Fifty-One
Carl Fisk stood at his office window, expensive bourbon in hand, staring out over the lights of Washington, DC. It was well after midnight. He should be home in bed right now, getting some rest in preparation for a huge day with his client tomorrow in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. But sleep had been impossible the last two nights. Not with what hung in the balance right now. He’d had some powerful clients create big messes before, but this one took the cake because of everything currently at stake. Like his client, who was sitting in a hotel penthouse suite not too far away, Fisk was eager to get some good news. The kind of news that allowed them both to finally exhale and embrace what tomorrow had in store. If all went well, his client would be confirmed as the next United States Supreme Court Justice by tomorrow afternoon.
But why hadn’t they received an update?
Fisk turned when there was a knock at his office door. He was surprised by it. He’d sent his assistant, Brenda, home a half hour ago. Had she returned? He walked over and cracked the door open. He was shocked to see Ross Lester standing there. Same cheap brown suit as always. Same sagging old face and hollow eyes. His FBI insider had been calling him regularly with updates on their dire situation. But why was he suddenly showing up at his office unannounced instead of just calling? This couldn’t be good.
“What’re you doing here?” Fisk asked.
“I’m going away for a while,” Lester said.
Fisk tilted his head. “What the hell do you mean?”
“It’s over, Carl. They know.”
Fisk’s eyes narrowed. “Who knows? What’re you talking about?”
“The FBI knows I’ve been feeding you information. So I’ve got to disappear.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. It doesn’t matter.”
“What about your wife?”
“That’s probably over, too.” He shifted his weight. “But I’m afraid that’s not all, old friend.”
“What is it?”
“It’s over for your client, too. You’d better get over there. In a few minutes, there will be more than twenty FBI agents at his hotel.”
Fisk’s mouth dropped open. This couldn’t be happening. Not when he was this close to having his man sitting in one of the nine most powerful chairs in the world.
“Are you serious?” he said.
“Yeah, they got him, Carl. They got everything. I know you’re a good lawyer. But Peter Nelson is done for.”
Fisk felt his throat constrict. He had to somehow stop this. He had to work his magic.
“We’ll fight like hell,” he declared.
“I’m sure you will. But you should worry more about yourself right now.”
Fisk felt his heart begin to race. “Am I in trouble here, Ross?”
Lester shrugged. “Who knows. You might be fine. Attorney-client privilege and all that. Can’t say for sure. But you should probably prepare yourself. This whole damn town is about to implode.”
Fisk cursed, downed the rest of his bourbon in one swig.
“We had a good run, Carl,” Lester said. “See ya around.”
And then the man in the cheap brown suit left.