Robert Randisi: Bullets & Lies

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Five minutes,” Roper said.

“Yes,” Harwick said, “very unlike me. Again, my apologies.”

“It’s all right.”

A waitress came over, much too bright and happy at that hour of the morning, and they ordered their breakfasts.

“I went for a walk yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“Found out a few things.”

Harwick frowned.

“Like what?”

“Like Howard Westover is a Medal of Honor winner from the Civil War.”

“That’s no secret.”

“It was to me.”

“No,” Harwick said, “not a secret. Just something you would have found out later today.”

“I see.”

“Who told you?”

“A lady named Sister Katherine.”

“From Saint Mary’s?”

“That’s right.”

“How did you get to Saint Mary’s?”

“It was recommended to me.”

“By who?”

Roper sat back in his chair.

“I’m not sure I want to answer that right now.”

The waitress came back with their eggs, setting the plates down in front of them.

“All right,” Harwick said. “I am not going to ask or answer any more questions.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my place.”

“And whose place is it?”

“You’ll find out later today.”

“And what if I won’t move from here until you do answer some more questions?”

“You took the check, cashed it,” Harwick said, “and you came all this way. That would seem silly, don’t you think?”

Roper hesitated, then said, “Yeah, probably.”

“So let’s eat,” Harwick said, “and then we can go.”

Harwick had a buggy waiting for them outside the hotel. Roper would rather have ridden a horse, but he climbed aboard and allowed Harwick to drive.

A few miles outside of town he spotted the house in the distance. A three-story antebellum mansion with four great white columns, galleries rather than balconies, large windows, and ivy-covered walls. There were even a couple of turrets, giving it a small castle-like appearance.

“Very impressive,” he said.

“Built just after the war,” Harwick said, “when Howard Westover came back from the field.”

“Was he from here originally?”

“Yes,” Harwick said. “His wife was waiting for him here, living in a much smaller house in town. They had this built and moved out here. They’ve lived here ever since.”

“The war’s been over a long time,” Roper said. “Twenty years.”

“Yes,” Harwick said and nothing else.

He drove the buggy up to the front of the house and stepped down. Roper followed. Harwick led him up the stairs to the front porch to the front door and opened it without knocking.

“Wait here, please,” Harwick said in an entry foyer that was larger than most of the houses Roper had seen in town. “I’ll find Victoria.”

“Victoria?”

“Mrs. Westover.”

“The wife?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought I was here to see Howard Westover?”

“Just…wait here. It will all become clear to you soon.”

“All right,” Roper said. “As you said, I’ve come this far.”

“Thank you.”

Harwick walked into the bowels of the house and disappeared. Roper looked around. To the left was a large dining room, with an expensive cabinet filled with bone china, and a long, wooden oak table with a fine sheen to it. To the right, there was an opulently furnished parlor, with stuffed armchairs and a large sofa, with curtains of red-and-gold brocade on all the windows. Above him was a great crystal-and-gold chandelier.

There was a stairway leading to the second floor. Roper didn’t know how he’d done it, but somehow Harwick had gotten up there. He came down the steps now, leading a woman.

She appeared to be in her late forties, a handsome woman, tall, slender, with black hair that had a gray steak through it. She was wearing a floor-length dress that looked simple but was, Roper was sure, expensive.

When they reached the bottom, they approached Roper.

“Mr. Roper, this is Mrs. Howard Westover—Victoria Westover.”

“Mr. Roper,” she said, extending her hand. “Thank you so much for coming to see me.”

He shook her hand. “I thought I was coming to see your husband.”

“Later,” she said. “But you have actually come here to see me.”

“So the check was from you?”

“Yes. And I will pay you the same amount again.”

“To do what?”

“Well, to start with, to listen. Do you drink tea?” she asked.

“I’ve been known to.”

“Then let’s have tea and talk. Edward, will you join us?”

“Of course, Victoria.”

From the look on Harwick’s face, it was clear to Roper that the attorney was in love with his employer. It was also clear that she did not reciprocate. To her, he was just that—an employee.

“This way,” she said.

8

Victoria Westover walked them through the dining room into a glass-enclosed back porch. It looked out onto a back area full of lush green grass and shade-giving trees, and farther out beyond that, a gazebo. They were seated in expensive wicker furniture, and a woman came in and served tea and cakes, setting them down on a glass-top table.

“Thank you, Miriam.”

The older woman nodded and left.

“Mr. Roper, my husband won the Medal of Honor in the Civil War.”

“That much I do know.”

She looked at Harwick quickly.

“I didn’t tell him,” the lawyer said. “He went to Saint Mary’s.”

“Oh.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Roper asked.

“Saint Mary’s is…” Victoria began, then trailed off. “Well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Westover,” Roper asked, “what is here or there?”

“Mr. Roper,” she said, sitting forward and clasping her hands, “the government might be taking my husband’s medal back.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That is what I want you to find out. I want you to go to Washington, find out what the Army is doing, and discover what needs to be done to make sure…to guarantee my husband dies a Medal of Honor winner.”

“Dies?”

Victoria looked at Harwick, who nodded.

“Come with me, Mr. Roper,” she said. The lawyer started to rise, but she said, “Edward, stay and drink your tea. Someone should. After all, Miriam made it.”

He nodded and sat down.

“Mr. Roper?”

He followed her from the room.

Victoria Westover took Roper back to the foyer and up the stairs.

“Are we going to see your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he come down to have tea?”

“You’ll see.”

Upstairs he followed her down a hallway to a door, where she stopped and turned to face him.

“He’s inside,” she said. “Please don’t react when you see him.”

“React? How?”

“Just…don’t act shocked. He…he doesn’t like it.”

“All right.”

She nodded, then opened the door.

“Mr. Roper, this is my husband, Howard Westover.”

Roper entered and saw a man seated in a wheelchair. A sturdy-looking woman in her forties was feeding him something that looked like oatmeal.

Roper guessed that if he had known Howard Westover before, he might have been shocked at the man’s appearance. The clothes he was wearing seemed to hang on his frame, which looked like loose skin on large bones. His cheekbones were sharp, his eyes sunken. He looked eighty, not fifty. Eyeing the man’s frame, Roper assumed at one time Westover must have been well over six feet tall and was probably strapping. There was little of that man left, and now the Army wanted to take away his medal.