House Arrest Page 23
So DeMarco was probably out of a job, and there was nothing Mahoney could think to do about it. Assuming DeMarco fully recovered from being poisoned, he would be unemployed and most likely unemployable, as he’d never practiced law and couldn’t put down on a résumé the things he’d done for John Mahoney.
49
It took a couple of days for reality to settle in, but after it did, Bill Brayden sang like the Vienna Boys’ Choir.
His new lawyer explained to him that the case against him was rocksolid, in part because the witnesses appeared to be of unimpeachable character. One was a decorated veteran; the other was a wealthy woman respected in government circles and known for her generosity to various charitable causes. Then there was the video of a car identical to his leaving the scene.
His new lawyer said, “I could argue that the video doesn’t prove conclusively that it was your car. They didn’t get a license plate. I could also argue that the lighting near the bus stop at one in the morning would have made it impossible for the witnesses to positively identify you, but … well, it’s the gun, Bill. I just can’t get around that gun being found in your car.”
Brayden just couldn’t get over the gun. He was obviously being framed, although he supposed framed wasn’t the right word. All he knew for sure was that he’d thrown the fucking gun into Four Mile Run, which meant that somebody had seen him toss the gun, found the gun, and then planted it in the trunk of his car. That, however, was hardly an argument that could be made in his defense. I know someone put the gun in my car because I threw it away after I shot Lynch. Nope, that wasn’t going to work.
Knowing he was screwed, Brayden took the FBI’s deal: in return for pleading guilty and telling the FBI all he knew about Canton’s death, he’d get thirty years instead of a needle in the arm.
He told Peyton how Sebastian Spear had ordered him to kill Canton. He admitted that he’d committed crimes for Spear in the past—crimes he wouldn’t discuss in detail. He didn’t need to confess to more crimes so he could spend more time in prison. He admitted that he had paid John Lynch to kill Canton and frame DeMarco for the crime. When asked how he went about framing DeMarco, he said that it was with the help of Spear Industries’ top computer guy, a guy named Nick Fox. An accomplished hacker, Fox had searched databases to find the perfect person to frame, and DeMarco fit the bill. Then it was just a matter of having Lynch kill Canton and placing all the evidence in DeMarco’s office.
“Where’s Fox now?” Peyton asked.
“I don’t know,” Brayden said. Seeing the expression of disbelief on Peyton’s face, he said, “I’m telling you the truth. The damn guy disappeared a few days before I shot Lynch. I don’t know where he is. If I did, I’d tell you.”
Brayden could see no point in telling Peyton that Nick Fox was really Nikki Orlov, a former employee of the GRU, and that he’d helped Orlov enter the United States illegally. Again, he didn’t need more crimes to add to the list of the ones they already knew about.
“Back to Sebastian Spear,” Peyton said. “Can you prove that he ordered you to kill Canton? Are there witnesses who heard him give the order? Did he send you an e-mail?”
Peyton was being facetious, but Brayden, at this point, had no sense of humor. He said, “Send me an e-mail? Are you shitting me?”
“So what happened?” Peyton said.
“He called me to his office one day, two weeks after Jean Canton died, and said, ‘I want Canton gone.’ “
“That’s it? That’s all he said? ‘I want Canton gone’?”
“Yeah, but I knew what he meant. He’d said at Jean’s funeral that he was going to kill Canton, and I had no doubt whatsoever that he wanted me to kill the man. What else could he have meant?”
Peyton didn’t bother to say that “I want him gone” could be interpreted as “I wish he were gone.”
Peyton said, “Was Spear involved in the planning of Canton’s murder?”
“No, he doesn’t work that way. He left all the details to me. I did tell him that I was going to frame someone for Canton’s murder so the crime wouldn’t lead back to us.”
“And what did Spear say when you told him this?”
“He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me and went back to work. I mean, you have to understand how Spear does things. Like he’d say to me, ‘You have to convince Mr. Smith to award us the contract.’ Well, I knew that meant that I was supposed to bribe Mr. Smith. But Spear never said to bribe him, not directly. And it was the same way with Canton.”
Peyton asked, “What about the money you paid Lynch? Did Spear authorize the payment?”
“No. I had my own operating budget. You know, for doing things like bribing Mr. Smith. So the money came out of my budget, and I didn’t need Spear’s approval to spend it.”
“Were you paid for killing Canton?”
“No, but I would have been. Every year I get a bonus if I’ve done something for the company that was … well, let’s say, out of the ordinary. I knew this year I’d get an enormous bonus for taking care of Canton.”
“I see,” Peyton said.
Peyton was starting to think that there was no way Sebastian Spear would be even indicted, much less convicted, for conspiracy to murder Canton. Nonetheless, he’d go talk to Spear and threaten him, then take it from there.
50
Don Short didn’t know what to do.
Don was the project manager for an upcoming job in Uruguay that would start in a month, and he’d assembled twenty people in a conference room to brief Spear, as they usually did before a big job began. For the last hour engineers had been giving PowerPoint presentations on the modifications that would be made to an outdated distribution system; accountants had talked about financial risks and potential profit margins; and a guy from Uruguay, some kind of lawyer, had discussed in accented English political issues that the company might face—and Spear hadn’t said a single word. The presenters had stopped several times to see if he agreed with them or had any questions for them, and when he hadn’t acknowledged their questions, they’d looked over at Don for guidance. All Don could do was shrug, so they cleared their throats and kept on talking.
Don could tell that although Spear was sitting at the head of the conference table, he wasn’t really in the room. Don, like everyone else at headquarters, had heard about Spear’s breakdown and his behavior following Jean Canton’s death—how he barely spoke and appeared to be oblivious to his surroundings, sleepwalking through the day—but unlike most of his coworkers, Don was somewhat familiar with what Spear was experiencing. He’d had a sister who was a manic-depressive, and when she was off her meds she’d behaved just like Spear: sitting for hours without moving, staring off into space, living in a cocoon of her own making. His sister had eventually committed suicide, and Don knew if someone didn’t force Spear to see a doctor, he was liable to end up the same way.
Don was about to end the meeting—there was no point in continuing—when Spear’s chief legal counsel walked into the conference room, looking worried.
Sebastian felt someone or something tap him on the shoulder; he had no idea what or who it could be.
He had been standing alone on a vast, icy plain. He didn’t know where the plain was—Siberia? the Arctic, maybe?—but wherever he was, there was snow as far as he could see, the wind was howling, and ice particles slashed his face. Why he was there, he had no idea. The only thing that occurred to him was that he’d been abandoned by God in this bleak, forever-winter place because of the way he’d failed Jean—and he knew he would never find his way to sunshine and warmth again.
The tapping continued and his mind shifted to a different reality. Now he was in a roomful of people, all them staring at him. Why he was in the room he didn’t know, but the person who’d been tapping on his shoulder was his lawyer.
The man said, “Sir, I need to speak with you privately. It’s urgent. There’s an FBI agent here who wants to talk to you about Bill Brayden.”
Br
ayden? Where was Brayden? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen him.
Sebastian Spear rose from his chair and said to the lawyer, “Deal with it,” and walked out of the room.
Don Short wondered if that was the last time he’d ever see Sebastian Spear.
It turned out it was.
51
Spear’s lawyer told Peyton that unless Peyton had a warrant for his arrest, Mr. Spear refused to meet with him. The lawyer was the supervisor of the lawyer who’d initially represented Brayden after he was arrested and then dropped him like a hot rock when it appeared that Peyton might come after Sebastian Spear.
The lawyer said, “Mr. Spear had nothing to do with nor any knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Lyle Canton’s death. Therefore, he has no reason to talk to you.”
Peyton countered: “He threatened to kill Lyle Canton in front of two hundred people at Jean Canton’s funeral. Then he ordered Brayden to kill him.”
“Really?” The lawyer said. “Do you have proof of this, Agent Peyton? Are there witnesses who heard Mr. Spear order Brayden to kill Canton? Do you have any evidence that he paid Brayden to kill Canton?”
As the answer to all those questions was no, Peyton said, “Brayden will testify—and a jury will believe him—that Spear said, ‘I want Canton gone.’ “
The lawyer frowned as if mightily perplexed. “I want Canton gone? I have no idea what that means. Mr. Spear was obviously distraught over Jean Canton’s death. There’s no denying that. And in a state of grief and under the influence of alcohol, he said he was going to kill Canton at Jean’s funeral. But he never did. Nor would he ever do something like that. As for saying to a coworker that he wanted Canton ‘gone’ …”
“Brayden wasn’t a coworker. He was Spear’s go-to guy, his fixer, his bagman. The guy he used to bribe people to get contracts.”
As if Peyton hadn’t spoken, the lawyer said, “As for saying to a coworker that he wanted Canton ‘gone,’ that may be true, although you only have Brayden’s word that Mr. Spear said any such thing. I mean, Mr. Spear has never said such a thing to me, but I know he despised Lyle Canton because he believed that Canton had been abusive toward Jean. But saying he wanted the man ‘gone’ … That’s like saying, ‘I wish Canton would drop dead.’ If Mr. Spear actually said what Brayden claims, that hardly constitutes an order for Brayden to murder the man.”
The lawyer shook his head, as if the whole situation was heartbreaking. He said, “Mr. Spear has no idea why Bill Brayden would have conspired with John Lynch to kill Canton. The only thing I can figure out—which is the same thing I’ll tell a jury—is that Brayden may have done this out of some misguided sense of loyalty. And it’s tragic that Bill did such a thing, but Mr. Spear certainly didn’t order him to commit murder.”
In other words, Go fuck yourself, Agent Peyton.
52
There was a brief battle between the FBI and the Justice Department, as they argued over which of them would tell the media that it had screwed up by arresting DeMarco. The FBI lost, of course. Its agents were the ones who’d arrested DeMarco and presented a supposedly airtight case to Justice that he was a murderer. If someone was going to end up looking incompetent, it was going to be Russell Peyton or his boss, not the attorney general.
The bureau didn’t allow Peyton to speak to the media about DeMarco. For one thing, if Peyton spoke to reporters he wouldn’t be able to dodge their questions by saying he didn’t know things he obviously knew or should have known. The other reason was that Peyton had a way of making it clear that he had no respect for the media; he was in the company of those who thought reporters should be treated like mushrooms: kept completely in the dark and fed nothing but bullshit. So an FBI spokesperson named Adele Masters was trotted out to appear before the cameras. Masters was a matronly-looking woman with a soft southern accent who looked incapable of lying. The truth was that she was very capable.
The only thing the media had been told prior to the press conference was that the bureau had an announcement related to the death of Lyle Canton.
Without any preamble, Masters said, “The FBI has arrested a man named Bill Brayden for conspiring to kill Congressman Lyle Canton. Brayden has also been arrested for killing a Capitol policeman named John Lynch. Brayden, who works for Sebastian Spear, has confessed that he paid John Lynch to kill Canton and frame Joseph DeMarco for the congressman’s murder. He has also confessed to killing John Lynch. Therefore, charges against Mr. DeMarco will be dropped.”
It took the gaggle of journalists about two seconds to absorb what they’d just been told—and then they went berserk and started screaming questions at Masters.
How did Brayden frame Joe DeMarco?
Why did he frame DeMarco?
Why did Brayden kill John Lynch?
What’s the connection between John Lynch and Bill Brayden?
How did the FBI tumble to Lynch and Brayden being involved?
Was Sebastian Spear involved in anything Brayden did?
And so forth. And to almost every question, Masters said some version of, I can’t answer that question as it’s part of an ongoing criminal prosecution.
After the press conference—which the media, as was made clear in subsequent broadcasts, found completely unsatisfying—the reporters darted off like a flock of angry hummingbirds in different directions. Some went to call sources in the FBI, hoping they’d be willing to leak additional information. Some tried to interview Sebastian Spear; he refused. Some tried to interview Bill Brayden and his lawyer; they refused. More than a few wanted to talk to Joe DeMarco to see how he “felt” about almost spending his life in prison, but when they arrived at the hospital, where DeMarco was still recuperating, his bodyguards refused to allow the press near his room.
Hardly anyone noticed that the FBI didn’t apologize for having arrested DeMarco in the first place.
53
When DeMarco opened his eyes, he saw Emma sitting beside his bed. “Hey,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
DeMarco hadn’t shaved in days, and he needed a haircut, but he looked 200 percent better than he had the last time she had seen him. Thank God.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Weak as a day-old kitten but otherwise okay.”
“I’ve talked to your doctor—I’ve told him I’m your big sister, by the way—and he said you’re going to be fine. There’s no permanent damage to any major organ. Any brain damage you may have was most likely alcohol-induced and occurred long before you were poisoned.”
“Good one,” DeMarco said.
Emma said, “They want to keep you here for another day or two, then you’ll be free to go.”
“You mean free to go back to prison.”
DeMarco hadn’t noticed that his right ankle was no longer cuffed to the bed.
Pointing at the television above DeMarco’s bed, Emma said, “Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“No. I keep the TV tuned to the Golf Channel.”
That figured. “Joe, you’ll be going home when you leave here. The charges against you have been dropped.”
Emma told DeMarco everything she’d done, including the few crimes she may have committed, such as tearing out the wall in Lynch’s apartment and planting the gun in Brayden’s car. Emma didn’t ever brag about her accomplishments; people who had done the kinds of things she had done during her lifetime felt no need to brag. Nor did she normally admit to anyone that she’d done something illegal. But in this case, and considering that DeMarco had almost died, she felt he deserved to hear the whole story.
“Jesus, Emma,” DeMarco said, “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Oh, I’ll find a way,” Emma said. That was both a promise and a threat.
It turned out to be a good thing that Emma shared everything with him, because it was DeMarco who eventually realized something she hadn’t thought of—an occasion rarer than a Sasquatch sighting.
54
A couple of Mike Leary’s guys, the ones who’d been guarding him on the day shift, offered to give him a ride home. All agreed that with Brayden in jail, Lynch dead, and Hector Montoya terrified into compliance, DeMarco no longer needed expensive armed mercenaries to watch over him. One of Mike’s guys went to get the car while the other escorted him to the hospital’s main entrance. It never occurred to DeMarco that he should have sneaked out of the hospital wearing a bag over his head.
As soon as he stepped through the door, twenty reporters surged toward him like a stampeding herd of cattle and started screaming questions at him.
Joe! Joe! How do you feel about almost going to jail for Lyle Canton’s murder?
Joe, are you planning to sue the FBI?
Joe, do you think Sebastian Spear tried to have you killed while you were in jail?
To his bodyguard, DeMarco said, “Get me the fuck outta here.”