The newsroom erupted. Oh, at that moment I missed Howie so much. That sound, journalists at work, was his music. I looked around for someone to share this news with; there was no one. There was no Howie. No Jenny. No Frankie B. Laura had left that morning for “someplace warm,” refusing to tell me her destination but promising to maintain whatever it was we had. I felt alone in the noise: just me, Chair, and Cher.

Press secretary Eunie Kaufman’s office continued to issue updates. A statement issued by President Hunter reassured Americans:

At a time when our national institutions are being challenged, it is necessary to take this difficult step to protect all Americans from enemies both domestic and foreign. Former President Wrightman put American lives at risk in an effort to extend his power. Until we have confirmed that this was an isolated effort and have arrested all involved, I have asked Congress to suspend temporarily those provisions of the Constitution that might be used to further spread disharmony or incite rebellion.

The former president has asked me to convey his deepest regrets and shame to all Americans for his misguided actions. He is cooperating fully with law enforcement. Until further notice he will remain with his family under cabin arrest. There will be no further statements.

I read and reread the release, trying to grasp the ramifications. My phone started ringing, my social media accounts quickly overflowed. I had no illusions: This was a coup. And I was the spark that had set it off. As I sat there, literally twiddling my thumbs trying to absorb this news, the realization hit me with the shock of The Rock dropping suddenly through my ceiling tiles and smacking me with a folding chair. This had been Hunter’s plan all along.

It wasn’t Wrightman, it never was Wrightman. It was Artie Hunter. From the beginning it had been Hunter. Wrightman had remained what he had always been, a political matryoshka—a brightly painted Russian nesting doll, hollow on the inside, which opens to reveal several increasingly smaller brightly painted dolls, each a different guide enabling him to be whatever the voters needed. Polished on the outside, empty inside—a perfect vessel to be filled by Hunter.

I thought about that odd meeting I’d had with Hunter in his office at the beginning of the administration. It had made no sense to me then. I couldn’t figure out what he’d wanted with me. Now I was beginning to get it; he was laying the groundwork. It had been a recruiting session, and I’d failed to make the cut.

There was no way he could have planned or anticipated the events of the past few weeks, but when I popped up with my little charts, he recognized the opportunity and seized it. I had created the perfect scenario for him, I’d given him the opportunity to be a hero. President Arthur Hunter was America’s savior, courageously rescuing the country from a president gone power mad. My favorite line from Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 seemed appropriate: “Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.”