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  As he looked at his client in the mirror, the thought crossed Bonguard’s mind that maybe Scarborough was talking to another agent. In his business, especially in the stratosphere where they were playing now, you always had to look for poachers dangling the prospect of a better deal. It was the reason Bonguard was glued to him on this book tour. You never want to let a $22 million prick walk around alone.

  “After the show we can talk about a few details. We won’t have to worry about chasing the media. They’ll be coming to us,” said Scarborough.

  “Yeah. A year early,” said Bonguard. “In this business, timing is everything.”

  “I’m getting tired listening to the same song. The J letter is national poison, and there’s no expiration date on the bottle,” said Scarborough.

  People in the White House were already pulling their hair out over the first book, and there was nothing they could do. It could only get worse when the J letter was revealed.

  Strangely enough, the controversy that Scarborough had ignited with the current book swirled around arcane language in the Constitution. Like original sin, the words had been there since the beginning, since 1787, the year the Constitution was first adopted. They had been overridden by a civil war and later amendments, but they were still there.

  The words may have been dead-letter law, but to a generation sensitized to racial slight they were offensive. And because of the peculiar manner in which the Constitution is published, they were still visible in public print, right there in the organic law of the nation. They were the original words of slavery.

  To a broad public unschooled in the stylistic nuances of codebooks and statutes, the vast majority of Americans, the fact that these shame-filled words and their hidden meanings still graced their Constitution was news the minute Scarborough published his book and took to the trail on his publicity tour. Suddenly people who had been outraged that some states could even consider flying the Confederate flag were confronted with words that confirmed African American bondage and defined black people as “three-fifths” of a human being, and then only for purposes of voting by their white slave masters. The public outrage, in black communities, in colleges and universities across the country, exploded.

  Slavery may have ended, but the stigma and the sudden reminder that it was embedded in the Constitution brought back history with a vengeance. The words were there for all time, for their children and grandchildren, for all of posterity to read.

  The problem was that government was powerless to remove the offending words. Republicans and Democrats all stumbled over themselves trying to placate the African American community. There were resolutions of comfort in Congress. The president had done everything but go on national television to offer a public apology. He had been quoted, while heading to Marine One on the White House lawn, as saying, “We’re all looking very hard at this, in a bipartisan way.” He talked as if words engraved in the Constitution more than two hundred years ago had suddenly uncoiled themselves, slipped up behind the entire country, and strangled us all in our beds.

  Without realizing it, the founders had created a literary monster in the way they’d amended the Constitution. Unlike federal statutes where laws once repealed were removed from the codebooks and disappeared from view, provisions of the Constitution repealed by later amendments remained in the document. They may have been dead-letter law, but they were still there for everyone to read. And this wasn’t like the repeal of Prohibition, with alcoholics stumbling through the streets demanding the removal of language foisted on them by Carry Nation.

  Supported by sociological studies, statistics on prison population by race, disparities in income since the Civil War, and psychological data showing long-term damage rooted in race, Scarborough’s book punctuated it all with the words of slavery still visible in the Constitution.

  The book was peddled to a mass market that had never put all the pieces together before. Many of them now saw the old words of slavery staring at them from the nation’s most fundamental, organic law as a national insult. They were carrying placards in the streets bearing the preamble to the Constitution superimposed over the Confederate flag.

  Scarborough couldn’t believe that someone else hadn’t exposed it decades earlier, during the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. It had been left there for him to pluck, like some ripe fruit.

  Still leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, Bonguard was getting nervous. He had never seen the letter. Now he wanted to see it.

  “Do you mind telling me where the letter is?”

  Scarborough turned and looked at him. “In a safe place.”

  “I just thought I’d ask. What I’m afraid of is you’re gonna go on Leno tonight and blow it.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell them everything tonight,” said Scarborough. “I mean, if they came unglued over the words of slavery, I’d need to peel the contents of Jefferson’s letter for them like an onion so that they can get the true flavor before I add the special seasonings”-he stared at Bonguard as if there were some hidden meaning in his face-“drop it all in the pot, and cook it with a book.”

  Another brain teaser, thought Bonguard. “But why not save the details?”

  “Oh, I’ll have all the details in the book, all right.” He ran a comb through his hair and headed for the bedroom with Bonguard following.

  “This revelation. What exactly…?”

  “Wait and learn,” said Scarborough. “Feelings of racial discord in this country run deep. Roll out the letter with all the details, the real in-depth story, and if everything goes well, we may have a new American Revolution.”

  Scarborough pulled a shirt off a hanger in the closet, still talking as if to himself. “I wonder how many of them were involved. It had to be more than one,” he said.

  “One what?” Bonguard looked as if he’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.

  “Stay tuned,” said Scarborough. “Besides, if I did it on a hard-news show, they’d nail me. A million follow-up questions. Where did I find the letter? How long did I have it? Who does it belong to? Why hadn’t I revealed it earlier? How could I? I didn’t know all the facts. I was in the middle of an ongoing investigation. But why get into all that when I can do it on Leno? I was disarmed by humor, caught up in the comedy of the moment. I let my guard down. Next thing I know, there it is, history’s biggest national turd on America’s living-room floor. More news later.” Scarborough smiles at the thought.

  “Well, if you’re going to pop the letter tonight there are probably a few other things we should talk about first.”

  “Yes?” Scarborough looked at him.

  “Like what’s happening outside.” Bonguard reached over and picked up a copy of the L.A. Times that was lying on the nightstand. There were stories of racial violence in three major cities, one of them Los Angeles, where police acting quickly had barely quelled a riot the night before, all based on the rising furor over Scarborough’s book. The author had fed the flames in local news interviews with the media the day before.

  On the national scene, it was like watching a torchlight parade. Inner cities had lit up across the country on a swath that corresponded precisely with Scarborough’s book tour. People marching through the streets demanding that the language be removed from the Constitution found themselves met by police.

  Scarborough was a lawyer first, a writer second. He had thought about this. Not the riots and violence, but the manner in which the Constitution was amended. This was time-honored and hallowed. It had been followed for two hundred years and would require a constitutional amendment itself to be changed. It was perfect. The book gave light to a problem that politicians couldn’t fix by waving their legislative wand and merely passing a law. It could take years to remove the slavery language from the Constitution.

  The more Scarborough flogged the issue on television, the louder was the outcry from people who’d never realized that the words were there to begin with. It was like an acceler
ator on a car-the harder he pressed, the more anger it produced. The racial heat generated controversy, which in turn produced sales. All the while, Scarborough, his hair flying in the breeze, was enjoying the ride.

  Bonguard picked up the newspaper and looked at the pictures and the story. “Of course, if L.A. or other cities burn, it wouldn’t do to be caught carrying gasoline,” he said. “What I mean is-”

  “I understand what you’re saying. I have done nothing to provoke violence. I have said nothing to encourage people to take to the streets.”

  “Still, unless Osama nukes us,” said Bonguard, “it looks like we’ll be displacing terrorism on the front pages for a while. The Black Congressional Caucus is already engaged. When they hear about the letter tonight, they’ll ransack all the old dusty volumes in the Library of Congress looking for the original.”

  Nice try, thought Scarborough. “Well, they won’t find it there. Look at it this way: All we’re doing is exposing history to the light of day. We didn’t put the words in the Constitution or decide how it should be amended. And I certainly didn’t write the words in that letter. No, we’re just messengers delivering the message.”

  Scarborough smiled at him. It was the kind of roguish grin that usually kept even his enemies from disliking him entirely.

  “Of course, your publisher’s gonna be a little nervous,” said Bonguard. “No doubt they’d have convulsions if they knew what you were going to do tonight.”

  “Let’s not bother them with it.”

  “It is their book tour.” Bonguard caught his client’s eye. The author’s expression answered his question, the reason all this was so secret.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Speak of the devil. That would be Aubrey,” said Scarborough. James Aubrey was Scarborough’s editor. “Not a word about tonight.”

  “Your call.” Bonguard knew that if the publisher found out, Scarborough would fire him in a heartbeat, since he was the only possible source. He headed for the door.

  Scarborough could hear their idle chatter.

  “Dick.”

  “Jim. How’d you sleep last night?”

  “Good. And you?”

  “Fine. Went out, had a drink. Hit the sack early.”

  “How’s our man?”

  “He’s in the bedroom. Come on in.”

  A couple of seconds later, the two of them appeared in the door to the bedroom. Jim Aubrey was in his late twenties, looking harried and a little frazzled. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, a sport coat, and a tie that looked as if it had been inherited from an earlier generation.

  “Morning,” said Aubrey. “You up for tonight?”

  “Ready as ever,” said Scarborough.

  “I guess you guys saw the protesters down in the lobby.”

  “How many?” Bonguard wanted numbers.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t count ’em. Probably twenty-five or thirty.”

  “It’ll grow toward the afternoon,” said Scarborough. By now he was used to the throng of demonstrators and supporters. Like Cicero on his way to the Senate, Scarborough seemed to have his own throng of backers in every city, self-appointed lictors who pushed their way through crowds and yelled insults at their opposite number, those who thought Scarborough was an agitator seeking to stir up racial trouble. Bonguard had started to wonder whether hired security might be necessary. He had weighed in on the issue with the publishers the day before, but for some reason they had put him off.

  “I think most of them downstairs are in support of the book.” Aubrey looked nervous, as if he might be chewing his nails to the quick. “You saw this morning’s Times?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Twenty-four cars torched in Central L.A. last night, before they got it under control,” said Aubrey.

  “Gives the city an upscale appeal. Starting to feel like Paris.” Scarborough laughed, trying to take the edge off.

  It didn’t work. “New York is very nervous,” said Aubrey. “They’re worried about tonight. A large national audience. That something you might say could set it off.”

  “Not to worry,” said Scarborough.

  “You’ll keep it light?” said Aubrey.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I want you to understand that no one is more committed to this book than I am.”

  Scarborough turned to look at him. “Jim, I know that.”

  “I put my job on the line several times when others wanted to kill the project.”

  “And I appreciate it. I thank you for it,” said Scarborough.

  “There’s talk of a federal grand jury probe because of the riots,” said the editor.

  Scarborough was busy getting his clothes together, rummaging through his suitcase, which never seemed to get unpacked, a new hotel every night.

  “I know. I saw the article in the paper. I wouldn’t call them riots, exactly. But I’m not surprised. People in the White House have to do something to look as if they’re on top of it,” said the author. “But I suspect that congressional hearings will probably come first.” Scarborough didn’t seem to be concerned in the least about any of this.

  “What congressional hearings?” said Aubrey.

  “Oh, there are certain to be congressional hearings. And those are sure to be public and televised.”

  Aubrey knew that Scarborough was connected politically in D.C., in the same way an L.A. hood might be connected with Chicago or New York. He could detect political rumbling before anyone else heard the drums. The thought of the author sitting at a green-felt-covered table in the Capitol in front of blinding television lights with a national audience was not something that the publisher had considered.

  “I hate to tell you this, but there’s already some noise in New York about pulling the plug on the tour,” said Aubrey.

  This stopped Scarborough in his tracks. He turned and looked at the editor.

  “It’s…it’s not my decision,” said Aubrey. “Just until things cool down. They called me this morning and wanted to know what I thought about it.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told them I’d have to talk to you and get back to them.”

  “That’s fine. So now you can go to the phone, call them up, and tell them that both you and I disagree. That the book’s on a roll. That it may be the biggest bestseller they’ve had in years. That they need to grow some balls. That if they pull the plug now, they’ll never be able to bring it back. And if that doesn’t convince them,” said Scarborough, “you can tell them for me that if they do, I will sue them seven ways from Sunday.”

  Aubrey was left speechless in the doorway.

  Scarborough thought for a second. “No, on second thought, tell them that I’ll go public. I will accuse them of being in lockstep with the White House and involved in a racial cover-up. That’s much faster, and it doesn’t involve all those nasty little pieces of paper that seem to fly around courtrooms.”

  The thought of the publisher’s Manhattan office illuminated by burned-out cars and flaming trash cans flashed through Aubrey’s brain like a strike of lightning.

  Scarborough turned back to his suitcase looking for a pair of socks. “They have a number-one New York Times bestseller, rocketed there out of the box, and they want to end the publicity tour.” He found the socks and tossed them on the bed.

  “Not end. They didn’t say end,” said Aubrey.

  “They don’t have to. I can read between the lines. Go away. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. The check’s in the mail.” Scarborough was working up a head of steam. “Listen,” he said, “I want you to give them a message. Tell ’em it’s from me. Tell them that they didn’t put this book on the list. The media put it there. Twenty million angry African Americans put it there. So if they think they’re gonna plant their tail between their legs, drop the book, and run, they’re wrong. Why? Because black people finally woke up and realized that the words that kept them in chains for two hundred years are still in black and white, right the
re in the Constitution for the world to read. Well, it isn’t gonna happen. Your people are not going to cap the book. Not this book.”

  “Nobody is talking about capping the book,” said Aubrey.

  “Good. Then we can move on with the tour and pretend that this conversation never took place.”

  “I…I don’t know,” said Aubrey. “I’ll have to call them.”

  “You do that. And you give them my message. Word for word. You understand?” Scarborough turned and fixed him with a glare. “Now I need to get some rest. Dick can show you to the door. Unless you want to use the phone out in the living room to make the call?”

  “No. No. I’ll call them on my cell.” Aubrey wanted to do it from outside the room, as far away from Scarborough as he could get, so that the author couldn’t hear the screaming from the other end in New York. Aubrey felt very much like what he was at this point, the man in the middle.

  “Dick. I need you to go, too,” said Scarborough. “I need to be alone for a while, to get some rest, have a light meal in the room, and then I need to relax and pull my thoughts together for tonight.”

  The agent took the hint, put his arm around Aubrey’s shoulder, and headed for the door. A few seconds later, Scarborough heard it close behind them. Between the hall and the lobby, in the elevator, Bonguard would be busy pumping concrete up the editor’s spine and giving him advice on how to deal with his boss, the CEO and publisher back in New York.

  Scarborough finished up in the bathroom, picked up the newspaper, and went out into the living room. He called room service and ordered breakfast-two eggs scrambled, toast unbuttered, a small cup of mixed fruit, and black coffee. He could never wake up entirely until he’d had his coffee.

  Then he unzipped a large leather portfolio that he always carried with him wherever he went. It contained background materials for Leno and another document of several pages folded in thirds. He took this out and looked at it, made a few mental notes to follow up on later, and placed the portfolio and the folded pages on a small table near the television. The limo taking Scarborough to L.A. for the late-afternoon taping would arrive shortly after noon.