“Sure. What is it now? You know who really killed President Lincoln and want to share that too?”
Robert smiled. She didn’t. He sat down on the edge of the couch.
“It was Booth,” he said. “And as far as I know, he worked alone.” Fiona stared at him, her back ramrod straight, eyes stern and piercing.
Silent. Unmoved.
“Fiona, I need to explain.”
“It’s really not necessary, Mr. Veil. I’ve made my decision. I’m going to keep quiet about what’s happening.” Robert, relieved, took a cleansing breath. “I’m glad you have faith in me.”
“This has nothing to do with you. I talked to Barbara and she put it all in perspective. If I go to the authorities with a conspiracy story about President Kennedy’s assassination, I’ll be the laughing stock of the legal community. Especially after Edward Rothschild gets finished with me.
So I might as well roll the dice.”
“You’ll come out of this fine, Fiona. I’ll break my neck to make sure you do.”
“This isn’t about me either! This is about a President’s murder. It’s about justice being served, and Rothschild not getting away with it. No matter what happens to me.”
“I know, I feel the same way, but I’m saying that I know I put you in a precarious situation, and if I could do it all over again I’d…”
“You should’ve told me, Robert! You should have let me make the decision to stay in this or get out! Now I’ve got a mass murderer after me, Edward Rothschild out to destroy me and everything I’ve worked for, and I didn’t even have the chance to choose whether I wanted in on this or not!”
Robert anticipated her reaction, but it hurt all the same. “It wasn’t an easy decision. I tried to avoid taking this case but you and my mother pushed it. Besides, I began to care for you.” Fiona sprang to her feet and slapped his face. “Don’t you dare talk about caring for me, not after this. How could you care and not tell me?” Stunned, more by her words than the slap, Robert stood up to face her.
“I’m sorry Fiona, I really am. I did what I thought was right. I wanted to protect you and Jessica from this monster, and still go after Rothschild.”
“I really don’t care about your intentions,” she said, pounding her fist in her hand. “I just want to get out of this alive with Jessica safe.”
“I understand. I want the same thing. And I think we’re close to making that happen.”
“How so?”
“We think we know where the evidence is hidden.” Fiona crossed her arms. “Where is it?”
Robert whispered the details, leaving out the confrontation with Edward’s men and the death squad.
She stepped back. “Are you sure?”
“Not one hundred percent.”
Fiona furrowed her brow. “You’ll need a court order,” she finally said. “I can help you with that. I have a very good friend on the bench who owes me a favor. Not as big as this one, but he’ll stretch for me and won’t ask questions.”
Her offer encouraged him. “Thank you Fiona,” he said, reaching for her hand. She pushed him away.
“Fiona, what do you want from me? How can I make this right?”
“What I want is for you to catch these people, and you can never make this right. It won’t be like before. In fact, when this is over, I don’t want to see you anymore.”
He stepped toward her. “Fiona, I…”
“Robert, please go,” she said, backing away. “Contact Judge Gary Bonner in the morning at the Federal Courthouse. He’ll have your court order ready so you can exhume the casket. I hope the evidence is in there. You’ll need a detective or Federal agent present. Do you have someone you can trust?”
“Yes, she’s FBI. Her name’s Marilyn London, and I’m sure she’ll play ball.”
“Good,” said Fiona. “I’ll let Judge Bonner know. It’s not normal procedure, but he’ll release the order to you. Agent London will have to present it to the cemetery’s managers, and be there when you open the casket.”
“I understand,” said Robert. “And I…”
Fiona raised her hand. He searched her face for some sign she cared for him, but found none. Fiona picked up her purse and left the room.
31
Friday morning clouds gave way to rain, and the nation’s capitol braced for Judge Fiona Patrick’s confirmation hearing. The citizens of Washington, conditioned to swallow daily doses of political high drama, prepared to dine on the choicest of political meat.
Political appointees on the skewer were nothing new to veterans of Washington warfare, but what made this day, this happening different, was the killer, the Bear. He’d slipped through one of the most intense, widespread dragnets in American history, and like a modern day Jack the Ripper had managed to immerse much of the city in terror, turning them into children, children afraid of a diabolical, mass murdering bogyman.
The area around the Russell Senate Office Building, Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street N.E., locked down as tight as a military base, made members of the Senate and their administrators feel constricted. There were roadblocks and an obvious increase in police patrols. More than a quarter of the staffers and passersby, including a small group of imitation reporters were undercover police, Secret Service, and FBI. To the rest of the world it looked like everyday political theater instead of a desperate attempt to keep a Supreme Court nominee alive.
Inside the Russell Office Building, a distinguished mix filed through the Roman-style rotunda, past a milky white marble statue of former Senator Richard B. Russell, Jr. Several lucky lottery winners, excited to claim their coveted seats, pointed and gawked like wide-eyed neophytes, at every small detail of the impressive structure.
The Russell Caucus Room, grand, well ordered and richly detailed, boasted a history of important hearings, including those devoted to the Sinking of the Titanic, Organized Crime, the Vietnam War, Watergate, the Iran Contra Affair, and the Supreme Court Nomination of Clarence Thomas.
The architectural influence and mastery of Ecole des Beaux-Arts of Paris was stunningly evident in the seventy-four by fifty-four foot room; treated with paired Corinthian pilasters standing on a continuous pedestal, supporting a richly detail entablature, including, dentils, modillions, and egg-and-dark moldings. The breathtaking ceiling was decorated with a variety of gilded classical motifs-rosettes, guilloche, and Greek key. Six windows stood like exquisite picture frames on the courtyard wall, and four, three tiered chandeliers, original to the room, seemed to float above the fray like crystal clouds, featuring globes etched with national emblems, including, the U.S. Seal, American Indian, and Liberty Cap.
The broadcast crew and sound technicians put the finishing touches on camera equipment and microphones for a broadcast forecasted to be seen by more than sixty million viewers, a hundred fifty million worldwide. Some would watch to see if Fiona would be confirmed, but most, out of a morbid curiosity, wanted to see if she would live.
The members of the hearing committee took their seats. Fiona and her team filed in behind the tables set up below the tribunal. The room fell silent. A grip dropped a microphone and the speakers exploded against the quiet, causing some to clutch their chests and others to clench their bladders. At the pound of a gavel, silence returned. Fiona folded her hands on the dark oak table and smiled. The committee didn’t smile back.
32
Latex, make-up, and collagen lip injections molded Andre’s face, giving it a full, pudgy swell. His hair, double-dyed jet black and mowed down into a military buzz cut, gave him a dedicated, take-no-shit aura.
False teeth, fit tightly over his own, pushed out into a slight overbite.
His eyes flashed ocean blue.