David Ellis - Breach of Trust

I looked over his shoulder. About three blocks away, someone-presumably Lee Tucker-had turned the corner and was heading toward the bridge. Moody turned and saw the same thing, then spun back and walked toward me so that his features came more fully into view. His eyes shone with an intensity I’d never seen. That was because I’d never seen Chris Moody scared.

“Now I guess we need to explain to Lee why there’s no F-Bird tonight,” he said. “How about we say it fell through the grid here on the bridge? That work for you, sport? A fumbled hand-off.”

I snapped my fingers. “Glad you reminded me. I mean, that was the whole reason I came here, to deliver the F-Bird.”

Chris Moody’s eyes grew the size of Ping-Pong balls as I removed the F-Bird from my pocket.

“Handing off the F-Bird from tonight as promised,” I said. “As always. Y’know, you guys really should have taught me how to turn this thing off.”

Moody stared at the recording device in my hand, which was doing just that-recording our every word. Hey, to be fair, I never told him that I threw the F-Bird into the river. Moody just made that assumption. Can’t a guy throw away a couple of used AA batteries from a stereo, wrapped together by some state-issued rubber bands, if he wants to? Sure, maybe my fingers were covering the rubber bands when I showed it to him, so from a distance it looked just like FeeBee, but who said I had to play fair?

In that short span of time, it must have crossed Moody’s mind to lunge for it, try to get FeeBee away from me. But Tucker was well within sight distance now and would have seen the whole thing, and Moody was still far enough away that he’d have to struggle with me.

“Should I give the F-Bird to Lee?” I asked him. It was very hard not to smile.

“Put that fucking thing away,” he said in a harsh whisper. He turned as Lee Tucker approached.

“You’re the boss,” I said.

“Hey. How we doing?” Tucker had walked out without a coat and was regretting it now. “What’s-what’s up?”

“You’re never gonna believe this,” Moody said. “Jason was handing me the Bird and we dropped it.”

I eased between the two of them and started walking north.

“Oh, you gotta be-it fell through? It’s in the river ?”

“Craziest thing. A total accident.”

Before I’d hit the other side of the bridge, Chris Moody was calling to me.

“Jason,” he said. “Seriously, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. You’ve performed a valuable service.”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t break stride. I didn’t even smile, until I’d jumped into the back of a cab.

I was called to the governor’s office at eleven-fifteen the next morning. I’d slept in and hadn’t arrived at the state building until about ten. The governor had been running from a prayer breakfast to a domestic violence shelter to a bill signing, and now he was briefly in his office before heading off to a fundraiser and then a downstate fly-around.

I’d spent the last hour or so reading the headline story in the paper as well as the follow-ups this morning online. The governor’s dramatic, eleventh-hour reprieve of convicted double murderer Antwain Otis had overtaken everything else newsworthy that day. “Eleventh-hour” was an understatement; Governor Snow had made the call at four minutes to midnight. There was the predictable mix of jubilation and disgust. Antwain’s mother and uncle were quoted as saying that Antwain had been touched by the hand of God; Anthony Newberry stated that he felt as if his family had been victimized one last time.

I was met with some glares as I walked into the governor’s office. Madison was shooting daggers in my direction; Brady MacAleer mentioned something, meant for me to hear, about how the dramatic reprieve “stepped on our message” yesterday about the union endorsements and “probably cost us two percent downstate.” I caught a glimpse of the governor, looking fresh and relaxed at his walnut desk, in his leather high-backed chair, as Peshke spoke to him.

“Good morning,” said Madison, delivered with enough ice to sink the Titanic.

I simply nodded in return. I looked around the room. Madison, Hector, and Brady were all here, right here, with the governor. Charlie wasn’t around.

“Jason, come in, come.” The governor waved at me. He signed a document and handed it to me. It was his official appointment of Judge George Henry Ippolito to the state supreme court.

“So I can do some good things once in a while,” he said to me, winking. “Okay, what’s next?”

I turned to Madison, holding the document in my hand. “I’ll file it,” I said. I hadn’t been sure it would be me, but I was hoping.

I paused for a moment, wondering if I should offer some parting words, but no particular Solomonic pearl of wisdom came to mind so I excused myself. I took the stairs down to the secretary of state’s office, where the index department received official filings such as the appointment of a supreme court justice.

I reached the door of the office and stopped. There, I handed the document to Special Agent Lee Tucker of the FBI, wearing his finest blue suit, pressed collar, and tie. He took the document with his left hand and offered me his right. I shook it and looked into his eyes a moment. Neither of us spoke. One of us was excited.

Tucker nodded. He put the document in his briefcase. Then he put on the blue jacket he’d been holding in his arm, the back of which said FBI in white block letters. He said something into his collar, and not three minutes later, six men and two women, all very serious customers in the same blue jackets, marched up the stairs and joined him.

“Let’s do it,” said Tucker.

The federal agents then walked up the same set of stairs I’d just descended, into the governor’s office, armed with warrants to search and seize and warrants to arrest. I leaned against the wall and watched. It felt like a day’s time, staring at the glass office doors bearing the state seal, the words CARLTON SNOW, GOVERNOR below it, before federal agents marched out with Madison Koehler, Brady MacAleer, and Hector Almundo in handcuffs.

I was a floor below, looking up. None of them could see me. I only saw their faces briefly, though I assumed the images would be burned into my memory forever, the humiliation and indignation in their expressions-but more than anything the look of being simply stunned. Each of them was experiencing something akin to having your life flash before your eyes. They were wondering what, exactly, were the bases for the criminal charges; how they’d been caught; how much the FBI knew; how they could escape the jam. They were calculating all the damage done to their lives and careers and how much of it was reparable. They were praying that they would open their eyes and discover that this had all been a dream.

I don’t know how long I was there, staring at the governor’s glass doors. Federal agents came and went, removing computers and entire file cabinets. A crowd, naturally, gathered around the office, and it wasn’t long at all before the cameras began to appear.

The governor hadn’t been arrested and he hadn’t appeared outside his office. Had he the chance to think this over, he probably would have been best served to exit his office as soon as the arrests were made, before the press could arrive. Now, he was stuck. As far as I knew, there was only one way out, and now he was going to have to walk out into a carnivorous media.

My cell phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number. I saw from the corner of my phone’s face that I’d missed two calls in the last twenty minutes. I hadn’t even noticed.

Before I could even say hello, Peshke was speaking harshly into the phone. “Jason, where are you? We need you in the governor’s office right now. Don’t you know what’s going on?”