Jury Town

by Stephen Frey

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Rockwell?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine. Why do we need to talk about Commonwealth Electric Power?”

  “I thought we told you about asking so many—”

  “It’s all right,” another of the Grays interrupted. “We may need Mr. Rockwell’s assistance with this.”

  “CEP,” a third voice spoke up, “is by far Virginia’s largest public utility, Mr. Rockwell. It provides electricity to over ninety-seven percent of the state’s population, mostly using coal at its many plants to fire the generators, which produce the power. Spent coal from the burners also produces mountains of ash, which contain high levels of arsenic, selenium, mercury, and lead. All very nasty stuff, so, of course, the ash is supposed to be disposed of carefully. But that can be a time-consuming and costly process. And the ash accumulates quickly. So, if you don’t keep up with disposal, the mountain can quickly become unmanageable and spill outside property lines.”

  “Or worse, as in this case.”

  “One of Commonwealth’s plants in the extreme southwestern corner of the state has been accused by Virginia’s Department of Environmental Quality of dumping large amounts of that toxic ash into a river, which runs beside the plant and then flows into North Carolina. The DEQ and the citizens in the area are claiming that gray sludge has coated the riverbed for miles and miles downstream, destroying the ecosystem, killing significant amounts of fish and other wildlife, and basically making the river unusable for anything. Plant managers claim a flood is responsible. The DEQ says no way.”

  “And if the DEQ can prove that plant managers dumped ash into the river knowingly and are, therefore, guilty of gross negligence, Commonwealth Electric could have a major problem on its hands. A cleanup of that magnitude could cost hundreds of millions of dollars, possibly more, especially if North Carolina jumps on the bandwagon. And then there is the whole criminal element to this, which is what we’re concerned about.”

  Rockwell sneered. “It’s a public utility regulated by a public utilities commission. At the end of the day, even if the cleanup costs billions, the citizens of Virginia end up footing the bill by paying for it in the rate base. Translated, the commission will let CEP raise rates on all its customers. In the end, the same people who had their river destroyed will pay for the cleanup.” He shrugged. “Too bad, but that’s how it works. A few catfish died. What’s the big deal? Seems like what we ought to do is invest in the companies that will perform the cleanup.”

  “The big deal is that someone we’re close to is very involved with Commonwealth Electric Power.”

  “Yeah,” another of them snapped loudly, “my brother’s the damn CEO, and he could face—”

  “Hey, hey, no details!”

  “Damn it!”

  “What were you thinking?” someone hissed.

  “Sorry.”

  Clearly, Rockwell realized, that exchange wasn’t to have erupted in front of him—which he found at the same time fascinating and intensely aggravating.

  He was taking immense risks for these men. They should be treating him more like a partner if they wanted his loyalty. Money was one thing; trust was another.

  On the flip side, he’d gleaned two fascinating data bytes from the furious back-and-forth.

  This situation was personal. They were going to fix the jury on this case so the CEO wouldn’t face criminal charges if CEP was found guilty in the civil action. This situation had nothing to do with financial gain or protection of an industry on a large scale, as the oil case in Los Angeles did. This had to do with a direct family relationship.

  The second piece here was that Rockwell could now finally figure out the identity of one of the Grays—at least find the family name if there were more than two brothers. Now he really couldn’t wait to get on the road. As soon as he got back to Connecticut, he would go on the Internet and find out the CEO’s name.

  “The real problem,” one of the men spoke up, “is that this case will be tried by a jury behind the walls of the old Archer Prison. This will be one of the first cases Victoria Lewis gets her hands on.”

  “Christ,” the man whose brother was CEO hissed. “That’s just great.”

  “How do we know?” someone asked.

  “My contact down in Virginia got me that information. His contact inside the Supreme Court got a list of those initial cases directly from Judge Eldridge’s office. And this was one of them.”

  “Damn it.”

  “That man in Virginia has been quite helpful. He was also the one who found out that the professional jurors will be paid two million dollars a year.”

  “Two million?”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Would you completely cut yourself off from the world for two years for four million dollars?” Rockwell asked.

  A hush fell over the room.

  “I thought I read last night that one of the primary motivations for establishing this facility was to seat objective juries.” Rockwell spoke up nervously, uncertain of whether he should have blurted that question out—based on the stony silence and the stern warning of before. “So if Archer is just starting tomorrow, won’t all the people going inside the walls have already heard about the Commonwealth Electric case?”

  “Not necessarily. It hasn’t gotten a lot of press. It’s in a remote part of the state.”

  “Mark my words, they’ll find twelve people who haven’t heard of the case, people from the eastern part of the state like Virginia Beach and Norfolk.”

  “Speaking of Virginia Beach and Norfolk, let’s get back to Angela Gaynor and her senate campaign against Chuck Lehman.”

  “Wait a minute. What about the Commonwealth Electric issue? What are we going to do there?”

  The room fell silent again.

  “We must find a way to manipulate the jury even though they’re inside Archer.”

  “And that makes your associate’s mission in Virginia this afternoon even more crucial. Does he understand how important his success is, Mr. Rockwell? And, by extension, how crucial it is for you?”

  “Yes,” Rockwell answered deliberately. He hadn’t heard that threatening tone from any of these men before, and it sent a shiver all the way down his spine, past that bad disc. “He understands.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” Rockwell answered after a few moments, “I definitely do.” Finding out who these men were had suddenly become even more critical. It could help protect him from that threatening tone—and make him more of an equal in all this. He’d have a very important bargaining chip if he ever needed it.

  “Let’s get back to Angela Gaynor,” one of the Grays suggested.

  “As you may or may not know, Mr. Rockwell,” another of them said, “the United States Senate Majority Leader is a man named Chuck Lehman.”

  “Of course I know that,” Rockwell retorted sharply from beneath the blindfold. For the Grays to even consider the possibility of him not knowing the name of the senate majority leader was insulting. “Senator Lehman is from Virginia. He’s nearing the end of his third term after serving two terms as a US congressman.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I believe,” Rockwell went on, “he’s been mentioned as a potential presidential candidate when the time comes.”

  “And we want to make certain he maintains that good momentum toward the White House. All of us in this room have certain political and business interests that need to be protected. Senator Lehman will make certain to do so.”

  “Therefore,” another man added, “we must make sure he’s reelected to the Senate. Unfortunately, it looks as though we may have to get involved.”

  Interesting, Rockwell thought to himself, this was the first time the Grays had ever mentioned targeting the political system for manipulation.

  “From everything I’ve read and heard, Senator Lehman is fine,” Rockwell spoke up. “I thought he was a lock to be reelected.”

&
nbsp; “Nothing is ever a lock these days. Social media can destroy a lifetime of loyalties in seconds.”

  “Does the name Eric Cantor ring a bell?” one of them asked.

  An excellent example, Rockwell was forced to admit. Cantor had been the House Majority Leader one day, and the next been defeated by an unknown economics professor in his own party’s primary. So, of course, Cantor had gone to Wall Street to lick his wounds and feel better by making ridiculous amounts of money. He wondered if the Grays had manipulated that move and that reward.

  “That’s true,” Rockwell agreed. “These days allegiances turn on needle points instead of dimes.”

  “And the Cantor disaster occurred in Virginia. For some reason that state is ripe for these kinds of crazy situations. We cannot have that happen to Chuck Lehman. The House is one thing. The Senate is quite another.”

  “That’s where Angela Gaynor comes in. Apparently, you haven’t heard of her.”

  The name sounded familiar, but Rockwell couldn’t quite place it. “Um …” After sounding so sure of himself concerning Senator Lehman, it was embarrassing not to know this one. “No.”

  “Angela Gaynor is a state senator from Virginia Beach, Virginia. She’s a rising star, and leaders on that side of the aisle are talking about her taking on Chuck Lehman. We need to make certain we’re prepared for her if that happens. Angela Gaynor cannot unseat Chuck Lehman.”

  “What do you want from me?” Rockwell asked despite their warnings about his posing the questions. “You always provide me with the information that exerts the influence.”

  “Ms. Gaynor is a self-made millionaire. She comes from a Norfolk ghetto. But she pulled herself out by the bootstraps by founding Gaynor Construction and growing it into one of the largest and most successful building contractors in the region. We want you to find out everything about her life, both business and personal. Find out all about her connections in the business and political worlds. Find her skeletons as well. We’re too close to the political world to get too deeply involved in this project ourselves,” the man explained. “And, ultimately, if we think Ms. Gaynor is gathering too much momentum or we can’t find any meaningful sound bites with which to blackmail her, we may want to go in a different direction.”

  “You mean, plant something?”

  “And, if that doesn’t work, avail ourselves of JD’s sniper skills.”

  CHAPTER 12

  SKYLINE DRIVE OF VIRGINIA

  Victoria sprinted along the flat rock of the overlook, five feet from the edge of the cliff, five feet from that straight-down plunge. Any closer and the sight of and proximity to the drop would paralyze her, cause her to suffer a living rigor mortis, and then she’d be defenseless against this beast who was chasing her.

  As she dashed ahead, she glanced over her left shoulder. He was gaining.

  When the overlook ended abruptly, she darted left onto a narrow path, which ran just in front of the tree line. The trail dipped down and up suddenly, then snaked in and out from between several massive boulders. She muted a scream when it swerved to the right of another rocky outcrop, and the world fell away on her right again. The sheer edge was still several feet from the path, but seemed only inches, and dizziness attacked from all angles as her legs wobbled beneath her like stilts. Paralysis was only seconds away, she knew.

  When the path swerved left and away from the cliff, the phobia retreated, relief surged through her, and her legs went strong again as the trail entered the forest a few feet inside the tree line.

  For an instant she considered going off trail and into the trees. She could try to forge her own path off the mountain to the parking area. She might be able to beat her pursuer down the wooded slope, make it to her car, and escape on Skyline Drive. Perhaps even find a ranger to protect her.

  But if she chose that option, she might suddenly find herself at the edge of a minicliff. Even a drop of fifteen feet would be too much to jump without breaking a bone, and she’d be forced to turn around—right into him.

  She stayed on the trail, veering left at a fork in the trail. She’d never been this way, had no idea where it would lead as she sprinted ahead, panic-stricken. So she was shocked when it plunged down so steeply she nearly pitched forward and tumbled. Then, just as suddenly, it narrowed to little more than shoulder width when it split into a thin crevice between boulders, which soared fifty feet above her on either side.

  She was tempted to dart into one of the small caves lining both walls like doorways. But none of them appeared to extend very far back into the rock. If he saw her duck into one, she’d be trapped.

  The echo of his pounding footsteps reached her ears as she raced deeper into the narrow canyon. They seemed to be growing ever closer with each stride.

  Out of nowhere the trail veered left, the right side of the canyon fell away to nothing, and the ledge on which she was running narrowed to what seemed tightwire thin.

  The rock wall to her left rose straight up. The cliff to her right dropped straight down. And the world below spread out before her for miles and miles. Farmhouses and barns were barely distinguishable dots; roads just tiny lines on a massive grid, and a buzzard circled lazily below her. The view was gorgeously terrifying, and, the instant she took it in, the world began to spin.

  The slender shelf on which she was suddenly perched continued around the bend of the sheer rock face—but she could not. She stopped short, pressed her chest tightly against the cliff as she gasped for air, and clutched at anything protruding from the escarpment to keep her from falling a thousand feet down. She shut her eyes, but the dizziness continued its brutal assault on her psyche despite the lack of the horrifying view. The damage had already been done. Victoria’s brain would not be fooled into believing the danger had passed simply because she’d closed her eyes.

  The rock she squeezed with her left hand seemed solid, but the jagged stone within the fingers of her right hand did not. Could she stay on this cliff if it gave way? Did it matter? He had to be close.

  “You hate heights,” he whispered, his lips only inches from her ear.

  She shrieked at the sound of his voice so close, and her terror spiraled even higher. She’d never felt panic like this.

  “Don’t you, Ms. Lewis?”

  “Who are you?” she managed through her labored breathing. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “They told me you hated heights. They told me this would paralyze you.”

  She managed to pry her eyelids open slightly to peek at him, but shut them again tightly right away. “Who told you?”

  “It will look like an accident. A thousand feet down. No way for investigators to know I threw you from this cliff.”

  “Please,” she begged as his fingers snaked onto her left arm, “please don’t do this.”

  “It won’t take long. Just don’t open your eyes on the way down. Then you won’t know how close death is. It’s better not to know. It’s better not to see him coming closer and closer. That’s the only way we humans can survive, by not knowing. If we knew all along when we were going to die, it would drive us insane.”

  Against his advice she opened her eyes again—and found herself staring straight into his again. She glanced down slightly at his fingers and sobbed as they curled tighter and tighter around her upper arm. There would be no sympathy from this monster.

  At any moment, she would be tumbling through the air.

  VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

  “Quiet, quiet!” Angela yelled, holding her hands in the air and waving. Trying, but failing, to get control of a hundred second-graders. They were racing around one end of the huge school gymnasium. Some were playing dodgeball, others tag, still others a disorganized game of basketball. It was all mixing together into one, big, uncontrollable mass, like someone was tossing a huge salad.

  “Hey!”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the parents who’d just finished helping her set fifteen long tables for the delicious dinner she and Gaynor Const
ruction were providing free of charge tonight for the underprivileged families. Several of them shrugged back sheepishly.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you!” Angela shouted, turning back toward the chaos. “And it’s a really good one!”

  No response.

  She was about to take her chances and wade into the middle of the melee when a shrill, earsplitting whistle pierced the shouting and screaming, and brought the gym to a standstill. She whipped around to see who’d finally taken control.

  Trent stood on a sturdy folding chair near the door to the locker rooms where he’d been hiding, smiling down at her with that ear-to-ear grin, pinkie fingers still between his teeth.

  She smiled back and mouthed a quick, “thank you.” He seemed twenty feet tall standing on the chair, like a statue in the middle of a town square.

  “All right,” he called out in his deep, booming voice. “It’s dinnertime. Let’s go, find a seat right now.”

  Once more the gym burst into chaos as Trent hopped down from the chair. Instead of finding seats, the kids raced toward him.

  Angela burst into laughter when he gave her a helpless expression as the kids closed in, and the mothers and fathers dug through their purses and pockets, frantically searching for pens and paper for autographs. They’d all recognized him immediately.

  She watched as he was mobbed by the kids and the parents. Oh yeah, he was going to be a huge addition to her campaign. Chuck Lehman better watch out now that she had Trent Tucker in her corner.

  SKYLINE DRIVE OF VIRGINIA

  “It’s time for you to die,” her predator whispered, “and Project Archer along with you. Good-bye, Ms. Lewis.”

  As he pulled her left arm, her phone pinged loudly—an incoming text.