A Capital Crime

By Leonard Johnsen

Syndicated columnist and presidential nemesis Jack Dodd lies in a coma in a Washington, D.C. hospital, so close to death that a priest has already administered last rites. His parents and girlfriend, Barbara Connover, are gathered at his bedside, desperately trying to ignore the grotesque cadence of life support equipment that struggles to keep him alive. They can only pray.

Less than a mile away, an embittered President not only battles a hostile Congress and an unrelenting press, he struggles with demons from his jaded past. Even the White House spin doctors cannot soothe the pain inflicted by a cast of talking heads more interested in ratings than truth and civility. There is a bunker mentality at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue where President Billy Bob Rhodes is up to his lascivious eyeballs in everything from perjury to subornation of perjury, from obfuscation to obstruction of justice. To make matters worse, he agonizes as to whether his orders to get him were in fact the spark that set off the chain of events that ultimately led to the attempt on Jack Dodd's life.

Discover to what lengths these arrogant men and women who surround the President will go. Only they know whether their motives are self-preservation or duty to their country. Discover how this seemingly innocuous command by our Commander-in-Chief is carried out, first by his chief of staff, then over at the Treasury Department where the IRS, U.S. Customs and, ultimately, even the Secret Service become involved.

A Capital Crime is also a love story, not just between Jack and Barbara, who he loves with all his being, but between Jack and a father desperate to tell his dying son that he loves him, words that heretofore he could not utter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 4, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462801473

Leonard Johnsen

Leonard Johnsen’s first novel, Comes The Blind Fury, resulted from a desire to write something more than what was found in The Spring Lake Gazette, a weekly newsletter he published in the late nineties. While he enjoyed writing these satirical articles, he felt there was much more that could be shared with a wider audience. He has written four other books–A Capital Crime, Sunrise Diner, Fort Moody Blues and The Phoenix, which is due out in early 2005. Len and his wife, Pat, reside at the Jersey shore.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

"OH BLESSED REDEEMER, relieve, we beseech thee, by thy indwelling power, the distress of this thy servant; release him from sin and drive … . "

Who the hell was that? Speak up, I can’t hear you! Where the hell am I, anyway? Why can’t I open my eyes? They feel like they’re glued shut. My arms… . What’s wrong with my arms? Damnit! Why can’t I move?

He lie motionless in his bed at Saint Theresa’s Memorial Hospital struggling with the fact that he had no idea what was happening to him. He was unaware that his head was heavily wrapped in gauze, his arm was hooked to an IV that torturously dripped life-saving medications and nourishment, or that his ravaged body lie helplessly beneath the freshly starched bedsheet, the recipient of a ganglion of wires and tubes that kept firing like the spark plugs of an automobile distributor. The most ghastly appliance was a hideous plastic bag that hung by his side collecting body fluids. Every four hours, the same black nurse and an aide turned him to prevent bed sores. He couldn’t know that life support was the only thing standing between him and the great hereafter.

Two rather distinguished looking doctors in green scrubs had been in earlier. Wearing cotton caps that covered all but their neatly- trimmed silver-gray sideburns, they had probed, conferred, checked the various monitoring devices that chirped and groaned, rubbed their square jaws, threw up their well-cleansed hands and departed. Neither smiled although it was Wednesday and a one o’clock tee time awaited them at the prestigious Belle Meade Country Club in Annandale.

The bolt of morning sunlight that burst through the lone window and blazed across the pale green room seemed incongru- ent considering the pall that had been cast upon that room. A white vase that once showcased fresh cut flowers now held petal- less gray stalks, the same color as the patient. They, too, were near death after nearly four days without so much as a hint of water. The only get well card was a generic one that lay flat on the small table near the door. It was unsigned. There was no telephone or TV. There were no guests, no inquiries and little room for hope. The grim reaper had marched through and decimated everything in his path with his deadly scythe. Jack Dodd had lapsed into a coma and embarked on a journey to a place from which he would most likely never return. That was what they all thought, anyway.

away all pain of soul and body, that being restored to soundness of health, he may … .

What’s this joker going on about, Dodd wondered. Why’s he here? Can’t he move it elsewhere? He sounds Irish. Yeah, it’s definitely an Irish brogue. God, my head hurts. It feels like a vise. Must have been the meal at Trombley’s. I knew that fish tasted funny. Maybe I should go into the bathroom and take a couple of aspirins. What the hell is that droning in the background? Shit! Must have left the TV on. I always do that when I’m drunk. That’s it! I’m hung over. Barbara and I were out until all hours. It must’ve been after two when I left her place.

" … . offer thee praise and thanksgiving; who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end. Amen."

What the hell’s on TV, anyway? It sounds like that old James Cagney flick Angels With Dirty Faces where Pat O’Brien, plays the priest. Why’s he talking about the Father and the Holy Ghost, though? Oh, I know, he’s talking to Cagney just before they juice him. ‘You dirty rat’.

I anoint thee with oil, In the Name of the Father, … .

Jesus, I feel someone’s hands on me. Hey, get away from me! Get your goddamn hands off of me! What the hell is going on? I’m either going out of my mind or I have the DT’s. I could have sworn somebody touched my forehead. Maybe it’s a spider. Oh, God, they’re crawling all over me. Get off of me!

… . and the Son, and of the Holy Ghost; … .

There’s that Holy Ghost again. Oh, no, somebody’s touching me again. Dodd felt a hand gently touching his eyes, his ears, his lips, his nose, then his hand. Get away, whoever you are! Why can’t I move? Someone help me. Please, for Christ’s sake.

… . beseeching the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all thy pain and sickness of body being put to flight, the blessing of health may be restored unto thee. Amen.

Hey, knock it off. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.

"The Almighty and merciful Lord grant thee pardon and remission of all thy sins, and the grace and comfort of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Oh, shit, Dodd groaned. Someone just read me my last rights. Jesus, I’m about to die.

CHAPTER TWO

JACK DODD graduated from The Mehill School of Journalism at Northwestern with hopes of becoming the next hard-hitting investigative reporter, a la Woodward and Bernstein. Instead, he spent most of his early newspaper days covering local sports for the Lafayette Courier. Lafayette, Indiana was a far cry from Washington, DC, Los Angeles or New York City. Instead of digging out hard stories on corrupt politicians, street violence, or whiling away the afternoon hours in smoke-filled gin mills with the likes of Pete Hamill and Jimmy Breslin, Jack spent his time in smelly gymnasiums chronicling the exploits of five foot ten inch Larry Bird- wannabees as they double dribbled and tossed up air balls in 56 to 34 nail-biters. Following the games, Jack interviewed the coaches, men so embittered that they were stuck in those dead-end jobs that he fully expected at least one of them to climb atop the highest bell-tower and indiscriminately squeeze off forty or fifty rounds. Of course, it never happened. At least not that Jack had heard, anyway.

So why had Jack been stuck in a nowhere job in Lafayette? After all, he was a graduate of Northwestern’s School of Journalism, one of the finest journalism schools in the nation. During his undergraduate years at Indiana University and following a very slow start—he had threatened to withdraw on numerous occasions, always right after the school had threatened to throw him out on his behind—he found something called journalism and it turned his life around.

As his minor, Jack took the requisite reporting and news writing courses, the history of journalism, feature writing, copy editing and all. His major was English in the College of Liberal Arts.

While he hated numbers, he loved words and, according to those who knew him best, he used them well. Whether it was talking his way out of a traffic ticket, or his way out of a beating at the hands of his stern father, Jack had always been able to manipulate words. He could massage them every which way.

A few years later, at Northwestern, he graduated in the top third of his class. The future looked extremely bright for this boy from Anderson, Indiana, an industrial city fifty miles northeast of Indianapolis in one of the state’s richest farm regions.

In time, Jack got a job as a beat reporter for the Fort Wayne Gazette, a pretty good newspaper owned by Wally Grayson, a man he never actually met until the day he announced that he had taken a position with another newspaper.

It was odd how things evolved during Jack‘s tenure at the Gazette. As he did most days, Jack dug out a story, developed an angle, came back into the city room, wrote a damn good story, then filed it with his editor, usually just before the deadline. The rest of the day was spent rewriting other reporters‘ stories, doing captions and overlines for photographs and reading galleys in the city room.

After he had punched out for the day, he went home and wrote about things that really intrigued him the most; Iran-Contra, perestroika and the collapse of communism and the Berlin Wall, our video arcade battles over Baghdad and particularly about the people who shaped those events, including our very own public officials.

Using humor as his scalpel when castrating those who shaped the news—some who even went so far as to distort it—Jack slowly began to feed these stories to his editor, Mike Callahan, an exMarine and one tough son of a bitch. Funny thing was, Callahan liked Jack‘s stories.

Callahan, his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lip, his half-glasses glued to the very tip of his bulbous nose, poured through these articles, his editor‘s pencil slicing and chopping through each copy like a manic butcher. Jack had to admit it, though, invariably, whatever he took in to Callahan came out sharper, more focused and easier to swallow. After all, Jack was still learning the trade. All the schooling in the world could not guarantee a Pulitzer winning reporter. Perhaps a few months with someone like Callahan could.

They were hard-hitting, insightful articles that dealt with many of the same questions that simple folk around Fort Wayne asked themselves. Who is this guy Poindexter and who are these contra rebels? Why in God‘s name did we send Army Rangers and Marines to some tiny Caribbean island like Grenada? Were the proCastro general and his revolutionary council really a major threat to America‘s well-being?

If we were fighting a war in Iraq, why in the hell didn‘t we win it, march right over Baghdad and kill that son of a bitch leader, Saddam, the Dictator? Or was it Satan? And when Bush was in Tokyo, why didn’t he just turn his head to the side? Why in the world did he have to barf all over Miyazawa’s pant leg?

Anyhow, Jack was given his own column and, eventually, it became syndicated in over seventy-five newspapers. It was blazoned in papers like The Hartford Courant, The Boston Globe and The San Francisco Examiner. Offers soon began to roll in like the first edition rolls off the press. Papers from New York to Atlanta to Los Angeles wanted Jack Dodd. I’ve finally made it, thought Jack. I can finally go off and write for an influential rag.

Wally Grayson swooped down from his penthouse office like a starved vulture to talk Jack out of leaving, even offered him another two hundred bucks a week. But it was too late. And it wasn’t the money. This was Jack’s chance to do what he wanted to do all along, write about the politicians in Washington that screwed around with America’s heart, mind and money. In a memo, Grayson said how sorry he was that Jack was leaving.

Things looked pretty good for Jack Dodd. Billy Bob Rhodes had just been sworn in as President, a virtual unknown politico from Mississippi who had somehow managed to whip not only the incumbent president and a squeaky-voiced independent candidate, but every bit of conventional wisdom inside the Beltway, as well.

CHAPTER THREE

IT HAD BEEN five years since Jack moved from the midwest to the nation’s capital and began his career as a columnist for The Washington Bulletin, the District’s number three newspaper. Although the paper stood in the immense shadows of The Washington Post and The Washington Times, it’s coverage was balanced and comprehensive and, like the Post, had an independent editorial policy. Being a privately-held paper kept it that way. There were no outside owners to interfere in the editorial product. During his interview with Landon Trimble, the Bulletin’s 53-year-old owner, Jack was pretty much assured that he would be given the leeway he asked for, no matter who or what the target. Trimble represented old Rhode Island money and, quite naturally, was a staunch Republican. But his paper always told both sides of the story and fairly unlike the cast of TV talking heads that were more interested in ratings than truth and civility.

Jack was neither a Republican nor a Democrat. He felt that both sides toyed with the American people equally, so both sides deserved equal invective. He was both independent and unpredictable, a model of conscience, unmatched in his moral insight into the hypocrisy of politics and its consequences.

At one point in his life, he hoped the independent movement would take off and give some of these career politicians a run for their money. Regrettably, during the last election, the first words out of that pip-squeak Texan deflated his hopes faster than a policeman’s flashlight at a lover’s lane.

What Jack didn’t realize was that the new administration would demand so much of his attention. Sure, the Conservatives still acted as dumb as always while the moral majority and The Christian Coalition added to the insanity. It was just that the new President was involved in so many scandals. Like a World War II battleship, most of Jack’s turrets were concentrated on him, his Eleanor Roosevelt-esque wife, southern staff, friends, decisions and sordid past.

Some said Rhodes was a crook, a philanderer, an ex-governor who promoted his programs by ruthless and demagogic means and, aside from a short stint as a quasi-law professor, had never worked a day in his life outside the political arena. He was a career politico, just the type of rat Jack wanted exterminated. Even before he took office, women from his state swore they had sexual encounters with the man. When most of the accusations slid off and magically vanished, his foes began calling him the ‘Merlin’. Nice way to begin his term, admitting to thirty million viewers that he had lusted in his heart like a mere mortal, a la Jimmy Carter. Lusted, hell! He had done a whole lot more than that. He had lusted in his pants. Allegedly, his wantings usually turned into getting.

JACK SOON FOUND a two-bedroom apartment in Georgetown, not far from the University. It was in a four-story ivy- covered brick building, circa 1850. The rooms were mammoth, the ceilings high and ornate plaster moldings—cavetto—defined the upper perimeter of every room, including the two bathrooms and spacious dining room with the built-in china cabinet and crystal chandelier. The mantel over the working fireplace in the living room was cherry and the crafted design of the wood matched in every detail the built-in bookshelves that lined one entire wall. Since Jack was a voracious reader, the bookcases had been the deal clincher. Well that was not entirely true. The attractive real estate agent who was in her early forties could have sold him just about anything that day. She knew all the right buttons to push. Only after the lease was signed and delivered did she mention that her husband was a partner in a prestigious Washington law firm located in Bethesda. At that very instant, Jack’s 6’4" frame had been chopped off at the knees, maybe even a little higher.

But that was not all the bad news. As with all the buildings of that generation, the plumbing had a bit of whimsy, for the water pressure in this fourth floor flat was often barely a trickle and the toilet generally needed two flushes, something his guests were not always aware of. The rent was ten times what he paid in Lafayette but, then again, his income was nearly twenty times what it was during those days when he sat in the bleachers on a bitter-cold Saturday afternoon watching Radnor High annihilate Colburn 54 to 10.

Jack found a gym—actually it was called The Atlantis, a chichi club two buildings down from his—where he worked out two or three times a week, depending on his speaking engagements. Jack’s height and two hundred and ten pounds needed more attending to than the average guy and, with his erratic lifestyle, periodic maintenance was a must.

More and more of Jack’s time was spent talking before various groups, including The Washington Press Club and the Washington Independent Writers. Jack had become the toast of Washington. After a thirty minute diatribe about the underbelly of Washington politics—including the mud that politicians must wallow in—Jack would field questions, then settle in with his cold chicken thigh, boiled potatoes and string beans almondine. Jack could never figure out why these groups always served the same meal. Don’t chickens have other parts, for God’s sake? he groaned. Sometimes it got so bad that he came up with some lame excuse, then sneaked into the local McDonald’s for a Big Mac and fries. Hey, the fat didn’t bother Jack. After all, he lived two buildings down from that chi-chi health club.

He was so much in demand that he actually bought a tuxedo. One or two nights every week was spent as the honored guest of some association or other. Since Jack was apolitical, both sides demanded his time. Sometimes, they would ask him to tone down the rhetoric, get off so-and-so’s back, or just see their side of things. In subtle ways, they even tried to coerce Jack. He was getting more and more of this, mainly from aides of the President who smiled, back-slapped, spoke softly and then threatened in a way that could never be construed as menacing. Jack never promised anything and never changed his approach toward any topic. Jack was his own man, or so he thought.

CHAPTER FOUR

At the hospital

AS HE LIE motionless in what he assumed was a hospital bed, he could remember only one other time when he felt this bad. It had happened during pledge week at Indiana University. He and a bunch of other beanie-clad freshman spent several hours in the basement of the Chi Phi fraternity screaming, chanting and throwing down shots of cheap bourbon and beer chasers. He spent the next few hours chucking up the same cheap bourbon. Then just for good measure, he unsuccessfully attempted to spit up every organ in his body. Some people call these the dry-heaves. He slept for the next fifteen hours before somehow awakening on his bed back at the dorm. He didn’t remember anything about that night and early morning, including throwing up on his bed. Tommy Walsh, his roommate, was no help. At the first whiff of the vomit, he grabbed his coat and spent the rest of the day and night with friends down the hall.

Well that’s how he felt, as though someone had made an incision in his skull and stuck a red-hot poker into his brain. Eighteen years ago, though, he eventually got out of bed. Now, that small achievement was no longer something he was able to do. He couldn’t even move his eyes.

I don’t know what to do, he thought to himself. I’m lying here somewhere, but I can’t even ask what’s wrong with me, not even to that person who administered the last rites, or whatever it was that he was doing. Was he a priest? What would a priest be doing with me? I’m a Methodist. Do Methodists receive last rites? Oh, my God, Jack groaned, am I dead? Where’s the endless funnel and that bright light everybody talks about? All I see is black. Uh oh.

AT SOME POINT, two men spoke. Why they whispered was a mystery since they had already determined that their patient was in a coma. What they couldn’t know was that their hushed words were being overheard, assimilated by the very person they were trying to protect from the terrible truth.

I give him another couple of days, tops, said the first doctor without the slightest bit of remorse. His vital signs are very weak and I’m reasonably confident that if we were to pull the plug at this very moment, he wouldn’t last more than a few hours,

Oh Shit!

Have you contacted the next of kin yet? inquired the second doctor who rubbed a nasty blister that had developed on his left hand. The day before, he absent-mindedly forgot to put his golf glove in his bag when he loaded the clubs into the trunk of his jetblack Mercedes S500C. He played in pain for half the round.

Yes, I spoke with his parents last night. They’re flying in from Indiana later today.

Indiana? My word. The second doctor rolled his eyes, surprised that people actually lived in a place called Indiana. Following a slight hesitation, he added, It’s not going to interfere with our tennis match with Brad and Howard, is it?

Heavens no, I’m not scheduled to meet with the Dodd’s until sometime tomorrow morning.

Marvelous! Oh, by the way, does he have a living will?

Yes. They’re bringing a copy along with them.

Bad luck, old chum.

THESE BASTARDS ARE more worried about their damn tennis game than they are about me, Jack groaned. If I ever get out of here alive, I’ll punch them both in the face. Don’t they know that I can hear every word they say? At least I now know I’m lying in some hospital. I’ll tell you one thing, when I get my strength back, I’m going to tell these two bastards a thing or two. Where’s Barbara, anyway? I hope she’s okay. God, I love her.

Following his arrival on the Washington scene, Jack attended a cocktail party at the National Gallery of Art. Actually, he received the invitation in a roundabout manner. It was just before the November elections and the Republicans were holding a fund raiser. Landon Trimble, the multi-millionaire owner of The Washington bulletin, was their primary target. Jack was just a poor schmuck who pulled down a measly two hundred grand a year plus whatever fees he garnered for his speaking engagements. Unfortunately, Trimble was in Australia—some sort of merger deal was in the works—and unable to attend. He asked Jack to go in his stead.

Why not? Jack thought. I have a tux and the food is generally pretty good at these pretentious affairs.

Although an imposing man—strikingly handsome with deep blue eyes, a straight nose, firm jaw and a full head of dark hair with just a wisp of gray at the temples—Jack was painfully shy, always had been. To circumvent this flaw, Jack over-prepared whenever he had a speaking engagement or did an interview on TV or radio. Parties were a different matter, however. No amount of preparation helped him during those uneasy first introductions when names escaped him in the time it took to say them. Jack just was not a schmoozer like so many Beltway bullshitters. He was just the tall kid from Anderson, Indiana who felt uncomfortable in a roomful of strangers, elitists, glad-handers and social climbers. He was more at ease in small groups or, better yet, just conversing through his word processor.

His mother never understood Jack’s shyness. Heaven knows, he was tall, handsome, funny and charming. So what was the problem? She never got the answer but just assumed it was her husband’s fault, something to do with Herb not playing catch with Jack when he was a youngster. God knows, she did her job, and a damn good one at that. What Jane Dodd failed to grasp was that much of Jack’s shyness could be attributed to his height. Being over six feet at the age of twelve was as bad as walking around with a bone through his nose. It brought attention at a time when it was neither needed or wanted.

Anyway, as he meandered through the Gallery trying desperately to look engaged—and engaging—he spotted a woman in a sleek black cocktail dress who appeared to be doing the exact same thing. She, too, roamed aimlessly, occasionally stopping to admire a work by some American or European artist Jack had never heard of before. Jack followed her for twenty minutes to make sure she was alone but mostly to garner courage. Finally he made his move.

It’s quite beautiful, wouldn’t you say? He mumbled. Whew! I said it, he thought proudly.

The beautiful woman looked up at Jack and quietly said, Excuse me?

The tall, handsome and imposing Jack Dodd had flubbed it. He knew he only had one shot at her and he fumbled the ball on the opponents one yard line.

She smiled and her dark lapis-blue eyes glistened. As she studied his face, she said, You’re Jack Dodd, aren’t you? He had just recovered his own fumble.

Why yes, yes I am. God, she’s gorgeous, he thought. Maybe five-eight with shortish-brown hair, a fair complexion with a smattering of freckles, a slightly upturned nose and luscious lips that were covered with a deep red lipstick. Kissable was all that ran through Jack’s mind.

I read your column whenever I can.

Jack waited for her to continue, to say how much she enjoyed it, but nothing