by Stephen Frey
As though he was thinking that this was how the landscape must have looked to his ancestors three hundred years ago all over the state of Virginia, Victoria figured.
“I love it up here. This is the fourth time I’ve made the climb.” Wolf glanced over his shoulder and waved to Victoria. “Come here. You’ll have a much better view. I want to point out some things.”
Victoria glanced at Cameron, who was clutching the top of the railing on the other side of the stairs.
“Go on,” he muttered.
“You scared?” she asked.
“Petrified,” he admitted. “This tower is swaying.”
“Come with me,” she begged.
Cameron glanced at the thin, waist-high railing, which ringed the edge of the observation deck, then retightened his grip on the banister. “Not a chance. I can see just fine from right where I am.”
“Baby.”
“Like I was born ten minutes ago. In fact, I may need a diaper in a few seconds.”
“I thought you were my rock.”
“As long as my feet are planted on the ground, I’ll do anything for you.” Cameron checked the perimeter railing again. “Right now I feel like we’re on top of a tower made of toothpicks.”
Victoria was about to pry her fingers from the railing, but sensed the structure swaying, as Cameron had said. Perhaps the swaying was just her imagination, but it caused her to vividly consider the terrifying possibility of the structure toppling over—with all of them up here.
“Come on,” Wolf called impatiently.
She gave Cameron one more what-in-God’s-name-are-we-doing-up-here expression and finally let go. She staggered several steps to the outer railing, like she was walking on a boat deck in a raging storm, and clutched it with a two-hand death grip. She was already getting dizzy. The ground below seemed to be swirling like a giant whirlpool.
She hated heights—always had.
“What’s wrong?” Wolf asked, with a knowing grin. “You scared of heights?”
“No. It’s the fall that concerns me.”
“Falling won’t hurt. It’s the impact you need to worry about.”
“I’m glad I can bring a little amusement to your day, Clint. What do you want to show me?”
“The precautions we’re taking to keep jurors in.”
“And our enemies out,” she reminded him as a fresh burst of air blew her long hair back and off her shoulders.
“Exactly.” He pointed down at the open space between the end of the closest wing and the high brick wall surrounding the facility. “That’s a twelve-foot razor-wire fence ten feet from the primary wall on the inside and twenty feet from the primary wall on the outside. So if you’re going to try and make it in or out of Archer Prison that way, you’ll have to negotiate a razor-wire fence twice your height, the brick wall, and then another razor-wire fence twice your height. Between both wire fences and the brick wall, we’ve installed pressure pads and motion sensors, which, if tripped, will immediately alert central command inside the facility as well as the eight guards—two on each deck—who will be up here at all times. Bottom line, getting in or out of Archer that brazenly will be damn hard. Like I said while we were touring the inside, I won’t ever call anything impossible because I’ve seen too many crazy things in my time at FBP to ever use that word. But let me put it this way, I’d be very surprised if it happened.”
“The shifts up here will be what … about two hours max?” she asked as she shut her eyes tightly against another gust. “Isn’t that when concentration starts breaking down?”
“You’ve been reading up on your prison security.”
“It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Yes, two hours. And the guards up here will be armed.”
“No,” Victoria objected. “No guns. I’ve made that clear all along, Clint. I won’t have jurors looking up here and seeing barrels pointed down at them while they’re trying to relax a little and get a breath of fresh air. And I can’t have any accidents.”
“What if I said the guns won’t be loaded?”
“It doesn’t matter if they’re loaded or not, from a psychological perspective. It’s still stressful to see a barrel pointed down at you. Besides, it’ll get around that the guns are empty.”
“Maybe, but only the guards and I will know for sure. Guns will still be a very effective deterrent even if that rumor gets legs. Just the sight of a firearm is intimidating. Trust me on this.”
“Let me think about it.” She wasn’t going to change her mind. But the discussion had distracted her from her predicament, which was interesting. Maybe she could control her fear of heights, at least for a little while. She gestured down. “What else?”
He pointed at several tall light towers. “All yard space between the brick wall and the facility will be lighted bright as day at night.” He turned toward the outside. “Same for the cleared area beyond the brick wall, which, incidentally, is two hundred yards in every direction.”
She nodded. “I’m very happy with what you’ve done inside and out.”
“Thank you.”
“What about major attacks?” she asked.
“Major attacks?”
“What if someone wanted to destroy this place? How could they do it?”
Wolf looked at her like she was crazy. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Just go with me on this for a minute. Help me think it through.”
He gazed at her for several moments. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Victoria?”
Judge Eldridge had posed this same possibility a year ago at the outset of Project Archer, when he’d first asked her to spearhead the program and take ultimate responsibility for it. She’d pushed him on what he was driving at, but he wouldn’t give up any details. In fact, she’d had to push him incredibly hard just to get to the bottom of his most critical reason for initiating the project—to protect against jury tampering.
In the end, she’d given him an ultimatum: Tell her everything or she was out.
Even then it had taken him two weeks to finally admit that it seemed likely Virginia had been the victim of widespread jury tampering on high-profile cases for several years.
Six months ago Eldridge had become nearly impossible to reach—until she’d requested his presence at the press conference. He’d apologized for—though not explained—his radio silence just before they’d taken the stage together to make the project’s official announcement.
Now she had the explanation for why Eldridge had suddenly gone silent half a year ago—and why the normally straightforward chief justice had gone cloak-and-dagger. The mysterious answer had been sealed inside the envelope, which had been delivered to Cameron at his penthouse condominium in downtown Richmond by an aide who’d received it from Eldridge’s messenger. The envelope Cameron had given her in the parking lot a few minutes ago.
He’d asked her what was inside it, but she’d steadfastly refused to explain—for his own good.
The doomsday scenario Judge Eldridge had been focused on a year ago had always puzzled her. But now she understood—and needed Wolf’s answer to the question.
“Don’t worry about what I am or am not telling you. What are the scenarios? You must have dealt with this at FBP.”
“Bombs, missiles, airliners, biological—”
“Or the threat of those things,” she cut in, snapping her fingers as the realization hit her. “Maybe that’s what he was worried about.”
“He who?”
“If we had to get everyone out of the facility because of a bomb threat,” she went on, ignoring Wolf’s pointed query, “it might give someone the opportunity to influence the jurors.”
“The threat would have to be extremely credible, and we would not exit everyone from the premises without my specific say-so.”
“After contacting me,” Victoria said firmly.
“Okay,” he agreed, after a moment’s hesitation, “if we have time.”
“I just wanted to mak
e sure it was on your radar.”
“It already had been,” he assured her. “Yes, we dealt with threats like that all the time at FBP, but never once had to fully evacuate a prison. We had fires and one bomb threat, which turned out to be bogus, during which we had to move people around. But the staff and I are fully prepared for that contingency, believe me, Victoria. And with what we have in mind, I don’t believe it would pose a security issue in terms of getting information to or from jurors. Always a possibility, but I think we’d be okay.”
“Good.” She grasped the railing hard as another gust whipped through the observation deck. “Here’s something else I want on your radar,” she said, pushing several strands of windblown hair from her face. “A man named Raul Acosta is going to be the number-two guard at this facility. He’ll be up here tomorrow morning first thing to meet with you and George Garrison.”
A month ago Wolf had appointed George Garrison—a longtime friend of his—as head of the guards at the facility.
“Please let George know and make certain he’s here,” she continued. “I’ll have Acosta call you this afternoon directly to set up a time for tomorrow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Wolf rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It’s awfully late in the game to be throwing someone that senior into the mix.”
“I understand, but that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Acosta is currently head of security for the Supreme Court of Virginia. I want him on board as the number-two guard. He has the full faith and confidence of Chief Justice Eldridge and me.”
“Does he have any experience that would—”
“Rikers Island, Clint. Pretty damn good.”
“How much money did you promise him?”
Victoria shot Cameron a glance. He seemed entirely focused on clutching the railing. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” she replied.
“Are you serious? That’s fifty thousand more than Garrison’s going to make. It’s only ten grand less than I’m making, for God’s sake. How can I have Acosta making more than his boss at Archer Prison?”
“Don’t tell his boss.”
“George Garrison will find out, Victoria, believe me. He’s a resourceful man.”
“Then maybe I’m very glad to have Raul Acosta around.”
“Hey, I’ll vouch for George—”
“Figure it out, Clint. And do me one more favor while you’re at it.”
“What?”
“From now on, I want you and everyone around here to call this place Jury Town.” She gazed down on the facility affectionately, which came as a shock to her system. “No more Archer Prison.”
She understood Wolf’s irritation. He was taking the interjection of Acosta as a tacit admission on her part that she wanted a mole. That she didn’t completely trust everyone else involved—including Wolf.
Well, too bad. She wasn’t in this to be friends with anyone. Far from it.
“Understood?”
Wolf’s eyes narrowed with aggravation, but he nodded—finally. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good.” She staggered toward the steps, grabbed Cameron and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Thank God,” he said, his face ghostly white. “I thought you’d never say those words.”
CHAPTER 7
NORTH WOODS OF MAINE
Philip Rockwell rapped three times on the heavy door, counted slowly to ten, and then knocked again, twice.
He glanced over his shoulder as the seconds ticked by maddeningly slowly. As they always ticked by while he was standing on the porch of this cabin, secluded deep in the dense forest of northern Maine. As they always did while he waited for one of the four Grays to identify him before opening the door and allowing him inside.
His Mercedes sedan was the lone vehicle parked at this end of the long, gravel driveway that snaked through the tall pines like a windblown ribbon. Where were the other vehicles, he wondered. The other men had to get here somehow, and there were no garages or barns on the property in which they could hide their vehicles. The old hunting cabin was the only structure on this half acre of cleared ground in the middle of a seemingly endless ocean of trees. They must have a helipad deeper in the forest that he wasn’t privy to. That had to be the answer.
Maybe they’d tell him during this meeting why they called themselves the Grays. If they didn’t, maybe he’d ask—if he got his nerve up.
For a year he’d been acting as their touch-point to the outside world, at least with respect to decisions made here. And everything they’d tasked him with had gone exactly as planned—except yesterday’s verdict in the Bailey Energy trial.
Colin O’Hara had paid the price for defying the Grays—with a speed that had astonished even Rockwell—but, despite the bad outcome, there was still a silver lining to the lost verdict, Rockwell figured. Colin’s fate was essentially more proof of concept. The information the Grays were using on people was that powerful. It had caused the young man to lose his family. This morning, he’d committed suicide by blowing his brains out.
Everything else they’d ordered of Rockwell had gone off perfectly—he’d worked very hard to make certain of that. He deserved more from this relationship. He deserved answers. He deserved respect.
Especially given what would happen this afternoon. They’d tasked him with executing the murder, but he had given the actual order. When it was over, he would be as responsible as JD, at least in a court of law.
The long drive from Connecticut had provided him ample time to develop a serious case of resentment.
“Come in,” a voice called out when the front door finally creaked open on its hinges. “Turn to the left.”
Rockwell needed no instruction as he entered the pitch-dark cabin. He was quite familiar with the routine.
His jacket was removed from behind, and then a blindfold, which smelled strongly of furniture polish, was applied. When it was knotted tightly at the back of his head, he was led forward several steps before being guided down into an armless, wooden chair. It felt like the same one he sat in every time he came, which was at least twice a month.
At least they could have found something more comfortable for him to sit in during these meetings. A big leather easy chair would be nice, like the one in his study back in Connecticut. A chopper to get to and from the cabin would be even nicer.
“As always, we appreciate you making the drive, Mr. Rockwell.”
“Of course,” he answered stiffly.
“It’s a long way to come. But we must be cautious. We must maintain our secrecy at all costs.”
That was easy for them to say because they weren’t driving eighteen hours round-trip. He was certain they weren’t. Making the drive seemed more a means of them impressing upon him that they were superior—not so much them being worried about maintaining secrecy.
“I understand.”
He was vaguely aware that a light had been turned on. Still, he couldn’t see anything through the thick cloth. The blindfold hung down over his nose and mouth all the way to his chin, impeding his breathing and speech, enough to be acutely annoying. Everything about this routine was annoying. Well, almost everything.
“You seem aggravated, Mr. Rockwell,” a second voice spoke up.
He was tempted to start asking all those questions he’d come up with on the long, black road. “I’m fine.”
“Your efforts do not go unappreciated.”
A therapist would have a field day with the double negatives that voice seemed prone to.
“Last week,” a third man said, “your investment bank won the lead manager role in two extremely profitable equity underwritings. One involving a technology firm headquartered in Seattle. The other involving a blue-chip, consumer-products company based in Chicago. I’m sure you know which companies I’m speaking of.”
“I do.”
The financial industry had been expecting Goldman Sachs to win the lead manager roles for both h
igh-profile transactions. But Rockwell & Company had secured the deals instead. The Grays had manipulated both outcomes from behind the scenes, Rockwell knew. They’d told him a month ago what was going to happen, and despite his significant doubts, both deals had come to his people.
So the long drive wasn’t without significant reward. The two underwritings would net Rockwell’s little firm tens of millions in fees. And, ultimately, the publicity of beating out Goldman was even more valuable than the money.
“Thank you,” he murmured respectfully.
“You’re welcome.”
“The verdict in the Bailey Energy trial did not go as planned,” the fourth Gray spoke up—ominously. “They did not win permission to build the pipeline.”
Once Rockwell was inside the cabin, they never wasted time getting down to business.
“As the four of you are aware,” he spoke up, “until yesterday all verdicts in all trials you sought to manipulate in the last year have gone exactly as you wanted. In other words, my messengers are doing an outstanding job of locating the targeted jury members, making those jury members aware of what we have on them, and then informing them, in no uncertain terms, of how you want them to vote on the verdict.”
Rockwell wanted to ask the men how they were getting that information, how they could amass so many razor-sharp blades of extortion. He already had his suspicions. Only one entity he was aware of could obtain blackmail firepower like this. At least one of these men had to be a senior official at the National Security Administration.
Though the Grays had never given Rockwell specifics as to how they were benefitting from the verdicts, he believed it was in the stock markets or through direct investments in private companies. He’d kept a list of cases they’d ordered him to influence since he’d joined them. Oftentimes at least one large, publicly held corporation was involved in the trial, and the verdict they desired was always positive for the company, immediately boosting its stock price. In other cases, when it was a privately held corporation battling in court, the verdict had enabled that entity to move forward on a project that would ultimately deliver a huge cash windfall—like building a pipeline.