The Election (11 page)

Naomi looked up toward the pinnacle of the roof, to the simple steeple that bore a plain white cross. Of all her loved ones, Naomi knew she was the only one who understood its significance. And her heart grieved at the realization.

Over the last several days, since her only child had been charged with murder, Naomi had felt every emotion imaginable. From fear to hate to sorrow to fear again. The sight of the old church soothed her. It welcomed her like an old friend.

She sighed and grasped the children's hands again. Climbing the fifteen concrete steps that led to the front door, she and the children entered the church foyer, with Ruth trailing behind her. An elderly gentleman greeted them with a warm smile and handed Naomi and Ruth each a bulletin. He patted the children on the head and gave each of them a piece of peppermint candy. Then, quietly opening one of the doors that led from the foyer to the sanctuary, he ushered them in.

The high, vaulted ceiling was supported by beautiful, old beams made of solid oak and stained with a deep brown varnish that made them shiny. Golden rays of sunlight beamed through the many arched windows. Row after row of pews with burgundy seat pads lined both sides of the center aisle. The table in front of the pulpit was inscribed with THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME.

The sanctuary was filled to capacity. The parishioners, dressed in their best clothes, displayed vibrant bursts of color—red, green, and yellow. The choir loft was packed with singing, clapping choir members in ornate, lavender robes. The congregation on the main floor was standing and waving their arms as they sang a spiritual.

Naomi's eyes met those of Reverend Monroe Douglass, the longtime pastor of Mount Hebron, as they entered the sanctuary. He was behind the pulpit flashing his contagious smile and being very animated like the rest of the congregation. When his eyes met Naomi's, he motioned for the organist and pianist to stop playing as everyone in attendance turned to see Naomi and her family in the back of the sanctuary.

“Brothers and sisters,” Reverend Douglass began. He looked sympathetically at the McClellan children and clasped his hands together in front of his chest, as if he were praying. “We have some special guests with us today.”

Shouts of “amen” rose from several members of the congregation.

“Very special guests,” Reverend Douglass repeated.

The “amens” intensified.

“Sister Naomi has with her today her daughter-in-law, Ruth, and two grandchildren, Derrick and Tosha. Now we all know the travesty that has beset Naomi's son, Jedediah. He needs us now. His family needs us. Sister Naomi needs us.”

Reverend Douglass's voice grew louder and louder with each phrase, and the chorus of “amens” likewise crescendoed.

“We, as brothers and sisters in Christ, must do everything we possibly can to help this family,” Reverend Douglass instructed. “The first thing we can do is pray for them. Sister Naomi, bring your family down here to the altar.”

Naomi grabbed Ruth's right hand and tugged her toward the altar. Derrick and Tosha hesitantly followed their mother and grandmother down the center aisle. At Reverend Douglass's direction all four of them knelt at the steps that led to the pulpit, lowered their heads, and closed their eyes.

Reverend Douglass's vibrant pastoral robe appeared to consume the area immediately in front of the pulpit as he stood between the two kneeling women. He placed one of his hands on Naomi's right shoulder and the other hand on Ruth's left shoulder. Then he raised his face toward heaven, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

“Dear Lord…” The reverend's deep, rich voice echoed throughout the sanctuary. “We know you are almighty and merciful. We do not know why sometimes we are faced with difficult challenges in our lives, but even then we know that you are with us…”

It was a prayer Naomi needed to hear. She was a strong woman—mentally, physically, and spiritually. She had always relied on God to provide for her needs, no matter what happened. But having Jed charged with murder had shaken her like nothing else, to the very core of her being. She had spent countless hours since Wednesday on her knees praying for her son…and for his lawyer.

But now she rested, bathed in the words of peace and comfort as Reverend Douglass called upon God to take care of Naomi and her family during this terrible ordeal. To comfort Jed.

Naomi began to cry. She could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit as Reverend Douglass prayed. A calming peace swept over her. She did not understand why things happened the way they did, but she knew that whatever the outcome, God was with her and was in control.

She also realized something else: in order to save her son, she would have to sacrifice herself.

Jackson, Tennessee

Jake awoke in a cold sweat at 4:00 a.m. on the Monday following Jed's arrest. He had spent every waking moment since last Wednesday on Jed's defense and had forgotten about Lillian Scott's case.

He rolled onto his back and grimaced at the ramifications of his singular focus. He had failed to respond to Bob Whitfield by noon last Wednesday. That meant the $150,000 offer had expired. Jake wanted to call Bob right then, even if he had to wake the guy up by screaming, “We accept! We accept!”

But Jake knew it would be futile. The offer had expired on Wednesday. It was as simple as that. He wanted to call Lillian Scott and apologize but knew that was not practical either.

Jake lay in his bed wide awake for an hour, worrying.
Practicing law is stressful enough without mistakes like this.

Finally he decided he couldn't go back to sleep. Rachel would have to handle the kids by herself this morning. With everything going on, he knew she'd understand.

He took a shower, threw on a pair of khaki slacks and a golf shirt, and headed to his office. At this time of day the phones wouldn't be ringing, and there would be no interruptions. He would be able to think. And think was what he needed to do.

It was just after six o'clock when Jake arrived. He unlocked the back door, and the security alarm began beeping. He punched in the access code on the security panel to disarm it and went to his office.

When he sat down at his desk, he noticed that some of his file folders were not where he'd left them on Friday.

The cleaning-company employees probably moved them when they cleaned over the weekend
, he figured. Maybe he'd have Madge put in a phone call later to tell them not to rearrange anything on his desk.

But in the long run such little things didn't matter. He didn't have time to worry about some manila folders being rearranged. Madge would be there in a couple of hours, and he needed to have a game plan before she arrived.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

It was eight o'clock, and Deputy Director Armacost had been at the office for an hour and a half. All weekend he had thought about the report on the Thompson murder and come up with the same conclusion: there was no other connection between Edward Burke and Jesse Thompson other than the obvious facts. They had attended Vanderbilt University together. Burke had gone into politics and Thompson into banking. Both were tremendously successful. Burke had become the vice president of the United States, and Thompson was a multimillionaire. Neither man had any ex-wives—or any kind of criminal record. Bureau agents couldn't find a history of drug use with either man.

Other than occasional phone calls, the agents had also been unable to find very much communication between Burke and Thompson over the last several years. Burke had a small loan at Thompson's bank, which he paid regularly by personal check. Thompson contributed the maximum $1,000 to every one of Burke's campaigns. There was nothing unusual in the report.

Charlie was deep in thought, analyzing the Thompson murder, when FBI Director Saul Sanders knocked on the frame to his open door. The knock startled Charlie, and he quickly hid the Thompson report in a manila file folder.

“May I come in?” Sanders asked.

Charlie loathed Saul Sanders. He was a political appointee of President Roger Harrison and had made numerous mistakes. A federal prosecutor from New York, Sanders had lost his bid for the Senate against Mac Foster in 1996. Somehow he'd ended up with his FBI job.

Charlie couldn't correct all of Sanders's mistakes, and that made him angry. Charlie believed the Bureau had suffered under Sanders's administration because of his lack of experience. The influx of illegal drugs from outside the borders of the United States had increased. Domestic violence was on the rise, and organized crime was making a resurgence. Charlie hoped that historians would identify Sanders as the worst FBI director in history.

But right now he was Charlie's boss, whether Charlie liked it or not. Charlie knew he himself was the only high-ranking Bureau official retained from the prior administration. He would have been gone, too, but Director Sanders had retained him because he needed someone with experience.

“Sure,” Charlie responded. “You want some coffee?”

“That's OK. I'll only be a few minutes.” Sanders sat down in a chair across the desk from Charlie. “Tell me what you know about the Jesse Thompson murder,” he stated forcefully.

Charlie really shouldn't have been surprised that Sanders knew about the Thompson investigation, but he was. He tried hard to look like he really didn't know anything, but he knew it was too late.

“Not much,” replied Charlie, deciding to cover himself. “He was a friend of the vice president and was shot by a disgruntled customer. Why?”

“Are we investigating?”

“Not really,” Charlie lied. “The Secret Service is lead on this one because of the connection with the vice president. We don't have any jurisdiction over the local authorities because the crime occurred completely within the borders of the same state. Why do you ask?”

Sanders rubbed his chin. “No reason in particular.” He studied Charlie. “I heard the victim was a friend of the vice president and thought maybe we had some involvement in the investigation. That's all.”

Each man sat in silence for a few seconds.

Charlie could tell that Sanders was measuring him…and above all, making sure Charlie knew he was watching. Charlie met the director's gaze with as much determination and confidence as he could muster.

After what seemed like an eternity of awkward silence, Sanders finally stood up to leave. “Let me know what you find out,” he stated as he left Charlie's office.

“I will.”

He's up to something. I know it.

Just what Sanders was up to, Charlie didn't know, but he would find out. Saul Sanders never came to his office unless there was a reason behind it, and certainly not at this hour of the day.

I'll have to be careful,
Charlie realized. Someone in his department was a mole for Saul Sanders, but whoever it was would one day regret it.

Charlie didn't like being ambushed. If Sanders had summoned Charlie to his office, he would have had time to prepare, and the element of surprise would have been lost.

Charlie refused to let Sanders have the upper hand, even if the man was his boss. So he followed the heavyset man out into the hall, watching as he strode arrogantly toward the elevator with smug satisfaction written all over his face.

Charlie was enraged that Sanders had walked into his office without a warning from his secretary. When he was certain Sanders was safely out of hearing range, he charged into Marcia Naylor's work station. Her gray-paneled cubicle was immediately outside the entrance to Charlie's office.

“How dare you do that!” Charlie screamed.

“Do what?” Charlie's secretary cowered from the unforeseen attack.

“Allow Director Sanders to walk into my office without warning me.”

“I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't,” she defended. Her voice quivered in fear.

“If it happens again, you're fired,” Charlie threatened. He shook a firm index finger in her face.

Then he stormed back into his office and slammed the door.

 

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Madge arrived at the office just after eight, and Jake was lying in wait for her like a hunter waits for his prey. She was barely in the office when the attack began.

“How dare you be late,” he accused. “Especially when so much is going on.”

Madge set down her purse. She started to open her mouth, then abruptly shut it again.

“And how dare you let me forget about Lillian Scott's settlement!” he continued. The stress of the past five days had so built up inside that he could hardly see past it. “It's your job to remind me of things…of important matters, like the Scott case. But you didn't. So instead, I've been awake since four o'clock worrying about it. I have a good mind to fire you!”

Jake faced off against Madge, his hands jammed on his hips. He was daring her to respond, to defend herself.

Madge was tough, so he wasn't surprised when she attacked back.

“
I'm
not the lawyer,” Madge countered, her hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “
You
are. Remember? If you want to fire me, then do it.”

He backed down a little and took a breath. “You know I've been spending every hour since Wednesday working on Jed's case. It's your job to remind me about all my other files. I can't have things getting out of control like this.”

“And I won't be treated like this,” Madge fired back, punctuating her speech with angry gestures that sent her glasses swinging widely on their chain. “I don't need this job anyway.”

Jake stared at her. He knew Madge needed her job. Just as he knew that nobody else would work for him. He was a demanding boss. Sometimes he took on clients that were equally or more demanding, and the result was enormous stress on him and his staff. Madge too often was on the receiving end of rants from him or a high-maintenance client. But she was tough and could handle the pressure, he knew.

Still, there was no benefit to berating Madge over the Scott case.

“Forget it.” He waved a dismissive hand and began to bark out instructions. “The Scott trial is next week, and we have a lot of work to do. The file is in the conference room. I made a list of witnesses who need to be subpoenaed. Start with that, and bring me the deposition of the defense's expert witness. I need to file a motion to exclude part of his testimony.”

Jake plopped down in his chair and began dictating a draft of a pretrial motion into his tape recorder. He only spoke a few words before his mind wandered and he laid the recorder on his desk. As he sat there alone, he began to realize that Jed's case was affecting him like no other case had.

You've never lost control of your emotions like this,
he told himself. But ever since Wednesday he'd been riding an emotional roller coaster. Several thoughts ran through his mind.
What could I have done differently to prevent this from happening? What did I miss when I talked to Jed last Monday?
But the one thought that troubled him the most was,
What if I couldn't come home to my wife and kids?

He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.
You've got to get control of yourself
. He'd never threatened to fire Madge before. Sure, there'd been times when he was stressed and on edge, but he'd never threatened Madge with her job.

He hung his head. Madge was right. She didn't have to take it. She wasn't the lawyer—he was.

And he'd have to find a way to do something he wasn't good at. Apologize.

He exhaled a heavy sigh and then started dictating again.

Five minutes later Madge was back in his office with the doctor's deposition and a separate piece of paper. She laid the deposition on his desk and handed him the single sheet of paper.

“I think you need to look at this,” Madge said, a little smile creasing her lips. “It just came over the fax machine.”

Jake glanced at the paper. He could tell from the name of the law firm at the top of the page that it was a letter from Bob Whitfield. He held his breath and began to read silently.

Jake looked up at Madge and smiled. For once Bob had failed to see the obvious. Jake had spent so much time with Jed the last several days that he had thought of nothing else. Bob had to know it because Jake had been on every news broadcast the last five nights in a row. But instead of going for the kill, Bob Whitfield had given Jake new life. Bob should have realized there was no way Jake could prepare for the Scott trial by next Monday, but he didn't.

Jake had just learned something about Robert H. Whitfield, Esquire. Under all the bluff and bravado, Bob was weak.

Jake thought about calling Bob and telling him that Ms. Scott would take nothing less than $300,000. Then he decided he'd better not push his luck. He'd just had his hide pulled from the fire. Ms. Scott had authorized him to settle for $175,000. She'd be ecstatic over $250,000.

Jake wrote
Agreed
on the bottom of Bob's fax, signed his name, and handed it back to Madge. “Fax this back to Bob.”

Madge eyed him with that same funny smile as she took the fax.

“And Madge?” he called.