Brooks-Lotello Collection

by Ronald S. Barak

  CHAPTER 32

  Thursday, February 12, 10:00 a.m.

  WITH DISTRICT ATTORNEY REILLY and Chief of Police Murphy again at his side, Mayor Jackson addressed the throng of reporters present for the second time in three days.

  The mayor touched briefly on Cliff Norman’s tragic story but focused more on the loss of the three politicians and the work done by his police force. “In particular, I want to congratulate our special task force, and the skill and resolve they brought to bear in attaining this outstanding result. I’m limited as to what more I can say at this time. But I will take two or three questions before we allow our judicial system to run its course.”

  After a few harmless questions that shed little light on anything, other than buoying his confidence, Mayor Jackson took what proved to be one question too many. “Mayor Jackson, Rachel Santana, Washington Post. I have two questions for you. First, specifically what did your task force do to lead to Mr. Norman’s apprehension? Didn’t he essentially march out onto the streets and volunteer that he had committed these crimes? Second, while I don’t condone the murder of anyone, is everything as black and white here as you make it out to be? Personally, I find it difficult to separate the good guys from the bad guys. Care to comment on that?”

  “What I think, Ms. Santana, is that you’re just showboating. Your questions are in very poor taste, and unworthy of any answers beyond what I have already said.”

  “When it comes to showboating, Mr. Mayor, you seem to be the pot calling the kettle black. Isn’t it you doing the showboating?”

  “Ms. Santana, it is reporters like you who give your profession a bad name. I will not dignify your remarks any further. Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Santana notwithstanding, this is in fact a great day for all of D.C., indeed for all of America. More details will be forthcoming as appropriate. Thank you for your attention and support.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Thursday, February 12, 10:30 a.m.

  THINGS WERE MOVING ALONG even better and quicker than he had hoped. There was really little more for him to do at the moment. He would just sit back for a while and watch how things progressed.

  CHAPTER 34

  Thursday, February 12, 11:30 a.m.

  BERNARD ABRAMS HAD BEEN the Washington, D.C., public defender for as long as anyone could remember. He loved being a lawyer and he loved his job—making sure that those who could not afford first-rate legal representation received it whenever they needed it.

  Also for as long as anyone could remember, Melinda Raines had been his secretary. Never married and without any close family, she was consummately and singularly devoted to Abrams, to a fault, always watching out for him and making sure he had whatever he needed to do his job, and to do it well, especially since his wife passed away a few years earlier.

  Lately, it was taking more and more to make sure Abrams was on top of things. He was getting older. His health was starting to suffer. He was slowing down, and his memory wasn’t what it used to be.

  “You sure seem to be in a good mood today, Mr. Abrams. Anything I should know?”

  “Julie called. She invited me to lunch. I’m on the way right now.”

  Raines knew Julie was the apple of her grandfather’s eye. He loved her more than he loved life itself. He was so proud when she got into Georgetown Law. Like her grandfather before her.

  Raines didn’t have the heart to remind Abrams that he was supposed to have a working lunch today with one of his deputy PDs who was about to go to trial on a custody matter. She would reschedule the session. “Have a nice lunch, Mr. Abrams. Say hello to Julie for me.”

  “I will. I should be back by two o’clock. Please don’t forget to get some lunch yourself, Ms. Raines.”

  * * *

  ABRAMS FREQUENTLY LUNCHED WITH Julie at Jack’s. Everyone there knew who she was. How could they not, the way Abrams always showed her off? Today, Julie was a bit late, giving Abrams a chance to catch his breath from the walk over.

  Suddenly, Julie was standing by his side, smiling sweetly and giving Abrams a peck on the cheek. “Hi, Papa, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. Sit down. Your grandmother would look at you and say you’re too skinny. We need to fatten you up a bit. How are you?”

  “Oh Papa, I’m fine, but I do miss Nannie.”

  “Let’s order, honey, and then you can fill me in on how things are at school.”

  “Great. I’m going to have a Jack’s salad. What about you?”

  “I’ll have my usual, sweetheart, the poached salmon. Old habits die hard. Jack really makes it up nice for me. Don’t you want something more than a salad?”

  “I had a late breakfast. The salad’s perfect for me, Papa.”

  They ordered their lunches and were each sipping iced tea when Abrams asked, as he always did, “How are your classes?”

  “Classes are fine, Papa.” Julie smiled.

  “Okay, Ms. Smarty Pants, how long do you get under the Rule Against Perpetuities?”

  “Really, Papa, you’re quizzing me on that old English common law rule? It’s ‘lives in being plus twenty-one years.’”

  “Guess I can’t fool you. Did you say you wanted to talk to me about something?”

  “I do, Papa. I’m starting to look around for a summer job. One of the places I want to apply is the White House. They have summer internships for law students. Do you know anything about the program?”

  “I do. It’s a great program. We hired a couple of deputy PDs who interned at the White House during the summer. They had only good things to say about the program. It would be a terrific opportunity for you to land one of those spots.”

  “Papa, uh, do you think you could put in a good word for me over there?”

  Abrams paused. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure how good an idea that would be. First of all, I don’t really know many people in the new administration. Second, it might look like I was tampering, trying to influence the outcome of the process.”

  “Oh, gee, I really was hoping you could help make this happen for me.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so, honey. Besides, you won’t have any problem. You’ll knock ’em dead. They’ll love you.”

  “Oh well, if you can’t, you can’t. That’s too bad. I guess I’ll just have to figure out some way on my own … to get them to love me.”

  The double-entendre in Julie’s response passed right over Abrams’s head. “What I will do is check with a few people I know to see if I can come up with some references you can include on your application.”

  “I’d really appreciate that, Papa.” Barely having touched her salad, she said, “Do you mind if I run, Papa? I have a class in a few minutes.”

  “No problem, sweetie. Run along. I’ll call you with some names for your résume. They’ll need to meet you, of course, so they can honestly say they know you. That shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “Okay, thank you, Papa. That’ll be great. Take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard. Love you.”

  “Love you too, baby. Take care. Study hard.”

  “Will do. Thanks again, Papa.” Julie was up and off. Leaving Abrams nursing his poached salmon and iced tea. By himself.

  * * *

  JULIE ABRAMS WALKED OUT of Jack’s feeling none too happy. Yeah, thanks, Papa … for nothing. I guess I’ll have to get that internship my own way. From what I hear, there are a couple of guys in the White House who will indeed want to … love me.

  CHAPTER 35

  Thursday, February 12, 5:30 p.m.

  PETER FOSTER WAS THE executive director of the National Association of Investment Bankers, the NAIB. Headquartered in plush offices overlooking the Potomac, the NAIB is charged with protecting the interests of the multibillion-dollar brokerage houses collectively referred to as Wall Street. Its budget to protect those interests was virtually unlimited.

  It was Foster’s job, and the job of a few others like Foster, to assure that Congress and the White House left Wall Street alone to do pretty m
uch as it saw fit. The NAIB lobbyists were very good at what they did. They knew just where, and how, to spend their money. Congressional oversight committees were fine, so long as they did little more than pay lip service to the laws they were supposed to enforce. Just enough to keep the natives from getting restless. Otherwise staying out of the way.

  Foster and his cohorts had done their job well. There was no denying that Wall Street had pushed the envelope too far this time, bringing the country to its knees in the process. But not before Wall Street had gilded its pockets with record-high billions of dollars in fees placing loans that never had a chance of being viable.

  It was only a matter of time before the mortgage system of the early 2000s would collapse under its own weight. Some of the brokerage houses were going to go under as well, although the strong ones would survive and come back even stronger. Most of the senior executives of those that would not make it already had their tens of millions in bonuses safely tucked away and would be absorbed into the brokerage houses that did survive.

  Congress and the White House would be handing out billions of dollars to rebuild the economy. Main Street would get some of those dollars, but it was up to Foster and his cronies to see that Wall Street would get most of it.

  Foster had watched this morning’s events concerning Cliff Norman unfold with the same amazement as everyone else. To him, Norman was nothing more than a casualty of the current economic downturn. He wondered how Norman could possibly think killing a few politicians would change anything. Sure, he’ll catch a few sympathetic headlines. For a while. Then end up in some nuthouse while the rest of the world carries on, business as usual.

  Foster was secretly amused to see the country’s finest public servants in a deep sweat as some of their brothers and sisters were being cut down by this madman, fearing they could be next. Not the least among those was House Speaker Nancy Jamison from California. Having ridden the new president’s popularity to a high-profile position of her own, she was one of the most stressed out on the Hill. Earlier in the afternoon, Jamison had telephoned Foster to set up a meeting. Foster was on his way to hold Jamison’s hand. Unlike Wells, certainly nothing else about Jamison worth holding!

  “Over here, Pete.”

  “Madam Speaker, nice to see you again,” Foster replied, slipping into the booth and giving Jamison a chaste peck on the cheek. “You’re looking very well, as always. How’s the family?”

  “Fine, Pete, and yours?”

  “Great. Mary’s off doing something or other in New York. The grandkids are getting bigger and busier every day, way too much for me to keep up with. What’re you drinking, Nancy?”

  “Just soda water, Pete.”

  “George, another soda water for the speaker. I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s, neat.”

  “Coming right up, Mr. Foster. Good to see you again this evening.”

  “You too, George.”

  Returning his attention to Jamison, he said, “What did you think of this morning’s events, Nancy? Pretty colorful, huh?”

  “You find this humorous, Pete? I don’t. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I certainly didn’t mean to make light of this fellow Norman’s circumstances. He’s clearly had a rough time of it.”

  “Norman? I don’t give a damn about Norman. Someone’s running around killing off our political leaders. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder every time I hear any little noise. My stomach’s in knots. Am I next? This needs to stop, now! I only hope Norman is the guy, and that these killings are now over.”

  Jamison was just getting started. “Even if Norman’s the killer, I’m afraid there’s still going to be a lot more to all of this before things quiet down. You’re not blind, Pete. You must be picking up the same growing public sentiment I am. All these demonstrations, all these obnoxious marches, one after another. Didn’t you hear that jackass reporter Rachel Santana riling up her followers at the press conference this morning? She and the rest of the media are going to be milking this for all it’s worth. Crying that Wall Street’s not the only culprit behind this economic tailspin. That Washington’s not been doing its job. We’re going to be under a ton of pressure to put some real oversight in place. This is not good for either of us, Pete.”

  “With all due respect, Madam Speaker, aren’t you overreacting just a little? So long as Wall Street gets what it wants, it’s always willing to take the heat. Sticks and stones and all that. I understand you have a constituency to answer to. Wall Street does not. It’ll continue to hang in there, to live up to its end of the bargain. You and your colleagues are just going to have to do the same: remain cool and ride this storm out.”

  “I understand, Pete. I don’t mean to suggest we don’t know where our support comes from. I’m only saying we may soon have no choice but to point the finger at Wall Street. Your clients need to appreciate that.”

  “Within limits, Madam Speaker, within limits. Let’s just stay coordinated and we’ll get through this. Whatever the issue of the day, we always manage to land on our feet.”

  “Okay,” Jamison added, “but your people need to understand the grassroots pressure out there is building to unprecedented levels. Up on the Hill, we’re simply not used to this. I gotta run, Pete—another one of those awful command-performance dinners tonight.”

  I hope this bitch understands she’s bought and paid for—like the whore she is. And that she’d better continue putting out. Like she’s paid to do. “I understand, Madam Speaker. You run along. I’ll settle up here. Let’s stay in touch.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks, Pete. Good night.”

  “Good night, Madam Speaker.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Thursday, February 12, 9:30 p.m.

  “DADDY, DADDY, HURRY! PLEASE!”

  “Daddy’s here, baby. Everything’s okay. You just had a bad dream, honey. I’m here. Everything’s fine. Can you tell me about it, little girl?”

  “It was Mommy. Bad things were happening to Mommy.”

  “It was just a dream, Maddie. Nothing bad is happening to Mommy. Mommy’s in heaven with the angels. They’re protecting Mommy.”

  “Daddy, was Mommy a bad person? Did God punish Mommy for being a bad person? I thought Mommy was a good person.”

  “Mommy was a good person, Maddie, the very best. She loved you and Charlie, and she loved Daddy. She took care of all of us. She took care of Beau, too. Mommy was a good person, Maddie.”

  “Am I a bad person, Daddy?”

  “No, sweetie, you’re not a bad person. You’re a very good person. Why would you think that?”

  “Well, God took Mommy away from us. He must have thought we were bad to do such a bad thing to us. If we’re not bad, why would God do such a bad thing to us? Why would he take Mommy away from us?”

  “Baby, I don’t know. Sometimes bad things happen to good people.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, little girl.”

  “Is God going to take you away from me?”

  “No, princess, God’s not going to take me away from you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, baby, I promise.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I think I can go back to sleep now, but will you stay with me?”

  “I’m staying right here, little girl.”

  I guess bad things do happen to good people sometimes, Beth. We all miss you. I’m doing the best I can for the kids, but when Maddie asks questions like this, I don’t know what to tell her. And bad things keep happening to Norman, too. He lost everything he had—his family, his livelihood, his dignity, his sanity, everything that could have mattered to him. Now he’s lost his freedom. I don’t know if he’s done anything more than fall apart. Shoot his mouth off. It doesn’t seem like Norman could have planned all this. Could there be another side to this guy that I’m not seeing? Am I missing something?

  CHAPTER 37

  Friday, February 13, 8:30 a.m.

 
THE NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL meeting was over. Its members filed out of the room. “Manny, stick around a minute.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

  “What did you think of the mayor’s press conference yesterday?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to watch it until last night. Quite a circus, a lot of facets to this whole evolving saga, and loads of possible ramifications. I find all of this very troubling.” Reyes glimpsed over at Tuttle to see if he was even coming close to what was on the president’s mind.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s hard for me to put this into words, Mr. President. I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but I think we have an extremely scary storyline brewing here. It may be that public officials are being murdered—sentenced and executed—by someone who blames them for the economic conditions strangling our country on their watch. For not doing their job. Not policing those who obviously needed policing. Specifically, Wall Street.

  “It gets even worse. The perception may be that this didn’t happen just because our political representatives were not particularly adequate at doing their jobs. They might be forgiven for that. But rather that this happened because they’re corrupt, on the take, being paid to look the other way instead of doing their jobs. For this, there might not be any forgiveness. If this happens, Wells, DiMarco, and Johnson might not be the only politicians whose careers come to a sudden end.”

  “That’s some theory. Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” Tuttle looked like he was trying to put up a strong front. But not really convincing even himself.