Within minutes a dozen police officers spread out over the lawn and sidewalk. An ambulance arrived on scene, and then another dumping EMTs into the fray.
An officer bent down, found a pulse for Daniels, and then handcuffed him. He searched for a weapon in the surrounding grass.
A woman wearing the nametag Glenda watched from the Twins lobby through the large plate window opposite the front desk. After the car crashed into the motel’s facade she had disappeared from view, only to reappear at the entrance, where she pushed past Rush like a linebacker going through the line.
“Daddy!” she bellowed.
An officer grabbed her before she reached Daniels.
“What’d you just say?”
“That’s my daddy,” the woman spat out. “You miserable bastards killed him.”
“He’s not dead yet,” the officer informed her.
“Fuck you!” the woman screamed. “You lousy, no-good motherfuckers!” She was ready to fight all comers.
The officer grabbed her. Another officer came up, put her in handcuffs, and pulled her to the side.
McClure escaped the car’s front seat after a paramedic arrived and replaced McClure’s hand with his own on Mercer’s still-pulsing neck. McClure stayed near the car until he felt a wave of nausea overcome him, and he backed away to vomit. He pulled his shirt-tail up and wiped Mercer’s blood off his hands as best he could, the effort more a transfer than a cleaning. McClure saw Rush still on the motel’s front steps and went over to him.
Rush stood motionless, staring out over the carnage.
“How’s Lee?” Rush asked, voice flat as a dial tone.
“They’re working on him,” McClure responded.
“What do you mean?” Rush asked.
“It’s a war zone out there,” McClure said. “Daniels was going for you, but he shot Lee.”
“I don’t understand,” Rush said, appearing not to have heard or understood the news about Daniels’s intentions. “I need to see Lee.”
McClure realized Rush was in shock.
“We can’t, Adrien. They’re trying to treat him. Go on inside and sit. I’ll come back to you.”
“He just saved my life.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Thank him for me,” Rush said. “Thank him, will you?”
“OK, I’ll—” McClure’s throat tightened, and he couldn’t finish his sentence without pausing. “Now go on and get yourself inside.”
“Promise me you’ll tell him.”
“I promise.”
. . .
The EMS paramedics treated Daniels the same as they would any other person with a trauma injury. They carefully turned him over and assessed his condition without regard to what had just transpired. The blunt force of hitting the car’s front had propelled him onto the hood and to the side, but the paramedics hadn’t seen any of that. All the paramedics had been told was Daniels had been hit by a car.
Just a few yards away, yet another paramedic triaged Mercer, and then another came over to help. They removed Mercer from the car and laid him out on the ground, his clothes cut to the waist to expose the upper torso. The unconscious Mercer was still breathing, but in shallow, obstructed half gasps.
“I got a faint pulse, but he’s lost so much blood,” the paramedic said.
“Saline?”
“I’ll get the bag started,” he said, pointing to Mercer’s arm.
“How’s the neck?”
“Gunshot just right of midline. Major trauma to the trachea, esophagus, and carotid arteries with no visible signs of an exit wound, but maybe I can’t get a good look.”
The paramedic lifted the stained gauze to reveal the gaping wound. The paramedics exchanged glances.
“We can’t intubate him, given the damage.”
“Not much we can do. He needs the ER.”
They moved Mercer into the closest ambulance, and it sped away before McClure could get an update on Mercer’s condition.
After the ambulance with Mercer left, the still-handcuffed and now-moaning Daniels was lifted onto a stretcher and put in a second ambulance. An officer followed him into the back with instructions to write down anything he said.
Both ambulances were destined for the same hospital.
. . .
Rush stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor of Lynwood Memorial. He had been to the hospital once before, to visit Nettie Wynn with Mercer. The visit had changed everything for him. Wynn and DuBose and Mercer. He returned now to plead with Mercer—or the part of Mercer he could reach—not to die.
He found an empty chair near the window in the common area behind the receptionist. The chair had such deep cushions that sitting in it felt like a soft embrace after a long fall. Rush wondered whether that was on purpose.
He waited alone, away from everyone else who might be there for Mercer. The family was in a private area nearer the ICU, and Mercer’s bureau colleagues were wandering around, having mostly ended up in the basement cafeteria.
Rush had met Mercer’s wife and children once, a year ago, at their home for dinner. Rush had left the occasion a new witness to the obvious and close bonds of affection among the Mercer family. His instinct now was to avoid Lee’s wife while her husband fought for his life not because he didn’t want to go to her, but because he feared whatever came out of his mouth would only compound her pain.
. . .
Someone squeezed his arm. He must have fallen asleep. Rush looked up to see Kris Battle.
“How you holding up?” she asked.
“How’d you get here?” Rush slid forward.
“I drove most of the night.”
“You—thank you, Kris.”
“I heard and came,” she said. “Have there been any updates since last night?”
“He’s still in ICU. Family only, so I’m here waiting.”
“Mind if I stay here with you?”
“Don’t need to ask. Just seeing you helps.”
Battle settled in, and they sat together for a time not saying anything. She gently touched and held on to his arm. He’d never been touched like that by anyone, much less a former colleague he hadn’t seen in over a year. It was light, but soothing and welcome.
“I’d rub your toes, but you don’t have enough,” Battle joked.
“So true.” They exchanged knowing, fleeting smiles.
“McClure told me Daniels was going after you,” she said.
“I was just standing out front. We were supposed to be going to the office to meet the AUSA before my testimony. Next thing, there’s chaos all around and Lee gets shot while he’s still in the car. Truth is, I don’t remember most of what happened.”
“Where’s Daniels now?”
“Here! Right in this building.”
“Oh, God, no. What’s his condition?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care to know.”
“I understand.”
“How’s Houston?” he asked her, changing direction.
“Money’s good. Not like being an AUSA, but then, I knew that.”
“It can be too fucking complicated.”
“You’re right,” she responded. “It sure can be.”
“I got Lee shot,” he said. “Daniels was out only because I moved to dismiss the case.”
“Like you just said, it’s a lot more complicated than that. Daniels shot Lee, but he was looking to shoot you.”
“It can be justified a hundred ways, but the result’s the same.”
“Adrien, you’re a victim, like Lee—not the cause.”
“But I’m sitting here, and he’s fighting for every breath.”
“Let’s just sit for a while,” Battle said. “No sense in debating it.”
“OK by me,” he replied. “I sure wish we were back in court waiting on our jury.”
“Me too,” she said. “Me too, Adrien.”
“Come to think of it, that got complicated too.”
. . .
By early ev
ening, the windowpane by Rush’s chair had become cool to the touch. It was dark outside when McClure came around the corner. Rush and Battle rose out of the chairs to meet him. His entire body shuddered before he spoke.
McClure didn’t look at them.
“He’s gone,” he said. “Just now.”
“I’m so very sorry,” replied Battle, her eyes lifted up to the blank ceiling.
Rush stood there, holding his breath as if he could keep the news from entering his body. When he couldn’t any longer, he exhaled and cried for the first time in his adult life.
“I need to go,” was all he could say. “I’ve got to leave this place.”
49
PROTECTIVE CUSTODY
Frank Daniels survived his injuries.
Rush testified before the federal grand jury, and the jurors indicted Daniels for the murder of a federal law enforcement officer and the aggravated assault of a federal official. The same indictment also charged Daniels with obstruction of justice and sending threatening communications through the mail. The judge set the trial in the case for midwinter in Lynwood.
The local district attorney convened a separate state grand jury that heard evidence in the motel shooting, and they indicted Daniels for first-degree murder with aggravating factors. The DA filed a notice of intent to seek the death penalty, but the state case was stayed in deference to the earlier filed federal murder prosecution.
. . .
The Marshals Service had designated Daniels a high-risk defendant, so he was assigned to a unit with administrative segregation at a state prison facility to await his second federal trial. On the afternoon of his first full day in the unit, the cell door next to Daniels rumbled open on schedule and a prisoner walked onto the landing to face the guard.
Daniels peered through the thick peephole of his cell.
The guard gave the inmate the required pat-down and nodded to another guard at the end of the landing.
“Who’s that?” the inmate demanded, pointing to the pair of eyes peering through the slatted opening. “No one was there.”
“Why, that’s your new neighbor,” the guard announced. “And goddamn if you’re not both federal defendants from Lynwood!”
Frank Daniels and Tony Johns exchanged grunts through rivets and metal, the equivalent of two dogs pissing on trees.
“Why’s he here?”
“Shot and killed an FBI agent.”
“Shit,” Johns muttered. “He’s the reason I’m in this fuckin’ place.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“No, he started it all.”
“Come along, Lieutenant,” the guard added with a mischievous grin. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”
50
GOODBYE
Mercer’s family buried him two weeks after his death, the ceremony being delayed to allow extended family from Chicago and bureau leadership to attend. DuBose offered to accompany Rush to the service, but he declined and sat alone in a back pew at the church. He wasn’t asked to speak, but he wasn’t offended. Everyone already knew that Lee Mercer had died saving Adrien Rush.
Mercer’s widow, Sarah Hawkins Mercer, stoic and quiet, and her two children remained near the casket after the eulogies and prayers ended. They didn’t want to leave him. The pastor had to gently steer the family to a waiting car for the short ride to the cemetery.
At the gravesite, Rush stayed back in the crowd. Several mourners from the FBI office recognized him and delivered polite greetings. McClure was there, but Rush couldn’t find him until after the cemetery workers had lowered the casket into the ground.
“How’s Lee’s family?” Rush asked McClure.
“They’re like Lee. It’s hard to see what’s really swirling below the surface,” McClure said.
“I didn’t see this coming,” Rush said.
“No one did, but Lee knew it wasn’t over.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you both did at the motel.”
“Lee did what he had to in the moment,” McClure said. “He tried to live his father’s creed to be the super-agent, and he really was, but it’s the fuckin’ worst way to prove it.”
Rush thought of the secret summit when all three had gone to the field to meet the titan. Mercer had been their protector from the beginning.
“If only we could undo this place’s past,” McClure said without a trace of insincerity. “How are you doin’?”
“I haven’t been in the office since.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Mostly alone, in my apartment.”
“You might need someone to help you through this.”
“I guess so,” Rush said as a point of fact, totally devoid of an advocate’s sharp edge. “Could you take me over? I want to pay my respects.”
McClure and Rush made their way to the Mercer family. The two children were inspecting the clumps of freshly cut grass clinging to their dress shoes while Sarah Mercer was accepting hugs and tears with patience.
“Ma’am, I’m so very sorry.”
“Thank you for being here, Mr. Rush.”
“It’s Adrien.”
“Lee talked about you a lot, especially lately. You made an impression on him. What you two shared might have been complicated, but it was very important to him.”
“I never told him how much I depended on him.”
“He wasn’t one for compliments no how.”
“I hoped I would grow on him a little, that he might think more of me over time.”
“He did, and don’t think he was so perfect. Remember, I live with him.” She went quiet. “Lived with him.”
“I can’t ever repay my debt.”
“It’s not a debt, it’s a gift. My husband would want you to be lifted up, not burdened.”
“I’m only here because he’s not.”
“Focus on the here part.” Sarah Mercer looked around the cemetery over lives past, including her husband’s, and then at her children. “Adrien, we’ll keep you in our thoughts and prayers.”
“And I you.”
After a slight pause, she and Rush embraced, held each other for a moment, and went their separate ways.
51
A DELIVERY
On a sunny April day the cherry blossoms were in undiluted pink, and tourists formed moving borders between the blossoms and the tidal ponds. Washington was on the cusp of its annual rebirth. Rush needed the colorful imagery, even if the sense of renewal was for him only fleeting.
Traffic was light as Rush started for work. The case files he’d left the evening before were part of another predictable rhythm and awaited his return. He emerged from the Metro at the Archives Station and made his way through the Navy Memorial with its curved expanse, past the restaurant where he’d once met Nicole DuBose. He stopped at the traffic light to cross Pennsylvania Avenue and looked left to the Capitol Building sitting on elevated ground in the distance, and then to the right where the distant pavement ended at the White House complex. He made his way through the main Justice entrance with an absentminded flash of his credentials. His commute ended seven floors up at the end of three connected hallways.
Earlier that same morning, a package the size of a ream of paper addressed to Rush in careful cursive had arrived at the Justice Department. Postmarked in Lynwood, the package had traveled through the building’s mail maze, from receiving to sorting, and on to the divisional bags in the basement that were emptied twice a day. It appeared on Rush’s desk within hours, along with a dozen or so other parcels sent by US attorney’s offices, FBI agents, and courts across the country. There was work to do, or redo, and Rush didn’t notice the box until midafternoon.
Rush sliced through the top of the package and pulled the handwritten note from its jacket.
Dear Adrien—
I am so very sorry about Agent Mercer’s death. I pray his family finds some solace in the knowledge that he died protecting others. I wish I had the words to le
ssen the pain and loss I know you must feel now.
I’ve moved back to Lynwood for a while, to my Nettie Ma’s home. The enclosed picture and frame with the wrapping were on the kitchen table the night she passed away. Your business card was next to the frame. As you can see, the picture is of her as a young woman, with my grandparents and great-uncle and aunt on the front steps of her home.
I’m at a loss about what this means, but after much thought I have to believe she intended to send it to you. I hope you know why. Maybe someday you will share the reasons with me.
Nicole
The letter lay open on top of the case files on the corner of Rush’s desk. He descended the winding stone staircase, and when he reached the ground floor landing, he left the building. He made his way to the National Mall in his lawyer’s suit, past the Washington Monument, along the reverent sunken wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, where he searched for and found the State of Louisiana engraved on the temple’s marble frieze, and sat down underneath it to rest.
AFTERWORD
A Man for All Seasons
[William] Roper: So now you'd give the Devil the benefit of law!
[Sir Thomas] More: Yes. What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?
Roper: I’d cut down every law in England to do that!
More: Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country’s planted thick with laws from coast to coast—man's laws, not God's—and if you cut them down—and you're just the man to do it—d’you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I'd give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety's sake.
—Bolt, R. (1960). A Man for All Seasons, A Play in Two Acts (Vintage Books, A Division of Random House)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many individuals have helped me with this—my first—novel. I thank them with a happy heart. I want to name a few whose guidance was particularly helpful or generous. My profound thanks go to Professor Rosabeth Moss Kanter for reading various drafts and providing unfailingly insightful comments. Also, thanks to Scott Frank, Professor (emeritus) Alan Dershowitz, and James Patterson for reading early drafts of several chapters. From Gwenn and Mark Snider, I received early support that helped me start the writing process. I am grateful to Scott Atherton, a friend who was supportive of my writing for the long duration of the novel’s gestation. I wish to acknowledge the special contributions of my longtime friend and former DOJ colleague Gerard Hogan. Gerry reviewed many drafts with a caring but scrutinizing set of eyes; the story is significantly better for his efforts.
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