Damage Control (17 page)

Damage Control Strategy,
Day 23

(the fourth Friday after the murder)

Chapter Forty-three

“Love the script,” the voice over the speaker in Seamus' office said Friday morning. “Love the vocals. Just love 'em.”

I closed my eyes, balled my fists, and gritted my teeth. Waiting for ‘but.'

“Great,” Seamus said in a wary voice—wary because he also figured ‘but' was coming.

“But we wonder if maybe we could, you know, punch up the visuals just a bit.”

“We?” As Seamus spoke that word I had no trouble imagining the rage flaring inside his glass head.

“I mean you, of course, on our nickel. We wouldn't ask you to keep working on spec.”

“How many nickels?”

“Let's say ten thousand just to cover your costs on this visual punch-up. Dollars. Ten thousand dollars. Not ten thousand nickels.”

The disembodied voice chuckled in a way that made me think of a found-footage horror movie. I got real focused real fast. For ten thousand dollars up front, Seamus would agree to any visual punch-up short of full frontal nudity—and I'm not completely sure he would have balked at that.

“What do you have in mind?” Seamus asked.

“Well, do you think you could see your way clear to shooting the thing one more time, just the way you did it, everything the same—except this time, at a place near Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, called Sportsman's and Shooter's Supply?”

“Yes.”

“This afternoon?”

“Yes, uh, I mean, if we can get the videographer on short notice.”

“Don't worry about the videographer. We'll provide one. You just have your pretty little lady with her snub-nose and her attitude there at, say, two o'clock. How about that?”

“You got it.” Seamus glanced at his watch and gulped.

“Good. Real good.”

All of a sudden I didn't need to worry about having any time on my hands on Friday. Took us most of the morning and early afternoon to get there. Found a huge, ramshackle wooden building, as if someone had taken a Western town street-front from a Hollywood set for a cowboy movie, except with actual walls and rooms behind the façade, and set it in the middle of a parking lot for a 1950s drive-in theater. A boardwalk shaded by an overhang must have stretched a good two hundred feet along the storefront, with dozens of people strolling along it. Two men and women in Amish dress had lifted a beautifully joined oak gun cabinet onto the boardwalk, presumably so that they could try to sell a line of the things to the store's proprietor when he got a chance to look at it.

Guy named Caleb Early was waiting for us. Big, bushy beard, homespun jeans and shirt, warm smile, and nestled in an open holster strapped to his right hip—something Wyatt Earp might have carried. He walked us to a shooting gallery in the back, taking us past so many guns and rifles that it seemed like every soldier in the Iraqi Army could have dropped one while running away and there'd still have been plenty left. Sleek, squeaky clean, and well-lighted, the gallery looked big enough to accommodate an entire class of FBI trainees.

The videographer had already set up a tripod-mounted camera that you could have used to film a made-for-TV rom-com. Her name was Cat. Just Cat, no last name. Cat the videographer. Said so right there on her card. The baseball cap she wore and the equipment bag she carried both had NRA logos on them. If she was constitutionally carrying, at least she had the weapon out of sight.

The human outline target this time had white lines on a black background rather than the other way around. Hmm…And the bull's-eye target heart looked like it was about the size of a dinner plate.

Two rehearsals, then we started shooting. Finally got through it on the fourth try. Even using a snub-nose—much less accurate than a gun with four-inch barrel, like the one Jerzy and I had plinked with—six holes, three fairly high in the torso, one actually in the heart. Seamus examined the target critically.

“Maybe we should go one more time and see if we can get at least four bullets in the heart-lung area,” he said. “For, you know, optics.”

“Don't worry your pretty little head about it,” Cat said distractedly. “By dinnertime tonight this little movie will show six shots in the kill-zone. I only shoot with a camera, but I
never
miss.” She unbolted the camera from the tripod and hoisted it to her right shoulder. “Let's go up front and get a shot of Josie paying for the ammunition and gallery time. For, you know, optics.”

“Sure.” Seamus nodded and nudged me with his left elbow, meaning, I hoped, that MVC would reimburse me.

Simple enough. Putting a twenty and a five next to a cash register and collecting change, a cartridge box, and a receipt didn't really call for a lot of method acting chops. Managed to get it done without hamming it up.

Finished. Finally. Not real comfortable with the whole thing. Didn't like the movie magic and the professional slickness. I mean, for Heaven sakes, I couldn't qualify for the Olympic pistol team but I can do enough damage to a target thirty feet away to take him out of the fight.
Really
didn't like the black target. Most of all, I didn't like the feeling that this thing was now completely out of my control, and Seamus', and MVC's.

But at least it was over. Two to three hours and close to a hundred miles from here Rafe and a cocktail were waiting for me. I could already smell the gin.

Out of habit, I looked at the receipt, not printed out from a computer under the cash register but handwritten on a carbon pad form, as if 1972 were thinking about a comeback.

SPORTSMAN'S AND SHOOTER'S SUPPLY
Chambersburg, Pennsylvania
“The Very Best in Sporting Arms and Self-Defense”
NRA Sustaining Member

Merchandise                        
 
$7.95
Services 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
            16.50
LCD (10%)        
               
 
 
 
 
(2.45)
Subtotal:   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
$22.00
Pa. State Sales Tax @ 6%         1.32
Total:     
                            
 
$23.32

LCD? Huh? Had I bought a large-screen TV without realizing it? 'Cause good luck getting reimbursed for that from Seamus.

“What's LCD?” I asked.

“Loyal Customer Discount, Ms. Kendall.” Caleb nodded earnestly. “Family plan. Your husband was in here a couple of times maybe a month, six weeks ago. He didn't use his name; guess he didn't want any special favors. I recognized him because one of his authors and I had book signings at the same store in Fredericksburg when my last book came out.
Stalking the Elusive White Tail: Deer Hunting in Deep Winter
. He was real nice, courteous and all, even though I wasn't in anything like the same class as his author, fame-wise or any other wise. Anyway, this is your family's third visit to the store, so you qualify for the Loyal Customer Discount.”

“Why, thank you! Thank you so much! That is just so nice of you!”

Before those words were all the way out of my mouth, I noticed a display shelf on the wall behind the cash-register counter. Yellow rectangular boxes said “Weaver Four Power Scopes.” Yellow square boxes said, “Weaver Scope Mounting Rings.” Whatever Rafe had bought here, the receipt would presumably say “merchandise” and “services,” as mine did—not “telescopic sight,” “mounting rings,” and “x hours of target practice in the shooting gallery.” And it wouldn't have Rafe's name on it anyway. Seamus would explain to me later that a lot of firearms dealers keep their descriptions generic if they legally can, because half their customers think federal agents might drop by at any moment to check on what caliber of bullets the customers were buying. So no cops would find any smoking-gun paper trail here, even if they happened to look. Still…

Now I understood what had bothered me about Terry Fielding's article yesterday. The investigation wasn't really over for Rafe. It didn't make any difference what we did, how much we cooperated, how many trails turned into dead ends. Until the cops had actually nailed someone else, any little thing—like a chance memory of Rafe coming to an out-of-the-way gun shop not too long before Jerzy bought the farm—could bring him right back to center stage under a full spotlight.

Not that they could make anything out of it, as far as I could see. They couldn't shake the Theo McAbbott alibi without a money trail, and there wasn't a money trail. QED, as Sister Yvette taught me to write after I'd finished a proof in geometry.
Quod erat demonstrandum
, which is Latin for something or other that boils down to
I rest my case
. But still, they'd want him to explain why he'd come here, and why he hadn't mentioned it before, and isn't it a funny coincidence, and all that stuff. Open up a whole new can of worms, and it would just never be over.

I started to feel a little sorry for myself. Shook that off fast. No poor-little-me. I'd made this mess. I didn't see how I could clean it up without getting on the shit-lists of some badass folks, but at least I could keep from making it worse.

Chapter Forty-four

It was a tough way to end the week. Doubts. I'm not much for doubts, but about halfway through my Friday night martini I realized I had one now.

Not about Rafe. I'd thought the whole thing through again on the drive back. Same answers as before. The queasy uncertainty I felt fluttering in my gut was about me. Did I actually have a chokepoint after all? Seriously? Josie? Chokepoint? Were there things—perfectly legal things—that I couldn't bring myself to do to win a political fight?

Twenty-four hours ago I would've bet everything I had on no. Clips of John Kerry zig-zagging on a sailboard to hammer home the idea that he'd flip-flopped on Iraq? No problem. Senator Harry Reid's false “rumor” that Mitt Romney hadn't paid any taxes in ten years? Politics ain't touch football. Bill Clinton pulling the white backlash ploy in South Carolina when Hillary headed downhill against Obama in 2008? If you can do identity politics, I can do identity politics. The 1964 “daisy ad” with a voiceover countdown to a mushroom cloud appearing behind a little girl to make the point that Barry Goldwater would start a nuclear war? That's the way the game is played. You do politics with me, you'd best come with your ankles taped.

All of a sudden, though, I caught myself banging up against an invisible limit, like a family dog penned in by an electronic fence. I think Rafe spotted it right away, but he gave me space to work it out for myself. I finally opened up to him just before bed.

“I can't do it, honey. I just can't do it.”

“The concealed carry campaign?”

“
Constitutional
carry. I mean, yes. I can handle the concept. Using that black target, though—that's just too much. The target doesn't have to be black to make the point. They're just using a black target to appeal to subliminal, racist fears that a lot of people have without even knowing it. Vestigial terror of black men, of the savage black thug, barely human, lurking in alleys and hijacking cars and breaking into homes. I just can't swallow it. Especially after all that's happened in the last couple of years, I just can't.”

“For someone whose mind is supposed to be fast but not deep, that's pretty profound.”

“I don't feel like you have to get much below the surface to spot this issue. Given what the country has gone through from Trayvon Martin on, and especially the black community. People see a twenty-two-year-old black male in a hoodie walking down the sidewalk toward them thirty feet away and their hands automatically move toward their guns? Dear God, I just can't be part of reinforcing that. Exploiting that. Playing to that.”

Rafe didn't say another word at first. He just sat there next to me on the couch, gazing at me with tender thoughtfulness. He let the silence hang between us for a good ten seconds. Then he spoke to me in a soft, coaxing tone like you might use with a teenager who's just been dumped for the first time.

“I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment. I have never been more thrilled to be your husband.”

Those words jazzed me up more than a call from the White House operator asking me to hold for the chief of staff would have. I started to tear up, then just collapsed against him so that he could hold me to his chest.

“You'll decide for yourself what you have to do about this, Josie. It won't be easy, but I can tell you one thing. You can trust yourself to get to the right answer—and when you do, you'll be absolutely sure about it. Not happy, necessarily, but absolutely sure.”

Damage Control Strategy,
Day 26

(the fourth Monday after the murder)

Chapter Forty-five

I woke up Monday morning with the most wonderful feeling. Not just calm. Serene. Free of doubt. I knew just what I was going to do, and I knew I was right.

As Rafe had said, that didn't make it easy. Good jobs are scarce in D.C. these days, and I was about to throw one away. Not only that, but I'd be giving everyone in town a good reason to think three or four times before offering me another one.

I made it to MVC early so that I could get settled and swallow some coffee before telling Seamus that I couldn't do the constitutional carry campaign unless we dropped the racial subtext. Squared my shoulders in front of MVC's suite as I got my key-card ready to scan the lock open. I reminded myself that I might be using that key-card for the very last time. Took a deep breath.
Maybe while I'm between jobs I can write a book on conservative fund-raising: “The Joy of Koching.”

I scanned the card.
Please let Seamus be in a decent mood when he comes in
. Heard the
thunk
of the lock opening, which brought back tummy-tumbling memories of its own. Opened the door. And heard Seamus' outraged screams bouncing off every wall in the entire suite.

“Those
bastards
! Those sniveling little
weasels
! Those pencil-pushing, anal-obsessive, heads-up-their-butts, desk-jockey
bureaucrats
! How could they
do
this? How could even they possibly sink so low? It's obscene! How could they do it?”

Indictment
?
Audit notice
?
Civil investigative demand from the Federal Elections Commission? IRS lien? Revocation of our tax-exempt status?

I scurried toward his office. Found him standing purple-faced behind his desk, raking the fingers of his right hand through his hair while he stared in furious dudgeon at two stapled pages held in his left. He noticed me.

“What is this?” he demanded indignantly. “What is this thing?”

He sounded as if he really wanted to know. Three quick strides brought me close enough to pluck the packet from his quivering fingers.

“Well, for one thing,” I said, “it's addressed to me.”

“Yeah.” Seamus shrugged at that detail. “It came in with Saturday's mail. I found it when I got in early this morning, and figured I'd better take a look at it.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I'd better take a look at it too.” I did.

Dear Ms. Kendall:

I am pleased to inform you that your application for a permit to carry the firearm specified on the enclosed license within the territorial boundaries of the District of Columbia has been approved. You should have the license on your person
at all times
when you are in possession of the firearm within the District.

Please note that this license does
not
make it legal for you to carry this or any other firearm in any jurisdiction other than the District of Columbia. Before taking the weapon outside the District, you should familiarize yourself with the laws and licensing requirements in any jurisdiction in which you will be traveling.

Please note that IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY as a gun-owner to be familiar with ALL applicable legal provisions relating to the safe and lawful use of firearms.
Some
applicable District of Columbia ordinances may be found on the website referenced on the enclosed license. THIS COMPILATION IS NOT EXHAUSTIVE. You are advised to consult counsel of your own choice about other obligations you may have.

I dropped the letter disconsolately on Seamus' desk and slapped on an expression suggesting that my dog had just died. Obviously, it wouldn't do to give Seamus a hint of the toga party going on inside my head at the moment.

“This ruins everything, doesn't it?” I moaned.

“Well, it sure doesn't help.”

Seamus collapsed theatrically in his chair. The chair arched to the limit of its springs as Seamus thrust his head and body back in frustrated despair.

“You know what, though?” I said perkily. “This isn't the end of the world.”

“No. At the end of the world angels will be riding around on red and green horses killing people one-hundred-forty-four-thousand at a time or something. But this is pretty damn close.”

“Maybe. You might be absolutely right. But there just might be a way we could retrieve this situation.”

“How?” Seamus gave me a wary, wide-eyed look.

“We own the concept and the visuals, right?”

“I suppose. But so what?”

“The permit proves that our concept works. A little web-heat and the regulators fold. Now all we need to do is find another Josie Kendall in some city that's tight-assed about concealed carry. We can replicate the campaign with her.”

Seamus brightened. Well, not so much ‘brightened' exactly. More looked like he'd moved up from suicidal to clinically depressed.

“Maybe…” He sounded like his heart wasn't in it.

“And you know what? Make her an African-American. Can't use the black target then, but that's a detail.”

“No!” Seamus leaped to his feet so fast that I jumped back, startled. “Not
an
African-American woman! An African-American woman, a Caucasian woman, a Hispanic woman, and an Asian woman! A rainbow coalition for Second Amendment rights! God, this could be huge!”

“But no black target. Can't mix the message.”

“Absolutely right. Right, right, right. No mixed messages!”

Seamus clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together with unbecoming relish. I beamed at him.

“You're a genius, Boss.”

“That's true.” He shrugged. “But you bring out the best in me.”