The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

  He put the lock in his pocket, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, and ascended the two flights of concrete stairs, holding on to the railing for support. As he limped down the landing he noticed a wedge of light on the asphalt. The door to his apartment was ajar. Melda had a spare key, and it was possible she was inside, even at this early hour, but she would have shut the door to keep in the heat. It was also possible she had failed to shut the door fully on leaving, and the wind, gusting off the ocean, had blown it open. Possible, but also not likely. Melda was careful. She would have shaken the handle.

  Sloane slid the backpack from his shoulder, reached to push open the door, and snatched back his hand at the sound of something shattering inside the apartment. Fighting the impulse to rush in, he listened a beat, then gently pushed the door. The hinges creaked like bad knees. He stepped over the threshold and leaned inside.

  It looked as if a hurricane had touched down in his living room.

  The wall-to-wall carpet was strewn with debris: paperback books, CDs, papers, clothes, and toppled furniture. The cushions of the couch had been shredded, the stuffing scattered about the room like large cotton balls. His stereo and television lay in ruins, the insides spilled on the carpet like gutted fish.

  A glass shattered in the kitchen.

  Sloane stepped over the toppled hall table, pressed his back against the wall that ran parallel with the kitchen, and slid silently forward. He paused at the wall’s edge, gathered himself, and whirled around the corner. Glass shattered at his feet. A shadow bolted across the kitchen counter and leaped into the darkness of the living room.

  Bud, his cat.

  Sloane looked down at the broken plate at his feet, which a moment earlier had been on the leaning stack amid the contents of his cupboards. Bud had apparently been standing on the stack, licking at a puddle of syrup that had overflowed the counter. That explained the shattered glass. It didn’t explain the destruction. That thought came simultaneously with the sound.

  Soft footsteps behind him.

  Too slow to turn, Sloane felt something hard slam against the back of his head.

  6

  The West Wing,

  Washington, D.C.

  PARKER MADSEN CONSIDERED the polish on a black wingtip shoe in his hand. Three other pairs waited atop their original boxes, each aligned against the wainscoting like soldiers at inspection. Madsen wore the fifth pair—a different pair for each day of the week, sturdy shoes built more for durability than appearance. According to a military doctor, Madsen pronated when he walked. He thought that by examining the wear on the rubber heels he could determine his most demanding day of the week. So far, he had noticed no correlation.

  On the second and fourth Thursdays of each month, a staff assistant took the shoes to a stand on New York Avenue where a Vietnam veteran understood the term “spit-polished to shine.” Madsen’s assistant brought back the shoes Friday morning, along with Madsen’s dry cleaning: button-down white dress shirts and three-button navy-blue suits. The Washington press corps was fond of saying the retired three-star general had traded his olive green for navy blue, a sarcastic dig that Madsen took as a compliment. He had little time for, or interest in, things like dress and decor. Uniforms saved time that could then be devoted to more worthy matters. The military understood this. So, too, had Einstein.

  Madsen placed the shoe back atop the box, beside its partner, removed the .45 from the holster concealed beneath his suit coat, placed it on the top shelf of the lower cabinet, and closed the door. He sidestepped his red Doberman, Exeter, curled in a ball on a felt-covered beanbag, and walked to his desk, where eight neatly aligned newspapers awaited his attention. His staff stripped the papers of the sections that served only to give them bulk—sports, entertainment, culinary tips, and advertising—and underlined articles of interest. Then his secretary arranged the papers on his desk in the order he preferred: the Washington Post first, of course, then the Washington Times, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times (which he considered a liberal rag), the Los Angeles Times (to get a flavor of the West Coast), the Chicago Tribune, the Dallas Morning News, and the Boston Globe. Normally Madsen had skimmed the articles before nine a.m. Today would not be normal.

  He pressed the intercom on his telephone. “Ms. Beck, you may send in the assistant United States attorney,” he said. Then he sat back, picking a piece of lint from the sleeve of his coat. It floated in the stream of light tunneling through the multipaned French windows behind him. Madsen chose to sit with his back to the view of the South Lawn, though he had lobbied hard for this particular office. It had nothing to do with the view. Traditionally, the White House chief of staff kept an office across the street in the Old Executive Office Building, just fifty yards from the West Wing in distance, but miles in terms of prestige and power. The big boys worked in the West Wing. Madsen got an office two doors removed from the Oval Office.

  When the door to the office opened, Exeter raised his head. Madsen snapped his fingers before the dog could bark, but Exeter’s eyes remained focused on the assistant United States attorney walking across the carpeted floor. Rivers Jones had the gait of a circus performer on stilts, a robotic flow of rough angles and determined elbows and knees that seemed to add two to three inches to his six-foot frame. Jones’s plain gray suit, white shirt, and burgundy paisley tie matched his demeanor: lifeless and devoid of color or interest.

  Madsen stood as Jones entered. “Thank you for being prompt, Rivers. Please have a seat.”

  “General,” Jones said, reaching across the desk to shake hands before unbuttoning his jacket and falling into the chair across the desk, looking like a schoolboy seated before the principal. Madsen had had the legs on the chair shortened by two inches. No one sat higher than the five-foot-eight chief of staff in his own office.

  “You saw my press conference?” Madsen asked, getting to the point.

  Jones nodded, struggling to get comfortable. “I watched it this morning as I dressed.”

  “I’m sure it made some editors’ mornings. Not every day you can replace a business-section filler with a White House death. Joe Branick will sell a lot of newspapers.”

  Jones shook his head. With a sharp nose and fine hair, whose strands stood as if electrified, he looked like a Midwestern scarecrow. “A cowardly act.”

  Madsen looked down at him. “Have you ever fired a weapon, Rivers?”

  Jones hesitated, the question unexpected. “No . . .”

  “Well, I have. And it is my personal opinion that putting a loaded gun to one’s head and pulling the trigger takes a hell of a lot of balls.” Madsen put a hand to his lips and softened his tone. “Why does anyone do the things they do, Rivers? If I knew, I’d have a couch in here and a diploma on the wall.”

  As it was, Madsen had nothing on his walls. They displayed no artwork, no family photographs, no diplomas, though he was a third-generation graduate of West Point. There was no leaded-glass case displaying the impressive number of medals he’d received in battles from Vietnam to Desert Storm, nothing to distract focus from the present tasks at hand. Possessions encumbered a man.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to consider it. As you well know, hell broke loose around here this morning and the timing is very, very bad. I cannot disclose details at the moment, but this is another crack in the levee, and I’ve already got my fingers in eight holes. I’m running out of fingers, Rivers.”

  “I’m here to help, General.”

  Madsen walked to the front of the desk, leaning on the edge, arms crossed, the fabric of his suit stretching taut along his back and arms. He considered Jones with hazel eyes the color of wood chips, and a face tanned and lined like worn leather gloves.

  “This thing needs to be handled competently and efficiently. As hard as it may be, the president must put this behind him and do the job the people of this country elected him to do, the sooner the better. The press loves this kind of garbage; hell, you know that. Some nut will start spreading
rumors faster than a summer fire in a field of dry grass. The next thing you know, they’ll be calling this ‘another Vincent Foster.’ I need someone who understands that.”

  “It won’t be a problem, General.”

  Madsen raised an eyebrow. “When a special assistant to the president of the United States kills himself it is a problem, Rivers. When the special assistant is also a friend of the president it is one hell of a fucking problem.” Ordinarily Madsen did not use or appreciate profanity. He considered it indicative of a limited vocabulary, but he was making a point. “May I be direct with you?”

  “By all means.”

  “The more people who are involved in an investigation, the greater the potential for error, and in this case every error will be magnified. Are you familiar with military procedure, Rivers?”

  “Sir?”

  “The military operates in teams of three. Do you know why? Because research proves three is an optimum number to produce maximum efficiency. More than three causes a blurring of responsibilities. Less than three does not provide adequate resources. I want a team of three, Rivers. You’re my choice for third, and I’ve pulled some strings to get you.”

  Jones sat a little higher in his seat. “You won’t be disappointed, General.”

  It sounded neither forced nor rehearsed, though, of course, it was. Madsen knew that Rivers Jones was the right choice, because he knew everything there was to know about the man, including his preference for briefs over boxer shorts. Thirty-nine, married with no children, Jones cheated regularly on his wife with a high-priced escort in McLean. Though born a Catholic, he professed to be a Protestant for political reasons—he did not intend to be employed by the Department of Justice forever. Like everyone else in Washington, Jones had political ambitions. He wanted a career in the United States Senate or House of Representatives so he could live the rest of his life off the American tit and well-financed lobbyists. Fully aware of the importance of political allies in a town of politicians, Jones had married the daughter of Michael Carpenter, the Speaker of the House. It wasn’t love. In short, crass terms, Jones was a kiss-ass, and he knew whose ass to kiss.

  Madsen straightened and walked around the desk to his chair. “You’ve spoken with the park police?”

  The White House Security Office had received the call at 5:45 a.m. They reached Madsen at home. He had been on the treadmill for exactly forty-two minutes. After hanging up, Madsen contacted the attorney general and requested Jones. He called Jones at his home, awakening him with the news that he would lead the DOJ investigation into Joe Branick’s death. Because Branick was a member of the White House staff and a federal employee, and because his body was found in a national park, the federal government in general, and the United States Department of Justice in particular, had jurisdiction over any investigation. It was Jones’s job to advise the park police of this fact. They were to stand down.

  “I spoke to them first thing this morning, after you and I hung up,” Jones assured him.

  “And they agreed to transfer their files?” Madsen asked.

  “They agreed, but they don’t have jurisdiction, General.”

  Madsen pressed down a cowlick with the palm of his hand. The military had cropped the stubborn tuft of hair, but it had returned when his publicist recommended that he grow his hair longer as his political career took shape. “What do you mean, they don’t have jurisdiction?”

  “It seems that a Charles Town police officer was first on the scene, and one of their detectives took jurisdiction. Apparently he was rather stubborn about it.” Jones pulled a small pad from his coat pocket and considered his notes. “A Detective Tom Molia. He had the body delivered to the county coroner.” He looked up from his notes. “Technically, he’s correct.”

  Madsen did not try to hide his displeasure with the unforeseen turn of events. “Contact the county coroner and tell him he is to relinquish the body without inquiry.”

  “Without inquiry?”

  “An autopsy will be done at the Justice Department.”

  Jones gave him an inquisitive look. “Sir?”

  Madsen eyed Jones’s notepad and pen until Jones closed the pad, clicked his pen, and placed both in the inside pocket of his jacket. “I am not one to sully a dead man’s reputation, Rivers”—Madsen walked around the corner of his desk and opened the drawer—“but as I said, I want there to be full disclosure between us.” He handed Jones a packet and spoke while Jones opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. “I assumed you would subpoena Mr. Branick’s telephone records as part of your investigation, and took the liberty of obtaining them. You will find a telephone call to the White House at 9:13 p.m. Joe Branick called the president night before last. The president related to me that Mr. Branick did not sound well, that he had been drinking. There were rumors of excess, but the president does not want unsubstantiated rumors repeated in the newspapers. Understandably concerned about his friend’s well-being, the president offered to meet with him in private. Joe Branick arrived at the White House at ten-twelve p.m. You will find records of his arrival and departure.”

  Madsen waited while Jones shuffled through the papers. “Statements taken from the two uniformed security officers at the West Gate confirm Mr. Branick’s agitated appearance. The president met with him in the first family’s private quarters, alone. He has since related to me that Joe Branick did not look well. He was foul-tempered.”

  “Did he say what he was upset about?”

  Madsen paced in the slatted light from the French windows and the motes of dust it illuminated, giving him the appearance of an old black-and-white movie. “The White House operates on late-night dinners and handshakes at cocktail receptions; you know that, Rivers. It’s not the way I choose to do business, but when in Rome you do as the Romans do.” He shrugged. “If my Olivia had lived, I’m not sure she would have understood, either.”

  “Understood, sir?”

  Madsen stopped pacing and faced the assistant U.S. attorney. “Joe Branick’s wife despised these affairs, Rivers. She rarely attended. She chose to live in the country. According to the president, their marriage was strained as a result, and Mr. Branick, unhappy. Depressed.” Madsen walked to his desk, picked up a single piece of paper, and handed it to Jones. “Four weeks ago Joe Branick completed an application for a permit to carry a firearm. I took the liberty of obtaining a copy of that permit for you as well.”

  Jones studied the application.

  “In short, Rivers, these are private matters. The president does not want his friend’s reputation trampled in the newspapers. I agree, but for different reasons.” Madsen returned to the front of the desk and stood over Jones. “What reflects poorly on Joe Branick will reflect poorly on the president, Rivers, which means it will reflect poorly on this administration. As callous as it may sound to some, I won’t have it. As Joe Branick’s friend, the president will feel great guilt. He will question whether he could have stopped him. I can’t be troubled with guilt. I’ve lost a lot of men, good men, under my command. We honor them and we move on, not because we have forgotten them but because we have not forgotten them. We have a job to do. The president has a job to do, Rivers. The best way to honor his friend is to do that job and to do it well. I’m going to see that he does—six more years, God willing.”

  Jones stood. “I understand.”

  “Good.” He turned for his chair again, speaking over his shoulder. “I’d suggest you start your investigation with Mr. Branick’s office. I’ve ordered it sealed.”

  “Sealed? May I ask why?”

  Madsen turned back to him. “Because I do not know what could be in there that could be sensitive to this administration or national security. Mr. Branick was a White House confidant, Rivers.” Madsen paused. “But I assure you, from this moment forward, this is your investigation.”

  7

  DARKNESS GAVE WAY to blurred light. Images pulsed and spiraled above him. Sloane lay on his back, staring up at the bank of fluoresce
nt lights on his kitchen ceiling. Instinctively he struggled to sit up, but a wave of nausea caused the room to tilt violently off-kilter, like an amusement park ride, and he slumped back to the floor. He felt a hand on his chest. The face circling above him slowed and came to a stop.

  Melda.

  “Mr. David?” She slapped his cheeks and wiped his forehead with a damp cloth, stammering in rushed sentences. “I am so sorry, Mr. David. I was so scared. I hear the noises and think you were not to be home. You say, ‘Melda, I will see you Sunday night!’” She put her hand to her mouth, fighting tears.

  Sloane sat up and ran a hand over a tender spot on the back of his head. A cast-iron skillet lay on the floor near Melda’s knees. It wasn’t difficult to put the rest together. As sweet as the apple pie she baked, Melda was a tough old bird and had never lost the bloodlines of the girl on the farm. She took her duties watching the building seriously. In the dark, with his back to her, she had swung first and asked questions later. Thankfully, Melda was in her sixties and not quite five feet, which limited the amount of force she’d been able to generate. The blow knocked him off balance; the condiments on the floor did the rest. He remembered barely getting his hands up in time as he slipped and fell forward, bumping his forehead on the kitchen counter.

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Melda. You’re right; I came home early. I’m sorry I startled you.”

  Widowed with no children, Melda had adopted Sloane. She cared for him when he was home, and cared for the building when he left on business. She collected his mail, fed Bud, the stray he’d found eating out of the Dumpster behind the building, and sprinkled food in the fish tank. She also took to doing his laundry, cleaning his apartment, and leaving plastic bowls of food in his refrigerator—tasks for which Sloane had tried to pay her. It had only upset her. In eight years he’d never raised her rent. What she paid, he invested in a money market account, and each Christmas he presented her with a cashier’s check, telling her it was a dividend from a computer stock he’d bought her.