“Early in any lawsuit,” said Watson, “the two sides exchange documents. They give each other anything that is evidence or might be evidence. It’s called discovery.”
Another Arthurian stratagem. Did Watson say that this particular document was produced in the course of trial discovery? No way. He’d merely explained the concept of discovery at a suggestive and opportune time.
Alpha looked down at the paper suspiciously as if he wanted to take it to a lab and have it analyzed.
“You’re right,” said Watson. “Any number of people could have gotten to the car in the impound lot. Somebody who worked there, the cops, the FBI, me, you, Buck. I’m sure Mary Whitlow could have managed it if she had to, or she could have gotten somebody to do it for her.”
“Sir,” said Alpha, using one of the surliest sirs Watson had heard in his short adult life of being so addressed. Alpha’s “sir” reminded him of the tone of voice sadistic law school professors had employed in calling him “Counselor” during interrogation sessions governed by the Socratic method, but not by the Geneva Convention. “You talk great, which is what you need to do if you are a lawyer. But so far we still don’t know what we come here to find out—where is the delivery?”
“The cops have the delivery,” said Watson. “Or so it would seem.”
“You said that last time,” Alpha jeered. “It was a good idea then, but so far it don’t look that way to us. If the cops got it, why ain’t Jimmy Whitlow charged with—”
“Counterfeit?” asked Watson.
Both men shifted their weight and tensed at the mention of the word. Myrna muttered something preverbal under her breath.
Watson kept himself from pacing after the fashion of his mentor and instead adopted the voluble earnestness of a pitchman in an infomercial. “The prosecutors were coming after Jimmy Whitlow for first-degree murder with hate-crime penalty enhancers. OK, that puts him at a minimum base offense level of forty-three on the federal sentencing guidelines. Life in prison, gentlemen. Now, why would a prosecutor tack on a measly counterfeit charge on top of that? Counterfeit has a base offense level of nine with sentences as low as six months, especially if they can’t prove you made the stuff.”
This appeared to give the men some relief.
“But if you can prove they or their organization ordered or controlled the production of the counterfeit currency, the penalties go up fast. But why waste a possession-of-counterfeit charge on one guy they already got on a hate crime murder? For what? If they are patient, the counterfeit might lead to a conspiracy to produce and distribute counterfeit, and the conspiracy might lead to something really big, like a militia. Maybe even a big racist, white supremacist militia, like the Order of the Eagles,” said Watson.
Alpha and Beta tensed again and moved closer together. “We are not affiliated with that organization,” said Alpha.
“See?” said Myrna to Joe. “And they are telling us to cut the shit? I’m supposed to tell them who Buck is, where the delivery is, how much my clients pay me, where I went to grade school, and he can’t even admit to being an Eagle.”
She seemed to be making her plea to Watson, as if he were the judge of a high school debate.
“We are not affiliated with that organization,” Alpha repeated, “but we are familiar with their views.” Then he launched into a canned bromide he must have learned at the same charm school where he acquired his careful manners.
“The Order of the Eagles is not a racist organization,” he explained. “The Order of the Eagles is not a so-called hate group or a white supremacist organization. Its mission is to restore laws that treat all races equally, and abolish all the new laws that treat some races better than others. The organization believes that the federal government is no longer legitimate, because it has exceeded its powers under the Constitution. Some argue that our current so-called government does not have the authority to tax and spend or to print money, because it has surrendered its authority, debased itself by serving the needs of degenerate special interests.”
Was he reading the stuff off of a card? Watson could tell Alpha had a lot more to say on the subject.
“Be a shame if a fine organization like that got hooked up with counterfeit,” said Myrna.
“We are not affiliated with that organization. But we are familiar with their views,” Alpha stated once more.
“Boy,” said Myrna, “counterfeit means the Secret Service comes in. The Treasury Department and those ATF boys just love these militia outfits. We could have Ruby Ridge, Rutger Lupine, and a Waco siege right here in Missouri. I think Joe’s right. They’re waiting for the mother of all conspiracies.”
“In criminal law class,” said Watson, “they taught us that conspiracy is called ‘the prosecutor’s darling,’ because as soon as they have evidence of a conspiracy, they’re entitled to start hauling people in by the truckload. Conspiracy means you don’t have to prove your defendants actually did anything, only that they conspired to do it. My guess is that’s what they are waiting for. A big conspiracy with lots of enhanced counterfeit charges.”
“When you say waiting, you mean—?” began Alpha.
“If I had a bunch of counterfeit and wanted to know who it belonged to, I might try not saying anything about it and see if somebody else starts asking about it, or looking for it, or acting like it was theirs, and/or maybe running around town giving people to understand in no uncertain terms that they want it back real bad,” said Watson—no special tone to insinuate anything, just plain English.
Beta and Alpha glanced at each other once.
“More talk,” said Alpha.
“I can prove that the government has your delivery,” said Watson. “If that’s what you really want to know.” He raised his hand to reach inside the vest pocket of his suit.
Beta and Alpha flinched and unfastened their middle buttons, as if they had to get to the bathroom fast. “Uh,” they said. “Maybe just go real slow there, sir,” growled Beta, moving his hand inside his coat.
“It’s just the settlement agreement,” said Watson. He reached slowly inside his coat and withdrew the folded document typed up by Ida, which he and Harper had signed in Judge Stang’s chambers.
Alpha drifted away from Beta, so Watson would be at the apex of a triangle, then advanced.
“It’s papers, drafted by the government, setting forth the terms of Jimmy Whitlow’s plea bargain. Mostly boilerplate legal mumbo jumbo. But take a look at—let’s see. There. Paragraph eight.”
“ ‘Scope and inte-gration of the agreement,’ ” read Alpha, stumbling on integration, then forging bravely ahead. “ ‘This plea agreement disposes of all charges arising out of the incidents set forth in the United States’ original Complaint and Affidavit, including charges based upon any and all evidence seized from the premises of the base quarters where the defendant lived with his wife, and any and all evidence seized from the trunk of his vehicle, which was towed the day of the incidents in question.”
“Now,” said Watson, “look at the top of that document. It says, ‘Office of the United States Attorney, Eastern District of Missouri.’ I didn’t write that,” he said. “They did. The prosecutors wrote that. And why do you suppose the prosecutors would be talking about evidence seized from the trunk of Jimmy Whitlow’s car?”
Alpha’s face blanked and then slowly turned to Beta, who shrugged.
“If I’m the government,” said Watson, “I play dumb and see what happens. See if somebody comes looking for it, or goes after people who should have it, namely, Jimmy Whitlow and his wife, Mary, or Buck, or Jimmy Whitlow’s lawyer and his redheaded friend. And so far, that’s exactly what you guys are doing. Keep it up and maybe the government will bring those charges you’re looking for, but this agreement means they will not be brought against Jimmy Whitlow.”
Alpha read the paragraph again to make sure he wasn’t being hornswoggled.
“If I’m the owner of the counterfeit, I’d be wanting to stay as far away
as possible from anybody who had it, or supposedly had it,” Watson said. “No phone calls, no retaliation, no pursuit. The last thing I’d do is pester their lawyers,” he added with a chuckle.
Alpha and Beta were not amused, but they did seem momentarily convinced.
“If Buck calls you—” began Alpha.
“Ah-ah,” said Watson with a cautionary wave. “Who is Buck? Your coconspirator?”
“Never mind,” said Alpha. “If we have any more questions, we will come back here.”
“If you come back here,” said Myrna, “you better bring a retainer, because we are going to charge you double our going rate.”
“Yeah,” said Beta. He talked! “Lady,” he said, pointing his finger at her, “you push people.”
Right, Beta, Watson was thinking, she pushes people. You mean, like the Empire State Building is tall? The point is …?
They closed the door and, swearing audibly back and forth, left through the rear entrance.
She walked immediately to the twelve-pack of Heinekens and tore it open. “Ask me one question,” she said.
“What?” asked Watson.
“Ask me, how drunk are we going to get? Just say, ‘Hey, Myrna, how drunk are we going to get?’ Like that.”
“Hey, Myrna, how drunk are we going to get?”
She popped the top off the bottle. “We are going to get knee-walking, snot-slinging, nose-barfing, toilet-hugging drunk.” She upended the Heineken and drank half of it with a single inhalation. “In two hours, the only thing you will be worried about is whether the toilet seat is going to come down and smack you on the back of the head.”
She handed him a Heineken.
“How drunk?” he asked.
CHAPTER 30
Saturday morning. Face time for Stern, Pale associates. But these days Watson was absent—with pay, as luck would have it. According to voice mail from Ida, he was to get his bonus and six months’ severance. Plenty of cash coming in to pay the bills while he was away at Gerry’s summer clinic. He and Myrna had listened to the message last night in his office, just after she’d had a conference with W. C. Fields in Watson’s well-ventilated bathroom. Myrna may have had a midnight run-in with a toilet seat, but Watson had felt too good to spoil his victory high with drugs and drunkenness. He went home instead, because Sandra was bringing the kids back.
Now it was family face time, and he had his mug buried in a pillow of fragrant tresses in the nape of his wife’s neck. She turned half away so they could spoon and curl into each other’s curves like two section symbols in the header of a statute. He reached around her and cupped the Forms, one in each mortal paw.
What was the biblical quote? A man shall leave his laptop and his job and shall cling to his wife? And clinging right along with him shall be his kids, it seemed. Benjy had somehow ended up in their queen-size bed after a crying jag during the night. His one-year-old son was trying out his new teeth on Dad’s ear, while Sheila wriggled between the adult bodies, working her way up from the bottom of the bed, on a quest for her fair share of attention.
The driveway was being paved in concrete on Monday, and the Memsahib was happy, which meant the family was happy.
“Mommy,” Sheila whined, “tell Daddy to move.”
Tell Daddy to move? Well, his daughter’s priorities were in order. He was dispensable. If Sandra—God forbid!—got cancer and passed away, the family members would each die slow, separate, psychic deaths. Planets without the sun, the center of gravity gone. If he died? Well, the next guy might not make as much money. Or with any luck, he might make more money.
Watson rolled onto his back and blew a sloppy raspberry into Benjy’s tummy. A kid convulsion and rubbery warm limbs grappled Watson’s head, smothering him in baby flesh, his face buffeted by the abdominal vibrations of an infant belly laugh.
He heard the laptop’s fan whir in the alcove off the bedroom, as it came out of sleep mode and dialed into his service provider to retrieve the morning’s E-mail. The laptop—the second penis, the other silicon woman, his little treasure, as in the Bible: “Where your treasure lies, there lies your heart also.”
A week or so ago, he was contemplating adultery with a brain scientist, and now his brain was bandying Scripture with itself. See how quickly the world changes?
“Mommy, is Daddy still a lawyer for the criminals?” asked Sheila.
Watson revved up his engine of reason and attempted to formulate a four-year-old rendition of the Sixth Amendment and the right to counsel.
“Daddy feels sorry for criminals, honey,” said Sandra. “Nobody wants to help them, so your dad feels sorry for them and tries to help them.”
Oh! he thought, I get it. Now that cash was rolling in from his seamy solo practice, the criminal law business was a badge of good citizenship and human compassion?
“Oh, I’m glad we’re talking about criminals,” said Watson, “because that reminds me—don’t let the kids answer the phone, I’m expecting a call from Rutger Lupine this morning.”
“Stop it,” she said.
“No,” said Watson. “What I meant to say was I noticed that Sheila was talking to Alexa Finazzo’s dad on the phone. He called here looking for Alexa. You know them, right? Her dad is Rudolph Finazzo. He looted a savings and loan and was prosecuted for mail fraud and income tax evasion. I don’t think he should be talking to kids on the phone. No, wait! I’m taking the kids and moving out of the house. I can’t believe you let them talk to criminals on the phone!”
Watson was pummeled by pillows from all sides. Then he rose to use the bathroom and walked by the alcove on his way to pee. The laptop chimed, indicating the arrival of new E-mail, and his desktop lit up.
The E-mail program was set to auto-open, and the message appeared on the bluish screen just as he emerged from the bathroom: [email protected]
Dear Joe:
How quickly things change! We could be partners again, if you’re interested. Got a call late last night from Montana of all places where a serial killer (of fourteen teenage girls) is due to be executed in two weeks. The neuro wrinkle is a history of head trauma in his youth, but we also need someone to draft up motions and briefs to delay the execution, which—get this—is by hanging in Montana.
I’m told the Supreme Court has already ruled that hanging is not cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment. Now for the legal wrinkle: The defendant weighs 375 pounds (down from 425), which means hanging would result in decapitation, which is cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment. Isn’t the law marvelous? The warden has the D on a thousand calories a day in an attempt to get him under 350 and back into hanging territory.
Your computer skills would be a big help, too, because we would be zapping drafts of the briefs and memos back and forth from the Legal Aid people in Montana.
Anyway, let me know right away if you’re interested.
Affectionately,
RP
It was all he could do to keep from crowing, “Look, honey, a serial killer! I’ll bet we could get some bucks on this one!”
Watson reread the E-mail. He was personally opposed to the death penalty and would be proud to be instrumental in helping even one person avoid it. But was he the only techno-legal geek in the country available to make some more paper to file in Montana?
“Affectionately, RP,” he read again with a twinge of memory and extinguished desire. If he said yes, he would be back in close proximity to the Brain Venus. He would also spend another week hunched over his laptop, doing research on obese hangings and gruesome decapitations.
“Daddy?” said Sheila.
A murder of crows was making a racket out on his front lawn, which meant one thing—grubs. He peeked through the curtains and saw Oma Hodgkins standing at the property line. She was clutching the morning paper to her chest, staring with terror and loathing as the crows feasted on grubs, ripping up patches of denuded grass from the family Watson’s infested front lawn. If he could scan her, the
deep, primeval circuits of rage and fear would light up orange and red and white-hot. He would have to go over and have a cup of coffee with her. Console her and apologize for his grubs.
“Daddy?” said Sheila.
He had a lot in common with Oma. She had her lawn and he had his colorful, orderly, software desktop. It would be tough to face her—he would be covered in shame, the evidence of his inferior moral code right there for all to see in his grub-ridden lawn.
He turned back to the laptop, open like a glowing plastic maw in the light of dawn. He clicked REPLY and typed: “Sorry. Can’t. Good Luck. JW.”
“Daddy? Can I play on the pooter?”
“We’re not playing on the computer this weekend,” said Watson. “We’re going outside to talk with Mrs. Hodgkins. Why don’t you get dressed and you can come, too. We can take her a present. Maybe that will help her feel better.”
A. M. D. G.
FOR CARLO AND MOQUAH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Fred Nietzsche said: “A writer is somebody who possesses not only his own intellect, but also that of his friends.” Many friendly, prodigious intellects helped me write Brain Storm, especially my editor, Daniel Menaker, and my agent, Gail Hochman.
I am also grateful to Marcus Raichle, M.D.; Helen Mayberg, M.D.; and Rodolfo Llinas, M.D., for introducing me to neuroscience and the various scanning technologies.
Joseph Bataillon, Sheila Hunsicker, Phillip Kavanaugh, Cynthia Short, and David Slavkin were all generous with their legal savvy and their good ideas.
Thanks also to John Albrecht, Mike Becker, Lou Boxer, Liz Karnes, Kate Shaw, and Jeremy Slavkin.
ALSO BY RICHARD DOOLING
Critical Care
White Man’s Grave
Blue Streak: Swearing, Free Speech, and
Sexual Harassment
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RICHARD DOOLING was born in Omaha, Nebraska. He received his B.A. from St. Louis University in 1976 and in 1979 began working as a respiratory therapist in intensive care units. After traveling for over a year in Europe and Africa, he went back to law school at St. Louis University, where he was editor in chief of the Law Journal. He practiced law at Bryan Cave in St. Louis for four years.
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