by Chris Bauer
“Guys,” the smaller of the two spoke in a friendly tone, “you need to vacate this area for a bit. Go grab yourselves some coffee or something downstairs. We’ll call you back up here when we can.”
“Sure,” Judge said, “but what’s going on?” He tried to look past the agent.
“Justice Coolsummer needs some time alone.”
That wasn’t gonna work, Judge was thinking, considering someone was already in her room, but he stayed quiet, the guy being friendly and all. Except Judge suddenly felt the absence of his piece, the emptiness calling to him from the crook of his back. Intuition said these guys were friendlies, but it was getting a little tense. The door to her room stayed closed, one agent’s hand on the knob, everyone waiting for Judge and Owen to leave.
“Badge me first,” Judge said.
“Mister Drury. Friend.” The agent got deadpan serious, then his smile returned, a verbal version of him patting Judge on the head. “Stay calm, don’t tense up, and keep your hands at your sides. We’re told this is a good thing going down here. Just go with it. Go downstairs, get some coffee.”
“I guess that means you won’t be badging me.”
“You guessed right. A marshal will escort you. You have to go. Now.”
In the cafeteria Owen got a hot chocolate, Judge grabbed a coffee. A U.S. marshal with tea who swore he knew nothing about what was going on upstairs was babysitting them. Right about now all Judge wanted to do was pay his respects to Justice Coolsummer and get the hell back with Geenie, who’d been such a champ through all this. He called her, then he called LeVander, to let them each know the outcome of the chase. The bounty had been neutralized. Her body was in the process of being located. A U.S. Supreme Court associate justice had, at last update, survived an assassination attempt. Things were looking up.
Judge sipped his coffee. They waited for that call from upstairs.
FORTY-FOUR
The door to her hospital room opened and they wheeled Naomi in. Three people waited for her inside. The two who faced her bookended a third who did not, all three dressed casually in workout clothing, the person facing the window in hooded sweats, the window’s curtains closed. The nurse reattached Naomi to her monitors. Her meds were fine, she told the doctor and nurse. They both left the room because one of her three visitors suggested they needed to.
She knew who this was, even through the calm of the medication, just wasn’t sure the reason for the visit.
The black cotton hood slid back to rest atop squared shoulders that presented good posture, revealing tight cornrows of black hair tinted slightly red. The visitor appeared every bit a professional boxer or mixed martial arts fighter in training, her sweats bulky, not flattering. She wore no makeup yet was still photogenic, her dark skin thick, smooth, almost perfectly so, benefiting from the coupling of two ethnicities, African American and Native American, whose ancestors on both sides had spent a millennium in the sun.
“Madam President.”
“Hello, Madam Justice.” POTUS Lindsey reached for Naomi’s hand, gripped it. “I’m so incredibly happy to see you’ve survived this mess. I have something you need to hear, in private.”
The two Secret Service agents exited. The president dragged a vinyl armchair over to the bed and sat, man-spreading her legs. “We call these ‘incognito sweats.’ I have many. Pardon my familiarity, but they’re too bulky for me to sit any other way.”
She began. “Cards on the table. A few influential people have in their possession some interesting documentation regarding your birth parents. I know these people came to you about it, for political leverage. You’ll know how I know this in a minute.”
Naomi’s meds, hearing this, they didn’t stand a chance at keeping her fully calm. Sleepy a moment ago, she was now hyper-aware.
“Sealed by the courts,” POTUS continued, “like all closed adoptions were back then, this documentation could become a showstopper for a Supreme Court justice’s career, regardless of how strong her character is. For her, it might mean a whole new perspective regarding certain issues. Pro-choice versus pro-life comes to mind.”
Naomi cleared her throat. “That Supreme Court justice,” she said thickly, “would be lying if she said it hasn’t affected her. But you should also know that one case in particular is still to be decided.”
The president shook her head. “Good.”
“These people with the documentation, Madam President…I assume you know who they are.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, they’re on their way over here right now with it, but they won’t make it in to see you.”
“Please say you’re not planning to…”
“No, no, of course not. We intend to simply relieve them of their trump card. Not because the documentation speaks the truth. We need it as evidence.
“The records are forgeries, Naomi. A kind but desperate man falsified them to satisfy their blackmail demands thirty years ago. When you were confirmed as the newest Supreme Court justice, he realized the potential enormity of the fallout, the…power his sleight of hand had given them. He provided the Executive Branch with proof of his forgeries, the real birth documentation, to make us aware of the prospective power play. The perpetrators don’t know they’re not the real thing.
“We intended to tell you, Naomi, but not until after Senator Folsom played you.”
“And the man who did the forgeries is…?”
“Dead. An elderly Texas pastor whom the guilty parties felt knew too much. Murdered last week, by the same woman who came after you tonight. The pastor planned to contact you after he alerted us. He just didn’t live long enough.” The president leaned in. “Naomi…”
She took Naomi’s hand in hers and squeezed it.
“Last year, an extensive vetting process uncovered the Jane Roe baby’s identity, to prove that, as an adoptee, she was still an American citizen. Before she could assume her newest duties…very visible duties…as a public servant. This was never publicized, for a number of reasons.”
The president’s stare waited for Naomi’s groggy mind to catch up, to let this revelation sink in, with the president acting every bit like a sister sharing a secret about herself, a secret that must never be shared again.
“I can assure you, Naomi,” President Lindsay said, “this person is not you.”
FORTY-FIVE
Judge had a second coffee in the cafeteria while Owen ate a pastry. The marshal was getting antsy, checking and rechecking his earpiece. It was almost eleven p.m., and they were tired. Judge wanted to get back to the B&B, see Geenie, hold her, comfort her, have her comfort him.
The marshal cupped his ear to answer a call. “Yessir, I’m here.” He scanned the cafeteria. “A few nurses, a doctor and a cashier, sir. And us. No one else…Roger that.” To Owen and Judge he said, “We’re getting some company. After that, we’re good to go.”
Some noise swelled the hallway outside the cafeteria’s swinging doors. A blob of new customers entered.
No. Shit.
It was the senior white-haired senator from Texas plus a guy in a suit, a New York lawyer type, talking into her ear. They had escorts, all law enforcement, six of them. The two men trailing them swung the cafeteria doors shut, remaining outside. The cafeteria was now temporarily closed.
“I am here,” the senator said to the marshal in charge, her Texas-sized senatorial indignation on display, “to see Associate Justice Coolsummer. I understand someone tried to kill her. I want to offer my help. Why did you redirect me to the cafeteria, Marshal…?”
“Director Egan.”
“Egan. Right. Is Madam Justice all right?”
“Senator Folsom, the judge is in stable condition and is resting. There have been other casualties. You won’t get in to see her tonight.” Director Egan paused, pursed his lips. “Or tomorrow, or maybe ever.”
“What? Why is that?” Senator Folsom’s chin was up, with her doing her best to stare down her nose at him. He towered over her by at least eight
inches.
“Because, Madam Senator, we have a warrant for your arrest.”
“You have what?”
“A warrant for conspiracy to commit murder, for conspiracy to commit blackmail, for terrorism, coercion, illegal wiretapping, and misappropriation of public funds. There’s more you’ll hear later. I won’t cuff you, Senator, but only if you follow me in an orderly fashion after I read you your rights. Senator Folsom, you have the right to remain silent…”
Judge was piecing this together and coming up short. Conspiracy, murder, blackmail, terrorism. The target, Justice Coolsummer. There was also a warrant for the blowhard televangelist Higby Hunt, to be served when they located him. Two alleged perpetrators, maybe more. Few other details were discernible.
Voices rose, the senator not going anywhere without her say, which forced the director to be true to his word. A marshal relieved her of her handbag and slapped the cuffs on her. Another marshal relieved her protesting lawyer friend of his briefcase. “Hey! You need a warr…”
“Not tonight, counselor. Patriot Act. Might be a weapon of mass destruction in there.”
Director Egan’s nod to their marshal babysitter was the call they’d been waiting for. The marshal extended his arm toward the doors. “After you, gentlemen.”
Once back upstairs, they were allowed in Justice Coolsummer’s room, sentries still posted outside her door. They were there to grieve, and to help her grieve also. To offer their condolences, and to say their goodbyes. Madam Justice Coolsummer was cried out, exhausted, and in her condition was no source of additional information. But she was adamant about having them stay, so the hospital staff kept its distance. Her two children were on their way from Austin to see her. Like a two year old fighting a nap, she finally began nodding. Unable to dissuade the nurses, Judge and Owen stood to leave.
Justice Coolsummer had energy enough, barely, for one more exchange. “Mister Wingert. Get yourself…another hat…and send me the bill. I insist.”
“I knew you liked it, ma’am. All the ladies do. Will do, Madam Justice.”
Judge was going to miss Owen.
FORTY-SIX
Three months later
NFL Football Wild Card Saturday
Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Vai Ramsay would be named NFL Offensive Rookie of the Year. “That’s my prediction,” Judge’s girlfriend Geenie told him.
They rented an RV for their trek south, the two of them making a vacation of it. Judge’s dog deputies had the week off, were staying with his farmer landlord. Repeated runs at Geenie’s FBI daughter Eve provided zilch in the way of new info on Justice Coolsummer’s fall term adventure. “National security,” Eve had said. “Above my pay grade.” Her response validated the media blackout concerning the attack on the Court. All participants and litigants in the government’s case against Senator Folsom remained gagged, subject to additional charges if they didn’t stay that way.
Also found dead were televangelist Higby Hunt and one of his church ministry’s employees, in a park near D.C. That case’s findings, according to Geenie’s daughter, were also “classified.” As far as the public knew, their murders remained unsolved. A small subset of the public, an acceptable percentage from the government’s perspective, screamed “conspiracy” and “cover up,” and for once they were right.
They entered Oak Leaf, Texas, the road sign said, passed the town’s welcome sign, and made a right at the first intersection. “He’s got five acres a little farther in,” Judge told Geenie.
He was about to say you can’t miss it, remembering how his ranch home and property looked the last time he was there two months ago, in October. A town eyesore back then but hell, not anymore. The front of the house surprised him. No truck buried in the mud ten feet from the porch, no tire ruts, and new gravel. His mailbox had been replaced. The shutters needed some paint but at least they were all up, and the roof’s missing shingles had been replaced. His Boss 302 Ford Mustang gleamed in the driveway, a buffed-up Cowboy navy blue and silver. If this scene was any indication, Owen “Chigger” Wingert had cleaned up really well.
So the deal was, Owen had invited them to see the playoff football game in Dallas. It had been a miraculous second half of the season for Judge’s Eagles. They rode the arm of their rookie quarterback phenom, with mucho touchdowns and fewer passes in the dirt. Conversely, the Cowboys had tanked the rest of the way after starting out nine-and-oh, their collapse almost as gratifying for a Philly boy like Judge as the Eagles’ turnaround had been.
The game was in Dallas because of playoff tiebreaker math. Owen had luxury skybox tickets, courtesy of the Cowboys team owner. Judge gave the man credit for honoring Owen like he had, a class move. Owen was Texas’ newest favorite son, all because of his role when the Justice Coolsummer attack went down.
It’s all good, Owen. You deserve it, buddy.
Owen’s front door opened. “Mi casa, su casa,” he said, beaming at their arrival. He kissed Geenie’s hand, winked at Judge while he did it. He and Judge fist bumped then Owen shooed them inside. His missing dreads were back. How come so soon, Judge asked him.
“Extensions,” he said, whispering. “It’s incredible the shit you can get at Goodwill.” Judge smiled, and but tried not to think about it.
Three hours to game time. Some hors d’oeuvres awaited them on his center island in the kitchen. A nice spread. But the biggest shocker was the interior of his place was spotless. “Turned over a new leaf in here, Owen?” Judge asked.
“Nah. I’m just banging the housekeeper.”
There it was, the Owen that Judge remembered.
“That give you a rise, Judge? Ha. I do have a housekeeper, and I do have a girlfriend now, but they’re not one and the same.”
They trailed Owen into the family room. Geenie took a seat on the couch. In no way could she have appreciated the hoarding spectacle she’d missed, today versus two months prior. An overwhelming difference because of what wasn’t here: his Madame Alexander doll collection. With the dolls gone, the family room walls and floor were visible. Not just visible, but surprisingly clean.
“So what happened to the dolls?” Geenie asked. Judge had primed her about them.
“Sold ’em all on eBay. All except two. Made me a small fortune.”
The two remaining dolls, Pocahontas and Judge Judy, were on the mantel. Owen was still smitten with their friend on the Supreme Court. Truth be told, Madam Justice Coolsummer had become a favorite of Judge’s, too. A tough road back for her, but she’d made it. This coming Monday…according to a Thurgood Cochran blog exclusive, the scoop from an extremely reliable source, the Babineau v Turbin Supreme Court decision would be read. Huge. But the “unnamed authority,” ahem, would not divulge to Owen what the Court’s ruling would be.
Judge’s eyes wandered. They checked out the hallway, then checked the family room’s sliding glass doors, which were behind tall drapes.
“Judge, relax. The guest room’s in good shape, and the guest bathroom’s been redone,” he said. “You guys can freshen up whenever. And I know you want to go out back for a look, so go ahead.”
He slid back the drapes, unlocked the sliding glass door. The three of them stepped outside onto the patio. Seeing the back yard restored Judge’s faith in Owen as the anti-Christ of homeowners. It was still an appliance graveyard, the only change being there was more of it. Bruce, his junkyard cat, welcomed them, getting all purry and cozy with Geenie’s leg. Judge shaded his eyes to scan his neighbor’s cattle ranch, the property backing up to Owen’s. “Where’s Señor Quixote?”
Owen shaded his eyes as well. “Right…there,” he said, pointing. “See that dark speck on the horizon a few hundred or so yards out? That’s him.”
A distant blip, something Judge thought was a railroad boxcar, the bull appearing wider than he remembered. Señor Quixote raised his head, trotted a few steps in their direction and stopped.
“Shit, he sees me,” Owen said. “C’mon, let’s get inside. He can clos
e this distance faster than you’d expect. Dude’s been acting a little odd, like he wants in the family room now that it’s cleaned out and there’s room enough for him.” Owen slid the doors shut behind them and drew the drapes. “There. Out of sight for him, out of mind. Look, my girlfriend will be here any minute. I still gotta change. My phone’s in the family room somewhere; just let it ring. Oh, and I’ve got a surprise for you, too. I’ll tell you after I shower.”
Owen disappeared down the hallway. Geenie and Judge got cozy on the couch and shared some hors d’oeuvres.
Tires kicked up gravel in the driveway; Owen called from his bathroom. “Judge, let her in. She’s here.”
Judge opened the front door, but no one was on the porch. On light feet he checked out the driveway. A small, empty sedan was now parked behind their RV. “Hello?” he said to anyone within earshot. No answer. He went on alert.
Back inside he closed the door and engaged the deadbolt. He called to Owen. “How many doors to your house?”
Owen was out of his room now, was dressed, cowboy chaps, vest, Western shirt, bolo tie, silver and blue sequined boots, his hat in hand. Another ten-gallon number. About what Judge expected.
“Front door, a side door off the kitchen, a door to the garage, a basement Bilco, and the family room slider. ’Sup? Where’s Mary Veronica?”
That name…it sounded familiar. “Who?”
“You know, from back when you were here. From the Carmelite monastery. My girlfriend. She’s the surprise.”
The tiny admin type they’d interviewed, with the big chest.
“She had my business card, called me, was all excited for me for having saved Justice Coolsummer. I invited her out for coffee, she accepted, found me charming. The rest is history.”
Now Judge remembered: the Larinda Jordan sympathizer.
Ms. Jordan’s body had never been found. Owen’s surprise was suddenly more troubling.