The Art of the Deal

The shouts pass over the water to Lincoln.

He sits there, silent. The man who, more than any other, overstepped his authority in a time of war. Habeas corpus suspended. A nation half at arms. And the question underneath all of it, whether any nation so conceived and dedicated could long endure.

He broke the limit. But he never pretended he was above it. He answered to the Congress, to the ballot, to the cost, and he paid that cost in the open for the only stake that could justify it.

The Republic.

Real power accepts its limits. Performed power breaks them, and breaks the one thing we can’t rebuild: Our power to say no.

Humidity on the night air. The statues of Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln and Roosevelt look down on the South Lawn of the White House.

There, a cage.

A hulking structure of steel and chain link named The Claw. Seven fights tonight. Men punching and kicking and choking each other on the grass where children roll Easter eggs in the spring, steps from the Oval Office.

A million-dollar restoration commitment waited for the grass. Ruined by morning.

The president comes out of the Oval and down the colonnade beside the man who runs the fights. Dana White is smiling. Behind them, four thousand people. Cabinet secretaries. Generals. The Secretary of Defense. The Vice President. Mark Zuckerberg. Active duty troops in the seats.

The Zac Brown Band sings the national anthem. The Blue Angels and Thunderbirds come over the house low and loud, and the president raises his hand and salutes. A chant starts somewhere in the dark. U-S-A. U-S-A.

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