Free Justice by David Wood Page B
Authors: David Wood
undersized head of yours?”
“It’s hardly useless, at least, not right now.”
“Get to the point, Maddock.”
“The timing is all wrong. The Lincoln Memorial opened in the early 1920s. Now, it’s possible that the Grand Army of the Republic held on to the journal for almost sixty years until the Lincoln Memorial was built, but I don’t think so. I believe the journal was given for a specific monument that was in the works at the time. We’ll have to check it out to be sure.”
They rounded the museum, turned right on Constitution Avenue, and made the short walk to the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. There, gleaming in the sun, stood a white marble statue of Lincoln. The president, left hand resting on a fasces, a bundle of wooden rods, gazed out into the distance. It was a simple representation of the great man; not the massive, Olympian-like Lincoln that looked out onto the National Mall from the throne inside his famed memorial.
“It’s not very big,” Bones noted. That thing’s not much taller than I am.”
Indeed, the statue itself couldn’t have been much more than seven feet tall, and the pedestal on which it rested not much taller than Maddock’s almost six feet.
“It’s big enough to hold a journal, but this pedestal worries me. It looks new.”
They moved closer to the shiny granite base. LINCOLN was engraved on the front, while the back gave more information.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
1809–1865
THIS STATUE WAS ERECTED BY THE CITIZENS OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA APRIL 15 1868
RE-ERECTED APRIL 15 1923 UNDER ACT OF CONGRESS OF JUNE 21 1922
“You’re right, Maddock. 1868 would fit the timeline perfectly. And if Acie’s ancestor, Lee’s descendant, was gripped with Lincoln fever after the assassination that could explain why he wanted the journal put in a monument to Lincoln instead of Washington.”
“True. He might even have seen it as forging a link between two great leaders. I’d imagine the Grand Army thought of it that way.”
“But what about this last line? Re-erected? That’s not good.”
It was a measure of Bones’ seriousness that he didn’t make a bad pun out of the word. Maddock considered this. If the statue had been taken down and placed on a new pedestal, the journal might be lost. But he didn’t want to give up so easily.
“Bones, can you create a diversion?”
“How big?”
“Don’t get yourself arrested.”
“Crap. I was ready to get naked.” Bones looked around at the few pedestrians and grinned. “I’ll come up with something.” He moved out in front of the statue, cleared his throat, and boomed, “Who will emancipate the red man?”
Maddock grinned and hurried away. Bones was frequently full of crap, but he could get serious about the plight of Native Americans when he wanted to. As his friend launched into his impromptu speech, Maddock headed back to the sidewalk and found the nearest manhole. Traffic was light and the pedestrians were all looking up at Bones, so he slipped his fingers through the holes of the manhole cover and lifted the heavy circle, climbed in, and slipped it back into place. The fetid odor of stagnant water and decay assaulted his nostrils as he climbed down into the darkness. When he hit the bottom, he turned on his MagLite and moved through the low tunnel, heading in the direction of the statue.
He soon hit paydirt. In one section, the circular tunnel gave way to a square room constructed of crumbling bricks. Up above, he could just make out the muffled sound of Bones pontificating. Smiling, he shone his light up and down the cracked walls.
“ Beneath the foundation,” he said to himself. In one corner, he noticed a brick that was double the size of all the others. His heart began to race as he drew his Recon knife and chipped away at the mortar. It crumbled like sand beneath the sharp metal until, finally, the brick came free. He let out a small whoop of triumph and shone his light into the space where the
“It’s hardly useless, at least, not right now.”
“Get to the point, Maddock.”
“The timing is all wrong. The Lincoln Memorial opened in the early 1920s. Now, it’s possible that the Grand Army of the Republic held on to the journal for almost sixty years until the Lincoln Memorial was built, but I don’t think so. I believe the journal was given for a specific monument that was in the works at the time. We’ll have to check it out to be sure.”
They rounded the museum, turned right on Constitution Avenue, and made the short walk to the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. There, gleaming in the sun, stood a white marble statue of Lincoln. The president, left hand resting on a fasces, a bundle of wooden rods, gazed out into the distance. It was a simple representation of the great man; not the massive, Olympian-like Lincoln that looked out onto the National Mall from the throne inside his famed memorial.
“It’s not very big,” Bones noted. That thing’s not much taller than I am.”
Indeed, the statue itself couldn’t have been much more than seven feet tall, and the pedestal on which it rested not much taller than Maddock’s almost six feet.
“It’s big enough to hold a journal, but this pedestal worries me. It looks new.”
They moved closer to the shiny granite base. LINCOLN was engraved on the front, while the back gave more information.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
1809–1865
THIS STATUE WAS ERECTED BY THE CITIZENS OF THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA APRIL 15 1868
RE-ERECTED APRIL 15 1923 UNDER ACT OF CONGRESS OF JUNE 21 1922
“You’re right, Maddock. 1868 would fit the timeline perfectly. And if Acie’s ancestor, Lee’s descendant, was gripped with Lincoln fever after the assassination that could explain why he wanted the journal put in a monument to Lincoln instead of Washington.”
“True. He might even have seen it as forging a link between two great leaders. I’d imagine the Grand Army thought of it that way.”
“But what about this last line? Re-erected? That’s not good.”
It was a measure of Bones’ seriousness that he didn’t make a bad pun out of the word. Maddock considered this. If the statue had been taken down and placed on a new pedestal, the journal might be lost. But he didn’t want to give up so easily.
“Bones, can you create a diversion?”
“How big?”
“Don’t get yourself arrested.”
“Crap. I was ready to get naked.” Bones looked around at the few pedestrians and grinned. “I’ll come up with something.” He moved out in front of the statue, cleared his throat, and boomed, “Who will emancipate the red man?”
Maddock grinned and hurried away. Bones was frequently full of crap, but he could get serious about the plight of Native Americans when he wanted to. As his friend launched into his impromptu speech, Maddock headed back to the sidewalk and found the nearest manhole. Traffic was light and the pedestrians were all looking up at Bones, so he slipped his fingers through the holes of the manhole cover and lifted the heavy circle, climbed in, and slipped it back into place. The fetid odor of stagnant water and decay assaulted his nostrils as he climbed down into the darkness. When he hit the bottom, he turned on his MagLite and moved through the low tunnel, heading in the direction of the statue.
He soon hit paydirt. In one section, the circular tunnel gave way to a square room constructed of crumbling bricks. Up above, he could just make out the muffled sound of Bones pontificating. Smiling, he shone his light up and down the cracked walls.
“ Beneath the foundation,” he said to himself. In one corner, he noticed a brick that was double the size of all the others. His heart began to race as he drew his Recon knife and chipped away at the mortar. It crumbled like sand beneath the sharp metal until, finally, the brick came free. He let out a small whoop of triumph and shone his light into the space where the