The Election (16 page)

Ten minutes later, when Drake concluded his argument, Judge Prickett was ready to render his decision. “Gentlemen, I've read your memoranda and listened to your arguments. You each did an excellent job presenting your respective sides of the case. The court is of the opinion that the sheriff's department did not violate the defendant's Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable searches and seizures. Therefore, the court finds that the defendant's motion to suppress should be denied.” With no further explanation Judge Prickett banged his gavel and turned to the courtroom deputy. “The court will stand in recess,” the judge announced as he abruptly left his lofty perch and disappeared to his chambers.

“All rise,” the courtroom deputy commanded as Judge Prickett exited the courtroom.

Just before the bailiff led Jed away to the holding cell, Jake leaned over and whispered to Jed, “It'll be OK. We can get this overturned on appeal if we have to.” But Jake wasn't confident about that.

Drake began smugly answering questions from reporters even before he left the courtroom.

Meanwhile, Jake hustled out of the criminal justice complex to avoid the reporters' questions. He was stunned at Judge Prickett's decision. Before the hearing he'd been fairly certain—even cocky—about Judge Prickett's agreeing with his position on the gun. Even now he believed that Judge Prickett's decision was wrong.

The ruling had taken Jake by complete surprise.

Now Jed was on the fast track to death row, and it was all Jake's fault.

For the first time Jake could remember, his client's fate was almost completely out of his control. And he didn't like the feeling.

Fogelman Center, University of Memphis

Shep Taylor and Ben Tobias had spoken several times by telephone following Ed Burke's decision to debate Mac Foster. Details had to be worked out. The time. Place. Moderator. Town-hall format, questions from the moderator, or questions from the candidates. Shep tried to negotiate the best arrangement he could for Mac, but Ed had the lead and the leverage. Shep finally had to concede to almost everything Ed wanted. The date was set for the last week of September.

The auditorium at the Fogelman Center had only 150 seats, and most of them were filled with reporters from the different news agencies, print and television. The few remaining seats were taken by supporters loyal to Ed Burke. Only a handful of Mac Foster's supporters were permitted in the auditorium.

Shep, Jack, and Shannon sat on the front row on the right-hand side of the auditorium. Admittedly, Shep was nervous, and he could see nervousness on the faces of Jack and Shannon, too, since they believed the entire campaign rode on this debate. Shep had completed an interview with FOX News a few minutes before the debate began. He had conceded that Mac had to do well during the debate. Otherwise, they would be unable to close the gap before Election Day.

Ben Tobias and Millie Burke sat on the front row on the left-hand side of the auditorium. Their smug expressions made Shep's blood boil.

The auditorium was constructed in an amphitheater style. Each row of seats was slightly elevated above the one in front of it. The room was completely dark, except for the stage area, which was flooded with hot white lights. Two identical podiums, blue top over gray base, stood approximately ten feet apart. Each podium was draped with a banner of red, white, and blue bunting and held one microphone. The moderator sat at a table on the front of the stage, facing the candidates, with his back to the audience. On the front of the stage, between the moderator's desk and the audience, stood a bank of three television cameras, their lenses directed at the podiums. Hidden behind the blue curtain that covered the rear wall of the stage was a single camera that focused on the moderator. Every movement, every gesture, every word spoken on stage would be broadcast around the world.

“Good evening,” the male anchor from CNN stated to both the audience watching the debate in the auditorium and those tuning in by television. He had been chosen as the moderator by the Burke campaign. “Welcome to this first, and only, debate of this presidential election. I'm Barry Cannon from CNN, and I will be the moderator tonight. The candidates have agreed to certain ground rules, so before we begin the debate, I want to go over those with you.”

Barry explained the rules for the one-hour debate, rules that were dictated by the Burke campaign. Then Barry introduced the candidates. Ed entered from stage left; Mac from stage right. Each wore a dark suit. Ed's tie was red. Mac's was royal blue. They met in the middle of the stage, shook hands briefly, and retreated to their respective podiums. Each candidate gave a brief opening statement, highlighting the strengths of his campaign and attacking the weaknesses of his opponent's. To Shep they sounded like trial lawyers trying to persuade a jury to side with their client.

Then the questioning began. “Mr. Vice President,” Barry said, “our world faces an enormous amount of political unrest. As president, what will you do to protect the United States from future attack?”

Shep could tell that Ed was prepared. Without hesitation he eloquently explained his foreign-policy philosophy. He talked about increased spending for NATO and reducing the number of American troops in the Middle East. The United States must work with other countries to build a global military under NATO, he advised. He explained that the United States had to continue spreading democracy throughout the world.

Then Barry directed the same question at Mac. He, too, was prepared. Mac had statistics about how depleted America's armed forces were. He compared the smaller amount of military spending under the current Democratic administration against the larger amount of military spending in previous Republican administrations.

Mac's knowledge of foreign-policy matters surprised Ben and Millie, Shep noticed. A small sense of satisfaction came over him as their smugness slowly began to disappear.

“We live in a different world than our parents did, Barry,” Mac said as he continued to display his mastery of foreign-policy issues. “Our parents never had to contend with terrorists. There are a tremendous number of people, in several different countries, who despise Americans. We can do very little to change their perception of us, but we can take active steps to protect ourselves from any attack they may mount. Unlike Mr. Burke, I think we must first increase our intelligence so we can defuse potential terrorist attacks before they happen. Second, we must continue to solidify relations with our allies, such as England and Israel. And lastly, I think we should continue our policy of never negotiating with terrorists and never backing down when we are threatened.”

The questioning then turned to economic policy. Again, Mac held his own. He was as fluent in discussing financial markets as Ed. They had their differences. Mac proposed a tax cut. Ed didn't. Ed wanted to spend more money on welfare issues. Mac didn't. But by and large, each man demonstrated an in-depth understanding of the American and world economies.

For forty-five minutes Ed and Mac went toe-to-toe like two heavyweight boxers. Neither made any mistakes, and neither landed any knockout punches. Shep could hardly control his excitement. Mac's performance was exactly what the campaign needed.

“It is now time for our candidates to ask the other candidate one question,” Barry advised. “Senator Foster, we'll begin with you.”

“Thank you, Barry,” Mac replied. “My question for Vice President Burke concerns fund-raising. Mr. Vice President, reports circulated during the primaries that you were accepting illegal campaign contributions. Is that true or not?”

A collective silence fell over the crowd in the auditorium. Shep leaned forward in his seat to get a better look at Ed Burke's face. If Ed denied the truth of the assertion, he would be lying. Shep wanted to see Ed's face as he lied.

Ed smiled slyly. With the entire nation on the edge of its collective seat, Ed dramatically reached under his podium and slowly retrieved a stack of papers. Shep could see that it was a computer printout of some type. Hundreds of sheets of paper that stood at least a foot high. Ed placed the printout on the top of the podium and ran his hand across one end of it. The ruffling sound echoed through the quiet auditorium.

“Senator Burke.” Ed tapped the top of the stack with the index finger of his right hand. “This printout contains the names of contributors to my campaign. This one only goes through the letter
C
. I have nine more printouts just like this one in my office. So no, I have not received any illegal contributions. The hard-working people of these great United States are funding my campaign.”

Ed didn't blink. He didn't grimace. He didn't flinch. His body language gave no indication that he was lying.

Shep slumped back in his seat, deflated. Mac's question had backfired.

Then it was Ed Burke's turn to ask his question. Shep knew that Ed would ask the one question the entire Foster campaign team feared. That's why he had tried desperately to prohibit direct questions between the candidates. But Ben Tobias had been adamant that there would be no debate unless the candidates were permitted to ask each other one question. Everybody with the Foster campaign knew what Burke's question would be, especially Shep. And they knew what Mac's answer would be.

“Senator Burke, there will probably be at least one Supreme Court justice who will retire during the next administration, and maybe as many as three. I want to know, and I think the American people have a right to know, whether, as president, you intend to appoint jurists to the Supreme Court who will vote to overturn
Roe v. Wade
.”

Mac didn't hesitate before responding. “I absolutely intend to appoint justices to the Supreme Court who will overturn
Roe v. Wade
. I would hope that you would do the same thing, Mr. Burke. It is time for the senseless killing of unborn children to stop.”

Although Shep agreed wholeheartedly with Mac personally, he also realized that the Burke campaign had accomplished its goal: painting Mac Foster as an extreme right-wing religious fanatic. The voting public cared little for the differences between where Mac stood on foreign policy and economic issues, and where Ed stood.

The damage had been done to the Foster campaign…and Shep feared the blow was lethal.

 

Apollyon Associates, Inc., Lower Manhattan

Randolph pressed the button on the remote control, and the screen on the television in the Apollyon conference room went dark. He, Pierce, and Milton sat quietly in the dimly lit conference room. They didn't care to see the television journalists analyze the debate. Burke for President was an unstoppable train, and the Federalists were driving it. It was time to move forward.

“Things are going extremely well,” Randolph announced and swiveled in his chair to face the others. “I don't see any possibility that Burke can lose. I think it's time we begin to finalize the details.”

“I agree,” concurred Pierce as he stretched out his long legs in front of him. “We need to be prepared to place things into motion immediately following the inauguration in January.”

“Let's not be too hasty,” commented Milton. “I agree that we need to be prepared, but the election is still six weeks away. We need to remain cautious.”

“Cautious?” responded Randolph. “There's no need to be cautious. Victory is ours.”

“That type of confidence will be our demise, my friend,” Milton replied. “Tell me what's happening with the investigation in Tennessee.”

“What do you mean?” Randolph inquired.

“Is the FBI still investigating the Thompson murder?” Pierce asked, appearing annoyed that he'd been kept out of the loop.

“Saul Sanders told me there are two agents in Jackson,” Randolph explained, “but they shouldn't be there for much longer.”

“I hope not,” Milton replied, rubbing his hands together. “But we need to keep our eye on that situation.”

Randolph scowled. “Saul assures me he's monitoring it and that we have nothing to worry about.”

“Still,” Milton continued, “I'm worried about what is going on there. I don't like the fact that the FBI is investigating. It makes me uneasy.”

“Stop worrying,” Randolph assured Milton. “We're six weeks away from the election, and everything is under control.”

“Randolph's right,” Pierce said. “What's going on in Jackson, Tennessee, is not important. We must maintain our focus on the task in front of us. Let's forget about everything else and focus our attention on implementing our post-election strategy.”

“I hope you're right, Randolph,” Milton said as the conversation began to conclude. “But I'm afraid we're making a monumental mistake by ignoring it.”

After the meeting Milton McAdams took his leave first. As Randolph watched the dignified banker exit, he sat back, fingers interlaced thoughtfully, and frowned.

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Early October brought welcome relief from the heat in West Tennessee. September had not been as hot as August, and October's temperatures were really quite pleasant. Jake drove to his office with the driver's-side window down for the first time since late spring. The large trees lining North Highland Avenue were beginning to turn different shades of brown, yellow, and red. It made him wish that his occupation permitted him to work outdoors.

Jed McClellan and his case was practically all Jake had thought about since mid-August. He was convinced that his error in judgment had started the sequence of events that had led to Jed's serious predicament. After all, if Jake had phoned the authorities when he'd first heard Jed make a threat toward Jesse Thompson, Jed probably would have been called in for questioning instead of getting drunk and then driving to Jesse's farm. Jake felt sick. He'd endured many sleepless nights just thinking about it.

Worse, Jake's defense of Jed had met roadblocks at every turn. Bail had been denied and so had the motion to suppress. The writing was on the wall for Jed. Jake decided it was time to seek a plea bargain.

He dialed the number for District Attorney Drake Highfill's office. “This is Jake Reed,” he announced when the receptionist answered the phone. “I need to speak with Drake Highfill.”

“Hold please,” the receptionist responded. “I'll see if he's available.”

After a few seconds Drake Highfill was on the line. “Jake. What can I do for you?”

“I want to talk with you about the
Jed McClellan
case.”

“What is there to talk about?” Drake said, his tone haughty. “Judge Prickett denied your motion to suppress.”

“I know,” Jake replied. “But I want to talk with you about a plea bargain.”

“Jake, this is an open-and-shut case…”

“I disagree with you. I think you should consider manslaughter in the first degree.”

“Why?” Drake retorted. “Give me one reason I should consider that!”

The silence was deadly, and Jake knew it. He couldn't think of any leverage he had to use against Drake to pry a plea bargain from him. Jed had been found at the murder scene. The murder weapon had been in the back of Jed's truck, and Jed had motive.

“You can't think of one, can you?” Drake answered for him. “I'm not even willing to discuss life without parole with you.”

Before his conversation with Drake, Jake thought he at least would get Drake to agree to first-degree murder. If he had, Jed would serve a minimum of twenty-five years, but he wouldn't be put to death. Without a plea bargain, Jake was certain Jed would die. After he hung up the phone, Jake realized just how desperately he needed a break.

Madge knocked on his door and interrupted his sulking. “The receptionist said there's a Belinda Llewellyn here to see you. Does she have an appointment with you?”

“I don't think so. Did she say what she wanted?”

“She said she was Wanda Lacy's daughter. Do you know who that is?”

“I know Wanda Lacy. She's a client of mine.”

“She's not a client anymore. Ms. Llewellyn said she was here to talk to you about her mother's estate.”

“Estate? I didn't know Ms. Lacy died.” Jake clasped his hands around the back of his head, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He really didn't have time to meet with Ms. Llewellyn. Every ounce of his being had to be focused on saving Jed.

“You want me to tell her you can't meet with her?” Madge asked.

“No,” he responded after a couple more seconds of silence. He opened his eyes again and released his head. “I owe it to Ms. Lacy to see if I can help. Bring her back.”

Wanda Lacy had been a long-time client of Holcombe & Reed. She was elderly, eccentric, and wealthy. Jake had helped her with her estate planning a few years ago but hadn't seen her much since then. Wanda lived in a modest white-brick, ranch-style house on Old Medina Road, not far from Jesse Thompson's farm. She had slowly become a hermit following her husband's death and had rarely been seen outside of her house other than in her garden. Jake heard the rumor that she buried one thousand tin cans with one thousand dollars in each of them in her backyard. He also heard about some teenage boys who tried to find a few of those tin cans two years ago and were met with a couple of shotgun blasts from the kitchen window. With his preoccupation on Jed's case, Jake hadn't noticed Wanda Lacy's obituary in the newspaper last Sunday.

Belinda Lacy Llewellyn was forty-nine, overweight, and had glaringly artificial red hair. Wanda had told Jake years earlier that Belinda had moved to Connecticut thirty years prior and had only visited Jackson once a year since then, at most.

“I'm sorry to hear about your mother,” Jake said as Belinda entered his office. “She was a wonderful woman.”

“She's in a better place now,” Belinda replied. She sat in one of the leather chairs across the desk from Jake. “Mother always said that when she died, she hoped God would give her a garden to work in heaven. I bet she got what she wanted.”

“I bet she did too,” Jake said politely. He had never thought of Ms. Lacy as a religious woman. “What can I do for you?”

“I was going through some of Mother's things after she died and saw where your office had prepared her will. The family would like for you to handle the estate for us.”

If circumstances were different, Jake would have jumped at the opportunity to probate the estate of Wanda Lacy. The estate would be large, and that would mean a large fee. But he just couldn't take that responsibility with Jed's case looming.

“Ms. Llewellyn, I'll be honest with you,” Jake began. “I'm extremely busy right now, and I'm afraid I cannot devote the amount of time to your mother's estate that will be necessary.”

“I understand, but we really wish you would consider it,” Belinda insisted.

Like her mother, Belinda was persistent. And, Jake also realized, she couldn't get access to her mother's money unless an estate was probated.

“We don't know any other lawyers in town,” Belinda explained, “and it appears that you took good care of Mother's affairs.”

“I really can't,” Jake said again.

“I have all of Mother's papers with me,” Belinda continued. “Would you at least look through those?”

Belinda removed a large envelope from her satchel and handed it to Jake. Reluctantly he opened the clasp and removed the documents inside. The will was one he had prepared. He also found life-insurance policies and bank records.

He sighed inwardly.
It will take someone the better part of a day to make heads or tails of all these documents.

The last items in the package were three photographs.

“What's this?” Jake asked as he pulled the photographs from the envelope.

Belinda shrugged. “We're not sure. Mother was quite a shutterbug. She kept a full darkroom in the house to develop her own photographs. Most of the photographs we found were of flowers or other plants from her garden. They were scattered all throughout the house, but none appeared to be of any significance. The pictures you're holding seem to be the only ones she wanted to keep. We found them among her personal papers, as if they had some importance.”

Jake looked closely at the 8 x 11 inch photographs. They were black-and-white and grainy, but in the first photograph he could clearly see the images of two pickups parked near a fence. One truck looked like Jed McClellan's Dodge. Immediately Jake recalled Jed's story about a black pickup at the murder scene. Had Jed been telling the truth? Jake had given up on that thread because he hadn't been able to find any other evidence to corroborate it.

Jake's pulse quickened.
Could this be the mysterious truck?

The other truck in the photograph sure looked like Jed's. He slid the first picture to the back of the stack and exposed the second photograph. It, too, was grainy, but Jake could make out the image of a man standing near the back of one of the trucks. It appeared as though the man was placing something in the bed of the truck. Jake couldn't make out the face of the man, though. Perhaps it could be enlarged?

Jake hastily turned to the third photograph. The quality wasn't much better than the other two, but the scene was different. It contained the image of the rear of one of the trucks. It was as if Ms. Lacy was intentionally trying to photograph the rear of the truck for some reason…

And then it hit Jake.
That's it! She was trying to photograph the license plate!

He squinted at the white area on the back of the truck in the picture but couldn't make out the numbers.

Jake looked up from the photographs. His mind was racing.
Could Jed have been right all this time? Could he have been framed? If so, who would frame Jed, and why?

Belinda broke his concentration. “Mr. Reed, are you all right? Do those photographs mean something to you?”

“They might, Ms. Llewellyn. Do you mind if I keep them?”

She answered with another question. “Do you think you'll be able to help us with Mother's estate?”

Jake wasn't certain of the value of the photographs, but they were certainly worth making a small promise to Belinda. “I'll take a look at what you have here and get back to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reed. I'll call you later in the week and see how things are progressing.”

“That will be fine. I have another client scheduled in just a few minutes, and I really need to conclude our meeting.”

After Belinda left, Jake scrutinized the photographs and pondered the mystery truck and the timing of the revelation.

Would these fuzzy photos be the break he needed to get Jed out of this mess?

 

Agents Boyd and Simon in the old jewelry store across the street from Holcombe & Reed recorded every word of the conversation between Jake Reed and Belinda Llewellyn.

“They may not be anything,” Ron said to Jerry, “but we better get a copy of those photographs just in case.”

They retrieved the photographs from Jake's office during the night and scanned them into their computer. The scanned images were uploaded into Deputy Director Armacost's computer at FBI headquarters.

The originals were returned before anyone arrived for work at the offices of Holcombe & Reed the next day.

 

FBI headquarters, Washington DC

The photographs of Raoul Miguel Flores and the pickup he was driving were waiting on Charlie Armacost's desk when he arrived at his office. The photos were enhanced and enlarged by technicians in the lab in the basement of the Hoover Building. They clearly showed Raoul and a pickup with Kentucky license plates. The plates were traced to a tobacco farmer in central Kentucky who had reported the truck missing a few days before the murder. Another dead end.

The photographs confirmed that Raoul was at least at the Jesse Thompson murder scene. They weren't conclusive, but they likely proved that Raoul had carried out the assassination. But at least two questions remained. Who had hired Raoul, and why? Charlie decided there was only one way to find out. They had to find Raoul.

Funds such as those recovered from the Capris Family were never reported to Congress and never accounted for by the Bureau. Those monies were used to fund covert operations in venues around the globe, including Bogotá, Colombia. It was time for some help, and Charlie knew where to find it. He dialed the number for the unofficial FBI agent in Bogotá.

Juan Martinez was a native-born Colombian. His birth parents were upper-middle-class by Colombian standards. His father was a high-ranking judge who opposed the militarization of Colombia. Both his mother and father were gunned down on an ordinary traffic-clogged street in Bogotá in February 1980. Juan was a baby at the time, and miraculously his life was spared. A group of nuns reared him until he was ten. One of the nuns contacted somebody in the States, who contacted somebody else, until one day Charlie Armacost was knocking on the front door of the convent. That was sixteen years ago.

Juan had lived in America for eight years—learning English and being trained as an FBI covert agent. He had returned to Bogotá with a new identity and had infiltrated the Hermillo Family. Slowly he worked his way up the ranks of the cartel, while at the same time secretly informing the FBI of the cartel's cocaine-manufacturing activities. More than one drug lab had been destroyed as a direct result of Juan's information.

“Juan, this is Charlie,” the deputy director said to his prodigy after Juan answered the encrypted call. “I need your help.”

“What can I do for you, my friend?” responded Juan.

“Do you know an assassin named Raoul?” asked Charlie.

“I know he works for the Family. I have only met him on a couple of occasions. Why do you ask?”

“We've tied him to a hit here in the States that may have a direct relation to the presidential election. If it does, it's crucial that we find out who hired him. That's where we need your help.”