though in Ben’s case he thought Committee on Foreign One-Night Stands would have been even more on point.
Ryan was also the ranking minority member on the Senate Committee on Energy and Natural Resources, which provided different opportunities. The travel was less, but those energy companies certainly knew how to provide campaign cash.
He’d been looking forward to this night for a while. His two previous times at Chumley’s had more than lived up to expectations, and there was no reason to think this time would be any different. He knew the drill, and the great-looking woman at the other end of the bar, the one who had been staring at him, knew it even better.
It was showtime.
He walked over to her and sat down, then asked if he could buy her a drink.
She smiled and shook her head. “No.”
“No?” This was a turn of events he didn’t expect.
She pointed to her drink, sitting mostly full in front of her. “I’ve already got one, and there are plenty more in the minibar in my room upstairs. Besides, you’ve got better things to do with your money. Much better.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“What’s your name?”
There was obviously no way he would ever use his real name in this situation, and fortunately his face was not even widely recognized back in the U.S. “Harrison Ford.”
She smiled and stood up. “Nice to meet you, Harrison. Let’s go.”
“Why don’t we negotiate the terms first?” he asked.
“How about you get a look at what you’re buying first?”
There was certainly no harm in that, and he went with her up to her room. He had no way of knowing if anyone else had been there with her that night, but he knew for sure that he would be the last one. Once he got going, there was no stopping him.
The woman turned out to be right; showing him the “merchandise” was her best way of negotiating a good deal. As was the custom, that merchandise also included premium-grade cocaine. Ryan eagerly agreed, and as also was the custom, paid her half in advance, with a promise to pay the rest when the “session” had concluded.
It proved to be by far the best time he had ever had on one of these trips, and when it was over he vowed to be back soon. Our European relations, he figured, needed much more hands-on attention from dedicated senators like himself.
He was a country-first kind of guy.
He was dressed by eight o’clock in the morning, giving him just enough time to get back to his hotel, shower, and grab some coffee. He gave the woman the remaining cash, and told her to look for him in a couple of months.
It was obvious to the woman that he was not on the Intelligence Committee, because he had never noticed, or looked for, any of the five tiny hidden video cameras and microphones that had recorded every moment of his stay in the room.
Once he was out the door, the woman picked up her cell phone and dialed a number. When the call was answered, she simply said, “Done.”
“Why did you put Tara in a shelter?” I ask.
I’ve gotten all the information Galloway seems to have about the arson and arrest, and I’m not anxious for the conversation to move into the area of his legal representation, so I might as well satisfy my curiosity.
“Because I loved her,” he says, “and it was the best I could do for her. She was the greatest thing in my life; in some ways she was the only connection I had to the world. But she deserved so much better than me, so I had to give her a chance to get it.”
“She could have been killed.”
“No, I would have prevented that if it came to it.” He doesn’t seem sure about anything else, but his commitment to protecting Tara he is certain about.
I ask him a bunch of questions about Tara as a puppy, and with each question I can hear Hike unsuccessfully try to stifle a moan. I enjoy hearing about it, but it’s the opposite of what I had pictured.
“Where was she born?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I found her lying on the side of a two-lane highway outside of Dayton, Ohio. She had obviously been hit by a car, and her leg was broken. She didn’t have a collar on, and there was no way to tell who she belonged to.”
This qualifies as stunning news to me; the image of Tara lying on the side of the road, badly injured, is one I will have trouble getting out of my mind.
He continues. “I put her in my car and took her to a shelter nearby, but they told me that with her leg like that, she’d never get adopted, and they’d wind up putting her down. So I worked out a deal with a vet, and he did the surgery for less money. Nice guy…”
He continues talking about how, when he descended further into his drug use, Tara had been his crutch. It’s funny, but my hope had always been that Tara had been well taken care of, until some perverse twist of fate had led her to her temporary imprisonment in the shelter. The truth now is that her life nearly ended early, and once she was rescued, it turned out that she had been the caretaker. It was a task she is well suited for.
“You know,” Galloway says, “on my good days I would go to that coffee place on Broadway, because I knew that you and Tara would stop there for a bagel during your walk.”
“Did you ever come over to us?”
He shakes his head. “No, I stayed off to the side so she wouldn’t see me. I didn’t think that would be fair to her.”
Hike is pacing; he wants to get the hell out of here. But I’m starting to enjoy myself; here’s a guy who understands and loves Tara. In fact, of all the mass murderers I have ever met, I think I like Noah Galloway the best.
But this is a prison, so I finally and reluctantly get back to the matter at hand. “I’ve got to be honest with you, Noah. I’m not inclined to take on a murder trial right now.”
He nods. “I understand, but this is not going to trial.”
“They’ll only plea-bargain if they have weaknesses in their case.”
“That’s okay; I’m not bargaining. There’s no way I’m going to see the light of day again. I just want this over with; the less Becky has to go through… the less Adam has to hear as he grows up…” He starts to choke up, and stops speaking.
“Why did you plead ‘not guilty’ at the arraignment?” I ask.
“The public defender said it was a formality. That it was best to do it that way, even if I was going to change my plea.”
The PD was right, and I tell Noah that. Then, “Would you like me to talk to the prosecutor on your behalf?”
He nods. “I would appreciate that very much.”
“Okay. I’ll do what I can.”
“Just make this go away,” he says. “Make me go away.”
If you asked my assistant, Edna, what is the greatest invention ever, she would say, “Caller ID.”
Of course, in order to ask her the question, you’d have to be able to get her on the phone, which is almost impossible. If her office is her castle, then caller ID is her moat.
It’s not that Edna doesn’t like people; she has an extended list of family and friends that is miles long. When any of their numbers pop up, she happily takes the call. It’s that she likes work even less than I do, and any unfamiliar number that she answers is a potential assignment.
My cell phone number is one of the chosen few, and she answers on the fourth ring. “We’ve got a client,” I tell her, and I can feel her physically recoil through the phone.
“Really?”
“Really. His name is Noah Galloway.”
“Noah Galloway? The Noah Galloway on TV? The mass murderer?”
“The very one.”
For most people, cringing is a physical act. For Edna it is verbal; I can hear it in her voice. “Do you think that’s
