by Ace Collins
He’d struck out. The driver was either already dead or had escaped under the cover of smoke.
Crawling toward the rear of the truck, Lije took a final gasp of smoky air, coughed, and crab-walked back out into the open. He was moving quickly past the first section of fallen roof when he saw the hand. The truck driver hadn’t made it out. He’d been trapped by part of a rafter. He was alive, trying to push the beam off, but he couldn’t do it, not by himself.
Even as he heard another groaning of wood from above, Lije scrambled over to the man. Getting up on his knees, Lije looked into the man’s frightened eyes. He deserved his fate. This was an appropriate punishment for his cargo of death.
Then Lije reached under the eight-by-eight section of wood, rose to his feet, and braced himself. He pulled up with his full strength and lifted the rafter an inch, then two, and finally three, but that was all he could manage. “Crawl out! “ he screamed. The driver wriggled free and took a few steps toward the door, then awkwardly pitched forward. He rolled over, moaning as he held his leg.
Lije dropped the rafter, grabbed the man by the shirt, and moved toward the door, dragging his prisoner behind him. With fire and heat dogging him with each slow step and smoke threatening to strangle him, Lije somehow staggered the final fifteen feet.
At the door, he stood up, lifted the smaller man over his shoulder, and wobbled out into the parking lot. He hadn’t gone far when Beals grabbed the prisoner and Klasser took Lije’s arm. They had made it another forty feet from the building when the first fire trucks arrived.
74
“YOU’RE A FOOL!” BEALS YELLED. “IT WAS STUPID to go back in there! “
Wiping his face, Lije nodded. “How’s our friend?”
“He’ll be fine,” the detective replied. “Even if I have to beat him to death, he’ll be fine.”
Seconds later an EMT rushed up and gave both victims shots of oxygen. His eyes still watering, Lije was vaguely aware of the firefighters charging toward the blaze, but as his vision cleared, his focus switched to the medic and the man he’d just saved.
“Vitals are good,” the medic said. “He has a broken leg and a few minor burns. We’ll be transporting soon.”
“Actually,” Lije said, “you won’t.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the EMT said.
“That man to your right is with Mossad,” Lije said. “He can show you his identification.”
Klasser grinned, pulled out his wallet, and flashed his ID. “This person is one of our agents. I cannot allow him to be treated because it might compromise his mission. We have a doctor at our embassy. I will take him there.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Klasser replied. “This is bigger than you. Much bigger.”
Beals added, “Call Adam Horne with the FBI. I’m sure he’s on his way. He’ll okay this.”
“Yes, he will,” a new voice announced.
The paramedic looked over his shoulder and saw a man holding credentials from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “I’m Adam Horne. The victim will go with Mr. Klasser. And I want to point out that you never treated him. In fact, you never saw him. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the spooked EMT said as he moved quickly away.
With the bright light from the fire as illumination, Lije studied the soul he had plucked from the fire. The charge into the furnace had been worth it.
Moving away from the others, he pulled out his cell, scanned the directory, and hit Send. He waited, then in a tone that was serious and demanding, said, “My name is Elijah Evans and I need to talk to the judge.”
“Do you know what time it is?” a woman asked. “Do you know you’re asking to speak to a justice on the Supreme Court?” She emphasized the last part, letting the words linger for a moment before adding, “I’ve never heard of you, Mr. Evans, and I’m sure the judge hasn’t either.”
“I know what time it is,” Lije countered, “and I know what court he’s on. You tell him this call was requested by the late Kent McGee. You tell him that, and I guarantee he’ll talk to me.”
Again she refused. “You’re crazy. The judge is asleep. I will not disturb him.”
“I’m not crazy,” Lije said, “but if you don’t immediately give this information to the judge, you’ll be looking for a new job. I don’t care if you’re his wife.”
He heard her put down the phone. Soon a male voice came on the line. “Kent McGee?”
“He was my best friend,” Lije explained.
“What are those sirens I’m hearing?” the judge asked. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Those sirens mean your life and the lives of a few million others were saved tonight, thanks in no small part to the work of Kent McGee.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. I know this is highly irregular, but I need an emergency meeting with you tonight. It can’t wait. An innocent man’s life is at stake. I have information that can save him. I’m not sure how long I can hold that information until it is taken from me. If you valued your friendship with Kent McGee, you will see me. I know that if he had not been killed, he’d be on the line making this same request. We need to have a hearing in your home within two hours.”
“How do I know this isn’t a hoax?”
“Justice Carmichael, when Kent clerked for you, he argued in Sims v. Dehoney that the latter should have his property restored. You disagreed, saying there was no legal precedent for that ruling. Two weeks later, when Kent pulled out an 1845 case from a New York court, you were forced to change your view. You were the deciding vote in a five to four decision. No one but Kent knew that a ruling over a disputed pig was what changed your mind.”
“He told you that story?”
“More than once. And he never gave it away to the press. I could go on about the car wreck in Minnesota on the fishing trip.”
“No reason to. You know my address?”
“I do. I need two hours.”
“See you then.”
Ending the call, Lije dialed another number. This time a familiar voice picked up. “How you doing?”
“Just fine, Janie. Have you got de la Cruz?”
“Right here in our suite.”
“You have the address I gave you on Justice Carmichael?”
“Home or office?”
“Home. I need you and Heather to have de la Cruz there in two hours. Can you do that?”
“No problem. We’re booked in a hotel fifteen minutes from the address. I made the reservations.” She was obviously proud of her foresight.
“Any problem getting Martin to come with you?”
“Money works magic,” she said. “He studied racing forms all the way up on the plane. I’m guessing he was figuring out ways to use your cash.”
“Did you get hold of our prosecutor turned representative?”
“Sure.”
“Need him at the meeting too. Can you arrange it?”
“He’s not going to miss the chance to be at the home of a Supreme Court justice, no matter what hour it is. I’m sure Mr. Ruth will bring a camera to record the moment.”
“See you at one at the judge’s home.”
Lije walked back over to the other men. He told Klasser, “I need this man at Justice Carmichael’s home in no less than two hours. Can your doctors work that fast?”
The Mossad agent smiled. “Do you need him there alive or dead?”
“Alive, and I mean that. He has to be able to talk. Just get him there. And don’t change a thing. I want him to look just like he does now. Complete with the grime on his face.”
“Why are you moving so quickly?” Beals asked. “Jones’ execution is more than two weeks away.”
“You have to trust me on this one. I’m sure Kent would be handling it the same way.”
“Okay,” Klasser announced, “let’s go. And what do I do with Hakem?”
“I’m guessing Homeland Security might want first crack at him,” Lije said. �
�Ivy, ride with our Israeli friend, and don’t let that truck driver out of your sight.”
“Got it. What about you?”
Lije looked over at the FBI agent. “Mr. Horne, can you give me a ride? My bag’s in your car, and I’m going to need to change clothes. And I also need you to get something for me.”
“Sure,” Horne replied. “Even though I’m not sure what you’re doing, I wouldn’t miss it. I can’t believe you got Carmichael to agree to a meeting at this time of night. It’ll be worth my time just to learn how you did it.”
“And just think,” Lije said with a grin, “you’re going to be part of the floor show.”
Lije turned back to study the fire. Seven trucks were now battling the blaze and, even though it was going to take a while to put out, it appeared the fire wasn’t going to spread to any other areas. No life had been lost, thanks to his instincts, his leap of faith, and his charge into the burning building.
Now it was time for a plan of action based on logic. He followed Horne back toward the Tahoe. Just before getting to the SUV, he saw the homeless man from earlier in the day. The old guy was pushing his cart toward the fire. Lije reached in his pocket and yanked out a twenty-dollar bill.
Startled, the man took the bill, turned it over, and looked at it.
Lije put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t let anyone keep you down. Just keep getting up.”
75
LIJE EVANS ARRIVED AT JUSTICE CARMICHAEL’S stately three-story colonial-brick home fifteen minutes before the scheduled appointment. Monique Carmichael, still a bit angry by the way she had been treated on the phone, answered the door and grudgingly escorted the lawyer and Adam Horne to the study. The gray-headed sixty-four-year-old African-American judge was dressed in a pair of navy slacks and a white shirt. He was sitting on the corner of his desk, visiting with the room’s only other occupant, a man wearing a brown suit, blue shirt, and conservative striped tie.
“Justice Carmichael,” Lije said as he walked toward the esteemed jurist.
“And you are Mr. Evans.” Even in casual conversation, this son of a sharecropper had a booming voice that sent chills down Lije’s spine. His firm grip, one he had used as a quarterback for Howard University, was as solid as ever.
Lije looked over at the other man. “And you must be William Ruth.”
Ruth didn’t waste time with small talk. “Your associate asked me to be here, but she gave no reason.”
The judge smiled. “And I also was not made privy to why this meeting was so important and why it had to happen at this hour.”
“You’ll both know very soon,” Lije said. “While we wait for the others to arrive—and I know they’re on the way—I want to introduce you to FBI agent Adam Horne.”
As the men exchanged greetings, Lije glanced over at Ruth. “I believe you already know Mr. Horne.”
Ruth nodded. “He was the lead investigator in my—rather, the government’s—case against Omar Jones, though the matter was pretty much open and shut.”
Lije nodded. “It was laid out about as well as any case I’ve ever seen. Kind of makes you wonder why a high-powered attorney like Kent McGee jumped on it so late in the game.”
The former prosecutor shook his head. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but most men like McGee love the spotlight. He was itching for some media time and it got him killed. It was all about ego.”
Like the athlete he had once been, Carmichael quickly moved away from his desk toward Ruth, folded his arms, and looked down at the man. His voice was assertive and strong as he carefully drew out each word. “Kent McGee didn’t care anything about publicity and he didn’t crave the spotlight. If he got involved in a case, it was because he was convinced something was amiss. He lived for justice. His death is a great injustice.”
The former prosecutor looked like a boy who had just been scolded by his father. Turning his head in an effort to avoid Carmichael’s eyes, Ruth stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. He stayed in that posture until the justice moved away and sat down behind his desk.
“Nevertheless,” Carmichael said, “I also thought it was a strange case for Kent to take. Jones was the only one who could’ve killed that family. That has been pretty well established, beyond any doubt.”
Lije nodded and walked over to the bookshelf. He pretended to study the leather-bound works for a few moments. As he did, it struck him that he was actually beginning to act like his late friend. Smiling, with his back to the others, he said, “I agree. On the surface, there’s no way Mr. Horne or Mr. Ruth can be wrong. They did their jobs. And, in the incendiary climate of the time, the case deserved the great care they took at each stage of the prosecution. They are to be congratulated.”
Turning, Lije walked back toward the center of the room, his hands still pushed deep into his pockets. “My other guests will be here in a few minutes. I’m going to step out of the room in order to meet them at the door. While we’re waiting, I’d deeply appreciate Agent Horne giving you an update on the events that precipitated this meeting. I think you’ll find them extremely interesting.”
Lije walked out of the library and closed the door behind him. He was crossing the home’s formal living area when he met Mrs. Carmichael. With her were Janie, Heather, and Martin de la Cruz.
“Hope we’re on time,” Janie said. As usual, she had somehow sensed his presence before he’d said a word.
“The Old Spice again. Right?”
“That and you’re wearing the dress shoes that have a loose heel. You need to get that fixed.”
“And Martin. We’ve never met, but I trust you like the color of my money. Glad you found a suit.”
“Your money’s fine,” the man shot back, “but the story’s not changing. What I told McGee will be what I tell tonight.”
Lije nodded. “That’s just what we want.”
“Heather, you ready to grab a bit of the spotlight? This will be moot court on steroids. If we can play in this venue, we can pretty much practice law anywhere.”
“That’s why I wore the black power suit and white blouse,” she said. “I’ve got everything you asked for, even a few more for backup. Do we stand a chance?”
“It’s in the bag,” Lije assured her.
Just then the doorbell rang.
“Mrs. Carmichael,” Lije said, “I’m sorry for sounding rude earlier. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“Well, I suppose.” She looked down at her hands and then toward the front entry.
Lije smiled. “Why don’t you take these three into the library and I’ll get the door.”
He didn’t give the hostess a chance to argue. Hurrying to the front entrance, Lije greeted a cleaned-up Ivy Beals, a dapper Joshua Klasser, and a still ragged and dirty wheelchair-bound truck driver, his wrists cuffed to the chair’s arms, his leg in an air-filled brace. Behind the trio was a fourth man.
“Lije Evans,” Beals said, “meet the tenor in this quartet, Frank Moore. He’s with Homeland Security.”
“Doesn’t surprise me you’re crashing the party,” Lije said with a grin. “I’m guessing you enjoyed the present we gave you tonight. Hope you’re in good voice. You might be asked to perform a solo.”
“What?” The thin man was obviously confused. Regaining his composure, he added, “We didn’t know Hakem was involved with Al-Qaeda.”
“You should have called us and asked,” Klasser shot back. “I warned the CIA years ago, but they did not listen either.” He didn’t bother adding that Mossad had missed the warning signs as well.
“Well—” Moore began, but Lije cut him off.
“Gentlemen. We’re going to the library. That is, except Ivy. Did you get a name for this guy?”
“If I hadn’t heard him talk at the warehouse,” Beals said, “I’d swear he was mute.”
“That’s fine,” Lije said. “You stay with him until I send for you. Wait in the living room outside the library door. Believe me, he’ll lead us right to A
rif. Let’s go, gentlemen.”
In the library, after the next round of introductions, Justice Carmichael put his arm on Lije’s shoulder and pulled him to one side. “I think I’m speaking for all of us when I tell you how much I appreciate what you did. Your actions saved a lot of lives. Maybe even America as we know it.”
“You’re overstating it a bit, sir. This whole thing, including what’s going on here, was set in motion tonight by my trying to complete a run that Kent McGee began.”
Turning to the others, Lije announced, “I see the judge has plenty of chairs. If everyone can find a seat, I’ll see if we can quickly push through this rather unusual bit of business.”
Lije waited by the door as Carmichael moved behind his desk to his high-backed swivel seat and the others found places on various chairs and couches spread out around the large room. After adjusting the collar on his red polo-style shirt and clearing his voice, a confident Lije said, “We’ve established in the court proceedings and through our visiting tonight that Omar Jones had to have killed Joshua Klasser’s brother and family. Even you would agree with that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Klasser?”
“We at the Mossad had no questions about the case. That is, until very recently,” Klasser said. “I now believe someone else is guilty, but I do not know where that man is.”
“You’re wrong for doubting the verdict,” Ruth barked. His tone combative, he added, “And if we’re here to rehash that ancient case, this is a waste of time and money. I’m leaving.”
“Well,” Lije said, “it’s my money. So just sit down and let me waste a bit more. Besides, you wouldn’t have been invited to the party if you hadn’t been on the case. And, if I may add, you never would’ve been elected to the House without that case on your résumé.”
Ruth pressed his lips shut and took his seat.
Lije moved to stand behind the gambler, the prosecution’s chief witness. “Martin de la Cruz is a remarkable man. Because he has hyperthymestic syndrome, he can never forget anything he’s seen or heard.”
“That was proven and established at the trial,” Ruth said. “There aren’t ten people like him in the whole world.”