“It’s Mrs. Sanchez.”
“Oh,” she looked apologetically at us. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this.” She took the phone and clip-clopped in her heeled, leather boots to another room.
Gwen and I looked at each other, thinking: she just got a call from the incoming First Lady of the United States. We’re really out of our league here! Our biggest celebrity friend is my partner in crime, former professional wrestler Coldblooded Carter. Not exactly the same.
A few minutes later, Sam Reinhold came dashing down the stairs. “I apologize for the delay, I know you have vacation plans to get to. Why don’t we go into my office?”
He informed Emily that he was to have no interruptions, even if the president was on the phone, which must feel awesome to say.
He was dressed in a charcoal colored suit that he appeared born to wear, reminding me of the hotshot prosecutor and his dazzling display of charm, youth, and intelligence, which concealed a fierce tenaciousness.
We were met at the office doorway by a snuffling bulldog named Herschel, which Reinhold bent down to pet, causing him to wince with shoulder pain.
Sam took a seat behind a large oak desk, and offered us a seat in the high-back leather chairs that faced him. As I sat, I noticed a painting on the wall behind the desk. I first thought it might be of his senator father, but this portrait seemed to be from much longer ago.
Sam noticed my interest and informed me that it was his great-great-grandfather Todd Reinhold.
“There’s been a Reinhold in the United States Senate from 1880 until my father recently retired, and Todd Reinhold started it all. He was a Civil War hero, fighting for the Confederacy. When the war ended, he was so opposed to living under Yankee rule that he moved his family to Brazil, where they ran a profitable farm for many years, before returning. This made him a hero in the eyes of many in Georgia.”
One of the reasons many of the “Confederados” like his great-great-grandfather moved to places like South America was not because of their ideals, but more the fact they continued to profit from the work of slaves in places like Brazil. But since we were off to such a good start, I decided not to question the motives of the man on the wall. Still, the portrait did make me feel uncomfortable—it was as if Todd Reinhold was staring back at me. So I avoided eye contact … with a painting. I was really losing it.
“So why didn’t you ever run for senate, and keep the streak alive?” Gwen asked.
“My brother Buck is the future senator in our family—he’s currently a state representative in Georgia, and it won’t be long. I was always more about cops and robbers growing up, but I was too much of a nerd to be on the police force, so this is my way to put the bad guys away.”
It was the perfect segue for us to get down to business, “First off, I can assure you that your case will have my full attention and priority, whether these Attorney General rumors come to fruition or not.”
We both nodded, and Gwen said, “We have full confidence in you.”
“Thank you, and I will do everything in my power to reward that confidence with a conviction. Like all cases, it will be a series of steps, and our first step to deal with is the death penalty. I want you to know I’m leaning toward not pursuing it. There are just too many mitigating factors with Benson, from the death of his parents at the hands of a drunk driver, to his claims that he contracted Gulf War Syndrome while fighting for his country.”
We again nodded—it was the logical conclusion.
Reinhold continued, “If it was up to me, I’d give you the gun, JP, and let you do the job yourself, but I have to work within the system we have.”
My mind briefly wandered to the previous coversation Gwen and I had on that subject.
“And speaking of our legal system, I don’t need to tell you that Barney Cook is representing Benson, and when it comes to Cook, anything is possible. So we need to be ready for whatever the defense might throw at us, because this case isn’t half as open and shut as people are making it out to be in the media.”
“What do you mean isn’t open and shut? You have his journal where he detailed the killings,” I questioned.
He calmly nodded, as if expecting my response. “That is true, JP, but Cook is trying to get it thrown out … and it was discovered when you illegally entered his home,” he said, fixing his gaze on Gwen.
She was not happy by this. “I was there illegally because I was looking for Jeff Carter, whom Benson had hostage. Just like I eventually was.”
“I agree with you, but my point is it just takes one ruling by the judge, or a jury to latch onto one of Benson’s arguments, to change the entire landscape. Maybe the journal will be ruled an illegal search … or perhaps it will be something we haven’t even thought of yet, but I assure you there will be potholes along the way to a conviction, and you need to be prepared for that.”
“What do you think Cook’s play will be?” I asked.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. I could tell he’d spent a sleepless night or two trying to answer that question.
“I think there’s a few possibilities. But I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that they argue that Benson was not in his right mind. I’d expect them to focus on the Gulf War Syndrome. Putting the US government on trial can be popular in some eyes, so we really have to do a thorough job of vetting potential jurors.”
“I don’t think Benson is going to have a defense,” I said.
Reinhold appeared intrigued by my statement. “Then why are they trying to block the journal?”
“His lawyer might be, but Benson is the one who hired him, and he’ll get his way in the end. His entire end game was to have a forum to preach his vigilante justice like he’s some sort of prophet. And that’s just as dangerous a defense as the others.”
“I’m with you on that,” Sam replied, which slightly surprised me. “And if he does, it’s going to be painful for you in that courtroom. You’re going to have to hear things that will make you want to strangle Benson right there in front of the jury, but you have to take it. He wants to turn you into the monster … just like he wants to convince the jury that your brother was. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet you here—to see firsthand if you’re up to it.”
“Am I?”
“I’ve heard all I need to hear to proceed with confidence,” he said and stood. “Now go enjoy your Christmas.”
As he led us out, Emily appeared with terrible news. “Mr. Reinhold, there’s a Ms. Lauren Bowden here to see you.”
“You have to be kidding me,” I mumbled to myself. Gwen made a similar comment, but didn’t keep it to herself. I admittedly dated many women in my time BG—between Gwen—but Lauren seems to be the one that will never go away.
Before we could make a run for it, she entered the room like a buxom, peroxided version of the Tasmanian Devil. Luckily she only had eyes for the future Attorney General.
“Well, hello stranger … just came by to wish you a Merry Christmas,” she said and wrapped him in a hug.
Sam turned to Gwen and me, ready with the explanation, but also with the unintended consequence of blowing our cover. “Lauren is an old friend of the family.”
“My family is from Hilton Head, which is just a hop skip and a jump from Savannah,” she said.
Her eyes finally landed on me, and the toothy smile fell off her face. “John Peter—what pray tell are you doing here? Are you stalking me?”
“For the record, I would gladly consent to a restraining order, to protect us both from my stalking,” I said.
Gwen stepped in, “We’re here for a meeting … what are you doing here?”
“I’m just here to wish an old friend happy holidays,” Lauren answered.
Sam had a good laugh at that one. “Don’t let her fool you—she’s always working. I’m guessing it’s either the Grady Benson case or my possible nomination, to which my answer on both is ‘no comment.’”
Lauren chuckled, and patted him flirt
atiously on the shoulder. “He sure knows me well … have I mentioned that we go way back?” She then focused on Gwen—this should be fun.
“So have you gotten your dress for Byron’s wedding?”
Gwen shrugged. “Haven’t had time—I hope to get something when we’re in Savannah over Christmas.”
Lauren smiled, faker than usual. “I envy your simple life. I had to work with Vera six months in advance just to get on her list, with Oscar season coming up and all.”
Before Gwen bit completely through her tongue, it was time to say our goodbyes and make our exit. When we arrived at the Sequoia, I smiled at her. “Now I know why I had such a bad feeling about this meeting.”
She smiled back. And for a brief moment I stopped thinking about Grady Benson.
Chapter 7
I’ve had many disagreements with my family over the years, particularly Ethan. But the flip side is that they’re also the best “pick-me-up” tonic after I’ve gone crashing to the pavement, which seems to happen often these days. And the scab-tearing meeting with Sam Reinhold had left me pretty bruised and battered.
So when we reconvened at the Reflecting Pool on the National Mall, I immediately felt that all would be right with the world once again … once Benson was locked up forever, that is.
As a former international journalist who had seen the world three times over, I thought I could add anecdotes and insight beyond the usual tour guide material for the kids, as we visited the most important monuments of our nation’s capital. So I shared the story of how my partner in crime at GNZ, Jeff “Coldblooded” Carter, once ran into the Reflecting Pool after a hard night of drinking, completely naked, shouting “Forrest!” Forrest!” recreating the iconic scene from the movie. And how Uncle JP had to bail him out of jail later that night.
And when we entered the Lincoln Memorial, I showed the spot where Aunt Gwen and I had slipped off to so that we could make out during our class trip to Washington. This is why I’m never asked to babysit.
After the tour, I took everyone to one of my favorite steakhouses in the area for a late lunch/early dinner. Then with bellies full of sizzled sirloin, we hit the road again. We made it all the way to Rocky Mount, North Carolina, where we checked into a Hampton Inn.
It barely felt like my head had hit the pillow before the alarm was going off the next morning. Gwen and I pulled ourselves together and met Ethan’s clan in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. My brother was predictably irritated that we’d arrived at 6:20, a full twenty minutes after his self-created six o’clock deadline.
I was in no mood for this, especially considering we had made it far beyond our expected distance on the first day. And we were on vacation, which by its very nature should mean there is no militaristic schedule. I was about to let him know this, which would undoubtedly result in an epic clash over blueberry waffles, but the slightest tug on my arm by Gwen defused me before things got started.
The drive took approximately five hours, arriving in Savannah in the early afternoon, on a sixty-degree, sunny day that sure didn’t look like my idea of Christmas Eve.
My parents’ new home was in the Ardsley Park section, which was lined by shaded oaks and stately homes. Many of them had the feel of yesteryear, which I’m sure drew my mother’s attention. It was also near the Southbridge Golf Club, which likely sold my father.
We followed our GPS babe to a Victorian home on 52nd Street, the new residence of Peter and Sandra Warner.
The welcoming committee met us in the driveway. And any thoughts that my parents had realized they’d made a huge mistake, and planned to return to Rockfield at first opportunity, were dispelled when I saw their smiles … as wide and happy as I’d ever seen them.
My father greeted us like the politician he was—serving thirty-five years as Rockfield’s First Selectman—with handshakes and back slaps. My mother met us with hugs. For such a petite woman she could really land a wallop when she embraced you.
My father, like Ethan, always had everything planned out to the minute. But the way he went about it seemed to annoy me much less. He provided us the Christmas Eve itinerary, which would include dinner at their favorite restaurant, adding that it was the best Italian food he and my mother had ever eaten. Only my parents would have a favorite eatery after living somewhere for a month, plus, they had already made friends, and my mother was volunteering at the Savannah Historical Society. I fully expect my father to be the mayor within two years. Kidding … sort of.
The house’s interior had high ceilings and banks of windows that let in streams of sunlight. A set of pocket doors led to a formal dining room that was already decorated for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. The upstairs had four bedrooms, all with fireplaces. In fact, the house had seven in total. Ella joked that might “really mess up” Santa tonight, and Whit appeared concerned that she might be right.
We returned downstairs to the spacious living room, and that’s when I noticed it. Not only was the Christmas tree a fake, but it was white. A white Christmas tree? It’s one thing to depart from tradition, it’s another to make a mockery of it. I was about to inform everyone that I was going to head out to cut down a “real” tree, and drag it back here, when Gwen spoke softly into my ear, “Take a deep breath, JP. I promise we’ll have Christmas at our place next year.”
“With a real tree?” I whispered back.
“As long as you’re in charge of cleaning up the needles.”
“Deal.”
A few deep breaths later, we unpacked the vehicles and carried the luggage inside. I then tried to get some rest before dinner, but all I could think about was yesterday’s meeting, and how Noah wasn’t here with us.
Chapter 8
My family dressed casually for dinner—sweaters and slacks, with a lot of seasonal coloring. But since I was the last soldier still fighting for Warner family traditions, I wore a black, four-piece Armani suit. Christmas was always a casual, lounge-around day with my family, but Christmas Eve was formal.
Ethan tossed me the keys to one of the Sequoias, and quipped, “I guess our limo driver has arrived.”
I smiled, but knew it would take a Christmas miracle for the two of us not to go knuckles-to-nose at some point this week.
Downtown was a short but scenic drive from Ardsley Park. The sun was setting behind the river, creating a postcard-like effect, and my mother pointed out many of the historical landmarks that made up the oak shaded squares of downtown. I still wasn’t buying it as a Christmas destination, but Savannah was easy on the eyes. It was also alive with people being out and about. I wondered if the reason we were nestled inside back home waiting for Santa, was that it was too damn cold to go out for the evening, more so than holiday romanticism.
We found street-side parking on Whitaker Street, and walked to Barnard where the restaurant was located. As we approached the gray brick building, I remained a skeptic that the “greatest Italian food” my parents had ever tasted came from a place called Charlie’s Bar & Grill. Especially since I’d taken them to all the best places in Manhattan.
Once inside, the place did look more Italian eatery than a bar and grill, with the typical dark ambiance and checkered tablecloths. And like any Italian restaurant worth its sauce, it featured the lively chatter of the patrons, creating satisfying background music … even if these voices were a little twangier than you’d find on Mulberry Street.
Nothing stood out, but I was overcome by a feeling that I’d been here before. And what made that feeling extra strange was that I’d never been to Savannah prior to today.
As we waited for our table, we were called over by a man dining alone. My mother excitedly informed us that he was Harvey McClure—the curator at the Savannah Historical Society, where she was volunteering.
McClure stood to meet us—he was on the short side with salt and pepper hair, and oval-rimmed glasses. His dress had a certain flair to it—a white suit with black bow tie, and a Panama hat that he’d hung on the back of his chair. He struc
k me as Savannah’s version of Murray.
He came off as a Southern gentleman, which meant a lot of “sir” and “ma’am,” and kissing the women on the back of their hands. He took a special interest in Whit, mentioning that Eli Whitney’s invention of the cotton gin likely altered the direction of the antebellum south more than any other one event. Whit didn’t seem overly impressed—his mind on the spaghetti and meatballs in his future.
Harvey did offer us a tour of the Historical Society after our dinner, which was accepted—by my mother—although no official vote was taken.
A college-age waitress named Kyla took us to our table. She let us know that the full menu was available tonight, which was a relief. The Feast of the Seven Fishes was part of the Italian-American Christmas Eve tradition, and if Charlie’s completely catered to it, then I would likely be eating a lot of bread, and making a McDonald’s run on the way home. Not eating fish is a JP Warner tradition on all days.
A man approached in a tuxedo, holding a bottle of red wine. I first thought he might be a wine steward, but he announced himself as Omar the restaurant manager, and he offered us the bottle on the house.
Women are much more complex than men when it comes to what they find attractive in the opposite sex, which is often why guys seem confused by a woman’s choice in a mate. What does she see in that guy? But there was nothing complicated about why Omar had the women at our table swooning. He had thick, jet-black hair, and olive skin, all held together by a chin carved from marble. He was the guy from every movie where a woman meets a heartthrob on a trip to Italy. And when he asked if there was anything else he could do to make our meal more enjoyable, Gwen looked like she had a few things in mind.
When it comes to our relationship, for some reason my insecurities are tied to restaurants. Visions of Gwen’s wedding day, or romantic honeymoon with her ex-husband, Stephen Dubois, never moved my jealousy needle. But thoughts of him taking her to swanky Manhattan restaurants, the impressed look on her face as he ordered some expensive wine in French, all while I was off chasing stories in East Nowhere, still got under my skin. I can’t explain it, but through no fault of his own, Omar triggered it.
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 36