BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 45. John excels at his art college, using the new media of portable videotaping. The Systematics company software contained 'a backdoor'-US agents had tabs on banks worldwide.

Leon is dead of a stroke. And Sarah writes about this and her twins lives in her Journal, begun in 1961. Luckily, Rudy is still in the picture, a good step-father to her boys, now lawyer & artist.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

June 20, 1989

With his video classes completed at Franklin College of Art, Assistant Professor of Media John Little had the summer to himself. While the modest college salary didn’t make him rich (like he imagined his brother was becoming, on his high legal fees in Chicago), it did supply him with a small two-room apartment in Oakland, plus the cost of some video tape for his most recent project. As a graduate student he had used the school’s portable video equipment to start documenting the Black men and women at his college and in the surrounding area, taping young and old people telling their real-life stories to the camera. He’d heard some disturbing tales from the older subjects, mostly about suffering without money, working too hard, being hassled by White (and Black) police, and their historical roots dating back to slavery. The indisputable power of the first hours of video Little recorded had led to his commit-ment to compiling a vast record of Black experience in the Bay Area, and during the next four years he would record over three-hundred different interviews. He decided to keep each story to just five minutes, and he had instructed each person to tell their story right into the lens of the camera. When the tapes screened at a movie theatre or art gallery he wanted the audience members to feel the subject’s eyes looking directly at them. Little figured he was giving the power of expression to a Black chorus, letting their truths extend beyond their lifetimes. With his light complexion, Little usually didn’t have any trouble blending in with White society, but some of his darker Black friends had undergone severe beatings by cops. He hoped his artistic efforts might somehow improve the lot of younger Blacks, who were still being discriminated against. Racism in America was a long way from being eradicated, and he hoped his tapes would someday be helpful in that battle for equality.

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July 20, 1993

The Systematics thing was unravelling. It had taken Vincent Foster two days to trace his Swiss bank account money after it had been expunged from his account. Two and a half fuckin million gone. Unreal.

Suddenly, he felt another sensation, a small pin prick in the back of his neck, like a bee sting. His skin flushed instsntly. As his heart jumped into overdrive he fell past Dixie, face-first onto the shag carpet. In that instant, before he lost consciousness, Foster heard a voice somewhere far off in the distance, echoing, “Got him.”

Foster was then carried to the basement where a gun was inserted into his mouth and fired – the same gun that would be planted on him at a nearby park. A water hose was used to quickly clean up the mess. Sonny Marcone then transported Foster’s body over to a wooded area, wrapped the fingers of his lifeless hand around the gun, stripped off his protective white plastic gloves, tucking them into his pants pocket, and made a call from the nearby pay phone.

Few knew that Foster had helped Systematics distribute its banking software worldwide, with a designed-in back door access to the most private “secure” files. The software gave access to all cash deposits, international accounts, wires – the full spectrum of financial transactions. With over four thousand software kits sold, including the ones to Israel, operatives in the United States could keep tabs on the international monetary flow, investigating any exchanges that might signal foreign or domestic operations counter to their interests. Hillary Clinton and Foster had both remained on retainer at Rose Law Firm in Arkansas because they, together, had handled the Systematics account. But everyone had agreed that Foster knew too much, and with his proclivity to talk, and his recent threats of blackmail, he had become expendable.

A few joggers ran past, along with a young woman walking her dog, and Sonny ogled her trim figure, smiling complacently. His job was done and now he had time for the ladies.

“Yeah, we got him taken care of,” repeated Sonny, ending the call.

Despite Sonny’s confidence, the “Foster suicide” hit was so botched that it took extreme measures from intelligence personnel to cover it up, clean up loose ends and put it all to rest.

First of all, there was no dirt on Foster’s shoes, even though he was found in the middle of a muddy part of the park. And instead of dirt, his coat jacket and pants were covered with tiny carpet fibers, microscopic threads stuck into the surface of his clothes. In addition, the placement of his body was overtly theatrical to say the least. He’d been laid out in a “coffin” pose, flat on the back, face upward, hands crossed over the chest, legs neatly aligned. Who was the undertaker?

And then there was the gun in his hand: None of Foster’s fingerprints were on it, just a palm print where it had rested in his stiffening fingers. No fingerprints on the twenty-eight little scraps of “torn-up suicide note” either, which had appeared out of nowhere, sometime after the first search of his briefcase had established that no suicide note had been left behind.

Foster’s office, which should have been sealed, pending investigation, was left wide open until “certain official folders” were removed by White House personnel. Later, much of the evidence disappeared, including photos taken at the crime scene and Polaroids snapped by park police. The X-rays from the autopsy vanished as well.

***

August 21, 1993

Dear Journal,
Today I learned that a terrible thing happened to my dear Leon, the Daddy of my grown boys John and Jackson. I picked up the phone and heard Mary’s voice trying to talk at the other end of the line in Atlanta. Her crying made it hard to understand the news she was sharing. Leon had a stroke and died. There was not even a warning like with Dee. He felt OK one minute and then the next he fell right out of his chair, hit the floor unconscious. The ambulance came, but by then they said it was too late. So there’s Mary without a husband, their son Billy without a father.

After Dee’s death I learned from the doctor that smoking can be bad for your heart. And so can fried foods, butter, rich foods which can clog up arteries. That’s what I told you, John and Jackson, so I hope you are paying attention to your diet and getting exercise too. I’ve started walking every day around the neighborhood and inside the Safeway when I shop. People in the grocery store just think I can’t find my can of beans or loaf of bread, but I’m putting in my time on the Safeway treadmill!

Don’t usually think about my whole life when I write a journal story, but today I can’t help thinking of how proud I am of my boys. You both have added good things to the world. You, John, making all those videos of people who never ever get heard. That’s wonderful. I wish someone like you had been doing that in Seattle when I first was married, so I could see your dad Leon again with Woofy, Sam Harris. all his friends sitting around the old gas station where no gas was ever pumped. Have to use my old fading memory to try and remember those times. With that camera of yours you can tape everything you want to see later. That’s lucky for you and the world too. Some wonderful old black people won’t be forgotten this time.

And Jackson. With your law degree, a real LAWYER! And becoming an Alderman and all, making those speeches in Chicago, pushing for better rights for us Blacks. I’m so proud that you’ve been using your talents for something that important. I just cut out the article (that will follow this note), about how the writer called you a “Black Kennedy.” I have to laugh and agree of course. You’ve always had that Kennedy charm, so maybe it will get you to the top. Maybe you can move that big mountain of trouble off your people, make this world more fair to live in.

With Dee and Leon gone I’m lucky to have Rudy around here, still making me laugh, still flirting all the time. He’s my miracle man, not letting me fall down into the pit of despair like part of me wants to do lately. So don’t ever worry about me or feel sorry for me. I’ve been a lucky one.

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