As the line began to slowly shuffle forward, Maggie could feel a tension building in the air. She glanced over her shoulder at the reporter who was now screaming in protest, as his camera operator stood silent with a confused look on his face. “Since when are cameras not allowed in a press conference?” Maggie asked herself.
The tent was huge and dark, not like any press conference she had attended in the past. She could barely see. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noticed the room was filled with rows of folding chairs, and a small podium stood on a stage at the front of the tent. Behind it hung a huge smiling image of President Marcus Barakat. The first three rows of seats were already filling up with reporters. As she looked around, a hand suddenly grabbed her elbow. Maggie, who had attended a self-defense class, jerked her arm away and began to assume a defensive position. Looking up, she recognized her assailant as Charlie Ashman. Charlie was Maggie’s close friend, who worked as a political events blogger. Maggie smiled and gave Charlie a big hug.
“I almost kicked you in the nuts, dude,” Maggie said with a laugh. “Never sneak up on me.”
“I was just trying to get your attention before you sat down with some other good looking guy.”
“What the hell are we doing here, Maggie? We should be playing darts and drinking beer,” Charlie said, flashing a flawless smile and a playful wink. Maggie liked Charlie . . . and the way he looked. He was a “man’s man.” He had dark hair, cut in a short military fashion. A “battle cut,” he once said it was called. He wore khaki colored cargo pants that had more pockets than Maggie could count and a blue denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up so high she could see the Army Ranger tattoo on his muscular bicep.
Charlie was an incredible writer who preferred the freedom of working for himself. His freelance articles were engaging to his large audience and backed by some wealthy advertisers. Charlie had built himself a good relationship with the Washington media. He and Maggie, while not officially dating, spent many hours at their favorite bar or coffee shop. They could talk about anything from the most mundane topic to items of great seriousness.
“Follow me,” Charlie said to Maggie, taking her hand and leading them to a pair of seats at the end of a row. They were close to, yet just behind, the big-name media faces who occupied the area of importance within throwing range of the podium. Charlie looked toward the front row and then turned and gave Maggie a comical, pouty face. He began to march in his chair, swinging his arms and raising and lowering his feet. “I want to sit up front and be a macher,” he said, using a Yiddish term for a big shot or someone of importance. Maggie laughed whenever Charlie said something in Yiddish, even though she understood very little of it herself. At one point in Charlie’s life, he had been dating a beautiful Jewish woman whose strict Orthodox father hated any guy his daughter brought home, especially goys, or non-Jewish men. So, to win his approval, Charlie came up with a plan. For two weeks he had studied the Yiddish language, memorizing hundreds of the old Jewish words. Finally, ready and confident, Charlie launched his stunt at the height of a Shabbat dinner at the house of his girlfriend’s parents. “I just love shtuping with your daughter,” Charlie said smiling from one parent to another. Charlie would later relate that the first sign of trouble was the sudden silence that seized the room. Slowly raising his eyes from his plate, a fork full of food balanced at his open mouth, Charlie realized that both parents and a younger brother were staring at him as though lobsters were suddenly crawling out of his head. For a moment, Charlie had considered slicing his wrists with the butter knife, but he didn’t want to ruin the beautiful white lace tablecloth. Dinner was cut short, and Charlie did not get to enjoy the mother’s wonderful challah bread. He was personally escorted to the door by the father, who offered up some new Yiddish words for Charlie.
“You’re a schlemiel and a nudnik. Now you go look those words up, mister smart ass,” the father said, glaring and slamming the door in Charlie’s face. The following day Charlie received an angry phone call from his now ex-girlfriend demanding to know why he had so proudly told her parents he liked screwing their daughter. A quick check of his Yiddish dictionary revealed that Charlie had mistakenly used the word for sex when he meant to say shmooze, or to talk or chat. Charlie Ashman’s attempt at speaking the Yiddish language to impress the girlfriend’s father had ended in disaster.
Charlie stopped his mimicking and leaned close to Maggie. “Something’s going on here, Maggie,” he whispered quietly to her. “Just before I left home, I got a phone call from Sarah Palmer. Her husband, Andy, is the managing editor at CNBC. Some government-looking guys in a black SUV showed up and demanded he go with them. They said he was needed at some important meeting, but wouldn’t say anything else. They just took him and left. Then on my drive over here, I get a text message from someone I know at FOX. Same story about his boss being summoned to a private audience. Now we’re here. I don’t know what’s up, but I have a bad feeling.”
Maggie began to respond when a rustling of movement brought everyone’s attention to the front. Four men in suits and sporting earpieces had come into the tent. To Maggie, they looked like Secret Service agents on steroids. With their arms at their sides, they stood in a line, their eyes darting over everyone in the audience. Charlie squeezed Maggie’s hand and nodded his head, indicating she should look behind them. Slowly and calmly, Maggie glanced over her shoulder and spotted a half dozen dark-suited men standing at the rear of the tent. As Maggie began to whisper into Charlie’s ear, a woman stepped onto the stage.
Maggie recognized her from television. She held some minor role in President Barakat’s cabinet. Small in stature, wearing a red pantsuit with matching pumps, her face shining with perfect makeup, she looked like the epitome of a female politician. With her close-cropped brown hair and big eyes, she flashed a thin-lipped smile at the audience.
Maggie had never attended a press conference where the speaker held no notes or flash cards. This woman was completely empty-handed.
“Evening, y’all. My name is Donna Koontz,” she said with a thick, southern drawl. Leaning against the podium, she looked out over the audience of media people. “I’m the new press secretary for President Marcus Barakat. I’ll just jump right to the point of why y’all are here tonight. The president and his staff feel that all the recent nationwide discontent has impeded the progress of the goals the president has made for the American people. So, effective immediately, there’s gonna be a whole bunch of important and profound changes. Guess what?” she said, spreading her arms out wide like a TV evangelist and smiled. “It all begins right now.”
Immediately, an aide handed Koontz a thick, red-covered booklet. She held it high over her head and shook it for everyone to see. “From now on, the government’s gonna begin directing all the daily operations of the media. Newspapers, television, radio, even you bloggers,” she added, singling out those like Charlie.
“This is your new Bible,” she said, holding the book like a model displaying a new product. “It tells you how to write and report anything and everything. You will adhere to it . . . religiously,” she emphasized, dropping the book on the top of the podium with a thump. “It’s real simple, folks. Follow it to the letter of the law, just like you would your own personal Bible, don’t deviate from any of the rules, and we’ll all get along wonderfully,” Koontz said with a fake laugh.
“Many of you in the media have reported the news in a positive way toward President Barakat and his administration this last term,” she continued. “However, others of you have tried to slant the news reports against President Barakat. Any negative news reporting will STOP immediately.” Maggie and Charlie turned and stared at one another in openmouthed shock. Before either could say a word, a loud voice brought their attention back toward the podium. It was Associated Press reporter Phillip Elliott. He stood up to address the new press secretary.
“Ms. Koontz,” Elliott said, “are we to understand that the White House is going to begin dictating and censoring