While Justice Sleeps

by Stacey Abrams

  Avery scoffed. “The president won’t take my call.”

  “He’ll take this one if you tell his assistant that you wish to resign Justice Howard Wynn from the U.S. Supreme Court.”

  “What? How did you know about that?” The tremors in her voice didn’t have to be faked.

  “Do you want your mother alive, or do you want to haggle over your right to privacy?”

  “If I offer his resignation and the president accepts, you’ll let Rita go?”

  “You have my word.”

  Unable to resist, Avery inquired, “The word of honor of a kidnapper? Please.”

  “Don’t question my word of honor, Ms. Keene. I uphold my pledges.”

  “I apologize.” Avery spoke quickly, afraid she’d overplayed. “I’m just scared for my mother. I’m sorry.”

  “Be very careful. Seven a.m., or I return to my original demand.”

  “I’ll contact the president,” Avery swore. “And then I get my mother?”

  “Fair trade.” The alarm buzzed. “Tomorrow.”

  The phone disconnected and Avery leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, head in hands. A firm hand closed over her hunched shoulders. Ten minutes later, she sat up, her eyes clear. “Status?”

  “I’ve almost got it,” Jared told her, pointing to the laptop he’d rigged to track the call to her phone. In his hand, he held the jammer that would block all surveillance equipment for the next thirty seconds, sending the listener ambient noises and fuzzing the signal from the cameras. “According to the signal, the call bounced around a number of cell towers, but I’m fairly certain Rita is near.”

  Avery released a shaky breath. “God, forgive me.”

  “For what?” Jared sat beside her on the bed. “For saving two lives?”

  “For not letting the FBI go and rescue her now.”

  “Do what you must,” he forced himself to say.

  Avery knew better, knew his father’s life rested in her hands. “She’ll be safe until tomorrow,” she reminded herself. She was in a Philidor position, where she’d run out of moves for a victory. Instead, outmatched, she had to play for a draw. In the endgame, there were only two real options: win or stay alive. For now, staying alive had to be paramount for all of them. “If the FBI storms the location now, the rest of the plan falls apart. We have to wait.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Monday, June 26

  “Ready.” In all her imaginings, Avery had never expected to be huddled on her sofa over a phone, waiting for an audience with the president of the United States. Noah and Ling hovered at her shoulder. Jared leaned in the doorway to the bathroom, his impatience fairly palpable.

  At precisely seven a.m., she dialed the number from Vance. Soon, a polite, well-trained voice greeted her. In seconds, she hopscotched over layers of protocol to reach the Oval Office. If worry for her mother hadn’t occupied every corner of her mind not concerned with the failure of her plan, she might have been impressed with herself.

  As it was, a permanent case of nausea jitterbugged with nerve-searing apprehension. Which metastasized into unadulterated panic when President Stokes greeted her.

  “Ms. Avery Keene. You’re almost as famous as I am.”

  Pundits raptured at President Stokes’s capacity to infuse the recitation of a name with an intimacy that left the listener certain of her unique place in his world. That ability translated itself into devoted volunteers and throngs of voters who failed to heed the clarion calls from a bewildered press dutifully chronicling his misdeeds. Under Stokes, the common touch had supplanted common sense in droves, driven by a mellifluous gift of charm.

  This pleased him immensely. “How can I help you, Avery?”

  Avery discovered that she was not immune. Her skin warmed, and she took a deep breath that sputtered out when she spoke. “President Stokes. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me this morning.”

  “I can’t say I expected to hear from you.” A statement belied by Vance’s skulking presence in his office, his ear pressed to an extension. “However, given your newfound responsibilities—and your access to a rather private number—I thought I should take your call. How can I help?”

  “This is an awkward conversation, Mr. President.” The wobble of her voice required no pretense as she explained, “My mother is in trouble, and I think you can help me. I hope.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. What’s happened?”

  “Yesterday, a man contacted me. He told me my mother was being held hostage. In exchange for her life, he told me I’d have to commit an unconscionable act.”

  Relishing his role, President Stokes flipped through the dossier Vance had provided for the morning’s exchange. Press clippings and rehab reports told a nasty, pathetic tale. “I hate to be indelicate, but your mother is a drug addict, isn’t she? Could this have been an attempt to extort some money she owed to dealers? She interacts with a vicious lot, I’d imagine. I hope you’ve learned from her mistakes. I’d hate to have the Court sullied at this vulnerable time.”

  The flush dissipated. Her tone was icy as she reminded him, “My mother has her faults, sir, but no one deserves to be used this way. Not even an addict.”

  “Certainly not,” he permitted graciously. “But one must be wary of the company you keep. As my grandfather told me more than once, you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas.”

  Explains why my skin is crawling, Avery thought acidly. “The man who has my mother isn’t interested in money, Mr. President. He has a very specific goal, and he directed me to do something heinous in exchange for her life.”

  “ ‘Heinous’?” The word galled him, and he ground his perfectly straight teeth in offense. Heinous was a word for terrorists and madmen. Not for a man willing to sacrifice his political future to protect his country. Vance caught his eye, and he restrained himself, with effort. “What does he want, Avery?”

  “He insisted I use my guardianship of Justice Wynn to terminate life support.”

  “That seems rather sophisticated for drug dealers.” Stokes prided himself on the twin notes of shock and disgust. Outrage came next, a bluster of sound that covered his internal laughter. He’d have what he wanted soon. A matter of hours. “I blame these left-wing ideologues! Imagine, extorting you to use euthanasia to advance their agenda.” A fist pounded on the desk for effect.

  Vance had warned him to play up his astonishment and to lay false leads where possible. According to the agent, blogs across the Internet already carried incendiary messages ordering the death of Justice Wynn. Should Avery decide to turn to the FBI for aid, no trails would lead anywhere near the White House, except for his coming act of chivalry. “I’ll double the protection on him at the hospital. Bring you in to speak with Homeland Security and the FBI. My liaison, Major Vance, will be in touch with you this morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She’d spoken to Will Vance more than enough to suit her. The next time she saw him, she planned for it to be a perp walk out of DHS. “I appreciate the extra protection for Justice Wynn, but I proposed an alternative to the kidnapper last night, and he seemed amenable.” She let her voice drift into uncertainty. “I spoke with a friend of mine, who is also an attorney. We think that if I resign on Justice Wynn’s behalf, and you accept it, they’ll get what they want.”

  “Justice Wynn off the bench.”

  “Yes, sir.” You son of a bitch, she thought. She’d been certain before, but the smug note of satisfaction sealed it. “Would you be willing to do that, sir? If I tender his resignation, will you publicly accept it today?”

  “Well, now, I’ll need to run this past White House counsel. We want to do this right.” Which is why he’d keep the Justice Department in the dark for now. His busybody of an attorney general had grown increasingly shrill about legal matters, and Vance had warned him to keep this away from any of
the folks in the Hoover Building. “It’ll take a couple of hours, most likely.”

  “I understand, sir. So you’ll do it?”

  A heavy pause followed, then, “Yes, Avery. With a heavy heart and deep regret, I will accept his letter of resignation.”

  “Thank you so much, sir. Should I bring the letter myself?”

  “I’ll make sure they know to let you right in.” Sighing deeply, he added, “Keep sending up those prayers, Avery. Your mother will be safe.”

  Though the words nearly strangled her, she repeated, “Thank you, sir.”

  President Stokes disconnected the call and rocked triumphantly in his chair. A weight lifted, he spun around to Vance, barely containing his glee. Already, he could see the coverage on the evening news. “We should hold a press conference. A formal announcement on the South Lawn. The Keene girl is quite lovely. I’m sure she’ll look bereft, which is excellent for camera feeds.”

  “Sir.”

  Busy planning, the president bounded to his feet and folded his hands behind himself. “I want the Speaker and the majority leader here for the press conference. Rub my triumph in their faces. My conservative base will be delighted, and the liberals will just have to suck it up. Their lion has been neutered. Again. I’ll get my appointee on the Court this summer and be reelected by fall. I will have Bible-thumping, strict constructionists who believe that Miranda coddles criminals. The Right Reverend Donaldson can brush off his law degree.”

  “Sir,” Vance tried again. “A press conference would be ill-advised.”

  Stokes glowered across the room. “Why? Because I thought of it?”

  “It is a brilliant suggestion were we not trying to keep the spotlight off you,” Vance corrected smoothly. The resignation solution, which had seemed inspired last night, had begun to worry him. He’d prefer a handoff in the privacy of the Oval Office, not a media spectacle that provided B-roll for the news cameras to play later. Couching his opposition as strategy, he explained, “Hold a press conference, and you give the girl a chance to plead for her mother’s safe return or some heartstring crap that will undercut your message.”

  Stokes wasn’t impressed. Flicking a hand, he instructed, “Then you’ll call and tell her not to breathe a word until she gets her crack whore safely in her arms again.”

  * * *

  —

  Avery dressed carefully for the press conference. Word had come minutes past noon. Bring the letter of resignation, witnessed and notarized, to the White House at three p.m. Noah’s assistant had come over to stamp and seal the simple five-line statement.

  They’d continued their performance the entire time, speaking in hushed tones of grief and dismay at the end of an era. Avery smoothed the slim black skirt, dusted on powder at her cheeks. Performing, like hustling, was one of Rita’s tools, but Avery had learned well.

  Ready for Act II, she exited the bathroom and motioned to Jared. He jammed the frequency, and she made a new call.

  “Nigel Cooper.”

  “Avery Keene.”

  “Ah, the famous woman herself.” In North Carolina, Nigel motioned to Indira, who crossed to his desk. He engaged the speaker on his phone. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Why?”

  “To give you what you want.”

  “We want our merger to succeed. Can you deliver that?”

  “Come to DC, and I’ll tell you how.” Avery waited a beat, then added, “I’ll require Dr. Srinivasan as well.”

  He didn’t ask how she knew Indira’s role, but Avery had proven herself quite adept at unraveling mysteries. “By when?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s impossible,” Nigel hedged. “She’s in India.”

  “You’re rich. Figure it out.”

  Nigel read Indira’s look of refusal. “I can’t do that,” he said. “We can’t risk that kind of exposure until the Court rules.”

  “I’m not negotiating. I’ll expect to see you and Dr. Srinivasan in DC tomorrow. The St. Regis hotel. I’ll meet you at seven a.m.”

  “And if we don’t comply?”

  “Watch the news today, Mr. Cooper. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Avery ended the call, and Jared prepped his tracking program. The jammer cycled off, and when he nodded, she said, “Noah, I’m having second thoughts. How do we know he’ll deliver my mother like he promised? Once I turn over the letter, that’s it. We’re screwed.”

  “You don’t have a choice. Without this resignation, they’ll kill her. You’ve done everything you can.”

  “I can’t do it.” She let her voice rise, the pitch thready and sharp. “I can’t trade them both without knowing for sure. Call the White House. Tell them I’m having second thoughts. I’ll get Agent Lee and tell him everything. Maybe he can help us find Rita.”

  “Avery—”

  The jangle of her phone came instantly. “Avery Keene.”

  “Ms. Keene, this is the man who has your mother.”

  The voice modulator engaged, Phillips wiped at his brow, the sultry heat of the early summer heightened by the confines of the warehouse. At Vance’s orders, he’d been cooped up inside all day with the whimpering, jonesing Rita. Nothing, he decided, was worse than a terrified junkie going through the DTs. He’d amused himself by monitoring the chatter inside the Keene apartment, lucky for Vance. Hearing Avery’s threat to call the FBI had propelled him into action. “We wanted to make sure you were going to keep your promise about today.”

  Avery cut a look to Jared, who rolled his finger in a loop, cautioning her to draw out the conversation. On the screen, she could see a red dot and thin red circles fluttering in a pattern. A perimeter for the location of the call. With their earlier data and his military-grade equipment, Jared had targeted signals coming from southern DC. All he needed was another minute, and he’d have a location.

  “I spoke with the president,” Avery told the man, whose cadence sounded slightly off. This wasn’t Vance. “But I have to know how I’ll get Rita back. When will you release her?”

  “As soon as President Stokes announces that Justice Wynn no longer sits on the Court, we’ll release her.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Avery protested. “She’ll be sick. Disoriented.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Unless you’ve been supplying her, she’s coming down hard.” If the past was any guide, the combination of anxiety and forced sobriety would cripple Rita. “I want to come and get her.”

  “Out of the question. This isn’t a negotiation, miss. When you’ve delivered on your end of the deal, we’ll put your mother back where we found her.”

  “Where was that?” She sliced a look to Jared, who warned her that he needed ten more seconds. “Where did you find her?”

  “A dive bar in the gutter, Ms. Keene. She’s your mom. You find her.” Phillips checked over his shoulder; Rita had curled into a ball. Sweat matted the skimpy T-shirt, the frazzled hair. “Keep your appointment, or she won’t see the light of day again.” The call disconnected.

  Avery spun toward Jared as the red dot began to flash in triumph.

  Typing on the screen, he wrote, “We’ve found her. She’s in a warehouse on the Southwest Waterfront.”

  “Thank God,” she whispered; then the jammer went dim. “I don’t know what to do,” she pitched.

  “Do what the man says.” Ling began to gather up their bags. “You should head over to the White House. I’ll go with you.”

  “I’m not coming,” Jared said briskly. “I understand why you have to do this, but I can’t watch you give away my father’s legacy.”

  “Noah?”

  “Protecting Justice Wynn’s final wishes is my job. I can’t help you do this, Avery.”

  Perfect performances. Avery op
ened the door, where Agent Leighton stood at attention. “Agent, I’ll need to go to the White House. Now.”

  Ling and Avery followed Agent Leighton, with Noah and Jared close behind. Downstairs, in the service alley, they all climbed into the SUV. Safely away from microphones, Avery used the burner phone and punched in Agent Lee’s cell phone number.

  “This is Special Agent Lee.”

  “It’s Avery. I’m on my way to the White House.”

  “What the devil for?”

  “To tender Justice Wynn’s resignation to President Stokes. There’s a press conference in thirty minutes.”

  “What game are you playing, Avery?”

  “I’m saving my mother’s life. Here’s how you can help.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Faithfully tended flowers bloomed in an organized profusion of crimson and purple around the soft ripples of the fountain, spurred by jets of spray arcing in symphony. Majestic trees, planted by gardeners long since passed, towered over the stretch of manicured green. The quickly assembled press corps jockeyed for angles and scanned the wisps of clouds overhead for unexpected but not unusual late June showers.

  Brandon Stokes loved the South Lawn. He loved jogging across the grass to climb into Marine One, his private helicopter. He loved to host fawning children at Easter, watching their parents try to disguise their awe at hunting for candy eggs at the president’s house. He loved striding up to the pewter lectern, clasping the sides, and commanding the attention of a nation.

  No way in hell a fucking law clerk was going to cost him all of that. The thought seared through him as he gallantly led Avery and her friend down to the lectern. Flashbulbs popped like firecrackers, their progeny in digital no match for the trusted Speed Graphic camera.

  His press secretary arrayed the young women to his right, his good side; his congressional foes stiffly flanked him on the left. President Stokes stepped up to the twin blue microphones stretching above the Great Seal. His notes had been laid out for him, but he’d rehearsed his delivery and had the language down cold. A hush greeted him.