Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“Jay, meet the FBI’s finest,” Reeder said, gesturing to his companion. “Special Agent Patti Rogers. Patti, Jay Akers — he and I worked presidential detail together, a lifetime or two ago.”

Akers smiled, said, “No need for an introduction, Agent Rogers. You’re almost as famous as Peep here.”

“Almost,” she said with her own little smile.

Akers let out some air. “Better get you two inside.”

As they headed up the steps, Rogers on his left, Akers on the right, Reeder said to the ex-agent, “So you’re head of security, huh?”

“That’s the job description.”

“Do I detect discontent?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine.”

Something in the man’s voice, however, said just the opposite to Reeder. So did the anxious micro-expressions that Akers never would have guessed he revealed.

They were inside now, past the metal detectors, the crowd all around them as they made the shuffle toward the auditorium. He and Rogers had both dressed up somewhat for the evening, but around them was everything from near formal wear to baseball caps and running pants.

Keeping his voice low, but up over the crowd murmur, Reeder asked, “Jay, what’s wrong?”

“Who said something was wrong?” Akers said with a smile that said something was wrong.

“Don’t shit a shitter, my friend.”

The smile disappeared. “Call you tomorrow — we’ll get a drink. Catch up.”

“Don’t blow me off, buddy.”

“No. We should talk. We will talk.”

Akers led them into the auditorium and the three went down the center aisle toward the stage.

Reeder said, “Jay, if there’s something pressing we should...”

“It’ll keep,” Akers said.

The hall was festooned in red-white-and-blue bunting, seats filling up fast with such a cross section of Americans, the attendees might have been selected to represent every segment of American life. Had they been? Those pollsters of Benjamin’s at work, maybe?

On stage, a simple podium was adorned with a seal not unlike the presidential one, but saying “Common Sense.” The backdrop of satin-looking curtains of red, white, and blue were draped elegantly. Between the patriotic curtains and the podium were risers arranged with chairs, which (with the front row on the stage floor) added up to five rows. That was where the rich friends would be seated, Reeder knew, and any true-believer celebrities in attendance.

The hall had the political-extravaganza feel of a major political party convention. Above were nets brimming with balloons, as if Benjamin was about to win the nomination of some party or other. In a sense, maybe he would, since this appeared to be the de facto coronation of Benjamin as the Common Sense Movement candidate for president.

The speech would be broadcast by all the news channels, and the networks, too — the latter had declined to interrupt their programming until Benjamin bought an hour of prime time. Adding in live Internet streaming, the expected audience was in the double-digit millions.

In twenty-four hours — if Benjamin was as convincing a public speaker as he’d been in private at the Holiday Inn Express — everybody in America, and many worldwide, would know he was a serious political player. Those who hadn’t heard the speech live would catch YouTube highlights and hear water-cooler conversations and be caught up in the Big News that the Common Sense Movement had become.

Impressive what a down-to-earth small-town former professor could pull off with a persuasive, folksy gift for gab...

... and billions of dollars.

Hell, at least Benjamin had earned them. And the bill of goods he was selling was, for a change, a damn good one.

Akers led Reeder and Rogers over to a half flight of stairs up onto the stage at left. Looming over them was Frank Elmore, at the edge of the stage apron; he wore a dark-gray suit and a somewhat oversize American flag lapel pin, the scar on his cheek shining pink under the bright TV lights. On left and right, taking up some audience seating, were platforms on which were positioned manned TV cameras on tripods, the space also home to reporters seated at banquet tables.

Reeder touched Akers’s sleeve. “Jay, we’re not seated up there on stage, are we?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m not comfortable with that. My presence will be taken as an endorsement.”

“Those are the seats reserved for you, Peep. Look, take it up with Frank. I have to go see if these amateurs they gave me to work with are at least correctly positioned... We’ll talk tomorrow at the latest.”

“Counting on it,” Reeder said.

Akers nodded and headed back up the aisle.

Reeder said to Rogers, “Are you okay with this? They’re playing off who we are.”

“We’re here,” she said with a shrug. “If we don’t like what we hear and see, there’s not going to be a muzzle on us. We can speak our mind.”

“Okay.”

They climbed the five steps and were met by Elmore.

“Joe,” he said, shaking Reeder’s hand, with a smile that looked like it hurt, “Mr. Benjamin is very pleased you’re here with us tonight. We all are.”

“Thank you, Frank. This is Patti Rogers, the FBI agent I worked with last year on the Supreme Court case.”

He gave her a crisp nod but did not offer a hand. “Pleasure, Ms. Rogers. If you’ll come this way...”

Elmore led them to the nearest two chairs, in the front row of those set up on the stage.

“I don’t know about this,” Reeder said.

Elmore shrugged, gave up another forced smile. “Mr. Benjamin said to make sure you had good seats. These are assigned to you, and we start in less than ten minutes, so making a change isn’t really possible.”

Reeder flashed Rogers a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here look, but she only shook her head gently and took him by the arm. She deposited him in the seat nearer the podium and took the chair on the end for herself.

Elmore said, “Some last minute things to do — if you’ll excuse me.”

The majordomo didn’t wait for a reply, leaving so quickly Reeder half expected a vapor trail.

Reeder said to Rogers, “At least we’re on the end. Maybe we won’t be taken for major supporters.”

“Right,” she said, amused. “Really low profile.”

A crowd this size — he’d estimate well over three thousand, near capacity — turned individual chatting among attendees into a roar, an ocean-worthy tide threatening to wash over the stage. His old Secret Service juices were flowing as he tried to look out into the hall, particularly the seating toward the front, but the TV lights were so bright that the audience was mostly a blur.

Even finding spaces between bursts of brightness, he was not positioned to see much of anything, not there on stage, risers climbing behind him. Up on the top row, he’d have had a much better view of floor seating, which lacked the slope of a more modern theater — from here, a short person seated behind a tall person became invisible.

From a security standpoint, especially from the stage, Constitution Hall had always been a nightmare venue. No wonder Akers seemed troubled — Reeder would be, too, if he were among those in charge of Benjamin’s safety.

Around them now were wealthy donors, few of whom Reeder recognized; they tended to be former backers of conservative candidates. In more prominent evidence were some A-list TV and movie stars known previously as supporters of liberal candidates.

The house lights went down and the applause came up, and within seconds, the hall was on its feet, including those around them, which forced Rogers and Reeder to their feet as well. Rogers didn’t seem to mind, but Reeder felt manipulated.

But he applauded anyway. Despite the bright lights, Reeder could make out waving signs with such slogans as COMMON SENSE FOR AMERICA and BENJAMIN FOR PRESIDENT. As the seconds dragged into minutes, the audience only intensified its applause.