The Election (21 page)

“I don't know of anything,” responded Harvey. “I think we've got Jed dead to rights. It's an open-and-shut case.”

“Good.” Drake was convinced he was in a no-lose situation. “Ask the receptionist to show Jake back to my office. I want to make him squirm a little.”

Harvey left the office to comply with his boss's instructions.

 

Soon Jake was walking down the corridor leading to Drake Highfill's office. He could see the haughty DA standing in the doorway, waiting for him. They exchanged some professional pleasantries and shook hands quickly. Jake always thought Drake more closely resembled a Wall Street lawyer than a Southern Democratic district attorney with his Armani suits, gold tie tack, matching cuff links, and wingtip shoes. Seeing Drake reminded Jake how little he liked the man.

Drake's office had not changed much over the years. It was still small and cramped, but everything was in order. The documents and folders on top of Drake's desk were organized in neat piles. A small credenza behind the desk was covered with picture frames of various sizes. Some of the photographs were of Drake's family, but others showed Drake with different politicians.

“Please sit down,” Drake said to Jake, indicating a worn-out leather sofa directly in front of the desk.

Jake complied as Drake sat in his chair behind the desk. Over the years Jake had learned to sit on the front edge of the old sofa when he visited Drake. The sofa sagged in the middle. If Jake sat in the middle, it gave the perception that Drake was peering down on him from behind the desk. And Jake didn't like that at all.

“What can I do for you?” Drake inquired patronizingly.

Jake was blunt. “I want to talk to you about the Jed McClellan case.”

“I guessed as much,” Drake replied smugly. “I don't know what there is to talk about. I've already told you that I'm not going to plea-bargain this case.”

“I'm not interested in a plea,” Jake announced. “I want you to agree to dismiss the charges against Jed.”

Drake laughed out loud. It was a deep laugh. One that Jake wouldn't forget. “Did you say dismiss the charges?” Drake looked incredulous.

“I did,” Jake replied. His expression never changed.

“Why?” Drake said, continuing to laugh. “Judge Prickett denied your motion to suppress. Your client had motive to kill Jesse Thompson. He was found at the murder scene, and the murder weapon was found in his vehicle. Ballistics matched the bullet to the gun. And, even if all that wasn't true, I still would not be inclined to dismiss the charges. Jesse Thompson was a close friend of mine, and I intend to do everything I can to make sure Jed gets a lethal injection.”

“I think you should reconsider your position,” Jake stated. “To continue to prosecute Jed is a huge mistake.”

“A mistake!” Drake laughed again.

Jake reached down beside the sofa he was sitting on and retrieved his briefcase. He laid it in his lap and slid the locks to the outside. The case popped open, and Jake raised the lid and removed the contents. He tossed them onto the middle of Drake's desk, closed his briefcase, and returned it to its place on the floor.

Drake picked up the contents of Jake's briefcase and began examining the items.

“Those are copies of photographs from the murder scene,” Jake explained when he saw the confusion on Drake's face. “And those documents are evidence that Mr. Thompson was involved with a political action committee called F-PAC. He was skimming money. Someone else obviously had motive to kill Jesse Thompson, and someone else was at the scene at the time of the murder.”

“Where did you get these?” inquired Drake.

Jake could sense the momentum of the negotiations shifting in his favor. Drake was no longer laughing.

“That's not important at this point,” Jake insisted. “What
is
important is that this will give the jury reasonable doubt about my client's guilt. That means acquittal.”

Jake knew that Drake certainly couldn't risk a jury acquitting Jed McClellan. That would be political death. He had aspirations beyond the district attorney's office, and a conviction of the murderer of Jesse Thompson would provide a springboard to a higher office.

“I can't consider dismissing the charges without knowing where you obtained this information,” Drake demanded.

“I can't tell you that.”

“You know Judge Prickett will order you to provide me with that information.”

“If he does, then I'll decide whether to comply or appeal that decision. Right now I'm not willing to disclose my sources.”

Drake gritted his teeth and glared across the desk at Jake. “If you're not willing to provide me the names of the people who gave you these photographs and documents, then we don't have anything else to talk about. You can find your way out, can't you?”

Jake stood up to leave. “Think about what I said, Drake. Continuing to prosecute Jed is a huge mistake.”

“Good day, Counselor,” Drake replied sternly.

Neither offered his hand as Jake left the room.

Jake strode to the elevator, pleased that he'd been able to verbally slap the smugness off Drake's face that he saw when he first entered the DA's office. He knew that at this very moment Drake was pacing in his office, trying to determine how to keep a jury from seeing the exculpatory documents about F-PAC, and the photographs. It was no use, Jake knew, because the documents and photographs were relevant and would be admitted into evidence, despite Drake's best objections.

A few days ago Jake thought he'd lost complete control over the outcome of Jed's case. Now he was convinced that Jed would be acquitted.

Atlanta, Georgia

Election Day was fifteen days away. The Burke for President campaign made a stop in Atlanta for a rare joint appearance with Ed's vice presidential running mate. Although they'd never talked about it, Ed was certain that his running mate had also sold his soul to the Federalists.

Ed's motorcade left Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and proceeded north on I-75 toward Olympic Park. All access ramps were blocked by patrol cars from Atlanta's Metro Police Department, and all streets that crossed over I-75 were cleared of traffic and pedestrians.

The motorcade was led by six Atlanta police officers on motorcycles. A similar battalion brought up the rear. In-between were six black bulletproof Chevrolet Suburbans carrying Secret Service agents and Burke for President campaign officials, and one black bulletproof limousine. In the limousine with Ed were Millie and Ben Tobias.

Ed sat in the rear of the limousine, reviewing his prepared speech for today's campaign rally. Millie gazed out at the throngs of people that lined the motorcade route. “Edward, I hope none of these people really know where you stand on the issues,” she commented playfully.

“I hope so too,” Ed responded without looking up from his speech. “I want them to vote for me.”

Ben was reviewing favorable polling data when his wireless telephone rang. “Ben Tobias,” he answered, rather absently. Then, “Yes, Vice President Burke is here.”

Ed looked up.

“Mr. Vice President,” Ben said, handing the phone to Ed, “it's Drake Highfill.”

Ed laid his speech papers on the seat beside him and removed his reading glasses before putting the phone to his ear. “Drake, this is Ed Burke. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Vice President, I know you're busy, but I thought this was something you might be interested in.”

“I'm listening. Go on.”

“Jake Reed just left my office. He had photographs from the Thompson murder scene showing a second vehicle and a man other than Jed McClellan. He also had documents from Thompson's bank concerning an organization called F-PAC.”

“Did he say where he got the photographs or the other documents?”

“No,” replied Drake. “I pressed him, and he refused to tell me.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“That was it, really. He was trying to use it to convince me to dismiss the charges against McClellan, but I refused.”

“Did he mention my name?”

“No, sir. Your name never came up.”

“Good. Let's keep it that way. If you hear anything else about this, call me immediately.”

When Ed closed the phone, he noticed that Millie and Ben were staring at him.

“What was that all about?” Millie demanded.

Ed handed the phone back to Ben and smiled reassuringly at both of them. “Nothing I can't handle,” Ed assured her. “I just need to make a call later.”

“I hope you can handle it,” Millie snapped. “The election is a little over two weeks away, and we certainly don't need any surprises.”

Ed turned his head away from Millie and Ben. He looked out the window at the throngs of people. At their blurred faces as the motorcade raced by.

They can never know about the Federalists.

 

Ed's suite at the Ritz Carlton in the posh Atlanta suburb of Buckhead provided solitude from the raucous scene in Ben Tobias's suite where his top advisors, including Millie, were planning strategy and campaign stops for the homestretch. He couldn't stop thinking about his conversation with Drake Highfill. What Drake had told him about another murder suspect didn't bother him. Ed didn't care who was convicted for Jesse's murder. The part that caused him great concern, though, was what Drake had said about F-PAC.

The Federalist used F-PAC to provide funds for his campaign. That link between Ed and the Federalists couldn't be exposed. It would destroy him even at this late date in the campaign. He had intentionally avoided any contact with the Federalists during the campaign, but this was serious. It was time to violate that cardinal rule.

 

Apollyon Associates, Inc., lower Manhattan

Randolph Winston had called Pierce and Milton to the meeting to discuss what to do about Jake Reed.

“The election is fifteen days from today,” Randolph began. “Mr. Reed must be dealt with, and I, for one, think he should be eliminated.”

“No,” refused Milton. “Your handling of the last problem has jeopardized our plans. I will not acquiesce in Mr. Reed's murder.”

“You don't understand, Milton,” Randolph charged. “If Reed provides any of this to the Republicans—or worse, the media—before the election, then we run the risk of being exposed.”

“That's not a risk I'm willing to take,” Pierce stated as he joined the conversation. “I have too much invested in this to risk losing it.”

“I don't see the risk,” Milton countered. “Reed doesn't understand the significance of the information he possesses, other than the fact it helps his client's case. He has no reason to give it to the media.”

Just then the phone in Randolph's office rang on his direct-in-dial line rather than through the answering service. Very few people had access to that number, and because of that, Randolph decided he needed to answer the call. The discussion about what to do with Jake Reed ceased as Randolph answered the call.

“Randolph, this is Ed.”

Randolph grew stern. “Ed, you know it's dangerous for you to call me.” Randolph glanced at Pierce and Milton, who showed concern at the mention of Ed Burke's name.

“I know,” Ed replied. “But we have a problem that we need to talk about.”

“Wait a minute, Ed. I'm here with Pierce and Milton. Let me put you on the speaker.”

Randolph pressed a button on his telephone to activate the speakerphone option so Pierce and Milton could hear Ed, and vice versa.

“What's the problem?” Randolph asked after Pierce and Milton had exchanged greetings with Ed.

“I received a call today from Drake Highfill, the prosecutor on the case involving my friend Jesse Thompson.”

“We've been following that situation,” responded Randolph. “What did Highfill have to say?”

“He told me that the lawyer defending the animal accused of killing Jesse was in his office today showing him some documents about F-PAC. Those documents link you to me. We can't let them get out.”

“That's just what we're talking about,” Randolph stated. “We're trying to determine the best course of action to take.”

“Did Highfill say what Reed planned to do with this information?” Milton asked.

“Not really,” replied Ed. “I got the impression that Reed was using them to get his client some kind of deal. Personally, I hope that animal fries.”

“I think Pierce, Milton, and I need to talk about this some more, Ed,” Randolph stated.

“I don't want any problems with only fifteen days to go,” Ed informed his benefactors. “You promised me the presidency, and I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“We want you to be president as well,” Pierce defended. “There's too much riding on this for anybody to make a mistake. Randolph, Milton, and I will decide what to do.”

“Highfill also said that Reed had pictures of someone else at the murder scene,” Ed stated. “Any truth to that?”

“We're checking on that as well,” Randolph replied. “But you really must let Pierce, Milton, and me handle this. You don't need to talk to Highfill any more about it, and you certainly don't need to call Mr. Reed.”

“I understand,” Ed replied. “I just hope you take care of it, and soon. We don't need any problems this late in the game. And I wish you would find out what you can about another person being at the murder scene.” With that, Ed said good-bye.

Randolph, Pierce, and Milton returned to discussing how to handle Jake Reed.

“Now will you agree to eliminating him, Milton?” Randolph asked.

“I still don't believe that to be necessary,” Milton defiantly argued. “He doesn't realize the importance of the information. He only sees it as a bargaining chip to use against the prosecutor. If we kill him, then suspicions will rise, and someone will discover that he was murdered because of this information.”

“But that discovery won't occur until after the election,” Randolph fired back. He glared at Milton. “We won't care at that point, because we'll have everything we need.”

Milton drew himself up to his full short height. “That doesn't matter to me, and you don't know that for sure. I cannot agree to another murder.”

“Can we at least threaten him or blackmail him?” Pierce inquired. “We only need his silence for a short while longer.”

“I'll agree to that,” Milton replied, looking at Randolph for conciliation.

“I don't like it,” Randolph stated. “But if that's what you want, then that's what we'll do. I'll call Sanders tomorrow and give him instructions.”

 

Madison County Criminal Justice Complex, Jackson, Tennessee

The Monday following Ruth's last visit was the day that Jed broke. There wasn't anything special about the day. It was significant only because it was a Monday, and Ruth always visited on Mondays. Except for this Monday. He had been in the Madison County Criminal Justice Complex for seventy days. Or was it seventy-one? he asked himself. He couldn't remember. It didn't matter anyway. He was leaving tonight—one way or the other.

Jake Reed had told him that he could plead guilty and the DA would not seek the death penalty. But Jed couldn't convince himself to do it. He was innocent, for goodness' sake, and no one seemed to be listening to him. His mind was made up. He couldn't spend one more day in this place. It was either freedom…or death. There was no in between as far as Jed was concerned, and it appeared that the option of freedom had faded away. Judge Prickett had denied the motion to suppress, and the gun would be admitted into evidence. Jake told him that they would have grounds to appeal any verdict, but what good was that?

Jed was only permitted one visitor per week, other than his lawyer. The days between visits by Ruth seemed to be getting longer. And she didn't visit today. It was the first visiting day she missed since his incarceration. Her absence was even more troubling because of the way she left last Monday. Crying. Broken. Distraught. Jed hadn't seen his children since the day before his arrest, and to make matters worse, now his wife wasn't visiting.

He felt all alone.

He was all alone. He was isolated from the rest of the prison population in solitary confinement. He was allowed one hour a day in the recreation yard and spent the other twenty-three hours of the day in his jail cell, alone.

Jed's accommodations were worse than miserable, and that added to his loneliness. His cell was cramped—ten foot by ten foot. The walls in the rear and side of the cell were made of white concrete blocks surrounding reinforced steel. The front wall consisted of iron bars from floor to ceiling, with a sliding door constructed of iron bars in the middle. Even the ceiling was made of impenetrable concrete.

The furnishings were equally depressing. A twin-size metal bed frame bolted to one of the side walls substituted as the bed. It featured a four-inch-thick pad, which the warden called a mattress. Attached to the rear wall were a stainless-steel sink and a stainless-steel toilet.

And that was it.

No pictures on the wall.

No recliner.

No television.

Jed couldn't take it anymore.

He preferred to have a rope, or something like it, but would have to make do with what was available. Jed tied the ends of his bed sheets together, draped it over the pipe running through the ceiling for the sprinkler system, and made a noose at the end.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

Deputy Director Charlie Armacost arrived for work on Tuesday at his usual time of 5:30 a.m. He sat in his office deep inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building, again scrutinizing the photographs of Raoul at the murder scene, and the documents obtained by Agents Boyd and Simon.

He was beginning to have that intuitive feeling that comes from twenty years in the Bureau. He knew that the murder of Jesse Thompson was more than just a murder. What he didn't know yet was the identity of the person who had ordered the hit. He had called Agents Boyd and Simon back from Jackson after Jake Reed had surprised them. He couldn't afford exposure at this point in the investigation. The timing couldn't have been worse, though.

Charlie laid the photographs on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Everything he had so far was pointing toward the vice president. Could Edward Burke be a murderer? Could he have ordered the assassination of his longtime friend? If so, why? Charlie knew he didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle, and the ones he did have weren't fitting together very well. He was missing the link between them.