by Joe Nobody
A commercial and subsequent glance at her watch pulled Carson from the television-induced spell that threatened to make her late for work.
Wolfing down the remainder of her ice-cold eggs and rubbery toast, Kit knew she had to rush. While buttoning her blouse and donning her shoes, she couldn’t help but reevaluate Washington’s response to the prior day’s events.
The punitive political rhetoric from the left was both visceral and predictable. Carson wouldn’t have expected anything less from the minority party that strongly opposed the sitting president’s policies.
No, what bothered the trained investigator was the uniformity and speed of the response. Even with the modern-day news cycle being hour by hour, Carson was surprised that such an insignificant, out of the way order by a relatively low-key, federal judge had drawn the attention of high ranking congressional leaders so quickly. The former FBI agent’s instincts bristled at the timing.
Half a continent away, powerful men in Washington, DC had taken notice of a single police officer’s death in what was essentially the political backwater of West Texas. While odd, it was far from being any sort of indictment of wrongdoing, even when combined with Griff’s suspicions of a leak in the judiciary.
Those same influential men, however, had invested precious time and resources to erroneously connect dots, form and distribute a coordinated response, and appropriate precious national media exposure to stream their propaganda. While Carson wasn’t a political science guru, she knew good and well that such things aren’t a coincidence or a haphazard series of events.
Rushing from her apartment, she backed her government sedan out of the parking spot and forced her mind back to the day’s tasks. She was on standby in case the Dallas office needed help with their motion to the Court of Appeals. Hopefully, the federal prosecutor would be granted a stay to counter Kendall’s order. If they failed, over 300 hardened criminals would be released tomorrow – bad actors who now knew that Uncle Sam wanted them gone. The US would lose the element of surprise, giving the criminals a chance to secret themselves better this time. ICE and the marshals would be lucky to recapture half of them.
Despite the critical nature of her assignment, Carson had difficulty focusing. The combination of the protest turned riot, the unusual ruling by Judge Kendall, and the odd reaction from Washington troubled the young prosecutor, a sense of foreboding nagging in her subconscious mind.
Griffin was already an hour into his day before Carson backed away from her apartment. Downing his second cup of java as he pulled into the courthouse’s underground garage, the marshal was dreading his newest assignment.
Given the recent national exposure and violence associated with Kendall’s decision, Inspector Storm had been reassigned to an expanded security detail that would work to protect the circuit’s judges and clerks until things cooled down around El Paso.
“I’ve got to babysit the court today,” he explained to the uniformed cops idling by the door after pausing to exchange a few pleasantries. Monitoring the justice process had been a common role for a federal marshal for the last 200 years. However, Storm’s rank and seniority made it clear that he was overqualified for this assignment, so likely, he was being punished.
The United States Marshal Service (USMS) was the oldest law enforcement agency in the country, predating the more commonly known FBI by over 100 years. George Washington had been the president when the first badge was pinned on a US marshal.
In 1789, the first elected Congress had quickly identified a need to provide the judicial branch of the fledgling government with its own arm of enforcement. Thus, the USMS was established and now consisted of over 3,500 elite men and women.
After exiting the third floor, Griffin’s first order of business was to verify the placement of the uniformed court officers stationed throughout the area.
Federal marshals held unique powers. They could, for example, deputize civilians or other law enforcement agencies to assist marshals with their duties. In the days of Marshals Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Wild Bill Hickok, that authority translated into forming posses and galloping away on horseback to apprehend outlaws. Today, that same standing and responsibility apply to the 4,700 plus uniformed Court Security Officers (CSOs) who work to keep the federal judicial system, including its judges, courtrooms, and employees, secure.
In fact, Griffin’s first task was to ensure that these CSOs were strategically positioned throughout the area. Then, he personally examined the metal detectors and weapon screening machines in the lobby, checked the holding cells and staircases, and finally inspected the offices of the court.
Next, he made a series of phone calls. Yes, the El Paso Police Department was stepping up street patrols in the area and had at least one of their SWAT teams on standby. The Texas Department of Public Safety had already taken the same precautions, increasing the number of state troopers in the city.
Finally satisfied with the additional security measures, Griffin began his own series of random patrols. He was in charge at this facility, and with that authority came the burden of responsibility… and blame if anything went wrong.
While he still referred to himself as a deputy, officially Griffin’s rank was inspector, a title achieved after years of promotions and hard work within the service. Storm hated the moniker, often complaining to coworkers that it sounded far, far too British for his liking.
After an hour of walking the complex, Griffin entered a special elevator and swiped his security badge through the reader. A few moments later, he exited onto the top floor and into a completely different environment.
The judiciary’s primary administration floor was a plush, quiet space, housing the judges’ private offices, conference rooms, and support staff. Lined with dark, mahogany panels, trimmed with exotic woods, and accented with exquisite materials from all over the world, even the small elevator lobby was a telling statement to the power and prestige that resided within.
Few outsiders ever passed through here. The judges, clerks, and staff conducted all public-facing business either from their chambers that were attached to the courtrooms below or in the multiple conference rooms scattered throughout the lower floors. This was the inner sanctum. The retreat.
Griffin noted the scales of justice, outlined in brass and filled with pink and red Italian limestone, creating a stunning mosaic on the floor. Located steps from the elevator, the embedded montage was the first indicator of opulence and power greeting staff. No doubt the artistic creation served as a constant reminder to every judge who crossed this privileged threshold of the balance and fairness the judicial system demands.
Storm maneuvered around the floor art, never having felt comfortable stepping on the symbol he deemed to be more important than even the American flag. He had studied how the scales’ concept preceded this nation, dating back to the origins of democracy in ancient Greece, and that the US judicial standard was modelled after their ideal.
There was no visible security presence on this floor, but Griffin knew that was a façade. The elevator and the lobby both contained high-resolution security cameras that were monitored 24 hours per day. If he had been a villain, holding a gun to a judge’s head or using a stolen ID card, the elevator would have plunged to a lower floor and not opened until a considerable number of armed personnel were in place to issue an unfriendly pair of steel bracelets – or worse.
The “penthouse suites,” as many of the CSOs referred to the top floor, were also famous for another elegance – the best coffee west of the Mississippi. “Since I’ve got to be here protecting your ass, I’m going to indulge in your liquid caffeine,” Griffin whispered to the hall of closed doors.
As he made his way toward the well-appointed breakroom, Griffin passed an entry that was partially ajar. “Odd,” he grunted at the unusual occurrence. This floor was famous for its occupants demanding privacy, being quieter than a library, and oozing a mandate of confidentially. Only hushed voices whisper
ed here; conversations were never repeated, and absolutely no one ever left a door open.
With his hand moving to the .40 caliber inside his belt, the marshal gently nudged open the heavy, wooden door and peeked inside. He observed a small, closet-like room with a bank of computers along one wall.
Continuing across the threshold, Griffin was becoming seriously worried when a rush of color appeared from a side entrance.
Sharon Peterson inhaled with surprise during the moment it took her to recognize Griffin’s coiled frame. “Oh, Lord have mercy! You scared me to death,” she gushed, her hand moving to cover her heart while at the same time dropping the manila folder she’d been carrying.
“Sorry, Ms. Peterson,” Griffin responded immediately, bending to help her retrieve the dropped papers. “I found the door open while making my rounds and was just checking to make sure everything was okay.”
“I left the door open?” she inquired, her eyes darting to the hallway entrance behind Griffin’s shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am, you did,” he replied, sheepishly holding out the dropped documents.
She took them, snatching the four or five pages just a little too quickly. Griffin noticed her hand was trembling. “Is everything okay, ma’am?” he asked, sensing that it was not.
Sharon was the chief judge’s admin, a lifetime employee of the judicial branch, and the second most powerful person in the building, according to the grapevine.
In her late 50s, she never married. She was all business, her bobbed hairstyle and dress like an older version of June Cleaver, complete with the conservative strand of pearls. Purportedly with a law degree from Harvard, there were more rumors floating around about Sharon Peterson than any other employee in the entire West Texas region. Some said she had failed the bar examination the maximum number of times, others claiming that she was the judicial equivalent of a schoolmarm, having no interests, family, or personal life outside of the courthouse walls. The military precision with which she performed her work opened her up to the musings of crackpot conspiracy theorists. Griff dismissed the gossip, figuring she was married to her work and went home to a houseful of cats.
“Yes… yes, everything is fine, Marshal Storm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish this schedule and assignments before the morning session ends.”
Griffin was instantly a cop again, his instincts bristling at both her physical appearance and the tone of her voice. Yet, he was on hallowed ground and had zero probable cause to get nosey. “Is there anything I can do to help, Ms. Peterson? You seem upset.”
She regrouped quickly, her famous claws coming out. “No, Inspector. Thank you, but if you don’t mind, this task is highly confidential.”
“Leave,” was the unmistakable message. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.” The emphasis on his rank had been intentional, as well. “You’re a nobody. Don’t mess with me,” the subtle threat implied.
While Griffin technically reported to the district’s head marshal and the Department of Justice several rungs above that, he knew better than to screw up on a federal judge’s playground. The men who occupied this space were ultra-powerful, nearly untouchable politically, and known to pick up a phone and call Washington at the drop of a hat.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll continue with my rounds,” Griffin smiled, adding a slight bow.
As he pivoted to leave, he noticed the one computer screen that was illuminated. A logo was displayed on the monitor, a swirling graphic and the words, “Cyber Ace Scheduling Software.”
Without further ado, Storm stepped toward the exit, Sharon right on his heels until he reached the threshold. The marshal had to grin when the door shut behind him, followed a second later by the unmistakable “click” of the lock being engaged.
Griffin paused a few steps down the hall, his mind sorting through the weird interaction that had just transpired. Clearly, the woman was rattled, but he had no idea why.
Finally, he shrugged it off. “Hell, she could have gotten an audit notice from the IRS in this morning’s mail, or maybe Judge Blackburn grabbed at her ass before going to court. Who knows? None of my business.”
Already feeling guilty of committing a trespass, he decided to skip the coffee. The way his day was going, Ms. Peterson would walk in the breakroom just as he was topping off his cup. He could just see her snide expression, “Making your rounds, Inspector?”
He continued, steadily marching past a thick, wooden door marked, “Judge Kendall.” For just a heartbeat, Griff was tempted to knock and enter the office. He still struggled to make sense of the judge’s spontaneous edict releasing the felons law enforcement had imprisoned. The marshal wanted desperately to tell the wild-haired, old coot just how crazy he really was.
Marshal Storm pushed the urge aside, knowing full well he would be fired immediately for such an act. While reasonably sure his unconventional philosophies had stunted his career growth, Griff had no desire to leave the service or be asked to leave. Even though there were challenges with his chosen path, he couldn’t see himself doing anything else.
Besides, it was lunchtime. After completing one lap around the hallway and not encountering another soul, Griffin returned to the private elevator and again and swiped his card.
During the entire ride down, Griff was troubled by the encounter with Ms. Peterson. He decided there was only one person who could help him understand why the hair on the back of his neck was still on end.
Griffin was shown into Kit’s office and offered a chair. “She’ll be back in five minutes, Marshal Storm,” stated Carson’s assistant. “Have a seat… take a load off. Need any coffee?”
“No, no thank you.”
Somehow, despite their friendship, Griffin felt uncomfortable being in Kit’s office without her being present. It was a violation of personal space, like sitting next to a woman in an empty waiting room. The admin was insistent, however, so he agreed.
For a few moments, he perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair, eventually fishing a cell phone out of his jacket pocket. For once, he seemed disappointed that there were no messages or critical emails demanding his immediate attention.
Finding no time-killing distraction on his mobile, Griffin popped off the seat in an anxious burst of energy. He would wait on his feet.
That effort quickly led to its own state of boredom and discomfort.
While he’d visited the counselor’s office on numerous occasions, the lawman suddenly realized that he’d never paid any attention to his friend’s modest collection of personal effects and memorabilia.
Turning to the nearest wall, Griffin’s gaze was immediately drawn to the framed diploma proudly centered at eye level. “Yale,” he whispered, eyes scanning the ornate print and engraved borders. “Magna cum laude. With great honors. Juris Doctor.”
Above the shingle hung a series of photographs, all of them capturing a younger, carefree Kit smiling and enjoying her undergraduate years. Of special note to Griffin was the larger image of the Yale Women’s Track Team, Katherine Becker touted as being an “All American Collegiate Athlete.”
Just beneath the Ivy League sheepskin, a letter announced that Katherine Ann Becker Carson had passed the New York Bar Association’s entrance exam. Similar correspondence from other states accompanied it, including documents from Texas and the Uniform Bar Exam, which was good in over 25 states. In the corner of one frame was a yellowed newspaper cutout, the Houston Post running a small notice about a local law firm hiring the newly minted Yale graduate.
Continuing to peruse Kit’s “Wall of Fame,” he spied her FBI Academy graduation photo.
He squinted, picking Kit out of the back row. A completely different woman stared back at the camera.
Sighing, Griffin peered down at the floor for a moment, unable to comprehend what his friend had endured. Most cadets at the nation’s top law enforcement academy considered graduation one of their lifetime’s greatest achievements. Not Kit.
Gone was the glow of the vibrant, stunningly attractive, brilliant, young woman completing her degree from a prestigious school and ready to seize whatever life threw at her. Instead, a seething passion churned behind her eyes, a smoldering inferno fueled by pure determination. Innocence and optimism had vanished forever… and for good reason.
Shaking his head, Griffin recalled the gory details that he had read in the open case file.
Just before finishing law school, Katherine had become engaged to her college sweetheart, an up and coming attorney in the lucrative field of downstream bio-synthetics. Scratching his chin, the marshal whispered, “Robert Carson was your name. A smart, lucky fellow. From what I read, you were a five-by-five dude. You swept Ms. Kit off her feet.”
The couple had been married less than a year when the life-altering event occurred. A shopping trip, a stop at the ATM, Robert’s British luxury sedan drawing the criminal eye like candy to a baby.
According to the Houston PD’s report, two men followed them back to their upscale River Oaks neighborhood. Kit and her spouse had barely made it inside when the thugs kicked in the front door.
Robert held out for 20 minutes or so, suffering through multiple beatings and several rounds of grotesque torture. The invaders were convinced that the wealthy, young couple stored valuables in a safe and demanded to know the location. According to the coroner’s report, the husband had been worked over with a butane torch in several sensitive places. He had died of a massive, stress-induced coronary at 28 years of age. The detective in charge of the case noted that Kit had been forced to watch.
