Diminished Capacity

Chapter 9

by G. Lawrence

Recap; Transferred to a maximum-security prison and nearly murdered for a politician's political agenda, Jack's war record as a medic has been revealed, raising many questions. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

I don't believe diplomacy was Lawrence's strongest trait. As Dr. Livingston wrote in her treatise, he was more inclined to confront situations than negotiate his way around them. On that cold January day in Washington, this made life difficult for some of my colleagues, but entertaining for others. Sincerely Yours, Congressman Charles Fillmore.

* * * * * *

Chapter Nine

CONGRESSIONAL INQUIRIES

The holidays were generally peaceful. Though favorable conditions in a violent institution like Northfield weren't likely to last, most of us enjoyed the lull. The more contrary inmates, the Shooters, continued to lose members, and that had Marl Henson pretty unhappy with me. And there were plenty of small, dissatisfied cliques. The leadership council, now headed by Perro Grande, Reverend Clockman, and Rivas, was doing a good job. Every redeemable inmate who wanted a better life, and even a few who didn't, were attending classes taught by the older inmates.

I had also stopped fighting, per my doctor's instructions. And I wouldn't let Bear fight either, wanting him transferred back to Windhaven. Though reasons to fight grew rare, Walter stepped up once, and Tim another time. Johannas was always nearby ready to jump in.

Bear warned me that a few disgruntled loners thought that killing me would make them famous, like Sergeant Boston Corbett, who shot John Wilkes Booth in a tobacco barn, or Jack Ruby, who murdered Lee Harvey Oswald in a police station. It was a concern, but I tried not to let it bother me.

In early January, I received a summons to Warden Means' office. He sat me down, gave me a cup of coffee, and waited for my curiosity to get the better of me.

"Okay, sir, what's this all about?" I finally asked.

He opened a 9x12 envelope and produced a document.

"You've been issued a subpoena by the House Select Committee on Military Affairs," he smugly announced. "You're due in Washington no later than Thursday."

"Is that legal?" I asked, reading the summons.

"Lawyers say so."

"What in the hell do they want from me?"

"They want to know why the war hero convicted of shooting President Blair was portrayed by the Army as an angry file clerk for the last six years," Means explained. "It wouldn't surprise me if there is a conspiracy theory involved."

"I am so sick of this crap," I complained, throwing the subpoena down on his desk. "I signed a confession."

"They want to know why, Jack."

"Well, that's never going to happen. And I'm not going. It's snowing in Washington. No weather for an orange jumpsuit."

"The government is paying for the clothes you'll need. And you'll be traveling in a new suit. I made sure of that."

I huffed, amusing Means, but knew there was no avoiding it. Congress had more power than I did. And it would be nice to get out from behind the walls for a few days.

"Any chance I can borrow a hundred dollars?" I asked.

"Your credit is good with me," he answered.

My appearance before the committee wasn't scheduled until Friday, but they wanted me in Washington no later than the day before. That Wednesday just after breakfast, two U.S. Marshals arrived as my escort. We met in the Warden's Office. Means had acquired a dark brown wool suit for me, a blue tie, and black shoes. A small duffel bag held my extra socks, toothpaste, and underwear.

"Jason Domeyer, U.S. Marshal Service. This is Officer Linda Ellsworth. We are assigned to escort the prisoner to Washington," the older agent said, presenting their credentials.

Domeyer was in his mid-fifties--thin brown hair, wearing tinted glasses and gaining weight. Broad shoulders gave him the appearance of a veteran law enforcement official. I would not be surprised if he was former military. Ellsworth was in her late twenties, energetic, with long sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes, and an attractive figure. They looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

"You are here to escort John Lawrence to Washington, and you will show him the proper respect," Means said, noticing their expressions.

"Turn around. Put your hands behind your back," Domeyer told me, taking out a pair of handcuffs. I started to comply. Means stopped me.

"No handcuffs," Means said, producing a document. "This order is signed by Harold Rasmussen, Deputy Director of the FBI. If you choose to ignore it, I'll keep Lawrence here until the FBI sends agents to retrieve him."

Domeyer read the authorization with disbelief before handing it to Ellsworth. They stared at Means with irritation.

"I don't understand," Domeyer said.

"Mr. Lawrence has the personal recommendation of Harold Rasmussen. And he has my personal recommendation. If that's not good enough for you, I'm instructed to call Special Agent Alberto Ruiz at the FBI office in Denver to take over," Means explained.

"Dragon Ruiz? The hero of Thanksgiving Eve?" Ellsworth asked.

"One and the same," Means confirmed.

Now Domeyer and Ellsworth were looking at me with more than curiosity. I was surprised, too. The Warden had been playing his cards close to his vest. Domeyer put the handcuffs away.

"Fine, let's get going," Domeyer said. "We have a private jet waiting at the airport."

"Of course you do," I said.

I have never been very good with flying. In the Army, I preferred walking or riding in a truck. Oddly, I did not mind parachuting. It was a relief to get out of the plane.

"So, are you really the Sarge?" Ellsworth asked, sitting next to me on the jet. The eight seats were occupied by the two U.S. Marshals and me. I never saw the pilot.

"That's what I'm told," I replied, nervously looking out the window.

"What do you mean? Did you really win all those medals or not?" she pressed.

"I was awarded those medals. Nobody wins them," I answered. "But you know how war stories go. They get exaggerated."

"Which ones are exaggerated?" Domeyer asked, sitting in the seat across the aisle. Neither of them were drinking, being on duty. Which was too bad. I would have loved a vodka martini.

"All of them, for all I know. I haven't read Mr. Blair's book," I replied.

"You never read the book that made you famous?" Domeyer asked.

"Sir, I was already famous," I responded.

We landed at Dulles and had to use a public terminal. I found the sunglasses in my bag and my black baseball cap from Diego Garcia, pulling it down over my face.

"Good. No reporters," Domeyer said as we worked our way through bustling mobs.

I hadn't been in a public airport in a long time, particularly one filled with such activity. Magazine stands featured colorful covers, mostly of movie stars I wasn't familiar with. The restaurants and bars were busy, the patrons chattering. Children were running around loose. Television monitors mounted on the walls featured football games and news reports. One showed Colonel Fowler testifying before the Select Committee. I bet he enjoyed that.

"We have a car coming," Ellsworth said, staying at my elbow.

We emerged from the terminal, the sidewalk crowded with travelers rushing along. Taxis, buses, and private cars were driving by, some slowly looking for loved ones, others in a hurry to get someplace. I spied a little girl in a yellow dress as she released her mother's hand. She was walking toward the street, her big brown eyes staring at something on the far side. There was a red balloon caught in the bushes near a parking structure. Suddenly, the little girl started running towards it.

I broke from Ellsworth's side, startling her. Just as the youngster reached the center of the roadway, a Toyota station wagon moving much too fast hit its brakes, the screech attracting everyone's attention. I reached the spot at the same instant, grabbing the girl around the waist and leaping into the air. I landed on the car's hood, rolled up against the windshield, and fell off the other side, managing to find my feet before landing on my butt. The little girl was safe in my lap.

"Tina! My God, Tina!" her mother shouted.

Both parents were quickly at her side, picking their daughter up and looking for injuries. She seemed fine, as far as I could tell. I rose to dust off, rubbing my tailbone and finding a tear in the elbow of my new jacket.

"Thank you. Thank you so much," Tina's father said, effusively shaking my hand.

"No problem, sir. None at all," I said, tugging my cap down tight. Cops were suddenly all over the place, questioning the driver and witnesses.

I casually strolled back to the curb, avoiding any attention. Ellsworth was standing there with her gun drawn.

"Going to shoot me?" I asked.

She put the Colt Mustang.380 back in the shoulder holster under her coat. Domeyer looked me over, but it wasn't a big deal.

"I'm unhappy about this," I said, showing them the torn sleeve. "Warden Means went to a lot of trouble finding this suit for me."

Some people started pointing at us, making comments and trying to take pictures with their cell phones. I hated the damn things.

"We need to get out of here," I said, taking Ellsworth by the arm and walking off before questions were asked.

"That was amazing," Ellsworth whispered.

"I was a medic in the war. We did that stuff all the time," I said. "It's easier when no one is shooting at you."

The expected car arrived, another black SUV. I swore that if I ever drove again, it would be a small white Volkswagen.

Ellsworth and I sat in the back, Domeyer at shotgun. The driver was U.S. Marshal Everett Long, a lanky officer who looked like Wyatt Earp, with squinty gray eyes and a handlebar mustache. He asked no questions.

"Does anyone have a sewing kit?" I asked.

"We can get you a new jacket. It's the least we can do," Domeyer said, turning back to look at me.

"Thank you, sir. I like this one," I replied.

"We'll find a sewing kit," Ellsworth promised.

"I appreciate that, Miss Ellsworth," I acknowledged.

"You can call me Linda. That's okay, isn't it, sir? If he calls me Linda?" she asked.

"It doesn't hurt anybody. You can call me Jason, son," Domeyer offered.

"Where are we going, Mr. Long?" I inquired.

"Got rooms at the Mayflower on Connecticut Avenue," he gruffly replied, possibly unhappy with all the informality. Domeyer hadn't told him about my escape attempt.

"Isn't it time for dinner?" I asked.

"We can get room service at the hotel," Long grouched.

"I was thinking of Clubber's Bar & Grill in Georgetown," I suggested.

"Clubber's? Why would we go there?" Linda wondered.

"As a reward. You were going to shoot me, after all," I reminded her.

"I am so embarrassed about that," she said, head down.

"I hope you were going to shoot me in the leg. The last time I got shot in the back, it really hurt," I persisted.

"Mr. Long, take us to Clubber's," Jason said.

U.S. Marshals get to park wherever they want, which can make life easier. It was a touch past 8 o'clock when we entered the crowded restaurant. I wasn't sure what to expect but hoped for good luck. The old-fashioned saloon had roomy red leather booths, a dozen tables, and a long oak bar. Behind the bar, the mirrored wall held scores of colorful liquor bottles. A football game was on the monitors, several patrons cheering for Dallas, most encouraging Atlanta. I slowly moved toward the back, looking into each booth.

And there they were, the girl's club Mrs. Blair had told me about. I recognized Alex, FBI Profiler Sandra Livingston, Secret Service Agent Charla Schiavo, and Federal Prosecutor Sheila Rosenberg. Only my Air Force doctor, Juliet Nichols was missing, which was regrettable.

"Good evening, ladies," I said, boldly appearing at their table.

"Jack? It can't be. Jack!" Alex shouted, jumping up to embrace me.

The other women were quickly out of the booth, hugging and asking questions. My U.S. Marshal escort was flabbergasted, especially when they realized that Alex was the Alex McGuire of Thanksgiving Eve fame.

"Congress invited me to Washington," I explained. "May we join you?"

"We can wait at the bar," Jason said, for it was only a few feet away. I saw that Linda was disappointed, looking at Alex with hero worship.

"Linda should stay to keep an eye on me," I invited. "Watch out, ladies. Linda carries a gun, and she's not afraid to use it."

"Mr. Lawrence, you've got to stop that," Linda shyly protested.

"Come on, Jack, don't tease the poor girl," Sandra said. "We saw the video from the airport."

"They didn't blow my cover, did they?" I asked.

"No, you got away with it. Again," Sandra said. "But we know you better than most. You weren't hard to recognize."

"How did you find us?" Alex asked.

"Mrs. Blair ratted you out," I answered. "I wasn't sure which Wednesdays you meet but thought I'd take a chance."

"I'm glad you did," Sheila said, looking wiser since our first meeting in Baltimore more than six years before. She had added white tinges to her long black hair and started wearing stylish wire rim glasses. Her long, elegant fingers held a glass of white wine.

I made introductions for Linda. She found it strange. Two Secret Service agents, an FBI profiler, and a Federal prosecutor aren't your average Georgetown ladies club. Nor was namedropping Patricia Blair.

"I am so honored to meet you," Linda said to Alex, shaking both hands.

"Jack's the one you should be honored to meet," Alex replied.

"Alex, don't ruin her fun. Linda's had a hard day of chasing criminals," I admonished. And hoping my warning was clear. Alex just smiled.

"It's good to see you again," Sheila said. "I've wanted to apologize for the longest time."

"Apologize for what, Mrs. Rosenberg?" I inquired.

"For allowing that prosecution to go forward. If we'd demanded a psych evaluation, you never would have been sent to prison," she replied.

"Well, I'm glad you didn't," I responded. "I'd hate to think of spending the last six years in a white room wearing a straitjacket."

"No one uses straitjackets anymore," Sheila said.

"Nevertheless, I prefer a rowdy prison over a mental ward. I'm sure Sandra's profile can confirm that," I added.

"I have no doubt Jack is sincere," Sandra agreed. I half expected her to start making notes.

"Is anyone buying a pitcher of beer?" I hinted.

It was a very pleasant evening. The ladies bought me a porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms. The beer was supplemented with shots of Jack Daniels. I didn't go into many details about Northfield, for obvious reasons, but asked many questions about how they were doing, loving every word. Some of the conversation became intimate, particularly between me and Alex.

The U.S. Marshals sitting at the bar must have been astonished. They were close enough to hear most of the conversation, and I saw they were paying attention.

Nearing midnight, it was time to leave. Snow flurries were sweeping through the city, but the hotel was only a few miles away.

"We're staying at the Mayflower. Is it the penthouse?" I asked.

"Third floor suite, in the back, near the service elevator," Officer Long said. "The bed is only a double."

That caused a lot of laughter. We'd all been drinking.

"Good luck with Congress. I hear they're mighty angry," Charla said, giving me a peck on the cheek. She wasn't on Mrs. Blair's Secret Service detail anymore, but they were still on good terms.

Sandra and Sheila each gave me a warm hug. Alex pulled me close, paused for dramatic effect, and kissed me full on the lips. For a moment, I thought she was going to slip me the tongue.

"Little sister?" I whispered.

"Have no fear, little brother. It's just for show," she answered, grinning at Domeyer and Long.

Long went for the car while I waited on the curb with Jason and Linda. One of the U.S. Marshals had found a heavier winter coat for me, which was appreciated.

"I only have one question," Jason said without looking at me.

"Yes, sir?" I asked.

"Who the hell are you?"

* * * * * *

I wasn't expected on Capitol Hill until Friday morning, so we had Thursday off. The Mayflower is a comfortable historic hotel in downtown Washington, not far from the White House. Ours was a two-bedroom suite, complete with kitchenette. The U.S. Marshals wanted to watch the news, but I made them mute the sound whenever my name was mentioned, for my appearance was now getting too much publicity. I asked if they wanted to play poker, needing the money, but they declined.

Just after breakfast--pancakes and eggs provided by room service--there was a knock on the door. Colonel Collin Fowler demanded entrance. He was not refused, though Domeyer did call for back-up, should rumors that the Army wanted to silence me prove true.

"Goddamn it, Jack! What the fuck are you selling us out for?" Fowler yelled, barely through the door.

"Are you sure we should discuss this in front of the Feds?" I asked.

"What will they hear today that they won't hear tomorrow?" he demanded.

"Mr. Domeyer, Miss Ellsworth, do you know Colonel Fowler of Army Intelligence? He testified before the House Select Committee yesterday," I introduced. "Gosh, Colonel, how many times did you take the Fifth?"

"Too many, and you goddamn know why," he replied.

I took Fowler to the table near the window which overlooked an alley. It had stopped snowing, but a stiff wind was blowing. I offered him a chair, then found two glasses and sat down across from him.

"Did you bring it?" I asked.

"What?" he said.

"Dig it out," I insisted.

Fowler took a bottle from his jacket pocket. A pint of Crown Royal, my favorite Canadian whiskey. I poured two shots in my glass, one in his, and tucked the rest in my travel bag.

"To the 104th," I said, raising my glass.

"The 104th," Fowler agreed.

"Good. Now why do you think I'll sell you out tomorrow?" I asked.

"What else can you do? The sharks are circling, and everybody knows you won't lie under oath," Fowler said.

"Everybody doesn't know that. Mr. Domeyer, Miss Ellsworth, would I lie under oath?" I questioned.

They were surprised, dwelling on it. Jason looked at me with the perception of an experienced detective. More impressionable, Linda looked at me from a personal perspective.

"Probably not," Jason decided.

"Not a chance," Linda agreed.

"See what I mean?" Fowler said.

"Okay, maybe I'm not good at lying under oath. That's beside the point," I replied. "Sir, I love the Army. I think it's been proven that I'll make considerable sacrifices to protect it. And the next time you testify before the Committee, you won't need to take the Fifth. I don't think."

"You can't tell them the whole story," Fowler warned.

"That's the beauty of it, sir. I don't know the whole story," I answered.

"What will you say?" he pressed.

"What are they going to ask?"

"How the fuck should I know? Probably why you lied about being a file clerk. Why you never mentioned receiving a Silver Star and five Purple Hearts. They'll want to know why you shot President Blair. If you did."

If I did? I saw Linda and Jason's ears perk up at that. Was there doubt? I didn't see anything good coming out of raising that question. The world didn't need more conspiracy books.

"You'll just need to watch the hearing, sir. Isn't it being televised? I hear the lighting is harsh. Any chance of getting someone from the NIA to do my makeup?"

"No goddamn fucking way," he said, downing his drink and standing up. I sipped mine, then stood and saluted. He huffed.

"I'll be watching," Fowler said, stomping out and slamming the door.

"He sure looked pissed. What was that all about?" Linda asked.

"He wasn't really mad," I said. "It was Army code talk. The Colonel was reminding me about the chain of command."

"And the whiskey?" Jason asked.

"Payment for services rendered," I replied, sipping a little more.

My protectors watched television as the Select Committee spent their morning questioning General Wilfred Owen, former Army Chief of Staff under President Markham. He was unable to answer any of the inquiries because he didn't know anything. The National Intelligence Agency is rarely inclined to share their secrets. I watched for an hour, greatly amused, and then retired to my room. I didn't care for the way my name was being bandied about, fodder for showboating politicians.

Just before noon, there was another knock on the door.

"Jack, you need to come out here," Linda summoned.

I peeked out to see Secret Service Agent Joseph Schön inspecting the room. Another agent was waiting in the hall. They were all business.

"What is it?" I asked.

"You have a visitor," Jason said, looking perplexed.

A moment later, Patricia Blair was escorted in. Pat looked nervous and stressed. She glanced around before seeing me in the bedroom doorway. Instead of smiling, she regarded me with apprehension.

It had been five years since our first meeting. She was fifty years old now and still slim, her flowing brown hair showing grayer. The deep blue eyes were lively as ever. Her powder blue business suit was smartly pressed with a small red rose tucked in the lapel.

"Hello, Mrs. Blair. What can I do for you?" I asked very formally, for our private contacts had never been made public.

"We need to talk, Mr. Lawrence," she said in a shaky voice.

From the interest taken by the Secret Service and U.S. Marshals, I wasn't comfortable speaking in front of them. But other than my bedroom, there was no place to speak confidentially. Mrs. Blair understood. She walked up, gently pushed me backward, and closed the door behind her, much to the consternation of her Secret Service detail.

"Mrs. Blair, what's wrong?" I asked.

"How can you ask me that? After what I did?" Patricia replied.

"What did you do?"

"Please, Jack. This is hard enough. Don't make it harder," she pleaded.

I set her in the room's only padded chair and swung the desk chair around to sit next to her. I wanted to take her hand but didn't dare.

"Calm down, take a deep breath, and tell me what this is about," I requested.

"I didn't send you to Northfield. I didn't, regardless of what the Attorney General says. And I had no idea what was happening to you."

"Jenny came to visit me. She explained all that," I said.

"Jenny also told me how you were beaten, and worse. That you nearly died without ever knowing I'd forgiven you."

"You have?"

"I've spoken with Alex and Mr. Rasmussen. And Sandra Livingston shared her notes. Sheila Rosenberg told me why you never should have been prosecuted."

"Mrs. Rosenberg thinks I should have been locked up in an insane asylum and taught fingerpainting for the rest of my life," I grouched.

"That isn't funny," she protested.

"It's not supposed to be. Look, Alex, Sandra, the others, they are my friends. They all have generous theories, but theories aren't evidence. You have a right to your doubts."

"Jack, I know in my heart you didn't shoot Edward on purpose. If you shot him at all. I've known for a long time. I just didn't have the courage to tell you. And you almost died without me ever saying it."

She started to cry, which really made me feel bad. Now I did take her hand, trying to calm her.

"Patricia, I ended up at Northfield for decisions that I made. My first month didn't go well, but I wasn't looking to the past. You shouldn't either."

"Then I'm forgiven?"

"You've done nothing requiring forgiveness."

"Goddamn it! I forgave you, now you forgive me," she demanded, squeezing my hand hard. Her cheeks were damp despite having been dabbed with a handkerchief.

I slipped out of my chair to kneel at her feet, making sure I had her full attention.

"If you need me to forgive you, then I forgive you with all of my heart," I said. "But you need to know you can't do wrong in my eyes. I will do anything for you. I've admired you for years. Admired your dignity, and your strength. If I'd ever had a mother, I'd have wanted her to be exactly like you. That is God's truth."

"Jack, I ..."

"Don't say anything. To be perfectly frank, this conversation is making me uncomfortable."

"Okay. Alex told me this is what you'd say. It seems she knows you well."

"Alex is my best friend," I replied.

"I've heard that and seen how her eyes light up when talking about you, but I still don't understand it."

"She questioned me after the shooting. I helped with an investigation."

"No, it's more than that. Jack, you said you'd do anything for me. How about telling me the truth?"

"It's not my secret to tell."

"I'm asking you to tell me anyway," she insisted.

"Did you bring any wine?"

"Of course. Our favorite. Just in case."

She went to the door, cracked it open, and Agent Schön handed her a cloth shopping bag. She shut the door again and crawled up on the bed, taking out two glasses and a checkered tablecloth.

"Red wine. Ham and cheese sandwiches. Just like in the old days," she announced, patting the bed for me to sit. "Now tell me your big secret."

I sat cross-legged opposite her, tasted the wine, took a bite of the sandwich, and tried to organize my thoughts.

"Well? Is it that hard?" Patricia asked, growing impatient.

"It's hard for me," I replied. "Remember when the FBI foiled the attack in Boston?"

"Of course. Everybody does," she said.

"Before my trial, while I was being held at Cumberland, I was using my court ordered computer to track threats to President Markham. That's how I know Alex. I reported several potential threats to the Secret Service. Then I stumbled onto Frac Khanani's scheme and contacted Mr. Rasmussen. We came up with a plan to find the weapon."

"So, the rumors are true? You recruited Unidentified Agent #5?" she asked.

"No, Pat. I escaped custody from Cumberland, traveled with a Tashad agent to Boston, and disabled the bomb. That's why Alex and I are so close. And Dragon Ruiz. And it's why Mr. Rasmussen protects me, even though he shouldn't."

"Wait. You're saying ...?"

"There was no recruitment. I was Agent #5."

Mrs. Blair drank her entire glass of wine in one gulp, staring at me with the strangest expression.

"My family was in Boston that night, at McMann's Lobster House," she said. "Jenny. Bobby. My brother-in-law. Nieces and nephews. We would have been caught in the explosion."

"I learned that later. It's why I've never brought the subject up."

"You wanted my forgiveness without a sense of obligation tied to it," she guessed.

"Pat, I have never expected that. Thanksgiving Eve wasn't about saving your family. It wasn't about saving Boston. It was about saving me."

"They said Unidentified Agent #5 died."

"I was exposed to a serious dose of radiation when I chopped the bomb open with a fire ax."

"A fire ax?"

"I didn't know how to shut down the activation sequence. They don't teach that in high school," I bemoaned. "And when it looked like Khanani was going to shoot Alex and Dragon, I distracted him so he'd shoot me instead. It was one of my crazier days."

"He shot you!"

"Only a shoulder wound. The radiation was going to kill me anyway."

"But it didn't."

"Colonel Fowler had some sort of weird anti-radiation experiment going in Colorado Springs. They used me as a guinea pig, and it worked."

She needed to digest that for a moment. She knew me well enough to understand.

"Jack, these things you're describing. Don't you realize--"

"Pat, may I provide a little perspective?" I interrupted. "I was a soldier. What we went through during Second Afghan was far worse. I've read accounts of the Civil War. Fredericksburg. Gettysburg. Battles from World War II. Guadalcanal. Iwo Jima. We struggle. We persevere. Some of us die. It's what we signed up for."

"Okay, I get it. Now tell me everything," she said. "I want to know the whole story."

"After that, can we talk about how Jenny and Bobby are doing?" I asked.

"It's a deal," she agreed.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Blair and I had nearly finished the wine. We were sitting side by side on the bed, with Patricia relating how Jenny was earning a graduate degree at MVC while working for Professor Lofoya.

"What is it?" Mrs. Blair called out.

Agent Schön stuck his head in the door, worried that I'd murdered his charge. The other agent, along with Ellsworth and Domeyer, were peeking in, too.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Blair?" Schön asked.

"Just fine, Joe. Thank you," she answered.

I noticed their faces trying to see what we were doing. They saw the tablecloth, wine bottle, and food wrappers. If my U.S. Marshals were confused before, this really had them guessing.

* * * * * *

I turned in early that night, sleeping better than usual. Fortunately, I had remembered to bring my medication. Friday morning was the day of the hearing, so I was up early to shower, shave, mend my jacket, and make sure my tie was straight.

"You're looking good," Linda complimented as I emerged from my room. She and Jason had a second bedroom, but one or both were always on guard in the living room. Jason was making breakfast in the kitchenette. Coffee, biscuits, and cereal.

"Oat Flakes okay?" he asked.

"Just fine, sir," I agreed, sitting at a table near the window. The curtains were kept drawn.

"Going to tell us about Mrs. Blair's visit yesterday?" Linda prodded.

"It's not for me to gossip about. I helped her son with his first book a number of years ago, and helped her daughter find a good college. We've exchanged a few Christmas cards."

"That's odd, considering you ... that is ..." Linda stuttered.

"Murdered her husband?" I finished.

"Yes."

"It's a long story. How is this hearing supposed to work?"

"We have extra help coming," Jason explained. "We'll drive to the Capitol and wait in a holding area until summoned."

"I'll bring my book," I decided, having a copy of Count of Monte Cristo in my bag.

We snuck down the service elevator into the grimy trash-filled alley behind the hotel, jumping into a black SUV as a horde of reporters rushed in our direction. Apparently, they had surrounded the hotel hoping to ambush me.

"We knew these hearings were drawing attention," Jason said. "We didn't realize the press would be so aggressive."

"I've been locked away for years without ever giving an interview," I speculated. "They are probably hoping I'll confirm some dumb conspiracy theory."

"Will you?" Linda asked.

"I'm not partial to conspiracy theories, Officer Ellsworth. They are a nuisance," I answered. "But if I was, I wouldn't be shouting them out of a car window in an alley."

It was no better at the Capitol. Reporters, protestors, vendors hawking T-shirts, parents bringing their kids to see the infamous assassin. To avoid the seething mob, we accessed an underground garage where dozens of Capitol Police, FBI, and U.S. Marshals surrounded me with grim determination. I was led up a confusing maze of marble halls and corridors into a waiting room near the Congressional hearing chamber, the walls decorated with a dizzying array of plaques, photos, murals, and tributes. Spectators lined the corridors taking pictures. Rasmussen was waiting for me.

"Don't be nervous," he said, sitting next to me on an old wooden bench.

"A little late for that, Harry," I replied, for all the bustling and proliferation of business suits had me rattled.

"I'll be sitting behind you, if you need legal counsel," he offered.

"That shouldn't be necessary. I'll just tell the truth. I'm already serving a life sentence in a violent Federal institution. What more can they do to me?"

Rasmussen grew quiet. He had something to say but either declined or lost his nerve.

"How bad is this going to be?" he asked.

"Probably nothing you don't already have in your files. I know you've been deep in my business for years. You probably know more about me than I do. But Harold, you don't need to. I appreciate what you've done. I really do. But you don't owe me anything."

"I look after you because you won't look after yourself," Rasmussen lectured.

"You aren't my father."

"No, you didn't have a father. You were an abandoned child forced to fend for yourself, but instead of turning against society, you've reached out to help people more times than I can count," he replied, somewhat angrily. "You feel you're not worth saving. In your heart, you're just a worthless street waif. Sandra explained the psychology, and I get it. But that's not acceptable to me. It never will be."

"I'll try to do better, sir," I promised.

It was my turn to testify. I was led through a side door into a large, paneled chamber. There was a gallery behind me with lots of noisy people taking photos, the crowd rowdy. A young congressional aide directed me to a long table facing nine grim men and women, the arrangement much like a courtroom. I didn't like it at all.

The session was called to order. A clerk required me to raise my hand and swear to tell the truth. It was my first public statement since pleading guilty to murder in Judge Smart's courtroom half a dozen years before.

"Mr. Lawrence, I am Congresswoman Mira Kamar, Chairwoman of the House Select Committee on Military Affairs," the Florida politician explained. "We are here to determine why the country has been lied to about your military record, and your possible involvement in a conspiracy to assassinate President Edward Blair."

Willow-haired, middle-aged and ambitious, Kamar stared down at me with accusing green eyes. The wide white lapels on her brown suit set off her reddish face. I remained silent. I had not been asked a question.

"Mr. Lawrence, in the days, months, and even years following the President's assassination, you claimed to have spent the Afghan war as a disgruntled file clerk at various Army bases around the country," Kamar elaborated. "Now we're told you were in Afghanistan fighting with the 104th Ranger Battalion. Which version is true?"

The room grew quiet, hundreds waiting for my response. The panel members leaned forward. I assumed everything was being televised.

"Madame Chairwoman, I understand it's traditional for witnesses to thank these panels for the opportunity to testify," I replied. "That is not my intention, as I have no desire to be here.

"For the record, I have never claimed to be a file clerk. I have never commented on my military service at all. When Second Afghan broke out, I enlisted in the Army as a private. Because I had experience with First Aid at St. Mary's Infirmary, I volunteered to become a medic. I was assigned to the 144th Infantry Battalion during the Fallback and remained with them through the Entrenchment. Later, I was assigned to the 104th Rangers. Though I was involved in several campaigns, my primary responsibility was administrating aid to wounded soldiers."

"Then why the discrepancy?" Congressman R.J. Brown of Alabama interrupted, an overweight septuagenarian in a white suit.

"Sir, after I was arrested for shooting President Blair, I determined the assassination could embarrass the Army. That it would shame the comrades I served with. I feared it would inspire conspiracy theories and destabilize the country. I notified an office at military intelligence suggesting it might be best to suppress my records. It was my decision, for which I take full responsibility."

"And the President?" Brown asked.

"I do not discuss the President's murder," I replied.

"That's not good enough," Congressman Brown responded.

"It will need to be, sir," I said.

"The people deserve an answer," Brown demanded.

"You are under oath. You must answer the question," Chairwoman Kamar agreed.

"No, ma'am, I don't. I pled guilty to the crime. I'm serving my sentence in Federal prison. The law requires no more from me."

"Mr. Lawrence, when this supposed cover-up was implemented, who did you contact?" Congresswoman Keisha Stevens of California asked, a young up-and-coming former prosecutor. She wore her curly black hair up in a bun.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I am not authorized to answer that question," I said.

"You refuse to answer this committee's question?" Stevens persisted.

"Mrs. Stevens, when I joined the Army, I took an oath to obey the chain of command. Former sergeants are not high up on that chain."

"Who authorized the cover-up?" Kamar asked.

"I don't know, ma'am," I said.

"You don't know who implemented the biggest cover-up our country has seen in the last ten years?" Kamar doubted.

"No, ma'am. That would be beyond my pay grade," I replied.

"But why would they even have a cover identity prepared for you?" Stevens asked.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I am not authorized to answer that question," I said.

"Are you taking the Fifth?" Congressman Fillmore of Kansas asked. He was a big redheaded man, a former professional baseball player with the New York Mets. Twenty years before, I had seen him play the Yankees.

"No, sir. I'm keeping my oath not to divulge sensitive information that may harm the security of our country," I responded.

"Sergeant Lawrence, I've seen your combat record," Congressman Jeramiah Reynolds said, a crafty old politician from Virginia, straight and lean with a bushel of wild white hair. He looked like he needed a drink. "You've got more commendations than any soldier in my state. Probably most states. Why wouldn't you be proud of that?"

"Sir, I knew braver soldiers in Afghanistan than I, but most of them didn't come home," I replied. "During the Fallback, countless soldiers made desperate stands, often with no one left to tell their stories. They fought without food, without water, and at times without ammunition. While I was dragging wounded off the field and lived, my brothers held the line. And died. I'm not going to brag about that."

"Do you consider yourself a patriot, Sergeant Lawrence?" Reynolds asked.

"I considered myself a good soldier, sir," I answered.

"And yet you murdered the President of the United States?" he said.

I paused, perhaps unwisely. I was under oath and didn't know for sure if I had murdered the President.

"We are waiting for your answer," Reynolds impatiently asked.

"I have confessed to that," I responded.

"Do good soldiers often shoot presidents?" Reynolds continued.

"No, they don't."

"So maybe you aren't a good soldier. Maybe you're something else?" Reynolds suggested, though I didn't get what he wanted. Was he trying to expose my intelligence background?

"Sir, I was a soldier. After the war, I was a first responder. Now I am a convicted felon," I recounted. "I'm satisfied to let the record speak for itself."

"Your record speaks of a courageous soldier who turned into a yellow-bellied assassin," Reynolds insisted.

"Yes, sir. It does," I agreed.

"I'm not satisfied with your answer," Reynolds insisted.

"It's the best one I have," I apologized. "Sirs, ma'ams, I don't have a college education like you do. I went from high school to battlefields. I was told to save lives without proper training, or supplies, under harsh conditions. I did the best I could. And today, I'm just trying to make the best of my current situation. The Army didn't tell me to shoot President Blair. The Army didn't put me in prison. And I'm not going to say anything that will diminish the brave men and women I've served with. If you want that, you've summoned the wrong person."

"Mr. Lawrence, your official record says you were active for four and a half years, but these documents don't quite cover four," Roger Scurry of Texas suddenly intruded, a broad-faced rancher turned oil baron. "What were you doing the last eight months of your service?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I am not authorized to answer that question," I said.

"I think you will," Scurry persisted.

"I think not," I responded.

"You can be held in contempt of this committee," Scurry threatened.

"Should I believe that would be worse than Northfield, sir? Or haven't you been watching the news?" I taunted.

The gallery exploded in nervous chuckles. Several laughed. Scurry sat back in his seat, looking to Kamar for help. Rasmussen tapped me on the shoulder. I turned back, leaning over to whisper.

"Jack, technically your last months in the Army were desk jobs. You can say that without being specific," he advised. The room was quiet, everyone waiting to hear what our conference was about.

"Madame Chairwoman, committee members, on the advice of counsel, it can be said that I was in Germany when Second Afghan ended," I cautiously explained. "Troops were coming home. Missing in action needed to be accounted for. Statements needed to be compiled. As I was largely bedridden, I was assigned to review field reports. The information was classified, and to the best of my knowledge, it still is."

"Why were you bedridden?" Congressman Reynolds asked.

"I had been wounded at Katanna Bridge, sir. After being evacuated to the military hospital at Landstuhl, I was there for two months."

"Katanna Bridge?" Congressman Fillmore blurted. "That was ... that was ..."

"Not our best day, sir," I softly mumbled.

The rest of the hearing didn't go any better. They kept asking the same questions, I kept giving the same non-answers. Usually with a barb thrown in, for my sense of respect was under heavy strain. The committee must have known the 104th was involved in clandestine operations and that many of my activities were classified, but they weren't allowed to reveal it. And neither was I.

I don't know who was more relieved when the charade finally ended. I was driven back to the Mayflower, shielded from the press, and instantly went to take a shower.

Rasmussen arrived to take me out to dinner. He seemed very pleased with the day's event.

"You really stuck to your guns," he praised.

"I don't know what that was about. They knew the answers before asking the questions. They must have known what I'd say."

"Congress has been humiliated by these revelations. They need a show to cover their butts," Rasmussen explained.

"Hopefully, I'll get a good meal out of it," I said.

"Where should we go?" Rasmussen asked.

I looked to Domeyer and Ellsworth. They were in charge of security. Except for Clubber's, I'd only had room service.

"How about the Dreadnought?" Jason suggested. "Kind of a Federal cop bar down on the waterfront. Good cheeseburgers."

"If I get up to go to the bathroom, will Linda shoot me?" I asked.

"Damn it, Jack. If you don't let that go, I will shoot you," Linda said.

"Buy me a beer," I compromised.

The Dreadnought reminded me of Mindy's Bar & Grill in Fort Benning, a hole-in-the-wall that was shabby on the outside and noisy on the inside. I'd had a few weeks of basic training at Fort Benning. Not enough, as it turned out. I was barely noticed as we walked in, but gradually, heads began to turn. The majority were suspicious, but not overtly hostile. I noticed U.S. Marshals, FBI, Capitol Police, and even a few Secret Service. Several nodded as we went to a booth in the corner. There were photos of World War I battleships on the wall.

"The committee is holding you over until Monday in case they have more questions," Rasmussen informed. "But after today, I don't think they want you back."

"That's a sharp bet. Those sons of bitches got their balls handed to them," Jason agreed. I think the gruff old guy was warming up to me.

The monitors above the bar were replaying the hearings. I couldn't hear what was being said, but many of the customers were laughing.

"You made some good points, Jack," Linda said.

"I didn't go there to score points," I responded. "And I can't say that I'm happy about all this publicity."

"You're more famous than ever," she said.

"In prison, being famous is not a good thing," I remarked.

"You won't be there much longer," Rasmussen said. "Your transfer goes before the District Court next month."

"Transfer?" Linda asked.

"Jack's transfer to Northfield was political," Rasmussen explained. "There were no drugs. No offenses. It was all Jason Decker's doing. Some sort of cover-up. Or maybe revenge."

"Not looking like such a good idea now," Jason offered. "There's a rumor that Wagner has asked for Decker's resignation."

"Let's hope it's true," Rasmussen said.

A sudden cheer went up. I looked toward the door, seeing Alex and Dragon enter to the admiration of the patrons. Dragon shook hands, Alex offered hugs. They'd really learned how to work a room. My old student, Rafael Martín, was with them, medium height, thin, and tousle haired, just like he had been at Windhaven. I should have stayed cool but couldn't help myself, rushing to say hello.

"We need a bigger booth," Rasmussen said, getting a larger area cleared for us. When a reporter tried to sneak in, several armed men escorted him back out.

"This is quite the reunion," I said, finally getting my glass of beer.

Alex sat next to me on one side, Linda on the other. By now, just about everyone in the saloon was watching us, and I couldn't blame them. The heroes of Thanksgiving Eve, a best-selling author, and a notorious criminal make quite a sight.

"I need to speak with you. About my new book," Rafael whispered.

"Your last two were great. You don't need my help anymore," I said.

"My publisher is pushing up the date because of the hearings. This will be out next month," Rafael said, sliding a bag under the table with a book inside.

It took a moment for me to grasp what I was looking at.

"What is this?" I asked.

"It's a book about you," Alex said. "I helped. So did Dragon, and Bobby Blair, and lots of others. Red Carlson and Ricky Pressler added new war stories."

"But this title? An American Hero," I asked. "It's so ... inappropriate. No one will ever take it seriously. Why would you embarrass me like this?"

"We considered calling it Our Friend, The Jerk, but it didn't have the same resonance," Alex said with a frown. I took the clue.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Really, I am," I lied. "I know everybody worked hard. I just don't see how this is a good thing."

"My publisher says it will be number one on the New York Times best-seller list," Rafael said.

"Fiction or nonfiction?" I asked.

"You really are impossible tonight. What's wrong?" Alex inquired.

It wasn't something to discuss in front of such a crowd. I wasn't even sure if I should discuss it with anybody. It would only spoil the evening. I flipped through the book, thankful Thanksgiving Eve wasn't mentioned, and passed it around the table. Rasmussen took out a pen, and we all signed the title page before giving it back to Rafael.

"Thanks, Rafe. I appreciate the thought," I said, shaking his hand.

"You started me writing. Edited my first book. I'd have gone back on the streets if not for you," he said, looking me in the eye.

"You just needed a chance," I replied. And it was true.

* * * * * *

We lingered near the hotel over the weekend. Which was good, as I needed time to think. I worked out in the hotel gym, took private showers, and drank Fowler's whiskey, trying to shake off my gloomy thoughts. Alex and Dragon came by for visits, which was special. We snuck out for quiet walks in Farragut Square and a secret midnight stroll on the Washington Mall. There were a hundred people at the Lincoln Memorial but no one recognized me in my Diego Garcia hat.

Word finally came that the committee was not calling me back, so Sunday would be my last night in town. When I came out of my room at dinner time, Linda sensed I was troubled but didn't provoke me. She was surprised when I turned on the television to watch the cable news recap of the week, including my own testimony and the resulting press frenzy.

Rasmussen returned with Dragon and Alex, dressed casually. Linda pulled them aside, speaking quietly. They glanced at me with concern.

"We're going downstairs. Edgar Bar & Kitchen. The hotel is giving us extra security," Rasmussen announced.

"That's a lot of trouble," I complained, not in the mood for a mob scene.

"It's your last night out. Let's live a little," Rasmussen said.

Ironic words.

I made a deliberate decision to perk up, consuming rare roast beef, a baked potato smothered in sour cream, cheese covered broccoli, and two whisky sours. When a jazz band appeared, I took Alex out on the dance floor.

"You've been acting even stranger than usual. You have been ever since the hearing," she said. "Harold and Dragon think so, too."

"I've been on my good behavior. Mostly," I said.

"A little too good. Want to talk about it?"

"Yes, but not now. Let's just dance."

I pressed her head against my shoulder, dancing slowly. Wanting it to last forever. After a while, Alex waved to Linda, who took her place. Linda danced well. Better than I did. I'd grown fond of her in the last five days. Her perky, determined personality was very sweet, and the light sparkled in her eyes. And she was single, though I had no intention of seducing her.

We returned to the table. I'd not seen Father Sebastian's watch since leaving Windhaven, which was just as well, as I'd never gotten it fixed, so I glanced at the clock from time to time.

"We don't need to be at the airport until noon," Jason said, sensing my grim mood. "Private terminal. No press."

"Thank you, sir," I said.

"You've called me Jason for four days. Why are you calling me 'sir' now?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, Jason. A little distracted, I suppose," I answered.

"Mr. Domeyer, Miss Ellsworth, we need to speak with Jack. Can you give us a few minutes?" Rasmussen requested.

"Sure," Jason agreed, taking Linda to the bar.

"Tonight isn't all fun and games. We have something to show you. It's personal," Rasmussen said, his heavy brows bent.

It was just the four of us, with no one else watching. Alberto produced a file, slowly withdrawing a photocopy of an old government document. Alex and Rasmussen were holding their breath as he slid it across the table.

"Yeah?" I said, seeing nothing special.

"Jack, it's your birth certificate," Alex said.

I looked again, wondering if it was true. It didn't seem likely after all these years.

"Your birth name was Thomas Jamison Howard. Your parents called you Tommy. You were born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on April 8th, 2002," Rasmussen explained. "Your father was William Thatcher Howard, an insurance broker for Blake & Gordon. Your mother was Theresa. She taught 6th grade at Monroe Elementary School."

"How can you know all this?" I asked.

"Your father insisted this be attached to the form," Rasmussen said, producing the hospital birth record. "That's your footprint on the bottom."

"And this is your death certificate," Alberto said, sliding another document in my direction.

Needless to say, the table grew quiet. I finished my whisky sour and let Rasmussen order me another one.

"What happened?" I finally asked.

"This is going to be hard, Jack," Rasmussen warned. "When you were three months old, your father went on a business trip to Dallas. You, your parents, and your mother's younger sister, Irene, were in the car when they got caught in the Trinity River Flood. Your parents drowned. Your aunt dropped you off anonymously at an aid shelter and then reported that her nephew had drowned, too."

"She kept your parents' insurance money. About $600,000 dollars," Alberto reported.

"Is she still alive?" I inquired.

"She lives in Kansas City. Married to Bradley Houser, a prominent corporate lawyer. They have three children," Alberto said. "We haven't told her of our investigation yet."

"Don't," I said.

"Jack, there is no statute of limitations on what Irene did. And even if she's not charged, that's still your money. Your inheritance," Alex said. "The Houser family is rich. They can afford it."

"It's in the past. It doesn't matter anymore," I replied.

"You have family. Regardless of what you think of your aunt, you have cousins," Alex pressed.

"My life is complicated enough already," I said. "What are you going to do with this information? Is it going into my official record?"

"We can hold off until the investigation is complete," Rasmussen said. "But kidnapping is a serious crime, and it was committed against a child. That's not something the FBI can ignore."

"I understand, sir. Thank you for the consideration," I said.

"So, what do you think?" Alberto asked. "You don't hold this against us, do you?"

"You are awful quiet," Alex agreed.

"I don't hold it against you. It's just a lot to take in. Especially tonight," I said. "At the very least, now I know I was born in the United States. Immigration can't deport me."

"What's so special about tonight?" Alberto asked.

"There's a nice little shack up on the roof with an electric heater. The maintenance guys sneak up there for smokes," I said. "Let's get cigars and take a walk."

We grabbed Linda and Jason, taking the elevator to the 10th floor, then up the stairwell to the roof. Alberto picked the lock on the maintenance door, though I could have done it, too. It was cold and snowy, but the engineer's room was kept warm, fogging the windows.

"We'll be back in a few minutes," I said to my U.S. Marshals, leaving them behind as I went to the edge of the roof. Connecticut Avenue was below us, the traffic lights reflecting off the slushy ice.

Everyone had their heavy coats buttoned tight and fur hats pulled down. I tucked in my wool scarf.

"I love you guys. You need to know that," I started. "If something happens, I need to know you'll be okay."

"What do you think is going to happen?" Rasmussen asked.

"This publicity I've gotten from the hearings. The pictures of me running around with celebrities, it's not going to go over well at Northfield," I explained. "Some are going to think I'm colluding with the FBI. I'm not saying anything is going to happen. It's just a possibility."

"We can get you protection," Alberto said.

"Cower in solitary confinement? Ruin all the work I've done? No, Dragon, that's not my way. You know that."

"It might not be so bad," Alex said.

"It might not be. I might be worrying about nothing," I agreed. "Mrs. Blair came to see me on Thursday ..."

"Patricia Blair? The President's widow?" Rasmussen said in surprise. I was glad there was something about me he didn't know.

"Are you friends again?" Alex asked.

"Yes, good friends. Patricia felt bad that I'd nearly died at Northfield without ever knowing she'd forgiven me. She was very upset. I don't want that between us. No regrets. Are we agreed?"

"Nothing will happen," Alex said, giving me a hug.

"Promise to take care of yourself," Alberto insisted.

"Remember, you have friends," Rasmussen said, shaking my hand.

We returned to the shack where I shared the last of the Crown Royal that Fowler had bribed me with. As we were getting ready to leave, I noticed Alex slip off with Linda, whispering.

"Trying to set me up again?" I asked Alex as we took a separate elevator back down to the 3rd floor.

"I did fine the last time," she boasted.

And it was true. Later that night, there was a knock on my door.

"Yes?" I said, looking up from my book. The door opened and Linda slipped in.

"Busy?" she asked.

"Not at the moment. Has the schedule changed?" I wondered.

She closed the door and approached, sitting on the bed. She was in a nightgown, not a business suit.

"You will have a new escort in the morning," she explained. "I've requested removal from your detail."

"Removed?"

"For personal reasons. Jason is making sure there are no extra questions."

"Should I guess what the personal reasons are?"

"You might not be with a woman again for a long time. And Alex told me things which makes me think this is a good idea. What do you think?"

"You're very attractive, and I would love to share time with you, but--"

"Save the buts for later," she whispered with relief, crawling under my covers to give me a kiss.

I would not call it the most passionate night of my life. We were both a little hesitant and subdued. Nevertheless, it was very pleasant.

* * * * * *

Jack's days in Northfield will come to a dramatic end in chapter 10.