Political Science 101

Chapter Twenty-One

AS EXPECTED, the pipeline vote in the House of Representatives was put on a three-to-six-month postponement while the ramifications of the new plans were mulled-over by the Senate Oil and Gas Committee. This was a tremendous relief to United States House of Representatives member Arnold Jenkins. As he sat in his lavish Washington DC office — fully furnished by a friend of a friend of Lenore Sable as a "thanks" for a critical vote on illegal immigrant work status legislation two years prior — he continued to contemplate his options regarding his vote for the pipeline.

He lightly bit his nails, a habit he'd only recently undertaken, as he stood and stared out into a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May. Most of his staff did not work on the weekends, so Jenkins often used Saturdays to think in his office and get some quiet work done without the normal highway of interoffice traffic speeding and swerving in and out and around.

The phone on his desk rang, jolting him out of contemplation.

The phone rang again, prompting him to wonder, who knew he was in the office on a Saturday?

"Yes?" he answered in a voice meant to sound like he was busy.

"Mr. Jenkins," a man said inquisitively, "I'm sorry to have to call on a weekend, but a mutual acquaintance of ours mentioned that you were in the office today."

"And who is this mutual acquaintance?" Jenkins asked, trying not to sound puzzled.

"I'd rather not say," the man muttered with hesitation.

"Well, then, to whom am I speaking? Or would you rather not say that either?" Jenkins' voice seemed to roll its eyes in annoyance.

Silence.

"Well," Jenkins said impatiently, "if you're not—"

"There are some things you need to know regarding some of the people you're dealing with." The man on the phone sounded like he was hiding, trying to keep quiet, but Jenkins could hear other voices echoing in the background, like the chattering of a busy shopping mall.

"And what people are these?" Jenkins was reasonably certain where this conversation was going — he knew damn-good-and-well what people — but he found himself more interested in the identity of the caller rather than his cautionary message.

"You know exactly who I'm talking about," the caller said impatiently, "so quit playing dumb." Frustration was bleeding through the man's words. "I was privy to a booze-fueled conversation last night that I don't think was meant for my ears. These people are serious. Don't fuck around. You're in their pocket now, and there's no getting out. They pull the strings. Or, at least they think they do. They own you!"

"Listen you coward son of a bitch," Jenkins uttered in rage, "I am a United States congressman! No one pulls my strings, I'm in no one's pocket and no one owns me!" He took a deliberately loud breath. "I will conduct myself as I damn-well-please and not you or anyone will convince me otherwise! Got it?" He impatiently awaited a reply.

"Mr. Jenkins," the man sighed, sounding somewhat defeated, "you obviously have no idea who you're dealing with." He paused for a long moment. "Just consider this a friendly word of caution. I'll call again in the future."

The man hung up.

As Jenkins sat down with the phone still at his ear, listening to the sustained sound of the subsequent dial tone, he fought a battle within his mind — a battle between ego and rationality. It was a gruesome battle; hand-to-hand combat with many casualties, and rationality was losing.

He returned the phone to its cradle and slowly wandered to his office window, gazing intently upon the Washington DC landscape. Hundreds of years of history stared back at him in the form of statues, monuments, and buildings. The whiteish-greyish hue of these structures stood in contrast to the dark stormfront in the distance which seemed to be slowly ominously lurking toward him. He knew rain was in the forecast, but did not realize it would be such a storm.

"What have I gotten myself into," he said quietly to himself, leaning his head against the cool pane of glass. His subtle (but rapid) breathing was fogging a small section of the window. He closed his eyes and waited for his pulse to slow down. It didn't — not for hours.