CHAPTER TEN

“Adversity is the first path to truth.” Lord Byron PPenelope slowed down as she approached the guard station of her gated community, expecting the night man, Lenny, to simply wave her through like always. Instead he got up and motioned for her to stop. Stepping from his tiny air-conditioned building, he had a gun belt and holster around his waist. “Since when do you carry a gun?” Penelope asked before her window was completely down. “I always have it with me, Ms. Spence,” he answered as he patted the 40 caliber Glock strapped to his waist. “Only wear it on special occasions since it makes the residents nervous.” “So what’s the occasion?” “You have some company at your house. Offi cial company.” “I see,” Penelope said with a sigh as their eyes locked. “They’re looking for a guy who escaped from the brig. It’s all over the TV and radio,” Lenny said as he motioned toward a tiny portable television that was propped up on his desk. Lenny McElroy was a tough old bird. After 30 years as a cop in New York City, he had retired to Charleston to be closer to his only daughter and grandkids. He had been the night guard for the past couple of years; more to fill his time than to supplement his retirement income. There had never been any robberies 77 The Fourth Awakening or vandalism on his watch. “They wanted me to call them if you showed up.” “Th at’s fine, Lenny. I didn’t do anything.” “I figured, but I think I misplaced their number.” Lenny motioned toward the small building surrounded with beautiful landscaping to minimize its presence. “They put your name and address out on the local police band.” Lenny shook his head and looked like he would have spit on the ground if a lady hadn’t been present. “You would have thought they would have used a scrambled tactical channel.” He shook his head again. “Bunch of press in there too.” “Thanks for the heads up, Lenny.” “You take care, Ms. Spence.” Penelope turned the corner onto her street and saw what had to be half the police cars in Charleston parked in front of her house. In addition, there were two large unmarked black Chevy Suburbans — the kind favored by the federal government — and what looked to be two unmarked police cars. There were men in a variety of uniforms standing in her yard, and a couple of local cops who appeared to have been relegated to traffi c control. Along with law enforcement and the media, the street was starting to fill with gawkers and the idle curious with nothing better to do. Penelope pulled into the first parking space she could find. Opening her purse, instead of using the untraceable phone Mark had given her she used her normal cell phone and called his office. If they were taping their conversations, she wanted them to hear this one. “Mark Hatchet.” “It’s me.” “I thought I told…” “I got in to see Walker.” “They were holding him in the Charleston Brig?” “Absolutely.” “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Penelope could almost see Hatchet jumping up and down in his office and the heads turning in the cluster of desks in the newsroom’s bullpen just outside his window. “I knew you could do it. When can….” “Hold on. It gets better.” “Impossible.” “Walker escaped right after I talked to him.” 78 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Don’t tease me, Nellie.” “I’m serious. But there is one small problem.” “No, no, no, no. There are no problems. Military industrial complex billionaire first held incognito then escapes from the maximum security prison we use to hold terrorists. This is the story of the year.” “You want to explain that to all of the police and Homeland Security people tromping on my fl owerbeds?” “Damn.” “My thought exactly. I happen to know there is a recent vacancy in the high security wing at the Charleston Brig but I would prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight.” “You still have those press credentials I sent you?” Penelope tucked her phone under her chin as she reached again for her purse. “I think they’re upstairs on my…” To her surprise, the laminated badge with her name and The Washington Post logo was the first thing she saw when she opened her bag. “My bad. Got it in my hand.” “Okay. I’m going to get some people in here and you’re going to fi le your reports over the phone just in case.” “Just in case what?” “Just in case they throw a black bag over your head and you disappear. They could be hoping to squelch this by detaining you before you can fi le your story.” “Lovely.” After about fi fteen minutes of questions and answers on a quickly assembled conference call Mark Hatchet felt he had enough to run the story if Penelope was arrested and unable to write it herself. “And Senator Horn’s offi ce will confirm all of this?” “He said he would.” There was a rustling in the background and Penelope heard a voice she didn’t recognize say, “I’ve got confirmation from Senator Horn himself that Walker was being held in the brig and that he has escaped. He said we can use him as a named source.” A whoop went up in the conference room. Usually a confirmation on that level came from an unnamed “high government official”. To have someone as highly regarded as Senator Horn be willing to put his name on it was the absolute gold standard for journalism. “Welcome back to the big time kiddo. Not one but two front page exclusives.” 79 The Fourth Awakening “Save a couple of inches for me in Monday’s edition. Some of the stuff with Horn is embargoed until noon tomorrow.” “Will do, Nellie. You should be safe from the storm troopers now.” “How so?” “We’ve got the story and we’ve got high level confirmation on the record. They can’t stop it from getting out. If they arrest you now there will be hell to pay and they know it.” “I think we’re just scratching the surface,” “There is a one Pulitzer Prize winning story per issue limit. We’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, get a good lawyer before you talk to the feds. If anyone asks, you are now offi cially working for Th e Washington Post, and you can have anyone who questions it call me directly.” “Th anks.” “Call me back as soon as you can.” The line went dead. Penelope gathered her thoughts for a moment as she felt her pulse rate slowly returning to somewhere close to normal. She had been dreaming about this day for years and now that it had arrived it was everything she could have hope for and more. She still needed a lawyer. Drawing in a deep breath, she dialed the phone number she calls the most. Th anks to the joys of caller ID Joey answered without bothering to say hello. “Where are you?” “Down the street from my house.” “That Michael Walker character has escaped they’re looking for both of you. Your name and address are all over the local channels.” “So I heard. I need to ask a favor.” “Sure.” “It looks like I may need an attorney. Do you think your ex might be willing to help me?” “Willing? Ha! He is currently sitting in my kitchen begging me to call you for him.” Penelope heard a muffled conversation and a struggle for the phone. “Penelope, this is Ron. Where are you?” “I’m down the street from my house. There are police and reporters everywhere.” “I’ll be there in three minutes. Don’t talk to anyone.” “Aren’t you going to ask if I did anything?” “I’m a lawyer. I don’t care if you shot JFK. Just don’t talk to anyone 80 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin before I get there. Here’s Joey.” After a brief pause, the familiar voice of Joey Rickman came back on the phone. “You okay?” “I’m fi ne.” “So, did you bust that hunk out of stir so you could have your way with him?” Penelope was dying to tell Joey exactly what had happened. She knew her friend wouldn’t believe a word of it. She knew she wouldn’t believe it if their roles were reversed and decided to stick with the truth, or at least parts of it. “I did nothing to help him escape from prison. He did it all by himself.” “So was he all yummy and dangerous?” “I was there to interview someone for a story; I wasn’t cruising a single’s bar.” “I know that. So was he yummy and dangerous? The kind of guy you just know you should avoid but can’t resist?” “Oh, you mean a guy like Ron Rickman?” “Exactly.” Joey realized what she had just said. “Hey!” Before Penelope could respond, there was a tapping on the window of her car. Apparently one of the Charleston policemen who had been directing traffic had recognized her Prius, which was hardly the car of choice in her neighborhood, and was in the process of making his sergeant’s day. He was young, maybe 25, and like all members of the Charleston police department, a college graduate. “Please hang up the phone,” he said, while resting his hand on the butt of his 38 Police Special. “And step out of the car.” “There is a nice young man here with a gun that is telling me it’s time to hang up. I’ll talk to you later.” “How come you’re getting all of the men?” “Bye, Joey.” Penelope gathered her thoughts and stepped out of her car. “Are you Penelope Spence?” the policeman asked politely. “Yes.” “Would you please come with me Ms. Spence?” he said, more as an invitation than as an instruction. Penelope nodded. They were almost to the edge of her front yard before the press noticed her and began to surge in her direction. Sgt. Donald Donnelley, an 18-year police veteran who was cooling his heels on the sidewalk in front of the house as a bunch of Feds 81 The Fourth Awakening conducted a search in his district, was steaming. Even though he had been first on the scene, some guy from Homeland Security had waved a federal search warrant in his face and sent him and his men out of the house with their tails between their legs. He saw the press coming and motioned to the six officers who were milling around nursing their bruised pride. They formed a blue wall between Penelope and the media jackals. “Good job, Johnson,” Donnelley said, slapping the young offi cer on the back. “Damned good job. Captain will hear about it.” Offi cer Johnson knew he would get full credit for, want of a better word, the “collar” because that was the kind of guy Donnelley was. He was one of the most popular shift commanders in Charleston. He was fair, he was honest, and he didn’t have a political bone in his body. Donnelley was an imposing six-six and 240 pounds, which was 30 pounds below the playing weight from his days as an off ensive tackle for the USC Gamecocks and three years in the Canadian Football League. Skin the color of strong coffee with light cream, he had an easy smile and a deep voice. “Ms. Spence?” he asked politely. She nodded. Looking over his shoulder, he pulled her further away from the mob of reporters shouting questions at her. “At the present time,” he said in a firm, professional voice, “the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Department of Homeland Security are executing a search warrant involving your premises. They are looking for an escaped convict named Michael Walker. There is nothing to be alarmed about…” “That’s enough,” Ronald F. Rickman, Esquire said as he and his two assistants, one male, one female, muscled their way through the phalanx of policemen. “Ms. Spence is represented by counsel and has nothing further to say.” Rickman’s female assistant, Amy Kindle, an intense woman in her mid-30’s, leaned in and whispered in her boss’s ear. Th e famous smile that had charmed juries for three decades and made him a millionaire many times over lit his face. He slapped Sgt. Donnelley on the back as if he were some long lost friend. “Hey, Donny, how you doin’? How’s Sandy and the kids?” Donny Donnelley rubbed his mouth before turning to face Ron Rickman. They’d had a symbiotic relationship for years. Donnelley would arrest them, and those with money would hire Rickman and get off . Th ey both looked at it as job security. 82 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Counselor,” Donnelley answered with considerably less warmth than he had shown to Penelope. “Donny Junior still going to play in Columbia on Saturdays?” “He hasn’t signed his national letter yet, but Florida and LSU are coming after him hard.” “I hope you told him you’d disown him if he went to another SEC team.” It was hard not to like Ron Rickman. He was handsome, rich, funny and, thanks to his assistants, always had a personal word or comment to add to every conversation. He had the power to speak to a room full of people with each one convinced they were the only one he was talking to. An excellent skill set for a trial lawyer. “Did the best offensive lineman to ever come out of West Ashley High School ask you any questions, Penelope?” “He was just explaining that the FBI and Homeland Security are searching my house.” “Feds, huh?” He patted Donnelly on the arm again. “Explains why you’re out here.” He winked at the big cop. “When I get through with them, they’re going to wish they hadn’t peed on your jurisdiction.” Donnelley smiled. Those arrogant Feds were about to get hit by Hurricane Rickman. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of guys. Rickman motioned for his two assistants to join them, as they huddled out of earshot of the press who were still shouting questions. Turning to Penelope, “I think you know Josh and Amy.” Josh Wassermann and Amy Kindle were the two highest paid personal assistants in Charleston, each earning in the mid six-fi gure range. Amy was the face person. She had a photographic memory and her primary function was to make her boss look like he cared by remembering personal details about everyone he met. She was also the research specialist of the team and a master of contract law. If she had ever read about a case, she could instantly cite it. Josh was the legal brain of the trio but lacked charisma in front of a jury. Tongue tied and unsteady in court, he was a whiz when it came to strategy and tactics. He scripted nearly all of Rickman’s closing arguments, wrote his briefs, and was always his second chair. “Penelope, we don’t have a lot of time. In 25 words or less, what happened?” “I went to the Charleston brig. I interviewed Michael Walker for 83 The Fourth Awakening probably twenty minutes…” “Who are you working for?” Rickman interrupted. “The Washington Post,” Penelope said as she held up her press credentials. “No kidding,” Rickman and his posse were impressed. “I just got off the phone with the Managing Editor, Mark Hatchet. He’s going to make some calls to be sure I don’t get arrested.” “You don’t need to worry about that,” Rickman said with a broad smile. Amy whispered something is his ear. “Right.” Turning back to Penelope he said, “Why don’t you go ahead and pin that thing on.” He waited until Penelope had the press pass clipped to the front of her blouse before continuing. “So what happened next?” “He was still sitting at the interrogation room handcuffed to the table when I left. A few minutes later he escaped.” “Josh?” “We blame it on the lack of security at the brig. He was there when she left, which they will probably have on videotape.” Three sets of eyes turned to Penelope. For a moment Penelope panicked. What if the videotapes caught the same glimpse of the second Walker leaving the room that she had seen? No, that couldn’t be possible or Walker would have told her. Or would he? “Penelope, video?” “Sorry,” she said, pulling herself back to reality. “They have video cameras everywhere.” “Amy.” “Youngest Pulitzer Prize winning investigative reporter ever. One of only three people to get a perfect score on both their SAT and ACT college entrance exams in Charleston County in the past 50 years. Established Charleston family since before the American Revolution. Pillar of the community.” “Got it,” Rickman said. “Showtime.” The quartet walked up the front sidewalk of Spence’s house. Ronald F. Rickman, Esquire, stood on the top step of the covered porch, next to Penelope. His two assistants melted into the background. He made eye contact with Donnelley and nodded. The big cop smiled as he instructed his men to let the reporters through. Rickman watched with a twinkle in his eye as the media scrambled to get their cameras positioned and microphones set up. He ignored all of the shouted questions until the last television reporter indicated that he 84 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin was ready. The press loved him. “Currently the Federal Government of the United States of America is searching the home of Ms. Penelope Drayton Spence.” The way he said ‘Federal Government’ made it sound as if General William Tucumseh Sherman and union troops had been sighted in Summerville and were headed south. “Ms. Spence,” Rickman placed his arm around her and drew her next to him, “has done nothing wrong, yet she is being forced to feel the full weight of the Federal Government on her shoulders. Why, you ask? Because she was simply doing her job while the Federal Government failed to do theirs.” Rickman was an eloquent public speaker. He knew exactly when to pause in his cadence for the fullest effect. His voice could travel from sympathy to outraged indignation within a single sentence. He was currently on a 183-case streak where he had moved at least one member of a jury to tears during his closing remarks. “Earlier today, Penelope Drayton Spence interviewed a man at the Charleston Consolidated Brig for The Washington Post. And for those of you who don’t know, Ms. Spence was the youngest person and one of the first females to ever win the coveted Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism, and has been a pillar of our community for her entire life. “The Federal Government,” he said with a conspiratorial raise of his eyebrow, “has video tape recordings that clearly show that the man she interviewed was still in Federal custody after she had vacated the area. Then why this search, you may ask?” He waited for someone to off er an answer and when none was forthcoming, he provided his own. “Th rough their own incompetence, the Federal Government allowed a dangerous man to slip through their fingers, and he could be somewhere in our community. ‘Armed and dangerous, do not approach’, they will tell us.” Rickman paused and looked around. “Armed and dangerous, do not approach. Why are they here, instead of looking for a man who may be hiding in your neighborhood, or yours, or yours?” Rickman’s outstretched finger pointed at diff erent sections of his media congregation with the fervor of a Southern Baptist minister rooting out the devil. Penelope half expected to hear an “Amen” from Josh and Amy. “They are here because they are trying to defl ect attention from their own incompetence and have you focus your attention on a woman who… was …only… doing …her… job.” When it was clear that Rickman was finished, shouted questions 85 The Fourth Awakening pounded the porch. Penelope leaned in and whispered, “You left out the part about my college exam scores.” He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear. “Makes you look like a know-it-all.” He leaned in even closer, “Your hair smells nice.” “Do you ever give it a rest?” She didn’t need to wait for an answer. She knew at anytime in the past 30 years if she had so much as raised an eyebrow to Ron Rickman he would have had one of his assistants booking them a weekend in the Bahamas. She turned to enter the house. Inside, she saw a familiar face leading the search. “Assistant Director Smith.” “Ms. Spence. You’ve been busy. I’ve already gotten a call from the Secretary of Homeland Security. Round one goes to you.” “Please speak to me and not my client,” Rickman said. “Not many innocent people show up with an attorney,” Smith said, handing Rickman one of the two warrants he had in his hand. Rickman passed the search warrant over to Josh without so much as a glance. “Not many people arrive home and find it filled with Federal law enforcement offi cers.” Rickman glanced at the other document. “What else have you got there?’ “It is a sealed warrant to hold Ms Penelope Drayton Spence as a material witness.” Rickman’s face lit up. “You just made my day.” “Relax counselor,” Smith said. “The cat is out of the bag now and I’ve been instructed not to serve it.” He turned and stared hard at Penelope. “Yet.” Smith’s voice was level and calm as he tucked the warrant in his inside coat pocket. “You need to inform your client that, pending the completion of an administrative review, all of her security clearances have been revoked along with access to all password protected federal databases.” Smith’s cold eyes found Penelope. “And you should remind her of the severe penalties if she should reveal any classifi ed information.” “That sounds like a threat, Assistant Director Smith,” Rickman said. “I certainly hope so, counselor.” The tension in the room was so thick it even chased the smile from Rickman’s face as he glanced at Penelope, whose blood had turned to ice and frozen her on the spot. It was broken by the unexpected sound of a high pitched male voice. “Tell them to stop, right now,” Josh said as he read the warrant and 86 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin whispered something to Rickman. “Stop!” Rickman shouted as he leaned in to hear what Josh had discovered. All activity in the room ceased and all eyes turned to Rickman. He nodded that he understood and a broad smile returned to his face. “You have violated my client’s rights long enough, you will leave now.” “We’re not fi nished.” “Oh, yes you are. This warrant allows you to search the premises for Michael Walker.” Josh pulled a digital camera out of his pocket and began taking pictures. “And I’m going to assume that Mr. Walker is of normal height and weight.” “Yes,” Smith answered without the slightest hint of emotion. “Do you think Mr. Walker would fit in the drawer that agent is currently rummaging through?” A flash went off, catching the agent with his hand in the drawer. “I’m sure Judge…” he leaned toward Josh and got his answer, “Mallory will be interested in how you’ve turned this into a fishing expedition and abused his warrant.” Smith never changed expressions but motioned to one of his technicians, who was holding a small cardboard box that he handed to Penelope. “I’m sorry, I thought we were doing your client a favor.” Turning his attention to Penelope, he continued. “We found these listening devices all over your house. There are probably more but we’ll let your lawyer find the rest of them for you.” “What?” Penelope asked as she accepted the box. “You house has been bugged, Ms. Spence,” Smith said. “And these aren’t the kind you buy at Radio Shack or online.” Penelope looked in the box and saw an assortment of listening devices, some smaller than the head of a thumbtack. “Bugged? Who? Why?” “It happens all the time to people who get too close to Michael Walker.” Smith motioned to his crew to pack up and leave. “They found her car down the street,” one of the agents said as he popped back inside. “You want it searched?” Smith and Rickman both turned to look at Josh who was shaking his head no. “Not covered by the warrant since it is not currently in the house.” “Would you have any objections to our looking in the trunk of your car, Ms. Spence?” “Why?” 87 The Fourth Awakening “To be sure Michael Walker is not in there. I can have a warrant in less than an hour,” Smith answered calmly. Rickman looked at Penelope for any clue that a visual search of her car would be a problem. She shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.” “Give Josh your keys,” Rickman said. “He will open the trunk and interior of the car to allow for a visual inspection but you are not allowed to touch her vehicle.” Smith nodded his agreement. “We’re done,” Rickman said. “So are we,” Smith said as he nodded toward Penelope Spence. “Be very, very careful. You have made some dangerous enemies today and you are in way over your head with Michael Walker. He is not at all what he seems.” Rickman stepped between Smith and Spence. “That’s enough. You’re scaring her.” “I certainly hope so,” Smith said as he handed Penelope one of his business cards. “Call this number any time day or night and my offi ce will connect us.” Penelope frowned as she examined the card with the blue Homeland Security logo, then her eyes turned again to the contents of the box. Where did they come from? Walker was either in jail or with her until a few minutes earlier; he couldn’t possibly have planted the bugs himself. But, he could have easily have had someone else do his dirty work for him. The person most likely to want listening devices in her home, Assistant Director Smith, was the one who told her about them. She felt a chill again as she considered another possibility. Was there another player in this game she was unaware of ? The prospect sent her brain reeling.