Mental State, page 23
The priest nodded. “Sure. I’d appreciate it. As long as it is no trouble and you are going there anyway. I don’t want to put you out at all.”
“I’m certain. It would be my pleasure. Hop in.”
The priest walked around to the passenger side. He closed the umbrella, shook it off, and climbed in. He took the package out from under his coat and rested it on his lap. It was safe and sound, and soon his promise would be fulfilled.
The man turned down the radio and asked the priest about how he became one. As the priest began his tale of how he’d gone to law school but discovered the Lord and went directly to the seminary after graduation, the man shifted the car into gear, checked his mirrors, and moved out into traffic. The sedan sped away into the rain.
CHAPTER 46
Royce gasped. He sat up with a jerk and nearly spilled the Big Gulp of sweet tea balanced between his knees. Raising the disembodied sniper scope, he tried to focus on the driver of the silver Toyota Camry. But he had only a second before it drove off. In that instant, he could make out a middle-aged man behind the wheel, but the priest’s head prevented him from getting the look he needed to get. The rain didn’t help either. It drew a watery veil over the Camry and its passengers. The driver could be Gerhardt or one of his assassins, but there was no way to be sure. Maybe it was a good Samaritan. Despite what he’d been through, Royce still believed they existed.
He had been waiting for days for just this moment—feeling like a pilot landing a 747 after an overnight flight—hours of boredom culminating in ten seconds of terror. For the past week, he’d followed the most boring man in Virginia, if not the United States. Father Case was a penitent man. His parishioners would have been proud at the ascetic life he led. The cleric rose early, drove a beat-up Chevy Aveo two-point-seven miles to his parish, where he worked all day, presumably taking lunch at the desk. At precisely seven every evening, except Sundays, he drove home, made a barebones dinner and spent the remainder of the night reading the Bible and typing at his laptop. What went on inside the parish was of little concern to Royce. Souls could be saved and the truth revealed, or not. All he cared about were the secrets in the envelopes that were surely addressed to 620 Eighth Avenue, New York, NY 10018—the headquarters of the New York Times. Royce thought about breaking in and triggering the dead-man switch himself but couldn’t be sure where the documents were stored. And he had no reason to think Gerhardt knew about the priest. No, better to let things play out as Flanagan had planned. Intervening when it wasn’t necessary might just make things worse. Royce decided he’d just be insurance.
Surveilling the priest didn’t exactly make exciting police work. The rental now had plastic bottles filled with pee stored in the back, and the passenger foot well doubled as a garbage can for fast-food wrappers and the bits of fat in beef jerky that got stuck in his teeth. Waiting for the end game, he’d dozed off dozens of times—the hectic past months were finally sending their bill. Thankfully, every time he woke up, his heart in his throat, the priest was right where he’d left him. And neither Gerhardt nor his men were anywhere to be seen.
In the boredom, Royce fretted that he’d missed the priest dropping the envelope in the mail. He’d seen the priest exit the parish with a package a couple of times, fingering it like a ticking time bomb. Each time, Royce’s hand crept to the gearshift and he thought about driving by and grabbing the package or even the priest. But then he’d relax and fall back in the seat. Every time, the priest turned back, reluctantly.
Then, when the priest finally took that first step toward justice for Alex, when he finally was on his way, Royce was convinced that the priest took a ride with the devil.
The rental steered into traffic, trying to keep at a safe distance. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted. Yet, Gerhardt seemed to know things that he couldn’t possibly know. And the priest was his last card to play.
The Camry stopped at a traffic light; Royce was three cars behind. The Camry’s tail lights flickered in the driving rain; the rental’s wipers could barely keep up. The rain came in sheets. Royce glanced over at his Mossberg on the passenger seat, the tip of the muzzle peeking out from underneath the Penn State windbreaker. He reached over and petted it like a dog that had retrieved a ball. Good boy.
The light turned green, and the Camry inched ahead in the growing traffic, slowed by torrents of rain. Royce typed “Fairfax post office” into Google Maps with his right thumb as he drove—the closest one was five clicks ahead. The priest was headed there, he had no doubt. Royce let himself relax for a moment, hoping for the best. The outlines of two heads and shoulders were visible through the traffic and the rain. They didn’t seem to be in conflict. Royce let his heart beat slow.
But a few minutes later, the Camry sped past the post office on Pickett Road. They were headed, the map told him, toward the Little River Parkway. Then, either east toward the Beltway or west toward Interstate 66. Out on the open road, they would be untraceable and the game would be over.
“Fuck!” Royce shouted, pounding the roof of his Buick with the palm of his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He gripped the wheel with two hands and hit the accelerator.
Suddenly the Camry lurched right without signaling, into the entrance of a McDonalds that fronted the road of a large shopping center. Royce’s stomach turned—his worst nightmare. He was on enemy ground with limited visibility, and now he’d lost the element of surprise.
Royce floored the accelerator and turned sharply to follow the Camry. But he swerved too early and was headed for a small hedge that provided a border between the parking lot and the road. Turning the wheel furiously, he overcompensated, causing the Buick to fishtail wildly. Muscle memory kicked in, gained from years of training under these conditions at Quantico. But not before the Big Gulp emptied into his lap and some lunch goers leapt backwards in fright as they raced toward their cars in the rain.
Back in control, he scanned the horizon for the Camry. It was gone. No, no, no, he shouted in his head. Where are you, you bastard!? Royce drove in farther toward the mall, guessing they went right. He circled around past a workout place, a tattoo parlor, and a restaurant advertising an Indian buffet. The parking lot was mostly abandoned on account of the rain, so he didn’t worry about cutting short corners. He swerved in and out of the lanes, but the Camry was nowhere to be found.
Then he spotted the distinctive taper of the its taillights, turning right past the Potbelly, headed out of the mall. Royce gunned it. But before he could make any progress, a woman darted in front of his car. She was making a run for it in the rain, hoping to get into the shelter of the Bed, Bath & Beyond as quickly as possible. She didn’t see Royce and, with his mind on the priest, he didn’t see her.
He slammed the brakes, but it was too late. The woman buckled and tumbled onto the front of his car. She landed with a thud, then did a one-eighty-degree barrel roll. Royce caught a glimpse of the scared animal in her eyes, a look he’d seen a thousand times before. But that didn’t make it any easier to see. She fell to the pavement, out of sight on the side of the car. Royce jammed it into park and leapt out. Racing around to the front, he saw the woman getting to her feet, dazed and angry, but seemingly not too worse for the wear. It was enough.
Seconds later, he was back behind the wheel. Guilt washed over him, as he looked into the rearview mirror and saw the woman surrounded by people who’d rushed to help, all looking at him speed away.
Royce guessed Gerhardt, or his minion, was headed toward the Beltway—there would be more traffic and more choices that way, and it was in the direction of the house on the bay where they’d had their showdown days earlier. Yes, he’d retreat to home turf, where he knew the roads and had reinforcements.
Out on the Beltway, Royce weaved in and out of traffic, leaning hard on the horn. The rain continued to pound, making every driver more cautious. The speedometer hit one hundred, as he searched desperately for his prey. When traffic slowed near the intersection with Interstate 395, he swerved onto the shoulder, racing past stalled cars, their passengers wide-eyed as he blew past. Outside the passenger window, the Camry was nowhere to be found.
Several exits whipped by, each providing a nearly fool-proof escape. He was betting the Camry had headed home, confident it had left Royce searching in vain back in Fairfax. Then, he saw them. Several cars ahead and in the far-right lane. The Camry cruised along, its driver relaxed and the priest sitting nervously beside him. The driver only had one hand on the wheel. He guessed the other held a weapon of some sort in the left ribs of the priest.
They hadn’t seen Royce yet, so he’d regained the element of surprise. He slowed and tucked back into traffic from the left shoulder. He cautiously changed lanes, one at a time, using the turn signal and checking mirrors. For a moment, he looked like a commuter, navigating his shiny metal box on a daily grind. He eased in a few cars behind the Camry, and now was going along with traffic. Royce bided his time, taking the opportunity to make a plan.
It also gave him time to pick up the Mossberg, chamber a round, and put it across his lap. It wasn’t an easy decision. Mentally, he clicked through the price of eliminating Gerhardt. When all was said and done, his excellent FBI record etcetera, etcetera, he figured five years behind prison bars. Maybe ten. Is it worth it?
Even now, he was probably looking at a year or more, without doing much more than he’d done. Hit-and-run, weapons charges, assault, false imprisonment, B&E. It was a hefty list. Unless he got his man, won over public opinion with justice, it was going to be…well, best not think of that now…
The traffic eased up, and the Camry accelerated into more open road. Royce had his chance. PIT training from the academy told him to pull up so that his front right wheel was about even with the back bumper of the Camry. Royce could hear his Quantico instructor barking commands when an arm reached out of the driver’s window of the Camry revealing the menacing shape of an H&K MP5. A spray of glass shattered into Royce’s face, 9mm rounds riddled the hood of the car. Royce instinctively jerked the wheel to the right. CRAACK! The rental slammed into the Camry’s bumper. He slammed the brakes and dove into the passenger seat. The car behind squealed to a stop, and crashes sounded on three sides. Disoriented, Royce checked for blood on his shirt. He hadn’t been hit, although he could feel bits of glass in his face. He caught his breath as the rain pelted the roof of the car.
Grabbing the Mossberg, he crawled out the passenger side. He popped his head up between the door and the frame of the car. The Mossberg led the way. The Camry turned sideways, its front end smashed into the Jersey barrier separating the lanes. All of its windows were shattered. Smoke billowed from the engine compartment. Royce stepped around the open door and raised the Mossberg. He couldn’t see anyone through the rain, but decided to announce his presence with authority. He squeezed off a shot into the driver’s door. The metal quickly looked like Swiss cheese. No movement. At the sound of the shot, drivers who had emerged to inspect the damage to their vehicles bolted back into their cars. Royce stood alone in the center of the Beltway, shotgun raised and ready. The rain was soaking, but Royce couldn’t feel anything.
Moving forward cautiously, and he saw the priest slumped into a pillowy airbag. He wasn’t moving. Blood dripped from his left ear. Royce stepped toward helping him, then thought better of it. He raised the Mossberg purposefully, sidestepping around the back of the Camry. The rear of the sedan was folded like an accordion from the impact of a Range Rover, now on its side, wheels spinning aimlessly. Cries and whimpers came from inside. Royce had the urge to help, but he fought it off. For Alex. He held the shotgun in his right hand for a moment, using the other hand to wipe the rain from his eyes. As he came around between the Camry and the Range Rover, the driver of the Camry crawled away from the scene, right leg dragging limp behind him. In his right hand, a package. The package.
Royce walked up behind him. The man wasn’t making much progress army crawling on the rain-drenched pavement in a daze. Then, Royce was on him, using his right foot to pin the man’s leg to the road. The man let out a whelp. Royce fired a round of buckshot into the ground beside him, and the man went limp. Royce reached down and flipped him over. It was Gerhardt. Blood was streaming from his face and nothing was behind his eyes. Royce pumped the Mossberg and pointed it center mass. He smiled, but Gerhardt was too stunned to respond.
Reaching down, Royce uncurled Gerhardt’s fingers. They gripped like rigor mortis had set in. He picked up the package, wet with rain and streaks of blood, and tucked it into his waist under his shirt. Then he surveyed the scene. Sirens sounded in the distance and shouts started to echo around him. “There he is!” a male voice shouted through the rain. Royce looked back and saw the priest, still motionless in the passenger side of the Camry.
Gerhardt still hadn’t moved, eyes glassy and face distorted in pain. Royce raised the Mossberg and readied to put the butt into Gerhardt’s nose. He took a half swing, and he saw Gerhardt close his eyes with resignation. Royce stopped short. He didn’t feel pity exactly, but the weakness of his foe stole the moment.
The shotgun slung back over his shoulder, Royce turned back in the direction of travel. An open road was ahead of him. He took off at a jog, but accelerated until his lungs burned and his legs couldn’t carry him any further. About a mile from the scene, he jumped over a guardrail and was gone. Another few months added to the prison-time tally in his head. He skidded down a muddy embankment, using his hands underneath as brakes and steering. At the bottom of the slope, he jumped up, made sure the package was still secure, and headed off perpendicular to the highway. He was quickly alone in the woods. After a few minutes, he found a fallen log within sight of a house in the distance. There was time to sit for a moment to catch his breath and savor the feeling of victory.
EPILOGUE
Sandra Jensen had been The New York Times Supreme Court reporter for just this side of six months. Stepping into the shoes of Adam Liptak was no easy task, just as it hadn’t been for him when he replaced Linda Greenhouse. It was a marquee job at the Paper of Record, earning front-page real estate several times per year, for sure. The job was one she’d always dreamed of having since her days as an undergrad at Northwestern. Law school had been her choice, not because she wanted to be a lawyer, but because she wanted to be a legal reporter. Now, after years at papers in South Bend, Indianapolis, and Chicago, as well as writing for SCOTUSblog, she was at the pinnacle of her profession.
On this Wednesday morning, she was at her desk writing what critics would say was a puff piece about the first Asian-American Supreme Court justice. Sandra Jensen was not a doctrinaire Liberal, but she had a preference for diversity and left-leaning politics, like every other reporter she knew who wasn’t writing for the Christian Science Monitor or the Wall Street Journal. And even they couldn’t help but be proud America finally put an Asian-American on the High Court.
“Package for you, Ms. Jensen,” the mail clerk shouted over the top of her cubicle.
“Thanks, Fred,” she said nonchalantly, motioning to her inbox. “Put it there.” She didn’t look up from her typing.
“I…you might want to just take this one…” His voice made her jump.
She glanced up and saw an outreached hand holding a large manila envelope that looked like it had been dragged under a subway car. The sides were bent; one was torn. The entire thing was covered in dirt and what appeared like blood.
“I guess we should have someone go down and talk to the boys in the mail room,” she joked, taking the envelope in her hands like someone who wished she were wearing surgical gloves.
She didn’t need a letter opener. She merely grabbed a torn end and pulled. She reached in and took out a stack of papers three inches thick. Sandra Jensen turned off the monitor on her computer, and started reading.
At just that moment, two hundred and fifty miles southwest, a man walked into a police station in Fairfax, Virginia. He was carrying a copy of the Washington Times under his arm and holding a takeout cup in his hand. He walked over to the duty desk and put his paper on the table. He took a sip of his coffee, then put it down on the paper.
“May I help you?” the officer said.
“My name is Royce Johnson. I’m here to turn myself in.” His voice was confident and full of relief.
“What have you done, Mr. Johnson?” the officer’s tone was slightly jocular. The man looked like he’d never even jaywalked.
“Hit and run,” he said matter of factly. This got the officer’s attention.
“Is that right?”
“Three days ago. In front of the Potbelly in the Pickett Shopping Center. It was raining hard and I was in a hurry. I stopped briefly and she seemed okay. But I couldn’t wait for the police. It was…Well, I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, and I’m here to accept my punishment.”
The officer came around the desk and took Royce by the arm.
“This way, sir.” He led Royce into the processing room, where he would be printed and booked for leaving the scene of an accident. The officer looked over at him, as he led him down the hallway. The man was smiling.
Back to TOC
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Elaine Ash provided invaluable editing and advice from start to finish. She was also a patient and kind mentor. This book would not exist without her help.
Thanks to my agent, Alex Hoyt, who believed in me and my story.
Many friends from the University of Chicago, especially Saul Levmore and Scott Eggener, were generous and supportive readers. Their encouragement was essential; their friendship is treasured.
Back to TOC
M. Todd Henderson was the biggest baby born in Tennessee in 1970. A professor at the University of Chicago, he is mostly renowned as being the tallest law professor on Earth. He’s also written dozens of books and articles on business law and regulation. Prior to becoming an academic, he worked as a designer of dams, a judicial clerk, a Supreme Court lawyer, and a management consultant. A graduate of Princeton and the University of Chicago, he lives in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago with his wife and three children.
“I’m certain. It would be my pleasure. Hop in.”
The priest walked around to the passenger side. He closed the umbrella, shook it off, and climbed in. He took the package out from under his coat and rested it on his lap. It was safe and sound, and soon his promise would be fulfilled.
The man turned down the radio and asked the priest about how he became one. As the priest began his tale of how he’d gone to law school but discovered the Lord and went directly to the seminary after graduation, the man shifted the car into gear, checked his mirrors, and moved out into traffic. The sedan sped away into the rain.
CHAPTER 46
Royce gasped. He sat up with a jerk and nearly spilled the Big Gulp of sweet tea balanced between his knees. Raising the disembodied sniper scope, he tried to focus on the driver of the silver Toyota Camry. But he had only a second before it drove off. In that instant, he could make out a middle-aged man behind the wheel, but the priest’s head prevented him from getting the look he needed to get. The rain didn’t help either. It drew a watery veil over the Camry and its passengers. The driver could be Gerhardt or one of his assassins, but there was no way to be sure. Maybe it was a good Samaritan. Despite what he’d been through, Royce still believed they existed.
He had been waiting for days for just this moment—feeling like a pilot landing a 747 after an overnight flight—hours of boredom culminating in ten seconds of terror. For the past week, he’d followed the most boring man in Virginia, if not the United States. Father Case was a penitent man. His parishioners would have been proud at the ascetic life he led. The cleric rose early, drove a beat-up Chevy Aveo two-point-seven miles to his parish, where he worked all day, presumably taking lunch at the desk. At precisely seven every evening, except Sundays, he drove home, made a barebones dinner and spent the remainder of the night reading the Bible and typing at his laptop. What went on inside the parish was of little concern to Royce. Souls could be saved and the truth revealed, or not. All he cared about were the secrets in the envelopes that were surely addressed to 620 Eighth Avenue, New York, NY 10018—the headquarters of the New York Times. Royce thought about breaking in and triggering the dead-man switch himself but couldn’t be sure where the documents were stored. And he had no reason to think Gerhardt knew about the priest. No, better to let things play out as Flanagan had planned. Intervening when it wasn’t necessary might just make things worse. Royce decided he’d just be insurance.
Surveilling the priest didn’t exactly make exciting police work. The rental now had plastic bottles filled with pee stored in the back, and the passenger foot well doubled as a garbage can for fast-food wrappers and the bits of fat in beef jerky that got stuck in his teeth. Waiting for the end game, he’d dozed off dozens of times—the hectic past months were finally sending their bill. Thankfully, every time he woke up, his heart in his throat, the priest was right where he’d left him. And neither Gerhardt nor his men were anywhere to be seen.
In the boredom, Royce fretted that he’d missed the priest dropping the envelope in the mail. He’d seen the priest exit the parish with a package a couple of times, fingering it like a ticking time bomb. Each time, Royce’s hand crept to the gearshift and he thought about driving by and grabbing the package or even the priest. But then he’d relax and fall back in the seat. Every time, the priest turned back, reluctantly.
Then, when the priest finally took that first step toward justice for Alex, when he finally was on his way, Royce was convinced that the priest took a ride with the devil.
The rental steered into traffic, trying to keep at a safe distance. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted. Yet, Gerhardt seemed to know things that he couldn’t possibly know. And the priest was his last card to play.
The Camry stopped at a traffic light; Royce was three cars behind. The Camry’s tail lights flickered in the driving rain; the rental’s wipers could barely keep up. The rain came in sheets. Royce glanced over at his Mossberg on the passenger seat, the tip of the muzzle peeking out from underneath the Penn State windbreaker. He reached over and petted it like a dog that had retrieved a ball. Good boy.
The light turned green, and the Camry inched ahead in the growing traffic, slowed by torrents of rain. Royce typed “Fairfax post office” into Google Maps with his right thumb as he drove—the closest one was five clicks ahead. The priest was headed there, he had no doubt. Royce let himself relax for a moment, hoping for the best. The outlines of two heads and shoulders were visible through the traffic and the rain. They didn’t seem to be in conflict. Royce let his heart beat slow.
But a few minutes later, the Camry sped past the post office on Pickett Road. They were headed, the map told him, toward the Little River Parkway. Then, either east toward the Beltway or west toward Interstate 66. Out on the open road, they would be untraceable and the game would be over.
“Fuck!” Royce shouted, pounding the roof of his Buick with the palm of his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He gripped the wheel with two hands and hit the accelerator.
Suddenly the Camry lurched right without signaling, into the entrance of a McDonalds that fronted the road of a large shopping center. Royce’s stomach turned—his worst nightmare. He was on enemy ground with limited visibility, and now he’d lost the element of surprise.
Royce floored the accelerator and turned sharply to follow the Camry. But he swerved too early and was headed for a small hedge that provided a border between the parking lot and the road. Turning the wheel furiously, he overcompensated, causing the Buick to fishtail wildly. Muscle memory kicked in, gained from years of training under these conditions at Quantico. But not before the Big Gulp emptied into his lap and some lunch goers leapt backwards in fright as they raced toward their cars in the rain.
Back in control, he scanned the horizon for the Camry. It was gone. No, no, no, he shouted in his head. Where are you, you bastard!? Royce drove in farther toward the mall, guessing they went right. He circled around past a workout place, a tattoo parlor, and a restaurant advertising an Indian buffet. The parking lot was mostly abandoned on account of the rain, so he didn’t worry about cutting short corners. He swerved in and out of the lanes, but the Camry was nowhere to be found.
Then he spotted the distinctive taper of the its taillights, turning right past the Potbelly, headed out of the mall. Royce gunned it. But before he could make any progress, a woman darted in front of his car. She was making a run for it in the rain, hoping to get into the shelter of the Bed, Bath & Beyond as quickly as possible. She didn’t see Royce and, with his mind on the priest, he didn’t see her.
He slammed the brakes, but it was too late. The woman buckled and tumbled onto the front of his car. She landed with a thud, then did a one-eighty-degree barrel roll. Royce caught a glimpse of the scared animal in her eyes, a look he’d seen a thousand times before. But that didn’t make it any easier to see. She fell to the pavement, out of sight on the side of the car. Royce jammed it into park and leapt out. Racing around to the front, he saw the woman getting to her feet, dazed and angry, but seemingly not too worse for the wear. It was enough.
Seconds later, he was back behind the wheel. Guilt washed over him, as he looked into the rearview mirror and saw the woman surrounded by people who’d rushed to help, all looking at him speed away.
Royce guessed Gerhardt, or his minion, was headed toward the Beltway—there would be more traffic and more choices that way, and it was in the direction of the house on the bay where they’d had their showdown days earlier. Yes, he’d retreat to home turf, where he knew the roads and had reinforcements.
Out on the Beltway, Royce weaved in and out of traffic, leaning hard on the horn. The rain continued to pound, making every driver more cautious. The speedometer hit one hundred, as he searched desperately for his prey. When traffic slowed near the intersection with Interstate 395, he swerved onto the shoulder, racing past stalled cars, their passengers wide-eyed as he blew past. Outside the passenger window, the Camry was nowhere to be found.
Several exits whipped by, each providing a nearly fool-proof escape. He was betting the Camry had headed home, confident it had left Royce searching in vain back in Fairfax. Then, he saw them. Several cars ahead and in the far-right lane. The Camry cruised along, its driver relaxed and the priest sitting nervously beside him. The driver only had one hand on the wheel. He guessed the other held a weapon of some sort in the left ribs of the priest.
They hadn’t seen Royce yet, so he’d regained the element of surprise. He slowed and tucked back into traffic from the left shoulder. He cautiously changed lanes, one at a time, using the turn signal and checking mirrors. For a moment, he looked like a commuter, navigating his shiny metal box on a daily grind. He eased in a few cars behind the Camry, and now was going along with traffic. Royce bided his time, taking the opportunity to make a plan.
It also gave him time to pick up the Mossberg, chamber a round, and put it across his lap. It wasn’t an easy decision. Mentally, he clicked through the price of eliminating Gerhardt. When all was said and done, his excellent FBI record etcetera, etcetera, he figured five years behind prison bars. Maybe ten. Is it worth it?
Even now, he was probably looking at a year or more, without doing much more than he’d done. Hit-and-run, weapons charges, assault, false imprisonment, B&E. It was a hefty list. Unless he got his man, won over public opinion with justice, it was going to be…well, best not think of that now…
The traffic eased up, and the Camry accelerated into more open road. Royce had his chance. PIT training from the academy told him to pull up so that his front right wheel was about even with the back bumper of the Camry. Royce could hear his Quantico instructor barking commands when an arm reached out of the driver’s window of the Camry revealing the menacing shape of an H&K MP5. A spray of glass shattered into Royce’s face, 9mm rounds riddled the hood of the car. Royce instinctively jerked the wheel to the right. CRAACK! The rental slammed into the Camry’s bumper. He slammed the brakes and dove into the passenger seat. The car behind squealed to a stop, and crashes sounded on three sides. Disoriented, Royce checked for blood on his shirt. He hadn’t been hit, although he could feel bits of glass in his face. He caught his breath as the rain pelted the roof of the car.
Grabbing the Mossberg, he crawled out the passenger side. He popped his head up between the door and the frame of the car. The Mossberg led the way. The Camry turned sideways, its front end smashed into the Jersey barrier separating the lanes. All of its windows were shattered. Smoke billowed from the engine compartment. Royce stepped around the open door and raised the Mossberg. He couldn’t see anyone through the rain, but decided to announce his presence with authority. He squeezed off a shot into the driver’s door. The metal quickly looked like Swiss cheese. No movement. At the sound of the shot, drivers who had emerged to inspect the damage to their vehicles bolted back into their cars. Royce stood alone in the center of the Beltway, shotgun raised and ready. The rain was soaking, but Royce couldn’t feel anything.
Moving forward cautiously, and he saw the priest slumped into a pillowy airbag. He wasn’t moving. Blood dripped from his left ear. Royce stepped toward helping him, then thought better of it. He raised the Mossberg purposefully, sidestepping around the back of the Camry. The rear of the sedan was folded like an accordion from the impact of a Range Rover, now on its side, wheels spinning aimlessly. Cries and whimpers came from inside. Royce had the urge to help, but he fought it off. For Alex. He held the shotgun in his right hand for a moment, using the other hand to wipe the rain from his eyes. As he came around between the Camry and the Range Rover, the driver of the Camry crawled away from the scene, right leg dragging limp behind him. In his right hand, a package. The package.
Royce walked up behind him. The man wasn’t making much progress army crawling on the rain-drenched pavement in a daze. Then, Royce was on him, using his right foot to pin the man’s leg to the road. The man let out a whelp. Royce fired a round of buckshot into the ground beside him, and the man went limp. Royce reached down and flipped him over. It was Gerhardt. Blood was streaming from his face and nothing was behind his eyes. Royce pumped the Mossberg and pointed it center mass. He smiled, but Gerhardt was too stunned to respond.
Reaching down, Royce uncurled Gerhardt’s fingers. They gripped like rigor mortis had set in. He picked up the package, wet with rain and streaks of blood, and tucked it into his waist under his shirt. Then he surveyed the scene. Sirens sounded in the distance and shouts started to echo around him. “There he is!” a male voice shouted through the rain. Royce looked back and saw the priest, still motionless in the passenger side of the Camry.
Gerhardt still hadn’t moved, eyes glassy and face distorted in pain. Royce raised the Mossberg and readied to put the butt into Gerhardt’s nose. He took a half swing, and he saw Gerhardt close his eyes with resignation. Royce stopped short. He didn’t feel pity exactly, but the weakness of his foe stole the moment.
The shotgun slung back over his shoulder, Royce turned back in the direction of travel. An open road was ahead of him. He took off at a jog, but accelerated until his lungs burned and his legs couldn’t carry him any further. About a mile from the scene, he jumped over a guardrail and was gone. Another few months added to the prison-time tally in his head. He skidded down a muddy embankment, using his hands underneath as brakes and steering. At the bottom of the slope, he jumped up, made sure the package was still secure, and headed off perpendicular to the highway. He was quickly alone in the woods. After a few minutes, he found a fallen log within sight of a house in the distance. There was time to sit for a moment to catch his breath and savor the feeling of victory.
EPILOGUE
Sandra Jensen had been The New York Times Supreme Court reporter for just this side of six months. Stepping into the shoes of Adam Liptak was no easy task, just as it hadn’t been for him when he replaced Linda Greenhouse. It was a marquee job at the Paper of Record, earning front-page real estate several times per year, for sure. The job was one she’d always dreamed of having since her days as an undergrad at Northwestern. Law school had been her choice, not because she wanted to be a lawyer, but because she wanted to be a legal reporter. Now, after years at papers in South Bend, Indianapolis, and Chicago, as well as writing for SCOTUSblog, she was at the pinnacle of her profession.
On this Wednesday morning, she was at her desk writing what critics would say was a puff piece about the first Asian-American Supreme Court justice. Sandra Jensen was not a doctrinaire Liberal, but she had a preference for diversity and left-leaning politics, like every other reporter she knew who wasn’t writing for the Christian Science Monitor or the Wall Street Journal. And even they couldn’t help but be proud America finally put an Asian-American on the High Court.
“Package for you, Ms. Jensen,” the mail clerk shouted over the top of her cubicle.
“Thanks, Fred,” she said nonchalantly, motioning to her inbox. “Put it there.” She didn’t look up from her typing.
“I…you might want to just take this one…” His voice made her jump.
She glanced up and saw an outreached hand holding a large manila envelope that looked like it had been dragged under a subway car. The sides were bent; one was torn. The entire thing was covered in dirt and what appeared like blood.
“I guess we should have someone go down and talk to the boys in the mail room,” she joked, taking the envelope in her hands like someone who wished she were wearing surgical gloves.
She didn’t need a letter opener. She merely grabbed a torn end and pulled. She reached in and took out a stack of papers three inches thick. Sandra Jensen turned off the monitor on her computer, and started reading.
At just that moment, two hundred and fifty miles southwest, a man walked into a police station in Fairfax, Virginia. He was carrying a copy of the Washington Times under his arm and holding a takeout cup in his hand. He walked over to the duty desk and put his paper on the table. He took a sip of his coffee, then put it down on the paper.
“May I help you?” the officer said.
“My name is Royce Johnson. I’m here to turn myself in.” His voice was confident and full of relief.
“What have you done, Mr. Johnson?” the officer’s tone was slightly jocular. The man looked like he’d never even jaywalked.
“Hit and run,” he said matter of factly. This got the officer’s attention.
“Is that right?”
“Three days ago. In front of the Potbelly in the Pickett Shopping Center. It was raining hard and I was in a hurry. I stopped briefly and she seemed okay. But I couldn’t wait for the police. It was…Well, I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, and I’m here to accept my punishment.”
The officer came around the desk and took Royce by the arm.
“This way, sir.” He led Royce into the processing room, where he would be printed and booked for leaving the scene of an accident. The officer looked over at him, as he led him down the hallway. The man was smiling.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Elaine Ash provided invaluable editing and advice from start to finish. She was also a patient and kind mentor. This book would not exist without her help.
Thanks to my agent, Alex Hoyt, who believed in me and my story.
Many friends from the University of Chicago, especially Saul Levmore and Scott Eggener, were generous and supportive readers. Their encouragement was essential; their friendship is treasured.
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M. Todd Henderson was the biggest baby born in Tennessee in 1970. A professor at the University of Chicago, he is mostly renowned as being the tallest law professor on Earth. He’s also written dozens of books and articles on business law and regulation. Prior to becoming an academic, he worked as a designer of dams, a judicial clerk, a Supreme Court lawyer, and a management consultant. A graduate of Princeton and the University of Chicago, he lives in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago with his wife and three children.
