10:58 a.m.
“This says he can,” the ACLU lawyer barked, rattling the judicial notice allowing his client, the Reverend Chris Andersen, to use his prop at his press conference.
“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Branch said. “People will stampede.”
“Not my problem,” ACLU said. “I have the court order, and I demand you obey it.”
Branch read it twice, shook his head in disbelief. Gave it to the city attorney. She read it thrice. Called the courthouse, talked to the chief judge.
“It’s legitimate,” she said. “We have to honor it.”
“It’s a big mistake,” Branch said.
“I know,” she said. “But his honor disagrees.”
“Gotta call Ken on this,” he said.
“No argument here,” she said.
“I demand immediate recognition of this court order,” the lawyer said.
“I demand you shut up,” Branch said.
Cross answered on the first ring. Listened intently.
“Not a chance,” he growled. “Confiscate it on my authority.”
Branch did.
“Be right back, Reverend,” the ACLU lawyer said. He unleashed his cell, stepped outside.
Four minutes later, Branch’s cell rang. He listened, face tightening.
“Well?” the ACLU lawyer said.
“Make sure it’s empty,” Branch snapped to the head of the bomb squad.
Who ran it through the explosives sniffer, then past his German shepherd’s highly trained nose. The sniffer didn’t beep. The shepherd yawned.
“Just a metal shell,” the bomb guy declared, sticking a pencil up its hollow bottom. “No explosives. Definitely a prop.”
Branch handed the grenade to Andersen. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” said the Reverend Daniel Monroe. He didn’t enjoy deceiving the officer or the lawyer about his name, but had no choice if he was going to bring down Covington. “So do I.”
“Geez, what happened?” the city attorney asked when the door slammed shut.
“We got bigfooted,” Branch said. “By the chief justice of the Illinois Supreme Court.”
“Wow,” she marveled. “When’s the last time Ken didn’t get his way on a security matter?”
“Never,” Branch said. “Then again, this whole damn thing’s Bizarro World.”
10:59 a.m.
Emily headed for the witness room to search the chairs a third time. Considering that not even a housefly could get inside the Justice Center without pat-downs, she found the precautions overly dramatic. But orders were orders.
11:00 a.m.
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .” the press room director mouthed.
“Good morning,” Wayne Covington said, heart soaring from the Zen purity of this moment. “I’m Illinois Governor Wayne Covington, and today the spiritual heirs of Abraham Lincoln gather on these fruited plains to visit justice upon a man who gives none.”
“Oh, barf,” the Chicago Tribune reporter groaned.
“Must be his own speech,” the Daily Herald reporter agreed. “Angel Rogers would drink hemlock before she’d write that.”
Covington shifted to camera two.
“His name is Corey Trent. He kidnapped and disemboweled an expectant mother. He ripped away her baby boy. He broke the baby on a tree.”
He felt the poisonous anger from 1966. He fought it. Nothing could mar the tempo of the most important speech of his life. He forced himself to focus. Felt the red tide retreat.
“In fifty-nine minutes, I’ll rid the planet of this beast. If another takes his place, I’ll exterminate him, too. I’ll use the electric chair, not lethal injection. Monsters don’t deserve to merely fall asleep and not wake up. They need to boil and bubble, because they steal our innocence and never give it back. I know this personally, profoundly, and all too well.”
He felt the aluminum comb in his pocket. Scorched and twisted, half its teeth missing. His only connection to the never-aging corpse in the family plot. His personal rosary from 1966.
“His name was Andy Covington,” he said. “He was my kid brother . . .”
11:06 a.m.
“A hand grenade?” the State Police commander sputtered. “You outta your mind, Branch? Did Ken sign off on this?”
“He had no choice,” Branch said. “Just like the rest of us.”
11:07 a.m.
“Naperville Police,” Officer VapoRub announced through the door he’d just lock-picked. “We’re here to help you with the flood. Is anybody home?”
No answer.
“Hope this guy’s insured,” he said, shaking his head in sympathy as he splashed through the ankle-high water. “Fixing this mess will cost him a fortune.”