Atlas Unplugged Sample

ATLAS UNPLUGGED

A NOVEL

By JAMES SHEEHAN

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

The poor stay poor, the rich get rich

That’s how it goes

Everybody knows

LEONARD COHEN

PROLOGUE

Charlevoix, Michigan

June, 2014

Jerry Carver never sat down and took stock of his life. He just lived it. Went with the flow. And for the most part, it turned out well-until it didn’t.

Jerry had taught English literature at Alvion College for twenty-five years before retiring two years ago to the quaint little town of Charlevoix, near the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The summers in this tranquil slice of the heartland were delightful. There were numerous lakes for Jerry to take his little twenty-four-foot skiff out on. He loved to fish. More than that, he loved the solitude of being out on the water with no one around, just he and his fishing pole.

Jerry’s wife, Carol, had passed away from cancer three years before. The couple never had any children. It wasn’t from lack of desire. They simply couldn’t conceive. Carol had spoken to the doctor about it but never gave Jerry a straight answer why, which made him believe that he was probably the problem. It was just like Carol to protect his tender ego by shielding him from the fact that his little sperm cells weren’t strong enough to swim up the canal.

The death of his life partner prompted Jerry at the young age of fifty-two to retire. Alvion held too many memories of Carol and Jerry knew from his own observation and experiences as well as from the many romance novels and poems he had read, that he had to start anew. He remembered Charlevoix from a bicycle trip he and Carol had taken years before.

It was such a beautiful little town where they could bike and boat and laugh and love. It wasn’t a totally new start-Carol’s memory was still there-but he wasn’t steeped in her as he was in Alvion.

The winters were harsh, and he was alone but that was the point, at least part of it. As a professor of literature, Jerry had always wanted to write a novel.

He was acutely aware of the saying, ‘those who can’t write, teach’ He had one goal before he died: writing a novel and having it published.

Unfortunately, the best laid plans of men sometimes go awry. And so it was for Jerry. He started off well, full of energy and ideas. It was going to be a literary murder mystery. He was going to set his novel on the famous Mackinac Island in the Upper Peninsula, an island reachable only by ferry or private boat and where no automobiles were allowed.

Jerry thought he had a unique plot: The President comes to visit the governor at her summer home on Mackinac and is assassinated while taking a bicycle ride around the island just before sunset. Everything on the island is immediately sealed off. The ferries are stopped. No boats of any kind can enter or leave. Still, the Secret Service and the FBI cannot locate the killer. Jerry had not yet worked out the plot twists, but he had a few ideas.

He never got to work those plot twists out, however. At least not all of them. Jerry found that he could only fully concentrate on his novel for two or three hours a day. He spent the rest of his time doing something else he had always wanted to do but never had time. He started regularly reading the Federalist Papers online. One day, maybe the second week of his reading, he was contacted by someone inviting him to a group chat about the Federalist Papers and their relationship to the present.

Jerry’s new friends were from a chat room that was part of a larger group called the Federalist Club.

He’d heard of The Federalist Society before but never the Federalist Club. The Club had no motto or anything. It loosely described itself as a collection of freethinking countrymen. Try as he might, Jerry could not find anything online or anywhere else about the Federalist Club.

It didn’t take long for Jerry, who was a lonely man even though he did not want to admit it, to get deeply involved with the Club. He joined the chats with his group every day when he was tired of writing his novel and reading The Federalist Papers, which could be very dry. The funny thing about online ‘clubs’, you never knew who you were talking to.

Almost everybody had a handle-like Gandalf or The Shadow, or Faust. Jerry was one of the few who used his real name.

Jerry felt a kinship with his online friends even though he had never met one of them or knew anything about them other than what they disclosed on-line. They were looking for a better country and so was he. Sometimes people shared personal stories.

Gandalf lived in New York City not far from Central Park. He liked ‘chatting’ from a park bench, weather permitting. The Shadow revealed that he was an older gentleman who had an affinity for mysteries and science fiction. And Faust, his handle according to him or her, represented our modern-day society’s thirst for money and power above all else—a pact with the devil. They were just a few. There were many more.

Jerry knew eventually he would find a handle that fit him but, for now, he was just Jerry. He shared with them his goal of writing a novel and he even sent every one of them an outline of his plot and invited them to share it with other members of the club.

“I’m looking for ideas and characters.” He told them. “Feel free to send me whatever you are thinking.” He gave them his email and his address just in case someone wanted to send something by mail.

And he did receive responses from all over the country. Those responses made Jerry realize that the Federalist Club, was a whole lot bigger than he had ever imagined.

That is when things started to go all wrong for Jerry.

“You have to start writing for the Club.” Gandalf told him.

“Yeah.” The Shadow chimed in. “We’ve been trying to get an online newsletter going that can be distributed among all the groups in the Club. We need writers. People to write provocative essays.”

“Revolutionary essays.” Faust added.

An article had been germinating in Jerry’s mind for weeks. He had been trying to figure out how to use it in his novel when Gandalf made his suggestion. That’s a great idea! Jerry thought. It will be good practice for my novel.

Like most college professors living in academia their whole life, Jerry was woefully naive although when it came to government plots and machinations, he had quite an imagination. So, he wrote his essay and distributed a rough draft to his ‘friends’ for review in the same way that he had sent his book synopsis complete with his email and home address.

The essay was quite good and realistic. Several months earlier the federal government had succeeded in delaying a federal election in the state of Minnesota because the Russians allegedly had infiltrated the voting machines in the state. No proof was presented of the infiltration because the sources and methods used in uncovering the infiltration were highly classified. A lawsuit was filed over the delay, and it went to the state High Court and eventually to the United States Supreme Court but the executive branch of the government, the President, ultimately prevailed.

Jerry saw the decision as part of a larger plan on the part of the President. Unemployment was high and the economy was in recession. What was going to stop the President who was up for reelection from declaring that the Russians had infiltrated voting machines across the country so the election for president had to be delayed? The President had his precedent from the Supreme Court and the evidence of the infiltration was still classified. The stage was set.

Before he wrote the final draft of his essay though, Jerry took a break. He went to Mackinac Island to do some research for his book. This had been a special place for he and Carol. They both loved it, and they were always like giddy teenagers as soon as they stepped on the ferry heading for the island. One year, Jerry splurged and booked a room for he and his favorite girl at The Grand Hotel. He couldn’t afford it but so what. After dinner, on the carriage ride back from the Woods Restaurant, Jerry professed his undying love and asked Carol to marry him.

He was awash in those memories on this most recent trip as he exited from the Iroquois Hotel at dusk after a dinner of Whitefish and mashed potatoes. As he rode his bicycle past the Grand Hotel towards his room on the far end of the island, he thought about Carol and the night she said yes. His eyes were moist. His heart was glad. He did not even feel the bullet that struck the middle of his forehead or the second one that penetrated his chest.

Jerry’s essay never did get published. Neither did his book. Just like the fictional President in his proposed novel, he was shot and killed while riding his bicycle on Mackinac Island.

CHAPTER ONE

St Petersburg, FL

June, 2018

“I always wanted to be the President.” He told her. “Ever since I first saw the image of JFK– handsome, dashing, a beautiful wife–he was my motivation. I never listened to my parents. They’d encourage me, sometimes even disciplined me, to try and get me to focus on my studies. I can remember my father telling me how education was the way to get ahead in life. On another occasion, he told me that I was going to get through high school if he had to kick me through. None of it sunk in until I saw a documentary about the President and his family: Harvard educated, rich, beautiful people—I was hooked.”

The psychologist, Laura Bentley, listening to all this drivel was constantly checking the clock in a way that the subject, her patient, wouldn’t notice. She had perfected these moves during a lifetime of listening to utter nonsense masquerading as real problems. Watch the patient’s eyes. They were the key. Wait until they were involved in their story, and you could see that they were elsewhere, staring at the wall or the ceiling. That was the perfect time to glance at the clock that was positioned, for this exact purpose, right above and behind their head.

In the old days it had been much easier. They would lay on the couch and vomit their problems while looking at the ceiling. Now, however, it was the comfortable chair stage, where they’d sit in the chair and look right at you. You had to appear interested and sympathetic which was an art in and of itself.

It was easy to miss the moments when the patient’s eyes drifted. They were fleeting and short-lived.

There were a lot of legitimate mental health patients who came through her door, and she loved helping them but more and more these days she found herself listening to useless garbage by self-centered, poor me people who couldn’t get out of their own way. She wished she had gone to medical school and afterwards attained a specialty in psychiatry.

Then she could just prescribe them drugs and send them on their way. Listening was the primary tool of her trade—hour after hour. Why the fuck did I become a psychologist?

This one was a real beauty. I always wanted to be President. Delusions of grandeur. It wasn’t a diagnosis-yet. She was curious though. That is where the well-placed question, a part of every psychologist’s repertoire, came in.

“So, what did you do?” She asked.

“About what?”

He must have been a handsome kid when he was younger. Not New England handsome, he was clearly Italian. He had thick brown hair a soft round nose, and thick lips. He had been worn down now by life though. His chart told her that he was forty-five.

It was the wearing down part she wanted to know about.

“You said you were hooked by the President and his family so what does that mean?”

“I was just putting you on. I figured you’ve got to listen to a bunch of crap all day, I’d make it interest-ing-give you a good story.”

“That’s not how this works. Mr-“

“Citoli. It’s hard to remember and even harder to pronounce. The ‘C’ is like an ‘S’ and there is no ‘H’ after the ‘C’.”

“Mr. Citoli, you were sent here by court order. I literally hold your fate in my hands. This is no time for games.”

“Alright. Alright. It’s partially true. I wanted to be a politician and I was inspired by JFK.”

“Okay?”

“I went to a small school in Ohio, and I did pretty well–business and poly-science major.

Worked on Wall Street for a few years, made some money, and then I ran for the New York State Assembly and won. I figured I’d start slow, and work my way up to the Presidency.”

She raised her eyes at that last sentence, and he gave her a quick smile to let her know he was putting her on again.

“Can we just stick to the facts without embellishment?” She asked.

“Sure.” He said, smiling again.

“Go on.”

“I was doing great for a few years. I got re-elected. Then I met Stella. She worked for a guy on the other side of the aisle, and I fell for her hook, line and sinker.”

The story was getting better—a state assemblyman, a woman, and now a shit show sitting in her office. Laura wanted to know if it was true and, if so, how and where it went wrong, and she didn’t want to wait until next week to get to the ending. With whackadoodles like this, sometimes next week never happened.

“Tell me about her.”

“She was gorgeous. Tall, brunette, green eyes, beautiful figure.”

Men! Laura thought. Always go for the show.

Never the substance. It was an overgeneralization, she knew, the kind of generalizations people in her position should never make. But she also knew in many cases it was true. And she was certain it was true for Joe, the guy sitting across from her.

“We had a brief romance, six months, but it was wild. She liked Tequila so I grew to like Tequila.

I often found myself half-loaded in the middle of the day. Unfortunately, I don’t think straight when I’m on that stuff. And I was totally out of control when I was with her. If she wanted it, I did it, no matter what it was. Have you ever been in a relationship like that?”

It was against the rules for her to talk about herself, but Laura wanted to keep the conversation moving.

“Yeah. Once. And it was the most destructive relationship of my life.”

“So, you know what I mean. I was helpless. She said ‘squirrel’ and I jumped. After a few months when she literally ‘owned’ me, she convinced me to dip into my campaign funds. First it was for gifts. Then she just wanted the money. And since she had done this with her boyfriend before me, it didn’t take long for an ethics investigation to start. It was around that time that she disappeared and…well, you can figure the rest. I barely escaped prison.”

“How long ago did all that happen?” Another well-placed question.

“Ten years.”

“And what have you been doing since?”

“Well, for a couple of years I sat around licking my wounds, living off my savings. Since then, I’ve been doing odd jobs like tax returns, investment counseling, telephone solicitation-anything where I don’t have a boss and I don’t have to show up somewhere on a regular basis.”

“When did you move to Florida?”

“Ten years ago. I had to get out of town and Florida seemed like the perfect place although nothing is perfect when your head’s fucked-up. Excuse my French. I was in Miami until about three months ago when I moved to St. Pete.”

“investment counseling?” Laura asked.

“Not really. I’ve got a website where I tout my experience on Wall Street and people contact me for advice. I never actually invest their money. If I did, I’d definitely be in jail by now. You give me ten grand I’ll either gamble it away or I’ll be drunk for six months.

We just bullshit about what they’re looking to invest in and what their goals are-that kind of garbage.

They pay me for the consultation. My advice can’t be too bad because I have some regulars. I don’t make much but up until a few months ago, it helped pay the bills.”

“What happened a few months ago?”

“I got evicted for non-payment of rent.”

“So, what have you been doing for the last three months?”

“Odd jobs here and there. Staying with friends when I can.”

“Do you have friends in St Pete?”

“I make friends easy. I clean up well and I’m a good conversationalist.”

Laura got the picture. “I see. It seems you’ve kind of been on a downhill slide for the last ten years and it has all finally caught up with you.”

“Look Doc, you and I both know I’m not just, as you so politely said, ‘on a downhill slide. I got punched in the face, hit the mat, and never got up.

It wasn’t a big punch, but I found out I can’t even take a little punch. People have these kinds of setbacks every day. I’m just one of the ones who couldn’t handle it.”

Laura checked the clock. It was almost time to let him go and she hadn’t even mentioned a rehabilitation plan.

“Do you plan on trying to get up or do you just want to stay on the mat forever?”

“Don’t know. I try to avoid the question. Only time it comes up is when I’m talking to folks like you.”

“Well, the judge is going to want to hear back from me. If I don’t come up with some kind of rehab plan, she’s probably going to put you in jail. This is your second DUI, and you did resist arrest.”

“I did not. They woke me up out of a sound sleep. I didn’t know the guys manhandling me were cops. I was just defending myself.”

“A sound sleep? On the side of the road with the car on.”

“What can I say? I was tired.”

“And drunk.”

“At least I had the good sense to pull off the road and sleep it off.”

Laura had no desire to debate whether Joe had any sense at all-good or bad-but she needed to come up with a plan for him if she wanted to keep him out of jail. He had been referred to her by the local circuit judge, Judge Shames, to see if he would be a candidate for a recently enacted program that placed an individual with alcohol issues in a rehabilitation program rather than send him to jail. Laura had been involved in the design of the program from its outset. Joe was a good candidate. Jail was definitely not going to help him. Maybe nothing would.

“I have a good friend who runs a non-profit.

They feed the homeless; take care of the mentally ill in the community who can’t help themselves; and do a lot of other charitable work. She needs a maintenance man for her building. It won’t be free. She’ll pay you minimum wage, but you’ll have to commit to six months, and you have to stay sober.”

“I’m not suited for that type of work.”

“It’s either that or jail. I can get the judge to put you in the program conditionally so long as you stay working. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure you’re going to jail.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice. Does she have a place for me to stay?”

“She does. It’s not the Taj Mahal but it will suffice for you.”

“All right. I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“You’re going to have to fill out some paperwork to allow me to fill her in on your circumstances and to get the judge to approve the plan. I will call the judges’ chambers and let them know you are going to start right away at The Renewal House. If you stay clean, you won’t have to go back to court for three months. Screw up even a little, you’ll go to jail first and then you’ll see the judge.”

“I got it. “He said. It’s not like he had never heard words to that effect before. “Where is the paperwork you want me to sign?”

Laura handed him the paperwork. “Who knows?” She said. “You might find some meaning in your life again.”

Joe didn’t respond to that last remark.

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