The Plot (36 page)

Max spoke up again. “Cassandra Hart is a journalist, just like you. She's the daughter of the recently deceased Madison Hart. I assume you've heard of him?"

John Emanuel stopped taking notes and looked up wide-eyed. “
The
Madison Hart? Wow. This may be just the break I've been waiting for."

Max clenched his teeth and turned away.

"It very well could be, young man,” Bernie said, his tone almost encouraging. “Depending, of course, on how you handle it."

"How did Madison Hart's daughter get involved in a conspiracy?"

Bernie shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Emanuel. There you go again.
Assuming
guilt. If I'm not mistaken, it is your job to report the facts and let your readers decide whom to believe."

Emanuel blushed a little. “Yes, sir. Of course. Sorry. Uh, so what are the facts?"

"As near as I can tell, Miss Hart was-as I described in my hypothetical situation about you-merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, like many famous people, the Harts have enemies. Enemies who might stop at nothing to harm them."

The reporter nodded and pursed his lips like he was trying to look wise. It didn't work. Bernie had to suppress a smile.

"Tell you what, Mr. Emanuel. Once things get sorted out, maybe we can get you an exclusive interview with Miss Hart. Depending, of course, on how you write the story about her today."

"Terrific! You can count on me. Is there anything specific you can give me to include in my report for the evening news?"

Bernie picked his words carefully. “Well, I can't tell you what to write. But I can tell you that Miss Hart was deeply grieved by her father's death and that she has been attempting to follow up on a story he was writing when he was killed. She was not booked into the jail after her arrest and, apparently, is being detained at some undisclosed location. To the best of our knowledge, she was arrested on strictly circumstantial evidence, and there
may
be political undertones to the situation.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “That's about all I can say right now, but, hopefully, they will get the closed circuit connection cleared up, and then we will be in a position to learn a little more."

The reporter's pager sounded, and, apologizing, he left to find a pay phone.

"Why'd you tell him all that?” Max asked.

"Because, my friend, if you handle them right, the press is the best friend an innocent woman can have,” he said and, looking at his watch, added, “Max, I know you're pretty uptight about all this, but we're not accomplishing anything here right now. How about grabbing a bite to eat?"

Max looked at his own watch. “Aw, dammit. I was supposed to see the Chief at eleven-thirty. That only gives me twenty minutes to get across town. I'll just meet you back here at two."

Bernie waved him along, then ambled slowly out of the courtroom toward the elevator. His favorite Italian restaurant was only a short distance away. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

The police station was awash in activity when Max passed the officer at the duty desk and headed for the elevator at the far end. He was already fifteen minutes later than he'd promised to be, and the Chief was not a patient man. Stepping off the elevator, he almost bumped into his old nemesis, Barney Smith, the wanna-be detective who just couldn't make the grade. Surprisingly, ol’ Barney was all smiles.

"Whoa, there, Henshaw,” the paunchy cop said, stepping aside with surprising agility to avoid colliding with Max. “You keep shootin’ around like that, you're gonna end up hurtin’ yourself."

Max grunted and brushed past him. The door to the Chief's office was just closing, as if someone had just gone through it. He wondered if Barney had been in there. Maybe he was finally getting the promotion he'd hankered after for so long, he thought, but he forgot about Barney when he saw the look on the secretary's face. She didn't even bother to speak, just waved him on in.

"It's about time,” the Chief said, turning from the two men standing at the side of his desk. “We've been waiting since..."

"Sorry, Chief. I left word with Andrea that I'd be tied up in court...” He stopped mid-sentence, aware of the thick tension hovering in the office. “Anyhow, I got here as quick as I could."

"Max, this here's Detective Marshall,” the Chief said, indicating the African-American officer, who was built like a tackle for the Green Bay Packers, “and this is Detective Chou. They're from Internal Affairs Division and are here to deliver their final report. Please sit down."

Max nodded at each of the detectives as they were introduced, then took the chair to the left. The IAD officers sat side-by-side in the remaining two chairs in front of the Chief's desk.

Detective Chou took the lead, reading a prepared statement. “Detective Henshaw, our Division has done an extensive investigation into the shooting death of Jonathon Sinclair, including interviews of your fellow officers, persons who witnessed the shooting, and an investigation of your activities-both professional and personal. Despite our desire to completely absolve you of any wrongdoing, we have come to the conclusion that this shooting was, at best, not in keeping with Department policy and, at worst, appears that it might have been premeditated murder. Because, however, of your prior record of excellence and the fact that you may possibly have saved lives, you are being given the benefit of the doubt. As a result, unless other evidence comes to light, you will not be charged with a crime but are simply being permanently relieved of duty as a Washington, D.C. police officer."

"The
hell
you say,” Max growled, leaping from his chair. “Not in keeping with policy? What policy did I violate? And what is this ‘premeditated’ crap all about? You think I
planned
that whole scene? You guys must have shit for brains."

The other two detectives had leaped from their chairs at the same time Max did and looked ready to jump him at the slightest move.

"Settle down, Max,” the Chief interjected, authority dripping from his voice. “And you, too,” he added, squinting in the direction of the IAD officers, but like boxers sizing each other up, no one moved.

"Sit
down. All
of you,” the Chief commanded, and, as if a spell had been broken, the three obeyed-slowly.

"Allow me to answer your questions,
Mister
Henshaw,” the African-American named Marshall said, his dark eyes narrowed to a squint beneath thick eyebrows. “Department policy specifically states that officers must clearly identify themselves when encountering a possible criminal situation or entering a residence on official business. According to the reports, you did neither. Further, it clearly dictates that a weapon can only be drawn and fired for the express purpose of self-defense or in defense of another's life
after
warning the target that you will shoot. Witnesses state that you drew your weapon
before
you entered the room where the hostages were being held and fired it without prior warning to the victim."

Max slumped against the chair and shook his head. “Get real, will ya? My presence was specifically requested by the hostage team in response to Sinclair's demand that I be there. Everyone
knew
I was a police officer, and I was
expected
in that house. As to the rest, that's a lot of B.S. I drew my weapon, because I heard a shot. Upon entering the dining room, I found Bates’ chauffeur had Sinclair pinned on the floor and was choking him. I ordered him to stop, and when he saw my pistol, he let go and got up. I thought the situation was under control until the butler shouted a warning. I saw Sinclair aiming his weapon at Hamilton Bates, and I shot Sinclair. End of story."

"Yes, Mr. Henshaw. We're well aware of your testimony. Unfortunately, yours differs from that of the other people who were present, all of whom agree that you drew your weapon without prior provocation and fired without warning. Unlike your version, the deceased did
not
have a gun in his hand but was merely reaching toward it when you shot him.” He paused, looking down at his notes. “Also, because we have learned that you have had numerous prior contacts with the victim, as well as with his close associate, Cassandra Hart, who is currently under arrest for numerous crimes, there is a strong shadow of suspicion that you may have purposefully interjected yourself into the hostage situation in order to have the opportunity to, uh,
eliminate
Mr. Sinclair. If we could
clearly
establish a motive, we'd be taking to you in jail instead of just dismissing you."

Max couldn't believe his ears.
My God. How could they get things so twisted?
“Chief,” he said, looking straight into the man's eyes, “don't you have anything to say to this wad of bullshit? You
know
me, for pete's sake."

"Sorry, Max. If I could stand behind you, I would. But IAD has the final say in these things, and if you look at it from their point of view, they have a pretty compelling case. If I were you, I'd just hand in my badge and thank my lucky stars that nothing else is going to come of the whole mess."

"Sure, Boss. Sure,” Max replied, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he stood up. “Here. It's all yours.” He threw the gold badge-and his career-on the desk and turned away, hearing it clatter to the floor as he walked out the door.

Ed straightened his necktie and followed the secretary into the Senator's office. The powerful leader of the Select Committee on Government Reform stood and reached across the broad, paper-littered desk to shake hands, then invited Ed to sit down.

"Hi, Ed. It's good to see you. Done any fishing lately?"

During the Senator's first term, Ed had been assigned to help acquaint him with the area. It had turned out that the only acquainting the Senator wanted was with the best fishing spots. Ed smiled and shook his head. “No, sir. Been too busy. How about you?"

The Senator shook his head. His thick, white hair emphasized his olive complexion. “Same here. Maybe one of these days, you and I can slip away one afternoon and thin out the fish population a little."

"Yes, sir. That'd be nice. I'll look forward to it."

The Senator leaned back and let a not-uncomfortable silence fall between them, which he finally broke himself. “You told my secretary that you'd come across some information of great urgency?"

Ed fidgeted just a little. He'd hardly slept a wink, wondering what to do with the startling information Max showed him late last night. Even now, more than twelve hours later, his skin still crawled at the memory. “Yes, sir,” he finally said. “I didn't know who else to turn to. It, uh ... you're going to find this hard to believe. So did I. At first. But then I saw the documentation and couldn't pretend it was anything but real.” Normally, he'd have gone straight to the Director or the Attorney General, but they were both in it up to their necks.

The Senator leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “Ed, I know you to be a man of great personal, as well as professional, character. If you are concerned about something, please just tell me about it. No matter how fantastic you may think it will seem to me."

Ed wiped his hands on his trouser legs and related what he had learned, slowly at first, then more confidently when the Senator began taking notes. “I knew I had to bring this conspiracy to light, and, since you are the only powerful person I know who is not involved, I decided you were the one to trust with this information,” he finished.

The Senator leaned back in his chair, a somber expression on his face. “These allegations are extremely serious, Ed. And
disturbing
."

"Yes, sir. I am fully aware of that."

"You say you saw the documentation? Videos, computer disks, handwritten notes, and the like?"

"Yes, sir. From what I saw, Madison Hart was a very thorough researcher and documented literally everything."

"I realize, from what you say, that it is essential to guard these documents carefully. However, without them, it will be almost impossible for me-for
anyone
-to prove the veracity of these allegations. Can you get them for me?"

"All of them, sir?"

"Yes. All of them."

"I don't know. My friend was reluctant to show them even to me."

"Would he honor a subpoena for them?"

Ed hesitated, thinking of Max's fear for Cassandra Hart's safety. “Yes, sir. I believe he might. At least, if
I
am the one who serves it,” he finally replied, and the Senator pressed the intercom, summoning his secretary to join them.

Bernie was already in the courtroom when Max walked in and gestured toward the technicians working on the television system. Bernie shrugged and made a face.

"I see your red-haired news hound hasn't shown up yet,” Max said, sliding onto the bench.

"Yeah. He's probably busy writing his ‘scoop.’ How'd your meeting with the Chief go?"

"I'm off the force.” His tone was flat as he recounted what had occurred.

"If you want to fight it, I'll be glad to help."

"Nah. Thanks anyhow. They've got everything tied up neat and pretty. It would be nearly impossible to disprove their ‘witnesses’ and assumptions. Maybe, if Cassie can get off, it might be worth a second glance. But as long as she's under suspicion, I am guilty by association-if nothin’ else."

"Well, you've got my number if you change your mind,” Bernie said, forcing a smile.

Max stood and walked to the front of the courtroom, spoke a few minutes with the technicians, then returned to Bernie's side. “They say the problem is at the other end of the system, and, because that part is in the FBI's hands, they can't do anything to repair it. They don't even know where the transmission site is, so they couldn't fix it if they wanted to.” He paused. “Jesus Christ. What a balled up mess."

The bailiff announced the judge's entrance, and, after everyone had resumed their seat, Bernie stood and requested permission to address the court. Judge Johansen invited him to step forward, and he went to the microphone at the lectern.