The Rose Conspiracy (25 page)

Blackstone was halfway to the stables in the Virginia countryside when his cell phone started ringing.

“J.D.,” Frieda said on the other end, a little breathless. “You got a stack of calls from reporters this morning.”

“What's up?” he asked. “Something break on our case?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Something broke alright. Wait a minute, Julia wants to tell you.” And then she put him on hold.

Blackstone kept driving. He was just getting off onto the county road that led to one other county highway that led finally to the stables. He was trying to figure out what was going on. The obvious answer was that the Court of Appeals had issued its decision, but he couldn't see how that was likely. Although he had asked the Court to issue an expedited ruling, he had never heard of a court giving a decision in twenty-four hours.

Usually the panel of judges would convene in conference after argument while the case was still fresh from the arguments of counsel and then take a quick poll. If there were at least two votes out of three, they
would have their decision, but it would usually take a while to draft the opinion and then get it past the other judges.

“J.D.,” Julia said coming on. “Where are you?”

“Talk to me,” he said. “What's going on?”

“The Court of Appeals issued its ruling. Just a one-page order. We got it electronically this morning. Can you believe that kind of turnaround time? Nothing elaborate. Just the nuts and bolts. Are you on your way in?”

“How'd they rule?” Blackstone asked.

“You won,” Julia said energetically. “Here's the bottom line: You can share the Langley note with not more than two defense experts, who have to be sworn to secrecy on the contents of the note. You can also share it with me as co-counsel. But if you want your client to see it, or anyone else for that matter, you have to show cause to the District Court and argue why.”

“Alright. Now we've got some momentum,” Blackstone said. “Have you looked at the file yet to find the note and take a look at it?”

“Not yet,” she said. “You've got stuff piled all over your office. I figured I would wait until you got back.”

“Fine,” he said. “Look, I'll be out until later this afternoon. I'll talk with you around five-thirty or six today, okay?”

“What do you want me to do about all the reporters?” Julia asked. “They're descending like locusts.
New York Times, National Journal, Washington Post.
”

“
You
talk to them.”

“Me?”

“Sure,” Blackstone said. “Look, what they are really after is some hint about the contents of a note that may reveal something about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Number one, we can't even whisper anything to them about what that note says. And number two, the stuff in that note seems to have nothing to do with that anyway. And if they are trying to figure out how that note will have an impact on our legal case, well, we really have nothing to tell them there either, right?”

“So what do I tell them?”

“That we are gratified and encouraged that the Court gave us such
a quick victory. But we are prohibited from sharing anything else with the press at this time.”

“Alright,” she said. “I guess I'll be seeing you shortly.”

“Count on it,” he said.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. There was a minivan in back of him. Far behind that vehicle there was a white utility truck.

Blackstone slowed down and then turned onto the county highway.

The minivan didn't turn, but kept going.

When Blackstone was a mile down the tree-lined road he glanced at his rearview mirror again.

He noticed that the white utility truck had turned onto the county highway also and was heading in the same direction he was.

CHAPTER 34

B
lackstone had called ahead to Manny and let him know he would be driving out to give Blackjack a workout that day.

Rather than cloister himself in his office, Blackstone was glad he was going to get some fresh air. Things had been starting to jell in his brain. The vague outline of his defense theory was starting to configure itself. Whenever that happened, he liked to get away from the law office and the interruptions and distractions.

By the time he pulled up to the stables he had already constructed a mental checklist of the final details that needed to be done before the trial.

When Blackstone walked up to the barn he could see that Manny already had the Arabian saddled and tacked out. He suggested that Blackstone take the horse out into the big field in back of the stables.

Blackjack was led out to the gate, where Blackstone mounted him and then rode him into the open spaces of the back twenty acres of the property. The land was flat, with some gently rolling hills.

He could tell that Blackjack wanted to break out fast. He was like a surging engine waiting to be loosed. But Blackstone kept him at a slow jog first, then posted with him for a while. All the controls were there. Blackjack was responsive and quick. As Blackstone pressed his thighs into the big barrel chest of the Arabian he could feel the full, muscular power of the horse.

“Good boy!” Blackstone shouted out as he took him around a couple
of turns, now faster, at a canter, and Blackjack was following his cues effortlessly.

The horse and rider headed back to the far end of the acreage. Alongside the field there was a private road lined with trees, with a black fence separating it from the field. Blackstone glanced over at the winding fence and noticed something odd about the three gates in the fence which were usually closed.

Today, for some reason, they had all been swung open.

He thought that was a little unusual. Each gate had a short entranceway to the dirt road that ran along the property. He knew that Manny and the stable owners were fastidious in keeping the fence line locked down so the horses they would turn out into that part of the field wouldn't get out.

I bet Manny doesn't know about those gates being open,
Blackstone thought to himself.

When he was ready to head back to the barn, he thought, he would stop at the gates and close them up.

Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

He reined his horse to a stop, and he turned in the saddle and looked back, down the field from where he had come and along the fenceline rimmed with willow trees. Blackstone thought he had seen something large and white.

But now it was gone.

He turned forward again and gently squeezed the sides of the horse into a trot. But the thought was nagging at him.

As he was trotting forward he twisted around in his saddle again to look back. This time he saw it, now from a different vantage point.

Partially covered by the trees, the white utility truck that had been following him was parked in the dirt road next to the fence.

Maybe an electric company truck—or the telephone company,
he thought to himself.

But there were no electric poles there. And no telephone wires.

A vague sense of foreboding and urgency overcame him. There was no logic to it, except for the need to ensure one's own survival. And that was something that Blackstone fully understood.

He gathered the reins in his right hand. He was ready to swing the end
of the reins down onto the right shoulder and send Blackjack catapulting forward into a full gallop.

But before he could, he heard a
crack.

And there was a
ping
just behind him. A small puff of dust was released just to the right of Blackjack's right rear hoof.

The horse reared up wildly on his powerful hind legs. Blackstone could see the terror in the eyes of the Arabian.

As Blackstone struggled to one-rein the horse from the left and bring his front legs down to the ground again, he thrust his head straight into the horse's mane.

Then there was a second crack, and a second bullet whizzed just over his head.

Now Blackjack was bucking and stomping like a crazy horse. Blackstone was fighting to stay on. He knew his only chance now was to ride the horse back to a state of control, and quickly. Then he would ride him like a rocket to the far side of the field, out of danger.

When Blackjack was finally reined down and had all fours on the ground, Blackstone quickly craned his neck around to spot the truck.

Now the white utility truck was barreling down the dirt road toward him, sending a cloud of dust up behind it. Then it slammed on its brakes.

Blackstone rammed both of his feet into the horse's sides, lashed his reins down on his shoulder, and screamed, “
Go!
”

Blackjack sprang forward so fast that Blackstone's head jerked back. The horse, all of him, muscle, sinew, hair, and sweat, was now flying across the field, with the rider clamping his legs tightly around his heaving midsection.

Then a third bullet whizzed.

But this time it found its mark.

J.D. Blackstone felt something rip into the back of his left shoulder. A searing, scorching pain. As he was galloping he glanced over. He saw the front of his shirt was wet with red.

Blackstone screamed out for Blackjack to go. To go faster.

The Arabian was bursting into high gear.

But behind the horse and rider, the white utility truck had entered the field through one of the open gates. And it was roaring toward them
across the grassy hills, bouncing madly. Then it slammed on the brakes again.

Blackstone reined his horse to the left, still at a gallop.

He began a turning arc, bringing Blackjack around to head him back to the barn.

A puff of smoke burst just to the horse's left. But now the Arabian was at a full launch speed and was unstoppable.

The white truck gunned its engines and roared after them across the field, closing the gap.

Blackstone looked down and saw the red blood from his sweatshirt now running down onto the glistening shoulder of the horse.

“I hope that's me and not you, boy,” Blackstone muttered, looking at the blood as he now grabbed two fistfuls of mane, trying to stay on the horse as they galloped together toward the barn and the stables and the main house. He was getting lightheaded and dizzy from the loss of blood, so he lifted his head almost straight up to keep his airway clear. His was leaning against the horse's mane, bouncing back and forth with each stride like a toy on a string.

He could hear the truck coming up from the rear, but the end of the field and the outbuildings were just in front of him.

Then he spotted Manny, across the driveway at a fast run heading toward him.

That is when the white truck did a quick turn and headed like a dirt-track racer to the open gate. When it reached the gate, the driver slammed on the brakes to get through the fence, then drove at breakneck speed down the dirt road to the county highway, took a fast turn to the left, and then sped out of sight.

By the time Blackstone and his horse had reached the buildings, Manny was already running up to them, yelling.

“Mr. Blackstone! What happened to you?” he was calling out.

That was the last thing J.D. Blackstone remembered.

CHAPTER 35