Chapter 535 - 248: Hunting Ground
Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania.
Inside the Senate chamber of the State Capitol Building, fifty desks were arranged in a semicircle, each holding a nameplate and a thick copy of a bill.
It was a closed-off world.
The protests over Luigi Randall, the arguments over the healthcare bill—all seemed to be shut out by the heavy, carved doors.
Here, time itself seemed to flow more slowly than outside.
The current Acting President of the Senate, Republican Gareth Kaufman, was sitting in the high-backed chair on the dais.
"The current agenda is Bill ST-402."
Kaufman tapped his gavel, his voice languid.
"An amendment regarding the increase of agricultural irrigation subsidies for the corn-growing regions in the western part of the state. The Agriculture Committee has passed its first reading, and we will now proceed to the second."
Most of the senators below were not paying attention.
Some were looking down at their phones, others were whispering to their neighbors, and a few were even yawning.
No one truly cared about this kind of routine agricultural subsidy bill.
It was just a standard procedure to please rural voters; even the opposition party couldn’t be bothered to debate it.
It was an uneventful afternoon session.
Down on the floor of the chamber, the chairman of the Agriculture Committee had just finished a lengthy speech and was about to sit down.
Just then, a man stood up from a seat in the third row, on the right side.
Steve Miller.
The Republican Senator from Erie County.
Steve’s face was a little pale, and his hand, pressed on the desktop, was visibly trembling.
But he still straightened his back and switched on the microphone in front of him.
"Mr. President!"
Steve’s voice was tight, and his shout sounded particularly abrupt in the quiet chamber.
Kaufman frowned.
He looked up, peering over his reading glasses at this normally meek junior colleague.
"Senator Miller, this is the time for discussing the agriculture bill," Kaufman said impatiently. "If you have some brilliant insight on corn irrigation, please wait your turn to speak. If you just need to use the restroom, you don’t need to report to me."
A smattering of snickers rippled through the chamber.
This was a classic Kaufman tactic: using humiliation to establish authority.
Normally, Steve would have sat down.
But today, he didn’t move.
"No, Mr. President."
Steve took a deep breath, his voice suddenly rising in volume.
"I’m not here to discuss corn."
"I wish to raise a question of privilege!"
The moment those words left his mouth, the snickering in the chamber vanished.
The senators all looked up in surprise, staring at the man from Erie who was usually a non-entity.
But hidden among the surprised gazes were a few sharp, knowing glints.
Senator Evans from Scranton lowered his newspaper, Senator Foster from Johnston straightened his back, and Senator Green gave an almost imperceptible nod in Steve Miller’s direction.
It was the prearranged signal.
The question of privilege Steve had raised was the nuclear option of parliamentary procedure.
According to *Gareth’s Rules of Order* and the bylaws of the Pennsylvania Senate, a question of privilege concerns the honor, safety, and dignity of the assembly as a whole.
It holds the highest precedence, can interrupt any business in progress, and must be dealt with immediately.
Kaufman’s expression darkened.
He sensed something was wrong.
This was a sneak attack, with no warning whatsoever.
"A question of privilege?" Kaufman tightened his grip on the gavel. "Senator Miller, do you have any idea what you’re saying? The Senate is not under threat. What is the basis for your motion?"
"The basis is your incompetence, Mr. President!"
Steve pointed at the dais and roared.
"In recent times, our state has fallen into unprecedented turmoil! The courts in Philadelphia are holding trials, and the squares in Harrisburg are in riot!"
"And what have you done?"
"In this sacred hall, in this place that decides the future of Pennsylvania, you’ve had us discussing damned corn irrigation!"
"Your weakness and blind obedience have gravely damaged the dignity of this chamber! You are no longer fit to represent the interests of Pennsylvania!"
"Therefore, in accordance with the Senate’s rules of procedure."
"I formally move—"
"To declare the chair of the President vacant!"
The chamber erupted.
This was a coup.
This was an attempt to oust the President in full view of the entire assembly.
Kaufman shot to his feet.
He was trembling with rage, his face livid.
"Bastard!"
Kaufman frantically banged the gavel, creating a loud BANG, BANG, BANG.
"This is nonsense! This is disrupting the order of the Senate!"
"Miller, have you lost your mind? What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to stage a rebellion?"
Kaufman pointed to the door.
"Sergeant-at-arms! Take him out! Let him cool his head!"
"I rule!"
Kaufman roared into the microphone.
"Your motion is out of order! It will not be entertained! Sit down!"
This was the power of the President.
He had the right to rule on whether any motion was in order.
As long as he ruled it out of order, the motion could not proceed to a vote and would die on the floor.
Kaufman thought this was just an isolated fit of madness.
He thought that by showing strength, he could control the situation, just as he had for the past ten years.
But he was wrong.
The instant his words faded, the very moment his gavel struck the desk,
on the other side of the chamber, in the front row of the Democratic Party seats,
another person stood up.
It was Senator Wicks, the man in the Senate who answered to the Minority Leader, Aston Monroe.
Wicks adjusted his suit, his expression grim.
"Mr. President."
Wicks said firmly, "I object to your ruling."
"According to the rules, a question of privilege must be entertained, or the full chamber must vote on whether to entertain it."
"You do not have the right to unilaterally strip a senator of his rights."
Wicks looked at Kaufman. "Therefore, I appeal the ruling of the chair!"
The dagger was drawn.
Kaufman froze on the dais.
He looked at Wicks, then back at Steve Miller standing on the other side.
A Republican initiated the attack, and a Democrat delivered the killing blow.
It didn’t make sense.
In past political struggles, this kind of cross-party pincer attack was almost impossible.
But now, it was happening.
A cold sweat broke out on Kaufman’s back.
He realized he had fallen into a trap.
A trap designed to be his political grave.
"An appeal..."
Kaufman muttered to himself.
Once someone appealed the ruling of the chair, according to the rules, the matter was no longer up to the President.
It had to go to a vote of the full chamber.
The question to be voted on was simple: Shall the decision of the chair be sustained?
A vote to sustain was a vote for Kaufman.
A vote against was a vote to oust him.
Kaufman took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
He quickly calculated the votes.
The Senate had 50 seats in total. The Republicans held 28, the Democrats 22.
As long as the Republicans stayed united, even if that lunatic Steve Miller voted against him, he would still have a 27 to 23 advantage.
He could still win.
He hadn’t lost yet.
"Fine."
Kaufman sat back down in his chair, gritting his teeth.
"Since you want a vote, we’ll have a vote."
"Clerk, begin the roll call vote!"
Kaufman stared daggers at his Republican colleagues below.
He was sending a warning with his eyes, using the authority he had built over many years to intimidate anyone who might waver.
The vote began.
"Senator Adams."
"Nay."
All the Democrats voted Nay.
This was expected; Wicks had already whipped the vote.
"Senator Brown."
"Aye."
He was part of the Republican Establishment, a Kaufman loyalist.
"Senator Carlson."
"Aye."
The numbers on the vote counter climbed alternately.
The situation still seemed to be under Kaufman’s control.
The Republican line, though showing some cracks, was largely holding to party boundaries.
Until the clerk called that name.
"Senator Evans, Scranton district."
A thin man stood up.
He was a Republican, but he represented that declining city.
His city had joined Leo’s Industrial Revival Alliance.
His constituents had just received orders from Pittsburgh.
More importantly, he had received a call from the Republican National Committee.
He glanced at Kaufman, a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by resolve.
"Nay."
Kaufman’s pupils contracted sharply.
One vote.
"Senator Foster, Johnston district."
Another Republican stood up.
"Nay."
Two votes.
"Senator Green, Chester County."
He was a gentle, middle-aged man, a long-time beneficiary of the Saint Claude Family’s patronage.
He didn’t look at Kaufman, just stared down at the pen in his hand.
"Nay."
Three votes.
Kaufman’s hands began to tremble.
He watched as his colleagues, who were usually so deferential to him, stood up one by one to oppose him.
The senators from the Rust Belt, the senators beholden to the Rio Industrial Alliance, the senators cashing checks from the Saint Claude Family, and even some senators whose reasons for betrayal Kaufman couldn’t fathom.
In this moment, they had all turned on him.
They had betrayed their party and their leader.
Because they had a new master.
Finally, it was Steve Miller’s turn.
"Senator Miller."
Steve looked at Kaufman.
"Nay," he practically roared.
The final note had fallen.
The numbers on the electronic voting board froze.
NAYS: 29
AYES: 21
The 22 Democratic votes, plus the 7 defecting Republican senators.
It was an overwhelming majority.
Kaufman collapsed into the high-backed leather chair.
He stared at the bright red number, feeling as if all the bones had been pulled from his body.
He had lost.
He had held this position for ten years. He thought he was the master of this chamber.
But now, he had been thrown out.
Thrown out by a baffling sneak attack.
"Mr. President."
Wicks stood up, his tone cold.
"Based on the result of the vote, your ruling has been overturned."
"This also means the chamber has lost its confidence in you."
"According to the rules, please vacate the dais."
"We need to elect a new Acting President."
Kaufman slowly rose to his feet.
He took off his reading glasses and put them in his breast pocket.
He picked up the gavel that had been his companion for a decade, glanced at it, and then left it on the desk.
He walked down the steps, each one heavy.
Walking down the aisle, he passed by the colleagues who had betrayed him.
No one dared to meet his eyes.
Some lowered their heads, some pretended to read documents, others turned away.
Kaufman reached the back of the chamber.
He stopped and looked back at the now-empty dais.
That feeling of familiarity was already beginning to slip away.