Article XII: A Political Thriller

By Alan A. May

When a third-party candidate prevents both the Democrat and Republican from earning the 270 electoral votes required to win the presidential election, it looks like the House of Representatives will have to elect a president for the first time since 1825. A powerful business magnate, not wanting this contingent election to take place, sparks a spate of bribery, blackmail, abduction, and attempted murder in order to sway at least two electors to vote against their pledged candidate when the Electoral College meets.
This all too possible drama shows exactly what might happen when the design flaws of the Electoral College finally expose themselves. The characters in Article XII experience conflict between their supposed core values and their self-interest. Some look the other way, facilitating evil. Some have their consciences invoked by what they learn. Some follow orders while others wind up making new rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483580159

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senator

I

CHAPTER 1

TUESDAY EVENING – NOVEMBER 8

Jonas Reicher’s eyes were glued to the 85-inch Samsung screen. Bill O’Reilly’s face seemed to dominate the room, despite its spaciousness. Reicher could never fathom why inanimate objects had such an effect upon human beings; even the ring of a telephone could summon feelings of relief, sorrow, happiness, or regret, depending upon the occasion. How were such insentient, inanimate objects able to control the emotions and reactions of the rational beings who created them? Tonight, it was the Samsung, echoing off the walls and cathedral-beamed ceiling, bringing a hardened, sculptured look to the face of Dwight Burrell.

Reicher glanced over and observed Burrell’s lips drawn tight, his eyes only slightly parted, as if to extend the range of the other sensory antennae so that what O’Reilly was saying could be better heard and assimilated. Reicher and Burrell had sat in the same room in the same chairs the night before. The same stone fireplace had consumed birch and pine logs, Burrell’s favorites, and filled their nostrils with the same fresh, warm smell of the Colorado woods from which they came. The smoke now curled upward in the same way it had last night, producing the same warmth and the same sound, but last night the entire atmosphere had been one of joy. Last night had been Monday night, election eve. Reicher had sat there with Burrell and his grandson, Chip. They’d watched as every political pundit the networks would allow into their studios sat there and predicted a certain victory for Witherspoon.

Colorado had come through today, piling up a substantial margin of victory, much to the delight of the elder Burrell, who cheered as the precincts reporting tally rose above 15%. The young child had mirrored his grandfather’s cheers, however oblivious he’d been to the ramifications and meanings of it all. But now, just an hour or so later, it appeared that Nevada had not fallen in line. All the experts had given the state to Witherspoon; some so assuredly that their future opinions would no doubt be mocked and ridiculed. With more than 16% of its precincts reporting, it looked like Gonzales would steal the state from his Republican counterpart. Yes, last night had been one of smiles and anticipation. Tonight would be one of anxiety and jeers.

Reicher’s reverie was broken by Burrell’s sudden activity. Standing up, Burrell made a movement toward the TV, stopped himself, and turned to Reicher, who was in possession of the remote control. See if CNN has any updates.

Burrell took long strides back and forth across the room, taking advantage of the short interval to do some nervous pacing. He missed the old days, when you had to march right up to the television set and change the channel manually, each click sounding like the turning of the chamber of a revolver. Remote controls were anathema to Burrell’s very being, acting silently and invisibly as they did. Burrell did not usually depend upon the reaction of things to direct him. He didn’t disdain technology per se, but usually rejected relying upon it if there was any way he could be personally involved in whatever he was doing.

Reicher finally managed to get CNN; an advertisement for IBM Watson was concluding. Burrell sat back down nervously in his high back leather chair and waited for Anderson Cooper to appear. Burrell was usually in total control of himself and his surroundings, but tonight Reicher could tell that his friend was straining to keep his composure.

Reicher had been Burrell’s troubleshooter for the last eight years. In that near decade, his image of Burrell had never varied, but he was continually amazed at the 66-year-old mogul’s vitality. Though he knew Burrell well and knew what to expect from him, he was amazed at the resolute nature of Burrell’s beliefs, beliefs that dictated his actions and often overcame his basically pragmatic nature.

Burrell had made no attempt to meet Governor Gonzales, no attempt to back his campaign, to hedge his bet in order to protect his own interests. From the beginning, the Witherspoon–Gonzales race had but one candidate that Burrell could endorse: Senator Byron A. Witherspoon. President Jamison was dying and had announced in January that there would be no second term. Four years ago, Jamison had chosen Louis Miles as his running mate, mostly to consolidate Eastern liberal support, such as it was at the convention. The choice of Louis Miles had little other purpose. Miles was never a serious contender to succeed Jamison. Senator Byron A. Witherspoon, on the other hand, mirrored the conservatism and personal magnetism formerly displayed by Jamison. Witherspoon probably would have gained the nomination even without the blessing of Jamison, but it was nevertheless wholeheartedly bestowed and welcomed. Witherspoon had come out of the Republican National Convention a two-term senator with unanimous party support; he was almost assured a victory in November.

The Democratic candidate had near unanimity, too. The antithesis of Witherspoon, Governor Juan Stuart Gonzales had pledged himself to massive governmental influence over the lives of every citizen as a cure to their rising taxes, massive unemployment, and continuing racial strife. The goal of complete Democratic support was blocked by Senator Hugh Brazelton, who refused to endorse what he considered to be the radical proposals of his Democratic brother. Brazelton was upset at the lurch to the left, as he called it, his party had taken in recent years. He therefore ran as the favorite son of Wisconsin. Though he appeared in and campaigned in all 50 states, he was considered a serious threat in only one—his own. That consideration had now been borne out. The senator had collected the 10 electoral votes Wisconsin had to offer.

It was ironic that the poster child for moderate politics had run as a third-party candidate, under the auspices of the new party he’d formed, named, appropriately enough, the Moderate Party. When Brazelton’s left-wing detractors mentioned Ross Perot, who’d collected zero electoral votes when he ran against Clinton and Bush in 1992, Brazelton shot back with Teddy Roosevelt, who’d won 88 electoral votes in 1912, costing the incumbent Taft the election. If the detractor leaned more to the right, Brazelton had the names George Wallace and Strom Thurmond at the ready. No one knew for sure whether Brazelton was a realist who knew he had no chance to win the oval office or if he was delusional and thought he could accomplish something unprecedented and defeat both candidates from the major political parties.

Despite the fact that the East Coast and Southern state results suggested that the country was more equally divided between the two major candidates than previously thought, Burrell had still anticipated a close but victorious Tuesday evening, until now; he seemed strained and perplexed as the face of the commentator appeared on the screen.

Anderson Cooper appeared to speak directly to Burrell. With only 12% of the precincts reporting, it is still by no means certain that Governor Gonzales will carry the State of California, but if the present tally is any indication, the House of Representatives will be electing a president for the first time since 1825 when John Quincy Adams was chosen that January day, despite the fact that General Andrew Jackson received more electoral and popular votes. Things have changed a bit over the past 200 years. There were four major candidates in the running that year, none of whom received a majority of the electoral votes. The House was involved in the infamous 1876 race, too, but there it only had to straighten out a controversy in the Electoral College; they did not actually vote. Well, it seems like the House might be called back into action this January for what’s known as a contingent election. Gonzales may have a better chance than Witherspoon if it comes to that, despite his lack of electoral superiority. Of course, we don’t know what influence Senator Brazelton would have on a vote in the House of Representatives. As it stands, he’s cost his fellow Democrat the election by stealing Wisconsin’s 10 electoral votes. That leaves Witherspoon with 268 and Gonzales with 260. Again, with 12% reporting, it looks like Gonzales will carry California. Granting the Democrat the upset in the desert, neither Gonzales nor Witherspoon will have the 270 votes needed to win.

Burrell seemed mesmerized by the screen and physically stirred by Cooper’s remarks. His silence indicated to Reicher that he was digesting the anchor’s interpretation of tonight’s events, trying to react in a way that would protect his own personal destiny as well as that of the country’s.

I guess, Cooper concluded, we’ll just have to wait until January.

Not all of us, murmured Burrell, grabbing the remote control from Reicher’s hand. After fumbling with it for a few seconds, he found and clicked the off button and left the room without any parting word to Reicher.

Reicher stared at the blank screen, trying to interpret the uncharacteristic actions he had just observed. He knew that Dwight Burrell was going to react to this situation; necessity dictated that. But he did not know how. Fear overcame him as he stared blankly at the dark screen, mistaking it momentarily for a window looking out onto a black night.

CHAPTER 2

WEDNESDAY MORNING – NOVEMBER 9

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the large plate glass windows of the east wing of his estate, Burrell was already at the balcony door. He wrestled it open and stepped out. The wind gusted and forced the more slender of the large pines to bend and sway like a green wave against the white November background. This temporarily revived Burrell’s sagging spirits, and he walked slowly across the redwood floor toward the railing. Removing his hands from his trousers, he raised the collar of the woolen jacket he continually wore. His acquaintances considered his attire anomalous to his position, but they seldom made their criticisms known to him.

Burrell reached the end of the balcony and placed his hands on the railing as the first beams of sunlight broke through the swaying pines. Dawn and dusk were the only times the sun could be looked at directly and its brilliance was already beginning, forcing Burrell to look away. The omnipotence of the One who could force the sun to rise and set reminded Burrell of his own mortality, and he pondered whether or not he should attempt to influence the events most would now deem beyond his control.

Burrell’s doubts were minor. He knew he could not allow the election to be decided by the House of Representatives. That body seemed controlled by Gonzales supporters. Burrell paused and, in an attempt to mitigate his apprehension, reminded himself that the members of the House would not vote as if they were passing a bill. Each state had but one vote. If the majority of representatives of one state voted in one manner, that state’s vote was so tallied. One small Witherspoon state with three congressmen had the same force as a large, liberal state with an overwhelming number of Gonzales supporters. Burrell attempted to review the states to see where the majority in each lay, but even for one with his political acumen such information was not a part of his immediate recall. He made a few perfunctory searches on his iPhone but there were disparate views about the matter. He’d do some further research later and decide for himself.

As the sun continued toward its apogee, Burrell strode along the edge of the balcony to the stairs. As he continued along the railing, the mountainous expanse became more visible as the density of the pines decreased. The surrounding mountains framed the immediate area and limited the length of the view to half the normal horizon. Burrell began to descend the steps to the lower patio and as he did, he unconsciously started to recall the reasons that were forcing him to continue with his political plans.

Burrell had been a child of destiny, one of those individuals whose ability and tenacity combined with the rare third element of having both of them at the right place and at the right time.

Many would have doubted this conclusion had they been able to view Burrell as a child. Dwight Burrell had literally been a monkey on a chain, a small boy holding a cup throughout his father’s travels across the Bible Belt. His father was one of those tall figures in black that commanded others to obey in order to find their salvation. Burrell had never known his mother. The elder Burrell seldom spoke of her; to do so would have granted her some stature, and that would have been beyond the realm of possibility. The only time the elder Burrell ever brought up his deceased spouse was to damn her for dying in childbirth and burdening him, and therefore the Lord, with one more temporal obligation.

Atheism would have been a conceivable reaction to the situation of his childhood, but Burrell revolted instead against the immediate protagonist, keeping faith in God but, at age 14, leaving his father. He presented himself as an orphan to a small, private Methodist school headmaster. Burrell was taken in, and thus his independence began. He swept floors in exchange for room and board. Tall and dressed in black, but in every other way unlike Dwight’s father, the headmaster was amazed at Burrell’s inclination toward learning and by his will to expand his limited horizons. These qualities the educator fostered. Burrell found his mentor to be his patron and benefactor in many ways, both guiding his intellectual journey and providing him with the means of attaining a higher education. Burrell enrolled in Texas A&M at the age of 17, which brought him both a college degree by 20 (in engineering, with a concentration in metallurgy) and a commission as second lieutenant.

Distinguished service in Vietnam, which he believed to be a completely justifiable war despite the protests by many of his former college acquaintances and where he fought of his own volition, brought Burrell a new cross, for valor, and a firsthand, real-life education about the mining and use of the metals he had learned about in school. He led platoons of up to 30 soldiers against NVA and Viet Cong bases during the invasion of Cambodia. He continued the relationships that began in the Indochina theater, some of which led to a short stint as an industrial engineer and his eventual position with an investment firm. Burrell specialized in munitions and his investments in military industries made him a wealthy man.

As his wealth accrued, Burrell invested in land, only as a means of security. Here again, destiny intervened. The earth beneath many of his properties was found to yield titanium, uranium, and oil, further expanding the Burrell Empire.

He had met his wife, Belinda, during the evacuation of Saigon. She had been a preeminent officer in the U.S. Women’s Army Corps and had trained the South Vietnamese to create their own WAC. Belinda received several decorations for meritorious service and played an active part in Operation Frequent Wind, the largest helicopter evacuation in history.

Burrell and Belinda worked together in the weeks before they reentered civilian life. They were kindred spirits, each struck by the independence and relentless drive of the other. As fate would have it, they were both from Denver, too. The wedding took place a month after they returned to Colorado.

After a short honeymoon in Key West, Burrell dove right into creating his empire. Belinda focused her energy on raising their two children, which she did expertly. Burrell barely spent time with his son and daughter until his businesses became self-sustaining, at which time they were living at their prep school in New Hampshire.

Belinda had known from the start the sort of man her husband was. She did not begrudge him his ambition and drive and allowed him to nurture their marriage in ways she’d never thought him capable of. Their domestic relations were accelerated as if to make up for the past and for a future that was never to exist.

With the children away at school and his businesses in no further need of micromanaging, Burrell became extremely solicitous of his wife. They were inseparable, and long before it became a pejorative appellation, they were proudly co-dependent. But despite the years of bliss they spent together, Burrell found his worldly ambitions brewing within. He made a swift transition from former business magnate to powerful political ascendant and within a couple of years he was a senator.

As his time became more and more scarce and as he was pulled in more and more directions from more and more people, Burrell started to feel something unfamiliar: fear. He worried constantly about Belinda, home alone while he was out gallivanting around with prestigious personages from whatever remained of high society. He would jump at any chance of communication with Belinda, interrupting meetings with the representatives of foreign states to accept her calls. He phoned her every morning to arrange to meet her for lunch. His anxiety about his wife’s safety culminated in the worst way imaginable. One morning, the phone rang without answer. After the seventh ring, Burrell’s anxiety and fear became abject panic. He could barely force himself to hang up so that he could call a neighbor. Overcome with trepidation, more than well justified as it would turn out, he dialed and stammered a plea for her to go to his home so that whatever had occurred could be reported.

As he waited, his neighbor checked the house. She soon reported that the door was open, the radio in the kitchen on, the garage door down, the side entrance to the garage locked, and no sign of Belinda. The flow of adrenaline increased as Burrell raced to his estate. Leaving his car running as he screeched to a stop in his driveway, he raced through the house and out again. Grabbing the ax he used to split firewood, he hacked down the side door to the garage. Following a trail of Belinda’s apparel, Burrell arrived at the spot between two cars where Belinda’s body lay, her skull torn apart by a tire iron which rested innocently next to a long lock of her jet black, blood-stained hair.

Burrell stared out at the incompatible image of the gently swaying pines as the murder scene came to life in his mind for the thousandth time. He shook his head in disgust as he gave in and let the next memory in the series play out. The former mental patient had brazenly taken the witness stand in his own defense. How did Burrell sit there and listen to it? How could he even let it run in his mind now? Don’t you understand? the man had said with condescension. Don’t you all understand? She was a whore, a symbol of our national decadence. I had to kill her; she had to die like Christ had to die—so that you and I could live. I killed her so that her society could die, so that you and I could be free of her society.

His derangement brought forth a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity, and the court ordered the defendant turned over to the department of mental health for treatment, treatment that he never received.

Burrell recalled all of this as he squinted at the now dangerously bright sun. His memories served to strengthen his resolve to prevent Gonzales’s ascendancy to the presidency at any cost. Gonzales, who had promised to nationalize all vital industries to promote jobs for the needy. Gonzales, who had campaigned against what he called the three despicable Ds: Depletion, Deductions, and Depreciation. Gonzales, who openly threatened to tax the rich with impunity. Gonzales, who had vowed that he would sign the so-called Equalization Bill to implement these taxes, the bill that Jamison had vetoed. Burrell chafed at the thought of Gonzales’s assertion that it was immoral for wealth to pass by inheritance. Would the abolition of inheritance be far behind? Burrell abhorred Gonzales not for his egalitarian, socialistic opinions, which threatened all Burrell had ever strived to achieve, but for his views of law and society, views which Gonzales expressed openly and without compunction or apology.

There is no such thing as criminality, Gonzales had had the nerve to avow. "Laws are passed to protect the rich and their property. Crime is only a reaction against these laws. We are not yet ready to abolish the concept of property, but we can abolish the laws that protect it. Acts against property should be rewarded with employment rather than incarceration.

"There is no such thing as a crime of violence. There is only an act of violence, which is the act of a sick and impoverished mind. Imprisoning the body that committed the act will not change the mind.

Any act against property should require the citizen to work, to develop his skills until he need not steal. Any act of violence should require the perpetrator to enter a facility that will care for him, that will rehabilitate him and render him useful.

Burrell recalled these words, and they confirmed his belief that Gonzales must be stopped. As he walked up the path toward the patio, Burrell thought about Senator Witherspoon, whose views typified his own, who represented strength and idealism in a time of turmoil and diminution of moral value. Burrell reached the patio and crossed to the sliding doors, which led to his study on the lower level.

He found the magnetic lock and pressed the small metal slab on his key ring to it. The large doors parted slowly along with the inner drapes. After he entered, he pressed the small button at the base of the light controls and the drapes came together. Burrell heard the blower of the furnace begin as he walked to the large mahogany desk. He sat down and looked at the pictures of his children, now grown. He turned to his credenza and looked into Belinda’s eyes. He pushed his laptop aside, opened the top left drawer, took out a yellow legal pad, and began the list.

CHAPTER 3

At 11 a.m. Reicher stared across the desk at the beard, hair, and fiery eyes that faced him. Ramón Hernández looked like Jesus Christ but put out forest fires like Smokey the Bear. The best in his field, he commanded the highest fee, a fee he was now seeking to triple.

Reicher started to ask questions as if searching for a way to solve the situation confronting him. The questions, however, were rhetorical; his experience with Burrell had preordained his solution.

Now let me get this straight. You admit you signed this contract?

Yes.

You admit the fee was $60,000 for your services for six weeks and that you would stay until the fire was extinguished at the rate of $6,500 per week?

Yes.

And you admit you have been serving for only 11 days and that we have observed every clause of our agreement?

Yes.

And now you demand $150,000 for the next four weeks? And if we don’t grant you that you will refuse to complete the assignment?

"I demand nothing, Mr. Reicher. I have simply informed you that the expense of putting out this fire is greater than I had anticipated, greater than it was defined