Murdering Americans Read online

  Murdering Americans

  Murdering Americans

  Ruth Dudley Edwards

  www.ruthdudleyedwards.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2007 by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006932883

  ISBN: 978-1-59058-413-2

  ISBN: 978-1-61595-063-8 Epub

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

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  Dedication

  To Máirín, who has been so horrified by what she has learned from this book that she hates it even more than she hates America; to John for all the usual reasons; and to all brave dissident students on totalitarian campuses everywhere.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Acknowledgments

  This has all been great fun, even if the central issue is terrifying. Thanks to the many people who have given me inspiration and support and answered questions, particularly Stephen and Deborah Cang, Amanda Carpenter, Nina Clarke, Beverley Cohen, Colin and Betsy Crabtree, Miles Donnelly, my brother Owen, Paul le Druillenec, Dick and Kathryn Kennison, Neasa MacErlean, James McGuire, Janet McIver, Ken Minogue, Séan O’Callaghan, Úna O’Donoghue, Henry Reid, Richard Reynolds, Robert Salisbury and Alec Swanson. Carol Scott, as ever, has coped in great good humour with the sheer mess I generate, Barbara Peters’s suggestions were constructive editing at its best, and with her husband, my publisher, Rob Rosenwald, she has been a constant source of encouragement. So too has Jane Conway-Gordon, my agent, with whom I had a great time in Las Vegas.

  I’ve been visiting America for work and pleasure since 1964, have had fascinating experiences from coast to coast, am fortunate to have good American friends and have always been deeply interested in its culture, its politics and its people. Over the past few years, with this book in mind, I’ve had a most enjoyable and instructive time reading innumerable’ critics and provocateurs in the American right-wing press, and am particularly grateful to Mike S. Adams, Tony Blankley, John Derbyshire, Victor Davis Hanson, David Horowitz, Roger Kimball, Bill Lind, John O’Sullivan, Thomas Sowell, Mark Steyn and Walter Williams. I have also learned much from South Park.

  Although several times a week—as I read of new lunacies from campuses throughout America—I have moaned ‘Pity the poor satirist,’ I should emphasise that Freeman State University and the town of New Paddington are products of my own fevered imagination.

  Epigraph

  We must indeed all hang together, or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately.

  —Benjamin Franklin, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence,4 July 1776

  It will never be known what acts of cowardice have been motivated by the fear of looking insufficiently progressive.

  —Charles Péguy, 1905

  There is a thought that stops thought. That is the only thought that ought to be stopped.

  —G.K. Chesterton, 1908

  Democratic civilization is the first in history to blame itself because another power is trying to destroy it.

  —Jean-François Revel, 1984

  Prologue

  ‘What in hell’s going on here, Helen?’ shouted Martin Freeman down the phone to the Provost. ‘If any of the shit I’ve just read in the New Paddington Sentinel is true, the whole damn university should be closed down. And where’s the blasted President when I need him?’

  Having never known the Chairman of the Board of Trustees even to raise his voice, let alone swear, Helen Fortier-Pritchardson, Provost of Freeman State University, was unable to emit more than a series of little panic-stricken cries.

  ‘Say something, will you, Goddammit? What is going on?’

  As her shaking hand knocked over her cup and coffee spread over her toast, the Provost recollected that one of her unique selling propositions was that she was supposed to be calm in a crisis. ‘I’m sorry, Martin. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Freeman took a couple of deep breaths. ‘In that case, Madam Provost, you’d better find out fast. Get hold of the Sentinel, read its exposé, and call me. Oh, and set the wheels in motion for an emergency board meeting.’ This normally considerate, polite man slammed down the phone without even saying goodbye.

  The Provost, who had taken one look at the Sentinel when she first took up her job and had dismissed it as a pathetic little small-town rag, abandoned her coffee, ran from her house to her car, and drove wildly towards the nearest supermarket. When stopped for speeding, she burst into tears.

  ***

  ‘They’ve got a group of students who’ve given them stuff anonymously,’ she told President Dickinson, when she finally tracked him down in New York. ‘They call themselves the VRC.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Terrible. The headline is: VIOLENCE, SEX AND DUMBING DOWN: FREEMAN GOES TO POT. There’s a lot on alcohol and drug abuse and sex orgies and violent hazing at the frat houses.’

  ‘So fucking what!’

  ‘And stuff on what the jocks do to cheerleaders that’ll drive parents crazy.’

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ said Dickinson. ‘There’s nothing new here. Happens everywhere. We just deny everything and repeat our zero-tolerance of any kind of initiation involving bodily, mental, or emotional harm.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Henry. The students are alleging we’re complete hypocrites who issue high-sounding statements of policy but ignore depravity because we think about nothing but money.’

  ‘Shit,’ said the President. ‘That’s more difficult.’

  ‘And they’re saying that mission statement about intellectual excellence is fraudulent, that we overlook plagiarism and collaborate with lazy, stupid students if they’re rich or jocks…’

  ‘Evidence?’ asked Dickinson sharply.

  ‘There’s a story based on tapes of classes last semester in the sociology and education departments.’

  There was a pause. ‘That’s serious,’ said Dickinson.

  ‘And they’ve got stuff on the row over transgendered bathrooms that makes us look ridiculous. And plenty about most of the faculty being intolerant left-wingers, and accusations of censorship of ideas and language in contravention of the First Amendment, and allegations about us persecuting dissidents.’

  ‘We’re no worse than most other campuses.’

  The Provost said nothing.

  ‘Well, not much worse. Depending on what they’ve got.’

  ‘There’s some stuff about how Brendan Martial and Lindy Dubois got tossed out.’

  ‘Any details?’ asked the President. He sounded edgy.

  ‘No. But they say that intimidation is rampant and they were made an example
of to terrify critics into silence.’

  ‘Those pains in the butt had it coming. And they haven’t sued.’ He snorted. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘The editorial also reminds readers of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Provost Haringey’s death.’

  The President’s voice was hard. ‘It was judged accidental, Helen, and there’ll never be any evidence to the contrary. We’ll ride this shit out. I wonder what’s got into the Sentinel.’

  ‘Can’t imagine. Maybe there’s a new editor that has it in for us. I’ll make enquiries. The editorial says this is only the first instalment. The VRC say their mission is to get rid of us. That’s you and me and Ethan for starters.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Dickinson grimly. ‘Listen, Helen, we’ve got to buy time and find out who these little sneaks are. Get Gonzales on to it and tell him as well that I said he was to stop shit happening off-campus and that he’s to be ruthless.’

  ‘Ruthless? Ethan?’ The Provost uttered a mirthless laugh. ‘What do you want him to do this time? Thumbscrews?’

  ‘Quit the crap, Helen. Tell Martin anything that’ll calm him down for now, draft a statement reaffirming all our commitments to whatever is necessary and regretting that embittered and failing students should show such ingratitude to a great Indiana school that has made diversity and excellence a byword. Throw in all the bullshit. E-mail it to me for approval as soon as you’re done. We’ll talk then about how we search for and destroy the VRC crowd, if they exist at all. Could just be one little jerk with an agenda.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can hold Martin back.’

  ‘You have to. There’s a lot riding on this, Helen, as you very well know.’

  ‘But the timing is awful. The Distinguished Visiting Professors are on their way. What are they going to think?’

  ‘Stop them seeing the Sentinel for one thing. Then start the process of getting them on our side. Hold your nerve, Helen. I have to go. I think this guy’s ready to sign the cheque. Talk to you later.’ He rang off.

  The Provost took a deep breath, and dialled Martin Freeman’s number.

  Chapter One

  ‘It was bad enough when my parents hijacked our wedding,’ wailed Rachel, as Amiss closed the front door and came into the living-room. ‘Now Jack wants to hijack our honeymoon.’

  Amiss took off his coat and threw it towards an armchair, engulfing the cat he had overlooked. An enraged Plutarch sprang up with a yowl, and coat and cat fell to the floor in a heaving mass. It took a couple of fraught minutes for Amiss to disentangle them, staunch the blood from his new scratch, and embrace his distressed fiancée. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling, but Jack can’t hijack our honeymoon. It’s ours. She’s got a college to run and a nuisance to make of herself in the House of Lords, and besides, she wouldn’t fit in our camper van.’

  ‘For God’s sake stop being facetious, Robert. This is serious.’

  ‘Sorry, darling. But I’m right. Whatever this is about, it’s nonsense. No one’s going to hijack anything.’

  Rachel began to pace distractedly. ‘But that’s exactly what we said about parents and weddings. Don’t you remember how firm I was when Mum first mooted synagogue rather than registry office? “You must be crazy,” I said. “Robert’s a goy,” I said. “What’s more we’re both atheists,” I said, “so it would be absurd to have any kind of religious ceremony, let alone a Jewish one.” I said all that and look where that got us. Landed with a big fat Jewish wedding, that’s where.’

  Through Amiss’s mind went a whirlwind of random memories of angst-ridden debates about whose wedding it was anyway, screaming matches between Rachel and her mother, the moment when after a man-to-man conversation with Rachel’s father—a proponent of the quiet life at all costs—he had (foolishly and cravenly, he realised too late) persuaded Rachel that it would be easier and kinder to give in, the compromise on having the ceremony at the parental home rather than the synagogue, the anguish of the daily reports of the frantic hunt for a rabbi who would accept intermarriage, the consequential arguments about how candid the happy couple should be with him about whether their children would be brought up Jewish, the painful conversations with Amiss’s bewildered Yorkshire parents who could not grasp why their only child—whom they had tried (even less successfully than they realised) to set on a course of prudence, uncompromising truthfulness, and low-church Christianity—was involved in what to them seemed like an exercise in staggering hypocrisy, and the horrors of recent weeks, as Rachel’s mother achieved complete dominance, the wedding plans became ever more elaborate and extravagant and Rachel ever more upset. At times, the rational, humorous woman he loved seemed to have metamorphosed into a touchy hysteric liable to throw a fit at the slightest provocation.

  Still standing uncertainly in the middle of the room sucking his wound, Amiss shuddered at the memory of the rage and the tears that had followed Mrs. Simon’s proud announcement that the embroidered velvet canopy she had selected for the ceremony would be the finest seen in north London in a month of Sabbaths. To Rachel’s anguished protests that she was not a Jewish princess, that she had never been a Jewish princess, and that she was too old to become one now, her mother had reacted with alternating indifference, scorn, and noisy weeping about the pain of a daughter’s ingratitude. Amiss thought, as he had thought a thousand times in recent weeks, of how weddings seemingly brought out not just the worst but the stereotype in everyone.

  With a familiar pang of nostalgia for the carefree days before their impulsive decision to marry—a time when he had seen Hannah Simon as a warm-hearted, clever, and entertaining addition to his life rather than the nightmare Jewish mother to end all nightmare Jewish mothers who was driving her adored child crazy in the name of mother-love—he wrenched his mind back to the new crisis.

  Plutarch had reoccupied the armchair, from which she glared at him balefully, so Amiss sat down on the sofa. ‘OK, Rachel. Back to basics. What’s this about Jack and the honeymoon?’

  ‘Mary Lou says Jack wants us to spend several weeks with her in Indiana.’

  ‘Indiana? Indiana in the U.S. of A.? What in hell has Indiana got to do with anything?’

  Rachel stopped pacing, collapsed beside him and burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ she sobbed, ‘I know I’m being hopeless, but I had a conversation with Mum today about canapés that you wouldn’t believe…’

  ‘Oh, I would, I would,’ said Amiss with feeling, as he put his arms around her. ‘I’d believe it if you told me she was searching for a new rabbi because Miller’s refused to have his nose hairs clipped.’

  ‘And what Mary Lou told me just finished me off.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘What I said. That Jack’s going to Indiana for three months and wants us to do a detour and visit her there for several weeks.’

  ‘A detour from central Europe to Indiana,’ said Amiss. ‘That makes perfect sense. Any idea why she’s going to Indiana?’

  ‘Mary Lou said she was going to spend a semester there as a visiting professor of something or other and she thought she’d like company.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said Amiss. ‘Why would she…?’

  ‘It’s no good asking me questions, Robert,’ said Rachel, sitting up and mopping her eyes. ‘What Mary Lou was saying was pretty garbled.’

  The intellectual fog that was engulfing Amiss grew thicker. Garbled prose was not what he associated with his friend Mary Lou Denslow. ‘What was wrong with Mary Lou? Why was she garbling?’

  ‘Because she and Ellis are having a hell of a time with their wedding, of course. It’s not just all that upheaval in Ellis’s ancestral home…’

  ‘His father training the peasants to tug their forelocks and shout “God bless the second son” and all that kind of thing, you mean?’

  ‘Spare heir, surely?’ offered Rachel, with a watery smile. ‘Anyway, you know she’s had all that family drama because they were pissed off that s
he’s getting married in England instead of America and even though they’ve forgiven her none of her family’s ever flown that far and they’re apprehensive. And surely you remember her parents were upset anyway that she’d given up a safe and respectable academic job for the sinful world of television? And they’re none too pleased she’s marrying a white. And, what’s more, being Baptists, they think the Church of England’s too high-church and her mother is in a state about what they all should wear and where the aunties and cousins will stay, and now…’

  ‘Enough already,’ said Amiss. ‘Thank God there isn’t long to go or we’d all be sectioned before we ever reached our respective canopy and altar. I can’t believe it’s only three months since we told Ellis and Mary Lou we’d decided we too would get married and we indulged in that orgy of mutual congratulation about how we’d keep everything simple…’

  ‘Have a joint wedding in a registry office…’

  ‘No fuss…’

  ‘Just immediate family and a few friends…’

  ‘And a decent pleasantly boozy lunch in a jolly Italian restaurant before we went off on our happy and separate honeymoons.’

  They sighed heavily as they contemplated what might have been. ‘Anyway,’ said Rachel, ‘the Jack business just seemed too much on top of everything else, but I was so overwrought as a result of Mum’s insistence that I help micro-manage the caterers that I didn’t take much in. Give Mary Lou a ring and she will—if she’s calmed down—be able to tell you the worst.’

  Amiss patted her on the head and went over to the phone. ‘You’re having a tough time too, I gather,’ he said when Mary Lou answered.

  ‘You bet your ass I am,’ said his uncharacteristically edgy-sounding friend. ‘Yes, I know Ellis’s dad means well—just like Rachel’s mom does. And I see why he wants to show the local gentry that though his son has ended up a cop and I’m black, he’s proud of us.’