by Stephen Frey
“Are you sure I did all right up there today?” she asked, still gazing at the headstone inside the gold frame—a tall, broken column representing a life taken too early. “Did I look like a deer in the headlights when that one reporter shouted out about jurors earning a million dollars a year?”
Cameron waved a hand like she shouldn’t give it another thought. “You played him perfectly, made everyone believe he was crazy.”
“What would have happened if I’d admitted that we’re paying jurors two million dollars a year?”
Cameron smiled like he wished he could have seen it. “Pandemonium. The situation would have been far worse than if you’d admitted to jury tampering as being the real impetus behind Project Archer. People would have been begging to throw their hats in the ring.”
“The compensation level will come out sooner or later.”
“Sooner, definitely, but it didn’t come out today. And that’s the important point. If reporters had heard two million a year, that’s all they would have focused on.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“I’m still hoping you’ll accept me into the program.”
“I’m glad you’re kidding.”
“Mmm … you might be kidding yourself.”
“If I offered you four million dollars, would you completely cut yourself off from the world for two years? Tell me the truth, Cameron.”
He took his time answering. “I’ve thought a lot about that. It’s a ton of money. But it’s two years inside those walls, doing nothing but being a juror and having no contact with anyone but the other hundred and ninety-nine souls. I’d probably hang myself.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, Governor.”
“You can’t call me that anymore,” Victoria reminded him good-naturedly as she tapped the gold frame three times. “Tom Falkner is governor now.”
“Ah,” he said, “you’ll always be governor to me. What is that?” he asked, pointing at the frame.
“It’s Meriwether Lewis’ headstone,” she answered, holding it out so he could take it. “I went to his grave in Tennessee before we announced the campaign. I needed inspiration.”
“I remember you going there, to Tennessee. He was a Virginian.”
“He was from Ivy, Virginia, which isn’t too far from Archer Prison.” She shook her head. “What he and William Clark did leading the Corps of Discovery was amazing.”
“I’ve read.”
“But he died at thirty-three.”
“He was shot.”
“He shot himself. He loved danger. Unfortunately, he loved whiskey, too. In the end, the whiskey won.”
“It was his vice.”
“Yes,” Victoria agreed.
“We all have them,” Cameron observed, raising one thin eyebrow, “don’t we, Governor?”
They shared a moment of silent acknowledgment.
Perhaps, she thought to herself, they knew too much about each other.
“Everyone was impressed,” Cameron finally said, taking a last look at the photograph before handing it back to Victoria, “everyone except Majority Leader Franz. Of course, his snit was to be expected.”
“I didn’t expect him to walk out.”
“He was making a statement, obnoxious as it was. He’s still bitter about you convincing so many members of his party to abandon him while you were governor. He doesn’t like being ignored, either. And he’s terrified that a huge piece of history is about to sail out of port into glory with him standing on the dock, looking like an idiot.”
“He should look like an idiot. He’s a complete narcissist.”
“Yes, but you might have kissed the ring just once.”
“Why? I don’t need him. The Supreme Court of Virginia is it, in this case.”
“We can never be too proud in the pursuit of good. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Can you believe that kid firing all those personal missiles at me today in the press conference?” she asked, dodging the question they both knew the answer to. “I have to get used to those kinds of questions. Eldridge warned me about that.”
“Eldridge also warned you about getting security,” Cameron reminded her. “It’s time.”
She moaned at that prospect as she rose and stepped out from behind her desk—she hated having bodyguards—catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the fireplace. She’d worn her long blond hair up at the announcement, but now it was down. As soon as she’d gotten home, she’d traded contact lenses for her round, wire-rim glasses. Still no crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes or mouth, she confirmed, checking her reflection again. Not bad for thirty-seven, she figured.
“Get yourself out of that mirror,” Cameron chided. “You’re still a sexy little minx. You still turn heads.”
“I’ll need to hear that more and more as forty closes in.”
“Fine. What about security?”
“I hate having bodyguards. You know that. I hated it when I was governor. I still do.”
“Eldridge has security. They were all around him today when he left the lobby.”
“He’s chief justice of Virginia’s Supreme Court. He has to have security.”
“Raul Acosta has done a tremendous job there.”
“As Raul will do for us,” she added, glancing in the mirror for one more reassurance.
“Have you told Wolf about Acosta yet?”
“No. I’ll pick a time tomorrow when it seems to make sense.”
“That’ll be interesting. Wolf won’t be happy.”
“I don’t care, Cam. It’s the right decision. If he’s too unhappy, I’ll fire him.”
“Another day, another battle.” Cameron inhaled deeply. “I’ll talk to Acosta about who he uses for Eldridge’s security.”
“You do that,” she said, clasping Cameron gently by the elbow and guiding him out of the study, through the living room, and to the front door of her little house in the woods. “You talk to Acosta. By the way, did you arrange to get that envelope?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the pass—”
“Dominick,” he interrupted as she opened the door for him. “What’s in that envelope, Victoria?”
“Don’t open it,” she warned.
“I heard you the first of four times. I’m not deaf, and I don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“And I’ll tell you a fifth time if I feel like it,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Good night.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
“Go on, get out of—”
“Hey, listen to me.”
“What?”
“You live in the middle of the woods by yourself,” he said, waving into the darkness outside, “at the end of a long, lonely driveway. You need security.”
“We’ll talk.”
“Go right to bed when I’m gone. Don’t get sidetracked.”
“What are you talking—”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve got a lot going on tomorrow, and we’re getting very close to launch. Get your sleep. I don’t want to catch you grinding your teeth tomorrow on the tour.”
“Good night.”
“Promise me.”
“Good night, Cameron.”
When he was gone, she moved back to the study, slid open the top right drawer of the desk, and gazed down at the small cellophane bag full of white powder lying on the plate—beside a rolled-up Ben Franklin, an old credit card, and a little pile of already-prepared powder.
The pressure kept ratcheting higher and higher. She hadn’t had time for a serious relationship in quite a while because there was always another mountain to climb, so she had no one to truly confide in. Cameron was her business partner, but she was also his superior. Despite their closeness, there was only so much weakness she could show him. And his twist didn’t allow him to help her with matters of the heart.
She wasn’t a robot, for God’s sake. She deserved a private life,
didn’t she? She gazed down at the plate, longing for that exhilarating sensation, even if the freedom it provided was only fleeting. Fearing that sensation desperately, but loving it more. She must. Why else would she take the risk?
Risk versus reward—wasn’t that always the curve that had to be drawn? Sometimes that curve could be oh so dangerous.
She reached for the plate as she sat behind her desk, fingers shaking with anticipation. She moved some clutter aside, and put the plate down in front of her.
She glanced at the blinds covering the window to the left, the only window in her study. Could anyone possibly see in here?
She tapped the desk three times, watching the random motion of the three pennies hanging from the silver bracelet. The action and the pennies would protect her. They always had.
She reached for the tightly rolled Benjamin. Cameron would hate her for this—and she understood why. But she couldn’t resist.
She’d be fine.
CHAPTER 5
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA (SOUTH SIDE)
Raul Acosta took a drag from the Marlboro Black just as the front door of the three-story brick colonial opened. It was one o’clock in the morning and graveyard-dark inside the drizzle soaking the neighborhood’s impressive homes. Acosta’s eyes had grown semiaccustomed to the gloom beneath the rain-swollen clouds, which had scuttled into Richmond earlier tonight from the Shenandoah. But with no lights on inside or out, it was still difficult to see much.
He pulled his cell phone out when it vibrated. The text was from Cameron Moore: He wanted to speak. That was all Moore had written, but the discussion could only touch on one topic—Victoria Lewis’ security. In Acosta’s humble opinion, Ms. Lewis should have had security before the announcement at the Supreme Court Building. Long before.
Acosta slipped the phone back in his pocket when a dark silhouette emerged from the house and, one hand clutching the railing, negotiated the steps leading down from the porch to the rain-slickened walkway. Oddly, the individual hadn’t illuminated any exterior lights to guide his way.
Nearly ten minutes had passed since Acosta had swung his Ford Explorer into the driveway. His arrival must have been observed from inside the home, and his boss was always punctual. But time had passed—which was troubling.
Everything about tonight was troubling … and had been ever since Acosta groggily answered the terse, midnight call demanding that he come immediately but wait outside—no knocking. Acosta assumed the ban against knocking was to avoid awakening Mitch’s three young children. But he’d wanted more details before climbing out of his warm, comfortable bed to leave Sofia, who’d sexily offered intimacy if he would ignore the call. Eleven years and two pregnancies and Sofia was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
The line had gone dead before he could ask Mitch for details—Acosta knew better than to call back.
He watched Mitch’s silhouette negotiate the shadows. He’d always wondered how his boss could afford this idyllic home set on three wooded acres, the Mercedes SLK55, the brand-new Denali, three private-school tuitions, and the exotic vacations. It had to be family money, because a state salary couldn’t cut it.
But family money didn’t jive with the tours in Afghanistan. There was another possibility—one Acosta hated to consider.
Maybe he should confront Mitch about that possibility rather than trying to trail him—unsuccessfully so far—each time Mitch ventured into the shadows of Richmond’s sketchier commercial districts. Determining whom Mitch was secretly meeting in the back of a long, black limousine would go a long way toward assuaging or confirming Acosta’s suspicions. Of course, if it confirmed them, what was he supposed to do? Mitch was Judge Eldridge’s nephew.
For a moment Acosta wondered if it was an imposter approaching through the darkness. He was naturally suspicious, had been ever since his stint as a prison guard on Rikers Island in New York City—before he’d moved his family to Virginia to escape the downsides of Brooklyn. It was a perfect career attribute and a primary reason he was head of security for the Virginia Supreme Court. Standing six feet four inches and weighing 240 pounds didn’t hurt, either. He was the youngest of seven boys, but far from the runt.
Acosta would have been perfectly happy to stay in this job for good—but the money Victoria Lewis was offering to transition to Project Archer was simply too good. And, behind closed doors, Judge Eldridge had urged him to go to Charlottesville with Ms. Lewis.
Acosta’s moment of uncertainty about the silhouette’s identity passed quickly. Ryan Mitchell’s excruciating limp was unmistakable. During Mitch’s second tour of duty in Afghanistan, a Taliban mortar had ripped through a chaotic firefight, tearing off everything below his right knee. His right hip and face had also been badly damaged on that rocky crag.
Acosta had never once heard Mitch complain about the deep scars on his face, the constant pain in his hip, or needing a prosthetic. Never once heard him express any bitterness about the terrible, life-altering hand he’d been dealt as a twenty-four-year-old serving his country. Mitch only ever expressed regret at the deaths of others under his command that night.
“Why the cloak-and-dagger crap?” Acosta demanded in his tough Brooklynese as he pulled the Yankees baseball cap from his curly hair to shake away moisture. Even heroes weren’t exempt from a little aggravated cross-examination at one o’clock in the morning. “This is ridiculous, Mitch.”
“Quiet, sport,” Mitch answered in his deliberate drawl.
Mitch reminded Acosta of an Irish altar boy, with his red hair, turquoise eyes, and cherub face full of freckles. They were only ten years apart, Acosta knew, but an objective observer would have guessed twenty.
“I ain’t your beck-and-call boy. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Quiet!”
Acosta raised both eyebrows. Usually his boss was unflappable, the essence of calm. But tonight Mitch’s eyes were darting around like pinballs beneath glass. And his voice had an edge to it, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
Acosta put his cap back on so it tilted slightly forward and to the right. “As my late grandmother used to say, you’re nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“With all due respect to your grandmother, take this and get going.” Mitch held out an envelope he’d been keeping under one arm of his slicker. “Now.”
“Right now?” Acosta asked, taking it.
“If not sooner, sport.”
Acosta chuckled despite his aggravation. Mitch used that nickname with everyone in the offices of Virginia’s Supreme Court, even the women—everyone except the seven justices, of course.
“Where exactly am I going?”
“Head for the West End,” Mitch said, “toward the University of Richmond. You’ll get a call in a few minutes with more specific information.”
“From you?”
“Maybe … maybe not.”
Acosta flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the wet grass beside the driveway, then took the envelope and stowed it in an inside pocket of his knee-length raincoat. Mitch was speaking barely above a whisper, as if someone else might be listening.
“I’ll run it up there tomorrow morning.”
“You’ll run it up there now.”
The West End was in the opposite direction from Acosta’s home east of Richmond, near the airport. “I won’t get home until three this morning.”
“So be it.”
Acosta peered into the South-Side gloom, scanning for telltale shadows. He was already craving another cancer stick. But if he lit up in the Explorer, Sofia would detect the smoke trail. She’d ride him relentlessly if she found out he’d picked up the habit again.
“What’s in here?” Acosta demanded, tapping his raincoat above the envelope. “What am I carrying, Mitch?”
“It’s better that you don’t know.”
“Tell me or I don’t go.”
“Oh, you’ll go. We both know that.”
“Why doesn’
t your boss just e-mail it?”
Mitch leaned in close again. “There can be no trail to Chief Justice Eldridge. Now,” he ordered, breaking into a good-natured smile as he leaned back again, “get your brown ass out of here. The faster you deliver it, the faster you get home to that beautiful bride of yours.” His smile widened. “How you ever convinced a woman nine years your junior to marry you, I’ll never know, especially one as beautiful as Sofia.”
Acosta smothered the desire to let his fiery temper fly, even if Mitch was his boss, and even if Mitch’s boss was the chief justice of the state’s Supreme Court. But he deserved at least some information for getting out of bed. “What’s in the envelope?” he demanded again.
“Don’t stop for anyone,” Mitch advised, blatantly ignoring the question this time. “Not even a state boy with his cherries on fire. And if you do, be ready for bear.”
“Meaning?”
“You got your nine-millimeter, sport? First round chambered?”
“Always.”
“Be careful,” Mitch advised. “Eyes peeled the whole way. Judge Eldridge told me to tell you that several times, and he never repeats himself, Raul.”
Now Acosta needed that cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time Mitch had called him anything but “sport.” And Mitch was right. Eldridge never repeated himself.
Mitch moved to go, but turned back. Acosta spotted the Taliban-inflicted divots carving the silhouette of his cheek.
“Do you know what’s in the envelope?” Mitch asked.
This night kept getting stranger and stranger. “How could I?”
“You and Judge Eldridge have gotten awfully chummy. You’ve been behind closed doors a lot lately with him.”
Mitch’s voice suddenly carried a grainy, uncertain tone Acosta had never heard before. Maybe the envelope involved Mitch’s late-night meetings with whoever was in the back of that limousine. “You’re getting paranoid, boss. It’s not flattering.” He couldn’t tell Mitch what the closed-door discussions involved. Eldridge had warned him several times about keeping the move to Project Archer hush-hush.
“If I’d been more paranoid in Afghanistan that night, five of my men would have survived.” Mitch tilted his head slightly to one side. “What has my uncle been telling you behind my back? Has he found out something about me?”
