Cold Justice: 20,001 Lies and Still Growing

By Samuel D. Lawrence

The 2016 elections. Trump becomes possibly the most influential
person in all of America. What he does with that power, though,
twists the ideals of American freedom and democracy. Behind closed
doors, President Trump plots to sway the lives of the American people,
or possibly even further. The F.B.I., however, has other plans
to reclaim America and return it to its constitutional heritage.
Who will become victorious in the chase for an entire nation,
a tyrannical president, or the Federal Bureau of Investigation?
In this battle, time is of the essence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098334451

Book preview

© 2020 Samuel D. Lawrence.

ISBN: 978-1-09833-444-4 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-09833-445-1 (ebook)

This book is dedicated to Freedom, Equality and Justice for all

And to the over 200,000 precious lives that have been lost up to

now due to Covid-19

Contents

How It All Began

Like Father, Like Son

Hitting the Big Leagues

Loyalty, Service & Tweets

Spies Everywhere

The Plan

Secret Service Agents

Unhinged

A Whole New Plan

Playing A Very Deadly Game

It Is

The Night Before

A Beautiful Sunrise

How It All Ended

Chapter One

How It All Began

The last blast of arctic air slashes through the streets of Scottsdale, Chicago like a razor-sharp machete.

The year is 2009. People go about their day seeking refuge from the cold, dressed up in layers of undergarments, oversized jackets, hats and gloves as they walk rapidly down South Kilpatrick Avenue. They seem to be on autopilot, most oblivious to the patrol car parked in front of a well-groomed maroon house.

Vance, a clean-shaven man standing at 6’2" and dressed in formal slacks, button-down shirt and a black bomber jacket, walks out of the house and into the bitter cold. As he walks, he parts his short, wavy hair to the right, then places a black police hat on his head. He goes over to the patrol car and enters the driver’s side. He slips his thin yet muscular body into the car and places a key into the ignition, turning it two times.

Oh, please listen to me, you hunk of junk, Vance says in a harsh tone. Don’t do this to me.

He turns the key a third time and it starts up. As he merges onto South Kilpatrick, he turns on his radio, which is on 91.5 FM.

... Here’s what I don’t understand: He comes from money. Serious money. You’d think he would have somebody on his payroll to ensure he doesn’t look like a jackass.

"Once you reach a specific level of power or wealth, who’s going to stop you from saying whatever the hell you want to say? You have hired all of these ‘yes men’ just standing around waiting for you to drop your pants, then fight over who will be the first one to wipe your big ass!

For those of you just joining us, this is ‘All Things Considered’, and we are discussing the claims made yesterday by business mogul Donald Trump concerning President Obama’s birth certificate.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. (the word fuck’s is quickly bleeped before it hits the airwaves), the man says in a very disgusted voice.

It just doesn’t make any sense to me. You’re a billionaire with at least a partially functional brain, and yet you don’t see the problem with going on to ‘Good Morning America’, and spouting this ‘bertha’ nonsense? I mean, does he not know that there are people who verify that a presidential candidate meets all of the qualifications needed to run for president?

Officer Vance Brentley turns off the radio, breathing in a slow, forced manner as he drives in silence to the 8th District Chicago Police Station on West 63rd Street.

Vance parks his car in the parking lot behind the station, then braces himself for another cold blast of air as he opens the door. He quickly runs to the entrance of the building. After entering the lobby, he stands still, breathing heavily and shaking his body like a wet Chihuahua.

Behind a large desk in the front lobby, a young woman holds back laughter.

You feeling alright over there, Vance? she asks.

Yeah, I’m good, Sam, he says as he walks towards the door leading to the station’s main hall.

I’m surprised that you’re not used to this kind of weather after more than 10 years in the police force, said Sam.

I might have been made in Chicago, Vance jokes, but I was not made for Chicago’s weather.

The young woman laughs as Vance walks through the door, tipping his hat to her before taking it off. He greets his fellow officers as he makes his way to the break-room, where two other men are sitting at a table and watching coverage of Donald Trump’s birth certificate comments on a TV.

One of the men, a tall, heavyset bald white male with a brown goatee, is sipping on a cup of coffee. The other, a thin African-American male with fading black hair and a big moustache, is reading a comic book.

Morning, Brentley, the white officer says to Vance as he walks toward the coffee maker on the counter.

Good morning, officer Pratt. Officer Lennox.

Vance pours coffee into a Styrofoam cup then joins the two men at the table, sitting with his back to the television. He takes a sip from the cup, gazing at the comic book the officer is reading.

Which one you reading now, Pratt?

Wolverine & Jubilee #1. Picked it up several months ago when it came out, but I’m still behind a few months with my subscription.

You enjoying it?

I’m digging’ it so far.

Officer Lennox turns to the TV and says, What a bunch of horse crap. This Trump stuff, man. It’s really ridiculous. I thought I was done hearing about this. It’s just plain stupid, Lennox blurts out. I mean, what the hell does Mr. 1% have to gain from accomplishing something like this? You don’t get to become president without a thorough background check, so why are these pricks so persistent with this crap?

Officer Pratt puts down his comic book and stares at Lennox, a slightly condescending look of bemusement on his face.

Really? You seriously don’t understand why they’re doing this?

Meaning what? asks Lennox. Do you think it’s just a coincidence that the one time these crazy white folk start questioning the president’s birthplace is when there’s a nigger from Chi-Town in the Oval Office?

Please, don’t make this a race discussion, Pratt rebuts. It has more to do with Obama being a Democrat than anything else.

Yeah, I do remember people telling me that when Clinton was running, he was accused of secretly being from Amsterdam.

My point, Officer Lennox says in an aggravated tone, is that this guy goes and says some stupid shit like this, and then says that he’s thinking of running for president in the same interview? He wouldn’t last through the first debate, and yet somehow, he thinks he’s the right guy to steer this country in the right direction? Come on. Give me a break!

Can we just stop talking about this? Vance yells. I mean, Christ, what does it even matter? Technically speaking, our first seven presidents weren’t ‘natural-born American citizens’. Obama won, and that should be the end of it. But no, God forbid the warring factions in this country just let things go. It’s just more political posturing, and I’m so sick of it.

Come on, Vance, Officer Pratt says in a friendly, yet annoyed tone. You can’t tell me you agree that this guy should be president. I mean, the bastard attempted to buy up all of Manhattan, then when he tried to get a casino started in Atlantic City, he messed up so badly, it left him having to refinance loans at the tax payers’ expense in order to keep him afloat, or should I say, stop him from going bankrupt? And that’s the guy you want running our country?

First off, I never said I supported that Oompa Loompa. By all means, let him run. But, more importantly, that talk about his financial record is a moot point. Let me tell you about a guy named Herbert Hoover.

During the early years of the 20th century, Herbert Hoover was a successful and prosperous businessman in America. He made millions as a mining engineer, and was the head of the US Food Administration during the United States’ involvement in the first World War. He succeeded at every business and humanitarian venture that he set his mind on accomplishing. He became the Secretary of Commerce under President Harding, and gave much-needed efficiency to the business community, both domestically and internationally. But what is he remembered for today?

Uh… Hoover Vacuum cleaners? Officer Pratt asks sarcastically.

No, he was blamed for the Great Depression, ordering military police to open fire on protesting veterans, having shanty towns named after him, and leaving office as one of the most hated men after a landslide defeat by Franklin Roosevelt. So, excuse me if I don’t see Trump’s business failures as his only nails in his political coffin. Vance stands up with his coffee in hand.

His mouth is what worries me, says Vance.

Vance leaves the break-room. He walks over to a wooden desk covered with an array of papers and manila folders, and sits in the chair behind it. As he catches up on his work and finishing his coffee, an older woman walks up to him.

Good morning, Brentley.

Good morning, Captain.

Catching up on some work, I see.

Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll have everything finished by the day’s end.

Well, I hope you don’t mind doing it on the road. Officer Martin’s daughter has the flu and he has to take care of her, so I have you on patrol today.

Yes ma’am, Vance says as he sighs.

Your partner’s waiting for you outside, so don’t keep him too long. Wouldn’t want him shivering to death… because of you.

As the captain walks away from his desk, Vance gathers up his paperwork and places them into the manila folders. He stands up and makes his way outside, where a young, baby-faced officer with a muscular build is waiting for him by his squad car. The officer is bundled up in a heavy leather jacket, his arms crossed over his chest as he shivers in the cold.

Morning, partner, the other officer says.

Hey Josh, you’re driving today. I have an overabundance of work that I need to catch up on, says Vance.

OK, but only if I get another opportunity to stump you.

Vance and Josh enter the squad car, driving out of the parking lot.

Two hours into their patrol, Vance and Josh are parked outside of a 7-11. Vance is finishing his paperwork, while his partner is eating his favorite food, a jelly-filled donut.

Okay, Josh says with a mouth full of food. I have one more trivia question for you.

Proceed, just please swallow your donut first.

Right, as Josh swallows his food. Sorry about that. This will be the one, I can feel it. Which vice president served the shortest term in office?

I can’t answer that, replies Vance.

Ah-ha! Alright! I knew I would stump you sooner or later.

No, I can’t answer it because you’re not being specific enough. Shortest in terms of dying while in that position, or because of succeeding a president who died while in office?

Hey, I’m just doing my best to try and stump my best friend. So, what difference does it make?

Josh, it makes a ton of difference! Technically speaking, John Tyler had the shortest term, but that was due to William Henry Harrison being a dumbass, and dying a month into his presidency. On the other hand, William King served only 45 days as a Vice President due to dying from his own illness, Tuberculosis, giving him the shortest term as VP.

Damn it! I thought I’d managed to stump you this time!

It was definitely your best attempt yet, old friend.

As Vance is responding to his partner, a static noise comes from the two-way radio in their car.

Any available squad car, please respond to a 10-16 at 8216 South Francisco Avenue, over.

Vance grabs the radio’s handset. Turns on the vehicle’s red and blue flashing lights, the blaring sounds of a siren sending out a rude, early morning wake-up call to all residents living on these poverty-stricken streets.

"10-4, squad car 529, en route now.

Awesome, another domestic disturbance. My favorite, Vance says with a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

Let me remind you, not every case is a Lindbergh or an OJ, buddy. Better realize that, Josh replies.

I get that partner, but I just thought that being a police officer in the ‘Windy City’ might be a little more... well, not ‘glamorous’, but exciting at times. We do the job we’re told to do. I completely understand that. We may dislike it sometimes, but we can make a huge difference in other people’s lives and that is very important to me.

Josh responds playfully, Easy for you to say Vance, because you relish this type of task.

Vance teasingly replies, Maybe you just need to brush up a little on your communication skills when talking to alcoholics and drug addicts.

As they race through the busy Chicago traffic, they head toward the scene of the domestic disturbance.

They arrive at 8216 South Francisco Avenue and park next to the curb in front of the address. It is another home, in a long line of homes, which are decrepit and dilapidated. Broken windows and overgrown weeds are its most distinguishable features. A tricycle lays in the middle of the front lawn, surrounded by empty beer bottles, broken dolls, broken dreams, and crushed cans of soda. Under the shattered windows is a sign on a pole leaning against the house flashing bright red, white and blue letters which read, ‘For Sale’, challenging passersby to believe that perhaps, at least in this location, the American dream is not quite over.

The two police officers step out of their vehicle and open the car’s trunk, pulling out a bulletproof Kevlar vest for each of them. After putting the vests on under their jackets, Vance walks up to the door, with Josh following close behind.

You know the drill? Vance confidently asks his partner.

Yes, shoot first, ask questions later? Josh says.

Where do you think we are? Chicago? asks Vance.

Just kidding. You do the talking, and I will stand here looking intimidating, Josh says.

Upon reaching the front door, Josh knocks loudly three times.

Chicago Police open the door now.

They wait 30 seconds. Nobody answers the door. Josh knocks three more times.

CPD! Open the door immediately, or we will be coming right in! Vance says.

Josh waits by the door as his partner looks through a cracked window. In the living room, he notices that the house is in complete disarray, with newspapers and soiled diapers covering a dirty white carpet. Beer bottles and an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes, sit on a glass table. Josh knocks three more times, this time with so much force almost putting a hole in the door.

Last chance. Open the door immediately, or we will come in by force.

From inside, a loud bang is heard followed by a woman’s screams. Vance and his partner pull their guns from their holsters and stand on either side of the door. After three seconds, Vance easily kicks in the door. The two officers carefully enter the house, their guns drawn and aimed.

CPD here! Come into the hallway now with your hands up.

Stay the fuck back! screams a male voice from one of the rooms down the hall. Just walk away and leave us alone!

Sir, I can’t do that, Vance calmly says as he slowly advances down the hallway. We received a call concerning a domestic disturbance. Is everybody in the house alright?

Well, the man in the room says, other than the lying skank with a bullet hole in her arm, everybody’s fine. But I can’t promise that it will stay that way if you don’t get the hell out of here right now.

Sir, we can’t do that, Josh says.

I said ‘Leave us alone’!

The man fires another shot, this time into the wall across from the room he is