Thirst for Justice

by David R. Boyd

  “You have the right to appeal, but rest assured you’ll get nowhere arguing with me. My decision stands.” In one crafty ruling, Klinsmann had managed to give the appearance of evenhandedness while sabotaging Michael’s defense.

  Chapter 38

  As weeks passed and she commuted between Seattle and DC, Cassie became increasingly certain that American law enforcement personnel had tortured Michael MacDougall. Why else would he have made up the ridiculous story about former Seattle Mariners plotting to poison New York City’s water supply? But if MacDougall had been tortured, was it justified in the circumstances? Cassie needed more information. But there wasn’t anyone that Cassie could talk to about this—not Abby, not her husband, and certainly none of her colleagues.

  Her other dilemma was worse. The snippet of conversation between Stryder and the president that Cassie had overheard suggested that the CIA was considering killing MacDougall before the trial.

  Cassie realized that there was one person she could speak to who might be able to shed some light on these questions. Dr. Michael MacDougall. Talking to him would require breaking a few rules and taking a few risks, but in the circumstances, these seemed trivial. Cassie made a couple of phone calls and then left her hotel room, taking the stairs down to the lobby and striding into the street, where she ducked into the cab at the front of the taxi stand.

  Within minutes, she was at the SeaTac prison. Having her picture all over the internet, newspapers, and the nightly news afforded more than just fifteen minutes of fame. The normally surly prison guards treated her like royalty, loosening the strict protocols surrounding prisoner visits. Cassie had been counting on this. She didn’t want to sign in or leave any trace of her visit, if possible. There was one awkward moment when the guard supervising the visitors’ room asked if he could take a picture of himself and Cassie using his cellphone. Cassie imagined the photo going viral on social media and demurred, muttering something unintelligible about EPA policies.

  Michael arrived in the visitors’ room to see that his guest wasn’t either Quarrington or Yavari.

  “Who are you?”

  “Cassie Harden-Hernandez. I’m the Director of the Environmental Protection Agency.”

  “What do you want?” The orange jumpsuit worn by inmates in the Special Housing Unit made Michael’s skin appear sallow. And because it was two sizes too large, it made him look as if he was underweight. He certainly didn’t look dangerous.

  “I have some questions for you.”

  “More questions. All right. Go ahead.”

  Cassie had expected at least some concern about being questioned by a federal official without having his attorney present.

  “I know you poisoned Seattle’s water supply. But why did you make up the story about New York City and the Seattle Mariners?”

  “I was trying to save my life.” Michael looked directly at Cassie as he spoke. He had nothing to hide, no reason to resort to subterfuge.

  “Trying to save your life from what?” she asked, holding his gaze.

  “From the men who were drowning me.” Michael shuddered. “Men whom I presume were working, directly or indirectly, for the government. Our government.”

  “How were they drowning you? I’m sorry to ask you to dredge up these memories. You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

  Michael took a deep breath. He described his waterboarding experience in precise medical terms. And he explained being a baseball-loving kid who followed the Mariners’ every move, especially the pitching staff, since that was the position he played in Little League.

  Everything he said rang true and fit with her theory of what must have happened to him in Africa.

  “Thank you for telling me this. Now I’ll return the favor. Forgive me for being blunt, but I have reason to believe that your life may be in grave danger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are people who don’t want your case to go to trial. People with a great degree of power and influence.”

  “Unbelievable,” Michael said. “Well anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your warning’s too late.”

  “What do you mean, too late?”

  “A man called Big Red tried to kill me with a wire that would have strangled me.”

  “What happened?”

  Michael described the chaos in the cafeteria. “I had no idea why he tried to kill me. But what you’re saying suggests that he was carrying out somebody else’s instructions, somebody in government?”

  “I don’t have any evidence. But if they tried once they may try again.”

  “They’ve got me in solitary now, so I’m safe.”

  “I’m not sure that will save you.”

  “Well then, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You could go public. These people are like cockroaches—they don’t like light. Shine a spotlight on what happened and hope it forces them back into their hole.”

  “But you said it yourself. There’s no evidence.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. There’s one last question I’d like to ask.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Did you really think that blackmailing the U.S. government would work? It seems like such an extreme step for somebody like you to take.”

  “Yes, of course dumping perc in Seattle’s drinking water was extreme. But there’s an extreme problem, and nobody even talks about it, let alone does anything about it. Americans are bombarded with endless details about celebrities. NASCAR. Ultimate fighting. Game shows, soap operas, and reality TV.

  “Yet more than 10,000 children die every day of preventable and treatable diseases. Unnecessary, indefensible deaths. Where are the headlines? Where are the radio and TV announcers saying, ‘We interrupt our regular programming with an important news bulletin’? More than 10,000 children will die tomorrow: That’s the real news of the world. A sold-out Madison Square Garden of kids dying every two days. Meanwhile, Americans sit on their sofas sucking sodas, watching boob tube bullshit, fooling around on the internet, and scratching their fat asses. We give our dogs cleaner water than a billion people give their families. It can’t go on like this. We can’t keep living in a bubble—deaf, dumb, and blind to human suffering. We can’t live by ‘out of sight, out of mind.’”

  “But we spend billions on foreign aid.”

  “You’ve swallowed the Kool-Aid. We’re the most miserly wealthy nation when it comes to aid. Fourteen cents out of every $100 in economic activity. It’s like trying to cure cancer with herbal tea and aspirin. Think of the implications if America stepped up and pulled her weight. Instead of being one of the most loathed nations in the world, we’d be among the most loved. Billions of people in the world’s developing nations would admire and respect us. American generosity would cripple the twisted aspirations of real terrorists as recruitment evaporated. It would create unprecedented economic opportunities and a new generation of immigrants to fuel the next stages of America’s growth and prosperity.”

  Cassie found nothing to say.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “That was a bit of a rant. Let me ask you a question. How did you find me so quickly?”

  Cassie hesitated. He’d been open and honest with her. It seemed unacceptable to hide behind a wall of bureaucracy and rules in return. “I shouldn’t tell you, but we had a CI—sorry, a confidential informant—who contacted us.”

  Michael inhaled sharply. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I’ve got to go,” Cassie said, standing abruptly and turning her back to Michael, brushing away tears. He seemed like a decent, compassionate, intelligent human being, not a terrorist or a nutcase. Maybe, despite what he’d done, he was on the side of the angels. But that would put her on the dark side.

  Chapter 39

  Michael’s days and nights in s
olitary blurred together as he awaited his trial. He was escorted once a day to a larger cell with a metal grate ten feet up that faced outside and let in fresh air. Once, he saw a crescent moon. Occasionally the rain passed through the grate, and twice he could have sworn he smelled the ocean.

  While Michael languished in jail, 184 prospective jurors completed a thirty-six-page questionnaire covering their personal backgrounds, exposure to media coverage of the case, opinions on terrorism, and position on the death penalty. The form requested biographical data, including the jurors’ names, ages, and marital status; the educational level and occupation of each of their children; their religion and how often they worship; and whether they supported groups such as the American Civil Liberties Union, the National Rifle Association, and Amnesty International.

  The jury questionnaire process was a key part of expediting the trial, providing counsel with sufficient information to shape their questioning of individual jurors during the selection process.

  During their weekly meeting, Michael had quizzed Shirin about the process. “What kind of jurors do we want?”

  “Peter doesn’t put as much weight on jury selection as most attorneys. He thinks we’ll be fine with a good mix of Americans from all walks of life, especially those who have young children. The only people he plans to avoid are those who have already made up their minds you’re guilty or have a strong inclination in that direction.”

  Court commenced promptly at nine a.m. The bailiff said “Please rise” when Judge Klinsmann entered. Two American flags flanked the judge’s seat and the wooden face of the raised bench was engraved with the Great Seal of the USA, a bald eagle holding an olive branch in its right talons and thirteen arrows in its left under the motto E Pluribus Unum. The deputy clerk called the court to order. Klinsmann addressed the potential jurors, who reflected the face of metropolitan America in the twenty-first century—a mixture of races, classes, and belief systems. Because of the large numbers, some would-be jurors watched the judge’s speech on a large screen in a neighboring courtroom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, jurors perform a vital role in the American justice system. The protection of our rights and liberties is largely achieved through the teamwork of judge and jury who, working together in common cause, put into practice the principles of our great heritage of freedom. The judge determines the law to be applied in the case while the jury decides the facts. In a very important way, jurors become part of the court itself.” Although Klinsmann had given this opening address many times, he still rose to the occasion with passion in his voice, embracing the legal institution to which he belonged.

  “This is a case in which the defendant has pled not guilty to offenses that carry a potential sentence of death. For this reason, the case will proceed in two stages. During the first stage, the jury determines whether the defendant is guilty under legal criteria that I will define. If you reach a verdict of guilty, then during the second stage, you must decide whether the defendant should be sentenced to death or to life imprisonment. The jury’s decisions shall be made on the basis of the evidence presented and the Court’s instructions on the applicable law.

  “We are here to select a jury for the trial of the defendant Michael MacDougall. We need a panel of twelve, with six alternates. The prosecution and the defense each have twenty peremptory challenges. Are counsel prepared to begin?”

  Both Marconi and Quarrington nodded. Quarrington and Yavari sat with Michael on one side of the courtroom, while a team of lawyers, psychiatrists, and jury selection consultants backed up District Attorney Marconi. She was flanked by two assistant U.S. attorneys and a lawyer from the Criminal Division of the Department of Justice’s Counterterrorism Section.

  “Sheriff, bring in the first group of jurors,” Klinsmann ordered.

  The first prospective juror was Helen Dewitt of King’s County. She was a mousy, nervous-looking woman with dyed blond hair and prominent roots who looked down at her hands, twitching for a smoke. U.S. Attorney Marconi was first up.

  “Good morning, Ms. Dewitt. Can you tell me where you work?”

  “I work with mentally challenged children at the Rosebud Center.”

  “Were you affected by the poisoning of Seattle’s water supply?”

  “No. Our water comes from a different reservoir.”

  “Do you believe that terrorism is a threat to America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe in capital punishment?”

  Dewitt hesitated, then asked, “You mean the death penalty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Umm, not really.”

  “Not really as in not ever, or not really as in it should only be reserved for the most extreme cases?”

  “Umm, not ever, I guess.”

  “Not even for terrorists?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s part of the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not kill.”

  “This is a death penalty case as authorized by U.S. law. If you were to find the defendant guilty, would you be able to sentence him to death?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t think so.” Dewitt shook her head.

  “Your honor, I challenge this juror for cause. This juror has a personal bias preventing her from executing her responsibility, so to speak.”

  “Mr. Quarrington?”

  “Seems reasonable, your honor.”

  “Next juror? Your turn to go first, Mr. Quarrington.”

  “Thank you. Sir, do you have children?”

  “Yes. Two sons and a daughter.” Ron Thomson was an airplane mechanic with Boeing. His suspenders, Budweiser T-shirt, and handlebar mustache suggested he might tilt toward the redneck end of the spectrum.

  “Do you love your children?”

  “Of course. They mean the world to me.”

  “Do you think Dr. MacDougall is guilty?”

  “Well, I don’t know. The media thinks so, but in my mind, he’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “No further questions, your honor. This juror is acceptable to the defense.”

  Marconi asked each juror a battery of questions about their political views, their opinions on terrorism and the death penalty, and their personal experiences during the time when Seattle’s water was contaminated. She sought to weed out liberals and parents with young children stack the jury with older conservatives who believed in the death penalty.

  Quarrington sought to know whether they had children, loved them unconditionally, and were open-minded regarding Michael’s guilt or innocence. When Quarrington encountered potential jurors with no children, he used his peremptory challenges, even if they were young and seemingly liberal.

  By the end of the next day, the jury was chosen. Seven women and five men were sworn in, with three male and three female alternates.

  Quarrington and Yavari had a quick debrief with Michael in the holding cell behind the courtroom. “How do you feel about the jury?” Michael asked.

  “It is fine,” Quarrington replied. “I have the utmost faith in our jury system, as long as there is no monkey business going on.”

  “Monkey business?”

  “Tampering with the jury, bribery, intimidation. Although it pains me to say so, these shenanigans are not uncommon in high-stakes proceedings.”

  “You’re not concerned that most of the jurors have conservative leanings?”

  “No. The prosecution needs a unanimous verdict in order to find you guilty. We only need one juror with a conscience to set you free. If they are as open-minded as they claim to be regarding your innocence or guilt, then I expect we’ll have more than one juror on our side by the end of the trial.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence.”

  “My confidence is the product of five decades of experience. Trust me.”

  Michael stared silently at Quarrington. “It’s my life on the line.”

  �
�If I were facing a life or death operation with you as my surgeon, I would have legitimate fears yet still be confident in your abilities.”

  “You’re right.”

  Yavari smiled. She’d been through a similar apprenticeship with Quarrington. “Might as well get used to it,” she said.

  Chapter 40

  On the first day of the trial, Michael wore an ugly khaki jumpsuit and cheap blue tennis shoes without laces. His hands and ankles were manacled. His hair was longer than he liked it, but he was clean-shaven. Quarrington was in his wheelchair, radiating calm in a rumpled pinstripe suit. Yavari had tamed her unruly hair and looked more mature than her twenty-nine years. On the prosecution’s side was an array of six attorneys, all dressed in well-tailored dark gray suits. Marconi was clearly in charge, whispering last-minute orders to her team. Maria was still absent, struggling to keep the rest of her damaged life together, and unable or unwilling to show Michael any support.

  Sitting scattered around the public seating area of the courtroom were twelve shadow jurors, all residents of Seattle, with demographics closely matching the actual jury. They had been hired by an independent consultant with no traceable links to the U.S. government, and their job was to provide feedback, via text messages, about their perceptions regarding the style and substance of the attorneys’ arguments.

  Marconi had hired a PowerPoint expert to help prepare her visual presentations. Even the background colors for the slides had been the subject of discussions. Two psychologists, one of whom held a law degree, had been retained to monitor the jury’s reaction to both counsel and witnesses.

  Unlike courtrooms on television and in movies, Courtroom B was not a stately wood-paneled room. It was more like a large meeting hall, with utilitarian furniture and fluorescent lighting bouncing off drab walls. The public gallery was jammed, and another 150 spectators were in the courtroom next door, watching the trial on a large television. Cassie was in the front row reserved for high-ranking government officials.