“Adversity is the first path to truth.” Lord Byron PPenelope slowed down as she approached the guard station of her gated community, expecting the night man, Lenny, to simply wave her through like always. Instead he got up and motioned for her to stop. Stepping from his tiny air-conditioned building, he had a gun belt and holster around his waist. “Since when do you carry a gun?” Penelope asked before her window was completely down. “I always have it with me, Ms. Spence,” he answered as he patted the 40 caliber Glock strapped to his waist. “Only wear it on special occasions since it makes the residents nervous.” “So what’s the occasion?” “You have some company at your house. Offi cial company.” “I see,” Penelope said with a sigh as their eyes locked. “They’re looking for a guy who escaped from the brig. It’s all over the TV and radio,” Lenny said as he motioned toward a tiny portable television that was propped up on his desk. Lenny McElroy was a tough old bird. After 30 years as a cop in New York City, he had retired to Charleston to be closer to his only daughter and grandkids. He had been the night guard for the past couple of years; more to fill his time than to supplement his retirement income. There had never been any robberies 77 The Fourth Awakening or vandalism on his watch. “They wanted me to call them if you showed up.” “Th at’s fine, Lenny. I didn’t do anything.” “I figured, but I think I misplaced their number.” Lenny motioned toward the small building surrounded with beautiful landscaping to minimize its presence. “They put your name and address out on the local police band.” Lenny shook his head and looked like he would have spit on the ground if a lady hadn’t been present. “You would have thought they would have used a scrambled tactical channel.” He shook his head again. “Bunch of press in there too.” “Thanks for the heads up, Lenny.” “You take care, Ms. Spence.” Penelope turned the corner onto her street and saw what had to be half the police cars in Charleston parked in front of her house. In addition, there were two large unmarked black Chevy Suburbans — the kind favored by the federal government — and what looked to be two unmarked police cars. There were men in a variety of uniforms standing in her yard, and a couple of local cops who appeared to have been relegated to traffi c control. Along with law enforcement and the media, the street was starting to fill with gawkers and the idle curious with nothing better to do. Penelope pulled into the first parking space she could find. Opening her purse, instead of using the untraceable phone Mark had given her she used her normal cell phone and called his office. If they were taping their conversations, she wanted them to hear this one. “Mark Hatchet.” “It’s me.” “I thought I told…” “I got in to see Walker.” “They were holding him in the Charleston Brig?” “Absolutely.” “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Penelope could almost see Hatchet jumping up and down in his office and the heads turning in the cluster of desks in the newsroom’s bullpen just outside his window. “I knew you could do it. When can….” “Hold on. It gets better.” “Impossible.” “Walker escaped right after I talked to him.” 78 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Don’t tease me, Nellie.” “I’m serious. But there is one small problem.” “No, no, no, no. There are no problems. Military industrial complex billionaire first held incognito then escapes from the maximum security prison we use to hold terrorists. This is the story of the year.” “You want to explain that to all of the police and Homeland Security people tromping on my fl owerbeds?” “Damn.” “My thought exactly. I happen to know there is a recent vacancy in the high security wing at the Charleston Brig but I would prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight.” “You still have those press credentials I sent you?” Penelope tucked her phone under her chin as she reached again for her purse. “I think they’re upstairs on my…” To her surprise, the laminated badge with her name and The Washington Post logo was the first thing she saw when she opened her bag. “My bad. Got it in my hand.” “Okay. I’m going to get some people in here and you’re going to fi le your reports over the phone just in case.” “Just in case what?” “Just in case they throw a black bag over your head and you disappear. They could be hoping to squelch this by detaining you before you can fi le your story.” “Lovely.” After about fi fteen minutes of questions and answers on a quickly assembled conference call Mark Hatchet felt he had enough to run the story if Penelope was arrested and unable to write it herself. “And Senator Horn’s offi ce will confirm all of this?” “He said he would.” There was a rustling in the background and Penelope heard a voice she didn’t recognize say, “I’ve got confirmation from Senator Horn himself that Walker was being held in the brig and that he has escaped. He said we can use him as a named source.” A whoop went up in the conference room. Usually a confirmation on that level came from an unnamed “high government official”. To have someone as highly regarded as Senator Horn be willing to put his name on it was the absolute gold standard for journalism. “Welcome back to the big time kiddo. Not one but two front page exclusives.” 79 The Fourth Awakening “Save a couple of inches for me in Monday’s edition. Some of the stuff with Horn is embargoed until noon tomorrow.” “Will do, Nellie. You should be safe from the storm troopers now.” “How so?” “We’ve got the story and we’ve got high level confirmation on the record. They can’t stop it from getting out. If they arrest you now there will be hell to pay and they know it.” “I think we’re just scratching the surface,” “There is a one Pulitzer Prize winning story per issue limit. We’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, get a good lawyer before you talk to the feds. If anyone asks, you are now offi cially working for Th e Washington Post, and you can have anyone who questions it call me directly.” “Th anks.” “Call me back as soon as you can.” The line went dead. Penelope gathered her thoughts for a moment as she felt her pulse rate slowly returning to somewhere close to normal. She had been dreaming about this day for years and now that it had arrived it was everything she could have hope for and more. She still needed a lawyer. Drawing in a deep breath, she dialed the phone number she calls the most. Th anks to the joys of caller ID Joey answered without bothering to say hello. “Where are you?” “Down the street from my house.” “That Michael Walker character has escaped they’re looking for both of you. Your name and address are all over the local channels.” “So I heard. I need to ask a favor.” “Sure.” “It looks like I may need an attorney. Do you think your ex might be willing to help me?” “Willing? Ha! He is currently sitting in my kitchen begging me to call you for him.” Penelope heard a muffled conversation and a struggle for the phone. “Penelope, this is Ron. Where are you?” “I’m down the street from my house. There are police and reporters everywhere.” “I’ll be there in three minutes. Don’t talk to anyone.” “Aren’t you going to ask if I did anything?” “I’m a lawyer. I don’t care if you shot JFK. Just don’t talk to anyone 80 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin before I get there. Here’s Joey.” After a brief pause, the familiar voice of Joey Rickman came back on the phone. “You okay?” “I’m fi ne.” “So, did you bust that hunk out of stir so you could have your way with him?” Penelope was dying to tell Joey exactly what had happened. She knew her friend wouldn’t believe a word of it. She knew she wouldn’t believe it if their roles were reversed and decided to stick with the truth, or at least parts of it. “I did nothing to help him escape from prison. He did it all by himself.” “So was he all yummy and dangerous?” “I was there to interview someone for a story; I wasn’t cruising a single’s bar.” “I know that. So was he yummy and dangerous? The kind of guy you just know you should avoid but can’t resist?” “Oh, you mean a guy like Ron Rickman?” “Exactly.” Joey realized what she had just said. “Hey!” Before Penelope could respond, there was a tapping on the window of her car. Apparently one of the Charleston policemen who had been directing traffic had recognized her Prius, which was hardly the car of choice in her neighborhood, and was in the process of making his sergeant’s day. He was young, maybe 25, and like all members of the Charleston police department, a college graduate. “Please hang up the phone,” he said, while resting his hand on the butt of his 38 Police Special. “And step out of the car.” “There is a nice young man here with a gun that is telling me it’s time to hang up. I’ll talk to you later.” “How come you’re getting all of the men?” “Bye, Joey.” Penelope gathered her thoughts and stepped out of her car. “Are you Penelope Spence?” the policeman asked politely. “Yes.” “Would you please come with me Ms. Spence?” he said, more as an invitation than as an instruction. Penelope nodded. They were almost to the edge of her front yard before the press noticed her and began to surge in her direction. Sgt. Donald Donnelley, an 18-year police veteran who was cooling his heels on the sidewalk in front of the house as a bunch of Feds 81 The Fourth Awakening conducted a search in his district, was steaming. Even though he had been first on the scene, some guy from Homeland Security had waved a federal search warrant in his face and sent him and his men out of the house with their tails between their legs. He saw the press coming and motioned to the six officers who were milling around nursing their bruised pride. They formed a blue wall between Penelope and the media jackals. “Good job, Johnson,” Donnelley said, slapping the young offi cer on the back. “Damned good job. Captain will hear about it.” Offi cer Johnson knew he would get full credit for, want of a better word, the “collar” because that was the kind of guy Donnelley was. He was one of the most popular shift commanders in Charleston. He was fair, he was honest, and he didn’t have a political bone in his body. Donnelley was an imposing six-six and 240 pounds, which was 30 pounds below the playing weight from his days as an off ensive tackle for the USC Gamecocks and three years in the Canadian Football League. Skin the color of strong coffee with light cream, he had an easy smile and a deep voice. “Ms. Spence?” he asked politely. She nodded. Looking over his shoulder, he pulled her further away from the mob of reporters shouting questions at her. “At the present time,” he said in a firm, professional voice, “the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Department of Homeland Security are executing a search warrant involving your premises. They are looking for an escaped convict named Michael Walker. There is nothing to be alarmed about…” “That’s enough,” Ronald F. Rickman, Esquire said as he and his two assistants, one male, one female, muscled their way through the phalanx of policemen. “Ms. Spence is represented by counsel and has nothing further to say.” Rickman’s female assistant, Amy Kindle, an intense woman in her mid-30’s, leaned in and whispered in her boss’s ear. Th e famous smile that had charmed juries for three decades and made him a millionaire many times over lit his face. He slapped Sgt. Donnelley on the back as if he were some long lost friend. “Hey, Donny, how you doin’? How’s Sandy and the kids?” Donny Donnelley rubbed his mouth before turning to face Ron Rickman. They’d had a symbiotic relationship for years. Donnelley would arrest them, and those with money would hire Rickman and get off . Th ey both looked at it as job security. 82 Rod Pennington & Jeffery A. Martin “Counselor,” Donnelley answered with considerably less warmth than he had shown to Penelope. “Donny Junior still going to play in Columbia on Saturdays?” “He hasn’t signed his national letter yet, but Florida and LSU are coming after him hard.” “I hope you told him you’d disown him if he went to another SEC team.” It was hard not to like Ron Rickman. He was handsome, rich, funny and, thanks to his assistants, always had a personal word or comment to add to every conve............