Now she had to start with the first page of her trial journal, and go through every single word of every document, exactly as she had before, but with one vital difference: Before, everything she did was guided by one word—guilty. Now she would review the same material with its opposite—innocent It was like a completely different case.
She looked up at the old Monitor clock on the wall with its slowly wagging pendulum and wondered how much time she had—how much time before Brewer committed himself irrevocably to whatever crime he was planning. Did she have weeks? days? hours?
She also wondered if she was doing this for him or for herself.
She sat at her desk all through the afternoon while jets from Washington National Airport shook her windowpanes. She read the transcripts and the depositions and the other papers that accrue in a trial, searching for some fact or combination of words that would strike a spark of hope.
Hour after hour she sought for something that would indicate he was telling the truth.
She heard the secretaries and the paralegals call goodnight to each other. Several partners pushed their behatted heads into her half-closed door and nodded curtly at her.
She reread a transcript of Marvel’s testimony with close attention. This bothered her. One of them was lying, Marvel or Brewer. As a lawyer she’d been lied to by almost every client—either in a small detail or in a major way. So she had no illusions about Brewer. She’d never forgotten the words of the firm’s senior partner on the day she started her career there.
“Never forget! All men lie. And especially they lie to their lawyers.”
But then explain Marvel. His words, if they were lies, not only jailed Brewer, they had jailed Marvel.
This was shaping up to be the strangest case she’d ever handled. If the facts bore her hypothesis out, then Marvel was the only man she’d ever heard of who’d lied his way into jail.
Enough: At eight o’clock she decided to call it a day. She sat back wearily and looked at the pile of papers from Brewer’s portfolio. An airline ticket stuck out from the bottom and she picked it up. Brewer’s round-trip tickets: Rome to New York, and New York back to Rome. Only the first half of the ticket had been used.
She examined the return ticket. It had been issued through the Washington office of the airline. And for the first time she realized the significance of that. The ticket had been purchased in Washington. Brewer couldn’t have purchased it, not from Rome. Someone else had to have done that. Someone in Washington.
She turned the voucher in her hand thoughtfully. She had uncovered her first gleam of hope.
Before she left for the night, she made arrangements to visit Marvel at Deepford Federal Prison in Deepford, Ohio.
Marvel was a type she recognized immediately. She sat in the visitor’s room in Deepford and watched him approach down a long corridor, slightly duckfooted, gone soft around the middle, a careworn face, and thinning pale hair.
He arrived in the meeting room with the expression she’d seen on so many prisoners’ faces: a combination of anxiety and hope. He was a born policeman, patient, shrewd, with no illusions about human nature and with the ability to size up a situation quickly. She handed him her card.
“I’m trying to reopen Charles Brewer’s case,” she said.
He looked at the card, then skeptically at her. “Why?”
“I believe he’s innocent.”
He looked down at the card again. “Jesus.”
“I came to talk to you about your testimony at his trial.”
“What makes you think he’s innocent?” he asked.
“There are a few things that don’t ring true.”
“There’re a lot of things that don’t ring true.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing to do with Brewer. Lawyers. You’re a pack of wolves, the lot of you. Cop a plea, he said, and walk away. Otherwise you go down with Brewer.”
“Who said that?”
“That high-priced shyster they sent me,” Marvel answered. “Donovan.”
“I see.”
“We worked a deal. I plead to a lesser offense, testify at Brewer’s trial. And walk away with a suspended sentence. Only the judge doesn’t go along. And I end up with a three-to-five. That Donovan hasn’t been near me since. This is just great. If you prove Brewer is innocent, he gets out and I do my time.”
“Brewer is out.”
Marvel’s mouth fell open. “Jesus Christ.”
“It’s possible you can help clear him.”
“Clear him?” Marvel shook his head in disbelief. “You said he was out, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But the conviction stands. His career is ruined.”
“His career is ruined? Jesus God on the Cross, what about mine? What about my whole life?” He shook her business card at her. “Give me one good reason why I would want to clear Brewer’s name? He’s the guy that got me in here.”
“Because if he gets off, you might get out. With a full pardon. You want to talk or fight?”
He looked at her card once more, then scaled it onto the table. “Lawyers.”
She sat quietly waiting.
At last he said, “What the hell. I’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose. What do you want to do?”
“Tell me your side of it.”
“That’s easy. It’s a tale briefly told. I was in London. Brewer was in Rome. We’re putting together a package on this guy Peno Rus, who sold a carload of guns to some Africans and caused a famine. I get a phone call to drop what I’m doing, go to New York, and help Brewer put the arm on a guy in a gun-selling scam. I go. I do like I’m told, and the next thing you know, they have the cuffs on me. The home office in D.C. says they never heard of this scam, and they never ordered me and Brewer to do it. So right away I see that Brewer set himself up for a little something on the side and muffed it. And I get left holding the smoking gun.”
“What made you think it was Brewer’s doing?”
“Who else? And what for?”
“Who ordered you to New York?”
“Some guy. Said his name was Rumbh. Gave the proper clearances and such. European deskman—a fill-in, he said. So? Happens all the time. That night, there’s the airline ticket waiting for me at my hotel with a baggage claim ticket.”
“Did you save the airline voucher?”
“Save it? Hell, that was a long time ago.”
“Do you remember what city the ticket was issued from?”
“No.”
“Go on. What was the baggage claim ticket for?”
“Guns. Stolen guns. When I fly to New York, sure enough there’s Brewer. I take the baggage claim ticket downtown and get a suitcaseful of handguns. Mint forty-fives. Collector’s items. Over fifty years old and never been in service. U.S. government property. Later it turns out they were stolen from Fort Benson arsenal. What do I know? I’m to meet Brewer at the rendezvous in the park. Brewer makes the contact, and I wait in the ravine to help with the collar. Instead, they cuff me—three of New York’s finest—while I hear Brewer yelling my name. Black day for me, I can tell you.”
“Are you telling me you were innocent?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Then why—”
“Because that knucklehead Donovan tells me I had to. I’ve been jobbed, he says. Brewer is as guilty as Judas and I’m going to sink with him if I don’t make my move right away. Son of a bitch. Now I’m in and Brewer’s out.”
She referred to her note pad. “Do you remember the name of the man Brewer was supposed to sell the handguns to?”
“Sure. Pines, Russell Pines. Instead, he ended up dealing with a guy named Tony something-or-other or Giuseppe or someone, who turned out to be a detective.”
“I must say, Mr. Marvel, I think you were rather hasty pleading guilty.”
“What could I do? I had no case. Washington said I wasn’t authorized to leave London. Nobody ever heard of a guy named Rumbh. And it look
ed like Brewer and me stole those forty-fives and tried to peddle them for a little ready. My lawyer was blunt as could be. Cop a plea or go in for the big count. Besides, Donovan gave me the strong impression that Washington wanted me to cop a plea, like it was part of a script or something.”
“Who did you cop the plea with?”
“The Feds. There was a long period of time when the Feds and the N.Y. district attorney argued about where we would stand trial. New York State has a very tough gun law.”
Marvel began to fold her card into meticulously formed squares. “One of the federal lawyers, was sure we were part of something bigger. He was the one who separated us and got us in federal court because the weapons were stolen U.S. government property and because they were transported across state lines. I was afraid Brewer would cop a plea and leave me holding the bag.”
He unfolded the card and tried to smooth away the fold lines with a fingernail. “Then they tried to work on me. We don’t want you; we want Brewer. Tell us the whole story and you might be able to walk with a suspended. What could I tell them? They were very unhappy.”
“Why should they be unhappy? You creamed Brewer.”
“They figured there was a bigger story behind this one.”
“Who paid for your lawyer?”
“I don’t know. He just told me it was paid for. Like I said, I secretly kept expecting to get sprung from Washington. I figured I was part of some kind of script, and we were all going through an act. I wasn’t too worried even when I was sentenced. I figured I’d go in the front door and right out the back, and be in London for breakfast. Then when I didn’t, I figured Brewer pulled something and I got the pie in the face.”
“Did you know Donovan is an ex-FBI agent?”
He raised his eyes from the folded card and looked at her with shock. “What are you saying?”
“They weren’t interested in you or Brewer. They were interested in the people who broke into the arsenal.”
“For a dozen lousy handguns?”
“It was all the other material that was stolen—high explosives, rockets, launchers—a truckload of terrorist weapons. None of that material has turned up yet.”
He studied her face thoughtfully. “I’m not the fastest guy in the world, so spell it out for me. If you knew what game they were playing, then how come it took you so long to decide to help Brewer now?”
“Because when you made your guilty plea, I made the same assumption everyone else did. I believed you two had done the arsenal job.”
“Beautiful.”
“How well do you know Brewer?”
“Pretty good, I guess. We worked a lot of jobs together, mainly in the European sector.”
“Yet you figured he was a thief who was going to finger you. Does that mean you didn’t like him—or trust him?”
“Let me tell you a story, Mrs. Hale. Brewer took me fishing once. In Ireland. Showed me his secret fishing place over in the West of Ireland. He really loves it—the outdoors, the trees, the flowers, the birds, the fish, the lot. One day he leans over this little pool in a stream and, with his bare hand, grabs a trout from the water. So help me.
“We had a great time. He can be great fun, that Brewer. Make you laugh till your sides hurt. Great storyteller. Good guy to be with. We stayed in an old inn, and he showed me how to fish and it was fantastic. Then we brought back the fish, and the innkeeper’s wife cooked them. And while she was cooking we drank pints and talked to the owner in the bar. I remember standing there in the pub, by this fire in the fireplace, waiting for dinner and watching this great sunset and feeling terrific and thinking what a great guy to be with this Brewer is. Then we ate this delicious fish. And we talked until three in the morning, drinking pints. It was one of the best times I ever had in my whole life.”
“So you liked him?”
“Yeah, he was okay. But he’s a thinker. Reads all the time—like a guy looking for something. You never know what’s going on inside his head. I mean, in there he could be plotting to take over the world. How could you tell? That fishing trip was the closest I ever got to him. And I knew at the time I wasn’t within ten miles of the real Brewer.”
Marvel’s lawyer, Donovan, had offices in the building next to Hale’s in Washington. She called him three times. He never called back.
One of the partners said to her: “Donovan has two specialties—criminal trials and drinking. You’ll find him either in court or in the bar across the street.”
He was in the bar across the street. When she walked in she saw him down at the end, waving a hand and talking loudly to two men. He fit his description to a T. Former tackle for Notre Dame, All-American, six five, corpulent and barrel-chested, white hair and a beet-red face.
She walked up to him. “You’re a tough man to catch up with.”
“Not for you, princess. I am at your disposal.”
“It would be easier if you were at my disposal on the telephone. My name is Madeline Hale.”
“Oh. The arsenal job. Well, what can I tell you?”
“I’m reopening.”
“Well, good luck.”
“You are aware that Marvel is probably innocent.”
“Sure. And cows give beer.”
“Can you tell me something off the record, Donovan?”
“Shoot.”
“Who paid your fee?”
“I don’t know. Who paid yours?”
“The same man.”
Donovan laughed. He exhaled a long wheeze; then his red face turned purple, the wheeze became a guffaw, and the guffaw became a cough. He struck the bar with a hammy fist. “Touché, princess, touché. Let me tell you something.”
He picked up the shot glass brimming with whiskey and deftly lowered it into a glass of beer. While the beer was still briskly foaming, he drained the glass. He made a bitter expression. “Hooo,” he said and slid the glass across the bar. “Again, Johnny.” Then he turned to her.
“I got this phone call,” he said, “from a guy who said he represented the friends of Marvel in the government. Civil service people. Passed the hat, they did. Now I did get his name and his check. But he made me promise not to reveal it.”
“Did they ever catch the men who broke into the arsenal and stole the weapons?”
“Sure. Brewer and Marvel.”
“Did you ever suspect that Brewer and Marvel might not be the ones who broke into the arsenal?”
“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, princess.”
“They do.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“Mr. Donovan, I suspect that you worked with the FBI to try to coerce Marvel into identifying the man who stole those weapons from the arsenal. When he couldn’t or wouldn’t, I think you hung him out to dry. If that turns out to be true, I’ll be back to see you and your old buddies in the FBI.”
“Cheers, princess.” Donovan tossed off half a glass of whiskey.
Madeline Hale next called the person who had paid all the costs of Charlie Brewer’s trail: her aunt, Constance Woolman. She was told that her aunt was attending a meeting with Martin Wainwright and other members of the Arms Traffic Control Committee.
Later, her aunt called her back. “Sorry I took so long, dear. Is it important?”
“Aunt Connie, I want to ask you a question. It’s about the Brewer case.”
“Go ahead.”
“When you paid Brewer’s legal fees, you led me to understand that you were serving as a conduit for other people who contributed to Brewer’s cause.”
“That’s right.”
“What I need to know is who those people were.”
“Mr. Brewer’s friends, mainly, and people in the government who worked with him.”
“But who in particular?”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know. The man who organized it was Bobby McCall. He raised most of the money himself. From a number of people. And many stipulated that their names not be revealed. So I don’t really know who-all contrib
uted. Martin Wainwright I’m sure gave some money. And other members of the Arms Control Committee. And Bobby McCall’s secretary, Joan Walsh, gave five hundred. I gave a thousand. I think most of us gave for Bobby’s sake. He was quite upset. Brewer and Marvel were his two best agents. And he was concerned that they might not get the best legal defense. Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Because I’ve begun to suspect that Brewer and Marvel were used to cover up a conspiracy right here in Washington.”
Was there anyone named Rumbh?
She went first to the office library and got down the Washington, D.C., phone directory. No Rumbh. Then she took down all the regional directories for Virginia—including Northern Virginia Washington Area, Peninsula and Tidewater Area. No Rumbh.
She went through all the regional directories for the states of Delaware and Maryland. No Rumbh.
Was it an alias?
She decided to try another tack. With Brewer’s power of attorney, she went to the State Department’s personnel offices. She filled out a form to examine Brewer’s file and took a number: 304. Then she waited until her number was called; she presented the clerk with her papers.
The clerk went away and didn’t come back. The room was crowded and warm. Banks of microfiche sat in the other room where petitioners diligently studied the microfilmed contents of files and made xerograph copies of selected documents. Many of them were preparing pension claims; she recognized one lawyer who specialized in immigration and naturalization cases.
Other people came after her, handed in their forms, read through the microfilmed files, and were long gone while she still waited. Many others. She paced.
At last her number was called: 304. Instead of being assigned to a microfilm console she was summoned back to the desk and handed a form: Request to Examine A Personnel File Denied.
Printed on the sheet were eighteen reasons why the State Department could refuse to open a personnel file, each with its own check box. The box for reason #3 was checked: National Security.
The refusal was unexpected. To see the file now she would have to apply for a court order under the Right to Know Act. On a hunch, she requested to know if there existed a personnel file for the name Rumbh. The reply this time was much faster. No such name in the personnel file.
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