The Bigot List: (A J.J. McCall Novel) (17 page)

Early Tuesday Morning…

“I
t’s Jim.” Cartwright woke up and immediately left a voicemail for J.J. She couldn’t miss this meeting. It wasn’t quite 5 am. He knew she wouldn’t answer but hopefully she’d detect the urgency. Their meeting was critical to the advancement of her career—and the
end
of his. “Don’t forget about the plan this morning. It’s critical.”

Sleepless, Jim Cartwright lay in bed thinking about how much he adored his little girls, watching the sunlight drift through the picture window. They’d been the light of his life since the day, no, the moment he first laid eyes on them. Twins. Seven fertility treatments and fifty thousand dollars to become the father he’d always dreamed he’d be. But as his misfortune would dictate, his children would be delivered in the midst of his financial ruin. When Gloria told him the news, he’d just returned from his attorney’s office where he prepared to file for bankruptcy, even though doing so could have cost him his security clearances and thus his job. He understood the consequences of taking such an extreme financial action. After all, he’d once taught the very same security classes that now haunted him.

Report changes in your financial situation.

Report all contacts with foreign nationals.

Secrets and lies. Lies and secrets. What a tangled web we weave,
he thought to himself. He’d done neither and now he’d be forced to pay the piper a few short hours later when it was his turn to take his polygraph examination. He thought he’d have a little more time to strategize and ensure his family would be okay if for some reason he never returned home. Amazing how one call from the FBI Director could help clear the polygraph schedule the next day. For Freeman, ordering the examinations was simply a matter of course.

For Cartwright, however, it’d probably mean the end of the life he’d worked so hard and sacrificed so much to build.

He reached onto the nightstand and grabbed his cell phone. Dreading the call, he took a few deep breaths before slowly punching her numbers into the phone. He was tempted to hang up; she answered before he could press the button.

“Yes,” Alex said, her voice cold and dry. The call was contrary to his communications plan, and he knew she’d be irritated. But since it would be his last, he didn’t really give a damn about protocol. “I thought I told you never to call me at this number. It can be traced.”

Her Russian accent was unusually perceptible, perhaps because she sounded angry.

“It’s an emergency. I had no other choice.”

“An emergency,” she snapped. “What is it?”

“I have to take a polygraph at ten this morning, and I think we both know this will not go well,” he said. “And frankly, I—I can’t do this anymore.”

“I understand,” she responded, “but what will your family do for money?”

“They’ll have my pension. And I was hoping in exchange for some information about the mole investigation, you might be willing to provide me with one last payment, so I can leave them with some financial security.”

She paused.

He fully expected her to say no as compassion wasn’t in her vocabulary.

She grumbled. “Okay...meet me at the usual spot. Nine o’clock.”

Cartwright sat on the edge of the bed and pushed his feet into his brown leather Father’s Day slippers. He placed his arms into his like-colored Christmas robe and made his way to his favorite place in the house.

“Girls! It’s time to wake uuuuuup,” he sang as he entered the twins’ bedroom. Every morning, he was the one who got the kids off to school because Gloria worked the midnight shift at the hospital.

He waited for them to respond, knowing they wouldn’t (as part of the routine), so he knocked on the door and cast his eyes on his pretending-to-be-asleep princesses. “Good morning sleepy heads!” he said as he eased over to their bunk beds. The sound of his steps getting closer and closer made the oldest (by one minute) giggle with her head beneath the blanket.

“Annnniiiie,” he sang, “Time to wake uuuuuuup.”

She giggled again as he pulled the blanket back and blew a zerbert into her cheek, causing her to roar with laughter. “Morning, Daddy!”

“My turn. My turn,” Abby said, laying on her side with her cheek poked out from beneath the bottom bunk. “I’m ready.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping!” Annie admonished and then pouted. “You’re ruining the whole thing,”

“I beg to differ,” Jim said to Annie. “A zerbert is the best part of the day, even if you know it’s coming. Now you two get up and get dressed. Daddy’s got a long day ahead of him.”

“You gonna lock up some bad guys, Daddy? Like the last time we saw you on TV?” Annie asked, referring to the FBI’s press conference following the FBI New York office’s arrests. Cartwright served as a spokesperson for the case involving Russian spies operating under commercial cover.

“Yes, baby. Daddy’s gonna take care of one
big bad guy
today, and get him off the streets,” he said, turning away quickly so they couldn’t see his sullen expression.

His chin fell to his chest. This time
he
was the bad guy he’d send to jail.

He rushed the girls through their morning routines in order to steal a few moments to collect his thoughts before he did what his conscience demanded. He’d known for many months he couldn’t keep up with the pretense in his life anymore. Sooner or later truth would find its way out. He’d only hoped he would be in a position to do some damage control for his family’s sake. Now,
he
was controlled by the damage—and the consequences would be severe. But when he looked at his hazel-eyed angels, those two precious souls, in his mind his actions, no matter how deplorable on the surface, were equally the greatest gifts and the greatest curses of his life.

He stepped into his walk-in closet to select his suit for the day. He first picked up a light gray suit with a pinkish shirt, but he knew there’d be a lot of sweating involved. Next he looked at the black suit but it felt too morbid. Finally, he settled on the navy blue suit. It was his kids’ favorite. Enough said.

He poked his head out of his bedroom door. “Girls? You getting dressed?”

“Yeeeees!” they yelled in unison.

“Okay, well, you’ve only got ten minutes before we have to leave so hurry up!”

The choir sang, “Okay, Daddy!”

He took a brief shower and dressed as quickly as possible. His appointment started at ten a.m. and it was already past eight. Where had the time flown? His mind had sunk deep in thought swirling with fear. He took the envelope he’d prepared and wrote on the front of it. “For J.J. McCall only.”

In the sole quiet moments of the morning, the drunken moment that would forever change his life flooded his mind.

I
t was December 2005, years before Freeman had been appointed Director and subsequently banned all alcohol-related events at FBI facilities across the country. Although seemingly drastic, Freeman’s extreme policy followed an agent’s fatal hit-and-run accident which killed a civilian after a holiday party. The Organized Crime and Drug Section hosted what would be the last and final of the headquarters’ Christmas shindigs. Drunken executives and agents, who wouldn’t as soon spit on you if you were on fire when they were sober, sloshed around hugging a little too long, kissing a little too often, and touching a little too much.

One conversation about everything and nothing led to one surreptitious touch. One touch led to many lingering stares. The lingering stares resulted in a leisurely stroll to the FBI garage where they’d planned to release the drunken passion simmering within.

Jim’s mind had become foggy and unfocused. He couldn’t have been thinking . . .
straight
. Because if he had been thinking straight, he would’ve remembered his wife and his children that night, and he’d never have let Rex stand so close to him. He’d never have allowed Rex’s lips to press against his. He’d never have found himself stripping his shirt off in the backseat of a fogged up Bureau-issued vehicle. And when their carnal cravings had nearly reached their drunken peaks, and they reached to unbuckle their respective belts, he’d never have glanced through the window to see those piercing blue eyes glaring back at him with contempt and disgust.

And he would never have accepted the $200,000 in payments that freed him from creditors, but held him hostage to his extortionists and his own lies and deceit.

Nothing of the sort would ever have happened if he had been thinking . . .
straight.

“Daddy! We’re ready!” his girls cried out to him, a welcome interruption to his ugly thoughts.

He wiped the warm tears from his cheeks. “I’ll be down in just a minute!”

He’d finished collecting all the important documents and the last of the proceeds from his illicit activities, which his wife would need in his absence. Between the cash and his pension, they wouldn’t have to worry about money for some time. He placed everything Gloria and J.J. needed in her lingerie drawer where she’d be sure to find them that evening. He checked in the mirror and gave himself a last once-over, straightened his tie, and made his way down the stairs and out of the house.

As they backed out of the driveway he’d resurfaced on a rare free Saturday, he took one long look, not at his house, but at the home he’d made for his wife and children.

He smiled.

“What’s so funny, Daddy?” Abby asked.

“Daddy’s not laughing,” Jim said. “I was just thinking you girls make me so happy.”

“Turn on the cd, pleeeeeease?” Annie asked.

“Sure, sweetie,” he replied.

He pressed power button and the sounds of
Barney and Friends
filled the car.

Fitting
, he thought.
It’s time to face the music.

•  •  •

Jim checked his watch, his stomach twisting into tightly wound knots. It was 9 am. The irony of it all. He’d worked his entire career to be the good guy, to build the reputation of an agent who was impervious to corruption, to serve as a patriot. After his inevitable failed polygraph and subsequent confession, he’d be hauled off to jail like a common criminal.

What his wife would say? What would his girls think of him?

Would they remember with pride the father who tucked them into bed every night and read them bedtime stories? The father who made them Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes and brushed their hair into crooked ponytails? Or would they remember with disgrace the father who sold out his country, who had affairs with men, and who they’d be forced to visit behind barbed-wire fences for the rest of his natural born days? And how could he, the father who loved them so, live with the thought that each morning when they arose and each night before they fell asleep, they’d know their father couldn’t kiss them goodnight or wake with them in the morning because he was locked up in some eight-by-eight cell for twenty-three hours a day? He cried the kind of heaving sob your soul releases when filled with the deepest sorrow and regret.

Jim pulled into the scenic overlook on George Washington Parkway and stared at the rainbow of fall leaves across the river in the Georgetown area as
Ava Maria
blared from his radio. A few moments later, Alex arrived, parked her car beside his, and slipped into his passenger seat. He shifted in his seat to face her. She appeared angry and agitated and immediately began scanning his vehicle.

“What are you looking for?” Cartwright asked Alex.

She opened his center console with her gloved hand. “I just want to make sure you don’t have any recording devices.”

“I know you’re pissed, but I had no idea Freeman would make me take the poly,” he said, shifting his head with her every move.

“My concern is not that you must take the polygraph. My concern is what you plan to say during the pretest examination. For me, the stakes are too high for weakness. I have everything to lose, including my life,” she said, reaching her hand into the glove compartment. She pulled out his weapon and aimed it at his head.

“I swear,” he pleaded, trembling as his face drowned in fear-borne tears. “I will not reveal your identity.”

She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a small unlined notepad. The first sheet contained a pre-written note.

“I know you won’t!” she said. “Now, shut up and copy this!”

Jim trembled and shook his head feverishly, so afraid he could almost smell death permeate the car. “No, I won’t.”

“Copy the fucking note!” she screamed maniacally, breaking her usual cool demeanor.

Cartwright’s hand trembled and tears washed down his face as he retrieved a pen from his suit pocket and began to write.

“Put it up there,” she said, motioning her head toward the dashboard.

Jim slipped the note on top and shook his head as tears swept across his cheeks in waves of sorrow. She grabbed the notepad and shoved it inside her pocket.

“My girls!” he said. “Please, don’t do this.”

She pressed the barrel of his Bureau-issued Glock firmly against his temple. Shivering, he clamped his eyes shut until his girls’ smiles appeared.

Cold and empty, devoid of humanity, she pulled the trigger.

Blood and brain fragments splattered on the window. Some on her own person. Unfazed she wiped her fingerprints from the gun and placed the gun in his hand before allowing it to fall to the floor. Cartwright’s body slumped against the door, life abandoning his body on a brief, shallow breath.

“Rest in peace,
golubaya bl’yad
!” she hissed, spitting the words
gay whore
in Russian as she exited the car.

Fall had become Jim Cartwright’s favorite time of the year. He fell in love in the fall. He married in the fall. His children were born in the fall.

And, in disgrace and despair, he died in the fall.