[Jade Harrington 01.0] Don't Speak

by J. L. Brown

  Whitney spoke for over an hour. She spoke of the Equal Rights Amendment, which fell three states short of ratification in 1982. She proposed repealing the deadline and attaining the ratification of the remaining three states. She spoke of pay equity; today, women were still paid, on average, seventy-seven percent of what men were paid for the same job.

  As she took a sip of water, her phone vibrated on the desk. It was a text from her daughter, Emma.

  Thinking of U. I luv U, Momma.

  Whitney willed her eyes from tearing. Emma’s words could not have come at a better time. This was why she kept fighting. For her daughter and all the daughters in this country.

  Whitney remained standing and spoke in the Senate chamber for the rest of the afternoon.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Washington, DC

  “My long-time listeners know I don’t invite guests onto the show often, because you all tune in to listen to me. But today, we have a very special guest. The president of the United States of America, Richard Ellison. Mr. President, welcome.” Cole Brennan glanced at Ellison sitting in the swivel chair across from him in the studio.

  “Thank you, Cole. It’s a pleasure to be here today.”

  “Now, Mr. President. You’re up fifteen points on whoever the Commiecrats nominate, and one may think you can put the campaign on cruise control and win this thing. But what are you doing, sir, to ensure victory?”

  “Well, Cole, I’m not taking anything for granted. In my travels all over America, I have listened to people and heard their problems. Financially, people are still hurting, and we’re doing everything we can to help ease their anxieties about the economy. Our economic plan is a good one and we believe we’re on the right path to restore this country to economic prosperity.”

  “One way I think we can help ease their anxieties, Mr. President, is to eliminate regulations on our wealth creators. Think of all the jobs that’ll be created when business owners can spend more time growing their businesses and less time filling out forms.”

  “That’s right, Cole. My administration tried to repeal Dodd-Frank, Sarbanes-Oxley, and all the financial regulations enacted during the Great Recession. We’ve not been successful yet, but when I’m re-elected, and our party controls Congress, we will be. We’ll eliminate environmental regulations that hinder development and hamper job growth. A free-market economy produces greater economic growth in the long run, more jobs, and greater prosperity for all.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. President Ellison, how can we assure my listeners and good conservative folk everywhere that you are the man to lead the conservative movement for the next four years?”

  “Examine my record. I believe our party is best suited to reduce the budget deficit. During my first term, wasteful spending has been reduced and the government shrunk by fifteen percent. In my second term, I hope to eliminate the progressive income tax structure, which punishes the American Dream, and enact my flat-tax proposal.”

  “What about passing the second Defense of Marriage Act?”

  The president hesitated. “That may be difficult in the current environment. As I said, my administration is focused on the economic prosperity of our citizens, and—”

  “—which starts with the nuclear family,” Cole said. “One man, one woman in a union recognized by God. Switching gears, Whitney Fairchild seems to be moving up in the polls and gaining with independent and women voters. She’s taken a centrist approach and abandoned the Socialist policies she is known for. If she becomes the other party’s nominee, what’s your strategy, Mr. President, for putting this woman in her place?”

  “Senator Fairchild is a well-meaning, and, I believe, good person, but she doesn’t possess the experience, character, or the fortitude to be president. She has flip-flopped on many issues. I’ve been consistent in my views since I was the governor of Wyoming, then as a US senator, and now as president. The American people want someone who will stand by his principles. I am that man.”

  “A ‘personhood’ amendment has been proposed in the United States Senate. The federal government is finally realizing that the unborn are entitled to the same rights and freedoms we enjoy. Do you support this amendment?”

  Ellison hesitated again. “I believe this issue is best decided by the states.”

  “But you do believe life begins at conception?”

  Ellison glared at him. Cole stared back, glad this interview was being conducted on the radio rather than television. He motioned with his hand for Ellison to answer.

  Ellison pursed his lips and spat out, “Yes.”

  “I want to thank you, Mr. President, for coming on our show today. Godspeed.”

  The president didn’t respond.

  “We’re going to a commercial break and will be back in a minute. Don’t go anywhere. This is ‘The Conservative Voice’ with Cole Brennan.”

  The ON AIR light went dark. They stared at each other for several moments. President Richard Ellison bowed his head, stood, and left the studio without another word.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Crystal City, Virginia

  The vodka slid through the blocks of ice as I poured the liquid into a glass and took the drink over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. My penthouse condo afforded a stunning, panoramic view of the Potomac River, the Kennedy Center, and the Washington Monument. On a clear day, the US Capitol was visible in the distance. Traffic, still snarled at this time of the evening, snaked up the GW Parkway. I soaked in the beauty of my city—our city—as I sipped my drink.

  Cole Brennan’s broadcast just ended. Why do I continue to listen to him? Why do I torture myself? Because I must. It is my duty. That is the curse of every great person throughout history, is it not? To suffer? Joan of Arc suffered. As did Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, and John F. Kennedy. Perhaps they were great because they suffered. Why should I be any different?

  I thought back to Brennan’s broadcast. President Ellison was not a bad man, but his moderate views didn’t stand a chance against Brennan and people of his ilk. I didn’t like how he put words into the president’s mouth. I did not like it at all. I needed to do something about it.

  Like Casey. Casey had been a good start. A success. It was good training. Then, I extended my reach. I was disappointed with the lack of media attention after LeBlanc and Paxson. The journalist and the blogger. Now Sells. Doesn’t anyone care?

  I shook my head, turned from the window, and wandered to the space I used as an office, next to the dining room. I sat in my gray Herman Miller Mirra chair and tapped the touchpad. The three computer monitors on my desk sprang to life.

  Good. My friends were here.

  Some might think you cannot call people you have never met your “friends.” I could make friends in the physical world. I choose not to. I much prefer the characters I meet in books. They are more interesting and more genuine than the people I meet in real life. But I had something in common with my online friends. The issues. Only the issues. The issues that mattered.

  The cursor was next to my name. I typed: Sorry, I’m late. What are we discussing tonight?

  SusanB: Women’s rights.

  Part II

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Washington, DC

  Ethan Lawson, in a pressed white shirt and dark gray tie, leaned back in his office chair.

  Jade sat across from him.

  “What’s the latest?” Lawson asked.

  Jade recited without notes, “I followed up again with the detectives assigned to each case. Kyle Williams, from Chattenham, Pennsylvania was killed ten years ago with a blunt instrument. Pete Paxson of Houston, Texas, was also killed with a blunt instrument five years ago. Carpet fibers were found at the scene. Taylor LeBlanc was murdered in Baton Rouge two years ago with a blunt instrument. A hair and carpet fibers were found at the scene.”

  Unlike hair, trace evidence such as carpet fibers might not lead them to the suspect, but would help convict a suspect once he was identified.


  “Did they match the Paxson fibers?”

  “No,” Jade said. “Randy Sells, the latest victim, was also killed with a blunt instrument. No carpet fibers, but a hair was found in the blood at the scene. Test results aren’t back yet.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  Jade leaned forward. “Ethan, all of them had their tongues cut out.”

  “Yes, there’s that.”

  “And all the victims were conservative media commentators.”

  “Yeah, there’s that, too. Okay. What do you propose we do?”

  “I need a task force. We need to go after this person.”

  “Jade, you have a pretty full caseload as it is. At this point, these killings may be tragic coincidences.”

  Her back straightened and she gave Lawson a look. Her look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I know. It’s not funny.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jade said. “I have a feeling about this. I’m going to investigate it with or without your support. On my own time, if I have to.”

  Ethan twirled his wedding ring and sighed. “I’m sure you will. Who do you need?”

  “Christian, Max, Pat, and Austin.”

  “I see you haven’t thought about this.”

  Ethan came from around his desk and sat in the guest chair next to her. His brown shoes glistened. Jade bet she would see her reflection in them if she bent for a closer inspection. The faint whiff of shoe polish brought back memories of her father, an Army colonel, sitting on a small, wooden stool in the kitchen of their split-level home, surrounded by rags, brushes, shoes, and tins of black and brown Kiwi polish. She loved watching the care he demonstrated with every brush.

  Ethan said, “I’ll authorize the task force . . .”

  “Thank you.” She started to get up.

  “. . . as long as Dante is included.”

  Ethan knew how she felt about Dante. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but that’s nonnegotiable. Dante possesses useful qualities you don’t appreciate. You’ll see.”

  She didn’t bother to argue. She had what she wanted.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Washington, DC

  Senator Whitney Fairchild rose from the chair in her office and walked around the large mahogany desk. She gave Senator Paul Sampson, her opponent in the Democratic primary campaign, a wide smile, took his right hand in both of hers, and squeezed. She had read once that Bill Clinton had shaken hands this way with those individuals who meant something to him. She was sure Sampson knew that as well. Although her gesture was disingenuous, she hoped he would be flattered by it.

  She motioned for him to sit as she returned to the high-backed brown leather chair behind her desk.

  Sampson arranged his massive frame in the guest chair. “Quite a speech the other day.”

  “Thank you for the filibuster threat. It shut Hampton down.” And is the reason for your visit today. “I owe you one.”

  “Yes, you do.” He stared at an oil painting of Susan B. Anthony high on the wall behind her.

  Whitney glanced over her shoulder. “Before Susan B. Anthony retired, she said, ‘Failure is impossible,’ encouraging her fellow suffragettes to keep up the good fight. She believed one half of the American people should not be kept in bondage.” She turned back to Sampson. “We need her now.”

  Sampson appraised her. “Maybe she’s here.”

  Whitney was surprised by the compliment.

  “I’ll support your welfare reform bill,” Sampson continued, “even with its silly little workfare program, but I need you to combine the bills. Those farm subsidies are essential to the people of the great state of Nebraska.”

  Whitney rose and moved to a cabinet built into the wall. She opened its doors to a stocked bar and turned to him. “The usual?”

  He nodded. She picked up a bottle of whiskey she reserved for guests and filled a glass a quarter full. She poured a glass of red wine for herself. She handed him his drink. Instead of returning to her desk chair, Whitney sat next to him and crossed her legs. Sampson gave them a quick, appreciative glance as Whitney sipped her wine. “A combined bill will die in the House,” Whitney said, “and you know it.”

  His eyes were like pinpoints over his ruddy cheeks, his love of drink an open secret on the Hill.

  “The bill can pass with full Democratic support. Otherwise, farmers will suffer. What’s the alternative? What are all those people going to do? Do we plan to retrain them? To do what? Think of the national security risk and economic threat of becoming dependent on foreign sources for our food.” His voice softened. “My people need those subsidies. If you do this for me,” he paused, peering into his glass, “I’ll drop out of the race.”

  This caught Whitney off guard. She and Sampson were separated by a few points in the polls, less than the margin of error. He was handing her the nomination.

  “That’s a heavy price to pay.”

  “But I want to be considered for VP.”

  Of course. Sampson was a seasoned pro and would never give without taking. Whitney calculated the costs versus benefits of his proposal. His request went against the platform on which she was campaigning, and everything she believed in.

  She shifted her drink to her right hand and extended her left to him. “You have a deal.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Baton Rouge, Louisiana

  A man with a complexion of dark, roasted coffee stood outside the security station, holding a sign with the word Harrington written in block letters. His eyes never strayed from hers as she walked toward him.

  Jade stopped in front of him, peering down slightly. “Detective Miles Thomas?”

  The man offered his hand. “That’s me. Agent Harrington?” He tilted his head and glanced down and back up at her. “No heels.”

  “Nope.”

  “Huh. Welcome to Baton Rouge.” He extended his arm toward the exit. “This way.”

  They were traveling down I-110 South in his unmarked Chevrolet Caprice within minutes. The early-model vehicle was well kept; Detective Thomas took pride in his car.

  “Good flight?”

  “Not too bad. As usual, I was stuck fighting for space on the armrest with the guy next to me. I’m not sure why guys think the armrest is theirs. Do you?”

  Thomas kept his eyes forward, moving his muscular forearm from the armrest between them. “No idea. I know you’re in a big hurry, so let’s get to it. Where to?”

  “I’d like to see the crime scene.”

  “The condo was empty for a long time, but someone lives there now. Let me make a call.”

  After he hung up, Thomas said, “This case received a lot of local media attention at the time. Taylor LeBlanc was the torchbearer for conservative politics in Baton Rouge.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “We received an anonymous tip.”

  “How?”

  “Text.”

  “Did you trace it?”

  Thomas shook his head. “The texting program allows the public to send in anonymous tips.”

  After merging onto I-10 East toward New Orleans, he took the second exit, Bluebonnet Boulevard. They passed a six-story building on the left, and Thomas waved his hand. “LeBlanc worked there.”

  A mile later, he turned into Perkins Rowe, an upscale commercial and residential development. He parked in front of the Barnes & Noble. They walked through the bookstore, its back entrance opening to the rest of the shopping complex and residences.

  Jade stared at the numbers above the door as the elevator ascended. “Any luck with the neighbors?”

  “We interviewed all of them living on his floor. No one saw anything on the night in question. Although they live close together, these neighbors don’t socialize with each other much. A few would run into LeBlanc every once in a while in the neighborhood. The consensus was he was a nice enough guy, kept to himself, but had many female visitors.”

  A representative of the leasing company, a skinny woman w
ith hair over-processed and dyed blonde, waited at the end of the hall.

  “Hello! Hello!”

  “Hello, again.” Thomas whipped the gold badge from his belt. The rep waved it off and smiled at both of them without bothering to look at it. She turned and opened the front door.

  “The occupants are at work, so you shouldn’t be disturbed. The place appears a lot different from the last time you were here, Detective. Thank God! Please lock up when you leave.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  Jade took in the condo’s lofty ceilings, hardwood floors, and open floor plan.

  Thomas scanned the room.

  “She’s right. LeBlanc had a gigantic flat-screen television on that wall. Black furniture: leather sofa, coffee table ottoman, TV console, bookcases. Not a flower, throw pillow, or family photograph in sight. He did, however, own an extensive game collection with every iteration of Madden Football, NBA, and FIFA soccer. Oh, yeah, and lots of action movies.” To her expected question, “Never married. No girlfriend at the time, although he had an on-again, off-again relationship with a young female co-worker at the paper.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “About forty sets. We processed all of them through IAFIS”—the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, an FBI database containing thousands of fingerprints. “Nothing.” Meaning none of the owners of the fingerprints had ever been arrested for a crime or worked for the government. “After ruling out the cleaning lady, we determined the thirty-nine remaining prints belonged to Caucasian women.”

  “Using the latest fingerprint technology, I see. What else?”

  “No sign of forced entry. No sign of a struggle. We found the victim fully clothed, bound by rope. He was lying in front of the stereo system, arms crossed over his chest.”