Sins of a Nation
Don McGraw
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition
Sins of a Nation
Published By Bridgeway Books
Printed and bound in China. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer,
who may quote brief passages in review.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006933193
ISBN-13: 978-1-933538-67-9
ISBN-10: 1-933538-67-8
Copyright@2007 Don McGraw
Midwest Book Review; Excellent!. . . .five out of five stars. McGraw draws you completely into the story right from the start.
Sun Times; McGraw is a master storyteller! . .a surprise ending that will shake you to the core!
Gary Jacobs, acclaimed Television Writer and Producer; McGraw has achieved the impossible—he’s made politics fascinating and fun. Not to mention deadly.
Rambles.net--Ireland. . .a fast-paced story that just begs to be filmed. I almost cheered when one of the baddies got his comeuppance in a rather novel way
Contact Don McGraw directly;
Blog: Willhogarth.blogspot.com
Twitter:@whogarth
Dedications
Dedicated to my beautiful wife, Judy, whose unique creativity and artistry have opened my eyes to a whole new world.
And to my children, Garritt, Brogan, and Keara. You’ve enriched my life in a way I never thought possible. I thank God for you each day. May this book inspire you to never give up on a dream.
And finally, to my sister Margie, whose qualified critiques and continuous encouragement have brought me this far.
Inspired by three magical,
musical licorice sticks.
Prologue
Many years after it all
“Thinking back now, I freely accept that this is where it really all began. I see Kinnard, a man so keenly out of place in this unremitting town, rising from his seat to commend me, my dearest, Kinnard. Always present in my time of need. I will forever hold near this momentary, but potent, memory of my most cherished friend.
“And then there is Miriam, Professor Emerita Miriam Larson, my mentor, my confidante, and my strength, through three tumultuous years. She announces my name for all to hear.
“‘Janelle Lucinda Harcourt.’”
“Just another name in a very long list. The 134th graduating class of Georgetown University Law School has descended on Capitol Hill, exercising its annual rite of passage. This, too, will forever remain with me, but for far different reasons than it seemed at the time. For I know now that this was the precise moment at which it all began, where the plan began to take root.
“I walk across the raised platform toward Professor Larson; she greets me with the motherly love that has been absent for as long as I have known. And she has so much more yet to give. Miriam has plans for me, plans that my colleagues would aggressively embrace. But who would have known how it would all turn out? Who could have known the extent to which Miriam had planned my every move in the year that lay ahead? Surely not I.
“And to think that at that very moment, a world away, a man was pleading for his life in a manmade hell. A stranger to me for some time to come, but one to whom each of us would become eternally connected.
“I can’t speak of it anymore, or I simply choose not to, but this is how others have written of it. This is how others will remember a year that will forever stain the annals of American history, a year that none will soon forget. Except for those who did not live to remember.”
Chapter 1
He stared down at the wet concrete floor of the shower stall, lacking both will and fortitude to return to his feet. Hands shackled, feet bridled like a common thief, his head hung from the weight of his despair. “Look up, Marin. We’re alone again.” His voice, thick with intimidation, resonated off cold cinder and tile; then words gave way to an equally chilling glare. Icy water circling the drains and his shallow breath were all that could be heard for a long tenuous moment.
Had it really been four hundred days?
Trent Marin lifted his head only enough to confirm what he had already known—what he had feared. The worst among them had returned; a coiled switch clutched in his hand.
“You have not forgotten, my friend.” The deep lines of his round, brown face curled upward with delight.
Trent’s body shook involuntarily; the chains rang his fear. He looked about for any sign of hope.
“We’re alone, fool.”
The burn of his tender lacerations still fresh; inflicted without mercy by this brown devil. He braced for the inevitable. Three more guards returned; a heaven-sent miracle. They released his chains, and dragged his frail body down the coarse floor of the endless corridor to his small secluded brig. The devil motioned to his rags. Trent quickly dressed
“Let’s go,” he barked.
They shoved him back down the hall to a small, windowless room. He’d been here once before. He knew what they wanted. This time he would comply. A video recorder stood ready to capture his every word.
He stared down at the table in front of him, his mind immersed in the only sanctuary he knew. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do,” he murmured.
The devil leaned forward and slapped the side of his head. “Pray not for us, Marin. Pray for the salvation of your own hell-bound soul.” He awaited a reaction that Trent refused to give. “You’re a fool, Marin.” His words laced with disgust.
“I’ve done nothing.”
“You stand accused.”
“I am innocent.”
He lifted a photograph from the seat beside him and pushed it slowly across the table. Trent had seen the photo before. “You used her and left her for dead. You’re an animal. A filthy, pathetic animal. He leaned across and spat in Trent’s face.
Trent wiped away spit and tears. He placed his hand on the photograph and gently brushed his thumb along the bloodied face of the young girl.
“She’s just a child, a sweet, innocent child. Look what you’ve done you animal. Who would save such a savage?”
Trent’s breathing turned erratic. “What do you want from me?”
The guard got up and moved to the video recorder; he fiddled with the positioning. “I want you to show them your face. Tell them that all is well.”
“Why should I do that?”
“You have no choice.”
“My people will come for me,” he shouted. “They will come.” This time his voice fell off. A third time he was nearly inaudible, his own doubt evident in his collapsing tone.
“Your government seems to believe that ten years is fair and just.” The guard reached aside himself and clutched the coiled whip. “The length of your stay is not a point of negotiation. The manner in which you spend it is within your control.”
Trent looked at the recorder in defeat. All signs of abuse were guarded beneath his twill prison smock. How much he yearned to expose the horrors of his endless incarceration for his people to see, but a fool’s notion was all it was.
He cleared his throat and took a long, soothing breath. For the next three minutes he filled the recorder with convincing lies. Words to keep help at bay.
“Very good, Marin. You’re learning well.”
Trent shook with anger then cried out in a desperate plea. A cry to “the land of the free” and “the home of the brave,” a nation content to allow one of their own to rot in the bowels of a Colombian hell.
But the recorder was off — his words forever lost in time.
Chapter 2
“Rule number one: there are no guarantees, dear.” Miriam Larson held the phone loosely against her cheek and cupped her hand around the receiver. Her husband joined her in front of a roaring fire on the den’s sofa. A light snow had begun hours earlier in D.C. and was now covering the streets surrounding their Georgetown home. “It’s Janelle, she’s a wreck.”
The retired senator handed a glass of pinot to his wife and winked. “I sure don’t miss those days.” He leaned forward, touched his own glass to hers, and kissed her gently on the cheek.
He picked up the remote and switched to CNN. The presidential primary was all the buzz; only the crawl acknowledged that the rest of the world was still spinning on its axis. Miriam moved her hand from the receiver and offered soothing words. “Late exit polls have your man in front, Janelle. I’d put stock in those numbers at this late hour.”
Janelle Lucinda Harcourt paced the halls of the Manchester, New Hampshire downtown Hilton, her palms wet against her cell phone. Through the double doors of the penthouse suite sat the Republican front-runner for the highest office in the land, Senator John McCord, along with a half-dozen anxious members of his campaign staff. The balance of his staff manned phones and watched the cable feeds from the D.C. campaign office and the more removed Austin campaign headquarters.
As a member of McCord’s team of political consultants, Janelle’s place was inside with the others, but for now they would have to wait. For now, she needed the calming words of her trusted mentor, the Honorable Miriam Larson — highly regarded U.S. Court of Appeals magistrate, revered Georgetown Law professor, and a card-carrying member of the Democratic Party. An unlikely confidante in light of the moment, perhaps, but Janelle knew there was no better source for straightforward, non-partisan perspective, with just a touch of inevitable levity.
“We came in too confident. We were way out in front just two weeks ago.”
Miriam looked at her husband and smirked. He grasped her hand and thumbed at her palm. “Peter Allen is a viable opponent, Janelle; he’s quite charming. The people of New Hampshire seem to have taken to his humanity, not to mention his liberal stances on welfare reform and the Head Start program.” Miriam was clearly enjoying the banter.
“Are you suggesting that Senator McCord is nothing more than a heartless, old school Republican?”
“That’s a bit strong, Janelle. Let’s just say he hasn’t yet come to see the light, that’s all. We’ll bring him around in time.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Janelle’s mood lightened ever so slightly.
“Sound advice, I suppose. But I’m still not giving up on converting you, dear.”
“Finding me a post on Senator McCord’s staff is a strange way to start.”
“All part of my master plan,” the judge laughed lightly.
The very sound of Miriam’s voice slowed Janelle’s pounding pulse, but her pace continued. “I haven’t had the nerve to watch any longer,” Janelle said. “Where does he stand?”
Miriam motioned to her husband to raise the volume. Wolf Blitzer responded on cue.
“Senator McCord has a six percent lead on Peter Allen. Glen Brooks has managed a tidy percentage of his own. He’s certainly not your typical third-party candidate.”
Janelle huffed. “Glen Brooks draws directly from our camp. He’s killing us,” she groaned. “We should offer him a cushy admin post with a fancy title.”
“How about running mate?” Miriam quipped.
“We’ll pass, thank you.”
“Just a thought.”
“And a poor one. His stance on protective borders and extradition makes even Senator McCord look soft.” All at once aware of her elevated voice, Janelle glanced toward the penthouse door and added softly, “I suppose we could hide him in some sort of consulting capacity.”
“Glen Brooks would have to be awfully confident in John McCord’s chances of success to join forces with him now.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” she asked capriciously.
“Due to a certain contender that knows a thing or two about the Oval Office. Richard Gibbins has been vying for this post for eight long years. Besides, Janelle, your people may self-destruct long before the convention.”
Janelle groaned. Miriam had warned her of the political harm of a messy smear campaign, and this one had quickly become one of the most mean-spirited duels in recent history. “Glen Brooks has twisted our words from the onset. We’re forced to feed the public with a response around every turn.” Janelle spun on a heel and headed back down the hall. “I think I’ve lost any shred of innocence I had left.”
“It gets worse from here.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Rule number two: don’t ever take it personally,” Miriam offered in a motherly tone.
Janelle paused a moment to lighten her words. She spoke from the heart. “This is all your fault, you know.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Have I ever thanked you for all this mess?”
“A time or two, I think.”
“I wouldn’t trade this for the world, Miriam.”
“I’m only glad I could help. Maybe next time you’ll be working for the good guys.”
“Your help shows a strong spirit of non-partisanship. A gesture that bodes well for a judge with higher aspirations.”
Down the hall a camera crew moved toward her with the MSNBC Washington bureau chief in tow. “Got to go, I’ve got visitors.”
“Hang in there, dear. And call me for any reason at all.”
“You know I will.” Janelle slipped quickly inside the senator’s suite.
Miriam hung up and set the phone in her lap. She got up and moved a comfortable distance from her husband, then dialed a private line to the Nashua, New Hampshire downtown Crown Plaza Hotel.
“This is Miriam Larson.” Her voice was stern. “Put me through to the vice president.”
“One moment, Ms. Larson.”
In a matter of seconds, Richard Gibbins came on the line. “Hello, Miriam.”
“Good evening, Richard. You’re certainly enjoying a tidy lead on the field. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“Congratulations accepted. South Carolina, here we come.”
Miriam shifted gears quickly, her lead-in nothing more than a professional courtesy; Gibbins knew it as well. “I trust you’re up to speed on John McCord’s narrow margin.”
Gibbins settled into a plush leather chair and waved off the few members of his staff still lingering about. He waited to speak until the door of the suite’s sitting room was closed securely behind them. “Of course I am.” The ring in his tone had vanished in an instant. “Perhaps we need to shift our focus to Peter Allen.”
“Allen is a lousy debater with a shaky platform. We could only pray he becomes the front-runner. McCord is a different story all together. We need to nip this in the bud.” Miriam was instantly conscious of her tone; she glanced cautiously at her husband.
Gibbins fidgeted in his chair. “There’s still plenty of time until the convention. John McCord has been known to gnaw on his foot when the right buttons are pushed. Give Larry a call. Have him trip him up in a national spotlight.”
“King has gotten comfortable, Richard. He doesn’t bite like he used to.”
“Then have him promote Peter Allen. Larry owes us one since that attack on the president just before New Orleans. Pump Allen’s welfare reform position; it’s lousy, but it smacks of compassion. That may pick up enough fence-sitters to put him over the edge.”
“I wish I shared your confidence, Richard, but I fear this lousy showing may serve only as a wakeup call to the McCord camp. And if I know John McCord, he’ll do whatever it takes. Even if that means softening on social issues.”
“Can we count on Glen Brooks to continue to hammer him?”
“I don’t think so. My sources assure me that he’s likely to pull out after Arizona.”
“How’s does your girl feel going into South Carolina?”
“Janelle knows they fell asleep at the wheel since coasting through Iowa. They have no intent of continuing down that path.”
“Are they financed to stage an attack?” Richard’s tone said Miriam had struck a nerve. He trusted her instincts wholeheartedly.
“She’s informed me of an influx of funds from the steelworker’s union, and even a hint of help from the Motion Picture Academy.”
“That’s sacred party turf!” Gibbins barked. “Surely she’s playing you, Miriam.” Gibbins fidgeted in his seat.
“I’m plenty capable of detecting a ruse, Richard,” she snapped back. “And I assure you, I’m not being played. Janelle is far too green to be dabbling in those waters.”
Miriam collected herself. The vice president waited patiently for her words of wisdom. “Peter Allen’s impressive showing means nothing. The nomination is still John McCord’s to lose.” She paused. “If you intend to occupy the office, we need to stop McCord — and soon.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“We need Michael’s muscle on this. And we need it quick. Can you get him on the line?”
“Burns is behind closed doors with the national security advisor. They always chain the doors for their little powwows.”
“Then get on his schedule first thing. We need his direction on this. It’s his neck on the line; let him make the call.”
Chapter 3
At six o’clock the next morning McCord’s staff stood assembled in his Austin campaign headquarters. The senator wanted a full briefing on the prior day’s events. Each candidate had jetted off on red-eyes to their respective posts in preparation for the upcoming South Carolina primary. The night had ended with a short press briefing, followed by an hour of hand shaking in an elaborate victory party at the Nashua Crown Plaza Hotel. McCord dripped with charisma in the arms of his supporters, his concern masked.
Peter Allen had been a virtual unknown going into New Hampshire. Citing limited funds, he shunned the Iowa caucus, but then took New Hampshire by storm. His camp campaigned for sixty straight days in the Granite State, and spent in excess of two million dollars on television ads — what the McCord camp called “half-hour info-slams” on McCord's platform. Although national polls showed McCord with a comfortable lead going into the third phase of voting, prior to the June convention, McCord was concerned. The Palmetto State was home to four hundred thousand war veterans, all standing at attention for the arrival of Peter Allen, a former navy pilot, bona fide war hero, and real life POW. Allen had spent three months in the barbaric prisons of the North Vietnamese.
McCord offered nothing but rhythmic pacing to his road-weary staff. Janelle and the others could wait all morning to receive their marching orders. For now, they gorged on Krispy Kremes and washed them down with coffee donated by the neighborhood Starbucks, conveniently located two doors down on Congress Avenue.
Janelle settled into a lounge seat across from the team's ethical advisor, Dr. Sandy Wynan, a tenured poli-sci pedagogue from the nearby University of Texas. Wynan scratched at his bushy gray beard, settled back comfortably into a velvet armchair, and closed his eyes. Janelle sipped at her coffee to hide a grin. The others dared not chuckle at the revered educator.
In a far corner, McCord's campaign manager, Anna Morris, tapped vigorously on her laptop, glancing intermittently at McCord for signs of retreat from his self-imposed hypnosis. The ring of the phone broke the silence.
Janelle jumped up and answered; she covered the receiver and signaled to Senator McCord.
"It's Senator Jenkins."
The others perked up. The Senate majority leader calling at six o’clock in the morning —
congrats or concern? All but Dr. Wynan turned an ear upward.
McCord took the phone and performed an Emmy-winning transformation. "Good morning, Tom," he said with a ring in his tone. "So nice to see you and Renee last night. Quite some party, huh?"
"Not bad for stuffed-shirt Republicans, John," Jenkins chuckled mildly.
"We do what we can with limited funds," McCord returned. His voice quivered ever so slightly. Tom Jenkins was an icon in the party, a role model to McCord and many others in their upward climb. The passage of time and even the nomination itself had done little to alter McCord’s feeling of subordination toward the elder Jenkins.
"Save some for after the convention, John. That's when the real expense begins." Jenkins's words were filled with intent, optimism amid the doubt. Though McCord wondered how contrived the words might be, they sounded good all the same. He pursed his lips and shook his head calmly; the week's first look of contention was missed by none, but it faded quickly.
"I have real concerns about South Carolina, Tom. Allen could slam us hard and carry that momentum into Arizona. We barely made it out of New Hampshire alive."
"A victory is a victory, no matter the margin. Clinton lost New Hampshire all together, John."
McCord could almost see Jenkins's fist thumping the air, rallying the dying sentiment of the moment.
"He was the first, Tom. And he wasn't taking on a war hero in a time of heightened patriotic sentiment."
"No, no — that much is true." The senior senator’s voice slowed considerably. "That will play a significant role in the next two primaries." Tom Jenkins paused in an effort to choose his words perfectly. "John, I believe it’s important that I convey the general consensus of our party. You know that the majority of Senate Republicans are behind you 110 percent. Even former South Carolina governor Campbell has put his hat in your ring."
"So I've heard. But — there's a ‘but’ there, Tom. Something more. Let's have it."
"I’ll cut to the point, John. It's just that the general belief of the Senate Republicans.” His speech slowed noticeably, an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “How do I say this?” He cleared his throat to gain some degree of composure. “It’s the general belief of the party that it may be wise to approach Glen Brooks with an offer."
McCord's shoulders sunk. "That sounds like desperation, Tom. Has it really come to that?"
Jenkins scrambled to regroup. "Not at all, John. Just sound politics. The man runs parallel with you on nearly every issue — welfare reform, balanced budget amendment, campaign reform. He's John McCord without the lifetime politician tag. The people have been demanding a choice from outside the Beltway for the past twelve years; we know it and we accept it. The problem is, this one wreaks zero havoc on Allen’s camp. He's your Nader, Mr. Gore. Not a prayer of hope, but damaging, nonetheless."
"What about the public perception of such a move?"
"Up the ante so Brooks plays by the rules. He makes a simple statement that a sound businessman makes choices based on the facts in front of him. And clearly the prospects are too extreme to warrant continued expense. He's been self-funded thus far; he's indebted to no one."
"And certainly not indebted to me. He'll never bite."
"Sweeten the pot. You're quite persuasive, John."
McCord sighed and expelled something that resembled a mild chuckle. "Ambassador Brooks?"
"Has a certain ring."
"I'll give it serious thought, Tom."
"That's all we ask. Take care, John. Let's talk soon."
John McCord set the phone down gently and turned toward the others. He strolled slowly around his desk and poured the remaining black coffee into his mug. He glanced at his watch under the watchful eye of the others, a signature grin stretched across his face. "I suppose y’all have come to really hate me by now." He didn't wait for a response. "We've got more than two weeks before South Carolina; we'll be useless by then if we don't catch up on our sleep. Class dismissed, kids. Someone wake the professor and let him know we're taking a twenty-four hour recess."
Amens and hallelujahs arose, except from Janelle and Anna, who were huddled together in a corner. McCord motioned to both; they moved toward him as the others departed.
For Anna, the inclusion of Janelle, twenty years her junior, into private moments with McCord had once been met with obvious exception. Anna Morris was a skilled campaign organizer and sought after by the very best. Her results could be seen throughout D.C and the highest posts in Texas. Janelle had quickly dispelled any notion that she could possibly be of any threat to the likes of Anna Morris. She did so clearly and with the utmost respect and sincerity —the relationship grew famously from that moment forward. She now rested comfortably beneath Anna's wing.
McCord's bond with Janelle was built almost instantly. As a fellow Georgetown alum, the conversation had never been awkward. Talk of the institution's changes over the quarter-century gap had developed an almost Greek unity.
McCord’s undisclosed and underlying interest, however, was in Janelle's link to the renowned Judge Miriam Larson. Miriam Larson was not only a venerated member of the Georgetown Law professorial staff, but also was widely regarded as the Democrat’s most likely choice to replace the retiring Theron Johnson as the nation’s next Supreme Court justice. Her résumé included a seat on the Virginia Superior Court, and a current post on the court of appeals. It was Miriam who had personally approached John McCord with the notion of utilizing Janelle on his campaign staff. Her high regard for Janelle surpassed any partisan division in political doctrine. McCord accepted with guarded caution, a hesitance that faded with his very first encounter with his new campaign staffer.
Intelligent, motivated, and beautiful were what McCord called her on their very first meeting. Coming from a dedicated husband and father, the compliment had been received in the way it had been meant, kind and well intended. Janelle agreed privately to two of the three. The first was now a matter of record in the chronicles of Georgetown Law. The second was best represented by her deferral of the pursuit of capitalism for the pauper's wages of a campaign worker. The third was simply a difference in opinion.
Janelle had always been sensitive of her tomboy appearance. Her legs were a bit too developed and her shoulders a bit too broad. Her thick auburn hair never seemed to flow like that of the girls in Cosmo; her lips were full, but maybe too full; her cheekbones a bit too round and her eyes, well, her eyes did sparkle just right. The eyes were the windows to the soul, and there was certainly nothing wrong with Janelle Harcourt’s soul. And without notice, at least by her, the passage of time and the development of her character were meshing the whole package into something quite appealing.
When the others departed, McCord slumped down on the front of his desk and crossed his hands in his lap. He shifted his gaze from Anna to Janelle, then back again.
"Well?"
"Well, what, sir?" Janelle asked sheepishly.
McCord looked to Anna. "Surely you have a guess as to what that call was about."
Anna's suspicions were confirmed. She gave a nod that quickly turned horizontal.
"Someone want to clue me in?" Janelle asked.
McCord got up and moved around the desk; he spun around and plopped himself down into his well-worn Williston recliner.
"We're caught in a classic catch-22, Janelle. The party has stated their position on Glen Brooks. They want me to make him an offer. Problem is, if we make the offer and he balks, we come off as desperate buffoons. If we choose to move forward without the offer, we risk the election all together."
"What if he agrees?" Janelle asked.
"Best case — we gain back all the votes he's been stripping."
"Worst case?"
"Worst case — he accepts, then has a change of heart in the fall. He runs to the press with a tale of a deep-pocketed Republican willing to buy the presidency."
"Surely not, sir," Janelle belted out. "You're a revered and loved senator, and a fighter for the people. They know you better than that."
"I'd agree with you, Janelle, if only we could manage to get all two hundred and seventy electoral votes assigned to the great state of Texas,” he winked. “I'm afraid I’m pretty new to most of the country."
Janelle blushed. John McCord was continually reminding her of the magnitude of their mission. She didn't suppose one could ever fully grasp the reality of it all. The very notion that she was working day-in and day-out with the man who might possibly be the next leader of the free world was almost surreal.
"Surely Glen Brooks will back out on his own after Michigan. He's giving money away after that,” Anna suggested.
"It's anybody's guess, Anna." McCord leaned forward on his desk, hands clasped. "Brooks has always been anything but predictable."
The notion that Glen Brooks would roll over for a cushy post ran contrary to the very essence of the man. Glen Brooks was the quintessential CEO, having made stops at the highest posts of three of America's largest power suppliers. His successes and wealth were well documented; his face had graced the covers of all the elite financial publications. Despite his accomplishments, no story of his past had captured the public's imagination more than that of the death of his only son.
Brooks had lost his twenty-two-year-old son to a drug overdose. The young man’s years of chemical dependency instantly became fodder for tabloids and honored rags alike. Glen Brooks’s mourning quickly turned to vengeance. He publicly acknowledged his son's personal responsibility, then turned to the cameras and declared a pointed and determined intent to seek out those responsible for America's rising drug problem. His target would be the very source of the poison that cost him his only son. Brooks gathered a team of highly experienced investigators and the nation's most heralded jurists. Their target, Colombian drug lord, Carlos Erba.
Working with Colombian president Andres Pastrana and right-wing paramilitary groups, Brooks's team of justice fighters succeeded in the extradition of the most sought-after drug kingpin since Escobar. Carlos Erba had now been imprisoned in a Miami jail cell for nearly eight years.
Fueled by the success of his mission and his rising public image, Brooks turned his energies toward the pursuit of social reform. Bypassing conventional rites of passage, he threw his hat into the political ring at the very highest level. The results, thus far, were far greater than the experts could ever have imagined.
"It's time for a vote, ladies,” McCord said. “Ayes, we make a call to Mr. Brooks. Nays, we fight it out the old fashioned way. Do I hear any ayes?"
"Hold on,” Janelle said. “What's the political impact of ignoring the party’s request?"
"We lose a few of the faithful."
"You mean they shift to Allen just like that?"
"Just like that, Janelle."
She shook her head. "Who needs them anyway? I'm ready to vote."
"Do I hear any ayes?"
Nothing.
"Nays?"
A unanimous round of nays.
Chapter 4
For Parejo Bonilla, there had been no real decision to be made. They had wrapped his freedom and an opportunity for justice into one neat little package. The three men offered no further explanation as they bumped along through the snow-packed, twisting mountain roads of the Vermont wilderness. They stared ahead, speaking not even to each other.
Parejo donned a thick, down-filled slicker, earmuffs, and a ski cap. His hands were wrapped in Gore-Tex, the material that should cover his thumb and index finger cut away. Aside him was a custom breechblock rifle with wide spiral grooves cut into the barrel, a cartridge of cigar-shaped, grooved slugs snapped into the chamber. Parejo knew he would only be afforded a single round, one that would need to be taken from no better than one hundred meters. Conditions permitting, that would be ample range for a direct hit.
They slowed to a stop in a stretch of virgin mountain snow. The cold earth crunched beneath the weight of the vehicle. Parejo had been pre-disposed; he was to radio in when a suitable perch was found. From there, Glen Brooks would be called and baited into clear view. Parejo would then exact justice for himself, Carlos Erba, and the others who had experienced the perils of the American prisons. He would rejoin with the Revolutionary Armed Forces and avenge eight years of unjust capture in a world that was not his own.
He slung his breechblock over his shoulder and headed out; the vehicle pulled slowly away. Parejo inhaled the cold, thin mountain air, surveyed his surroundings for a moment, then headed into the sparse cover of the barren woods.
The unfettered snow gave no indication of its knee-level depth. He high-stepped for a half mile over fallen trees, covered creek beds, hills, and swales, until finally the log cabin came into view. He lowered to a crawl, being sure to avoid the sightline of those milling about.
The winter sky was clear, the visibility high — both an aid and a hindrance all at once. Parejo inched to the top of the final crest on his belly, then wiggled his body down into the snow. He raised his head, positioned the rifle onto a bipod of tightly packed snow, and scanned his surroundings a final time. He was one hundred fifty meters out.
A frozen pond covered most of the gap, a portion of which wrapped around the west end of the cabin. The solidity of the ice was undetectable beneath a thin layer of snow.
The cabin was a grand, eight thousand square foot construction of pine and fieldstone. A raised deck stretched one hundred fifty feet, left to right.
Parejo positioned his cross hairs in the center; no definitive entrance was apparent in the wall of windows that lined the terrace. He captured two unwelcome bodies clamoring about in the lens of his scope; assured that neither was Brooks, he returned his view to the center of the deck, then took a moment to regain his wind and composure. Ready to proceed, he peeled back the lapel of his slicker to expose a minute transmitter.
"In position," he said in a coarse, determined tone.
The driver of the vehicle flipped open his cell phone and placed a call to the campaign office of Senator John McCord. A moment later, Glen Brooks received a call on his cell phone from McCord’s office.
"Good afternoon, Glen. Sorry it's been so long."
"Who’s this?" Brooks asked.
"A very old friend, Glen."
"How did you get this number?" Brooks's voice was firm. He shared the number with very few. Certainly this voice was not one of those.
"It's been too long."
Brooks, clearly puzzled, didn't respond.
"It's a hell of a drive in these parts, and what a boring way to drop in that would be."
Brooks, intrigued, remained silent.
"Ever seen a balloon over these parts, Glen?"
"A balloon?”
“Yes, Glen. A hot air balloon.”
“Can't say as I have," Brooks mumbled. He looked to his wife, who picked up on his conversation.
"Come outside and enjoy the view."
Brooks moved to the wall of windows and slid open a small section of door wall. He stepped outside and searched the tips of the trees for the emergence of the balloon that would never appear. A grin spread across his face; he loved spontaneity. Who was this mystery man that treasured the art of a grand entrance? He scanned the horizon to no avail.
"Where are you?"
"Patience, Glen."
A flicker of light flashed in the distance; the sun had met the glass of Parejo's scope. Brooks fished a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket to gain a better view. He heard a single pop. The impact threw him violently against the door wall. His lifeless body slid down the glass, a dark smear of blood and tissue followed him downward.
Helen Brooks screamed in horror.
The silent winter retreat erupted in activity. A trio of bodyguards rolled onto the porch with rifles in hand. Parejo foolishly revealed his position with a jump of exuberance. The bodyguards fired rapidly. Parejo rolled down behind the cover of the snow-covered knoll. He regained his footing and ran recklessly toward the barren woods, his heart pounding in his throat, the ice-cold air burning his lungs. As he reached the next small summit, he turned to check the progress of his trackers. None could be seen. His retreat was delayed by momentary confusion. A ghostly silence rained over the mountainside. Parejo raised his breechblock and waved it back and forth. He shoved a convulsing hand into his slicker and exposed the transmitter.
"Brooks is dead! He's dead! I'm under attack!" He awaited a response. "Mission complete!" He screamed into the transmitter. It crackled a moment, then a voice came across.
"We're in place."
A thunderous roar echoed across the expanse between Parejo and the Brooks estate. Three ATV's appeared in a blizzard of white spray. They raced to the pond's edge, then fishtailed to a stop. The pond could not be trusted — Parejo knew he had been granted a gift. He turned and ran as fast as the conditions would allow. The four-wheelers quickly retreated. They spun around in unison and sped to the rear of the cabin to loop around the body of frozen water.
Parejo followed his own track marks toward the road, the short stride of his former pace serving as little more than a guide. He reached the creek and positioned himself to take it in a single jump. A rumble resonated through the fissure of earth like fire through a pipeline.
They were approaching through the frozen creek bed!
He lunged across the ice and climbed desperately up the mud-slicked creek wall, his breechblock falling from his grip. He hesitated, then continued his climb without it. The car was in place as he ascended from the creek. The roar of the ATV’s grew louder. The passenger door of the car was pushed open as Parejo raced desperately through the trees, his footing now solid on the flat terrain. The vehicle rolled slowly forward as he exited the woods; he leapt into the seat in full stride, quickly pulling the door closed. The car eased ahead, before speeding away. A heavy sense of relief washed over him, though his chest continued its violent heaves. According to the view in the side mirror, his assailants were nowhere to be found. A smile of contentment finally came over him.
The driver nodded. "Nice work, Parejo."
In an instant, a razor sharp thuggee was passed over his head from behind and tightened brutally around his throat. He grabbed desperately at the wire, trying in vain to bury his fingers beneath the thin metal cord. He could feel the warmth of his blood beginning to line the wire. He slapped his head wildly against the headrest in a failed effort to loosen the death grip. His world was growing blurry, the pain of torn skin excruciating. He strained to draw even the smallest pull of life-giving air into his lungs. The vessels of his eyes split from the strain, and a stream of wet blood rolled down his face. Parejo's tongue thickened and settled deep into his throat; he gurgled violently as his hands lost all strength. His killer added one final pull, sending him on a one-way trip straight to hell’s doorstep.
Parejo Bonilla's body was dumped in a drainage ditch a mile from the Brooks estate. It would be a full day before the body would be discovered, and yet another before a proper connection would be made.
Chapter 5
To the outsider, Texas is little more than a montage of tumbleweeds, plains, dust, and oilrigs— a stereotype invariably cured by the majestic spectacle called Austin.
The capital city’s western landscape is defined by miles of layered limestone and marl, scattered beneath vistas of Spanish oaks and Ashe junipers. Towering sycamores and bald cypresses line the shores of sparkling tributaries meshed through the rolling Hill Country, steadily finding their way to the mighty Colorado River, and riding it proudly through the heart of the city.
The city itself is alive with an energy all its own. Venues and performance halls line the downtown strips with talented musicians to spare. Hordes of outside talent battle turf wars with a renowned wellspring of homegrown artists, filling the night air with a potent blend of harmony.
The mindsets of the artistic Left stand together in their secure, liberal hub, despite an ocean of Texas conservatism all around them. Janelle’s pairing with the Right had never been so staunch as to ignore the views of the free-spirited reformists she called friends. An open mind had so far served her well.
Janelle intended to take full advantage of her twenty-four hour reprieve. She took a much-needed three-hour siesta in her downtown loft, then headed out for a four-mile run along the river before heading uptown. Her soul mate, Kinnard Lythe, was waiting. He was all she ever needed to find her center.
She entered MoJo’s Coffee Shop, just north of the University of Texas campus; Kinnard jumped her from behind and spun her around.
"Hey, doll face." He grabbed her by the head and kissed her hard on the cheek. "East Coast hasn’t faded that beauty one bit."
Janelle pulled him in and squeezed him hard and long. She loved this man, a wonderful, platonic love. She pushed herself back and gave him the standard once over. His hair was frazzled but just so, a string of silver studs lined his ears from top to lobe, a single vertical strip of hair funneled down his chin and ended in a free-flowing twist beneath his jaw.
"What'cha looking at, doll face?"
"Always have to see what's new, Mr. Lythe."
"No fun staying stagnant."
"No fear there." She reached out and flicked his chin tail. Kinnard led her by the hand to a corner table.
MoJo’s was Starbucks after a hurricane. Cracked walls and teetering tables existed without apology. Janelle eased cautiously into a chair.
"Beautiful MoJo's. Still fightin' the good fight against the evil of crass commercialism. Bet it's good to be home, eh?"
"Always, Kinnard."
Two lattes arrived, gratis, in record time. Kinnard hoisted his. "Here's to your man, just because I love you, and for no other godforsaken reason."
She smirked and raised her mug. Passivity was treasured by neither. A strong position, despite its polarity, was what they found most appealing in each other.
Kinnard exemplified defiance of all that society deemed sacred. The product of dysfunctional but affluent parents, he was on a fervent mission to redefine success. His father, a highly successful attorney, had traded his marital duties for the lure of a dozen barmaids when Kinnard was still a teen. His mother responded with a degree of chemical experimentation that would humble the lollapalooza hardcore. Kinnard withdrew and buried himself in his private school studies. Though accepted to the finest schools in the land, he stayed put in his hometown for the extent of his formal education. He raced through undergrad with honors, and to the surprise of Janelle — and all others that called him friend — he continued on through the University of Texas Law School.
But that was as far as conventional behavior would persist. The prospect of following his fellow bar members through the corporate penitentiary was never an option. Kinnard intended to make a difference on his own terms. For now, he paid his third of the rent on a neighboring Hyde Park bungalow by helping out at MoJo's a few days a week and by graciously accepting a thousand a month from the family trust.
Janelle set her cup down and swirled the straw through the thick foam. "So, we still up for D.C?”
"Wouldn’t miss it for the world."
"You know, I'm only there for two days, then it’s off to South Carolina. Senator McCord doesn't want a repeat of New Hampshire. He intends to shake every hand in the Southeast by the nineteenth of the month."
"Straight up on this one. You think he stands a chance in this primary?"
Janelle pursed her lips and stared into her latte. "What do you always say about negative thoughts? They stir up bad energy. I won't tempt the spirits."
"I got my answer."
"You got nothing," Janelle scrunched her nose and swatted at him.
"Does Miriam know I'll be with you in D.C.?"
"Yes, and she's delighted. Of course she doesn't know your real purpose."
"And why do you suppose the pursuit of justice would offend a public official, Ms. Harcourt?"
"Oh, I don't know, perhaps because it's in the form of a rally on the Capitol steps against the White House administration itself." Janelle shook her head and sighed deeply. Rallies and protests were commonplace with Kinnard. Few created any real stir, and he seldom stayed the course for more than a month or two. "Tell me again why you’re so hell-bent on getting this Trent Marin guy out of Colombia. I promise to give you my full attention this time."
"Same reason I'd have for pulling your cute butt out of there. He didn't do it. Plain and simple."
"And once again, what makes you so very certain? You know, seeing that the White House has chosen to comply with the findings of the Colombian government and all."
"It's purely political. We get the extradition of a dozen drug lords; they get an occasional U.S. envoy to show off to the guerilla forces."
"But this is about Marin's indiscretion."
"Yes, of course, the alleged indiscretion with a minor. Sorry if I don't buy it."
"He's a man — it is possible."
“Possible yes, but a very convenient tale for his captors, as well. Besides, Marin is a devout Baptist. He's clean as a whistle."
"That flies in the face of public sentiment."
"Tell me about it. We have all of fifty people committed to the rally."
Janelle clasped both hands around her cup and leaned in toward Kinnard. "So what's this really about?"
"Exports," he answered without hesitation.
"Coffee?" she giggled.
"Ecuadorian lattes, my dear.” He raised his cup and took a long sip.
“Go on.”
“It’s quite simple, really. You see, Colombia has been flip-flopping on their alliance with us since Teddy Roosevelt got fired up about the Panama Canal. Bogotá has shifted its acceptance of U.S. aid continually throughout the past century. In good times, our conditions on Cuban and Nicaraguan relations don’t meet with their standards; when their economy slumps a little, they gladly sign up to our demands.
“Over the past decade, the leading condition of our financial aid has been continued military efforts against rebel forces — guerilla armies financed primarily by Colombia's lucrative cocaine and marijuana trade."
"And drug use has gone down as a result of it, hasn't it?"
"Hardly. While we've been sending our hard-earned dollars to the Colombian government, we've quietly become their leading importer. We account for ninety percent of Colombia's drug export. Quite ironic, isn't it?"
They shared an awkward pause. At twenty-eight, experimentation with the hard stuff was safely behind Kinnard, but Janelle was not so naïve as to believe he had cut back on the potted plant all together. They were open on most everything — except this.
"So how does this all tie into Trent Marin?"
"Simple. Trent Marin was serving as the U.S. envoy to Colombia in some very turbulent times. The Revolutionary Armed Forces, better known as the FARC, had seized control of a huge territory near the Ecuadorian border and was embattled with the Colombian military for continued control. We’re talking about very fertile land about the size of Switzerland, said to produce one-third of the world's entire drug supply. Despite U.S. aid, Colombian military actions have failed time and again to force out the guerilla armies. They’ve pounded them relentlessly, but they failed to retreat. The Colombian government finally resigned itself to a more peaceful means of negotiation."
"What leverage do they have?" Janelle asked.
"Bogotá has agreed to shun all U.S. aid as a trade for controlling interest of the region. The FARC has complied, but for how long is anyone’s guess. Without our aid, the Colombian government is severely weakened, and a prime target for attack. A weakened government is sure to be eventually overturned. “
"But Colombia received a $1.2 billion aid package just a year ago. That's not quite shunning aid."
Kinnard raised a brow and huffed. "Yes, of course. A massive economic stimulus package presented by our very own president. A fleet of AH-64 Apache helicopters was included in that package. All of this, I'm sure, would be very interesting news to the FARC."
"So you think the Colombian government is playing both sides of the fence?"
"Yes, I do. And I think that Trent Marin is serving as a symbolic show of unity with the FARC — retribution for two decades of extradition of guerilla leaders. You see, retaining Marin satisfies the rebels’ belief that the alliance with the U.S. has been severed. Concocting a story of sexual indiscretion satisfies us and allows them to keep the funding for the length of his sentence."
"And the White House believes our billion dollar donation is being used as directed?"
"Hard to tell what they believe for sure, but that's the response from the Foreign Relations Committee. And after so many years of extraditions of Colombian drug lords, it would be a political hotbed for anyone to fight for a lone American allegedly caught with his pants down."
"How is it that you know all of this?"
"Summation and consensus from about two hundred others, my dear. See, Trent Marin has, thus far, been granted two recorded sessions within the walls of a Colombian prison. The footage is a matter of public record within the CIA's crime database; you just have to know how to tap in."
"You hacked the CIA?" Janelle brought her hands to her temples and pushed them back through her thick hair. "I can't believe this." Her eyes were wide with intrigue.
Kinnard reveled proudly in the deviance, then moved to suppress. “I simply accessed information that is public domain under the Freedom of Information Act."
"You hacked," she repeated.
Kinnard rolled his twisted goatee in his fingers. "I exercised my constitutional right, doll face."
"So where's the tape?"
"I burned it on a CD, then uploaded it to my Web page. I gave it a suitable home, accessible to every God-fearing person in America and beyond. So far, I've been tapped with over seven hundred hits."
Janelle's intrigue turned to concern. "Kinnard, do you have any idea what could happen if this video is discovered by the authorities?"
"Yes, I do. They can take unwarranted legal action against Mr. James Con, the registered licensee of domain name newjustus.com."
"You filed under an alias?"
"A dog could get a domain name." He winked soberly as he sipped at his latte.
"This is unbelievable!"
"And you haven't even seen the tape. God, you're easy to impress."
"Tell me about the videos. Are they authentic?"
"Well, it would appear to be the real Trent Marin, if that's what you mean. There's even a quick flash of prison guards in the foreground."
"How does he look?"
"Very gaunt, but cleanly shaven and without any visible signs of abuse."
"How about his demeanor?"
"As can be expected for anyone held in captivity. Especially an innocent man."
Janelle shook her head and scrunched her eyes. "Does he have any family — a wife, kids?"
"Uh-uh. Never married and no known relationships. His work was his only real love. His parents are both deceased."
"How old?"
"Mid-forties."
"What's on the tape?"
"Nothing but nonsense. A few minutes of comments regarding his physical and mental health and prison conditions, plus vague references to his knowledge of his crime. Three minutes of gobbledygook; second-rate chop shop work is how I see it. Colombia is satisfying UN requirements for fair and ethical treatment through a cut and paste video, while an innocent man is paying the political price for the extradition of a dozen lethal killers."
"And others feel the same as you?"
"More and more each passing day."
Janelle tilted her head. "Are you sure that's not just the power of suggestion working its magic?"
"Of course it is. It's through suggestion and thoughtful analysis that we're able to unveil many truths. The truth is often buried in a landfill of justifications. The battle cries of a few have often swayed the masses to the pursuit of justice."
“Since when?”
“Your Nazarene friend did it all alone.”
“That’s a lofty perch to sit on. How about more like Pol Pot or that maniac, Koresh?” she said with a smirk.
“That’s a bit dark.”
“I suppose,” she said with a giggle. Janelle downed the final swallow of her latte and pushed her mug aside. "OK, Captain America, your mission is noble and worthy of my utmost respect."
"'Tis all I ever strive for, doll face."
"But please tone it down for Miriam. I need her sound advice about the campaign. I don't want our little luncheon turning into a political debate."
"But Miriam loves my fire."
"Not on this. Keep it to a minimum, promise?"
"Promise," he said with a look of defeat.
Janelle leaned across the table and pecked him on the cheek. "Let's go paint the town."
"Let's roll, Picasso."
Chapter 6
Miriam Larson fit comfortably within her chosen lifestyle amongst the Beltway elite —surrounded by choice by the powerful dark suits of legislators and the high-heeled diplomats of the nation’s capital.
At precisely eleven forty-five, she joined a bustling D.C. lunch crowd at the Palm, the unofficial haunt of high-ranking party officials, renowned cabinet members, an occasional Supreme Court justice, and far too many high-profile members of the media.
Obligatory cheek-to-cheek embraces ensued, before a white-jacketed host escorted her past a dozen linen-covered tables and a smoky wood bar filled with aggressive young dignitaries, lobbyists, and Beltway elite. Judge Theron Johnson arose to greet her as the waiter pulled back the chair to her regular table
"Hello, my dear." The Supreme Court justice put his hand in hers and gently squeezed. "You look exceptional, as usual."
His assessment exceeded mere politeness. At fifty-eight, Miriam Larson still possessed more than a glimmer of the grand socialite darling she had once been. Money had preserved much of the former beauty through minor tucks and augmentation. Her confidence and demeanor, along with sultry eyes that still captured a room and stirred the imagination. Three decades of marital commitment to a rising star in the D.C. ranks had done little to sway the tactful advances of would-be suitors along the way. Though she had never wandered, she welcomed the desires all the same. Theron Johnson's interest was purely top shelf. He simply adored Miriam's insight and unyielding intellect.
"I slept quite soundly last night, Theron," she said.
"That comes as a bit of a surprise, Miriam." They both settled in as china cups of tea were filled before them.
Miriam poured a bit of cream into her cup, then leaned forward and cast those disarming eyes on the federal judge. "I have reason to believe that John McCord has lost favor among the masses. He's in for a very difficult few months."
Theron tilted his head and looked at her through narrow eyes. "I certainly agree with the immediate prospect, Miriam. He may well stumble in the next two, but one can't merely ignore what the polls are telling us for the long haul."
"Oh, the polls.” She waved her hand. “My goodness, Theron, you and I know the shortcomings of polls. Doug's first Senate seat was won despite miserable polling data."
"I do recall. You were just kids," Theron waxed nostalgic.
"It wasn’t all that many years ago, Theron.” She smiled over her raised teacup.
He shifted gears. "How long do you suppose you can count on Glen Brooks?"
"Arizona is a safe bet,” she responded without hesitation.
"Well, I suppose that doesn't bode well for McCord, now does it?"
Miriam batted her eyes. "Glen Brooks is my ace in the hole."
Theron nodded lightly; he brought his hands together and rubbed one thumb on the other. He dropped his head, pursed his lips, and exhaled slowly. "You're a dear friend, Miriam,” he said softly. “This issue has been on my mind every waking moment. You must know that I've thought this through every which way to Sunday."
Miriam raised her hand in protest. "Not a word about it, Theron. You know I would never ask for such a sacrifice. You do know that, right?"
He nodded. "I just wish there was some way around this, some way I could help. I swear if I knew the nomination was yours for certain, I'd walk away today."
"You're a dear friend, Theron."
"It's been fifty years since I wished I was a year older, Miriam."
At sixty-four, Theron Johnson was cherishing every moment of the life he had carved out for himself. He had accumulated a bounty of prestige and success, and still had dreams to spare. Theron had full intent of walking away from his lifetime post on the Supreme Court at the relatively young age of sixty-five, with a body and mind as sharp as many men half his age. He looked forward to twenty-five or thirty more years of fulfillment — those years to be fully funded by the U.S. government, thanks to his combination of fifteen years as a federal judge and his sixty-fifth birthday. Only a fool would bail out now. To Miriam's dismay, his sixty-fifth would come one month after the presidential inauguration. And at fifty-eight, an eight-year GOP reign would crush any remaining hope she had of an eventual Supreme Court appointment.
Miriam raised her hands and squared her fingers. "Washington Post: Democrats retain Oval Office with lopsided victory over Peter Allen."
Theron chuckled lightly. "At the risk of showing partisanship," he looked about and lowered his voice to a whisper, "I hope you're right."
A buzz arose in a gathering on the far side of the room. A collective murmur soon flooded the restaurant like a crimson tide. Theron and Miriam locked eyes intensely. “What’s going on?”
A young law clerk caught sight of Miriam and headed toward her.
Miriam took her by the arm, “What’s all the scuffle, dear?"
"It’s Glen Brooks, Ms. Larson.”
“Glen Brooks? What about him?” Miriam sensed trouble in the young girl’s eyes.
“They’re saying he’s dead. Glen Brooks is dead." Her volume was enough to bring the surrounding tables up to speed.
"Dead? My God!" Theron gripped Miriam's forearm.
"Was it some sort of accident? When did this happen?”
The surrounding tables awaited a response.
"He's been murdered!"
The room erupted in commotion.
"Murdered?" Miriam asked in disbelief.
"Where? When?" Theron asked.
“That’s all I know.”
"This is unbelievable. Who on this earth would want Glen Brooks dead?" Miriam asked. She searched Theron for an answer. His response was painfully blunt.
“Any number of people, I suppose."
Chapter 7
Janelle's pager vibrated as she washed down a plate of tempi and rice with a horn of twig tea at the holistic hippie-hangout Casa de Luz. The night was little more than a blur from that point forward.
She was utterly stunned by the murder of Glen Brooks.
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