BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 64. Sal again appears on the Today Show, to prove the Little twins are secret sons of JFK. His old friend Porty from Coke days doesn't help. And Sarah gets some bad news

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CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

It was just another morning at San Quentin prison for Johnny McCain, a lifer who had for the last ten years pled innocent to rape charges back in the 1990s. Hearing that the DNA testing had finally delivered a verdict in his favor – it wasn’t his DNA that was found in the samples – had been a huge relief. But after all the wonderful news he was still sitting in his cell, rotting away with the rest of the losers. The cruelty of being detained in prison while knowing he didn’t belong there made it all the more difficult. His lawyer, Frank Barbosa, was also frustrated that no release for his client was forthcoming. Why, he asked, should an innocent man remain in jail?

Johnny slowly made his way with the other inmates toward the cafeteria, in a line that stretched past the cramped, two-man cells on floor 2-B. And for the thousandth time he sat on a hard wooden bench, ate scrambled eggs from an artificial mix, buttered toast without any butter, and drank coffee without cream or sugar. Inmates were quickly taught that they didn’t deserve the simple pleasures of regular human beings. Suddenly, without prior notice, two well-dressed federal officers marched into the cafeteria, and the shorter one shouted out his name, “John F. McCain?” Out of a sea of men and tables a hand was raised. “Here,” said McCain, as he held his arm aloft then slowly lowered it. The men strode directly over to his side of the bench.

“McCain. You’re being released today,” announced the shorter man. “Please accompany us to your cell to retrieve your personal belongings.” The room full of inmates sat silent for the seconds it took to remove McCain from the dining hall. No prisoner had ever witnessed such formal – almost respectful – proceedings.

At the White House, President Little awaited word that McCain was a free man. Earlier, when he’d heard that an innocent convict was still sitting in prison, it had motivated him to use the full power of his office to rectify the situation. He had called his brother at Justice and started the ball rolling, saying he expected results before the end of the day. Late that afternoon the call came in. McCain was free, currently on the outside, reunited with his son and mother. The ex-convict’s wife was absent, having divorced him back in 2001. But finally, justice had been served.

Getting solid results had injected Present Little with some overdue positivity. Perhaps other wrongs could be righted by the use of his personal Presidential power while in office. He decided then and there to make it a daily ritual of perusing the newspapers for such opportunities. Unfortunately, the happy news of the McCain release was quickly overshadowed when Jackson learned the results of his mother’s biopsy for cancer. He had remained optimistic, but now the facts were on the table. The lump she’d discovered while showering was malignant. Considering that it often was a death sentence for a woman her age, she had taken the news well.

During the limbo of awaiting results, Sarah had done extensive research on the internet, learning that a certain saint, Agatha of Sicily, was the patron of breast cancer. Agatha was a beauty who died in 251A.D. after a magistrate, Quinctianus, tried to blackmail her into having sexual relations. Sarah read about how Agatha had resisted Quinctianus even after she was thrown into a brothel for a month. Beyond that, she had been tortured, her breasts mutilated, then completely cut off. Sarah couldn't imagine anything more gruesome. Thinking about her experience with JFK, she couldn’t help relating to the story of a powerful official taking advantage of a young woman. Of course, Kennedy was nowhere near that kind of horrible brute. He was just a playboy with a drug-induced sexual appetite.

Agatha’s strong resolve had eventually led her to a sentence of death by incineration. Strangely, her burning at the stake had been interrupted by a fluke earthquake. But all that “act of God” did was prolong her suffering – she was tossed back into a cell and its unsanitary conditions. She finally died there, among filth and rats, remaining a true Christian to the very end. Triumphing in death, her body refused to decay, becoming one of the noted “incorruptibles” whose human remains don't seem to deteriorate – so far an unexplained phenomenon to science. At a website, overcome-problems dot com, in the “Miracles” link, Sarah read that many of the preserved saints were on display in glass cases throughout the world. And almost all had been devout Catholics during their lifetimes. Some, the article said, even retained a pleasant odor, as opposed to the normally putrid stench of the deceased. It was only days later that Sarah learned her own fate.

Why now? Sarah had wondered. Everything else had been going great in every other facet of her life. Her sons were world famous and successful, in positions of power to make positive changes for America. She lived in luxury that few people could imagine. So maybe it was time to hear something bad, to balance out all the gifts of recent years. Maybe the cancer was the punishment she deserved. Maybe it was retribution for not standing up to her magistrate.

She couldn’t stop her troubled brain from comparing Saint Agatha fending off sexual advances to her own failure to do so, and to the grief she had ultimately caused her husband. Leon had un- knowingly raised another man’s sons. He had been the true saint in their case. He had tried to have a relationship with his boys even after the marriage blew up. If they had been his twins instead of Kennedy’s then she might have been more laid back during their upbringing, not so insistent that they have perfect table manners and such.

Sarah remembered the final big blowout, when Leon was talking with his mouth full and she was yelling at him to stop. Dear old Bela – still alive then – had tried to shield the twins from their arguing parents, carting them off to bed before the real accusations started flying. The “You never loved me” card got pulled out on both sides, a contest to see who could hurt the other the most. She had probably won, watching the love drain from Leon’s eyes that night. When she blurted out the poisonous words, that Jackson and John weren’t his, she had witnessed his confusion, followed by anger and disgust. Did he actually believe her claim that night, that his sons were Kennedys? No. Probably not. But to say a man’s kids weren't his own was a deadly blow to a person’s manhood. No husband or father could hold up long to that.

Hearing about Bela’s death from Leon had been horrible news. And years later, Sarah had experienced Leon’s own death second hand, through Mary, his second wife. Mary’s hysterical phone call had carried the bad news. Now it was simply her turn. She prayed for just a smidgen of the courage exhibited by Saint Agatha. The final question for her life would be how good a job she could do dying. It had all come down to that. She hoped that she could somehow spare her family members the personal horrors connected to the disease. She promised herself she would not go out whining and complaining.

***

Within a few days of learning about Sarah’s cancer, Cissy had their third child, a girl, who they chose to name “Sarah.” It was the first child born to First Family White House occupants in many years. Not since Jacqueline Kennedy gave birth to John John had the country enjoyed the news of an American President fathering a child while in office. But the celebratory news hadn’t lasted long. Just as the baby pictures of the new infant, Sarah Little, were being published in newspapers and magazines throughout the world, terrorists again struck the White House, blowing a big chunk out of the West Wing. Fortunately President Little and his family, brother children and wife, mother and stepfather, close advisors, were nowhere near the blast. But several assistants in the office, plus two Secret Service personal were killed instantly. There had been no warning, no declaration of any kind, and no one had claimed authorship of the deed. What was the most disconcerting to the investigators was that it seemed to have been an inside job of some sort. It was impossible to imagine how anyone or any group could violate the parameters of the White House. Sensors that could detect human body heat crisscrossed all boundaries of the White House grounds.

German Shepard dogs were posted at various outposts throughout the compound, their trainers within dog whistle range. Beyond that, there was a team of experts who monitored the grounds via satellite, zooming in from space stations to examine all points, especially the outer walls of the main buildings, including the exact spot where the bomb or bombs had seemingly detonated. Homeland Security personnel sifted through debris, looking for clues, analyzing each fragment, walking it backwards from the impact to determine what path the explosive traveled to do its damage. It would take days before a full and accurate evaluation of the particulars would be determined.

The mystery of how the terrorists sidestepped all the various White House security systems was especially upsetting to the President. Concerned for his family’s safety, Jackson felt stripped and bare, as if continually caught in an assassin’s crosshairs. If no object or person could have hidden at an outside wall of the White House without being spotted by surveillance, then how could the bombing have occurred? How could a terrorist have delivered the payload unless he or she was on the White House staff? The chief of the Secret Service, James Bryce, had reported back that no member of the staff was unaccounted for. That fact alone sent a chill down President Little’s spine. It meant there would be no future safe haven for him or his family while in residence. Hardly had the dust had settled from the attack when Sal was back on the Today show, spouting his theory again about the Little brothers Kennedy connection.

“You have come forward in print and on TV to claim that President Little is an unacknowledged son of President Kennedy,” said Ashton , restating the odd fact for his morning audience.

“Yes sir,” said Sal, sitting erect in his new blue suit, exuding the confidence he lacked earlier. “That’s correct, Ashton.” Sal felt more comfortable with the host, addressing him on a first-name basis, having survived a first round weeks earlier.

“Mr. Tempers has refused to comment on what he calls a ‘preposterous’ story, so you have brought forth new proof, an audio tape made by an old friend, someone named ‘Porty.’ Your claim is that while working at Coke, Mr. Tempers told the Kennedy story to both you and him, and he remembers witnessing it. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir. That’s the fact.” Sal was getting truly excited. He was quickly building up his credibility and notoriety and hoped to have a book deal or a movie deal within the week. But he didn't expect what came next.

“Well, our legal team played Porty’s tape, and we’re sorry to say that we found it lacking in credibility.”

“What? What the hell?”

“We’ve spoken to Porty ourselves...and he said you had promised him cash for his taped statement. A paid-for testimony of any kind must be considered highly suspect. So we at NBC must strike it. Is there any other additional piece of hard evidence you’d like to add, in support of your claim?”

“I...I only have my own first-hand knowledge.” Thoroughly rattled now, Sal tried to hold on. “I only have what Tempers told me. He said a woman on a plane had sex with Kennedy. And everyone can see that President Little looks exactly like JFK. So does his brother.”

Kutcher called again for the images of JFK and the Little twins to be brought on screen, side by side, so the viewing audience could again compare. And seeing them together, images flopped and lined up as profiles, he had to admit there was a striking similarity.

“Well I must say...” said Kutcher, catching his breath, “I can see why you’ve pursued this line of reasoning. The men do have amazingly similar facial traits. But without a DNA test I’m afraid your claim will have to remain what it is – just speculation. At any rate, thanks for appearing today on Today.”

Back out on the sidewalk, Sal felt bummed out. Millions of people now knew he’d paid for Porty. It hadn’t looked good. He ducked into the nearest bar off Rockefeller Center to level out his mood. Walking his double martini over to the jukebox he took a large swallow. Just then, two men in their mid-thirties recognized him.

“Hey! I'm Kennedy!” shouted the more inebriated one. Sal heard the annoying statement before he saw the speaker. Without hesitation, the drunk also started gyrating his hips, repeating the phrase several times over; “I’m Kennedy! I’m Kennedy! I’m Kennedy!”

Sal remembered with a shiver, how he had exhibited the same disrespectful gyrations toward Rudy in the men’s room at Coke, back in 1961. Now he was Rudy, the butt of the joke. He had to admit that that was karma.

It took Sal two additional double-martinis to anesthetize himself into oblivion.————

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