So she made the salad while he marinated the steaks in his special sauce and boiled the water for the corn and finally put the steaks on the grill. A nice family scene, cooking together, with Magoo sitting by patiently waiting for the bones, while in Vail’s head danced visions of cunning killers, death and destruction in the wilds of their own West. And for a moment she had her own vision, a vision of car bombs and assassinations and broken bodies in the Middle East, which suddenly seemed no farther away than Oklahoma City.
She cuddled closer to him under the goose-down comforter, seeking the spot on his shoulder that was her pillow. He hadn’t discussed the offer since they had started making dinner. Before dawn the chopper would come and whisk him away for a meeting with the President of the United States. Between now and then he would make his decision, and she knew in her heart what that decision would be. Part of her wanted him to accept the position because he was right for it and he would do the job brilliantly. Part of her feared what the future held for them both.
She didn’t ask. Perhaps he didn’t know yet. No, he knew. Vail was not a man who postponed decisions. But she didn’t ask.
Instead she asked, “What time are they coming?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Jesus, that’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I know. I guess the President starts early.”
“Well, he has a lot to do. Are you going to wear a suit this time?”
“The dark brown one.”
“What tie?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ll pick it out for you.”
“I was counting on that.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Hell, I don’t know. If I decide against the job, they’ll probably send me back on the train.”
“Probably in a boxcar.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to ride the rails like a hobo.”
“Just my luck you’ll bump into some hobo-cutie.”
He slid his hand down her back and around to the inside of her thigh. “There are no cuties in boxcars.” He scratched her lightly with his fingernails.
“Hah. Remember… uh… Sullivan’s Travels? Veronica Lake?”
He moved his hand up, felt her soft blanket, and laid the flat of his hand against her, curling his fingers against the soft muscles between her legs.
“That would only happen in the movies,” he said.
He turned to her, licked the forefinger of his other hand, and stroked her lower lip with it. She caught her breath and ran her hand down his belly until she felt him rising to meet her hand.
“You sure know how to shut a girl up,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 16
Marge Castaigne was nervous. She had not heard from Vail since he returned from the trip the day before. She did not know how to interpret his silence. Was he going to turn down the President? Accept the job? Or was he going to wait and see how the meeting went before making up his mind?
Vail was an enigma to her. She’d read and reread Jack Conner-man’s articles, written through the years, charting Vail’s career. As a young man, he was a cunning, dangerously clever and arrogant defense attorney who challenged the law at every turn. He snacked on prosecutors, including his lover, Jane Venable, sent more than one of them—including Venable—scurrying into the private sector, and was the bane of judges.
As a prosecutor he became a fearful opponent to his former colleagues, knew their every trick, most of which he himself had invented, could get inside a defense attorney’s head, predict where the case was headed, and ambush his adversaries at every turn. He had put together a fearsome group of young lawyers which the press had dubbed the “Wild Bunch.” Vail instilled in them a love of legal battle. Connerman had once written, “Vail and his Wild Bunch see the courtroom as a Roman Colosseum; an arena where cunning and knowledge are adrenalized; where they are challenged to attack the law, its canons, traditions, statutes, and structure, in order to coax, maneuver, and seduce juries to accept their perception of the truth.” His brilliant opening remarks to juries were a forecast of doom for defendants; his summations were terminal. He was the bane of felons and their lawyers. And judges. He had once told Connerman, “I love the law. My job is to kick it in the ass to keep it strong.” And challenge it he did, pushing every case to the edge and occasionally beyond. In the fifteen years Connerman had been following Vail’s career, the lawyer had been cited for contempt no less than twenty times and paid $175,000 in fines, and had once served ten days in the county poke.
But if Connerman’s facts showed Vail to be a daring, flamboyant, cynical, arrogant, legal magician, disdainful of authority and courtroom manners, his prose painted a somewhat different profile: a portrait of a sage and charming rogue who was unflappable, unbuyable, and unbeatable, and who, when Connerman once had quoted Disraeli’s belief that “Truth is justice,” had replied, “Truth is perception, justice is an illusion.”
He owed allegiance to no one, a fact painfully apparent to Roy Shaughnessey, the state’s most powerful political hooligan, who had appointed Vail Chicago’s DA and, when Vail got too close to some of Shaughnessey’s darker dealings, had him elevated to Attorney General, where he immediately set out to successfully take down Lacey and Grossman, Shaughnessey’s two largest political supporters and contributors. Vail’s unappreciative attitude had finally prompted Shaughnessey to proclaim, “The trouble with Vail, he don’t know who his friends are,” to which Vail had replied, “I know who my friends are, I’m more interested in knowing my enemies.” On another occasion, when Shaughnessey had called Vail an “ungrateful son of a bitch,” Vail had responded, “Somebody ought to ask Roy what he means by gratitude.”
Marge Castaigne, whose career arc was not unlike Vail’s, was canny herself. She had selected the two men Vail had interviewed the day before, hoping that the zeal and passion of one and the venality of the other would convince him that the President’s fears of the Sanctuary were not without foundation. She also knew she was taking a political risk in recommending to the President a man who had disdain for protocol and titles, who got things done his own way, who was neither a team player nor a sycophant, and who was cynical enough to see past the facade of those who were.
All the things Washington political hacks hated.
But she also was certain that Vail was the only lawyer alive who could bring the Sanctuary to its knees. So she sat nervously in the dormer window, tapping her foot as she watched for the limousine that would bring Vail to her door and deliver both to the White House.
When it arrived, she wasted no time in taking her seat beside him in the rear of the limo.
“Morning, A.G.,” Vail said. He was dressed in a dark brown doublebreasted suit with a dark green tightly patterned tie.
“Good morning,” she said, appraising him. “Beautiful suit.”
“I’ll tell Jane you said so, she buys all my clothes.”
“Excellent taste.”
“I know.”
“How was the trip?”
“Interesting.”
Noncommittal. She should have expected as much. She decided to try another tack.
“The protocol for the meeting is relatively formal,” she said. “‘Mr. President’ and ‘sir’ will do for the man. The rest of us refer to each other as ‘Secretary,’ ‘Director,’ or ‘Mister’ or ‘Ms.’ whoever… what-ever’s appropriate.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll run down the players for you. Harry Simmons. He’s the media head of the FBI, Billy Hardistan actually runs the works. Simmons was brought in to clean up the mess in the lab and the screw-ups in Oklahoma City. He’ll be gone once the Bureau’s image is restored. Wayne Brodsky is director of the ATF. He’s fighting for his life. Simmons wants the ATF to become part of the Bureau. The ATF got a bum rap at Waco and Ruby Ridge, it was the FBI that invaded the compound and ended Weaver’s standoff, but the ATF got blamed for the screw-ups. Next is Ed Randolph, director of the IRS. He’s been under the gun for
a couple of years. The IRS is a mess internally, as everyone knows. The President is on record to clean it up. A few weeks ago Pennington caught Randolph lobbying some of his congressional pals to keep the status quo, and put him on notice. Shut up or get lost. Finally there’s Claude Hooker, National Security Adviser. He’s a nasty one. Claude and I are cordial, and that’s about as far as it goes. He’s ex-CIA, ex-Marine, ex, ex, ex, and he doesn’t like women in high places. Thinks the cabinet should be a boy’s club, that’s how his mind works. But these guys are all pretty effective when they’re not jockeying for position.”
“How do they feel about the RICO case?”
“Doesn’t make any difference. The President wants to do it. End of discussion. You’ll like Larry Pennington. He’s direct, he’s charming, he’s tough, and he makes quick decisions. And he keeps his word. He likes straight talk and hates attitude. Stick to the point and don’t get too passionate about anything. He doesn’t trust ardor.”
“I’ll remember that.”
He fell silent again. She waited a moment or two and then: “You are going to do it, aren’t you?”
“I’ll tell you when we get inside.”
“Don’t toy with me, Martin,” she snapped.
He looked at her and said with a smile, “I wouldn’t dare.”
“God, you’re going to be a handful,” she said, looking out the window.
“I’ve got some terms,” he said.
“Oh? Okay, shoot.”
“I bring in my own top staff. I have the full-time use of an AMOC.”
“Done.”
“And I get Jimmy Hines and Sam Firestone for the run of the show.”
“You dog! They’re part of my personal staff.”
“Jimmy’s hip to the whole movement, Marge. And Sam Firestone grew up in the territory. I like them both. Jimmy thinks electronics were invented for his personal use, and Sam doesn’t talk much but he says a lot. Hell, they all work for you, A.G. You want me to have the best, don’t you?”
“What else?”
“I’m in full charge. I report only to you. Hardistan reports to me and works under my authority. Any problem there?”
“Absolutely none. I’ve already talked to Billy about it. He knows more about hate groups and the militia movement than anybody alive, with the possible exception of Jimmy.”
“I don’t want any official announcement about this. I’d like to keep it out of the press until I have my team together and I have an idea what I’m doing. The longer we keep the Sanctuary in the dark about what we’re doing, the better.”
“That could be a little tougher. This is Washington. Inside information is what makes it tick.”
“You mean gossip.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best.”
“I’ll mention it to the President.”
“That ought to work.”
They drove past the White House and Vail’s pulse quickened. Behind the pillared white walls lived the most powerful human being in the world. There was no denying it was a heady experience, meeting with the President. He was fascinated by the protocol entering the White House. It was cordial and efficient. But he felt a sense of awe when he followed Castaigne into the Oval Office. He looked around the room, noting little touches he had seen on the news and in photographs. Simmons, Brodsky, and Randolph were already there. Castaigne introduced Vail around and they got coffee. A moment later Hooker entered. He fixed his eyes on Vail as he came in.
“The President will be along in a minute,” Hooker said. “He’s stuck in a photo op with the president of Argentina. Mr. Vail? I’m Claude Hooker, NSA.” He offered his hand. Then he cleared his throat and looked at the other men in the room.
“While we’re waiting,” he said, “I’d like to discuss this RICO thing for a minute.”
Vail could see Castaigne bristle. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she said edgily.
“RICO cases can take years,” Hooker said. “By the time we get them into court, the whole country could be a battleground.”
“What are you driving at, Claude?” Marge asked.
“Some of us feel a RICO case is a bit exorbitant, no offense to you, Mr. Vail. We think just as much can be accomplished by the FBI building individual cases, the A.G. taking them into court, the IRS burning them for tax evasion. Then we dangle the bastards in front of the press like the Nazis at Nuremberg.”
“Or end up with another Randy Weaver or Waco?” Castaigne said.
Brodsky, Simmons, and Randolph shifted nervously in their seats. Vail did not say anything. He sat relaxed in his chair and watched the power play. It became obvious to him that the National Security Adviser had discussed the “problem” with the others in the room and had lined up some muscle in his corner. Everything was beginning to go political, as he had feared it would.
Hooker glared at her across the table. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said.
“Neither is this discussion,” Castaigne said. “Mr. Vail has agreed to head up a task force and to actively pursue RICO, and the Department of Justice is behind that option. That was the President’s decision. Period.”
Hooker’s eyes turned to stone. He sat an inch taller in his chair. His lips curled in a sneer. “Well, aren’t we feeling feisty this morning,” he said.
The door opened at that moment and Lawrence Pennington entered the room, ending the confrontation. Vail was surprised. He seemed larger in real life than in his pictures. Or perhaps, he thought, the whole situation was larger than life. They all stood up. Pennington was wearing a dark blue single-breasted suit and a red tie. He stood in the doorway for a moment whispering to his secretary, then proceeded into the room.
“Good morning, Madame A.G., gentlemen.” He nodded and walked straight to Vail. “You must be Martin Vail,” he said. “What a pleasure to have you here.” He had a granite handshake.
“My pleasure,” Vail said, and was surprised at how small his own voice sounded.
“Sorry I’m late,” Pennington said. He sat down and immediately turned to Vail. “Well, Mr. Vail, have you had time to consider my offer?”
“Uh, Mr. Presi—” Hooker started, and Pennington held up his hand and shut him up. Pennington leaned toward Vail. “Shall I call you Martin?”
“That’ll be fine, Mr. President.”
“Good. So, what do you think of the A.G.’s idea?”
Vail could feel all eyes on him, particularly Hooker, who stared straight at him. Vail looked directly at the President.
“I think it’s an excellent solution to the problem,” he said. Peripherally he saw Hooker’s jaws tighten and his eyes look down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. Then Vail added, “If we can pull it off.”
“You have doubts?”
“I’m pretty much satisfied that the threat is real and dangerous, but it’s going to take some doing, sir.”
“Can you do it?”
Vail did not want to seem evasive. This was a military man, not interested in excuses or apologies.
“Yes sir. If it’s there, we can do it, and I believe that it’s there. There will have to be some conditions.”
Castaigne looked over at him and for a moment he saw panic in her eyes. Conditions? This is the President, Marty!
“Let’s hear them.”
“Mr. President, the objective of a RICO case is to lasso three or more racketeers or groups together and prove they are guilty of or have profited from serious felonies. My feeling is, charge them with crimes nobody can sympathize with. The slaughter of U.S. soldiers in the Bitterroots, theft of government property from the Helena armory, murder, armed robbery, and money laundering. As the case progresses we can probably add conspiracy and corruption of public officials to the mix. We do that, get them into court and prove our case, and the country will wake up to the threat. We have to set some guidelines up front, sir.”
“And what are they?”
“One man runs the show.”
> “And that man is you, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Pennington said.
“Good.”
“I notice you left out the tax angle,” Randolph interceded. “That certainly needs to be part of the case.”
Here we go, Vail thought. He was prepared for his first battle.
“Mr. Randolph, I’d have to disagree with you on that,” he said bluntly.
Randolph looked shocked. Castaigne took a sip of coffee. Pennington looked a bit bemused.
“Why so, Martin?” the President asked.
“Tax avoidance is a major part of the militia’s agenda,” Randolph said pompously.
“Let the man finish, Mr. Randolph,” Pennington said.
“The thing about taxes is, why risk it? We’re talking about less than ten thousand dollars in most of these cases. Taking a man’s farm because he owes fifteen hundred dollars in taxes and four thousand in penalties and interest is an onerous proposition with a jury. I don’t want to have to fight that kind of case in a courtroom. A dumb lawyer would kill us. And if we lost just one of the cases we set out to prove, the whole RICO goes out the window.”
“Tax evasion is part of it, sir, and the easiest to prove,” Randolph said.
“I agree it’s easy to prove, Director Randolph, but it’s hell to sell to a jury, and in the end the jury’s perception is all that counts.”
“You’re saying you won’t prosecute tax cases?” Hooker asked.
Vail ignored Hooker and continued to speak directly to the President. “Mr. President, you invited me on this trip to make a RICO case against the Sanctuary. I’m saying if taxes is in the mix, the case will likely be compromised from the outset.”
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