Mistress

I’m in full sprint mode. Secret Service agents from every corner of the room descend upon me. The president stops his address as agents to each side of him grab him and pull him down. I run down the center aisle as far as I think I can get and start shouting.

“Mr. President!” I yell out. “The Russian government is blackmailing you into letting them invade Georgia! The Russians are blackmailing you and the American people deserve to know!” The first agent to reach me tries to bulldoze me, but I juke him and miss the brunt of his tackle. I fall to the floor but keep my head up and shout, “I’m Ben Casper of Capital Beat! I have proof the Russians are blackmailing the president! I have proof and the government knows it!”

And then they pile on, one black-suited G-man after another, and I’m at the bottom of a rugby scrum. The entire room is in chaos, people jumping from their seats, somebody from the government taking the mike and appealing for calm. I can’t even see the stage in the front of the auditorium now, though I assume the president is no longer there. He’s probably not in the room at all.

“I have proof!” I shout. “I have proof and the president knows it!”

And then, before you can say My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over, the agents lift me off the ground and carry me horizontally out of the room. I keep shouting out the same phrases, “I’m Ben Casper” and “I have proof,” not so much for the scoutmasters in the room but for the reporters, most of whom know me and presumably have some level of respect for me-at least enough to allow me to dominate the headlines on this event. At least enough to make them ask questions. At least enough to make it difficult for the US government to sweep this all under the rug.

And that, in the end, is the best I can do. I don’t have the video, but I can accuse the administration publicly and hope it’s enough to stop what’s going on. It’s too late to stop what’s going to happen to me.

My name is Ben Casper, and my life is over.

Chapter 107

Once upon an evening late, having signed away my fate,

I reluctantly await my ruthless punishment’s arrival.

I have sorely taxed the patience of the governmental agents;

I have severed my relations with those holding my survival

In their hands, for I depend on two conditions, truth

and honor-

Only that, and nothing more.

The room is nothing but gray walls, a table, and two chairs. I was placed in here by two members of the Secret Service who didn’t say a word to me and pushed me through the door before locking it closed.

It’s chilly in here, but otherwise I’m comfortable-relaxed in a way that’s reminiscent of the way I felt at the end of final exams (though I don’t recall any final exams where people shot at me). I can’t change anything now. All the running and hiding and searching and strategizing is over. I did it. There’s no taking back what I said. I’ve given up all leverage with Craig Carney. He is free to bring the full weight of the federal government down on me.

But I got a few things in return. I got payback against a Russian billionaire and justice for Ellis Burk. I got twenty millions dollars that, unbeknownst to said billionaire, was wired into an account for families of law enforcement officers killed in the line of duty. And I stopped the Russians from controlling our foreign policy.

I’ve sat in here for three hours. During that time I’ve made some hard decisions. The first is that Ben Affleck has now fully redeemed himself for the whole J.Lo-Gigli disaster, especially after The Town,

which is one of my favorite movies. The second is that Andrew Dice Clay, however piggish he may be, is really not a bad actor.

The third is that I’d really prefer not to go to prison, but there’s not much I can do to prevent that now.

A large African American man enters the room, closing the door behind him. He is Ronald Hamilton, the top Secret Service agent protecting the president.

He cocks his head and gives me a scolding look. “Have you totally lost your mind?”

“Hi, Ham,” I say. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, your agents acted professionally and decisively.”

“That’s no consolation. You’re in a lot of trouble, son.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Ham.”

I wish I had a cool nickname like Ham. The only thing that came from Ben was Benji, like that annoying dog. I could handle T-Bone, which is what George Costanza wanted. But not Koko, which is what he got instead.

“You mind telling me what the hell you were shouting about in there?” he asks.

Actually, I do mind. Ham’s a good egg-mental note, possible future pun-and there’s no need to draw him into this mess.

“Ham, how long have we known each other?”

He cocks his head. “Maybe four years?”

“You ever know me to be crazy? Off my rocker?”

On second thought, I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.

“What’s your point?” he asks.

“My point is I had a good reason for doing what I did. I want to talk to the president, Ham.”