The Trials of Max Q, page 33
The double-locked handcuffs were tight around his wrists. He wore his favorite brown suit. The lucky one. The same one he wore to the Downtown Athletic Club in Manhattan when he collected his Heisman Trophy all those years ago. And more importantly, he wore it on his first date with Marissa.
Judge Figliomini accepted Kerri Lawson’s motion for his last public appearance to be done with dignity. Jack Lawson argued vehemently against such. According to Jack’s arguments, the van should be pulled to the back of the courthouse with Drew dropped off in one of those Hannibal Lecter masks. The judge ruled that he could walk to the courthouse from the front. His hands would be double-cuffed, but his suit jacket could be placed over the cuffs.
Drew again looked out the window to see the security lock-down in front of the courthouse. His supporters were still present, although not as many as before the verdict. They were roped off behind barricades that were set up across the street from the courthouse. If that wasn’t sufficient to discourage disruption, the numerous men wearing military fatigues and carrying AR-15s sure were.
He thought of his father, Cal Anderson, and the memories weren’t pleasant. How do you like me now, Dad?
Cal Anderson decided that his only child was going to be a professional athlete. More specifically, Drew was going to be the greatest quarterback in the history of the NFL. He didn’t make this decision after Drew showed some athletic promise in his formative years. He decided it when he was still in the womb.
There were no dates in high school. Just a regimented schedule of school, practice, weight workouts with Cal, followed by work with his personal throwing coach, and video instruction until midnight. He would be woken the next morning at the crack of dawn for an intense five-mile run, in which Cal followed him in his car.
He was only twelve when the Sports Illustrated article came out with the blond haired, blue-eyed Pee Wee quarterback named Drew Anderson donning the cover. His second SI cover was during his freshman year at Florida State. The caption read: Perfection. But behind the scenes, his life was anything but perfect.
College was when the inevitable rebellion began. I can’t have a girlfriend, Dad—take a look at these videos of me with every girl on campus. You bred me to go to the NFL, Dad—I think I’d rather be all I can be in the military.
But none of his achievements could heal the huge hole that Drew had inside of him. That was, until he met Marissa Torres. Their road turned rocky, for which he blamed himself, and his one shot at happiness appeared bleak. But they overcame it, only to fall in love all over, and it made them even stronger. He learned that love really can conquer all, and he believed it would pull them through again today, no matter how the odds seemed stacked against them.
The vehicle slowed, and Drew took the deepest breath possible. He was a man who believed in meticulous preparation, but facing the “game” of his life, he knew his destiny was in the hands of others, and the lack of control left him with an uneasy feeling.
As the courthouse came into view, he found himself thinking of Marissa. Kerri informed him that she couldn’t be part of the plan. He understood—despite Kerri’s jealousy, he knew she only wanted the best for him. A refreshing change from most people he had met in his life. He never would have agreed to another trial—it would have put Marissa in harm’s way once again—but an escape would allow him a chance to get back to her one day, while also being able to protect her from future repercussions. It was ironic that Jack Lawson, his one-time adversary who fought to take his life away, was now his chance to live again.
The van came to a stop. “You ready, Drew?” the friendly but heavily armed guard asked. Just doing his job. Drew received one final pat-down and the jacket was placed over the cuffs.
He stepped out into the spotlight for what most believed was the last time. With his thoughts still on Marissa, he was able to remain composed. That was how it always worked since the day he met her.
As if his foot touching the pavement was the detonator, the first bomb went off. It boomed like thunder and echoed off the nearby lake. The second explosion shook the ground, shooting debris in all directions. The third blast seemed even louder—a fire hydrant exploded, water shooting into the air like a geyser.
People began running in all directions, screaming with panic. Police were helpless to react. Guns were drawn, but they had no idea who to shoot at, and held their fire.
Another explosion violently shook the ground.
“We are under attack!” hollered a member of the security team.
The last thing on their mind was Max Q.
Chapter 89
Drew immediately dropped to the ground and rolled under the police vehicle, just as Kerri had instructed. Now all he could do was wait. Another explosion rocked the ground and the van bounced. Then he heard what sounded like a machine-gun.
Only thirty seconds had elapsed, yet it seemed like hours. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was waiting for, but then it appeared.
Rolling next to him, wearing the exact same brown suit, was … his twin.
“Hi, you must be Drew Anderson, I’m Drew Anderson,” the man said with a nervous laugh. “Actually my name is Shane King, and it’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Anderson—you’re my hero.”
Drew said nothing, placing the handcuffs out for the man to see. Another bomb blast shook the undercarriage of the van.
Shane looked at the handcuffs and his training clicked. He talked himself through the process. “They are professional, police, double hinged cuffs. Made of satin nickel steel. The inner perimeter is somewhere between five and three-quarters inches and eight inches.”
Shane struggled to maneuver in the cramped space under the vehicle—they were both large men—but he was eventually able to gain use of a small toolkit. Using two different length hooks and a flat tension wrench, he first removed the double lock. He then used a shim key to free his hands.
Drew felt huge relief as he shook blood back into his hands. He still had a long way to go to reach freedom, but he felt like he once again controlled his destiny. Another loud bang filled the air. Drew looked at his watch—still under two minutes.
Shane pulled out his own pair of handcuffs. He handed Drew a small knife, a plastic bag, and a New York Yankees baseball cap. “I was told to give these to you, I assume you will know what to do with them.”
He nodded, then did the honors of placing the cuffs on Shane. “Thank you,” Drew said, and meant every word.
“What are you thanking me for? At the end of the day, I’m going to be on the front page of every newspaper in the free world,” Shane said with a big grin. Drew would have cautioned the man about being careful what you wish for, but time was of the essence.
Shane rolled out from under the vehicle and immediately surrendered himself to the police. “Anderson in custody,” shouted out one of the police into the radio.
The real Drew Anderson took the knife and carefully cut off his suit. Underneath, he wore a baseball uniform that Kerri had supplied him when he was getting dressed earlier in the morning. Because of his collectibles business, it didn’t even get a curious look from the security guards when he chose to wear the authentic Lou Gehrig uniform beneath his suit. In fact, the men were impressed by it. Kerri told them it was for luck. The men mumbled that he would need it.
He pulled the Yankees cap as low as he could on his head and shoved the crumpled suit and handcuffs into the plastic bag, leaving the knife behind. He tucked the bag under his uniform shirt, giving him more the belly of Ruth than Gehrig.
He counted to ten and then rolled out from under the van and into the autumn sunlight. It wouldn’t be strange for someone to be hiding under a vehicle in the midst of this chaos. And everyone was more concerned about their own safety to notice, anyway.
One final bomb rocked Main Street like an earthquake—it was exactly what he needed. While others took cover, Drew Anderson walked calmly away from the scene. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Shane King in the custody of the police.
When Drew reached Fair Street, he began to trot. He ran all the way to the Lake Front Motel, a quarter mile down the road. Once in the parking lot, he moved toward a station wagon.
Chapter 90
Following orders, he climbed into the backseat. The first thing he noticed was techno-looking special effects panel taking up most of the front seat.
“That’s how I controlled the explosions,” Andy Kass said with pride, noticing Drew staring at the panel. He turned the key and the car started with an engine cough. “We have to get out of here while the going’s still good. Shane’s buying you time, but roadblocks will be set up within ten minutes.”
“You did all that?” Drew asked with amazement.
“Not bad, huh?”
To say the least. “How the hell did you pull it off?”
“Pretty much all special effects stuff that’s used for movies. Was able to control it from here—totally based on radio waves.”
They drove down Lake Ave until it became Route-80. Just as predicted, the focus remained at the point of attack, and not on the getaway … for now. They wouldn’t be looking for the car that Andy stole from local resident, Matthew Kenner, either. Matt the Drunk, as he was known around town, probably wouldn’t realize it was missing until Thanksgiving.
Andy continued detailing his masterpiece. “It’s a combination of a lot of material. Flash powder, rifle powder, and black powder. The large explosions are the key—the mortar shots. For those I used iron pots. The mortars are wide at the top, narrowing toward the base. This forces the power generated by the explosion to go up, and not out, so you don’t hurt anyone. It’s kind of like a balloon bursting. If you hold the balloon by the stem and burst it, the force is equal on all sides. But if you put the balloon in a bowl, and force it upward, it will be safe.”
“So nobody got hurt in that?”
“Not from the explosions. I used balsa wood and cork to serve as the debris. That way there is no shrapnel, which is what usually screws people in war and such, more than the actual blast. My only real worry was the fire hydrant.”
“What about the gunshots I heard?”
“All electronic detonation. The charge splinters the pieces of wood, providing the illusion that it’s being hit with bullets. It’s an important aspect of the escape because the threat of gunfire keeps the police from moving freely. Explosions are more targeted where bullets can spray at random.”
Drew shook his head in admiration. “How did you set this all up?”
“Unlike yourself, Mr. Anderson, the fat kid can operate under the radar—been doing it my whole life. Plus, part of my community service agreement was to work on town property. I was able to bury many of the small pots in the ground with only a small portion sticking out above ground level. I was able to cover them with the balsa wood and peat moss. The average person wouldn’t know what it was if they found it.”
The conversation was cut short when they reached the entrance of Glimmerglass State Park. Andy pulled the car to the side of the road. “I have a boat to catch, so this is where we part company. I suggest you go for a walk along the road.”
With that, Andy handed Anderson a wig that simulated Lou Gehrig’s wavy brown hair, and a pair of sneakers. In return, Drew swapped the plastic bag under his shirt and his dress shoes. “They will soon be on the bottom of the lake,” Andy assured him, and was off.
Drew walked about two hundred feet out onto Route-31, feeling both strange and vulnerable in the baseball uniform. That’s when the 1937 Packard stopped and a pudgy man in a Babe Ruth uniform uttered, “Get in, Lou—I guess it’s your lucky day.”
Drew smiled. “Today, I consider myself to be the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
Chapter 91
I check my watch for the umpteenth time. Shep looks strangely at me, noticing my agitation. She has grown accustomed to my courtroom confidence.
We sit at the prosecution table, awaiting the guest of honor for his sentencing. It seems like Shep wants to tell me something, but decides to hold back. Our relationship has been as cold as the Arctic Circle for weeks, but that’s the way it has to be. We have only spoken when the topic has been the case, and even that has only been brief, calculated responses on my part.
The most frustrating thing in life is to not have control of your destiny. And once I set the plan in motion, my fate was taken from my hands. George Herman was in charge of finding the optimal, overly ambitious Max Q impersonator. Andy took over from there—contacting Shane King, making him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and then training him in Handcuffs-101. Using the P.O. Boxes—Bronx and Plattsburg—he provided Kerri with the baseball uniform, while Kerri sent inside information to Andy.
My emotions swirl, just as they have since the jury handed down their guilty verdict. Fear, hope, regret, despondence, and most of all, desperation. I even briefly shifted my anger toward Drew. But I know he’s trying to protect Marissa. I would have done the same.
I wipe beads of sweat from my brow, as if I’m the one facing life in prison. If this doesn’t work out, there’s a good possibility I will be. Shep looks like she’s trying to gauge my strange demeanor and I can feel her mind racing.
Without warning, a jarring explosion rocks the courtroom. Then another. The blasts are thunderous and the floor shakes.
Shep tries to get up and stumbles, falling into my arms. Her face registers terror. I begin panicking like everyone else. I remember a documentary I watched on earthquakes—get under something because the shake won’t likely kill you, but a flying object might. I pull Shep to the floor and drag her under the prosecution table. Another booming explosion drowns out the screaming that surrounds us. Shep clings tightly to me and I whisper to her that everything will be all right.
Security swiftly moves into action. Since the prosecution has received more death threats than the president since the trial began, we are considered prime targets. We’re rushed out of the courtroom, our feet barely touching the floor.
Shep and I are amongst a group of judges and attorneys who are escorted to a bomb shelter that was built below the structure during the Cold War era.
Moments later, Judge Figliomini is brought kicking and screaming into the room. “I won’t let terrorists see me weaken. If I acknowledge them then they win!” he shouts at the guard.
“Live to fight another day, Your Honor,” the guard replies dispassionately.
Shep looks shaken. “It will be okay,” I again try to assure her.
“Thanks,” she says and labors a smile, but another round of booming thunder unnerves her once again.
After a few minutes that feel like hours, the eruptions stop. The silence allows me to consider the all-important question—was Anderson able to get away? The logical part of me doubts that it could have worked.
A lengthy half-hour passes before Figliomini approaches Shep and me. “This proceeding will go on today. These terrorists will not stop the American justice system. Drew Anderson was rightfully convicted by my court and he will be sentenced today.”
We say nothing. Shep is out of sorts, and I have too many questions on my mind. If everything went as planned, the real Drew Anderson has already made his way to Glimmerglass State Park, while Andy Kass was headed to his connecting flight. Shane King is hopefully in custody. If he sings, then the only person they can connect him to is Andy—George Herman only set up Shane King with a customer, and Kerri and I had no contact with him.
“I just talked to the guard. The building is secure. I guess it was some sort of prank,” Figliomini rambles in fiery style. “Initial reports indicate that it was all Hollywood special effects stuff. They have cleared us to resume court in fifteen minutes and I want you two ready to proceed in sixteen.”
It doesn’t get past me how keen he seems to start the clock on Anderson’s prison sentence.
Exactly sixteen minutes later, Shep and I are back in the courtroom. I scan the room and notice most of the gallery has left, giving it a quarantined feel. But it doesn’t keep Marissa away. She looks as anxious as I do. I have not made contact with her since the night we spent together, as I made the choice not to include her in the escape. She is too emotionally tied to Drew, and vice versa, which could cause errors. She is also too much of a control freak who would want to run the show. Shep notices my glance and I wonder what her thoughts are.
Kerri enters and takes her place at the defense table. She looks shaken, which is understandable since she was riding in one of the vehicles that made up the caravan. She doesn’t provide me any clues one way or another.
Seconds later, two bailiffs escort a blond man in a brown suit to the defense table. Hal Metzer gives him a supportive pat on the back and Kerri puts her arm around him for comfort.
I know right away that it isn’t Anderson. To the untrained eye, he appears to be an exact replica, but his mannerisms aren’t the same. I can tell by the awkward way he greeted Kerri like this was the first time they’d met, which it is. The stiff coolness of Drew Anderson has been replaced by Shane King’s nervous energy. Shep’s antenna is up. Her expression says that she notices something different about him, but just can’t place it.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Antonio Figliomini.”
Figliomini takes his position. He first gives everybody in the court the same rah-rah speech he gave Shep and me in the bomb shelter. “Now let’s proceed—we are here for the sentencing of Andrew Christian Anderson, convicted of one count of murder in the first degree. I understand, Ms. Lawson, that Mr. Anderson has a statement he would like to read to the court.”
All eyes in the court go to the man in the brown suit. He isn’t sure what to do, so Hal Metzer urges him to stand.
The man stands and looks around. This is his big moment. Anybody who would have two ribs removed and a chin implant to look more like Drew Anderson, is serious about seeking fame.
