Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  “Thirty-five bucks with my BevMo discount,” Tony said with a wry smile.

  “Amazing. What is it?”

  “It’s French, from Bordeaux. St. Emilion. From the airplane manufacturer’s estate. Château Dassault, 2005.”

  “How the hell do you find these?” Jack asked.

  “Taste, my friend, taste. Gotta keep tryin’.”

  Amen to that, Jack thought as a long week drew to a close.

  * * *

  Nearly a week and a half after the blast, Jack was dreaming of a beautiful blue-eyed Czech woman he’d met at a bar in town, reliving in vivid detail the night they’d spent at her apartment in North Beach.

  She was a stunning woman, with the longest legs Jack had ever seen close-up, and when she peeled off her dress, revealing that she had no tan lines whatsoever, he found himself instantly ready for her.

  Jack had always been a proponent of the slow build but this woman had no interest in that. Before he could get his pants all the way off, she was reaching for him like a groupie with a rock star, pulling him to her bed, her body trembling, her breathing shallow, and a look in her eyes that said, You can do anything you want to me, but do it now.

  Jack did, with fierce intensity as she clutched him to her, her breasts pressed against him, her nails digging into his back, her teeth scraping at his earlobe as she whispered softly to him.

  The whispers were quickly replaced by moans that grew louder and more urgent with every passing moment—to the point where Jack thought he might be causing her pain. Finally she cried out, clutching him even tighter as her body stiffened, then shuddered in release. Jack soon followed, then collapsed against her, every nerve ending tingling. Then he rolled away from her and fell against the pillow, trying to catch his breath, and fell asleep.

  He was awakened from his dream not by the rising sun but by a tongue licking his face.

  Eddie. The eleven-pound bundle of trouble he’d inherited in the divorce.

  When Jack realized what was going on he started to laugh. He had originally intended for Rachel to keep the little gray poodle, but after a series of nips, bites, and soiled rugs it turned out that Eddie was even less fond of her than he was and he happily retrieved the two-year-old dog. Ever since then Eddie had slept with Jack, always at his feet. Sometimes the little guy would moan in his sleep, sounding like a child having a bad dream, and Jack would only have to touch him gently with a toe to break the nightmare. Despite any macho posturing to the contrary, he always thought of Eddie as his guardian angel with fur.

  Of course, a boat was no real home for an animal—even a ball of fluff not much bigger than a rabbit—but Eddie had adapted remarkably well, if you didn’t count the annoying habit of waking Jack up at six A.M. every morning.

  Sure enough, when Jack gave him a scratch behind the ears and glanced at the digital clock next to his bed it read 5:59.

  Uncanny.

  Jack had to wonder if Tony Antiniori had somehow put the dog up to this. The two had taken to each other like fellow conspirators when they were first introduced, and Tony would often look after Eddie while Jack was working, teaching him little tricks to keep them both entertained. Tony’s father had been a dog handler in World War II, and had a Doberman during the Tarawa Campaign that had saved his life more times than he could remember. Those skills had been passed from father to son, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to think that Tony was behind this particular stunt.

  Tony often protested that Eddie was more trouble than he was worth, but Jack knew this was merely the old guy’s way of proving that he was still a hard-ass. The truth was, they were both completely smitten with the shaggy little poodle, even if neither of them was willing to admit it out loud.

  Dragging himself from bed, Jack adjusted the drawstring on his sweats, grabbed some change, then hooked Eddie to a leash and headed for the marina clubhouse. There was a patch of grass set aside specifically for this purpose, and it wasn’t unusual for Jack to find several of his neighbors walking their dogs every morning.

  Eddie never failed to bring a smile to their faces.

  This morning, however, the area was deserted, and Jack let the dog roam as he looked out at the morning sky and the bobbing boats on the marina.

  Jack had always been awestruck by the morning sun on the bay. On calm days, when the water was flat, even a dim sun behind clouds and fog lit the surface in a light show unmatched by any digitally equipped house on earth. Here, or even in the cabin, as Jack peered out he inevitably found himself wondering about God, creation, the meaning of life, and all those grand, universal questions. In that sense he was a spiritual man. He knew that life did not end when we died—he had seen too many deaths in Iraq to take the NatGeo view of things.

  No, the earth was not created from a ball of fire—God had created the earth and the heavens. No, we did not simply “expire” like a fly or seagull. We were judged by God and sent into the next world, judged for the things we did and the things we should not have done. Judged, too, for the things we did not do and should have done, for the things we said and should not have said, for the words we should have said and did not say. He was content to maintain his belief in an invisible God and conduct his life accordingly, and he was sustained by this faith. And while Jack himself steered clear of churches or temples, save the occasional wedding or funeral, he deeply admired those who regularly worshipped.

  He believed that honorable houses of worship were the moral compass that kept society on the right track. Sure, he had met some “religious” people who were outright bastards. But, so what, he thought. Religion itself, God Himself, were the eternals. Some religious institutions had their share of shame and fraud but for Jack they were first and foremost the core of the family, the bricks of civilization.

  And except for one religion they all seemed to preach tolerance for others. All religions had gone through their phases of crusade and persecution, but only Islam still openly preached conquest and conversion, especially the radical Wahhabi sect. They were antiwomen, antifreedom, anti-America—

  Jack sighed, bringing his mind back to the morning as he walked Eddie back home.

  It was a beautiful day, the air cool and crisp, and he was looking forward to his daily bicycle regimen. He was not a triathlete like Maxine—who was already back in training despite the stitches in her skull—but he was up to ten miles a day now, and enjoyed the feel of the wind and fog in his face and the burn in his muscles that told him he was alive.

  Jack pulled on his running shoes and went back outside. He had always liked to stay in shape. Some of the best weeks of his life had been spent at a private boot camp in Florida, where he’d trained in hand-to-hand combat and tactical survival skills. The camp had been run by former Israeli commandos, teaching Krav Maga, a form of martial arts developed by the Israeli defense forces and involving grappling, wrestling, and ruthless striking techniques. It had none of the dancelike grace of kung fu, jujitsu, or some of the other styles Jack had seen. It was simply deadly, and that was good enough for him. There was a saying at the camp, that “a man who cannot protect his belongings owns nothing.” That was true, and there was no greater confidence-builder than knowing that if your home were threatened, or you were up against the wall, you could snap a man’s neck in a second or two. It was a skill Jack hoped he would never have to put to the test.

  All of these thoughts instantly vacated his mind, however, as he wandered over to the battered newspaper racks that lined the sidewalk near the clubhouse. That was where he always did his stretching exercises, but he froze when he saw the Chronicle’s headline framed in one of the windows:

  SUSPECTS ARRESTED IN STREET BOMBING

  The news was a complete surprise. The day before, he’d heard the first rumors of possible movement in the investigation, but he hadn’t expected something so dramatic so soon. And as he scanned the column of words beneath the headline, he knew he’d been right to be bothered by this case.

  Dropping his coins in t
he slot, he grabbed the paper, scooped up Eddie, then went back to the Sea Wrighter and quickly changed his clothes.

  Fifteen minutes later he was driving toward the city.

  * * *

  Jack had always thought that press conferences were about seventy percent public relations and thirty percent verifiable truth, but when all was said and done, this one didn’t even meet that narrow threshold.

  Not that anyone noticed. Most of them were there to fill air time, column space, or blog pages. That wasn’t anything new. Jack had noticed mainstream media reporters becoming oddly incurious over the years. No one dug for information anymore. They simply regurgitated press releases or drummed up controversy in the hope of pleasing their employers, who were busy trying to woo back the viewers or readers they’d lost to the Internet and talk radio.

  Real news was a rare commodity these days, and rarer still were real journalists. The image of the investigative reporter who let nothing stand between him and his pursuit of the truth was seen mostly in movies and episodic television shows.

  The lobby of the federal courthouse was jammed with people who claimed to be real journalists, but Jack could only count on one hand the number of them who truly fit that definition. He considered himself among their number, but was sure there were plenty of his colleagues who would disagree.

  The conference began in the usual manner. A mix of uniforms and suits, feds, cops, and politicians flanking a single podium crowded with microphones. The chief of police stepped up and waited as the room grew quiet except for the steady click of digital single-lens reflex cameras.

  After a moment, the police chief said, “Before we get into the reason we’re here, I’d like to renew my condolences to the family of Officer Tom Drabinsky. His dedication to this city is unparalleled, and we’ll all miss his good humor and unwavering courage in the face of danger.”

  A good start, Jack thought. The networks had all jumped at his tribute to Drabinsky, although most of them had edited the footage to fit their time slots, which wasn’t uncommon. As he expected, the name Jack Hatfield was never mentioned.

  Several of the uniforms behind the chief were members of the SFPD bomb squad, and they lowered their heads in respect.

  “A memorial service for Officer Drabinsky will be held at a later date, and the family has asked that the press allow them to mourn in private. I hope you’ll all respect those wishes.”

  “Do you have that date?” a reporter asked.

  The chief frowned. “I’ll let the family decide whether or not they want to release that information.” Several more reporters tried to jump in, but he ignored them and pressed on. “Now, I’d like to introduce Field Director Carl Forsyth, head of the FBI task force assigned to investigating this incident in conjunction with the Department of Homeland Security and the SFPD. He’ll give you a rundown of the facts. Agent Forsyth?”

  Cameras flashed as one of the suits stepped forward. He had the crisp but slightly bland demeanor of a typical FBI agent. Jack immediately recognized him as the agent in charge from the night of the blast.

  Forsyth expressed condolences to the Drabinsky family on behalf of the federal government, dispassionately listed the names of his team, and thanked each of them for their swift and decisive work.

  Then he said, “You’ve all read the release sent out by our press office late last night, so you know that our agents conducted a raid yesterday evening of a compound in the northern California border town of Higgston. We took into custody several suspects we believe are responsible for the failed bombing attempt last week.”

  The crowd erupted with shouted questions, but Forsyth held up a hand to silence them.

  “Let me finish my statement and I’ll answer all your questions.” He paused as they settled again. “The compound is owned by a small paramilitary organization who call themselves the CDB or the Constitutional Defense Brigade, boasting about twenty-five members. As many of you may know, the leader of that group is under federal indictment for tax evasion and wire fraud and we believe the federal courthouse was the intended target of the bomber.”

  “What evidence do you have of their involvement?” someone called out.

  Before the crowd could get fired up again, Forsyth once again raised his hand to keep them quiet. “During the raid, we found a cache of firearms and several bricks of C4 explosives and detonators, similar to those used in the blast. We also found a file containing multiple photographs of the target, three city maps focusing on the downtown area, and a GPS unit with travel coordinates to the courthouse. A similar GPS unit was found in the wreckage of the Land Rover.

  “But the real kicker is a witness by the name of William Clegg, a resident of Higgston, who earlier this year attempted to join the CDB and was turned away. He claims that the group has been planning this operation for weeks.” Another pause. “While it’s ultimately up to the courts to decide guilt or innocence, we feel confident that with the evidence we’ve gathered, and with Mr. Clegg’s testimony, each of our suspects will be spending a considerable time behind bars. I’ll now open the floor to—”

  The roar erupted before he had a chance to finish his sentence. Forsyth calmed them down again and said he’d take their questions one at a time, then pointed to a sultry blond correspondent for FOX News.

  “Have any of the suspects confessed?”

  “They’re still undergoing interrogation,” Forsyth said, “so I can’t comment on that at the moment. Barring any legal restrictions, however, we’ll be providing you with progress reports.”

  He pointed to a reporter from CBS.

  “From the very beginning,” the reporter said, “there’ve been rumors that this attack could be related to Islamic fundamentalists. Are you saying this is strictly homegrown?”

  Forsyth nodded. “I won’t deny that our first inclination was to look in that direction, but when Mr. Clegg came forward we quickly found out otherwise. This should probably serve as a lesson to us all not to prejudge such things. The world is full of dangerous people, and some of them are in our own backyard.”

  Maybe so, Jack thought, but the evidence Forsyth had mentioned was circumstantial at best. And relying on a local witness who hadn’t been allowed on the inside, yet claimed to have inside information, strained credulity. Who was to say he didn’t have a grudge?

  As far as the firearms were concerned, if the feds were to ever raid the apartment Jack owned near the Embarcadero they’d find enough legal weapons to equip a marine fire team—a collection he’d amassed over the last twenty years. Did that make him a terrorist?

  The maps the feds had found could simply have been preparation for a trip to San Francisco to witness their leader’s trial, and there might even be a logical explanation for the presence of C4 at the compound. A licensed demolitions expert would have the right to possess it, and any number of reasons to use it out there from construction to rock removal to movie special effects work.

  Whatever the case, Jack wasn’t willing to choke down any of this without a bit of resistance. Especially knowing what he knew about Leon Thomas’s statement.

  More hands went in the air and Forsyth made his choice.

  “What about the minor who hijacked the car?” a reporter for the Chronicle asked. “Is he being charged with anything?”

  Forsyth shook his head. “Not on a federal level. His involvement had nothing to do with the conspiracy itself, so no charges are anticipated. He’s currently recovering from a busted arm and leg incurred in the crash and is in hospital room custody of the SFPD.”

  “I understand his brother has been released,” the reporter said.

  “He was arrested for allegedly aiding and abetting the carjack and has been released to the custody of his parents on $25,000 bail. We’ll leave it to the city prosecutor to sort out any crimes he may have committed.”

  Jack listened patiently as several more questions were asked and answered, all of them centering on the CDB. He kept waiting for someone to mention what
he considered to be the gorilla in the room, but maybe he was the only one who actually saw it.

  He raised his hand, only to be passed over several times by Forsyth, and he felt for a moment as if he were the scrawny kid in phys ed who was the last to be chosen for flag football. Back in school, Jack was usually the guy who did the choosing, but he now had a sudden understanding and sympathy for what those poor kids must have gone through.

  Finally, when Forsyth had no choice, he called on Jack, saying, “Well, Mr. Hatfield, it’s nice to see you’re still among the living. Professionally speaking, at least.”

  The crowd laughed and Jack merely smiled. But it was nervous laughter, the kind you hear when a drunk uncle stands to toast the bride and groom at a wedding.

  When they got it out of their collective system, Jack said, “I’m curious to know why there hasn’t been any mention of the Arab reportedly seen by Leon Thomas?”

  The crowd buzzed at the remark and there was a subtle shift in Forsyth’s gaze. So subtle that most in the room had probably missed it, but Jack had been carefully watching for the man’s reaction.

  “An Arab, Mr. Hatfield?”

  “I spoke to one of the first responders at the scene. An Officer Harold Beckman. He told me the carjacker’s brother claimed the Land Rover was stolen from a man of Arabian descent.”

  Forsyth smiled. “We have yet to definitively identify the original driver, but we have every reason to believe that he’s one of the men we just took into custody. And I assure you, there’s not an Arab in sight.”

  “So you’re saying Beckman was lying?”

  “As I recall, Officer Beckman suffered a minor head injury in the blast, so I’m afraid his recollection cannot be relied upon.”

  Forsyth was about to call on another reporter when Jack interrupted. “Beckman told me this before the blast.”

  More muttering. The FBI agent shifted his gaze back to Jack and Jack could plainly see that he was seething inside. This was not information Forsyth wanted asked about or shared.