Captive-in-Chief (30 page)

With so many witnesses seeing him almost be hit by his partner’s falling body, it was a no brainer that Daryl had played no part in Jamie’s death. It was ruled suicide and Daryl let it go. After walking for what felt miles in a daze, Daryl had stopped. He couldn’t go home. Nobody would want to kill Jamie. He was an interior designer and probably the best in New York, certainly top three, and one of the most expensive. His work was extraordinary, as he had been.

Daryl, on the other hand, was about to expose one of the biggest scandals to ever rock the military establishment in the US. If there was a target on anyone, it was him. Jamie had died in his place.

Daryl was in Harlem, nowhere near his apartment but very near his mother’s house. He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t go anywhere they might expect him. He looked at his cell. They could trace him through that. He went to throw it in the trashcan on the street but stopped. He was missing something. He quickly checked his emails, nothing. It hit him like a sledgehammer. He had obviously been ignoring something in his subconscious. He scrolled through the apps on his phone. He had been born and raised in Harlem. As cool and hip as the Village was to him, it was still New York and he was an investigative journalist. He had insisted on the solid secure front door. A door that was supposedly impossible to kick down or burst through. However, that was only one part of the security system. A camera was hidden in the spyhole. He opened the app. The camera recorded to a 2 terabyte hard drive. The app for the system opened, he pressed rewind, entered the required admin password, and five tries later, he was in. He pressed rewind. Three hours earlier, he watched himself closing the door behind himself after winning the argument to get champagne.

Barely a minute later, a blonde woman was at the door, a man with her. He recognized them both. He had said ‘Hi’ to them as he had bounded down the stairs. He captured both as still images, perfect headshots. He emailed them to a Gmail account, erased the phone’s account and memory with two inputs of his password, and threw it into the nearest trashcan. He withdrew a thousand dollars, the maximum his account would allow from a nearby ATM, hailed a Yellow Cab, and told the driver to drive forty blocks south.

He paid cash and after numerous attempts to find a working phone booth, managed to call his editor. He’d know what to do, he was sure.

His editor told him to lie low and call him back the next morning at 8 a.m. He’d ask some questions and find a safe place for him to go.

Daryl spent the night in a low end motel on Long Island. In the morning he picked up the phone to call his editor, then paused. What the hell? Why hadn’t the editor invited him to his house? Or tell him he was being paranoid? Or anything? He had believed somebody wanted to kill Daryl, no questions asked. It was as though he knew Daryl was right, no matter how crazy it sounded. The editor
knew
he was right.

Daryl realized he couldn’t trust anyone.

He boarded a bus to D.C., though he didn’t fully understand why. He needed to get out of New York, and Washington was the home of justice, the FBI, any number of agencies that could help him. He had the killers’ photos and he needed to bring them to justice. After an hour on the bus, he panicked. Photo recognition software. The Defense Department ran the NSA and they were, as he knew from his work, all seeing. What if the facial recognition software had detected him at the bus station, recorded him boarding the bus? He was a sitting duck, they’d know where he was. They’d await his arrival or deal with him en route. As soon as the thought took hold, he couldn’t shake it. He waited for a remote stop and after being confident no cameras were around, he got off. A local bus and taxi deposited him miles off of the original bus route and he spent a second night in a motel.

Between the grief for his loss and his paranoia, he was a wreck. He spent most of the next day hidden away in the motel, the only place where he felt safe, where no one knew where he was. It was only when he thought of the killers escaping without punishment that he forced himself into action. He had eight hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket and he was about two hundred miles from D.C. For three hundred, the motel owner’s son was only too happy to drive him to D.C. and deposit him as requested at the front door of the FBI headquarters.

Another day as a swimming pool attendant passed, unsurprisingly, without incident. Joe and Sandy headed home, another circuitous route planned by Joe to try and find Hank’s car and apartment. Another failure. They arrived back at the house no further forward.

Joe took his Librium and stared into the mirror. Sandy walked by, glancing towards the reflection.

“What?” he asked her.

She tilted her head, lying down with a sigh.

“Jesus, you’re tough.”

Her look said more to him than if she could have talked. She was right. He was there to save a girl and protect his president, not look after a pool and try to find a car. There was a lead upstairs. Clara’s life was in danger, and every moment he failed to act was a moment’s more danger. As much as the idea of questioning Amy turned his stomach, she was likely working for the people holding Clara and blackmailing the president, and ultimately threatening the country he loved.

A car door closed, and he peeked out of the window. Not an Uber, not Lloyd’s limo, Hank giving Amy a lift home. As innocent as they tried to make their arrival look, it had illicit affair stamped all over it. Joe watched as Hank, with other things on his mind, followed Amy into the house. He hadn’t locked his car.

Joe checked Sandy’s water and laid out some food. He snuck quietly out of the apartment and slipped into the trunk of Hank’s car. Two minutes later, and in the blistering heat, he realized it wasn’t his brightest idea. The sound of the door opening and closing nearby prevented him extracting himself. The shudder of the car door opening and thudding closed then the engine starting gave him some hope that he might have made the right call.

The coolness of the air conditioning didn’t quite permeate into the trunk but it held off the worst of the late afternoon sunshine to the point Joe could breathe, though not enough to stop him sweating profusely. Although he tried to concentrate on the turns, there were too many and if Hank was heading back to his apartment it certainly wasn’t around the corner.

A ringing cell was answered quickly. Joe pushed his ear to the back of the rear seat. He needn’t have bothered; the sound was pumped through the sound system in the car, and the back of a speaker was next to his ear.

“You got my message?” a demanding and authoritative voice boomed out.

“Yes, I’m on my way now,” replied Hank.

Joe thought he sounded panicked.

“Good. Ask for Assistant Director Davies. He will transfer the man into your custody. I need you to shut down any leads he gives you. Then shut him down.”

“Consider it done.”

“I had, three days ago. Don’t disappoint me as my daughter and your brother have!” The call ended.

“Shit!” shouted Hank, banging his steering wheel.

Joe tried to understand what had just happened although whatever it was, without more context it was meaningless. He’d have to be patient.

After a short drive, the car slowed down. Joe pressed his ear to the back of the seat.

“US Marshal. I’m here to pick up a witness. Assistant Director Davies is expecting me.”

The door opened and Hank was gone. Joe suddenly worried the guy might have luggage but before he could work out how he was going to work his way around that and not be arrested, two of the car’s doors opened and closed.

“They only sent one marshal? Seriously? This is supposed to make me feel safe?” said a new voice.

“We’ve never lost anyone in the Witness Protection Program,” replied Hank.

“There’s always a first time,” replied the passenger.

The car took off again with Joe wondering if he had totally misread everything over the last few days. If Hank was a US Marshal and involved in Witness Protection, perhaps Amy was in protection, or Lloyd, or both of them. It may be why she’d overreacted to Joe. If so, he was back at square one. He still had to get to five of the most well protected men in the US and had wasted days for nothing. He felt sick, in no small part to the being stuck in a boiling hot trunk, but more over the waste of time the last few days. He was failing Clay and that was the hardest pill to swallow. Joe didn’t fail his friend.

A few minutes later, the car came to a stop.

“Where are we?” asked the passenger, his voice panicky.

“A safe house. What’s wrong?” asked Hank, his voice almost drowned out by a mechanical sound.

Joe realized why he’d never found Hank’s car, they were waiting for a door to open. He didn’t park on the street.

“It says institute on the plaque,” the passenger commented.

“A cover,” assured Hank.

Joe was already wondering how he was going to get out of the trunk without alerting Hank to his presence. If the door worked on a security code, he was screwed. He’d potentially be there all night. He didn’t have any water or his Librium. It was either going to be a rough night or he had to explain why he was hiding in Hank’s trunk.

The car moved forward and the sound of the door closing behind them followed them until the car drew to a stop.

“I’m not happy about this,” said the passenger.

Any thoughts of a rough night disappeared with Hank’s answer. He slapped his passenger and from the sound of it, about as hard as you could slap someone.

“You shouldn’t be.” Hank’s tone had become menacing, a tone Joe hadn’t heard before.

“What the…?”

“Get out!” commanded Hank, opening his door.

“No way, I’m not. Whoa, okay, okay I’m getting out.”

Joe could only assume Hank had pulled a gun.

Shit.
In his haste to jump in the trunk, he’d forgotten something other than water. A gun.

The producer watched the first cut of the report and sat silent.

“What?” asked the reporter.

“You’ve verified all of this?”

The reporter nodded.

“How can this be? How can it be that nobody else has picked this up?” The producer was struggling to comprehend what had been going on over the last few days that the country hadn’t heard anything about.

“It’s being talked about online, blogs, there’s plenty of talk about it out there although no mainstream channels or press have picked up on it. I’ve no idea why.”

“How can we have been so blind to what’s happening? In a week our country has regressed sixty years, maybe even more in its attitudes.”

“I disagree. Mainstream media hasn’t alerted the majority to what’s really happening. Once that happens, this will be fixed.”

“While I applaud your optimism, consider what the majority are getting. They feel safer, polls are off the charts at how well the FPS have been received. Rioters are incarcerated; potential terrorists are behind bars and not living on their streets. Gun control. Law abiding citizens can have all the guns they want, they just need to get a license and a gun cabinet. Criminals and the mentally unstable will no longer be able to get guns, and if they do, will face serious prison time for simply having a gun in their possession. The majority will love that. The illegals are getting kicked out. People love the idea.”

“We’re talking about schools being rezoned across the nation to favor the better off. And who are the better off?”

“The white majority,” answered the producer. “If they think their kids are going to get a better education, or not a worse one, I’m not sure you’ll get the reaction you’re expecting. Remember, the most prominent minority voices are locked up.”

“We’ll see. I have more faith in the American majority than you do. Something big is going down and the people need to know.”

The producer wasn’t in the least disagreeing, he merely needed to know how it would stand up to scrutiny.

“What about the healthcare part?”

“I’ve got less evidence on that although the rumor from the weekend appears to be true, some big deal has been struck.”

“And the cancer patient in your piece?”

“Been using the same hospital for six months, was told yesterday that her policy doesn’t cover her for care there, and she was directed to the other side of the city. As you saw from the report, she was directed to the black side of the city. She’s a wealthy black woman with a top tier policy. Can’t get higher.”

“Only one patient though. We can hardly brand the industry institutionally racist for one patient that may have been a bureaucratic error. We need more examples. Until then cut that section.”

The reporter nodded. “Okay, so we’ll run the rest tonight?”

“Definitely,” replied the producer. “And we’d better get some bodies in to man the phones. Our switchboard is going to be on fire tonight! Send me the edited cut and I’ll run it by the bosses, my guess is that it’ll lead the 9 p.m. slot.”

“Mr. President, I’ve got the owner of
that
news channel holding for you on line one.”

Clay laughed. Ramona hated the channel and refused to say their name out loud.

“Ralph! How you doing?”

“I’m good, Mr. President, and you?”

“As good as can be expected, Ralph,” replied Clay. He was always wary talking with the man. You never knew what was on or off the record.

“I’ve just watched a piece and thought I’d give you a heads up, it’ll be running tonight. You might want to get ready for the fallout.”

Clay panicked. He didn’t want fallout. Anything that rocked the boat would risk his daughter.

“Fallout about what?”

“School rezoning.”

Clay almost released a sigh of relief. “Funny you mention that. My secretary Ramona had a problem with her granddaughter.”

“By any chance does she go to a good school in a predominantly white neighborhood?”

“Hmm, I suppose so, though I don’t know the neighborhood personally.”

“And they were sending her to a neighborhood school nearby that just so happens to be like her, black?”

“Yeah…” Clay felt a bombshell was about to drop.

“Same thing’s happening across the country. You might want to get with your education secretary and find out what the hell is going on,” suggested Ralph. “And please remember, I gave you the heads up.”

Clay replaced the phone in a fury. “Get me Phyllis on the line, now!’ he shouted to Ramona. “I don’t care where she is or what she’s doing!”

One minute later, Phyllis was on the phone. “Mr. President, I’m getting ready for our dinner down here, such a shame you’re not here.”

Clay relayed the conversation he’d had with Ralph. Phyllis listened and told him she’d get right on it and call him back. He waited impatiently. One of the lines lit up on his desk phone. Someone was calling back.

His cell buzzed.
Oh dear God
, he thought, hitting the new message symbol:
Enact Executive Order 10995 with immediate effect. We have people in place to deal with the situation.

Clay had no idea what Directive 10995 was. He turned to his computer and was about to search when Ramona called through.

“Mr. President, I have the chief justice on line one, he says he has a message to call you.”

Clay picked up the phone. “You have a message to call me?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself asking, “A text message?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. President. I have a message to call.”

They were both being controlled, and the realization of how much power they had was finally hitting him. How far did their power and influence stretch? How many people were they controlling to their own end?

“Executive Order 10995?” asked Clay.

“In effect you take control of the media, Mr. President. I assume you may want to update the language and content slightly, since it was written in President Kennedy’s era.”

Clay didn’t want to take control of the media and didn’t want any amendments.

“I suppose I will,” he replied dejectedly. Both men’s tone made it clear to each, they weren’t doing what they wanted. “And the other justices will—”

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. President. Five of my colleagues are being exceptionally helpful at the moment in matters I never thought possible.”

Conspirators or being controlled
, thought Clay. From the chief’s tone he obviously thought conspirators. How deep did it run? How far did the tentacles of whoever was trying to seize complete and total control stretch?

“Thank you, Mr. Chief Justice.”

“Please don’t thank me, Mr. President. The Order will be enacted with immediate effect.”

Clay waited a few minutes for Phyllis to call back. He considered calling her and telling her not to bother and enjoy her dinner. However, the more he waited the more he realized she wasn’t calling. Surely her brazen disregard for his orders were tantamount to publicly declaring she was party to the conspiracy. If that was the case and people were beginning to show their colors, they must be nearing the end.

Things were happening with alarming speed. The realization hit him, he didn’t have long. Joe had to start doing something quickly or…

Or what?,
he thought. He’d tell someone. He couldn’t even tell the most powerful judge in the land that he was being blackmailed or controlled in some way. His most senior law enforcement officer was already on his list of potential conspirators, as were his senior military figures, which left him back at square one. What could he do? Pray Joe found Clara? With her safe with his family and Joe by his side, he’d take them all on.

“You son of a bitch, I’ll never forget this,” said Ramona, interrupting Clay’s thoughts.

“Sorry?” said Clay. “What?”

Ramona looked at the pad and read the message again. “You son of a bitch, I’ll never forget this!” She looked up from the pad. “He asked me to write it down so I got the message to you exactly as he intended.”

“Oh, it’s from Ralph.”

“Who’d you think it was, me?” she said, stomping out of the office.

God. He hadn’t even thought. What if Ramona was with them? He shook his head at the thought. She’d kill for him. Of that, he had little doubt. You couldn’t fake the look she gave anyone who crossed him.

He grabbed a magazine and started to read an article. His pen bouncing along the words as he read. He had a lot to update Joe with, the most important thing, time was not on their side!

He picked up the phone and made a call. He wanted his family around him. The first lady was going to have to turn around and come home.