“Indeed I did. He didn’t tell me exactly what it was about, but I gather it is both important and urgent.”
“And politically difficult, Your Honor.”
“How so?”
Carlton explained Kemsfield’s refusal to sign the arrest warrant, handed him the manila folders with the evidence on Fress and the additional evidence Forbes had dug up on the other Justice Department officials on the Waterboer payroll. He knew he didn’t need to insist on total confidentiality.
Daniels donned gold-rimmed spectacles and carefully read each page. When he finished, he closed the manila folders, removed his spectacles, and let them hang from his hand. “I understand Kemsfield’s refusal,” he stated flatly.
Carlton looked down at the fire. “Unfortunately, so do I, Your Honor. And I assume that the other federal judges would do the same.”
“No. Many federal judges were neither appointed by this president nor believe for a second they would be in the running for my seat on the Court. But it would take far too much time for you to sift through individual appointments and the politics of federal judges’ opinions vis-a-vis this administration. And the target of your warrant would soon learn of your quest.”
“Then you agree with my request, Your Honor?”
“I didn’t say that. The problem with the request isn’t so much political, but procedural. The people involved in this,” he placed his hand on the manila folders, “are too high up for a mere arrest warrant. The proper procedure is to obtain a special prosecutor.”
Failure again washed over Carlton. “So you’re not going to sign the warrant, Your Honor?”
“Do you know why I’m retiring from the Court?” Daniels asked, sidestepping the question.
“You want to spend more time with your wife, Your Honor.”
“That’s the answer I give reporters.” He nodded solemnly. “The truth is that I became a lawyer, then a judge, then agreed to be a member of the Court because I wanted to change the status quo. When I grew up, the status quo was segregation and bigotry in a place where the individual had few rights against the giants of government and corporate monoliths. For me, that’s not what America is about. Then or now.”
“You changed a great many things, Your Honor.”
“Yes, I did. And I’m proud of that. The problem is that today, the Court isn’t faced with the same opportunities. There are perhaps as many issues as there were back when I started, although I doubt there’s anything of the dimension of segregation, except perhaps abortion. The world is truly global now, but no matter how much we change things here, a tweak here, a tweak there, injustices still exist in the rest of the world. There is nothing that the Court can do about it. America is now a small place in a large world, even if it remains the only superpower. The Court doesn’t have the power to cure as it once did. The Court can only go so far. At some point, its rulings come into conflict with the global world of which America forms a part.”
“But it can still set an example that the world can follow, Your Honor. The rule of law. You said it yourself.”
Daniels smiled at Carlton for several seconds, then nodded, eyes closed. “Yes, I did. And yes, it can.”
He replaced his spectacles, picked up an aged Parker Duofold fountain pen from the leather desktop, unscrewed it, and signed three copies of the arrest warrant with a flourish. He looked up at Carlton. “With cases like yours. As I said, the procedure is wrong. Technically. But then again, workers’ strikes were once illegal, too. And what court is going to invalidate my arrest warrant?”
He handed the manila folders to Carlton. “You done good, son. Good luck.”
84 ARREST
The White House
9:17A.M.
Carlton wore his Navy uniform. Technically, he was not authorized to wear it except during naval duty; but the fine lines of Navy regulations had become blurred during the past month. On a day like today, every symbol of authority helped.
He pulled the navy blue Chevy Suburban SUV on loan from the Company motorpool up to the North Gate of the White House and stopped at the pillbox. The entire White House perimeter and entrance gates had been fearsomely reinforced after 9-11.
Carlton was sweating unbearably. He had been to the White House only once, many years earlier, and that was on a tour, not in an official capacity.
He wasn’t doing this entirely alone. Now that he had secured an arrest warrant, Forbes was passively backing him, but remained in the background, invisible, and would deny involvement if Carlton’s crusade turned sour, legally or otherwise. He had ordered Klaus von Engel, the Company White House liaison, to aid Carlton.
“Lieutenant Patrick Carlton, Navy Reserve and Department of Justice,” he announced to the White House security guard, handing the man two pieces of identification. Luckily, von Engel had placed him on the White House roster of authorized entrants, absent which he may as well have attempted to cross the Atlantic in a rowboat.
The sergeant ducked inside the pillbox, consulted his morning list, and reappeared a minute later. “Okay, sir. It checks out. But Mr. von Engel will have to accompany you. And you can’t park inside. Please step out of the vehicle. The guards will park it for you.”
Two guards walked up to the Suburban as Carlton stepped out slowly into the cold. They searched the vehicle and carefully examined its underside with canes that ended in mirrors before one of the guards got behind the wheel and drove the Suburban off-campus. The other guard frisked Carlton, waved an electronic wand over every square inch of his body, walked him through a metal detector, carefully verified both his thumbprints, and again scrutinized both of his pieces of identification. Satisfied that Carlton was fully unarmed, was who he said he was, and had a clean record, the guard gave him a temporary White House ID tag and led him up the driveway toward the stately white house that had originally been called the Executive Mansion.
Klaus von Engel, an athletic man of fifty with close-cropped graying hair atop sharply defined features, met him outside the entrance. “Thank you. I’ll take him from here.” He turned to Carlton, flashed a tight smile, and extended his hand. “Von Engel.”
“Carlton. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Lucky Malcolm told me about your document or you would never have made it past the first guard.” He paused. “You ready for this?”
“I’ve never been more ready in my life,” he lied. He was more nervous than he had ever been.
“Okay. I’ll take you to him.” He handed Carlton a pair of handcuffs. “Here. Take these.”
They walked into the White House through a side entrance and walked silently through several deceptively plain, muted hallways before arriving at a white doorway blocked by an appointments secretary and her desk.
“Hi, Becky.” Von Engel smiled. “We’re here to see Scott.”
The impeccably dressed brunette looked down at her boss’s calendar and shook her head before looking back up at von Engel. “You don’t seem to have an appointment, Klaus. I’m sorry, but the Chief of Staff is in a meeting.”
“Please, Becky. Just buzz him. It’ll only take a moment. It’s urgent.”
Carlton had stayed behind von Engel and now approached the desk.
“You know how he hates being interrupted. I can’t just—”
Carlton leaned over the desk, his blue eyes boring through the secretary. He spoke just above a whisper. “With all due respect, ma’am. I realize you’re doing your job. And doing it well. But I don’t care if the Chief of Staff is on the can. You will note the title and signature of Supreme Court Justice Thomas Daniels on this document.” He produced an original signed copy of the arrest warrant and slid it toward the secretary. “It is not your job or your decision any longer, ma’am. You must comply with this order and let us inside immediately.” He continued staring at her as she read the short document, then looked at von Engel.
He nodded. “It’s legit, Becky. I confirmed it earlier. You really want to do as he says.”
“Ve
ry well,” she responded, shaking slightly. “This way, sir.” She knocked on the door once, then opened it. Carlton saw Scott Fress seated behind his desk and shivered. Son of a bitch. This is for real.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but this man has an urgent—”
“Goddammit, Becky. I told you ‘no one’. What part of that don’t you understand?” He pointed to two men in ill-fitting suits seated in front of him. “These are extremely important gentlemen from the Chinese People’s Liberation Army and Navy.”
Carlton pushed past the secretary, walked into the office. “I’m afraid it can’t wait, sir.”
“Who the hell are you?” Fress obviously did not recognize him. Could it be that Fress had never seen a photograph of the man he had tried so hard to eliminate? Carlton wondered. “Get out of here before I call security.”
“I’m afraid that would not do you any good, sir.” Carlton’s heart pumped madly, awash in adrenaline. “And in response to your legitimate question, my name is Lieutenant Patrick Carlton, Navy Reserve, Department of Justice.” Fress’s eyes grew wide, with surprise and anger rather than fear. “By order of U.S. Supreme Court Justice Thomas Daniels, Scott Fress, you are under arrest for treason to the United States of America.”
Fress bolted out of his chair and gesticulated madly. “Under arrest? Are you out of your fucking mind, Carlton? You little prick. Do you think I’m going to allow a little shit lawyer from Justice to arrest me?”
The two Chinese wisely beat a quick retreat from the office. They would have to purchase American military secrets from someone else. Von Engel entered the room and stood behind Carlton.
“Sir, you are under arrest.” Carlton stepped up to Fress’s desk, placed the warrant in front of him.
“I’m not going anywhere. But you,” Fress leaned forward and wagged a finger at Carlton threateningly, “you are definitely going places, my friend.”
Carlton removed the handcuffs from under his uniform jacket and stepped forward.
“You touch me and you’re a dead man.” Fress stepped back.
“I’m afraid I have no—”
The gun went off without Carlton even seeing it. The bullet grazed his arm and hit von Engel in the chest. As Carlton dropped to the ground for cover, Fress ran through a back door. Carlton kneeled over von Engel. The man lay on his back, his breathing erratic, his shirt stained with blood. He tried to move his head but couldn’t. Efficient to a fault, Becky alerted the Secret Service, explained the arrest warrant and events, and summoned the White House EMT unit.
“Oh my God. You’ll be okay, Klaus. Just relax. The medics’ll be here in a sec.” She placed her hand on his forehead.
Von Engel looked at Carlton. “I’ll be fine. Take my gun. In my shoulder holster. Take it and go. Get the bastard.”
Carlton squeezed the man’s hand hard, then removed his Colt Government handgun from its holster. “See you soon.”
Carlton ran to the rear door. Wherever Fress had gone, he had a two-minute head start. The closest thing to the rear exit was an elevator and a staircase. As good a place to start as any.
He hurried down the stairs, which led to a tunnel. He stopped, listened for sounds, heard nothing. He ran down the tunnel.
At the end was a guard at a desk in front of a metal door. The guard had been shot at point blank range. Carlton grabbed his radio. A set of keys hung from the door lock. Carlton drew back the Colt with both hands, slammed the door open with his foot. He was surprised to see that it was an entrance to the Old Executive Office Building (OEOB) parking lot.
He pressed the radio’s ‘talk’ switch. “This is Pat Carlton, Department of Justice. I served an arrest warrant on the Chief of Staff by order of Supreme Court Justice Daniels.” he stated, in case Becky hadn’t made the point clear. “Officer down at the parking entrance from the White House tunnel. Scott Fress has escaped to the OEOB parking lot. Whoever is listening to this, cover the OEOB parking exits. Don’t let anyone out.” I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Carlton held close to the wall, then ducked behind the row of parked cars. He looked left and right, inspecting each car as a possible target.
Everyone has their vanity. For Fress, it was his car. Despite the Secret Service-chauffeured government car at his disposal twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Fress vainly preferred to drive his ostentatious navy blue Rolls-Royce Silver Spur to and from work. It shot out from one of the parking spaces near Carlton and launched toward him.
Carlton jumped atop the hood of a black Lincoln an instant before the Rolls crashed into the car’s rear bumper. The force of the impact sent him flying off the hood, propelled him in the air, and slammed him into a armored concrete pylon, knee first. He heard a sickening crunch as his kneecap shattered an instant before crumpling to the cold polished cement floor. He forced himself to stand, howled in pain, panted to prevent himself from blacking out, then ducked instinctively as Fress raised his arm toward him, gun in hand. The shots barely missed Carlton, exploding the Lincoln’s windshield.
Glass rained down on him. A wave of pain traveled through him as he fought to regain a level stance, then fired the Colt at Fress as the Rolls-Royce’s tires screamed backward on the smooth concrete amid puffs of burned rubber. It roared back, shot forward.
Carlton’s first shots pierced the car’s trunk. The second round of shots missed the large car as it flew up the parking ramp. It was almost at the top when the barricade system was activated. In an instant, an iron-reinforced concrete cylinder three feet thick shot up from the middle of the driveway. Though massive, the Rolls Royce was no match for the three-ton barricade. The ponderous sedan smashed into it at over thirty miles per hour and came to an immediate halt accompanied by the sound of metal crushing. Two Marine MPs arrived at the scene, each pointing their M-16 assault rifles at the driver. Apparently unharmed, Fress maniacally tried to restart the engine from behind his airbag. It turned over several times, then died with a whimper.
Carlton half ran, half limped up the ramp, dragging his right leg with its shattered, swelling knee, gritting his teeth. He tried to open the driver’s door, but it was locked. He turned to one the Marines. “Open the door, private.”
“Yes, sir!” Seeing the rank on Carlton’s uniform, the Marine obeyed, flipping over his weapon and ramming its butt hard into the driver’s window three times before it cracked into a spiderweb of broken safety glass. He turned the weapon back to its normal position and used its steel muzzle to make an opening in the glass, reached inside, opened the door from the inside, then stepped back, ramrod straight at attention. “Sir!”
The airbag deflated while Fress madly groped for his handgun on the plush carpeted floor. He stopped moving as soon as Carlton shoved the Colt’s barrel against his temple. It pressed against him so hard that it tore Fress’s skin. Carlton cocked the weapon as a ring of blood appeared around the end of the steel muzzle.
“All right, you son of a bitch. Since you didn’t hear me the first time, I’ll say it again. You’re under arrest, you traitor fuck. You have the right to remain dead silent...”
In strict adherence with his constitutionally guaranteed right to due process, Scott Fress would be given a full jury trial, representation from competent counsel, extensive time to prepare for trial, the opportunity to discover all of the evidence against him in the government’s possession, and the right to assert all applicable privileges and defenses. However, it wasn’t difficult for Waterboer to locate him as he awaited trial in a federal prison.
He did not remain alive long enough to stand trial.
85 EVIDENCE
Mayor's Residence
Palermo, Sicily
2:02 A.M.
Mayor Orlando Leonida still could not accept his defeat. He continued to replay the events in his mind’s eye.
How could he have let it happen? The bank had been sealed. Guarded inside and out by twenty GDF troops armed with guns and close-circuit cameras. He had been about to obtain evide
nce that would put one of most violent mafia dons and his henchmen in cages for the rest of their lives. Avenge the thousands of Italian and other European men, women, and children who had suffered and died through his assassinations, his robberies, his drugs, his prostitution rings.
All the critical evidence had disappeared.
Strangely, the GDF cyber-forensics team informed Leonida that the evidence had not been destroyed in the fire, but had been sucked out of the bank’s mainframe computer database with nothing left but clean, clear disks which had later burned.
How?
He got up from his living room sofa—he did not want to bother his wife while he suffered his bouts of insomnia—and poured himself another whiskey soda. It wasn’t personal embarrassment that bothered him. He did all he could and both the media and his voters knew it well. What tortured him were the four years he had invested in the case against Arcangelo at the expense of other cases, other mafia families, now all wasted. He muttered a curse and gulped his fourth drink when he heard a knock at his door.
“Avanti, Avanti.”
His bodyguard opened the door and popped his head in the living room. “Telephone call, sir.”
Leonida instinctively looked at his watch. “At two in the morning?” He sighed. “Who the hell is calling at this hour?”
“He says his name is Carlton. From the American Justice Department in Washington.”
It was not unusual for him to speak with the U.S. Justice Department, but why would they be calling him at this hour and at home?
Leonida had no desire to speak to anyone, but welcomed the distraction from his frustration and despair. He picked up the telephone.
“This is Leonida. Do you realize what time it is here? What do you want?” He demanded. His accent was heavy, his English quite good.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 51