Friday, 11: 59 p.m.   Peaks Island, Maine

It was nearly midnight and Alberta Haskell couldn’t fall asleep. From her bed, she listened as the storm continued to rage along the island’s southwesterly shore. The frigid winds, peppered with pellets of freezing rain, snaked through the storm windows, making her shiver from beneath her heavy quilt.

Alberta was worried, and once again, she sat up in her bed, peering outside for a hopeful sign of her cat. In the darkness, the island seemed so much more desolate— almost haunted. The storm had the eerie effect of turning back the hands of time. As if it were three centuries before the present; when members of the Abenaki tribe had fished for mackerel along the sandy beaches of the island’s southern shore.

Now, however, the restless seas crashed along the jagged rocks of Torrington Point, echoing like bomb blasts in the winter darkness.

The small boats, moored at Pete’s Marina, were violently tossed as if they were nothing more than plastic toys in a bathtub, and the gale-force winds snapped small tree branches, scattering them like toothpicks near the ferry landing.

Alberta wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t get her son’s voice out of her mind. When she had talked to him yesterday, he sounded as if he had been drinking again. He was a grown man and a naval officer, what could bring him so easily to tears?

And to top it all off, she couldn’t find her cat. Precious couldn’t stay out all night. Not in this storm!

Refusing to give into her gnawing fears, she pushed aside the quilt, and with a frustrated sigh— she reached for her slippers.

Alberta tried flipping on the light switch in the hallway. The power was out. She cursed the darkness, feeling more frightened with each passing second. For a moment, she stood very still and drew in a giant breath, forcing herself to remain calm. She had lived alone, in the same house, for some thirty-four years. This was certainly not the first time that a fallen tree, somewhere on the island, had knocked the power out.

She bundled her robe a bit tighter, making her way carefully, in the darkness, toward the kitchen. Alberta opened the back door just a bit and the swirling night air brushed past her, filling the kitchen with its chill. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .,” she called out, refusing to give into her fears or acknowledge that the storm was drowning out her voice.

“Come on, Precious. . .come here, boy. . .kitty, kitty, kitty.” There was no response from the darkness and she sighed again, dreading what she would have to do.

Alberta Haskell was one of the last few remaining natives on Peaks Island. The house, which her husband had purchased as part of a retirement plan, was worth a lot more now, but she refused to sell it, despite the generous offers from men like Ricky over at Island Realty.

She despised the city people who were buying up every last scrap of available land on the island. She refused to give in, or to surrender to the greed that was washing over the island like a driving, late-December snow. The damn mainlanders! They were destroying her childhood memories, bringing their high prices and noisy automobiles to place she considered Heaven on Earth. No! She would not sell, and that was final. But still, they tried. God above knows, how they tried.

Ever since Paul had died, 35 years ago, the house represented all that Alberta had left of a life she once cherished. Even her son, David, wanted her to sell the old house and move to his home in Maryland. She would have no part of that. As long as she could cook her own meals, Alberta wanted to be near her husband’s waiting spirit. They were meant to be together, and no amount of money would ever change that.

Besides, she didn’t need any money. Paul had left her very well off. She owned three small cottages on the west side of the island, and they generated enough income to take care of the property taxes. The rental payments, combined with Paul’s government retirement benefits, stock portfolio and substantial savings, provided Alberta with all the money she could ever want. She lived simply. She didn’t bother anyone, and they didn’t bother her. That was the way she liked it.

The gray, shingled cape overlooked the island’s southern shore, over the waters of Casco Bay and westerly toward Cape Elizabeth and the Portland Headlight. Although Alberta kept the inside of her home meticulously clean, the yard became an eyesore each winter season, waiting patiently for spring when the Henderson’s son, Joey, would mow the lawns and trim the hedges. By Labor Day, however, the yard would begin its annual transformation into a sea of weeds, and unruly brush.

Alberta’s mind was racing. Besides her son, her cat was the only living thing she cared about. Where was he? She closed the kitchen door, ignoring the puddle of rain that had pooled onto the linoleum floor and searched for her flashlight.

The light settled her nerves, and she shuffled back toward the bedroom.

Knowing that prolonged exposure to the cold was going to aggravate her arthritis, she put on an extra scarf and a thick, wool sweater under her jacket. She laced her boots tightly and left the bedroom feeling ready to brave the elements.

She was careful as she made her way down the wooden stairs of the front porch. There were still patches of ice in the places where the snow had stubbornly melted. Clutching the railing for support, Alberta tried to ignore the soaking rains. Her glasses instantly fogged, and she was angry that age had taken such a toll on her body.

Swinging the flashlight in all directions, Alberta could feel the fear building and her mind seemed to be playing tricks. The trees looked much more like taunting skeletons, and the sea-grass swayed and coiled like angry serpents. She was suddenly very cold, and she tried to swallow her growing fears. She wanted to cry, and retreat to the safety of her home, but Precious was out here, and she just couldn’t leave him to freeze.

She removed her glasses, rubbing the lenses with her wet mittens. This didn’t help much. She could feel the cold, traveling down the back of her neck but she moved on through the yard— still searching— determined to find her cat. “Here, Precious. . . come on, kitty, kitty. . .”

Despite the storm, darkness and her own confusion, she was suddenly sure that she could hear Precious meowing from somewhere close by. Stupid cat! Why didn’t he just come inside? The meowing was growing louder, and Alberta ignored her fears, gingerly stepping forward, squinting in the darkness for any sign of her cat. Her boots cracked the frozen, top layer of snow, and she moved the flashlight left and right. Nothing. Where could he be?

Alberta stumbled toward the rear of the house. Sometimes Precious curled up between the silver LP tanks near the back porch. As she moved closer, she heard a different sound that made her stop in her tracks. Someone or something was breathing right behind her. She didn’t want to turn around, but she couldn’t help herself.

As quickly as she could manage, she turned to face the shadow of the stranger in her yard. “Who are you?” she cried, startled by the man’s raised arm. He never answered, and Alberta dropped her flashlight just before the darkness took her over, one last time.

From beneath the back porch, a narrow set of green eyes watched as the stranger walked out of the yard, disappearing into the envelope of the storm. Precious curled himself into a tight ball of fur, protecting himself from the wind and rain. It was going to be a long night, and he knew that there was no one left to let him inside.

Saturday, 2:34 a.m.

Washington, D.C.

Stewart Derry was sound asleep when the phone on the bedside table began to ring. He had been snoring, and he insides of his throat felt parched and clogged by tiny droplets of saliva. Stewart was a man very familiar with phone calls in the middle of the night. He switched on the bedroom lamp and rubbed his eyes, fumbling for the phone as it rang again. As usual, Stewart was sleeping alone. He considered it a small price to pay for being the man closest to the Leader of the Free World.

Before the third ring, he had his throat cleared and the receiver in place. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded serious, if not apologetic. “Mr. Derry, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour— but I thought you should know.”

Stewart was instantly wide awake and he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The caller was Vice Admiral Henry Garland, chairman of the National Security Agency. “Know what?” Stewart demanded impatiently, checking his watch.

“We’ve taken care of the first problem.”

Stewart’s mind was reeling. “Henry, you shouldn’t have called me here!”

“We’ve secured the line, sir.”

Stewart considered the possibilities of what he was being told before responding. “What about the second problem?”

“We’re still working on it.”

Stewart rolled his eyes. “Two hundred and thirty-four billion dollars a year, and you guys can’t trace a simple e-mail message?”

“There were complications.”

“Henry, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your complications,” Stewart barked. “We need to solve that second problem, and we need to solve it now. Do you understand me?”

“‘I’m crystal clear. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Stewart didn’t want to hear those words spoken out loud.  “Let me know when all of the loose ends are wrapped up,” he said in a much softer tone.

“Yes, sir,” the admiral replied, no longer attempting to hide the disdain he felt for this civilian before hanging up the phone.

Stewart hung his head, sitting in silence for a moment before picking up the phone again. Without a second though, he dialed the secured number to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. “Get me the President,” he said.

And so, it had started.

Copyright, 1997 Randy Seaver

18 March; Thursday, 11:23 p.m. Crofton, Maryland

It was the sum realization of a lifetime, and David Haskell couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Staring at the computer monitor, he wondered if he was making the right decision. There was only one thought prevailing among the thousands of others in his crowded mind: After all this time— could he possibly know what the right decision was anymore?

The house was dark, save for the bluish haze of the computer screen. David had been drinking. It was the only way he could find the courage necessary to execute the chain of events that he had been contemplating for the last three months.

He took another swig from the bottle beside him. The bourbon couldn’t stop the shaking. David knew that the drinking wouldn’t help— but he no longer cared.

The memo was only four paragraphs in length. Some 400 words to describe the Hell that he had helped to create.

Would sending this message be worth the consequences? He forced a laugh, reaching for a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes. “Screw ‘em,” he whispered, hitting the return key. Within seconds, David’s confession was coded and sent deep into cyberspace, making its way toward an unwitting recipient.

What’s done was done.

He took a long drag on his Camel cigarette, feeling some small measure of satisfaction. Too many people had died. Too many lies. It was time for some truth. With his eyes still closed, David reached down and opened the desk drawer. Reaching inside, he felt the cold, yet welcome, steel of the Lorcin semi-automatic.

He kept his eyes closed, crushing the remains of his cigarette on the desk and lodged the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin, slowly wrapping his index finger around the trigger.

“Forgive me, Beth,” he sobbed before squeezing the trigger.

With that, the deputy national security advisor was no longer a threat to those who were worried about his loyalties.

The deputy national security advisor commits suicide only a few hours before his widowed mother is brutally murdered on a small island off the coast of Maine. These events set the stage for a political thriller that ultimately leads three very different people on a journey of personal discovery and a quest for the truth.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

It’s estimated that more than 73,000 metric tons of herring are dumped each year along the coast of Maine for lobster bait, but how does the use of herring bait affect the lobsters that are being harvested in the Gulf of Maine?

That is the question Dr. Phil Yund and other scientists are hoping to answer this year as part of their collaborative research project entitled “Are we using herring to farm lobsters?  Effect of herring bait on lobster growth, and fate of discarded bait in benthic communities.”

The project was funded last year by a $111,972 grant from the Northeast Consortium, and its objectives are simple and straightforward.

Yund, along with Jon Grabowski and Erika Clesceri of the Gulf of Maine Research Institute, will use their research to determine the proportion of lobster diet and tissue derived from bait; assess the impact of a bait-augmented diet on lobster growth and population density; quantify the initial fate of discarded herring bait in the benthic community, and conduct an economic assessment of lobster production versus herring cost.

The project is scheduled to get underway in May and it should be finished in November, according to Yund. The study will focus on two specific areas, comparing data collected from the area surrounding Monehegan Island in Maine and the waters near Grand Manan Island in New Brunswick.

“Basically, we want to find out what’s really happening with all of the herring we dump as bait,” Yund said. “For instance, what other species are eating it, besides the lobsters?”

According to Yund, approximately 25,000 metric tons of lobster is harvested each year. The scientists are now wondering whether those lobsters are being affected, in terms of size and location, by the use of herring bait.

“What [lobsters] feed on during the summer is what makes them grow,” Yund said, explaining why the project will be conducted during the summer months.

In order to make their project work, the scientists needed the help of some lobstermen who know the geographic study area. Carl Wilson of the Maine Department of Marine Resources served as a liaison for the project and enlisted the help of some local lobstermen, including Matt Webber (F/V Griffin) from Monehegan Island.

 A need to participate

Webber, 25, is relatively young, but says he has a lot invested in the lobstering industry. Thus, he says, it made sense to participate in a collaborative research project that could have long-term impacts upon his livelihood.

“I work in a six-month fishery (Dec.- May),” Webber said. “Because of the closures, I end up with a lot of time on my hands At least this way, I’m able to be out on my boat, but I’ll also get to be a part of the process and I think that’s a good thing.”

Although Webber said he is interested in the research aspect of the project, he also expressed concerns about increased regulations, including trap limits and net change requirements.

“I think the more you know about a species, the better you can actually forecast what may take place in the future,” he said. “I’m young, and I want to be doing this for the rest of my life.”

Like many other fishermen who participate in collaborative research projects, Webber said he is expecting to face some challenges and minor difficulties by agreeing to work on the project.

“Sure, I’ll incur some costs. . . like increasing my insurance and picking up some extra survival gear, but I would still say it’s worth it,” he said. “This is my life and I want to be a part of it.”

The project’s goals

According to the project’s summary, recent lobster landings have been higher than traditionally thought to be sustainable. The thousands of tons of herring that are dumped into coastal waters each year are believed to be contributing to this production, and likely are having additional consequences for the near-shore benthic environment.

Three complementary methods will be used to assess the relative contribution of herring to lobster diet and growth in areas with and without bait.

Lobster gut contents will be examined to assess dietary impact. Secondly, nitrogen stable isotope ratios will be used to compare longer term effects of herring bait on lobster biomass production. Finally, single-season growth rates will be compared to determine whether the presence of herring bait increases short-term growth. By addressing these issues, this project will begin to assess how different fisheries are interconnected by fishing practices of lobster production versus herring cost.

[This is based on a true story, some of the names have been changed, for obvious reasons]

To truly appreciate the origin of this story, and why we actually thought we would be guests on the David Letterman Show, it is important to understand exactly how drunk we were on that late September evening.

We are talking about some serious alcohol, boys and girls.

We were hammered. We were plowed.  We were shitfaced, stone-cold, blathering, barely-could-walk drunk.

It was 1986, and I had just discovered the literary genius of Hunter S. Thompson.  I was a quarter century behind, so I had some serious catching up to do.

Jackson wasn’t in much better shape. We weaved our way along Spring Street in Portland through the pre-dawn darkness, headed toward our rat-hole apartment on the lunatic edge of the West End.

If memory serves, we giggled as we staggered along, kicking trash cans in the days long before recycling bins.

It had been a long day. Jackson and I were roommates, and we worked at the same Old Port restaurant. He was a flamboyant homosexual, so naturally he was a waiter.

I was a down-on-my-luck college drop-out, so naturally, I worked in the kitchen. The odds of either of us sleeping with a woman anytime in the near future were beyond comprehension.

“Shit!” Jackson blurted quite suddenly, pausing on the sidewalk and looking like he was about to do something really stupid.

I found my balance and attempted a turn so I could face him. “What?” I asked, thinking I might vomit at any given moment.

“We missed Letterman,” he said, his jaw slackening as the color rushed from his already pale face. “Dammit, I hate when that happens.”

“It’s okay,” I replied. “I’ve seen enough stupid pet tricks to last a lifetime.”

Jackson was seriously annoyed, and he stared forlornly at his feet. I turned back toward my wayward march home but something caught my eye and made me freeze in my tracks.

It was draped over an aluminum trash can, and its grotesque beauty was highlighted by a flickering street lamp. It was a black velvet painting of Abraham Lincoln, perhaps the tackiest thing I had come across in my 22 years on planet Earth.

“Look at this,” I said, pointing at my discovery.

Jackson’s face brightened. He temporarily forgot all about David Letterman, at least for the next 48 seconds or so. “It’s perfect, he said, rushing over to examine the canvass more closely. “It’s perfect for the dining room!”

Did I mention Jackson was a flamboyant homosexual?

We immediately seized our new treasure and continued our trek toward Neal Street, laughing about all the things we could do with this discarded and stained piece of magic debris.

We contemplated a very early breakfast at the Denny’s on outer Congress Street, but we barely had the energy or aptitude to make it to our apartment. And driving was certainly out of the question.

So instead, Jackson brewed a pot of coffee as I sat on the couch, staring into the black velvet eyes of America’s sixteenth president.

If you ask Jackson, he will swear it was his idea. But it’s my story, and I prefer to remember that it was an alcohol-induced epiphany of my own making.

He was still puttering in our tiny kitchen when I shared my idea. “We should take pictures of this thing all over town,” I hollered toward the kitchen.

Jackson walked into the living room with the pot of coffee. “No, we should take it on a cross-country trip and submit the photos to David Letterman,” he said.

Maybe it was the Seagram’s talking. Maybe it was because I could not imagine my life getting much worse, but whatever the reason, my imagination raced. “Yeah,” I said, sitting forward on the couch. “We’ll visit really lame tourist traps all over the country and ask people we meet to pose with Abe.”

We were still too wasted to consider the consequences of our conversation.

“We’ll call it the Lincoln Tour,” Jackson pronounced.

I said what any other penniless, 22-year-old man would say. “Let’s do it!”

The Adventure Begins

Neither of us had any money, but unlike me — Jackson had convinced Key Bank to give him a credit card some three months before. He had also just made his final payment on a 1980 Mercury Zephyr station wagon. The car was fire-truck red with a chrome roof rack.

We had crappy jobs and shared a crappy apartment. He didn’t have a boyfriend, and I didn’t have a girlfriend. The way we saw it, there was nothing to lose.

We loaded the Zephyr with our prized possessions before quitting our respective jobs. It was Sunday afternoon, and we called a few friends to meet us for brunch. We could not wait to tell them about our plans.

There was only one glitch. We would have to sedate Jackson’s 13-year-old cat, Moses. Otherwise, we didn’t know how we could get the cat to his sister’s house in Gloucester, Mass.

We didn’t need maps. We figured it would be easy enough to get to L.A. by just following road signs. We each borrowed some money from friends. It went without saying that those loans would never be repaid. We sold or abandoned whatever possessions that could not fit into the car.

It was now almost 5 p.m., and the sun was already fading as our collective hangovers switched into high gear.

On Day One, we barely made it to Gloucester. Moses did not enjoy the ride. He escaped from his box and scratched everything in sight, including my limbs and neck.

Undaunted, we soldiered on, and dropped our first postcard to David Letterman on Monday morning at the Gloucester Post Office.

Back then, Letterman was still with NBC, so our plan was simple: we would build mystery and excitement by sending periodic teasers to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Each postcard or dining room placemat would read: Look for the Lincoln Tour: Coming to a town near you very soon!

We had only 2,918 miles to go, and we were excited to begin our traveling documentary. We bought six cartridges of film for my Kodak Instamatic camera, a giant bag of Fritos and new sunglasses for Jackson.

We talked excitedly about what we would say as guests on the David Letterman Show and set our sights on Philadelphia for the first real day of driving.

The Journey

I could share all sorts of details about those first few days, but this is supposed to be a short story. So, I will skip details about the big fight we had in Manassas, Virginia, when I missed the exit three times. Nor will I discuss the 12 days we spent with Jackson’s friend, Fat Sam, in Knoxville, Tennessee, or details about another fight while camping along the south rim of the Grand Canyon.

Jackson was upset that I did buy into his theory of how eating salsa would help keep you warm when it’s very cold outside.

Instead, suffice it to say that we took lots and lots of photos.  In each picture, Abe Lincoln was prominently featured. We conned people into posing for the pictures by telling them that we were crew members from the Letterman Show.

A Kentucky tourist who was vacationing with his family in Gettysburg grew a bit suspicious about our story. “How do I know you’re really with the Letterman show? “ he inquired, squinting at me like a Border Patrol agent in Nogales, Arizona.

“It’s okay, honey,” his chubby wife replied, pointing at our car. “They have Maine license plates. It must be for real.”

Jackson and I were both stunned by the collective gullibility of the American people. Their intense desire to perhaps have their photo selected for a national television show immediately vanquished any doubts about our credibility or the purpose of our mission.

We photographed tourists at the Lincoln Memorial, the Natural Bridge in Virginia and at Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. We took photos of the young and the old, the rich and the poor.

We got a picture of a Maryland State Trooper holding the black velvet portrait of Lincoln; there was a cute waitress at the Lincoln Diner in Gettysburg that I still cannot forget.

A lady in Oklahoma wanted to know why I was using such a shitty camera.

I didn’t flinch. “It needs to look authentic,” I explained. “These are supposed to look like any other typical family vacation pictures. It’s what Dave wants.”

Her boyfriend was not convinced. “Why don’t you have a release form or something?” he asked.

I let my annoyance show. “Look,” I barked. “You wanna be on the fucking show or not?”

He shrugged and grabbed Abe, waiting for me to frame the shot.

And that’s how it went for the next 15 days.

Jackson did most of the driving since I didn’t have a valid driver’s license.  We asked everyone we met to send a note to the Letterman show, telling them about seeing the Lincoln Tour. Most everyone eagerly agreed. A few of them even offered to personally call the NBC studios in New York.

We took more photos. A homeless man in Santa Fe; a group of college kids in Albuquerque and an art dealer in Little Rock.

We never made it to L.A. We ran out of money in Tucson, Arizona. I got a job bussing tables at the Red Robin restaurant at the Tucson Mall. Jackson got a job as a waiter at a much nicer restaurant.

Of course, we called NBC to see when they would like to meet with us. We got bounced to an intern in the assistant producer’s office. “We’re the guys from the Lincoln Tour,” Jackson announced as I watched him pace with the telephone.

The intern seemed less than pleased. “What the hell is the Lincoln Tour? Our mail room has been flooded with stuff about the Lincoln Tour.”

Jackson patiently explained our saga. The intern promised to call us back.

That was 1986.

I’m still waiting for that phone call from David Letterman.

It was late afternoon on August 10, 1865 when Cornell Weston and Hugh Jeffries greeted one another on the sidewalk near the entrance of the Eagle Nest Publican House on Boylston Street, just a stone’s throw from the southwest corner of Boston Common and less than one mile from the city’s burgeoning financial district. The city’s cobblestone streets were drenched with humidity and the sun was hanging low in the sky.

Carpenters working on the final phases of Boston’s City Hall on School Street were beginning their long trek home, through the Common toward Dorchester or somewhere else in South Boston. Many of the sweat-stained workers wandered into the Eagle Nest for a well-deserved pint after a long day of labor. Although horse carriages lined both sides of Boylston, the workers could rarely afford the fares after consuming several pints of bitter.

Weston and Jefferies were regulars at the working-class pub, and they spent many long hours at their favorite corner table near the back of the tavern. Here, they debated politics, interpreted philosophy and romanticized about the prospects of their career paths as newly minted members of the Commonwealth Bar. For them, mingling with the commoners added to their sense of superiority among their fellow man.

“After you,” Jeffries told Weston, holding back the oak door of the pub’s entrance, and tipping his felt Bowler hat to his colleague.

“Delighted by your grace,” Weston replied with a sly grin and returning the gesture.

“Always the consummate gentleman,” Jeffries said as he followed his friend inside the tavern.

Cornell Weston was 25 years old. He was lanky with wavy brown hair and deep-set eyes. A native of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Weston’s family had amassed a small fortune in the export business that loaded seafaring vessels with textile goods while also investing in shipbuilding endeavors. Cornell was the first member of his family to attend post-graduate school. His father, an accountant, was determined that his son would attend both Boston Latin and Harvard.

Cornell was hired after graduation by Fidelity Reserve, one of the nation’s largest import-export companies. Fidelity operated offices in four states, including Virginia, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts and New York. Cornell was a brash and opinionated man who was less than satisfied with his current position as deputy general counsel at Fidelity Reserve. He believed himself to be ready for the bench or some other more noble cause. He feared that his legal talents were being fettered away as he spent his days revising and reviewing shipping and manifest contracts.

The bright spot in his career was this: Frazier Randolph, general counsel at Fidelity Reserve, was a portly man, 52 years of age and generally in poor health with an incessant cough. When Randolph died, which Cornell assumed would be any day now, Cornell’s pay would triple and he would have the title of General Counsel.

Hugh Jeffries was much shorter than his best friend, and his girth suggested that he rarely waved away fine cheeses or breads. His curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes belied the true man that he was, giving him an outwardly impish appearance.

Unlike Weston, Jeffries came from old money, and he still lived with his parents at their Central Square mansion in Cambridge. Upon graduation, Jeffries immediately accepted a position at Stewart, Kindley & Smythe, one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms. He worked in the firm’s Real Estate & Trust Bureau, and he fully expected to become a partner in less than two years’ time.

Being one of the most popular publican houses in Back Bay, the long wooden tables at the Eagles Nest were being quickly filled by thirsty men, seeking some small measure of relief on such a hot and humid day.

For the most part, Weston and Jeffries ignored the other men in the tavern. They spent several minutes chatting about current events, their respective careers and Laura Whittermore, the woman Weston had fancied for more than three months. Despite his intense feelings for Miss Whittemore, and her seemingly in-kind inclinations, Weston had uttered no more than four phrases to her, usually in passing on the way home to his Dartmouth Street apartment.

The two men were now near halfway through their second round when Jeffries could sense that Weston was troubled, watching in puzzlement as his best friend remained silent, staring forlornly toward the window overlooking the busy street.

“Why so glum? Has Miss Whittemore become engaged?” Jeffries laughed.

Weston barely acknowledged the question, toying gently with the stein in front of him. After a moment of pause, he turned from his stare out the window and looked directly into his friend’s eyes.

“Do you ever feel as if we our idling our time away?” he asked.

Jeffries was taken aback. “Heavens, man. Our lives are before us, the streets paved with marble for our bare feet. It’s been a little more than a year since graduation. What possible regrets could you have now?”

“This is hardly what I envisioned,” Weston said, ignoring the growing throng of customers and returning his gaze toward the window.

“Well, what do you envision then?” Jeffries asked with a mixture of curiosity and dread, almost afraid of the answer and its implications for his own dreams.

“I envision us to be captains of industry, masters of our destiny,” said Weston, a bit more clearly, as he finally took a swig of his ale.

“Well, we are certainly on our way,” Jeffries replied, somewhat heartened that his friend was regaining his normal composure and bluster.

“At a damn snail’s pace,” Weston almost barked. If not for the size of the crowd and the din of happy drinkers, Weston’s tone and tenure may have caused a curious glance. Instead, his remarks were lost deep within the conversations of other boisterous men.

“Am I to assume that you have a proposal to adjust our fates?” Jeffries asked with a grin. “Some grand scheme, perhaps?”

Weston’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned over the table, setting his elbows firmly in place as he stared again at his friend. “How many times over the course of these last few months have we discussed the death of our president?” Weston asked.

Jeffries shrugged. “I dare say countless times,” he responded.

“And where would the Union be today if Booth’s master plan had manifested itself more completely?”

“We can only thank the Lord that the Union was preserved,” Jeffries said, wishing the conversation would take a more pleasant tone; perhaps arguing about Adams’ defense of the British troops during the Boston Massacre or opining about the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. After all, they were Harvard men, required to engage in deep thought and question, but certainly not to ponder the demise of the nation.

“Are you then content to be a clerk?” Weston snapped.

Now it was Jeffries who could feel his face redden. “I am hardly a clerk, sir! Need I remind you that I am poised to become a partner in one of the nation’s most prestigious law firms in less than two years hence?”

“Would you bank your parents’ money on that?” Weston asked, leaning back in his chair, satisfied that he had the full attention of his friend.

Jeffries took another swig of ale, motioning the barmaid to bring another round, though he could feel his fists clenching. He turned sideways to his friend, while raising his arm to the barmaid. “You’ve never held my family’s good fortune against me before. Why now?”

“I ask it only as a rhetorical question, my friend,” Weston said before draining his stein. “I am simply asking you to think about the possibilities – about the future.”

Jeffries was puzzled, and he paused while the barmaid filled their steins. “The future?”

“Yes, my good friend. The future. It is on precipitous ground.”

“Nonsense,” Jeffries replied. “The rebellion was crushed. The war is over. The men gathered in this tavern are nearly complete in building a new City Hall. Within a manner of weeks, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology will be opening its doors on the other side of the Charles, only blocks from where I live. The Pacific Railroad is nearly complete and will connect our two coastlines. America’s future has never been brighter.”

“But our president was taken; and who is to say that another rebellion is no just around the corner?”

“Perhaps it is the ale that impairs my judgment,” Jeffries replied. “But I dare say you are taking the pessimist’s view of our current state of affairs.”

“My good friend, it is not the ale, nor the rantings of a madman,” Weston said, fully animated now. “We are Harvard men. We have a God-given obligation to our fellow man. We must see the opportunities before us even before they have clarity. We must seize on these opportunities.”

“I confess that I am complexed,” said Jeffries. “On the one hand, you speak of doom and gloom. In the very next breath, you are speaking of opportunities to be seized. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the basis of your logic.”

“It’s really quite elementary,” Weston exclaimed, throwing up his arms for dramatic effect. “There are countless firms, individuals and organizations around the globe, most of them rattled by the war and its associated discontent; its air of unpredictability. We can help those clients hedge against the potential of another upheaval in these United States.”

“And, my friend, how do we do this?” Jeffries asked, waving his forefinger at his own chest and toward Weston.

Weston slapped his hands on the table so hard that the two steins of beer shook. “We start our own law firm. A firm dedicated to the principles of preserving the Union forever more. You and I shall be partners.”

Jeffries chortled. “Partners? In our own firm?”

“Yes,” Weston said without flinching. We become partners. We pool our resources and chart our own destiny. Imagine not having to pore over wills and trusts? After all, within two years hence, you may as well be drafting your own will and testament because Stewart, Kindley & Smythe will be surely the death of you.”

“I would require time to contemplate such a proposal,” Jeffries said, unable to face his friend and staring down at the table.

Weston ignored the obvious doubt in his friend’s tone. “Splendid,” he said. “We shall meet here again on Friday. I will bring along someone I have to come to respect at Fidelity. His name is Donald Kendall. He’s British, an Oxford man who studied at the London School of Economics. We will need a third man, someone with international expertise because we cannot limit our future to the borders of our own nation.”

“Very well,” Jeffries replied. “Bring this Kendall fellow, and I promise to give your proposal serious consideration.”

“Splendid,” Weston said, standing from the table and reaching over to shake his friend’s hand.

Jeffries paused. “We’re not shaking on a deal.”

“Of course not,” Weston beamed. “We are simply setting the stage for a future conversation; one which I assure you will forever change the world.”

_______________

 The small corner table was barely able to accommodate the three men and their steins. Donald Kendall silently wondered why Weston and Jeffries would frequent such a roughhouse. He glanced at the stairs behind the table, wondering where those steps led. To what devices were those second floor rooms used?

Mr. Kendall desperately wanted to wash his hands.

Weston, however, was brimming with excitement. “Lads, we are looking down the barrel of a golden opportunity,” he said taking a long swallow of ale to punctuate his words.

“I might agree with the looking down the barrel part of your sentence,” Jeffries said, trading nervous glances with Kendall and feeling more and more ill at ease.

“My dear, chap,” Kendall said. “I am only here this eve because you promised me two free pints.”

Weston ignored both men. “It will be an equal partnership,” he proclaimed. We need each to invest no more than $500. I already have an office flat picked out on Tremont Street, a prestigious address for a prestigious firm.”

“Do I still get my two free pints?” Kendall smirked.

But Jeffries was close to being livid with his friend. “You are already choosing office space and have yet to hear our consent,” Jeffries said, refusing to hide his incredulity.

“Our purpose is more noble and grand than our own selfish interests,” Weston replied, darting his eyes back and forth at the two men. “The way I see things, Mr. Kendall, is that you will promptly return to London to open our offices there. Hire two or three associates and offer them handsome salaries. We will then have offices in Boston and London – an international firm — and our clients will soon be flocking for our services rendered.”

Jeffries and Kendall traded glances, both men filled with doubt and hardy moved by Weston’s enthusiasm.

“You would have me leave the colonies, after being here less than a year?” Kendall asked. “And you want me to resign a job of means based on nothing more than a handshake in a brothel?”

Weston flinched in his seat. “Two points, Mr. Kendall. Firstly, these are no longer colonies. Britain lost the war.”

“Great Britain,” Kendall interrupted.

“Yes, yes,” Weston said, annoyed and shaking his head in frustration. “And secondly – perhaps most importantly – The Eagle Nest is a fine establishment and beyond your poorly conceived ideas about its purpose.”

The minutes turned to hours and it was now well past midnight. Weston knew that both Jeffries and Kendall shared his insatiable ambition, if not for money then for prestige. Weston’s calculation paid off as other two men allowed their imaginations to roam over several pints of bitter ale. Within an hour more, Kendall and Jeffries were weakened. Their ambition, coupled with Weston’s fiery rhetoric, finally subdued all their protests.

Thus, the foundation of Boston’s newest law firm was laid. Each of the men would deliver to their respective employers a thirty-day notice of employment termination. All three knew that they would be dismissed immediately. After much haggling and ample discussion, they drafted a copy of their new firm’s Intent & Purpose:

To serve the nation and the people of the United States, and to all those who have interests therein, whether they be foreign or domestic, in a manner that demands the highest standards of integrity, trust and discretion. And above all else: an unparalleled measure of loyalty amongst ourselves to – through force of law — quell insurrection and to dislodge tyrants in all their forms.

Both Weston and Kendall were required to secure individual lines of credit, along with loans of $200 apiece from their respective families.

Jeffries, however, had his own means through an inheritance he received from his late grandfather.

Over the next fifteen years and with the recruitment of several Harvard classmates, the firm of Jeffries, Weston & Kendall flourished. They had established offices in Boston, Philadelphia, Washington DC, London and Paris.

Their practice areas focused on political consulting, risk analysis and financial management.

Although the firm started small — recruiting local candidates for the Boston City Council, the Massachusetts Assembly and other local races — they became trusted advisors to members of Congress in 12 states, including six members of the U.S. Senate. On the international front, Donald Kendall provided advice and counsel to firms that were planning investments in the states, including imports and exports and advising the British Parliament about tariff policies and the expected reaction in the States.

The firm soon found itself investing its clients’ resources in private security firms and providing insurance for sailing vessels and railroads. But the centerpiece of Jeffries, Weston & Kendall was solidly rooted in their ability to provide political stability with carefully, handpicked candidates who would provide the firm’s clients with a certain measure of predictability.

The ambition of the firm’s partners was insatiable, and there was no predicting their limitations.

But on a rainy evening in early July 1881, the firm was about to face its first real test of power and influence.

President James Garfield was assassinated by Charles J. Guiteau, a drifter with a troubled past and a history of erratic behavior.

Hugh Jeffries offered to attend the trial. He was nervous about the political implications. A second assassination of a United States president did not bode well for the firm or its partners. Clearly, the financial markets would be rattled. Was the United States stable enough to attract greater investment from around the world?

The trial began on November 14 in Washington, D.C, and Jeffries had arranged for himself a prominent seat in the court galley and a room only three blocks from the courthouse. During each day of the trial, Jeffries took copious notes and then dutifully mailed them each evening to his partner in Boston.

But Jeffries’ had an epiphany of sorts a little more than two weeks into the trial.

It was an especially cold night in Washington, and Jeffries dined with some other attorneys at the end of the day. He tried to put on a show of confidence as he sipped Cognac and smoked cigars, but inwardly he was reeling.

By the time, he returned to the inn, his stomach was in knots. The embers burning in the fireplace of his suite gave the ample room a soft glow. Jeffries reached to the nightstand for another swig of his Irish whiskey in an attempt to calm his racing mind and remove the chill of the night air.

He pulled another woolen blanket over himself, speculating which way the trial would go. If Guiteau escaped the force of law by reason of insanity, then the work he and his partners had executed would be foiled. The young nation would again be viewed as unstable and unable to control its population.

That outcome, of course, was troubling, meaning that any wretch with a pistol could throw the nation into chaos and disrupt the normal course of events, including multitudes of commerce.

Sleep seemed impossible, and Hugh Jeffries was as restless as he could ever remember. But there was another gnawing thought upon his brain as he lay awake on that damp evening in late November. At first, the idea lacked clarity but did not take long to cement itself, and he seized upon it with force.

If it were true that any wretch – especially one so malleable – could disrupt the nation and its associated activities of commerce, who was the real tyrant? Who deserved to die? Depending on one’s perspective, there were two sides of this particular coin.

Perhaps, Jeffries thought, this trial was much more an opportunity than a setback for Jeffries, Weston & Kendall. With the slightest bit of manipulation, the central question of this trial could well become who was the tyrant: Garfield or Guiteau? The answer would seem obvious to most men, but Hugh Jeffries was not most men. His firm was prospering beyond all expectations and yet his ambition continued to consume him.

Could someone daring and bold enough hold such a coin and give equal consideration to both sides?

If Garfield was a threat to the nation, then should there not be a more expedient way of removing him from office rather than the drawn-out process of impeachment. But who would decide? Who would judge the tyrant?

If Jeffries, Weston and Kendall was proficient in placing men of high caliber into positions of power and influence, should it not retain the means to remove those same men if it became necessary? Perhaps not with a pistol, especially since Jeffries abhorred violence, but there were many other methods of dealing with tyrants.

Jeffries was able to rationalize his epiphany with one simple sentence. Stability and the greater good of the nation must be preserved, and it is incumbent upon men of good will to ensure that the government would not undo the greater good for which it was created.

Now, Jeffries could hardly wait for his return to Boston so that he could confer his ideas with Weston. Such thoughts, he reasoned, should never be committed to parchment. He would abandon the trial and leave for Boston on the morning train.

What Jeffries could not imagine that night was how his single coin theory would forever change the course of human events, and make his growing law firm one of the most powerful and influential in the world.

He drifted off to a deep sleep with a smile on his face, thinking not of his bride or young children but rather the delight in meeting again with his partner and best friend, Cornell Weston.

There was much to discuss and contemplate. And the dreams came quickly.

c. 2017/Randy Seaver