by Mike Lawson
‘Isn’t he some kind of white supremacist too?’ DeMarco said.
Hall laughed. ‘Yeah, Jubal’s the head of a group called America First. And you know why he heads up this group? For money, pure and simple. His militia or club or whatever the hell it is never meets, but it has about three hundred dues-paying members. Jubal hired a kid from Shenandoah University to build him a Web site, and every month the kid writes a bunch of garbage about how blacks and Hispanics and whoever are taking over America, and every month a bunch of idiots send money, just small donations, but it adds up. The Web site cost Jubal only two hundred bucks to design and he makes a few thousand dollars a year off the loonies who support groups like his.’
‘So why can’t you nail him?’ DeMarco asked.
‘Do you know anything about meth?’ Patsy Hall said.
‘No.’
‘Well, let me to tell you,’ she said.
* * *
Methamphetamine is highly addictive, and the effects of the drug on the human body are devastating. Longtime users will appear twenty years older than their actual age, will have lost their teeth, and have open sores on their faces. And the drug doesn’t simply affect the users. In communities where meth addiction is widespread, crime – theft and murder – tends to skyrocket.
Depending on purity and availability, a pound of meth can cost as little as six thousand dollars or as much as twenty thousand dollars, and the thing that makes meth particularly troublesome to law enforcement is that anyone can make it. Poppy flowers and coca plants and complex equipment are not required. To make meth – or cook it, as they say – most of the ingredients and equipment needed, things like rubbing alcohol and drain cleaner and lye and lithium batteries, can be found at your neighborhood hardware store.
The key ingredient in methamphetamine is either ephedrine or pseudoephedrine, chemicals found in over-the-counter cold medicines like Sudafed and Actifed and a dozen other brands used to unstop your stuffy nose. Meth cookers used to be able to walk into drugstores, buy all the Sudafed on the shelf, and then go home and cook up a few batches of speed for themselves and their friends.
But times had changed. Laws were now in place in an increasing number of states limiting the amount of ephedrine-based drugs that an individual can buy at one time. And consumers of these cold remedies are required to show the pharmacist a driver’s license, and the pharmacist is required to record the name and address of the buyer. Then the pharmacies provide the narcotics cops with these names and addresses, and the narcos start watching those folk who seem to have a chronic case of the sniffles and live in shacks out in the woods.
So in the last few years, because of the difficulty of purchasing ephedrine in the States, Mexican cartels had become the primary manufacturer and distributor of meth because they were able to purchase ephedrine in large quantities – large being tons – directly from the nine foreign chemical companies who make the stuff. According to Patsy Hall, what Pugh had managed to do was get a Mexican connection to provide his ephedrine – a connection small-time local dealers didn’t have – and then Pugh either sold the ephedrine directly to cookers or cooked the meth himself for distribution.
‘What’s all this have to do with your not being able to nail Pugh?’ DeMarco asked.
‘Right now,’ Patsy Hall said, ‘meth is a big problem on the West Coast and a growing issue in the Midwest. Because of the proximity to Mexico, places like California and Arizona are up to their necks in the shit. But here on the East Coast, the big drugs are still heroin and crack cocaine, and the DEA’s budget and manpower are primarily focused on the big cities where most of the dealers and users live. What all that means is I can’t get the priority I need to nail an SOB like Jubal Pugh who deals meth and lives out in the sticks.’
Hall tugged on her gun again; DeMarco guessed she did that a hundred times a day.
‘Someplace on Pugh’s property is a meth lab,’ Hall said. ‘And every day a bunch of cars and trucks and tankers go onto his property. They deliver fertilizer or insecticide or they drop off people who pick apples or prune his damn trees or clear the brush on his land. And because he has four hundred goddamn acres, there’s a dozen ways to get on and off his property, and meth and ephedrine are not bulky items – we’re not talking bales of marijuana here – so the shit’s easy to hide.
‘The bottom line is, I can’t get the warrants I need to search Jubal’s place and all the vehicles that are constantly going on and off his property because I don’t have the two dozen additional agents I need to follow all these vehicles. And when it comes to distribution, like most drug kingpins Jubal is personally three or four steps removed from the actual deals. People he trusts make the dope and give the dope to distributors, the distributors give it to dealers, and the dealers sell it to the junkies. So when the cops actually catch some tweaker with meth in his jeans, they can’t get that person to testify against Jubal because the tweaker’s never met him. Or they catch a dealer and he gives up his supplier, and we get the supplier but, because he wasn’t arrested for murder, the damn judge lets the guy out on bail and the next thing you know the guy has vanished into thin air or turns up dead or develops total amnesia because Jubal has most likely told him he’s gonna die if he talks.’
‘Sheesh,’ DeMarco said, but Patsy Hall wasn’t through with her rant.
‘The other way we usually get guys like him,’ Hall said, ‘is we plant someone in his organization, an undercover cop or some lowlife we’ve caught who’ll work for us to keep from going to jail. But Jubal’s too smart to let that happen. Normally he only hires people he knows personally, but if he hires an outsider he does a background check on the guy on par with what the government does to issue a Top Secret security clearance.
‘So,’ she said, ‘I know the guy is importing ephedrine, I know he has a meth lab someplace on his property, and I know he’s doing all sorts of bad things – and I can’t get him. But I’m gonna get him,’ Hall said. ‘I swear to God I will.’
DeMarco also asked her about Donny Cray. She knew Cray was dead but she didn’t know Cray’s thumbprint had been found in Reza Zarif’s house.
‘You’re kidding!’ she said to DeMarco.
‘No,’ he said, and told her the FBI’s theory that Cray had most likely sold Reza the gun he used to kill his wife and kids.
‘That’s possible,’ Hall said. ‘I mean, that’s the kind of thing Donny used to do before he started working for Jubal, but I’m still surprised. Pugh keeps his people on a short leash. He wouldn’t like Donny having some kind of sideline enterprise that could land him into trouble with ATF.’
‘Yeah, that’s the same thing Barry King told me,’ DeMarco said. ‘But now let me ask you something that’s gonna sound kinda strange. Do you think Pugh would be the type to get involved in these Muslim terrorist attacks that have been taking place lately?’
‘What in the hell are you talking about?’ Hall said.
DeMarco was somewhat reluctant to let Hall know what he was thinking. She was a law enforcement fed and would obviously be more inclined to accept the Bureau’s version of events than his, but he decided he had to tell her. And he liked her and she seemed like someone he could trust. So he told her his suspicions about Rollie and the Capitol bomber and how some things about the attacks just didn’t add up, but in particular how he couldn’t accept that Reza Zarif had killed his family.
He concluded by saying, ‘What I’m asking is this: Do you think Pugh is the type that would threaten to kill Reza Zarif’s children to make Zarif crash his plane into the White House?’
DeMarco realized how ridiculous that sounded the minute the words left his mouth.
‘Not for political reasons,’ Hall said. ‘Jubal couldn’t care less about politics. For money he might do something like that – he’d do anything for money – but what you’re saying … Well, I just can’t imagine Pugh getting involved in something so high profile. He’d know that the FBI and Homeland Security and God knows how many
other federal agencies would be coming after him. I mean, I may not be able to get the priority to nab him, but those guys sure as hell could. No, for Jubal to get mixed up in this terrorist stuff, the payoff would have to be huge.’
‘Yeah, but who would pay him?’ DeMarco said.
‘Hey, it’s your theory not mine,’ Hall said.
DeMarco was silent for a moment before he said, ‘There’s one other thing. The bomb the cabdriver had – it didn’t explode. The Bureau said a wire came loose, but it’s hard to believe with as much bomb-making experience as al-Qaeda has that they’d screw up like that. But maybe someone like Pugh would make that kind of mistake.’
Hall shook her head. ‘I think you’re totally off base thinking Pugh’s involved in any terrorist stuff. I mean, he’s fire-bombed other meth dealers’ labs, I know that for a fact, but I just can’t see him making a bomb out of C-Four with a dead man’s switch. No. That’s just way too high tech for Jubal. He’s a bottle-of-gas-and-a-rag kinda guy.’
24
The First Amendment of the Constitution may dictate a separation between Church and State but the fact is, when preachers preach, their congregations listen to what they have to say and tend to vote and contribute accordingly. So when Mahoney got a call from a preacher he too listened, and the preacher he was currently listening to was none other than Cardinal Patrick Mackey, head of the archdiocese of Boston.
Cardinal Mackey had called to discuss a bill in the House having to do with health insurance. As the Catholic Church had its fingers in a number of hospitals in the Boston area, and as the bill might affect the profitability of those hospitals, Cardinal Mackey wanted to make sure that the speaker understood the cardinal’s perspective on the matter. Mackey, of course, being a man of the cloth, believed in treating the sick and giving alms to the poor; he just thought such acts of charity should come through private donations and not through enterprises that funded the Church’s many other endeavors. Mahoney thanked the good cardinal for his input and concluded the call by saying that a man named DeMarco would soon be visiting the fair city of Boston. Cardinal Mackey knew exactly what Congressman Mahoney meant and said he’d say a special mass for his favorite politician.
Mahoney picked up the phone to call his chief of staff and discuss the cardinal’s concern. His chief, a diabolical genius named Perry Wallace, would help him decide if they should do what the cardinal wanted and, if not, how they would make it appear that it wasn’t Mahoney’s fault that the cardinal hadn’t gotten his way. But before Mahoney could punch the button on his phone to summon Wallace, Wallace walked into the room.
There are two types of fat men. There are those who carry their added poundage well, men whose girth gives them an imposing stature and creates an impression of bull-like robustness. Mahoney was one of those men. Wallace was the other type of fat man. He just looked fat, his stomach flopping over his belt, his face bloated into a small white moon.
Before Mahoney could tell Wallace about the cardinal’s phone call, Wallace said, ‘Broderick’s bill just passed in the Senate.’
‘Shit,’ Mahoney said.
‘Eighteen of our guys voted for it.’
‘Goddammit,’ Mahoney said.
Now Broderick’s bill would come to the House – Mahoney’s House.
25
‘You guys know where Rollie’s at?’ DeMarco asked.
DeMarco wanted to talk to Rollie Patterson, the U.S. Capitol police officer who had killed Mustafa Ahmed, but Rollie wasn’t at his normal post. The two men he was speaking to – one black, one white, door guards who worked with Rollie – didn’t answer his question immediately because they were busy admiring the backside of a female lobbyist who was passing through the metal detector.
‘Why you asking?’ the white guard finally said. ‘They wanna give him another medal?’
The day after preventing the Capitol from being turned into rubble, Rollie had been presented with a medal. Meritorious something-or-other for valor. The presentation had been made in the House chamber, and Mahoney had personally pinned the medal on Rollie’s stout chest. House members, the hundred or so who had bothered to attend the ceremony, had all risen and clapped their hands in tribute to Rollie’s heroism.
‘Nah, I just want to talk to him,’ DeMarco said.
‘Yeah, but who are you?’ the black guard said.
‘I handle media inquiries,’ DeMarco lied. ‘Got a question from some reporter that I’m tryin’ to get answered.’ Before the guards could ask another question – not because they cared, but because screwing with DeMarco was as good a way as any to kill time – DeMarco said, ‘So is he here today or not?’
‘No,’ the black guy said. ‘He’s been off since he popped that guy. I guess havin’ to stand up for all those pictures was hard on his feet.’
The white guy laughed.
Rollie, even after killing a terrorist, still got no respect.
Rollie had a small single-story home with a detached garage not too far from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast D.C. DeMarco noticed that the mailbox was stuffed with envelopes, and three days’ worth of newspapers were stacked up near the door. It appeared that Rollie was out of town and that’s why DeMarco hadn’t been able to reach him by phone.
DeMarco knocked on the door. No one answered. He knocked again and looked in the nearest window but couldn’t see anyone in the house. It was beginning to look as if he’d wasted his time driving out to Rollie’s place, but he walked around to the rear of the house, stood on the back porch, and looked in through the backdoor window, into the kitchen of Rollie’s home. There were dishes on the table, and a carton of milk was sitting on the counter near the stove.
‘Hey, whatcha doin?’
DeMarco turned and saw, peering over the fence that separated her house from Rollie’s, an elderly white woman, bright-eyed as a robin. She was wearing an army fatigue jacket over a blue bathrobe, and there was a red stocking cap on her head, gray hair sticking out from beneath the cap.
‘I’m looking for Rollie,’ DeMarco said.
‘How do I know you weren’t planning to break into the house?’ the woman said, then jiggled her eyebrows up and down.
DeMarco smiled. ‘What would you have done if I had been?’
The woman smiled back and raised her right hand, which had been obscured by the fence. She was holding a revolver. She didn’t point it at DeMarco, she just sort of waved it.
Jesus!
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not loaded,’ she said.
‘Good,’ DeMarco said. ‘So have you seen Rollie? I work with him, over at the Capitol. Been trying all day to get ahold of him.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘and to tell you the truth, I’m kinda worried about him. The papers on his porch, you know.’
‘You think we should call the cops?’ DeMarco said.
The woman nodded, but then she said, ‘Nah. Look under that flowerpot, the one with the dead plant in it. The key to the front door’s there. We’ll go in together.’ Then she held up her gun again. ‘And if there’s anybody in there—’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t loaded.’
‘I lied.’
DeMarco opened the door. Rollie’s gun-toting neighbor – her name was Netty Glenn – was right behind him, which made him wish he’d let her go in first. Guns made him nervous.
The smell hit them the minute he opened the door.
‘Oh-oh,’ Netty said.
Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get an answer, DeMarco called out, ‘Hey, Rollie, you here? Anybody home?’
‘Maybe you oughta wait here,’ Netty said. ‘I’ve seen lots of dead bodies.’
‘What?’ DeMarco said.
‘I was a nurse in Vietnam.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ll be all right. I’ll look with you.’
They found him in his bedroom, lying on the floor, fully dressed. His right hand was on his chest.
Netty made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue and shook her h
ead. ‘I told him that if he kept eatin’ fried chicken every night of the week and didn’t lose some weight, this was gonna happen.’
DeMarco looked around the bedroom. He didn’t see anything out of place – other than a dead man on the floor with a waxy gray-green complexion.
DeMarco called the police using his cell phone. Netty said they should wait outside, but DeMarco said, ‘Why don’t we just take a look around first? You know, see if everything looks okay.’ Netty started to say something, but before she could, DeMarco said, ‘And maybe you oughta go home and put that gun away.’
‘You got a point there,’ she said.
After Netty left, DeMarco made a quick tour of the main floor of the small house. He didn’t have time to go into the basement. He didn’t see anything out of place – no sign of a struggle or a burglary – and was in fact surprised to find that Rollie was a fairly neat housekeeper. In the second bedroom, a room Rollie apparently used as an office, he looked at the papers lying on the desk, mostly bills Rollie hadn’t gotten around to paying. He found a brochure for a paint-gun place, one of those places that latent homicidal maniacs go to, dressed in camo pants, and shoot each other with paint balls.
Actually, DeMarco had always wanted to do that. He thought it might be fun.
He looked through the drawers in the desk, using his handkerchief not to leave prints, and found Rollie’s checkbook. He ripped one of the deposit slips out of the back and put it in his shirt pocket.
There was a large metal safe in the room, about six feet high and three feet deep with a big combination lock. DeMarco tugged on the safe’s door but it was locked. He guessed it was a gun safe, knowing of Rollie’s interest in firearms, said interest being apparent because next to the safe was a bookcase filled with gun books and magazines.
