The Patriot Conspiracy

By C.J. Tremblay

An American president seeks to abolish cash and establish a universal credit/debit card in order to gain unprecedented access to every citizen's private life.
The story is told from the point of view of Maggie Trent, the wife of a young senator, as she struggles to understand both politics and her husband.
Maggie records the odyssey of an enthusiastic couple ready to set Washington on its ear, through triumphs and tragedy. Robert Trent must choose between conflicting loyalties—to his party, to his principles, and to his family.
We follow Maggie's transformation from observer to participant, as this naïve wife of an ambitious politician comes to the painful realization that it is up to her to challenge the all-invasive government.
The shocking ending is a wake-up call to those who disregard the issue of privacy rights.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Tremblay
• Release date: Sep 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301650958

C.J. Tremblay

Carole Jean Tremblay was born in Hackensack, N.J. She graduated from Stanford University with a BA in French. “The Patriot Conspiracy” is the result of her husband’s four-year stint in politics. Carole likes to joke that writing her novel was an act of catharsis, as she transformed her experiences into an original, compelling, and terrifying story. Carole taught both French and English in elementary schools, and has written eleven books for teaching English as a second language. She writes children’s books published both in English and in French. Pineapple Press published her illustrated children’s book “The Old Man and the C”. Bayard Canada publishes her French mini-novel series "Po-Paul".

Book preview

The Patriot Conspiracy

C.J. Tremblay

Copyright 2012 C.J. Tremblay

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

Cover design by Rita Toews: www.yourebookcover.com

Capitol image by: Kathrin Tausch

*****

To RT, forever

...there are two situations that make interesting stories: when an extraordinary person is plunged into the commonplace and when an ordinary person gets involved in extraordinary events.

- Sister Helen Prejean Dead Man Walking

*****

The Patriot Conspiracy

Table of Contents

Prologue

In the Beginning: February, 2025

Turning the Tables: March

The Up-and-Coming Senator: April

Musings: May

Jaki: November

The CyberCard: January 2026

Points: February

Cash or Card? March and April

Caesar’s Wife: June

The Sweep: November

What’s Going On Here? January 2027

The Privacy Question: March

A Day with Jaki: April

Nothing’s Perfect: July

Mr. Speaker: October

The Invitation: November

Chez l’Ambassadeur: December

A Clear and Present Danger: January 2028

PBS: February

Peoria: March

Respite: April

In God We Trust: May

New Developments: June

The Convention: July

Public or Private? August

The Campaign: September

The Whistleblower: October

The Election: November

The Threat: December

December 31

January 1st, 2029

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

*****

Prologue

People will be writing many books and learned articles about the recent radical transformation of our society. They will analyze, synthesize, and theorize. Some things they will write will be the truth, and some will be mere academic conjecturing. I never thought of myself as an active participant in the changes, but I was more than a casual observer. Perhaps my point of view will be of interest to some future historian.

I didn’t keep a diary, although I realize now that I should have. From time to time, I did write down observations about events that seemed particularly important.

Every time I browse through Robert’s notes, I’m swept back onto the emotional rollercoaster of those four tumultuous years. His computer files of interviews, online articles, and opinion pieces have helped greatly to refresh my memory and insure accuracy, and I’ve transcribed some of the documents verbatim.

And so, as best I can remember, here is my version of those most extraordinary events.

*****

Chapter 1

In the Beginning: February 2025

Robert came home that evening as wired as the day he won his Senate seat, just three months before. His hello kiss grazed my cheek as he rushed into the kitchen, took the ice tray from the freezer, poured some scotch into a juice glass, opened a bottle of club soda, and raced back into the living room carrying the uncapped soda bottle, leaving the scotch and the melting ice on the kitchen counter. All the while, he never stopped ranting.

Can you believe the duplicity of those people? They got in by promising lower taxes. Everybody does. But this! What a bombshell. How’d they keep their plan secret? Maybe they just thought it up last night.

But–

Who’s to know? He didn’t give any figures—maybe it’s just a cockamamie scheme he cooked up this morning, shaving. Who can be against lower taxes? And how many people still make out their own return, anyway? Only dyed-in-the-wool masochists–

Like us, I chimed in, but he took no notice.

How can we even propose any amendments without being branded as tax mongers? What’ll we do? What a bunch of bastards!

He finally took a gulp of his soda, giving me the chance to say something.

But what’s wrong with giving people a 2% rebate on their taxes? His eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. I tried not to notice. I dug my hole deeper, I sure would like someone else to fill out our return. Why not the government? And for free! What’s wrong with that?

Nothing is free, my dear. You should know that at your age.

I felt my insides turn to mush. I blinked hard before asking, But is it true that the government can save money by calculating everyone’s income taxes?

Robert looked at the bottle of club soda in his hand, raised his eyebrows, and headed back into the kitchen. He was limping a bit more than usual, the painful reminder of a track injury in college, and a sure sign he was tired. I followed, trying not to miss his answer.

I don’t know. Probably not. No government department wants to save money and have its budget cut. Good god! Now he’s talking about patriotic contributions! His first State of the Union address to Congress, and Chiswell’s even changing the vocabulary. Well, ‘a rose by any other name’...it’s still taxes. Patriot Contributor Number, my ass. I bet people will still call it their ‘social’.

He poured his warm soda into the abandoned juice glass, added another splash of scotch, then turned towards me, glass in hand.

Don’t you see, Maggie? If this plan goes through we don’t stand a chance in hell of getting back the majority in the House for the next ten years, and we may never regain control of the Senate. As for the presidency, Chiswell will probably be crowned king after the next election.

I often thought Robert was prone to exaggerate, but I didn’t dare suggest that to him. It was late, and it had been a long day. He didn’t stop lamenting until were lying side by side in bed. Then he turned his back to me and began breathing deeply before I could even say good night.

*****

Chapter 2

Turning the Tables: March

Although I tried to think like a savvy political wife, Robert was constantly translating the news for me. Chiswell was riding high in the polls, but I thought naïvely that all of Congress would benefit from passing the new tax-filing plan. I thought that it would resuscitate a much-maligned confidence in government and that both parties would rise in popular esteem. How could that be bad? But when I suggested this to Robert, he broke into an angry tirade.

How could you possibly think that an increase in Chiswell’s popularity could help us? Popularity is a seesaw, Maggie. When one side goes up, the other side goes down. And in case you haven’t noticed, the Democratic Party’s butt is on the ground, and I’m not even on the seesaw. About now, all we can do is hope for a monumental gaffe that’ll send Chiswell’s end crashing back to earth.

The Income Tax Return Relief Act sped through the House of Representatives. When it reached the Senate Banking Committee, Robert was despondent. As the junior member, he knew he could sit it out and let the old war horses try to find a way to criticize, without seeming to block, the very popular measure. But that was never his style. This was a crisis, and he was not about to hide behind his juniority, as he called it. Besides, he told me, crisis is just another word for opportunity.

A few days later he came bursting out of his study, whooping like a Comanche, or, to be politically correct, a whooping crane.

I got it! I got it! he crowed. Remember when I told you that popularity is like a seesaw? Well I just had an idea that will jolt Chiswell’s ass so bad he’ll think I just rolled off my end of the board. I bet he was the kind of brat who did that all the time when he was in kindergarten.

Tell me! What is it?

Not yet, he said. I’ve got a phone call to make. Heat up the spa, and I’ll explain it to you. We didn’t choose this fancy townhouse for its wallpaper. And he disappeared into the den.

Robert couldn’t tolerate suspense. If he watched a movie with someone who had already seen it, he insisted on knowing what was going to happen next. I remember thinking that for someone who refused to be kept in the dark, he sure knew how to keep others on the hook.

The dutiful wife, I went into the master bathroom to prepare the spa. It’s true, the spa was the main reason we bought this place. The former owner was a Democratic congressman from Oklahoma. He was young and single, and he lost his seat after just one term. Conflicting rumors had been printed in the Tulsa papers about the visitors to his Washington townhouse. Some said there were lots of women. Some said lots of men. Of course, they never printed the source of those rumors. He lost his seat to a Tulsa lawyer, a long-time Republican contributor.

During his short stay in Congress, our unfortunate representative bought this townhouse on Church Street, not far from Logan Circle. The area boasts many updated apartments and townhouses, but it’s not as chic as the Capitol Hill neighborhoods around Lincoln Park. Our new home had some luxuries we couldn’t have afforded in a more upscale district. It had a one-car garage, accessible from the kitchen and down a half flight of stairs, and a tiny fenced-in yard in the back. Best of all, the one-term Congressman had installed a spa.

Some of our most memorable moments have transpired in those soothing waters, although, looking back, I realize that our intimate conversations there had become less and less about our mutual love and much hoped for babies, and more and more about politics and polls.

As we slipped into the pearl-blue water, I admired Robert’s youthful body and wondered how many experienced secretaries and innocent interns would love to be in my shoes, well, figuratively. And what about all those female journalists—all long blonde locks and (one could imagine) even longer slim, tanned legs?

And Robert, what was he thinking as he settled in opposite me? About the evening to come? ...before dinner or after?

Let’s say he dove right in. First off, I just don’t believe the government can possibly save two percent of income tax revenues by doing all the work itself. Governments are notoriously inefficient. There must be an ulterior motive for offering such a gigantic carrot. A secret agenda, as they say.

But Chiswell didn’t say the rebates would come entirely from budget cutting measures at the IRS. He said he’d cut spending in all departments.

Yeah, I know. I did read the bill, y’know. But do you really believe he’ll cut spending? Come on. They’ll cook the numbers. They’ll push programs around, offer early retirement so they can transfer employment costs into the future. And you can bet they’ll increase taxes, maybe not up front, but in sneaky ways, and most likely on the middle class. It’ll be one step forward, two steps back.

But people do believe him. And they want those rebates. So what can you do?

I felt the strong pulsations massaging my back and my thighs, liquid fingers feeling strangely human. Robert’s toes touched mine, and our feet intertwined under the churning waters. Did he even notice?

We can’t attack the rebates. Too popular. We have to question the feasibility of his scheme. Where will the rebate money really come from? What are the numbers? We practically have to have a budget debate before voting on such a convoluted bill.

So...

So let’s make him put his money where his mouth is. We turn the tables on him. We accept the rebates, but we make him listen to the people. Polls say people are worried about the deficit, let alone the national debt. The war on terrorism after 9/11 sent us back into large deficits. The war in Iraq was a budgetary disaster. And in the years since the financial crisis of 2008, for most people it’s been like climbing out of a black hole. And who knows how much the troubles in the Middle East will cost us? If this scheme ends up costing more than predicted, the already out of control deficit will skyrocket, and we’ll never be able to pay down the debt. So I’m going to propose pegging the size of the rebate to the actual reduction of the deficit.

I tried to follow his reasoning, but the perfumed vapors were turning my mind to fuzz. Why would that help us? I protested. If the rebates were less than 2 percent, voters would be mad, and they’d blame Congress.

That’s where you’re wrong. Voters would blame the Republicans. They’re the ones with the majority, Senate and House. Chiswell’s the one who pushes through a budget. And you can bet that we’d pin the tail on his butt if he missed the deficit-reduction target and the rebate had to be reduced.

It started making some sense to me. At least I could pretend it did. That’s brilliant, honey! Did you just phone Senator Morse about your idea?

Are you kidding? And let him get all the credit? Robert sat up straight, with a jerk of his head that flipped back his too-long forelock of blond hair. I get five minutes to discuss the bill in committee next Tuesday, and I can’t wait to see the expression on that old walrus’s face when I present my proposition.

Old walrus! I almost gulped down a mouthful of lavender-scented spa water. It’s true; Morse did look a bit like a bloated seal. But do you really think your proposition stands a chance on the Senate floor?

Of course not. That’s not the point. They’re going to drive their plan through Congress like a Sherman tank through the Everglades. What’s important for me—for us—is that I start becoming known as a senator to contend with.

Robert never was one for metaphors, but the us brought me back into the picture. I’m sure the Republicans know you’re there, dear, I cooed.

I’m not talking about the Republicans, Maggie. I’m talking about the Democratic Party. I’m talking about Senator Morse. He could be our next presidential candidate, and I want him to know I’m around.

Somehow, I felt that Robert had forgotten that I was around.

Robert might have been a newcomer to active politics, but he drew the inside lane on Lady Luck’s racetrack. He had entered politics much earlier than planned, on a fluke. He’d been teaching history and political science at the North Country Community College in Saranac Lake. In an emergency, an older professor in the department asked Robert to pinch-hit for him as guest speaker at a Chamber of Commerce dinner. A bigwig from the New York State Democratic Party Committee happened to be in the audience. The next day, two committee members visited Robert at his campus office. After much stroking, they asked him to run for the Senate seat in the fall election.

The incumbent Democratic president was in trouble. The rekindling of the catastrophic wars in the Middle East, coupled with accusations of corruption, both suspected and proven, had spelled defeat for the preceding Republican administration. The Democrats took up the sword of battle against the foreign enemies of capitalism and democracy by naming a high-profile general as their candidate. But once in the White House, General Whiteside showed himself to be an ineffectual leader. He was bored by domestic problems and understood nothing about the economy.

Although the coalition of western countries had succeeded in chopping off several heads of the religious and political Hydra of terrorism, the beast still lived, raising an ugly head in one part of the world or another. We were not spared. There were sporadic car bombs, suicide attacks, and even localized bioterrorist scares. Sometimes potential terrorists were caught before acting, sometimes not. Stand-up comics began calling the Department of Homeland Security the Department of Swampland Insecurity, as the unwieldy behemoth sloshed through stagnating layers of bureaucratic ooze. The greatest fear was that the Hydra was forever lying in wait, planning another destabilizing surprise for its enemy.

But Americans were weary of a virtual war, present only onscreen and online, happening elsewhere. Except for close relatives of the servicemen and women who were on active duty all over the world, there was no personal price to pay. No shortages. No sacrifices. Civil defense was now a matter of intelligence and covert actions, and the population lost interest. Despite increased security measures—cameras on every city block and time machine-like capsules that stripped travelers naked at airports—the War on terrorism had fizzled, as far as the ordinary voter could see. And maybe they even blamed President Whiteside for crying wolf too often.

The Democrats were having an impossible time finding a candidate for the New York senatorial race. Leo Pacini, the incumbent Republican senator, was running for a third term, and the polls said he was unstickable. No sitting representative would dare jeopardize his seat in a bid to defeat him. Later, we learned they had already asked two prominent women to run, as they always do for unwinnable contests, and were roundly refused. Robert took a chance.

You can’t win if you don’t play, y’know, Maggie, is how he explained his decision to me. Of course we discussed it, but he had already made up his mind. As with every new challenge, he jumped into the campaign with the enthusiasm of a kid with a joystick.

Not me. I mean, I was supportive. I tried to pay attention during Robert’s speeches, remembering to laugh or nod my head knowingly at just the right moments, clapping enthusiastically at the finale—even though I’d heard it all a dozen times before. But I didn’t go as far as some wives I’ve seen, who look up at their husbands with enraptured eyes, as if he were God’s greatest gift to the body politic.

I even did some door-to-door campaigning. When I accompanied Robert, it was for the photo ops. The lucky voters to be visited were chosen by the campaign manager to represent various blocs: blue collar, white collar, retirees, young voters, black, white. The one thing they all had in common was that they had been canvassed as sure supporters. But each time I ventured out to knock on a few doors with a local lady in some unfamiliar town, Robert insisted that I go to houses on the maybe list.

What good is it to talk to people who are already convinced? he said. You’d just be wasting your time, y’know.

Yeah, I know, I teased. Robert’s handlers were trying to get him to lose the habit of repeating y’know at the end of each declarative sentence. It was difficult, but he did manage to reduce the frequency, and eventually it was only in moments of stress that the little hobgoblin came back to haunt him.

The thing is, I hate trying to persuade people of anything. Especially people I don’t know. What if they think I’m stupid? What if they say nasty things about my husband? What if they slam the door in my face? Each time I rang a doorbell, I prayed no one was home.

I’ll never know if my feeble efforts did any good, but in the end, Lady Luck was there for Robert. Three weeks before the election, Pacini was caught in a scandal involving kickbacks from the builder of nine greenhouses in Rome, in upper New York State. Following Pacini’s intervention, the project had received federal funds from an agricultural subsidy program. Voters’ indignation turned to mockery, the worst thing for a politician to face, when it was discovered that the hothouses didn’t contain a new species of perfect tomatoes, but rather top-quality, genetically engineered marijuana. Eschewing the tiresome -gate suffix, a local journalist looked back a century into American history and dubbed it the Weed Pot Rome Scandal. Then a caricaturist pictured Robert as Jack climbing up the weedstalk to slay the ogre Pacini. The polls did a back flip, and Robert Bob Trent won the Senate seat.

*****

Chapter 3

The Up-and-Coming Senator: April

Robert’s proposal exploded like a well-placed grenade at the televised Senate Banking Committee hearings. I watched at home as he calmly adjusted his microphone.

Mr. Chairman, he began, we all know that this rebate plan the Administration has dreamed up is gaining support in the polls. So is motherhood.

Senator Jimmy Beaufort scowled as the audience tittered. Robert continued, seemingly unaware of the audience’s reaction.

But we also know from the polls that the American people are worried about the deficit. They want it reduced, and they’re beginning to ask themselves about the real cost of this scheme. No in-depth study has been done. Americans know we are not yet out from under the Middle East fiasco. If this untested program ends up costing more than expected, yearly deficits will increase even more rapidly, and the debt will explode. Essential programs will have to be cut back. The level of Social Security entitlements will be at risk. And the promised rebates could be eaten up by inflation.

Senator, you have one minute, Chairman Beaufort interrupted. Robert didn’t even glance at the chair. He looked straight at the camera and continued his presentation with the natural sincerity that I had seen him practice in front of the bathroom mirror.

And because of this uncertainty, and in order to hold the Administration to its promise of cost efficiency, I propose that the tax rebate be pegged to the progressive elimination of the deficit and the subsequent reduction of the national debt. Thus, if the deficit- and debt-reduction targets are not met, the rebate percentage would be automatically reduced. This administration must not repeat past performances of promising both tax reductions and goodies that not only can’t be paid for, but that plunge our great country deeper into debt. Thank you, Mr. Chairman.

And with twenty seconds left on the clock, Robert switched off his microphone and sat back in his chair. After a stunned silence, the Democratic senators broke into spontaneous applause. I even saw some journalists join in the ovation. Chairman Beaufort seemed at a loss for words at such an audacious attack on the very nature of the bill. But no one looked as surprised as Senator Morse, the ranking member and Senate Minority Leader. The camera zoomed in on Morse’s walrus face, and I watched his emotions change from surprise, to pleasure, to a look that said, That damn kid’s going somewhere, and I’d better watch out for him.

Democratic senators and their assistants quickly surrounded Robert, shaking his hand, thumping him on the back, and practically asking him for his autograph. He took it all good-naturedly, if not exactly modestly. I could see he was holding back his excitement, trying to be cool and levelheaded. Then the screen went blank. A stern voice intoned, Senate rules prohibit audience outbursts from being televised.

He burst through the front door, shouting A home run! Did you see it, Maggie? I hit a home run!

I remember running from the kitchen, where I had just put a huge casserole of my special-occasion eggplant lasagna in the oven. And that’s when I tripped over the dog.

The yelp was so piercing I didn’t even hear myself scream. Robert picked me up and helped me over to the couch.

Where the hell did that animal come from? I’m sure I said animal and not dog, because the truth is, I wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Robert bent down and massaged my left knee. Rather bewilderedly, he said, It’s the damndest thing. He followed me this morning from the parking lot to the steps of the Capitol. And when I came out this afternoon, he followed me back to the car. When I opened the door, he just jumped in.

And? I managed.

And since this is my lucky day, I think we should keep the mutt.

I rubbed my sore elbow, looking from Robert to the dog and back to Robert. It’s...it’s a dog?

Of course it’s a dog. And weren’t we just saying the other day that since we don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this baby business, we might as well get a dog? Well, here he is, and I bet he’ll be eternally grateful that we took him in off the streets.

He was the ugliest creature I’d ever seen. Uglier than the mutts you avoid in dusty Mexican border towns. Uglier than the cadaverous curs in the Australian outback.

His white face was round and flat as a full moon. His miniscule pink tongue was just visible between two rows of tiny yellow teeth. Despite rapid panting, he couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough to ventilate his scrawny body. His ears reminded me of the double ponytails of my childhood. Long and floppy, they reached almost to the ground, which wasn’t really very far; I’d say he stood all of ten inches at the shoulder. His body was slung long and low, as if he were a throwback to the Middle Ages, a prisoner stretched on the rack. The only redeeming feature of the midget body was his hair, short and curly-tight and, despite his overall grimy appearance, surprisingly soft to the touch. As if to relieve the whiteness of his head and tail, his back was swirled in three tones of grey. His bushy tail would have befitted a miniature pony. Long wavy white hairs, locks really, swept the ground behind him like an automated broom.

But the most surprising part