by J. B. Turner
O’Neill reflected that whatever he was paying Lomax, it wasn’t enough. The media man had learned a lot from the British tabloids. He’d worked at the Sun and the Daily Mirror in his younger days and knew the importance to the Democrats, just like to Labour in the UK, of the aspirational working-class vote.
Lomax added, ‘You’re gonna speak to your core constituency. Blacks and Hispanics, trade unionists in the defense industry, blue-collar whites, Jewish snowbirds, and generally press the flesh, in addition to TV. You’re gonna appeal to the voters of Florida above the heads of the politically motivated liberal elites. And you’re gonna say those words—politically motivated liberal elites—time and time again. People don’t like elites. Hell, I don’t like elites. America is for the common man. Egalitarian. See what I’m saying?’
O’Neill watched his cigarette smoke drift across the room and smiled.
29
The following night, just after ten P.M., while her father slept soundly in his intensive-care hospital bed in Jackson, Deborah kissed him on the forehead before being taken away by her FBI minders to a secret location. She cried all the way, not knowing if he was going to live or die. She ended up ensconced in a safe house—a log cabin—in rural Arkansas, where two new FBI officers were waiting. One of them was Brett.
Was this somebody’s idea of a sick joke? Or had he requested the assignment?
For the first few days, Deborah locked herself in her room, blinds permanently drawn, and e-mailed Larry Coen for updates as Brett and his boss spoke in hushed whispers, afraid to annoy her. Furiously, she asked the FBI if Brett could be reassigned, but her request was turned down.
But on the fourth night she found herself alone with him. Deborah was waiting for the kettle to boil in the small kitchen when Brett came in, empty coffee mug in hand. She didn’t say anything, and stood, arms folded, gaze averted. They both felt awkward. He apologized for his actions again, and said he was sorry that things had turned sour for her. They drank their coffee in silence before she retreated back to her room.
The monotony and her feelings of isolation intensified as time dragged on. But it wouldn’t be dragging for William Craig.
At the end of the first week, Deborah, along with Brett and Simon Wilson—the special agent in charge—were watching Senator O’Neill being interviewed by Mike Wallace. Her father was still in intensive care, being monitored round the clock. The FBI had a three-man team protecting him at the Jackson hospital, and a two-man team to protect Deborah’s mother back home in Farish Street.
Deborah stared at the large screen, knees tucked under her chin. She wore a gray Berkeley University sweatshirt, pants and pink sneakers. ‘You believe that guy?’ she said to Wilson. ‘After our exposé and what happened to my father, and he’s got the temerity to sit there and plead his innocence.’
‘He’s a politician, Deborah.’
She watched the second hand on the cabin’s huge clock tick on, second after second. ‘I’ve had my fill of sitting around,’ she said to Wilson. ‘When can I go back to work?’
‘Cabin fever?’
‘I want my old life back.’
Wilson nibbled on some pretzels. ‘Not an option.’
Deborah noticed out of the corner of her eye that Brett was shifting awkwardly in his seat. ‘I want to speak to Sam Goldberg about my story.’
‘Not possible.’
‘Am I a prisoner of the FBI?’
‘You’re in protective custody until this blows over. You don’t need me to tell you how dangerous these people are. Those guys are just warming up, trust me.’
‘Have the Jackson police not got an ID on the guys who did this to my father?’
‘Your father and mother provided great descriptions .. .’
‘But?’
‘They don’t match the IDs of those on our files or on police files in Florida. We think these guys were maybe brought in from out of town. And they’re obviously pros.’
‘I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass,’ Deborah said, ‘but a man is gonna die in ten days.’
‘Appreciate that, Miss Jones, but we’re under orders from the top.’
Deborah shot Brett a scornful look. ‘And what do you think, Agent Pottinger? Have you any views on the matter?’
Brett cleared his throat. ‘Simon’s right. We are only thinking of your safety.’
‘But I can’t just sit back and wait till Mr Craig dies.’ Wilson shrugged as if it wasn’t his problem.
‘You can’t force me to stay here, can you?’
Wilson said nothing.
‘You can’t physically restrain me here, against my will, can you?’
Wilson gazed at the TV and munched more pretzels. ‘Miss Jones, you don’t wanna put yourself in harm’s way.’
‘Answer me. You can’t keep me here, can you?’
Wilson turned to Brett. ‘Tell her what we can do.’
Brett flushed a dark red. ‘We could hold you against your will. Just need a material witness warrant.’
‘Are you kidding me, Brett? What judge would grant the FBI that? You aren’t going to get that warrant or any warrant, are you? I wasn’t in Jackson when my father saw those guys. So how can I be a material witness?’
‘If you leave, it may jeopardize the protection we’re willing to offer you in the future. You think about that.’
Deborah looked at Wilson. ‘You’re the man in charge. Am I free to leave?’
Wilson fixed her with a long, hard stare. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to take that course of action.’
‘Am I or am I not free to leave?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘Can you call your superiors in Washington, right now?’
‘Miss Jones, I’d rather you—’
‘I appreciate your help, really. But I need to do this.’
Wilson got up. ‘Gimme five minutes. But I’m not promising anything.’ He went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Then Brett said, ‘Whatever you think, and you’re quite right to be angry with me, I want you to know that I’m here for you now.’
He didn’t wait for her reply but retreated to the edge of the room and sat on the windowsill. At that moment, Deborah realized that there was too much water under the bridge for her to even contemplate trying to make a go of it with Brett again.
Wilson suddenly came back into the room, snapping Deborah out of her thoughts.
‘I’ve spoken to my boss,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing stopping you.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Only don’t come running to us if those guys try and whack you.’
• • •
The following morning, Brett drove Deborah to Little Rock National Airport, off Interstate 440. It felt strange to be sitting in the same car with him, probably for the last time. He didn’t say a word, his eyes focused on the road ahead.
She thought of the good times. Watching sunsets over the Golden Gate Bridge, sipping a glass of wine, enjoying a hot-fudge sundae at Ghirardelli’s, checking out new bands that were in town. And then there’d been those unforgettable Sunday hikes among the thousand-year-old coastal redwoods of Muir Woods.
Brett pulled up outside Thrifty and Deborah returned to stone-cold reality. He asked her to reconsider her decision to leave FBI protective custody. She declined politely, but thanked him for his help. She shook his hand and he said, ‘Best of luck.’ At that moment, a part of her wanted to kiss him on the cheek, for old times’ sake. But she didn’t. She just smiled. He was an FBI man now and was creating a new life for himself. And so was she.
Brett took her bags out of the black SUV and put them in her rental car, a Mercedes convertible. As he slammed the trunk, she reflected that it really was over.
Deborah headed southeast under leaden skies, glancing in her rearview mirror to see Brett disappear from sight. It was the start of a fifteen-hour
journey that cut through the Deep South, through Alabama, northern Florida and finally down I-75.
She stopped three times for coffee and snacks. The final hours of the journey she drove in sultry darkness. FM stations on the west coast of Florida pumped out Led Zeppelin, the Stones and the Who. The kind of music that Brett loved.
She saw a road sign for Naples and her stomach knotted. Two miles away.
A short while later, the sky inky-blue, humidity like glue, Deborah drew up by an imposing stone gatehouse flanked by an avenue of brightly lit palm trees. Two men, both sporting side arms and shades, watched her roll down the car windows.
30
‘We’re to see Mrs Rose O’Neill,’ Deborah said.
The guard checked a clipboard. ‘Name?’
‘Deborah Jones.’
His eyes scanned a printed list. ‘Sorry, you’re not on the authorized list of visitors, ma’am.’
‘I know. Short notice. Can you let her know that I’d like to see her on urgent business?’
‘Wait there.’ The guard turned his back on her, picked up a phone in the booth and waited for a few moments before he spoke. ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs O’Neill, at this hour, but we have a young lady, a Miss Deborah Jones, saying she is here on urgent business.’ He nodded and turned around to get a good look at Deborah. ‘Yeah, she’s alone.’
Deborah’s heart pumped hard. If that wasn’t enough, one of the armed men pulled a cell phone from his back pocket, his eyes trained on her.
This was either the dumbest thing she’d ever done or the most inspired. Truth was, she was clean out of ideas. It was a gamble, with the odds on success not too high. She’d checked the senator’s media itinerary and he was too busy doing the rounds of the TV networks in New York.
‘You’re in luck,’ said the security guard. ‘She’ll see you.’
She was? ‘How do I get there?’
‘Quarter-mile through here, and fourth left after The Avenue. Take a second left after that. And take it nice and slow, y’hear?’
‘Thank you.’ Deborah felt sweat run down her back. The barrier lifted up and she drove past the gatehouse and the armed guards. They just stared, one of them still on his cell phone.
Towering palm trees lined the meandering main road. The scale and opulence of the houses was staggering.
She kept to a steady fifteen miles per hour through the winding streets. The smell of mangroves and cut grass filled the heavy air and reminded her of summer picnics with her parents at Bienville.
She also got a whiff of azaleas, her father’s favorite. Most of the virgin lawns out front were twice as big as basketball courts. Driveways full of BMWs and Lincolns and Porsches. The stillness was eerie, like a necropolis.
Only the night birds in the trees were making any noise.
On her left, Deborah spotted a small opening in the palms and turned down a gentle incline which led to a narrow road, and an oak-lined cul-de-sac. The house at the end was the biggest and most outlandish house she’d ever seen. It was Guggenheim in concept with sharp angles and futuristic design. It sprawled in all directions as if the architect had not worked to any precise plans.
Deborah pulled up behind a black BMW. She got out and admired the awesome scale of the coral-pink home.
Lights on inside. Cameras strafing the front.
She headed down the red-brick path and experienced a slight surge of fear.
What if the senator himself had returned? What about Richmond? She hadn’t worked on a contingency plan if things went wrong. If Goldberg knew where she was now, he’d have a fit.
She pressed the buzzer and waited. She heard movement inside, footsteps clacking along what sounded like a wood-floored hall.
Then the door opened wide and standing before her was a thin woman with a watery smile. Rose O’Neill didn’t say a word for a few moments. Then she stood aside and Deborah walked in.
In silence, she followed Rose O’Neill down a long corridor—modernist pictures on the wall—that led to a dining room. Places set for twelve.
They continued down into a candle-festooned living room which overlooked the water. It was like a monastery. The air was cool, a welcome relief. Signed Picasso prints and sketches on the wall.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the moonlit bay. Deborah said, ‘Wow, what a beautiful view.’
Rose gestured for her to take a seat. She seemed nervous and pulled at the cuffs of her mint-colored silk blouse. She was a plain-looking woman, shadows under her eyes.
Deborah sat down and looked around. With its indigo walls the O’Neill home reminded her of a Mediterranean villa. It was right on the bay and had its own personal jetty. In the distance, the flickering lights of other such houses could be seen through the palm trees and mangroves.
Rose picked up a full glass of brandy. ‘Nice of you to turn up without prior notice so late in the evening.’
Deborah attempted a half-hearted smile. ‘I can explain.’
‘Can you now?’
‘I’ve been in FBI protective custody since my father had a heart attack. Last night I decided I’d had enough protection and needed to speak to you direct.’
‘You’re on the run from the FBI? My, how brave.’
Deborah shifted in her seat. ‘First, I’m glad you’ve given me the chance to meet you face to face.’
‘Your picture in the paper doesn’t do you justice.’
Deborah cleared her throat. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’
‘It had crossed my mind.’ Rose O’Neill leaned back in her seat. Her emerald eyes were watery and sad. She fixed Deborah with a long, unsettling stare. ‘My husband wouldn’t have allowed you to set foot on our property. Guess you’re lucky he’s on Primetime tonight.’
‘Did you watch?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Rose stared at Deborah as if trying to work out what made her tick. She checked her black suit and designer shoes. Then honed in on her hands. ‘Not married, Miss Jones?’
‘No.’ Memories of Brett returned. His face. Kind eyes. ‘Never found the time.’
‘Let me tell you, Miss Jones, a mother can’t brush aside the loss of a child.’
Deborah nodded and gave an empathic smile.
‘By rights, I should have nothing to do with you. Your article about my husband was devastating. I… I felt dirty. Soiled. What you were saying portrayed my dead son as a sex monster and my husband as a conniving son of a bitch who covered it up. Those aren’t the people I knew.’
‘So why did you let me in?’
Rose gazed into her brandy. ‘Guess I wanted to meet you. Your story’s turned my world upside down.’
‘Mrs O’Neill, I won’t waste your time. I’m here to talk about William Craig.’
‘Thought you might be.’
‘What do you want to happen, Mrs O’Neill? Does another life have to be lost? More blood shed?’
‘I’d rather we didn’t execute Craig. But I can’t go against my husband’s wishes. This is off the record, right?’
‘Completely. Look, Mrs O’Neill, you have the right to disagree with your husband in public. William Craig’s gonna die otherwise.’
‘He killed my son.’
‘He didn’t deny that.’
Rose closed her eyes for a moment. ‘My marriage vows meant something to me. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. My husband’s in some difficulty—’
‘Your maid Maria Gonzalez said that your son raped her and your husband bought her off. What more evidence do you need? Do you know that she is in FBI protective custody now?’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Rose glared at Deborah. Then she picked up a framed photo from a coffee table and handed it to her. It was a picture of Joe O’Neill. Handsome, healthy, white teeth and short hair. ‘That was taken the day before William Craig killed him.’ Her eyes misted over. ‘If only we’d known what was going to happen.’
‘My husband doted on him. Still does. He’ll never allow William Craig to be freed.’
Deborah handed back the photo. ‘What about you?’
Rose finished her brandy and placed her glass and the framed photo on a table in front of her. ‘If I spoke out it’d be the end of us. I feel as if I’d be deserting my family, my son’s memory and my husband if I offered clemency.’
‘Your son raped women, Mrs O’Neill. Pure and simple. You think that was right?’
‘Might sound strange in this day and age, I know, but I still love my son and my husband, despite all they’ve done.’
Deborah kneeled down beside Rose and held her hands. She smelled of a flowery perfume, the sort that Deborah’s own mother wore. ‘I’m begging you to do the right thing. See it from William Craig’s perspective. How would you feel if the young man who raped your granddaughter wasn’t convicted?’
Rose closed her eyes.
‘You were at the trial, weren’t you?’
‘Every goddamn day.’
‘So you’ll know better than anyone what a sham that was.’
Rose nodded and gazed at the floor.
‘Look at me,’ Deborah said, her voice edgy. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What do you see?’
Rose shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A young, professional black woman?’
‘But do you know I was raped just like Mr Craig’s granddaughter…?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. How could I? But I see now why this case means so much to you.’
Rose turned around and peered into the darkness of the bay. A powerboat pulled up to the senator’s jetty and two stocky men jumped off.
As they approached the house, Deborah felt all her senses switch on. ‘Call the police!’
Rose did nothing.
‘Do it now.’
‘I’ve seen those men before,’ Rose said.
‘Call the police! They’re Richmond’s men.’
‘The windows are locked. We’re safe.’