“Luke, you’re guessing on this thing, and it’s not even a particularly educated guess.”
“I know that, Captain. But the jury here is Gallagher; I don’t have to go by the strict rules of evidence.”
“Carlton is not without resources; we start libeling him in the press, we could be bringing problems on the department, on me, without any benefit coming from it. I can handle the hassle, and I’m willing to, but I need to see more potential upside.”
I was annoyed by his attitude, even though I expected it, and even though I knew he was basically right. “OK, so we don’t mention him by name; we just let the word get out that we’re still checking some key leads in the Brennan murder. And we say the focus of the investigation has switched to Brayton.”
“Even though we already shot the guilty party.” It wasn’t a question; it wasn’t even said to me. Barone was sort of rolling it around in his mind, trying to see how it would play.
“I shot him,” I pointed out. “Captain, even if my brother was sitting on a beach on the Riviera sucking down pina coladas with umbrellas in them, I wouldn’t let this go.” I was basically telling him that he had no choice, that I was going to keep pulling on this string until I got to the end.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Barone said.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Do it.”
“Thanks. I will.”
“You probably already have,” he said.
“Yes, I have.”
“Did I mention that you’re a pain in the ass?”
“I’ll check my notes, but I believe you did.”
“So now what?”
“A tour of New Jersey.”
The decision was announced on the court website and made available in the clerk’s office.
The three-judge panel of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals had issued their ruling in the matter of Brayton vs. Carlton Industries.
In boxing parlance, it was a split decision, the court coming down 2–1 on the side of Carlton. But this wasn’t boxing, and there was no provision for a rematch. Simply put, while a close call, the net result for Brayton was devastating.
Judge Susan Dembeck wrote the majority opinion. While acknowledging the legal right, in fact the duty, of a town to protect its citizens, she argued that Brayton had failed to establish that the fracking would cause real damage. She felt that the purchasing company, Hanson Oil and Gas, had in their brief established a regimen that would adequately monitor the environmental effects. The data would be shared with the town, and the court would be receptive to reconsideration, if circumstances warranted. But, she felt, the town had simply not met its burden.
Judge Richard O’Brien, in a blistering dissent, said that Carlton and Hanson had not come close to meeting their own burden of guaranteeing that the health of the innocent citizens of Brayton would not be irrevocably damaged. He even trotted out the “can’t unring a bell” cliche, meaning that once the damage was done, it could not be effectively removed.
But by far the most devastating aspect of the ruling was the requirement that Brayton, if they were going to appeal to the Supreme Court, would have to post a bond in the amount of five hundred million dollars. There was no way that they could afford to do so; they did not even have the resources to make the appeal, no less post the bond.
Left unsaid in the opinion, of course, were the actions that the decision would trigger. Within thirty-six hours, the sale of the land to Hanson Oil and Gas would close; the documents were already signed and sealed. The money would automatically transfer to Carlton and the company that shared ownership of the land, Tarrant Industries.
Richard Carlton had known that the decision was coming, down to the time of day it would be released. He also knew that it would be a favorable one, yet he still felt substantial relief that it had come to pass.
Edward Holland issued a terse press release, saying that he needed time to study the decision and analyze the options. He spoke of the need to protect the families of Brayton, and promised further announcements soon.
Alex Hutchinson was already rallying the very disappointed citizens, planning demonstrations and vowing to continue the fight. Her outrage was palpable, so the media naturally gravitated to her.
Richard Carlton expected all of those reactions, and none of it bothered him. What did bother him was a report in the Daily News. Citing unattributed sources, it said that the investigation in Judge Daniel Brennan’s murder was still ongoing, and that the focus of that investigation had moved to Brayton.
No details were given, and neither Richard Carlton, Luke Somers, nor anyone else was mentioned by name. But Carlton recognized it for what it was, the first salvo in a pressure campaign that Somers was planning to mount.
Dealing with that pressure was now effectively out of Carlton’s hands, which worried him. With victory at hand, any overreaction had the potential to be terribly counterproductive.
But all Richard Carlton could do was watch.
Who are “they”? Who is behind it? And more importantly, will Gallagher believe it? He gave me suicide pills, Lucas. They’re sitting on the table. I don’t want to suffocate. Remember that time at the lake? I know what it feels like to be without air to breathe.
You saved me then, Brother.
This is Act Two.
It’s only about a half hour from Paterson to Morristown.
That’s mainly because the drive is on Route 80, the only highway in America that never, ever seems to have any traffic on it. I don’t know why that is, but whoever planned and designed Route 80 should be anointed as the official National Emperor of Highways.
Within that half hour you can see the state take on a completely different character. People generally don’t think of New Jersey as particularly beautiful, but those people might change their minds if they drove to the northwest portions of the state.
Of course, Emmit and I weren’t on a sightseeing trip. It was in the northwest, Morris, Warren, and Sussex counties, that the satellite company reported weather interruptions of service that matched what Bryan had reported.
We had called ahead and set up a meeting with Captain Willis Granderson of the Morristown police. We picked Captain Granderson because he had served on the force the longest, thirty-seven years. It was important that we talk to someone who had a history in the area.
Granderson was an immediately likable guy, and one who seemed genuinely glad to have company. I got the feeling that he was sort of out of the law enforcement loop, and was just putting in the time until retirement. But based on the interactions he had with fellow officers on the way back to his office, it seemed he was treated with deference and respect.
After making sure we had cold sodas, Granderson asked us what he could do for us.
“We want to talk about bomb shelters,” I said.
“Just goes to show if you hang around long enough … in thirty-seven years, nobody’s ever asked me about bomb shelters.”
I smiled. “Well, you can check it off your list. Are you aware of any in this area?”
“Course I am. Why do you want to know?”
“We have reason to believe that someone is being held against their will in this part of the state. We further believe that they are underground, and cannot hear outside noise, nor themselves be heard outside the room. It’s not necessarily a bomb shelter, but it’s a good guess.”
He nodded. “Sounds right. The good news is that we do have bomb shelters in this area; the bad news is that there’s a whole shitload of them.”
“Why so many?” Emmit asked.
“Because in the sixties, there were a bunch of missiles here, sitting in silos, pointed at the dirty Commies. So people figured that if the other side shot first, they’d try and hit the missiles before they got in the air. So here is one of the places the Russians were aiming first.”