Deep Throat [Greater Dienstad; Closed]

[Castille de Italia]

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DAY I: "CAREER CRIMINALS ENGAGED IN CRIMINALITY, ON YOUR TAX DOLLAR"
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL/LEGISLATIVE ELECTIONS BEGIN AND POLLING STATIONS OPEN

"And so it is done, Mr. President."

It was only seven o'clock in the morning but already inside the Office of the President was the President and some of his closest confidants planning. Jean-Paul Dubois took the folder from the President that held Presidential Order No. 149, the Extraordinary Action to Preserve Electoral Integrity, and Dubois moved to sit down in one of the mustard-yellow chair across from the same mustard-yellow couch that the President himself was seated in. The couches contrasted greatly against the deep navy blue carpet of the office, between the seating arrangement emblazoned into the carpet was the Seal of the President of the Castillian Federation. Dubois, Counselor to the President, motioned for another senior aide, Antoine Dupont, to peek out the mustard-yellow drapes behind the executive desk and look out on the street just over 100 meters across the rear lawn of Manoir du Montbatten, the seat of the President. Dupont, the Presidential Staff Secretary, peered out and looked upon the Avenue de Fontaine Dorée, which was quiet with only Federal Gendarmes patrolling about as usual.

"Tomorrow morning it'll be packed with them," Dupont said as he moved to the other chair opposite of the President and sat down. "I've made the necessary arrangements with the Chief des Gendarmerie to get barricades up before noon."

The Institutional Revolutionary Party had capitalized on the ongoing market uncertainty and had a clear majority in all the major polling; Hershey was poised to lose the Presidential election and his Labour party projected to lose seats in the double-digits in the Federal Senate, an incredibly untenable position for the future of the Labour Party and for moderate politics in Castillia. That intolerable shrew of a woman leading the PRI was due to fundamentally reform Castillian democracy and more importantly, strip Hershey of his power he had become accustomed to as the President of the Castillian Federation. Being the chief executive of Castillia is a position he had aspired to be in for decades now, having been Minister of Aviation during the national socialist regime and then Vice-President to the fourth President John S. Faring before assuming the presidency after his tragic murder in Beziers no more than eight months ago.

"And what about the deal with the wiretaps?" Hershey asked, leaning in towards Dubois, looking at him intently. A tactic he had learned from the former leader J. Oswald Vaughn, he closed in on Dubois' personal space in order to let Dubois know that he was not in a position to give any half-truths.

"We're back to squa—in the, the problem being," Dubois stammered for a moment. He knew that the President was not happy in the slightest about the impending electoral peril and Dubois himself was skeptical of the plan to obstruct voting in a majority of swing provinces among the constituent republics. "The problem is that the Federal Security Service suspects already that the campaign arm has been spying on the PRI offices, and Leclerc isn't too terribly concerned about 'serving at the pleasure of the president' I'm afraid."

Hershey shifted back into the couch and paused for a moment. "He's ambitious," he stated after giving a sigh. "There's not doubt about that." Referring to Martin Leclerc, the acting director of the Federal Security Service, who was very adamant about having Hershey nominate him to officially become the director. There had been numerous meetings over the past several months since Leclerc's predecessor John-Paul Moreau's resignation between Leclerc and the President, and at each one Leclerc assured the President that he was fully capable at handling the SSF. After Hershey finally flat out told Leclerc no, it wasn't going to happen, Leclerc had seemed very withdrawn from interacting with the President and then SSF agents began appearing around the grounds of Manoir du Montbatten.

Hershey knew Leclerc was an enemy, however he couldn't risk dismissing him at the current time given his struggling position in the elections. He knew that he would have to win the election in order to retain power, and to do so he'd have to play dirty. He also knew Leclerc was likely looking into the President's actions due to being personally snubbed, and when politics mixes with broad law enforcement power, it is often a recipe for disaster for one party or another, in this case Hershey was certain that things were beginning to crumble. Personally, his confidence was waning and unknown to even some of his closest aides, he was already looking for escape plans. Should things go unexpectedly, Hershey had already arranged with his intelligence chief Pat Girard to have him moved out of the country and into somewhere where he could lie low for awhile.

"If we can win the election, we can begin the necessary steps to retain control of the country," Hershey replied. "Have Pat Girard call Leclerc and just say "stay the hell out of this, this is business we don't want you to go any further on" and have him say that there's serious national security implications regarding it."

The President stood up from the couch and walked towards his desk. "No doubt that Leclerc is wanting to look further into those bugs." Dubois shifted towards the President, and looked over the executive order. "There is no need to worry about Leclerc or the SSF; this is all under control. The Gendarmes will be out in full force at every polling station and Deputy Attorney General Véran has promised to keep little boy Mikey on ice if he decides to not comply with your order."

"That's reassuring, and I'm glad the Gendarmerie is going to play ball as well, but I'm still not convinced that this is going to work the ballots in our favor," Hershey responded, continuing to press his aides about their supposedly foolproof plans. As the sun crept closer into the room through the cracks in the drapes, the President and his aides continued to plot and connive to steal the election. From a hotel room across the thoroughfare from Manoir du Montbatten, SSF agents intently listened to the conversation at hand. One continued to play back a specific line "have Pat Girard call Leclerc and just say "stay the hell out of this, this is business we don't want you to go any further on." Rewind, listen. Rewind, listen. Rewind... Listen. When Hershey had uttered those words, all four looked at each other in awe; they had caught the President on recording attempting to obstruct justice. The agents, commissioned directly by Leclerc, had set up a by-warrant wiretap in the Office of the President while the President's Commission pour la Réélection du Président, often mocked by the acronym CREEP, had been wiretapping Marlène Backès' campaign and the PRI headquarters. Months of tape revealed some irreverent dealings among Hershey's camp, definitely some illegal criminal activities by the President's staff, but nothing of this magnitude until now, and nothing that implicated the President directly.

A ringing cell phone woke up Leclerc, who had racked out in his office due to his ongoing investigation into the President. He looked to whom was calling; it was the deputy SSF director, Nicolas Leroux, whom Leclerc had personally tasked with heading the investigation into Hershey and CREEP. Leroux, who was had been a senior government functionary all of his life and previously served in the national socialist SS, was regarded as one of the most staunchly loyal agents in the service, driven only to serve at this point the Castillian Constitution and an ideology for the first time he actually believed in; democracy. Leclerc was skeptical of whom in the service he could trust, but if there was one person he could, it was Leroux.

"Sir, the Hôtel Le Ciel Bleu surveillance team just got something big," Leroux calmly informed his boss over the phone.

"Well how big?" Leclerc replied, rubbing his eyes groggily.

"Sir, it's exactly what we've been looking for," Leroux exclaimed, giving a sly grin as he kicked his feet up on his desk and sipped his cup of coffee.

***

By noon, the news had broke the story on Presidential Order No. 149 and public opinion had turned sharply against the Hershey administration. Protesters numbered in the thousands had already began to form outside of Manoir du Montbatten, and against them almost 1000 Federal Gendarmes had been deployed to secure the executive residence and offices. Marlène Backès, Hershey's main competition, had already announced that she would be directing the Senate Judiciary Committee to introduce and recommend to the full Senate impeachment proceedings, and Chet Litheau, firmly in third place, was trying to ring the Federal Elections Authority to have Hershey stripped from the ballot. The news media, which was always extremely critical of Hershey and his predecessor John S. Faring, was having a field day with the public criticism of Hershey's order, with nearly everyone viewing it as voter suppression. With it now being almost 5 o'clock in the evening in Preslaff, most citizens across the whole Federation paid close attention to the next updates regarding the newest political crisis.

One person who had yet to make an announcement since the news broke was SSF Director Martin Leclerc, but that was to come within moments. The press corps was either seated, standing on each side of the press briefing room, or flowing out the doors on either side with microphones stuck through the doorway, as Leclerc looked boldly at the cameras from the podium emblazoned with the Lion and the seal of the SSF.

"Thank you for you all gathering here today. After a tremendous amount of work over the last several months into the President of the Castillian Federation, the SSF is completing its investigation and referring the case to the Justice Secretariat for a prosecutive decision. What I would like to do today is tell you three things: what we did; what we found; and what we are recommending to the Secretariat.

This investigation began as a referral from the Domestic Revenue Administration regarding the alleged illegal use of campaign funds through the President's campaign fundraising arm, the Commission pour la Réélection du Président, after the AdRI had discovered that those funds were going to Mokan bank accounts for aliases we have been able to match to several suspects who are on the President's senior staff. When SSF investigators followed the money trail, it appeared that those on the staff were using the funds to purchase surveillance equipment overseas and having it shipped into the Federation illegally by evading Federal customs authorities.

After a sweep of the headquarters of the Partirévolutionnaire Institutionnel conducted by SSF counterintelligence agents, numerous wiretaps were found in their offices. This was enough evidence for the SSF to request a wiretap of the Office of the President, which was signed under confidentiality by a Federal judge and placed in the President's office roughly one month ago.

The SSF believes that the President may have known of an investigation into his campaign fundraising arm, and thus conspired with his staff to prevent the SSF from carrying out the investigation. Evidence that SSF investigators had uncovered has led us to believe that he directly knew of his campaign's illicit activities and also moved to compel the SSF to end our investigation into his campaign's activities.

The Federal Security Service is recommending to the Justice Secretariat convene a federal grand jury to indict the President of the Castillian Federation, Harvey Hershey, on one count of obstructing justice, along with numerous charges for several members of the President's official and campaign staff..."

Harvey Hershey furiously clicked the remote, but the television still would not turn off. He threw the remote at the wall, with black shards of plastic littering the room. He then grabbed a bust of former President John S. Faring from the credenza behind his desk and threw it at the television, sparks flying everywhere and reducing Faring's likeness to bits and pieces of marble. Hearing the commotion, Jean-Paul Dubois opened the door to the president's office from his adjacent office and rushed in, with several Presidential Guards behind him.

"What's the matter sir?" Dubois frantically questioned.

Hershey turned and furiously lunged towards Dubois, grabbing him by the throat and pressing him up against the wall. The Presidential Guards, unsure of what to do, stood back and watched in horror. "This is all YOUR fault!" Hershey screamed. "This whole idea to bug that bitch's campaign was all yours and Rosseau's idea!"

Antoine Dupont and Thibault Rousseau, Chief Special Counsel to the President, ran in and unlike the Guards, immediately moved to peel the President off from Dubois. "Get a grip Mr. President!" Rosseau yelled as he drug the most powerful man in the Federation across the and sat him in his chair at his desk. Dupont turned to the Guards, still petrified, and ordered them out and commanded one to grab Oliver Bush, the President's Chief of Staff and bring him into the office. Within a few moments, all five men were in the room were seated, with Dubois icing the back of his head after it being slammed against the wall.

"This is all of your faults," Hershey began, going back into his tirade before being cut off by Rosseau.

"No listen, you can beat this. Just stand firm and don't resign, I can assure you that you can beat this whole thing," Rosseau began. "I've anticipated this for several months, and I've been making inquiries. There are several in the military services who are willing to do what it takes to ensure that you remain in office, I have been assured of their support if it comes to that."

Hershey looked up from his desk and stared intently at Rosseau. "You're suggesting at this point a coup d'état? Martial law? You think I'll be able to become a popular leader if I lead this country into a civil war?"

Rosseau stood up and walked over to the President. "It will never come to that. Labour still enjoys wide electoral support in the rural areas. Polling for months has shown that Backès only has popular support in the cities, and several of the military district commanders have assured me that if you invoke the Insurrection Act, they'll be able to quell any serious unrest in the cities. This election is a lot closer than you think, and if you win it, then we can beat the SSF and the charges. As for the Senate, we can make some things happen there."

"I don't like that you've done that all behind my back, that is playing with fire. Nonetheless, is there money involved for these district commanders?" Hershey inquired.

"Of course sir, there's always money involved," Rosseau replied.

Hershey leaned back and looked at the other four men in the room. "Have Amélie Laurent issue a press release, make it bold and unabashed. If you say you can get me out this, then I'll still fight. I won't resign, and I won't be dropping out of the elections."

***

Marlène Backès had known all along that Harvey Hershey played dirty, so Leclerc's press conference recommending charges to the Justice Secretariat came as no surprise to her. What did come as a surprise was that within the hour, Hershey's press secretary issued a release stating that the President had no intention to resign nor drop out of the elections. It was all incredibly damning, and already polling was showing that the single-digits lead that she had over the President had expanded significantly into

It was eight o'clock in the evening in Preslaff, and just like Leclerc hours before, Backès had also assembled a massive press conference and the darling of democracy herself was standing valiantly in front of the cameras.

"Thank you for your attendance members of the press, colleagues, my laborious staff, and my unwavering supporters. As you know, the President of the Castillian Federation has engaged in a broad political conspiracy not only to beat me and steal the election to continue reign of incompetence. He is why I stand before you today, not as a politician, but as a concerned citizen of this great nation. I stand before you today to express my outrage at the current administration's blatant disregard for the privacy of the Castillian people, and their attempts to spy on the opposition against him.

Let me be clear, these are career criminals engaged in criminality, on your tax dollar, and at this point they're not even ashamed by it. We are now at a critical juncture in our democracy. We are faced with a president who has abused his power and trampled on our most basic rights. His attempts to spy on our campaign are a direct assault on the very foundations of our democracy. And we cannot allow it to continue.

Make no mistake, this is not just an attack on our campaign. This is an attack on every Castillian who believes in a fair and free election. This is an attack on every Castillian who believes in the power of the people to choose their leaders. And we must not stand for it.

The president's attempts to spy on our campaign are an affront to everything we hold dear. They are a clear indication that he is willing to do whatever it takes to stay in power, even if it means violating our most basic rights, and we cannot allow it to stand. We must stand up to this president and demand that he stop his unconstitutional surveillance activities immediately and demand that he resigns from office effectively immediately.

The President however has been determined to not resign nor will he suspend his presidential reelection campaign. We must ensure that our democracy is protected and that our leaders are held accountable for their actions. I will be doubling down on my intentions to bring impeachment proceedings through the Federal Senate in my capacity as the President of the Senate, and I can assure you that even if we can't beat him in the Senate, we will be beat him in the polls. Thank you, and I look forward towards being your next President of the Castillian Federation."

As Backès finished and moved off the stage, the atrium of the office building her campaign was leasing space in roared with the sounds of quote-hungry reporters. Backès' aide took to the podium and announced that there would be no questions that evening, but asked that voters deliver Backès to the presidency. Meanwhile, President Hershey watched her press conference end via a newly-replaced television in his office.

"Fucking bitch," he muttered under his breath as he sipped on a glass of cognac.

OoC: The title of the thread is a reference to former FBI deputy director W. Mark Felt, who was known as the Deep Throat informant within the Nixon administration. The characters of Leclerc and Leroux are composites of Felt. It is not a sexual innuendo, but a nod towards the inspiration of the RP.

Furthermore, the OSRS specifically states: Euphemisms and double entendres. PERMITTED.... mostly.
Most of us are either adults or at least older teens. The occasional wink-wink-nudge-nudge joke isn't going to get you slapped. Much like swearing, it is somewhat situational and can become problematic when done in excess. If it's not being done to try and sneak around the other rules or previous points above the occasional lewd joke isn't going to give anybody the vapors.

[Castille de Italia]

DAY II: "WE ARE NO LONGER ASKING"
ONE DAY BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL/LEGISLATIVE ELECTIONS BEGIN AND POLLING STATIONS OPEN

Alexandra was one of the tens of thousands who had taken to the streets to protest the President's corruption. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood on the edge of the bustling Esplanade des Invalides, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. The air crackled with tension, as thousands of voices rose in unison, demanding justice and freedom. At just nineteen years old, Alexandra had witnessed the erosion of basic human rights and the systematic oppression of the less fortunate. She had been now in university for just under a year, and she was learning a lot. Learning that the government had become a puppet in the hands of wealthy elites, who controlled the nation's resources and manipulated the economy for their own benefit. As the divide between the rich and the poor grew wider, so did the frustration and anger among the people.

Despite Alexandra's wealthy upbringing, she had always been an idealist, a dreamer who believed in the power of unity and the possibility of change. She had since leaving home and heading to higher education in the capital of the Federation, seen the suffering of her fellow citizens firsthand, families struggling to make ends meet, and students denied access to education, a whole world different from the much smaller city of Chaleur from where she hailed, high in the mountain range on the border with the Republic of Castleclose. The government's actions had ignited a spark within her, and she couldn't ignore the call to fight for justice any longer. She had joined the Students for a Free Society, a youth movement aimed at empowering progressives and toppling the reactionary Hershey administration, which the SSF considered a domestic terrorist group. The Society in itself was not inherently violent, but there were some along the fringes who were, and those malcontents were the ones engaged in actual terrorism; the Society had written off the Meteorologists as a bunch of nutty psychopaths wanting to kill in the name of left-wing causes as had the government.

With her striking blonde hair and piercing azure blue eyes, Alexandra blended into the sea of protesters who had gathered that fateful day. They held signs and banners, their slogans echoing through the streets of the capital, demanding an end to corruption and a return to the principles that had once made Castillia a beacon of hope after the national socialist government was toppled by the Coalition headed by the Mokans nearly a decade ago. She moved to make her way to the front of the crowd, towards the gates of Manoir du Montbatten, which was lined with nearly five hundred Federal Gendarmes. Nearing the front, she heard someone mention her name.

"Alex!" the voice beckoned.

She looked ahead to see Pierre, a classmate from high school, who had also moved off from Chaleur last year. Dressed head to toe in riot suppression equipment, he lifted his visor and stepped from the line towards Alexandra. "What are you doing here?" he inquired. The two had grown up together, but grew distant as high school began, though Pierre always maintained a crush on Alexandra as she became the undisputed social queen of their school while Pierre remained remarkably average. Now just a year out into the world, Pierre was a Federal Gendarme, a far cry from the world and the ideals that Alexandra had come to embrace. However, from the moment just now when their eyes met, there was an undeniable connection between Alexandra and Pierre.

"Protesting. Fighting for our future, Pierre. Something I would have expected you to do, not have become one of Hershey's hatchetmen," Alexandra retorted.

"I only ever wanted to serve my country," Pierre replied, stepping closer to Alexandra, the only thing between them being a chain-link fence. "Anyways, regardless, it's good to see you."

Alexandra blushed for a moment, but the jeers of nearby protestors ruined the solemn moment. One spit into Pierre's face and he flipped his visor back down and then stepped back to the line. A senior Gendarme came storming down the line and began to admonish Pierre for breaking ranks. Alexandra looked on at Pierre as he tactfully took a verbal lashing, the senior Gendarme inches away from his visor, leaving much more saliva than the protestor who had spit upon Pierre ever did. She looked at him, and he looked back at her. Though it seemed like an eternity, the gaze they shared was brief but filled with stolen glances and unspoken understanding. Pierre, burdened by his role as a Gendarme, found himself conflicted. He believed in the cause for which Alexandra and her fellow activists fought, but duty compelled him to maintain order and uphold the law. Alexandra on the other hand, had long reciprocated the feelings Pierre had as they were inseparable in childhood, but did not believe that Pierre was interested, and thus began to pursue her own interests, which included coming to the capital to make a name for herself.

It was at that point further down the line from Pierre and Alexandra that a fiery blast erupted, shrouding several Gendarmes in flames. Another sound of broken glass followed, and it was apparent that someone in the crowd was throwing homemade firebombs at the Gendarmes. "Get out of here!" he yelled to Alexandra, who ducked her way through the crowd backwards away from the line while hundreds of other moved towards the line, attempting to overrun the Gendarmes. Shots began to ring out, and mass panic had ensured. The war against the government had begun. Making her way to the opposite edge of the Esplanade, she managed to clammer up on top of a delivery truck to survey the scene. The Gendarmes had began to push out from the wrought-iron surrounding the presidential palace and into the crowd, striking anyone in their way with riot shields and police batons. The chain-link fence that had temporarily separated the two sides was knocked down in pretty much all sectors as people began to flood towards the palace. Tear gas was being launched by Gendarmes behind the line, and smoke began to fill the Esplanade. She jumped back down and began to run from the area.

After what felt like an eternity sprinting, she managed to make it back to her apartment in the 6th Arrondissement, just mere blocks from the Esplanade. Outside her apartment the daily routines of those who inhabited the wealthy university district began to stop, people were huddled around televisions in cafes or in groups looking at their cell phones, watching the chaos unfold in the government quarter. Others looked up to see the black plumes of smoke rising into the air, and the sounds of sirens all across the city began to fill the air of what is usually the peaceful hustle and bustle of Castillia's largest metropolis. It wasn't long before armored military vehicles began to move through the streets heading towards the Esplanade and the government quarter, which Alexandra watched from her apartment.

She went onto Accelafeed to see if she could find Pierre's profile, or even if they were still following each other. Sure enough she found him, Pierre Rigaud, his profile picture him smiling in his dress uniform, two service ribbons denoting that he was a proud newbie in the Federal Gendarmerie. She hit the message button and began to frantically type out a message to him. "Pierre, please let me know if you're okay when you can, I'm incredibly worried for you and everyone else. I made it out okay" hitting send with tears beginning to stream down her face. Having grown up extremely privileged, this was truly the first life-endangering moment she had ever witnessed.

She sat on the edge of her bed and flipped on the television. Sure enough all television channels were covering the riot unfolding at the Esplanade des Invalides. On CBC-1, she watched Joseph Pradier interview Marlène Backès about the situation. "Let me be clear Joseph, I nor the Institutional Revolutionary Party in no way endorse the violence against our law enforcement officials. However, it is clear that the amount of people out there today shows that we are no longer asking. By the time the inauguration rolls around next month, Hershey will be out of the Manoir du Montbatten one way or another as we'll either vote him out or we'll impeach him in the Senate. Our march towards the reform of our institutions to preserve democracy will not be reversed," she eloquently stated in a cool, collected demeanor. For Marlène Backès, this was just another day with the press, she had interviewed under far worse circumstances and as someone who had met Senator Backès and worked on her last campaign while in secondary school, Alexandra knew this.

Feeling inspired by seeing Backès on television, Alexandra called up her friend Claire from university, who was also a member of their chapter of Students for a Free Society. She stood up and looked back out towards the window as Claire picked up.

"Hello?" Claire answered.

"Are you ready to go vote tomorrow?" Alexandra asked.

[Castille de Italia]

DAY III: LA NOUVELLE AMSTERDAM
FIRST DAY OF THE PRESIDENTIAL/LEGISLATIVE ELECTIONS

A young twenty-two year old junior campaign aide fresh out of university, Claude was heavily inebriated, probably roofied, strung out of his mind. He laid back in the baby-seal leather booth and with what brain cells were still functioning reflected on the beginning of the events that brought him there four hours ago. It was now two o'clock in the morning, and he was due to be at the Commission pour la Réélection du Président headquarters at 6am sharp as it was the first day of elections.

"Take your clothes off, bathrobe on, and your stuff in the locker," an older man, nearing his fifties, with a gruffy mustache told him, that man happening to be his boss.

Claude did as he was told and disrobed and then wrapped the silk bathrobe, more of a leisure robe of sorts with an ornate oriental pattern, around him, tying the belt tightly to keep him from accidentally flashing Mr. Jones or anyone else in the dimly lit locker area. The walls vibrated with the bass of dance club music and the sounds of bacchanalian bliss, giving the already hypochondriacal Claude even more of a splitting headache than he had before. After both Claude and his superior locked their belongings away in one of the tiny lockers, they moved through a door covered with beads, the heavy beat and repertoire of trumpets from the song now deafening. As the music came to them, so did the bright glow of neon in a hundred different hues of blue, red and purple, revealing one of the premier brothels in the capital of the Castillian Federation; La Nouvelle Amsterdam.

Ornate classical sculptures of nude men and women along with corinthian-style columns adorned the grand room, ferns, miniature cypress and miniature stone pines were everywhere in sight, and gorgeous, scantily-clad women traipsed around, dancing, laughing, drinking, and engaging with their clients by caressing them, conversating, seducing, and then closing the deal with them for one of the private rooms upstairs and an hour of their time and companionship. The DJ booth stood like an altar at the heart of the club, adorned with a mosaic of Baskian-era artwork. Around the booth men and women in lingerie danced and conversated without a care in the world. The DJ, surrounded by a haze of smoke, orchestrated a symphony of soothing beats, weaving together familiar melodies with slowed and reverbed samples, creating a soundscape that was both familiar and otherworldly to Claude. Though what was mostly otherworldly to him were the practically-nude women, as Claude had been raised in a particularly religious household.

"Monsieur Jones, I'm not sure how this is work-related, much less reimbursable under campaign finance laws," he told his boss as they both surveyed the massive club floor from the entrance.

Mr. Jones turned and looked to Claude. "Don't worry, you'll see how it is both work-related and reimbursable soon enough," he told him with a pat on the shoulder. "Let's go find a booth," Mr. Jones then told him, beckoning Claude to follow him, who in turn stayed close behind Mr. Jones. As they maneuvered through the smoky haze of the club, he would sheepishly look at the numerous women who they would pass, who all gave the same seductive look, albeit one that looked like they pitied him as well. To them, he was just another young buck out of his element in a world he didn't belong in, and for them, fresh meat.

"Gordo!" Mr. Jones exclaimed as they approached a booth in the VIP section overlooking the main floor. A rather fat hairy man in cheetah print g-sting and bespoke sunglasses stood up and smiled, clapping at Mr. Jones. Claude only knew about the cheetah print g-string as this man, Gordo he assumed his name was, because his gut didn't quite overextend over his pelvic area, and his bathrobe was sprawled wide open revealing the g-string, barely containing the man's genitals.

"Monsieur Jones!" the man warmly replied. He gestured for Claude and Mr. Jones to sit. Jones easily climbed over a few of the prostitutes surrounding Gordo, while Claude sheepishly slid in next to a blonde bombshell with beautiful brown eyes, tanned skin and a beauty mark on her right cheek. Dressed in white lingerie with stockings and a garter belt, it was easy to tell by her complexion she was Mokan, the blonde hair was dyed. She instantly scooted closer to Claude, and wrapped her arm around him, dragging her finger up and down his chest and sneaking its way into his bathrobe. The entire table looked at a young Claude, who had a nervous smile across his face.

"Monsieur Jones, who is this delectable young sheep you've brought to the slaughter?" she asked. The table all laughed, except for Mr. Jones who just gave a slight grin. "He's Claude, he's one of mine from over at CREEP. Take it easy on him, Fernanda," Mr. Jones replied.

"Oh Monsieur Jones, do you think I would be rough with such a cute little boy like Claude here?" Fernanda replied with in her thick Mokan accent. "Coño, he is safe and sound with me, don't worry. We will be like hombre y esposa, siempre y cuando sepa preguntar "¿cuánto dinero?"

The entire table laughed again, and Claude gave a nervous chuckle. "Fernanda, I don't have any fucking idea what you said, but I love it! It sounds so... So exotic," Gordo exclaimed, squashing his cigar into one of the ashtrays on the table, one of the prostitutes next to him already lighting another for him. "Now Mr. Jones, and Mr. Claude, what can I do for you?" he asked, motioning mainly to Mr. Jones.

"Like usual, I'm here to see Kitty," Mr. Jones replied, leaning back into the booth and wrapping both of his arms around the prostitutes on either side of him.

"Ah I see, your usual mission here. You know the drill, for that service extra payment is required," Gordo said.

"Oh I know Gordo. Do you think I'd ever stiff you?" Mr. Jones replied. Meanwhile, Fernanda had snaked her hand down to Claude's thighs, and it was clear that he was quite uncomfortable with the whole situation, though the entire table knew from the moment they saw Claude tailing Mr. Jones through the brothel. "Fernanda, why don't you take young Claude upstairs?" Mr. Jones suggested. Gordo was not late to chime in from behind Mr. Jones, "in fact, take him to the Ecstasy Room," he told Fernanda, who gave a devilish smile and looked to Claude. "You heard them, Mr. Claude, let's go, I'll lead the way," she seductively whispered into his ear.

Claude stood up and gave an awkward wave to the table as Fernanda also stood and grabbed Claude by the hand, leading him towards the grand staircase heading towards the upper levels. As they walked, Fernanda tried to earnestly speak with Claude, trying to ease his nervousness. "Do tell me Mr. Claude, where do you come from?" she said slowly, taking time to pause to think about she was trying to say. It was clear that Castillian was not her first language, and her Stevidian Anglic was probably non-existent as well.

"I was born in Finistère, in a small village named Rocamadour, resting on the Falaises du Salut." he replied, following Fernanda down a long hallway bustling with prostitutes hanging in front of doorways, gentlemen callers making propositions, and many escorts leading giddy men by the hand just as Fernana was leading Claude.

"Ah, just like Miss Backès?" Fernanda replied. Claude was actually a bit surprised by Fernanda's comment; it was fair as Fernanda was first a Mokan, and second a prostitute, a reasonable person would not expect someone in her line of work and background to be vested in Castillian politics, nor even remotely interested in political trivia, such as what village a Federal Senator was born in.

"Actually yeah, just like Senator Backès," he replied with a chuckle. "How did you know that?" he asked.

They both arrived towards their destination, the Ecstasy Room, at least that's where Claude assumed they were as Fernanda turned around and stopped them right before the purple door that led into that room. "The last time Mokans didn't pay attention to Castillian politics, a lot of us died in the Travailcamps," she said. "I was only a teenager during those days, and I was lucky enough to be born in Moxhuactl, in Guadalajara, though it was not the perfect childhood. It was better than being gassed to death by the Socialistenats though. Plus, as a sex worker, it pays to be politically aware, literally," she stated, grabbing Claude by the collar of his robe and opening the door with her other hand, leading him into the Ecstasy Room. It was lit with purple hue lights and with a rather 1980s vaporwave aesthetic, like the rest of La Nouvelle Amsterdam.

"Now, sit," she ordered Claude while pointing at an armchair in the corner. He did exactly that, and looked intently up at her, internally anxious because he was totally out of his element. Fernanda lifted her leg up and rested her white six-inch heel on the arm of the chair he sat in. "So Mr. Claude, you come from Rocamadour. I trust you went to the Cathédrale des Pieux like a good little boy of the Lord on every Sunday, didn't you?" she asked.

Claude wasn't really sure why she asked, but he indeed had attended mass every Sunday growing up, and still did now. "Yes, I did, and still do," he replied. Fernanda again gave a devilish smile and sat in Claude's lap. "I see, and you probably went to a school ran by the church, didn't you?" she asked, caressing Claude and opening the chest area of his robe.

"Yes, I did. Académie Sainte-Agnès, ran by the Société Franciscaine des Frères," Claude replied.

"Ah, and they taught you to be such a pious young man, this pious young man who finds himself completely out of his element in a cathouse in the seediest area of the Federation?" she asked again. At this point, Claude was beginning to pick up where Fernanda was going with this interrogation.

"I suppose so," he retorted.

Fernanda leaned in close to Claude, pressing her nose up against his. "I can relate, I too went to a church school." She paused for a moment, then spoke again. "At school they taught me how to be so pure in thought and word and deed," she stated with a pause again. "They didn't quite succeed," she finished, and then went in for a kiss. Claude knew it was coming, but it was still unexpected, but he did his best to reciprocate. It was a long kiss, but Fernanda pulled back after about 25 seconds of aggressively kissing Claude.

"Where are my manners Mr. Claude?" she exclaimed. "We need to loosen you up of course!"

Fernanda stood up and walked over to the minbar on the otherside of the room while Claude still sat in the chair. "What do you drink?" she asked.

"I don't really drink, but I suppose I will drink whatever you pour me this evening," he replied, still quite uncomfortable. Fernanda laughed, and began to fix drinks. "How about something easy for you. Perhaps a whiskey sour?"

"I suppose that'll work for me," he replied. "I do have to ask Fernanda, what is the end game with me here? From what I've observed, normally men have to negotiate a price for time with the women."

Fernanda didn't bother to turn around and continued to mix the drinks, but did answer the question. "Relax my love, there is no end game. Mr. Jones comes here often to meet with one of the very popular escorts here; she spends a lot of time with Castillia's political elite. He pays her for information on what is going on because we all know rich white men love to divulge secrets to hookers who they think love them. Also, I think Mr. Jones and Kitty are legitimately in love."

Claude actually laughed out loud at Fernanda's insinuation. "Really, do you know Mr. Jones? We're talking about the same guy who likes to hover his hand over an open flame at the CREEP headquarters to demonstrate his unwavering loyalty to President Hershey," he said.

"Trust me, I know all about how ridiculous Mr. Jones can be, him and the gruffy mustache of his make quite the entertaining debacle. I have no idea how Max Jacquemoud hasn't fired him yet for being absolutely preposterous," Fernanda replied as she turned around holding two drinks. "So let me guess, you're about twenty, twenty one, right?" A church boy, small town in wine country, I'm assuming you've probably never have been with a woman, huh?" she asked as she handed Claude his whiskey sour and sat back on his lap.

Claude paused for a moment. It actually wasn't true, well, if you could call third base being with a woman, but he was too scared to go all the way and that's why he didn't have a date to the spring formal as his girlfriend broke up with him. Now in college and working at CREEP, he hadn't much time to get any experience, though he had a crush on one of the girls who interned with him at CREEP. "I've done some things, but not everything," he replied.

Fernanda grabbed and pinched his cheek. "That's so cute. Tonight, that changes. I plan on showing you so many things," she said as Claude took a sip of his drink. Claude blushed, and shifted his legs. Fernanda recognized why he did and grinned. "I see you are actually easing up, this will be fun!" she exclaimed before going in for another passionate kiss, which Claude reciprocated much more this time around.

Hours later, in a room down the hall, Mr. Jones laid in bed with Kitty Adair, a luscious and dominating looking middle-aged woman with flowing brunette curls, hazel eyes, and a rather endowed chest. Both unclothed, they laid underneath the satin sheets and shared a cigarette, staring up at the ceiling with for several minutes just the sound of the fan circling above them the only noise.

"Always a fun time, Mr. Jones," Kitty said in a demure tone. "You do see me so much, when are you going to rescue me from this brothel?" she asked while passing the cigarette to him.

"Oh don't be so droll Kitty, you love it here and you love me, you know it," Mr. Jones replied, taking a drag from the cigarette. "Besides, we have a great arrangement."

"I suppose we do," Kitty replied. "Should we now get into the business aspect?"

"I suppose we should. Tell me what you've heard about the indictment," he said, handing the cigarette back to Kitty, who turned on her side and looked to Mr. Jones.

"Okay, so I saw Bruno Beaufils this week, on Tuesday in fact, day of the indictment. Y'know, chief of counterintelligence for the SSF? He said that all of the division heads were brought in for a meeting and told that the SSF are preparing to serve an arrest warrant for President Hershey if he does not appear for his arraignment on Friday, but that Leclerc is holding out because the Constitutional Court is deliberating on whether a sitting president can even be charged with a crime."

"When are they deliberating?" Mr. Jones inquired turning on his side facing Kitty.

"Ah yes, I figured you'd want to know that too, that's another ₴6000 dataries," she retorted with a grin. Mr. Jones leaned over to his wallet on the sidetable and handed it to Kitty. "Take whatever you feel is appropriate," he instructed.

"Gladly," she replied, rummaging through the numerous bills in his wallet. "A little bit more than six-thousand will be nice, there's a new mascara kit I was wanting." She smiled again and handed the wallet back to Mr. Jones, who in turn set it on the same sidetable. "Now I saw Constantin Robiquet this week as well. He's a senior clerk to Councilor Fabrice Thévenet. He told me that as soon as the indictment went out, the SSF had a warrant signed by a federal judge but then Thévenet directly called Leclerc and told him that because the constitution implies that presidents are immune from prosecution somehow, and that the Constitutional Court would need to deliver a final interpretation on presidential immunity."

"Ah, how thoughtful of Councilor Thévenet," Mr. Jones said, turning onto his back and looking back at the ceiling fan. "He certainly is one to have President Hershey's best interests in mind."

Kitty threw the covers off of her and rolled out of the bed. "Your time is up for now Mr. Jones, I have other gentlemen callers waiting to see me," she said as she grabbed her bustier and began to wrap it around her. "Besides, you should probably look for the kid you brought with you. If he's with Fernanda, then he might be in trouble."

Mr. Jones gave a slight chuckle. "He'll be fine with Fernanda. I've been trying to get that kid laid since he showed up at CREEP." Rolling out of bed as well and throwing his bathrobe back on, he walked over to the other side of the bed towards Kitty. "Are we still on for you to bring some girls to the Discothèque Cabana for Operation Opal?"

"As long as CREEP's money is good for it," she replied, opening the door to the hallway and gesturing Mr. Jones out. She gave him a slap on the behind on the way out, and Mr. Jones made his way down the hallway back down to the main club area, where he found Claude and Fernanda back at Gordo's table, Claude's arm around Fernanda.

"I see you're lightening up Claude," he said as he clammered back into the booth, squeezing his way in between two of the prostitutes he sat between earlier. Claude didn't respond, he stared blankly around the room with a smile, looking at all the lights and bobbing his with the beat of the song playing. "Fernanda, what is he on?" Mr. Jones inquired.

"Roofies," she said with a laugh. "He needed to lighten up!"

And so a young twenty-two year old junior campaign aide fresh out of university was heavily inebriated, confirmed roofied, with now a new perspective. He was in love with a prostitute with whom he had lost his innocence, had gained some real experience in the shady dealings that made up Castillian politics, and was experiencing it all in the root of it all; La Nouvelle Amsterdam.

***

Monsieur Jones briskly walked into the executive wing of Montbatten Manoir, having made the journey from CREEP headquarters down the street without being assailed or stoned by the thousands of protestors... no, rioters, that had occupied the Esplanade des Invalides. The neer-do-wells constantly had been clashing with the Federal Gendarmerie for well over a day now, and barricades had been erected by both sides, with more and more troops as well as rioters pouring into the capital from all over the Federation.

"Monsieur Jones, funny to see you in the presidential offices and away from your office over at the Amsterdam," Jean-Paul Dubois, Counselor to the President, jested.

"Save me the grief Dubois, my work at the Amsterdam actually has yielded extremely pertinent information for the President, which I want to tell him directly," Monsieur Jones replied.

"You know that's not how this arrangement works, Monsieur Jones," Dubois replied. "You work through me, and I go to the President or I go to Ollie Bush. We can't have CREEPers just waltzing into the Executive Office, the media are going to eat that up," Dubois replied, pinning Jones back from walking any further. Jones quickly snapped and twisted Dubois' arm, putting him into a rather painful armbar.

"Dubois, you better than to lay a finger on me. Now, you're going to take me directly to the President or I'm going to break your fucking arm," Jones instructed.

"Okay, fuck, let go of me and let's go then," Dubois relented. Jones let go of him and Dubois rubbed his arm, instructing Jones to follow him to the Executive Office. He knocked on the door, and a voice from the other side beckoned them to come in. He opened the door and they stepped inside to see the President receiving his daily intelligence briefing from FIS Director Pat Girard and Presidential Chief of Staff Oliver Bush.

"Good morning gentlemen," President Hershey said. "Monsieur Jones, funny to see you at Montbatten."

"Yes, quite funny indeed," Bush said with a scowl, not happy that campaign staff were engaging the President in the Executive Office.

"Good morning sir," Monsieur Jones replied. "I normally would work through Jean-Paul, but this is extremely urgent."

"Very well, what's the matter?" President Hershey inquired.

"I have it on good authority that the Constitutional Court is convening today, in just an hour or so, to deliberate on whether or not the SSF can place you into custody," Monsieur Jones bluntly stated.

"Who is the good authority?" Bush asked, shooting up from the mustard-yellow sitting couches in the center of the office.

"Apparently both Bruno Beaufils and Constantin Robiquet both have been seeing the same girls over at the Amsterdam," Monsieur Jones replied.

"Ah, so you heard this from some hookers Monsieur Jones?" Bush retorted.

"Not just some hookers. I heard it from Kitty Adair. And no disrespect, but I know that all of us in this room know that the President knows Kitty very well," Monsieur Jones replied.

The room was silent for a moment, then President Hershey began to laugh, and then all the men erupted into laughter. "Ah yes, we all know I'm quite fond of Mademoiselle Adair," he replied. "Pat, isn't Mademoiselle Adair an FIS informant?"

"She is on our rolls I do believe, Monsieur President," Director Girard replied. "But I do think we should take this news very seriously and get you out of Montbatten. If the Court concludes that you can be arrested, Leclerc will be here by lunchtime, I can assure you that."

The laughter subsided as Girard raised the seriousness of the situation. "What are my options then. Dubois, what about the military commanders?" Hershey asked.

"I'd have to speak with them, but the situation is so chaotic across the major cities that I'm not sure if they would still be on board with martial law, and I don't think anyone is going to stand with you rounding up and arresting the entire SSF," he replied?

"What the fuck Dubois?" the President shouted. "Two days ago you're telling me 'oh don't worry Monsieur President they can't touch you' and now you're telling me I'm going to have to go with Pat's plan and become an exiled president? I have to now let them steal this election from me?"

"Monsieur President, the gravity of the situation has changed," Girard stated. "If what Monsieur Jones is saying is true, it's time to execute our plan now."

The President sighed and slumped back into his chair. He then stood up and drew back the curtains to look across the lawn and past the wrought-iron fence to a sea of people who hated him. He then turned back around and looked to the men in the room. "Fuck it. Start packing I suppose," he said.

***

At precisely nine o'clock in the morning, a young campaign aide was missing from CREEP headquarters, but the campaign went on. However, the Constitutional Court had convened in its chambers for an extraordinary closed-door session. The eleven Councilors took their places at the roundtable. Also present was the nine commissioners of the Federal Elections Authority who were summoned by the Constitutional Court to provide valuable input to the Court as they began to deliberate the truly extraordinary circumstances that brought them there to the Palace of Justice.

Théophile Baillieu, President of the Court, rose from his chair and began to address the room. Outside of the twenty from the two parties, the grand room was completely empty.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by noting that this may perhaps be the most dangerous time for our young democracy, and our young Federation. I know that this room itself right now is divided, some of you may be compelled to interpret the Constitution with original intent. You may consider that Article Two, Section Seven argues that—"

"We know what it means, Théo," interjected Orso Warren, one of the other Councilors and one fiercely devoted to Harvey Hershey's administration. "We are all experts in the interpretation of our Constitution, and there is no issue of interpretation; this was not a document written centuries ago, it is only twenty years old. We know that the first administration meant when the Senate of the Federation made it the centerpiece of our democracy."

"Do you, Orso? You've seemed to forgot what democracy means the way you have publicly taken a stand for Hershey, violating the impartiality of our court," retorted Éliane Delafosse, another of the Councilors.

"I beg your pardon Councilor Delafosse," Orso said as he instantly rose from his chair. "I have done no such thing, I only spoke to the press about the lack of legal authority the SSF had in even bugging Manoir du Montbatten. I do not think that equates me standing for—"

"Enough!" Théophile raised his voice. "The both of you, sit!" he instructed. "This is the highest court in all of the Federation, and it will never conduct itself in petty squabbling and accusations in this chamber, especially in front of our esteemed guests from the Elections Authority."

Théophile stepped back from his chair and began to pace towards where the board of commissioners for the AEF sat in the chamber. "Mister Cartier, would you please brief us, the Constitutional Court, on the current state of the general elections?" he asked Hervé Cartier, the Chairman of the AEF, who then rose from his chair.

"Gladly Mister President," Hervé replied. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of the Constitutional Court. As we have all seen the massive protests and rioting across the capital, and the movement of the Federal Gendarmerie and internal troops to quell this unrest, it has certainly stymied the ability of many to effectively make it to polling stations and vote. While controversial, President Hershey's executive action to place federal law enforcement officers from the Justice and Interior Secretariats at polling stations has no doubt helped secure the ballot locations, though we, and I do mean we, are wary of their interference in election operations."

"You are telling me the AEF is collectively concerned about the Justice and Interior Secretariats interfering with the democratic process?" Orso inquired.

"Exactly that Councilor," Hervé replied. "The Federal bureaucracy has shown to be incredibly partial and corrupt. Outside of the SSF, who seem to be acting in the name of preserving the liberal democratic basic order, other agencies such as the SFdR or the CdlSI are in league with Hershey to steal this election. While we have preferred not to publicly endorse any candidate, at this point we are resolved that the actions of the current President constitute a grave and extreme danger to our democracy."

"So I reckon you would ask us, and you are here to petition so, to allow for the arrest of President Hershey by the SSF?" Théophile asked Hervé.

Hervé turned and looked at his eight fellow commissioners, who gave various nods of approval, and then turned back to Théophile. "Mister President, we cannot ask or request such a thing. We have no constitutional authority to do so and it would put the current elections in peril if we were to officially endorse such an action. However, we have our concerns about President Hershey's election meddling. We are extremely concerned that this will not be a fair election. It is no secret that he enjoys the rural vote, all the while voters for Backès are concentrated in the cities where they can't necessarily make it to polling locations due to the unrest. To suggest this wasn't deliberately planned would be, in our opinion, an incredible miscalculation."

He cleared his throat and quickly surveyed each councilor. "We only hope that the Constitutional Court of the Castillian Federation will make the right decision."

Théophile stepped over to shake Hervé's hand. "Thank you, Mister Chairman," he said with a smile. "I now ask that you all leave the chamber. I intend to have the Court vote on this very sensitive matter."

The commissioners of the Federal Elections Authority all rose from their chairs, each shook Théophile's hand, with a "thank you, Monsieur President," here and there, and promptly exited the room. At the same time, one of the senior clerks to the Court entered the chamber with a frazzled look upon his face.

"Monsieur Baillieu, this is urgent!" the clerk exclaimed, bend over to catch a breath. It was clear he had ran from the staff offices section of the palace all the way to the chamber, a roughly 300 meter distance which included a flight of stairs.

"Yes, what is it Monsieur Mossé?" Théophile replied. "What ails you so much?"

Mossé took a second to control his breathing and then spoke. "The SSF just called. They have been running surveillance on Manoir du Montbatten from across the Esplanade des Invalides at the Hôtel Le Ciel Bleu. A convoy is parked out front and suitcases are being loaded into them. They think he is preparing to leave the Federation while he still has the chance."

Théophile sighed. "Thank you, it's high time we make a decision then. I'll ask you to leave for the moment," he instructed the clerk, who did as instructed. Théophile then turned back to the chamber, where the other eight councilors sat. "As you just heard, we now control the fate of our democracy. Will we allow for a President to reign without checks on his power, or will we allow our justice system to hold a corrupt individual accountable?"

"Why do you or the SSF think he would flee? There is no provision to allow for a sitting president to be arrested? No one knows, or should know we are even deliberating this," Orso questioned. "Who here has been violating the confidentiality of our operations?"

"That is irrelevant at this point Orso, but we will conduct a full investigation into that later," Théophile replied. "I ask that we bring this to a vote immediately."

"I reject that proposition," Orso replied. "There is no need to complicate our Constitution by redefining the powers of the Presidency"

"Hear hear!" Councilor Fabrice Thévenet shouted. Fabrice had been in league with Orso and as the traditionalist wing of the Court, and very much supported Hershey's presidency as he had held stock in Trans-Castillian, one of the major benefactors of the Barjaanistan Rails-for-Oil scandal and subsequent Asadabad War.

"Anyone else care to opine? Or shall we bring it to vote?" Théophile asked the room. The other six aside from Orso and Fabrice neglected to say anything, until Éliane spoke up. "I say we do bring it to vote," she said, with four of her colleagues nodding in approval.

"That is a simple majority on whether we should stage a vote or not. Now, in accordance with the rules of the Court, I propose a formal vote on the following: shall the Constitution formally be interpreted under Article Two, Section Seven to allow for a sitting President of the Federation to not be immune from prosecution and arrest in cases of treason, corruption, the obstruction of justice, or other high crimes?" I will now ask for each vote. I will state that I first am in favor of this action. Now, Councilor Delafosse, your vote?"

"Aye, Monsieur President," she stated.

"Councilor Warren?"

"Nay, Monsieur President," Orso replied with a scowl.

Councilor Thévenet?"

"Nay, Monsieur President," Fabrice replied with a scowl as well.

Councilor de la Rosa?"

"Aye, Monsieur President," Aurélie de la Rosa replied, looking to her right at her colleague Éliane with a smile.

"Councilor Dacourte?"

Florentin Dacourte paused for a moment and looked to his colleagues. It was assumed he would have been a swing vote as he was always known to be wishy-washy. "Aye, Monsieur President," he replied.

"Councilor Quint?"

"Nay, Monsieur President," Bruno Quint replied, shaking hands with both Orso and Fabrice after. Éliane scoffed at the men.

"Councilor Escoffier?"

"Nay, Monsieur President," Emmanuel Escoffier stated. All eyes then turned to Jean-Louis Bassot.

"And Councilor Bassot, your vote?"

Jean-Louis Bassot was a lawyer with a colorful personality. Hailing from Marais Besançon, he had worked closely with the Litheau family for years before being appointed to the Constitutional Court and moving to Preslaff. Despite now living in the capital where it often snowed, he still often wore seersucker suits, although this hot summer day with the air conditioning in the ancient palace not necessarily working to its fullest potential, his blue seersucker ensemble certainly must have kept him cool, as he didn't have a bead of sweat on him like the other councilors. It was clear this decision did not weigh on him like Dacourte.

"I vote Aye, Monsieur President," Bassot replied.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the measure passes." A small cause of celebration came from four of the councilors, while the four gentlemen who voted against the measure jeered. Théophile then opened the door to the chamber to the clerk Mossé who had sat outside on a bench while Federal Gendarmes pushed a crowd of reporters back from the chamber doors in the grand atrium. He motioned for Mossé to come over, which he did. "Monsieur Mossé, send word to our friends in the SSF. That warrant is a valid legal instrument."