“You guys saw a lot of fighting at Da Nang, didn’t you?”
“You better believe it,” Zeke said.
“I never got out of Saigon, myself,” Waters replied.
Zeke was relieved when the lights went down and a voice came from the PA system.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and to our national television audience. Please welcome your moderator for the debate, Jim Lehrer of PBS.” There was a round of applause.
Lehrer took the stage. “Good evening,” he said. “Our format tonight provides for a three-minute opening statement from each candidate, followed by a series of questions from me. After that, the candidates will be allowed to ask each other questions, and each will have two minutes to answer them. Finally, each candidate will have three minutes for a closing statement. We flipped a coin earlier to decide who would speak first, so Representative Efton will go first with the opening statement, and Senator Lee will be first with the closing statement. Gentlemen?”
Will came from the left wings as Efton came from the right, and they took their positions at the lecterns, to considerable applause.
“Mr. Efton, you may begin,” Lehrer said. “I will warn you when you have thirty seconds left, and I will cut you off sharply after three minutes, if you are still talking.”
Efton cleared his throat and began to speak.
Zeke found himself to be nervous. He didn’t want to sit through all this; he wanted to get on with it. He stood up and walked toward the staircase to the men’s room and projection room. A Secret Service agent stopped him.
“Where are you going, sir?” he asked.
Zeke placed a hand on his lower abdomen. “To the men’s room, up the stairs, there.”
“You’ll have to use the one downstairs in the lobby,” the agent said.
Zeke frowned as though in pain. “I’m having an intestinal problem,” he said. “I don’t think I can make it that far.”
“All right,” the agent said, “go ahead.”
Zeke began walking up the stairs, and as he did, the agent moved away, apparently continuing on his rounds. At the top of the stairs Zeke looked back to be sure no one was observing him, then opened the door to the projection room and went inside, pulling on a pair of latex surgical gloves. There was no lock on the door, so Zeke braced a chair under the doorknob. First, he emptied his pockets, shucked off the army uniform, and wrapped it into a ball, tying the shirtsleeves in a knot. Then he put the pocket contents into his black trousers, switched on a small flashlight, and, holding it in his mouth, took his Swiss Army knife and began unscrewing the grille over the air-conditioning duct. He removed the briefcase containing the rifle, then shoved the bundled army uniform into the duct and replaced the grille.
Will listened patiently as Efton made his three-minute speech. The first two minutes were bland enough; then Efton changed tack. “As you may have heard, the governor of Georgia last night felt he had to commute the death sentence of a murderer and rapist, because the man’s lawyer had given him an incompetent defense. That lawyer was none other than Will Lee, and I think he should explain to us tonight why his incompetence as a lawyer allowed a killer to escape the death penalty, and why we should expect him to be any more competent as president.”
Will hadn’t expected this so early in the debate. Now he was going to have to spend at least part of his
opening statement defending himself, putting him at an immediate disadvantage.
Dave Waters, who had been sitting next to Zeke in the balcony, was worried, and he felt he had to do something. He got up and began looking up and down the aisles, but he didn’t see what he was looking for, so he walked down the stairs to the lobby, where he spotted a man with a small medallion in his lapel. “Excuse me,” he said to the man, “are you Secret Service?”
“Yes,” the man replied, “what can I do for you, sir?”
“I need to speak to the agent in charge, and right away.”
“What about, sir?”
Waters produced a military ID card. “I’m General David Waters, and I want to speak to him
right now.
”
“Yes, sir,” the agent said. He raised his cupped left hand to his lips and spoke briefly into it, then seemed to listen. “He’ll be here in just a minute, sir.”
“Ten years ago I was called into a judge’s office in Greenville, Georgia, the seat of my home county, and asked to defend a young man accused of murder. I was reluctant to do so, but the judge pressed me, and I agreed. At my first meeting with the defendant, he told me that he was innocent of the charges and that he had never had any problems with the law. I defended him—well, I think—then, near the end of the trial, a witness blurted out that the defendant had once been accused of rape. This shocked the courtroom, the prosecution took full advantage of the situation, and the defendant was convicted as charged. Had he not lied to me, he would probably have been acquitted. During the trial, I received a cash fee from an anonymous supporter of the defendant. Later, I learned that the money had
come from a right-wing militia group, the kind which has so often supported Representative Efton in his campaigns, so I donated the fee to an organization of African-American lawyers. The defendant later claimed, in his appeals, that he received an incompetent defense, a claim that was thrown out by every state and federal court that heard it, including the Supreme Court of the United States. I think that is all the vindication I need, even if it isn’t enough for Mr. Efton.”
A middle-aged man in a dark suit approached Dave Waters. “General Waters? I’m Charles West, the agent in charge of the Secret Service detail here. What can I do for you?”
“Agent West, just before the debate began I sat down next to an army officer, a Colonel Waldron, in the balcony. I introduced myself and, noticing his ribbons and insignia, I asked him what outfit he had been with in Vietnam. He said his name was Henry Waldron, and that he had been with
my
outfit. I said that I had heard the unit had been at Da Nang, and he confirmed this. My outfit was never at Da Nang, and the officer I knew as Henry Waldron was not the man sitting next to me. I believe he is impersonating an army officer, and considering the circumstances, I thought you should know about it.”
“Thank you, General,” the agent said. He brought a fist to his lips. “Attention all agents,” he said. “Suspicious person in the theater, dressed as an army colonel. Locate immediately and detain.” He turned back to Waters. “Thank you, General,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d remain here to identify the man when we find him.”
“He got up and left his seat in the balcony about five minutes ago,” Waters said, “but I didn’t see where he went.”
Will finished his statement, compressing his opening remarks in order to stay under the time limit. As he finished, he saw a small flash of light somewhere high up at the rear of the theater.
Zeke quickly assembled the rifle, then, judging the distance between the projection booth and the stage, adjusted the sight. The projectionist’s window was hinged in the middle; he opened it, rested the tip of the rifle’s barrel on the sill, and brought the stock to his shoulder.
Agent West stood in the open doorway between the lobby of the theater and the orchestra seats, only a few seconds after broadcasting the first warning to his agents. “Chief, this is Robbins,” a voice said through his earpiece. “Five minutes ago, I allowed an army colonel to use the men’s room at the top of the theater. I’m on my way there now.”
“Roger,” West replied, then something occurred to him. “Is that the one opposite the projection booth?”
“Affirmative,” Robbins replied.
West brought the microphone concealed in his left palm to his lips. “Maximum alert! Maximum alert!
All agents on the upper level converge on the men’s room and projection booth at the top rear of the theater! Consider suspect an assassin, armed and dangerous!” He began running for the stairs.
Zeke brought the crosshairs to bear on the head of Will Lee. As he focused the telescopic sight, a movement at stage right caught his attention, and he swung the rifle toward it. To his astonishment, Howard Efton was lying on the floor behind his lectern, and a man was lying on top of him. He swung the rifle back toward Lee, and as he did, a man appeared from the wings and began reaching for the senator.
Zeke fired without resighting, and there was an explosion at the lectern. Then Zeke heard the sound of running feet on the upper level of the theater. He dropped the rifle, kicked the chair away from the doorknob, ran into the hallway outside, and started up the ladder, throwing open the trapdoor to the roof. As he turned to slam it behind him he saw a man with a gun running up the stairs toward the projection room.
Zeke sprinted across the roof, surprised that a Secret Service agent was not waiting for him. Probably any agents on the roof had been called inside the theater when the debate began, he reckoned. He reached the parapet and ran along it, looking for a fire escape or a drainpipe. Nothing. He jumped to the roof next door and, staying low, continued along the row of buildings. Glancing back, he saw lights playing around the roof of the theater.
On the third roof he found a drainpipe, and it took only seconds to slide down it into the alley below. He ran down the alley toward the street, shucking off the latex surgical gloves he had been wearing, and as he turned the corner, he stopped running and started walking, taking deep breaths, calming himself, trying
to look like an ordinary citizen. He turned toward where he had parked the Toyota and realized that would take him directly past the entrance to Ford’s Theatre. What the hell, he thought, they wouldn’t expect him to be there.
He blended in with the other pedestrians headed in that direction, and as he approached the theater, the front doors burst open and armed men ran onto the sidewalk, looking in every direction. They were looking for an army colonel, he reminded himself, and he had left the uniform in the air-conditioning duct where he had stored the rifle. He stopped with the other pedestrians and stared at the commotion. Then the man who had sat next to him in the balcony came out of the theater with a Secret Service agent. Zeke walked to the curb, waited for traffic to ease, and, walking as casually as he could, crossed the street. It was another block to the car, and it was going to be a very long block.
Will sat in his dressing room, surrounded by staff and Secret Service agents. Kitty was holding a cloth to his forehead while an agent rummaged in a first-aid kit. “What happened?” he asked.
“Somebody took a shot at you,” an agent said. “I already had hold of you and was pulling you toward the wings. Apparently, the bullet hit the microphone on the lectern, and the thing exploded. You caught some shrapnel, but it’s not serious. You may need a stitch or two, though, and as soon as the area is secure, we’re going to get you to a hospital to get looked at.”
“You think it’s the same guy from L.A.?” Kitty asked.
“It’s gotta be,” the agent replied. “Either him, or another member of his group, if there is a group.”
“Have you caught him?” Kitty asked.
The agent held a finger to his ear, pressing on the earpiece. “He’s out of the building,” he said. “They’re searching the streets for him now. Apparently, a member of the audience can ID him.”
“My wife is in the audience,” Will said.
“We’ve already got her in a car,” the agent replied. “She’ll meet you at the hospital.”
Zeke got into the car, started it, and pulled into traffic. He made the first turn possible, and he could see police halting traffic ahead of him. He drove around the block and headed for the Beltway; he had already memorized the route.
Will lay on a table in the ER while a surgeon who had been on call for the Secret Service stitched the wound in his forehead. Kate sat next to him, watching closely.
“Maybe I’d better learn to do this,” she said, “if people are going to keep trying to kill you.”
“Maybe the guy was trying to kill Eft,” Will said. “If he did, I’d probably win California.”
“You should wish he had hit you,” she said. “Being shot is a sure vote-getter. Look at Reagan.”
The following morning, Zeke drove west along the interstate at the speed limit. He was a happy man, considering that he’d failed. He hadn’t really expected to be alive at this moment, and he found the condition pleasing. Home lay a thousand miles ahead of him. They still didn’t know who he was. They’d never find him. He’d go home and wait for another opportunity.
Will looked out the window of the Boeing as it lifted off from Oakland airport and turned east, toward Georgia. The lights of the city passed under him, then vanished as the airplane climbed toward the Sierras. It was just after 1
A.M
., Tuesday morning, election day. It was over.
He had made more than seventy campaign stops around California during the past three days. His campaign and the party had poured every possible cent into television advertising all over the country, but especially in California. Efton had done the same thing, he reflected.
“What do you think?” he asked Kitty Conroy, who was sitting next to him.
“I think we’re going to win, of course.”
“Does Moss still think it’s too close to call?”
“Yes, but he plans to do exit polling tomorrow—I mean, today.”
“Tell him not to waste the money. What’s the point
of polling when we’ll have the answer by midnight, anyway.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said. She got up and walked forward.
Will got out of his chair and followed her. He might as well have a last word with the press. He passed Moss and Kitty, deep in conversation, and opened the door to the forward compartment, summoning up a last bit of energy. To his surprise, the cabin was dark; bodies lay under blankets on the reclining seats; snoring could be heard. He’d thought there’d at least be a late poker game, or people writing their last campaign stories.