Illusion of Splendor
An International Thriller by J.D. Easley
Waterton Publishing Company
No part of this book was created using Artificial Intelligence (AI).
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent actual places, companies, or persons.
Copyright © 2012 by J.D. Easley. Waterton Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproducedin any form without permission.
Published simultaneously worldwide.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012947104
ISBN: 978-0-9905249-0-8
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ILLUSION OF SPLENDOR
II PRIVACY
Professor Downing focused his gaze at the center of the second row; “Back to Frank’s point, the government – our elected government – would argue the girl’s parents consented to her search by trying to board a commercial flight and refusing to allow an x-ray scan. Is this coerced consent? Is there a right to fly commercially? Is there an alternative, ship travel for instance, to Europe? Is a person’s home the last place left where the law may find a person enjoys a reasonable expectation of privacy?”
Looking directly at Frank he asked “Are you okay with that?”
Without any delay Frank responded “As long as there’re wackos in the world, I’m okay with giving up a little privacy, but that girl is obviously not a wacko and there isn’t any reason to search her!”
Several other students clapped faster than the professor could retort, “So you would give some Americans a right to privacy and not others? How would you make the call?” He immediately wished that he had not asked the question or had phrased it differently.
“I know how I would make the call” replied Frank, “I would only search people who look like they are from the Middle East.”
“I assume by that you mean people who appear to be of one faith but was Timothy McVey a Muslim,” Professor Downing carefully prodded Frank, “or the kids who shoot up schools, or the IRA, I mean, can’t you think of extremist examples in any group of well-meaning people?” This was an argument the professor had lost in the past, a complex issue pitting his liberal, really libertarian beliefs against the most common of sense.
“None of those people,” Frank’s anticipated response did not surprise the prepared professor, “blew up airplanes.”
Professor Downing took hold of the podium, leaned back, placed his left foot on the bottom of the stand out of view, stared at Frank and confirmed “Neither have ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine, and on and on percent of the world’s almost two billion followers of Islam.”
He hesitated for a couple of seconds while watching Frank and thereafter quietly perusing the room allowed his students a few moments for consideration and analysis before foreclosing additional discussion of the topic by announcing in an upbeat voice that “For next class, I want you to finish the assignment for today’s class, and also be prepared to discuss the concepts of balance and consent within the context of government intrusion on individual privacy; a la prochain – until next time!” With those words the professor lifted a black leather shoulder bag from the floor and began packing his computer and notes.
The Washington of that late morning in early May reinvigorated Robert with cool air and billowing white clouds, a slight breeze, and yellow flowers blooming in reddish clay planters along a concrete walkway just few steps from large ornate doors leading from the Political Science Center. Reminders all, the semester would soon be ending. His hair, gray, full and over the lobes of his ears, tossed in the wind and a smile curved his lips imagining the summer ahead. Brisk his step, an athletic frame bounding at fifty along the flower-lined sidewalk dividing expanses of budding trees and green grass, intent on a quick salad at the commissary in advance of hordes of students and faculty.
Passing others along the way, coming, going, boys, girls, men and women, alone, together, some recognized but paying no heed, Robert pulled his Blackberry from a pocket inside the wool jacket and, finding a waiting voicemail, adjusted the ringer volume, pressed a key, and held the phone to his ear. It was his daughter. Robert heard the familiar “Hi Dad!” and pressed the speakerphone key, adjusted down the volume, held the phone close to his right ear, and straddled the sidewalk to avoid passersby and shimmering blades of grass thought to be damp.
Sandra’s voice resonated with high-pitched cheerfulness well known to Robert as reserved for the most joyous of occasions, “…here, things are going great, hope things are good at home, but I’ve got something exciting to tell you! Call me! Love you!” Robert pressed the end key; the digital clock displayed eleven thirty-five, “Five thirty-five in Paris…time enough” he thought, for a quick lunch.
The Memorial Union cafeteria was abuzz as Robert handed the cashier a small plastic tub of lettuce, purple cabbage, black olives, artichokes and feta cheese covered by clear plastic wrap, and a credit card bearing the college emblem that he used as often as possible to enrich an airline frequent flier account. Then he heard the voice.
“Professor Downing?” the sound conveyed polite interruption founded in certainty that the man addressed was in fact Robert Downing.
Robert fumbled with his wallet, reinserting the credit card while holding the salad, focused quizzically on the young man standing in an adjacent cashier line, and wished at that instant to be someone else.
“Do you have a moment?” the man persisted.
Robert slipped his wallet into a trouser pocket, grasped the salad with unnecessary force to the sound of crumpling plastic, and moved toward the drink dispensary, all the while quietly contemplating his approaching inquisitor, a young man about Robert’s height with dark hair cut close, fashionably unshaven, black rimmed glasses, a blue Under Armour sweatshirt and baggy torn jeans, guarding a sandwich in his left hand and an empty soda cup in his right.
“Frank, from class a few minutes ago, isn’t that right?” Robert needlessly but cautiously queried with a smile.
