The Last Justice (13 page)

As he went from file to file, Seabury thought about the years he had spent working the case. Although they had won at trial, the case was living up to the adage "Winning the case is one thing, collecting on the judgment is another." And the Hassans always seemed one step ahead of Seabury's team of U.S. and foreign lawyers and asset trackers. Lawyers on Seabury's team had speculated that someone on the inside at the firm was feeding information to the Hassans, but Seabury had always brushed off such talk as paranoia or frustration. But McKenna's call gave him a jolt. If the commission actually thought the brothers would murder to protect their assets, the idea that they would pay someone at the firm to leak information no longer seemed far-fetched. And McKenna's call had reminded him of an odd encounter he'd had two months ago when he returned to the office late after a client dinner and found a junior associate rifling through his desk. The associate had explained that he had run out of redaction tape needed for an emergency document production and was looking in all the nearby offices. Seabury had scolded the young associate but had not thought much else of it-hadn't asked for his name and didn't really care.

But tonight Seabury had decided to look further. After a bit of digging through the files, he found the conflict memo discussing screening procedures for the former Supreme Court clerk.

"Douglas Pratt," he said aloud, vaguely remembering the name. Hurrying back to his office, he logged on to the firm's intranet and pulled up the guy's picture and bio.

"Fuck," he said, looking at the computer monitor.

Gazing back at him from the screen was the associate he had found in his office that night. Seabury's emotions went from anger to concern. Concern for his clients in the Hassan case. Concern for the firm. He picked up his desk phone and called the home of one of his partners.

"Stan, it's me."

"What's up, Jake? Everything okay?" He could hear Chicago blues music playing in the background.

"No. I think you've been right all along about the Hassans."

"Hold on one minute, Jake ..." Seabury could hear Stan shushing someone in the background. "Sorry about that. I was right? Right about what?"

"We may have a leak at the firm."

10:05p.m. ConnecticutAvenue, Washington,

he white Pontiac pulled off an unlit exit ramp from Rock Creek Parkway onto Connecticut Avenue. McKenna followed at a distance on the motorcycle, trailing it to a parking lot near the Cleveland Park metro station. Wedging the bike into the small space between two cars parked along a row of restaurants and bars, he watched the mustached man with the black leather jacket, who had taunted Liddy Kincaid with the envelope back at the Rock Creek stables, walk into a crowded bar.

McKenna decided to follow. As he approached the door to the bar, his cell phone rang.

"Hello," he said as he entered the bar.

"Where are you?" Kate said.

"At a bar in Cleveland Park. It's called Martini Park," he said, as he walked to the back of the bar. It was a long, narrow place lined with orange couches with lime green pillows.

"I know the place. I'll be right there."

"No, you shouldn't-" McKenna said, but she had hung up. Her condo wasn't far away, but she did not say where she was calling from.

The mustached man was sitting at a table in the back, talking with a short balding guy who looked like George Costanza from the old television show Seinfeld.

Finding a stool at the bar, McKenna positioned himself so that he could watch the two men without being noticed. After wistfully eyeing the bottles lined up behind the bar, he ordered a club soda.

The two men were drinking highballs, leaning toward each other as if speaking softly amid the noisy crowd. Then the man with the mustache took something from his pocket and shook Costanza's hand, passing it. They drank another round and then, finally, got up to leave.

McKenna followed them casually out of the bar, working his way through the crowd. As the men reached the door, Kate walked in, wearing the jeans and sweatshirt and ball cap she had on earlier in the day. Just inside the door, McKenna took her gently by the arm and escorted her out.

"What is it?" she said.

He cocked his chin at the men, and then led her to the motorcycle, where they watched George Costanza disappear into the subway entrance, while the mustached man walked to his Pontiac. The mustached man did not get in but leaned against the side of the car. A black SUV pulled up, and he seemed to have a conversation with the driver. Then the SUV pulled away, and the mustached man got in his Pontiac and pulled into traffic onto Connecticut.

"We can split up and follow them," Kate offered. "I can try and catch the other guy before he gets on a train, you follow the car."

"No," McKenna said. "Hop on."

11:15p.m. Watergate Hotel,

smiling doorman ushered them into the quiet lobby of the Watergate Hotel. The ornate lobby, which like the rest of the hotel had recently undergone a massive renovation, was empty except for a receptionist who was checking in a weary-looking traveler.

"What are we going to do?" Kate asked as they followed the mustached man through the reception area.

"A break-in, of course," McKenna said. "It is the Watergate."

Kate gave a little eye roll but said nothing.

"I want to know which room he's in. It may help identify him later."

As the man with the mustache and black leather jacket approached the bank of elevators, Kate said, "You should wait herehe may recognize you."

"No, it's not safe."

"Just wait," she said, putting her hand on his chest. "I'll be fine."

An elevator dinged, its green-lit arrow pointing up.

"Wait here," she said, hurrying to the elevator and stepping inside just before the doors closed.

The mustached man watched her closely for a moment, then reached toward the elevator buttons and asked, "What floor?"

"Fourteenth floor-looks like you already pushed it," Kate replied staring at the buttons. She could feel him eyeing her up and down. He smelled of cigar smoke.

The doors opened to the fourteenth floor, and the mustached man politely gestured for Kate to exit first, which she did, walking casually in front of him and not looking back when she heard him open the door to a room. When she heard the door click shut, she doubled back toward the elevator, taking note of the man's room number. Then she took the elevator back down to McKenna, who was sitting on a couch in the lobby, looking relieved to see her.

"Room 1412," she said.

"He didn't notice you following him?"

"No. He had no idea."

"Good."

Pulling out his cell phone, McKenna tried his old friend Jake Seabury and was grateful to hear him pick up. "Jake, it's me," he said. "Why'd you hang up

"Jefferson," Seabury interrupted. This would not be good. In the nearly twenty years they had been friends, Seabury had never called him by his proper name. It was always "J" or "the J-man," or "Jackass," but never "Jefferson."

"What is it?"

"I need to make this quick because I'm going to have to tell the authorities you called, and they'll check my line to see how long we talked. I've got only two things to say. First, I think you should turn yourself in. I can't help you or in any way harbor you-I hope you understand. Second, I'm going to tell the authorities to talk to an associate at my firm, a former Supreme Court law clerk named Douglas Pratt. According to the firm directory, Pratt lives at 1000 South Carolina Avenue, Southeast on the Hill. Good luck, Jefferson."The line went dead.

McKenna slipped the phone into his pocket and silently thanked his friend. Seabury had given him information and at the same time provided himself with plausible deniability that he had aided and abetted.

"Did he tell you how Pratt fits into this?" Kate asked as they left the lobby and walked back to the motorcycle.

"No. I don't think he knows." McKenna hit the switch, and the bike's engine roared. "I think you should go home-you need to distance yourself from me. You've done more than anyone could expect."

"I'm coming," she replied, her tone leaving no room for debate. McKenna let it be.

Fifteen minutes later, they motored slowly down South Carolina Avenue in Capitol Hill, looking at addresses of the row houses. A group of young men loitering on a stoop watched as they got off the bike. On the Hill, a safe, family-friendly neighborhood could sometimes be only a street away from drugs and guns.

Finding Pratt's English basement apartment, McKenna and Kate knocked on the door. A twentysomething man in khakis and a polo shirt looked at them through the side window.

"Can I help you?" he said through the window.

Kate held up her justice Department ID, and the man left from the view of the window and opened the door. "Doug Pratt?" she asked. She had told McKenna to follow her lead, and he was happy to.

"No, he isn't here."

"Where can we find him?" Kate asked in a stern tone.

"What's this about?"

"Do you know where he is?" she said, ignoring the question.

"I don't know," he said. "I barely know the guy. I just moved to town and we work at the same law firm. I'm paying him for the room until I find a place."

"What's your name?" Kate asked.

"Pierce Butler."

"Can we come in, Pierce?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. What's this about?"

McKenna was growing impatient and pushed his way past the man. "Place him under arrest," he said.

"Now, wait," Pierce replied, holding his hands up in surrender. "I didn't say no. Fact is, Pratt's been nothing but a pain in my ass since I got to town. He eats all my food, and when we spoke on the phone about renting the room, he said his place was in a great neighborhood-never mentioned the open-air drug market on the same block. And he also didn't mention there wasn't a bed for me."

Pierce continued to rant as McKenna walked past a small living room and down a narrow hallway, leaving Kate to babysit. McKenna peered into the first bedroom, which he assumed was Pierce's because it had only a desk, a sleeping bag balled up on the floor, and three suitcases. He opened the door to the other bedroom, which he thought must be Pratt's. Inside was a bed with a Grateful Dead poster in lieu of a headboard, a dusty dresser, and dirty clothes sprawled all over the floor.