“Where does this Levy fit in?”
“Charlie is running out of money. I’ve checked. Evers doesn’t come cheap. I’m guessing that World News paid Charlie for the interview and he used the fee to pay Evers. Levy probably smuggled the money into the country.”
Baptiste stared straight ahead and Tuazama waited patiently.
“I underestimated Charlie,” the president said. “I should have given him to you sooner. I want you to handle this matter personally. Go to America and bring back the diamonds.”
“And Charlie?”
“Charlie’s not important. He’s nothing to me anymore. It’s the principle of the thing now, Nathan. If I let Charlie get away with this everyone will think I am weak. So, find what he’s taken then make an example of him that will grab the attention of the next traitor who thinks about crossing me.”
CHAPTER 8
Amanda Jaffe’s phone woke her out of a deep sleep. She groped for it after the third ring.
“Hello,” she mumbled groggily as soon as she located the receiver.
“Is this Amanda Jaffe?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Martha Brice. I’m the editor in chief of World News.”
Shit, a reporter, Amanda thought as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and brushed her long black hair away from her face. Amanda’s boyfriend, Mike Greene, the chief criminal deputy at the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, had spent the night with her at her condo because neither of them had a meeting or court appearance until noon. Amanda had been looking forward to sleeping in, for a change.
“Do you know what time it is, Ms. Brice?”
“That’s Mrs. Brice, and since its seven a.m. in New York, it must be four where you are,” the woman answered calmly.
“Is there some reason you couldn’t call me at my office at a civilized hour?”
“Actually, there is. I’m in my corporate jet headed for Oregon. I should be at the airport in four hours. I want to meet with you as soon as I land.”
Brice’s imperious tone acted like a double shot of espresso.
“Look, Mrs. Brice,” Amanda snapped, “I don’t try my cases in the press, and if you think the best way to get an interview with me is to wake me up in the middle of the night, you should take a refresher course at whatever journalism school you attended.”
“You must not have understood me, Ms. Jaffe. I’ll chalk that up to my waking you. I’m not a reporter. I am the editor in chief of World News. I run the magazine. I don’t conduct interviews. I’m flying to Portland to hire you to work on a case; one that I’m certain you’ll want to handle.”
“What case?”
“I don’t wish to discuss the particulars over the phone.”
Amanda was quiet for a moment. She didn’t like Brice’s attitude, but she was intrigued.
“I’ll be in my office by the time you land,” she said.
“I won’t have time to drive into town. I have an important meeting in New York, later today. I’d like you to meet me at my plane. There’s a conference area on board. There’s also a galley, so I can provide breakfast. Am I correct that you’re partial to blueberry pancakes?”
Amanda’s mouth opened in surprise. “If that was meant to impress me, you’ve succeeded.”
“I’m afraid you’re too easily impressed. One of my assistants Googled you. I obtained that piece of information from an interview you gave to one of my competitors after the Cardoni case.”
“That was a few years ago.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”
Amanda laughed. “No, Mrs. Brice, and your offer of blueberry pancakes has served its purpose. I’ll need the carbs to get me through the day, since I’m going to be sleep-deprived.”
“Come to the Flightcraft FBO at eight.”
“FBO?”
“It means fixed base operator. Think terminal. Jennifer Gates, my administrative assistant, will be waiting in the lounge and she’ll escort you on board. One more thing. Don’t tell anyone about our meeting.”
“You don’t want anyone to know you’re coming to Portland?”
“That is correct. You’ll understand why when I tell you about the case,” Brice answered just before she broke the connection.
Amanda flopped onto her back so she could gather the strength to get up and get dressed. She found Mike lying on his side, watching her. As chief criminal deputy in the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office, Mike had led many of the county’s high-profile murder cases and they’d met when he prosecuted the Cardoni case, which almost cost Amanda her life. They’d had an on-again, off-again relationship ever since. If they weren’t so busy, she and Mike might have had time to figure out where that relationship was going.
Mike had blue eyes, curly black hair, and a shaggy mustache. Because he was a bulky six-five, he was frequently mistaken for someone who played college football or basketball—sports in which the cerebral DA had never engaged. Instead, Amanda’s boyfriend competed in chess tournaments and was good enough on the tenor sax to play professionally.
“I guess we’re not eating breakfast together,” Mike said.
“Sorry,” Amanda said, “duty calls.”
“A new case?”
“Yup.”
“What’s it about?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t tell you the identity of the client, so don’t ask.”
“Mrs. Brice must be rich,” Mike said with a grin.
“Please forget you heard that name or I will not have sex with you until the next millennium.”
Mike laughed.
“And how did you know she was rich?”
“Yours truly knows what an FBO is. Don’t forget, I practiced law in LA. So, she’s flying in on a private jet, huh.”
“Mike,” Amanda warned.
Greene laughed again. Then he looked at the clock on the nightstand. “What time do you have to be at the airport?”
“Eight.”
Mike snaked an arm across Amanda’s stomach. “I’m going to have trouble getting back to sleep,” he said as his hand moved slowly to Amanda’s breast.
Amanda rolled toward Mike. Being jerked out of sleep always jangled her nerves and she did have plenty of time to shower and dress.
“All men are pigs who only think about one thing,” she said.
Mike grinned and answered with the most valuable phrase he’d learned in law school: “Assuming that’s true, what’s wrong with it?”
IT WAS HOT for a Portland summer and Amanda had the air conditioning cranked up as she drove along the freeway to Airport Way, the road that led to Portland International Airport. Just before the road curved toward the parking garage for the main terminal and the arrivals and departures areas, she saw a sign that read BUSINESS AVIATION and turned into a parking lot that fronted the Flightcraft FBO, a one-story steel-and-glass building that acted as the terminal for private aircraft. Inside were a few rows of seats and a check-in desk. When Amanda entered, an attractive brunette with bouncy, shoulder-length hair stood up. She was wearing a blue pinstripe pants suit, a white silk shirt, and a strand of white pearls and looked very businesslike as well as very elegant.
Amanda was good-looking, but no one would call her elegant. Years of competitive swimming had given her broad shoulders and a muscular build she kept hard by continuing the workouts that had made her a PAC-10 champion and given her a shot at an Olympic berth. Her figure was nothing like that of a fashion model, but it still attracted men.
“Ms. Jaffe?”
Amanda nodded. The woman held out her hand and they shook.
“I’m Jennifer Gates, Mrs. Brice’s assistant. Mrs. Brice is waiting for you.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jennifer. Lead on.”
A sleek white Gulfstream G550 with the World News logo stenciled on its fuselage waited on the tarmac a short distance from the terminal. Amanda climbed a set of steps and walked into an interior unlike that of any plane in which
she’d ever flown. The floor was covered with a deep beige carpet you’d expect to find in a Manhattan penthouse and the walls were paneled in dark wood. There were fourteen roomy seats upholstered in tan leather, one of which had been converted into a neatly made bed. Midway back from the cockpit was an oak conference table with a single place setting consisting of a monogrammed linen napkin, a crystal glass filled with ice water, another glass for the orange juice in a crystal pitcher, and silverware that Amanda was willing to bet was real silver.
Amanda had gone to college in the Bay Area and law school in Manhattan, so she wasn’t totally ignorant of fashion, but the woman sitting across from the solitary setting was obviously an expert. She wore black Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps, black crepe pants, and a gray tweed Donna Karan belted jacket with black trim. A gold link necklace graced her neck, gold earrings dangled from her ears, and she told time on a Cartier tank watch. Next to her on an empty seat was a large black leather Prada hobo bag. Brice’s nails were manicured, her makeup was perfect, and her hair looked as if a stylist had just worked on it. No one would ever guess that she’d flown a redeye cross-country.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Jaffe,” Brice said.
“Nifty wheels,” Amanda answered as she completed her survey of the Gulfstream’s interior.
“I like it. Can I offer you orange juice, coffee?”
Amanda slid into the seat with the place setting. “Orange juice would be great, and I bet your chef can whip up a latte.”
“Single or double?” Brice asked as an amused smile creased her lips.
Amanda smiled back. “A double, please.”
Brice looked up at Jennifer Gates, who poured Amanda a glass of orange juice then walked to the back of the plane to place her order for a latte.
“Now that I’m suitably impressed, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Do the names Gabriel Sun or Charlie Marsh mean anything to you?”
“Satan’s Guru! Of course I know who he is. The trial of Sally Pope was my father’s biggest case.”
“Mr. Marsh is returning to Oregon to face the charge that he murdered Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. I would like you to represent him. You’ll be paid a five-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer. If the retainer is insufficient to cover your time, additional fees will be provided.”
Amanda had been given some large retainers, but nothing like this. It took all of her courtroom training to keep her excitement from showing.
“Why is World News willing to fund Gabriel Sun’s defense?” she asked.
“It’s not. Do you remember Mr. Marsh’s best-seller?”
“The Light Within You? Of course. I was in college when my father defended Sally Pope. I’ll bet every student at Berkeley read that book.”
“I’ve negotiated a contract with Charlie’s old publisher on his behalf for a new book; an autobiography that will take up where his first book left off. Charlie will tell all about the shooting at the Westmont Country Club, his flight to Africa, his life in Batanga, and his trial—the trial you will conduct.”
Brice leaned forward slightly and locked eyes with Amanda.
“There’s no question that Charlie’s new book will be a best-seller. Everyone in America will read it, and you will become the best-known criminal defense attorney in the country. Are you interested, Ms. Jaffe?”
Brice leaned back and let her pronouncement sink in.
“Of course I’m interested,” Amanda said just as Brice’s chef appeared with her pancakes. Jennifer Gates was following a few steps behind, carrying Amanda’s latte.
The Pope case had made her father’s reputation. The trial of Sally Pope and the continuing saga of Charlie Marsh’s flight to Africa had dominated the airwaves for more than a year. Amanda was already famous in Oregon—and she was known in professional circles outside of the state—but she would become a household name in every state in the Union if she defended Satan’s Guru.
“What’s your relationship to Charlie Marsh?” Amanda asked as she poured hot maple syrup over the stack.
“It’s strictly professional.”
“Then what are you getting out of this?” Amanda asked before taking her first bite.
“Exclusive access. He’s agreed to speak only to World News and to permit us to embed one of our reporters in your defense team during the trial.”
Amanda lowered her fork. “Whoa, wait a minute. What would this reporter be doing?”
“His name is Dennis Levy. He’s a very competent young man. I think you’ll like him.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mrs. Brice. What do you envision Levy doing during the trial?”
“I envision him being a fly on the wall. He’ll be present in court, of course, but he’ll also sit in on strategy meetings, your conferences with Mr. Marsh, interviews with witnesses. Then he’ll also do one-on-one interviews with you and your team. We’ll have an edge on every other newspaper, magazine, and TV news program.”
“We may have a problem. I can’t have your reporter setting out my strategy in your magazine for everyone in the DA’s office to read.”
“Of course not. Dennis won’t do anything to compromise Mr. Marsh’s case.”
“And he’s not going to be able to sit in on my meetings with Mr. Marsh. He’s not an attorney so he’s not covered by the attorney-client privilege. If a third party is present during a conversation I have with Mr. Marsh, the privilege disappears. Your reporter could be called as a prosecution witness and be forced to testify about everything Mr. Marsh said to me in confidence.”
“What about his First Amendment protections as a member of the press?”
“I’m not an expert in this area, but I’m pretty certain the courts have held that the First Amendment doesn’t protect a reporter in these circumstances.”
“I’ll have my legal staff look into the question. Again, I’m not going to do anything that could hurt Mr. Marsh’s chances at an acquittal.”
“Mr. Levy would have to follow my instructions. I’m going to want to review his articles before they’re published to make sure nothing he writes will tip our hand or reveal a confidence.”
“I think we can work that out. So, are you on board?”
“I’m definitely interested, but I may have a conflict. You know that my father—Frank Jaffe—represented Sally Pope, Mr. Marsh’s codefendant?”
Brice nodded.
“As I said, I was in college when the trial was held, but we’re partners now and I have to make certain that no conflict exists.”
“Mrs. Pope was acquitted, wasn’t she?”
“The case was dismissed with prejudice, in the middle of the trial. The legal effect is the same.”
“So where’s the problem?”
“There may not be one, but I have to make certain. If there is none, I’ll definitely take the case. That is, if Mr. Marsh wants me as his lawyer. You understand that you won’t be my client, he will. If he wants me, I’m in.”
“Good.”
“Where is Mr. Marsh now?”
“En route to New York. He’ll stay in an apartment World News owns.”
“You’re not going to announce his return, are you? I don’t want the district attorney to know where he is. He’d have him arrested.”
“I have no intention of letting anyone know that Mr. Marsh is back in the States until you tell me it’s okay.”
“Good. The first thing I’ll do, as soon as I’m certain I can take the case, is to arrange Mr. Marsh’s voluntary surrender. This will give me time to set up a bail hearing. I don’t want him in jail while we’re preparing for trial if I can prevent it.”
Brice reached into her hobo bag and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to Amanda.
“This is your retainer and a list of phone numbers that will reach me. Let me know as soon as possible about the conflict problem.”
“I’ll want to speak to Mr. Marsh immediately, once I’m on board.”
“I’ll send the j
et for you and you can meet in New York, if you’d like.”
Amanda ran her hand over the leather-upholstered seat. “I might just take you up on that if you throw in another free breakfast. These pancakes are delicious.”
CHAPTER 9
Amanda could barely contain her excitement as she drove to her office. She’d been involved in some big cases that had gained national attention, like Cardoni—the serial killer case—and the Dupre matter, which had involved the murder of a United States senator. But the attention State v. Charles Marsh would garner would be on a whole different plane. Her life would be turned upside down, but it would be worth it for the chance to be part of history.
Then there was the personal reason for taking the case. What a coup it would be if she cleared Marsh’s name the same way her father had cleared Sally Pope’s.
Amanda parked in her lot and walked through the waves of rolling heat to the Stockman Building, a fourteen-story office building in the heart of downtown Portland. Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi leased the entire eighth floor. As soon as Amanda checked for messages at the front desk, she went to her father’s office.
Frank Jaffe was a big man in his late fifties, with a ruddy complexion and curly hair that was starting to show more gray than black. His nose had been broken twice in his youth during brawls, and he looked more like a criminal than a doctor of jurisprudence. Frank’s spacious corner office was decorated with antiques and dominated by a huge desk he’d bought at an auction soon after opening his practice. Over the years, the desk top had been scarred by cigarette burns, paper-clip scratches, and coffee stains that were hard to spot, because almost every inch was covered by law books, stacks of paper, or files.
Amanda announced herself by tapping on Frank’s doorjamb. He looked up from the draft of the legal memo on which he was working.
“What’s the reason for the smile that’s plastered across your puss?” Frank asked.
Amanda plopped herself down on one of the two client chairs that stood on the other side of Frank’s desk.
“Why do you think I was given this?” Amanda asked, tossing the retainer check toward Frank. He stared at the check for a moment. Then he whistled. Amanda’s smile widened.
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