Answers to Basic Questions Posed by Mark Meadows and Jim Jordan

Mark Meadows and Jim Jordan seem to be a little unfamiliar with criminal procedures and federal investigations and posed several questions to their readers in an op-ed in the Washington Examiner. The questions are relatively basic, so here are the answers.

Question 1: If George Papadopoulos was central to the FBI’s investigation of the Trump campaign, why did the FBI wait more than 6 months to interview him in late January and again in February? And even if they were trying to keep the probe quiet during the 2016 election, why wait more than 2 months after Election Day?

ANSWER: The way the FBI works with witnesses, the FBI will interview targets of investigations last, after the FBI has a handle on the facts. This is true for fraud cases, drug conspiracies, and most other criminal cases. Armed with these facts, they can pressure the suspect or witness to be truthful. Sometimes, these interviews even occur after indictments are handed out.

Question 2: If Papadopoulos was so critical to the investigation, why did the FBI get a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, or FISA, warrant on Carter Page in the summer of 2016 but not on Papadopoulos, the alleged central player?

ANSWER: Here, you are assuming Papadopoulos is the alleged central player. Again, in most conspiracy cases, the first defendants to get indicted are the minor participants. Just because a tip prompted an investigation, doesn’t mean the subject of the tip itself is the most critical piece. For example, drug conspiracies often start with a routine traffic stop of someone associated with a minor participant (a buyer, perhaps). The FBI will initiate an investigation and determine who the bigger players might be.

Question 3: If Papadopoulos was key to a collusion investigation and evidence existed supporting that claim, why would Bruce Ohr, the former DOJ official married to Fusion GPS’ investigator, meet with Christopher Steele, author of the so-called “Trump dossier” hired by the Clinton campaign, before and after the election?

ANSWER: Again, you make an assumption that Papadopoulos was the key to the investigation when the tip about him may have been only what prompted the investigation. Also, part two of this question is irrelevant as it pertains to part one.

Question 4: Why would former FBI Director James Comey brief President Obama and President-Elect Trump on the contents of the Russian dossier, but not do the same thing on this campaign staffer’s alleged collusion?

ANSWER: I think it was pretty clear, the president was briefed because the dossier was about to be made public and contained very embarrassing allegations. The Government will never show its hand unless information is already in the public realm.

Question 5: Why won’t the FBI answer questions from Congress on this very topic? Why do they continue to refuse transparency on whether they paid Christopher Steele for the Russian Dossier? We in Congress have asked them repeatedly to tell us what was in the application they took to the FISA Court to get a warrant for spying on the Trump campaign. Did they use the dossier in their application? This demands an answer.

ANSWER: No sane person would want an investigative organization to lay out what they know at the outset. It would give the targets a chance to prep their defense and any statements to align with the facts. Once a case is indicted, discovery will then be shared pursuant to federal rules of criminal procedure. In many cases, however, even after indictment, the Government will seek a protective order on discovery, barring any parties from copying and sharing it. Obviously, there are members of Congress who are loyal disciples of the President and/or other potential targets of the investigation and who would not be able to abide by any protective order. That being said, I’m sure if there was an issue of national security involved, some select members of the House or Senate would probably be briefed as the situation necessitates.

 

 

 

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Walking the Dog is a Good Thing For a Writer To Do

One complaint I frequently hear in writing critique groups is that the writer is “walking the dog.” This describes the writer who leads the reader step by step through a scene sequence, often subjecting the reader to tedious monotony. Many times, this is a fair critique. Beginning writers often struggle with ending scenes and transitioning to new ones, so they drag the reader through a play-by-play of minuscule events to tie scenes together.

While this error can easily be fixed, I find the remedy offered by many critics to be just as harmful. Many people will advise the writer to “get to the action” or to “stop walking the dog.” For example, they might say, “We don’t need to know that Jane got out of bed, got a glass of water, took a shower, dried her hair, painted her toenails, got dressed, and made herself a cup of coffee before jumping in the car and going on her way to uncover a terrorist cell in Boston.”

This laundry list of actions is not effective writing, but I would resist the advice to avoid walking the dog, because walking the dog is so fundamental to composing a good scene. That’s not to say as a writer, you should list everything that happened like a diary entry. Rather, be mindful of the things that happen while walking the dog. What does this particular character see on the walk? What important things do they fail to see? Walking the dog allows the characters to interact with their world in a meaningful way.

Perhaps Jane woke up an hour late, her bedsheets stained with fluorescent ink because she fell asleep with an open highlighter and her notebook on her lap. Perhaps when Jane goes to the bathroom, she sees her husband’s clothes strewn over the floor, a quarter-filled coffee mug balancing on the edge of the bathtub, a pile of books and notepads on the bathroom counter. Perhaps as she paints her toenails, she winces at the sight of her ugly, misaligned pinky-toe that she broke while cliff-diving off the coast of Spain the previous year. In the kitchen, she sees the cereal bowl her husband left on the table, the sugary remnants of the cereal flakes caked onto the ceramic. Frustrated, she puts the bowl in the sink to soak it, but at least her husband has made a pot of coffee. Perhaps when she gets to the car, she realizes her husband has filled the gas tank for her.

By filling in these details, the writer is offering setting and characterization in an efficient, elegant way. We get the sense that Jane is adventurous and that her husband is a slob. But we also see that he’s not purposefully inconsiderate, since he’s filled her car with gas. Of course, this example is paired down to its bare bones, but you can see how the reader can learn a lot about characters and their personalities without the writer having to waste a paragraph telling us that Jane’s husband is a slob or that she likes to seek out adventure.

Write a lot of these scenes, or at least go through them slowly in your head, imagining the world though your character’s eyes. I would argue, the subtle emotional responses a character has in the small scenes are more meaningful than the obvious and predictable emotional responses in the big scenes. We know a character will be angry when they’re betrayed by a friend, or sad when their beloved father dies, or afraid when a menacing stranger pulls a knife on them. Beginning writers often reserve detailed description of emotions for these scenes and fall back on clichés. His blood boiled. Tears welled up in his eyes. Her heart thumped. What has happened, is the writer has failed to build up an emotional cache with the character. However, if the reader is already intimate with the character, in the momentous scenes, they’ll already feel what the character is feeling without the writer having to tell them.

The secret to good writing is to be acutely aware of everything. Go out and walk the dog! Stretch yourself to see the world in a different way and have an empathic response for all of your characters, no matter how good or evil they may be. Get it all down on paper. The redundant details can later be excised from the manuscript, but it’s so important to go through the process. This isn’t just advice for writers of literary or upmarket fiction. This is true for all writers. It’s the basis of great storytelling.

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Deport the Robots

The United States economy has lost millions of jobs. Parking lot attendants have been replaced by automated systems. Movie theater ticket agents have been replaced by ticketing machines, grocery store cashiers replaced by self-service checkout, tens of thousands of packing jobs replaced by Amazon’s sleek automated system, airplane navigators replaced by computers, songwriters replaced by technology guided by algorithms to create music we will like. Soon, we may even see taxi drivers replaced by self-driving cars. Illegal immigrants, who are now too expensive for farmers to employ, are being replaced by picking machines. More importantly, despite manufacturing being one of the largest sectors of our economy, we’ve seen manufacturing jobs decline steadily since the 1980s thanks to robotics. There is one solution to save American jobs.

We must deport the robots. It may not be easy to find them all. Some are so inconspicuous we forget they’re there. In the name of efficiency and lower prices for all, we’ve seen our jobs sucked dry by these machines. Many of these machines are foreign born, assembled in places like China or the Philippines. Even if they were built here, they may have been assembled by robots assembled in other countries.

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These robots do not know national pride. They know no religion. They do not salute our flag. It’s possible ISIS might use them to inflict terror on us. They are often rude, failing to respond to our simplest requests. They often come between personal relationships. Just the other day my wife asked me for directions. While I stopped to think about all the possible routes, she blew me off and said, “Never mind, I’ll just ask Siri.” Furthermore, these robots aren’t necessarily the best of the best. Some of them may carry infectious viruses.

Our Founding Fathers did not intend for robots to take our jobs or put a man on the moon. It’s time to go back to what made America great. It is time to save our jobs and send these advanced machines to the third world countries where they were built. Let’s see how well they do with cutting edge technology while we restore greatness to our country.

The Dog and the Bird

Growing up in a small town in Oklahoma, my friend Marc and I used to entertain ourselves by making up stories on the fly and recording them on a tape cassette recorder. We were seven or eight years old. On our less inspired but rambunctious days, the stories were simple and action packed, usually involving some indescribable yet inherently hideous and menacing beast chasing us through the neighborhood or our homes until we finally got away or killed it. We would dive to the floor, crash into the walls, or hurdle over the sofa to simulate our evasive maneuvers. Then, panting from our efforts, we’d whisper into the tape recorder how frightened we were as we pretended to hide. On other days we would attempt more intricate mystery stories—Scooby Doo type adventures—that routinely failed to reach a resolution before one of us was called home to dinner. When we’d meet up again, we never picked up where we left off because listening to the previous day’s recording always revealed some fatal flaw with our plotline. Before Marc moved away sometime around my third-grade year, we had compiled several cassette tapes worth of unfinished stories.

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But the storytelling bug had bitten. For school, we had to write a story. Mine was called The Dog and the Bird. I don’t remember what it was about. It probably featured a dog and a bird working together to achieve some noble outcome. Whatever it was about, I just know I put a whole lot of effort into it and was really proud of the finished product. My teacher gave me some encouraging feedback which immediately inflated my writing aspirations. I asked her about getting it published.

She said, “Ok. But you’re going to have to type it up really nice.”

So I did. I typed it up, checking it multiple times for errors and letting my parents proofread it. I told them I had to get it ready for publication. The Dog and the Bird would be my breakthrough as an author. The story had to be flawless. I took it back to my teacher.

She read through it again and agreed that it was much better typed out. “But you’re going to need to bind it,” she said. “So people can read it like a book.”

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That night I three-hole punched it and put the story in a report folder with a clear plastic cover. Now someone could read it like they were flipping the pages of a book. I gave it to my teacher.

Again she was impressed. “Now, you just need some cover art. Every book has a cover.”

I was stumped. I was an author, not an artist. I was also growing impatient. I wanted to be done with it. I knew drawing with crayons or pencils would look amateurish, so using the computer technology available before the days of clip art and the internet, I drew a rudimentary picture of a four-legged animal that might have resembled a dog, at least to the type of person gifted at locating constellations and finding images of animals in clouds. Next to my dog, I drew a faceless, two-stroke picture of a bird—essentially a ‘V’ with curved tips. I centered the title in big bold letters above the drawing and printed it out on my dot matrix printer which made the big letters and the drawing of the dog look hideously pixelated. It didn’t matter. I had completed a book. My book. The next day I presented it to my teacher who promised that she’d share it with all her future classes. I promised I’d work more on the artwork. I never did. But I was satisfied. I was as published as I needed to be. The project had taken all my energy for two weeks, and I needed a rest.

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I owe so much to that teacher who recognized and cultivated that creative spark in me. She didn’t give me a cold dose of reality by informing me of the cruel world of publishing, or by telling me to expect a pile of rejections, or that being a published author is extremely difficult. This would have been the truth, of course, but at that age, if faced with these mountains of obstacles, I would have given up before even starting.

I think we forget sometimes that one of the primary goals of teaching is showing someone how to set a goal and complete a task. Everybody wants to achieve something. Guiding a student to find their true bliss is part of the process.

We should never forget this function of teaching. Performing well on a standardized test is an admirable goal for a school but falls way short of being inspirational for the student. If we simply grade teachers by how well they show someone where to place a comma or how to turn the remainder of a long division problem into a decimal, then we are truly selling ourselves short.

Because of my teacher, I experienced a wonderful sense of accomplishment. It was my first completed story. I’ve continued to write stories. Some have been published but most of them shared only amongst a small group of friends and fellow writers. I would have forgotten about The Dog and the Bird except that recently I was sifting through an old box of schoolwork and came across the cover art that had been hidden beneath the rubble of my life like a lost puzzle piece. I hadn’t thought of it in years. I honestly don’t recall which teacher was responsible for encouraging me to continue on the story; otherwise, I would gladly give her credit here. Until now, I didn’t recognize the value of that lesson in publishing.

The most profound moments in life are often not recognized until the moment is long gone. Insignificant and untethered memories reappear and unexpectedly reveal their importance upon distant reflection. But this, I’d argue, is where the true substance of living resides. In the end, when we sum up our histories, our purpose or meaning in life will not be perfectly articulated like a corporate mission statement but will instead be buried deep beneath the subtext of a thousand little moments and scattered memories.

Tragic Bike Stories Part II

On my ninth birthday, I got a new bike. A Blue Mongoose. I went from having the worst, shabbiest bike in the neighborhood to having the best. I rode this bike everywhere, fearless of obstacles. I jumped curbs, zipped in and out of dry creek beds, and would sometimes just do laps around the neighborhood as fast as I could fly.

One hot summer day I rode past my friend Mark Carter’s house. With him was Brad Sinclair, my nemesis in all things sports related. Someone, probably Mark, proposed a bike race. It was a spontaneous thing, and the energy of the proposal would have been killed if we had delayed the race to allow Brad to go home and get his bike. So Brad agreed to race in Mark’s sister’s bike, a pink ride with white tires and a rainbow of ribbons on the handles.

It was going to be a short race, about 200 yards from Mark’s house to the end of the street. I was ready to put my Blue Mongoose to the test. We lined up at the imaginary starting line. Mark was to announce “GO!” which I knew would give him a slight advantage despite his assurances that he would delay his own start out of fairness. It didn’t really matter to me. I was going to win.

At Mark’s command, I began pumping my legs, but my start was slow. After twenty yards I was more than a full bike length behind both Mark and Brad. I pedaled harder, squeezed tighter, demanding more out of my Blue Mongoose. After fifty yards, I was even further behind. I couldn’t rationalize how this was happening. Something was clearly wrong with my bike. They had to know this. I gently placed my foot on the tire creating a loud, grating noise from the friction of my rubber sole rubbing against the treads.

“Wha—!” I gasped to draw attention to my clearly malfunctioning bike, which was causing me to lose the race.

Mark and Brad didn’t look back and raced on, fifty yards to go. I pressed harder on the tire to make the grinding noise louder. Suddenly, I was catapulted into the air, performing a front somersault and landing on my back with a giant thud, my bike pinning me to the pavement. It never dawned on me that this might happen. I lay there dazed as Mark and Brad came pedaling back, perhaps after finishing the race.

“Are you okay?” they asked.

“My bike messed up,” I said.

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Tragic Bike Stories Part I

I remember my first bike, a brown, stiff artifact of the World War II era, salvaged by my resourceful uncle, a NASA scientist, used and abused by my older cousins, before finally being handed down to me. At first I didn’t want to ride it. I was too self-conscious to suffer the embarrassment of pedaling down my quiet Oklahoma street, past the houses of my friends, and past the home of our small town’s biggest celebrity, an Olympic gymnast.

I was a late bloomer when it came to bike riding because I was hopelessly stuck. My parents didn’t want to shell out money for a new bike until I committed to learning to ride, but since I refused to ride the antique my uncle had given to me, I would never learn.

The brown bike collected dust in our shed until I finally sucked it up. I was eight—much too old for any training wheels—so I relied on my dad running alongside me, helping me balance. It didn’t take long before I was free from my dad’s balancing hands and flying down the street. I became addicted to riding, but I still didn’t have a new bike that I could ride without shame. So, I’d ride at twilight after all the other kids in the neighborhood had been called in for dinner, or sometimes right before a storm when no one else was outside.

One night I was pedaling down the street at full speed. On the horizon, clouds mushroomed quickly like only Oklahoma clouds do. I dodged lasers firing at me as I tried to race ahead of Darth Vader who was hot on my tail. The road was ending and the Death Star was in my sight. I took aim and fired my proton torpedoes. At the exact moment I imagined the explosion, a boom of thunder rattled the earth, the timing so perfect yet unexpected that I wobbled and fell over, skinning my elbow and leg on the pavement.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. You can’t relax and let your guard down after blowing up the Death Star…even when the force is with you.

The Time I Met Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut had been invited to speak at my university and my English professor arranged a little meet-and-greet with Vonnegut after his speech. This little private reception ended up being a line of students, each of us waiting our turn to shake this literary legend’s hand and ask him a question. What was I supposed to ask Kurt Vonnegut? I had read Slaughterhouse-Five and Galapagos, but what about those books was worth a question? Would I look stupid if I asked about something that should have been plainly obvious to any half-witted reader?

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I had come unprepared for this. In my mind, the reception was going to be Vonnegut sipping a glass of wine amidst of a circle of students, talking about writing and maybe answering the questions a few of the braver students might have the courage to ask. I was hoping to be a bystander, a silent witness soaking it all in so that one day I could tell people about the time I met Kurt Vonnegut. I didn’t think I’d have to shake his hand and  come up with a smart question.

My anxiety grew as my turn neared. It was too late to drop out of the line without drawing attention to myself. At the last moment, it came to me. A decent, safe question.

“What was it like seeing your book made into a movie?” I asked as he steadied my trembling hand with a handshake.

He then gave me this look I’ll never forget, a look that said, “That was the stupidest, most inane question anyone has ever asked me.” It was a look of bewilderment mixed with disdain.

I had brought with me my copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that I wanted him to sign, but after this, there was no way I could come up with the courage to ask for that favor. I held the book to my chest as a shield (Vonnegut protecting me from Vonnegut) not knowing what to do next. He didn’t answer the question. The awkward moment lingered, and he finally shook his head in disappointment as if to say, “you have one question and this is the question you ask me?” He looked to the next person in line, and I meekly shuffled out of the way. I retreated to the back of the room, further disheartened by the enlightened conversation between Vonnegut and the next student in line.

Years later, I would come to see my experience as a wasted opportunity. It was as if I had traveled all the way to the Oracle of Delphi and asked, “What do you think about this rotten weather we’ve been having?” If I were to go back to that reception with Vonnegut and do it again, this is the question I might ask: How does a writer allay the self-doubt and fear of rejection that constantly gnaws away at the ego? But then again, maybe there’s no answer to this question either.