The Jury Master (31 page)
Sloane looked to Molia. “I’m sorry, Aileen didn’t mention anything.”
“No problem.” Molia stepped back into the office, suddenly interested. “Lunch sounds good. I’m starving.”
Jones smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Plunkett. I meant Mr. Blair . . . alone?”
“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Mr. Plunkett,” Sloane said.
Jones shook his head. “It’s nothing personal—”
“It’s not a problem, Jon,” Molia interrupted. “I don’t want to be a fifth wheel or anything. You’ll get home all right?”
“We’ll have a car drive you wherever you need to go,” Jones assured Sloane. “It will be no trouble. Ms. Saroyan will have the boxes labeled and shipped.”
Saroyan stepped forward with pen and paper. Sloane had no clue where to send the boxes. “I’ll have to get back to you with an address.”
Jones looked surprised.
“Some of this is going to storage.”
Saroyan handed him a business card.
“Very good, it’s all settled.” Jones put a hand on Sloane’s shoulder and led him back into the hall, then stopped and turned back to the detective. “You seem familiar to me, Mr. Plunkett. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Molia shrugged. “Rotary Club? I meet a lot of people there. And bowling. Do you bowl?”
Jones smiled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Maybe you just remind me of someone I know.”
“I have one of those faces,” Molia said.
J
ONES TALKED WHILE
he and Sloane waited for an elevator. “I apologize that your friend couldn’t join us,” he said. “It would have been no problem, except there’s been a slight change of plans.”
“Change of plans?”
The elevator arrived. Jones ushered Sloane inside and hit the button for the lobby. “I think you’re going to see how committed we all are to making sure Mr. Branick’s death is investigated to the fullest extent possible, Jon.” He paused as if about to deliver the punch line to a joke.
The doors closed.
“The president has asked to speak with you personally.”
T
OM MOLIA FELL
in behind a sport utility vehicle as big as a tank, picked up a car phone that was a relic by modern standards, and punched the keypad with his thumb.
Marty Banto answered his direct line on the second ring. “Mole? Where are you? Franklin’s busting my ass looking for you. Says you left for the bathroom hours ago and never came back. Thought you died on the can. We were about to draw straws to see who was the unlucky son of a bitch who had to go in to look for you.”
“Nice to be loved. Any idea what Rayburn wants?”
“He wants to know where the fuck you are, is what he wants.”
When J. Rayburn Franklin wanted to know Tom Molia’s whereabouts, he asked Marty Banto. Molia and Banto covered for each other. Franklin knew it. He just wanted to get the word out that he was keeping tabs on them.
“No specifics?”
“Not that he’s sharing, and I’m leaving so I don’t have to listen to him bitch about you anymore.”
“When are you going?”
“Now,” Banto said, sounding adamant. “I’m leaving now, Mole. And if I wasn’t in a hurry before, I sure as shit am now because I don’t like the sound of that question.”
“Just a question, Banto.”
“Bullshit. I know that question. You need a favor. Look, Mole, the only one riding me harder than Franklin is Jeannie. I need to get home and spend time with my kids before the summer is completely over. She’s not happy we worked all weekend.”
“Blame me.”
“I always blame you.”
“No wonder she likes me so much.”
“At the moment she likes you a lot better than she likes me.”
“You know the routine, Banto. Ten minutes after you get home your son will ask to go to a friend’s house to play video games and your daughter will get on the phone.” He changed lanes. “Besides, this is an easy one.”
“I knew it.”
Molia thought he heard what sounded like a hand slapping the desk.
“I know you like a bad book. What am I, your personal secretary?”
“I just need you to run an ID,” Molia said.
Banto picked up a pen. He could argue, but Molia would wear him down eventually. He always did. It was quicker just to do what he asked. “Go ahead,” he said, sounding resigned.
“I owe you one.”
“One? I’d have better odds playing the lottery than betting on you ever paying off.”
“The name is Jon Blair, no ‘h’ in Jon.” Molia spelled the name.
“The guy who called here yesterday?”
“Same guy.”
“What’s up?”
“I just spent a morning with him.”
“The guy sitting in the lobby this morning?”
“You have brilliant deductive skills, Marty.”
“Yeah, how about you deduce to do this ID on your own?”
“Sorry. Okay, look, I have a hunch. This guy says he did a tour of duty with the marines. Check military records for me and see if the name comes up. He also says he’s an attorney in Boston. Check the Massachusetts Bar Association.”
“Don’t all felons have to register?”
Molia laughed. “Easy. My sister is one of them. And run a Department of Motor Vehicles check and see if we can get a picture of this guy. And I noticed a sticker on the bumper of his car in the lot. It’s a rental but not from one of the big ones. Check and see if there’s a reservation under the name Blair. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
“Christ, Mole, anything else? How ’bout I make you a sandwich and hold your dick while you take a leak?”
“Sandwich would be nice,” Molia said. “The dick thing is just sick.”
T
HEY WALKED ACROSS
Pennsylvania Avenue at a brisk pace, the heat of the day stifling and humid. Sloane was sweating, and his heart pounded like that of a condemned man taking his last walk. His mind had gone blank. He felt as if he were being swept along in a powerful current, unable to swim out, and with no plausible way to avoid the inevitable: a meeting with President Robert Peak.
Rivers Jones continued his soliloquy about the Department of Justice and its vast resources as they covered the fifty yards between the two buildings, making analogies to steam engines rolling. Sloane heard intermittent bits of the monologue but was focused on a different conversation: the one he’d had with Aileen Blair. Blair said her husband did not like political functions, that he was a homebody. Did that mean he didn’t go, or that he didn’t
like
going? She said he didn’t like leaving Boston, but again, that could mean he didn’t leave, or he didn’t like leaving but did it anyway. A lot of husbands did things they didn’t want to do. Aileen Blair said she had been to her brother’s office before, but she hadn’t mentioned the White House. Surely Joe Branick brought his family to the White House. What person with an opportunity to do so wouldn’t? And Branick and Peak had been friends since college. Peak must have been present at Branick family events. Had Jon Blair been there? The chances were, he had been. Then again, Aileen Blair was the youngest, and by a good margin. Maybe by then her oldest brother had moved out of the house. Shit, Sloane didn’t know what to think except that he needed to come up with something fast.
Jones facilitated their access through the West Gate. Uniformed Secret Service officers checked him for weapons but did not request any further identification, Jones apparently having orchestrated everything in advance. He handed Sloane a pass from the security officer, and Sloane dutifully clipped it to his sport coat as they continued toward the visitors’ entrance on the north side of the West Wing. It was surreal. The West Wing. Sloane was on the White House grounds. He followed Jones up four steps, where two marines stood rigid beneath a portico. The marine on the left snapped sharply to the side and pulled open the door.
Jones led Sloane down a paneled hall adorned with a portrait of Robert Peak and other photographs of Peak meeting world leaders. They came to an officious-looking lobby with an American flag in each corner, a dark brown leather couch between them, matching chairs to the side. Sloane took a seat on the couch while Jones announced himself to a bevy of people working behind a counter. Then he sat beside Sloane to continue his one-sided conversation.
Sloane’s mind remained blank, and he wouldn’t get much time to fill it. Just a minute after Jones sat down, a middle-aged woman in a smart blue suit with a black brooch that looked like a huge bug stuck to her lapel suddenly loomed over them. “Mr. Jones. Mr. Blair. The president will see you now.”
She led them through an interior door and down a hall. Men and women walked in and out of offices, the sounds of telephones and voices spilling into the hallway. The woman turned right and came to an abrupt stop. She gave three purposeful taps on the door before pushing it open. Then she walked in, holding the door open behind her.
Jones turned to Sloane and put out his left hand. “After you.”
Sloane wanted to turn and run. He briefly considered feigning illness; the chances that he could throw up on Jones’s shoes were good at the moment. But he steeled himself for the inevitable and willed himself to step inside.
President Robert Peak sat in profile behind an oversize ornate desk, the telephone pressed between his shoulder and ear. He was clearly trying to cut short the conversation. He faced a bronze sculpture of a fly fisherman, and a large rainbow trout mounted on the wall, its mouth open and head cocked to the side. Despite his inner turmoil, Sloane thought the room smaller than he envisioned. A round royal-blue area rug embossed with the presidential seal covered nearly every inch of the hardwood floor. The seating area in front of Peak’s desk consisted of two couches with a marble coffee table between them, and a rocking chair. Sloane couldn’t help but acknowledge the immensity of the history that had been made inside this room, and recalled the grainy black-and-white photographs of John and Robert Kennedy from history books, the two men huddled together, grave expressions on their faces during the showdown with the Russians. Sloane was about to have his own showdown, and he decided he wasn’t going to go down without trying.
Practicing law taught lawyers to accept the inevitable. There were moments in a trial when nothing they could do or say could change their client’s fate. They could be right and still be found wrong. They could win on the evidence and still have a jury rule against them. The thought brought Sloane a strange, comforting peace. If Robert Peak knew Jon Blair, Sloane was already screwed. There was nothing he could do about it now. Wasting energy worrying about it would not change the outcome. But if Peak and Blair had never met, then he still had a chance. Branick and Peak were reported to have been good friends. Peak would be comfortable talking to a perceived family member. Sloane’s fortunes had taken a dramatic turn either for the worse or for the better. If he was going to get information about Joe Branick, there was no better place to get it.
Practicing law had also taught him much about reality and perception. The two were not the same. It was impossible for any lawyer, no matter how organized or capable, to be prepared always. Good lawyers acknowledged this and focused instead on
appearing
prepared. There were survival techniques in court: Speak only when asked a direct question; if you did not know the answer to a direct question, rephrase the question to fit your answer; talk in general terms rather than specifics; get what information possible, be thankful for it, and sit down and shut up. Get in and get out. The less time you spoke, the less chance you had of making a mistake.
Peak hung up the phone, seemed to pause to mentally change gears, then stood and came around the desk. He had the posture of a man with chronic back or knee pain, a former athlete paying the price for the pursuit of glory. Unlike the Oval Office, Peak appeared bigger than on television: about Sloane’s height, but with wide shoulders that carried more weight comfortably. With a full head of gray hair, his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, Peak looked like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company about to put a shovel in the ground at some ceremonial groundbreaking. He extended a hand to Jones. Jones turned to introduce Sloane.
“Mr. President, allow me to introduce Jon Blair.”
P
ARKER MADSEN HUNG
up the telephone. When it did not immediately ring he used the moment of silence to catch his breath. He had fought more battles than he could remember—pushed his body beyond physical and mental exhaustion in the sweltering jungles of Vietnam and South America and through the oppressive sand of the Middle East—and when the battle was over he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest. Amped on adrenaline, his mind reworked each mission over and over, dissecting it, determining how the result could have been better, the effort more efficient. He loved the rush of seeing things go off according to plan, his plan, perfectly orchestrated, every man pulling his weight, doing exactly as ordered without question or hesitation. The pleasure it brought was better than sex, though nothing compared to the pleasure he felt during the engagement. Even as his rank steadily increased, Madsen never left his men—never let them go into combat without him, never sat in a tent looking at computer screens while his men risked their lives in the field. A soldier first, Madsen remained a soldier. God, he loved it.
But now he was tired. Alberto Castañeda, Mexico’s president, had not stuck to the plan. The son of a bitch had strayed from it significantly, as the Mexicans were prone to do. It explained why a country of such immense size and natural resources, one that Henry Kissinger once said had the greatest potential to affect world politics, would always remain a bit player. Its leaders were just too damn disorganized and irresponsible. They had spent months arranging for meetings in clandestine locations to keep news of the negotiations from leaking—the last thing they needed was to piss off OPEC and the Arabs without a viable alternative in place—and what does the Mexican president do? He appears at a press conference in Mexico City to announce a tentative accord between Mexico and the United States to increase Mexico’s oil production and corresponding sales to the United States. The press was now demanding specifics.
