The Advocate's Daughter (11 page)

“He hangs out there after school. He usually wears a red shirt and ball cap so kids know he's the guy who sells.”

Sean checked his watch, 3:15 p.m. He had to be at the Hay-Adams hotel at five. He shook his head in disgust and stormed out of the office.

*   *   *

The Chipotle on Old Georgetown Road was filled with the after-school crowd. Booths with squirrelly teenagers in designer clothes, laughing and screwing around. The line to order was fifteen kids deep. How did he get here? He remembered getting into the SUV, but the rest of the journey was a blur. Everything was coming at him at once. The drain of saying good-bye to Abby that morning. The trauma of the last two weeks. He needed to stop. And think. Was he really going to confront this guy? What would that accomplish? He should go to the police. Talk to the agents assigned to Abby's case. All that made sense, yet he still found himself standing in the back of the queue.

He was in a daze, half looking for the man in red, half thinking about the many times he and Ryan had shuffled through this very line. Ryan loved Chipotle. The boy would choose a chicken burrito with guac over five courses at The Inn at Little Washington.

Then Sean saw him. A man in his twenties, skinny—what Ryan would call a “tweaker”—walked into the restaurant. He had a ferret face with a patch of whiskers on a pointy chin. He wore a red Washington Nationals shirt and backward-facing red ball cap. Chipotle Man.

 

CHAPTER 23

Sean worked his way through the line. He glanced again at Chipotle Man, who was now sitting at a booth with two meaty guys, both in T-shirts with their hair dyed white-blond. It was hard to keep watch when the team behind the counter started calling to him. Chicken or beef? Black or pinto beans? White or brown rice? Sean answered without thought, returning his eyes to the drug dealer. A teenage girl approached Chipotle Man's booth. She and the man in red talked, then he gestured to the door. The girl, who had flat brown hair and looked about seventeen, hurried out of the restaurant. Chipotle Man gave a grin to the two blond guys, then followed after her.

Was this how kids made a buy? Sean imagined Ryan following this protocol. Or Abby approaching this skeezy little man. Sean paid for the burrito and threw the softball wrapped in foil in the trash can as he rushed out the glass door.

He snapped his head back and forth looking for Chipotle Man, but he wasn't out front. Sean walked down the broken sidewalk toward the back of the building and peered around the corner. The girl was standing with her back pressed against the brick wall, Chipotle Man facing her. He was uncomfortably close, and she was shaking her head and looking at the ground.

Chipotle Man yelled at her.
“Do it, bitch!”
He stepped back and unbuttoned his pants. The girl started to cry.

“Hey!”
Sean shouted. It just blurted out before he'd had time to process the situation. He shouldn't be here. Why was he doing this?

The red hat pivoted sharply to Sean. The girl said nothing but her eyes screamed for help.

“Leave her alone,” Sean said, walking toward them.

Chipotle Man stepped in Sean's direction and looked him in the eyes. “Who the fuck'r you?”

He was shorter than Sean and skinny, but he kept his hand tucked in his front pocket, concealing something. A weapon? Sean ignored him and shouted to the girl.

“Get out of here.” When she didn't move he yelled,
“Go!”

She shot past him and around the corner, leaving Sean and the man in red alone. The back of the restaurant was nothing but dumpsters and trash strewn on gravel.

Chipotle Man made a show of his hand inside his pocket.

Sean said, “I don't want trouble. I just have a couple questions for you, then I'll be on my way.”

Now Chipotle Man looked puzzled. His eyes swept over Sean as if trying to place him.

Sean said, “You had some dealings with my son and my daughter, and I'd like to talk about that. You also have my daughter's necklace, which I'd like back.” It was ridiculous that he'd place himself in this situation over a piece of jewelry, family heirloom or not. But this was about more than the necklace.

“That's where I know you from,” Chipotle Man said with a scoff. “You're the dude on TV.”

“I want to talk with you about what happened with my children. I don't need to involve the police.”

“Damn right you won't involve the police. Not a good career move. And you don't want that pussy son of yours ruining his Harvard application.”

Sean felt something primal taking over, like that night at Malik's house. Electricity shooting from the back of his neck to his chest through his arms to his balled fists. His eyes stayed on the man's hand, which remained tucked in the pocket.

“When's the last time you spoke with my daughter?”

“I don't have to answer your questions,” Chipotle Man said. He was twitchy and kept wrinkling his nose. Sean's experience with meth-heads was limited to episodes of
Breaking Bad,
but the guy fit the part.

“Did you follow her? Did you threaten her?”

Chipotle Man scoffed. “You playing detective, Daddy? Sorry Holmes, but I didn't have nothing to do with what happened to your slut daughter.” He pulled his hand from the pocket and picked at his arm.

Sean rushed him, ramming Chipotle Man against the wall. He was outside himself for a moment. Sean shoved his forearm against the man's throat. Chipotle Man's eyes bulged.

“What the fuck, man?”
Chipotle Man's voice had raised an octave, the bravado gone.

Sean was shaking, adrenaline overloading his system. Through gritted teeth he said, “Don't you
ever
speak that way about my daughter again. Do you understand me?”

Sean felt a hard blow to the side of his head. The next thing he knew, he was on his side on the gravel. Chipotle Man's two friends, the blond guys, looked down at him. One kicked him in the stomach.

The blonds each grabbed one of his arms and pulled Sean to his feet. He'd had the wind knocked out of him and was gasping for air.

Chipotle Man got close to his face. “I didn't hurt that whore daughter of yours. Go ahead and call the police if you don't believe me. All you'll get is your little boy in juvie and everyone will know your daughter blew me to cover your son's drug debt.”

He hit Sean hard in the jaw, and Sean tasted blood. The next blow was to the eye. Then they let go of Sean's arms, and he slumped to the gravel.

He was on the dirty ground. Beaten and bloody. Alone. And nearly late for an appointment with the president of the United States.

 

CHAPTER 24

Back at home, Sean stared into the bathroom mirror, dabbing his swollen eye with a washcloth. His dress shirt had droplets of blood on the collar, so he tore it off. Now the dilemma. Did he go to the White House meeting or make an excuse? Emily's voice played in his head.

What would your daughter want you to do?

He looked at the white undershirt. No blood had seeped through. In the bedroom, he slid the dimmer up so there was just enough light not to wake up Emily, who had gone to bed when they arrived home from Rehoboth. He found a clean shirt in the closet and slipped out of the room. Sore from the beating, he winced as he eased on the shirt.

He checked his watch. He had thirty minutes to make it the seven miles from Chevy Chase to the Hay-Adams hotel downtown. He called and confirmed that Jack was doing okay at his playdate, and that the neighbor would drop him back home before dinner. On his way out the door, Ryan called to him.

“What is it?” Sean said. “I'm running late.”

“I need to talk with you … Whoa, what happened to your eye?”

“I don't have time to explain. What do you need?”

He held a folder in his hand. “I think I found something in Abby's file. I think it may help—”

“You've helped enough, Ryan. Now I have to go.” Sean slammed the door.

 

CHAPTER 25

The Oval Office was as it appeared in photos. It was oval, for starters, with wood floors covered by an oval rug embroidered with the presidential seal. The Resolute desk. And the president's personal touches: a bust of Abraham Lincoln, a Norman Rockwell painting. Sean sat upright on a beige couch and glanced at his reflection in a glass-topped coffee table. The swollen eye looked terrible. What would he say if the president asked? Hit a door? Too cliché. Bee sting? Wouldn't explain the gash. Mugged? Too many questions. Maybe the president wouldn't ask. That seemed unlikely, but Abani Gupta, who'd picked him up at the Hay-Adams, hadn't asked. Nor had the president's chief of staff.

The ride from the Hay-Adams to the White House grounds had been surprisingly quick. He'd imagined a holdup with security, but it was just a matter of the town car driver flashing an ID, a dog jumping into and out of the trunk, and Sean showing his license then signing a visitor log.

For past Supreme Court nominees, he'd heard of candidates being led through an underground tunnel from the Treasury building into the White House or clandestine meetings outside of Washington. But there was no cloak and dagger here, further confirming that Sean wasn't a serious contender. The press corps would hear of the meeting, as the White House intended, showing that the president was doing his due diligence before choosing the inevitable nominee, Senator Mason James. He shouldn't have bothered coming.

The door opened and the president strutted into the room. Sean stood. He'd never met the man, who was shorter than expected. His famous hair looked as perfect as it did on the Halloween parody masks, as did his glowing white teeth.

“Ouch,” was the first thing the president said. “They told me you looked like you'd been hit by a truck, but I had no idea.”

“I decided some exercise might help relieve stress, but the bike trail didn't agree.” Sean borrowed his friend Jonathan Tweed's accident for himself. It seemed to work. The president didn't ask questions, just gestured for him to sit.

“I first wanted to give you my condolences about your daughter,” the president said. He sat on the other sofa across from Sean. “It's a tragedy, and I'm embarrassed as hell that we had to call you in here at this time.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Serrat, I'm going to give it to you straight, if that's all right with you?”

That expression always struck Sean as odd. Would you normally
not
be straight with someone? Only politicians had to announce when they were being sincere.

“We'd pretty much made our decision on the nomination. And, while you were high on the list, for a variety of reasons, we'd gone in a different direction.”

Sean nodded again, not surprised and unsure what to say.

“But my chief of staff showed me your interview about your daughter. Your words about our justice system and the no-B.S. views on the interest groups really stuck with me.” The president leaned forward. “Look, you're no stranger to the administration or my predecessor's administration, so we never had any concerns about your views on the law. And certainly no qualms about your ability to do the job. Hell, everyone says you were the smartest lawyer at the solicitor general's office. Your family story is damn compelling, too. Your father was a bona fide hero.”

Sean started to understand. Mother dead at a young age. Father, a retired general who died in Lebanon while serving on an anti-terrorism commission. (
Quite a guy.
) Daughter, murdered. A political trifecta that might offset the usual assault on a nominee. His stomach churned.

“Listen,” the president went on, “I can't afford a fight over the nomination right now. I need somebody who's going to immediately resonate with the public. And word has it that you're a bit, well, independent. Someone described you as a brilliant introvert, and we need someone who can quickly get out there and win over the public—and the vipers on the Hill.”

“Someone who will kiss a few babies,” Sean said. “Interpreting the Constitution deserves nothing less.” The words came out with more of an edge than intended. But the president smiled.

“I hear you,” the president said. “Look, you're here because this video, for my team—and for me—was a game changer. I haven't made any final decisions yet. Our plan is to put your name out there again along with some additional information about your personal story and see the reaction. I just wanted to be up front about why you're here now, so late in the process.”

The president stood, and Sean took the cue to stand as well. “So we've gotta decide this thing soon,” the president said. “My team will call you either way. But I want you to know that if it's not you this time, it won't be your last shot. We've still got two justices in their seventies.”

Sean didn't have the energy or enthusiasm to say much, and the president didn't seem interested in hearing anyone talk but himself. Politicians. Abani Gupta appeared in the doorway ready to whisk Sean out of the Oval Office.

“Again, I'm sorry about your daughter,” the president said as Sean neared the door. “And please, get some ice on that eye.”

 

CHAPTER 26

When Sean got home the only remains from dinner were an empty pizza box, crust-filled plates cluttering the kitchen counter, and the smell of Domino's. He loosened his tie and lumbered down to the basement. He was exhausted. Ryan and his little brother sat on the floor facing the flat-screen playing
Mario Kart
on the Wii. Emily was probably in bed.

“Daddy!” Jack said with a gap-toothed smile. He jumped up and hugged Sean's waist. Ryan just stared at the television screen maneuvering his motorcycle-riding gorilla around the track.

“Did you have fun at Dean's house?”

Jack nodded. “Yep. And Ryan got us pizza and hot wings. Mom said it was okay.”