CRY OF THE FATHERS: Chapter One: The Conscience of Simon Juneau

CRY OF THE FATHERS

A Jazzman Novel by Jack Random



Copyright Ray Miller 2010




CHAPTER ONE

THE CONSCIENCE OF SIMON JUNEAU



Hands trembling, tears welling in tired eyes, a veteran of four decades in political warfare, a little man with thinning snow white hair and glasses so thick they resembled the base of water a bottle, crouched over the keyboard of an unfamiliar technology, pecking one key at a time.

Peck, peck…peck.

Outside the desert shimmered in a moonlit silver essence. Coyotes scrambled through the brush and fat bellied lizards slumbered in their hideouts. It was late summer or was it autumn? Time was an abstraction measured by the mechanical clicking of an antique clock, a gift from the ambassador to Spain at a time when such things still held intrinsic value. As if propelled by its own inertia, it clicked on as if time would never end.

It was the third of November 2004. Democrat John Kerry had just conceded Ohio and therefore the presidency despite compelling evidence of fraud and mass disenfranchisement. It was a replay of Florida 2000 and to those who understood the political process the exit polls told the story. It was unthinkable yet it had happened again.

Simon Juneau was old and as far removed as it was possible to be from the political world he once knew like a young man knows a lover. Wanting and expecting nothing more than to be able to spend his remaining days on earth seeking solace with the silent desert, he was called out of retirement to serve the cause of partisan politics one last time. It was the irresistible call of history in November of the millennial year 2000 when everyone who was anyone in contemporary American politics converged on the state of Florida where living history was in process.

What happened in Florida?

Was it as the Republicans claimed: A confirmation of the constitutional process and ultimate proof that the system, for all its flaws and conflagrations, works? Or was it as the Democrats claimed: An indictment of Republican ethics, a call to arms and a reason for turning to the Democratic alternative in the next election?

The truth would come out in time but far too late to make a difference. No one but political hacks would be paying attention. The truth was it was a bipartisan conspiracy to defraud the American electorate. It was a disgrace to the world’s oldest and most powerful democracy and an insult to those who served it. It was an insult to Simon Juneau. It was an affront to every man, woman and school child who still believed in the democratic ideal and the sanctity of the ballot box.

The Republicans played hardball, pulling in the old warhorse in former Secretary of State James Baker, who immediately served notice that their side would pursue a scorched earth policy unless their case was allowed to be played out in the courts on their own terms. They brought in low-level operatives by the busloads to simulate a popular uprising and disrupt an orderly process of counting votes as required by the state constitution. The Democrats countered with their own elder statesman, the soft-spoken and perpetually underestimated Warren Christopher, along with a small army of lawyers and political advisers.

That Christopher would take much of the blame for what happened was yet another crime against justice. It wasn’t Christopher who decided not to call for a full recount as the law prescribed. It wasn’t Christopher who decided to stake the election and the next four years of governance on the issue of hanging chads in selected precincts. The responsibility rested squarely on the shoulders of Albert Gore. When he failed to demand a statewide recount he lost the moral high ground. Moreover, it was politically naïve to think that most of the fraud would occur in Democrat controlled precincts. As it turned out, it was fatally wrong.

When the case was thrown up to the most partisan rightwing Supreme Court in history it was already too late. The fix was in. So the case against Governor Jeb Bush and Secretary of State Katherine Harris, a case of election fraud and disenfranchisement that harkened back to the Jim Crow era, was never heard before a court of law. The Democrats had their own skeletons in Illinois and Michigan so no one was willing to risk it all for one election or the quaint notion of democracy.

The real story was never written and hardly noticed by mainstream corporate media. As long as the river flows, the sun still shines and the politics of party continue to reign, the real story would never come to light. It would be consigned to the back pages of conspiracy theories that the talking heads of media would denigrate with laughter and contempt.

True history would not be recorded.

Only a handful of operatives knew the full extent of what happened in Florida and Simon Juneau was among them. When it happened again in Ohio he took it personally. He felt the sting of a betrayal so profound it bordered on treason. He felt the weight of guilt for the part he had played. He had arrived at the end of a long and successful career only to find doubt awaiting him and casting a shadow on everything he had accomplished. He let his long slumbering conscience guide him now.

The time had come to strike back as only an insider could. He was armed not only with knowledge but also with the codes to certain shadow accounts. They had come into being while the elder Bush was Director of Central Intelligence under Gerald Ford. Initially comprised of illicit funds to finance CIA operations, they were expanded in the Reagan years as deals were made with drug cartels from the Mexican border to the tip of the South American continent. Each succeeding president and DCI signed off on the arrangement. The drug wars were unofficially over. Only those drug lords who refused to pay or tried to shortchange the fund were targeted for elimination. Such cases were high profile and frequent enough to convince the public and the corporate media that the drug war was still engaged.

As the fund grew from millions to billions to trillions of American dollars, there was a need for political cover. A sizable portion of the fund was channeled to both the Republican and Democratic National Committees. There was no subterfuge or deception. The parties knew where the money came from. They made it available to any and all office holders or bona fide candidates on the condition that they sign a statement of acknowledgement. They were not privileged to any specific knowledge, only that the funds came from an anonymous source and it carried strings of party allegiance. It was a perfect insurance policy. Those who took the money were certifiably guilty of a crime and one that went to the highest levels of power. If anyone broke their promise of silence they could prove nothing but their own corruption and they would face ridicule as they kissed their political careers goodbye.

Juneau knew of the accounts from numerous sources over the years. It was one of those things everyone seemed to know about but no one touched. While in Florida he was approached by a retired CIA analyst with some background information on the CEO of the company that plotted the great disenfranchisement. It was the usual stuff: shady deals and possible criminal connections. It was enough to raise questions, not enough for an indictment, but tucked away in the back of the file there was a paper entitled “Agency Political Fund” with a series of 12-digit codes – maybe three dozen of them.

Juneau knew immediately what it was and the power it possessed. He asked no questions and sought no answers. He tucked it away and let it rest. Later he would learn that the former analyst had died of a rare disease. Juneau surmised that he knew he was dying when he passed the information on to him. He didn’t want to be a hero but neither did he want the evidence to vanish with his death. Why had he chosen Juneau? For some reason he trusted him and Juneau had no surviving family. He was old and alone. He had no one but himself to protect.

Ironically, had Ohio never happened the secret and the codes to unravel it would have died with him in the Arizona desert.

Beads of sweat swelled on his brow as he tapped the last keystrokes, saved and copied the file to disk. He sat back in his cluttered study, took a deep breath and gazed at the photographs of presidents, diplomats, senators and power brokers with whom he had shared a moment of history. He then removed the disk and sealed it in a padded envelope. He made another copy and placed it in a second envelope.

Suddenly the weight of his actions began to bear down on him. His hands were trembling, his throat was dry and the walls surrounding him were swaying as if their tethering had somehow loosened. He feared the end would come before he could commit this final act of redemption. It was foreign beyond words. Juneau had stood in battle for and against some of the most powerful figures in modern history. He had made and broken presidents. Yet now, at the twilight of this strange and distorted journey, he could not stop his hands from shaking.

He was tired. On any other day he would have retired for the evening but he was afraid that if he allowed himself to close his eyes he would lose his will to act. The conscience that had always been his friend and comfort, even in trying times, would become his nightmare, his shadow, a legacy of remorse and regret.

He gathered the envelopes in his still quivering hands, climbed in his car and made the short drive to the nearest postal drop in Bisbee. He was relatively new to computer technology but he knew better than to send a confidential file over the web. If anyone in the political establishment caught a glimpse of what he intended or what he possessed, his remaining days would be numbered.

What Juneau could not know was that his file, sans sweat and tears, was already in the hands of his adversaries. By the time he reached Bisbee, some thirty miles down a desert highway, his fate was already sealed.