The Last Justice

by Anthony J. Franze

  "I think so. When we got home from New York after speaking with you I checked my e-mail. I got some e-mails from Parker while we were on vacation that I thought you should know about." Mary Sinclair sounded exhausted.

  "Thank you so much for calling. Could you forward me the e-mails?"

  "Yes. I'm at the computer and can send them right now."

  Milstein gave Mrs. Sinclair her e-mail address, then said, "I'll check the e-mails once they arrive, but what was it about them that made you want to call me?"

  "Well, all last week they were like always: he's busy at work, doing fine-the usual. But three days ago he sent me a strange one."

  "Can you read it to me?"

  Mrs. Sinclair spoke slowly, and her voice sounded hoarse from crying. "The first e-mail says, `Something troubling has come up. I'm going to need to have an uncomfortable conversation with someone. I won't trouble you with the details unless I need to.'Then there were no more e-mails until one came the day he was killed." Mary Sinclair started sobbing quietly.

  Milstein gave her a moment, then said, "What did that e-mail say, Mary?"

  "It doesn't make any sense," she answered. "It says `McKenna,' then an equal sign, and the letters `C-B."'

  Hamilton Heights housing projects, Washington,

  cKenna awoke in darkness, his eyes still covered with tape. He lay on his side, hands and feet bound, gravel and rocks beneath him. He was cold, and the only sounds he could hear were cars passing in the distance.

  The two men had settled for scaring rather than killing him. After dry firing a gun in his ear, they had warned him and Kate that if they kept poking their noses into the Hassan brothers' business, next time there would be a bullet in the chamber. He didn't remember, but they must have also knocked him out again.

  Hands secured behind his back, McKenna tried to stand but lurched sideways, only to fall against what felt like a cinder-block wall. He was dizzy and nauseated. After taking a moment to orient himself, he felt his way along to the corner of the wall, where he began sawing up and down with his taped wrists.

  As the tape binding his wrists started to give, he froze at the sound of approaching voices.

  He winced when a bottle suddenly exploded on the wall near his head, cutting his cheek and his chin, enveloping him in the smell of cheap, sweet wine. Drunken laughter followed.

  When another bottle smashed even closer to his head, he dropped to a crouch and waited for the approaching footsteps crunching on gravel. He sawed faster at the tape, ignoring the pain as the rough concrete scraped into his wrists.

  "Looks like you pissed somebody off, homes."

  the speaker hauled him to his feet. The man stood close, and reeked of the same cheap wine in the exploded bottle.

  "My friends and I are gonna have a little fun with your girlfriend. I thought you may want to watch."

  The tape came ripping away from McKenna's face. The man standing in front of him gave a dark smile, revealing two missing teeth. His hair was greasy and dangled at his shoulders and his clothes were stained and ill-fitting. A half-dozen paces beyond him, two similarly unkempt men were groping at Kate, who lay on the ground in the dimly lit alley, kicking and screaming muffled oaths into the tape that covered her mouth. McKenna's heart sank. They were going to sexually assault her.

  "Don't do this," McKenna said. But the toothless man just smiled as he watched one of his friends hit Kate on the side of the head after her bound feet caught him in the groin. Now she was curled up in a fetal position on the garbage-strewn ground, while one man worked at peeling the duct tape off her ankles and the other tried to unbuckle her jeans.

  While the toothless man watched his friends, McKenna dug his wrists deep into the jagged corner of the wall trying to get the tape to give. Yanking outward from his shoulders, he felt the tape part and continued the motion, bringing his left hand around in an uppercut to his captor's groin. As the man doubled over, McKenna grabbed his greasy hair and pulled forward, smacking him facedown onto the ground, where he lay whimpering.

  The other two men saw this and ran towards McKenna. Glancing around him, McKenna spied the neck of the smashed wine bottle and snatched it up.

  The two men paused and were weighing the odds when a woman's voice boomed from a window above them. They all looked up to a brightly lit window in the public housing tower overlooking the alley.

  "You leave or I'm calling the police!"

  The men did not react at first. But then they helped their fallen companion to his feet, and all three staggered away, yelling obscenities.

  McKenna peeled the tape from around his ankles and rushed over to Kate, who kicked viciously.

  "Kate, it's me," he said.

  She quit fighting, though her body stayed rigid as he gently peeled the tape back from her eyes and gathered her in his arms.

  "I'm sorry, Kate," he said. "I'm so sorry."

  PennsylvaniaAvenue, Washington, D.C.

  fter crawling along Pennsylvania Avenue in rush hour traffic, Pacini's Volvo turned right and drew up alongside a blocky gray structure, designed in the Brutalist style and flourished with concrete blockades doubling as flower planters and benches.

  "Welcome to the J. Edgar Hoover Building," Pacini said as they pulled into the parking entrance. A guard checked his credentials, and he popped the trunk so a dog could jump in and sniff around before they were permitted into the garage.

  "So all the agencies on the commission task force meet in the FBI building?" Milstein asked.

  "Yup. Originally, to avoid an interagency pissing contest, we agreed to rotate where we worked, but once everyone realized what a pain in the ass it would be to get clearances and move everything, we just stayed here."

  Ten minutes later, they entered the commission "war room," a large conference room with whiteboards and a table that seated twenty. Representatives from the FBI, BATF, Secret Service, Homeland Security, NSA, Supreme Court Police, and other agencies all but stood at attention when Pacini walked in. Though unassuming, he was a celebrity in the federal law enforcement world. After their meeting at the Gotham Grill the night before, Assad had done his homework on the man: Pacini had been instrumental in catching a disgruntled lab worker who sent anthrax through the mail, he had taken down a terrorist cell planning to bomb the hub of the subway in downtown D.C., and he had helped secure the freedom of hostages held at a neo-Nazi compound in Idaho. He also trained new agents at the FBI academy, which only added to the Pacini lore.

  Then, a couple of years ago, Pacini had surprised everyone by transferring to head the New York field office. He claimed it was to be closer to his wife's family, but according to Assad's cousin, a retired Bureau special agent, it was fallout from a high-profile operation gone awry. A man whom the Bureau suspected of terrorist affiliations had barricaded himself in his home when Pacini's team came to question him. During the ensuing standoff, he murdered his entire family, including his two young sons. It turned out that the man was no terrorist, just a guy with a history of mental problems. The media had been hard on the Bureau, and, though the field agents still idolized Pacini, his bosses had questioned whether it was time for him to hang it up. But after Pacini's longtime friend was recently appointed director, he was transferred back to D.C., and many saw the Supreme Court Commission task force assignment as an opportunity for redemption. It also explained why he was taking such a hands-on approach to the investigation, almost as if he were a field agent.

  "So what's the vibe on the fifth floor of Justice?" Pacini asked, referring to the solicitor general's office across the street.

  "Shell-shocked," one of the FBI agents said.

  The conversation was interrupted when a dozen more men and women filed into the war room. Pacini gestured for Assad and Milstein to find a seat for the morning coordination meeting. A man in his late thirties approached the front of the room.

  "Okay, let's get settled," the man said in a heavy Boston accent. "Let's start by welcoming Frank's guests, who are in for th
e day. Frank isn't here this morning to do any real work just stopping in before going to the White House for a meeting." Teasing "oohs" and "la-dedas" filled the room.

  "We have several important developments, as most of you know," the speaker continued, "so let's wade right in. First, Solicitor General Jefferson McKenna still has not been located. Word also has it that his second-in-command, Kate Porter, did not go home last night. We've interviewed everyone in the SG's office, and no one has heard from either of them. Whether his situation has anything to do with Black Wednesday remains to be seen, but we need to talk to this guy. Our orders are to be very careful to not suggest that McKenna's a `target'-let's just find him before this thing snowballs."

  "Any leads on his location?" an FBI agent asked.

  "We got a call from an old friend of his, a lawyer named Jake Seabury, saying McKenna contacted him last night. The call to Seabury was made from Georgetown, a place rented by Kate Porter's brother. We've got a team there, but McKenna was long gone, and there's no sign of Ms. Porter."

  "Why'd McKenna call his friend? What did he want?" a senior BATF agent asked.

  "He wanted information on the Hassan case."

  "Hassan? I thought McKenna was already an expert on the Hassan case, since he reported on it at the commission meeting."

  "We don't know what McKenna was looking for. Seabury was one of the lead lawyers for the plaintiffs suing the Hassans and McKenna's team never interviewed him as part of the investigation for fear of leaks. We've got agents going over to Seabury's law office to talk to him and a former Supreme Court clerk who works for his firm. Frank, you guys are welcome to join us if you finish your business on time."

  Pacini nodded.

  "Based on what we now know, we need to assume that everything in McKenna's report to the commission is suspect and that he could have been using the Hassan case to divert attention from his own possible involvement in Black Wednesday."

  Pacini raised a finger.

  "Yes, Frank?"

  "I'd like to introduce Detectives Milstein and Assad, on loan from the NYPD to help the team out. I think you'll be interested in some information they've learned relating to McKenna in their investigation into the murder of Parker Sinclair, Judge Petrov's law clerk. Detective Milstein, could you please report on the call you had this morning with Sinclair's mother?"

  Milstein looked surprised to be called on to present to the group, but she quickly composed herself and stood up to address the room. "Sinclair's mother was away on vacation when he was murdered. When she got home last night, she checked for e-mails from Sinclair. One of them, which she forwarded to me, included something of interest." Milstein walked to a whiteboard and wrote "MCKENNA = CB."

  She was immediately barraged with questions, which she fielded for the next several minutes until Pacini broke in and said they had to leave for the White House. He ushered Milstein and Assad out, and minutes later they were in a cab pulling to the corner of Seventeenth and E streets. Pacini paid the driver, and they walked on E to West Executive Avenue, where he led them to a checkpoint at the gate.

  "This is the entrance?" Assad said with a frown. The unmarked Southwest Gate was little more than a small checkpoint shack outside an iron gate at the White House perimeter fence.

  "They told me to use this entrance," Pacini said as he gave their names to a Secret Service agent at the shack. They showed their identification and were each given a metal chain with a plain white badge the size of a credit card attached to it. After placing the badges on a scanner mounted on the gate, they were allowed to walk freely onto the White House grounds. They followed Pacini as he approached a door covered by an inexpensive-looking white awning.

  "He said someone would meet us here," Pacini said as he answered his ringing cell phone. As Pacini talked on the phone, Milstein straightened Assad's tie and started to brush off the shoulder of his suit jacket. She stopped when she noticed Pacini watching her.

  A tall blond man in a well-tailored suit came out the door and approached them. "Deputy Director Pacini?" he said. Pacini nodded and they shook hands.

  "I'm Brad Wentworth, special assistant to the president," he said as he turned and shook Milstein's hand, then Assad's. "I'd heard that you arrived, and didn't want you to have to muddle around to find the lobby reception. My boss, the chief of staff, has gotten called away so you'll be meeting with me today instead."

  Assad considered Wentworth. His demeanor was friendly, but not too friendly. His navy suit looked expensive, but not too expensive. And his handshake was firm, but not too firm.

  "First time at the White House?" Wentworth asked cordially. They all nodded, and Assad was surprised that it was Pacini's first time as well.

  "Want the nickel tour?"

  The two detectives looked to Pacini, who gave a "what the hell" shrug. Wentworth smiled and led them past the awning, following a road that turned right to a circular drive before a large portico. He pointed to the door under the portico.

  "That's the front reception. Have you ever heard of the president referred to as `POTUS'?"

  "Yes," Assad said.

  "We call the woman who works in there `ROTUS'-receptionist of the United States," said Wentworth with a grin. He then pointed ahead of them. "That's the outdoor press station up there. As you can see, they're on a feeding frenzy right now about the solicitor general."

  Next he led them along the drive and to the exterior door into the White House press room. The narrow room, with a podium at the far right and cables crisscrossing on the floor, was more run-down than Assad would have expected.

  Wentworth tapped his foot on the floor. "Years ago there used to be a swimming pool under here-that's where Kennedy would take his girls," he said with a wink. He then led them back out and up a few steps outside the front of the White House.

  They looked out on the lawn, which spread to the black iron fence along Pennsylvania Avenue. Tourists clustered at the gates, some looking in, others with their backs to the fence and having their pictures taken against the backdrop of the White House.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Wentworth said. "Well, I suppose we should get started." They doubled back, and Wentworth led them into the reception area. He said hello to ROTUS, a serious-looking woman in her forties, and walked through a door on the right side of the room.

  The inside of the West Wing also was nothing like what Assad had expected. There were no people pacing about, giving and receiving orders. It was actually just a small cluster of offices, connected by a hallway barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. And it was as quiet as a law library.

  Wentworth led them to a windowless office. "This is my officehey, try not to look so disappointed," he said, grinning. "All those TV shows about the White House really build up expectations. Even my mom wasn't impressed."

  Assad looked around at the stark, bare walls: no diploma, no awards-purposely modest. The only personal item was a casual shot of Wentworth and President Winter, taken in the Oval Office.

  "So, I imagine you're wondering why we asked you here."

  "We assumed it has to do with Mr. Nash," Pacini replied.

  "Afraid so," Wentworth said. "I used to work for Griffin Nash before he went back to the private sector, so they thought I might be helpful to you. My boss was also hoping for some information from

  Pacini nodded. "You have any idea who'd want to kill Nash?"

  "I hate to speak ill of the dead," Wentworth replied, "but I have to admit, my first thought was, get in line."

  "I suppose anyone in his position has to have made some enemies, no?"

  "Let me put it this way," Wentworth said, "when he was chief of staff, we had a nickname for him: the Prince of Darkness. Don't get me wrong, he was a master of strategy. But he was also petty, mean-spirited, and utterly lacking a moral compass. The president eventually saw it, and Nash was forced out. But as for specific people who might want him dead, I was really just being facetious. I know many who might plot a political and soci
al death, but not the real thing. Anyway, I thought you had a suspect."

  "If you're referring to Jefferson McKenna, we'd certainly like to speak with him about it," Pacini said. "Were you surprised at the accusations against McKenna?"

  "`Surprised' is an understatement. He's been a solid SG-stayed out of the press, walked the party line. As I recall, Nash had pushed for him when our first solicitor general quit on us so she could return to academia. McKenna wasn't on anyone's list, but once Nash made up his mind, few of us questioned him. We called McKenna the `gray ghost,'because he came out of nowhere. I assumed he had done Nash or the president a favor back in the day. But now, if what they're saying about the bribe is true, I don't know.' That was really the problem: with Nash, you never knew. He used secrets and favors like chessmen. Ironically, Nash was pushed out only a few weeks after McKenna's confirmation vote."

  Pacini looked Wentworth in the eyes for half a beat before asking the next question. "Would Nash have wanted McKenna in the solicitor general's office because he might be able to influence the Supreme Court on the Nevel Industries case? I understand that if Nevel lost the fight, the company would be compelled to release documents it was withholding as privileged-documents that might reflect poorly on the administration. A friend in the SG couldn't hurt, I imagine."

  Wentworth grunted. "Listen, I've been briefed on the Supreme Court Commission's investigation, and I'm up to speed on all the conspiracy theories. But I've seen something the talk radio conspiracy theorists haven't: the Nevel documents. While they might have landed Nash in some uncomfortably warm water, there's nothing in there that would last more than a week's news cycle for the administration."

  "I'd like to see those documents myself," Pacini said.

  "That can be arranged."

  "Great. When you vetted McKenna for the SG nomination, did any problems come up?"