The Simple Truth by David Baldacci
“Huh. Don’t you go believing that. Your daddy brags about you a mile a minute. I mean, he talks about Mike too, but you’re the king of the hill with him.”
“Well, he and Mom brought us up right. Sacrificed everything for us. You don’t forget that.” Maybe Mike had, but he never would, Fiske told himself.
“Well, Mike had three fine examples to follow.” Fiske looked at her curiously. “That boy worshiped the ground you walked on.”
“People change.”
“You think so, do you?”
A few drops of rain started to fall. “You better get back inside, Ms. German, it looks like it might pour.”
“You know you can call me Ida if you want.”
Fiske smiled. “Some things don’t change, Ms. German.”
He watched her until she made it inside. The neighborhood wasn’t nearly as safe as it had once been. He and his father had installed deadbolts on her doors, sash locks on her windows and a peephole in her front door. The elderly carried a bull’s-eye on them when it came to crime.
Fiske looked down once more at Bo’s grave, the vision of his brother crying his eyes out over a dead dog cemented in his mind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
How are you, Mom?” Michael Fiske touched his mother’s face. It was early in the morning and Gladys was not in a good mood. Her face darkened and she pulled back from his touch. He looked at her a moment, deep sadness in his eyes as he saw the open hostility in hers.
“I brought you something.” He opened the bag he carried and pulled out a gift-wrapped box. When she made no move to open it, he did so for her. He showed her the blouse, her favorite shade of lavender. He held it out to her, but she wouldn’t take it. It was like this every time he came to visit. She would rarely talk to him, her mood always foul. And his gifts were never accepted. He repeatedly tried to draw her out in conversation, but she refused.
He sat back and sighed. He had told his father about this, that his mother absolutely refused to have anything to do with him. But his old man was powerless to change things. No one could control who Gladys was nice to. Michael’s visits had grown less and less frequent because of it. He had tried to talk to his brother about it, but John had refused to discuss it with him. His mother would never treat John that way, Michael knew. To her, he was the golden child. Michael Fiske could be elected the president of the United States or win the Nobel Prize, and in her eyes he would still always be second to his older brother. He left the blouse on the table, gave his mother a quick kiss and left.
Outside, the rain had started to come down. Michael pulled up the collar on his trench coat and got back in his car. He had a very long drive ahead of him. The visit to his mother was not the only reason he had driven south. He was now headed to southwest Virginia. To Fort Jackson. To see Rufus Harms. For a moment, he debated whether to stop and see his brother. John had not returned his phone call, which was no surprise. But the journey he was about to undertake had some personal risk to it, and Michael wouldn’t have minded having his brother’s advice and perhaps presence. But then he shook his head. John Fiske was a very busy attorney and he didn’t have time to run around the state chasing wild theories of his younger brother’s. He would just have to deal with it alone.
* * *
As she often did, Elizabeth Knight rose early, did some stretching exercises on the floor and then ran on the treadmill in the spare bedroom of her and her husband Senator Jordan Knight’s Watergate apartment. She showered, dressed, fixed some coffee and toast and looked over some bench memos in preparation for oral argument next week. Since it was Friday, the justices would spend part of the day in conference, where they would vote on cases they had already heard. Ramsey ran the conferences on a tight schedule. To her disappointment, there was little debate at these meetings. Ramsey would summarize the salient points of each case, cast his vote orally, and wait while the other justices did the same. If Ramsey was in the majority, which he usually was, he assigned the opinion. If he wasn’t, the most senior associate justice in the majority, usually Murphy — ideological opposites, he and Ramsey rarely if ever voted the same way — would assign the opinion.
As Knight finished her coffee, she thought back over her first three years on the Court. It had been a whirlwind, really. Because of her gender, she was automatically seen as not only a champion of women’s rights but also of causes that many women traditionally supported. People never considered this stereotyping, although it was a blatant form of it, Knight knew. She was a judge, not a politician. She had to look at each case separately, just as she had done as a trial court judge. And yet, even she had to own up to the fact that the Supreme Court was different. The impact of its decisions was so far-reaching that the justices were forced to go beyond the four corners of each case and look at the effect of the decision on everyone else. That had been one of the hardest things for her to do.
She looked around the luxurious apartment. She and her husband had a good life together. They were routinely touted as the capital’s number one power couple. And in a way they were. She carried that mantle as well as she could, even as she combated the isolation that each justice had to endure. When you went on the Court, friends stopped calling, people treated you differently, were careful, guarded in what they said around you. Knight had always been gregarious, outgoing. Now she felt much less so. She clung to her husband’s professional life as a way to lessen the impact of this abrupt change. Sometimes she felt like a nun with eight monks as her lifelong companions.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Jordan Knight, still dressed in his pajamas, came up behind her and gave her a hug. “You know, there’s no rule that says you have to start every day at the crack of dawn. Snuggling in bed is good for the soul,” he said.
She kissed his hand and turned to give him a hug back.
“I don’t recall you being a late sleeper either, Senator.”
“We should both make a concerted effort to do it, I think. Who knows what it could lead to? I’ve heard sex is the best defense against aging.”
Jordan Knight was tall and heavily built, with thinning gray hair and a tanned face scored with lines. In the inequitable way of the world regarding the physical appearances of men and women, he would be considered handsome even with the wrinkles and the extra pounds. He cut quite a figure on the pages of the Post and local magazines, and on national TV shows where even the most experienced political pundits were often overwhelmed by his wit, experience and intelligence.
“You certainly have some interesting opinions.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee while she looked over her papers.
“Ramsey still grooming you to become a good member of his camp?”
“Oh, he’s pushing all the right buttons, saying all the right things. However, I’m afraid some of my recent actions aren’t sitting all that well with him.”
“You go your own way, Beth, just like always. You’re smarter than all of them. Hell, you should be chief justice.”
She put an arm around his thick shoulders. “Like maybe you should be president?”
He shrugged. “I think the U.S. Senate is challenge enough for me. Who knows, this might be the last roundup for yours truly.”
She pulled her arm away. “We really haven’t talked about it.”
“I know. We’re both busy. Too many demands on our time. When things settle down, we’ll talk. I think we have to.”
“You sound serious.”
“Can’t keep on the treadmill forever, Beth.”
She let out a troubled laugh. “I’m afraid I signed on for life.”
“Good thing about politics. You can always decide not to run again. Or you can lose your seat.”
“I thought there was a lot more you wanted to accomplish.”
“It’s not going to happen. Too many obstacles. Too many games. To tell you the truth, I’m getting kind of tired.”
Beth Knight started to say something and then stopped. She had jumped firmly int
Jordan Knight picked up his coffee and kissed her on the cheek. “Go get ’em, Ms. Justice.”
As the senator walked off, she rubbed her face where he had kissed it. She tried to study her papers once more, but found she couldn’t. She simply sat there, her mind suddenly whirling in many different directions.
* * *
John Fiske held the photo of himself and his brother. He had sat there for almost twenty minutes with it, not even looking at it for much of that time. Finally he stood it up on his bookcase, went over to the phone and dialed his brother’s number. There was no answer and Fiske didn’t bother leaving a message. He then called the Supreme Court, but was told Michael was not yet in. He called thirty minutes later and was told by another person that Michael would not be in at all that day. Figures, he thought. He couldn’t get hold of his brother when he had at last gotten up the nerve to call him. Was that what it was — nerve? He sat down at his desk and tried to work, but his eyes kept stealing over to that photo.
Finally, he packed his briefcase, grateful that he had to go to court, grateful to get away from some nagging feelings.
In the course of the morning, he had two hearings back to back. One he won convincingly; with the other he was torn apart by the judge, who seemingly took every opportunity to ridicule his legal arguments, while the assistant commonwealth attorney stood by politely, holding back the smiles; you had to maintain the professional facade, because it could be your butt being put through the wringer the next time. Everyone here understood that. Or at least those who stuck with it did.
He next went to the Richmond city jail and then the county jail in Henrico to speak with clients. With one, he discussed strategy for the man’s upcoming trial. His inmate client offered to go on the witness stand and lie. Sorry, you won’t be doing that, Fiske told him. With another client the talk was about the ubiquitous plea bargain. Months, years, decades. How much time? Will I have a shot at parole? Suspended sentence? Help me out, man. I got a woman and kids. I got bizness to take care of. Okay, right. What’s a little murder and mayhem compared to that?
With the last client, things took a very different turn. “We’re not in good shape here, Leon. I think we should plead,” Fiske advised.
“Nope. We go to trial.”
“They’ve got two eyewitnesses.”
“Is that right?”
Leon had been charged with the shooting of a child. It had been a dispute between two gangs of skinheads, and the little girl had gotten in the way — a fairly common tragedy these days. “Well, they’re not going to hurt me if they don’t testify, are they?”
“Why won’t they testify?” Fiske said evenly. He had been down this road before. How many times as a cop had cases disappeared before his eyes because the witnesses suddenly forgot what they had so clearly seen and remembered before?
Leon shrugged. “You know, things come up. People don’t keep their appointments.”
“The police took their statements.”
Leon gave him a sharp glance. “Right, but I get to face people testifying against me, right? So’s you can trip ’em up on the witness stand, right?”
“You certainly know your Constitution,” Fiske said dryly. He took a deep breath. He was so tired of the game of witness intimidation. “Come on, Leon, tell me — I’m your attorney, it’s all privileged. Why won’t they testify against you?”
Leon cracked a smile. “You don’t need to know.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t need any surprises. You never know what a prosecutor is going to try. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen before. If something goes down and I’m not prepared for it, your ass could go up the river.”
Now Leon looked a little worried. He obviously hadn’t thought of that. He rubbed at the swastika on his forearm. “Privileged, right? That’s what you said.”
“That’s right.” Fiske leaned forward. “Between you, me and God.”
Leon laughed. “God? Shit, that’s a good one.” He hunched forward and spoke in a low voice. “Got me a couple of friends. They gonna pay a little visit to these witnesses. Make sure they forget their way to the courthouse. It’s all set up.”
Fiske slumped back. “Aw hell, now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?”
“Told me the one damn thing I have to go to the judge with.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Legally, and ethically, I can’t divulge any information given to me by a client.”
“So, what’s the problem? I’m your client and I just gave you the damn information.”
“Right, but you see, there’s an important exception to that rule. You just told me about a crime you’ve planned for the future. That’s the one thing I have to tell the court. I can’t let you commit the crime. I have to advise you not to do it. Consider yourself so advised. If you’d already done it, we’d be okay. What the hell were you thinking about, telling me that?” Fiske looked disgusted.
“I didn’t know that was the law. Shit, I ain’t no damn lawyer.”
“Come on, Leon, you know the law better than most lawyers. Now you’ve gone and screwed up your own case. Now we have to plead.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“If we go to trial and the witnesses don’t show, I have to tell the court what you told me. If the witnesses show, your ass is cooked.”
“Well, then don’t you go telling nobody nothing.”
“That’s not an option, Leon. If I don’t and it comes out somehow, I lose my license to practice. And while I like you a lot, no client is worth that. Without my license I don’t eat. And you screwed up, man, not me.”
“I don’t believe this shit. I thought you could tell your damn attorney anything.”
“I’ll see what I can do on the plea. You’re going to spend some time in jail, Leon, no way around that.” Fiske stood and patted the prisoner on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll cut you the best deal I can.”
As Fiske walked out of the visitors’ room he smiled for the first time all day.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Michael Fiske looked up ahead nervously as he drove. His wipers struggled to maintain visibility in the face of the pouring rain. Headed west, he had passed places with names like Pulaski, Bland and even something called Hungry Mothers State Park, which had conjured up in his mind a discomforting vision of huddled masses of women and children begging for food along the park’s trails. For a while winds swirling off nearby Big A Mountain buffeted the car. Even though he had been born and raised in Virginia, Fiske had never been west of Roanoke, and he had only ventured there to take the bar exam. Up to this point he had made good time, because the trip had been all highway. Once he had exited Interstate 81 and headed in a northwesterly direction, that had abruptly changed. Now the terrain was rugged and unforgiving, the roads narrow and serpentine.
He glanced over at the briefcase next to him on the front seat, drawing a long breath as he did so. He had learned a lot since reading Rufus Harms’s plea for help.
Harms had murdered a young girl, who was visiting the military base where Harms had been stationed at the end of the Vietnam War. He had been in the stockade at the time but had somehow broken out. There was no motive; it just seemed a random act of violence by a madman. Those facts were uncontroverted. As a Supreme Court clerk, Michael had many information resources to turn to, and he had used all of them in compiling the background facts. However, the military wouldn’t acknowledge that such a program as described in Harms’s petition even existed. Michael slapped the steering wheel. If only Harms or his attorney had included the letter from the Army in his filing.
Michael had finally decided that he needed to hear the account from its source: Rufus Harms. He had tried to do it through channels other than direct confrontation. He had tracked down Samuel Rider through the postal trail, but had received no reply to his calls. Was he the author of the typewritten paper? Michael believed it was a stro
And there was a final reason for this trip. Some of the names listed in the petition, the people allegedly involved in the little girl’s death, were names well known to Michael. If it turned out Rufus Harms was telling the truth … he shuddered as one nightmarish scenario after another rolled through his thoughts.
On the seat next to him was a road atlas and a sheet of written directions he had made up for himself showing precisely the way to the prison. Over the next hour or so, he traveled through miles of back roads and over corroded wooden bridges, blackened by weather and car exhaust, through towns that weren’t big enough to justify the title, and past battered house trailers tucked into narrow crevices of rock along the foothills of the Appalachians. He was passed by muddy pickup trucks with miniature Confederate flags flapping from radio antennae, and shotguns and deer rifles slung across racks in the rear window. As he drew closer to the prison, the tight, weathered faces of the few people he saw grew more and more taciturn, their eyes filled with a constant, irreversible suspicion.
As Michael rounded a curve, the prison facility loomed before him. The stone walls were thick, towering and vast, like a medieval castle transported to this miserably poor stretch of rocky soil. He wondered for a moment if the stone had been quarried by the prisoners into the assemblage of their own tombs.