A Young Lawyer's story

by John Ellsworth

  "Well, I feel like--I feel terrible and I'm sorry, so sorry."

  "You couldn't have known, Murfee. It's all good."

  She smiled and again brushed her longish hair from her face. It was an endearing struggle, keeping the strands of hair tucked behind the ears.

  "So who are you supporting for president?" Thaddeus asked.

  "Green Party. I'm Green Party, Greenpeace all the day. I'm also a card-carrying member of PETA."

  "You want me to stop eating?” he asked, realizing that she hadn't eaten the baked chicken everyone else had enjoyed. It had been all salad and vegetables with her.

  "No, I want everyone to stop eating chickens who've never seen the sun and never felt the earth beneath their feet. Caged-animals are tragic, Thaddeus. I hope you think so too."

  "And I'm asking you to go to the zoo where every animal is caged."

  "It's true. I don't believe in zoos. But I do want to see you again, let me be honest. What if we just went out for coffee, instead of the zoo?"

  His face brightened. "That would be perfect. I can still afford an espresso."

  "Done. Pick me up at six o'clock, please."

  “It’s a motor scooter. Bring a scarf.”

  “I’m not going to melt. Wind is fine.”

  “Done.”

  9

  It was an older home, a Tudor on a quarter-acre two streets over from the Potomac. The young lawyer was impressed.

  After dinner, Thaddeus was being taken on a tour of his boss's home by his boss's daughter, and now she had him outside, sitting beside her on a swing, talking. She went on and on about college and her dreams; he went on about law school and what it was like to finally graduate and at last cease from the endless briefing of cases that law school required. Fifteen minutes into their chat, her father appeared out of the dark and asked Thaddeus to walk with him.

  "That's fine," said Nikki, "you've got fifteen minutes while I help mom in the kitchen. Thaddeus, keep your guard up with this guy."

  Both men laughed; Thaddeus because he already had his guard up with Franklin J. Broyles.

  They headed off on a sandy path that left the property and skirted the next row of houses, winding up on the shoreline, where they began strolling silently through the dark at water's edge. At long last, Broyles cleared his throat and asked his question.

  "Thaddeus, you took a call from one of our undercover agents. The one that said 'All the same.' Did anyone tell you we don't want those calls entered on our office diary?"

  "No, sir. I thought everything went on the diary."

  "Well, normally that would be true. But where there's no name and the message is 'all the same,' that's code for one of our most active undercover agents. He's wormed his way in with the Chinese and he's feeding us info."

  "Are we prosecuting them?"

  "Not them, per se, no. But they commit crimes in our jurisdiction on a regular basis. Cybercrimes, Thaddeus, and we're building a case against them. Several cases, in fact. One day--on orders from the President--we're going to issue indictments against them and expose the underbelly of Chinese cyber spying in our country. The District of Columbia is going to be the poster child for that campaign. Are you with me?"

  "Yes, sir. All the way, sir. And by the way, cybercrime prosecution sounds exactly like what I want to get into. It's cutting-edge, it's important, and it's going to make or break our economy--our way of life--over the next ten years. I'd like to be there on the front lines, sir."

  "Thaddeus, I'm glad you mentioned that. I've been thinking about you a lot lately, thinking about setting you up as an oversight leader. A liaison between me and the cybercrime staff. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

  "I'd like it even more to be a prosecutor in that unit."

  They paused and Broyles bent down and grabbed a few stones, which he began skipping across the evening water.

  "That would certainly be on the horizon, too, Thaddeus. But here's what I really need you to help me with, right now."

  "What's that?"

  "My daughter. She seems to really like you."

  "It's mutual. She's good people. I think we'll be good friends."

  "And let's leave it at that, shall we? Friends? We don't ever want your official duties to bump up against my family, do we?"

  "What do you mean, 'bump up against’?”

  "Well, I wouldn't want anything at work to color how you might feel about Nikki."

  "I don't know how that would ever happen."

  Broyles turned to Thaddeus and nodded. "You know, I don't either. Let's forget what I just said. You two enjoy, get to know each other, and let an old man butt out. Nik's mother would kill me for even saying anything to you."

  "It's all right, Mr. Broyles, I think I know what you were saying. I can't afford to allow feelings about you or your family to ever affect my work. That about it?"

  "Bingo! Better than I could ever have said it."

  "So I noticed," said Thaddeus with a laugh. "There won't be any problems, Mr. Broyles. I promise you."

  Broyles moved a step closer.

  "Truth-telling time?" said Broyles. "I think Nikki's lucky to meet you. You're top-flight, Thaddeus. I’m happy that she's getting to know you."

  "Well, so far all we've done is enjoyed dinner together and reminisced about school, Mr. Broyles. It's not like we're picking out paint colors for our living room."

  Broyles threw his head back and laughed heartily.

  "Oh, that's good, Murf! That's rich!"

  Thaddeus was feeling quite happy with the talk. He was finding his boss to be a charming, caring man. He was definitely having trouble reconciling what he saw at the sluice gate with the kind, informative man he was talking with right then. He became so at ease, in fact, that he weighed broaching the subject with Mr. Broyles. But, in the end, he decided it would be a damn stupid thing to do. In fact, though it was warm in the night air, he involuntarily shivered.

  Damn stupid to bring it up, indeed.

  10

  Broyles knew from his days at the FBI that following a car at two o'clock in the morning without being discovered was difficult if not impossible. It was difficult because there was very little camouflage traffic around, at least on secondary roads. It wouldn't take the astute driver long to notice the tail, especially if the astute driver was meeting up with a Chinese spy ring, as Broyles was about to do. So the meet was set for early Sunday morning.

  At two a.m. Sunday morning, Broyles drove his government Chrysler Sebring to an all-night Denny’s Restaurant over from K Street. He did a cursory wait-and-see when he pulled in, leaving the motor running and moving slowly through the parking lot. When he was halfway confident he hadn't been followed, he parked and went inside and went straight through the building, through the kitchen, and out the back door, where he waited by a dumpster. Five minutes later, when no one had exited the back door after him, he retraced his steps, going back inside, where he grabbed a menu beside the cash register and scouted out a place to sit.

  He found a deserted table at the far side of the counter, away from all windows, and slid his tray down the table to the chair beside the wall. It was as far away from the normal stream of commerce as he could get. Then he ordered and waited, thinking of what he was going to say to the man he was meeting. It had to be done in just the right way.

  His food came. Ever so slowly, he dined. When he was finished, he waited. And waited. No waitress. He went up to the counter, refilled his cup, and returned to his table to wait again. At long last, he peeled off a twenty and laid it on the table. Then he went back through the kitchen and passed by the dumpsters until he came to a high hedge bordering the rear property line and he sat down on the curb there.

  At four a.m., headlights swung around to the back of the restaurant, yellow shafts of light passed across the waiting Broyles and then beamed at the far side of the lot as the vehicle straightened out before stopping. A lone figure got out on the passenger side and approached. He sat down beside Br
oyles and stared straight ahead.

  "You were followed Friday night," said the second man. A match flared and his features were briefly illuminated. The face of Sing Di Hoa turned to the side and waited.

  Broyles didn’t look over. ”Followed? You're sure of this?"

  "Definite."

  "Who?"

  "Your new man. Thaddeus Murfee."

  "What did he see?"

  "We think he saw everything. He stopped and parked his motor scooter one hundred meters from our exchange. It isn't good. Who is he working for?"

  Broyles felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. It hadn't occurred to him that Thaddeus Murfee was working for anyone except him. But that wasn't entirely true. Frank, the custodian at the office, had also mentioned that he came upon Murfee inside Broyles' office, doing who knows what. Frank had also presented him with a tiny listening device, a bug. All government offices were bugged and the appearance of another of the devices was not a big event; rather, it was even commonplace. Still, Broyles should have paid more attention to the fact the kid was new and he didn’t know him all that well instead of thinking the intrusion innocent. Innocent, hell; now it was looking like Murfee was all over him.

  "Who's he working for? That would be hard to say. Maybe FBI."

  "So we get rid of him, plain and simple."

  "If I'm being watched, getting rid of him doesn't solve our problem. He's reported what he saw."

  "There is that," said the Chinese man.

  "So what do we do?"

  "I am to tell you that your usefulness has come to an end, Mr. Broyles. We won't be trading with you again."

  "Now hold on!" Broyles hissed in the darkness. "That isn't right and you people goddamn well know it isn't right. I've never been anything but true blue to you. I've come too far to quit now. If I quit now they might just blow it up and come after me with everything they've got. We've got to make it look like we're still doing business until I can set myself free."

  "How would you do that?"

  "Disappear. Europe, probably. South America, maybe. But I need time to set it up."

  "We understand that. We're prepared to continue meeting. But we won't be paying you anymore and we won't be expecting anything from you. Is this understood?"

  "Then I need a cash-out package. I need a cash-out package or I blow it up myself. Turn government rat and come clean on it all. I could do Witness Protection. Or, I need ten million from you and safe passage to the country of my choosing plus new ID."

  The cigarette flared as Hoa inhaled. He took another drag and then stubbed it out. He nodded, finally.

  "My people will agree to that. It's not new."

  "Then we'll have a clean break. Which is all I want. Now what about this Murfee?"

  "We're prepared to deal with him."

  "In what way?"

  Hoa smiled. He reached around and clasped Broyles on the shoulder.

  "That is definitely none of your concern. Within the week, Mr. Murfee will no longer be working for you. He won't be working anywhere."

  Broyles went silent. He sat, looking ahead. Nikki was on his mind. She liked the guy.

  "Let's wait on that," said Broyles as thoughtfully as he knew how. "Let me size this up before you simply take him out. I know the FBI and if Thaddeus Murfee is killed they will be all over it. You would be stirring up a hornet's nest, Hoa. Can you get your people to give me some time with it?"

  Hoa looked ahead. Then he nodded. "We'll wait. But not for long." The smaller man stood and shook out the kinks. "We'll meet again next month."

  Hoa walked back to his waiting car. When he was gone, Broyles sat alone in the dark for a good ten minutes, thinking. He had much to do. Preparations had to be made. He would be giving up everything he loved--Jeannette, Nikki, the boys--but he had always known it could come to that, one way or the other. He had hoped for a clean death and a Swiss account for Jeannette. But who could tell, maybe he had outlived his usefulness to the Chinese and they would take him out. Or maybe his own government would do him in now that his usefulness was coming to an end. They could murder him, or they could claim he was a spy and maybe prosecute him for treason—the permutations were almost endless. It took everything he had to fight back the regret that said suicide was his only way out.

  He then stood and rubbed a backhand across his eyes. Thinking of Jeannette had filled them with tears. Thinking of leaving her--and the kids—he shivered hard and fought to pull himself together. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his cheeks. Then he walked around to his car, got in, and drove home.

  This time he paid no attention to tails. His life was about to change forever in ways over which he had no control and being found out was honestly the least of his worries. Was he ready for the coming change—that was the only worry that mattered.

  His brain said he was. But his gut said otherwise. And with a sob he went inside his house, climbed upstairs, and stole into bed, where he drew Jeannette close to him and rested his head against her shoulder.

  He held her and wept until dawn.

  She never knew a thing.

  11

  Whether Thaddeus would tell McGrant about Broyles' reservoir meeting--or not--was decided early Monday morning when her car pulled in front of Thaddeus on M Street. Her front tires forced his scooter to the curb. Now her driver had him hemmed in, unable to move, so he jumped off the scooter and walked around to the driver's side of the offending car. It was a black Lincoln Town Car, one up front, one in back. Then he saw: McGrant. He was immediately angry at her for the dangerous maneuver. He decided to say nothing about the meeting Friday night at the reservoir. First he needed to figure out where he stood in all this. He rapped his knuckles hard on her window. It came down.

  "What the hell, Ms. McGrant?" he said. "That was really bad."

  "We need to speak. Get in."

  "No way. I'm parked in a red zone. My scooter will get taken away."

  "Get in."

  "Look, I don't mind going with you, but I'm not leaving my scooter. Follow me back to my apartment and we'll go from there."

  Without another word, he climbed on his scooter, waited for her car to give him room, and began the ten minute ride home. Her vehicle followed and then pulled alongside him in his designated parking slot at the apartment building.

  "Get in," she said again.

  This time he obliged her, climbing in on the driver's side, backseat. The car began backing out, raced through the parking lot, and swept away into morning traffic.

  "What the hell?" Thaddeus said, still angry at her.

  "Get over it. I need you to come with me."

  "I can't. I'm due at work in twenty minutes."

  "It can wait. Take out your cell phone and call your office. Tell them you're running late because you have to stop by your doctor's office. Or not. Tell them whatever you want. But make it sound legitimate."

  He did as she said, making up a song and dance about a broken tooth and a trip to a dentist.

  They wound through rush hour traffic, making their way downtown where they pulled inside a nondescript industrial building. The gate closed behind them as Thaddeus looked back over his shoulder. Conversation between the two had been non-existent as they rode along in silence.

  "Where are we?" Thaddeus asked.

  "This is an FBI station. You'll see."

  "FBI? In this falling-down building?"

  "Hang loose, Mr. Murfee."

  The car lurched ahead and began following a typical parking-garage tunnel that wound its way down and down. Thaddeus guessed they were maybe three floors below street level when they abruptly came to a stop. McGrant opened her door and looked over at him. "We get off here."

  He followed her to a bank of elevators, where she inserted a keycard and punched a button. He felt his stomach rise as they rode even deeper into the bowels of the building.

  They came to a stop at what must have been five floors below their parking level. The doors slid open and Thaddeus found him
self in an enormous room much larger than the ground-level footprint of the building upstairs.

  "Someone's been busy," he opined.

  "FBI devices are created, built, and tested here. That's why we've come. You are going to learn how to hide a camera."

  Thaddeus groaned. A camera?

  She led him to a partitioned area open on the entrance side. They were met by a man with white hair who was wearing blue coveralls that said FBI above the breast pocket. An ID card dangled from a cord around his neck. No introductions were made.

  "Mr. Murfee," said the man, "step over here and have a seat at my work table."

  Thaddeus did as instructed. McGrant took the chair next to his.

  "This," said the man, holding up an object the size of a pencil eraser, "is a very powerful wide-angle camera. It is built to be inserted into pictures of the president."

  "Come again?" said Thaddeus. "Why would you have a camera designed for the president's picture?"

  The man smiled. "Because all government offices are required by law to have pictures of the sitting president in all key public areas. Your handler, Ms. McGrant, has selected an office where you will install this same model."

  Thaddeus looked at McGrant. She smiled. He shook his head.

  "Sorry, but I'm not installing a camera in Mr. Broyles' office, if that's where we're going with this."

  "You're refusing an order from your supervisor?" asked McGrant in a cold, no-nonsense voice. "Think how that would look on your résumé."

  She was right. Keeping something like that off his work history was very motivating.

  "All right," he said with a sigh. "Show me what to do."

  An hour later, he had it down. And he had the micro-camera and a small coring blade and a tube of cement as well.

  "Any questions?"

  "Pretty straightforward," Thaddeus replied.

  McGrant allowed a slight smile. "See? You'll make a fine spy yet."