The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“You know what happened at the convention’s end?” Davis asked. “When it came time to sign.”

She nodded. “Only 42 were there that day, and just 39 signed.”

“Washington went first, then the representatives marched up, north to south, one state at a time. Nobody was really happy. Nathaniel Gorham, from Massachusetts, said he doubted the new nation would last 150 years. Yet here we are. Still going.”

She wondered about the cynicism.

“What happened during those few months in Philadelphia,” he said, “has become more legend than fact. Watch some of the cable news shows and you’d think those men could do no wrong.” He finally faced her. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Edwin, I know the founders were flawed. I’ve read Madison’s notes.”

The definitive record of what happened in Philadelphia was James Madison’s Notes of Debates in the Federal Convention of 1787. Though not the convention’s official secretary, Madison kept a meticulous record, which he faithfully transcribed each evening. The delegates had first assembled to amend the impractical Articles of Confederation, but quickly decided to discard those articles entirely and draft a new constitution. Most states, if informed of that intent, would have recalled their delegates, ending the convention. So the proceedings were held in secret and, afterward, the working papers kept by the official secretary were destroyed. Only a tally of resolutions and votes survived. Other delegates kept notes, but Madison’s became the most authoritative account of day-to-day deliberations.

“The problem,” he said, “is that his record is not reliable.”

She knew that, too. “He didn’t publish them until 1840.”

And during those ensuing 53 years Madison admitted embellishing his remembrances, making countless emendations, deletions, and insertions. So many that it was now impossible to know what actually took place. Compounding things was Madison’s refusal to allow his record to be published until all of the convention members, including himself, were dead.

Which meant nobody was left alive to contradict his account.

“Those notes,” Davis said, “have formed the basis for many a landmark constitutional decision. They are cited by federal and state courts every day as the founders’ supposed intent. Our entire constitutional jurisprudence is, literally, based on them.”

She wondered if this related to what he’d said yesterday about the Supreme Court being wrong in Texas v. White, but knew Davis would tell her only when he was ready.

She noticed their route.

Toward the northwest, past the university at Georgetown, along a picturesque tree-lined boulevard. She knew these neighborhoods, many of the foreign embassies located nearby. Finally, the car motored to an iron gate, staffed by uniformed guards, which was immediately opened.

She knew where they were.

The Naval Observatory.

Seventy-two wooded acres perched on a hill, thirteen of which formed the compound where the vice president of the United States resided.

They turned onto a street marked OBSERVATORY CIRCLE and she caught sight of the white-bricked, three-story Queen Anne–style house. Sage-green shutters adorned its many windows.

The car stopped and Davis exited.

She followed.

They climbed the steps to a veranda adorned with white wicker furniture. Fall roses bloomed in beds at its base.

“What business do we have with the vice president?” she asked.

“None,” Davis said as he kept walking toward the front door.

They entered a spacious foyer, the floor covered in a thick green-and-beige Oriental carpet. True to its Queen Anne architecture, the rooms opened into one another without adjoining corridors. A palette of celadon, lime, and light blue dominated the décor.

Davis pointed to the right and led the way.

They entered the dining room.

Sitting at the table was President Robert Edward “Danny” Daniels Jr. He wore a suit and tie but had removed the jacket, which hung on the back of his chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up.

She stopped herself from smiling.

“Have a seat,” the president said to her. “We have a lot to discuss.”

“About what?”

“Your problem.”

“I have quite a few of those,” she said.

“But only one,” he said, “that involves Thaddeus Rowan, the distinguished senator from Utah.”

TWENTY-SIX

SALT LAKE CITY

9:00 A.M

ROWAN ENTERED THE HOTEL MONACO, LOCATED IN THE HEART of downtown, a couple of blocks south of Temple Square. Salt Lake had been laid out on a grid, its major streets running in a crisscross pattern, all emanating from Temple Square. Brigham Young had demanded that each street be wide enough that a wagon team could turn about without resorting to profanity. His plan was followed and remained today, and was incorporated into many later settlements.

The Hotel Utah, owned by the church near Temple Square, had once been the city’s premier establishment. But it closed in 1987, the site refurbished into a church administrative center. Now the Monaco had acquired that label, the building itself a former bank and city landmark. He’d suggested the accommodations to the occupants of the upper floor’s Majestic Suite—called that, he knew, because of the sweeping views offered of downtown and the steep Wasatch and Oquirrh Mountains ringing the Salt Lake basin.

Waiting for him were three men.

His command team. Assembled more than three years ago, ready for the coming fight.

He entered the suite and they all shook hands.

This gathering had been planned for several weeks. But now, with the finding of the wagons and the revelations from the wooden box, their talk had taken on a new sense of urgency.

All three were highly trained appellate litigators. Two were equity partners in major firms, one in New York, the other in Dallas. The third was a professor at Columbia Law School. Each had argued and won cases before the U.S. Supreme Court. They were respected, brilliant, and expensive, recruited by Rowan after it was determined that they all shared the same political philosophy.

He noticed that a silver serving cart had been ordered with juice, fruit, and croissants. They each filled a plate and sat around a walnut dining table that dominated one corner of the spacious suite. Far below, the streets of Salt Lake City pulsed with morning traffic. A steady string of headlights in the distance delineated Interstate 15, which cut a north–south path through the state.

“Tell me how we are across the country?” he asked.

“We have good people on the ground, ready to go, in every state,” one of the lawyers said. “They’ll be assets when the time comes. They range from PR specialists to lawyers to clerks to academics. Everything we’ll need.”

“Secrecy?”

“So far, no problems in that area, but we’re stingy with information and liberal with money.”

“And the main thrust?”

“That will come in Texas, Hawaii, Alaska, Vermont, and Montana, as agreed. Sentiments are highest in the legislatures of those states. Polling indicates that the people there are not opposed. So we have legislative measures ready to go.”

Which will give the movement a stamp of nationalism, though Utah would lead the way.

“You saw the petition from Texas?” the other lawyer asked him.

He had. Two weeks ago. More than 125,000 had signed, stating that they no longer wanted to be part of the United States.

“We didn’t spearhead that, but we didn’t discourage it, either. It came from a fringe group. Take a look at its preamble.”

He accepted an iPad and read from the screen.

Given that the state of Texas maintains a balanced budget and is the 15th largest economy in the world, it is practically feasible for Texas to withdraw from the union, and to do so would protect its citizens’ standard of living and re-secure their rights and liberties in accordance with the original ideas