Chapter XXXII:
Dowley’s Humiliation

BETWEEN MARCO’S CONTACTS and knowledge of the region, my magical resources, and Malory’s staff and extra-deep pockets, we forged an effort worthy of Our Lord Himself. He had to feed only five thousand; we were expecting upward of a million.

We engaged every available catering company in the area and dozens more from adjacent states, barbecue being the theme. Within thirty-six hours, the Mall had sprouted hundreds of charcoal smokers, forcing Congress to declare a mini-recess because they could not concentrate on business while distracted by the pervasive aroma of roasting meats—not that Congress ever got much accomplished on a good day as a general rule without my influence; but it provided them a convenient excuse. We rounded up every portajohn in captivity and went hunting in the field for more,—and we fenced off the Lincoln Memorial, Reflecting Pool, and Washington Monument as a precaution. We planted thousands of trash cans of every size, shape, and description. We ordered the three closest fire stations to be on high alert and notified several others, as well as the hospitals. We drafted a platoon of physicians and medics to examine Sanctuary residents beforehand and to be available on the venue grounds. We mobilized extra shuttles, airborne as well as ground crawlers, to improve traffic flow; a futile hope, as anyone familiar with DC commuting knows, but award us points for trying. We trucked in amusement rides. We—specifically Marco, possessing more knowledge of such matters—hired several musical bands to perform throughout the day. After hearing them practice the day before the memorial, I was not certain they were any better than my unlamented court musicians, but everyone else seemed pleased with Marco’s choices, and I had no better to offer, so I let the matter drop without loss of life or limb. Malory ordered the local National Guard units to supplement the park police patrols—including the aforementioned memorial, pool, and monument—and to man the security checkpoints. I established spells to ensure perfect weather conditions.

We did not arrange to offer free beer. Those who desired that particular libation could buy a ticket to the Federals game (versus the Montana Monarchs, and if you do not know by now which team to whom I would lend my cheers, then shame on you for not paying attention) scheduled to start later that evening. We desired to be generous but not stupid.

On the morning of the memorial, Malory ordered Sanctuary’s solid-steel gates to be dismantled and trucked off for recycling. Even though she had not yet announced her plans for the district and its residents, the gates’ removal demonstrated there would be no going back. After salivating over the same enticing smells that had derailed Congress for two days, the Sanctuary denizens streamed en masse toward the Mall to claim their free feast; not one person strayed to make mischief elsewhere. That reason had loomed large in selecting barbecue as the menu’s centerpiece—the tactic had worked to precision in my castle, whence I appropriated the idea.

Thus, literally as well as figuratively, the stage was set.

The only weather spell I needed to employ, as it happened—being of its own accord a fine, cloudless day in late June with a high temperature that behaved itself for once and did not creep over the ninety-degree mark—was to dial down the humidity to ensure that eighty-eight degrees did not feel like a hundred and eight. That was the theory. In practice, a million people jostled together in such close proximity made the temperature feel as if it were two hundred and sixteen. The water stations we had established throughout the venue were well attended and required refilling several times before the day’s festivities had concluded.

“Festivities” is a relative term. Malory being a politician, and politicians being beings who lack the genetic coding to resist the opportunity to address a million constituents in person, established a schedule of events that began with emotional tributes to the Annis family and the other victims of Sanctuary’s fires and riots, and then alternated between a band set and a political speech, with Malory’s husband Ambrose given the honor of making the tribute speech and introducing the other speakers, and reserving for herself the final speech; in between paraded the rankest—I mean highest-ranking—senators and representatives, mostly Malory’s allies. The end result, to the surprise of no one, was that people engorged themselves on the copious—if not sumptuous by the standards of my court kitchen—free fare, enjoying their favorite music and chatting among themselves while the politicians rambled ad nauseam about the grand and glorious Things they were accomplishing for The Great State (or Commonwealth) of Great-State-or-Commonwealth-Name and for This Great Nation, bald-faced lies every one, and everyone knew it, because Congressfolk excel at speaking but are not so keen on doing; but no one seemed to mind—or care.

And the Yankee Sir Boss had the grand audacity to label my caste “useless.” If he could see his own country to-day, and the duly elected and sworn rulers thereof, he would learn an entirely new definition of the word.

As the afternoon waned, the food and beverage stations emptied, and the portajohns filled—though the crowd had not dissipated by as much as one infant—and it became Senator Dowley’s turn to speak. I took special care not to display any outward signs of nervousness, such displays being prohibited under queenship Rules One and Four, though inwardly I allowed myself the luxury to cringe. A chance glance at Malory told me she was exerting similar self-control, and who knew better than she the political damage Dowley had inflicted upon her, especially as the most recent contest for the RepuDem Presidential nomination had drawn to its verbally bloody close? Why she had chosen to gift him this opportunity to undercut her publicly yet again, I could not fathom—nor could I deter her from her course; recall, if you will, that ass-herd of which I earlier wrote. Those animals have nothing whatsoever on this formidable woman.

After Ambrose introduced Dowley as “the esteemed senior senator from Delaware,” the man ascended to the podium with studied languor, smiling and nodding in response to the polite smattering of applause. He thanked his introducer, Malory as the event’s host, Marco and me as the organizers, and then cast a warm mantle of thanks over the million-strong crowd as if tucking them in on a winter’s night. More polite applause.

“For it is clear to me, my friends, by your presence here that you care deeply about the tragedy that befell Sanctuary earlier this week, and you care just as deeply about the survivors’ futures.” Another lie; the people had come for the free food and drink and entertainment, or as an excuse to call in “sick” to their workplaces for a day—and any folks who might protest this assessment to my face are only fooling themselves.

This amounted to most of the crowd, to judge by the much louder applause that soon gave rise to chants of “Sanctuary!” and “Hell-o, it must go!”

Dowley let the crowd go on in this fashion for several minutes. Finally he held up both hands, which quieted them a decibel or two, and said:

“I agree. Sanctuary is a failed solution to a perennial thorny problem, and it must go, but it will take considerable funds and resources. And what has your President chosen to do in response? Spend millions of your hard-earned dollars to throw this huge party as a PR stunt to boost her flagging image—”

“No!”

That was me, fuming,—and standing in flagrant violation of the queenship rules. I did not care. What was the Royal Rules Committee going to do about it? Haunt me?

Dowley glared at me. “Have you something to add, Ms. Hanks?”

“Indeed I do, Senator.” I flounced to the podium and pitched my voice for the crowd without relying upon the amplifying device. Such technological wonders are known to cease operations without warning at the most inopportune moment—usually attributed to some ancient and ever so busy man named Murphy, though I have never met him, and I know of no one else who has—and I was not about to take chances. “Senator Dowley is mistaken on two important counts. Number one, the cost of this event did not number in the ‘millions’ of dollars as he claims. The final amount, thanks to the generous donations of many caterers and bands”—I permitted the crowd a few moments’ unrestricted cheering—“came to one million, four hundred thirty-two thousand, eight hundred sixty-four dollars and forty-two cents.”

“Ms. Hanks,” purred Senator Dowley, “surely you’ve forgotten to factor in wages for the day’s work provided by police, fire-fighters, physicians, military, and other service personnel. That ought to push the cost well over the three-million-dollar mark.”

“I have not forgotten, Senator. These valuable people would have received the same wage regardless of whether they had performed their duties here at the Mall, or inside an office building or hospital, or at some emergency site, or even had they chosen to take a personal day off to come here instead. Therefore, it is specious to include their wages as part of an objection to the cost of this event.”

That deflated him a notch or two, I noted with pleasure. When I would have continued, Malory rose. I yielded the podium to her. She thanked me and said:

“The second point upon which Senator Dowley is mistaken is the source of the one-point-four million dollars. I tell you here and now as God is my witness that not one dime of US taxpayer money was used to fund this event. I invite Senator Dowley, his Congressional colleagues, and every one of you to examine the GAO records at length and to your own satisfaction. Some of the money was contributed by Morganna Hanks and matched out of the general fund of the London Knights World Baseball Federation franchise. The remainder was funded out of my private investment accounts. If the esteemed senator could have managed for once in his career to set aside his acrimony long enough to work with me on this project, rather than continuing to function as the vortex of political gridlock and expending all his energy attempting to tear down his perceived opposition, he never would have made these mistaken assumptions.”

It was a broken-bat hit, and Dowley, lacking the balls to disagree, was the bat.