Washington, D.C., February 5, 2012, 8:15 a.m.
Tatyana Moses looked over at her packed bags. It’d been difficult deciding what to take and what to leave behind. But she didn’t want to take too much luggage for fear of being placed under heightened scrutiny at the airport—it being a Code 6 security level and all. She glanced at the television, which was turned to CNN.
But the truth was that Tatyana knew she was safe. She was Black. And nobody was intimidated, threatened, or concerned by her presence. She watched the scores of twenty-ish to thirty-ish mostly White protestors, outside of yet another Fortune 500 Company, whose executives had received exorbitant bonuses despite receiving government aid, and there being a 14 percent unemployment rate in the country—White Americans comprising 76 percent of that percentage. They had been protesting for months. And the protests were only getting bigger and more…militant. It was THEM everyone was worried about, not her.
Tensions had been particularly high in the last few weeks—since Bradley Tooper—a White college student participating in an OWS protest in NYC, was brutally beaten by a group of Black police officers in Harlem. He’d suffered a broken arm, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung. The police attested that Tooper went to grab something from his jacket, and that they believed it was a gun. (Of course, it was. After all, don’t all 19 year old White males carry guns in their jackets?) But alas, as the officers searched the seriously injured Tooper before calling an ambulance (while OWS protestors looked on in horror), they found only one thing inside his pocket: A small sign which read, “Revolution Must Start Somewhere.”
Tatyana turned off the television, took a deep breath, and picked up her bags. Then she took one last look at her gorgeous apartment in Southeast D.C., and walked out the front door.
Washington, D.C., The White House, February 5, 2012, 8:25 a.m.
President Lester Jenkins sat at full attention for his morning briefing—although he didn’t understand the point of morning briefings anymore. There’d surely be at least 8 other mini-briefings between now and noon—something which had become commonplace in the last 11 months.
He looked around at his cabinet members, all of whom looked at him with earnest commitment, passion, and respect. He was proud of the diversity of his cabinet. Although it was undoubtedly dominated by Blacks and Native Americans, he had a White Secretary of State, and an Asian economic advisor. These numbers, of, course, were still unacceptable in light of the demographic of the country. Last he’d looked, the population breakdown was something like:
35 % Blacks
30% Whites
20 % Native Americans
6% Asian
3% Latino
6% Mixed Race/Other
But the lack of diversity was unintentional, after all. And although he fully understood the plight of the White race, he didn’t understand why they had to start all this protesting during his term—when he was the first president since the 1960’s who put so much emphasis on White rights efforts and improving the state of White affairs.
President Jenkins looked over at his wife. Beautiful. Intelligent. Bi-Racial. Other presidential candidates wouldn’t have dared to bring a Mixtie into the White House. But he had done it.
And this charming half-White had eventually won the acceptance of the Black constituency (I mean, she WAS technically one of them—albeit a bit tainted). And loving her showed to the White vote his acceptance, tolerance, and even love, for White people.
Yes, he was a different kind of president. A president of the people. So why the hell did the Whites have to pull this shit on HIS watch?
President Jenkins craved a cigarette. Better yet, he’d have one of the Secret Service Men sneak him up a joint of that O.G. Kush tonight.
“Here are the numbers from the Cincinnati poll, sir,” said Jerome McElroy, a young, bright Black aide.
“Thanks Jerome,” President Jenkins said absentmindedly. The national election was ten months away; the country was up in arms about the health bill; and the Independents had found themselves a young, charming, White candidate, Carlton Roy, who had already garnered the hearts and ears of many—especially the Whites, and increasingly, some Blacks. Jenkins’ campaign people were worried. And frankly, so was he.
President Jenkins looked up at a flat screen television which showed White (and a few Black) protestors outside of a Fortune 500 Corporation’s headquarters. Then he looked at a flat screen t.v. on another wall. Roy was at a podium, giving one of his famous speeches, and flashing that smile. Hundreds of supporters watched, holding up signs which read “Revolution Must Start Somewhere,” hanging on to his every word. Damn, he’s charismatic, thought President Jenkins.
Maybe he’d ask Agent Jones to bring him two joints.
Washington, D.C., February 5, 2012, 11:05 a.m.
Mindy walked down the street quickly, eager to get out of the February cold.
“Heya ow,” Charlie said, holding his brown paper bag of liquor close to his chest.
“Hi Charlie,” Mindy responded. Despite being from Montgomery County, Maryland—one of the poorest and most violent counties in the nation, she refused to succumb to the street slang and Whitey dialect.
Mindy looked around at her neighborhood, disgusted. Nothing but fast food restaurants and liquor stores. She knew that things couldn’t change overnight but she really hoped that Roy would make a difference. A real difference. Not just temporary periods of stability in the immediate months following the election.
Mindy stopped in front of a small storefront—which until a couple months ago, was abandoned. There were Carlton Roy posters all over the windows. She smiled and looked at Roy’s handsome face. She, like 90 percent of White women in the country, was madly in love with him. For his passion. For his intelligence. And for that damn smile!
Mindy walked into the campaign office.
Reagan National Airport, February 5, 2012, 2:18 p.m.
Tatyana shifted uncomfortably in the airport chair. The flight was full, delayed, and the natives were restless. She looked around nervously. She was sitting next to an attractive young White woman, who wore expensive clothing, and carried a top of the line Mac Notebook. Tatyana had wondered if she should strike up polite conversation with the woman, but she didn’t want to take the risk of offending her. Tatyana had a knack for saying unintentionally offensive things to White people. She hadn’t known many in her life, and although she considered herself to be liberal politically, she knew that her upbringing and social group didn’t exactly mirror that. Tatyana was sweating profusely. She looked at the electronic board at her gate for the 80th time in five minutes.
“Delayed”
The woman sitting next to her smiled kindly.
“In a rush to get to Cuba?”
Tatyana jumped, startled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you…”
“No…no…I’m sorry. I uh—I’m just a little jittery because I hate flying.”
“I understand,” she said, her big blue eyes shining. “I’m not really a fan either.”
Tatyana looked at the young woman’s blonde hair and blue eyes. She was beautiful. Tatyana wondered why those features never seemed to be highlighted in mainstream magazines or on television.
“Thanks,” Tatyana said.
“I’m Stacey,” the young lady said, extending her hand politely.
Tatyana shook Stacey’s hand. “I’m Tatyana. Nice to meet you.”
Stacey looked up at the airport t.v. “Can you believe this baseball lockout? My God. With that and all this ‘Occupy’ stuff, it seems like everything is going crazy!”
Tatyana was surprised by Stacey’s candor. She was also strangely comforted by it. People in Tatyana’s social circle didn’t typically speak about any controversial subjects.
“Yeah…it does,” said Tatyana quietly.
Stacey studied Tatyana for a second. “Look, this flight’s not leaving for at least another hour. Do you wanna go get a drink or something?”
Tatyana started to say no, but she really couldn’t think of a reason not to. So she smiled and said, “Sure. I’m dying for a drink…or two.”
“My kinda girl,” said Stacey.
The older Black man sitting next to them—who had obviously been listening to their conversation—looked at Tatyana and raised his eyebrows.
Then he looked at Stacey like she was a piece of dirt.
Tatyana got up, smiled defiantly at the man, and then said to Stacey, “Let’s Go. I hear the Friday’s here makes great vodka cocktails.”
Washington, D.C., Carlton Roy Campaign Headquarters, February 5, 2012, 4:16 p.m.
Back at the Roy Campaign Headquarters, the presidential hopeful was giving a speech to campaign volunteers.
“…The thing about change is that it’s inevitable. Now, of course, like most things, change can be bad…or change can be good. But we’re seeking more than just ‘change.’ And when I say
‘we,’ I don’t mean me and Danielle…”
He looked lovingly at his wife.
“…or my campaign consultants…”
He paused and looked over at his campaign manager, who gave him an approving nod.
“…I mean ‘we’…‘you’…‘me’…”
He made perfect, rehearsed eye contact with a few people in his audience.
“…Everyone in this country that is sick and tired of the inequalities that have pervaded this country since the 1860’s…And what we are seeking, ladies and gentlemen, is revolution.”
The applause began. This was his favorite part of all of his speeches.
“And revolution...MUST start somewhere…So let’s start today!”
Members of the audience started to cheer loudly.
“I am Carlton Roy. And I’m running for president.”
The campaign volunteers really started to lose it.
Carlton smiled that famous smile of his, and started to shake the hands of the passionate workers.
The White House, February 5, 2012, 5:30 p.m.
At the White House, President Jenkins was in a classified meeting. In attendance was his Chief of Staff, the Military Secretary, and Jerome—the young aide.
President Jenkins looked up at the t.v. MSNBC was playing footage from a speech that Roy had given to campaign volunteers earlier in the day.
“And revolution…Must start somewhere…”
“Lester? Lester,” his Chief of Staff repeated, trying to get President Jenkins’ attention.
“Oh—uh, yes…sorry…” President Jenkins said, forcing himself to look away from the television, and at the group of all Black staffers. He had purposefully excluded staffers of other races from this meeting. Jenkins felt a little ashamed, but he’d learned that there were some secret Roy supporters in his midst, and he didn’t want to risk divulging any information to one of the White spies on his staff.
Jerome looked on quietly. He was the only aide allowed in the room for meetings like this.
Reagan National Airport, February 5, 2012, 7:30 p.m.
Tatyana looked up at the clock. She could not believe the flight was this late! You’d think with the exorbitant cost of flying these days—including baggage fees—they’d at least get flights out on time.
She looked at Stacey, who was typing on her Macbook.
During their drink (or three), Tatyana had learned that Stacey was a journalist for the Washington Times. She was from Silver Spring, Maryland, but had received an academic scholarship when she was 13 years old to attend Crispus Attucks Preparatory School---the top boarding school in the country. She was one of the only White girls at the exclusive school, but her sincere smile, outgoing personality, and creative talents had made her extremely popular with the other students.
She’d told Tatyana how she’d been forced to go through all of the extra security screening at the airport: the new full body scan (which Tatyana just thought was an atrocious affront on civil liberties), a test for bomb residue, and a physical search.
“I’m used to it,” she’d said, her blue eyes glistening, as Tatyana looked on in horror. “With a last name like, “McNulty,” it’s clear that I’m White…”
Tatyana listened, wondering when things had gotten so screwed up.
It wasn’t until the third vodka-cranberry that Tatyana divulged that her ex-boyfriend was an aide to President Jenkins.
And that Stacey divulged that she was a journalist, and an avid supporter of Carlton Roy.
Washington, D.C., Freedom Park, February 5, 2012, 8:12 p.m.
Out at Freedom Park, Molly handed out sandwiches to OWS protestors. They planned to stay in the Park for the entire night—assuming, of course, that the District of Columbia police didn’t come in tear gassing and tasing protestors, as they had done only a few weeks ago.
Danny Woovington, a White student at Georgetown Univresity Law Center, sat on a park bench working on a take-home final for his Legal Research and Writing class.
“Hey Danny,” Molly said, handing him a sandwich.
“Hey…” he responded distractedly, taking the sandwich and setting it down next to him.
“You know…” Molly said smiling, “I hear that first year law students have to eat too…”
Danny finally looked up.
“What? Oh…” he said sheepishly. “Sorry Molly…I’m so stressed over this final…I have to stay in the top 10 percent of my class to keep this scholarship…”
Molly smiled. “I get it…What ya writing bout?”
Danny looked up at the protestors. “This…and all of the constitutional considerations at issue here…I mean, seriously. How the hell can the mayor justify clearing out this park the way he did the other day? It’s free assembly…”
“I agree,” said Molly proudly. “Well, I don’t mean to interrupt. Keep going. I’m sure you’re gonna ace it Genius…”
“Thanks…I hope—“
Gunshots suddenly rang out.
Molly jumped to the ground, terrified. This was everyone’s worse fears realized. Tears stung
Molly’s eyes as she lay on the ground with her head covered, praying that nobody would be hurt.
Reagan National Airport, February 5, 2012, 8:30 p.m.
Tatyana stood in line, waiting to board the plane. The effects of the alcohol had worn off, and she was starting to feel nervous again. She looked around the busy terminal. She didn’t see any men in dark suits headed her way.
Finally, Tatyana reached the Delta agent, and handed him her ticket. As she did, a “Breaking News Report” flashed across the television screen at the gate. People began to crowd around it.
A Black gunman had opened fire on the OWS protestors at Freedom Park.
“Enjoy your flight,” the ticket agent said to Tatyana, drawing her attention away from the t.v.
“Thanks,” Tatyana said in a hoarse voice.
She looked back at Stacey before boarding the plane. Stacey motioned for her to get on.
Tatyana did.
At the gate, Stacey looked at the television, along with the other travellers.
Then she hit the “send” button on her email.
The White House, February 5, 2012, 9:30 p.m.
About 15 FBI agents approached the Oval Office.
Secret Service Agent Ernest Hayes tried to stop them. “What is this? You can’t come back here…”
“I’m sorry Agent Hayes…But we actually can,” barked Agent Hopkins, showing him a warrant.
Hayes looked on, in shock, as the FBI agents bounded into the Oval Office.
“What is the meaning of this?” President Jenkins demanded, standing up. “Get out of here right now!”
“I’m sorry Mr. President. But we’re here to take you into custody.”
“What?”
“You’re being arrested for the murder of Danny Woovington—amongst other things…”
“This is some kind of mistake!” President Jenkins yelled frantically as he was handcuffed.
Agent Hopkins opened up the lower left-hand side drawer of the president’s desk, and pulled out a cell phone. “Just like the email said,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that?” Jenkins screamed. “That phone’s not mine!”
One of the agents led the hysterical Jenkins out of the office. Down the White House hallway, Jerome was also being led out in cuffs.
Agent Reynolds, who was an older Black man, walked up to Agent Hopkins, and watched the men being led out of the White House.
“So sad. Why would a young kid with everything ahead of him go on a shooting spree that would end his future, and maybe his life?” asked Reynolds.
Agent Hopkins looked down at the evidence bag which held the phone.
“Apparently, Jenkins had convinced him that it would divide the races and kill any chance Roy had of winning…I guess the kid thought it was for ‘the cause’” Hopkins said. “Dumb fuck.”
“But how did we figure out that it was Jenkins and the kid?” Reynolds asked.
“We got an email…From a reporter over at the Times…She didn’t know when or what was going to happen, but an anonymous source told her that Jenkins and McElroy were planning something…”
Freedom Park, February 5, 2012, 9:35 p.m.
Back at the park, Molly was in a daze. Police were trying to interview her, but she wasn’t responsive. She just kept looking at the bench where Danny’s laptop sat. There was so much blood. Molly wondered whether Danny had felt any pain when the bullet had pierced his brilliant brain.
She looked away from the bench, and noticed signs scattered across the ground. Signs that the protestors had been carrying when the shooting started.
“Revolution Must Start Somewhere”
Molly walked over to one of the signs, picked it up, and ripped it to shreds.
Despite all the police activity going on in the park, Molly’s cry was heard above all else.
Cayo Coco, Cuba, February 6, 2012, 1:00 p.m.
Tatyana sat in her hotel room, watching the news. Both President Jenkins and Jerome had been taken into federal custody last night.
This was all really happening, she thought.
At 1:04 on the dot—the agreed upon time—there was a knock on the door.
Tatyana looked through the peep hole, opened the door, and allowed the handsome man to walk into her room.
“Hey…”
“Hey…” he said, giving her a supportive hug. “Good job kid…”
“Really? I was SO nervous in the airport. I wasn’t sure if it’d work.”
“It went perfectly. The FBI has found hundreds of text messages between Jerome and President Jenkins. Your efforts will not go unrecognized young lady…Neither will Jerome’s…”
“You know…It’s ironic. Had Jenkins come up with a decent health bill, Jerome’s cancer probably wouldn’t have become terminal, and we wouldn’t be here,” Tatyana said.
“I know Yana…But you’ve both performed a great service to our country…Now, you stay here and enjoy the vacation you’ve been planning for the last seven months. And I’ll see you when you get back...My mother, and the rest of the household staff is planning a big 30th anniversary party for your parents..."
He turned to walk towards the door, but was momentarily distracted by the t.v. The story about President Jenkins was going off, and another was coming on. Carlton stopped and looked at his smiling face on the screen. They were playing an excerpt from one of his recent speeches. And this was the future president's favorite part.
“...and revolution…must start somewhere…”
