Treason

by Don Brown

  “I was hoping you would,” he said, smiling. “Come, have a seat.” He patted the stone wall beside him.

  She walked toward him with the poise of a model. Then with the grace of a gymnast, she hopped up on the wall and sat down, much closer than in the courtroom.

  “I’ve often noticed this place from the highway,” she said, “but I’ve never been up here.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I love it. Most people see the cross from down below but never try to approach it.”

  She removed her sunglasses and looked up. “It’s beautiful.”

  “And inspiring,” he added.

  “I read somewhere that they tried to remove it.”

  “They can never remove or defeat the cross. If they remove this one, ten others will appear on those mountains over there.” He pointed to the brown mountain ridges to the south and east, toward Casa de Oro, Rancho San Diego, and across the border into Mexico.

  “So why did you do it?” She looked up at him, her hair blowing slightly in the breeze.

  “Do what?” His eyes met hers; then for the first time, he noticed Diane was wearing a small gold cross around her neck, much like the one Amy used to wear. The sight of it brought a sting to the back of his throat.

  “Kilnap. You didn’t have to call him that morning and ask the question. Nobody else even pressed him on the point. It might never have seen the light of day.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I came up here after we finished the Blount trial. I had a premonition that something was about to happen. It made me uneasy, but I didn’t know why. When the thing with Kilnap came up, I knew it could cost us the trial. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I kept thinking about this verse from the Bible my grandmother taught me. The truth will set you free. And I felt like the truth had to come out, and if it did, we’d be okay.” He couldn’t take his eyes from her face.

  “Amazing,” she said, “isn’t it?”

  “Not it. You.”

  She smiled, looking pleased. “Can I ask another question?”

  “What? Didn’t get enough practice against Levinson?” He quirked a brow.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “No, go ahead,” he said.

  “The thing with you and Amy DeBenedetto. Is it true?”

  “I knew you’d make a great prosecutor. Go straight for the jugular, don’t you?”

  “Only because I care.” A slight blush colored her cheeks.

  “You do?”

  “I guess it’s kind of hard to go through what we just did and not care a little bit.” She let her gaze drift away from him and looked out toward the ocean.

  “You realize, don’t you, that if the articles in the papers are true, then you could be asking me to incriminate myself.”

  For a moment she didn’t speak; then she turned to him again. “Tell you what.” She pushed away a lock of hair that had blown across her face. “How about if you tell me within the context of the attorney-client privilege? That way, what you tell me is confidential, and I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  They exchanged smiles.

  “You never miss a beat, do you?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Okay. Here’s the truth. Amy and I were close. She prayed for me even when I couldn’t pray for myself. We spent hours discussing cases. She had a way of getting at the truth, seeing things—and people—clearly. Our relationship never moved beyond friendship. Did we commit any acts that made our relationship one of fraternization? No. Never.”

  She met his eyes, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “So why is it that even her friendship makes me feel . . . a little bit jealous right now?”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Let me think. Post-traumatic stress syndrome?”

  She laughed and popped him on the knee again. “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “Serious? I thought you were only serious when it comes to Pierre.” His heart seemed to miss a beat as he awaited her answer.

  Her gaze drifted away from him again. “Pierre has been good to me. And he was good to my father. He did ask me to marry him—that night we saw you at the restaurant. But I don’t love him. There’s no future for us in that way.”

  He looked out toward the ocean. “Speaking of that night at the restaurant, there’s something else I should tell you.”

  “Or someone else?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Marianne Landrieu?”

  “Not exactly. But it has to do with her uncle.”

  “The senator?”

  He nodded. “When I was in Hilton Head, he approached me with a very tempting proposition.”

  They sat silently for a moment, with the breeze blowing in their faces.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  Zack suddenly felt queasy. “I don’t know why, but I feel bad telling you this.”

  “Attorney-client privilege.” She winked, then smiled at him with a teasing glint in her green eyes.

  “Senator Fowler wants me to get out of the Navy and move to Louisiana and run for Congress.”

  The sparkle in her eyes faded. “When?”

  “In the next month or so.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He is guaranteeing my election. And I believe him. The only stipulation is that I’d have to switch parties and run as a Democrat.”

  “Any other stipulations?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Marianne Landrieu is part of the package?”

  He dropped his head and stared at the gravel beside the stone wall.

  “Yes, I think she is part of the package.”

  She touched his arm, and he raised his head. Their eyes met again.

  “And you think this congressional race might be tied to the premonition you had?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe something else.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  He looked down again and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I told the senator I would run, but I’m feeling uneasy about it. I’m worried I was pressured into saying yes for the wrong reasons.” He looked out at the horizon. “On the one hand, all the power of being in Congress is so attractive.” He thought a moment. “On the other hand, all that power doesn’t sit well with me somehow.”

  “Know what?”

  “What?” He turned and met her eyes.

  “I’ve been praying for you too,” she said, her voice low. “Especially in this trial.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes.” She smiled gently.

  “I noticed the cross you’re wearing”—his gaze fell on it again—“but we’ve never discussed our faith.”

  Her eyes watered. “I was in a lot of grief after my father died. I felt guilty about the way I’d headed off on my own, turned my back on him, after all he had done for me. Through it all he was my rock. When I lost him, I didn’t know what to do. One of the chaplains told me how I could have a personal relationship with God through accepting his Son.” She wiped away a tear with her fingertips. “I’ve still got a long way to go. Sometimes I get discouraged; then he reminds me I don’t have to be perfect to come to him.” She laughed lightly. “But he’s still working on those rough edges.”

  He smiled at her as the breeze ruffled her hair.

  Their eyes met, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “My arrogant attitude toward you before this trial was wrong. I’m sorry.” She brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

  He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. They were silent a moment, dangling their legs off the rock wall and enjoying the late afternoon breeze rushing in from the ocean. Then, standing, he pulled her to her feet. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time—probably since Justice School.” He drew her closer, and she smiled as if knowing what he was going to say. “Would you like to go out sometime?”

  She grinned up at him, the light in her eyes catching the sun. He let go of one hand a
nd touched her face, letting his fingertips trail along the side of her cheek. She stepped into his arms, and they stood there, listening to the sounds of the distant surf and the calls of the seagulls wheeling above them. Zack closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, thinking that this moment, with Diane in his arms, was one he would remember forever.

  After a few minutes, she pulled back and gently touched his jaw. Her eyes seemed luminous with affection, and his heart swelled. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

  “Is that a yes?”

  She chuckled. “Of course that’s a yes.”

  Suddenly, he couldn’t wait. “How about tonight?”

  “Tonight would be great,” she said.

  “Thank you, Lord,” he said, looking heavenward.

  “My name’s Diane.” She laughed lightly.

  “No, but your answer just now is a miracle from him.” He hugged her again. “Got a cell phone?”

  “Sure.” She reached into her purse and handed him her phone.

  “I just have to make a quick call and clear my schedule for the evening.”

  “Okay,” she said as he punched in the number.

  “Sally . . . This is Zack . . . Thank you. Is he in? . . . Yes, I’ll hold . . . Senator? . . . Yes, sir. Thank you, sir . . . Senator, about your very kind offer . . . Yes, sir, I’ve made a decision . . . I’ve decided to stay in the Navy.”

  Zack met Diane’s gaze and smiled.

  “Yes, sir. I’m absolutely sure. Some things have come up”—he squeezed her shoulder—“and I feel like I need to stay in the JAG Corps . . . Maybe one day, sir . . . And, Senator, thank you again for your offer. Good-bye.”

  “Just like that,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “you passed up a political career?”

  He took her hand as they sat down again. “Just like that.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said the Navy was getting a good man.”

  “Know what?” She grinned at him.

  “What?”

  “He’s wrong. The Navy is keeping a good man.” She leaned over and kissed him.

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and they sat on the stone wall, dangling their legs over the side, and watched the sun set over the Pacific.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The inspiration for this series comes from many sources. I thank my friend and fellow Christian author Robert Whitlow, who lives not far from me in my adopted hometown of Charlotte, North Carolina, and who encouraged me and inspired me to write. Thanks also to my friend and literary agent Chip MacGregor of Alive Communications, who gave me some great advice at a writers’ conference several years ago and has continued to be an invaluable sounding board. I am especially indebted to my friend, mentor, and fellow Zondervan author Alton Gansky, whose hands-on encouragement has made this series a reality. I am also grateful to my editor and fellow author Diane Noble, whose unmatched expertise in romance writing helped breathe life into this work, and to Karen Ball, herself a distinguished author, whose recommendation to Zondervan brought this series to life. And finally, I thank my wife, Rhonda, and many others who started reading and editing this work while it was still a work in progress.

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