Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 2 Read online

  No doubt McGill would need to seek absolution now.

  Only this time, given the media coverage and the politics involved, McGill would have to confess publicly as well as privately. It didn’t matter that he’d acted to save a life. He’d still have to outflank the president’s enemies and their accusations.

  Did you really have to hit the poor man so hard, Mr. McGill?

  The idea of his nemesis being persecuted by the media pleased Todd.

  He said, “McGill will have to tell us how he feels.”

  “Only one thing he can say,” Anderson told Todd. “Same thing Arn and I always do.”

  “Sonofabitch brought it on himself,” Crosby said.

  Arlington National Cemetery — Arlington, Virginia

  Keith Quinn, Tommy Bauer and Joe Eddy had been laid to rest side by side.

  Captain Welborn Yates, Kira Fahey Yates and the parents of the fallen Air Force pilots stood before the graves. With them were the president and James J. McGill. Also present were Air Force Chief of Staff General Bertram Kinney, Colonel Carina Linberg, retired, an honor guard and a bugler.

  The bugler played “Taps.” The military personnel stood in a posture of salute; the civilians placed hands over their hearts. Tears flowed without embarrassment. The bugler’s last note lingered in the unseasonably warm February air.

  The honor guard fired no volley because the occasion was a memorial not a burial, but because the deceased had all been fighter pilots General Kinney had ordered the flyover of a missing man formation. All eyes turned upward as more tears fell to earth. When the last reverberation of the thundering jet engines faded, the president hugged the parents of the fallen pilots; McGill shook their hands.

  Before leaving, the president told Welborn, “I’m so sorry this tragedy happened, Captain Yates, but my administration is much the better for having you in the White House.”

  Kira took her husband’s arm, the one that wasn’t saluting his commander in chief.

  McGill shook Welborn’s hand, told him, “Well done.”

  After the First Couple departed, Welborn and Kira exchanged hugs with the parents of his late friends. All of them expressed their gratitude to Welborn for bringing them a measure of closure. Joe Eddy’s father summed up their feelings, “My Sally gave me the best gift I ever got when Joe was born, but your making sure that bastard got what he deserved comes pretty damn close.”

  The other dads nodded. The mothers asked Welborn to stay in touch. All of them requested pictures of the babies. Kira promised they would be sent without delay.

  General Kinney congratulated Captain Yates on a mission accomplished. The chief of staff told Welborn to expect his personal letter of commendation to be added to his personnel file. He graciously added his thanks to Carina Linberg for her help in the matter.

  After the general left, Carina introduced herself to Kira and congratulated her on her prospective motherhood. Then she gave Welborn a salute and said, “Thank you for sharing the credit with me. I can’t remember the last time a man did that.”

  Welborn returned the salute and told Carina, “It was the right thing to do. That’s the way my mother raised me. Good luck with your new TV show.”

  Carina Linberg smiled and walked off. Kira watched her go.

  She asked, “The colonel is going to star in a TV show?”

  “Write and produce,” Welborn answered.

  “She should do well in Hollywood.”

  Welborn nodded. If anyone gave Carina Linberg trouble, she’d call in an airstrike.

  He and Kira walked arm in arm to their car, and he said, “It’s the damnedest thing.”

  “What is?” Kira said.

  “Thinking about Keith, Tommy and Joe, knowing the man who killed them has paid the price. I thought I might be hunting him the rest of my life. My greatest fear was I’d never catch him. Now, it’s all behind me. I even got to see Linley Boland die.”

  A shudder passed through Welborn as that memory skated across his mind.

  “I feel like a chapter of my life has come to an end,” he said.

  Kira pulled him closer. Kissed his cheek.

  “I’m at a crossroads now,” he told her.

  Kira said, “I’m not sure those are comforting words to a new wife and expectant mother.”

  Welborn returned Kira’s kiss. “You, Mrs. Yates, have no worries. I not only want to spend sleepless nights comforting colicky babies with you, I want to bounce our grandchildren on my arthritic knees.”

  “I’ll keep your knees and all your other parts in top working order,” Kira told him. “Were you speaking, then, of a professional turning point? You’d consider leaving the Air Force? The White House?”

  “After honoring my military obligations … I might ask James J. McGill for a job.”

  “I married a gumshoe?”

  “I could ask my father if anyone at Buckingham Palace needs a personal secretary.”

  Kira laughed. “Go with the private eye idea.”

  “We’ll see, but one thing is certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “With the two of us soon to become the four of us, we’ll need more than his and hers sport cars.”

  Kira grinned and told him, “Lucky for all of us, Porsche makes an SUV.”

  The Grant Estate — Winnetka, Illinois

  A cleaning and gardening crew, carefully monitored by twice their number of Secret Service agents, made the house sparkle and groomed the grounds. A small army of government technicians installed the wiring, hardware and software for the security and communications infrastructure a president required. A helipad was built, after obtaining a zoning variance from town hall and making the promise it would be removed within a month of the president leaving office.

  Strategies for defending the house Andy Grant had built were devised. Patrol schedules for the neighboring streets and lakeshore were established. Coast Guard cutters would observe and if necessary interdict any watercraft approaching within a mile of the estate’s private beach.

  No one would be allowed to duplicate Erna Godfrey’s waterborne attack on the house.

  The president had two dozen of her most immediate neighbors over for dinner and apologized to them for all the fuss she was causing. She expressed the hope that they would understand her need to come home again. Everyone was gracious in respecting her feelings, though one little boy with spunk raised his hand and said he’d feel better about things if the president provided pony rides on the grounds.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Patti told him with a gleam in her eye, “let’s see if we can have a Fourth of July picnic here.”

  The president glanced at SAC Celsus Crogher. He gave a small nod.

  “If I hear good reports about you children, we’ll bring in a pony or two.”

  Ethan Judd was brought in well before that. The president’s curiosity had compelled her to watch the metamorphosis of WorldWide News under Judd’s management. Galia had watched out of professional necessity. Both of them were impressed. Judd seemed to be doing the impossible, providing objective in-depth journalism without a hint of favoritism or sensationalism.

  WWN was coming to serve as a measuring stick against which other news organizations could compare themselves. Spin doctors and other propagandists hated that the network eschewed their services and called its programming deadly dull. The critics, however, couldn’t keep ever larger numbers of viewers from tuning in.

  McGill trusted both Patti and Galia to put him in the best position to defend what he’d done to John Patrick Granby in the White House Press Room.

  He and Ethan Judd sat in facing chairs in what had been Andy Grant’s study. The chairs, at both men’s insistence, were positioned so neither man would have to worry about bumping knees with the other fellow. Their comfort was more important than any particular camera angle the director might have wanted.

  WWN was providing a live pool feed to the other broadcast and cable networks, and streamed the interview o
nline. McGill wore a sport coat, a shirt with an open collar and casual slacks. He’d vetoed a blue suit as something a guy with a guilty conscience would wear.

  As soon as the camera’s red light came on, Ethan Judd got straight to the point.

  “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us, Mr. McGill. Will you tell us, please, what was your intent the moment you left your chair on the morning John Patrick Granby attacked Galia Mindel?”

  McGill said, “My intention was to keep Mr. Granby from killing Ms. Mindel with a garrote.”

  “How was it that you were able to act in such a timely manner?”

  “I shook hands with Mr. Granby when I entered the room. His hand was sweating. At first I thought he might be nervous about appearing before the national press. Then I thought maybe he was going to castigate Ms. Mindel for diminishing New Hampshire’s place in the primaries. Mr. Granby kept displaying nervous mannerisms. He played with his tie, the place where he’d hidden the length of fishing line with which he intended to choke Ms. Mindel. He also wiped his hands on his pants as he stood up.”

  “You sound as if you were watching Mr. Granby quite closely. As it turns out, you were correct to do so. Was there anything else beside what you mentioned just now to call your attention to him?”

  McGill said, “I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I knew Mr. Granby was on edge. More so than he had any apparent reason to be. In a situation like that, you have to ask what you’re missing. It’s a good idea to keep looking until you find out.”

  “Do you think that’s what most people would do?”

  “I can’t speak for most people. I do think most street cops and others who face dangerous situations on a regular basis would be watchful.”

  “Was there any final deciding factor that spurred you to action?”

  “Yes, the expression on Mr. Granby’s face as he put the garrote around Ms. Mindel’s throat. It was in a real sense the most murderous look I’d ever seen.”

  Judd paused to look at his notes and then said, “The law permits the use of deadly force when a person is faced with a deadly threat or to save the life of another person faced with a deadly threat. Mr. Granby died from complications caused by the paralysis he suffered from a broken neck. Was it your intent not only to save Ms. Mindel but also to kill Mr. Granby?”

  “No,” McGill said. “That thought never entered my mind.”

  In a quiet voice Judd asked, “Other than taking your word for that, sir, is there any way for someone who doubts you to be persuaded that you didn’t intend to kill Mr. Granby?”

  McGill took a moment to think.

  Then he said, “I haven’t looked at the video of what happened that day. I have no desire to see it. But I think if you look at the event in real time you’ll see I didn’t stop to think about anything. I reacted as fast as I could to save a life. That was instinctive. The only way I could hope to persuade an unbiased person is to ask that he or she think of a situation that demanded an immediate response on their part. If you see a falling child, for example, you don’t stop to think about what the best way to catch him will be. You just reach out as fast as you can. Grab whatever’s available.”

  “A moment ago you referred to your career as a police officer. Is it correct that you never shot anyone while you wore a badge?”

  “That’s correct,” McGill said.

  “But there was a time when someone else shot you, is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How did you respond to being shot?”

  “I took the gun from the assailant and slapped his face. Placed him under arrest.”

  “Would you have felt justified in using greater force against the man who shot you?”

  “I didn’t think about that at the time. I just reacted then, too. Looking back now, I’m glad I didn’t use greater force.”

  “What you did back then is something you can live with now?”

  “Yes.”

  “How will it be for you to live with what you did to Mr. Granby?”

  “Harder,” McGill said.

  After Judd had shaken McGill’s hand and he and his crew had left, Patti embraced her husband. Some moments later, he asked, “Did I do okay?”

  “You were great.”

  “Judd was fair with me.”

  “Yes, but he knew he was being tested to see how he’d do with me. Thanks for being my guinea pig.”

  “What’s a henchman for?” McGill asked. “Galia approved of my performance?”

  “She said she hates the way she keeps sinking deeper into your debt.”

  “Always the sweet-talker. So we’re as good as we can be with this?”

  “Galia said after Burke Godfrey and John Patrick Granby it would be better if anyone else we place in custody survives through his trial.”

  Hillside Drive, Bloomington, Indiana

  With Cassidy Kimbrough healing from her burns, her mother, Sheryl, held her class at her home. The living room was packed as the students watched Jim McGill’s interview with Ethan Judd. The floor, as well as the furniture, was used as a seating area. Cassidy had asked to be present and by unanimous consent of the class she was welcomed.

  The high schooler sat between two of Sheryl’s brightest students. The coeds took turns whispering to Cassidy and making her giggle. Sheryl couldn’t help but wonder if their humor was at her expense. That concern was fleeting as she and the others became caught up in an interview whose subject was life and death and the measure of responsibility a person took upon himself by becoming involved in such a situation.

  As the interview concluded with the president’s husband tacitly admitting that having caused a man’s death would weigh upon him, Cassidy offered her unsolicited opinion.

  “He did the right thing,” she said.

  “Cassidy?” Sheryl said.

  The elder Kimbrough wasn’t objecting to her daughter’s participation in class discussion, but Cassidy was off point. The question was whether James J. McGill had been honest and straightforward in his responses, not if he had or hadn’t acted properly.

  Such academic precision was lost on the youngest person in the room.

  Getting to her feet and becoming emotional, Cassidy elaborated, “I would have done the same thing he did, if I could have. I did the best I could. I wish I could have helped those poor kids more, but …”

  Cassidy burst into tears. She hopped over students on the floor and ran upstairs to her bedroom. Sheryl followed, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

  She turned to look at her students. “Please give me ten minutes. If I’m not back by then, feel free to leave. But please write a brief analysis of Mr. McGill’s responses to Mr. Judd’s questions.”

  Having done her best to hold up both her personal and professional responsibilities, Sheryl ran up the stairs and found her daughter in her bed with the covers pulled up to her nose. Her eyes were red and overflowing, but she made no sound.

  Sheryl did her best to stay calm. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her daughter’s cheek. She asked, “Honey, what’s wrong? Was it the interview that upset you?”

  Cassidy bobbed her head. She reached out and pulled her mother down to her.

  Sobbing now, she told Sheryl, “I did my best, Mom, honest. I don’t know what more I could have done.”

  “You mean helping the kids in that car? Nobody could have done more.”

  “Terry did.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  Sheryl wouldn’t say so, not for years, if ever, but she thanked God that Cassidy hadn’t been the first one to reach the car. If she’d been burned as badly as Terry Pickford —

  As if reading her mind, Cassidy said, “Mom, I’m so worried that Terry or one of the other kids is going to die. I worry all the time.”

  That was still a possibility so Sheryl didn’t try to pretend it wasn’t.

  Cassidy continued, “Mr. McGill saved Ms. Mindel. He doesn’t have to worry about that, but you could see it still h
urt him that the other man died. If he feels bad about that, how am I going to feel if …”

  She couldn’t bring herself to complete the thought.

  Sheryl couldn’t think of a way to comfort her.

  The door to the bedroom opened and a shadow fell across both of them. Sheryl thought it might have been a student, come to ask if any help might be offered, but it wasn’t. Blake was there. He’d come to see Cassidy in the hospital, then he’d returned to D.C. to clean up loose ends. And now he was back.

  “Dad!” Cassidy said. She extended an arm to him. He knelt next to the bed and kissed his daughter’s forehead. For a moment, they huddled in silence. Sometimes there was comfort in numbers.

  Easing away, Sheryl said, “I better get back to —”

  Blake shook his head. “I dismissed your class. Told them you’d send an email.”

  Sheryl squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

  Cassidy asked, “Dad, can you stay a while?”

  “You bet, kiddo,” he said.

  He looked to Sheryl for confirmation. She nodded.

  Jackson Hilton — Jackson, Mississippi

  Other than taking a sip of champagne as part of a toast that described Senator Howard Hurlbert as the next president of the United States and wished him a happy birthday, Nella Beckley refused to drink anything with alcohol in it. At first, that had amused Bobby Beckley. He’d whispered to his wife, “That’s okay. The way I recall things, you were never a girl who needed liquor to get hot, wet and short of breath.”

  That was true, Nella thought, before you started beating me, you sonofabitch.

  In front of the three hundred people in the Hilton ballroom, however, Nella didn’t think it was the time to make that point to her husband.

  Then again, maybe it was exactly the time.

  She’d been advised by her nameless friend at the Capitol Café to provoke a public fight. Not that she thought there was any black man in Mississippi so foolish as to defend a white woman at the birthday party of the figurehead of the new True South party. Even so, if she got Bobby to start in on her in a crowd this big, there’d have to be some witnesses willing to testify on her behalf.