The Election (5 page)

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake had hardly slept Monday night, thinking about Lillian Scott's case, and arrived at work on Tuesday the same way he did every other day—in a rush. His cluttered desk was just the way he'd left it. Rachel had complained about his staying late at the office and missing dinner with the kids again last night.

Everything was going to be fine.
“I couldn't help it,”
Jake had explained to her.

She'd merely rolled her eyes.

Lately he knew he'd been making a lot of excuses about coming home late. Rachel was right: work
was
coming before family right now…but it was their sole income, after all.

He was certain the
Scott
case was going to settle, and he'd had to meet with Ms. Scott after hours to discuss it. When he did, she wanted to take the $150,000. But Jake convinced her that Bob Whitfield had more money to offer and that they should wait until Wednesday morning, just before lunch, to call Bob and make a counterproposal. He liked making Bob sweat.

Around midmorning on Tuesday Jake was in his office poring over some documents for an impending commercial transaction when Madge knocked lightly on his partially opened door. She informed Jake that Jed McClellan was on the phone, wanting to know what Jake had found out from Jesse Thompson.

Jake winced. How could he have forgotten to make the phone call? “Make something up to buy more time,” he instructed Madge. “Tell him I'm in a meeting, or not in the office, and that you'll make sure I call back before lunch.”

Madge nodded her understanding and abruptly left Jake's office.

As soon as Madge left, Jake dialed the number for First National Bank. “This is Jake Reed,” he told the bank receptionist. “I need to speak with Jesse Thompson, please.”

Jake was well aware of the fact that Jesse Lamar Thompson was hated by most of the people in town, particularly those in the African American community because of his lending practices toward them, and he didn't seem to care. He owned the bank, several gas stations, commercial buildings, and all the judges. Some Southern small towns still had rich white men who ran the town, and Jesse Thompson was the boss of Jackson. He was invincible.

The main office of First National Bank was located on the corner of the court square, diagonal from the offices of Holcombe & Reed. Even though it was only ten stories high, it was the tallest building in Jackson. Jesse Thompson's office was on the second floor, in the back of the building, and immediately above the vault. Jake assumed it was because Jesse wanted to stay out of public sight as much as possible.

Jake began their phone conversation with small talk, hoping to warm up Jesse. He asked about Mrs. Thompson and what Jesse thought about the weather. He talked about the local minor-league baseball team and local politics. He eventually brought up Jed's name and rather sheepishly asked if there was anything that could be done to stop the foreclosure.

“That man's crazy if he thinks I'm stopping the foreclosure,” came the harsh reply. “He can pay me what he owes, and that's it.”

“Jed is real upset about this,” Jake tried. “Do you know the house was once Jed's grandfather's house?”

“I know—and I don't care. It's going to be my house after tomorrow.”

“But Jed's got a wife and kids who will have no place to go,” Jake pleaded. “Can't you at least postpone it a couple of weeks to give me some time to see what I can do about arranging Jed some other financing?”

“Jake, I'm through talking about this. The foreclosure is tomorrow at noon, and I am not postponing it one minute.”

Obviously Jesse wasn't going to change his mind. He didn't have to. Jake had nothing to offer Jesse in exchange for a postponement of the foreclosure. Without any type of leverage over Jesse, Jake could talk until he was blue in the face, and it wouldn't matter. The foreclosure was going forward.

“I'll tell Jed that the only way you'll stop the foreclosure is if he pays you in full,” conceded Jake. “But we both know that he can't get that kind of money.”

“I guess I'll have me another house, won't I?” Jesse replied sarcastically.

Jake thanked Jesse for his time and hung up. At least he could tell Jed he tried. Maybe now Jed would listen to him about filing bankruptcy. That was really Jed's only choice.

Jake went back to the documents for the commercial closing, trying to forget about Jed, hoping he wouldn't call back. He dreaded telling Jed about his conversation with Jesse.

It wasn't long before Madge interrupted him again. “Jed's on the phone.”

This time she hadn't even knocked, Jake noticed. She had to be annoyed.

“It's 12:30, and I told Jed you would call before lunch. He wants to know why you haven't called. You want me to cover for you again?” She wrinkled her nose.

“That's all right. I need to get it over with.”

He stared at the blinking light on his telephone for several seconds, hoping it would disappear. It didn't. Finally Jake picked up the phone and pressed the button to connect to Jed.

It was not a good conversation. When he told Jed he'd tried to convince Jesse to stop the foreclosure but Jesse would not listen, Jed became enraged. He accused Jake of siding with Jesse.

Jake assured him that wasn't true. He asked Jed if he'd considered filing for bankruptcy protection. A reorganization bankruptcy would stop the foreclosure and allow Jed the opportunity to get back on his feet.

But Jed didn't think much of that idea. He only became angrier. “That man's a crook!” he screamed into Jake's ear. “I'm not takin' bankruptcy and lettin' him get away with this. I'll do what I gotta do.”

The slam of the phone from Jed's end thundered through the line and hurt Jake's ear. Jed was angry, and Jake couldn't blame him. He might react the same way if he were going to lose his home tomorrow.

After Jed hung up, Jake debated whether to tell the authorities about Jed's threats against Jesse. Was it attorney-client communications, or not? Jed hadn't paid him any money, but did that matter?

And then Jake shook his head.
Jed's just hot right now. He'll sleep on it tonight and come to his senses.

Jake didn't see any need to call the authorities.

 

Crown Plaza hotel, Detroit

“Our numbers in Michigan are some of our best,” Shep informed Mac as they walked along the tenth floor hallway in the Crown Plaza Hotel near the airport. It was just after midnight, and the Foster campaign was winding down after a Tuesday full of automobile-plant tours, a county fair, and a late-night rally. “We're leading Burke by 7 percentage points in this morning's polls. Governor Richards's endorsement today was huge.”

“He's a good friend,” replied Mac. “He'll do what he can to help.”

“I hope we can get help in some other states,” Shep said. “We need to make up ground before Labor Day.”

Mac and Shep stopped outside Shep's hotel door. “You look beat, Shep,” Mac commented. “Why don't you get some rest? We have an early flight to Birmingham. We can talk about this more on the plane.”

“That's a good idea. I am pretty tired. I'll see you in a few hours.”

Mac continued on toward his suite at the end of the hall as Shep entered his room.

All Shep wanted to do was go to bed. He loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed. He was too tired to finish undressing. He had barely closed his eyes when his wireless phone rang.

“Shep, this is Dalton. I think I have something.” Dalton's voice was unemotional—all business.

Shep sat up on the edge of the bed. His heart pounded from the sudden awakening. He was no longer as tired as he had been five minutes ago. He could only hope that his significant investment was beginning to pay off. “Tell me what you've found,” he demanded.

“I spoke with an informant of mine from the Justice Department,” began Dalton. “He was telling me about a merger that the vice president requested be approved, even though it creates a monopoly. He said the name of the company was Apollyon Associates. I checked on Apollyon and found out that it's owned by a man named Randolph Winston.”

“Randolph Winston?” Shep asked rhetorically. He hastily ran the name through the data bank in his head. “That name sounds familiar.”

“It should. He's one of the richest men in the world.”

“So Burke does Winston a favor,” Shep said thoughtfully, “and in return Winston contributes to his campaign.”

“That's the way I have it figured, but I don't have anything concrete yet.”

“Good work, Dalton. Let me know what else you find.” Shep hung up and thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin.

So Burke pushes a merger through for Winston.

But that certainly didn't seem like enough to compel Winston to finance an entire political campaign. Maybe a substantial contribution, but not the whole campaign.

There must be more to it
.

 

While Shep was talking with Dalton, Mac knelt beside his bed to talk to a close friend. It was a nightly conversation he'd begun as a young boy, and one he'd shared with his wife and children ever since they had entered his life. The subject of the conversation covered many topics over the years, and tonight's began with the burden Mac carried from the campaign.

“Holy Father, I don't understand what you have prepared before me or why you are leading me down this difficult path. But I do know that whatever the answers are, you knew them before the world began. I commit myself to your will and know that you are always in complete control of all circumstances.”

Mac continued praying for the better part of thirty minutes before climbing into bed. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, and the campaign had an extremely busy next day scheduled. But his nightly conversation with God could not be missed.

 

Bad Dog Saloon, east of Jackson, Tennessee

“Gimme a bottle of Jack in the black,” Jed demanded as he crushed his sixth empty Colt 45 can and tossed it on the floor behind the bar. The bartender complied and slid over a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. Jed's eyes were already bloodshot, and it was time to finish the job. The one hundred dollars he had in his pocket when he arrived provided for a liquid dinner and more. He didn't care how he felt in the morning. He had called Ruth earlier and told her not to wait up. He'd be home when he got there.

The Bad Dog Saloon was a regular haunt of Jed's. He stopped by every Friday after work for a couple of beers with his buddies before going home. It was an old, dilapidated wooden building, but the regulars didn't mind, and the health department stayed away. The outside was painted white, and the windows and doors were trimmed in red. Folklore said that the combination kept evil spirits out. The only spirits the proprietor said he wanted on the inside of the bar were the ones in a bottle. Above the outside of the front door was a large painting of the face of a bulldog. Hence the name.

Jed was the only patron remaining at 2:00 a.m. when the bartender announced that it was closing time. Jed had closed up the Bad Dog on several occasions in his younger days, but never during the week. He staggered out the front door and fell off the small wooden porch onto the gravel and dirt that covered the parking lot. His clothes and body were filthy and smelly from working all day and drinking all night, but he didn't care. He managed to get to his feet and find his way to his pickup.

 

The bartender locked up at 3:00 a.m. When he saw Jed passed out in the front seat of his pickup in the parking lot, he decided that was the best thing for Jed.

Sleep it off, Jed
, the bartender thought as he pulled out of the parking lot onto Highway 412. He would call Ruth later in the morning and tell her where to find her husband.

Thompson mansion, Jackson, Tennessee

Naomi McClellan had been in the kitchen an hour before Jesse Thompson awoke Wednesday morning at his customary six o'clock. The sun was only half-crested over the eastern horizon, so she knew that Earline Thompson, Jesse's wife, who slept in the bedroom down the hall from Jesse, wouldn't awake for a while yet.

The Thompson mansion was a palatial two-story plantation house northwest of Jackson, just outside the city limits. It took Naomi twenty minutes to drive there from her house in the eastern part of the city. Although no longer an operational plantation, it was still surrounded by the best pasture land in all of Madison County.

“Good morning, Naomi,” Jesse called as he entered the kitchen and sat at the head of the table.

Naomi was less than thrilled at Jesse's arrival. She hated him passionately…and feared him. Even so, for the last thirty of her sixty years, she had worked at the Thompson mansion. She had tried to find other employment, but all she knew how to do was be a maid to the Thompsons. And the pay was more than she could have made working at a restaurant or a convenience store or a hotel. She had grown accustomed to wearing the white polyester blouse and pants, similar to ones worn by hospital personnel, which Mrs. Thompson required as a uniform.

“Mornin',” Naomi replied. “The newspaper's on the table, and breakfast'll be ready in a minute.”

Even at fifty-five Jesse was still an imposing figure. But the years were beginning to catch up with him. His gray hair was thinning on top, and some of his scalp was visible. His face was leathery from years of exposure to the sun, and small wrinkles had developed under his eyes. Brown age spots covered his hands.

The smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the kitchen as Naomi finished cooking the same breakfast she always prepared for Jesse. She sighed inwardly. Her life was relegated to preparing meals and cleaning house for the one man she hated with every ounce in her body. Her plight in finding a job elsewhere wasn't helped much by the fact that she had never finished the third grade and could barely spell her own name. Her husband had left her with a small child, a son, over twenty-five years ago. The last she'd heard was that her husband was living somewhere in Chicago.

She'd been glad when he left. The physical abuse had been unbearable. She still carried reminders of him on her face.

Naomi's life had never been easy, but she didn't mind hard work. She had promised herself years earlier that somehow, some way, she was going to make sure her son had a better life. The women in her family had served the Thompson family for generations, but she was determined to be the last Thompson servant.

Naomi was surprised when Earline entered the kitchen in a huff just after seven o'clock. Earline rarely arose before nine. Her peach-colored bathrobe and white nightgown were wrinkled and unkempt. Her gray-streaked auburn hair was still mangled from the previous night's sleep, and without makeup her skin appeared thin and transparent.

Earline's lips barely moved as she spoke. “A cup of coffee, Naomi.” She plopped down in the chair at the end of the table opposite her husband.

Jesse hardly acknowledged Earline's entrance into the room. He didn't lower the newspaper to see his wife, nor did he greet her.

Naomi was well aware that Earline despised Jesse about as much as she did. She'd even heard Earline say on more than one occasion that she wished Jesse were dead.

Naomi prepared the cup of coffee just the way Mrs. Thompson liked it—with two cubes of sugar and a dash of half-and-half—and set it in front of her.

Naomi couldn't help but feel pity for Mrs. Thompson because of the way Mr. Thompson had treated her all these years.

Steam rose from the cup, and Earline blew lightly on the brown liquid to cool it before taking a sip. “Thank you, Naomi.”

Naomi knew Earline well. Morning coffee always calmed the woman. After one sip her tone was less threatening.

“Do you want somethin' to eat?” Naomi inquired, knowing the answer would be no. Earline hardly ever ate breakfast.

“Not right now,” Earline replied. “Maybe I'll have some fruit in a little while.”

Jesse finished his breakfast hurriedly and stood to leave. Evidently he'd already been in the same room with Earline longer than he could tolerate.

“I'm going to check on the cattle before going to the bank,” Jesse stated to whoever was listening.

But the comment wasn't aimed at anyone in particular. His words never were, Naomi thought. It was as if, to Jesse Thompson, everybody else was beneath him.

“I'll see you tonight at dinner,” Jesse called as he closed the door between the kitchen and the garage.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

Deputy Director Charles Armacost was in his office deep inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building and had been since five thirty. He liked the quietness of the early morning. No phone calls, no interruptions. It was the perfect working environment, and he was a workaholic.

Just ask his two ex-wives. Charlie had missed his kids' Little League baseball games, ballet recitals, and bedtime stories, and they never forgave him. They were all grown now, and he barely saw them. He had never seen the youngest of his three grandchildren, and the other two only one time—Christmas 1998.

Charlie had spent the early part of his career as a field agent and had frequently relocated from one office to another. He was proud of the fact that he was decorated. It was his investigation that thwarted Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme's assassination attempt on President Ford. He received a commendation for his efforts and had begun to ascend the ladder within the Bureau. Charlie also led the Bureau's part of the invasion of Panama when Noriega was arrested. That ultimately led to his promotion to deputy director, and he would have been named director if the Republicans had regained the presidency in the last election.

Just after seven thirty Assistant Deputy Director George McCullough knocked on the frame to Charlie's open office door.

“Come in,” Charlie said without looking up from the report he was reading.

There was a slight hesitation before George entered. “I've got something I think you should see.”

Charlie glanced up. He could hear the reluctance in George's voice.

George dimmed the lights and pushed a button on a television remote control that was on Charlie's desk. The bank of television monitors mounted to one wall in Charlie's office switched to a still frame, showing the face of a Latin American in sunglasses.

“Surveillance cameras at Miami International captured this picture of a passenger arriving from Cancun Monday morning,” George reported. He pushed the button again, and the monitors switched to another photograph. “This is a file photograph of Raoul Miguel Flores. He's a member of the Hermillo Family in Bogotá. He trained as an assassin under the notorious Carlos the Jackal in South America. We lost track of Raoul after the assassination of President Marcos of Mexico in 2000.” George switched the monitors back to the first photograph. “We think this is Raoul. His passport scanned the name of Pedro Gonzales, but we're confident that it's Raoul.”

Charlie leaned back in his chair as George went through the presentation. Having anyone trained by the Jackal in the United States was trouble enough. But the Jackal's top prodigy! The thought made Charlie shiver. An assassin of that caliber wasn't hired to murder just anybody. When an assassin such as the Jackal or Raoul made a hit, it was done as a statement, political or otherwise.

Worse, the photograph of Raoul was almost forty-eight hours old. That made Charlie furious…and afraid.

“Why didn't we identify him sooner?” demanded Charlie, staring at the row of monitors bearing the image of Raoul.

“The customs agent thought he looked suspicious but forgot to mention it to her supervisors until yesterday afternoon. They pulled the video and sent it to the Bureau office in Miami. We got it this morning.”

“Where is he now?”

“We think he boarded a plane bound for Memphis,” replied George. “The office in Memphis is reviewing video of all arrivals from Monday.”

Charlie rubbed his flattop in anguish. “Let me know what they find.”

George left, and Charlie continued staring at the frozen face of Raoul Miguel Flores. He removed his glasses and rubbed the area of his nose between his eyes. “This is all I need,” he muttered sarcastically.

 

Thompson cattle farm, Jackson, Tennessee

The entrance to the farm was approximately two miles from Jesse's house. He owned fifty head of cattle and kept them mainly as a hobby. As he neared the farm, Jesse noticed a small black pickup parked a few hundred yards beyond the entrance to the field. Someone must have had mechanical trouble during the night and left the truck there until it could be repaired. A disabled vehicle on this rural road wasn't unusual. Jesse decided that if it was still there tomorrow morning, he'd call the sheriff and have it towed away.

The gate to the field was locked, just like Jesse left it the day before. He went through a ritual of opening the gate, driving through, and relocking it before proceeding.

The narrow field road was barely more than two worn paths separated by a swath of grass the width of a truck axle. The road led three hundred yards to an old wooden barn with a tin roof. The barn was worn from years of exposure to the elements. Its once brown exterior was now gray and discolored. A layer of rust covered most of the tin roof. Despite its deterioration, the barn still served its purpose of protecting bales of hay and cattle feed from the weather.

As Jesse entered the pasture of green rye grass, he could see the Black Angus already gathering around the front of the barn.
Creatures of habit,
Jesse thought, as the cattle lined up along the feeding troughs. They recognized his truck and knew it was feeding time.

 

A man lay undetected in a wooded area two hundred yards away, watching as a white pickup rolled slowly toward the barn. Clouds of dust rose up behind the vehicle and then settled softly to the ground.

He glanced at his watch.
7:40. Right on time.

He looked back at his prey. A man with the same routine was easy to kill. A small hill in the wooded area near the barn provided the best position from which to make the hit. He'd discovered the area the day before when he'd scouted the farm. It had plenty of underbrush to provide cover and was slightly elevated from the target destination.

The camouflage clothing he wore blended precisely with the underbrush, making him virtually invisible. He lay on his stomach near the crest of the rise, peering at his mark below. As he kept his eye on the white truck of his enemy, he reached into a pocket on the outside of his right leg and removed two brass-colored .308 hollow-point bullets.

He thought of every victim as the enemy. It didn't matter that he had never met any of his victims or that he knew little about them. They stood between him and payday, and that made all of them the enemy.

Hardly a muscle in his body twitched as he slowly slid the two bullets into the chamber of his Tango 51 sniper rifle and heard the click of metal against metal. He rarely needed the second but wanted it as a backup. He preferred hollow points because they made a small entry point but an exit hole the size of a grapefruit. With his rifle loaded, he lay motionless, waiting for the precise instant to complete his assignment.

 

Bad Dog Saloon, east of Jackson, Tennessee

Jed awoke after sleeping slumped over for several hours in the cab of his pickup in front of the Bad Dog.

It was the day scheduled for the foreclosure on his house. A sudden pain stabbed him in his stomach. He quickly chased it away with anger and a sip from the bottle of Jack Daniel's he found in the seat with him.

He had no intentions of losing his home. If his lawyer wouldn't help, he'd just have to convince the great Jesse Lamar Thompson himself to stop the foreclosure.

Jed left the Bad Dog and miraculously made his way across town without colliding with any other vehicles or being stopped by a member of the Jackson Police Department. He took another long, hard drink from the whiskey bottle as he drove along Old Medina Road toward the Thompson farm. It was well known that Jesse Thompson stopped by his cattle farm every morning before going to his office at the bank.

The alcohol in his blood system negatively affected his motor skills, and his old, dented, red Dodge truck swerved from side to side, crossing the centerline of Old Medina repeatedly. He ran off the shoulder on the right-hand side of the road, scattering dirt and gravel, and then whipped the steering wheel to the left, barely avoiding going into a drainage ditch. That overreaction almost caused him to broadside a small black pickup parked on the side of the road. Somehow he managed to straighten his front wheels and avoided hitting the other truck by mere inches.

Jed was going too fast to turn in to the Thompson-farm entrance, but he tried anyway. He came to a sliding stop with the front half of his truck hanging off the shoulder of the road. He wasn't surprised to see that the gate was locked. Jesse had to be there, though, because the white pickup was parked at the barn.