Ground Truth (5 page)

Chapter 9

June 4

9:45 a.m.

AT NINE FORTY-FIVE Sunday morning, San Francisco’s city center was eerily empty. Instead of sidewalks crowded with well-dressed businessmen and women, the few people in sight looked like tourists wandering in search of a Starbucks-and-New-York-Times fix.

Jack turned off Fremont into the underground parking garage at 333 Market Street. He easily located the prime parking spaces bearing signs with “Sinclair & Simms, LLC” in gold letters.

“May I help you, sir?” The guard at the Shorenstein Security desk in the wall-to-wall marble lobby asked softly. The words were civil, but came across as a challenge.

“Jack Strider. Here to see Mr. Sinclair. Sinclair & Simms.”

The guard nodded toward the bank of elevators. “Number three is waiting for you.”

As soon as he stepped in, the door closed, and the car began to rise. When the door slid open on the 54th floor, he was inside the S & S office. It was even grander than he’d expected: a foyer the size of a tennis court, polished black marble, antique Persian rugs, and acres of etched glass. The leather smelled like its color—butterscotch. The paintings were worthy of hanging in the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park.

This firm was a newcomer by San Francisco standards, so this display was to persuade prospective clients that the firm had been in business since the Gold Rush.

He glanced at his watch. It read ten a.m. exactly.

From a broad hallway to Jack’s left, Justin Sinclair strode into sight wearing gray trousers, a white turtleneck, and a Whitbread International Race windbreaker. His bright blue eyes, deep set beneath shaggy brows, white hair worn in a ruff like a male lion, and craggy features gave him a remarkable resemblance to the late Charlton Heston. He’d been quoted as saying the comparison should run in the other direction. He had to be about 6’4” because they stood eye to eye.

“Good to meet you, Jack.” As his right hand stretched forward to shake, his left hand gripped Jack’s right wrist, a smooth move Jack associated with many politicians. “Sam told me all about you.”

Jack heard the slight emphasis on the word “all.”

“Good to meet you too, sir.”

“Thanks for coming in on a Sunday morning. I’d be playing golf, but I have to prepare for an important negotiation first thing tomorrow. That’s life in the private sector. Not like the university.”

Sinclair led him down a corridor whose carpet was so thick it felt like a wrestling mat underfoot. Photographs of a pantheon of business tycoons, politicians and dictators lined the walls. Justin Sinclair was in every one.

“We call this a ‘love me’ wall, Jack. We like reminders of the old days.” He dismissed it with a backhanded wave.

They turned into an immense corner office. Straight ahead, a commanding view across San Francisco Bay seemed to stretch north to the wine country and east to the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Every vertical surface that was not floor-to-ceiling glass was covered with plaques, images, and mementoes. A series of photos mounted in a row showed Justin Sinclair in the Oval Office being smiled at by three successive presidents. In others, he was delivering an address to the UN General Assembly and relaxing in the late Chief Justice Renquist’s private office. Jack noticed that the photos were at least ten years old, some much older. It looked as if Sinclair’s life in the spotlight had stopped when his term as Secretary of State ended.

Some men covered walls with the heads of beasts they’d killed. Sinclair’s trophies were the heads of fellow humans. Jack suddenly understood that he was standing
inside
a trophy case. Prospective clients ushered into this sanctum couldn’t miss Sinclair’s message that he was a man of power and influence.

At Sinclair’s gesture, they settled into a pair of overstuffed chairs, but instead of talking business, Sinclair began to reminisce, pointing out items around the room that represented high points in his career. “I’ve had a lot of good fortune in my life, but the crown jewel was my term at State. We were handed a God-awful mess. Pulling America back together wasn’t easy. I can’t count how many problems we took care of that would have scared the hell out of the public if we’d ever let them break the surface.”

“The old Soviet Union was still quite a threat then,” Jack said.

“A walk in the park compared to the Middle East. If I hadn’t held the Israelis back, they’d have bombed Syria, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, and that would have dragged us into a war for sure. We stopped that, and the public never knew. Think about that goddamned Kissinger stealing the Nobel Peace Prize in ’73 without even getting a damned peace. They gave it to him because he talked as if he were Moses and knew things nobody else could understand. Everybody knows I
earned
the Nobel I never got.” He leaned over and jammed his cigar into the ashtray so hard the wrapper burst.

Obviously, Kissinger’s ghostly presence had shattered Sinclair’s amiable mood, because he abruptly shifted his attention to the point of the meeting.

“Look here, Jack, I understand you’ve left Stanford Law and want a job here. Do I have that right?”

“Your firm has a fine reputation and—”

“Yes, yes, we both know that. You’re here because Sam Butler asked me to talk with you. Thing is, I’m not a sentimental man. We don’t have a bunch of school kids here who think the professor is the source of all knowledge. We swim with sharks, and I’m a hell of a lot tougher to work for than some bureaucratic Dean. Frankly, I don’t know whether you can cut it. Plus you’re carrying a lot of baggage. I know you understand my position.”

Although Jack retained his outward expression of calm, he was confused. What was going on? Butler had told him an offer was a sure thing, that Sinclair & Simms would feel lucky to get him. Now it sounded as if Sinclair was leading up to a brush-off.

“But,” Sinclair went on, “I need to fill a gap in our international corporate division. In other words, you’ve got the job.”

That was more like it
. “What kind of gap are you looking to fill?”

“Two of your specialties, environmental law and water law. When the
New York Times
rants about companies polluting the planet, they’re often talking about our clients. So we can use your strong reputation for environmental, shall we say, sensitivity. You’ll be front and center whenever one of our clients gets hauled up before the Environmental Protection Agency, state attorneys general, that sort of thing.”

That was a slow pitch over the center of the plate, even though his way of dealing with clients’ environmental violations might not be what Sinclair was used to. “I can handle—”

“In the area of water law,” Sinclair interrupted, “I see an increasing load of major conflicts coming up. I want to be ready.”

“Exactly right. Before long, water will be the hottest commodity in the world. The first water wars have already started between nations, cities and states, farmers and manufacturers, and the rest, over who owns water rights. Everyone will be suing everyone for destroying water resources.”

“Exactly. My goal is to be ready to represent our clients.
Damn!”
He pointed at the Bay. “Look at that schooner out near Alcatraz, flying like a bat out of hell.” He looked back at Jack. “Where was I? Oh yes, so that’s what you can expect. On the big ones, you’ll report directly to me. Understood?”

“Yes, of course.”

He hadn’t known what to expect from Sinclair, but he certainly wasn’t getting much respect. Still, he reminded himself, signing on with Sinclair & Simms was the best move he had right now. The California Supreme Court would still be an option when the vacancy came up.

“That’s it then. I’ll put the word out that I’m your godfather, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you succeed. One warning, and hear me well on this. If something comes up later that makes you a liability to the firm, I’ll have to cut you loose. It’s just business.
Capisce?”

Oh, yeah, he got the message
. “Nothing else will come up, Mr. Secretary.”

“I wish I were still ‘Mr. Secretary.’” He looked out the window. “Those were good days. People don’t talk about patriotism anymore, not fashionable I guess. But I’m the biggest flag-waving patriot you’ll ever meet. I’ve always done what’s best for my country.”

Sinclair picked up an envelope and handed it to him. “This contains the terms of your employment. Your salary is triple what it was at the law school. You come in as a partner, but on probation until I see how you do.”

They shook hands, ending the meeting. Jack walked down the long hall alone.

Probation
? Sinclair had treated him like he’d just passed the Bar exam yesterday. Instead of a leisurely conversation with the famous politician and superstar lawyer, he’d gotten a monologue and disrespectful dismissal. He should have tossed the envelope on the desk and salvaged his pride. But Sinclair was a big name, and S & S was the only ticket he had to the big show. Somehow, he’d make it pay off. He’d be damned if he’d let Peck destroy his Supreme Court dream.

Number three elevator waited, door open.

BACK ON THE Stanford campus, Jack walked into Dean Thompson’s office and dropped his letter of resignation on the desk. He didn’t sit, and Thompson didn’t stand. Thompson scanned the letter and looked up. He had to be worried that Jack was going to tear into him. As soon as he sensed that wasn’t Jack’s intention, he relaxed. If he was embarrassed by having denied Jack the chairmanship of the department, he concealed it behind a grave look on his smooth, round face. He thanked Jack for his service to the law school and started a blatantly insincere attempt to get him to reconsider leaving. He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw the dark expression on Jack’s face.

The meeting lasted less than three minutes, and even that was too long for Jack.

When he left his office for the last time at the end of the week, the halls were empty. Everyone was in the city or the wine country or at the beach. Without a single person to say ‘good-bye’ to, he left the only professional home he’d ever known. He didn’t feel as if a new dawn was breaking. He felt more like there were black clouds overhead, that a thunder and lightning storm was about to cut loose.

Chapter 10

June 12

10:00 a.m.

IT WAS JACK’S sixth day at Sinclair & Simms. He was working in an office full of expensive furniture and no personality, like a place kept for lawyers visiting from out-of-town. He’d hung the obligatory diplomas and certificates and added his three-foot-square Cibachrome print of
Simba,
but had done nothing more to make this place his own.

Peck had committed suicide less than two weeks ago, and thoughts about that traumatic experience sometimes prevented Jack from keeping his head in the game. When that happened, he shook his head and concentrated on the work in front of him. At the moment, he was drafting a licensing agreement for NorCal Power to import tidal turbine technology from a firm in Holland when the phone rang.

“It’s District Attorney Calder, sir,” his temporary secretary said.

“Please put him on.”

“Good morning, Mr. Strider. I’d like you to meet me at the Park Pacifica Riding Academy in Hillsborough at five o’clock today. It’s important.”

“Of course, but why at a riding academy?”

“I bought a show horse for my daughter, and I’ve never seen her ride him. She’s training this afternoon, so I can kill two birds with one shot. See you there.”

During the next six hours, Jack thought about the upcoming meeting. Calder’s staff must have gone through all of Peck’s files by now, so Calder would be ready to back off. The price Jack had paid for Peck’s crimes had been heavy, but at least it wouldn’t get worse.

During the drive down the peninsula to Hillsborough the air began to smell fresher, the sky looked bluer.

He was a few minutes early, so he sat in the top row of bleachers looking down at the sawdust and dirt ring where six teenage girls were being instructed by a young man in a black turtleneck. Hooves thudded rhythmically as horses circled the ring. The musky smell of sweat was laced with the sharp tang of urine.

He spotted Calder entering the far end of the arena and saw him catch the eye of a girl with long black braids, wearing a red T-shirt. She smiled, and then her attention went back to her instructor.

Calder climbed the bleacher steps to where Jack waited.

“Mr. Strider,” he said brusquely and sat down. “I’ve had my best men investigating the circumstances of H. Peckford Strider’s death. Now I’m going to tell you what we’ve learned, part of it anyway.
Pacific Dawn
started its final voyage from the port of Salina Cruz, Mexico, a refinery town south of Acapulco. It was loaded with tin, zinc, and sugar. Even though your father owned that ship, we still can’t prove he was criminally responsible for the deaths on board. In fact, he had structured his whole importing business to avoid personal liability for anything. So the million dollar question is why would he kill himself?”

“I’ve asked myself that a hundred times,” Jack confessed. “The only answer I’ve come up with is that he was a respected judge about to be tainted by a tragic event. He’d have been humiliated. Maybe that was more than he could take.”

“You’re wrong.
Pacific Dawn
had made many trips carrying human cargo, so I decided to find out what had happened to all the people who had reached San Francisco alive. The ship’s crew couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us anything except that vehicles showed up to take the human cargo away. So I started over, looking at everything we had. I found out that my investigator who examined your father’s home computer had been blocked by password protection. I brought in our IT specialist to break through the password. That gave us access to almost all of the folders, and we found nothing useful in any of them. According to the IT guy, your father must have had a professional encrypt the remaining three folders. It took quite a while for my man to decipher the encryption, but he finally cracked it.” Calder paused and studied the girls cantering around the perimeter of the ring, and then looked back, eyes full of contempt. “That’s how I found out why your father pulled the trigger.”

The sounds of the arena vanished from Jack’s consciousness. Calder’s tone warned him to brace himself.

“It’s all there,” Calder said. “Peck Strider bought girls in Mexico and brought them to San Francisco, Sacramento and San Jose. They were kept in secret dormitories with handlers who raped them repeatedly to break them down, to control them. Then they were delivered to johns and special parties. They were little girls, mostly under fourteen. The computer memory held photographs of them having sex with—well, it was revolting.” Calder’s eyes glittered with hostility.

“Shut up!”
Not my father
. Jack slammed his fist on the bench. Kids in the arena looked up at him, startled. He glared at Calder, willing him to back down.

Calder was unfazed. “That computer was a cesspool, including an e-mail your father sent to a man in Salina Cruz. Your father threatened to stop buying from the man if he kept sending girls who had contracted HIV. That means those girls have been spreading the virus all over the Bay Area. Maybe some of the judge’s buddies at the yacht club who sent gin and tonics over to his table got HIV from his little girls.”

“I don’t believe you. My father would never have been involved in any of that.” He didn’t believe Calder because he
couldn’t
.

“You will. In my office I told you we had an autopsy performed on your father, but I hadn’t received the results at that time. When I got them they showed that he had HIV. He knew that if he were jailed he’d be given a physical that would reveal HIV. So in addition to human trafficking, the world, including other inmates, would know he’d been having sex with girls under 14 years old.
That’s
why he killed himself.”

Calder’s words entered Jack’s ears, but his brain couldn’t make sense of them. Then he remembered Peck saying to Anita, ‘I’m afraid you’re already a dead woman.’ That meant . . . Dear God, it couldn’t be! Peck had known he was HIV positive, and he’d had sex with Anita anyway. Anita had schemed to make a killing by marrying Peck. Instead, he had doomed her.

“Normally,” Calder said, “I wouldn‘t reveal this much about an ongoing investigation. In this case I want you to know I intend to prove you made blood money out of this. I will never drop this investigation.”

Calder stopped and looked at his wristwatch. Then he said, “Right about now, vice squads are raiding those dormitories to rescue what’s left of the . . . girls.” His voice choked off for several seconds. “This will be on every front page and on every television news program in California tomorrow. I want everyone who might be infected to get the warning.” He stared at Jack with what felt like X-ray vision, then stood. “Does it sound like I’m taking this personally? I damn sure am. See my daughter down there? She’s the same age as those poor girls who—”

He was so furious he couldn’t finish. He started down the stairs, then turned back to face Jack. “When my family emigrated from Mexico, my father changed my name from Ricardo Calderon Ramirez to Rick Calder. Bastards like your father have exploited my people for decades. It’s payback time.”

Calder’s animosity was like a heat wave. Peck had done the crime but, if Calder got his way, Jack would do the time.