The Amendment Killer (Brooks/Lotello Thriller) Page 4

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday, May 6, 9:30 am

  THE UNIFORMED SUPREME COURT security officer shouted over the clamor of echoing voices and shuffling feet beneath the high-vaulted ceiling of the courthouse lobby: “Empty your pockets and bags, place the contents in one of the free bins, and put the bin on the conveyor belt. Cameras, cell phones, and other electronic devices are not permitted in the courtroom and must be checked before entering. You’ll be given a claim check and can retrieve your items when you leave.”

  “Nothing in my pockets, Officer,” Thomas said. “Just my billfold, a notepad, and a couple of pens in my shoulder bag.”

  “Step ahead, stand on the marks, raise your hands above your head.”

  He did exactly as he was told.

  “Come through,” the security officer motioned.

  Thomas entered the courtroom gallery, looked around, and limped over to the left aisle seat, one row forward from the rear. He stood there staring at the woman occupying the seat until she finally acknowledged his presence.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Any chance I could trouble you to find another seat? It’s this darn stiff leg of mine. I sure could use an aisle seat near the exit.”

  She stared at him. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. If she refused his entreaty, he had another couple seats nearby he’d try. If all three attempts fell flat, he’d have to revert to Plan B: Leave the courtroom, grab one of the other phones he’d hidden outside the courthouse, along with three extra SIM cards, each one barely the size of his thumbnail, and hurry to the bar down the street, where several wall-screen televisions would be carrying the coverage.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the woman occupying his preferred spot nodded silently and moved over to one of the few remaining gallery seats. “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he called after her. Plan A it was, at least for this initial half-day session.

  With an exaggerated effort, Thomas slumped down into the seat the woman had vacated, unlatched his shoulder bag, and placed it on the floor between his legs. He surveyed the courtroom in front of him with a mixture of admiration and amusement. The gallery was filling in quickly. Given the seminal importance of the case, Thomas knew the courtroom would soon be packed.

  He leaned forward and coughed. He deftly removed one of the two phones and three of the six extra SIM cards he had two-way taped under each of the three-aisle gallery seats over the course of the prior week. He slipped the items into his bag.

  So far, so good. It had been surprisingly easy for Thomas to get a night shift custodial position at the courthouse. Of course, it probably hadn’t hurt his chances that two custodians—one was enough, the second was just for good measure—mysteriously went missing without notice only days earlier. Or that Thomas had been able to hack into the Court computer system and move his application to the head of the waiting list for custodial positions. Not likely the incinerated bodies of those two janitors will ever turn up, or be tied to this case before the Court rules.

  Creating an employment history and references had required the fabrication of a handful of modest-sized custodial companies in several small easterly Virginia towns. Each with manufactured owners and phone numbers leading to additional prepaid cells Thomas had purchased. Of course, no one was there when calls came in to verify the references. But Thomas always promptly returned the voicemail messages left by the Court’s human resources office. Using voice alteration software, he provided bona fides in sufficiently unique voices to accredit his fictitious applicant.

  The interview had been a mere formality. Two weeks after he had sent in his application, Thomas’s new job allowed him undisturbed access to the very courtroom where today’s proceedings would take place. Over the course of several nights, he’d managed to sneak in six cell phones and extra SIM cards and taped them to the bottom of the three targeted seats. Including the one he now occupied.

  Using three separate Craigslist ads, Thomas had surreptitiously hired three different people to stand in line this morning and get him a seat while he tended to more urgent priorities. He had paid each through a joint “Pay After Delivery” PayPal escrow account.

  As for the phones, in addition to his personal smartphone for the possible rare occasion when he would need capability not included on burners, Thomas had purchased forty “burner” phones for cash over a period of several weeks. No identification was required. Each purchase was made at a different drugstore, electronics shop, or telecommunications carrier retailer. Fifty dollars bought a phone already loaded with one full month of prepaid service. The cost was a pittance.

  It would have been easier, cheaper, and more efficient if he had purchased just a couple of phones and downloaded the latest burner apps to them that all the drug dealers, pimps, and hackers were using these days, but Thomas didn’t trust the vulnerable security of that approach. He was far too cautious for anything that risky.

  The extra effort expended was well worth it. So long as he meticulously followed his simple protocol, neither his identity nor his location could ever be traced: Employing a new SIM card for each text sent, removing the phone battery and old SIM card immediately after their use and breaking the old SIM card in half, and then reinserting the battery and a new SIM card at the time of the next use.

  Each of the hidden burner phones, including the one now resting safely in the bag at his feet, contained the same unsent text message—the one he’d prepared before abducting the girl.

  As the courtroom wall clock marched toward ten, Thomas basked in the grandeur of the chamber, its high ceilings, and its majestic finishes. He even admired the way everyone present had their respectively assigned places: Courtroom staff adjacent to the Justices, attorneys and their clients just beyond the staff, and, finally, the gallery of spectators. The buzz among the spectators was growing. They were there to see how the 28th Amendment would fare, but he wondered how specifically they would each be affected by the Court’s decision. Perhaps he should say his decision.

  Thomas’s eyes settled on the three of them: Brooks, Klein, sitting next to Brooks, Lotello, seated behind Klein. He recalled bitterly his prior dealings with each. He knew that Lotello and Klein had married. Klein had also adopted Lotello’s two kids, the brood sitting next to Lotello. How I’d love to take the lot of them down right now. But no time for such whimsy now. First things first. Their time will come.

  As Thomas watched them, Lotello reached over and gave Klein an obvious last minute good luck squeeze on her shoulder. Klein turned and seemed to acknowledge the gesture with a preoccupied smile. Suddenly she glanced back, her line of sight intersecting Thomas’s. Her smile transformed into a brief, puzzled expression. She returned her attention to the papers in front of her.

  Thomas smiled. Sneered might be more precise. Stare all you want, bitch. By the time you recognize me, it’ll be too late. It already is. About 170 minutes to be exact. But who’s counting?

  * * *

  The nine Supreme Court Justices marched into the regal burgundy and gold hall right on time, exactly at 10 o’clock. Thomas respected that. He always sought to be on time too. Several cracks of the gavel, not unlike a staccato of gunfire, followed the Justices’s entrance, reverberating throughout the courtroom. Momentarily startled out of his reverie, Thomas belatedly joined the remainder of the gallery in rising.

  The Justices huddled and ceremoniously shook hands, demonstrating a lack of personal animosity despite whatever judicial differences they perhaps harbored. Thomas thought it played like a well-choreographed Broadway musical. As if on cue, they then took their places behind their assigned seats, the Chief Justice of the United States at the center and the eight Associate Justices alternating right and left of center in descending order of seniority, accompanied by the grand opening proclamation of the Court Marshal:

  “The Honorable, the Chief Justice and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Hono
rable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court.”

  That was Thomas’s cue. As everyone throughout the courtroom resumed their seats, he reached into his bag on the floor and discreetly removed the phone. Hunched over, as he had practiced countless times without having to look, Thomas quickly opened the app and hit “Send.” And just as quickly and discreetly, he returned the phone to the bag.

  Showtime.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tuesday, May 6, 10:07 am

  ASSOCIATE JUSTICE ARNOLD HIRSCHFELD’S cell phone started vibrating just as Chief Justice Sheldon Trotter began his opening remarks. Few people had Hirschfeld’s number. He reached inside his robe, removed the phone, and opened the text.

  We have your granddaughter.

  His eyes widened. His knuckles turned pale. Remembering where he was, he tried to regain his composure. He took a deep breath, and continued reading.

  We have your granddaughter. Here’s what you need to do.

  Chief Justice Trotter’s opening remarks seemed to come from a far-off place. “As many of you watching today have learned from the media, this is the first time we . . .”

  Hirschfeld pushed Trotter’s words to the recesses of his mind as he hurriedly skimmed the balance of the text.

  If you don’t follow these instructions exactly, your granddaughter dies.

  Trotter rambled on “. . . are televising the proceedings of this Court . . .”

  Hirschfeld half-rose from his leather chair and all but gave way to his urge to rush from the courtroom. He caught himself. And go where? Do what? Are they watching me? Am I telegraphing my anxiety? What’ll they do? He tried to swallow. He couldn’t.

  The kids had given Cassie a cell phone on her last birthday. It was always with her. As nonchalantly as possible, he managed to tap in and send a text.

  hey baby girl r u having a good day? luv u

  He closed his eyes. The few unfilled seconds stretched to infinity.

  Gazing vacantly out into the courtroom and the whirring cameras that glared back at him, the next text he fired off was to his daughter, Jill.

  chk if cassie @ school NOW

  All the while, Trotter prattled on. “For the benefit of those looking on from your televisions . . .”

  Hirschfeld’s phone vibrated. Cassie? No. Only Jill.

  What r u saying dad? ur scaring me!

  He fired back: no time chk NOW

  He felt certain everyone in the courtroom was staring at him. He remained painfully aware that someone was.

  He strained to be unobtrusive, natural. As if he were concentrating on Trotter’s remarks. His phone vibrated again.

  dad shes not at school! FOR GODS SAKE WHATS GOING ON?

  He could no longer process what Trotter was saying. He put his phone on the leather notepad in front of him, pretending to be making notes. He tapped out and sent still another text.

  someones got cassie call school back say she just walked in not feeling well came home b4 reaching school DON’T SAY ANYTHING MORE get mark home. DO NOTHING MORE! NO POLICE! wait for me 2 call @ 12 they r watching me on tv and in crtrm 2 b sure I do as told I WILL GET HER BACK

  No sooner had he sent the message then his phone vibrated for the third time.

  u no by now this is no joke. we r ur worst nightmare. u r starting 2 draw attention. put ur damn phone away. NOW! do exactly as we say or no more sweet little girl. on u grandpa.

  No doubt the bastards were watching him. Hirschfeld quickly scanned the courtroom. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a sea of faces. Among them his longtime friend and law school classmate, Cyrus Brooks. Sitting in the Court well with the other lawyers in the case. Is Cyrus staring at me?

  Hirschfeld had to stop broadcasting his terror. Do as they instructed. Calm down. His left eye twitched uncontrollably. He willed it to stop. He tried to focus on Trotter. How am I ever going to make it to the noon recess?

  * * *

  Thomas stared at Hirschfeld. Get it together, asshole. We have a lot riding on you. So does the girl.

  * * *

  Cassie woke suddenly. At first, she couldn’t find herself. As if she were in some long, dark, tunnel. She was confused. Her head hurt. Her knees ached. She struggled to remember what had happened. And then it came rushing back to her, along with the sheer terror she’d felt when the man attacked her, slammed her to the ground, thrust that scary needle at her. But why me? Where am I? What time is it? And, where is my pump?

  Like tearing something sticky off her skin, she opened her eyes. Ow! Burns. She rubbed them and tried again. Lying on a bed. She struggled to sit up, look around. She was in a dingy room. Not much light. Just one hanging bulb. No windows. Stuffy. Cold. Walls dirty.

  What kind of a room doesn’t have windows?

  A basement.

  She spotted a door at the end of the room. She stood, but felt dizzy. She managed to cross the cellar. She grabbed at the doorknob. Locked. She listened for any sounds on the other side. “Hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me? Please, can you help me?”

  Silence. Now more afraid than ever, she returned to the bed. For the first time, she noticed a little table in the corner. She made her way over to it. She found the note addressed to her: You have everything you need. You’re going to be here for a while.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tuesday, May 6, 10:14 am

  HIRSCHFELD HAD BEEN KEEPING an eye on the clock, struggling to maintain his composure. Pandering to the television cameras, Trotter had already allowed the proceedings to fall fifteen minutes behind schedule; it was unclear how he would recoup the time. Hirschfeld had to call his daughter Jill and her husband Mark at noon. He needed every second of the break to work out how to free their baby girl from the clutches of these madmen. Please, Lord, don’t let Trotter delay or shorten the noon recess.

  Hirschfeld didn’t have long to wait for his answer. At the conclusion of his opening remarks, Trotter casually announced that each side would receive fifty minutes rather than the sixty originally allocated to argue standing. Hirschfeld breathed a sigh of relief. Finally relinquishing the microphone, Trotter added, “We’ll be in recess for five minutes and then hear from Ms. Klein.”

  * * *

  Nishimura told the television audience that the remainder of the morning would be devoted to NoPoli’s appeal of the lower court’s ruling that Congress had “standing” to challenge the validity of the 28th Amendment.

  “Chris, we’re almost out of time. Can you quickly explain the concept of standing to our viewers?”

  “Of course. Contrary to popular belief, and contrary to how it works in most state judicial systems, parties are not automatically entitled to their ‘day’ in court in the federal judicial system. They must first establish that they have a legal right to sue. That right to sue is called standing.”

  “Got it,” Nishimura said. “With you so far. Standing is the right to sue. But what determines whether standing exists?”

  “That depends on who wants to sue whom, and why. The party who wishes to sue must show that he’s been injured in some way by the party he wishes to sue. And that there’s some kind of useful benefit the court can award to compensate the injured party.”

  “Give us a couple examples of an injury,” Nishimura asked Elliott.

  “Sure. First example: You and I enter into a contract under which I am to paint your home for $100 using a high-grade paint and I use an inferior paint instead. Second example: I punch you in the mouth and break your jaw. Third example: I call you a crook.

  “In the first case, you’ve suffered injury to your home. In the second case, you’ve been physically injured. In the third case, you’ve suffered injury to your reputation.”

  Nishimura grimaced. “Not sure I’m liking this, but I’d love to hire you to paint my home for $100. More to the point, what kind of benefit would the court have to award me for t
hese injuries?”

  “In the first case, the court could order me to pay you the amount of money it would cost to repaint your home. In the second case, the court could order me to pay your medical expenses, and perhaps a bonus for your pain and suffering. In the third case, the court could order me to stop calling you a crook, and to pay you some amount of money for the injury to your reputation.”

  “Assuming I have a reputation to be injured,” Nishimura smiled. “But what kind of injury has Congress suffered in this case? And what kind of relief could a court grant to compensate it for that injury?”

  “The law requires Congress to show a particular kind of injury—loss or reduction of the right to vote on some matter on which it normally does vote. The lower court ruled that the 28th Amendment eliminated Congress’s right to vote on a number of such matters, including the salaries and other benefits of members of Congress. The relief Congress is seeking is a declaration that the 28th Amendment is unconstitutional and therefore invalid.”

  Clear as mud, Nishimura thought. “Perfect, Chris. We could talk about this all day, but I see that Klein’s about to begin her argument to the Court.”

  * * *

  Cassie gasped, fighting to catch her breath, her heart pounding. The note she’d just read was terrifying.

  She noticed her backpack lying on the floor next to the table. She put it up on the table and opened it. She exhaled in relief, but the relief was short-lived.

  Her diabetic supplies and equipment were there, but it included only one nearly empty vial of insulin. Barely enough to last her a single day. Maybe a bit longer if she stretched it.

  And her pump. There it was. Thank God. But why had someone removed it from my body? And placed it in my backpack? She lifted her top and looked at the red welt on her stomach where the pump’s mini subcutaneous infusion line had been torn away.

  She cleaned the tiny opening in her stomach with an alcohol swab. It was not the small wound that was dangerous. But not knowing her situation, she had to minimize the chance of infection. Her doctors were always reminding her that infections could be very serious, especially for diabetics.