Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  Once she expired, things happened fast. All it took was an encrypted phone call to Tyler Donovan. He instructed Donovan to add the rental car’s description to the BOLO bulletin and then join him at Leah’s house. By the time Donovan arrived, the young soldier had gotten word that Garnett’s rented Nissan was parked in front of a church near the Northern Virginia Mental Health Institute.

  “You want me to get the cops to sit on it?” Donovan had asked.

  Rykman nodded. “Have them surveil until Garnett’s at a comfortable remove from the hospital.”

  Donovan stared back with a level of confusion he didn’t often exhibit. Until Rykman explained that he’d thought of the perfect place to deposit Leah’s remains.

  * * *

  Alex stares at Leah’s lifeless face, his eyes finding hers, dull and empty, devoid of anything that could be described as a soul. He feels the two cops behind him. He hears the traffic whizzing past. He feels a vessel in his head throb in unison with his heart, threatening to beat itself free of his chest. And yet, despite this flood of sensory input, Alex maintains no concept of time. He has no idea whether seconds or hours have elapsed. The world is stuck on pause, as if waiting for him to have a sudden flash of inspiration.

  And he does.

  The idea compels him to bolt forward, out of the cop’s reach and deep into the trunk. He lets loose an anguished scream and pulls Leah’s still form into an embrace. Tears don’t come, but he wails nonetheless, pressing his face against hers. She feels stiff and cold against him. The rust-colored crust of her head wound rubs against his face, leaving ruddy specks of blood. One arm grips the corpse tight as his other hand roams. He bellows apologies for getting her caught up in all of this. He vows to bring her killer to justice. Somewhere, the officer pulls at his shoulder, a hand gripping his biceps, and implores Alex to get himself under control.

  Finally, the officer yanks Alex away from the car. Alex’s head makes a sound like a baseball hitting a catcher’s mitt as it whacks against the top of the metal trunk. The officer catches Alex, grabs the back of his suit jacket, and slaps steel handcuffs around Alex’s wrists, then cinches them tight enough to make Alex’s fingertips grow cold.

  A parade of rubbernecking drivers pass by at a crawl, craning their necks to watch Alex get loaded into the sheriff’s cruiser. “Watch yourself, sir,” the officer says as he manipulates Alex’s head to keep it clear of the car’s door frame. But the way he has just manhandled Alex speaks volumes about how little he cares about Alex’s physical well-being.

  TWENTY-THREE

  WEST SPRINGFIELD DISTRICT POLICE STATION

  8:07 P.M. EDT

  ALEX WAITS in a featureless interrogation room seated at a Formica table affixed to a concrete floor. A steel loop through which his handcuffs have been threaded protrudes from the table. The carbon steel rubs against Alex’s wrists. His skin glows pink with irritation. He doesn’t know how long he’s been left alone here because the police confiscated his watch along with his wallet, cell phone, keys, and belt.

  Finally, a Virginia detective in an off-the-rack suit enters. He has the weathered look of a man who could be either forty or sixty, of a cop who has spent far too long in his job and has seen far too much. With an almost terminal weariness, the detective takes his seat opposite Alex. “You want something to drink?” the man asks in a lilting Virginia twang. “Maybe something from the vending machine? They got Ho Hos.”

  Alex is too surprised by the questions to do anything other than shake his head.

  “Suit yourself.” The detective produces a small card from inside his jacket. “I’ve got to inform you of your rights now.” He looks down at the card, but anyone familiar with television could recite what he’s about to. “‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer—’”

  “I am a lawyer,” Alex interrupts.

  “‘You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statements. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?’”

  “Of course I understand them. I understand the Supreme Court opinion that enumerated them. I understand Justice Harlan’s dissent and I understand Justice White’s dissent. Do you understand that—”

  The detective cuts him off. “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?”

  “Not particularly.”

  The detective barely shrugs and shuffles some papers in his hand. He selects one and slides it across the table along with a ballpoint pen. “All this does is acknowledge that I’ve informed you of your legal rights.” Alex reviews the form like a good attorney. “Then again, you’re a lawyer, so you’re not gonna take my word for it,” the detective notes, his voice impatient and as dry as sawdust.

  Alex finishes reviewing the form’s boilerplate and scribbles his name at the bottom. “I want to make a phone call and I want an immediate arraignment,” he says as he slides the form and pen back across the table.

  “How about we slow down a second,” the detective says.

  “I’m an attorney. I know my rights. Even if I didn’t know my rights, you just did a lovely job of informing me of them. I’m calling an end to this interrogation. If it would help you, I can also request a lawyer. I don’t need one, obviously, but we both know you can’t continue to question me once I’ve asked for one.”

  “I haven’t started to question you,” the cop protests.

  “Phone call and arraignment, Detective,” Alex repeats. “You can try to question me and—who knows?—maybe you’ll even manage to elicit an answer or two, but we both know there’s absolutely nothing I say in this room that a district attorney will be able to use to make a case against me. My suggestion would be that you not waste any more of our time.”

  The detective studies Alex for a good thirty seconds. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that much. Brassy and hairy.” He stands from the table. “Your funeral, buddy.”

  “Phone call,” Alex reminds the detective, but the man leaves without reply.

  * * *

  Alex estimates that it’s around two hours before a uniformed officer comes in. He bends to unlock Alex’s handcuffs, noting, “I’m gonna take these off you now. But I’ll tell you this once: you make me regret it, you’re gonna get yourself hurt.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Alex answers. “Just my phone call.”

  “Gotta book you first. Then you can call whoever you want.”

  The officer walks Alex to a computer that would have been considered obsolete in 2002. He takes down Alex’s basic information, including his full name, address, and date of birth, then stands over Alex as he rolls his fingers over an ink pad and a ten card, which will be the official repository of his fingerprints. The mug shot comes next. Alex remains patient throughout the bureaucratic obstacle course. He doesn’t have a legal right to a phone call, so he’s at the mercy of the police and it behooves him to stay in the officer’s good graces.

  Mercifully, it works. The officer hands Alex a wet-nap to wipe the fingerprint ink from his hands and walks him to a nearby pay phone. The phone’s plastic and metal surfaces are scratched with the jagged initials of former users and pithy observations like go fuck u. There are a few stickers advertising the services of bail bondsmen, but Alex has no intention of calling any of them. The officer takes the receiver off the hook and hands it to Alex. “I can’t look up any numbers for you and you can only call collect.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The officer nods and moves a respectful distance away in a gesture intended to suggest privacy while still allowing him to remain close enough to hear every word Alex says. Once the collect charges have been accepted, Alex begins, wondering what the eavesd
ropping police officer might think about the odd litany of instructions he gives to the person on the other end of the line.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Alex stares at a very haggard-looking Grace. The skin around her eyes is a bright pink, a sign she’s done more than a fair amount of crying. He wishes he could run up to her and take her in his arms and assure her that everything is going to be all right. But he’s not sure everything is going to be all right. In any case, the uniformed bailiff standing three feet away would tackle him were he to bolt from the jury box where he stands.

  Fortunately, the Fairfax Circuit Court for the Nineteenth Judicial Circuit has a night session. Otherwise, Alex would have had to wait until morning to be arraigned. He looks across the wood-paneled room and gives a nod to Grace that he hopes comes off as reassuring, but he’s so beyond the point of exhaustion now that he has no confidence his face is capable of conveying anything. In any case, Grace either doesn’t see him or pretends not to, because she steadfastly avoids his gaze. Alex cranes his neck to get her attention, but he stops when the bailiff approaches. “Take a seat,” he instructs and points to one of the jury box’s fourteen blue seats.

  Alex does as he’s told, but has to stand right back up. “All rise,” a second bailiff intones. “Fairfax County Circuit Court is now in session. The Honorable Stephen Wacker presiding. Be seated.”

  Alex is then forced to endure the arraignments of three prostitutes and an alleged drug dealer before the court clerk calls his case. “Docket ending two-six-seven-seven,” the clerk announces. She looks like she just stepped out from behind the counter at the DMV. “State versus Alex Garnett.” The first bailiff leads Alex out of the jury box and into the well of the courtroom. “Violation of Code of Virginia section 18.2-32,” the court clerk continues. “Murder in the first degree.”

  Alex turns and finally locks eyes with Grace, who wears a look on her face that Alex can’t quite read. She appears confused and scared and angry all at once. He just nods to her and offers up a half smile before turning around to address Judge Wacker.

  “I wish to enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor.”

  Wacker stares down at Alex from the bench. “Do you have an attorney, Mr. Garnett? Do you need the court to appoint you one?”

  “I’m an attorney, Your Honor. I don’t require legal counsel.”

  “The lawyer who represents himself, Mr. Garnett, has a fool for a client,” Wacker admonishes with a wag of his finger.

  Alex ignores this advice. “Your Honor, the only physical evidence against me is the body of the victim allegedly discovered in the trunk of my rental car.”

  At this, the assistant district attorney, a plump woman in what Alex imagines is her late twenties, tops, stands to object. “Even assuming, arguendo,” she says, using the Latin word meaning “for the sake of the argument,” “that the defendant’s assertion as to evidence is accurate—which it is not—that’s an issue for the trial court or, at best, the judge presiding over a preliminary hearing. It bears no relevance to arraignment, where the only question is one of bail.”

  This is an argument that Alex had anticipated and, for the moment, ignores. “The body was discovered pursuant to a warrantless and illegal trunk search. The court is going to rule it inadmissible at trial.” Alex’s fellow defendants, along with their respective lawyers and the handful of people sitting in the gallery, take all this in with rapt attention. Night court is the province of solicitation and possession cases. It never provides entertainment like dead bodies found in car trunks.

  “Once again,” the ADA says, “the defendant’s arguments aren’t relevant to the issue of bail.”

  “I disagree. The issue of bail is not dissimilar to the question of injunctive relief in a civil case. It’s a preliminary step that the court must take in advance of trial. And the court must make those kinds of advance decisions based upon the likelihood of the party’s success at trial,” Alex says.

  “The rules for a preliminary injunction in a civil case don’t apply to the question of bail in a criminal one,” the ADA rebuts in a tone designed to convey that Alex’s argument is nothing other than the lowest form of bullshit.

  Wacker muses on the question for some seconds before he delivers his ruling. “Set bail at a quarter of a million dollars bond, one hundred thousand dollars cash.” Alex was hoping for less—he’s not completely confident he’ll be able to scrape together a six-figure bond—but it’s better than the alternative. In a murder case where the victim’s corpse was found in the defendant’s possession, it would have surprised absolutely no one if Judge Wacker had decided to keep Alex in jail without bail.

  * * *

  The bail process takes about two hours. As he waits for the wheels of the probation office’s bureaucracy to slowly churn, he begins to hear whispers of news stories. He sees people check for updates on their phones. Bored guards surf the Internet for news. Someone asks if anyone has access to CNN. A terrible sixth sense–like instinct begins to form in Alex’s gut. Even before he’s able to get confirmation from one of the more connected people around him, he knows this looming event has to do with Iran.

  “What’s going on?” Alex asks.

  The man behind the counter wears a practiced expression of apathy. “Fill this out and sign,” he says, handing over a form. He looks like he’s dead or at least wishes he were. He taps his finger in four places. “Here, here, here, and here.”

  Alex takes the pen affixed to the counter with a ball-bearing chain and sets about filling out the form as instructed. “Something going on in the Middle East?” he asks as he writes. The irony is not lost on him. He’s gone from working at the heart of the world’s preeminent intelligence-gathering organization to scraping for nuggets of news from a minimum-wage probation bureaucrat.

  “Something going on with Iran,” the man says. “Looks like they’re gonna bomb those Israelis.” The threat of open warfare between Iran and Israel isn’t enough to fracture his indifference. “We’re getting involved, of course.” The way he says of course suggests more than a little frustration that America is heading into yet another dustup in that sandy, too-far-gone region of the world. But then he returns his attention to more pressing matters. “So, you doing cash or bond?”

  “Cash,” Alex answers. “Well, check.” He turns around, scanning the entrance to the cramped office for some sign of Grace. After a few pregnant seconds, Grace enters, waving a freshly inked check. She heads over and hands it to Alex, who passes it along to the bureaucrat.

  The man can tell with a glance that this is a personal—not a cashier’s—check, and notes, “I’ve gotta confirm the sufficiency of this account. Whose is it?”

  At this, Grace pipes up. “It’s mine. Well, ours,” she corrects. “It’s my check, but it’s a joint account.”

  The man lets out a sigh that Alex correctly takes to mean it’s not possible for him to care less. “Wait over there. This’ll take five to ten minutes.” He points them to some plastic bucket chairs permanently affixed to the wall to their left.

  An uncomfortable silence follows. “Thanks for coming,” Alex ventures.

  “That woman’s body was in your car” is the only response he gets. Grace’s voice is miles-away distant. This is not going to be easy.

  “You know I didn’t have anything to do with that.” The sentence comes out more like a question than he intended it to.

  “I know,” she responds, sounding less certain than he’d like.

  He looks at her, eyes bloodshot, face pale, and understands she’s in some kind of shock. She’s acting like this is all some bad dream, and if she just pushes through it, she’ll wake up on the other side and discover that her fiancé wasn’t shot at last night, that he wasn’t just charged with murdering a coworker.

  “I knew my father would find some way of locating you,” Alex says, trying to push through the fog between them.

  “I still can’t believe you called him,” Grace remarks.


  “Neither can I,” Alex admits.

  “What did he say? What did you say?”

  * * *

  Simon Garnett answered the phone with a curt “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Alex said into the receiver. The cold piece of plastic smelled like halitosis and liquor. “It’s—it’s Alex.”

  “Alex.” His father sounded surprised. “How are you?”

  “Not good. I need your help.” Sometimes, it takes only four words to break a vow.

  “Of course, son. Whatever you need.”

  There was such a lack of hesitation in Simon Garnett’s voice that Alex immediately felt ashamed. “Thank you.” He breathed. “Thanks, Dad.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d called his father that. It felt good to say the word. It was like coming home.

  Alex gave his father an abbreviated account of the previous five hours. Habit conditioned him to expect criticism, either for being too curious or for not bringing his superiors at the CIA into his confidence earlier, but no such scolding was forthcoming. His father didn’t voice any incredulity at Alex’s outlandish claims. “I know this all must sound completely insane,” Alex allowed.

  “Not to someone who worked in the corridors of American power as long as I did. Truth be told, everything you’re telling me connects quite a few dots.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I accepted as truth the fact that William Rykman is a sociopathic bastard a long time ago. A very long time ago. And if he’s at the center of this, then you’ve got some very serious problems indeed. So what do you need from me? What can I do?”

  In response, Alex rattled off a list of assignments. The first was to contact Grace. (A request that should have been of the needle-in-a-haystack variety, except she hadn’t tossed her cell phone as Alex had instructed her to. She answered on the third ring.) The other things Alex asked for, however, would be far more difficult to come by. The $150,000 deposit into the joint bank account Alex shared with Grace was maybe the easiest request to grant, but it was by no means easy. Simon Garnett was a man of means, but those means weren’t entirely liquid and, therefore, weren’t entirely accessible, particularly at a moment’s notice. The same could not be said, however, for his law firm’s densely filled coffers. After six years of record litigation business, the accounts of Garnett and Lockhart were overflowing with cash. All it took to get the money into the account Alex shared with Grace was a phone call to the firm’s managing partner, a man with flexible fiduciary ethics. Simon Garnett didn’t even have to explain that the money was so his future daughter-in-law could post his son’s bail.