The Wrong Lawyer

by Donald W. Desaulniers

  “How did you accomplish that?” Corbett inquired. “It sounds like you had a dreadful evening.”

  “Apparently I got up in the night and in my drunken stupor booked myself a trip to Las Vegas leaving on Tuesday. I found the Expedia confirmation on my printer this morning.”

  “Can’t you cancel it?”

  “No, it’s non-refundable, but in any event, I think I’m looking forward to a few days away. I can look at it as my one-year retirement anniversary gift to myself.”

  Corbett probed a bit further but was finally convinced that I wasn’t too despondent about getting dumped by Linda and that I fully expected to see her again in the not too distant future.

  After he left I sorted through my clothes and decided what to take on my trip.

  I hadn’t been on any vacation since February and it had been a couple of years since I had visited Las Vegas.

  On Monday I got some American cash and traveler’s checks at the bank.

  Corbett called and invited me up to his place for a drink as a bon voyage send-off. He and Lynne were staying in his condo that evening as a break from their recent torrid social agenda.

  I was immediately struck by how comfortable they were together. It really appeared that they were made for each other.

  “Your spur of the moment trip has prompted Lynne and me to look into taking our first vacation together. We picked up some cruise brochures from the travel agent this morning. You’ve always been a fountain of great ideas, Kennedy, although we have no intention of booking the cheapest trip available like you always do.”

  “I’m really pleased to see how well the two of you fit together,” I replied sincerely. “You’re both glowing right now.”

  “You and Linda might find that it’s the same with you,” Lynne interjected. “I know that she likes you and the potential is certainly there. I just hope that little weasel Jeremy doesn’t spoil everything for you. He’s a complete waste of space.”

  “I am looking forward to seeing Linda again once her currently chaotic life is under control. It must be difficult having a child who constantly disappoints.”

  We changed the topic and they showed me the two European river cruises that were the finalists for their own proposed trip.

  Both trips lasted for seven days with short stays either before or after the cruise portion of the tours.

  “When would you go?” I inquired.

  “Lynne has a break in her course coming up later this week, so we might even be able to get away as early as Thursday,” Jim replied. “If we do decide to go while you’re in Las Vegas, I’ll slip a note under your door telling you when we’ll be back.”

  Since I had to get up early the next morning, I left Jim’s condo just after nine-thirty.

  Again I was a bit jealous of the totally positive direction Corbett’s life had taken.

  My own life looked to be even lonelier than before since Jim was now fully occupied with his new love interest.

  CHAPTER 12 (Travel Glitch)

  I woke with the alarm at six o’clock, showered quickly, ate some cereal and toast, and climbed into Little Chevy just after six-thirty.

  It would take me just over two hours to make it to the Syracuse airport, and my first flight was scheduled to depart for Washington, D.C. at eleven o’clock.

  The border crossing into the USA at the Ivy Lea Bridge went smoothly and I parked the car in the covered parking garage at the airport exactly at nine o’clock.

  As I took a seat in the departure gate area, it dawned on me that I was excited with the prospect of seeing Las Vegas again. The severe disappointment arising from Linda’s cancellation of our date had already subsided, and I no longer felt envious about Corbett’s good luck. Instead I was entirely pleased about his good fortune in hitting it off so famously with Lynne.

  Being a seasoned traveler, I had no luggage to check, my only bag being a smallish carry-on sports bag.

  The seats in the waiting area gradually filled up as the time moved along.

  Eventually the lady at the airline desk announced that passengers could now board the flight.

  There was a rush as people scrambled up to secure a better spot in the line.

  I remained sitting until the line had dwindled to just half a dozen people and then took my place at the end of the queue.

  A moment later a well-dressed man with a dark complexion made a bee-line down the corridor and breathlessly took his place behind me.

  I smiled and said, “You cut that a bit short. Was traffic bad?”

  “No, it was that distressing security check. They’ve been grilling me for the past hour and a half. That’s the disadvantage of being from Saudi Arabia in today’s security-frightened America. It would have been more efficient if I had just rented a vehicle and driven to Washington. You Americans have taken this terrorist obsession beyond the realm of sanity.”

  “I’m from Canada. It’s cheaper and an easier drive for me to fly out of Syracuse rather than depart from Ottawa or Toronto.”

  “Did you have any difficulty entering America or making your way through airport security?”

  “No, it’s been smooth sailing all the way so far.”

  “That’s likely because you’re the correct color. They claim not to profile the passengers but it’s a rare day at any airport in this country when I’m not subjected to the most intense of searches and interrogations.”

  My turn in line had arrived so I handed my boarding pass to the attendant. She swiped it and gave it back.

  I walked down the jet-way and entered the small airplane which only seated about forty passengers.

  The Arab fellow had not yet boarded the plane and I wondered if he was being grilled yet again.

  My seat was at the extreme rear of the aircraft and I put my carry-on bag in the small overhead rack just above my aisle seat.

  All the passengers had now gotten settled except for the chap I had spoken with. There was still no sign of him.

  The sole flight attendant gave her short safety spiel and then announced that we would be taking off shortly.

  Finally the Arab gentleman appeared and strode down the aisle while the passengers no doubt were examining him closely and wondering if he could be trouble.

  He continued right to the rear of the plane and indicated to me that his seat was by the window beside me.

  I stood up and stepped into the aisle to permit him to get to his seat. I noticed that he no longer had his carry-on bag with him.

  “Where’s your bag?” I asked.

  “They insisted on searching it thoroughly again at the gate and then advised that it was too large to be taken on the plane as a carry-on. I was forced to check it. My protestations were all in vain. They wouldn’t even allow me to bring my laptop or cell phone onto the plane. It was most infuriating.”

  “I think you’ve got a valid point,” I responded. “Your bag didn’t look any larger than mine and if I owned a laptop or a cell phone, I certainly wouldn’t want the things out of my sight. Those devices contain way too much personal information.”

  “There appears to be something much more invasive than normal going on today,” the gentleman opined. “You wouldn’t believe the detailed questions I was asked at the security check. I had no idea what information the agents were trying to extract from me. Their questions jumped from one subject to another with seemingly no continuity. Because of my swarthy complexion, they must believe that I’m a terrorist working for ISIS.”

  “Who knows if they even know how to think? I’m just a retired lawyer heading to Las Vegas for a vacation,” I said. “At the US border all the customs guard asked was how long I was going to be in the USA and where I was heading. I could have been smuggling in a trunk load of rocket launchers. At the airport security check here, they didn’t ask me a single question. They just briefly glanced at my passport. Are you travelling on business?”

  “Yes, so I suppose that some additional probing of the purpose of my trip to Amer
ica might be warranted, but I flew in to New York City from Riyadh a week ago. That would have been the appropriate time to question the nature of my trip so intensely.”

  “That would make more sense,” I responded. “The security folks have certainly devised some ingenious ways of making air travel close to intolerable.”

  The fellow smiled.

  “If you’re beginning to experience that as an innocent tourist, then you can imagine how horrid the process of air travel has been rendered for the likes of me. The looks of suspicion that I receive wherever I travel in this country would make you believe that I’ve got a bomb hidden in my undergarments.”

  “I’m sure the security bozos would never discover an actual bomb,” I said jokingly. “They’re too busy looking for illegal drugs to detect any real threat.”

  Just then the plane began moving and within two minutes we were cleared for takeoff and were up in the air.

  My seating companion closed his eyes and never opened them again until the plane touched down at Washington Dulles International Airport ninety minutes later.

  “Have we arrived already?” he remarked. “I must have dozed off. That was certainly the quickest flight I’ve ever had. Please forgive my rudeness in falling asleep during our conversation. I had no idea that I was so exhausted.”

  “That’s quite all right. My next flight to Las Vegas is over four hours in length. I expect that I’ll catch a few winks myself on that flight.”

  “It’s been a pleasure conversing with you. Do enjoy your vacation. This is the final leg of my own trip and I’ll be most pleased to be back home with my family in three more days.”

  The front door of the aircraft was thrown open and the passengers began quickly filing out.

  I retrieved my carry-on from the overhead luggage bin and stepped back to allow my seatmate to go ahead of me since I was in no hurry.

  When we arrived at the front of the aircraft, four armed guards were present and requested that the Arab chap and I follow them. One of the men took my carry-on bag from me.

  “I must retrieve my baggage first,” the Arab answered. “The crew insisted that it be placed in the plane’s storage compartment. My computer and cell phone are in the small bag.”

  “Your luggage has already been offloaded and is in our custody,” one of the guards replied.

  Instead of proceeding down the jet way to the terminal, the Arab and I were led the opposite way out to the tarmac where two black SUV’s were waiting.

  He was taken away in the first vehicle and I was asked to get into the second.

  “I’ve got a connecting flight to Las Vegas departing in less than two hours,” I informed my two escorts. “May I ask where you’re taking me and why?”

  “It’s a Homeland Security matter, sir. You’ll be briefed when we reach our destination. We’re merely following orders.”

  “No, I’ll be briefed right now. You could be kidnapping me for all I know.”

  “We’re not kidnapping you, sir. Your presence is required at a Homeland Security sub-office near the airport. Driving there is much quicker than walking. Please get in the vehicle. We have specific orders and the legal authority to do what we’re doing. Please cooperate by emptying the contents of your pockets and removing your watch.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled as I complied with their request and then got into the back seat where they secured my seatbelt.

  One of the escorts climbed in the back beside me and the other one got into the front seat on the passenger side. A third man was already seated in the driver’s seat.

  By now the first vehicle was already out of sight.

  I was most curious to find out what was going on.

  CHAPTER 13 (Intelligence Gone Berserk)

  Nobody spoke during the five or ten minutes it took to exit the tarmac and drive to a large office building situated quite near the airport.

  I was then escorted on foot inside the building via a small private side door and taken to a service elevator where the three of us rode to the eighth floor.

  After a short walk down a hallway, we entered a door with no lettering but simply bearing the number 811.

  Once inside I was led into an inner office where three men in suits were waiting. My escorts left.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” I smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

  “We’ll ask the questions, sir,” one of the men replied. “I’m Special Agent Harlan D. Matthews with Homeland Security and these are my assistants. Firstly, where are you travelling today?”

  “I’m heading to Las Vegas on vacation. In fact my next flight departs in an hour. I do hope you’ll permit me to catch that flight.”

  “That may not be possible, sir. Who are you and why were you on that flight from Syracuse to Washington today?”

  “My name is Tom Kennedy and I’m a retired lawyer from Kingston, Ontario. It’s cheaper to fly out of Syracuse rather than Toronto or Ottawa, but there are no direct flights from Syracuse to Las Vegas so I was connecting in Washington.”

  “How long have you known Bander Haddad?”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Matthews pushed a man’s photo over to me. It was my seatmate.

  “That’s the fellow who sat beside me on the flight. We never introduced ourselves to each other.”

  “Had you ever met him, spoken with him or corresponded with him before today?”

  “No.”

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “We mostly discussed the utter idiocy of airport security. He was disgusted that he regularly got hassled in American airports and he alluded that it was my fair skin which accounted for the fact that I’ve never had any problems travelling. Until today, that is. I’d appreciate knowing why I’m being interrogated right now.”

  Matthews ignored my request.

  “Are you meeting anyone in Las Vegas?”

  “No.”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “At the Four Queens in the downtown section of the city.”

  “Who knows that you’re travelling today?”

  “Practically no one; I told my best friend and his new girlfriend, and the teller at my bank asked me where I was going when I purchased some US money yesterday. I don’t have any family.”

  “Are you expecting anyone to contact you while you’re in Las Vegas?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone in Las Vegas?”

  “No.”

  “Can you explain why you only booked your flight on Sunday?”

  Up to now I had put up with Matthews’ aggressive tone of voice, but the clear inference in this last question was that I had done something wrong. I decided that I disliked the Special Agent and wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

  “I could but it’s none of your business.”

  “On the contrary, absolutely everything you do or say is very much our business. Please answer the question.”

  “If you’re so clever, then you can probably figure it out yourself. I booked the trip on Expedia in the early hours of Sunday morning while I was pissed. I didn’t even realize that I had booked and paid for the vacation until I woke up later that morning and saw the confirmation on my computer. I assume that I made all the arrangements on-line.”

  “That’s correct; you did,” the jackass smirked as he passed a copy of my trip itinerary across the desk to me.

  I was now beginning to get really pissed off.

  “What a colossal waste of time!” I snarled. “No wonder your damn country is about five dollars away from total bankruptcy.”

  “What is the name of your best friend and his new girlfriend?” the special agent persisted.

  “I bet you’re too stupid to figure it out yourself,” I retorted. “Why don’t you fly half a dozen of your crack team up to Canada to learn all about me? I am willing to disclose that my cock size is extra-large.”

  Matthews was getting miffed since I appea
red unimpressed with his access to instant information about me. In reality I was shocked that they had already researched me so thoroughly.

  He banged away at the sophisticated computer equipment on his desk until it spat out some type of picture.

  With a flourish he waved it in the air.

  “On the contrary, sir, by the looks of this scan from one of your previous sorties into America, your penis is actually quite tiny.”

  The other agents snickered.

  I had to give the little pervert credit. He had suckered me on that one. I had no idea they retained those airport full body scans and added it to whatever other information they had about the unsuspecting traveler.

  “You didn’t think it was so tiny last weekend when you were sucking on it,” I shot back.

  That line broke his team up but Matthews’ face got red as a beet and contorted with anger.

  “What do you think of this, smart ass?” he snarled as his fingers banged away again at the equipment.

  A moment later my telephone conversation with Jim Corbett from Monday evening was being replayed clear as a bell.

  Still not finished with his flashy demonstration, Matthews’ fingers literally flew over the keyboard. Within thirty seconds I was flabbergasted to hear the voices of Corbett, Lynne and me from Jim’s living-room.

  It was uncanny. Somehow our private conversation had been recorded and filed away.

  “Next I suppose you’ll be telling me that you have access to all my financial records.”

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” Matthews smirked. “You’ve done quite well for yourself, haven’t you Mr. Kennedy? Our financial analysts insist however that you’re foolish to keep all your investments in government guaranteed term deposits. They would recommend at least some exposure to the stock and bond markets. They claim that you’re missing out on solid opportunities for capital gains and much larger returns on your money.”

  This revelation was downright scary but I maintained my composure.

  “All right, Swami who knows all; tell me when I last got laid.”