by J. L. Brown
She glanced down at the dusty cleat.
He hesitated and then removed it.
“What position do you play?” Micah asked.
“Why? Are you planning on coming to a game?”
“Answer the question, William,” Jade said.
“Shortstop.”
“Tell me about your teammates who died,” Jade said.
“Haven’t we gone over this?”
She had debated whether to bring him down to FBI HQ to shake him up a bit, but decided it was premature. “I want to go over it again.”
“Zach was a bully, you know that. Nic, too, but . . . ”
She waited him out.
“ . . . he was bullied as well. By Z.” He kicked at an imaginary rock on the asphalt. “Joshman was weak, but a bully, too. He would do whatever Z said.”
“Sounds like a team full of bullies.”
“Are you one?” Micah asked.
“Do I look like a bully?”
Jade thought back to their original interview and Andrew Huffman’s reaction after the funeral.
“Yes.”
*
“It’s late.”
“Thanks for seeing us.”
Jade sat in an institutional-gray chair across from Coach Lane Daniel in his cramped office on a lower floor near the gymnasium. Micah stood next to her, the room not large enough for another chair.
Daniel was barrel-chested, a former athlete who still ate—but didn’t exercise—like one. He was dressed in the same uniform as his players. Jade always wondered why baseball was the only sport in which that happened.
He observed her taking in his office. “Yeah. It’d be bigger if I coached football.”
“We won’t take up a lot of your time. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Saw you talking to Chaney-Frost. Did he say anything that could help you?”
“What do you think is going on with your baseball team?”
The big man leaned back in his chair. “Hell, if I know. I told the police it must be a rival team. No one likes to see a successful man.”
“You think this is about you?”
“I didn’t say that. Someone’s just out to get us. Since this is my team, it means they’re out to get me.”
“Do your players get along?”
“As well as any team. It’s not peaches and cream all the time. These guys want to win. They won’t hesitate to get in each other’s faces, if necessary. But off the field everything’s forgotten.”
“Is that why so many of your players have bruises and scratches on their faces? Black eyes?”
“Baseball is a tough sport. We play hard every day. Doesn’t matter if it’s practice or game day.”
“Seems like it’s more than that.” She paused to see if he would respond. He didn’t. “Do you think there’s bullying going on? Hazing? Anything like that?”
“Missy,” he said, “I’m trying to raise men here, not pu— pansies.”
“It’s Agent Harrington.”
“What?”
“My name is not ‘Missy.’ It’s Agent Harrington.”
She asked him his whereabouts the nights of the four murders. The coach leaned forward and paged through an opened school calendar on his desk. “The first night I was at a coaches’ meeting.” Licking his finger, he paged to the next date. She tried not to grimace. His hands were still dirty from practice. “Here.” He showed her the date. “My daughter’s soccer game. These other two nights aren’t marked, so I was probably at home. In my home office. I’m pretty much all-in during the season. Watching tape. Working on practice plans.”
“Do you think someone on your team could be killing his teammates?”
Daniel looked at her, incredulous. “The teams at this school are expected to win. Every player knows that when he signs up. To be a part of that tradition. That would be self-defeating, wouldn’t it?”
“What do you think of Chaney-Frost?”
“Solid player. He’s gotten some PT—playing time—as a sophomore on varsity, too. Better with the bat than in the field. Better talker than doer.”
“What about as a person?” Micah asked.
“He’s bought into the program. That’s all I care about.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Washington, DC
Cole Brennan sauntered past the crowded bar to a table around the corner, where Republican Senator Paul Sampson sat nursing a drink. Judging from the redness of his face, it wasn’t his first of the evening.
Cole’s drink waited for him at the table. Most nights, he rushed home from the studio to be with his family, but on occasion he held business meetings at the Capital Grille on Pennsylvania Avenue near the Newseum.
Sampson looked up. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Can’t a man sit down first?”
Cole made a show of scanning the menu, even though he had ordered ahead. He didn’t like to wait. “Try the porterhouse. Amazing.”
The waiter materialized and took Sampson’s order.
“Can we talk now?”
Cole glanced around to see if anybody else was here. Anybody who was somebody. Politicians frequented this place. A congressman or one of his staffers could be sitting next to you. Yeah, yeah, congresswomen, too.
“Look here,” Cole said, “if you’re going to be ‘my guy,’ you’ve got to become a populist.”
“Okay . . . ”
Cole paused as the waiter set down his food.
The aroma of his steak compelled him to take a bite.
“Don’t wait for me,” Sampson said, his tone sarcastic.
Cole ignored him. “If you want to be president you need to become folksier. More likable by the people.”
“How do I do that?”
“You say what they want to hear. Anything against Muslims or minorities or illegal immigrants is usually a winner.”
“Got it. What else?”
“Intellectuals, the media, and women are all good targets.”
“Women?”
“September twenty-first, nineteen eighty-one. The beginning of the end.”
“What’re you talking about? What happened on that date?”
“Sandra Day O’Connor was nominated to the Supreme Court.”
Sampson appeared baffled.
“And if you really want to endear yourself to the good folks on the right,” Cole continued, “just mention abortion. They’ll love you. Even better, all the Feminazis will come out of the woodwork. That’s always fun.”
The waiter set down Sampson’s plate and withdrew.
“What about the gays?”
Cole thought about his son. “Them, too.”
“What about Hampton? Why aren’t you backing him?”
Cole waved his fork, dismissing the suggestion. “He’s too uptight. Too full of himself. He’s also an intellectual. No one likes an intellectual.”
Stabbing another piece of steak, he pointed at Sampson’s plate. “Good, huh?” He stuffed the morsel in his mouth.
Sampson scanned the restaurant. “I’ve been here before, Cole.”
“Yeah, but not with me.”
The waiter asked how their steaks were. “Great,” Cole said, pointing to his drink. “Bring us another round.”
He had heard the rumors that Sampson was a lush. He didn’t mind. In fact, it would make it easier to control him.
“Now, where were we?” Cole said. “Disagree with everything the president says. Everything. Even, if you agree with her. Especially anything about raising the minimum wage or government intervention. Your constituency will be with you, even though she wants to give them a raise. It doesn’t make sense, but that’s okay. It helps us. Also, it doesn’t matter if what you say is the truth or not. You can say one thing one day and the complete opposite the next day, and your followers won’t care. They don’t care about the truth. They want to be with you. They want—no, they need—to believe in someone. To believe in something. Again. Like Reagan.�
��
Sampson was nodding at everything he said. Cole had him.
“You should declare your candidacy about a year from now,” Cole said. “The people must be on your side by then.”
Sampson looked doubtful. “I don’t know if I can make people love me like that.”
Cole bestowed a broad smile. “You’re probably right. But I can. Now, how about a cognac?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Washington, DC
Jade blew her whistle from the sideline. All ten players on the court stopped running and turned to her.
She addressed her point guard. “LaKeisha, I want ten passes before a shot is taken.”
LaKeisha flashed her a questioning look. “Ten passes, Coach? That’s a lifetime.”
“Just do it, LaKeisha. I know we can score. I want to see you run the offense.”
LaKeisha grinned at her and bounced the ball in place. “You got it, Coach.” Facing her teammates, she held up her fist. “Stanford!”
The team ran their flex offense, named after Jade’s alma mater. Last year, LaKeisha played on Jade’s team of middle-school girls. She’d had a good freshman year, averaging ten points a game, leading her team to the city championship, and earning the Washington Post’s third-team All-Met honors. Jade now coached the high school’s spring-league team.
After practice, Jade stuffed basketballs into a bag, LaKeisha lingering nearby.
“How’s school?”
LaKeisha untied her low-tops. The mini-twist hairstyle of last year had grown out to dreadlocks. Her hair now hid her face. “It’s okay.”
Jade set the bag aside and sat on the bench next to her. “Let me ask you something.”
LaKeisha tensed, still fiddling with her laces.
“Is bullying prevalent in your school?” LaKeisha relaxed. “I mean, is there a lot of it?”
LaKeisha sat up and shrugged, flipping the hair off her face. “I guess so.”
“Have you ever been bullied?”
“Nah. No one messes with me. I’d fuck them up.” She glanced at Jade. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Ever witness someone else being victimized?”
LaKeisha hesitated, knowing what Jade did for a living. “I won’t testify to anything, but yeah. It’s everywhere. In the halls. In the locker rooms. In class. Online.”
“And I suppose the school’s anti-bullying policies don’t help.”
LaKeisha gaped at her. “There’s policies against it?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The White House, Washington, DC
The next afternoon, Whitney disembarked from Marine One onto the helipad on the South Lawn. Sasha and Sarah came down the stairs behind her. As she walked toward the White House, Sean hurried toward her.
Unusual.
“Madam President, something is happening in Seattle.”
Whitney glanced at Sasha before hurrying after him.
The television was on in her study off the Oval Office, the screen filled with police officers in riot gear shooting pepper spray at protesters on a city street. The protesters threw rocks and cans and other objects at the officers. A bottle shattered against an officer’s helmet. At the bottom of the screen, the caption read Seattle Protest Turns Deadly.
Whitney motioned for Sean to turn up the volume.
“If you’re just tuning in,” said the voiceover, “we are looking at Pine Street in downtown Seattle, witnessing what at one time had been a peaceful march against income inequality. In the last hour, however, the march has spiraled into a deadly protest. At least three people are confirmed dead after being trampled in the crowd.” A gasp from Sarah behind her. “Seven more have been injured.”
“Damn!” Sasha said.
The announcer continued. “Those numbers may escalate. The mayor has called for a peaceful resolution and cautioned the police to respect the rights of protesters—”
“What about the rights of police officers?” Whitney murmured.
Although Whitney’s attention didn’t waver from the screen, she could feel the intensity of Sasha’s glare. “Police officers’ rights are protected well enough. Don’t you think?”
“Not now, Sasha.”
Sasha put her hands on her hips. “When then? When is a good time to talk about police brutality? I think now is as good a time as any.”
“The coverage is everywhere,” Sean said, oblivious to the growing tension between the two women. “Twitter’s blowing up and—”
“Thank you, Sean,” Whitney said, interrupting and dismissing him at the same time. “That will be all, Sarah.”
After they left, Whitney shook her head, sickened by what she was witnessing on the screen. She held Sasha’s gaze. “I want you to stay on top of this and keep me updated.”
“Black lives matter.”
“I know.”
“It’s happening every week now.”
The week before, three black women, college students, were critically injured on a Mississippi university campus at a police brutality protest. A protest that went horribly wrong.
“We’ll address it,” Whitney said.
Sasha pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Hmph. When?”
“In this term. I promise.” She pointed at the screen. “But first we must address this. Perhaps, this will finally get Congress’s attention.”
“It hasn’t yet,” Sasha said, still staring at the television.
Whitney’s intercom buzzed.
“Madam President,” Sean said. “Senator Hampton is on the line for you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Washington, DC
“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise!”
Jade turned to find Cole Brennan standing near her, his arms wide ready to envelop her in a hug. She braced herself and held her glass high in the air, as he hugged her.
They had not seen each other since the night TSK had paid him a visit, with almost tragic consequences for his family. The animosity he had shown toward her during that case had vanished. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was now looking at her with respect. Possibly affection.
“Mr. Brennan. Mrs. Brennan.”
His wife reached out and touched Jade’s arm. “It’s good to see you.”
“How’s Kaitlin?” Jade asked.
The woman gave her a vacant smile. “You remember her name . . . She’s back to normal. As if it never happened. We’ll never forget what you did.”
“Hmph!” Cole said. “You’re a hero to my kids. But things aren’t back to normal. My oldest son, CJ, and Kaitlin are liberals. That ain’t normal.”
He guffawed. Despite herself, Jade joined in his laughter.
“Well, I’m glad she’s okay. It was good seeing you both.”
She moved off to a space near a large window to watch people arrive at the Washington Hilton on Connecticut Avenue. The White House Correspondents’ Dinner had transformed into a red-carpet event, with more celebrities—actors, athletes, performing artists—in attendance than reporters.
Wearing a gray suit, crisp white shirt, and black shoes, Jade enjoyed watching other people garner the attention for a change.
She sipped her beer. She’d never been invited to this dinner before. But this year, her invitation had come from the top.
“First time?”
Turning from the window, she scrutinized the gentleman next to her. Attractive, with short, sandy, gelled hair, he wore designer glasses and a well-cut suit.
He held out his hand. “Jade Harrington, it’s an honor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Haynes.” They shook. “I watch you sometimes on MSNBC.”
He smiled. “Sometimes?”
“I don’t watch much TV.”
“Do you follow politics?”
“Some,” she said. “My best friend is into it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Zoe.”
He sipped his drink. “I know her. We worked together occasionally when I lived in DC.”
“I should ask ‘Wh
o hasn’t worked with Zoe?’”
“May save you some time. Me, too, by the way.”
“Me, too, what?”
“This is my first time.” He waved his glass at the photographers and the famous attendees posing on the red carpet. “Quite a spectacle.”
“Not really my thing.”
“Mine either.”
They stood comfortably next to each other, observing others.
“What do you think about the protests?” he asked.
“They’re intensifying.”
He nodded. “The deaths were inevitable. The rhetoric is getting out of hand. I’d be surprised if we didn’t see more violence.”
“If anyone can bring this country together, Fairchild can.”
“You sound like an ‘FOW.’”
“FOW?”
“Friend of Whitney. I am by the way.”
Since my invitation came from her, I guess, I am, too. That and her personal FBI agent.
She kept these thoughts to herself.
“We better go in.” He tilted his head toward the ballroom where the other attendees had started to migrate. “What are you doing later? There’s an after-party at a bar down the street.”
“I can’t. Early day tomorrow.”
“That’s too bad.”
Before they parted to go to their assigned tables, he said, “It’s been a pleasure. I hope to—”
She held out her hand. “Me, too.”
She turned to head toward her table, and then back to him. “What’s the name of the bar?”
He told her.
After President Whitney Fairchild roasted herself, the current male host of a late-night TV show began the traditional roast of the president. She sat next to the podium with a tense smile on her face, as if bracing for the onslaught.
“Now,” the comedian said, “thanks to President Fairchild, and passage of the ERA amendment, women are entitled to the same rights as men. Thank God. Now, my wife can have an erection lasting four hours . . . ”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Washington, DC
“ . . . twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”
