“Let me go?” I huffed. Another tactic, I imagined. They don’t let people who are accused of murder and arrested by order of the President—although I doubted these marshals knew the President was involved—just walk after a few questions.
The marshal nodded. “Right now, we don’t really have enough evidence beyond the fact that you apparently communicated with the authorities a willingness to turn yourself in to hold you on charges. So, I suppose it’s your lucky day. If you can, just clarify a few questions for us.”
“All right, I’ll answer anything you ask.”
“Good to hear,” the marshal said.
“Once my lawyer is here.”
The marshal stared at me blankly. “Of course. But that might take some time. Can’t guarantee he’ll be able to make it here today.”
“Excuse me?” a familiar voice asked.
“Mr. Law,” the marshal said, rolling his eyes as Collin Law walked in with his assistant. Apparently, my lawyer had a reputation even with the feds. He’d also spoiled the marshal’s plan to get me to talk by suggesting that I might, heaven forbid, have to stay the night in the cell.
“I’d like a few moments with my client,” Collin said.
Two of the marshals exchanged glances. “We’ll have an agent here shortly for questioning.”
The marshal led me to another room that had a table in the middle and a mirrored wall on one side that, if my extensive experience with crime shows was accurate, was two-way glass.
“Can they listen to us in here?” I asked.
“They're not supposed to, and they know that if they tried something like that, I'd see to it they were reprimanded,” Collin said, closing the curtain on the mirrored wall. “Violating attorney-client privilege is serious business. If they did commit a violation, we’d have reason to push for dismissal. Besides, my assistant will make sure they’re not listening.”
“So, are we going to get an indictment like I wanted?” I asked.
Collin nodded. “I think it’s in the works. I’ve been in conversation with the US Attorney. He’s hesitant to move forward based on a lack of evidence. But apparently, he’s being pressured from above to make it happen.”
“From above,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Did you get the recording?”
“Your conversation with the President,” Collin said. “I’ve got it.”
“Anything there you can use?” I asked.
“Not in court,” Collin said. “But before that, yes. We have a lot of leverage here. If those comments got out, it wouldn’t look good for him. He basically admits that he was blackmailing you into supporting his political agenda.”
“So you can get him to issue the pardon once the indictment comes through?” I asked.
“Probably,” Collin said. “But this isn’t exactly the usual way of going about things. Your phone also has the direct line to the President that you called. Push comes to shove, I can always use that. Hopefully, he’ll pick up.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked. “I mean, is it safe for you to confront the President like that?”
Collin smiled. “Not my first rodeo, Cruciger. Granted, it’s the first time I’ve had to deal directly with the President of the United States. But I’ve dealt with powerful people before. I’ll just say this, everything I have is on a drive, actually multiple drives, in several secure locations, ready to be sent to the news media if I don’t check in regularly and pass several security measures to prevent the e-mail from going out. Anything happens to me, or to you while you’re in here… I’ll just say I don’t think the President wants any of this out there.”
I shook my head. “You’re good at what you do. I’ll give you that.”
“I’m not just good, Cruciger. I’m the best.”
I nodded. “I certainly hope so.”
“They’re going to bring in an interrogator from the FBI. Just let me do the talking. I’ll let you know if you can or should answer. I’ve dealt with most of these guys before. They’re schmoozers. No matter what they tell you, they’re just looking for something to use against you. At the end of the day, if there’s solid evidence against you, it will be harder to convince the President to issue a pardon. As embarrassing as it might be for him if this information goes out, it certainly would raise questions if he pardoned someone who was clearly guilty.”
“I’m not guilty,” I said. “I mean, I am. But the facts show that Brightborn is more guilty.”
Collin raised his hand. “That’s exactly the kind of thing we can’t have you saying when the agent is in here. If you’re convicted, they just say ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ There isn’t a conviction that says ‘he’s guilty, but not as much as the other guy.’”
“I get it,” I said. “I’ll keep my trap shut.”
“Not easy for a former preacher, I get it. But you have a right not to incriminate yourself. Remember that. Don’t admit anything. Don’t lie, either. Just tell them that you’re exercising your fifth amendment rights. Especially if they try to talk to you again after I’m gone.”
“Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Collin.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The interview with the agent was uneventful. He asked several questions. Collin answered most of them on my behalf. All I said was that I had nothing to say about the incident and was exercising my fifth amendment rights. The agent was visibly perturbed, but based on how quickly he gave up, I imagined he expected it. From the way he and Collin bantered back and forth, it was clear that they’d dealt with each other before.
“You’ll probably be staying here tonight,” Collin said. “They can’t hold you indefinitely unless you’re formally charged. If they move you to County, I’ll know it, but I anticipate, based on my conversation with the US Attorney, that the indictment is forthcoming. I’m doing everything I can to expedite the process. I’ll handle things with the US Attorney. Hopefully, I won’t even have to communicate with the President. When he sees the facts and learns that this Brightborn character will have to be charged alongside you, I imagine the President will relent. If not, well, then we move to plan B. Releasing recordings. Dirty pool, maybe. But I don’t mind throwing a little mud in the pool when he’s already pissed in it.”
“Got it,” I said. “I think you’re mixing metaphors about different kinds of pools. But I get it. Thanks again.”
“You can waive your right to a grand jury indictment, which normally, I wouldn’t suggest. But since you want to resolve this quickly, that’s what I’d advise. By law, they have seventy days from indictment to go through discovery, basically gathering all the evidence, before trial.”
“I can’t wait seventy days,” I said.
“I realize that’s your position,” Collin said. “I’ll do what I can to expedite this. Like I said before, the best way to avoid that is to get the President to intervene with a pardon before things get that far.”
I sighed. “Just be honest with me. What are our chances?”
Collin shrugged. “Depends how stupid the President is.”
“So, you’re saying our chances are good?” I asked, smirking.
“I’d say so.” Collin laughed. “He isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Certainly not as smart as I am.”
“And just as arrogant?” I asked.
Collin laughed. “It’s not arrogance when you can back it up.”
“So, tomorrow?” I asked.
“They can’t hold you for longer than forty-eight hours without charges,” Collin said. “They might let you stay the night here, but they’ll probably move you to County in the morning. I’m going to try to get something done before that happens.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Collin.”
My lawyer stood up, gathered his paperwork into his briefcase, and left.
A few minutes later, one of the marshals came and escorted me to the cell where I imagined I’d be staying the night.
It was a dull evening. They had a Bible there. The only thing I coul
d read. One open toilet and a bed, if you could call it that. Just a platform and something that resembled a pillow. Certainly not the most comfortable thing in the world. It was like a tarp stuffed with a filling that had long since flattened from use.
One of the marshals brought me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Mind ripping off the crust for me?” I asked.
The marshal stared at me blankly. “Eat the damn crust or rip it off yourself. I don’t give a shit.”
Apparently, they weren’t so nice now that they realized I wasn’t going to talk without my lawyer present. Go figure.
At least they were generous with the peanut butter. The jelly, not so much. But it filled the hole. If I’d thought about it, I would have stopped by O’Donnell’s for a Reuben sandwich before I turned myself in. I’d probably be hungry again in a couple hours.
I made the best I could out of the bed they had in my cell and figured I’d try to get a little shut-eye. Not easy for a variety of reasons. Besides being the most uncomfortable combination of bed and pillow I’d ever had, they kept the lights on. Presumably, their cameras could see through the dark. I imagined they just didn’t care to bother. Or, it wasn’t nighttime yet. I didn’t have a clue what time it was. I couldn't see a clock from where my cell was.
I turned on my side and threw my forearm across my face to block the light. A little light got through, but it was enough. I figured I would be able to get to sleep.
If I could turn off my overactive mind.
So many thoughts were racing through my head. My brain just wouldn’t shut up.
I was obsessing over Collin’s tactics, the legal arguments he’d make, the ways he’d pressure the President to issue a pardon. It had to work, didn’t it? I wasn’t so sure. What if it didn’t work?
I don’t look good in orange.
If I got convicted…
It wasn’t just a matter of having to endure a life sentence. If things didn’t go well in the next month, there was no way I could get back to the Furies and prevent them from unleashing their wrath via the New Madrid fault.
I wondered what Layla and Aerin were up to. Were they training with Brag’mok and the drow? What about Jag? He was probably taking his new truck for a joy ride.
Agnus was probably cleaning himself, sitting on my deflated air mattress, and licking his junk. Because that was his favorite thing to do.
Damnit. I couldn’t clear my mind enough to sleep. I wanted to do nothing more than sleep. It wasn’t like any of my thoughts were particularly productive. Obsessing over everything that was happening outside my cell wouldn’t do anything for me. At the moment, I was at the mercy of other players—Collin doing his job, the President bending to his pressures, the legal system moving fast enough to get the indictment through.
I flopped over on my opposite side, using my other arm, this time, to block the light.
Had someone turned more lights on? I wasn’t aware there were more lights, but it seemed brighter than before.
I sighed and opened my eyes briefly.
A gold halo had formed just above me in my bunk.
“Shit!” I shouted.
I knew what it was. It was a fairy portal, and it was being pressed over my body.
Where it was taking me, I wasn’t sure. But I had a good guess who it was taking me to.
I found myself lying on a carpeted floor. It was a clean, luxurious carpet.
Where the hell was I? I looked around. I was in an older home, one of those turn-of-the-century mansions probably built in St. Louis around the time of the world’s fair.
Two elven legionnaires stood guarding the only exit from the room, spears in their hands, but with regular Earth clothes, jeans and plain white t-shirts.
“What am I doing here?” I asked.
The two elves didn't acknowledge my question. They stood there, stiff and stoic as if they were the guards that tourists like to screw with at Buckingham palace. And I thought the federal marshals were dense.
I walked toward them, and predictably, they crossed their spears in front of me to block my path.
“You guys realize I have enough power I could get through if I want, right?” I asked.
The two legionnaires held their spears steady. I wasn’t joking. I had no reason to hold back my powers anymore. I was in the enemy’s lair. I didn’t have to hide from the fairies because they had brought me here, albeit likely at Brightborn’s command.
I saw a flash of light on the wall surrounding the doorway that the elves were guarding.
A reflection.
I turned around—another fairy portal.
King Brightborn stepped through it. In contrast to the guards he had posted in the room, he was wearing traditional elven regalia: a long, purple robe with a golden cincture around his waist. No crown on his head. I imagined that wearing a crown, while important in some situations, wasn’t comfortable. Most monarchs, human or elf, probably didn’t wear their crowns any more than necessary. He had a long blade sheathed at his side.
Develin, the fairy king who’d killed and replaced Ensley, was perched on his shoulder.
“Hello, son,” Brightborn said.
I cocked my head. “Son?”
“You married my daughter, did you not?” Brightborn asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, but…”
“Then whether you or I like it, you are my son.”
I snorted. “Why’d you bring me here, Brightborn? You need to send me back.”
The king cocked his head. “A simple thank you would suffice. I just broke you out of jail, Caspar.”
“I turned myself in!” I protested. “I can’t believe you convinced the President to side with you. Does he have any clue what you’re really planning?”
The king smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you have any clue what I’m really planning, Caspar?”
I shrugged. “World domination. You know, the same thing that most of history’s psycho rulers dreamed about.”
“Humanity’s rulers,” Brightborn said, shaking his head. “I’m not like any king or emperor this world has ever known.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I mean because the genocide of an entire race is totally beneficent.”
The king cocked his head. “You speak of the orcs?”
“The giants, yes,” I said. “You wiped them all out!”
“Is that what your orcish friend told you?” Brightborn asked. “Wouldn’t that confound your whole scheme with the Furies if it turned out that it wasn’t true?”
I cocked my head. “What are you talking about, Brightborn?”
Develin was cackling to himself on the king’s shoulder. “The fairy king is aligned with me, son. Do you really think he wouldn’t know if his position was being challenged or that he wouldn’t tell me of it?”
I shook my head. “You’re bluffing. You killed the giants, Brightborn.”
“I certainly couldn’t have you turning yourself in and fulfilling your side of the agreement. Or, perhaps, the whole matter was simply intended to root you out so I’d know where to find you.”
I clenched my fists. “If I don’t fulfill my side of the deal, the Furies are going to level the whole region!”
“Yes,” Brightborn said. “An earthquake, wasn’t it? It’s a shame we don’t know someone who has power over the element of earth.”
I shook my head. “You aren’t the first to suggest that. But I don’t know if I have the strength to stop something of that magnitude once a fault line is released. Not to mention, it would set me at odds with the Furies indefinitely. Sounds to me like that’s exactly what you’d want me to do.”
Brightborn shrugged. “What I want is irrelevant. You are the one who invoked the Furies to begin with. For one so intent on taking responsibility for the death of that miserable cultist, you seem hesitant to take responsibility for the disaster that you’ve nearly unleashed.”
“Fred only died because you set it up that way,” I said. “I mig
ht have pulled the trigger. But you forced my hand.”
“You had a choice,” Brightborn said.
“To let Layla die?” I asked, shaking my fist. “That was no choice, and you knew it! You’re the one who commanded Fred to throw that dagger into her back. That you’d risk your daughter’s life like that, it’s disgusting!”
“To save the world,” Brightborn interrupted, “one must be willing to risk loss. Is it not part of your religion that God Almighty sacrificed his only begotten Son in order to save the world? Your God not only risked His child’s life but forced Him to endure a torturous death. Yet, you worship this God while you despise me.”
I grunted. “You’re comparing yourself to God? You realize how fucking conceited that is?”
Brightborn laughed. “I wasn’t comparing myself to your deity. The analogy, though, still applies. Why would you consider your God’s sacrifice an act of love for the world but think my own to be an atrocity of the worst kind when I knew you’d choose to save her in the end?”
“Because you didn’t do it out of love for the world,” I shouted. “You did it because you want to dominate the world!”
The elven king smiled, turned to Develin, who was still on his shoulder, and winked at him. “Domination is such a harsh term, Caspar. You’ve suggested that you imagine I hope to usurp your President in time.”
“Don’t you?” I asked. “You have something on him. I could tell, just talking to him..”
Brightborn shook his head. “I’m not the one trying to blackmail him. I have no issue with human governments so long as they are willing to submit to my greater rule.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“One-world rule,” Brightborn said. “For one who thinks he’s the one meant to unite all the peoples, according to prophecy, I’d think you’d be more open to the idea. There’s nothing in the elven prophecy, in fact, that demands the chosen one fight against me.”
“You’re talking about a single world government? A New World Order?” Even as I asked the question, visions of Hulk Hogan in his black-and-white NWO tank top from the late nineties flashed through my mind. Brightborn, though, had much more on his agenda than playing the heel of a professional wrestling soap opera.
Junkyard Dogma (The Elven Prophecy Book 4) Page 12
