by Malcom James
But where could he go? What would he do? They had access to all the instruments of executive power, and he didn’t even have his phone. But he still had his computer.
Then he remembered, today was Friday; he had an appointment with the special counsel’s office and the attorney from Schumacher, Kronberg, & Stone. Amanda Morris. He was to meet at their office this morning to prepare at 10 a.m.
He immediately decided he had to cut a deal and tell the special counsel investigators everything he knew in exchange for witness protection. Between the voter targeting data being given to the Russians, the video of the girl, the secret recording system and erasing of evidence, and now Sherry’s murder, all together it had to be enough to get him into witness protection.
He now had a plan. He just had to execute on it, which meant not getting killed before he got to the meeting. He stood up, brushed himself off, re-tucked in his shirt, tied his shoes, and tried as best as he could to pull himself back together so he didn’t appear to be a homeless lunatic.
He decided to move slowly in the direction of the attorney’s offices, under cover of pre-dawn darkness, block by block, then stake it out from a distance before he went in, to make sure it wasn’t being watched. He was pretty sure that if he could make it to the attorney, he would be safe. Ken Miller or whoever worked for him wasn’t going to risk taking him out in broad daylight with witnesses.
He grabbed his bag and walked up the embankment to Potomac Avenue, and set out through the Navy Yard neighborhood, constantly looking over his shoulder, moving behind abandoned cars, one block at a time, gruelingly slow.
***
Thirty minutes later, the sunrise began to break on a cool, clear day in Washington. Eli moved cautiously along New Jersey Avenue heading north, underneath Interstate 695, and soon was back in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, approaching the Library of Congress. He thought about that day with Natalie; it felt like a million years ago.
When he reached the end of New Jersey Avenue at Independence, he went around the back side of the Capitol complex along 2nd. St. NE and kept moving north. He passed police vans and news crews that were monitoring the new group of protestors that had begun to form outside Congress; several hundred people from all walks of life, preparing for an all-day protest demanding impeachment. He moved through the crowd and kept walking farther north until he reached his first stop: the Greyhound bus station at Columbus Circle.
The bus station was already swarming with people, arriving and departing. He blended in and went inside like any other traveler going about his business.
He found his way to the anonymous locker among the aisles of identical gray metal units, and when he was alone, he unlocked it with the unmarked orange key on his keychain. He took several thousand dollars in cash from the shoes, stored his computer bag and wallet and White House security badge inside, and fed two dollars worth of quarters back in to re-lock it.
Outside he turned back south, and soon reached his second stop: a Walgreens drug store just north of the Supreme Court.
Inside, he purchased a hair bleaching kit, shampoo, a men’s grooming shaver, toothpaste and toothbrush, deodorant, an oversized red “America - Land of the Free and Home of the Brave!” sweatshirt, two plain baseball hats, a large pair of very dark sunglasses, and a small “Washington D.C” duffle bag with a stenciled image of the White House on it.
A few blocks from Walgreens he found a small coffee shop. There was only one patron in a corner, and the barista never looked him in the eye. He ordered a coffee and breakfast sandwich, and sat in the back next to the exit, facing the front door, with his new hat and glasses on.
After breakfast, he locked himself in the bathroom and shaved his hair to a short military crew cut, then formulated the bleach and coated his head with it, then covered it with one of the hats. He returned to his table and nursed his coffee for thirty minutes while the bleach took effect, then returned to the bathroom and shampooed his hair clean, drying it under the hand dryer. He tossed the dirty hat and put on the new one and the sweatshirt, which didn’t match his suit pants or dress shoes, but it was a start. With his hat and glasses and military hair and cheesy sweatshirt and duffle bag, he looked like any other oddball tourist just off the bus.
***
By 9:15 a.m. he made his way to the H Street corridor, which housed many prestigious D.C. law firms, including the offices of Schumacher, Kronberg & Stone. He spent fifteen minutes watching the front door of their two-story stone and glass building from a corner print and copy shop, pretending to peruse the bound notebooks and lamination choices near the window, while watching across the street. The Pakistani gentleman in the shop asked twice if he needed help, but Eli told him he hadn’t made up his mind.
With no suspicious cars or men on foot in sight, he decided to go in early. He waited until he saw three men in suits carrying coffee and walking together, and quickly exited the shop, crossed the street and moved behind them and down the block, then darted into the law firm.
He found himself in the waiting area surrounded by fake plants, white leather furniture and corporate art, facing an intense-looking woman in her fifties behind a desk, who had replaced the young intern from his first visit.
“Can I help you, sir?” she inquired, looking over his rather bizarre ensemble. Eli removed his large sunglasses.
“I’m Eli Green, I have a ten o’ clock with Amanda Morris,” he said softly. She seemed surprised.
“One moment, Mr. Green,” she said as she efficiently dialed a number.
“Mr. Green is here,” she said firmly into her phone. “Okay,” she said as she hung up.
“You’re early, please, have a seat, Mr. Green, it will be just a few minutes. Would you like some coffee or water?”
“No thanks,” he replied, and walked to the window and looked out the one-way glass to be sure no other “appointments” were arriving. A black sedan with dark windows pulled up across the street, and his heart skipped. A driver in a suit got out and opened the back door, and an older woman in a fur coat exited, and the driver escorted her into a building, and Eli relaxed slightly.
“We’ve been trying to reach you,” came a female voice from behind him. He turned and saw Amanda Morris at the front desk in a dark blue business suit. He could see her shock at his appearance. He walked over as she studied him.
“I lost my phone,” he said softly.
“Oh, then maybe you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“The new special counsel was appointed last night by Deputy Attorney General Boons. A man named David Kilroy. Have you heard of him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He’s the former Attorney General of Kansas. A big Franks supporter,” she said. “He immediately cancelled all pending depositions until further notice,” she continued. “Apparently he has his doubts about the work Simpson’s team did, and wants to review everything related to the Russia investigation before it continues.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No,” she said firmly. “For all we know, you may never have to go in. I suppose that’s good news, right?”
Eli couldn’t believe it. This was a disaster. Eli looked sideways at the receptionist, who was overhearing everything. He turned back to Amanda Morris.
“Can we speak privately?” he said quietly. She looked at the urgency in his eyes, his odd outfit, and hesitated for a moment.
“Please,” he said, imploring.
“Okay, let’s step in here,” she said as she directed him to a small outer conference room with frosted glass walls. Once they were inside and the door closed, he continued:
“You’re my attorney, right?” he asked as he stared at her.
“Of course. You already know we’ve been retained to represent you and Paragon in the Russia investigation.”
“And everything I say is confidential in here?”
“Of course. Why?”
/> “I think you can tell by looking at me, I’m in trouble,” he said.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked. He took a breath then let everything out, rapid fire:
“They’re out to get me. The president, Ken Miller, his people — they killed Sherry Andrews, the New York Times reporter, and they know I fed her the story, and now they’re after me, because I know too much,” he said.
Her eyes went wide. “Why would you say that?”
“I’ve seen things. I know things. I’ve done things. They chased me last night. I was at dinner with him, and he threatened me.”
“Who?”
“The fucking president!” he yelled.
“Calm down, please,” she said firmly.
“I’m sorry. I’m scared,” he said, and his voice went low. “If I hadn’t escaped, I would be dead. I had to dump my phone, that’s what my FBI contact told me, they might be tracking me, and that’s why you couldn’t reach me. I can’t go home, I have no where to go. I slept on the street,” he said in a single breath.
She studied him for a moment, just slightly stepping back.
“Have you told the police?” she asked.
“I can’t, he’s the fucking president, he can get to anyone, anywhere, right?”
She looked at him and it was clear she suspected he might be unstable.
“You think I’m crazy, right? This?” he said as he ripped of his hat and showed her his shaved blond head. “The hair? Everything I’m telling you?”
“No, it’s just a lot to process, I’m not sure what to say,” she said, and he could see she was lying.
“I need your help. The special counsel can take me in, witness protection. They can do that, right? Can’t you call them back and tell them I’m here and I know stuff? I mean, I have full-on evidence of collusion. We gave voter data to the Russians!”
“Slow down, the whole process is a mess right now.”
“But can he do that? Just assign the Deputy AG to fire the special counsel and replace him with his own man? Then shut down the entire investigation?”
“I don’t know if he can. I’m not a Constitutional attorney. But he just did.”
Eli shook his head. He felt like he could explode.
“This is insane, it’s like a damn coup inside the government! Can’t anyone help me?” he said, his breathing on the edge of panic.
“Stay right here, I’m going to get help,” she said, and she slipped out of the conference room faster than he could respond. He watched her shadow through the frosted glass as she walked down the hallway and disappeared.
His mind was racing. What if she called the White House? The Secret Service? Even the D.C. Police? What if she called the special counsel’s office, and whoever answered had to ask permission from this David Kilroy guy, who was working for Franks now and shutting everything down? What if Kilroy told the president where he was?
He circled the room, trying to pull his thoughts together. That didn’t make sense, he told himself. They already knew he was supposed to meet with the special counsel’s team later today. They didn’t know what time his prep meeting was, but if they wanted to find him, it was reasonable to assume he would be here at some point. All they had to do was call. He couldn’t wait here. Even if he reached Kilroy’s team and they told him they were taking him in, what if he went to sleep one night and never woke up?
Through the frosted glass he saw the shadows of two large, dark figures appear in the waiting room, standing near the receptionist. Panic set in. He looked around, looking for a weapon. There was nothing but a conference table, a white board with markers, and an empty trash can.
He put on his hat and glasses, shoved his duffle bag into the trash can, then pulled the bag from the can and tied the top like it was full of garbage, and backed out of the conference room, his back to the waiting area, and moved down the hallway toward the inner office, visibly dragging the full garbage bag behind him with a slouch, like an office janitor.
He casually turned a corner, then stood up and bolted across an open room past two young paralegals at their desks — he saw an “EXIT” sign in the back of the room and raced toward it — burst through — and found himself in a long alley, turned and ran.
He ran full speed for over a mile without stopping, lugging the garbage bag with his duffle bag inside. He used the same tactics: zig-zags, alleys, doubling back, weaving between cars, reversing directions, going against traffic on one-way streets, a madman marathoner in Cole Haan wingtips.
Finally, he slowed to a brisk walk, catching his breath, adjusting his hat and glasses. His feet ached. He couldn’t run anymore, and resigned himself to walking. He figured if anyone had kept up with him this long, they deserved to catch him by now. He hadn’t thought about the direction he had been running, but now he saw that the entire time, he had been running home. He was on the boundaries of Logan Circle, only blocks from his apartment.
He stopped and took stock. How close should he get? He knew he shouldn’t go there, they had to be staking it out. Was there anything inside he could use? He desperately wanted a shower and clean clothes. Not a good reason. What else did he need? He ran a list in his mind. His phone was gone. He had his computer, locked away in the bus station. He couldn’t use his wallet, but he had plenty of cash. It dawned on him that the rest of what was inside the apartment, his entire remaining worldly possessions, were simply for comfort, pleasure or style; nothing more. He could survive with what he had, and survival was all that mattered.
He turned and walked away, heading back toward the Navy Yards, unsure why, but not knowing where else to go. He got rid of the garbage bag and slung the duffle over his shoulder. As he walked, he thought about using the cash to get in a cab and just drive out of town, as fast and as far as he could go. He could take a bus to Florida, to his father’s house, or back to California; or even to the middle of nowhere, and just disappear. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay off the grid forever; wherever he went, with the tools at their disposal, they would find him. And more importantly, he didn’t want to run from the fight. His gut was telling him to stay in D.C. Tate said it was a war now.
He thought about getting an hourly motel room so he could shower and sleep, but he assumed they had to be on the lookout for those kinds of places. In his mind, that would be the first place a tired, on-the-run guy who couldn’t use his credit cards would wind up; it didn’t take an intelligence pro to figure that out. But he would stay in town, right under their noses, knowing that was often the best place to hide. He would stay on the streets, until he could plot his next move, whatever that might be.
He walked for over a half-hour, heading back toward the riverfront in a large arc to avoid the areas he had been before, and hopefully prevent any accidental intersections with his pursuers. For a cool day the sun was shining strong. He removed his sweatshirt, then realized pangs of hunger and thirst were gnawing at him, and decided to stop in a corner market.
The door chimed as he entered, and the old Chinese man behind the bulletproof plexiglass-encased register watched him as he entered. Eli saw the security cameras everywhere, and a TV high in the corner with Fox News blaring. He kept his head down and hat and glasses on as he navigated the narrow aisles toward the back. He grabbed a bottle of water and a ham and cheese sandwich from behind the refrigerator doors.
As the old man rang him up, Eli looked up at the TV and saw “BREAKING NEWS: FORMER SPECIAL COUNSEL JONATHAN F. SIMPSON, JR. MAKES STATEMENT ON STEPS OF DOJ.” Cameras went live to the front of the massive seven-story Robert F. Kennedy building, headquarters of the Department of Justice. Simpson was standing with another unknown man in a suit behind him, as microphones were hastily erected around him. Eli stood fixated on the TV, and the old man turned to see what he was staring at. “You mind if I watch this for a second?” Eli asked.
“You paying customer, okay. They all crooks anyway,” the old man said as he stared up at the TV. On the
screen, Simpson, in a dark gray suit, neutral tie and stone-faced manner, stepped up to the microphones. The gravity of the moment was visible in his cold, unblinking eyes, set deep into his well-worn face, his large head crowned with slicked-back graying hair. It was the first time he had spoken publicly since being appointed special counsel. He looked at the hastily-gathered crowd of reporters, the cameras and lights, then pulled a folded paper from his jacket, unfolded it, put on his reading glasses, and began reading aloud.
“In May, I was appointed to perform the solemn duty of acting as special counsel on behalf of the Justice Department, to review the events surrounding Russia’s interference in the 2016 presidential election, and any and all criminal matters that arose from that investigation. My first order of business was to build a team of the finest investigators and prosecutors to assist in this critical national security investigation. The people who agreed to join in this task are life-long public servants, many of whom have forgone the opportunity of far more lucrative careers in the private sector, to instead put their lives on the line, repeatedly, for the sake of protecting America and our justice system, which up to now, has been the envy of the modern world. This team has interviewed hundreds of witnesses, taken thousands of hours of testimony, and reviewed tens of thousands of documents and other material evidence. The hours are long, the work is painstaking, and must be performed behind closed doors, for both the integrity of the investigation, as well as the protection of the right to privacy of those being investigated. Most of America will never know how many false leads, dead-ends, or pieces of evidence actually absolving potential suspects were uncovered. That is the way our system works.”
Simpson looked up from his notes and scanned the reporters, then continued on.
“During this time, no member of the team, other than our very reticent spokesperson, ever spoke to the press or was accused of leaking to the media. Only months into what has been an extraordinarily complex global investigation, and a process which is far from complete, serious criminal charges have already been brought against four former Franks campaign and White House employees, including the former national security advisor, for a range of offenses including lying to federal agents, money laundering, wire fraud, and failure to register as a foreign agent. Some of these charges resulted in multiple guilty pleas and ongoing witness cooperation agreements. Other defendants have proclaimed their innocence, and will have their day in court, as our system demands. As the team continued to do its work, it withstood relentless attacks from politicians and government leaders, up to and including the president himself, who seem determined to smear the credibility of the law enforcement professionals who are doing the work this country expects and demands. Despite these attacks and threats, the team has always remained focused on its single mission: to discover the truth of what occurred in the 2016 attack on our election, and what related crimes were committed prior to, during, and after the election. In our system of justice, defendants are presumed innocent until proven guilty. The process of determining that guilt or innocence must be untainted, and the process must be allowed to occur unfettered to its ultimate conclusion. To allow politics or subjective opinion to poison the process is to violate the very promise of equal justice under which we all live.”
