The Election (8 page)

Jake stopped at the end of the table opposite Jed. He placed the palms of his hands on the back of the chair and leaned toward the center of the table. The move was designed to show Jed who was in charge. “Jed, listen to me,” Jake said forcefully. “I know what it's like to be without a father. Both of my parents died when I was a young boy, and I was raised by my mother's sister. I remember crying myself to sleep at night, wishing I could at least talk to my mom and dad. Jed, you've got to think about your wife and kids. What are they going to do without you?”

“What are they gonna do with me sittin' in prison?” Jed retorted.

He had a valid point. What good would he be to his family if he was incarcerated for the rest of his life at Fort Pillow? He would be alive, but that would be about it. Would that really be living?

“How many cases like this have you handled, Jake?”

Jake removed his hands from the chair back and straightened his body. “Five murder cases.”

“Did you get 'em off?”

“Two acquittals, two reduced to manslaughter, and we pleaded insanity for one. He's in Western State in Bolivar. Why?”

“Because I know you're a good lawyer, Jake. You're one of the best 'round these parts. And you can get me outta here.”

“It's not that easy, Jed. The evidence doesn't look good.”

“But I didn't do it. You gotta believe me. I didn't do it.”

Jake rubbed his forehead in anguish. “I'll do what I can, but I can't make any promises. We'll see what the judge says at your arraignment about bail.”

A knock sounded on the door, and the two homicide detectives walked in. It was time to take Jed to his cell, they announced. “You two can meet again before the arraignment tomorrow morning,” one of the detectives told Jake and Jed.

Jake said good-bye to Jed and assured him he would talk to Ruth. Since murder suspects were not permitted to have visits from family members before their arraignments, Jake said he'd be glad to relay any messages to her.

“Tell her I love her,” Jed requested as he left the room with the detectives.

Jake walked solemnly out of the interrogation room and navigated the hallways and stairwells to the front door of the CJC. As he exited, reporters from local and national media outlets jostled for position to be the first to question the attorney for Jedediah McClellan, murder suspect. They blocked Jake's path to the parking lot and stuck microphones and video cameras in his face. The rapid snap of camera shutters was barely audible above the shouts for Jake's attention.

“Are you representing Jed McClellan?” asked a reporter with the FOX affiliate in Memphis.

Jake quickly processed whether to speak with the media. It was a gamble, but he reasoned that he had to begin influencing the prospective jury pool. He would need all the help he could get. Also, it didn't hurt to have some exposure for himself. Lawyers called it free advertising. He held up his hands to quiet the press before speaking.

“I have been retained to represent Mr. McClellan, and I have a couple of statements I would like to make,” Jake began. “First, I want to send my condolences, and my client's condolences, to Mr. Thompson's family. He did many great things for this community, and his presence will be greatly missed. Secondly, we hope that the authorities arrest the person or persons responsible for this horrible crime.”

“Mr. Reed, does your client claim that he did not shoot Jesse Thompson?” the Fox reporter continued.

“That is correct. My client is innocent, and we look forward to the opportunity to present our side of the case to an impartial jury. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

Choruses of “Mr. Reed, Mr. Reed” rang out from the horde of reporters as Jake pushed through the crowd to his car. He knew there would be other opportunities to espouse his client's innocence, and it was critical he check out Jed's story about the mysterious black truck as soon as possible. If what Jed told him about the pickup was true, the murder raised a lot of questions. Jake knew he'd probably never find all the answers, but he had to try. Even if Jed didn't blame him for allowing this to happen, Jake felt some sense of responsibility. There was one immediate benefit from the death of Jesse Thompson, though. The foreclosure on the McClellan home didn't occur. At least Ruth and the kids would have some place to stay while Jake tried to straighten this mess out.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington, DC

The all-points bulletin from FBI headquarters went unnoticed at Memphis International Airport until it was too late. Raoul Migel Flores used a different passport, prepared by the same Latin American counterfeiter, and applied a disguise before boarding a flight to Mexico City. He would be in Bogotá before nightfall…and most likely a lot richer.

Deputy Director Charlie Armacost was furious when he was informed about Raoul's successful escape from the United States. He screamed at everyone from Assistant Deputy Director McCullough to the deputy-in-charge of the Memphis office. He even screamed at a few people who were not even remotely involved in the search for Raoul.

“You're all a bunch of incompetent imbeciles!” he yelled.

After his assault of words on virtually the entire department, Charlie went into hibernation in his office. He noticed on his television monitors that all the news networks were carrying the story of the death of Jesse Lamar Thompson. The murder of a close, personal friend of the vice president was newsworthy, Charlie knew. But it also raised questions in his mind about what had happened and whether the vice president was at risk. He spoke briefly with the head of the secret service and was informed that the secret service would investigate to make sure there was no potential threat to the vice president. It was decided that the Bureau would not be involved with the investigation. The Service would be quickly satisfied that the local authorities arrested the correct man. Any thought of a great conspiracy against Vice President Burke would soon be quashed.

Soon after Charlie's conversation with the Secret Service, McCullough burst into Charlie's office without knocking. “I think we may have discovered what Raoul was doing in the States,” George announced. “You know the Thompson murder?”

“I've seen the reports on CNN,” replied Charlie. “Why?”

“On a hunch, a field agent from Memphis spoke with the local sheriff about the murder. The sheriff was quite confident they had their man, so the field agent didn't mention anything about Raoul. But the agent asked about the murder weapon. The sheriff told him they had recovered it from the bed of the suspect's truck. Get this. The murder weapon was a Tango 51 sniper rifle. The sheriff knew the suspect and said he was surprised at how good a marksman he was, especially since the guy was drunk at the time. The entry wound was precisely in the center of the victim's forehead. The sheriff said he must have used a hollow point, because the entire back side of the victim's head was blown off.”

Charlie sat motionless for a few seconds as he pondered George's report. The modus operandi on the Thompson murder was the same that Raoul Miguel Flores was known to use. The conclusion he drew was that Raoul Miguel Flores was hired to kill a friend of Vice President Burke's. Why? Charlie's mind considered the possibilities. After all, one of the world's greatest assassins didn't work cheap, and he didn't work for just anybody.

“Find out everything you can about Jesse Thompson,” Charlie instructed George. “I want to know who his friends were and who he did business with. If he was married, find out about his wife. I want to know if he had any girlfriends. I want to know where he spent his time and money. Put ten men on this if you have to. I want a report Friday morning.”

George departed as fast as he'd entered, and Charlie was left alone again. There was only one reason Raoul would be in the States—for an assassination. That was the man's occupation. But could Raoul's plans involve the vice president?

Charlie had hoped to catch Raoul before he hit his mark. But he and George had failed. Now they would have to deal with the fallout.

It was going to be a long few days, maybe weeks. And Director Sanders was certainly not going to be pleased.

Naval Observatory, residence of the Vice President, Washington, DC

It had been three hours since Edward Burke was awakened and informed of Jesse Thompson's death. A blue and gray podium was erected just outside the front door of the residence. A bank of microphones lined the top of the podium, and on the front was the decorative seal: Vice President of the United States.

Reporters, photographers, and television cameras awaited the vice president's press conference regarding the murder of his friend. Ed walked somberly out the front door of the residence and approached the podium while the
click
of camera shutters filled the air. He wore a dark suit, blue tie, and a stoic expression.

“Good morning,” Ed said as he began his prepared remarks. “As I am sure you are aware by now, a dear friend of mine, Jesse Thompson, was murdered this morning. His death has come as a great shock to me and my family. We are all deeply saddened by his passing. I have already personally spoken with Jesse's widow to express my condolences. And I have pledged to her to do all I can to assure that the perpetrator of this crime meets with swift and certain punishment.”

Ed concluded his remarks and answered questions from the reporters in attendance. His staff had planted several questions with a few selected reporters before the press conference began, so Ed knew which reporters to recognize. He nodded at one such reporter from CNN.

“Mr. Vice President, do you know any of the details surrounding the murder?”

“At this time it would be inappropriate for me to comment on any specifics. I have been in contact with the local authorities, but I cannot comment further.”

Ed nodded at the next friendly reporter.

“Mr. Vice President, do you think this murder could have been avoided if the gun-control legislation you have advocated would have passed the Congress?”

Ed knew that the answer to the question was simply “No.” But campaign polls reflected that Ed's message of gun control was being favorably received by the voters, so he needed to close the sale.

“In all fairness it is hard to say for certain that tougher gun-control laws would have prevented this horrible crime. We will never know. However, if I am fortunate enough to be elected the next president of the United States, my number one goal will be to pass gun-control legislation. Until we do, we will have failed to do all we can to prevent such a crime from happening again.”

The press conference served Ed's purpose. Anything more would make him appear insensitive and opportunistic.

“Thank you very much,” Ed stated as he left the podium and reentered the residence. The furious clicking of camera shutters continued until the front door to the residence was completely closed.

 

En route to New York

Mac Foster and his top advisors watched Ed Burke's press conference together in Mac's private cabin aboard his campaign airplane. Mac knew it was the only place they could go and have privacy away from the horde of reporters that traveled with the campaign. Mac realized the dilemma he now faced, and he could see it on the faces of his campaign staff. Edward Burke had just appeared on national television and evoked the sympathy of the entire country. It was obvious he was grieving the loss of his friend, but he also appeared strong and in control. At the same time, he was able to capitalize politically on the gun-control issue.

Mac knew his campaign had to react quickly.

“I think we need to immediately extend our sympathy to the vice president and to the Thompson family,” Jack Bennett stated, breaking the silence.

“I agree,” Mac concurred. “But we don't want to appear patronizing.”

It certainly was a precarious situation. Mac was already trailing Burke by a significant margin, so failure to handle this situation properly could result in a death knell for his slim chances at the presidency.

“Let's prepare a press release,” Mac began. “It needs to convey our sympathies to the vice president over the death of his friend, and it should state that all campaign efforts will cease until after the Thompson funeral. That will show our concern for the situation and should lessen the damage from Burke's statement.”

“I think that's a good decision,” Shep commented. “But it will take more than a press release. Burke looked presidential. He was confident. Reassuring. He quieted any concerns of a crisis. This murder could not have come at a worse time for us.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Mac asked.

“I'm not sure at this point, but we've got to do something. Issue the press release, and let me think about what else we need to do. I assume you all heard about Senator Davidson?” Shep paused.

“That was terrible news,” Mac commented. “Jim and I rarely saw eye-to-eye on most issues, but he was too young to die of a heart attack.”

“I'll have someone contact his office and see if there's anything we can do,” said Shep.

 

Reed residence, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake arrived home earlier than usual that afternoon. Jesse Thompson's murder and Jed's arrest made it impossible for him to get any work done at his office. He was emotionally drained.

Choruses of “Daddy's home! Daddy's home!” rang out from Courtney, Brett, and Jeremy as Jake entered the kitchen. The three children hugged Jake around the waist and legs. He reached down with both arms and squeezed them even tighter than usual.

“Daddy, can we play baseball?” Brett asked with glove and bat already in hand.

“Not right now,” Jake responded. “Maybe later.”

Jake rarely refused to play with his children, but today was an unusual day. Jesse Thompson was dead, and Jed McClellan was in jail for his murder. Jake couldn't rid his mind of the thought that the whole mess was his fault.

Accepting their father's answer, the children ran through the open door and out into the yard.

“Bad day?” Rachel asked as she prepared supper.

“The worst.” Jake loosened his tie, removed his suit coat, and draped it over his left arm. He couldn't wait to change clothes.

“I heard about Jesse Thompson on the radio this morning,” Rachel said. “Are you doing OK?”

“I'll be all right,” he responded. “I just need some time to unwind.”

Rachel gave him a peck on the cheek as he walked past her out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom. He finished removing his suit and tie and changed into a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt.

A few minutes later he was sitting on the couch in the den, waiting for the evening news to begin on television. The children were still outside. Rachel sat down quietly beside him.

The murder of Jesse Thompson and the arrest of Jedediah McClellan were the lead stories on the local television station. The reporter, live in front of the Madison County Criminal Justice Complex, informed the viewers that Jed McClellan was the newest resident at the CJC. Next was the replay of a clip from the impromptu press conference by Jed McClellan's lawyer, Jake Reed.

Rachel placed her right arm around Jake and slowly ran her fingers through his brown hair to relax him. Jake was glad that after years of marriage she knew what it took to relieve his stress. Jake turned his back to her slightly, and Rachel massaged his broad shoulders.

“This is just terrible, Rachel. Jed is a client of mine. I helped him in a workers' compensation case a couple of years ago.”

“Do you think he killed Mr. Thompson?” Rachel asked.

“I don't know what to think. Everything points to Jed, but he swears he didn't do it.” Jake paused. “Do you know Jed?” He turned his face toward Rachel.

“Not really,” she replied. “Except that he grew up in Jackson, too, and that he played football. I remember reading about his high-school games in the paper.”

“He's got a wife and two small children. It was horrible what happened to Mr. Thompson, but I can't stop thinking about Jed and his family.”

“Can you help him?”

“I don't know,” Jake replied honestly. “It doesn't look very good at this point, but I've got to try. If he really is innocent, then I have to do everything I can to help him. I'm not even worried about getting paid. Things are so chaotic and out of control in Jed's life right now. As I saw him sitting in jail, separated from his family, I couldn't help but think about what it would be like if I were separated from you and the kids. Or worse, if something happened to you or one of the kids.”

Jake dropped his head from Rachel's gaze and swiped his index finger under his left eye to chase away a tear he felt welling up.

Rachel tenderly, lovingly stroked his hair. “That's not going to happen.”

“I love you,” Jake whispered.

“I love you too. Everything is going to be OK,” she assured him.

Just then Courtney, Brett, and Jeremy barreled through the back door and into the den. They danced around, giggling at the sight of their parents snuggling on the couch.

Brett wedged his way in between Jake and Rachel. “Now can you play with us?” he inquired eagerly.

Jake smiled. “Yes. Now I can play.”

 

Rachel watched through the open kitchen window as Jake and the kids played baseball in the backyard. Jake pitched and pretended like he was trying to get them out as they ran the makeshift bases after a hit.

“You can't get me, Daddy,” Jeremy called, laughing, as he ran across home plate just before Jake tagged him. “Home run!”

“That's a home run, all right,” Jake confirmed. “You're too fast for me.”

Rachel reflected on how wonderful her life was. She had a great husband, three beautiful kids, and a lovely house. But one concern hung over her daily. It had been years since Jake had attended church with her and the children. He claimed he was a Christian, but Rachel wasn't convinced.

How well she remembered the life-changing event she had experienced soon after she and Jake were married. Jake, too, had been there. She knew that Jake saw what had happened to her and didn't understand why he hadn't shared her excitement. A few days later she had asked Jake to describe his salvation experience. He couldn't, but said he'd been a Christian all his life.

Since then she had prayed daily for Jake to come to know Christ personally.

“Thank you, God, for my husband and children,” Rachel said spontaneously as she completed the dinner preparations. She thanked God for providing for all the needs of her family. She prayed for Jed and his family too. And then she added, “And God, please take care of Jake. He's worried about Jed, and I pray that you'll take those worries away. But most importantly, I pray for Jake's salvation.”

 

Madison County Criminal Justice Complex, Jackson, Tennessee

Judge Edgar Prickett held arraignments every morning to handle any arrests from the previous day. So Jed appeared for his arraignment on Thursday morning, the day following the murder.

Jake knew it would be the first of many court appearances for Jed. Jed went from suspect to defendant when he was arrested by the sheriff's department and booked into the Madison County CJC. The district attorney would prosecute and, on behalf of the people of the great state of Tennessee, would use every resource in his office to keep Jed in jail.

The courtroom, like the entire complex, was new. But Jake had been there several times since its opening, so the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling in the courtroom no longer intimidated as it once had. He gave the twelve brass light fixtures, four feet in diameter and each with a white frosted globe, only a fleeting glance. He was focused on getting Jed released on bail.

Jake marched down the center aisle of the courtroom. The rows of seats on either side reminded him of church pews. They, too, were wooden and uncomfortable. On any other arraignment day the seats would have been empty. Today they were bursting with curious townspeople and reporters trying to get their first real look at Jedediah McClellan. Not an empty seat was to be found.

Judge Prickett was already sitting on his lofty perch, surrounded on all sides by a bulletproof wooden casing, in the front of the courtroom. The legal community called the wooden casing a “bench,” even though the judge sat behind it rather than on it. Mounted to the floor on a stand three feet to the right of Judge Prickett's bench was the flag of the United States of America. In the same position left of the bench was the flag of the state of Tennessee. A large medallion with the inscription “The Great Seal of the State of Tennessee” hung on the wall above Judge Prickett.

Judge Prickett never fully zipped his robe, so his shirt and necktie were visible. Physically, the judge wasn't a very intimidating man. He stood only five-foot-eight and appeared rather frail. His thin covering of hair was completely white and combed forward. Yet very few people dared to cross him, and those who did regretted it. For the past thirty years he had wielded more authority with his gavel than any other judge in the state.