That’s the first reference between us to the murder of my family. She already knows without my telling her, of course. Sometimes it seems like the whole world knows, even people I’ve never met, as if my backstory is required reading in some unknown curriculum somewhere. I have lived with that weirdness in the air for three years now—the sympathetic eyes of strangers staring at me as though I’m an exotic zoo animal. But Cate’s expression now is of a different cloth. Her face reveals real concern that she messed up the moment by going to the places where both of us most hurt. I reassure her.
“I don’t have a monopoly on suffering. No matter what happened to me, you’re still entitled to your pain. You were wronged by someone you loved and have a right to feel it. No one can take that away from you. And I’m glad that your first date back was with me. I hope your second date will be, too.”
A smile of relief floods her face. She reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze.
“Bless you for saying that, and I’m thinking Italian for our second date.”
***
I drop her off at the judicial building. She undoes her seat belt and turns toward me. The moonlight filtering through the windshield affords me a good look at her. The vulnerability in her eyes augments the natural beauty already there.
“I had a nice time, Chance. Thank you.”
“Me, too.”
She hesitates for a second and then brushes her lips on mine before leaving the car. I watch her enter the building before pulling away to make the long drive home. No work on the Corvette tonight. I need to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, I board a plane for our nation’s capital.
17
I look down on Washington D.C. from my window seat as the plane lowers itself from its cruising altitude. After Warren Jackson’s funeral, I told Minton that Clement Parsons wasn’t returning my calls. Minton took the ball from there. Now I have fifteen minutes—and only fifteen minutes—with the Senator.
I arrive early for my appointment and wait in the Senator’s reception area. Two hours later, I remain glued to the same chair. My legs ache from the forced inertia. Maybe a legitimate reason exists for the delay, but I’m too cynical to believe that. He’s teaching me a lesson. But hunger is getting the better of me, and I’m not in the mood.
When the summons finally comes, the Senator spouts a mouthful of apologies, “Sorry for making you wait, Mr. Meridian. National security emergency. The timing couldn’t be helped.”
“Totally understand.”
“How’s that Governor of yours doing down there? He has always been quite the rascal. We put back some drinks together in our time.”
“He would be doing better if someone hadn’t murdered his Chief Justice right under his nose.”
“I concede the point. Ugly business.”
“To be honest with you, Senator, as things now stand, you’re the last person to see Warren Jackson alive.”
The Senator ponders the statement and unveils a seasoned look of concern that he probably keeps in a jar for such occasions. He counters, “Other than the murderer, you mean.”
“Well, no one has confessed to that quite yet. Why don’t you tell me everything you remember about that night?”
“All right. I arrived around six-thirty. They gave me an empty office with a little washroom to freshen up, and a police officer came by to escort me to Warren’s chambers. The officer unlocked the door, we went in, and Beverly blanched the second she saw me. She hightailed it out of there with the officer, all without saying a word. I talked to Warren for a while, twenty minutes maybe. I left, started walking down the hall back to my room, then remembered something else I wanted to tell him. I returned to his chambers, and we talked for another minute. I went back to my space, looked over some papers, and decided to get a drink at the bar in the open area where folks were mingling. Adam Lumpkin approached me, and we returned to my makeshift office. We were together when word spread that Warren had been murdered. And I decided to get the hell out of town.”
“Was the Chief Justice alone when you left him?”
“Yes, and very much alive, I might add.”
“See anybody else go into his chambers?”
“No.”
“See anybody in the hall when you walked from the Chief Justice’s chambers to the office they gave you?”
“Not a soul.”
If I credit Senator Parsons’ account, Jackson was alive and sitting at his desk shortly before seven. Beverly Jackson’s scream came at seven-thirty, narrowing the window for the murderer to do the killing.
“How would you describe the Chief Justice’s mood?”
“Distracted.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
“None of your business, but I can tell you that he didn’t seem his normal self. We’ve been friends forever. I could tell he was upset by something, but Warren wouldn’t tell me what.”
“Mrs. Jackson seems to think that you and her husband were a little more than just friends.”
The Senator laughs, one of those guttural types that comes from deep in the belly—a politician’s laugh, fake, calculating, for show.
“I told you she blanched when she saw me. That’s why I didn’t attend the funeral. Too much trouble. That woman has hated me for over four decades. You think I haven’t heard the rumors about Warren and me for years? Nonsense. And they all come from her. She’s crazy, and I mean clinically. Something’s wrong with her. As for me, I am nothing but a boring family man. You can ask anybody.”
His eyes challenge me to make something of it. I’m game.
“Except I can’t ask Warren Jackson.”
“What’s your theory? That Warren and I were long-time gay lovers, only that he threatened to disclose it to the world right before I run for president, and I flew down to Atlanta to kill him in his own courthouse, apparently bringing a gun with me all the way from Capitol Hill? Do you realize how dumb that sounds?”
That’s one theory. And if he keeps talking down to me like that, he won’t be getting my vote.
He adds, “Besides, it’s the twenty-first century, you know. Being bisexual would probably get me votes.”
“You had a security detail with you, Officer Rich Booker. That means you would have avoided TSA screeners and the metal detectors. Perfect for carrying a gun.”
“Your time is almost up.”
I consider how best to use whatever questions I have left. The Senator won’t reveal anything he doesn’t want me to know, and tilting at windmills figures to be wasted effort. I reflect on the fact that I still know little about Adam Lumpkin and decide to camp out there.
“What did you and Justice Lumpkin talk about?”
“He has some pipe dream about being on the United States Supreme Court and was trying to butter me up. He’s a nuisance, a little too tightly-wound for my tastes. And you have only two more questions.”
“Did you and Lumpkin already know each other?”
“Ambitious people always have a knack for getting their faces before me. And I’ve seen Lumpkin’s face more times than I can count. You have one question left. Choose wisely.”
“What was Jackson wearing when you left his chambers?”
I saved this question for last. Warren Jackson was almost naked under his robe when he was murdered. The rumors about the Chief Justice and Parsons, the Senator’s refusal to tell me what they talked about that night, the twenty minutes they were all alone—one possibility pesters the mind. The Senator’s face becomes animated with scorn.
“What in the hell do you mean what was he wearing? Clothes—that’s what. Shirt, tie, and slacks. And your time is up.”
He indicates the door with his hand. I stand to leave, throwing out a parting question just for sport.
“Any idea who killed him?”
“No. But I think about what happened a lot. One of my lifelong best friends murdered a few minutes after I left his office—that’s a hard thing to stomach.”
&nb
sp; He pauses and looks out his window—the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial far in the distance.
“It could’ve been me.”
18
Capitol Police Officer Rich Booker wears indifference like a badge as we sit across from one another in a café underneath the Capitol Building. He tells me he has been on the job nearly thirty years, and retirement is right around the corner. Watching over the people who populate Congress must be a source of endless hours of stories. But I don’t have that kind of time, and Booker doesn’t strike me as much of a storyteller. I get to the point.
“What all do you remember about the night Warren Jackson was killed?”
Open-ended questions like this one push a witness to talk more and thereby reveal as much information as possible. Booker, though, isn’t in the mood.
“Not much. Stayed in a room by myself the whole time.”
Based on the little tour Larry Miller gave us, Booker’s room was next to the left hallway door. Exit that door, and much activity would’ve been in progress—the wait staff setting things up, the bartender handing out drinks, the justices on the landing socializing. I reflect that most everybody at the party seemed to be on that side of the building and away from the murder scene.
“What about before then, when you arrived?”
“We got there at half past six. The Clerk of Court—Miller, I think—showed us to our rooms. A state patrol officer came by to collect the Senator to take him to the Chief Justice. I stayed in my room.”
“When did you see the Senator again?”
“About an hour later when the commotion started.”
“I don’t mean to be flippant, but weren’t you supposed to be watching him?”
If Booker takes offense to the question, he doesn’t show it. His bored face barely shows any discernible emotion at all.
“On a trip like this, I’m mainly there to get him through the airports unaccosted. I don’t hold his hand as he goes about his business in a secure environment. That’s not my job.”
I don’t get the impression that Booker has warm feelings for Clement Parsons, but that might just be Booker’s personality.
“Tell me about the commotion.”
“I heard some loud voices and popped outside to investigate. The Senator stood in the hall with some squirrelly-looking guy. Someone shouted from down the corridor, ‘The Chief Justice has been murdered!’ The Senator told me to get my things because we were leaving.”
“No one tried to stop you?”
“I’m a federal officer who was guarding a prominent member of the national government. No one there had the authority to detain me.”
Whatever the legalities, the reality remains that Clement Parsons showed little interest in what happened to his friend and had an unimpeded getaway from the crime scene. But could he have counted on that before the fact? And what about the gun? I press the thought.
“Did you go through airport security in D.C.?”
“When a senator is being guarded, we don’t have to go through security.”
“What about on the way back in Atlanta?”
“I just told you. We get to bypass security.”
“And that includes the metal detectors?”
“Sure.”
“So it’s possible the Senator had a gun on him?”
Booker heaves a weary sigh and responds, “No idea. I didn’t frisk him if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you assigned to Senator Parsons any time he needs security?”
“Nah. Rotations are random. I watched the Senator a few times over the years. That’s it.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I’m not paid to have opinions.”
***
On the flight home, a new thought dances in my brain about Jackson’s texts with the mysterious “AC.” I pull up the Senator’s biography, wondering if “Clement” is only a middle name.
Right idea, wrong name. The Senator’s first name is Montgomery—Montgomery Clement Parsons.
***
Scott picks me up from the airport, and I give him a detailed account of today’s meetings.
He asks, “How serious of a suspect do you think Parsons is?”
“Last known person to be seen with Jackson alive. That’s opportunity. If they were lovers, we have a motive. Means? I don’t know. Possibly he brought a gun with him, but the idea doesn’t excite me.”
“Yeah. Parsons would have no idea he would even have the opportunity to kill him once he got here. Would he really be willing to bring a gun on such a long-shot chance? That would suggest some high-level desperation.”
“Well, he does want to be president.”
We move on to Booker, and I share my thoughts.
“Lifelong cop. No special connection to Parsons that would indicate a willingness to do the Senator’s dirty bidding. No apparent personal reason whatsoever to want Jackson dead. Doesn’t appear they ever even met. No one reports seeing him walking about anywhere that night. Unless something else pops with Booker, I think we can cross him off the list.”
“We’re getting closer.”
“Tomorrow is a big day—Gene Davis, Tommy Dalton, and Adam Lumpkin.”
19
Barbara Hsu and I stand together in the Fulton County Courthouse—the first time I’ve returned to the place since leaving for good.
Mary Woodcomb invites us into her chambers and gives me a big hug. She sat on the bench for my first trial ever and treated me with a gentle hand. She also presided over my last trial, the both of us wizened veterans by that point. But more than the courtroom memories we share, the thing about her that resonates with me the most is her presence at Amber and Cale’s funeral—a thoughtful gesture that still carries special meaning.
I smile at the familiar surroundings. Could be that Thomas Wolfe had it wrong. Maybe you can go home again.
The three of us sit down to business. Barbara hands over the search and wiretap warrants. Mary reads over them, her eyes getting bigger by the second. She glances up at one point and studies me. My eyes hold firm.
After finishing her reading, she sets the papers down and says, “Not your normal search warrant for suspicion of drugs, is it?”
I respond, “No, Your Honor.”
Barbara starts to make the legal case for the warrants, but the judge waves her off.
“I’m not concerned with the law. I’m concerned with the facts. How sure are you on this thing?”
We play her the two recordings—the first of Gene trying to bribe and extort Jackson, the second of Jerry Dalton taking Jackson’s phone and thwarting the attempt to record the conversation on the night of the murder.
Mary rubs her temple and composes her thoughts.
“You have enough on Gene Davis for a wiretap. That one’s easy. But the Daltons? They didn’t say anything incriminating on that tape.”
“Seizing Warren Jackson’s phone from him is a robbery. The statute requires the use of force or the threat of intimidation or,” I emphasize, “a sudden snatching. That’s what we heard—a sudden snatching. Because the offense was committed against someone over the age of sixty-five, the minimum prison time is five years but can go as high as twenty.”
The judge rolls her eyes and counters, “You want to put the Director of the GBI in prison for twenty years for taking someone’s phone for a few minutes?”
The question doesn’t call for an answer. I continue.
“In the first recording, the Chief Justice accuses Gene Davis of doing the Daltons’ bidding. Davis doesn’t deny it. The second recording is clearly the prelude to an unpleasant conversation. Jackson knew he was about to get put into a vise and wanted to cover his behind. The Daltons wanted to make sure that no one else heard what they were going to say. Within the next ninety minutes, the Chief Justice was dead.”
“Tommy Dalton’s going to be the next governor, Chance. You’re asking me to stick my neck out on something that looks a lot like a fis
hing expedition.”
“Well, he’s not governor yet, and the sitting governor appointed me as special attorney general because he senses that something is rotten in the house of Dalton.”
“I hate Hamlet,” Mary retorts.
The room is quiet while the mental wheels turn in her head. She finally asks, “Do you have anything else you can give me?”
“Only that we’re down to maybe a dozen or so people left who had the opportunity to kill Warren Jackson, and the three most likely candidates at the moment are in those papers there.”
She sighs.
“I will grant the wiretap on Davis and Jerry Dalton. You have credible evidence that both committed felonies. But you have nothing on the Attorney General. You need more before I can authorize a tap on him. He has rights, too. Find that something more, and you’re in.”
When Barbara and I emerge from chambers, I tell her to work with Marlon to get our taps up and running. Meanwhile, I walk down a block over to the State Capitol, where Scott and I intend to put the screws to Gene Davis.
***
Gene’s desk is as sloppy as he is. Scott and I take our seats. The witness looks at us with bemusement, almost arrogance, convinced that we cannot touch him. He barks at us, “I’m busy, so please hurry up with it.”
I smile honey at him, hold my phone up in the air, and press play.
“To keep things on the level, I won’t say on whose behalf I’m here today, but we both know the who and we both know the why. You’re nearing retirement, and it would be mighty nice for you to have a fancy place to stay in the location of your choice—maybe a mansion on Sea Island off the Georgia coast, a high-rise condo in New York City, or even a castle in Europe. Your choice. Somewhere you can take your wife. Or, knowing you as I do, somewhere your wife doesn’t even have to know about.”
No longer amused, he recognizes his own voice talking to Warren Jackson. The recording continues.
“The Governor is an old, beaten down man. He has lost his fastball since Ruth died and is only playing out the string at this point. He already doesn’t like me but knows that he needs me if he’s going to survive the next two years. And you need to think about the future.”
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 9
