What Happened to the Bennetts(98)

“I texted her you’re okay.”

I smiled. “Did you tell her I love her, too?”

Dom chuckled. “I’m leaving that to you. The Philly cops are sending some uniforms to sit with her and Ethan until you’re done.”

“Did you text Denise?”

“You know I did. I’ll see you at the U.S. Attorney’s as soon as I’m finished at the hospital.”

“Okay, good luck.”

“You, too.” Dom turned to go, then stopped himself. “Hey, where’d you get that gun?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You didn’t follow my plan.”

“I’m a badass court reporter.”

Dom snorted, holding out his hand. “Gimme the gun, so I can give it back to Tig.”





Chapter Sixty-Eight



Half an hour later, I found myself sitting in a large conference room in a modern concrete monolith at Sixth and Chestnut in Philadelphia. It was harshly bright, lit by recessed fluorescent panels and dominated by a large walnut table. The walls were lined with watercolors of an idealized City Hall, Boathouse Row, and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, and there was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a view of the southeast part of the city, where our gunfight had taken place. It looked better from a distance.

I was introduced to Rob Forman, the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, a fortysomething go-getter with quick dark eyes, slick black hair, and a gym-trim build in a dark suit and tie. He introduced me to his best and brightest AUSAs, male and female lawyers in casual clothes. I shook hands all around, and they congratulated me, which felt vaguely surreal. Nobody remarked that I looked like hell, but I’d washed up in the bathroom, so I knew my face was bruised, my bald head scraped, and my clothes spattered with blood.

Once the introductions were over, we all sat down, and the last person to enter the room was a friend of mine, John Colasante, one of the best court reporters in the city. He looked surprised to see me, and I would have been surprised to see me, too. Of course the lawyers didn’t introduce him, because they never bother to introduce the court reporter. We all joke they think we’re part of the steno machine, but it’s not funny. John and I nodded, acknowledging each other as kindred spirits, about to suffer fools.

I sat on one side of the conference table, and the lawyers sat on the other. I gave a full accounting of everything that had happened and eventually drank three cups of vending machine coffee. Dom arrived as I began to answer their follow-up questions, and they greeted him with hearty congratulations, which made me like them better.

Dom sat down next to me, the questions continued, and the night sky surrendered to a purplish gray dawn in the window behind them. Finally the sun climbed the clouds, and by eight o’clock in the morning, the lawyers were out of questions.

I sensed we were finished. “So what happens next?”

“We’re going to hold a press conference today with the officials from DOJ and the FBI Director—”

“I meant, what about Reilly?”

“Already in custody.”

“Anybody else?”

“Our investigation is ongoing. At this juncture, we believe Reilly is the only individual left involved in the criminal conspiracy.”

“Will you give them the photograph from Gitmo, of me with Senator Ricks?” I had pulled it from a laptop they had supplied during my statement.

“Yes, we passed it up the chain. We will share any and all evidence.”

“Do you think it will bring Ricks down?”

“I don’t know.”

“It better.” I still believed in justice, even in a world that didn’t know the difference between right or wrong, or the good guys from the bad.

“Now, about our press conference.” Forman picked up a sheet of paper and skimmed it quickly. “We’re going to say that you and your family were the victims of a botched carjacking that took place on Friday night, two weeks ago, on Coldstream Road in Chester County. The perpetrators were John Milo and Junior Veria, members of the George Veria Organization, or GVO.” Forman checked his paper. “We’re going to say that Milo and Veria attempted to carjack your vehicle because they were fleeing the scene of a double homicide in Jennersville, which they are believed to have committed.”

“So you’re going with the carjacking story.”

“Yes.”

“Not the truth?”

“Not for now.”

“Why?” I found myself wondering if Forman was a good good guy like Dom, or a bad good guy like Wiki. So far the only good bad guy I knew was George Veria, but I was keeping an open mind.

“As I said, Reilly is in custody, but it will take time to prepare the case against him. The same is true of any case against Senator Ricks, since at this juncture, the extent of his involvement in the conspiracy is unknown.” Forman squared his jaw. “We will say nothing about the photo you gave us, your time at Gitmo, or the Doha interrogation. Similarly, we will say nothing about the hit-and-run death of Paul Hart or the apparent suicide of Contessa Burroughs. We don’t want to publicly connect these dots. To do so could imperil the investigation of Senator Ricks.”

I got that. “What will you say about my daughter?”