IF NOT FOR YOU

CHAPTER 1 - Unlikely Trouble
“My dear friends, you should be quick to listen and slow to speak or to get angry.” - James 1:19 (CEV)
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CONGRESSMAN JOHN TUCKER ANDERSON of Rhode Island slammed his fist against the dashboard.
“Come on, Jason! We’ve got to hurry!”
“No Asian oil! No Asian oil!”
As Tucker's sedan approached the harbor on Narragansett Bay, he could hear the chanting. At least one protestor used a bullhorn. “Keep your oil out of our bay,” the amplified voice boomed.
Tucker's head throbbed. He punched the speed dial on his cell phone.
"Katie, it's Tucker. I don't need this demonstration. … Yes, I understand it's a one-day story, but it's 10:30 already, and I need to be at the Roundtable in Providence in an hour. … Major contributors. … And where am I? Thirty miles away at a beach in Davisville because some college kids with time on their hands. … I know, I know, but I need you here. … Yes, soon.”
He shut off the phone as Jason Emery, his chief of staff, angled the shiny black SUV to a stop between a Jeep and a pickup truck. Another dozen vehicles were parked at odd angles.
“What did our fearless press secretary say?”
Jason turned off the ignition. Immediately, the chanting sounded louder.
“No Asian oil! No Asian oil!”
“That we should relax.” Tucker shoved the phone into his jacket pocket. “The kids will get their ink and TV time, and then it's over. Katie knows the media, but I want her to see this for herself.”
Flipping down the visor, Tucker Anderson squinted into the make-up mirror. Eyes as blue as the June sky stared back, the whites marred by jagged red lines. He blinked repeatedly and squeezed his eyelids tight, producing a small amount of moisture. He swept his lips with a thick tongue and brushed his hair off his forehead. After 42 years, his hair remained thick and wavy. He noted more gray hairs in the four years since his wife and daughter were killed. He flipped the visor up.
“Can't we get this any closer?” He patted the dashboard.
“Nope. Too sandy. Have to walk.”
“Wonderful.”
Tucker swung out of the car and placed a freshly polished dress shoe into the sand. He watched loose granules nestle into the crevices of the sole. When his other foot struck, more granules landed in the cuffs of his navy pants.
“Ugh!” He shook his pant legs to clear the sand.
Standing by the side of the car, he shielded his eyes against the bright October sun and felt the sting of salty air as the wind picked up. A slight chill in the air made him shiver.
“Leave your jacket in the car, Tucker, and loosen your collar,” Jason said as he closed the driver's side door behind him. "Flip your tie over your shoulder. That's better. And Tucker — ”
“What?”
“Smile, will you?”
Tucker tossed his jacket against the back of the front seat. Straightening up, he forced his lips into a bright smile, and struck a casual pose.
“How’s this?”
Jason shook his head. “How did I get to work for the one politician who hates cameras? Most politicians would kill for this moment.”
Tucker looked over as a large television van, with a satellite receiver perched on top of its roof, lumbered into a clearing beside four or five other vans. As the van stopped, a ponytailed man in blue jeans hopped out of the cab and ran to the back and flung open the doors.
Inside, people wearing headsets peered into monitors. A second man, wearing a dress shirt, striped tie, and suit coat over jeans and boots, walked around the van. He patted his slicked-back blond hair and waited until the first man, now carrying a camera, joined him. They trotted toward the demonstration.
Tucker recognized the call letters printed in bright letters across the various vans as being from Providence stations, but he noted several vans from out-of-state. He shook his head.
“Let's get this over with, Jason, and get back to Providence.” Tucker punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I don't want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Jason, 28, a short, pudgy figure with thinning, reddish hair, led them through the parked vehicles to the bay. Tucker, over six feet tall and lean, slowed his steps to avoid overtaking his aide. As they crested the ridge, they were closer to the crowd's rhythmic chanting, and Tucker could make out individual voices.
“What do I say?”
“Don't say much,” Jason shouted into the wind. “Let Katie call the stations later. Tell them the usual about the harbor creating good jobs. Once those jobs are here, we'll remind everyone it was your legislation that made it possible. And don't forget how this will help the tax base so we can raise money for our schools.”
They passed several gray cruisers with “Rhode Island State Police” stenciled on the sides and two or three brown-and-white cars from the North Kingstown Police Department.
“What about the demonstrators?”
“It's a free country. They have a right to express their opinion. Besides, they're mistaken about the harbor's environmental impact. Nobody is more concerned about the environment than you are. Remember what you told the Kiwanis Club?”
“Sure do. `We can build our economy and still protect nature. This is a quality-of-life issue. We can support both interests.’”
"That's the line.”
“No Asian oil! No Asian oil!”
“Keep your oil out of our bay!” The mechanical voice, amplified by the bullhorn, added. “We don't want your tankers. We don't want your oil. We don't want your harbor.”
The two men neared the shoreline. Behind them, a state police cruiser, lights flashing, skidded to a stop. Two troopers carrying rifles emerged and ran toward the clearing.
Tucker quickened his pace, while Jason trotted beside him.