by HN Wake
“Do you think they have that kind of access?”
“Yes. I do. They have immense resources.”
He didn’t want to acknowledge what this meant.
Her shoulder hurt, her chest felt constricted, and she wanted to climb back in the soft, high bed with Joe and forget all about Senator Gillis and the blackmail. That wasn’t an option any more. She said, “I have to get the video now. We have to have something to hold them off.”
36
New York, NY
Just inside an interview room in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building, Ernest leaned back against the metal door and heard it whine against his weight. He had hoped the night spent in a holding cell had weakened Otis Reddenbacker’s vitriol, but his prisoner sat at the scratched table with a resistant scowl. Ernest knew a soft-gloved approach, more an interview rather than an interrogation, one that highlighted sympathy, minimized the crime, and sought to place blame elsewhere, would yield better results.
Reddenbacker jeered, “You just gonna stand there?”
Ernest dropped his head. This was going to be harder than he thought.
“You all they’re sending in?” Reddenbacker spat. “All I get is some Tonto? Where’s the cavalry?”
No matter how many times he’d confronted it, racism unleashed a quiver of shame through his body. Pushing his head back between his shoulders and eyeing the ceiling, Ernest cracked his neck. “Is your name Otis Reddenbacker?”
“Yup.”
“Have you been read your Miranda rights?”
“Yup.”
“Are you a former police officer from Charlotteville, currently registered as a Private Investigator here in New York?” He lowered his head.
“Yup.”
“Do you know why I brought you in?”
“Son, I know this is harassment. I know you’re unfairly picking on a white man.”
Today, Ernest had bigger, more important fish to fry than a redneck cop. “Yeah, no. This isn’t about race.”
“Isn’t it? I saw all kinds of colored folks taking pictures all over at Times Square and you pick on me? You need to be out lookin’ for Arabs.”
Ernest pushed off from the wall, stepped to the table, and sat heavily in the chair. Even sitting, he towered over the older man who leaned away from him. He set down a manila folder. “You read history, Otis?”
Reddenbacker glared at him.
Ernest waited him out.
“No,” Reddenbacker said.
“I didn’t think so.” Time to put this cracker on the back foot. “Did you know the Roman Empire lasted for 1400 years and at its height controlled about 20% of the world’s population?”
Reddenbacker’s eyes squinted, trying to understand this turn in the conversation. Confused, he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Then the Empire started to decline,” Ernest said. “Newer, smarter civilizations emerged and began taking their slice. For a period of about 100 years, the Romans that lived in Rome denied what was happening out in the larger world. They stuck their heads in the sand, proverbially. As the more modern world pushed in on their territory and their culture, they became bitter and resentful. They started blaming others instead of seeing what was in front of them all along—their time had come.
“They must have known that by admitting their culture was fading, they would have lost their sense of superiority. Their superiority was the one constant that ran through their generations. Their superiority justified their social contract, the slave systems they had erected, their way of government. Without that sense of superiority, they were lost.”
Ernest cocked his head to crack his neck again. The bones responded with a large pop. Reddenbacker subconsciously inched away from him.
“For those final 100 years,” Ernest continued, “the Romans in Rome pounded on each other—infighting, backstabbing, adversarial politics, assassinations—straight up political warfare.” He paused for effect. “What they should have done was to adapt, evolve, progress. Instead they imploded with denial.”
Otis glared at him.
“I just read a very interesting theory that the US is in decline and it has many similarities to the decline of the Roman Empire.”
Reddenbacker’s jaw had stiffened. This was one stubborn old fool.
Ernest opened his folder. “You and I are not on the same team here, Otis.”
“You can say that again.”
“Because I’m trying to keep this Rome moving forward, to help us all as it evolves.” He looked down his nose. “People like you, with small minds and bitter prejudices, are what I work against every day.”
“I ain’t helpin’ you, son.”
Ernest finally sat up to his full height. He spoke with authority. “What you meant to say is, ‘I’m not helping you voluntarily, Special Agent.’ But you will help me. Because it’s the only thing that is going to keep you out of high security prison for the rest of your life.”
Reddenbacker squirmed in his chair, “What’s that you say?”
“Do you now why I’ve brought you here?”
“Cause I was takin’ photos in Times Square. You’re the counterterrorism unit. Why aren’t you out rounding up all those refugees Obama’s lettin’ in, instead of God-fearing folk?”
“On your camera we found photographs—“
“So what?” Reddenbacker interrupted, his arms squeezing tightly above his gut, his shoulders twitching in indignation. “Not enough you liberals gotta be goin’ after guns, but now you’re confiscating cameras?”
Ignoring him, Ernest continued, “Your camera had photos of US Senators. It is clear you were casing elected officials in Times Square.”
“It’s a free country last I checked.”
“Your photos were enough to get a warrant.”
Reddenbacker froze.
“We entered your apartment this morning.”
Reddenbacker was now paying close attention to what Ernest had to say.
“What we found could have extreme consequences for you. Otis, you are currently in possession of national security intelligence.” Ernest let the sentence hover in the silent, stale room.
Reddenbacker’s bravado cracked. “Whatcha talkin about?” His accent was thicker, as if he had previously been holding it back.
“We found classified Top Secret government documents on your laptop.”
Reddenbacker put his hands on the table with a small slap. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“That may be the case, Otis. But as a former law enforcement officer, you also know we hear that line often. It doesn’t hold water.”
“I seriously have no idea whatcha talkin’ ‘bout.”
“You said that, but what you do or do not know doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is what you possess. You possess classified documents, Otis. You are breaking some pretty serious laws.”
Reddenbacker swallowed. His skin reddened and his eyes dilated. “I want a lawyer.”
“Now, before we get to that, before we get to the bottom of this mystery, let me just make it clear that the punishment for possession of these documents is 25 years.”
Reddenbacker swallowed again.
“But we’d rather work with you, Otis, than against you. Being you’re former law enforcement.”
Reddenbacker remained silent.
“You won’t need a lawyer if you tell me where you got these documents.”
Otis spoke quickly, “I just got that high-fallutin’ dumb-ass laptop from a client three days ago. I don’t even know what’s on it. It ain’t even been turned on yet.”
“You haven’t looked through the files?”
“No.”
“Who gave you the laptop?”
“I don’t know his name. He contacted me through a referral. Called me five days ago. Said he needed some surveillance done. He sent a courier to my place with a cardboard box—“
“Did you save the box?”
Reddenbacker shook his
head. “Inside the box was all the equipment.”
“What did he instruct you to do?”
“He told me to take photographs two days ago in Times Square. To make sure I got Senator Billy Greene and his aide this morning. More to come, he said.”
“Did he tell you his larger plans or objectives?”
“No.”
“How did he pay you?”
“Cashiers check. It was in the box too.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand up front. He said another five thousand after the job.”
“Did you deposit the cashier’s check?”
“Yes.”
“What name did he use?”
“Mr. Fox.”
Ernest gave him a look full of disbelief.
“Do I look like I’m kidding? He said Mr. Fox.”
Ernest stood, throwing Reddenbacker offside. “I’m prepared to offer you immunity.”
“Against all charges?” This one knew the system.
Ernest closed the folder and picked it up. The session was ending, the pressure was on Reddenbacker to take the deal before he left. “Yes.”
“Yeah, alright. I’ll take it. Whatcha want me to do?”
Ernest loomed over him. “You’re going to meet this Mr. Fox. Get him to talk. I’m going to be there.”
37
New York, NY
The first thing Laura Franklin noticed when she opened the door of the Upper West Side townhouse was the sling around Mac’s arm. “Mac Huntington, as I live and breath. What the hell happened?” She moved in for a hug. “I don’t see you in person in twenty years and you show up banged up!”
Mac tenderly stepped into the hug. “I took a fall.”
Laura eyed Joe over Mac’s shoulder, “And goddamned Joseph Severino. It’s like high school all over again.” She pushed the door wide, inviting them in. “It is good god damned to see you both.”
She led them through a huge foyer, under a crystal chandelier, past oil paintings in gold frames and a huge vase of wild flowers on a round marble table, and down a long hallway through the center of the house. At the end of the hall, she opened the door to a spacious, sun filled kitchen. A private terrace with perfectly manicured hedgerows was just beyond French doors.
A big kitchen table took pride of place. “Have a seat. I’ll get coffee.”
She returned with three cups and a pastry tray. “So, Mac, is your shoulder part of our efforts?”
Mac nodded.
“Jesus. I can’t believe I got you into this. This is all my fault.”
Mac responded quickly. “I’m a big girl. We all made decisions with our eyes open.”
Joe nodded in agreement. They were on the same team now. She gave him a small, private smile.
Laura poured them coffee. “I can’t believe this is all originating back to Patriot News.”
Mac had briefed her on the phone earlier. It was time to brief Senator Gillis.
Two minutes later, Laura spoke into the speakerphone, “Eleanor, I’ve got you on speaker with our agent here. Where are you?”
“I’m in a car. It’s private.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead.”
Mac relayed what had occurred. The email originating in the basement of Patriot News, the failed attempt to release the virus.
When she finished, Gillis was dumbstruck. “Patriot News?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “This is coming from Patriot News?”
The kitchen was silent except for the soft back noise hum from the cell phone.
“It’s got to be Fenton Warrick,” Laura said. “This has to be about Eleanor’s work to regulate cable news.”
Mac nodded. She hadn’t mentioned the dossier she had commissioned from 89’s analyst, but that clearly was the connection. There was a long silence.
Laura leaned back, shaking her head. This was a lot to take in. “Just to be clear, Fenton Warrick and Patriot News are strings pulled by a very powerful person. Emmerie Kugal is not someone we want to be messing with. We have to be vary careful about our next steps.”
They looked at each other across the table.
Gillis asked through the phone, “So what do we do next?”
Mac said, “I have to retrieve the video. We need some leverage if they come after me.”
Laura moved in toward the speaker. “Eleanor, they need the full story.”
Mac’s internal antennae quivered. This sounded serious. This sounded like something they didn’t want to hear.
“Yes,” Gillis said. “Tell them.”
Laura looked up, her face somber. “Senator Gillis is announcing a run for the president tomorrow at an event here at my house.”
It took a moment for the news to sink in. Mac was now in the middle of a national security issue. Her blood ran cold. Laura Franklin, a friend of twenty years, a trusted confidante from high school, had just fucked her. This woman sitting across the table had knowingly dropped her into the middle of a dangerous intrigue with national stakes. It was an astounding betrayal. It was unconscionable.
Joe shot up from his chair, clenched his lips, waved an accusatory finger at Laura, and stormed down the hall before he exploded in anger.
Laura grimaced with sadness. “We weren’t sure you would take the job if you knew.”
Joe marched in, some measure of control regained, and hissed, “You’re fucking right she wouldn’t have taken the job. Mac has just gotten home.” He pointed his finger again at Laura. “How much are you in for? How much of your own precious money have you staked on the senator? How much of this is wrapped up in your fucking business and the legislation she can get passed for you?” He spat the last word.
Laura nodded solemnly, mollified and ashamed.
Mac’s mind moved through the times she and Laura had passed notes in the back of a class. One school dance they had snuck in vodka in plastic bags hidden in their teen bras. They had saved seats at the lunchroom table for each other. The woman sitting across from her in this big house was not that teenager. It was confusing, disorienting. This woman was a different person. In fact, this was someone she could walk away from.
Joe railed, “You’ve just thrown Mac in the middle of a fucking national security scandal. Mac can get thrown in jail for life. Are we clear here?” He stomped to the window, glared out at the perfect lawn. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.”
Mac took in the face of this new woman across the table. The dark eyes, the full cheeks, the soft skin.
Joe hissed at the window. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Chair legs squealed against floor tile as Mac stood. She took one last look as this new woman.
Behind her, Joe turned.
Laura glanced back and forth between them.
Through the cell phone, Gillis screeched, “What’s happening? Laura, what’s going on?”
Mac silently turned and left the kitchen.
Gillis wailed, “What’s going on?”
Laura’s voice held despair. “She’s leaving.”
Gillis yelled, “But will she get the video?”
Joe spat, “Don’t you realize, you stupid cow? Now she has no fucking choice.”
38
Philadelphia, PA
The rambling, old brick home was set off the side street behind a tall, brick wall covered in thick, green ivy. The house was over 100 years old and most likely the first house in the area. Along its side and up an inclined street, glimpses into the back yard revealed a secret garden. Joseph Severino had quite a green thumb: the yard was lush and verdant and a blooming flowerbed ran along the back border.
Herbie stepped to the old gate and glanced up and down the empty street. Seeing no one, he slipped his hand inside the mailbox and withdrew the stack of mail. He retreated to the other side of the park, choose a solitary bench, and sat down.
Two kids threw a football in the far end. A mother pushed a baby in a swing. A beagle sniffed the perimeter of the dog run. He couldn’t rem
ember the last time he sat quietly in an American park. An All-American park. Where was the flag?
He shook himself out of his reverie. No need to allow the melancholy to creep in. His wits needed to be sharp. Herbie had only himself to rely on.
The mail held nothing of particular interest. A phone bill for a landline that had only racked up the $20 monthly charge and no calls. Severino must use his cell almost exclusively. A water bill from the Philadelphia Water and Gas Department for $100. The water for all those plants must not come free. A credit card held a $0 balance. This was one self-possessed guy. All the bills were in the name of Joseph Severino. He must be single. Nice work, Mac.
He crossed to the house, slipped the mail into the mailbox, and gently pushed open the gate. Rusty hinges whined. Inside the house a dog barked once—the initial yelp a staccato warning. Then there was silence. An observant dog, Herbie thought, I’ve only just stepped in. He followed along the side path, under the shadows of a large tree by the brick wall.
He passed by a curtained window and the dog began barking wildly. The dog followed his movement toward the back garden, barking through windows as he passed. Round the corner of the house, sun shone over a lush garden. A flock of small birds chirped from behind a cascade of ivy. Flowers bloomed along the edges.
He felt a pang of jealousy. This was idyllic. The American dream.
He stepped onto the patio. Against the glass of two large French doors, the dog—a black bulldog mix—pawed and barked violently, teeth bared as he frantically attempted to paw through the glass.
Herbie pulled out his phone, his eyes watching the frenetic dog, and called Rocky.
Foam lathered around the dog’s jowls and splattered on the glass.
“What have you got?” he asked Rocky.