“I’ve decided that we should pursue the death penalty,” the president continued. “Any other choice sends the wrong signal to would-be terrorists. All right. I’ve got another meeting, so I’ll leave you in Jeremy’s capable hands.”
The president’s chief of staff, Jeremy Chan, took charge. “Leon, please brief us about plans for the trial.”
“The trial will be held in the District Court for the Western District of Washington, in Seattle,” said Bynum. “The defendant will be charged with use of a chemical weapon and committing a terrorist act. Other charges are still under consideration at this time, including theft, assault, and murder. The case is being prepared for a grand jury. That should happen within a matter of days. It will be open and shut. Then we’ll take steps to ensure that the case is assigned to an appropriate trial judge.”
“There are several excellent candidates in Washington’s Western District,” said Tierney. Both he and Stryder had files on every sitting judge in America. “A few of the older judges out west are liberals, but thanks to the current president we’ve had some real solid appointments. Law and order conservatives.”
“I’ll speak to the chief judge out there,” said Bynum. “As you know, cases are usually assigned by random draw but the chief retains discretion to appoint judges to specific trials.”
Chan asked, “What about the jury?”
“We’ll take a close look at the jury pool,” Tierney replied. “I think we can have confidence in our citizens to convict this kind of bastard. Especially after our jury consultants have done their job.”
Cassie was about to ask an unwelcome question about the role played by FBI jury consultants in ensuring that defendants received a fair trial, but Chan cut her off. “That’s enough for today. We’ll reconvene again soon, as the preliminary legal proceedings get started.”
* * *
Stryder immediately placed a call to Tierney. Being embarrassed by Cassie had brought the lifelong antagonists together to salvage their reputations.
“Randall, we need to ensure the right people are on this jury.”
“We’re already on it. Our office has the voters’ rolls from western Washington. As soon as they draw the potential jurors, we’ll have agents compile dossiers on each of them.”
“Good. Every person in the jury pool will have vulnerabilities. Gambling debts. Stacked mortgages. Maxed-out credit cards. Kids in college. Affairs. Drug or alcohol use, past or present. Hidden family embarrassments. Their problems, our leverage. Time to put those deep-cover jury consultants to work.”
“Exactly! Once the jurors are selected, we start with the honey. We offer to pay each of them one million dollars if they convict. A hundred grand up front and the rest when they deliver the verdict. We save the stick in case somebody starts to misbehave.”
“You give them cash up front?” Stryder asked skeptically.
“Yeah, just a taste. It seals the deal, convinces them we’re for real. The fact they’re committing a felony by taking the money gives us an insurance policy.”
“Nice. And I’m guessing your agents won’t flash the badge when they make contact with the jurors.”
“Uh no. That’s where you can help me out.” Tierney paused briefly. “If we could use intelligence agents from overseas for approaching jurors, it would minimize the risks of somebody being recognized.”
“How many do you need?”
“Two or three.”
“You’ve got them.”
“Then we’ve got our jury.”
“Yeah.”
Tierney chuckled. “You’ve got to love America. Everyone has their price.” He beamed: he was running an operation using CIA agents. If it blew up, the FBI would be far from the impact zone. But Stryder had his own covert operation underway and wasn’t about to let Tierney in on the action.
Chapter 32
Maria was released soon after Cassie’s intervention in the interrogation room. Her home had been torn apart while she was in custody, and she found it difficult to know where to start picking up the pieces in the house or in her life. She retrieved the bottle from the cupboard above the fridge, poured a glass of rye, and added some diet cola. It took a few minutes for the alcohol to calm her enough that she could think.
She needed help. Maria decided to call two of her closest friends from the University of Washington law school, Consuela Jimenez and Peter Quarrington. Consuela was an expert in constitutional law. Peter was a nationally renowned criminal lawyer.
She called Consuela first. Not in her office, not at home, and not answering her cell. Maria didn’t leave any messages, but sent a text, saying “Call me.” Maria called Quarrington next.
When he answered, his voice was filled with sympathy. “Maria. I just saw the news about Michael. Please tell me that there has been some kind of dreadful mistake.”
“No. I don’t know.” She fought back tears. “I haven’t talked to Michael. I don’t even know where he is.”
“Has he not contacted you since he was arrested?”
“No.”
“That is not like the Michael MacDougall I know.”
“No.”
“And the police will not tell you anything?”
“No.”
“Let me make a call. I have a good friend in the Department of Justice. I will call you back right away.”
“Thank you.”
Maria sat by the phone, watching the kitchen clock. She rose to mix another drink, and was about to sit down again when the phone rang.
“Maria, my apologies for the delay. I can explain later. Michael is being held at the SeaTac Federal Detention Center. I have arranged with the warden for you to see him. Are you fit to drive?”
“Yes . . . no. I’m not sure. I’m on my second drink. Trying to calm down.”
“Do not take any chances. Call a taxi and I will meet you there.”
It was midafternoon when Peter arrived at the SeaTac prison. Maria was dropped off several minutes later. He was a tall, thin man, wearing a dark navy blazer and gray slacks. His left eye was milky with the cloud of a cataract but his right eye was still a piercing blue. Because of severe arthritis in his knees, Peter often used an electric wheelchair but he could still drive and could walk short distances with the help of two canes. While he appeared frail, those who knew him understood that he was still in full control of his considerable facilities and had a reservoir of courage that time could never drain.
“Why hasn’t he called?” she asked. “I just can’t believe that he wouldn’t try to reach me.”
“It is the bloody Patriot Act, a law that undermines the American constitution so badly that the Founding Fathers must be rolling in their graves. But look, we can discuss those issues later. They will only give us an hour, and a prison guard will be in the room with us at all times. You may be given a minute to hug Michael at the beginning and the end of the visit, but any physical contact beyond that is proscribed.”
“Thank you, Peter. I really appreciate this.”
Maria and Quarrington signed in. Quarrington showed his Washington Bar Association identification card to the guards, who waved him through. Maria showed her driver’s license, went through a metal detector, and was patted down by a female guard who seemed to enjoy the experience more than was appropriate, running her hands slowly along the insides of Maria’s thighs. Then the guard led the way through four sets of locked metal doors that slammed behind them.
The visiting room looked like a place where an interrogation might be held. There was a plastic table and three cheap, uncomfortable chairs. A yellowing American flag on the wall. Quarrington leaned his canes against the wall, pulled a chair to the back of the room, and attempted to be unobtrusive. Maria paced. Finally, the door opened and Michael shuffled in, leg-irons clinking, handcuffed, rubbing his eyes. The visiting room officer had a guiding hand on his e
lbow. Then Michael saw who was waiting for him.
“Oh my god! Maria!” He almost fell forward, caught his balance, and turned to the guard holding his hands in the air like a supplicant. “Please?”
“No way, José.”
Maria approached Michael, sobbing. Michael was crying too. He lifted his arms in the air and awkwardly wrapped them around her. Maria rested her head on his chest.
“This is a nightmare, Michael!” Maria erupted. “Are you all right? You look awful! Are these crazy allegations true? Were you really involved in poisoning Seattle’s water? Why didn’t you call? Dios mío, they arrested me and destroyed our house.”
Michael flinched. “Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
“I’m so sorry, Maria. I don’t know where to begin.”
“Tell me what’s going on!”
The guard interrupted them. “Break it up and sit down. You have fifty-four minutes left.”
Michael noticed Quarrington sitting at the back of the room and gave an awkward two-handed wave. Then he told Maria everything. It came gushing out, and Michael felt cleansed, even though he knew forgiveness was unlikely.
Maria cradled her face in her hands as she listened. “I can’t believe it. You really did this? You did. What were you thinking?”
“I was trying to save lives—thousands of lives, maybe even millions of lives.”
“That’s not how the world works! I could have told you it wouldn’t work. If you had just talked to me, I would have stopped you. And what about us? Why didn’t you get some help?”
“I didn’t want to get you involved. I was afraid that you would hate me for even thinking about it. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone. You know that.”
Maria leaned back in her chair and stared up at the dingy gray ceiling. “I’m not sure what I know anymore. But that you did this on your own, without ever confiding in me, that’s what hurts the most. What happened to trust?”
“I’m sorry. So sorry. Please, can you forgive me.”
“I don’t know if I can. Or even if it matters. You could spend the rest of your life in prison. Or worse . . .” Maria’s voice trailed off. “I wish you’d never gone to Africa.”
“Time’s up.” The guard approached the table, arms crossed. Michael sought to hold Maria’s gaze but she wouldn’t look at him. He understood now that they couldn’t recover from this. He had lost her.
As she and Quarrington left the prison, Maria thought about what Michael had done. It was inexplicable to her, despite his efforts to explain. He’d completely ignored the consequences of his actions—for the country, for himself, for her, and for any future they might have. She’d thought Michael was kidnapped or dead, had been arrested herself, and now had been reunited only to learn that the unthinkable accusations were true.
They arrived at Quarrington’s vehicle, an ancient green Citroën with a hydraulic system that made it easier for him to get in and out. Ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Maria before stashing his canes in the trunk and gingerly hoisting himself into the driver’s seat.
“I am so sorry Maria,” he said. “It is hard to imagine, hard to believe, hard to accept. But there are further challenges ahead. Michael faces a trial and conceivably the death penalty.”
Maria shook her head despondently. Quarrington turned to face her and placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. He’d had a different reaction to Michael’s story, which was raw, almost biblical. The doctor was an impeccably honest man. Perfectly forthright. Not only willing to tell the truth, but to do so in an articulate and emotive way. Defendants like him were as rare as innocent men on death row.
“At the risk of seeming somewhat presumptuous, I would like to offer to act as Michael’s attorney. I have two ideas that I think may challenge the government’s assumption that he is guilty. This case is not what is euphemistically described as a slam dunk.”
Part III
The Trial
Chapter 33
At age seventy-one Peter Quarrington, professor emeritus of criminal law at the University of Washington, had retired to a waterfront cottage on Orcas Island, just outside Seattle, but he kept a small apartment downtown. Every two or three years he’d give in to the itch and take on a case, usually involving an underdog defendant and a grievous miscarriage of justice. Much to the government’s dismay, his success rate was close to eighty percent, and even higher when a jury was involved.
In his last case, he had defended Jorge Villalobos, a migrant worker accused of assaulting the farmer for whom he’d been picking fruit in an orchard near Spokane. After a grueling fourteen-hour day Villalobos had returned to the ramshackle trailers, rented from the farmer, where he lived with his wife and a dozen other workers from Mexico, El Salvador, and Guatemala. His wife was gone, along with their meager possessions. Friends in the neighboring trailer told him that they’d been evicted for stealing apples. Villalobos became incensed, as his wife was honest to a fault, and they were not short of food. When he knocked on the farmhouse door to complain, the drunken farmer answered with a shotgun in his hands, telling Villalobos to “Fuck off and go back to Mexico.” Villalobos seized the gun, pumped out the shells, threw the weapon on the ground, and pushed the farmer, who reeled backwards into his house. Then he left to search for his wife. State police arrested Villalobos that night as he walked disconsolately along the highway, and charged him with assault. Quarrington turned the tables on the prosecution. He put the state’s agricultural community on trial, highlighting the appalling treatment of vulnerable Latin Americans. The jury acquitted Villalobos after fifteen minutes of deliberation and issued a statement denouncing the exploitation of migrant workers.
Quarrington returned to the prison the next morning to meet with Michael.
He slowly lowered himself onto a cold metal chair, and struggled to find a comfortable position. “First of all, let us establish some ground rules. You will tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or I will withdraw my services faster than you can write a prescription. I must be your priest when you have the urge to confess, your best friend when you need to converse, and your psychiatrist when you hit rock bottom. Any facts that you have been holding back from Maria? You tell me. Any skeletons hiding in your closet? You reveal them to me.”
Michael was frowning, and clenching his fists. “With all due respect, Peter, I don’t see the point. I’m guilty and I have to face the consequences.”
“Ah, the martyr complex. Listen—if you were feeling ill and I was your doctor, would you reach a diagnosis before consulting me?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me how to perform an operation?”
“No.”
“Right. A client who attempts to defend himself in a death penalty trial is, statistically speaking, as good as dead. So please defer to my wisdom on legal matters.”
“Okay. As long as you consult me and get my consent on important issues.”
“Of course. Despite what you may think of the legal profession, I have an ethical responsibility to do so.”
“All right then,” said Michael slowly. “I’m honored to have you on my side.”
“Thank you. Let us dive right in, shall we?”
Michael nodded.
“The law requires any defendant who may be facing the death penalty to be represented by at least two lawyers. I have someone in mind to be the second member of your legal team. Shirin Yavari is one of the most gifted students that I ever had the pleasure of teaching, a young woman who went straight from medical school to law school at Harvard. With her combination of legal and medical knowledge she could negate both my shortcomings in dealing with certain kinds of evidence and my occasional memory lapses.” Peter winked.
“Do you think she’d be willing to represent a guilty terrorist?”
“You must not thi
nk of yourself in those terms. Even if you committed the acts in question, that does not lead inevitably to a conclusion of guilt.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are a great many defenses available in our justice system even when a criminal act has been committed. Consider a woman found holding a smoking gun with her husband dead on the floor in front of her, a bullet wound in his chest. She evidently killed him, but is she necessarily guilty of murder? No. It might have been an accident during the cleaning of the gun, with no intention to cause harm. Not guilty. It may be that she was abused, and he was threatening to give her a beating to end all beatings. She acted in self-defense. Not guilty. It may be that she suffered from a debilitating mental illness. Not guilty.”
“Okay, point taken.”
“Let us get the facts out of the way first. The events as you recounted them to Maria last night—was that a complete and accurate depiction?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing missing or glossed over?”
“No.”
“Any skeletons?”
“Arrested once for being drunk and disorderly when I was a freshman in college. Never charged though. That’s about it.”
“Good. Based on what I have heard so far, there are two defenses available that may be eminently suited to your situation.”
“What are they?”
“The first is not guilty by reason of insanity, which would require us to provide convincing evidence from psychiatric experts that you—”
“No! Absolutely not.”
“The defense has been used successfully in a number of cases involving soldiers suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“I’m not crazy! I knew precisely what I was doing and why I did it. There’s no way I’m insane.”
“All right. We will set that option aside for now. The second possibility, which I think you may find more palatable, is called the necessity defense. Have you heard of it?”
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