by J. L. Brown
“Actually, you may be able to help me with this case.”
“Moi?”
“Yes, you. What are the chances of Congress bringing back the Fairness Doctrine?”
“Ah . . . so, that’s your case.” Zoe put down her wrap and thought for a moment. “Slim. Conservatives and libertarians don’t want it back. They say it violates First Amendment rights and that it’s an attack on conservative radio.”
“Why do we label everyone?”
“Because that’s what Americans do. Otherwise, we’d have to listen to each other.”
“What about public opinion?”
“According to the latest polls, forty-seven percent of Americans want the Doctrine reinstated, thirty-nine percent don’t. Regardless, the public doesn’t care enough about the issue. The economy, immigration, health care, and national security are in the forefront of people’s minds. Maybe with these killings and the issue getting more exposure, there could be some movement, but I doubt it.”
“Did you read the TSK email?”
“Sure, and I can’t say I disagree with any of it. You and I talked about this before. The gap between the haves and the have-nots will only get worse, and social unrest will increase as a result. I believe the Great Recession is payback for unbridled greed and capitalism.”
“But how do you really feel?” Jade said. They shared a laugh at this.
Zoe finished the rest of her wrap. “You know I belong to this online chat room and we were discussing the email last night.”
Jade remembered the chat room Zoe frequented and had a vague recollection of the discussion on the Pittsburgh killing right after she had started her investigation. She did remember their argument; one of the few they had had over the last decade. Jade realized Zoe was still talking.
“—can be intense, but the conversations are exhilarating. I love having discussions with like-minded, intelligent individuals.”
Jade smiled at her friend. “I’m sorry. What can be intense?”
“Not what. Who. One of the chat members. Never mind, it’s not important. You have more important things on your mind than my online discussions.” Zoe got up with her beer and strolled over to the shelves displaying Jade’s extensive album collection. “The Bee Gees, Janet Jackson, MJ, George Michael, Lionel Richie . . . I used to make fun of you for buying these old albums and now vinyls are back in. This collection is probably worth a fortune.” Zoe shook her head in admiration. She turned to Jade dazzling her with a toothbrush-commercial smile and game-show host voice: “And the most amazing thing of all, they’re all in alphabetical order!”
Jade laughed. She was inured to Zoe’s teasing about her OCD tendencies.
Zoe reached for a brown journal. “What’s this?” Her forefinger tipped the top of the book downward to a thirty-degree angle.
“Don’t,” Jade said. She hadn’t told her best friend about her latest hobby, writing haiku poetry in this Japanese-style journal. The poetry was awful, but writing it brought her peace.
Zoe froze.
They knew each other well. By the tone of Jade’s voice, Zoe knew not to disobey her. Jade knew Zoe had to exercise all of her willpower not to open it. Finally, Zoe slid the journal back in its place, turned to pick up their trays, and walked to the kitchen as if their last exchange hadn’t happened. When she returned, she said, “I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you meet with Senator Fairchild or at the very least someone from her office? She’d welcome a visit from one of the investigators on the case and may give you more insight into the political angle. I consider her legislative director, Landon Phillips, a friend. Back in the day, we worked together on some campaigns. I can call him with an introduction, if you’d like.”
Jade thought about it for less than a second. She didn’t need a friend of Zoe’s to introduce her; her credentials ensured immediate attention from any senator. But letting Zoe introduce her to Senator Fairchild’s legislative director might be a better, less official approach.
“I’d like.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Washington, DC
The young man, who had introduced himself as Sean, stepped aside and indicated for Jade to enter.
Senator Whitney Fairchild rose from her chair and walked around her large mahogany desk. Jade’s first thought was the camera did not do this woman justice. Despite the touch of sadness in her eyes, she was more beautiful in person than on television and carried herself like royalty. This initial impression was enhanced by the sound of classical music.
Senator Fairchild extended her hand. “Agent Harrington.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Senator.” Jade paused and listened. “Liszt?”
The senator studied her, surprised. “You’re familiar with Franz Liszt?”
“Of course. This must be one of his symphonic poems, From . . .”
“Von der Wiege bis zum Grabe.”
“Right,” Jade said. “From the Cradle to the Grave.”
The senator’s smile broadened as she guided Jade to one of the guest chairs. “Please have a seat. Would you like anything to drink?”
“No, thank you, Senator. I’m fine.” Jade retrieved a notepad and pen, putting her briefcase down on the floor next to her seat.
Seated, the Senator looked into her eyes. “Being an African-American female FBI agent cannot be easy.”
Jade tensed, but did not react. How to answer. Somehow Jade knew this wasn’t a woman who would accept the company line. That the Bureau was one big, happy family, where everyone was treated fairly regardless of the color of her skin. Yes, there was discrimination within the Bureau. She had to be twice as good as a white man to succeed. Jade held her gaze.
“Some days are more challenging than others.”
Senator Whitney Fairchild crossed her legs. “I see. I am impressed by those who make things seem easy. I suspect you are one of those individuals, but believe me, I know what it feels like to be marginalized. Only twenty out of one hundred senators are women, while we make up more than fifty percent of the populace. ‘We’ve come a long way, baby,’ but we still need to fight the battle every day.”
“Yes, we do.”
“And, sometimes,” the senator continued, “it is not the men who give us the most trouble, but other women. We always seem to be tearing each other down when we should be building each other up.”
Jade liked this woman.
“Besides classical music, what are your other interests?”
“I read. Play basketball. I’m a fourth-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and speak fluent Japanese, a language much more helpful in the eighties than it is now. I should have studied Chinese or Arabic.” She didn’t tell Senator Fairchild about the haiku; her poetry hobby was hers and hers alone.
“You never know. Japan may make a comeback, yet. Nevertheless, I’ve done my research. Your background is impressive. Perhaps, you’ll come work for me someday.” At the knock, the senator glanced toward the door. “Ah, there you are. Come in.”
Jade turned. A tall, slender, handsome man strode over to her. He extended his hand and smiled. “Hi. I’m Landon Phillips, the Senator’s legislative director.”
“Special Agent Jade Harrington.” She rose; his handshake was warm, firm. Her eyes traveled from his green eyes to his straight white teeth. She remembered her mother’s long-ago advice to always date a boy with perfect teeth. “If he takes care of his teeth, he’ll take care of you,” she would say.
Jade brushed away the thoughts of her mother’s romantic guidance and sat down. The senator’s eyes shifted from Landon to Jade, a mischievous grin starting to form. Jade needed to start this meeting before the junior senator from Missouri started playing matchmaker. Landon sat in the adjoining guest chair and crossed his long legs in front of him. An electronic tablet rested on his lap.
Jade glanced down at her well-used spiral notepad, the perforations beginning to shoot up through the wire. She had no qualms about do
ing things old school.
“Landon is being modest,” the senator said. “He is my acting chief of staff and will be my liaison with your office. He speaks for me. What can you tell me about the investigation so far?”
Not much. Jade hesitated. She shifted in her chair. “We have composed a pretty good profile of the killer. We believe he is responsible for at least four murders. All the victims have been killed in a similar manner.”
“Which was?” Landon asked.
“Some kind of blunt instrument. There is circumstantial evidence linking the cases.” The severed tongues were more than circumstantial evidence, but no need to go into that now.
“What kind of circumstantial evidence?” Landon asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say at this time. Senator, what do you think would motivate a person to kill conservative media personalities?”
The senator brought a finger to her lips and removed it.
“As Albert Camus once said, ‘There are causes worth dying for, but none worth killing for.’ I don’t understand why anyone would take the life of someone else for any reason, especially political ideology.” The senator glanced down at her watch and back up at Jade. “I’m sorry. I have another appointment. Perhaps, the two of you can continue this conversation. I am sure Landon can give you a lot of good ideas. Excuse me.”
The senator grabbed her purse, came around her desk, and shook Jade’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Please keep me posted on your progress.” She gave Jade’s hand a brief squeeze and smiled. “And keep up the fight.”
She left.
Stunned, Jade glanced toward the door and back at Landon. What was that all about?
The silence grew between them.
“Perhaps, we can—” Landon’s hopeful expression changed when he noticed the look on Jade’s face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Palo Alto, California
Whitney scanned the faces of her audience in the elegant ballroom of the Four Seasons in Palo Alto, California. Fifteen hundred people had paid thirty-five thousand dollars each to meet her and listen to her speak. Fifty-two million, five hundred thousand dollars; not bad for a few hours’ work. The audience—made up of Silicon Valley billionaires and their families—was still in a frenzy after Beyoncé had finished singing her latest number-one song.
Whitney grinned as she waited for the buzz to die down.
“I should have delivered my speech first.”
The crowd laughed.
“Thank you for coming. I know all of you have busy lives and I appreciate your taking the time to join me tonight.” She segued into her speech, targeted to this group of technology and social-media entrepreneurs.
Thirty minutes later, she began to wind up her speech. Smiling, she said, “Reducing regulation is not something you typically hear from a Democrat.” Her voice softened. “But I believe a president should not be a Democratic president or a Republican president”—her voice rose—“but the president of the United States of America!”
Someone yelled from the audience. “Preach, Whitney!”
She chuckled and raised her arms to quiet the crowd. The applause was not quite as deafening as for the pop star, but close enough. She’d take it.
“I believe we need a candidate who appeals to the best in us, not the basest in us, if we are to return to our rightful place as the most powerful country in the world that every other country aspires to be.”
Whitney glanced down at her notes and back up. She took a sip of water. The smile was gone.
“I would be remiss if I did not address something tonight. A sick individual declared that he or she will kill conservative radio talk-show hosts unless we enact certain legislation.” She paused again, thoughtful. “This is not how we resolve differences in our country.”
She surveyed the room.
“This nation was founded on the basis that all of us enjoy the right of freedom of speech, a right protected by the First Amendment of the United States Constitution. Even if the speech is racist, sexist, or hateful—distasteful as it may be—it’s still protected by this wonderful document.
“As you know, Cole Brennan doesn’t say many positive things about me.” She smiled and paused. “But he has the right not to say positive things about me, and I will defend his right to do so. Evelyn Beatrice Hall once said, ‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.’ As will I.
“Be that as it may, violence never solves anything. If you are displeased with what politicians are doing in Washington, use your voice.” Whitney’s voice rose as the applause increased in volume. “Use your feet! Use your vote!
“I want to thank you again for joining me tonight. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
Every person in the room stood in a rousing standing ovation. Whitney smiled and waved to every area of the room.
She walked across the stage and down the steps for a long night of smiling, shaking hands, small talk, and encouraging these donors to part with even more of their money for her campaign. She happened to glance up. Halfway down the crowded, massive ballroom, a young man in a dark suit and tie leaned against the wall, staring at her. He appeared familiar, but she couldn’t recall where she had seen him before. The intensity of his gaze made her uneasy.
She shook the hand of the CEO of a social media company that recently went public, listening to his complaints about the long, arduous initial-public-offering process. While he was speaking, her eyes drifted back to where the young man had been standing.
He was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Washington, DC
“Bill from Pittsburgh is on the line. Go!”
“Hi, Cole. A few months ago, one of the up-and-coming stars of conservative radio was murdered here. Now, I hear there may be other victims, that other conservative commentators have been murdered. How do you feel about that? Are you afraid?”
“First of all, I’m not afraid. You can come after me like a modern-day Braveheart, with an army of dyke Femi-Commies behind you, and you won’t shut me up. You can’t shut up common sense. You will not shut up conservative talk radio. The movement is bigger than me or any of us good conservatives who spend our time on the radio.
“This is America. Hasn’t this TSK ever heard of a thing called freedom of speech? What is he, a Communist? He can’t silence everyone. People throughout this country are waking up to how the Socialists have taken over our schools, our government, and our country. We need to be able to speak our minds without watching what we say or worrying that the government is spying on us. Political correctness is polite crap to our political discourse. A person shouldn’t be killed because he doesn’t buy into the elitist, Orwellian school of thought. I’ll bet you ten-to-one the killer is a graduate of one of our esteemed, liberal institutions in which all its students are taught the elitist code of what we should think and when we should think it. So, to answer your question, Bill from Pittsburgh, I’m not afraid of this liberal pansy hiding behind his email. He can only stop me from talking over my dead body.”
His high-pitched giggle filled the air.
“Oops, I guess I shouldn’t say that anymore, huh?”
*
Cole Brennan surveyed the dining room and his six children sitting at the oblong table: Cole Jr., Colleen, Madeline, Ryan, Kaitlin, and Ronnie, named after the greatest American president. He smiled to himself at their constant bickering, one-upmanship, and teasing. He had come from a family of six brothers and sisters as well. This was what it meant to be a family. Big families were the backbone of America and the only hope for its future. We need more of them, he thought. He should consider doing a show called Making Babies. The Femi-Nazis would come out of the woodwork. Cole laughed out loud.
Kaitlin, his eight-going-on-thirty daughter, shot him a stern look. “What’s so funny, Dad?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Thinking about work.”
“It’s famil
y time, Dad,” she said. “No more working.”
He turned toward her. “Oops, you’re right. How was your day? Let’s go around the table.”
As each of the kids gave detailed reports of their day of swimming at the pool and playing with their friends, he couldn’t help noticing Kaitlin’s eyes never left his face. Her expression of disappointment—or distrust?—was palpable.
His gaze moved to his namesake. “Cole Jr.?” Cole never addressed his eldest son as “CJ,” the nickname Cole Jr.’s friends had given him.
“Hangin’ out,” he said, sliding a forkful of green beans into his mouth.
“Football season is almost here,” Cole said. “Preseason will be starting soon. Are you ready?”
Cole Jr. put down his fork with too much grace and stole a glance at his mother before staring at the food on his plate.
Cole glanced at Ashley and then back at him. “What is it, son?”
“I don’t think I’m going to play football this year.”
“Why not?”
His son glanced toward his mother again. He hesitated. A calm expression came over him. He had come to a decision.
“I’m just not into it.”
“Not into football?” Cole paused. “Well . . . , okay. You can try out for something else . . . like golf or tennis or lacrosse. I wouldn’t even mind if you played soccer.” Cole speared a forkful of steak and shoved the morsel into his mouth, proud of his restraint. The old Cole would have forced Junior to play football, a man’s sport. An American sport.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. Going out for something else, I mean,” Cole Jr. said, finally looking at his father. “I want to try out for the glee club.”
Cole spit his chewed steak back onto his plate. “What?”
“I can sing, Dad. I can really sing.”
Cole glanced at his wife, Ashley. Her serene smile never changed. Cole forced himself to stay calm. This is a disaster. “Say, why don’t we go out for a spin in the ‘Vette? We can talk about this.” Cole collected classic American cars, but his white, 1953 Chevrolet Corvette was his pride and joy.
