The Big Lie

by James Grippando

  “General Barrow, how soon can you be ready to proceed with this additional proof of Ms. Holmes’s unfitness to serve?”

  She glanced down the table at the state attorney, who appeared to have no answer. “I’m not sure we can be ready before December fourteenth, Judge.”

  “That’s unfortunate, because we start on Thursday morning. If you’re not ready, the state of Florida’s demand to remove Ms. Holmes as an unfit elector will be denied.”

  Barrow and the state attorney huddled at the end of the table and exchanged whispers, conferring. Then Barrow returned to the microphone and said, “We’ll be ready.”

  “Good. I’m directing the lawyers to meet and exchange evidence no later than noon tomorrow. I want counsel to work out as many evidentiary objections as possible before the hearing. Understood?”

  “Yes, Judge,” the lawyers said in stereo.

  “Very well. This court is in recess until nine o’clock Thursday morning,” he said, and it was over with the crack of his gavel.

  Chapter 34

  President MacLeod was in the room that didn’t exist. In the bed that didn’t exist. Beneath the lights that didn’t exist. If Ronald Reagan could deny the use of hair dye, Malcolm MacLeod could deny the existence of a state-of-the-art, Level 5 tanning bed in the Executive Mansion.

  “I have General Barrow on the line,” said Teague. Other than the president and First Lady, the president’s chief strategist was the only person allowed in the tanning room. If there was such a thing as carcinogenic secondary tanning rays, Teague was a marked man.

  “Put her on speaker,” said MacLeod.

  The president was flat on his back, wearing only a bath towel around his waist, his skin slathered in tanning lotion as thirty-six thousand watts of UVA high-pressure lamps did the work of the sun’s rays. Protective goggles spared his retinas from UV damage, but they also gave him a permanent set of raccoon eyes that made deniability of the tanning bed less than plausible. Teague served as the president’s eyes and switchboard operator.

  “General Barrow,” said MacLeod, energized by the warmth on his skin. “How’s my favorite Florida blonde?”

  “Just fine, sir.”

  “I hear Judge Martin gave you just two days to build a second-degree murder case. Can you do it?”

  “The faster this case moves, the better,” said Barrow. “And not just from the standpoint of the Electoral College. The longer this case drags on, the more it’s going to unravel.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Logan Meyer is not, shall we say, an ideal victim.”

  “He’s dead,” said MacLeod. “Isn’t that ideal enough?”

  “Stand-your-ground cases can be tricky,” said Barrow. “It turns out that Meyer has a history of insinuating himself into confrontational situations. Two years ago he got into an argument with a thirty-year-old man over a parking space. Meyer was on the winning side of stand your ground in that one. The man got out of his minivan, which Meyer took as an act of aggression, so he shot him dead. The bouncer at Clyde’s told FDLE that Meyer has been hanging out outside the club lately, egging on drunk college boys to come at him. He says Meyer was itching for another stand-your-ground ‘showdown.’”

  “Charlotte Holmes’s lawyer isn’t going to put all that together in two days. That’s a problem for the state attorney way down the road, if and when the criminal case goes to trial. All I need right now is for you to put on enough evidence for Judge Martin to boot Charlotte Holmes out of the Electoral College. Can you do that?”

  “The short answer is yes,” said Barrow. “But the real question is whether the removal of Charlotte Holmes is enough to keep you in the White House.”

  “I would hope that the Republican governor of Florida will replace her with a Republican elector who will vote for the Republican candidate.”

  Teague picked up on the attorney general’s thought. “I believe General Barrow is asking if we’re worried about any electors other than Charlotte Holmes.”

  “Are we?” asked MacLeod.

  “Not specifically,” said Teague. “Our real concern is that there might be a handful of sleepers out there who are lying low until the meeting of the Electoral College. They’ve seen how we went after Charlotte Holmes, and rather than put themselves through hell, they could just show up and vote for Senator Stahl. There’s no requirement that an elector announce in advance of the meeting.”

  “I share Oscar’s concern,” said Barrow.

  The president took a deep breath. It was suddenly feeling hotter beneath the tanning lights. “This shouldn’t even be an issue. Just find the senator’s boyfriend, and let’s see how ‘progressive’ these electors are when we actually put a face on the First Homo.”

  “We’re still looking, sir,” said Teague.

  MacLeod wiped the sweat from his brow. The bed was equipped with its own cooling system, but with the president’s anger came perspiration, no matter what the ambient temperature—as anyone who’d mentioned “global warming” to him on a cold winter day could attest.

  “Do you see what incompetence I have to put up with, Paulette? It’s been since July, and we still can’t find the boyfriend.”

  “The problem is we’re not a hundred percent certain it’s a man,” said Teague.

  “Of course it’s a man. That kiss Senator Stahl gave his wife in that stunt in their driveway was a gay kiss if I ever saw one.” There was no response, and MacLeod’s eye guards made it impossible for him to see Teague’s reaction. “Oscar, don’t tell me you can’t spot a gay kiss when you see one.”

  “Honestly, I appear to be challenged in that regard, sir.”

  The timer chimed, and the heat lamps switched off. The president removed his goggles and climbed out of the bed. Teague handed him a terry-cloth robe, which he put on.

  “How do I look?” he asked, offering Teague his profile from both sides, chin out.

  “Healthy as ever,” said Teague.

  He moved closer to the speakerphone. “General, I want you to crush it in that courtroom on Thursday. Your strategy of a botched payoff is the perfect one. If Mr. Meyer is the kind of guy who goes around looking for trouble, that fits the narrative. Tell me about the other guy. What’s his name?”

  “Alberto Perez.”

  “Good. A foreigner. Another sketchy guy.”

  “He’s actually a second-generation Cuban-American from Miami. An M.D. No criminal record. Married five years to a woman named Heidi Bristol from Milford, Connecticut.”

  “Heidi Bristol from Milford? What the hell, Paulette? My base won’t buy this theory if your bagman is married to a Daughter of the American Revolution.”

  “Things are never as they seem, Mr. President.”

  MacLeod smiled. “You see, Oscar? Do you see why I love this woman? What do you have on him, General?”

  “I’m told that Dr. Perez and his wife attended at least one major fund-raiser for Senator Stahl. By the end of the day I should have a photograph of the three of them together.”

  The president settled into the chair beside the tanning bed. “Beautiful. That is exactly what—wait a minute. I just had another thought. The dead guy was actually a hero,” he said, adjusting the facts to fit the new narrative.

  “But General Barrow just said he has a history of—”

  “Don’t interrupt, Oscar,” said MacLeod. “Yes, now it’s coming clear. A rich Democrat donor was in the act of buying an electoral vote just a few blocks away from the State Capitol. Charlotte Holmes shot the courageous American patriot who was trying to blow up the deal and save our democracy. Pardon me for a moment, but I think I’m about to ejaculate.”

  “You go right ahead, sir,” said Barrow.

  MacLeod took a deep breath, then released a full-throated groan in simulated climax. “I love it.”

  Chapter 35

  Jack arrived at the Florida State Capitol late Tuesday afternoon. Barrow had asked for a meeting in her office, and if there was a way to
resolve things before Thursday’s hearing, Jack was all for it. But he wasn’t optimistic.

  “General Barrow will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said, leaving Jack alone in a conference room adjacent to the attorney general’s main office.

  Jack looked around. It was white-glove clean. Not a scrap of paper on the table, not a stray paperclip on the credenza, not a volume out of place in the bookshelves. No sign of boxes, papers, exhibits, or any other form of “evidence” that the government planned to offer at the hearing and that required their discussion. Apparently, the general had something else on her mind.

  The door opened. General Barrow entered alone, no entourage, which also struck Jack as odd. “Hello, Jack,” she said with a politician’s smile, her tone way too friendly.

  Jack responded cordially and accepted the invitation to join her at the rectangular conference table. She took a seat at the head, rather than in the chair across from him, as if to signal that she was not the opposition, at least for purposes of this meeting.

  “Jack, my friend, it is my assessment that this fitness hearing has taken enough of a toll on everyone. You, me, and most definitely Charlotte Holmes.”

  Jack agreed with that much, though calling him “friend” had put him on high alert. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s work this out.”

  “When you say ‘this,’ you mean what? Strictly the hearing to determine my client’s fitness to serve as elector?”

  “No,” she said, leveling her gaze, as if to say she really meant business. “I’m talking about the whole enchilada. Both the fitness hearing and the criminal charges.”

  “Shouldn’t the state attorney be part of any discussion of the criminal charges?”

  “He’s on board,” said Barrow. “Here’s the deal. Charlotte Holmes pleads to one count of aggravated assault. Five years probation. No prison time.”

  Jack did not respond right away. On one level, it was a generous offer to come down from second-degree murder with mandatory jail time to aggravated assault. On another level, it troubled him.

  “Let me guess,” said Jack. “Your deal is on one condition: my client has to enter her plea before the Electoral College meets on December fourteenth.”

  She smiled insincerely. “As always, Jack, you’re one step ahead of me.”

  “Her guilty plea will make her a convicted felon—and therefore ineligible to serve as a Florida elector until she has served her sentence.”

  Another phony smile. “Two steps ahead. Bravo, Jack.”

  “I’ll discuss it with my client,” said Jack.

  “I suggest you move quickly. There’s a very short expiration date on this offer.”

  “How short?”

  “Tomorrow at noon.”

  “That’s the deadline Judge Martin gave you to show me the evidence you plan to offer at the hearing.”

  “Correct,” said Barrow.

  “That’s a problem. Why should my client plead guilty to assault before she even gets a hint as to the evidence against her?”

  “Let me give you a quick preview,” said Barrow. “Her gun. Her bullet. Does Ms. Holmes really want to roll the dice and argue that she was ‘standing her ground’ in the face of deadly force? After all, she did shoot an unarmed man.”

  Jack didn’t flinch. “We believe the evidence will show that Mr. Meyer had a gun.”

  “That’s not what you’ll hear from the first responders,” said Barrow.

  “Perhaps his gun fell to the ground and got lost in the stampede of college students.”

  Barrow seemed to appreciate the way Jack didn’t miss a beat. “Well played, Counselor. But that won’t fly.”

  “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,” said Jack. “But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if Mr. Meyer did or didn’t have a gun. He said he had fire in his pocket. My client thought she and her friend were up against deadly force. That’s enough under the stand-your-ground statute.”

  Barrow chuckled. “Is that how you plan to advise your client, Jack? Turn down a generous offer of no jail time, because under one of the most controversial laws in Florida, you don’t have to retreat—you can just go ahead and shoot an unarmed man, as long as you think he’s got fire in his pocket?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He simply watched as the attorney general reached into her briefcase, removed a clear plastic evidence bag, and laid it on the table in front of Jack.

  “What’s that?” asked Jack.

  “A flash drive,” she said, stating the obvious. “We found it at the scene. Right by the overturned table where your client was sitting.”

  Charlotte had told him about the flash drive Dr. Perez had tried to give her. But there was no legal or strategic reason for Jack to educate the prosecution. “What’s on it?”

  “My tech experts at FDLE will tell us soon enough.”

  Barrow pushed away from the table and rose, signaling that the meeting was over.

  Jack rose and walked with her to the door.

  “Here’s the bottom line,” she said. “If it worries your client that she shot an unarmed man, she should take the deal. If your client is worried about what we might find on the flash drive, she should take the deal. If your client somehow grows balls as big as globes between now and noon tomorrow, I’ll see you in court on Thursday morning.” She opened the door. “I think that about covers it. Any questions?”

  “I’ll let you know our decision,” said Jack.

  The attorney general held the door, allowing Jack to show himself to the elevator.

  “No,” said Charlotte. “I won’t plead guilty to a felony.”

  They were at the hotel restaurant, talking and having a late dinner alone in a private dining room. Theo had a bar to run in Coconut Grove and was on the evening flight to Miami, so it was just Jack and his client.

  “General Barrow is offering no jail time,” said Jack.

  “I don’t care. This is blatantly political.”

  Jack didn’t disagree, but it was an oversimplification. “Let me explain a couple of things, Charlotte. You’ve been charged with second-degree murder. That means the prosecution doesn’t have to prove premeditation the way it would in a first-degree murder case.”

  “I understand.”

  “And don’t think that because the charge is murder in the second degree that this isn’t serious. In Florida, any person who uses a firearm to commit second-degree murder gets a mandatory sentence of twenty-five years in prison. That’s the law.”

  “I get it,” said Charlotte. “But I didn’t murder anyone. I thought he had a gun.”

  “General Barrow says he didn’t.”

  She paused, clearly troubled by that bit of news. “Why would that man say he had fire in his pocket if he didn’t have one?”

  Jack sprinkled black pepper on his parmesan-crusted chicken. “Could be like the skydiving instructor’s video that went viral a few months ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You never saw it? This guy taught skydiving for thirty years. One of his students was on her first solo jump, so the instructor fixed a camera on his helmet to record the moment. About halfway through the video, the student pops her parachute. But the instructor keeps falling. Then the camera starts jerking around every which way, in all these panicky motions, as the poor guy realizes that he jumped out of the airplane with no parachute.”

  Charlotte cringed. “That’s an awful story, Jack. And what does it have to do with the fire in Mr. Meyer’s pocket?”

  “For the average person, strapping on a parachute—or holstering a concealed weapon—would be a big deal. But once you get used to it, you get careless. You don’t realize it’s not there till you need it.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “I’ll tell you what worries me more than Mr. Meyer not having a gun,” said Jack.

  “What?”

  “They found the flash drive Dr. Perez was trying to give you. General Barrow s
aid she doesn’t know what’s on it yet. FDLE is examining it. But I don’t believe her. I think she knows. And she thinks you know.”

  “I have no idea what’s on it. You’ll have to ask Alberto.”

  “So far, Dr. Perez has shown no willingness to help. I had to call his office three times just to get his assistant to tell me the name of his lawyer. I’ve been psycho-calling her all day. No response. How many times have you called Alberto?”

  “I’d say six or seven. Plus a few texts.”

  “Has he gotten back to you?”

  Charlotte poked at her salad. “No. Honestly, I don’t understand it.”

  “I do,” said Jack, fully aware of what was going on. “His lawyer is telling him to stay away from you. At this point, you’re the only one charged with a crime. Dr. Perez, I’m sure, would like to keep it that way. I’d give him the same advice, if I were his lawyer.”

  “Toxic Charlotte Holmes strikes again. Is that it?”

  “The red meat in the biggest political dogfight in Florida history is now in the prosecutor’s crosshairs on a murder charge. No lawyer would want his client to cozy up to you.”

  “Then just subpoena him, Jack. All we want from Alberto is his testimony that Mr. Meyer threatened to shoot us, so I shot him first.”

  “I don’t want to call Dr. Perez as a witness without knowing what was on that flash drive. I’m flying back to Miami tomorrow for the day to see my family. I’ll drop in and see Dr. Perez’s lawyer—ambush her, if I have to. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Now you sound straight out of an episode of House of Cards. What do you think is on it, the North Korean nuclear code?”

  “No. But what do you think is on it?”

  “All I can tell you is that Alberto offered to help me transition my lobbying business from guns to health care. Then he laid the flash drive on the table.”

  “So it was a business plan of some sort?”

  “I don’t know. I shut him down and told him to put it away. I had enough sense to know that three weeks before the meeting of the Electoral College was not the time to be negotiating business deals.”