Authors: Pamela Samuels Young
“Man, we ain’t tryin’ to get caught up in your bullshit,” Dre shouted.
“Just drive,” Waverly exclaimed. “We have to get out of here!”
Angela finally made it to the end of the ramp and turned right onto Century Boulevard.
“We can’t go this way,” Dre said, as Angela passed the intersection at Airport Boulevard. “This leads straight into the airport. Make a U-turn.”
Angela glanced to her left. Huge plants and palm trees lined the median dividing east and west traffic. “I can’t. There’s no place to turn!”
“Just drive across the median.”
Angela was so rattled, she could barely keep her hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t do that!”
“Yes, you can,” Dre insisted. “Just do it.”
Waverly raised his head from the backseat. “No! Just keep straight. There’s no way they’re going to start anything inside the airport. The airport police would have this place shut down in seconds. We’ll be safer in there.”
“Hell naw!” Dre yelled. “If anything goes down on airport property, the police are going to shoot first and ask questions later. We have to turn around.”
Angela was trying to decide what to do when a bullet pierced the back window, spraying glass throughout the car. She instantly swerved the car to the left, crossed over the median and headed back in the opposite direction, eastbound on Century Boulevard. Car horns blared at them from every direction.
Another bullet struck the left side of the car.
“Oh, my God! They’re going to kill us! I can’t do this!”
“Yes, you can,” Dre said. “Just keep your damn foot on the gas and drive like your life depended on it because right now it does.”
Dre turned to look through what was left of the back window. “The shots came from that black Escalade.”
Angela cut around a Honda and almost collided with a delivery truck as she raced through the intersection at Aviation against a red light.
“They’re gettin’ close,” Dre said. “Floor it!”
Angela screamed when another bullet took out the mirror on the driver’s side.
“Please, baby, don’t freak out on me. You’re doin’ good. Just stay calm and keep drivin’.”
The Saab charged through the intersection at La Cienega just as a big rig ambled in front of her.
“Oh, my God! We’re going to crash. I can’t stop!” Angela jerked the steering wheel to the right and somehow managed to whip the car clear of the truck.
A second later, a thunderous boom rocked the entire street.
Angela glanced at the rearview mirror. The Escalade had barreled into the cab of the big rig, setting off a chain reaction of crashes.
Dre pointed ahead. “Make a left on Inglewood, then another left four blocks up on Ninety-Sixth.”
“Why are we—”
“I don’t have time to explain,” Dre said, cutting her off. “Just do it.”
Angela did as instructed and eventually brought the car to a stop in the driveway of a small, pink house with a neat yard. “Park in the back on the grass,” Dre ordered, “and don’t ask me why.”
Once they were parked. Dre opened the door and jumped out. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He returned in seconds with a set of car keys in hand. “Let’s go. I got us another ride.”
Dre opened the garage and drove a white van several yards down the driveway. Angela and Waverly climbed inside, while Dre parked Angela’s battered Saab in the garage and locked it.
This time Dre got behind the wheel. “Put your heads down,” he said. “I’m sure the police are looking for us.”
Though she kept her head down as instructed, Angela could tell that Dre was taking a series of side streets. The ride ended about twenty minutes later at an apartment building on La Brea.
Angela and Waverly quickly followed Dre up two flights of stairs. He opened the door and turned on the lights.
“Is this your apartment?” Angela asked.
“Yeah.”
Angela examined the neat interior. She had to step over several stacks of books to get to the couch.
“This doesn’t seem like a smart place for us to hide out,” Waverly said. “The police are probably on their way here to arrest us right now.”
“This place isn’t rented in my name. No one’s comin’ here because no one knows I live here.”
Angela gave Dre a judgmental look that he ignored.
Waverly sat down on one end of the couch, Angela on the other. Dre remained standing, his arms folded.
“Dude, you need to tell us exactly what the deal is,” Dre said. “I don’t appreciate you gettin’ us mixed up in this bullshit. Tell us what’s goin’ on.”
Waverly dumped his head in his hands. “I really wish I knew.”
“Why’d you send that text telling me to get the car?” Angela said to Dre.
He pointed at Waverly. “When he got up to go to the bathroom, I saw two dudes trailin’ him. I just had a bad vibe and figured we should leave.”
Waverly looked at Angela as if for sympathy. But like Dre, all she wanted was an explanation.
“I swear,” Waverly said, his voice cracking, “I have no idea what’s going on or who was shooting at us.”
Z
ack wasn’t stupid. He knew the deal. Becker only offered him the media liaison job to get him off Erickson’s trail. That was exactly how life was supposed to work.
You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
He rambled around his apartment, packing up for his move to Washington. Most of his furniture was already on its way there. The last few items he was now loading into boxes would be placed in storage.
Zack figured that he and Angela must have been close, real close, to discovering something that could bring down the U.S. Attorney General. The question was, was he willing to look the other way in exchange for a job that would give him the kind of exposure and media contacts that could surely hoist him to talking-head stardom? Based on the packing boxes stacked around his apartment, apparently so.
The way Zack saw it, it was a win-win situation for him. If Erickson survived, Zack would have a pretty cool job. If Erickson floundered and ended up facing murder charges, he would be smack dab in the middle of the action. His insider’s account would be golden. If George Stephanopoulos could snag a book deal
and
his own TV show, so could he.
Zack had spent two days in Washington where he’d been treated like royalty. He had an impressive office in the Justice Department building on Pennsylvania Avenue, a staff of five and his own budget. Becker had even arranged a private tour of the White House.
Sure, he was selling out, but didn’t everybody? Eventually.
Instead of emailing Angela that background memo on Waverly Sloan, Zack told her he didn’t want to create an email trail and offered to deliver it. Her new boyfriend had just shot her fiancé and she was worried about bringing down Waverly Sloan? That did not compute. Angela wanted that memo for another reason and Zack was itching to find out what it was.
When Angela had opened the door at her sister’s apartment, she looked bruised and haggard. But after all she’d been through, that was totally understandable. They had chatted awhile about his move to Washington.
“Don’t you see what they’re doing?” Angela said. “They’re trying to get you out of the way.”
“I’m aware of that,” Zack replied. He wasn’t an idiot.
“And you’re going along with it?”
“If I’m part of the inner circle. I’ll be in a better position to discover what’s really going on.”
“Yeah, right. Even if you find out anything, you’re not going to act on it.”
Angela was absolutely right. He was not going to bite the hand that was feeding him.
Zack had tried to hang around to talk to her, but sensed that Angela wanted him to leave.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?” Zack pried.
“I’m sure,” Angela said. “Actually, I’m pretty tired.”
But not too tired to read that memo.
Zack ignored her hint. If she wanted him to leave, she would have to come out and say so.
“When do you leave for Washington?” she asked.
“In four days. I’m pretty psyched. I have an apartment in Georgetown and it’s costing me a bundle. I thought L.A. rents were sky high.”
“Well, good luck.”
It was almost as if she had said,
Well, good luck, you sellout.
“I hate to be rude,” Angela finally said, “but I’d really like to get some rest.”
“Okay.” Zack still didn’t make a move. “When do you plan to get started reviewing that memo on Sloan?”
“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Well, if you come up with anything, give me a call.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Angela gave him a pathetic hug good-bye, then escorted him to the door.
So far, Zack had received three calls from colleagues who were speculating that maybe Angela—and not her drug dealer boyfriend—had really killed the judge. Zack couldn’t believe that a woman as smart as Angela would get mixed up with a guy like Andre Thomas. Even if she was cleared in her fiancé’s shooting, her career as a federal prosecutor was probably over. An assistant U.S. attorney dating an ex-con drug dealer would raise judgment issues and a taint she wouldn’t be able to shake.
Tipping off Becker that Angela was still investigating Live Now might earn him some loyalty points. But could he really betray Angela like that? He wanted to find Jon’s killer as much as she did.
After packing his last box, Zack rewarded himself with a beer. Before he could pop it open, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the clock. It was after nine.
“Can you believe this?” It was Tommy Tolbert, another AUSA. “First she’s involved in shooting that judge and now she’s in the middle of a major shootout. Is she trying to destroy her career or what?”
“Are you talking about Angela? What’s going on?”
“What rock have you been hiding under, dude?” Tommy said. “Turn on CNN. Angela was involved in a shootout near the airport.”
Zack dashed into his bedroom, stumbling over a box on the way. His flat screen TV still hung on the wall. The woman who was subletting his apartment had paid him a grand to leave it up.
Christ!
Where was the remote?
He spotted it atop a box in the corner, grabbed it and hit
power.
The TV was already on CNN. He watched Anderson Cooper day and night. If you wanted to stomp the competition, you had to study the competition.
Zack was mesmerized by the sequence of events captured by the hotel’s surveillance cameras. Angela was caught on tape, smack dab in the middle of a shootout, complete with a hail of bullets, fleeing hotel guests, and her ex-con boyfriend.
“Holy smokes!”
Was that Waverly Sloan jumping into the backseat?
Zack hit
pause
, then
rewind
. TiVo was a godsend.
Zack couldn’t believe it. It
was
Waverly Sloan.
“You watching?” Tommy asked excitedly.
“I’m watching, but I can’t believe it.”
“This is better than a Will Smith movie!”
“Yeah, and knowing Angela,” Zack said wistfully, “she’ll end up selling the movie rights for millions.”
Zack had to find out exactly what Angela was up to. He had to find out because he wanted a piece of the action, too.
T
he United Airlines plane had just touched down at Reagan National Airport when Erickson received Becker’s call.
“Where are you?” Becker asked.
“Just landed. I’m getting off the plane now.” He stepped around a groggy teenager to retrieve his bag from the overhead compartment.
Against Becker’s advice, Erickson had insisted on returning to Washington to discuss his situation in person with President Bancroft’s Chief of Staff. If Wrigley understood that Ashley was a spiteful young woman who was out to destroy him, he might see things differently. Becker disagreed with his decision and urged Erickson to just hand in his resignation. But he decided to do things his way for once. He would no longer put his trust in anything Roland Becker had to say.
“The police plan to pick Ashley up for questioning,” Becker said.
The news made him feel hopeful. The sooner Ashley was charged, the sooner his reputation would be salvaged. “How do you know that?” Erickson asked.
“One of my contacts,” Becker said.
As he thought about this possibility, Erickson realized that Ashley’s possible arrest was a double-edged sword. If Ashley had indeed killed her mother and ultimately confessed, she would likely tell police about his indiscretions. But it would be his word against hers. Who would believe a murderer?
“Did you find out anything more about the search?” He was still worried about the possibility that Claire had left another copy of that DVD somewhere around the house. Having the police discover it would destroy him.
“My sources haven’t heard anything yet.”
Erickson’s phone beeped, signaling another call. He looked at the caller ID and winced. “It’s Wrigley. I need to take it.”
Erickson braced himself for a verbal onslaught, then clicked over.
“Is there a reason that you haven’t returned any of my fucking calls?” the Chief of Staff shouted into the telephone.
Erickson was off the plane now, strolling down the jet way, surrounded by other departing passengers. He glanced around to confirm that no one could overhear the conversation.
“You lied to me,” Wrigley roared. “You said your wife died of cancer. Have you seen the papers? We don’t need this crap!”
Erickson let him vent. “I just landed at National. I was hoping to meet with you today.”
“Save the cab fare and use it for your return trip home,” Wrigley shouted. “You’re out.”
“I understand your concerns,” Erickson said, taking a seat in a deserted area near one of the departure gates. “But I’d at least like to give you my side of the story. My stepdaughter framed me.
She
killed her mother, not me.”
“Jesus Christ! Is that your fucking defense?
My stepdaughter did it.
Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
“Ridiculous or not, it’s the truth.”
“Well, we don’t need this shit. The President wants your resignation. Immediately.”