Premeditated Murder (3 page)

The problem was that there were so many times, like now, when Zack really didn't have a clue
what
to do.

Was running around in underwear like a lunatic healthy for a four-year-old boy? Twenty years from now, would Justin be lying on some shrink's couch, explaining that he was a homeless, jobless, friendless loser because when he was four his father let him run around in tighty whities pretending—Zack looked over at his mostly naked son—well, whatever he was pretending?

“C'mon, Daddy, I'm
being
somebody!” Justin shouted with glee, coming to a complete halt directly in front of the couch, arms above head, fingers in the
V
. “Guess who am I being!”

“Um,” Zack said, stalling, searching his completely empty mind for anything to say. “Richard Nixon?”

Justin obviously had no idea what Zack was talking about, but that didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around himself like he always did when he was having fun, exploding into laughter, running around the coffee table, and jumping into Zack's arms. “No, silly, I'm SpongeBob
Square
Pants!” he hollered, completely delighted. “I guess you are not the luckiest big winner!”

“I guess I'm not,” replied Zack, hugging the little boy. “Are you ready for some bathroom work before bed?”

“Yes, I am,” said Justin. “And I have a surprise for you, too, Daddy! C'mon!”

Zack let Justin tug him by the hand down the endless hall of their recently purchased, way too old, way too big, way too falling-apart house to the bathroom nearest Justin's bedroom. The boy opened the door and said with excitement, “Remember how you said I could help paint?”

Zack could merely stare.

In a mere forty-five minutes, using his play paints, Justin had managed to paint the entire bathroom—or at least as much as he could reach—fire-engine red.

Except the toilet seat.

For that, he had chosen black.

The Massachusetts Board of Bar Overseers suspended Criminal Defense Attorney Zachary Wilson for three months effective immediately for “engaging in behavior which had the appearance of impropriety.” Mr. Wilson was sanctioned for entering the Hampshire County Superior Courthouse in Northampton with a glossy black paint ring on his ass …

“Didn't I do a good job, Daddy?” Justin asked.

Zack was afraid that if he even tried to speak, he would burst into laughter, which just wasn't fair to Justin. The boy would think Zack was mocking something he obviously cared about. And contrary to the overriding philosophy of Zack's own chronically angry father, punishment was out of the question. This was clearly an honest mistake. Zack
had
told Justin earlier that day that he could help paint. Little did he imagine …

“This is, uh, amazing,” Zack choked out with a smile. “Tell you what. Why don't we use the bathroom at the front of the house for now, just to make sure all of the paint is super-dry before we do anything in here, okay?”

“Okay!” said Justin, scampering off down the hall.

Christ, Zachary, you must really dislike your mother and me. You finally start acting like an adult and buy a house, and the first thing you do is let that child you took in paint it like a brothel.

Did somebody with a crappy childhood have any business trying to raise a little boy as a single parent? While handling a huge multiple murder case?

Earlier that day, before Terry's mess with Judge Cottonwood, Zack had gotten a call from Judge Baumgartner, who was in charge of assigning lawyers to represent indigent defendants charged with serious felony charges. There had been a multiple homicide at a building in Northampton. Six victims. The cops picked up a guy at the scene they thought was the shooter.

Ever since the judge had described the case to Zack, the usual questions had been running through his mind.

Did the defendant make any statements? Were there any eyewitnesses? Any survivors of the attack? Was a weapon found at the scene? Did the defendant have a history of mental illness? Were drugs involved? How much time passed between the shooting and the cops' arrival on the scene? Was there an alibi defense? What was the defendant's relationship with the victims?

And then a new one popped in: Did the victims suffer before they died?

Where had that come from?

Anyway, five minutes into the conversation, it started to become clear why Judge Baumgartner had called Zack. This was going to be the first case that the Commonwealth was going to try under the Governor's new crime bill. The state was going to go for the death penalty on this one.

And that was just great. Most lawyers and judges had a hard enough time getting the system to work right without the distraction of television cameras in the courtroom and reporters lurking behind every bathroom door. And there was nothing like the possibility of a death sentence to make the media come running. The fact that if this guy got convicted he was going to be the first person executed in Massachusetts in about fifty years made it a virtual certainty that this trial was going to be the biggest media event in Northampton's recent history. Hooray for Hollywood.

Worse still, Fran O'Neill, Northampton's elected District Attorney, had been waiting for a case like this for his whole life. There was no way O'Neill was going to let someone else handle it. The limelight would be irresistible.

And that's really why the judge had called. Baumgartner needed Zack in the courtroom because he knew Zack didn't care about what a trial would do for his wallet, or the front page of
USA Today,
or just about anything except getting the guy a fair trial. With the prospect of overbearing press coverage, and Fran O'Neill strutting around like a bad TV character, the trial was going to need a well-grounded defense attorney if there was any hope for justice to elbow its way into the courtroom.

Zack tucked Justin into bed, returned to the couch with a beer, clicked on the TV to catch a little of the Celtics game, and tried to take his mind off the Thompkins case. He was going to be meeting with the client tomorrow—a man who was recovering from a couple of bullet wounds suffered during an attack in which he probably murdered six UMass students.

Was defending Thompkins something a good father would do? How were the fathers of the six victims feeling right now? Zack didn't even want to think about how he'd feel if out of nowhere he received a phone call saying that Justin had been murdered by some madman with a machine gun.

Paul Pierce hit a jumper, putting the Celts up by four. Zack took a swig of beer.

He wasn't big on self-doubt. He knew that he was a good lawyer, and he also knew that it was important to protect the constitutional rights of all criminal defendants—even those guilty of the most horrible crimes.

The problem was that right now, Zack seemed to be much more interested in the victims and their families than in the defendant. And that made him wonder if he was the right lawyer for this case.

Hell, was he the right lawyer for
any
criminal case?

Pierce blocked a shot and then fired a half-court pass starting a fast break that ended in an easy layup. Zack's beer was gone, and the Celts were up by twelve. When had that happened?

And how was Zack ever going to be able to explain to Justin what he did for a living? Right now, the little boy was too young to take a serious interest in Zack's work, but Justin was a smart and curious guy. It wouldn't be long before the hard questions started to come.

Daddy, wasn't it wrong for your client to hurt people?

Daddy, if your client hurt people and did a crime, how come you want the jury to say not guilty?

Daddy, what happens if one of your clients hurts me?

By the time that Zack focused again on the basketball game, it was over. But he didn't even bother to check who won before turning off the TV. He just kept thinking about tomorrow's meeting with Calvin Thompkins. How was he going to handle this case?

Washington, D.C.

ABOUT FIVE MINUTES INTO THE BRIEFING, Matt had a hunch how the Tanzania-Kenya thing was going to play out. Fifteen minutes in, he was sure.

First, Katie Francks, the Director of Homeland Security, and Aaron Miller, the National Security Advisor, confirmed that there was good reason to believe that despite his public denials, President Mwanga of Kenya had inherited some rudimentary chemical weapons from the last regime. This poison would kill a lot of innocent civilians as well as soldiers if used against the rebels or to repel troops invading from Tanzania.

And it would pose a nightmarish terrorist threat anywhere in the world if it found its way into the wrong hands.

Then Miller confirmed what they all knew in the first place—that there were plenty of wrong hands located in East Africa, and that civil or any other kind of war in Kenya would greatly increase the chances that those weapons either would be used or would go missing.

That's why Tanzania was stirring. It was panicking about those chemical weapons.

“At this point, sir, it looks like the Tanzanians are planning to race the rebels to Nairobi.” Rusty Levine, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, might as well have been reading Matt's mind.

“What are we looking at as far as timing goes?” Matt asked.

“Well, sir, the Tanzanian army isn't ready to move yet,” the general answered, “but it can be in less than two days. The rebels could go at any time.” He paused. “In my opinion, the situation is extremely volatile.”

No shit.

Bob Butler from State had verified that the heads of both Kenya and Tanzania, as well as the Secretary-General, would be at U.N. Headquarters in New York City all day tomorrow.

“Who's in contact with the rebels?” asked Matt.

“The Ugandan government, sir,” replied Butler. “I've delivered your message to Prime Minister Jackson. The rebels should already have it.”

“And will Jackson also be at the U.N. tomorrow?” Matt asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Butler. “He's hosting a reception tomorrow evening at their embassy in New York.”

“Good,” Matt said. He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Rusty, how soon can we be in position off the coast of Kenya?”

“About forty-eight hours from when I give the order, Mr. President.”

“Okay,” Matt said, standing. The entire room stood with him. “General Levine, please consider the order given. I want an amphibious assault group in position as soon as possible. And don't bother trying to disguise your movements.” He might have been the commander in chief of the most powerful military force on the earth, but he was still the new guy when it came to the international scene. For a while, he was going to have to go out of his way to make sure that people believed him when he said the kinds of things he was certain to say tomorrow.

Matt turned to the rest of the group. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. It's pretty clear to me that I've got to get to New York tomorrow to see if I can work this thing out while everyone is in the same place, and before things get too far out of hand. Depending on what happens, I may need to meet with you again tomorrow after I return, so please stay available. Vernon will be in touch.”

Matt returned to his desk and picked up the phone to call for Carlos. He needed to check one more bit of background information before he spoke to Mwanga, but when he looked up, he was surprised to see that rather than file out with the others, his Chief of Staff had stayed behind.

“Mr. President—may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“I'd like you to meet with your political advisors before deciding on a course of action,” Browning said. “I can have Kenny and Adrienne here in—”

When Matt interrupted him, he was careful to keep his voice even. It was late, and he knew that the lifelong politician was merely doing his job. But while there was a time and a place for politics, it was not here, and it was not now. “Whether this is a political decision or not,” Matt said, “I've already made it, Vernon.”

The Chief of Staff smiled and spread his hands. “With all due respect, sir, I don't see the harm in getting a political perspective—”

Matt interrupted him again. “I realize that you never expected me to be in this position, and God knows, I never expected it myself. But in situations like this, we need to have an understanding. Early in my career as a military officer, I came to peace with the fact that there were going to be people who disagreed with my decisions.” He walked around the desk to look directly down into Browning's face. Matt was about six inches taller than the politician. “And I came to peace with the fact that there were even going to be people who disagreed with the way I made my decisions. But, Mr. Chief of Staff, for better or worse, when I tell you that I've made a decision, the decision has been made.” He let that hang there for a minute. “Now, I'm going to need to review a few things before I turn in. Carlos will run them down for me. I expect that you've got some calls to make before tomorrow's trip?”

Browning looked like someone had just swiped his lunch money. Matt felt a little sorry for him, but if there was any question about who was going to decide how to handle this problem, that needed to end immediately. A weak commander was worse than no commander at all. For better or worse, Matt was in charge, and he owed it to the American people to act like it.