The Election (19 page)

“Were you able to make an identification?” Ron asked Jerry when the door was closed. He peered through the crack Jerry had created earlier in the paper covering the front windows and watched the police officers scurry around the law offices across the street.

Jerry Simon lay down gingerly on an old sofa in the downstairs floor of the old jewelry store. He covered his eyes with his left forearm and gritted his teeth as he responded to his partner's inquiry.

“I couldn't see anything.” He struggled to keep his breath. “I know it was a male, but that's all.”

Ron continued to peer through the window at the activity across the street. “Somebody else is watching Attorney Reed,” he commented thoughtfully. “But we don't know who.” He replaced the paper over the small opening and turned to Jerry. “Can you make it upstairs? I'll send Armacost a report from there.”

“I think so.”

Ron assisted his partner to his feet and up the dusty staircase to the second-floor apartment. Jerry gratefully sank into bed in one of the two bedrooms. But Ron doubted his partner would get much sleep. The rest of the night was bound to be painful.

After Jerry was as comfortable as he would get, Ron logged in to the computer and sent Charlie Armacost a coded e-mail. When deciphered, the message would inform the deputy director that someone other than the FBI was watching Jake Reed. That meant, most likely, someone else was interested in the Jesse Thompson murder.

 

Dalton made it safely to his car three blocks west of the Holcombe & Reed offices. He was bleeding and soaked, but he knew he would survive. He reached into his pocket and removed the slender silver camera he had used to photograph the F-PAC documents. He was relieved that he hadn't lost it during the melee. He examined his right cheek in the rearview mirror and pressed a white handkerchief against the gash in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Shep is going to owe me for this,” he muttered.

After driving back to his hotel room and sneaking in the back entrance, he showered and dressed his wound. He then loaded the digital film from the camera into his laptop computer and e-mailed the images of the F-PAC documents to Shep. After the transmission was complete, he unplugged the computer and climbed into bed. His body ached from the fracas with his unknown assailant, and it was time for several hours of hibernation.

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake arrived for work at eight fifteen Monday morning and found an old, dented, white cargo van parked near the rear door of the building. Wilson's Remodeling was emblazoned on the van doors. Jake greeted the young, muscular proprietor as he walked through the opening where the door used to be.

He wasn't surprised to see the repairs being made. He and Barrett had been summoned to the office at 1:00 a.m. by the Jackson Police Department. They had searched throughout the office to determine whether anything was missing, damaged, or destroyed. After a rather exhaustive search, they determined that the only damage was to the back door. The few drops of blood on the floor near the door had been collected for testing at the Tennessee State Forensic Laboratory in Nashville. The police officer in charge surmised that the intruder cut himself when he kicked the door in, and the alarm had frightened him away. A report would be filed with the police department, and an investigator would be assigned to the case. The chance of finding the culprit was slim, Jake knew.

“What happened last night?” Madge asked as Jake walked past her into his office.

“Someone tried to break in,” he responded from the interior of his office. “Barrett and I couldn't find anything missing, but you and the other employees should double-check.” Jake returned to Madge's desk. “I also need you to contact Jackson National Bank and set up an interest-bearing account in the name of Jed and Ruth McClellan. I'm expecting a wire transfer later today.”

 

Madison County Criminal Justice Complex, Jackson, Tennessee

Monday mornings were the only visiting time permitted at the Madison County CJC for inmates awaiting trial on capital murder charges. Ever since Jed's ordeal began, Ruth McClellan religiously was the first person every Monday to enter the visiting area as soon as the doors opened to visitors. Just as religiously, Jed was always waiting on her at the last viewing window on the right.

On the third Monday in October, Ruth entered the room, sat down in the chair, and removed from its cradle the telephone that was mounted on the wall to her left. A bulletproof window separated Jed and Ruth, and the telephone was the only way they could communicate. It didn't matter to Jed that every word of their conversation was being recorded.

“How are the kids?” was Jed's first question.

“They're doin' as good as can be expected,” was Ruth's usual response. Then she hung her head. “I don't know how much more of this I can take, Jed.”

Jed could see that Ruth was crumbling. He knew she was fragile—that she could handle only a certain amount of anxiety—and could see she was way past her breaking point. The stress of explaining to their children, time after time, why their father wasn't coming home was unbearable, she told him. The neighbors constantly asked questions. When she went to the grocery store, the other customers pointed at her and whispered.

She was also having a difficult time keeping the household bills paid, she told him. The money she received from her part-time job and the generosity of the people at Naomi's church only went so far. She'd had to apply for welfare assistance, and that broke her pride.

“I know, Ruth, but you've got to hang in there. The trial is the first week of December, and this nightmare's gonna be over.”

“I don't know if I can make it.” Tears streamed down Ruth's face. “The kids still cry all the time. I cry all the time. We don't have no money. How are we gonna make it?”

Jed tried to reassure Ruth. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but the glass wall prevented it. It was a transparent, immovable barrier that separated him from the woman he loved. He could only talk to her, and Ruth needed more than encouraging words.

“I know it's tough,” Jed told her. “Just be strong. We're gonna be all right.”

He reached out his hand and put it on the glass, getting as close to her as he could. He saw her shiver, saw her gulp back a sob.

“I can't do it, Jed.” Her voice was louder than a conversation tone, but not a scream. “I just can't do it.”

And with those few words Ruth slammed the phone back in its cradle and ran, crying, from the visiting room.

Jed wanted to chase after her, but all he could do was scream her name into his end of the telephone. “Ruth! Ruth! Come back!”

It was no use. She was gone. There was nothing Jed could do.

He had never felt as helpless as he did at that moment. Slowly he replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle on the wall beside him, staring despondently through the glass wall at the chair where Ruth had been sitting.

After a couple of minutes he realized she wasn't coming back.

His return to his cell was the longest walk he'd ever taken.

 

Jackson, Tennessee

Jake didn't often get the opportunity to sleep in on a Tuesday morning, but he took advantage of it when it presented itself. Rachel took the children to school, and Jake lay in bed until after eight o'clock. He had received confirmation yesterday afternoon that the $2 million agreed to by Mrs. Thompson had been transferred into an account for the McClellans, without any strings attached. The money would allow Jed and his family to live very comfortably the rest of their lives. All that was left was to get the murder charges against Jed dismissed.

As far as Jake was concerned, the case was over. He had made some mistakes along the way, but everything was working out in the end. Jed didn't kill Jesse Thompson, and Jake now had everything he needed to prove it. He had been under a lot of stress since mid-August, but now a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt relaxed, rejuvenated, and a little bit lazy. It was almost ten o'clock when Jake finally walked through the repaired back door of Holcombe & Reed. He didn't have any appointments scheduled for the day, and he didn't plan on staying at the office very long.

Madge was in her usual position, immediately outside the door to Jake's office. He stopped at her desk and thumbed through the morning's mail.

“There's a gentleman here to see you,” Madge said. “I tried to explain that you might not be in all day, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” Jake replied. He continued shuffling through the envelopes of unopened mail.

“Not really,” Madge responded. “I managed to get him to tell me that someone in his family was involved in an automobile accident, but that was about it.”

Jake placed the mail back on Madge's desk. He knew she would open the envelopes later and place the contents in the appropriate files.

“Why do some people think they can just walk in off the street and meet with a lawyer?” Jake muttered as he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was one of his pet peeves. People didn't go to a doctor without making an appointment. Why did they think they should get to see an attorney without an appointment?

But that kind of thinking wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

“All right.” Jake sighed. “Show him back,” he told Madge. “I'll see if I can refer him to somebody.” He headed back to his office to wait for Madge and the man without an appointment.

In a few moments Madge entered with the man, who introduced himself as Sammy Walker. Mr. Walker had a bandage on his right cheek and carried a briefcase. Jake guessed that it contained an accident report, medical records, and an insurance policy or two.

“Mr. Walker, what can I do for you?” Jake asked. He pointed Mr. Walker toward a chair, and then sat down behind his desk.

“It's about my daughter,” Mr. Walker began. He laid his briefcase in his lap, opened it, and removed a yellow legal-size notepad. “She was injured real bad in a car wreck a couple of months ago, and we need a lawyer.” He scribbled something on his notepad.

“I certainly represent people who are injured in auto accidents, and their families, but I'm afraid my plate is full right now,” Jake explained.

“I understand,” said Mr. Walker. He held up the notepad so Jake could read it:

YOUR OFFICE IS BUGGED.

Jake's eyes widened, and he began to examine the room.

Mr. Walker kept talking. “We hear you're the best in town, and we want the best for our little girl.” He caught Jake's eye and motioned with his hand that they needed to keep the conversation going.

“I wouldn't say that I'm the best,” Jake stuttered, trying to sound modest but distracted by wondering where the bugs were. “We just try to do the best we can for our clients.”

While Jake was talking, Mr. Walker stood up, stepped to the front of the desk, and lifted the antique lamp. He showed Jake a small transmitter attached to the bottom.

“That's all we can ask,” Mr. Walker stated. “Would you please consider taking our case?” He wrote another message on his notepad:

MEET ME AT HIGHLAND PARK AT 10:30.

Jake nodded his understanding. “Let me get some information from you.”

He asked the man several questions about the fictitious daughter and her injuries. They carried on the charade for thirty minutes to make sure that whoever was listening would be convinced the meeting was legitimate.

“I've taken enough of your time,” Mr. Walker said as he stood to leave. “I hope I hear from you real soon.”

“You can count on it.”

When Mr. Walker left, Jake consulted his watch.
10:08.
He paced in his office with his door closed for a few minutes while he waited to leave. It would only take five minutes to reach Highland Park from his office. As he paced, he tried to figure out who could have possibly bugged his office, and why? He knew the answers lay with the mysterious man who was waiting at Highland Park.

Finally it was 10:20. The twelve minutes that had elapsed between the time Mr. Walker left and the time Jake left the office felt like an eternity. As he headed toward the back exit, he announced to Madge, “I have an errand to run. I'll be back in a while.”

 

Highland Park was rather desolate at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning in October.

Mr. Walker was sitting at a faded red picnic table under one of the wooden pavilions on the south side of the park. As Jake walked in his direction, Mr. Walker turned around on the bench and leaned back against the table.

“What's this all about?” demanded Jake, even before he sat down. “And who are you, and how did you know my office was bugged?”

“Slow down, Mr. Reed,” Mr. Walker said calmly. “My name is Dalton Miller. I can't tell you who I work for, but let's just say that the two of you are sort of on the same side.”

“That's comforting,” Jake said sarcastically as he sat down across the table.

“Your office was bugged by the FBI.”

“The FBI!” exclaimed Jake.

“That's right, the FBI. They've set up shop across the street from you at the old jewelry store.”

“Why are they watching me?”

“They're interested in the Thompson murder. They think there's more to it than it seems on the surface.”

“I don't understand.”

Mr. Miller placed his elbows on the top of the table and leaned in toward the center. “Look, I know about the photographs, the DNA, and the money. So does the FBI. That's where I got my information. The man in the photograph is Raoul Miguel Flores, a known assassin and a member of the Hermillo Family in Bogotá.”

“An assassin? In Jackson? Who would hire an assassin to kill Jesse Thompson?”

“That's what the FBI is trying to determine. That's also what I'm trying to figure out. My boss thinks it has something to do with the presidential election. We just can't quite put our finger on it.”

Jake stared up through the tree branches. The things Mr. Miller was describing were simply too bizarre. The truck in Wanda Lacy's photographs had been used by an assassin who had killed Jesse Thompson. The FBI was investigating the murder and had bugged his office. Now this mysterious man was telling him that it all pertained to the presidential election?

“I still don't understand why you're telling me any of this,” Jake stated, his gaze returning to Mr. Miller.

“We need your help,” Mr. Miller replied matter-of-factly.

“You need my help? What can I do?”

“You're the link. Nobody can know of my involvement, or the involvement of my boss. We don't know if we can trust the FBI. So that leaves you.”

“What makes you think I'll help you?” Jake retorted. “I don't even know who you are, really. At the office you told me your name was Sammy Walker, and now you tell me it's Dalton Miller. I'm not sure I believe any of what you're telling me, and I know I don't trust you.”

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Reed. You have children, right?”

“That's right.”