His nemesis, Martin Vail.
He was sure it was Vail, particularly after seeing the photo of him tacked to the communications center wall with the words “Anybody know this man?” printed under it. Abraham knew him, all right, but he couldn’t tell anybody. Even Mordie thought he was blind. Now there was Vail again, at the scene of Waller’s execution.
What was he up to? Why was he interested in Waller? Hanging out with Hardistan?
For Abraham, tracking Vail’s career was a psychotic obsession. During the Grand County RICO trial, he would sit alone in front of the TV set, send the girls and Mordie to town on some chore, push down his lenses, and daydream.
How many ways could he imagine? How many ways were there to kill Vail and make him suffer in the doing? His rage would build and then morph into a ravaging sexual hunger. When Mordie returned from his chores, Abraham would take the three young girls to his room and spend hours indulging in the most perverse sex acts. The young women, all in their early teens, were constantly in a “state of grace,” as he called it.
Now Vail was back in Ohio. The first time could have been a coincidence. The second time could mean only one thing. Vail was either a consultant with the FBI or something related. The question was why? And what was he after?
As he watched Valerie Azimour, he knew how to find out.
At 11:05 a.m., Judy Shane, an operator on the WWN telephone switchboard, answered a call.
“World Wide News Network, can I help you?”
“Miss Azimour, please,” a harsh growl of a voice asked.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Azimour is out of town. I’ll connect you with her editor.”
“I want to talk to Miss Azimour,” the voice snapped back. “I know you can get her on her cell phone.”
“I think you need to talk to her assignment editor.”
“I said, I’m not interested in any damn editor. If she’s interested in what really happened to Ralph Anderson out in Ohio, find her and have her on the phone. I will call back in three minutes.”
The line went dead.
The operator dialed Azimour’s cell phone. It answered immediately. “Ms. Azimour, this is Judy on the central switchboard. You just had a call. It could be a crank, but maybe not. I’ll play back the tape for you.”
In the satellite van, Azimour listened to the message.
“Probably is a crank call,” Azimour said. “But I’ll hang on for a couple of minutes. Patch me in when he calls.”
“Will do.”
Azimour leaned back in her seat next to Sid, the sound man, who was driving the van, and held the phone to her ear.
“Some crank just called me,” she said to the driver. “Claims he has the lowdown on the Anderson kill.”
“Probably the Psychic Hot Line,” he answered.
“Yeah,” said Teddy, the video man. “Or maybe Nostradamus has risen from the grave to give you a scoop.”
They all got a laugh out of that.
***
On the outskirts of Missoula, Montana, Mordie and Abraham, formerly Brother Transgressor formerly Aaron Stampler, sat in Abraham’s dark blue Four Runner. Abraham wore a dark beard that lined his jaw, like the beard of a Mormon elder. He was dressed in black, with a black pullover cap and a sheepskin coat. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. They were parked next to a free-standing phone booth just off the highway.
Mordie was watching his wristwatch.
“I don’t understand,” Mordie said. “Why are you tipping these people off? Shrack would kill you if he knew.”
“It’s none of Shrack’s business. That lawyer, Vail, wasn’t at Waller’s place by accident.”
“So what?”
“So, Mordie, I must conclude that Vail was there to make trouble for all of us. Why not let the world know? Whatever hand he’s holding, it will be to our advantage to reveal it.”
“What you got against this Vail fella?”
“I had an experience with him once. In my previous life.”
“Previous or devious?” Mordie asked jokingly.
“Whichever you please,” Abraham answered.
“No offense, Brother,” Mordie said, embarrassed that he might have offended the preacher.
“You can’t offend me, Mordie. How’s the time?”
“About a minute to go,” Mordie answered, then added, “These people make me nervous as all hell, T.”
“Have you ever had it so good? Nice house, TV, nice new auto, money in our pockets.”
“We always had money in our pockets, T.”
“He listens to me, Mordie. I’m Engstrom’s prophet.”
“Prophet of doom, ya ask me.”
“Nobody asked you,” Abraham snapped.
“Sorry, sorry! Jeez, we’re just talkin’.”
Abraham opened the car door and slipped out. He walked to the phone booth, using his cane although he could see through his milky lenses. He dialed the WWN number.
“World Wide News, may I help you?”
“Do you have Miss Azimour for me?” he asked.
“One moment, sir.”
He heard the click as she answered the call, and a moment later he heard her brisk answer.
“Valerie Azimour.”
“Hello, Miss Azimour?”
“Who is this?”
“Listen to me and do not interrupt. The reason the FBI is so interested in the man they call Ralph Anderson, who was executed last night in Ohio, is because his real name was George Waller. He was in the witness protection program. He was executed because he squealed on a bank robbery a few months ago in Denver. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. If you’re as good as I think you are, you’ll get the whole story.”
“What do you mean executed? Can we meet? I need to—”
The phone went dead.
“Interesting,” Maxwell said. “Any idea who this snitch is?”
“No, he spoke his piece and he was gone.”
“Okay, I’ll get Research on the phone and see what we’ve got on bank robberies in Colorado in the last few months.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Sit on it until I can get you some background.”
“Anybody try this on Harry Simmons?”
“Art Ferris is trying to get a comment now.”
“He won’t say anything. He has a tape recorder that keeps repeating ‘Ongoing investigation’ over and over and over.”
“Well, that’ll move the story a step or two farther. Where are you now?”
“We’re going on up to Lima to see if we can get something on the autopsy.”
“Why don’t you hang around there a little longer,” Maxwell said. “If this tip turns out to be something, you can squeeze that FBI guy…”
“McCurdy.”
“Yeah. Maybe we can shake something more out of him.”
“He won’t say anything else.”
“No, but he’ll tell Hardistan and maybe you can squeeze a little more out of him.”
“That’ll be the day, Eddie.”
“Hey, you already got enough to twist his arm. The thing about Vail, the witness protection stuff. The guy’s name, what was it? “George Waller.”
“Yeah. See what else we can come up with, then you stick it to ’em, Val. That’s your specialty.”
CHAPTER 22
Judge McIntyre’s office was on the second floor of the federal building. Unlike most of the offices, which were cold and formal and furnished with dark wood paneling, her office was painted white, its windows bordered with flowered drapes. There were half a dozen photos of her son and his family on the bookshelf behind her desk. A vase of flowers held down one corner of the desk, and her high-backed chair was upholstered with a tan and green tweed material instead of wine-colored leather. Light tan carpeting completed the pleasing ambiance.
But, warned Hardistan, the cheery decor could be misleading.
“She’s a tough lady,” he told the crew when they were ushered into the room by a secretar
y. “She has an edgy sense of humor, and she runs that courtroom with a steel fist. Don’t let appearances deceive you.”
“That’s comforting,” Vail said.
“Just shoot straight up with her. She can spot a con in her sleep.”
“Fair enough,” Vail answered.
A moment later the judge entered the room, a pleasant but serious-looking auburn-haired woman, about five-five, in her mid-fifties, wearing a tweed pantsuit.
Vail knew a little about her background, thanks to Naomi, who had supplied him with several articles about her. She had married while a senior in college, had graduated first in her law school class, and was president of the South Carolina bar while still in her thirties. At forty-five she was a member of the State Supreme Court. Her husband had started a small accounting firm a few years after graduation. By the time he was forty-five it had become the most prestigious accounting firm in Columbia.
He was dead of a massive coronary before his forty-sixth birthday, leaving Lucy a pained and lonely widow.
A year later she had accepted an appointment as an Eighth Circuit judge and moved to Lincoln, where she served with distinction for eight years. It was rumored that she was high on Pennington’s short list for appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court if Justice Lucas Frye did not survive a recent debilitating stroke.
It was a mark of her radical independence that she had chosen to move to a city she did not know, halfway across the country from her son, a research biologist with the Communicable Disease Center in Atlanta, her daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren, to accept the judicial post in the heartland of America and start her life anew.
Vail introduced himself, then introduced Hardistan, Firestone, Meyer, and Flaherty.
“Billy is a face from the past,” she said cordially. “And your celebrity precedes you, Mr. Vail. I followed the RICO case in Illinois, although not as closely as I would have liked. There was a lot of talk among lawyers at the time, you know. You played some very interesting cards.”
Vail smiled. “Shall I take that as a compliment?” he said.
“I like to watch good lawyers in action. You had very strong backup from those young people of yours. What is it they call them?”
“The Wild Bunch. A newspaperman invented that.”
“Very theatrical,” she said with a wisp of a smile. She looked at Flaherty and Meyer and said, “And are you two members of the Wild Bunch?”
They both nodded. She turned to Sam Firestone. “You look familiar, Mr. Firestone.”
“I delivered a defendant to your court once,” he said.
“Who was that?”
“Roger Buckhalter.”
“Ah, yes. Now I remember. He was a wild one, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, we saddle-broke him okay.”
“Been a while since we last met, Billy,” she said to Hardistan.
“Nineteen ninety-five,” he said.
“As I recall, I had to slap your prosecutor’s wrist a few times in that one.”
“He learned some lessons but he survived,” Hardistan said with a smile.
“I’m sure he did.”
“Judge, as you know, we’re here to seek Title Three sanctions,” Vail said. “We’ve prepared a brief to substantiate the request.”
Vail and Flaherty had prepared the brief on the plane with Hines’s help, limiting it to five pages. It was an outline of what they knew about the Sanctuary, who the key people were, their stated objectives, and the relationship between the churches and the Sanctuary. It also included quotes from Jordan pertaining to guerrilla warfare and the coming revolution, but did not mention the taped interview with him. There were two photographs, an aerial shot of Fort Yahweh and the one of George Waller. Vail laid the file before her.
“You want me to read this now?” she said with surprise.
“We have the time if you do, Your Honor.”
“In a hurry, eh.” She leaned back in her chair, thought for a moment, then said, “Well, I guess if it’s important enough for you to fly halfway across the country to see me, it’s the least I can do.” She opened the folder and read the treatise slowly, occasionally jotting down a note to herself. When she finished, she put it on her desk and looked at Vail.
“Anything else?”
He put his small tape recorder on the desk and pressed the play button. The judge sat quietly through the interview with the late George Waller. Toward the end she leaned her elbows on her desk, entwined her fingers into a triangle and leaned her chin on her fingertips. When the tape reached its conclusion, Vail snapped it off.
“You’re going after a RICO case.” It was a statement, not a question.
“That we are.”
“Taking on the militia.” She sighed and shook her head. “What’s happening to our country?”
“The 1962 RICO act provides that racketeering activity is any act or threat involving murder, kidnapping, gambling, arson, bribery, extortion, or dealing in narcotics or illegal drugs. It also defines as racketeering any obstruction of justice, tampering with a witness, victim, or informant, retaliation of same, laundering of monetary instruments, murder-for-hire, and interstate transportation of stolen vehicles.”
“You left out obscene materials,” the judge said with a smile.
Vail smiled back. “So I did, Judge. You know your RICO statutes.”
“Continue with your premise, counselor, you’ve got my attention.”
“A racketeering enterprise is defined as any individual, partnership, corporation, association, or other legal entity, or any union or group of individuals associated in fact, although not a legal identity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The government’s contention will be that the Sanctuary is an umbrella for four churches and they are involved in illegal racketeering under several of the 1962 statutes. It will also contend that the murder of George Waller was a case of retaliation, tampering with a witness, murder-for-hire, and obstruction of justice.”
“Just where are you taking this, Mr. Vail?”
“We intend to tie the four churches to the Sanctuary with charges of murder, witness retaliation and tampering, interstate transportation of stolen vehicles, murder, armed robbery, theft of government arms and ammunition, murder-for-hire, obstruction of justice, and money laundering.”
“That’s quite a mouthful.”
“They’re quite a handful.”
“You realize that churches are guaranteed certain immunities, particularly in regard to search and seizure. And to some degree, in deposition.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Unless, of course, we can prove they are involved in criminal activity. Then the rules change.”
“Yes they do. And you intend to prove all these allegations?”
Vail nodded. “We may even toss in the radio clown Abraham.”
“Sedition is tough to prove.”
“Not for sedition. He’s preaching murder and violent revolution almost every night. We may construe that as a threat under section 1A.”
“You’re dealing with freedom of speech there.”
“We’ll draw that line in the sand.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Well, I’ll say this, you’ve certainly filled your plate.”
“It’s serious business, Your Honor.”
“You may run into trouble trying to sidestep the contention that these churches constitute an army and not religious organizations.”
Flaherty cleared his throat and raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Flaherty?”
“The religious angle could be moot,” he said.
Firestone, Vail, Hardistan, and Meyer looked with surprise at the young lawyer, wondering where he was going with his remark.
“How so?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, we can contend that they are a group bonded together and associated in fact, as described in section 2C of the 1962 law. The question of legal identity or church affiliation then becomes immaterial.”
Flaherty
looked at Vail, who turned back to the judge and nodded.
“Exactly,” Vail said.
She looked at him for a moment and nodded her head very slightly. “Interesting,” she said. “So you avoid the religious angle?”
“Not necessarily, Judge,” Meyer said.
“Care to pursue that?”
“Article One of the Bill of Rights states that ‘Congress shall pass no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.’ I interpret that to mean that religious organizations should be treated without deference. They should get no special consideration, they are no different than a business or an individual. Unfortunately, there is a myth abroad that this is a Christian nation—at least the Christians think so. I don’t think America belongs to religious fat cats who sell Christianity like snake oil on television or hide their political agenda behind Jesus Christ so they can cheat on their taxes. The Constitution takes umbrage with that notion.”
“I think you might have trouble convincing a jury of that.”
“I’ll only use it if it’s absolutely necessary,” Vail said. “We’re presenting it to you to justify the Title Three sanctions. The subpoenas and warrants we need.”
“Your legal arguments are very effective, Mr. Vail, but you’re hurting for hard evidence.”
“Our hard evidence is dead, Your Honor. The man on the tape was in the witness protection program. He was murdered last night. The Sanctuary had him killed because he was both an informant and a potential witness. They used a professional hit man to do the job. That’s murder-for-hire. Nobody else had a motive to commit this execution but the Sanctuary. If they feared him enough to kill him, they feared what he knew. They feared the truth.”
“Did you like this young man?”
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“I think his back was against the wall and he took his best shot, which was witness protection.”
“You disagree with that concept?”
“Not at all, Your Honor. I’ve used it myself. I’m not saying Waller shouldn’t have been in the program, I just didn’t trust his motives.” She considered that for a few moments and turned to Hardistan. “You haven’t had much to say, Billy.”
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