When The Devil Whistles (30 page)

“Why not?”

“Because we’re withdrawing from representing you and Devil to Pay, and I’ve been ordered to put the name of a Devil to Pay officer—and you’re the only one—in the withdrawal papers. So your name is going to come out anyway and… Well, that was a nice idea you had, but let’s just stick with you testifying for us and talking to the Kansas police.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had finally worked up the courage and resolve to do what she knew in her very marrow was the right thing and Connor was trying to talk her out of it? This was the guy who never met a dirty company he didn’t want to spank with a battle-ax. And now he was telling her to walk away from what could be the dirtiest company she had ever found. Who slipped the wimp pills into his coffee this morning? “Are you serious? What about Deep Seven? Didn’t you beat my head in about two weeks ago because I’d screwed up any chance that DOJ would investigate them? Well,
I
want to investigate them now.”

He gave a small shrug. “I’m sorry, but that’s the firm’s decision. I don’t have any choice.”

“I thought you said we always have choices, but they’re not always easy.”

He flushed and shifted in his chair. “That’s true, but this isn’t really my choice. It’s the firm’s.”

“But don’t they usually let you make decisions about your own cases?”

“Yeah, but I don’t exactly have a lot of clout with management right now—and I think you know why.”

That shot went home, but she didn’t give up. “Can’t you at least talk to them?”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Long seconds ticked by. “I’ll talk to them. I haven’t decided what I’m going to say, but I’ll talk to them.”

50

C
HO DID HIS BEST TO HIDE HIS TENSION AS HE AND
M
R
. L
EE WATCHED
Jenkins and Kang at the ROV controls. Seeing them in Granger’s and Daniels’s places was a daily reminder of the failure of his last tactic—and of how close he was to losing the war all together. But that was not why he was tense.

He cleared his mind and focused on what was happening in front of him. Jenkins was “flying” and Kang controlled the manipulator arm and other devices in the “tool sled.” The manipulator arm held a slender, but very strong, loop of cable. The other end of the cable was attached to the
Grasp II
’s powerful crane.

The plan was for Jenkins to fly the ROV down to one of the missile tubes that lay on the sea floor in the wreckage of the submarine. Each tube contained a massive R-39 missile. An R-39 weighed ninety tons, which was too heavy for the ship’s crane to lift. Kang would use the ROV’s hydraulic grinder to detach the missile’s MIRV housing (which contained its ten warheads) from the rest of the rocket. Kang would then slip the cable around the warheads and secure it with clamps. Other team members would reel in their prize while the ROV monitored its trip to the surface for any problems.

To Cho’s surprise, Jenkins and Kang had actually made good progress. After several days of tedious work, they had managed to slice through the missile tubing and the missile itself. Now the MIRV housing lay on the ocean bottom, wires and tubing dangling from an uneven cut. It was a little over two meters wide and four meters long, and it looked vaguely like the severed head of a giant robot.

Today would be the day of truth. They would hook the cable to the MIRV housing and bring it back from its watery grave to the sunlit world.

In preparation for this crucial moment, they had done two practice lifts with pieces of scrap metal lying on the bottom. Every inch of the lift cable had been inspected twice. So had the crane.

The ROV cable, however, had not.

Jenkins took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. “All right, here we go. Ready?”

“Ready,” replied Kang.

The dark water on the video screens gave way to images of the wrecked sub as the ROV closed in on its target. “I’m going to set her down in the debris field one meter in front of the MIRV housing,” Jenkins announced.

Cho felt his hands perspiring and put them in his pockets. Just a tug, that’s all he needed. If only the cable looping up from the ROV would catch for a moment—a slight snag on a rock or some wreckage, even a strong current. The cable would snap and the ROV would become a permanent part of the wreckage on the bottom.

A small cloud of silt flew up as Jenkins landed the ROV on the sea floor. It floated away, giving a clear view of the dark metal cylinder in front of them.

Kang moved the manipulator arm slowly out and pushed the lift cable underneath the MIRV housing. It was slow, painstaking work. Kang hunched over the controls and sweat began to bead on his forehead.

After half an hour of trying to get the cable in exactly the right position, he leaned back and stretched. His tattoos danced as the muscles writhed beneath his skin. “It is stuck. Please to move ROV to left side.”

Jenkins lifted the ROV off the bottom and flew it around the side of the missile section. The ROV was quite close to the side of the missile. With any luck, the cable would be pulled against the corner for an instant and—

The video screens all turned to static. Kang cursed in Korean and Jenkins shouted inarticulately.

Mr. Lee stepped forward. “What happened? Tell me!”

Jenkins’s head swiveled from side to side as he looked at different monitors and tried various controls. “We’ve lost contact with the ROV. It suddenly went dead.”

“What? How did this happen?”

Jenkins gave up and turned around. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’d better bring it back up.”

The four men went up to the deck and watched as the ROV’s crane reeled in meters of dripping cable. Then suddenly the cable ended in a frayed wisp of wire and plastic.

Jenkins and Kang cursed anew. Cho slammed his fist into his hand and exulted silently. Mr. Lee merely looked at the ragged end of the cable in silence. Then he expelled a sharp breath through his mouth and shook his head once. “Bring up the lift cable.”

Jenkins and Kang hurried to carry out the order. The crane came to life and the ship shifted slightly as the lift cable started coming up. Mr. Lee walked over to the railing and leaned over, his eyes intent on the cable coming out of the dark water. Cho joined him and the two men stared in silence as long minutes dragged past.

A shadow appeared in the depths. Cho held his breath. He could feel Mr. Lee’s arm beside him, taut and quivering.

A form slowly materialized in the water, growing more distinct as it came closer to the surface. It was a dark cylinder, about two meters in diameter and four meters long, hanging at an angle where it had snagged on the loop of lift cable.

Mr. Lee laughed and embraced Cho. “At last, at last! We hold victory in the palm of our hand!”

51

Y
OU WANTED TO TALK TO ME ABOUT SOMETHING CONFIDENTIAL BEFORE
Monday’s ExComm meeting?” Tom Concannon leaned his elbows on his antique mahogany desk and steepled his fingers. “What’s up?”

“It’s about Allie Whitman and Devil to Pay,” Connor replied.

Tom frowned. “I was afraid you were going to say that. There’s nothing to talk about. We’re withdrawing.”

“I know that’s the plan. You convinced me it’s the right one too. But there have been some new developments.” He related Allie’s plan to go back into Deep Seven. “So I’m wondering if maybe we should reconsider.”

Tom shook his head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. Think about how bad that would be for us, Connor.” He started ticking off points on his fingers, which he usually only did when talking to mentally challenged junior associates or paralegals. “One, we’re litigating against Deep Seven. Two, she’s talking about snooping around in their files. Three, you’re talking about representing her while she does it. Don’t you realize how incredibly stupid that would be? How many rules we’d break if we sent our client—who, by the way, we’ve already admitted we can’t ethically represent—on an end run around their lawyers to do some freelance discovery? We’d be lucky to keep our bar licenses.”

“But she wouldn’t be doing freelance discovery. She’d be looking into something completely separate from Deep Seven’s case against us, and—”

“You really think Judge Bovarnick would believe that? She would crucify you, Connor. And she’d crucify every member of this firm right beside you. Our next partnership meeting would look like the last scene from
Spartacus
. And you know what? We’d deserve it.”

Connor nodded. “I understand where you’re coming from, Tom. I really do. Protecting the firm is important to me too, but it’s not the only thing that’s important. We’ve got a client who’s trying to do something that—in my very strong opinion—needs doing. Do I completely trust her? No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least look at ways we can help her.”

“Just because something needs doing doesn’t mean we have to put our necks on the line to make sure it gets done. I appreciate your moral stance. You’re the conscience of the firm in some ways. But we have to pick our fights. We have to practice the art of the possible. This just isn’t possible, Connor.” He paused and smiled paternally. “Now go and find something that needs doing and won’t give ExComm or our malpractice insurer heartburn.”

“That sounds like something my father would say.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgment. “Thanks, I’ve always admired the Senator.”

Connor sat at a table by the window of his church’s cafe, taking in the view of the parking structure. He drummed the fingers of his left hand spasmodically on the window sill until a woman at the next table glanced over to see what was making the noise. He stretched his face into an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I should have quit after the second espresso.”

He dropped his hand beneath the table and turned back to the window, his chin cupped in his right hand. His left hand curled into a fist in his lap. He didn’t like the idea of walking away from Allie when she needed to be helped. And he really didn’t like the idea of walking away from Deep Seven when they needed to be hurt.

On the other hand, if he
didn’t
walk away from them, he’d be in for a world of hurt himself. He’d be forced out of the firm as soon as ExComm could arrange a meeting. After that, things could get really ugly. He couldn’t ethically keep representing her now that he knew the lawsuit was a fraud. And Tom was right about how Judge Bovarnick would react if Deep Seven caught Allie. The judge would refer him to the state bar, and he’d probably get disciplined. Maybe even disbarred. There would probably even be some sneering press coverage—his father’s old political enemies would see to that.

Then it would be over and his legal career would be history. He’d have to pick up the pieces and find something else to do with his life. He had a vision of himself as a parasite living off the Lamont-Norman family fortune and telling half-lies at cocktail parties: “I’m a philanthropist” or “I’m a writer” or “I do charity work.” The sorts of things rich failures say. His stomach churned.