The Accused (24 page)

“Well, take pages one-hundred-twenty to one-hundred-twenty-one, as an example,” Linton replied. “You've got this stuff from Agabba talking about some supposed American drug dealer by the name of Rusty Black. I don't know who this guy is. Maybe he's imaginary—maybe he's a cartoon character—maybe he's a real guy that Agabba wants to pay back—and he's an innocent American. Whatever the fact, the business about this Rusty Black guy is absolutely irrelevant and immaterial, even under your own theory about a pattern of terrorism. There's simply no need to be talking about some American citizen dealing drugs. That has nothing to do with this case.”

Will reflected on the other man's comment for a few seconds. Then he came to two conclusions.

First, Linton was probably correct. The questions and answers about Rusty Black, his connection with the AAJ, and his ties to Mexico as well as Sudan could probably not be justified under any of the issues of the lawsuit.

And Will had also come to a second conclusion. Linton's concern about the Rusty Black testimony was being driven by something. It didn't seem likely that the government of Sudan had any real interest in an American drug dealer—although Will could not be positive about that. But assuming that was true, why did Linton want to protect the Rusty Black–AAJ–Mexico connection?

“Okay, Cesar, I'll tell you what I will do,” Will said. “I will
consider
striking pages one-twenty and one-twenty-one,
if
—and only if—you agree we can use the other pages of the deposition that relate to terrorist organizations in general operating within Sudan, and you will not object.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Will,” Linton replied. “I'll think about it. You think about it. I'll get back to you in a couple days and we'll see if we can do business. Okay?”

By the time Will hung up the phone Hilda had opened the door to his office and was waving frantically to him.

“Something important, Will—somebody out here in the lobby…”

Will held up his hand to Hilda as he called Todd Furgeson, his junior associate, to do a quick research matter for him.

“This is Will. Do me a favor, will you? Check in Martindale-Hubbell for the listing of Cesar Linton's law firm down in Miami. Give me a printout of their list of representative clients. I'd like that right away, if you could.”

He turned off the intercom and turned to Hilda.

“Okay, what's the emergency?”

“There's a man out in the lobby—he's from the U.S. Marshal's Service—he's serving a subpoena on you.”

“A subpoena? On me?”

She nodded vigorously.

He stepped out into the lobby, where the process server handed him a folded piece of paper with one hand and held out the original in the other.

“Mr. Chambers, as agent and attorney for Colonel Caleb Marlowe, United States Marine Corps, you are hereby served with a subpoena to appear at the time and place indicated to give testimony before a subcommittee of the United States Congress, the Senate Select Subcommittee on the American Response to Terrorism in Mexico.”

The process server placed the folded paper in Will's hand, turned, and left the office.

The attorney opened the subpoena and quickly scanned the subject matter of his testimony. It involved all aspects of the incident at Chacmool, Mexico, “including, but not limited to, the activities of the American military, and the involvement of Colonel Caleb Marlowe and members of his commando unit.”

Hilda must have noticed his stunned look because she quickly asked whether he was all right.

He nodded and glanced back at the subpoena. Then he noticed the name of the chairman of the subcommittee—and gave a wry chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.

There it was, as clear as day—Senator Jason Bell Purdy, Chairman of the Senate Select Subcommittee.

He passed the subpoena over to his secretary.

“Take a look at this—notice any names that look familiar? Look at the bottom, at the name of the chairman.”

“Jason Bell Purdy—we know this guy, don't we?” Hilda asked. “What was that case where he was involved…sort of indirectly, I think. At least his name came up. Wait a minute—it was that custody case you handled down in Georgia, right?”

Will smiled and nodded.

With the subpoena in his hand he stepped into his office, closed the door, and quickly dialed legal counsel for the senate subcommittee at the number indicated at the bottom of the document.

One of the lawyers answered the phone, and he referred Will to the chief legal counsel—an attorney by the name of Ralph Vetter. After a few minutes attorney Vetter answered the phone.

“Don't you guys usually give a letter of introduction and a few phone calls as a way of getting a witness for one of your subcommittees—rather than just dropping a subpoena on a private attorney?” Will asked.

“I do apologize for that,” Vetter said. “Yes, normally we do that—use the informal route—but we're really pressed for time. We're cranking up the subcommittee rather quickly, and the exigencies of the schedule made that impractical. But I was planning on giving you a call. I'm sorry the subpoena reached you before I could contact you informally.”

“Well, courtesy aside, I have some vehement objections to the scope of the subpoena.”

“Like?”

“Well, let's begin with the attorney–client privilege. Most of what you're asking about—the basis of my knowledge of what went on down in Chacmool, Mexico—is based on my representation of Colonel Caleb Marlowe. I will not respond to questions that pierce the attorney–client relationship.”

“I certainly understand that,” Vetter said reassuringly. “I'm sure we can work out some middle ground on this.”

The subcommittee counsel then suggested that Will submit himself to questioning on everything except direct conversations between
him and his client concerning the Chacmool incident. But Will felt that was too broad. He argued for a much more restrictive focus in his testimony.

After fifteen minutes of wrangling, the subcommittee attorney conceded the point.

Will and Vetter finally agreed that the scope of his testimony would pertain
only
to matters contained in the transcript of the Article 32 hearing. Will asked the subcommittee counsel to draft a letter documenting their agreement on the very limited scope of his testimony.

After he hung up with Vetter, he buzzed Hilda and asked her to get Major Hanover at Quantico on the line for him. Will wanted to find out if his co-counsel in the Marlowe case had been served with a subpoena himself—or whether he had any information on what the subcommittee might be looking for.

Todd, Will's junior associate, breezed into the room with a printout from Martindale-Hubbell.

“Here's the listing of representative clients for Cesar Linton's law firm.”

Will glanced down the list of corporate and institutional clients. Then his eyes fixed on two entries. He circled one of them.

Todd bent down and took a look at the circled name.

“Global Petroleum—is that an important name?”

Will nodded. “Yes it is—it's owned by someone that I've met in the past.”

“Who?”

“A renegade billionaire by the name of Warren Mullburn.”

“Yeah. He's the guy who was in the news a couple of months ago. He's over in Switzerland. I think they're asking him to come to the United States for some investigation. Right?”

Will nodded again. He glanced back at the list and circled a second name. It was Nuevo Petróleo Nacional de México—subsidiary of New Century Oil.

The younger attorney glanced down at the name that Will had just circled.

“And what's the deal with that company?”

Will was silent for a moment as he studied the name, and then he answered quietly.

“I'm really not sure. Let's just call it a hunch.”

39

W
ILL WAS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE
, his hands clasped around his coffee cup, his eyes looking at some indistinct, distant point on the horizon. Fiona's left hand was on his shoulder, and with her right hand she was filling his cup from the pot.

“So you were telling me,” she said, “that a name surfaced in this Sudan case—someone connected with the case you handled for Da?”

“Right. Mullburn. Warren Mullburn.”

“The billionaire? The one you met face-to-face?”

Will nodded and took a swig of his coffee.

“Yes. Out at his mansion in the Nevada desert outside of Las Vegas.”

“That place with the strange name, right?”

“Yes—‘Utopia,' ” Will noted. “Anyway, his name came up—well, not exactly his name. The Miami lawyer who's on the other side of our Sudan case also happens to represent one of Mullburn's companies.”

Fiona sat down across the table and studied Will carefully.

“So, what does this mean?” she asked.

“Probably nothing. It's just that Mullburn is a very dangerous man.”

“You still see him as a danger to
you?
” Fiona asked with a tinge of incredulity in her voice.

“You want me to be honest?” her husband responded. Then he motioned with both hands to the kitchen around them.

“Look around,” he said, not able to keep from going over the ground they'd covered before. “I love this place. We built it together. But remember what was here before this house was built? An antebellum Southern mansion. A house that was burnt to the ground. The police know it was arson. I know it was arson. And I will believe, until my dying day, that Warren Mullburn was connected to that. During
your father's case I got too close to some of Mullburn's dealings…and somebody wanted to put me away.”

“Look,” Fiona said gingerly, but with some skepticism, “if I had gone through some of the things that you did, I'd probably feel the same. But they never found any proof it was Mullburn—right?”

Her husband nodded.

Then Fiona's expression changed. Her lips tightened slightly and she rested her cheek in her hand as she spoke.

“You know what I think? I think Mullburn's name took you back to when the old mansion stood on this hill. And then you thought about the years you spent in that house—the years you spent with Audra. And then you thought about her death. And it put you back into the same emotional nosedive. Am I right?”

Will shook his head.

“No…not at all. Really, darling—you're wrong about that. It's a practical issue. Mullburn's name…the name of his company comes up. I think about him. I think about what it might mean to the case. I think about his power, his money, and his twisted motives. The guy is evil. We've talked about it before. Why can't you see that?”

At first Fiona flushed with hurt and anger. But she took a deep breath, reached over the table, grabbed her husband's hand, and squeezed it.

“All right. Let's talk plainly here. You were up in the middle of the night again, weren't you?”

Will eyed her a little sheepishly.

“I was hoping I didn't wake you up.”

“So…three-thirty in the morning you get up and you walk out into the great room. And you pace—you look out the window. You don't think I know what's going on? So tell me—what were you thinking about?”

Will shook his head and gave her the kind of look that passersby give as they drive by a car wreck on the highway.

“Nothing specific. Indistinct. My mind races…I guess I keep hanging on to this—digging my fingers into it. It's as if there's this other guy, somebody out there walking around on the streets…somebody named Damon Lynch. It's as if I need to get to this guy before he can get to Audra. But…we both know that to think things like that is just crazy. Audra's dead. I've moved on, and the Lord has led me to
you. You're the best thing, Fiona darling, that ever happened in my life. When I committed my life to Christ—when everything turned around—I thought all the ghosts were gone. But that's not the case…not entirely. It's like I have this road I've got to walk—I've got to walk through the valley of the dead. As if there's something out there that needs to be overcome. Something that needs to be conquered.”

“Something…like what?” she asked quietly.

“I've spent my whole life as a trial lawyer. I like my adversaries across the table from me, where I can see them…on the other side of the courtroom—where I can size them up and take them on. But I'm beginning to think there's an enemy that isn't like that. Something else I need to vanquish. But I'm not quite sure what…it's like God is sitting there looking at me from his throne room. He's saying,
You can choose to win this struggle—you can shake this business about Audra's murder—and your feelings about the men who did it. I've given you the power to do it. Now it's up to you, though. You don't have to make the choice. But it begins in the quiet center of your will. And that's where it gets tough.”