Fatal Legislation

by Ellen Butler

  Chapter Two

  “Someone should call his wife. I don’t have her number. They have a place in Georgetown, but I’m not sure if she’s here in D.C. or back home in Michigan. Does anyone know where they’re taking him? I can call his office and get her number. Her name is Elise . . . Elise”—my voice hitched—“Harper. Someone should notify his staff. They’ll want to know.”

  “Here, honey, take this.” The petite African-American police officer standing next to me held out a tissue.

  I didn’t know when the tears had started. During the mad rush to the elevators, I suspected.

  “It’ll be okay,” the officer continued. “Why don’t you come with me? We need to get your statement.”

  She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me through the stone halls of the Russell building to an office with a pair of industrial metal desks and computers.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.” I blew into the Kleenex. “And look, my hands are shaking. I feel cold. Is it cold in here?”

  “It’s the adrenaline. You’re starting to come down off the high. Here.” She hung a long black raincoat over my shoulders.

  “Thanks” —I noticed her nametag— “Officer Leander.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  I nodded. “Cream and sugar, please.”

  She left me alone and I took the moment of privacy to get a grip. I wiped away the tears and searched through the mess in my purse for a compact. The mirror showed bright red eyes, matching my nose and cheeks, and I dabbed beige powder over my face. A movement in the mirror had me quickly tossing it back in my purse.

  “I’m awfully sorry about . . .” But when I turned, it wasn’t the cop I’d expected, it was a different one—male, average height, light brown hair, tough-looking. One hand was in his pocket, the other behind his back. I stood to face him. “I beg your pardon, I thought you were Officer Leander.”

  “Where’d she go?” His buggy, pale blue stare unnerved me.

  “To get a cup of coffee.” To my relief, the squeak of her shoes heralded the officer’s return.

  “Excuse me.” She brushed past her colleague and held out a disposable cup. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around it, welcoming its heat.

  “What can I do for you, Officer . . . er . . . Jablonski?” Leander asked.

  “Just came in to see if I could help.” His eyes darted between Leander and me.

  “You’re new here, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, started last week.”

  “It’s best if you return to your post.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Officer Leander turned away, but I continued to watch as Jablonski hesitated. Something about this guy wasn’t sitting right. He kept staring at me, and not in what I’d consider a nice manner.

  “Is there something else I can help you with, Jablonski?”

  His gaze snapped to Leander. “No, ma’am. I’ll be going.”

  “Please, shut the door behind you.”

  I waited for the door to close completely before resuming my seat. “Am I in trouble, Officer Leander?”

  “Call me Jodi, and why would you say that?”

  “That other cop didn’t seem to like me very much.”

  “Jablonski? Forget him. He’s new. He looks at everyone that way. I noticed it myself when we met last week.” Her nails clicked against the keys on the computer as she spoke.

  “Has someone contacted Harper’s family?” I asked.

  “We are taking care of it. Now, why don’t you start with your name, and then you can tell me exactly what happened.”

  “My name is Karina Cardinal. I work for National Healthcare Advocacy Alliance.” I recounted my interaction with Senator Harper, starting from our encounter on the elevator. When I got to the part about his collapse, I paused.

  “Then what happened?” She drew her eyes away from the computer screen.

  “I called for help and, honestly, I can’t understand what took so long. Why didn’t anyone see us in the cameras, or hear my calls? It echoes down there. One of the guards at the desks to the hallway entry should have heard something.”

  “A couple of knuckleheads thought it would be funny to put on Guy Fawkes masks and run around knocking down flags in the hallway. The guards responded to the hubbub.”

  “Both of them?”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Then what happened?”

  “And what about the tram operator? What happened to him?”

  “That’s a good question.” She wrote down a note on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll have to look into that. I know we’ve been having electrical problems with both those trams in the past few weeks.”

  “Maybe he went to find maintenance when he couldn’t find the guards?”

  “Let’s finish this up,” she said abruptly.

  I thought I’d hit a nerve, asking questions she was probably asking herself. I sipped the strong coffee and resumed the story up until the point where we all met up at the elevator. “And you know the rest. I really had no idea he had a pacemaker.”

  “How could you?”

  “I mean, I don’t recall reading it in the papers or anything like that. They must have done a good job keeping it under wraps three years ago, when he last ran for office.”

  “Maybe they put it in recently.”

  “True.” I chewed my lip. “Do you think I shouldn’t have performed the chest compressions? I mean, I—I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  She shrugged. “You heard the paramedic. He said it was okay, and they were doing it on the way out.”

  “Lord, I hope so.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure everything will be fine once they get him to the hospital. I’m going to print this out. You’ll need to review and sign it. Put your current address and phone number at the bottom.”

  Half an hour later, I directed the cab driver to my office and stared sightlessly out the window as the sedan crossed the Potomac River into Virginia. We stopped at a light on the George Washington Parkway, and I frowned up at the brick building on my right—my old office building, a medical association for physician assistants. I’d been happy working there, and they’d been happy with me . . . until I got involved in returning a piece of stolen art. That debacle cost me a broken engagement and eventually my job. The chief operating officer, Joanne, hadn’t been too pleased with my side job—representing my soon-to-be father-in-law, who was neck deep in the fiasco. Or rather, she didn’t like the reporters on our front lawn, or the FBI agent that made his way into our lobby because of it. She never fired me, but things between Joanne and I became rather cold after that affair. I found myself shut out of important meetings. Some of my duties were passed on to a younger, less experienced staff member.

  Reading the writing on the wall, I accepted an interview with NHAA, a healthcare coalition advocacy group, who had been politely courting me for years. I supposed I shouldn’t complain. The money was better. However, I missed the more relaxed atmosphere of the association and the comradery with my colleague, Latesha, who had come to my aid at a time when I didn’t know who to turn to. A week ago, I started encouraging Latesha to consider applying for an open position at NHAA. As a single mom, I knew she could use the added income, and frankly, I could use a friend. There was no one at my new job in whom I could confide tonight’s tragedy, though, come morning, I’d have to tell my boss, Hasina.

  The light turned green and the cab crawled forward with traffic. My new office wasn’t too much further, and we soon pulled into the parking lot. “It’s the silver Camry with the baseball-sized dent in the bumper. Stop, this is it. Thanks.”

  The best thing about my new job—its convenience to my condo. Only five to ten minutes away, depending upon traffic. Bits and pieces of the night’s events replayed through my mind during the drive. It was a relief to get home to my two-bedroom condo—a lucky investment I made six years ago when one of
my mom’s friends passed away. Her estranged children, who lived in Africa, wanted nothing more than to unload it quickly. The place had never been updated—the kitchen had sported avocado appliances, the bathrooms were pink tile, and the living spaces had wall-to-wall shag carpet. They accepted my low-ball offer, and I finished updating it last year.

  After hanging my coat in the hall closet, I dumped half my purse contents onto the kitchen island; the items musically jingled and clanked onto the granite. Two phones slid out together. I must have grabbed the senator’s when I gathered my odds and ends from the tunnel floor.

  Shaking my head, I eyed the mess. When did I become so disorganized? At Christmas, Mom gave me an organizer that moved easily from purse to purse, full of little pockets, zippers, and clips. After tonight’s escapade, I determined it was time to take it out of the plastic bag and actually put it to use. No more searching for keys, lipsticks, cell, or wallet in the depths of my handbags. I plugged my phone into the charging station and went in search of the gift.

  As I sorted my belongings into pockets, I flipped on the television. The nightly news station broke in with the story. A local Capitol Hill correspondent gave the highlights. “This evening Senator Harper, a Michigan Republican, collapsed at the Capitol. Medics rushed him to Georgetown University Hospital, where he was pronounced dead from cardiac arrest. We will have more on this breaking story when we return.”

  Even though I knew what the reporter said was true, the reality wasn’t computing.

  Poor Elise.

  “That’s it. I need a glass of wine.” If any day called for a glass of wine, it was today.

  At nine thirty, on the dot, my cell rang with a welcome caller. “I’m so glad you called,” I said, answering the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Mike asked.

  My relationship with Michael Finnegan went back to college, undoubtedly the reason he distinguished my distress with a single sentence.

  “Did you hear about Senator Harper?”

  “No, tell me.”

  I went on to describe the events.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “It’s your first day, I didn’t want to bother you in case you were in a session. You said you’d call at nine thirty . . . so I waited.” Our dating status, a recent development, was an evolving creature. Mike, an FBI agent working for the cybercrimes division in D.C., was currently at an undisclosed training facility. Or at least, that’s what he told me when he announced he’d be out of town for the week. Ostensibly, his flight left at six this morning. He could have been anywhere, Toledo, Texas, or he could’ve driven down I-95 to the FBI training facility at Quantico. Such was the life of dating an FBI agent.

  “I don’t have regular access to my phone,” he told me. “If something comes up, it’s best to text, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m available.”

  “No worries. I’m not sure I was ready to talk, but now it’s kind of a relief to tell someone what happened.”

  “You haven’t told anyone else?”

  “Besides giving my statement to the Capitol Police . . . no. I thought they’d be able to revive him once they got to the hospital. I think I’m still in shock . . . I mean, he died right in front of me.” I paced the floor. “I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it. There he was, puffing along, telling me how the House messed up S46—which they did—and how he was working on something better, then bam! Down he went. And I didn’t even catch him. What kind of person doesn’t reach out to catch a falling man? Hm? I’m going to hell, aren’t I?” I paused, staring out my sliding glass door into the darkness. The lock snapped beneath my fingers, and I pulled the door open. A humid breeze brushed my cheeks and the smell of approaching rain hung heavy in the March air.

  “Did he fall toward you?”

  “No, but I should have seen it coming. He’d been wheezing. I should have insisted we take the damn tram. I should have—”

  “Whoa, K.C., you need to stop with the shoulda, woulda, coulda routine. It’s not like you knew he was going to keel over. Did you?”

  “Of course not.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “It sounds to me like you did the best you could. Besides, Harper weighs twice as much as you do, he would have taken you down with him.”

  “You’re not wrong about that,” I mumbled.

  “It likely wouldn’t have made a difference if you did catch him. Did you ever think it was just his time to go? We’ve come so far with medical advancement, but death is still inevitable. Today . . . was Harper’s day to go.”

  “Were you always so matter-of-fact in college, or is this the FBI training?”

  He snorted. “Maybe a bit of both.”

  I chewed my lip. “I suppose you’re right. I can’t control everything.”

  “Which drives you nuts.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Get some rest. Things will look better in the light of day. Trust me.”

  I sighed, “You’re right.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, say . . . eight?”

  “That’ll be fine. Talk to you then.”

  “Night.”

  Lights in the neighboring apartment complex blinked out as early risers went to bed. Car headlamps twinkled in the distance. A vehicle with a pulsing bass pulled into a parking space, then silenced as one of my neighbors exited. Life carried on around me as if nothing had happened, and as far as they were concerned, nothing had.

  A raindrop hit my cheek, and I wiped away the moisture.

  Mike is right, today was Harper’s day to go.

  SHIVERING, I SNUGGLED further beneath the blankets. No light shone through the slats of the blinds, and I rolled over to check the time. 2:48. I punched the pillow and readjusted my position, but a chill continued to nip at my nose. March weather in Virginia brought wild temperature swings, and the day had been so mild I’d turned off the heat before going to bed. A cold front must have followed the rainstorm. With a grunt, I pushed aside the covers and opened the door.

  Brr, the temperature is even colder in the hall.

  I flicked on a lamp and adjusted the thermostat. The creak and whoosh of the old heat pump reassured me, but a cold draft tickled my bare toes and, in my periphery, the drapes billowed.

  What the hell?

  I pushed them aside. No wonder the apartment was freezing. I must not have closed the sliding door properly. It shut with a soft click, and I scuttled back to bed, pulling the comforter up to my chin.

  Unfortunately, the short period of wakefulness turned into an hour of my brain’s rehashing of the day’s awful events before I fell back asleep.

  Chapter Three

  In the morning, I stopped by Hasina’s office to inform her that I’d seen Harper’s death. She kindly offered me the day off, but I declined, reluctant to spend more time alone with my thoughts. Instead, I requested her confidentiality. I wasn’t willing to spend the morning fielding a steady stream of office coworkers “stopping by” to offer their sympathies. Still, a few poked their head into my office, asking if I’d heard the news. I sent them away with a simple nod and a “yes, terrible news.”

  Rodrigo, on the other hand, was a different story. I looked up from my computer to find the Puerto Rican looming in my doorway.

  “So, I hear old Harper bought the farm last night. Did you give him a piece of your mind before he kicked the bucket?” He closed my door and slid into the wooden guest chair.

  Rodrigo’s parents moved to Maryland when he was a baby, which is why he had no Spanish accent. He grew up in a low-income neighborhood and was the only sibling out of four kids in his family to have obtained a college degree. He’d worked social media outlets and phones to whip up public support for S46, and he’d taken Harper’s defection much worse than I, which didn’t surprise me, considering the benefit it would have brought to poorer families.

  Nine years ago, Rodrigo’s father, a construction worker, fell off a roof, sustaining a back injury. He went down the
opioid rabbit hole to mitigate the pain, and when his insurance wouldn’t pay for decent addiction rehab, he turned to heroin. Three days after Rodrigo graduated college, his father died from a bad batch of Fentanyl-laced heroin. Two years later, his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and passed away within six months. It took the kids years, fighting with the insurance company and the hospital, to come to an agreement and retire her medical bills. It was no wonder Rodrigo took Harper’s reversal as a personal affront. My coworker told me none of this. Hasina had, and it’s the reason she asked me to reach out to Harper.

  “That’s not funny, Rodrigo. I was with him when it happened.”

  He snorted in disbelief. It took a minute for him to realize I wasn’t joking, and his mouth dropped.

  “It was very traumatic, as a matter of fact. He had a heart attack and I performed CPR.”

  “Better you than me.” He crossed his perfectly creased pant legs and fastidiously picked at a piece of lint. “I would have stepped over him.”

  I eyed his pink shirt with white cuffs, Italian silk tie, designer vest, and slacks. “I believe it. I had to get down on my knees to help him. I sweated through my silk blouse, ruining it.”

  Rodrigo scrunched his nose.

  “I understand you disliked him,” I said. “However, I warn you, if you’ve come here to be mean about Senator Harper, you can save it. He had legitimate reasons for voting against the amended bill, and I’ll not have you speaking ill of a dead man in my office.” I ended my little speech with a steely glare.

  Rodrigo blanched. “Touché. I’ll put my claws away. I’m sorry, Karina. It must have been terrible for you.”