by Ellen Butler
Fatal Legislation
A Karina Cardinal Mystery (Book 2)
By Ellen Butler
Power to the Pen
Fatal Legislation Copyright © 2018 by Ellen Butler.
All Rights Reserved.
Power to the Pen
PO Box 1474
Woodbridge, VA 22195
[email protected]
Digital ISBN 13: 978-0-9984193-5-0
Categories: Fiction, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Characters/Female Protagonists, Police Procedurals
Cover Art by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/RLSather
Warning: All Rights Reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of the copyrighted work is illegal and forbidden without the written permission of the author and publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the authors imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
The Brass Compass
Chapter One | Into the Night
Poplar Place
Chapter One
Chapter One
“Excuse me, Senator Kollingwoods,” I interrupted, pausing the senator’s tirade against one of her fellow colleagues for the pejorative comments he directed at her on the Senate floor. Her frustration was not out of line; however, my quarry, the reason I’d been skulking around the Capitol offices, exited the men’s room and was walking away at a fast clip. “I see Senator Harper and must speak to him.”
Senator Kollingwoods turned to follow my gaze as Harper turned the corner. “I’ll just bet you do,” she said with a smirk.
“Thanks for your time.” I edged past. “I’ll provide those research stats to Marianne tomorrow.”
“Give him hell, Karina,” she called as I strode around the corner.
Lucky for me, my target had been halted for a moment by a staffer, and I caught up with him as he entered the elevator labeled SENATORS ONLY.
“Senator Harper,” I called out.
His milky blue gaze showed no surprise at my approach, and he waved me into the car. “Ms. Cardinal, I’ve been wondering when I’d hear from you. I’m headed over to the Russell building.”
The doors closed behind me, and the elevator operator, an elderly African-American man dressed in the requisite navy-blue blazer and striped tie uniform, pressed the button that would take us to the basement.
“Did you have a nice weekend, Arnold?” Harper asked the elevator operator.
“Yes, Senator. My oldest granddaughter came home for the weekend.”
“She’s a sophomore this year?” The senator’s wheezing breaths filled the small car.
“Yes, sir.”
“Remind me, what college is she attending?”
“University of Maryland.”
We ended our descent with a slight bump. “Give my best to your wife.”
“Will do, sir.”
The elevator spit us out not far from the entrance to the underground passageways connecting the Capitol to the Russell, Dirksen and Hart Senate office buildings. For an overweight man in his early seventies, he walked at a relatively brisk pace, and my sensible heels clacked against the aged russet stone flooring. Fortunately, my height provided an advantage when walking with taller men and I could easily replicate their stride.
“How’d you get past security?”
“I came over from Dirksen with Senator Kollingwoods.”
Either he preferred not to talk over my noisy heels or his own pace was too much for him, because he slackened his gait. The heavy breathing continued, and I was relieved he slowed us down. “You want to know why I voted against the bill,” he stated.
“I don’t understand. You voted for it in committee, and on the Senate floor the first time. Why?” We exited the drab putty-colored walls of the Capitol basement to enter the bright white halls of the tunnel system.
“You know why.”
“The amendment?” I clarified.
“Amendment? Try amendments.”
“That happens with every bill as it passes back and forth between the two houses,” I pointed out. “Everyone has to do a little give and take. We knew it wouldn’t come back the same way it went over. Some negotiating has to be done.”
“Negotiating?” He gave a dark laugh. “Is that what you call it? By the time it came to a vote on the Senate floor, there was so much pork added to it you could wrap the White House up in bacon and deep fat fry it like a Thanksgiving turkey.” He indicated for me to proceed him down the short escalator.
“Granted, I wasn’t thrilled with the ten million Texas package,” I conceded as we rode down. “But, overall the bill retained its integrity. It would have helped the lower income families.”
“The Texas package was the least of my concerns. Did you know Florida stuck on a fifty million grant to research chickens?”
“Wild fowl, migratory birds.”
“Ducks, geese, chickens!” He coughed and pressed a hand against his chest. “What does it matter?”
One of the trams that carried passengers through the tunnel to the Russell building cruised around the curve and out of sight. The other tram sat empty with an OUT OF ORDER sign on its side.
“I believe it had something to do with research on aging.”
“Fifty million! For fowl! Let’s walk.”
I squinted at Harper. Beads of sweat covered his upper lip and his coloring seemed to have paled. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for the tram?” I asked.
“My doc says I need to get more exercise.” He lumbered past the tram stop to the walking path. “I’d have been willing to vote for it until the Uptown Trio gutted the incentives.”
“I agree the incentives were a blow. But, when your support departed, you took your own trio along, Tottengott, Goldman, and Tucker. Surely the incentives were a minor blip that could have been righted through section seven, part c. I won’t even mention the position you put me in with the Alliance or the damage it’s done to my reputation and possibly my career.”
“Pfft. Your reputation is fine,” he said. “You can’t tell me the National Healthcare Advocacy Alliance is going to fire you over this. You’re too well connected, and I’m sure they didn’t like the changes either.”
They didn’t, but I wasn’t about to let him get away that easily.
“Besides,” he continued, “Tottengott, Goldman, and Tucker make their own decisions. You can’t place their vot
es at my doorstep.”
I gave him an arch glare. Harper had been in the Senate for over twenty-five years and was considered the leader of the few moderate republicans—a dying breed—left in the Legislature. Gloria Tottengott, Stephen Goldman, and Rhonda Tucker tended to stick together on votes, and often followed Harper’s lead.
He flapped his hand. “Bah. You can direct that look elsewhere. I’m working on something even better. Something that will make S46 pale in comparison. Something that will put the fat cats in their place.”
“Really? Tell me. How can I help?”
“You’ll know when I’m good and ready for you to know. You lobbyists are all the same. Couldn’t keep a secret if your life depended on it, and right now I’m working the back channels. I decided it’s time to call in some chips . . . maybe all of them.” His breath came out in pants and he stumbled.
“Senator!” I reached out to steady him.
He pulled a roll of Tums out of his coat pocket, but his hands were so unsteady that he fumbled to open the package.
“Here, let me help you.” I used my thumbnail to slit the wrapper, and two antacid tablets fell into his palm.
He pressed his fist against his chest as he chewed. “Must have been the pastrami sandwich I had for lunch.”
It was close to six. Lunch had been hours ago, and I didn’t like the greenish tinge of his coloring. “Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to get help?” We’d reached the curve, the midpoint between the two buildings. The tram at the far end was empty of passengers and the operator.
“I’ll be fine.” He puffed past me.
“I’m not sure, Senator.” I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming from the Capitol side. “I think I should—”
His right hand slapped against the wall, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward. I’ll never forget the dull, smacking thud that reverberated through the tunnel as his skull hit the polished cement floor. In the movies, dramatic events often transpire in slow motion. Not so in real life. The collapse happened in nanoseconds.
“Senator!” I crouched down and heaved him onto his back. A bruise on his forehead was already purpling from where it impacted. “Holy shit! Senator Harper!” I shook his shoulder.
No response.
“Help! I need help!” My voice echoed against the glass separating the tram track and concrete block walls.
Adrenaline flooded through my system. “Okay, okay, Cardinal. Think. What do I do?” His chest wasn’t rising; I pressed two shaking fingers against his neck. I couldn’t feel a pulse. I checked it against my own neck to make sure I’d placed them in the proper location. Sure enough, my own blood pressure beat at a fast clip.
Now what?
I drew in a deep breath. “CPR. Remember eleventh grade health,” I mumbled. “First, shake the person to see if there is a response. Already done. No response. Second, identify a bystander. Point and tell them to call 911.” I looked left and right. Not a soul in sight. I lifted my gaze to the ceiling and found a tell-tale globe encasing a camera monitor.
“Hey!” I waved my hands back and forth. “He needs help!”
Then, I proceeded to dump the entire contents of my purse on the floor. The cell phone was the last item to slide out, and I snatched it up like a life line. To my dismay, pressing the power button brought no joy. The screen remained black, and I almost cried in frustration. Once again, I hadn’t charged my phone.
“Damnit!” I tossed the useless mobile back into my purse.
“Okay, the ABCs of CPR—airway, breathing, chest compressions—two breaths to thirty compressions.” A vision of the senator chomping Tums flashed in my mind’s eye. I loosened his tie, pulled his head back, and checked his throat. The airway looked clean. I ran my finger in there to make sure, before I pinched his nose and blew. His chest rose.
I got on my knees above the senator’s prone figure and put my hands in the proper place, or what I hoped was the proper location, for chest compressions. Never having done it on a real person, I wasn’t positive. Harper’s body felt softer and squishier beneath my hands than Mannie, the hard-plastic manikin they had us use in school. Stacked one over the other, I began the downward thrusts.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
As I approached thirty, a memory of a Time magazine article came to mind. The American Heart Association had changed the ABCs. They recommended untrained bystanders perform straight chest compressions when faced with a heart attack.
Is this a heart attack? Looks like a heart attack to me.
And I most definitely fell into the “untrained” category, so I didn’t stop to provide mouth-to-mouth.
“Come on, Harper! Today is not a good day to die. You understand me? Help! Anyone? Hello? Fire! Rape! Where the hell is everyone!” I called. The passageway, usually a busy corridor, remained empty of police or staffers. “I’ll never live this down if you die on me. Goddamn it, you old goat. Breathe!”
I continued to pound away on his chest when it occurred to me the senator might have a cell phone, and I paused my ministrations to check his pockets.
“Bingo!”
I pulled a black phone out of his coat and pressed the power button. The screen lit up with a lovely sailboat scene behind a numbered keypad. The senator, having been given some good advice, locked his phone with a PIN.
“Shit.” I was about to toss it aside when it occurred to me that emergency calls could be made from a locked phone. Never having done it before, I swiped my finger in a circle, and, to my relief, a button popped up from the bottom—Emergency Call. I tapped and waited.
Nothing. “What is going on?” I pressed the emergency icon again before realizing the problem.
No service.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me here!” I let out a feral yell, tossed it aside, and returned to my chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard the beat of running footsteps and glanced up to find a Capitol police officer coming from the Russell building.
He skidded to a stop at the senator’s feet.
“It’s about time!” I snapped “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for help forever.”
“What happened?”
“I think he had a heart attack. I don’t know, he grabbed the wall, then fell to the floor and hit his head. You need to call for a paramedic.” I continued CPR as we spoke.
“Daryl . . .” He spoke into the walkie talkie on his shoulder. “We have a situation. We need paramedics down here immediately. There’s a white male. Unresponsive. Possible cardiac arrest.”
“His name is Senator George Harper.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” the police officer asked me.
“This is Senator George Harper.”
“We have a senator down. I repeat, we have a senator in cardiac arrest. Get medics in here immediately.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not long.”
Hurried footsteps, and more feet wearing shiny black police officer shoes came into my line of vision. Conversations went on around me, but I remained focused on my patient.
“Jesus. Isn’t that—”
“Senator Harper.”
“Christ.”
“Jodi, go seal off the Capitol end. No one but police or paramedics. DaShane, you wait on the Russell end. No cell phones. No photos for the press. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The shoes retreated. My hands became clammy with sweat and my shoulders began to tire. “C’mon. Wake up, Senator. C’mon, man.” Up and down I pumped in a steady rhythmic pace.
The rattling clatter of the gurney rebounded through the passage over the sound of pounding feet.
“We’ve got it now. I need you to move back.” A young blond paramedic gently pulled at my shoulders, and I scooted backward on my bottom, relieved to have the professionals take over.
He started compressions while his partner, a dark-hair
ed, Hispanic female took Harper’s vitals. “Pupils unresponsive. No pulse. Looks like he sustained an injury to the head,” she said in a calm, clear voice.
“I think he had a heart attack,” I choked out.
The pair of EMTs barely acknowledged my comment as they worked over Harper, spewing rapid-fire medical jargon back and forth to each other.
“Charging the defibrillator.” As the woman unpacked the mobile machine, the man at my feet unbuttoned the senator’s shirt, moving his tie to the side.
“Uh-oh.”
“What?” The female paramedic put the machine on the floor next to her colleague.
“Looks like he’s got a pacemaker.”
She felt the area just below his collarbone. “Yes, indeed.”
“My God, I had no idea he had a pacemaker.” I pushed the hair back from my face. “Should I not have performed CPR?”
“You’re fine,” the man said dismissively. “What’s the protocol? I’ve never dealt with a pacemaker. Can we shock him?”
“If it had a defib it would already have shocked him. What happened when he passed out?” She looked up at the police officer.
He shrugged and pointed. All eyes turned to me.
“He was kind of sweaty and clammy and was breathing heavily, but . . . but he insisted on walking. Then his coloring paled and . . . he kind of turned green. I thought he was going to be ill. Then he, just . . . fell forward. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t react fast enough to catch him.” I looked down at my shaking hands. “His head hit the floor.”
Their attention returned to the patient. “Maybe it’s gone bad,” the woman said. “I’ve seen it happen. You’ll want to place the pads here and here. Make sure they are at least an inch away from the OED. Charging. Stand back.”
The little machine gave off a whine and the senator’s body convulsed. The blond checked for a pulse and shook his head. “Again?”
“Charging. Got it. Stand back.”
Again, the senator’s body jumped.
“No pulse,” the blond said.
They repeated the step one more time, to no avail.
“Continue compressions. Get him on the stretcher, I’ll bag him, and we’ll get out of here,” the woman directed.
The pair maneuvered him onto an orange backboard and, with the help of the surrounding officers, lifted him onto the gurney. I scrambled to shove the strewn bits and pieces of my possessions back into my handbag before chasing the crowd of first responders down the hall into the Russell building. I followed them as far as the elevator, but there was only room enough for the stretcher and the two paramedics still working on him. The rest of us remained on the other side of the elevator. The doors closed, and all went silent.