by Michael Fine
The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Hope repeated her synopsis and added, “I’m here to turn myself in.”
They left Hope sitting alone in the interrogation room for almost two hours. At least that’s what it felt like. She couldn’t tell for sure, since they took her cell phone from her and there was no clock in the room. The room was just like what she’d seen on TV dramas: empty save for a metal table in the center of the room with an uncomfortable metal chair on each side. A large mirror dominated one of the walls, which she assumed was of the two-way variety, allowing observers to watch and listen.
Finally, two agents walked into the room. One was the bald agent to whom she had spoken in the waiting room and who had taken her here. The other, probably in his mid-sixties, wearing a rumpled suit and a garish multi-colored tie, looked like he might be the first man’s boss.
The older man began speaking while the bald man walked around behind her.
“I’m Special Agent-in-Charge Miller. You’ve already met Special Agent Alvarez.”
“Hello.”
“Special Agent Alvarez tells me you have quite a tale to tell.”
“I’m here to admit to my crimes, if that’s what you mean.”
“Mind if I record our conversation while we talk?”
“No. Not at all.”
“And you don’t want an attorney present?”
“No, thank you.”
Special Agent-in-Charge Miller didn’t know what to make of this woman. In his forty years with the bureau, he could count on one hand when someone walked in to confess, and did so without a lawyer. And those were uneducated junkies who were, frankly, not fully aware of the significance of their actions. This woman looked like she was competent, not impaired by drugs or alcohol, and even claimed to be a recent medical school student.
Miller wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. If what Alvarez told him this woman had admitted to was true, he would likely receive one last citation before his retirement in a few months. He pressed the RECORD button on the camera.
“Please state your name and address.”
Hope did so. Then, for the next hour and a half, she told her story. She provided much more detail than she had in the tape she sent to CNN. She explained about the rape, unwanted pregnancy and death of her sister, Angel. She explained that when she heard about the possibility of a national anti-abortion law, she felt compelled to act. She provided a detailed explanation of her actions at the Senator’s house, and of the medical procedures she performed. The only two details she omitted were that she’d threatened the men with explosives that would go off if they attempted to end their pregnancies and any details about the origins of the embryos she’d surgically implanted.
A few times, Special Agent-in-Charge Miller asked a clarifying question or two, but otherwise was happy to sit in silence and let Hope speak. Finally, she finished her confession and the room went silent.
Hope didn’t know what to make of Miller. He sat like a sphinx, silent and still, through most of her confession and again now that it was over. She couldn’t read him at all. She supposed this was a skill honed from his many years on the job.
Miller finally rose from his chair and ran his palms down his suit coat as if that would iron out its countless wrinkles. After a few moments, he realized his effort was fruitless and stopped.
“Take Miss Hunter into custody, Special Agent Alvarez,” he said to his colleague. To Hope he said, “I’m going to do everything in my power to expedite your case and to make sure you get put away for life as soon as possible.” A flash of anger had escaped, and Hope noticed it. Miller noticed Hope notice, and his anger only grew more intense.
Hope smiled at Miller. “Would it be possible for me to get a bite to eat first? I’m starving.”
Miller punched the RECORD button to stop the recording and stormed out of the interrogation room. Special Agent Alvarez, still stunned by Hope’s admission, his boss’s rare display of emotion, and Hope’s cajones, gently took Hope by the arm and helped her stand.
“Let’s go,” he said. Then, with his mouth just behind Hope’s right ear, he added, “I’ll get you a pack of peanuts or something on the way.” His niece had recently had an abortion in the Central Valley, and he knew she was lucky to live in California, one of the few states where abortion was still legal. He tried not to think about what he would have done to help her had she lived elsewhere.
Chapter Forty-Three
Tuesday, March 13 (the next day)
United States Senate
Washington, D.C.
2 days before vote on the Sanctity of Life bill
Senator Royce Carrington spent Sunday and Monday recovering from the surgery some mad woman had performed on him. His abdomen had fifteen stiches running across what his private physician said was a pfannenstiel-style horizontal incision, and he felt lethargic for the first time in his life. Assuming what the woman said was true, he had an artificial womb inside of his body. He was “pregnant.” Unsure if what she’d said was true and given the delicate nature of his situation, Carrington did not want to tell anyone other than his doctor about what had happened, at least not yet. He convinced his doctor to allow him to spend a few hours at work on Tuesday morning, promising that he would immediately go back home and rest for a few more days.
The Majority Leader was dumbfounded when Carrington called him Monday night and told him what he wanted him to do: call an early vote on the “Sanctity of Life” bill. The man asked Carrington if he didn’t just want to let the bill die rather than calling a vote, but Carrington was adamant and the man relented; he might be Majority Leader, but only because Carrington didn’t want to be, and because Carrington had helped him get the job.
Now, at Carrington’s request, the two men were on the Senate floor.
“Hi Royce,” the Senator from Ohio said as he walked up to Carrington’s desk, where Carrington was sitting. He’d spotted Carrington come on to the Senate floor and head straight to his seat, something that was unlike Carrington, who usually prowled around the room like a feral cat. “You all right?”
“Fine, fine,” Carrington lied. “Just a little under the weather.”
The Ohio Senator doubted Carrington’s explanation, if he could call it that; Carrington was famous for having an iron constitution, for never being sick. But he let it slide and walked over to talk with a colleague from West Virginia. A few other Senators came to greet Carrington, each also curious as to why the man was seated. Carrington told the same lie to each of them.
The Leader shocked almost everyone in the Senate chamber when he declared that the Sanctity of Life bill would now come to a vote. They weren’t expecting the vote until Thursday.
They certainly weren’t expecting the result of the vote, either.
When the vote closed, the bill was defeated fifty-two to forty-one, with one abstention and six no-shows. Carrington had called Senators Pennebaker, Smith, and Graham and asked them, despite the urging they’d received by Reverend Brooks just days earlier—at Carrington’s request no less—to vote no on the bill. Carrington promised he would explain at some point. More importantly, he’d indicated clearly that he would owe each of his colleagues, and this was worth more to them than the outcome of any particular vote. They joined all forty-nine Democrats in voting “nay” on the bill.
Senator Mary Roberts, one of the staunchest opponents of the bill, couldn’t contain her joy when the final tally came in. She texted Tanya McAvoy, who she’d come to realize had a complicated past:
Sanctity bill defeated! Carrington himself asked for an early vote and voted NAY. Strange world we live in. We'll celebrate later.
Roberts didn’t reveal her belief that the woman pretending to be Regina Staubach likely had something to do with today’s miracle, or that she suspected the woman was Tanya’s daughter. Well, she figured, Tanya wasn’t the only person in Washington with secrets.
A few minutes before noon, his hopes of a nat
ional anti-abortion law shattered by his own hand, Senator Royce Carrington made his way quietly off the Senate floor and to a waiting car. He needed to lie down. He had morning sickness.
Tuesday, March 13 (later the same day)
Correctional Treatment Facility
Washington, D.C.
Hope tried to be a model prisoner. She had no beef with the guards, the prison, or the legal system. She was, as far as she could tell, the only woman here that had admitted her crimes. Plus, she figured her life would be easier if she went along, and did so as obediently and as quietly as possible.
Lunch was some kind of stew. Again. She’d only been in prison for two days and already they were serving the same meal. She couldn’t complain, though; it actually wasn’t all that bad. Still, she expected she’d miss fresh fruits and vegetables, and soon.
On her way back to her cell, a guard approached her. It was one of the women who seemed to have responsibility for her wing of the prison. The woman snuck something into her hand.
“Here. This is for you.”
Hope looked down and saw two chocolate chip cookies that appeared to be freshly baked. A look of confusion covered her face.
“I was watching CNN in the break room. The news just hit. The ‘Sanctity of Life’ bill went down! That dreamboat Senator Carrington apparently asked for an early vote and then voted against his own bill. It’s all so confusing. But one thing I know: it’s wonderful!”
Hope wasn’t sure she heard right. “The bill, it’s—”
“Dead. Dead dead dead,” the guard whispered. “And word is that you’re the reason why.” She smiled, which made Hope realize that in just two days she’d already come to miss the simple act of someone smiling. “So, here. These are for you. But, shh. Don’t tell anyone now, ya hear?”
Hope quickly reached out and gave the woman a hug, and immediately retreated.
“Go on. Get outta here,” the guard said kindly. Then, more loudly, in case the walls had ears, she added, “Back to your cell, prisoner.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Tuesday, March 13 (later that evening)
Correctional Treatment Facility
Washington, D.C.
Hope was lying on her cot reading a biography of Winston Churchill when a guard approached.
“Visitor for you, Hunter.”
Hope was confused. The only person she thought might possibly visit her was Charlie, but he was in jail or maybe in some terrorist detention facility somewhere being waterboarded. Her mother had made it clear that she valued her position and purported power more than her relationship with Hope; There was no way Tanya would come. And while Quinn and Sanam had been willing to help her, she didn’t expect them to raise their heads, either, especially here in the belly of the beast. Plus, it was almost 9:00 p.m., which she assumed was well past the end of visiting hours. She put a bookmark into her book, pivoted to a sitting position, then stood.
“Open 117,” the guard shouted. The door to Hope’s cell slid open.
“Let’s go,” the woman said to Hope. Hope let the guard guide her to the visiting area, which was dead quiet except for one guard standing at attention behind where the prisoners sat and one man sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs: Charlie.
Hope hadn’t had any visitors, so she looked around the room for the first time. She decided it looked exactly like she expected one should look based on movies and TV shows. Drab gray carpeting and walls in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Two long lines of chairs, separated by partitions, on either side of a long plexiglass wall. A few posters on the visitors’ side indicated that firearms and explosives were not allowed. How ridiculous, Hope thought, since visitors presumably had to pass through security to get here. She felt the ghosts of broken dreams fill the room.
Hope sat across from Charlie and took stock of him. He looked nonplussed, as if nothing unusual or significant had happened recently. She picked up the phone handset, which she assumed would allow her to talk with Charlie. He picked up his as well.
“Hiya, kiddo,” Charlie said. Hope could feel the warmth of his familiar greeting wrap around her and hug her, even if his arms could not.
“Oh Charlie! I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you. Are you… are you out of jail? Are you free?”
“Free as a bird. Funny how things work out when they don’t work out,” Charlie said cryptically, fearing recording devices or eavesdroppers on the line. He hoped that Hope understood he was talking about the fact he didn’t have a gun or the modified oxygen tank with the explosive device when he was arrested.
“But—”
“But nothing. I’m just an idiot who tried to put on an old man disguise and pull a stupid prank. They got me for trespassing on government property. And attempting to block a fire exit, or something stupid like that. Who cares.” Charlie laughed, as if being charged by a crime was no big deal. “And nobody ever complained about anything being missing,” he added, hoping Hope would understand that he was referring to the fact that he had swiped her mom’s identification badge but that Tanya hadn’t reported it. Neither would ever know for certain why Senator Mary Roberts had snatched it off of Hope’s suit when she helped Hope escape, or ever know she’d dropped it in one of Tanya’s drawers and never said a word to anyone. Charlie had told the FBI that he simply walked in from the lobby, hoping not to have to mention Hope’s mother’s badge, despite the woman being a self-centered bitch as far as he was concerned. He was actually surprised and perplexed that they hadn’t questioned him further about that part of his story.
“I was so worried about you,” Hope said. She’d been trying to figure out how to tell the authorities that Charlie had nothing to do with things, that she’d made him come with her.
“Shh. I’m good, kiddo. I’m good,” Charlie lied. In fact, he wasn’t certain his legal risk was over, but he didn’t want Hope to worry about him, especially given the legal difficulties she faced herself. “Listen, when is your initial appearance in court?”
“I have no idea. The FBI agent in charge, a guy named Miller, seemed to have a hard-on for me. I think he’s threatened by strong women.”
“I’ll find out. In the meantime, how are you? I mean, really?”
“I’m okay. I mean, I’m already sick of the food, but it’ll be fine. So far, the guards have treated me fairly, if not well.”
Charlie put the palm of his hand on the glass and Hope reached up and placed hers as if to touch his.
“I’ll be here every day to visit you.”
“You don’t have to do that. Besides, you have to be at the restaurant, which, if I recall, is in California.”
“I wasn’t asking,” Charlie said. “And besides, it appears that some enterprising young lady who shall remain nameless has organized the team and re-opened the restaurant. I think they’ll be fine without me for a while. I can sign checks from here.”
Hope smiled, so gratified to have this incredible man as a friend.
Charlie stood and Hope followed suit. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow during regular visiting hours. And, hey, kiddo…” After glancing at a security camera, Charlie turned to Hope, beamed his brightest smile, and fully raised his arms in an exaggerated “touchdown” motion. Hope knew he was congratulating her and telling her he was proud of her.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too,” Hope said. Just as Charlie was about to hang up and leave, she asked, “Hey… How did you arrange to meet me tonight?” She motioned around the empty room. “I mean, you a big shot around here?”
“Nope. After tonight, I’m like every other Joe Shmoe. But tonight they owed me a favor. You see, I gave ’em a lead on a certain gun dealer who works in the area.” Charlie tilted his head and gave Hope a wry smile. “Mr. Eddie Townsend was recently picked up with possession of a small arsenal. The Feds don’t like that sort of thing. Not one bit. He’s down the street at the D.C. Central Detention
Facility.” Before Hope could say anything, Charlie said, “See you tomorrow, kiddo,” hung up, and left. He didn’t feel the need to tell Hope about the gruesome threat he’d had Quinn and Sanam deliver to Eddie to keep him from talking.
Chapter Forty-Five
Wednesday, March 14 (the next day)
Senator Royce Carrington’s Home
Village of Oyster Bay Cove, Nassau County, New York
Royce Carrington was not used to rest or relaxation. Yet, given his condition and his insistence on calling the vote the day before, he was bedridden. Not one for taking orders, even from doctors, Carrington finally agreed to take a few days off only after nearly collapsing while making himself coffee in his kitchen and pulling two stitches.
As the sun rose to its apex in the clear blue sky, he sat propped up in his bed, surrounded by the day’s New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Clarion-Ledger as well as dozens of magazines. His copy of the latest Jon Meacham biography on Gabriella Davenport sat unopened on his nightstand. He disagreed with the woman on pretty much every important policy issue, but he admired her. Her story was a compelling one: from poverty to Harvard to successful entrepreneurship to the White House, with plenty of well-meaning—if misguided—liberal do-goodism along the way.
Saturday was a shock, and for the first time in his life, Carrington was having a hard time concentrating. As he read a headline about yet another conflict in Afghanistan, he flashed to waking up strapped to his desk and being confronted by that infernal woman. As he tried to read the article, which likened the U.S. policy to the children’s game Whack-a-Mole, he flashed to waking up the second time, with fresh stitches running along his abdomen. He put the paper down and picked up the Davenport bio. At eight hundred pages, it was quite a tome, and within minutes he was too tired to hold it upright. He hated himself for being so weak.
