Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (18 page)

There was more to it than that. John could sense it in his wife’s hesitation. “What are they?”

“John...”

“What are they?” he asked again with gritted teeth.

“An African and a Mexican,” Louise answered. “I think the woman is a Mexican.”

Damn you, Mankowitz!
“All right,” John said with obvious irritation. “Get in the kitchen and stay there.”

Louise walked from the bedroom down the hall, passing the visitors without a look as she went into the kitchen and kept herself out of view. John was a few seconds behind her.

“John,” Seymour Mankowitz said, beckoning his client over.

Barrish went past the arched entryway to the living room, eyeing the visitors as he joined his lawyer nearer the front door. “What is this?”

“John, just listen to me and play this smart,” Mankowitz said. “They’re FBI agents—”

“FBI!?” Barrish whisper-yelled. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Listen,” Mankowitz insisted. “Just listen. You just dodged a bullet with one federal case. More suspicion is not what you need right now.”

“They can’t screw with me about that anymore, Seymour,” Barrish said. “I know my rights.”

“And I conveyed those rights clearly to them. There will be no discussion of the Saint Anthony’s shooting. Zero. But if you refuse to talk to them about this you can expect further scrutiny, more investigation, more visits, more phone taps.” Mankowitz, despite his distaste for all that John Barrish was, held a two-hundred-plus-year-old piece of paper higher than any motivation alive in his irrational self. There was right, there was wrong. Then there was the Constitution. “You don’t want that, I don’t want that. So... you listen to their questions, and, if you can, you answer them. I’ll stop any improper inquiries. Understood?”

You idiot. You worthless, legal eagle idiot.
“Fine.” Barrish turned and walked straight into the living room where the agents stood from the place they had staked out on the couch. He took a seat in a well-worn recliner that faced the entire room from the corner, his lawyer standing a few feet away beneath the arched opening to the front hallway. “Sit down. Please.”

“Mr. Barrish, I’m Special Agent Jefferson and this is Special Agent Aguirre. We’re from the Los Angeles FBI office.” Art removed his notebook. “We want to ask you a couple questions about someone named Frederick Allen. Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” Barrish answered, betraying no emotion outwardly.

“How?”

Barrish shifted his gaze between the two federal pigs. The man, an African, looked to be of pure stock. No long-ago mixing of his female ancestors with the master apparent. The woman, though, was obviously the product of racial melding. The Spanish conquistadors’ taking of native Central American Indians so long before was the start of her bastardized bloodline. Probably an Aryan influence somewhere along the many generations, too, he guessed. Her figure, trim and attractive, was not reminiscent of the stockier Indian ancestry that probably provided the female half of her lineage. One mongrel. One purebred. Both equally worthless, and both equally dangerous to him at the moment. His lawyer, having obviously shown the pigs to his home—and without warning—was at least right that he should just answer the questions and be done with them.

“From his actions,” John answered. “He killed one of your
brother
federal officers, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Art confirmed, recognizing the tonal shift as Barrish spoke the word
brother
. “Is there anywhere else you know him from?”

“The papers. He died in that chemical thing not too far away.”

“Twenty miles,” Frankie said.

“Fairly close,” Art commented. “He was of a like mind to you in certain respects. Isn’t that so?”

Barrish sniffed a laugh. “The uneducated as to my beliefs might say that.”

“So you differed with Mr. Allen?” Art asked, hoping to lead Barrish into at least hinting of additional knowledge of Allen.

But the AVO leader was going to have no part of that, and chose his words carefully. “Not with Allen in particular. As I said—I did not know the man. But I understand some of his views from his past and from the news that he was part of the Aryan Brotherhood. Now, just because they and my organization share a word in our names, well, that does not mean we share a mirror-image philosophy.”

“But similar?” Art pressed.

“Look, I believe in separation of the races,” Barrish explained. “You people always call me a ‘white supremacist.’ I’m a white
separatist
. I believe that Aryans, or white people of sufficiently pure blood, should have America as a homeland. I believe that you and your fellow Africans should be repatriated to the continent my ancestors so foolishly stole you from. I believe your assistant here—”

“Partner, Mr. Barrish,” Frankie interjected. “I’m his partner.”

“Partner.”
Whatever you want to call yourself, half-breed
. “Your partner here should go back south of the border to the place where her kind abounds. It is all very simple. Now, the Aryan Brotherhood espouses the views of separation by destruction, meaning they want to separate anyone who is not Aryan from the group of the living. Some other similar groups have the same basic philosophy. But those groups, like the Aryan Brotherhood, all advocate violence as a means to achieve their end. I simply believe that the end is a foregone conclusion, and it is up to organizations such as mine, and individuals like me, to prepare my race for their destiny.”

“I see,” Art said.

“No you don’t,” Barrish countered. “But you will.”

He was cool, not cocky, Art thought. He spoke his words of hate as if he knew them to be the truth. He believed he was right. What more was needed to make this man dangerous?

“Did you know of Allen before your arrest?” Frankie asked.

“Excuse me,” Mankowitz interrupted. “That time period is—”

“Hold it, Seymour,” John said. “I don’t mind. The answer is no. Only after his actions hit the papers.”

“What about Twelve-Twelve Riverside?” Art asked, following Barrish’s previous answer quickly. “Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I’ve spent a great deal of time around Temple and Main for the last year,” Barrish said, referring to the Metropolitan Detention Center in which he had been held preceding and during his abbreviated trial.

“Monte Royce?” Art said, tossing the name out.

“Who?”

“Nick King or Nikolai Kostin?”

Barrish shook his head at the African’s questions. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” Art observed.

Barrish caught sight of the Mexican agent looking around the room. “Not what you expected?”

“Excuse me,” Frankie said.

“My home,” Barrish clarified. “The walls. You expected swastikas and pictures of Hitler to be my choice in decor. Me wearing a pointy white hood, spouting off about ‘Nigger this, nigger that.’ ” He shook his head, maintaining eye contact with the agent. “You just don’t get it. I’m Joe American, Miss FBI Agent. I’m your next-door neighbor.”
I’m your worst nightmare
, he added silently, knowing what the bounds of his soliloquy had to be. “And the government you work for doesn’t get it either.”

“Well, Mr. Barrish, we do our best,” Art said, “and
my
government does its best.”

“Best.” John snickered. “
Of the people, by the people
... You know, the people might just decide to scrap the whole thing and start over someday. A clean slate. And make it right this time.”

“And who’ll know what ‘right’ is supposed to be?” Art asked needlessly. “Let me guess.”

John simply smiled. “Someone will know.”

“Agent Jefferson, this is going nowhere,” Mankowitz said. “My client obviously can’t help you with this.”

Or won’t. “Well, it looks like we’ve wasted your time, Mr. Barrish,” Art said, standing. “And ours.”

“I’m sure you’ll find more time to
question
me again,” Barrish said, his meaning clearly
harass
. He remained seated as both agents moved toward the door. The African stopped short of being out of sight.

“Enjoy your freedom, Mr. Barrish,” Art said, smiling at the man, and adding a wink that only they were aware of. It was returned with a smirk by the leader of the AVO. “Good day.”

“We’ll drop you back at your car,” Frankie told Mankowitz as she and Art headed out the front door.

“I’ll be right out,” the lawyer said, going back to his client after the door had closed. “John, that little speech at the end could have backfired. When are you going—”

“Get out,” Barrish interrupted, looking up, whatever ingenuous smile there might have been on his face now gone. “Get out of my house.”

“John...”

“Get out,” Barrish said, each syllable defined by rage. A rage in the words, and in the eyes.

Mankowitz said no more. His client had always been volatile. Very challenging. But never before had he felt fear when in the man’s presence. He did now.

Art saw the lawyer emerge visibly disturbed. “Nice guy.” Mankowitz didn’t respond, instead climbing silently into the back of the car for the ride back to the city. Frankie swung the Bureau Chevy around and headed down the narrow dirt driveway, pulling far to the right as a blue minivan came at her. As they passed she noted the faces of the two male occupants, both young, their eyes wide as they peered into the front of the car heading off the property.

“He’s got sons, doesn’t he?” Art asked, looking to the backseat.

“Two,” Mankowitz answered.

“Another generation of hate,” Frankie commented. She turned the car onto the paved highway and headed east toward the freeway, putting some much-desired distance between them and the likes of John Barrish.

Toby stopped the minivan fast, sending a cloud of dust billowing forward of the vehicle. He and Stanley jumped out and bolted into the house.

“Pop?” Toby shouted before seeing his father quietly sitting in the living room. Stanley, out of breath like his brother, was right behind.

“Dad, those were feds,” Stanley said, clued in by the G license plate.

“FBI,” John said.

“Pop, I thought they took you,” Toby said with a mix of worry and relief. “They had someone in the back, but I couldn’t tell who.”

“We thought it was you,” Stanley said.

“It was that stupid Jew lawyer of mine.”

“Mankowitz? What the hell was he doing here?” Toby walked over and practically fell into the couch.

“He brought the pigs. They were asking about Freddy,” John said, a clenched fist rhythmically pounding the arm of the recliner. “And about the place on Riverside.”

“Oh, shit!” Toby swore.

“Dad, they know,” Stanley said.

“They can’t know,” Toby objected. “There’s no way.”

“Well, they know something,” John pointed out. “They were also asking about Royce.”

“He talked!” Stanley said.

“He didn’t talk,” John disagreed.

“But the papers said the feds talked to him.”

“Stan,” Toby said, glaring. “If Pop says he didn’t talk then he didn’t! Okay?!”

“But someone did!”

“Both of you! Shut up!” John sprang from the chair and began a stalk-like pacing in the confines of the front room. “I don’t know what they know or how they know it, but this is not good.”

“Let’s call it off,” Stanley suggested.

“No,” John responded, giving that possibility a short life. “We’re not stopping.” He froze at the far end of the room, looking away from his sons. “But we’re going to have to take some precautions.”

“Like what?” Toby asked.

“Toby, you make arrangements for a safe place for all of us to stay,” John directed. “Once this thing starts we’re going to have to disappear. I thought we’d just be able to ride it out, but with this... You know where the best place will be.”

“I know, Pop,” Toby acknowledged.

John continued staring at the wall and its horribly dingy wallpaper pattern. The afternoon light could do little to brighten this room with such drab decor. It would be good to get out of there in short measure. “How did the meeting go?”

“Perfect,” Toby answered, pleased to be able to give his father some good news. “Friday we finalize the details and give them the stuff.”

“They asked about the money, didn’t they?” John inquired.

“Yeah.” Toby looked to his brother.

So much for pure ideology, John thought. But their reasons were their reasons. As long as the end was the same, he didn’t care about the motivation of those just along for the ride. “So they’re in.”

“Yeah,” Toby confirmed.

John turned around, considering for a moment what transpired before his sons’ return. “Friday, when you meet with them, you tell them there’s another part to the job.”

“Okay,” Toby said, waiting for an explanation. But the wait stretched on, and all his father did was smile. “Pop?”

“I want to leave here with no strings,” John said. “Do you think they’ll mind?”

It was Toby’s turn to smile. “If we dangle some cash in front of them and say ‘kill that whitey’... Pop, these guys are ours. We can do what we want with them.”

John looked to his youngest boy, offering him a chance to speak.

“Toby’s right, Dad.”

“Good,” John Barrish said, thinking of the “strings” to be severed. Some things just had to be done, especially to advance the cause. What was the saying?
By any means necessary
. How ironically appropriate, John thought, considering the source...and the cause.

EIGHT

Transition

Darren Griggs took the tissue offered by Anne Preston and wiped his eyes, then let his head fall back against the liberally cushioned chair.

“Those tears were different from the ones you cried the night we met,” Anne observed. She sat a few feet from her patient, in an identical chair. Almost sixty minutes had passed since the grieving husband and father had come into the safety of her office. A few minutes at the beginning were spent in small talk, he admiring the view through the large window behind her desk, and she showing off pictures of her daughter. That had been a good lead-in to the session, she opening with how proud she was of her daughter, Darren beginning to tell what it was like to have lost his.