The Election (14 page)

Jake sat down in a chair across the table from Billy. “I need your help on the
Jed McClellan
case.”

“I ain't helpin' you get that Negro off,” replied Billy through gritted teeth.

“Billy, I don't need much help, and nobody will ever know you were involved.”

“Whatever it is, I ain't doin' it,” Billy responded emphatically. “You need to get out of here before I turn some of these boys loose on you.”

“I was hoping you would agree to help me voluntarily,” Jake said. “But if you want me to tell your wife about your girlfriend down in Memphis, I will.”

Even though the room was gloomy and swirled with smoke, Jake could see the fright on Billy's face. Billy had no way of knowing that a law school classmate of Jake's represented the girlfriend's husband in their divorce. When Jake had heard about it, he decided he would save that card to play on ol' Billy some time, and now was the time. Everybody in town knew that Billy's wife was someone to be reckoned with. She'd have Billy's hide if she found out about his affair.

Billy's disposition went from anger to sheer fright. Jake could see the pulse in the lawman's temples from across the table. Billy glanced anxiously around the room to make sure nobody else had heard Jake's words.

“That's right, Billy,” Jake continued in a calm tone. “I know all about it. I even have copies of photographs out in my car right now. You want me to show them to you?” Jake partially rose from his chair.

“No, that's OK,” Billy snapped.

In that instant Jake knew he was completely in control. Billy would agree to anything Jake wanted.

“Are you ready to help me?”

Billy relented. “What do you want me to do?”

Jake didn't tell Billy about Naomi McClellan's story. He simply told Billy that he needed a sample of Jesse Thompson's blood from the evidence room.

“I can't do that!” Billy exclaimed.

Billy's reaction garnered a couple of looks from the patrons nearby, so Jake waited until everyone resumed their meaningless activities before continuing.

“Sure you can, and you will,” Jake directed.

“That's tamperin' with evidence.”

“Don't take the whole thing. Just swab off some and bring it to me.”

“How do you suggest I do it without anyone seein' me?”

“You're a smart guy.” Jake smirked. “Figure it out. I don't care how you do it. I just need a sample, and I need it next week.”

“You don't give a guy much time, do you?”

Jake's mission was accomplished. He stood up and pushed his chair under the table. “See you next week, Billy.”

There was a swagger in Jake's step as he strode back through the crowd. He'd been inside the Pinecrest and lived to tell about it. He bet there were very few people who could make that claim. He stopped just before opening the door and scanned the inside of the club one last time.

“Nice place you've got here,” Jake commented to the cigar-chewing bartender as he closed the door and left.

 

Crown Plaza hotel, Manhattan

“Is everything ready for tomorrow's campaign rally?” Ed Burke asked as Ben Tobias entered Ed's suite on the top floor of the Crown Plaza on the corner of 8
^th
Avenue and 48
^th
Street. The posh presidential suite would be Ed's home for a couple of days. Only the best would do for the vice president.

A rally had been scheduled in Central Park for Saturday morning. Labor Day weekend was a great time to gather big crowds.

“Right on schedule,” Ben replied. He consulted his watch. “It's almost midnight, and I think the construction crews plan to stay through the night if they have to in order to finish erecting the stage and speakers.”

“Good, that's good,” Ed muttered loud enough for Ben to hear it. He poured Ben and himself a gin and tonic, and handed Ben his tumbler as they moved into the sitting area of the suite.

“How are the polls looking?” Ed asked as they sat down, facing each other across the coffee table.

“Couldn't be better,” Ben answered. “We're showing a 14 point lead, and I heard that Foster's polls are showing him trailing by 10. Either way, you're well in front. Trailing on Labor Day will be impossible for Foster to overcome. And, even better news, contributions continue to increase. Foster will never be able to catch us on spending.”

The Federalists are doing their part
, Ed thought. Money was pouring in from all corners of the country.

“Is Senator Mulvaney going to be on the platform with me tomorrow?” Ed asked. “I want to do everything we can to win New York.”

“He'll be there. He has no affinity for his counterpart in the Senate, so he'll do everything he can to make sure Foster doesn't win. Mulvaney will whip the one hundred thousand or so people at the rally into a frenzy for you.”

Ed couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

“It looks like you're going to get your wish,” Ben continued. “A landslide is a real possibility. The polls show that Foster is only leading in Michigan, Mississippi, and New York.”

“I like the sound of that,” commented Ed. He placed his empty glass on the marble coffee table, stretched out on the couch, and closed his eyes. “I hope everything after the election is as easy as winning has been.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben replied. “You're going to be the best president in history.” He grinned.

“That's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

Ed had carried the Federalists' secret for several years. There were times when he'd wanted to tell Millie, but he never did. Their marriage was not strong enough. He desperately wanted to share his burden with someone, and Ben had become a close friend and confidant. At that moment, Ed desired to tell Ben about his pact with the Federalists like he'd never desired anything before.

But as his mind grappled with the secret, reality struck. Ed knew Ben hungered for the same power he did. But he doubted Ben would approve of his agreement with the Federalists. This was not the right time to discuss it. He had to win the presidency first.

“Never mind,” Ed replied.

“Ed, if there's something I need to know, then tell me,” Ben cajoled.

“It's nothing really.” Ed yawned. “I'll tell you about it later. By the way, see what you can do about those last three states. I want to crush Foster.”

“I've been thinking about that very thing. Foster has been begging for a debate. I think we should give it to him.”

“Why do you think that?” Ed sat back up on the couch. “We're leading. You know as well as I do that the only person a debate can help is the one who's behind.”

Ben smoothed a few wisps of hair over his balding head. “This may be one of those exceptions to the rule, because I think you'll eat him alive. His extreme right-wing positions will be displayed for the whole country to see. Your lead coming out of the debate can only increase. It's a no-lose situation.”

Ed liked the sound of that. He wanted to win every state, and win big. That would be a mandate, he told himself.

“Let's do it,” he decided. “Call his staff, and get it scheduled.”

Sanders residence, Arlington, Virginia

Saul Sanders was very cautious to maintain the lifestyle of a federal employee. He refrained from driving expensive cars or wearing $3,000 suits. He had every penny of the $10,000 Randolph Winston paid him every month tucked away in a secret account in a bank in Nassau.

Saul made sure he didn't communicate with Randolph while in his office at the J. Edgar Hoover building. In a few months Randolph would have a line directly into Saul's office, and he wouldn't care who knew they were talking. But for now the secrecy had to be maintained.

Randolph always called at precisely 8:00 a.m. every Saturday. A separate telephone line had been installed in the study in Saul's house in Arlington, Virginia, and only Randolph had the number. The phone bills were sent to a post-office box in Arlington, where they were gathered by a courier and forwarded to Randolph for payment. Saul didn't particularly like getting up early on Saturday mornings, but for $10,000 a month, it was a minor inconvenience.

“Armacost is looking into the Thompson murder,” Saul told Randolph shortly after their weekly briefing began. “But he hasn't found anything yet.”

“Why is Armacost interested in a murder in Tennessee? Does he think there's more to it than the local authorities have found?”

“I don't think he's looking for anything in particular,” responded Saul. “He's just looking. It's not every day that a friend of a vice president is murdered. Armacost is always a little suspicious. But I think he'll give up soon.”

“Let me know if anything new comes up. We can't have any surprises this close to the election.”

“I will,” Saul assured Randolph. “There's nothing there for him to find, and like I said, he'll pull the agents off in the next few days.”

Saul knew he couldn't tell Deputy Director Armacost to stop an investigation that really didn't exist, particularly since he technically didn't know anything about it. He and Randolph had decided it was better to let Charlie Armacost conduct his investigation and leave Jackson as soon as possible. Randolph was satisfied that no disruption in the Federalists' plan would come from the Thompson murder.

 

First Baptist Church, New Orleans

It impressed Shep that Mac Foster made it a priority with his advisors that the entire campaign staff attend a church somewhere every Sunday, regardless of where they may be geographically in the country. It wasn't always practical, but Shep made a concerted effort to comply with Mac's request. Mac had told him that he thought it was important for people around the country to see his faithfulness to what he believed. And Mac needed the weekly refill.

On the Sunday before Labor Day they were in New Orleans at the First Baptist Church, and all Mac's top advisors were present and accounted for. Shep sat on the third row, middle section, and Jack Bennett sat beside him. Mac was on the row immediately in front of them with the family of the church's pastor, Dr. Dawson McGregor.

The morning worship services were almost over, and Shep couldn't wait to get back on the campaign trail. His whole life revolved around Mac Foster's campaign for the presidency.

Politics was in Shep's blood. He had run for a seat in the New York State Senate in 1988 but had been beaten when the local newspaper printed lies about his being an alcoholic. He swore he would never run for office again himself but would do all he could to get people with conservative values elected to every public office.

Not long after that he met Mac Foster. Their alliance became successful almost immediately. Shep guided Mac to a seat in two U.S. House of Representatives elections and to the Senate in 1996, when he'd defeated Saul Sanders, current FBI director, for the open seat.

The driving force behind Shep was one issue: abortion. To say he hated it was an understatement. He abhorred it. The thought of one more innocent unborn baby being murdered sickened him.

It had all started for Shep in 1986. His wife, Sarah, had a miscarriage, and her physician said she would never be able to have children. So Shep and Sarah decided to adopt a child. When they brought Jonathan home, it was one of the happiest days of their life. During the process of the adoption Shep learned that there were hundreds of prospective adoptive parents waiting to adopt a child, but not enough children. He was against abortions before that time, but became even more so when he realized that every abortion was unnecessary. He committed himself to doing everything he could to stop the senseless killings. And the best thing he could do was to help put a pro-life president in the White House.

So when Mac decided to run for the presidency, Shep was right there. He was prepared to do whatever it took for Mac to win. The ends justified the means with Shep. And right now the “end” was that Mac Foster had to win the presidency. That was why he'd had to hire Dalton Miller, and Shep wasn't ashamed of it.

Shep had hardly heard anything the pastor said during his sermon. His mind was churning as he thought about how they could overcome the deficit to Burke. Finally Dr. McGregor gave the benediction and dismissed the congregation. Mac, his Secret Service detail in tow, exited the church first, with Shep and Jack following closely behind.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” Jack asked Shep as they bounded down the concrete steps in front of the church.

Shep turned toward Jack. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I see you talking on the telephone all the time, but I don't know to who. You're always optimistic, even when we're trailing by 10 points. What's going on?”

“I'm just trying to keep the troops encouraged.”

“There's more to it than that, Shep,” Jack said, his hazel eyes probing. “Tell me what it is.”

Shep considered his dilemma. The time was not right to tell Jack about Dalton since the PI really hadn't found anything of substance yet. And the more people who knew about him, the more chances that Mac would find out and shut down the entire investigation. Shep could not let that happen. It was their only chance.

“Let's just say you can never tell when something might break,” Shep replied. He changed the subject of the conversation as they reached one of the Suburbans waiting to transport them to their next stop. “But enough about that. I finally got confirmation from Burke's people that they'll agree to do one debate.”

“How did you do that?” Jack asked. “I thought his staff had been telling our people they wouldn't even consider it.”

“They had been, but Ben Tobias called me last night to tell me they want to hold a debate as soon as possible. I don't know why the sudden change, but it may be one of those breaks I was talking about. I'm going to get it scheduled as quickly as I can. We need something to change the momentum of this campaign.”

 

Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

Claudia and Hudson strolled hand-in-hand along the pristine shoreline just behind Eden. The morning tide gently splashed on their bare feet. The Labor Day weekend marked the end of the vacation season at Hilton Head, and the island was remarkably desolate in the weeks that followed. Most of the remaining inhabitants were either permanent residents or those few wise souls who had discovered the ideal time of the year to visit the island.

As they walked, Claudia and Hudson met a woman on a bicycle. Her yellow Labrador retriever followed close behind. A hundred yards from the water's edge, a flock of kingfishers skimmed the wave crests in a perfect, straight-line formation, searching for breakfast. Six or eight sandpipers accompanied Claudia and Hudson, occasionally poking their beaks in the sand for a mussel. A man stood waist-deep in the Atlantic with his rod and reel, fishing for ocean perch. Several joggers passed them.

Claudia and Hudson continued their leisurely pace as the cool ocean breeze wafted across their faces.

It seemed like it was only yesterday that Hudson had arrived, but it was already Tuesday morning and time for him to return to New York. Claudia longed to go with him, but she knew their relationship could not be public yet. That was OK with her. He assured her that before too long the whole world would know, but the timing was not right. He promised to take care of her and love her, and that satisfied her. Claudia loved him, too, and had stopped inquiring long ago about when the right time would be. Their time together was too precious to her to disrupt it with petty questions.

There was something different about Hudson this trip, though. He seemed distant. Worried. Claudia had noticed it when he first arrived and thought it would disappear as the weekend progressed. It hadn't.

“Is something bothering you?” Claudia asked now, hoping she could help.

Hudson stopped walking. He turned her toward him and tenderly brushed her hair away from her face. “I cannot tell you what it is, but it has nothing to do with you.”

“I'm worried about you. I've never seen you like this.”

“I'll be all right,” he assured her. “Soon everything will be OK, and I'll explain it all to you. Promise me one thing, though.”

“Anything.” She squeezed his hand.

“Promise me that no matter what happens, you'll always love me.”

“Hudson, you're scaring me.”

“Just promise me, Claudia.”

“I promise.”

She wrapped her arms around him as Hudson drew her body close in an embrace.

 

“What do you think they're talking about?” Bill Osborne asked Al Moyers. The camera in Bill's hands made a rapid
click
as he took photographs of Hudson and Claudia in quick succession.

“I don't know,” replied Al. “This transmitter isn't working very well. I can't hear them over the sound of the ocean.” He was holding a device that looked like a radar gun used by a police officer or state trooper and was pointing it at the couple who had stopped to hug on the beach.

“That's OK,” Bill stated. “I think we have enough photographs and other recordings to file a report.”

“I agree,” Al said. “Let's get started.”

 

Sheriff's department, Jackson, Tennessee

“Mornin', Timmy.” Deputy Billy Laymon walked into the outer office of the evidence room bright and early on Tuesday. Deputy Timothy Henderson sat behind a green metal desk, reading the sports page from the morning newspaper.

Deputy Henderson's office was not much larger than a jail cell and was sparsely decorated. A map of Tennessee hung on the wall behind the desk, and a four-drawer metal filing cabinet stood in one corner. Other than one picture frame containing a photograph of his wife and child, and a large desktop calendar, his desk was completely clean.

“Mornin', Billy,” Timmy responded. “What can I do for you?”

Billy began his rehearsed lines. “Remember that drug bust we made earlier in the summer on that guy named Toliver?”

Timmy looked up from the newspaper. From his puzzled expression, it was obvious he was trying to recall the arrest. “Was that the one where he swallowed the bags of marijuana?”

“That's the one,” Billy answered.

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“The preliminary is coming up next week, and I'm testifyin'. I need to look through the evidence for a few minutes.”

Billy hated to lie to Timmy, but it wasn't a complete lie. The preliminary hearing was scheduled for the following week, and he was scheduled to testify. The part that was a lie was that he needed to look at the evidence. Billy knew the evidence in that case like the back of his hand. But he'd picked the Toliver case because alphabetically it would be close to the Thompson file in the evidence room.

“All right, Billy,” Timmy said. “Sign in.”

He pushed a clipboard with the sign-in sheet clipped to it in Billy's direction. Billy signed the sheet of paper and wrote down the time of day, 8:35. Timmy unlocked the door to the evidence room with a set of keys he removed from the top drawer of his desk. Opening the door, he pointed toward the right-hand side. “The Toliver case is over there.”

“Thanks, Timmy,” Billy said as he entered. “I'll only be a few minutes.”

Timmy propped the evidence-room door open with a rubber doorstop and returned to his morning paper. The evidence room was thirty feet deep and fifty feet wide. It contained twenty rows of gray metal storage racks. The floor-to-ceiling racks stood parallel to each other and extended almost wall-to-wall. A space of three feet remained between the ends of the racks and the walls for visitors to walk. Narrow aisles separated the racks, providing barely enough room for one person to view the contents of an evidence box.

Billy walked to the end of the room where files beginning with the letter
T
were located. In his mind he recited the alphabet slowly as he scanned the name on each box until he reached
Thompson.
His heartbeat rapidly increased as he slid the box containing the evidence from the Thompson murder out into the aisle between the storage racks. Billy was far enough away from the open door that Timmy could not see him. But that also meant he could not see Timmy.