Premeditated Murder (32 page)

“Yes. We've confirmed two cells,” Browning said, reaching over and pointing to a set of papers at the back of the folder Matt was holding. In Oakland, four men, none of whom Matt had heard of, were under surveillance, suspected of plotting an attack on the Golden Gate Bridge. And in Massachusetts, Maliq Ansaar, aka John Bercher, Ahmad El Amin, aka Rudolf Lange—why did these names sound familiar? “We were planning on moving against both cells simultaneously after we ascertained whether they were working together, when out of nowhere that computer programmer up in Massachusetts stormed the apartment like Rambo and took them all out.”

That's it. The case had been all over the news lately, but Matt had forgotten the names of the victims. He had read them in the press clippings that Carlos had given him. “Isn't the shooter facing the death penalty?”

“Yeah,” said Browning with a smile. “Our friends in Massachusetts have finally decided to join the fight against crime.”

“But I haven't heard anything about the fact that the victims were terrorists.”

“We decided that it would be better for the public not to know, as long as the threat had been eliminated. One of the things President Graham and I were working on was to try to restore the confidence of the American people. We thought it would do far more harm than good to have the press filled with stories that while we're telling everyone that we've got the terrorist threat under control, six terrorists were living right in the middle of Northampton, Massachusetts, plotting some horrible attack on July 4.”

We decided that it would be better … We thought it would do far more harm than good …
More presidential decision-making without the President anywhere in sight. Matt's head was throbbing. “So what are we waiting for in Oakland?” he asked. “Why haven't we moved against that cell?”

Browning looked down quickly, and then back up at Matt. “We were hoping to maximize the impact of the capture—” he began.

“Jesus Christ, Vernon, are you telling me that you were
timing
the raid against these guys in Oakland for some political—” Matt stopped abruptly and slapped the folder shut. “Okay, I've heard enough.” He looked across at Browning. “I know I wasn't elected to this position,” he began, “and believe me, I sure didn't want the job. But for reasons that must be obvious even to you, starting immediately I'm going to be doing the job without your help.”

“But, Mr. President, these are extraordinary times—”

“That's right,” Matt cut in. “They most certainly are. But whenever I'm in charge, in ordinary or extraordinary times, I need to trust the people who work for me.” He shook his head and stood up, looking down at the lifelong bureaucrat. “If we've got to play the kinds of games you've been playing to keep our people safe, God help us, that has got to be my call. The fact that this has been going on without my knowledge for as long as I've been President …” He trailed off. It was going to be hard going without Browning, but it was going to be impossible going with him.

Browning stood up. “I assure you, sir—” he began, but Matt cut him off again.

“I'm so sick of the double-talk,” he began, but then stopped himself. This conversation needed to end. “As long as I'm in this office, I'll do what I think is right for the people of this country, regardless of whether it serves your political agenda or anyone else's. I'll expect your resignation in an hour.”

June 30—Northampton, Massachusetts

WHILE ZACK WAITED FOR A FEW MINUTES TO try, for the third time, to get through to his sister's cell phone so he could say hi to Justin, he wondered if Cal Thompkins really knew how bad things had gotten.

The court was in the midafternoon recess. The medical examiner was testifying. It wasn't a surprise that his testimony was damaging. It was a surprise that it was as damaging as it was.

Fran O'Neill had finally decided that it was more important for his witnesses to actually testify than for him to ask questions that sounded important. And the medical examiner was a relatively young man whose manner, somehow, had managed to amplify the horror of the violence that had been done to the victims.

When he first started to speak about the destruction that just one of these bullets did to the first victim—one of the women—all of the goodwill that Zack had built up with the earring ladies just vanished. He must have been making eye contact with the pair at least ten to twenty times per day in the first few days of the trial. But from early this morning, when the medical examiner first began to describe how Cal's bullet had shattered Marianne Duhamel's skull and ripped through her brain, the only eye contact Zack had made with the earring ladies was a single glance he exchanged with the older one, in which she had silently told him, in no uncertain terms, that she no longer loved him, because he represented someone who had done something unforgivable.

Claire's phone finally started ringing, and after she said hello to Zack, she handed the phone to Justin.

“Hi, buddy, how are you doing?” Zack asked.

“Great. Daddy, can we get a dog?” was the reply. Spikey the incontinent black terrier had apparently made a very good impression.

“Remember we were going to talk about that when you came home with me next week, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Justin said, somewhat subdued. Then he brightened right up. “Okay. Bye, Daddy!”

“Wait! Justin!” The little guy was adjusting much better to this arrangement than Zack was. “Are you having a good time? What did you do today? Did you play with Aunt Claire?”

“Uh-huh. We're walking Spikey now, and then me and Spikey are going to play ball.”

“Sounds like you're having fun.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I can't wait to see you. You remember I'm coming this weekend. For the you-know-what.”

“The fireworks?”

“Does that sound good?”

“That sounds great!”

Just then, Claire's phone died, and Terry came out to get him. Court was back in session.

July 2—Washington, D.C.

“WELL, I CERTAINLY HOPE YOU'RE NOT WORRIED about Vernon Browning,” Sammy said, as they pulled away from the White House gates toward the Kennedy Center. They were in the back of the limousine, headed to a performance of a piece by Mozart that Sammy really loved, by a dream string quartet, including Yo-Yo Ma on cello and Itzhak Perlman on violin. “He'll have plenty more chances to be a big-time political hack after you leave the White House. Or maybe he'll just write a book and get disgustingly famous. Lord.”

But Matt's thoughts were elsewhere. “Remember that article about that reporter who's hiding in some basement somewhere, afraid to go to the grocery store because she thinks they're going to throw her in jail?”

“The one in Michigan.”

“Yeah. That's right. The same place where Judge Stanton committed suicide. The same place where that man died when they were searching his house illegally. What do you want to bet that the search warrant for that fiasco came from Judge Stanton? I bet you a dollar that when we check, we're going to find that he killed himself after he learned that the unconstitutional search he authorized led directly to the death of a perfectly innocent man.”

But wasn't that just part of the price of staying safe? Of national security? Sure, there were plenty of innocent people whose houses were being searched. And in a tragic accident, one of them died. But thousands and thousands of innocent people died on September 11. And how many thousands more suffered from injuries of every kind from that attack? Loved ones without spouses. Children without mothers and fathers. How far would Matt have gone to stop those fanatics that day? He certainly would have searched a random home, or a handful of them, or gladly authorized an entire program devoted to random searches.

But what if he didn't
know
there was an attack coming? What if he just feared one? What would he be willing to do then?

“I still can't decide how to handle this whole thing,” he said to Sammy. The motorcade moved painfully slowly through the city. Every time Matt went anywhere he felt like issuing a blanket apology for fouling up the traffic.

“You mean you're not sure whether to stop the searches?” asked Sammy.

“Yeah, I know they're unconstitutional, but …” He shook his head. “I'm just afraid I'm going to let the country down.”

Sammy sighed. Then she leaned over and kissed him, gently, and then wiped away some lipstick with her finger. “Don't worry,” she told him quietly. “Whatever you decide, you won't.”

East Jordan, Michigan

IT WAS SMALL, AND THE ROOF LEAKED. THE bathroom didn't work, and no matter how many windows they opened, the cabin still smelled like stale beer, mildew, and dirty socks.

But the moment that Lena stepped over the threshold of the ramshackle lodge deep in the northern woods of Michigan, she had never felt so good about anywhere in her life.

Two years ago, Becca's brother, Tad, and his friend, Kyle, had decided to spend a week at an old hunting lodge that Kyle had inherited from his grandfather. But when their car died, Becca had driven up to rescue them.

Luckily, Becca had a great memory for directions, so when it became clear that neither she nor Lena was safe in their homes, she got on Interstate 75 heading north, and about a million hours later, they pulled off a dirt road in front of Kyle's inheritance.

On the drive up and on the following day, Lena wrote “An Open Letter from a Fugitive” on her laptop, and then drove forty minutes into the tiny town of East Jordan, where Lena mailed the diskette containing her column to Mr. Olafsen at the
Ypsilanti Sentinel
with a letter, telling him what had been happening. Then they bought some food and supplies at the general store, and right as they left, a miracle happened. They discovered that for about a fifty-yard stretch of Maple Street in front of the store, they had cell phone coverage. So they both called their families and let them know they were okay.

A month later, the euphoria of fleeing Detroit had begun to wear off. Canned food sucked, black flies sucked, wearing the same clothes day after day sucked. Lena and Becca were going crazy. They needed help to escape their exile, but they didn't know whom they could trust. They knew that Lena's letter had been published and picked up by wire services around the country. Lena felt it was just a matter of time before they'd be able to return to Detroit in safety, but she was still terrified of the police.

They couldn't survive through the holiday weekend without supplies, so Lena and Becca went back into town. While Becca went up and down the aisle of the general store putting food into a basket, Lena drifted toward the front of the store, drawn by the small television playing near the cash register. A headline beneath a news anchor read, “Arson Suspected in Local Newspaper Blaze,” and then, to her horror, Lena watched video of the offices of
The Ypsilanti Sentinel
burning to the ground.

Now she knew that she'd never be able to return home.

TWENTY-FOUR

THE COURT:
The record will reflect that the defendant and his attorney Mr. Wilson are present, but Attorney Tallach is not present. Are you prepared to proceed, Attorney Wilson?

MR. WILSON:
Actually, Your Honor, Mr. Tallach was called away on unavoidable business. He will be here as soon as possible. The defendant respectfully moves for a brief recess pending his return.

THE COURT:
Mr. Wilson. We recessed for lunch at approximately 12:30. It is now almost 2:30. We have waited long enough. I am not going to delay this trial one minute longer, and I am going to assume that you are ready to proceed. Mr. District Attorney. Are you ready for cross-examination?

DIST. ATTY. O'NEILL:
Thank you, Your Honor.
(Cross-Examination of Calvin Thompkins)

Q:
Mr. Thompkins, isn't it true that on direct examination, you admitted that on January 3, you rented Apartment 3B at 214 Main Street?

A:
Yes.

Q:
And isn't it true that you also admitted that you did so because you knew that that apartment was directly across the hall from the apartment of the victims?

A:
Yes.

Q:
And you knew that the victims were renting that apartment at that time that you rented Apartment 3B, did you not?

A:
Yes.

Q:
And isn't it also true that you admitted that you obtained an illegally modified AK-47 machine gun, with ammunition, specifically for the purpose of going into the victims' apartment and shooting them with the machine gun?