The Simple Truth (46 page)

He put his back against the edge of the driver’s-side seat and then squatted down. He dug his fingers into the dirt and gravel until they got underneath the Jeep’s side, and then he clenched the metal tightly. He gave one good pull to gauge what he was up against. The Jeep was heavy, damn heavy. Thirty years ago, this wouldn’t have been that much trouble for him. As a young man he had lifted the front end of a full-sized Buick, engine and all, clean off the ground by a good three feet. But he wasn’t twenty anymore. He pulled again and he could feel the Jeep rise a little before settling back down. He pulled once more, straining and grunting, the muscles in his neck tensing hard beneath his skin.

Josh put the bottle down and even managed to lift himself partially off the ground by leaning against the shredded truck tire, as he watched what his brother was trying to do.

Rufus was tired already. His arms and legs weren’t used to this anymore, not for a long time. He had always been strong, stronger than anyone else. Now, when he really needed it, when his brother would surely die if he couldn’t turn this damn Jeep upright, would he not be strong enough?

He hunkered down again, closed his eyes and then opened them. He looked skyward where a big, black crow lazily circled. Not a care in the world, just long, unhurried brush strokes against the canvas of blue.

As sweat poured off Rufus’s face he clenched his eyes again and did what he always did when he was troubled, when he thought he wouldn’t make it. He prayed. He prayed for Josh. He asked the Lord to please grant him the strength he needed to save his brother’s life.

He gripped the sides of the Jeep once more, tensed his massive shoulders and legs. His long arms began to pull, his bent legs began to straighten. For a moment, Jeep and man were suspended in a precarious equilibrium, moving neither up nor down — the Jeep unwilling to yield and Rufus just as stubborn. But then Rufus slowly started to fall back a little as the weight was just too much for him. Rufus sensed he would not have another chance. Even as the Jeep began to win the battle, he opened his mouth and let out a terrible scream that forced tears from his eyes. As Josh looked on at the impossible thing his brother was trying to do for him, tears started to fall down his exhausted face.

Rufus’s eyes opened again as he felt the Jeep rise, inch by agonizing inch. His joints and tendons afire with what he was accomplishing, Rufus grunted and pulled and heaved and ignored the pain as it snapped perilous signals through his trembling body. The Jeep fought him every punishing inch. It creaked and groaned, cursing him. But then he was standing upright, and he gave the hunk of metal one last heave. Like a wave about to pitch onto a beach, the Jeep cleared the point of no return and fell hard to earth, rocking upon impact and then coming to rest on all four wheels.

Rufus sat down in the Jeep, his whole body shaking from his immense exertions.

Josh looked on in silent wonderment.
“Damn,”
was all he could finally say about what he had just witnessed.

Rufus’s heart was racing so hard now, he worried his success might prove to be an empty one. He clutched at his chest, breathed deeply.
“Please,”
he quietly said,
“please don’t.”
A minute later Rufus slowly rose, shuffled over to his brother and carefully lifted him into the Jeep. He rearranged the cloth top, which had become dislodged when Tremaine and Rayfield had been thrown clear. He gathered up as many supplies as he could from the truck, including his Bible, and put them into the back of the Jeep along with the weaponry. He climbed in the driver’s seat and then stopped and looked over at Tremaine and Rayfield. Then he stared up once again at the circling crow, which had now been joined by several brethren, large enough to be buzzards. In less than a day the two dead men would be picked to the bone if left out in the open.

Rufus climbed out of the Jeep and went over to Rayfield. He didn’t have to check the man’s pulse. The eyes didn’t lie. That and the stench of released bowels. He slid first Rayfield’s and then Tremaine’s bodies into the shack. He said a few simple words over both men before rising and closing the door. One day he would forgive them for all they had done, but not today. Rufus climbed back in the Jeep, gave Josh a reassuring look and started the Jeep. The engine didn’t catch the first time, but it did the second. Gears grinding as Rufus got a quick lesson in driving a stick shift, the Jeep jolted forward, and the brothers left this impromptu battlefield behind.

The justices traditionally had a private lunch in the Court’s second-floor dining room after oral argument. Fiske had left Sara in her office to catch up on some work. He had decided to use the opportunity to make some inquiries on his own. If his flow of information had been cut off from D.C. Homicide, Fiske decided he’d better make it up somehow. One possible source was Police Chief Leo Dellasandro.

As he walked along the hallway, he thought about the oral argument he just listened to. Even as a lawyer, he had never really understood how much power was wielded from this building. The Supreme Court over its history had taken some very unpopular positions on a myriad of significant issues. Many had been brave and, at least in Fiske’s opinion, correct. But it was unnerving to realize that if a vote or two had gone the other way on some or all of those prior decisions, the country might be very different today. By any definition that seemed to be a precarious, if not perilous, state of events.

Fiske also thought about his brother, and how much good he had undoubtedly brought to this place, even in the role of a clerk. Mike Fiske had always been fair and just in his opinions and actions. And when he made up his mind, a person could not ask for a more loyal friend. Mike Fiske was good for this place. The Court had indeed suffered a great loss when someone had taken his life. But not as great as the Fiske family’s loss.

Fiske made his way to Dellasandro’s ground-floor office, knocked on the door, waited. He knocked again, and then opened the door and peered inside. He was looking at the anteroom to Dellasandro’s office, where his secretary worked. That space was empty. Probably at lunch, Fiske assumed. He stepped into the office.
“Chief Dellasandro?”
He wanted to know if anything had turned up on the surveillance videos. He also wanted to know if one of the officers had driven Wright home.

He approached the inner office door.
“Chief Dellasandro, it’s John Fiske. I was wondering if we could talk.”
Still no answer. Fiske decided to leave the man a note. But he didn’t want to leave it at the secretary’s desk.

He slipped into Dellasandro’s office and over to his desk. He picked up a piece of paper and, using a pen from the holder on the desk, scrawled out a brief note. As he finished and positioned the note prominently on the desk, he looked around the office for a moment. There were many ceremonial tokens on shelves and walls, attesting to a distinguished career. On one wall was a photo of a much younger Dellasandro in his uniform.

Fiske turned to leave. Hanging on the back of the door was a jacket. It had to belong to Dellasandro, obviously part of his Court uniform. As Fiske passed by it, he noticed several smudges on the collar. He rubbed it with his finger and examined the residue: makeup. He went out into the anteroom and looked at the photos on the desk there. He had seen Dellasandro’s secretary once before. A young, tall brunette with quite memorable features. On her desk, there was a photo of her and Chief Dellasandro. His arm was around her shoulder; they were both smiling into the camera. Probably many secretaries had a photograph with their bosses. There was something in the eyes, how close they were standing together, however, that might suggest something more than a platonic working relationship. He wondered if the Court had specific rules on fraternization. And there was another reason why Dellasandro would be well advised to keep his pants on and his hands off his secretary: Fiske glanced back into Dellasandro’s office at the photo on his credenza — of his wife and kids. A very happy-looking family. Only on the surface, obviously. As he left the office, he concluded that it pretty much summed up how this place and the world in general operated: Surface appearances could be very deceiving; one had to dig deeper to get to the real truth.

* * *

Rufus stopped the Jeep.
“I’m going to flag down the first cop I see. Get you some help,”
Rufus said.

With an effort, Josh sat up.
“The hell you are. Cops get hold of you, they find Tremaine and Rayfield, they’ll bury you.”

“You need a doctor, Josh.”

“I don’t need shit.”
With a lunge, he gripped his pistol.
“We started this, we gonna finish it.”
He wedged the barrel of the pistol against his gut.
“You stop for anybody, I’m gonna put a hole right here.”

“You’re crazy. What the hell you want me to do?”

Josh coughed up blood.
“You find Fiske and that girl. I can’t help you no more, maybe they can.”
Rufus looked at the gun.
“Don’t go thinking it — bullet’s pretty damn fast.”

Rufus put the Jeep in gear and pulled back on the road. Josh watched him, his eyes coming in and out of focus.
“Stop that shit.”

“What?”

“I see you doing that mumbling shit. Don’t be praying for me.”

“Ain’t nobody telling me when I can talk to the Lord.”

“Just keep me out of it.”

“I’m praying for Him to watch over you. Keep you alive.”

“Does it look like it’s troubling me any? You just wasting your breath.”

“God gave me the strength to lift this Jeep.”

“
You
lifted this damn hunk of metal. Ain’t no angels come down from no heaven and help you do shit.”

“Josh — ”

“Just drive.”
The intensity of his pain forced Josh to suddenly hunch forward.
“I’m tired of talking.”

* * *

While she was in her office, Sara received an urgent summons from Elizabeth Knight. She was surprised by this, because on Wednesday afternoons the justices were usually in conference, going over the cases heard on Monday. Each justice had two secretaries and a personal assistant. As she entered Knight’s chambers, Sara greeted Knight’s longtime secretary, Harriet, who had been with the justice through several careers. Normally cheerful and friendly, Harriet spoke in a cold tone.
“Go right in, Ms. Evans.”

Sara passed by Harriet’s desk and paused at the door to Knight’s office. She turned around and caught Harriet staring at her. Harriet quickly turned back to her work. Sara took a deep breath and opened the door.

Within the office, either standing or perched upon chairs, were Ramsey, Detective Chandler, Perkins and Agent McKenna. Seated behind her antique desk, Elizabeth Knight was nervously fiddling with a letter opener when she saw Sara.

“Please come in and sit down.”
Her tone was barely cordial, Sara thought.

She sat in an upholstered wing chair that had been, she thought, carefully positioned because it allowed everyone in the room to directly face her. Or confront her, perhaps?

She looked at Knight.
“You wanted to see me?”

Ramsey stepped forward.
“We all wanted to see you, and, more to the point, hear you, Ms. Evans. However, I will let Detective Chandler do the honors.”
Ramsey was as stern as Sara had ever seen him. He leaned back against the fireplace mantel and continued to stare at her, his large hands clasping and unclasping nervously.

Chandler sat down across from her, his knees almost touching hers.
“I’ve got some questions I need to ask you, and I want the truth in return,”
he said quietly.

Sara looked around the room. Only half joking, she said,
“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not unless you’ve done something wrong, Sara,”
Knight quickly pointed out.
“However, I think you should make the determination whether to have legal counsel present or not.”

Sara swallowed with difficulty and then looked back at Chandler.
“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever heard the name Rufus Harms?”

Sara closed her eyes for a moment.
Oh, shit
.
“Let me explain — ”

“Yes or no, please, Ms. Evans,”
Chandler said.
“Explanations can come later.”

She nodded, then said,
“Yes.”

“Exactly how are you familiar with that name?”

She fidgeted in her chair.
“I know that he’s a military prisoner who escaped. I read that in the papers.”

“Was that the first you’d heard of him?”
When she didn’t answer, Chandler continued,
“You’ve been asking questions at the clerks’ office about an appeal presumably filed by Rufus Harms. In fact, you did that before he escaped from prison, didn’t you? What were you looking for?”

“I thought … I mean — ”

“Did John Fiske put you up to it?”
Knight asked sharply. She looked searchingly at Sara, the disappointment on her features making Sara feel even more guilty.

“No. I did it on my own.”

“Why?”
Chandler asked. From his vague conversation with Fiske in the Court’s cafeteria, he already had a notion as to what the truth was. But he needed to hear it from her.

Sara let out a deep breath and looked once more at the army aligned against her. She wished that Fiske would suddenly appear to help her, but that was not going to happen.
“One day I happened to see what looked like an appeal with Rufus Harms’s name on it. I checked at the clerks’ office, because I didn’t recall seeing it on the docket. The clerks’ office had no record of it.”

“Where did you see this appeal?”
Ramsey interjected, before Chandler could get the same question out.

“Just somewhere,”
Sara said, looking miserable.

“Sara,”
Knight said harshly,
“it’s no use covering up for somebody. Just tell us the truth. Don’t throw your career away for this.”

“I don’t remember where I saw it, I just saw it. For maybe two seconds. And I only saw Rufus Harms’s name, not what was in the filing,”
Sara said stubbornly.