[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure

by Randall Wood

  • • •

  Danny sat impatiently in the terminal bar watching CNN on the overhead screen. He was forced to read the captions at the bottom due to the volume of noise. Once the story was over, he flipped open his laptop and clicked his way online. He was reading the third version of the story when his phone rang. He looked at the screen before answering it.

  “Hey, Ed.”

  “Where you at?” the editor demanded.

  “I’m in the terminal in Memphis, waiting for my flight home.”

  “Screw that. I need you in Kalamazoo yesterday. Have you seen the story?”

  “Just caught it on the TV. I’ll change my ticket to Kalamazoo if you want, but I think it would be better to head for DC. Don’t you?”

  “Think they’ll move him that fast?”

  “It’s his brother-in-law they need to catch, and it looks like he’s still out there. The whole thing will move to DC. You see them loading up all those boxes? They’ll all be in the Hoover Building by end of the day, with a hundred people going over them. Jack will be there, too.”

  There was silence as Ed thought it over. Danny sipped his Bloody Mary while he waited.

  “All right, I’ll send Karen to Kalamazoo just in case,” Ed said. “You get to DC and get ahead of this thing. You still have your source?”

  “You know better than that, Ed. We get any letters?”

  “You got one today. It’s same as the others. The feds have it.”

  “Then I’d say both my sources are still with me.”

  “Okay, okay, I had to ask. Get moving.”

  “On my way.”

  Danny finished his drink before getting back on the internet and looking up flights. He booked himself on the next one to Dulles. He had another hour to wait, so he flagged down the bartender. It was still kind of early, but screw it.

  “Another one.” He pointed at his empty glass.

  • • •

  “Nothing?” Jack asked.

  “And I do mean nothing. Other than to ask for a drink and to go to the bathroom, the man hasn’t said a word. We worked on him for a few hours. He just nodded when we told him what the charges were—a very cool customer.” There was a sense of admiration in the agent’s voice. “It’ll take some time, but eventually he’ll talk.”

  “Don’t bet on it. His brother-in-law was a SERE school instructor. Survival-Evasion-Resistance and Escape. I’m sure he gave him some lessons. We can’t make life tough as if he was a POW, and he knows it. It’s gonna be a while before he talks, even to his lawyer.”

  “Funny thing, he hasn’t asked for one. Some rookie from the local office will walk him through the arraignment, but that doesn’t take a lot of conversation, you know?”

  Jack watched Paul through the glass. He was sitting calmly, as if he was waiting for something and had all day to do it. He knew exactly what he was doing. Jack had no doubts about that.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jack said before turning and leaving.

  • • •

  Sam parted his hair for the third time, and finally decided to keep it on the left. He was happy with his results. The woman in Canada had suggested a certain shade, and Sam had bought it as soon as he had returned home. The stench was hard on his stomach, but he had managed to get the job done.

  “You look good as a blond,” he told himself in the mirror.

  He moved his head from side to side. It looked natural, not fake as he had feared. He cleaned up the mess, and bagged it all up to take with him. If the police discovered that he had stayed here, he didn’t want them to know what his hair color was now. He was going to have to take the towels, too, but he was sure the little motel was used to that. He wiped every surface of the bathroom, and then applied a fresh coat of Super Glue to his fingers while he waited for his hair to dry. Once this was accomplished, he checked to make sure the Yellow Pages’ advertisement was in his pocket before leaving the room.

  A few miles of travel brought him to another used car lot, this one also chosen for its selection of used vans. He casually exited the car and walked the row of vans, waiting to be noticed. The lot was empty except for him. Slow day.

  An older man exited the trailer and walked toward him with a limp. Once in range, he shouted a greeting.

  “Hello,” Sam answered with a smile.

  “Need a van, do you?”

  “Yup. Just something simple.”

  “Well, they’re all pretty much the same—former fleet of plumbing trucks. Miles are within a couple hundred or so of each other, and nothing in the back. You want gas or diesel?”

  “Gas if I can have it,” Sam answered.

  “Those two on the end.” He pointed. Sam saw the man’s nose twitch.

  They strolled the length of the row, and the man rattled off some more information on the vans. Sam adjusted his pace to the salesman’s. The two vans were gray in color with some lighter areas where the company name had once been, plain and simple work vans. Sam peered in the windows as the man sized him up. Sam caught him looking in the mirror and suspected the price was being calculated by Sam’s apparel. The man’s nose twitched again.

  “They all run fine, but I’d take the one on the end. Fewer miles, and it has a better radio. Used by the owner, I think.”

  Sam turned his attention to the last van for a moment before turning back to face the elderly salesman.

  “What are you asking?” he inquired.

  The man gave Sam a thorough going over before voicing his reply. “For you, I think I can just make it a donation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Relax, young man. I’m no danger to you.”

  Sam’s heart froze: the man had recognized him! The first person Sam had seen! Yet, the salesman was smiling.

  “My wife used to dye her hair all the time,” he explained. “The smell always drove me down to the bar.”

  Sam finally smiled back. “You’re sure? I don’t want to make any trouble for you.”

  The old man just shook his head and smiled. “Been a fan since day one.” He patted his bad leg. “Used to own a store once. Some kid tried to rob me. I stuck one through his arm with my Smith and Wesson, but he winged me in the leg here. They let him out and he did it a few more times before they finally got the message, doesn’t change the fact that I’m still limping.” He turned and started walking back to the trailer. Sam once again kept pace. “Lemme just get the keys. You can pull that rental you’re driving around back and park it. Nobody looks back there. I’ll report the van stolen in a week or so. That give you enough time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Might want to stay off the main roads, but I’m sure you know that. You need some spending money?” he asked as he entered the trailer

  “No, sir, I’ve got plenty. I insist on paying for the van, too.”

  “Don’t matter to me, son; isn’t mine anyway!” The man answered with a short laugh. He watched as Sam peeled several bills off the roll in his pocket and thrust them out.

  “Really, son, just take it.” The old man shook his head.

  “You’re gonna get a visit from the cops eventually, for your time and trouble,” Sam answered. “I won’t need it much longer, anyway.”

  The old man refused to touch it, so Sam dropped the money on the counter and picked up the keys.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Sam said.

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam moved the rental car before climbing in the van. It started on the first crank. Oil pressure was fine, and it had 3/4 of a tank on the gas gauge. Sam dropped it in gear and pulled out of the lot. He got a friendly wave from the man in the window.

  “A friendly civilian . . . How about this shit?” Sam asked himself.

  • • •

  Two hours later, Sam was approaching Indianapolis. He had made a stop at a sporting goods store, and the van now held an air mattress and sleeping bag, along with a few comfort items. Another sto
p at a grocery store provided enough food and drinks to last him a few days. Sam had decided that the hair was only going to do so much, so he added a pair of glasses. He would stay out of the public eye as much as possible. It was a long way to the next storage unit. He had thrown away all the items from the motel, but had kept the phone. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he caught himself eyeballing it on the seat next to him every once in a while.

  As he rounded I-465 around the city, he listened to the news stations he had preset into the radio. So far, the story hadn’t changed. He took the exit ramp onto interstate 70 and headed east, away from Kalamazoo.

  The state of Oregon holds 12,715 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 8,519 are repeat offenders.

  —THIRTY-SEVEN—

  Anthony Tasone eyeballed the wheelchair waiting for him in the corner. Ignoring it was no longer an option, but he returned to the task at hand and put his back to the chair anyway. He automatically checked the windows to make sure they were shut with the curtains pulled. His skin had lost its olive tint and become paler as a result of his spending less time in the sun.

  He assembled the sandwich with great care, adding the ingredients in carefully measured amounts. The meats stacked just so, the cheese sliced to his personal preference. This may be his last made-to-order meal, and he wanted it to be perfect. There was no telling how long it would be till his next one. On the slim chance he came through this unscathed once again, he knew just which of his restaurants he would be at tonight. Another good meal would be had, followed by a trip to the airport and a long vacation, somewhere outside the United States.

  He ignored the crew as they watched him finish construction of the sandwich, and sit down at the table. A cold glass of milk was placed in front of him, and he grunted in acknowledgment.

  As the men watched him eat, he knew they were all thinking of their own futures. Their future rested on his. Some of these men would be friends this morning and enemies this afternoon if things did not go well. He was beyond caring. His family was safely out of the country. He had no sons in the business. He was finished either way. The sandwich was slowly consumed in an attempt to enjoy every bite.

  A knock on the door brought several of them to their feet. After a shout through the door, it was opened and the lawyer came in. As usual, he was decked out in a wool suit and a long wool coat. A $100 silk tie was drawn tight to his throat. The shoes were mirrors. Despite the expensive clothes and custom tailoring, they still did not fit the man. He looked exactly like what he was: a mob lawyer.

  “Are you ready Tony?” he inquired.

  Mob boss Anthony Tasone finished the final bite of his sandwich before replying, “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  He pushed the plate aside and rose to his feet. One of the crew held the sweater, while another mussed his hair. Once the costume was all in place, Tony walked to the chair and sat. The blanket was placed over his legs and he was ready. The lawyer gave him a long look before nodding to the crewman behind him. Tony stewed in the chair until they were almost at the front door. He could hear the crowd before they opened it. He let his head fall forward and took on the blank stare he had perfected over the last year. It was show time.

  The door opened and the flash of the cameras greeted him once again. Anthony Tasone was off to court, possibly for the last time.

  • • •

  Sam lay on the air mattress in the back of the van. It had been a cold night, but the sleeping bag and blanket he had purchased had proven sufficient. He now lay listening to the radio, waiting for the sunlight to stream through the windshield to warm the interior before getting up.

  Finding a news station took a few minutes, but he soon had the financial news, followed by the headlines. The third story was of the expected verdict in the trial of mob boss Anthony Tasone. Sam listened intently to the story, but it was mostly speculation. The verdict was scheduled to happen sometime in the afternoon, just as the majority of the trial had taken place. This had been the topic of much speculation, and the common presumption was that it was due to the location of the sequestered jury. The commute was evidently rather long.

  It was the third trial for Anthony Tasone, on a variety of charges. The first two had been declared mistrials, due to alleged jury tampering. The judge in this case had not fooled around and had sequestered the jury from day one. The prosecution had done an excellent job of presenting the case. The late-night TV experts had all agreed that Tasone was looking at multiple guilty verdicts. Yet, there were doubts. The accused had been in a wheelchair since the trial began, and was presented to the public as suffering from the aftermath of a stroke. Coincidently, the stroke had happened soon after the charges being filed. With the jury out of reach, the defense had resorted to this tactic to present their client as no threat to society. Whether the charade had worked on any member of the jury would be seen today. Since Tasone had beaten the system twice already, Sam had little faith in this outcome.

  He consulted the map Paul had provided and located the courthouse. Sam wasn’t far. The radio announced the start of the defendant’s trip. Sam kicked his way free of the sleeping bag.

  He soon had the van in gear and was on his way into the city.

  • • •

  Tony sat in his chair and watched the proceedings through his blank stare, as he had done hundreds of times over the past year. The lawyers huddled at the bench to argue about some mundane point involving instructions to the jury. The jury sat in their chairs waiting, all of them first timers. Tony knew; his lawyer had extensive files on all of them, and he had tried to find a way to get to each one. A trial was nothing but a nuisance to him. A few threats or a few bribes, sometimes a combination of the two, and Tony had his verdict long before the lawyers figured it out.

  It was the beauty of the American judicial system. If you had money, you could manipulate the system to fit your needs. He should know, as he had been doing it for years. He had even begun to wonder why he had the lawyer in the first place: $500 an hour for what? He had arranged the last mistrial for a fraction of what he had spent on the lawyer. Well, he did take care of the paperwork. That was something.

  Yet, Tony was nervous about this one. The lack of any progress finding a way to the jury had bothered him. The stroke charade was wearing thin. One of the jury members was a nurse, and he had caught her watching him closely. Could she tell he was a fake?

  His lawyer walked back and sat down. Making a show of shaking the papers in his hand, it signaled Tony to listen.

  “Jury’s reached a verdict,” the lawyer spoke to the papers. “Judge is ready to hear it.”

  The judge’s deep baritone silenced the courtroom. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The foreman rose with an envelope in his hand. “Yes, your honor.”

  “Hand it to the bailiff please.” The judge briefly looked at the paper and, without expression, handed it back.

  “The defendant will rise and face the jury,” the judge spoke out of habit. Tony’s lawyer rose, and turned Tony in his chair toward the jury.

  “In the case of Anthony Tasone versus the State of New York, on count one, how do you find?” the judge asked.

  “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty.”

  Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He froze at the stoplight and turned up the radio. The remaining counts were all read, with the verdict of guilty on every one. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he listened.

  A honk from the truck behind him broke him out of his stupor, and he looked up to see the light had turned green. He stepped on the gas and was soon through. He couldn’t help but look at the building he had been on his way to as he passed. The reporters outside the courthouse were all crowded around their respective trucks, watching the trial on TV. Some could be seen packing up their equipment already. Sam was at a loss. A name had been taken off the list for him. Justice had actually won a round. He knew there would be endless appeals, but for now, the man was guilty.


  Sam weighed his options at the next red light. He had two names left. Should he try for them both, or skip to the end of the list while he still had time? He turned the wheel to circle the block and head back toward the Holland Tunnel. He had plenty of time to think about it.

  • • •

  Eight hours later, Sam stopped at a fork in the dirt road he was currently navigating for another check of the map. He had committed the address to memory years ago, but the way there was still a mystery. After several folding attempts, and a couple of looks out the window to orient himself, he dropped the van in gear and took the left fork.

  Another hour passed, and the sun was starting its descent when the house came into view. A farmhouse of moderate size, it sat on a small farm of fifty acres in the Virginia mountains. The nearest village was over twenty miles away. Sam took in the picket fence and metal roof as he drove up the drive. A large barn could be seen behind the maple trees surrounding the home, and light shone from a corner room. Sam stopped the van close to the long porch and shut the vehicle off. He watched the snow fall through the windshield. This could be easy or hard. It was a risk coming here, but it was one he felt was worth taking. In any event, he’d soon know.

  The front door opened and a face appeared, quickly followed by the barrel of a shotgun. Sam opened the door to let the overhead light hit his face before placing his hands back on the steering wheel where they could be seen. He waited. The old man left the doorway and strode slowly down the porch. The gait was slower than Sam remembered, but the shotgun didn’t waiver. The man paused at the end of the porch and squinted. Sam slowly opened the door and stepped out into the fading sunlight.

  “Hello, Top.”

  “Sam?”

  “It’s me, Top.”

  Sam held his breath till the shotgun fell. His old first sergeant looked him up and down for a minute before speaking.