by Don Brown
She set the bottle on the table and reached into a drawer for a corkscrew. She held it up against the light and examined it. Even the corkscrew reminded her of him. In a sense, it had linked them together that Saturday when they lounged in the plush green grass of Coronado Tidelands Park, celebrating his deep selection to lieutenant commander. The corkscrew had sat on their checkered red blanket on many occasions at La Jolla, too, as they lounged on the grass above the cove, their toasts and celebratory sips of wine enhanced by one of the most romantic sights in the world—the orange sun, a big, benign, lazy ball, dipping below the horizon and into the Pacific.
The corkscrew had gone with them to the Southern California mountains that day when they opened the bottle of Castle Rock that had accompanied the warm, luscious apple pie they bought from Mom’s Pie House, the quaint little pie-baking shop just off Main Street in Julian.
How odd, and how amazing, that something as insignificant as a corkscrew could evoke such powerful and emotional memories of love forever lost.
She worked the corkscrew once again, this time popping the cork off the pinot noir.
She poured herself a glass of wine and took a sip. Another sip followed the first.
Then words flowed from her lips, words she had memorized at Camp Caroline, a Christian Bible camp in North Carolina she had attended years ago as a teenager.
“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.’ ”
She raised her glass in the air and said softly, “Good-bye, P.J. I’ll love you forever.”
As she took another sip, the wine went down smoothly, leaving a warm sensation in her esophagus.
She let the effects go to her head and let her thoughts linger on him a few seconds longer. Then she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her computer, and closed her eyes.
When she opened her eyes again, thirty minutes had passed.
That should be enough time.
She opened her email and began to type.
From: LCDR Caroline McCormick, JAGC, USN
To: Captain David C. Guy, JAGC, USN
Divisional Director, Code 13
Office of the Judge Advocate General
United States Navy
Subj: Acknowledgment of Assignment: Legal Opinion, Project
Blue Jay
1. Acknowledge assignment for completion of legal opinion letter, and understand my assignment to draft a legal opinion to the Secretary of the Navy with no predetermined directions on determining the proposed legality of the contract and bill presented to the United States Congress.
2. Acknowledge my assignment to present a legal opinion on the legality of the proposed joint use of Project Blue Jay drones to be shared between the U.S. Navy and the Department of Homeland Security, with a focus on (1) whether the proposed use would be legally permissible under the doctrine of posse comitatus, and (2) whether domestic surveillance proposed under the joint use would be legally permissible under Fourth Amendment prohibitions against illegal search and seizure, as well as whether such surveillance would be in violation of the Constitutional right to privacy, also under the Fourth Amendment.
3. After having reviewed the files left behind by both LCDR MacDonald and LT Simmons, the undersigned has discovered that LCDR MacDonald drafted two separate opinions, one opining that the proposed project was legally permissible and another opining that the proposed project was not legally permissible, based on posse comitatus and Fourth Amendment principles.
4. The undersigned is committed to a thorough and independent review of all research conducted by LCDR MacDonald on these issues. However, based on a review of Commander MacDonald’s notes on this issue, and based on an original draft of an opinion letter sent from LCDR MacDonald to LT Ross, it appears that LCDR MacDonald had come to the conclusion, or was coming to the conclusion, that joint use of Project Blue Jay drones, as proposed jointly, for budgetary reasons, by the Departments of the Navy and Homeland Security, was legally permissible.
5. Based on my preliminary review of LCDR MacDonald’s work, the undersigned will finish and complete both legal opinions, acknowledging that each legal opinion contains conclusions contradictory to the other, and will, based on additional legal research, submit one or the other to the Secretary of the Navy.
6. As directed by your instruction, the undersigned will choose and send a final opinion letter within 72 hours.
7. Please acknowledge and submit further instructions as necessary.
Very respectfully,
C. M. McCormick
LCDR, JAGC, USN
Caroline took a moment to read over what she had written, then took a deep breath, uttered a silent prayer, and hit the Send button.
There was no turning back. The trap had been set. And she just might have signed her death warrant.
CHAPTER 26
NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY
MID-ATLANTIC OFFICES AND WAREHOUSE
ANACOSTIA RIVER
SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Vinnie Torrenzano sat in the back office of NYC&S’s Washington warehouse, which, like the larger warehouses in New York and other sections of the country, had served the family in a variety of ways.
On some days, maybe once a week, fishing trawlers coming in off the Chesapeake would dock at the piers down by the waterfront and dump tons of lobster and crab into the company’s refrigeration boxes for packing and shipping to fish markets and groceries in the Mid-Atlantic region.
Of course, if seafood were the only enterprise in which the family held an interest, then the family could have selected other, more logistically efficient locations for the company’s Mid-Atlantic location.
But neither seafood nor concrete constituted the bulk of the company’s off-the-books profit margin, and thus the selection of the nation’s capital as the site of the Mid-Atlantic headquarters reflected the company’s need to conduct certain other aspects of the business. The “other-than-seafood” operations, shortened to “OTS,” as those operations were known to the company’s accountants and corporate bigwigs, constituted a large part of the reason for the location of the warehouse in DC.
Today was one of those “other ways” in which the conveniently located facility would serve the family, supporting one of those OTS enterprises.
Vinnie rather enjoyed his business jaunts to DC. For in DC, he got a lot of the well-deserved respect he often missed out on in New York.
In fact, he was so respected around this place that they called him Mr. T.
The boys on payroll here, even the nerdy computer wonks, understood that he was their meal ticket and that he was their connection with New York.
Vinnie took a sip of bourbon, sat back, alone, and tinkered with his laptop. He had grown to enjoy these temporary assignments to DC. They gave him a chance to get away from the wife.
Have a little fun.
What Maria didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
No reason for her to know.
And certainly no reason for Phil or Big Sal to know.
Plus, with the boys working down here in the DC warehouse giving him the respect he deserved, knowing that he was from New York and was part of the family and all, they knew to keep their mouths shut.
Anyway, he hoped the job here would be wrapped up soon, which would give him more time for a little rest and relaxation on the ground before having to head back up I-95 to company headquarters.
Only one more work-related task remained. And he should be putting the finishing touches on that anytime now.
But in the meantime, time to lay a little groundwork.
He struck up a cigarette, sucked a warm cloud of satisfying nicotine into his lungs, mixed the nicotine with another big swig of bourbon, then typed www.hotflightattendants.com into his browser. He
always had a thing for blonde stewardesses wearing a nice little hot navy blue skirt as part of their flight uniform.
A moment later, he was online and back in business.
“Yes!” He pumped his fist into the air when he saw that target number one had sent him a reply.
Her name was “BuffytheDCgirl.”
At least that was her screen name.
She purported to be a leggy flight attendant for American Airlines, and if she looked anything like her photos, she was red-hot smoking. Based on her profile, she was looking for someone to take her out who was “red-hot affectionate,” but she wasn’t ready for any commitments.
Perfect. Fun with no strings!
He grinned and let his Italian mind race to faraway places that only a brain oxygenized by Sicilian blood could imagine.
Her reply came up, and he took another sip before he started to read.
“Here we go,” he said to himself.
Dear SeafoodMagnate,
I loved your profile and am flattered that you would reach out to me! Thank you for the nice comments.
Such a gentleman! What a way with words!
Can you see me blushing already? Haha!
Seriously, I work out every day to try and keep my legs toned, and stay in shape so I can enjoy my red wine in the evenings when I go out LOL!
I also loved the pic of your car. I’ve found that you can tell a lot about a man from his wheels LOL!
J/K!!! Hehe!
But even better than your car, I LOVED your profile pic. What a handsome man! I LOVE your salt-and-pepper hair.
I think I might have to go turn down the air conditioner to about 58! LOL!
Are you really a seafood magnate? I love men who take charge in business. The magnate notion is a real . . .
Well, I’ve said enough already.
Seriously, you sound like someone I’d love to get to know a little better.
I don’t fly again until Wednesday.
I’m not normally this forward, but I’ll just put it out there if that’s okay.
Wanna meet for a drink?
Can’t believe I said that haha!
Anyway, lemme know!
XO
Buffy
“Good golly! Let’s do this.” Vinnie refilled his glass with bourbon, took a sip, and started to write.
Dear Buffy,
Glad you like my car. I’d love to take you for a spin in it. It’s gonna be a ride you’ll never forget!
BTW, my name’s Vincent, but my friends call me Vinnie.
So am I a magnate? Well, depends on how you define a “magnate.” Let me put it this way. I’m a guy that’s got a lot of guys who work for me. I’ll let you decide when we meet for a drink.
I’d like to . . .
“Hey, Mr. T.!”
Vinnie cursed and looked up. “What is it, Guido? I’m in the middle of something!”
“Sorry, boss. But the senator’s here.”
“Already?” Vinnie checked his watch.
“Yes, sir.”
He saved his message to Buffy and put the computer in hibernate mode. “Okay, send him in.”
Vinnie looked up as Rodino, wearing a blue blazer, khaki slacks, and no tie, walked in, surrounded by three of the boys from the warehouse.
“Chuckie! Welcome to our Washington hangout!”
“Whatever this is about,” Rodino said, sporting a scowl on his face, “did you have to insist that I travel into the slum section of the city? What if a member of the press sees me over here?”
“Chuckie! Chuckie! You hurt my feelings. I thought you’d appreciate our local digs. A great place for the boys to hang out. Know what I mean?”
“Vinnie—”
Vinnie held up his hand. This would be a one-way conversation. After all, he had other business to attend to. “Have a seat, Chuckie. Make yourself at home.” He looked at a warehouse goon. “Giuseppe, take everybody else outside. Me and the senator, we got some business to attend to. This won’t take long.”
“Sure thing, Mr. T.”
“Mr. T.?” Rodino crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as the warehouse goon ushered everyone else out of the office.
“It’s an affectionate name, Chuckie. T is for Torrenzano. Know what I mean? Hey, want a drink?”
“No,” the senator snapped. “You know I’m happy to help any way I can, but my time is limited. So can we please just get to the point?”
“Patience, Senator Grasshopper. And sit down, sit down!”
The senator, still scowling, pulled up a chair and sat. “You’ve got my attention. What’s this about? Did Phil ask you to call me in here?”
Vinnie took a drag from his cigarette and blew smoke in the direction of the high-priced political prostitute. He once heard Big Sal say at a family reunion, after Big Sal had had a few too many, that politicians are nothing but puny, punk prostitutes all pimped up in pickle-threaded pinstripes.
They could be bought and paid for with election contributions and controlled with bad dirt that, if the political pimp didn’t cooperate, could be fed to the press.
Big Sal was right. More smoke blown at the wimp.
“Actually, Senator, this ain’t got nothin’ to do with Phil. Actually, Big Sal wanted me to call you in for a little chat.”
At the mention of the name Big Sal, the senator-wimp’s face morphed from slight irritation to a near ashen-gray.
“Big Sal?” The senator’s eyes shifted. “What’s Big Sal need? Is everything okay?”
“Is everything okay? Well, that just depends on your perspective, I suppose.”
“So what’s going on?” he asked in a nervous, high-pitched tone.
“What’s going on is Big Sal wanted you to see these.” He slid the envelope across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“How would I know?” Vinnie threw up his hands, feigning ignorance. “Have a look for yourself.”
Vinnie couldn’t contain his sense of self-satisfaction, nor could he suppress the grin that crawled across his face as the junior Democrat senator from New York squirmed.
As the senator’s bony-looking fingers started to shake, he opened the envelope and slowly fetched the glossy 8×10 color photographs. His face turned red, and veins popped from the blood pressure in his neck. Rodino protested in a shrill voice that made him sound like a screeching cheetah.
“This is an outrage!” Rodino threw the photos down on the desk. “This is an inexcusable invasion of my privacy. And I object! In fact, I vociferously object!”
Vinnie laughed. “Who you gonna object to, Senator? You don’t think we got all the judges in our pockets too?”
“It’s still an inexcusable invasion of privacy. And I never thought the family would stoop to something this low!”
Vinnie abandoned all pretenses of hiding his cheese-eating grin. “Oh, I dunno, Chuckie. I thought the one of you and your boyfriend holding hands on the beach at Martha’s Vineyard and kissing under the moonlight was cute. And the one of you two in the sauna. What’s his name?” He smirked. “Milkey Mark? Markey Milk? Something like that?”
“He is Congressman William O. ‘Mackey’ Milk, the distinguished Democrat from Boston, and one of the most brilliant members of the United States Congress!”
“Easy there, Chuckie. I mean, look on the bright side. Those pictures, if they get out, would mean ole Markey boy would get reelected every time in Boston, where that stuff is a badge of honor. Probably even help you in New York. Hey, you’re guaranteed to carry Greenwich Village.”
“That’s not funny.”
“But for those national presidential aspirations of yours, well, this stuff will definitely help you in California, but you’re gonna need to carry a few southern states, and at least run well in Texas.”
Rodino glared at him. “What do you want?”
“And if Eleanor Claxton gets the nomination, she ain’t gonna want nobody on the ticket who will hurt her in the South. And this definitely ain’t gon
na help you in South Carolina or Mississippi or Texas. Or even Florida, for that matter, whether you’re at the top of the ticket or in the second spot.”
Silence.
“I said, what do you want?”
Vinnie inhaled the Marlboro cigarette. “It ain’t what I want, Senator. It’s what Big Sal wants.”
Another look of fear at the mention of Big Sal. “Okay, then what does Big Sal want?”
“Well, he told me to tell you two things. First, he wants to make sure that drone contract gets killed.”
“That contract is as good as dead in the water. It hasn’t even gone to Congress yet.”
“Hey, don’t tell me.” Vinnie threw up his hands again. “Tell that to Big Sal.”
“What do you mean?” Rodino looked over his shoulder as if expecting someone to walk into the room.
“Don’t worry. At least not today. Big Sal ain’t here. But he wants to see you in person.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“When? Where?”
“Tomorrow morning. Company headquarters in New York. We’ll arrange for transportation. And tell your boyfriend he’s invited too. Now get out of my office!”
“But I—”
“We’ll have one of our boys pick you up from out in front of the Capitol Building. You and your boyfriend, Congressman Milkey. Be ready around seven thirty and wait for our call. We’ll fly you up in one of our private jets, bring you before Big Sal, and then, depending on what he says, we’ll fly you back.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Look on the bright side. The family’s paying your travel up. And if Sal don’t cut you up and throw you to the sharks, you might get your way back paid, too, if you’re lucky.”
“But—”
“But that’s it, Chuckie.”
“There must—”
Vinnie hit the intercom. “Giuseppe! Escort the senator out of here.”
“Yes, Mr. T.”