Nate wonders how many girls have been used up.
Killed.
Discarded like human trash.
After some more searching, he’s seen enough. It’s time to issue arrest warrants for all Black and Knight’s partners, including the one sitting in the squad car outside, still screaming objections and for his lawyer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The strongest is never strong enough always to be master,
unless he transforms strength into right, and obedience into duty.
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract
There is little time. Cat and Nate can’t get to Judge Gonzales fast enough. For three reasons. First, they need additional warrants to issue right away. Second, Cat is very concerned that Judge Rifkind will try to run, seeing as he has been outed. Third, if Judge Rifkind is dirty, who is to say what he will resort to doing to keep his powerful position? Is he capable of hurting Judge Gonzales if he finds out Gonzales signed off on the warrant? Cat has no idea. But she knows one thing for sure.
She is sure she doesn’t want to find out the answer.
Judge Rifkind and Judge Gonzales work in the same federal court building. They know each other’s chambers. They know each other’s staff. It would be easy for one to take retribution on the other.
Cat, with SWAT in tow, and Nate, traveling with black-and-whites, converge on the federal court building. Jumping over three-foot-high white concrete barricades, remnants from 9/11, Cat and Nate are inside the marble-covered lobby in no time. The federal deputies next to the X-ray machine look confused. Instantly, one draws his weapon.
Both Nate and Cat produce badges, shout at the guy, “It’s okay, we’re FBI and PD. Let us pass.”
The deputy says nothing. What Cat and Nate say seems not to register with him. Cat realizes he must be in shock. “It’s okay. FBI. We need to go up to Judge Rifkind’s and Judge Gonzales’ courtrooms. Do not tell them we are coming. Don’t warn them.”
The deputy finally nods, holstering his weapon. The other deputy seems equally stunned into silence.
Office workers and a clerk pushing a cart filled with paper and Redwelds full of files scurry like rats at the commotion. They don’t understand what is going down.
Cat and Nate and a few SWAT members run to the open elevator doors, get inside and punch the button to the floor that holds the courtrooms and chambers for Judge Rifkind and Judge Gonzales.
On the way up, there is the familiar ding-ding as the elevator ascends. The time between one ding and the next seems like minutes to Cat, although it is just seconds.
She and Nate burst out of the elevator, SWAT guys behind them dressed in all-black Kevlar full-body suits, weapons at the ready. Once again, there is an instant reaction to their drawn weapons in the courthouse halls. Staffers scurry back into offices. Cat watches as one woman screams and faints. Cat assures them all—shouting that they are federal agents with the FBI. Many seem not to care as they cower from the oncoming threat.
Nate runs left toward Judge Rifkind’s courtroom and Cat runs toward the right, where Judge Gonzales’ department is located. She throws open the thick double doors to enter the courtroom.
Judge Gonzales’ clerk looks wide-eyed. She is in a panic—not from Cat’s entrance into the courtroom with a gun, but from something else. She is shrieking. A sound like Cat has never heard before. Then the words “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead” come from her mouth. She is crying. Then she stops and begins to rock back and forth.
Holy shit.
Cat doesn’t need to hear any more. She rushes through the court to the left, past two doors, into Judge Gonzales’ chambers.
There, Judge Gonzales is waiting. He is standing up, but not of his own volition. He is leaning back against a big mahogany glass-fronted bookcase, its glass front shattered in pieces like a lake of silver pebbles on the floor. His eyes are like saucers—wide-open. There is a gaping wound in the middle of his chest, blood running down the front of his black robe. Dark and glistening. It is starting to fall on the floor into the glass pebbles that surround him. Drop by precious drop. Cat can see blood splatter all over the place—all over the cabinet behind the judge and the floor. Judge Gonzales is gurgling. He is trying to say something. Only one word comes out—“Rifkind.” Then he slumps over. Dead.
* * *
Sweet Jesus.
These are the only two words that register in Cat’s mind.
Judge Gonzales is gone.
She can hardly believe what she is seeing. She can hardly believe what she has heard. But it has come from Judge Gonzalez himself. In his last breath, he’s made sure she knows who did this.
A final act of justice from a man who lived his life for justice.
Outside, she can hear the boom-boom-boom from gunshots echoing down a long hallway that leads off to each of the judges’ chambers. A federal marshal who has acted as a bailiff sees Cat. She flashes her badge at him.
I’m not here to hurt you. I am one of you.
He nods, blinks.
Understanding why she is here.
Understanding what her actions mean.
Both their weapons are at the ready.
One more shot, sounding closer than before.
Has the gunman doubled back in this direction?
What is going on?
Has Judge Rifkind lost his mind?
Cat and the federal marshal stand back against back, moving slowly down the hallway in the direction of the shots. The marshal’s back is wet with sweat through his shirt. Cat can smell her own sweat, feel her clothes stick to her skin. Her eyes are wide, pensive. Watching for the slightest movement. Overhead, a fluorescent light bulb flickers. It makes Cat jump.
“It’s Rifkind,” she whispers to the marshal over her shoulder.
He nods.
They move slowly as a team, their breathing ragged and labored.
They are at the entrance to Judge Rifkind’s courtroom, back away from the doorjamb, so no one knows they are there.
“I’ll go in, you cover me,” Cat instructs him.
A nod.
What happens next takes less than a minute.
Forty-seven seconds to be exact.
She runs for cover in Judge Rifkind’s courtroom. Solid rock formation shoulders in his black judicial robe, the judge is flailing a gun around—pointing it at his staff. He is shouting. “What the hell? You think you could bring me down? Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m one cagey son of a bitch, right, Margaret?”
With this, he shoots at his court clerk. A bullet lodges in the wall behind her. He’s not a good shot. At least not now.
His speech is slurred; he is agitated to the point of madness, having already killed Judge Gonzalez. Cat can smell Jim Beam on him from ten feet away, where she is standing, her weapon at eye level, focused on Judge Rifkind’s head.
Can you take the kill shot?
To protect these innocent civilians?
Can you kill a federal judge?
The answer in Cat’s mind is instantaneous.
Yes.
“Put the gun down.”
Cat’s words are loud, clear and precise. Her words are unwavering in their demand for his compliance.
They do not register with Judge Rifkind, who is now climbing the stairs up to his elevated bench.
It is only then that Cat hears a voice. Nate’s voice from behind one of the rows of juror chairs. “Cat . . .” He sounds weak.
No, not again.
Not another person I love.
“Put it down or I’ll shoot.”
Cat’s voice is strong.
Once again, Cat’s command is clear to anyone but a lunatic.
Her weapon is leveled at the good judge’s head, held straight out in front of her eyes. She closes one eye, concentrates on him, in case she needs to take the shot.
Judge Rifkind sits in his heavy black leather chair talking to himself. “My daddy told me one time don’t never let the damned libera
ls take nothing from you.” Cat isn’t sure if it is the whiskey or just plain madness that is talking. “And that Gonzales with his self-righteous freedom-loving bullshit. Well, this ain’t Cuba. This is America, goddamn it. And when you come to America, you do things my way. You hear me?”
Rifkind is shouting now. Talking to his own inner demons. The words of a madman.
Cat is holding her breath, then realizes what she is doing and releases it.
She must breathe now.
Think clearly.
Cat gets closer, aware that the marshal covering her movements with his own service revolver has moved slightly. She is aware of his movement from the corner of her left eye. He is just outside the doorjamb now, where Rifkind cannot see him. He is watching Cat. His eyes do not waver as his pupils bore into her. They both know this is a critical time. No mistakes. He does not breathe.
“Goddamned commies coming here and telling me what to do. How to behave?” Judge Rifkind emphasizes “behave,” spittle frothing from the sides of his mouth, his hands in tight fists, his back straight as a rod, his eyes staring out at his courtroom. This is his domain. This is his world.
“Are you damned well kidding me? This is my country. My father and his father before him. All the way back to the damned Civil War. I am a true American. I am a true patriot.”
Judge Rifkind is crying now and laughing and crying some more. He has no idea what he is saying or doing, just that words are coming to his lips rapid-fire.
“Me, damn it. This is my America.” Judge Rifkind’s words are still quick, but he’s not shouting anymore.
“My America. My America.”
Suddenly, the look of madness is gone. Replaced by a look of recognition. Then a look of peace spreads across Judge Rifkind’s face. As if he has resigned himself to what he must do. What is to come next. What he must do next.
From the look in his eyes, it is as if a light switch has been flipped inside his brain.
His tone has changed from rage and anger to one of sure simplicity. It is as if suddenly he has realized what has transpired. What he has done. The look on his face changes from one of anger to one of recognition.
As a man of the law, he knows that a crime is a crime. He knows he is a murderer. He realizes what he has done. He knows that if he is caught now, he will spend the rest of his days rotting away in a cell if he doesn’t get the death penalty for the murder of a fellow federal judge. And he knows in the federal penitentiary, being a former federal judge, he is as good as dead anyway, even if he doesn’t get the death penalty. His life as he knew it is over. His career as he knew it is over.
With this, Judge Rifkind begins to turn his gun upward toward his head, placing the barrel of it under his chin at a forty-five-degree angle. His massive hands shake as he performs this simple act.
His words are barely audible now, coming through tears.
“This is my America.”
His clerk, Margaret, shrieks. She knows what is coming.
“This is my America.”
“Don’t,” is all that Cat can get out before Judge Rifkind blows his head off.
Margaret screams and runs out of the courtroom.
Gunshot powder permeates the air.
Brain matter and blood splatter everywhere.
All over the dull gold federal seal that occupies the wall behind Judge Rifkind’s chair. All over the front of Judge Rifkind’s dark robe. All over the United States and Florida State red and white bearing the state seal flags that stand as silent sentinels behind Judge Rifkind’s bench.
The top of Judge Rifkind’s head is gone. Everything from his nose up is a memory. His body slumps to the side, his hands still wrapped around the gun. Seconds seem to turn into minutes. Minutes feel like hours.
Cat has never seen anything quite like it before.
Judge Rifkind’s courtroom descends into utter silence.
Then she hears Nate’s voice calling for her help.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The soul is the mirror of an indestructible universe.
—G.W. Leibniz, The Monadology
Under normal circumstances, the shooting of two federal judges, one by suicide and one by murder, in a downtown federal building would make immediate national news.
But these are not normal circumstances.
There is nothing normal about this day.
Immediately after Judge Rifkind’s suicide, Cat goes straight to Nate.
He is lying on his back behind and to the side of one of the jurors’ pews in a pool of his own blood. He’s been shot twice. Looks like one of the bullets nicked his torso. It appears to be just a flesh wound. The other hit him in the right forearm. He has lost some blood. His voice is weak. Cat picks up his wrist. His pulse is fast and shallow.
From the looks of it, he is going into shock.
Cat calls 911. “We got an officer down. Federal building. Judge Rifkind’s courtroom. I need immediate medical assistance.”
She takes off her jacket, rips off the sleeves. She wraps one of them around Nate’s arm as tight as she can, higher up than the bullet wound to lessen his bleeding. She cinches the knots down hard. With her other sleeve, she presses her hand against the bullet wound to his torso to slow the bleeding.
Nate grunts. He tries to smile, without success. He manages something more of a smile, but the pain shows in his eyes and in his creased forehead. Cat can see the pink is fading from his skin.
His white cotton shirt looks a bloody mess.
Satisfied the wound to his chest has stopped bleeding, Cat cups his head in her hand, bringing her face close to his. She looks into his eyes. There, she can see his need for assurances. “It’s going to be okay. It’s just a flesh wound.”
Nate hopes she is right. He’s seen enough gunshot wounds in his time. He doesn’t want to think about the pain in his arm. He doesn’t want to think about anything right now.
In the distance, the sound of sirens is getting closer.
Outside, Cat can hear the entire building going into lockdown mode. SWAT officers barely audible are screaming something at one another.
“It’s okay.”
Momentarily, Cat’s attention is diverted from Nate. Above and beyond the pew, Cat can see Margaret come back into the courtroom. She looks at what is left of Judge Rifkind. She turns white. Throws up all over the court files and the computer sitting on her desk.
The marshal takes her by the arm, leading her out of the courtroom into the hallway. Cat hears her softly crying.
She turns back to Nate. “You’re going to be okay.” Cat squeezes his good hand in hers to offer some reassurance. His palm feels sweaty to her touch. Small beads of perspiration on his forehead.
“Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“Can’t you hear them? Medics are on the way.”
If I change the subject, then I won’t dwell on the fact that Nate may not survive. I won’t dwell on the fact that I might lose him.
He squeezes her hand tighter.
“I must look like hell,” trying make a joke.
That was her Nate. Always making light of even the most dire situations.
“Well, now that you mention it, you do look like crap. Not sure if I would take you home looking like that.”
Cat figures she will play along, just for a little bit, until the medics arrive.
For the first time, Nate turns his head so he can see what has happened in the courtroom. He is fixated not on himself, but on Judge Rifkind. “Jesus, Cat, you ever seen anything like that?” Nate’s eyes are glued forward, toward where Judge Rifkind’s dead body waits for the coroner. Then back to meet hers. It is obvious what he has just seen has shaken him. Cat wonders if this is the first gunshot suicide he has seen. Then she is sure. It must be.
“Jesus God, Cat. He could have killed you. He could have shot you.”
Nate is right. Judge Rifkind could have shot her. She had threatened to expose him the day before. Nate is right. He could have kille
d her. He had a motive to kill her. This realization is deafening to her. A cold sweat. The feeling of adrenaline pumping in her veins. A dull ache in her right temple, then her left. A sound in her ears like a thousand insects flying in a swarm. A hotness to her skin that she cannot explain. It is as if the air has left the room in a sudden vacuum, leaving only stillness behind. Cat feels her back sliding down the wooden pew until her butt hits the floor.
She is holding Nate’s left hand tight, as if her life depends on his touch.
They wait for medical help.
In this moment she knows without a shadow of a doubt, she wants him to love her even more.
Even like this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Not believing in force is the same as not believing in gravity.
—Leon Trotsky, What’s Next?
Cat makes sure Nate is in good hands as she watches him being loaded into a waiting ambulance. It is dusk now. Yellow, red and blue ambulance lights reflect on the federal building’s curbs and the white concrete barriers that surround the building .
There is work to do still this day.
Cat has spent the last hour verbally swearing out a warrant to be issued by federal judge John Dodge. Great name for a judge, Cat thinks.
Dodge. Like in Dodge City. Like the Wild West.
Cat feels like she’s going into a Wild West showdown tonight.
Things are either going to go seriously well or seriously badly. From all that has happened today, Cat hopes it will be good.
Regardless, she is ready for whatever will happen.
It is time.
Time for things to end.
SWAT leader Michaels brings in a fresh SWAT team to the federal courthouse. Together, they go over the attack plan. With a warrant in hand, Cat and her team travel the twenty-five minutes to Thomas Pierce and Isabella’s house in Fort Lauderdale. They clear the gated entrance. A security guard at a nearby gated community is wide-eyed as he watches the firepower roll through the quiet Fort Lauderdale residential neighborhood.
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