The Echo of the Whip (29 page)

Patti and Galia were already waiting in the Oval Office with an iBook set up on a coffee table in front of a silk sofa. McGill entered and took a seat to his wife’s right; the chief of staff sat to the president’s left.

A moment before the interview began to stream, Patti told McGill, “I passed the word along to Jean Morrissey. I’ll want her in on the discussion once we hear what the chief justice has to say.”

“Makes sense,” McGill agreed.

“Have you heard that Jean’s been seeing Byron DeWitt socially?”

McGill shook his head. He asked, “Did that start before or after she announced her candidacy to become president?”

Patricia Grant didn’t know.

Galia said, “Before.”

McGill nodded. “Maybe there is a hint of genuine feeling then.”

Before that discussion could go any farther, Ellie Booker appeared on the screen, “Good morning. I’m Ellie Booker. I’m here at the Washington home of Craig MacLaren, the chief justice of the United States.”

The picture widened to include MacLaren sitting in an armchair opposite Ellie.

“Good morning, sir.”

The chief nodded. “Good morning, Ellie.”

“You informed me recently that you have something you’d like to share with the American people regarding President Grant’s upcoming trial in the United States Senate. Well, sir, we’re now sitting before a camera that will broadcast what you have to say to the entire country and stream your words on the Internet to the whole world. Please let everyone know what’s on your mind.”

McGill took Patti’s hand, offering both comfort and strength.

The chief justice paused to take a breath and then began. “As you know, Ellie, I will be presiding over the president’s trial which will start just two days from now. There’s no matter short of a declaration of war that’s more important for our legislative branch to consider than the impeachment, trial and possible removal from office of our country’s chief executive.

“Everyone involved should take their responsibilities with the utmost seriousness. That includes the members of the House and the Senate … and me. The roles and responsibilities of our legislators are clearly defined. They examine any charges alleged against the president, decide whether the alleged offenses rise to the level of the high crimes and misdemeanors as contemplated by the Constitution and then vote whether to impeach and convict or not.

“The House of Representatives has already decided to impeach, and now a number of its members will act as the prosecution team in the trial to be held in the Senate. That’s where I come in. I am to
preside
at the trial. The problem with that is the Constitution provides no clear guidelines as to what judicial authority I have in the proceedings.

“For example, at the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson, a Democrat, in 1868, Chief Justice Salmon Chase claimed the authority to decide procedural questions. The Senate’s Republican majority overruled him twice, rendering his power over the proceedings nil. In the 20th century, during the Senate trial of William Clinton, a Democrat, Chief Justice William Rehnquist, a Republican, also decided he could rule on procedural questions. The Republican majority in the Senate neither objected to his position nor overruled him.

“So what I’m looking at here are two conflicting precedents that have one thing in common: partisan preference. Senators will show deference to a chief justice of their own party but not to a chief justice of another party. Now, party loyalty is all well and good when it comes to wrangling over and compromising on the details of writing legislation, but there’s no place for partisan politics when it comes to deciding the fate of a president, a person voted into office by Americans living from border to border and coast to coast.

“Given our current political realities, I have no doubt that if
I
were to claim authority to rule on procedural matters during the upcoming Senate trial of President Patricia Grant, my fate would be that of Chief Justice Chase not Chief Justice Rehnquist. I supposed I could resign my position as the presiding officer at the trial or even my seat on the Supreme Court in protest, but doing that would not further the interests of justice, as I see it.

“All that being said, I’m here today to say that I’ve chosen to assume other roles vital to our democracy during the president’s trial. I will become an expert witness and a reporter on the proceedings. I will inform all of our fellow citizens whether the behavior of the Senate and the prosecution team from the House conforms with the norms of justice seen in any other American courtroom. If the rights of the accused are observed, I will praise all involved; if the proceedings veer in the direction of political animus seeking political advantage, I will condemn this behavior and articulate it in fine detail.

“Either way, I will make my findings clear to every American and all other interested parties around the world, and I will do so each day of the trial.”

Ellie let a long moment of silence pass.

Then she said, “So, basically, sir, you are putting Congress on notice. Telling them they’d better play things straight.”

“Yes,” MacLaren said, “I suppose I am.”

FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin took a phone call from Deputy Director Byron DeWitt in her hotel suite. He said, “Didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“What, you thought I was up partying on my first night here?”

“Jet lag or travel fatigue was what I had in mind,” he said, “and as I remember, you’re not really a morning person.”

True enough, Abra thought, she could be bitchy in the morning, and Byron knew as much from waking up in the same bed on several occasions. But it was more than a matter of her circadian rhythm bothering Abra just then. Hearing from Byron while she was still lounging in bed made her realize she wasn’t going to have the pleasure of his company between the sheets ever again.

He was going to marry that damn Jean Morrissey; she just knew it.

Byron was going to become the next James J. McGill. God! For a woman driven by ambition, it was galling to see a former boyfriend skyrocket to the top of the heap. Even so, she wouldn’t help her own cause by being surly with him. He’d always behaved decently to her, even after they’d ended their sexual relationship.

So doing her best to stay on his good side could only help.

But she’d be damned if she would ever vote for Jean Morrissey.

“Are you still there, Special Agent?” DeWitt asked.

“Yes, I’m here, Mr. Deputy Director, and I’m sorry that I’m behaving badly. I’m not jet-lagged; there’s only a one-hour difference between Washington and B.A. I’m also not tired, because I slept well. I’m just a terror in the morning most days, as you rightly remembered.”

“I try to recall only the good things,” DeWitt said.

The fact that he was still being a nice guy only made Abra more angry that he was going to marry someone else. Still, her yearning to rise high in the world muted any impolitic response.

“A wise choice, sir, I’m sure. How may I be of service?”

DeWitt asked whether she was well situated and had started to look for Tyler Busby.

“I’m pretty sure I got hit on by the pimp servicing Busby’s needs last night, assuming the Bureau sent me to the right hotel. The one with the other flawed ladies.”

She gave DeWitt the details of her encounter with Billy Midnight.

“That’s great,” he said. “So what’s your next step?”

The question was no sooner asked than there was a knock at the door to the suite. It was neither loud nor insistent but it was clearly audible with the door to the bedroom open. Even DeWitt could hear it.

“Room service?” he asked.

“Didn’t order any. I left a do-not-disturb message with the front desk.”

“Call hotel security,” DeWitt said.

“Maybe I’ll just shoot through the door,” Abra replied.

“You don’t have a gun … I hope.”

“I still know how to take care of myself.”

The knock at the door sounded again, a bit louder and more imperative now.

“I’ve got to go, Byron.”

“Be careful, Abra.”

It comforted her that they’d reverted to first names in a moment of possible danger.

There was still some measure of personal concern between them.

She hung up and threw on a robe. Walking to the door, she said, “Coming. Who’s there, please?”

A voice responded, “It’s me, Billy. From last night.”

Sonofabitch, Abra thought, maybe she would be the agent to take down Tyler Busby.

Wouldn’t that look good on her résumé?

“How do you know the number of my suite? Did you follow me?”

He hadn’t; she’d been careful about that. Still, it didn’t hurt to mislead him about her watchfulness.

“No, of course not. I would never do such a thing. I … simply have friends in this hotel. Business contacts you might say. May I please come in? I have what might be an interesting proposition for you to consider.”

Abra thought quickly. Let him in or put him off. She went with letting him in; she’d watched the way he moved last night. The guy was no athlete. She was and she’d had training both at Quantico and, well, Israel.

She opened the door and told Billy, “Breakfast is on you. I don’t like anyone snooping on me.”

Billy smiled, stepped inside and took a peek at her cleavage.

Abra noticed that, but neither pulled her robe more tightly closed nor chastised him. She only turned her back on him and took a seat at the suite’s dining table. She crossed her legs and waited for Billy to join her, more sure than ever that he worked in the sex trade. Having subverted at least one well-placed staffer at a five-star hotel to get her suite number, there was also a chance he dealt with clients of Busby’s stature.

Billy stopped at the nearby wet bar and picked up a house phone.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Coffee with cream, half a grapefruit, uncooked oatmeal with brown sugar and a split of good champagne.”

The first three items were her typical breakfast, the bubbly was a bit of improv. Abra decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let Billy think maybe she had a little drinking problem.

He ordered for her in Spanish. She listened closely and didn’t hear anything but what she requested. Still, the fix could have been put in ahead of time. He might have offered to buy breakfast if she hadn’t demanded it. Slip a mickey into the coffee, and she’d be at his mercy.

If he even knew what mercy meant.

She decided not to touch any of the breakfast, while he was in the suite or afterward.

It would be tragically funny, having told Byron that she could take care of herself, if she wound up dead. “So what do you want, Billy? What’s this interesting proposition of yours?”

Nice choice of a word, she thought. Proposition.

He sat across the table from her and smiled. “I was thinking about what you said last night: that at least your marriage had succeeded in terms of the money you would take from it. A very practical attitude on your part.”

“Gee, thanks,” Abra said, her tone flat.

Billy read the subtext and dropped the rest of the canned corn he’d prepared for her.

“Very well, I will come to the point. I have heard from many American women that divorces in your country can take quite a long time to come to resolution. Years, possibly.”

Abra produced a harsh laugh. “Until hell freezes over, according to that schmuck I married.”

“Yes, well, that is what I mean. Perhaps you have the means to wait him out in a place such as this.” He gestured to the lavishly furnished suite. “Or perhaps you do not.”

“Okay,” Abra said, “here’s where we get to the good part, right? You’re going to tell me about all the money I can make until my divorce settlement comes through and what I have to do to get it.” She held up a hand as Billy began to speak. “No, don’t tell me. I bet I can guess. What we’re talking about here is sex. Good old S-E-X.”

Billy nodded.

“Well, thanks for being honest,” Abra said.” Try to keep telling the truth. Is this the plain old man-and-woman hokey-pokey activity we’re talking about here? Or is it a crowd-and-freak scene?”

“Most likely it is one-to-one, heterosexual, within conventional practices. Possibly, there might be a second woman.”

“But just the one guy?”

“Yes.”

Abra leaned forward. “And he can pay well enough to interest someone like me?”

Billy mentioned the fee available for a week of Abra’s time.

She smiled, honestly impressed. “Wow. He must be one rich SOB. You’re sure there’s no bondage and whips involved here?”

“No, nothing like that.”

She sat back, stared at Billy, her arms folded across her chest.

“I bet this horny bastard likes his privacy, doesn’t he?”

“Being discreet is part of the job, yes.”

“Okay, tell me where I’d have to go. Is he right here in the hotel?”

Billy shook his head. “No, not here, but not far. I can take you with no problem.”

“Unh-uh,” Abra said, shaking her head. “Mama told me never to get into a car with a strange man. I might wind up in the Middle East getting poked by some old shit who thinks he’s a sultan. You tell me where to go and I find my way there at the appointed time or you can take a walk right now.”

Billy glared at Abra and she knew just what kind of misogynistic crap was surging through his mind. He wanted to
force
her to be obedient and, more than that, he wanted to
bang
her before his client ever got the chance. She told him as much.

“You want to sample the goodies, don’t you?”

Billy got to his feet, the first move toward coming around the table.

Maybe even over it.

Abra pointed at his chair and said in a commanding voice. “Sit down. I’m going to tell you something.” She stared at him, never blinking, until he complied. “I told you about my cousin and her husband in Israel. Well, her husband is IDF special forces. The six months I stayed with them, I got training in marksmanship and close quarters combat every single day. Just like my cousin did. Her husband is a big believer in women knowing how to protect themselves. You come at me, I’m going to put you in a wrist-lock or an arm-bar and run you right through that window over there in the living room, and we’re on the seventeenth floor, aren’t we? It’d be a shame if you landed on someone walking by the hotel, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

Abra had delivered her spiel in a cold monotone. Every word rang true, because it was all true. Billy got up again and went to the door to the hallway. Abra stopped him there.

“Hey, I am interested in that money on my terms. If you get over your pout, let me know. Just call. There’s no need to come back.”

Billy left and Abra locked and bolted the door after him.

She called room service and canceled the order.

Then she called Byron back. Even if Billy didn’t give in to her demands, the deputy director could have other FBI agents trail Billy, find out where he lived, wiretap him. Hell, kidnap the prick if it came to that. They’d find out where the other hookers were being taken to haul Busby’s ashes. Then they’d grab the big prize and fly him back to the U.S.

That wouldn’t be as much fun as slapping handcuffs on him personally, but it would deserve a big promotion. What more could a girl want?