by Roger Hayden
“Thank you.”
Brooke wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that there was still hope for things to change for the better. But it seemed that every time she was close, every time she thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was stamped out by acts of violent hate.
When Jason was alive, he had told her stories of some of the men that were under his command and what they’d seen while on duty. The horrors of war were hard to forget. A lot of them never really came home. He had told her that a man can only compartmentalize so much before he forgets which box he’s supposed to be in, which box is real.
Brooke could feel her mind struggling to do the same thing, trying to compartmentalize everything. Home, family, water, survival, death, murder, blood, life, death, life, death. All of it circled round and round. She felt dizzy. She held her head in both arms, trying to stop the room from spinning.
“Oh, God,” Brooke said.
“Well, I think we’ve both had enough,” Dave said, finishing his beer.
Dave helped her up from her chair and guided her to the couch. Brooke felt herself fall backward onto a cushion and then the cool feeling of cotton being pulled over her body as she gripped the sheet and closed her eyes.
7
The massive marble columns of the Justice building had withstood the test of time. The white and cloudy gray marble shimmered in the glare of the sunlight, and Smith couldn’t help but marvel at the architecture. The building was designed to last for centuries. It held the Romanesque feel of a great empire. But, just like the Romans’ country, his too was beginning to crack and crumble, just as those marble columns eventually would. Smith just didn’t believe it would happen in his lifetime.
And the reporters swarming the building diluted the allure that Smith felt when he would walk there on his own. He swatted away the flashes of cameras, the microphones stuck in his face, and the questions from reporters who swarmed like flies.
“Congressman! Congressman! How do you plan to defend yourself against such a heavy accusation?”
“Congressman Smith! Why did you commit these acts against your country?”
“Congressman! Do you have any comment about the strain this is putting on your family?”
The last question triggered the only noticeable grimace on Smith’s face. He turned to the reporter, but Beth jumped in front of him before he could say anything.
“The Congressman will have a statement after the hearing. But until that time, we will not be answering any questions. Thank you,” Beth said.
She grabbed his arm and plowed her way forward. The sentries at the door blocked the reporters from entering. The media wouldn’t be a part of this hearing. Barring them was a move by Jones to block out any potential sway that Smith may try and gain through the use of such a public forum.
“You need to focus, David,” Beth said, the click of her heels echoing in the large marble hall. “Until we come out of this with a not-guilty verdict, we can’t risk letting emotions get the better of us.”
“Always taking bullets for me,” Smith replied.
“Stop being so dramatic.”
The statues of past Supreme Court Justices watched over the halls of the Justice Department like stone sentries. Those great men and women of law had kept the country in balance since its creation. Smith knew that both he and Beth were prepared despite Jones’s hand in whatever case Attorney General Cobb had conjured up. But he couldn’t help but feel that the balance of justice had shifted recently. He just hoped that the judges were still above the influence of those that meant him and the country harm.
Smith and Beth took their places up front. The room was crowded with politicians, both representatives and senators alike. Smith was surprised by the turnout, but from the looks on the faces of his peers, he could tell they had just as much riding on this as he did. If the Supreme Court ruled in Jones’s favor, then it would set a dangerous precedent that could rapidly unravel the thin threads holding the rest of the country together.
Attorney General Marcus Cobb pushed his way through the room. He flopped his black briefcase on the table and popped the hinges.
“Beth, David. Good to see you.”
“Marcus,” Beth said.
Smith had only met Marcus a handful of times, most of them in casual settings such as parties or charity events. In those places, Smith always thought Marcus looked so confused, so clumsy. He wondered how the man could have ever been appointed to the position he held. But looking at the clean cut of his suit, the slick sheen of his hair, and the focus in his eyes, Smith felt a chill start to creep up his back.
The marshal of the court announced the entrance of the judges with booming enthusiasm. “The Honorable, the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court!”
The judges entered, their long black robes flowing behind them. Aside from two of them being women and the rest men, they all looked surprisingly alike. The creases and wrinkles along each of their sagging faces seemed unified in representation of the court’s seasoned expertise.
Chief Justice Ruden sat in the middle, with the associate justices balancing him on both sides. They sat down in unison, and then the rest of the room followed. Ruden banged the gavel, officially putting the court in session.
“Today’s trial involves David Smith vs. the United States. Before we begin, I would like to remind everyone in this room, including our attorneys, that each of you has sworn an oath. Any disparagement of that oath that defames this court will not be tolerated. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Beth said.
“Of course, Chief Justice,” Marcus replied.
“Good. Now, this session will run from 10 a.m. EST to 12 p.m. EST. During this time, each party will have their opportunity to speak, and the opinions of this court will be given. Attorney General Cobb, you have the floor.”
“Thank you, Chief Justice. The Honorable Court has been called today to address a most disturbing accusation. The highest form of deception. Treason. Congressman David Smith has forsaken the loyal oath to protect this country and its citizens with his own agenda. His collaboration with Dr. Edwin Carlson, whose water-purification process was denounced by the very Congress and people he represented, had the potential to put millions of Americans at risk to the health effects of Dr. Carlson’s work. I have here with me now signed petitions from multiple members of Congress, that outline meetings held place on federal property, along with government funds used to procure the materials for these acts.”
“Attorney General, we have reviewed these documents, and it is this court’s opinion that none of the affidavits signed places any clear accusations supporting your claims,” Ruden said.
“I do believe the breakdown of the funds provides the proper documentation for the affidavits interpretation, Your Honor.”
Associate Justice Thomas Dean leaned forward. The thin mustache penciled around his mouth accentuated his lips. Unlike his peers, he still retained streaks of black that peppered what was left of the white hair combed back over his head.
“The funds used for such an act are quite concerning. Does the defense have any case for this?” he asked.
“We do, Your Honor. In regard to the use of the funds for the purpose of purchasing the materials used, we are in fact guilty,” Beth said.
Smith could feel his muscles tightening as the room went into a collective groan. He looked over to see the smile on Cobb’s face waning. Ruden rapped his gavel, and the room silenced.
“So you admit to the charges?” Ruden asked.
“No, Your Honor,” Smith said. “There is no question that I am guilty of the improper use of political funds. However, these accusations hardly deserve the sentence of treason. An impeachment of of
fice, perhaps, but not this.”
“And it is because of that evidence that we request the Honorable Court to dismiss these charges and allow the district courts to handle the financial allegations,” Beth added.
“I agree,” Associate Justice Thomas replied.
“Very well. All in favor of dismissing charges of treason against Congressman Smith?” Ruden asked.
Nine hands were raised across the bench.
“Done. Congressman Smith, you are free to go.”
It wasn’t until Smith exhaled that he realized he had been holding his breath. Cobb relocked the latches on his briefcase, and Smith grabbed his arm before he could escape.
“Why do this, Marcus? What is Jones trying to accomplish?” Smith asked.
“Smoke and mirrors, Smith. I don’t know what he was planning on doing, but it bought him enough time to accomplish it.”
Cobb jerked his arm out of Smith’s grip and left. The audience was already dispersing quickly. Smith couldn’t tell whether they were happy or disappointed with the Justices’ decisions. The next group was already entering for their case to be heard. When the Supreme Court was in session, it was extremely busy.
“Did you set up the meeting with the Canadian ambassador?” Smith asked.
“You have a meeting with him at one p.m.,” Beth answered.
“Good.”
Beth handed Smith his statement to present to the press waiting for him outside. Beth helped guide him down the hallway and kept him from running into anything as he read the statement over and over. As usual, it contained Beth’s keen sense of purpose and lack of any incriminating detail for the reporters to twist into headlines on the front page.
The reporters shifted from Cobb over to Smith as he left the Justice building. For the second time that day, he was met with the flurry of camera flashes, microphones, and questions.
“Smith! Why did you admit to the embezzling of funds?”
“Congressman, how does it feel to have escaped the cold grip of treason?”
“Congressman! Congressman! How do you expect the judicial system to handle the financial charges you admitted to this morning?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Smith said. “I understand your tenacity, but there was never any doubt in my mind that the charges of treason leveraged against me would never stick. As to the financial charges, I will leave that to my legal team to discuss.”
Smith turned to leave but stopped. The reporters continued to hound him with questions, but that wasn’t the cause of his hesitation. His mind went back to what Cobb had told him about Jones giving himself more time. But time for what?
“And I would also like to make something else very clear. I have no regrets regarding the choices made to bring an alternative solution to our water crisis. The exiling of the southwestern states was nothing short of cowardly, and I will continue to fight that until my last breath. It’s no secret that Congressman Jones was the mastermind behind the bill that made the exile legal, and you can put me on record right here and now that I would like the opportunity to publicly debate Jones and his position on our water crisis. Thank you.”
The reporters erupted with questions. Beth gave him a look that would have normally caused him worry, but he was too focused. If Jones needed more time for something, then Smith wasn’t going to lie down and let him stroll by without a fight.
The air had a slight nip to it, which Dr. Carlson enjoyed. He began to wonder why he hadn’t moved to Canada years ago, especially since the view from the balcony of the hotel allowed him to see up and down the entire Halifax coast.
The coastal waterways were thick with traffic, ranging from massive tanker ships to small fishing boats. The water was unusually calm in the bay, with the only ripples coming from the wakes of the ships that cut through it. Dr. Carlson closed his eyes and listened to the birds, the ships’ horns, and the sound of light traffic coming from below.
The people on the sandy beaches below looked no larger than pencil-sized dots. He studied their scurried movements up and down the beach. Each of them had their own worries, their own troubles, but none of them could fathom the scope of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.
He walked back into his room and eyed the minibar. It had remained unopened despite his grasping the handle a few times. He didn’t need to look inside. He already knew what was there, and he was afraid that if he looked, he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation. Even though the alcohol was in the room, he felt better knowing that it was behind closed doors. It gave him a barrier.
Dr. Carlson flopped down on the bed and moaned at the release of pressure from his lower back. It was something that had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking. In fact, a lot of pains had plagued him since he’d stopped drinking, pains that had never bothered him while he was still drinking. He lifted his head to glance at the minibar one more time.
No. He rested his head back on the comforter and closed his eyes. His hands twitched nervously at his sides until he found his phone. He checked the screen. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.
The bed squeaked slightly from Dr. Carlson’s roll onto his feet. He started calculating the time difference between DC and Halifax until he remembered they were both in the same time zone. He wondered what was taking so long. If Smith didn’t get off on his treason charges, which Dr. Carlson was ninety-nine percent sure would happen, then he would be stuck in Canada with no way of getting back home. Not that he was in any particular hurry.
Dr. Carlson took a seat over by the small, round table in the corner of the room. Sketches of his designs were etched on different-colored papers spread out over the table’s surface. He shuffled through them until he found a white napkin with blue phone numbers written on it. He walked over to the hotel phone and began dialing the first on the list.
“Hello, Craig? Yes, it’s Edwin. How are you? Good, good. Listen, I’m in town and I was hoping we could grab lunch. Two p.m.? Perfect. Uh-huh. Okay. Got it. I’ll see you there.”
The line went dead, and Dr. Carlson moved down to the next number. There were twenty phone numbers listed on the napkin. The ones at the bottom were all scrunched together, as he had ran out of space to write them.
Most of the scientists he called picked up, and the majority that picked up agreed to meet with him, but the ones that he wished the most would come turned him down. However, the last number on his list could redeem all the rest. He considered Dr. Frank Turney the only mind on this continent equal to his own when it came to the world of chemistry and physics. He had completed his doctorate at MIT with Frank, who also happened to be the only other person who could keep up with him at the bar.
But they’d had a bit of a falling out once Frank sobered up. Harsh words were exchanged. Objects were thrown. Doors were slammed. And Dr. Carlson vaguely remembered something about sixteen stitches after he came down from his four-day binge. His finger slipped off the last digit from the sweat collecting on his palms. He wiped them on the sides of his pants. The phone rang twice, and then a husky voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Frank?”
“Who is this?”
Dr. Carlson paused.
“It’s Edwin.”
The line was silent for almost a minute. Dr. Carlson thought Frank had hung up. It wasn’t until he heard Frank clear his throat on the other end that he realized that he was still on the line.
“What do you want?” Frank asked.
“I’m in Halifax.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“Then talk.”
Dr. Carlson rolled his eyes. He had always preferred Frank when he was drunk. He was much more laid back after he’d had a few.
“I’m looking for a partner to help start up my work again,” Dr. Carlson said.
He hoped the positive words like “partner” and “help” would tug on Frank’s heartstrings.
“I’m not interested.”
It
didn’t work.
“Frank, listen. I’m sorry about my behavior in the past. I should have listened to you and gotten help when you told me to,” Dr. Carlson said.
“And you shouldn’t have thrown that coffee pot at my head.”
“Is that what it was? I thought it was a remote.”
“A remote wouldn’t have given me nine stitches.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I was remembering sixteen stitches for some reason. Where should I meet you?”
Plates of fresh salmon, mixed vegetables, and tomato soup covered the table. The steam from the dishes rose through the air, accompanied by the mixture of smells from each. Smith closed his eyes and inhaled, taking in the scent of the fresh food.
“It’s good to be on the outside,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware you were locked up for that long, Congressman,” Lucas replied.
Ambassador Lucas William sat on the opposite end of the table. He was a younger man, appointed by the Canadian president for his “vigor and brains,” according to Lucas. There was a reddish tinge to his hair, which contrasted against his tan skin.
“Well, it felt like a very long time, Ambassador,” Smith said. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Your chief of staff made the appointment with me while you were still in prison. I admired the confidence that you would be able to make it today. I actually lost quite a bit of money betting against you in our office pool.”
“How were the odds for not guilty?”
“Fifty to one.”
Smith grimaced. “Ouch.”
“You’ve caused quite a stir in the country by calling out Congressman Jones in a debate. That’s all the media is talking about. Do you think he’ll agree to it?”
“If he doesn’t then he’s not just a lunatic, he’s a coward.”
The table was long, and Ambassador William felt incredibly far away. The dining room of the Canadian Embassy was surprisingly decadent—although, with the amount of snow Canada still received in the north, which they converted to water, they didn’t rely as heavily on water imports as the United States did.
