Allan moved around the island. He took a sponge from the sink, crouched down, and picked up the pieces, opening the cabinet to throw them away while Wilson ran his hand under cold water. Allan nudged Wilson’s leg. He moved and went to get the first-aid kit.
“Where’s the sponge mop?” Allan muttered.
“Same place it’s always been,” Wilson said on his way out the door.
He was in his study reading when Allan came and stood in the doorway. He had finished with his chore but not his mission.
“The kitchen’s clean.” Wilson remained silent. “I’m sorry...about the coffee.” He stepped in and put a cup on the table next to Wilson. “I’ve brought you some more. Extra cream.” Wilson didn’t respond. Allan put the cup on the coffee table. “I guess I better be going.”
Allan turned around then back again.
“Wilson, I only wanted to point out that this could hurt you. You are nominated for the Supreme Court, for God’s sake. Your confirmation would have been a snap if you didn’t take this hot potato case. But you did. No trial like this is about the law. It’s about drama and you’re making it more dramatic by the minute. You’ve got a lot to worry about Wilson: the press, the senators, the president. I talked to the assistant attorney general, Gil Stern. People back there are taking notice of your ruling and the fact that you’re taking two weeks to think about George Stewart. They can’t believe it. The best thing you can do now is to make George Stewart stand trial inclusive of that evidence. To do anything less is political suicide.” Allan sighed as if he had just come a great distance and found he had reached the wrong destination. “It’s wonderful to think that politics isn’t tied up in this, but it is. I would have passed on the whole thing if I were you.”
“I know you would, Allan, and that is the difference between you and me. You can make use of your contacts, you can tell me about the politics, you can advise me that I have options that are legal in this matter and you can convince yourself that you do all these things because you care. But it’s not right to act out of fear of not gaining something. I’d rather forgo the nomination and make sure that the Stewart problem is handled correctly. I thought you understood that. I thought you understood me.”
Wilson sighed and took off his glasses. He looked at his protégé, grown now into the most handsome and successful of men but still holding onto the desires of a spoiled boy. Allan’s decisions were rooted in what was best for Allan. Who could blame him when he had come from so little, fought so hard for the few things he had when Wilson met him? All one could do was encourage and teach, and that was a job Wilson had dedicated himself to years ago. The fact that it had been a harder, and longer, job than expected didn’t mean he could give up.
“Allan, what do you think my charge will be if I am confirmed? Do you think that I’ll test the waters of public opinion before I render my own? Do you think I’ll consult with the politicians from whom, by virtue of the constitution, I stand apart? When I sit on the Supreme Court, do you imagine I will be concerned about the individual who brings the action, or the constitutionality of the cause itself? If we all worried about the individual’s desires where would the world be? What kind of judge would I be?” He scoffed. “I wouldn’t be fit to sit this bench much less the Supreme Court.”
“Oh please, Wilson. What kind of man are you if you can’t bend on this so you can go on and accomplish bigger things? I’m not asking you to do anything illegal.” He hit the doorjamb lightly with his open palm then turned his back to it, hiding his hands as if he were afraid of what he might do. “We’d be better off, Wilson, if you worried about the public good when it came to the Stewarts. People wouldn’t say you were worried about your nomination, they’d say you made a decision based on the need for safety. You know Henry Stewart was bailed...”
“As was his right,” Wilson reminded him curtly. Allan ignored him.
“And George Stewart is acting like some kind of vengeful spirit putting a price on your head and Lauren’s. Maybe he even included Edie in that threat. Who knows what he’s going to do? He’ll do it though, Wilson, because he’s mad enough and crazy enough and you’re not going to stop them.”
“It’s not my place. Let Lauren convict him in a court of law, using the law, in front of me, a judge who understands that law.” He pushed aside his coffee, frustrated that Allan refused to understand, or at least accept, his position.
“Help her, Wilson,” Allan wailed. “Just help her do it. It’s in your power. Even the ACLU isn’t going to pipe up on this one, believe me.” Allan pushed himself away and stood tall. He was tired of talking. They weren’t getting anywhere. Tomorrow or the next day, he might calm down, but right now he was angry and that wasn’t good for either of them. “Just think about it, Wilson. Just make the right decision.”
“I always try to make the best decision, Allan.”
“I know that, Wilson. But this time it’s fucking important that it is right for everyone.”
Wilson raised his head and looked toward, not at, his protégé. There was nothing to say. He wasn’t Allan’s father. He couldn’t wash out his mouth to rid him of a dirty word, but how he wished he could clean away the cobwebs in the younger man’s mind so that he understood the difference between his welfare and what was moral.
“I’m sorry, Wilson,” Allan finally muttered and bade Wilson a quick goodnight.
Wilson put his glasses back on but closed his eyes when he heard the door close. He had heard Allan’s argument for personal satisfaction years ago and had made a decision he’d regretted. He wouldn’t do it again. Not this time. Not even for Lauren, and definitely not for Allan.
Eli Warner closed the window. It was cold by the beach this time of year. The temperature had begun to drop off suddenly around eight-thirty and Eli spent each night shivering, even in his sleep. Funny how he still hated being cold at night. When Eli was young, he would go to his mother’s room with the hopes of banishing the chill. But there was always someone else there, someone he didn’t know, taking advantage of his mother’s voluptuous warmth. She would half wake, sensing him standing hopefully in the middle of her room. His mother would smile sleepily and, even through the dark, Eli could see she was beautiful. She would murmur, reach for him without ever quite making contact, and then send him on his way. He would still be cold through the long night, but he appreciated her honesty. When he was enveloped in her arms, and held against her, it was because she wanted him there. Honesty was the one thing Eli Warner had learned from his mother and that made him so good at what he did. Few held his seemingly mundane job in great esteem, but he did and that’s all that really counted.
His mother died when Eli was twenty-four and he loved her still. Thinking of her now, he adjusted a picture of her, him, and a man whose name he couldn’t recall. Every once in a while it occurred to Eli that he should cut out the nameless man but then, if he were to be honest, that guy was as much a part of his history as his mother. He represented all the guys who had been in his mother’s life, and one of them could have been his father.
Eli slipped on a sweatshirt and put his feet into his well-worn moccasins as he grabbed a handful of M&Ms on his way to the kitchen. The pizza was half eaten but he could manage another slice. He promised to curb his wicked nutritional ways as soon as he saw a roll at his middle. In the meantime, another piece, a cold beer, a quick listen for his neighbor who had recently taken up with a heavy metal rocker and he was ready to work. The neighbor was out, probably at a concert that wouldn’t bring her home until Eli was gone again.
He flipped on the stereo with the remote and flopped in his favorite chair. His butt fit so nicely in the cracked burgundy leather and the ottoman was just the right length for his long legs, it was amazing he didn’t fall asleep. Johnny Mathis classics were playing. A stack of financial records had been subpoenaed from various accounts that Wilson Caufeld had opened and closed over the years sat on the table. The records, that began with Caufeld’s fledgling defense f
irm and ended with the carefully invested funds of the present, were standard and clean. It was a pleasure working on this man’s background. As far as Eli was concerned, Caufeld could pass GO and head for Washington whenever he felt like it.
As he pulled out the first manila folder, the song changed and the buttery croon of “Funny Valentine” oozed out of the speakers. Eli Warner closed his eyes, enjoying the music, imagining a young woman, small and delicate-looking, tenacious, and talkative when he heard the lyrics. She was more than half his age, thank goodness, because Eli liked Lauren Kingsley. He’d like to have her here and find out if Johnny Mathis made her think of romance, true romance the way he thought of it and the way his mother never did. He’d like to know if she got her vitamins eating vegetarian pizza. He’d like to do a lot of things with Lauren Kingsley. He opened his eyes. That would all come later, hopefully. Right now, Caufeld had a deadline. Lauren didn’t.
Eli began to read, filling in the background on Wilson Caufeld. He didn’t even question what he read until a few days later when it dawned on him something wasn’t quite right.
Lauren had soaked in a hot bath for more than an hour. For the last two she’d been curled up on the couch, looking at the paperwork spread out on the coffee table and glancing at CNN on the television. She’d propped her shoulders up with a pillow from her bed and wrapped her mother’s afghan around her and fixed herself some instant chicken noodle soup. The soup tasted good, the afghan was warm, the CNN commentator exceptionally mellow. The closest she’d come to work was making a list of things that had to be done: contact the car repair shop, send Wilson a note to let him know what happened and that she was fine, call Allan for a doctor’s referral, and thank Eli Warner. Yes, thank Eli Warner. The next time she saw him. Whenever that would be. Perhaps, she would call him. Perhaps, she would go see him. She fell asleep planning how exactly to thank Eli Warner.
Mark Jackson was glued to the television screen. It was three in the morning. His wife was asleep. His three kids were asleep. Half of Los Angeles County was asleep. The other half was up to no good—with one exception. It was that exception that kept Mark awake and watching “Fargo” for the second time that night.
He was getting up to replenish his drink and make a pit stop when the phone only he answered sounded with two quick, quiet, and distinctive rings. He was fast for a well-muscled man. It was all those hours on the tennis court that made him nimble. Mark picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Yep.”
He listened, his expression betraying none of the emotion that was instantaneous and violent, given the news. There wasn’t much to say, so he didn’t say it. He replaced the receiver quietly then picked it up again to dial. Mark spoke to two men who would, in turn, call two others. When that was done, he used the remote to turn off the television.
In the bedroom he was quiet as he slipped between the sheets. His wife murmured and rolled over. He kissed her cheek. The house creaked. The children dreamed. Mark closed his eyes, knowing the forty-five minutes of sleep he would allow himself were necessary. When he woke, he would kiss his still sleeping wife once more, take one look at each of his children and go to work—with a vengeance.
Henry Stewart sat alone in a shed. He was far from home, in a town that looked like a zillion towns along the freeway. Outside there was a car with stolen plates attached to the back but not the front. Inside there was a cot, a hot plate, a small refrigerator, and a worktable. On the worktable there were wire cutters, ammonium nitrate, wire, and other bomb stuff. That’s what he used to call it when he was a kid, when his father first started showing him what to do. Bomb stuff. There was a shotgun, a revolver, and some food. Not a lot of food because no one expected him to be there long but at least he had everything he might need. His mom told him they would move him at odd times to keep him safe. Then, one day, after he’d played his part, it would be over, and he would go away for good.
Too bad.
He only wanted to go home.
There were four men in the car. Three were drinking. The fourth was bleeding. They were all only half conscious.
They didn’t say a lot. Most of it had already been said. The guy at the wheel, a huge man, drove pretty well considering his inebriated state. He knew exactly which off-ramp he was looking for, found it, took it and parked under the overpass.
Three doors opened and then the fourth. The bleeding guy fell half out of the car so the man closest to him tossed his beer can and dragged him the rest of the way. The three guys gathered round.
“Think he’s still alive?”
“Maybe. Won’t be for long.” Another beer can clattered on the rocks. “Let’s go.”
Two of them trudged back to the car; the third thought about it for a minute and gave the man on the ground another swift kick with his steel-toed boots. One more for good measure. The man on the ground didn’t even groan. Wasn’t fun if you didn’t hear anything. He tried again. Third time was the charm.
Now he felt better. Now he could go home.
8
Abram drummed his fingers on the desk. Edie sat across from him. Both watched the small television screen. Had it not been so horridly ill-timed, so terribly important that nothing like this happen, the tape would have been fascinating entertainment. As it was, the scene was the stuff which felled governments, or at least those mid-level bureaucrats who were called on the politician’s carpet and symbolically castrated for such faux pas. It was a most interesting tape, indeed, shot by an insomniac in Riverside who just happened to have his video cam sitting right there next to his easy chair when he saw some suspicious movement across the street.
To the poor sod’s surprise, black-clad men descended upon the home of Nicholas Cheshire, the quiet man who lived in the green house across the street. The insomniac didn’t know Nicholas well, but it struck him as odd that people should be letting themselves into that house, much less so many men dressed in black. Three doors down, two other men sat in a plain gray car outside the Stewarts’ door. That, at least, he could understand. Cops, he assumed, still persecuting the poor Stewart family. But the silent men in black breaking into the house across the street were another matter altogether, so he whipped up that camera and pushed the record button.
It was like a movie: one guy giving hand signals and the rest of them snapping to. The insomniac got a real good shot of the leader when the man looked over his shoulder. It was a picture People would like. Being a good citizen, he called the cops instead. Then he called the television station. By seven he had a check for a couple of hundred dollars. By ten he was sorry he hadn’t held out for more. So was Edie, she would have paid handsomely for that tape just to keep it out of the media’s hands.
“Mark Jackson looks good in black, doesn’t he?” Edie drawled.
“I wish it was a shroud. My God, Edie, this is going to make everything so much more difficult,” Abram sniped.
They watched it twice more and, as Abram worried, Mark came through the door. He’d changed from the black jacket and turtleneck he’d worn to bust into the home of Nick Cheshire, private citizen, into a suit and tie that made him look like a banker. No one said a word as he walked the length of the office. Lauren followed slowly behind. She was late and limping. She didn’t explain and no one asked, because all eyes were on Mark Jackson.
“Do you want to see it again, Mark, or are you still in the throes of that wonderful adrenaline rush that replays every instant of your ridiculous behavior in your head.”
“Jealous that we’re actually doing something, Abram?” Mark nodded at Edie. He didn’t bother with Lauren. She wasn’t in his line of sight.
“We’d like to know what went on this morning, please,” Abram’s voice was tight as he ignored the dig. “Who ordered the search warrants, Mark? Neither Lauren nor Edie heard from you. I certainly didn’t. Without us there could be no request for a warrant, without a judge there could be no warrant, ergo, Mark, I believe you acted illegally at worst and brutally at be
st. Our office is going to have to prosecute this action and answer questions as to why we, the government, are intimidating the families of men on trial. Do you know what the press is doing with this tape? Do you know...”
“Yes, I know. I know.” He shifted and popped the button on his jacket, pushing it back. He was wearing a shoulder holster.
Mark clasped his hands. He wouldn’t let any of them see that he felt like scum. Not because he didn’t have a warrant, not because his clandestine operation was caught on tape, but because he hadn’t found Nicholas Cheshire. His CI, his friend, hadn’t been heard from in days. He leaned into the conversation, his light good looks taking on an icy cast, but life and fire burned deep in his eyes. “I’ll tell you something else I know. Nicholas Cheshire, one of the best agents I have, is gone. Disappeared. That was his place we were going into.”
“Our informant?” Lauren asked alive and alert. “Where is he?”
“If I knew that, Lauren, I wouldn’t have gone looking for him in the middle of the night. To keep up appearances I should have had a warrant. But if I asked you three to rouse a judge in the middle of the night and get me a warrant, I might have been wasting time that would mean the difference between life and death for Nick. He works for us, for Christ’s sake.”
“Nobody out there knows that,” Edie snapped, “and we can’t exactly get on TV and tell everyone this was just a misunderstanding. Excuse us, but we were really on a mission of mercy.”
“Exactly my point. That’s why I called a few of Nick’s buddies and asked them to help. They didn’t know what was going down, or that there was no warrant, okay? It was my call. I made it. I blew it. We’ll settle everybody with cash and that will be it. But Nicholas is gone. There was nothing in the house, no sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing. Not even a message. He knew what to do if he was tagged. He didn’t do it. The place was too clean.”
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