Fugitive
Fugitive
Jaffe 4
Phillip Margolin
PROLOGUE:
Where's Charlie?
1997
Mr. Burdett, notify me when you've made up your mind, the Honorable Dagmar Hansen said. We'll be in recess until I hear from you.
Amanda Jaffe rose with the rest of the spectators in the courtroom when Judge Hansen left the bench, but her eyes weren't on the judge. They were watching the intense conference between her father and his client. Frank Jaffe's lips were inches from Sally Pope's ear and he was speaking rapidly. Mrs. Pope's hand rested on her father's forearm and her brow knit as she concentrated on what he was saying. Amanda frowned, because she sensed more intimacy than was normal between a lawyer and his client.
Karl Burdett, the Washington County district attorney, looked furious as he stormed through the courtroom doors with his two assistants in tow. Frank Jaffe and Mrs. Pope followed a moment later. Just before the courtroom door closed behind him, Frank gave Amanda a quick thumbs-up. This morning, before leaving for court, Frank had hinted at a major development in the case. Amanda was dying to know what had happened in chambers, but she knew better than to bother her father when he was in the middle of a trial.
Amanda decided to take the stairs to the lobby. The walk would probably be the only exercise she would get today and she felt a twinge of guilt. Amanda had been training furiously this summer while she was home from college. As a junior, she had won the 200 freestyle for Berkeley at the PAC-10 championships and had placed sixth at Nationals. If she shaved a few seconds off her best time, she could place in the top three at Nationals as a senior and have an outside chance of making the 2000 Olympic team. Breakthroughs like that didn't happen if you missed too many practices, but she couldn't pass up a chance to watch her father try the nation's most publicized murder case.
Frank Jaffe was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Oregon, and Amanda had wanted to follow in his footsteps since she was in elementary school. When other girls were reading fashion magazines, she was reading Perry Mason. While other girls dreamed of going to the prom, she dreamed of trying homicide cases, and there had been no Oregon case in recent history that had been as highly publicized as the trial of Sally Pope for the murder of her husband, United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. Adding to the buzz was the aura surrounding Sally Pope's codefendant, Charlie Marsh, aka the Guru Gabriel Sun, whose rise from petty criminal to national hero and New Age guru had captured the country's imagination.
Amanda was carrying a copy of The Light Within You, Marsh's autobiography, in which he bared his soul about the abuse he'd suffered as a child and told how this psychic damage had led him to a life filled with violence. What made the book special was Marsh's account of his amazing religious conversion, which occurred at the moment he risked his life to save a prison guard from the attack of an insane prisoner.
Amanda looked at the photo of Marsh on the back of the book. It was no mystery why women flocked to the guru's seminars, where he taught his flock the way to find the inner light that had suffused him during his near-death experience. Marsh had the blond, blue-eyed good looks of a movie idol, but his violent past hinted at a devil within. Sally Pope was one of the most beautiful and self-possessed women Amanda had ever met, but even she had fallen under Marsh's spell, if you believed the tabloids.
Sally Pope's case had sex, celebrity, and violent death. Only one thing was missing Charlie. WHERE IS THE GURU? screamed the headlines in the national press on the day the trial opened. The question led off every television news hour. Charlie Marsh had disappeared from the Westmont Country Club the instant Arnold Pope Jr. was shot. Like everyone else in America, Amanda wondered where he was now and what he was doing.
The Happy Warrior 2009
I t is coming soon, it is coming soon! Jean-Claude Baptiste, President for Life of the People's Republic of Batanga, told Charlie Marsh in the singsong English spoken by Africans who had been raised speaking a tribal dialect. Like most of the other men at the state banquet, Charlie was wearing a tuxedo. President Baptiste, who had never held a rank higher than sergeant, was commander in chief of the Batangan army and dressed in the uniform of a five-star general.
Watch closely! the president said with gleeful anticipation as he jabbed a finger at one of the many huge flat-screen televisions that were mounted along the walls of the banquet hall in the executive mansion. The massive chamber was longer than a football field and was modeled after the Las Vegas casino where Baptiste had won his most important fight. Using flat-screen TVs as wall hangings would have been out of place at Versailles, but they looked perfectly natural amid the mirrored walls, bright lights, and velvet paintings that gave the banquet hall the ambience of a sports bar.
Now, look, the president said excitedly. On all of the screens mounted along the walls, a younger Baptiste was laughing as he drove Vladimir Topalov, the number two ranked heavyweight in the world, into a corner of the ring. This Baptiste stood six foot six and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds. His skin was as black as ink and the lights in the arena reflected off his smooth, shaved skull. The present-day version of Jean-Claude looked vaguely like the boxer on the screen, but weighed more than three hundred pounds and gave the impression of being two large men who had been glued together.
Look Charlie, it comes now, Baptiste told the blue-eyed man with blond hair and tanned, weathered skin who sat to his left at the end of a teak banquet table that easily sat fifty. Charlie feigned exuberant interest, as did the thirty other guests. Anyone giving the impression that he was not completely enthralled with Baptiste's fistic skills risked an attitude adjustment session in the basement of the mansion, from which few emerged alive.
On the screen, Baptiste's opponent staggered back a few steps. Blood from a deep cut over his right eye was blinding him. The future president of Batanga feinted with a jab before landing a crushing hook to his victim's temple. As Topalov sank to the canvas, both the boxing and presidential Baptistes threw back their heads and laughed uproariously. Though the sound was off, everyone at the banquet knew that Baptiste's many fans were chanting ho, ho, ho, as they always did when The Happy Warrior knocked down an opponent. Baptiste had earned his nickname by laughing delightedly whenever he subjected a foe to a particularly awful beating.
Topalov had been hospitalized after the bout. The man who had ruled Batanga before Baptiste had not been so lucky. After his knockout of the Russian, Baptiste returned to Batanga for a victory parade followed by a dinner in his honor given by the previous president of the republic. During dinner, a squad of army officers, bribed with money from Baptiste's fight purse, stormed the banquet hall and engineered a coup. Rumor had it that Baptiste had made several excellent jokes while eating the heart of the ex-president in a Juju ceremony that was supposed to infuse him with the deceased's spiritual essence.
Baptiste smiled, displaying a perfect set of pearly white teeth. Was that not a wonderful punch, Charlie?
Very powerful, Mr. President, answered Marsh. Charlie was a foot shorter and roughly one hundred and fifty pounds lighter than his host. Because he lacked Baptiste's courage and vicious temperament, it had taken a considerable effort to hide his terror during dinner. Now he gathered what little nerve he possessed and raised the subject curiosity had prodded him to explore ever since Jean-Claude had invited him to sit in the chair usually occupied by Bernadette Baptiste, the only one of the president's wives to bear him a child.
Madam Bernadette would have enjoyed your display of virility, Mr. President.
Baptiste nodded agreement. Women want a powerful man, Charlie. They know your power will bring them great pleasure in bed, not so?
Charlie looked down the table at Bernadette's child, five-year-old Alfonse, who sat next to his nanny.
I see your charming son is here, but where is your lovely wife?
Baptiste's smile faded. Sadly, she could not join us this evening, but she told me to say hello to you if you asked about her.
Charlie's heart seized and it took every ounce of his energy to keep from throwing up.
Ah, dessert, Baptiste sighed as a servant rolled a pastry cart next to his ornate high-backed chair. The benevolent and all-powerful ruler of Batanga loved to eat almost as much as he loved to inflict pain, and he scanned the cart eagerly. It was laden with all of the president's favorites, most of which he'd sampled for the first time in the fast-food restaurants and sumptuous casino buffets of Las Vegas.
That one and that one, I think, he said, indicating a huge piece of German chocolate cake and a three-scoop ice cream sundae heaped high with whipped cream, sprinkled with nuts, dotted with Maraschino cherries, and covered with caramel, strawberry, and chocolate sauces.
The president turned to Charlie. He was smiling broadly. Eat up, my friend.
Charlie had no appetite but he knew better than to disobey any presidential command, even one as benign as an order to eat dessert. As soon as the waiter placed an enormous slice of cherry cheesecake on Charlie's plate, Baptiste leaned close to Charlie's ear and whispered conspiratorially:
I will tell you a secret, but tell no one else or it will spoil the surprise. After dinner, I have an interesting entertainment planned.
Oh?
Yes, Baptiste responded happily. Its nature is known only to me and Nathan.
Charlie cast a nervous glance at Nathan Tuazama, who was sitting halfway down the banquet table, next to the wife of the Syrian ambassador. Tuazama was the head of the National Education Bureau, Baptiste's secret police. The cadaverous black man's head rotated slowly in Charlie's direction at the same time Charlie turned toward him, as if Tuazama had read his mind. There were rumors that Tuazama had supernatural powers, and Charlie had not discounted these rumors completely. Tuazama's thin, bloodless lips displayed none of the president's joy. Unlike his master, Tuazama had no sense of humor. Charlie wasn't even sure that he had any emotions.
After dinner, you will be invited to join me in a most unusual and unforgettable experience, Baptiste said, flashing his bright smile. But enough talk. Come, Charlie, enjoy your cake.
THE BANQUET DRAGGED on for another hour as Baptiste subjected his guests to replays of his favorite fights. Then, a little after one in the morning, he bid a merciful farewell to all but a select group, who had been instructed to stay. Charlie scanned the chosen few and found they included Nathan Tuazama; Alfonse (who could barely keep his eyes open); Madam O' Doulou, the child's nanny; a justice of the Batangan Supreme Court who'd had the temerity to dissent in a case Baptiste wanted decided in a certain way; and an army general who was rumored to have criticized his commander-in-chief.
Come, my friends, Baptiste said cheerfully. I want to show you something very exciting and much fun.
Baptiste chuckled and his massive stomach shook. Much fun, indeed, he assured everyone.
A failure to laugh when the president said something he deemed amusing amounted to treason, so everyone smiled, except the exhausted Alfonse. As the heir to Batanga, Alfonse was at least for the near future exempt from Baptiste's homicidal whims. When several Batangan Special Forces troops surrounded the group, it took an effort for Charlie to maintain his smile and it took a supreme act of will to look happy when Baptiste led the group to the special elevator that only went to the basement. The elevator's walls glistened because they were cleaned daily to remove the blood and gore that frequently stained them. No one spoke as the elevator descended. Charlie prayed during the ride and he suspected that he wasn't the only one begging the Lord to let him return to the surface in one piece or, at least, to die with a minimum of suffering.
The banquet hall's casino-like dTcor had been insanely cheerful. Now the elevator doors opened on a dark and joyless world. Flickering low-watt bulbs cast sections of the damp, gray hallway in a sickly yellow glow, while leaving other parts in shadow. Mold grew on the walls and there was a faint smell of feces and disinfectant in the air. Solid steel doors spaced at intervals broke up the monotony of the corridor. As they exited the car, a scream shattered the silence. Alfonse's eyes widened and Baptiste took him by the hand.
Do not worry, my lovely child. You are quite safe with Papa. No one will hurt you.
Baptiste led the procession to a door halfway down the narrow hall. Then he knelt so his face was close to his son' s.
