The Last Judgment

by Craig Parshall

  “So, that’s the first arrow here.” Then, taking a few bites of his mahi mahi, he quickly launched into his next point.

  “Okay, so you defend Angus MacCameron against the defamation suit Reichstad filed and in the process debunk Reichstad’s theories—but also in the process you stumble onto the seamy side of Warren Mullburn’s dealings.”

  Hornby then drew a second arrow from a different edge of the paper, pointing, like the other, directly toward the empty circle in the middle.

  “So this brings us to our second point—the second arrow here. I was getting some bits and pieces of data to the effect that Mullburn had used his wealth and influence to push the White House to broker a large arms deal with several Arab countries. My guess is that Undersecretary of State Kenneth Sharptin was working on the inside with Mullburn to illegally force the arms deal. But something happened…I figure it was when you were interviewed by the FBI and told them what you’d discovered about Mullburn. So, bingo, a grand-jury investigation—and when that hits the fan, Sharptin decides to drink a highball laced with Seconal and ends up sleeping the Big Sleep.”

  Hornby then drew a third arrow pointing to the empty circle.

  “Now, point number three. In the grand jury investigation, Mullburn is not listed as an official target. But the Justice Department still issues a witness subpoena for him to testify. Mullburn hightails it out of town, vacating his massive Nevada desert compound, leaving behind very little except the empty mansion and the dead body of his personal bodyguard.”

  “All this history,” Will said, “is very interesting, Jack. And you and I have gone over this before. But I’m not quite sure what this has to do with me now—”

  “Hold on now,” Hornby replied, bringing his hands up in the air like a referee in a boxing match. “Don’t get ahead of me here. Stick with me—which brings us to our fourth arrow.”

  And with that Hornby drew yet another arrow.

  “So the Department of Justice tries to extradite Mullburn from Switzerland. However, some very reliable sources have told me that Mullburn had an accomplice on Capitol Hill who was keeping an eye on DOJ’s legal steps for him. Now I ask you, who might his contact have been?”

  Will shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Does ‘Senator Jason Bell Purdy’ ring a bell?”

  Now Will stopped eating. He put down his fork, folded his hands in front of him, and leaned over the table.

  “As you know…I have some history with Purdy. At least before he got kicked out of the Senate. But what you’re telling me about his connection with Mullburn is new information…”

  “Of course it is,” Hornby said with glee. “You may be a great trial lawyer, but what kind of news reporter would I be if I didn’t have the real scoop on all the nasty dealings here in Washington, DC?”

  And with that, Hornby toasted himself with his glass.

  30

  “LIKE YOU SAY,” JACK HORNBY CONTINUED, “you had a history with Jason Bell Purdy. I know all about your case down in Georgia, where you exposed his corrupt financial dealings. But that’s not the end of it…”

  Hornby then drew a fifth arrow pointing to the circle in the middle of the piece of paper.

  “Purdy leaves the Peachtree State and goes to Washington, DC as a new senator, all right. Just about that time a decorated Marine colonel, a United States special-ops guy by the name of Caleb Marlowe, leads an ill-fated attack on terrorists down in the jungles of Mexico. You defend Marlowe against war-crimes charges—first in a court-martial. But then, in a weird twist of fate, end up being subpoenaed to appear before that dog-and-pony-show excuse of a subcommittee of Senator Purdy.”

  “Yeah,” Will said. “I did not find that hearing a pleasant experience.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Hornby replied with a sarcastic chuckle. “But I have to tell you that you did a whole lot better against Purdy than you had any idea—in fact, in my humble opinion, you made mincemeat out of him.

  “That brings us to our sixth arrow here,” he said, and drew his last arrow pointing to the circle.

  “By then, Mullburn is quickly escalating from oil magnate to mega oil titan with his new petroleum exploration project in Mexico. He wants to capitalize on dwindling oil resources versus the increased petroleum demand that has just been reported by the Energy Department. The way I see it, Mullburn figures that when Mexico files its complaint against America’s military hero, Colonel Marlowe, relating to that Mexican jungle incident, useful pressure could be brought to bear against the United States.”

  “Fine. But…you know we won the Marlowe case before the International Criminal Court at The Hague.” Will said. “So isn’t all that moot?”

  “Au contraire,” Hornby retorted enthusiastically. “I put to you the question of the hour—what interest did Mullburn have in those proceedings before the International Criminal Court? I’ve just told you my theory that he wanted to capitalize on American embarrassment in the eyes of the international community and create tension over whether Mexico was going to export oil to the United States and bail us out. So I figure that Mullburn had a motivation to delay your case and drive up the international embarrassment factor against the U.S., wanting to build as much pressure and speculation among American oil interests as he could. In that way he was driving up the price of oil so that when he and his Mexican cartel finally did decide to sell it to the U.S—which they ultimately did—they could force a top-dollar price.”

  Then Hornby got a serious look on his face, tilted his head a bit, and continued in an even more hushed voice than before.

  “Alright…so—I had this conversation, see—with a former economic consultant on Mullburn’s team. This guy swears up and down that Mullburn not only knew about your case, but was watching it very closely. Very, very closely, if you get my drift. So I asked this guy, aside from wanting to help Mexico to embarrass the United States through the ICC, did Mullburn actually involve himself in your case?”

  Will’s eyes were riveted on the newsman.

  Then Hornby gave a little smile.

  “So do you know, Counselor, whether anybody was trying to delay the ICC case while you were handling it?”

  Will studied Hornby’s diagram for more than a minute. There was silence. The waitress came by and asked if they wanted dessert, but Hornby waved her off as the attorney continued to stare down at the piece of paper on the starched tablecloth.

  “The French prosecutor handling the case,” Will said in a distant voice, “she wanted it handled on a fast track. So the Court granted a pretty quick trial date, but…there was something else…”

  “Like what?” Hornby asked, fully engaging his reporter’s radar.

  “Shortly after our first hearing in The Hague,” Will continued, “when the tribunal decided that the case was going to be put on the fast track and that there would be no delays…something did happen.”

  “Like what?” Hornby could see a growing anguish on Will’s face, which the lawyer was struggling to cover up.

  “I hate to press—but like what, Will?”

  “Shortly after the Court set the fast trial date…my house was attacked…there was a break-in…and…Fiona, my wife…”

  Hornby didn’t press further. He knew better than that. His eyes were wide open, and he was waiting for Will to finish.

  “Fiona…well, I almost lost her,” Will said in a voice barely audible. “As you can imagine, it’s still hard for me to repeat all of that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Hornby said. “Will, I never knew anything about that—”

  “Well…it was just a good thing that a private investigator I’d hired, a friend of mine by the name of Tiny Heftland, was on duty that night.”

  “Heftland. I know that guy. You used him in some of your other cases—big fella?”

  “Yeah, he’s the one. I had some very uncomfortable feelings about leaving Fiona alone when I left for the trial in The Hague. So I had Tiny do round-the-clock surveillance o
n the house while I was gone. He was there—when it happened, he pumped a round into the intruder…we never did find out for sure who sent the guy or what his plan was…”

  There were a few seconds of silence between the two men.

  “Look, Will,” Hornby said, trying to put a coda on their discussion, “I obviously didn’t bring you here just to give you a free lunch. Why am I telling you all of this? I’m not going to bore you with the most recent information I’ve got on Mullburn. The global business alliance he’s establishing. Or even the fact he’s now got his fingers in the Middle East peace-negotiation process—but let me just bring it down to this.”

  Hornby picked up the piece of paper containing his drawing and held it up.

  “Tell me, Will, what do you see on this picture?”

  “A bunch of arrows pointing to an empty circle. But then, I know you’re fond of drawing pictures.”

  Hornby laughed at that.

  “Here’s why I wanted to meet with you, Will. As I plod, and climb, and claw my way through information and interviews and notes, filling notepad after notepad, do you know what I keep coming up with?”

  Will shrugged.

  “I come up with one constant, inescapable, and common link throughout everything I’ve shared with you. One thing smack-dab in the middle of this empty circle here, with all of these arrows pointing at it.”

  “And what’s that?” Will asked, trying to figure out the other man’s ramblings.

  Hornby pulled back the piece of paper, took out his pen, and wrote something in the middle of the circle. Then he held the paper out to Will again.

  Will stared at it. In the middle of the circle Hornby had written two words:

  WILL CHAMBERS

  “You see, Will,” Hornby went on, “I just came back from the Middle East. I’ve been following what happened at the Temple Mount. Of course, everybody in the world is looking into that mess. At first I felt that there was no connection—but then, when Mullburn started touting himself as a peace mediator in his phony-baloney capacity as the foreign minister of that Caribbean republic he bought for himself at a fire sale—I started thinking. Thinking real hard.”

  “And?” Will didn’t know whether he really wanted to hear the answer.

  “Then right out of the blue,” Hornby said, “I’m listening to this press conference yesterday with the English lawyer who was representing Gilead Amahn. He withdraws as Amahn’s lawyer. And I hear that you had initially been approached by Amahn to represent him—but you declined to take his case. So…can you tell me why?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “So? Everything’s personal, isn’t it? It’s really a question of how much you trust me with something that might be sensitive. Do you trust me?”

  “That’s a funny question coming from someone in a profession that makes headlines out of excruciatingly sensitive information about people’s lives.”

  “So—do you trust me?” Hornby asked again.

  Will paused a minute. He thought back over the years. About his relationship with the newspaperman. He had always been a straight shooter. He had provided information to Will that had actually helped him on some of his cases. And there was never a sense of betrayal…he had never broken his word. Ever.

  “Okay. Here it is…and this is off the record…which, I know, is a contradiction in terms when you’re talking to someone in the media…but the fact is…well, the Temple Mount incident and Gilead Amahn’s arrest over there all happened about the same time as the death of Fiona’s dad…thanks for coming to the funeral, by the way. So, anyway, I decided I needed to be with Fiona. The death of her dad has been rough for her.”

  Will’s eyes were now off Hornby, gazing on some faraway landscape.

  “What are you thinking about, Counselor?” Hornby asked softly.

  “Something you said,” Will replied. “I hadn’t heard it before…the fact that Mullburn had been closely monitoring the ICC trial. And how he would have wanted a delay in our case. And the next thing you know…some assassin attacks our house and my wife. If the attack had been successful, I obviously would have jumped off the case in a heartbeat. And that would have delayed things…and achieved Mullburn’s objective.”

  Then Will’s gaze shifted back to Jack Hornby. The two men locked eyes.

  “And it doesn’t get much more personal than that,” Will said sternly.

  Hornby paused a moment before he spoke again. He studied the look on Will’s face, then gave his credit card to the waitress as she stopped by the tableside.

  “I’m looking at the expression on your face right now,” Hornby said as the waitress left. “It reminds me of something. When I was a kid. The circus used to come into town. Not just a carnival, but a real, live circus. And there was this guy—he’d go into a ring. He’d actually wrestle this huge grizzly bear. Now the guy was pretty well put-together—strong guy. But the grizzly bear was huge. I’m talking titanic. And what they did is they put a leather strap around its mouth so it couldn’t open it. And they tied some kind of leather bag around each of its paws so the bear couldn’t use its claws. So all the bear had was brute strength. And here’s this guy—this wrestler—he runs into the ring like no bear is going to get in his way, you know, and the bear comes charging at him, and this guy actually, in two or three moves, he knocks the bear off balance. And the next thing you know, he’s around on top of that bear, hanging on and riding him like a Brahma bull.”

  Will waited for the punch line. But he could see it coming.

  “Let me tell you something, my friend,” Hornby said. “The expression on your face right now is practically the same crazy look that wrestler had, going into the ring with that bear. Only there’s one big difference.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Warren Mullburn is no trained circus animal. As far as I can see, there is nothing restraining him. He’s got claws. He’s got jaws. And he will devour anything, and everyone, that gets in his way.”

  “Why are you giving me that advice?” Will asked, studying his own hands, which were now resting on the table in front of him.

  “I dunno,” Hornby replied. “Just thought you needed to be reminded. In case you plan on taking on Mullburn. I guess I’d hate to see you get ripped apart by a man-eating grizzly.”

  31

  IN THE CORNER OF THE GREAT ROOM of their log house, Fiona was seated at the grand piano. It was Saturday, and usually she was running errands, or doing housecleaning, or pleading with Will to accompany her to some of the spectacular weekend craft fairs in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  Instead, her slender fingers were gently and softly playing Beethoven’s Für Elise.

  Will came into the kitchen wiping the grease off his hands. He had been working on the engine of his prized 1957 Corvette. Now that they were a three-person family, he was driving the Corvette less. The two-seater coupe was spending more time in the garage under a tarp. Now, most of their driving was done in their SUV, which transported not only the three of them, but also Andrew’s baseball teammates, wrestling team, members of his drama club, and friends from church.

  Attracted by the music, Will finished wiping his hands and strolled into the living room.

  He pulled up a chair to the piano and listened until Fiona finished.

  When she did, she turned to him, leaning her cheek into her hand, and said nothing.

  “How you doing today?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said. But her face and the fatigue in her posture contradicted her answer.

  “It’s a process…” Will said gently.

  “I know,” Fiona said with a slight edge in her voice. “I know that. I learned it when my mother died. And I’m surprised it’s not any easier with Da…”

  “Darling, why don’t you let me take you to a craft fair today…I’m sure there’s one around somewhere in the mountains…”

  “So…you’re going for the husband-of-the-year award,” Fiona said with a faint smile.

 
; “No, I’m serious, babe. I’ve got the ’Vette tuned up. I’ll take the tarp off. It’s a beautiful day. Let me take you for a spin in the mountains—along Skyline Drive.”

  “What time was Andrew going to be home tonight?”

  “He’s at the church retreat this weekend, remember? He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Oh. That’s right,” she said with a flicker of embarrassement.

  “It’s alright,” Will said in a reassuring voice. “You’ve always been the person who’s tuned in. You always remember birthdays, anniversaries, exactly what Andrew has on his schedule. You’re the master control center for this family. But life just came up and smacked you on the side of the head. You’re allowed to forget some things…”

  She gave him a smile, and he rose, stepped over, and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her gently on the cheek and neck.

  “Just tell me what I can do for you today. I’d love to do something for you…”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Alright. You can finish the conversation you were having with me in bed last night.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know—the one we were having. You were telling me about some things at your office—and then you fell asleep in mid-sentence.”

  Will burst out laughing.

  “Boy, I’m really sorry. Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “So. You were telling me about the English lawyer. What was his name?”

  “Newhouse. Nigel Newhouse. He’s a barrister in London. He and I had met a couple of years ago at an international conference on religious freedom. We’ve exchanged e-mails a few times since then. He had a question once about International Criminal Court law. And then I asked him a couple things about some international treaties, an issue involving one of my cases. That sort of thing.”