Roaches Run

by John Wasowicz

  “You know what would be funny?” another congressional staffer said to him while working on the bill. “What if someone bought property near a potential terrorist target in the hope the place actually got bombed? You could buy a piece of real estate and receive triple payback if the place got destroyed by terrorists.” Everyone laughed, including Spates.

  Over the next decade, he bought parcels of real estate along the railroad line near Capitol Hill. He didn’t buy them with any sinister intent. He just thought the properties were underpriced and that he’d make a killing in the market in the long run.

  He took a hit during the 2009 financial crisis. Real estate plummeted. Then it rebounded. And just when he was preparing to sell and cash in, COVID-19 hit. The commercial real estate market stalled in the big cities, including D.C. Although it bounced back, the future was uncertain.

  He needed a way out.

  And then he remembered the joke that one of the staffers made about the 9/11 bill. That night, Spate drew a series of concentric circles around Capitol Hill, using the U.S. Capitol as the center.

  Now, as he prepared to execute the plan, Spates believed fate had dealt him a winning hand. The mayhem that unfolded at the U.S. Capitol on January 6 leant legitimacy to the belief that the nation’s capital was a target for extremists. In the ensuing rubble, Spates saw dollar signs flashing in front of him.

  **

  “THOMAS MANN?”

  “Yes,” Mann replied. “Who is this?”

  “I called you last year about Philip Landry.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mann replied, acting surprised.

  The screen on his phone told him it was Vanessa Wilson. Her name and number had remained in his phone since her last call. He had actually Googled her when she previously contacted him, and he had never forgotten that she was a beautiful woman. At that time, she discussed her complaint against Landry for sexual harassment. Slowly but surely the case was winding its way through the system. Landry was a predator and she wanted to take him down.

  Mann leaned back in his chair in the editorial office of The Washington Chronicle. The newsroom was deserted. Congress was out of town for the holiday. Some of his friends remained isolated in their apartments while others had embarked for the Vineyard or the Outer Banks. Anyone who remained in town was teleworking and filing their stories electronically. “I’m glad to hear from you,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “He’s up to no good.”

  He knew she was referring to Landry. “What sort of no good?” he asked.

  “If I tell you, will you write about it? Or will it be like the last time? I poured out my soul to you and you didn’t print a single word.”

  “I wanted to, believe me, but I didn’t have enough independent information to corroborate your story. I understand you’re upset with me. But I can’t print something based on one person’s word. These are serious allegations and I have to be on solid footing.”

  Wilson sighed. “That’s the problem,” she said. “I’ve been looking at these documents for the past few hours and I can’t make any sense out of them. All I know is he’s up to something bad.”

  “Are you in a safe place?” Mann asked. “Physically, I mean. Are you in a safe location?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, a little surprised. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Can I see the documents you’re talking about?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I can bring them home with me. You’re welcome to come to my house and look at them.”

  “When’s a good time to meet with you?”

  **

  Nine Years Earlier

  MANN KNEW the Chronicle had submitted his series on the Pena Inquiry for a Pulitzer Prize but he never expected it to be seriously considered for the award. He was floored when he learned he’d won for writing the best investigative series. Champagne flowed in the newsroom and coworkers crowded around to offer their heartfelt congratulations. The prize boosted morale and created new hope that the upstart newspaper might defy the odds and stay in business. Mann had the scoop of the year, akin to vaunted D.C. journalism coups like the Pentagon Papers and Watergate.

  His series focused on Fernando Pena, a Justice Department official who led an inquiry into alleged improprieties committed by Phil Landry, who at the time worked for the Alexandria Police Department. The investigation — dubbed The Pena Inquiry — concluded that Landry manipulated the system to coax pleas out of defendants to close cold cases. Mann’s series raised questions about Pena’s motives and techniques. It suggested he doctored documents, misappropriated funds, and withheld vital information in conducting his inquiry.

  As The Chronicle published its stories, Pena lost credibility and came under suspicion himself. Within days, his investigation unraveled. In the end, Landry received a letter of apology for questioning his integrity.

  Mann never revealed his “Deep Throat.” If he had, there would have been an understandable skepticism about the legitimacy of the allegations against Pena. While Mann claimed the anonymity of his source had to be protected, the truth was he wanted to hide the identity of his source: Phil Landry.

  **

  MANN CALLED STONE. They knew one another from the days when he was a beat reporter covering the courthouse scene in Alexandria and Arlington. She was a rookie. Mann knew about her problems with drugs. At the time, she was a rebel and an outcast, a far cry from the role model and rising star that she appeared to be today. He recalled how her drug problems almost got her thrown out of the department. Only deft lawyering by Mo Katz — her defense attorney at the time — salvaged her career. Mann believed that, if ever there was a fallen angel who had earned her redemption, it was Stoner, a nickname that close friends used affectionately to the present day. One thing that escaped the reporter’s watchful eye, however, was the fact that Landry had blackmailed Stone, using her weakness to get her to back off pursuing leads during the Pena Inquiry.

  “On good authority, I understand something’s brewing in D.C. this weekend,” Mann said. “If you provide me with details, I’ll keep my story under wraps until it breaks. Deep background.”

  Stone sensed Mann was fishing. “I haven’t the foggiest,” she said.

  “Come on, Stoner. I just want to be on top of things when they break. You know how it is.”

  She did not entirely trust him, but she was curious as to what he knew about the Spates operation. And she was willing to trade information for whatever intel he possessed. Maybe there’s more to it. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Downtown. I can drive to Virginia and meet with you, if you like.” No response. “Come on, Stoner.” He put down another card. “According to my source, it has something to do with that body at Four Mile Run.” It was a gamble, but his instincts told him to take it. “I’m going to keep digging,” he pressed. “If I inadvertently blow the lid off this thing, don’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.”

  Stone was hooked. Coming on top of that comment this morning about someone possibly leaking information, this call seemed too timely to be just fishing. Plus, she acknowledged, Mann could do more damage with a little information than with a lot. “Okay. I’ll meet you in Tysons in a half hour,” she said. She gave him the name of a restaurant on Route 7 and they agreed to meet outside of the place.

  “Damn,” Mann said to himself after he hung up. “I’m good.”

  Chapter Three: Afternoon

  THEY SAT outside at a small square table on chairs that scraped the sidewalk. The inside of the restaurant was nearly empty, a continuing sign of the impact of COVID-19. Mann didn’t record Stone or take notes. Their conversation was short and to the point.

  “We’ve been keeping tabs on Hugh Spates,” Stone began.

  Mann knew Spates by reputation: slick lobbyist, in and out of trouble with congressional oversight committees and federal investigators, sued twice for failing to adhere to regulatory requirements. Acquitted both times. Spates was either a sleazy operator or an effective advocate, depe
nding on whether you were investigating his services or paying for them.

  “He’s planning to take advantage of a provision in a bill he helped write to provide compensation to property owners whose buildings get damaged from terrorist attacks on nearby federal facilities,” she said.

  From his surprised look, she immediately sensed that she’d said too much and shared no further details with him. She also knew he would have an easy enough time piecing this information together and checking public real estate records to know where the “attack” would be staged. “I’ve got to go,” she said, rising abruptly. “If you release anything about this, I’ll kill you, metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  Realizing the conversation had gone sideways, Mann said, “Listen, before you go, there’s something I have to tell you. Full disclosure, Stoner. You shared something with me that I didn’t know about. Now it’s my turn to share something with you.”

  Stone sat back down and pushed her chair closer to the table. “Go on,” she said.

  “Phil Landry is up to something. I don’t know the details. I got a call from his assistant, who’s got an outstanding complaint against him for harassment. I’m going out to look at some documents she pulled off his computer. I’ll share them with you, if you want.”

  “Okay, what exactly did she tell you?” Stone asked.

  “He’s got some crazy scheme. It involves three people. That’s about all I know. If you’re interested, why don’t you join me?”

  Landry again. “I’d like to,” Stone said without hesitation. She looked at her phone to check the time. “Hang on a minute.” She texted the team that her brief would resume at 3 p.m., later than scheduled.

  She wondered if there was a connection between the operations planned by Spates and Landry. If so, Landry was gathering inside information by attending her briefing. She would have to tailor the afternoon session accordingly.

  **

  “IT LOOKS like we’ve got a reprieve,” Santana said, looking at the text message on his phone. “Stone just postponed the briefing.” He was having lunch with Lin and her husband, David Reese, in a half-filled diner. Since Santana and Lin worked closely together, they had formed a work “pod” so they felt safe dining together. Now with time to spare, they summoned the waitress back and ordered dessert.

  The conversation turned to Reese’s first jury trial as a newly minted assistant commonwealth attorney.

  Jury trials had been shut down until late in 2020, when the Virginia Supreme Court approved a plan to resume them in compliance with CDC guidelines.

  “It’s been a logistical nightmare, but it’s something that couldn’t be delayed any longer,” Reese said. “People are wearing masks, temperatures are being taken, riders are restricted in elevators, and jurors are sitting apart from one another in the jury box.”

  “It’s remarkable,” Lin commented.

  “People have a constitutional right to a trial by jury,” Reese said. “Smart defense attorneys began demanding juries for cases that normally would plead out. The docket got all snarled up. As a result, we cut some incredibly attractive deals to get people to plead. In this case, there wasn’t room to negotiate so we took it to trial.”

  “So tell me about it,” Santana said.

  “It was an aggravated assault case against a woman who rammed her vehicle into her ex-boyfriend’s car,” Reese explained. “She was waiting for him, pulled her car from the curb, gunned her vehicle into his, and struck the driver’s side. They needed the Jaws of Life to get him out.”

  “How much time did she pull?” Santana asked.

  “They found her not guilty.”

  Santana chuckled. “What was her defense?”

  “Sexual assault.”

  “No, I mean, what was her defense for driving her car into his?”

  “Sexual assault.”

  Santana waited for a further explanation.

  “She claimed he assaulted her earlier in the day and was driving to her apartment to do more harm,” Reese explained. “She cut him off at the pass, so to speak.” Santana chuckled, but Reese didn’t appear amused. “Here’s the thing,” he continued. “There was no evidence he ever physically assaulted her. No prior police report, no bruises, nothing. I think she acted out of a jealous rage and then made up that story to win over the jury.”

  “Well, it worked,” Santana observed.

  Reese winced. “Yeah, but she took advantage of the jurors’ sympathy to escape punishment.”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad about it,” Lin interjected. “It happens all the time, doesn’t it, Curtis? I mean, maybe it was a credible defense. And you can’t blame her attorney for being creative in trying to get her off.”

  “She’s right, David,” Santana said.

  Reese shook his head and said, “It shouldn’t be that way.”

  “You’re too altruistic,” Lin said.

  “You have to expect results like this,” Santana added. “A defendant will use every trick in the book to win an acquittal. And you can’t blame them. After all, they’re fighting for their lives.”

  “Even so,” Reese said, “a jury is supposed to view a case dispassionately and return a verdict of guilt if the elements of the offense have been proven beyond a reasonable doubt. In this case, there was no evidence supporting her claim. All of the evidence pointed in the opposite direction, namely that she planned to assault him.

  “It’s not like she was acting in self-defense. The jury was seduced by her story.” He sunk his head. “It was my first case and I did it the right way. The jury disregarded everything I presented and set her free. It was a sham.”

  Dessert arrived and everyone was momentarily distracted by the sweet treats before them.

  “Here’s my take,” Santana said after swallowing a spoonful of an ice cream sundae. “The truth — the real truth — is always somewhere in the middle. The ex-boyfriend probably did abuse the defendant, just not that day. And she probably was seeking retribution for a lot of things. Juries pick up on that stuff. I think the jurors saw something that led them to acquit her. Don’t be too hard on yourself, David. People take justice into their own hands all the time. It’s a fact of life.”

  **

  STONE RANG KATZ. “I just met with Thomas Mann from the Chronicle,” she said. “He had a lead on the Spates operation.”

  “I figured something was up when you postponed the afternoon briefing,” Katz replied. “Tom’s alright. He’s never burned me. But you have to be careful not to fall into a trap and tell him more than he needs to know.”

  “Too late for that, great wise one.”

  Katz, seated on a cushioned bench outside the conference room, looked up as Lin and Santana appeared around the corner. Santana handed Katz a cup of coffee and plunked a paper bag down on the bench next to him. “Your lunch,” he said. “A cold burger and fries, and a cup of cold black coffee. You owe me twenty bucks. We can square up later.”

  Lin and Santana headed to the lockers to secure their phones before reentering the SCIF. With his free hand, Katz opened the bag and popped a fry into his mouth. “What happened?” he asked Stone.

  “I provided Tom with the outline of the Spates case. After I finished, he reciprocated and told me that our friend Phil Landry has something up his sleeve.”

  A smile spread over Katz’s face. “Smartly played,” he said.

  “I can’t claim that I forced the issue,” she said. “Tom and I spoke at cross purposes. He called about a rumor of something happening in D.C. over the Memorial Day holiday. I assumed he was referring to Spates. He’s just a stand-up guy and shared the information about Landry.”

  Katz glanced around the hallway and lowered his voice. “So what exactly is this tip about Landry?”

  “Hard to tell,”she said. “Landry’s assistant has it in her possession. Tom and I are going to meet her and review some documents.”

  Katz took a bite out of the burger and nibbled some more fries. “This could be seri
ous,” he managed to say with his mouth full. He swallowed. “The last time he pulled one of these stunts, shipping those dummy surface-to-air missiles into D.C., a real live SAM ended up in the mix.” Two years ago, Landry conned a bunch of criminal miscreants into helping him import surface-to-air missiles into D.C. It was a case of entrapment, but Landry came away smelling like a rose and was nearly nominated as DHS secretary because of it.

  “Don’t remind me,” Stone said. “I was there. Where the hell were you?”

  “Why does he do this shit?” Katz asked.

  “Hell if I know. The man’s a narcissist. He should be in prison instead of at DHS.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  “Not entirely sure,” she answered. “After this afternoon’s briefing, I’m going back into the District. I’ll review the documents with Mann and figure out if we need to take any action.”

  “Keep me apprised.”

  “I always do,” she replied.

  **

  KATIE FORTUNE raced down King Street like a spring breeze, stopping to stare in store windows, weaving in and out of the crowds, and dancing merrily along the brick sidewalk. Looking at her, no one would have thought she was lost, alone, vulnerable, and frightened. She looked like an average precocious four-year-old whose family was trailing behind her.

  A patron stepped out of the Principle Gallery and watched as Katie skipped by, heading toward the river. A moment later, the girl ran up the opposite side of the road. The woman noticed that Katie’s golden hair was unwashed and matted, her complexion was waxen, and her clothes didn’t quite fit. The woman quickly pulled out her phone and dialed 911. “Perhaps it’s none of my business, but there’s a little girl running unattended in the 200 block of King Street,” she said.