The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (28 page)

Chapter 64

Right after the election I returned to my old firm in Chicago, Blake & Randolph. So I’m back to my lucrative law practice, helping injured people get a few megabucks to help them get over an accident. It feels good to be away from the daily grind of campaigning, and the endless compromises you have to make to get anything done. My campaign for president was a disappointment, to say the obvious. But the attacks on amusement parks and the way Martin capitalized on them made the result predictable.  But now I’m enjoying private life. The huge settlement that I got for Diana a few years ago, not to mention my big fee from Al Yamani’s wrongful imprisonment suit made us quite comfortable financially. I should be happy, right?

I was scared shitless.

The changes were slow. If you kept your head down and shut up, you probably wouldn’t even notice what was going on. Like most people, Dee and I read the news every day, and also check out what’s happening on TV. Both Dee and I are politically conservative, although I’m not sure what that means anymore. Both of us have been scouring the Internet for any opinions from our favorite pundits to help us understand our new situation. George Will, one of my favorite political columnists, has written nothing about politics—only baseball, his other passion—for almost a year. I also love the editorial page of the
Wall Street Journal
, formerly a solid, hard-punching analysis of the nation’s situation. Now it’s nothing but fluff and bullshit. Some of our favorite political talk shows, such as
The Five
and
The O’Reilly Factor
are now about as controversial as the morning traffic report. We watched O’Reilly last night and his major guest was a chef—that’s right, a chef—talking about his new Italian food recipe. Rush Limbaugh, the wildly popular radio talk show host with ratings through the roof, has been fired after more than 30 years on the air. He was replaced by a home improvement show. It’s the same thing with the liberal media. MSNBC, a network known for its bias in favor of the left, no longer hosts progressive talking heads. They’ve been replaced by game shows.

Our biggest shock came when Dee’s long-time agent, Suzie Cohen, called and told Dee that she could no longer represent her for her articles or books. Dee had just finished a lengthy feature article for the
Chicago Tribune
entitled, “What’s Happened to Our Constitution?” Dee is a nationally recognized Constitutional Law scholar. When Dee pressed Suzie Cohen about her refusal to represent her after so many years, Suzie would not say why. She actually hung up the phone on Dee.

I walked up to Dee and put my arms around her. I could see that she was upset about her conversation with her agent—her ex-agent—Suzie Cohen.

“Matt, do you think it’s okay to hug one another?”

“Don’t exaggerate, honey.”

“I’m not exaggerating. I’ve never felt so creepy in my life. What the hell has become of this country? What’s going to become of us? I get nauseous when I think that you could have been our president instead of that insane prick.”

I hugged her again. I figured that our marriage and our privacy are some of the few things left in this weird fucking world.

***

Our intercom buzzed. It was Jerome, our daytime doorman.

“A Mr. Rick Bellamy is here to see you, Matt.”

Rick Bellamy, my old boss, the former Secretary of Homeland Security. He’s a friend and a good guy. But what the hell is he doing here in Chicago?

“Please send him up, Jerome.”

When Rick walked in, Dee and I exchanged hugs with him. Besides being my boss at Homeland Security, our relationship with Rick goes back a few years to when Dee and I were involved in a weird FBI investigation called the
Sideswipe Conspirac
y
.

Rick wore a ball cap, a Yankees sweatshirt, with a light jacket over it. He looked a far cry from his old buttoned-up FBI or cabinet secretary self.

“Pardon my outfit folks, but I’m here in Chicago for an informal visit to my cousin.”

“I didn’t know you had a cousin in Chicago,” Dee said.

“I don’t, Diana. That’s the message I left on our interoffice memos. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to cover my tracks.”

“How’s your lovely wife, Ellen? Still winning architectural awards?”

“Well she’s taken on a lot of boring assignments recently, government contracts.”

“Rick,” Dee said, “I remember Ellen telling me that she hated to do government jobs. She found them dull and not very lucrative.”

“You missed the operative word, Diana. Ellen’s been given
assignments
, not commissions or retainers that she got on her own. Assignments. In other words, here’s your next job,
do it.
”

Dee and I looked at each other. We both understood what he meant.

“So Rick, what have you been doing with yourself since you stepped down after the election?”

“I’m back to practicing law, Matt, not that I ever really did. I got hired by the Wall Street firm of Donnelyn, Jacobs, and Smith. They like the idea of having a former cabinet secretary on their roster. Practicing law is quite a challenge, I find, because lately nobody seems to be able to figure out just what the fuck the law is.”

“I’ve noticed, Rick. Speaking of the law, do you have any idea how or why President Reynolds was arrested. From what I’ve heard, nobody knows where he is or what he’s charged with.”

“Not a clue, Matt. You would think that as a former member of his cabinet, I’d know something, but I don’t.”

“Hey, Rick, besides the arrest of the former president,” Dee said, “have you noticed that things have gotten strange in the past year?”

“Strange isn’t the word, Diana. We find ourselves living in a different country, which brings me to my reason for coming to Chicago. I came here to see you two, and for no other reason.”

Dee and I glanced at each other. Something in the way Rick looked at us was disturbing.

“I’ve always shot straight with you folks,” said Rick, “and I’m not going to stop now. Bottom line, you both need to be careful, very careful. Matt, when you were my deputy you became an absolute pain in the ass with your obsession over the NFL group. You saw them as a threat, a serious threat. More than that, you got the ear of President Reynolds. You convinced him the NFL wasn’t just a useful bunch of anti-jihadi nuts. You sold him on the idea that the NFL was a problem for the United States, not just for radical Islam. He bought your arguments, and I think that’s why he’s under arrest. Dee’s writings, especially her articles, cemented her as a
NFL skeptic
as well. You both eyeballed them as the bad guys. And then you became candidate for president.”

“So what’s the big deal, Rick?” I said. “So we raised some red flags and asked a lot of questions. What’s the problem with that?”

“The NFL now runs the country, Matt. That’s the problem—your problem, and mine too.”

Chapter 65

Jim Blake, senior partner at Blake & Randolph and Matt Blake’s father, sat in the hallway outside a courtroom at Chicago’s Daley Center. The man next to him was his opposing counsel, Murray Blanken. The case they were trying
Young vs. Moretti
, involved a car accident where Jim Blake’s client, John Young, was rendered a paraplegic.

“You’re a tough guy to try a case against, Jim,” Blanken said. “I’m happy to still be alive.”

“Well thanks for the compliment, Murray, but let’s get back to what we were talking about. Your client (actually, the client’s insurance company) is willing to settle this for $10 million, correct?”

“Yeah, Jim, unless you want to drag me back in front of the jury and kick some more shit out of me.”

They shook hands. “Let’s go into the judge’s chambers and put this stipulation on the record,” Jim Blake said.

Nothing made Judge Myron Dworkin happier than to see a big case settle before verdict. It avoided all of the post-trial bullshit paperwork, and enabled him to move on to his mounting calendar of cases. But this would be no typical settlement stipulation. This would be something he’d never seen before.

“Have a seat, fellas. Coffee?”

“No thanks, your honor,” they both said simultaneously.

“Then how about a couple of stiff drinks. After what I’m about to tell you, I think you’re going to want something to soothe your nerves.”

They both looked at the judge with furrowed brows.

“I’m about to show you a letter that was hand delivered to me this morning. I understand that every judge in the country is getting one of these today. Let me summarize before you try to rip my head off. As you can see (he handed each of them a photocopy) the heading of the letter says
The Committee for Justice
, whatever the fuck that is. Calling your attention to the signature line, it’s none other than Bartholomew Martin, President of the United States. To get right to the point, gentlemen, I can’t sign off on your settlement.”

They both stared at the letter, trying to make sense of it.

“To save you from straining your eyes, fellas, this letter says that the settlement details first have to go to this Committee on Justice for approval, and that they will try (I emphasize
will try
) to get you an answer in 90 days. And it gets even worse, guys. Each of you have to fill out this 50-page questionnaire, answering such questions as the injured person’s race, ethnicity, and even political affiliation.”

“Ronnie, (Judge Myron’s nickname)” Jim Blake said as he slammed his hand on the table. “Sorry your honor.”

“Hey Jim. You can call me Ronnie, but there isn’t a piss load I can do about this nonsense. Jim, you’re a former federal judge, so you can appreciate the bullshit spot I’m in. This fucking piece of paper says that I’m guilty of a felony if I ignore it — Hey, whatever happened to judicial immunity? It also goes on to say that if you guys ignore the 50-page form,
you’re
guilty of felonies as well. Yes, you heard me, goddam felonies. I feel like I’m the star of a stupidly written science fiction movie. You guys came into this courtroom and busted your asses for your clients, as any pros do, and came to a mutually agreeable settlement. But this piece of shit says I can’t let you come to an agreement without passing it by the fucking Committee on Justice.”

Judge,” Murray Blanken said, “you know as well as we do that this document is unconstitutional. For one thing it impairs the right to contract. It also violates the right to a jury trial under the Sixth Amendment. Give me a few minutes and I’ll figure out a few dozen other ways that this violates the Constitution.”

“You’re right, Murray. A second semester law student could see that this is constitutional bullshit. But it’s over the signature of the President of the United States, and threatens the three of us with felonies if we don’t comply. I think that whatever the three of us thought we knew about the law just got dumped in the toilet.”

“But judge, suppose this Committee on Justice decides, after its three-month deliberation, that they don’t like the settlement number,” Jim Blake said. “Maybe they think it should be lower, maybe higher. Do you think they can do that?”

“Jim, look at the word
approve
. The right to approve assumes the right to
deny.
We’re suddenly in a different world, guys. But I have a suggestion. Why not start a class action lawsuit based on this piece-of-shit document? I bet you can round up a few dozen plaintiffs right now in this building. Hey fellas, I gotta break up our meeting. I have another settlement conference coming up. That should be fun.”

As Jim Blake and Murray Blanken walked out of his chambers, Judge Dworkin looked at the statue of Lady Liberty on his desk. He shook his head.

Chapter 66

Dee and I had breakfast at 6 a.m. in our apartment. Bartholomew Martin had taken office as president in January, 10 months ago. We were slowly adjusting to the subtle scary changes in our lives.

***

At 6:30 a.m. our intercom buzzed. It was Jerome, the doorman, saying he had an important package for us. He brought it to our door. It was a large special delivery envelope with a return receipt attachment. I signed for it and opened the envelope.

“Holy shit,” I yelled to Dee. “Our bank and investment accounts have been frozen on orders of the new administration. We can’t even take interest or dividends. The letter doesn’t say why, or what steps we can take, it simply advises that our accounts are impounded.”

I made a phone call to Phil Tomlinson, of Tomlinson and Jones, the attorney we use for any matters involving finances or investments.

“This is probably the 20
th
call I’ve gotten like this in the past two days, Matt. Our firm is going crazy trying to sort this shit out, but apparently the law that enabled this action came right down from the White House by executive order. For right now, you and a lot of other people are stuck. I know you think it’s obviously illegal, and so do I, but when the president’s signature is on an order, it carries the rule of law until a court decides otherwise. I’ll let you know as soon as we can figure something out.”

I called my office to let them know I’d be in late. Dee had no classes that day, so we spent our time trying to figure out the strange new turn in our lives.

“Hey, Matt, let’s try to think positive.”

That’s my Dee. I don’t think she really knows how to think negative. “Okay, so our accounts have been frozen for some reason we can’t figure out. The only immediate problem is that we can’t make some planned transfers into our charitable foundation. We still have a large income between you and me. We can handle this.”

“We can handle it financially, Dee, but can we handle it in our heads. I feel like we’ve been mugged. We know who the mugger is, but we can’t even call a cop. I know this sounds negative, but I’m feeling a little helpless. I’ve always thought of the law as being on your side when something weird like this happens. Just bring a lawsuit, make a few motions, and straighten the crap out. But for the first time in my life, the law doesn’t seem to be on our side.”

“Hey, we’re not alone, Matt. Didn’t Phil Tomlinson say that this was among 20 calls he’s gotten about an asset seizure for no reason? And that’s only one law firm. Multiply that out over the past few days over thousands of law firms and I think we’re looking at a scandal the press can’t ignore.”

“Right,” I said. “Maybe Bill O’Reilly can give this story a 30-second spot between his cooking segments.”

“Hey, babe,” Dee said, “yes it sucks, but we’re in a new world, and in the near future we’re going to learn more about it.”