Great Expectations Chapter XLII

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter Forty ─ Two


∞



They never did figure out who put together the front page of the Upstart Gazette that day. Lester Jenkins who ran the presses had to be involved as did Pamela Mason. She was the one who shredded documents, and she was probably the one who had rescued the letter that appeared on the front page on December 17th. Lissa Caldwell had been Ivan Buncheski's personal secretary for fourteen years. She had opened his mail, and now provided the same service for Gerald Vance. She was probably in on it too.



The Upstart Gazette

Evil wins when good men and women sit silent.



A hundred thousand people died to keep me rich. My country paid me billions for doing worse than nothing. But if you met me, you’d probably like me. You see, I’m a liar, and a very good one. I can make you believe anything. I can feed you vomit on a stick, and you’ll swallow it and ask for more. It’s a gift that I have, or maybe it’s really a curse.

And I work in the White House.

America, you need to wise up. We’re a country that focuses too much on P. R. – on appearance – and overlooks substance. And meanwhile, democracy in America is dying. You’re giving up your freedom, your goods, and even your safety in the name of national security.

The world’s best hackers work for Homeland Security. We’re bugging everyone, not just terrorists or even suspected terrorists, but senators, congressmen, and anyone who questions what we do. Just watch – senators and congressmen who stick their necks out usually get caught on the wrong end of a scandal. It’s what Nixon tried to do when his men were caught breaking into the Watergate hotel. It’s how we passed the Patriot Act.

Hitler said that the memories of the masses are short. That’s what I was banking on – that you wouldn’t remember enough to compare yesterday’s statements with today’s news. And it’s safer and more comfortable to forget. But you must remember and use the brains God gave you.

For example, consider the Iraq war. Dictators have used war as a diversion for centuries. And they’ve gotten rich by attacking weaker nations. We invaded Iraq on a lie. Remember the speeches before Iraq’s invasion? Remember the threats of a mushroom cloud?

After 9/11, we rounded up hundreds of suspected terrorists, and we just held them for two years. The United States doesn’t do that. Americans have rights. And if these people can be imprisoned without due process so can all of us. Are they guilty of terrorism? Or are they political opponents? But that’s not all. They’re not just being interrogated – they’re being tortured. Tortured!!! Since when has our country condoned torture?

I am responsible for many dirty tricks. I am responsible for the anthrax letters, and, with them, I tried to assassinate Senators Thomas Daschel and Pat Leahy.

I created phony scientific societies to convince Americans that global warming is only a myth.

I had voting machines rigged to produce the biggest election frauds in history.

And probably my worst dirty trick of all – I manipulated your news. I made you hate and I made you fear. I fed you the emotions opposite of all that’s good and holy on this earth.

Remember the long fight for the rights of all minorities−the marches and the protests. Some died defending human rights. Fifty years of progress could disappear in the wag of a camel’s tail. Prejudice against one minority sets a precedent for discrimination against any minority.

When you fly the American flag, remember what it stands for: human rights, freedom of speech, freedom of worship. When you say “God Bless America,” pray for our nation – for justice, for peace, for freedom.

Because of my dirty tricks, and deep tax cuts, and financial manipulations, and because of the wars, American economy has taken a huge hit. (You see a few hundred dollars from the tax cuts. We see billions, and we’re using them to buy elections.) Our bad real estate management will have millions facing foreclosure. In a few years, the whole thing will come crashing down around us. Someone else will deal with the consequences. Don’t blame him for the mess.

And don’t give up on democracy. It’s the best defense against the likes of me. In a dictatorship, everything I’ve done would be considered normal.



By Alexander Lidecker

Great Expectations Chapter XL

The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”


Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.

They took him back to one of the police stations on Martha’s Vineyard, and he found himself in a small gray room with the only door locked. Alex had the disoriented sensation of not knowing exactly where he was. He stared at his hands. It all seemed so strange. Funny, Alex thought, he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. In a dazed sort of way, he felt like he’d just come home. Maybe it was the liquor, because Alex didn’t believe that it could be God.

Two sergeants walked in – officers Maxwell and Dugan according to their name tags.

“So how did all of this happen?” asked the one called Maxwell. He had pepper gray hair and a slightly darker mustache.

“You’ll forgive me if I talk slowly,” Alex said. “I’m used to lying, so it’ll take some doing to come up with the truth.”

‘Got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

“And I need a lawyer, but first, let me tell you about tonight. And, listen, can you let me know when you find my wife.” Alex told his story slowly, and the sergeant caught it all on tape. The easiest interrogation he’d had in months.

A third policeman walked in. “Your wife is in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“There’s concussion and some swelling, and she’s still unconscious,” he said. “That’s all they know right now.”

When he thought about Vivian, all he could remember were the manipulation and the anger. Surely there were good times too. Why couldn’t he remember them? “She really is the best part of me,” said Alex to himself. “And I really treated her like a heel.” His head throbbed and his mind bounced around as if on springs. But one thought kept surfacing, and he said it out loud. “If she dies, I’ll be charged with manslaughter, won’t I?” He looked at the officer.

“Not necessarily. Cooperate. Tell them everything.”

Alex smiled wryly. “If I tell them everything, I’ll never get out of prison.”

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 270-271


‘It’s got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.

The next day dawned amid iron and concrete for Alex. A pale yellowish light illuminated a sink and toilet in the left corner of the cell. Not even that is private, he thought.

Alex took a deep breath. His head ached, and it made his other senses more acute. Somewhere off to the right, metal clanged against metal, reverberating harshly off the hard surfaces with no rugs or curtains or pillows to soften the sound. It was so strange, having no control over himself or his surroundings. A mysterious “they” determined where Alex would be and what he would do.



Alex sat on his bunk staring at the blanket. He set about removing all the lint bumps with his fingers. There was precious little to occupy his time. He had no watch, and no way to know how long before something would happen – breakfast, lunch, exercise – any break from the monotony would be welcome.

“Visitor, Lidecker.” Even the guard’s voice was harsh, and the unexpected sound jerked Alex to his feet. Nothing seemed real. It was as though his mind were in some pathetic movie. Head throbbing, he stood waiting for his body to be processed by a uniformed jailer. No one appeared quite human in here.

The visitor was Abraham Franklin, “the best lawyer money could buy” if you could believe his business card. Weasel had made the arrangements. Alex had never needed a criminal lawyer before. Alex eyed the business card through a thick plate of glass.

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 264-266


The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”


He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that. And Alex sighed bitterly. “God, help me. I won’t do it,” he said. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed “911”.

They arrived in minutes−instantly, it seemed to Alex. First a lone patrol car with two cops. When Vivian didn’t answer their shouting, they called for backup. Several more cars arrived, then a search and rescue unit, and some volunteers with dogs. They set up floodlights bright enough to illuminate a football stadium, and began combing the area where Alex said he’d last seen Vivian. All this fuss seemed strange. Oh, he’d had plenty of fuss poured over his head during the last several years, but it was never because of something stupid that he’d done. None of these people even knew Vivian, and yet they searched as though she were someone important.

One of the first two officers drew Alex aside. He’s just a kid, thought Alex. Red hair, freckles; he could have been Opie.

“What happened here, sir?” the cop asked.

“We had a fight.” Alex wondered if the cop had a hidden microphone. And he wondered how much he was slurring the words. Was it obvious that he was drunk? He didn’t feel drunk. Suddenly everything was clear and amazingly simple. Vivian could be hurt. She could be in danger. Or she might be dead. Nothing else mattered. And that’s why people came with their dogs to climb through the brushy banks of the pond when they’d rather be sleeping. Because nothing else mattered.

“She stormed out of the car.”

“She stormed out?”

“No.” Alex stopped, shaking his head helplessly. “Wait a minute.”

“Take your time,” said the officer.

“We fought. I said, ‘maybe she’d rather walk.’ She said, maybe she would. So I pushed her out of the car.”

“Why did she say she’d rather walk?”

“Because I was trying to scare her.”

“Scare her?”

“I was…I swerved the wheel. The car fishtailed. I slammed on the brakes. I sent it skidding. It almost jumped the side of the bridge.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I was very drunk.”

The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”

Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXXIX pgs. 257-258

He drove slowly until he came to the end of the road. Then he swung the car around. Damn! He must have passed her on the road. But why hadn’t she yelled? Maybe she didn’t recognize him in the dark. Or, maybe she was playing games too. So he u-turned the car and backtracked one more time looking for Vivian. This time he called to her in the darkness. “Game’s over. Where the hell are you?” Then “Damn it, Vivian, tell me where you are so we can go home and get this friggin’ evening over with.” He honked the horn. “Fine, if that’s what you want, I can just leave you here. Go ahead and spend the night in this muck. See if I care. Someone’s sure to find you tomorrow and you can get a ride home in a tuna truck or something.” And, finally, “Hey, Vivian… okay, I’m sorry…Where are you?”


She had to hear him. The small stretch of road just wasn’t that long. Why didn’t she answer? It wasn’t like Vivian to hold a grudge – to play games, to make Alex stew. No, that was his style, not hers. Besides, he held all the cards. He had the car, with its warmth, a stereo, and transportation home, while she was crouching somewhere in the bushes. So why didn’t she answer?

It took a while for Alex to admit the possibility that Vivian couldn’t answer him. That she had hit her head or had fallen into water. But it seemed so unlikely. No one ever passed out from a bump on the head, except in the movies. He dug through the car’s glove compartment, and then through the trunk looking for a flashlight, but there wasn’t one. So he set the headlights on high beam and pointed them at the stretch of bushes ahead. Then he climbed out of the car and began examining the road bit by bit. There had to be a simple explanation. Surely Vivian was okay. She hadn’t fallen that hard.

But this was Chappaquiddick. And the bridge was already home to one ghost. And Alex sensed evil in the air around him. He was cold and scared, as scared as when he’d been an eleven-year-old boy running away from home, and realizing that he didn’t have the resources he needed to run away.

Disheartened, Alex sat down on a rock. Puddin’ Creek all over again, he thought. Back then he had run away from a whipping. How simple that would have been compared to this! His wife was missing; he was responsible, and he was very drunk, and he had very unforgiving partners. They would forgive him for driving drunk, or for losing or hurting or even killing his wife. But they would never forgive him for getting caught. Suddenly he shivered violently, chilled by the misty air and the thought of his partners.

And just as on that night long ago, he was sitting by swampy water with darkness, caused more by evil than by the night. He could see himself holding that book of spells. “Remordia,” he said aloud.

The solution was obvious. He’d go home. Tomorrow he’d call the sheriff. The alcohol would be out of his body by then. If she were alive, no harm no foul. If she were dead, he’d be distraught. “It’s all my fault. We had a fight, and she jumped out of the car.” Alex began practicing his story. “I started to follow her but it was dark, and she was running. She’d had a lot to drink, and she was stumbling about something terrible. ‘Keep away from me,’ she said. And she was taking awful chances running full tilt through the brush. I was afraid that if I kept chasing her she’d fall and hurt herself.” No−better yet – “she told me ‘if you don’t leave right now I’ll drown myself.’ She kept screaming ‘I’ll drown myself. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t!’ She kept shouting it over and over. So I told her ‘Okay, have it your way. I’m leaving. You don’t have to run anymore.’ I said to her, ‘Call me tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up.’ I thought she’d be okay. There was a house just a few hundred feet down the road from where I left her. She was acting so weird and it scared me and I just wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

He saw it all. It was simple, really. He’d never be blamed. Maybe he’d answer a few difficult questions, but there’d be nothing more than that.

Great Expectations Chapter XXXIX

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XXXIX  pgs. 256-258

He gunned the engine in neutral, engaged the motor, and the car lurched forwards. And he turned sharply towards the right.


“Please,” said Vivian.

“What?”

“Please.” He was heading in the wrong direction. Surely he knew it. He was doing it on purpose to scare her. Well, it was working. “Please take me back home.”

He raced the engine driving as fast as he dared in the direction of the inky darkness. Because he had a plan. After ten minutes, he slowed the car, looking for a road that was little more than a footpath. Finally, he saw it and turned sharply towards it. Vivian didn’t dare say anything. The path led to the infamous Ditch Bridge on Chappaquiddick Island. Now Vivian’s breath came sharply as she realized where he was taking her. After all those years of marriage, he knew how to punish her. Alex chuckled recalling the newspaper headlines about Ted Kennedy’s car driving off of the road. And he swerved the car sharply causing it to skid sideways.

They were approaching the Ditch Bridge now. The night was still. The mud-brown supports − stubby post-people − cast shadows and reflections like specters in the inky waters below. They were alone on the bridge, the same bridge where a very drunk Ted Kennedy had driven off of the road, and where Mary Jo Kopechne had died on an evening much like this one.

For a moment, Alex chilled, sensing the stillness, as if ghosts inhabited the waters. He remembered an evening very long ago sitting on the bank of a creek. He had been a scared eleven-year-old back then on Halloween night, believing himself surrounded by ghosts and wicked spirits. He remembered clutching the book of spells to his body, and finding the mysterious word, Remordia, inside.

He looked over at Vivian, and he could see how pale her face was, even with the very limited amount of light. And her fear fed his courage.

“Did you say something?” he smirked and gave the wheel a quarter turn.

“Nothing. Just forget it.” She stared at the road ahead and breathed a relieved sigh as they passed the last upright, leaving the bridge and its ghost behind.

“Maybe you’d rather walk.” The road was a worn out path with a pond on one side and the ocean on the other. He swerved the car again.

“Maybe I would.”

Alex leaned across Vivian and pushed open her door. The car lurched drunkenly. He pushed at the button keeping her seatbelt fastened, but his hands shook, and he couldn’t undo the buckle.

“I’m sorry.” Vivian was reaching for the door, trying to close it. “It’s been a long night. Can we please just get home?”

“All night you made me look stupid…. Now you’re trying to tell me how to drive….”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“You’re damn right you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be.” At last his fingers found the button. The seat belt flew loose, and he shoved Vivian out of the car. “See how well you like it walking solo.” He laughed and gunned the engine. He gunned it again, and, as Vivian grabbed on to the doorframe, he started forward, slowly at first, then faster until Vivian was almost running to keep up with the car.

“Please, Alex, I can’t see.” Her foot twisted, and the car jerked free of her grasp, leaving Vivian staggering, and then falling backwards.

Alex drove on for another couple of minutes, letting Vivian stew in the darkness. He stopped the car, turned off the engine and listened. One cricket chirped – a forlorn rattle far, far away. Had she learned her lesson yet? The gloom sent shivers down Alex’s back, and he restarted the engine and turned back to pick up his wife.

He drove back slowly with his lights in high beam. And he turned on the radio for company against the disturbing stillness. ‘You ready to behave yourself?’ That’s what he’d say. And he’d generously forgive her for behaving foolishly. He avoided calling Vivian’s name. No sense in letting her know that he was looking for her. Let her worry a few minutes more.

But there weren’t many remarkable landmarks on that dark stretch of road, and, anyway, Alex hadn’t been paying much attention to the scenery. He came to the bridge and turned around. Minutes stretched by, and still he hadn’t found Vivian. He had counted on spotting Vivian walking along the road but, in the gloomy blackness, she was nowhere in sight.

Great Expectations Chapter XL

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.

Chapter XL



The dinner had begun on a horrible note. Alex and Vivian were dining with Vernon and Sophia Pomerleau and the Smythe-Huntingtons. They’d rented a private house on a tiny island just off of Martha’s Vineyard and hired a caterer. It was meant to be a posh, yet intimate party. Liquor had started flowing before the food, and Alex and Allen Smythe-Huntington were already talking loudly as the salad arrived. Vivian, Sophia, Vernon and Allen’s wife Gloria, though not as inebriated as Alex and Allen, were nevertheless working on their second cocktail.

Raising his highball glass, Allen sputtered out a toast. “We need to get out of Iraq – so that we can get on with invading Iran and Syria. We look much better bombing and winning than we do pissing on guerrilla warfare.”

Right then Vivian lost her appetite. While the rest of the table cheered, she put down her glass and dropped her eyes towards the table.

Allen’s voice was rough. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart? Is the scary old conversation too rough for you?” Here everyone at the table burst into unchecked laughter.

Vivian just stared unsure what to say. The laughter died down and everyone at the table turned to watch her discomfort. “I can’t see toasting death,” she finally said.

“Your wife sweet on Muslims, Alex?” asked Allen.

“Sweetheart needs an attitude adjustment.” Vernon pointed at Vivian with his highball glass. The ice cubes clinked in emphasis. Alex laughed. He’d drunk enough liquor that anything seemed funny, especially his wife’s discomfort.

“You’re all disgusting when you’re drunk,” said Vivian.

“Hey, Alex can’t you handle your woman?” This came from Vernon. And again the table laughed. Alex had been sipping Wild Turkey neat. As the conversation turned on him, he downed the rest of his drink with one swallow and slammed the glass on the table.

“God damn it Vivian. Shut your foul mouth and behave yourself.” He smacked her cheek with his open hand in a display of bravado.

“You show her,” said Vernon.

“Now shut the fuck up, you understand! Just don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening or you’ll know what sorry means.” Alex picked up the empty glass and slammed it hard on the table. “Barkeep! Another drink over here! Customers are dying of thirst.”

From that point on the evening deteriorated. Their conversation became more vicious, dragging itself out until two in the morning.

As Alex drove home Vivian sat silent willing Alex to stay on the road as if her concentration were steadying Alex’s driving.

And out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tension in Vivian’s face. He sensed her fear and it fed his bravado. Suddenly Alex was amused. And he swerved the car, then righted it making the back wheels spin into fishtails.

Vivian gasped aloud, and Alex laughed. “When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, and Alex jerked the wheel one more time chuckling as the tires squealed. “Let’s just get home,” Vivian said finally. “We’re both tired and angry and slightly drunk. We can talk tomorrow.”

“You self-righteous cow,” said Alex. “Do you know…do you...do you have any idea who those people are? Compared to them, the President is a…a…a slimy-toad lackey. These are the ones who really run the country. Hell, they just about run the whole damn world. And they can make me very rich and, and very suc…successful or they can have my ass on a sling if my dumb-ass wife offends them, and I’ll spend the rest of my life scrubbing toilets.”

Vivian laughed − a nervous laugh. “I scrubbed toilets back in college.” The wrong thing to say, but there were no right things, and silence wasn’t working either. Alex’s speech alarmed her. Usually Alex could hold his liquor, but on this night, he was shouting and slurring words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stomped hard on the brake, enjoying the high-pitched scraping and the car’s crazy jerk reaction to his foot. He turned off his headlights. The road was dark.

“I’m sorry. Please let’s just get going before someone rear-ends us.”

Great Expectations Chapter XXXVIII

To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.


Chapter XXXVIII pgs. 251-252


Sandy Pumpkin: She couldn’t have been on that plane at 2:18. Especially the way airports are these days. You have to get down there one to two hours ahead of flight time to make it through security. And the way Spiderman talked – or typed – she was with him for a while. It sounded like they talked throughout the afternoon and into the evening.


Big Bad Wolf: Let’s say her bags were already packed and in her car, and she’d bought the ticket ahead of time. She’d need about an hour to drive from Berkeley to San Francisco Airport – that’s on a good day with no traffic. And it would take her at least another half hour to park the car and catch a shuttle to the terminal. She should get to the airport one to two hours ahead of flight time. At a bare minimum she’d need a half an hour to make it through security. Security for a flight to Tehran has got to be more stringent than to other cities. And she’d have to board fifteen minutes ahead of flight time, at the very least, or they wouldn’t let her on the plane. That gives her a few minutes to meet Spiderman.

Sandy Pumpkin: It doesn’t sound right to me.

Brat: I have a bad feeling about this.

Big Bad Wolf: I wonder if she got her inoculations and a passport. I’ll have my staff do some more checking.

After he’d turned off his computer, Ivan made a note to have one of his staff check for traces to corroborate the Spiderman story, but, actually, he’d already made up his mind. Johanna was either dead or in terrible danger, and he couldn’t imagine a common criminal being able to fake Johanna’s departure to Iran.



Feeling scared and helpless, Brat Googled “United Religions” and was surprised to find a link to a prayer chain:

Allah, Your name be praised, have mercy on your child, Jody and be with her in her peril.

Comfort and bless and save, dear Lord, all those in peril, our soldiers, Iraqi and Afghani men and women and children, and especially our friend, Jody.

Keep watch, dear Lord, for those who work or watch or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.

Great Jehovah, God of Israel and Isaac and Jacob, I ask your blessing for all your children. Keep them safe this night and the next.

May the power of the Buddha protect all in danger.

My Lord Ganesha bless and protect.

The prayers and blessings continued. They numbered in the thousands.



Worlds away in Mississippi, Martha Jacobson knelt before her statue of Mary thumbing the rosary, feeling God’s touch in the beads. She’d prayed the prayer every night since she’d been told that Johanna had run away to Iran. “Keep watch over Johanna, and bless her and keep her safe.” She pressed the rosary to her heart, and, weeping, stroked it, wishing she were holding her daughter instead of glass beads. “Please, Lord, for the sake of my love, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, please, Lord, return Johanna in safety. Amen.”