A state of disobedience

the kinds of questions this convention must answer.'

Juani tapped delicate brown fingers on the podium, keeping time with her next words, 'And it must answer them, as did the original Constitution, for the ages!'

She paused, reached for a glass and took a sip of water before continuing.

'The last thing I want to address to you is how we got to this point. No, I don't mean the slow steady growth in federal power that overwhelmed the states and individual citizens in time. No, I also don't mean the cultural changes in the United States.

'I mean the worst mistake. The one that made it impossible for a political party in power to accept losing. The one that former President Tavern made when he let his predecessor, Thomas Gates, be prosecuted for his malfeasances in office.

'Was Gates a swine, a rapist, a panderer and philanderer? He was all those things and worse. Did he deserve jail? Oh, yes.

'But was anything he did worth what prosecuting him did to us, eventually? It was not.

'For this reason, and though it pains me to the core, and even though I hold her responsible for the deaths of my brother, my husband and my son . . . and even though she brought rack and ruin to my home state, I am going to ask you for one special amendment to the new—hopefully also the old—Constitution. I am, in fact, asking you now for an amendment that will prevent a former President from being found criminally liable for political acts committed while in office.

'Fine her, if you wish. Exile her, if you wish. But do not let anyone send Wilhelmina Rottemeyer to jail lest you build at the same time, as President Tavern did, a jail for us all.'

She closed shyly, 'Thank you.'

* * *

New York, New York

Rottemeyer glared at the television, furious. 'That bitch! That cunt! That miserable wetback twat! How dare she be magnanimous to me? How dare she?'

Feldman merely shrugged. It seemed like a pretty good deal to him.

The President stood and began to pace the room. 'Killed her brother,' she mimicked. 'Killed her son. Killed her illiterate fucking husband, did I? When I think about what that bitch cost me . . .'

She turned a cold, harsh gaze onto Feldman, one so cold and harsh he actually shivered. 'Fine. Tell the chairman I'll go speak to this . . . damned . . . treacherous . . . convention.'

Once again, Rottemeyer glared at the television screen where Juanita was receiving the ovation that in her world was rightfully due only to herself.

* * *

Houston, Texas

Elpi had been staying at a house of some friends of Minh. She was comfortable there, physically. Emotionally though it had never seemed quite right to her. The house was arranged differently. The furniture was different from what she was used to. The smells of cooking were—yes—pleasant, but also different, and a little unsettling.

The owners and her hosts, Madame and Monsieur Truong, certainly tried to make her comfortable. But their Spanish was poor and Elpi's French nonexistent. Communication in English was a trial for all concerned.

The girl found herself watching a lot of television. That also helped her refrain from worrying about her future.

For the governor had never sent for her. Or even communicated. Elpi was certain that Juanita was overwhelmed by events; she attached no blame. Elpi also had a sneaking suspicion that, whether the governor actually thought that way or not, the association with loss—Father Jorge, Mario, and Mr. Seguin—just might have caused Juanita to push the girl as far from her consciousness as possible.

On the television Juanita was speaking in English to the crowd. Naturally, Houston being Houston and the cable channels reflecting that, the speech was subtitled in Spanish.

The Governor looks so worn and tired on the TV, thought the girl. She looks so sad, too.

Elpi resolved to have a talk with Colonel Minh.

* * *

Kansas City, Missouri

Mr. Smythe was a simple man, in his way; an undistinguished one, also, to all appearances. Medium short, with a slight paunch, crowned by thinning blond hair tinged with unremarkable gray.

He lived simply enough, alone, in a two-bedroom condo between the city and nearby Leavenworth, Kansas. His needs were few and his job, though he was rarely called upon, more than met them.

Carroll had met Smythe before, once. As he had then, Smythe pushed across the table a piece of paper with a number, a rather large number, written on it.

Unnecessarily, Smythe added, 'My fee is not negotiable.'

'I understand that,' Carroll answered. 'You will be needing credentials?'