Home Invasion - J. A. Johnstone [11]
But in a world where elitist politicians just did whatever they wanted to and ignored the will of the people they had been elected to represent, insanity was the new sanity, Alex supposed.
“What do you want me to do, Ed?” She felt like she was a hundred years old as she asked the question.
“Turn on the TV first and take a look at that lawyer’s press conference. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a station running it. Then get down to the hospital and formally place Navarre under arrest. We’re going to try to get out in front on this, but it may be too late.”
“Delgado or one of my other officers can make the arrest.”
“No, I want you to do it. I think it’ll be better if it looks like the chief is in charge.”
“I am in charge of the department, Ed,” she reminded him, not bothering to keep the edge out of her voice.
“I know, I know. But this isn’t just a legal matter anymore. It’s all public relations now, Alex. It’s all perception.”
Instead of reality, she thought. That was it in a nutshell. The reason she disliked politics and politicians.
“All right. I’ll take care of it.”
“Then come by my office. We’ve got to strategize.”
“Sure,” she said, although the idea of “strategizing” with Ed Ruiz didn’t appeal to her at all. “I’ll see you later.”
She broke the connection before he could come up with anything else.
She took off the clothes she had slept in and pulled on a robe. No sounds came from Jack’s room as she walked past it. There was a little TV in the kitchen, so she turned it on and then turned to get the coffeemaker going.
Ed had been right about one thing: The story was all over the news. It had even made the cable news networks, and after an unctuous, prematurely white-haired anchor made some snarky comments about Texans and guns, the station Alex was watching went to video of a small news conference. A tall, slender man in an expensive suit and sunglasses stood on a sidewalk just outside a building Alex recognized as Home Community Hospital. It was a small, eight-bed facility, and Alex figured Emilio Navarre would be transferred to the county hospital later on, when his condition had stabilized more.
A graphic along the bottom of the screen identified the man in sunglasses as Clayton Cochrum. He was saying, “—terrible injustice inflicted on my client by a trigger-happy, age-impaired vigilante who may well be suffering from dementia. Such a dangerous individual never should have been allowed to possess even one firearm, let alone a veritable arsenal such as the one police discovered inside his house.”
“Nobody discovered Pete McNamara’s guns,” Alex muttered. “Everybody in town knew he had ’em.”
Clearly playing to the cameras, Clayton Cochrum went on, “This is just one more instance of lax gun laws and even sloppier enforcement leading to a gun-related tragedy in Texas. An innocent woman lies dead, and a blameless bystander is in the hospital behind me, gravely injured because a man who is a danger to himself and the community was allowed to possess a gun. Not just one gun, but many guns!” Cochrum took his sunglasses off so he could peer soulfully into the camera. “Even though as a lifelong resident of the Lone Star State it pains me to admit it … this morning I am ashamed to be a citizen of a state that would allow such a tragedy to occur. This morning I am ashamed to be a Texan.”
“Yeah, well,” Alex said to the TV, “we’re not that happy about having to claim a weasel like you, either.”
She shut off the TV and went to take a shower while the coffee brewed. She wished she had the time to really soak under the hot water, but unfortunately, she had to get down to the hospital and place Emilio Navarre under arrest.
She had a feeling that after watching Clayton Cochrum, a regular shower just wasn’t going to be enough to make her feel clean.
Washington, D. C.
Even after five months in office, there were still times when he looked around the Oval Office and