BOOK
III:
RABBI GABRIELLE'S DEFIANCE
Roger E. Herst
Copyright © 2011 by Roger E. Herst
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Table of Contents
Chapter
1
Chapter
2
Chapter
3
Chapter
4
Chapter
5
Chapter
6
Chapter
7
Chapter
8
Chapter
9
Chapter
10
Chapter
11
Chapter
12
Chapter
13
The
Rabbi Gabrielle Series
The Rabbi Gabrielle Series
Book I: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Scandal
Book II: A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle
Book III: Rabbi Gabrielle’s Defiance
Book IV: Rabbi Gabrielle Commits a Felony
Book V: Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest
See the end of this book for teasers!
GREENBRIER HOTEL
White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia
December 17 (25 Kislev, 57)
Snowflakes dusted the trail before her like confectioners' sugar. The steady clip-clap of footsteps on the fire-road leading from the hotel alerted Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn that she was not alone. Before the first light of dawn, a distant pounding of feet on the perimeter of the golf course meant little. But when these steps continued through a low-lying valley into the flanking hills, her indifference turned to worry. She shifted from a relaxed jog to a moderate run by arching from the flat of her feet onto her toes and increasing speed. In the inchoate light before sunrise, her imagination brooded over several possibilities – none good. It wasn't likely her pursuer was a meshuganah jogger like herself, one foolish enough to risk bad footing in poor light on an Appalachian mountain trail, or someone like herself who just enjoyed the nip of chilled morning air on her face. Why, she asked, had she unnecessarily placed herself into harm's way with retreat to the safety of the hotel blocked?
To escape, she contemplated plunging into thick foliage bordering the road, but rejected the idea. In the pre-dawn gray, vines and branches were certain to impede her flight. And how might she expect to avoid fallen trees barring her path? Despite the fact that every step took her further from safety, she decided to outdistance the pursuer by plunging deeper into the unknown. Would exhaustion slow her legs before his? Lungs that were already feeling the additional strain could not be expected to provide an unlimited supply of oxygen. How different this was from the relaxed jogs beside the Potomac River near her new Bethesda townhouse in suburban Washington, D.C.
Frozen air chipped at her cheeks and snaked around the edge of her gloves to attack the flesh beneath. As her lungs pumped vapor into the air, she could hear their gasps for oxygen, echoing from what appeared to be a thick wall of sycamore trees lining the fire road. Aware that the race was just beginning, she resisted a temptation to accelerate into a full sprint. Sure, she could put on more speed, but only at the expense of her endurance. If she couldn't outrun her pursuer she'd have to out-distance him. This was no time for panic, yet she sensed her brain losing control and her limbs running on autopilot. A pale light from the sun now peeking through the lower tier of the leafless winter forest momentarily lifted her spirits. Blessed be the dawn! She muttered a short petition to feel the sun's warmth on her chilled cheeks just once more.
The sudden appearance of a small creature on the roadbed, a hundred feet ahead, presented a new challenge. She expected it to be as alarmed as she and scamper back to the security of the forest. But as the intervening space decreased exponentially, it appeared to be on a collision course with her! There was no time or room for evasion. In the last few feet, she was relieved to see that what she thought to be a wild animal was, in fact, a housedog with short, powerful legs.
Her first impression associated it with her pursuer. In a moment of confusion, she eased rather than increased her pace. The dog thrust its tail high and commenced barking. Gabby slowed still more, prepared to avert collision. The animal took no evasive action and darted between her feet, obliging her to skip sideways in order to avoid stumbling. She re-established her balance while identifying the white and tan markings of the beagle family. The creature's tail wagged with what appeared to be an invitation to play. Her dancing steps seemed to encourage rather than dissuade it.
By the time she recovered momentum to press on, it was too late. She had managed only to take several forward strides when hit from the rear by a massive body. Impact swept her from her feet and eliminated the ability to resist. A moment later her right hip crashed onto the roadbed, with the attacker splayed over her like a quilted afghan. Freezing rocks encrusted with ice gouged her cheek and right nostril. Her arms, trapped tightly under her torso, were useless to wedge breathing space. Wiggling was all she could manage as the attacker shifted his weight to keep her pinned down. His mass made it impossible to replace air expelled from her lungs during the fall. She had read numerous accounts of rape and heard many personal testimonies. An attack under her clothing was certain to happen. Capitulation was not her style and, as long as resistance was possible, she would kick and squirm. In a rare moment of self-pity, she berated herself for having agreed to come to White Sulfur Springs and participate in the Democratic National Committee's annual retreat. When she accepted the invitation, she had a queasy feeling it was a bad choice. This would teach her to listen more carefully to her instincts – that is, if she got a second chance!
Rabbi Gabrielle Lewyn's role in one of the most celebrated rape trials of the decade along with her help in breaking up a gunrunning syndicate in the District of Columbia attracted the attention of Washington's political establishment. Women's groups requested her to speak at their conferences and rallies. Radio and television talk-show hosts hounded her to comment on the Jewish view of everything from capital punishment to, what she liked to joke, sewage problems in Buenos Aires, about which she was the first to admit she knew absolutely nothing. Political organizations bombarded her with invitations to an endless array of receptions and convocations. Few realized that her rabbinical duties as senior rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom consumed nearly every moment of her day, leaving little time for activities outside the synagogue. Fortunately, her dedicated secretary, Charles Browner, was masterful at graciously declining invitations, except when an event caught her fancy, such as the Democratic National Committee's annual retreat in West Virginia.
When the DNC Director personally asked her to conduct Chanukah and Shabbat services on Friday evening, how could she say no? Despite an inclination to dismiss modern politics as a gutter sport, she welcomed an opportunity to meet influential politicos. Still, the same invitation to a conference at the Orlando or Las Vegas Convention Centers would have produced a different response. But not the Greenbrier Hotel, which she believed to be a national treasure. Operated almost continuously as a spa and resort since the nation's colonial beginning, its palatial public rooms, massive stone hearths, and kitchen specializing in all-American cuisine from the Allegheny Mountains, wreaked with history and tradition. To a sports minded person like herself, the hotel's pools and spas, in-door tennis courts, and an ice rink, its matrix of riding, jogging, and hiking trails zigzagging through outlying foothills were irresistible.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" her attacker bellowed. It took a moment for her to appreciate that he wasn't yelling at her. Apparently, there were other people nearby, perhaps someone rushing to rescue her! "Homo sapiens! Don't fire! Don't fire!" her attacker continued.
"What the hell was he yelling about?" she asked herself, still gasping for air. And to whom? And this business about Homo sapiens? Was he an Appalachian mountain man, nutty as a fruitcake? Mention of shooting confused her further. She didn't hear any shots.
"Hey… down there," her attacker howled. "You've got people here. Careful, fellows!"
For the first time she became aware that the body pinning her down was lean and muscular. It felt as though he were waving a free arm. As his weight shifted, she ratcheted one arm free to press against the ground and create space for her lungs to expand.
"Okay… Okay, watch it down here!" he continued.
An instant later, he rolled sideways providing blessed relief, his right knee angled on the roadbed beside her. "Sorry, sorry, lady," he said, shifting his weight. In the act of scrambling to his feet he appeared to be extremely nimble. She gathered herself onto her knees to observe him jumping vertically in place and waving his arms like a cheerleader at a basketball game. From this vantage point, his Adidas shoes were soiled and worn and a knee poked through a hole in his baggy cotton sweatpants. The beagle continued to circle them, darting forward then back in an effort to reenter a tangle of bodies and entice newfound friends into a game.
Gabby was testing her legs to stand as the dog's wet snout greeted her. And instant later, she saw two men in camouflage dungarees emerge from the trees fifty yards away.
"Hunters," her attacker announced while his arms remained in motion. A faded red sweatshirt covered his chest and a Yankee's baseball cap shadowed most of his face. A hand in a knitted-woolen mitten reached down to help her onto her feet. She wasn't certain she wanted assistance from someone who had just tackled her. Besides, she needed a moment to evaluate her injuries. Her wrists and cheek burned from abrasions. Blood oozed from her right nostril and stained the back of her glove. No doubt there were cuts elsewhere. More disconcerting, a deadening ache pulsed through her hip.
High cheekbones, dark eyes, and a flat but symmetrical nose identified her attacker as Asian. As a native Californian who grew up near a large Oriental community, Gabby could usually distinguish different ethnic groups. By the broad shape of his head, she guessed Korean.
"Where were your brains, lady?" he snapped at her. "Don't you know it's deer season in these parts? You've got the wrong colors on. If you must jog during the season you don't wear beige. The only thing that would make you look more like a buck is a rack of antlers. Trigger-happy hunters would love to blast off a few rounds at you and, believe me, they're all trigger-happy at the beginning of the season. The motto in these parts is: 'If it looks like a buck, shoot it. If it doesn't look like a buck, shoot it anyway. If it's a whitetail doe, kill it and claim you were sure you saw a rack. And, lady, the way you're dressed, you fit all categories."
The dog resisted it's master's whistle to return. Why resume hunting when there were new friends to play with? They called her name, Cindy, four times, then one blew a high-pitched taxicab whistle through his teeth.
"Sorry about frightening you," the attacker apologized a second time. He invaded her space to use the cotton arm of his sweatshirt for swabbing blood from her nostril and examined her face for additional injuries, uncertain whether to console or reprimand her further. "We're too far from the hotel for a stray dog. When I saw this critter dart from the trees, I figured there had to be hunters nearby. In thick woods they usually work close to their dogs. Knocking you down was the only way to get you out of their gun sights quick."
The rising sun, now flickering through a tangle of forest, highlighted the hunters, rifles in hand, and still unaware of what transpired a moment before they emerged onto the fire road. From their view, there was no need for anyone to yell at the top of his lungs and spook game in the area.
Gabby was uncertain she wanted to emulate the Asian's greeting, yet she conceded to good manners and waved back unenthusiastically. Meanwhile, Cindy scampered along the road, eventually returning to her master.
"I hurt you," the Asian declared.
"My hip feels like it was hit with a pile driver, but I don't think anything's broken. Bruises in several places. I won't know the full catastrophe until I get my clothes off. I'd be surprised if I'm not black-and-blue, you know where."
He stood a head taller than she, with dark eyes examining her. "Yep. Looks like I also gave you a neat gouge on the cheek. Also banged your nose. If I had more time to think, I probably would have devised something less drastic. My fault entirely."
She wrestled with confusion about what had happened. "I don't know whether to thank or vilify you. But I'm still here and not on some marble slab in a morgue or strapped over the hood of a pickup truck like a deer carcass – so I guess you deserve my gratitude." She thrust out her wounded hand to shake. "This is the last thing I'd expect to do with a man who just tackled me."
"Name's Kye Naah," his grin was long and infectious as he reached forward. His cheeks were puffy, rounding his head like a basketball.
"Gabrielle Lewyn," she replied, aware that his name possessed a familiar ring. How many Kye Naahs did she know? Her memory for faces was excellent but the rim of the baseball cap obscured a good portion of his. "I'll think of you next Halloween when I wear my deer costume."
He stripped off a glove to place a cold hand near the abrasion on her cheek, then, with a finger, whisked away a small pebble lodged in the wound. "Staying at the hotel?"
"Yeah. I'm conducting a religious ceremony at the DNC meeting tonight. I'll probably look like a villain in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Are you with the DNC, too?"
"They've got me scheduled for a show-and-tell at today's lunch."
"On politics?"
"Isn't everything politics with the DNC? But I'm no politician, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a tech-guy and run a political website. Unfortunately, my work has given Democratic candidates a rough time. I help non-affiliated, independent candidates get elected, so I'm persona non-grata with both Democrats and Republicans, who believe I'm responsible for stealing their voters… which is exactly what I do. They call me the son of Mephistopheles. I came running this morning to see my last sunrise before crucifixion at noon."
Mention of a website jogged her memory. Of course, she knew Kye Naah, the flamboyant owner of the most controversial political website on the Internet, and currently under investigation by the Department of Justice for multiple campaign violations. She recalled a TV commentator in a piece about Kye Naah quoting Cicero, ancient Rome's senior political referee who once remarked of Augustus Caesar, "Now here is a man with many enemies, but also with much honor."
"I wouldn't advise jogging further in those clothes, Gabrielle. If you're not in a mood to decapitate me, I'll take you back to the hotel where the only hunting they do is head-hunting for website developers."
She tested her legs and immediately determined that her jogging was over for the day. "Have I an alternative? It would be helpful if you would go slow and give me support," she said. A sharp pain pounded her right hip. He took her arm to relieve weight from the wounded paw.
"If we sing," he said, "we'll scare the deer away. Hunters won't stick around when they hear my voice."
"Babba lou," she belted out, feeling more comfortable with him, but stopping immediately to ease the pain in her hip. "If the truth be known, I was trying to put distance between us. I couldn't have kept that pace much longer."
He laughed. "I was trying to keep up with you; a couple hundred yards more and you would have left me in the dust."
The road to the hotel snaked through thickly forested lowlands flanking a stream that meandered through a thirty-six-hole golf course on the valley floor. At a footbridge spanning it, he said, "I'm really sorry. I'll be happy to cover your medical expenses. That's the least I can do. The DNC knows my email address."
"You must get a lot of email."
"If you include electronic hate mail, then you're right. In cyberspace, my enemies don't have to invest in a postage stamp. Fortunately, the beauty of the Net is you don't have to read the insults."
"I'll try to be less combative, but I'll need a plausible explanation for this tonight when I make my debut before the public. Maybe I'll tell people I had a collision with a beagle and leave it at that."
"Blame it on me. There had to be a better way than knocking you down."
***
In a city where who you know is more important than what you know, Washingtonians prefer association with successful people and Gabby's fame bordered on celebrity status. It was no mystery why membership at Ohav Shalom increased annually. Her father often remarked how success breeds success and failure, failure. The more members, the more revenue from memberships. The more revenue from membership subscriptions, the more programs. The more programs, the more people served. The more service rendered, the more members. Many attributed the congregation's popularity to Gabby, but she continuously reminded everyone that the dedicated and talented staff played the most significant role. Two California and two Texas congregations attempted to recruit her by offering outrageous salaries. But she enjoyed her community of friends and associations in the nation's capital. She calculated her modest financial needs and declared herself to be satisfied. If she had wanted wealth, she would have chosen medicine or the law or business, not the rabbinate. Changing jobs for more compensation, even a substantial sum, had little appeal.
Now in her fourth year as senior rabbi at Congregation Ohav Shalom, she had settled into a professional routine. She knew what to expect from the congregation's members and, generally, they understood where she was coming from. The Jewish calendar, marked by an inexorable cycle of obligatory worship services, dictated the schedule of both her private and her professional lives – and they were different. Between these public events it was necessary to be available for counseling, teaching and communal work. Her phone rang continuously with members and non-members asking to promote a cause or assist in a personal problem. She often jested that being a rabbi in a large metropolitan city was analogous to operating a restaurant. Serve breakfast, then clean up and prepare for lunch. The moment lunch is over, clean up and get ready for dinner. And after dinner, clean up again and set up for breakfast. No way to get off this merry-go-round without closing the doors and going out of business. Fortunately, her latest associate, Rabbi Asa Folkman, willingly shared the daily burden, and on occasion provided her with time to re-charge her batteries at beautiful places like the Greenbrier Hotel.
It was upon his shoulders she intended to rely when taking a nine-month sabbatical, scheduled for the spring. After eleven years of service to Ohav Shalom (seven as associate to Rabbi Seth Greer and four as Senior Rabbi), the Board acknowledged an obligation to provide her with an extended respite – personal time for reflection and study unavailable while on active duty. But pledging and fulfilling this obligation were different animals. On two previous occasions emergencies at the synagogue forced postponements.
At 38 and facing the prospect of slipping through the prime mating years without a husband or children, Gabby could not afford to be casual about social contacts. Three significant romances and a half-dozen less serious but nonetheless time-consuming relationships sharpened her impatience to find a lifetime mate. Her figure, though three pounds heavier since she had retired from playing tournament tennis, remained that of a dedicated athlete. No red meats or excess fats, chocolates or ice-cream in her diet. To avoid snatching one or two cookies off the buffet table at a synagogue reception required supreme control, especially when she was anxious or in need of a psychic reward. Earlier in life, she believed that by denying herself sweets her taste buds would eventually lose their desire. This she learned to be dead wrong, for in spite of her self-control, the craving continued.
Short brunette hair cut close to her scalp accentuated what an enamored but rejected suitor once called dancing eyes and a rounded nose that dropped off at the tip in a cute, school-girlish manner. Dimples remained her dominate feature. They produced deep, alluring cavities to highlight the warmth of her smile. One would suspect her to be bombarded with dates, but the reality was quite different. Men just didn't know how to telephone a female rabbi and invite her for dinner or a basketball game. Moreover, they conjectured that the queue of suitors was far longer than it was. When occasionally seen in public with a date, rumors circulated. To avoid such speculation, she found it expedient to socialize outside Washington's Jewish community, in remote locations, such as White Sulfur Springs, West Virginia.
An interest in politics crept up on her. In earlier years, the endless scheming, pontificating, and hypocrisy of politicians in Washington seemed anything but admirable. An endless series of political campaigns, filled with stump speeches designed to sway rather than inform voters was annoying. But after her associate, Rabbi Dov Shellenberg, left Ohav Shalom to become a White House Fellow and launch a career in government, her harsh attitude toward the business of public service softened. She began attending meetings with Young Democrats and discovered a latent fascination not only with public policy but also with the process of getting officials elected to office.
After assessing multiple bruises and contusions, Gabby showered and applied topical antibiotics to abrasions on her face, wrists and ankles. Blood that earlier drained from her nostril dried. She was surveying the damages in the bathroom mirror when the phone rang. Stacy Donatello, secretary to DNC Director, Daniel Lyle Carberri, introduced herself with an apology for the early morning call. Democratic Senator Cynthia Melody Childs from Gabby's newly adopted home state of Maryland – where she had purchased a townhouse near the Potomac River in the Palisades District, a half-mile from the District of Columbia line – and Mr. Carberri were planning a breakfast meeting in the Director's suite in forty-five minutes and both had requested her attendance.
"Why?" Gabby asked, revealing bewilderment for coming onto the radar screen of such powerful people.
Donatello replied that she was just a messenger and not privy to her boss's thinking.
The invitation, however mysterious, was hard to refuse. You just don't say no to a United States Senator and the Director of the Democratic National Committee. Besides, her morning adventure had stimulated an appetite and dining with two of the most important participants at the conference was better than eating alone in the hotel coffee shop – despite the uncomplimentary sight she would present.
Forty minutes later, the DNC director greeted Gabby in the corridor outside his suite and immediately remarked about her facial wounds while ignoring her hip. "I hope nobody took a punch at you, Raaab-i," he ribbed in an easy Southern drawl while squiring her into a suite of rooms where breakfast was already arranged at two round tables.
"Had a little fall this morning while jogging. Nothing serious," she fibbed, not wishing to go into the unflattering details.
Four members of Maryland's Democratic Committee stepped forward to meet her, coffee cups in hand, making conversation about how they enjoyed Greenbrier's celebrated kitchen. Senator Cynthia Melody Childs showed up fourteen minutes later, following a Washington custom that senators were always the last to arrive at a function, as befitting the importance of their office and the scarcity of their valuable time. She was no stranger to Gabby, but it would have stretched the truth to say that they were anything but occasional acquaintances. Once all were seated for breakfast and introductory banter over, conversation focused on Maryland's eighth Congressional District, at the time represented by Toby Ryles, an extremely talented, very liberal Republican who had been re-elected seven times in a solidly Democratic district. But at a terrible political price. For a Republican to serve a blue district where the overwhelming sentiment was Democratic, she had no alternative but to vote as an old-fashioned New-Deal-Democrat. Great for the Democrats, but this made her a pariah among her Republican cohorts who denied her senior committee appointments. Despite fourteen years in office, no legislation bore her name. In all her years, she was boycotted by the Republican Caucus and remained as isolated as any non-affiliated freshman congressman. She possessed neither the authority to initiate new bills nor to promote ones reflecting the views of her constituents. Her long tenure was spent catering to her Democratic constituents to guarantee re-election. In the past, the Democratic Party had been complacent if not ambivalent about challenging her seat because at the end of the day, they could always rely on her liberal vote. But that didn't mean Toby Ryles wasn't a caw in the Democratic throat.
Carberri surveyed his guests and lifted his eyes above Gabby's head as if gathering wisdom from the Almighty. "Raab-bi," he drew out her title as though opening an accordion, “we're determined that the time has come to replace Representative Ryles with a real Democrat. You probably know that Maryland Democrats have selected State Senator Barbara Abt to carry our standard into Congress. We thought we had a dynamite candidate, but things have changed radically this week. She hasn't faced the press yet so what I'm about to tell you must remain confidential. Call it clergy privilege, and we're sure you will exercise this often. Barb's husband of twenty-four years has run off with a younger chicken. That's hardly newsworthy these days in Washington, but you can imagine the difficulty it causes for a candidate. Barbara has told us she anticipates a nasty divorce with perhaps years of litigation. To put her family troubles before the public at this delicate time would be undesirable, from a political as well as personal point of view. We at the DNC concur. Toby Ryles is going to be tough to beat under the most desirable conditions. The long and short of it is that we need a replacement to pull the election out of the bag – ideally, we believe, a highly visible woman who can appeal to the District's predominance of registered Democratic voters, the majority female. It's got to be someone to shake them from a fourteen-year pattern of returning Toby Ryles to office. Historic lethargies aren't easy to turn. We need someone with verve, visibility, and brains."
Seldom over-spoken by others, Senator Childs – a stocky woman with a razor-sharp voice she employed combatively even when it was unnecessary – interjected, concluding Carberri's introduction. "And if anybody can beat Toby Ryles, we believe that person to be you, Rabbi Lewyn. We've considered several prominent women but you score tops in all categories. And we're not unmindful of the fact that the Eighth District has a large population of Jews, who look upon voting as a sacred duty."
Lyle – few used his given name Daniel – made no effort to hide the rolls of fat bulging around his mid-section. Even at this early hour, perspiration glazed his brow. His speech was slow and melodic, as he languished sad, puppy-dog eyes upon Gabby. Those who knew him well liked to point out that before lunch, he moved with the speed of feral pig and after lunch, an armadillo. "Raaab-i, raising the money for the Bart Skulkin Tennis Center in Anacostia was a pretty neat piece of work – a textbook example of how to mobilize grassroots activists behind a neighborhood cause. I've watched many a fund-raiser in my day. Some just have the talent and others don't. It comes down to a combination of instinct and brains. I'm told that some of our own people outside the Beltway are now using the example of the tennis center in training volunteers. The bottom line is that anybody who could make a tennis center like that happen could easily win a seat in Congress."
The notion of running for public office caught her entirely by surprise and she could do little but parry with the first objection that came to mind. "It must cost a lot of money. I read that candidates dub elections not the pursuit of votes but the money chase."
His lips curled slightly, a preamble before experimenting with a Yiddish word. "Shnorring for one cause is like shnorring for another, now wouldn't you think, Raaab-i? You'll need about $700,000. I can't say fund raising isn't part of a campaign, but the reality is that when a candidate confronts an issue he-she enters an arena with other like-minded people. And when you strike a tone the voters like, they open their purses, just like they did for the Skulkin Center. A successful candidate keeps focused on issues, and the money follows. And, of course, we intend to help at every step. And by we, I mean the DNC and the President. That's part of our package. There's no purpose to recruit you, then hang you out to dry. President Talisman is absolutely committed to a Democratic majority in Congress. It wouldn't be asking too much for him to venture from the White House to support a candidate in nearby Maryland. He understands the power of the female electorate. For him, supporting a candidate of your stature should be a no-brainer. I understand the Vice-President also has said some very complimentary things about you at the tennis center."
Gabby felt herself seduced by Lyle's charm. She silently identified him as promoter pitching his brand of political thinking. Her mind jumped ahead: Tzsoris comes in different forms, but problems could be classified into two categories – good problems and bad problems. Fortunately, this invitation fell into the good category, with an easy answer. The notion of her running for Congress was utterly preposterous! She never considered herself a politician and generally held the profession in low esteem. That did not suggest that she had never entertained fantasies of working outside the rabbinate. Often she indulged in pipe dreams about switching to medicine or teaching. And when things went wrong at the synagogue, she could not avoid imaginary what-if games. But never in her wildest speculations had thoughts about a political career done more than shoot through her brain and right out the other side. And there was no way on God's earth that she could campaign for office while riding a bucking bronco like Congregation Ohav Shalom. And just as importantly, would anyone in her right mind entertain resigning from a secure position for which she had been trained and, by several standards, become successful, in order to gamble on an insecure one for which she had no experience? No way, Jose!
Lyle passed quickly from generalities to specifics, addressing his need to register a replacement for Barbara Abt with the Election Commission within three weeks. "The more time the DNC has, the more effective it can be in organizing and implementing a campaign," he said before deferring to Senator Childs.
"Careers often shift in mid-stream," the Senator said with philosophic aloofness, pointing the remnant of her third glazed Danish at Gabby, who had observed from her figure, more represented by a goldfish bowl and than an hourglass, how little attention she paid to diet. "As a matter of fact, many physicians, professors, and leaders of business serve their country in Congress. Currently, I believe, four members now serving were once in the clergy."
Only courtesy and a healthy touch of flattery enticed Gabby not to reject this offer on the spot. She agreed to think about it, though gave no indication that time might alter her initial reaction. The Senator, who knew that few Washington decisions were made impulsively, remained optimistic, stressing that the opportunity to serve in Congress was an honor few would reject. While ushering Gabby to the door after friendly handshakes, Lyle said, "I'm looking forward to your Chanukah service this evening, Raaab-i. The Committee is fortunate that you could come to celebrate the holiday with us. Jews have shown themselves to be extremely loyal Democrats and we want to be sure their religious feelings are respected."
An expression of confusion appeared on her face: why a Catholic like Lyle Carberri would wish to attend a Chanukah ceremony and Sabbath service puzzled her.
My staff has made arrangements for refreshments. The Greenbrier kitchen caters for kosher Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. Chanukah couldn't be much different, I suspect."
"I'm sure it will be lovely." Gabby remained perplexed, thinking how he must have better things to do, or was this a follow-up to his sales pitch?
"If you don't mind, I'd like to bring a friend," he said.
"I'll be happy to see as many faces as possible."
"Are you coming to the luncheon this noon?" he asked as she stepped into the corridor.
"Of course. I'm looking forward to hearing Kye Naah."
"Expect fireworks, Raab-bi. Politicstoday has ruffled just about every feather on the Democratic goose. I put my neck on the chopping block to place him on the program. Have you met Kye before?"
Her giggle conveyed a girlish innocence. "You could say he once knocked me off my feet and bowled me over."
Lyle mistakenly took that disclosure as an admission of a romantic involvement and responded with a conspiratorial chortle deep in the throat.
When she studied the election schedule Lyle had provided, she admitted that the idea of running for Congress possessed growing appeal. Even as a substitute for Barbara Apt and an obvious second choice, who wouldn't feel a surge of power in creating laws applicable to thousands, if not millions? After years of resisting Potomac fever, was she experiencing the initial symptoms of this dreaded disease? Was she capitulating to a base instinct for power? Still, even if she could beat a savvy politician like Toby Ryles, a doubtful proposition at best, she judged her personality unfit for political office. Had not Plato warned in The Republic about a willingness to beguile the populace? She knew enough about political theory to know that for a democracy not to bog down in endless squabbling, it was necessary for a portion of the electorate to be kept in a state of deception. This made her wonder if she really wanted to join a club of deceivers. Lyle had asked her to make a decision in three weeks. But what would she learn during that interval she didn't already know? And just as important, she had no significant political differences with Toby Ryles. Could she beat a candidate espousing a similar, if not identical, liberal platform?
***
Beside official delegates, the DNC retreat attracted an army of vendors, pollsters, publicists, image-makers and political consultants selling their services to political organizations. As Gabby passed through a spacious hallway for the plenary luncheon, manicured women in coifed hair and tailored business suits staffed information booths, smiling pleasantly or chatting with curious passersby. Ticket holders bunched up at the banquet room door and pressed against Gabby as they funneled through. Voices rose to match the squeeze. As she waited to present her ticket, a woman with blond hair monumentalized by too much hairspray urged her to take a handout, saying, "Please help us make our point. No more DNC funds for Politics Today. Underwriting Kye Naah's website is subsidizing our party's destruction."
Gabby furrowed her brow in a gesture of puzzlement. "I'm afraid I'm not current on the controversy."
"Read the flyer, please. And remember our protest will occur when Kye Naah is being introduced. Just get up and walk out with the rest of us. We've reserved the Chesapeake Room for our own rally. Please join us."
Beyond the crowded entry, Gabby entered a cavernous banquet room, the floor tightly packed with circular luncheon tables, adorned with vases filled with fresh hothouse flowers. A laptop computer on each table stirred her curiosity. She was eager to find her place and study the handout. Lyle Carberri had mentioned that opinion was divided about Kye Naah but, until that moment, she hadn't appreciated how much.
The seating arrangement honored a hierarchy in which senators and representatives assumed primary locations, flanked by wealthy contributors and distinguished observers. Senior party members dined near the speaker's table while their staffs and volunteers assumed seats in the rear or on the flanks. Gabby's place card was inked out with a last-minute substitution. At Table 27, she found herself in the company of six Democrats from the State of Maryland, presumably for them to get acquainted with a potential candidate from the Eighth District. During introductions, everyone expressed curiosity about the presence of laptops throughout the ballroom, a signal that perhaps the DNC had finally entered the 21st century.
The notion that she had already agreed to run had taken root among her tablemates who refused to hear her protest to the contrary. Talk of the upcoming Maryland campaign made her uncomfortable. When she excused herself to visit the ladies room, several eyes studied her limp as though asking how it would appear on television to their state's voters.
The lavatory provided a moment's privacy to read the handout.
Truth about Politicstoday.com
Politicstoday
means
Third Party Politics
Underwritten and Supported
by Citizens for a New Way,
The Minorities Alliance, The Immigrants
Party, Clean
Government Slate, The Alternative Way
Politicstoday
skims
more voters from the Democratic Party
Than the Republican
Party
See: JR Edwards Polls of Four Election
Results
Politicstoday
owes
the sum of $427,544 to the DNC
See:
Annual Accounting: Lazard and Freer, LLC.
Politicstoday
Borrows
Unconsciously
See
Federal Bankruptcy Court, Baltimore, Maryland
Filing
Number: 576-88798
Politicstoday
is in Violation of State of Maryland Zoning
See
State of Maryland Injunction, Circuit Court, State of MD.
RESPONSE TEAM: TO
MEET IN CHESAPEAKE ROOM ON CONVENTION GROUND FLOOR
DURING KYE
NAAH'S PRESENTATION. BE THERE!
Though she had previously cautioned herself to differentiate between fact and political mudslinging, this was not what Gabby wanted to read. On the mountainside, Kye didn't appear as an entrepreneur capable of creating the organization described on the flyer. She decided to withhold judgment until after his presentation.
No rubber chicken lunch at the Greenbriar. The chefs treated the DNC to sautéed blue crab cakes on a bed of thin penne pasta, which Gabby forked aside. Resisting shellfish, even the redoubtable blue crabs of the Chesapeake, had never caused her undue suffering. Besides, she was more than satisfied with the accompanying salad, cold corn soup and the regional specialty of warm pumpkin muffins. Throughout the meal, the Maryland Democrats pressed their views on how to beat Toby Ryles. Gabby was too polite to declare that she had absolutely no intention of campaigning against a representative (even a Republican!) who had proven herself to be a faithful friend of the Jewish community and the State of Israel.
During coffee and a medley of painstakingly crafted high-caloric petit-fours, a Senator and three Representatives seated at the head table thanked the DNC for its financial support. Gabby noted how, accustomed to speaking before their supporters, they recycled catchy phrases as though cutting and pasting words on a word-processor. Their speeches were studded with metaphors from television sports, extolling the values of training, winning and good sportsmanship. Gabby asked herself if, by some unforeseen fluke she should run and win, whether her political addresses would sound like that. Meanwhile, waiters swooped down on the tables to collect dirty dessert plates and refill coffee cups before the guest speaker. Aware that many delegates were planning to boycott Kye Naah's presentation, Gabby surveyed the ballroom for signs of their flight to the Chesapeake Room. Occupants of an adjacent table abandoned platters of uneaten petit-fours en mass; Maryland Democrats at Table 27 followed on their heels, leaving Gabby and a lone state senator working the laptop.
Lyle Carberri hugged the lectern with the air of a man comfortable before a microphone. His eyes hovered over the empty seats and glared at members bunching up to exit the banquet room. A scowl of disapproval replaced his normally jocular smile to convey that Kye Naah was not the only one being shunned.
An aura of mystery surrounded the 40-year-old guest speaker, about whom a battalion of investigative reporters from the Wall Street Journal and Investors Daily News had failed to uncover more than skeletal details of his private life. His family had emigrated from Pusan, Korea when he was 14. He attended Johns Hopkins University on a scholarship, then the graduate Computer Science Department at the University of Maryland on a grant. Upon earning a PhD, he launched Politicstoday with seed money provided by four Hopkins classmates, carving out a significant online niche in politics before his competition established a foothold. The original investors from Johns Hopkins, more interested in making money than shifting the arena of American politics into cyberspace, pressed Kye to take their company public. In the end, he borrowed heavily to buy out their interests, then mortgaged the website to loyal and enthusiastic employees compensated with stock warrants that might never be issued and just enough salary to pay grocery bills. When expenses exceeded income, Politicstoday stayed alive by seeking federal bankruptcy protection. Kye's dedicated associates remained fiercely loyal, operating their business more like a non-profit commune than a for-profit corporation. No one accused him of milking his company for personal gain, even his irate creditors. He was known to live frugally and take almost no compensation. He always traveled coach aboard commercial planes, lodged in cheap motels and shied away from restaurants with white table clothes.
Gabby soon learned that not all of Kye Naah's enemies boycotted his presentation. A vanguard remained behind to register their opposition by pounding coffee cups against the tabletops. At first, the noise merged into an ambient growl from the air conditioners, but eventually rose to a level demanding a response from Lyle.
Off came the director's reading glasses to brandish as a rapier. "All right, friends," he lifted his voice in combat. "We know there are people who take a dim view of how Politicstoday steals our voters. I didn't invite Kye Naah to talk about what cyberspace can do for the independent candidates. He's already demonstrated his capability. I invited him to tell us what the Internet can do for the Democratic Party. Cyberspace presents a challenge I will not let this party ignore. If we don't come to terms with online campaigning, the Republicans will. Can we afford to ignore a technology destined to bury us? I know you're worried how cyberspace will change the way you currently do business. That's understandable. But the brute fact is that without it, our candidates will be out on the street with tin cups in their hands, begging for alms. The storm won't blow over. Your program committee has considered who is the best spokesman. Not a sycophant to tell us how wonderful we are, but a master of information technology to kick us in the proverbial ass. Therefore, I challenge you. If you know all the answers, then go ahead and bang your cups. Or even better, leave now and protest in the Chesapeake Room. But if you think there might be something to learn, I suggest you wait until after Dr. Naah has finished. I've asked him to answer questions at the end. You'll get a chance to register your opinions then."
Like a guest on a late-night TV talk show, Kye materialized from behind a curtain and bounded up the six steps to the elevated platform. In contrast with those at the head table in sport jackets and open shirts, he wore informal calico Levis and a light yellow T-shirt. His frame appeared thinner than portrayed in news pictures and his stature, taller. A broad face advertised his Korean lineage. Slender lips opened naturally in a manner that gave the appearance of a perpetual smile.
Lyle was still trying to control his rebellious minions when Kye placed a hand on his shoulder to urge him aside. He deposited a slender laptop on the lectern and, in a fluid movement, flipped open its protective cover. A couple of punches on the keyboard and the logo of Politicstoday, flashed onto an enormous screen behind him, accompanied by digital music with an attention getting beat.
"Okay, Ladies and Gentleman," he said after testing the lapel mike for amplification through the loudspeakers. "I don't mind heckling. Say whatever you want. Go ahead and bang your cups. But remember, I've got control of the computer and he who controls cyberspace, controls the argument."
That declaration produced scattered expressions of amusement. Music rerouted through laptop speakers on the tables drowned out the banging of cups.
"Do me a favor, please," he said. "I think I have strong opposition over on the right. People who wish to register their discontent, please sit in front of your laptops. Then place your angry teacups before the camera of your laptop. Once I have a cup to wrestle with, will the table monitor please yell out the table number."
A voice on the right called "Table seventy-four." A few seconds later, additional monitors identified Tables 67 and 18. Kye immediately punched these numbers on his keyboard and an image of a teacup from Table 74 appeared on the giant screen behind him. The images of cups from Tables 67 and 18 showed as insets in the upper corners.
"That's good," Kye said. "Now, if my critics wish, strike the cup with a spoon. Go ahead, please."
From Table 74, a knife made contact with the cup. At first the sound was restricted to the table itself, but Kye adjusted his laptop to reroute through the banquet room's loud speakers.
"Now for a while I'll dedicate part of the screen to my opposition and let the rest of you join in. Talk or bang as you wish. For practice, I'm going to ask everybody at this luncheon to pick up a spoon, strike a cup or plate and let's make a real racket."
Two or three diners followed the instructions. Eventually, others got into the spirit, including Gabby. Before long, almost everybody was participating in the clatter. Kye let this continue for a full minute, until the exercise struck people as childish. The words TIME OUT NOW Kye typed on his keyboard immediately transferred to the overhead screen. A wagging cartoon finger scolded the last of those striking their cups.
As sound dropped away, the Politicstoday logo reappeared.
The computers next carried Kye's voice. "You ask how independent candidates in Alabama's third Congressional District and Oregon's fifth won? I'm no political analyst, but I will share what Politicstoday did to help. Please keep in mind that while we're the largest website, we're not alone. A dozen competitors would love to steal our business. They're planning to offer services either better or cheaper than ours. Here's a sample of what we have been able to achieve and where we think we're going in the future."
On each laptop appeared a video of Reginald Meredith, then Republican candidate from Alabama's third District. He was walking the deserted runway of a pork barrel airport built in his district by business partners of the incumbent Democratic congresswoman. "Mr. Meredith used this very footage to show what his opponent was doing with their tax dollars in Washington."
"A short clip like this is low budget and produces results," Kye continued. "Politicstoday can pump video and voice to radio and television stations, utilizing inexpensive off-peak times. This means that when stations lose an advertiser, as they often do at the last minute, or a spot is pulled by a customer for any number of reasons, we can fill it instantly. We maintain a digital library for each of our clients. We don't have to go on location to film a sequence. We just identify a station and, in seconds, send the segment anywhere, almost directly onto television screens. And we go one step further by sharing our database with the media. By means of our proprietary encryption, we let radio and TV stations pull from our servers at their convenience, filling lost advertising spots. Of course, often we get dog positions in the wee hours of the night. But more than occasionally, our political spots show up at prime time with maximum exposure and our candidates pay nearly nothing for this."
Murmurs of satisfaction emanated in the ballroom.
A new set of images filled sectors of the overhead screens, one of a middle school classroom where pupils were operating computers. "We've just launched our national education program by providing material for civics teachers in 213 schools. By linking with Politicstoday, students can, absolutely free of charge, study local candidates and – if the candidates subscribe to Politicstoday – open direct, real time communication. The site links to historical information about the issues at hand. When learning about slavery, for example, we have Anthony Hopkins reciting John Quincy Adam's famous speech before the Supreme Court in 1834. On the judicial side, we have introduced links to major court decisions and the famous cases from which these decisions arose, such as Brown versus the Board of Education and Roe versus Wade. Each link comes with video and background text. So far the response from civics teachers has been fabulous. In election-crazy Oregon, we were surprised that the kids went home and got their parents hooked on our web site."
A dialogue appeared on Kye's screen between seventh grade students in Alabama and the newly elected Reginald Meredith about federal anti-discrimination laws. A link suddenly left the two-way discussion and provided a list of historic legislation dealing with school integration, then a video of Senator Esterbrook barring the doors to Central High School in Jackson, Mississippi.
"We're now experimenting with online town meetings," Kye flipped to a pilot program in Maine. "Many of the techniques used to integrate two-way interaction between citizen and government are still untested. It's not inconceivable that we will have interactive political meetings from people's homes, a two-way modification of the old one-way Fireside Chats that President Roosevelt used so effectively during the war years."
Kye Naah's self-assurance intrigued Gabby. She glanced around the tables to observe his skill at holding attention. For the time being, there was no further protest.
"Technology is a weapon of war," he stated in a flat, authoritative voice. "It is no longer necessary for nations to summon armies on the battlefield. Today, the rifleman is as much a footnote of history as a knight in armor or the US Calvary galloping across the plains to rescue a beleaguered wagon train. Likewise, if politics is war, then the Democratic Party must fight like a modern gladiator, not a twentieth Century pugilist. For the party to win elections, it must be at the cutting edge of the technological revolution, not trailing behind the Republicans who, I can tell you from firsthand experience, are gearing up to capture the Information Highway. I doubt there's a single person at this lunch who wants to be left behind. But for every one with good intentions, there were ten foot-draggers. You either lead with technology or get buried by it."
Kye left his mike behind at the lectern and sidestepped across the platform leaving an enlarged silhouette of himself on the screen. A menacing teacup remained as backdrop. "The ability to transfer text, voice, and video will make obsolete much of your current campaigning. Who wants to be a fossil?"
That thought produced considerable mumbling. A spoon struck a cup, but was obscured by Kye's shadow on the screen.
"Will you organize blocks of votes the old-fashioned way? Of course not. You can't afford to because voting will soon be online and we expect to see a lot more people casting their ballots electronically than visiting the traditional polling booths."
Back at the lectern, he spoke again into the mike. "And, just for fun, think about the cherished governing body of this land – the United States Congress. It was originally founded in 1777 in Philadelphia where representatives from distant states could meet, parley and pass legislation. Like Parliament in England, the idea was for representatives to discuss current issues of law and policy. In 1777, our forefathers possessed only the written and the spoken word. They argued their business in letters and memos, but when it came to legislating laws, they faced each other and debated eyeball to eyeball. So they convened a congress of representatives in Philadelphia. And you all know how they ended up in Washington.
"The idea of political negotiation is intrinsic to our system of government. We have a preconceived notion of how government business should be conducted. We're accustomed to sitting around a table to hash out differences. But do we really have to be physically in front of each other in order to carry on an intelligent debate? How necessary is it for elected officials to sit in the august halls of the Capitol and pontificate? When Congress convenes, less than one quarter of the delegates are in attendance; speakers address empty seats. Couldn't the exchange be accomplished more efficiently over the Internet? Wouldn't our leaders be more effective if they stayed near their constituents and conducted their business online? If their role is to represent their communities, what better place? Lobbyists could lobby through the Net. There's no reason why Congress couldn't vote on the Net. I'm here this afternoon with one message. Despite all you might have heard, the technology for real-time integration of voice, video, and text is here. What isn't in this room is the will to claim it!"
The ballroom buzzed with mild accord to strong disagreement. A broad-featured woman in a beige silk blouse and red scarf used her desktop computer to confront Kye. Her flushed face, suddenly appeared on the massive overhead screen.
"A nice little show-and-tell, Dr. Naah, but how do you see this affecting the way we conduct politics?"
His free hand cupped his chin in a theatrical gesture, palm open, fingers pointed upward, "Well, ma'am, about that I'm not sure. I'm a tech guy. You're the politicians. I create the technology; you put it to work. But I've seen many political campaigns. This isn't meant to be rude or disrespectful, but most are just silly rubbish. Stump speeches are an insult to our intelligence. Politicians repeat the same gibberish night after night. During an election, the public learns virtually nothing, except perhaps the candidate's ability to lie, fib, or spin concepts. If candidates would conduct their campaigns online a lot more people would get involved. The Internet would force them to a level of honesty currently unknown – and at a fraction of today's ludicrous expense. The Info Highway won't eliminate word spinning and issue dodging, but it will reduce them. The possibilities are limitless."
Listeners were now eager to voice opinion about the threat of dehumanization. Many stood to be recognized from the lectern. Kye's demonstration impressed them, but nobody was fooled. It is also a commercial pitch for his company.
Gabby took note of the irritation Kye's forthrightness caused. She wondered what kind of reception he expected or whether he just enjoyed being a curmudgeon. Perhaps he was preaching to an old guard incapable of adopting this new technology, reminding herself that Israelite slaves from Egypt had to perish before a new generation was prepared to face building a homeland west of the Jordan River.
When eager questioners infringed upon the afternoon's schedule of events, Lyle Carberri summarily ended the luncheon program. Opponents to Kye's vision for the future mulled about the head table in heated debate until he was urged to move toward the exit. An impenetrable crowd surrounding him dashed Gabby's hope of making contact. That was a particular shame because the more she rehashed events early that morning on the mountainside, the more she believed he had actually saved her from a hunter's bullet.
SABBATH REQUIEM
For Gabby, to ignore an invitation to run for Congress required discipline. She admonished herself that entertaining the idea was foolish, unworthy of her mental energy. In order to control this flight into dreamland, she attended an after-lunch meeting on campaign finance – a subject she sensed would turn her stomach and expunge forever any latent yearnings for public office. Her suspicion proved to be well founded, though it did not produce her anticipated aversion to politics. The panel speakers' dismissal of campaign finance reform impressed upon her how elected politicians consistently sidestepped anything that might challenge their incumbency. Once elected, public officials regarded their office as a lifetime sinecure. Seen in this light, it was obvious why Kye Naah threatened the current office holders.
In preparation for her Shabbat and Chanukah service in the West Virginia Room, she showered and added light powder to camouflage facial abrasions. By this time, a cut on her right cheek had long since stopped bleeding, but the wound was too unsightly to remove a Band-aide. A gash on her upper lip could not be hidden.
How many Jewish delegates would wish welcome the Sabbath Bride and light Chanukah candles before dinner with friends and associates was anybody's guess. She knew that they must be on tight schedules, many hardly thinking of Sabbath or Chanukah.
She snuggled into a black linen dress trimmed with white lace, feminine and yet professionally appropriate for the Sabbath. Normally she would wear shoes with a modest heel, but, mindful of her injured hip, selected a pair of informal leather flats – not as flattering to her calves and ankles, but at the time she wasn't feeling the least bit attractive. A favorite bone barrette buckled her hair behind her head and a gold necklace adorned her throat. From her suitcase, she gathered pamphlet-sized prayer books and a silver Kiddush cup. While not mandatory at an evening service, she collected her Tallit prayer shawl, reckoning it helpful to appear rabbinical in a setting where one would not expect to see a rabbi. Lastly, she extracted a nine-light bronze menorah and a box of multicolored candles manufactured on an Israeli kibbutz. The hotel's assistant food manager promised to provide Sabbath candles, loaves of challah and other customary foods.