by Tim Green
"You can ask him," Marty said, shaking his head. "I won't. I know what he'll say. He won't go for it, but you can ask him."
Madison had dinner with Jo-Jo, and afterward they played on his computer and read a chapter from Treasure Island. At eight-thirty he went to bed. At nine there was a knock at her door. Madison let Cody in and led him to her study without much more than a simple hello. She waited until the doors were shut and they were both sitting down before she asked him how he was feeling.
"Not great," he said, hoping she might have some words of encouragement for him. She didn't.
"It's not good news," she said.
"You think I did it, don't you?" Cody said, his stare piercing into her eyes, challenging her.
"I told you," she responded without returning his stare, "it's not my job to think you did it. It's my job to defend you the best way I know how."
"I didn't do it," Cody said emphatically. "No matter what it looks like, I didn't."
Madison wanted to scream at him to stop. She wanted to tell him that that was what they all said. She wanted to tell him to level with her and they'd see what they could do about limiting the jail sentence.
Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "I thought maybe we could talk about some backup strategies."
"Meaning what?" Cody asked.
"Meaning a deal we might cut with the D. A. in light of today's evidence."
"Like, I tell them I did it, and they give me a lesser sentence?" he said incredulously. "No fucking way. I won't do it."
Madison considered that for a moment before she said, "Did you ever think that maybe, and I'm not saying this is the case, but just maybe, you may have done this and not even remember doing it? It's not the same type of crime if you didn't even know what you were doing ..."
Cody looked like he'd taken a knife in the gut. He shook his head. He kept shaking it. Then he stopped and looked up at her. "Yes," he choked, in nothing more than a whisper. "I thought about it. But I didn't do it. I wouldn't do that. I couldn't."
Madison stared. Her heart was filled with pity for the tortured soul who sat across from her. She felt a strange desire to hold him and brush her fingers through his hair. She pushed that from her mind. She could see that he really believed what he was saying, whether it was true or not. And she could also see that Marty was right: this trial was going to be all or nothing.
"Well," Madison said, gently patting the files that sat in a stack in front of her, "we'd better get to work."
Suddenly there was noise like a rampaging bull outside in the hall. The doors to Madison's study blasted open, showering splinters of wood into the room. Cody and Madison both jumped back as Joe Thurwood came to a stop, his fat belly heaving, trying to catch his breath as though he was having a heart attack. His long hair was unkempt and matted down. He looked and smelled as if he hadn't changed his clothes in three days. His eyes were bloodshot, and he glared at the two of them like a crazed, wounded animal.
"What the fuck is going on here!" he demanded, his body hunched over and his fists clenched as if he was ready to attack.
"What are you doing here?" Madison shrieked. "This is my house!"
"This is my house!" he screamed back, the veins bulging purple in his neck. 'You don't start fucking my teammates in my house, you slut!"
As he spoke, Joe moved threateningly toward her.
"He's crazy," Madison said gingerly, more frightened now than ever.
Cody stepped deftly in front of her, blocking Joe's path. Madison felt like a brick wall had just been raised to protect her. Cody's hands were open and in the air in an offering of peace, but his body was taut and ready to spring.
"Joe," Cody pleaded, trying to cut through the psychotic rage of the large man in front of him. "Joe. It's me, Cody."
Joe's face twisted as if he were in pain. "I know, you little prick! You came to fuck my wife!"
"Joe!" Cody protested. "Calm down! She's my lawyer. She's representing me, Joe. That's why I'm here."
"At night? You expect me to believe that?" Joe said. "Put that fucking phone down!"
Madison jumped and dropped the phone. While Cody was distracting him, she had picked it up to call the police.
"Just calm down," Cody said patiently.
Joe glared at Madison with unadulterated hatred. She reached out and touched Cody's back as if to make sure he was still there. She could feel the muscles through his cotton shirt, they were tight like thick steel cables.
Joe's focus shifted to Cody. "Get out," he said menacingly.
"No," Cody said.
"He's on drugs," Madison said in nearly a whisper.
"Of course I'm fucking on drugs!" Thurwood screamed. 'You ruined my life!"
"Joe," Cody said calmly, "just go. Just leave. You don't want this, man. You know I wouldn't be with your wife. She's my lawyer, Joe. She's helping me."
Joe broke out into a demented laugh, 'Yeah, you need help all right, Grey. You really need help!"
"I know," Cody said. "Now please go. You don't want the cops to come here. You don't want your boy to watch them take you away in cuffs. Don't do it, Joe, just walk out and end it. There's nothing going on."
Joe considered his ex-teammate with one eye partially closed. He straightened up slightly. Cody relaxed.
"Fuck you both," Joe said flatly, then turned and walked out.
Cody followed behind Thurwood to the front hall and the open doorway to make sure he was gone. Madison came up beside him. As they watched from her front door, Joe walked off down the dark street without so much as a glance back. When he was gone, Cody turned to see Madison picking up the phone in the hallway. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm calling the police," she said. "Enough is enough."
"Wait," Cody said, gently taking the phone from her hand. "Just think. I'm not telling you not to call them. Just think about it first. Can't you use it to hang over his head in your dispute? I'm a witness to what he did, if you need me. Just make sure before you call, Madison. If they come, it will be a mess. The talk will be bad, the media. For everyone ..."
"He broke into my house," she protested.
Cody turned and looked at the front door.
"1 don't even think so. He came through here, it was open when he left," Cody said, examining the hinges and locks on the front door. There was no sign whatsoever that Joe had forced his way into the house.
"He doesn't have a key," Madison said. "I changed the locks."
"Who has a key?" Cody asked.
"There are only four," she said. "I have one, Marty, Lucia, and ... Jo-Jo...."
Cody said nothing. Madison closed her eyes and moaned, "Jo-Jo."
"Mommy?" the sleepy eight-year-old was standing there in the hallway.
Madison turned and rushed to him.
"What happened?" Jo-Jo said. "It that Cody Grey?"
Cody stepped forward and held out his hand. "Hi, Jo-Jo. Your mom is helping me with my court case. We got a little loud because we were practicing for the trial."
"Oh," Jo-Jo said. He looked at Cody's hand and reached around his mom to take it. "I thought I heard my dad."
"Sorry," Cody said gently, squatting down so he was eye level with the boy. "I'll try to keep my voice down."
'That's okay," Jo-Jo said. "You're a pretty awesome player. I've got your card."
"Would you like me to sign it?" Cody said, glad to be able to distract him. Madison was still clearly upset.
"Uh-huh," Jo-Jo said, nodding his head emphatically. "It'll be worth a lot, with the trial and all."
"Jo-Jo," Madison said disapprovingly.
"Oh, 1 don't care," Jo-Jo said, looking at Cody. "I know you didn't do it. My mom already told me."
Cody blushed at the thought of Madison talking about him to her boy.
"Well, she's right," he said.
"Come on, Jo-Jo," Madison said, standing up and leading him away by the hand. "I'll bring your card out for Mr. Grey, and you'll have it in the morning. You h
ave to get back to bed. You've got school tomorrow."
Cody stayed on his haunches as they walked away. When Jo-Jo turned to look back at him, Cody winked, and the boy grinned before he disappeared around the comer. Cody stood and wandered back through the house to Madison's study. He picked up the splinters of wood and assessed the damage Big Joe had done to the doors. It was minimal. A new latch and a little trim was all that would be needed. Cody walked through the room, examining the diplomas and the plaques that lined the wall. Madison already had an impressive career. He wondered how she managed it, all the while being married to Joe Thurwood. He wondered how she could have ever gotten mixed up with a guy like that. Cody knew Joe was bad news within a week of joining the team.
"Thank you," Madison said, and Cody turned to see her standing there behind him. When he looked at her, he suddenly couldn't help himself from thinking how attractive she was.
"I didn't really do anything," he said.
"You did a lot," she replied. "Especially with Jo-Jo, distracting him like that. It's hard ... I'm trying to slowly wean him from his father. Joe resurfaced a few months ago, and Jo-Jo treated it like the second coming of Christ. He was too young to really know why Joe left in the first place. 1 feel like I'm walking a tightrope. On one hand I want Jo-Jo to despise his father because he's a despicable man. On the other hand, I want it to be a gradual thing to reduce the damage. He's only eight."
Cody nodded and said, "I know what it's like not to have a father. Mine died when I was a kid."
"I'm sorry," Madison said.
"That's okay," Cody replied. "I had a pretty good uncle to fill in."
"That's a big part of my problem, I think," Madison said. 'There's no one like that for Jo-Jo."
Cody shrugged. He didn't know what to say.
"Do you want me to leave?" he asked her.
Her eyes looked heavy.
"I mean, we can catch up tomorrow night," he said. "You look wiped out."
"No," Madison said, rounding her desk and sitting back down in her chair resolutely. "We don't have a lot of time and we've got a trial to win."
"Okay," Cody said, sitting himself in the chair that faced her desk, "that's what I like to hear."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Accompanied by a U. S. Marshal, Cody left with the team for Detroit on Saturday morning. The team was flying out and would spend the night in a Michigan hotel, then return to Austin the following evening. Striker thought it was fine that Jenny saw him regularly on Saturday nights. He knew the CIA agents watching him would be amused that he was consistently banging someone's wife whenever the guy left town. It fit Striker's profile as they knew it, perfectly. When the Outlaws played an away game, Striker and Jenny would go on different outings. One day they went waterskiing on Town Lake. Another time they took a drive up to Lake Travis to do some fishing. Each time, Striker used the excursion as a kind of training mission for Jenny, helping her to recognize when she was being followed and how.
At first she couldn't see the men following them, even after Striker had pointed them out. But gradually she learned, and by the Detroit weekend, she could spot their tail ten lengths back in heavy traffic and a hundred yards on the highway, just by the way it moved. That was saying something, considering the agents took the precaution of changing their rental cars on a weekly basis. On foot, Jenny could now pick out any one of the four agents who were taking twelve-hour shifts shadowing Striker.
She even had nicknames for them all. Two of them were older and looked like worn-out, middle-aged businessmen. She called them Thing One and Thing Two. The other pair were young and built well. One was particularly handsome, so Jenny dubbed him The Hunk. The other had the same blond coloring as The Hunk, but he was an ugly version. Jenny called him The Coon.
"Very good," Striker said, when she called out the make, model, and color of this week's car, not three miles after they'd left the center of Austin. Striker had Jenny driving, which made it that much harder to spot the tail because she also had to concentrate on the road. They were heading south to San Antonio. Jenny had never seen the Alamo, and Striker said she must.
"While we're driving," Striker said, looking over at her from the passenger seat, "I want to fill you in on what will be happening here in the next couple of weeks."
Jenny nodded. Her hair was pulled back and her black, round sunglasses were on. She was wearing a tight gray tank top and a loose-fitting pair of cutoff jeans. She was listening intently.
"When the general calls," he said, "I want you to be ready to move right away. I'm going to send you to meet him in a little town called Goldthwaite. There's a Texas Rest Inn there that I'll send him to. It's about two hours north of here, close enough so you can easily get there ahead of him. It's not that tough, your job. You'll leave as soon as I get the call. This way you'll have a day's head start on the general to watch anything coming into or going out of the town that doesn't look right. You'll be able to watch him when he arrives and see that he isn't planning any surprises."
Striker waited until she nodded, to see if she was following him, then said, "When you're sure everything is okay, you'll knock on the door to his room and make the switch. Don't be in a huny. Wait until you're sure everything is normal. Use your instincts, you've got good ones. Then it's simple, you just bring the suitcase of money to his room, check to see that what he's giving you is the pit, make the switch, and then leave." "What about killing him?" she asked. "Ah, very good," Striker replied. "You remembered." "How could I forget that?" she said. "It's been on your mind?" Striker asked. "Let's just say it's not something I've done before. I--" "Don't know if you can?" he suggested. "1 can," she said.
"1 know. All you have to do is think of nine million dollars and the life of a baroness, and I'm the baron. Besides, I'm going to make it easy. I told you 1 would."
"So," she said, "how?"
"The lining of the suitcase with the money will be filled with C-4 plastic explosives," Striker explained "There is a remote detonator shaped like a cell phone that has a two-mile range. The general will leave first. You will watch from the window to see the direction he leaves in. There is only one of four ways he can go from Goldthwaite, and from the Inn you'll be able to see which one he chooses. Probably he'll go north on 16 or 183. Those are the most direct routes back to Amarillo. Either way, the roads are pretty empty outside the town. Take your time. You don't want him to know what you're doing. If he sees you tearing out after him, he'll get nervous. You just wait until he's out of sight, then head down the same road in your car. When you get within sight of him, you just pull off the road, dial 666-123, and hit Send. Bang, no more general.
"You'll come back," Striker continued, "and bring the pit right to my apartment. I'll contact Jamir. It will probably take about three weeks to work out the details of my meeting with him through my office because I have to go through some pretty convoluted routes and codes to communicate with him. But once I get the exchange set up, we'll disappear. I have the passports and our new identities ready to go."
Jenny almost told Striker about the coin she had been given by Jamir and how she could contact him at a moment's notice. If she used the coin, they could leave immediately. She decided against it, though. He might not like what it implied, especially since she had held onto it for so long without telling him in the first place. And she seriously doubted Jamir would be thrilled if she used the coin and brought Striker along.
"What about the money?" Jenny said. "You don't really want me to blow that up too?"
Striker chortled. 'You are my kind of woman. Don't give that money a second thought. It's one of the costs of doing business, my dear."
"Couldn't you just put, like, a million and a half in there?" she asked. "Or stuff some of the packets with twenties instead of hundreds?"
"Jenny," he said patiently. "We're talking about a total of nine million dollars. If the general has figured out about how much space two million takes up, or if he leafs through some bills and sees th
at they're not hundreds but twenties or singles, he may do something drastic, and I don't want that. We'll have enough. Let the general take his two million to the grave."
"Can I ask a question?" Jenny said.
"Of course," Striker replied.
"But it's not a relevant question," she explained. "It's a question I just want to know the answer to, and I know you don't like those kinds of questions."
Several weeks ago, after the IRS agent had been killed and Cody was arrested, Jenny had asked Striker if it had been him or Cody who'd done the killing. Striker had looked at her with disgust and said, "Is that a relevant question?"
"Yes," she had replied. "I want to know." Striker had grown visibly angry.
"Relevant is when a question has some possible effect on something directly related to you. Do you think it matters who killed him, Jenny? He's dead. You're safe. Your husband will take the fall whether he did it or not. How, then, is what actually happened relevant?" he had demanded. Confused and a little frightened by his outburst, she'd remained silent.
Her reference to it now was the first indication to Striker that she had been carefully listening to him, and that she respected what he'd been telling her then: don't waste his time with idle curiosity. There was no place for it in the kind of world she was living in now.
Striker smiled and said, "Jenny, it's a beautiful day, we're driving down the highway being chased by the CIA, and I'm in a wonderful mood. I'll indulge you.... Ask me your question."
"Where are you getting the two million in cash?" she said. "I mean, I left the last payment on the island. How do you get that kind of cash?"
"That's easy," Striker said. "Certain people have cash in this country that they want to get rid of. I have money overseas in bank accounts. I don't even have to pay two million for the two million. There are drug dealers who'll take fifty cents on the dollar to launder money they get from the street. I wind up paying far less for the two million. Understand?"