National Guns & Ammo shooting range was within easy walking distance of the bus drop. Wearing her backpack with the new gun inside, Annie headed for a confrontation she had in mind.
It was a long-shot and Annie wasn't kidding herself about that. But it was proactive, and it was the first time she'd had the chance to address her greatest fear: facing Nivea Young from the wrong end of a gun again. This time, the way Annie planned it, the gun would be in her hand, and Young would be at the wrong end. Such is the faith of children. Such is the unrelenting focus of someone suffering Annie's diagnosis. She just couldn't let it go.
She took up a point of surveillance inside the shooting range in a customer waiting area. Her location gave her a perfect view of the customers as they came and went. She passed five hours on her perch, scanning and discarding the faces as they came and went. She knew her chances were less than five percent, but still she persisted. That night, she was confronted by Michael for losing her protection.
"It's serious when you do that," Michael said. "I feel like I should ground you for two weeks."
"Meaning what?"
"Not letting you leave the house."
Annie began crying and rocking up and back, up and back. She pulled her arms around herself and hung on as if hugging another. Michael reached across the table and gently touched the side of her face. But nothing helped; they were not going to have a serious discussion that night about the rules of the road. He could see that. But the next time she went on the bus, she made no attempt to break away from her protection.
Annie's first stakeout at National Guns & Ammo was on a Saturday. Now she needed a Sunday, which she managed by telling her guard that she wanted to people watch at National. He had his suspicions, and he had his doubts, but in the end, he figured that if he were with her, nothing could go wrong.
Wrong.
Sunday morning just turned out to be Nivea's day to sharpen her firearm skills. She showed up for her nine-fifteen reservation and was firing her gun when Annie arrived. Annie told her marshal she needed to use the restroom and gave him the slip just before she walked into the shooting range and began checking faces.
Sure enough, the killer was emptying her gun--a huge Beretta--at a silhouette target when Annie appeared. Annie's heart leaped. She pulled the small photograph out of her wallet and compared pictures. No mistake.
From a distance of thirty feet--entry door to last shooting position along the range--Annie removed her backpack, drew her gun, and began walking toward her target.
Just as she came to the killer, she spoke her name: "Nivea!"
The woman didn't jump or act surprised. Instead, she was wheeling on Annie and swinging her gun around at belly-button level to protect herself. Just as she raised the gun to fire at Annie, Annie shot first. In the din and clamor of the shooting range her own gun's bark was meaningless, falling on deaf ears. Luckily, the shooters were inside their shooting stalls, a small wall on either side, and no one caught sight of what had just happened.
Annie's bullet caught Nivea in the throat. A second bullet entered just above her eyebrow-line. The woman crumpled. Then she suddenly flopped forward, arms spread, smashing her face into the floor. She didn't move. She wasn't breathing.
Annie calmly slipped the gun into her backpack and slowly picked her way along the shooters, never drawing attention to herself even one time.
Then she located her marshal and told him she wasn't feeling well, that she wanted to go back home.
The bus ride was without incident. Annie was long gone by the time the police were called.
She sat comfortably beside her protector, scanning the Internet with her broadband iPad.
Not a word was said to her after that. Michael didn't mention Nivea's death; no one said a word to her about it.
But Good Morning, Washington, the early bird TV show, did. They reported the death, reported no suspects, reported a video system that only caught the head of someone wearing a Washington Senator's baseball cap and silverized sunglasses as she entered the scene and captured the same view as she departed the scene walking backward.
The noon follow-up reported the victim's identity and reported the victim had been sought under a federal warrant seeking her in connection with multiple murders in the Washington area.
"Huh-uh," Annie said under her breath to the dead woman's picture on TV that night. "She's not the top dog. But we're getting there. We're getting there."
50
I learned the most disappointing rule about being a prosecutor, which was this: If you get most of the bad guys and put them in prison that's about as good as it's going to get. Which left me sad because I wanted to heap lots and lots more punishment on most of their pointed heads. And, the really bad guys, the guys who live and work in the tall buildings and ride in chauffeured cars and spend holidays on their yachts--you were never going to get those bad guys.
But what I had done in indicting Paul Wexler and solving the Tybaum murder case, was to be celebrated Friday afternoon at the vice president's home. Other Assistant U.S. Attorneys were scheduled to be recognized there too, so it wasn't just about me.
But it made me happy that someone was paying attention to my efforts.
At the last minute, the look coming from Annie--that jealousy look that only your kids know--made me realize she needed to get out, too. While she was anything but social, her doctor said that attempts at socialization should always be being made. So I told her she was going with me and she was immediately ecstatic. A friendly judge had all but personally walked through the adoption, and now Annie was mine. Or maybe I was hers, I have never been sure. But now she was known as Annie Gresham.
After I had said I wanted her to accompany me to the celebration, Annie headed for her bedroom. She went to dress and came out wearing jeans and a GWU sweat-shirt. Verona looked her over and led her back to her room to change into a more celebratory look. This time she came out wearing a navy summer skirt and a white blouse with a blue necktie. Now we were getting somewhere.
A marshal drove us to the Naval Observatory--the vice president's home, a tri-story, white edifice with a circle drive out front where we climbed from the car and went inside. The marshal stayed right with us.
Annie and I were greeted by the vice president and his wife as we came up the front steps and entered the foyer, then we shook hands with several more dignitaries in the line of greeters. Once we were inside, we melted into the crowd, and I began trading shop talk with Antonia Xiang--my supervisor--who was there without Rusty. He was working a stakeout, she told me. But she was there to enjoy herself and was proud of what her staff had accomplished the first half of the year. As we talked, Annie wandered off, and I remember hearing a female voice asking her if she'd like a tour of the vice president's residence.
Other AUSA's came into our circle and joined in our talk and then we went into the vice-presidential dining room. Annie had attached herself to me by then and was trying to get my attention as we were seated. She raised her hand and cupped it to my ear so she could whisper to me.
"Check out the kitchen," she said.
"What for?"
"You'll know it when you see it."
"Such as?"
"Don't be pushy, Michael. Check it out for yourself."
"I will." I nodded, and she drew away. We'd drawn no attention to ourselves as drink orders were being taken.
Then the appetizers arrived, followed by salads, followed by a poached salmon entrée and a substitute of New York strip. The vice-president's youngest daughter was seated to Annie's right. The poor girl attempted to strike-up conversation with my child but was largely unsuccessful.
I, on the other hand, spent the meal sharing voir dire techniques with a young attorney, a man by the name of Herb Marling, who was currently serving on my staff. Herb was preparing for trial Monday next and was picking my brain in the meantime. I was glad to help and unloaded what I knew on him.
"Never forget the primary aim of voir dire
is that you qualify the jury. Ask questions such as, 'If you were the government here today, would you want a juror with your mindset on the jury? Could you set aside any bias and try the case only on the facts adduced in court?'"
Herb understood already and ran a few sample questions past me. By the time we finished our little instructional, dessert had come and gone. Now Annie leaned over to me and cupped her hand to my ear a second time.
"Michael, we're going into the kitchen now."
With that, she stood and took my hand and pulled me along behind her. She led me back through the connecting hallway that opened in the kitchen. There, in an alcove off to the side, stood an old six-legged table. But that wasn't all.
Lying on the table, its tail whipping up and back, side-to-side, lay a large yellow cat.
"That's the tabby on your camera," she said. "I memorized the marks."
My mind was racing, and I was gulping down air. This couldn't be--it couldn't.
"You're sure...certain?" I asked.
"Michael, am I ever wrong about trivia like this?"
"Never."
"Well, this is the same cat as on your phone camera. Look at the 'M' on its forehead. A perfect likeness."
"Oh my God!" I whispered, shuddering while the words came rolling out.
She wasn't finished. "And check out the table. That's your table exactly with the same salt and pepper shakers."
I pulled out my cell phone just then and looked up the video. I replayed the cat portion several times. She was right. The mark on the forehead, the silver salt and pepper shakers, the other markings--everything was a perfect match.
Whoever had taken the GoPro to the scene of the murder of Annie's father had photographed this cat and table first. Which meant they had stood in this kitchen and probably planned the hit with the vice president. Why else would a killer's camera be in this room?
There was no other explanation.
My mind raced ahead. I could indict the vice-president. I could take him to trial. His motive? Gerry was involved with the vice-president’s wife. Jealousy? Alternatively, I could see where the VP’s wife’s dalliance with Gerry Tybaum could embarrass the White House. President Sinclair would not allow that, not even for a second. So maybe the order to end the affair between the VP’s wife and Gerry was given by Sinclair himself. I was sure I’d never know. But I was sure of one thing: someone living here had killed or hired a killer to end the affair. My mind was racing by this point and I turned blindly away from the table and the cat.
Then I stopped moving. Annie was at risk. I could lose Annie's twelve-million dollars with a renewed claim by GULP's PAC for the money. Because if Wexler and Rudy Geneseo had met with Vice President Jonathan Vengrow and conspired to kill Gerry Tybaum, then the PAC wasn’t involved, only Wexler. Which meant the PAC could show "clean hands." Then it could renew its claim for the money against Annie's claim.
My prosecution of the VP could result in Annie losing her money. Money that she was going to need to help care for her after I was gone. She had no siblings, no parents--except me--and would be alone in the world save for what relationships she had developed with Mikey and Dania, who I couldn't count on to support and care for Annie. No, she needed the money to stay right where it was.
So I took her by the hand, then, and we left the kitchen.
On the way outside to our car, I shook the vice president's hand. Then I closed the space between us and said under my breath, "I've got you, but I'm moving on."
He continued smiling and shaking hands, never breaking away from his hosting duty.
But when I climbed in the backseat of our marshal's car, I turned and had a last look at the vice president. He was no longer in the line. Then I saw him, hurrying toward my car. I rolled down my window. Then he spoke.
"Thank you, Michael. This can only help you in your job."
"If it does, I just might change my mind, Mr. Vice President. I would come after you."
"All right, then," he said and thumped the side of our car to send us on our way.
Several blocks away, Annie looked over at me.
"You've got him cold, but you're thinking about my money. How close am I?"
"Have you ever had to punt on a profile, Annie?"
"Never. That won't ever happen."
"I know," I said, the puffed-up pride I had felt in the VP's house rushing out of me.
That was the last time I would ever feel that pride. I was in bed with the devil, and that couldn't be good.
We turned at Wisconsin Avenue and headed south toward Georgetown.
I was tired, and I needed a nap.
THE END
Also by John Ellsworth
THADDEUS MURFEE SERIES
Thaddeus Murfee
The Defendants
Beyond a Reasonable Death
Attorney at Large
Chase, the Bad Baby
Defending Turquoise
The Mental Case
Unspeakable Prayers
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller
The Trial Lawyer (A Small Death)
The Near Death Experience
SISTERS IN LAW SERIES
Frat Party: Sisters In Law
Hellfire: Sisters In Law
MICHAEL GRESHAM SERIES
The Lawyer
Secrets Girls Keep
The Law Partners
Carlos the Ant
Sakharov the Bear
PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS
The Empty Place at the Table
ANNIE THE PROFILER SERIES
Annie’s Verdict
Dead Lawyer on Aisle 11 (Coming Oct 2017)
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— John Ellsworth
About John Ellsworth
John Ellsworth 2017
USA TODAY Bestselling Author John Ellsworth practiced law while based in Chicago. As a criminal defense attorney John saw up close the devastation families of murder victims go through. Some of that experience and knowledge led to his writing this book, Annie’s Verdict, which deals with the most terrifying challenges faced by a young girl whose father is murdered.
Since 2014 John has been writing legal, crime, and psychological thrillers with huge success. He has been a Kindle All-Star (Amazon’s selection) many times and he has made the USA TODAY bestsellers’ list.
Reception to John’s books has been phenomenal; more than 1,000,000 have been downloaded in 40 months. All are Amazon best-sellers.
John lives in Southern California where he makes his way around his small beach town on a yellow Vespa motorscooter and where he writes music and novels for fun.
www.ellsworthbooks.com/
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by John Ellsworth. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Nathan Wampler.
Published by Subjudica Press, San Diego.
First edition
Ellsworth, John. Annie’s Verdict. Subjudica House. Kindle Edition.
Annie Returns…
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