The last time Thomas had dropped his guard—just a little—it had almost cost him his life. It was during the Norman case, in Brooks’s court. When Brooks was still on the bench. Brooks was the impetus behind Lotello going after Thomas. Even though neither one of them then realized it was Thomas. If they do even today. There was a shootout. Thomas escaped, just barely. He was lucky. Lotello wasn’t. He caught a bullet.
Although Thomas managed to get away, it cost him everything he’d been working for. This was now Thomas’s last chance. He could not fail this time. No more mistakes. No more misjudgments. Haddad was unreliable. Insubordinate. A fool. Should have known better than to select him. Had to reassert myself. Had to get rid of him. No choice.
Thomas threw Haddad’s corpse in the back of the van, and drove off. He stopped along a quiet stretch of the Potomac, miles away from where he had dumped the bag with the remains of the girl’s phone and sunglasses. He stuffed each of Haddad’s pant and jacket pockets with rocks collected from the riverbed, dumped the body into the water, and watched it sink.
He chemically wiped down the inside of the van, and then burned the cleaning materials along with the latex gloves he’d been wearing all day. He sprinkled the ashes into the water and watched them float away. He would also soon dismantle and destroy the van. And everything else. In the meanwhile, he was confident no one could connect the van with him, the girl, or his ex-associate.
He hurried off to Court, again sticking to the speed limits. It was going to be close. He really wanted to monitor the girl’s grandfather—and the results of all his planning and efforts—in person. If necessary, he had another cell phone ready to go and would watch the proceedings by television from a nearby bar he had already selected. Just in case. Control was everything.
GROGGY, HEAD POUNDING, EYELIDS so heavy, Cassie fought to break free of the cobwebs that were not yet ready to let go. No sense of time or place, muddled, she sought to gain some solid footing.
The day—if it were still the same day—had started like any other. Up at five every morning, the cost of wanting to be the best woman golfer in the world—not the best diabetic golfer, but the best golfer, period. And not one of the best, but the best. Her steady run of victories on the juniors’ circuit demonstrated this was no fantasy.
She tested her blood sugar that morning, programmed a supplemental bolus through her insulin pump to cover her slightly elevated glucose level, threaded her orthodontic braces, organized her curls just so, put on her favorite earrings, and finished getting dressed. She fed Whitney, the family pup, next.
When she said, “C’mon, Whit, let’s go potty outside,” he looked at her curiously and hesitated. Hair too frizzy. Face full of freckles. Too skinny, the tallest in her class, even taller than the boys. Now, because of the ginormous lisp caused by her new braces, even her dog didn’t know who she was anymore. In spite of her tough self-assessment, Whitney followed her out the door.
She remembered her dad driving her to morning practice. He answered emails and watched her hit until he left for work. Her parents still wouldn’t let her walk to and from school on her own, but they’d finally caved in and allowed her to walk the few blocks back and forth between practice and school.
Cassie continued to retrace the morning. She’d finished hitting, was on the way to school, listening to music on her latest playlist, thinking about how practice had gone. She had also texted Madison that she would meet her in the cafeteria in a few and was looking forward to their trip to the Supreme Court.
Suddenly, it all came rushing back to her.
JUST AS CASSIE HAD sent the text to Madison, that dirty old van had screeched up alongside her. Guy in a hoodie jumped out and ran toward her. She tried to make it back to the golf course. He was too fast. Knocked her to the ground. She had tried to fight. Saw the large syringe in his hand sailing toward her. Something sharp stabbed her in the neck. That was it. Until now.
She began shaking, crying. Her knees were scraped and throbbing. Her neck was sore. She was trembling from head to toe, but she wanted to be brave. He’s a real perv, a big bully. He should pick on someone his own size. See how he’d like it then.
Trying to be brave wasn’t working. And then it dawned on her what was happening.
OH MY GOD. I’VE BEEN kidnapped!
Cassie began shuddering uncontrollably.
Not good. Why me? What did I do?
Tears again spilled out of her eyes and swamped her cheeks and T-shirt.
Her mind raced in all directions. Mom and Dad. Nanny and Poppy. Whitney. Will I ever see any of them again? What about my golf? Michelle Wie tweeted she wanted to play with me. I so want to. And Madison—Madison—she’s going to be so ticked at me for not showing.
And then—as if things couldn’t get any worse—they did.
CASSIE COULDN’T BREATHE. My pump! Where’s my pump?
THE UNIFORMED SUPREME COURT security officer shouted over the clamor of echoing voices and shuffling feet beneath the high-vaulted ceiling of the courthouse lobby: “Empty your pockets and bags, place the contents in one of the free bins, and put the bin on the conveyor belt. Cameras, cell phones, and other electronic devices are not permitted in the courtroom and must be checked before entering. You’ll be given a claim check and can retrieve your items when you leave.”
“Nothing in my pockets, Officer,” Thomas said. “Just my billfold, a notepad, and a couple of pens in my shoulder bag.”
“Step ahead, stand on the marks, raise your hands above your head.”
He did exactly as he was told.
“Come through,” the security officer motioned.
Thomas entered the courtroom gallery, looked around, and limped over to the left aisle seat, one row forward from the rear. He stood there staring at the woman occupying the seat until she finally acknowledged his presence.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Any chance I could trouble you to find another seat? It’s this darn stiff leg of mine. I sure could use an aisle seat near the exit.”
She stared at him. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. If she refused his entreaty, he had another couple seats nearby he’d try. If all three attempts fell flat, he’d have to revert to Plan B: Leave the courtroom, grab one of the other phones he’d hidden outside the courthouse, along with three extra SIM cards, each one barely the size of his thumbnail, and hurry to the bar down the street, where several wall-screen televisions would be carrying the coverage.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman occupying his preferred spot nodded silently and moved over to one of the few remaining gallery seats. “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he called after her. Plan A it was, at least for this initial half-day session.
With an exaggerated effort, Thomas slumped down into the seat the woman had vacated, unlatched his shoulder bag, and placed it on the floor between his legs. He surveyed the courtroom in front of him with a mixture of admiration and amusement. The gallery was filling in quickly. Given the seminal importance of the case, Thomas knew the courtroom would soon be packed.
He leaned forward and coughed. He deftly removed one of the two phones and three of the six extra SIM cards he had two-way taped under each of the three-aisle gallery seats over the course of the prior week. He slipped the items into his bag.
So far, so good. It had been surprisingly easy for Thomas to get a night shift custodial position at the courthouse. Of course, it probably hadn’t hurt his chances that two custodians—one was enough, the second was just for good measure—mysteriously went missing without notice only days earlier. Or that Thomas had been able to hack into the Court computer system and move his application to the head of the waiting list for custodial positions. Not likely the incinerated bodies of those two janitors will ever turn up, or be tied to this case before the Court rules.
Creating an employment history and references had required the fabrication of a handful of modest-sized custodial companies in several small easterly Virginia towns. Each wi
th manufactured owners and phone numbers leading to additional prepaid cells Thomas had purchased. Of course, no one was there when calls came in to verify the references. But Thomas always promptly returned the voicemail messages left by the Court’s human resources office. Using voice alteration software, he provided bona fides in sufficiently unique voices to accredit his fictitious applicant.
The interview had been a mere formality. Two weeks after he had sent in his application, Thomas’s new job allowed him undisturbed access to the very courtroom where today’s proceedings would take place. Over the course of several nights, he’d managed to sneak in six cell phones and extra SIM cards and taped them to the bottom of the three targeted seats. Including the one he now occupied.
Using three separate Craigslist ads, Thomas had surreptitiously hired three different people to stand in line this morning and get him a seat while he tended to more urgent priorities. He had paid each through a joint “Pay After Delivery” PayPal escrow account.
As for the phones, in addition to his personal smartphone for the possible rare occasion when he would need capability not included on burners, Thomas had purchased forty “burner” phones for cash over a period of several weeks. No identification was required. Each purchase was made at a different drugstore, electronics shop, or telecommunications carrier retailer. Fifty dollars bought a phone already loaded with one full month of prepaid service. The cost was a pittance.
It would have been easier, cheaper, and more efficient if he had purchased just a couple of phones and downloaded the latest burner apps to them that all the drug dealers, pimps, and hackers were using these days, but Thomas didn’t trust the vulnerable security of that approach. He was far too cautious for anything that risky.
The extra effort expended was well worth it. So long as he meticulously followed his simple protocol, neither his identity nor his location could ever be traced: Employing a new SIM card for each text sent, removing the phone battery and old SIM card immediately after their use and breaking the old SIM card in half, and then reinserting the battery and a new SIM card at the time of the next use.
Each of the hidden burner phones, including the one now resting safely in the bag at his feet, contained the same unsent text message—the one he’d prepared before abducting the girl.
As the courtroom wall clock marched toward ten, Thomas basked in the grandeur of the chamber, its high ceilings, and its majestic finishes. He even admired the way everyone present had their respectively assigned places: Courtroom staff adjacent to the Justices, attorneys and their clients just beyond the staff, and, finally, the gallery of spectators. The buzz among the spectators was growing. They were there to see how the 28th Amendment would fare, but he wondered how specifically they would each be affected by the Court’s decision. Perhaps he should say his decision.
Thomas’s eyes settled on the three of them: Brooks, Klein, sitting next to Brooks, Lotello, seated behind Klein. He recalled bitterly his prior dealings with each. He knew that Lotello and Klein had married. Klein had also adopted Lotello’s two kids, the brood sitting next to Lotello. How I’d love to take the lot of them down right now. But no time for such whimsy now. First things first. Their time will come.
As Thomas watched them, Lotello reached over and gave Klein an obvious last minute good luck squeeze on her shoulder. Klein turned and seemed to acknowledge the gesture with a preoccupied smile. Suddenly she glanced back, her line of sight intersecting Thomas’s. Her smile transformed into a brief, puzzled expression. She returned her attention to the papers in front of her.
Thomas smiled. Sneered might be more precise. Stare all you want, bitch. By the time you recognize me, it’ll be too late. It already is. About 170 minutes to be exact. But who’s counting?
THE NINE SUPREME COURT Justices marched into the regal burgundy and gold hall right on time, exactly at 10 o’clock. Thomas respected that. He always sought to be on time too. Several cracks of the gavel, not unlike a staccato of gunfire, followed the Justices’s entrance, reverberating throughout the courtroom. Momentarily startled out of his reverie, Thomas belatedly joined the remainder of the gallery in rising.
The Justices huddled and ceremoniously shook hands, demonstrating a lack of personal animosity despite whatever judicial differences they perhaps harbored. Thomas thought it played like a well-choreographed Broadway musical. As if on cue, they then took their places behind their assigned seats, the Chief Justice of the United States at the center and the eight Associate Justices alternating right and left of center in descending order of seniority, accompanied by the grand opening proclamation of the Court Marshal:
“The Honorable, the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court.”
That was Thomas’s cue. As everyone throughout the courtroom resumed their seats, he reached into his bag on the floor and discreetly removed the phone. Hunched over, as he had practiced countless times without having to look, Thomas quickly opened the app and hit “Send.” And just as quickly and discreetly, he returned the phone to the bag.
Showtime.
ASSOCIATE JUSTICE ARNOLD HIRSCHFELD’S cell phone started vibrating just as Chief Justice Sheldon Trotter began his opening remarks. Few people had Hirschfeld’s number. He reached inside his robe, removed the phone, and opened the text.
We have your granddaughter.
His eyes widened. His knuckles turned pale. Remembering where he was, he tried to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, and continued reading.
We have your granddaughter. Here’s what you need to do.
Chief Justice Trotter’s opening remarks seemed to come from a far-off place. “As many of you watching today have learned from the media, this is the first time we …”
Hirschfeld pushed Trotter’s words to the recesses of his mind as he hurriedly skimmed the balance of the text.
If you don’t follow these instructions exactly, your granddaughter dies.
Trotter rambled on “… are televising the proceedings of this Court …”
Hirschfeld half-rose from his leather chair and all but gave way to his urge to rush from the courtroom. He caught himself. And go where? Do what? Are they watching me? Am I telegraphing my anxiety? What’ll they do? He tried to swallow. He couldn’t.
The kids had given Cassie a cell phone on her last birthday. It was always with her. As nonchalantly as possible, he managed to tap in and send a text.
hey baby girl r u having a good day? luv u
He closed his eyes. The few unfilled seconds stretched to infinity.
Gazing vacantly out into the courtroom and the whirring cameras that glared back at him, the next text he fired off was to his daughter, Jill.
chk if cassie @ school NOW
All the while, Trotter prattled on. “For the benefit of those looking on from your televisions …”
Hirschfeld’s phone vibrated. Cassie? No. Only Jill.
What r u saying dad? ur scaring me!
He fired back: no time chk NOW
He felt certain everyone in the courtroom was staring at him. He remained painfully aware that someone was.
He strained to be unobtrusive, natural. As if he were concentrating on Trotter’s remarks. His phone vibrated again.
dad shes not at school! FOR GODS SAKE WHATS GOING ON?
He could no longer process what Trotter was saying. He put his phone on the leather notepad in front of him, pretending to be making notes. He tapped out and sent still another text.
someones got cassie call school back say she just walked in not feeling well came home b4 reaching school DON’T SAY ANYTHING MORE get mark home. DO NOTHING MORE! NO POLICE! wait for me 2 call @ 12 they r watching me on tv and in crtrm 2 b sure I do as told I WILL GET HER BACK
No
sooner had he sent the message then his phone vibrated for the third time.
u no by now this is no joke. we r ur worst nightmare. u r starting 2 draw attention. put ur damn phone away. NOW! do exactly as we say or no more sweet little girl. on u grandpa.
No doubt the bastards were watching him. Hirschfeld quickly scanned the courtroom. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a sea of faces. Among them his longtime friend and law school classmate, Cyrus Brooks. Sitting in the Court well with the other lawyers in the case. Is Cyrus staring at me?
Hirschfeld had to stop broadcasting his terror. Do as they instructed. Calm down. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. He willed it to stop. He tried to focus on Trotter. How am I ever going to make it to the noon recess?
THOMAS STARED AT HIRSCHFELD. Get it together, asshole. We have a lot riding on you. So does the girl.
CASSIE WOKE SUDDENLY. AT first, she couldn’t find herself. As if she were in some long, dark, tunnel. She was confused. Her head hurt. Her knees ached. She struggled to remember what had happened. And then it came rushing back to her, along with the sheer terror she’d felt when the man attacked her, slammed her to the ground, thrust that scary needle at her. But why me? Where am I? What time is it? And, where is my pump?
Like tearing something sticky off her skin, she opened her eyes. Ow! Burns. She rubbed them and tried again. Lying on a bed. She struggled to sit up, look around. She was in a dingy room. Not much light. Just one hanging bulb. No windows. Stuffy. Cold. Walls dirty.
What kind of a room doesn’t have windows?
A basement.
She spotted a door at the end of the room. She stood, but felt dizzy. She managed to cross the cellar. She grabbed at the doorknob. Locked. She listened for any sounds on the other side. “Hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? Please, can you help me?”
JK's Code (Brooks/Lotello Thriller Book 4) Page 32