High Treason

by John Gilstrap

  Irene kept her head down, her eyes focused on a pale water ring that had bleached the dark surface of the cheap table. When she heard the door latch, and she knew she was alone, she considered succumbing to the pressure that built behind her eyes, but she pushed the emotion away.

  This was just another case. You win some and you lose some, and if you let cases get inside the wall that was integral to every emergency responder’s survival, you vastly increased the chances of ending your life with a pistol in your mouth. Irene was an expert at building and maintaining protective walls, but something about the Jennings case had cracked her foundations. Maybe it was the volume of blood on the walls, or the forensics that showed the obvious pleasure Jennings had taken from the slow torture of Julian and Samantha Harrelson.

  She understood the passion that drove the investigating agents to act spontaneously. They had been tracking this monster for more than two months, and at the time they’d crashed the door without a warrant, they’d had reason to believe that the Harrelson boys were still inside Jennings’s apartment. One fewer moment of torment had to be worth a lecture from your supervisor, right? Especially when kids were involved.

  Except the boys weren’t there. The investigating agents tore through the apartment, turning the place upside down looking for any evidence that would support what they already knew. They threw Jennings on the floor, ratcheted him into handcuffs tightly enough to draw blood, and they kicked him until he confessed to having watched the Harrelson boys walking to and from school, and of harboring sexual desires for them. Later, after Jennings had been hauled off to jail, investigators found a pair of boy’s underpants that matched the size and the style of name-brand underwear that they’d found in the Harrelson home. The underpants had been crammed into a drawer in Jennings’s bedroom that also held a variety of sadomasochistic sex toys.

  Yet that haul of evidence had been deemed by the office of the United States attorney to be fruit from a poisoned tree and inadmissible in court. All because two well-meaning, hardworking public servants had failed to knock on a murderer’s door.

  Irene felt numb as she walked out of the federal courthouse onto Washington Street in Alexandria, Virginia, on as beautiful a day as the Washington, DC, suburb could conjure in early April. The bright sun took the edge off the chilly air, and as she walked down the sidewalk to rescue her car from the lot, she cast an impatient glance at the towering statue of the Confederate soldier that blocked the intersection with Prince Street, the soldier’s back perpetually turned on the north. “You freaking lost,” she mumbled under her breath. “Get over it.”

  Irene’s anguish wouldn’t go away. Her boss made sure of that.

  Barney Jennings held a press conference on the day he was released of all charges, lambasting the FBI for what he called their “overreach” in persecuting the innocent instead of prosecuting the guilty.

  Later that same day, Irene’s boss, Peter Frankel, publicly chastised her and her staff for unprofessional behavior, and Judge O’Brian sent a letter for her jacket that expressed his personal displeasure over the way she conducted herself in the Jennings investigation. “Justice and bullying are not the same things,” he wrote. “They are not in the same league. As an officer of this court, your first responsibility—your primary responsibility—must always be to protect the rights of the innocent.”

  As if she needed a lecture on justice.

  And then there was the final humiliation. She summoned the two agents involved—Tony Mayo and Amanda Whitney—into her office to deliver the verdict from the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s version of the police department’s Internal Affairs Division, held in equally high esteem.

  Though they were both in their mid-thirties, they looked somehow much younger as they walked in step into the nondescript bland space that doubled for Irene’s office. They stood at attention, their hands at their sides, by all measures prepared to take their medicine.

  “Have a seat,” Irene said.

  They hesitated.

  “Both of you.” She used the tone that people wisely interpreted as leaving no room for negotiation.

  They sat. In unison.

  Irene wanted to tell them to relax, that this really was just a bit of posturing that would quickly blow over, but this was no time to lie. “It’s bad,” she said.

  At the sound of Irene’s words, color drained from around Amanda’s mouth, even as Tony sat a little taller. “How bad?” Tony asked. His Latin heritage clearly reflected in his coloring. Tony Mayo had a chiseled, athletic look about him. If he hadn’t chosen the FBI, he could have chosen to model clothes.

  Irene sighed. She’d learned that the most merciful way to deliver awful news was to shrug away all the weasel words and drill straight between the eyes. “On the one-to-ten scale of badness, it’s about an eleven,” she said. “The letters going in your file are crippling. They hold you accountable for Barney Jennings being reinflicted onto the American public.”

  Amanda said, “Maybe if Assistant Director Frankel hadn’t made such a big deal out of the arrest—”

  “You screwed up,” Irene said, cutting her off. “That’s the bottom line here. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that your role was anything short of causal.”

  Tony’s face reddened. “You’re suggesting that we should have just ignored the potential suffering that was going on behind that door?”

  Irene felt her cheek twitch. It was her anger tell. One of the major traits that separated new agents from veterans was the ability to embrace one’s role in a Golf Foxtrot—a goat fuck. “You made a call,” she said. “In a perfect world, that would be admirable simply on the basis of the courage it took. Unfortunately, we live in the world created by his royal eminence J. Edgar Hoover, and the anticipation is that everybody will not only have the courage to make the call but the clairvoyance to know that it is the right one. You missed on the clairvoyance part.”

  “With all respect, ma’am, you weren’t there,” Amanda said.

  “I didn’t have to be,” Irene snapped. “We have rules, and the rules are based upon the Constitution of the United States. None of us has the authority to circumvent them. That’s why we emphasize them so heavily in the Academy and retrain you on them so frequently. You two broke the rules.”

  Mayo screwed his face into a scowl. “Excuse me, Irene, but this is an entirely different tune than the one you sang before you met with the AUSA. Back then, you seemed to understand.”

  “Back then I thought I had a valid argument on your behalf,” Irene said. The words tasted like acid. “It turns out that I did not.”

  “So we’re just your sacrifice to the career gods.”

  Irene felt something break inside her gut, taking with it her sympathy for her team. She felt her face redden and she deliberately fought the urge to yell. Rather, she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. “It’s time for you to be quiet, Agent Mayo,” she said.

  Mayo’s eyes flashed fear at the sound of her voice. He looked like he might want to apologize, but he wisely chose to desist.

  “A career in the FBI is a lot like a poker game,” Irene said. “The safest move is to walk away and watch a movie instead. Once you give in to the temptation, though, the game is on and every hand is high stakes. Taking a big chance can bring great reward, or it can bring ruin.”

  Amanda interrupted with “I don’t think—” But that was as far as she got before Irene cut her off with a glare.

  “It’s time for you to shut up, too. Let’s forget about the good intentions and the gut feelings and settle in on the facts of what you did. You entered a targeted home without a warrant, and you beat a suspected felon in order to extract a confession. I confess that it’s been some time since I was in the Academy, but wasn’t there a class or two about the evils of invoking Gestapo tactics?”

  The reality of their situation hit both of the young agents simultaneously. Mayo’s jaw slackened. “Are we being fired?”

  “No,
” Irene said. The next part would hurt most. “You’re being encouraged to resign.” She looked away from the tears that rimmed his eyes.

  “This is all I’ve wanted to do,” Mayo said. “It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve trained for.”

  “And you can stay,” Irene said. “For as long as you can tolerate the worst postings on the planet and a career of scut work.” She looked up at them and sighed as she leaned closer to the edge of her desk, her elbows on her thighs. “You’re fundamentally good agents,” she said. “You’ve developed some solid cases and made some good arrests. No one disputes that. But the Bureau is a political place and you committed the unpardonable sin: you embarrassed the assistant director. As Peter Frankel himself has said countless times, ‘One oh shit wipes out a lifetime of attaboys.’ We can complain that it’s unfair and old school and fundamentally wrong, but that doesn’t change the nature of the Bureau.”

  “I’ve got a family,” Amanda said.

  “As do we all,” Irene replied. She leaned back and struck a more positive tone. “Come on, people. You’ve both got law degrees from top ten schools and you’re both young. You can make this a speed bump in your larger career, or you can make it the end. That’s up to you. But the fact remains that with your file burdened with a letter like you received from OPR, your careers are over. You’re the equivalent of a duty officer in the Navy who’s on watch when the ship runs aground. It’s over.”

  “What if I choose not to resign?” Amanda asked. “What if I decide that scut work is a fair price to pay for my government retirement?”

  “Don’t,” Mayo said, standing. Anger had displaced sadness in his eyes, and Irene was glad to see it. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.” He focused on Irene and leveled his forefinger at her. “I just got it. Our careers have to end so that yours can flourish. Throw us on the sacrificial fire and gods of bureaucracy are satisfied.”

  Irene took care to keep her face impassive as she listened to the truth. “You may go now,” she said. “Good luck.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Irene sat in a booth near the front window of the Cracker Barrel restaurant in Massaponax, Virginia, just a few hundred yards from the perpetual motion of Interstate 95. She kept one foot tucked under her to make the seat slightly more comfortable, and she bided her time playing the golf tee triangle game that came with the table. The trick was to leapfrog golf tees across the board until only one remained. Thus far, the best she’d managed was three, and that pissed her off. She knew she was better than that.

  She was so engrossed in the game that when her guest finally arrived at tableside, she jumped.

  “I’m sorry to startle you,” the man said. He wore his perpetual smile, and his mere presence made Irene relax. He also wore a black suit and a clerical collar.

  She stood. “Dom,” she said. “Thank you so much for coming.” She’d known Dominic D’Angelo since he was a teenager. Tall and lean with a thick mane of black hair, he’d always been a handsome kid, and now he was a gorgeous man, perhaps rendered more attractive by the fact that his vows made him unapproachable.

  He drew her into an embrace. “Irene,” he said. “It’s been a long time. The tone of your message scared me. Are you all right?”

  As she pulled away, she gestured to the booth. “Please,” she said. “Have a seat.”

  Father Dom slid into the space across from her. “Do I need my stole?” He asked the question with a smile, but she understood that beneath the banter lay a genuine offer.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t need to confess so much as I need to vent.”

  “First things first,” Dom said. “How are the girls?” In addition to his doctor of divinity, he also carried a PhD in psychology. He knew how to wield both specialties to great effect.

  Irene felt herself lighten as she smiled. “They’re both fine,” she said. “Ashley is destined to be the freshman soccer superstar of her high school, and Kelly is twelve going on thirty-five. Ashley is on her way to an invitation-only soccer tournament as we speak, in fact. She’s that good.”

  Dom smiled. “I’m impressed. But good lord. Fifteen and twelve? How is that possible?”

  “Fourteen and twelve,” Irene corrected. “Don’t make it worse than it is.”

  “Still. It seems just yesterday that they were toddlers.”

  Irene laughed. “Okay, let’s not go there. I can nearly say the same about you. How are you, by the way?”

  “I’ve been well,” he said. “I could complain, but no one would listen.”

  A moment of silence passed. “You know, I missed you during your Army years. You just fell off the face of the earth.”

  Dom shrugged with one shoulder. “I didn’t fall. I wandered. For whatever reason, it was important for me to disappear for a while.” He forced a smile. “If nothing else, Uncle Sam helped me realize what my true calling was.”

  “And it wasn’t killing people.”

  He held up his hand. “Not fair. Some of the finest people I’ve ever met, I met in the Army. It’s not the cliché.”

  Irene blushed. She had no idea why she’d taken a cheap shot. “I know that,” she said. “I meant no offense.”

  “And I took none.”

  Irene let a moment pass to reset the conversation. “So, you’re in Montross, Virgina, now?”

  Before he could answer, a pretty blond thing named Gabby stopped at their table. It turned out that she would be taking care of them this afternoon, and she wanted to know if they were ready to order. It was barely two in the afternoon and Irene was anything but hungry, but it would have been rude to take up space without paying at least a little rent. She ordered a cheeseburger and Dom ordered a waffle. Once the waters and coffee were poured, Gabby left them alone again.

  “I’m not in Montross,” Dom corrected. “I’m near Montross, in a little place called Fisherman’s Cove. It’s a delightful town filled with wonderful people.”

  “And you’re the pastor of a church there?”

  “I am. Saint Kate’s—Saint Katherine’s. It’s a wonderful old place that sits on a hill. Just a perfect setting.”

  Irene heard her bullshit bell ring. Sometimes she wished that she could stop being a trained investigator. “I mean no offense, Dom, but aren’t you a little young for pastorhood?”

  He smiled. “Yes,” he said, “but that’s a story for a different time.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You called me here for a reason.”

  And so the pleasantries ended. She held nothing back as she revealed the details of the Barney Jennings debacle, pausing only long enough to accept delivery of their meals and to assure Gabby that they needed nothing else for now.

  Dom listened, the furrows in his brow deepening with every passing detail. When she finished, he looked as if he wanted more. “Is that all of it?” he asked.

  “A murderer went free, Father. And two fine careers were ruined in the process. Isn’t that enough?”

  Dom cocked his head and offered a smile. “I’m always on your side, Irene,” he said. “Never think for a moment that I’m not.”

  “But?” She didn’t get why he wasn’t frothing with ire over her circumstance.

  “No but,” he said. “You made a mistake. It comes with that human package you wear. We all do that from time to time. You need to cut yourself a break.”

  Irene’s ears went hot. “A man and a woman are dead, Father. Two boys are missing. For all I know, they’re dead, too. Worse, for all I know, they’re in someone’s basement being tortured every day. I allowed that to happen.”

  Dom had cut his waffle into precise quadrants, which he reduced to triangles before detaching a corner and slipping it into his mouth without syrup. He took his time chewing while Irene positively vibrated in her seat awaiting his answer.

  He took a sip of coffee and said, “You don’t impress me as a whiner. Why are you whining?”

  Anger bloomed. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re whining. You’re showing righte
ous indignation. Throwing yourself a pity party. If I understand the details correctly, if the ball hadn’t been fumbled, we would know for a certainty that this Barney Jennings fellow had killed people. Now you only suspect that—or maybe you know it in your heart. Whatever. Explain to me where you could have prevented the deaths or the kidnappings in the first place.”

  “I don’t understand your point.”

  “Sure you do. You’re beating yourself up as if you’d somehow pulled the trigger on the crime itself. You didn’t. The Jennings guy did. Now there’s been a screwup and he’s free, but that’s where your fault—if that’s even the right word—begins and ends. There is no blood on your hands, Irene.”

  How could he not understand something so obvious? “But Dom, it’s my job to keep bad guys off the street. If he moves on from this and hurts someone else—”

  “Then you’ll be there to catch him. Or you won’t. But that isn’t what we were talking about. Don’t change the discussion in midstream.”

  Irene felt a stab of anger. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. She was supposed to vent and Dom was supposed to understand.

  Dom’s expression softened. “I sense I’m making it worse,” he said. “I don’t mean to sound harsh. In fact, I mean to sound the opposite of harsh. I just don’t want you beating yourself up more than is reasonable.”

  “I understand. I don’t know what to do with the anger.”

  Through a mouthful of waffle, Dom said, “I imagine a couple of extra hours on the shooting range might help.”

  Irene chuckled. “They don’t let you put up pictures of suspects and shoot at them.”

  “But only you and God will know what’s in your heart while you’re wasting a silhouette.” They shared a laugh. “Isn’t there some place in FBI Land where you can talk through these things with people who have been there?”