by Don Brown
The phrase was written into Eleanor's speech, and when she delivered it, she made an on-the-spot change from "Neanderthal mentality" to "Neanderthal witch hunt."
Some papers had picked up on the "Neanderthal witch hunt" comment and quoted her on that. "Neanderthal mentality" was quoted by the big three based on the press release he had issued.
Good.
Preliminary poll numbers should be out soon. And Eleanor should be down for her morning political briefing.
Jackson checked his watch. The double doors swung open. Eleanor, wearing a black pantsuit, was followed by her Secret Ser vice entourage.
"Whatcha got, Jackson?" She pointed to the coffeepot. One of her Secret Ser vice underlings obliged. She sat at the head of the table, beside Jackson, and flicked off two flakes of dandruff.
"Just what the doctor ordered, Eleanor." Jackson slid all three newspapers in front of her. She picked up the Los Angeles Times first.
Jackson braced for a curse-laden tirade as her blue eyes scanned from left to right.
The first sip of coffee brought a sly smile from the woman who would be president.
CHAPTER 16
Cafe Pacifica
2414 San Diego Avenue
Old Town
San Diego, California
The handsome JAG officer was enjoying a mug of black coffee when Shannon approached the table. He looked up at her. His face bore a smile but also a whatcha gonna do about this?
"What's up, Fireball?"
"If I were your mother, you'd be in time-out, Commander Brewer." Shannon pulled off her designer shades.
"Just time-out?" He motioned for her to be seated. "I must say I'm a bit disappointed."
"Oh, really?" She sat down. "I'm glad you're okay."
Just then the waitress arrived with an order of pancakes. "Were these for you, ma'am?"
"Those are for her," Zack confirmed as she set the pancakes and coffee in front of Shannon, who nodded and thanked her.
"Reading the Navy Times?" Shannon poured cream into her coffee. "Read all I need to read."
"Then you saw?"
"Yes, I saw."
She squirted syrup on her pancake. "How do you feel about that?" She looked at him. The dimple. It was that slight dimple in his chin that made him so distracting.
"You mean the posthumous promotion?"
"Yes."
95
"I think it was appropriate." He downed his coffee as she cut her pancake into small portions. "I wish there was some way she could know."
Shannon chewed a very small bite of pancake, then dabbed the cloth napkin against her cheek. "Zack, have you read this morning's Union-Tribune?"
"Excuse me, waitress. More water, please?"
"Of course." The waitress poured more ice water into his glass.
"I don't read liberal rags," he said.
"Just what's wrong with liberal? You know, my family is from a long line of Democrats. Jimmy Carter is one of the most decent Christian men in the world."
"I didn't say Democrat rag. I said liberal rag."
"Here." She ignored the comment. "You should read this." She slid the San Diego Union-Tribune across the table. "Front page."
Zack picked up the paper.
NAVY, BREWER PROSECUTE GAY OFFICER
WHO MAY BE VICTIM OF HATE CRIMES
By Laurie Jane McCaffity, Military Affairs Correspondent
San Diego -- The Union-Tribune has learned that the navy has begun the general court-martial of a gay naval officer accused of sexual assault on board a Los Angeles class attack submarine. The officer, Ensign Wofford Eckberg, is a Naval Academy graduate and a U.S. Navy SEAL.
"What?"
Unnamed sources close to the situation say Eckberg may have been the victim of hate crimes, having suffered a broken collarbone solely because he is gay.
"That's ridiculous! He was assaulting sailors in their bunks!"
"I know that," Shannon said. "And you know that, but --"
"Hang on a second." Zack wagged his index finger in the air.
But the navy has taken no action against the gay officer's attackers. Moreover, the navy's top prosecutor, Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, is prosecuting the case.
"Oh, that's just great."
Brewer's presence in the case is viewed as a symbol of the navy's determination to convict Eckberg, and immediate fire has come from Democratic presidential hopeful, Senator Eleanor Claxton --
"Oh, please."
-- who criticized the navy and Lieutenant Commander Brewer for his involvement in the case.
"The navy should be ashamed of itself for this homophobic witch hunt," Claxton said. "The American people deserve some answers. Why is the victim of these hate crimes being prosecuted while the perpetrators, thugs who call themselves sailors, are left alone?
"Ensign Eckberg is a Navy SEAL. He is an American hero --
"Please. A hero?"
-- and the navy is prosecuting him for one reason alone. He is gay. Commander Brewer, who was viewed as an American hero before all this, is now the chief witch-hunter in this witch hunt. Brewer should be ashamed --"
"That's it," Zack said. "I can't take any more of this garbage." He slid the paper back to Shannon. "And to think this person could become president of the United States."
"That would make her your commander in chief."
"I'm going to vomit."
"Hey, I'm just the messenger."
"So much for my return to anonymity." Zack finished his ice water. "Come on. Let's get out of here before I get recognized." He stood, then walked around the table and pulled out her chair. "I'll buy the rest of your breakfast on base."
"I'm with you, sailor."
Old Town
San Diego, California
Chris felt for the dagger in his pants pocket and stepped onto the main pedestrian walkway in Old Town. The dagger was ready for use if Zack wasn't cooperative. The restaurant was about two hundred yards away. He would have been there already, but he couldn't control his breathing.
Control, Chris. Control.
He inhaled, and then his lungs froze.
Zack! Walking toward me. Dear God, help me.
The woman with the strawberry-blonde hair was with him. He'd seen her before. Was she the woman from a moment ago? The one who had walked past his car?
Yes, and before that too. In the magazine article.
McGillvery.
As he mentally prepared to strike, hot jets of blood shot into the back of his head. He felt in his pocket for the cold handle of the dagger. Like a cat, he sprang forward toward Zack and the woman.
A blur of movement caught Zack's attention. The man rushing at them looked like a safety blitzing a quarterback.
"Get back!" He swung Shannon behind him, shielding her.
A wet mass splattered his face. He glanced at Shannon. Saliva dripped down her hair. He sprinted after the man, who had doubled back toward the restaurant.
"Wait!" Shannon called from behind him.
Ignoring her, he threaded his way through pedestrians, closing the distance.
"He could be dangerous!"
Zack leaped forward, bringing the assailant down in a tackle.
"What's the deal with you, man?" Zack grabbed his collar from each side, pinning him to the ground. The man struggled to reach for his pocket. Zack thrust his knee into the man's stomach.
"Stop!" Shannon's voice grew closer.
"I ought to take your head off!"
"No!" Shannon said, now directly behind him.
"Get up!" Zack yanked the assailant by the collar, jerking him off the ground, and jacked his back into a palm tree. "That was a lady you spit on back there." He cocked his fist into a striking position. "I should smash your head in."
The man cowered. "No hate crimes!" he screeched. "Don't break my collarbone, Zack!"
"You know my name?"
"Forget Pinkie! Support Eleanor!"
"We'll see if your teeth can support my fist!"<
br />
The man's eyes bulged with fear.
"It's okay, Zack." Shannon spoke softly, her hands resting on his biceps. "I'll take care of this."
Zack stared at the man, and strangely, the thought of the one who had died for him -- for this wimp in front of him -- brought a wave of unexpected compassion. He released the man's collar, and the assailant tumbled to the ground.
Shannon drew her gun. "All right, show me some identification!"
"Don't shoot!" the man pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. "Please."
"Hands up!" Shannon ordered.
Sobbing, the man complied.
"Stand up!"
He stood, his hands on his head. Onlookers gathered, chatting among themselves or on their ubiquitous cell phones.
"Check his wallet, Zack."
The wallet bulged in the back right pocket of the man's jeans. Zack lifted it out and handed it to Shannon.
"Hmm." Shannon pulled out his driver's license, flicked to the man's face, then to the license, then back again. "Normally go around spitting on people, Mr. Reynolds?"
"I..." He eyed Zack, then Shannon. "I was sending a message to Zack." He looked back at Zack.
"Oh, you were, were you?"
No answer.
"And how do you know who Zack is?"
Reynolds's eyes rolled over to Zack, and his creepy gaze froze into place. A knowing smile crossed his face.
"Not gonna answer? How bout I send you a message, Mr. Rey nolds?" The chink-chink sound of the bolt action on Shannon's pistol yanked Reynolds's attention from Zack.
"Please don't kill me, Shannon." His voice cracked again.
"You know me too, do you?"
"Shannon," Zack said. "Let him go. I don't want to hassle with the police or the press."
She glanced at Zack and then back at Reynolds. "Get out of here, Reynolds, before I blow your head off!"
"Okay," he said, his mouth quivering. "I'm leaving."
"Go!"
Reynolds scampered into the crowd.
"Let's go, Zack."
"I'm with you."
U.S. Navy brig
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Karen Jacoby, dressed in a working khaki female officer's skirt and blouse, pulled her Lincoln Navigator into the parking area separating the military courthouse from the navy brig. She grabbed her briefcase, which contained the Eckberg file, and stepped into the warm Southern California morning sunshine.
Stepping across the asphalt parking lot to the front steps of the navy brig, she wondered why the senior defense counsel had ordered her to the brig on a Saturday.
Frowning, she slipped on her sunglasses. Her duty was not to question orders; her duty was to obey orders.
She barely noticed the long, black Lincoln Continental with tinted windows as she walked by.
Two shore patrolmen in white jumper uniforms with Dixie Cup hats guarded the back entrance to the navy brig. They saluted as Karen stepped through the back door of the facility. The chief master at arms, sitting behind a wooden desk, rose as she approached. "May I help you, ma'am?"
"Lieutenant Jacoby for Lieutenant Commander Carpenter."
"Yes, ma'am," the chief said. "The commander's waiting for you. Right this way." The chief led Karen across the antiseptic-smelling tile foyer toward a closed wooden door. He opened the door, and Lieutenant Commander Harvey Carpenter, the senior defense counsel and Karen's immediate boss in her chain of command, stood.
"Karen, welcome," the senior defense counsel said. "That will be all, chief." He dismissed the master-at-arms with a sweep of his hand and motioned Karen into the office.
"You called for me, sir?" She noticed Carpenter was in his summer whites, which seemed a bit formal for a Saturday visit to the brig.
"At ease, Lieutenant," Carpenter said. Karen shifted to parade rest. "Look, we're not that formal around here. Maybe out in public -- that's okay. But right now, just relax."
"Yes, sir."
"We have an important visitor here in the brig who wants to meet you."
"We do?"
"Yes. She's in the commanding officer's office. If you'll follow me..." Carpenter headed toward the door. Karen followed.
"May I ask who, sir?" Karen asked a moment later as they waited for the elevator.
"You'll see for yourself in a minute."
Thirty seconds later, the elevator doors parted and they stepped onto the second deck. A few masters-at-arms, in working blue dungaree uniforms, walked back and forth with radios. Two men in black pin-stripe suits stood guard at the closed door of the commanding officer's office. They wore some sort of listening devices in their ears with wires that dangled into their suits.
Commander Carpenter stopped outside the door and spoke to one of them. "Lieutenant Commander Carpenter and Lieutenant JG Jacoby are here." Then he turned to Karen. "Karen, show these gentlemen your military identification."
"Aye, sir."
The men took the cards, examined them, and gave them back. The guard on the left lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Lieutenant Commander Carpenter and Lieutenant JG Jacoby are here."
"Very well, send them in," a man's voice said through the walkie-talkie. The guard on the right opened the door, and Karen followed Commander Carpenter into the offices of Captain H. G. Brightwell, the commanding officer of the navy brig. Karen noticed that Brightwell, however, was not sitting at his desk. Instead, Brightwell, also dressed in summer whites, stood just to the left of his desk, beside another dark-suited man. Yet another dark-suited man, resembling the other three, stood to the right of the desk.
Behind the desk, a blonde woman sat in a swivel chair with her back to them, facing the window.
"Welcome, Lieutenant Jacoby." The female voice came from the captain's desk. Then the woman rotated the chair around, flashing Karen a devious grin.
Karen's heart pounded with nervous excitement as the woman, dressed in a blue pantsuit, rose and extended her hand. Her handshake was vicelike -- similar to a man's -- and charisma seemed to exude from every inch of her body.
"Lieutenant, I'm Eleanor Claxton." The great woman flashed the whitest teeth Karen had ever seen. In an instant, Karen felt as if she'd known her forever.
"It's a true honor to meet you, Senator." Karen couldn't help wondering about the turn her life had taken. First she had a case with the great Zack Brewer, and now she was standing in front of the most powerful woman in America, the woman who might become the first female president of the United States. She looked over at Commander Carpenter and Captain Brightwell, expecting them to say something.
Silence.
Claxton released Karen's hand and, pointing to the back of the room, spoke again. "Meet my chief of staff, Jackson Gallopoulous, and my press secretary, Mary-Latham Modlin."
Jackson Gallopoulous appeared to be thirtysomething and had a Greek look about him. He wore blue jeans and a red sweater. A woman about the same age stood next to him. She wore a black skirt and white top. Except for her frizzy brunette hair, Mary-Latham Modlin could have passed for Claxton's younger sister.
"Nice to meet you, Karen," Gallopoulous said.
"You too," Karen replied.
The senator flashed her a smile. "I suppose you must be wondering what this is all about."
"Yes, ma'am."
"This," Claxton said, pointing behind Karen, "is my legal counsel, Webster Wallace."
Karen turned. A distinguished-looking silver-haired gentleman smiled and nodded at her.
"Lieutenant," Claxton continued, "we'd like to speak with your client."
"My client?"
"Ensign Eckberg."
"Well..." She looked to Commander Carpenter for assistance. Again there was none. "Well, Senator, I'd be happy to accommodate you. But right now we have a court-martial going on, and my concern is maintaining the attorney-client privilege."
Commander Carpenter winced.
"That's good lawyering, Lieutenant," boomed Wallace
's voice from behind her. He walked up and stood beside Karen, making her feel uncomfortable. "What the lieutenant is saying, Senator" -- Wallace spoke in low, smooth tones -- "is that anything Ensign Eckberg says to you, or to me, or anyone else not his attorney, could be used against him as long as this court-martial continues."
"Mr. Wallace is right, Senator. That's my concern. Otherwise, I would be happy to have you speak with him."
"I'm impressed, Lieutenant," the senator said. "But there are two things you may want to know." A brief pause. Claxton's eyes shot toward Wallace, then back to Karen. "First, your client has called and asked to speak with Mr. Wallace here."
The senator's assertion took Karen aback. How would Eckberg have known Wallace's number? And why wouldn't she have known about it? She looked at Wallace, who gave her a single nod, affirming what Claxton had just said. "Plus, there's nothing we want to do that would compromise any privileged communication. But we feel that your case is of paramount importance to the national interests."
"I don't understand."
"You understand that I sit on the Senate Armed Ser vices Committee and am a Democratic candidate for president of the United States?"
How am I supposed to react to that?
"Senator," Carpenter said, "as Lieutenant Jacoby's immediate superior in her chain of command, she does understand and very much respects your position and your work on the Armed Ser vices Committee. We are very happy to arrange a meeting with Ensign Eckberg."
"That's right, Senator," Captain Brightwell added. "As commanding officer of the navy brig, we can escort your party -- along with Lieutenant Jacoby, of course -- upstairs for a meeting with the ensign right now."
"Well then," the senator said, nodding at Carpenter, "I guess it's settled. If you would lead the way, Captain?"
