before slowly crawling back to the edge of the path. He had choices. Continue toward the house, go through the small fish pool stocked with carp, or go back the way he came and endure a second trip past the hidden laser eye that had illuminated the yard. It was an easy decision. The next move he made would bring the lights on again. He checked his watch and waited another twenty minutes before making a break for it. Five seconds after breaking into a run, his huge frame was lunging toward the top of the fence.
The second blast of lights sent Camille to the window again, this time with the phone in her hand and her finger on the speed dial for 911. Peter Winthrop had given her strict orders. When in doubt, call the police. Words of wisdom from a man with as many enemies as friends. Peter had built the fence and installed high-tech security for a reason. Camille scanned the yard carefully before putting the phone on the bed.
Just beyond the wall to the Winthrop fortress, Chow Ying writhed in agony. Between whispered curses he bit his forearm to distract himself from the pain emanating from his ankle. He tried to stand and cursed in Chinese. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 23
Senate committees do not create legislation, but they do influence the law-making process. Their history was the history of the country itself. Sometime between the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Louisiana Purchase, a group of U.S. Senators in a meeting room in Philadelphia realized they were being asked to craft law on every subject known to man; a rapidly growing list of possibilities in a rapidly growing country. Even the predecessors to the modern politician were apprehensive about spending time on issues that impacted something as impersonal as the general well-being of the country. “Self before voters before country” has long been the unofficial motto of the one hundred elected officials in the Senate and their four hundred thirty-five counterparts in the House. There was no sense in being an elected official if you couldn’t give yourself a fighting chance at continuing life as one. And the only way to remain in office was to cater to your constituents. Or at the very least, give the impression you were. A thoughtful, patriotic senator with their eye on the national picture could work themselves right out of a job if they weren’t careful. Faced with that possibility, committees were born.
Committees are part investigative, part research, part dog and pony show. They look at the issues, listen to the testimony of so-called experts, create experts where they don’t exist, and discuss pending legislation ad nauseam. They have investigative powers, empowered by the executive branch and based on fear and manipulation. Armed with their rendition of the facts, they present their findings to the rest of the Senate for legislative consideration. As faulty as the process is, in two hundred years, no one has come up with anything better.
For a final time, Senator Day read the letter delivered to his office days before by an anonymous Asian figure. He needed the support of three specific senators on one hotly contested topic. He had a plan, and he straightened himself in the mirror before he left his office and walked down the hall. It was time for the marionette show to begin. Senator Day on stage, dancing and twirling under wires that, unbeknownst to the actor, were controlled by C.F. Chang. They were wires Senator Day was trying to cut. But until he knew the seamstress with his child was no longer a threat to his career, he was going to perform like a star in an off-Broadway dance musical. Costume, high kicks, and all.
Senator Grumman’s voice was still rattling the crystal glass on his desk, small circular waves rippling across his morning orange juice. Grumman, the self-proclaimed great senator from the even greater state of Mississippi, thumped his Bible as hard as anyone on The Hill. His flock of staunch Republicans, from generations of staunch Republicans, followed the senator with blind faith. He got the votes because he ran with God as his running mate, and there are fewer things more important than that in Oxford or Jackson or Biloxi, and the hundreds of small towns in between.
And Grumman had charm. The kind of personal charm that God-fearing southern preachers had. Southern preachers, charlatans, and the occasional trial lawyer. Grumman was born in the most poverty-stricken county in Mississippi, appropriately named Quitman, a name which most of the male population mistook as a directive when it came to employment. For Senator Grumman, it was a fortunately unfortunate birthplace, and one he touted every chance he got. The fact that he wasn’t really
“Senator Grumman,” Senator Day said, entering Grumman’s office with his hand extended.
“Senator Day. How is the wife?”
“She is fine. Just fine.”
“And the soon-to-be-baby?”
“Both are well. Thank you for asking.”
“Have a seat, please,” Grumman said, slowly finding his. “How can I help you, Senator?”
“I wanted to talk politics for a minute.”
“Hell, asking me to talk politics is like asking a fat man to talk about food. Shoot,” Grumman said with a heavy Southern drawl, his bushy eyebrows moving as much as his mouth.
“As you know, the Special Committee is due to give its recommendation to the Senate on overseas job flight and an international minimum wage.”
“Yes, Senator, I am aware of the upcoming need for a decision.”
Senator Day laid his best idea on the table with confidence. “Well as Chairman of the Special Committee, I can propose that the recommendation be made in a variety of formats.”
“Yes, Senator Day, as Chairman, that is within your rights. But you know senators don’t like venturing too far from the standard mark-up process.”
“Yes, of course. Everyone likes the mark-up process. Everyone gets to have their say, common language is agreed upon in a document that is incomprehensible to the average person, and no one can be held accountable for their opinion because one is never individually voiced. Together, we all write up a nice bill-recommendation to the Senate, and there is no ill-will.”
“That’s just the way things are done.”
“Most of the time. But for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor we are going to have a vote. Twelve committee members. Everyone on record.”
“Fine with me, Senator. It’s only a committee vote. It’s only a recommendation. Any proposal we agree to will have to pass the Senate as a whole no matter how the vote goes.”
“Yes, Senator Grumman it does. And with that in mind, I would like to discuss your view on the direction of the committee.”
“No offense Senator. I know you are the Chair, but Overseas Labor is one of the ugliest topics to rear its head on the Hill this session.”
“There are a lot of committees vying for that title,” Senator Day answered. Both senators laughed at the inside joke, a joke that would have cost them ten thousand votes apiece if anyone were listening.
“So what about it?”
“I understand, to the best of my knowledge, the committee is leaning toward blocking an international minimum wage system for multinational companies doing business in certain foreign countries. I certainly know how I’m going to vote, and I have a pretty good idea how the rest of the group will fall out.”
“A minimum wage is about the only move we have to stop American companies from sending every damn job we have to China and India. We are heading down a slippery slope here in the U.S. We are eliminating jobs Americans need. Good Americans. Let me pose a question, Senator.”
“Please.”
“What percent of Americans go to college?”
“Nearly twenty-five percent.”
