In Washington DC, Senator Bagwell followed Sara's announcement only with half an eye, as he busied himself with the task of tying his tie. This activity didn't generally require so much attention, but Theodore Bagwell was a sore loser, and got some vindictive pleasure out of granting only divided interest to the young president's media presence. It was like ignoring a former friend when you ran into each other in the streets, or pretending you weren't afraid when the lights in your house suddenly went out. You might only be fooling yourself, and imperfectly at that, it's better than meeting your own weaknesses in the eye.
And so, Bagwell sprinkled Sara's speech with condescending chuckles and scoffs, and gave no more than occasional glances towards the screen.
Unlike what John Abruzzi thought, Bagwell wasn't by any means a stupid man.
You had some of those in the world of politics, whom circumstances had somehow carried to the top as the result of no striking talent on their part, but Bagwell wasn't one of them, and there was more cunning behind his easy smile than meets the eye.
That being said, he like all men suffered limitations, and his were in large part determined by prejudice.
Those had been firmly ingrained by his father, whom he'd seen little of as a boy and still less when he was of age. To young Bagwell, 'daddy' had been a hand to tousle his hair when they passed each other in the house, a charming and ever-smiling presence at the dining table, once or twice a week. Theodore Bagwell Senior was a man of the crowd, dined out more often than not, was more interested in adults than in children in general, and that Theodore happened to be his own had made little difference. Nevertheless, it had been enough for his father's view of the world on many things to permeate Bagwell's perception – and where his father was found wanting, there were the conversations he picked up anywhere in town, from supermarkets to restaurants, even to school. That nonsense business about women's liberation and giving niggers the vote, can you believe it? Madness. Them big shots think they're so clever putting together kinds that don't mix, where's it gonna get us? They better be careful, I tell you. Better be careful.
Of course, there had been occasions for Bagwell to question the principles he had absorbed rather than adopted, but over the years, he had always found it more comfortable not to.
Once, when he was in his early twenties, he'd been out with friends at some park past sunset, only a little drunk, when a young brown-skinned girl had walked past them, with her head lowered, shoulders high, like barricades. They'd teased and whistled and asked where she was going. Not because they really meant her harm. But she was so ready for it, so clearly expecting them to, it was just the natural thing to do. Her vulnerability invited it. Her large, dark eyes that were determined not to see them, not to acknowledge their existence and inherent superiority, were in themselves defiant.
The girl got away nearly free of charge. They fell in on her, hustled her a little, and she dropped her small, round satchel bag on the ground. This was nothing to Bagwell, nothing at all. They didn't hurt the girl, who seemed to dissolve from the circle they formed, and she kept going, without her satchel, drowned into the nightly landscape while they laughed and howled after her.
But for a flashing second before she was gone, Bagwell saw the look on her face, which was part fear – the raw, primal fear you'll see on humans as well as animals – but also humiliation. The unbearable humiliation of having the pride you were born with dragged in the mud.
This girl feels the same pride that I do.
The thought entered Bagwell's mind with the force of undeniable logic. But though it might have shattered the foundations on which he'd built his view of the world, it only pierced through, noiseless and painless, and Bagwell was careful to build over the small hole so the frontiers of his mental universe appeared brand-new.
Just as prejudice had prevented him from sympathizing with this girl or put her suffering on the same level as his own, it stopped Bagwell from viewing Sara Tancredi as his equal, let alone his superior.
Because he was naturally a better political player than her, it went without saying that her victory over him was spurious and shameful. The presidency was his by right – an important part, and the greater part, of America still followed him – which meant that it was only just he should use any means necessary to obtain it.
"Any means necessary."
Bagwell liked the look on reporters' face when he said this.
Shocked, naturally, but not as shocked as they would have been a few years ago – not willing to cut to commercials and have him thrown off the set.
A slight, slight smile at the corner of their lips.
"Surely, when you say any means necessary –"
"I mean just that. Any means necessary."
Some ten years ago, a decent politician couldn't have gotten away with that, but there'd been such a revolution in people's standards – now, it was a little more unclear just where the line was.
Would you cross it?
Would you be booed or cheered on for it?
And if you crossed the line enough times and got away scots free, just how long until the line stopped existing at all?
Oh, this was a new crowd of voters out there. A crowd afraid for the future and the integrity of their dear nation. It was they who decided what was unacceptable. Not journalists. Not prefixed rules.
In this fine twenty-first century, objective truth had been lowered to the scale of just another opinion.
"Why not?" Bagwell said, "These are the means Sara Tancredi will use, to dismantle the dear principles that hold this nation together. I say, it's only fair we meet her halfway – use the same means to stop her."
"But surely you're aware your words can be misunderstood. Pushed to extreme, some people could be getting the idea that you're condoning violence."
"Ah, Todd, violence is a foul thing, it is. But when I look at America…" He shook his head for the camera. "When I get on my knees to pray at night, and I think of the past four centuries when our country was a city upon a hill, a beacon of light for others to look up to… When I think of the hundreds of thousands that will die because they can no longer follow us as an example, I wonder if there aren't fouler things even."
Theodore kept his eyes down for some time, gathering effect for his next statement.
"A lot of Republicans have been voicing their disagreement with what you're preaching," the journalist pointed out.
"Indeed they have, Todd. Indeed they have. But you know, I've been getting messages by the thousands that come from people who don't identify as Republicans anymore – or as democrats, for that matter. The game is changing here, we're all aware of that. It only makes sense that the stage for it should change as well. This is my way of saying that, in 2024, when America elects its next president, I won't be running as a Republican candidate."
An assembly of round-mouthed whispers washed over the audience.
Most surprising was the confidence in Bagwell's eyes – that he looked the farthest thing from a foolish man throwing his career away.
"Are you saying you'll run as an independent?"
"I'm saying in the next four years, I'll be working on creating a new party, Todd. Because only change can be proper to meet this unprecedented crisis. We've gone beyond the stage when we could look to the past for solutions. Myself, and my people – we are the solution. And if they will just follow my lead in this awful mess, I know for a fact that America can rise more glorious than ever before from the ashes of our past shine. You just wait and see. Wait and see," he said, with his Cheshire smile.
…
It was May 2021, by the time Bagwell made his announcement. Kellerman was more optimistic about it than Sara was. "That's it," he said. "He's just shot himself in both feet. He's done, Sara. We don't have to think about him any longer."
The president pinched her lips. "I don't know. We thought we didn't have to worry about Donald Trump."
"This is different," Kellerman's smile ensured he believed what he said at a hundred percent. "Sara," he resumed, "only two things are for certain in the United States. That'd be capitalism and the bipartite system. The people will never think seriously of a candidate who's not a Democrat or a Republican. Never."
All the way back in Chicago, John Abruzzi's reaction to the news indicated he shared Kellerman's view. "He's sorta going against your orders, isn't he?"
"Sorta." Abruzzi agreed, over a glass of wine with one of his associates.
"Want me to pay him a little visit? Send a message?"
"Nah, he won't get anywhere without one of the two great parties backing him up."
Besides, Abruzzi had faith in his new guy – Republican Alex Mahone had proved himself prolific in everything Bagwell lacked. Self-control. Finesse.
"Just let him talk," Abruzzi said. "That's all it is, anyway – talk." He tore the last word into two syllables.
Michael and Lincoln, from their respective apartments, reacted to the news predominantly with a bitter relief – neither of them liked Bagwell, to put it nicely, and both would be glad to see him out of politics.
Basically anyone serious in Washington, at that stage, including everyone in Sara's team of advisors, believed that would be the end of Bagwell's career.
So, surely, that nagging voice in Sara's head was pure madness.
He's got something up his sleeve. Once again, the nation will be baffled and outraged and repentant –
How many people had gone to Hillary Clinton, after the 2016 election, and apologized for not voting?
But we didn't believe that couldn't happen. We just didn't believe it could really happen.
"What about now?" She wondered. "Am I being over-suspicious? Or am I the only one to sense that something very, very wrong is about to happen all over again?"
Of all the people Sara saw that week, the only person who seemed to share her grinding concern was, surprisingly enough, Gretchen Morgan.
She had her in her office to discuss making a public announcement concerning the decrease of surveillance state methods.
They were just about done, and Gretchen was turning to leave, when she spotted Bagwell's face on the front page of The New York Times, lying on a shelf by the door.
"You heard he's picked a name for his party, right?"
Sara arched both brows. "When?"
"Came in this morning, in one of his podcasts."
"You listen to them."
Gretchen smiled. Not one robed in flattery, or any sweetening disguise. "So do you," she said.
Sara realized she wanted to smile back. "Well, what of it?"
"The Knights," Gretchen quoted.
The air stayed trapped in Sara's mouth for a few seconds before it got out in a half-mouthed chuckle. "That's a little too much K for any group in America, isn't it?"
"Either he's an idiot," Gretchen said, "or he knows his electorate"
"Or both," Sara answered with tragic seriousness.
The two women stared at each other for a moment.
"You know, I didn't vote for you, Madam President," Gretchen announced unashamedly. Sara didn't think it relevant to feign surprise. "It's a matter of tradition, you know. At least it used to be. We just vote Republican in the family – that's what it is. Old values. I didn't vote for Donald Trump – but then, I was abroad. It made things easier. What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that if Bagwell runs again, as an independent, or a Knight, whatever he wants to call himself – I won't vote for him again. He is right about one thing. The face of politics is changing. Republicanism isn't Ronald Reagan anymore – it certainly isn't Abraham Lincoln."
"Soon enough," Sara answered, "it could be Alex Mahone."
He'd been elected at the head of the GOP following Bagwell's resignation.
Gretchen shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I'll vote for you anyway. Maybe I like what you're doing with our Republic."
"Maybe." Sara said.
She wasn't sure she would ever get an absolute truth out of Gretchen Morgan.
It didn't really matter to her, either, whether or not the woman voted for her. All she wanted for sure out of this woman was that she knew better than to double-cross her.
"So, I don't suppose you agree with my advisors," Sara said. "That Bagwell's nothing to be worried about."
"Surely, you've got more pressing issues on your plate." Gretchen raised her shoulders. "Building a new voter base, building trust in a new party takes time."
"Right."
Except when it didn't. When the new name flashed through the country like a handful of fairy dust, and it was suddenly the name on everyone's tongues, in everybody's mind's.
The Knights.
"I guess time will tell," Gretchen said, on her way out.
"Time," Sara repeated to herself, before she ran a hand into her auburn hair.
Without a doubt, that was the one single thing Sara ought to be most concerned about.
…
End Notes: So, so sorry about the delay. I swear I will try to get back to a one-chapter-per-week basis as soon as I get my life back in order. Thanks so much for your support, and please keep sharing your thoughts about this story!
