The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

  “Yeah, you got me, better than you’ll ever know, Peter.”

  “Payback’s a bitch.”

  Molia smiled. “I’ll follow you.”

  Ho started across the lot to his Blazer. Molia slipped behind the steering wheel of Banto’s Jeep. Sloane pulled open the passenger door. The thought came suddenly. He turned and looked at Peter Ho unlocking the door of his car. “I didn’t tell her.”

  Molia leaned across the seat. “What’s the matter?”

  Sloane leaned down and spoke into the car. “I didn’t tell Aileen Blair that Ho did an autopsy.”

  “What?”

  “Aileen Blair, Joe Branick’s sister—I didn’t tell her Ho did an autopsy. She thought he didn’t. She thought the Justice Department stepped in. She had no reason to call back for results.”

  Molia had already unsnapped his seat belt, getting out of the car, shouting Ho’s name, but the Jefferson County coroner had slipped into the Blazer and slammed the door.

  “Ho!”

  77

  BREWER REREAD the newspaper articles, the ones that had lingered with Charles Jenkins like a malignant tumor—treatable perhaps, but never completely gone. The newspapers had yellowed and faded with the years, crackling to the touch, but he recalled well the contents of two articles in particular.

  Mexican Massacre

  The Associated Press

  OAXACA, Mexico—In what Mexican officials are describing as a bloodbath, at least 48 men, women, and children are reported to have been raped, beaten, and killed in a remote mountain settlement in the jungles of Oaxaca, Mexico.

  Already being described as the worst massacre in Mexico’s sometimes troubled and violent history, the Mexican newspaper La Jornada blamed the attack on a series of escalating battles between Mexico’s indigenous poor, fighting for better living conditions, and government paramilitary forces.

  Mexican military leaders have strongly denied any involvement in the attack or that any coordinated operations were under way to put down persistent revolutionary groups in Mexico’s southern region, where the groups are suspected of using the rugged mountainous terrain and dense jungles to avoid government and paramilitary forces.

  There are no reported survivors.

  Jenkins skipped the remainder of the article and turned the page to an equally faded clipping dated two weeks after the first article.

  Mexican Massacre May Not Have Been Work of Military

  The Associated Press

  OAXACA, Mexico—Mexican officials are hinting at evidence that last month’s attack on a village in the jungles of the southern Mexican state of Oaxaca was not perpetrated by government military units as widely suspected, but was instead carried out by a hard-line underground organization known as the Mexican Liberation Front, or MLF.

  Considered to be one of Mexico’s most violent revolutionary groups, the MLF and its leader, known only as el Profeta, the Prophet, has recently accepted responsibility for a series of attacks on government forces and government officials in the southern Mexican states. Mexico’s military intelligence and CIA counterpart, CISEN, has had little success stopping the violence or identifying the organization’s leaders.

  A government official said heavily armed members of the MLF, dressed in black and gray uniforms commonly worn by a paramilitary force known as los Halcones, the Falcons, perpetrated the attack. The MLF’s motivation is not yet clear, but officials said it was likely to inflame the passions of Mexico’s middle class and 9 million indigenous peoples to take up arms against the Mexican government and military.

  If the reports prove accurate, the act appears to have backfired badly. Mexican officials say it has hardened the government’s resolve to hunt down the perpetrators in the rough and dense terrain, and that villagers once loyal to the group’s leaders have already given up several suspected MLF leaders.

  “It’s a fairly common tactic,” Jenkins said. “If you can’t find the man, you try to turn those closest to him against him. The Israelis have done it, and we did it in Afghanistan.”

  Brewer removed his reading glasses, holding them in his hand. He looked stunned. “Peak did this?”

  Jenkins nodded. “Peak gave the order. The attack was carried out by a group known as Talon Force.”

  “Ours?”

  “Ours.”

  Brewer rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Jesus! Why?”

  “The American people did not have the stomach for another war, Mr. Brewer, and Robert Peak was not about to allow Communism to set up shop in America’s backyard, not at a time when the president was looking to Mexico for its oil. Peak always had political ambitions. His father made sure he had his eye on the ultimate prize at all times. Nothing was going to get in the way of that, especially not some peasant revolutionary stirring up trouble in the mountains. Peak needed to ensure the stability of the country in the event the Arabs didn’t blink and called the president’s bluff.”

  “But a village? Why women and children?”

  “You commit an act so horrific it shocks the sensibilities of the country and the world; then you blame it on the organization you’re trying to dismantle, and you get the people who’ve been protecting him to give him up. It worked to a degree. The problem was, nobody, except perhaps for a select few, knew el Profeta’s identity. He was smart in that regard.”

  “And el Profeta intends to kill Robert Peak for this massacre?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? Tell me how he could get close enough to do it.”

  “I’ve told you, we’ve invited him.”

  Brewer’s face pinched. “The summit.”

  “Do you think he’s been living in a hole for thirty years, Mr. Brewer? Alex said these negotiations were top secret. So to have pulled off what he’s pulled off, el Profeta has to be a high-ranking member of either the Mexican military or the government. Either way he’ll be part of the Mexican delegation. He’ll be standing at the ceremony. He’s waited thirty years for this opportunity. He won’t let it pass now.”

  “But he has to know that security will be a bitch, even for the delegates. How does he get a weapon in?”

  Jenkins shook his head. “That I don’t know, which is why I assume Joe was trying to determine not how he was going to do it, but who he is.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense, either; if Joe was trying to determine this man’s identity, to possibly save Robert Peak’s life, why would Peak have him killed?”

  “Because Peak didn’t know that. What makes men like Robert Peak strong is also their biggest weakness. They have just one interest: themselves. When Peak learned that Branick had the file and was making these inquiries, he assumed Joe intended to expose him for what he did back in that village. To Peak there was no other reason to keep something like that unless it was to use it against him. And I assume that is why Peak kept inviting Branick back to work for him. It wasn’t because of friendship; it was because Peak feared what Branick knew.”

  “Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer,” Brewer said.

  “Exactly. What Peak couldn’t understand, because it is so completely foreign to his way of thinking, is that Joe Branick would never have betrayed him or breached his code of silence. Joe believed in his oath, and Joe always did the right thing.”

  “Then why did Joe dig up the file after so many years?” Brewer asked.

  “I asked myself that very same question.”

  “And the answer?”

  “Joe left it for me in the file. Get me in to see Robert Peak, and I’ll tell you both.”

  78

  THE FORCE OF the explosion shook the parking lot asphalt like an earthquake, knocking Sloane from his feet onto his back. Twisted metal and bits of glass rained from the sky, flames engulfing the Blazer like tentacles of a huge octopus. Plumes of black smoke billowed into the air, carrying the smell of burning rubber and an intense rush of heat.

  Sloane sat up and watched Tom Molia stagger toward what remained of the car, jacket drap
ed over his head. He scrambled to his feet to intervene, but Molia shoved him aside and continued forward, dropping low to the ground, disappearing momentarily in the black smoke. He emerged dragging Peter Ho’s body. Sloane rushed forward and grabbed Ho by an arm—deadweight across the parking lot. They fell to the pavement, coughing violently, spitting up black gunk, struggling to breathe. The fire and smoke had blackened Ho’s face, spotting it with patches of pink where the skin had been torn away. He was drenched in sweat. The force of the blast had literally blown him out of one of his brown loafers.

  Molia cradled his friend’s lifeless body to his own, rocking in agony, arms shaking, chest heaving in silent sobs. Guilt gripped Sloane’s chest like a kick to the sternum. The light in his head flashed, and he plummeted into darkness as if dropping into a hole. This time he landed in the arms of the woman. Warm and alive, she rocked him, humming softly as she caressed his hair. He felt the warmth of her breast, her hands comforting him, soothing him, and something he had never felt before, what he had missed all of his life, what he had longed for and never found: love. Pure, unconditional, unadulterated love.

  He knew her.

  “I don’t know who they are,” Molia said, looking up at him. “And I don’t know how I’m going to find them, but I will. And when I do, I’m going to string them up by their balls.”

  SLOANE STOOD WITH three uniformed police officers on Tom Molia’s front porch—young men milling uncomfortably like distant relatives at a family funeral, not knowing what to say. Their patrol cars waited in the street, headlights on and engines running. The swirling lights and screaming sirens that had brought the neighbors out onto their porches were now silent.

  Molia knelt to hug and kiss his daughter. She wore a blue jacket with the words “Disney World” stitched across the back, and held the handle of a pink suitcase. The detective pulled her to him, inhaling the smell of her hair and kissing her cheek. Then he grabbed his son, T.J., who remained insistent on wearing his father’s black and silver Oakland Raiders jacket though it extended past his knees. He, too, held a small suitcase, the arm of a toy sticking out from the zipper. Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks; neither child was accustomed to seeing their father and mother so upset.

  “You listen to your mom, and I’ll meet you as soon as I can,” Molia said, trying to calm his son.

  “Why can’t you come now, Daddy? I want you to come now.”

  “Of course I’m coming. I’m just coming later.”

  “I want you to come now,” the boy insisted.

  Molia pressed the boy to his chest. “I have work to do. I have to put you two through college, don’t I?”

  “I don’t want to go to college. College is stupid.”

  “Don’t say stupid. You’ll want to go to college. There are pretty girls in college.”

  “I hate girls.”

  “I met your mom there.”

  T.J. rubbed his nose, perhaps never having considered his mother a pretty girl.

  “Kiss Grandma for me,” Molia said.

  The boy made a face as if he’d sucked a lemon, looked up at his mother, who stood watching, arms folded, hands clutching crumpled Kleenex, then leaned forward to whisper in his father’s ear, “She has bad breath.”

  Molia whispered back, “Kiss her on the cheek. And don’t play with Grandpa’s trains. You know how he can get.”

  He hugged both children again in a fierce embrace, then stood and turned to his wife. Maggie rubbed her forearms as if trying to warm them. “I’ll call you.”

  She nodded, gathered both children, and started down the porch steps.

  “Hey,” Molia said softly.

  Maggie ushered the children to Banto, who had met her halfway up the walk.

  “Can we turn on the siren, Marty?” T.J. asked.

  “Not a police car if you can’t turn on the siren,” Banto said, leading them down the path to the cars.

  Maggie turned and rushed back up the steps, hugging her husband like a sailor returning from war. “Don’t you make me raise those two kids alone, Tom Molia. Don’t you do it; don’t you dare do it.”

  “I won’t,” he whispered.

  “If you die on me, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  He released his grip, his cheeks saturated with his own tears and hers. “Then I won’t die on you. Who loves you, babe?”

  She closed her eyes as if struck by a pain. “Who loves you, babe?”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and walked her down the porch steps. The officers followed at a respectful distance, leaving Sloane alone to watch from the porch. Banto helped Maggie into the backseat, then shook his partner’s hand.

  “You sure you don’t want my help?” Banto asked.

  “I’m trusting you with my family, Marty. Don’t let anything happen to them.”

  “Nothing will. You’re a pain in my ass, but I can’t take Franklin alone.” Then Banto lowered into the car and shut the door.

  The detective stood on the sidewalk watching the procession make its way down the street, their departure punctuated with two short blasts of the sirens to pacify his son. Then the cars turned right and were gone.

  Tom Molia paused for a moment as if to gather his emotions, then wheeled and walked briskly back up the path, taking the porch in a leap. He pulled open the screen door. Sloane followed him inside and watched as the detective unlocked the dead bolt to a closet in the front room, pulled out a Kevlar vest and flung it on the couch, then brought out an assortment of handguns and rifles, as if taking inventory of a small gun shop.

  “First we’ll pay a visit to Rivers Jones.” He laid out his weapons as he detailed how they would gather enough direct evidence to implicate Parker Madsen. With three dead men all bearing the same tattoo, they had enough to get the feds involved, but Molia wasn’t interested in that at the moment.

  “Going to the feds would be like blowing a shrill whistle in a crowded theater,” he’d said. “We’d get everybody’s attention, but not much else. All it would do is give Madsen, and whoever else is involved, a chance to get their defenses in order.”

  Sloane knew that would effectively end the investigation, and that would effectively end his quest to figure out his own identity. But he also knew that the detective’s plan was born of anger and not reason. It would not work. Madsen was too well insulated. Rivers Jones was likely a pawn, a fall guy in the event anyone got close. They needed the Justice Department to cooperate, to say Joe Branick had killed himself. Jones was that guy. Sloane knew there was only one way they were going to get close to Peak or Madsen, and that was by using the file. That was what they wanted most. That was the bargaining chip. It was the only way to end it, however that might be. He needed to stop the killing.

  As Molia discussed his plan and took inventory of his weapons, they heard an otherwise familiar sound that at the moment was so unexpected, it took them both time to determine what it was. The phone on Sloane’s belt was ringing. He snatched it and flipped it open, expecting to see Tina’s number on the lighted display. The caller ID was blocked.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Sloane.”

  A man’s voice, somehow familiar, though Sloane could not place it in that instant. “Who is this?”

  Molia stepped toward him, and Sloane hit the speaker button on the side of the phone.

  “Who this is, is not important, Mr. Sloane. You have turned out to be a formidable adversary. The two men you disposed of were highly skilled and highly trained soldiers. So was the man in San Francisco. I commend you.”

  Sloane looked to Molia and mouthed the word “Madsen.” “Whatever they were, General, at the moment they’re just dead.”

  The caller did not dispute his identity. “Yes, that’s my understanding.” It was Madsen.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Sloane, a settlement of sorts, to use a word that I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  “I’m listening.”

  �
�A meeting, just you and I, alone.”

  “Why would I do that?” Sloane asked, though it was exactly what he’d had in mind.

  “Because you have a package, and I have a need for that package.”

  “I asked why I would meet with you, General, not why you would meet with me. It’s readily apparent what you want.”

  “Very good. I would expect such a precise and reasoned response from an acclaimed trial lawyer such as yourself.” Madsen paused. “In order for there to be a successful negotiation, each side must have some leverage, something to bargain with, something the other side would want. Am I correct? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Madsen, there is nothing in this world that you could have that I would want.”

  “I find that response very disappointing, Mr. Sloane. I must admit that I had been looking forward to meeting you, or should I say, meeting you again? That was quite an accomplishment, getting into the West Wing of the White House. I believe it to be unprecedented, and clearly indicative of someone highly intelligent, skilled, and composed. But if you think I would make such a statement without the ability to back it up, then I can only say that perhaps I have overestimated you, or you have underestimated my resolve.”

  “I haven’t underestimated you at all, Mr. Madsen.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ.”

  “David?”

  Molia pulled his face away at the unexpected sound. Sloane closed his eyes. His head slumped to his chest.

  “Tina,” he whispered.

  “You will see, Mr. Sloane, that I am not a man who makes bold proclamations I cannot keep.”

  “Madsen, you son of a bitch. So help me God—”

  “I’m glad to hear she is of as much importance to you as I suspected.”

  “Madsen, you listen to me—”

  Madsen’s voice hardened. “You are in no position to be making threats or demands, Mr. Sloane. Nor is there any need to make this personal. Consider it a business transaction. You have a package. I want it. You bring it to me, and I release the woman to you. Simple, neat, and clean.”