Kathleen Antrim: Capital Offense

“What’s deadlier to a country than war?” a low, gravelly voice slurred.

“Who is this?” Jack Rudly cradled the phone against his ear and checked the time: 2:55 A.M. A strewth outside his hotel room window cast a shadow of dancing leaves across the ceiling.

“What’s deadlier to a country than war?”

“I don’t do riddles.” Jack slammed down the receiver. “Damn drunk.” He watched the shadows dissolve into darkness, then spring back to life as gusts of wind bent the tree branches outside the window. He turned on his side, pulled the sheet up over his shoulder and tucked his face in against the pillow.

After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked over at his laptop. He still needed to finish his article on trade with Japan. Sailboats twirled around on his screen saver. Who was he kidding? He’d never fall back to slept. Too many projects to think about and deadlines to meet. Jack rubbed his eyes. He loved being a journalist, and even years of sleep deprivation didn’t deter his passion.

The phone rang again. He snapped up the receiver. “What do you want?”

“Does 202-555-1416 sound familiar?”

Jack sat up and activated the tape recorder he kept plugged into his phone. “Are you calling from the White House?”

“Very good. Mr. Rudly. You know the private White House lines. Don’t bother checking it out. The number’s not mine.”

“Who is this?” The gears of the recorder spun slowly.

“What do murder and the White House have in common?”

“Murder? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“Only if I were making it up.” The man hiccupped.

“Look, you got my attention by using a White House number,” Jack said, “and that bought you about a minute of my time. Tell me who you are, or I’m hanging up.”

“Your father would understand the mess I’m in.”

The nape of Jack’s neck prickled. “What does this have to do with my father?”

“An honorable man. your father. The last of the honorable politicians. A great senator. He understood the link between murder and the White House. Too bad he had to pay the highest price.” The voice hesitated. “He’s not the only one.”

Jack worked the muscles of his jaw. “What’re you talking about? My father died of a coronary. He wasn’t into games, and neither am I. So cut the crap.”

‘They’re going to kill me now. It’ll be headline news.“ There was a pause. ”Is he the reason you became a journalist?“

“Who’s going to kill you?”

“Scotch is a man’s drink, you know. Your father and I shared a love of scotch, especially Glenlivet.”

“A lot of people drink Glenlivet. That doesn’t prove you knew my father.”

“Not with three twists, they don’t. Boy, did your dad know how to ruin perfectly good scotch with too much lemon.” He laughed, but the sound was brittle and sad. “You’re talking to a dead man. We’ve deceived an entire nation, you know. Your father would never have done that. He’s still a legend on the Hill.”

Jack’s stomach knotted. He slammed the door on his emotions and his father’s memory. “Leave my father out of this. Why’d you call me?”

“You’ve got to stop the murders,” the voice said.

“What murders? You’re not making any sense.”

“Goddamn it. You’re not listening. Men are dead. I’m next.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are.” Jack heard the frustration in his own voice. “I need facts from a credible source, not lame ramblings from a drunk and disgruntled government employee.”

“This was a mistake.” the man said. “You make a lousy last option. I thought you’d understand. For God’s sake, you’re his son! I know he taught you better than this. He cared, he truly cared. How can you dishonor his memory?”

“Fu-” Jack reigned in his anger. “If this is so damned important, then meet with me.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll be dead soon.”

“Then meet me now.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s not safe. You’d be at risk. Serious risk. Hell, you’re a head in the cross hairs. Meeting with me would pull the trigger.”

“Then call the next guy on your list. Good night.” Jack leaned over to hang up the phone.

“Wait!”

Jack hesitated.

“You know the lookout on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge?”

“I can find it.”

“Thirty minutes.” The man paused. “Be careful. They’re watching you. Try to stay alive. Jack Rudly. You’ve got a job to do. And revealing your father’s murderer is only part of it.”

Jack inhaled. His father murdered? Bullshit. Or was it?

“You want to know how I know? I’m one of them. I helped. I’m a killer. But I’m not helping anymore.”

“Helped who?” Jack managed, but the line was dead.

Judge Margaret Merrit entered the crowded courtroom at precisely 9:00 A.M. and took her seat at the bench. Murmurs of conversation escalated in the packed room, but the sound of her gavel silenced the crowd. The bailiff swung the door wide, allowing the jurors to file into the room. They sat in the same chairs they had been occupying for more than six weeks.

United States Senator Warner Hamilton Lane of Missouri tried unobtrusively to take an aisle seat at the back of the courtroom. Heads turned and whispers eddied around him. The crack of Judge Merrit’s gavel echoed off the walls as her gaze held Warner’s. “I won’t tolerate disruption in my courtroom.”

Warner nodded. A rosy flush heated his neck and cheeks. He angled his body for a better view of his wife. Carolyn, seated at the prosecution table. Honey-colored hair crested her shoulders. She sat on the edge of her chair, muscles taught, reflexes honed, like a runner waiting for the bark of the starter’s gun. It was a race she intended to win – at all costs.

God, he missed her. Juggling two careers took its toll, especially with hers in Missouri and his predominantly in Washington, D.C. He’d flown in that morning, and now he could only watch her from a distance. Lately, it seemed that distance defined their relationship.

Carolyn rose to address the jury. Her once-shapely figure was lost in the cream Chanel suit that hung on her frame. He knew she lost weight with every case she tried, but this time the change was drastic. It worried him.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Warner leaned forward as Carolyn began her closing argument. Though their phone conversations, he knew she’d agonized over her summation.

“Today your work begins. Today the attorneys will have their last words, and then the case is yours. Today you become the arbiters of justice…”

Warner watched the faces of the jury. Each set of eyes locked on Carolyn as she paced and gestured.

“… Will justice be served? That’s a question only you can answer. I believe it will, because I have faith that after each of you carefully considers the facts, you will find beyond any measure of doubt, that Albeit Roit is guilty on all counts.” She turned to glare at the defendant. The jury glared with her.