Mental State, page 20
This called for another strategy. Rather than push and make an enemy, Royce shook his hand and walked out of the church.
Father Case opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a Redweld folder stuffed with sealed manila envelopes. He pulled out several of the envelopes and fingered them, as if he were trying to divine their contents. But the envelopes remained sealed and their contents unknown. Every few days a man in a suit whose name he did not know stopped into the church after working hours and delivered an envelope to the priest. In fact, he had delivered one last night, and obviously had been followed by the FBI agent who had just left.
When the man came the first time, some weeks ago, he introduced himself merely as Mr. F. and told the priest he had information that had to be safeguarded at all costs, and the Catholic church, this church was the safest place he could think of to hide it. He explained to the priest he had grown up in devout Catholic family in Boston, and he knew the priest would keep his confidences, no questions asked. He asked for the priest’s cell phone number and told him that he would text the priest a blank message every day indicating that he was okay. If the priest did not get a text from him for five straight days, he was to deliver the entire package to The New York Times.
The priest stood, leaving the envelopes on his desk, and walked over to the credenza by the window of his small office. He poured himself a large glass of scotch and stared at the pile of envelopes. The secrets they contained were of interest to the FBI, and someday soon the text messages were going to stop. He was now certain of that. He wanted more than anything to tear one open. But Father Case’s entire life was about denial of desires in the search for some deeper meaning and truth. He finished the scotch and put the folders back in his drawer.
CHAPTER 40
For ten days, Royce followed leads, ran down angles, and pushed everywhere he thought there might be a weakness in the shield around the people who had killed his brother. After one hundred man hours of nearly constant motion in an around Washington, he was no closer. All he’d succeeding in doing was stinking up his rental car and adding a few dozen points to his cholesterol levels. The truth seemed to be slipping further and further away into the dimming light of the past.
On the eleventh night, he was still in the car, parked on the street, gazing at the lit windows of Sean Flanagan’s house. At this point he knew his name, routines, and everything about him that one could learn from publicly available information and from trailing him constantly. He knew Flanagan was back working on his regular law firm caseload now that the confirmation of Chief Justice Pham was through the senate and he had taken his seat on the court. He knew Flanagan no longer visited the priest and that he often sat at a desk in the first-floor library of his home staring at the walls until the wee hours of the morning.
It was 7 p.m., and NPR was running a story about the first Asian-American Supreme Court justice, and the likely impact his appointment would have on the big cases the court was about to hear, as well as the broader impact the rebalancing of the court would have on American life. Royce fumed, not because of the message, although he disliked it as well, but because of the messenger. A messenger from hell.
The lights were all off in the Flanagan house, save the first-floor library and the third-floor bathroom. After 10 p.m., a progression of lights had already turned off on the second floor, as the wife put her children down for the night. Royce knew that she often went to the third-floor master bathroom at this time and soaked for up to an hour.
Royce put his hand out to open the car door once, twice, three times, but drew it back each time. Then, heart racing, he left the car, walked in shadow over the lawn, and peeked in the open window of the library. The man of the house was sitting at his computer typing away, probably on a legal brief for one of his upcoming cases. Music played softly—a Bach overture on period instruments, Royce surmised—and he sipped intermittently from a glass of red wine.
At the back of the house, no one else was to be seen on the ground floor. A pair of heavy bi-fold glass doors was unlocked. Royce slid one back slowly, on whisper-quiet sliders, and walked in on tiptoe. Pulling his service weapon from the fanny pack, he held it by his side and walked slowly toward the library in the front of the house, scanning rooms as he went. It was not lost on him that he was in the process of committing multiple felonies.
At the doorway of the library, he pointed his pistol straight at Flanagan’s chest and cleared his throat quietly. The lawyer looked up.
“I assume you’re one of Bob’s guys?” He closed the laptop, staring admiringly at the burglar. “Did you know that from this angle, the front of your gun looks like a perfect circle inside of a perfect square?” he said with eerie calm.
Royce raised a brow but kept looking down the sight.
“It almost looks fake.”
“It’s not.”
The gun stayed perfectly steady.
“I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m Alex Johnson’s brother.” No, I’m not, Royce thought to himself, choking on the words he used to say with supreme confidence and pride. Both were gone.
Sean laughed a knowing laugh.
“What can I do for you? And, if you don’t mind me asking, why’d you sneak in through the back door instead of announcing yourself with the bell like everyone else?”
“I’m not here to arrest you. I want answers.”
“Answers about your brother’s death.” He looked genuinely sorry. “Friends at my firm went to law school with him, a few were his students, and they all spoke highly of his mind and his character.”
“Spare me the bullshit, Counselor. I know you played a part. Pakistan. Marcus Jones. Ring any bells?” He jerked the pistol aggressively and took a step in Flanagan’s direction.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here tonight, but you don’t need to do anything risky. I’m already a dead man.”
“I don’t just shoot people I don’t like. That’s why I’m a good guy and you aren’t.”
“Oh, that is rich! You just broke in, you’re pointing a gun, and you’re the white hat in this scenario? I don’t think so. I know that badge, that gun, they are all as legit as a three-dollar bill. You are—”
“Why don’t you help me get the people responsible? If you come in and tell your story, we can protect you.”
“Do you think the FBI is going to let you bring down the president and the chief justice? Did Washington call and tell you to back off, to wrap it up and move on to other things because there was no case? That was me telling you that. ME!” Flanagan almost stood up but reconsidered. Then, in a resigned voice, added, “You’ve got no chance, Agent Johnson. None.”
Royce realized for the first time what he was up against. It wasn’t just Gerhardt and his team of lawyer-killers. It was Uncle Sam in his red-blooded entirety. Silence hung between them.
Flanagan broke it, “Now you want me to run into the FBI’s arms begging for protection. Hilarious!”
“Okay I’ll make it simple. How about doing the right thing?”
“The right thing is a death warrant for us both.”
“Ask me if I give a shit. I want to know why.”
“Pham is the last hope for this president to remake the Supreme Court in a way that will make America a fundamentally better place. How’s that?”
“Really? Then what’s the priest all about, Flanagan? You’ve been giving the priest evidence, haven’t you?”
“I want to protect my family. I want some leverage, I guess. Look, I’m not going to testify against the president or anyone else. No. I’m not going to go in front of the assembled media and talk about how I destroyed innocent people to further a political agenda and my career. It’s never going to happen.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“It leaves me here at my desk working on an appeal in an asbestos case, and you walking out the door and into the darkness. Hopefully never to return or say a word to anyone.”
“You wish. He raped my brother. He’s still raping boys. I’ve seen it with my own—”
“I know what he did. I know who he is. What do you want me to say?”
“I want to know who pulled the trigger on Alex.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Royce cocked the trigger. Flanagan put his hands flat on the desk and closed his eyes. They both stayed motionless—one man with a gun, one without. Seconds ticked by. Royce let out a breath. He lowered the pistol, uncocked it, and put it away. He walked back along the dark hallway through the kitchen, and out into the chilly night air.
Several yards away from the house, the kitchen lights went on. Royce paused. The back door opened. Sean Flanagan stood under an overhead light that hollowed his cheeks and eye sockets into a mask. He shaded his face from the light and peered out into the shadows. “You still here, Johnson?”
“Yeah.”
“Ask Bob Gerhardt. He’s the only one who knows.” The door closed.
CHAPTER 41
March 2015
Arlington, Virginia
Bob Gerhardt was late. His team, Sean Flanagan included, was assembled in the twelfth-floor conference room waiting nervously for the man who was never late. The men fiddled with their binders, played Threes! on their phones, or paced around, staring out the windows trying to get a glimpse of the Washington Monument. Just when the boredom was turning to worry, the conference room door swung open, and in he strode with a phone pressed to his ear. An aide holding a briefcase in each hand trailed behind him. Gerhardt hung up and took his seat at the head of the conference table.
“Let’s get started. I’ve just come from the White House.”
A murmur went through the room, and everyone looked up from their phones.
“I’ve activated Chicago.”
“Holy shit, Bob. Are you serious?” Jay Rudolph, athletic with a shaved head, walked over to the credenza on the far wall where he poured himself a glass of water. He downed it in a single gulp, then looked back at Gerhardt. “Fuck, Bob…fuck.”
“Once we learned Songbird was going to sing, his fate was sealed.”
“Wait, what does that mean, ‘activated Chicago’?” Sean Flanagan asked sheepishly.
“Don’t be a child, Sean, you know what it fucking means.” The other lawyer rolled his eyes.
“No, I don’t. What are we talking about here, Bob?” Flanagan was not playing dumb.
The looks on the faces in the room were not what Gerhardt wanted to see. Doubt, concern, reservation, and even a bit of mutiny were there in their eyes. No one said anything. They looked at Gerhardt like he was their father; their abusive, alcoholic father.
“I was with the president when she made the call. It was not easy. She struggled. If it makes you feel better, I saw all sides of this. We really have no choice.”
Gerhardt thought a bit of historical perspective was needed to seal the deal.
“Have I ever told you guys about Wei Rulin?”
Without waiting for everyone to say what he already knew, Gerhardt went on. He loved being the smartest one in every room.
“Wei was a general in the army of the Chinese Nationalists during the war between China and Japan in the thirties. The Chinese leader, Chiang Kai-shek, knew they were powerless to stop the Japanese army, but they needed to buy time. Chiang decides to deliberately breech the levees holding back the Yellow River, knowing it would flood thousands of square miles, bogging down the Japanese advance. Pretty great idea. So, under orders from Chiang, General Wei secretly ordered his men to dig holes in the levee. When the levee broke, a wall of water as tall as a man rushed down the Yellow River valley, wiping out everything it its path. The Chinese citizens downstream were taken completely by surprise; thousands were drowned and washed away. But the standing water, which flooded thousands of square miles, caused the real toll. Crops were ruined and diseases flourished. Nearly a million people were killed as a result of the decision, and millions more were forced to become refugees. But, you know what, it worked. The Japs were stalled too, and it saved China. A million lives saved the rest of the people. Saved the nation.”
He finished and looked pleased with his story.
The silent critics were not silenced. They fidgeted and rubbed their eyes; they breathed heavily into their cheeks, puffing out breath.
Gerhardt felt the team, and therefore the mission, was at an inflection point.
“If you want out, there’s the door!” he pointed emphatically at the exit. “Leave and there will be no hard feelings. I’ll give you a top-notch recommendation.”
No one got up to leave. Perhaps because no one thought it was a real option.
“Okay, good. We are all in this together. Agreed?”
A chorus of agreed echoed through the large conference room, some more honest than others.
“Outstanding. Huzzah!”
“Whatever you need, boss.” Rudolph stood and stretched his legs.
“I’ve got a tape to play.” He motioned to an aide, who set a briefcase on the table, and pulled out a small digital recorder. She pressed play. Gerhardt leaned back in his leather chair and looked up at the ceiling. The team heard a voice, but no one knew who it was. It was obviously a fragment of a longer conversation.
“Are you really going ahead with this?” the first voice said.
Then they heard another voice. Sean Flanagan recognized it as Alex Johnson.
“I have to, Roger.”
“You know that your life will be over.”
“You think they’ll kill me?” The two men could be heard laughing.
“Funny. No, you’ll survive.”
“Oh, good!”
“I’m just saying that if you out a Supreme Court nominee, your students, friends, colleagues, everyone will look and treat you differently. You’ll be a celebrity for a while, but then you’ll have to adjust to…well, something different.”
“Sounds like a chance to start over. It actually sounds nice.”
“If you are going ahead with this, you know I’ve got your back. If you want me to testify…I’ve interviewed enough victims to know what a real one looks like, and you, my friend, are a real one.”
Then Alex Johnson’s voice could be heard again.
“Trying to process all of this under the kind of duress I’m under is…well, it just sucks. I don’t want to bring you down with all my mess.”
The recording cut off. Gerhardt paused and looked around the room into the eyes of his team. Rudolph sat up in his chair and cleared his throat.
“I assume that is the other professor, what was his name? Evans?”
“Havens,” Gerhardt said.
“Evans, Havens, whatever.”
Sean Flanagan had heard enough. “Am I the only one here who thinks this is nuts?” It came out of his mouth with a lot less conviction than when it left his brain.
The conversations in the room stopped like a bomb had gone off, and everyone turned to look at him. Flanagan took stock of the faces staring holes through him.
“Finny, what are you thinking about?” Bob walked over toward him and loomed over the attorney.
“I just can’t believe this is happening. I mean, we are talking about people’s lives here. We are talking about…stuff…that is illegal and…immoral.” It seemed to Flanagan that no one had even blinked, and he could feel the beads of sweat forming on his palms and in his armpits. He started to waver. “Look, there is no doubt that I support the president and Judge Pham, and I understand the stakes here. I’m a team player. But where do we draw the line? Is one or three or ten too many? Certainly not a million, like that Chinese guy. We wouldn’t do that, would we?”
Bob Gerhardt made his way back around the large, oak table to the front of the room. He put his palms down on the table and hunched forward. He made eye contact with everyone in the room, then turned to Flanagan.
“Do you know how many people I’ve killed, personally? With these hands.” He held them up like a butcher would show a roast to a customer over a counter.
“I don’t, Bob, and I don’t see how that is relevant.” Gerhardt’s question frightened Flanagan.
“In every case, the order came, directly or indirectly, from the president of the United States. The president made a call that a particular individual or group of individuals was a threat to the United States and tasked me with eliminating that threat.”
“And?”
“Do you think I read all the intelligence reports or verified them in some way before I acted?”
“No, of course not.”
“Of course not. I relied on the president. I relied on the chain of command. I relied on the system. I believed in the system, the American system. I am an instrument, Mr. Flanagan, just as you are. We are just tools of power.”
“Are you saying we should never question orders?”
“I’m not a fool.” Gerhardt rose and stood close to the table. “I would not follow an order I knew to be illegal or immoral. We all carry our moral codes around with us like clothes on our backs. But as soldiers, we cannot deploy ours willy-nilly. We have to ask instead whether the decisions are so out of bounds they cannot be justified by any defensible moral grounding.”
“And this one?”
“You are kidding, right?”
“I’m not.”
“What upsets you, Mr. Flanagan? That he is innocent? What did the Pakistanis and Afghans and Somalis and Yemenis that I killed do exactly? They threatened America, meaning they threatened harm against Americans. Well, that is what these professors are doing too. I don’t care if they are Americans or not—we vowed to fight enemies, foreign and domestic. And I don’t care that they are on American soil. I’d have killed the people I’ve killed anywhere they were.”
“Fine. But those are different cases, Bob. I mean, the threat is much more direct. If some guy threatens to blow up the Mall of America, the risk is much higher than the threat from some professor maybe influencing the vote on a Supreme Court nominee who maybe changes the ruling on a case, which maybe reduces the chance of some policy maybe helping some people. I mean, this is apples and oranges.”
