Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “His wife left him for another guy,” one of the TV reporters said.

  “Can you blame her?” her cameraman replied. “He’s such a tight asshole.”

  Marcy Bangor considered the possibilities and picked at her front teeth with a fingernail. “Why throw him away if he isn’t broken?”

  Sutherland was back at the prosecution table early, his hands folded over the legal pad, his head bowed. He ran through the main points of the closing argument he had rehearsed with his staff. He rose when Jane Evans entered, and after the routine of reconvening, stepped in front of the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “justice needs only one voice…” His words trailed off as the doors at the back of the courtroom opened and two late arrivals entered. A collective gasp escaped from the audience. Jonathan Meredith entered, escorting the wife of the defendant Sutherland had destroyed on the witness stand.

  Evans was about to rap the court to order and admonish the late arrivals, but the room was deadly silent as the two found open seats directly behind the defendants’ table and sat down. The wife reached across the bar and touched her husband. Before Evans could caution her, the hand was drawn back and held safely in the grasp of Jonathan Meredith. But the damage was done. Meredith had shown the jury that the defendants were safely under his wing and the foreman’s eyes were wide and lustrous, her face glowing.

  Sutherland looked to the bench for help. But Jane Evans only gave him a slight shrug. There was nothing she could do without making the situation worse. Sutherland stood motionless for a moment, his head bowed. Then he raised his eyes to the jury and started to speak. But every face in front of him was a perfect reflection of what he had seen in the foreman. “Every society,” he said, improvising as he spoke, “finds its future in its children. If we do not protect them, and in many cases save them from their own rash actions, we have no future. This is our duty as a society, this is your duty as citizens.” Somehow, his words sounded hollow and meaningless.

  “Hank,” Marcy called as he stepped through the courtroom doors into the corridor. This time she was alone and the hallway deserted. Everyone was clustered around Jonathan Meredith, the defendants’ wives, and the dream team in the main lobby. “How long do you think the jury will be out?”

  “Hard to say,” he answered. “Every jury is different.” Marcy bobbed her head and hurried down the hall, toward the main lobby where Meredith and the news was. Sutherland stared at her back and then took the side stairs to return to the District Attorney’s building. Outside, he walked slowly, in no hurry to return to the pandemonium sweeping his office. Meredith’s well-timed arrival had muddied the case. Still, he fold himself, juries have a way of seeing the truth.

  His cellular phone beeped at him. He fished it out and flipped it open. “The jury’s back,” a voice told him.

  “That must be a record,” he muttered.

  Jane Evans unfolded the verdict forms and, satisfied they were correct, handed them to the clerk. “Before the clerk reads the verdict, I want to warn the audience that I will not tolerate any outburst or demonstration in my courtroom, and I will have the bailiffs immediately clear the room.” She nodded to the clerk.

  The clerk stood and unfolded the forms. Her face lit up and tears filled her eyes as she read. “We the jury in the above entitled cause, find the defendants not guilty.”

  The room exploded in applause and shouts as Meredith jumped to his feet and reached across the bar, pumping the hand of the nearest defendant. Immediately, the other two defendants joined in, their hands all coupling in a common cause. The bailiffs went crazy and headed for the bar, determined to reestablish the sanctity, not to mention the security, of the courtroom. Jane Evans rapped hard to no avail and the bailiffs looked to her for guidance. But they could not hear her over the uproar. She shook her head and motioned them back, still banging the gavel.

  Meredith looked at her and smiled. He drew his hand out of the pile and raised his arm high above his head. Immediately, the courtroom fell silent as he sat down.

  Evans took a deep breath and swallowed what she really wanted to say. This was her courtroom and not his. “You have been found not guilty and will be returned to the county jail for immediate processing and release.” She motioned to the bailiffs to escort them from the courtroom.

  Meredith sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, these are free men and cannot be treated like common criminals.”

  Sutherland was on his feet. “Your Honor, Mr. Meredith has no standing to speak here. We must still follow the rules and regulations.”

  “Must I repeat myself?” Meredith thundered, his voice commanding the room. It was a rhetorical question that, under the circumstances, neither Evans nor Sutherland chose to answer. “These are free men. Your rules and regulations no longer apply. One of my assistants will process them. I am going to escort them and their families outside where they can breathe the pure clean air of freedom.”

  Meredith reached over and swung the gate at the bar open, holding it while the defendants and the dream team walked through. The last man out was R. Garrison Cooper who looked over at Sutherland. “Eat shit, son,” he growled in a low voice.

  Sutherland took the elevator to the fourth floor of 901 G Street and braced himself when the doors swooshed open. It was going to be a long walk to his office. “Hey, Hank,” a voice called, “anyone can lose a case but it takes skill so the jury doesn’t even have to sit down.” He smiled. How many times had he pimped his fellow prosecutors when they lost a case? He rationalized that the good-natured kidding went with the territory.

  “For a slam dunk, you didn’t fuck it up too bad.” This from the oldest and most experienced deputy D.A. More heads popped out of their cubicles and a few doors from the window offices swung open. The walk was turning into a gauntlet.

  “Welcome to the real world.” Again, Sutherland smiled. He didn’t have a choice.

  A woman deputy D.A. joined the fun. “Finally had to take a hard one, Hank?”

  Another voice joined the growing chorus. “It wasn’t your fault, you did about as good as you could.”

  “Better than you, mate,” Sutherland muttered under his breath. A mental picture of crabs scurrying out from under rocks at low tide flashed in front of him. He finally made the sanctuary of his office and closed the door. He flopped into his chair and looked out the window, not really seeing. He took a few deep breaths and checked his voice mail: call his realtor and the D.A. wanted to see him soonest. The realtor could wait. He heaved himself out of his chair and ambled down to the D.A.’s corner office. He muttered the D.A.’s favorite word “Soonest.” The secretary waved him in.

  The D.A. was a big man with gray hair who was not what he seemed. The voters thought he was a sensitive man who cared about them and the community. In reality, he only cared about winning and ran his office with an iron fist. It was the fuzzy warm wrapper around his personality that made him dangerous. “Hank,” the D.A. said, “I heard.” He waved Sutherland to the chair beside his desk. Common wisdom on the fourth floor held that it was the goat seat reserved for those special occasions when some hapless individual was about to make office history. Sutherland sat down. Unfortunately, the chair felt comfortable. “You had a great run,” the D.A. said. “How long has it been since you lost a case?”

  “Over four years,” Sutherland mumbled.

  “Well, you had to lose one sooner or later.”

  “Too bad it had to be this one,” Sutherland said. He heard the patronizing tone in the D.A.’s voice and it hurt.

  “No one can match your record,” the D.A. replied. “Think about it. One loss in a long string of outstanding wins.” Sutherland winced as he endured the pep talk. “I heard the troops work you over out there. You were flying high and they were jealous; don’t let them get you down. Knock it out of the ballpark next time, Slugger.”

  A telephone call from the governor’s office claimed the D.A.’s attention and Sutherland escaped back to his office.

&nbs
p; He dialed his realtor and the woman’s perpetually cheery voice echoed in his ear. “Hank, we’ve got an offer on the house. Given the market, I think it’s a fair one.” He bit his tongue as she related the details. The “fair offer” was more than fifty thousand dollars less than he had invested in the house. She hammered him with the hard reality of what happens when you buy a house as an investment and not a home. Still, it had been Beth’s idea and most of her money that went into it.

  Beth, he thought, where are you? Out of long habit, his eyes came to rest on the silver-framed photograph of his ex-wife on top of the bookcase as the realtor prattled on. “Look at it this way, Hank. You’re still getting more than you paid for it, which means selling isn’t a total loss.” He told her he’d think about it and get back to her in the morning.

  His next call was to his accountant, who gave him the bad news. Because he had recently refinanced the house, he would owe $10,000 in prepayment penalties. It was $9,000 more than he would clear from the sale. He grunted an answer and punched at the phone, breaking the connection. Disgusted, he took off his coat, pulled his tie loose, and pulled out the folders for his next case. This one involved the murder of an inmate at Folsom Prison by another inmate and was also a slam dunk. Although now, he wasn’t so sure.

  When he closed the last folder, it was dark outside. Rather than go home and rattle around the huge empty house, he went to Biba, an Italian restaurant on Capitol Avenue. It was a delightful habit left over from his marriage and worth every penny. The bartender recognized him and automatically mixed a semidry martini. As always, it was perfect and the aromas coming from the kitchen tantalized him with forbidden excess. He savored the drink and read the menu, in itself a sybaritic pleasure.

  “Hello, Hank,” a soft voice said. He turned and tried to remember the name of the young woman standing behind him. She was a new face at the public defender’s office, a very pretty one, which he hadn’t faced in court. Sherry something. Then it came to him. “Shari with an i,” he said, giving her his best lopsided grin. He couldn’t remember her last name.

  She returned his smile. “I heard you had a bad day in court.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not to you.” She sat down next to him as her skirt pulled up and her knee brushed against his leg. It wasn’t an accident.

  “Care to join me for dinner?” he asked.

  Her hand stroked the top of his thigh. “I’d love to.” They conferred over the menu like conspirators before going into the dining room. As expected, the food was excellent and, much to his surprise, Shari carried on a sparkling conversation. It all made for a delightful meal. They lingered over the last of the wine and then ordered coffee. “Does lawyer sex always start like this?” she asked.

  He had never heard of the term but liked where it was leading, even if he suspected Shari was on the make, looking for a career jump into the D.A.’s office. Her hand moved along the inside of his thigh and he felt the stirrings of an erection. It had been a long time. “Hopefully, lawyer sex is more than just professional courtesy,” he replied. “Or a cynical career thing.”

  “Does it matter?” she murmured, moistening her lips.

  It didn’t.

  3

  7:30 A.M., Wednesday, April 7,

  The Farm, Western Virginia

  The sprawling complex in western Virginia was anything but a farm. Its Colonial-style redbrick buildings, covered walkways, and gently rolling lawns against the backdrop of the Blue Ridge Mountains were more reminiscent of an Ivy League college than the headquarters of Century Communications, one of the world’s most sophisticated research and development centers. But it was a topsy-turvy world. The scientific staff, a young and eager bunch commonly referred to as the whiz kids, looked like students while the much more numerous, older, and sedate technicians resembled professors. As a result, not one of the small group who escorted Nelson Durant and Art Rios into the Project appeared to be over the age of twenty-five.

  They were standing on a small balcony lounge overlooking a conventional control center. “Our studies,” a trim young woman explained, “confirm that a traditional control room reinforces expectations.”

  “It gives visiting congressmen something they can hang their hats on,” an equally young man added. “But this is the heart of the system.” He gestured at two TV monitors sitting on a simple work table in front of them. “We show ’em the main floor and that keeps them happy.” Durant smiled at the pointed barb about the mind-set of politicians and sat down in a comfortable chair that swiveled in front of two TV screens. “Meet Agnes, Mr. Durant. Agnes, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Durant.”

  The screen on the right monitor came to life at the sound of the name “Agnes.” The image of a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-thirties appeared and the camera built into the monitor swept the room, matching the movement of her eyes. It briefly paused on Rios before focusing on Durant. “Hello, Mr. Durant,” the image said. “I am so pleased to meet you.” The image and the voice were computer generated and designed to be friendly.

  “Well, Agnes,” Durant replied, “I’m glad to meet you too. The whiz kids tell me you can do some pretty amazing things.”

  The image actually blushed. “Not really, Mr. Durant. All you do is give me a few key words so I can focus on a subject. Then I search existing libraries, files, and governmental sources for information to create an intelligence brief.” The image looked embarrassed and the voice became confidential. “I have access to the secret files of every government that uses computers to store information. Any information.”

  Durant was enjoying the interplay. “Agnes, I’m shocked.”

  “Well,” Agnes replied, “sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

  “Is that all you do?”

  “Oh, no. I can target specific communications through satellites and things like that. For example, say you wanted to know what the German government was doing about Poland.”

  “Are they doing anything about Poland?”

  “I don’t know. But I could build an intelligence brief to find out. Then I would monitor, decrypt, and translate their communications to learn what was currently happening. Would you like a demonstration? I’ve never done it before, not for real.”

  “What do you know about me?” he asked, throwing a curve. The image on the screen looked perplexed.

  “Agnes has not been programmed to target an individual,” one of the whiz kids said.

  Durant was curious to see what the system could discover about his personal life. He was the only child of a Swiss couple who had immigrated to the United States prior to World War II. Although he was born in Virginia in 1945, he still had dual citizenship in Switzerland. Because he was an only child, his mother had tutored him at home, and owing to her early influence, he became something of a recluse. When his parents had been killed in a boating accident when he was nineteen, the young Durant gained his freedom and inherited a small fortune. Still preferring anonymity and remaining in the shadows, he parlayed his inheritance into a megabillion-dollar empire in computers and communications. But Durant’s aristocratic father had instilled in him a sense of obligation and service that demanded an outlet. True to his nature, he started to move behind the scenes exploiting his wealth and contacts. Soon, he branched out and was influencing elections and events.

  A reporter had once discovered Durant’s growing presence in the shadows and managed to penetrate the veil he had fashioned to protect his privacy. The reporter had learned, in very short order, what real power was and gave up the idea. The few senators and congressmen who did know of him were very discreet and only mentioned his name in private. Not even the IRS audited his tax returns, which were filed under a special arrangement and never entered in a computer. Durant valued his privacy above all else.

  Agnes looked positively embarrassed. “Mr. Durant, I can’t find a thing. This is unheard of.” A determined look came over her face. “If you want, I can force the gatekeepers
to talk.”

  One of the whiz kids turned the monitor off. “I don’t want her to hear,” he explained. “Agnes has a built-in learning program and this is a good example of the problems we’re having bringing voice-activated interaction on-line.” He sighed. “We had a terrible time getting past idioms. You should have seen how she responded to ‘the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.’ But this is totally new. How in the world can she force a computer’s gatekeeper to talk?” No one could answer his question and he turned the monitor back on.

  “Sorry, Agnes,” Durant said. “We wanted to have a private conversation.” The image nodded in understanding. “I’m rather boring old stuff so forget me. What can you tell me about the number-one terrorist threat to the United States?” This was exactly what the Project had been created to do.

  “Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Durant.”

  “Please display,” one of the whiz kids said.

  Agnes got huffy. “Please. I’m working with Mr. Durant.”

  “Please display, Agnes,” Durant said. The second screen came alive. This time a man’s voice started to speak as Agnes looked on. This was all new to her. The words The Armed Islamic Group—the primary terrorist threat appeared on the screen. A series of pictures, maps, and video sound bites scrolled for viewing as the man talked.

  “The Armed Islamic Group, or AIG for short, is a privately financed terrorist organization currently operating in the Sudan and under the protection of the Sudanese government. The AIG is led and financed by this man, Jamil bin Assam.” A picture of a short, dumpy man wearing a general’s uniform appeared on the screen. He was smiling through a heavy beard and standing in front of a U.S.-built C-130 cargo plane. “The AIG has discovered a new strain of fast-burning Ebola virus in the Sudd of southern Sudan.” Pictures of corpses in a Dinka village ravaged by the virus scrolled on the screen. The pictures were horrible and showed bodies lying in their own mucus, blood, and excrement.