Leigh-Ann glanced at her reflection in the window of a tricked-out Plymouth. She was a tall, wispy blond who was blessed with a powerful singing voice that belied the slim frame in the glass. She still couldn’t figure out where all the volume came from onstage, because in normal conversation her tone was quiet and her manner measured. But when the lights came up and the mike turned on, it was like she became another person.
“Thanks, Betty.” Leigh-Ann had known the girls for a year, since her first week in Nashville when she’d moved here knowing no one. Now it seemed like she knew everyone in town — or they knew her. “You’re nice to say that.”
“Tips are gonna be good,” Paige spoke up happily. “The bucket’s already been dumped twice. And there were lots of fives and tens in there, not just ones. I checked. Good thing, too. I’m late on rent.”
“You could really go places, Leigh-Ann.” Betty dragged hard on her cigarette, and then exhaled a thick plume of smoke. “I’m serious.”
Leigh-Ann took a quick sniff of the smoke. She’d never been into cigarettes. She was too smart for that. But she didn’t mind a little secondhand smoke once in a while. And now and then, she’d take a puff from a good cigar — when no one was looking.
“Well, I don’t know about—”
“Especially with all that money your family has,” Paige chimed in. “Your daddy must own half of Savannah. With that kind of dough, he could bankroll you right to the top.”
Leigh-Ann looked away, down the dark alley. Maybe it was time to set the girls straight. It wasn’t like she’d ever actually claimed to be from Savannah — or money. But she hadn’t denied what her manager had rumored, either. And she didn’t like being slick. There were times when you had to be, especially in Nashville, and especially in this business. Still, it never squared with her when she did it.
And then there was that other secret she couldn’t tell anyone, because no one would believe her if she did. They’d think she was crazy.
“You know, I—” Headlights down the alley distracted Leigh-Ann. They seemed to be coming on fast. “What the heck?” she murmured, pointing.
The black van skidded to a stop on the slick asphalt, and two men wearing ski masks burst from the back. They grabbed Leigh-Ann, hurled her into the van, followed her inside, and slammed the sliding door shut as the driver punched the accelerator.
Betty and Paige screamed as the black van squealed off. But it disappeared into the night before anyone could help.
CHAPTER 10
“It’s bad news.” Baxter tapped the faded piece of paper in his lap as he and President Dorn sat alone in the Oval Office. It was the same piece of paper he’d shown to Henry Espinosa an hour ago — Executive Order 1973 1-E. “Justice Espinosa says the Order is legitimate and enforceable. He seemed very sure of himself.”
“Why did he seem so sure of himself, Stewart?” Dorn asked.
Baxter regretted conveying that detail. “He’s a Supreme Court justice, Mr. President. He knows about Red Cell Seven. It’s one of the first things he learns about after he’s sworn in.”
“I know that. And you know I know that. Be more efficient, Stewart. I don’t have time for this. Sometimes you irritate me so damn much, old man. Sometimes I think you’re going senile.”
Espinosa’s “whipping boy” comment echoed in Baxter’s ears as his blood boiled. “Sir, I—”
“It seems like there was something more, something specific about how Justice Espinosa responded to you.”
Dorn was excellent at gleaning huge truths from subtle signals. But relaying anything more of his meeting with Espinosa would only make him look bad. And Baxter made it a rule never to accept accountability for his missteps.
“Why do I think you’re holding out on me, Stewart?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Espinosa’s lack of explanation for why he was holding the Order up to the light still bothered Baxter. As far as he could tell, other than the writing and the signature on the paper lying in his lap, it was clean of any other markings. He’d studied it several times in the limousine on the way back to the White House but hadn’t found anything.
“Espinosa says you would be impeached if you tried shutting down Red Cell Seven,” Baxter said. “If an RC7 representative presented the Order to the Supreme Court in a private session, you would be guilty of treason, and you could not hide behind executive privilege in that case. He was very specific on that point. President Nixon was careful and thorough in the way he structured the cell’s existence and its protection.”
“How exactly would that private session go?” President Dorn asked. “You’ve read all those confidential procedural manuscripts we keep at Camp David.”
“After the charge was presented, the procedure would start with a one-on-one meeting between only the chief justice and the Red Cell Seven representative, who I assume would have an original of the Order in his possession at the meeting as well as a list of all legitimately initiated RC7 agents. Then, as long as the chief justice was in agreement, the meeting would move to a full session of the court, though still private from the public. The agent would be found innocent immediately. It would take no more than thirty seconds.” Baxter nodded at the president, who suddenly seemed distracted. “And remember, sir, the chief justice presides over a president’s impeachment, so it wouldn’t take him long to have you found guilty. That’s why Nixon set it up as he did. Love or hate the man, it was an ingenious way to structure Red Cell Seven’s protection. Not only would the president be denied, but he or she would also be immediately vulnerable. It’s double jeopardy.”
“A one-on-one meeting with the chief justice,” the president repeated.
The glint in Dorn’s eyes was obvious. “Yes, sir,” Baxter confirmed. He hated saying “sir” to Dorn, but appearances had to be sustained.
“In other words,” Dorn spoke up, “the chief justice could theoretically stop the process on his own.”
“As we’ve discussed several times,” Baxter confirmed.
Dorn pointed at the paper in Baxter’s lap. “So having the other original of that Order is essential for us in terms of destroying RC7’s protection.”
“Yes, sir. Again, as we’ve discussed several times.”
“You must get it, Stewart. If I have both of them, I don’t have to worry about being impeached. I don’t have to worry about the Supreme Court or anything else, for that matter. I can do whatever I want to Red Cell Seven. I can destroy it and suffer no consequences, because Red Cell Seven would not be able to present it to the court.”
“Understood, sir.”
Baxter stared steadily at David Dorn from his chair, which was directly in front of the great desk. The press had begun calling Dorn the “presidential floor model” because of his dark good looks, intense natural charisma, and the way he’d calmly and efficiently handled the Holiday Mall Attacks.
It was ironic, Baxter thought to himself as he marveled at the description’s accuracy. Bill Jensen had come up with the flattering nickname, but now Bill was an enemy — if he was still alive. The special detail of men Baxter had assigned to pick up Bill’s trail had failed to find anything. Baxter’s men had even tailed Jack and Troy a few times to see if they were secretly helping their father. But those surveillances had turned up nothing.
“How did you get that original?” President Dorn asked, pointing again at the paper in Baxter’s lap.