by Randy Singer
Sean seemed to be in another place now. He had a faraway look, describing what had happened in a calm and detached tone devoid of feeling. It was almost as if he wouldn’t allow his emotions to be part of the equation anymore, for fear that he wouldn’t be able to handle where they might take him.
He told Kerri about his short-lived attempt to rescue his lover, cut off by his own fellow agents.
“The Syrians killed her, Kerri, because she wouldn’t talk. They cut out her tongue and let her bleed to death. She probably choked on her own blood.”
The thought was appalling to Kerri, but she didn’t flinch. She had her hands folded together, forearms resting on the table, leaning forward. She kept her eyes on his. “I’m sorry,” she said. It occurred to her that the average American, the average Busch Gardens guest on this hot summer day, had no idea how much people like Sean Phoenix and Fatinah Najar had sacrificed to protect their freedom, to make days like this possible.
“Victor Carson made the call,” Sean continued, referring to the head of the CIA. Kerri saw a flash of flint in the blue eyes, the same look she remembered from their first meeting. “He consulted his top lawyer, a midlevel bureaucrat from the State Department, and the two of them decided to just let her die. They probably discussed it over a Scotch and martini.”
Sean clenched his jaw, and Kerri could tell that time had not healed the wounds. She wondered if Sean had ever truly loved anyone again.
“For the past three years, I’ve had some folks investigating Mr. Carson. I’ve now got sources and documents for everything I’m about to tell you.”
He paused so the magnitude of what he was saying could sink in. He had dirt on the head of the CIA, and he was about to entrust Kerri with the story! It might not be Watergate, but it was bigger than anything she had done before. Even the Universal Labs story was child’s play compared to this.
“Carson has files on D.C.’s top politicians,” Sean continued. “Democrats and Republicans. And we’ve got copies. He’s used the information in those files for blackmail. There’s a reason the CIA’s budget never gets cut. A reason that Carson is never called to the Hill for a congressional investigation.
“I’m big on loyalty, Kerri. You proved yours when you protected our sources in the Universal Labs story. Later, when we leave the park and you get in your car, reach under the front seat, and you’ll find a copy of my entire Carson file. You can take it from there.”
Kerri nodded. She had stepped through the looking glass again, into the Cipher Inc. dreamworld where stories fell from trees. Sean could have planted this story with any one of a thousand other journalists, many of whom had more experience and credibility than she did. “I appreciate your trust,” was all she could think to say.
Sean reached out and touched her hand. It wasn’t a romantic touch—more like a point of emphasis.
“I know that I’m emotionally involved with this,” he said. “And I want you to verify everything. I would like nothing more than for Mr. Carson to get what he’s got coming. But that’s why I’m taking myself out of the equation. It’s got to be evaluated by somebody whose judgment isn’t clouded by revenge.”
“I understand,” Kerri said.
At some point, the Festhaus band had stopped playing and the dancers had retreated to their break room, where they would wait for the next show. The family of six had left as well. But Kerri hardly noticed. Her life, already a chaotic mess, was about to go to the next level of stress. She could already feel the pressure.
“We’d better get going,” Sean said.
“Yeah,” Kerri agreed. “We’d better get going.”
///
Sean walked with Kerri toward the main gate, keeping one eye on the other guests. He glanced a few times at her profile, struck by how beautiful she was.
On the way, the conversation turned to Landon’s upcoming trial. Sean listened intently as Kerri shared her fears about her husband’s safety and her concerns that Landon was defending a guilty man.
“Who does Landon think killed Erica Jensen?” Sean asked.
“That’s the whole problem. He has no idea.”
They were walking by the pasture where the Clydesdale horses were grazing. “They’re beautiful animals, aren’t they?” Sean asked.
“Yeah,” Kerri said, though she sounded distracted.
“That was enthusiastic.”
“Sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Why don’t I put our folks on it?” Sean suggested. “We can work behind the scenes so nobody knows. If we figure something out, I can tell you, and you can decide whether to share it with Landon.”
Kerri seemed to straighten her shoulders a little. “That would be tremendous,” she said.
They rode the tram together to Kerri’s car. Sean was parked in a different lot but had insisted on accompanying her. A few rows away, they saw the Wolfman milling around.
“One last thing,” Sean said, as they approached her vehicle. “Before the King trial starts, I’m going to have the Wolfman deliver four Kevlar vests—one for you, one for Elias, one for Landon, and one for Billy Thurston. Do me a favor and wear them to and from court. And buy Thurston a suit coat, so everybody won’t know you’ve got them on.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” Kerri asked.
“No. I just need my prized reporter safe.”
He opened her car door and had her check under the seat before he closed it. She held out the file for him to see.
“How’d they get in?” she asked.
Sean smiled. “It’s what we do.”
He told her to be safe, closed the door, and stood in the parking lot as she drove away.
She reminded him so much of Fatinah. He could tell, though he knew Kerri wouldn’t admit it even to herself, that she felt the chemistry too.
Landon Reed was a lucky man. He had married way over his head, way out of his league, and he would probably be the first one to tell you so.
Sean liked Landon. The kid had guts. But still, Sean had to wonder: What kind of chemistry would exist between him and Kerri if Landon Reed weren’t in the picture?
///
On the way home, Kerri’s head was buzzing with the reality that she and Landon, just another young couple trying to make ends meet, were now in the vortex of some pretty big stuff. Even the Elias King trial, which had seemed all-important just a few days ago, would be dwarfed by the potential story about the director of the CIA. That story would dominate network news for months. First the director. Then every politician who had yielded to his threats. Her mind raced with the implications of what was coming. Assuming, of course, that everything checked out.
She got off at an exit in Newport News, found a hotel parking lot, and pulled out the file. She spent forty-five minutes glancing through every piece of paper.
It checked out, all right. Not surprisingly, Cipher Inc. had done its homework.
The next few weeks were going to get very interesting.
66
JUDGE TAJ DEEGAN, a former prosecutor, had been on the Chesapeake Circuit Court bench for less than a year. At forty-one, she was the youngest judge in the city. She had a big frame and carried around a few extra pounds, which rounded out her face and made her look more imposing. She wore small black reading glasses that she propped on the end of her nose. She had a quick wit and a dry sense of humor. Nobody outworked her.
The woman had a Horatio Alger story, a single mom who had taken college and law school classes at night while working for a private security firm during the day. She had gained notoriety as the lead prosecutor against a Muslim imam accused of honor killings. During that case, she survived a courtroom shoot-out in Virginia Beach Circuit Court and became a legend. One year later, when an opening came up on the Chesapeake bench, Deegan changed her residence and was immediately appointed by the politicians. She was a local hero who would bring diversity to the bench and believed in law and order. Who could vote against that?
On M
onday afternoon, one week before the scheduled start of the Elias King trial, Landon found himself in Deegan’s courtroom, arguing a number of pretrial motions.
The most important issue was the role of Elias King at trial. Landon and Elias had filed a motion informing the court that Elias intended to participate in his own defense. Franklin Sherman had objected, claiming that the defense was simply gaming the system by trying to find a way for King to testify without having to endure cross-examination.
“Judge, we’re dealing with constitutional rights here,” Landon argued. “Mr. King is entitled to participate in his own defense, and he’s also entitled to assert his Fifth Amendment rights. I’m sure in your days as a prosecutor you had numerous defendants represent themselves and never take the stand. If a defendant can handle the entire case, he can certainly handle just a portion of it.”
After she had heard from both lawyers, Judge Deegan removed her reading glasses and hunched forward a little, rounding her shoulders. “You’re right, Mr. Reed. I’ve seen many defendants represent themselves.” She paused and looked at Elias. “It’s generally not a good idea. In fact, I can’t remember a single one of them winning.”
She sighed and sat back in her chair. “But Mr. Reed is correct—the defendant has a constitutional right to do so. However, Mr. Sherman is also correct in that this is not an unqualified right. It can be revoked by the court for misconduct. And if this court suspects that Mr. King is doing what the prosecution suggests and using this as a ploy to testify without taking the stand, the court will not hesitate to revoke that right.”
She fixed her no-nonsense gaze on Landon and Elias again. “I think it becomes especially problematic if Mr. King gives an opening statement, which would, by necessity, address factual matters in the case. So I’m putting both of you on notice right now. If Mr. King decides to give his own opening statement, despite the fact that he’s represented by very capable legal counsel, I will be inclined to rule that he has waived his Fifth Amendment privilege on any factual matters addressed in that opening statement of which he has personal knowledge. The same will be true if he examines witnesses using questions that sound more like narratives than questions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Landon said.
Deegan flashed a quick grin showing straight white teeth. “Good. What’s the next issue?”
Forty-five minutes later, in the parking lot, Elias took an optimistic view of things. “I was going to let you do the opening anyway,” he said. “I’ll do the closing, because by then it won’t matter if I waive my Fifth Amendment right. They can’t force me to take the stand at that stage.”
It was an interesting strategy, one that Harry McNaughten would have liked. It would be one more reason why the press, already focused on the case, would be tracking their every move.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” Landon said.
67
THE DAYS BLURRED TOGETHER in the final week before trial. Landon spent nearly every waking moment at the office, and most of the time, Elias King was there with him. Detective Freeman breezed through once in a while to inform Landon and Parker Clausen that she still didn’t know who wanted them dead.
Elias had commandeered one of the empty offices on the second floor. The conference room became the Elias King war room, used to store most of the case files. When she came, Freeman set up shop in yet another empty office. If there was one thing McNaughten and Clay had, it was plenty of space.
Out of respect, nobody did an ounce of work in Harry’s old office. In the back of his mind, Landon had plans to move into that office if he won the King case. Harry would have wanted it that way. But if he lost, Landon would stay in the first-year associate’s office that he had been occupying since the day he walked in the door. For that matter, if he lost, Landon would probably vacate the firm altogether.
But he didn’t have time to think about the future right now. Every morning he wrote out a two-page list of things to do, and by the end of the day he had added more items than he had crossed off. He wondered how any lawyer ever got ready for a big felony case.
That was one of many reasons it surprised him late Friday morning when Elias King stuck his head in Landon’s office and asked if he needed a break.
“What I need is about four more weeks,” Landon said.
“Jake’s in his last day at an Old Dominion football camp,” Elias said. “I was thinking about going over and catching the seven-on-seven scrimmage. Want to come?”
Landon looked at the man as if he’d just suggested they go rob a bank. They had a trial coming up in three days! A murder trial. Elias’s murder trial.
“Are you serious?”
“Look, we haven’t taken a break in about four weeks. We’re as ready to go as we’re going to be.” Elias paused and swallowed. “This might be my last chance to see him play.”
“Why don’t you go on over? I’ve still got a ton of stuff to do before Monday.”
Elias hung his head, as if his last friend in the world had just betrayed him. “The terms of my bail only allow me to leave the house for meetings with my lawyers. If you go with me, we would probably be covered. Plus, it would mean a lot to Jake. To be honest, if I show up with you, he would think it was cool. If I show up on my own, he’d probably be annoyed.”
Against his better judgment, Landon agreed to take a few hours off. He called Billy Thurston, who decided to ride over with them.
///
When they got to the field, the shaded spots on the bleachers were already taken, so the three men picked an isolated spot about halfway up where the sun could beat down on them. Elias still had on the white starched shirt and striped red tie that he had worn to the office. He loosened the tie and rolled up his sleeves. He didn’t have any sunglasses, so he squinted at the field. Landon wondered if the man had ever been to one of Jake’s games.
Landon was more comfortable. The past three days, he had rolled out of bed, taken a quick shower, and thrown on shorts and a T-shirt before heading to the office. No sense shaving—that took time.
Billy Thurston had on a pair of gym shorts, a Packers workout shirt, and an old Packers cap that he wore backward. The cap was frayed around the edges, and the white trim had turned brown. It looked like it had been around since the Vince Lombardi days.
When Jake noticed them, he broke into a smile, and Landon gave him a thumbs-up. When his team got the ball, Jake threw an incomplete pass on the first play and an interception on the second. He jogged back to the sidelines, head down. He avoided eye contact with the three men in the bleachers.
“I think that receiver ran the wrong route,” Billy said. “That one’s not on Jake.”
The next series was a little better, and Jake’s team marched down the field until the drive stalled at the other team’s twenty. But on the third series, Jake threw another pick, and Billy Thurston had seen enough. He stood up.
“What are you doing?” Landon asked.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” Billy said. He had his hands on his hips. “Those receivers are terrible. I’m going down to talk to Jake’s linemen.”
Billy marched down to the sidelines, and, within minutes, he was coaching. He shouted encouragement to the kids and demonstrated techniques when they came to the sidelines. The camp coaches took a backseat and let Billy do his thing.
Landon took a quick glance around. If a sniper wanted to take him out, this would be a good opportunity. He and Elias King were sitting ducks. If Kerri were here, she might be having second thoughts about Billy’s expertise as a bodyguard.
“Don’t let that daughter of yours grow up without knowing her daddy,” Elias said. He was squinting at the field, and the comment came out of the blue.
“She won’t.”
“All those hours at the office. Running around prosecuting big-time criminals. Literally putting my life on the line to put those thugs behind bars. And where am I now?” Elias looked at Landon briefly, as if his lawyer might actually
have an answer. Landon kept his eyes glued to the field.
“My kid’s a teenager, and he hardly knows me,” Elias continued. “Let’s face it; there’s a good chance I won’t be there for his high school graduation or to take him to college or to see him get married.”
It was the first time Elias had talked this frankly about losing the case. He said it with a sense of melancholy, and Landon had half an urge to give the man a pep talk. Instead, he remained silent. It was like one of those moments in a Shakespearean tragedy where the central figure took the stage for a few moments of introspection. Who was Landon to interfere?
“Julia always struggled with depression. We had different ideas about how to raise Jake. When you come home at the end of a long and stressful day, you’re supposed to feel a sense of relaxation. But I always felt like I was stepping into a war zone, full of innuendos and subtle jabs and this undercurrent that I wasn’t being the kind of father I needed to be.”
“So you spent more time at the office?”
“Yeah. At work, I was like this demigod. There was always plenty of excitement and danger. Recently, Erica infused a new sense of life and enthusiasm into what I did. I never thought I would be that guy, the one who lives a double life. And I know Erica never wanted to be that woman.”
Elias watched his son complete a pass and shouted some encouragement to him. Jake jogged back to the huddle with a little more confidence, his head high. But the kid’s footwork was still a mess, and Landon felt a pang of guilt for abandoning Jake over the summer.
Elias leaned back so his elbows were resting on the row of bleachers behind him. But then Jake overthrew a receiver and Elias leaned forward again. “What’s he doing wrong?” he asked.
Landon gave a charitable analysis of Jake’s footwork and decision making. He ended with a breakdown of the psychological factors. “It’s mostly a matter of confidence. Jake sees the right throw, but he doesn’t trust his instincts. He hesitates, and that gives defenders a chance to break on the ball. He needs to be making throws the second the receiver cuts.”
