“Woo-wee!” shouted Tex.
The gun, thought Charlotte. She reached into the box behind her seat, tossing picture frames, pens, and other supplies aside until she found what she was looking for. She pulled the pistol from the holster and aimed it at Tex.
“Stop the truck! Now!”
Tex’s eyes nearly popped from his head. He hit the brakes so hard that Charlotte’s gun flew from her hand. Charlotte screamed, and Tex screamed even louder. The truck swerved, and Tex’s overcorrection sent them skidding in circles, completely out of control. In the blur, Charlotte caught a glimpse of the moon before the pickup ricocheted off a parked car and spun in another direction. The air bag exploded in Charlotte’s face and then collapsed, but the pickup kept skidding toward the guardrail at the end of the street. It was like peering out from the center of a spiraling tornado—spinning, swirling. The front end slammed into the guardrail, and momentum carried the truck right over the top. The pickup nearly rolled over but righted itself and continued down the embankment. Charlotte’s arms flailed and her whole body jerked, her head slamming forward and back against the headrest. The passenger-side window exploded into glass pellets that hit Charlotte’s shoulder like buckshot. The skidding finally stopped, and the cabin tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, as if the truck were struggling with all its might not to roll over. The battle was lost. It was like slow motion, the final tumble in the dryer, as the truck rolled onto its side and then came to rest on its roof.
Charlotte was hanging upside down, and the rush of blood to her head made her dizzy and disoriented. It was dark beyond the windshield, both headlights out. The dim glow of dashboard lights was enough to illuminate Tex suspended upside down from the driver seat beside her. His arms hung lifelessly toward the ground.
Charlotte smelled gasoline. “We have to get out!”
Tex didn’t respond.
Charlotte had one hand on her seat belt, and with the other she held tightly to the door handle. The idea was to unbuckle and not land on her head, a victim of gravity, but she was only moderately successful. She landed on her shoulder, which sent a stinging pain all the way down her arm. She was looking up at Tex. A drop of blood from his mouth landed on Charlotte’s forehead.
“Help!” she screamed, hoping that someone had seen the crash and was on the way.
Charlotte tried her door handle, but the passenger door was stuck. She reached across the inverted steering wheel and tried the driver’s side, but it was stuck, too. The only way out was through the broken passenger-side window. She didn’t want to leave Tex hanging like a side of beef, but if she unbuckled him in this unconscious state, he would probably break his neck.
Gotta get help.
Her mind was a fog, but she crawled toward the open window, the glass pellets crunching beneath her elbows. Adrenaline took her only so far. She was half in, half out of the cab when all strength seemed to leave her. She felt almost numb. She called out for help—“Somebody, please!”—but it was barely audible. Charlotte felt herself slipping away. The odor of gasoline gave way to the smell of fallen leaves in the woods around her. She could feel the cool earth beneath her shoulder blades, and for an instant she thought she could even see stars in the black sky above the canopy of the forest.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. A pair of hands. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and in the blur, she noticed that the hands were protruding from the sleeves of a jacket—a camouflage jacket, like the one she’d seen earlier, when she was being watched.
Then the night turned even darker.
Chapter 15
Jack took the early-morning flight out of Miami and was in Tallahassee by 8:30 a.m.
The phone call from his father had come after midnight, and, with aging parents, Jack’s first thought was that it was the dreaded call in the middle of the night. It took him a moment to wake and realize what his father was saying, that it was Charlotte who was in the hospital. Even then, a “car accident” didn’t compute. Charlotte’s press conference had only escalated the death threats that electors around the country were getting from extremists on both sides. Jack had his doubts about an “accident.”
Charlotte was at Tallahassee Memorial Hospital, one of the few Level II trauma centers available. It served a five-county area that included everyone from the governor to gator hunters, from college students to retirees, which meant that TMH saw more than its fair share of car crashes, boating accidents, hunting mishaps, overdoses, and other emergencies. The twenty-minute drive from the airport took Jack past Florida A&M University, Florida’s first coeducational university, a distinction “earned” because state law once dictated that FSU serve white women and the University of Florida serve white men. So much had changed in Florida; so much had not.
“I’m here to see Charlotte Holmes,” Jack told the ER receptionist. He started to explain his relationship to the patient, but the receptionist quickly recognized him from the press conference; in Tallahassee, public interest in politics extended well beyond the Capitol Complex.
“Ms. Holmes is resting in a recovery bay,” she said.
Recovery bay. Jack had visited enough emergency rooms to know that it was code for “She’s lying around doing nothing while we wait for one of the doctors to find the time to write a discharge order.”
“‘Recovery’ sounds like a good thing,” said Jack.
“Yes. It was a full house here last night. I’d be shocked if Ms. Holmes got any sleep before six, so I can’t guarantee she’s awake.”
“I’d like to check on her,” said Jack.
The receptionist printed a visitor badge and buzzed Jack through the automatic entry doors. The ER was one large room with a busy nursing station in the center and patient bays lining all four walls. Privacy curtains hung by chains from the ceiling. Some bays were open, others were closed, several with patients groaning from behind a pulled curtain. Jack found Charlotte in Bay No. 5 in the corner, plastic curtain parted. Her adjustable bed was in the upright position, forcing her to sit up. She seemed both surprised and glad to see her lawyer.
“How are you feeling?” Jack asked.
“Like I got hit by a truck. Literally.”
Jack closed the privacy curtain so they could talk—not that it would stop their voices from traveling, but it would at least send passersby the message not to eavesdrop. Charlotte recounted what had happened and what she knew, which included good news about Tex, whose only injury was a lacerated tongue from his own bite, though he would need a good lawyer to explain his blood-alcohol level. Amazing, Jack thought, how it was always the drunk who walked away from a car crash.
“Have you talked to the police yet?” he asked.
“Yes. There was an officer here a little while ago.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Her. Basically what I just told you. I also mentioned that there’s a man who seems to be watching me since I got back to Tallahassee.”
“A stalker, you mean?”
“He was with the group of demonstrators outside my house when I got home from the airport. I’m pretty sure he was standing across the street when I left Madeline’s office. And here’s the creepy part: I think he pulled me out of the truck after the crash.”
“Are you sure it was the same guy?” asked Jack.
“I didn’t get a good look at the face, so I’m not a hundred percent sure. But how many people are there walking around wearing camouflage jackets and a baseball cap.”
“What did the cop tell you?”
“She said somebody used my phone to text nine-one-one. I didn’t even know you could reach nine-one-one by text.”
“It’s not everywhere, but the FCC is pushing for it.”
“Still, why use my phone and text, no voice? And he left before the ambulance got there. Now, don’t you think that’s weird?”
“It’s weird if it was the same guy in all three places: your house, across the street, and at the accident. But if it was just somebody who
saw the truck careen down the hill, maybe he just didn’t want to get involved.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s an illegal alien. Maybe he was in a hurry. Maybe he was afraid you’d hire an ambulance-chasing lawyer to sue him for smearing your makeup when he pulled you away from the truck. Who knows what goes through people’s heads?”
“I guess.”
“Did you give the cops a description?”
“I really couldn’t tell her much more than a camouflage jacket and cap. I didn’t get the sense that she plans to do anything about it anyway.”
“That’s not surprising,” said Jack. “Even when a victim can identify her stalker, it’s sad how little the police can do.”
The silhouette of a woman approached outside the curtain, and she appeared to be dressed in a business suit, not ER scrubs. Jack opened the curtain. It took him only a second to recognize the Florida attorney general, Paulette Barrow, who introduced the man with her as Josh Kutter, state attorney for Leon County. Two officers from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement were with them.
“I’m not familiar with criminal practice in Tallahassee,” said Jack, “but sending out a team like this to interview the victim of a car accident can’t be standard operating procedure. Are you here about the stalker she reported?”
“No, we have another concern.” At the attorney general’s direction, one of the FDLE officers handed Jack a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a handgun. “This was found at the scene,” said Barrow. “Does this belong to you, Ms. Holmes?”
“Could you tell me why you want to know?” Jack asked.
Barrow ignored him. “Ms. Holmes, I can tell you that we checked, and this gun is registered in your name.”
Jack’s instincts told him to shut this down. “Sorry, General, but if you won’t answer my questions, I can’t let my client answer yours.”
“Not sure what she has to hide,” said Barrow.
“Ms. Holmes was nearly killed by some jerk who recognized her from television. She told the officer who interviewed her this morning that a stalker has been following her since she got home last night. Rather than show concern for the safety of a Florida elector who’s clearly in danger,” he said, his voice rising with incredulity, “you’re here with the state attorney asking about a handgun? Something tells me you’re not here to help her.”
Barrow looked at Charlotte. “Let me ask you this, Ms. Holmes: Was the driver of that truck trying to kill you?”
“I don’t think he was suicidal, if that’s what you’re asking. He was drunk and having fun with his buddy scaring the crap out of me.”
“Rest assured, he’s in plenty of trouble,” said Barrow. “Now, about the gun.”
“We’re not answering questions about a gun,” said Jack.
Barrow was plainly annoyed. “Can I see you for a minute in private, please?”
Jack agreed, but Charlotte wanted a word with him before he left. She waited for the law enforcement officers to step away and spoke in a soft voice. “I have a concealed-carry permit,” she whispered. “If that’s what this is about, there’s no problem.”
“Good to know,” said Jack. He stepped away and followed Barrow and the state attorney around the busy nurses’ station to a vacant examination room. The attorney general closed the door, but Jack could still see his client through the glass wall.
“I know you’re just doing your job, but I choose to skip this dance,” said the attorney general. “Ms. Holmes is going to be charged.”
“Charged with what?”
“Illegal possession of armor-piercing ammunition. It’s a felony under Florida statutes.”
Cop-killer bullets. They were illegal in most states—even in Florida.
“Are you saying you found illegal ammunition in her concealed carry?”
“FDLE officers recovered an assortment of personal belongings that got tossed around inside the truck, including an ammo can with eight boxes of ammunition inside. Seven boxes of standard nine-millimeter identical to the ammunition in Ms. Holmes’s Glock. And one box of nine-millimeter armor-piercing bullets.”
“My client is a responsible gun owner. That ammunition can’t be hers.”
“Then how did it get in her ammo can?”
Jack couldn’t say for certain until he spoke to his client, but this sure smelled like dirty politics. “By any chance would a felony conviction disqualify Ms. Holmes from serving in the Electoral College?”
Barrow took a step back, as if wounded by the insinuation. “Are you suggesting that someone planted illegal ammunition for political advantage?”
Jack had seen evidence planted in cases with far less than a presidential election at stake. “When do you plan to bring charges?” asked Jack.
“As soon as the state attorney can file the information.”
The “information” was a formal criminal charge. In Florida, indictment by a grand jury was required only in a capital case, and most criminal proceedings began with an information filed by the state attorney.
“This is a terrible political miscalculation on your part,” said Jack. “There’s no way to get a conviction on this charge before the Electoral College meets next month.”
“It’s a two-hour trial with one witness. I think our judicial system can handle it.”
“I’ll move to postpone it.”
“Then it’ll be up to the judge,” said Barrow. “An elected judge who owes his or her job to voters who went overwhelmingly for President MacLeod. Good luck.”
Jack wished he had a recording of this conversation, if only to explain to friends why this Swyteck had never ventured into politics. “Tell President MacLeod he isn’t going to win this fight,” said Jack. “Even if he does have the Florida attorney general in his ammo can.”
Chapter 16
The state attorney didn’t drive straight back to his office. He said goodbye to the attorney general in the parking lot outside the ER, and then, on his own, stopped to see Madeline Chisel.
Josh Kutter prided himself on being thorough and cautious. Two tours of duty in Iraq had taught him the bloody consequences of rushed and uninformed decision making. Under his leadership, the state attorney’s office had a 90 percent conviction rate, due in part to a talented prosecutorial team, but also due to prudent decisions about which cases to prosecute. Under normal circumstances, he would probably defer to a junior prosecutor’s judgment in a case built on possession of armor-piercing ammunition. These were not normal circumstances.
Chisel was seated behind an old oak desk. Kutter sat in the armchair, wondering if, hidden behind the front desk panel, there lurked a permanently mounted shotgun, loaded and aimed straight at his groin, just in case Madeline found herself in need of self-defense.
“Ms. Chisel, the driver involved in last night’s accident told us that when he picked up Ms. Holmes outside your office, she had a box of belongings.”
“Yes. I packed up her things from her desk.”
“Did you pack any ammunition in that box?”
“There was an ammo can. We all keep a few hundred extra rounds at our desk. When you’re a gun lobbyist, you have people all the time threatening to give you a taste of your own medicine. Somebody walks in here with a grudge and an AR-15, he’s gonna regret it.”
“Would it surprise you to hear that we found cop-killer ammunition in that ammo can?”
“After Charlotte said she’s voting for Senator Stahl, nothing surprises me.”
“You know it’s illegal, right?”
“If by cop-killer ammo you mean a bullet with a steel inner core and a truncated cone that is designed for use in a handgun and to pierce body armor—then, yes, it’s illegal. Unless you’re a law enforcement officer.”
“Impressive,” said Kutter.
“I helped write the statute,” said Chisel.
“Of course you did. But here’s my question: Could you swear under oath that nobody touched that ammo can and swappe
d out lawful ammunition for cop-killer ammunition before Ms. Holmes walked out of this office with her box of belongings?”
“Are you asking if it’s possible that somebody in this office could have gone into Charlotte’s desk and made that swap?”
“Yes, I am.”
“All I can do is tell the truth,” said Madeline.
“That’s all I want,” said the prosecutor. “The truth.”
Madeline leaned forward, resting on her forearms, eyes narrowing. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Kutter?”
President MacLeod was in what his White House staff called “volcanic mode.”
“What do you mean the charge was never filed!” he shouted—screamed, actually.
The windows in the West Wing were bulletproof. When the president exploded like this, the better question was whether they were “MacLeod-proof.” Fears were especially high when the eruptions coincided with his indoor putting practice on the White House carpet. Many a presidential club lay at the bottom of golf-course water hazards, and his staff had a running bet on how soon it would be until he sent one sailing across the Oval Office.
The president was still fuming as he lined up his next putt. His chief strategist took a step back, out of the president’s line, and explained.
“The state attorney in Leon County decided that the case against Charlotte Holmes is not strong enough to move forward.”
MacLeod smacked the little white ball so hard it ricocheted off the credenza and slammed into the historic Resolute Desk, no apologies offered to previous presidents who had taken such good care of it. He glared at Teague, his face red with anger. “Who the hell is the state attorney of Leon County to make that decision?”
Teague was flummoxed. “He—uh . . . frankly, sir, he would be the chief prosecuting officer that voters duly elected to oversee all criminal cases in the Second Judicial District of Florida.”
MacLeod laid his golf club aside, went to his desk, and inspected the mark left by the errant putt. He was told that the nineteenth-century partner-style desk was a gift from Queen Victoria to then president Rutherford B. Hayes, made from the English oak timbers of the British Arctic exploration ship HMS Resolute. Nobody would notice another dent.
The Big Lie Page 8