Capital Offense
Kathleen Antrim
Is the first lady trying to overthrow the president? Award-winning writer Kathleen Antrim's fictional response to this shocking premise is at the heart of her chillingly convincing political thriller, CAPITAL OFFENSE. Combining hot fiction with today's headlines, her debut novel is the gripping tale of Carolyn Alden Lane, who sacrifices her career and personal happiness in order to guide her husband's rise through the political ranks to the highest office in the land. The pay-off?
Kathleen Antrim
Capital Offense
Dedicated to my grandma, Marie Kostalnick, whose unconditional love for her family lives on in each of us. Families really are forever.
Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.
–
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)
PROLOGUE March 22, 2001 – San Francisco, California
“What’s deadlier to a country than war?” a low, gravelly voice slurred.
“Who is this?” Jack Rudly cradled the phone against his ear and checked the time: 2:55 A.M. A strewth outside his hotel room window cast a shadow of dancing leaves across the ceiling.
“What’s deadlier to a country than war?”
“I don’t do riddles.” Jack slammed down the receiver. “Damn drunk.” He watched the shadows dissolve into darkness, then spring back to life as gusts of wind bent the tree branches outside the window. He turned on his side, pulled the sheet up over his shoulder and tucked his face in against the pillow.
After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked over at his laptop. He still needed to finish his article on trade with Japan. Sailboats twirled around on his screen saver. Who was he kidding? He’d never fall back to slept. Too many projects to think about and deadlines to meet. Jack rubbed his eyes. He loved being a journalist, and even years of sleep deprivation didn’t deter his passion.
The phone rang again. He snapped up the receiver. “What do you want?”
“Does 202-555-1416 sound familiar?”
Jack sat up and activated the tape recorder he kept plugged into his phone. “Are you calling from the White House?”
“Very good. Mr. Rudly. You know the private White House lines. Don’t bother checking it out. The number’s not mine.”
“Who is this?” The gears of the recorder spun slowly.
“What do murder and the White House have in common?”
“Murder? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Only if I were making it up.” The man hiccupped.
“Look, you got my attention by using a White House number,” Jack said, “and that bought you about a minute of my time. Tell me who you are, or I’m hanging up.”
“Your father would understand the mess I’m in.”
The nape of Jack’s neck prickled. “What does this have to do with my father?”
“An honorable man. your father. The last of the honorable politicians. A great senator. He understood the link between murder and the White House. Too bad he had to pay the highest price.” The voice hesitated. “He’s not the only one.”
Jack worked the muscles of his jaw. “What’re you talking about? My father died of a coronary. He wasn’t into games, and neither am I. So cut the crap.”
‘They’re going to kill me now. It’ll be headline news.“ There was a pause. ”Is he the reason you became a journalist?“
“Who’s going to kill you?”
“Scotch is a man’s drink, you know. Your father and I shared a love of scotch, especially Glenlivet.”
“A lot of people drink Glenlivet. That doesn’t prove you knew my father.”
“Not with three twists, they don’t. Boy, did your dad know how to ruin perfectly good scotch with too much lemon.” He laughed, but the sound was brittle and sad. “You’re talking to a dead man. We’ve deceived an entire nation, you know. Your father would never have done that. He’s still a legend on the Hill.”
Jack’s stomach knotted. He slammed the door on his emotions and his father’s memory. “Leave my father out of this. Why’d you call me?”
“You’ve got to stop the murders,” the voice said.
“What murders? You’re not making any sense.”
“Goddamn it. You’re not listening. Men are dead. I’m next.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.” Jack heard the frustration in his own voice. “I need facts from a credible source, not lame ramblings from a drunk and disgruntled government employee.”
“This was a mistake.” the man said. “You make a lousy last option. I thought you’d understand. For God’s sake, you’re his son! I know he taught you better than this. He cared, he truly cared. How can you dishonor his memory?”
“Fu-” Jack reigned in his anger. “If this is so damned important, then meet with me.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be dead soon.”
“Then meet me now.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s not safe. You’d be at risk. Serious risk. Hell, you’re a head in the cross hairs. Meeting with me would pull the trigger.”
“Then call the next guy on your list. Good night.” Jack leaned over to hang up the phone.
“Wait!”
Jack hesitated.
“You know the lookout on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“I can find it.”
“Thirty minutes.” The man paused. “Be careful. They’re watching you. Try to stay alive. Jack Rudly. You’ve got a job to do. And revealing your father’s murderer is only part of it.”
Jack inhaled. His father murdered? Bullshit. Or was it?
“You want to know how I know? I’m one of them. I helped. I’m a killer. But I’m not helping anymore.”
“Helped who?” Jack managed, but the line was dead.
PART I. THE EARLY YEARS 1989-1994
ONE
September, 1989 – Jefferson City, Missouri
Judge Margaret Merrit entered the crowded courtroom at precisely 9:00 A.M. and took her seat at the bench. Murmurs of conversation escalated in the packed room, but the sound of her gavel silenced the crowd. The bailiff swung the door wide, allowing the jurors to file into the room. They sat in the same chairs they had been occupying for more than six weeks.
United States Senator Warner Hamilton Lane of Missouri tried unobtrusively to take an aisle seat at the back of the courtroom. Heads turned and whispers eddied around him. The crack of Judge Merrit’s gavel echoed off the walls as her gaze held Warner’s. “I won’t tolerate disruption in my courtroom.”
Warner nodded. A rosy flush heated his neck and cheeks. He angled his body for a better view of his wife. Carolyn, seated at the prosecution table. Honey-colored hair crested her shoulders. She sat on the edge of her chair, muscles taught, reflexes honed, like a runner waiting for the bark of the starter’s gun. It was a race she intended to win – at all costs.
God, he missed her. Juggling two careers took its toll, especially with hers in Missouri and his predominantly in Washington, D.C. He’d flown in that morning, and now he could only watch her from a distance. Lately, it seemed that distance defined their relationship.
Carolyn rose to address the jury. Her once-shapely figure was lost in the cream Chanel suit that hung on her frame. He knew she lost weight with every case she tried, but this time the change was drastic. It worried him.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Warner leaned forward as Carolyn began her closing argument. Though their phone conversations, he knew she’d agonized over her summation.
“Today your work begins. Today the attorneys will have their last words, and then the case is yours. Today you become the arbiters
of justice…”
Warner watched the faces of the jury. Each set of eyes locked on Carolyn as she paced and gestured.
“… Will justice be served? That’s a question only you can answer. I believe it will, because I have faith that after each of you carefully considers the facts, you will find beyond any measure of doubt, that Albeit Roit is guilty on all counts.” She turned to glare at the defendant. The jury glared with her.
“As we review this case. I only ask one thing. Always keep in the forefront of your minds the thought of one person, Jessica Barnes. She is who this case is about. The defense would like you to believe that it is about Albeit Roit. It’s not. It’s about a young girl whose difficult life has been shattered.”
Warner knew that Carolyn understood the cost of a destroyed childhood and stolen innocence. At the age of six. Carolyn had lost her mother, the only family she’d ever known, to a drunk driver. Wrenched from a loving environment. Carolyn found herself a number in the social service system. As a foster child, she suffered sexual abuse and battery from her male caretaker. Warner knew that these intensely private scars drove her to become one of the top prosecutors in the state. She treated every case as if she were prosecuting the man who’d gotten away with abusing her. She never revealed her source of strength, too proud to see pity on the faces of her colleagues.
Carolyn reviewed the diagrams that detailed the sexual abuse inflicted on the child. Fury resonated in her voice as she repeated the words of the psychologist treating the thirteen-year-old girl. One juror wiped tears from her cheeks. Another sniffed loudly. A third dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief.
Warner looked around the gallery. Not a whisper could be heard; all eyes were fixed on Carolyn as she fought for Jessica Barnes. To Carolyn this case wasn’t just about one foster child, it was about a horribly flawed system that victimized many children. Children that Carolyn felt a responsibility to save.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the defendant. Albeit Roit. became a foster parent, not because of his concern for children, not to give love and support to those who desperately need it. He wanted the money to buy drugs. He wanted the government subsidy for the care of each foster child to maintain his drug habit. Albeit Roit did not stop at taking money from Jessica. No. he also stole her childhood – and her innocence.” Again Carolyn glared at the defendant, her mouth a tight line. “Albeit Roit took everything materially possible from Jessica Barnes, and when that wasn’t enough, he raped and brutalized her. In his final act. he tried to take the only thing she had left. Her life.”
Albeit Roit stared back at Carolyn and licked his crusted lips. She recognized that vile leer. The door on her own private hell cracked open, releasing the demons of her childhood.
Every night, just past midnight, the hulking form of her foster father. Uncle Vince, would cast a shadow across her doorway. He always smelled of cigarettes, dirty socks, and whiskey. “Hush, now, hush,” he would warn, his speech low and slurred. “I just want to hold you…”
The judge cleared her throat and Carolyn snapped back to the present. She turned to the jury. “It is time, ladies and gentlemen, to fight back, to show Albeit Roit and others like him what happens to people who abuse our children. It is time.” Carolyn paused, “to put Albeit Roit in jail for the rest of his life.” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “Give me a guilty verdict so I can do exactly that.”
Warner swallowed hard against the lump of emotion in his throat. During the pause in her summation. Carolyn’s face had drained of color. magnifying the dark circles that pooled around her eyes.
Although the physical ramifications Carolyn suffered during the child-abuse trials were obvious. Warner could only guess at the emotional scars. But he knew that regardless of the personal toll, these trials intensified her commitment to righting the wrongs that harmed children.
He felt an overwhelming desire to draw his wife to him, to wrap her in his arms and protect her. Warner pulled a business card and pen from his pocket then wrote:
You were brilliant. The jury will come back fast. Five dollars and a bottle of champagne say we celebrate Tonight. Your Biggest Fan
TWO
Warner arrived home at nine-fifteen that evening. Carolyn’s car was parked in the garage. and he knew she’d be unwinding upstairs in their bedroom. He tiptoed into the kitchen and rifled through cupboards, finding two crystal champagne flutes and a silver ice bucket.
Grasping the flutes in one hand and a bottle of Dom Perignon and the ice bucket in the other, he made his way up the stairs. With the tip of his toe. he gently pushed open the door to the master suite.
Unaware of his presence. Carolyn sat propped up against the pillows of their four-poster bed, legs stretched out in front of her, reading. Her shoes lay haphazardly on the floor, her suit jacket tossed across the nearby desk chair, and stacks of briefs and documents surrounded her.
“What’s all this?” Warner asked. “Tonight you’re supposed to celebrate. You won.”
Carolyn jumped. “You startled me.”
Warner raised his voice and the champagne flutes in unison. “Guilty on all counts – it’s all over the news. Or did they forget to tell you?”
A smile lit her deep brown eyes. She placed the brief she was reading on the pile beside her. “You should have seen Roit’s face. And Jessica’s. Thank you. sweetheart, but really the work has just begun. Now that I’ve got him, I want to make sure he goes away forever.”
Warner sat by her side, opened the champagne. and filled the glasses. “Surely you can take off a few hours.” Their eyes met and held. He leaned over and kissed her. “Congratulations,” he whispered against her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered back.
“Did I tell you how gorgeous you looked on the five o’clock news?” Warner unbuttoned her silk blouse.
“No. you neglected to mention that.” she purred.
He kissed her neck. “Maybe now that the case is over, we can get down to creating the next generation of Lanes.”
Carolyn stiffened. Warner leaned back and looked into her face. She avoided his gaze as she pulled herself out of his embrace. “I can’t do this right now. I – I really have to work.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just-”
“Just what? We aren’t getting any younger. It’s time to start our family. Hell, it’s way past time.” he said.
“Worried about your biological clock?” She forced a laugh at her lame joke.
He shook his head. “What happened to all our plans of a big family? Lots of kids? Shit, that’s all we used to talk about.”
“I can’t discuss this right now.” She got to her feet.
“Why not?”
“Why does everything have to be on your time schedule?” She turned to face him.
“My time schedule? It’s been ten years. I hardly think I’m being pushy.” Gone was the smooth politician; he could hear the hurt and confusion in his own voice.
She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Can we discuss this later?”
“Just tell me what the problem is.”
“There isn’t a problem. I’m just tired, and I have to get some things done before tomorrow. Can I have a rain check? Tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll be able to relax then. I promise.” She kissed him quickly, but Warner could feel that the passion was gone.
He sat up. legs over the side of the bed. his gaze on the untouched champagne. From the moment they had met. Talking about a large family had been their favorite topic. They both wanted children, lots of children. But they’d put it off in order to solidify their careers. Now ten years had passed. Warner gulped down his drink. Was he asking too much?
THREE
Forrest Muller took a long pull off of his Bloody Mary, then stepped onto the green of the eighteenth hole. It was only ten-thirty, and they were almost finished. A great way to start the day. Warner thought savoring the fragrance of freshly mowed grass. The cloudless sky held the promise of
Indian summer.
Forrest Muller was an old family friend as well as Carolyn’s gynecologist. He knelt down to gauge the lay of the green. “How’s Carolyn?”
“She’s doing fine, a little stressed maybe. But the victory yesterday gave her a boost.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been worried about her since her last appointment.” He lined up his putt. “I had no idea how bad the scarring was until we did the hysterosalpingogram She was so terribly upset that the damage wasn’t reparable, that it left me concerned.” Forrest stood and took his position beside the ball. “I know how badly she wanted children.”
Warner froze. What the hell was Forrest talking about? Embarrassment stained his cheeks. When did she have a doctor’s appointment? His political instincts took over, covering his ignorance. “Both of us did. It was quite a shock.”
Forrest brought his club back a few times. reaching himself. “I’d like to get my hands on the son of a bitch who botched that abortion. He should have his license pulled. I just wish you’d brought her to me.”
Shock knocked Warner off balance. Abortion? He dropped to a squat, leaning on his club. Oh my God. His mind reeled. Why had Carolyn done this? Bile rose in his throat. He choked it back, then spit to clear the acid taste from his mouth. Tears threatened. Closing his eyes, he fought for breath. He hadn’t known anything about this. He hadn’t known she was pregnant. And now their baby was dead.
***
Friday night. Warner sat sipping what was left of his bottle of Jack Daniels. The phone rang again; he stared at the answering machine on his desk. The red message light blinked unrelentingly, the LCD display showed thirteen messages. Everyone, it seemed, was looking for him. Since his golf game that morning, he’d deliberately disappeared, easily dumping his state trooper escort.
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