Stuart Woods: Capital Crimes

“Yes, I guess he’s earned his pardon. Well, I’ll leave it to you to wrap this thing up. Don’t make any announcements about this. I’m going to hold a press conference at the White House at noon tomorrow, and I’d like you to be there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s snowing in Washington, Bob, the first of the season. Looks like we might have a white Christmas.”

“I like the snow, sir. I’ll look forward to seeing it.”

“Good night, Bob. I hope you can get some sleep on the way home.”

“Good night, Mr. President.” Kinney hung up the phone. “Kerry,” he said to the agent, who was across the room, “get the chopper into Islesboro Airport and have them get the jet ready at Rockland. You and I have a date in Washington in less than twelve hours.”

“With the director?” Smith asked.

“I don’t think he’ll be there,” Kinney said.

KINNEY AND SMITH stood at the president’s side in the White House press briefing room and waited for the clock to show 12:01 p.m., which was when control rooms all over the country would insert the live press conference into their noon news.

The press secretary stepped to the microphone fifteen seconds before that. “The president will have a statement, and he will not take questions at this time. A later briefing, to be announced, will be held to provide details.” The clock hands moved to 12:01. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

The president stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Americans, I have an announcement regarding the series of murders of political figures that have taken place over the past weeks. Last night, the FBI raided a house on a Maine island where the fugitive suspect, Theodore Fay, had fled. Mr. Fay escaped through a tunnel which led out of the house’s basement and managed to get to an airfield on the island, where he took off in a light airplane.

“On my orders, two jet fighters were scrambled from the Brunswick, Maine, Naval Air Station, and these aircraft intercepted the smaller airplane, with orders to force it to land or to shoot it down. Mr. Fay refused to follow their instructions, but before the Navy aircraft could position themselves to fire, Mr. Fay caused his own airplane to explode. The wreckage landed in the sea, between Kennebunkport and Portland, and the Coast Guard began a search at dawn for the wreckage and Mr. Fay’s body.

“Less than an hour ago, the commandant of the Coast Guard informed me that wreckage of an aircraft bearing the registration number of Mr. Fay’s airplane had been found, and they hope to find remains soon.

“I want to express my personal gratitude to Deputy Director Robert Kinney of the FBI and his associate, Special Agent Kerry Smith, who have been on this case from the beginning and who have pursued it to its conclusion. I want to thank, as well, Lieutenants J/G Harris Conover and William Banks for their fine work in locating Mr. Fay’s aircraft in the skies over Maine. All concerned have done good work, and their country should be proud of them.

“Our country can breathe easier, now that this terrible episode in our history has been brought to an end. Mr. Fay, I’m afraid, is all too typical of those, of whatever nationality, who believe that they are right and others are wrong and that violence can move others to their point of view. This never works, at home or abroad, and our nation is poorer for those who have been lost. I wish, once again, to extend my profound sympathy to their families and friends. Thank you.”

JUSTICE THOMAS GRAYDON watched the press conference with his wife in their cabin in the Maryland mountains. “Well, that’s a relief,” his wife said, turning off the TV.

A U.S. Marshal came into the room. “Judge, the plowing is done, and the road is clear now. Are you ready to go?”

“Thanks, Bill, I guess we are.” Gray don and his wife got into their coats and followed the marshal out to the judge’s black SUV.

“Better let me drive, Judge,” the marshal said. “There’s still ice, and we’re trained for this sort of thing.”

Graydon, who preferred to drive himself, reluctantly handed over the keys and got into the front passenger seat, while the marshal assisted his wife into the rear. After a moment, they were headed down the mountainside, followed by another car carrying two marshals.

Graydon instinctively grabbed for the dashboard as the car hit a slippery spot and skidded a little. “Watch it, Bill,” he said.

“Judge, please fasten your seat belt,” the marshal said.

Graydon, who detested seat belts and felt they were an infringement on his civil rights, grudgingly reached for his seat belt.

At that moment, the car began to skid again.

“Hang on, Judge,” the marshal said. “It’s going to be all right.”

But then the SUV was suddenly traveling sideways.

“What the hell?” the marshal was able to say before they crashed through the guard rail.

Justice Graydon saw the river far below rushing up at him. He was not able to fasten his seat belt before they crashed.

ED RAWLS watched the press conference in the warden’s office.

“Why were you so interested in that, Ed?”

“Just curious,” Rawls replied. He hadn’t expected to be mentioned, but still, he was disappointed.

“All right, Ed,” the warden said, standing up and extending two envelopes. “Here’s your pardon; it was delivered by messenger a few minutes ago, along with an envelope from the FBI.”

Rawls stuck both in a pocket of his old civilian suit without opening them.

The warden offered his hand. “Good luck, Ed,” he said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“You bet, Warden,” Rawls replied, shaking the hand. He followed the guard out of the office, through the prison and to the front gate, where a taxi was waiting. He shook hands with the guard and got into the cab. “ Atlanta Airport,” he said.

As the taxi drove away, Rawls opened the first envelope and read over the pardon. “Very satisfactory,” he said aloud.

“What?” the cabdriver asked.

“Just talking to myself,” Rawls replied. He opened the other envelope and found $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills and a cashier’s check for $990,000.

“Very, very satisfactory,” he said.

KINNEY AND SMITH were driven away from the White House by an FBI car and driver.

“Bob,” Smith said, “I’ll bet you’re going to be the next director.”

“Oh, shut up, Kerry,” Kinney said. He wanted to get back to his office to call Nancy Kimble.

They rode along in silence for a while, then Smith spoke again. “The Coast Guard still hasn’t found Fay’s body, have they?”

“Not the last I heard,” Kinney said.

“Jesus,” Smith said. “I hope the son of a bitch didn’t have a parachute.”

Kinney made a groaning noise. “Kerry, I told you to shut up.”