by Chris Bauer
She exited the lot in her vehicle and crossed the bridge. On the other side, she offered up another quick prayer, asking for options for later tonight. Her prayer was answered: public transportation. The 38B bus, with a stop along the street paralleling the river. It connected with the Metro per her phone search, and the Metro connected to all roads out of D.C.
Good. Now to pick up her prescription.
Naomi was in a fog in the back seat of the diesel pickup, on her way to her Georgetown townhouse. She blinked at her folded hands, her expression blank, stunned, still, by today’s revelations. Also a bother, Edward’s sudden aloofness.
Finally she broke the silence. “I’m sorry, Edward.”
No response from the front seat. Fine, she got it. After her behavior in her chambers, she deserved this and more. The news she’d received today was significant, sure, but she was a U.S. Supreme Court associate justice. She was above these things, or so she’d thought.
‘Significant’ news? More like life-changing. Or, dare she to think, world-changing.
You’re the same person you were yesterday. Stop the self-pity.
But she wasn’t the same person.
She hadn’t earned her scholarships. The fix had been in by way of a partisan political sleight of hand. She hadn’t been wanted by her birth mother, was alive only because her mother couldn’t get access to an abortion. When her identity was discovered, they groomed her to be a nail in the pro-choice coffin. She was to grow up, become a plain, law-abiding, productive citizen, there being little need for her to achieve much else. Except she showed the potential of being a lot more, and an initial brainstorm promoting a simple pro-life message became a full-blown conspiracy. A tormented Manchurian Candidate in the Supreme Court. A slam-dunk, that’s-what-I’m-talkin’-’bout exclamation point with the potential to blow the lid off Roe v Wade.
All this from a smug Senator Mildred Folsom, today, in Naomi’s chambers. The plan, although the senator hadn’t had to spell it out, had been to give her juicy legal assignments, build up her resume, play up her Native American ethnicity, and prop up the Supreme Court candidate as being a reformed feminist. Then Folsom, a vocal senator who wore her religious conservatism on her sleeve, would put on a good show at the confirmation hearings but eventually roll over. After this, and only after this, would the senator drop the bomb. Then she could watch Naomi squirm in her liberal juices while deciding how to vote on this and other crucial pro-life cases. Regardless of the irony, Naomi was now poised to be a poster child for the anti-abortion movement, if anyone were to find out.
She analyzed her choices.
Recuse herself. She couldn’t; she would need to explain why. Revelation of her true identity could destroy her Supreme Court career before it started.
Vote to vacate Babineau, which would have kept Roe in place. A headline, if she were outed: “Living Hypocrisy: Roe Baby Upholds Landmark Pro-Choice Case.”
Vote to confirm Babineau, which could destroy Roe, sending women back to coat hangers and alleys.
“Your Honor?”
Edward called to her, it was twice now, from the front seat. He spoke in an even, professional tone. “No apology is needed, ma’am. It’s the way things are expected to work. Marshals protect their charges, end of story. No more, no less.”
“Edward…”
“I’ve put in to be reassigned, Your Honor.”
“Goodness, Edward.”
“It’s best, Your Honor. My investment in this detail…” he paused, calmed himself. “There need to be boundaries. My mistake, not yours, ma’am. Starting tonight, for the near future you and your condo community will have twenty-four hour surveillance. A new deputy marshal will handle this assignment starting tomorrow. After I help you with your movers this afternoon, my assignment to you ends.”
This was the first fallout from today’s unwelcome news, not that she’d shared the news with him, nor did she intend to. Regardless, it was an arm’s-length message that severed a friendship, from a person whom she admired. And someone who, until this moment, she thought had admired her.
Someone she more than admired, she admitted to herself. Her eyes welled.
“Are you sure, Edward?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
She dabbed at a tear; spilled milk. She rallied. “Fine. You will, however, allow me to cook you a thank-you dinner after the movers leave. Tonight. Before a new assignment takes you to another city.”
“Ma’am, that’s not a good idea. I can’t…”
“And you will offer an invitation to the people I was rude to today to join us, so I can make it up to them also. What they did in the name of protecting the bench was heroic. It will be low key, Edward. I’ll make barbecue. Please accept, and please see what you can do about having those nice folks attend as well.”
Senator Folsom lit a cigarette in the car, opened the deep-tinted rear window and blew the smoke in its general vicinity, away from Higby. After she dropped Higby off, she’d retrieve the documents kept in her office safe for over three decades. Justice Coolsummer needed to see them. After that, if the judge didn’t play along, the information would be released, done so in ways that wouldn’t directly involve the senator.
“My opinion, Mildred,” Higby said, “is that Justice Coolsummer is now sufficiently motivated, but the Court’s decision on Babineau could take months.” He tucked a pair of sunglasses inside a windbreaker pocket and zipped it up.
Mildred checked out the rest of his outfit: gym pants, tennis shoes, and a navy watch cap folded in his lap. “So it’s to be a walk in the park to meet out little Church Hammer, Higby? Nervous?”
“She’s out of her painkillers,” he said. “I’ll have someone with me.” He unfolded and refolded the hat in his lap. Their limo cruised the District’s bustling city streets at a leisurely pace. “If we handle it this way, with no federal agency involvement, it will be better for everyone.”
They crossed Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway and entered Georgetown, with Higby doing some handwringing while the limo passed D.C. scenery he paid no attention to. “The reality is this needs to happen, Mildred. God will understand.”
The Naomi Coolsummer cards had been played. A thirty-year odyssey, with a whip-smart adoptee who carved out an exceptional legal career, one that had been successful beyond their wildest imaginations. A home-team homerun, all for the sake of unborn children, of course. Mildred was still basking in her exchange with her. A part of her felt sorry about how they’d played the associate justice, and for how long. But the dominance, the power the senator now wielded, it was all so invigorating. Like the old days. Still no slack in her rope, even at her age. It was enough to make her rethink her decision to retire. Hell, maybe she’d even run for president.
One angle Mildred wondered about. “Any chance she’s suicidal over this…obsession of hers?”
“Our Church Hammer? She’s a Catholic who had an abortion. With the guilt she’s carrying, what we’re seeing is her attempt at penance. She’s desperate. She’ll die trying to make this happen.”
“Good.”
“But her mindset will no longer matter, Mildred. Not after today.”
Inside Foundry Branch Valley Park, Larinda trotted along a marked hiking trail until knee-high stone walls that rose and fell with the footpath bookended it. Past the walls, the trail intersected with a hardened clay path that curled around and led into a short tunnel running beneath the hiking trail itself. This was where the reverend said he’d be. The tunnel was as wide as the trail above it and was old, carved out of gray and brown limestone, its ceiling arched. So old it looked Biblical to Larinda, its face and walls overgrown with ivy. Her first impression was the Bible’s depiction of Christ’s sepulcher, but without the boulder.
A hooded jogger passed her, reached the tunnel’s mouth before she did, and exited the tunnel’s other end. Reverend Hunt waited for her midway through, his exercise outfit loose, and atop his silver-blond head, a dark watch cap. He looked eve
ry bit a nondescript fifty-year-old in sunglasses out for an afternoon run.
She slowed, absorbing her surroundings. She stopped just inside the tunnel, in the shade. Here the mildew was pervasive, woodsy smelling and damp, with wind-jostled brown leaves caught in the green ivy, and the late afternoon sunlight slanted near the entrance. The jogger who passed her was already gone. Behind and in front of her, the trail was empty. In here, just her and the reverend. She lowered her hood, shook her black hair loose.
“My goodness, that’s quite a different look for you, Larinda. Or should I call you Hiawatha?”
“You shouldn’t call me anything. You bring the meds?”
Reverend Hunt raised his arm chest high, dangling a white pharmacy bag from his hand.
“Yes, per our agreement. For you, but only after you hear me out.”
Fifteen feet away was the relief she needed, except the scene didn’t feel right to her. Too empty a meeting place out here, too perfect. Quick glances front and behind told her the trail was still empty, but…
She slipped her hand under her hooded shirt, removed a handgun from her waistband, and rested it next to her thigh.
“Whoa.” The reverend showed his hands. “That’s…not really necessary, now is it, child? You agreed to listen, I agreed to bring you some relief. Just…relax. I’m unarmed.”
“Go ahead then, Reverend,” she said, but the gun stayed out. “I’m listening.”
“You are on a suicide mission, young lady, and you don’t need to be. Things here are under control. Justice Coolsummer is under control.”
“How is that?”
“She’s being adequately incented, but it’s a little…complicated. You’ll need to trust me. She’ll vote the way we need her to. Here, take your bag of meds. It’s a ninety-day supply. Take them, pack yourself up, get back on the road, and go home.”
She wanted to believe him, wanted so much to think this baby-killing odyssey would end the way he said it would, the way it should, the way God wanted it to. She flinched from a jolt to her abdomen, intestinal pain that reminded her she needed some oxy relief soon. “Throw the bag to me.”
“So you’ll end this now?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. The meds.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Larinda.”
“You have no choice.”
“Fine. But put your gun on the ground, please.”
“I can’t do that, Reverend.”
Larinda, her eyes drilling into his, thumbed the safety lock off. With neither of them moving, the reverend finally got the message.
“Okay then,” he said. “Keep the gun. Here.”
His underhand toss was off the mark, the bag landing just outside the tunnel, in the sun.
“Sorry. No harm done, Larinda, the bottles are plastic.”
She checked each end of the tunnel again, the trail still clear in both directions, then she refocused on the reverend. Backing into the sunlight, her eyes not leaving him, she bent at her waist to reach for the small plastic bag. A shadow crept across the bag from the trail above the tunnel and stopped, became a stationary silhouette, it was directly above her…
She spun, dropped onto her back, both hands steadying her gun, her finger on the trigger releasing a short pffft of a bullet burst skyward. A shotgun blast from above the tunnel blew a hole through the layer of fallen leaves next to her, kicking up dirt and twigs that rained on her as the gun loosened from the shooter’s hands and dropped into the grave the blast had dug for it. She rolled out of the way, the shooter’s body dropping fifteen feet and thudding next to her, atop the shotgun. Bouncing to her feet, she trained her gun on the dead man. It was the jogger. She raised her weapon and faced the reverend. If he had a gun, it would have been out by now. He was instead frozen in place.
“Truth be told, Reverend,” she said, panting, “this is the way I thought it would go. With you, the senator, and the rest of The Faithful. Although I did think you’d also be armed. One question, and please be truthful. Are these meds the real thing?”
“OxyContin!” he said, desperate now, a plea. “Yes! They’re what you need, Larinda. Please, child.” He backed away, moving toward the other end of the tunnel, his hands raised in self-defense, retreating. “I’m telling the truth!”
“Good, Reverend. Thanks. And I’m sorry.”
“Larinda! You don’t need to…”
Three quick shots. “Yes, Reverend, I do.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Deputy Marshal Abelson dropped them off at Judge’s van in the parking garage. Maybe it was the boost he got from retrieving his gun from the glove box, but now that Judge and Geenie both had their guns back, his bruised ribls hurt a lot less. He made Geenie comfortable back at the B&B, walked his canine deputies, fed them, and sat them down for some big ol’ Daddy-loves-you hugs. Now to figure out what the hell to do differently about Larinda Jordan than a half-dozen federal agencies weren’t already doing. His phone rang.
“Edward. Back at you, sir.” Owen’s ears perked up. Geenie was in her seat, dozing. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome again, Edward. What do you need?…I see. Thanks for the invite, but we can’t make it. My German Shepherd’s been cooped up all day and needs some attention.”
“Bring the dogs,” Edward said. “I’ll have someone watch them.”
It didn’t work like that, Judge told him; not part of their training. “Thanks but no thanks,” he said and ended the call.
They hadn’t moved yet when Edward called again. “Justice Coolsummer won’t take no for an answer. Your deputies can stay attached to you at the hip if necessary, assuming they’re house-trained.”
Judge caved, giving the madam justice another chance. The dinner invite was for seven p.m. Barbecue. For Owen it was a no-brainer, like he’d been invited to a debutante’s ball. And maybe a little more insight from Edward and Justice Coolsummer wouldn’t hurt the manhunt effort, Judge mused. The madam justice had invited both dogs. Judge decided Maeby needed to take a rain check so she could stay at the B&B with Geenie, who was running on empty.
At the B&B Judge tucked Geenie into bed then leaned down to kiss her, his lips soft against hers and her swollen jaw. “If kisses could heal,” he told her, “I’d be all over you.”
“They’re helping,” she managed. She cupped his cheek in her hand. “You need to be careful, Judge.”
“Justice Coolsummer’s residence might be one of the more secure places on the planet right about now,” he said. “Rest and feel better.”
Seeing Owen in the B&B parlor, Judge regretted his decision already. Judge was in jeans and a navy blue long-sleeved pullover with brown loafers. Owen was dressed like a cattle baron: bolo tie, custom fitted western-cut shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, all underneath that black, sequined ten-gallon hat. Except…
His clownish behavior, his bawdy attitude and his drinking, the latter not in evidence at the moment, plus his genetics, cleaned up like this, and in his element, Judge saw him better. This was an attractive man who was proud of what he had to offer, and who at this point in his life didn’t care about anyone else’s perception of him, save for one U.S. Supreme Court associate justice.
“Owen.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“You look good, bro. I mean it. Really good. She’ll be impressed.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Just keep the hat off your lap.”
“Got it, boss.”
His wink said maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Judge decided he was good with that.
THIRTY-SIX
Larinda punched the security code into the keypad and the iron gate at the condo community entrance separated. She drove her Toyota SUV through like she belonged here, had to slow down and fall in behind a chugging six-wheeled dump truck carrying hot road tar that she could smell, giving the truck the room it deserved. Both vehicles moved timidly past a United Van Lines moving van that took up three parking spaces in front of the target’s townhouse, the front door to the townhouse
closed. Boxes from the moving van were on the street, the grass, and the front steps. She cruised past the house, losing the tar truck when she eased her vehicle around a corner. She now viewed the end unit from its side, then cruised a little more, to where she could view the house from its rear. Four exits confirmed, front, side, and two out back, one to a ground level patio, the other to a deck above it. She braked the SUV, put it into park.
Binoculars up. She scanned for other rooftops visible from where she sat. Binoculars down. Binoculars up then down again several times. What she was after: sightlines and vantage points from outside the gated community that converged on the justice’s townhouse.
It was forty minutes past her popping some oxy from the new prescription. Half a pill only, her hedge against the reverend’s veracity. The abdominal pain was under control and she wasn’t dead, two good reasons for her to pop open the top to the bottle again and chew her way through a few more doses.
Feeling much, much better now.
She finished circling the block, returned to the front of the target’s condo, and double-parked next to the moving van, her flashers on. Standard four p.m. residential activity: people exercising their dogs, small children on tricycles and scooters, watchful parents. The movers continued unloading the truck, stopping to read markings on boxes then strapping the larger ones and the few furniture pieces to their backs and shoulders and hand trucks, then depositing them on the sidewalk, the steps and the porch, as near to the front door as possible. All indications were the judge wasn’t home and the house wasn’t being watched from inside or out, but this would all change soon, otherwise the movers wouldn’t have started to unload.
Her black Indian-squaw hair tucked inside a ball cap, Larinda stuffed a few sticks of chewing gum in her mouth and grabbed her sunglasses. She was good to go.
With the SUV’s lift gate open, Larinda wrote on a cardboard box then lifted it aside in favor of hefting a dwarf evergreen in a clay pot from the SUV to the curb, setting it there, next to the small city of cardboard boxes accumulating on the sidewalk. She did the same with three other potted shrubs, all eventually curbside.