Terminal Justice

Chapter 1

Charlie

I’m driving down Peachtree, looking for the black Cadillac DTS. I’ve been trying to reach Charlie on his safe phone, but he’s not answering. I’m thinking about the collar, but mostly, I’m thinking of getting home to Trip and Kate.

Trip? asked Carol. Hoover felt his body tense. He’d told her about Trip. Lots of times.

Trip is my 11-year-old son. Hoover Patrick Jennings III. We call him Trip for ‘triple Hoover.’ Trip’s sick. Really sick. At that moment, Hoover hated Carol for not remembering his son.

Oh, yeah, was Carol’s only response. Go on.

Hoover glanced toward Carol. She was curled up in her plush leather chair, legs drawn under her. She wasn’t how Hoover imagined a therapist. Jeans and baggy T-shirt, barely half his age.

Hoover would never see a therapist on his own volition. He didn’t like looking into his feelings, but now the agency required it. It would have helped, though, if they’d given him a seasoned shrink. A man would have been good, too. Someone with gray hair or a receding hairline. Someone who’d experienced night terrors himself. Someone who’d had time to hang their diploma.

But he needed his disability check, and so every week he drove 30 miles to the wood and leather office and told this 28-year-old what he was thinking.

Hoover’s hands were clammy, and he was sure Carol could hear his labored breathing. He’d tried to tell her about the dream many times, but the words never came. Maybe if I tell her, thought Hoover, she’ll consider me cured. Today would be the day he told her the story that woke him each night.

He glanced at Carol’s expressionless face and back toward the floor. He knew perfectly the pattern of her carpet—tiny Dramamine-inducing triangles. He sometimes spent the entire 50 minutes studying the red, navy and orange pattern.

So Charlie’s undercover because of Trip, Hoover continued. "Trip’s not sick yet, but Charlie doesn’t have a family and he says when he does, I’ll be the one with the undercover assignments.

We know we’re closing in on the counterfeiters, a husband and wife team who’ve passed more than a million in phony bills. They have perfect plates, perfect paper.

I haven’t talked with Charlie for nearly a week, continued Hoover, "but I’ve gotten the go-ahead to take the collar. And Charlie’s not answering his safe phone.

As I round the corner of Peachtree and pull east onto Mitchell, I see the Cadillac. I recognize the woman in the passenger seat. It’s Mary Lou Williams. I put my blue light on the dash and call for back-up.

In the past two years, this was as far as Hoover had gotten, even with Kate.

"They pull over, and I use my speaker to tell them to wait in the car, with their hands on the dash.

It seems like forever that I wait for back-up. I radio again, and while I’m talking to dispatch, the woman jumps out of the car and runs to the trunk just as her husband pops the trunk release. She drags a big box, a heavy box, from the trunk onto the ground. Then she runs back to the door and jumps inside the car. Hoover stretched his hands in front of him and watched their tremors.

"By this time, I’m sweating, and Kate says I usually wake her by making a sound like a muffled scream. She’s tried to wake me, but I’m under so deep that it’s impossible. So I keep dreaming.

The car speeds away, and things go into slow motion. I’ve never froze on the job, but now I just stare flat line, trying to decide whether to pick up the box, which contains the counterfeit plates, or follow the car, which would lead me to Charlie and the collar.

Hoover stopped to study the triangles in the carpet. So what do you do? He looked up just as Carol picked a bite-sized Snickers bar from a dish on the table between them. At some level, she’s listening, thought Hoover. But she seemed intent on unwrapping the candy, and Hoover felt as if he were alone in the room. He relaxed a little and continued his story, speaking only to himself.

"That’s when backup arrives. I tell the two rookie agents to grab the plates and then follow me in pursuit of the Caddy.

"I burn rubber heading down Peachtree. That Caddy is nowhere. We call for helicopter backup, but nothing.

"The rookies radio that they’re taking the box back to the agency, and I tell them I’ll meet them there.

"When I arrive, the box is on my desk and a bunch of the guys are crowded around, waiting for me to open it. Those plates represent a year of my life and a year of Charlie’s life. Everybody wants to celebrate, but there’s something foreboding about the scene, and I just stand there, numb.

I tell them I want to wait for Charlie, but somebody tosses me a pair of latex gloves and tells me to go for it, that the AUSA wants the plates entered into evidence right away.

The room swirled around him, and Hoover wished he were lying on the stereotypical psychiatrist’s couch instead of facing Carol in a matching leather chair.

"The box lid’s folded, and I pull it open with one movement. Money comes flying out. Everyone’s laughing and making jokes about spending the funny money. Then all of a sudden the room’s quiet. The money from deeper in the box is covered with dark brown stains. Blood. We all know it’s blood.

"Something tells me to stop there. Every time I have the dream, I tell myself to stop and let the techs search the rest of the box.

"But I move by reflex. I move faster as I pull the bloody money out of the box and toss it onto the floor.

And there’s Charlie. Charlie’s head. Charlie’s body parts. Charlie’s cut up in the box and all we can do is stare.

Carol nibbled on another piece of candy. So why do you think you dream this same dream every night? she asked.

Hoover stood up, took a step toward Carol and took the candy from her hands. He tossed it on the triangle carpet and walked toward the door.

You don’t understand. I don’t just dream it every night. I see it every day. It’s how Charlie died, and I’ll live it until it has an ending, said Hoover as he slammed the heavy wooden door for the last time.

Chapter 2

The Gift

Hoover walked outside into the still-muggy September air, carefully navigating the old concrete steps that led to the road. He’d never felt pain from deep inside his bones until last week, but now just descending the handful of stairs was agony. Trip had been feeling the pain for a long time and Hoover wondered at his son’s bravery. He didn’t feel very brave himself. At 43, he felt old and tired.

Hoover had taken disability three months earlier. About that time, Trip’s body started giving out and his spirit showed its first signs of surrender. The line of loyals ends here, thought Hoover as he slid slowly behind the wheel of his two-year-old dark blue Corvette convertible. A long line of law enforcement. A long line of loyal company men.

The Jennings were distant cousins of Charles B. Winstead, who fired one of the shots that killed Dillinger in the alley beside the Biograph Theatre in the summer of 1934.

Hoover’s grandfather was an FBI agent under J. Edgar. He named his only son—Hoover’s father—after the head of the Bureau. This first Hoover became police chief in a small west Texas town, where he raised his family to be honest and hard-working.

He brought up his son to love law enforcement, weapons, and obeying the law. So Hoover Jr. filled out his Secret Service application the day after his twenty-first birthday.

He met Kate when she was a rookie agent—a pretty darn good one. But she never had a heart for the work. As soon as she became a mom, she turned in her badge for teaching credentials and more time with her son.

When Trip was born, Hoover whispered to him the first time he held him, You’ve got a name to live up to, kid. He never told Kate that, and he always swore that Trip was free to be anything he wanted. But it was unspoken between father and son. Trip was destined for law enforcement.

Cancer stopped Hoover’s plans. It stopped his dreams for Trip. And now their lives focused on blood markers and radiation.

Though gradually losing strength, Hoover asked to remain on active duty until Charlie’s killers were convicted. He stayed until he realized they would never be prosecuted. Their alibi was airtight.

Surveillance cameras showed them entering a Quik-Stop in Peachtree City—35 miles away—at the time Hoover pulled them over. Hoover wasn’t a tech person, but he knew that just about any video adjustment could be made if you knew what you were doing. The counterfeiters were the ones who tossed Charlie’s body like so much trash. But the U.S. Attorney said the evidence wasn’t strong enough. He was nervous that the public would think that Secret Service was making a vengeance arrest because the victim was an agent. His final words to Hoover were, You’re not turning this into a vigilante case.

Hoover looked at his watch. Quarter of twelve. He could make it to the FLEOA meeting—Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association, but he’d be a few minutes late. Being late usually bothered Hoover. He liked everything organized and on time. But today he’d be glad to miss the small talk and slip quietly into a seat in the back row in the fellowship room of Briarcliff Baptist Church. He had long ago tired of well-meaning inquiries about Trip and more recently about him.

Hoover’s estimate was correct. He entered the fellowship room to the din of conversation, clanging forks, and agents moving back and forth from the buffet. He scanned the tables, looking for familiar faces.

Hoover! Here’s a seat. Over here. Before Hoover turned to see Grant, he recognized his Bronx accent. Grant was his last choice for a lunch companion, and it looked like the others felt the same way. He was offering the last available seat. Hoover feigned pleasure in seeing Grant, and slipped into the vacant seat.

Julius Grant.

Hoover, my man, said Grant at a volume and tone that stood out in the quiet Southern church. I heard you were getting sicker by the day. I didn’t figure you’d make it to FLEOA. Are you as bad as everybody says?

Worse, answered Hoover in disgust. You have no idea.

I think I do, said Grant in a quieter voice. It’s got me, too.

It?

Cancer. The big C, said Grant. Same kind as you.

What are the odds …. said Hoover, surprised at his genuine sympathy for Grant.

Actually, pretty good, said Grant. My guess is that you don’t have much of an appetite. Come on. Let’s slip outside and I’ll tell you what I found out last week.

Grant was right about one thing. Hoover had no appetite for food. But he also had no appetite for hearing Grant drone on, as usual, about his great cases and how the U.S. Attorney couldn’t do without him. About how he’d be running for the U.S. Senate when he retired next year. About his father, the Senator. About his family’s wealth and the house in the mountains that the Senator deeded over to him on his twenty-first birthday.

Hoover shook his head and headed for the buffet.

They gave it to us. Grant’s voice was low but urgent. Urgent enough to freeze Hoover in mid step.

We can thank the big Eagle for the big C. Wanna go outside now?

The two men walked together to the parking lot. As they reached Grant’s Toyota Prius, he told Hoover, Get in.

The Prius was stifling, and Grant started the engine, rolled down the windows and turned on the air. Pretty extravagant for someone so green, thought Hoover. He must be as affected by the heat as I am.

As the car cooled, the men stared forward. Grant pulled an inhaler from his suit jacket and pumped it twice into each nostril. He dropped his head forward, composed himself, and turned to Hoover.

Liz has it, too, said Grant.

Liz Gaffney? The AUSA? Liz, an Assistant U.S. Attorney, was one of the good guys, and Hoover felt strong pangs of remorse. Liz was in her early 50s, single, no hobbies, few friends and totally dedicated to her work. The tiny woman was aggressive and bent on justice. She was usually at odds with the U.S. Attorney because she’d never learned to play the politics game. Hoover admired her spunk and her leadership skills.

One in the same, my man. One in the same. Now, the million dollar question. What do we all have in common?

We’re all feds, answered Hoover.

Be more specific.

Well, we’ve worked together on a half dozen or so cases.

Getting warm, said Grant. And what was the granddaddy of all cases, the one that got the attention of the big guy?

Hoover hated it when Grant played his 20 questions, forcing him to answer the obvious. At this point, both men knew that the major case that connected them with Liz was ARROW, code name for the terrorist task force Liz headed, under the direction of the President. They’d derailed a major terrorist plot, but their highly publicized testimonies compromised their identities, and ARROW was terminated. But according to their commendations, thousands of American lives were saved during ARROW’s short existence.

Hoover sat silently, forcing Grant to move forward without engaging him in twenty questions.

Remember those expensive pens we got in the mail? Remember how they were engraved?

Grant was doing it again, trying to force Hoover to answer the obvious. Except for a week when he’d let Trip carry the pen to show off to his friends, Hoover had carried the sterling silver pen with him every day. He knew the inscription by heart: With gratitude from the President and the nation.

When Hoover was silent, Grant continued. The return address on those pens was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but towel heads sent them. Without warning, Grant slammed his fist into a leather bound notebook lying on the console. No doubt about it, he said through his teeth.

Hoover stifled a laugh. Leave it to Grant to find a cushy place to slam his fist.

Hoover pulled his pen from the pocket of his khaki vest. Along with his federally issued 5·11 cargo pants and a polo shirt, the vest made up his everyday uniform, one he seldom exchanged for the suit and tie that Grant wore almost daily.

Give me the pen, said Grant. The commanding tone took Hoover by surprise, and he handed Grant his silver prize. He watched as Grant opened the car door and marched determinedly toward the church’s Dumpster. Grant looked over his shoulder at Hoover as he tossed in the pen.

Hoover’s body felt numb as he watched Grant walk back to the car. Even Grant, with his need for attention, wouldn’t toss a Presidential pen. Not without a good reason.

Grant settled behind the wheel of the Prius. Those pens were gifts from al-Quaeda. And they were filled with a carcinogenic.

Focus, Hoover told himself. Focus. But all he could see was Trip proudly wearing the pen, writing with the pen, even kissing the pen. He dreaded his next question.

Proof? asked Hoover.

I had mine tested, said Grant. I knew you and Trip were sick. Then I heard about Liz. When I got my diagnosis, it just seemed like too much coincidence. Then one day, I dropped my pen and before I could pick it up, the boys came running through the den and Matt stepped on it. When I picked it up, ink ran down the side. It was sticky, like tar, and it smelled sour. It was a long shot, but I called a friend at the Bureau lab in D.C. and asked him to test it.

Hoover felt like he did when he first heard Trip’s diagnosis. His head seemed too heavy for his shoulders, and he thought he might faint. He dropped forward slightly as he listened to the rest of Grant’s story.

Giving it to the Bureau was a mistake. Almost immediately, my friend called and told me the pen was filled with an unidentified carcinogenic, the most powerful he’d ever encountered. The pen itself was made with a microscopically porous material that allowed the poison to seep out at a slow rate, as well as being released when I wrote with it.

Then… Grant paused for emphasis. "No one returned my calls. I flew to D.C. The lab techs said they had no record of testing a pen, and they refused to let me talk to my friend. I called him at home, and he told me not to ask questions and hung up.

The government has no intention of taking care of its own.

Is your family infected? asked Hoover.

Grant laughed. It’s one of those times when the good guy finishes last. I’ll bet you let Trip use your pen. Hoover nodded.

Well, you know me, smiled Grant. "I told my kids they could fight over it when I was dead, but they weren’t carrying it to high school. So nobody touched it but me.

Now I can think of some people I wish I’d loaned it to.

Shouldn’t we get my pen out of the Dumpster? asked Hoover. For proof?

What good would it do?

We could take our story to the press. Maybe we’d get some financial help for our families.

And maybe our families would be dead. Look, Hoover, the government doesn’t want this story told. Otherwise, I’d have an official lab report. And you know as well as I do that if the government doesn’t want it told, they’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep it quiet. Remember SOUTHCO? Of course, thought Hoover, as he forced Grant to continue without his feedback.

We had a solid case. Then six witnesses died, including our best CI. And when the case reached the top dogs, they said ‘insufficient evidence.’ And eventually, the case was ‘no longer on record.’

The men sat in silent agreement. The Eagle did whatever it had to do to protect the nest. If citizens realized how easily chemical warfare could infiltrate, they’d panic.

So what can we do? asked Hoover.

That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I found out about the pens, said Grant. I’m bitter, there’s no denying that. But if I only accomplish one thing before I die, I want to figure out exactly what happened to us, what ARROW did to us and how we can pay them back.

Have you talked to Liz about what you found out? asked Hoover. Since she headed ARROW, maybe she knows more than we do.

I’ll try to contact her today, said Grant. If she’s well enough to meet, you know she’ll want to meet at the Varsity.

Hoover smiled and nodded. We had plenty of pre-ops there. Liz loves their onion rings.

Yeah, said Grant. For a little woman, she can sure put away the onion rings and chili cheese fries. Tell you what. I’ll call Liz and try to set up a meeting for this Tuesday. Say noon? Unless you hear from me, I’ll see you Tuesday at noon at the Varsity.

Hoover nodded. Noon.

Grant put the car into gear and drove through the lot until he found Hoover’s Vette. The two men parted with no further communication—no words, no eye contact, no handshake. Information overload was their focus. Trip, Grant, Liz and Hoover—all with cancer that might have been avoided. Hoover wasn’t sure he wanted confirmation of that. Trip’s cancer had been hard enough on him—even harder on Kate—and knowing it might have been avoided would be unbearable.

Chapter 3

Confirmation

How was your session? asked Kate as Hoover entered the kitchen. Her auburn hair glistened in the fluorescent light as she turned toward him. Tall and alarmingly thin, Kate reminded him of a Disney princess in an apron. Probably the only woman who still wore an apron, Kate had a small stack of them. It was a homey picture Hoover loved to come home to.

She still looks seventeen, thought Hoover as he kissed her lightly on the lips.

As a matter of fact, said Hoover, today was my last session. Carol says I’ve finally dealt with Charlie’s death.

Babe, I’m so glad. Kate hugged him. Since the day Hoover proposed to Kate, the two had called each other only by pet names. In the midst of their worst arguments, they’d sometimes start laughing when one of them used a pet name.

Maybe someday you can tell me the whole story. … Kate squeezed his hand.

I went to the FLEOA lunch, too.

Kate smiled. Good. You’ve put off seeing your friends long enough. Were most of them aware that you’d been diagnosed?

I only talked with Grant.

"Julius Grant? said Kate. Was he sitting next to the only vacant chair? I can’t imagine you seeking him out."

We have a lot in common.

You used to say he was the most obnoxious person you knew. What’s changed?

Hoover smiled. Grant’s just as obnoxious as ever. But I’ve always trusted him. If I needed somebody to watch my back, I’d choose Grant in a heartbeat. I’d rather be on an entry team with Grant than anyone. He’d risk his life to save a fellow agent.

Kate nodded. She’d been an agent long enough to understand Grant’s type.

Besides, Hoover continued. Grant and I have more in common now.

Unsure of Kate’s reaction, Hoover struggled with the next words. He paused too long, and Kate asked, What?

After another too-long pause, Hoover answered: "Grant’s got