Capitol Murder (24 page)

The interview room was small and very hot. The only furniture was the uncomfortable metal chair in which Tolliver was seated, a comfortable upholstered chair Crawford was using, and a government-issue gunmetal desk that stood between the chairs. There was no two-way mirror, but closed-circuit cameras fastened to the wall just beneath the ceiling filmed everything that went on in the room, and hidden microphones recorded every word.

“Hello, Ron,” Crawford said, pausing to see if Tolliver would react. When he didn’t, Crawford smiled.

“Pretty good self-control. Then again, dead men don’t have physical reactions, and, according to our records, you’ve been dead for almost six years. We’re notifying your parents about your miraculous resurrection.”

When there was still no reaction, Crawford continued. “This will be one of those good news, bad news situations. Your folks will be happy to learn you’re not dead, but I’m guessing that they’ll puke when they learn that the fruit of their loins is a traitor who tried to top the body count of 9/11. I wonder how that will go over at the country club.”

Crawford leaned forward and let his eyes bore into Tolliver’s. “If you were my kid, you’d make me sick. You may think you’re a grade-A martyr, but to me you’re just another spoiled, self-centered rich kid. You didn’t even have the guts to try to commit suicide like those poor deluded morons you talked into killing themselves in the name of Allah.

“And we know about the rape. You must be quite a man to have to brutalize a girl before you can get laid. Well, you’ll soon experience the other side of that scenario. Some of the prison gangs are very patriotic, and they love traitors—and I mean that literally. So, realistically, your possible future scenarios are death row or a life of being cornholed. Personally, I hope you don’t get a death sentence.”

Crawford leaned back and watched Tolliver. Not a muscle in his face had twitched. Tolliver was definitely a tough guy.

“There is one way out of this mess, Ron—cooperation. The people who run you didn’t take any risks, did they? They’re safe and sound while you’re chained to the floor, facing a life in hell. There are no female virgins where you’re going, but I bet your handlers are getting laid as we speak. You’re a joke to them, Ron, a dumb-ass American wannabe super-Muslim. They’re probably pissed at you for failing, but I bet you made their day way back when you wandered into their psycho world. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck when they stumbled on an all-American boy deluded enough to buy the bullshit they were dealing out. You think . . .”

Suddenly, the door opened and an FBI agent walked in. He looked embarrassed.

“What the fuck is this, Leveque?” Crawford barked angrily.

“He has a court order,” the agent apologized.

“Who has a court order?” Crawford demanded.

The agent stepped aside, and a thickset man who was tall enough to look Crawford in the eye strode in.

“Bobby Schatz at your service, Terry,” he said.

“Fuck me,” Crawford replied.

Schatz was dressed in a hand-tailored navy blue pinstripe suit. A blue bow tie with white polka dots graced the collar of his white silk shirt, and the top of a folded red silk handkerchief extended upward from a pocket situated beneath the left lapel of his jacket. Schatz had straight, slicked-back hair so black that Crawford suspected that it was dyed and so heavy with gel that his hairdo resembled a lacquered cap.

“That’s no way to greet a fellow member of the bar,” Schatz said as he flashed a self-satisfied smile.

“You can take your ass out of here right now, Bobby, or I can have you thrown out.”

“Temper, temper.” Schatz held out a rolled-up document. “This is the court order to which Agent Leveque referred, and it says I get access to my client and you don’t.”

Crawford grabbed the papers. The more he read, the redder his face got. Crawford looked ready to explode by the time he finished.

“Satisfied?” Schatz asked.

“No, Bobby. This piece of shit tried to blow up a stadium full of decent citizens, and you’re here to help him get out so he can kill more Americans.”

Schatz was unfazed by Crawford’s tirade. “What happened to the presumption of innocence? Were you absent the day they discussed that silly concept in your Intro to Crim Law class?”

Crawford ignored the jibe. “How did you know where to find this scumbag?” he demanded.

“Now, now, Terry, you’re asking me to violate a confidence.” Schatz handed Crawford a letter. “I am informing you by this letter, which I have filed with the court, that there is to be no further questioning of my client unless I am present.”

Schatz surveyed the room and spotted the camera.

“I want that turned off, along with the mikes.”

For a second it looked as though Crawford might assault Schatz. Then he rolled up the letter and the court order and muttered, “We’ll see about this,” as he stormed out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind the lawyer, Schatz sat in the chair Crawford had vacated and smiled at Tolliver.

“Don’t let Terry’s bad manners bother you. He and I have been butting heads since he was a fledgling prosecutor. He’s never gotten over the fact that I handed him his first defeat in court, and that wasn’t the only time I kicked his ass.”

Schatz laid a business card in front of the prisoner. Tolliver didn’t look at it.

“Bobby Schatz at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m the best defense attorney in Washington, D.C., and this isn’t the only place I practice. I’ve been hired by clients all over the U.S. because I take no prisoners.”

“Did my parents hire you?” Tolliver asked.

Schatz stood up and walked around the desk. When he was next to the prisoner, he bent down and whispered a few words of Arabic in his client’s ear. Tolliver sat up straight. Schatz smiled, walked back to his seat, and sat down.

“I have no idea whether Crawford can go up the food chain and get another judge to block my access to you, so let’s start discussing my plan to win your case.”

T
erry Crawford stalked down the hall to the room where Jorge Marquez was manning the camera feed and sound equipment.

“How did Schatz find out that we had Tolliver?” Marquez asked.

“He must have made an educated guess. The big question is, who hired that sleazy cocksucker?”

Crawford looked at the monitor. It was blank.

“Why did you turn off the camera?” he demanded.

“He had a court order.”

“Turn it back on, and the sound equipment, too.”

“But . . .”

“Just do it. We’re talking national security, Jorge. Did you forget what happened at FedEx Field? This asshole tried to kill thousands of people. I am not going to take the chance of missing information that can help us stop another plot or lead us to the people who are running him.”

“What if this screws up our court case?”

“It won’t, because we are the only people who know the mikes and camera are still on, and neither of us is ever going to tell anyone, do you understand?”

Chapter Thirty-six

G
inny was nervous during her walk to the Department of Justice. She kept searching the crowds for Clarence Little even though Brad had assured her that the escaped serial killer was on the other side of the continent. When she entered the building through the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance, a security guard asked her for her identification. She showed him her badge before swiping it across a scanning device. Then she stepped into a glass-walled security area. When she left the area on the other side, another security guard checked to see if her face matched the photo on the badge.

Getting in today was a lot easier than getting in the first day she’d showed up for work. She didn’t have a badge, so the guards wouldn’t let her in, and she wasn’t on any list. She had called Human Resources, but the person she’d dealt with was on vacation. Finally, Ginny had stopped a kind soul on his way into the building and explained her problem. He had taken pity on her and told her boss that a newbie was waiting on the sidewalk.

Life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was inside. She had her own desk, but no computer or telephone for almost a week, and she shared an office with two other new trial attorneys. The good news was that she got along with her office mates, and the work was more interesting than her work in the big firms she had left.

Ginny had been placed in the Fraud Section, where she helped prosecute health-care scammers, telemarketing schemes, and identity theft. It wasn’t as sexy as taking down organized crime figures or terrorists. Mom-and-pop credit-card fraud wasn’t the subject of many big-budget movies or TV shows. Still, she felt good about protecting citizens as opposed to well-heeled corporations.

Ginny also appreciated the manageable hours she put in at DOJ. She wasn’t paid as much as she’d been paid at Rankin, Lusk, but she didn’t come in to work at seven and leave at ten, either, and her weekends were usually free. The people she worked with were just as bright as the Rankin, Lusk crowd, and they were definitely more dedicated. Very few of her fellow associates at her Portland and D.C. firms were enthusiastic about looking up property records at two in the morning or combing through corporate accounts for weeks on end. And her fellow prosecutors were more fun. Friday-afternoon happy hour at one of the watering holes in the neighborhood was a common occurrence, and it was not unusual to find a deputy chief mingling with the troops. On the rare occasion when the associates in her Oregon or Washington firms had been able to leave work in time for happy hour, no senior partners had deigned to rub shoulders with them.

The main drawback to working Fraud was the travel. She hadn’t been sent on the road yet, but she’d been told that she could expect to go to Omaha, Nebraska, in a few weeks to work with the local United States attorney on a major health-care scam. She wasn’t looking forward to being separated from Brad or living in Nebraska during the winter.

Ginny said hello to her office mates before booting up her computer. She had barely gotten comfortable when her door opened and Terrence Crawford walked in. He was dressed immaculately as usual, but there were dark shadows under his eyes, and he had the look of someone who had not slept much. Ginny’s office mates were both women, and he looked at each in turn.

“Striker?” Crawford barked.

Ginny had never met Crawford, but he had a scary reputation, and she raised her hand timidly like a first-grader called on to recite to the class on the first day of school.

“Pack up your stuff,” he ordered. “You’re moving over to CTS.”

Ginny blinked and her office mates gave her an odd look. The DOJ was organized into nine divisions, Criminal being the biggest. The National Security Division included Counterespionage (CES), the Office of Intelligence (OI), and Counterterrorism (CTS). Ginny couldn’t think of a single thing in her background that qualified her to be in the Counterterrorism section.

Ginny’s first impressions of her new boss were not very positive. Crawford ignored her as he led the way to the second floor, making Ginny feel like a stewardess bag the deputy assistant attorney general was reluctantly dragging behind him. Things looked up when Crawford stopped at an open door.

“This is where you’ll work,” he said.

Ginny peeked in. The office was empty, and it was a decent size. She hoped she wouldn’t be sharing it with anyone.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ginny said.

“You want to know why you’ve moved, right?”

“I am curious.”

“Don’t you like the assignment?”

“It’s definitely not that.”

“Then what? Don’t you think you can handle the work?” Crawford challenged.

“No, don’t get me wrong. I’m really excited, but I haven’t been here all that long.”

“The work you’ll be doing could be done by a first-year law student, and you’re up here because one of the attorneys on the team that’s prosecuting the FedEx bombers jumped ship without much notice to get rich at one of the big firms.

“Now get settled in. You’re going to have to get a special clearance to work with us. It takes thirty days, but I’ll see about getting it expedited. And I’ll have an STU brought down this afternoon.”

“An STU?”

“Better get up to date on the lingo, Striker. Secure Telecommunications Unit. It’s a computer. Put in a key and press a button, and it scrambles everything around so you can access secure databases. I’d grab a quick lunch if I were you, because someone is going to be piling that empty desk with really boring shit in no time flat.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

D
ana Cutler stopped outside the door to Le Faisan d’Or and tugged self-consciously at the hem of her skirt, the bottom half of her only business suit, a charcoal black, pinstripe Elie Tahari she’d bought on sale. She was wearing the suit with a white silk blouse and a string of tasteful pearls Jake had bought her for her last birthday. Dana knew she looked good in the suit because she’d seen the way men looked at her on the rare occasions she’d had to wear it, but she never felt comfortable in a skirt because it limited her movement in a fight.

Dana was wearing her suit because a certain type of client expected her to dress in a certain way, and she’d guessed that Bobby Schatz fell into that category the moment his secretary had asked her to meet him at Washington’s most exclusive French restaurant.

Dana had never met Schatz, but she’d seen him interviewed on television and read about his cases in the newspaper. And of course, she’d Googled him. All of
Exposed
’s stories about Senator Carson had carried Dana’s byline, and she’d gotten a few clients from the publicity, but none as prestigious as Bobby Schatz. It would be a real coup to investigate a case for him because it would give her instant credibility with all of the heavy hitters in town. She’d also heard that he paid top dollar, and Dana could definitely use the money.

The maître d’s face lit up when Dana told him that she was a guest of Bobby Schatz. He asked her to follow him, and Dana spotted Schatz when she was halfway across the dimly lit dining room. The celebrity lawyer was sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant, sporting his trademark bow tie and wearing a satisfied grin. The media described him as self-indulgent, and photographs of his riverfront mansion and expensive cars supported the conclusion. Dana imagined Schatz leaning back after his meal and sipping a snifter of outrageously expensive Cognac before lighting up an illegally imported Cuban cigar while the maître d’, who had received a shockingly large tip, ignored this violation of the D.C. antismoking code.