Exposed: Humanity Craves Power

By Anton D. Morris

Rashin joined the others in the recitation they always said before they ate: “We are the invisible hand of justice, the caretakers of humanity, the voice of reason when the world becomes unreasonable.”
Rashin believed in those words.

Anton D. Morris has concocted not only a swiftly-paced suspense churner, he has also constructed a compelling premise about people’s lot in life-how they got where they are-and whether or not they have the wherewithal to change life as they know it.
Pacific Book Review

Rashin is part of a Black secret society. He has a daughter and two sons. Cassandra’s a scrupulous lawyer. Jason runs an international company. Horus runs for President of the United States. Horus has wit, charm, voter’s confidence, and a troubling family secret that an upstart journalist wants to Expose.

Morris has created more here than just another political potboiler. His examination of black families’ ties to one another challenges readers to think twice about their own deeply held convictions … Morris deftly interweaves socioeconomic theory and good old-fashioned storytelling. He keeps readers involved to the very end or perhaps even longer.
-Recommended by Premium US Review of Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663209535

Anton D. Morris

Anton spent most of his childhood on Chicago’s south side. As a teen, he lived a suburban lifestyle, played on his high school sports teams, and developed an interest in politics. During his brief time involved with politics, Anton won the support of the local mayor and congressmen. He continues his involvement with school boards while enjoying matrimony in New Jersey. This comes after an adventurous life that involved the U.S. military, colleges athletics, high school coach, and schoolteacher. He is the proud father of five and enjoys history, theology, and metaphysics.

Book preview

Author of Men, Djinn & Angels

ANTON D. MORRIS

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HUMANITY CRAVES POWER

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HUMANITY CRAVES POWER

Copyright © 2020 Anton D. Morris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-0961-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0953-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020918601

iUniverse rev. date: 11/23/2020

Contents

Prologue

Jason

Apollo

Cassandra

Rashin

Jason

Rashin

Farooq

Cassandra

Apollo

Cassandra

Ship

Farooq

Apollo

Cassandra

Apollo

Daphne

Ship

Daphne

Apollo

Cassandra

Rashin

Daphne

Jason

Apollo

Daphne

Cassandra

Apollo

Daphne

Ship

Cassandra

Rashin

Apollo

Althea

Cassandra

Apollo

Ship

Cassandra

Althea

Apollo

Rich Raleigh

PROLOGUE

SAM

I was eighteen when I was drafted. Shipped to Vietnam two weeks after my next birthday. I knew it was a war goin’ on, but it really don’t hit you until you leave camp. The older soldiers didn’t care much for us. They didn’t talk to us to hardly say a thing, so I got pretty close to the men I left the States with. Four of ’em was with me all the way through basic training, so I knew them pretty well.

He waited for the waiter to fill his cup with coffee. On the opposite side of the booth, Horus sat. He folded his cashmere coat and placed it neatly on top of Cassandra’s leather jacket, trimmed with alpaca fur. Cassandra politely slid the cream across the smooth tabletop to Sam. He held up a hand, and Cassandra’s thin copper hands retreated to her lap.

War ain’t nothin’ like what you see on TV. You spend a lot of time just sittin’ and waitin’ for the next order to come in. I was a truck driver, mostly escorted or delivered supplies. You know, some of the grunts be out there for days, even weeks. Part of my job was to get them supplies—mostly ammo and clean socks.

Sam noticed his dirty nails and became embarrassed by them. He remembered that Daphne often encouraged him to keep his nails clean, just in case he met someone important like the two people seated in front of him.

It wasn’t a bad job. He hid one hand under the table. "But it had its dangerous moments. One of the first times I drove was after we received orders to escort a supply transport. We had a fifteen-mile drive over a road we thought was secure. There was supposed to be some air support for us, but I never saw nothin’ but a few helicopters, and they were pretty far off. I drove a multirole armored personnel carrier; it was called an M9 half-track. Behind me were three Dodge M37s, filled with food and men.

I remember it was such a beautiful day. His dark lips pointed as he pulled the cup toward them. Then, cautiously, he sipped. I don’t mean that in no kind of cliché thing. I mean it was nice, you know, one of them days where the sky is blue like powder and you can’t see but one or two clouds, and the wind is just still. The sun is out there, but you don’t feel it. It’s just kinda hangin’ there. It was like that. We was just ridin’ along, and Corporal Coles was singing next to me. Sergeant Hall was the shooter. He teased Corporal Coles, ‘You hit them notes like a cat scorched with hot water.’ Sam snickered. Horus smiled politely. Cassandra did not. Sam wasn’t sure what to think about the intense gleam in her eyes.

"I looked to the left and saw two kids running on the side of the road. ‘They’d bet’ not run out on this road,’ I said mostly to myself. Corporal Coles and Sergeant Hall paid them no mind. I kept drivin’. A few minutes later, I saw three more people on the side of the road. They was older—grown-ups. They was just standin’ there wavin’ their hands and callin’, ‘GI … GI.’

It was a nice feeling when the locals talked to us in that way. It made us feel like we was helpin’ them and that they appreciated it. Funny thing, I was always told they didn’t. Staff Sergeant Williams, he was a white boy from somewhere in south Mississippi, almost as far south as you can go without fallin’ in the water. He hated being there, and he often said they hated us being there too. He said stuff like, ‘We just dividin’ their country in half. We split up their families. Our government’s lying to us about communism; we’re fightin’ France’s war.’ He hated the French. Sam chuckled and sipped again, more confident this time. He said France always gettin’ the shit kicked outta them and we gots to come save ’em.

A hint of a smile smeared on Cassandra’s face. Sam liked how her eyes softened as he spoke.

"So anyway, I drove on and came over this hill. At the bottom of it was a crowd of people. It must’ve been a hundred of ’em. They was just gathered there in the road. It was men, women, old ones, and young ones. There was children on the side of the road. When I looked left and right, there was more people runnin’ to the road.

"‘Private Patterson, don’t you stop this vehicle,’ yelled Sergeant Hall. His voice made my blood pump. It was almost like a desperate cry. I can’t really explain it, but I knew he was scared.

"‘Faster! Faster!’ he yelled at me. ‘Floor this motherfucker!’

"And I did. We was flyin’ down that hill, and Sergeant Hall started shootin’, but the people did not move.

‘Don’t you stop!’ The wind was such that it took the sound out of his mouth, but he kept shootin’. I thought he was shootin’ over their heads, and maybe he was at first, but when we got some fifty feet and they didn’t move, I saw his bullets split someone’s head. I was scared that if I ran over someone, the truck, being so top-heavy, would flip over. But they did not move.

Sam lowered his head. The fifty-five-year-old memory choked him. He shook his head, sniffled, and continued.

"When I hit the first person, I looked right in her eyes. They opened wide. Her mouth fell open, and her hands reached out in front as if she could stop the truck. She didn’t. Her body flew to the side, and then there was another and another. I felt them under the tires. My skin shivered. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the other M9 doin’ the same—tossin’ bodies and rollin’ them over. The M37s ran over a few more.

It was the worst thing I ever saw. It takes somethin’ away from you, you know?

Horus shook his head. I’m sorry. I don’t know. I can’t say that I want to know.

Sam smiled. Naw, you don’t want to know. Things like that just don’t go away. It stays with you forever.

Why do you think they were in the road?

Sam nodded. They knew the food trucks. They was some hungry people, starvin’ to the point where they’d risk their lives for food. Sergeant Hall told me that before we escorted the food trucks, one of them stopped, and the people attacked the truck, took the food, and killed the soldiers. It was either them or us.

What kind of mental aid did you receive after that?

Sam chuckled. My mental aid was some weed and whiskey. He held his smile for a moment. There was a missing tooth at the bottom. If they offered that kind of stuff, I never knew ’bout it.

There was an awkward silence. Horus shifted his eyes from the veteran’s dark face and bloodshot eyes to his dry, scaly hands. I imagine you developed a strong appreciation for life.

Sam looked deeply into Horus’s eyes as if to look through them. If that what you think, suh, I beg your pardon, but you ain’t been listenin’.

Horus wet his lips. How so?

In war, you don’t think about the value of life. When it’s over, you ain’t thinkin’ about how lucky you is to be comin’ home. He shifted in his seat and placed his elbows on the table. You just glad to be home to do the things you like doin’. He lifted a finger. Maybe this will help you understand what I’m tryin’ to say.

The waiter returned and refilled Sam’s cup. Horus hadn’t touched his drink.

When I come back to the States, it was worse than the war. First, I couldn’t get a job for almost five months. I got lucky to be a dishwasher at an old folks’ home. That wasn’t so bad. He laughed.

"I worked in the kitchen, and there was a cook there named Ms. Kitchen—if you can believe that. I didn’t do very well there. I hated the people I worked with. Ms. Kitchen was so unorganized, I could spit. I worked with a lot of cooks in the service, but nothin’ like her. Sometimes she couldn’t find the skillet she needed or her favorite pot. I stayed after work one day just to organize everything for her for when she came in, in the mornin’. You’d think she’d say thank you, but she didn’t. She went on and on about how the evening cook didn’t take out the bacon from the freezer. I don’t even think she noticed the organization. Then there was the servers who came in late or just didn’t take pride in their jobs. They just had no discipline, and it pissed me off.

"It wasn’t just them. One time I was on the bus, and this kid got on with a couple of his friends. They had a radio playin’. They sat in the bus, right there in the middle, just to annoy all the people who’d just gotten off work. One of ’em say, ‘We don’t have to sit in the back no more.’

"He was happy about that. Up north, we ain’t had to sit in the back of the bus in years. This little son of a bitch acted like he had accomplished somethin’. I stood up and walked over to him, and said, ‘Boy, why you get on this bus disturbing these good folk? Ain’t you got some sense?’

"The one with the radio said, ‘It ain’t none of your business. Go back to your seat.’

I told him that if he didn’t turn down that music and act like he had some sense, I’d put him off the bus, even if the driver didn’t. Well, that didn’t go so well. He challenged me, turning up the music even louder. I reached for the radio. He pulled back, but he was a weakling. I snatched that radio from his hand and threw it on the floor. It didn’t break, but I sure as hell wished it had.

He paused, clenching his fist. The scars on his black knuckles were discolored. His voice lowered, the anger kindled.

"His friend jumped up and took me by the arm. I gave him one swift jab in the throat. He went back, not able to breathe. Then something happened to me. I can’t explain it, but some kind of rage just took over me. I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want to just kick them off the bus; I wanted to kill their black asses. I wanted each one of them dead. It was like I had hated the whole world secretly until that moment, and then it all came out on them three boys.

I don’t even remember fallin’ out of the bus. Don’t remember the back door openin’ or nothin’. Before I knew anything, I was in the back seat of a police car. That fit of rage costed me twelve years in the state penitentiary.

Sam exhaled long and slow. He spun the cup around, three rotations, before speaking again.

Funny thing, the people I thought I was standin’ up for was the same ones who testified against me. They said I went in a fit and attacked them kids. He shook his head and shifted his morose eyes to the siblings across from him. He had promised not to tell that story again, but these were Daphne’s friends. He respected her. To repay her compassion and niceties, he’d broken his promise, hoping Horus and Cassandra would understand what vets endured.

I spent years tryin’ to understand why those people turned against me. It came to the point where I gave up—figured you just can’t understand people.

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JASON

He was livid, but he could not show it. Horus, his younger brother, had recently established himself as a presidential front-runner. It had been only a matter of days, but he was now fighting for his freedom. Jason walked with Horus ahead of bodyguards and attorneys, pushing past the mob of reporters. One yelled, Mr. Fitsroy, how well did you know Sam Patterson?

That started a flood:

Did you pay for the murder of Apollo Givens?

Does Ship and Sail owe reparations to the eighty million African Americans in this country?

Mr. Fitsroy, are you innocent?

There was a sudden stop. Jason pulled at his arm, but Horus stood firm. He was three steps away from the black limousine door that had opened for him. Jason turned to follow Horus’s hickory-brown eyes, which were glaring at the reporter. Her narrow body sandwiched between two men, she fought to hold her position. She was young, ambitious, and naive. If Jason hadn’t been so keen to get Horus in the limousine, he would have admired her.

Horus answered her. His voice was sturdy and precise. Yes. Absolutely innocent.

Seven other reporters yelled inaudible questions, but Horus ignored them. He slipped in the car ahead of Jason. Rashin, their father, sat across from them, peering through glassy eyes. If it were possible for him to cry, he would have. Jason saw through his father’s melancholy and read the anger. Rashin wanted revenge.

There is no doubt that Senator Cunningham and Congressman Edwards are behind this. Randel, three years out of Harvard, patted Horus’s knee. I promise you, we’ll expose them both.

Horus lived in a gated community where security officers shooed away reporters and photographers. Cassandra was waiting at the front door when the limousine parked. Daphne was standing behind her, her round belly looking as if it would pop any day now. She embraced Horus tightly. When he passed her, his three-year-old niece attacked his leg. She hugged his knee and asked for her usual toss in the air. Horus obliged. Jason watched him feign nonchalance for the sake of the child. He looked at his daughter smiling as Horus tossed her. He envied her innocence to the tumultuous world. She went up and down a few more times. Then Horus kissed her jaw and lowered her to the floor. He looked up, and there stood Jason in front of him.

He wrapped his long arms around Horus’s shoulders before he could stand erect. Don’t you worry, he whispered in Horus’s ear. They will learn what happens when they fuck with our family.

I’m so sorry for this, Horus said, his voice cracking.

You didn’t do anything. Jason stepped away and held on to Horus’s shoulders, squeezing them. You were just being you.

I want a shower. Horus stepped past Jason and ascended the hardwood stairs. He was free from the reporters but not from his father’s men or Jason’s witty lawyers. Jason wanted to set him free, to send him with his wife to the other side of the world. Guilt was heavy on him for having turned his little brother’s life into a soap opera. He told himself that he should have protested more strongly when the idea first came to Ship’s mind. He should have put more effort into convincing Horus to chase love rather than prestige.

He returned to the front room, where Cassandra was sitting with a bowl of chips. Jason remembered she wanted a low-carb diet. Seeing her shy away from it in favor of comfort food, Jason’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought much about how this ploy by the Department of Justice had affected her. She ran a great campaign. She was an awesome lawyer and as insightful as a prophetess. He wanted to tell her as much, but words like that are hard for older brothers to say. He didn’t say anything. Rashin and Randel did most of the talking. Rashin wanted to know where to hit Cunningham.

We should go with his satanic worship and connections.

Daphne brought him a glass of wine.

Not at first, Randel said. That would be a good play after the primaries.

Cassandra cleared her palate with ice water. I think we should let him think he’s free and clear. Let him get the Democratic nomination. Then hit him with that. The blow will be that much harder. The Christian Right will eat him alive.

I agree with that. Jason leaned his shoulder against the doorpost.

A loud crash stole away their attention. The sound of plastic pieces rolling over a hardwood floor followed. Heads turned toward the stairs. Jason held up a hand. He had wondered how Horus might let the pain and frustration escape him. The sound could have been liquor or tears; instead, it was the laptop he had thrown across the room into the wall.

Jason went to join him. He found Horus in the study. His forehead pressed against a wall, he sniffled. Jason entered cautiously, spying the shattered laptop. This is where it started, Horus spoke somberly as if he knew Jason was there. Right here in this room.

Jason crept over to the chair at Horus’s desk. He promised himself that he would protect the desktop monitors on it.

Horus continued. No. Maybe it started when I first knew I could never be the athlete you were.

Jason always knew that was one of Horus’s few insecurities. His little brother had not inherited their father’s broad hands and long fingers. Jason was the lucky one to get the six-foot wingspan. What Horus never knew was that Jason did not always appreciate those features. Along with their father’s features, Jason had inherited a plethora of athletic expectations. Horus also failed to possess his sister’s charm and astuteness. From time to time, Jason would hear Horus say a witty phrase or make perceptive analogies, but more often, Horus was an introvert.

What Jason admired to the point of envy was Horus’s connection to Althea, their mother. They were twin spirits, he thought. Each took a meticulous approach to every answer. While Rashin had taught Jason to shoot free throws, Althea had taught Horus to play chess. Remembering that, Jason hypothesized that Horus’s journey had started with the state chess championship.

After that, he had won the academic decathlon in consecutive years. No one could say for sure when the journey began. Jason was confident that the presidential campaign had surreptitiously started in that room.

I spent a hundred hours staring at income statements, cash flow reports, and balance sheets until they blurred my eyes.

I think it’s like a dream, Jason finally spoke. You never know how it begins. You just realize you’re in it and can’t get out.

Jason tried to remember a catalyst at the company’s Christmas party that had compelled Horus to work late into the night. He recalled a mix of frontline employees and managers. He remembered forbidding Farooq from speaking of company revenue while the employees celebrated their 3 percent raises. Not at a Christmas party. Try to enjoy yourself. Jason straightened. Allow me to teach the social rules when intermingling with employees. He patronized. Rule number one, be humble, take pictures, and thank everyone for a great year.

Someone passed them.

You are very much appreciated. Jason shook his hand. Thanks for coming.

Farooq switched the glass of cranberry juice to his left hand. With a broad smile, he extended his hand to the employee and duplicated Jason’s gratitude. No sooner had the employee walked away than Farooq turned to Horus. Did you see the projected jobs report?

It was nice.

Nice? He laughed and sipped. The best month of the year.

Jason pretended not to hear them. He stared into the crowd of workers. Someone approached. Madilyn, it is so nice to see you. He shook her hand as if she were a dear friend. She said something inaudible. Farooq’s voice distracted him.

When the report comes out, the market will shoot up, Farooq said, stating the obvious. I think we should make some moves in the premarket. You’re frowning. Do you disagree?

Jason interrupted them. Madilyn, you remember my brother, don’t you?

Madilyn sidestepped to Horus.

Jason shook another woman’s hand. Her son stood half a foot taller than she. A loosely fitting suit jacket covered his thin frame. Jason wanted to pass her along to Horus, but she lingered with talk about her son’s athletic success.

When Madilyn walked away, Horus continued with Farooq. Three consecutive months of positive growth; wages are higher; a lot of midcap companies are taking debt, Horus explained.

Jason divided his ears, one to Horus and the other to the woman in front of him. Horus’s analyses were priceless, but no matter how Jason wanted to stay in that moment, he couldn’t.

The table is set for a correction. Inflation is on the rise, Horus continued.

Jason nodded at the woman. She said something about her son’s basketball game and a college recruiter. Jason only pretended to listen.

Horus spoke louder with conviction. With so many new jobs, the holidays on us, and credit card debt higher than last year, the Feds are backed into a corner. I want to take profits and play the downside before they meet.

The woman’s blabbering ended, and Jason wished her son well. Once they had left, he moved to stand between Horus and Farooq. He insisted they follow the social rules. Rule number two: Make a personal connection to at least two frontline employees. Then he called Lou, the soon-to-retire man, to him. Lou was wearing a sports jacket and a tie that had a knot as large as his fist. Lou’s gray eyes fixed on Horus, but he reached for Jason’s hand.

Is this your brother? he asked.

Jason gripped Horus’s shoulder. Yes, it is.

Lou extended his soft, wrinkled hand. Blue veins were visible between his knuckles. I’ll never forget when your father brought you to work in a stroller. Lou smiled. You must have been no older than two.

Jason saw his brother’s discomfort. Lou was too close.

Your father said that your mother would kill him if she knew he had brought you to the store. You see, he should have been babysitting. He giggled. I knew then that your father was a stand-up guy. He may have had a lot of money, but in here—he touched Horus’s chest—he was a grinder, just like us.

Horus’s awkward smile downgraded to a smirk. Jason thought to rescue him, but Horus needed this.

So, what are you doing for the company? Lou asked.

I manage the funds in your 401(k), Horus answered.

Lou’s smile widened. I don’t know what you did, but I am sure happy with it. Up six percent in one year. When it’s your last few years, those numbers matter.

I appreciate you saying that.

Sitting with Horus in that study, Jason remembered how his brother had expressed his gratitude to Lou. Was Lou the catalyst? Jason knew that most ideas are born from seemingly inconsequential moments or statements. Knowing Horus, Jason imagined that he had gotten home from the party and gone to work.

I think it started with that Christmas party. Was it something Lou said to you?

Horus turned and rested his back against the wall. Jason watched his brother’s red eyes gleam at him from across the room. Then Horus sighed. Maybe. It was the whole night. All those people, everyone depending on me. I came home, sat right there, and pulled up a chart on one monitor and a balance sheet on the other. I had ESPN for background noise. I wanted to go to bed, but I just couldn’t pull myself away. Too many green candlesticks.

Jason smiled and lifted his head. There were other things on his mind that night. Horus had called him at the worst time. Recently passing his wife’s foreplay obligation, Jason had indulged in the main course. When he had answered the phone, Jason had tried to calm his breathing.

Horus, with acute senses, had asked, Am I interrupting something?

I’m a little busy, Jason answered. He shifted his eyes past Medea’s naked body to the clock. It was half past one. Why is he awake? Jason concluded that Horus needed a woman.

I’ll be quick, Horus promised.

Okay. Jason reached to his wife for a handful of ass.

I want to leverage twelve million from the hedge.

Horus. Jason’s disappointment washed over him, to an area he’d wish it hadn’t. You called me for this? We’re not having this conversation.

Say it’s okay, and I’ll let you go.

That’s almost fifty percent of our cash. You said you’ll never go over thirty.

Yeah, I know.

No. We’re not having this conversation now. The disappointment had settled in his lower region. He had started to fade. Desperate to end the conversation, he mildly muttered, Fine, do it.

Thanks.

Horus, he called desperately.

Horus heard him before the disconnection. Yes?

Don’t fuck up. You won’t hear the end of it.

As it turned out, Horus only heard accolades. He had leveraged twelve million dollars on butterflies, iron condors, straddles, and shorts. Within a month, the twelve million was seventy. It was official: Horus was a genius.

Jason remained proud of Horus for seizing the moment that no one but he had seen. Jason stood. I’ll go tell everyone you’re okay.

Horus nodded and exhaled.

Jason heard Rashin’s protest before reaching the bottom of the stairs. There is no way we’ll cower to these people.

It’s not cowering, Daddy. Cassandra’s voice was firm. It’s tweaking a strategy. She noticed Jason standing in the entrance; he was leaning against the doorpost. Ship had contingency plans. Is that right?

Jason nodded. He watched the wheels turn in her head.

"If you have sensitive information against Cunningham, Edwards, or Elizabeth Horn, we cannot effectively use it while trying