Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

He had no idea why the FBI would lie about this, but could only assume that they’d been unable to make any progress in the case and needed an easy scapegoat. Someone the President could point at to assure the public that the federal government was doing its job.

A quote from Isaiah came to mind: “As for my people, a babe is their master, and women rule over them.” It was to this state America had fallen.

A few more questions were asked, but Jack tuned out the rest of it, knowing that it was just more nonsense. And when the party broke up, he immediately moved toward the podium, approaching Vince McElroy, one of Drabinsky’s crew.

“Vince…” he said, keeping his voice low.

McElroy turned, not quite looking him in the eye. “Hey, Jack.”

“What’s going on here? Do you believe a word that guy said?”

McElroy gave him a halfhearted shrug. “We caught the bad guys. Isn’t that all that matters?”

He started to turn away and Jack grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. “Wait a minute-wait. Are you telling me you’re falling for this crap?”

“They’ve got the evidence, don’t they? Besides, like Tom always said, we’re just the garbage collectors. It doesn’t much matter what we think.”

Then he pulled himself free and walked away.

Jack was headed back to his car when his cell phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and checked the screen: Tony Antiniori.

“That was a load of bull if I ever saw one,” Tony said. “And I’ve been around for a long, long time.”

“You watch from the boat?”

“Yes, and I didn’t much like what I saw. Wouldn’t mind taking that FBI strunze straight up to the drop zone and letting go.”

Jack smiled. “So what do you think we should do about it?”

“I’ve got an old pal who lives up in Higgston,” Tony said. “I already gave him a call and he had some interesting things to say about the government’s star witness.”

“Like what?” Jack asked.

“You up for an early lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me at Pagliaci’s in half an hour. We’ll talk.”

It was several months before Jack realized that Tony Antiniori had a limp. Only a keen eye could spot it, and when Jack finally did he wondered if it were a temporary thing.

They were strolling through North Beach at the time, doing the rounds of the local bars, when Jack noticed the hitch in Tony’s step and said, “You hurt yourself?”

Tony immediately corrected his walk, and the limp all but disappeared. But when Jack gave him a quizzical look, Tony said defensively, “You spend enough time doing twenty-foot jumps out of a Huey Slick with sixty pounds of gear on your back, you’d be walking funny, too.”

Jack didn’t know the extent of Tony’s injuries from his days in Vietnam and the Gulf, but based on the stories he’d told, the old guy had to be in constant pain. That he hid it all so well and still managed to maintain a relatively balanced disposition was a testament to pure will.

But that was Tony Antiniori.

Jack was sitting at his favorite booth at Pagliaci’s on the Wharf, looking out at the bay and sipping a cup of perfect, nonbitter espresso, when Tony walked in, Eddie tucked under his arm. His limp was more pronounced than usual-a sign that he was hot and bothered about something.

He weaved through the maze of white-clothed tables, struggled into the leather booth across from Jack, and sat Eddie between them. The Pescatori brothers didn’t normally allow dogs in their establishment, but for Tony they made an exception. The way Tony coddled Eddie, Jack sometimes wondered if what he was witnessing was a very slow, very deliberate dognapping.

Tony said, “The streets were packed with Euro-Peons. Did you order yet?”

Jack shook his head, then reached over and scratched Eddie under the chin. “Waiting for you two.”

“I’m so steamed up right now, I’m not sure I can eat.”

“Because of the press conference?”

Tony nodded. “Darleen spent the night, and we were in bed this morning when we watched it. Killed the mood the minute that FBI douchebag opened his mouth.”

Tony may have had his injuries, but that had never slowed him down when it came to the ladies. Darleen was a neighbor and his latest hookup. And if Tony Antiniori had passed up a morning liaison because of a routine press conference, that was saying something indeed.

“You know me,” Tony went on. “I may have my share of secrets, but I’m pretty much what you see. I didn’t spend years in the jungle so some federal strunzo, a piece of shit, could lie to my face. I wanted to reach through my TV set and throttle that son of a btich.”

“Imagine how I felt.”

“You ask me, the way he slapped you down only confirms he’s a spokesmouth for some scumbag plot. Good thing I wasn’t in that room.”

Jack smiled. “Easy, boy.”

“I mean it. I saw that video you made. Your friend Drabinsky reminded me of some of the men in my unit, and it just about kills me to see these people use his sacrifice to sell their fairy tale.”

“I thought exactly the same thing.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Jack took a sip of his espresso. “So what did you find out about the government’s star witness? Tell me about this friend of yours in Higgston.”

“Met him years ago, while I was stationed up at Fort Lewis. He’s Higgston born and raised and he’s known this Clegg character since he was six years old. Says he’s a drunk, a liar, and an idiot all rolled into one.”

“But why would Clegg lie?”

“Why else?” Tony rubbed his thumb back and forth across his fingertips.

“You think somebody paid him off?”

“Makes sense to me. According to my friend, the Constitutional Defense Brigade is just a bunch of middle-aged tax dodgers sitting around bitching about the new world order. The only thing they’ve ever organized is a Saturday-night beer party.”

“What about the C4 and the weapons?”

“My buddy says the guns are all legal and you and I both know the C4 could have been planted. And get this: William Clegg didn’t try to join the CDB until two days after the bombing.”

Jack immediately understood. “Someone manufactured a witness.”

“That would be my guess. Nobody in the CDB can stand the guy. What does that tell you?”

“The CDBers get angry just hearing his name,” Jack said. “On camera, it plays like they’re angry about something else.”

“Like having their ring busted up,” Tony said.

“So why would anyone fall for this nonsense?”

Tony shrugged. “Same reason they always do. Everybody wants to believe. You’ve had some experience with that.”

Jack nodded glumly, then took another sip of espresso. “I made a few phone calls, myself. Tried to get hold of Officer Beckman. Turns out he’s on medical leave in Florida.”

“That’s convenient.”

“No kidding. I saw his injury. Maxine took a bigger hit than he did and she’s already back to running ten miles a day.”

“So who else did you call?”

“Some of my old contacts at the FBI, but nobody seems to want to talk to me.”

Tony gave him an amused look.

“No, not just because it’s me.” Jack grinned.

“The wall’s gone up,” Tony said, once again serious. “All because some punk said he thought the car belonged to an Arab.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Tony thought for a moment. “He had to tell them more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Tony leaned closer. The restaurant wasn’t very crowded and he didn’t want his voice to carry. “The carjack victim could have been Egyptian, Druze, Bahraini, and no one would give a damn. Or flip that around. What kind of Arab would the government care about?”