Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

Where before it had stood alone at the end of the two-lane road that made up Middleton’s business district, it now shared space with antique shops, restaurants, a grocery market, a huge bed-and-breakfast and a service station that was all-brick in keeping with the architectural tradition of the area. Huddled within walking distance was a row of offices where the shingles of many a respected county lawyer hung with simple grace.

Normally quiet except on Friday morning, which was motions day for the civil and criminal docket, the Middleton Courthouse now held a scene that would have caused the town’s forefathers to do somersaults in their final resting places. At first glance one could almost imagine that the Rebels and the Union Blue had returned to settle, once and for all, the score.

Six television trucks with thick call letters emblazoned on their white sides held forth directly in front of the courthouse steps. Their broadcast masts were already rising skyward. Crowds ten-deep pushed and prodded against the wall of sheriffs reinforced by grim members of the Virginia State Police who stared silently at the mass of reporters pushing pads, microphones and pens into their faces.

Fortunately, the courthouse had a side entrance, which was at this moment surrounded by a semicircle of police, riot guns and shields front and center, daring anyone to come near. The van carrying Luther would come here. Unfortunately, the courthouse did not have an inside garage. But the police still felt they had matters under control. Luther would only be exposed for a few seconds at most.

Across the street, rifle-toting police officers patrolled the sidewalks, eyes sweeping up and down, looking for the glint of metal, an open window that shouldn’t be.

Jack looked out the small window of the courtroom that overlooked the street. The room was as large as an auditorium with a hand-carved bench that rose a full eight feet high and swept more than fifteen feet from end to end. The American and Virginia flags stood at attention on either side of the bench. A lone bailiff sat at a small table in front of the bench, a tug boat before the ocean liner.

Jack checked his watch, eyed the security forces in place, then looked at the crush of media. Reporters were a defense attorney’s best friends or worst nightmare. A lot depended on what the reporters thought about a particular defendant and about a particular crime. A good reporter will cry loud and hard about his or her objectivity on a story at the same time they’re trashing your client in the latest edition, long before any verdict is in. Women journalists tended to go easier on defendants accused of rape, as they tried to avoid even the appearance of gender-bias. For similar reasons, the men seemed to bend over backward for battered women who had finally struck back. Luther would have no such luck. Ex-cons who murder rich, young women would receive the battering rams of all wordsmiths involved, regardless of sex.

Jack had already received a dozen phone calls from Los Angeles — based production companies clamoring for Luther’s story. Before the guy had even entered a plea. They wanted his story and would pay for it. Pay well. Maybe Jack should tell them yes, come on in, but only on one condition. If he tells you anything you have to let me in on it, ’cause right now man, I’ve got nothing. Zip.

He looked across the street. The armed guards gave him some comfort. Although there were police everywhere last time and the shot was still fired. At least this time the police were forewarned. They had things pretty much under control. But they had not counted on one thing, and that one thing was now coming down the street.

Jack swung his head around as he watched the army of reporters and plain curious turn en masse and race to the motorcade. At first Jack thought it must be Walter Sullivan, until he saw the police motorcyclists followed by the Secret Service vans and finally the twin American flags on the limo.

The army this man had brought with him dwarfed the one that was preparing to receive Luther Whitney.

He watched as Richmond exited the vehicle. Behind him stepped the agent he had talked to earlier. Burton. That was the guy’s name. One tough, serious dude. His eyes swept the area like a radar beam. His hand within inches of the man, ready to pull him down in an instant. The Secret Service vans parked across the street. One pulled into an alleyway across from the courthouse and then Jack looked back at the President.

An impromptu podium was set up and Richmond began his own little news conference as cameras clicked and half a hundred grown adults with journalism degrees tried to push and pull past their neighbor. A few ordinary and saner citizens were hovering in the back, two with video cameras recording what to them was certainly a special moment.

Jack turned to find the bailiff, a granite wall of a black man, beside him.

“Been here twenty-seven years and never had the man out here before. Now he’s been here twice in the same year. Go figure.”

Jack smiled at him. “Well, if your friend had invested ten mil in your campaign you might be out here too.”

“Lot of big boys against you.”

“That’s okay, I brought a big bat with me...”

“Samuel, Samuel Long.”

“Jack Graham, Samuel.”

“You gonna need it, Jack, hope you loaded it with lead.”

“So what do you think, Samuel? My guy gonna get a fair shake in here?”

“You ask me that question two, three years ago I’d say yeah, damn straight you will. Yes sir.” He looked out at the crush of people. “You ask me today, I say I don’t know. I don’t care what court you’re in. Supreme Court, traffic court. Things are changing, man. Not just the courts either. Everything. Everybody. Whole goddamn world’s changing and I just don’t know anymore.”

They both looked out the window again.

The door to the courtroom opened and Kate entered. Instinctively, Jack turned around and looked at her. No courtroom attire today, she had on a black pleated skirt that tapered at the waist where a thin black belt encircled her. The blouse was simple and buttoned to the neck. Her hair was brushed back off her forehead and hung to her shoulders. Her cheeks were rosy from the bitter cold, a coat was draped over her arm.

They sat together at the counsel table. Samuel discreetly disappeared.

“It’s almost time, Kate.”

“I know.”

“Listen, Kate, like I told you on the phone, it’s not that he doesn’t want to see you, he’s afraid. He’s afraid for you. The man loves you more than anything.”

“Jack, if he doesn’t start talking, you know what’s going to happen.”

“Maybe, but I’ve got some leads to go on. The state’s case isn’t as foolproof as everyone seems to think.”

“How do you know that?”

“Trust me on that one. Did you see the President outside?”

“How could you miss him? It’s okay with me though. No one paid a bit of attention to me walking in.”

“He definitely relegates everybody else to wallflowers.”

“Is he here yet?”

“Soon.”

Kate opened her purse and fumbled for some gum. Jack smiled and pushed her quivering fingers out of the way and pulled the pack out for her.

“Couldn’t I at least talk to him on the phone?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

They both sat back and waited. Jack’s hand slipped over Kate’s and they both looked up at the massive bench where in a few short minutes it would start. But for now they just waited. Together.

The white van rounded the corner, passed the semicircle of police officers and came to a stop within a few feet of the side door. Seth Frank pulled up directly behind the van and got out, radio in hand. Two officers alighted from the van, scanned the area. This was good. The entire crowd was in the front gawking at the President. The officer in charge turned and nodded to another man inside the van. A few seconds later Luther Whitney, ankles and hands manacled, and his suit covered by a dark trench coat, emerged. His feet touched the ground and, with an officer in front and back, he started to make his way to the courthouse.