Dawn of the Unthinkable (27 page)

“Is he qualified to help us make that
important a decision?” Palma asked.

Cunningham snorted, “More qualified than any
of us, but too old to be at the forefront of anything like this.
He’ll be a great source of information, though.”

“Okay, dude, I hope you know what you’re
doing,” Ryan said.

“So do I,” Cunningham said, and they all
laughed.

“Okay, so what should I be doing?” Ryan
asked. Of all three, his was the least clearly defined role.

“You? You have the most important job of
all,” Cunningham said. “You have to convince all these people that
you’re not a con man, that you are really just a somewhat educated
guy who thought up a new way to do things. That’s it. That you are
not doing this to elevate Nick Ryan to “Emperor of the New World”
but for right now are just trying to get the idea considered. We’ll
bring in the part about the amendment; you’ll come out in support
of that later. It’s made easier by the fact that you work for the
government and have the perception of honesty in your favor. But
your personal story is going to come out, and people are going to
react to and empathize with that. You lost your wife and almost
your son to a brutal murder because of money. This will help you
and us connect with the many people in the country who have been
crime victims or lost a loved one to tragedy. While Americans are
fascinated by their celebrities, there are still more people like
us, middle class, who ultimately determine where society goes
because we vote. The upper class votes, too, but there are fewer of
them. What we need to do and what the upper class has always feared
is the organization of the lower class into a solid voting bloc.
That’s where Luis and his group come in. He has the Wobblies tell
their legislators that this is the way they want to go. He has his
group try to sign up more members, which will make them easier for
him to influence. If he can’t get more people to join, he at least
tries to motivate them to vote our way. If we can instruct these
people that their vote counts as much as Bill Gates’ vote, then we
can get the numbers to pull this off. But first we need to get two
thirds of the House, and two thirds of the Senate to vote for
this—not an easy job.”

Palma had been sitting through this with his
brow furrowed, thinking of something. “Wayne, I noticed you haven’t
mentioned the president at all in this. Doesn’t he count?”

Cunningham smiled and said, “I wondered when
one of you was going to ask that. I view this as a battle with the
Congress more than a fight to convince him. As you know, this will
be a more Democratic society than a Republican one, so he should be
for it, but it also decreases his power. So I’m not sure what his
reaction will be. But I believe if we have popular support for
this, he will go along. We need someone who knows the Hill cold,
someone who has a million favors out there to call in. Because not
only do you need the Senate and the House to confirm, you still
need thirty-eight states to ratify, and that means all those
thirty-eight states’ legislators have to be pushed and cajoled
throughout the whole process. That’s going to take time and effort,
and a president gets distracted by too many other things.”

“No, I expect a long hard fight on this,
including Supreme Court challenges that will carry this out beyond
his term. I think we also should start thinking about security,
too,” he said in a sad-but-true tone. The other two looked at him
in surprise.

“Security?” Ryan asked, “For what?”

“Why, for all three of us, and our
families,” Cunningham answered, amazed by his naiveté. “You don’t
think there will be people screaming for our blood once this gets
out?” Cunningham asked bitterly. “Christ, I can hear the bigots
now. ‘Mix a spic, a mick, and a nigger with a crazy idea, and
you’re bound for trouble.’ It’s likely we’re gonna piss off some
mighty powerful people. People that aren’t averse to doing a man or
his family some harm or even some death. Of course we’re going to
have to wing it for a while, but that’s okay because they won’t
begin to take us seriously until they see that we’ve got some
numbers behind us. And by then, if we’ve got the snowball rolling
down the right mountain, it may be too late to stop it even if they
take one or all three of us out.” He said this last
matter-of-factly, as if their deaths shouldn’t concern them and
only getting the idea through should.

Ryan and Palma looked at each other
nervously. For Ryan, the idea of dying for this had briefly crossed
his mind, as he had lost Donna to a madman who needed money, so he
might lose his own life trying to change the conditions that caused
that violent act. Palma was used to violence, but he was never
before the focus of it, and that gave him second thoughts. Now that
was in their thoughts, they had to admit that it shook their
enthusiasm for proceeding. Ryan remembered his dream about being an
eagle watching someone get shot; he couldn’t remember if he had
seen who the person was, but he suspected it was himself.
Cunningham’s nonchalant mention of their potential demise brought
this back to him, and he shuddered.
Best not to think of it
,
he thought, and he forced his mind back to the problem at hand.

“I need to think of the answer to every
possible question that can come from this and be prepared to handle
it in a debate-type of situation,” Ryan said. “I’m not sure I’ve
thought it all through, to tell you the truth. It’s been a while
since I thought about the actual process at all,” he admitted.

“Well, you better bone up on the details,
Chief, cause the proverbial manure is going to hit the air
circulating system soon, if you know what I mean,” Cunningham said.
Ryan and Palma looked at each other, puzzled. Cunningham rolled his
eyes. “Oh, man, don’t you crackers know anything? When the shit
hits the fan, man, when the shit hits the fan!” he said,
laughing.

The men started setting their plan to paper.
Their friendship bonded as they worked collaboratively on their
shared dream.

Winter 1993

Cunningham boarded the Amtrak Metroliner for
Washington at the 30
^th
Street Station. The station had a
crusty kind of Philadelphia charm—nicely refinished, but pigeons
still walked the concourse. He liked taking the Metroliner to the
Capitol. It beat driving and getting stuck on the Beltway. The time
on the train allowed him to bone up on the arguments he would make
to his uncle in support of his case. He knew that if he couldn’t
sell this man, the chances of their plan ever going anywhere were
remote. None of them had the connections needed on the Hill to get
noticed, no matter how many votes they could dig up, and if they
didn’t get support coming out of the gate, the media would hammer
them down and everyone would get discouraged and run away.
Therefore, the whole movement was riding on this meeting. He went
over the arguments in his head again and again.

He got to Washington about noon and headed
for the Metro. After years of riding the El and the subway in
Philadelphia, the Metro was a treat. He admired the way the trains
whooshed almost noiselessly in and out of the stations and how
clean they were. The high-pitched whine was music to his ears
compared to the ear-splitting squeal of brakes and crashing metal
that was customary with the Philadelphia system. He boarded the red
line for Arlington, switched at Metro Station, and continued on
under the Potomac, which always made his ears pop a little. Coming
out at Roslyn, he faced that mammoth escalator, making him wish it
had seat belts. Real Washingtonians could sprint down the thing at
a speed that gave him vertigo to watch. For his part, he stood
conservatively on the right in the “no-passing” lane and hoped to
not appear to be a tourist. He still had his urban cool he had to
maintain, even though being in Washington on such an important
mission thrilled him.

He grabbed a cab from the station for the
short ride to his uncle’s house. It was a modest place on a
tree-lined street. His uncle could afford much more, but in keeping
with his modest demeanor, he had chosen to stay in the neighborhood
that had tolerated many protesters of his controversial decisions.
Now that he had retired, the neighborhood was quiet with few
children to break the silence. Cunningham paid for his cab and got
out to admire the stately residence with the well-manicured lawn.
This was the type of place he’d like to have some day, that is, if
this plan didn’t get him killed. He rang the bell.

His aunt Cecilia answered and threw her arms
around him. He was always amazed at how good she looked, even now
in her seventies. She kept trim; her hair neatly done in a bun was
turning white. She eyed him appraisingly and correctly deduced that
he had added five pounds since the last time she had seen him. They
quickly caught up on family affairs, but after many years of
devoted service to her husband, she knew that most of the men did
not come to see her.

"He's in the study waiting for you. He just
put new batteries in his hearing aid, so you should have clear
sailing for the next couple of hours...unless he falls asleep on
you,” she said, patting his arm and walking away laughing. Wayne
Cunningham cleared his throat and entered the study.

Retired Supreme Court Justice Thurgood
Marshall rose slowly from his chair and extended his hand. Even
though age and concern had somewhat stooped him, he was still an
imposing man, and Cunningham couldn’t stop his heart from racing.
He could not believe his incredible luck at being born into a
family with such an admirable appendage. He shook the great man’s
hand and took the seat offered him. They exchanged some
pleasantries and then got down to business. The Justice
started.

“So, what have you brought me? You don’t
need to get a speeding ticket fixed or something, do you? I don’t
get involved in trivia, anymore, you know. Only got a certain
amount of time left, you see,” he said.

He liked to tease to put folks at ease; too
many were stunned into stuttering or even silence at meeting the
civil rights giant. He was not impressed with himself at all and
treated all in a kindly manner, except for unprepared lawyers who
came before the bench. Those he probed for weakness in their cases
and tore holes in those with unconvincing arguments or bad facts.
When he found a flaw in their logic, he pounced, and left many
lawyers confused and sorry they attempted to bring their cases in
front of the Court. His nephew smiled and some of his nervousness
melted away; he knew his uncle would hear what he had to say with
respect.

“Well, it’s a little off the beaten track,
sir, but here goes. A student of mine has written a paper about a
new kind of society that wouldn’t use cash and would allow the
other members of society to determine each other’s relative
standard of living. There would be a minimum that all members would
be entitled to, whether they worked or not, that would be well
above the current poverty level. In order to accomplish this,
certain moneyed segments of the current society and their heirs
would have to start giving back assets they currently own so they
can be equally redistributed. The backbone of the system is a
government-run computer system in every person’s house that would
allow electronic balloting and evaluating of everybody’s profile.
It would also allow for direct voting on all laws affecting society
instead of through representatives. Kind of a Hyper-Democracy.
Education, health care, housing, food, transportation,
entertainment, all would be provided at no cost to all members of
society, whether working or not. Work would be redefined and valued
so that being with one’s family, or making artistic or creative
contributions to society would be valued highly. All members of
society would be urged to cooperate instead of competing, and the
exercise of religion would be supported but not regulated by the
government. What do you think so far?”

Justice Marshall had listened intently, even
turning up his hearing aide at one point. Now he drew in a deep
breath, let it out with a “whew” sound. He shook his massive head
and grinned. “You weren’t kidding when you said it was off the
beaten track, were you? It’s certainly different, but I guess it’s
along the lines of Utopia, right? An updated version? Well, I have
a million questions, of course, but if it’s just a paper, you could
have just chatted about it over the phone, I’m sure. You came to
see me, though, and I don’t live around the corner from you, so
there must be something you need other than my opinion. How do I
figure into it?” he asked.

Cunningham quickly went on, explaining how
they intended to secure an initial groundswell of support based on
the Wobblies and other working class people. He also said they
needed a senator to get behind it and push it through and that man
had to have creditability and staying power, someone who would put
the idea firmly before the public and keep it there while it had
its day in court. He explained that he felt powerful people would
try to derail the idea before it got a hearing and how that would
be a shame because he and the others involved wanted to see it go
that far at least. Now he came to the point. “Uncle Thurgood, we
need you to suggest a senator to approach about an Amendment and
give us an introduction so we don’t get thrown out on our ear. We
don’t expect you to give this an endorsement, but just read his
paper, so you know what we’re about. Of course, if after reading
the paper, you decide to support us with a mild letter of
recommendation, we certainly wouldn’t object…” Cunningham said,
letting his voice trail off suggestively. Marshall laughed
boomingly.

“Oh, you wouldn’t mind, is that it? A little
fancy word play supposed to suck me in, is it? I should call my
wife in, tell her to give you a glass of lemonade and then escort
you firmly to the door. Trying to get a Supreme Court Justice to
recommend such Constitutional heresy. Why, they’d throw a net over
me even if I wasn’t retired. It’s Socialism with a different name,
is all. I could just hear them now, ‘Yeah, old Justice Marshall, he
was a good guy. Went around the bend though, poor thing’. Do you
know how many constitutional rights this plan violates? Not to
mention statutes, regulations, policies, contracts, and all manners
of other things that I can’t begin to fathom. No, sir, our society
is based on money being an equitable means of exchange, and you
can’t just wave a magic wand and make all that go away with some
computer system. No, I’m sorry, nephew, I cannot provide what you
seek.” The Justice waved his hand dismissively.