by Julie Cave
He shook Winter's hand and sat down. "Have you ordered yet?" he asked.
"I got us both steaks," said Winters. Without preamble, he added, "So tell me what you're thinking."
Cartwright nodded. "There is a high-profile Christian group that has spread around the country, working with high-risk teenagers or something. You know, drugs, teen pregnancy, gangs, that stuff. They all receive some level of local government funding. We had a recent case in Vermont, where we tested the validity of government contributing to a religious organization under the First Amendment of the Constitution. The court found that such an arrangement contravened the Constitution and declared the funding unlawful."
"I see. That's impressive. Your group funded the lawsuit?" Winters paused as the waiter brought red wine.
"Yes." Cartwright tasted the wine. "Nice drop. The lack of funding meant that the Christian group had to cut services. That's what they call it, anyway. I call it brainwashing vulnerable teenagers."
Winters smirked. "So what do you want from me?"
"To have this decision in case law is good, but it stands only in the state of Vermont. I'd like to take the case to the federal court, and if need be, to the U.S. Supreme Court. I understand that you have an acquaintance in the U.S. Supreme Court by the name of Maxwell Pryor."
Winters only smiled as the steaks arrived. He was impressed by anyone who'd done their research thoroughly. Then he asked, "So what specifically do you want me to do?"
"Well, we're going to make it a big deal," explained Cartwright. "The person lodging the lawsuit is a very good-looking, articulate woman who is completely backed by our group. We intend to raise up loud supporter bases in as many major cities as we can who can demand media attention. We expect to lose, whereupon we'll appeal. That's where you can help. We need Justice Pryor to agree with us, for a start. Secondly, we need him to influence other justices in the Supreme Court."
Winters pursed his lips, thinking. "I see. I can't see a problem with having Justice Pryor on board. I happen to know him pretty well, and I know that he agrees with me on topics such as this. However, to ask him to influence other justices is difficult. For one thing, I don't have any power over that. Second, the group of people you're asking him to influence aren't stupid and they'll know if they're being manipulated. Most, if not all, are staunch liberals or conservatives and won't be easily swayed."
Cartwright nodded. "Sure, I understand that. The only guarantee I'm after is Pryor's unconditional support. Whatever else he can do is a bonus."
"I can get you Pryor's unconditional support," promised Winters.
"Great. We also need your presence in the media where possible," continued Cartwright. "I'm sure you won't have a problem with that."
Winters thought for a moment. He was a senator from California, a state that contained a flourishing community of liberals but also bastions of conservatism. He walked a thin line, trying not to deeply offend either group. He would have to choose his words carefully. Ultimately, if the half-million dollars were contingent upon him speaking to the media, then he would do it. And Cartwright knew it.
"That'll be fine," said Winters. "But I will need to speak carefully, as I'm sure you can appreciate."
"Sure," said Cartwright agreeably. He finished his glass of wine. "I feel very positive about our partnership, Senator."
"As do I," said Winters.
Cartwright stood and shook the other man's hand. "Watch in the news for the lawsuit launch," he said. "I'll be in touch."
Winters watched him go. When he was president, men such as Cartwright would be groveling for his support, not making demands. And he would take great pleasure in being the most powerful man on earth.
* * * *
Sinclair finally agreed to visit the victims of the bombing in the hospital. Dinah got the feeling he was more comfortable working with the mechanics of the bomb than with the people that the bomb had impacted.
The three investigators arrived at George Washington University Hospital where 6 of the 35 injured were receiving treatment. Thankfully, most of the injured had received only minor abrasions and burns.
However, Trevor Martin had not been so lucky. A flying shard of glass had cost the man his right eye, and he'd also sustained burns on the right side of his face and arm. He was a squat middle-aged white man with a reddish crew cut, and he was not happy to be stuck in the hospital.
"Never been in a hospital my whole life," he grumbled to the detectives. "Never been sick either. Now look at me."
"I'm sorry you were hurt, Mr. Martin," said Dinah. She perched herself awkwardly at the side of his bed. "We're going to find the person responsible."
"I hope so," scowled Martin. "Coward. Who was it? A terrorist?"
"At this stage, we're not thinking terrorists," Dinah said. "Can you tell me what happened that day?"
"I missed morning mass," explained Martin. "What a mistake, huh? I went to the evening instead. I had an early dinner with my wife, who had been that morning, thank goodness. Then I drove over and parked in the lot."
"Did you see anything unusual when you arrived?" Dinah asked.
Trevor Martin was silent for a few moments. "I don't think so. I mean, I just wasn't really paying attention."
"Did you see a vehicle that didn't belong, or someone loitering around the church?" Dinah pressed.
"There is one thing," Martin said. "I don't know what it's worth, but we were in the middle of prayers when I heard a guy working outside. It annoyed me, so I looked out of the window. There was a city worker hammering at the fire hydrant."
Dinah glanced at Sinclair and Ferguson, her heart quickening with excitement. "What did you notice about him?"
"Not much," said Martin. "He was dressed like a worker, had a toolkit, and a van...." His voice trailed off as he realized what he'd just said. His ruddy skin went pale. "Oh ... was that the guy?"
"Possibly," said Dinah. "What did the worker look like?"
"I don't know," admitted Martin. "He was wearing normal worker clothes, a big hat, a toolkit. I don't even know if it was a man, to tell you the truth."
Dinah was disappointed, but not surprised. The bomber, if even a little bit smart, would know to disguise himself.
"I was sitting there listening to the prayer," Martin continued. "Suddenly there was a huge bang, a flash of light and" — he faltered for a moment — "like, a wall of air. It picked me up and threw me to the ground. I didn't know how badly I'd been injured until later. And afterward, the most terrible smell, like acid burning or something."
The investigators knew that chaos had erupted at that point and that very few people would have noticed what the bomber had done in the midst of dying and injured victims, the acrid pall of smoke hanging low over the scene, and the panic that had likely risen in the throats of anyone who'd witnessed the event.
As it turned out, Trevor Martin had seen the most out of the six seriously hurt victims, and they gleaned nothing further from interviews conducted in the hospital. However, they were pleasantly surprised to see the senior priest, Father Angelo Ribbardi, sitting next to one of the victims. The father looked shaken and drawn, like he hadn't slept or eaten since the blast. This was an accurate observation, he told them gravely. Ferguson asked him if they could speak to him privately.
Father Ribbardi agreed to speak to them in the hospital chapel. He was round and short, with a shock of black hair and an expression that once might have been jolly. "I don't know how to get through this," he admitted, once in the privacy of the chapel. "They didn't train me to expect disasters at my own church." He blanched. "Or that a junior priest would die, right in front of me."
"I'm so sorry for your loss," said Ferguson gently. "I hope this isn't too painful, but the more information we can get, the sooner we can put the person who did this behind bars."
Father Ribbardi sniffed and nodded, appearing to mentally pull himself together.
"Did you have any inkling that your church might be in danger?" Fergu
son asked.
Ribbardi snorted. "Most of my congregation is over 50 and some of the least violent people you are likely to meet," he said. "I had no idea something like this could happen!"
"Have you received any threats or hate mail recently?" Ferguson pressed.
"Well, I receive those on a semi-frequent basis," said Ribbardi. "Most of them seem pretty random. They're aimed at the Catholic Church in general, rather than me or my parish."
"What do they say?"
"Oh, just blowing up about our stance on abortion or euthanasia or stem-cell research," said Ribbardi. "I'd tell them to send their complaints to the Vatican, but the cowards don't leave their own names or addresses."
"Nothing personal or specific?" Ferguson asked, sounding almost disappointed.
"No. I can tell you, nobody was more shocked or devastated than me that this happened," said Ribbardi gloomily. "I still can't believe Julian is gone."
"What do you remember about it?"
"I was reading from the prayer book," the priest said. "Occasionally I look up, to see if anyone's asleep. Something flickered in the corner of my eye, I still don't know what it was, and then I heard a huge noise, so huge I couldn't even comprehend what it was. Then the wall to the left of me disappeared. I dived to the floor. When I looked up, there were people running everywhere and smoke and this horrible smell. My first thought was to get out of the building, but then I saw Julian — the junior priest. Something ... had gone through his chest. I knew it wasn't good." Ribbardi stopped, eyes glistening with tears. "Who could have done this?"
Ferguson touched the man's arm briefly. "We'll find out, Father. I promise."
* * * *
Sussex 1 State Prison
Waverly, Virginia
Prisoner Number: 10734
Death Row
Today is our first meeting.
I have been awake most of the night; which isn't unusual. It's hard to sleep with the light and noise that blankets death row 24 hours a day. However, this time I've been kept awake by nerves and excitement. I wonder what Dinah Harris will think of me. Will she like me? What will she write about me in her book? What sort of questions will she ask me?
I know that I'll never taste freedom again, and so I see her book as a way of liberating my spirit, to live on once they execute me. I don't want to be remembered only for my crimes, but for the other unspeakable parts of my life. Maybe people won't be so quick to judge me once they know the full truth.
I force down some breakfast. All the food in here is rubbery and tastes like cardboard. Frankly I don't know how it keeps us alive, but miserably, it does. Before I lived here, a death row inmate started a hunger strike. He spent a week or two wasting away in his cell before they hauled him off to the infirmary and force fed him with a tube. When he was well enough to return, they brought him back and gave him notice the next day that his execution date had been set.
They are determined that we will not die on our own terms. They do not allow hunger strikes, drug overdoses, or self-harm of any kind. But they will kill me quite happily when my allotted time is due.
It seems like a century passes as the time between breakfast and my visitor slowly ticks by. Finally, a guard appears at my cell and barks: "You got a visitor."
Meekly, I submit as I am thoroughly searched and shackled in preparation to see my visitor. I don't want to do anything that might jeopardize our time together.
I am led to a small, gray room without a window. It is lit by a harsh fluorescent bulb. The metal table and chairs are bolted to the floor. Still, I am grateful that they have allowed us to be in the same room. I guess they figure Dinah Harris can look after herself if I freak out and become violent.
They sit me at one end of the table and tell me that the room is monitored by cameras and any misbehavior will result in harsh punishment. Although I can scarcely think of anything worse than death row, I have heard rumors of solitary confinement called the Hole, and that all inmates are deeply afraid of it.
Finally, the door at the other end of the room opens and Dinah Harris walks in. She is a tall woman, wearing a masculine suit and no makeup. She is attractive in a standoffish way: I wouldn't want to mess with her.
"Good morning," she says, approaching the table. Although I'm happy to see her, I keep my emotions well under control.
"I'd shake your hand," I say, holding up the shackles. "If I could."
She gives a brief smile and sits down. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me," she starts. "I've already spoken to you a little about the purpose of the book, so that you in turn can understand why I'm asking certain questions. If you don't feel comfortable answering a question, please tell me and we'll move on. Basically, I'd like to get an understanding of who you are outside of the crime you committed, and whether you have any insight into the crime itself. Are you okay with this so far?"
I nod. She puts a recording device on the table with a notebook and pen, and asks, "Are you ready to start?"
I nod again, hoping I'll find my voice soon.
"Where shall we begin?" Dinah asks. "Can you tell me about your childhood?"
I shift uneasily. That's the place I want to finish at, not begin with. "Can we leave that until later?" I say. "It's not a comfortable topic."
"Sure," says Dinah. "Let's start with the first bomb."
I'm happy to talk about that. I explain how I built the bomb in the van, using a mixture of fertilizer and diesel fuel. I tell her that it's easy to learn how to build bombs like these. I worked for three years in a granite mine in Vermont and they dislodge the granite with explosives almost identical to mine. I explain how I stole the van and lie about why I chose the little Catholic Church — it was old, built of bricks and mortar.
"But why did you choose that church?" Dinah pressed. "It wasn't just for the way it looked. Do you have a problem with the Catholic faith?"
"Yes," I say. "I have a problem with all faiths."
"Why?"
I don't want to talk about that just yet.
"Not very many people are religious these days," I inform her.
"Not many people declare it by blowing up churches," Dinah returns.
Well, that's true. We sit in silence for a moment.
"We can talk about that later, if you like," she says.
"Okay," I say gratefully. It's not that I don't want to talk; it's more that it's hard to talk about. I need time to organize my thoughts into words, and to build up the courage to say them.
"Did you intend to kill people?" she asks.
It sounds funny, but actually, I didn't think about it. It was an abstract concept to me. I built the bomb to express how I felt about the church, not with the intent of killing people. Of course, I guess I knew that I might hurt someone. If that was my intent, I would have made it bigger, used more dynamite as the primary explosive, tried to get it closer to the church. I still managed to hurt and kill people, though. I guess it's an occupational hazard when detonating a bomb.
Our hour had passed too quickly, and I heard the guard opening the door to get me.
"You'll come again?" I ask, suddenly anxious.
"Of course," says Dinah. "Next time we'll talk about the second bomb."
Knowing this gives me time to prepare, to think through my answers carefully for her.
I don't want to disappoint her.
Chapter 4
ONE YEAR EARLIER
The next morning, Dinah received a phone call on her cell from Ferguson. A cleaner had found something odd in the trash can in a mall near the church, he told her. Dinah told him she'd meet them there in an hour.
It would only take half an hour to get there, but Dinah had a morning routine she held dear to her heart. It was then she spent time in devotion to God, reading her Bible and praying. She had learned to treat her faith like a treasured relationship: it required quality time. There were things she read in her devotion book and the Bible that seemed to have been penned specifically for her. There were other
times when what she learned stretched her comfort zone — like giving over her control freak nature to God and allowing Him to be in command. The hardest thing of all was allowing God to deal with the vast amounts of shame and guilt she felt for a myriad of things: that the last time she'd spoken to her precious son, she'd shouted at him in anger; that she'd driven her husband away into the rainy night; that she wasn't the one killed, though she was surely more deserving; that she had numbed her soul with alcohol and silenced her spirit with thoughts of suicide. There were so many mistakes, so much brokenness in her life, so much to be sorry for. She found it hard sometimes to believe that God would accept her pathetic self anywhere near Him. This was a hard lesson learned each day, and would be for a long time to come, Dinah suspected.
She arrived at the mall a little late and met Ferguson and Sinclair at the service entrance. When her eyes fell upon Sinclair, her stomach did a strange, queasy flip. Those eyes, she thought, those eyes are just spectacular.
The supervising janitor led them through the bowels of the mall, while Dinah brought herself under control and assumed some level of professionalism. His name was Nate, and he explained as they walked that a team of janitors worked at night to mop floors, clean windows, empty trash cans, polish banisters, and otherwise ensure the place was spotless for opening the next morning. The mall had been closed the day after the bombing, given its close proximity to the church, and the cleaning team had been given a night off. Upon their return the following night, one of them found something odd in the trash.
The location of the bin was near the food court. The mall was reasonably new and the food court featured an outdoor balcony where diners could eat their fast food outside if they wished. Dinah immediately noticed that the food court faced the direction of the church, and although the church itself couldn't be seen, it was possible the detonation could have been.
It would have been a perfect vantage point for a voyeuristic bomber.