Rule of Law

by J. L. Brown

  —he was still alive.

  Maybe after realizing he accidentally hit someone, the drunk driver would help him. Or maybe someone heard the impact, although it had happened down the street from the last house on the block. Maybe William was still outside.

  Help me!

  Losing consciousness, the cry for help heard only in his mind.

  The car idled.

  No sound of a car door opening.

  He called out again, but still no sound came. He tried to lift his hand, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Don’t leave me.

  The engine revved.

  Please, don’t go.

  The tires squealed.

  Help me.

  He exhaled, his hopes fading.

  But wait. Something wasn’t right.

  The car sounded as if . . . as if . . . it was getting closer.

  That can’t be.

  The car accelerated backward. Joshua felt the heat of the exhaust burning his face, right before the back tires ran over it.

  I’m sorry, T.

  And then he felt nothing at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Washington, DC

  The bookstore on Connecticut Avenue was empty. Whitney stopped to scan the biography section before choosing a book on Franklin D. Roosevelt she had not read. If she were going to resurrect him now, it behooved her to learn everything about him.

  The Secret Service had cleared the store of patrons and staff before her arrival, except for one employee. An avid reader, Whitney visited one of the local independent bookstores at least once a month, schedule permitting.

  She moved on to the glass case where they kept the first editions. Collecting them was her hobby. She pointed to and examined and returned several books to the employee before selecting a first edition of Emma by Jane Austen.

  The book was in good condition. Touching the slightly worn cover, she thought about her son, who seemed to be getting his act together; her activist daughter whose name in script she stared at on the cover; and the media who had seemed out to get her ever since she declared her candidacy for the presidency.

  Family came first. Perhaps, it was time they all got together. She made a mental note to tell Sean to schedule it.

  Her thoughts turned to her vice president, Xavi Fernandez. What was he up to? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Was it the New New Deal legislation? Or something more sinister? She could ask him directly; he would just lie about it. She shouldn’t have to deal with this now.

  Trust between a president and vice president was vital and the only way they could work together. He should have been her partner, as Al Gore was to Bill Clinton. Then again, if she wanted a partner, she should have selected someone else. But she had gotten greedy.

  She wanted Florida.

  Since the inauguration, she had continued to meet with Xavi every Tuesday for lunch. No minutes were kept. Not much was accomplished. But she liked to keep her friends close and her enemies closer.

  Which was Xavi?

  Conflict in the workplace didn’t bother her. A difference of opinion was a good thing. Healthy. It improved decision-making. As long as the conflict stayed within the White House. Beyond, the two of them needed to present a united front.

  Moving to the young adult section, she smiled as she passed the Twilight books. “Twilight” was the Secret Service agents’ code name for her, because of her weakness for young-adult fiction. She spotted Josh near the front door and winked. The agent returned the wink with a smile. She stopped when she saw an interesting book cover: The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen. She grabbed it.

  She headed down an aisle toward the cash register, where the employee stood, waiting for her. Whitney handed her the book to add to the almost-filled white bag with the bookstore’s green logo, and strolled around the store one final time.

  As she passed the politics section, a title caught her eye.

  Why not?

  She selected a recent edition of The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli and smiled. She had read the political treatise many times. If Xavi Fernandez were present to witness her smile, he would be concerned.

  And nervous. Maybe even afraid.

  “Madam President?” Josh called out to her, still near the door. She turned to see the tall woman nod at him, the look that passed between law enforcement officers that were good at their jobs. “Agent Harrington is here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Washington, DC

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t make it yesterday. I was . . . uh . . . busy.”

  “I understand.”

  I don’t think you do.

  Jade glanced around the store, gingerly, her head still pounding from the whiskey. “It must be nice to have a bookstore to yourself.”

  The president smiled. “The presidency has its privileges.” Her expression changed to concern. “Are you all right?”

  They sat in two overused comfortable chairs in the center of the store, the bag of books next to Fairchild’s feet.

  “Never better.” Jade raised her chin at the bag. “You had a successful day.”

  The president glanced at the books and back at her. “Agent Harrington, I need your help.”

  “Did you already talk to my boss?”

  Fairchild shook her head, laughing. “I apologize for that. I guess that was cheating, but I don’t like to be told no. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Jade conceded the point. “We checked out Stevens. He’s been arrested several times for disturbing the peace. Protests. Sit-ins.”

  The president seemed distracted. “Good.” She paused. “Have you been watching the news? About me? My aunt? The congressman?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The president hesitated. “I may be opening Pandora’s box here, but I need to know.”

  Jade waited.

  “ABC News is reporting that my aunt and my predecessor in Congress died under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Did they?”

  “Aunt Mary died a year before I was elected to Congress. She lived in a suburb outside of Chicago. My parents told me at the time she died from natural causes. Congressman Barrett died in a one-car accident in Missouri. I know that stretch of road. It’s curvy and dangerous. Especially at night.”

  “And ABC is insinuating that you had something to do with their deaths. That you profited in some way?”

  “My aunt was a widow, who took me in when I needed her. That’s not common knowledge, by the way. I had nothing to gain from her passing. The rep’s death gave me the opportunity to run in the special election to replace him. But I was not thinking of running for national office when he died. I was happy working for the state government.”

  “Why did she take you in? Your aunt.”

  “Let’s just say I needed time away from my parents.”

  Jade believed there was more to the story. She let it go for now.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I need you to find out what ABC has. They claim to have investigative materials on Congressman Barrett’s death, which they turned over to the local police. I want to be informed of everything they have before it becomes public.”

  What am I? J. Edgar Hoover?

  “You have people who can take care of this for you. Why me?”

  “Because I trust you,” said the most powerful person in the world. “And in this job, I can’t say that about too many people.”

  *

  After leaving the bookstore, she returned to the Bureau. The conversation with the president had unsettled her. She stopped by Pat Turner’s cubicle. “I need to talk to you.”

  She headed to her office.

  Jade sat behind her desk. “Shut the door and have a seat.”

  Pat cocked her head, but did as she was told. Jade told her about the meeting with President Fairchild and the president’s request for her help.

  Pat processed the information in silence and th
en said, “Do you think this has something to do with the TSK case?”

  Jade had wondered the same thing.

  “I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Washington, DC

  “Jade, come to my office. Bring Merritt.”

  She had just booted up her computer. Frowning, she locked the system and left her office. She pointed at Christian sitting in his cubicle and pointed toward Ethan’s office, as if she were still a point guard directing a play on the basketball court. She knocked once on Ethan’s door and strolled in, Christian right behind her.

  She sat in one of the guest chairs.

  In a wry tone, Ethan said, “Come in.”

  She gave him an unapologetic smile. They waited for Christian to settle in the chair next to her.

  “What’s wrong with you two?” Ethan asked.

  “Nothing,” Christian said.

  “I need more coffee,” she said.

  “I don’t think that’s it.” He scrutinized them. “Are you hungover?”

  “No,” said Christian.

  “Not really,” Jade added.

  “I need you to sober up,” Ethan said, a sad look crossing his face. “A teenage boy was murdered late last night. Hit-and-run.”

  She sat up. “Where?”

  “Virginia. Fairfax.”

  Christian leaned in. “Did he go to Randolph?”

  “Yes.”

  Christian pounded his fist on the armrest.

  Jade felt sadness for the murdered boy’s parents. And then, just as quickly, anger at whoever took these young persons’ lives.

  She stared at Ethan, as her pulse quickened, knowing what was coming. “And?”

  “Fairfax County police have requested our assistance.” He handed her a thin folder. “It’s your case now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Fairfax, Virginia

  Jade drove through the new subdivision, Dante in the passenger seat beside her, Micah in back. Christian had taken personal leave for the afternoon to attend a conference with a school guidance counselor about his son, Mark.

  Joshua Stewart’s parents lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood with ample yards, but the houses in this neighborhood were not as big as the ones in the Rawlins’s neighborhood. Sod had not been laid yet in some of the lots. Empty lots separated homes at various stages of construction. They wouldn’t be empty for long. The real-estate market in the DC area, especially at the upper end of the market, was hot.

  She drove down Meadowbrook Drive, but slowed when she saw a familiar figure washing a car. Shirtless and barefooted, he wore baseball pants.

  She lowered the window. “I didn’t know you lived in this neighborhood.”

  William Chaney-Frost walked toward them, stopping at the curb. “That surprises me, Agent Harrington. I thought you knew everything.”

  “Not everything.” She looked up at the gathering clouds. “It’s going to rain.”

  He followed her gaze. “My dad doesn’t care.” He waved the sponge at the car behind him. “His new wheels. He’s trying to keep me busy. I’m grounded indefinitely. ‘Cause of the party.” He inched up his chin. “Going to the Stewarts?”

  “Mind if I look?”

  “At what? The car?”

  She nodded.

  He squinted at her. “Never seen a Porsche up close before?”

  “Something like that.”

  She didn’t have a warrant, but she interpreted his question as an invitation. She hopped out of the car and started walking to the front of the Porsche. Another car door opened and closed behind her.

  She squatted and examined the bumper, Micah next to her. He looked at her and at the bumper but said nothing.

  No dents. No chipped paint. This wasn’t the car that hit Joshua Stewart.

  “Nice, huh?” William said.

  “What about you? Where’s your car?”

  “Don’t have one. Not sixteen yet.”

  Jade headed back to her car.

  “Agent Harrington?”

  She turned.

  William glanced down the street and back at her. “I hope you catch who did it. J-man was my friend.”

  *

  “Anything we need to know?” Micah asked from the back seat.

  “Not sure yet.”

  She turned right onto Cedarbrook Way.

  “These street names are peaceful,” she said.

  “Makes you want to puke,” Dante replied.

  She glanced at him. “Lovely.”

  Dante’s left hand was resting on the dashboard. His fingers were long, his hands graceful. She hadn’t noticed this about him before.

  “I think the names are quite lovely,” Micah said from behind them.

  She could listen to his accent all day.

  Dante turned in his seat. “What are you, queer?”

  “Shut up, Dante,” she said.

  “You don’t have to be gay to like nice things,” Micah said, in a quiet voice, his eyes meeting Jade’s in the rearview mirror.

  She cut her eyes back to the road.

  She parked at the curb in front of the lone house, midway down the street.

  The door opened to a slender man with glasses.

  “Mr. Stewart? I spoke to your wife earlier. May we come in and talk to you about your son?”

  The man exhaled. “Sure.”

  Stepping aside, he led them into a generous living room. A leather sectional sofa took up most of the room, facing a flat-screen TV that hung on the wall over the fireplace.

  “My wife will be down soon.”

  Situated, she said, “Mr. Stewart, can you tell us what happened?”

  “Please, call me Joe.”

  He repeated what she had already learned from Det. Chutimant on the phone that morning. That Joshua went to a party and never came home. A parent’s worst nightmare. He didn’t mention that his son was struck by a hit-and-run driver, or rather, a hit-and-hit-and-run driver. Per Chutimant, the driver had been going over forty miles an hour. She also mentioned that Joshua still possessed his private parts.

  “The time of death was close to midnight,” Jade said. “Weren’t you concerned that he was out late?”

  “Not really. He was just down the street. Wasn’t driving. Joshua never gave us any trouble.”

  “Did your son have any enemies?”

  Before he could answer, a woman descended the staircase and entered the living room. She didn’t bother to shake their hands. She sat near her husband.

  Jade repeated her question.

  “Well—” Joe Stewart said.

  “Of course not,” his wife said. “He was a good kid, a baseball player. Smart. He planned to go to UVA or William and Mary.”

  “Mr. Stewart?”

  He glanced at his wife, then back at Jade. “Sometimes I noticed bruises and scratches. On his arm and—”

  “That’s from playing sports. Everyone who plays a contact sport gets bruises.”

  “Baseball isn’t really a contact sport,” Joe Stewart replied. “He had this cut on his forehead. We had to take him to the doctor. I asked Joshua how he got it. He said he ran into a door.”

  “See!” his wife said.

  “He didn’t run into a door, Cindy,” Stewart said. He looked at Jade. “Lately, he had become withdrawn, thoughtful, more”—he paused, searching for the right word—“introspective over the last year.”

  “He was finally growing up,” his wife said.

  Joe Stewart continued to stare at Jade. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think he was being bullied.”

  “By whom?”

  “If I had to guess, I would say Zach Rawlins.”

  A pinch came to Cindy Stewart’s lips. “Zach . . . He never lived up to his mother’s high standards . . . until he died. And then he became the perfect son.” She confided to Jade. “His parents pressured him to succeed at sports.”

  Joe Stewart scoffed. “His mother wasn’t the problem. It was his father. Always
yelling at his son. The refs. Coaches. Players. Even other parents. He acted as if they were playing in the World Series instead of a JV game.”

  “He was just passionate,” his wife said. “She, on the other hand, bullied her son with silence.”

  The agents’ heads swiveled like at a tennis match. Jade was okay with that. She let them speak. You learned more by listening than speaking.

  “I never liked the way he spoke to Joshua,” Joe Stewart said.

  “Zach?” Jade asked.

  “The father.”

  From Dante: “Was your son a bully?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Cindy Stewart said. “It’s just a bunch of boys being boys. You’re too sensitive, Joe, really.”

  “I may be sensitive, but I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll bet Zach Rawlins had something to do with Tyler Thompson’s death. And my son’s.”

  “Why is that?” asked Micah.

  “That boy was trouble.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The White House, Washington, DC

  Whitney dropped the Los Angeles Times on the table, among the other newspapers she perused every morning with her breakfast in the residence kitchen: the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, and the Guardian.

  She refilled her coffee, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip.

  The lead story in every paper was the same: income-inequality protests in its own city and other major cities. The number of people participating increased with each successive protest. And the tenor was changing. She felt it.

  Violence was coming.

  She muted the television.

  ABC News’s stories about the deaths of her aunt and the congressman had not been reported widely by the rest of the media. The story wasn’t dead. Judy would never let it go.