BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 59. Lisa Marie Presley. And death threats against President Little cause his brother to join the team. And Sturgis of Watergate fame & an ice cream truck driver in Arkansas.

CHAPTER FIFTY!NINE

“The underpinning of love is what either connects us all...or tears the fabric of society asunder.” Lisa Marie Presley looked over toward her financial advisors after voicing her quote about love, figuring that that would set the proper stage for some of the decisions she would next reveal. Of course most of them tried to be attentive as they smiled blankly through their confusion and discomfort.

Bank of America President John S. Folsom of Memphis, Tennessee watched his largest depositor through his new bifocal split lenses, having recently purchased the most modern glasses he could afford at a local optometrist. He still remembered the photo made of his retina, a close-up digital map which the technician explained would show every blip in his physiological makeup, from early childhood to the present. If there had been an unnoticed stroke of any kind it would reveal itself there, he was told, visible in his own very-personal rings of atoms. His personal cosmos. But of course, in real life he had only orbited around the Presley kid, who now mostly controlled her own wealth, including her inheritance from father Elvis and mother Priscilla. He had heard that she was involved in the Scientology cult, but tried not to think about it. How could there be anything bad about an organization that included the top actors of the age; Tom Cruise, John Travolta, even Will Smith, had their names attached. At any rate, Lisa Marie's stock choices, management team, and her past and current projects didn't seem to reflect a kook's approach to finance. Actually, he found that she had been more savvy and socially conscious than many others he had known.

Of course, her ‘clears’ at Scientology had recommended certain stocks; that is to say had instructed her about which stocks to buy, helping to select ones that were on Lisa's preferred list. To put money in other stocks was ‘forbidden by Ron.’ Now it didn't matter that Ron Hubbard had been dead for decades. Someone in the organization was in charge of channeling Ron's thoughts and thus could communicate with assurance what his beyond-the-grave stock choices would have been. Since the stock purchases were massive – all Scientologists bought the same stocks – the organization had a great deal of control over companies that they recommended as "good buys." They were able to keep certain stocks extremely well funded, and that gave them tremendous secret financial power.

In Lisa Marie's case, her order to purchase two hundred million dollars’ worth of a certain energy stock made the price jump perhaps up to twenty dollars per share when the sale was posted at the stock exchange. The twenty-million-dollar profit made that day was skimmed off with a sell-off, the funds deposited into the general Scientology bank account, supposedly to help with universal clearing. Lisa Marie felt blessed to help move the world closer to avoiding the coming nuclear annihilation. Her brainwashing had been completed years previously, and there was no doubt among the top executives that she would remain a huge asset in the coming years, especially when she became a viable candidate for the presidency in 2020.

***

The meeting of President-Elect Jackson Little with the White House Secret Service two weeks before inauguration day had been a daunting one. It was then, in a suite at the heavily guarded Sheraton Plaza Hotel, that he had been informed of the numerous threats against his life that the agency had recently received. Not only had they intercepted letters through the mail, but the traffic in e-mail, text messaging, tweets and land-line phones had exceeded those of Barack Obama or any President of the 20th or 21st century. It took a moment for President-Elect Little to respond to such a storm of evil intent. Many people wanted him dead.

Jackson's first thoughts were how to conceal the information from his mother, whom he knew would be devastated. Next, he imagined his wife hearing the news, along with his step-father and brother. The four people he loved the most in the world, including his children, would probably pressure him to immediately step down from the office, just as Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg had before him when her family was threatened. Jackson eased into addressing the problem with a few pointed questions for Secret Service Security Chief David Pierce.

“Can you tell me how many of these threats originated from individuals located in the immediate Washington, DC area?" Jackson tried to maintain a steady gaze toward Pierce, hoping he didn't expose the dread he was experiencing. He wanted to try and stay neutral during the discussion, so he could make a reasonable assessment of the actual danger.

“It's difficult to determine exactly what level of local traffic these threats represent,” said Pierce, centering his coffee cup accurately on a coaster. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see TV images of riots somewhere in the Middle East, dancing mutely on a screen to the left of the future President. “We just can't determine this with present-day tracers.”

Taking a moderate breath, the Secret Service executive continued. “But we've determined that these are real threats, Mr. President, not to be construed as just those from silly pranksters or other attention-getters.”

“We, in the Service, who are accustomed to a certain amount of this activity, have never before experienced this level of incoming dreck. So, we are greatly concerned as to whether we have the resources to sufficiently contain it. Sorry to convey our finding without offering a clear solution.”

The Chief felt an energy drain as he wrapped up his opening discovery. He wasn't accustomed to putting forth such an ineffectual front before a future Commander in Chief. But because he had personally seen the notes, electronic and otherwise, and had listened to the phone threats, he believed it wasn't a case of if, but when and how an attack would be initiated against President-Elect Little.

“Well, golly,” exclaimed Jackson Little, “not much to say after hearing something like that. I must admit I'm a bit thrown by the information. Just not prepared to hear that so many people want to inflict bodily harm. Maybe I should have expected it, but....”

“I'm sorry, Mr. President” was all the Chief could say.

Jackson tried to dig out some further information that would help him make a decision, one way or another. If he stayed on course, remained determined to become sworn in as the 45th President, would that be counter to his most basic responsibilities as head of a family? Certainly Bobby Kennedy's eleven orphaned children came to mind. Kennedy's political gamble had ended horribly in a kitchen in Los Angeles. Would JFK's younger brother have called it quits if he had known with certainty that his life would end as he ascended toward the highest office? No one would ever know.

“Can you please tell me exactly how many death threats your office has intercepted?” asked Jackson, hoping the number would be manageable on some level.

“Thirteen hundred and fifty. Short of fifteen hundred unless you include the threats we list as ‘light.’”

“Could you please include all the light ones as well? An overall number would be the most helpful.”

The Chief took a slight pause before delivering the horrible news.

“Over fourteen thousand, I'm afraid.” He watched as President- elect Little’s face turned the slightest bit ashen upon hearing the numbers, visibly thrown by the high count. But Jackson had more questions.

“Exactly how high were those threat numbers for other Presidents? Just so I can get a sense of this. What amount, for instance, did the Secret Service receive for President Reagan before he was shot?”

“Eight hundred,” answered Pierce quickly. “Might have reached a thousand if all were included. That's why we're so extremely concerned for your safety.”

“Thank you, David. I'll set up another meeting prior to my inauguration, if that's OK. Just need some time to digest this. Thanks for coming,” said the President-Elect, reaching out for a handshake.

“Sir...” said the Chief, hand still at his side.
“Yes, David?”
“The Reagan number I quoted was the tally of his death threats for the previous month before his attack. Yours are what we've intercepted in just the last seven days.”

***

When John Little spotted an article in the Washington Post with the headline, HIGHER LEVEL DEATH THREATS FOR PRESIDENT- ELECT LITTLE, he was at first incensed, then deeply concerned for his twin’s life. When he caught up with his brother a half-day later, at an introductory luncheon in the White House, he brought up the disturbing information.

“Jack...about those death threats against you. What are your thoughts on it?” he asked, his brows scrunched down in concern.

“Aw, come on, John. Every President gets some. People will simmer down after I'm inaugurated, once I'm settled into the White House with Cissy and the kids. I'd say, please don't do this worrying just yet. Give it time, OK?” Jackson hoped his casual response would put an end to the conversation. He took a bite out of White House Chef' Dominic's club sandwich. followed by a sip of orange juice. But John wasn't backing off.

“Bro. Exactly how many threats have come in? Do you, or the security services, have any concrete numbers for this?”

“Dunno. I'll ask about it next time I see one of those guys. Just don't want to focus on the negative, you know. Got a speech to deliver, for Pete’s sake, so need to keep with that part of the gig!” Jackson, hoped that that would stop his dogged brother. It didn't

“Mom's concerned too. You need to talk to her,” said John, finally leaving it there.

Sitting in the Sheraton Hotel the following Sunday, at brunch with his mother and stepfather, John and his wife Fran present as well, the subject of death threats was raised again. It was his mother who jumped in first.

“Jackson, honey. Rudy and I have been talking with John about these threats you've been receiving and we're wondering what to do. How to handle it. We're scared for your safety. John says you don't know exactly how many are coming in. Can't you get a definite tally?” His mother’s face had the same furrowed brow that his brother had exhibited two days before.

“Oh, Ma. Like I told John, it ain’t that bad.” Jackson knew if his mother heard the actual figure she'd hit the roof. He hadn’t realized that a new article in the Sunday Post had spelled it out in no uncertain terms.

“Today's paper said you've already received over 10,000 death threats. That sounds pretty bad to me.”

Jackson's face fell upon hearing the count. He knew it was considerably higher, but he certainly didn't feel like making a correction. His brother piped up next.

“Damn, Jackson! You must be the target of every nutcase this side of the Mississippi!” John seemed pretty mad, so Jackson tried to keep his cool, remaining silent. What could he say?

“Honey,” said Cissy, a pleading expression on her face, “Is this true?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“They talked to me earlier in the week about it,” continued Jackson, “It didn't feel right to bring worry to my family. The country will just have to get used to me because I'm not stepping down. At some point this will all disappear.”

“Damn!” repeated John. “You're good. You knew this when we talked, but kept your poker face. I should have known then you were harboring something, because I had that funny ‘twin’ feeling. But didn't want to push it.”

“You need to request extra security at all public appearances,” demanded John, his brother’s keeper, “and be careful with any exposure when traveling. Security needs to be beefed up immediately. And please, no walking down Pennsylvania Avenue like Jimmy Carter did after he was sworn in, OK?”

Sarah remained distressed, staring straight ahead as Rudy cut in. “Jackson...you know I served in Vietnam. We had sniper teams that were incredibly efficient. Since the early 1970s the military has been graduating upwards of 5000 shooter-assassins each year. And not all those guys I met were the most stable people. I think we need to take this threat very seriously. You have to imagine professionals with capabilities beyond the normal kind of...”

At this point Sarah hit Rudy's arm, saying in a low voice, “You promised not to...”

“Sorry, dear, but we’ve got to get real here!”

Sarah had made him promise to tread lightly on the issue of snipers. They'd talked about it in bed after seeing the article. But Rudy had crossed the line. “We need to address this issue today, and get some real protection in place.” Rudy wasn’t going to back down.

“And I have a thought...”

Everyone looked his direction.
“Remember when JFK made his brother Bobby Attorney General?” Rudy had a strange gleam in his eye.

Sarah started to responded. “Yes, but...”

Rudy finished his thought. “Jackson should make John his Attorney General, so Jackson's safety would be the top priority of the federal government. We need to fight fire with fire power here!”

John sat silent, and so did Jackson. The brothers realized that it actually made some kind of sense. But it was also dangerous on several levels. There would suddenly be two Little targets. But that was to be the case regardless of future circumstances. The thought of moving John Little into the spotlight as a member of his brother's staff was a serious one. Finally, after another sip of coffee and another bite of his eggs, Jackson verbalized his thoughts.

“I'm for it if John is.” Looking over at his brother, “I admit I feel stronger when you're with me, John. If you can handle it...it would be an honor to have you.”

John shot a glance at his wife, who nodded slightly. “If it's the only solution to the problem, then yes. Just hope we don't get too big a firestorm when it's announced. I guess it did work out OK for Bobby Kennedy becoming Attorney General, but he was a lawyer, right? And he did have substantial legal experience, I believe, aside from actually practicing in court.” After a pause, Jackson answered.

“We just need to do the research, to see if making a non-lawyer the top law enforcement officer of the country is a violation of the constitution. John, can you look into this?”

***

Frank Sturgis, or ‘Jack’ as his close friends called him, surveyed his recently purchased motel with the tourist-attractive lake visible in the background, and felt he'd made a good final investment. The previous tenant, a 50-year-old ex-hippie chick, had agreed to cash out when the property started dropping in value. She had realized that it was time to bail when her tax preparer explained that she was earning less than minimum wage, and that was before paying taxes. At any rate, Sturgis, one of the original Watergate burglars, had taken his Caroline- Kennedy-poisoning pay (supplying her a poisoned mushroom had propelled Jackson Little to the US Presidency), and laid down $170K on the Arkansas property, scoring fourteen units, a main office with two bedrooms behind it, an empty pool and a broken coke machine. Even after hiring two local maids for room service and laundry chores, he'd still come out with profits of over $20K per year, quite enough to keep an old man in hamburgers, booze and ice cream.

Things had worked out according to plan. Caroline Kennedy had stepped down just like his employers had ordered. And certainly no one figured the black guy, Little, would survive long in office. Even in the one-gas-station town of Clifton, AK, Sturgis had heard the locals slinging dirt, boasting how they’d love to ‘pop the colored’ if someone in Washington, DC didn't beat them to it. Yes, the tradition of good ol’ American racism was still alive and well in the new Millennium.

Relaxing back into an armchair, beer in hand as he watched the tiny boats putter around in the distance, Sturgis felt happy and unencumbered for the first time in his life. No more black ops for him. He'd done the deeds, survived the risk-taking. He'd heard something about the Freedom of Information Act releasing materials that might reveal his name here and there, but an informant buddy from the old days had told him it shouldn't amount to much. Some worried that certain names would finally connect the dots to the JFK hit, along with other nefarious activities. Still, he wasn't worried. He was too old to care about much except where the fish were biting and where to score some good barbecue. And it was pretty handy that the local Dreyer's ice cream truck driver would occasionally crash at the motel – cool having his own Good Humor man once a month. Sturgis got to stock the freezer with a few quarts after imbibing all the free dishes of vanilla and chocolate he could devour while the guy hung around the office.

On January 12, 2013, Sturgis welcomed a new ice cream man into his apartment. After learning he was a temporary replacement for the usual driver, Sturgis signed him in and gave him a key to vacant Room 25. That evening the guy strolled over with his guitar. Sturgis and his new girlfriend – she’d been the previous owner of the motel – got tanked on Old Granddad whiskey. Before the new driver, Sandy, departed a little after 1:00 AM, he ran out to his truck and returned with a new quart of vanilla bean, which Sturgis had mentioned several times as being his favorite. Sandy had then split, barely rolled a couple blocks through town before the quart had been dished out to the couple. Even a pro like Sturgis hadn’t seem it coming.

Sturgis and his girlfriend had each taken a big spoonful before collapsing to the floor. The poison tore at their guts, paralyzing their lungs as suffocation and death quickly followed. Sandy ditched the truck, including the dead driver (still tucked away in the freezer), parked at a scenic turnaround about three miles further down the lake and switched cars. His call later that morning guaranteed a final payment of $25K, forwarded to his bank account. Another loose end from the Kennedy era had been tied off. Sandy himself would die in an orchestrated car crash three weeks later.

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