CHAPTER 126
Wednesday, May 14, 5:00 pm
LOTELLO USUALLY GAVE Madison her weekly allowance on Sundays, but they had been pretty busy this past weekend. He had just handed it to her. She counted it out as she always did. Not that it was ever the wrong amount. It was just the principle of the matter.
She finished counting. And frowned. “Dad?”
“Yeah? What’s that look, princess? Something wrong?”
“Haven’t you given me two dollars less than you’re supposed to?”
“Oh yeah. Right. Didn’t I already mention that to you?”
“I don’t think so. Dad?”
“Well, when the kidnappers had Cassie, you kept giving me a bad time for not letting you be more involved in what was going on?”
“So?”
“And you remember how I told you after we got Cassie home that we had worked that out through an escrow company?”
“I remember. Spooky.”
“Well, the escrow company charged two fees for their services. The opening fee, paid when we first hired them was two dollars. That was paid by me when I was at the escrow company’s office. The final fee, paid at the end, after Cassie was returned, was a bit more. That was paid by Cassie’s family.
“Since I knew how much you wanted to help Cassie, I thought you might want to pay the first fee, the initial two dollars, that cemented the deal and made possible Cassie’s release. So, I paid the two dollars for you, as a loan, interest-free, and just now subtracted it from your allowance to pay myself back. I guess I forgot to mention it.”
She looked at her dad, gave him a big hug, and yelled. “Dad, that was so cool!”
She let go and looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“What?”
“Cassie and I don’t have any secrets, Dad. But somehow I don’t think I should tell her about this. I want to share this with her so much, but it feels like it would be the wrong thing to do. Like I was bragging or like I was telling her she owed me. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a pretty thoughtful analysis, princess.”
“Yeah, I understand. Besides, it’s not necessary. Cassie and I are already best friends forever. Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I can tell Leah?”
“I think that might be okay.”
CHAPTER 127
Wednesday, May 14, 6:30 pm
“HI POPPY, how was your day?”
“Great, baby. What about yours?”
“All good. I had my first golf workouts this morning and this afternoon. I crushed it. Coach said I looked like I never missed a day. Said he couldn’t tell I had the flu at all. Of course, I didn’t tell him I didn’t.”
“I believe we can let that just be our family’s little secret.”
“And Madison and her parents. And the doctor because she had to give me an exam.”
“Right. And just those others.”
“Hey, guess what, Poppy?”
“Tell me.”
“I get to play in a regional juniors’s tournament this Saturday. Dad’s going to caddy for me. Mom’s coming, too. And Madison. Can you and Nanny come?”
“We wouldn’t miss it, baby.”
“Great! Love you, Poppy. Talk to you tomorrow.”
EPILOGUE
One Month Later
CASSIE SPOTTED the strange email in her inbox. Strange because she didn’t recognize the sender’s handle, or even the domain name. She figured it was probably just spam. But when she saw “Brat” in the preview window, she held her breath and opened it.
Dear Brat,
Hope you’re well.
I’m back home. If one can really think of my whereabouts as home. At least it’s safe. I’m safe. Even though I know they’re looking for me. My wounds, physical and emotional, are slowly healing.
And I’ve had time to think. About those who are and are not my real friends. In that regard, I do have some unfinished business to take care of. And I will.
You and your family have nothing (more?) to fear from me. I want you to know I don’t blame you or them for what happened. You and they had every right to do what you did. If the tables were turned, I would have done everything I could too.
I’ll be watching (from a good distance?) to see how you are faring on the fairways.
Be safe.
Your (not so?) secret admirer,
Frank(enstein)
P.S. Think we might ever be able to get in that round of golf together?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WRITERS DO THEIR THING in what can only be described as a “lonely space,” especially in the case of those who are relatively new to it.
Fortunately, there are some exceptions. I’d like to thank a few of them, whose support means more to me than I can possibly express (writer that I nevertheless strive to be).
In no particular order, and with apologies to any I may inadvertently overlook:
The writers—Sandra Brannan, Lee Child, Anthony Franze, Andrew Gross, K.J. Howe, Jon Land, John Lescroart—the ones who already know how to do it. Read their books if you haven’t already done so, and you’ll see for yourself. Writing is an incredibly busy profession. For those who generously and graciously took the time out from their demanding schedules to read my manuscript and favor me with their praise and encouragement, and their fraternity, what could make a newbie feel more grateful, and welcome? Not much.
The editors—formally Jean Jenkins, David Corbett, and Benee Knauer, but others informally as well, including in particular Andrea Marsden—who beat me up, over and over. And who put up with me when I resisted. But who through it all somehow made me a better writer. And this work a better story. (Hey, clipped sentences really are okay.)
The professionals— Eileen Lonergan (website developer extraordinaire), Lynne Constantine (public relations and marketing guru, in addition to building her own career as an outstanding author), Amy Collins (best ever book distribution channels manager on the back of a motorcycle), Jaye Rochon aka Immortal Jaye (whenever you need book trailers and other videos), Gwyn Snider (to make sure your book looks as good as it should), everyone at Gander House publishers (they know who they are), Meryl Moss and her best ever book cover design team at Meryl Moss Media, aka Jeffrey Michelson and John Lotte, M. J. Rose of Author Buzz who graciously shared her time and marketing expertise, and Sue Ganz of Sue Ganz photography (who can turn a very poor photographic subject into at least a better one)—have all helped me to get my message out there and to make sure this book actually looks like a book, inside and out, and that you’d know this story exists, and how and where to find it, and why you just might want to read it, and to assure that my website really is worth visiting.
And, finally, but not really finally at all, the members of my family who have provided me with their very own special kind of sustenance. The Wife, Barbie—I call her the Goose, tit for tat—who has egged me on when I needed eggs, and who has done the stuff no one else wanted to do, including me. The Brother, Gregg, who is always supportive. And The Son, Mark, who never ceases to amaze his mom and dad, who can do anything he chooses to do. And do it well. Who found all the holes in The Amendment Killer that were still there.
AUTHOR NOTE
THANK YOU FOR reading The Amendment Killer. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I think you’ll also enjoy learning how it all came about in The Puppet Master, the prequel to The Amendment Killer, on sale to the public wherever fine books are sold in Spring 2018. A hopefully titillating sample of the beginning of The Puppet Master for your reading pleasure appears at the end of this work. If you are not among my growing reader community who have already done so, please sign up for my newsletter at www.ronaldsbarak.com to learn everything exciting about . . . me (well, at least my writing), including further details about when and where The Puppet Master can be purchased. Hey, what’s another occasional email in your Inbox?
If you did enjoy The Amendment Killer, I will be eternally grateful i
f you will spread the word however you can, including posting a brief online review of The Amendment Killer. It’s easy. Honest. Even fun. Simple instruction on how and where to do that may be found at www.ronaldsbarak.com/how-to-leave-an-online-review. Besides growing my fan base, it will impress my family and friends, who wonder why I do all this.
Thanks for connecting, and for your support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RON BARAK, Olympic athlete, law school honors graduate, experienced courtroom lawyer, and himself a diabetic, is uniquely qualified to write this suspenseful novel which will appeal to all political and legal thriller aficionados. Ron and his wife, Barbie, and the four legged members of their family, reside in Pacific Palisades, California.
To connect with Ron, visit
www.ronaldsbarak.com
www.facebook.com/ronaldsbarak
www.twitter.com/@RonBarakAuthor
To book Ron to speak, please contact [email protected].
THE PUPPET MASTER
Available Spring 2018
Herein lies a mighty fine . . . sample of the beginning of The Puppet Master, the prequel to The Amendment Killer, on sale to the public wherever fine books are sold in Spring 2018. When and where The Puppet Master can be purchased will appear in my occasional newsletter, to which you can subscribe at www.ronaldsbarak.com.
This sample is actually part of the Advanced Reader Copy of The Puppet Master and is subject to revision before the final version of the novel is released. To be sure, the sample is made available to generate interest and buzz. However, I have a second reason: I like to encourage feedback and suggestions from readers. The first five readers who email suggestions to [email protected] that I actually incorporate in the final version of The Puppet Master will receive any or all of the following thanks and expressions of appreciation as desired:
• The right to name a non-recurring Brooks/Lotello thriller series character appearing in The Puppet Master, whether yourself, your next door neighbor, your best friend, or—of course, subject to privacy rights—your worst enemy.
• An acknowledgment of appreciation in the Acknowledgment pages of The Puppet Master.
• An autographed free copy of the final version of The Puppet Master.
PROLOGUE
Undated
HE DIDN’T THINK HE was a bad person. But he acknowledged how that could be open to debate. How others might disagree. Maybe it all comes down to the definition of “bad.”
The window shades were drawn. What scant light there was came from a single lamp sitting on the desk.
It was quiet. Just the two of them. In the one room. He wondered how the prowler had missed him, sitting right there at the desk? His desk. It is my desk, damn it. In my room. Looking at my computer. Right there. The words I had chosen to read right there on my computer. How could this trespasser be so fucking brazen? So damn impudent?
A lesson needed to be taught. For sure. And he would be the teacher. Starting right now.
Without warning, the man stood and charged the intruder. Star tled, certainly now aware of the man’s presence, if he hadn’t been before, his adversary seemed surprised now and hurriedly sought to withdraw. Realizing there was no avenue of escape, the interloper turned and confronted the man. Mano a mano.
They stared at each other. This was not going to take long. It was not going to be a happy ending. Not for the villain it wasn’t. The man edged forward, backing his foe into the corner. Now perched on one leg, the other elevated, ala the black belt expert that he was. Poised like a rattle snake ready to strike.
Trapped, sensing the misfortune about to find its mark, the invader made one last desperate attempt to dart away, beyond the man’s reach. But it was too late. The blow squarely found its target. A second assault would not be necessary.
These insufferable parasites just don’t get it. Understand there’s a price to be paid. A lesson to be learned. Right from wrong. I will be the one to teach them. Someone has to do it. Now. And as often as required.
The man bent down, grasped the smashed cockroach between his thumb and finger, and deposited it in the wastebasket. His wastebasket.
No. Everyone might not agree. But he didn’t think he was a bad person. Not at all.
* * *
There were 117 active trial court judges comprising the Washington, D.C., Superior Court infrastructure. Their primary task was to impartially assure a fair and balanced system of justice, the kind of justice that was supposed to be at the heart of every civilized society.
In the criminal courtroom, “fair” generally meant the avoidance of surprises. And “balanced” meant equal respect for the interests of all concerned, the accused, the victim, and the public. Without “impartiality,” the ability to distinguish between accused and victim often proved unclear. As did maintaining the civilized character of our society.
Judge Cyrus Brooks always thought of himself as among the best of them. Those 117 active D.C. trial court judges charged with dispensing a fair and balanced judiciary. Lately, however, he was beginning to wonder whether he was still up to the task.
If a man was arrested for robbing a convenience store, it was clear who the accused was, who the victim was, and that what the public craved was upholding peace and order. Simple and straightforward. Easy for any disciplined and competent judge to impartially manage his courtroom to achieve the “correct” outcome. Right?
But what if the accused had been down on his luck? Destitute? Try as he had, not able to find a job. What if all he had been doing when caught was stealing a loaf of bread and a carton of milk to feed his kids? After he had already exhausted his food stamps for the month? He wasn’t carrying a weapon when he had entered the convenience store, but the store proprietor was. And hadn’t hesitated to use it.
Once upon a time, if you were unhappy about things, you wrote your congressman. If he ignored you, then you didn’t vote for him the next time around. You voted for the other guy. Maybe, you even campaigned for the other guy.
But what if the problem you were unhappy about was your congressman? What if you thought he wasn’t doing his job? Worse. What if you thought he was on the take? Corrupt? And what if the other guy was just as bad? Then what?
Brooks knew you couldn’t just take matters into your own hands. Go out and shoot someone just because you were unhappy. Let alone shoot a bunch of people. People you didn’t even know.
Or could you?
More and more, there were those today who seemed quite willing to do precisely that. To kill complete strangers just . . . because.
That was the crux of what had been troubling Brooks of late. What if one of those killers was arrested, and assigned for trial to his courtroom? Could he still—today—assure the accused, the families of the victim—or victims—and the people of Washington, D.C., that he remained able to impartially administer a fair and balanced trial? Could he genuinely suppress his personal views in the face of everything going on in our society today? Easy to frame the questions, right? But not so easy to answer them.
Once upon a time, Brooks had no trouble doing precisely that, remaining impartial and objective at all costs and under all circumstances, subordinating his own personal views when inside his courtroom. No matter what. Of late, however, he was finding it more and more difficult to achieve that vital impartiality.
Brooks wondered if his recent doubts and concerns meant it was time for him to step down. To retire. To pass the baton to someone else.
But he waited too long.
BOOK ONE
THE CRIMINALS
FEBRUARY 5–8
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, February 5, 7:20 p.m.
U.S. SENATOR JANE WELLS had been wondering whether tonight might be the night.
Her last two companions had been disappointing, downright boring, in every respect. Almost as boring as her political constituents, and having to pretend that she actually cared about them.
Being single again definitely had its be
nefits. No longer back home in dull, sedate Kansas—first the wife and then the widow of former U.S. Senator Arthur Wells—but things were still pretty boring. Maybe she had just found it more exciting sampling the other merchandise when still married. She hoped tonight would prove more fulfilling.
Wells glanced in the mirror opposite her desk, making sure everything was in order. Not too bad for a fifty-year-old strawberry blonde in a bottle. Well, admittedly with a little help from Dr. Nip N’ Tuck. Looks had never been her problem. Or maybe that was her problem. Tall and curvaceous, she still managed to fill out her power suit in all the right places. Wells closed her briefcase and walked from her oversized private office into the also spacious and well-appointed reception area. She carried herself in a way that was not easy for anyone to miss.
“Night, Jimmy,” Wells said to her Chief of Staff, boyishly good-looking James Ayres. When her husband had died suddenly, most Kansas locals had expected Ayres, her husband’s Chief of Staff, to be tapped to fill her husband’s remaining term. But the Kansas Governor had concluded that picking the distraught, martyred widow made more political sense. For him. It was rumored that it made more personal sense for him as well. Disappointed, Ayres nevertheless agreed to stay on as her Chief of Staff.
Wells considered Ayres’s sandy brown locks and piercing hazel eyes—kind of a younger, chiseled version of Robert Redford— imagining for more than just a second what a frolic in the hay with Ayres might be like. Probably a lot more virile than my somewhat more successful, but also older, recent partners. Hard not to visualize that hard body of Ayres gliding back and forth across mine. Certainly one way to get better acquainted with the staff! She’d had no luck with her not so subtle outreaches to date, but she still kept that image tucked away in the recesses of her mind. For further consideration.
The Amendment Killer (Brooks/Lotello Thriller) Page 33
