again? Jon?” Carter tossed that in for good measure.

“Insubordination will not be tolerated,” Hogan interjected, sticking his pudgy chin into the air to show power. Carter wished he could punch him. With the exception of Gartner, there was a room full of people who would swear Hogan slipped and fell.

Carter went back to his grocery list, adding dish detergent and pens.

“As I was saying,” Gartner continued, “I’m here to get this campaign going again. As I see it, the problems are fundraising and branding. We need more money for the primary election and we need a brand that makes people think Alex Hogan.”

He wheeled over the dry erase board as the team watched in stunned disbelief.

“This is something I know about and I would be happy to teach any of you about it,” Gartner said. “People must think ‘this is the guy I support’ and on the way down here I came up with a little slogan you people will find to be very clever.”

He started writing in red marker and Hogan proudly looked on: “THE ANSWER IS ALEX HOGAN!!!”

“Pretty good, huh?”

Nobody said a word for about 30 seconds. Carter went back to his grocery list. Winston stared at the floor. Brian made a mental note to update his resume. Ian Gaffer tried not to laugh. Clarissa typed away on her BlackBerry. The silence was broken eventually by the faint buzzing of Carter’s iPhone. He checked the text message from Clarissa.

“What was the question? And who the hell does this guy think he is?” He almost laughed out loud as Gartner and Hogan stood in front of the room awaiting some kind of gratification.

“I said, pretty good, huh?” Gartner was surprised that nobody got his concept. “The answer is Alex Hogan. Really makes you think, right?”

Carter typed out a response to Clarissa’s text message.

“I think this guy is Alex’s groupie. Let’s go get breakfast after this.”

Winston, who was being humiliated in front of his hand-picked team, finally spoke up.

“I think it’s an interesting idea, Ron. I know Clarissa and Carter will work with it. You’ll get all the help you need from them and everyone else here. We’re all in this to elect a congressman.”

“I expect nothing less,” Gartner said. “We need people pulling their weight. Alex can’t carry everyone and it’s my understanding that’s exactly what he’s been doing for months.”

“I understand,” Winston responded. “These are good people here and we’ll get the job done.”

Watching his friend grovel to this asshole was more than Carter could handle.

“I’m going to breakfast,” he announced as he walked out the door before the meeting was officially adjourned.

*****

At 8 a.m., Patrick Trafton walked into his office in downtown St. Croix Heights. His staff and two dozen volunteers were already hard at work making calls and preparing fliers and other material for the conventions coming up in 24 hours in Red Wing, Shakopee, Forest Lake and Eagan.

He was on his cell phone talking to George Epstein about fundraising—they had raised $1 million so far, kept expenses down and events in New York and Washington the following week were expected to net another $250,000. As Trafton walked toward his desk in the back corner of the office—which once housed a small grocery store put out of business by the major chain that opened recently on the outskirts of town—he turned around and noticed how busy everyone was.

“George, let me call you back later.”

He hung up and walked back toward the front of the office and waited for a moment at which he could speak. Finally the last volunteer finished a phone call and all eyes were on the candidate. Everyone clapped and after a few seconds he was getting a standing ovation from his team.

“Thank you very much, everyone. I mean it, thank you.”

It took the better part of a minute before he had silence again.

“Everyone, I don’t say it enough, but what you’re doing means everything to me. Nobody gave us a chance, but because of your hard work we’re in a position to win this thing. Thank you so much for everything.”

They broke into another standing ovation.

“I promise I’m going to run hard every day and work my ass off to earn the right to have you on my team. No matter what happens tomorrow or in November or whenever, this is the best part, having gotten to know all of you. Keep working hard and I promise I’ll work hard to be worth it.”

He soaked up another standing ovation and then made his way to his desk. It was time to raise more money. He knew Hogan was gunning for a primary and wanted to make sure he had enough to kill him off in June while keeping plenty in reserve for Tara Gunderson Hansen.

*****

About an hour after Carter left the campaign meeting, Clarissa walked into the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot and sat down next to him.

“Holy crap,” she whispered as he read the sports page.

“I think I’m going to head down to Texas this weekend,” he said.

“I thought they weren’t going to need you back down there until April, probably.”

“I’m not going to watch Winston suck up to these people. He’s a great man and they’re not.”

“Carter, we need you here. After you left Hogan went through an organizational chart in which Winston was officially named ‘assistant to the chief of staff.’ The rest of us were listed as ‘secondary support staff.’”

He didn’t say anything as he checked an e-mail and then slid the iPhone across the table.

“Read that.”

Clarissa read slowly, stunned by the short message.

“Is this guy serious?”

“If Hank Wright tells you something, you can believe it,” Carter said.

She read the e-mail again.

“So, who’s the girl?”

“He’s working on it. It could be the beginning of the end for Patrick Trafton.”

“Could be?” Clarissa said. “It will be if this comes together.”

“It depends. Before you kill someone off you want to make sure your guy is worth it. I had no problem going negative on your gal in the governor’s race because she was a flake and Mitchell would’ve kicked Taylor’s ass. But is Hogan better than Trafton? I can’t tell.”

“I didn’t know Carter Jennings had a code of conduct for attack ads.”

“I just made it up about 10 seconds ago. But at some point you have to ask yourself about how far you’ll go. I’ve rarely worked for people I didn’t think were better than the other guy—or at least equal to him.”

“So, if we don’t cream Trafton, what do we do?”

“We fight hard until the end, but we don’t do anything to embarrass ourselves for Hogan. Trafton can lose in November. Doesn’t really matter.”

“Wow.” She still couldn’t believe the attack ads he ran against Janet Smith in the gubernatorial primary two years ago. Now somewhere along the line he had developed ethics?

“Clarissa, Congress is a pretty serious office. I know there are about 400 losers out of 435, but we don’t need another. I’m not sure I can blow up Trafton just for the sake of winning. This shit today was the last straw.”

“I can respect that.” She was being honest, but was still floored that Carter wasn’t as win-at-any-cost as he normally seemed.

They sat quietly for a few minutes before a waitress came and took their order.

“Seriously,” Carter said. “Did he really classify everyone else as a ‘secondary support staff?’”

“I wish I was joking.”

“Even me?”

“Even you. Secondary support staff, Carter—even you.”

If he thought there was even a chance she’d like Gov. Bill Harrison, they’d be on their way to Texas by the end of the day. But the conservative Southern Democrat governor and the liberal, northern woman had little in common aside from their party label.

“Don’t worry about it,” Carter finally said. “I’ll worry about Winston and I’ll take care of the other crap. You just keep writing good stuff and you’ll be OK.”

Previously published samples available here.

Preview chapters from the sequel, A Referendum on Conscience, available here.

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

From the Author: Vampire by Day Werewolf by Night: Elina Jensen's Double Curse

2011-01-25T00:01:00.003-06:00

From author

Vianka Van Bokkem:

Available on Amazon Kindle

Elina Jensen was cursed to walk as a vampire by day and as a werewolf by night when she was still inside her mother’s womb.

Elina had to deal not only with her double curse but with her attraction for Arian the 19 year old human boy, Kitchi the strong werewolf and Tristan the Romanian vampire!

Amazon.com Review: The Patriot Paradox

2011-01-24T16:46:00.000-06:00

Is there a better word than 'wow'?

In The Patriot Paradox, author William Esmont takes us on a roaring-fast adventure across five countries as Kurt Vetter tries to understand his brother's death and then stop a rogue CIA element from detonating a nuclear weapon in Moscow.

Despite the break-neck pace, Esmont's story is highly detailed and the characters (major and minor) are very well-developed. There's lots of promising material for the sequel that can't be published soon enough!

From the Author: The Adventures of Jecosan Tarres (The Journey // Book 1)

2011-01-24T00:01:00.013-06:00

From author Laura Lond:
Available on Amazon Kindle

His father killed in war before he was three, his mother unexpectedly dying when he was eight, Jecosan Tarres is young and poor, yet he has something not many men have: a faithful heart, a strong spirit, and the knowledge of truth taught to him by his mother and the priest Shaledan. Alone for a year, but later befriended by a blacksmith, Dalian, he has already beaten the odds of being destitute and forgotten, but clearly something or someone is at work in his life. With his faithful dog Gart and his friend Dalian, he sets out on a life defining journey after a messenger visits him with a commission to go to Kanavar, the ancient capital of Meoria, where he is to enter the king's service and somehow prevent the war that is about to break out in his country. There are powerful forces interested in his journey, both to fail and succeed. Join young Jecosan as he struggles along, escaping sudden traps, facing prison and captivity, fighting pain and despair, losing and making friends.

Excerpt

This time, the sense of someone’s invisible presence was so strong that Jeco could even tell where it was coming from. Its source was over there, in the dark corner right in front of him where stood the old wooden chest with a broken lock.

Gart looked that direction and made a slight movement with his tail.

“Gart?” Jeco whispered. “Can you feel it, too? Who is there, Gart?”

The dog glanced at him, somewhat surprised, and turned his head back to the corner, wagging his tail faster. Jeco put down the book. Suddenly, the dark corner in front of him was illuminated with a soft light. Pure white radiance coming from nowhere was getting stronger and brighter; Jeco couldn’t help holding out his hand to shield himself, although the powerful light was at the same time very gentle and did not hurt the eyes.

It was an awesome, breathtaking sight. The burst of white light just stood there, shining gloriously yet not flooding the whole attic, its contours distinct. Already nearly impossible to bear, it was still growing stronger, at the same time somewhat condensing, thickening in the middle. Jeco first thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the more he looked the clearer he saw that dense spot in the very center of the glowing cloud. The spot pulsated and throbbed, changing beautifully, until it formed a human-like shape.

”An elgur!” Jeco gasped in disbelief.

“Greetings, young brother!” came a rich, powerful voice.

A Referendum on Conscience: Chapters 5-6 (work in progress)

2011-01-23T00:01:00.007-06:00

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Chapter 5

Thursday, Nov. 21

Clarissa Rogers couldn’t resist watching on the small television on the corner of her desk as Congressman Alex Hogan rose to speak on the House floor a couple minutes before 10 a.m. on Thursday, Nov. 21. She was his campaign manager last year and hardly a week went by in which she didn’t regret working so hard to get him elected.

“Mr. Speaker, I stand today in support of this important resolution defending the security of the American people. That was my solemn oath to the people of my district and I take that responsibility very, very seriously.”

Clarissa was already feeling sick and this wasn’t helping. “Your only oath was to defend the Constitution, asshole!” A few junior staffers, who normally gravitated toward her, scurried away as she shouted at the TV. After regaining her composure, she noticed Hogan was balder than he was last November and about 20 pounds heavier. She still couldn’t believe he was a member of Congress.

“I realize there are some who would like to wish away danger and pretend we can make friends with the enemy, but I am not one of them,” Hogan continued, taking a thinly veiled shot at Rebecca McElroy, who also played a big role in getting him elected. He didn’t need her anymore. He was now worried about getting re-elected in his Republican-leaning district and knew the senator would be useless to that effort. “In my campaign last year, national security was a very prominent issue and I will work vigorously to ensure we defend America using every means available to us.”

The notion of Hogan as a national security expert was laughable at best. During debate prep more than a year ago, a volunteer from the University of Minnesota political science department spent nearly an hour trying to teach him the difference between NATO and the U.N. Security Council.

If he was just a lone nut, Clarissa could deal with that. But the fact Hogan was representative of most of the Democrats on Capitol Hill was absolutely crushing. She was supposed to be working on the senator’s speech, but had spent much of the morning watching as 13 House Democrats used their five-minute speeches to parrot every talking point coming from the White House. No serious questions. No reflection. No courage.

“We didn’t want war,” Hogan said. “But the terrorists did, so now we’ll give it to them and I’m certain they won’t ever try anything again after they see that the American people are serious about responding to savagery. Defeat is not an option. Compromise is no better than surrender. It’s time to stand up and fight back!”

The House was scheduled to conclude its so-called debate on Saturday. The Senate was set to begin its rubber-stamping in a couple hours and leadership agreed to deliver the use-of-force resolution to the White House by early Monday afternoon, a few hours shy of a week after the bombings started.

Meanwhile, Hogan had three more minutes available to him and he intended to use each second.

“I was inspired by the bravery of our rescue workers in responding to this and now it’s time for Congress to do its very best to inspire the American people by bringing the country together around a common cause and that common cause is defeating evil in this world.”

Clarissa had enough. She packed up her laptop and headed out to a coffee shop near the Capitol. If there was no seating there, fine. All she needed was a place without a TV. The middle of Interstate 395 during rush hour would’ve been sufficient after watching two minutes of Hogan.

*****

It was raining in Australia as 39-year-old Carter Jennings sat in his room at the Royal Perth Hotel, along the coast of the Indian Ocean. He had enjoyed 12 days there, but now his thoughts were drifting back to the United States. His first priority should’ve been Texas Gov. Bill Harrison’s presidential ambitions, but instead his main focus was Rebecca McElroy.

Carter rarely let issues get in the way of his work. His job was to make TV and radio ads that help candidates win elections. He had worked for conservative and liberal Democrats and rarely ever thought twice about it, but Rebecca was another story. Before getting into the advertising business, he was the spokesperson for her first Senate campaign a dozen years ago and then did the commercials for her re-election effort. He admired her greatly and was very proud of what she was doing back in Washington. He knew the use-of-force resolution would pass easily, but her courage was still amazing. An Australian newspaper, devoting front-page coverage to the developments in Washington, even included a story on the senator’s speech from the morning after the attack.

Over the next few days, a Chicago-based polling firm he often used would ask voters across Minnesota about the senator. Carter was paying for this one out of his own pocket at a cost of about $25,000. Would you be more or less likely to support the senator if she decides to run for a third term after initially promising to serve only two? Do you approve of the job she’s doing in Washington? Do you have a favorable or unfavorable view of the senator? Do you agree with her position opposing President Wayne Fisher’s plans to attack Azizistan?

Rebecca was taking on the biggest issue of her life with almost no political clout. Lame ducks don’t accomplish anything. To continue as something even resembling a viable force in the Senate, she needed to seek a third term. Minnesota Democrats would certainly rather have her for next year’s election than their only other option, businessman Todd Owen. Unlike the politically flexible Owen, McElroy would give voters across the state a very clear choice in the general election. The presumptive Republican nominee, former Congresswoman Tara Gunderson Hansen, was as dangerous and extreme as the president.

It was 10 p.m. on Australia’s western coast and Carter wanted to call Clarissa, but he knew it was still morning in Washington and she’d be very busy. Instead he ordered room service and then grabbed his laptop and started typing a memo: “Re-Elect Rebecca McElroy Strategy Memo #1: Lame Ducks Don’t Stop Wars.” In a few days he’d write a second memo focusing on the results of the polling, but for now he wanted to outline the basic plan to secure the Minnesota Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party’s nomination, raise money and get a general election campaign against Hansen off the ground.

Carter knew he could kick Hansen’s ass again. She was viewed as invincible in the state’s 7th Congressional District before she lost to Hogan. And that was in a district that favored conservatives. Despite its Republican governor, Minnesota as a whole leans pretty strongly in favor of the DFL Party and McElroy had won big majorities twice before. Now it was time to start working on getting her commitment so they could start working toward a third term. Time wasn’t on their side.

Gov. Harrison’s presidential campaign could be the crowning achievement of Carter’s career and presented the opportunity to earn enough money to retire from day-to-day politics whenever he wanted. That’s what he had planned on thinking about when he boarded a Central Airlines flight in Minneapolis on Nov. 8, but Harrison didn’t stand for anything other than winning. Rebecca was on the right side of the defining issue of a generation. That made her the most important person in the world to Carter.

*****

It took him a few months, but Sam Jenkins had finally become pretty proficient at using his BlackBerry. It was an older model his wife had given up. He didn’t want it, but awoke one morning to find his ancient flip phone replaced with “this damn thing.” Now he couldn’t imagine a day without it. Finally, he had both feet planted firmly in the 21st century.

Sam dipped out of his office at about 11, as usual, and ate his ham sandwich and fruit cup—another gift from his health-conscious wife—under a tree alongside the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He had just lit his post-lunch cigarette when CNN.com finished loading on his phone. He knew this breaking news headline would come at some point, but it still startled him. “PROTESTS ROCK AZIZ CITY.”

He clicked on the story and it was everything he told Sen. McElroy to expect. Sunnis and Shiites, Persians and Arabs, were marching through the Azizistan capital together chanting “death to America.” President Wayne Fisher was burned in effigy. American flags were being shredded. Rocks were thrown through the windows of U.S.-based businesses.

Nothing like this could’ve been done without the consent of the government, which had full control of Aziz City. The official media there was calling it a “spontaneous uprising against brutal western imperialism,” but Sam knew this was all organized and executed by the information ministry controlled by dictator Ali Saeed’s brother-in-law.

For the first time in nine years, Sam pulled Rebecca’s official business card from his wallet and called her office. He introduced himself as her brother Steve and was quickly patched through to her.

“Senator, turn on CNN.”

Rebecca got up from her desk, where she was reviewing the most recent draft of her speech, closed the door and turned on the seldom-used TV on her bookshelf. She watched for a minute without speaking. The images were disturbing.

“Is this a real protest?” she finally asked.

“It’s all staged, but the sentiment is real,” he said. “They’re sending us a message.”

“I’m not speaking until Monday morning. Can we meet this weekend? I need a briefing on Azizistan’s military capabilities and the various post-invasion scenarios. Everything I’m getting here is garbage.”

“Six o’clock, Saturday night. I’ll have Ashley set another place at the table.”

He hung up and started back toward his office as he noticed dark grey clouds had passed in front of the sun. He tried not to think about the weather. He didn’t need another bad omen today.

Chapter 6

Sunday, Nov. 24

In a term and a half in the U.S. Senate, Elizabeth Winfield accomplished little of consequence, but it was clear after 10 months as vice president that she was a force to be reckoned with inside the White House. Whenever the administration had a case to make, it was the attractive 48-year-old Alabaman who was put front and center. Sunday, Nov. 24, was no different as she took her place alongside Bill Drake, the host of NBC’s weekly political roundup show. After a couple minutes of chit-chat, the vice president cut right to the chase.

“Friday’s memorial service was very moving, Bill, and we’re very grateful the House of Representatives voted so overwhelmingly to allow the president the powers needed to take this fight back to the terrorists.”

On Saturday afternoon, the House voted 429-6 in favor of the use-of-force resolution. All eight of Minnesota’s representatives—six Democrats and two Republicans—threw their support behind the president. The six no votes came from people representing liberal districts in the Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle metro areas.

“It’s been six days, Madam Vice President, since the attacks. What happens next? Assuming the Senate authorizes this force resolution tomorrow, where do we go from here?”

“Well, Bill, it’s only been six days and the war planners are still working that out. We’re getting people in position and figuring out what the targets need to be. Beyond that, I don’t really have anything to say other than to thank the Senate in advance for its support. I’m very proud the Congress in which I once served has put politics aside to support our president in a time of war.”

“There were a few no votes in the House and Senator Rebecca McElroy of Minnesota is expected to speak out against your plans tomorrow morning. Is that cause for concern?”

“We’re not worried about a relative handful of people who put politics ahead of duty—”

Finally, Drake thought, we have some real news to report. Like most journalists, he had had a tough time over the last few days finding the line between being an American who supports his country and a reporter who asks tough questions in the name of getting at the truth. The vice president just clarified things for him.

“Politics ahead of duty? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean there are a few ultra-liberal House members who come from districts with constituencies that don’t want to face the reality that there are people out there who hate America. And I’ve known Rebecca McElroy for nine or 10 years. She’s retiring. She’s frustrated that her out-of-the-mainstream views have never been embraced by the Senate and this is her parting shot. The president is focused on defending America. We’re not interested in distractions.”

Rebecca and Winfield were fierce rivals in the Senate. McElroy had watched the vice president back-stab almost every Republican who had tried to help her and believed Winfield was a bigger threat to America’s future than President Wayne Fisher. For her part, Winfield thought Rebecca was probably a socialist who’d love to completely gut the military, open abortion clinics in every town in America and have elementary school students taught that homosexuality is something they should try. At least that’s what she said in a campaign stop in Minnesota on behalf of Rebecca’s opponent a little more than six years ago.

“So what you’re saying is that people who disagree with the president are somehow opposed to America’s security or, as you imply about Senator McElroy, are somehow insincere in their opposition?”

“No, that’s not what I said at all—”

“But you just said McElroy was issuing a ‘parting shot.’ That sounds like you’re questioning the sincerity of her opposition.”

“No, Bill, I said she’s frustrated her out-of-touch views haven’t been embraced by her colleagues. I do believe she, and the six House members who voted her way, are sincerely outside the mainstream. They look at the world most Americans see and draw dangerously different conclusions. That’s what I was saying.”

*****

Clarissa Rogers had barely left bed for 48 hours. Her fever had yet to drop below 101 degrees, her head ached and every time she coughed her ribs and back hurt. There was work to do, however, so she spent this Sunday morning as she had spent each previous Sunday since coming to Washington—reading the papers and watching the talk shows.

Vice President Winfield’s performance was obnoxious, as always, but the scariest thing of the day wasn’t the bluster coming from the White House. Instead, she saw the Washington Times column by leading conservative opinion maker Ben Reynolds as a horrific prelude to things to come. Under the headline “IRAN DRIVES ACTIONS IN AZIZISTAN,” Reynolds spent 1,158 words making the case that Tehran propped up the August 28 Revival and the dictator in Aziz City. He never once mentioned that predominately Shiite Muslim Iran had serious problems with the half-Sunni Muslim power structure within Azizistan.

The reports sent along from Rebecca’s dinner with Sam Jenkins were also disturbing. In an hour-long presentation in his living room in Spotsylvania County, Sam made it clear that within a week of the invasion U.S. forces would achieve temporary control of Azizistan. During the initial fighting, the mainly conscript regular army would crumble and the elite Martyrs Brigade would melt back into the population and live to fight another day against the occupying Americans. Sam fully expected the Martyrs to hide in civilian areas, launch attacks from mosques, hospitals and schools, and eventually lure the Americans into counterattacks that would further radicalize the general population. It may only take days to achieve a battlefield victory, but it would take years, at least, to create something resembling a functional society in Azizistan.

With this in mind, Clarissa began work on the ninth draft of the remarks Rebecca would give in about 24 hours. By unanimous consent, the senators agreed to limit their speeches to one hour each. As it stood now, Rebecca would use about 28 minutes.

Clarissa’s BlackBerry rang while she looked for a place to insert a couple paragraphs on the military details 86 senators had so far ignored. The caller ID read “UNKNOWN.”

“Hello?”

“I bet you were glad to learn you’ve spent the last year working your ass off for a senator who very clearly hates America.” It was Carter Jennings calling from Australia. He had seen the vice president’s performance on satellite television.

“Carter?” She instantly recognized his voice, the South Carolina accent was unmistakable, but didn’t know what to say.

“Live from Australia. What are you all going to do tomorrow?”

“I think we’re going to throw in the towel. Admit the vice president had the senator’s number, apologize, support a stupid war. Same as always.” She coughed as she laughed.

“You sound like death. Have you been sleeping?”

“Does passing out from a fever count as sleeping?”

“No.”

“Then I haven’t been sleeping.”

They spent the next few minutes talking about the senator’s speech. It was almost like old times on the Alex Hogan campaign last year. He dished out some good advice, made her laugh and for a second she almost forgot how bad the last week had been in Washington. He had intended to talk about next year’s election, but decided to save that for later. He was still waiting on polling data anyway.

“Listen, Clarissa,” Carter said, becoming uncharacteristically serious. “You all are going to lose big tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sitting here on the other side of the world reading about everything and I’ve never been as proud of anything as I am of you all right now. Give those assholes hell tomorrow.”

Carter still generally viewed politics as a game, but even he was capable of seeing when it really mattered—when it became something more than money, slicing and dicing demographics, and building positive and negative stories for voters to consume in 30-second TV ads.

“What happens after tomorrow?” she asked, hoping he’d have a comforting answer. He didn’t, of course.

“America goes to a war she shouldn’t. History proves you all right, but for time being nothing good happens.”

“Did you read the Washington Times today?”

“I prefer killing brain cells with alcohol.” The Times was completely in the bag for the administration. Carter had no reason to read it since he wasn’t working in Washington. Clarissa, however, suffered through it each morning.

“Look up Ben Reynolds’ column,” she said. “He’s beating the drum against Iran.”

“Jesus Christ. Think anyone will notice if I just stay in Australia?”

“Come home, Carter. There’s a presidential campaign starting in a couple years and that’s your burden to carry.”

“What’s the president’s approval rating at now? I haven’t bothered to look it up.”

“CNN reports 89 percent as of Friday afternoon.”

“Yep, I’m staying here.”

“I’ll be in Minnesota for Christmas,” she said. “Come find me then.”

She hung up before he could respond and went back to working on the speech.

*****

Rebecca McElroy didn’t watch the vice president on NBC. Instead she went to St. Mary’s Catholic Church on Sunday morning and prayed for peace, wisdom and strength. She wasn’t a weekly worshipper, but for most of her career in the Senate she went to the downtown Fredericksburg church at least once a month.

While the service was nice, the drive home was grim. If Route 3 spoke for the country—and Rebecca’s husband said it certainly spoke for their suburban Minneapolis neighborhood—then we’re in trouble. Bumper stickers, signs in business windows and messages printed on marquees outside of shopping centers made it clear that most Americans had no interest in her calls for a balanced response to the Nov. 18 attacks.

A couple days ago, a neighbor she barely knew called out “go get those bastards” as she walked from her car to the front door. Rebecca was too tired to say anything, so she simply waved and ducked inside.

As she navigated through heavy traffic outside Spotsylvania Mall, she wondered how many people doing early Christmas shopping there would be affected by the war that was coming. The message on the big sign visible from the highway read “America Strikes Back!” Would people still be so blood thirsty when the first 19-year-old from the county comes home in a coffin? Would people be willing to accept cuts to federal programs they like to pay for an endless occupation of Azizistan? Would people leaving churches across the country ever realize that Jesus would oppose bombing anyone?

She turned into a Giant Food to pick up a few groceries for her final 24 hours in the area before going back to Minnesota for Thanksgiving. While she walked through the parking lot she called Clarissa to tell her about the signs and bumper stickers. If I’m going down tomorrow, she thought, might as well get everything on the record. No sense in holding back now.

Links to previous chapters available here.

Stumbling Forward, the first book in this series, can be downloaded free at Smashwords by entering code MB52G.

Amazon.com Review: Tea Bagging America: A Memoir

2011-01-22T00:15:00.001-06:00

Relevant and Timely, But it Needs More

Tea Bagging America: A Memoir is an interesting story about a political movement that has re-shaped public discourse in our country.

Among other things, the writer provides some very timely insights into the politics of anger.

It's worth a read, but this book could also be so much more. It's far too short--about 602 locations--for a story that's set over about 18 months (timeline's a little confusing). It reads more like an essay or an article than a book or even a short story. I register this complaint because I really do believe the author is onto something with this.

Despite some problems, I think this is something political/news junkies should take a look at it. It's definitely eye-opening.

I also hope the writer goes back to work and emerges with a 2.0 version. His views could be especially useful as we head into the 2012 election.

Stumbling Forward Free with Coupon

2011-01-21T19:18:00.000-06:00

Stumbling Forward can be downloaded for free in a variety of formats (including .PDF, Kindle, Nook) at Smashwords.

Enter coupon code: MB52G.

From the Author: Storm of Magick

2011-01-21T00:01:00.009-06:00

From author L.A. Burton: Available on Smashwords

Logan Wolf, a ghost hunting witch, is asked to help rescue the local werefox king, Rafe, who is being held by a sadistic lycan- a lycanthrope with active witch abilities. The queen needs to get pregnant so she can use the child as a sacrifice to gain full power. Logan is also called in to advice on some strange murders by the local police force. All the victims are from the local supernatural community - werebear, werefox and vashon. Vashon are vampire fairie hybrids.

Later, Logan gets a call from her friend, Samantha, who is in danger. Along with several men from the supernatural community, Logan goes to Samantha's rescue. But they're too late. Samantha has been attacked, as she owns an artifact and scrolls that the werefox queen needs to complete the ritual. Logan and her werefox friend Paris take a comatose Sam to the hospital.

Frustrated and angry, Logan loses control of her magick, and the surge she creates ripples out to everyone in the room, knocking everyone out. When they all come round, Logan discovers that the men have all received part of her magick. Paris can call shadows. Ailin, a vashon, can levitate. Alex, the werebear king, can shake the earth. Caleb, Logan's housemate, has telekinesis and Ronan, the vashon king, can freeze time.

Done!

2011-01-20T00:49:00.000-06:00

The first draft of my fourth novel is done. Feels so good! (81,333 words)

Going to take a few days off and then begin final edits on A Referendum on Conscience.

Publication Schedule

A Referendum on Conscience
May 2011

Picking a Fight
October 2011

Lame Duck? Episodes in Ambition, Duty and the Perpetual Campaign
Spring 2012 (no later than May)

(Unknown title; last book in series)
Fall 2012 (no later than October)

From the Author: Wrecker

2011-01-20T00:01:00.010-06:00

From author Dave Conifer:
Available on Amazon Kindle and Smashwords

Jane Havelock is coping one day at a time in a bad marriage when her husband hires simple-minded handyman Rob Manteo. She grows fond of Manteo, who seems to know more than he lets on. Struck by his unstable and morose nature, Jane digs into his past. But by the time she uncovers a horrible secret and realizes that it wasn't chance that brought Manteo into their world, it may be too late.

Excerpt (opening)

Steve Havelock watched the man that had to be Manteo emerge from the dirty white truck. The dark skin, tattered clothing and dirty work boots signaled that Manteo was somebody that made his living outside. His face was brown where it wasn’t covered by a bushy beard that tapered to a point four inches below his chin. The beard ended in front of his ears. His head appeared to be clean-shaven beneath the blue bandana that mostly covered it. The other sales reps had looked softer and were armed with sprinkler system brochures, friendly smiles and clean hands. This one had none of those things; just a clipboard and a snarl.

He was as huge as Steve remembered. At least six foot five, Steve estimated, with a lean, heavily-muscled body thinly veiled by the tattered work clothes. Building sprinkler systems must be some workout, he thought to himself.

Manteo looked angry. He looked mean. While Steve had grown up in the safe suburbs playing rec soccer and having sleepovers, guys like this were already breaking the rules. He was the kind of guy that Steve had learned to avoid.

From the Author: Ask the Dead

2011-01-19T03:22:00.000-06:00

From author Joyce Yarrow:
Available on Amazon Kindle

In this first book in the Jo Epstein mystery series, Jo—a private investigator and performance poet—untangles a web of money-laundering, kidnapping and murder that extends from New York City to a hurricane-torn island in the Caribbean.

“Chock full of terrific NY details, wonderful characters and clever turns of phrase, Joyce Yarrow’s ASK THE DEAD is a masterful debut and a must for fans of Sue Grafton and the Big Apple.” -- Ann Romeo of MurderInk

Stumbling Forward: Chapters 28-30

2011-01-19T03:21:00.001-06:00

Previously published samples available here.

Chapter 28

Wednesday, Feb. 8

“The Legislature tried to block us, but I think we have the votes to pull through.”

Carter Jennings was bored to tears as Kim Donaldson, a 23-year-old staff assistant in Gov. Bill Harrison’s office, rambled on about a procedural debate in the Texas Senate. It was 1 a.m. and he couldn’t believe he had wasted two hours talking in her cramped apartment near the University of Texas when there were plenty of other girls in Austin who would rather not discuss the various schemes floating around the capital city.

He was in Texas for Harrison’s re-election announcement tour, which would start in seven hours on the steps of the Capitol and continue on by plane to Dallas, Houston, San Antonio and El Paso before ending 12 hours later in Harrison’s hometown of Lubbock. He didn’t want to be there, but made the trip to ensure that one line from the various drafts of the announcement speech was actually delivered: “Texas is stronger than ever. Crime is down, taxes are lower, jobs are easier to find and our students are reaching new heights.” It wasn’t poetic, as the governor’s sanctimonious speechwriter wanted, but Carter knew it would sound great on the evening news and in campaign ads during the fall campaign.

“Amazing,” he said when Kim stopped to catch her breath. She was now teaching him about the House Agriculture Committee as he contemplated jumping out the fourth-floor window.

“I know,” she said, oblivious to his complete indifference. “You’d think they would jump at that amendment, but nothing.”

His mind was in Minnesota, where precinct caucuses had ended a few hours earlier. He knew Patrick Trafton would fare well, but thought the Hogan campaign had a decent game plan in place—getting volunteers into each of the 26 caucus locations to staff an information table complete with stickers, fliers and a campaign video playing on continuous loop. It would be no match for Trafton’s army of elected officials, union representatives and countless volunteers, but it might be good enough to help Alex Hogan live to fight another day.

“We’re going to bring the railroad commissioner in for a meeting next week,” Kim said. “He’s one of the only Republicans interested in actually getting things done.”

Before Carter could blurt out another lame response he was saved by his ringing iPhone. It was Clarissa Rogers. He took the call without offering an apology.

“How’d it go tonight?” He was glad to hear from her and wished he could trust that things would be done right with the announcement speech so he could catch the 5:35 a.m. flight back to Minneapolis. He’d be home in time to meet Clarissa for breakfast and felt like a wimp for thinking like this.

“We’re not sure,” she said. “We got people where they needed to be. Now it’s a matter of figuring out who these delegates are and trying to close the deal.”

“With a little luck we can make a decent showing at the conventions, but this thing is going to the primary. That’s where we can win if we don’t waste too much money courting delegates who aren’t going to support Hogan anyway.”

Kim got up off the couch and left the room. Carter stood too and considered walking out the door, but decided to finish the phone call first.

“Does your guy have anything on Trafton?” For the first time Clarissa was leaning toward an anything-to-win strategy. After all these crushing months with Hogan she didn’t want the campaign to end in defeat.

“He’s working on it. We know it’s there. We just need to find it. Apparently the guy is at least somewhat discrete.”

They talked for a few minutes about Texas. Harrison, with a 64-percent job approval rating, seemed like a shoo-in for re-election. She wanted to know about the state and its people, but Carter had only seen the airport, the campaign office, his hotel, a McDonald’s and Kim’s apartment, which he didn’t mention. He had thought he was going to see her bedroom, but was now ready to give up on that mission.

“Did you meet a girl down there?” Clarissa’s interest in his sorted love life was a combination of morbid curiosity and a bit of jealousy.

“Nope. Just learning about the Legislature. Important stuff.”

“Nice euphemism.” She was amused.

“I’m just trying to inspire people about my nobility,” he said and was about to continue his Hogan impersonation when he noticed Kim’s reflection in the window. She had slipped into something more comfortable and was definitely done talking about the Legislature. Two hours of his pretending to listen had finally paid off for Carter.

*****

Winston Marshall was sick and tired, but was still awake at 2 a.m., working in his study in St. Croix Heights, trying to get a read on the hand dealt to the Hogan campaign.

Nearly 2,000 people from across the 7th District had been selected as delegates to their upcoming local conventions and 180 of them would advance to the district-wide convention where the party would give its non-binding, but symbolically important, blessing to one of the candidates.

In a few days he’d have each delegate’s name, e-mail address and phone number, but for now was content to look for clues in the 1,400 names Team Hogan managed to collect. Some were people he knew from past campaigns, others appeared to be new to the political game and many, he was certain, were already at least somewhat committed to Trafton.

The caucus night strategy was executed flawlessly, but for Winston it was another bad day. Burnsville Mayor Priscilla Lawrence, who two months earlier had helped the Hogan campaign blast Tara Gunderson Hansen, issued a glowing endorsement of Trafton via e-mail to Democrats across the district.

He tried to talk his friend out of it, but she was focused on “electability” and didn’t believe Hogan could beat Hansen “even if God himself came down and campaigned for that idiot.”

“It’s time to rally around a winner, Winston.” Her words still echoed in his mind as he thumbed through papers, looking for meaning and hoping for a lot of luck.

*****

After getting off the phone with Carter, Clarissa climbed into bed to watch Pretty Woman, one of several DVDs she regularly played when she couldn’t sleep. There was certainly work that could be done, but after spending the evening with Hogan at his precinct caucus in Woodbury, she was happy to lose herself in the movie.

Hogan had done surprisingly well at his caucus. Lots of people stopped by his campaign table and picked up information, some seemed to actually like him personally and a few even volunteered to become delegates on his behalf. For one of the only times ever in the campaign, the candidate hadn’t been harmful to his own cause.

As Richard Gere and Julia Roberts flew to San Francisco on the tiny television on top of her dresser, Clarissa’s phone rang. She answered without looking at the caller ID.

“What’s up, Carter?”

“Guess again.” She looked at the caller ID and saw it was Hogan. Why the hell is he calling at 3 a.m.?

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Clarissa, I think tonight was a big night for the campaign.”

“It certainly was.”

“Clearly, people were inspired and that’s important. I think we’ll probably win the endorsement and certainly the primary election and the one in November. I’m really confident about it after tonight.”

“I agree,” she lied. “If we can do well in Woodbury we can do anything.”

“That’s just it. I won that crowd over tonight.” Hogan was taking a lot of confidence away from a performance in front of people he had known for years. “And community by community that’s how we do it. You clearly understand that. Inspiration and nobility are the cornerstones of this campaign, but now it’s time to add substance.”

“Right. So from now on it’s inspiration, nobility and substance.” She wasn’t trying to be sarcastic.

“That’s right and the first big dose of substance is going to be about my record of accomplishment as a businessman and politician. Substance, Clarissa. Substance.”

“Absolutely. I’ll run this by Carter first thing in the morning so we can tweak the message.” She had no intention of taking this to Carter or any other serious political figure. Just humor the guy. Is he drunk? Doesn’t sound like it.

“Nope,” Hogan said. “Carter clearly isn’t used to working with campaigns like this one. I don’t think he ever understood the nobility and the inspiration and I know he won’t get the substance. Let’s make that our thing for the speeches.”

“Sounds great.” She was finally getting tired and wished she could record this call for the next time insomnia sets in.

“So, I want to make sure we’re talking about not just the importance of education, but the fact that I am very well educated. People need to see clearly why I had almost a B-average at Winona State despite taking hard classes. So, let’s work more on showing that I’m smart by having me talk about my business experience.”

“OK.”

“As a businessman, I bought up abandoned or foreclosed properties and redeveloped them and turned them into assets. That’s what we need to do: redevelop the district and turn problem spots into assets. The trick is figuring out which areas you can really do something with and where you’ll just be throwing good money after bad. That’s why I’m really focused on energy because everyone needs energy to power their houses and cars. There’s good wind and lots of sunshine in the summer months and we have to capitalize on that. See what I mean?”

Clarissa was sound asleep with the phone resting on the side of her head.

“Good. After we get a good focus on this energy proposal, the Hogan Energy Plan, we need to start talking more about taxes. As a businessman, I know some ways we can harness the power of the tax code to create jobs. That’s something people need to understand as well. The tax code isn’t just about paying money, but also getting breaks when you do things that are good for the country. What do you think about announcing the Hogan Energy-Tax Plan soon?”

Nothing, except the faint sound of Clarissa’s breathing.

“Perfect! Get right on that and then once we get people sufficiently inspired on that front, we’ll get into transportation. Trains, light rail and lots of it. Highways are so 20th century.”

The candidate rambled on for another 10 minutes, entirely pleased with every idea that came out of his mouth.

Chapter 29

Sunday, Feb. 12-Monday, Feb. 13

“In an instant they were with God.”

Clarissa Rogers tried to take solace in that quote from the Burnsville police chief as she read the newspaper in her office early Sunday morning. But no matter how quick it happened and how painless it was supposed to be, she couldn’t stop re-reading the articles in the Star Tribune and Pioneer Press, horrified about a tragedy that could have been prevented so easily.

Shortly before 11:30 p.m. on Friday, Feb. 10, three seniors from Burnsville High School—Erika Danes, Tommy Randolph and Stephen Andersen—were on their way home after attending the annual Valentine’s Day dance. They were driving the speed limit, wearing seatbelts and hadn’t been drinking. They were doing everything right as they traveled north on Highway 13 toward Eagan, where they planned to watch old Nightmare on Elm Street movies at Stephen’s house.

Meanwhile, traveling south on Highway 13, Pablo Manuel Lopez was speeding, talking on his cell phone and drunk. His green card had expired 10 years ago, but despite that and two previous driving while intoxicated arrests, he was still in the country and able to secure odd jobs with fake Puerto Rican identity papers.

Lopez was on his way from a bar in St. Paul to a bowling alley in Burnsville when he lost control of his Toyota 4-Runner and careened across the grassy median, striking the Chevy Cobalt Tommy and his father worked hard to fix up before the boy’s 16th birthday. The initial impact then knocked the Cobalt directly into the path of a tractor trailer. The kids never had a chance. Tommy and Erika, the front-seat passenger, were pronounced dead at the scene. Stephen never regained consciousness and died en route to the hospital. Lopez survived with a few bumps and bruises. He was found by police a few hours later hiding under a bed at a trailer park on the south end of town.

Clarissa couldn’t stop looking at the kids’ pictures and reading the quotes from their friends and family members. Erika and Stephen were bound for the University of Minnesota in the fall. Stephen was excited about joining the Navy. “They were the best kids you could ever imagine,” their principal said. “Absolutely perfect.”

Tomorrow morning, Clarissa knew, Tara Gunderson Hansen would issue a press release using Lopez’s story as an excuse for draconian immigration policies, including more border fencing and aggressive immigration raids. She would make him the face of illegal immigration and use three young lives as martyrs in a war for America’s future.

She picked up her BlackBerry and almost called Carter for political advice, but decided, given his tragic history, she would keep this one off his desk. She then opened her laptop and started typing a statement on behalf of Alex Hogan:

“I can’t even begin to describe my sadness on learning of the deaths of Erika Danes, Tommy Randolph and Stephen Andersen. A politician’s words, I know, will never fill the void in the hearts of those who knew and loved these beautiful young people. Theirs were lives lost far too soon. I will pray each day that their survivors can eventually find peace and may continue the work Erika, Tommy and Stephen had dreamed of doing.

“I am angry that loopholes in the immigration process allowed their killer to stay in the country. I am angry that a twice-convicted drunk driver can still get behind the wheel of a car. I am angry that Minnesota lost three shining stars because the federal government can’t enforce the common-sense laws we have on the books.

“But anger alone—mine or any other politician’s—isn’t enough. In the aftermath of this tragedy we must come together and make the kind of procedural reforms needed to prevent this from ever happening again. To use this as an opportunity to score political points is sinful. This is a time for compassion, wisdom and leadership—nothing more, nothing less.”

She e-mailed the draft to Hogan and Winston Marshall. The final copy would be sent to reporters across the district in a few hours.

*****

Clarissa paced back and forth behind her desk Monday afternoon as she waited to go live on the Ken Matthews Show on the local liberal talk radio station. It came through at the last minute and Hogan refused to return early from lunch with his wife, so the phone interview was Clarissa’s problem now. “Probably for the better,” Winston joked as he ordered her to handle it moments earlier.

“This is Ken Matthews and with us on the line is Clarissa Rogers from Alex Hogan’s campaign. Thanks for joining us.”

“Thank you, Ken. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Me, too. But I have to say, you all have been out in front on Tara Gunderson Hansen’s race-baiting for months and were again today. She’s, of course, using this tragedy as an excuse to advance more of her idiotic schemes that won’t work. What do you all think?”

“First, I’d like to say my heart goes out to the families of the victims. I can’t even imagine what they’re going through right now and wish there was something I could possibly say to help them—”

“Exactly. You’re exactly right. So, is she a racist or worse?” Clarissa thought Matthews was a bomb-throwing idiot, no better than Hansen’s favorite right-wing host, King Tom. She easily side-stepped his question to avoid creating a fund-raising bonanza for the Republicans.

“This is a law enforcement issue, Ken. This man, Lopez, came into the country illegally, was arrested multiple times while here and there was a major screw-up somewhere between the state of Minnesota and the federal government. He should’ve been deported. We don’t need new laws. We need to enforce the ones we have.”

“I don’t want to use the word ‘amnesty,’ Clarissa, but does Alex Hogan believe we need some kind of leniency for those who came here—legally or otherwise—and are doing good things? Obviously this Lopez guy was a bad apple, but—”

“A few weeks ago, Ken, there was a story I read by the Associated Press about seven Cubans who drowned trying to make it to Florida in an aluminum fishing boat.” She was dodging the question and trying to run-out-the-clock on the interview. “Think about that for a second—trying to take a little fishing boat 90 miles across the open sea. That’s because of what this country stands for. We don’t build walls. We welcome people. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enforce laws, but we must remember that at our very core we are an ‘us’ country and what the congresswoman is talking about is dividing us into various groups of ‘them.’ It’s completely against what we’ve been working toward for more than two centuries. We deserve better than that. That’s why Alex Hogan is running for Congress.”

Matthews was clearly disappointed as he ended the interview. He had hoped the quick segment would generate some kind of controversy that would boost his ratings.

“Well, folks, there you have it. That was Clarissa Rogers from the Alex Hogan campaign and you’re listening to the Ken Matthews Show.”

Seconds after liberating herself from Matthews, Clarissa’s phone rang. It was a producer from Fox News’ Great American News Hour. He had just booked Hansen for tonight’s show and wanted Hogan to go on with her.

“I can go on, no problem.” After the massacre at the State Fair last summer, she didn’t want Hogan anywhere near Hansen.

“Sorry, unless you’re running for Congress, I need Hogan.”

She thought about it for a second. This would be a great opportunity for Hogan to prove to Democrats he’s the one leading the charge against Hansen while Trafton is a non-factor. He’d probably blow it, but this at least put the ball in his court. She flipped an imaginary coin in her mind.

“Sure, we can do that. No problem.”

*****

As they walked into the local Fox affiliate’s studio, Clarissa reminded Hogan to stick to the key points the campaign had already stressed: you’re saddened by this unspeakable tragedy and your prayers are with the families; we need to enforce the laws we have on the books; and we can’t bring the country together and get results if politicians turn this into a political issue. Above all else, be respectful.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hogan said. “I can do this in my sleep.”

Clarissa was nervous as he was led away for makeup. Hogan on national television with Hansen? This is either going to be a homerun or the political equivalent of the Hindenburg disaster. Why the hell did I agree to this?

Stephen Nelson was eager to give the congresswoman a chance to make things right. He was furious at how badly Carter Jennings had decimated Anna Phillips, Hansen’s former press secretary, back in December. As soon as he read Hogan’s press release on a blog that morning, he set about making the arrangements for this showdown. He couldn’t hide his excitement as he introduced the segment.

“Illegal immigrant kills three teenagers in Minnesota. Congresswoman Tara Gunderson Hansen is in Washington taking charge and her Democratic opponent, Alex Hogan, disagrees. Let’s start with you, congresswoman. Why wasn’t this guy sent back to Mexico before he drove drunk and killed these three wonderful kids?”

Nelson’s team made extensive use of the students’ photos and video clips of their distraught friends and families. It had been the top story on the network all day, as well.

“Thanks so much, Stephen, for letting me tell the American people about this problem we have in Minnesota.”

“Absolutely, Tara. We appreciate your leadership on this.”

“The problem, Stephen, is that we had this illegal convicted criminal on the streets. He should’ve been deported when he got his first DWI. He should’ve been deported when he got his second DWI. Now we have three dead kids and if we don’t get a handle on illegal immigration this kind of thing could become far more common. I’m just devastated, Stephen, and I’ve been praying all day for these families. I can’t imagine it. I drive down that highway a lot and it could’ve been anyone. Our community isn’t safe. I’ve said it before and now you all can see it.”

Hogan listened to the exchange through his earpiece as Nelson, in New York, fawned all over the congresswoman, who was sitting in a studio in Washington. He was ready, he told himself, as the host finally offered him a chance to explain his position.

“Would we still be here if this guy’s immigration status was legal or if he was a citizen?” Hogan said. “No. The congresswoman is scape-goating Mexicans and it’s wrong.”

Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief. It was a good point, though it would’ve been nice if he had shown some compassion for the victims. Nelson prepared a follow-up.

“But if the illegals are committing crimes and killing people in your district, shouldn’t we be pointing that out?”

“Well, anyone who commits crimes should be dealt with severely, but to say this is an illegal immigration issue is wrong. This is a drinking-and-driving issue and we should deal with that.”

“Mr. Hogan, if we cracked down on illegal immigration like I have proposed, this would not have happened,” Hansen said. “Period. End of story.”

“This wouldn’t have happened, Mrs. Hansen, if we enforced existing law.”

Nelson started to read from the latest local news story on the incident. Tommy Randolph’s father had given a statement less than an hour ago to a reporter from the Star Tribune.

“I’m reading this from the father of one of the boys,” Nelson said, holding a computer printout up for the camera to prove his point. “He says we have to start throwing these people out of the country and by being ‘soft’ on illegal immigration we’re inviting more incidents like these. What do you say about that, congresswoman?”

“I’ve talked to the families and told them I’ll do anything I can to help. They’re all such wonderful people. I can only try to imagine how terrible this must be for them. I pray the Lord gives them strength.”

“As a parent,” Nelson added, “this is a nightmare. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hogan?”

“I certainly do. I have children myself and wouldn’t wish something like that on any parent.”

“So why don’t you support this man’s position?” Nelson laid the trap.

“Because they shouldn’t be making this into some kind of political issue.”

Clarissa, watching on a TV in the lobby, buried her head in her hands as the congresswoman nearly jumped out of her chair before responding.

“Are you saying the parents have no right to speak their minds? I hope I missed something here.” Hansen actually offered him a chance to back away. It was a gift.

“No, it’s a free country. They can say whatever they want, but they shouldn’t be making political statements in the media. I’m not going to cave to that kind of pressure and neither should you. You’re exploiting people who are too grief-stricken to know what they’re doing, Mrs. Hansen.”

“I’m standing up for my constituents! That’s what members of Congress do!”

“There’s a big difference between pandering to constituents and standing up for them.”

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Hogan,” Nelson said. “This boy’s dad has no business speaking out about the cause of his son’s death and the congresswoman has no business supporting their rights and trying to help them?”

Hogan was stumped, but that didn’t stop him from talking.

“As a candidate for Congress, I’ve learned there’s a certain degree of nobility required in handling these things and sometimes that means taking the unpopular position because it’s the right thing to do. That inspires people, Stephen. That’s why I’m not afraid to say what I’m saying tonight and that’s what I’ll do—the depth I’ll bring—when I’m elected to Congress.”

Nelson gave Hansen the final word.

“I’m going to keep fighting for these families, and for all American families, so we can make our country more secure and our children safer. That’s what members of Congress are supposed to do.”

Clarissa didn’t utter a single word during the half-hour drive back to the campaign office. Hogan, meanwhile, talked non-stop about his performance.

“This election will be won in the fall debates. I can take her. Proved that again tonight, didn’t I?”

Chapter 30

Monday, Feb. 20

The summit at Dixie’s on Grand in St. Paul was weeks in the making and Winston Marshall knew he was walking into an ambush, but owed it to his friends—Sen. Rebecca McElroy, Burnsville Mayor Priscilla Lawrence and ex-Hogan fundraiser Allison Fletcher—to show up and hear them out.

The three women met at the Cajun-themed restaurant 30 minutes early to plot strategy. They loved Winston and hated watching him waste his time and energy on Alex Hogan’s campaign, which could achieve nothing except making it more difficult for Patrick Trafton to ultimately defeat Tara Gunderson Hansen.

It was Monday, Feb. 20, and the local party conventions in the 7th Congressional District would begin in less than two weeks. Of the 1,184 delegates the Hogan campaign had contacted, 684 were at least leaning toward supporting Trafton and just 301 were leaning toward Hogan. The mayor appeared well on his way to securing the 60 percent he’d need to win the party’s endorsement at the district-wide convention on April 14.

Winston had known McElroy since her days on the Bloomington City Council, Lawrence since her time in the State Legislature and Fletcher since she was an aspiring political operative two decades ago. All of them owed at least part of their success to him and none of them wanted to watch him suffer through a hopeless campaign for another day.

“Winston, it’s over. You did your best, but Hogan’s not going anywhere.” Fletcher quit as the candidate’s fundraiser six days ago after a shouting match in front of everyone in the office. He blamed her for his now-impotent fundraising efforts, but in reality the word about Trafton was out and nobody was interested in throwing away more money on Hogan. He’d embarrassed himself too many times, including last week on national television.

Winston didn’t say anything as Fletcher continued.

“The best Hogan can hope to accomplish is weakening Trafton, but he can’t win this thing. He’s not going to get endorsed and he’s not going to have enough money for Carter to make anything happen in the primary. That’s money in the bank that could go to helping Democrats who can actually win.”

According to multiple sources, Trafton had now raised $1 million and could expect all kinds of support from outside groups as well if Hogan challenged him in the primary. Winston knew Trafton was fatally flawed. Carter Jennings was never wrong about that stuff, but he didn’t make this argument to his friends. He didn’t want to quit on the Hogan campaign, but he still wasn’t convinced he should allow Carter to sink the best candidate the party had.

“You don’t have anything to prove,” the senator said. “You’re a legend. You’ve fought the tough fights and won. There’s no reason to continue on with this one for the sake of continuing on. I don’t like Trafton, but he’s going to win.”

“Senator, when you wanted to run for your job, what did everyone say?” Winston was one of the senator’s first major supporters. “Get out of the way, Brian Magnuson is the guy. Conventional wisdom doesn’t mean anything, as you well know.”

“Winston, that was different.”

“How? Seems pretty similar to me.”

“I don’t want this to sound bad, but honestly, I’m no Alex Hogan. I’m not perfect, but I could go a week without embarrassing myself.”

He laughed because he knew she was right, but he didn’t back down as Lawrence weighed in.

“I really wanted to support you guys, but come on,” she said. “What’s the game plan? You can’t do it alone. You can’t keep putting that nice girl in the forefront. Carter Jennings can’t run ads with no money. It’s a great campaign with no candidate.”

Winston knew they were right and listened for 90 minutes to various arguments over dinner before thanking them for their concern.

“I hear you and would probably be saying the same thing if the shoe was on the other foot, but the fact is we haven’t even had a single convention yet. Not a single delegate has been named to the district convention. Yes, it looks bad, but we’ve been in this thing for eight months and we’re not going to pull the plug so that stuffed suit can proceed to get his ass handed to him by Hansen.”

He knew none of the women particularly liked Trafton and went after that point hard.

“What does he stand for? Why should Patrick Trafton be in Congress? What do you really know about him? If it comes down to him and Hansen, I like the devil I know. At least she’s good for mobilizing the party and helping us raise money for other candidates.”

“Winston,” the senator said, interrupting. “If it was anyone else, I’d agree with you, but your guy can’t even do an interview. Sure, he’s right on all the issues, but he’s just a lousy, godawful candidate. We can win the 7th, but not with Alex Hogan. And I disagree on Hansen. I’d rather have a Democrat—any Democrat—in that seat than any Republican, especially Hansen. You would’ve agreed once.”

Winston handed the waiter a credit card. Dinner was on him since his friends were paying with advice he didn’t want or need.

“Senator, you need to trust me on this one. I know why I’m doing this.”

In reality, however, he had no clue why he was fighting ahead other than pride.

*****

A few blocks from Dixie’s, Hank Wright took a booth in the Uptowner Cafe where he would meet his maintenance man friend from the Minnesota Inn. He didn’t know what was on the agenda, but hoped it would be something he could use against the mayor since Trafton hadn’t made a visit to the hotel in a couple weeks. Was he getting bored with Karen Abbott?

Hank sipped his coffee and read the newspaper, losing himself in a story on the Minnesota Timberwolves. As he flipped through the sports pages, the maintenance man sat down across from him.

“Can I really trust you, buddy?”

“Yes,” Hank said. “Anything you tell me, your name won’t be attached to it. Nobody will know.”

“You see, Trafton’s a bad guy. A real bad guy. Yeah, he looks nice on TV and says all the right stuff to the people, but he’s no good. Is that why you’re trying to get him?”

“Absolutely,” Hank lied. He was in politics for the thrill of the hunt and rarely let personalities get in the way. “We need a good man in Congress.”

“I know someone who knows the mayor intimately, if you know what I mean.”

“Abbott?”

“No. Are you sure I won’t get burned? Those city hall guys are pretty ruthless.”

“I’m not going to let your name get out there. I won’t even tell my boss where my information comes from. And you may have noticed, I haven’t even asked for your name in all the weeks we’ve known each other.”

“OK. I’ll trust you.”

There was a minute of silence before the man spoke again. He was genuinely nervous, quite aware of the fact he was playing out of his league.

“My sister-in-law knows the mayor and would love to help you.”

“Can I meet her?”

The man picked up his cell phone and sent a text message. A couple minutes later a woman, maybe 30 years old, walked through the door and sat down with them.

“This is her,” the man said.

“Hi,” she said, extending her hand with a confident smile. “I’m Melonie Kline.”

“I’m Hank Wright. Your brother-in-law here says you’re no fan of Patrick Trafton.”

“No, Hank, I’m not. I was, when he was going to leave his wife for me, but that was before he dumped me for Karen Abbott.”

Wright could’ve kissed her and nearly jumped onto the table in celebration. Finally, he was getting closer to taking Trafton down.

“So what can you tell me about that?”

*****

Clarissa Rogers walked into her apartment shortly before midnight and opened her laptop. Her date with Danny Hammond, a college classmate now practicing corporate law with a big firm in Minneapolis, had gone poorly. He spent most of the evening talking about money, the insurance companies he defends and the liberals he can’t stand. As a freshman at Macalester College he had supported the Green Party. Amazing how some people change, she thought, as she deleted his phone number from her BlackBerry.

She wasn’t too disturbed by the date. Sure, she was turning 28 on Feb. 29 while more and more of her high school and college friends were getting married and starting families, but she had her career, a tiny apartment and two cats. It was all she needed for the time being. Maybe after the election she could worry about the other stuff. For now, it was all about doing a good job on the Hogan campaign and using that as a springboard to something better.

It was rare for Clarissa to go more than an hour without checking her e-mail, but she didn’t touch her BlackBerry as she zoned out while Hammond talked over dinner and now it was time to play catch-up. She scrolled through the messages, most of which were Google News Alerts for Alex Hogan, Patrick Trafton and Tara Gunderson Hansen. It had seemed like a good idea at the time to sign up for those, but after getting about 50 a day it was simply annoying.

Finally, she got to the last text message from Alex Hogan, which had come in 10 minutes earlier. He had attended several meetings in Rice County that night.

“Clarissa! Great night in Northfield and Faribault! Lots of people inspired about our message of nobility!!! We’re winning this thing!”

It completely contradicted the text messages Brian Sorensen had sent a few hours earlier, but she didn’t care and was about to set the BlackBerry aside when another e-mail came through.

“Greetings from Sioux Falls,” Carter Jennings wrote from Maggie Sanderson’s campaign headquarters. “We might actually win this thing. Latest polls show us down by just 6 despite getting outspent probably 5-1. I want to get you on a plane in the morning if you can. We need help for the final week. Call me ASAP. Thanks!”

Sioux Falls sounded great. Anything the Hogan campaign needed for the next week could be handled via BlackBerry and laptop. She immediately called Carter.

“I’ll be there,” Clarissa blurted out as soon as he answered. “No problem at all.”

An hour later, he sent her the e-ticket information for the 6:45 a.m. flight.

Previously published samples available here.

Decisions: Thrilling Until the Very End

2011-01-18T21:48:00.001-06:00

Amazon.com review for Decisions:

Once I started reading I couldn’t stop!

R. Doug Wicker’s “Decisions” is an extremely well-told, well-developed and quick-moving thriller that left me guessing until the very end.

The characters are perfect, the plot twists at all the right times and the ending was plausible without being predictable.

Well done!

From the Author: Rogue Hunter: Quest of the Hunter

2011-01-18T00:01:00.009-06:00

From author Kevis Hendrickson:
Available on Amazon Kindle

Zyra Zanr is the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy. Criminals everywhere cower at her name. During the attempt to capture a notorious fugitive, she stumbles onto a conspiracy to murder the senators of the InterGalactic Alliance. Behind this plot is a clandestine force seeking to destroy not only the InterGalactic Alliance, but mankind as well.

War looms on the horizon as Zyra collides with this deadly force threatening to rock the very foundations of time and space. Zyra’s quest to uncover the mastermind behind this plot will pit her against an evil menace beyond her wildest imagination. Only Zyra can save humanity from an impending holocaust. Victory will mean the salvation of the human race. Failure will mean the end of all that Zyra holds dear. The battle for the future has begun!

Winner of the Red Adept Annual Indie Award (2010): 'TOP SCIENCE FICTION'.

Excerpt

Zyra squinted behind the protective visor that concealed her face as she navigated the deep gorge formed by the impact of an enormous meteor untold ages ago. She shot by a narrow ridge and out towards the valley beyond, nearly clipping one of the lower wings of her hover-cycle in the process. Zyra was piloting the vehicle much faster than was necessary, especially considering that she was in unfamiliar wilderness on a remote moon on the distant side of the known galaxy. If she were to be critically injured in an accident, she would die on Ziggiris, and no one would ever know.

She didn’t care.

Zyra had spent her entire adult life taking dangerous risks simply for the thrill and wouldn’t cease to take risks now merely because she was a quintillion light-years from home. Besides, she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to test her daredevil hover-cycling skills. The light from the stars above Ziggiris cast a dim gleam on the chic reds, greys, and purples of Zyra’s encounter-suit. She had spent the last three days en route to Ziggiris trying to repair her damaged suit only to concede that it was a massive undertaking requiring far more time than she had available to her. As the self-proclaimed “galaxy’s biggest procrastinator,” Zyra had gone out of her way to avoid repairing her encounter-suit. When she had finally convinced herself to begin work on the suit, she had only to take a single glance at its exposed internal network of fused wires, splintered nano-circuits, and melted communications modulators to prompt her to further delay repair. It was only within the final sixty-seven hours of the flight to Ziggiris that she made any real attempt to set upon her task. A hack job, to say the least, that pathetically left her without eighty-six percent of her suit’s functions.

Well, at least life support still works. Zyra’s vain attempt to lift her spirits failed when she contemplated the enormous risk she was taking. She was alone, tracking a dangerous criminal in a strange setting. But that wasn’t the problem. She always worked alone. The greater the risk, the greater the pay, she always said. The one thing she hated most was sharing the monetary rewards of her occupation. Still, she couldn’t recall the last time she had hunted a criminal without her encounter-suit up and running. Next to her ship, her encounter-suit was the single, most important tool of her trade. For the first time that Zyra could recall, she was without the full complement of her encounter-suit’s internal weapons. If it weren’t for the Ajax Tech Series-5000 Photon Rifle she carried on her hover-cycle and her risk blade weapon option, the suit’s sole functioning weapon, she would be totally defenseless right now. Then again, perhaps she’d get lucky and discover that Fal Orono, in his self-imposed isolation on Ziggiris, had foregone his violent ways and converted to pacifism, or that he had no weapons to fight her with and would surrender without a struggle.

Yeah, right.

Zyra frowned beneath her visor and checked the power meter on her hover-cycle, noticing a severe drop in the energy level. It changed from a dull yellow to a bright orange, ever approaching the dreaded critical red that signaled complete power loss.

I really, really, need this money, Mr. Orono. You’d better be worth the trouble.

From the Author: Pandora’s Succession

2011-01-17T15:44:00.000-06:00

From author Russell Brooks:
First five chapters available at Brooks' website.
Available for purchase on Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble Nook.

Where would you hide if you learned the CDC and a major pharmaceutical company unleashed a hyperdeadly microbe on the human race?

The action/thriller, Pandora’s Succession, encompasses a real threat: Biological terrorism. It can occur at any moment and be perpetrated by those we’d never suspect.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
Somewhere near Groznyy, Chechnya,

The blow to the side of his head dropped Ridley Fox to the floor. The cold surface against the side of his face, the jarring pain, and the spinning were the last things he remembered before he blacked out. When he awoke, the throbbing pain remained as he was dragged by his legs across the floor, the concrete scraping the back of his scalp. He opened his eyes, only to stare into the barrel of a Russian AK-108 assault rifle that was less than a foot above him.

His fiancée, Jessica, had died at the hands of his captors two years before. Unlike her, he knew that they would torture him first. She was murdered just a few hours after he proposed to her. He promised her to give up his career in the Joint Task Force Two (JTF2)—Canada’s equivalence to America’s SEALs—to settle down with her. The heavy drinking and bar fights soon followed. That ended shortly with Fox in a prison holding-cell. That’s where he met his current CIA superior, General Paul Downing, and learned everything about the weapons consortium known as the Arms of Ares—his captors.

Fox mentally shook away that memory as he watched a tangled web of exposed pipes and cheap wire mesh-covered light bulbs that ran along the ceiling while being dragged along a concrete floor. One of the guards yelled at him in Russian. Although Fox was fluent in the language, as well as a few others from each continent, he was too disoriented to listen. All he did was concentrate on getting his strength back. But even if he got back most of it, mentally he would still have been unable to focus on overpowering his captors.

Moments went by and Fox felt his legs buckle just as he succumbed to the blow of a boot tip to his side. The kick forced a loud grunt out of him as the guard yelled profanities at him. Fox blinked rapidly as the pain subsided slowly—taking slow deep breaths as he waited for the guard to kick him again. It didn’t come. Above him he couldn’t see much but a yellowish flickering reflection of light overhead while he then heard some footsteps walk away from him. The thundering boom of the slamming metal door was accentuated by its echo in the cold, dry room in which he lay.

“Is that it? Why don’t you come back and finish me off?” At least that’s what Fox wanted them to understand, even though it came out sounding differently due to the drugs they had pumped into him that left him weak and sluggish. There was silence, except for the occasional knocking within the pipes that snaked throughout the structure.

He watched the ceiling spin above him. Fox closed his eyes, but the throbbing in his temple and his side continued. He thought back to three days before when he was contacted by a man named Gregor Stechine—a scientist working for Ares—who offered him the opportunity to put Ares out of business. In return Fox would help him and his wife defect. It was an offer Fox couldn’t refuse. Presently he was in an underground facility where Ares was developing something so deadly that Stechine didn’t even want to discuss it in their correspondence.

He heard a metallic creaking sound as the door was reopened. Fox noticed that the person who entered the room was a bit more discreet, right down to the sound of the latch closing. When he opened his eyes he saw the silhouette of someone kneeling beside him, seconds before he tasted a dry cloth being tied around his head—covering his mouth. Although he was trained not to panic in such a high tense situation, his breathing intensified, especially when the individual pulled up Fox’s shirt high enough to expose his chest and held the needle inches above it.

He struggled to move his arms and legs, but his damn limbs weighed a ton just as the person lowered the needle—the sharp edge touching his skin. He made one last attempt to move, and the needle was thrust into him, puncturing deep into his heart. The mixture of pain and rush of energy he felt simultaneously brought instant flashes. It was as though the goddamn room was in flames around him—he felt the burning inside of him, coursing through his veins to his arms and legs at such speed that he was literally thrown up off the ground.

“Fuck!” It was muffled by the gag along with the screaming. Seconds went by before he stopped.

“Mister Fox, thank God.” It was a woman’s voice. Her thick Russian accent added to her broken English. “I just shot you with adrenaline to counteract the drugs they gave you. Oh my God, I thought they would kill you.”

Fox clutched the syringe that protruded from the left side of his chest and pulled it out gently. His muffled wail lasted a bit longer until the sharp pain subsided. His hands quivered as he undid the cloth that was tied around his mouth and looked around him—it was all concrete from floor to ceilin¬g. It all came back to him—even his strength. He then touched the bruise on his temple, his hand jolting away as he felt the sting. Fortunately the guard did not strike him too hard with the butt of his gun, or else he could’ve been left with a concussion. A well-informed guard would’ve known to have done so, considering how much of a threat Fox posed to these people.

“Listen to me. Do you remember where you are?”

Of course he remembered where he was. He didn’t even look at her as he breathed hard. He couldn’t fathom how he could’ve been so sloppy. There was no room for mistakes in his line of work. He didn’t have a wife and kids to go home to. There were definitely no colleagues an outsider could call and expect to get an honest answer as to his current whereabouts.

“Fox,” the woman said again as she grabbed his shoulders tightly.

Fox looked into her pale, white face. The coffee stench in her breath caught him head on.

“Yes, I know where we are,” said Fox referring to the underground facility they were in.

“Good, because but we don’t have much time. Somehow they knew you were coming, but I couldn’t warn you. So I come back. Oh my God. I had to be sure you were okay.”

Fox’s left hand lashed out and clutched her throat.

“Fox… please… I cannot breathe.”

“That’s the whole idea. Now tell me who you really are.”

“I’m Sveta,” she struggled. “Doctor Gregor Stechine’s wife. The late Doctor Stechine. I’ve been using his name to contact you. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s the truth.”

Fox unclenched her neck slowly, just enough so that she could breathe easier. “The code.”

“The… code?”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

“One tulip in May for every hundred raindrops of April past,” she squeaked.

That’s good enough. He released her. She gasped for air and cupped both hands over her mouth. As she coughed, her eyes watered.

Fox looked at his watch. It was 12:52 AM. “Wipe your face. It’ll draw attention to you.”

She sniffed as she took a tissue out of her lab jacket pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Do you have backup?”

There was no sense patting himself down. He knew his weapons were gone. “I’m here alone.”

“You can fight six armed guards by yourself?”

“You have a better idea?” She didn’t answer. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’m going to need my weapons. Where are they?”

“They’re in storage. Make a left outside and they’re in the third door on right-hand side.”

Fox heard the clacking sound of the lock from the door. Shit, someone’s coming in. Without a moment’s hesitation he dropped to the floor, tucking the syringe under him and assumed the same position he was in before Sveta revived him. He closed his eyes while he listened to the sounds of footsteps. There was the clapping of heels as they hit the floor. The clapping sound was familiar—it was the boots the guards wore. One set was heavier than the next—there were two of them.

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” said one of them in Russian. The proximity of his voice alerted Fox that the guard stopped within two feet in front of him. His cue would come at any moment now.

Stechina placed a hand on her hip while she pointed at herself with the other. “I should be the one to ask you what this man’s doing in here.” She then pointed to Fox. “How could you allow him to get in here undetected?”

The guard seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. “We’re not sure as of yet.”

“Not sure? You mean you don’t know. Do you happen to know who he is or who sent him? No, I guess you wouldn’t know that either. Not after you nearly killed him.”

“He… uh… we were given last-minute warning. We took necessary action.”

A raging fire burned within Fox as he kicked out his left leg in a semi-clockwise rotation, hooked the guard’s ankles and swept him off the ground. Using the momentum from the kick Fox sprang up just as the guard struck the concrete. He quickly lunged towards the other guard, whose first instinct was to reach for his AK-108 Assault Rifle. Fox struck him in the forearm, making him lose his grip on the rifle, followed by a palm-heel strike to his nose—breaking the cartilage. The blow snapped the guard’s head backwards and left his neck exposed. Fox followed through with an edge hand blow and shattered his trachea. As though his skeleton had lost its density, the guard folded over like a wet towel and dropped to the floor.

Fox didn’t have to hear the other guard’s movements to know that he should re-engage him. The guard didn’t have a moment to get up before Fox slammed the heel of his boot onto his solar plexus. He then turned to Stechina who stared at him wide-eyed while she took two steps back. A few weeks ago he would’ve killed her too, and the bitch would’ve deserved it. He saw the fear in her eyes which coincided with the paleness of her face. Woman, you better not slow me down.

Fox brushed aside a lock of his auburn-colored hair that fell on his left eyebrow. “That’s two down. Four more to go.” Sveta was still at a loss for words as she looked down at what Fox had done. Goddamn you, woman. He snapped his fingers in front of her face to redirect her attention. “Listen, we’re going to get through this together. But I’m going to need you to stay focused, or else you’re going to get us both killed. You understand me?”

She gave a set of short, quick nods.

“Good. I’m going to change into his clothes. I just hope they fit.”

Fox looked at both guards and visually measured each of their heights. The one with the shattered nose appeared to be close to six-foot-two, just like him. His clothes should fit. Fox knelt down in front of him and pulled off his boots. “I need to know something.”

“What?”

“Why are you doing this? Why now?”

Sveta cupped her hands over her mouth and her nose for a bit before she let out a huge breath. It was as though she tried to hold back more tears. “My husband, Gregor, was killed two days ago in an accident involving the bio-weapon that we’re working on. I never wanted any part of this, but he was greedy and easy to corrupt. The organization we belong to—the Arms of Ares—paid us a lot of money for our skills as microbiologists. I never imagined so many deaths would result from the weapons we’ve built and sold to terrorist groups and rogue nations. But I want no part of it anymore.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re helping a criminal organization develop weapons strictly to market them on the illicit market and it never occurred to you that many innocent people would be killed? You’re something else, lady. And you took a huge risk contacting me. Why me anyways? Why not MI-5 or the FSB?”

“The Arms of Ares has infiltrated many top level organizations and agencies, including the British and Russian intelligence agencies you just named.”

Fox unbuttoned the guard’s shirt when she suddenly grabbed onto his hands. What the hell are you doing?

“I lost my husband to Ares whereas they murdered your fiancée. I wanted to have ordinary life, with children and even grandchildren. Ares stole that life from you, that’s why you joined CIA. Am I right?”

Fox stared at her, incapable of ignoring the comment. Jessica, not again. She knew one hell of a way of tapping into my soft side. No. Remember what I’m here for. Just focus.

“That’s why I trust you,” Sveta continued. “I know you cannot be led astray by these people like me and my husband were.”

She let go of his hands and allowed him to finish unbuttoning the guard’s shirt, remove it and put it on. It was a tight fit, but it would pass. Fox soon had on the guard’s pants. “When you first contacted me, you said there were other labs. Why didn’t you want the CIA to focus on those?”

“Those are sleeper laboratories. If there’s a problem, they can easily drop everything here and set up shop in another lab where the facilities are already established.”

Fox tucked his hair under the guard’s cap. “Then it ends here. This is where we’ll bury everything.”

“It won’t stop them. They’ll go elsewhere. Continue their research and development without problem.”

“Yeah, but it’ll take a while for them to recruit more scientists. Taking out everyone in this lab could cripple their production.”

“True, but not for long. Ares has many resources.”

“Yeah, no doubt,” said Fox. “So what kind of R and D are we talking about? Weaponized Ebola? Anthrax?”

“Something far worse. It’s a microbe called Pandora. All I can say is that small amounts of it introduced into a populated area can produce a death toll similar to that of a nuclear bomb. Ares has set new standard in biological warfare.”

“If there’s more of it out there, then we’ll have to find it, starting with you telling me where to locate those sleeper labs, the biology behind Pandora, and any means of immunizing ourselves against this thing.”

“I’ve forwarded some of that information to the secure email you gave me. If you get me out of here alive, I’ll forward you the list of all the active members of Ares and their clients. As for a defense against Pandora—there is none.”

“None? Or none that Ares wants to find?”

Sveta shook her head. “There’s no known protection against Pandora unless you want to outfit six billion of the world’s inhabitants with anti-contamination suits.”

“You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.” Sveta paused as though she was in thought. “One more thing, Ares is ready to sell Pandora on the black market. A demonstration is supposed to take place in Darfur sometime tomorrow afternoon. That’s about twelve hours from now.”

“One done against innocent villagers, no doubt. They’re going to try to sell it to those who are against the peace process.”

“With this weapon, they could strengthen terrorist organizations such as Al-Qaeda in their attacks against the US. They’ll be unstoppable.”

Fox removed the ammunition clip from one of the rifles and picked up the other. “Everyone’s stoppable. We strike them fast and we’ll strike them hard.”

“What you need to know is included in the email I sent you, as well as the location of the demonstration.”

“Good. I’m going for my ammo. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Oh yes, before I forget. You should also know that this laboratory doubles as a containment unit to prevent any contagions from getting out. In other words, if there’s any type of disruption in the confines in which Pandora is stored, the place will go on lockdown. There are sensors throughout the facility that are sensitive to the slightest change in the atmosphere. Setting off an explosive close to Pandora can cause the lockdown very quickly.”

“Then that’s where I’ll place the explosives. Are you sure there isn’t anything else you need to tell me before we leave this room?”

She stood silent for a moment as if deep in thought and nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Go wait for me outside.” Fox opened the door and let her pass first. The hallway was clear when she walked out. He closed the door behind him and walked in the opposite direction.

Fox found the storage room easily and collected the two C-4 flat explosives, the cigarette box-shaped detonator, and his Heckler and Koch USP Compact Tactical handgun. He unscrewed the noise suppressor and dropped it on the shelf, knowing that using it now was pointless. He tucked the handgun behind him in the waist of his pants, where he could easily reach it. He then immediately stuck an explosive to the back of the storage rack and activated it. He would later detonate this with the remote. Maximum damage could only be achieved if the explosives were placed in the same room as Pandora. He walked back to the hallway, not making eye contact with those who passed him.

Fox came to a window where he could see into the main research room. There was a huge contrast between the cleanliness and brightness of the laboratory and the hallway where he was. There were several men and women in white coats who seemed to be assembling several objects he couldn’t describe, but he knew they had something to do with the large set of metal canisters along the back wall with the N2(l) label affixed to each of them. He counted four of them and they were all about two feet wide and over eight feet tall. From his limited scientific knowledge, he was sure the liquid nitrogen in those canisters had something to do with the storage of Pandora. Within that room was another room, also separated by a large glass partition where a green glow emanated.

Pandora.

Fox realized the glass partition most likely acted as a seal to protect the white coats from exposure. That theory was soon confirmed when he saw an airlock chamber that led into the inner room with the green glow. That’s where he had to plant the other explosive, which was close enough to breach the inner chamber. The C-4 in the storage room would take care of the rest of the facility.

Fox opened the metallic door and walked in. Everyone inside seemed too preoccupied to notice him.

He stayed out of the way—making no eye contact—staying close to the walls until he came to the first set of liquid nitrogen canisters where he planted one of his bombs behind it.

“Are you mad?” cried out someone in Russian behind him. “Get out! You can’t bring weapons in here.”

Fox turned to the man and replied to him in Russian. “We caught an intruder earlier. So we’re making a precautionary sweep to make sure everything’s the way it should be.”

“No one else has come in here. Leave now,” the man ordered.

He had to be the head scientist.

“My apologies. I’ll leave,” said Fox as he nodded and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

There was a commotion ahead, a lot of yelling followed by the shuffling of feet. Fox recognized it as his cue to hurry. They obviously found the two guards he had taken out earlier and that he went missing. He picked up the pace as he saw two guards running towards him down the hall, searching the rooms. Five white coats kept the hallways clear by sticking to the walls as the guards swept by. Fox imitated the other guards by running and checking one room after the next, but he couldn’t afford to do it for long—someone was bound to see through his disguise.

That came soon enough when he heard someone yell in Russian, “There he is. Stop him!”

He turned around and ducked to the opposite side wall, grabbed his AK-108 and fired off a few rounds at the two guards behind him. They ducked around the corner as bullet pockmarks spread across the walls in a straight line, sending a mixture of dust and cement chunks ricocheting off the walls. The others would soon be drawn to his location like bees regrouping to launch an assault.

He spotted the entrance close by and he palmed the detonator. When the structure started to cave in on itself he’d still have time to make his escape. The euphoria of the thought overwhelmed him until he heard screams.

“Zacrute,” Fox heard someone yell in Russian, which meant, Shut up.

“We have your partner. Come back now and throw down your weapon!” yelled the same man in Russian. Fox assumed him to be their leader.

Shit, why’d she have to get caught? What the hell didn’t she understand about waiting for me outside? She already risked her life to rescue him, it would be inhumane to leave her. Along with knowing everyone in Ares, she might also know who set him up. Fox sighed and tossed the rifle across the floor so that it slid to a stop in the middle of the two intersecting hallways. He slowly walked to where he threw the gun, keeping the detonator closely hidden inside his shirt sleeve, and his hands held high enough, but not too straight as to allow the detonator to slip too far inside his shirt. He walked out in full view of the enemy, who were all strategically positioned. Two guards were down on one knee while the other two stood behind them, one of whom stood beside Sveta with the tip of his AK-108 inches from her. Further behind them, a few white coats peeked from around the corners.

“We’ve been given orders not to execute you. But it doesn’t mean that we won’t shoot off your kneecaps if you give us reason to,” yelled Sveta’s captor. “Put your hands behind your head and get down on your knees!”

Fox did as he was told. He went down on his knees and slowly put his hands behind his head and discretely let the detonator slide out from the inner sleeve into his hand. The moment that he would push the button, he knew he wouldn’t have long before the blast caused a lockdown. But he couldn’t do it as long as Sveta’s captor pointed his rifle at her. An explosion would startle him and might cause him to unintentionally pull the trigger. Fox only needed for him to point the rifle away from her for a few seconds.

Although he was a quick draw with a sidearm, his HK versus their AK-108s wouldn’t give him much of a surviving chance. However their weapons were bigger and heavier than his, thus making it more difficult for them to aim both quickly and efficiently. The sound of an explosion could distract them even more—buying him a second or two more to react.

Fox played a scenario in his head. The three guards would most likely approach him while the other stayed with Sveta. He’d detonate the explosives when one of them was close enough—using the extra one to two seconds of bought time to grab him in a choke hold with one arm while simultaneously using him as a human shield—then draw his HK with his free hand to dispose of the other guards. Sveta’s captor would most likely use her as a shield, so he would have to be taken out first. Speaking to him in Russian would be a start. “I’m unarmed, and so is the woman. What threat is she to you right now?”

The guard appeared to think about it for a few moments, and then lowered his gun. Fox knew that at the least right then any misfire would go into the floor a few inches from Sveta’s feet. She’d be fine as long that she didn’t move.

But rather than three, Sveta’s captor only sent the two front guards after Fox while the other remained behind with him. It wasn’t the scenario Fox expected, but he’d still have to detonate the explosive to distract them. He only hoped that they would momentarily point their guns away from him, making it harder for them to aim at him properly if he were to rush them.

The two guards were over thirty meters away from him. Fox only needed twelve meters from a dead start—a distance that he could clear in two seconds—in order to gain the necessary momentum to attack the first guard. Sure, using his sidearm might appear to be more efficient, but his chances of hitting his mark was lessened while they were in movement. If Fox were off by a fraction of a second, one of the guards might be able to take a decent enough aim to put a few rounds in him.

The guards closed the distance to about fifteen meters from him and Fox’s thumb slid over the button of the detonator. The guard to the left was a half step in front of the other. Fox would base his timing on that one. Right before the guard on the left reached twelve meters away, Fox pressed the button on the detonator and an explosion occurred further back in the lab. Fox dropped the detonator as he simultaneously launched from his position. He kept low as he drove forward, swinging his arms rapidly as his knees pumped into his stomach. He straightened up prematurely—slightly reducing his forward momentum—as he swung his arms outward a split second before he was between both guards. In a double clothesline move Fox struck them both in their heads—flipping them onto the floor.

Fox used the impact from the second guard to pivot around while he drew his sidearm from the back of his waist. As he rotated he fully extended his arm while the third guard was still in the process of aiming his rifle. Fox squeezed the trigger and watched as the guard’s head snapped back before being lifted off the ground. The guard had not yet hit the ground before he had Sveta’s captor in his sights. Fox pulled the trigger just as he saw a flash come from the guard’s rifle, quickly followed by a staccato noise and objects whistling by him. However Fox’s shot was on target as he saw the guard go down, holding onto the trigger button as shots pockmarked the ceiling, bursting one of the pipes.

Sveta was left crouched over with both hands covering her ears as steam from the damaged pipe blew clouds of vapor around her. Fox saw that she was in shock and felt it pointless to yell for her to join him. He yanked her away—nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process. The floor shook as they ran, the chain reaction would catch up to them very soon. Fox heard staccato shots and Sveta cried out. It wasn’t long after that Fox realized he was pulling dead weight. Damn it, she’s been hit.

When he looked down at her, blood stained the back of her lab jacket. Fox saw the perpetrator, lying sideways on the floor in the middle of the intersecting hallways. It was one of the two guards he had clotheslined. Why didn’t I kill that son-of-a-bitch? A rumbling caused Fox to nearly lose his footing as bits of the ceiling collapsed around him, and a huge futon-sized block crashed down and crushed the guard before he was able to fire another shot.

“Sveta… Sveta!” Fox yelled as he knelt down beside her. Still no answer. Shit, don’t die on me now. “Who set me up?” She was gone. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw the metal door sliding down from the ceiling. He broke out in a sprint and threw himself under it seconds before it touched the ground. He was now outside, but still underground. A metal ladder was a few feet away. He ran for it and climbed to the top and struck the wooden trapdoor open so hard it bounced once before settling. The scent of hay and fresh manure struck his nostrils as a small number of horses stomped and whinnied in their stalls as the ground shook, rattling the wooden walls of the stable they were in. A stable and a farmhouse fronting for an underground bio-weapons facility. Who would’ve guessed?

He climbed out onto the hay in the middle of the stall, and ran for the door. The five horses in their stalls stomped and whinnied wildly at the tremors.

Fox ran out of the stable into the crisp, cool air, and stopped at the splintered wooden fence that bordered the driveway. He hopped over, turned left and walked six steps, turned right and walked another three. He knelt down on both knees and dug up a wallet-sized tracking device. Fox then bolted across the moonlit field to the woods where he’d hidden his motorcycle. He pressed a button on the tracker and followed the sounds of a huge flock of grasshoppers that died down a few seconds later. He then came to the camouflage net that covered his motorcycle, yanked it off, and lifted the seat under which was a lit dial pad. He punched in the numbers 062176. A beeping sound was heard as well as a clicking sound. He lifted the cover to remove a satellite phone and dialed a number. The phone on the other end rang once and then he heard the recorded greeting.

“Welcome to Spade Insurance. Please listen carefully for our menu options have changed.” Fox dialed in his code: 062176. The voice recording ended and there was a short pause. A pleasant voice with a slight Jamaican accent replied.

“How can I help you, Mister Fox?” It was Marie Vasell, General Downing’s secretary.

“The lab’s destroyed. I need to speak to General Downing immediately. We’re going to have to scramble a team to Darfur ASAP. This so-called simple assignment I was given—it just got a whole lot more complicated.”

From the Author: Hiding in His Dreams

2011-01-17T00:01:00.004-06:00

From author Jason W. Chan:
Available on Amazon Kindle

If the love of your life died, would you take an unlove potion and not love them anymore, so that you wouldn't have to feel the pain and grief?

After his fiancee dies, Luke keeps seeing Alyssa's ghost in his dreams, where they relive happy times. He keeps taking sleeping pills so that he could see her as much as possible. When Alyssa's ghost sees that he's been neglecting his waking life due to his pain and grief, she presents him with an unlove potion.

The first spoonful causes sentimental objects to disappear. The second causes him to forget her. The last causes him to unlove her. Luke goes as far as the second one, but hesitates at the third.

Will Luke find a way to undo its effects? Or will he rid his pain at the expense of no longer loving the girl of his dreams?

Hiding In His Dreams explores whether love is worth suffering for.

Four Years from Home: Great Story, Breathtaking Conclusion

2011-01-16T23:34:00.001-06:00

My Amazon.com review for Four Years from Home:

I just finished “Four Years from Home” minutes ago. It’s an amazingly well-told story, with rich characters, wonderful narration and a conclusion that will leave you stunned.

(About that ending: I identified the principle coming about 75% of the way through … but the exact way it happened—I never envisioned that. And I'm unlikely to forget it anytime soon.)

Well done, Mr. Enright. I enjoyed every minute I spent reading this and look forward to your next project.

Indie Books Blog Interview

2011-01-16T18:18:00.000-06:00

It was just published. Check it out here.

A Referendum on Conscience: Chapters 3-4 (work in progress)

2011-01-16T00:01:00.005-06:00

Links to previous chapters available here.

Chapter 3

Tuesday, Nov. 19

At 6 p.m., Clarissa Rogers was home in her little apartment near the National Zoo watching cable news coverage of the Senate’s 98-0 vote condemning the previous evening’s attacks. Of the 54 senators who gave short speeches, only Rebecca McElroy made a case for serious analysis and discussion before setting out to extract revenge on the August 28 Revival and Azizistan. Clarissa was proud of her boss and getting ready to go on Fox News in a couple hours to defend her.

The senator herself was scheduled to appear in primetime on CNN and MSNBC. She was fiercely against the language being proposed for a use-of-force resolution that Congress would soon debate. It amounted to a blank check for President Wayne Fisher. Unfortunately, Republicans held a 58-42 edge in the Senate and the two Democrats most likely to support McElroy were battling life-threatening illnesses. In the House, Democrats maintained a modest 240-195 advantage, but House Speaker Thomas Walters of Oregon was already on the record in favor of an “any means necessary” approach to combating terrorism. In a speech last month, the first-year House leader told an audience of reporters and policy experts: “Nobody will ever be able to call the Democrats weak on national security during my watch.”

The Azizistan fact sheets coming from Senate Minority Leader Alan Desmond’s office were nothing short of embarrassing. They contained spelling errors, factual misrepresentations and could’ve easily been mistaken for the work of a mediocre graduate student. It was increasingly clear to everyone in McElroy’s office that they were going to be on their own, which wasn’t unusual. Over the past year, the senator had been the lone “no” vote in the chamber 16 times.

Clarissa had gone on national television during her work on Alex Hogan’s campaign, but she had never been a guest on Fox News’ Great American News Hour. As she selected an outfit from her closet, she was a little nervous about what host Stephen Nelson would throw at her. Appearing on Jared O’Conner’s liberal MSNBC talk show hardly compared to the kind of ambushes Nelson usually attempted, but she was the only person from the office who could do this. The senator was already booked, chief of staff Mike Wells was a lousy public speaker and press secretary Elaine Morris was great for talking to newspaper reporters, but quickly lost focus once under the bright lights of the cameras.

While she pulled on a black sweater, Clarissa heard her BlackBerry beep. It was a text message from Carter Jennings, an ex-boyfriend and one of the top Democratic media advisers in the country. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in more than a year—when he walked away after Hogan’s election—but that didn’t matter right now. She was glad to have a chance to ask for his advice.

“Just read Rebecca’s speech,” Carter wrote. “It was perfect. I’m in Australia. What are you all going to do?”

Carter had just got Tony Santelli elected governor of New Jersey and was on a post-election surfing trip when heard about the attacks in Washington. He immediately thought of Clarissa, but before he could call her he received the “I’m OK” message she had sent to her entire personal e-mail address book.

“I’m getting ready to go on Nelson’s show. Advice?”

She slipped into a tan skirt and ran a brush through her shoulder-length reddish-blonde hair while waiting for Carter’s response. He had done the Great American News Hour a few times before.

“Keep your answers short,” he wrote. “Don’t accept the premise of his arguments. Stick to your talking points. Keep it simple since the average viewer has an IQ of 50. It won’t be that bad. Are you OK?”

“A little amped up and scared from yesterday, but I’ll be fine. Gotta run.”

She appreciated his help, but didn’t want to get sucked back into Carter’s world. It had been a year and she still wasn’t over him, despite her many suitors on Capitol Hill. It was time to focus on Stephen Nelson and Azizistan. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day for Carter-related problems.

*****

The senator cruised through her appearance on CNN at 7:30 p.m. The attacks were “unwarranted and unprovoked,” she said, “but the last thing we need to do now is compound one tragedy with another and going to war without a plan would do exactly that. It’s time to be smart, get all the facts and make good decisions. That’s why the American people sent us here.”

Now she was on with MSNBC’s Jared O’Connor. He was apparently the only person in cable news who had bothered to learn about Azizistan before going in front of a TV audience of more than 2 million people and talking about it.

“Senator, I’ve read this use-of-force language that leaked out a couple hours ago and it looks as though Congress is being asked to cede all its power to President Fisher. And the president clearly thinks war with this disaster of a little country will be quick and simple—”

“That’s exactly right,” Rebecca said. “The only thing simple is the fact that last night’s attacks were the vile and disgusting acts of cowards. But how we respond—we’re running into a war—is extremely complex and if we don’t get this right it’ll take years and lots of lives to fix.”

“Where is the Congress on this? I can understand sanctioning airstrikes to target terror facilities, but this thing, giving the president carte blanche to take America to war? Come on, let’s get serious.”

“People are mad and scared,” Rebecca responded. “I know I am. But we can’t let that cloud our judgment. I know it’s tough right now, but Azizistan could be much worse than anything in recent memory if we’re not smart about this. Poorly defined military actions create as many terrorists as they kill. It’s a horrible, destructive and very preventable cycle.”

Meanwhile, Clarissa was sitting across a studio table from Stephen Nelson, who drove down from New York that morning to host his show live from the Fox D.C. headquarters. After a few minutes of small talk—he was genuinely concerned that one of the attacks was on the Metro line serving her neighborhood—the conservative pundit began unloading on the senator.

“So, Clarissa, 162 Americans are dead and you guys are saying don’t rush to judgment. Let’s, I don’t know, try to understand what these murderers were thinking. Is that right?”

“No, Stephen, judgment is simple. The August 28 Revival did this. We’re saying let’s make sure we respond right. Azizistan isn’t exactly a simple country and if we break it we’ll own it. Don’t forget that because when our rightful anger, grief and fear subside, I don’t think the American people will want to get stuck with Azizistan for the next five or 10 years. We will own it. That’s not something we can afford to overlook.”

“They attacked us, Clarissa. You don’t get away with attacking the United States of America. At least not while Wayne Fisher is president and your boss is in the minority. Can you even have a minority of one? There has to be a better word—”

“We have to target the August 28 people. Nobody’s denying that, Stephen, but we don’t need to get stuck owning some lousy island in the Arabian Sea.”

They went back and forth for the next few minutes before he decided to throw more red meat for his audience.

“Let me read you this. It’s from the senator’s speech this afternoon. I don’t understand it. Everyone across this country, Democrats and Republicans, agree we should get these people and your boss doesn’t, but here goes. ‘We owe America and all humanity so much more than the false promise that retribution is the cure to what ails us because it’s that very notion that has poisoned societies in every era of history and in every corner of this small planet we must share.’”

“Right,” she said before getting cut off again.

“So, it’s the position of your boss, a United States senator, that the innocent people of America have to share a world with Muslim extremists who want to kill them?”

“No. It’s the position of Senator McElroy that we should do our best not to create more extremists—of Muslim or any other variety.”

“I think we should find these people and kill them and I’m sure 99 percent of Americans agree with me. We can’t just wait until they all die of old age and start over. Showing weakness only empowers these savages.”

Clarissa really wanted to ask the 42-year-old host when he planned on enlisting in the military he wanted to send halfway across the world on a fool’s errand. Instead, she tried to smile a little.

“There are hundreds of millions of Muslims who desperately want us to lead responsibly and to behave like a super power,” she said. “If we do that, we make it that much more difficult for the August 28 Revival to recruit. If we run in there with no plan, we turn moderates into extremists—”

“More talking. They don’t negotiate and neither should we. Find them and kill them, Clarissa, that’s what I say. That’s all those people understand.”

“They were praying for us in Tehran, Stephen. In Iran! Let’s not screw that up. The terrorists have handed us moral authority on a silver platter. Let’s use it properly so we don’t create problems in Azizistan and across the Muslim world. Senator McElroy doesn’t want today’s fourth-grader fighting in Azizistan one day, but that’s a very real possibility if we don’t get this right.”

“I’ll let that be the final word. Clarissa Rogers—a very smart woman who happens to be very wrong tonight. Thank you for joining us and stay safe. I mean that.”

As they shook hands she looked right into his eyes. His rhetoric was certainly angry, but his eyes showed something else. He was scared. It made her feel better because she was, too.

*****

After leaving the Fox studio, Clarissa had her choice of taxicabs since nobody was out, but decided to walk for a while. It was about 22 degrees and a few snow flurries were beginning to fall, but she didn’t mind. This was her first chance to personally reflect on everything that had happened over the previous 27 hours.

Washington was now a police state. Almost every major intersection was guarded by city officers or National Guard troops. Tourists were fleeing, locals were staying home and across the country people struggled to find a balance between grief and anger, with anger winning more often than not. She always believed America would do the right thing, but now, for the first time in her life, Clarissa was worried about what tomorrow and the days after it might bring.

As she passed a couple open—but empty—restaurants on Wisconsin Avenue she realized her BlackBerry had been off since she walked into the TV studio an hour ago. She turned it on and checked the e-mails and text messages. Carter thought she did well. Elaine Morris said the senator was great on CNN and MSNBC. Nothing important. It was time to head home.

In the back of a cab, driven by a Middle Eastern man with a small American flag hanging from his rearview mirror, she started reading the reaction on the conservative blogs. Not surprisingly, the senator was getting crucified by right-wingers from across the country. Finally she clicked on a story about her own appearance on the Great American News Hour. The main post itself was nasty—she was called both ill-informed and ignorant—but the comments section, as usual, was worse. One in particular stood out.

“DYE U DUMM FUCKING HORE.”

At first she was terrified and felt as though she had been punched in the stomach, but after a few seconds she started laughing. A five-word comment and the writer managed to spell just one correctly. When this is over, we must address public education in this country, she told herself as she leaned back and fell asleep for the first time since waking up for work yesterday—nearly 40 hours ago.

Chapter 4

Wednesday, Nov. 20-Thursday, Nov. 21

Mike Wells hated politics. Sure, it was his work on a successful election campaign for a long-forgotten Ohio congressman that got him to Washington, but once he made it to Capitol Hill he threw himself into the legislative process and never looked back. He had served various representatives and senators over the previous 20 years, the last 10 of which were spent as chief of staff to Rebecca McElroy.

Wells never understood why people worked so hard to get power and then refused to do anything with it. Washington isn’t that great. Take risks, try to accomplish the things you promised, he always thought. Worst thing that can happen is you lose and have to go home. That’s a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.

Rebecca was Wells’ all-time favorite employer. During her re-election campaign six years ago, she did just about everything possible to lose. She sponsored single-payer, government-run health care legislation and several amendments that would’ve slashed the Pentagon’s budget while doubling U.S. foreign aid to Africa. She also voted against popular—but ultimately ineffective—education reforms, opposed a Minnesotan nominated for the U.S. Supreme Court and fought weak environmental standards that made it easier for the polluters of her state to do business. Nevertheless, she won a second term by a wide margin. To Wells she was a case study in voters rewarding courage even when they disagree.

Now, just two days after the terrorist attack in Washington, McElroy’s top guy was leading a senior staff meeting to consider options for responding to the use-of-force resolution the Senate would begin debating the next morning. It was the worst legislation he had ever seen, but he still hoped to find a way his boss could do more than simply vote no.

“It’s important that we stay positive,” he advised the team just after 7 a.m. on Wednesday, Nov. 20. “Simply nixing everything the president says isn’t leading and I think the senator and Clarissa did a good job on TV conveying the kind of message we need to keep hammering home.”

Wells was good-natured and people around the office always wanted to do good things for him. He wasn’t as smart as the policy experts, as charismatic as Clarissa Rogers or as brave as the senator, but everyone who came into contact with the bookish and rail-thin 48-year-old respected him immensely.

“Remember, when you’re talking to the senator or the press or responding to constituents, we’re not against getting the August 28 Revival, but we want to make sure we’re doing this right.”

He was nervous today. There was no real handbook for how to deal with stuff like this. The toughest issue he had ever dealt with previously was the federal government shutdown eight years earlier.

President Wayne Fisher was scheduled to address a joint session of Congress at 8 p.m. that evening. His real audience was the American public. Everyone on Capitol Hill had seen the final language for the use-of-force bill and it was on track to sail through the House and Senate by lopsided majorities and in record time.

“Can the senator offer an amendment to this thing?” Press secretary Elaine Morris held the resolution away from her as if she was carrying a week-old bag of trash. “Anything is better than this.”

Clarissa loved the people in the senator’s Washington office, but hated all the hand-wringing. Wells was a good man, but she would’ve liked him much better if he could summon a command presence. There was no need to involve everyone in the easy decisions. Azizistan was a deadly serious issue, yes, but it was also a very easy decision for the senator and her team. We’re against the war. We all know that. Let’s do it.

“I’m not an expert on parliamentary procedure,” Clarissa said, “but I don’t think they’re going to let us offer on the floor the 20-plus amendments it would take to turn this thing into something acceptable—or at the very least something that’s not so reckless.”

She was right. The minority leader took time to call almost every member of his caucus over the previous two days. Rebecca, the most liberal senator and a lame duck, was a noteworthy omission from his outreach efforts. She was hardly the face Alan Desmond, a conservative Democrat from North Carolina, wanted to put forward to the American people. In good times, he viewed Rebecca as an unwanted stepchild. Now she was a complete pariah whose departure from Washington couldn’t come soon enough.

After listening to his foreign policy expert and reading messages the senator had sent from the train, Wells was finally ready to take action that could’ve been ordered by e-mail an hour earlier.

“Clarissa, write the senator’s response to the president’s speech tonight and have me a draft in a couple hours. Then let’s start working on her speech. Elaine, get her on the radio back in Minnesota so people know why she’s doing this and that it’s the right thing.”

*****

At noon, FBI agents and D.C. police, responding to a tip from neighbors, stormed into an apartment rented by Abtin Soltan in the Anacostia section of town. The 46-year-old Iranian immigrant allegedly played host to Adel Yazdi, Hassan Mansur and Mohammed Hussein shortly before the Metro rail bombings.

As Soltan emerged from the bathroom, where he had been cleaning up for his shift as a corpsman at D.C. General Hospital, he was tackled by a plainclothes officer. In the struggle, he pulled a small pair of beard scissors from his bathrobe pocket and stabbed the detective twice in the side of the neck. A uniformed officer then calmly fired a single bullet directly into the Iranian’s forehead, killing him instantly.

An hour-and-a-half later, at a joint press conference at City Hall, the Washington police chief and FBI director declared this the “first counterstrike in the war against the August 28 Revival.” Soltan was said to have been a terror cell leader in the D.C. area who provided key logistical support to Yazdi, Mansur and Hussein. In his home officers found four satellite phones, three laptops, bomb-making materials, a receipt for the moving truck that blew up in Adams Morgan after the Metro bombings, and maps of Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York and Norfolk, Virginia. He would’ve been much more useful to authorities alive.

“Had he not been stopped today, we believe Mr. Soltan would’ve continued plotting attacks against the Washington area and the country as a whole,” the police chief said. “Thanks to alert citizens who took the initiative, we are safer today than we were yesterday.”

The FBI director told reporters that Soltan’s passport revealed five trips to Azizistan in the last four years. They also believed he had contacts within Iran, which was also true. His 73-year-old mother and two older sisters still lived there.

“God only knows what would’ve happened if we had delayed action,” the director said. “We were very fortunate that people recognized the photographs of Monday night’s bombers and made the calls they did. This is an important lesson—that citizens need to be vigilant in the face of terror. Every little tip does matter.”

Over the next few hours, police forces across the country were inundated with phone calls from citizens reporting suspicious activity by people who looked Middle Eastern. More than a few Native Americans, Asians and Latinos were caught up in the panic.

*****

“America was sucker punched by cowards on Monday evening,” President Fisher said from the dais in the House chamber as tens of millions of Americans watched on live television. “We didn’t seek this war, we didn’t provoke, but we will end it.”

For the twelfth time, almost every member of the House and Senate stood and cheered. On a few occasions, when the president praised the rescue workers and told stories about the victims, Rebecca joined her colleagues. But now she was seated and scared as hell. At a time when America needed wise leadership Fisher was tossing out more bluster. She couldn’t help but wonder how the speech was being received in the Muslim world.

“Tomorrow is a critical day,” the president continued. “The honorable people in this chamber will begin careful consideration of my request to reluctantly take America into war. A state of emergency has existed for more than 48 hours now and I greatly appreciate the bipartisan support that has been expressed by representatives and senators from across the country. There is a time for politics—and I look forward to returning to that day—but I am pleased that the men and women of the United States Congress have come together this week in the cause of peace.”

As she watched the speech on a TV in the senator’s office, Clarissa remembered an expression often used by her uncle, a Vietnam veteran turned anti-war activist. “Fighting for peace is like fucking for chastity.” It made even more sense to her now.

So far the president had said nothing that warranted a change to the short statement she had written for Rebecca 12 hours ago:

“Just two days after a brutal attack against the American people, President Fisher is using the bipartisan support of Congress to rush our country into a war with no clear mission, definition for success or exit plan. His actions threaten to compound Monday night’s tragedy with another one—a war that could continue for years and prove far more costly than administration officials are willing to admit. I believe the president is sincere when he says he wants peace, but his actions to date only serve to perpetuate the cycle of violence that has plagued humanity for too long. We must do more than react in the face of terror. America must lead.”

Wells didn’t think Clarissa was being constructive enough, but the senator overruled him. After the president finished speaking, Rebecca would decide whether to give the order for Elaine to e-mail it to reporters and editors across Minnesota and the country.

“To the people of the world, I deliver this message: the United States of America appreciates your prayers and support during this difficult time,” the president said. “We have been moved by your outpouring of love over the last two days and look forward to a day when we may all live in peace.”

Rebecca joined her colleagues in this standing ovation.

“To the terrorists and those who willfully harbor them, I say this: your days are numbered. We will track you down and we will destroy you. It may not happen today. It may not happen tomorrow. But we will not falter until we bring you to justice or bring justice to you.”

Congress was on its feet again, but the senator remained seated. In five minutes she would write a two-word text message to Elaine and Clarissa. “Send it.” An hour later she was back at work on her speech against this war. She knew it would be the defining moment of her career in public life.

While Rebecca worked into the early morning hours of Thursday, Nov. 21, American soldiers, airmen, sailors and Marines began deploying from around the world to bases throughout the Middle East. There was little doubt Congress would authorize force, so the Pentagon was simply preparing for the inevitable at this point.

Links to previous chapters available here.

Gerald Hornsby is Cool

2011-01-15T23:11:00.000-06:00

I've been following British author Gerald Hornsby over the last few rounds of #samplesunday.

His stuff is worth a look.

Interview w/ Two Ends of the Pen

2011-01-15T23:04:00.000-06:00

I was interviewed by Two Ends of the Pen. Check it out!

Just Dished Out a One-Star Review (and do feel bad about it)

2011-01-15T14:58:00.003-06:00

I've never given anything lower than a three-star review, but there's a first time for everything, I suppose.

Recently, I stumbled across a book called Tea Bagging America: A Memoir. The title drew me in, but the free preview was problematic for a number of reasons.

I post this here -- and on Amazon.com -- in the hope that the Anonymous author will address my concerns. I tried reaching out to him/her through their introductory post on Kindle Boards. No response.

This might be a good story. The title certainly provokes interest, but the problems are too numerous to go without mentioning. (I read the free sample. If the issues below are addressed, I'd be glad to buy and read the whole book.)

Too many problems in preview to justify price

1.) Editing and formatting is problematic to the point of impacting reading experience.

2.) It's fine that it's published under "Anonymous," but I need to know why. As it stands, I don't even know if this book is fiction, non-fiction or some kind of hybrid. At some point in the introduction, the writer needs to explain that and his reasons for going Anonymous.

3.) It's $2.99 w/ no justification on this page or in the preview for such pricing. I'd take a big chance on a $.99 book, but not on a $2.99 title.

Address these issues and I'll buy it, read it and post a full review.

Note: I tried to contact the writer through his Kindle Boards post to ask some of these questions. I got no response.

From the Author: Death Has a Name

2011-01-14T00:01:00.004-06:00

From author Jerry Hanel:
(Available on Amazon Kindle.)

Synopsis: Together with Detective Phil Dawson, Brodie Wade -- a psychic detective -- must summon all of his will to go head-to-head with a spiritual force known as The Truth to solve the latest string of gruesome murders. It appears that Dominick Fredrickton -- the Midnight Killer -- has returned from the grave. Can they stop Death before he is unleashed from eternal bonds?

*****

Review (from Amazon.com):

Give your imagination freedom and let this book draw you in. I was totally suprised how I was pulled further into the story nearly causing me to be late for work as I stayed on my eliptical trainer engrossed and wanting to just read a little more. Paranormal books I normally read when pretty much alone so nothing invades the story, with this book I could have been anywhere and it would still have held me. Whisps of fog will never look the same.