Statesman

By Francis W. Porretto

Stephen Graham Sumner is a lawyer from Onteora County, New York and a descendant of the late William Graham Sumner, one of America’s forgotten great thinkers. We meet Sumner in his mid-thirties: he’s capable and passionate about justice, but his life ambitions are unformed. He becomes general counsel to Onteora Aviation, a defense-industry corporation, and meets those who will mold his ambitions, with particular emphasis on a single figure: Louis Redmond.

In consequence of his reluctant agreement to become the running-mate of the incumbent governor of New York, Sumner develops a vast distaste for what American politics and government have become. Surprised and made optimistic by his unexpected popularity, not merely in New York but throughout the Northeast, he campaigns for and wins the presidency on the Constitutional Party ticket: the first candidate to rise to the White House from a third party since Abraham Lincoln.

Sumner’s presidency is not a tranquil one. Foreign military adventures, provoked by Islamic radicals, lead to horrifying consequences. These, plus his domestic efforts to return American government to its Constitutional origins and his support for maverick inventor and space enthusiast Todd Iverson’s orbital habitat project, cause the rise of an implacable enemy: Ian McIlvaine, U.S. Senator from California. By dint of brilliant though darkly-motivated tactics, McIlvaine succeeds Sumner in the Oval Office, and contrives a downfall for Sumner that no previous president has had to face.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Francis W. Porretto
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311382016

Francis W. Porretto

Francis W. Porretto was born in 1952. Things went steadily downhill from there.Fran is an engineer and fictioneer who lives on the east end of Long Island, New York. He's short, bald, homely, has bad acne and crooked teeth. His neighbors hold him personally responsible for the decline in local property values. His life is graced by one wife, two stepdaughters, two dogs, four cats, too many power tools to list, and an old ranch house furnished in Early Mesozoic style. His 13,000 volume (and growing) personal library is considered a major threat to the stability of the North American tectonic plate.Publishing industry professionals describe Fran's novels as "Unpublishable. Horrible, but unpublishable all the same." (They don't think much of his short stories, either.) He's thought of trying bribery, but isn't sure he can afford the $3.95.Fran's novels "Chosen One," "On Broken Wings," "Shadow Of A Sword," "The Sledgehammer Concerto," "Which Art In Hope," "Freedom's Scion," "Freedom's Fury," and "Priestesses" are also available as paperbacks, through Amazon. Check the specific pages for those books for details.Wallow in his insane ranting on politics, culture, and faith at "Liberty's Torch:" http://www.libertystorch.info/And of course, write to him, on whatever subject tickles your fancy, at [e-mail]

Book preview

Foreword

For those who’ve waited, hoping against hope, for this, the concluding novel of the Realm of Essences series, I hope you’ll enjoy it out of all proportion to your anticipation. It took me much longer to complete than I originally expected, which has caused me to wonder whether I really had a story to tell. Well, here it is: judgment now rests in your hands.

To anyone contemplating the purchase of Statesman who has not yet read the other four books in the series: DON’T!

You won’t understand it.

You’ll keep wondering what contemporaneous and prior events brought the characters to these points.

You’ll goggle at Christine, whose nature and background aren’t clear from the material in this book alone.

And you’ll never, ever buy another book from me. We can’t have that. So I’m doing both the moral and the practical thing: I’m warning you away before you can plunk your hard-earned cash on my barrelhead.

The Realm of Essences saga has been a long and enlightening journey, for me as much as for my badly beleaguered protagonists. It deserves closure, so I’m declaring it closed. Some of the characters from the saga might appear in future works, but the major story arc begun in Chosen One is now complete.

I hope the journey has been as pleasant for you as it’s been for me.

Francis W. Porretto

Mount Sinai, NY

December 2, 2016

Sunday morning, January 17, 2038

He entered without ceremony. His slender build, his silver hair, and his patrician bearing were all as she remembered them. He seated himself in sidesaddle fashion, turned to face forward and started as his gaze lit on her.

"I hardly expected to see you today."

She smirked. Were you expecting anyone?

He struggled visibly to keep his expression neutral. I suppose not. But—

"Why me? She pushed her steno book and recorder to one side and sat back. Wouldn’t you say I’m the appropriate person for the moment? After all, I was there at the beginning, so to speak."

He nodded. Close enough, I suppose. He planted his elbows on the counter and studied her face. Time and events haven’t been as generous to you as you deserve.

She shrugged. Thank you for saying so, but no one stays young and glamorous forever. I did have a good run, though. Actually, I wield more influence now than I did back then. You, on the other hand—

He raised a hand. Spare me. He grimaced at his own phrase. You might be the last to do so.

She nodded. I might at that. She unwrapped and thumb-printed a memory cartridge, inserted it into her recorder, and flipped open her steno book. I jotted down some questions that I’d like to run through. They should take about an hour. Will that leave us time to chat more casually afterward?

He shrugged. We’ll see.

She glanced down at the notebook, though it was hardly necessary. Her pre-scripted questions were as indelibly committed to her memory as her name.

"What would you cite as the influence that first set you on the path that brought you to this point?"

He grinned ruefully. That’s an easy one. Start your recorder.

The sound of his wife’s footsteps approaching pulled at Stephen Sumner’s neck hair. He hoisted his magazine a little higher in hope that she’d walk past. It wasn’t to be.

Would you like a ham or lasagna for the second entree?

He dipped the magazine and peered up into her face. Adrienne’s expression was mock-solicitous, almost sappy. A pinpoint-sized eraser to dab at a mural of recrimination and regret.

Doesn’t matter. He pointedly returned his eyes to his reading and listened for her departure. In vain.

Steve? Incredibly, she hooked a finger over his magazine and pulled it aside. Can’t we make this a good Christmas? It doesn’t last that long, you know.

Everything lasts too long with you.

He bit back his reply and nodded. She looked into his eyes a moment longer, driving him to the edge of his endurance, and returned to her kitchen.

His watch made it a few minutes before noon.

Bob and his brood will be here in an hour. A whole day of bellowing, demands for liquor, and tasteless jokes told at the top of his voice.

Adrienne’s brother and his wife Ruth were notoriously lax with their children. The previous year, Michael and Susanna had run pell-mell through his home from the hellish moment of their arrival to the blessed instant of their departure. Sumner had tried to halt them as gently as he could, which wasn’t very. His reward had been a screaming match with Ruth that had left his head ringing for the rest of the day.

It isn’t bad enough that I have to put up with them and their mannerless spratlings. They’ll probably bring Scout again.

He clenched his jaws at the thought. The previous year, the black Lab had left bruises all over Sumner’s shins with his whiplike tail. When Sumner had left off watching him to pursue the rampaging kids, Scout had ruined a priceless antique armoire by piddling on it. Sumner had never come that close to violence before.

Anticipation of the trials to come pushed him out of his chair and toward the coat closet. He yanked his overcoat off its hanger, pulled it around himself with a savage jerk, and made for the door. Adrienne chose that moment to emerge from her kitchen again.

She started to say something, took note of the coat, and stopped. He halted as well. For the first time that day, he looked at his wife and actually saw her.

Adrienne was wearing the black sheath dress that flattered her so, the one she only wore under a blue moon. She’d accessorized it with a thin gold belt, a strand of pearls, and her black opera pumps. Her thick, shoulder-length black hair gleamed like a satin cascade around her face. At thirty-five years of age, she was still a heart-stopping beauty...when she made the effort.

Twice a year. Thanksgiving and Christmas, when her family comes for dinner. The rest of the time it’s sweat clothes and sneakers.

It was the extra push he needed. He turned away from her and started out of the house.

Steve...?

Later.

Where are you going?

He didn’t turn. To see a man about a dog.

What?

He closed the door behind him without replying.

#

The streets of Onteora were thinly traveled. Few cars passed him as he walked. A bare handful of pedestrians, collars and scarves pulled tight against the thickly falling snow, trudged past him through the five inches that had accumulated already.

Sumner stalked down Grand Avenue, the city’s main boulevard. Shop windows that had glittered brightly at him, promoting the commercialized joys of the season for weeks past were shuttered and dim. Their proprietors were undoubtedly at home, enduring whatever agonies their own families allocated to the magic day.

His anger-fueled pace took him swiftly through the city proper and into the dormitory suburb of Foxwood. Commercial buildings gave way to single-family homes on modest lots, each swaddled in a blanket of snow. The trickle of pedestrian traffic dwindled to nothing. As he walked, the spire of Our Lady Of The Pines, Onteora’s Roman Catholic Church, gradually came into view. It drew him forward like a beacon in darkness.

Presently he stood before the tall oaken doors, glumly regarding the large sign at the entrance.

All The Joy Of The Most Joyous Of Days To You!

Christmas Day High Masses at 7:30, 9, 10:30, and Noon Christmas Evening Masses at 7, 8, and 9PM

Glory To The Newborn King!

He’d married Adrienne in this church, fifteen years before. She’d insisted on a religious wedding. Though a lapsed Catholic who’d ceased to practice it upon graduating from high school, he’d made no protest. He’d walked in as a free man, walked out with a shackle on his arm, and had not returned.

As if of its own accord, his hand reached out to grasp the antique wrought iron door pull. He realized what he was about to do and consciously jerked himself away.

That was the beginning of a slow ride to hell. I should have put my foot down then and there and hauled her to a Justice Of The Peace.

Snow from his collar slid down his back. The shock of the wet cold on his neck made him spasm and mutter an oath. He shook himself and slapped awkwardly at the icy lump, then turned back toward the church doors as if compelled.

Why am I standing here? I’m not going in there.

Struck by a sudden premonition of danger, he wheeled and ran down the church steps toward the gate. In his confusion, his muscles did not register the change in traction beneath his feet, and his hearing did not detect the burble of the pickup truck accelerating down the street.

At the walkway’s edge, he lost all control of his motion. He found himself skidding helplessly into the street as the truck came rumbling past.

In a panic, he cast himself backward, deliberately flopping onto his back on the walk. The back of his head struck the icy concrete with an unanticipated force, sending swirling blue worms through his world to steal away the day and deliver him into darkness.

#

He awoke sitting in the rear pew of the church, his coat pulled tight around him, hands thrust deep into its pockets. The church was dark, except for a single candle that lit the tabernacle upon the altar. The dim sun of winter did not pierce the stained glass windows. It could well have been midnight.

A male figure stood at the altar rail, facing toward the rear of the church. The man was dressed in ordinary street clothes. He wore no coat. His hands were clasped before him. His eyes were on Sumner’s face.

I haven’t seen you here in quite a while, Steve.

Sumner carefully hoisted himself erect and approached the other. His face seemed familiar, but Sumner could put no name to him.

I’m sorry, have we met?

The stranger’s face was unreadable.

Perhaps not. Not that I haven’t been waiting for it. But you’ve been more than a little reluctant to stop by the house.

Sumner blinked. Are you the pastor? What happened to Father Schliemann?

Schliemann’s more of an institution than the church. If he’d died or retired, I’m sure I’d have heard of it.

The man smiled. No, I’m not the pastor. Let’s say I’m an interested observer. Very interested.

Then—

Later, perhaps. What brings you out today? Why aren’t you with your family?

Sumner’s confusion receded before the returning tide of his anger. What family? Adrienne’s family? Sorry, Adrienne’s—

Your wife. Yes, I know. The man’s low, mellifluous voice dropped still further. You took her to wife here, at this altar. Promised to love and cherish her, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death did you part.

Sumner stared. The stranger couldn’t be more than about thirty years old.

Is he one of Adrienne’s cousins?

Forgive me, please. Were you there that day? I confess I can’t remember you.

The man’s face darkened. Yes, I was there. I like weddings. I go to all of them. Every wedding holds infinite promise, even if what comes after isn’t always for the best. He turned to gaze at the altar and the tabernacle upon it.

You and Adrienne had all the possibilities of any other newlyweds, Steve. All of life stretched before you. Your paths were yours to choose. But today you’re a bitter man, prematurely drained of life and isolated from all that might freshen your spirit. What happened?

The question, so directly put, staggered Sumner where he stood. He stumbled forward a pace and planted his hands on the rail to steady himself.

I don’t know. I...we just lost it, somehow. We—

The man looked sideways at him, knowing and monitory.

"‘We,’ Steve? Adrienne’s still trying. She weeps sometimes, when you’re not around to see it. She tells me over and over how much she loves you. It hasn’t been easy for her, she’s gotten just about none of the things she hoped for from marriage, but she’s still trying to rescue you. What have you been doing? He faced Sumner squarely. Are you even trying to love her back?"

Sumner stood aghast, mouth hanging open. The man nodded.

Yes, I knew. I don’t miss that sort of thing. He turned back toward the tabernacle. His face seemed to glow in the steadily deepening darkness.

"I don’t like to take a direct hand in these domestic matters. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to my mother. But every now and then, someone who has absolutely no excuse catches my eye, and I do this. They say a word to the wise is sufficient, Steve. Got the idea?"

Sumner fought down his shivers and found his voice. What do you want me to do?

The stranger cocked an eyebrow. What do you want to do?

Is... is it up to me?

The man nodded. It always has been. Each man is the master in his own house, from the day he takes his life into his own hands until the day he dies. What do you want from your marriage, Steve?

Love. Companionship. Support. Children...once.

The stranger cocked an eyebrow. Children? It seems to me you did your best to defeat that particular goal of matrimony.

Sumner said nothing.

Well, it isn’t too late. But for the rest of it, what do you propose to do to get what you and I would both love for you to have?

Uh...

How about providing Adrienne with a few of the things you said you wanted? Wouldn’t that be a start?

It was more than a disinterested suggestion.

Yes, it would.

The man nodded. Those things come more readily if you learn how to forget yourself a little, now and then. This is one of the places where that’s easiest to do.

Sundays?

Sundays, yes, but the other days are good, too. The glowing face was overcome by longing. I’ve missed you, Steve. I hate to see anyone in pain. There’s relief from that here, if you open yourself to it. The doors are never locked.

Sumner tore his eyes from the luminous visage and let them roam the church. The pews and font, statues and sacred images were reminders of his youth, gentle prods to memories of a time when little had seemed impossible, when life had been lit with promise. Even in the darkness, now nearly perfect, it was a supremely welcoming place.

I’ll be back.

The man nodded. I’m glad to hear it.

Will I...will I see you again?

The glowing face was touched with a wry humor, knowledge of unnameable secrets blended with an impish delight in the twistings of time and chance.

That depends. Now go home and be the master in your own house. Gently, but firmly. As I am in mine.

Sumner was seized by vertigo. He staggered back, lowered his head and fell to his knees.

The church whirled and became formless.

#

Mister?

Huh? Sumner struggled up from the murky depths. He found himself on his back, on the rearmost pew of Our Lady Of The Pines. A short, slight figure loomed over him, hands gently chafing Sumner’s face: a young man perhaps twenty years old, with a smooth, solemn face and piercing dark brown eyes. He noticed Sumner’s return to consciousness and gave a sigh of relief.

Thank God. I’ve been trying to wake you up for an hour. Are you okay?

I think so. Sumner heaved himself upright. As he did, he was visited by a spike of pain from the back of his head. He put his fingers to it and winced. At least there was no blood.

Did you haul me in here?

The young man nodded. I was driving the truck.

Sumner looked him over. He looked to weigh about a hundred fifty pounds. All by yourself?

Well, yes.

Never mind. What’s your name?

Louis Redmond.

Thank you, Louis. I’m sorry if I worried you. Could you do one other thing for me?

Sure, what?

Drive me home? I walked here from Chedwick. It’s only about three miles.

No problem, Redmond said. Come on, let’s go.

As Louis navigated the slippery roads through the city, Sumner asked him, Am I taking you out of your way?

Louis shrugged. It’s no big deal. I wanted to spend an hour in church, and I did. He grinned. I didn’t expect to spend it quite that way, but what the hell.

Sumner chuckled. Well, it’s time for both of us to get back to our families.

Louis said nothing. From the corner of his eye, Sumner saw a delicate thread of tension run down the boy’s cheek. He knew at once that Louis had no family, that chance had taken his from him, that he’d gone out into the snow that Christmas day to mourn.

They pulled up before Sumner’s house in Chedwick moments later. Louis set the handbrake and turned toward Sumner.

Careful on the walk, okay? If you don’t pay attention, you can go really wrong really fast.

Sumner nodded. I know. He stuck out his hand. Thank you, Louis. Merry Christmas.

Louis shook it. You’re welcome, uh—

Steve Sumner.

You’re welcome, Steve, and all the joy of the day to you.

And to you, Louis. Good-bye.

He strode up his own walk with new purpose. Every window of the stately Federal colonial, the chief prize of his years of labor at the law, was bright. The Markhams’ car was nestled behind his in the driveway. From the house came the light and sounds of an incipient party: seasonal music, laughter, and the multifarious jostlings of a family gathering.

My house, he murmured. He let himself in and made for the kitchen, where Adrienne was holding court as she finished assembling her lasagna. Ruth was weakly cajoling her children about not making trouble. Bob was already flushed and sweating, complaining about his dry-goods business over the carols from the bookshelf stereo, waving a half-filled glass for punctuation.

Sumner reached for the stereo and switched it off. The others fastened on him at once.

Yo, brother-in-law! Bob said. Got a few new ones for you. Heard the one about the blind mime and the nun?

Sumner fixed the half-drunken man with a determined look. Bob, come this way a moment, would you please?

Bob’s forehead crinkled momentarily. He glanced at Adrienne for an explanation, shrugged and followed Sumner out to the living room, his wine glass dangling from his hand.

What’s up, bro?

Bob, Sumner said, first, thank you for not bringing Scout. Second, I’ve decided we’re going to have a nice Christmas this year. And that means no shouting, no crass jokes about priests, nuns, or private parts, and no ugly stories about anyone in the family. Okay?

What—

Sumner plucked the glass from his brother-in-law’s hand. Third, you’ll be drinking coffee, tea, or soda for the rest of the day. You’ve obviously had enough alcohol already, and I don’t want you to get sloppy at dinner, the way you did last year.

Steve! It was half protest and half whine.

This is my house, Bob. Sumner let the implications hang unspoken.

Sobriety seeped back into Bob Markham’s features. He seemed to come to a belated recognition of his surroundings.

All right. Ruth made a comment about it before we left our place. Peace?

Peace, Sumner said. Merry Christmas, Bob. Let’s rejoin the ladies.

Adrienne and Ruth were seated close together, talking in low, anxious tones. They stood as the men reentered the kitchen.

Is everything all right, Steve? Adrienne’s hands were balled tightly, white at the knuckles.

Just fine, sweetie. When do you expect to serve dinner?

About three.

Good. Then we can make the seven o’clock Mass at Our Lady of the Pines. The children immediately began to shout their disapproval. Sumner glared at them, and they subsided sulkily. Ruth, do you think you can get Michael and Susanna to behave for that long, or shall I have Michelle Stevens come over to babysit them while we enjoy our day?

The momentary silence was a thing of crystalline perfection.

You haven’t been to Mass in years, Adrienne said. Why—

"I was invited. Of course, I could go alone." He peered at his wife from under his brows.

No, I’ll come. Ruth? Bob?

The Markhams exchanged puzzled glances. Their children’s eyes were wide. Dressed as we are? Ruth said.

Sumner nodded. It’s not a problem for the management. He moved up to Adrienne and took her hands in his own.

I love you, sweetie, he murmured. You look wonderful tonight. Thank you for everything.

I love you too, she whispered, barely audible.

It was a start.

She pressed the recorder’s stop key.

"I don’t think I’m following you," she said.

"You needn’t take the, ah, visitation part as Gospel truth, he said It could have been a dream from first to last. I did knock myself unconscious with that tumble on the walkway. I’m just recounting what I perceived as I perceived it. In any event, that was my first acquaintance with Louis Redmond. The man who became my most potent formative influence."

"You were already a husband and an established lawyer, and a boy half your age became your main formative influence? she said. He nodded. Forgive me for saying so, but it didn’t sound like that significant an encounter."

"The day it occurred, he said, I’d have agreed with you. It certainly didn’t prepare me for our second encounter, or the circumstances thereof. Nothing could have."

"When and where was that?"

"A few months later, when I started at Onteora Aviation." He glanced at her recorder.

She pressed the start key.

Mr. Forslund, Stephen Sumner said, are you sure you want a thirty-six year old attorney who’s never even had his own practice for your general counsel?

Anders Forslund’s lined, weathered face wrinkled into an impish grin. Why do you ask? He folded his hands and leaned forward over his modest-sized maple and tempered-glass desk. Is it against the canons of the legal profession?

Sumner shook his head. I’m just having a hard time believing that that high a post would be open to someone of my slender attainments.

The white-haired founder and chief executive officer of Onteora Aviation spread his hands in mock entreaty. I could reduce the salary I’m offering if it would make you more likely to accept.

Uh, no, that...won’t be necessary.

Forslund scooped up Sumner’s resume and read from it desultorily. "Let’s see, now...summa cum laude from Cornell, first in your class at Columbia Law. That speaks well of your intellect. Of the sixteen of your cases that went to trial in the Court of Chancery, you won all sixteen. That speaks well of your knowledge of the law and your ability to expound it. Ted Guillory was particularly complimentary about your interviewing and negotiating skills, which are critical in this business. He pleaded with me not to deprive him of you, which confirms it all. And then, Forslund said, I knew your father. Another grin. He turned me down. I’m hoping for better luck with you."

Well... Sumner paused for a moment’s reflection. I never expected an opportunity like this. All I can say is that I’m flattered beyond my powers with words. My answer is yes, of course. He stood and extended a hand across the desk. Forslund rose and shook it. When would you like me to start?

This instant. Forslund turned and stooped, plucked a heavily loaded manila folder from the file cabinet behind his desk, and handed it to Sumner. There’s been some fallout from an incident a few years back. One of our subcontractors, Wooster Precision, was bilking the Air Force through OA and got caught. The cases have just landed on the district court’s docket. Pretrial depositions suggest that Wooster’s officers are going to try to pin the blame on OA.

Whoa! A heavy case for my first time at bat.

He leafed through the documents in the folder. The name of a single OA employee recurred repeatedly throughout the deposition transcripts. It was a name he already knew.

My God. There are no coincidences. This proves it.

He closed the folder, tucked it under his arm, and straightened.

I suppose the first step is to interview your point man.

Of course, Forslund said. He’s quite a character, too. I’m sure you’ll enjoy making his acquaintance.

I already have, sir, Sumner said.

Hm? Where and when?

Long story.

#

Sumner thanked his escort, leaned semi-furtively around the edge of the gray fabric partition that enclosed his target’s cubicle, and oh-so-gently cleared his throat. The young man seated at the desk within started as if he’d been jabbed with a heated hatpin. He swiveled in his chair and started a second time as his gaze landed on his visitor.

Steve? Louis Redmond said wonderingly.

Sumner nodded. May I come in, Louis, or would I be interrupting something that shouldn’t be interrupted?

Redmond rose, plucked a brown bomber jacket from his guest chair, and gestured that Sumner should sit. He laid the jacket on his desk and perched himself on the edge of his seat, looking as though he suspected that he was hallucinating.

You’re looking well, Sumner said.

I’m okay. Redmond tilted his head to one side. And you?

I’m very well, thank you. And thanks to you. I didn’t expect to run into you here, but then, I didn’t expect it at Our Lady of the Pines, either.

What brings you to OA?

A job offer.

What sort?

I’m a lawyer.

You’re joining OA’s Legal department? Wait a minute, Redmond said, "do we have a Legal department?"

We do now, Sumner said. For the moment it’s just me, but that will probably change. He brandished the folder he’d received from Anders Forslund. "I can see that you’ve been a busy little beaver."

Redmond’s eyes flicked to the folder and thence back to Sumner’s. Is that about the Wooster mess? Redmond said. I’d never have guessed that it would drag on this long.

Sumner nodded.

I’d never have guessed that someone your age would be put in charge of something that’s likely to shatter so many careers.

You’re at the center of the cyclone, Louis, he said. Wooster’s brass alleges that you fabricated the evidence to prevent an investigation of OA’s practices. They’ll admit only to some minor irregularities in billing for which disciplinary measures have already been taken. If I were their counsel, I’d advise them to file a commercial defamation suit against OA, if only to buttress their position in the criminal trials.

Redmond said nothing.

I am not going to accuse the...man who saved my life of some sort of chicanery. What possible motive could he have had?

Did you keep good records? Sumner said.

Redmond nodded. Would you like to see them now?

Not just yet. He held up the folder again. After lunch, I think. There’s enough in here to keep me busy for that long, at least. Speaking of lunch, he said after a glance at his watch, would you like to join me?

Redmond rose. Sure thing.

#

So tell me, young titan of the software arts, Sumner said between bites of a slightly salty stew, just how old are you?

I knew that would be your first question, Redmond said. I turned twenty-four about a month ago.

What? So you were... Sumner glanced at the folder. "Only twenty when you went to Wooster?"

Redmond nodded.

How on Earth did you wind up with the job of turning over all these rocks?

The cafeteria buzzed with the oddly comforting sound of men who, however much they might enjoy their work, were equally glad to have a break from it for food and casual chat. Though tables filled with OA personnel were close around them on all sides, easily close enough to overhear their conversation, no one took a visible interest in it. Sumner’s three-piece suit occasioned few glances, though there were no other suits in evidence and few in the throng even wore a tie.

It was as much of a surprise to me as to you, Redmond said. He took a moment to finish off his tuna sandwich and wipe his mouth and fingers. The VP simply called me into his office and handed it to me. I asked him if he was certain I was the guy he wanted for the job, and he said he was. Up to that point I was positive that I was being set up for some weird prank. But that’s how it was.

And you took it and ran with it. And brought in the largest group indictment in the history of defense contracting. Why am I not surprised?

Well, Sumner said, "as hornets’ nests go, this one is a doozy. Wooster’s just filed Chapter 11 papers, every one of its corporate officers has lawyered up, and I have no doubt that the lot of them include your name in their evening prayers—and not in a good way. He leaned slightly forward, and Redmond’s gaze sharpened. Are you dead certain you can substantiate every molecule of your accusations?"

Redmond nodded. You can decide for yourself when you’ve seen my records.

What form do they take?

Redmond held up an index finger. Audio recordings of every interview. A second finger. "Dated notes written in