Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (33 page)

The defense lawyer, Braxton P. Mayhew, tugged at the cuffs on his suit coat and cleared his throat. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Believe it or not, we are in good shape.”

“How do you mean?” Sir Spencer eyed the pick stitching on the lawyer’s lapel. He imagined just three billable hours would pay for a jacket of such quality.

“Before we get into any of that, I need to counsel you on your behavior here,” Mayhew advised.

“Do tell,” Sir Spencer said, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.

“Do not talk to other inmates.”

“I’m in solitary.”

“Do not talk to family members or anyone who visits you. The conversations in the visitation room are frequently recorded and used as evidence.”

“I’ve no family nor expected visitors.”

“Okay, good. With that out of the way, let’s talk about the others.” Mayhew folded his hands on the table and leaned in as he spoke, looking Sir Spencer directly in the eyes.

Sir Spencer nodded, acknowledging the importance of what his lawyer was about to tell him.

“Jimmy Ings isn’t talking,” Mayhew began. “He’s too loyal to you, despite whatever happened at Arlington. And much of the physical evidence points to him. The explosives, the meeting place, pretty much everything has his hands on it.”

Sir Spencer ran his tongue across his teeth. “As it was intended to be.”

“Secretary Blackmon has also retained counsel and isn’t speaking,” said Mayhew. “He’s in a federal facility in Miami. I don’t expect him to be an issue.”

“Nor do I,” said Sir Spencer. “He’s the only one who blew up the Capitol.”

“Bill Davidson—”

“Is dead,” Sir Spencer cut in.

“Art Thistlewood is squealing like a pig,” Mayhew continued. “He’s spilling everything he knows.”

“I should have purchased the yacht,” the knight lamented.

“What do you mean?”

Sir Spencer shook his head, his eyes looking somewhere beyond the walls of the holding cell. “Thistlewood often said that if we ever got caught doing something illegal,
conspiring
with ill intent, that I’d have to purchase him a large yacht to keep him quiet. He loves the Chesapeake and fancies himself a finer man than he is.”

Mayhew didn’t know how to respond, so remained quiet.

“Needless to say,” the knight went on, his gaze returning to the lawyer, “I thought he was joking.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mayhew said.

“What’s not a problem?” Sir Spencer shifted his weight in the small plastic chair.

“Thistlewood,” Mayhew clarified. “We have people who can neutralize the threat.”

“Ha!” The knight laughed. “I assumed we did. If you’d told me we didn’t, I’d have neutralized
you
and found someone else.”

“So that leaves young George Edwards,” said the lawyer. He wasn’t amused by Sir Spencer’s threat, so he pressed forward. “And he could be tricky.”

“How so?”

“My contacts within the bureau tell me there may be credible surveillance linking you to Edwards—photographs, phone recordings.”

“Not an issue.” Sir Spencer shook his head. “It’s circumstantial and, given that Edwards is a United States citizen, the eavesdropping might be illegal. There’s so much NSA backlash, I’m confident you’ll get it tossed.”

“There’s another problem with Edwards.”

“Which is?”

“We don’t know where he is at the moment.” Mayhew shifted in his plastic seat.

“Come again?” Sir Spencer’s eyes narrowed.

“Well—” Mayhew cleared his throat again “—you’re each being held in separate locations.”

“So?”

“Ings is in the Arlington County Jail,” Mayhew answered. “They’ve sent Thistlewood to the Big Sandy facility in Kentucky. You’re here at Lee.”

“Then where is Edwards?” asked the knight. “Any fool with an iPhone and a wireless connection can find federal prisoners.”

“Sir Spencer”—the lawyer’s tone was sharper and frustrated—“I am aware of that. I know how the system works and how it doesn’t work.”

“Not well enough,” Sir Spencer chided before licking a bleeding crack on his lower lip.

“They’re using a pseudonym,” said Mayhew. “They’ve disguised his identity.”

“Why would they do that with him and not with the others?”

“There could be a host of reasons.” The lawyer shrugged. “Other than Davidson, who’s dead, he was the most well-known among you. His art sells for ridiculous sums of money and is likely to sell for even more now. It could be that. Or…”

“Or what, Mayhew?!” Sir Spencer slammed his fists onto the table. The lawyer jumped back in surprise.

“Or, since he knew everything you knew, they’re protecting him from you.”

“Hmmm…” The knight released his fists and stretched his fingers on the table. He closed his eyes and leaned back, a smile worming across his parched, bleeding lips. “That’s a fascinating prospect. It’s one I didn’t expect. But I find it fascinating nonetheless.”

Mayhew sat forward, his eyes on the knight’s fingers and then the small tendril of bright, freshly oxygenated blood finding its way to Sir Spencer’s chin.

“Do you know what I dislike most about being in federal custody?” Sir Spencer asked.

“What?”

“The cuisine,” Sir Spencer said, opening his eyes. “I have a strong distaste for what passes as food here.”

The lawyer leaned back in his seat but said nothing.

“This morning they served eggs, which I can only assume were conceived from powder, and a sausage link that was more than likely not meat intended for human consumption.” The knight exhaled. “What I wouldn’t give for a frittata, potatoes, and a Bellini.”

“Sir Spencer,” Mayhew said, “I really think—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Sir Spencer held up his hand, silencing the lawyer. “Let me think about the Bellini.” He closed his eyes again and slowly inhaled. He puffed his cheeks, as if savoring the bittersweet taste of nectar and champagne.

“You say to me,” Sir Spencer said, without opening his eyes, “that George Edwards knew everything I did. You say that they are protecting him from me. I find that fascinating.”

“You said that already.” Mayhew checked his watch. They were running out of time and his client was pontificating. “We don’t have time—”

“Do you know why it’s fascinating?” the knight interrupted.

“Why?”

“Because George Edwards certainly did
not
know everything I knew. He does not
know
everything I know. And because you think they can protect him from me.”

“I’m just saying that—”

“I led a self-loathing band of misfits to murder hundreds of people when one assassination would have accomplished the same result. I manipulated cabinet members and the former head of the Department of Justice to betray their instincts and destroy a powerful symbol of democracy. I ordered a bullet into a perfectly beautiful courtesan. Do you really think anyone can protect George Edwards from me? From the people with whom I am aligned?”

The silence was interrupted by the clang of the door opening, followed by a sour-faced guard walking to Sir Spencer’s side of the table.

“You’re done for now,” the guard grunted. He turned to Mayhew. “He’s done for now.”

“Remember what I said about unnecessary discussions,” Mayhew reminded him as he stood.

Sir Spencer smiled as he stood and adjusted his scrubs. “I do think we’d be better served by you remembering what
I
said.”

Epilogue

“If men were angels, no government would be necessary.”

—
James Madison

Felicia rubbed her right hand along the chest of drawers just to the right of the fireplace in the White House Map Room. Her fingers stopped at a medicine chest sitting atop it. She touched it lightly and smiled at the irony.

The small box was believed to have belonged to James Madison. It was one of the few surviving items of the White House fire during the War of 1812. Now the box was in
her
house. A precious item from the collection of the man whose constitutional arguments had put her inauguration in doubt now sat in
her
Map Room.

Above it, on the wall, hung a small portrait of Madison. She would replace it with the portrait of another president. Maybe it would be Roosevelt, who used the ground-floor space as a situation room during World War II. It was his use of the room for that purpose that gave it its current name.

Perhaps she’d hang Coolidge’s portrait in Madison’s place. He’d used it as a billiards room during his administration.

Or maybe she’d hang the visage of Barack Obama. He’d retaken the oath in this room after Justice John Roberts flubbed the oath on the steps of the Capitol the day before.

There was time enough for picture hanging. There were more important things to which she must attend. The first order of business was placing her right hand on the Bible and taking the oath.

After John Blackmon was arrested on the tarmac at Miami International Airport, the Supreme Court refused to hear his lawsuit. It saved the Constitution and her chance at leading what everyone still considered the free world. She rubbed her shoulder, thinking about the attack.

Ninety-eight people died in the explosion, including twenty-six members of Congress; two cabinet members were among the thirty-five badly wounded. Felicia couldn’t understand what would drive people to such violence. She didn’t understand the motivation behind extremism. The irony of that thought was lost upon her as she glanced again at Madison.

Turning toward the center of the room, she looked at the small group gathered for her moment. There were elected and appointed officials, family, and a few friends who she’d invited for the occasion. There was one television camera that would broadcast the induction live to the world. The White House photographer was checking light levels so that he might record the event for posterity and every Internet website imaginable.

In the corner of the room, near the map cabinet, stood a beautiful young woman who Felicia did not recognize. She’d been talking to an older man in a cheap suit who’d just left her to take his seat. Felicia slipped her hand from the chest of drawers and walked to the stranger, extending her hand.

“Felicia Jackson,” she offered as she approached. “Thank you for being here.” Her left eyebrow was raised as if to ask, “And you would be…?”

“Madam Speaker.” The woman took her hand firmly. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m Matti Harrold.”

“Matti?” Felicia looked surprised. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Matti looked at her feet, blushing slightly. “That’s very kind.”

“I invited you here,” Felicia continued, “because I wanted to thank you for your heroism.”

“It’s my job.” Matti smiled. Her lips curled upward without revealing her teeth. “And I didn’t stop the attack.”

“You went above and beyond your job.”

The women were still locked in a handshake, which didn’t feel awkward to either of them. Felicia pulled Matti a step closer to her and then put her left hand on Matti’s right. “Had it not been for your tenacity, more people would have died.”

Matti nodded and exhaled. The praise was more uncomfortable than the prolonged handshake.

“I would like to offer you a position in my White House.” Felicia searched Matti’s face for a response.

Matti was floored. In less than a week, she’d gone from midlevel NSA analyst to potential White House staffer. Bizarre. She wasn’t sure what to think or how to respond to the offer. She blinked nervously. It was hot in the room. Matti was uncertain whether the heat was from the number of people in the room or from her own discomfort. She waved her hand in front of her face but didn’t respond immediately. Felicia could sense Matti’s hesitancy.

“I am asking you to be a part of my team, Ms. Harrold,” Felicia clarified. “You will have a very important advisory role in my administration.”

“Why?” was the best Matti could muster.

“You are clearly a patriot, Matti. I need patriots. I need people I can trust. I want instinct and guts over intellectual and gutless. We have plenty of the latter in Washington. I need more of the former.”

“I’m not sure…” Matti was afraid the speaker had misread her. She worried that luck and timing had given Speaker Jackson the wrong impression of her capabilities.

“I know it sounds trite, Matti, but your country needs you. And from what I have read about you,
I
need you. You saved my life and the lives of hundreds of other good Americans.”

In what was both a rare moment of public emotion and a politically calculated move, Felicia pulled Matti close to her and hugged her. Matti paused awkwardly, and then she gently wrapped her arms around the Speaker’s back, patted her and then pulled apart.

“Okay, Madam President,” Matti relented. “I accept.”

“Excellent!” Felicia placed her hands on Matti’s bare shoulders and squeezed. “Now go grab a seat.”

Matti nodded and noticed the thirty other people in the room were seated. She located an armless chair in the back row and sat next to her father. She felt the eyes of cabinet members and the first family following her as she walked. It was both exhilarating and embarrassing. She knew they’d witnessed the Speaker’s hug. So had her dad.

“What was that about?” he asked. He was wearing his best suit and Matti thought he looked handsome. He’d complained about having to wear church clothes.

“She offered me a job,” Matti whispered into her dad’s ear. She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him and how much she missed her mother.

Matti wanted him to know she’d forgiven her mother. She was letting go. Instead she lifted his hand and pulled it onto her lap. She squeezed it.

He nodded and then leaned into her.

“You know,” he was speaking just above a whisper, “I sleep okay now.”

Matti turned to look at her father. He was smiling. She smiled back and tightened her grip on his hand.

“Me too,” she whispered.

The room quieted and the camera operator indicated the room was live on television. The Chief Justice took his place in front of the fireplace on the western side of the room.

Felicia Jackson stood opposite him with her right hand on her family’s large King James Bible. It was black with gold trim. She raised her left hand and her mind drifted to the moment she stood in the halls of the Capitol, looking up at Washington as he took the oath.