"Understand. Okay. Thanks."
Ten minutes later, when court resumed, Thaddeus withdrew the question. He then tacked downwind.
"Ms. McGrant, you had a special relationship with Mr. Broyles, did you not?"
"I wouldn't call it special. He was the head of the office where I worked. But I was autonomous."
"He didn't interfere with your prosecution of espionage cases?"
"No, he didn't."
"And he didn't interfere with your investigation of espionage cases?"
"Not really. Especially not when he was the subject of the investigation. I was brought in on that by the FBI at the front end."
"How could you keep quiet, knowing that your boss was selling top secret information to the Chinese?"
"Aha! Not so! It was all disinformation, so I was very warm to it, once I understood he was betraying his own country. Then I wanted nothing but to catch him and prosecute him."
"Yes, about that. What proof do you have of what you just said? That he was selling secrets to the Chinese?"
"Hours--days and days--of surveillance video, photographs, and telephone conversations. That's what I have."
"All right, and what proof do you have that he wasn't cooperating with you, your prosecution arm, and was in fact acting as a double agent?"
"Double agent? You mean working for the government while appearing to be involved in espionage against his government?"
"That's what I mean. How can you prove he wasn't doing whatever he was doing with the full advice and consent of the government?"
"My word against his. Agent Ranski's word against his. Agent Chin's word against his."
"But no documentary proof? No surveillance proving he wasn't working for you? Nothing written or recorded to prove he wasn't working for you?"
"Of course not. We would never keep proof of that. It could too easily fall into the wrong hands."
"All right. Now tell the jury how they're supposed to vote guilty when you haven't proven this case beyond a reasonable doubt? Look over there and tell them."
She did as requested, looking at the jury with a professional smile and nod.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you have the word of three officers--two of them FBI and one of them DOJ--that the defendant in this criminal case was, in fact, a criminal acting alone when he sold secrets to the Chinese. That is enough to convict him and I hope you do just that. Thank you, Mr. Murfee, for this chance to speak directly to the jury."
He kicked himself. He would sure as hell never do that again.
Thaddeus stumbled around a few more minutes with the witness then decided to let the patient expire. There was nothing useful to gain at that point and she was only improving in the quality of further answers to his follow-up questions.
Cross-examination was brief and only rehashed how compelling the case was against Broyles. In the end, Thaddeus was wishing he'd never called McGrant to the witness stand. Now he had hurt his defense case and was looking rather amateurish.
27
They needed the Chinese man. So they sent Matheson's investigator along with Thaddeus to find him. The plan was to locate the guy and serve him with a subpoena. If he failed to appear in court the judge would issue a bench warrant and he would be dragged into court. Then the jury would get to see the enemy up close and that would take the focus off Broyles. Moreover, Thaddeus could ask him whether he knew Broyles. He wanted the guy in court badly.
Rick Morrissey was a young private investigator who had started out in the Sheriff's office, lost his hearing in one ear when a suspect's kitchen stove exploded, and wound up earning a PI license. He had been picked up by Matheson and made his full-time investigator. As far as Matheson was concerned the guy was worth his weight in gold.
Thaddeus asked the judge for a conference in chambers when the trial ended for the day. Judge Barnaby rolled his eyes and summarily denied the request, but had second thoughts and wearily ushered the trial lawyers into his office. Defendant Broyles was brought along, too, as well as the court reporter and two marshals to escort Thaddeus and Broyles back to jail when the hearing ended.
Judge Barnaby pulled a Heineken out of his mini fridge, unscrewed the cap and tossed it into the wastebasket. He offered a drink to no one else, instead unzipping his robe with his back to his audience as he gulped down his first drink of the day. Only then did Thaddeus put two and two together. The man's rage was the rage of the alcoholic. He knew it all too well, for he still remembered his mother's eyes and voice--and rage--from long, long ago. Now he wondered how he had missed it all along. He had been treating Barnaby as a rational man when the guy was anything but. The whole trial suddenly fell into focus for him and, for the first time since starting law school three years ago, he began seeing the possessors of the law--the professors and now the judges--as human beings with frailties and foibles galore to whom he had ascribed far deeper thoughts than what they actually had between the ears. They were men just like him. No more, no less, and certainly no more knowledgeable. He had no doubt that hereafter he would be able to not only keep up with them but even to surpass them when it came to the game of law. He was catching on.
At last the judge sat behind his desk, pushed back--presumably not to breathe on anyone--and looked impassively at Thaddeus.
"Mr. Murfee? You have something to say to the court?"
Thaddeus fought down the urge to stand. Standing while addressing the court was the norm; the informality of a judge's chambers was still lost on him. He looked directly at Judge Barnaby, refusing to flinch even when the pained voice of the bedeviled was aimed at him.
"Yes, Judge, I have something to say. For the record, this court has sentenced me to yet another night in jail. Rightly or wrongly done, I will gladly serve the time. However, the court's timing is the worst possible, because tonight I have an errand to run that only I can run. The errand is directly related to my preparation of my client's defense. For the court to deny me the opportunity to run this errand and thus prepare my client's case is prejudicial and cries out for reversal on appeal."
"What errand might that be, Mr. Murfee?" the judge asked, stifling a yawn.
"Please don't make me say, Your Honor," Thaddeus replied. "It would degrade my client's case in chief to have to disclose his strategy at this moment."
"Please, Mr. Murfee, how am I to rule if I don't know what I'm ruling on? Even you can understand that, correct?"
Even you--it echoed in his mind several times, the blame and shame that always came with to quench his spirit when it was said. But then he literally grabbed himself by the scruff of his neck and stood up on his legs and struck back, sending the shame right back at the giver.
"Judge, that's easy for you to say. You've already chugged down a whole beer and are feeling no pain. It's easy for you to toy with me and emasculate my defense. People like you are filling up the barrooms right now at five o'clock as we speak. All getting ready to lie to each other, hit on each other, and cheat each other. You fall somewhere in there, telling me that even I can understand your thought process. I can assure you, sir, that Sigmund Freud himself would find it difficult to unravel your thoughts. I certainly can't, so please don't try to hang it around my neck."
Barnaby almost fell over backwards in his chair. Leaning back as he listened, Thaddeus' words jolted him upright and made him reach and grab the edge of the desk to right himself.
"Mr. Murfee!" the judge cried, obviously stunned. "Never in twenty-two years have I been talked to like that!"
Said Thaddeus, "I can assure you it's not because you didn't deserve it somewhere along the way."
"You, sir, will spend the next thirty days in jail. We are on the record and your contempt of the court is clear."
"That's all well and good, but what about my errand tonight? Will the court allow me to at least prepare the defense of my client's case? Does death by lethal injection compel you? Or does that hurt the court's feelings so much that my client's constitutional rights are kicked to
the side of the street by Your Honor?"
The judge looked at Matheson and winced. "You should remove your co-counsel, Mr. Matheson. Please do. Mr. Murfee, your jail time begins tomorrow at noon break and every recess thereafter. But tonight, you’re free to prepare your client’s defense, and God help him. Following the verdict in this case you will be returned to jail for thirty days. That is all, gentlemen and Mr. Murfee."
"Thank you, Judge," said Matheson. He had taken hold of Thaddeus' arm and was pulling him upright.
"Thank you, Judge," said Thaddeus. "It's the right thing, what you're doing."
"Court is adjourned until morning."
Matheson and Thaddeus followed the other attorneys and marshals outside into the hallway.
"Bastard," Thaddeus hissed at Matheson. "He's a low-life bastard, that man."
"Get hold of yourself, Thaddeus. It's over; you won. Now let's find my investigator and get going on this."
They found investigator Rick Morrissey reading People in Matheson's waiting room on LaSalle Street. The youthful investigator scrambled to his feet and extended his hand to Thaddeus. Introductions were made and Thaddeus asked Morrissey if he were ready. Morrissey only smiled. "Who's driving?" he asked. Thaddeus said that he owned only a motor scooter so they took Morrissey's Pathfinder.
Thaddeus gave directions to the house in Virginia where he'd last seen the man who'd met Broyles at the reservoir. Travel time was almost an hour, given the stop and go rush hour traffic and given that they got lost several times on the way. At last, however, they pulled up at the long circular driveway and the SUV stopped. Morrissey looked across at Thaddeus.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Now we wait and see who's coming and going. Until the right guy shows up."
"If he's going to show up at all. I don't like your plan, counselor. I suggest we march up to the front door, flash our fake badges, and announce that we're from the sheriff's office and we've received a complaint."
"A complaint of what?"
Morrissey smiled. "Let me take care of that. Here, take this."
He rummaged around in the console and produced several gold badges clipped inside leather wallets, police detective style. Thaddeus chose one and put it in an inside coat pocket. Morrissey did likewise. Then off they went, pulling up the driveway and parking at the entrance to the house.
It was set back, so they walked along the sidewalk. Thaddeus felt his pulse quicken as the moment of truth approached.
Morrissey rang the doorbell. After a full minute and no answer, he rang again. Footsteps could be heard inside.
The door opened, and there stood a withered old Chinese gentleman wearing a smoking jacket, a Post pinched between his thumb and finger. Reading glasses were pushed up on his forehead. He looked like a wispy old owl, comfortable enough, and harmless, thought Thaddeus.
Morrissey produced his badge and flashed it at the man.
"Sir, we're with the sheriff's department. May we come in?"
Without a word the old man stood aside and allowed entrance. He neither spoke nor changed expression. It was all in a day's work, his impassive face said.
"May we sit here in the family room?"
"Please do," said their host recruit.
They took chairs in the carpeted family room as the old man muted the blaring TV that had greeted them. Then he turned and swung his chair around to face them. His light brown eyes looked them over in turn as he waited for someone to tell him what was up.
Morrissey went first.
"We're with the sheriff's department and we have reason to believe there is someone living here who is in danger."
"Danger? What kind of danger?"
"A threat has been received by us. Could you tell us who else lives here?"
"Who are you with?"
"The sheriff's department. We're investigators for the department. I'm Rick Morrissey. James Grand is my partner."
Thaddeus nodded. He would play James Grand if that was what it was going to take. For that matter, he would play just about anybody, though he wondered whether they had done the right thing by barging in. Wouldn't they have done better by hiding and waiting to see if the right man was spotted coming or going? He had never played cops and robbers in real life, so he didn't know. All he could do was follow Morrissey's lead.
"We're police officers," Thaddeus volunteered, entering into the game. "We're looking for someone who might be in serious trouble."
"Oh. Well, several people live here. We're all distantly related."
"Could we speak with the others?" Morrissey asked.
"You could, but no one else is here just now."
'They'll be returning when?"
"Around six or seven o'clock. Something like that."
"Does one of them work in downtown Washington?" Thaddeus asked on a thin hope.
"My grandson. He works in the embassy. The Chinese Embassy."
"That would be on International Place?"
"That's the one," said the old man. "My name is Zhu. He's my grandson and I'm very proud."
"Good for you," said Morrissey. "Is there some way you can call him and ask him to hurry on home? We don't have much time."
"We can't stay long," Thaddeus added. He eyed the shoulder bag in Morrissey's lap. Contained within was the subpoena they hoped to serve. If only the chance arose. It could save Broyles' life, Thaddeus believed, though he wasn't sure just how that would happen.
"I can try his cell," said their host. He pulled a phone from his breast pocket and punched a button.
A flurry of Chinese erupted once the call was answered. Whoever was on the other end could be heard spitting out rapid-fire sentences back at the old man. For his part, the man got to say very little. It came mostly from the other end.
The call concluded.
"He said to tell you he's in trouble and you are to leave at once. So please, go now."
Morrissey didn't miss a beat.
"Can't do that, sir. This is official police business. Lives are at stake. We must see this through."
"Oh," said the old man. "Then would you please wait outside in your car? Sing Di doesn't want you here."
"What's his name?"
"Sing Di Hoa. My grandson. Please go to your car, please."
"No can do," said Morrissey. Thaddeus had been ready to get up and go, but he relaxed when the investigator replied to the old man. The fact of the matter was that the old man really couldn't force them to leave. He could always call the cops but that wouldn't occur to him because he clearly believed they were cops. It was a stalemate.
"I can offer tea, if you insist on staying. But that is all."
"Tea would be most welcome," Morrissey replied. "Thank you."
A half hour later, a red sedan pulled into the long driveway and parked directly out front. Thaddeus, peering out through the front blinds, recognized the man--he thought. It looked like that the man he had followed home from the reservoir, the same man he met at the Washington Monument, but he wasn't certain.
As he came through the front door and found Morrissey blocking his way, the man looked directly at Thaddeus.
"That's him," Thaddeus said to Morrissey, who immediately handed the new arrival a sheaf of stapled papers.
"You've been served," Morrissey growled at the man. "Be in court in the morning or the marshals will come for you. Don't try to flee the country; marshals have been notified you might try. You won't be allowed to leave."
"What is this about?" Hoa demanded to know.
"Frank Broyles," Thaddeus told him.
"Who?"
"Frank Broyles. You've been giving him money in exchange for U.S. secrets. Tomorrow morning you will testify about all that."
"I don't know what you're speaking of," Hoa said. "Please leave now."
"We're on our way out," Morrissey said. "Come along, Thaddeus."
"Thaddeus?" said the old man. "Who's Thaddeus?"
28
He didn't appear voluntarily. Thaddeus
and Matheson had guessed that would be the case, so they called upon the Marshal's Service to send armed men to guarantee his appearance, which they did. By ten o'clock he was rounded up and brought handcuffed into court. The marshals stood him up before Judge Barnaby and stepped back. The jury was in place; all attorneys and investigators were in place, and Judge Barnaby went on the record, asking the man's name. He said he was Sing Di Hoa. Had he been served with a subpoena? He said he didn't know, but handed the papers served on him up to the judge. The judge took a quick look and told the man to take the witness stand. The marshals were told to remove the handcuffs and the witness was sworn by the clerk.
"Mr. Murfee, your witness." said the judge.
Thaddeus stepped up the lectern, notes at the ready, and plunged ahead. He asked and got the witness's name, address, and age. English-speaking and understanding capability was established as well, for the man spoke English haltingly and several times had to ask for even the simplest question to be repeated. Still, Thaddeus moved it along.
"Mr. Hoa, where are you employed?"
"Employ?"
"Where do you work?"
"I work at the Chinese Embassy in Washington."
"What is your job title?"
"Title?"
"What is your job called?"
"Computer engineer. Network security."
"So your educational background is in computer science?"
"Science?"
"Uh, did you study computers at university?"
"My Ph.D. is in systems engineering. From the University of Beijing."
"How long have you had this job?"
"I have worked United States six months."
A Young Lawyer's story Page 13