Unjustifiable Means

By Robert T. Donohue

Unjustifiable Means is an inspirational, political, thriller for our times. The author brings to bear a progressive and Judeo-Christian perspective on todays political news. Stultifying, divisive partisanship in congress, pro-life verses pro-choice, senate filibuster reform, civil rights, gay rights, class warfare, all come under the authors discerning scrutiny.
As our story begins, the U.S. Senate is evenly split, fifty Republicans and fifty Democrats. Both camps are engaged in a civil war of words and polarized ideologies over President Warners nomination of right-wing leaning John Cameron to the Supreme Court. The future of American democracy is at stake. The democrats have filibustered against Cameron for weeks. Nothing, nothing is getting done in Washington.
A well-planned right-wing conspiracy to assure Camerons confirmation is hatched. Deadly consequences follow in this fast-paced twenty-four hour saga that includes mystery, suspense, and romance as it calls for tolerance, inclusiveness, compromise, courage, and faith in American politics and life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483612676

Robert T. Donohue

Since his retirement, the author, a practicing Episcopalian, has become a student of American politics. He believes that the energy behind the Big Bang is Love. He resides with his wife Donna and their son Angel in Shamong, New Jersey. “Faith, hope, and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” 1Cor 13:13

Book preview

Chapter 1

The digital clock on Senator Brubaker’s dash display read 3:40 AM. He’d expected to be approaching Baltimore by now. He talked to keep himself company.

Dammit to hell. I can hardly see.

His wipers labored at full speed, helpless against the dense snow gusting in front of him. Alan hunched over the steering wheel of his Ford Five Hundred and strained his eyes trying desperately to discern the snow covered right lane of the southbound New Jersey Turnpike. If it weren’t for some slow moving red taillights in front of him to his left and his familiarity with this road and its signs, he’d have absolutely no orientation in time and space.

I trust these red taillights; what choice do I have? I’d follow them at fifteen miles per hour straight to the depths of Dante’s freezing hell if that’s where they lead me, he thought.

Weathermen, weatherwomen, the whole lot of you should be inside this car with me, he vented aloud. In a mocking, high-pitched, sing-songy and nicey female voice, reminiscent of the weathergirls he’d heard on his car radio three hours ago, he shouted into his windshield. The nor’ester that dumped over five inches of snow on New Jersey, eastern New York State, and southern Connecticut has moved off the coast. Chances of it whirling back on us are nil. Major highways are partially clear, but speeds are still reduced to forty miles per hour on the Garden State Parkway and the New Jersey Turnpike. Drive safely. His mocking sarcasm directed at the mistaken weathergirl erupted into anger.

‘Drive safely,’ she says. ‘Drive safely.’ Ha. Well, this storm sure as hell has whirled back with the mother of all vengeances.

He blasted his words into his windshield just eight inches from his straining eyes. His monologue to the windshield ended abruptly. The vehemence of his exhalations had so fogged the glass before him, he had momentarily lost sight of his guiding red tail lights. Then, the worst—a patch of ice. Skidding out of control, Alan closed his useless eyes and whispered, Help me.

*     *     *

Christine Jordan had been a light sleeper for the seventeen years she had represented Illinois in the U. S. Senate. Still, she had never been awakened by a phone call at 3:46 AM on a Sunday morning. She rolled over and picked up the receiver from her nightstand.

Hello?

Good morning, Senator Jordan. I have some very bad news for you.

Christine remained silent long enough for her to assess the menacing sliminess of the caller’s tone.

What is it?

Thanks for keeping the Senate floor open over the weekend with your meaningless, symbolic, obstructionist filibuster.

You’re welcome, she parried.

You can pack up those six pillows and cots. We are exercising our nuclear option at 7:00 PM today. By 7:30 John Cameron will be confirmed to the Supreme Court by a simple majority vote.

Why are you telling me this?

Because I delight in visualizing your helpless misery as you go down to defeat. Malicious slime turned to hate as he continued. You’re what my Klan friends call a libidni woman.

This is unbelievable, she thought. Christine swallowed and tried to make light. Libidni woman? Sounds libidinous to me. What’s a libidni woman?

I’d rather not say; but since you asked, and since I could care less about political correctness, a libidni is a liberal, bitch, nigra woman.

Mildly shaken by his hatefulness and his old south diction, her multi-scarred psyche prevailed.

Whoever you are, I think you’re quite ill, she said.

No, y’all pervert, blue-state, liberals are the sicko’s; by 7:30 PM your filibuster will be history and finally, our purist ideology will not only interpret the Constitution for decades to come, but cleanse this nation of its sins, its abominations before Almighty God.

How do you know for sure Almighty God is on your side?

Regarding your filibuster and with apologies to Robert Burns, ‘the best laid plans of mice and men’ and uppity black women minority leaders go oft astray. You’re going down, Christine. Y’all be havin’ a blessed day, ya hear. Click.

In the minute that followed, Christine thought long thoughts—some soft, some hard—as she gently put down her phone. She immediately wanted to call Artibus, her husband and lover. She’d need him with her today, and he’d want a call from her under these circumstances. However, if this hateful caller’s message proves credible, Artibus and she may have to cancel their weekly rendezvous for this Sunday evening. She placed a call to Artibus’s cell phone. The party you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time.

She hung up the phone. He doesn’t have his phone turned on. Artibus, you are the most frustrating man I’ve ever known. If and when I get through to you, you’ll get an earful before you’ll get an ‘I love you.’ From me, she thought.

At this moment, Christine knew her woman’s intuition and her responsibilities as senate minority leader would have to take precedence over her personal life. I’ll try to call Artibus later, she thought.

She’d recognized some credibility in her caller’s hateful message. There had been recent talk among the Republicans of reviving the nuclear option of 2005. If they were going to declare Senate Rule 22 unconstitutional and end the long tradition of the minority’s right to filibuster a bill or Judicial Nominee, she’d have to make it extremely difficult for Vice-President Chaffney to do so. With the Senate split fifty Republicans and fifty Democrats, she’d have to muster all fifty of her colleagues’ votes to force Chaffney, and him alone, to break the inevitable tie in the glaring lights of public opinion and worldwide scrutiny. Publicly, on the Chuck Mather’s show, Chaffney had PROMISED after the last election he’d never break a tie in the case of a Supreme Court Nominee. But Chaffney would do anything to win, she thought, and the Republicans need some kind of political victory in order to rally their religious right base.

They desperately need to get Cameron on the court before the November presidential election. Would Chaffney go back on his word? Christine wondered. She’d have to proceed at this ungodly hour as though her 3:46 caller’s information were true.

She walked to her coffee maker and pushed the on button. No leisurely brew time of 8:30 AM. No cursory reading of The Washington Post and New York Times. No mass at the National Cathedral at 11:00, and probably no Artibus at the Days Inn at 5:00, she thought.

The aroma of coffee always pricked her senses and began her day’s strategizing. As the Democratic Minority Leader, she had become her party’s duelist or street fighter, whatever was called for. She could parry and thrust with the Majority Leader, the President, and Vice-President, anyone. She could finesse or land a knock-out punch. If my caller’s information is factual, my opponents have removed the tips from their foils and put brass knuckles on their hands. There could be bloody political in-fighting before this day’s end.

From the cabinet above her coffee maker she took down her two prized school mugs she’d used daily for years. Each was stained brown on the inside, one a little darker from use than the other. Each bore the seals of her schools. She poured steaming coffee into her magna cum laude Howard University mug, breathed in deeply, and walked to her thinking chair, the chair her grandmother, Eva, had done her thinkin’, Bible readin’, and prayin’ in for so many years, the chair where she’d sit on her grandmom’s lap mornings before going to school or evenings before going to bed. Grandmom had died on August 19, 1968. It had been a tough year for twenty year old student and civil rights activist Christine Jordan. She had just finished her junior year at Howard. Great heroes had deserted her, Martin Luther King, Jr; Robert F. Kennedy; and Grandmom Eva, all in a matter of months.

Now, as she settled into the thinking chair, she felt the chair’s arms embracing her from behind as her grandmom’s arms so often did when little Christine would sit in her lap during those terrible, wonderful, growing-up, Chicago project years. She smiled. No matter how stressful the day’s agenda appeared, she’d always given to herself these two mugs of coffee and this settling-in ritual every day since she’d taken the chair back to Howard for her senior year. Today would be no different for sixty year old Christine. Soul time with Grandmom in the thinkin’ chair was the best way to prepare; it could be a pleasant day with friends or a street fight with enemies, no matter.

She sipped her coffee and began to plan, to set things in place, to remember. She’d have to make some calls, one to Alan Brubaker’s aide and one to Senator Moore’s. Both senators had left town for the weekend, and their return and their votes were vital in the event of a nuclear option showdown over John Cameron’s confirmation to the Supreme Court. And, she’d have to call the Republican Majority Leader, Franklin Worth. Despite the Vice-President’s probable arm twisting, Christine believed Franklin would tell her the truth about what his side was up to. There was still some procedural collegiality, at least among senators, even if both sides of the aisle were more polarized than ever. She looked at her watch. I’ll wait ’til five to call the two absent senators’ aides. Brubaker and Moore should be able to get back to Washington by this afternoon in plenty of time to caucus before these possible showdown votes at seven o’clock. She planned to give Franklin Worth ’til 8:00 AM. He’d probably be miserable at any hour today; still, she counted on his cooperation to confirm or deny her night caller’s troubling assertions.

*     *     *

The Ford Five Hundred had seemed to gain speed when it slid forward and sideways out of control. A violent bang against the guard rail followed a repercussive jolt, which bobble-headed Senator Brubaker, smacking his left temple against the driver’s window. The car’s driverless, free-swerve antics resolved into a peaceful stasis. Its carriage rested passively in the right hand lane, its engine purring, and the Senator staring without comment at his quiet wipers trying to keep pace with the driving snow. The wind howled. Alan kept staring for a moment or two; then, remembering his last two words, he said, Thanks.

Alan noticed that no vehicles were moving in the southbound lanes. Drivers of the two cars ahead of him had kept their engines running, no doubt to provide warmth. It had to be bitter cold outside. Although he’d been labeled a liberal by his opponents, he had been a fiscal conservative with the taxpayer’s money and with his own. Noticing the darkness, the worsening driving conditions, and the stalled vehicles around him, he chose conservation of energy and money as he had on so many of his senate votes. Cold or no cold, he was not about to waste gasoline he might need later to continue his Sunday morning trip back to Washington. Despite his light apparel, a red windbreaker, he decided to try to sleep awhile.

He locked his doors, moved his driver’s seat to the rear, and reclined its back. This will be a comfortable snooze. What better way to pass the time, he thought.

This New Jersey cold was no worry. This was a Caribbean paradise compared to the ten miles of frozen, snow-covered dirt road he and about three thousand other American soldiers had fought on, and one thousand comrades had died on during the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir. I’d been one of the lucky ones, he recalled with some pangs of guilt. Still, remembering the three days he’d experienced battling on that icy tundra made him feel comfy—toasty in his red windbreaker and unheated car. It was so cold that November in 1950, they had to fire their automatic weapons every thirty minutes to make sure they’d work. Oblivious to the decreasing temperatures inside his Ford, Alan fell asleep.

*     *     *

Thanks, Private First Class Brubaker said as he slowly opened his eyes. He was lying prone looking up into the diffused light of a hanging bulb. In the light he saw the kindly, unshaven face of a captain in fatigues who had a little cross on his lapel.

What are you thanking me for?

I heard you saying an Our Father and a Hail Mary. That woke me up. Are you Catholic?

Yes, I’m Father Degnan.

Where am I, Father? And how bad is it?

You were one of four brought by helicopter to this MASH unit three days ago, 30 November. PFC Brubaker, it’s good and bad for you. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe it was the Our Father and the Hail Mary that woke you, but it’s more likely the gradual decrease the doctor ordered in your morphine drip. Your injuries are serious. You either passed out from traumatic blood loss or extreme pain, probably both.

Alan listened as intently as he could in his drugged state.

Go on, he said, looking straight into Fr. Degnan’s kind eyes.

I need to know how sound of mind you are because you’re going to need to understand what we’ll have to do. We have all kinds of wounded coming in here. Doc has to do what he can for you and move on to others. Two mortar rounds exploded near you. To sum it up, a fragment of the first cut the main artery in your lower right leg. You bled profusely.

My leg and foot just feel tingly all over; I can’t move them.

Let me finish. After you turned your back from the first explosion, your buddies and the medics said another mortar exploded and sent about a three to four inch casing fragment into your back. You must have suffered frost bite, too, while waiting motionless for the helicopter pick-up. You were one of the worst off, yet, you were assessed savable; and that’s why you were brought here instead of being placed in a truck for treatment later. Here’s Doc Forrester; he’ll give you the details.

Brubaker?

Yes, sir.

Just seeing if you’re alert. This casing fragment is deeply lodged between your fourth and fifth lumbar vertebrae. We don’t know if it cut your spinal cord or is pressing on it. That’s why you’re strapped down.

Alan nodded.

He just told me he feels tingling in his legs and feet, Father Degnan said.

That’s a good sign.

Alan smiled. Dr. Forrester considered that; it mattered. This kid could be paralyzed for life, he thought. In some ways Dr. Forrester had become as numb as Brubaker’s lower body, but this young private’s smile had touched him.

We’re going to have to cut around this large, irregularly shaped fragment and try to gently remove it. It’s dangerous; you may be paralyzed for life. Two things are certain; we can’t leave you like this, and we can’t move you.

Do it, Dr. Forrester. The way things were going with Colonel Faith’s task force, I’m lucky to have any life left to live. They kept telling us a relief column was coming.

The doctor and the priest looked at each other.

He’s coherent, Dr. Forrester said.

Then they looked at the young private and imagined what his comrades had been through. Today was 3 December 1950; and from what they’d heard about Colonel Faith, his officers, and his troops, Father Degnan could only muster these assuring words, Brubaker you are, indeed, a lucky soldier.

We’ll be operating in thirty minutes, said Dr. Forrester. Good luck.

"Thanks. Father Degnan, I’m of sound mind; and I need to tell you this. If God sees fit to have me walk again, I’ll go to seminary and become a priest. I have one more year at Rutgers to finish up, if I get back. I left school because I felt called to serve my country; that’s why I enlisted when this Korean conflict broke out. I don’t like Fascists, and I don’t like Communists. If God gives me my legs back, I’ll go to seminary; and I’ll be a priest like you.

What seminary?

Oh, I’d go to General in New York City. I have an uncle who went there.

General Seminary? You’re Episcopalian, then?

Yes, born and raised.

You didn’t mind me saying a Hail Mary for you?

No she’s the Blessed Mother; she’s a saint.

You wouldn’t consider a Roman Catholic Seminary?

Father, if I meet the right woman, I know I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off her. Does that answer your question?

Father Degnan smiled broadly, Well that’s the proper use of God-given testosterone; these man-made wars sure as hell aren’t. I like your spirit, son.

Alan smiled up into his face. He’d just heard something truly profound from this now familiar friend.

Father, what you said about testosterone was, well, original. God, Father, what do you do about your testosterone?

Father Degnan burst out laughing. Is this the son I’d never have, he thought. Well, Brubaker, I pray a lot; and I drink, he paused, some, enough. You’re bright Brubaker; I’ll dub thee, Brubaker the bright, bright as that light bulb up there. I love your spirit, son. He pulled from his pocket his container of holy oil, dipped his thumb, and made the sign of the cross on Alan’s forehead. He smiled, then left to carry on his work.

Alan’s hands were palms down, one on top of the other. His elbows bent, he turned his head and let it down to rest, closed his eyes, and whispered, Thanks.

You’re welcome, he heard.

Was that you, Father?

Then he heard, Father, quickly, a request for last rites. Someone had shouted across the large tent.

Alan mused as his pre-operational anesthesia was dripping into his IV. I’m hearing things. Then his conscious mind quieted into a beautiful blackness, all peaceful. He stayed there a few seconds. It was peace like a river. He’d fallen asleep.

Chapter 2

Christine sipped her coffee, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the back of her chair. She concentrated on the Wednesday following the last mid-term elections. Exhausted from the stresses and sleeplessness of the previous day’s last minute campaigning and assessing of late night, early morning election returns, she, Vice-President Chaffney, and Majority Leader Worth, nevertheless, had agreed to be guests on the five o’clock broadcast of The Arena, Chuck Mather’s news making, at times, history making, interview show. This new fifty/fifty split in the senate would provide huge unprecedented political problems for our government. Every American with any political savvy knew this, and it was quite a feather in Chuck’s journalistic cap that he could get these three major players in his studio on such short notice. His ratings were always strong, but they soared that Wednesday in November. She had fought extremely well on that program as she recalled. Mathers was balanced, fair, hard-nosed, and always up to the minute on Washington politics; and he always got the best out of Christine. She liked being a frequent guest of his. She imagined his probing voice in her mind’s ear as she sipped more coffee and checked her watch. She had plenty of time. It was ungodly early—no thanks to her ungodly caller. She hoped he was just some crank.

*     *     *

Thank you, Mr. Vice-President, Majority Leader Worth, and Minority Leader Jordan for being our guests for this hour. There is so much to discuss, and we have limited time—our network and our sponsors have agreed to have one extended commercial break midway through today’s program. Let’s enter the arena.

I’m certain each of you has made an assessment of what yesterday’s vote means to your parties and your constituents, so I’ll begin with Senator Worth. The Republicans took something of a beating yesterday; now that we have an even split in the senate, can we expect even splits on most votes or will there be compromise?

Well, Chuck, it’s clearer than ever, the American public is ideologically split in half. There are fewer moderates like myself left in the senate. Yesterday, voters, both conservative and liberal, spoke clearly from their entrenched positions. Our fifty Republican senators are more solidly conservative; and if you look at the new Democrats, it’s easy to see their constituents want more liberal representation. So, yes, I think we’ll have more gridlock.

Senator Jordan, do you agree?

As Senator Worth stated, Americans are entrenched, which conjures up images of lines of battle, a political civil war, not a war of sabers and cannons, but a war of words, ideas, and will.

Honestly, I think the American people are tired of gridlock, Chuck said. So, Senator Jordan, will the minority Democrats gridlock the senate fifty/fifty and force Vice-President Chaffney here, to dictate the outcome for pending laws and judicial nominees?

Based on our last four years of voiceless, subservience under the uncompromising Republican leadership, yes, that will probably have to be our strategy. But, Chuck, don’t blame this probable gridlock on the Democratic senators; we have our voters to represent as well.

So you’re saying perpetual gridlock and stalemate are inevitable?

No, it all depends on the willingness of our two parties to compromise and, more importantly, on the willingness of Vice-President Chaffney to foster compromise rather than confrontation. If the Republicans are unwilling to meet us Democrats half-way, they could, in effect, for the next two years, make Dick Chaffney a dictator in word and deed. They could make this man sitting next to me the most powerful person to hold office in this nation’s history—unelected office at that—and that’s scary, Chuck.

You said…

"Let me finish. You see, we Democrats have only the filibuster. If such a tyrannical scenario were to play out, we will use it to block legislation and judicial nominees unfavorable to our voters. But, you know, Chuck, Franklin, and Mr. Vice-President—I’m optimistic.

Senator Worth said, If I may, Chuck…

Just a minute, Senator Worth, as I said, we have most of this hour, and I’d like to challenge Senator Jordan on her optimism. Thank you, Madame Minority Leader, for your educational assessment; I’m sure it helped our viewers. But we all know this is a cut throat town underneath the layers of phony politeness; and, frankly, your optimism—I just don’t see it. Isn’t it frustrating as hell and demoralizing for you Democrats to hold half the seats in the senate and still be, by technicality, the minority party. You hold no committee chairmanships, and you are subject to Vice-President Chaffney’s tie-breaking votes. Victory after victory will go to your opponents across the aisle. You’re powerless in the senate. What’s to be optimistic about? There’s no silver lining; give me a break.

That’s your read on reality, Chuck. You’re one tough interviewer.

Thanks, that’s my trademark. I just want you to explain your optimism.

Fine. I’m the first woman Minority Leader of the U. S. Senate. I’ll never yield to despair. Second, our party won a slim but significant majority in the House yesterday, forcing compromise when it comes to getting legislation through both houses and on to the President’s desk. Third, as for the senate, my party and I are most concerned about blocking the confirmation of anymore right-wing judicial nominees, especially Supreme Court nominees. I have other reasons for optimism if you’ll allow me another minute or two; then I’ll yield the balance of my time, as we say on the Senate floor.

Well, gentlemen, it’s two against one in The Arena today, Chuck said looking at Chaffney and Worth. They each nodded their assent.

Go on.

I’m optimistic because, based solely on yesterday’s nationwide vote counts, we Democrats, with the help of many moderates, have clearly become the majority party. I see a major shift in the electorate. Most people are restive about the war, social issues, women’s rights, rights to privacy. Middle class Americans and America’s workers are looking for a fairer deal not a rawer dea…

We didn’t agree to her making a campaign speech, interrupted Senator Worth.

I’m not done. I’ve not yet yielded my time, Franklin. If our opponents fail to compromise and insist on forcing their favoritism for the RAW’s, the Rich, the Able, the Well-born, they risk angering even more American voters which will not serve them well in the Presidential election two years from now. Yes, I’m optimistic.

I was wondering when the temperature was going to rise around here. It was inevitable. Vice-President Chaffney, this election, resulting in an evenly split senate, has made you, as Minority Leader Jordan suggests, potentially the most powerful man in Washington.

He already is, Christine muttered to herself.

What’s your read on Senator Jordan’s optimism, her prognosis for the next two years? Will you foster compromise or confrontation in the senate in the face of what she sees as the voter’s repudiation of your and your party’s agenda? Do Republicans face an even greater backlash in two years?

Chaffney grinned affably at Chuck. That’s three questions—a lot to cover; I’ll try in my response to be more succinct than Madam Minority Leader was in hers. His calm, slow-cadenced, self-assured resonance filled the airways.

The facts are these. Minority Leader Jordan is by constitutional law the minority leader of a minority party because, I, as President of the U. S. Senate can and will cast the deciding vote in the case of a fifty/fifty tie. Chaffney looked full into the camera ahead of him. With nuanced forcefulness he continued.

"Be assured, my fellow Americans, the conservative agenda and the conservative base the President and I were sent back to Washington to advance will continue to grow in power and will swell their ranks. They will continue their destined march from sea to shining sea. I will personally see to that in every lawful way my power will allow. By November two