The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

  He went past them, made sure they weren’t watching, and flipped the briefcase up onto the roof. Then, in three quick moves, he lifted himself to the railing, to the sill of the window on the back of the pavilion, to the lintel above the window, up ten feet onto the flat roof.

  He lay on his belly a moment, let his eyes adjust to the red neon of the beer sign. Then, keeping low, he opened the briefcase. The sniper’s rifle was in three pieces. He pulled out the scope and pointed it across the field, toward the corporate box where the bright television lights were burning.

  He could see Don Cottle looking back at him with binoculars.

  “MR. FALLON,” BISHOP was saying. “Come and show America a national treasure.”

  Peter shoved the Constitution into Evangeline’s hands. “Give me thirty seconds.”

  “My hair’s a mess. I look like shit.”

  “You look beautiful.” He pushed her into camera range.

  “Miss Carrington,” said Bishop, a bit confused. “Ladies and gentlemen, one of America’s great document hunters, Evangeline Carrington. And you are carrying a map case that contains … what?”

  Evangeline gave the case to Bishop and told him to hold it while she slipped out one of the sheets.

  “My God,” said Bishop as the paper appeared.

  “What’s this?” asked Harry Hawkins, who seemed to have lost his job to Bishop.

  “This,” said Evangeline, “is a first draft of the United States Constitution. The document that holds us together and keeps us arguing, too.”

  Peter considered trying to get out to right field himself. But he decided he could have more impact right there. So he called Shiny’s cell.

  “Yeah?” said Batter.

  “If he’s out there, he’s on top of the Sports Pavilion on the right field roof. My bet is that he’s right under the giant Budweiser sign.”

  Peter saw Cottle looking at him, so he punched speed dial, and the voice on the other end of the line answered. “Hause.”

  “It’s Fallon, where are you?”

  “Behind third base. Where are you?”

  “With Bishop. Get your people to the top of the right field Sports Pavilion.”

  “Why?”

  “Gun.”

  Now Cottle was coming toward Fallon, so Peter clicked off and stepped in front of the camera, which stopped Cottle in his tracks.

  Bishop announced, “And here, ladies and gentlemen, is Miss Carrington’s partner, Peter Fallon. Together, they found this remarkable document, which shows so much about the thinking of the men who invented America.”

  “Mr. Fallon,” said Harriet Holden. “It would be interesting to know what the Framers thought about the right to keep and bear arms.”

  Evangeline heard Kelly whisper to Kate. “Do these people have any idea of how many ratings points they’re killing?”

  Outside, the crowd roared as the first of the Red Sox were introduced.

  “What it says,” Peter began, “is what it said two hundred years ago.” He held the sheet in front of the camera. “It shows the handwriting of the New England delegates, who set down their thoughts on a bill of rights.”

  “Amazing,” said Harriet Holden.

  “And what does it say about the Second Amendment?” asked Bishop.

  Peter had told them all what they wanted to hear: that the draft favored them. He had been lying. But he didn’t care. He was trying to save the Constitution. Once it was on television and the world had seen it, the truth of it was safe.

  He pointed to the document. “Elbridge Gerry tells us, ‘The right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ Period. Rufus King offers a statement open to endless interpretation: ‘The right to keep and bear arms must be discussed and defined.’ “

  Charles Bishop looked over Fallon’s shoulder.

  Harriet Holden did what politicians always did, she reflexively started to talk. “Well, I think—”

  Peter Fallon said, “I think that the men who set their thoughts down here were men who cared about America. Some of them believed in a strong central government, some of them believed that government governs best which governs least, but all of them believed in the ability of thinking Americans to get up in the morning and resolve their differences and solve their problems. And we’ve lost that in this country. There are people in this room who’ve lost it. People on camera who’ve lost it.” Peter glanced to his left, at Harriet.

  Outside, a tremendous roar rose from the crowd as the name David Ortiz echoed across the field and the big slugger lumbered to the first base line.

  Peter went on, “The Framers created a means of changing this document because they understood that the world would change. But they didn’t want to make it easy. So, it’s up to you, you baseball fans wondering when we’ll stop yapping and get on with the game. Pick up your newspapers, and read them, and think about what you read, and don’t always believe what you hear, just because it’s what you want to hear. And don’t just listen to what you want to hear because you hear it from somebody who shouts it loud or makes you laugh. This document deserves more respect than that. It demands more. Don’t believe the Harriet Holdens who vote straight Democratic, any more than you believe the Kelly Cutters, who befoul the air waves with rightist rhetoric every day.”

  Evangeline heard Kelly say, “After all I’ve done for you.”

  There was another roar from the crowd. The introductions were finished.

  So was Peter. “The theme, on the night when we gather in the oldest ballpark in America, to celebrate America’s game and national unity, is that we’re all American. And—”

  “Oh say can you see …” Down on the field, Steven Tyler sang the first line.

  “And with that, ladies, and gentlemen, we should go out to our seats,” said Charles Bishop.

  “And we’re clear,” said the cameraman.

  The television lights went out.

  Charles Bishop made a broad wave. “Come on, everybody. We don’t want to miss this.”

  Peter Fallon said, “Maybe we should watch from inside.”

  But Don Cottle was herding everyone out to the seats overlooking the field, and Josh Sutherland was already down at the railing, giving directions to the cameraman on how to frame the congresswoman.

  “What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming …”

  Peter grabbed Evangeline and held her back.

  Kelly said, “I may have been wrong. It may not have been Cottle with the briefcase. Let’s go out and hear Steven Tyler. I love Aerosmith.”

  Cottle came over and offered a smile that was supposed to look comforting. “Relax. The FBI is all over the place. I’ve been watching them through my binocs.”

  Then he reached for the sheet of the Constitution in Peter’s hands. “I believe Mr. Bishop and you had an agreement.”

  “No way,” said Peter. “You aren’t cutting out Harriet Holden and the judge and the boys from the Old Curiosity Bookshop. And Tommy Farrell out there, he might lay claim, too.”

  Don Cottle’s face looked as if it might spontaneously combust. But then, as if gripped by a fit of good sense, he handed the sheet back to Peter, then gave him the map case. “We’ll discuss ownership later.”

  As this was going on, Sutherland was arranging people in the two banks of seats. When Peter turned back from Cottle, Evangeline was already in her seat outside, right behind Harriet Holden. So Peter had no choice but to go out there.

  “Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight …”

  The giant lights turned the cool October night into uber-day, and the colors were more brilliant beneath those lights than they were at high noon, a swirl of multitoned greens on the grass and the walls, of the reds, whites, and blues of the bunting and the uniforms and the stands where everyone wore Red Sox colors.

  And that rock star’s voice was stirring it all: “O’er the ramparts we watched …”

  Harriet Holden was right where she was su
pposed to be, next to the camera. But how did Kelly Cutter end up beside her, and Marlon Secourt beside Kelly, and Tommy Farrell beside Secourt?

  Secourt caught Peter’s eye and raised his mug of beer. “Fine speech.”

  Not such a bad guy after all, thought Peter.

  Then Tommy Farrell made a clenched fist in Peter’s direction.

  And Bishop leaned around Evangeline and whispered to Peter, “You’ll pay for that fuckin’ stunt, reading that Elbridge Gerry stuff out loud.”

  Judge Trask shook his head and told Bishop to behave, then gave Peter a wink.

  “… were so gallantly streaming.”

  Peter sensed Cottle behind him, alert to whatever might happen next. If Cottle was out here, maybe nothing was going to happen. Maybe it was all circumstantial fear.

  Then Peter looked toward the roof of the Sports Pavilion, some five hundred feet away.

  “Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave …”

  And here came Steven Tyler’s big moment … “O’er the land of the freeeeeeeeee …”

  The fans began to cheer Tyler toward one of those screaming high notes.

  On the pavilion roof, Walter Stanley lay on his stomach and pressed his eye to the telescopic sight.

  “… and the home of the—”

  The ovation began to rise, but like a beast emerging from a sea of sound, something new rose beneath it and grew so suddenly and powerfully that the ovation was drowned out and Steven Tyler’s high note disappeared.

  It came from over the left field wall, a distant rumble that in an instant turned into a screaming roar.

  The flyover!

  Three F-16s came rocketing low, so low that you could see the markings on their undersides, so loud that the plate glass in the windows of the luxury boxes rattled.

  Peter felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Every sense was heightened, then overwhelmed.

  He looked up. Evangeline looked up. Everyone in Fenway looked up.

  Except for one. Walter Stanley picked his target.

  The planes streaked over.

  As Peter turned to Evangeline to say something, Marlon Secourt’s head exploded.

  Blood and brain matter sprayed into the air.

  Peter pushed Evangeline to the deck. In front of them, Kelly threw herself onto Harriet Holden. At the same moment, a bullet shattered the seat back behind Harriet Holden and broke Peter Fallon’s shinbone.

  He landed on his side and screamed at Evangeline, “Stay down.”

  On the roof of the Pavilion, Walter Stanley swept the scope across the seats. He had gotten Secourt. That was part of his contract. But he had also been hired by the other side, to kill the congresswoman. The second shot had been for her. The third? For Fallon. Could he get a third?

  Then his cell phone rang. Cell phone? Who was calling him now?

  In the box, Sara Wyeth, covered in Secourt’s blood, was recoiling and screaming, while Mrs. Secourt was wailing, “Oh God, Oh Lord, Oh no.”

  And Don Cottle was jumping into action. Not to throw his body over Bishop, but to snatch the map case from Peter Fallon. Then he ran.

  Evangeline grabbed his leg, but Cottle kicked her away.

  Peter opened his cell phone and called his brother. “Tall guy, crew cut, he’s coming out at 4 Yawkey Way. He has the map case under his arm. Stop him.”

  There was no more gunfire.

  Walter Stanley could see people in the surrounding boxes, pointing in his direction. Besides, he knew the FBI was in the house. And someone else was coming, too. Someone who had just called him on the telephone.

  He left the weapon. Always leave the weapon. He scuttled between the “e” and the “r” in the giant Budweiser sign. He got to the back of the pavilion. He used the mullions of the window as footholds, dropped quickly into the space behind the building.

  He had a rope right there. Tied to the railing. It dropped straight down to the street. He unfurled it and tugged at his gloves.

  But suddenly, there was a big guy with a scar coming straight at him.

  The fans on the right field roof had no idea what had just happened on the far side of the park. But now they were witnessing something they would never forget. And it wasn’t baseball.

  Jack Batter and Walter Stanley burst from behind the pavilion and went at each other, right there amidst the tables on the right field roof. Both were professionals trained in hand-to-hand combat, but Stanley was younger, faster, more lethal. He drove a hand under Jack Batter’s chin, lifted him, slammed him against the railing that ran around the roof, grabbed him by the crotch with the other hand and threw him off. Just like that.

  A terrified college kid in a security Windbreaker was the first one to react. He shouted into his walkie-talkie “Backup. Backup. Stay right there, sir. You—”

  Walter Stanley swung a leg over the railing, wrapped his hands around the rope, and stepped off just as the first FBI man made it through the crowd.

  Down in the street, people were looking at the blood leaking out of Jack Batter’s head. Then they saw a man drop out of the sky. But Walter Stanley did not look at them. He calmly crossed the street, started the motorcycle he had parked at a meter on Van Ness Street, and sped off around the back of the bleachers.

  At about the same time, Don Cottle came out the door at 4 Yawkey Way.

  Danny and Antoine were waiting on either side. They tripped him.

  “Hey!” shouted a policeman, and he hurried toward them.

  At moment later, a motorcycle roared around the corner and stopped right in front of the ticket office.

  Don Cottle shook Danny off and threw him into the policeman. He elbowed Antoine in the belly, and ran for the motorcycle.

  A mounted officer swung his horse toward the motorcycle.

  Cottle jumped onto the seat behind Stanley, who drove straight at the horses’s legs. The horse screamed and reared above the crowd that was still parading into the park.

  The motorcycle shot down Brookline Avenue, up onto the sidewalk in front of the Landmark Center. Sirens were already chasing them. But Stanley had a plan. He dropped down into the dark, tree-lined park called the Riverway. He ran the bike into the Muddy River. Then he and Cottle crossed a little footbridge to the Longwood trolley stop, where they had left another car in the parking lot. They got in and headed for Route 9.

  IN THE BOX, Peter Fallon was trying not to give in to the pain of the gunshot.

  Sara Wyeth was still screaming. Mrs. Secourt had gone silent.

  And Kelly Cutter was lifting herself off Harriet Holden.

  “Thank you,” said Harriet Holden.

  “I’ll save your life,” answered Kelly, “but don’t expect me to vote for you.”

  THIRTY

  SARA WYETH BROKE UNDER FBI questioning about an hour after the first game of the World Series had been cancelled.

  “They had a plan,” said Sara.

  “Who?” demanded George Hause. “Who had a plan?”

  “Josh Sutherland. He came to Don Cottle and asked him to engineer an event so dramatic that it would put the danger of gun violence in every living room. Cottle told me later that he understood what Sutherland was getting at and asked, ‘So who do you want to shoot?’ And Sutherland said, ‘Harriet Holden.’ “

  “Cottle agreed to plan that?” asked Agent Hause.

  “For a price. Sutherland said that the congresswoman had a big campaign chest, and she’d never tap it because this repeal amendment had brought an end to her national ambitions. A quick wire transfer into a numbered Swiss bank account. No one would ever know. Cottle could live large. And so could I.”

  “You were lovers?” asked Hause.

  “You don’t think I was getting it from that old man, do you?”

  MOST OF THE story was in the papers the next day, after George Hause went before the cameras.

  Peter Fallon watched it from a bed in Brigham and Women’s Hospital. His leg was in a soft cast. He was hooked to IVs. He was doped wi
th Demerol. He had a broken nose where Mercer had hit him. He had lacerations around his neck where Shiny had tried to strangle him. And there was no way around it. Gunshots hurt.

  He lay there and watched, and watched himself, too, because his impromptu speech in front of the TV cameras was now being called a classic by people on both sides of the eternal national debate.

  When Evangeline came in, he was pointing the remote at the television and spinning the dial to see how many times he could see his face.

  “Good morning, television star.”

  “This is fun when you’re stoned.”

  She kissed him on the forehead.

  “I won’t break,” he said. “Kiss me again.”

  And she kissed him like she meant it. Then she pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “Well, we lived through it.”

  “I told you we would.”

  A picture of Josh Sutherland, under arrest, flashed on the screen.

  “The ultimate ideologue,” said Peter, “or the ultimate operator. One sees no gray, the other has no conscience.”

  “Better than a hired gun,” said Evangeline. “Stanley or Cottle … I guess it’s easier to admire ideologues like Kelly. Or Charles Bishop. At least they stand for something.”

  “Jack Batter, too. He stood for something in the end.”

  Now the pictures of Marlon Secourt were playing on the screen, and Clinton Jarvis was speaking on behalf of the Morning in America Foundation.

  Matt Lauer was interviewing him. “Do you have any idea why the same assassin who was aiming for one of the most liberal congresswomen in America would also shoot the founder of a conservative political action committee like Marlon Secourt?”

  Jarvis said, “I don’t know. Bad aim?”

  “That’s hardly an answer,” said Lauer.

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I don’t understand it myself.”